FATED TO BE FREE

A Novel

By JEAN INGELOW

Author of "Off The Skelligs, " "Studies for Stories, ""Mopsa the Fairy, " Etc. 

1875

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION

When authors attempt to explain such of their works as should explainthemselves, it makes the case no better that they can say they do it onexpress invitation. And yet, though I think so, I am about to give somelittle account of two stories of mine which are connectedtogether, --"Off the Skelligs, " and "Fated to be Free. "

I am told that they are peculiar; and I feel that they must be so, formost stories of human life are, or at least aim at being, works ofart, --selections of interesting portions of life, and fitting incidents, put together and presented as a picture is; and I have not aimed atproducing a work of art at all, but a piece of nature. I have attemptedto beguile my readers into something like a sense of reality; to makethem fancy that they were reading the unskillful chronicle of thingsthat really occurred, rather than some invented story as interesting asI knew how to make it. 

It seemed to me difficult to write, at least in prose, an artisticstory; but easy to come nearer to life than most stories do. 

Thus, after presenting a remarkable child, it seemed proper to let him(through the force of circumstance) fall away into a very commonplaceman. It seemed proper indeed to crowd the pages with children, for inreal life they run all over; the world is covered thickly with theprints of their little footsteps, though, as a rule, books written forgrown-up people are kept almost clear of them. It seemed proper also tomake the more important and interesting events of life fall at rather alater age than is commonly chosen, and also to make the more importantand interesting persons not extremely young; for, in fact, almost allthe noblest and finest men and the loveliest and sweetest women of reallife are considerably older than the vast majority of heroes andheroines in the world of fiction. 

I have also let some of the same characters play a part in both stories, though the last opens long before the first, and runs on after it isfinished. It is by this latter device that I have chiefly hoped to giveto each the air of a family history, and thus excite curiosity andinvite investigation; the small portion known to a young girl being toldby her from her own point of view and mingled into her own life andlove, and the larger narrative taking a different point of view andgiving both events and motives. 

But in general, while describing the actions and setting down the words, I have left the reader to judge my people; for I think many writers mustfeel as I do, that, if characters are at all true to life, there is justas much uncertainty as to how far they are to blame in any course thatthey may have taken as there is in the case of our actual livingcontemporaries. 

But why then, you may ask, do I write this preface, which must, ifnothing else had done so, destroy any such sense of truth and reality?Why, my American friends, because I am told that a great many of youare pleased to wish for some explanation. I am sure you more thandeserve of me some efforts to please you. I seldom have an opportunityof saying how truly I think so; and besides, even if I had declined togive it, I know very well that for all my pains you would still havenever been beguiled into the least faith as to the reality of these twostories!

London, June, 1875. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A WATCHER OF LILIESII. THE LESSONIII. GOLD, THE INCORRUPTIBLE WITNESSIV. SWARMS OF CHILDRENV. OF A FINE MAN AND SOME FOOLISH WOMENVI. THE SHADOW OF A SHADEVII. AN OLD MAN DIGS A WELLVIII. THEY MEET AN AUTHORIX. SIGNED "DANIEL MORTIMER. "--CANADAX. CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCESXI. WANTED A DESERT ISLANDXII. VALENTINEXIII. VENERABLE ANCIENTRYXIV. EMILYXV. THE AMERICAN GUESTXVI. WEARING THE WILLOWXVII. AN EASY DISMISSALXVIII. A MORNING CALLXIX. MR. MORTIMER GOES THROUGH THE TURNPIKEXX. THE RIVERXXI. THE DEAD FATHER ENTREATSXXII. SOPHISTRYXXIII. DANTE AND OTHERSXXIV. SELF-WONDER AND SELF-SCORNXXV. THAT RAINY SUNDAYXXVI. MRS. BRANDON ASKS A QUESTIONXVII. THE PLEASURES OF MEMORYXXVIII. MELCOMBEXXIX. UNHEARD-OF LIBERTIESXXX. A CHAPTER OF TROUBLESXXXI. A WOMAN'S SYMPATHYXXII. MR. BRANDON IS MADE THE SUBJECT OF AN HONOURABLE COMPARISONXXXIII. THE TRUE GHOST STORYXXXIV. VALENTINE AND LAURAXXXV. A VISIT TO MELCOMBEXXVI. A PRIVATE CONSULTATIONXXXVII. HIS VISITOR

CHAPTER I. 

A WATCHER OF LILIES. 

 "Unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid. "--_Collect, English Communion Service. _

In one of the south-western counties of England, some years ago, and ina deep, well-wooded valley where men made perry and cider, wanderedlittle and read less, there was a hamlet with neither farm nor cottagein it, that had not stood two hundred and fifty years, and just beyondthere was a church nearly double that age, and there were the mightywrecks of two great oak-trees, said to be more ancient still. 

Between them, winding like a long red rut, went the narrow road, and wasso deeply cut into the soil that a horseman passing down it could seenothing of its bordering fields; but about fifty yards from the firstgreat oak the land suddenly dipped, and showed on the left a steepcup-like glen, choked with trees, and only divided from the road by afew dilapidated stakes and palings, and a wooden gate, orange with therust of lichens, and held together with ropes and bands. 

A carriage-drive was visible on the other side of the gate, but itsboundaries were half obliterated by the grass and weeds that had grownover it, and as it wound down into the glen it was lost among the trees. Nature, before it has been touched by man, is almost always beautiful, strong, and cheerful in man's eyes; but nature, when he has once givenit his culture and then forsaken it, has usually an air of sorrow andhelplessness. He has made it live the more by laying his hand upon it, and touching it with his life. It has come to relish of his humanity, and it is so flavoured with his thoughts, and ordered and permeated byhis spirit, that if the stimulus of his presence is withdrawn it cannotfor a long while do without him, and live for itself as fully and aswell as it did before. 

There was nothing to prevent a stranger from entering this place, and ifhe did so, its meaning very soon took hold of him; he perceived that hehad walked into the world of some who were courting oblivion, steepingthemselves in solitude, tempting their very woods to encroach upon them, and so swathe them as in a mantle of secrecy which might cover theirmisfortunes, and win forgetfulness both for their faults and for theirdecline. 

The glen was about three hundred yards across, and the trees whichcrowded it, and overflowed its steep side encroaching over the flatground beyond, were chiefly maples and sycamores. Every sunbeam thatshot in served to show its desolation. The place was encumbered withfallen branches, tangled brushwood, dead ferns; and wherever the littlestream had spread itself there was a boggy hollow, rank with bulrushes, and glorious with the starry marsh marigold. But here and there deadtrees stood upright, gaunt and white in their places, great swathes ofbark hanging loose from their limbs, while crowds of young saplings, sickly for want of space and light, thrust up their heads towards thesunshine, and were tied together and cumbered in their struggle byclimbing ropes of ivy, and long banners of the wild black vine. 

The ring of woodland was not deep, the domain was soon traversed, andthen stepping out into a space covered with rank meadow grass, one mightsee the house which should have been its heart. 

It was a wide, old, red brick mansion, with many irregular windows, nopane in which was more than two inches square. One end of it was deeplyembedded in an orchard of pear and apple trees, but its front wasexposed, and over the door might be seen the date of its building. Theroof was high and sloping, and in its centre rose a high stack of brickchimneys, which had almost the effect of a tower, while under the eaves, at regular intervals, were thrust out grotesque heads, with short spoutsprotruding from their mouths. Some of these had fallen on thepaving-flags below, and no one had taken them up. No one ever looked outof those front windows, or appeared to notice how fast the fruit-treesby the house, and the forest-trees from the glen, were reaching outtheir arms and sending forth their young saplings towards it, as if toclose it in and swallow it up. 

So still it looked with its closed shutters, that what slight evidencethere was of its really being inhabited appeared only to make it yetmore strange and alone; for these were a gaunt, feeble, old dog, whopaced up and down the flags as if keeping guard, and a brass handle onthe oaken door, which was so highly polished that it glittered and shonein the light. 

But there was a great deal of life and company up aloft, for a tribe ofblue pigeons had their home among those eaves and chimneys, and theywalked daintily up the steep roof with their small red feet while theyuttered their plaintive call to their young. 

It was a strange fancy that prompted the cleaning of this door-handle. "I mun keep it bright, " the old woman would say who did it, "in caseanybody should come to call. " No one but herself ever opened the door, nobody within cared that she should bestow this trouble. Nobody, formore than fifty years, ever had "come to call, " and yet, partly becausethe feigning of such a possibility seemed to connect her still with herfellows of the work-a-day world, and partly because the young master, her foster-brother, whom she deeply loved, had last been seen by herwith this door-handle in his hand, she faithfully continued every day tobegin her light tasks by rubbing it, and while so doing she would oftencall to mind the early spring twilight she had opened her eyes in solong ago, and heard creaking footsteps passing down the stairs; and thenhow she had heard the great bolt of the door withdrawn, and had sprungout of bed, and peering through her casement had seen him close it afterhim, and with his young brother steal away among the ghostly whitepear-trees, never to return. 

"And I didn't give it a thought that they could be after aught worsethan rook-shooting, " she would murmur, "for all I heard a sort of asobbing on the stairs. It was hard on poor old Madam though, never totake any leave of her; but all her life has been hard for that matter, poor innocent old critter. Well, well, I hope it's not a sin to wish 'emhappy, spite of that bad action; and as for her, she's had her troublesin this world, as all the parish is ready to testify, and no doubt butwhat that will be considered to her in the world to come. "

All the parish was always ready to testify that poor old Madam had had asight o' troubles. All the parish took a certain awful pleasure inrelating them; it was a sort of distinction to have among them such anunfortunate woman and mother, so that the very shepherds' and ditchers'wives plumed themselves upon it over those in the next parish, where theold Squire and his wife had never lost one of their many children, orhad any trouble "to speak of. " "For there was no call to count hiseldest son's running off with a dairymaid, it being well beknown, " theywould observe with severity, "that his mother never would let e'er a oneof the young madams as were suitable to marry him come nigh the house. "

The dairymaid belonged to their parish, and so afforded them anotherground of triumph over their rivals. "Besides, " they would say, "wasn'ttheir own church parson--old parson Green that everybody sworeby--wasn't he distinctly heard to say to the young man's father, 'thathe might ha' been expected to do wus'? They didn't see, for their parts, that aught but good had come of it neither; but as for poor old Madam, anybody might see that no good ever came nigh her. We must submitourselves to the Almighty's will, " they would add with reverence. Theycouldn't tell why He had afflicted her, but they prayed Him to bemerciful to her in her latter end. 

It was in old parson Green's time, the man they all swore by, that theytalked thus; but when parson Craik came, they learned some new words, and instead of accepting trouble with the religious acquiescence of theignorant, they began to wonder and doubt, and presently to offend theirrivals by their fine language. "Mysterious, indeed, " they would say, "isthe ways of Providence. "

In the meantime the poor old woman who for so many years was the objectof their speculations and their sympathy, lived in all quietness andhumbleness at one end of her long house, and on fine Sundays edified thecongregation by coming to church. Not, however, on foot; her great agemade that too much an exertion for her. She was drawn by her one oldman-servant in a chair on wheels, her granddaughter and her grandson'swidow walking beside her, and her little great-grandson, Peter, who wassupposed to be her heir, bringing up the rear. 

Old Madam Melcombe, as the villagers called her. She had a large frame, but it was a good deal bowed down; her face was wrinkled, and her blueeyes had the peculiar dimness of extreme old age, yet those who noticedher closely might detect a remarkable shrewdness in her face; herfaculties were not only perfect, but she loved to save money, and stillretained a high value for, and a firm grip of, her possessions. The landshe left waste was, notwithstanding, precious to her. She had tied upher gate that her old friends might understand, after her eldest son'sdeath, that she could not be tortured by their presence and theirsympathy; but she was known sometimes by her grand-daughters to enlargeon the goodness of the land thereabouts, and to express a hope that whenPeter's guardians came into power, they would bring it under the ploughagain. She went to church by a little footpath, and always conductedherself with great decorum, though, twice or thrice during the readingof the lessons, she had startled the congregation by standing up with ascared expression of countenance, and looking about her while she leanedon her high staff as if she thought some one had called her; but she wasin her ninety-fifth year, and this circumstance, together with the loveand pity felt for her, would easily have excused far greatereccentricities. 

She had felt very keenly the desertion of her second and her fourthsons, who had run away from home when the elder was barely eighteen, andwithout previous quarrel or unkindness so far as was known; nor was itbelieved that they had ever come to see her since, or sought herforgiveness. Her eldest son, while still in the flower of his age, haddied by his own hand; her youngest son had died in the West Indies, offever; and the third, the only one who remained with her, had never beeneither a comfort or a credit to his family: he had but lately died, leaving a son and a daughter. Of these, the daughter was with hergrandmother, and the son was just dead, having left an only child, hisheir. 

At one end of the house, as had been said, was an orchard, at the otherwas a large garden. If the desolate appearance of the house was likelyto raise oppressive feelings in a stranger's mind, how much more thisgarden! It was a large oblong piece of ground, the walls of whichenclosed the western end of the house completely. One of them ranparallel with the front, and a massive oaken door somewhat relieved itsflat monotony; but this door afforded no ingress, it was bolted andbarred from within. 

The garden was that special portion of her inheritance on which theancient owner rested her eyes; morning, noon, and evening she would sitgazing on its green fishpond, all overgrown with duckweed, on the lawnnow fast being encroached on by shrubbery, and on the bed of lilieswhich from year to year spread and flourished. 

But she never entered it, nor did any one else. 

That end of the house had but four windows on the ground floor, andthese were all strongly barred with iron, the places they lightedconsisting of kitchen, offices, and a cider store-room. Above these onthe first-floor were three pleasant rooms overlooking the garden, andopening on to a wooden gallery or verandah, at each end of which was analcove of an old-fashioned and substantial description. 

The gallery was roofed above, had a heavy oaken balustrade, and beingfully ten feet wide afforded a convenient place in which the lonely oldlady could take exercise, for, excepting on Sunday, she was scarcelyever known to leave her own premises. There also her littlegreat-grandson Peter first learned to walk, and as she slowly passedfrom one alcove to the other, resting in each when she reached it, hewould take hold of her high staff and totter beside her, alwaysbestowing on her as much as he could of his company, and early showing apreference for her over his aunt and even over his mother. 

Up and down the gallery this strange pair would move together, and asshe went she gazed frequently over the gay wilderness below, and if shesat long in one of the alcoves, she would peer out at its little windowalways on the same scene; a scene in the winter of hopeless neglect anddesolation. Dead leaves, dead dry stalks of foxgloves and mullens. Broken branches, and an arbour with trellised roof, borne down by theweight of the vine. 

But in spring and summer the place was gorgeous in parts with a confusedtangle of plants and shrubs in flower. Persian lilacs, syringas, labernums made thickets here and there and covered their heads withbloom. Passion flowers trailed their long tendrils all over the gallery, and masses of snow-white clematis towered in many of the trees. 

All distinction between pathway and border had long since beenobliterated, the eyes wandered over a carpet of starred and spangledgreenery. Tall white gladiolas shot up above it, and spires of foxglovesand rockets, while all about them and among the rose-trees, climbed themorning glory and the briony vine. 

Stretching in front of the ruined arbour was a lawn, and along one edgeof it under the wall, grew a bed of lilies, lilies of the valley, sosweet in their season, that sometimes the old lady's grand-daughterswould affirm that a waft of their breath had reached them as they sat upin the gallery at work. 

It was towards this spot that Madam Melcombe looked. Here her unquietface was frequently turned, from her first early entrance into thegallery, till sunset, when she would sit in one of the alcoves in hotweather. She gave no reason for this watch, but a kindly and reverentreserve protected her from questions. It was felt that the place wassacred to some recollection of her youth, when her young children wereabout her, before the cruel desertion of two, the ceaseless quarrels ofother two, and the tragic death of one of them, had darkened her days. 

The one door in the wall being fastened, and the ground-floor at thatend of the house having none but barred windows, it follows that theonly entrance to the garden was now from this gallery. There was, indeed, a flight of steps leading down from it, but there was a gate atthe top of them, and this gate was locked. 

On the day of her eldest son's funeral, his stricken mother had lockedit. Perhaps she scarcely knew at first that the time would never comewhen she should find courage again to open it; but she took away the keyto satisfy some present distressful fancy, and those about her respectedher desire that the place should not be entered. They did not doubt thatthere was some pathetic reason for this desire, but none was evident, for her son had gone down to his death in a secluded and now all butinaccessible part of the glen, where, turning from its first direction, it sunk deeper still, and was divided by red rocks from its more shallowopening. 

A useless watch at best was hers, still of the terrace, and the arbour, and the bed of lilies; but as she got yet deeper down into the vale ofyears, those about her sometimes hoped that she had forgotten thesorrowful reason, whatever it might be, that drew her eyes incessantlytowards them. She began even to express a kind of pleasure in thegradual encroachments of the lovely plants. Once she had said, "It is myhope, when I am gone, as none of you will ever disturb them. "

Whatever visions of a happy youth, whatever mournful recollections ofthe sports of her own children, might belong to them, those now with herknew not of them, but they thought that her long and pathetic watch hadat last become more a habit with her than any conscious recalling of thepast, and they hoped it might be so. 

The one sitting-room used by the family opened into the gallery, and wasa good deal darkened by its roof. On one side of it was Peter's nursery, on the other his great-grandmother's chamber, and no other part of thehouse was open excepting some kitchen offices, and two or three bedroomsin the roof. The servants consisted of a nurse (herself an old woman), who sat nearly all day in the parlour, because her far more agedmistress required much attendance, a grey-headed housemaid, a cook, anda man, the husband of this last. His chief business was to groom the onehorse of the establishment, and ride on it to the nearest town for meat, grocery, and other marketings. 

The floor of the parlour was oak, which had once been polished; all thefurniture was to the last degree quaint and old fashioned; the two largewindows opened like double doors upon the gallery, and were shaded bycurtains of Madras chintz. The chairs, which were inconveniently heavy, were also covered with chintz; it was frilled round them like apetticoat, and was just short enough to show their hideous club-feet. Over the chimney-piece was a frame, and something in it said to be apicture. Peter, when a very little child, used to call it "a picture ofthe dark, " for it seemed to be nothing but an expanse of deep brown, with a spot of some lighter hue in one corner. He wished, he said, thatthey had put a piece of moon in to show how dark that country was. Theold nurse, however, had her theories about this patch; she would have itthat it was somewhat in the shape of a jacket; she thought it likelythat the picture represented a hunt, and said she supposed the foremosthorseman in his red coat was watering his horse in a pond. Peter and thenurse had argued together on this subject many times before the old ladywas appealed to, but when they once chanced to ask her about thepicture, she affirmed that the patch was a lobster, and that a sort ofring which seemed faintly to encircle it was the edge of a plate. Inshort, she declared that this was a Dutch picture of still life, andthat in Peter's time, when he came to have it cleaned, it would prove tobe worth money. 

"And when will it be my time?" asked little Peter innocently. 

"Hold your tongue, child!" whispered his mother; "it won't be your timetill your poor dear grandmother's in heaven. "

"I don't want her to go to heaven yet, " said Peter in a plaintive tone(for he regarded her as much the best possession he had), and, raisinghis voice, he complained to her as to one threatening to injure him, "Grandmother, you don't want to go to heaven just yet, do you?"

"Lor bless the child!" exclaimed old Madam Melcombe, a good dealstartled. 

"No, don't, " continued Peter in a persuasive tone; "stop here, but letme clean the picture, because I want to see that lobster. "

"Now I tell you what, " answered his great-grandmother rather sharply, "if you was to go and play in the gallery, it would be a deal betterthan arguing with me. " So Peter departed to his play, and forgot thelobster for a little while. 

But Peter was not destined that evening to please his great-grandmother, for he had no sooner got well into the spirit of his play in the gallerythan he began to sing. "I'm a coward at songs, " she would sometimes say;"and if it wasn't for the dear birds; I could wish there was no music inthe world. "

Her feeling was the same which has been beautifully described byGassendi, who, writing in Latin, expresses himself thus:--

"He preferred also the music of birds to the human voice or to musicalinstruments, not because he derived no pleasure from these last, butbecause, after hearing music from the human voice, there remained acertain sustained agitation, disturbing attention and sleep; while therisings and fallings, the tones and changes and sounds and concords, pass and repass through the fancy; whereas nothing of the sort can beleft after the warbling of birds, who, as they are not open to ourimitation, cannot move the faculty of imagination within us. " (Gassendi, in _Vita Peireskii_. )

In the garden was plenty of music of the sort that Madam Melcombe stillloved. Peter could not shout in his play without disturbing the stormcock as he sat up aloft singing a love-song to his wife. As for thelittle birds, blackcaps haunted almost every bush, and the timidwhite-throat brooded there in peace over her half-transparent eggs. 

So no one ever sang in old Madam Melcombe's presence unless Peter forgothimself, and vexed his mother by chanting out snatches of songs that hehad caught up from the village children. Mrs. Peter Melcombe formed forherself few theories; she was a woman dull of feeling and slow ofthought; she knew as a fact that her aged relative could not bear music. So, as a matter of duty and self-interest, she stopped her child'slittle voice when she could, and if he asked, "Why does grandmother crywhen I sing?" she would answer, "Nobody knows, " for she had notreflected how those to whom music is always welcome must have neither anempty heart nor a remorseful conscience, nor keen recollections, nor aforeboding soul. 

Peter was a good little boy enough; he was tolerably well tamed by theconstant presence of old age and, with the restraints it brought uponhim, and having less imagination than falls to the lot of most children, he was the more affected by his position. When he strayed into a fieldof wheat, and there was waving and whispering above his head, it was notall one to him, as if he had been lost in some old-world forest, whereuncouth creatures dwelt, and castles and caverns might be encounteredbefore the stile. He could not see the great world out of the parlourwindow, and understand and almost inherit another world beyond thehills; as to the moon, the child's silver heaven, he never saw somethingmarvellous and mild sitting up there and smiling to him to come. 

But he was happy, and instead of the wide-open eyes of a child fed tothe full with the wonders about him and within him, his eyes were shadedconstantly by their light lashes; he enjoyed his play, but he blinkedwhen day was at the full; and all his observations concerned realities. Some story had reached him about a ghost which had been seen in thatimmediate neighbourhood. 

"Who cooks his dinner for him?" inquired the child. 

"He has no dinner, " answered the old housemaid. 

"I don't want to see him, then, " said the little winking, blinkingphilosopher; "he might ask me for some of mine. "

But that was a height of prudence that he could not reach often, and heseveral times annoyed his mother and alarmed his aunt by askingquestions about this ghost. 

Laura Melcombe, Peter's aunt, acted as his governess, and took a certainpride and pleasure in his young intelligence. It was well that she hadsomething real to interest her, for her character was in strong contrastto her nephew's. She lived mainly in an ideal world, and her life wasfed by what she fetched up from the clod or down from the clouds. Chiefly by the former. She was "of imagination all compact;" but that isa very unlucky case where there is weak judgment, little or no keennessof observation, a treacherous memory, and a boundless longing for thegood things of life. Of all gifts, imagination, being the greatest, isleast worth having, unless it is well backed either by moral culture orby other intellectual qualities. It is the crown of all thoughts andpowers; but you cannot wear a crown becomingly if you have no head(worth mentioning) to put it on. 

Miss Laura Melcombe thought most of the young farmers in theneighbourhood were in love with her. Accordingly, at church or at themarket-town, where she occasionally went on shopping expeditions, shegave herself such airs as she considered suitable for a lady who mustgently, though graciously, repel all hopeless aspirations. She was oneof those people to whom a compliment is absolute poison. The first manwho casually chanced to say something to her in her early youth, whichannounced to her that he thought her lovely, changed her thoughts aboutherself for ever after. First, she accepted his compliment as hissincere and fervent conviction. Secondly, she never doubted that heexpressed his continuous belief, not his feeling of the moment. Thirdly, she regarded beauty in her case as thenceforward an established fact, and not this one man's opinion. Fourthly, she spent some restless monthsin persuading herself that to admire must needs be to love, and shelonged in vain to see him "come forward. " Then some other casualacquaintance paid her a compliment, and she went through the sameexperience on his account, persuading herself that her first admirercould not afford to marry; and this state of things had now gone on forseveral years. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE LESSON. 

 "Or those eighteen on whom the tower in Siloam fell, think ye.... "

Many and many an hour had Peter spent, when he was a very little boy, ingazing through the heavy banister-like railings of the gallery; and, ashe grew older, in pensively leaning upon them, and longing in vain toget into the forbidden Paradise of the garden. The gallery floor beingabout twelve feet from the ground he could see the whole place from it. Oh the stores of nests that it must contain! the beautiful sharp sticksfor arrows! the capital elder shoots, full of pith! how he longed to getat them for making pop-guns! Sometimes, when the pink hawthorns were inflower, or the guelder-roses, he would throw a ball at one of them justto see what showers of bloom would come down; and then what a commotionsuch an event would make among the birds! what chattering and chirping, and screaming and fluttering! But the experiment was rather a costlyone, for the ball once thrown there was no getting it back again, itmust lie and rot till the seams burst open, and birds picked the woolout for their nests. 

Sometimes Peter would get a hook tied to the end of a long string, andamuse himself with what he called fishing, that is to say, he wouldthrow out his line, and try to get it tangled in the slight branches ofsome shrub, and draw it up, with a few of the flowers attached; butwith all his fishing he never got up any thing worth having: the utmostbeing a torn cabbage-rose, and two or three shattered peonies, leaf androot and all. 

It is melancholy to think how much valuable property was engulphed inthis untrodden waste, how many shuttlecocks, hit a little too hard, hadtoppled over and settled on some flowery clump, in full view of, but outof reach for ever of their unfortunate possessor; how many marbles hadbounded over and leaped into the green abyss; how many bits ofslate-pencil, humming-tops, little ships made of walnut-shells, andother most precious articles, had been lost there to human ken, and nowlay hidden and mouldering away!

Sometimes when Peter had lost anything of more than common value, hewould complain to his aunt, or his mother, and hint a humble wish thathe could get it again. On such occasions his mother would remark, with alanguid sigh, that it certainly did seem a pity such a fine piece ofland should lie waste; but if Peter followed up the conversation bydeclaring that he could easily climb over the gate and get down into thegarden if he might, he was immediately met by such stern rebukes fromall parties, and such fervent assurances that if he ever dared to dosuch a thing he should certainly be sent to school, that he grew to theage of seven years with two deep impressions on his mind; first, that itwould be very wicked to go down into the garden; second, that it wouldbe very dreadful to be sent to school. 

One very fine hot day in July Madam Melcombe had caused a table to beset in the gallery, that she might enjoy her early tea in the open air. Peter and the rest of the party were with her, and after a long silencehe turned towards her and said, "Grandmother, there are no ghosts in ourhouse, are there?"

"Ne'er a one, " exclaimed the nurse with zealous promptitude, "theydon't come to houses where _good folks live_. "

"I wish they would, " said Peter, thoughtfully, "I want to see one. "

"What does he say?" asked the great-grandmother. The nurse repeatedPeter's audacious remark; whereupon Madam Melcombe said briskly andsharply, "Hold your tongue, child, and eat your bread and milk like aChristian; you're spilling it on the floor. "

"But I wish they would, " repeated Peter softly; and finishing his breadand milk, he said his grace; and his fishing-rod being near at hand, heleaned his elbows on the balustrade, threw his line, and began to playat his favourite game. 

"I think, " he said, presently turning to his aunt, "I think, aunt, Ishall call the garden the 'field of the cloth of gold;' it's so coveredwith marigolds just now that it looks quite yellow. Henry's tent shallbe the arbour, and I'll have the French king's down in this corner. "

On hearing this, his mother slightly elevated her eyebrows, she had nonotion what he was alluding to; but his grandmother, who seemed to havebeen made rather restless and uneasy by his remarks about ghosts, evidently regarded this talk as something more of the same sort, andsaid to her granddaughter, "I wish, Laura, you wouldn't let him readsuch a quantity of fairy tales and heathenish nonsense--'field o' thecloth o' gold, indeed!' Who ever heard of such a thing!"

"He has only been reading the 'History of England, ' grandmother, " saidPeter's aunt. 

"I hadn't read anything out of that book for such a long time, " saidPeter; "my Bible-lesson to-day made me remember it. About that otherfield, you know, grandmother. "

"Come, that's something like, " said old Madam Melcombe. "Stand up now, and let me hear your Bible-lesson. "

"But, grandmother, " Peter inquired, "I may call this the 'field of thecloth of gold, ' mayn't I?"

"O dear me, call it anything you like, " she replied; "but don't stand inthat way to say your task to me; put your feet together now, and foldyour hands, and hold your head up. To think that you're the child'saunt, Laura, she continued fretfully, and should take no more heed tohis manners. Now you just look straight at me, Peter, and begin. "

The child sighed: the constraint of his attitude perhaps made him feelmelancholy. He ventured to cast one glance at his fishing-rod, and atthe garden, then looking straight at his great-grandmother, he began ina sweet and serious tone of voice to repeat his lesson from thetwenty-seventh chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, the third to the tenthverse. 

3. _"Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he wascondemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces ofsilver to the chief priests and elders. _

4. _"Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that. _

5. _"And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself. _

6. _"And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is notlawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price ofblood. _

7. _"And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter's field, tobury strangers in. _

8. _"Wherefore that field was called, The field of blood unto this day. _

9. _"Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying, And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him thatwas valued, whom they of the children of Israel did value. _

10. _"And gave them for the potter's field, as the Lord appointed me. _"

What was this!--standing upright again, as she had done several times inthe church--was she listening? It scarcely appeared that she was; shetook first one hand from her staff, and looked earnestly at it, and thenshe took the other, and with wide-open eyes examined that also. 

"O cruel, cruel, " thought Peter's mother, when Peter had repeated averse or two, "why did not Laura prevent this, she who knew what thechild's lesson was?" and she sat cold and trembling, with an anguish ofpity; but she felt that now it was too late to stop her boy, he must goon to the end. As to the nurse, she sitting there still, with her workon her knees, felt as if every word rose up and struck her on the face. He was slowly, pensively, and O so calmly, describing to the poor motherthe manner of her son's death. 

"That will do, master Peter, " she exclaimed, the moment he had finished;and she snatched his hand and led him away, telling him to go and playin the orchard. 

Peter was not destitute of gratitude, and as he made his exit, hethought, what a good thing it was that he did not say his lesson to hisgrandmother every day. 

When the nurse turned again she observed that Madam Melcombe hadtottered a step or two forward: her grand-daughter, and her grandson'swidow were supporting her. One of them called to her to fetch somecordial, and this seemed to disturb the poor old woman, for shepresently said slowly, and as if it caused her a great effort tospeak, --

"What are they gone for? and what are you doing?"

"We're holding you up, grandmother; you tremble, dear; you can hardlystand. Won't you sit down?"

"Won't I what?" she repeated. "I don't hear;" and she began to movewith their help and that of her staff to the balustrade. 

The old fancy; the constant fancy; gazing at the bed of lilies, andtalking to herself as, with her trembling hand to her brow, she peeredout towards the arbour. They were words of no particular significancethat she said; but just as the nurse came back bringing her a cordial, she turned round and repeated them distinctly, and with a solemnity thatwas almost awful. 

"They all helped to dig it; and they know they did. "

Words that appeared to be so far from the tragical recollection whichmust have first caused this disturbance in her poor mind; but hergrand-daughter thought proper to make her some kind of answer. 

"Did they, grandmother?" she said in a soothing tone, "and a very goodthing too. "

She stopped short, for upon the aged face fell suddenly such a look ofaffright, such renewed intelligence seemed to peer out of the dim eyes, and such defiance with their scrutiny, that for the moment she was verymuch alarmed. 

"She's not quite herself. Oh, I hope she's not going to have a stroke!"was her thought. 

"What have I been a saying?" inquired Madam Melcombe. 

"You said it was a good thing they dug the lily bed, " answered hergrand-daughter. 

"And nothing else?"

"No, ma'am, no, " answered the nurse; "and if you had, what would itsignify?"

Madam Melcombe let them settle her in her chair and give her hercordial, then she said--

"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age. I thought I mightbe losing my wits; might have said something. "

"Dear grandmother, don't laugh!" exclaimed her grandson's widow; "anddon't look so strange. Lose your wits! you never will, not you. We shallhave you a little longer yet, please God, and bright and sensible to thelast. "

"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age, " repeated MadamMelcombe; and during the rest of that evening she continued silent andlost in thought. 

The next morning, after a late breakfast, her family observed that therewas still a difference in her manner. She was not quite herself, theythought, and they were confirmed in their opinion when she demanded ofher grand-daughter and her grandson's widow, that a heavy old-fashionedbureau should be opened for her, and that she should be left alone. "Idon't know as I shall be spared much longer, " said the meeknonogenarian, "and I've made up my mind to write a letter to my sons. "

"_My sons_!" When they heard this they were startled almost as theymight have been if she had had no sons, for neither of them had everheard her mention their names. Nothing, in fact, was known concerningthem in that house, excepting that what portion of success and happinesshad been allotted to the family seemed all to have fallen to theirshare. 

They were vastly unpopular in the hamlet. Not that any but the very oldpeople remembered the day when they had first been missing, or what anextraordinary effect their behaviour had produced on their mother; butthat the new generation had taken up her cause--the new parson also--andthat the story being still often told had lost nothing in the narration. 

Parson Craik had always been poor old Madam's champion since his comingamong them. He had taken pains to ascertain the facts from the oldestLedger's old wife, and when first he heard her tell how she had openedher door at dawn to let in her husband, during the great gale that wasrocking the orchard trees and filling the air with whirls of blossom, that came down like a thick fall of snow, he made an observation whichwas felt at the time to have an edifying power in it, and which wasincorporated with the story ever after. "And when I telled him how thegrete stack of chimneys fell not half-an-hour after, over the very placewhere they had passed, and how they were in such a hurry to be off thatthey jumped the edge for fear us should stop them or speak to them. Thensays Parson Craik to me, sitting as it might be there, and I a sittingopposite (for I'd given him the big chair), says he to me, 'My friend, we must lay our hands on our mouths when we hear of the afflictions ofthe righteous. And yet man, ' says he, 'man, when he hears of suchheartless actions, can but feel that it would have been a just judgmenton them, if the wind had been ordained in the hauling of those chimneysdown, to fling 'em on their undutiful heads. '"

Poor Madam Melcombe, her eldest son, whose heir she was, had caused thestack of chimneys to be built up again; but she was never the same womanfrom that day, and she had never seen those sons again (so far as wasknown), or been reconciled to them. And now she had desired to be leftalone, and had expressly said, "I've made up my mind to write a letterto my sons. "

So she was left alone and undertook, with trembling hands and dimmedeyes, her unwonted task. She wrote a letter which, if those about hercould have seen it, would certainly have affected their feelings, andwould perhaps have made them think more highly yet of her meek forgivingnature, for she neither blamed her sons nor reminded them of what theyhad done; but rather seemed to offer a strange kind of apology fortroubling them, and to give a reason for doing so that was strangerstill. 

THE LETTER. 

"Son Daniel and Son Augustus, --This comes from your poor unfortunatemother that has never troubled you these many, many years, and hopingyou and your families are better than I am at present, son Daniel andyou son Augustus; and my desire is both of you, that now you will notdeny your poor mother to come and see her, but will, on receipt of this, come as soon as may be, for it's about my funeral that I want to speak, and my time is very short, and I was never used to much writing. 

"If you don't come, in particular you, son Daniel, you will break yourpoor mother's heart. 

"And so no more at present from her that never said an unkind word toyou. 

"Elizabeth Melcombe. "

This letter was addressed to the elder son, went through the villagepost-office, and when its direction was seen, such interest was excitedand so much curiosity, that half the women in the hamlet had beenallowed to take a look at its cover before it was sent away. 

Perhaps Madam Melcombe herself, when she sat expecting these long-lostsons to appear, was scarcely more agitated or more excited than were thepeople in that sequestered place. A good many cottagers were hangingabout or looking out of the windows when they alighted, and going intothe small inn called for spirits and water. It was known outside at oncewhat they had asked for. No wonder they wanted some Dutch courage totake them into her presence, was the general thought. 

Several little boys had gathered in front of the door longing, and yetdreading, to get a sight of them. Some inhabitants would have liked tohiss, but lacked unanimity or courage, nobody wanted to begin. Somewould have liked to speak, but had not considered beforehand what tosay. 

The brothers came out, the children fell back; but one little fellow, achild five years old, with a sort of holy necessity upon him (as wassupposed) to give his testimony, threw a very little bit of soft dirt atthe legs of one of them. 

This action was not noticed; and before the other little urchins hadfound time for aught more fruitful than regret that they had not donelikewise, the gentlemen got into their post-chaise, and were driven tothe old mansion. 

And their mother?

She was quite alone, sitting in all state and expectation, in one of thealcoves, while the deep shadow of the house fell distinct and welldefined over the wilderness of a garden. 

Her senses were more acute than usual. She was grasping her long staff, and already wearying for them, when she heard the sound of wheels, andpresently after a foot in her parlour, and the nurse appeared with twocards on a tray. 

Mr. Mortimer, Mr. Augustus Mortimer. This formal introduction flurriedMadam Melcombe a little. "The gentlemen are coming, " the nurse almostwhispered; and then she withdrew, and shutting the glass-doors behindher, left this mother to meet with these sons. 

Whatever anxiety, whatever sensations of maternal affection might havebeen stirring within her, it is certain that her first feeling was oneof intense surprise. The well-remembered faces that she had cherishednow for much more than half a century--the tall, beautiful youth--thefine boy, almost a child, that had gone off with him, could they be nowbefore her? She was not at all oblivious of the flight of time; she didnot forget that the eldest of these sons was scarcely nineteen yearsyounger than herself; yet she had made no defined picture of theirpresent faces in her mind, and it was not without a troubled sense ofwonder that she rose and saw coming on towards her two majestic old men, with hair as white as snow. 

Her first words were simple and hesitating. She immediately knew themfrom one another. 

"Son Dan'el, " she said, turning to the taller, "I expect this is you;"and she shifted her staff to her left hand while he took the right; andthen the other old man, coming up, stooped, and kissed her on theforehead. 

Madam Melcombe shed a few tears. Both her sons looked disturbed, andvery ill at ease. She sat down again, and they sat opposite to her. Thenthere was such a long, awkward pause, and her poor hand trembled somuch, that at last, as if in order to give her time to feel more atease, her younger son began to talk to her of her grand-daughter wholived with her, and of her little great-grandson, Peter Melcombe. Hehoped, he said with gravity, that they were well. 

There seemed to be nothing else that either of them could think of tosay; and presently, helped by the rest their words gave her, MadamMelcombe recovered her self-possession. 

"Son Dan'el, " she said, "my time must be short now; and I have sent foryou and your brother to ask a favour of you. I could not lie easy in mygrave, " she continued, "if I thought there would be nobody of all mychildren to _follow me_. I have none but poor Peter's daughter andgrandson here now, and I hope you and Augustus and your sons will cometo my funeral. I hope you'll promise me faithfully, both of you, thatyou'll certainly come and follow me to the grave. "

A silence followed. The disappointment of both the sons was evident. 

They had hoped, the younger remarked, that she might have had somethingelse to say. 

No, she had not, she answered. Where would be the good of that? They hadwritten to her often enough about that. 

And then she went on to repeat her request. There was nothing she wouldnot do for them, nothing, if they would but promise to come. 

"So be it, " replied the elder; "but then, you must make me a promise, mother, in your turn. "

"It isn't the land?" she inquired with humble hesitation. "I should beagreeable to that. "

"No, God forbid! What you have to promise me is, that if I come to yourfuneral, you will make such a will that not one acre of the land or oneshilling you possess shall ever come to me or mine. "

"And, " said the other promptly, "I make the same promise, on the samecondition. "

Then there was another pause, deeper and more intense than the first. The old mother's face passed through many changes, always with an air ofcogitation and trouble; and the old sons watched her in such a suspenseof all movement, that it seemed as if they scarcely breathed. 

"You sent your cards in, " she said as if with sudden recollection, "toremind me that you'd kept your father's name?"

"Nothing will ever induce either of us to change it, " was the answer. 

"You're very hard on me, son Dan'el, " she said at last; "for you knowyou was always my favourite son. "

A touching thing to say to such an old man; but there was no reply. 

"And I never took any pride in Peter, " she continued, "he was thatundutiful; and his grandson's a mere child. "

Still no reply. 

"I was in hopes, if I could get speech of you, I should find you'd gotreasonable with age, Dan'el; for God knows you was as innocent of it asthe babe unborn. "

Old Daniel Mortimer sighed deeply. They had been parted nearly sixtyyears, but their last words and their first words had been on the samesubject; and it was as fresh in the minds of both as if only a few dayshad intervened between them. Still it seemed he could find nothing tosay, and she, rousing up, cried out passionately, --

"Would you have had me denounce my own flesh and blood?"

"No, madam, no, " answered the younger. 

She noticed the different appellation instantly, and turning on him, said, with vigour and asperity, --

"And you, Augustus, that I hear is rich, and has settled all yourdaughters well, and got a son of your own, _you_ might know a parent'sfeelings. It's ill done of you to encourage Dan'el in his obstinacy. "

Then, seeing that her words did not produce the slightest effect, shethrew her lace apron over her head, and pressing her wrinkled handsagainst her face, gave way to silent tears. 

"I'm a poor miserable old woman, " she presently cried; "and if there'sto be nobody but that child and the tenants to follow me to the grave, it'll be the death of me to know it, I'm sure it will. "

With an air of indescribable depression, the elder son then repeated thesame promise he had given before, and added the same condition. 

The younger followed his example, and thereupon humbly taking down thelace from her face, and mechanically smoothing it over her aged knees, she gave the promise required of her, and placed her hand on aprayer-book which was lying on the small table beside her, as if to addemphasis and solemnity to her words. 

CHAPTER III. 

GOLD, THE INCORRUPTIBLE WITNESS. 

 Accipe Hoc. 

After she had received the promise she desired from her sons--a promiseburdened with so strange a condition--Madam Melcombe seemed to lose allthe keenness and energy she had displayed at first. 

She had desired above all things that honour should be shown to her inher death; her mind often occupied itself with strange interest andpertinacity on the details of her funeral. All her wishes respecting ithad long been known to her granddaughters, but her eldest surviving sonhad never been mentioned by name to them. She always spoke of him as"the chief mourner. "

Suddenly, however, it appeared to have occurred to her that he might notbe present at it, after all. Everything must be risked to ascertainthis. She must write, she must entreat his presence. But when he and hisbrother sent in their cards she, for the first time in her life, perceived that all she had done was useless. She saw the whole meaningof the situation; for this estate had come to her through the failure ofheirs male to her father, and it was the provision of his will that sheand her heirs should take back his name--the name of Melcombe. 

She knew well that these two sons had always retained their father'sname; but when they sent it in to her, she instinctively perceivedtheir meaning. They were calling her attention to the fact, and she wassure now that they never meant to change it. 

She had not behaved kindly or justly to her grandson's widow, for peoplehad called little Peter her heir, and she had not contradicted them. Butshe had never made a will; and she secretly hoped that at the lastsomething would occur to prevent her doing so. 

Everything was absolutely in her own power, to leave as she pleased; buta half superstitious feeling prompted her to wait. She wished her eldestsurviving son to inherit the estate; but sad reflection seemed to assureher that if it simply lapsed to him as heir-at-law, he would think thatnext thing to receiving it through a dispensation of Providence; and shewas such an unhappy mother, that she had reason to suppose he mightprefer that to a direct bequest from her. So she left the kindly womenwho shared her seclusion entirely unprovided for, and the long servicesof her old domestics unrewarded, in order to flatter the supposedprejudices of this unknown son, who was destined now to show her howlittle he cared for all her forethought, and all her respect for hispossible wishes. 

This was now over. She felt that she was foiled. She sat, leaning herchin on the top of her staff, not able to find anything more to say; andevery moment they spent together, the mother and sons became morepainfully embarrassed, more restless and more restrained. 

In the meanwhile Peter's mother and aunt, just as unconscious that hisheirship had ever been a doubt, as that it had been secured to him thenand there, sat waiting below, dressed in their best, to receive thesevisitors, and press them to partake of a handsome collation that hadbeen prepared by their mother's order, and was now spread for them withunwonted state and profusion in the best parlour. 

This large room had not been used for forty years; but as it was alwayskept with closed shutters, excepting on those days when it received athorough and careful cleaning, the furniture was less faded than mighthave been expected, and the old leather-backed chairs, ebony cabinets, and quaint mirrors leaning out from the walls, looked almost as fresh asever. 

"Only let me get speech of them, " the mother had thought, "and all mayyet come right between us; for it's a long time ago, a weary while sincewe parted, and they ought to find it easier to forget than I do!" Thenshe had charged her grand-daughter, when the lunch was ready, to ring abell, and she would send them down. "Or even, mayhap, I may come downmyself, " she had added, "leaning on the arm of my son. "

So the bell was rung, and Laura and Mrs. Peter Melcombe waited for thegrandmother and her guests with no little trepidation. 

They had not intended to be cordial. Their notion of their own part inthis interview was that they should be able to show a certain courteouscoldness, a certain calm gravity in their demeanour towards these twouncles, but neither of them knew much of the world or of herself. Theyno sooner saw the majestic old men come in without their mother thanLaura, feeling herself blush down to her very finger tips, retreatedinto the background, and Mrs. Peter Melcombe, suddenly finding that shehad forgotten what she had intended to say, could scarcely collectenough composure to answer the gentle courtesy of their rather distantgreeting. 

A sort of urban polish struck her country sense, making her feel at oncethat she was a rustic, and that they belonged to a wider and morecultivated world. She felt herself at a disadvantage, and was angry withherself that it should be so, in that house of all places in the world, where she had every right to hold up her head, and they had surelyreason to be ashamed of themselves. 

Peter was the only person present who was at ease; the unwonted joy offinding himself in the "great parlour" had excited him. He had beenwandering about examining the china vases and admiring the littlerainbows which sunshine struck out from the cut-glass borders of themirrors. 

He was very well pleased to include the two great-uncles among the newand interesting objects about him. He came up when called by one ofthem, answered a few simple questions with childlike docility, and madehis mother more sure than before that these dignified old men weretreating him, her sister-in-law, and herself, with a certain patheticgentleness that was almost condescension. 

Indeed, both the ladies perceived this, but they also saw that theycould not play the part their old relation had assigned to them. Such ahandsome collation as it was too, but each, after accepting a biscuitand a glass of cider (the very finest cider and more than ten yearsold), rose as if to take leave. One patted Peter on the head, and theother ordered the chaise. Neither Laura nor Mrs. Peter Melcombe couldfind courage to press them to eat, though their secluded lives andold-fashioned manners would have made them quite capable of doing so ifthey had felt at ease. They looked at one another as the two grand oldmen withdrew, and their first words were of the disappointment thegrandmother would feel when she heard that they had hardly eatenanything at all. 

Madam Melcombe, however, asked no questions. She was found by them whenMr. Mortimer and his brother had withdrawn sitting in her favouritealcove with her chin resting upon her staff. She was deep in thought, and excepting that she watched the chaise drearily as it wound downamong the apple and pear trees and was lost to sight, she did not appearto be thinking of her sons. Nor did she mention them again, exceptingwith reference to her funeral. 

"He's a fine man, " she remarked in a querulous tone; "he'll look grandin his cloak and scarf when he stands over my grave with his hat off;and I think (though Dan'el, you understand is to be chief-mourner) thathe and his brother had better follow me side by side, and their two sonsafter them. "

How little Laura and Mrs. Peter Melcombe had ever thought about theseold men, or supposed that they were frequently present to the mother'smind. And yet now there seemed to be evidence that this was the case. 

Two or three guarded questions asked the next day brought answers whichshowed her to be better acquainted with their circumstances than shecommonly admitted. She had always possessed a portrait in oils of herson Daniel. It had been painted before he left home, and kept him alwaysliving as a beautiful fair-haired youth in her recollection. She tookpains to acquaint herself with his affairs, though she never opened herlips concerning them to those about her. 

His first marriage had been disastrous. His wife had deserted him, leaving him with one child only, a daughter. Upon the death of this poorwoman many years afterwards, he had married a widow whose third husbandhe was, yet who was still young, scarcely so old as his daughter. 

Concerning this lady and her children the poor old mother-in-lawcontinually cogitated, having a common little photographic likeness ofher in which she tried to find the wifely love and contentment and allthe other endearing qualities she had heard of. For at rare intervalsone or other of her sons would write to her, and then she alwaysperceived that the second Mrs. Daniel Mortimer made her husband happy. She would be told from time to time that he was much attached to youngBrandon, the son of her first marriage, and that from her threedaughters by her second marriage he constantly received the love anddeference due to a father. 

But this cherished wife had now died also, and had left Daniel Mortimerwith one son, a fine youth already past childhood. 

Old Madam Melcombe's heart went into mourning for her daughter-in-lawwhom she had never seen. None but the husband, whose idol she was, lamented her longer and more. Only fifty miles off, but so remote in herseclusion, so shut away, so forgotten; perhaps Mrs. Daniel Mortimer didnot think once in a season of her husband's mother; but every day theold woman had thought of her as a consoler and a delight, and when herfavourite son retired she soon took out the photograph again and lookedsadly at those features that he had held so dear. 

But she did not speak much of either son, only repeating from time totime, "He's a fine man; they're fine men, both of them. They'll lookgrand in their scarves and cloaks at my funeral. "

It was not ordained, however, that the funeral should take place yetawhile. 

The summer flushed into autumn, then the apples and pears dropped andwere wasted in the garden, even the red-streak apples, that in all thecider country are so highly prized. Then snow came and covered all. 

Madam Melcombe had been heard to say that she liked her garden best inwinter. She could wish to leave it for good when it was lapped up undera thick fall of snow. Yet she saw the snow melt again and the leavesbreak forth, and at last she saw the first pale-green spires shoot upout of the bed of lilies. 

But the longest life must end at last, the best little boys willsometimes be disobedient. 

It appears strange to put these things together; but if they hadanything to do with one another, Peter did not know it. 

He knew and felt one day that he had been a naughty boy, very naughty, for in fact he had got down into the garden, but he also knew that hehad not found the top he went to look for, and that his grandmother hadtaken from him what he did find. 

This punishment he deserved; he had it and no other. It came about inthis wise. 

It was a sweet April day, almost the last of the month. All thecherry-trees were in full flower; the pear-trees were coming out, andthe young thickets in the garden were bending low with lilac-blossom, but Peter was miserable. 

He was leaning his arms over the balustrade, and the great red peoniesand loose anemones were staring up at him so that he could see down intotheir central folds; but what is April, and what is a half-holiday, andwhat indeed is life itself when one has lost perhaps the most excellenttop that boy ever spun, and the loudest hummer? And then he had takensuch care of it. Never but once, only this once, had he spun it in thegallery at all, and yet this once of all misfortunes it had rolled itslast circle out so far that the balustrade had struck it, and in theleap of its rebound it had sprung over. 

At first he felt as if he should like to cry. Then a wild and daringthought came and shook at the very doors of his heart. What if heclimbed over the gate and got down, and, finding his top, brought it upso quickly that no one would ever know?

His mother and aunt were gone out for a walk; his great-grandmother andthe nurse were nodding one on each side of the fire. It was only threeo'clock, and yet they had dined, and they were never known to rousethemselves up for at least half an hour at that time of day. 

He took one turn along the gallery again, peeped in at the parlourwindow, then in a great hurry he yielded to the temptation, climbed overthe wooden gate, got down the rotten old steps, and in two minutes wasup to his neck in a mass of tangled blossoms. Then he began to feel thatpassion of deep delight which is born of adventure and curiosity. Hequite forgot his top: indeed, there was no chance of finding it. Hebegan to wade about, and got deeper and deeper in. Sometimes quiteover-canopied, he burrowed his way half smothered with flowers;sometimes emerging, he cast back a stealthy glance to the gallery. 

At last he had passed across the lawn, arrived almost at the very end ofthe garden, and down among the broken trellis-work of the arbour threenests of the yellow-hammer were visible at the same time. He did notknow which to lay hands on first. He thought he had never been so happyin his life, or so much afraid. 

But time pressed. He knew now that he should certainly climb over thatgate again, though for the present he did not dare to stay; andstooping, almost creeping, over the open lawn and the bed of lilies, hebegan to work his way homeward by the wall, and through old borderswhere the thickest trees and shrubs had always grown. 

At last, after pushing on for a little distance, he paused to rest in aclump of fir-trees, one of which had been dead for so many years thatall its twigs and smaller boughs had decayed and dropped to the ground. Only the large branches, gaunt and skeleton-like, were left standing, and in a fork between two of these and quite within his reach, in a lumpof soft felt, or perhaps beaver, he noticed something that glittered. Peter drew it away from the soft material it was lying among, and lookedat it. It was a sort of gold band--perhaps it was gold lace, for it wasflexible--he had often heard of gold lace, but had not seen any. As hedrew it away something else that depended from a morsel of the lump ofrag fell away from it, and dropped at his feet. It might have been somesort of badge or ornament, but it was not perfect, though it stillglittered, for it had threads of gold wrought in it. "This is almost inthe shape of an anchor, " said Peter, as he wrapped the gold band roundit, "and I think it must have been lost here for ages; perhaps eversince that old uncle Mortimer that I saw was a little boy. "

So then with the piece of gold band wrapped round his hand he began topress on, and if he had not stopped to mark the places where two orthree more nests were, he would have been quicker still. 

On and on, how dangerously delightful his adventure had been! What wouldbecome of him if he could not get down to-morrow?

On and on, his heart beat with exultation; he was close to the steps andhe had not been discovered; he was close to the top of them and had notbeen discovered; he was just about to climb over when he heard a crythat rang in his ears long after, a sharp, piercing cry, and turning hesaw his great-grandmother in her cloak and hood standing in the entranceof the alcove, and reaching out her hands as if she wanted to come andmeet him, but could not stir. 

"Peter! Peter! Peter!" she cried, and her voice seemed to echo all overthe place. 

Peter tumbled over the gate as fast as he possibly could; and as shestill cried, he ran to her at the top of his speed. 

All in a moment she seemed to become quite still, and though shetrembled as she seized him, she did not scold him at all; while hemumbled out, "I only just went down for a very little while. I onlywanted just to look for my top; I didn't take any of the nests, " hecontinued, mentioning the most valuable things he had been amongst, according to his own opinion. 

His grandmother had let go his hand and raised herself upright; her eyeswere on the bit of gold band. "What's that?" she said faintly. 

"It's nothing particular, " said Peter, unwinding it slowly from hishand, and humbly giving it up. "It's nothing but a little sort of a goldband and an ornament that I found stuck in a tree. " Then Peter, observing by her silence how high his misdemeanour had been, began tosob a little, and then to make a few excuses, and then to say he hopedhis grandmother would forgive him. 

No answer. 

"I wish I hadn't done it, " he next said. He felt that he could not saymore than that, and he looked up at her. She was not regarding him atall, not attending to what he had said, her face was very white, she wasclutching the bit of gold lace in her hand, and her wide-open eyes werestaring at something above his head. 

"Peter! Peter! Peter!" she cried again, in a strangely sharp and ringingvoice. It seemed as it she would fall, and Peter caught hold of her armand held her, while the thought darted through his mind, that perhapsshe had called him at first because she was ill, and wanted him to holdher, not because she had observed his visit to the garden. He felt sureshe could hardly stand, and he was very much frightened, but in a momentthe nurse, having heard her cry, came running out, and between them theyguided her to her chair in the alcove. 

"I'm very sorry, grandmother, " Peter sobbed, "and really, really Ididn't take any nests or lilies or anything at all, but only that bit ofstuff. I'll never do it again. "

As he spoke he saw his mother and aunt coming up with looks of grief andawe, and on looking into his grandmother's face he beheld, child that hewas, a strange shadow passing over it, the shadow of death, and heinstinctively knew what it was. 

"Can't you move poor grandmother out of the sun?" he sobbed. "Oh do! Iknow she doesn't like it to shine in her eyes. "

"Hush! hush!" his mother presently found voice enough to say amid hertears. "What can it signify?"

After that Peter cried very heartily because everybody else did, but ina little while when his grandmother had been able to drink some cordial, and while they were rubbing her cold hands, she opened her eyes, andthen he thought perhaps she was going to get better. Oh, how earnestlyhe hoped might be so!

But there was no getting better for Madam Melcombe. She sat very stillfor some minutes, and looked like one newly awakened and very muchamazed, then, to the great surprise of those about her, she rose withoutany aid, and stood holding by her high staff, while, with a slightlydistraught air, she bowed to them, first one and then another. 

"Well, I thank you for all your kindness, my dears, " she said, "all yourkindness. I may as well go to them now; they've been waiting for me along time. Good Lord!" she exclaimed, lifting up her eyes, "Good Lord!what a meeting it will be!"

Then she sank down into her chair again, and in a moment was gone. 

CHAPTER IV. 

SWARMS OF CHILDREN. 

 "As our hope is that this our sister doth. "--_Burial Service. _

And now was to take place that ceremony to which Madam Melcombe'sthoughts had so often been directed. She had tried to arrange that itshould be imposing, and imposing indeed it was, but not by virtue of theprofusion of the refreshment, not by the presence of the best hearsefrom the county town, the best mourning coaches, the grandest plumes, but by the unsolicited attendance of a great company of people cometogether to do homage to a life distinguished by its misfortunes, itspatience, and its charities. 

She had never been able to think of herself as taking part in thatceremony unconsciously; her orders had always been given as if by onewho felt that if things were meanly done she should know it; but intaking care that refreshments should be provided for all the funeralattendants, she little thought that the whole parish, men and women, were to follow her, and most of them in tears. But it was so. Thetenants had been invited; they walked after her in scarf and band, twoand two, and after them, in such mourning as they could afford, came allthe people, and pressed on in a procession that seemed to the realmourners almost endless, to look down upon her coffin and obtain a placenear her grave. 

It was out of doors, and all nature was in white. Round the churchyardpear-trees grew, and leaned their laden branches over its walls. Pear-trees, apple-trees, and cherries filled the valley and crowded oneanother up all the hills. Mr. Craik's voice, as he stood at the grave, also in white, was heard that quiet afternoon far and near. It wasremarked on all sides how impressively he read, and there were plenty tobe edified by the solemn words who had never heard his voice before, formany people had walked over from neighbouring parishes, and stood ingroups at respectful distances. 

All looked at the stranger-sons; they stood side by side, awe-struck, motionless, depressed. The old do not easily shed tears, but there wassomething in the demeanour of both these old men that was felt to tellof no common emotion. One of them seemed unable to look down into thegrave at all, he kept his eyes and his face lifted up. The other, aslittle Peter stood crying by his side, put his hand down and let it reston the child's uncovered head, as if to quiet and comfort him. 

This little, half-unconscious action gave great umbrage to some of thespectators. "Hadn't the dear child allers been the biggest comfort tohis grandmother, and why indeed wasn't he to cry as much as ever heliked? He had nothing to reproach himself with, and if he had had hisrights, he would have been made chief mourner. Those that stood next thecorpse had never been any comfort or pleasure to her, but that dearchild had walked beside her to church ever since he had been old enoughto go there himself. "

"And so those were Daniel and Augustus Mortimer's sons. Very fine younggentlemen too, one of them not over young, neither; he looked at leastthirty. Well, very mysterious were the ways of Providence! Poor CuthbertMelcombe, the eldest son, had left neither chick nor child; no more hadpoor Griffith, the youngest. As for Peter, to be sure he had leftchildren, but then he was gone himself. And these that had behaved sobad to their blessed mother were all she had to stand by her grave. Itwas very mysterious, but she was at rest now, and would never feel theirundutifulness any more. "

It was about four o'clock on that summer-like afternoon that themourners came home from the funeral. The ladies for the sake of quietretired with Peter to their rooms in the roof; the Mortimers, afterpartaking of a slight repast in the great parlour, stepped out and beganto pace up and down before the house to refresh their spirits with alittle air. 

The will had been read in the morning, before the funeral took place. Valentine Mortimer and John Mortimer, the two grandsons, were bothpresent. Valentine being a mere boy, barely eighteen, may well have beenexcused if he did not notice anything peculiar in the demeanour of thetwo old men; did not notice, as John Mortimer did, the restlessexcitement of both, and how they appeared to be sustaining andencouraging one another, and yet, when the important sentence came whichleft them without so much as a shilling, how bravely and soberly theytook it, without the least betrayal of mortified feeling, without anychange of countenance or even of attitude. 

Valentine had often heard his father say that he had no expectationsfrom his mother, that he was quite sure the property never would come tohim. He had believed this, and excepting that he found the preamble ofthe will solemn and the reading impressive, he did not take any specialinterest in it. 

Every shilling and every acre were left to little Peter Melcombe, hismother being appointed his sole guardian till he reached the age oftwelve years, and a request being added that her dear son Daniel wouldsee to the repairing of the house, and the setting in order of thegarden and woodland. 

"And yet not a shilling left to either of them, " thought John. "I alwaysfancied there was some estrangement--felt sure of it; but if my fatherand uncle were so far friendly with their mother that she could ask thisfavour, how odd that she leaves nothing, not so much as a remembrance, to either of them! The eldest son, by all accounts, was a very violent, overbearing man; I've heard my father say as much; but he has been deadso long that, if there was any estrangement on his account, they musthave made it up long ago. "

And now the funeral was over. John Mortimer, taking the youth with him, was walking about among the pear-trees close to the garden-wall, and thetwo old brothers, who appeared to have a dislike to being separated, even for a moment, were leisurely walking on, and in silence lookingabout them. 

"I should like to get into the garden, " said John Mortimer; "here's adoor. "

"But it's locked, " remarked Valentine, "and Mrs. Peter Melcombe told meyesterday that none of them ever walked in it. "

"Ah, indeed!" said John carelessly--he was far from giving a literalmeaning to the information. "It looks a rotten old thing, " he continued;"the key is in the house, no doubt, but I don't want to have the troubleof going in to ask for it. "

"Perhaps it's not locked, " said Valentine; "perhaps it only wants apush. "

John and Valentine were standing among some cherry-trees, which, beingthickly laden with their blossom, screened them from observation as faras the windows of the now opened house were concerned. John did push, and when the door creaked he pushed again, and the rotten old lockyielded, came away from the lintel, and as the two old fathers turned, they were just in time to see their sons disappear through the doorwayand walk into the garden. With a troubled glance at one another, and aneffort not to appear in haste, the fathers followed them. 

"Can't we get them away?" exclaimed Mr. Mortimer; "can't we tell them tocome out?"

"Certainly not, certainly not, brother, " answered old Augustus, in areassuring tone. "You'll not say a word to dissuade them from goingwherever they please. "

"No, " said the other, in a nervous, hesitating manner. "You're quiteright, Augustus; you always are. "

"Is it not a strange place?" exclaimed John, as they walked forward andlooked about them. "It seems to me that really and truly they never doenter it. "

"Well, I told you so, " answered Valentine. "It is on account of theeldest son. Miss Melcombe told me that he was a very eccentriccharacter, and for many years before his death he made gardening his oneoccupation. He never suffered any one but himself to garden here, noteven so much as to mow the grass. After he was dead the poor oldgrandmother locked it up. She didn't like any one else to meddle withit. "

"Why, he was dead before I was born, " exclaimed John, "and I amtwo-and-thirty. Poor soul! and she never got over that misfortune, then, in all those years. There's a grand pear-tree! lots of rotten fruitlying under it--and what a fine apple-tree! Is this of the celebrated'redstreak' variety, I wonder, that Phillips praises so in his poem oncider. "

"A poem on cider!"

"Yes, I tell you, a poem on cider, and as long as 'Paradise Lost. ' Ithas some very fine passages in it, and has actually been translated intoItalian. I picked up a copy of it at Verona when I was a boy, andlearned a good deal of it by heart, by way of helping myself with thelanguage. I remember some of it to this day:--

 "'Voi, donne, e Cavalier del bel paese A cui propizio il ciel tanto concesse Di bene, udite il mio cantare, ' &c. , &c. 

"I wonder, now, whether this is a redstreak. "

As their sons talked thus the two fathers approached, and gravely lookedon at this scene of riotous and yet lovely desolation. Nests with eggsin them adorned every little bush, vines having broken the trellis ranfar along the ground. John, remembering that the place must have painfulthoughts connected with their dead brother for his father and uncle, continued to talk to Valentine, and did not address either of them: andwhatever they may have felt they did not say a word; but Valentinepresently observed the bed of lilies, and he and John moved on together, the two fathers following. 

They outwalked their fathers, and Valentine, stooping over the bed, gathered two or three of the lovely flowers. 

"The poor old grandmother!" he observed. "Miss Melcombe told me sheloved to watch this bed of lilies, and said only a few days ago, thatshe could wish they might never be disturbed. "

He turned--both the old men stood stock still behind him, looking downon the lily-bed. Valentine repeated what Miss Melcombe had told him. "Sono doubt, papa, you'll give orders that it shall not be touched, as youare going to have all the place put in order. "

"Yes, yes, certainly my boy--certainly he will, " said Uncle Augustus, answering for his brother. 

Valentine was not gifted with at all more feeling or sentiment thanusually falls to the lot of a youth of his age, but a sort ofcompunction visited him at that moment to think how soon they all, aliveand well, had invaded the poor old woman's locked and guarded sanctuary!He stooped to gather another lily, and offered the flowers to hisfather. Old Daniel looked at the lilies, but his unready hand did notmove forward to take them; in fact, it seemed that he slightly shrankback. With an instantaneous flash of surprise Valentine felt rather thanthought, "If you were dead, father, I would not decline to touch whatyou had loved. " But in the meantime his uncle had put forth a hand andreceived them. "And yet, " thought Valentine, "I know father must havefelt that old lady's death. Why, when he was in the mourning-coach heactually cried. " And so thinking, as he walked back to the garden-doorwith John Mortimer, he paused to let John pass first; and chancing toturn his head for one instant, he saw his uncle stoop and jerk thoselilies under a clump of lilac bushes, where they were hidden. Beforeeither of the old men had noticed that he had turned, Valentine waswalking with his cousin outside, but an uneasy sensation of surprise andsuspicion haunted him. He could not listen to John Mortimer's talk, andwhen, the rest of the party had gone back to the house, he lingeredbehind, returned to the garden, and, stooping down for an instant, sawthat it was as he had supposed; there, under the lilac bushes, werelying those gathered lilies. 

So he went back to the house. The two grandsons were to return home thatafternoon; the two sons were going to remain for a few days, that thewishes of the deceased might have prompt attention, as regarded thesetting of the place in order. They were to sleep at the inn in thehamlet, by their own desire, that, as they said, they might not givetrouble. 

When Valentine entered the great parlour, his cousin was talking toPeter's mother, and in the presence of his father and uncle he wasinviting her to let the boy come and stay awhile with his childrenshortly. 

Mrs. Peter Melcombe hesitated, and observed that her dear child hadnever been away from her in his life, and was very shy. 

"No wonder, " quoth John Mortimer; "but I have several jolly little boysand girls at home; they would soon cure him of that. "

Mrs. Peter Melcombe seemed pleased. She had taken a great fancy to thegood-looking young widower; she remarked that Peter had never been usedto playing with other children--she was half-afraid he would get hurt;but as Mr. Mortimer was so kind she would risk it. 

"Poor little beggar!" said John Mortimer to his father, as they allwalked to the inn together; "those two women will mope that boy into hisgrave if they don't look out. "

"No, John, " exclaimed his uncle, "I hope you really don't think so. "

John, in spite of his youth, had some experience. He had already filledhis house with little Mortimers. There were seven of them--some of thelargest pattern, and with the finest appetites possible. So his opinioncarried weight, and was at the same time worth nothing, for as hischildren had never but once had anything the matter with them, hisgeneral view of childhood was that if it had plenty to eat, a largegarden to play in, and leave to go out in all weathers, it was sure toprosper, as in fact the little Mortimers did. They brought themselves up(with a certain amount of interference from their governess) in a highstate of health and good-humour, and with no quarrelling to speak of, while the amount of sleep they got out of their little beds, the rapidskill with which they wore down their shoes, and the quantity of ricemilk and roast meat they could consume, were a wonder to the matronsround. 

"I see nothing special the matter with him, " continued John Mortimer;"but one cannot help pitying a child that has no companions and noliberty. I thought I should like to plunge him for a little while intothe sweet waters of real child-life, and let him learn to shout andstamp and dig and climb, as my little urchins do. "

"But his mother is a poor, faded, fat creature, " observed Valentine. "You'll see she won't let that boy go. You can no more get her to do asensible thing than you can dry your face with a wet towel. "

"Gently, sir, gently, " said his father, not liking this attempt at ajoke on a day which had begun so solemnly. 

So Mr. John Mortimer presently departed, taking his handsome youngcousin with him, and the old men, with heavy steps and depressedcountenances, went into the inn and began anxiously to talk over thevarious repairs that would be wanted, and all that would have to be donein the garden and the grounds. 

In the meantime it was known in the neighbourhood that parson Craik wasgoing to preach a funeral sermon for poor old Madam the very next Sundaymorning, and an edifying description of her death passed from mouth tomouth--how she had called her little great-grandson, Peter, to her asthe child was playing near, probably that she might give him herblessing--how, when the nurse came running out, she had seen her lookingmost earnestly at him, but evidently not able to say a word. Afterwards, she had a little revived and had risen and beautifully expressed hergratitude to all about her for their long kindness and attention, andthen, how, piously lifting up her hands and eyes, she had told them thatshe was now going to meet with those that she had loved and lost. "OLord!" she had exclaimed, "what a meeting that will be!" and thereuponshe had departed without a sigh. 

For several days after this Mr. Mortimer and his brother went about thebusiness left to them to do. They sent for an architect, and put thehouse into his hands to be thoroughly repaired. Mrs. Peter Melcombe wasdesirous not to leave it, and this they arranged to allow, giving ordersthat the apartments which the family had always occupied should remainuntouched till the rest of the house was finished and ready for her. They also had the garden-door repaired to give her ingress, and thegallery-gate taken away. These same sons who for so many years had nevercome near their mother, seemed now very anxious to attend to her everywish; scarcely a shrub was cut down in the garden excepting in thepresence of one of them, and when Mrs. Peter Melcombe especially beggedthat the grandmother's wish respecting the bed of lilies might beattended to, Mr. Mortimer, with evident emotion, gave orders to thegardener that it should not be touched. 

And then Sunday came, and with it a trial that the two sons had notexpected. It was announced by the churchwarden to the family, first tothe ladies at the hall, and then to the gentlemen at the inn, that Mr. Craik was going to preach a funeral sermon. He did not wish, he said, totake them by surprise--he felt that they would wish to know. In hissecret soul he believed that the old men would not come to hear it--hehoped they would not, because their absence would enable him more freelyto speak of the misfortunes of the deceased. 

But they did come. The manner of their coming was thought by thecongregation to be an acknowledgment that they felt their fault. Theydid not look any one in the face; but with brows bent down, and eyes onthe ground, they went to the places given them in the family pew, andwhen morning prayers were over and the text was given out, as still asstones they sat and listened. 

"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be likehis. "

The sermon was more full of eulogy than was in good taste, but theladies of the family did not find it so; they wept passionately--so didmany of the congregation, but the two sons, though their hands mightplainly be seen to tremble, maintained a deep, distressed immobility, and because it was neither right to upbraid them to their faces, nor tojudge them publicly, a piece of the sermon which concerned MadamMelcombe's sorrow, caused by their desertion, was mercifully left out. 

That was the last the people saw of the brothers; they went away almostbefore it was light on Monday morning, and for a long time after, theirfaces, their words, and their every attitude, remained the talk of theplace. 

In the meantime, John Mortimer and Valentine had a very pleasant littleexcursion. As soon as they were out of the presence of their fathers, they naturally threw off any unusual gravity of demeanour, for thoughsuitable to a solemn funeral, this might well pass away with it, astheir grandmother had been a total stranger to them. 

John hired horses, and they rode about the country together to see therosy apple orchards; they inspected an old Roman town, then they wentand looked at some fine ruins, and otherwise they enjoyed themselves forthree days; for John had plenty of money, and Valentine was far fromsuspecting that not many months before his own father had dispossessedhim, with himself, of an ample fortune and a good inheritance. He hadalways been brought up to understand that his father was not well off, and that he would have to work for his place in the world. John's placewas made already--lucky for him! Lucky for Valentine, too, for John wasvery liberal to his young relative, and had taken him about with himmore than once before. 

So the first few days after the reading of that will were passed byValentine in very good spirits, and with much self-gratulation on thingsin general. John invited him to stay at his house till his father camehome, and Valentine accepting, they reached their station, and John wasat once received into the bosom of his family, that is to say, he waspushed and pulled with difficulty into a very large carriage soexcessively full of young Mortimers that it was perfectly impossible toadd Valentine also. 

"What did you bring them all for?" said John, falling foul of theservants in a momentary fit of impatience, while they sat smiling allover him. 

"Well, sir, they were all inside the carriage and out of it ready, before even we put the horses to. We didn't know which to pull out, "answered the coachman, grinning. 

John Mortimer's house was only reached by a country lane; and to allappearances (though it was situated but two miles from the small town ofWigfield), it was buried in the depths of the country. It was athoroughly unreasonable house, appearing outside to be more than half ofit roof, the stables being so arranged as to seem almost imposing incomparison with it. 

These stables ran down at right angles with the house, their windows anddoors below, being on the further side. But a story had been added whichwas made of long wooden shingles, and one of these shingles having beenremoved to admit light and air, you might very often see seven roundfaces in a row looking out there, for the opening overlooked everywindow in the front of the house without exception. The long loft, whichwas called "parliament, " and had been annexed by the children, admittedof their sending down cheerful greetings to their grandfather and otherfriends; and it was interesting, particularly when there was company todinner, to watch their father sitting at the head of the table, and tosee the dishes handed round. 

The inside of the house was peculiar also. There was a very fine hall inthe centre, and a really beautiful old oak staircase wound round it, being adorned with carving, and having a fine old fireplace on one ofthe landings. This hall was the only good room in the house: on theright of it were the kitchens and the kitchen offices, on its left wasthe dining-room, which was a thoroughfare to the drawing-room, andthrough that again you reached a pleasant library; John Mortimer's ownparticular den or smoking room being beyond again. All these rooms hadthorough lights excepting the last, and in fine weather every oneentered them, back or front, from the garden. 

Up-stairs there were a great many bedrooms, and not one good one: mostof them had sloping roofs. Then there was a long school-room, with alittle staircase of its own. You could make a good deal of noise in thatroom, and not be heard beyond it; but this circumstance is no particularadvantage, if your father has no nerves at all, and scarcely observeswhether there is a noise or not. 

John and Valentine Mortimer had a cheerful dinner, and after that ariotous game at romps with the children. It was four days since thefuneral; it had now passed into the background of their thoughts, andthey concerned themselves very little further with the will of old MadamMelcombe; for it must not be supposed that they knew much about her--nothalf as much, in fact, as every man, woman, and child knew round aboutthe place where her house was situated. 

They knew she had had a large family of sons, and that their father anduncle had left home early in life--had been _sent away_, was theirthought, or would have been if the question had ever been raised so asto lead them to think about it. 

They were sent to Wigfield, which was about sixty miles from their home. Here they had an old second cousin, of whom they always spoke with greatrespect and affection. He took Augustus into his bank, and not onlybecame as fond of him as if he had been his son, but eventually left himhalf of what he possessed. Daniel went into a lawyer's office, and goton very well; but he was not at all rich, and had always let his sonknow, that though there was an estate in the family, it never could cometo him. John having also been told this, had not doubted that there musthave been a family quarrel at some time or other; but in his own mind henever placed it very far back, but always fancied it must be connectedwith his uncle's first marriage, which was a highly imprudent and verymiserable one. 

Whatever it had arisen from, his father had evidently taken part withhis uncle; but old Augustus never mentioned the subject. John was awarethat he wrote to his mother once a year, but she never answered. Thismight be, John thought, on account of her great age and her infirmities;and that very evening he began to dismiss the subject from his mind, being aided by the circumstance that he was himself the only son of avery rich and loving father, so that anything the mother might have leftto her second surviving son was not a matter of the slightest importanceto her grandson, or ever likely to be. 

CHAPTER V. 

OF A FINE MAN AND SOME FOOLISH WOMEN. 

 "For life is like unto a winter's day, Some break their fast and so depart away; Others stay dinner, then depart full fed; The longest age but sups, and goes to bed. "

 Anon. 

Mr. John Mortimer, as has before been said, was the father of sevenchildren. It may now be added that he had been a widower one year and ahalf. 

Since the death of his wife he had been his own master, and, so far ashe cared to be, the master of his household. 

This had not been the case previously: his wife had ruled over him andhis children, and had been happy on the whole, though any woman whosehouse, containing four sitting-rooms only, finds that they are allthoroughfares, and feels that one of the deepest joys of life is that ofgiving dinner-parties, and better ones than her neighbours, must be heldto have a grievance--a grievance against architects, which no one but anarchitect can cure. 

And yet old Augustus, in generously presenting this house, roof and all, to his son, had said, "And, my dears, both of you, beware of bricks andmortar. I have no doubt, John, when you are settled, that you and Janiewill find defects in your house. My experience is that all houses havedefects; but my opinion is, that it is better to pull a house down, andbuild a new one, than to try to remedy them. "

Mr. Augustus Mortimer had tried building, rebuilding, and alteringhouses more than once; and his daughter-in-law knew that he would beseriously vexed if she disregarded his advice. 

Of course if it had been John himself that had objected, the thing wouldhave been done in spite of that; but his father must be considered, sheknew, for in fact everything depended on him. 

John had been married the day he came of age. His father had wished itgreatly: he thought it a fine thing for a man to marry early, if hecould afford it. The bride wished it also, but the person who wished itmost of all was her mother, who managed to make John think he wished ittoo, and so, with a certain moderation of feeling, he did; and if thingshad not been made so exceedingly easy for him, he might have attainedalmost to fervour on the occasion. 

As it was, being young for his years, as well as in fact, he had hardlyforgotten to pride himself on having a house of his own, and reached thedignified age of twenty-two, when Mrs. John Mortimer, presenting himwith a son, made a man of him in a day, and threw his boyish thoughtsinto the background. To his own astonishment, he found himself greatlypleased with his heir. His father was pleased also, and wrote to theyoung mother something uncommonly like a letter of thanks, at the sametime presenting her with a carriage and horses. 

The next year, perhaps in order to deserve an equally valuable gift(which she obtained), she presented her husband with twin daughters; andwas rather pleased than otherwise to find that he was glad, and that headmired and loved his children. 

Mrs. John Mortimer felt a decided preference for her husband over anyother young man; she liked him, besides which he had been a mostdesirable match for her in point of circumstances; but when her firstchild was born to her she knew, for the first time in her life, what itwas to feel a real and warm affection. She loved her baby; she may havebeen said, without exaggeration, to have loved him very much; she hadthenceforward no time to attend to John, but she always ruled over hishousehold beautifully, made his friends welcome, and endeared herself toher father-in-law by keeping the most perfect accounts, never persuadingJohn into any kind of extravagance, and always receiving hints fromheadquarters with the greatest deference. 

The only defect her father-in-law had, in her opinion, was that he wasso inconveniently religious; his religion was inconvenient not only indegree but in kind. It troubled her peace to come in contact with statesof mind very far removed not only from what she felt, but what shewished to feel. If John's father had set before her anything that sheand John could do, or any opinion that they might hold, she thought sheshould have been able to please him, for she considered herself quiteinclined to do her duty by her church and her soul in a serious andsensible manner; but to take delight in religion, to add the love of theunseen Father to the fear and reverence that she wanted to cultivate, was something that it alarmed her to think of. 

It was all very well to read of it in the Bible, because that concerneda by-gone day, or even to hear a clergyman preach of it, this belongedto his office; but when this old man, with his white beard, talked toher and her husband just as David had talked in some of his psalms, shewas afraid, and found his aspiration worse to her than any amount ofexhortation could have been. 

What so impossible to thought as such a longing for intercourse with theawful and the remote--"With my soul have I desired thee in the night;""My soul is athirst for God;" no, not so, says the listener who standswithout--I will come to his house and make obeisance, but let mewithdraw soon again from his presence, and dwell undaunted among mypeers. 

There is, indeed, nothing concerning which people more fully feel thatthey cannot away with it than another man's aspiration. 

And her husband liked it. He was not afraid, as she was, of the oldman's prayers, though he fully believed they would be answered. 

He tried to be loyal to the light he walked in, and his father rested ina trust concerning him and his, which had almost the assurance ofpossession. 

She also, in the course of a few years, came to believe that she mustere long be drawn into a light which as yet had not risen. She feared itless, but never reached the point of wishing to see it shine. 

At varying intervals, Mrs. John Mortimer presented her husband withanother lovely and healthy infant, and she also, in her turn, received agift from her father-in-law, together with the letter of thanks. 

In the meantime her husband grew. He became first manly, more manly thanthe average man, as is often the case with those who have an unusuallylong boyhood. Then by culture and travel he developed the resources of akeenly observant and very thoughtful mind. Then his love for hischildren made a naturally sweet temper sweeter still, and in the courseof a very few years he had so completely left his wife behind, that itnever occurred to him to think of her as a companion for his inner life. He liked her; she never nagged; he considered her an excellenthousekeeper; in fact, they were mutually pleased with one another; theircases were equal; both often thought they might have been worse off, andneither regretted with any keenness what they had never known. 

Sometimes, having much sweetness of nature, it would chance that JohnMortimer's love for his children would overflow in his wife's direction, on which, as if to recall him to himself, she would say, not coldly, butsensibly, "Don't be silly, John dear. " But if he expressed gratitude onher account, as he sometimes did when she had an infant of a few daysold in her arms, if his soul appeared to draw nearer to her then, andhe inclined to talk of deeper and wider things than they commonly spokeof, she was always distinctly aggrieved. A tear perhaps would twinkle inher eye. She was affected by his relief after anxiety, and his gratitudefor her safety; but she did not like to feel affected, and brought himback to the common level of their lives as soon as possible. 

So they lived together in peace and prosperity till they had sevenchildren, and then, one fine autumn, Mrs. John Mortimer persuaded herfather-in-law to do up the house, so far as papering and painting wereconcerned. She then persuaded John to take a tour, and went herself tothe sea-side with her children. 

From this journey she did not return. Their father had but just gonequite out of her reach when the children took scarlet fever, and shesummoned their grandfather to her aid. In this, her first great anxietyand trouble, for some of them were extremely ill, all that she had foundmost oppressive in his character appeared to suit her. He pleased andsatisfied her; but the children were hardly better, so that he had timeto consider what it was that surprised him in her, when she fell illherself, and before her husband reached home had died in his father'sarms. 

All the children recovered. John Mortimer took them home, and for thefirst six months after her death he was miserably disconsolate. It wasnot because they had been happy, but because they had been so verycomfortable. He aggravated himself into thinking that he could haveloved her more if he had only known how soon he should lose her; helooked at all their fine healthy joyous children, and grieved to thinkthat now they were his only. 

But the time came when he knew that he could have loved her much more ifshe would have let him; and when he had found out that, womankind ingeneral went down somewhat in his opinion. He made up his mind, as hethought, that he would not marry again; but this, he knew in his secretheart, was less for her sake than for his own. 

Then, being of an ardently affectionate nature, and having now no one torestrain it, he began to study his children with more anxious care, andconsider their well-being with all his might. 

The children of middle-aged people seem occasionally to come into theworld ready tamed. With a certain old-fashioned primness, they stepsedately through the paths of childhood. So good, so easy to manage, so--uninteresting?

The children of the very young have sometimes an extra allowance oftheir father's youth in their blood. At any rate the little Mortimershad. 

Their joy was ecstatic, their play was fervent, and as hard as any work. They seemed month by month to be crowding up to their father, in pointof stature, and when he and they all went about the garden together, some would be treading on his heels, the select two who had hold of hisarms would be shouting in his ears, and the others, dancing in front, were generally treading on his toes, in their desire to get as near aspossible and inform him of all the wonderful things that were takingplace in this new and remarkable world. 

Into this family the lonely little heir of the Melcombes was shortlyinvited to come for awhile, but for some trivial reason his motherdeclined the invitation, at the same time expressing her hope that Mr. Mortimer would kindly renew it some other time. 

It was not convenient to John Mortimer to invite the boy again for along time--so long that his mother bitterly repented not having acceptedthe first invitation. She had an aunt living at Dartmouth, and wheneverher boy was invited by John Mortimer, she meant to bring him herself, giving out that she was on her way to visit that relative. 

Who knew what might happen?

Mr. John Mortimer was a fine man, tall, broad-shouldered, andsubstantial-looking, though not at all stout. His perfect health andteeth as white as milk made him look even younger than he was. Hiscountenance, without being decidedly handsome, was fine and veryagreeable. His hair was light, of the Saxon hue, and his complexion wasfair. 

Thus he had many advantages; but Mrs. Peter Melcombe felt that as themother of a child so richly endowed, and as the possessor of eighthundred a year in order that he might be suitably brought up, she was adesirable match also. She did not mean the boy to cost her much forseveral years to come, and till he came of age (if he lived) she hadthat handsome old house to live in. Old Augustus Mortimer, on the otherhand, was very rich, she knew; he was a banker and his only son was hispartner. Sure to inherit his banking business and probably heir to hisland. 

Mrs. Peter Melcombe had some handsome and becoming raiment made, andwaited with impatience; for in addition to Mr. John Mortimer's worldlyadvantages she found him attractive. 

So did some other people. John Mortimer's troubles on that head beganvery soon after the sending of his first invitation to Mrs. Melcombe, when the excellent elderly lady who taught the little Mortimers (and ina great measure kept his house) let him know that she could no longer dojustice to them. They got on so fast, they had such spirits, they wereso active and so big, that she felt she could not cope with them. Moreover, the three eldest were exceptionally clever, and the noise madeby the whole tribe fatigued her. 

John sent his eldest boy to school, promised her masters to help her, and an assistant governess, but she would not stay, and with her wentfor a time much of the comfort of that house. 

Mr. Mortimer easily got another governess--a very pretty young lady whodid not, after a little while, take much interest in the children, butcertainly did take an interest in him. She was always contriving tomeet him--in the hall, on the stairs, in the garden. Then she looked athim at church, and put him so out of countenance and enraged him, andmade him feel so ridiculous, that one day he took himself off to theContinent, and kept away till she was gone. 

Having managed that business, he got another governess, and she let himalone, and the children too, for they completely got the better of her;used to make her romp with them, and sometimes went so far as to lockher into the schoolroom. It was not till this lady had taken her leaveand another had been found that Mr. John Mortimer repeated hisinvitation to little Peter Melcombe. His mother brought him, andaccording to the programme she had laid down, got herself invited tostay a few days. 

She had no trouble about it. Mr. John Mortimer no sooner saw Mrs. Melcombe than he expressed a hospitable, almost a fervent hope, that shecould stay a week with him. 

Of course Mrs. Melcombe accepted the invitation, and he was verysociable and pleasant; but she thought the governess (a very grand ladyindeed) took upon herself more than beseemed her, and smiled at her veryscornfully when she ventured to say sweet things to John Mortimer on herown great love for children, and on the charms of his children inparticular. 

Peter was excessively happy. His mother's happiness in the visit wassoon over. She shortly found out that an elderly Scotch lady, one MissChristie Grant, an aunt of the late Mrs. Daniel Mortimer, was to come ina few days and pay a long visit, and she shrewdly suspected that theattractive widower being afraid to remain alone in his own house, madearrangements to have female visitors to protect him, and hence theinvitation to her. But she had to leave Peter at the end of the week, and which of the two ladies when they parted hated the other most itmight be difficult to determine. 

It cannot be said with truth that Peter regretted his mother'sdeparture. The quantity of mischief he was taught (of a not very heinousdescription) by two sweet little imps of boys younger than himself, kepthim in a constant state of joyous excitement. His grandmother having nowbeen dead a year and a quarter, his mourning had been discarded, and hismother had been very impressive in her cautions to him not to spoil hisnew clothes, but before he had been staying with his young friends afortnight he was much damaged in his outer man, as indeed he was also inhis youthful heart, for the smallest of all the Mortimers--a lovelylittle child about three years old--took entire possession of it; andwhen he was not up a tree with the boys in a daring hunt after bergamypears, or wading barefoot in a shallow stream at the bottom of thegarden catching water-beetles, caddis-worms, and other small cattle fora freshwater aquarium, he was generally carrying this child about thegarden pickaback, or otherwise obeying her little behests, and assuringher of his unalterable love. 

Poor little Peter! After staying fully six weeks with the Mortimers histime came to be taken home again, and his mother, who spent two dayswith them on her way northwards, bore him off to the railway, accompanied by the host and most of his children. Then he suddenly beganto feel the full meaning of the misfortune that had fallen on him, andhe burst into wailings and tears. His tiny love had promised to marryhim when she was grown up; his two little friends had given him somesticklebacks, packed in wet moss; they were now in his pockets, as werealso some water-beetles in a paper bag; the crown of his cap was full ofsilkworms carefully wrapped in mulberry leaves; but all these treasurescould not avail to comfort him for loss of the sweet companionship hehad enjoyed--for the apples he had crunched in the big dog's kennelwhen hiding with another little imp from the nurse--for the commonpossession they had enjoyed of some young rats dug out of the bank ofthe stream, and more than all, for the tender confidences there had beenbetween them as to the endless pranks they spent their lives in, and allthe mischief they had done or that they aspired to do. 

John Mortimer having a keen sympathy with childhood, felt rue at heartfor the poor little blinking, sobbing fellow; but to invite him againmight be to have his mother also, so he let him go, handing in from histhird daughter's arms to the young heir a wretched little blind puppyand a small bottle of milk to feed it with on the way. 

If anything could comfort a boy, this precious article could. So theMortimer boys thought. So in fact it proved. As the train moved off theyheard the sobs of Peter and the yelping of the puppy, but before theyreached their happy home he had begun to nurse the little beast in hisarms, and derive consolation from watching its movements and keeping itwarm. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE SHADOW OF A SHADE. 

 "The world would lose its finest joys Without its little girls and boys; Their careless glee and simple ruth, And innocence and trust and truth; Ah! what would your poor poet do Without such little folk as you?"

 Locker. 

"Well, anyhow, " observed Mr. Nicholas Swan, the gardener, when thechildren came home and told him how Peter had cried--"anyhow, there'sone less on you now to run over my borders. He was as meek as Moses, that child was, when first he came, but you soon made him as audaciousas any of you. "

"So they did, Nicholas dear, " said one of the twins, a tall, dark hairedchild. 

"Oh, it's Nicholas _dear_, is it, Miss Barbara? Well, now, what next?"

"Why, the key of the fruit-house--we want the key. "

"Key, indeed! Now, there's where it is. Make a wry path through yourfields, and still you'll walk in it! I never ought to ha' got in thehabit of lending you that key. What's the good of a key if a man cannever keep it in his pocket? When I lived up at Mr. Daniel Mortimer's, the children never had my key--never. "

"Well, come with us, then, and give us out the pears yourself. We won'ttake one. "

Nicholas, with a twin on each side, and the other children bringing upthe rear, was now walked off to the fruit-house, grumbling as he went. 

"I left Mr. Mortimer's, I did, because I couldn't stand the children;and now the world's a deal fuller of 'em than it was then. No, MissGladys, I'm not a-going any faster; I wouldn't run, if it was ever so. When the contrac' was signed of my wages, it was never wrote down that Ihad to run at any time. "

And having now reached the fruit-house, he was just pulling out his bigkey, when something almost like shame showed itself in his ruddy face, as a decided and somewhat mocking voice addressed him. 

"Well, Nicholas, I'm just amazed at ye! I've lived upward of sixty yearsin this island, Scotland and England both, and never did I see a man gotover so by children in my life! Talking of my niece's children, areye--Mrs. Daniel Mortimer's? I wonder at ye--they were just nothing tothese. "

Here Mr. Swan, having unlocked the door, dived into the fruit-house, andoccupied himself for some moments in recovering his self-possession andmaking his selection; then emerging with an armful of pears, he shoutedafter Miss Christie Grant, who had got a good way down the walk by thistime. 

"I don't deny, ma'am, that these air aggravating now and then, butanyhow they haven't painted my palings pink and my door pea-green. "

Miss Christie returned. She seldom took the part of any children, excepting for the sake of argument or for family reasons; and she feltat that moment that the Daniel Mortimers were related to her, and thatthese, though they called her "aunt, " were not. 

"Ye should remember, " she observed, with severity, "that ye had alreadyleft your house when they painted it. "

"Remember it!" exclaimed the gardener, straightening himself; "ay, ay, Iremember it--coming along the lane that my garden sloped down to, sothat every inch of it could be seen. It had been all raked over, andthere, just out of the ground, growing up in mustard-and-cress lettersas long as my arm, I saw '_This genteel residence to let, latelyoccupied by N. Swan, Esq. _' I took my hob-nailed boots to them lastwords, and I promise you I made the mustard-and-cress fly. "

"Well, ye see, " observed Miss Christie, who was perfectly serious, "there is great truth in your saying that those children did too much asthey pleased; but ye must consider that Mr. Mortimer didn't like totouch any of them, because they were not his own. "

"That's just it, ma'am, and Mrs. Mortimer didn't like to touch any ofthem because they _were her own;_ so between the two they got to be, Idon't say as bad as these, but--" Here he shook his head, and leaning hisback to the fruit-house door, began diligently to peel the fruit for anassembly, silent, because eating. "As for Master Giles, " he went on, more to torment the old lady than to disparage the gentleman inquestion, "before ever he went to school, he chalked a picture that hecalled my arms on the tool house-door, three turnips as natural as life, and a mad kind of bird flourishing its wings about, that he said was aswan displayed. Underneath, for a _morter_, was wrote, 'All our geeseair swans. ' Now what do you call that for ten years old?"

"Well, well, " said Aunt Christie, "that's nearly twenty years ago. "

Then the fruit being all finished, N. Swan, Esq. , shut up hisclasp-knife, and the story being also finished, his audience ran away, excepting Miss Christie, to whom he said--

"But I was fond of those children, you'll understand, though they werepowerful plagues. "

"Swan, " said the old lady, "ye'll never be respectit by children. You'rejust what ye often call yourself, _soft_. "

"And what's the good of being rough with 'em, ma'am? I can no more make'em sober and sensible than I could straighten out their bushes of curlyhair. No, not though I was to take my best rake to it. They're powerfulplagues, bless 'em! but so far as I can see, we're in this world mainlyto bring them forrard in it. I remember when my Joey was a very littlechap, he was playing by me with a tin sword that he was proud of. I wassticking peas in my own garden, and a great hulking sergeant came by, and stopped a minute to ask his road. 'Don't you be afraid of me, ' saysJoey, very kind. 'I won't hurt 'e. ' That man laughed, but the waterstood in his eyes. He'd lost such a one, he said. Children airexpensive, but it's very cutting to lose 'em. I've never seen any of theMortimers in that trouble yet, though. "

"And you've been many a long year with them too, " observed MissChristie. 

"Ay, ma'am. Some folks air allers for change, but I've known when I waswell off and they've known when they were well off. " Mr. Swan said thisin a somewhat pragmatical tone, and continued, "There's nothing but along course of just dealing and respect o' both sides as can buy suchdigging as this here family gets out of my spade. "

"Very true, " said Miss Christie, who did not appear to see anythingpeculiar in this self-eulogy. 

"But some folks forget, " continued Mr. Swan, "that transplanted treeswon't grow the first year, and others want too much for their money, andtoo good of its kind; but fair and softly, thinks I; you can't buy fiveshillings with threepence-halfpenny in any shop that I ever heerd of;and when you've earned half-a-crown you can't be paid it in gold. "

The next morning, while Peter sat at breakfast revolving in his mind thedelights he had lost, and wondering what Janie and Bertie and Hugh andNancy were about, these staunch little friends of his wereunconsciously doing the greatest damage to his future prospects--totheir most important part, as he understood them, namely, his chance ofcoming to see the Mortimers again. 

Miss Christie Grant always presided over the school-room breakfast, andJohn Mortimer, unless he had other visitors, breakfasted alone, generally coming down just after his children's meal was over, andhaving a selection of them with him morning by morning. 

On this occasion, just as he came down, his children darted out of thewindow, exclaiming, "Oh, there's Mr. Brandon down the garden--Mr. Brandon's come. "

John walked to the window, and looked out with a certain scrutinisinginterest; for it was but a few weeks since a somewhat important visitorhad left old Daniel Mortimer's house--one concerning whom theneighbourhood had decided that she certainly ought to become Mrs. GilesBrandon, and that it would be an odd thing if Mr. Brandon did not thinkso. If he did, there was every appearance that she did not, for she hadgone away all but engaged to his young brother Valentine. 

"He looks dull, decidedly dull, since Miss Graham left them, "soliloquised John Mortimer. "I thought so the last time I saw him, andnow I am sure of it. Poor fellow, " he continued with a half smile. "Ican hardly fancy him a lover, but, if he does care for that gracefullittle sea-nymph, it is hard on him that such a shallow-pated boy asValentine should stand in his light;" and he stepped out to meet hisguest, who was advancing in the midst of the children, while at the sametime they shouted up at the open schoolroom window that Nancy must comedown directly and see her godfather. 

The grand lady-governess looked out in a becoming morning costume. 

"A fine young man, " she remarked to Miss Christie Grant. 

"Yes, that's my oldest nephew, St. George they call him. Giles Brandonis his name, but his mother aye disliked the name of Giles, thought itwas only fit for a ploughman. So she called him St. George, and that'swhat he is now, and will be. "

Miss Christie Grant said this with a certain severity of manner, but shehardly knew how to combine a snubbing to the lady for her betrayal ofinterest in all the bachelors round, with her desire to boast of thisrelative. So she presently went on in a more agreeable tone. "His mothermarried Mr. Daniel Mortimer; he is an excellent young man. Has no debtsand has been a great traveller. In short a year and a half ago he wasshipwrecked, and as nearly lost his life as possible. He was picked upby Captain Graham, whose grand-daughter (no, I think Miss Graham is theold gentleman's niece) has been staying this summer with Mr. DanielMortimer. Mr. Brandon, ye'll understand, is only half-brother toValentine Mortimer, whom ye frequently see. "

Valentine was too young to interest the grand lady, but when by acombined carelessness of manner with judicious questioning she haddiscovered that the so-called St. George had a moderate independence, and prospects besides, she felt a longing wish to carry down littleAnastasia herself to see her godfather, and was hardly restrained fromdoing so by that sense of propriety which never forsook her. In the meantime Brandon passed out of view into the room where breakfast was spreadand the little Anastasia, so named because her birth had taken place onEaster day, was brought down smiling in her sister Barbara's arms. 

Peter's little love, a fair and dimpled creature, was forthwithaccommodated with a chair close to her godfather, while the twinswithdrew to practise their duets, and more viands were placed on thetable. 

The children then began to wait on their father and his guest, andduring a short conversation which ensued concerning Mrs. Peter Melcombeand her boy, they were quite silent, till a pause took place and thelittle Anastasia lifted up her small voice and distinguished herself bysaying--

"Fader, Peter's dot a dhost in his darden. "

"Got a ghost!" exclaimed John Mortimer, with a look of dismay; forghosts were the last things he wished his children to hear anythingabout. 

"Yes, " said the youngest boy Hugh, "he says he's going to be rather agrand gentleman when he's grown up, but he wishes he hadn't got aghost. "

"Then why doesn't he sell it, Huey?" asked the guest with perfectgravity. 

The little fellow opened his blue eyes wider. "I don't think you knowwhat ghosts are, " he remarked. 

"Oh yes, I do, " answered Brandon. "I've often read about them. Somepeople think a good deal of them, but I never could see the fun ofhaving them myself, and, " he continued, "I never noticed any about yourpremises, John. "

"No, " answered John Mortimer, following his lead; "they would be no usefor the children to play with. "

"Do they scratch, then?" inquired the little Anastasia. 

"No, my beauty bright, but I'm told they only wake up when it's too darkfor children to play. "

"Peter's ghost doesn't, " observed Master Bertram. "He came in themorning. "

"Did he steal anything?" inquired Brandon, still desirous, it seemed, tothrow dirt at the great idea. 

"Oh no, he didn't steal, " said the other little boy, "that's not whatthey're for. "

"What did he say then?"

"He gave a deep sigh, but he didn't say _nothink_. "

"Ghosts, " said Bertie, following up his brother's speech as one who hadfull information--"ghosts are not birds, they don't come to lay eggs foryou, or to be of any use at all. They come for you to be afraid of. Didn't you know that, father?"

John was too much vexed to answer, and Peter's chance from that momentof ever entering those doors again was not worth a rush. 

"But you needn't mind, father dear, " said Janie, the eldest childpresent, "Peter's ghost won't come here. It doesn't belong to 'grand, 'or to any of us. Its name was Melcombe, and it came from the sea, thatthey might know it was dead. " John and Brandon looked at one another. The information was far too circumstantial to be forgotten by thechildren, who continued their confidences now without any moreirreverent interruptions. "Mrs. Melcombe gave Peter four half-crowns togive to nurse, and he had to say 'Thank you, nurse, for your kindness tome;' but nurse wasn't kind, she didn't like Peter, and she slapped himseveral times. "

"And Mrs. Melcombe gave some more shillings to Maria, " said Bertie. 

"Like the garden slug, " observed Brandon, "leaving a trail of silverbehind her. "

The said Maria, who was their little nursemaid, now came in to fetchaway the children. 

"Isn't this provoking, " exclaimed John Mortimer, when they were gone. "Ihad no notion that child had been neglected and left to pick up thesepernicious superstitions, though I never liked his mother from the firstmoment I set my eyes on her. "

"Why did you ask her to stay at your house then?" said Brandon, laughing. 

"Giles, you know as well as I do. "

Thereupon, having finished their breakfast, they set forth to walk tothe town, arguing together on some subject that interested them tillthey reached the bank. 

Behind it, in a comfortable room fitted up with library tables, leatherchairs, and cases for books and papers, sat old Augustus Mortimer. "Grand, " as he was always called by his descendants, that being easierto say than his full title of grandfather; and if John Mortimer had nottaken Brandon into this room to see him, the talk about the ghost mighthave faded away altogether from the mind of the latter. 

As it was, Grand asked after the little ones, and Brandon, standing onthe rug and looking down on the fine stern features and white head, began to give him a graphic account of what little Peter Melcombe hadbeen teaching them, John Mortimer, while he unlocked his desk and sortedout certain papers, now and then adding a touch or two in mimicry of hischildren's little voices. 

Old Augustus said nothing, but Brandon, to his great surprise, noticedthat as the narrative went on it produced a marked effect upon him; helistened with suppressed eagerness, and then with a cogitative air as ifhe was turning the thing over in his mind. 

The conclusion of the story, how Janie had said the name of the ghostwas Melcombe, John Mortimer related, for Brandon by that time was keenlyalive to the certainty that they were disturbing the old man much. 

A short silence followed. John was still arranging his papers, then hisfather said deliberately, --

"This is the first hint I ever received of any presence being supposedto haunt the place. "

The ghost itself had never produced the slightest effect on JohnMortimer. All he thought of was the consequence of the tale on the mindsof his children. 

"I shall take care that little monkey does not come here again in ahurry, " he remarked, at the same time proceeding to mend a quill pen;his father watching him rather keenly, Brandon thought, from under hisbushy, white eyebrows. 

"Now, of all men, " thought Brandon, "I never could have supposed thatGrand was superstitious. I don't believe he is either; what does itmean?" and as there was still silence, he became so certain that Grandwould fain ask some more questions but did not like to do so, that hesaid, in a careless tone, "That was all the children told us;" andthereupon, being satisfied and willing to change the subject, as Brandonthought, the old man said, --

"Does my brother dine at home to-day, St. George?"

"Yes, uncle; shall I tell him you will come over to dinner?"

"Well, my dear fellow, if you are sure it will be convenient to haveme--it is a good while since I saw him--so you may. "

"He will be delighted; shall I tell him you will stay the night?"

"Yes. "

"Well done, father, " said John, looking up. "I am glad you are gettingover the notion that you cannot sleep away from home. I'll come over tobreakfast, St. George, and drive my father in. "

"Do, " said Brandon, taking his leave; and as he walked to the railwaythat was to take him home, he could not help still pondering on theeffect produced by the mention of the ghost. He little supposed, however, that the ghost was at the bottom of this visit to hisstepfather; but it was. 

CHAPTER VII. 

AN OLD MAN DIGS A WELL. 

 "And travel finishes the fool. "

 Gay. 

Mrs. Peter Melcombe, all unconscious of the unfavourable impression herson had made on his late host, continued to think a good deal of theagreeable widower. She made Peter write from time to time to littleJanie Mortimer and report the progress of the puppy, at the same timetaking care to mention his dear mamma in a manner that she thought wouldbe advantageous. 

It cost Peter a world of trouble to copy and recopy these epistles tillhis mother was satisfied with them; but she always told him that hewould not be remembered so well or invited again unless he wrote; andthis was true. 

His little friends wrote in reply, but by no means such carefully-wordedletters; they also favoured him with shoals of Christmas cards andshowers of valentines, but his letters never got beyond the schoolroom;and if John Mortimer's keen eyes had ever fallen on them, it would haveavailed nothing. He would have discovered at once that they were not thechild's sole production, and would have been all the more decided not toinvite him again. 

When first Mrs. Melcombe came home she perceived a certain change inLaura, who was hardly able to attend to Peter's lessons, and had fitsof elation that seemed to alternate with a curious kind of shame. Mrs. Peter Melcombe did not doubt that Laura fancied she had got anotherlover, but she was so tired of Laura's lovers that she determined totake no notice; and if Laura had anything to say, to make her say itwithout assistance. It seemed to her so right and natural and properthat she should wish to marry again herself, and so ridiculous of Laurato fancy that she wished to marry also. 

On Valentine's day, however, Laura had a letter, flushed high, and whiletrying to look careless actually almost wept for joy; for the momentMrs. Melcombe was thrown off her guard, and she asked a question. 

Laura, in triumph, handed the valentine to her sister-in-law. "It'sstrange, " she said tremulously, "very strange; but what is a woman to dowhen she is the object of such a passion?"

It was a common piece of paper with two coloured figures on it takinghands and smiling; underneath, in a clear and careful hand, waswritten--

 "What would he give, your lover true, Just for one little sight of you?

 "J. S. "

"J. S. ?" said Mrs. Melcombe, in a questioning tone. 

"It's Joseph, dear, " replied Laura, hanging down her head and smiling. 

Joseph was the head plumber who had been employed about the now finishedhouse, and Mrs. Melcombe's dismay was great when she found that Joseph, having discovered how the young lady thought he was in love with her, was actually taking up the part of a lover, she dreaded to think whatmight occur in consequence. Joseph was a very clever young workman, ofexcellent character, and Laura was intolerably foolish and to the lastdegree credulous. 

If the young man had been the greatest scamp and villain, but in her ownrank of life, it would have been nothing to compare with this, in theeyes of Mrs. Melcombe, or indeed in most people's eyes. She turned pale, and felt that she was a stricken woman. 

She was not well educated herself, and she had not been accustomed tosociety, but she aspired to better things. The house was just finished, she had written to Mr. Mortimer to tell him so. She thought of giving ahouse-warming; for several of the families round, whose fathers andmothers had been kept at arms' length by old Madam Melcombe till theirchildren almost forgot that there was such a person, had now begunkindly to call on the lonely ladies, and express a wish to see somethingof them. 

Also she had been rubbing up her boarding-school French, and hoped totake a trip to Paris, for she wanted to give herself and her son all theadvantages that could be got with money. She knew there was somethingprovincial about herself and her sister-in-law, as there had been aboutthe old grandmother; and indeed about all the Melcombes. She wished torise; and oh what should she do, how could she ever get over it, ifLaura married the plumber?

Her distress was such that she took the only course which could haveavailed her--she was silent. 

"I was afraid, dear, you might, you would, you must think it veryimprudent, " said Laura, a little struck by this silence; "but what is tobe done? Amelia, he's dying for me. "

Still Mrs. Melcombe was silent. 

"He told me himself, that if I wouldn't have him it would drive him todrink. "

"Laura!" exclaimed Mrs. Melcombe with vehemence, "it's not credible thatyou can take up with a lout who courts you in such fashion as that. OLaura!" she exclaimed in such distress as to give real pathos to hermanner, "I little thought to see this day, I could not have believed itof you;" and she burst into an agony of tears. 

"And here's a letter, " she presently found voice enough to say, "here'sa letter from Mr. Mortimer, to say that his brother's coming to look atthe house. Perhaps Mr. John Mortimer will come with him. Oh, what shallI do if they hear of this?"

Laura was very much impressed. If scorn, or anger, or incredulity hadconfronted her, she would have held to her intentions; but this alarmand grief at least had the merit of allowing all importance to theaffair, and consequently to her. 

Her imagination conjured up visions of her sister-in-law's future years. She saw her always wringing her hands, and she was touched for her. "Andthen so happy as we meant to be, having a foreign tour, and seeingParis, and so as we had talked it over together. And such friends as wealways are. "

This was perfectly true; Mrs. Melcombe and Laura were not of the naggingorder of women, they never said sarcastic or ill-natured things to oneanother, the foibles of the one suited the other; and if they had a fewuncomfortable words now and then between themselves, they had enough_esprit de corps_ to hide this from all outsiders. 

An affecting scene took place, Laura rose and threw herself intoAmelia's arms weeping passionately. 

"You'll give it up, Laura dear, for my sake, and for our poor dearPeter's sake, who's gone. "

No; Laura could not go quite so far in heroic self-sacrifice as that;but she did promise solemnly, that however many times Joseph might sayhe was dying for her, she would--what? She would promise to decidenothing till she had been to Paris. 

She was very happy that morning; Amelia had not made game of her, andthere had been such a scene. Laura enjoyed a scene; and Amelia hadpleaded so hard and so long with her for that promise. At last she hadgiven it. If she had not been such a remarkably foolish woman, she wouldhave known she was glad on the whole that the promise had been extortedfrom her. As it was she thought she was sorry, but after a little moreurging and pleading she gave up the precious valentine, and saw itdevoured by the flames. It had a Birmingham postmark, and Mrs. Melcombeheard with pleasure that Joseph would be away at least a fortnight. 

Laura had wanted a little excitement, just the least amusement; and ifnot that, just the least recognition of her place in nature as a woman, and a young one. At present, her imagination had not been long at workon this unpromising payer of the tribute. If some one, whose householdways and daily English were like her own, had come forward she wouldsoon have forgotten Joseph; for he himself, as an individual, was almostnothing to her, it was only in his having paid the tribute that hispower lay. 

Late in the afternoon Mr. Augustus Mortimer arrived. He was received byMrs. Melcombe almost, as it seemed, with the devotion of a daughter. 

The room was strewed with account-books and cards. It had been intendedthat he should make some remark about them, and then she was to say, with careless ease, "Only the accounts of the parish charities. " But hecourteously feigning to see none of the litter, she was put out. 

He presently went to inspect the repairs and restorations, to look overthe garden and the stables; and it was not till the next morning thatshe found occasion to ask some advice of him. 

The cottages on the land were let with the farms, so that the farmersput their labourers into them, charged, it is true, very little rent, but allowed them to get very much out of repair. It was the farmers'duty to keep them in repair; but there was no agent, no one to make themdo it. Moreover, they would have it that no repairs worth mentioningwere wanted. Did Mr. Mortimer think if she spent the money she haddevoted to charity in repairing these cottages, she could fairlyconsider that she had spent it in charity?

It was a nice point, certainly, for it would be improving her son'sproperty, and avoiding disputes with valuable and somewhat unmanageabletenants; and, on the other hand, it would be escaping the bad precedentof paying for repairs out of the estate; so she went on laying thiscasuistry before the old man while he pulled down his shaggy whitebrows, and looked very stern over the whole affair. "Some of the poorold women do suffer so sadly from rheumatism, " she continued, "and ourparish doctor says it comes from the damp places they live in, and thenthere is so much fever in the lower part of the hamlet. "

"You had better let me see the farmers and the cottagers, " said oldAugustus. "I will go into the whole affair, and tell you what I think ofit. "

Accordingly he went his way among the people, and if he had anysorrowful reason for being glad of what rendered it his duty to pick upall the information he could, this did not make him less energetic infighting the farmers. 

Very little, however, could be done with them; an obvious hole in a roofthey would repair, a rotting door they would replace, but that was all, and he felt strongly the impolicy of taking money out of the estate todo all the whitewashing, plastering, carpenters' work, and painting thatwere desirable; besides which, he was sure the water was not pure thatthe people drank, and that they ought to have another well. 

When Mrs. Melcombe heard his report of it all, and when he acknowledgedthat he could do hardly anything with the farmers, she wished she hadnot asked his advice, particularly as he chose to bring certainreligious remarks into it. He was indeed a most inconveniently religiousman; his religion was of a very expensive kind, and was all mixed upwith his philanthropy, as if one could not be religious at all withoutloving those whom God loved and as if one could not love them withoutserving them to the best of one's power. 

She listened with dismay. If it was useless to expect much of thefarmers, and impolitic to take much out of the estate, what was the useof talking? But Mr. Augustus Mortimer did talk for several minutes;first he remarked on the expressed wish of his mother that all needfulrepairs should be attended to, then he said his brother began to feelthe infirmities of age, and also was a poor man; then he made Mrs. Melcombe wince by observing that the condition of the tenements wasperfectly disgraceful, and next he went on to say that, being oldhimself, he did not wish to waste any time, for he should have butlittle, and therefore as he was rich he was content to do what waswanted himself. 

"This house, " he continued, "is a great deal too large for the smallincome your son will have. Very large sums have been spent, as the willdirected, in putting it into perfect repair. I am not surprised, therefore, that you have felt perplexed, but now, if you have noobjection, I will have estimates made at once. "

Excessively surprised, a little humiliated, but yet, on the whole, conscious that such an offer relieved her of a great responsibility, Mrs. Peter Melcombe hesitated a moment, then said in a low voice--

"Thank you, Mr. Mortimer, but you will give me a little time to think ofthis. "

"Certainly, " he answered, with all composure, "till to-morrow morning;"then he went on as if that matter was quite settled, and enough had beensaid about it. "There is one person whom I should much like to point outto you as an object for your charity--the old shepherd's wife who isbedridden. If you were inclined to provide some one to look afterher----"

"Oh, Becky Maddison, " interrupted Mrs. Melcombe; "the dear grandmotherdid not approve of that woman. She used to annoy her by telling anabsurd ghost story. "

"Indeed!"

"But still, as you think I ought to do something for her, I certainlywill. "

"I shall go and see her myself this afternoon, " answered Mr. AugustusMortimer hastily. "I will not fail to report to you how I find her. "

"Her talk was naturally painful to the dear grandmother, " continued Mrs. Melcombe. 

Mr. Mortimer looked keenly attentive, but he did not ask any question, and as she said no more, he almost immediately withdrew, and walkedstraight across the fields to the cottage of this old woman. 

Nothing more was said that evening concerning the repairs, or concerningthis visit; but the next morning Mr. Mortimer renewed his proposition, and after a little modest hesitation, she accepted it; then, rememberinghis request concerning old Becky, she told him she had that morning senther a blanket and some soup. "And, by-the-bye, Mr. Mortimer, did shetell you the story that used to annoy the dear grandmother?" sheinquired. 

Mr. Mortimer was so long in answering, that she looked up at him, andwhen he caught her eye he answered. "Yes. "

"He doesn't like it any more than his mother did, " she thought, so shesaid no more, and he almost immediately went away to give orders aboutthe proposed estimates. 

Mrs. Melcombe and Laura made Mr. Mortimer very comfortable, and when hewent away he left them highly pleased, for, having been told of theirintended journey to Paris, he had proposed to them to come and spend afew days at his house, considering it the first stage of their tour. 

So he departed, and no more dirt was thrown at him. The tide began toturn in favour of the Mortimers, people had seen the mild face andvenerable gentleness of the Mortimer who was poor, they had now handledthe gold of the one that was rich. 

"Old Madam was a saint, " they observed, "but she couldn't come and lookarter us _hersen_, poor dear. Farmers are _allers_ hard on poor folk. Sohe was bent on having another well atop o' the hill 'stead o' thebottom. Why let him, then, if he liked! Anyhow, there was this good init--the full buckets would be to carry down hill 'stead of up. As to thewater o' the ould well being foul and breeding fevers, it might be, andthen again it might not be; if folks were to be for ever consideringwhether water was foul, they'd never drink in peace!"

The moment he was gone, Mrs. Melcombe turned her thoughts to Laura'sswain, and excited such hopes of pleasure from the visit to Paris in themind of her sister-in-law, that Joseph's devotion began to be lessfascinating to her, besides which there was something inexpressiblysweet to her imaginative mind in the notion of being thwarted andwatched. She pictured to herself the fine young man haunting the lonelyglen, hoping to catch a sight of her, and smiting his brow as men do innovels, sighing and groaning over his lowly birth and his slender means. She wished Joseph would write that her sister-in-law might rob her ofthe letter; but Joseph didn't write, he knew better. At the end of thefortnight he appeared; coming to church, and sitting in full view of theladies, looking not half so well in his shining Sunday clothes ofBirmingham make, as he had done in his ordinary working suit. 

Laura was a good deal out of countenance, but Mrs. Melcombe perceived, not without surprise, that while she felt nothing but a feminineexultation in being admired, the young man's homage was both deep andreal. Nothing was either fancied or feigned. 

So by Monday morning Mrs. Melcombe had got ready a delightful plan tolay before Laura--she actually offered to take her to London, and firedher imagination with accounts of the concerts, the theatres and allthat they were to do and see. 

No mortal plumber could hold his own against such a sister-in-law. Lauralet herself be carried off without having any interview with Joseph, whobegan to think "it was a bad job, " and did not know how his supposedfaithless lady wept during the railway journey. But then he did not knowhow completely when she went to her first oratorio she was delighted andconsoled. 

The longer they stayed in London the more delighted they were; so wasPeter; the Polytechnic alone was worth all the joys of the country puttogether; but when they came back again at the end of April, and all theland was full of singing-birds, and the trees were in blossom, and thesweet smiling landscape looked so full of light, and all was so freshand still, then the now absent Joseph got hold of Laura's imaginationagain; she went and gazed at the window that he had been glazing, when, as she passed, he lifted up his fine eyes and looked at her in such aparticular manner. 

What really had taken place was this. Joseph, with a lump of putty inhis palm, was just about to dig a bit out of it with a knife that heheld in his other hand. Laura passed, and when the young man looked up, she affected to feel confused, and turned away her face with a sort ofridiculous self-consciousness. Joseph was surprised, and the knife heldsuspended in his hand, he was staring at her when she glanced again, andnaturally he was a little put out of countenance. 

So Laura now walked about the place, recalled the romantic past, and ifJoseph had appeared (which he did not, because he had no means ofknowing that she had returned), it is highly doubtful whether Laurawould ever have seen Paris. 

As it was, with sighs and smiles, with regrets over a dead nosegay thatthe young man had given her, and with eager longings to see Paris, andperhaps Geneva, Laura spent the next fortnight, and then, taking leaveof Melcombe again, was received in due time by Mr. Augustus Mortimer onthe steps of his house, his son being with him. 

It was nearly dinner-time, she and her sister-in-law were delighted tomeet this gentleman, and find that he was going to dine that day withhis father. Peter, too, was as happy as a king, for he hoped Mr. JohnMortimer would and could give him information concerning all thewell-remembered puppies, kittens, magpies, and white mice that he hadmade acquaintance with during his happy visit to the little Mortimers. 

Mr. Augustus Mortimer's house was just outside the small town ofWigfield; it appeared to be quite in the country, because it was on theslope of a hill, and was so well backed up with trees that not a chimneycould be seen from any of its windows. It was built with its back to thetown, and commanded a pretty view over field, wood, and orchard, andalso over its own beautiful lawn and slightly-sloping garden, which wasdivided from some rich meadows by the same little river that ran nearlytwo miles further on, past the bottom of John Mortimer's garden. "Andthere, " said John Mortimer, after dinner, pointing out a chimney whichcould be seen against the sky, just over the tops of some trees--"therelives my uncle Daniel, in a house which belongs to his stepson, GilesBrandon; his house is just two miles from this, and mine is two milesfrom each of them, so that we form a triangle. "

Mr. Mortimer's daughter came the next day to call on the relatives fromMelcombe; she brought his step-daughters with her; and these youngladies when they returned home gave their step-brothers a succinctaccount of the impressions they had received. 

"Provincial, both of them. The married one looks like a faded piece ofwax-work. Laura Melcombe is rather pretty, but unless she is a goose, her manners, voice, and whole appearance do her the greatest injusticepossible. "

Mrs. Melcombe and Laura also gave judgment in the same manner when thesevisitors were gone. 

"Mrs. Henfrey looks quite elderly. She must be several years past fifty;but I liked her kind, slow way of talking; and what a handsome gown shehad on, Laura, real lace on it, and a real Maltese lace shawl!"

"She has a good jointure, " said Laura; "she can afford to dress well. The girls, the Miss Grants, have graceful, easy manners, just the kindof manners I should like to have; but I can't say I thought much oftheir dress. I am sure those muslins must have been washed severaltimes. In fact, they were decidedly shabby. I think it odd andold-fashioned of them always to call Mrs. Henfrey 'Sister. '"

"I do not see that; she is older than their mother was; they could notwell address her by her Christian name. They do not seem to be amarrying family, and that is odd, as their mother married three times. The Grants are the children of the second marriage, are they not?"

"Yes; but three times! Did she marry three times? Ah, I remember--howshocking!"

"Shocking, " exclaimed Mrs. Melcombe, "O, Laura, I consider it quiteirreligious of you to say that. "

Laura laughed. "But only think, " she observed, "what a number of namesone must remember in consequence of her three marriages. First, there isUncle Daniel's own daughter, Mrs. Henfrey; I do not mind her; but thenthere is Mr. Brandon, the son of Aunt Mortimer's first husband; thenthese Grants, the children of her second husband; and then Valentine, uncle's son and hers by this third marriage. It's a fatigue only tothink of them all!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

THEY MEET AN AUTHOR. 

 "People maybe taken in _once_, who imagine that an author is greater in private life than other men. Uncommon parts require uncommon opportunities for their exertion. "

 Dr. Johnson. 

Mrs. Henfrey in taking leave of Amelia had expressed her pleasure at theprospect of shortly seeing her again. They were all coming by invitationto lunch, the next day, at her Uncle Augustus Mortimer's house, becausein the afternoon there was to be a horticultural show in the town. Theyalways went to these shows, she continued, and this one would have aparticular interest for them, as John Mortimer's gardener, who had oncebeen their gardener, was to carry off the first prize. "And if you askhim what the prize is for, " said one of the girls, "he will tell you itis for 'airly 'tates. '"

Accordingly the next day there was a gathering of Mortimers and theirfamilies. Augustus Mortimer was not present, he generally took hisluncheon at the bank; but his son John, to Peter's delight, appearedwith the twins, and constituting himself master of the ceremonies, tookthe head of the table, and desired his cousin Valentine to take theother end, and make himself useful. 

Peter asked after his little love, Anastasia. 

"Oh, she is very happy, " said Gladys Mortimer; "she and Janie have got aWASH. "

"Got what?" asked Mrs. Henfrey. 

"A wash, sister, " said Valentine. "I passed through the garden, and sawthem with lots of tiny dolls' clothes that they had been washing in thestream spread out to bleach on the grass. "

"It's odd, " observed Brandon, "that so wise as children are, they shouldbe fond of imitating us who are such fools. "

"Janie has been drawing from the round, in imitation of her sisters, "observed John Mortimer. "She brought me this morning a portrait of aflat tin cock, lately bought for a penny, and said, 'I drew him from theround, father. '"

By this time the dishes were uncovered and the servants had withdrawn. Laura was very happy at first. She had been taken in to luncheon by theso-called St. George, he was treating her with a sort of deference thatshe found quite to her mind, and she looked about her on thesenewly-known relatives and connections with much complacency. There wasJohn Mortimer, with Amelia at his right hand, in the place of honour;then there were the two Miss Grants (in fresh muslin dresses), with acertain Captain Walker between them, whose twin brother, as Lauraunderstood, had married their elder sister. This military person wasinsignificant in appearance and small of stature, but he was veryattentive to both the young ladies. Then there was Valentine, lookingvery handsome, between Mrs. Henfrey and Miss Christie Grant, and beingrebuked by one and advised by the other as to his carving, for he couldnot manage the joint before him, and was letting it slip about in thedish and splash the white sauce. 

"You must give your mind to it more, " said Mrs. Henfrey, "and try to hitthe joints. "

"It's full of bones, " exclaimed Valentine in a deeply-injured voice. 

"Well, laddie, " said Miss Christie, "and if I'm not mistaken, ye'll findwhen you get more used to carving, that a breast of veal always is fullof bones. "

"Nobody must take any notice of him till he has finished, " saidBrandon. "Put up a placard on the table, 'You are requested not to speakto the man at the veal. ' Now, Aunt Christie, you should say, 'aweel, aweel, ' you often do so when there seems no need to correct me. "

"Isn't it wonderful, " observed Valentine, "that he can keep up hisspirits as he does, when only last week he was weighed in the columns ofthe _Wigfield Advertiser and True Blue_, and expressly informed that hewas found wanting. "

"If you would only let politics alone, " observed Mrs. Henfrey, "the_True Blue_ would never interfere with you. I always did hate politics, "she continued, with peaceable and slow deliberation. 

"They are talking of some Penny Readings that St. George has beengiving, " said John Mortimer, for he observed a look of surprise onLaura's face. 

"'Our poet, ' though, has let him alone lately, " remarked Valentine. "OhI wish somebody would command Barbara to repeat his last effusion. I amsure by the look in her eyes that she knows it by heart. "

"We all do, " said John Mortimer's eldest daughter. 

"Ah! it's a fine thing to be a public character, " observed her father;"but even I aspire to some notice from the _True Blue_ next week inconsequence of having old Nicholas for my gardener. "

"I am very fond of poetry, " said Laura simpering. "I should like to hearthe poem you spoke of. "

Thereupon the little girl immediately repeated the following verses:--

 "If, dear friends, you've got a penny (If you haven't steal one straight), Go and buy the best of any Penn'orth that you've bought of late. 

 "At the schoolroom as before (Up May Lane), or else next door (As last Monday) at the Boar, Hear the Wigfield lion roar. 

 "What a treat it was, good lack! Though my bench had ne'er a back, With a mild respectful glee There to hear, and that to see. 

 "Sweetly slept the men and boys, And the girls, they sighed meanwhile 'O my goodness, what a voice! O my gracious, what a smile!'"

The man with no ear for music feels his sense of justice outraged whenpeople shudder while his daughter sings. Why won't they listen to hersongs as to one another's? There is no difference. 

With a like feeling those who have hardly any sense of humour arehalf-offended when others laugh, while they seem to be shut out for notperceiving any cause. Occasionally knowing themselves to be sensiblepeople, they think it evident that their not seeing the joke must bebecause it is against them. 

Laura and Mrs. Melcombe experienced a certain discomfort here. Neitherwould have been so rude as to laugh; in fact, what was there to laughat? They were shut out not only from the laugh, but from that state offeeling which made these cousins, including the victim, enjoy it, against one of themselves. 

As for Mrs. Henfrey, who also was without any perception of the humorousside of things, she looked on with a beaming countenance; pleased withthem all for being in such good spirits, whatever might be the reason, for, as she always expressed it, she did so love to see young peoplehappy. 

"It's capital, " said John, but not so good as the prose reviewing theygive you; and all this most excellent fun we should lose, you know, Giles, if you might have your way, and all sorts of criticism andreviewing had to be signed with the writer's name. "

"But it would make the thing much more fair and moderate, " said Brandon"(not that I intended to include such little squibs as this); besides, it would secure a man against being reviewed by his own rivals--or hisenemies. "

"Yes, " said Valentine; "but that sort of thing would tell both ways. "

As he spoke with great gravity Mrs. Melcombe, mainly in the kind hope ofhelping dear Laura's mistake into the background, asked with an air ofinterest what he meant. 

"Well, " said Valentine, with calm audacity, "to give an example. Supposea man writes something, call it anything you please--call it a lectureif you like--say that it is partly political, and that it is publishedby request; and suppose further that somebody, name unknown, writes aninteresting account of its scope and general merits, and it is put intosome periodical--you can call it anything you please--say a countypaper, for instance. The author is set in the best light, and thereviewer brings forward also some of his own views, which is quitefair----"

As he seemed to be appealing to Laura, Laura said, "Yes; perfectlyfair. "

"His own views--on--on the currency or anything else you like tomention. " Here John Mortimer asked Mrs. Melcombe if she would take somemore wine, Valentine proceeding gravely: "Now do you or do you not thinkthat if that review had been signed by the lecturer's father, brother, or friend almost as intimate as a brother, it would have carried moreweight or less in consequence?"

As several of them smiled, Mrs. Melcombe immediately felt uncomfortableagain. 

"If what he said was true, " she said, "I cannot exactly see----" andhere she paused. 

"Well, " said John Mortimer, observing that the attention of hiskeen-witted little daughter was excited, and being desirous, it seemed, to give a plainer example of what it all meant, "let us say now, foronce, that I am a poet. I send out a new book, and sit quaking. Thefirst three reviews appear. Given in little they read thus:--

"One. 'He copied from Snooks, whose immortal work, "The Loves of theLinendraper, " is a comfort and a joy to our generation. '

"Two. 'He has none of the culture, the spontaneity, the suavity, thereticence, the _abandon_, the heating power, the cooling power, thelight, the shade, or any of the other ingredients referred to by thegreat Small in his noble work on poesy, '

"Three. 'This man doesn't know how to write his own language. '

"As I am a poet, fancy my state of mind! I am horribly cast down; don'tlike to go out to dinner; am sure my butler, having read these reviews, despises me as an impostor; but while I sit sulking, in comes a dearfriend and brother-poet. 'How do you know, ' says he, 'that Snooks didn'twrite number one himself? Or perhaps one of his clique did, for whom heis to do the same thing. ' I immediately shake hands with him. This isevidently his candid opinion, and I love candour in a friend; besides, we both hate Snooks. 'And it is a well-known fact, ' he continues withfriendly warmth, 'that Small's great work won't sell; how do you knowthat number two was not written by a brother or friend of thepublisher's, by way of an advertisement for it?' By this time I amalmost consoled. Something strikes me with irresistible force. Iremember that that fellow Smith, who contested with me the election forthe borough of Wigfield in eighteen hundred and fifty or sixty, hastaken to literature. He was at the head of the poll on that occasion, but my committee proving that he bribed, he lost his seat. I came in. Itwas said that I bribed too; but to discuss that now would be out ofplace. I feel sure that Smith must have written number three. In fact hesaid those very words concerning me on the hustings. "

"Gladys, " said Brandon, observing the child's deep attention, "it isright you should know that the brother-poet had written a tragedy ontin-tacks. Your father reviewed it, and said no family ought to bewithout it. "

"But you didn't bribe father, and you didn't copy from Snooks, I amsure, " said Gladys, determined to defend her father, even in his assumedcharacter. 

"What was the name of your _thing_, papa?" asked Barbara. 

"I don't know, my dear, I have not considered that matter. "

"It was called 'The Burglar's Betrothal, '" said Valentine. 

"And do you think that Snooks really wrote that review?" she continued, contemplating her father through her eyeglass, for she was shortsighted. 

"If you ask my sincere opinion, my dear, I must say that I think he didnot; but if some other man had signed it, I should have been sure. Whichnow I never shall be. "

Here the door was slowly opened, and the portly butler appeared, bearingin his own hands a fine dish of potatoes; from the same plot, heremarked to John, with those that had obtained the prize. The butlerlooked proud. 

"I feel as much elated, " said John, "as if I had raised them myself. IsNicholas here?"

"Yes, sir, and he has been saying that if the soil of your garden couldonly be kept dry, they would be finer still. "

"Dry!" exclaimed Valentine, "you can't keep anything dry in such aclimate as this--not even your jokes. "

"Hear, hear, " said John Mortimer; "if the old man was not a teetotaler, and I myself were not so nearly concerned in this public recognition of_our_ merits, I should certainly propose his health. "

"Don't let such considerations sway you, " exclaimed Valentine rising. "Jones, will you tell him that you left me on my legs, proposing hishealth in ginger-pop--'Mr. Nicholas Swan. '"

Mr. Nicholas Swan. Not one word of the ridiculous speech which followedthe toast was heard by Laura, nor did she observe the respectful gleewith which the butler retired, saying, "I think we've got a rise out ofthe _True Blue_ now, sir. I'm told, sir, that the potatoes shown by the_other side_, compared with these, seemed no bigger than bullets. "

Mr. Nicholas Swan. A sudden beating at the heart kept Mrs. Melcombesilent, and as for Laura, she had never blushed so deeply in her life. Joseph's name was Swan, and it flashed into her mind in an instant thathe had told her his father was a gardener. 

She sat lost in thought, and nervous, scarcely able to answer when somecasual remark was made to her, and the meal was over before she hadsucceeded in persuading herself that this man could not be Joseph'sfather, because her coming straight to the place where he lived was_too_ improbable. 

"There goes Swanny across the lawn, father, " said one of the twins, andthereupon they all went to the bow-window, and calling the old man, began to congratulate him, while he leaned his arms on the window-frame, which was at a convenient height from the ground, and gave them anaccount of his success. 

They grouped themselves on the seats near. Mrs. Melcombe took the chairpushed up for her where, as John Mortimer said, she could see the view. Laura followed, having snatched up a book of photographs, with which shecould appear to be occupied, for she did not want to attract thegardener's attention by sitting farther than others did from the window;and as she mechanically turned the leaves, she hearkened keenly toSwan's remarks, and tried to decide that he was not like Joseph. 

"The markiss, sir? Yes, sir, his gardener, Mr. Fergus, took the bestprize for strawberries and green peas. You'll understand that thoseairly tates were from seedlings of my own--that's where their greatmerit lies, and why they were first. They gave Blakis the cottagers'prize for lettuce; that I uphold was wrong. Said I, 'Those lettuce headsthat poor Raby shows air the biggest ever I set my eyes on, ' 'Swan, 'says Mr. Tikey, 'we must encourage them that has good characters. ''Well, now, if you come to think, sir, ' says I, 'it's upwards of tenyears since Raby stole that pair of boots, ' and I say (though they wasmy boots) that should be forgot now, and he should have the cottagers'prize, but stealing never gets forgiven. "

"Because it's such an inconvenient vice to those that have anything tolose, " said Miss Christie. 

"Yes, that's just it, ma'am. You see the vices and virtues have gotoverhauled again, and sorted differently to suit our convenience. Stealing's no worse _probly_ in the eyes of our Maker than lying andslandering; not so bad, mayhap, as a deep _sweer_. But folks air sotenacious like, they must have every stick and stone respected that theyreckon theirs. "

"We shouldn't hear ye talking in this _pheelosophical_ way, " said MissChristie, "if yere new potatoes had been stolen last night, before yegot them to the show. "

Laura took a glance at the gardener, as, with all the ease of intimacy, he leaned in at the window and gave his opinion on things in general. Hewas hale, and looked about sixty years of age. He was dressed in hisSunday suit, and wore an orange bandana handkerchief loosely tied roundhis neck. He had keen grey eyes. Joseph's eyes were dark and large, andJoseph was taller, and had a straighter nose. 

"Swan's quite right, " remarked Valentine; "we are a great deal tootenacious about our belongings. Now I've heard of a fellow who waswaiting about, to horsewhip another fellow, and when this last came outhe had a cane in his hand. His enemy snatched it from him, and laid itabout his back as much as he liked, split it and broke it on him, andthen carried off the bits. Now what would you have done, Swan, in such acase?"

"Well, sir, in which case? I can't consider anyhow as I could be in thecase of him that was whipped. "

"I mean what would you have done about the cane?--the property? Amagistrate had to decide. The man that had been horsewhipped said theother had spoilt his cane, which was as good as new, and then had stolenit. The other said he did not carry off the cane till it had been somuch used that it was good for nothing, and he didn't call thatstealing. "

"Well, sir, " said Mr. Swan, observing a smile on the face of one andanother, "I think I'll leave that there magistrate to do the best he canwith that there case, and I'll abide by his decision. "

"When ye come out in the character of Apollo, " said Miss Christie toValentine, "ye should compose yourself into a grander attitude, and notsit all of a heap while ye're drawing the long-bow. Don't ye agree withme, Mrs. Melcombe?"

Mrs. Melcombe looked up and smiled uneasily; but the gardener had nouncomfortable surmises respecting her, as she had respecting him, andwhen he caught her eye he straightened himself up, and said withpleasant civility, while putting on his hat on purpose to touch it andtake it off again, "'Servant, ma'am; my son Joseph has had a fine spellof work, as I hear from him, at your place since I saw you last autumn, and a beautiful place it is, I'm told. "

Mrs. Melcombe answered this civil speech, and John Mortimer said, "Howis Joseph getting, on, Swan?"

"Getting on first-rate, thank you kindly, sir, " replied Swan, leaningdown into his former easy attitude, and keeping his Sunday hat under hisarm. 

"That boy, though I say it, allers was as steady as old Time. He's atBirmingham now. I rather expect he'll be wanting to _settle_ shortly. "

As he evidently wished to be asked a further question, Mrs. Henfrey didask one. 

"No, ma'am, no, " was the reply; "he have not told me nor his mother theyoung woman's name; but he said if he got her he should be the luckiestfellow that ever was. " Here, from intense confusion and shyness, Lauradropped the book, St. George picked it up for her, and nobody thought ofconnecting the fall with the story, the unconscious Nicholas continuing. "So thereby his mother judged that it would come to something, forthat's what a young chap mostly says when he has made up his mind; but Ishall allers say, sir, " he went on, "that with the good education as Igave him, it's a pity he took to such a poor trade. He airly showed abent for it; I reckon it was the putty that got the better of him. "

"Ah, " said John Mortimer, "and I only wonder, Swan, that it didn't getthe better of me! I used to lay out a good deal of pocket-money in it atone time, and many a private smash have I perpetrated in the panes ofout-houses, and at the back of the conservatory, that I might afterwardsmend them with my own putty and tools. I can remember my father's lookof pride and pleasure when he would pass and find me so quietly, and, ashe thought, so meritoriously employed. "

And now this ordeal was over. The gardener was suffered to depart, andthe ladies went up-stairs to dress for the flower-show. 

"Oh, Amelia!" exclaimed Laura, pressing her cold hands to her burningcheeks, "I feel as if I almost hated that man. What business had he totalk of Joseph in that way?"

Amelia, on the contrary, was very much pleased with Swan, because he hadclearly shown that he was ignorant of this affair. "He seems a veryrespectable person, " she replied. "His cottage, I know, is near the endof John Mortimer's garden. I've seen it; but I never thought of askinghis name. It certainly would be mortifying for you to have to go andstay there with him and Joseph's mother. I suppose, though, that theMortimers would have to call. "

Amelia felt a certain delight in presenting this picture to Laura. 

"I would never go near them!" exclaimed Laura, very angry with hersister-in-law. 

"Why not?" persisted Amelia, determined to make Laura see things as theywere. "You could not possibly wish to divide a man from his own family;they have never injured you. "

"Oh that he and I were on a desert island together, " said Laura. She hadoften said that before to Amelia. She now felt that if Joseph's fatherand mother were there also, and there was nobody else to see, she shouldnot mind their presence; besides, it would be convenient, they would actalmost as servants. 

Amelia very seldom had intuitions; but one seemed to visit her then. "Doyou know, Laura, it really seems to me _less shocking_ that you shouldbe attached to Joseph (if you are, which I don't believe), than that youshould be so excessively ashamed of it, with no better cause. "

This she said quite sincerely, having risen for the moment into aclearer atmosphere than that in which she commonly breathed. It was agreat advance for her; but then, on the other hand, she had never feltso easy about the result as that old man's talk had now made her. Lauranever could do it!

So off they set to the flower-show, which was held under a large tent ina field. Laura heard the hum and buzz about her; the jolly wives of thevarious gardeners and florists admiring their husbands' prizes; the bandof the militia playing outside; Brandon's delightful voice--how shewished that Joseph's was like it!--all affected her imagination;together with the strong scent of flowers and strawberries and troddengrass, and the mellow light let down over them through the tent, and themoving flutter of dresses and ribbons as the various ladies passed andrepassed, almost all being adorned with little pink and blue flowers, if only so much as a rose-bud or a forget-me-not--for a general electionwas near, and they were "showing their colours" (a custom once almostuniversal, and which was still kept up in that old-fashioned place). 

Wigfield was a droll little town, and in all its ways was intenselyEnglish. There was hardly a woman in it or round it who really andintelligently concerned herself about politics; but they were all"blues" or "pinks, " and you might hear them talk for a week togetherwithout finding out which was the Liberal and which was the Conservativecolour; but the "pinks" all went to the pink shops, and the "blues"would have thought it WRONG not to give their custom to those tradesmenwho voted "blue. "

You might send to London for anything you thought you wanted; but theMarchioness herself, the only great lady in the neighbourhood, knewbetter than to order anything in Wigfield from a shop of the wrongcolour. 

The "pinks" that day were happy. "Markiss, " in the person of hisgardener, had three prizes; "Old Money-Bags" (Mr. Augustus Mortimer'sname at election time) had two prizes, in the person of his son'sgardener; in fact, the "pinks" triumphed almost at the rate of two toone, and yet, to their immortal honour, let it be recorded that the"blues" said it was all fair. 

John Mortimer shortly went to fetch his father, and returned with himand all his own younger children. Mr. Mortimer had long been allowed togive three supplementary prizes, on his own account, to some of theexhibitors who were cottagers, and on this occasion his eyes, havingbeen duly directed by his son, were observed to rest with greatadmiration on the big lettuces. Raby's wife could hardly believe it whenshe saw the bright sovereign laid on the broad top of one of them; whileMr. Swan, as one of the heroes of the day, and with Mrs. Swan leaning onhis arm, looked on approvingly, the latter wearing a black silk gownand a shawl covered with fir-cones. She was a stout woman, and had beenvery pretty--she was supposed by her husband to be so still. On thisoccasion, pointing out the very biggest and brightest bunch ofcut-flowers he saw, Mr. Swan remarked complacently--

"They remind me of you, Maria. "

"And which on 'em came from our garden, dear, " said Mrs. Swan, meaningwhich came from Mr. John Mortimer's garden. 

Swan pointed out several. "Mr. Fergus came to me yesterday, and said he, 'We want a good lot of flowers to dress up the tent. You'll let us havesome?' 'Certain, ' said I; 'we allers do. ' Then he marches up to mypiccotees. 'Now these, ' said he, 'would just suit us. We could do verywell with pretty nigh all of 'em. ' 'Softly, ' said I; 'flowers you'llhave; but leave the rest to me. If I'm to have one of my teeth drawn, it's fair I should say which. ' Yes, William Raby air improved; but Ishall allers say as nothing ever can raise that idle dog Phil. Raby. Idon't hope for folks that take parish pay. "

The said William Raby came in the evening and brought the bigvegetables, wrapped in an old newspaper, for Mr. Mortimer's acceptance, and when the old man came out into his hall to speak to him, Raby said--

"It wer' not only the money. My wife, _her_ feels, too--when a man'sbeen down so long--as it does him a sight o' good to get a mouthful o'pride, and six penn'orth o' praise to make him hold his head up. "

"St. George was dull yesterday, " observed John Mortimer, when he and hisfather were alone the next morning in the bank parlour. "He was not likehimself; he flashed out now and then, but I could see that it was aneffort to him to appear in good spirits. I thought he had got over thatattachment, for he seemed jolly enough some time ago. "

"When does he sail for Canada?" asked the old man. 

"At the end of this week, and I believe mainly for the sake of havingsomething to do. It is very much to be lamented that my uncle did notmanage to make him take up some profession. Here are his fine talentsalmost wasted; and, besides that, while he is running about on hisphilanthropic schemes, Valentine steals the heart of the girl he loves. "

"But, " said his father, "I think the young fellow is quite unconsciousthat St. George likes her. "

"My dear father, then he has no business to be. He ought to know thatsuch a thing is most probable. Here is St. George shipwrecked, floatingon a raft, and half starved, when this impudent little yacht, thatseems, by the way she flies about, to know the soundings of all harboursby special intuition--this impudent little yacht comes and looks roundthe corner of every wave, and actually overhauls the high seas till shefinds him, and there the first time he opens his eyes is that sweet, quaint piece of innocence leaning over him. He is shut up with her forten days or so; she is as graceful as a sylph, and has a tender sort ofbaby face that's enough to distract a man, and I don't see how he couldpossibly leave that vessel without being in love with her, unless someother woman had already got hold of his heart. No, even if St. Georgedid not know himself that he cared for her, he ought to have beenallowed time to find it out before any one else spoke. And there is Valin constant correspondence with her, and as secure as possible!"

Conversation then turned to the Melcombes. Old Augustus spoke uneasilyof the boy, said he looked pale, and was not grown. 

"He gets that pallor from his mother, " said John. "I should not like tosee any of my children such complete reproductions of either parent asthat boy is of her. Family likeness is always strongest among theuncultivated, and among lethargic and stupid people. If you go down intothe depths of the country, to villages, where the parents hardly thinkat all, and the children learn next to nothing, you'll find wholefamilies of them almost exactly alike, excepting in size. "

His father listened quietly, but with the full intention of bringing theconversation back to Peter as soon as he could. 

"It is the same with nations, " proceeded John, "those who have littleenergy and no keen desire for knowledge are ten times more alike infeature, complexion, and countenance than we are. No! family likeness isall very well in infancy, before the mind has begun to work on the face;but as a man's children grow, they ought to be less and less alike everyyear. "

"That little fellow, " said the father, "seems to me to be exactly likewhat he was a year ago. "

"I observe no change. "

"Do you think he is an average child, John?"

John laughed. "I think that little imp of mine, Hughie, could thrashhim, if they chose to fight, and he is nearly three years the younger ofthe two. No, I do not think he is an average child; but I see nothingthe matter with him. "

Grand was not exempt from the common foibles of grandfathers, and he wasspecially infatuated in favour of the little Hugh, who was a mostsweet-tempered and audacious child, and when his son went on, "Those twolittle scamps are getting so troublesome, that they will have to be sentto school very shortly, " he said, almost in a grumbling tone, "They'realways good enough when they're with _me_. "

So, in course of time, Mrs. And Miss Melcombe set forth on theirtravels; it was their ambition to see exactly the same places and thingsthat everybody else goes to see, and they made just such observations onthem as everybody else makes. 

In the meantime Brandon, not at all aware that several people besidesJohn Mortimer had noticed that he was out of spirits--Brandon alsoprepared to set forth on his travels. He had persuaded several familiesto emigrate, and had also persuaded himself that he must go to theirdestination himself, that he might look out for situations for them, andsettle them before the winter came on. He was very busy for some daysarranging his affairs; he meant to be away some time. Mr. Mortimer knewit--perhaps he knew more, for he said not a word by way of dissuasion, but only seemed rather depressed. The evening, however, before Brandonwas to start, as, at about eight o'clock, he sat talking with hisstep-father, the old man lifted up his head and said to him--

"You find me quite as clear in my thoughts and quite as well able toexpress them as usual, don't you, St. George?"

"Yes, " answered the step-son, feeling, however, a little dismayed, forthe wistful earnestness with which this was said was peculiar. 

"If you should ever be asked, " continued Daniel Mortimer, "you would beable to say that you had seen no signs of mental decay in me these lastfew months?"

"Yes, I should. "

"Don't disturb yourself, my dear fellow. I am as well as usual; bettersince my illness than I was for some time before. I quite hope to seeyou again; but in case I do not, I have a favour to ask of you. "

The step-son assured him with all affection and fervour that he wouldattend to his wish, whatever it might be. 

"I have never loved anything that breathed as I loved your mother, "continued the old man, as if still appealing to him, "and you couldhardly have been dearer to me if you had been my own. "

"I know it, " said Brandon. 

"When you were in your own study this morning at the top of thehouse----"

"Yes, my liege?"

"I sent Valentine up to you with a desk. You were in that room, were younot?"

"Oh, yes. "

"A small desk, that was once your mother's--it has a Bramah lock. "

"I noticed that it had, and that it was locked. "

"What have you done with it?"

"Valentine said you wished me to take particular care of it, so I lockedit into my cabinet, where my will is, as you know, and where are most ofmy papers. "

"Thank you; here is the key. You think you shall never forget where thatdesk is, Giles?"

"Never! such a thing is quite impossible. "

"If I am gone when you return, you are to open that desk. You will findin it a letter which I wrote about three years ago; and if I have everdeserved well of you and yours, I charge you and I implore you to doyour very best as regards what I have asked of you in that letter. "

CHAPTER IX. 

SIGNED "DANIEL MORTIMER. "--CANADA. 

 "The log's burn red; she lifts her head For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung. 'Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled, Sae lang, lang syne, ' quo' her mother, 'I, too, was young. '

 "No guides there are but the North star, And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, The maiden murmurs, 'O sweet were yon bells afar, And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door. '

 "Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore? Nay, I will call him, 'Come in from the night and the snow, And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more. '"

An hour after the conversation between Brandon and old Daniel Mortimer, they parted, and nothing could be more unlike than his travels were andthose of the Melcombes. First, there was Newfoundland to be seen. Itlooked at a distance like a lump of perfectly black hill embedded inthick layers of cotton wool; then as the vessel approached, there wasits harbour, which though the year was nearly half over, was cracklingall over with brittle ice. Then there was Halifax Bay, blue as a greatsapphire, full of light, and swarming with the spawn of fish. And therewas the Bras d'Or, boats all along this yellow spit of sand, stranded, with their sails set and scarcely flapping in the warm still air; andthen there was the port where he was to meet his emigrants, for they hadnot crossed in the same ship with him; and after that there were wildforests and unquiet waters far inland, where all night the noise of the"lumber" was heard as it leaped over the falls; while at dawn was addedthe screaming of white-breasted fowl jostling one another in theirflight as they still thronged up towards the north. 

We almost always think of Canada as a cold country. Its summer countsfor little; nor meadow-grass waist deep, over which swarms of mosquitoeshover, tormenting man and horse; nor sunshine that blisters the face, nor natural strawberry-grounds as wide as Yorkshire, nor a sky clearer, purer, and more intensely blue than any that spans Italian plains. No;Canada means winter, snow, quivering northern lights, log-fires, andsledge-bells!

Brandon found Canada hot, but when he had finished his work there, heleft it, and betook himself to the south, while it became the Canada ofour thought. 

He went through the very heart of the States, and pleased himself withwild rough living in lands where the rich earth is always moist andwarm, and primeval forest still shelters large tracts of it. 

Camping out at night, sometimes in swampy hollows, it was strange towake when there was neither moon nor star, and see the great decayingtrees that storm had felled or age had ruined, glow with a weirdphosphorescent light, which followed the rents in them, and hoveredabout the seams in their bark, making them look like the ghosts of hugealligators prone in the places they had ravaged, and giving forthinfernal gleams. Stranger yet it was to see in the dark, moving near thepine-wood fire, two feeble wandering lights, the eyes of some curiousdeer that had come to gaze and wonder, and show its whereabouts by thosesoft reflections. 

And then, when he and his companions wanted venison, it was strange togo forth into the forest in the dark, two of them bearing a great ironpot slung upon a long rod, and heaped with blazing pine-cones. Thenseveral pairs of these luminous spots would be seen coming together, andperhaps a dangerous couple would glare down from a tree, and a woundedpanther would come crashing into their midst. 

After that, he went and spent Christmas in Florida. He had had frequentletters from home and from his step-father. He wished to keep away tilla certain thing was settled one way or the other, but every lettershowed that it was still unsettled; the sea-nymph that he had beenwasting his heart upon had not yet decided to accept his brother's, butthere was every likelihood that she would. 

As time went on, however, he felt happy in the consciousness thatabsence was doing its work upon him, and that change had refreshed hismind. He was beginning to forget her. When the woman whom one loves isto marry one's brother, and that brother happens to be of all the familythe one whom one prefers, what quality can be so admirable asinconstancy?

Still, for a man who was really forgetting, he argued the matter toomuch in his mind. Even when he got far south, among the Florida keys, and saw the legions of the heron and the ibis stalking with stately gaitalong the wet sand, and every now and then thrusting in their "javelinbills, " spiking and bringing out long wriggling flashes of silver thatwent alive down their throats, he would still be thinking it over. Yes;he was forgetting her. He began to be in better spirits. He was in verygood spirits one day in January when, quite unknown to him, the snow wasshovelled away from the corner of a quiet churchyard in which his motherslept, and room was made beside her for the old man who had loved him ashis own. 

Old Daniel Mortimer had no such _following_ as had attended the funeralof his mother, and no such peaceful sunshine sleeping on a landscape allblossom and growth. The wind raged, and the snow whirled all about hisgrave and in it. The coffin was white before the first clod of earth wasthrown on it, and the mourners were driven out of the churchyard, whenthe solemn service was over, by such gusts of storm and whirling wind asthey could hardly stand against. 

His will was read. He had hardly anything to leave. His directions werevery simple and few, and there was a little desk locked up in a cabinetthat nobody thought about, and that the one person who could have openedit supposed to concern exclusively himself. So when he came, six monthsafter, and looked about him with regretful affection; when he had putthe old man's portrait up in a place of honour, and looked to the payingof all the debts, for everything, even to the furniture, was now hisown; when he had read the will, and sealed up all such papers as hethought his half-brother Valentine might afterwards want to refer to--hebetook himself to his own particular domain, his long room in the top ofthe house. There, locking himself in, he opened his cabinet, and takingout the little desk, sat down to look for and read this letter. 

The desk was soon opened. He lifted one half, saw several old miniatureswhich had belonged to his own father's family, a lock of his father'shair which he remembered to have seen in his mother's possession, andone or two trinkets. No letter. 

It was not without some slight trepidation that he opened the otherside, and there, nothing else being with it, a large letter sealed withblack and directed to himself in his step-father's well-known hand, itwas lying. 

As he took the letter up, a sensation so faint, so ethereal that it ishard to describe or characterize it, but which most of us have felt atleast once, came over him, or rather came about him, as if somethingfrom without suggested a presence. 

He was free from any sensation of fear, but he chose to speak; liftingup his face as if the old man had been standing before him, he saidaloud, "Yes, I promised. " The feeling was gone as he spoke, and he brokethe seal. 

A long letter. His eyes, as it was folded, fell first on thesesurprising words, "I forbade my mother to leave her property to me, " andthen, "I have never judged her, " the aged writer continued, "for in hercase I know not what I could have done. "

Brandon laid the letter down, and took a moment for thought, before hecould make up his mind to read it through. Some crime, some deepdisgrace, he perceived was about to be confided to him. With a hurriedsense of dislike and shrinking from acquaintance with it, he wonderedwhether his own late mother had known anything of it, then whether hewas there called upon to divulge it now, and to act. If not, he arguedwith himself, why was it to be confided to him?

Then he addressed himself to his task, and read the letter through, coming to its last word only to be still more surprised, as he perceivedplainly that beyond what he could gather from those two short sentencesalready quoted, nothing was confided or confessed, nothing at all--onlya request was made to him, and that very urgently and solemnly, but itconcerned not himself, but his young brother Valentine, for not contentwith repudiating the family property for himself, the old father wasdesirous, it was evident, through his step-son, to stand in the way andbar his own son's very remote chance of inheriting it either. 

A thing that is very unexpected and moderately strange, we meet withwide-opened eyes, with a start and perhaps exclamations; but a thingmore than strange, utterly unaccounted for, quite unreasonable, and thelast thing one could have supposed possible as coming from the personwho demanded it, is met in far quieter fashion. 

Brandon leaned back in his chair and slowly looked about him. He wasconscious that he was drawing deeper breath than usual, and that hisheart beat quickly, but he was so much surprised that for the moment histhoughts appeared to scatter themselves about, and he knew not how tomarshal them and make them help him as to what this might mean. 

Mystery in romance and in tales is such a common vulgar thing, intragedy and even in comedy it is so completely what we demand andexpect, that we seldom consider what an astonishing and very uncommonthing it is when it appears in life. And here in a commonplace, well-conducted, happy, and united family was a mystery pointing tosomething that one of its best-loved members had never had a hint of. Whatever it was, it concerned a place little more, than fifty miles off, and a man in whose presence he had lived from his early childhood; theutmost caution of secrecy was demanded, and the matter spoken ofentirely changed the notions he had always held concerning hisstep-father, whom he had thought he knew better than any man living. When one had believed that one absolutely understood another, how itstartles the mind to discover that this is a mistake! A beautiful oldman this had been--pious, not very worldly-wise, but having a sweetnessof nature, a sunny smile, and a native ease about him that would nothave been possible without a quiet conscience. This he had possessed, but "I forbade my mother to leave her property to me. " His step-sonturned back the page, and looked at those words again. Then his eyesfell lower. "In her case I know not what I could have done. " "When didhe forbid this--was it ten years ago, twenty years, fifty years? He wasreally very well off when he married my mother. Now where did he get theproperty that he lost by his speculations? Not by the law; hisprofession never brought him in more than two hundred a year. Oh! he hadit from the old cousin that he and Grand often talk of, old JohnMortimer. And that's where the old silver plate came from. Of course, and where John got his name. 

"We always knew, I think, that there was an aged mother; now why did Itake for granted that she must be in her second childhood? I wonderwhether John put that into my head. I think I did remark to him oncewhen I was a boy and he was living at home, that it was odd there was noportrait of her in either of the houses. (But no more there is of Grandnow I come to think of it; John never could make him sit. ) Before thedear old man got so infirm he used generally to go out about once a yearand come back in low spirits, not liking to be questioned. He may havegone then to see his mother, but I know sister used to think he went tosee the relations of that wretched woman, his first wife. Who shall saynow?"

And then he sat down and thought and thought, but nothing came of histhinking. Peter Melcombe, so far as he knew, was perfectly well; thatwas a comfort. Valentine was very docile; that was also a comfort; andconsidering that what his father had wished for him nearly four yearsago was actually coming to pass, and everything was in train for hisgoing to one of the very best and healthiest of our colonies, thereseemed little danger that even if Melcombe fell to him he should findthe putting it from him a great act of self-denial. 

And what a strange thing it was, Brandon thought, that through the forceof circumstances he himself should have been made to bring about such anunlikely thing! That so young a man should want to marry was strangeenough. It was more strange that he should have fixed on the only womanin the world that his brother wanted. This said brother had thought itthe very climax of all that was strange that it should have devolved onhim who had command of money and who knew the colonies, to make thisearly marriage possible. But surely the climax of strangeness wasrather here, that he had all this time been working as if on purpose tobring about the longing desire of his old step-father, which till thenhe had never heard of, depriving Valentine as much as was possible ofhis freedom, shutting him up to the course his father wanted him tofollow, and preparing to send him as far as in this world he could besent from the dreaded precincts of Melcombe. 

Brandon had devoted out of his moderate patrimony a thousand pounds eachto his step-brother and his step-sisters. In the case of Valentine hehad done more; he had in a recent visit to New Zealand bought some landwith a dwelling-house on it, and to this place it was arranged thatimmediately on his marriage Valentine should sail. 

Brandon felt a strong desire to go and look at Melcombe, for hisstep-father's conduct with regard to it kept coming back to his mindwith ever-fresh surprise; but though he searched his memory it couldyield him nothing, not a hint, not a look, from any one which threw theleast light on this letter. 

"But that there's crime at the core of it, or some deep disgrace, " hesoliloquized, "appears to me most evident, and I take his assurance inits fullest meaning that he had nothing to do with it. "

The next morning, having slept over the contents of the letter, he wentto his upper room, locked himself in, and read it again. Then afterpausing a while to reconsider it, he went up to the wall to look at alikeness of Dorothea Graham. Valentine had a photographing machine, andhad filled the house with portraits of himself and his beloved. This wassupposed to be one of the best. "Lucky enough that I had the sense toleave this behind me, " thought Brandon. "Yes, you sweet thing, I am byno means breaking my heart now about you and your love for that boy. Youare sure to marry him; you have a faithful heart, so the best thing forhim will be to let you marry as soon as possible. I'll tell him so as wewalk to John Mortimer's to-day. I'll tell him he may do it as soon ashe likes. "

Accordingly as about six o'clock he and Valentine walked through a wood, across a common, and then over some fields, Brandon began to make someremarks concerning the frequent letters that passed between theseyouthful lovers. "It is not to be supposed, " he observed, "that any ladywould correspond with you thus for years if she had not fully made upher mind to accept you in the end. "

"No, " answered Valentine with perfect confidence; "but she knows that Ipromised my father to wait a few months more before I decidedly engagedmyself, but for that promise I was to have had an answer from her half ayear ago. "

Brandon fully believed that Dorothea Graham loved his brother, and thather happiness was in his own hands. He had found it easy to put thepossibility of an early marriage in Valentine's way, but nothing couldwell go forward without his sanction, and since his return he hadhitherto felt that the words which would give it were too difficult forhim to say. Now, however, that remarkable letter, cutting in across theusual current of his thoughts, had thrown them back for awhile. So thatDorothea seemed less real, less dear, less present to him. 

The difficult words were about to be said. 

"If she knows why you do not speak, and waits, there certainly is anunderstanding between you, which amounts almost to the same thing. "

"Yes, " said Valentine, "and in August, _as she knows_, I shall ask heragain. "

"Then, " said Brandon, almost taking Valentine's breath away with suddendelight, "I think, old fellow, that when she has once said 'yes, ' youhad better make short work with the engagement; you will never be moreready to marry than you are now; you are a few months older than Johnwas when he went and did it; and here you are, with your house in NewZealand ready built, your garden planted, a flock of sheep bought, andall there is to do is to turn out the people now taking care of theplace, as soon as you are ready to come in. "

Brandon was standing on a little plank which bridged a stream about twofeet wide; he had turned to say this, for Valentine was behind him. 

Valentine received the communication first with silence, then with ashout of triumph, after which he ran completely round his brotherseveral times, jumping over the stream and flourishing a great stickthat he held, with boyish ecstasy, not at all dignified, but verysincere. When he had made at least three complete circles, and jumpedthe stream six times, Giles gravely walked on, and Valentine presentlyfollowed, wiping his forehead. 

"Nobody could have expressed my own sentiments in more charmingEnglish, " he exclaimed; "I never heard such grammar in my life; what abrick you are, St. George!"

Giles had great faith in his theory that absence always cured love, alsoin his belief that his was cured and half forgotten. At that moment heexperienced a sharp pang, however, that was not very like forgetfulness, but which Valentine converted almost into self-scorn when he said--

"You know, Giles, she always did show the most undisguised liking for mefrom our first meeting; and then look how constant she has been, andwhat beautiful letters she writes, always trying, too, to improve me. Ofcourse I cannot even pretend to think she would not have engaged herselfto me months ago if I might have asked her. "

"All true, perfectly true, " he thought to himself; "he loves her and sheloves him, and I believe if she had never met with Valentine, she wouldstill never have married me. What a fool I am!"

"Why wouldn't you take this view of things yesterday, when I tried tomake you?" asked Valentine. 

"I was not ready for it, " answered Giles, "or it was not ready for me. "

Thereupon they passed through a wicket-gate into a kind of glen orwilderness, at the end of John Mortimer's garden, and beyond the streamwhere his little girls acted Nausicaa and his little boys had preservesof minute fishes, ingeniously fenced in with sticks and fine netting. 

"There's Grand, " exclaimed Valentine, "they've brought him out to lookat their water-snails. What a venerable old boy he is! he looks quiteholy, doesn't he?"

"Hold your tongue, " said Brandon, "they'll hear you. He's come to seetheir newts; they had a lot yesterday at the bottom of the punt. LittleHugh had one in his hand, a beast with an orange breast, and it wassquinting up at him. "

It would be hard to say of any man that he is _never_ right. If he isalways thinking that he has forgotten a certain lady, surely he is rightsometimes. 

They went in to dinner, a party of four, for John Mortimer since hiswife's death did not entertain ladies, and Miss Christie Grant alwayspresided at an early dinner, when the governess and the children dined. 

As the dinner advanced St. George and Valentine both got into highspirits, the former because a stronger conviction than usual assured himthat he was forgetting Dorothea Graham; the latter, because instead ofbeing pulled back, he had at last got a shove in the other direction. Inshort, Valentine was so happy in his jokes and so full of fun, that theservants had no sooner withdrawn than John Mortimer taxed him withhaving good reason for being so, mentioned the probable cause, and askedto see Miss Graham's portrait, "which, no doubt, " he said, "you have gotin your pocket. "

"Why I have had that for years, " said Valentine scornfully. 

"And dozens of them, " said Brandon; "they took them themselves. "

"When is it to be?" asked old Grand with great interest. 

"I don't exactly know, uncle; _even Giles_ doesn't know that! If he hadknown, I'm sure he would have told you, and asked your advice, for Ialways brought him up to be very respectful to his elders. "

"Come, sir, come, " said the old man laughing, "if you don't _exactly_know, I suppose you have a tolerably distinct notion. "

"I know when I should like it to be, and when I think D. Would like it. Not too late for a wedding tour, say October, now, or, " seeing hisbrother look grave, "or November; suppose we say November. "

"I'm afraid there is no wedding tour in the programme, " observedBrandon. "The voyage must be the tour. "

"Then I'll go without my cart. We must have a tour; it will be the onlyfun I shall ever be able to give her. "

Valentine had inherited only about two hundred pounds from his father, he having been left residuary legatee, and he was much more inclined tospend this on luxuries than on necessaries. 

"You've bought me land, and actually paid for it yourself, and you'vebought me a flock, and made me a barn, and yet you deny me the verynecessaries of life, though I can pay for them myself! I must have atour, and D. Must have a basket-carriage. "

"Well, my dear fellow, " said Grand, "though that matter is not yetsettled, it is evident things are so far advanced that we may begin tothink of the wedding presents. Now, what would you like to have from me, I wonder? I mean how would you prefer to have it? John and I havealready considered the amount, and he quite agrees with me as to what Iought to give to my only brother's only son. "

"_Only brother's!_" The word struck Brandon both as showing that theold man had almost forgotten other dead brothers, and also as evidentlybeing the preface to a larger gift than he had anticipated. 

"Thank you, uncle, " said Valentine, almost accomplishing a blush ofpride and pleasure. "As you are so kind as to let me choose, I shouldlike your present in money, in my pocket, you know, because there is thetour, and it would go towards that. "

"In your pocket!" exclaimed John Mortimer, with a laugh of suchamusement and raillery as almost put Valentine out of countenance. "Why, do you think my father wants to give you a school-boy's tip?"

"I think a good deal depends on the lady, " said Grand, who also seemedamused; "if she has no fortune, it might be wise to settle it on her; ifshe has, you might wish to lay it out in more land, or to invest ithere; you and Giles must consider this. I mean to give you two thousandpounds. " Then, when he saw that Valentine was silent from astonishment, he went on, "And if your dear father had been here he would not havebeen at all surprised. Many circumstances, with which you are notacquainted, assure me of this, and I consider that I owe everything tohim. " There was a certain sternness about these words; he would have, itwas evident, no discussion. 

John Mortimer heard his father say this with surprise. "He must meanthat he owes his religious views to my uncle, " was his thought; but toBrandon, who did not trouble himself about those last words, the otherswere full of meaning; the amount of the gift, together with the hint atcircumstances with which Valentine was not acquainted, made him feelalmost certain that the strange words, "I forbade my mother to leave herproperty to me, " alluded to something which was known to the nextbrother. 

Valentine, at first, was too much surprised to be joyous, but he thankedhis uncle with something of the cordial ingenuousness and grace whichhad distinguished his father. 

"I can have a tour _now_, can't I, old fellow, " he said after a time tohis brother; "take my wife"--here a joyous laugh--"my WIFE on theContinent; we shall go dashing about from place to place, you know, staying at hotels, _and all that!_"

"To be sure, " said Brandon, "staying at hotels, of course, and orderingwonderful things for breakfast. I think I see you now--

 "'Happy married lovers, Phillis trifling with a plover's Egg, while Corydon uncovers With a grace the Sally Lun. '"

"That's the way this fellow is always making game of me, " exclaimedValentine; "why I'm older than you were, John, when you married. "

"And wild horses shall never drag the words out of me that I was tooyoung, " said John Mortimer, "whatever I may think, " he continued. 

"John was a great deal graver than you are, " said Brandon; "besides, heknew the multiplication table. "

"So do I, of course, " exclaimed Valentine. 

"Well, " answered Brandon, "I never said you did not. "

CHAPTER X. 

CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES. 

 "Now I am at a loss to know whether it be my hare's foot that is my preservation; for I never had a fit of the collique since I wore it; or whether it be my taking of a pill of turpentine every morning. "

 _Diary of Mr. Samuel Pepys. _

"John, the Melcombes have stayed on the Continent so much longer than Iexpected that I hardly remember whether I told you I had invited them tocome round this way, and remain here a few days on their return. " OldAugustus Mortimer said this to his son, who was dining with him a fewdays after the conversation concerning the wedding present. "Isupposed, " he added, "that you would not invite that child or his motheragain?"

John Mortimer replied, in clear and vigorous English, that he nevershould--never!

The manner in which he was looked after by the ladies had become quite ajoke in the family, though one of his chief tormentors had lately beenmoved out of his way, Louisa Grant was married. Captain Walker had atfirst, after Mr. Mortimer's death, agreed to wait for her till Brandon'sreturn; but his regiment being ordered abroad, he had induced her tohasten the wedding, which took place about three months before Brandonreached England. And as Louisa did not, out of respect to herstep-father, like to be married from his house so soon after his death, old Grand had received and entertained all the wedding guests, and JohnMortimer had given away the bride. 

On that occasion it was confidently asserted by the remaining Miss Grantand Valentine, that there were four ladies present who would at any timewith pleasure undertake to act the loving mother to dear John's sevenchildren. 

John was becoming rather sensitive; he remembered how sweetly Mrs. Melcombe Had smiled on him, and he remembered the ghost story too. 

"I rather want to see how that boy is getting on, " continued Augustus. 

"By-the-bye, " said the son, "I heard to my surprise the other day fromSwan, whose son, it seems, was doing some work at Melcombe this spring(making a greenhouse, I think), that Mrs. Melcombe wintered at Mentone, partly on her boy's account, for he had a feverish or aguish illness atVenice, and she was advised not to bring him to England. "

"I never heard of it, " said Grand, with anxiety. 

"Nor I, my dear father; but I meant to have told you before; for I seeyou take an interest in the child. "

"What imprudence!" continued Grand; "those people really have no sense. I begged them particularly not to go to Venice in the autumn. "

"Yes, " said John, "it was foolish; but Swan went on to say that he heardthe boy was all right again. "

"I hope so, " replied Grand, almost fervently; "and his mother wants toconsult us now about his going to school. "

John could not forbear to smile when his father said "us. "

"So you have written to say you shall be glad to see them?" he inquired. 

"Yes; it is very little I ever see of my relations. "

John thought that perhaps his father's mind was turning with affectiontowards his family, from whom he did not now doubt that he had beenestranged owing to some cause which had terminated with the oldmother's death. So he said cordially--

"Would you like, when Mrs. Melcombe goes home, to invite Laura to remainwith you for a few weeks? I have no doubt, if you would, that LizzyGrant would be charmed to come at the same time, and taste the sweetnessof freedom. The two girls could have the carriage, you know, and thecanoes, and the riding-horses. They might enjoy themselves very much, and give croquet parties and picnics to their hearts' content. I wouldget old Christie to come to you whenever a chaperone was wanted. She isa most valuable possession, my dear father, but I would lend her. "

"You are very kind, my dear, " answered the father, who often addressedhis son in this fashion when they were alone. "I think it would be apleasure to me to have the girls. You can't think, John, how cheerfulthe house used to be before your sisters were married; you can hardlyremember it, you were so young. "

"Why did I never think of proposing such a visit to him before?" thoughtJohn, almost with compunction. 

"I seem to know them pretty well, " he answered, "from their letters andfrom hearing you talk of them; but what I really remember, I believe, isfour grand young ladies who used to carry me a pick-a-back, and give mesugared almonds. "

Of the four Miss Mortimers, the eldest had married a clergyman, and diedsoon after; the second and third had married "shepherd kings, " and wereliving with the said kings in Australia; and the fourth was in Indiawith her husband and a grown-up family. Their father had given to eachof them an ample fortune, and parted with her before his only son wasfive years old, for John Mortimer was fifteen years younger than hisyoungest sister, and had been, though the daughters were much beloved, agreater joy and comfort to his father than all four of them puttogether. 

He was glad that his father showed this willingness to have Lizzy Grantto stay in his house, for he was fond of all the Grants; there was akind of plain-spoken intimacy between him and them that he enjoyed. Thetwo elder had always been his very good friends, and during his wife'slifetime had generally called him "John dear, " and looked to him and hiswife to take them about whenever their brother was away. Liz, who wasrather a plain girl, he regarded more in the light of a niece than of astep-cousin. 

A day or two after this, therefore, while sitting alone writing hisletters (Grand being gone out for his constitutional), when he was toldthat Miss Grant wanted to speak to him, he desired that she might beshown in. 

She was sitting at the back door in a little pony carriage, and givingthe reins to her boy, she passed through it, to the wonder of allbeholders. 

Very few young ladies were shown in there. 

"What is it?" exclaimed John, for Liz looked almost sulky. 

"Oh John, " she answered, with a sort of whimsical pathos, "isn't it sad, so few delightful things as there are, that two of them should cometogether, so that I can't have both!"

"What are the delightful things--offers?"

"Don't be so tiresome. No, of course not. You know very well thatnothing of that kind ever happens to me. "

"Indeed, if that is the case, it can only be because your frocks arealmost always crumpled, and--what's that long bit of blue ribbon that Isee?"

"It's all right--that's how it's meant to go. I can't think why youfancy that I'm not tidy. St. George is always saying so too. "

"That's very hard. Well, child?"

"I thought perhaps you knew that Grand had invited me to stay six weeksat his house--Laura Melcombe to be there also, and we two to do just aswe liked. The whole of August, John, and part of September, and that'sthe very time when I can't come, because we are going to be at theseaside. Dorothea is to join us, you know, and if I do not see her thenI never shall, for they are to sail at Christmas. "

"There is a world of misery to be got out of conflicting pleasures, "said John philosophically. "You can't come, that's evident; and I hadjust given orders that the new canoe should be painted and the old onecaulked. Two quiet ponies for you to drive (you are a very tolerablewhip, I know). As to the grapes, a house is being kept back on purposeto be ripe just at that time; and the croquet balls are all sent to bepainted. Melancholy facts! but such is life. "

"No but, John----"

"I'm extremely busy to-day. "

"Not so busy that you have not time to laugh at me. This would have beenalmost the greatest pleasure I ever had. "

"And I've been reminding my father, " proceeded John, "that when Emilycame to stay with him she always sat at the head of the table. She askedhim if she might, and so should you have done, because, though Laura isa relation, he has known you all your life. "

"No but, John, " repeated Lizzie, "can't you do something for me? Tell mewhether Laura Melcombe has been already invited?"

"She has not, Miss Grant. "

"I have no doubt, if you asked Grand to let the visit be put off tillthe middle of September, he would. "

"I shouldn't wonder. "

"Then you'll do it, won't you? because you know you and I have alwaysbeen such friends. "

"Now you mention it, I think we have; at any rate, I don't dislike youhalf so much as I do some of my other friends. Yes, child, yourconfidence is not misplaced. "

"Then I may leave the matter in your hands?" exclaimed Liz joyfully. 

"You really may, " replied John Mortimer, and he took her back to thepony carriage in a high state of bliss and gratitude. 

This change, however, which was easily effected, made a difference toseveral people whom Miss Grant had no wish to disoblige. First, Mrs. Melcombe, finding that Laura was invited to pay a long visit, and thatthe invitation was not extended to her, resolved not to come home byWigfield at all; but when Laura wrote an acceptation, excused herselffrom coming also, on the ground of her desire to get home. 

Grand, therefore, did not see Peter, and this troubled him more than heliked to avow. Brandon was also disappointed, for he particularly wantedto see the boy and his mother again. The strangeness of hisstep-father's letter grew upon him, and it rather fretted him to thinkthat he could not find any plausible reason for going over to Melcombeto look about him. He was therefore secretly vexed with his sister whenhe found that, in consequence of her request to John, the plans of allthe Melcombes had been changed. So Liz with a cheerful heart went to thesea-side with Mrs. Henfrey and Valentine, and very soon wrote home toMiss Christie Grant that Dorothea had joined them, that thelong-talked-of offer had been made and (of course) accepted, and thatGiles was come. She did not add that Giles had utterly lost his heartagain to his brother's bride elect, but that she would not have done ifshe had known it. 

Miss Christie was wroth on the occasion. 

"It's just shameful, " she remarked. "Everybody knew Miss Graham wouldaccept him, but why can't she say how it was and when it was? She'sworse than her mother. 'Dear Aunt, ' her mother wrote to me, 'I'm goingto marry Mr. Mortimer on Saturday week, and I hope you'll come to thewedding, but you're not to wear your blue gown. Your affectionate niece, EMILY GRANT. ' That was every word she said, and I'd never heard therewas anything between her and Mr. Mortimer before. "

"And why were you not to wear your blue gown?" inquired John Mortimer. 

"Well, " replied Miss Christie, "I don't deny that if she hadn't beenbeforehand with me I might just slyly have said that my blue gown woulddo, for I'd _only_ had it five years. I was aye thrifty; she knew it wasas good as ever--a very excellent lutestring, and made for her weddingwhen she married Mr. Grant--so she was determined to take my jokeagainst her out of my mouth. "

If Miss Christie had not found plenty to do during the next six weeks, she would have grumbled yet more than she did over her wrongs. As itwas, Master Augustus John Mortimer came home from school for his longholidays, and he and his friends excited more noise, bustle, andcommotion in the house than all the other children put together. 

John Mortimer's eldest son, always called Johnnie, to distinguish himfrom his father, was ridiculously big for his age, portentously cleverand keen-witted, awkward, blunt, rude, full of fun, extremely fond ofhis father, and exceedingly unlike him in person. His hair was nearlyblack, his forehead was square and high, his hands and feet almostrivalled those of his parent in size, and his height was five feetthree. 

In any other eyes than those of a fond parent he must have appeared asan awkward, noisy, plain, and intolerably active boy; but his father(who almost from his infancy had pleased himself with a mental pictureof the manner of man he would probably grow into) saw nothing of allthis, but merely added in his mind two inches to the height of thefuture companion he was to find in him, and wished that the boy couldget over a lisp which still disfigured some of his words. 

He brought such a surprising account of his merits with him--how hecould learn anything he pleased, how he never forgot anything, how, infact, his master, as regarded his lessons, had not a fault to find withhim, that when his twin sisters had seen it, there seemed to themsomething strange in his being as fond of tarts and lollipops as ever. 

As for John, nothing surprised him. Miss Christie saw great diversitiesin his children, but in regard to them all he showed an aggravatingdegree of contentment with what Providence had sent him. Miss Christiewore through Johnnie's sojourn at home as well as she could, and wasvery happy when she saw him off to school again; happier still whenwalking towards home across the fields with John Mortimer and the fouryounger children, they saw Brandon and Valentine at a distance coming tomeet them. 

"So they are at home again, " she exclaimed; "and now we'll hear allabout the wedding that is to be. I've been just wearying for the_parteeculars_, and there never were such bad letter-writers as thosegirls. Anyhow there'll be a handsome bridegroom. "

"Ah!" said John Mortimer, "all the ladies admire Val. He's quite awoman's man. "

"Well, and St. George is a man's man, then, " retorted Miss Christie; "yeall admire him, I am sure. "

"And what are you, papa, dearest?" asked Janie, who had hold of hishand. 

"I'm my own man, my little queen-regnant, " answered her father with asomewhat exultant laugh. 

"Ay, Mr. Mortimer, I'm just surprised at ye, " quoth Miss Christie, shaking her head over these vainglorious words. 

"I think father's the most beautifullest man of all, " said little Janie, with a sort of jealous feeling as if somehow he had been disparaged, though she did not exactly know how. "And the goodest, too, " shepresently added, as if not satisfied with her first tribute to him. 

Valentine, who was seldom out of countenance on any occasion, receivedthe congratulations of all the party with a certain rather becomingpride and complacency. He seemed, however, to be taking things veryeasily? but he presently became rather silent, and John, who felt keenlythat Brandon was not so indifferent to the bride-elect as he wished tobe, turned the conversation as soon as he could to other matters. Therewas some talk about Valentine's land which had been bought for him inNew Zealand, after which Brandon said suddenly, --

"John, when this fellow is gone, or perhaps before, I mean to havesomething to do--some regular work--and I think of taking to literaturein good earnest. "

"All right, " answered John, "and as you evidently intend me to questionyou, I will ask first whether you, Giles Brandon, mean to write on somesubject that you understand, or on one that you know nothing about?"

Brandon laughed. "There is more to be said in favour of that last thanyou think, " he answered. 

"It may be that there is everything to be said; but if you practise it, don't put your name to your work, that's all. "

"I shall not do so in any case. How do I know whether the only usepeople may make of it (and that a metaphorical one) may not be to throwit at me ever after. "

"I don't like that, " said Miss Christie. "I could wish that every manshould own his own. "

"No, " remarked John Mortimer; "if a man in youth writes a foolish bookand gives his name to it, he has, so far as his name is concerned, usedhis one chance; and if, in maturer life, he writes something high andgood, then if he wants his wise child to live, he must consent to diehimself with the foolish one. It is much the same with one who hasbecome notorious through the doing of some base or foolish action. If herepent, rise to better things, and write a noble book, he must not claimit as if it could elevate him. It must go forth on its own merits, or itwill not be recognised for what it is, only for what he is or was. No, if a man wants to bring in new thoughts or work elevating changes, hemust not clog them with a name that has been despised. "

"I think Dorothea and I may as well write a book together, " saidValentine. "She did begin one, but somehow it stuck fast. "

"You had better write it about yourselves, then, " said John, "that beingnearly all you study just now, I should think. Many a novel contains theauthor and little else. He explains himself in trying to describe humannature. "

"Human nature!" exclaimed Valentine; "we must have something granderthan that to write of, I can tell you. We have read so many books thatturn it 'the seamy side outward, ' and point out the joins as if it was aglove, that we cannot condescend to it. "

"No, " said John, setting off on the subject again as if he was mostseriously considering it, Valentine meanwhile smiling significantly onthe others. "It is a mistake to describe too much from within. Theexternal life as we see it should rather be given, and about as much ofthe motives and springs of action as an intelligent man with goodopportunity could discover. We don't want to be told all. We do not knowall about those we live with, and always have lived with. If ever I tookto writing fiction I should not pretend to know all about my characters. The author's world appears small if he makes it manifest that he reignsthere. I don't understand myself thoroughly. How can I understand somany other people? I cannot fathom them. My own children often surpriseme. If I believed thoroughly in the children of my pen, they wouldwrite themselves down sometimes in a fashion that I had not intended. "

"John talks like a book, " observed Valentine. "You propose a subject, and he lays forth his views as if he had considered it for a week. 'Drive on, Samivel. '"

"But I don't agree with him, " said Miss Christie. "When I read a book Iaye dislike to be left in any doubt what the man means or what the storymeans. "

"I always think it a great proof of power in a writer, " said Brandon, "when he consciously or unconsciously makes his reader feel that heknows a vast deal more about his characters than he has chosen to tell. And what a keen sense some have of the reality of their invented men andwomen! So much so that you may occasionally see evident tokens that theyare jealous of them. They cannot bear to put all the witty and cleverspeeches into the mouths of these 'fetches' of their own imagination. Some must be saved up to edge in as a sly aside, a sage reflection ofthe author's own. There never should be any author's asides. "

"I don't know about that, " John answered, "but I often feel offendedwith authors who lack imagination to see that a group of their owncreations would not look in one another's eyes just what they look inhis own. The author's pretty woman is too often pretty to all; his witis acknowledged as a wit by all. The difference of opinion comes fromthe readers. They differ certainly. "

"Even I, " observed Valentine, "if I were an author's wit, might be voteda bore, and how sad that would be, for in real life it is only right totestify that I find little or no difference of opinion. "

He spoke in a melancholy tone, and heaved up a sigh. 

"Is cousin Val a wit?" asked little Hugh. 

"I am afraid I am, " said Valentine; "they're always saying so, and it'svery unkind of them to talk about it, because I couldn't help it, couldI?"

Here the little Anastasia, touched with pity by the heartfelt pathos ofhis tone, put her dimpled hand in his and said tenderly, "Never mind, dear, it'll be better soon, p'raps, and you didn't do it on purpose. "

"Does it hurt?" asked Hugh, also full of ruth. 

"Be ashamed of yourself, " whispered Miss Christie, "to work on the dearchildren's feelings so. No, my sweet mannie, it doesn't hurt a bit. "

"I'm very much to be pitied, " proceeded Valentine. "That isn't all"--hesighed again--"I was born with a bad French accent, and without a singletooth in my head, or, out of it, while such was my weakness, that ittook two strong men, both masters of arts, to drag me through therudiments of the Latin grammar. "

Anastasia's eyes filled with tears. It seemed so sad; and the tenderlittle heart had not gone yet into the question of _seeming_. 

"They _teached_ you the Latin grammar did they?" said Bertram, who hadalso been listening, and was relieved to hear of something in this listof miseries that he could understand; "that's what Miss Crampton teachesme. I don't like it, and you didn't either, then. I'm six and threequarters; how old were you?"

Before Valentine had answered, John and Brandon, finding themselvesbefore the party, had stopped and turned. Brandon was surprised to seehow earnestly the two elder children, while he talked, had been lookingat him, and then at their father and Valentine. At last, when this pauseoccurred, and the two groups met, Janie said--

"I am sure papa is a great deal prettier than Mr. Brandon, and CousinVal looks quite ugly beside him. "

"Yes, Janie, " said Bertram, with an air of high satisfaction, "papa'smuch more beautiful than either of the others. I shall ask MissCrampton when I go in if she doesn't think so. You would like to knowwhat she thinks, wouldn't you, father?"

John had opened his mouth to say no, when his better sense coming to hisaid, he forbore to speak. For this lady taught his children toperfection, but his friends always would insist that she wanted to teachhim too--something that he wouldn't learn. 

Aunt Christie, his constant friend and champion, presently spoke forhim. 

"No, children, " she said, as soon as she had composed her voice to a duegravity, "it's natural ye should admire your father, good childrengenerally do, but, now, if I were you, I would never tell anybody atall, not even Miss Crampton--do ye hear me, all of you? I would nevertell anybody your opinion of him. If ye do, they will certainly think yehighly conceited, for ye know quite well that people say you four littleones are just as exactly like him as ye can be. "

The children were evidently impressed. 

"In fact, " said Valentine, "now I take a good look at him, I should saythat you are even more like him than he is himself--but--I may bemistaken. "

"I won't say it then, " said Bertram, now quite convinced. 

"And I won't, and I won't, " added others, as they ran forward to open agrate. 

"Cheer up, John, " said St. George, "let us not see so much beauty andvirtue cast down. There's Miss Crampton looking out of the school-roomwindow. "

But though he laughed he did not deceive John Mortimer, who knew as wellas possible that the loss of Dorothea Graham pressed heavily on hisheart. 

"You two are going to dine with me, of course, " he said, when all theparty had passed into the wilderness beyond his garden. 

"On the contrary, with your leave, " answered Valentine, "we are goingto take a lesson of Swan in the art of budding roses. We cannot manageit to our minds. We dined early. "

"And I suppose you will agree with Val, " observed Brandon, "that arose-garden is one of the necessaries of life. "

"Dorothea must have one, must she, out in New Zealand? Well, Swan willbe proud to teach you anything he knows or doesn't know, and he willgive you an opinion if you ask it on any subject whatever. "

Accordingly John went into the house to dine, and perhaps it was inconsequence of this assertion that the two young men asked their oldfriend's opinion on various points not at all in his line. Valentineeven told him that his brother intended to write a book, and asked himwhat he thought it had better be about; whereupon Swan, while deftlyshaping his _bud_, shook his head gravely, and said that wanted a dealof thinking over. 

"But if I was you, sir, " he continued, speaking to Brandon, "I shouldget Mr. Mortimer--Mr. John--to help you, specially if there's going tobe any foreign talk in it. My word, I don't believe there's any languagegoing that Mr. Mortimer can't lay his tongue to!"

CHAPTER XI. 

WANTED A DESERT ISLAND. 

 "We, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air; When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare. "

 Lowell. 

Laura and Mrs. Melcombe went home, and Laura saw the window again thatJoseph had so skilfully glazed. Joseph was not there, and Laura wouldnot have occupied herself with constant thoughts about him if there hadbeen anything, or rather anybody else to think of. She soon began tofeel low-spirited and restless, while, like a potato-plant in a darkcellar, she put forth long runners towards the light, and no light wasto be found. This homely simile ought to be forgiven, because it is sucha good one. 

Peter was getting too old for her teaching. He had a tutor, but thetutor was a married man, and had taken lodgings for himself and his wifein one of the farm-houses. 

Laura had no career before her, and no worthy occupation. All that cameto pass in her day was a short saunter, or a drive, or a visit to themarket-town, where she sat looking on while her sister-in-law did someshopping. 

Melcombe was six or seven miles from any _visitable_ families, exceptingtwo or three clergymen and their wives; it was shut up in athree-cornered nook of land, and could not be approached exceptingthrough turn-pikes, and up and down some specially steep hills. Thesethings make havoc with country sociability. 

As long as there had been plenty to do and see, Laura had enjoyed herlife on the Continent, and had fed herself with hope. So many people aspassed before her, it would be strange, she thought, if not one of themhad been made for her, not one was to give her the love she wanted, thedevotion she knew she could return. 

It was certainly strange, and yet it came to pass, though the travelledfool returned, improved in style, dress, and even in appearance, whileher conversation was naturally more amusing than before, for she hadseen most places and things that people like to talk of. 

Not one man had asked her to spend her life with him, and she came backmore given to flights of fancy than ever, but far better acquainted withherself and more humble, for she had spent so much of her time (inimagination) with Joseph that she had become accustomed to his slightlyprovincial accent, and had ceased to care about it. Joseph, however, didnot speak like his good father, and he had been endowed with as muchlearning as he would consent to acquire, Swan having felt a greatambition to make him a certified schoolmaster, but Joseph having been atan early age rather an idle young dog, had tormented his father intoletting him take to a mere handicraft, and had left school writing ahand almost like copperplate, and being a very fair accountant, butwithout thirst for knowledge, and without any worthy ambition. 

Laura had always known that nothing but a desert island was wanted, andshe could be his contented wife; but a desert island was not to be had, such things are getting rare in the world, and she now thought that anyremote locality, where nobody knew her, would do. 

But where was Joseph?

She had certainly gone away without giving him any interview, she hadpersistently kept away, yet though she was doing what she could, by fitsand starts, to forget him, that perverse imagination of hers alwayspictured _him_ as waiting, constant, ready. There was a particular treein the glen behind which she had so frequently represented him toherself as standing patiently while she approached with furtive steps, that when she came home and went to look at it, there was a feelingalmost akin to surprise in her mind at seeing the place drenched insparkling dew, and all overgrown with moss. Footsteps that are feignednever tread anything down; they leave no print, excepting in the heartthat feigns them. 

When Laura saw this place in the glen, she perceived plainly that therewas no one with whom she might be humbly happy and poor--not even aplumber!

This form of human sorrow--certainly one of the worst--is not halfenough pitied by the happy. 

Of course Laura was a fool--nobody claims for her that she was not; butfools are not rare, either male or female; as they arrange the world andits ways in great measure, it is odd that they do not understand oneanother better, and whether Laura showed her folly most or least inthinking that she could have been obscurely happy as the wife of a manwho belonged to a different class of life from her own (she herselfhaving small intellectual endowments, and but little culture), is asubject too vast, too overwhelming, for decision here; it ought to havea treatise in twelve volumes all to itself. 

Mrs. Melcombe had come home also somewhat improved, but a good dealdisappointed. She had fully hoped and intended to marry again, becauseher son, who was to live to be old, would wish to marry early, and herfuture daughter-in-law would be mistress of the house. It was desirable, therefore, that Peter's mother should not be dependent on him for ahome. She had twice been invited, while on the Continent, to change hername; but in each case it would have been, in a worldly point of view, very much to her disadvantage, and that was a species of second marriagethat she by no means contemplated. She did not want her second husbandto take her that she might nurse him in his old age, fast approaching, and that he might live upon her income. 

So she came home _Mrs. Melcombe_, and she continued to be kind to Laura, though she did not sympathize with her; and that was no fault of hers:sympathy is much more an intellectual than a moral endowment. Howeverkind, dull, and stupid people may be, they can rarely sympathize withany trouble unless they have gone through one just like it themselves. 

You may hear it said, "Ah, I can sympathize with him, poor fellow, for Ihave a wooden leg myself, " or, "Yes, being a widow, I know what awidow's feelings are, " and so on. 

No one has a right to blame these people; they are as kind as any; it isnot their fault that some are living among them to whom no experience atall is necessary, and who not only could sympathize, but do in thought, with the very angel that never fell, when they consider what it must beto him if the mortal child he has to watch goes wrong; with the poorweak drunkard who wishes he could keep sober, but feels, when he wouldfain pass by it, that the gin-shop, like a devil-fish, sends forth longtentacles and ruthlessly sucks him in; with the mother-whale, when herwilful young one insists on swimming up the fiord, and she who hasrisked her life to warn him must hear the thud of the harpoon in hisside; with the old tired horse, when they fetch him in from his soberreverie in the fields, and put his blinkers on; with anythingelse?--yes, with the bluebells, whose life above ground is so short, when wasteful children tread them down;--these all feel something thatone would fain save them from. So perhaps does the rose-tree also, whensome careless boy goes by whooping in the joy of his heart, and whipsoff her buds with his cane. 

Fruitful sympathy must doubtless have some likeness of nature, and alsoa certain kindliness to found itself on; but it comes more from apenetrative keenness of observation, from the patient investigations ofthought, from those vivid intuitions that wait on imagination, from agood memory, which can live over again in circumstances that arechanged, and from that intelligent possession of the whole of one'sforegone life, which makes it impossible to ignore the power of anygreat emotion or passion merely because it is past. Where thesequalities are there should be, for there can be, sympathy. 

Mrs. Melcombe was fond of her one child; but she had forgotten what herown nature, thoughts, fears, and wishes, as well as joys, had been inchildhood. In like manner, as she was, on the whole, contented herself, she not only thought that her own example ought to make Laura contented, but she frequently pointed this out to her. 

The child is to the father and mother, who imparted life to him, and whosee his youth, the most excellent consolation that nature can affordthem for the loss of their own youth, and for the shortness of life inthemselves; but if a mother is therefore convinced that her child is aconsoler to those who have none, he is sure, at some time or other, tobe considered an unmitigated bore. 

Mrs. Melcombe often thought, "Laura has my child with her constantly toamuse her, and has none of the responsibility about him that I have. Laura goes to the shops with me, sees me give the orders, and Ifrequently even consult her; she goes with me into the garden, and seesthe interest I take in the wall-fruit and the new asparagus-bed, and yetshe never takes example by me. She will eat just as many of these thingsas I shall, though she often follows me about the place looking as ifshe scarcely cared for them at all. "

Laura was pleased, however, to go to Wigfield and stay with Grand, andhave for a companion a careless, childish girl, who undertook withenthusiasm to teach her to drive, and if old Grand wanted his horses, would borrow any rats of ponies that she could get. 

Laura spent many happy hours with Liz and the Mortimer children, nowhuddled into an old tub of a punt, eating cakes and curd for lunch, nowhaving a picnic in the wood, and boiling the kettle out of doors, and atother times welcomed into the long loft called "Parliament;" but sheseldom saw John Mortimer himself, for Lizzie was always anxious to beback in good time for dinner. She valued her place at the head of thetable, and the indulgent old Grand perceived this plainly. He likedLaura well enough; but Liz was the kind of creature whom he could befond of. They were both foolish girls. Liz took no manner of pains toimprove herself any more than Laura did; but Laura was full of uneasylittle affectations, capricious changes of manner, and shyness, and Lizwas absolutely simple, and as confiding as a child. 

The only useful thing the girls did while they stayed with Grand was togo into the town twice a week and devote a couple of hours to a coal andclothing club, setting down the savings of the poor, and keeping thebooks. This bi-weekly visit had consequences as regarded one of them, but it was the one who did not care what happened; and they parted atthe end of their visit, having become a good deal attached to eachother, and intending to correspond as fully and frequently as is themanner of girls. 

The intelligent mind, it may be taken for granted, is able to grasp thethought that one may be a very fair, and even copious, letter-writer, and yet show nothing like diffusiveness in writing to an ancient aunt. 

The leaves were all dropping when Laura came home, and was received intothe spirit of the autumn, breathing in that sense of silence that comesfrom absence of the birds, while in still mornings, unstirred of anywind, the leaves let themselves go, and the flowers give it up and dropand close. She was rather sad; but she found amusement in writing toLiz, and as the days got to their shortest, with nothing to relievetheir monotony, there was pleasure to be got out of the long answers, which set forth how Valentine was really going to be married soon afterChristmas, and what Liz was going to wear, how Dorothea was coming downto be married from Wigfield House, to please "sister, " and how it wouldall be such fun--"Only three weeks, Laura dear, to the delightful day!"Finally, how Dorothea had arrived--and oh, such a lovely _trousseau_!and she had never looked half so sweet and pretty before, "and in fourdays, dear, the wedding is to be; eighty people to breakfast--onlythink! and you shall be told all about it. "

Laura felt herself slightly injured when, a week after this, she had notbeen told anything. She felt even surprised when another week passed, and yet there was silence; but at the end of it, she came rushing onemorning into Amelia's room, quite flushed from excitement, and with anopen letter in her hand. 

"They're not married at all, " she exclaimed, "Valentine and Miss Graham!There has been no wedding, and there is none coming off. Valentine hasjilted her. "

"Nonsense, " cried Mrs. Melcombe. "You must be dreaming--things had goneso far, " and she sat down, feeling suddenly weak from amazement. 

"But it is so, " repeated Laura, "here is the whole account, I tell you. When the time came he never appeared. "

"What a disgraceful shame!" exclaimed Amelia, and Laura proceeded toread to her this long-expected letter:--

"Dearest Laura, --I don't know how to begin, and I hardly know what totell you, because I am so ashamed of it all; and I promised to give youan account of the wedding, but I can't. What will you think when I tellyou that there was none? Valentine never came. I told you that Dorotheawas in the house, but that he had gone away to take leave of variousfriends, because, after the wedding, they were to sail almostimmediately, and so, --I must make short work with this, because I hateit to that degree. There was the great snowstorm, as you know, and whenhe did not come home we thought he must be blocked up somewhere, andthen we were afraid he was very ill. At last when still it snowed, andstill he did not come, Giles went in search of him, and it was not tillthe very day before the wedding that he got back, having found out thewhole detestable thing. 

"Poor Val! and we used to think him such a dear fellow. Of course Icannot help being fond of him still, but, Laura, he has disgracefullyattached himself to another girl; he could not bear to come home and bemarried, and he knew St. George would be in such a rage that he did notdare to tell. "

"Young scamp!" exclaimed Amelia; "such a tall, handsome fellow to, whowould have believed it of him?"

"Well, Laura dear, when I saw St. George come in, I was so frightenedthat I fainted. Dorothea was quite calm--quite still--she had been soall the time. It makes me cry to think what she must have felt, dearsweet thing; but such a day as that one was, Laura, I cannot describe, and you cannot imagine. The whole country was completely snowed up. St. George had telegraphed to John Mortimer, from London, to be at ourhouse, if possible, by four o'clock, for something had gone wrong, andhis horses, because of the deep drift, overturned the phaeton into aditch. John rolled out, but managed to wade on to us; he was halfcovered with snow when I came down just as light was failing, and sawhim in the hall stamping about and shaking the snow out of his pocketsand from his hair. I heard him sighing and saying how sad it was, for wethought Val must be ill, till Giles came up to him, and in two minutestold him what had happened. Oh I never saw anybody in such a fury as heput himself into! I was quite surprised. He almost stuttered with rage. What was the use either of his storming at Giles, as if he could helpit, or indeed any of us? And then sister was very much hurt, for shecame hurrying into the hall, and began to cry; she does so like, poorthing, that people should take things quietly. And presently, grindingand crunching through the snow, with four horses, came dear old Grand, done up in comforters, in the close carriage. He had driven round theother way; he knew something was wrong, and he came into the hall withsuch trembling hands, thinking Val was dying or perhaps dead. And thenwhat a passion he got into, too, when John told him, it's no use at allmy trying to explain to you; he actually cried, and when he had driedhis eyes, he shook his fists, and said he was ashamed of his name. 

"It was very disagreeable for us, as you may suppose. It was dusk beforesister and St. George could get them to think of what we had to do. Tosend and stop the bells from ringing early the next morning; to stopseveral people who were coming by rail to dinner that day, and expectingto sleep in the house on account of the unusual weather; to let DickA'Court know, and the other clergyman, who were to have married them;and to prevent as many people as possible from coming to the breakfast, or to the church; to stop the men who were making a path to it throughthe drift--Oh you can't think what a confusion there presently was, andwe had four or five hired flys in the stable, ready to fetch ourfriends, and take them to church, too; and there was such a smell allover, of roasting things and baking things. Well, Laura, off we all setinto the kitchen, and sent off the hired men with the flys, and everyservant we had in the house, male or female--and Grand's mentoo--excepting sister's little maid to attend to Dorothea. They wentwith messages and letters and telegrams right and left, to prevent thedisgrace of any more people coming to look at us. And then, when theywere all gone, we being in the kitchen, John soon recollected how thecook had begged us to be very particular, and put water every now andthen into the boiler, for the pipe that supplied it was frozen, and ifwe didn't mind it would burst. So off he and Giles had to go into thedark yard and get in some water, and then they had to fetch in coals forthe fires, and when John found that all the water in the back kitchenwas frozen, and there was none but what was boiling to wash his handsin, he broke out again and denounced Val, and that minute up came thecarrier's cart to the back door, having rescued the four smallestMortimers and Aunt Christie and the nurse, who had been found stuck fastin the sociable in a drift, and in the children burst, full of ecstasyand congratulations, and thinking it the greatest fun in the world thatwe should all be in the kitchen. And while Grand sat in low spirits atone side of the fire, and they began to amuse themselves by pulling inall the fish-baskets, and parcels, and boxes, and wedding presents, thatthe carriers had left outside in the snow (because John wouldn't letthem come in and see us), St. George sat at the end of the dresser withhis arms folded, smoked a cigar, and held his peace. He must have beenvery much tired, as well as disgusted, poor fellow, for he had beenrushing about the country for three days and nights; so he left all theothers to do just what they liked, and say what they liked. And verysoon the whole confusion got to its height, by the elder children comingin and being told, and flying at John to condole and cry over him, andentreat him not to mind. John, indeed! just as if we didn't care at all!It was intended that all the children should sleep in our house, for itis so near the church, and nothing could prevent the younger ones fromthinking it all the most glorious fun. What with having been stuck fast, and then coming on in the cart and finding us in the kitchen, and havingsupper there, they were so delighted that they could not conceal theirecstasy. 

"As for little Anastasia, when the weights of the great kitchen clockran down, and it stopped with an awful sort of gasping click, I believeshe thought _that was the wedding_, for she ran up to St. George, whostill sat on the dresser, and said--

"'Shan't we have another one to-morrow?'

"'No, you _stoopid_ little thing!' Bertie said. 'You know Cousin Valwon't come to do the marrying. '

"'But somebody must, ' she went on, 'else we can't have our new _nopera_cloaks and our satin frocks. Can't papa?'

"'No, papa doesn't wish, ' said Bertie; 'I asked him. '

"'Then, ' she said, looking up at St. George, and speaking in a verypathetic tone, 'you will, _dear_, won't you? because you know you're sokind. '

"I just happened to glance at St. George then, and you can't think, Laura, how astonished I was. He turned away his face, and sister, whowas standing close by, lifted up the child and let her kiss him. Then hegot down from the dresser and went away; but, Laura, if he had wishedmore than anything in the world to marry Dorothea, he might have lookedjust so. 

"Don't tell any one what I have said about this. Perhaps I was mistaken. I will write again soon. 

"Ever affectionately yours, "Elizabeth Grant. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Melcombe, "it's the most disgraceful thing I everheard of. "

"And here is a postscript, " remarked Laura; "nothing particular, though:--'P. S. --Dorothea was ill at first; but she is better. I musttell you that dear old Grand, the next morning, apologized to sister forhaving so lost his temper; he said it was the old Adam that was strongin him still. '"

CHAPTER XII. 

VALENTINE. 

 "If he had known where he was going to fall, he could have put down straw. "--_Russian Proverb. _

Laura wrote with difficulty an answer to Lizzy Grant's letter. It iseasier for the sister to say, "My brother is a dishonourable youngfellow, and has behaved shamefully, " than for the friend to answerwithout offence, "I quite agree with you. "

But the next letter made matters in some degree easier, for it at leastshowed the direction that his family gave to the excuses they nowoffered for the behaviour of the young scapegrace. First, he had beenvery unwell in London--almost seriously unwell; and next, Lizzy said shehad been quite right as to St. George's love for Dorothea, for he hadmade her an offer before she left the house. 

"In fact, " continued Liz, "we have all decided, so far as we can, tooverlook what Val has done, for he is deeply attached to the girl who, without any fault of her own, has supplanted Dorothea. He is alreadyengaged to her, and if he is allowed to marry her early in the spring, and sail for New Zealand, he is not likely ever to return; at any rate, he will not for very many years. In that case, you know, Laura, we shallonly be with him about six weeks longer; so I hope our friends willforgive us for forgiving him. "

"They are fond of him, that is the fact, " observed Mrs. Melcombe; "andto be sure the other brother, wanting to marry Miss Graham, does seem tomake some difference, some excuse; but as to his illness, I don't thinkmuch of that. I remember when his old father came here to the funeral, Iremarked that Valentine looked overgrown, and not strong, and Mr. Mortimer said he had been very delicate himself all his youth, and oftenhad a cough (far more delicate, in fact, than his son was); but he hadoutgrown it, and enjoyed very fair health for many years. "

Then Laura went on reading:--

"Besides, we think that, though Dorothea refused St. George point blankwhen he made her an offer, yet she would hardly write to him every weekas she does, if she did not like him, and he would hardly be so verysilent and reserved about her, and yet evidently in such good spirits, if he did not think that something in the end would come of it. "

"No, " said Mrs. Melcombe, laughing in a cynical spirit, "the ridiculousscrape they are in does not end with Valentine. If he was really ill, there could be no thought of his marriage with this other girl; and, besides, Miss Graham (if this is true) will have far the best of the twobrothers. _St. George_, as they are so fond of calling him (I supposebecause Giles is such an ugly name), is far better off than Valentine, and has ten times more sense. "

"Dorothea is gone to the Isle of Wight, " continued Laura, finishing theletter, "to live with some old friends. She has no relatives, poor girl, excepting a father, who is somewhere at the other end of the world, andhe seems to take very little notice of her. There is, indeed, an olduncle, but he lives at sea; he is almost always at sea in his yacht, andher only brother sails with him; but nobody knows in the least wherethey are now. It is very sad for her, and she told St. George, andsister too, that she had only loved Val out of gratitude, because heseemed so much attached to her, and because she wanted somebody todevote herself to. "

In her next letter Liz told Laura that she herself was to be marriedshortly to Dick A'Court, "who says he fell in love with me when we twoused to add up the coal-and-clothing cards. " In these words, and in nomore, the information was imparted, and the rest of the letter was sostiff and formal that Laura's pleasure in the correspondence ended withit. The realities of life were beginning to make her child-friend feelsober and reticent. 

Laura wrote a long effusive letter in reply, full of tendercongratulations on the high lot that awaited Liz as the helpmeet of adevoted clergyman, also on the joys of happy lovers; but thiscomposition did not touch the feelings of Liz in the right place. "Justas if I had not told her, " she thought, "that Emily was come home fromIndia, and that I had consented to accept Dick partly to please her, because she was sure I should be sorry for it afterwards if I didn't. SoI dare say I should have been, " she continued thoughtfully. "In fact, Iam almost sure of it. But I know very well, whatever Emily may say, thatDick will make me do just as he likes. I am sure I shall have topractise those quire boys of his, and they will bawl in my ears and callme teacher. "

So thinking, Liz allowed herself to drift towards matrimony withoutenthusiasm, but with a general notion that, as most people were marriedsooner or later, no doubt matrimony was the proper thing and the bestthing on the whole. "And I shall certainly go through with it, now Ihave promised, " she further reflected, "for it would never do foranother of us to behave badly just at the last. "

It was the last week in March, and Laura was loitering through thegarden one morning before breakfast, when Mrs. Melcombe came out to herin some excitement with a note in her hand, which had been sent on fromthe inn, and which set forth that Mr. Brandon, having business in thatimmediate neighbourhood, would, if agreeable to her, do himself thepleasure of calling some time that morning. He added that he had broughta book for Miss Melcombe from his sister. 

"I have sent to the inn, " said Mrs. Melcombe, "to beg that he will comeon here to breakfast. "

Laura had been gathering a bunch of violets, and she rushed up-stairsand put them into her hair. Then in a great hurry she changed hertoilette, and, after ascertaining that the guest had arrived, she camelanguidly into the breakfast-room, a straw-hat hanging by its stringsfrom her arm, and filled with primroses and other flowers. She felt asshe approached that all this looked quite romantic, but it did not lookso real and so unpremeditated as might have been wished. 

Mrs. Melcombe had also changed her array. Little Peter, like most otherchildren, was always the picture of cleanly neatness when first he lefthis nurse's hand in the morning, and his mother was much pleased at theevident interest with which their guest regarded him, asking him variousquestions about his lessons, his sports, and his pony. She had beendeeply gratified at the kind way in which all the Mortimers and theirconnections had received her boy; none of them seemed at all jealous. Even Valentine had never hinted or even looked at her as if he felt thatthe property ought not to have gone to the younger branch. 

Peter, now ten years old, and but a small boy for his age, had anaverage degree of intelligence; and as he sat winking and blinking inthe morning sunshine, he constantly shook back a lock of hair that fellover his forehead, till Brandon, quietly putting his hand to it, movedit away, and while the boy related some childish adventure that he hadencouraged him to talk of, looked at him with scrutinizing and, as itseemed to his mother, with almost anxious attention. 

"Peter has been very poorly several times this winter, " she remarked. "Imean shortly to take him out for change of air. "

"His forehead looks pale, " said Brandon, withdrawing his hand, and for aminute or two he seemed lost in thought, till Mrs. Melcombe, expressinga hope that he would stay at her house as long as his affairs detainedhim in that neighbourhood, he accepted her invitation with greatreadiness. He would spend that day and the next with her, and, if shewould permit it, he would walk with young hopeful to his tutor's house, and come back again in time for luncheon. 

"I declare, he scarcely spoke to me all breakfast-time, " thought Laura. "I consider him decidedly a proud man, and any one might think he hadcome to see Peter rather than to see us. "

Brandon evidently did wish to walk with the boy, and accordingly rose assoon as he had finished his breakfast, Mrs. Melcombe giving him somedirections, and a key to let himself in with by a side gate. 

All the intelligence Brandon possessed, and all his keenness ofobservation, he exercised during his walk with the little heir. He couldgenerally attract children, and Peter was already well inclined towardhim, for he had shown himself to be knowing about a country boy'spleasures; also he knew all about the little Mortimers and their doings. 

Brandon wished to see Melcombe, even to examine some parts of the houseand grounds, and he wanted if possible to hear something more about theghost story; but it did not suit him to betray any special interest. Sohe left it to work its way to the surface if it would. It was not thebusiness he had come about, but he had undertaken to transact that, onpurpose because it gave him a chance of looking at the place. 

This was the deep glen, then, that he had heard Valentine speak of?

"Yes; and mother says the old uncle Mortimer (that one who lived atWigfield) improved it so much; he had so many trees thinned out, and apond dug where there used to be a swamp. We've got some carp in thatpond. Do you think, if I fed them, they would get tame?"

Brandon told some anecdote of certain carp that he had seen abroad, andthen asked--

"Do you like the glen, my boy--is it a favourite place of yours?"

"Pretty well, " answered Peter. "There are not so many nests, though, asthere used to be. It used to be quite dark with trees. "

"Did you like it then?"

"Yes, it was jolly; but----"

"But what?" asked Brandon carelessly. 

"Grandmother didn't like it, " said the boy. 

Brandon longed to ask why. 

"She was very old, my grandmother. "

"Yes. And so she didn't like the glen?"

"No; but the old uncle has had a walk, a sort of path, made through it;and mamma says I may like it as much as I please, so does aunt Laura. ""You know, " continued the child, in an argumentative tone, "there's noplace in the world where somebody hasn't died. "

"Now, what does this mean?" thought Brandon. "I would fain raise theghost if I could. Is he coming up now, or is he not?"

Presently, however, Peter made some allusion to the familymisfortune--the death of the eldest son, by which Brandon perceived thatit had taken place in the glen. He then dropped the subject, nothingmore that was said till a few minutes before they reached the tutor'slodgings being of the least interest. Then, as they turned the edge of awood, Peter looked back. 

"You won't forget the turn of the lane you are to take, will you, Mr. Brandon? and you've got the key?"

"Yes, " said Brandon. 

"It's a green sort of door, in the park-paling. A new one has been made, because that one was so shabby. It's the one my uncles went through whenthey ran away, you know. "

"What uncles?" asked Brandon, not at all suspecting the truth, and notmuch interested. 

"Why, that one who belonged to you, " said Peter, "and the other one whobelongs to Bertie and Hugh. Didn't you know?" he exclaimed, havingobserved the momentary flash of surprise that Brandon made haste toconceal. "They ran away, " he repeated, as Brandon walked beside himmaking no answer, "a very long time before my mamma was born, and theynever came back any more till I was nearly six years old. "

"So that's your tutor's house, is it?" said Brandon, and thereupon hetook leave of him. 

"Amazing!" he said to himself as he walked away. "What next, I wonder?"

As he returned he revolved this information in his mind with increasingsurprise. John Mortimer had a proud and confident way of talking abouthis father that did not sound as if he knew that he had begun life byrunning away from home. Valentine, he was well aware, knew nothing aboutit. 

Coming on, he turned aside to talk to some men who were digging a well. He knew how to talk to working people, and, what is more to the purpose, he knew how to make them talk; but though they proffered a good deal ofinformation about the neighbourhood, nothing was said that gave him anyof the knowledge he wanted. And shortly he went on, and let himself inat the little gate with his key. It was not yet eleven o'clock, and ashe did not want to see the ladies of the family so soon, he determinedto go down into the steep glen and look about him. 

He had no doubt now that to this place the superstitious story belonged. 

First, he skirted it all about. From above it was nearly as round as acup, and as deep in proportion to its size. The large old trees had beenleft, and appeared almost to fill it up, their softly rounded headscoming to within three feet of the level where he stood. All the motherbirds--rooks, jays, thrushes, and pigeons--were plainly in view underhim, as they sat brooding on their nests among the topmost twigs, andthere was a great cawing and crowing of the cock-birds while they flewabout and fed their mates. The leaves were not out; their buds onlylooked like green eggs spotting the trees, excepting that here and therea horse-chestnut, forwarder than its brethren, was pushing its crumpledfoliage out of the pale-pink sheath. Everywhere saplings had been cutdown, and numbers of them strewed the damp mossy ground; but lightpenetrated, and water trinkled, there was a pleasant scent of herbs andflowers, and the whole place was cheerful with growth and spring. 

A set of winding steps cut in the soft, red rock led into the glen justwhere the side was steepest, and Brandon, intent on discovery, spranglightly down them. He wandered almost everywhere about the place. Itseemed to hold within itself a different climate from the world above, where keen spring air was stirring; here hardly a breath moved, and inthe soft sheltered warmth the leaves appeared visibly to be expanding. He forgot his object, also another object that he had in view (thebusiness, in fact, which had brought him), leaned against the trunk of ahorse-chestnut, listened to the missel-thrushes, looked at a pine-tree alittle way off, that was letting down a mist of golden dust, andpresently lost himself in a reverie, finding, as is the way with alover, that the scene present, whatever it may happen to be, was helpingto master his everyday self, was indeed just the scene to send himplunging yet further down into the depths of his passionate dream. 

He had stood leaning against the tree, with his hat at his feet and hisarms folded, for perhaps half an hour. He had inherited a world (with anideal companion), had become absorbed into a lifetime of hope; and hislove appeared to grow without let or hindrance in the growing freshnessand glorious expansion of the spring. 

Half an hour of hope and joy consoles for much foregone trouble, andfurther satisfies the heart by making it an easier thing to believe inmore yet to come. 

A sudden exclamation and a little crash roused him. 

Laura! She had come to visit her favourite tree, and lo! a man there atlast, leaning against it lost in thought, and so absolutely still thatshe had not noticed him. 

She knew in an instant that this was not Joseph, and yet as the sight ofhim flashed on her sense before recognition, the nothingness she alwaysfound gave way to a feeling as of something real, that almost might havebeen the right thing. As for him, though he saw her flitting figure, shedid not for the twinkling of an eye pass for the ghost he had come tolook for. He roused himself up in an instant. "Whew!" was his inwardthought, "she is alone; what could be so lucky! I'll do the business atonce, and get it over. "

Picking up his hat, and sinking at every step into the soft cushions ofmoss, he accordingly approached her and said, but perhaps just a littlecoldly, "I did not expect to see you here, Miss Melcombe. "

Laura perceived this slight tinge of coldness as plainly as he did theimprovement in her appearance since he had first seen her in themorning, for surprise at detecting him had overpowered her affectation. She had coloured from having been startled, and while she, from habit, moved on mechanically to the tree, she answered quite simply andnaturally that she walked that way almost every day. 

Brandon turned and walked with her. Opposite to the said tree, and verynear it, was another, under which stood a bench. Laura sat down, andwhile pointing out the spot where certain herons had built theirplatform-like nests, began to recover herself, or rather to put on thedamaging affectation which in a moment of forgetfulness she had thrownoff. 

Brandon did not sit beside her, but while she arranged her dress to hermind, threw her plaid shawl into becoming folds, and laying her hand onher bracelet, furtively drew the ornament upon it to the upper side, helooked at her and thought what a goose she was. 

She wore a straw hat with so wide a brim that as he stood before her hedid not see her face, and he was not sorry for this; it was not hisbusiness to reprove her, but what he had to say would, he supposed, puther a good deal out of countenance. 

He was just about to speak, and Laura was in the full enjoyment offeeling how romantic it was to be there alone with a young man, was justwishing that some of her friends could be looking down from above to seethis interesting picture, and draw certain conclusions, when a decidedlysharp voice called out from behind, "Laura! what can you be doing here?You know I don't like you to be for ever coming to that tree. --Laura!"

"Yes, I'm here, " said Laura, and Mrs. Melcombe, arrayed in blue poplin, stepped into view, and made Brandon feel very foolish and Laura verycross. 

"Oh! you've brought Mr. Brandon here to see the carp, " said Ameliagraciously, but she hardly knew what to think, and they all presentlywent to the pond, and watched the creatures flashing up their goldensides, each wondering all the time what the two others were thinkingof. Then as it was nearly lunch time, Amelia and Laura proceeded toleave the dell, Brandon attending them and helping them up the steps. Hewas rather vexed that he had not been able to say his say and give Lauraa certain packet that he had in his possession; and as the afternoonpresently clouded over and it began to pour with rain, he hardly knewwhat to do with himself till the bright idea occurred to him that hewould ask Mrs. Melcombe to show him the old house. 

Up and down stairs and into a good many rooms they all three proceededtogether. Hardly any pictures to found a question or a theory on; no oldchina with a story belonging to it; no brown books that had been lovedby dead Melcombes. This could not have been a studious race. Not asingle anecdote was told of the dead all the time they went over theplace, till at last Mrs. Melcombe unlocked the door of a dark, old-fashioned sitting-room upstairs, and going to the shutters openedone of them, saying, "This is the room in which the dear old grandmotherspent the later years of her life. "

This really was an interesting old room. Laura and Amelia folded backthe shutters with a genuine air of reverence and feeling. It was mostevident that they had loved this woman whose son had forbidden her toleave her property to him. 

Two or three dark old pictures hung on the walls, and there was acabinet on which Laura laying her hand, said--

"The dear grandmother kept all her letters here. "

"Indeed, " Brandon answered; "it must have been very interesting to youto look them over. (And yet, " he thought "you don't look as if you hadfound in them anything of much interest. ")

"We have never opened it, " said Mrs. Melcombe. "Mr. Mortimer, when hewas here, proposed to look over and sort all the letters for me, but Ideclined his offer. "

("And no doubt made him miserable by so doing") was Brandon's nextthought. 

"I shall keep the key for my dear boy, " she continued, "and give it tohim when he comes of age. "

("To find out something that he will wish he didn't know. ") thoughtBrandon again. ("That cabinet, as likely as not, contains the evidenceof _it_, whatever _it_ is. ")

"And in this gallery outside, " she proceeded, "the dear grandmother usedto walk every day. "

Brandon perceived that he had got to the core and heart of the place atlast. His interest was so intense that he failed to conceal it. Hewalked to the window and noticed the pouring rain that was streamingbetween the rustic pillars of the balustrades into the garden below. Heexamined the pictures; only two of them were portraits, but in thebackground of one was an undoubted representation of the house itself;the other was a portrait of a beautiful boy in a blue jacket and a shirtwith a wide frill laid back and open at the neck. Under his arm appearedthe head of a greyish dog. 

"That creature, " Brandon thought, "is almost exactly like my old dogSmokey. I am very much mistaken if this is not the portrait of one ofhis ancestors. "

He turned to ask some question about it, and observed to his surprisethat Mrs. Melcombe had left the room, and he was alone with Laura, whohad seated herself on a sofa and taken a long piece of crochet-work fromher pocket, which she was doing almost with the air of one who waitspatiently till somebody else has finished his investigations. 

"I thought you would be interested in that picture, " she said; "yourecognise it, I suppose?"

"No!" he exclaimed. 

"It used not to be here, " said Laura; "the dear grandmother, as long asshe lived, always had it in her bedroom. It's Mr. Mortimer, yourstepfather, when he was a boy, and that was his dog, a great favourite;when he ran away the dog disappeared--it was always supposed that it ranafter him. I suppose, " continued Laura, impelled to say this to some onewho was sure to be impressed by it--"I suppose nobody ever did mourn asmy grandmother did over the loss of those two sons. Yet she never usedto blame them. "

They did run away then, and they did keep away, and yet she did notblame them. How deeply pathetic these things seemed. Whatever it mightbe that had made his step-father write that letter, it appeared now tobe thrown back to the time when he had divided himself thus from hisfamily and taken his boy brother with him. 

"And that other portrait, " said Laura, "we found up in one of thegarrets, and hung here when the house was restored. It is the portraitof my grandmother's only brother, who was sixteen or eighteen yearsyounger than she was. His name was Melcombe, which was her maiden name, but ours, you know, was really Mortimer. It is very much darkened bytime and neglect, and never was of any particular value. "

"What has he got under his arm?" said Brandon. 

"I think it is a cocked hat or some kind of hat. I think they worecocked hats then in the navy; he was a lieutenant in the navy. You seesome sort of gold lace on it, and on the hilt of his sword. "

"Did he die at sea?" asked Brandon. 

"Yes. My great-grandfather left this place to his son, and as he diedunmarried it was to come to our eldest uncle, and then to grandmother, as it did, you know. "

"'Its name was Melcombe, and it came from the sea, '" Brandon repeatedinwardly, adding, "Well, the _ghost_ can have had nothing to do withthis mystery. I shall trouble myself no more about him. "

"He was only about a year older than my oldest uncle, " proceeded Laura, "for grandmother married at seventeen. "

Brandon looked again. Something in the two pictures reminded him of theportraits of the Flambourgh family. They had evidently been done by thesame artist. Each youth had something under his left arm, each wasturning his face slightly, and they both looked the same way. YoungDaniel Mortimer was so placed that his quiet eyes seemed to be alwaysregarding the hearth, now empty of warmth. The other, hung on the samewall, seemed to look out into the garden, and Laura said in asentimental way that, considering the evident love she had borne hergrandmother, was not at all out of place. 

"There is a bed of lilies that dear grandmother used to love to watch, and Amelia and I thought it interesting when we had had this picture putup to observe that its eyes seemed to fall on the same place. They werenot friends, my grandmother and her brother, and no doubt after hisdeath my grandmother laid their frequent quarrels to heart, for shecould never bear to mention him, though she had a beautiful monument putup to his memory. You must go and see it, Mr. Brandon. We have latelyhad it cleaned, and dear grandmother's name added under his. "

"I will, " said Brandon. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

VENERABLE ANCIENTRY. 

 "Even as the sparrow findeth an house, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young, so I seek thine altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King and my God. "--Psalm lxxxiv. , Marginal Translation. 

Rising early the next morning, Brandon found that he had an hour tospare before breakfast, and sallied forth for an early walk. A delicatehoarfrost still made white the shade, and sparkled all over the sombreleaves of some fine yew-trees that grew outside the garden wall. 

Walking up a little rise, he saw the weathercock and one turret of achurch tower peering over the edge of a small steep hill, close at hand, and turning toward it he went briskly on, under the lee of a short firplantation, all the grass being pure and fresh with hoar-frost, whichmelted in every hollow and shadow as fast as the sun came round to it. 

The house was too large and pretentious for the grounds it stood in, these being hardly extensive enough to be called a park; they consistedof finely varied wood and dell, and were laid out in grass and fed offby sheep. 

He passed through a gate into the churchyard, which had a very littlevalley all to itself, the land rising on every side so as to make a deepnest for it. Such a venerable, low, long church! taking old age soquietly, covering itself with ivy and ferns, and having a general air ofmossiness, and subsidence into the bosom of the earth again, fromwhence its brown old stones had been quarried. For, as is often the casewith an old burial-place, the soil had greatly risen, so that one whowalked between the graves could see the whole interior of the placethrough the windows. The tiled roof, sparkling and white with themorning frost, was beginning to drip, and dew shone on the melting rime, while all around the enclosure orchards were planted, and the treesleaned over their boughs. 

A woman, stepping from a cottage on the rise, held up a great key tohim, and he advanced, took it, and told her he would return it. 

A large heavy thing it was, that looked as if it might be hundreds ofyears old; he turned the lock with it and stepped in, walking down thesmall brick aisle, observing the ancient oaken seats, the quaint pulpit, and strange brasses; till, white, staring, obtrusive, and all out oftaste, he saw in the chancel what he had come to look for, a great whitemarble monument, on the south side; four fluttering cherubs with shortwings that appeared to hold up a marble slab, while two weeping figuresknelt below. First was recorded on the slab the death of AugustusCuthbert Melcombe, only son of Cuthbert Melcombe, gent. , of this place. Then followed the date of his birth, and there was no date of death, merely the information that he was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. Brandon copied this inscription into his note-book. 

Below was the name of the young man's only sister, aged ninety-seven, "universally beloved and respected;" then the solemn words used beforedeath by the aged patriarch, "I have waited for Thy Salvation, O Lord. "All about the chancel were various small tablets in memory of thesuccessive vicars of the place and their families, but no others withthe name of Melcombe on them. The whole building was so overflowing withthe records of human creatures, inside and out, it appeared as if sosaturated with man's thoughts, so used to man's prayers and tears, soabout presently to decline and subside into the earth as he does, thatthere was almost an effort in believing that it was empty of the beingsit seemed to be a part of--empty of those whom we call the living. 

It was easy to move reverently and feel awed in the face of thisvenerable ancientry. This was the place, then, where that poor woman hadworshipped whose son "had never judged her. "

"If I settled, " he thought, "in a new country, this is the sort of scenethat, from time to time, would recur to my thoughts and get hold of me, with almost intolerable power to make life one craving for home. 

"How hard to take root in a soil my fathers never ploughed! Let me abidewhere my story grew, where my dead are laid, in a country full of days, full of the echoes of old Englishmen's talk, and whose sunsets arestained as if with the blood shed for their liberties. "

He left the church, noticing, as he went down the aisle, numbers ofdogs'-eared books in the different pews, and the narrow window at theeast end now letting in long shafts of sunshine; but there was nothingto inform him of any fact that threw light on his step-father's letter, and he returned the key to the sexton's wife, and went back tobreakfast, telling Mrs. Melcombe where he had been, and remarking thatthere was no date of death on Augustus Melcombe's tomb. 

"I think they did not know the date, " she replied. "It was during thelong French war that he died, and they were some time uncertain of thefact, but at length the eldest son going to London, wrote his mother anaccount of how he had met with the captain of his young uncle's ship, and had been told of his death at sea, somewhere near the West Indies. The dear grandmother showed me that letter, " observed Mrs. Melcombe, "when first I married. "

Brandon listened attentively, and when he was alone set that down alsoin his note-book, then considering that neither the ghost nor the younglieutenant need trouble him further, he felt that all his suspicionswere cast loose into a fathomless sea, from which he could fish nothingup; but the little heir was well and happy, and he devoutly hoped thathe would remain so, and save to himself the anxiety of showing, and toValentine the pain and doubt that would come of reading the letter. 

Mrs. Melcombe, narrow as were her thoughts, was, notwithstanding, aschemer in a small way. She had felt that Brandon must have hadsomething to say to Laura when she herself coming up had interruptedhim. Laura had few reserves from her, so when she had ascertained thatnothing had occurred when she had left them together in thegrandmother's sitting-room but such talk as naturally arose out of thevisit to it, she resolved to give him another opportunity, and afterbreakfast was about to propose a walk, when he helped her by asking herto show him that room again. 

"I should like so much to have a photograph of Mr. Mortimer's picture, "he said; "may I see it again?"

Nothing more easy. They all went up to the room; a fire had been lightedto air it, because its atmosphere had felt chilly the day before. Lauraseated herself again on the sofa. Brandon, with pen and ink, begantrying to make a sketch of the portrait, and very soon found himselfalone with Laura, as he had fully expected would be the case. Whereupon, sitting with his back to her, and working away at his etching, hepresently said--

"I mentioned yesterday to Mrs. Melcombe that I had come on business. "

"Yes, " Laura answered. 

"So as it concerns only you, I will, if you please, explain it now. "

As he leaned slightly round towards her Laura looked up, but she wasmute through surprise. There was something in this voice at oncepenetrative and sweet; but now she was again conscious of what soundedlike a delicately-hinted reproof. 

"A young man, " he proceeded, "whom I have known almost all my life--infact, I may call him a friend of mine--told me of an event that hadtaken place--he called it a misfortune that had befallen him. It hadgreatly unsettled him, he said, for a long time; and now that he wasgetting over it, and wanted to forget it, he wished for a change, wouldlike to go abroad, and asked if I could help him. I have many foreignacquaintances. It so chanced that I had just been applied to by one ofthem to send him out an Englishman, a clerk, to help him with hisEnglish correspondence. So I proposed to this young fellow to go, and hegladly consented. "

Laura said nothing. Brandon's words did not lead her to think of Joseph. So she thought of him, wishing she had been so led. She noticed, however, a slight emphasis in the words which informed her that theyoung man, whoever he was, "was getting over his misfortune, and wantedto forget it. "

"It was very kind of you, " she said at last, after a long pause. 

Brandon turned. Her words were ambiguous, and he wished to beunderstood. "You observe, no doubt, Miss Melcombe, " he said, "that I amspeaking of Joseph Swan?"

"Joseph Swan!" Laura repeated, "then he is going away?"

"Yes; but when I had secured this situation for him, he said he feltthat he must tell me what had occurred. He told me of an attachment thathe had formed, and whatever I may think as to the prudence displayed inthe affair, you know best whether _he_ was at all to blame. He hadreceived certain promises, so he assured me, and for a long time he hadbuoyed himself up with hope, but after that, feeling himself very muchinjured, and knowing that he had been deceived, he had determined to goaway. "

Laura had never expected to have her conduct brought home to her, andshe had actually been almost unaware that she was to blame. 

"It was Amelia's doing, " she murmured. 

Brandon was anxious to speak guardedly, and would not mention Joseph'sname again lest Mrs. Melcombe should enter suddenly and hear it, so heanswered, "Yes; and the young man told me he knew you were very muchafraid of your sister-in-law. It appears, however, that you had writtento him. "

"I did, two or three times, " said Laura. 

"So in case you should in after years feel anxious as to what had becomeof those letters, or should feel some compunction for groundless hopesexcited and for causeless caprice, I undertook to tell you as a messagefrom this young man, that, considering you to be completely under thedominion of your sister-in-law, he does not at all blame you, he doesnot admit that you are in fault; in one sense, now that he can look backon his attachment as over, he declares that he is the better for it, because it induced him to work hard at improving himself. He is to goout to Santo Domingo, where, in a new climate, and hearing a newlanguage, he can begin life afresh; but he wishes you to be assured thathe shall never trouble or annoy you, and he returns you your letters. Ipromised to say all this to you as a message from this young man--ayoung man who, whatever the world may call him, deserves, I think, byyou (and me) to be from henceforth always regarded as a gentleman. Willyou allow me to give you this packet?"

He had risen as he spoke, and while approaching her produced a smallpacket carefully done up; but Laura did not stir. She had dropped herhands on her knees, and he, stooping, laid it upon them, when meetingher eyes for a moment, he observed with amazement and discomfiture thatshe was silent not from shame and compunction for what had seemed veryunfeminine and heartless conduct, but from a rapture that seemed toodeep for words. 

"Miss Melcombe!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " she answered, in a low voice. "It is an island that he is goingto then. I always thought I should not mind marrying him if he would goto a desert island. And so he loved me, really and truly?"

"It appears that he did, _some time ago_" said Brandon, ratherpointedly. 

"Does any one else know, " Laura asked, "but you?"

"Yes; John Mortimer does. "

Laura blushed deeply. 

"Joseph told him first about this affair, but did not divulge the lady'sname. After all was settled, he acknowledged to us both that you werethe lady. John was very glad that I was willing personally to give theletters into your own hands again. "

"I suppose he thought I had been very imprudent?"

Brandon recalled the scene. John had in fact expressed himself to thateffect in no measured terms; but he had been pleasant and even cordialto Joseph, partly because the young man declared the thing to be quiteover, partly because he did him the justice to remember that such anacquaintance must always have been begun by the woman. It could notpossibly be Joe's doing that he had corresponded with Laura Melcombe. 

Laura repeated her words. 

"I suppose he thought I had been very imprudent?"

"Perhaps he did. "

"Perhaps he thought I had been heartless too?"

"Not to bring the thing to a decided and honourable termination?--yes, probably. He remarked that it certainly was most unnecessary to havebehaved as you have done. "

"How so, Mr. Brandon?"

"I believe, indeed I am sure, that you are of age?"

"Yes, I am. He meant that no one can really prevent my doing as Iplease; but Amelia wanted me to ignore the whole thing because she wasso ashamed of him and his people. "

"He told John so. "

"And what did he answer?"

"Among other things, he said he was glad it was all over. "

"Yes, " said Laura, not in the least impressed by this hint, "but whatelse?"

"He said, 'Joe, you ought to have been above wanting to marry any womanwho was ashamed of you. I wouldn't do such a thing on any account. '"

"He said that?" cried Laura, rather startled. 

"Yes, and I quite agreed with him--I told Joe that I did. "

"Did he say anything more?"

Brandon hesitated, and at length, finding that she would wait till hespoke, he said--

"He told Joe he ought to be thankful to have the thing over, and saidthat he had come out of it well, and the lady had not. "

"Amelia is not half so unkind as you are, " said Laura, when she had madehim say this, and a quiet tear stole down her cheek and dropped on herhand. 

"Pardon me! I think that for myself I have expressed no opinion but thisone, that Joe Swan deserves your respect for the manly care he has takento shield you from blame, spare you anxiety, and terminate the matterproperly. "

"Terminate!" repeated Laura; "yes, that is where you are so unkind. "

"Am I expected to help her to bring it on again?" thought Brandon. "No;I have a great respect for fools, and they must marry like other people;but oh, Joey, Joey Swan, if you are one, which I thought you the otherday (and the soul of honour too!), I think if you still cared about it, you could soon get yourself mated with a greater one still! LauraMelcombe would be at least a fair match for you in that particular. Butno, Joey, I decline to interfere any further. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

EMILY. 

 "Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible, soft melancholy. 

 "'Has she no faults then, ' Envy says, 'Sir?' 'Yes, she has one, I must aver; When all the world conspires to praise her The woman's deaf, and does not hear. '"

John Mortimer was sitting at breakfast the very morning after thisconversation had taken place at Melcombe. No less than four of hischildren were waiting on him; Gladys was drying his limp newspaper at abright fire, Barbara spreading butter on his toast, little Hugh kneelingon a chair, with his elbows on the table, was reading him a choiceanecdote from a child's book of natural history, and Anastasia, while hepoured out his coffee with one hand, had got hold of the other, whichshe was folding up industriously in her pinafore and frock, because shesaid it was cold. It was a windy, chilly, and exasperatingly brightspring morning; the sunshine appeared to prick the traveller all overrather than to warm him. Not at all the morning for an early walk, butJohn, lifting up his eyes, saw a lady in the garden, and in anotherinstant Mrs. Frederic Walker was shown in. 

"What, Emily!" exclaimed John, starting up. 

"Yes, John; but my soldier and my valuable infant are both quite well. Now, if you don't go on with your breakfast, I shall depart. Let me sitby the fire and warm my feet. "

"You have breakfasted?"

"Of course. How patriarchal you look, John, sitting in state to beadored!"

Thereupon, turning away from the fire, she began to smile upon thelittle Anastasia, and without any more direct invitation, the smallcoquette allowed herself to be decoyed from her father to sit on thevisitor's knee. Emily had already thrown off her fur wraps, and thechild, making herself very much at home in her arms, began presently tolook at her brooch and other ornaments, the touch of her small fingersappearing to give pleasure to Emily, who took up one of the fat littlepink hands, and kissed it fondly. 

"What is that lady's name, Nancy?" said John. 

"Mrs. Nemily, " answered the child. 

"You have still a little nursery English left about you, John, " saidEmily. "How sweet it is! My boy has that yet to come; he can hardly sayhalf-a-dozen words. "

Then Gladys entering the room with a cup and saucer, she rose and cameto the table. 

"That milk looks so nice--give me some of it. How pleasant it is to feelcold and hungry, as one does in England! No, John, not ham; I will havesome bread and marmalade. Do the children always wait on you, John, atbreakfast?"

There was something peculiarly sweet and penetrative in the voices ofBrandon and his sister; but this second quality sometimes appeared togive more significance to their words than they had intended. 

"Always. Does it appear an odd arrangement in your eyes?"

"Father, " said Barbara, "here is your paper. I have cut the leaves. "

"Thank you, my dear; put it down. You should, consider, Emily, my greatage and exaltation in the eyes of these youngsters. Don't you perceivethat I am a middle-aged man, madam?"

"Middle-aged, indeed! You are not thirty-six till the end of September, you know--the 28th of September. And oh, John, you cannot think howyoung you look! just as if you had stolen all these children, and theywere not really yours. You have so many of them, too, while I have onlyone, and he such a little one--he is only two years old. "

While she spoke a bell began to ring, and the two elder children, wishing her good-bye, left the room. 

"Do you think those girls are growing like their mother?" asked John. 

"I think they are a little. Perhaps that pretty way they have of takingup their eye-glasses when they come forward to look at anything, makesthem seem more like than they are. "

John scarcely ever mentioned his wife, but before Emily most peoplespoke without much reserve. 

"Only one of the whole tribe is like her in mind and disposition, " hecontinued. 

"And that's a good thing, " thought Emily, but she did not betray herthought. 

While this talk went on the two younger children had got possession, ofMrs. Nemily's watch (which hung from her neck by a long Trichinopolychain), and were listening to a chime that it played. Emily took the boyon her knee, and it did not appear that he considered himself too big tobe nursed, but began to examine the watch, putting it to his ear, whilehe composedly rested his head on her shoulder. 

"Poor little folk, " thought John, "how naturally they take to thecaresses of a young mother!"

Another bell then rang. 

"What order is kept in your house!" said Emily, as both the childrendeparted, one with a kiss on her dimpled cheek and the other on hislittle scratched fist, which already told of much climbing. 

"That is the school-room bell, " John answered; and then Mrs. FredericWalker laughed, and said, with a look half whimsical, half wistful----

"Oh, John, you're going to be so cross?"

"Are you going to make me cross? You had better tell me at once, then, what you are come for. Has Giles returned?"

"He came in late last night. I know what he went for, John. He thoughtit best to tell me. He is now gone on to the station about some affairsof his own. It seems that you both took Joey Swan's part, and weredispleased with that Laura. "

"Of course. She made the poor fellow very miserable for a long time. Besides, I am ashamed of the whole derogatory affair. Did Giles see thatshe burnt those letters--foolish, cold-hearted creature?"

"'Foolish, ' I dare say; but 'cold-hearted, ' I don't know. St. Georgedeclared to me that he thought she was as much in love now as that gooseJoseph ever was. "

"Amazing!" exclaimed John, very much discomfited. 

"And she tried hard to make him promise that he would keep the wholething a profound secret, especially from you; and so of course hedeclined, for he felt that you must be the proper person to tell it to, though we do not know why. He reasoned with her, but he could makenothing of her. "

"Perhaps she wants to bring it on again, " said John. "What a pity hereturned the letters before Joe had sailed!"

"No, it was the right thing to do. And, John, if love is really thesacred, strong, immortal passion made out by all the poets andnovelists, I cannot see, somehow, that putty ought to stand in itslight. It ought to have a soul above putty. "

"With all my heart, " said John; "but you see in this case it hadn't. "

"It would be an _astonishingly_ disadvantageous thing for our family ifshe ran away and married him just now, when Valentine has been makinghimself so ridiculous. But there is no doubt we could bring it on again, and have it done if we chose, " said Emily. 

John looked at her with surprise. 

"But then, " she continued, "I should say that the man ought to bethought of as well as herself, and she might prove a thoroughlyunsuitable, foolish wife, who would soon tire of him. SHE might be verymiserable also. She would not have half the chance of happiness that anordinary marriage gives. And, again, Santo Domingo is notoriouslyunhealthy. She might die, and if we had caused the marriage, we shouldfeel that. "

"Are you addressing this remarkable speech to yourself or to _thechair_?" said John, laughing. 

"To the chair. But, if I am the meeting, don't propose as a resolutionthat this meeting is _tête montée_. John, you used to say of me before Imarried that I was troubled with intuitions. "

"I remember that I did. "

"You meant that I sometimes saw consequences very clearly, and felt thatthe only way to be at peace was to do the right thing, having taken somereal trouble to find out what it was. "

"I was not aware that I meant that. But proceed. "

"When Laura was here in the autumn she often talked to Liz about littlePeter Melcombe's health, and said she believed that his illness atVenice had very much shaken his constitution. His mother, she said, never would allow that there had been much the matter with him, thoughshe had felt frightened at the time. It was the heat, Laura thought, that had been too much for him. Now, you know if that poor little fellowwere to die, Valentine, who has nothing to live on, and nothing to do, is his heir. What a fine thing it would be for him!"

"I don't see yet what you mean. "

"Mrs. Melcombe found out before Giles left Melcombe all about theseletters. She came into the room, and Laura, who seems to have beenfilled with a ridiculous sort of elation to think that somebody hadreally loved her, betrayed it in her manner, and between her and Gilesit was confessed. Mrs. Melcombe was very wroth. "

"Laura has a right to do as she pleases, " said John; "no one can preventit. "

"She has the right, but not the power. WE can do as we please, or we canlet Mrs. Melcombe do as SHE pleases. "

"You mean that we can tell my gardener's son that my cousin (whom he nolonger cares for) is in love with him, and, by our assistance andpersuasion, we can, if we choose, bring on as foolish a marriage as everwas contemplated, and one as disadvantageous to ourselves. Now for thealternative. What can it be?"

"Mrs. Melcombe can take Laura on the Continent again, and she proposedto do it forthwith. "

"And leave her boy at school? A very good thing for him. "

"No, she means to take him also, and not come back till Joseph is at theother end of the world. "

"Two months will see him there. "

"Well, John, now you have stated the case, it does seem a strange fancyof mine to wish to interfere, and if to interfere could possibly be toour advantage----"

"You would not have thought of it! No, I am sure of that. Now my adviceis, that we let them alone all round. I don't believe, in the firstplace, that Joe Swan, now he has change, freedom, and a rise in lifebefore him, would willingly marry Laura if he might. I am not at allsure that, if it came to the point, she would willingly marry him atsuch short notice, and leave every friend she has in the world. I thinkshe would shrink back, for she can know nothing worth mentioning of him. As to the boy, how do you know that a tour may not be a very fine thingfor him? It must be better than moping at Melcombe under petticoatgovernment; and even if Joe married Laura to-morrow, we could notprevent Mrs. Melcombe from taking him on the Continent whenever shechose. "

Emily was silent. 

"And what made you talk of a runaway match?" continued John. 

"Because she told Giles that the last time she saw Joseph he proposed toher to sneak away, get married before a magistrate, and go off withoutsaying a word to anybody. "

"Fools, " exclaimed John, "both of them! No, we cannot afford to have anyrunaway matches--and of such a sort too! I should certainly interfere ifI thought there was any danger of that. "

"I hope you would. He wanted her to propose some scheme. I think scornof all scheming. If she had really meant to marry him, his part shouldhave been to see that she did it in a way that would not make it worsefor her afterwards. He should have told Mrs. Melcombe fairly that shecould not prevent it, and he should have taken her to church and marriedher like a man before plenty of witnesses in the place where she isknown. If he had not shown such a craven spirit, I almost think I wouldhave taken his part. Now, John, I know what you think; but I should havefelt just the same if Valentine had not made himself ridiculous, and ifI was quite sure that this would not end in a runaway match after all, and the _True Blue_ be full of it. "

"I believe you, " said John; "and I always had a great respect for you, 'Mrs. Nemily. '"

"What are you laughing at, then?"

"Perhaps at the matronly dignity with which you have been laying downthe law. "

"Is that all? Oh, I always do that now I am married, John. "

"You don't say so! Well, Joe Swan has worked hard at improving himself;but though good has come out of it in the end for him, it is certainly avery queer affair. Why, in the name of common sense, couldn't Laura becontented with somebody in her own sphere?"

"I should like to know why Laura was so anxious the matter should beconcealed from you, " said Emily. 

"Most likely she remembers that Swan is in my employment, or she mayalso be 'troubled with intuitions, ' and know by intuition what I thinkof her. "

"And how is Aunt Christie?" asked Emily, after little more talkconcerning Joseph's affairs. 

"Well and happy; I do not believe it falls to the lot of any old womanto be happier in this _oblate spheroid_. The manner in which she actsdragon over Miss C. Is a joy to me, the only observer. She alwaysmanages that we shall never meet excepting in her presence; when I gointo the schoolroom to read prayers, I invariably find her there beforeme. She insists, also, on presiding at all the schoolroom meals. How shefound out the state of things here I cannot tell, but I thankfully lether alone. I never go out to smoke a cigar in the evening, and notice astately female form stepping forth also, but Aunt Christie is sure tocome briskly stumping in her wake, ready to join either her or me. "

"You don't mean to imply anything?"

"Of course not! but you yourself, before you married, were often knownto take my arm at flower-shows, &c. , in order to escape from certainpoor fellows who sighed in vain. "

"Yes, you were good about that; and you remind me of it, no doubt, inorder to claim the like friendliness from me now the tables are turned. John, the next time I take your arm in public it will be to extend mymatronly countenance to those modest efforts of yours at escapingattention, for you know yourself to be quite unworthy of notice!"

"Just so; you express my precise feeling. "

"It is a pity you and Grand are so rich!"

"Why? You do not insinuate, I hope, that I and my seven are merelyeligible on that account. Now, what are you looking at me for, with thatlittle twist in your lips that always means mischief?"

"Because I like you, and I am afraid you are being spoilt, John. I do sowish you had a nice wife. I should? at least, if you wished ityourself. "

"A saving clause! Have you and Fred discussed me, madam?"

"No, I declare that we have not. "

"I hope you have nobody to recommend, because I won't have her! I alwaysparticularly disliked red hair. "

"Now what makes you suppose I was thinking of any one who has red hair?"

"You best know yourself whether you were _not_. "

"Well, " said Emily, after a pause for reflection, "now you mention it (Inever did), I do not see that you could do better. "

"I often think so myself, and that is partly why I am so set against it!No, Emily, it would be a shame to joke about an excellent and pleasantwoman. The fact is, I have not the remotest intention of ever marryingagain at all. "

"Very well, " said Emily, "it is not my affair; it was your own notionentirely that I wanted to help you to a wife. "

And she sat a moment cogitating, and thinking that the lady of thegolden head had probably lost her chance by showing too openly that shewas ready. 

"What are you looking at?" said John. "At the paths worn in my carpets?That's because all the rooms are thoroughfares. Only fancy any womanmarrying a poor fellow whose carpets get into that state every three orfour years. "

"Oh, " said Emily, "if that was likely to stand in your light, I couldsoon show you how to provide a remedy. "

"But my father hates the thoughts of bricks and mortar, " said John, amused at her seriousness, "and I inherit that feeling. "

"John, the north front of your house is very ugly. You have five Frenchwindows on a line--one in each of these rooms, one in the hall; youwould only have to run a narrow passage-like conservatory in front ofthem, enter it by the hall window, and each room by its own window, puta few plants in the conservatory, and the thing is done in a fortnight. Every room has its back window; you would get into the back garden asyou do now; you need not touch the back of the house, that is allsmothered in vines and creepers, as you are smothered in children!"

"The matter shall have my gravest consideration, " said John, "providedyou never mention matrimony to me again as long as you live. "

"Very well, " said Emily, "I promise; but there is St. George coming. Imust not forget to tell you that I saw Joseph this morning at adistance; he was standing in the lea of the pigstye, and cogitating inthe real moony style. "

"It was about his outfit, " exclaimed John; "depend upon it it was notabout Laura. "

And so the colloquy ended, and John walked down his own garden, openedthe wicket that led to his gardener's cottage, and saw Joseph idlypicking out a weed here and there, while he watched the bees, some ofwhom, deluded by the sunshine, had come forth, and were feebly hangingabout the opening of the hive. 

"Joe, " said John, with perfect decision and directness, "I have afavour to ask of you. "

Joseph was startled at first; but as no more was said, he presentlyanswered, "Well, sir, you and yours have done me so many, that I didn'tought to hesitate about saying I'll grant it, whatever it is. "

"If you should think of marrying before you go----"

"Which I don't, sir, " interrupted the young man rather hastily. 

"Very good; then if you change your mind, I want your promise that youwill immediately let me know. "

"Yes, sir, " said Joseph, as if the promise cost him nothing, andsuggested nothing to his mind, "I will. "

"There, " thought John, as he turned away, "he does not know what he isabout; but if she brings the thing on again, I believe he will keepfaith with me, and a clandestine marriage I am determined shall not be. "

He then went into the town and found, to his surprise, that Brandon hadalready seen his father, and had told him that Dorothea Graham hadengaged herself to him. John was very much pleased, but his fathertreated the matter with a degree of apathy which rather startled anddisturbed him. 

Old Augustus was in general deeply interested in a marriage; he hadhelped several people to marry, and whether he approved or disapprovedof any one in particular, he was almost sure, when he had been latelytold of it, to make some remarks on the sacredness of the institution, and on the advantages of an early marriage for young men. 

He, however, said nothing, though Brandon was one of his chieffavourites; but having just related the fact, took up the _Times_, andJohn opened his letters, one of them being from his son Johnny, writtenin a fully-formed and beautiful hand, which made its abrupt style andboyish vehemence the more observable. 

"My Dearest Father, --It's all right. Mr. ---- took me to Harrow, and Dr. B. Examined me, and he said--oh, he said a good deal about my Latinverses, and the books I'm _in_, but I can't tell you it, because itseems so muffish. And, papa, I wish I might bring Crayshaw home for theEaster holidays; you very nearly promised I should; but I wanted to tellyou what fun I and the other fellows had at the boat-race. You canhardly think how jolly it was. I suppose when I get into the greatschool I shall never see it. We ran down shouting and yelling after theboats. I thought I should never be happy again if Cambridge didn't win. It was such a disgustingly sleety, blowy, snowy, windy, raspy, muddyday, as you never saw. And such crowds of fellows cheering andscreeching out to the crews. Such a rout!

 "'The Lord Mayor lent the City P'lice, The cads ran down by scores and scores With shouting roughs, and scented muffs, While blue were flounces, frills, and gores. On swampy meads, in sleeted hush, The swarms of London made a rush, And all the world was in the slush. '

"Etcetera. That's part of Crayshaw's last; it's a parody of one of thoseAmerican fogies. Dear father, you will let me come home, won't you;because I do assure you I shall get in with the greatest ease, even ifI'm not coached for a day more. A great many fellows here haven't atutor at all. --I remain, your affectionate son, "A. J. Mortimer. 

"P. S. --Will you tell Gladys that my three puppies, which she says aregrowing nicely, are not, on any account, to be given away; and will yousay that Swan is not to drown them, or do anything with them, till I'vechosen one, and then he may sell the others. And I hope my nails andscrews and my tools have not been meddled with. The children are not totake my things. It often makes me miserable to think that they get mynails and my paddle when I'm gone. "

John Mortimer smiled, and felt rather inclined to let the boy come home, when, looking up, he observed that his father was dozing over thenewspaper, and that he shivered. 

Master Augustus John did not get an answer so soon as he had hoped forit, and when it came it was dated from a little, quiet place at theseaside, and let him know that his grandfather was very poorly, verymuch out of sorts, and that his father had felt uneasy about him. Johnnywas informed that he must try to be happy, spending the Easter holidaysat his tutor's. His grandfather sent him a very handsome "tip, " and aletter written in such a shaky hand, that the boy was a good dealimpressed, and locked it up in his desk, lest he should never haveanother. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE AMERICAN GUEST. 

 "Shall we rouse the night-owl with a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver?"

In less than a week from the receipt of his son's letter, John Mortimerwrote again, and gave the boy leave to come home, but on no account tobring young Crayshaw with him, if a journey was likely to do him harm. 

Johnny accordingly set off instantly (the holidays having just begun), and, travelling all night, reached the paternal homestead by eighto'clock in the morning. 

His father was away, but he was received with rapture by his brothersand sisters. His little brothers admired him with the humble reverenceof small boys for big ones, and the girls delighted in his school-boyslang, and thought themselves honoured by his companionship. 

Crayshaw was an American by birth, but his elder brother (under whoseguardianship he was) had left him in England as his best chance ofliving to manhood, for he had very bad health, and the climate of hisnative place did not suit him. 

Young Gifford Crayshaw had a general invitation to spend the holidays atBrandon's house, for his brother and Brandon were intimate friends; butboys being dull alone, Johnny Mortimer and he contrived at these timesto meet rather often, sometimes to play, sometimes to fight--even thelatter is far better than being without companionship, more natural, andon the whole more cheerful. 

"And I'm sure, " said Aunt Christie, when she heard he was coming, "Ishould never care about the mischief he leads the little ones into whenhe's well, if he could breathe like other people when he's ill; you mayhear him half over the house when he has his asthma. "

Crayshaw came by the express train in the afternoon, and was met by theyoung Mortimers in the close carriage. He was nearly fifteen, and astrange contrast to Johnny, whose perfect health, ardent joyousness, andlumbering proportions never were so observable as beside the clear-cutface of the other, the slow gait, an expression of countenance at onceaudacious, keen, and sweet, together with that peculiar shadow under theeyelids which some people consider to betoken an early death. 

Crayshaw was happily quite well that afternoon, and accordingly verynoisy doings went on; Miss Crampton was away for her short Easterholiday, and Aunt Christie did not interfere if she could help it whenJohnny was at home. 

That night Master Augustus John Mortimer, his friend, and all the familywere early asleep; not so the next. It was some time past one o'clockA. M. When John Mortimer and Brandon, who had been dining together at aneighbour's house, one having left his father rather better, and theother having come home from the Isle of Wight, walked up towards thehouse deep in conversation, till John, lifting up his eyes, saw lightsin the schoolroom windows. This deluded father calmly remarked that thechildren had forgotten to put the lamp out when they went to bed. Brandon thought he heard a sound uncommonly like infant revelry, but hesaid nothing, and the two proceeded into the closed house, and wentsoftly up-stairs. 

"Roast pork, " said Brandon, "if ever I smelt that article in my life!"

They opened the schoolroom door, and John beheld, to his extremesurprise, a table spread, his eldest son at the head of it, his twindaughters, those paragons of good behaviour, peeling potatoes, and theother children, all more or less dishevelled, sitting round, blushingand discomfited. 

"My dears!" exclaimed John Mortimer, "this I never could have believedof you! One o'clock in the morning!"

Perfect silence. Brandon thought John would find it beneath his dignityto make a joke of this breach of discipline. He was rather vexed that heshould have helped to discover it, and feeling a little _de trop_, headvanced to the top of the table. "John, " he said with a resigned airand with a melancholy cadence in his voice that greatly impressed thechildren. 

"Come, " thought John as he paused, "they deserve a 'wigging, ' but Idon't want to make a 'Star-chamber matter' of this. I wish he would notbe so supernaturally serious. "

"John, " repeated Brandon, "on occasion of this unexpected hospitality, Ifeel called upon to make a speech. "

John sat down, wondering what would come next. 

"John, ladies and gentlemen, " said Brandon, "when I look around me onthese varied attractions, when I behold those raspberry turnovers of aflakiness and a puffiness so ethereal, that one might think the veryeyes of the observer should drop lightly on them, lest that tooappreciative glance should flatten them down--I say, ladies andgentlemen, when I smell that crackling, when I cast my eyes on thosecinders in the gravy, I am irresistibly reminded of occasions when Imyself, arrayed in a holland pinafore, have presided over likeentertainments; and of one in particular when, being of tender age--ofone occasion, I say, that is never to be forgotten, when, during thesmall hours of the night, I was hauled out of bed to assist in mixinghardbake, by one very dear to us all--who shall be nameless. "

What more he would have added will never be known, for with ringinglaughter that spoke for the excellence of their lungs, the wholetableful of young Mortimers, with the exception of Johnnie, rose, and, as if by one impulse, fell upon their father. 

"Hold hard, " he was heard to shout, "don't smother me. " But he receiveda kissing and hugging of great severity; the elder ones who hadunderstood Brandon's speech, closing him in; the little ones, who onlyperceived to their delight that the occasion had become festive again, hovering round, and getting at him where they could. So that when theyparted, and he was visible again, sitting radiant in the midst of them, his agreeable face was very red, and he was breathing fast and audibly. "I'll pay you for this!" he exclaimed, when he observed, to hisamusement, that Brandon's serious look was now really genuine, as if hewas afraid the experiment might be repeated on himself. "Johnnie, myboy, shake hands, I forgive you this once. And you may pass the bottle. "Johnnie, who knew himself to be the real offender, made haste to obey. "It's not blacking, of course, " continued John, looking at the thickliquor with distrust. 

"The betht black currant, " exclaimed his heir, "at thirteen-penth abottle. "

"And where's Cray?" exclaimed John, suddenly observing the absence ofhis young guest. 

"He's down in the kitchen, dishing up the pudding, " said Barbarablushing, and she darted out of the room, and presently returned, otherfootsteps following hers. 

"Cray, " exclaimed John, as the boy seemed inclined to linger outside, "don't stand there in the draught. And so it is not by your virtuousinclinations that you have hitherto been excluded from this festivescene?"

"No, sir, " said Crayshaw with farcical meekness of voice and air, "quitethe contrary. It was that I've met with a serious accident. I've beenrun over. "

John looked aghast. "You surely have not been into the loose-box, " hesaid anxiously. 

"Oh no, father, nothing of the sort, " said Barbara. "It was only that hewas down in the kitchen on his knees, and two blackbeetles ran over hislegs. You should never believe a word he says, father. "

"But that was the reason the pudding came to grief, " continued Crayshaw;"they were very large and fierce, and in my terror I let it fall, and itwas squashed. When I saw their friends coming on to fall upon it, I wasjust about to cry, 'Take it all, but spare my life!' when Barbara cameand rescued me. I hope, " he went on, yet more meekly, "I hope it was notan unholy self-love that prompted me to prefer my life to the pudding!"

The children laughed, as they generally did when Crayshaw spoke, but itwas more at his manner than at his words. And now, peace being restored, everybody helped everybody else to the delicacies, John discreetlyrefraining from any inquiry as to whether this was the first midnightfeast over which his son had presided, but he could not forbear to say, "I suppose your grandfather's 'tip' is to blame for this?"

"If everybody was like the Grand, " remarked Crayshaw, "Tennyson neverneed have said--

 "'Vex not thou the schoolboy's soul With thy shabby _tip_. '"

"Now, Cray, " said Brandon, "don't you emulate Valentine's abominabletrick of quoting. "

"And I have often begged you two not to parody the Immortals, " saidJohn. "The small fry you may make fun of, if you please, but let thegreat alone. "

"But he ithn't dead, " reasoned Master Augustus John; "I don't call anyof thoth fellowth immortal till they're dead. "

"It's a very bad habit, " continued his father. 

"And he's made me almost as bad as himself, " observed Crayshaw in thesoftest and mildest of tones. "Miss Christie said this very morning thatthere was no bearing me, and I never did it till I knew him. I used tobe so good, everybody loved me. "

John laughed, but was determined to say his say. 

"You never can take real pleasure again in any poetry that you havemauled in that manner. Miss Crampton was seriously annoyed when shefound that you had altered the girl's songs, and made them ridiculous. "

The last time, in fact, that Johnnie and Crayshaw had been together, they had deprived themselves of their natural rest in order to carry outthese changes; and the first time Miss Crampton gave a music lessonafter their departure, she opened the book at one of their improvedversions, which ran as follows:--

 "Wink to me only with thy nose, And I will sing through mine. "

Miss Crampton hated boyish vulgarity; she turned the page, but matterswere no better. The two youths had next been at work on a song in whicha muff of a man, who offers nothing particular in return, requests'Nancy' to gang wi' him, leaving her home, her dinner, her brooches, herbest gowns, &c. , behind, to walk through snow-drifts, blasts, and otherperils by his side, and afterwards strew flowers on his clay. Desirousas it seemed to show that the young person was not so misguided as hersilence has hitherto left the world to think, they had added a verse, which ran as follows:--

 "'Ah, wilt thou thus, for his loved sake, All manner of hardships dare to know?' The fair one smiled whenas he spake, And promptly answered, 'No, sir; no, '"

"Cray, " said John Mortimer, observing the boy's wan appearance, "howcould you think of sitting up so late?"

"Why, the thupper wath on purpoth for him, " exclaimed Johnnie. "We gaveit in hith honour, ath a mark of thympathy. "

"Because he was burnt out, " said Gladys. "Papa, did you know? histutor's house was burnt down, and the boys had to escape in the night. "

"But it wath a great lark, " observed Johnnie, "and he knowth he thoughttho. "

"Yes, " said Crayshaw, folding his hands with farcical mock meekness, "but I saved hardly anything--nothing whatever, in fact, but my Yankeeaccent, and that only by taking it between my teeth. "

"There was not enough of it to be worth saving, my dear boy, " saidBrandon. 

Crayshaw's face for once assumed a genuine expression, one of alarm. Hewas distinguished at school for the splendid Yankee dialect he could puton, as Johnnie was for his mastery of a powerful Devonshire lingo; butif scarcely a hint of his birthplace remained in his daily speech, andhe had not noticed any change, there was surely danger lest thisinteresting accomplishment should be declining also. 

"I am always imitating the talk I hear in the cottages, " he remarked; "Imay have lost it so. "

"Perhaps, as Cray goes to so many places, it may get scattered about, "said little Bertram; but he was speedily checked by Johnnie, whoobserved with severity that they didn't want any "thrimp thauth. "

"He mutht thimmer, " said Johnnie, "thath what he mutht do. He mutht bethrown into an iron pot, with a gallon of therry cobbler, and a pumpkinpie, and thome baked beanth, and a copy of the Biglow Paperth, and ahandful of thalt, and they mutht all thimmer together till he gethproperly flavoured again. "

"Wouldn't it be safer if he was only dipped in?" asked the same "shrimp"who had spoken before. 

As this was the second time he had taken this awful liberty, he wouldprobably have been dismissed the assembly but for the presence of hisfather. As it was, Johnnie and Crayshaw both looked at him, not fiercelybut steadily, whereupon the little fellow with deep blushes slid gentlyfrom his chair under the table. 

A few days after this midnight repast, Emily, knowing that John Mortimerwas away a good deal, and having a perfectly gratuitous notion that hischildren must be dull in consequence, got Valentine to drive her overone morning to invite them to spend a day at Brandon's house. 

A great noise of shouting, drumming on battledores, and blowing throughdiscordant horns, let them know, as they came up the lane, that thecommunity was in a state of high activity; and when they reached thegarden gate they were just in time to see the whole family vanish rounda corner, running at full speed after a donkey on which Johnnie wasriding. 

The visitors drove inside the gate, and waited five minutes, when thedonkey, having made the circuit of the premises, came galloping up, thewhole tribe of young Mortimers after him. They received Emily withloving cordiality, and accounted for the violent exercise they had beentaking by the declaration that this donkey never would go at all, unlesshe heard a great noise and clatter at his heels. 

"So that if Johnnie wanted to go far, as far as to London, " observed oneof the panting family, "it would be awkward, wouldn't it?"

"And he's only a second-hand donkey, either, " exclaimed little Janie indeep disparagement of the beast; "father bought him of the blacksmith. "

"But isn't it good fun to see him go so fast?" cried another. "Would youlike to see our donkey do it again?"

"And see him 'witch the world with noble assmanship, " said Valentine. 

Whereupon a voice above said rather faintly. "Hear, hear!" and Crayshawappeared leaning out of a first-floor window, the pathetic shadow morethan commonly evident in his eyes, in spite of a mischievous smile. Hehad but lately recovered from a rheumatic fever, and was further helddown by frequent attacks of asthma. Yet the moment one of these wentoff, the elastic spirits of boyhood enabled him to fling it into thebackground of his thoughts, and having rested awhile, as he was thendoing, he became, according to the account Gladys gave of him at thatmoment, "just like other boys, only ten times more so!"

Emily now alighted, and as they closed about her and hemmed her in, donkey and all, she felt inclined to move her elbows gently, as she hadsometimes seen John do, in order to clear a little space about him. "Whydoes not Cray come down, too?" she asked. 

"I think he has had enough of the beast, " said Barbara, "for yesterdayhe was trying to make him jump; but the donkey and Cray could not agreeabout it. He would not jump, and at last he pitched Cray over his head. "

"Odd, " said Valentine; "that seems a double contradiction to the proverbthat 'great wits jump. '" Valentine loved to move off the scene, leavinga joke with his company. He now drove away, and Johnnie informed Emilythat he had already been hard at work that morning. 

"I've a right to enjoy mythelf after it, " he added, looking round in apatronising manner, "and I have. I've not had a better lark, in fact, since Grand was a little boy. "

By these kind, though preposterous words, the assembly was stimulatedto action. The frightful clatter, drumming, and blowing of horns beganagain, and the donkey set off with all his might, the Mortimers afterhim. When he returned, little Bertram was seated on his back. "Johnnieand Cray have something very particular to do, " she was informed withgravity. 

"For their holiday task?"

"Oh no, for that lovely electrifying machine of cousin Val's. Cray isalways writing verses; he is going to be a poet. Johnnie was saying lastweek that it was not at all hard to turn poetry into Latin, and Val saidhe should have the machine if he could translate some that Cray wrotethe other day. Do you think the Romans had any buttons and buttonholes?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because there are buttons in one of the poems. Cray says it is atribute--a tribute to this donkey that father has, just given us. He wasinspired to write it when he saw him hanging his head over the yardgate. "

Thereupon the verses, copied in a large childish hand, were produced andread aloud:--

 A TRIBUTE. 

 The jackass brayed; And all his passionate dream was in that sound Which, to the stables round And other tenements, told of packs that weighed On his brown haunches; also that, alas! His true heart sighed for Jenny, that fair ass Who backward still and forward paced With panniers and the curate's children graced. Then, when she took no heed, but turned aside Her head, he shook his ears As much as to say "Great are--as these--my fears. " And while I wept to think how love that preyed On the deep heart not worth a button seemed To her for whom he dreamed; And while the red sun stained the welkin wide, And summer lightnings on the horizon played, Again the jackass brayed. 

"And here's the other, " said Gladys. "Johnnie says, it would be muchthe easier to do, only he is doubtful about the 'choker. '"

 THE SCHOOLBOY TO HIS DRESS SUIT. 

 Nice is broiled salmon, whitebait's also nice With bread and butter served, no shaving thinner. _Entrées_ are good; but what is even ice-- Cream ice--to him that's made to dress for dinner? Oh my dress boots, my studs, and my white tie Termed choker (emblem of this heart's pure aim), Why are good things to eat your meed? Oh why Must swallow-tails be donned for tasting game? The deep heart questions vainly, --not for ease Or joy were such invented;--but this know, I'd rather dine off hunks of bread and cheese Than feast in state rigged out in my dress clo'. 

 G. C. 

Emily, after duly admiring these verses, gave her invitation, and it wasaccepted with delight. Nothing, they said, could be more convenient. Father had told them how Mr. Brandon was having the long wing of thehouse pulled down, the part where cousin Val's room used to be; so hehad been obliged to turn out his nests, and his magic lantern, and manyother things that he had when he was a little boy. 

"And he says we shall inherit them. "

"And when father saw him sitting on a heap of bricks among his things, he says it put him in mind of Marius on the ruins of Carthage. "

"So now we can fetch them all away. "

Emily then departed, after stipulating that the two little ones, herfavourites, should come also. "Darlings!" she exclaimed, when she sawtheir stout little legs so actively running to ask Miss Christie'sleave. "Will my boy ever look at me with such clear earnest eyes? ShallI ever see such a lovely flush on his face, or hear such joyous laughterfrom him?"

Time was to answer this question for her, and a very momentous month forthe whole family began its course. Laura, writing from Paris to Liz, made it evident to those who knew anything of the matter, that Mrs. Melcombe, as she thought, had carried her out of harm's way; and it is agood thing Laura did not know with what perfect composure and ambitioushope Joseph made his preparations for the voyage. The sudden change ofcircumstances and occupation, and the new language he had to learn, wokehim thoroughly from his dream, and though it had been for some long timeboth deep and strong, yet it was to him now as other dreams "when oneawaketh;" and Laura herself, now that she had been brought face to face, not with her lover, but with facts, was much more reasonable thanbefore. Brandon had said to her pointedly, in the presence of hersister-in-law, "If you and this young man had decided to marry, no law, human or divine, could have forbidden it. " But at the same time Ameliahad said, "Laura, you know very well that though you love to makeromances about him, you would not give up one of the comforts of lifefor his sake. "

Laura, in fact, had scarcely believed in the young man's love till shehad been informed that it was over. She longed to be sought more thanshe cared to be won; it soothed and comforted what had been a painfulsense of disadvantage to know that one man at least had sighed for herin vain. He would not have been a desirable husband, but as a formerlover she could feign him what she pleased, and while, under new andadvantageous circumstances, he became more and more like what shefeigned, it was not surprising that in the end she forgot her feigning, and found her feet entangled for good and all in the toils she herselfhad spread for them. 

In the meantime Johnnie and Crayshaw, together with the youngerMortimers, did much as they liked, till Harrow school reopened, when thetwo boys returned, departing a few hours earlier than was necessary thatthey might avoid Miss Crampton, a functionary whom Johnny held in greatabhorrence. 

At the same period Grand suddenly rallied, and, becoming as well asever, his son, who had made many journeys backwards and forwards to seehim, brought him home, buying at the railway station, as he steppedinto his father's carriage, the _Times_ and the _Wigfield Advertiser_, and _True Blue_, in each of which he saw a piece of news that concernedhimself, though it was told with a difference. 

In the _Times_ was the marriage of Giles Brandon, Esq. , &c. , toDorothea, elder daughter of Edward Graham, Esq. ; and in the local paper, with an introduction in the true fustian style of mock concealment, camethe same announcement, followed by a sufficiently droll and maliciousaccount of the terrible inconvenience another member of this family hadsuffered a short time since by being snowed up, in which state he stillcontinued, as snow in that part of the world had forgotten how to melt. 

A good deal that was likely to mortify Valentine followed this, but itwas no more than he deserved. 

John laughed. "Well, Giles is a dear fellow, " he said, throwing down thepaper. "I am pleased at his marriage, and they must submit to be laughedat like other people. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

WEARING THE WILLOW. 

 "My Lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in; you rub the sore When you should bring the plaster. "

 _The Tempest. _

When John Mortimer reached the banking-house next morning, he foundValentine waiting for him in his private sitting-room. 

"I thought my uncle would hardly be coming so early, John, " he said, "and that perhaps you would spare me a few minutes to talk things over. "

"To be sure, " said John, and looking more directly at Valentine, henoticed an air of depression and gloom which seemed rather too deep tobe laid to the account of the _True Blue_. 

He was stooping as he sat, and slightly swinging his hat by the brimbetween his knees. He had reddened at first, with a sullen andhalf-defiant expression, but this soon faded, and, biting his lips, hebrought himself with evident effort to say--

"Well, John, I've done for myself, you see; Giles has married her. Serves me right, quite right. I've nothing to say against it. "

"No, I devoutly hope you have not, " exclaimed John, to whom the unluckysituation became evident in an instant. 

"Grand always has done me the justice to take my part as regards myconduct about this hateful second engagement. He always knew that Iwould have married poor Lucy if they would have let me--married her andmade the best of my frightful, shameful mistake. But as you know, Mrs. Nelson, Lucy's mother, made me return her letters a month ago, and saidit must be broken off, unless I would let it go dragging on and on fortwo years at least, and that was impossible, you know, John, because--because, I so soon found out what I'd done. "

"Wait a minute, my dear fellow, " John interrupted hastily, "you havesaid nothing yet but what expresses very natural feelings. I remark, inreply, that your regret at what you have long seen to be unworthyconduct need no longer disturb you on the lady's account, she having nowmarried somebody else. "

"Yes, " said Valentine, sighing restlessly. 

"And, " John went on, looking intently at him, "on your own account Ithink you need not at all regret that you had no chance of going andhumbly offering yourself to her again, for I feel certain that she wouldhave considered it insulting her to suppose she could possibly overlooksuch a slight. Let me speak plainly, and say that she could haveregarded such a thing in no other light. "

Then, giving him time to think over these words, which evidentlyimpressed him, John presently went on, "It would be ridiculous, however, now, for Dorothea to resent your former conduct, or St. George either. Of course they will be quite friendly towards you, and you may dependupon it that all this will very soon appear as natural as possible;you'll soon forget your former relation towards your brother's wife; infact you must. "

Valentine was silent awhile, but when he did speak he said, "You feelsure, then, that she would have thought such a thing an insult?" Hemeant, you feel sure, then, that I should have had no chance even if mybrother had not come forward. 

"Perfectly sure, " answered John with confidence. "That was a step which, from the hour you made it, you never could have retraced. "

Here there was another silence; then--

"Well, John, if you think so, " said the poor fellow--"this was rather asudden blow to me, though. "

John pitied him; he had made a great fool of himself, and he wassmarting for it keenly. His handsome young face was very pale, but Johnwas helping him to recollect his better self, and he knew it. "I shallnot allude to this any more, " he continued. 

"I'm very glad to hear you say so, " said John. 

"I came partly to say--to tell you that now I am better, quite well, infact, I cannot live at home any longer. At home! Well, I meant in St. George's house, any longer. "

The additional knowledge John had that minute acquired of the state ofValentine's feeling, or what he supposed himself to feel, gave more thanusual confidence and cordiality to his answer. 

"Of course not. You will be considering now what you mean to do, and myfather and I must help you. In the first place there is that twothousand pounds; you have never had a shilling of it yet. My father wasspeaking of that yesterday. "

"Oh, " answered Valentine, with evident relief, and with rather a bittersmile, "I thought he proposed to give me that as a wedding present, andif so, goodness knows I never expect to touch a farthing of it. "

"That's as hereafter may be, " said John, leading him away from thedangerous subject. Valentine began every sentence with a restless sigh. 

"I never chose to mention it, " he remarked. "I had no right to considerit as anything else, nor did I. "

"He does not regard it in any such light, " said John. "He had left it toyou in his will, but decided afterwards to give it now. You know hetalks of his death, dear old man, as composedly as of to-morrowmorning. He was reminding me of this money the other day when he wasunwell, and saying that, married or unmarried, you should have it madeover to you. "

"I'm very deeply, deeply obliged to him, " said Valentine, with a fervourthat was almost emotion. "It seems, John, as if that would helpme, --might get me out of the scrape, for I really did not know where toturn. I've got nothing to do, and had nothing to live on, and I'm twoand twenty. "

"Yes. "

"I do feel as if I was altogether in such an ignominious position. "

As John quite agreed with him in this view of his position, he remainedsilent. 

Valentine went on, "First, my going to Cambridge came to nothing onaccount of my health. Then a month ago, as I didn't want to go and liveout in New Zealand by myself, couldn't in fact, the New Zealand placewas transferred to Liz, and she and Dick are to go to it, Giles sayingthat he would give me a thousand pounds instead of it. I shall not takethat, of course. "

"Because he will want his income for himself, " John interrupted. 

Valentine proceeding, "And now since I left off learning to farm, --forthat's no use here, --I've got nothing on earth to do. "

"Have you thought of anything yet?"

"Yes. "

"Well, out with it. "

"John, " remarked Valentine, as the shadow of a smile flitted acrossJohn's face, "you always seem to me to know what a fellow is thinkingof! Perhaps you would not like such a thing, --wouldn't have it?"

John observed that he was getting a little less gloomy as he proceeded. 

"But whether or not, that two thousand pounds will help me to somecareer, certainly, and entirely save me from what I could not bear tothink of, _her_ knowing that I was dependent on Giles, and despising mefor it. "

"Pooh, " exclaimed John, a little chafed at his talking in this way, "what is St. George's wife likely to know, or to care, as to how herbrother-in-law derives his income? But I quite agree with you that youhave no business to be dependent on Giles; he has done a great deal forhis sisters he should now have his income for himself. "

"Yes, " said Valentine. 

"You have always been a wonderfully united family, " observed Johnpointedly; "there is every reason why that state of things shouldcontinue. "

"Yes, " repeated Valentine, receiving the covert lecture resignedly. 

"And there is no earthly end, good or bad, to be served, " continuedJohn, "by the showing of irritation or gloom on your part, because yourbrother has chosen to take for himself what you had previously and withall deliberation thrown away. "

"I suppose not, John, " said Valentine quite humbly. 

"Then what can you be thinking of?"

"I don't know. "

"You have not talked to any one as you have done to me this morning?"

"No, certainly not. "

"Well, then, decide while the game is in your own hand that you neverwill. "

So far from being irritated or sulky at the wigging that John wasbestowing on him, Valentine was decidedly the better for it. The colourreturned to his face, he sat upright in his chair, and then he got upand stood on the rug, as if John's energy had roused him, and opened hiseyes also, to his true position. 

"You don't want to cover yourself with ridicule, do you?" continuedJohn, seeing his advantage. 

"Why, even if you cared to take neither reason, nor duty, nor honourinto the question, surely the only way to save your own dignity fromutter extinction is to be, or at least seem to be, quite indifferent asto what the lady may have chosen to do, but very glad that your brothershould have taken a step which makes it only fair to you that he and hiswife should forget your former conduct. "

"John, " said Valentine, "I acknowledge that you are right. "

John had spoken quite as much, indeed more, in Brandon's interest thanin Valentine's. The manner in which the elder had suffered the youngerto make himself agreeable and engage himself to Dorothea Graham, andhow, when he believed she loved him, he had made it possible for them tomarry, were partly known to him and partly surmised. And now it seemedin mockery of everything that was decent, becoming, and fair that theone who had forsaken her should represent himself as having waked, aftera short delusion, and discovered that he loved her still, letting hisbrother know this, and perhaps all the world. Such would be a painfuland humiliating position also for the bride. It might even affect thehappiness of the newly-married pair; but John did not wish to hint atthese graver views of the subject; he was afraid to give them too muchimportance, and he confidently reckoned on Valentine's volatiledisposition to stand his friend, and soon enable him to get over hisattachment. All that seemed wanting was some degree of presentdiscretion. 

"John, I acknowledge that you are right, " repeated Valentine, after aninterval of thought. 

"You acknowledge--now we have probed this subject and got to the bottomof it--that it demands of you absolute silence, and at first somediscretion?"

"Yes; that is settled. "

"You mean to take my view?"

"Yes, I do. "

As he stood some time lost in thought, John let him alone and began towrite, till, thinking he had pondered enough, he looked up and alludedto the business Valentine had come about. 

"You may as well tell it me, unless you want to take my father into yourcouncil also: he will be here soon. "

"No; I thought it would be more right if I spoke to you first, John, before my uncle heard of it, " said Valentine. 

"Because it is likely to concern me longer?" asked John. 

"Yes; you see what I mean; I should like, if uncle and you would let me, to go into the bank; I mean as a clerk--nothing more, of course. "

"I should want some time to consider that matter, " said John. "I washalf afraid you would propose this, Val. It's so like you to take theeasiest thing that offers. "

"Is it on my account or on your own that you shall take time?"

"On both. So far as you are concerned, it is no career to be a banker'sclerk. "

"No; but, John, though I hardly ever think of it, I cannot always forgetthat there is only one life between me and Melcombe. "

"Very true, " said John coolly; "but if it is ill waiting for a deadman's shoes, what must it be waiting for a dead child's shoes?"

"I do not even wish or care to be ever more than a clerk, " saidValentine; "but that, I think, would fill up my time pleasantly. "

"Between this and what?"

"Between this and the time when I shall have finally decided what I willdo. I think eventually I shall go abroad. "

John knew by this time that he would very gladly not have Valentine withhim, or rather under him; but an almost unfailing instinct, where hisfather was concerned, assured him that the old man _would_ like it. 

"Shall I speak to my father about it for you?" he said. 

"No, John, by no means, if you do not like it. I would not be so unfairas let him have a hint of it till you have taken the time you said youwanted. "

"All right, " said John; "but where, in case you became a clerk here, doyou propose to live?"

"Dick A'Court lived in lodgings for years, " said Valentine, "so doesJohn A'Court now, over the pastrycook's in the High Street. "

"And you think you could live over the shoemaker's?"

"Why not?"

"I have often met Dick meekly carrying home small parcels of grocery forhimself. I should like to catch you doing anything of the sort!"

"I believe I can do anything now I have learned to leave off quoting. Iused to be always doing it, and to please Dorothea I have quite given itup. "

"Well, " said John, "let that pass. "

He knew as well as possible what would be his father's wish, and hemeant to let him gratify it. He was a good son, and, as he hadeverything completely in his own power, he may be said to have been veryindulgent to his father, but the old man did not know it any more thanhe did. 

Mr. Augustus Mortimer had a fine house, handsomely appointed andfurnished. From time to time, as his son's family had increased, he hadadded accommodation. There was an obvious nursery; there was an evidentschool-room, perfectly ready for the son, and only waiting, he oftenthought, till it should be said to his father, "Come up higher. "

It was one of John's theories that there should be a certain homelysimplicity in the dress, food, and general surroundings of youthfulhumanity; that it should not have to walk habitually on carpets so richthat little dusty feet must needs do damage, and appear intruders; norbe made to feel all day that somebody was disturbed if somebody else wasmaking himself happy according to his lights, and in his own fashion. 

But of late Mr. Augustus Mortimer had begun to show a degree ofinfirmity which sometimes made his son uncomfortable that he should haveto live alone. To bring those joyous urchins and little, laughing, dancing, playful girls into his house was not to be thought of. What waswanted was some young relative to live with him, who would drive himinto the town and home again, dine with him, live in his presence, andmake his house cheerful. In short, as John thought the matter over, heperceived that it would be a very good thing for his father to haveValentine as an inmate, and that it would be everything to Valentine tobe with his father. 

People always seemed to manage comfortable homes for Valentine, and makegood arrangements for him, as fast as he brought previous ones tonought. 

Very few sons like to bring other people into their fathers' houses, specially in the old age of the latter; but John Mortimer was not onlyconfident of his own supreme influence, but he was more than commonlyattached to his father, and had long been made to feel that on his owninsight and forethought depended almost all that gave the old manpleasure. 

His father seldom disturbed any existing arrangements, though he oftenfound comfort from their being altered for him; so John decided topropose to him to have his brother's son to live with him. In a fewdays, therefore, he wrote to Valentine that he had made up his mind, andwould speak to his father for him, which he did, and saw that thenephew's wish gave decided pleasure; but when he made his other proposalhe was quite surprised (well as he knew his father) at the gladness itexcited, at those thanks to himself for having thought of such a thing, and at certain little half-expressed hints which seemed intended to meetand answer any future thoughts his son might entertain as to Valentine'sobtaining more influence than he would approve. But John was seldomsurprised by an after-thought; he was almost always happy enough to havedone his thinking beforehand. 

He was in the act of writing a letter to Valentine the next morning athis own house, and was there laying the whole plan before him, when hesaw him driving rapidly up to the door in the little pony chaise, nowthe only carriage kept at Brandon's house. He sprang out as if in urgenthaste, and burst into the room in a great hurry. 

"John, " he exclaimed, "can you lend me your phaeton, or give me a mountas far as the junction? Fred Walker has had one of his attacks, andEmily is in a terrible fright. She wants another opinion: she wishes Dr. Limpsey to be fetched, and she wants Grand to come to her. "

This last desire, mentioned as the two hurried together to the stable, showed John that Emily apprehended danger. 

Emily's joyous and impassioned nature, though she lived safely, as itwere, in the middle of her own sweet world--saw the best of it, made thebest of it, and coloured it all, earth and sky, with her tenderhopefulness--was often conscious of something yet to come, ready andexpectant of _the rest of it_. The rest of life, she meant; the rest ofsorrow, love, and feeling. 

She had a soul full of unused treasures of emotion, and pure, cleardepths of passion that as yet slumbered unstirred. If her heart was alute, its highest and lowest chords had never been sounded hitherto. This also she was aware of, and she knew what their music would be likewhen it came. 

She had been in her girlhood the chief idol of many hearts; but joyous, straightforward, and full of childlike sweetness, she had looked on allher adorers in such an impartially careless fashion, that not one ofthem could complain. Then, having confided to John Mortimer's wife thatshe could get up no enthusiasm for any of them, and thought there couldbe none of that commodity in her nature, she had at last consented, ongreat persuasion, to take the man who had loved her all her life, "because he wouldn't go away, and she didn't know what else to do withhim; he was such a devoted little fellow, too, and she liked him so muchbetter than either of his brothers!"

So they were married; Captain Walker was excessively proud and happy inhis wife, and Mrs. Walker was as joyous and sweet as ever. She hadsatisfied the kindly pity which for a long while had made her veryuncomfortable on his account; and, O happy circumstance! she became incourse of time the mother of the most attractive, wonderful, andinteresting child ever born. In the eyes, however, of the invidiousworld, he was uncommonly like his plain sickly father, and not, withthat exception, at all distinguished from other children. 

John made haste to send Valentine off to the junction, undertook himselfto drive his father over to see Emily, and gathered from the shortaccount Valentine gave whilst the horse was put too, that Fred Walkerhad been taken ill during the night with a fainting fit. He had comefrom India for his year's leave in a very poor state of health, and withapprehended heart disease. Only ten days previously Emily had persuadedhim that it would be well to go to London for advice. But a fainting fithad taken place, and the medical man called in had forbidden thisjourney for the present. He had appeared to recover, so that thereseemed to be no more ground for uneasiness than usual; but this secondfaintness had lasted long enough to terrify all those about him. 

Grand was very fond of his late brother's stepdaughter; she had alwaysbeen his favourite, partly on account of her confiding ease and likingfor him, partly because of the fervent religiousness that she had shownfrom a child. 

The most joyous and gladsome natures are often most keenly alive toimpressions of reverence, and wonder, and awe. Emily's mind longed andcraved to annex itself to all things fervent, deep, and real. As shewalked on the common grass, she thought the better of it because thefeet of Christ had trodden it also. There were things which she--as theangels--"desired to look into;" but she wanted also to do the rightthing, and to love the doing of it. 

With all this half Methodistic fervour, and longing to lie close at thevery heart of Christianity, she had by nature a strange fearlessness;her religion, which was full of impassioned loyalty, and her faith, which seemed to fold her in, had elements in them of curiosity and awedexpectation, which made death itself appear something grand and happy, quite irrespective of a simply religious reason. It would show her "therest of it. " She could not do long without it; and often in her mostjoyous hours she felt that the crown of life was death's most grandhereafter. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AN EASY DISMISSAL. 

 "Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration! worth What's dearest to the world. "

 _The Tempest. _

"Well, father, it's too true!"

"You don't say so?"

"Yes; he died, Dr. Mainby's housekeeper says, at five o'clock thismorning. The doctor was there all night, and he's now come home, andgone to bed. "

"One of the most unfortunate occurrences I ever heard of. Well, thatthat is, is--and can't be helped. I'd have given something (over andabove the ten-and-sixpence) to have had it otherwise; but I 'spose, Jemmy, I 'spose we understand the claims of decency and humanity. " Itwas the editor of the _True Blue_ who said this. 

"I 'spose we do, " answered the son sturdily, though sulkily; "but that'sthe very best skit that Blank Blank ever did for us. "

"Blank Blank" was the signature under which various satirical versesappeared in the _True Blue_. 

"Paid for, too--ten-and-six. Well, here goes, Jemmy. " He took a paperfrom his desk, read it over with a half smile. "One or two of the jokesin it will keep, " he observed; then, when his son nodded assent, hefolded it up and threw it in the fire. This was a righteous action. Henever got any thanks for doing it; also a certain severity that he wasinclined to feel against the deceased for dying just then, he quicklyturned (from a sense of justice) towards the living members of hisfamily, and from them to their party, the "pinks" in general. Then hebegan to moralise. "Captain Walker--and so he's dead--died at fiveo'clock this morning. It's very sudden. Why Mrs. Walker was driving himthrough the town three days ago. "

"Yes, " answered the son; "but when a man has heart complaint, you neverknow where you are with him. "

A good many people in Wigfield and round it discussed that death duringthe day; but few, on the whole, in a kindlier spirit than had beendisplayed by the editor of the opposition paper. Mrs. A'Court, wife ofthe vicar, and mother of Dick A'Court, remarked that she was the lastperson to say anything unkind, but she did value consistency. 

"Everybody knows that my Dick is a high churchman; they sent for him toadminister the holy communion, and he found old Mr. Mortimer there, alayman, who is almost, I consider, a Methodist, he's so low church; andpoor Captain Walker was getting him to pray extempore by his bed. Evenafterward he wouldn't let him out of his sight. And Dick neverremonstrated. Now, that is not what I could have hoped of my son; butwhen I told him so, he was very much hurt, said the old man was a saint, and he wouldn't interfere. 'Well, my dear, ' I said, 'you must do as youplease; but remember that your mother values consistency. '"

When Mrs. Melcombe, who, with her son and Laura, was still at Paris, heard of it, she also made a characteristic remark. "Dear me, how sad!"she exclaimed; "and there will be that pretty bride, Mrs. Brandon, inmourning for months, till all her wedding dresses, in fact, are out offashion. "

Mrs. Melcombe had left Melcombe while it was at its loveliest, all thehawthorns in flower, the peonies and lilies of the valley. She chosefirst to go to Paris, and then when Peter did not seem to grow, was thinand pale, she decided--since he never seemed so well as when he had nolessons to do--that she would let him accompany them on their tour. 

Melcombe was therefore shut up again; and the pictures of DanielMortimer and the young lieutenant, his uncle, remained all the summer inthe dark. But Wigfield House was no sooner opened after Captain Walker'sfuneral than back came the painters, cleaners, and upholsterers, toevery part of it; and the whole place, including the garden, was set inorder for the bride. 

Emily was not able to have any of the rest and seclusion she so muchneeded; but almost immediately took her one child and went to stay withher late husband's father till she could decide where to live. 

Love that has been received affects the heart which has lost it quitedifferently from a loss where the love has been bestowed. Theremembrance of it warms the heart towards the dear lost donor; but ifthe recollection of life spent together is without remorse, if, as inEmily's case, the dead man has been wedded as a tribute to hisacknowledged love, and if he has not only been allowed to bestow hislove in peace without seeing any fault or failing that could give himone twinge of jealousy--if he has been considered, and liked thoroughly, and, in easy affectionate companionship, his wife has walked beside him, delighting him, and pleased to do so--then, when he is gone, comes, asthe troubled heart calms itself after the alarms of death and parting, that one, only kind of sorrow which can ever be called with truth "theluxury of grief. "

In her mourning weeds, when she reached Fred's father's house, Emilyloved to sit with her boy on her lap, and indulge in passionate tears, thinking over how fond poor Fred had been, and how proud of her. Therewas no sting in her grief, no compunction, for she knew perfectly wellhow happy she had made him; and there was not the anguish, of personalloss, and want, and bereavement. 

She looked pale when she reached Mr. Walker's house, but not worn. Sheliked to tell him the details of his son's short illness; and theaffectionate, irascible old man not only liked to hear them, but derivedpleasure from seeing this fine young woman, this interesting widow, sitting mourning for his son. So he made much of her, and pushed hersister Louisa at once into the background for her sake. 

The sisters having married twin brothers, Mr. Walker's elder sons, neither had looked on himself as heir to the exclusion of the other; butEmily's pale morsel of a child was at once made more important than hisfather had ever been. Louisa, staying also with her husband in thehouse, was only the expectant mother of a grandson for him; and the richold man now began almost immediately to talk of how he should bring upEmily's boy, and what he should do for him--taking for granted, from thefirst, that his favourite daughter-in-law was to live with him and keephis house. 

Louisa took this change in Mr. Walker very wisely and sweetly--did noteven resent it, when, in the presence of his living son, he wouldaggravate himself into lamentations over the dead one, as if in him hehad lost his all. 

Sometimes he wondered a little himself at this quiescence--at the slightimpression he seemed to make on his son, whom he had fully intended torouse to remonstrance about it--at the tender way in which the youngwife ministered to her sister, and at the great change for the worsethat he soon began to observe in Emily's appearance. 

Nobody liked to tell him the cause, and he would not see it; even whenit became an acknowledged fact, which every one else talked of, thatthe little one was ill, he resolutely refused to see it; said theweather was against a child born in India--blamed the east wind. Evenwhen the family doctor tried to let him know that the child was notlikely to be long for this world, he was angry, with all theunreasonable volubility of a man who thinks others are deceiving him, rather than grieved for the peril of the little life and the anguish ofthe mother's heart. 

Now came indeed "the rest of it. " What a rending away of heart and lifeit seemed to let go the object of this absorbing, satisfying love! Nowshe was to lose, where the love had been bestowed; and she felt as ifdeath itself was in the bitter cup. 

It was not till the child was actually passing away, after little morethan a fortnight's illness, that his grandfather could be brought tobelieve in his danger. He had been heaping promises of what he would dofor him on the mother, as if to raise her courage. With kindlywrong-headed obstinacy he had collected and detailed to her accounts ofhow ill other children had been and had recovered, had been gettingfresh medical opinions, and proposing to try new remedies; but no soonerwas all over, and the afflicted mother was led from her dead child byhis son, than he tormented himself and the doctors by demanding why hehad been kept in the dark so long, why he had not been allowed to trychange of air, why, if the symptoms showed mortal disease from thefirst, he had been allowed to set his heart on the child as he had done. No one now had anything to say to Emily. She had only been a widow amonth, and the first loss had had no bitterness in it, though she hadsorrowed with the tender affection of a loyal heart. The death of herchild was almost the loss of all. 

Valentine in the meantime had taken his sister Liz to a little quietplace; there, as her marriage could not be put off, and the ship wasdecided on in which they were to sail for New Zealand, he acted thepart of father, and gave her away at the quietest wedding possible, seeing her off afterwards, and returning to take up his abode in hisuncle's house, about three weeks after the death of Emily's littlechild. Not one of the late inhabitants had been left in his old homeexcepting Mrs. Henfrey, who remained to receive the bride, and was stillthere, though the newly-married pair had been home a week. Valentine hadfound ample time to consider how he should behave to Dorothea, Mrs. Brandon. He had also become accustomed to the thought of her being outof his reach, and the little excitement of wonder as to how they shouldmeet was not altogether displeasing to him. "Giles will be inclined, nodoubt, to be rather jealous of me, " was his thought; "I shall be a badfellow if I don't take care to show him that there is no need for it. D. Must do the same. Of course she will. Sweet D. ! Well, it can't be helpednow. "

It was natural enough that he should cogitate over the best way ofmanaging his first meeting with them; but he had not been an hour in hisuncle's house before he found that Grand was shortly going to give agreat dinner party for the bride mainly consisting of relatives and veryold friends. This, it was evident, would be the most natural time forhim to present himself. 

Valentine loved comfort and luxury, and finding himself establishedquite as if he had been a younger son in the house--a horse kept for himto ride, and a small sitting-room set aside in which he could see hisfriends--he experienced a glow of pleasure at first, and he soonperceived that his presence was a real pleasure to his old uncle; so, settling himself with characteristic ease in his place, he felt hourlymore and more content with his new home. 

It was not till he came down into the drawing-room before dinner on theday of the party that he began to feel excited and agitated. A goodmany of the guests were already present, he went up to one and toanother, and then advanced to speak to Miss Christie, who was arrayed ina wonderful green gown, bought new for the occasion. 

"Mr. And Mrs. Brandon, " sounded clearly all down the long room, and heturned slowly and saw them. For one instant they appeared to be standingquite still, and so he often saw them side by side in his thoughts everafter. The bride looked serenely sweet, a delicate blush tinging herface, which was almost of infantine fairness and innocence; then oldGrand's white head came in the way as he advanced to meet her and takeher hand, bowing low with old-fashioned formality and courtesy. Severalother people followed and claimed her acquaintance, so that they wereclosed in for the moment. Then he felt that now was the time for him tocome forward, which he did, and as the others parted again to let Grandtake her to a seat, they met face to face. 

"Ah, Valentine, " she said, so quietly, with such an unexcited air; shegave him her hand for a moment, and it was over. Then he shook handswith his brother, their eyes met, and though both tried hard to begrave, neither could forbear to smile furtively; but Giles was much themore embarrassed of the two. 

During dinner, though Valentine talked and laughed, he could not helpstealing a minute now and then to gaze at the bride, till John, dartinga sudden look at him, brought him to his senses; but he cogitated abouther, though he did not repeat the offence. "Is it lilac, or grey, orwhat, that she has on? That pale stuff must be satin, for it shines. Oh, meant for mourning perhaps. How wonderfully silent Giles is! How quietthey both are!"

This observation he made to himself several times during the evening, catching the words of one and the other whatever part of the room he wasin, almost as distinctly as they did themselves; but he only lookedonce at Dorothea, when something made him feel or think that she haddrawn her glove off. His eyes wandered then to her hand. Yes, it wasso--there was the wedding ring. 

With what difficulty, with what disgrace he had contrived to escape frommarrying this young woman! His eyes 'wandered round the room. Just soshe would have looked, and every one else would have looked, if thiswedding dinner had been made for _his_ bride, but he would not have beensitting up in the corner with three girls about him, laughing and makinglaugh. No, and he would not have stood rather remote from her, as Gilesdid. He thought he would have been proudly at her side. Oh, how could hehave been such a fool? how could he? how could he?

"She would have loved me just as well, just so she would have lifted upher face, as she does now, and turned towards me. "--No! The bride andher husband looked at one another for an instant, and in one beat of theheart he knew not only that no such look had ever been in her eyes forhim, but he felt before he had time to reason his conviction down, thatin all likelihood there never would have been. Then, when he found thatDorothea seemed scarcely aware of his presence, he determined to returnthe compliment, got excited, and was the life and soul of the youngerpart of the company. So that when the guests dispersed, many were theremarks they made about it. 

"Well, young Mortimer need not have been quite so determined to show hisbrother how delighted he was not to be standing in his shoes. " "Do youthink Brandon married her out of pity?" "She is a sweet young creature. I never saw newly-married people take so little notice of one another. It must have been a trial to her to meet young Mortimer again, for nodoubt she was attached to him. "

A quarter of an hour after the bride had taken her leave, and when allthe other guests were gone, Valentine went into the hall, feeling veryangry with himself for having forgotten that, as he was now a member ofher host's family, he might with propriety have seen Dorothea into thecarriage. "This, " he thought, "shall not occur again. "

The hall doors were open, servants stood about as if waiting still. Hesaw a man's figure. Some one, beyond the stream of lamplight which camefrom the house, stood on the gravel, where through a window he couldcommand a view of the staircase. 

It was little past eleven, the moon was up, and as the longest day wasat hand, twilight was hardly over, and only one star here and there hungout of the heavens. 

"Why, that is Giles, " thought Valentine. "Strange! he cannot have sentDorothea home alone, surely. "

Giles approached the steps, and Valentine, following the direction ofhis eyes, saw a slender figure descending the stairs. 

Dorothea! She was divested now of the shimmering satin and all herbridal splendour. How sweet and girlish she looked in this more simplearray! Evidently they were going to walk home through the woods andlanes, see glow-worms and smell the hedge roses. For an instantValentine was on the point of proposing to accompany them part of theway, but recollected himself just in time to withdraw into the shadowmade by a stand of greenhouse plants, and from thence see Giles come upthe steps, take the delicate ungloved hand and lay it on his arm, whilethe hall doors were closed behind them. 

Adam and Eve were returning to Paradise on foot. The world was quite anew world. They wanted to see what it was like by moonlight, now theywere married. 

Valentine walked disconsolately up the stairs, and there at the head ofthem, through a wide-open door, he saw a maid. The pale splendours ofDorothea's gown were lying over her arm, and she was putting gold andpearls into a case. He darted past as quickly as he could, so glad toget out of sight, lest she should recognise him, for he shrewdlysuspected that this was the same person who had been sent with Dorotheato Wigfield, when she first went there--one Mrs. Brand. So, in fact, itwas; her husband was dead, she no longer sailed in old Captain Rollingsyacht, and Brandon had invited her to come and stay in the house awhile, and see her young lady again. 

How glad he was to get away and shelter himself in his own room!--anuncomfortable sensation this for a fine young man. "What should I havedone but for Grand and John?" was his thought. Grand and John were veryconsiderate the next day. In the first place, Grand scarcely mentionedthe bride during breakfast; in fact, so far as appeared, he hadforgotten the party altogether. John was also considerate, gaveValentine plenty to do, and in a way that made him feel the yoke, tookhim in hand and saw that he did it. 

It is often a great comfort to be well governed. John had a talent forgovernment, and under his dominion Valentine had the pleasure offeeling, for the first time in his life, that he had certain things todo which must and should be done, after which he had a full right tooccupy himself as he pleased. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A MORNING CALL. 

 "Learn now for all That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce By the very truth of it, I care not for you. "--_Cymbeline. _

"John, " said Valentine, ten days after this dinner party, "you have notcalled on D. Yet, nor have I. "

"No, " John answered, observing his wish, "and it might not be a bad planfor us to go together. "

"Thank you, and if you would add the twins to--to make the thing easierand less formal. "

"Nonsense, " said John; "but yes, I'll take some of the children, for ofcourse you feel awkward. " He did not add, "You should not have made sucha fool of yourself, " lest Valentine should answer, "I devoutly wish Ihad not;" but he went on, "And why don't you say Dorothea, instead ofusing a nickname?"

"I always used to call her D. , " said Valentine. 

"All the more reason why you should not now, " answered John. 

And Valentine murmured to himself--

"'These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, or lose myself in dotage'(_Antony and Cleopatra_)" This he added from old habit. "I'll quoteeverything I can think of to D. , just to make her think I have forgottenher wish that I should leave off quoting; and if that is not doing myduty by St. George, I should like to know what is. Only that might putit into his head to quote too, and perhaps he might have the best of it. I fancy I hear him saying, 'Art thou learned?' I, as William, answer, 'No, sir. ' 'Then learn this of me, ' he makes reply, 'to have is to have;for all your writers do consent that _ipse_ is he. Now you are not_ipse_, for I am he. He, sir, that hath married this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon, which is--, ' &c. , &c. What a fool I am!"

John, adding the twins and little Bertram to the party, drove over on aSaturday afternoon, finding no one at home but Mrs. Henfrey. 

"St. George, " she said, "has taken to regular work, and sits at his deskall the morning, and for an hour or two in the afternoon, excepting onSaturday, when he gives himself a half-holiday, as if he was aschoolboy. "

"And where was he now?" John asked. 

"Somewhere about the place with Dorothea; he had been grubbing up theroots of the trees in a corner of the little wood at all leisure times;he thought of turning it into a vegetable garden. "

"Why, we always had more vegetables than we could use, " exclaimedValentine, "and we were three times as large a family. "

"Very true, my dear, but they are full of schemes--going to grow somevegetables, I think, and flowers, for one of the county hospitals. Itwould not be like him, you know, to go on as other people do. "

"No, " Valentine answered. "And he always loved a little hard work out ofdoors; he is wise to take it now, or he would soon get tired of stoppingpeaceably at home, playing Benedict in this dull place. "

The children were then sent out to find where the young wife was, andcome and report to their father, telling her that he would pay his callout of doors. 

"And so you are still here, sister, " observed Valentine, willing tochange the subject, for he had been rather disconcerted by a quietsmile with which she had heard his last speech. 

"Yes, my dear, the fact is, they won't let me go. "

"Ah, indeed?"

"Of course I never thought they would want me. And the morning afterthey came home I mentioned that I had been looking out for a house--thatsmall house that I consulted John about, and, in fact, took. "

Mrs. Henfrey was hardly ever known to launch into narration. She almostalways broke up her remarks by appeals to one and another of herlisteners, and she now did not go on till John had made the admissionthat she had consulted him. She then proceeded with all deliberation--

"But you should have seen how vexed St. George looked. He had no idea, he said, that I should ever think of leaving him; and, indeed, I maymention to you in confidence, both of you, that he always drew for mewhat money I said was wanted for the bills, and he no more thought oflooking at my housekeeping books than my father did. "

"Really, " said Valentine. 

He was quite aware of this, to him, insignificant fact, but to have saidmore would only have put her out, and he wanted her to talk just then. 

"And so, " she continued slowly, "I said to him, I said, 'My dear Giles, I have had a pleasant home in this house, many, many years, indeed, eversince you were a child; but it is my opinion (and you will find it isthe general opinion) that every young wife should have her house toherself. ' I did not doubt at all that this was her opinion too, only Iconsidered that as he had spoken so plainly, she might not like to sayso. "

"No, very likely not, " said John, when she stopped, as if stranded, tillsomebody helped her on with a remark. 

"You are quite right, John, any one might have thought so; but in aminute or two. 'Well, ' said St. George, 'this is rather a blow;' andwhat does that pretty creature do but come and sit by me, and begin tocoax me. 'She wanted me so much, and it would be so kind if I would butstop and do as I always had done, and she would be so careful to pleaseme, and she had always thought the house was so beautifully managed, andeverything in such order, and so regular. '"

"So it is, " Valentine put in. "She is quite right there. "

"'And she didn't know how to order the dinner, ' she said; and so shewent on, till I said, 'Well, my dears, I don't wish that there should beany mistake about this for want of a little plain speaking. '"

"Well?" said John, when she came to a dead stop. 

"And she said, 'You love St. George, don't you, just as much as if hewas related to you?' 'How can any one help loving him?' 'And I know ifyou leave us he won't be half so comfortable. And nobody should everinterfere with you, ' So I said I would keep their house for them, andyou may suppose how glad I was to say it, for I'm like a cat, exactlylike a cat--I don't like to leave a place that I am used to, and itwould have been difficult for her to manage. "

"Yes, very. "

"I had often been thinking, when I supposed I had to go, that she wouldnever remember to see that the table-linen was all used in its properturn, and to have the winter curtains changed for white ones before thesun faded them. "

"You're such a comfortable, dear thing to live with, " observedValentine, now the narrative was over. "Everybody likes you, you know. "

Mrs. Henfrey smiled complacently, accepting the compliment. She was, toall strangers, an absolutely uninteresting woman; but her family knewher merits, and Giles and Valentine were both particularly alive tothem. 

"And so here I am, " continued 'sister, ' "but it is a pity for poorEmily, for she wanted me to live in that house, you know, John, withher. "

"But I thought old Walker was devoted to her, " said John. 

"So he was, my dear, so long as her boy was with her; but now she isnobody, and I am told he shows a willingness to let her go, which isalmost like dismissing her. "

"I hope she will not get my old woman away to live with her, " thoughtJohn, with a sudden start. "I don't know what I may be driven to, if shedoes. I shall have to turn out of my own house, or take the Golden Headinto it by way of protection. No, not that! I'll play the man. But, " hethought, continuing his cogitations, "Emily is too young and attractiveto live alone, and what so natural as that she should ask her old auntto come to her?"

John was still deeply cogitating on this knotty point when the childrencame back, and conducted him and Valentine to the place where Brandonwas at work, and Dorothea sitting near him on a tree-stump knitting. 

None of the party ever forgot that afternoon, but each remembered it asan appeal to his own particular circumstances. Brandon was deep in thecontentment of a great wish fulfilled. The newly-perfected life wasfresh and sweet, and something of reserve in the character and mannersof his wife seemed to restrain him from using up the charm of it toofast. His restless and passionate nature was at once satisfied and keptin check by the freshness and moderation of hers. She received hisdevotion very quietly, made no demonstrations, but grew to him, laid uphis confidences in her heart, and let him discover--though she neversaid it--that all the rest of the world was becoming as nothing for hissake. Accordingly it did not occur to him, excepting on Valentine's ownaccount, to consider how he might feel during this interview. Henoticed that he was a little sulky and perhaps rather out ofcountenance; he did not wonder at these things; but being absolutelysecure of his wife's love, he never even said to himself how impossibleit was that her affection should revert to Valentine; but this was forthe simple reason that he had never thought about that matter at all. Hetalked to Valentine on indifferent subjects, and felt that he should beglad when he had got over the awkwardness he was then evidentlyenduring, for they had been accustomed, far more than most brothers, tolive together on terms of familiar intimacy, and only one of them atpresent was aware that this could never be again. 

Valentine also never forgot, but often saw that picture again with thefresh fulness of the leaves for a background to the girlish figure; andthe fair face so innocent and candid and so obviously content. She wasseated opposite to him, with Brandon on the grass close to her. Ingeneral they addressed each other merely by the Christian name, but justbefore John rose to take leave, Dorothea dropped her ball. It rolled alittle way, and pointing it out to Brandon with her long woodenknitting-pin, she said, in a soft quiet tone, "Love, will you pick itup?" and Valentine, who had overheard the little speech, wasinexpressibly hurt, almost indignant. He could not possibly have toldwhy, but he hoped she did not say that often, and when Brandon gave itinto her hand again, and said something to her that Valentine could nothear, he felt almost as if he had been unkindly used, as if his feelingshad been insulted, and he vowed that it should be a long time before hecame to see them again. 

"It won't do, " he thought to himself. "I see this means a great dealmore than I ever thought it did. I thought Giles would be jealous, and Ishould have to set things in a light that would satisfy him; but it isI who am jealous, and he does not care what I feel at all. She is all Icould wish; but I don't know whether looking at her is most bitter ormost sweet. "

As for John, he had walked down to the wood as usual, in full possessionof his present self, and as he supposed of his future intentions, andyet, sitting opposite to these married lovers for a quarter of an hour, wrought a certain change in him that nothing ever effaced. It was analien feeling to him to be overcome by a yearning discontent. Somethingnever yet fed and satisfied made its presence known to him. It was notthat sense which comes to all, sooner or later, that human life cannotgive us what we expected of it, but rather a passionate waking to thecertainty that he never even for one day had possessed what it mighthave given. He had never been endowed for one day with any deep love, with its keen perceptions and high companionship. 

"Well, I suppose I didn't deserve it, " he thought, half angrily, whilehe tried to trample the feeling down and stifle it. But his keenerinstincts soon rose up in him and let him know that he did deserve it. It was very extraordinary that he had not won it--there were few men, indeed, who deserved it half so well. 

"But it's too late now, " he chose to say to himself, as he drove home. "It's not in my line either to go philandering after any woman. Besides, I hate red hair. The next _Dissolution_ I'll stand for the borough ofWigfield. Seven children to bring up, and one of them almost as big asmyself--what a fool I am! What can I have been thinking of?"

"What are you laughing at, papa?" said Barbara, who was sitting besidehim. 

"Not at you, my darling, " he replied; "for you are something real. "

For the next few weeks neither he nor Valentine saw much of Dorothea:excepting at three or four dinners, they scarcely met at all. After thiscame the Harrow holidays. Johnny came home, and with him the inevitableCrayshaw. The latter was only to stay a week, and that week should havebeen spent with Brandon, but the boys had begged hard to be together, having developed a peculiar friendship for one another which seemed tohave been founded on many fights, in consequence of which they had beenstrictly forbidden to meet. 

This had taken place more than a year before, when Crayshaw, having beeninvited by John to spend the holidays with his boy, the two hadquarrelled, and even fought, to such a degree that John at last indespair had taken Johnnie over to his grandfather's house, with thedeclaration that if he so much as spoke to Crayshaw again, or crossedthe wide brook that ran between the two houses, he would fine himhalf-a-crown every time he did it. 

"Ith all that hateful map, " said young hopeful sulkily, when he wasborne off to his banishment. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, " quoth his father. "I don't carewhat it's about. You have no notion of hospitality. I won't have youfight with your guest. "

Crayshaw was in very weak health, but full of mischief and fun. For afew days he seemed happy enough, then he flagged, and on the fifthmorning he laid half-a-crown beside John's plate at breakfast. 

"What's this for?" asked John. 

"Because it is not fair that he should be fined, and not I. "

"Put it in the missionary box, " said John, who knew very well that theboys had been constructing a dam together all the previous day. 

"It was about their possessions that they quarrelled, " said Gladys ingiving an account of the matter afterwards. "They made a plan that theywould go into partnership, and conquer all the rest of the world; butwhen they looked at the great map up in Parliament, and Johnnie foundhow much the most he had got, he said Cray must annex Japan, or hewould not join. Cray said it was against his principles. So theyquarrelled, and fought once or twice; but perhaps it was just as well, for you know the rest of the world would rather not be conquered. Then, when they were fined for playing together, they did every day. They madea splendid dam over the brook, which was very low; but one night came astorm, father's meadows were flooded, they could not get the dam undone, and some sheep were drowned. So they went to Grand, and begged him totell father, and get them off. They said it was a strange thing theywere never to be together, and neither of them had got a penny left. SoGrand got them forgiven, and we went all over the meadows for two orthree days in canoes and punts. "

And now these two desirable inmates were to be together for a week. Agreat deal can be done in a week, particularly by those who give theirminds to it because they know their time is short. That process calledturning the house out of windows took place when John was away. AuntChristie, who did not like boys, kept her distance, but Miss Cramptonbeing very much scandalized by the unusual noise, declared, on thesecond morning of these holidays, that she should go up into Parliament, and see what they were all about. Miss Crampton was not supposed ever togo up into Parliament; it was a privileged place. 

"Will the old girl really come, do you think?" exclaimed Crayshaw. 

"She says she shall, as soon as she has done giving Janie her musiclesson, " replied Barbara, who had rushed up the steep stairs to givethis message. 

"Mon peruke!" exclaimed Johnnie looking round, "you'd better look out, then, or vous l'attrapperais. "

The walls were hung with pictures, maps, and caricatures; these lastwere what had attracted Johnnie's eyes, and the girls began hastily tocover them. 

"It's very unkind of her, " exclaimed Barbara. "Father never exactlysaid that we were to have our own playroom to ourselves, but we know, and she knows, that he meant it. "

Then, after a good deal of whispering, giggling, and consulting amongthe elder ones, the little boys were dismissed; and in the meantime Mr. Nicholas Swan, who, standing on a ladder outside, was nailing the vines(quite aware that the governess was going to have a reception whichmight be called a warning never to come there any more), may or may nothave intended to make his work last as long as possible. At any rate, hecould with difficulty forbear from an occasional grin, while, with hisnails neatly arranged between his lips, he leisurely trained and pruned;and when he was asked by the young people to bring them up some shavingsand a piece of wood, he went down to help in the mischief, whatever itmight be, with an alacrity ill suited to his years and gravity. 

"Now, I'll tell you what, young gentlemen, " he remarked, when, ascending, he showed his honest face again, thrust in a log of wood, andexhibited an armful of shavings, "I'm agreeable to anything butgunpowder, or that there spark as comes cantering out o' your enginewith a crack. No, Miss Gladys, ex-cuse me, I don't give up these hereshavings till I know it's all right. "

"Well, well, it _ith_ all right, " exclaimed Johnnie, "we're not going todo any harm! O Cray, he'th brought up a log ath big ath a fiddle. Quellealouette!"

"How lucky it is that she has never seen Cray!" exclaimed Barbara. "Johnnie, do be calm; how are we to do it, if you laugh so? Now then, you are to be attending to the electrifying machine. "

"Swanny, " asked Crayshaw, "have you got a pipe in your pocket? I wantone to lie on my desk. "

"Well, now, to think o' your asking me such a question, just as if I wasever _known_ to take so much as a whiff in working hours--no, not inthe tool-house, nor nowhere. "

"But just feel. Come, you might. "

"Well, now, this here is remarkable, " exclaimed Swan, with a start as ifof great surprise, when, after feeling in several pockets, a pipeappeared from the last one. 

"Don't knock the ashes out. "

"She's coming, " said Swan, furtively glancing down, and then pretendingto nail with great diligence. "And, my word, if here isn't Miss Christiewith her!"

A great scuffle now ensued to get things ready. Barbara darted downstairs, and what she may have said to Aunt Christie while Swan receivedsome final instructions above, is of less consequence than what MissCrampton may have felt when she found herself at the top of the stairsin the long room, with its brown high-pitched roof--a room full of thestrangest furniture, warm with the sun of August, and sweet with thescent of the creepers. 

Gladys and Johnnie were busy at the electrifying machine, and with arustling and crackling noise the "spunky little flashes, " as Swan calledthem, kept leaping from one leaden knob to another. 

Miss Crampton saw a youth sitting on a low chair, with his legs onrather a higher one; the floor under him was strewed with shavings, which looked, Swan thought, "as natural as life, " meaning that theylooked just as if he had made them by his own proper whittling. 

The youth in question was using a large pruning knife on a log that heheld rather awkwardly on his knee. He had a soft hat, which had beendisposed over one eye. Miss Crampton gave the sparks as wide a berth asshe could, and as she advanced, "Well, sir, " Swan was saying inobedience to his instructions, "if you've been brought up a republican, I spose you can't help it. But whatever _your_ notions may be, OldMaster is staunch. He's all for Church and Queen and he hatesrepublican institootions like poison. Which is likewise my own feelingsto a T. "

No one had taken any notice of Miss Crampton, and she stopped amazed. 

"Wall, " answered the youth, diligently whittling, "I think smallpotatoes of ye-our lo-cation myself--but ye-our monarchical government, I guess, hez not yet corrupted the he-eart of the Grand. He handed ontome and onto his hair a tip which"--here he put his hand in his waistcoatpocket, and fondly regarded two or three coins; then feigning to becomeaware of Miss Crampton's presence, "Augustus John, my yound friend, " hecontinued, "ef yeow feel like it, I guess yeou'd better set a chair forthe school marm--for it is the school marm, I calculate?"

Here Miss Christie, radiant with joy and malice, could not conceal herdelight, but patted him on the shoulder, and then hastily retreated intothe background, lest she should spoil the sport; while as Johnnie, having small command of countenance, did not dare to turn from thewindow out of which he was pretending to look, Crayshaw rose himself, shook hands with Miss Crampton, and setting a chair for her, began towhittle again. 

"Wall, " he then said, "and heow do yeou git along with ye-our teaching, marm? Squire thinks a heap of ye-our teaching, as I he-ear, speciallyye-our teaching of the eye-talian tongue. "

"Did I understand you to be arguing with the gardener when I came in, respecting the principles and opinions of this family?" inquired MissCrampton, who had now somewhat recovered from her surprise, and wasequal to the resenting of indignities. 

"Wall, mebby I was, but it's a matter of science that we're mainlyconcerned with, I guess, this morning--science, electricity. We'regitting on first-rate--those rods on the stairs----"

"Yes?" exclaimed Miss Crampton. 

"We air of a scientific turn, we air--Augustus John and I--fixing wiresto every one of them. They air steep, those steps, " he continuedpensively. 

Here Miss Crampton's colour increased visibly. 

"And when the machine is che-arged, we shall electrify them. So thatwhen yeou dew but touch one rod, it'll make yeou jump as high as thenext step, without any voluntary effort. Yeou'll find that animprovement. "

Here Swan ducked down, and laughed below at his ease. 

"We air very scientific in my country. "

"Indeed!"

"Ever been to Amurica?"

"Certainly not, " answered Miss Crampton with vigour, "nor have I theslightest intention of ever doing so. Pray, are you allowed, inconsideration of your nationality, to whittle in Harrow School?"

This was said by way of a reproof for the state of the floor. 

"Wall, " began Crayshaw, to cover the almost audible titters of thegirls; but, distracted by this from the matter in hand, he coughed, wenton whittling, and held his peace. 

"I have often told Johnnie, " said Miss Crampton with great dignity, atthe same time darting a severe glance at Johnnie's back, "that thedelight he takes in talking the Devonshire dialect is likely to be veryinjurious to his English, and he will have it that this country accentis not permanently catching. It may be hoped, " she continued, lookinground, "that other accents are not catching either. "

Crayshaw, choosing to take this hint as a compliment, smiled sweetly. "Iguess I'm speaking better than usual, " he observed, "for my brother andhis folks air newly come from the Ste-ates, and I've been with them. But, " he continued, a sudden gleam of joy lighting up his eyes assomething occurred to him that he thought suitable to "top up" with, "all the Mortimers talk with such a peowerful English ac-_cent_, thatwhen I come de-own to this _lo_-cation, my own seems to melt off mytongue. Neow, yeou'll skasely believe it, " he continued, "but it'stre-u, that ef yeou were tew hea-ar me talk at the end of a week, yeou'dhe-ardly realise that I was an Amurican at all. "

"Cray, how can ye?" exclaimed Aunt Christie, "and so wan as ye look thismorning too. "

"Seen my brother?" inquired Crayshaw meekly. 

"No, I have not, " said Miss Crampton bridling. 

"He's merried. We settle airly in my country; it's one of ourinstitootions. " Another gleam of joy and impudence shot across thepallid face. "I'm thinking of settling shortly myself. "

Then, as Aunt Christie was observed to be struggling with a laugh that, however long repressed, was sure to break forth at last, Barbara led herto the top of the stairs, and loudly entreated her to mind she didn'tstumble, and to mind she did not touch the stair-rods, for the machine, she observed, was just ready. 

"The jarth are all charged now, Cray, " said Johnnie, coming forward atlast. "Mith Crampton, would you like to have the firtht turn of goingdown with them?"

"No, thank you, " said Miss Crampton almost suavely, and rising withsomething very like alacrity. Then, remembering that she had not evenmentioned what she came for, "I wish to observe, " she said, "that I muchdisapprove of the noise I hear up in Parliament. I desire that it maynot occur again. If it does, I shall detain the girls in the schoolroom. I am very much disturbed by it. "

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Crayshaw with an air of indolent surprise;and Miss Crampton thereupon retreated down-stairs, taking great care notto touch any metallic substance. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

MR. MORTIMER GOES THROUGH THE TURNPIKE. 

 "I hear thee speak of the happy land. "

Swan looked down as Miss Crampton and Miss Christie emerged into thegarden. 

"Most impertinent of Swan, " he heard the former say, to be arguing thusabout political affairs in the presence of the children. And what Mr. Mortimer can be thinking of, inviting young Crayshaw to stay so muchwith them, I cannot imagine. We shall be having them turn republicannext. "

"Turn republican!" repeated Miss Christie with infinite scorn; "there'sabout as much chance of that as of his ever seeing his native countryagain, poor laddie; which is just no chance at all. "

Crayshaw at this moment inquired of Swan, who had mounted his ladderstep by step as Miss Crampton went on, "Is the old girl gone in? Andwhat was she talking of?"

"Well, sir, something about republican institootions. "

"Ah! and so you hate them like poison?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking I do. But I've been a-thinking, " continuedSwan, taking the nails out of his lips and leaning in at the window, "I've been a-thinking as it ain't noways fair, if all men is ekal--whichyou're allers upholding--that you should say Swan, and I should sayMister Crayshaw. "

"No, it isn't, " exclaimed Crayshaw, laughing; "let's have it the otherway. You shall say Crayshaw to me, and I'll say Mr. Swan to you, sir. "

"Well, now, you allers contrive to get the better of me, you and Mr. Johnnie, you're so sharp! But, anyhow, I could earn my own living beforeI was your age, and neither of you can. Then, there's hardly a year as Idon't gain a prize. "

"I'm like a good clock, " said Crayshaw, "I neither gain nor lose. I canstrike, too. But how did you find out, sir, that I never gained anyprizes?"

"Don't you, sir?"

"Never, sir--I never gained one in my life, sir. But I say, I wish you'dtake these shavings down again. "

"No, I won't, " answered Swan, "if I'm to be 'sirred' any more, and theyoung ladies made to laugh at me. "

"Let Swanny alone, Cray, " said Gladys. "Be as conservative as you like, Swan. Why shouldn't you? It's the only right thing. "

"Nothing can be very far wrong as Old Master thinks, " answered Swan. "Henever interfered with my ways of doing my work either, no more than Mr. John does, and that's a thing I vally; and he never but once wanted meto do what I grudged doing. "

"When was that?" asked Mr. Augustus John. 

"Why, when he made me give up that there burial club, " answered Swan. "He said it was noways a moral institootion; and so I shouldn't haveeven a decent burying to look forward to for me and my wife (my poordaughters being widows, and a great expense to me), if he hadn't saidhe'd bury us himself if I'd give it up, and bury us respectably too, itstands to reason. Mr. John heard him. "

"Then, thath the thame thing ath if he'd thaid it himthelf, " observedJohnnie, answering the old man's thought about a much older man. 

"Did I say it wasn't, sir? No, if ever there was a gentleman--it's nota bit of use argufying that all men are ekal. I'm not ekal to either ofthem two. "

"In what respect?" asked Crayshaw. 

"In what respect? Well, sir, this is how it is. I wouldn't do anythingmean nor dishonest; but as for them two, they couldn't. I never had theeducation neither to be a gentleman, nor wished to. Not that I talk asthese here folks do down here--I'd scorn it. I'm a Sunbury man myself, and come from the valley of the Thames, and talk plain English. But oneof my boys, Joey, " continued Swan, "talking of wishes, he wished he'dhad better teaching. He's been very uppish for some time (all his ownfault he hadn't been more edicated); told his mother and me, afore hesailed for the West Indies, as he'd been trying hard for some time toturn gentleman. 'I shall give myself all the airs that ever I can, ' hesays, 'when once I get out there. ' 'Why, you young ass!' says I, 'forit's agen my religion to call you a fool (let alone your mother wouldn'tlike it), arn't you awear that giving himself airs is exactly what noreal gentleman ever does?' 'A good lot of things, ' says he, 'father, goes to the making of a gentleman. ' 'Ay, Joey, ' says I, 'but ain't agentleman a man with good manners? Now a good-manner'd man is allerssaying by his ways and looks to them that air beneath him, "You're asgood as I am!" and a bad-manner'd man is allers saying by his ways andlooks to them that air above him, "I'm as good as you air!" There's agood many folks, ' I says (not knowing I should repeat it to you thisday, Mr. Crayshaw), 'as will have it, that because we shall all ekallyhave to be judged in the next world, we must be all ekal in this. Insome things I uphold we air, and in others I say we're not. Now yourreal gentleman thinks most of them things that make men ekal, andt'other chap thinks most of what makes them unekal. '"

"Hear, hear!" said Johnnie. "And what did Joey thay to that, Thwan?"

"He didn't say much, " answered Swan in his most pragmatical manner. "Heknows well enough that when I'm argufying with my own children (as I'vehad the expense of bringing up), I expect to have the last word, and Ihave it. It's dinner-time, Mr. Johnnie; will you pass me out my pipe? Idon't say but what I may take a whiff while the dinner's dishing up. "

"It was very useful, Swan, " said Gladys. "No doubt it made Miss Cramptonthink that Cray smokes. "

"My word!" exclaimed Swan, "it was as good as a play to see him givehimself those meek airs, and look so respectful. "

He went down, and the two little boys came up. They had been turned outof Parliament, and had spent the time of their exile in running to thetown, and laying out some of their money in the purchase of a presentfor Crayshaw; they were subject to humble fits of enthusiasm forCrayshaw and Johnnie. They came in, and handed him a "Robinson Crusoe"with pictures in it. 

Crayshaw accepted it graciously. 

"You must write my name in it, " he observed, with exceeding mildness, "and mind you write it with a soft G. "

"Yes, of course, " said little Hugh, taking in, but hesitating how toobey. 

"A hard G is quite wrong, and very indigestible too, " he continued, yetmore mildly; "though people will persist that it's a capital letter. "

The young people then began to congratulate themselves on their successas regarded Miss Crampton. 

"She scarcely stayed five minutes, and she was so afraid of the machine, and so shocked at the whittling and the talk, and Cray's wholeappearance, that she will not come near us while he is here. After that, the stair-rods will protect us. "

"No, " said Crayshaw, "but it's no stimulus to my genius to have to talkYankee to such ignorant people. I might mix up North, South, and Westas I liked, and you would be none the wiser. However, if she chances tohear me speak a week hence, she'll believe that my accent has entirelypeeled off. I thought I'd better provide against that probability. Itwas an invention worthy of a poet, which I am. "

"Que les poètes thoient pendus, " said Augustus John, with vigour andsincerity. "Ekthepting Homer and Tennython, " he added, as if willing tobe just to all men. 

"What for? they've done nothing to you. "

"Haven't they! But for them I need not watht my life in making Latinvertheth. The fighting, though, in Homer and Tennython I like. "

In the meantime the four younger children were whispering together overa large paper parcel, that crackled a good deal. 

"Which do you think is the grandest word?" said Bertram. 

"I _fallacious_, Janie. "

"But you said you would put _umbrageous_, " observed Hugh, in adiscontented tone. 

"No, those words don't mean _it_, " answered Janie. "I like _ambrosial_best. Put 'For our dear ambrosial Johnnie. '"

The parcel contained as many squibs and crackers as the seller thereofwould trust with his young customers; also one rocket. 

Johnnie's little brothers and sisters having written these words, rosefrom the floor on which they had been seated, and with blushes andmodest pride presented the parcel. 

"For a birthday present, " they said, "and, Johnnie, you're to let offevery one of them your own self; and lots more are coming from theshop. "

"My wig!" exclaimed Johnnie, feigning intense surprise, though he hadheard every word of the conference. "Let them all off mythelf, did youthay? Well, I do call that a motht egregiouth and tender lark. "

These epithets appeared to give rarity and splendour to his thanks. Janie pondered over them a little, but when Crayshaw added, "Quiteparenthetical, " she gave it up. That was a word she could not hope tounderstand. When a difficulty is once confessed to be unconquerable, themind can repose before it as before difficulties overcome, so saysWhately. "If it had only been as hard a word as _chemical_" thoughtJanie, "I would have looked it out in the spelling-book; but this wordis so very hard that perhaps nobody knows it but Cray. "

For the remainder of the week, though many revolutionary speeches weremade in Parliament against the constituted schoolroom authorities, therewas, on the whole, better behaviour and less noise. 

After that, John took his three elder children on the Continent, keepingthe boy with him till Harrow School opened again, and remaining behindwith the girls till the first week in November. During this time he byno means troubled himself about the domestic happiness that he felt hehad missed, though he looked forward with fresh interest to the timewhen his intelligent little daughters would be companions for him, andbegan, half unconsciously, to idealise the character of his late wife, as if her death had cost him a true companion--as if, in fact, it hadnot made him much nobler and far happier. 

He was not sorry, when he returned home, to find Valentine eager to getaway for a little while, for it had been agreed that the old man shouldnot be left by both of them. Valentine was improved; his comfortable andindependent position in his uncle's house, where his presence was soevidently regarded as an advantage, had made him more satisfied withhimself; and absence from Dorothea had enabled him to take an interestin other women. 

He went away in high spirits and capital health, and John subsided intohis usual habits, his children continuing to grow about him. He wasstill a head taller than his eldest son, but this did not promise to belong the case. And his eldest girls were so clever, and so forward withtheir education, that he was increasingly anxious to propitiate MissCrampton. It was very difficult to hold the balance even; he scarcelyknew how to keep her at a distance, and yet to mark his sense of hervalue. 

"I am going to see the Brandons to-morrow, " he remarked to Miss Christieone day, just before the Christmas holidays. 

"Then I wish ye would take little Nancy with ye, " observed the goodlady, "for Dorothea was here yesterday. Emily is come to stay with them, and she drove her over. Emily wished to see the child, and when shefound her gone out for her walk she was disappointed. "

"What did she want with her?" asked John. 

"Well, I should have thought it might occur to ye that the sweet lambhad perhaps some sacred reason for feeling attracted towards thesmallest creatures she could conveniently get at. "

"Let the nestling bird be dressed up, then, " said John. "I will driveher over with me to lunch this morning. Poor Emily! she will feel seeingthe child. "

"Not at all. She has been here twice to see the two little ones. Atfirst she would only watch them over the blinds, and drop a few tears;but soon she felt the comfort of them, and when she had got a kiss ortwo, she went away more contented. "

Accordingly John drove his smallest daughter over to Wigfield House, setting her down rosy and smiling from her wraps, and sending her to theladies, while he went up to Brandon's peculiar domain to talk over somebusiness with him. 

They went down into the morning-room together, and Emily rose to meetJohn. It was the first time he had seen her in her mourning-dress andwith the cap that did not seem at all to belong to her. 

Emily was a graceful young woman. Her face, of a fine oval shape, wasdevoid of ruddy hues; yet it was more white than pale; the clear darkgrey eyes shining with health, and the mouth being red and beautiful. The hair was dark, abundant, and devoid of gloss, and she had theadvantage of a graceful and cordial manner, and a very charming smile. 

There were tears on her eyelashes when she spoke to John, and he knewthat his little cherub of a child must have caused them. She presentlywent back to her place, taking little Anastasia on her knee; whileDorothea, sitting on the sofa close to them, and facing the child, occupied and pleased herself with the little creature, and encouragedher to talk. 

Of English children this was a lovely specimen, and surely there arenone lovelier in the world. Dorothea listened to her pretty tongue, andmused over her with a silent rapture. Her hair fell about her face likeflakes of floss-silk, loose, and yellow as Indian corn; and her rosycheeks were deeply dimpled. She was the only one of the Mortimers whowas small for her years. She liked being nursed and petted, and whileDorothea smoothed out the fingers of her tiny gloves, the little fathands, so soft and warm, occupied themselves with the contents of herwork-box. 

She was relating how Grand had invited them all to spend the day. "Papabrought the message, and they all wanted to go; and so--" she wassaying, when John caught the sound of her little voice--"and so papasaid, 'What! not one of you going to stay with your poor oldfather?'"--these words, evidently authentic, she repeated with thedeepest pathos--"and so, " she went on, "I said, 'I will. '" Then, aftera pause for reflection, "That was kind of me, wasn't it?"

A few caresses followed. 

Then catching sight of Emily's brooch, in which was a portrait of herchild, little Nancy put the wide tulle cap-strings aside, and looked atit earnestly. 

"I know who that is, " she said, after bestowing a kiss on the baby'sface. 

"Do you, my sweet? who is it, then?"

"It's Freddy; he's gone to the happy land. It's full of little boys andgirls. Grand's going soon, " she added, with great cheerfulness. "Did youknow? Grand says he hopes he shall go soon. "

"How did Emily look?" asked Miss Christie, when John came home. 

"Better than usual, I think, " said John carelessly. "There's nobitterness in her sorrow, poor thing! She laughed several times atNancy's childish talk. "

"She looks a great deal too young and attractive to live alone, " saidMiss Christie pointedly. 

"Well, " answered John, "she need not do that long. There are severalfellows about here, who, unless they are greater fools than I take themfor, will find her, as a well-endowed young widow, quite as attractiveas they did when she was an almost portionless girl. "

"But in the meantime?" said Miss Christie. 

"If you are going to say anything that I shall hate to hear, " answeredJohn, half-laughing, "don't keep me lingering long. If you mean to leaveme, say so at once, and put me out of my misery. "

"Well, well, " said Miss Christie, looking at him with some pleasure, andmore admiration, "I've been torn in pieces for several weeks past, thinking it over. Never shall I have my own way again in any man'shouse, or woman's either, as I have had it here. And the use of thecarriage and the top of the pew, " she continued, speaking; to herself asmuch as to him; "and the keys; and I always _knew_ I was welcome, whichis more than being told so. And I thank ye, John Mortimer, for it all, Ido indeed; but if my niece's daughter is wanting me, what can I do butgo to her?"

"It was very base of Emily not to say a word about it, " said John, smiling with as much grimness as utter want of practice, together withthe natural cast of his countenance, would admit of. 

Miss Christie looked up, and saw with secret joy the face she admiredabove all others coloured with a sudden flush of most unfeignedvexation. John gave the footstool before him a little shove ofimpatience, and it rolled over quite unknown to him, and lighted on MissChristie's corns. 

She scarcely felt the pain. It was sweet to be of so much importance. Two people contending for one lonely, homely old woman. 

"Say the word, " she presently said, "and I won't leave ye. "

"No, " answered John, "you ought to go to Emily. I had better say insteadthat I am very sensible of the kindness you have done me in staying solong. "

"But ye won't be driven to do anything rash?" she answered, observingthat he was still a little chafed, and willing to pass the matter offlightly. 

"Such as taking to myself the lady up-stairs!" exclaimed John. "No, butI must part with her; if one of you goes, the other must. "

This was absolutely the first time the matter had even been hinted atbetween them, and yet Miss Christie's whole conduct was arranged withreference to it, and John always fully counted on her protectivepresence. 

"Ay, but if I might give myself the liberty of a very old friend, " sheanswered, straightway taking the ell because he had given her an inch, "there is something I would like to say to ye. "

"What would you like to say?"

"Well, I would like to say that if a man is so more than commonly a fineman, that it's just a pleasure to set one's eyes on him, and if he'swell endowed with this world's gear, it's a strange thing if there is noexcellent, desirable, and altogether sweet young woman ready, and evensighing, for him. "

"Humph!" said John. 

"I don't say there is, " proceeded Miss Christie; "far be it from me. "

"I hate red hair, " answered the attractive widower. 

"It's just like a golden oriole. It isn't red at all, " replied MissChristie dogmatically. 

"_I_ call it red, " said John Mortimer. 

"The painters consider it the finest colour possible, " continued theabsent lady's champion. 

"Then let them paint her, " said John; "but--I shall not marry her;besides, " he chose to say, "I know if I asked her she would not have me:therefore, as I don't mean to ask her, I shall not be such an unmannerlydog as to discuss her, further than to say that I do not wish to marry awoman who takes such a deep and sincere interest in herself. "

"Why, don't we all do that? I am sure _I_ do. "

"You naturally feel that you are the most important and interesting ofall God's creatures _to yourself_. You do not therefore think that youmust be so to _me_. Our little lives, my dear lady, should not turnround upon themselves, and as it were make a centre of their own axis. The better lives revolve round some external centre; everything dependson that centre, and how much or how many we carry round with us besidesourselves. Now, my father's centre is and always has been AlmightyGod--our Father and his. His soul is as it were drawn to God and lost, as a centre to itself in that great central soul. He looks ateverything--I speak it reverently--from God's high point of view. "

"Ay, but she's a good woman, " said Miss Christie, trying to adopt hisreligious tone, and as usual not knowing how. "Always going about amongthe poor. I don't suppose, " she continued with enthusiasm--"I don'tsuppose there's a single thing they can do in their houses that shedoesn't interfere with. " Then observing his amusement, "Ye don't knowwhat's good for ye, " she added, half laughing, but a little afraid shewas going too far. 

"If ever I am so driven wild by the governesses that I put my neck, as aheart-broken father, under the yoke, in order to get somebody into thehouse who can govern as you have done, " said John, "it will be entirelyyour doing, your fault for leaving me. "

"Well, well, " said Miss Christie, laughing, "I must abide ye're presentreproaches, but I feel that I need dread no future ones, for if yeshould go and do it, ye'll be too much a gentleman to say anything to meafterwards. "

"You are quite mistaken, " exclaimed John, laughing, "that oneconsolation I propose to reserve to myself, or if I should not think itright to speak, mark my words, the more cheerful I look the more sureyou may be that I am a miserable man. "

Some days after this the stately Miss Crampton departed for herChristmas holidays, a letter following her, containing a dismissal(worded with studied politeness) and a cheque for such an amount ofmoney as went far to console her. 

"Mr. Mortimer was about to send the little boys to school, and meantalso to make other changes in his household. Mr. Mortimer need hardlyadd, that should Miss Crampton think of taking another situation, heshould do himself the pleasure to speak as highly of her qualificationsas she could desire. "

Aunt Christie gone, Miss Crampton gone also! What a happy state ofthings for the young Mortimers! If Crayshaw had been with them, there isno saying what they might have done; but Johnnie, by his father'sorders, had brought a youth of seventeen to spend three weeks with him, and the young fellow turned out to be such a dandy, and so much betterpleased to be with the girls than with Johnnie scouring the country andskating, that John for the first time began to perceive the coming onof a fresh source of trouble in his house. Gladys and Barbara werenearly fourteen years old, but looked older; they were tall, slendergirls, black-haired and grey-eyed, as their mother had been, verysimple, full of energy, and in mind and disposition their father's owndaughters. Johnnie groaned over his unpromising companion, EdwardConyngham by name; but he was the son of an old friend, and John didwhat he could to make the boys companionable, while the girls, thoughthey laughed at young Conyngham, were on the whole more amused with hiscompliments than their father liked. But it was not till one day, goingup into Parliament, and finding some verses pinned on a curtain, that hebegan to feel what it was to have no lady to superintend his daughters. 

"What are they?" Gladys said. "Why, papa, Cray sent them; they aresupposed to have been written by Conyngham. "

"What does he know about Conyngham?"

"Oh, I told him when I last wrote. "

"When you last wrote, " repeated John, in a cogitative tone. 

"Yes; I write about once a fortnight, of course, when Barbara writes toJohnnie. "

"Did Miss Crampton superintend the letters?" was John's next inquiry. 

"Oh no, father, we always wrote them up here. "

"I wonder whether Janie would have allowed this, " thought John. "Isuppose as they are so young it cannot signify. "

"Cray sent them because we told him how Conyngham walked after Gladyswherever she went. That boy is such a goose, father; you never heardsuch stuff as he talks when you are away. "

John was silent. 

"Johnnie and Cray are disgusted with his rubbish, " continued Barbara, "pretending to make love and all that. "

"Yes, " said John; "it is very ridiculous. Boys like Conyngham andCrayshaw ought to know better. " Nothing, he felt, could be so likely tomake the schoolroom distasteful to his daughters as this earlyadmiration. Still he was consoled by the view they took of it. 

"Cray does know better, of course, " said Gladys carelessly. 

"Still, he was extremely angry with Conyngham, for being so fond ofGladys, " remarked Barbara; "because you know she is _his_ friend. Hewould never hear about his puppy, that old Patience Smith takes care offor sixpence a week, or his rabbits that we have here, or his hawk thatlives at Wigfield, unless Gladys wrote; Mr. Brandon never writes tohim. "

"Now shall I put a stop to this, or shall I let it be?" thought John;and he proceeded to read Crayshaw's effusion. 

 TO G. M. IN HER BRONZE BOOTS

 As in the novel skippers say, "Shiver my timbers!" and "Belay!" While a few dukes so handy there Respectfully make love or swear;

 As in the poem some great ass For ever pipes to his dear lass; And as in life tea crowns the cup And muffins sop much butter up;

 So, naturally, while I walk With you, I feel a swell--and stalk-- Consecutively muttering "Oh, I'm quite a man, I feel I grow. "

 But loudliest thumps this heart to-day, While in the mud you pick your way, (You fawn, you flower, you star, you gem, ) In your new boots with heels to them. 

 Your Eldest Slave. 

"I don't consider these verses a bit more _consecutive_ than Conyngham'stalk, " said John, laughing. 

"Well, father, then he shouldn't say such things! He said Mr. Brandonwalked with an infallible stride, and that you were the most consecutiveof any one he had ever met with. "

"But, my dear little girl, Crayshaw would not have known that unlessyou had told him; do you think that was the right thing to do by aguest?"

Gladys blushed. "But, father, " said Barbara, "I suppose Cray may comenow; Conyngham goes to-morrow. Cray never feels so well as when he ishere. "

"I had no intention of inviting him this Christmas, " answered John. 

"Well, " said Gladys, "it doesn't make much difference; he and Johnniecan be together just the same nearly all day, because his brother andMrs. Crayshaw are going to stay with the Brandons, and Cray is to cometoo. "

John felt as if the fates were against him. 

"And his brother was so horribly vexed when he found that he hardly goton at school at all. "

"That's enough to vex any man. Cray should spend less time in writingthese verses of his. "

"Yes, he wrote us word that his brother said so, and was extremely crossand unpleasant, when he replied that this was genius, and must not berepressed. "

John, after this, rode into the town, and as he stopped his horse to paythe turnpike, he was observed by the turnpike-keeper's wife to belooking gloomy and abstracted; indeed, the gate was no sooner shutbehind him than he sighed, and said with a certain bitterness, "Ishouldn't wonder if, in two or three years time, I am driven to put myneck under the yoke after all. "

"No, we can't come, " said little Hugh, when a few days after this Emilyand Dorothea drove over and invited the children to spend the day, "wecouldn't come on any account, because something very grand is going tohappen. "

"Did you know, " asked Anastasia, "that Johnnie had got into the_shell_?"

"No, my sweet, " said Emily, consoling her empty arms for their loss, andappeasing her heart with a kiss. 

"And father always said that some day he should come home to earlydinner, " continued Hugh, "and show the great magic lantern up inParliament. Then Swan's grandchildren and the coachman's little girlsare coming; and every one is to have a present. It will be such fun. "

"The shell, " observed Bertram, "means a sort of a class between theother classes. Father's so glad Johnnie has got into the shell. "

"She is glad too, " said Anastasia. "You're glad, Mrs. Nemily. "

"Yes, I am glad, " answered Emily, a tear that had gathered under herdark eyelashes falling, and making her eyes look brighter, and her smilemore sweet. 

Emily was not of a temperament that is ever depressed. She had her timesof sorrow and tears; but she could often smile, and still oftener laugh. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE RIVER. 

 "Now there was a great calm at that time in the river; wherefore Mr. Standfast, when he was about half way in, he stood awhile, and talked to his companions that had waited upon him thither; and he said, ... 'I have formerly lived by hearsay and faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself. I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there have I coveted to set my foot too. '"--_Pilgrim's Progress. _

And now the Christmas holiday being more than half over, Mr. AugustusMortimer desired that his grandson might come and spend a few days withhim, for Valentine had told him how enchanted John was with the boy'sprogress, but that he was mortified almost past bearing by his lisp. Grand therefore resolved that something should be done; and Crayshawhaving now arrived, and spending the greater part of every day with hisallies the young Mortimers, was easily included in the invitation. Ifanybody wants a school-boy, he is generally most welcome to him. Grandsent a flattering message to the effect that he should be muchdisappointed if Cray did not appear that day at his dinner table. Crayaccordingly did appear, and after dinner the old man began to put beforehis grandson the advantage it would be to him if he could cure himself, of his lisp. 

"I never lithp, Grand, " answered the boy, "when I talk thlowly, and--No, I mean when I talk s-lowly and take pains. "

"Then why don't you always talk slowly and take pains, to please yourfather, to please me, and to improve yourself?"

Johnnie groaned. 

"This is very little more than an idle childish habit, " continued Grand. 

"We used to think it would do him good to have his tongue slit, " saidCrayshaw, "but there's no need. When I torment him and chaff him, henever does it. "

"I hope there _is_ no need, " said Grand, a little uncertain whether thisremedy was proposed in joke or earnest. "Valentine has been reminding methat he used to lisp horribly when a child, but he entirely curedhimself before he was your age. "

Johnnie, in school-boy fashion, made a face at Valentine when the oldman was not looking. It expressed good-humoured defiance and derision, but the only effect it produced was on himself, for it disturbed for themoment the great likeness to his grandfather that grew on him every day. John had clear features, thick light hair, and deep blue eyes. His sonwas dark, with bushy eyebrows, large stern features, and a high narrowhead, like old Grand. 

It was quite dark, and the depth of winter, but the thermometer was manydegrees above freezing-point, and a warm south wind was blowing. Grandrose and rang the bell. "Are the stable lanterns lighted?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Then you two boys come with me. "

The boys, wondering and nothing loth, followed to the stable, and thebrown eyes of two large ponies looked mildly into theirs. 

"Trot them out, " said Grand to the groom, "and let the young gentlemenhave a good look at them. "

Not a word did either of the boys say. An event of huge importanceappeared to loom in the horizon of each: he cogitated over its probableconditions. 

"I got a saddle for each of them, " said Grand. "Valentine chose them, Johnnie. There now, we had better come in again. " And when they wereseated in the dining-room as before, and there was still silence, hewent on, "You two, as I understand, are both in the same house atHarrow?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And it is agreed that Johnnie could cure himself of his lisp if hechose, and if you would continually remind him of it?"

"Oh yes, certainly it is. "

"Very well, if the thing is managed by next Easter, I'll give each ofyou one of those ponies; and, " continued Grand cunningly, "you may havethe use of them during the remainder of these holidays, provided youboth promise, upon your honour, to begin the cure directly. If Johnniehas not left off lisping at Easter, I shall have the ponies sold. "

"I'll lead him such a life that he shall wish he'd never been born; Iwill indeed, " exclaimed Crayshaw fervently. 

"Well, " said Johnnie, "never wath a better time. _Allez le_, or, inother wordth, go it. "

"And every two or three days you shall bring him to me, " continuedGrand, "that I may hear him read and speak. "

The next morning, before John went into the town, he was greeted by thetwo boys on their ponies, and came out to admire and hear theconditions. 

"We mayn't have them at school, " said Johnnie, bringing out the lastword with laudable distinctness, "but Grand will let them live inhith--in his--stables. "

John was very well contented to let the experiment alone; and a few daysafter this, his younger children, going over with a message to Johnnie, reported progress to him in the evening as he sat at dinner. 

"Johnnie and Cray were gone into the town on their grand new ponies, almost as big as horses; they came galloping home while we were there, "said Janie. 

"And, father, they are going to show up their exercises, or somethingthat they've done, to Grand tomorrow; you'll hear them, " observed Hugh. 

"But poor Cray was so ill on Saturday, " said the little girl, "that hecouldn't do nothing but lie in bed and write his poetry. "

"But they got on very well, " observed Bertram philosophically. "They hadup the stable-boy with a great squirt; he had to keep staring at Craywhile Johnnie read aloud, and every time Cray winked he was to squirtJohnnie. Cray didn't have any dinner or any tea, and his face was sored. "

"Poor fellow!"

"Yes, " said the youngest boy, "and he wrote some verses about Johnnie, and said they were for him to read aloud to grandfather. But what do youthink? Johnnie said he wouldn't! That doesn't sound very kind, does it?"

Johnnie's resolution, however, was not particularly remarkable; theverses, compounded during an attack of asthma, running as follows:--

 AUGUSTUS JOHN CONFESSES TO LOSS OF APPETITE. 

 I cannot eat rice pudding now, Jam roll, boiled beef, and such; From Stilton cheese this heart I vow Turns coldly as from Dutch. 

 For crab, a shell-fish erst loved well, I do not care at all, Though I myself am in the shell And fellow-feelings call. 

 I mourn not over tasks unsaid-- This child is not a flat-- My purse is empty as my head, But no--it isn't that;

 I cannot eat. And why? To shrink From truth is like a sinner, I'll speak or burst; it is, I think, That I've just had my dinner. 

Crayshaw was very zealous in the discharge of his promise; the poniestook a great deal of exercise; and old Grand, before the boys weredismissed to school, saw very decided and satisfactory progress on thepart of his grandson, while the ponies were committed to his charge witha fervour that was almost pathetic. It was hard to part from them; butmen are tyrannical; they will not permit boys to have horses at a publicschool; the boys therefore returned to their work, and the ponies wererelieved from theirs, and entered on a course of life which is commonlycalled eating their heads off. 

John in the meanwhile tried in vain to supply the loss of the statelyand erudite Miss Crampton. He wanted two ladies, and wished that neithershould be young. One must be able to teach his children and keep them inorder; the other must superintend the expenditure and see to thecomforts of his whole household, order his children's dress, and lookafter their health. 

Either he was not fortunate in his applicants, or he was difficult toplease, for he had not suited himself with either lady when a new sourceof occupation and anxiety sprung up, and everything else was set asideon account of it; for all on a sudden it was perceived one afternoonthat Mr. Augustus Mortimer was not at all well. 

It was after bank hours, but he was dozing in his private sitting-roomat the bank, and his young nephew, Mr. Mortimer, was watching him. 

Valentine had caused his card to be printed "Mr. Mortimer:" he did notintend because he was landless, and but for his uncle's bounty almostpenniless, to forego the little portion of dignity which belonged tohim. 

The carriage stood at the door, and the horses now and then stamped inthe lightly-falling snow, and were sometimes driven a little way downthe street and back again to warm them. 

At his usual time John had gone home, and then his father, while waitingfor the carriage, had dropped asleep. 

Though Valentine had wakened him more than once, and told him the menand horses were waiting, he had not shown any willingness to move. 

"There's plenty of time; I must have this sleep out first, " he said. 

Then, when for the third time Valentine woke him, he roused himself. "Ithink I can say it now, " he observed. "I could not go home, you know, Val, till it was said. "

"Till what was said, uncle?"

"I forget, " was the answer. "You must help me. "

Valentine suggested various things which had been discussed that day;but they did not help him, and he sank into thought. 

"I hope I was not going to make any mistake, " he shortly said, andValentine began to suppose he really had something particular to say. "Ithink my dear brother and I decided for ever to hold our peace, " he nextmurmured, after a long pause. 

Valentine was silent. The allusion to his father made him remember howcompletely all the more active and eventful part of their lives had goneby for these two old men before he came into the world. 

"What were you and John talking of just before he left?" said the oldman, after a puzzled pause. 

"Nothing of the least consequence, " answered Valentine, feeling that hehad forgotten what he might have meant to say. "John would be uneasy ifhe knew you were here still. Shall we go home?"

"Not yet. If I mentioned this, you would never tell it to my John. Thereis no need that my John should ever have a hint of it. You will promisenot to tell him?"

"No, my dear uncle, indeed I could not think of such a thing, " saidValentine, now a little uneasy. If his uncle really had somethingimportant to say, this was a strange request, and if he had not, histhoughts must be wandering. 

"Well, " said Grand, in a dull, quiet voice, as of one satisfied andpersuaded, "perhaps it is no duty of mine, then, to mention it. But whatwas it that you and John were talking of just before he went away?"

"You and John were going to send your cards, to inquire after Mrs. A'Court, because she is ill. I asked if mine might go too, and as it washanded across you took notice of what was on it, and said it pleasedyou; do you remember? But John laughed about it. "

"Yes; and what did you answer, Val?"

"I said that if everybody had his rights, that ought not to have been myname at all. You ought to have been Mr. Mortimer now, and I Mr. Melcombe. "

"I thought it was that, " answered Grand, cogitating. "Yes, it was neverintended that you should touch a shilling of that property. "

"I know that, uncle, " said Valentine. "My father always told me he hadno expectations from his mother. It was unlucky for me, that's all. Idon't mean to say, " he continued, "that it has been any particulardisappointment, because I was always brought up to suppose I should havenothing; but as I grow older I often think it seems rather a shame Ishould be cut out; and as my father was, I am sure, one of the mostamiable of men, it is very odd that he never contrived to make it upwith the old lady. "

"He never had any quarrel with her, " answered old Augustus. "He wasalways her favourite son. "

Valentine looked at him with surprise. He appeared to be oppressed withthe lassitude of sleep, and yet to be struggling to keep his eyes openand to say something. But he only managed to repeat his last words. "I've told John all that I wish him to know, " he next said, and thensuccumbed and was asleep again. 

"The favourite son, and natural heir!" thought Valentine. "No quarrel, and yet not inherit a shilling! That is queer, to say the least of it. I'll go up to London and have another look at that will. And he hastold John something or other. Unless his thoughts are all abroad then, he must have been alluding to two perfectly different things. "

Valentine now went to the carriage and fetched in the footman, hopingthat at sight of him his uncle might be persuaded to come home; but thiswas done with so much difficulty that, when at last it was accomplished, Valentine sent the carriage on to fetch John, and sat anxiously watchingtill he came, and a medical man with him. 

Sleep and weakness, but no pain, and no disquietude. It was so at theend of a week; it was so at the end of a fortnight, and then it becameevident that his sight was failing; he was not always aware whether ornot he was alone; he often prayed aloud also, but sometimes supposedhimself to be recovering. 

"Where is Valentine?" he said one afternoon, when John, having left himto get some rest, Valentine had taken his place. "Are we alone?" heasked, when Valentine had spoken to him. "What time is it?"

"About four o'clock, uncle; getting dusk, and snow falls. "

"Yes, I heard you mention snow when the nurse went down to her tea. I amoften aware of John's presence when I cannot show it. Tell him so. "

"Yes, I will. "

"He is a dear good son to me. "

"Yes. "

"He ought not to make a sorrow of my removal. It disturbs me sometimesto perceive that he does. He knows where my will is, and all my papers. I have never concealed anything from him; I had never any cause. "

"No, indeed, uncle. "

"Till now, " proceeded old Augustus. Valentine looked attentively in thefailing light at the majestic wreck of the tall, fine old man. He madeout that the eyes were closed, and that the face had its usualimmobile, untroubled expression, and the last words startled him. "Ihave thought it best, " he continued, "not to leave you anything in mywill. "

"No, " said Valentine, "because you gave me that two thousand poundsduring your lifetime. "

"Yes, my dear; my memory does not fail me. John will not be cursed withone guinea of ill-gotten wealth. Valentine!"

"Yes, uncle, yes; I am here; I am not going away. "

"You have the key of my cabinet, in the library. Go and fetch me aparcel that is in the drawer inside. "

"Let me ring, then, first for some one to come; for you must not be leftalone. "

"Leave me, I say, and do as I tell you. "

Valentine, vexed, but not able to decline, ran down in breathless haste, found the packet of that peculiar sort and size usually called abanker's parcel, locked the cabinet, and returned to the old man's bed. 

"Are we alone?" he asked, when Valentine had made his presence known tohim. "Let me feel that parcel. Ah, your father was very dear to me. Iowe everything to him--everything. "

Valentine, who was not easy as to what would come next, replied like anhonourable man, "So you said, uncle, when you generously gave me thattwo thousand pounds. "

"Ill-gotten wealth, " old Augustus murmured, "never prospers; it is acurse to its possessor. My son, my John, will have none of it. Valentine!"

"Yes. "

"What do you think was the worst-earned money that human fingers everhandled?"

The question so put suggested but one answer. 

"_That_ thirty pieces of silver, " said Valentine. 

"Ah!" replied Augustus with a sigh. "Well, thank God, none of us canmatch that crime. But murders have been done, and murderers haveprofited by the spoil! When those pieces of silver were lying on thefloor of the temple, after the murderer was dead, to whom do you thinkthey belonged?"

Valentine was excessively startled; the voice seemed higher and thinnerthan usual, but the conversation had begun so sensibly, and the wrinkledhand kept such firm hold still of the parcel, that it surprised him tofeel, as he now did, that his dear old uncle was wandering, and heanswered nothing. 

"Not to the priests, " continued Augustus, and as a pause followed, Valentine felt impelled to reply. 

"No, " he said, "they belonged to his family, no doubt, if they hadchosen to pick them up. "

"Ah, that is what I suppose. If his father, poor wretch, or perhaps hismiserable mother, had gone into the temple that day, it would have beena strange sight, surely, to see her gather them up. "

"Yes, " said Valentine faintly. The shadow of something too remote tomake its substance visible appeared to fall over him then, causing him avague wonder and awe, and revulsion of feeling. He knew not whether thisold man was taking leave of sober daylight reason, or whether some freshsense of the worthlessness of earthly wealth, more especially ill-gottenwealth, had come to him from a sudden remembrance of this silver--or----

He tried gently to lead his thoughts away from what seemed to betroubling him, for his head turned restlessly on the pillow. 

"You have no need to think of that, " he said kindly and quietly, "for asyou have just been saying, John will inherit nothing but well-earnedproperty. "

"John does not know of this, " said Augustus. "I have drawn it out foryears by degrees, as he supposed, for household expenses. It is all inBank of England notes. Every month that I lived it would have becomemore and more. "

Uncommonly circumstantial this!

"It contains seventeen hundred pounds; take it in your hand, and hearme. "

"Yes, uncle. "

"You cannot live on a very small income. You have evidently very littlenotion of the value of money. You and John may not agree. It may notsuit him to have you with him; on the other hand--on the otherhand--what was I saying?"

"That it might not suit John to have me with him. "

"Yes, yes; but, on the other hand (where is it gone), on the other hand, it might excite his curiosity, his surprise, if I left you more in mywill. Now what am I doing this for? What is it? Daniel's son? Yes. "

"Dear uncle, try to collect your thoughts; there is something you wantme to do with this money, try to tell me what it is. "

"Have you got it in your hand?"

"Yes, I have. "

"Keep it then, and use it for your own purposes. "

"Thank you. Are you sure that is what you meant? Is that all?"

"Is that all? No. I said you were not to tell John. "

"Will you tell him yourself then?" asked Valentine. "I do not think hewould mind my having it. "

By way of answer to this, the old man actually laughed. Valentine hadthought he was long past that, but it was a joyful laugh, and almostexultant. 

"Mind, " he said, "my John! No; you attend to my desire, and to all Ihave said. Also it is agreed between me and my son that if ever you twopart company, he is to give you a thousand pounds. I tell you this thatyou may not suppose it has anything to do with the money in that parcel. Your father was everything to me, " he continued, his voice gettingfainter, and his speech more confused, as he went on, "and--and I neverexpected to see him again in this world. And so you have come over tosee me, Daniel? Give me your hand. Come over to see me, and there are nolights! God has been very good to me, brother, and I begin to think Hewill call me into his presence soon. "

Valentine started up, and it was really more in order to carry out theold man's desires, so solemnly expressed, than from any joy ofpossession, that he put the parcel into his pocket before he rang forthe nurse and went to fetch John. 

He had borne a part in the last-sustained conversation the old man everheld, and that day month, in just such a snow-storm as had fallen abouthis much-loved brother, his stately white head was laid in the grave. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE DEAD FATHER ENTREATS. 

 "_Prospero. _ I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one. "

 _The Tempest. _

Valentine rose early the morning after the funeral; John Mortimer hadleft him alone in the house, and gone home to his children. 

John had regarded the impending death of his father more as a loss and amisfortune than is common. He and the old man, besides being constantcompanions, had been very intimate friends, and the rending of the tiebetween them was very keenly felt by the son. 

Nothing, perhaps, differs more than the amount of affection felt bydifferent people; there is no gauge for it--language cannot convey it. Yet instinctive perception shows us where it is great. Some feel little, and show all that little becomingly; others feel much, and revealscarcely anything; but, on the whole, men are not deceived, each getsthe degree of help and sympathy that was due to him. 

Valentine had been very thoughtful for John; the invitations and ordersconnected with a large funeral had been mainly arranged by him. 

Afterwards, he had been present at the reading of the will, and had beenmade to feel that the seventeen hundred pounds in that parcel which hehad not yet opened could signify nothing to a son who was to enter onsuch a rich inheritance as it set forth and specified. 

Still he wished his uncle had not kept the giving of it a secret, and, while he was dressing, the details of that last conversation, thefalling snow, the failing light, and the high, thin voice, changed, andyet so much more impressive for the change, recurred to his thoughtsmore freshly than ever, perhaps because before he went down he meant toopen the parcel, which accordingly he did. 

Bank of England notes were in it, and not a line of writing on the whitepaper that enfolded them. He turned it over, and then mechanically beganto count and add up the amount. Seventeen hundred pounds, neither morenor less, and most assuredly his own. With the two thousand pounds healready possessed, this sum would, independently of any exertions of hisown, bring him in nearly two hundred a-year. In case of failing healththis would be enough to live on modestly, either in England or on theContinent. 

He leaned his chin on his hand, and, with a dull contentment looked atthese thin, crisp papers. He had cared for his old uncle very much, andbeen exceedingly comfortable with him, and now that he was forbidden tomention his last gift, he began to feel (though this had fretted him atfirst) that it would make him more independent of John. 

But why should the old father have disliked to excite his son's surpriseand curiosity? Why, indeed, when he had laughed at the notion of John'sbeing capable of minding his doing as he pleased. 

Valentine pondered over this as he locked up his property. It was notyet eight o'clock, and as he put out the candle he had lighted to counthis notes by (for the March morning was dark), he heard wheels, and, ongoing down, met John in the hall. He had come in before thebreakfast-hour, as had often been his custom when he meant to breakfastwith his father. 

John's countenance showed a certain agitation. Valentine observing it, gave him a quiet, matter-of-fact greeting, and talked of the weather. Athaw had come on, and the snow was melting rapidly. For the moment Johnseemed unable to answer, but when they got into the dining-room, hesaid--

"I overtook St. George's groom. He had been to my house, he said, thinking you were there. Your brother sent a message, rather an urgentone, and this note to you. He wants you, it seems. "

"Wants me, wants ME!" exclaimed Valentine. "What for?"

John shrugged his shoulders. 

"Is he ill?" continued Valentine. 

"The man did not say so. "

Valentine read the note. It merely repeated that his brother wanted him. What an extraordinary piece of thoughtlessness this seemed! Brandonmight have perceived that Valentine would be much needed by John thatday. 

"You told me yesterday, " said Valentine, "that there were various thingsyou should like me to do for you in the house to-day, and over at thetown too. So I shall send him word that I cannot go"

"I think you had better go, " said John. 

Valentine was sure that John would have been glad of his company. Itwould be easier for a man with his peculiarly keen feelings not to haveto face all his clerks alone the first time after his father's death. 

"You must go, " he repeated, however. "St. George would never havethought of sending for you unless for some urgent reason. If you take mydog-cart you will be in time for the breakfast there, which is at nine. The horse is not taken out. "

Valentine still hesitating, John added--

"But, I may as well say now that my father's removal need make nodifference in our being together. As far as I am concerned, I am verywell pleased with our present arrangement. I find in you an aptitude forbusiness affairs that I could by no means have anticipated. So if St. George wants to consult you about some new plan for you (which I hardlythink can be the case), you had better hear what I have to say beforeyou turn yourself out. "

Valentine thanked him cordially. Emily had pointedly said to him, duringhis uncle's last illness, that in the event of any change, she should bepleased if he would come and live with her. He had made no answer, because he had not thought John would wish the connection between themto continue. But now everything was easy. His dear old uncle had lefthim a riding-horse, and some books. He had only to move these to Emily'shouse, and so without trouble enter another home. 

It was not yet nine o'clock when Valentine entered the dining-room inhis brother's house. 

The gloom was over, the sun had burst forth, lumps of snow, shining inthe dazzle of early sunlight, were falling with a dull thud from thetrees, while every smaller particle dislodged by a waft of air, droppedwith a flash as of a diamond. 

First Mrs. Henfrey came in and looked surprised to see Valentine;wondered he had left John; had never seen a man so overcome at hisfather's funeral. Then Giles came in with some purple and some orangecrocuses, which he laid upon his wife's plate. He said nothing about hisnote, but went and fetched Dorothea, who was also evidently surprised tosee Valentine. 

How lovely and interesting she looked in his eyes that morning, soserene herself, and an object of such watchful solicitude both to herhusband and his old step-sister!

"Any man may feel interested in her now, " thought Valentine, excusinghimself to himself for the glow of admiring tenderness that filled hisheart. "Sweet thing! Oh! what a fool I have been!"

There was little conversation; the ladies were in mourning, and merelyasked a few questions as to the arrangements of the late relative'saffairs. Brandon sat at the head of the table, and his wife at hisright hand. There was something very cordial in his manner, but such anevident turning away from any mention of having sent for him, thatValentine, perceiving the matter to be private, followed his lead, andwhen breakfast was over went with him up-stairs to his long room; at thetop of the house, his library and workshop. 

"Now, then, " he exclaimed, when at last the door was shut and they werealone, "I suppose I may speak? What can it be, old fellow, that inducedyou to send for me at a time so peculiarly inconvenient to John?"

"It was partly something that I read in a newspaper, " answered Giles, "and also--also a letter. A letter that was left in my care by yourfather. "

"Oh! then you were to give it to me after my uncle's death, were you?"

For all answer Giles said, "There it is, " and Valentine, following hiseyes, saw a sealed parcel, not unlike in shape and size to the one hehad already opened that morning. It was lying on a small, opened desk. "Take your time, my dear fellow, " said Giles, "and read it carefully. Ishall come up again soon, and tell you how it came into my possession. "

Thereupon he left the room, and Valentine, very much surprised, advancedto the table. 

The packet was not directed to any person, but outside it was written inBrandon's clear hand, "Read by me on the 3rd of July, 18--, and sealedup the following morning. G. B. "

Valentine sat down before it, broke his brother's seal, and took out alarge letter, the seal of which (his father's) had already been broken. It was addressed, in his father's handwriting, "Giles Brandon, Esq. , Wigfield House. "

We are never so well inclined to believe in a stroke of good fortune aswhen one has just been dealt to us. Valentine was almost sure he wasgoing to read of something that would prove to be to his advantage. Hisuncle had behaved so strangely in providing him with his last bounty, that it was difficult for him not to connect this letter with that gift. Something might have been made over to his father on his behalf, and, with this thought in his mind, he unfolded the sheet of foolscap andread as follows:--

"My much-loved Son, --You will see by the date of this letter that mydearest boy Valentine is between seventeen and eighteen years of agewhen I write it. I perceive a possible peril for him, and my brotherbeing old, there is no one to whom I can so naturally appeal on hisbehalf as to you. 

"I have had great anxiety about you lately, but now you are happilyrestored to me from the sea, and I know that I may fully trust both toyour love and your discretion. 

"Some men, my dear Giles, are happy enough to have nothing to hide. I amnot of that number; but I bless God that I can say, if I conceal aught, it is not a work of my own doing, nor is it kept secret for my own sake. 

"It is now seven weeks since I laid in the grave the body of my agedmother. She left her great-grandson, Peter Melcombe, the only son of mynephew Peter Melcombe, whose father was my fourth brother, her soleheir. 

"I do not think it wise to conceal from you that I, being her eldestsurviving son, desired of her, that she would not--I mean, that I forbadmy mother to leave her property to me. 

"It is not for me to judge her. I have never done so; for in her case Iknow not what I could have done, but I write this in the full confidencethat both of you will respect my wishes; and that you, Giles, will neverdivulge my secret, even to Valentine, unless what I fear should come topass, and render this necessary. 

"If Peter Melcombe, now a child, should live to marry, and an heirshould be born to him, then throw this letter into the fire, and let itbe to you as if it had never been written. If he even lives to come ofage, at which time he can make a will and leave his property where hepleases, you may destroy it. 

"I do not feel afraid that the child will die, it is scarcely to besupposed that he will. I pray God that it may not be so; but in case heshould--in case this child should be taken away during his minority, Ibeing already gone--then my grandfather's will is so worded that my sonValentine, my only son, will be his heir. 

"Let Valentine know in such a case that I, his dead father, whodelighted in him, would rather have seen him die in his cradle, thanlive by that land and inherit that gold. I have been poor, but I havenever turned to anything at Melcombe with one thought that it could mendmy case; and as I have renounced it for myself, I would fain renounce itfor my heirs for ever. Nothing is so unlikely as that this propertyshould ever fall to my son, but if it should, I trust to his love andduty to let it be, and I trust to you, Giles, to make this easy for him, either to get him away while he is yet young, to lead a fresh and manlylife in some one of our colonies, or to find some career at home for himwhich shall provide him with a competence, that if such a temptationshould come in his way, he may not find it too hard to stand against. 

"And may the blessing of God light upon you for this (for I know youwill do it), more than for all the other acts of dutiful affection youhave ever shown me. 

"When I desire you to keep this a secret (as I hope always), I make noexception in favour of any person whatever. 

"This letter is written with much thought and full deliberation, andsigned by him who ever feels as a loving father towards you. 

"Daniel Mortimer. "

Valentine had opened the letter with a preconceived notion as to itscontents, and this, together with excessive surprise, made him fail forthe moment to perceive one main point that it might have told him. 

When Brandon just as he finished reading came back, he found Valentineseated before the letter amazed and pale. 

"What does it mean?" he exclaimed, when the two had looked searchinglyat one another. "What on earth can it mean?"

"I have no idea, " said Giles. 

"But you have had it for years, " continued Valentine, very muchagitated. "Surely you have tried to find out what it means. Have youmade no inquiries?"

"Yes. I have been to Melcombe. I could discover nothing at all. No, " inanswer to another look, "neither then, or at any other time. "

"But you are older than I am, so much older, had you never any suspicionof anything at all? Did nothing ever occur before I was old enough tonotice things which roused in you any suspicions?"

"Suspicions of what?"

"Of disgrace, I suppose. Of crime perhaps I mean; but I don't know whatI mean. Do you think John knows of this?"

"No. I am sure he does not. But don't agitate yourself, " he went on, observing that Valentine's hand trembled. "Remember, that whatever thissecret was that your father kept buried in his breast, it has never beenfound out, that is evident, and therefore it is most unlikely now thatit ever should be. In my opinion, and it is the only one I have fullyformed about the matter, this crime or this disgrace--I quote your ownwords--must have taken place between sixty and seventy years ago, andyour father expressly declares that he had nothing to do with it. "

"But if the old woman had, " began Valentine vehemently, and paused. 

"How can that be?" answered Giles. "He says, 'I know not in her casewhat I could have done, ' and that he has never judged her. "

Valentine heaved up a mighty sigh, excitement made his pulses beat andhis hands tremble. 

"What made you think, " he said, "that it was so long ago? I am sosurprised that I cannot think coherently. "

"To tell you why I think so, is to tell you something more that Ibelieve you don't know. "

"Well, " said the poor fellow, sighing restlessly, "out with it, Giles. "

"Your father began life by running away from home. "

"Oh, I know that. "

"You do?"

"Yes, my dear father told it to me some weeks before he died, but I didnot like it, I wished to dismiss it from my thoughts. "

"Indeed! but will you try to remember now, how he told it to you andwhat he said. "

"It was very simple. Though now I come to think of it, with this newlight thrown upon it--Yes; he did put it very oddly, very strangely, sothat I did not like the affair, or to think of it. He said that as therewas now some intercourse between us and Melcombe, a place that he hadnot gone near for so very many years, it was almost certain, that, sooner or later, I should hear something concerning himself that wouldsurprise me. It was singular that I had not heard it already. I did notlike to hear him talk in his usual pious way of such an occurrence; forthough of course we know that all things _are_ overruled for good tothose who love God----"

"Well?" said Brandon, when he paused to ponder. 

"Well, " repeated Valentine, "for all that, and though he referred tothat very text, I did not like to hear him say that he blessed God hehad been led to do it; and that, if ever I heard of it, I was toremember that he thought of it with gratitude. "

Saying this, he turned over the pages again. "But there is nothing ofthat here, " he said, "how did you discover it?"

"I was told of it at Melcombe, " said Brandon, hesitating. 

"By whom?"

"It seemed to be familiarly known there. " He glanced at the _Times_which was laid on the table just beyond the desk at which Valentine sat. "It was little Peter Melcombe, " he said gravely, "who mentioned it tome. "

"What! the poor little heir!" exclaimed Valentine, rathercontemptuously. "I would not be in his shoes for a good deal! ButGiles--but Giles--you have shown me the letter!"

He started up. 

"Yes, there it is, " said Giles, glancing again at the _Times_, for heperceived instantly that Valentine for the first time had remembered onwhat contingency he was to be told of this matter. 

There it was indeed! The crisis of his fate in a few sorrowful words hadcome before him. 

"At Corfu, on the 28th of February, to the inexpressible grief of hismother, Peter, only child of the late Peter Melcombe, Esq. , andgreat-grandson and heir of the late Mrs. Melcombe, of Melcombe. In thetwelfth year of his age. "

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Valentine, in an awestruck whisper. "Then ithas come to this, after all?"

He sat silent so long, that his brother had full time once more toconsider this subject in all its bearings, to perceive that Valentinewas trying to discover some reasonable cause for what his father haddone, and then to see his countenance gradually clear and his nowflashing eyes lose their troubled expression. 

"I know you have respected my poor father's confidence, " he said atlast. 

"Yes, I have. "

"And you never heard anything from him by word of mouth that seemedafterwards to connect itself with this affair?"

"Yes, I did, " Brandon answered, "he said to me just before my lastvoyage, that he had written an important letter, told me where it was, and desired me to observe that his faculties were quite unimpaired longafter the writing of it. "

"I do not think they could have been, " Valentine put in, and hecontinued his questions. "You think that you have never, never heard himsay anything, at any time which at all puzzled or startled you, andwhich you remembered after this?"

"No, I never did. He never surprised me, or excited any suspicion at anytime about anything, till I had broken the seal of that letter. "

"And after all, " Valentine said, turning the pages, "how little there isin it, how little it tells me!"

"Hardly anything, but there is a great deal, there is everything in hishaving been impelled to write it. "

"Well, poor man" (Giles was rather struck by this epithet), "if secrecywas his object, he has made that at least impossible. I must soon knowall, whatever it is. And more than that, if I act as he wishes, in fact, as he commands, all the world will set itself to investigate thereason. "

"Yes, I am afraid so, " Brandon answered, "I have often thought of that. "

Valentine went on. "I always knew, felt rather, that he must have had atremendous quarrel with his elder brother. He never would mention him ifhe could help it, and showed an ill-disguised unforgiving sortof--almost dread, I was going to say, of him, as if he had beenfearfully bullied by him in his boyhood and could not forget it; but, "he continued, still pondering, "it surely is carrying both anger andsuperstition a little too far, to think that when he is in his grave itwill do his son any harm to inherit the land of the brother hequarrelled with. "

"Yes, " said Giles, "when one considers how most of the land of thiscountry was first acquired, how many crimes lie heavy on its variousconquerors, and how many more have been perpetrated in its transmissionfrom one possessor to another;" then he paused, and Valentine took uphis words. 

"It seems incredible that he should have thought an old quarrel (howeverbitter) between two boys ought, more than half a century afterwards, todeprive the son of one of them from taking his lawful inheritance. "

"Yes, " Brandon said. "He was no fool; he could not have thought so, andtherefore it could not have been that, or anything like it. Nor could hehave felt that he was in any sense answerable for the poor man's death, for I have ascertained that there had been no communication between thetwo branches of the family for several years before he laid violenthands on himself. "

Valentine sighed restlessly. "The whole thing is perfectlyunreasonable, " he said; "in fact, it would be impossible to do as hedesires, even if I were ever so willing. "

"Impossible?" exclaimed Brandon. 

"Yes, the estate is already mine; how is it possible for me not to takeit? I must prove the will, the old will, the law would see to that, forthere will be legacy duty to pay. Even if I chose to fling the incomeinto the pond, I must save out enough to satisfy the tax-gatherers. Youseem to take for granted that I will and can calmly and secretly let theestate be. But have you thought out the details at all? Have you formedany theory as to how this is to be done?"

He spoke with some impatience and irritation, it vexed him to perceivethat his brother had fully counted on the dead father's letter beingobeyed. Brandon had nothing to say. 

"Besides, " continued Valentine, "where is this sort of thing to stop?If I die to-morrow, John is my heir. Is he to let it alone? Could he?"

"I don't know, " answered Brandon. "He has not the same temptation totake it that you have. "

"Temptation!" repeated Valentine. 

Brandon did not retract or explain the word. 

"And does he know any reason, I wonder, why he should renounce it?"continued Valentine, but as he spoke his hand, which he had put out totake the _Times_, paused on its way, and his eyes involuntarily opened alittle wider. Something, it seemed, had struck him, and he was recallingit and puzzling it out. Two or three lilies thrown under a lilac tree byJohn's father had come back to report themselves, nothing more recent ormore startling than that, for he was still thinking of the elderbrother. "And he must have hated him to the full as much as my poorfather did, " was his thought. "That garden had been shut up for his sakemany, many years. Wait a minute, if that man got the estate wrongfully, I'll have nothing to do with it after all. Nonsense! Why do I slanderthe dead in my thoughts? as if I had not read that will many times--heinherited after the old woman's sickly brother, who died at sea. " Afterthis his thoughts wandered into all sorts of vague and intricate pathsthat led to no certain goal; he was not even certain at last that therewas anything real to puzzle about. His father might have been under somedelusion after all. 

At last his wandering eyes met Brandon's. 

"Well!" he exclaimed, as if suddenly waking up. 

"How composedly he takes it, and yet how amazed he is!" thought Brandon. "Well, " he replied, by way of answer. 

"I shall ask you, Giles, as you have kept this matter absolutely secretso long, to keep it secret still; at any rate for awhile, from everyperson whatever. "

"I think you have a right to expect that of me, I will. "

"Poor little fellow! died at Corfu then. The news is all over Wigfieldby this time, no doubt. John knows it of course, now. " Again he paused, and this time it was his uncle's last conversation that recurred to hismemory. It was most unwelcome. Brandon could see that he looked morethan disturbed; he was also angry; and yet after awhile, both thesefeelings melted away, he was like a man who had walked up to a cobweb, that stretched itself before his face, but when he had put up his handand cleared it off, where was it?

He remembered how the vague talk of a dying old man had startled him. 

The manner of the gift and the odd feeling he had suffered at the time, as if it might be somehow connected with the words said, appeared torise up to be looked at. But one can hardly look straight at a thing ofthat sort without making it change its aspect. Sensations andimpressions are subject to us; they may be reasoned down. His reason wasstronger than his fear had been, and made it look foolish. He broughtback the words, they were disjointed, they accused no one, they couldnot be put together. So he covered that recollection over, and threw itaside. He did not consciously hide it from himself, but he did know inhis own mind that he should not relate it to his brother. 

"Well, you have done your part, " he said at length; "and now I must seeabout doing mine. "

"No one could feel more keenly than I do, how hard this is upon you, "said Brandon; but Valentine detected a tone of relief in his voice, asif he took the words to mean a submission to the father's wish, and asif he was glad. "My poor father might have placed some confidence in me, instead of treating me like a child, " he said bitterly; "why on earthcould he not tell me all. "

"Why, my dear fellow, " exclaimed Brandon; "surely if you were torenounce the property, it would have been hard upon you and John to beshamed or tortured by any knowledge of the crime and disgrace that itcame with. "

"That it came with!" repeated Valentine; "you take that for granted, then? You have got further than I have. "

"I think, of course, that the crime was committed, or the disgraceincurred, for the sake of the property. "

"Well, " said Valentine, "I am much more uncertain about the whole thingthan you seem to be. I shall make it my duty to investigate the matter. I must find out everything; perhaps it will be only too easy; accordingto what I find I shall act. One generation has no right so to dominateover another as to keep it always in childlike bondage to a command forwhich no reason is given. If, when I know, I consider that my dearfather was right, I shall of my own free-will sell the land, and divestmyself of the proceeds. If that he was wrong, I shall go and livefearlessly and freely in that house, and on that land which, in thecourse of providence, has come to me. "

"Reasonable and cool, " thought Brandon. "Have I any right to say more?He will do just what he says. No one was ever more free fromsuperstition; and he is of age, as he reminds me. "

"Very well, " he then said aloud; "you have a right to do as you please. Still, I must remind you of your father's distinct assertion, that inthis case he has set you an example. He would not have the land. "

"Does he mean, " said Valentine, confused between his surprise at theletter, his own recollections, and his secret wishes--"Does he, can hemean, that his old mother positively asked him to be her heir, and herefused?"

"I cannot tell; how is the will worded?"

"My great-grandfather left his estate to his only son, and if _he_ diedchildless, to his eldest grandson; both these were mere boys at thetime, and if neither lived to marry, then the old man left his estateto his only daughter. That was my grandmother, you know, and she had itfor many years. "

"And she had power to will it away, as is evident. "

"Yes, she might leave it to any one of her sons, or his representative;but she was not to divide it into shares. And in case of the branch shefavoured dying out, the estate was to revert to his heir-at-law--the oldman's heir-at-law, you know, his nearest of kin. That would have been myfather, if he had lived a year or two longer, he was the second son. Itis a most complicated and voluminous will. "

Brandon asked one more question. "But its provisions come to an end withyou, is it not so? It is not entailed, and you can do with it exactly asyou please. "

Valentine's countenance fell a little when his brother said this; heperceived that he chanced to be more free than most heirs, he had morefreedom than he cared for. 

"Yes, " he replied, "that is so. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

SOPHISTRY. 

 "'As he has not trusted me, he will never know how I should scorn to be a thief, ' quoth the school boy yesterday, when his master's orchard gate was locked; but, 'It's all his own fault, ' quoth the same boy to-day while he was stealing his master's plums, 'why did he leave the gate ajar?'"

"Val, " said Brandon, "I do hope you will give yourself time to considerthis thing in all its bearings before you decide. I am afraid if youmake a mistake, it will prove a momentous one. "

He spoke with a certain feeling of restraint, his advice had not beenasked; and the two brothers began to perceive by this time that it washard to keep up an air of easy familiarity when neither felt really atease. Each was thinking of the lovely young wife down-stairs. One feltthat he could hardly preach to the man whose folly had been his ownopportunity, the other felt that nothing would be more sweet than to lether see that, after all, she had married a man not half so rich nor inso good a position as her first love, for so he chose to considerhimself. How utter, how thorough an escape this would be also from theleast fear of further dependence on Giles! And, as to his having made afool of himself, and having been well laughed at for his pains, he wasperfectly aware that as Melcombe of Melcombe, and with those personaladvantages that he by no means undervalued, nobody would choose toremember that story against him, and he might marry almost wherever hepleased. 

As he turned in his chair to think, he caught a glimpse of his olduncle's house, just a corner through some trees, of his own bedroomwindow there, the place where that parcel was. 

He knew that, think as long as he would, Giles would not interrupt. "Yes, that parcel! Well, I'm independent, anyhow, " he consideredexultingly; and the further thought came into his mind, "I am wellenough off. What if I were to give this up and stay with John? I know heis surprised and pleased to find me so useful. I shall be more so; thework suits me, and brings out all I have in me; I like it. Then I alwaysliked being with Emily, and I should soon be master in that house. Bother the estate! I felt at first that I could not possibly fling itby, but really--really I believe that in a few years, when John goesinto Parliament, he'll make me his partner. It's very perplexing; yes, I'll think it well over, as Giles says. I'll do as I please; and I've agreat mind to let that doomed old den alone after all. "

Though he expressed his mind in these undignified words, it was notwithout manly earnestness that he turned back to his brother, and saidseriously, "Giles, I do assure you that I will decide nothing till Ihave given the whole thing my very best attention. In the meantime, ofcourse, whatever you hear, you will say nothing. I shall certainly notgo to Melcombe for a few days, I've got so attached to John, somehow, that I cannot think of leaving him in the lurch just now when he is outof spirits, and likes to have me with him. "

Thereupon the brothers parted, Valentine going downstairs, and Brandonsitting still in his room, a smile dawning on his face, and a laughfollowing. 

"Leaving John in the lurch!" he repeated. "What would my lord John thinkif he could hear that; but I have noticed for some time that they likeone another. What a notion Val has suddenly formed of his ownimportance! There was really something like dignity in his leave-taking. He does not intend that I should interfere, as is evident. And I am notcertain that if he asked for my advice I should know what to say. I wasvery clear in my own mind that when he consulted me I should say, 'Follow your father's desire. ' I am still clear that I would do somyself in such a case; but I am not asked for my opinion. I think hewill renounce the inheritance, on reflection; if he does, I shall betruly glad that it was not at all by my advice, or to please me. But ifhe does not? Well, I shall not wish to make the thing out any worse thanit is. I always thought that letter weak as a command, but strong as awarning. It would be, to say the least of it, a dutiful and filialaction to respect that warning. A warning not to perpetuate some wrong, for instance; but what wrong? I saw a miniature of Daniel Mortimer theelder, smiling, handsome, and fair-haired. It not only reminded mestrongly of my step-father, but of the whole race, John, Valentine, John's children, and all. Therefore, I am sure there need be 'no scandalabout Queen Elizabeth' Mortimer, and its discovery on the part of herson. "

Meanwhile, Valentine, instead of driving straight back to Wigfield, stopped short at his sister Emily's new house, intending to tell hersimply of the death of little Peter Melcombe, and notice how she tookit. O that the letter had been left to him instead of to Giles! Howdifficult it was, moreover, to believe that Giles had possessed it solong, and yet that its contents were dead to every one else thatbreathed! If Giles had not shown him by his manner what he ought to do, he thought he might have felt better inclined to do it. Certain it isthat being now alone, he thought of his fathers desire with morerespect. 

Emily had been settled about a month in her new house, and Miss ChristieGrant was with her. There was a pretty drawing-room, with bow windowsat the back of it. Emily had put there her Indian cabinets, and manyother beautiful things brought from the east, besides decorating it withdelicate ferns, and bulbs in flower. She was slightly inclined to belavish so far as she could afford it; but her Scotch blood kept her juston the right side of prudence, and so gave more grace to her undoubtedgenerosity. 

This house, which had been chosen by Mrs. Henfrey, was less than aquarter of a mile from John Mortimer's, and was approached by the samesandy lane. In front, on the opposite side of this lane, the house wassheltered by a great cliff, crowned with fir trees, and enriched withwild plants and swallows' caves; and behind, at the end of her gardenran the same wide brook which made a boundary for John Mortimer'sground. 

This circumstance was a great advantage to the little Mortimers, whowith familiar friendship made themselves at once at home all over Mrs. Nemily's premises, and forthwith set little boats and ships afloat onthe brook in the happy certainty that sooner or later they would comedown to their rightful owners. 

Valentine entered the drawing-room, and a glance as he stooped to kisshis sister served to assure him that she knew nothing of the great news. 

She put her two hands upon his shoulders, and her sweet eyes looked intohis. A slightly shamefaced expression struck her. "Does the dear boythink he is in love again?" she thought; "who is it, I wonder?" The lookbecame almost sheepish; and she, rather surprised, said to him, "Well, Val, you see the house is ready. "

"Yes, " he answered, looking round him with a sigh. 

Emily felt that he might well look grave and sad; it was no commonfriend that he had lost. "How is John?" she asked. 

"Why, he was very dull; very dull indeed, when I left him this morning;and natural enough he should be. "

"Yes, most natural. "

Then he said, after a little more conversation on their recent loss, "Emily, I came to tell you something very important--to me at least, "here the shamefaced look came back. "Oh, no, " he exclaimed, as a flashof amazement leaped out of her eyes; "nothing of that sort. "

"I am glad to hear it, " she answered, not able to forbear smiling; "butsit down then, you great, long-legged fellow, you put me out of conceitwith this room; you make the ceiling look too low. "

"Oh, do I?" said Valentine, and he sat down in a comfortable chair, andthought he could have been very happy with Emily, and did not know howto begin to tell her. 

"I must say I admire your taste, Emily, " he then said, looking abouthim, and shirking the great subject. 

Emily was a little surprised at his holding off in this way, so she inher turn took the opportunity to say something fresh; something that shethought he might as well hear. 

"And so John's dull, is he? Poor John! Do you know, Val, the last time Isaw him he was very cross. "

"Indeed! why was he cross?"

"It was about a month ago. He laughed, but I know he was cross. St. George and I went over at his breakfast-time to get the key of thishouse, which had been left with him; and, while I ran up-stairs to seethe children, he told St. George how, drawing up his blind to shave thatmorning, he had seen you chasing Barbara and Miss Green (that littletemporary governess of theirs) about the garden. Barbara threw somesnowballs at you, but you caught her and kissed her. "

"She is a kind of cousin, " Valentine murmured; "besides, she is a merechild. "

"But she is a very tall child, " said Emily. "She is within two inches astall as I am. Miss Green is certainly no child. "

Valentine did not wish to enter on that side of the question. "I'm sureI don't know how one can find out when to leave off kissing one'scousins, " he observed. 

"Oh! I can give you an easy rule for that, " said Emily; "leave off themoment you begin to care to do it: they will probably help you bybeginning, just about the same time, to think they have bestowed kissesenough. "

"It all arose out of my kindness, " said Valentine. "John had alreadybegun to be anxious about the dear old man, so I went over that morningbefore breakfast, and sent him up a message. His father was decidedlybetter; and as he had to take a journey that day, I thought he shouldknow it as soon as possible. But Emily----"

"Yes, dear boy?"

"I really did come to say something important. " And instantly as hespoke he felt what a tragical circumstance this was for some one else, and that such would be Emily's first thought and view of it. 

"What is it?" she exclaimed, now a little startled. 

Valentine had turned rather pale. He tasted the bitter ingredients inthis cup of prosperity more plainly now; and he wished that letter wasat the bottom of the sea. "Why--why it is something you will be verysorry for, too, " he said, his voice faltering. "It's poor little PeterMelcombe. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Emily, with an awestruck shudder. "There! I said so. "

"WHAT did you say?" cried Valentine, so much struck by her words that herecovered his self-possession instantly. 

"Poor, poor woman, " she went on, the ready tears falling on her cheeks;"and he was her only child!"

"But what do you mean, Emily?" continued Valentine, startled andsuspicious. "_What_ did you say?"

"Oh!" she answered, "nothing that I had any particular reason forsaying. I felt that it might be a great risk to take that delicate boyto Italy again, where he had been ill before, and I told John I wishedwe could prevent it. I could not forget that his death would be a finething for my brother, and I felt a sort of fear that this would be theend of it. "

Valentine was relieved. She evidently knew nothing, and he could listencalmly while she went on. 

"My mere sense of the danger made it a necessity for me to act. Isuppose you will be surprised when I tell you"--here two more tearsfell--"that I wrote to Mrs. Melcombe. I knew she was determined to go onthe Continent, and I said if she liked to leave her boy behind, I wouldtake charge of him. It was the day before dear Fred was taken ill. "

"And she declined!" said Valentine. "Well, it was very kind of you, verygood of you, and just like you. Let us hope poor Mrs. Melcombe does notremember it now. "

"Yes, she declined; said her boy had an excellent constitution. Wheredid the poor little fellow die?"

"At Corfu. "

Emily wept for sympathy with the mother, and Valentine sat stillopposite to her, and was glad of the silence; it pleased him to think ofthis that Emily had done, till all on a sudden some familiar words outof the Bible flashed into his mind, strange, quaint words, and it seemedmuch more as if somebody kept repeating them in his presence than as ifhe had turned them over himself to the surface, from among the mass ofscraps that were lying littered about in the chambers of his memory. "The words of Jonadab the son of Rechab, that he commanded his sons. "

"May I see the letter?" asked Emily. 

"There was no letter; we saw it in the _Times_, " said Valentine; andagain the mental repetition began. "The son of Rechab, that he commandedHIS sons, are performed; for unto this day----"

Emily had dried her eyes now. "Well, Val dear, " she said, and hesitated. 

"Oh, I wish she would give me time to get once straight through to theend, and have done with it, " thought Valentine. "'The words of Jonadabthe son of Rechab, that he commanded _his_ sons, are----' (yes, only thepoint of it is that they're not--not yet, at any rate) the words ofJonadab. "

Here Emily spoke again. "Well, Val, nobody ever came into an estate morenaturally and rightly than you do, for, however well you may havebehaved about it, and nobody could have behaved better, you must havefelt that as the old lady chose to leave all to one son, that should nothave been the youngest. I hope you will be happy; and I know you willmake a kind, good landlord. It seems quite providential that you shouldhave spent so much time in learning all about land and farming. I havealways felt that all which was best and nicest in you would come out, ifyou could have prosperity, and we now see that it was intended for you. "

Cordial, delightful words to Valentine; they almost made him forget thisletter that she had never heard of. 

"Oh, if you please, ma'am, " exclaimed a female servant, bursting intothe room, "Mr. Brandon's love to you. He has sent the pony-carriage, andhe wants you to come back in it directly. "

Something in the instant attention paid to this message, and thealacrity with which Emily ran up-stairs, as if perfectly ready, andexpectant of it, showed Valentine that it did not concern hisinheritance, but also what and whom it probably did concern, and hesauntered into the little hall to wait for Emily, put her into thecarriage and fold the rug round her, while he observed without muchsurprise that she had for the moment quite forgotten his specialaffairs, and was anxious and rather urgent to be off. 

Then he drove into Wigfield, considering in his own mind that if Johndid not know anything concerning the command in this strange letter, heand he only was the person who ought to be told and consulted about it. 

It rained now, and when he entered the bank and paused to take off hiswet coat, he saw on every face as it was lifted up that his news wasknown, and his heart beat so fast as he knocked at John's door that hehad hardly strength to obey the hearty "Come in. "

Two minutes would decide what John knew, and whether he also had amessage to give him from the dead. John was standing with his back tothe fire, grave and lost in thought. Valentine came in, and sat down onone side of the grate, putting his feet on the fender to warm them. Whenhe had done this, he longed to change his attitude, for John neithermoved nor spoke, and he could not see his face. His own agitation madehim feel that he was watched, and that he could not seem ill at ease, and must not be the first to move; but at last when the silence andimmobility of John became intolerable to him, he suddenly pushed backhis chair, and looked up. John then turned his head slightly, and theireyes met. 

"You know it, " said Valentine. 

"Yes, " John answered gravely, "of course. "

"Oh! what next, what next?" thought Valentine, and he spent two or threeminutes in such a tumult of keen expectation and eager excitement, thathe could hear every beat of his heart quite plainly, and then--

"It is a very great upset of all my plans, " John said, still with moregravity than usual. "I had fully intended--indeed, I had hoped, oldfellow, that you and I would be partners some day. "

"Oh, John, " exclaimed Valentine, a sudden revulsion of feeling almostovercoming him now he found that his fears as to what John might bethinking of were groundless. "Oh, John, I wish we could! It might be agreat deal better for me. And so you really did mean it? You are morelike a brother than anything else. I hate the thought of thatill-starred house; I think I'll stop here with you. "

"Nonsense, " said John, just as composedly and as gravely as ever; "whatdo you mean, you foolish lad?" But he appreciated the affectionValentine had expressed for him, and kindly put his hand on his youngrelative's shoulder. 

Valentine had never found it so hard to understand himself as at thatmoment. His course was free, Giles could not speak, and John knewnothing; yet either the firm clasp of a man's hand on his shoulderroused him to the fact that he cared for this man so much that he couldbe happier under his orders than free and his own master, or else hisfather's words gathered force by mere withdrawal of opposition. 

For a moment he almost wished John did know; he wanted to be fortifiedin his desire to remain with him; and yet--No! he could not tell him;that would be taking his fate out of his own hands for ever. 

"You think then I must--take it up; in short, go and live in it?" hesaid at length. 

"Think!" exclaimed John, with energy and vehemence; "why, who couldpossibly think otherwise?"

"I've always been accustomed to go in and out amongst a posse of my ownrelations. "

"Your own relations must come to you then, " answered John pleasantly, "I, for one. Why, Melcombe's only fifty or sixty miles off, man!"

"It seems to me now that I'm very sorry for that poor little fellow'sdeath, " Valentine went on. 

"Nobody could have behaved better during his lifetime than you havedone, " John said. "Why, Val, " he exclaimed, looking down, "you astonishme!"

Valentine was vainly struggling with tears. John went and bolted thedoor; then got some wine, and brought him a glass. 

"As calm as possible during my father's death and funeral, " he thought, "and now half choking himself, forsooth, because his fortune's made, andhe must leave his relations. I trust and hope, with all my heart, thatDorothea is not at the bottom of this! I supposed his nerves to bestrong enough for anything. "

Valentine was deadly pale. He put up a shaking hand for the glass, andas he drank the wine, and felt the blood creeping warmly about his limbsagain, he thought "John knows nothing whatever. No wonder he isastonished, he little thinks what a leap in the dark it is. "

And so the die was cast. 

A few days after this Gladys and Barbara received letters; the first ranas follows:--

"My dear young Friends, --Owe you three-and-sixpence for Blob's biscuits, do I? Don't you know that it is not polite to remind people of theirdebts? When you would have been paid that money I cannot think, if itwere not for a circumstance detailed below. I have just been readingthat the finest minds always possess a keen sense of humour, so if youfind nothing to laugh at in this, it will prove that there is nothingparticular in you. Did I ever think there was? Well, why _will_ you asksuch awkward questions?--Off!

 THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN. 

 Americus as he did wend With A. J. Mortimer, his chum, The two were greeted by a friend, "And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"

 He spread a note so crisp, so neat (Ho and Hi, and tender Hum), "If you of this a fifth can eat I'll give you the remainder. Come!"

 To the tuck-shop three repair (Ho and Hum, and pensive Hi), One looks on to see all's fair Two call out for hot mince pie. 

 Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns (Hi and Hum, and gorgeous Ho), Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones), All at once they cry "No go. "

 Than doth tuck-man smile. "Them there (Ho and Hi, and futile Hum) Jellies three and sixpence air, Use of spoons an equal sum. "

 Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er, "Tuckman, you're a brick, " they cry, Wildly then shake hands all four (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi). 

"N. B. --He spoke as good English as we did, and we did not shake handswith him. Such is poetic license. I may have exaggerated a little, as tothe number of things we ate. I repeat, I _may_ have done. You will neverbe able to appreciate me till you have learned to make allowance forsuch little eccentricities of genius. 

"Yours, with sentiments that would do anybody credit, "Gifford Crayshaw. "

The second letter, which was also addressed to both sisters, was fromJohnnie, and ran as follows:--

"Now look here, you two fellows are not to expect me to spend all myspare time in writing to you. Where do you think I am now? Why, atBrighton. 

"Val's a brick. Yesterday was our _Exeat_, and he came down to Harrow, called for me and Cray, and brought us here to the Old Ship Hotel. Wetwo chose the dinner, and in twenty minutes that dinner was gone like adream. Val and Cray made the unlucky waiter laugh till he dropped thebutter-boat. The waiter was a proud man--I never saw a prouder. He hadmade up his mind that nothing should make him laugh, but at last we hadhim. Beware of pride, my friends. 

"Then we went to the Aquarium. My wig! I never saw anything soextraordinary. It ought to be called the Aquaria, for there are dozensof them. They are like large rooms full of water, and you go and look inat the fish through the windows. No, they're more like caves than rooms, they have rocks for walls. Talk of the ancient Greeks! I'll never wishto be one of those fogies again! I've seen turtles now under water, sitting opposite to one another, bowing and looking each in his fellow'sface, just like two cats on a rug. Why the world's full of things that_they_ knew nothing about. 

"But I had no notion that fish were such fools, some of them, at least. There were some conger eels seven feet long, and when we stared at themthey went and stuck their little heads into crevices in the rocks. Ishould like to have reasoned with them, for they evidently thought theywere hidden, while, in fact, they were wriggling upside down, full inview. Well, so then we went to see the octopus. One was just like a pinksatin bag, covered with large ivory buttons, but that was only becauseit was inside out. While I was watching it I rather started, for I sawin a corner of the den close to me an enormous sort of bloated seatoadstool (as I thought), but it had eyes, it was covered with warts, itseemed very faint, and it heaved and panted. By that time aconglomeration like a mass of writhing serpents was letting itself downthe side of the den, and when it got to the bottom it shot out a head, made itself into the exact shape of an owl without wings, and began tofly about the place. That made three. 

"An old woman who was looking at them too, called out then, 'Oh, youbrute, I hate you, ' and Val said to her, 'My good lady, allow me tosuggest that it is not hatred you feel, but envy. Envy is a very badpassion, and it is our duty to try and restrain it. ' 'Sir, ' said theold lady, rather fiercely. 'No, we must not give way to envy, ' Valpersisted, 'though, indeed, what are we in comparison with creatures whocan turn themselves inside out as soon as look at you, fly withoutwings, and walk up a precipice by means of one pearl button?' 'If thepolice were after you, it might be handy to turn yourself inside out, I'll allow, ' she answered, in a very loud, angry voice, 'so as theyshould not know you; but I wouldn't, if I could, I'll assure you, youngman, no, that I wouldn't, not for all the pearl buttons in the world. '

"Well, I never wrote such a long letter in my life, it must count forthree, mind. We had a great deal more fun after that, but Val and I gotaway, because a little crowd collected. Cray stayed behind, pretendinghe did not belong to us, and he heard a man say, 'Perhaps thegentleman's a parson; that sort always think they ought to be_moralising_ about something or other. ' And he found out by their talkthat the old lady was a clearstarcher, so when she was alone again wewent back. Val said he should be some time at Brighton, and he gave herhis address and offered her his washing. She asked for his name, too, and he replied--you know how grave Val is--'Well, ma'am, I'm sorry tosay I cannot oblige you with my name, because I don't know it. All I amsure about is, that it begins with an M; but I've written up to London, and I shall know for a certainty the week after next. ' So she winked atme, and tapped herself on the forehead. Val is very much vexed becausehe came up to London about the will, and the lawyers say he cannot--orsomebody else, I don't know which--cannot administer it unless he takesthe name of Melcombe. So what he said was quite true, and afterwards weheard the old lady telling her friends that he was demented, but heseemed very harmless and good. 

"It's an extraordinary thing, isn't it, that Val has turned out to berich. Please thank father for writing and telling me about it all. Valdoesn't seem to care, and he hates changing his name. He was quitecrusty when we congratulated him. 

"Give my love to the kids, and tell them if they don't weed my gardenthey will catch it when I come home. 

"I remain, your deservedly revered brother, "A. J. M. "

A postscript followed, from Crayshaw:--

"What this fellow says is quite right, our letters are worth three ofyours. You never once mentioned my guinea-pigs in your last, and wedon't care whether there is a baby at Wigfield or not. Pretty, is he? Iknow better, they are all ugly. Fanny Crayshaw has just got another. Idetest babies; but George thinks (indeed many parents do) that theyoungest infant is just as much a human being as he is himself, evenwhen it is squalling, in fact more so. "

CHAPTER XXIII. 

DANTE AND OTHERS. 

 "He climbed the wall of heaven, and saw his love Safe at her singing; and he left his foes In vales of shadow weltering, unassoiled, Immortal sufferers henceforth, in both worlds. "

It was the middle of April. Valentine was gone, and the Mortimerchildren were running wild, for their nurse had suddenly departed onaccount of the airs of the new lady-housekeeper, who, moreover, hadquarrelled with the new governess. 

John was now without doubt Mr. Mortimer, the head of his family and allalone of his name, for Valentine had been obliged to take the name ofMelcombe, and, rather to the surprise of his family, had no sooner gotthings a little settled than he had started across the Continent to meetMrs. Peter Melcombe, and bring her home to England. 

Mr. Mortimer still felt his father's death, and he regretted Valentine'sabsence more than he cared to confess. He lost his temper rather often, at that particular season, for he did not know where to turn. Thehousekeeper and the governess insisted frequently on appealing to himagainst each other, about all sorts of matters that he knew nothing of, and the children took advantage of their feuds to do precisely as theypleased. John's house, though it showed evidently enough that it was arich man's abode, had a comfortable homeliness about it, but it hadalways been a costly house to keep, and now that it was less than everneedful to him to save money, he did not want to hear recriminationsconcerning such petty matters as the too frequent tuning of theschoolroom piano, and the unprofitable fabrics which had been bought forthe children's dresses. 

In less than two years Parliament would dissolve. It was now frequentlysaid that Mr. Mortimer was to stand for the borough of Wigfield; but howthis was compatible with the present state of his household he did notknow. 

"I suppose, " he said to himself one morning, with a mighty sigh, "Isuppose there is only one way out of it all. I really must take a likingto red hair. Well! not just yet. "

It was about ten o'clock in the morning when he said this, and he wassetting out to walk across the fields, and call for the first time onMrs. Frederic Walker. He was taking his three younger children with himto make an apology to her. 

Now that Mrs. Walker was a widow, she and Mr. Mortimer had halfunconsciously changed their manner slightly towards each other; theywere just as friendly as before, but not so familiar; the children, however, were very intimate with her. 

"She didn't want that bit of garden, " argued little Hugh, as one whofelt aggrieved; "and when she saw that we had taken it she onlylaughed. "

The fact was, that finding a small piece of waste ground at the back ofMrs. Walker's shrubbery, the children had dug it over, divided it withoyster-shells into four portions, planted it with bulbs and roots, andin their own opinion it was now theirs. They came rather frequently todig in it. Sometimes on these occasions they went in-doors to see "Mrs. Nemily, " and perhaps partake of bread and jam. Once they came in tocomplain of her gardener, who had been weeding in _their_ gardens. Theywished her to forbid this. Emily laughed, and said she would. 

Their course of honest industry was, however, discovered at last by thetwins; and now they were to give up the gardens, which seemed a sadpity, just when they had been intending to put in spring crops. 

Some people never really _have_ anything. It is not only that they canget no good out of things (that is common even among those who are ableboth to have and to hold), but that they don't know how to reign overtheir possessions and appropriate them. 

Their chattels appear to know this, and despise them; their dogs runafter other men; the best branches of their rose-trees climb over thegarden-wall, and people who smell at the flowers there appear to supplya reason for any roses being planted inside. Such people always knowtheir weak point, and spend their own money as if they had stolen it. 

The little Mortimers were not related to them. Here was a piece ofground which nobody cultivated; it manifestly wanted owners; they tookit, weeded it, and flung out all the weeds into Mrs. Walker's garden. 

The morning was warm; a south wind was fluttering the half-unfoldedleaf-buds, and spreading abroad the soft odour of violets and primroseswhich covered the sunny slopes. 

John's children, when they came in at Mrs. Walker's drawing-room window, brought some of this delicate fragrance of the spring upon their hairand clothes. Grown-up people are not in the habit of rolling about, ortumbling down over beds of flowers. They must take the consequences, andleave the ambrosial scents of the wood behind them. 

John himself, who had not been prepared to see them run off from him atthe last moment, beheld their active little legs disappearing as theygot over the low ledge of the open window. He, however, did not followtheir example, but walked round to the front of the house, and was showninto the drawing-room, after ringing the bell, Emily lifting up herhead at his entrance with evident surprise. He was surprised too, evenstartled, for on a sofa opposite to her sat a lady whom he had beenthinking of a good deal during the previous month--her of the goldenhead, Miss Justina Fairbairn. It was evident that the children had notannounced his intended call. 

Miss Justina Fairbairn was the daughter of an old K. C. B. Deceased. Sheand her mother were poor, but they were much respected as sensible, dignified women; and they had that kind of good opinion of themselveswhich those who hold in sincerity (having no doubt or misgiving) cangenerally spread among their friends. 

Miss Fairbairn was a fine, tall woman, with something composed and evenmotherly in her appearance; her fair and rather wide face had asatisfied, calm expression, excepting when she chanced to meet John, andthen a flash would come from those cold blue eyes, a certain hope, doubt, or feeling of suspense would assert itself in spite of her. Itnever rose to actual expectation, for she was most reasonable; and Johnhad never shown her any attention; but she had a sincere conviction thata marriage with her would be the best and most suitable that waspossible for him. It was almost inconceivable, she thought, that hecould escape the knowledge of this fact long. She was so every waysuitable. She was about thirty-two years of age, and she felt sure heought not to marry a younger woman. 

Many people thought as she did, that Mr. Mortimer could not do betterthan marry Miss Fairbairn; and it is highly probable that this opinionhad originated with herself, though it must be well understood that shehad not expressed it. Thoughts are certainly able to spread themselveswithout the aid of looks or language. Invisible seed that floats fromthe parent plant can root itself wherever it settles and thoughts musthave some medium through which they sail till they reach minds that cantake them in, and there they strike root, and whole crops of the samesort come up, just as if they were indigenous, and naturally belongingto their entertainers. This is even more true in great matters than insmall. 

Miss Fairbairn, as usual when she saw John, became gracious. John wasthought to be a very intellectual man; she was intellectual, and meantto be more so. John was specially fond of his children; her talkconcerning children should be both wise and kind. 

Real love of children and childhood is, however, a quality that no onecan successfully feign. John had occasionally been seen, by observantmatrons and maids, to attempt with a certain uncouth tenderness to dohis children womanly service. He could tie their bonnet-strings andsashes when these came undone. They had been known to apply to himduring a walk to take stones out of their boots, and also to lace theseup again. 

Why should we write of children as if they were just like grown-uppeople? They are not in the least like, any more than they are like oneanother; but here they are, and if we can neither love nor understandthem, woe betide us!

"No more crying, my dear, " John had said that morning to his youngestdaughter. 

He had just administered a reproof to her as he sat at breakfast, forsome infantile delinquency; and she, sniffing and sobbing piteously, testified a desire to kiss him in token of penitence. 

"I'm good now, " she remarked. 

"Where's your pocket-handkerchief?" said her father, with magisterialdignity. 

The infant replied that she had lost it, and straightway asked to borrowhis. 

John lent the article, and having made use of it, she pushed it backwith all good faith into his breast-pocket, and repeating, "I'm goodnow, " received the coveted kiss, and presently after a donation ofbuttered toast, upon which she became as happy as ever. 

In ordinary life it devolves on the mother to lend a handkerchief; butif children have none, there are fathers who can rise to such occasions, and not feel afterwards as if heroic sacrifices had been demanded ofthem. 

John Mortimer felt that Miss Fairbairn had never before greeted him withso much _empressement_. They sat down, and she immediately began to talkto him. A flattering hope that he had known of her presence, and hadcome at once to see her, gave her just the degree of excitement that shewanted to enable her to produce her thoughts at their best; while he, accustomed by experience to caution, and not ready yet to commithimself, longed to remark that he had been surprised as well as pleasedto see her. But he found no opportunity at first to do it; and in themeantime Emily sat and looked on, and listened to their conversationwith an air of easy _insouciance_ very natural and becoming to her. Emily was seven-and-twenty, and had always been accustomed to defer toMiss Fairbairn as much older as well as wiser than herself; and thisdeference did not seem out of place, for the large, fair spinster madethe young matron look slender and girlish. 

John Mortimer remembered how Emily had said a year ago that he could notdo better than marry Justina. He thought she had invited her there tothat end; and as he talked he took care to express to her by looks hisgood-humoured defiance; whereupon she defended herself with her eyes, and punished him by saying--

"I thought you would come to-day perhaps and see my little house. Do youlike it, John? I have been in it less than three months, and I amalready quite attached to it. Miss Fairbairn only came last night, andshe is delighted with it. "

"Yes, " said Justina, "I only came last night;" and an air ofirrepressible satisfaction spread itself over her face--that Mr. Mortimershould have walked over to see her this very first morning was beyondher utmost hopes. She had caused Emily to invite her at that particulartime that she might often see John; and here he was. 

"Emily thinks it a pointed thing, my coming at once, " he cogitated. "Shereminds me, too, that friendship for her did not bring me. Well, I wastoo much out of spirits to come a month ago. "

Emily's eyes flashed and softened when she saw him out of countenance, and a little twist came in her lips where a smile would like to havebroken through. She was still in crape, and wore the delicate gossamerof her widow's cap, with long, wing-like streamers falling away at herback; and while she sat at work on a cumbersome knitted shawl shelistened with an air of docility to Justina's conversation, withoutnoticing that a touch of dismay was beginning to show itself in John'sface; for Miss Fairbairn had begun to speak of Italian literature, asubject she had been getting up lately for certain good reasons of herown. She dared to talk about Dante, and John was almost at once keenlyaware that all this learning was sham--it was the outcome of no realtaste; and he felt like a fool while one of the ladies did the wooingand the other, as he thought, amused herself with watching it. He wasaccustomed to be wooed, and to be watched, but he had been trying forsome time to bring his mind to like the present wooer. While away fromher he fancied that he had begun to succeed, and now he knew well thatthis sort of talk would drive him wild in a week. It represented nothingreal. No; the thing would not do. She was a good woman; she would haveruled his house well; she would have been just to his children; and ifhe had established her in all comfort and elegance over his family, hemight have left her, and attended to those prospective Parliamentaryduties as long as he liked, without annoying her. She was a lady too, and her mother, old Lady Fairbairn, was a pleasant and unexceptionablewoman. But she was making herself ridiculous now. No; it would not do. 

Giving her up then and there, he suddenly started from his seat as if hefelt relieved, and drawing himself to his full height, looked down onthe two ladies, one of whom, lifting her golden head, continued thewooing with her eyes, while the other said carelessly and with adispassionate air--

"Well, I cannot think how you or John or any one can like thatbitter-hearted, odious, cruel Dante. "

"Emily, " exclaimed Miss Fairbairn, "how can you be so absurd, dear?"

"I wonder they did not tear him into little bits, " continued Emilyaudaciously, "instead of merely banishing him, which was all theydid--wasn't it, John?"

"I cannot imagine what you mean, " exclaimed Miss Fairbairn, while Johnlaughed, and felt that at least here was something real and natural. 

"You cannot? That's because you don't consider, then, what we shouldfeel if somebody now were to write a grand poem about our fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, and dear friends deceased, setting forth how hehad seen them all in the nether regions; how he had received theirconfidences, and how penitent most of them were. Persecuted, indeed! andmisunderstood! I consider that his was the deadliest revenge any manever took upon his enemies. "

Miss Fairbairn's brow, on hearing this, contracted with pain; for Johnlaughed again, and turning slightly towards Emily as he stood leaningagainst the window-frame, took the opportunity to get away from thesubject of Italian literature, and ask her some question about herknitting. 

"It must be something to give away, I am sure. You are always giving. "

"But you know, John, " she answered, as if excusing herself, "we are notat all sure that we shall have any possessions, anything of our own, inthe future life--anything, consequently, to give away. Perhaps it willall belong to all. So let us have enough of giving while we can, andenjoy the best part of possession. "

"Dear Emily, " said Miss Fairbairn kindly, "you should not indulge inthese unauthorised fancies. "

"But it so chances that this is not for a poor person, " observed Emily, "but for dear Aunt Christie. "

"Ah, she was always very well while she lived with me, " said John; "butI hear a very different account of her now. "

"Yes; she has rheumatism in her foot; so that she is obliged to situp-stairs. John, you should go and see her. "

"I will take Mr. Mortimer to her, " said Justina, rising serenely. Thisshe thought would break off the conversation, in which she had no part. 

So John went up to Miss Christie's little sitting-room, and there shewas, bolt upright, with her lame foot on a cushion. By this visit hegave unmixed pleasure to the old lady, and afforded opportunity to theyounger one for some pleasant, reasonable speeches, and for a littleeffective waiting on the invalid, as well as for some covertcompliments. 

"Ay, John Mortimer, " quoth Miss Christie, with an audacious twinkle inher eyes, "I'm no that clear that I don't deserve all the pain I've gotfor my sins against ye. "

"Against me!" exclaimed John, amazed. 

"Some very bad advice I gave ye, John, " she continued, while MissFairbairn, a little surprised, looked on. 

"Make your mind easy, " John answered with mock gravity, for he knewwell enough what she meant. "I never follow bad advice. I promise not tofollow yours. "

"What was your advice, dear?" asked Miss Fairbairn sweetly, her goldenhead within a yard of John's as she stooped forward. "I wonder youshould have ventured to give advice to such a man as Mr. Mortimer. People always seem to think that in any matter of consequence they arelucky if they can get advice from him. "

John drew a long breath, and experienced a strong sense of compunction;but Miss Christie was merely relieved, and she began to talk with deepinterest about the new governess and the new housekeeper. 

Miss Fairbairn brought John down again as soon as she could, and tookthe opportunity to engage his attention on the stairs, by asking him aquestion on some political subject that really interested him; and he, like a straightforward man, falling into the trap, began to give her hisviews respecting it. 

But as he opened the drawing-room door for her, his three children, whoall this time had been in the garden, came running in at the window, andbefore he and Miss Fairbairn were seated, his two little boys, treadingon Mrs. Walker's crape, were thrusting some large handfuls of flowersalmost into her face, while Anastasia emptied a lapful on to her knees. Emily accepted them graciously. 

"And so, " little Hugh exclaimed, "as father said we were not to have thegardens, we thought we had better gather all the flowers, because _they_are our own, you know, " he proceeded; "for we bought most of the bulbswith our own money; and they're all for you. "

Hyacinths, narcissus, wallflowers, polyanthus, they continued to be heldup for her inspection. 

"And you'll let us put them in water ourselves, won't you?" saidBertram. 

"Yes, she will, Bertie, " cried Hugh. 

"Don't tread on Mrs. Walker's dress, " John began, and the sprites, asif in ready obedience, were off in an instant; but in reality they weregone to find vases for the flowers, Emily looking up with all composure, though a good deal of scrambling and arguing were heard through the opendoor. 

"We found these in the pantry, " exclaimed the two little boys, returning, each with a dish in his hand. "Nancy wanted to get somewater, but we wouldn't let her. "

"Come here, " exclaimed John with gravity; "come here, and shut the door. Emily, I brought these imps on purpose to apologize for their highmisdemeanours. "

Thereupon the two little boys blushed and hung their heads. It wasnothing to have taken the garden, but it daunted them to have toacknowledge the fault. Before they had said a word, however, a shrilllittle voice cried out behind them--

"But I can't do my _apologize_ yet, father, because I've got a pin in mycape, and it pricks, and somebody must take it out. "

"I cannot get the least pretence of penitence out of any one of them, "exclaimed John, unable to forbear laughing. "I must make the apologymyself, Emily. I am very much afraid that these gardens were takenwithout leave; they were not given at all. "

"I have heard you say more than once, " answered Emily, with an easysmile, "that it is the privilege of the giver to forget. I never had avery good memory. "

"But they confessed themselves that they _took_ them. "

"Well, John, then if you said they were to apologize, " answered Emily, giving them just the shadow of a smile, "of course they must;" and sothey did, the little boys with hot blushes and flashing eyes, the littlegirl with innocent unconsciousness of shame. Then "Mrs. Nemily" ratherspoilt the dignity of the occasion by taking her up and kissing her;upon which the child inquired in a loud whisper--

"But now we've done our _apologize_, we may keep our gardens, mayn'twe?"

At this neither she nor John could help laughing. 

"You may, if papa has no objection, " said Emily, suddenly aware of acertain set look about Miss Fairbairn's lips, and a glance of reproof, almost of anguish, from her stern blue eye. 

Miss Fairbairn had that morning tasted the sweetness of hope, and shenow experienced a sharp pang of jealousy when she saw the childrenhanging about Emily with familiar friendliness, treading on her tucks, whispering confidences in her ears, and putting their flowers on theclean chintz of her ottomans. These things Justina would have foundintolerable if done to herself, unless in their father's presence. Eventhen she would have only welcomed them for the sake of diverting themfrom Emily. 

She felt sure that at first all had been as she hoped, and as it oughtto be; and she could not refrain from darting a glance of reproof atEmily. She even felt as if it was wrong of John to be thus beguiled intoturning away when he ought to have been cultivating his acquaintancewith her mind and character. It was still more wrong of Emily to beattracting his notice and drawing him away from his true place, hisinterest, and now almost his duty. 

Emily, with instant docility, put the little Anastasia down and took upher knitting, while Miss Fairbairn, suddenly feigning a great interestin horticulture, asked after John's old gardener, who she heard had justtaken another prize. 

"The old man is very well, " said John, "and if you and Mrs. Walker wouldcome over some morning, I am sure he would be proud to show you theflowers. "

Miss Fairbairn instantly accepted the proposal. 

"I always took an interest in that old man, " she observed; "he is sooriginal. "

"Yes, he is, " said John. 

"But at what time of day are you generally at home, " she continued, notobserving, or perhaps not intending to observe that the flowers couldhave been shown during their owner's absence. "At luncheon time, or atwhat time?"

John, thus appealed to, paused an instant; he had never thought ofcoming home to entertain the ladies, but he could not be inhospitable, and he concluded that the mistake was real. "At luncheon time, " hepresently said, and named a day when he would be at home, being verycareful to address the invitation to Mrs. Walker. 

He then retired with his children, who were now in very good spirits;they gave their hands to Justina, who would have liked to kiss them, butthe sprites skipped away in their father's wake, and while he walkedhome, lost in thought on grave and serious things, they broke in everynow and then with their childish speculations on life and manners. 

"Swanny must put on his Sunday coat when they come, and his orangehandkerchief that Janie hemmed for him because Mrs. Swan's fingers areall crumpled up, " said the little girl. 

"Father, what's a Methodist?" asked Hugh. 

Before John could answer little Bertram informed his brother, "It is athing about not going to church. It has nothing to do with her fingersbeing crumpled up, that's rheumatism. "

CHAPTER XXIV. 

SELF-WONDER AND SELF-SCORN. 

 "Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why. "

 A. BROME. 

As John and his children withdrew together through the garden, JustinaFairbairn sat with her work on her knees, watching them. 

"Mr. Mortimer is six-and-thirty, is he not?" she asked. 

"Yes, " answered Emily. 

"How much he improves in appearance!" she observed; "he used not to bethought handsome when he was very young--he is both handsome and statelynow. "

"It is the way with the Mortimers, I think, " said Emily. "I should notwonder if in ten years' time Val is just as majestic as the old men usedto be, though he has no dignity at all about him now. "

"Yes, majesty is the right word, " said Justina serenely. "Mr. Mortimerhas a finer presence, a finer carriage than formerly; it may be partlybecause he is not so very thin as he used to be. "

"Perhaps so, " said Emily. 

"And this was his first call, " continued Justina, obliged to makeopenings for herself through which to push what she had to say. "Isuppose, dear, you could hardly fail to notice how matters were going. This calling at once, and his bringing the children too; and his wishto find out my opinions, and tell me his own on various subjects. "

Silence on the part of the hostess. 

"I could almost have wished, dear Emily, that you had not----"

She paused. "Had not what?" asked Emily. 

Miss Fairbairn remembered that she was Mrs. Walker's guest, and that itbehoved her not to offend her hostess, because she wanted to stay inthat house as long as possible. She would like to have finished herspeech thus: "that you had not engrossed the children so completely;"but she said instead, with a little smile meant to look conscious, "Ibelieve I meant, dear, that I should have been very glad to talk to thechildren myself. "

She felt that this reply fell rather flat, but she knew that Emily mustimmediately be made aware of what she now hoped was really the state ofthe case, and must also be made to help her. 

No surprise was expressed, but Mrs. Walker did not make any replywhatever, so she continued, --

"You look surprised, dear, but surely what I have hinted at cannot be anew thought to you, " and as it did not suit her to drop the subject yet, she proceeded. "No, I see by your smile that it is not. I confess Ishould have liked to talk to them, for, " she added, with a sigh ofcontentment, "the task, I see very plainly before me, is always adifficult one to undertake. "

Still Emily was silent; she seemed lost in thought; indeed, she wasconsidering among other things that it was little more than a year sinceshe and John had discussed Justina together; was there, could therereally be, anything between them now?

Justina watched her, and wished she could know what effect these hintshad taken. Emily had always behaved in such a high-minded, noble way toher lovers, and been so generous to other women, that Justina dependedon her now. The lower nature paid homage to the higher, even to thepoint of believing in a sense of honour quite alien to its ownexperience. There was not the least reason to suppose that Emily caredabout John Mortimer, but she wanted her to stand aside lest he shouldtake it into his head to begin to care for her. So many men had beeninfatuated about Emily, but Emily had never wished to rob another womanfor the mere vanity of spoliation, and Justina's opinion of her actuallywas that if she could be made to believe that she, Justina, had anyrights in John Mortimer, she would not stand in her light, even thoughshe might have begun to think highly of his house, and his position, asadvantageous for herself. Love she did not take into her consideration, she neither felt that nor imputed it to others. 

She was thoroughly mean herself, but if Emily had done anything mean, itwould positively have shaken her faith and trust in Goodness itself. Itwould actually have been bad for her, and there is no saying how muchlower she might have declined, if one of the few persons she believed inhad made a descent. 

Though she thought thus of Emily, she had notwithstanding felt towardsher a kind of serene superiority, as might be felt towards one who couldonly look straight before her, by one who could see round a corner; butthat morning, for the first time, she had begun to fear her, toacknowledge a certain charm in her careless, but by no means ungraciousindifference; in her sweet, natural ways with John's children, and inthose dark lashes which clouded her soft grey eyes. 

The contradictions in her face were dangerous; there was a wistfulyearning in her smile; joyous as her laugh sounded, she often put a stopto its sudden sweetness with a sigh. 

Justina felt Emily's silence very oppressive, and while it lasted shefully expected that it would be broken at last by some important words. 

Emily might tell her that she must be deceiving herself, and might beable to give such decisive proof of the fact as would oblige her to giveup this new hope. That was what Justina feared. On the other hand, shemight show her ignorance and lighten Justina's heart by merely askingher whether she thought she could love and bear with another woman'schildren. She might even ask whether John Mortimer had made hisintentions plain. 

But no, when Emily did speak, she appeared completely to ignore thesehints, though her face retained its air of wonder and cogitation. 

"By-the-bye, Justina, " she said, "you put me a little out of countenancejust now. John Mortimer never meant to ask us to luncheon; I know heseldom or ever comes home in the middle of the day. "

"Are you sure of that?" said Justina. 

"Quite sure; you invited yourself. "

"Did I make a mistake? Well, if he did not at first intend it, hecertainly caught at the notion afterwards. "

"Do you think so? I thought, on the contrary, that he spent some momentsin considering what day he could spare to come and receive us. "

"Perhaps it is just as well, " answered Justina; "I should have felt veryawkward going about his house and garden in his absence. "

"Justina, " said Emily, driven at last to front the question, "how muchdo you wish me to understand?"

"Nothing at all, dear, but what you see, " she replied, without liftingher head from her work; then she added, "Do those children come hereoften?"

"Two or three times a week, I think, " answered Emily, with a degree ofcarelessness that attracted Miss Fairbairn's attention. She had appearedmore than commonly indifferent that morning, she had hardly responded tothe loving caresses of John's children, but this had seemed to signifynothing, they came and hung about her just the same. 

"They had taken those gardens some time before I found it out, " shecontinued. "They run through the copses and through those three or fourfields that belong to John, and get into my garden over thestepping-stones in the brook. "

"They must feel very sure of their welcome, " said Justina, ratherpointedly. 

"Yes, " answered Emily, also rather pointedly; "but I have never invitedthem to come, never once; there is, as you see, no occasion. "

Holding her graceful head a little higher than usual, she folded up hernow finished shawl, ran up-stairs with it to Miss Christie's room, andwas conscious almost at once (or she fancied so) that her old auntlooked at her with a certain air of scrutiny, not unmixed withamusement. She was relieved when she had put on her gift to hear MissChristie say, "Well, ye'll be glad to know that I feel more at my easenow than I've done for some time. "

There had been such an air of triumph in Miss Christie's glance thatEmily was pleased to find she was only exultant on account of herhealth. She expressed her gladness, and assured the old lady she wouldsoon be as active as ever. 

"It's no my foot I'm thinking of, " answered Miss Christie, "but some badadvice that weighed on my mind--bad advice that I've given to JohnMortimer. " Thereupon she related the conversation in which she hadrecommended Miss Fairbairn to him. 

Emily sat very still--so still, that she hardly seemed to breathe, then, looking up, she said, perhaps rather more calmly and quietly than washer wont--

"Several people have thought it would be a good thing for John to marryJustina Fairbairn. "

"And I was one of them, " quoth Miss Christie, her eyes sparkling withjoy and malice, "but I've thought lately that I was just mistaken, " andshe presently related what had passed between her and John thatmorning. 

Emily's fair cheek took a slight blush-rose tint. If she felt relieved, this did not appear; perhaps she thought, "Under like circumstances Johnwould speak just so of me. " The old lady had been silent some momentsbefore Emily answered, and when she did speak she said--

"What! you and John actually joked about poor Justina in her presence, auntie?"

"Did I see him in her absence?" inquired Miss Christie, excusingherself. "I tell ye, child, I've changed my mind. John Mortimer's aworld too good for her. Aye, but he looked grand this morning. "

"Yes, " answered Emily, "but it is a pity he thinks all the women are inlove with him!" Then, feeling that she had been unjust, she correctedherself, "No, I mean that he is so keenly aware how many women there arein the neighbourhood who would gladly marry him. "

"Aware!" quoth Miss Christie, instantly taking his part. "Aware, indeed!Can he ever go out, or stop at home, that somebody doesn't try to makehim aware! Small blame to them, " she added with a laugh, "few men canhold their heads higher, either moreally or pheesically, and he has hispockets full of money besides. "

Emily got away from Miss Christie as soon as she could, put on herbonnet, and went into the garden. 

The air was soft, and almost oppressively mild, for the bracing eastwind was gone, and a tender wooing zephyr was fluttering among thecrumbled leaves, and helping them to their expansion. Before she knewwhat instinct had taken her there, she found herself standing by thefour little gardens, listening to the cheerful dance of the water amongthe stepping-stones, and looking at the small footsteps of the children, which were printed all over their property. 

Yes, there was no mistake about that, her empty heart had taken them inwith no thought and no fear of anything that might follow. 

Only the other day and her thoughts had been as free as air, there was asorrowful shadow lying behind her; when she chose, she looked back intoit, recalled the confiding trust, and marital pride, and instinctivecourage of her late husband, and was sufficiently mistress of her pastto muse no more on his unopened mind, and petty ambitions, and smallrange, of thought. He was gone to heaven, he could see farther now, andas for these matters, she had hidden them; they were shut down intonight and oblivion, with the dust of what had once been a faithfulheart. 

Fred Walker had been as one short-sighted, who only sees things close athand, but sees them clearly. 

Emily was very long-sighted, but in a vast range of vision arecomprehended many things that the keenest eyes cannot wholly define, andsome that are confused with their own shadows. 

Things near she saw as plainly as he had done, but the wondrous widedistance drew her now and again away from these. The life of to-daywould sometimes spend itself in gazing over the life in her whole day. Her life, as she felt it, yearning and passioning, would appear tooverflow the little cup of its separation, or take reflections fromother lives, till it was hardly all itself, so much as a small part ofthe great whole, God's immortal child, the wonderful race of mankind, held in the hand of its fashioner, and conscious of some yearning, theancient yearning towards its source. 

Emily moved slowly home again, and felt rather sensitive about theproposed luncheon at John Mortimer's house. She wished she had managedto spare him from being obliged to give the invitation. She evenconsidered whether Justina could be induced to go alone. But there wasno engagement that could be pleaded as a reason for absenting herself. What must be done was before they went, to try, without giving needlesspain, to place the matter in a truer light. This would only be fair topoor Justina. 

Emily scarcely confessed to her own heart that she was glad of what MissChristie had said. She was not, from any thought that it could make theleast difference to herself, but, upon reflection, she felt ashamed ofhow John Mortimer had been wooed, and of how he had betrayed by hissmile that he knew it. 

That day was a Tuesday, the luncheon was to take place on Saturday, buton Friday afternoon Emily had not found courage or occasion to speak toher friend. The more she thought about it, the more difficult andungracious the matter seemed. 

Such was the state of things. Miss Christie was still up-stairs, Justinawas seated at work in the drawing-room, and Emily, arrayed in a lilacprint apron, was planting some fresh ferns in her _jardiniere_ when thedoor was opened, and the servant announced Mr. Mortimer. Emily wasfinishing her horticulture, and was not at all the kind of person to beput out of countenance on being discovered at any occupation that itsuited her fancy to be engaged in. She, however, blushed beautifully, just as any other woman might have done, on being discovered in herdrawing-room so arrayed, and her hands acquainted with peat. 

She presently left the room. John knew she was gone to wash her hands, and hoped she would not stay away long. "For it won't do, my lady, " hethought, "however long you leave me. I will not make an offer to thepresent candidate, that I am determined!"

In the meantime Justina, wishing to say something of Emily that wouldsound amiable, and yet help her own cause, remarked pleasantly--

"Emily is a dear, careless creature--just like what she was as a girl"(careless creatures, by the bye, are not at all suited to bestepmothers). 

"Yes, " answered John, in an abstracted tone, and as if he was notconsidering Mrs. Walker's mental characteristics, which was the case, for he was merely occupied in wishing she would return. 

"But she wishes to look well, notwithstanding, " continued Justina, as ifexcusing her, "so no wonder she goes to divest herself of herhousemaid's apron. "

"Ah, " said John, who was no great observer of apparel, "I thought shewas not dressed as usual;" but he added, "she is so graceful, that inany array she cannot fail to look well. "

Justina looked up feeling hurt, and also a little surprised. Here shewas, alone with John Mortimer for the first time in her life, and he wasentertaining her with the praise of another woman; but she had a greatdeal of self-command, and she began almost at once to ask him somequestions about his children. She had a most excellent governess torecommend, and was it not true that they wanted a nurse also? Yes, Mr. Mortimer did want both, and, as Justina had been writing to every friendshe had about these functionaries, and had heard of several, shementioned in each case the one she thought most suitable, and John, muchpleased at the happy chance which brought such treasures before him, wasdeep in conversation about them when Emily reappeared, and then, toJustina's great annoyance, he took down two addresses, and broke off theconversation with her instantly to say--

"Emily, I am come to make the humblest apologies possible. I find that Iam absolutely obliged to go to London to-morrow on a matter that cannotbe postponed. "

Justina was greatly mortified, but she answered instantly, and notEmily--

"Ah, then of course you are come to put us off, Mr. Mortimer?"

There was no undue stress on the words "put us off, " but they suggestedan idea to John that was new to him, and he would have felt called uponto act upon them, and renew the invitation, if Emily had not answeredjust as if she had heard not a syllable. 

"We shall be sorry to miss you, John, when we come, but no doubt thechildren will be at home, and the girls. "

"Yes, " said John, slipping into this arrangement so easily, that howlittle he cared about her visit ought to have been at once made plain toJustina. "Oh yes, and they will be so proud to entertain you. I hope youwill honour them, as was intended, by coming to lunch. "

"Yes, to be sure, " Emily answered with readiness. "I hope the auriculaswill not have begun to fade, they are Miss Fairbairn's favouriteflower. "

Then, to the intense mortification of Justina, John changed the subject, as if it had been one of no moment to him. "I have been over toWigfield-house this afternoon to pay my respects to Mrs. Brandon and herboy. "

"You found them well, I know, for we were there this morning. "

"Perfectly well, " said John, and he laughed. "Giles was marching aboutin the garden with that astonishing infant lying flat on his arm, andwith its long robes dangling down. Dorothea (come out, I was told, forthe first time) was walking beside him, and looking like a girl ofsixteen. I believe when I approached they were discussing to whatcalling in life they would bring up the youngster. I was desired toremark his uncommon likeness to his father; told that he was considereda very fine child, and I should have had the privilege of looking at hislittle downy black head, but his mother decided not to accord it, lesthe should take cold. "

"And so you laugh at her maternal folly, " said Justina smiling, but notdispleased at what sounded like disparagement of an attractive youngwoman. 

"I laugh at it?--yes! but as a man who feels that it is the one lovelyfolly of the world. Who could bear to think of all that childhooddemands of womanhood, if he did not bear in mind the sweet delusiveglamour that washes every woman's eyes ere she catches sight of thesmall mortal sent to be her charge. "

Then Justina, who had found a few moments for recovering herself anddeciding how to act, took the conversation again into her own hands, andvery soon, in spite of Emily, who did not dare to interfere again, JohnMortimer was brought quite naturally and inevitably to add to the desirethat they would the next day visit his children, an invitation toluncheon after he should have returned. 

Justina accepted. 

"But it must not be this day week, " she observed with quiet complacency, "for that is to be the baby's christening day, and I am asked to be hisgodmother. "

Emily could not forbear to look up; John's face was quite a study. Hehad just been asked to stand for the child, had consented, and whom hemight have for companions he had not thought of asking. 

"It will be the first anniversary of their wedding, " said Emily by wayof saying something, for John's silence began to be awkward. 

Mrs. Brandon, having been charmed with the sensible serenity of MissFairbairn's conversation, and with the candour and straightforwardnessthat distinguished her, had cultivated her acquaintance with assiduity, and was at that moment thinking how fortunate she was in her baby'ssponsors. 

When Justina found that John Mortimer was to be present at thischristening, and in such a capacity too, she accomplished the best blushher cheek had worn for years. It was almost like an utterance, socompletely did it make her feelings known. As for John, he had veryseldom in his life looked as foolish as he did then. 

Why had he been asked together with Miss Fairbairn? Whatever he mighthave thought concerning her, his thought was his own; he had never madeit manifest by paying her the least attention. He did not like her nowso well as he might have done, if he had not tried and failed to makehimself like her more. She was almost the only woman now concerning whomhe felt strongly that she would not do for him. Surely people did notthink he had any intentions towards her. He sat silent and discomfitedtill Emily, again quite aware of his feelings, and sure he wanted to go, made the opportunity for him, helped him to take advantage of it, andreceived a somewhat significant smile of thanks as he departed. 

"Emily, " exclaimed Justina, as soon as the door was shut, "what can yoube thinking of? You almost dismissed Mr. Mortimer! Surely, surely youcannot wish to prevent his coming here to see me. "

Justina spoke with a displeasure that she hardly cared to moderate. Emily stood listening till she was sure John Mortimer had left herhouse, then she said something that was meant to serve for an answer, got away as soon as she could, ran up-stairs, hurried to her own room, and locked the door. 

"Not alone!" was her first startled thought, but it was soinstantaneously corrected that it had scarcely time to shape itself intowords. The large cheval glass had been moved by her own orders, and asshe stood just within the door, it sent back her image to her, reflectedfrom head to foot. 

She advanced gazing at herself, at the rich folds of her black silk gownmade heavy with crape, and at the frail gossamer she carried on herhead, and which, as she came on, let its long appendages float out likepennons in her wake. Emily had such a high, almost fantastic notion offeminine dignity (fantastic because it left too much out of view thatwoman also is a human creature), that till this day it might almost havebeen said she had not taken even her own self into her confidence. Shehardly believed it, and it seems a pity to tell. 

Her eyes flashed with anger, while she advanced, as if they would defythe fair widow coming on in those seemly weeds. 

"How dare you blush?" she cried out almost aloud. "Only a year and afortnight ago kneeling by his coffin--how dare you blush? I scorn you!"

She put her hands to her throat, conscious of that nervous rising whichsome people call a ball in it; then she sat down full in view ofherself, and felt as if she should choke. She was so new to the powerfulfetters that had hold of her, were dragging her on, frightening her, subduing her. 

Was she never to do or to be any more what she chose--never to know therest and sweetness of forgetting even for a little while? Why must shebe mastered by a voice that did not care at all whether its cadence andits fall were marked by her or not? Why must she tremble and falter evenin her prayer, if a foot came up the aisle that she could not bear tomiss, and yet that was treading down, and doomed, if this went on, totread down all reviving joy, and every springtide flower that wasbudding in her heart?

"No more to be kept back than the rising of the tide"--these were herwords--"but, oh, not foreseen as that is, and not to go down any more. "

She almost raged against herself. How could she have come there--howcould she, why had she never considered what might occur? Then she sheda few passionate tears. "Is it really true, Justina Fairbairn's would-berival? And neither of us has the slightest chance in the world. Oh, oh, if anything--anything that ever was or could be, was able to work acure, it would be what I have seen twice this week. It would be to watchanother woman making a fool of herself to win his favour, and to see himsmile and know it. Oh, this is too miserable, far too humiliating. Theother day, when he came, I cared so little; to-day I could hardly lookhim in the face. "

Then she considered a little longer, and turned impatiently from herimage in the glass. 

"Why, I have known him all my life, and never dreamed of such a thing!But for that rainy Sunday three weeks ago, I never might have done. Oh, this must be a mere fancy. While I talked to him I felt that it ought tobe--that it was. Yes, it is. "

Her eyes wandered over the lawn. She could see the edges of those littlegardens. She had looked at them of late more often than was prudent. "Darlings!" she whispered with such a heartsick sigh, "how keenly Iloved them for the sake of my little lost treasure, before ever Inoticed their beautiful likeness to their father--no, that's a mistake. I say it is--I mean to break away from it. And even if it was none, after the lesson I have had to-day, it must and shall be a mistake forever. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

THAT RAINY SUNDAY. 

 "He hath put the world in their hearts. "

This is how that had come about which was such a trouble and oppressionto Emily. 

Emily was walking to church on a Sunday morning, just three weeks beforeJohn Mortimer's first call upon her. 

Her little nephew, Dorothea's child, was four days old. He had spentmany of his new-found hours sleeping in her arms, while she cherishedhim with a keen and painful love, full of sweet anguish and unsatisfiedmemories. 

The tending of this small life, which in some sort was to be aplenishing for her empty heart, had, however, made her more fully alivethan usual to the loneliness of her lot, and as she walked on through afir-wood, in the mild weather, everything seemed also to be more alive, waking, and going to change. The lights that slanted down were moresignificant. The little shaded hollows were more pathetic, but on thewhole it seemed as if the best part of the year was coming on for theworld. It made her heart ache to feel or fancy how glad the world was, and how the open sky laughed down upon it in helpful sympathy. The oldquestion presents itself over and over again to be answered, --What is itthat gives us so much joy in looking at earth and air and water?

We love a landscape, but not merely because remoteness makes blue thedistant hills, as if the sky itself having come down, we could lookthrough a portion of it, as through a veil. It is not the vaguepossibility of what may be shrouded in the blue that stirs our hearts. We know that if we saw it close it would be set full of villages, andfarmhouses, lanes and orchards, and furrowed fields; no other, and notfairer than we have near. 

Is it what we impart, or impute to nature from ourselves, that wechiefly lean upon? or does she truly impart of what is really in her tous?

What delight we find in her action, what sentiment in her rest! Whatpassion we impute to her changes, what apathy of a satisfying calmingsort to her decline!

If one of us could go to another world, and be all alone in it, perhapsthat world would appear to be washed perfectly clean of all this kind ofbeauty, though it might in itself and for itself be far more beautifulthan ours. 

Who has not felt delight in the grand movements of a thunder-storm, whenthe heavens and earth come together, and have it out, and seem to feelthe better for it afterwards, as if they had cleared off old scores? Thesight of noble wrath, and vehement action, cannot only nerve theenergetic; they can comfort those obliged to be still. There is solittle these may do, but the elements are up and doing; and they are insome sort theirs. 

And who does not like to watch the stately white cloud lying becalmedover the woods, and waiting in a rapture of rest for a wind to come andfloat it on? Yet we might not have cared to see the cloud take her rest, but for the sweetness of rest to ourselves. The plough turned over onone side under a hedge, while the ploughman rests at noon, might hint tous what is the key-note of that chord which makes us think the rest ofthe cloud so fair. 

If the splendour of some intense passion had never suddenly glorifiedthe spread-out ether of time in which our spirits float, should we feelsuch a strange yearning on looking at a sunset, with its tenderpreliminary flush, and then the rapid suffusions of scarlet and growthof gold? If it is not ourselves that we look at then, it is at one ofthe tokens and emblems which claim a likeness with us, a link to hold usup to the clear space that washes itself so suddenly in an elixir costlyas the golden chances of youth, and the crimson rose of love. With whata sigh, even youth itself will mark that outpouring of coloured glory!It whelms the world and overcomes the sky, and then, while nonewithstand it, and all is its own, it will change as if wearied, and on asudden be over; or with pathetic withdrawal faint slowly away. 

Her apathy, too--her surrender, when she has had everything, and feltthe toil in it, and found the hurry of living. The young seldom perceivethe apathy of nature; eyes that are enlightened by age can often see herquiet in the autumn, folding up her best things, as they have done, andgetting ready to put them away under the snow. They both expect thespring. 

Emily was thinking some such thoughts as these while she walked on tothe small country church alone. She went in. This was the first Sundayafter the funeral of old Augustus Mortimer. A glance showed her thatJohn was at church, sitting among his children. 

The Mortimers were much beloved thereabout. This was not the place wherethe old man had worshipped, but a kindly feeling towards his son hadinduced the bringing out of such black drapery as the little churchpossessed. It was hung round the pulpit, and about the wall at the backof his pew; and as he sat upright, perfectly still, and with his faceset into a grave, immobile expression, the dark background appeared toadd purity to the fair clear tints of his hair and complexion, and makeevery line of his features more distinct. 

And while she looked from time to time at this face, the same thingoccurred to her, as does to us in looking at nature; either sheperceived something she had never known of or looked for before, or sheimparted to his manhood something from the tenderness of her womanhood, and mourned with him and for him. 

For this was what she saw, that in spite of the children about him (allin deep mourning), his two tall young daughters and his sweet littlegirls and boys, there was a certain air of isolation about him, a sortof unconsciousness of them all as he towered above them, which gave hima somewhat desolate effect of being alone. The light striking down uponhis head and the mourning drapery behind him, made every shadow of achange more evident. She knew how the withdrawal of this old fatherweighed on his heart, and his attitude was so unchanging, and hisexpression so guarded, that she saw he was keeping watch over hisself-possession, and holding it well in hand. 

All this appeared so evident to her that she was relieved, as theservice went on, to find him still calm and able to command himself, andkeep down any expression of trouble and pain. He began to breathe morefreely too; but Emily felt that he would not meet any eyes that day, andshe looked at him and his children many times. 

In the middle of the sermon a dark cloud came over, and before theservice was finished it poured with rain. Emily was not going back toher brother's house; she had only the short distance to traverse thatled to her own, and she did not intend to speak to the Mortimers; so shewithdrew into the porch, to wait there till they should have passed outby the little door they generally used. They scarcely ever had out acarriage on Sunday, for John preserved many of his father's habits, without, in all cases, holding the opinions which had led to them. 

That day, however, the servants brought a carriage, and as the littlegirls were carried to it under umbrellas they caught sight of Emily, andto her annoyance, she presently saw John advancing to her. She hadalready begun to walk when he met her, and, sheltering her with hisumbrella, proposed to take her home in the carriage; but she declined;she felt the oppression and sadness of his manner, and knew he did notwant her company. "I would much rather walk, " she declared. 

"Would you?" he said, and waved to the men to take the carriage on. "Well, it is not far;" and he proceeded to conduct her. Indeed there wasnothing else for him to do, for she could not hold up her umbrella. Hegave her his arm, and for two or three minutes the wind and the raintogether made her plenty of occupation; but when they got under theshelter of the cliff-like rock near her house she felt the silenceoppressive, and thinking that nothing to the purpose, nothing touchingon either his thoughts or her own, would be acceptable, she said, by wayof saying something, --

"And so Valentine is gone! Has he written from Melcombe to you, John?"

"No, " John answered, and added, after another short silence, "I feel theloss of his company; it leaves me the more alone. "

Then, to her surprise, he began at once to speak of this much-loved oldman, and related two or three little evidences of his kindness andcharity that she liked to hear, and that it evidently was a relief tohim to tell. She was just the kind of woman unconsciously to draw forthconfidences, and to reward them. Something poignant in his feeling wasrather set forth than concealed by his sober, self-restrained ways andquiet words; it suited Emily, and she allowed herself to speak with thattender reverence of the dead which came very well from her, since shehad loved him living so well. She was rather eloquent when her feelingswere touched, and then she had a sweet and penetrative voice. John likedto hear her; he recalled her words when he had parted with her at herown door, and felt that no one else had said anything of his father thatwas half so much to his mind. It was nearly four weeks after this thatEmily fully confessed to herself what had occurred. 

The dinner, after John Mortimer withdrew that day and Emily made toherself this confession, was happily relieved by the company of three orfour neighbours, otherwise the hostess might have been made to feel veryplainly that she had displeased her guest. But the next morning Justina, having had time to consider that Emily must on no account be annoyed, came down all serenity and kindliness. She was so attentive to the lameold aunt, and though the poor lady, being rather in pain, was decidedlysnappish, she did not betray any feeling of disapproval. 

"Ay, " said Miss Christie to herself when the two ladies had set off ontheir short walk, "yon's not so straightforward and simple as I oncethought her. Only give her a chance, and as sure as death she'll gethold of John, after all. "

Emily and Justina went across the fields and came to John's garden, overthe wooden bridge that spanned the brook. 

The sunny sloping garden was full of spring flowers. Vines, not yet inleaf, were trained all over the back of the house, clematis and jasmine, climbing up them and over them, were pouring themselves down again ingreat twisted strands; windows peeped out of ivy, and the old red-tiledroof, warm and mossy, looked homely and comfortable. A certain air ofold-fashioned, easy comfort pervaded the whole place; large bay windows, with little roofs of their own, came boldly forth, and commanded a goodview of other windows--ivied windows that retired unaccountably. Therewere no right lines. Casements at one end of the house showed in threetiers, at the other there were but two. The only thing that wasperfectly at ease about itself, and quite clear that it ought to beseen, was the roof. You could not possibly make a "stuck-up" house, or asmart villa, or a modern family house of one that had a roof like that. The late Mrs. Mortimer had wished it could be taken away. She would haveliked the house to be higher and the roof lower. John, on the otherhand, delighted in his roof, and also in his stables, the otherremarkable feature of the place. 

As the visitors advanced, children's voices greeted them; the littleones were running in and out; they presently met and seized Mrs. Walker, dancing round her, and leading her in triumph into the hall. ThenJustina observed a good-sized doll, comfortably put to bed on one of thehall chairs, and tightly tucked up in some manifest pinafores; near itstood a child's wheel-barrow, half full of picture-books. "I shall notallow that sort of litter here when I come, as I hope and trust I soonshall do, " thought Justina. "Children's toys are all very well in theirproper places. "

Then Justina, who had never been inside the house before, easily inducedthe children to take her from room to room, of those four which werethoroughfares to one another. Her attentive eyes left nothing unnoticed, the fine modern water-colour landscapes on the walls of one, thedelicate inlaid cabinets in another. Then a library, with a capitalbilliard-table, and lastly John's den. There was something about allthese rooms which seemed to show the absence of a woman. They were notuntidy, but in the drawing-room was John's great microscope, with thegreen-shaded apparatus for lighting it; the books also from the libraryhad been allowed to overflow into it, and encroach upon all the tables. The dining-room alone was as other people's dining-rooms, but John'sown den was so very far gone in originality and strangeness of litter, that Justina felt decidedly uneasy when she saw it; it made manifest toher that her hoped-for spouse was not the manner of man whom she couldexpect to understand; books also here had accumulated, and stood in rowson chairs and tables and shelves; pipes were lying on the stonechimneypiece, sharing it with certain old and new, beautiful and uglybronzes; long papers of genealogies and calculations in John'shandwriting were pinned against the walls; various broken bits ofEtruscan pottery stood on brackets here and there. It seemed to be theowner's habit to pin his lucubrations about the place, for here was avocabulary of strange old Italian words, with their derivations, there alist of peculiarities and supposed discoveries in an old Norse dialect. 

Emily in the meantime had noticed the absence of the twins; it was nottill lunch was announced, and she went back into the dining-room thatshe saw them, and instantly was aware that something was amiss. 

Justina advanced to them first, and the two girls, with a shyness veryunusual with them, gave her their hands, and managed, but not withoutdifficulty, to escape a kinder salutation. 

And then they both came and kissed Emily, and began to do the honours oftheir father's table. There was something very touching to her in thatinstinct of good breeding which kept them attentive to Miss Fairbairn, while a sort of wistful sullenness made the rosy lips pout, and theirsoft grey eyes twinkle now and then with half-formed tears. 

Justina exerted herself to please, and Emily sat nearly silent. She sawvery plainly that from some cause or other the girls were looking withdread and dislike on Justina as a possible step-mother. The little oneswere very joyous, very hospitable and friendly, but nothing could warmthe cold shyness of Gladys and Barbara. They could scarcely eatanything; they had nothing to say. 

It seemed as if, whatever occurred, Justina was capable of construing itinto a good omen. Somebody must have suggested to these girls that theirfather meant to make her his second wife. What if he had done ithimself? Of course, under the circumstances, her intelligence could notfail to interpret aright those downcast eyes, those reluctant answers, and the timid, uncertain manner that showed plainly they were afraid ofher. They did not like the notion, of course, of what she hoped wasbefore them. That was nothing; so, as they would not talk, she began todevote herself to the younger children, and with them she got onextremely well. 

Emily's heart yearned with a painful pity that returned upon herselfover the two girls. She saw in what light they regarded the thought of astepmother. Her heart ached to think that she had not the remotestchance of ever standing in such a relation towards them. Yet, in despiteof that, she was full of tender distress when she considered that ifsuch a blissful possibility could ever draw near, the love of all thesechildren would melt away. The elder ones would resent her presence, andteach the younger to read all the writing of her story the wrong way. They would feel her presence their division from the father whom theyloved. They would brood with just that same sullen love and poutingtenderness--they would pity, their father just the same, whoever worehis ring, and reigned over them in his stead. 

Emily, as she hearkened to Justina's wise and kindly talk, so wellconsidered and suitable for the part she hoped to play--Emily began topity John herself. She wanted something so much better for him. Shereflected that she would gladly be the governess there, as she could notbe the wife, if that would save John from throwing himself intomatrimony for his children's sake; and yet had she not thought a yearago that Justina was quite good enough for him? Ah, well! but she hadnot troubled herself then to learn the meaning of his voice, and look somuch as once into the depths of his eyes. 

Lunch was no sooner over than the children were eager to show theflowers, and all went out. Barbara and Gladys followed, and spoke whenappealed to; but they were not able to control their shoulders so wellas they did their tongues. Young girls, when reluctant to do anyparticular thing, often find their shoulders in the way. These useful, and generally graceful, portions of the human frame appear on suchoccasions to feel a wish to put themselves forward, as if to bear thebrunt of it, and their manner is to do this edgeways. 

Emily heard Justina invited to see the rabbits and all the other pets, and knew she would do so, and also manage to make the children take herover the whole place, house included. She, however, felt a shrinkingfrom this inspection, an unwonted diffidence and shyness made her almostfancy it would be taking a liberty. Not that John would think so. Oh, no; he would never think about it. 

They soon went to look at the flowers; and there was old Swan ready toexhibit and set off their good points. 

"And so you had another prize, Nicholas. I congratulate you, " remarkedEmily. 

"Well, yes, ma'am, I had another. I almost felt, if I failed, it wouldserve me right for trying too often. I said it was not my turn. 'Turn, 'said the umpire; 'it's merit we go by, not turn, Mr. Swan, ' said he. "

"And poor Raby took a prize again, I hear, " said Emily. "That man seemsto be getting on, Swan. "

"He does, ma'am; he's more weak than wicked, that man is. You can't makehim hold up his head; and he's allers contradicting himself. He promisedhis vote last election to both sides. 'Why, ' said I, 'what's the goodof that, William? Folks'll no more pay you for your words when you'veeaten them than they will for your bacon. ' But that man really couldn'tmake up his mind which side should bribe him. Still, William Raby isgetting on, I'm pleased to say. "

Justina had soon seen the flowers enough, and Emily could not make upher mind to inspect anything else. She therefore returned towards thelibrary, and Barbara walked silently beside her. 

As she stepped in at the open window, a sound of sobbing startled her. An oil painting, a portrait of John in his boyhood, hung against thewall. Gladys stood with her face leaning against one of the hands thathung down. Emily heard her words distinctly: "Oh, papa! Oh, papa! Oh, myfather beloved!" but the instant she caught the sound of footsteps, shedarted off like a frightened bird, and fled away without even lookingfound. 

Then the twin sister turned slowly, and looked at Emily with entreatingeyes, saying--"Is it true, Mrs. Walker? Dear Mrs. Walker, is it reallytrue?"

Emily felt cold at heart. How could she tell? John's words went fornothing; Miss Christie might have mistaken them. She did not pretend tomisunderstand, but said she did not know; she had no reason to think itwas true. 

"But everybody says so, " sighed Barbara. 

"If your father has said nothing--" Emily began. 

"No, " she answered; her father had said nothing at all; but the meremention of his name seemed to overcome her. 

Emily sat down, talked to her, and tried to soothe her; but she had nodistinct denial to give, and in five minutes Barbara, kneeling beforeher, was sobbing on her bosom, and bemoaning herself as if she wouldbreak her heart. 

Truly the case of a step-mother is hard. 

Emily leaned her cheek upon the young upturned forehead. She faltered alittle as she spoke. If her father chose to marry again, had he not aright? If she loved him, surely she wanted him to be--happy. 

"But she is a nasty, nasty thing, " sobbed Barbara, with vehementheavings of the chest and broken words, "and--and--I am sure I hate her, and so does Gladys, and so does Johnnie too. " Then her voice softenedagain--"Oh, father, father! I would take such care of the little ones ifyou wouldn't do it! and we would never, never quarrel with thegovernesses, or make game of them any more. "

Emily drew her yet nearer to herself, and said in the stillest, mostmatter-of-fact tone--

"Of course you know that you are a very naughty girl, my sweet. "

"Yes, " said Barbara ruefully. 

"And very silly too, " she continued; but there was something so tenderand caressing in her manner, that the words sounded like anything but areproof. 

"I don't think I am silly, " said Barbara. 

"Yes, you are, if you are really making yourself miserable about an idlerumour, and nothing more. "

"But everybody says it is true. Why, one of Johnnie's schoolfellows, whohas some friends near here, told him every one was talking of it. "

"Well, my darling, " said Emily with a sigh, "but even if it is true, thebetter you take it, the better it will be for you; and you don't want tomake your father miserable?"

"No, " said the poor child naively; "and we've been so good--so verygood--since we heard it. But it is so horrid to have a step-mother! Itold you papa had never said anything; but he did say once to Gladysthat he felt very lonely now Grand was gone. He said that he felt theloss of mamma. "

She dried her eyes and looked up as she said these words, and Emily felta sharp pang of pity for John. He must be hard set indeed for help andlove and satisfying companionship if he was choosing to suppose that hehad buried such blessings as these with the wife of his youth. 

"Oh!" said Barbara, with a weary sigh, "Johnnie does so hate the thoughtof it! He wrote us such a furious letter. What was my mother like, dearMrs. Walker? It's so hard that we cannot remember her. "

Emily looked down at Barbara's dark hair and lucid blue-grey eyes, atthe narrow face and pleasant rosy mouth. 

"Your mother was like you--to look at, " she answered. 

She felt obliged to put in those qualifying words, for Janie Mortimerhad given her face to her young daughter; but the girl's passionatefeelings and yearning love, and even, as it seemed, pity for her fatherand herself, had all come from the other side of the house. 

Barbara rose when she heard this, and stood up, as if to be better seenby her who had spoken what she took for such appreciative words, andEmily felt constrained to take the dead mother's part, and say what itwas best for her child to hear. 

"Barbara, no one would have been less pleased than your mother at yourall setting yourselves against this. Write and tell Johnnie so, willyou, my dear?"

Barbara looked surprised. 

"She was very judicious, very reasonable; it is not on her account atall that you need resent your father's intention--if, indeed, he hassuch an intention. "

"But Johnnie remembers her very well, " said Barbara, not at all pleased, "and she was very sweet and very delightful, and that's why he doesresent it so much. "

"If I am to speak of her as she was, I must say that is a state offeeling she would not have approved of, or even cared about. "

"Not cared that father should love some one else!"

The astonishment expressed in the young, childlike face daunted Emilyfor the moment. 

"She would have cared for your welfare. You had better think of her aswishing that her children should always be very dear to their father, asdesirous that they should not set themselves against his wishes, and vexand displease him. "

"Then I suppose I'd better give you Johnnie's letter, " said Barbara, "because he is so angry--quite furious, really. " She took out a letter, and put it into Emily's hand. "Will you burn it when you go home? but, Mrs. Walker, will you read it first, because then you'll see thatJohnnie does love father--and dear mamma too. "

Voices were heard now and steps on the gravel. Barbara took up hereyeglass, and moved forward; then, when she saw Justina, she retreatedto Emily's side with a gesture of discomfiture and almost of disgust. 

"Any step-mother at all, " she continued, "Johnnie says, he hates thethought of; but that one--Oh!"

"What a lesson for me!" thought Emily; and she put the letter in herpocket. 

"It's very rude, " whispered Barbara; "but you mustn't mind that;" andwith a better grace than could have been expected she allowed Justina tokiss her, and the two ladies walked back through the fields, the youngerchildren accompanying them nearly all the way home. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

MRS. BRANDON ASKS A QUESTION. 

 "Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel call'd life. "

 Locker. 

John Mortimer was the last guest to make his appearance on the morningof the christening. He found the baby, who had been brought down to beadmired, behaving scandalously, crying till he was crimson in the face, and declining all his aunt's loving persuasions to him to go to sleep. Emily was moving up and down the drawing-room, soothing and cherishinghim in her arms, assuring him that this was his sleepy time, and shakingand patting him as is the way of those who are cunning with babies. Butall was in vain. He was carried from his father's house in a storm ofindignation, and from time to time he repeated his protest againstthings in general till the service was over. 

Some of the party walked home to the house. Justina lingered, hastened, and accosted John Mortimer. But all in vain; he kept as far as possiblefrom her, while Emily, who had gone forward, very soon found him closeat her side. 

"Madam, " he said, "I shall have the honour of taking you in to luncheon. Did you know it?"

"No, John, " she answered, laughing because he did, and feeling as if theoccasion had suddenly become more festive, though she knew someexplanation must be coming. 

"I shall easily find an opportunity, " he said, "of telling St. Georgewhat I have done. I went through the dining-room and saw the names onthe plates, and I took the liberty to change one or two. You can sit bythe curate at any time. In fact, I should think old friendship and akind heart might make you prefer to sit by me. Say that they do, Mrs. Walker. "

"They do, " answered Emily. "But your reason, John?"

"That little creature is a match-maker. Why must she needs give me thegolden head?"

"Oh, she did? Perhaps it was because she thought you would expect it. "

"Expect it! _I_ expect it? No; I am in the blessed case of him whoexpects nothing, and who therefore cannot be disappointed. I alwaysthought you were my friends, all of you. "

"So we are, John; you know we are. "

"Then how can you wish such a thing for me? Emily, you cannot think howutterly tired I am of being teased about that woman--that lady. And nowSt. George has begun to do it. I declare, if I cannot put a stop to itin any other way, I'll do it by marrying somebody else. "

"That is indeed a fearful threat, John, " said Emily, "and meant, nodoubt, to show that you have reached the last extremity of earnestness. "

"Which is a condition you will never reach, " said John, laughing, andlapsing into the old intimate fashion with her. "It is always your wayto slip into things easily. "

John and Emily had walked on, and believed themselves to be well infront, and out of hearing of the others; but when the right time hascome for anything to be found out, what is the use of trying to keep ithidden? Justina, seeing her opportunity, went forward just as Brandondrew the rest of the party aside to look at some rather rare ferns, whose curled-up fronds, like little crosiers, were showing on the sandybank. She drew on, and one more step would have brought her even withthem, when John Mortimer uttered the words--

"If I cannot put a stop to it in any other way, I'll do it by marryingsomebody else. "

Justina stopped and stooped instantly, as if to gather some delicateleaves of silver-weed that grew in the sand; and Emily, who had caughther step, turned for one instant, and saw her without being perceived. 

Justina knew what these words meant, and stood still arranging herleaves, to let them pass on and the others come up. Soon after whichthey all merged into one group. John gave his arm to Mrs. Henfrey, andEmily, falling behind, began to consider how much Justina had heard, andwhat she would do. 

Now Dorothea had said in the easiest way possible to Justina, "I shallask our new clergyman to take Emily in to luncheon, and Mr. Mortimer totake you. " Justina knew now that the game was up; she was not quick ofperception, but neither was she vacillating. When once she had decidedon any course, she never had the discomfort of wishing afterwards thatshe had done otherwise. There was undoubtedly a rumour going about tothe effect that John Mortimer liked her, and was "coming forward. " Noone knew better than herself and her mother how this rumour had beenwafted on, and how little there was in it. "Yet, " she reflected, "it wasmy best chance. It was necessary to put it into his head somehow tothink about me in such a light; but that others have thought too muchand said too much, it might have succeeded. What I should like bestnow, " she further considered, pondering slowly over the words in hermind, "would be to have people say that I have refused him. "

She had reached this point when Emily joined her walking silentlybeside her, that she might not appear companionless. Emily was full ofpity for her, in spite of the lightening of her own heart. People whohave nothing to hope best know what a lifting of the cloud it is to havealso nothing to fear. 

The poetical temperament of Emily's mind made her frequently changeplaces with others, and, indeed, become in thought those others--fears, feelings, and all. 

"What are you crying for, Emily?" her mother had once said to her, whenshe was a little child. 

"I'm not Emily now, " she answered; "I'm the poor little owl, and I can'thelp crying because that cruel Smokey barked at me and frightened me, and pulled several of my best feathers out. "

And now, just the same, Emily was Justina, and such thoughts as Justinamight be supposed to be thinking passed through Emily's mind somewhat inthis way:--

"No; it is not at all fair! I have been like a ninepin set up in thegame of other people's lives, only to be knocked down again; and yetwithout me the game could not have been played. Yes; I have been madeuseful, for through me other people have unconsciously set him againstmatrimony. If they would but have let him alone"--(Oh, Justina! how canyou help thinking now?)--"I could have managed it, if I might have hadall the game to myself. "

Next to the power of standing outside one's self, and looking at _me_ asother folks see me, the most remarkable is this of (by the insight ofgenius and imagination) becoming _you_. The first makes one sometimesonly too reasonable, too humble; the second warms the heart and enrichesthe soul, for it gives the charms of selfhood to beings not ourselves. 

"Yet it is a happy thing for some of us, " thought Emily, finishing hercogitations in her own person, "that the others are not allowed to playall the game themselves. "

When Brandon got home John saw his wife quietly look at him. "Now whatdoes that mean?" he thought; "it was something more than mere observanceof his entering. Those two have means of transport for their thoughtspast the significance of words. Yes, I'm right; she goes into thedining-room, and he will follow her. Have they found it out?"

All the guests were standing in a small morning-room, taking coffee; andBrandon presently walking out of the French window into the garden, cameup to the dining-room outside. There was Dorothea. 

"Love, " she said, looking out, "what do you think? Some of these nameshave been changed. "

"Perhaps a waft of wind floated them off the plates, " said Brandon, climbing in over the window-ledge, "and the servants restored themamiss. But, Mrs. Brandon, don't you think if that baby of yours squallsagain after lunch, he had better drink his own health himself somewhereelse? I say, how nice you look, love!--I like that gown. "

"He must come in, St. George; but do attend to business--look!"

"Whew!" exclaimed Brandon, having inspected the plates; "it must havebeen a very intelligent waft of wind that did this. "

Two minutes after Brandon sauntered in again by the window, and JohnMortimer observed the door. When Mrs. Brandon entered, she saw himstanding on the rug keeping Emily in conversation. Mrs. Brandon admiredMr. Mortimer; he was tall, fair, stately, and had just such a likenessto Valentine as could not fail to be to his advantage in the opinion ofany one who, remembering Valentine's smiling face, small forehead, andcalm eyes, sees the same contour of countenance, with an expression atonce grave and sweet; features less regular, but with a grandintellectual brow, and keen blue eyes--not so handsome as Valentine's, but with twice as direct an outlook and twice as much tenderness offeeling in them; and has enough insight to perceive the difference ofcharacter announced by these varieties in the type. 

John Mortimer, who was persistently talking to Emily, felt thatBrandon's eyes were upon him, and that he looked amused. He neverdoubted that his work had been observed, and that his wish would berespected. 

"Luncheon's on the table. "

"John, " said Brandon instantly, "will you take in my wife?"

John obeyed. He knew she did not sit at the head of the table, so hetook it and placed her on his right, while Emily and her curate were onhis left. It was a very large party, but during the two minutes they hadbeen alone together Brandon and Dorothea had altered the wholearrangement of it. 

John saw that Brandon had given to him his own usual place, and hadtaken the bottom of the table. He thought his own way of managing thatmatter would have been simpler, but he was very well content, and madehimself highly agreeable till there chanced to be a little cessation ofthe clatter of plates, and a noticeable pause in the conversation. ThenJustina began to play her part. 

"Mr. Mortimer, " she said, leaning a little before Emily's curate, "thisis not at all too late for the north of Italy, is it? I want to visitItaly. "

"I should not set out so late in the year, " John answered. "I should notstay even at Florence a day later than the end of May. "

"Oh, don't say that!" she answered. "I have been so longing, you know, for years to go to the north of Italy, and now it seems as if there wasa chance--as if my mother would consent. "

"You know!" thought John. "I know nothing of the kind, how should I?"

"It really does seem now as if we might leave England for a fewmonths, " she continued. "There is nothing at all to keep her here, ifshe could but think so. You saw my brother the other day?"

"Yes. "

"And you thought he looked tolerably well again, did you not?"

"Yes; I think I did. "

"Then, " she continued persuasively, and with all serenity, severalpeople being now very attentive to the conversation--"then, if my mothershould chance to see you, Mr. Mortimer, and should consult you aboutthis, you will not be so unfriendly to me as to tell her that it is toolate. You must not, you know, Mr. Mortimer, because she thinks so muchof your opinion. "

This was said in some slight degree more distinctly than usual, and withthe repetition of his name, that no one might doubt whom she wasaddressing. 

It made a decided impression, but on no one so much as on himself. "Whata fool I have been!" he thought; "in spite of appearances this has beenvery far from her thoughts, and perhaps annoyance at the ridiculousrumour is what makes her so much want to be off. "

He then entered with real interest into the matter, and before luncheonwas over a splendid tour had been sketched out in the Austrian Tyrol, which he proved to demonstration was far better in the summer thanItaly. Justina was quite animated, and only hoped her mother would notobject. It was just as well she expressed doubts and fears on that head, for Lady Fairbairn had never in her life had a hint even that herdaughter was dying to go on the Continent; and Justina herself had onlydecided that it was well to intend such a thing, not that it would bewise or necessary to carry the intention out. 

She exerted herself, keeping most careful watch and guard over her voiceand smile. It was not easy for her to appear pleased when she feltpiqued, and to feign a deep interest in the Austrian Tyrol, when shehad not known, till that occasion, whereabouts on the map it might befound. She was becoming tired and quite flushed when the opportuneentrance of the baby--that morsel of humanity with a largename--diverted every one's attention from her, and relieved her fromfurther effort. 

There is nothing so difficult as to make a good speech at a wedding or achristening without affecting somebody's feelings. Some people stand somuch in fear of this, that they can hardly say anything. Others enjoydoing it, and are dreaded accordingly; for, beside the pain of havingone's feelings touched, and being obliged to weep, there is the red nosethat follows. 

John, when he stood up to propose the health of his godson, St. GeorgeMortimer Brandon (who luckily was sound asleep), had the unusualgood-fortune to please and interest everybody (even the parents) withoutmaking any one cry. 

It is the commonplaces of tenderness, and the every-day things abouttime and change, that are affecting; but if a speaker can add to all hetouches concerning man's life, and love, and destiny, something reacheddown from the dominion of thought, beautiful and fresh enough to makehis hearers wonder at him, and experience that elation of heart which isthe universal tribute paid to all beautiful things, then they will feeldeeply perhaps; but the joy of beauty will elevate them, and the mindwill save the eyes from annoying tears. 

Before her guests retired, Emily having lingered up-stairs with thebaby, Dorothea found herself for a few minutes alone with Justina, whowas very tired, but felt that her task was not quite finished. So, asshe took up her bonnet and advanced to the looking-glass to put it on, she said, carelessly, "I wonder whether this colour will stand Italiansunshine. "

Dorothea's fair young face was at once full of interest. Justina sawcuriosity, too, but none was expressed; she only said, with the leastlittle touch of pique, "And you never told _me_ that you were wishing somuch to go away. "

Justina turned, and from her superior height stooped to kiss Dorothea, as if by way of apology, whereupon she added, "I had hoped, indeed, Ifelt sure, that you liked this place and this neighbourhood. "

"What are you alluding to, dear, " said Justina, though Dorothea hadalluded to nothing. 

But Dorothea remaining silent, Justina had to go on. 

"I think (if _that_ is what you mean) that no one who cares for me couldwish me to undertake a very difficult task--such a very difficult taskas that, and one which perhaps I am not at all fit for. "

On this Dorothea betrayed a certain embarrassment, rather a painfulblush tinged her soft cheek. "I would not have taken the liberty to hintat such a thing, " she answered. 

"She would not have liked it, " thought Justina, with not unnaturalsurprise; for Dorothea had shown a fondness for her. 

"But of course I know there has been an idea in the neighbourhood thatyou----"

"That I what?" asked Justina. 

"Why that you might--you might undertake it. "

"Oh, nonsense, dear! nonsense, all talk, " said Justina; "don't believe aword of it. " Her tone seemed to mean just the contrary, and Dorothealooked doubtful. 

"There have been some attentions, certainly, " continued Justina, turningbefore the glass as if to observe whether her scarf was folded to hermind. "Of course every one must have observed that! But really, dear, such a thing"--she put up her large steady hand, and fastened her veilwith due care--"such a thing as that would never do. Who _could_ haveput it into your head to think of it?"

"She does not care for him in the least, then, " thought Dorothea; "andit seems that he has cared for her. I don't think he does now, for heseemed rather pleased to sketch out that tour which will take her awayfrom him. I like her, but even if it was base to her, I should still beglad she was not going to marry John Mortimer. "

Justina was in many respects a pleasant woman. She was a good daughter, she had a very good temper, serene, never peevish; she did not forgetwhat was due to others, she was reasonable, and, on the whole, just. Shefelt what a pity it was that Mr. Mortimer was so unwise. She regrettedthis with a sincerity not disturbed by any misgiving. Taking the deepestinterest in herself, as every way worthy and desirable, she did forherself what she could, and really felt as if this was both a privilegeand a duty. Something like the glow of a satisfied conscience filled hermind when she reflected that to this end she had worked, and leftnothing undone, just as such a feeling rises in some minds on soreflecting about efforts made for another person. But with all herfoibles, old people liked her, and her own sex liked her, for she was acomfortable person to be with; one whose good points attracted regard, and whose faults were remarkably well concealed. 

With that last speech she bowled herself out of the imaginary game ofninepins, and the next stroke was made by Dorothea. 

She went down to the long drawing-room, and found all her guestsdeparted, excepting John Mortimer, who came up to take leave of her. Hesmiled. "I wanted to apologize, " he said, taking her hand, "(it was agreat liberty), for the change I made in your table. "

"The change, did you say, " she answered, oh so softly! "or the changes?"And then she became suddenly shy, and withdrew her hand, which he wasstill holding; and he, drawing himself up to his full height, stoodstock still for a moment as if lost in thought and in surprise. 

It was such a very slight hint to him that two ladies had beenconcerned, but he took it, --remembered that one of them was the sisterof his host, and also that he had not been allowed to carry out his_changes_ just as he had devised them. "I asked Emily's leave, " he said, "to take her in. "

"Oh, did you?" answered Dorothea, with what seemed involuntary interest, and then he took his leave. 

"Why did I never think of this before? I don't believe there ever wassuch a fool in this world, " he said to himself, as he mounted his horseand rode off. "Of course, if I were driven to it, Emily would be fiftytimes more suitable for me than that calm blond spinster. Liberty issweet, however, and I will not do it if I can help it. The worst of itis, that Emily, of all the women of my acquaintance, is the only one whodoes not care one straw about me. There's no hurry--I fancy myselfmaking her an offer, and getting laughed at for my pains. " Then JohnMortimer amused himself with recollections of poor Fred Walker's wooing, how ridiculous he had made himself, and how she had laughed at him, andyet, out of mere sweetness of nature, taken him. "It's not in her to bein love with any man, " he reflected; "and I suppose it's not in me to bein love with any woman. So far at least we might meet on equal ground. "

In the meantime, Dorothea was cosily resting on the sofa in herdressing-room, her husband was with her, and St. George MortimerBrandon, --the latter as quiet as possible in his cot, now nobody caredwhether his behaviour did him credit or not. 

"Love, " she said, "do you know I shouldn't be at all surprised if JohnMortimer has made Justina an offer, and she has refused him. "

"_I_ should be very much surprised, indeed, " said Brandon, laughing; "Ithink highly of his good sense--and of hers, for both which reasons Ifeel sure, my darling, that he has not made her an offer, and she hasnot refused him. "

"But I am almost sure he has, " proceeded Dorothea, "otherwise I shouldbe obliged to think that the kind of things she said to-day were notquite fair. "

"What did she say?"

Dorothea told him. 

"I do not think that amounts to much, " said Brandon. 

"Oh then you think he never did ask her? I hope and trust you areright. "

"Why do you hope and trust, Mrs. Brandon? What can it signify to you?"Then, when she made no answer, he went on. "To be sure that would makeit highly natural that he should be glad at the prospect of herabsenting herself. "

"I was just thinking so. Did not he speak well, St. George. "

"He did; you were wishing all the time that I could speak as well!"

"Just as if you did not speak twice as well! Besides, you have a muchfiner voice. I like so much to hear you when you get excited. "

"Ah! that is the thing. I have taken great pains to learn the art ofspeaking, and when to art excitement is added, I get on well enough. ButJohn, without being excited, says, and cares nothing about them, thevery things I should like to have said, but that will not perfectlyreveal themselves to me till my speech is over. "

"But he is not eloquent. "

"No; he does not on particular occasions rise above the ordinary levelof his thoughts. His everyday self suffices for what he has to do andsay. But sometimes, if we two have spoken at the same meeting, and I seethe speeches reported--though mine may have been most cheered--I findlittle in it, while he has often said perfectly things of real use toour party. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

 "Pleasures of memory! O supremely blest And justly proud beyond a poet's praise, If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast Contain indeed the subject of thy lays. "

 (Said to be by Rogers. )

A few days after this Emily was coming down the lane leading to JohnMortimer's house, having taken leave of Justina at the railway station. She was reading a letter just received from Valentine, signed for thefirst time in full, Valentine Melcombe. The young gentleman, itappeared, was quite as full of fun as ever; had been to Visp andRifflesdorf, and other of those places--found them dull on thewhole--had taken a bath. "And you may judge of the smell of the water, "he went on to his sister, "when I tell you that I fell asleep after it, and dreamt I was a bad egg. I hoped I shouldn't hatch into a bad fellow. I've been here three days and seen nobody; the population (chieflyCatholic) consists of three goats, a cock and hen, and a small lake!"

Here lifting up her head as she passed by John's gate, Emily observedextraordinary signs of festivity about the place. Flags protruded fromvarious bedroom windows, wreaths and flowers dangling at the end of longpoles from others, rows of dolls dressed in their best sat in state onthe lower boughs of larches, together with tinsel butterflies, frailballoons, and other gear not often seen excepting on Christmas-trees. 

It was Saturday afternoon, a half-holiday; the two little boys, who wereweekly pupils of a clergyman in the immediate neighbourhood, always camehome at that auspicious time, and there remained till Monday morning. 

From one of them Emily learned that some epidemic having broken out atHarrow, in the "house" where Johnnie was, the boys had been dispersed, and Johnnie, having been already in quarantine a fortnight, had now comehome, and the place had been turned out of windows to welcome him. 

"And Cray is at Mr. Brandon's, " said Bertie, "but on Monday they areboth to go to Mr. Tikey's with us. "

Something aloft very large and black at this moment startled Emily. Johnnie, who had climbed up a tall poplar tree, and was shaking itportentously, began to let himself down apparently at the peril of hislife, and the girls at the same moment coming out of the house, welcomedEmily, letting her know that their father had given them a large, _lovely_ cuckoo clock to hangup in Parliament. "And you shall come andsee it, " they said. Emily knew this was a most unusual privilege. "Johnnie is not gone up there to look for nests, " said Gladys, "but toreconnoitre the country. If we let you know what for, you won't tell?"

"Certainly not, " said Emily, and she was borne off to Parliament, feeling a curiosity to see it, because John had fitted it up for thespecial and exclusive delectation of his young brood. It embodied hisnotion of what children would delight in. 

An extraordinary place indeed she thought it. At least fifty feet long, and at the end farthest from the house, without carpet. A carpenter'sbench, many tools, and some machines were there, shavings strewed thefloor; something, evidently meant to turn out a wheel-barrow, was incourse of being hewn from a solid piece of wood, by very youngcarpenters, and various articles of furniture by older hands were incourse of concoction. "Johnnie and Cray carved this in the winter, " saidthe girls, "and when it is done it will be a settle, and stand in thearbour where papa smokes sometimes. "

At the other end of the room was spread a very handsome new Turkeycarpet; a piano stood there, and a fine pair of globes; the walls werehung with maps, but also with some of the strangest pictures possible;figures chiefly, with scrolls proceeding from their mouths, on whichsentences were written. A remarkable chair, very rude and clumsy, butcarved all over with letters, flowers, birds, and other devices, attracted Emily's attention. 

"What is that? Why, don't you see that it's a throne? Father's thronewhen he comes to Parliament to make a speech, or anything of that sortthere. Johnnie made it, but we all carved our initials on it. "

Emily inspected the chair, less to remark on the goodness of the carvingthan to express her approval of its spirit. Johnnie's flowers wereindeed wooden, but his birds and insects, though flat and rough, wereall intended to be alive. He had too much directness, and also realvitality, to carve poor dead birds hanging by the legs with torn andruffled feathers, and showing pathetically their quenched and fadedeyes; he wanted his birds to peck and his beetles to be creeping. Luckily for himself, he saw no beauty in death and misery, still lesscould think them ornamental. 

Emily praised his wooden work, and the girls, with a sort of shydelight, questioned her: "Was it really true, then, that Miss Fairbairnwas gone, and was not coming back to England for weeks and weeks?" "Yes, really true; why had they made themselves so miserable about nothing?""Ah, you were so kind; but, dear Mrs. Walker, you know very well howhorrid it would have been to have a step-mother. "

Emily sat down and looked about her. A very large slate, swung on astand like a looking-glass, stood on the edge of the carpet. On it werewritten these words: "I cry, 'Jam satis, '" John's writing evidently, andof great size. She had no time, however, to learn what it meant, for, with a shout like a war-whoop, Johnnie's voice was heard below, andpresently, as it were, driving his little brothers and sisters beforehim, Johnnie himself came blundering up-stairs at full speed withCrayshaw on his back. "Bolt it, bolt the door, " panted Crayshaw; anddown darted one of the girls to obey. "And you kids sit down on thefloor every one of you, that you mayn't be theen below, and don't make athound, " said Johnnie, depositing Crayshaw on a couch, while Barbarabegan to fan him. "They're coming up the lane, " were Johnnie's firstwords, when the whole family was seated on the floor like players athunt the slipper. "You won't tell, Mrs. Walker?"

"Not tell what, to whom?" asked Emily. 

"Why that fellow, Cray's brother, wrote to Mr. Brandon that he wascoming, and should take him away. It's a shame. "

"It's a shame, " repeated Crayshaw, panting. "I wish the Continent hadnever been invented. "

"Hold your tongue; if you make yourself pant they'll hear you. Hangbeing done good to! Why, you've been perfectly well till this day, forthe last six months----"

"And should have been now, " Crayshaw gasped out, "only I ran over herejust after my lunch. "

Emily, the only person seated on a chair, John's throne in fact, was farback in the room, and could not be seen from below. A few minutes passedaway, while Crayshaw began to breathe like, other people, and a certainscratching noise was heard below, upon which significant looks entreatedher to be silent. She thought she would let things take their course, and sat still for a minute, when a casement was flung open below, and ashrill voice cried, "Mr. Swan, I say, here's Mr. Brandon in the stableyard, and another gentleman, and they want very particular to know whereMaster Johnnie is. "

"I can't say I know, cookie, " answered Swan. 

"And, " continued the same shrill voice, "if you can't tell 'em that, they'd like to know where Matthew is?"

Matthew was the coachman, and Swan's rival. 

"Just as if I knew! why, he's so full of fads he won't trust anybody, and nothing ever suits him. You may tell them, if you like, " heanswered, not intending her to take him at his word, "that I expect he'sgone to dig his own grave, for fear when he's dead they shouldn't do itto his mind. "

The cook laughed and slammed the casement. 

Presently, coming round to the front garden, wheels were heard gratingon the gravel, and Brandon's voice shouted, "Swan, Swan, I say, is youngCrayshaw here?"

"No, sir, " Swan shouted in reply; "not as I know of. "

Two voices were heard to parley at a distance, great excitementprevailed up in Parliament, excepting in the mind of Anastasia, whosenotion of her own part in this ceremony of hiding was that she must keepher little feet very even and close together beside Johnnie's greatones; so she took no notice, though hasty footsteps were heard, and avoice spoke underneath, "Whereabout can young Mortimer be? we must findhim. "

"I don't know, sir, " repeated Swan, still raking peaceably. 

"He cannot be very far off, Swanny, " said Brandon, "we saw him up thepoplar-tree not a quarter of an hour ago. "

"Ay, sir, I shouldn't wonder, " said Swan carelessly. "Bless you, whether their folks air rich or poor, they never think at that age whatit costs to clothe 'em. I never found with my boys that they'd doneclimbing for crows' eggs till such time as they bought their ownbreeches. After that trees were nought but lumber, and crows werecarrion. "

"But we really must find these boys, if we can, " exclaimed Brandon; "andit seems as if they had all the family with them, the place is so quiet. Where do you think they can have gone?"

"I haven't a notion, sir--maybe up to the fir-woods, maybe out to thecommon--they roam all about the country on half-holidays. "

"Oh, " said the other voice, "they may go where they please, may they?"

"Naturally so, " said Swan; "they may go anywhere, sir, or do anything inreason, on a half-holiday. It would be a shame to give a pig leave togrunt, and then say he's not to grunt through his nose. "

"Perhaps they're up in Parliament, " observed Brandon. 

"No, that they're not, " Swan exclaimed; "so sure as they're there theymake the roof ring. "

"And the door's, locked. "

"Yes, the door's locked, and wherever they air they've got the key. Theylet nobody in, sir, but my daughter, and she goes o' mornings to sweepit out. "

"Well, Swan, good day. Come on, George, we'll try the fir-wood first. "

"Or perhaps they're gone to Wigfield, " said the second voice. 

"No, sir, I think not, " said Swan. "They sent one of the little boysthere on an errand, so I judge that they've no call to go again. "

Yes, one of the little boys had been sent, and had no reason to beashamed of what he had also done there on his own account. 

What! though I have all sorts of good food in my father's house, andplenty of it, shall it not still be a joy to me to buy a whole pot ofplum-jam with my ninepence? Certainly it shall, and with generous ardourI shall call my younger brothers and sisters together to my little room, where in appreciative silence we shall hang over it, while I dig it outwith the butt-end of my tooth-brush. 

Johnnie's face grew radiant as these two went off to search thefir-wood, but nobody dared to speak or stir, for Swan was still closeunderneath, so close that they could hear him grumbling to himself overthe laziness of a woman who had been hired to weed the walks for him, and was slowly scratching them at a good distance. 

"Ay, there you go, grudging every weed you pull. The master says itain't a woman's work--wants to raise you--you! 'Sir, ' says I, 'folkscan't rise o' top of parish pay, ' Ay, she was a pauper, and she'd haveliked to charge the parish twopence a time for suckling her own child. Now what would you have? Ain't two shillings a day handsome forscratching out half a peck of grass? You might work here for some time, too, but bless us, what's the good of saying to such as you, 'Don'tstand waiting for good luck, and give the go-by to good opportunity?'Your man's just like you, " he continued, using his rake with delicateskill among the flowers, while she scratched calmly on, out ofhearing--"your man's just like you, idle dog! (you won't raise Phil Rabyin a trice. ) Why, if he was rich enough to drive his own taxed cart, he'd sooner jolt till his bones ached than get down to grease hiswheels. " Then a short silence, and other feet came up. "Well, Jemmy man, and what do you want?"

A small voice, in a boy's falsetto tone answered, "Please, Mr. Swan, I've brought the paper. "

"Have you now, and what's the news, Jemmy, do you know?"

"Yes--coals are riz again. "

"You don't say so! that's a thing to make a man thoughtful; and whatelse, Jemmy?"

"Why, the Governor-general's come home from India. "

"Only think o' that! Well, he may come and welcome, for aught I care, Jemmy. Let the cook give warning or keep her place, it's all one to theflies in the kitchen window. "

The new-comer withdrew, and Swan was presently heard to throw down hisrake and go off to argue with his subordinate, whom he very soonpreceded into the back garden behind the house, to the great joy of theparty in Parliament, who, still sitting perfectly quiet, began to talkin low tones, Emily inquiring what they really hoped to effect byconcealing themselves. 

"Why, George Crayshaw, " said Cray (that being his manner of designatinghis brother when he was not pleased with him)--"George Crayshaw is onlycome down here for one day, and Mr. Brandon had fully arranged that Ishould go to Mr. Tikey till we two return to Harrow, and now he's goingto Germany, and wants me to start with him this very day--says the drycontinental air may do me good. Why, I am perfectly well--perfectly. "

"So it appears, " said Emily. 

"Look how he's grown, then, " exclaimed Johnnie, who had almost left offlisping, "he hardly ever has a touch of asthma now. His brother hatestrouble, so if he cannot find him he may go off by himself. "

"I was just writing out my verses, " Crayshaw whispered, "when Ioverheard Mr. Brandon saying in the garden that he expected George. "

"Were you alone?" asked Gladys, hoping he had not been seen to run off. 

"Was I alone? Well, there was nobody present but myself, if you callthat being alone--I don't. That fellow argues so; he's, so intrusive, and often makes such a noise that I can get no retirement for writing mypoetry. "

"What a goose you are, Cray!" said Barbara. "I wish, though, you wouldspeak lower. "

"Besides, " continued Crayshaw, excusing himself to Mrs. Walker; "it's sodull being with George, he's always collecting things. The last time Isaw him he was on his knees cleaning up a dingy old picture he'd justbought. Fanny stood beside him with a soapy flannel. She looked quitereligious; she was so grave. I saw a red cabbage in the picture and apot of porter, the froth extremely fine. 'I hope, ' said George, very hotafter his exertions, 'that when you are of age you will follow in mysteps, and endow our common country with some of these priceless----''Common, ' interrupted Mrs. Jannaway. 'Common country, do I hear aright, George Crayshaw?' (I don't love that old lady _much_. ) 'George, ' I said, for I pitied him for having a mother-in-law, 'when I get my money Ishall pay a man to paint another old picture for you, as a companion tothat. There shall be three mackerel in it, very dead indeed; they shalllie on a willow-pattern plate, while two cock-roaches that have climbedup it squint over the edge at them. There shall also be a pork-pie init, and a brigand's hat. The composition will be splendid. ' I took outmy pocket-book and said, 'I'll make a mem. Of it now. ' So I did, andadded, 'Mem. : Never to have a mother-in-law, unless her daughter is aspretty as Fanny Crayshaw. '"

The little boys were now allowed to have tools and go on with theircarving, still seated on the ground. The girls took out their tatting, and talk went on. 

"Mrs. Walker has just been saying that she cannot bear carving, andpictures of dead things, " observed Barbara. "So, Cray, she will thinkyou right to despise those your brother buys. And, Johnnie, she wishesto know about our pictures. "

"And those great sentences too, " added Emily. "What do they mean?"

"The big picture is Dover, " said little Jamie, "and that Britanniasitting on the cliff, they cut out of _Punch_ and stuck on. You see shehas a boot in her hand. It belongs to our Sham memory that father madefor us. "

"It's nearly the same as what Feinangle invented, " Johnnie explained. "The vowels do not count, but all the consonants stand for figures. MissCrampton used to make the kids so miserable. She would have them learndates, and they could not remember them. "

"Even Barbara used to cry over the dates, " whispered Janie. 

"You needn't have told that, " said Barbara sharply. 

"But at first we altered the letters so many times, that father said hewould not help us, unless we made a decree that they should stay as theywere for ever, " said Gladys. "Johnnie had stolen the letter I, and madeit stand for one. So it does still, though it is a vowel. Janie has aform of our plan. Hand it up, Janie. "

Janie accordingly produced a little bag, and unfolded a paper of whichthis is a copy:--

 JANIE MORTIMER Fecit This. 

 1 2 3 I. T. N. B. M. Y. 

 4 5 6 R. Q. C. J. V. D. S. 

 7 8 9 K. G. H. P. F. L. 

 Ought W. X. Z. 

 A & E & O & U dont count. You're to make up the sentence with them. 

"The rule is, " said Gladys, "that you make a sentence of words beginningwith anyone of those letters that stand for the figures you want toremember. Miss Crampton wanted us to know the dates of all Wellington'sbattles; of course we couldn't; we do now, though. You see Britannia'sscroll has on it, 'I'll put _on_ Wellington boots, ' that means 1802. Sowe know, to begin with, that till after she put on Wellington boots, weneed not trouble ourselves to remember anything particular about him. "

"There's a portrait of Lord Palmerston, " whispered Crayshaw, "he has amap of Belgium pasted on his breast. He says, 'I, Pam, managed this. "'

"Yes, that means the date of the independence of Belgium, " saidGladys. "Johnnie made it, but father says it is not quite fair. "

"The best ones, " Johnnie explained, "ought not to have any extra word, and should tell you what they mean themselves. 'I hear navvies coming, 'is good--it means the making of the first railway. Here are four not sogood:--Magna Charta--'The Barons _extorted_ this Charter, ' 1215. TheReformation--'They came _out of_ you, Rome, ' 1534. Discovery ofAmerica--'In re _a_ famous navigator, ' 1492. And Waterloo--Bonapartesays it--'Isle perfide tu _as_ vaincu, ' 1815. "

"I have thought of one for the Reform Bill, " said Emily: "get a portraitof Lord Russell, and let his scroll say, 'They've passed my bill. '"

"That is a good one, but they must not be too simple and easy, or theyare forgotten, " said one of the girls; "but we make them for many thingsbesides historical events. Those are portraits, and show when peoplewere born. There is dear Grand; 'I _owe_ Grand love _and_ duty, ' Thatnext one is Tennyson; 'I have won laurels. ' There's Swan; Swan said hedid not know whether he was born in 1813 or 1814; so Johnnie did themboth. 'The principal thing's muck _as_ these here _airly_ tatesrequire. ' You see the first Napoleon, looking across the Channel atBritannia with the boot: he says, 'I hate white cliffs, ' which meansTrafalgar; and 'I cry, Jam satis, ' father has just invented for Charles, that King of Spain who was Emperor of Germany too. You can see by itthat he abdicated in 1556. Miss Crampton used to wonder at our havingbecome so clever with our dates all on a sudden. And there's one thatMr. Brandon made. You see those ships? That is a picture of Bostonharbour (Cray's Boston). If you were nearer, you could see them pouringsomething over their sides into the water, using the harbour for ateapot. On their pennons is written, 'Tea _of_ King George's _own_making. ' Oh, Cray! what is that noise?" Silence, a crunching of decidedstep coming on fast and firmly; the faces of the party fell. 

"It's all up!" sighed Crayshaw. 

Somebody shook the door at the foot of the stairs; then a voice rangthrough the place like a silver trumpet, "Johnnie. "

"Yes, father, " answered Johnnie in the loud, melancholy tone notunfrequently used by a boy when he succumbs to lawful authority. 

"What are you about, sir? What are you thinking of? Come down thismoment, and open the door. "

One of the little boys had been already dispatched down-stairs, and wasturning the key. In another instant John Mortimer, coming quickly upbeheld the party seated on the floor, looking very foolish, and Mrs. Walker in his throne laughing. Crayshaw got up to present himself, andtake the blame on his own shoulders, and John was so much surprised tofind Emily present, and perhaps aiding, that he stopped short in hisinquiry how they had dared to bring him home when he was so busy, andobserving the ridiculous side of the question, sat down at once, andlaughed also, while she said something by way of excuse for them, andthey made the best defence they could. 

Emily had the little Anastasia in her arms; the child, tired ofinaction, had fallen asleep, with her delicate rosy cheek leaningagainst Emily's fair throat. 

John felt the beauty of the attitude, and perceived how Emily's presencegave completeness to the group. 

Much too young to be the mother of the elder children, there was stillsomething essentially mother-like in all her ways. His children, excepting the one asleep in her arms, were all grouped on the floor ather feet. "Just so Janie would have sat, if she had lived, " he thought. "I should often have seen something like this here, as the children grewolder. " And while he listened to the account given by the two boys oftheir doings, he could not help looking at Emily, and thinking, as hehad sometimes done before, that she bore, in some slight degree, aresemblance to his wife--his wife whom he had idealised a good deallately--and who generally, in his thought, presented herself to him asshe had done when, as a mere lad, he first saw her. A dark-haired andgrey-eyed young woman, older than himself, as a very young man's firstadmiration frequently is. He felt that Emily was more graceful, had acharm of manner and a sweetness of nature that Janie had neverpossessed. He seldom allowed himself to admit even to his own mind thathis wife had been endowed with very slight powers of loving. On thatoccasion, however, the fact was certainly present to his thought; "But, "he cogitated, "we had no quarrels. A man may sometimes do with butlittle love from his wife, if he is quite sure she loves no other manmore. "

He started from his reverie as Crayshaw ceased to speak. "I thought youhad more sense, " he said, with the smile still on his mouth that hadcome while he mused on Emily. "And now don't flatter yourself that youare to be torn from your friends and hurled on the Continent againstyour will. Nothing of the sort, my boy! You have a more difficult partto play; you are to do as you please. "

Crayshaw's countenance fell a little. 

"Is George really angry, sir?" he asked. 

"He did not seem so. He remarked that you were nearly seventeen, andthat he did not specially care about this journey. "

Something very like disappointment stole over Cray's facethen--something of that feeling which now and then shows us that it israther a blow to us to have, all on a sudden, what we wanted. What wouldwe have, then? We cannot exactly tell; but it seems _that_ was not it. 

"Your brother thought you and Johnnie might be with me, and came to ask. I, of course, felt sure you were here. If you decide to go with him, youare to be back by six o'clock; if not, you go to Mr. Tikey on Monday. Now, my boy, I am not going to turn you out-of-doors. So adieu. "

Thus saying, because Emily's little charge was awake, and she had risenand was taking leave of the girls, he brought her down-stairs, and, wishing her good-bye' at his gate, went back to Wigfield, while shereturned home. 

This young woman, who had been accustomed to reign over most of the menabout her, felt, in her newly-learned humility, a sense of elation frommerely having been a little while in the presence of the man whom sheloved. She reflected on his musing smile, had no thought that itconcerned her, and hoped nothing better than that he might never findout how dear he was to her. 

As for John Mortimer, he returned to the town, musing over some turn inpolitical affairs that pleased him, cogitating over the contents of abill then under discussion in Parliament, wondering whether it would getmuch altered before the second reading, while all the time, halfunconsciously to himself, the scene in that other Parliament was presentto him. 

Just as a scene; nothing more. Emily sitting on his throne--his! withhis smallest child nestling in her arms, so satisfied, one knew notwhich of the two had the most assured air of possession. Half unaware, he seemed to hear again the contented sighing of the little creature inher sleep, and Emily's low, sweet laugh when she saw his astonishment ather presence. 

Then there was the young American stepping forward through a narrowsunbeam into the brown shade to meet him, with such a shamefaced, boyishair of conscious delinquency. Conscious, indeed, that he was the authorof a certain commotion, but very far, assuredly, from being consciousthat he, Gifford Crayshaw, by means of this schoolboy prank, was takingthe decisive step towards a change in the destiny of every soul thenbearing a part in it. 

John Mortimer reached the town. He had rallied the boy, and made him seehis folly. "A fine young fellow, " he reflected, "and full of fun. Idon't care how often he comes here, " and so in thought he dismissedCrayshaw and his boyish escapade, to attend to more important matters. 

Emily, as she went towards home, was soon overtaken by the twins, Johnnie, and Crayshaw. Opposition being now withdrawn, the latter younggentleman had discovered that he ought to go with his brother, and wasmoderately good-tempered about it. Johnnie Mortimer, on the other hand, was gloriously sulky, and declined to take any notice of hisfellow-creatures, even when they spoke to him. 

At the stepping-stones over the brook, Emily parted with the youngpeople, receiving from Crayshaw the verses he had copied. 

"Gladys had possessed them for a week, and liked them, " said the youngpoet. "I meant one of them for a parody, but Mr. Mortimer said it wasnot half enough like for parody, it only amounted to a kind of honestplagiarism. "

Considering the crestfallen air of the author, and the sigh with whichhe parted from her and went his way to join his brother, she was rathersurprised to find the sort of verses that they were. They were copied ina neat, boyish hand, and read as follows:--

 SOUVENIR OF SOUTH WALES. 

 (A cad would thay "I thor. ")

 But once I saw her by the stream (A cad would say "I sor"), Yet ofttimes of that once I dream, That once and never more. 

 By the fair flood she came to lean (Her gown was lilac print), And dip her pitcher down between The stalks of water-mint. 

 Then shoals of little fishes fled, And sun-flecks danced amain, And rings of water spread and spread Till all was smooth again. 

 I saw her somewhat towzled hair Reflected in the brook-- I might have seen her often there, Only--I didn't look. 

 G. C. 

 * * * * *

 SONG OF THE BASEMENT STORY. 

 Her mean abode was but a cell; 'Twas lonely, chill, and drear. Her work was all her wealth, but well She wrought with hope and cheer. 

 She, envious not of great or gay, Slept, with unbolted doors; Then woke, and as we Yankees say, "Flew round" and did her chores. 

 All day she worked; no lover lent His aid; and yet with glee At dusk she sought her home, content, That beauteous Bumble Bee. 

 A cell it was, nor more nor less. But O! all's one to me Whether you write it with an S, Dear girl, or with a C. 

 April 1st. 

 N. B. The motto for this ought to be, "For she was a water-rat. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MELCOMBE. 

 "In the pleasant orchard closes 'God bless all our gains, ' say we, But, 'May God bless all our losses, ' Better suits with our degree"

 E. B. BROWNING. 

The shade of twilight was but just fleeting, a faint glow waxed over theeastern hills, and the great orchard of pear-trees that pressed up toone end of Melcombe House showed white as an army of shrouded ghosts inthe dim solemnities of dawn. The house was closely shut up, and no onemet Valentine, as, tired after a night journey, he dismissed a hired flyat the inn, and came up slowly to those grand old silent trees. 

Without sunshine, white in nature is always most solemn. Here stillnesswas added; not a bird was yet awake, not a leaf stirred. A faint bluishhaze appeared to confuse the outlines of the trees, but as he lingeredlooking at them and at the house which he had now fully decided to takefor his home, Mr. Melcombe saw this haze dissolve itself and retreat;there was light enough to make the paleness whiter, and to show thedistinct brown trunk of each pear-tree, with the cushions of green mossat its roots. Formless whiteness and visible dusk had divided themselvesinto light and shade, then came a shaft of sunshine, the boughs ladenwith dewy blossom sparkled like snow, and in one instant the oppressionof their solemnity was over, and they appeared to smile upon hisapproach to his home. 

He had done everything he could think of, and knew not how to deviseanything further, and yet this secret, if there was one, would not comeforward and look him in the face. He had searched the house in the firstinstance for letters and papers; there were some old letters, and oldpapers also, but not one that did not seem to be as clear in theinnocence of its meaning as possible; there was even one that set atrest doubt and fear which he had hitherto entertained. He had found noclosets in the wall, no locked chambers; he had met with no mysterioussilences, mysterious looks, mysterious words. Then he had gone to meetthe bereaved mother, that if she had anything to say in the way ofwarning to him, or repentance for herself, he might lay himself out tohear it; but no, he had found her generally not willing to talk, but allshe did say showed tender reverence for the dead Melcombes, andpassionate grief for her boy who had been taken, as she said, before hewas old enough even to estimate at its due value the prosperous andhappy career he had before him. He tried Laura. Laura, though sincerelysorry for poor little Peter's death, was very sentimental; toldValentine, to his surprise, that it was mainly on her account they hadwintered on the Continent, and with downcast eyes and mysteriousconfusion that made him tremble, at first utterly declined to tell himthe reason. 

When he found, therefore, that Mrs. Melcombe did not care at present toreturn to England, and was far better able than he was to arrange herjourney when she did, he might have come home at once, but for thismystery of Laura's. And when, after cultivating his intimacy with herfor nearly a month, he at last found out, beyond a doubt, that itrelated to a love affair which Amelia had not approved of, he felt as ifeverything he approached, concerning the matter of his father's letter, melted into nothingness at his touch. 

He acknowledged to himself that he should have been deeply disappointedif he had discovered anything to justify this letter; and when the full, low sunlight shone upon his large comfortable old house, glorified theblossoming orchard and set off the darkness of the ancient yews, he felta touch of that sensation, which some people think is not fancy only. Everything about him seemed familiar. The old-fashioned quaintness was apart of himself. "The very first time I saw that clean, emptycoach-house, " he reflected, "I felt as if I had often played in it. Ialmost seemed to hear other boys shouting to me. Is it true that I neverlet off squibs and crackers in that yard?"

He walked nearer. How cheerful it all looked, swept up with extraneatness, and made orderly for the new master's eyes!

"By-the-bye, " he thought, catching sight of a heavy old outhouse door, "there is the ghost story. Having examined all realities so far as Ican, I will try my hand at things unreal--for even now, though I am verygrateful to Providence for such a house and such an inheritance, onceshow me a good reason, and over it goes, as it should have done atfirst, if my father could have given me one. That door seems just thesort of thing for a ghost to pass through. I'll look at the book Lauratold me of, and see which door it was. "

So the house being now open, and Mr. Melcombe observed by his servants(who alone were there to give him welcome), he entered, orderedbreakfast, which was spread for him in the "great parlour, " and havingnow got into the habit of making investigations, had no sooner finishedhis meal than he began to look at the notes he had made from what Mrs. Melcombe had told him of the ghost story. 

It was a story that she had not half finished when he recognised it--hehad read it with all its particulars in a book, only with the names andlocalities disguised. 

"Oh, yes, " she answered, when he said so. "It is very well known; it hasalways been considered one of the best authenticated stories of its kindon record, though it was not known beyond the family and the village forseveral years. Augustus Melcombe, you know, was the name of the deargrandmother's only brother, her father's heir; he was her father's onlyson, two daughters born between died in infancy. That poor young fellowdied at sea, and just at the time (as is supposed) that he expired, hiswraith appeared to the old woman, Becky Maddison, then a very younggirl. I am sorry to say the old woman has made a gain of this story. People often used to come to hear it, and she certainly does not alwaystell it exactly the same. People's inquiries, I suppose, andsuggestions, have induced her to add to it; but the version I am givingyou is what she first told. "

Mrs. Melcombe mentioned the book in which Valentine would find it, andrepeated from memory the impressive conclusion, "And this story of theyoung man's appearance to her had been repeatedly told by the girlbefore his family became alarmed at his protracted absence. It wasduring the long war, and the worst they feared was that he might havebeen taken prisoner; but more than three years after a member of thefamily met by accident, when some hundreds of miles away from home, anaval officer who had sailed in the ship to which this young lieutenantbelonged, and heard from him, not without deep emotion, that at thatvery time and at that very hour the youth had died at sea. "

"There is only one mistake in that version, " continued Mrs. Melcombe, "and that is, that we do not know the exact time when the young mandied. Cuthbert Melcombe was not told the month even, only the year. "

"But surely that is a very important mistake, " said Valentine. 

"Yes, for those to consider who believe in supernatural stones. It iscertain, however, that the girl told this story within a day or two, andtold it often, so that it was known in the village. It is certain alsothat he was at sea, and that he never came home. And it is undoubtedlytrue that Cuthbert, when in London, heard this account, for he wrote hismother home a description of the whole interview, with the officer'sname and ship. I have seen the letter, and read it over several times. The year of the death at sea is mentioned, but not the day. Now the dayof the ghost's appearance we cannot be wrong about; it was that beforethe night of the great gale which did such damage in these parts, thatfor years it could not be forgotten. "

"You have read the letter, you say?"

"Yes; it was an important one, I suppose. But I fancy that it was notread by any one but the dear grandmother till after poor CuthbertMelcombe's sad death, and then I think the family lawyer found it amongher papers when she had to inherit the estate. He may have wantedevidence, perhaps, that Augustus Melcombe was dead. "

"Perhaps so, " said Valentine. "It is just of the usual sort, I see, thisstory; a blue light hovering about the head. The ghost walked in hisshroud, and she saw the seams in it. "

"Yes, and then it passed through the door without opening it, " addedLaura, who was present. "How dear grandmother disliked the woman! Sheshowed a sort of fear, too, of that door, which made us sure shebelieved the story. "

"Very natural, " said Mrs. Melcombe. Sighing, "that she could not bear tohave her misfortunes made a subject for idle talk and curiosity. I amsure I should feel keenly hurt if it was ever said that my poor innocentdarling haunted the place. "

"Had anything been said against him in his lifetime?" Valentine nextventured to ask. "Had he done anything which was likely to put it intopeople's heads to say he might be uneasy in his grave?"

"Oh no, nothing of the sort, " said Laura. "And then old Becky is thoughtto have added circumstances to the story, so that it came from thatcause to be discredited of late. It is almost forgotten now, and wenever believed it at all; but it certainly is an odd coincidence thatshe should have told it of a man who never came back to contradict her, and who really did die, it appears, about that time. "

Valentine accordingly went in the course of a few days to find old BeckyMaddison. The cottage was not far from the village. Only the daughterwas below, and when Valentine had told his name and errand, she wentup-stairs, perhaps to prepare her mother, to whom she presentlyconducted him. 

Valentine found her a poor bedridden creature, weak, frail, andquerulous. She was in a clean and moderately comfortable bed, and whenshe saw him her puckered face and faded eyes began to look moreintelligent and attentive, and she presently remarked on his likeness tohis father. 

A chair was set for him, and sitting down, he showed a sovereign in hispalm, and said, "I want to hear the ghost story; tell it me as it reallywas, and you shall have this. "

A shabby book was lying on the bed. 

"Her can tell it no better'n it's told here, " said the daughter. 

Valentine took up the book. It was the same that he knew; the blue lightand the shroud appeared in it. He put the money into her hand. "No, " hesaid; "you shall have the money beforehand. Now, then, say what youreally saw. "

Old Becky clutched the gold, and said, in a weak, whimpering tone, "'Tain't often I tell it--ain't told it sin' Christmas marnin', oldMadam couldn't abide to hear on't. "

"Old Madam's gone, " said Valentine seriously. 

"Ay, her be--her wer a saint, and sings in heaven now. "

"And I want to hear it. "

Thereupon the old woman roused herself a little, and with the voice andmanner of one repeating a lesson, told Valentine word for word thetrumpery tale in the book; how she had seen Mr. Melcombe early in themorning, as she went up to the house on washing-day, to help theservants. For "Madam, " a widow already, had leave to live there till heshould return. He was walking in his shroud among the cherry-trees, andhe looked seriously at her. She passed, but turned instantly, and he haddisappeared; he must have gone right through the crack of the door. 

Valentine was vexed, and yet relieved. Such a ridiculous tale could onlybe an invention; and yet, if she would have told it in different words, or have added anything, it might have led to some discovery--it might, at least, have shown how it came to pass that such a story had obtainedcredit. 

"That was it, was it?" he said, feigning content. "I should like to askyou another question; perhaps your daughter will not mind going down. "

With evident reluctance the daughter withdrew. Valentine shut the door, and came back to his place. 

Naturally enough, he cared nothing about the story; so he approached theonly thing he did care about in the matter. "I want to ask you this onething: a ghost, you say, appeared to you--well, what do you think it wasfor--what did it want--what did it mean?"

Evident surprise on the part of his listener. 

"It must have come for something, " Valentine added, when she remainedsilent. "Have you never considered what?"

"Ay, sir, sure-ly. He came to let folks know he was gone. "

"And that was all, you think?"

"What else could he come for?" she answered. 

"Nobody has ever said, then, that it came for anything else, " thoughtValentine. "The poor ghost is not accused of any crime, and there is nocrime known of concerning the family or place that could be imputed tohim. "

"You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?"

"Ne'er a word, sir, this blessed marnin', but thank you kindly. "

Perhaps Valentine had never felt better pleased in his life than he didwhen he went down the narrow, dark stairs, after his interview withBecky Maddison. To find that without doubt she was either a fool or animpostor, was not what should have softened his heart and opened hispurse for her; but he had feared to encounter her story far more than hehad known himself till now that all fear was over. So when he got downto the daughter he was gracious, and generously gave her leave to cometo the house for wine and any other comforts that the old woman mightrequire. "And I shall come and see her from time to time, " he added, ashe went his way, for with the old woman's last word had snapped thechain that had barred the road to Melcombe. It was his. He shoulddispense its charity, pay its dues, and from henceforth, without fear orsuperstition, enjoy its revenues. 

About this time something occurred at John Mortimer's house, which madepeople hold up their hands, and exclaim, "What next?"

It would be a difficult matter to tell that story correctly, consideringhow many had a hand in the telling of it, and that no two of them toldit in the least degree alike; considering also that Mr. Mortimer, whocertainly could have told the greater part of it, had (so far as wasknown) never told it at all. 

Everybody said he had knocked up Swan and Mrs. Swan at six o'clock onemorning, and sent the former to call up Matthew the coachman, who alsolived out of the house. "And that, " said Swan, when he admitted the factto after questioners, "Matthew never will forgive me for doing. He hatesto get his orders through other folks, specially through me. He allusgrudges me the respect as the family can't help feeling for me. Not butthat he gets his share, but he counts nothing his if it's mine too. He'dlike to pluck the very summer out of my almanack, and keep it in his ownlittle back parlour. " Everybody said, also, that Mrs. Swan had made thefire that morning in Mr. Mortimer's kitchen, and that Matthew had waitedon him and his four daughters at breakfast, nobody else being in thehouse, gentle or simple. 

Gentle or simple. That was certainly true, for the governess had takenher departure two days previously. 

After this, everybody said that Matthew brought the carriage round, andMr. Mortimer put in the girls, and got in himself, telling Matthew todrive to Wigfield Hall, where Mr. Brandon, coming out to meet him with alook of surprise, he said, "Giles, we are early visitors;" and Mr. Brandon answered, "All the more welcome, John. " Everybody said also thatthe four Miss Mortimers remained for several days with Mrs. Brandon, andvery happy they seemed. 

But though people knew no more, they naturally said a good dealmore--they always do. Some said that Mr. Mortimer, coming homeunexpectedly after a journey in the middle of the night, found thekitchen chimney on fire, and some of the servants asleep on the floor, nothing like so sober as they should have been. Others said he found adance going on in the servants' hall, and the cook waltzing with apoliceman, several gentlemen of the same craft being present. Others, again, said that when he returned he found the house not only empty, butopen; that he sat down and waited, in a lowering passion, till they allreturned in two flys from some festivities at a public-house inWigfield; and then, meeting them at the door, he retained the flys, andwaving his hand, ordered them all off the premises; saw them veryshortly depart, and locked the doors behind them. It was a comfort to beable to invent so many stories, and not necessary to make them tally, for no one could contradict them; certainly not any one of the four MissMortimers, for they had all been fast asleep the whole time. 

Mr. Mortimer held his peace; but while staying with Mr. And Mrs. Brandontill he could reconstruct his household, he was observed at first to beout of spirits, and vastly inclined to be out of temper. He did his verybest to hide this, but he could not hide a sort of look half shame, halfamusement, which would now and then steal round the corners of hismouth, as if it had come out of some hiding-place to take a survey ofthings in general. 

John Mortimer had perhaps rather prided himself on his penetration, hispowers of good government, the order and respectability of hishousehold, and other matters of that description. He had been taught inrather an ignominious fashion that he had overvalued himself in thoseparticulars. 

He was always treated by strangers whom he employed with a great deal ofrespect and deference; but this was mainly owing to a somewhatcommanding presence and a good deal of personal dignity. When the samepeople got used to him, perceived the _bonhomie_ of his character, hiscarelessness about money matters, and his easy household ways, they weresometimes known to take all the more advantage of him from havingneedlessly feared him at first. 

He said to Giles, "It is very evident now that I must marry. I owe it tothe mother of my children, and in fact to them. "

Mrs. Brandon said this to Mrs. Walker when, the next day, these twoladies met, and were alone together, excepting for the presence of St. George Mortimer Brandon, which did not signify. "The house might havebeen robbed, " she continued, "and the children burnt in their beds. "

"Giles told you this afterwards?"

"Yes. "

Emily looked uncomfortable. "One never knows how men may discuss matterswhen they are alone. I hope, if John ever asked advice of Giles, hewould not----"

Here a pause. 

"He would not recommend any one in particular, " said Dorothea, lookingdown on her baby's face. "Oh no, I am certain he would not think of sucha thing. Besides, the idea that he had any one to suggest has, I know, never entered his head. "

This she said without looking at Emily, and in a matter-of-fact tone. Ifone had discovered anything, and the other was aware of it, she couldstill here at least feel perfectly safe. This sister of hers, even toher own husband, would never speak. 

"And that was all?"

"No; Giles said he gave him various ludicrous particulars, and repeated, with such a sincere sigh, 'I must marry--it's a dire necessity!' thatGiles laughed, and so did he. "

"Poor John!" said Emily, "there certainly was not much in his firstmarriage to tempt him into a second. And so I suppose Giles encouragedhim, saying, as he often does, that he had never known any happinessworth mentioning till he married. "

"Yes, dear, " said Dorothea, "and he answered, 'But you did not pitchyourself into matrimony like a man taking a header into a fathomlesspool. You were in love, old fellow, and I am not. Why, I have notdecided yet on the lady!' He cannot mean, therefore, to marry forthwith, Emily; besides, it must be the literal truth that he has not even halfunconsciously a real preference for any one, or he could not have talkedso openly to Giles. He does not even foresee any preference. "

"But I hope to help him to a preference very soon, " she thought, andadded aloud, "Dear, you will stay and dine with us?"

Emily replied that she could not, she was to dine with a neighbour; andshe shortly departed, in possession of the most imprudent speeches Johnhad ever made (for he was usually most reticent), and she could notguess of course that one of his assertions time had already falsified. He _had_ decided on the lady. 

While the notion that he must marry had slumbered, his thought thatEmily should be his wife had slumbered also; but that morning, drivingtowards Wigfield, he had stopped at his own house to give some orders, and then had gone up into "Parliament" to fetch out some smallpossessions that his twin daughters wanted. There, standing for a momentto look about him, his eyes had fallen on his throne, and instantly theimage of Emily had recurred to him, and her attitude as she held hislittle child. To give a step-mother to his children had always been apainful thought. They might be snubbed, misrepresented to him, uncherished, unloved. But Emily! there was the tender grace ofmotherhood in her every action towards a little child; her yearningsense of loss found its best appeasement in the pretty exactions andartless dependence of small young creatures. No; Emily might spoilstep-children if she had them, but she could not be unkind. 

His cold opinion became a moderately pleased conviction. This was somuch the right thing, that once contemplated, it became the only thing. He recalled her image again, as he looked at the empty throne, and hedid not leave the room till he had fully decided to set her on it. 

When John went back to dinner, he soon managed to introduce her name, and found those about him very willing to talk of her. It seemed sonatural in that house. John recalled some of the anecdotes of her joyousgirlhood for Dorothea's benefit; they laughed over them together. Theyall talked a good deal that evening of Emily, but this made nodifference to John's intention; it was fully formed already. 

So the next morning, having quite recovered his spirits, and almostforgotten what he had said three days before to his host, he remarked tohimself, just as he finished dressing, "She has been a widow now rathermore than a year. The sooner I do it, the better. "

He sat down to cogitate. It was not yet breakfast time. "Well, " he said, "she is a sweet creature. What would I have, I wonder!"

He took a little red morocco case from his pocket-book, and opened it. 

"My father was exceedingly fond of her, " he next said, "and nothingwould have pleased him better. "

His father had inherited a very fine diamond ring from his old cousin, and had been in the habit of wearing it. John, who never decked himselfin jewellery of any sort, had lately taken this ring to London, and leftit with his jeweller, to be altered so as to fit a lady's finger. Heintended it for his future wife. 

It had just been sent back to him. 

Some people say, "There are no fools like old fools. " It might be saidwith equal truth, there are no follies like the follies of a wise man. 

"I cannot possibly play the part of a lover, " said Mr. Mortimer, and hisface actually changed its hue slightly when he spoke. "How shall Imanage to give it to her!"

He looked at the splendid gem, glittering and sparkling. "And I hateinsincerity, " he continued. Then, having taken out the ring, heinspected it as if he wished it could help him, turning it round on thetip of his middle finger. "Trust her? I should think so! Like her? Ofcourse I do. I'll settle on her anything Giles pleases, but I must actlike a gentleman, and not pretend to any romantic feelings. "

A pause. 

"It's rather an odd thing, " he further reflected, "that so many women ashave all but asked me--so many as have actually let other women ask mefor them--so many as I know I might now have almost at a week's notice, I should have taken it into my head that I must have this one, whodoesn't care for me a straw. She'll laugh at me, very likely--she'lltake me, though!"

Another pause. 

"No, I won't have any one else, I'm determined. I'll agree to anythingshe demands. " Here a sunbeam, and the diamonds darted forth to meet oneanother. The flash made him wink. "If she'll only undertake to reign andrule, and bring up the children--for she'll do it well, and love themtoo--I'm a very domestic fellow, I shall be fond of her. Yes, I knowshe'll soon wind me round her little finger. " Here, remembering thesweetness of liberty, he sighed. "I'll lay the matter before her thismorning. I shall not forget the respect due to her and to myself. " Hehalf laughed. "She'll soon know well enough what I'm come for; and if Istick fast, she will probably help me!" He shut up the ring. "She neverhas had the least touch of romance in her nature, and _she knows_ that_I know_ she didn't love her first husband a bit. " He then looked athimself, or rather at his coat, in a long glass--it fitted toperfection. "If this crash had not brought me to the point, I might havewaited till somebody else won her. There goes the breakfast bell. Well, I think I am decidedly glad on the whole. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

UNHEARD-OF LIBERTIES. 

 "If he come not then the play is marred: it goes not forward, doth it?"

 _Midsummer Night's Dream. _

Miss Christie Grant, sitting with Emily at ten o'clock in the morning, heard a ring at the bell, which she thought she knew. She pricked up herhead to listen, and as it ceased tinkling she bustled out of the room. 

The first virtue of a companion in Miss Christie Grant's view, was toknow how to be judiciously absent. 

"Mr. Mortimer. "

Emily was writing, when she looked up on hearing these words, and sawJohn Mortimer advancing. Of course she had been thinking of him, thinking with much more hope than heretofore, but also with much morepride. 

When he had stood remote, the object of such an impassioned, and to her, hitherto, such an unknown love, which transformed him and everythingabout him, and imparted to him such an almost unbearable charm--a powerto draw her nearer and nearer without knowing it, or wanting her atall--she had felt that she could die for him, but she had not hoped tolive for him, and spend a happy life at his side. 

She did not hope it yet, she only felt that a blissful possibility wasthrown down before her, and she might take it up if she could. 

She knew that this strange absorbing love, which, like some splendidflower, had opened out in her path, was the one supreme blossom of herlife--that life which is all too short for the unfolding of anothersuch. But the last few hours had taught her something more, it was nowjust possible that he might pretend to gather this flower--he hadsomething to learn then before he could wear it, he must love her, orshe felt that her own love would break her heart. 

Emily had not one of those poverty-stricken natures which are never gladexcepting for some special reason drawing them above themselves. She wasnaturally joyous and happy, unless under the pressure of an activesorrow that shaded her sky and quenched her sunshine. She lived in anelevated region full of love and wonder, taking kindly alike toreverence and to hope; but she was seldom excited, her feelings were notshallow enough to be easily troubled with excitement, or made fitfulwith agitation. 

There was in her nature a suave harmony, a sweet and gracious calm, which love itself did not so much disturb as enrich and change, --lovewhich had been born in the sacred loneliness of sorrow, --complicatedwith tender longing towards little children, nourished in silence, withbeautiful shame and pride, and impassioned fear. 

Yet it was necessary to her, even in all withdrawal from its object, even though it should be denied all expression for ever--necessary tothe life that it troubled and raised, and enriched, with a vision ofwithheld completeness that was dimmed by the tears of her half "divinedespair. "

She rose and held out her hand, and when he smiled with a certain air ofembarrassment, she did also. She observed that he was sensitive aboutthe ridiculous affair which had led to his turning out his household, besides this early call made her feel, but not in a way to discomposeher as if she were taken into the number of those ladies, among whom hemeant to make his selection. Yes, it was as she had hoped. It warmed herto the heart to see it, but not the less was she aware of the ridiculousside of it. A vision of long-sustained conversations, set calls, andcareful observations in various houses rose up before her; it was not inher nature to be unamused at the peculiar position that he had confessedto--"he had not decided on the lady. " She felt that she knew more ofthis than he supposed, and his embarrassment making her quite at herease, the smiles kept peeping out as with her natural grace she began totalk to him. 

"Emily, you are laughing at me, " he presently said, and he too laughed, felt at ease, and yielded to the charm that few men could resist, so faras to become at home and pleased with his hostess for making him so. 

"Of course I am, John, " she answered. "I couldn't think of beingoccupied with any one else just now!"

And then they began to talk discursively and, as it were, at large. Johnseemed to be fetching a wide compass. Emily hardly knew what he wasabout till suddenly she observed that he had ventured on dangerousground, she managed to give a little twist to the conversation, but hesoon brought it back again, and she half turned, and looked up at himsurprised. 

While she occupied herself with a favourite piece of embroidery, and wasmatching the silks, holding them up to the light, he had risen, and wasleaning against the side of the bay window; a frequent attitude withhim; for what are called "occasional" chairs are often rather frail andsmall for accommodating a large tall man, and drawing-room sofas aresometimes exceedingly low. In any one's eyes he would have passed for afine man, something more (to those who could see it) than a merelyhandsome man, for the curves of his mouth had mastery in them, and hiseyes were full of grave sweetness. Emily was always delighted with thesomewhat unusual meeting in him of personal majesty, with thegood-humoured easy _bonhomie_ which had caused his late discomfiture. She half turned, and looked up. 

"How charming she is!" he thought, as he looked down; "there will begrace and beauty into the bargain!" and he proceeded, in pursuit of whathe considered sincere and gentlemanlike, to venture on the dangerousground again, not being aware how it quaked under him. 

The casual mention of some acquaintance who had lately married gave himthe chance that he thought he wanted. He would be happy enough--peoplemight in general be happy enough, he hinted, glancing from theparticular instance to lay down a general proposition--"if they did notexpect too much--if they were less romantic; for himself, he had not thepresumption to expect more than a sincere liking--a cordialapproval--such as he himself could entertain. It was the only feeling hehad ever inspired, or----"

No, he did not say felt. 

But he presently alluded to his late wife, and then reverting to hisformer speech, said, "And yet I was happy with her! I consider that Iwas fortunate. "

"Moderate, " thought Emily; "but as much as it is possible for him tosay. "

"And, " he continued, "she has laid me under obligations that make itimpossible for me ever to forget her. I feel the blessing of having ourchildren about me. And--and also--what I owe to her on their account--Inever spend a day without thinking of her. "

"Poor Janie!" thought Emily, very much touched, "she did not deservethis tribute. How coldly I have often heard her talk of him!"

And then, not without a certain grave sweetness of manner that made herheart ache, alike with tender shame to think how little her deadhusband had ever been accounted of, compared with this now possiblefuture one, and with such jealousy as one may feel of a dead wife whowould have cared as little for long remembrance as she had done forliving affection, Emily listened, while he managed quite naturally, andby the slightest hints, to bring her also in--her past lot and opinions. She felt, rather than heard, the intention; "and he could not presume tosay, " he went on, "he was not sure whether a man might hope for a secondmarriage, which could have all the advantages of a first. Yet he thoughtthat in any suitable marriage there might be enough benefit on bothsides to make it almost equally. "

"Equally what?" Emily wondered. 

John was trying to speak in a very matter-of-fact way, as merely layingdown his views. 

"Equally advantageous, " he said at last; and not without difficulty. 

"John, " said Emily, rallying a little, and speaking with the leastlittle touch of audacity, --"John, you are always fond of advancing yourabstract theories. Now, I should have thought that if a man had felt anywant in his first marriage, he would have tried for something more in asecond, rather than have determined that there was no more to be had. "

"Unless his reason assured him in more sober hours that he had had all, and given all that could in reason be expected, " John answered. "I didnot confess to having felt any want, " he presently added. "Call this, since it pleases you, my abstract theory. "

And then Emily felt that she too must speak; her dead husband deservedit of her far more than his dead wife had ever done. 

"I do please, " she answered; "this can be only an abstract theory to me. I knew no want of love in my marriage, only a frequent self-reproach--tothink that I was unworthy, because I could not enough return it. "

"A most needless self-reproach, " he answered. "I venture to hope thatpeople should never rebuke themselves because they happen to beincapable of romantic passion, or any of the follies of youthful love. "

"Intended to restore my self-esteem. Shall I not soon be able to makeyou feel differently?" thought Emily. "You still remember Janie; youwill never let her be disparaged. I think none the worse of you forthat, my beloved--my hope. "

He was silent till she glanced up at him again, with a sweetwistfulness, that was rather frequent with her; turning half round--forhe stood at her side, not quite enough at his ease to look continuallyin her face--he was much surprised to find her so charming, so naive inall her movements, and in the flitting expressions of her face. 

He was pleased, too, though very much surprised, to find that she didnot seem conscious of his intention (a most lovely blush had spreaditself over her face when she spoke of her husband), but so far fromexpecting what he was just about to say, she had thrown him back in hisprogress more than once--she did not seem to be expecting anything. "Andyet, I have said a good deal, " he reflected; "I have let her know that Iexpect to inspire no romantic love, and do not pretend to be in lovewith her. I come forward admiring, trusting, and preferring her to anyother woman; though I cannot come as a lover to her feet. " He began totalk again. Emily was a little startled to find him in a few minutesalluding to his domestic discomforts, and his intention of standing forthe borough. He had now a little red box in his hand, and when she said, "John, I wish you would not stand there, " he came and sat nearlyopposite to her, and showed her what was in it--his father's diamondring. She remembered it, no doubt; he had just had the diamond reset. Emily took out the ring, and laid it in her palm. "It looks small, " shesaid. "I should not have thought it would fit you, John. "

"Will you let me try if it will fit you?" he answered; and, before shehad recovered from her surprise, he had put it on her finger. 

There was a very awkward pause, and then she drew it off. "You canhardly expect me, " she said, and her hand trembled a little, "to acceptsuch a very costly present. " It was not her reason for returning it, butshe knew not what to say. 

"I would not ask it, " he replied, "unless I could offer you another. Idesire to make you my wife. I beg you to accept my hand. "

"Accept your hand! What, now? directly? today?" she exclaimed almostpiteously, and tears trembled on her eye-lashes. 

"Yes, " he answered, repeating her words with something like ardour. "Now, directly, to-day. I am sorely in want of a wife, and would faintake you home as soon as the bans would let me. Emily?"

"Why you have been taking all possible pains to let me know that you donot love me in the least, and that, as far as you foresee, you do notmean to love me, " she answered, two great tears falling on his hand whenhe tried to take hers. "John! how dare you!"

She was not naturally passionate, but startled now into this passionateappeal, she snatched away her hand, rose in haste, and drew back fromhim with flashing eyes and a heaving bosom; but all too soon the shortrelief she had found in anger was quenched in tears that she did not tryto check. She stood and wept, and he, very pale and very muchdiscomfited, sat before her in his place. 

"I beg your pardon, " he presently said, not in the least aware of whatthis really meant. "I beg--I entreat your pardon. I scarcelythought--forgive my saying it--I scarcely thought, considering ourpast--and--and--my position, as the father of a large family, that youwould have consented to any wooing in the girl and boy fashion. You makeme wish, for once in my life--yes, very-heartily wish, that I had beenless direct, less candid, " he added rather bitterly. "I thought"--hereEmily heard him call himself a fool--"I thought you would approve it. "

"I do, " she answered with a great sobbing sigh. Oh, there was nothingmore for her to say; she could not entreat him now to let her teach himto love her. She felt, with a sinking heart, that if he took her wordsfor a refusal, and by no means a gentle one, it could not be wonderedat. 

Presently he said, still looking amazed and pale, for he was utterlyunused to a woman's tears, and as much agitated now in a man's fashionas she was in hers, "If I have spoken earlier in your widowhood than you approve, and itdispleases you, I hope you will believe that I have always thought ofyou as a wife to be admired above any that I ever knew. "

"My husband loved me, " she answered, drying her eyes, now almost calmly. She could not say she was displeased on his account, and when she lookedup she saw that John Mortimer had his hat in his hand. Their interviewwas nearly over. 

"I cannot lose you as a friend, " he said, and his voice faltered. 

"Oh no; no, dear John. "

"And my children are so fond of you. "

"I love them; I always shall. "

He looked at her for a moment, doubtful whether to hold out his hand. "Forget this, Emily, and let things be as they have been heretoforebetween us. "

"Yes, " she answered, and gave him her hand. 

"Good-bye, " he said, and stooped to kiss it, and was gone. 

She stood quite still listening, and yet listening, till all possiblechance was over of catching any longer the sound of his steps. No moretears; only a great aching emptiness. The unhoped-for chance had beenhers, and she had lost it knowingly. What else could she have done?

She scarcely knew how long she remained motionless. A world and alifetime of agitation, and thought, and passionate yearning seemed tostand between her and that brief interview, before, casting her eyes onthe little velvet-covered table across which he had leaned to put it onher hand, she saw the splendid ring; sunbeams had found it out, and wereplaying on the diamond; he had forgotten it, and left it behind him, andthere was the case on the floor. It seemed to be almost a respite. 

"We are to dine with Giles and Dorothea to-day, and meet him. Thismorning's work, then, is not irretrievable. I can speak now to Dorothea, tell her what has occurred, and she will see that I have opportunity toreturn him this--and---and things may end in his loving me a little, after all. Oh, if they could--if, indeed, he had not told me he did not. He did not look in the least angry, --only surprised and vexed when Irejected him. He cares so little about me. "

She took up the ring, and in course of time went with her old aunt todine at her brother's house. She knew John was aware that he was to meether; she was therefore deeply disturbed, though perhaps she had no rightto be surprised when Dorothea said--

"We are so much disappointed! John Mortimer has sent this note to excusehimself from coming back to dinner to-day--or, indeed, coming here atall to-night. He has to go out, it seems, for two or three days. "

"Ay, " said Miss Christie, "that's very awkward for him. " Miss Christiehad built certain hopes upon that morning's visit. "It seems to me, " shecontinued, "that John Mortimer's affairs give him twice as much troubleas they used to do. "

Emily was silent; she felt that _this_ was not letting things be as theyhad been heretofore. She took up the note. He did not affirm that he wasobliged to go out. Even if he was, what should she do now? She was leftin custody of the ring, and could neither see him nor write to him. 

"On Sunday I shall see him. I shall have his hand for a moment; I shallgive him this, after morning service. "

But, no. Sunday came; the Mortimers were at church, but not theirfather. "Father had walked over to that little chapel-of-ease beyondWigfield, that Grand gave the money to build, " they said. "He tookJohnnie with him to day. "

"Yes, " said Barbara, "and he promised next Sunday to take me. "

"He will not meet me, " thought Emily. 

She waited another week, hoping she might meet him accidentally; hopinghe might come to her, hoping and fearing she hardly knew what. But stillJohn Mortimer made no sign, and she could not decide to write to him;every day that she retained the ring made it more difficult for her toreturn it, without breaking so the slender thread that seemed to holdher to him still. There was no promise in it of any future communicationat all. 

In the meantime curiosity, having been once excited about John Mortimerand his concerns, kept open eyes on him still, and soon the air was fullof rumours which reached all ears but those of the two people mostconcerned. A likely thing, if there is the smallest evidence in theworld for it, can easily get headway if nobody in authority cancontradict it. 

All Wigfield said that Mr. Mortimer had "proposed" to Mrs. Walker, andshe had refused him. Brandon heard it with amazement, but could saynothing; Miss Christie heard it with yet more; but she, too, held herpeace. 

Johnnie Mortimer heard it, made furtive observations on his father, waspleased to think that he was dull, restless, pale--remembered his ownletter to his sisters, and considered himself to be partly to blame. Then the twins heard it, took counsel with Johnnie, believed it also, were full of ruth and shame. "So dear papa loved Mrs. Walker, and shewould not marry him. There could only be one reason; she knew she hadnothing to expect but rebellion and rudeness and unkindness from them. No, papa was not at all like himself; he often sighed, and he looked asif his head ached. They had seen in the paper that he had lost aquantity of money by some shares and things; but they didn't think hecared about that, for he gave them a sovereign the next day to buy abirthday present for Janie. Father must not be made miserable on theiraccount. What had they better do?"

Emily, in the meantime, felt her heart faint; this new trouble goingdown to the deepest part of her heart, woke up and raised again thehalf-appeased want and sorrow. Again she dreamed that she was foldingher little child in her arms, and woke to find them empty. She could notstand against this, and decided, in sheer desperation, to quit thefield. She would go on the Continent to Justina; rest and change wouldhelp her, and she would send back the ring, when all was arranged, byAunt Christie. 

She was still at her desk, having at last managed to write the note. 

She was to start the next morning. Miss Christie was then on her way toJohn Mortimer with the ring, and tired with her own trouble andindecision, she was resting in a careless attitude when she heard aknock at the door. 

"That tiresome _boy_ again, " she disrespectfully murmured, rousing up alittle, and a half smile stealing out. "What am I to do with him?" Shethought it was the new curate. "Why, Johnnie, is that you?" sheexclaimed as Johnnie Mortimer produced himself in all his youthfulawkwardness, and advanced, looking a good deal abashed. 

Johnnie replied that it was a half-holiday, and so he thought he wouldcome and call. 

Emily said she was glad to see him; indeed, she felt refreshed by thesight of anything that belonged to John. 

"I thought I should like to--to--in short, to come and call, " repeatedJohnnie, and he looked rather earnestly at his gloves, perhaps by way ofoccupation. They were such as a Harrow boy seldom wears, excepting on"speech day"--pale lilac. As a rule Johnnie scorned gloves. Emilyobserved that he was dressed with perfect propriety--like a gentleman, in fact; his hair brushed, his tie neat, his whole outer boy clean, andgot up regardless of trouble and expense. 

"Well, you could not have come at a better time, dear boy, " said Emily, wondering what vagary he was indulging now, "for I have just got apresent of a case of shells and birds from Ceylon, and you shall help meto unpack and arrange them, if you like. "

"I should like to do anything you please, " said Johnnie with alacrity. "That's what I meant, that's what I came to say. " Thereupon he smoothedthe nap on his "chimneypot" hat, and blushed furiously. 

The case was set upon the floor, on a piece of matting; it had alreadybeen opened, and was filling the room with a smell of sandal-wood andcamphor. 

Emily had risen, and when she paused, arrested by surprise at theoddness of this speech, he added, taking to his lisp again, as if fromsheer embarrassment, "Thome fellows are a great deal worse than theytheem. No, I didn't mean that; I mean thome fellows are a great dealbetter than they theem. "

"Now, Johnnie, " said Emily, laughing, and remembering a late visit ofapology, "if any piece of mischief has got the better of you, and yourfather has sent you to say you are sorry for it, I'll forgive youbeforehand! What is it? Have you been rooting up my fences, or floodingmy paddock?"

"It's a great deal worth than that, " answered Johnnie, who by this timewas kneeling beside the case, hauling out the birds and shells with morevigour than dexterity. 

"Nothing to do with gunpowder, I hope, " said Emily with her usual_insouciance_. 

"There are the girls; I hear them coming in the carriage, " exclaimedJohnnie by way of answer, while Emily was placing the shells on a table. "No, father didn't send me; he doesn't know. "

"What is it, then?" she repeated, feeling more at liberty to investigatethe matter, now she had been expressly told that John had nothing to dowith it. 

On this, instead of making a direct reply, he exclaimed, looking veryred and indignant, "I told them it was no use at all my coming, and nowyou see it isn't. They thaid they wouldn't come unless I did. If youthought I should be rude, you might make me stop at school all theholidays, or at old Tikey's; I shouldn't thay a word. "

Emily's hand was on the boy's shoulder as he knelt before the case. Surely she understood what he meant; but if so, where could he possiblyhave acquired the knowledge he seemed to possess? And even then he wasthe last person from whom she could have expected this blunt, embarrassed, promise of fealty. 

The girls entered, and the two little ones. Emily met them, and whileshe gave each a kiss, Johnnie started up, and with a great war-whoop ofdefiance to his sisters, burst through the open window, and blushinghotly fled away. 

Much the same thing over again. The girls were all in their best; theygenerally loved to parade the crofts and gardens clad in brown hollandand shaded by flapping hats. The children scorned gloves and all fineclothes as much as they did the carriage; and here they were--littleHugh in his velvet suit, looking so fair and bright-haired; Anastasiadressed out in ribbons, and with a very large bouquet of hothouseflowers in her hand. The girls pushed her forward. 

"It's for you, " said the little girl, "and isn't it a grand one! And mylove, and we're come to call. "

"Thank you, my sweet, " said Emily, accepting the bouquet, "I never sawsuch a beauty!" She was sitting on a sofa, and her young guests were allstanding before her. She observed that little Hugh looked very sulkyindeed. "It's extremely unfair, " he presently burst out, "they made Swancut the best flowers in the houses, and they gave them all to Nancy togive, and I haven't got _none_. "

Barbara whispered to him, trying to soothe his outraged feelings, but hekept her off with his elbow till Emily drew him near, and observed thatit was not her birthday, and therefore that one present was surelyenough. 

Barbara replied that Hughie had brought a present, but he was very crossbecause it was not so pretty as Anastasia's. 

"Yes, I've brought this, " said Hugh, his countenance clearing a littleas he opened his small gloved hand, and disclosed a very brightfive-shilling piece. "It's not so pretty, though, as Nannie's. "

"But it will last much longer, " said Emily; "and so you meant this forme, my sweet man. I'll take care of it for you, and look at it sometimestill you want to spend it; that will be a very nice present for me, andthen you can have it back. "

"Papa gave it him, " said Anastasia; "it's a new one. And may we go nowand look at our gardens?"

Hugh appeared to be cogitating over Emily's proposal; his little graveface was the image of his father's. "You may if Mrs. Nemily says so, "answered Gladys. "You always want to do what Mrs. Nemily pleases, don'tyou?"

"Oh yes, " said the sprite, dancing round the room; and off they set intothe garden. 

"And so do we all, " said Barbara. 

Gladys was sitting at Emily's feet now, and had a little covered basketin her hand, which rustled as if it contained some living thing. 

"Janie and Bertie don't know--none of the little ones know, " saidBarbara; "we thought we had better not tell them. "

Emily did not ask what they meant; she thought she knew. It could makeno difference now, yet it was inexpressibly sweet and consoling to her. 

"We only said we were coming to call, and when Janie saw the bouquet shesaid she should send you a present too. " Thereupon the basket wasopened, and a small white kitten was placed on Emily's knee. 

There seemed no part for her to play, but to be passive; she could notlet them misunderstand; she knew John had not sent them. "We should beso glad if you came, " whispered the one who held her hand. "Oh, Janie, "thought Emily, "if you could only see your children now!"

"And when Johnnie wrote that, he didn't know it was you, " pleaded theother. 

"My darlings!" said Emily, "you must not say any more; and I havenothing to answer but that I love you all very, very much indeed. "

"But we want you to love father too. "

Unheard-of liberty! Emily had no answer ready; but now, as she hadwondered what their mother would have felt, she wondered what John wouldhave felt at this utter misunderstanding, this taking for granted thathe loved her, and that she did not love him. A sensitive blush spreaditself over her face. "Your father would not be pleased, my dears, " sheanswered lovingly but firmly, "at your saying any more; he would think(though I am sure you do not mean it) that you were taking a greatliberty. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 

 "She's daft to refuse the laird of Cockpen. "

 _Scotch Ballad. _

And now John Mortimer had again possession of his ring. Emily had sentit, together with a little book that she had borrowed some timepreviously, and the whole was so done up in stiff paper that MissChristie Grant supposed herself to be returning the book only. 

"So you gave it to John, auntie, " said Emily, when Miss Christie cameback, "and told him I was going out, and he read the note?"

"Yes, " answered Miss Christie curtly. 

"Is he looking well?" asked Emily with a faint attempt at the tone ofordinary interest. 

"I should say not at all; it would be queer if he was. "

"Why, Aunt Christie?"

Miss Christie Grant paused. Confidence had not been reposed in her; tohave surprised Emily into it would have given her no pleasure; it wouldhave left her always suspicious that her niece would have withheld it ifshe could; besides, this rumour might after all be untrue. She answered, "Because, for one thing, he has had great, at least considerable, losses. "

"Yes, I know, " said Emily. 

"But he aye reposed great confidence in me, as a friend should. "

"Yes. "

"And so I would have asked him several questions if I had known how toexpress myself; but bonds and debentures, and, above all, preferencestock, were aye great stumbling-blocks to my understanding. Men have away of despising a woman's notions of business matters; so I contentedmyself with asking if it was true that he was arranging to take apartner, and whether he would have to make any pecuniary sacrifice inorder to effect this? He said 'Yes;' but I've been just thinking hemeant that in confidence. "

"You shouldn't tell it to me then. "

"And then he told me (I don't know whether that was in confidence ornot), but----"

"But what?"

"But I don't want to have any reservations with my own niece's child, that was always my favourite, any more than I suppose ye would have anywith me. "

Miss Christie here seemed to expect an answer, and waited long enoughfor Emily to make one, if she was so minded; but as Emily remainedsilent, she presently went on. 

"I made the observation that I had heard he meant to sell his latefather's house; but lest he should think I attached too much importanceto his losses, I just added that I knew his children were very wellprovided for under the will. He said 'Yes. '"

"And that was all?" asked Emily, amused at the amount of John'sconfidence, and pleased to find that nothing but business had beentalked or. 

"Yes, that was all--so far as I know there was nothing more to tell; soI just said before I came away that I was well aware my knowledge ofbanking was but slender, which was reason enough for my not offering anyadvice. Well, if anybody had told me ye could laugh because JohnMortimer was less prosperous than formerly, I would not have believedit!"

Emily made haste to look grave again. It was no secret at all that JohnMortimer meant to take a partner; and as to his losses, she did notsuppose they would affect his comfort much. 

Johnnie Mortimer, however, on hearing of them was roused to a sense ofresponsibility toward his father, and as a practical proof that he andhis sisters were willing to do what they could, proposed to them thatthey should give up half their weekly allowance of pocket-money. Thetwins assented with filial fervour, and Johnnie explained their views tohis father, proposing that his own pony should be sold, and the moneyflung into the gap. 

John was smoking a cigar in an arbour near the house when his heirunfolded to him these plans for retrenchment. He was surprised. The boywas so big, so clever with his lessons, and possessed so keen a sense ofhumour that sometimes the father forgot his actual age, and forgot thathe was still simple in many respects, and more childlike than some otheryouths. 

He did not instantly answer nor laugh (for Johnnie was exceedinglysensitive to ridicule from him); but after a pause, as if for thought, he assured his son that he was not in any want of money, and thattherefore these plans, he was happy to say, were not necessary. "As youare old enough now, " he added, "to take an intelligent interest in myaffairs, I shall occasionally talk to you about them. "

Johnnie, shoving his head hard against his father's shoulder, gave himan awkward hug. "You might depend on my never telling anybody, " he said. 

"I am sure of that, my boy. Your dear grandfather, a few months beforehis death, gave his name to an enterprise which, in my opinion, did notpromise well. A good deal of money has been lost by it. "

"Oh, " said Johnnie, and again he reflected that, though not necessary, it would be only right and noble in him to give up his pony. 

"But I dare say you think that I and mine have always lived in theenjoyment of every comfort, and of some luxuries. "

"Oh, yes, father. "

"Then if I tell you that I intend to continue living exactly in mypresent style, and that I expect to be always entitled to do so, youneed perhaps hardly concern yourself to inquire how much I may hithertohave lived within my income. "

Johnnie, who, quite unknown to himself, had just sustained the loss ofmany thousands hitherto placed to his name, replied with supremeindifference that he hoped he was not such a muff as to care about moneythat his father did not care about himself, and did not want. WhereuponJohn proceeded, --

"It is my wish, and in the course of a few years I hope that I shall beable, to retire. "

"Oh, " said Johnnie again, and he surprised his father to the point ofmaking him refrain from any further communication, by adding, "And thenyou'll have plenty of time to rummage among those old Turanian verbs andthings. But, father?"

"Yes, my boy. "

John looked down into the clear eyes of the great, awkward, swarthyfellow, expecting the question, "Will this make much difference to myfuture prospects?" But, no, what he said was, "I should like to have a_go_ at them too. And you said you would teach me Sanscrit, if ever youhad leisure. "

"So I did, " said John, "and so I will. "

To his own mind these buried roots, counted by the world so dry, proved, as it were, appetising and attractive food. How, then, should he beotherwise than pleased that his son should take delight in the thoughtof helping him to rake them up, and arguing with him over "the ninthmeaning of a particle?" "The boy will learn to love money quite soonenough, " he thought. 

Johnnie then went his way. It was Saturday afternoon; he told hissisters that "it was all right, " and thereupon resolving no longer todeny themselves the innocent pleasures of life, they sent little Bertraminto the town for eighteenpennyworth of "rock. "

"Where's the change?" he inquired, with the magisterial dignitybelonging to his race, when his little brother came home. 

Bertram replied with all humility that he had only, been tossing up thefourpenny piece a few times for fun, when it fell into the ditch. Hecouldn't help it; he was very sorry. 

"_Soufflez_ the fourpenny piece, " said Johnnie in a burst of recklessextravagance; "I forgive you this once. Produce the stuff. "

He felt a lordly contempt for money just then; perhaps it was wrong, butprosperity was spoiling him. He was to retain his pony, and this amiablebeast was dear to him. 

In the meantime Valentine, established at Melcombe, had been enjoyingthe sweetness of a no less real prosperity. 

From that moment, when the ghost story had melted into mist, he hadflung aside all those uneasy doubts which had disturbed his first weeksof possession. 

He soon surrounded himself with the luxury that was so congenial to him. All the neighbourhood called on him, and his naturally sociable temper, amiable, domestic ways, and good position enabled him, with hardly anyeffort, to be always among a posse of people who suited him perfectly. 

There were more ladies than young men in the neighbourhood. Valentinewas intimate with half-a-dozen of the former before he had been amongthem three weeks. He experienced the delights of feminine flattery, athing almost new to him. Who so likely to receive it? He was eligible, he was handsome, and he was always in a good humour, for the place andthe life pleased him, and all things smiled. 

In a round of country gaieties, in which picnics and archery partiesbore a far larger proportion than any young man would have cared for whowas less devoted to the other sex, Valentine passed much of his time, laughing and making laugh wherever he went. His jokes were bandied aboutfrom house to house, till he felt the drawback in passing for a wit. Hewas expected to be always funny. 

But a little real fun goes a long way in a dull neighbourhood, and hehad learned just so much caution from his early escapade as to bewilling to hail any view concerning himself that might be a correctiveof the more true and likely one that he loved to flirt. 

He was quite determined, as he thought, not to get into another scrape, and perhaps a very decided intention to make, in the end, anadvantageous marriage, may have grown out of the fancy that his romancein life was over. 

If he thought so, it was in no very consistent fashion, for he wasalways the slave (for the day) of the prettiest girl in every party hewent to. 

It was on a Saturday that John Mortimer received his son's proposal forretrenchment; on the Wednesday succeeding it Valentine, sitting atbreakfast at Melcombe, opened the following letter, and was amused bythe old-fashioned formality of its opening sentence:--

"Wigfield, June 15th, 18--. 

"My dear Nephew, --It is not often that I take up my pen to address you, for I know there is little need, as my niece Emily writes weekly. Frequently have I wondered what she could find to write for; indeed, itwas not the way in my youth for people to waste so much time sayinglittle or nothing--which is not my case at the present time, for yoursister being gone on the Continent, it devolves upon me, that is notused to long statements, to let ye know, what ye will be very sorry tohear. I only hope it may be no worse before it is over. 

"Matthew, the coachman, came running over to me on Monday morning last, and said would I come to the house, for the servants did not know whatto be at, and told me that Johnnie, who had been to go back to Harrow bythe eleven o'clock train, had got leave to drive the pheaton to theJunction with the four girls in it, and Bertram, who, by ill luck--of Imay use such a word (meaning no irreverence)--of this dispensation ofProvidence, had not gone back to Mr. Tikey's that morning. So far as Ican make out, he thought he should be late, and so he turned those twospirited young horses down that steep sandy lane by the wood, to cut offa corner; and whether the woodman's children ran out and frightenedthem, or whether he was shouting and whooping himself, poor laddie--forI heard something of both--but Barbara was just sobbing her heart awaywhen she told it, and he aye raised the echoes wherever he went; but thehorses set off, running away, tearing down that rough road. Johnnieshouted to them all to sit still, and so they did, though they werealmost jolted out; and if they had been let alone, there might have beenno accident; but two men sprung out of a hedge and tried to stop them, and they turned on to the common, and sped away like the wind towardshome, till they came to the sand bank by the small inn, the Loving Cup, and there they upset the carriage, and when the two men got up to itJohnnie and all of them were tossed out, and the carriage was almostkicked to pieces by the horse that was not down. 

"This is a long tale, Valentine, and I seem to have hardly begun it. Imust take another sheet of paper. When I got to the house, you never sawsuch a scene. Johnnie had been brought in quite stunned, and his facegreatly bruised. There were two doctors already with them. Bertram hadgot a broken arm; he was calling out, poor little fellow, and Nancy wasseverely hurt, but I was grieved to see her so quiet. Gladys seemed atfirst to be only bruised and limping; but she and Barbara were faint andsick with fright. Janie was not present; she had been carried into theinn; but I may as well tell ye that in her case no bones were broken, poor lamb. She is doing very well, and in a day or two is to be broughthome. 

"It was a very affecting scene, as ye may suppose, and my first wordswere, 'Who is to tell this to Mr. Mortimer?' They said your brother hasalready gone to fetch him and prepare him. Well, I knew everything thatwas in the house, and where it was kept; so I'm thankful to think I wasof use, and could help the new governess and the strange servants. 

"Dorothea and Mrs. Henfrey soon came in, and by the time John arrivedall the invalids had been carried up-stairs, and Johnnie had begun toshow signs of consciousness. 

"John was as white as chalk. He was rather strange at first; he said ina commanding, peremptory way, that he wouldn't be spoken to; he wouldn'thear a word; he was not ready. Everybody stood round, till Dorotheadisobeyed him; she said, 'They are all living, dear Mr. Mortimer;' andthen Giles got him to sit down, and they gave him some water to drink. 

"He then noticed Dr. Limpsy, who had come down, and asked if any of themwere in danger, and the doctor said yes--one. So he said he prayed Godit was not his eldest son: he could bear anything but that. And yet whenthe doctor said he had every hope that Johnnie would do well, but he hadgreat fears for the little Anastasia, he burst into tears, poor man, andsaid that of all his children she would be the hardest to spare. But Ineed not tell ye we did not remind him of the inconsistency, and wereglad to think he was not to lose the one he set his heart most upon. Andafter that he was perfectly himself and more composed than anybody, which is a wonder, for such a catalogue of broken bones and sprains andcontusions as came to light as the doctors examined further, was enoughto disturb anybody's courage. Giles sat up with Johnnie all night;indeed nobody went to bed. John was by Nancy, and in the morning theyspoke hopefully of her. Johnnie's first words were about his father; hecouldn't bear his father near him, because now and then he was surprisedinto shouting out with pain, and he wouldn't have John distressed withhis noise. He was nothing like so well as we had hoped this morning; butstill the doctors say there is no danger. He got a kick from the horsewhen he was down, and he thinks he fainted with the pain. When John camedown to get a little breakfast he was very much cheered to have a betteraccount than he had expected of Nancy, and he made the remark that yewould be sorry to hear of this; so I said I would write, which I amdoing, sitting beside little Bertram, who is asleep. --I am

"Your mother's affectionate aunt, and always affectionately yours, "CHRISTIAN GRANT. "

Valentine read the letter, and thought that if it had not been for twoor three picnic parties that he had on hand, he would have gone down tohis old home, to see whether he could be of use to John Mortimer. Hewrote to him, and resolved to wait a day or two; but he heard nothingtill after the succeeding Sunday; then a telegram came from Emily:--"Twoof John's children are extremely ill. I think your presence might beuseful. "

Emily had come home then. 

Valentine set forth at once, and reached John Mortimer's house in theafternoon. A doctor's carriage stood at the door; a strangelady--evidently a nurse--passed through the hall; people were quietlymoving about, but they seemed too anxious, and too much occupied toobserve him. 

At last Emily came down. 

"Is Johnnie worse?" asked Valentine. 

"Yes; but I wanted you to help us with John. Oh, such a disaster! On thethird night after the accident, just before I arrived--for Dorothea hadsent for me--every one in the house was greatly tired; but Johnnie andAnastasia were both thought better; so much better that the doctors saidif there was no change during the night, they should consider dearlittle Nancy quite out of danger. Giles and Dorothea had gone home. Thenurse sent for was not come. John knew how fatigued the whole householdwas, and all who were sitting up. He had not been able to take any sleephimself, and he was restlessly pacing up and down in the garden, watching and listening under the open windows. It was very hot. 

"He fancied about three o'clock that there had been a long silence inAnastasia's room. She was to have nourishment frequently. He stoleup-stairs, found the person with her asleep from fatigue, gave the childsome jelly himself, and then finding her medicine, as he supposed, readypoured out in the wine-glass, he gave it to her, and discovered almostinstantly a mistake. The sad imprudence had been committed of pouringthe lotion for the child's temples into a wine-glass, to save thetrouble of ringing for a saucer. The child was almost out of dangerbefore that terrible night; but when I came home there was scarcely ahope of her life, and her father was almost distracted. I mean that, though he seems perfectly calm, never loses his self-control, he is veryoften not able to command his attention so as to answer when they speakto him, and he cannot rest a moment. He spent the whole of last nightwandering up and down the garden, leaning on St. George's arm. He cannoteat nor occupy himself, and the doctors begin to be uneasy about him. Oh, it is such a misfortune!

"And Johnnie is very ill, " continued Emily, tears glittering on hereyelashes; "but John seems to take it all with perfect composure. Everything else is swallowed up in his distress of mind for what he hasunfortunately done. If the child dies, I really think he will not getover it. "

Some one called Emily, and she passed up-stairs again. Valentine turnedand saw John near him; he came forward, but attempted no greeting. "Ithought I might be of use, John, " he said, as if they had seen oneanother but the day before. "Is there anything I can do for you over atthe town?"

Valentine was a little daunted at first at the sight of him; his facewas so white and he showed so plainly the oppression that weighed downhis soul by the look in his eyes; they were a little raised, and seemedas if they could not rest on anything near at hand. 

Valentine repeated his words, and was relieved when John roused himself, and expressed surprise and pleasure at seeing him. He sent Valentine toone of his clerks for some papers to be signed, gave him otherdirections, and was evidently the better for his presence. 

It was not without many strange sensations that Valentine found himselfagain in that room where he had spent such happy hours, and which was soconnected with his recollections of his old uncle. The plunge he hadtaken into the sweet waters of prosperity and praise had made himoblivious of some things that now came before his thoughts again withstartling distinctness; but on the whole he felt pleasure in going backto the life that he had elected to leave, and was very glad to forgetJohn's face in doing what he could to help him. 

When he returned to the house John had commenced his restless walkagain. Swan was walking beside him, and he was slightly leaning his handon the old man's shoulder, as if to steady himself. 

Valentine drew near. 

"And you are sure he said nothing more?" John was saying in the lowinward tone of fatigue and exhaustion. 

"No, sir. 'Tell Mr. Mortimer, ' says he, 'that his son is considerablebetter, ' and he told Mrs. Walker--I heard him say it--that the blessedlittle one was no worse, not a morsel worse. "

Valentine paused and heard John speak again in that peculiar tone--"Ihave no hope, Swan. "

"I wouldn't give up, sir, if I was you: allers hold on to hope, sir. "

"I cannot stand the strain much longer, " he continued, as if he had notlistened, "but sometimes--my thoughts are often confused--but sometimesI feel some slight relief in prayer. "

"Ay, sir, " answered Swan, "the Scripture says, 'Knock, and it shall beopened to you, ' and I've allers thought it was mighty easier for onethat begs to go and knock there than anywhere else, for in that housethe Master opens the door himself. "

CHAPTER XXXI. 

A WOMAN'S SYMPATHY. 

 "Midsummer night, not dark, not light. Dusk all the scented air, I'll e'en go forth to one I love, And learn how he doth fare. O the ring, the ring, my dear, for me, The ring was a world too fine, I wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, Or ever thou mad'st it mine. 

 "Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through, Where lone he sits apart, Would I might steal his grief away To hide in mine own heart. Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom fair, The sorrow that bows thy head, Then--I would gather it, to thee unaware, And break my heart in thy stead. 

 "That charmed flower, far from thy bower, I'd bear the long hours through, Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast The sorrows twain should rue. O sad flower, O sad, sad ring to me. The ring was a world too fine; And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, Ere the morn that made it mine. "

Ten o'clock on the succeeding night. It seemed an age to John Mortimersince Valentine had met him in the hall, a night and a day that werealmost a lifetime had come between; but his thoughts were not confusednow. Something awful but fresh, breaking across his distracted mind, haddiverted the torrent of his despairing fear lest his child should diethrough his mistake, and though he had bowed down his head and weptsince the unexpected loss of another, those were healing tears, for withthem came for a time escape from the rending strain that was breakinghim down. 

A sudden noise, when all was so quiet, and some one running down thegarden, had startled him. 

He tried to recall it. Valentine was with him, having just come backfrom the town, and one of the doctors was coming up; he took him by thehand. Other people were about him before he had time to think. Some ofthem were in tears. No, it was not Anastasia; he recollected how theykept telling him that it was not Anastasia, and then that they wishedhim to leave the house, though she was still in such imminentdanger--leave the house and go to the inn. He could not receive a newthought suddenly. Why should he go to the inn? He was not anxious abouthis little Janie; he had not seen her for two or three days, but hecould not leave the house now. 

And yet he saw that he must do it. He was walking among the others to acarriage in the yard. He believed nothing; it was only as they drovealong that he could understand the doctor's words--a change. They hadfeared that there might be an internal injury; he was to remember thatthey had mentioned to him some symptoms which should have made him awareof their solicitude. All very slowly, very cautiously said, but till hesaw his child he did not believe a word of it. 

The little face looked restless and troubled. Dorothea was sitting ather side fanning her. "Dear papa's come, " she said, and then the childlooked gravely satisfied, and for a long time she seemed to derive aquiet satisfaction from gazing at him. Then, by slow degrees, she fellinto a deep sleep. He was so thankful to see it, and yet no onecomforted him with any hopeful words. And it must have been a long time, for all the west was orange when some one woke him from an exhausteddoze, his first dream since his great misfortune. 

All his children were well again. They were all present but Janie. Anastasia was sitting on his knees, rosy and smiling. "Did she know, " heseemed to ask her, "what her poor father had done to her?" and while hefelt this peace and joy of recovering her, some one touched his arm, andthe dream was gone. He started and woke. Janie, yes, little Janie wasthere. "Do you want me, my darling?" were his first words, before he hadquite dismissed the delusive comfort of that dream. 

A remarkable, a perfectly indescribable change had come over the littleface, it looked so wise. "You'd better kiss me now, " she said, with awistful, quaint composure. 

"Yes, my treasure. "

"I can't say my prayers to-night, papa, " she presently added, "I supposeyou'll have to say them for me. " And before he could believe that hemust part with her she was gone. 

Little Janie, his little Janie. As he sat in the dusk that night herepeated her name many, many times, and sometimes added that she was hisfavourite child, the only one who in character and mind resembled hermother. 

She was a quaint, methodical little creature. She had kept anaccount-book, and he had found it, with all its pretty, and now mostpathetic little entries. He had put it in his breast-pocket, and hishand sought it every few minutes as he sat in the long dusk of themidsummer night. This was the first gap in his healthy, beautifulfamily. He felt it keenly, but a man who has six children left does notbreak his heart when he has to give one of them back to God. 

No; but he was aware that his heart was breaking, and that now and thenthere came intervals in his sleepless nights and days when he did notfeel at all or think at all. Sometimes for a few minutes he could notsee. After these intervals of dull, amazed quiescence, when he wasstupid and cold even to the heart, there were terrible times when heseemed to rouse himself to almost preternatural consciousness of thethings about him, when the despair of the situation roused up like atiger, and took hold of him and shook him body and mind. 

It was true, quite true, his carelessness (but then he had been so wornout with watching), his fatal mistake, his heartless mistake (and yet hewould almost have given his own life for his children) had brought himdown to this slough of despond. There was no hope, the doctors nevertold him of any, and he knew he could not bear this much longer. 

There are times when some of us, left alone to pull out again our past, and look at it in the light of a present, made remorseless and cruelwith the energy that comes of pain, are determined to blame ourselvesnot only for the present misfortune, but to go back and back, and see ineverything that has gone wrong with us how, but for our own fault, perversity, cowardice, stupidity, we might have escaped almost all theills under which we now groan. 

How far are we right at such times? Most of us have passed through them, and how much harder misfortune is to bear when complicated with thebitterness of self-reproach and self-scorn!

It was not dark. John Mortimer remembered that this was Midsummer night. A few stars were out; the moon, like a little golden keel, had gonedown. Quantities of white roses were out all over the place. He saw themas faint, milky globes of whiteness in the dusk. 

There were lights in the opened rooms up-stairs. It was very hot;sometimes he saw the nurses passing about. Presently he saw Emily. Shewas to be one of the watchers that night with Anastasia. 

The little creature a day or two after her accident, finding fault withevery one about her, and scarcely conscious that her own pain was toblame because they could not please her, had peevishly complained thatshe wanted Mrs. Nemily. Mrs. Nemily was a kind lady, and could tell hermuch prettier stories, and not give her such nasty things to drink. 

Emily was instantly made aware of this, but when she arrived her littlecharge was past noticing any one. And yet Emily was full of hope. Impassioned and confiding prayer sustained her courage. She had alwaysloved the little one keenly, and desired now with indescribable longingthat her father might be spared the anguish of parting with her thus. 

Yes, there was Emily; John Mortimer saw her move toward the window, andderived some faint comfort from the knowledge that she would be withAnastasia for the night. 

Lovely, pale, and calm, he saw and blessed her, but she could not seehim; and as she retired she too was added to the measure of hisself-reproaches. He had lost her, and that also he had but himself tothank for; he himself, and no other, was to blame for it all. 

He loved her. Oh yes, he had soon found out that he loved her! Fool! tohave believed that in the early prime of his life the deepest passionsof humanity were never to wake up again and assert themselves, becausefor the moment they had fallen into a noonday sleep. Fool, doubly fool, to have prided himself on the thought that this was so; and more thanall a fool, to have let his scorn of love appear and justify itself tosuch a woman as Emily. Lovely and loving, what had he asked of her?which was to be done without the reward of his love. To bring up for himanother woman's children, to manage a troublesome household, to let himhave leisure and leave to go away from her from time to time, that hemight pursue his literary tastes and his political destiny, to beresponsible, to be contented, and to be lost, name and ambition, in himand his. 

All this had flashed across his mind, and amazed him with his ownfolly, before he reached the town on the morning that he left her. Butthat was nothing to the knowledge that so soon followed, the discoverythat he loved her. For the first time in his life it seemed to be hispart in creation to look up, and not to look down. He wrestled withhimself, and fought with all his power against this hopeless passion;wondered whether he had done his cause irretrievable mischief byspeaking too soon, as well as by speaking amiss; seldom hoped at all, for he had been refused even with indignation; and never was less ableto withdraw his thoughts from Emily, even for a moment, than when hefelt most strongly that there was no chance for him at all. 

Still they went on and on now, his thoughts of her; they gave poignancyto all his other pain. The place, the arbour where he sat, had becomefamiliar to him of late. He had become used to wander and pace thegarden at night some time before this accident. Hour after hour, nightafter night, he had gone over the matter; he had hardly decided to goback to her, and implore her to give him a chance of retrieving hisdeplored mistake, when she sent him back his ring, and early the nextmorning was gone. 

That was all his own fault, and but for it he now thought he should nothave been so unobservant of things about him. Could he, but for suchweary nights of sleepless wandering and watching, have let his darlingboy drive those young horses, filling the carriage so full of hisbrothers and sisters that there was no room for any beside him whosehands were strong enough to hold them in? He was not sure. His clearerthought would not consent to admit that he could have foreseen thedanger, and yet he had been so accustomed to hold things in hand, andkeep them safe and secure, that he could hardly suppose they would not, but for his own state of mind, have been managed better. 

It was midnight now; he had no intention of coming indoors, or takingany rest, and his thoughts went on and on. When the misfortune came, itwas still his own perturbation of mind, which had worn and fretted himso that he could not meet it as he might have done. This woman, whom heloved as it seemed to him man had never loved before, had taken herselfout of his reach, and another man would win her. How could he live outthe rest of his days? What should he do?

It was because that trouble, heaped upon the other, had made it hard togive his mind to the situation, that he had not forced himself to takerest, and what sleep he could, instead of wasting his powers in restlesswatching, till his overwrought faculties and jaded eyes had led him tothe fearful moment when he had all but killed his own child. 

Emily had scarcely spoken to him since her arrival. All her thoughtswere for her little favourite. Perhaps even, she saw little in thisfatal carelessness at all out of keeping with his character, as she hadlately thought of it. No, his best chances in this life were all broughtto an end; the whole thing was irretrievable. 

"Is that Valentine?" he asked as some one approached. 

"Yes, it is past one o'clock. I am going to bed; I suppose you willtoo. "

"No, " he answered in the dull inward voice now become habitual with him. "Why should I come in? Val, you know where my will is?"

"Yes, " said Valentine, distressed to hear him say it. 

"If you and Giles have to act, you will find everything in order. "

"What is to be done for him?" thought Valentine. "Oh for a woman to talkto him now!--I cannot. " He took to one of the commonplaces of admonitioninstead: "Dear John, you must try and submit yourself to the will ofGod. "

"You have no need to tell me of that, " he answered with the samedimness of speech. "I do not rebel, but I cannot bear it. I mean, " hecontinued, with the calmest tone of conviction, "that this is killingme. "

"If only the child might be taken, " thought Valentine, "he would getover it. It is the long suspense that distracts him. "

"They want you to come in and eat something, " he urged, "there is supperspread in the dining-room. "

"No, I cannot. "

He meant, "I cannot rise from my seat. " Valentine supposed him only tosay as usual that he could not eat. 

"My mind wanders, " he presently added, in the same low dull tone; andthen repeated what he had said to his old gardener, "But sometimes Ifind relief in prayer. "

Valentine went in rather hastily; he was alarmed not so much at thewords as at his own sudden conviction that there was a good deal inthem. They might be true. He must find some one to console, to talk tohim, some one that could exercise influence over him. He knew of no onebut Emily who would be likely to know what to say to him, and he hungabout on the stairs, watching for her, hoping she would come out oflittle Anastasia's room; but all was so quiet, that he hoped the littlesufferer might be asleep, and he dared not run the least risk of wakingher. 

It was now two o'clock. 

John Mortimer saw some one holding aside a dark dress, and moving downthe rose-covered alley towards him. It was not dark, and yet everythinglooked dim and confused. The morning star was up, it seemed to tremblemore than usual; he knew he should not see it set, it would go out inits place, because the dawn came so early. 

He knew it was Emily. "Only one thing could have brought her, " he saidin his dull tone, and aloud. "The end is come. "

But no, she was at his side. Oh what a sweet tone! So clear andthrilling, and not sad. 

"The darling is just as usual, and I have brought you some coffee; drinkit, dear John, and then come in and take some rest. "

"No, " he answered in a low tone, husky and despairing. 

She made out that he was sitting on the wooden bench his boys had carvedfor him. It had only been placed there a few days, and was finished withan elbow, on which he was leaning his arm. It was too low to give himmuch support. She came to his side, the few trembling stars in the skygave scarcely any light. Standing thus, and looking at the same viewthat was before him, she saw the lighted windows of the children, Johnnie's, little Bertram's, and Anastasia's. Three or four starstrembling near the horizon were southing fast. One especially bright andflickering was about, it was evident, in a few minutes to set; as far asshe could see, John was gazing at it. She hoped he was not linking withit any thought of the little tender life so likely also to set. Shespoke to him again in tones of gentle entreaty, "Take this cup, dearJohn. "

"I cannot, " he answered. 

"Cannot!" she said, and she stooped nearer, but the dimness hid hisface. 

"No; and something within me seems to be failing. "

There was that in the trembling frame and altered voice that impressedher strangely. What was failing? Had the springs of life been sostrained by suffering that there was danger lest they should break?

Emily did not know; but everything seemed to change for her at thatmoment. It was little to her that he should discover her love for himnow; but he would not, or, if he did, he was past caring, and he hadbeen almost forgotten by those about him, though his danger was as greatas that of any. He had been left to endure alone. She lifted the cup tohis lips, and thought of nothing, and felt nothing, but the one supremedesire to console and strengthen. 

"She will die, Emily, " he found voice enough to say when the cup wasempty; "and I cannot survive her. "

"Yes, you can; but I hope she will not die, dear John. Why should shelive so long, to die after all?"

She leaned toward him, and, putting her arms about him, supported hishead on her shoulder, and held it there with her hand. At least thatonce her love demanded of her that she should draw near. _She_ shouldnot die; perhaps there was a long life before her; perhaps this might bethe only moment she might have to look back to, when she had consoledand satisfied her unheeded heart. 

"Have you so soon forgotten hope?" she said as she withdrew her arms. 

"I thought I had. "

"They always say she is not worse; not to be worse is to be better. "

"They never say that, and I shall not forgive myself. "

"No?" she exclaimed, and sighed. There was, indeed, so little hope, andif the child died, what might not be feared for the father? "That isbecause, though you seem a reverent and sincere Christian, you do notbelieve with enough reality that the coming life is so much sweeter, happier, better, than this. Few of us can. If you did, this tragedycould not fold itself down so darkly over your head. You could not bringyourself almost to the point of dying of pity and self-blame, becauseyour child is perhaps to taste immortal happiness the sooner for yourdeplored mistake. Oh! men and women are different. "

"You do not think you could have outlived a misfortune so irreparable?"

"I do think so. And yet this is sad; sometimes I cannot bear to think ofit. Often I can find in my heart to wish that I might have handed thatglass in your stead. Even if it had broken my heart, I stand alone; noother lives depend on me for well-being, and perhaps for well-doing. Cannot you think of this, dear John, and try to bear it and overlive itfor their sakes? Look, day begins to dawn, and the morning starflickers. Come in; cannot you rise?"

"I suppose not; I have tried. You will not go?"

"Yes; I may be wanted. "

"You have no resentments, Emily?"

"Oh no, " she answered, understanding him. 

"Then give me one kiss. "

"Yes. " She stooped again toward him and gave it. "You are going to live, John, and serve and love God, and even thank Him in the end, whateverhappens. "

"You are helping me to live, " he answered. 

It seemed impossible to him to say a single word more, and she went backtowards the house again, moving more quickly as she drew near, becausethe sound of wheels was audible. As for him, he watched in the solemndawn her retiring figure with unutterable regret. His other despair, whohad talked to him of hope and consoled him with a simple directness oftender humanity, given him a kiss because he asked it. He had oftenwanted a woman's caressing affection before, and gone without it. Itpromised nothing, he thought; he perceived that it was the extremity shesaw in the situation that had prompted it. When she next met him shewould not, he knew, be ashamed of her kiss. If she thought about it, shewould be aware that he understood her, and would not presume on it. 

The spots of milky whiteness resolved themselves again into blush roses;hundreds and hundreds of them scented the air. Overhead hung longwreaths of honeysuckle; colours began to show themselves; purple irisand tree peony started out in detached patches from the shade; birdsbegan to be restless; here and there one fluttered forth with a fewsudden, imperfect notes; and the cold curd-like creases in the sky tookon faint lines of gold. And there was Emily--Emily coming down thegarden again, and Giles Brandon with her. Something in both their facesgave him courage to speak. 

"St. George, you are not come merely to help me in. I heard wheels. "

Emily had moved a step forward; it was light enough now to show her facedistinctly. The doctors had both paid a visit; they came together, shetold him. 

"It was very good of them; they are more than considerate, " he answered, sure that the news could not be bad. 

"They both saw Anastasia, and they agreed that there was a decidedimprovement. "

"I thank God. "

With the aid of hope and a strong arm he managed to get up and staggertowards the house; but having once reached his room, it was several daysbefore he could leave it or rise, though every message told of slowimprovement. 

A strange week followed the return of hope. The weeds in the gardenbegan to take courage after long persecution, while Mr. Swan mightfrequently be seen reading aloud by Johnnie's bedside, sometimes theBible, sometimes the newspaper, Master A. J. Mortimer deriving in hisintervals of ease a grave satisfaction from the old man's peculiar styleand his quaint remarks. 

"I'm allers a comfort to them boys, " Swan was heard to remark in themiddle of the night, when Valentine, who was refreshing himself with ashort walk in the dark, chanced to be near him as he came on with hiswife. 

"And how do you get on, Maria?"

"Why, things seem going wrong, somehow. There's that new nurse feelsherself unwell, and the jelly's melted, and Miss Christie was cross. "

"That's awkward; but they're trifles. When the mud's up to your neck, you needn't trouble yourself because you've lost your pattens. You wanta night's rest, my dear. "

"Ay, I do; and don't you worrit, Swan, over Matthew being so _ugly_ withyou. "

"Certainly not, " said Swan. "He's turned more civil too. Said he to methis morning, 'Misfortunes in this life is what we all hev to expect. They ought not to surprise us, ' said he; 'they never surprise me, nornothing does. ' It's true too. And he's allers for making a sensibleobservation, as he thinks (that shows what a fool he is). No, if he wasto meet a man with three heads, he wouldn't own as he was surprised;he'd merely say, 'You must find this here dispensation very expensive inhats. '"

CHAPTER XXXII. 

MR. BRANDON IS MADE THE SUBJECT OF ANHONOURABLE COMPARISON. 

John Mortimer, thanks to a strong frame and an excellent constitution, was soon able to rise. He stood by his little Janie when she was laid inthe grave, and felt, when he could think about it, how completely he andhis had been spared the natural sorrow they would have suffered by theovershadowing gloom of greater misfortunes. 

There was no mother to make lamentation. It was above all things needfulto keep up Johnnie's spirits, and not discourage him. He had gonethrough a harder struggle for his life than his father knew of; but thesight of his pinched features and bright, anxious eyes began only now toproduce their natural effect. John always came into his room with aserene countenance, and if he could not command his voice so as to speaksteadily and cheerfully, he sat near him, and was silent. 

There was little sign of mourning about the place. Never did a beautifullittle promising life slip away so unobserved. Anastasia did not evenknow that her companion was gone. She was still not out of danger, andshe wanted a world of watching and comforting and amusing. 

They all wanted that. John, as he passed from room to room, strangelygrateful for the care and kindness that had come into his house almostunbidden, was sometimes relieved himself in listening to the talk thatwent on. 

Only two of his children were quite unhurt; these were Barbara (and shefound quite enough occupation in waiting on her twin sister) and littleHugh, who sometimes wandered about after his father almost asdisconsolate as himself, and sometimes helped to amuse Bertram, showinghim pictures, while Miss Christie told him tales. Master BertramMortimer, having reached the ripe age of nine years, had come to theconclusion that it was _muffish_--like a _cad_, like a girl--to cry. Sowhen his broken arm and other grievances got beyond his power ofendurance, he used to call out instead, while his tender-hearted littlebrother did the crying for him, stuffing his bright head into thepillows and sobbing as if his heart would break. 

On one of these occasions John drew the child away and took himdownstairs. "I'm crying about Janie too, " he said, creeping into hisfather's arms to be consoled, and not knowing the comfort this touch ofnatural sorrow had imparted to an over-strained heart. 

The weather was unusually hot for the time of year, the doors andwindows stood open, so that John could pass about as he pleased; hejudged by the tone of voice in which each one spoke whether things weregoing well or not. After he had sent little Hugh to bed that evening hewent upstairs and sat in a staircase window, in full view of Johnnie'sroom. Swan was talking by the boy's bedside, while Johnnie seemed wellcontent to listen. Little notice was taken when he appeared, and thediscourse went on with quiet gravity, and that air of conviction whichSwan always imparted to his words. 

"Ay, sir, Mr. Fergus will have it that the cottagers are obstinatebecause they wont try for the easy things as he wants them to. Thecommon garden stuff they show has allers been disgraceful, and yet, sometimes they interfere with him and take a prize for flowers. 'Thatshows they know their own business, ' says I; 'it don't follow thatbecause my parrot can talk, my dog's obstinate because he won't learnhis letters. ' 'Mr. Swan, ' says he, 'you're so smothered inillustrations, there's no argufying with you. ' Master Johnnie, you wasto drink your beef tea by this time. "

"Not just yet. I hate it. Tell me the rest about Fergus. "

"'Well, ' he said, 'I mean no disrespect to you, Mr. Swan. ' 'No?' says I. 'No, ' said he, 'but you and I air that high among the competitors thatif we didn't try against one another we could allers hev it our own way. Now, if you'll not show your piccatees this time, I'll promise you notto bring forrard so much as one pelagonium. '"

"The cheat!" exclaimed Johnnie. "Why we have none worth mentioning, andthe piccatees are splendid, Swanny. "

"That's it, sir. He'd like me to keep out of his way, and then, howeverhard it might be on the other gardeners, he'd have all the county prizesthrown open to the cottagers, that's to say, those he doesn't wanthimself. He's allers for being generous with what's not his. He said asmuch to me as that he wished this could be managed. He thought it wouldbe handy for us, and good for the poor likewise. 'That, ' I says, 'wouldbe much the same as if a one-legged man should steal a pair of boots, and think to make it a righteous action by giving away the one he didn'twant in charity. ' As he was so fond of illustrations, I thought I'd givehim enough of them. 'Mr. Swan, ' says he, rather hot, 'this here is veryplain speaking. ' 'I paid for my pipe myself, ' says I, 'and I shall smokeit which side my mouth I please. ' So now you know why we quarrelled, sir. It's the talk of all the country round, and well it may be, forthere's nobody fit to hold a candle to us two, and all the othergardeners know it. "

"I'll drink the stuff now, " said Johnnie. "Father, is that you?"

"Yes, my dearest boy. "

"You can't think how well I feel tonight, father. Swanny, go down andhave some supper, and mind you come again. "

"Ay, to be sure, Mr. Johnnie. "

"You're not going to sit up tonight, my good old friend, " said John, passing into the room. 

"Well, no, sir, Mr. Johnnie hev cheated the doctor to that extent thathe's not to hev anybody by him this night, the nurse is to come in andgive him a look pretty frequent, and that's all. "

John came and sat by his boy, took his thin hand, and kissed him. 

"It's a lark, having old Swanny, " said the young invalid, "he's beenreading me a review of Mr. Brandon's book. He told Val that Smiles atthe post office had read it, and didn't think much of it, but that itshowed Mr. Brandon had a kind heart. 'And so he has, ' said Swan, 'and hecouldn't hide that if he wished to. Why, he's as good as a knife thathas pared onions, sir, --everything it touches relishes of 'em. '"

"You had better not repeat that to Mr. Brandon, " said John, "he israther touchy about his book. It has been very unfavourably reviewed. "

"But Swan intended a compliment, " answered Johnnie, "and he lovesonions. I often see him at his tea, eating slices of them with the breadand butter. You are better now, dear father, are you not?"

"Yes, my boy. What made you think there was anything specially thematter with me?"

"Oh, I knew you must be dreadfully miserable, for you could hardly takeany notice even of me. "

A small shrill voice, thin and silvery, was heard across the passage. 

"Nancy often talks now, " said Johnnie; "she spoke several times thismorning. "

John rose softly and moved towards it. "And what did the robin saythen, " it asked. Emily's clear voice answered, "The robin said, 'No, mywings are too short, I cannot fly over the sea, but I can stop here andbe very happy all the winter, for I've got a warm little scarletwaistcoat. ' Then the nightingale said, 'What does winter mean? I neverheard of such a thing. Is it nice to eat?"

"That was very silly of the nightingale, " answered the little voice. Thefather thought it the sweetest and most consoling sound he had everheard in his life. "But tell the story, " it went on peremptorily inspite of its weakness, "and then did the robin tell him about the snow?"

"Oh yes; he said, 'Sometimes such a number of little cold white feathersfall down from the place where the sun and moon live, that they cover upall the nice seeds and berries, so that we can find hardly anything toeat. But, ' the robin went on, 'we don't care very much about that. Doyou see that large nest, a very great nest indeed, with a red top toit?' 'Yes, ' the nightingale said he did. 'A nice little girl livesthere, ' said the robin. 'Her name is Nancy. Whenever the cold featherscome, she gives us such a number of crumbs. '"

"Father, look at me, " said the little creature, catching sight of herfather. "Come and look at me, I'm so grand. " She turned her small whiteface on the pillow as he entered, and was all unconscious both how longit was since she had set her eyes on him, and the cause. Emily had beendressing a number of tiny dolls for her, with gauzy wings, and gayrobes; they were pinned about the white curtains of her bed. "My littlefairies, " she said faintly; "tell it, Mrs. Nemily. "

"The fairies are come to see if Nancy wants anything, " said Emily. "Nancy is the little Queen. She is very much better this evening, dearJohn. " John knelt by the child to bring her small face close to his, and blessed her; he had borne the strain of many miserable hours withouta tear, but the sound of this tender little voice completely overpoweredhim. 

Emily was the only person about him who was naturally and ardentlyhopeful, but she scarcely ever left the child. He was devoured byanxiety himself, but he learned during the next two days to bless theelastic spirits of youth, and could move about among his other childrenpleased to see them smile and sometimes to hear them laugh. They wereall getting better; Valentine took care they should not want foramusement, and Crayshaw, who, to do him justice, had not yet heard oflittle Janie's death or of Nancy's extremely precarious state, did notfail to write often, and bestow upon them all the nonsense he couldthink of. After his short sojourn in Germany, he had been sent back toHarrow, and there finding letters from the Mortimers awaiting him, hadanswered one of them as follows:--

 LINES COMPOSED ON RECEIVING A PORTRAIT OF GLADYS WITH BLOB IN HER ARMS. 

 I gazed, and O with what a burst Of pride, this heart was striving! His tongue was out! that touched me first. My pup! and art thou thriving?

 I sniffed one sniff, I wept one weep (But checked myself, however), And then I spake, my words went deep, Those words were, "Well, I never. "

 Tyrants avaunt! henceforth to me Whose Harrow'd heart beats faster, The coach shall as the coachman be, And Butler count as master. 

 That maiden's nose, that puppy's eyes, Which I this happy day saw, They've touched the manliest chords that rise I' the breast of Gifford Crayshaw. 

John Mortimer was pleased when he saw his girls laughing over thiseffusion, but anxiety still weighed heavily on his soul--he did notlive on any hope of his own, rather on Emily's hope and on a kiss. 

He perceived how completely but for his father's companionship he hadall his life been alone. It would have been out of all nature that sucha man falling in love thus unaware should have loved moderately. All thefresh fancies of impassioned tenderness and doubt and fear, all thedevotion and fealty that youth wastes often and almost forgets, woke upin his heart to full life at once, unworn and unsoiled. The strongestnatures go down deepest among the hidden roots of feeling, and into thesilent wells of thought. 

It had not seemed unnatural heretofore to stand alone, but now he longedfor something to lean upon, for a look from Emily's eyes, a touch fromher hand. 

But she vouchsafed him nothing. She was not so unconscious of the kissshe had bestowed as he had believed she would be; perhaps this wasbecause he had mistaken its meaning and motive. It stood in his eyes asthe expression of forgiveness and pity, --he never knew that it was fullof regretful renunciation, and the hopelessness of a heartmisunderstood. 

But now the duties of life began to press upon him, old grey-headedclerks came about the place with messages, young ones brought letters tobe signed. It was a relief to be able to turn, if only for a moment, tothese matters, for the strain was great: little Nancy sometimes better, sometimes worse, was still spoken of as in a precarious state. 

Every one in the house was delighted, when one morning he found itabsolutely necessary to go into the town. Valentine drove him in, andall his children rejoiced, it seemed like an acknowledgment that theywere really better. 

Johnnie ate a large breakfast and called to Swan soon after to bring himup the first ripe bunch of grapes--he had himself propped up to eat themand to look out of the window at the garden. 

"What a jolly bunch!" he exclaimed when Swan appeared with it. 

"Ay, sir, I only wish Fergus could see it! The Marchioness sentyesterday to inquire, --sent the little young ladies. I haven't seen sucha turn-out in our lane since last election time. Mr. Smithers said theywere a sight to be seen, dressed up so handsome. 'Now then, ' says he, 'you see the great need and use of our noble aristocracy. Markis is acredit to it, laying out as he does in the town he is connected with. Yes, they were a sight, ' Mr. Smithers was the 'pink' Wigfield draper. 'Ay, ay, ' says I, 'who should go fine if not the peahen's daughters?'"

"Everybody seems to have sent to inquire, " said Johnnie ungraciously. "Ihate to hear their wheels. I always think it is the doctor's carriage. "

"Old Lady Fairbairn came too, " proceeded Swan, "and Miss Justina. Theold lady has only that one daughter left single, as I hear; she has gotall the others married. "

Johnnie made a grimace, and pleased himself with remembering howValentine, in telling him of that call, had irreverently said, "OldMother Fairbairn ought to be called the Judicious Hooker. "

Johnnie was sincerely sorry these acquaintances had returned; so wasEmily. Had she not given John a positive denial to his suit? Who couldbe surprised now if he turned to her rival?

It was afternoon when John Mortimer came in. The house was very quiet, and a little flag hung out of Nancy's window, showing that the child wasasleep. He therefore approached quietly, entered the library, andfeeling very tired and disquieted, sat down among his books. He took onedown, and did not know how long he might have been trying to occupyhimself with it, when he heard the rustle of a silk dress, and Dorotheastood in the open window. She looked just a little hurried and shy. "Oh, Mr. Mortimer, " she began, "Emily sent her love to you, and----"

"Emily sent her love to me?" he exclaimed almost involuntarily, "senther love? are you sure?"

Dorothea, thus checked in her message, drew back and blushed--had shemade herself very ridiculous? would Emily be displeased? His eyes seemedto entreat her for an answer. She faltered, not without exceedingsurprise, at the state of things thus betrayed, and at his indifferenceto her observation. "I suppose she did. I thought all this family sentlove to one another. " Thus while she hesitated, and he seemed still towait for her further recollection, she noticed the strange elation ofhope and joy that illumined his face. 

"I don't think I could have invented it, " she said. 

"Ah, well, " he answered, "I see you cannot be sure; but let me hear itagain, since it possibly might have been said. 'Emily sent her love, 'you began----"

"And she is sitting with Nancy, but she wanted you to know as soon asyou came in that the doctors have paid another visit together, and theyboth agreed that Nancy might now be considered quite out of danger. "

"Oh, I thank God!" he exclaimed. 

Emily had sent her love to him to tell him this. He felt that she mighthave done, it was not impossible, it reminded him of her kiss. He hadbeen weighed down so heavily, with a burden that he was neverunconscious of for a moment, a load of agonized pity for his littledarling's pain, and of endless self-reproach; that the first thing hewas aware of when it was suddenly lifted off and flung away was, thathis thoughts were all abroad. It was much too soon yet to be glad. Hewas like a ship floated off the rock it had struck on, a rock like tohave been its ruin, but yet which had kept it steady. It was driftingnow, and not answering to the helm. 

He could not speak or stir, he hardly seemed to breathe. 

A slight sound, the rustling of Dorothea's gown as she quietly withdrew, recalled him a little to himself, he locked himself in and went back tohis place. 

He was not in the least able to think, yet tears were raining down onhis hands before he knew that they were his tears, and that, as theyfell, his heart long daunted and crushed with pain, beat more freely, and tasted once more the rapture of peace and thankfulness. Presently hewas on his knees. Saved this once, the almost despairing soul which hadfaintly spoken to God, "I do not rebel, " was passionate now in thefervour of thankful devotion. The rapture of this respite, this returnto common blessings, was almost too ecstatic to be borne. 

It was nearly dusk before he could show himself to his children; when hestole upstairs to look at his little Nancy she was again asleep. "Mrs. Walker had gone back to her own house for the night, " the nurse said, "but she had promised to come back after breakfast. "

That night Emily slept exquisitely. The luxury of a long peacefulinterval, free from anxiety and responsibility, was delightful to her. She came down very late, and after her breakfast sauntered into thedrawing-room, looking fresh as a white blush rose, lovely and content;next to the joy of possession stands, to such as she was, the good ofdoing good, and being necessary to the objects of their love. 

A little tired still, she was sitting idly on a sofa, more wistfullysweet and gravely glad than usual, when suddenly John Mortimer appeared, walking quickly through her garden. 

"He was sure to come and thank me, " she said simply, and half aloud. "Iknew he would sooner or later, " and she said and thought no more. 

But as he advanced, and she saw his face, she remembered her kiss, hopedthat he did not, and blushing beautifully, rose and came a step or twoforward to meet him. "None but good news, I hope, " she said. 

"No, they are all better, thank God; and my little Nancy also. Emily, how can I ever thank you? My obligation is too deep for words. "

"Who could help wishing to be of use under such circumstances? Am I notenough thanked by seeing you all better?"

"I hardly know how I could have presumed to intrude here and disturb youand--and trouble you with such things as I can say--when you are comehome for an interval of rest and quiet. Emily, if I had lost her, poorlittle girl, I never could have lifted up my head again. It was hard onthat blameless little life, to be placed in such peril; but I sufferedmore than she did. Did you sometimes think so? Did you sometimes feelfor me when you were watching her day and night, night and day?"

"Yes, John, I did. "

"I hoped so. "

"But now that the greatest part of the sorrow is over, fold it up andput it away, lay it at the feet of the Saviour; it is his, for He hasfelt it too. " When she saw his hands, that they had become white andthin, and that he was hollow-eyed, she felt a sharp pang of pity. "It istime now for you to think of yourself, " she said. 

"No, " he answered, with a gesture of distaste. "The less of that thebetter. I am utterly and for ever out of my own good graces. I will notforgive myself, and I cannot forget--have I only one mistake to deplore?I have covered myself with disgrace, " he continued, with infiniteself-scorn; "even you with your half divine pity cannot excuse methere. "

"Cannot I?" she answered with a sweet wistfulness, that was almosttender. 

He set his teeth as if in a passion against himself, a flash came fromthe blue eyes, and his Saxon complexion showed the blood through almostto the roots of the hair. "I have covered myself with disgrace--I am themost unmanly fool that ever breathed--I hate myself!" He started up andpaced the room, as if he felt choked, whilst she looked on amazed forthe moment, and not yet aware what this meant. 

"John!" she exclaimed. 

"I suppose you thought I had forgotten to despise myself, " he went on ina tone rather less defiant. "When that night I asked you for a kiss--Ihad not, nothing of the kind--I thought my mind would go, or my breathwould leave me before the morning. Surely that would have been so butfor you. But if I have lived through this for good ends, one at leasthas been that I have learned my place in creation--and yours. I haveseen more than once since that you have felt vexed with yourself for theform your compassion took then. I deserve that you should think Imisunderstood, but I did not. I came to tell you so. It should have beenabove all things my care not to offend the good angel so necessary in myhouse during those hours of my misfortune. But I am destined never to beright--never. I let you divine all too easily the secret I should havekept--my love, my passion. It was my own fault, to betray it was todismiss you. Well, I have done that also. "

Emily drew a long breath, put her hand to her delicate throat, andturning away hastily moved into the window, and gazed out withwide-opened eyes; Her face suffused with a pale tint of carnation wastoo full of unbelieving joy to be shown to him yet. He had made amistake, though not precisely the mistake he supposed. He was destined, so long as he lived, never to have it explained. It was a mistake whichmade all things right again, made the past recede, and appear a dream, and supplied a sweet reason for all the wifely duty, all the longfealty and impassioned love she was to bestow on him ever after. 

It was strange, even to her, who was so well accustomed to theunreasoning, exaggerated rhapsody of a lover, to hear him; his rageagainst himself, his entire hopelessness; and as for her, she knew nothow to stop him, or how to help him; she could but listen and wonder. 

Nature helped him, however; for a waft of summer wind coming in at thatmoment, swung the rose-branches that clustered round the window, andflung some of their white petals on her head. Something else stirred, she felt a slight movement behind her, and a little startled, turnedinvoluntarily to look, and to see her cap--the widow's delicatecap--wafted along the carpet by the air, and settling at John Mortimer'sfeet. 

He lifted it up, and she stood mute while she saw him fold it togetherwith a man's awkwardness, but with something of reverence too; then, asif he did not know what else to do with it, he laid it on the tablebefore an opened miniature of Fred Walker. 

After a moment's consideration she saw him close this miniature, foldingits little doors together. 

"That, because I want to ask a favour of you, " he said. 

"What is it?" she asked, and blushed beautifully. 

"You gave me a kiss, let me also bestow one--one parting kiss--and Iwill go. "

He was about to go then, he meant to consider himself dismissed. Shecould not speak, and he came up to her, she gave him her hand, and hestooped and kissed her. 

Something in her eyes, or perhaps the blush on her face, encouraged himto take her for a moment into his arms. He was extremely pale, but whenshe lifted her face from his breast a strange gleam of hope and wonderflashed out of his eyes. 

She had never looked so lovely in her life, her face suffused with asoft carnation, her lucid grey-blue eyes full of sweet entreaty. Nevertheless, she spoke in a tone of the quietest indifference--a sortof pensive wistfulness habitual with her. 

"You can go if you please, " she said, "but you had much better not. "

"No!" he exclaimed. 

"No, " she repeated. "Because, John--because I love you. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE TRUE GHOST STORY. 

 _Horatio. _--"Look, my lord, it comes!" Hamlet the Dane. 

Valentine was at Melcombe again. He had begun several improvements aboutthe place which called for time, and would cost money. It was notwithout misgiving that he had consented to enter on the first of them. 

There was still in his mind, as he believed, a reservation. He wouldgive up the property if he ever saw fit cause. 

Now, if he began to tie himself by engaging in expensive enterprises, orby undertaking responsibilities, it might be impossible to do this. 

Therefore he held off for some little time. 

He fell into his first enterprise almost unawares, he got out of hisreluctant shrinking from it afterwards by a curious sophistry. "Whilethis estate is virtually mine, " he thought, "it is undoubtedly my dutyto be a good steward of it. If, in the course of providence, I am shownthat I am to give it up, no doubt I shall also be shown how to proceedabout these minor matters. "

He had learnt from his uncle the doctrine of a particular providence, but had not received with it his uncle's habit of earnest waiting onprovidence, and straightforward desire to follow wherever he believed itto lead. 

Valentine came almost at once under the influence of the vicar, Mr. Craik, the man who had always seen something so more than commonlymysterious about the ways of God to men. Mr. Craik wanted Valentine torestore the old church, by which he meant to pull it almost to pieces, to raise the roof, to clear away the quaint old oaken galleries, to pushout a long chancel, and to put in some painted windows, literally such, pictures of glass, things done at Munich. 

When Valentine, always facile, had begun to consider this matter, adrawing of the building, as it was to look when restored, was made, inorder to stir up his zeal, and make him long for a parish church thatwould do him and the vicar credit. He beheld it, and forthwith vowed, with uncivil directness, that he would rather build the vicar a _crackchurch_ to his mind, in the middle of the village, than help in havingthat dear old place mauled and tampered with. 

Mr. Craik no sooner heard this than he began to talk about a site. 

He was a good man, had learned to be meek, so that when he was afteranything desirable he might be able to take a rebuff, and not mind it. 

In the pleasant summer evenings he often came to see Valentine, andwhile the latter sauntered about with a cigar, he would carve faces on astick with his knife, walking beside him. He had given up smoking, because he wanted the poor also to give it up, as an expensive luxury, and one that led to drinking. Valentine respected him, was sure thescent of a cigar was still very pleasant to his nostrils, and knew hecould well have afforded to smoke himself. That was one reason why helet himself be persuaded in the matter of the site (people never arepersuaded by any reason worth, mentioning). Another reason was, that Mr. Craik had become a teetotaller, "for you know, old fellow, that givesme such a _pull_ in persuading the drunkards;" a third reason was, thatthere was a bit of land in the middle of the village, just the thing fora site, and worth nothing, covered with stones and thistles. Mr. Craiksaid he should have such a much better congregation, he felt sure, ifthe church was not in such an extremely inconvenient out-of-the-wayplace; that aged saint, who was gone, had often regretted theinconvenience for the people. 

Valentine at last gave him the site. Mr. Craik remarked on what acomfort it would have been to the aged saint if she could have knownwhat a good churchman her heir would prove himself. 

But Valentine was not at all what Mr. Craik meant by a good churchman. Such religious opinions and feelings as had influence over him, had comefrom the evangelical school. His old father and uncle had been veryreligious men, and of that type, almost as a matter of course. In theirearly day evangelical religion had been as the river of God--the onechannel in which higher thought and fervent feeling ran. 

Valentine had respected their religion, had seen that it was real, thatit made them contented, happy, able to face death with something morethan hope, able to acquiesce in the wonderful reservations of God withmen, the more able on account of them to look on this life as thechildhood of the next, and to wait for knowledge patiently. But yet, ofall the forms taken by religious feeling, Valentine considered it themost inconvenient; of all the views of Christianity, the most difficultto satisfy. 

He told the vicar he did not see why his grandmother was to be called asaint because she had gone through great misfortunes, and because it hadpleased her to be _trundled_ to church, on all Sundays and saints' days, besides attending to the other ordinances of the church and thesacraments. 

When he was mildly admonished that a site seemed to presuppose achurch, he assented, and with one great plunge, during which hedistinctly felt, both that his position as landlord was not to bedefended, and that this good use of the money might make things moresecure, he gave a promise to build one--felt a twinge of compunction, and a glow of generosity, but blushed hotly when Mr. Craik observed thatthe old church, being put in decent repair, and chiefly used formarriages and for the burial service, it might, perhaps be a pleasingtestimony, a filial act, to dedicate the new one to St. Elizabeth, "Simply in reverend recollection, you know, Melcombe, of that havingbeen--been your grandmother's name. "

"No, I shouldn't like it, " said Valentine abruptly. Mr. Craik was notsure whether his evident shrinking was due to some low-church scruple asto any dedication at all, or whether the name of the sainted Elizabethhad startled him by reminding him of self-renunciation and a self-denialeven to the death, of all that in this world we love and long for. ThisElizabeth, his grandmother, might have been a saintly old woman in herconversation, her patience, her piety, for anything Valentine knew tothe contrary, but he had hold now of all her accounts; he knew fromthem, and from investigations made among the tenants, that she had helda hard grip of her possessions, had sometimes driven shrewd bargains, and even up to her extreme old age had often shown herself rather morethan a match for some of those about her. Things to be done by othersshe had seen to with vigilance, things to be done by herself she hadshown a masterly power of leaving undone. Her property had considerablyincreased during her term of possession, though in ordinary charity agood deal had been given away. All was in order, and her heir whom shehad never seen was reaping the fruits of her judgment and her savings;but whether she ought to be called a saint he rather doubted. 

He had returned to Melcombe, not without shrewd suspicions that hiscousin was soon to be his brother-in-law. A letter following closely onhis steps had confirmed them. Some time in September he expected asummons to be present at the wedding; he wished after that to travel forseveral months, so he allowed Mr. Craik to persuade him that his goodintentions ought not to be put off, and he made arrangements for thecommencement of the new church at once. 

It was to cost about three thousand pounds, a large sum; but the paymentwas to be spread over three or four years, and Valentine, at present, had few other claims. He had, for instance, no poor relations, at leasthe thought not; but he had scarcely given his word for the building ofthe church when he received a letter from Mrs. Peter Melcombe--"an uglyname, " thought Valentine. "Mrs. Valentine Melcombe will sound muchbetter. Oh, I suppose the young woman will be Mrs. Melcombe, though. "Mrs. Peter Melcombe let Valentine know that she and Laura had returnedto England, and would now gladly accept his invitation, given in thespring, to come and stay a few weeks with him whenever this should bethe case. 

"I have always considered Laura a sacred trust, " continued the goodlady. "My poor dear Peter, having left her to me--my means are by nomeans large--and I am just now feeling it my duty to consider a certainvery kind and very flattering offer. I am not at all sure that amarriage with one whom I could esteem might not help me to bear betterthe sorrow of my loss in my dear child; but I have decided nothing. Laura has actually only five hundred pounds of her own, and that, I neednot say, leaves her as dependent on me as if she was a daughter. "

"Now look here, " exclaimed Valentine, laying the letter down flat on thetable, and holding it there with his hand--"now look here, this isserious. You are going to bring that simpleton Laura to me, and youwould like to leave her here, would you? Preposterous! She cannot livewith me! Besides, I am such a fool myself, that if I was shut up withher long, I should certainly marry her. Take a little time, Val, andconsider. 

 "'Wilt them brave? Or wilt thou bribe? Or wilt thou cheat the kelpie?'

"Let me see. Laura is my own cousin, and the only Melcombe. Now, if Craikhad any sense of gratitude--but he hasn't--it seems so natural, 'I builtyou a church, you marry my cousin. Do I hear you say you won't? You'dbetter think twice about that. I'd let you take a large slice of theturnip-field into your back garden. Turnips, I need hardly add, you'dhave _ad lib. _ (very wholesome vegetables), and you'd have all thatcapital substantial furniture now lying useless in these attics, and anexcellent family mangle out of the messuage or tenement called thelaundry--the wedding breakfast for nothing. I think you give in, Craik?'Yes; we shake hands--he has tears in his eyes. 'Now, Laura, what haveyou got to say?' '_He has sandy hair. _' 'Of course he has, the trueSaxon colour. Go down on your knees, miss, and thank heaven fasting fora good man's love (Shakespeare). ' '_And he has great red hands. _''Surely they had better be red than green--celestial rosy red, love'sproper hue. ' Good gracious! here he is. "

"Ah, Craik! is that you? How goes it?"

One of Mr. Craik's gifts was that he could sigh better than almostanybody; whenever he was going to speak of anything as darklymysterious, his sigh was enough to convince any but the most hardened. He _fetched_ a sigh then (that is the right expression)--he fetched itup from the very bottom of his heart, and then he began to unfold hisgrievances to Valentine, how some of his best school-girls had titteredat church, how some of his favourite boys had got drunk, how some ofthe farmers had not attended morning service for a month, and how twowomen, regular attendants, had, notwithstanding, quarrelled to thatdegree that they had come to blows, and one of them had given the othera black eye, and old Becky Maddison is ill, he concluded. "I've beenreading to her to-day. I don't know what to think about administeringthe Holy Communion to her while she persists in that lie. "

"Do you mean the ghost story?" asked Valentine. 

"Yes. "

"It may have been a lie when she first told it; but in her extreme oldage she may have utterly forgotten its first invention. It may possiblynot be now a conscious lie, or, on the other hand, it may be true thatshe did see something. "

"Your grandmother always considered that it was a lie, and a very cruellie. "

"How so? She accused no one of anything. "

"No, but she made people talk. She set about a rumour that the place washaunted, and for some years the family could hardly get a servant tolive with them. "

"Poor old soul!" thought Valentine. "I suppose it would be wrong to tryand bribe her to deny it. I wish she would though. "

"I think, " said Mr. Craik, an air of relief coming over his face--"Ithink I shall tell her that I regard it in the light you indicated. "

Soon after that he went away. It was evening, the distant hills, whenValentine sauntered forth, were of an intense solid blue, gloomy andpure, behind them lay wedges of cloud edged with gold, all appearedstill, unchanging, and there was a warm balmy scent of clover andcountry crops brooding over the place. 

Valentine sauntered on through the peaceful old churchyard, and over thebrow of the little hill. What a delightful evening view! A long hollow, with two clear pools (called in those parts meres) in it, narrow, andrunning side by side, the evening star and crescent moon, little morethan a gold line, reflected in one of them. The reed warbler wasbeginning to sing, and little landrails were creeping out of the greensedges, the lilies were closing and letting themselves down. There wassomething so delightful, so calm, that Valentine felt his heart elevatedby it. The peace of nature seems a type of the rest of God. It remindsman of that deep awful leisure in which his Maker dwells, taking thoughtfor, and having, as we express it, time, to bless and think upon hiscreatures. 

Valentine watched the gold in the sky, and the primrose-tinted depthsbeyond. He was thankful for his delightful home; he felt a good impulsein him, urging that he must do his duty in this his day and generation;he seemed to respond to it, hoped the new church would be of use in theneighbourhood, and felt that, even if it cost him some sacrifice, Lauramust be provided for; either he must settle on her something that shecould live on, or he must promise her a marriage portion. 

As for himself, he was a good young fellow, better than many, and whenhe went on to think of himself, he saw, in his vision of his own future, nothing worse than an almost impossibly pretty girl as his bride, onewith whom he was to take a specially long and agreeable wedding tour;and some time after that he supposed himself to see two or three jollylittle boys rolling about on the grass, the Melcombes of the future, andwith them and their mother he saw himself respected and happy. Sauntering on still, he came past Becky Maddison's cottage, a pleasantabode, thatched, whitewashed, and covered with jasmine, but too close tothe mere. "I will talk to that poor old soul again, and see if I canmake anything of her. I am sure Craik is mistaken about her. "

"She fails fast, " said the daughter, when accosted by Valentine; and shetook him up-stairs to see her mother. He first made himself welcome bygiving her a handsome alms, and then inquired about her health. 

The daughter had gone down of her own accord. "I'n bin very bad with my_sparms_" meaning spasms, she answered in a plaintive voice. Valentinesaw a very great change in her, the last sunset's afterglow fell uponher face, it was sunk and hollow, yet she spoke in clear tones, full ofcomplaint, but not feeble. "And I'n almost done wi' this world. "

"Mr. Craik comes to see you, I know; he told me to-day that you wereill. "

"Parson were always hard on I. "

"Because he doesn't believe the ghost story. "

"Ay, told me so this blessed marnin'; and who be he? wanted I to own'twas a lie, and take the blessed sacrament, and make a good end. 'Sir, 'says I, 'Mr. Martimer believed it, that's Mr. Melcombe now--and so 'edid, sir. '"

"No, I didn't, " said Valentine. 

"No?" she exclaimed, in a high piping tone. 

"No, I say. I thought you had either invented it--made it up, I mean--orelse dreamed it. I do not wish to be hard on you, but I want to remindyou how you said you had almost done with this world. "

"Why did 'e goo away, and never tell I what 'e thought?" sheinterrupted. 

Valentine took no notice, but went on. "And the parson feels uneasyabout you, and so do I. I wish you would try to forget what is writtendown in the book, and try to remember what you really saw; you must havebeen quite a young girl then. Well, tell me how you got up very early inthe morning, almost before it was light, and tell what you saw, howevermuch it was, or however little; and if you are not quite sure on thewhole that you saw anything at all, tell that, and you will have a rightto hope that you shall be forgiven. "

"I'n can't put it in fine words. "

"No, and there is no need. "

"Would 'e believe it, if I told it as true as I could?"

"Yes, I would. "

"I will, then, as I hope to be saved. "

"I mean to stand your friend, whatever you say, and I know how hard itis to own a lie. '

"Ay, that it be, and God knows I'n told a many. "

"Well, I ask you, then, as in the sight of God, is this one of them?"

"No, sir. It ain't. "

"What! you did see a ghost?"

"Ay, I did. "

Valentine concealed his disappointment as well as he could, and went on. 

"You told me the orchard of pear-trees and cherry-trees was all inblossom, as white as snow. Now don't you think, as it was so very early, almost at dawn, that what you saw really might have been a youngcherry-tree standing all in white, but that you, being frightened, tookit for a ghost?"

"The sperit didn't walk in white, " she answered; "I never said it was inwhite. "

"Why, my good woman, you said it was in a shroud!"

"Ay, I told the gentleman when he took it down, the ghost were wrappedup in a cloak, a long cloak, and he said that were a shroud. "

"But don't you know what a shroud is?" exclaimed Valentine, a good dealsurprised. "What is the dress called hereabout, that a man is buriedin?"

"His buryin' gown. 'Tis only a sperit, a ghost, that walks in a shroud. I'n told that oft enough, I _should_ know. " She spoke in a queruloustone, as one having reasonable cause for complaint. 

"Well, " said Valentine, after a pause, "if the shroud was not white, what colour was it?"

"Mid have been black for aught I know, 'twere afore sunrise; but it midhave been a dark blue, and I think 'twas. There were a grete wash up atthe house that marnin', and I were coming to help. A sight ofcherry-trees grow all about the door, and as I came round the cornerthere it stood with its hand on the latch, and its eyes very serious. "

"What did it look like?"

"It looked like Mr. Cuthbert Martimer, and it stared at I, and then Isaw it were Mr. Melcombe. "

"Were you near it?"

"Ay, sir. "

"Well, what next?"

"I dropped a curtsey. "

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Valentine, turning cold. "What, curtsey to aghost, a spirit?"

"Ay, I did, and passed on, and that very instant I turned, and it weregone. "

Valentine's voice faltered as he asked the next question. "You were notfrightened?"

"No, sir, because I hadn't got in my head yet that 'twere a sperit. WhenI got in, I said, 'I'n seen him, ' 'You fool, ' says Mary Carfoil, thatwas cook then, 'your head, ' says she, 'is for ever running on the menfolks. He's a thousand mile off, ' says she, 'in the Indies, and thefamily heerd on him a week agoo. ' 'I did see him, ' says I. 'Goo alongabout your business, ' says she, 'and light the copper. It were Mr. Cuthbert 'e saw, got up by-times to shoot rooks. Lucky enough, ' saysshe, 'that Mr. Melcombe be away. '"

"Why was it lucky?"

"Because they'd both set their eyes on the same face--they had. It'shard to cry shame on the dead, but they had. And _she's_ dead too. Neither on 'em meant any good to her. They had words about her. She'dhave nought to say to Mr. Cuthbert then. "

Valentine groaned. 

"No, nor she wouldn't after I'n seen the ghost, nor till every soulsaid he was dead and drowned, and the letter come from London town. "

"There must have been others beside you, " said Valentine, sharply, "other people passing in and out of the laundry door. Why did no one seehim but you--see it but you?"

"It were not the laundry door, sir, 'twere the door in the garden wall, close by the grete pear-tree, as it went in at; Madam shut up that doorfor ever so many years--'e can't mistake it. "

"Ah!"

"That's the place, sir. "

"And who was fool enough first to call it a ghost?" cried Valentinealmost fiercely. "No, no, I mean, " he continued faltering--"I don't knowwhat I mean, " and he dropped his face into his hands, and groaned. "Ialways thought it was the yard door. "

"No, Sir. "

"And so when he disappeared, and was no more seen, you thought you hadseen his ghost?"

"Ay, sir, we all knowed it then, sure enough; Madam seemed to know'tfrom the first. When they told her I'n seen Mr. Melcombe, she fell in agrete faint, and wrung her hands, and went in another faint, and criedout he were dead; but the sperit never walked any more, folks said itcame for a token to I, 'her did ought to look for death by-times, ' saidthey. "

"That's all, is it?"

"Ay, sir, that be all. "

"I believe you this time. "

"'E may, sir, and God bless 'e. "

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

VALENTINE AND LAURA

 "The flower out of reach is dedicate to God. "

 _Tamil Proverb. _

Some one passing Valentine as he walked home in the gloaming, started, and hurried on. "He came up so still-like, " she said, afterwards, "thatI e'en took him for a sperit, he being a Melcombe, and they having a wayof _walking_. "

She did not speak without book, for old Madam Melcombe was already saidto haunt the churchyard. Not as a being in human guise, but as a white, widewinged bird, perfectly noiseless in its movements, skimming thegrass much as owls do, but having a plaintive voice like that of alittle child. 

Late in the night again, when all the stars were out sparkling in amoonless sky, and the household should long have been asleep, the samefancy or fear recurred. Two housemaids woke suddenly, and felt as ifthere was a moaning somewhere outside. They had been sleeping in theheat with their window open, and they looked out and saw a dark shadowmoving in the garden, moving away from the house, and seeming to make asif it wrung its hands. After this, still peering out into the starlight, they lost sight of it; but they fancied that they heard it sigh, andthen it stood a dark column in their sight, and seemed to fall upon thebed of lilies, and there lie till they were afraid to look any longer, and they shut their window and crept again into their beds. 

But the lilies? It might have been true that they saw somewhat, but if aspirit had haunted the dark garden that night, surely no trace of itssojourn would have remained on the bed of lilies; yet in the morningmany, very many of their fragrant leaves were crushed and broken, as ifin truth some houseless or despairing being had crouched there. 

The housemaids told their tale next morning, and it was instantlywhispered in the house that the ghost had come again. The maids shookwith fear as they went about, even in broad daylight. The gardener alonewas incredulous, and made game of the matter. 

"Hang the ghost!" said he; but then he came from the eastern counties, and had no reverence for the old family "fetch. " "Hang the ghost! whyshouldn't that shadow have been the brown pony? Ain't he out at grass, and didn't I find the garden-door ajar this morning? He came in, I'll bebound. " Then the gardener shouldered his spade, and finding a number offootmarks all over the place, specially about the bed of lilies, andcertainly not those of a pony, he carefully obliterated them, and heldhis peace. Shaking his head when alone, and muttering, "They're a queerlot, these Melcombes--who'd have expected this now! If the dead onesdon't walk, the live ones do. Restless, that's what it is. Restless, toomuch to eat. I should say, and too little to do. When the missis comeswe shall have more sensible doings, and I wish the missis had never leftus, that I do. "

Mrs. Peter Melcombe, thus welcomed back again in the gardener's mind, was then driving up to the door of Melcombe House, and Valentine wasstepping out to receive her. 

It was natural that she should feel agitated, and Valentine accosted herso seriously as to increase her emotion. She had been able to recoverher usually equable spirits after the loss of her child, it was only onparticular occasions that she now gave way to tears. She was by nomeans of their number who love to make a parade of grief; on thecontrary, emotion was painful to her, and she thankfully avoided it whenshe could. 

She retired with Laura, and after a reasonable time recovered herself, taking care to go at once into the room where her darling had slept, andwhere he had played, that she might not again be overcome. 

"I have dreaded this inexpressibly, " she said, sobbing, to Laura, whowas following her with real sympathy. 

"Valentine was very odd, " answered Laura; "you would, I am sure, havegot over your return quite calmly, if he had been less solemn. Surely, Amelia dear, he is altered. "

"He was oppressed, no doubt, at sight of me; he felt for me. "

Laura said no more, but several times during that first day she madewondering observations. She looked in vain for the light-heartedcompanionable young fellow with whom she had become intimate in cousinlyfashion, and whom she had fully hoped to consult about a certain affairof her own. She saw an air of oppressive bitterness and absence of mindthat discouraged her greatly. "There is no mistaking his expression ofcountenance, " she thought; "he must have been disappointed in love. "

"Laura, " exclaimed Mrs. Melcombe, when the two ladies, having left thedining-room, were alone together in the old grandmother's favouriteparlour, now used as a drawing-room--"Laura, what can this mean? Is hedyspeptic? Is he hypochondriacal? I declare, if Mr. Craik had not beeninvited to meet us, I hardly see how we could have got through thedinner: he is very odd. "

"And surely the conversation was odd too, " said Laura. "How they didtalk about old Becky Maddison and her death this afternoon! Howfervently he expressed his gladness that Mr. Craik had seen her to-day, and had administered the sacrament to her! I suppose you observedValentine's hesitation when you asked if he believed her story?"

"Yes; I felt for the moment as if I had no patience with him, and Iasked because I wanted to bring him to reason. He can hardly wish to ownbefore sensible people that he does believe it; and if he does not, hemust know that she was an impostor, poor old creature. " Then sherepeated, "He is very odd, " and Laura said--

"But we know but little of him. It may be his way to have fits ofmelancholy now and then. How handsome he is!"

Amelia admitted this; adding, "And he looks better without thatperpetual smile. He had an illness, I think, two years ago; but hecertainly appears to be perfectly well now. It cannot be his health thatfails him. "

There was the same surprise next morning. Valentine seemed to be makingan effort to entertain them, but he frequently lapsed into silence andthought. No jokes, good or bad, were forthcoming. Mrs. Melcombe feltthat if she had not received such a warm and pressing invitation to cometo visit Melcombe, she must have now supposed herself to be unwelcome. She took out some work, and sat in the room where they had breakfasted, hoping to find an opportunity to converse with him on her own plans andprospects; while Laura, led by her affectionate feelings, put on her hatand sauntered down the garden--to the lily-bed of course, and there shestood some time, thinking of her dear old grandmother. She was notaltogether pleased with its appearance, and she stooped to gather out aweed here and there. 

Presently Valentine came down the garden. He was lost in thought, andwhen he saw Laura he started and seemed troubled. "What can you beabout, Laura dear?" he said. 

He had made up his mind that she had a pecuniary claim on him, andtherefore he purposely addressed her with the affection of a relative. He felt that this would make it easier for her to admit this convenientclaim. 

"What am I about?" answered Laura. "Why, Valentine, I was just pickingoff some of these leaves, which appear to have been broken. The bedlooks almost as if some--some creature had been lying on it. "

"Does it?" said Valentine, and he sighed, and stood beside her while shecontinued her self-imposed task. 

"These lilies, you know, " she remarked, "have great attractions for us. "

"Yes, " said Valentine, and sighed again. 

"How he shivers!" thought Laura. "You cannot think, " she said, risingfrom her task and looking about her, "how it touches my feelings to comeback to the old place. "

"You like it then, Laura?"

"Like it! I love it, and everything belonging to it. "

"Including me!" exclaimed Valentine, rallying for the moment andlaughing. 

Laura looked up and laughed too, but without answering. Before there wastime for that, she had seen the light of his smile die out, and thegloom settle down again. A sort of amazement seemed to be growing underhis eyelids; his thought, whatever it was, had gradually returned uponhim, and he was struck by it with a new surprise. 

"Valentine!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, " he answered steadily and gravely, and then roused himself to add, "Come out from under the shadow of this wall. The garden is all gloomyhere in the morning; it makes me shiver. I want to speak to you, " hecontinued, when they had passed through the door in the wall, and werewalking on the lawn before the house. 

"And I to you, " she replied. "It was kind of you to ask us to comehere. "

"I suppose Mrs. Melcombe has decided to marry again, " he began. 

"Yes, but she would like to tell you about that herself. "

"All right. I consider, Laura dear, that you have much more claim uponme than upon her. "

"Do you, Valentine, do you?"

As they walked down into the orchard, Laura shed a few agitated tears;then she sat down on a grassy bank, and while Valentine, leaning againstthe trunk of a pear-tree, looked down upon her, she said--

"Then I wish you would help me, Valentine. The devotion that I haveinspired, if I could only meet it as it deserves--" And then she went onin a tone of apology, "And it is only help that I want, for I have fivehundred pounds of my own, if I could but get at it. "

"Where is the devotion?" exclaimed Valentine, suddenly rallying. "Let meonly catch hold of that devotion, and I'll soon have it down on itsknees, and old Craik's large red hands hovering over it and you, whilehe matches it as the Church directs to a devotion more than worthy ofit, as I will the five hundred pounds with another. "

"Ah, but you can't, " said Laura, laughing also, "because he's inAmerica; and, besides, you don't know all. "

"Oh, he's in America, is he?"

"Yes; at least I suppose he's on the high seas by this time, or he willbe very shortly, for he's going up to New York. "

"_Up_ to New York! Where does he hang out then when he's at home?"

"At Santo Domingo. "

"That at least shows his original mind. Not black, of course? Notdescended from the woman who 'suddenly married a Quaker?'"

"Oh no, Valentine--an Englishman. "

"An Englishman and live at Santo Domingo! Well, I should as soon haveexpected him to live in the planetary spaces. It would be much moreroomy there, and convenient too, though to be sure a planet coming upmight butt at him now and then. "

"It is rather a large island, " said Laura. "But, Valentine----"

"Well. "

"He speaks Spanish very well. He is comfortably off. "

"His speciality, no doubt, is the sugar-cane. Well, I shall consider himvery mean if he doesn't let me have my sugar cheap, in return for mykindness. "

"You are sure you are going to be kind then. "

"Yes. If he is a good fellow. "

"He is a good fellow, and I am not worthy of him, for I behavedshamefully to him. He has written me a very gentlemanly letter, and hesaid, with perfect straightforwardness, that he did at one time believehimself to have quite got over his attachment to me, but--but he hadbeen a good deal alone, had found time to think, and, in short, it hadcome on again; and he hoped he was now able to offer me not only a veryagreeable home, but a husband more worthy of me. That's a mistake, for Ibehaved ill to him, and he well, and always well, to me. In short, hebegged me to come over to New York in September: he is obliged to bethere on business himself at that time. He said, taking the chances, andin the hope of my coming, he would name the very line of steamers Iought to come by; and if I could but agree to it, he would meet me andmarry me, and take me back with him. "

"Somehow, Laura, I seem to gather that you do not consider him quiteyour equal. "

"No, I suppose, as I am a Melcombe----"

"A Melcombe!" repeated Valentine with bitter scorn. "A Melcombe!" Laurafelt the colour rush over her face with astonishment. She knew ratherthan saw that the little glimpse she had had of his own self was goneagain; but before she could decide how to go on, he said, withimpatience and irritation, "I beg your pardon; you were going tosay----"

"That he is in a fairly good position now, " she proceeded, quoting herlover's language; "and he has hopes that the head of the firm, who is aforeigner, will take him into partnership soon. Besides, as his futurehome is in America (and mine, if I marry him), what signifies hisdescent?"

"No, " murmured Valentine with a sigh. "'The gardener Adam and his wife'(Tennyson). "

"And, " proceeded Laura, "nothing can be more perfectly irreproachablethan his people are--more excellent, honest, and respectable. "

"Whew!" cried Valentine with a bitter laugh, "that is a great deal tosay of any family. Well, Laura, if you're sure they won't mind demeaningthemselves by an alliance with us----"

"Nonsense, Valentine; I wish you would not be so odd, " interruptedLaura. 

"I have nothing to say against it. "

"Thank you, dear Valentine; and nobody else has a right to say anything, for you are the head of the family. It was very odd that you should havepitched upon that particular line to quote. "

"Humph! And as I have something of my own, more than three thousandpounds in fact----"

"And Melcombe, " exclaimed Laura. 

"Ah, yes, I forgot. But I was going to say that you, being the onlyother Melcombe, you know, and you and I liking one another, I wish toact a brotherly part by you; and therefore, when you have boughtyourself a handsome trousseau and a piano, and everything a lady oughtto have, and your passage is paid for, I wish to make up whatever isleft of your five hundred pounds to a thousand, that you may not goalmost portionless to your husband. "

"I am sure, dear Valentine, he does not expect anything of the sort, "exclaimed Laura faintly, but with such a glow of pleasure in her face ascheated Valentine for the moment into gladness and cordiality. 

"Depend upon it, he will be pleased notwithstanding to find you even abetter bargain than he expected. " Laura took Valentine's hand when hesaid this, and laid it against her cheek. "What's his name, Laura?"

"His name is Swan. "

Thereupon the whole story came out, told from Laura's point of view, butwith moderate fairness. 

Valentine was surprised; but when he had seen the letters and discoveredthat the usually vacillating Laura had quite made up her mind to sail toNew York, he determined that his help and sanction should enable her todo so in the most desirable and respectable fashion. Besides, howconvenient for him, and how speedy a release from all responsibilityabout her! Of course he remembered this, and when Laura heard him callher lover "Don Josef, " she thought it a delightful and romantic name. 

But Mrs. Peter Melcombe was angry when Laura told her that Joseph hadwritten again, and that Valentine knew all and meant to help her. Sheburst into tears. "Considering all I have suffered, " she said, "inconsequence of that young man's behaviour, I wonder you have not morefeeling than to have anything to say to him. Humanly speaking, he is thecause of all my misfortunes; but for him, I might have been mistress ofMelcombe still, and my poor darling, my only delight, might have beenwell and happy. "

Laura made no reply, but she repeated the conversation afterwards toValentine with hesitating compunction, and a humble hope that he wouldput a more favourable construction on her conduct than Amelia had done. 

"Humanly speaking, " repeated Valentine with bitterness, "I suppose, then, she wishes to insinuate that God ordained the child's death, and she hadnothing to do with it?"

"She behaved with beautiful submission, " urged Laura. 

"I dare say! but the child had been given over to her absolute control, and she actually had a warning sent to her, so that she knew that it wasrunning a risk to take him into heat, and hurry, and to unwholesomefood. She chose to run the risk. She is a foolish, heartless woman. Ifshe says anything to me, I shall tell her that I think so. "

"I feel all the more bitter about it, " he muttered to himself, "becauseI have done the same thing. "

But Mrs. Melcombe said nothing, she contented herself with having madeLaura uncomfortable by her tears, and as the days and weeks of her visitat Melcombe went on she naturally cared less about the matter, for shehad her own approaching marriage to think of, and on the whole it wasnot unpleasant to her to be for ever set free from any duty toward hersister-in-law. 

Valentine, though he often amazed Laura by his fits of melancholy, neverforgot to be kind and considerate to her; he had long patience with herlittle affectations, and the elaborate excuses she made about all sortsof unimportant matters. She found herself, for the first time in herlife, with a man of whom she could exact attendance, and whom she couldkeep generally occupied with her affairs. She took delighted advantageof this state of things, insomuch that before she was finally escortedto Liverpool and seen off, people in the neighbourhood, remarking on hisbeing constantly with her, and observing his only too evidentdepression, thought he must have formed an attachment to her; it wasuniversally reported that young Mr. Melcombe was breaking his heart forthat silly Laura; and when, on his return, he seemed no longer to carefor society, the thing was considered to be proved. 

It was the last week in October when he reached Wigfield, to be presentat his sister's wedding. All the woods were in brown and gold, and thestill dry October summer was not yet over. John's children were all wellagain, and little Anastasia came to meet him in the garden, using asmall crutch, of which she was extremely proud, "It was such a prettyone, and bound with pink leather!" Her face was still pinched and pale, but the nurse who followed her about gave a very good account of her, itwas confidently expected that in two or three months she would walk aswell as ever. "A thing to be greatly wished, " said the nurse, "for Mr. Mortimer makes himself quite a slave to her, and Mrs. Walker spoilsher. "

Valentine found all his family either excited or fully occupied, and yethe was soon aware that a certain indefinable change in himself was onlythe more conspicuous for his fitful attempts to conceal it. 

As to whether he was ill, whether unhappy, or whether displeased, theycould not agree among themselves, only, as by one consent, they forboreto question him; but while he vainly tried to be his old self, theyvainly tried to treat him in the old fashion. 

He thought his brother seemed, with almost studied care, to avoid allreference to Melcombe. There was, indeed, little that they could talkabout. One would not mention his estate, the other his wife, and as forhis book, this having been a great failure, and an expensive one, wasalso a sore subject. Almost all they said when alone concerned thecoming marriage, which pleased them both, and a yachting tour. 

"I thought you had settled into a domestic character, St. George?" saidValentine. 

"So did I, but Tom Graham, Dorothea's brother, is not going on well, heis tired of a sea life, and has left his uncle, as he says, for awhile. So as the old man longs for Dorothea, I have agreed to take her and thechild, and go for a tour of a few months with him to the Mediterranean. It is no risk for the little chap, as his nurse, Mrs. Brand, feels moreat home at sea than on shore. "

On the morning of the wedding Valentine sauntered down from his sister'shouse to John Mortimer's garden. Emily had Dorothea with her, and Gileswas to give her away. She was agitated, and she made him feel more sothan usual; a wedding at which Brandon and Dorothea were to be presentwould at any time have made him feel in a somewhat ridiculous position, but just then he was roused by the thought of it from those ideas andspeculations in the presence of which he ever dwelt, so that, on thewhole, though it excited it refreshed him. 

He was generally most at ease among the children; he saw some of them, and Swan holding forth to them in his most pragmatical style. Swan wasdressed in his best suit, but he had a spade in his hand. Valentinejoined them, and threw himself on a seat close by. He meant to take thefirst opportunity he could find for having a talk with Swan, but whilehe waited he lost himself again, and appeared to see what went on as ifit was a shifting dream that meant nothing; his eyes were upon, thechildren, and his ears received expostulation and entreaty: at last hisname roused him. 

"And what Mr. Melcombe will think on you it's clean past my wits to findout. Dressed up so beautiful, all in your velvets and things, andbuckles in your shoes, and going to see your pa married, and won't besatisfied unless I'll dig out this here nasty speckled beast of asnake. "

"But you're so unfair, " exclaimed Bertram. "We told you if you'd let usconjure it, there would be no snake. "

"What's it all about?" said Valentine, rousing himself and remarkingsome little forked sticks held by the boys. 

"Why, it's an adder down that hole, " cried one. 

"And it's a charm we've got for conjuring him, " quoth the other. "And weonly want Swanny to dig, and then if the charm is only a sham charm, theadder will come out. "

"I should have thought he was a sight better wheer he is, " said Swan. "But you've been so masterful and obstinate, Master Bertie, since youbroke your arm!"

"It's not at all kind of you to disappoint us on father's wedding-day. "

"Well, Mr. Melcombe shall judge. If he says, 'Charm it, ' charm youshall; for he knows children's feelings as well as grown folks's. Therenever was anybody that was so like everybody else. "

"It's conjuring, I tell you, cousin Val. Did you never see a conjurorpull out yards and yards of shavings from his mouth, and then roll themup till they were as small as a pea, and swallow them? This is conjuringtoo. We say, 'Underneath this hazelin mote;' that's the forked-stick, you know; and while we say it the adder is obliged to roll himself uptighter and tighter, just like those shavings, till he is quite gone. "

"_I_ can't swallow that!" exclaimed Valentine. "Well, off then. "

"But I won't have the stick poked down his hole!" cried Swan, while Hughshouted down his defiance--

 "'Underneath this hazelin mote There's a braggerty worm with a speckled throat, Now! Nine double hath he. '

"That means he's got nine rings. "

"Well, I shall allers say I'm surprised at such nonsense. What do youthink he cares for it all?"

"Why, we told you it would make him twist himself up to nothing. Go on, Hughie. It's very useful to be able to get rid of snakes. "

 "'Now from nine double to eight double, And from eight double to seven double, And from seven double to six double. And from six double to five double, And from five double to four double, And from four double to three double. '

(He's getting very tight now!)

 "'And from three double to two double, And from two double to one double, Now! No double hath he, '

"There, now he's gone, doubled up to nothing. Now dig, Swanny, and you'llsee he's gone. "

"It's only an old Cornish charm, " said Valentine. "I often heard it whenI was a boy. "

"I call it heathenish!" exclaimed Mr. Swan. "What do folks want with acharm when they've got a spade to chop the beast's head off with?"

"But as he's gone, Swan, " observed Valentine, "of course you cannot dighim out; so you need not trouble yourself to dig at all. "

"Oh, but that's not fair. We want, in case he's there, to see him. "

"No, no, " said Swan dogmatically; "I never heard of such a thing ashaving the same chance twice over. I said if you'd sit on that bench, all on you, I'd dig him out, if he was there. You wouldn't; you thoughtyou'd a charm worth two of that work, and so you've said your charm. "

"Well, we'll come and sit upon the bench tomorrow, then, and you'll dighim. "

"That'll be as I please. I've no call to make any promises, " said Swan, looking wise. 

The only observer felt a deep conviction that the children would neversee that snake, and slight and ridiculous as the incident was, Swan'slast speech sunk deeply into Valentine's heart, and served to increasehis dejection. "And yet, " he repeated to himself, "I fully hope, whenI've given up all, that I shall have my chance--the same chance overagain. I hope, please God, to prove that very soon; for now Laura'sgone, I'm bound to Melcombe no longer than it takes me to pack up myclothes and the few things I brought with me. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

A VISIT TO MELCOMBE. 

 "Fairest fair, best of good. Too high for hope that stood; White star of womanhood shining apart O my liege lady, And O my one lady, And O my loved lady, come down to my heart. 

 "Reach me life's wine and gold, What is man's best all told, If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne? O my liege lady, And O my loved lady, And O my heart's lady, come, reign there alone. "

Afterwards while Valentine stood in the church, though his eyes and hissurface thoughts were occupied with the approaching ceremony, still indevouter and more hopeful fashion than he had found possible of late, herepeated, "Please God, when I have given up all, as my poor father wouldwish, I shall have my chance over again. I'll work, like my betters, andtake not a stick or a clod away from that Melcombe. "

The guests were arriving. John Mortimer had been standing at thealtar-rails, his three sons with him. Several members of the familygrouped themselves right and left of him. This was to be the quietest ofweddings. And Miss Christie Grant thought what a pity that was; for agrander man than the bridegroom or handsomer little fellows than his twoyounger sons it would be hard to find. "He's just majestic, " shewhispered to Mrs. Henfrey. "Never did I see him look so handsome or socontent, and there's hardly anybody to see him. Ay, here they come. "Miss Christie seldom saw anything to admire in her own sex. Valentinelooked down the aisle; his sister was coming, and John Mortimer'stwin-daughters, her only bridesmaids, behind her. 

The children behaved very well, though it was said afterwards that atransaction took place at that moment between Bertie and Hugh, in thecourse of which several large scarlet-runner beans were exchanged forsome acorns; also that when John Mortimer moved down the aisle to meethis bride little Anastasia, seizing Mrs. Henfrey's gown to steadyherself, thrust out her crutch toward Valentine, that he might have theprivilege of again admiring it. 

The peculiarity of this wedding, distinguishing it from others wherelove is, was the measureless contentment of the future step-children. "Nothing new in this family, " observed Mrs. Henfrey. "When Emily'smother came here, all her children took to my father directly, and lovedhim as if he had been their own. "

Emily had been married from her brother's house, Valentine's old home, and in the dining-room there was spread a wedding breakfast. The roomlooked nearly as it had done when Valentine should have appeared to be abridegroom himself; but he did not know this so well as Dorothea did;yet he felt exceedingly sheepish, and was only consoled by observingthat she also was a good deal out of countenance, and scarcely knewwhether to blush or to smile when she spoke to him or met his eyes. 

So the ceremony of the breakfast well over, and John Mortimer and hiswife departed, Valentine was very glad to take leave of his family andwalk across the fields with Johnnie. He did this partly to while awaythe time before his train started, partly to see Swan, who, with Mrs. Swan in gorgeous array, was found walking about the garden, her husbandshowing her the plants and flowers, and enlarging on their perfections. 

"But how can I find time for it, even on this noble occasion, Mr. Melcombe, my wife's just been saying, is a wonder, for that long newconservatory all down the front of the house will take a sight offilling--filled it shall be, and with the best, for if ever there was alady as deserved the best, it's Mrs. John Mortimer. I'm sorry now Iburnt so many of my seedlings. "

"Burnt them, Nicholas?"

"Why yes, sir, " said Mrs. Swan, "when he used to be sitting up with Mr. Johnnie, he had plenty of time to think, and he did it. "

Johnnie being not yet so strong as before his accident, now went intothe house to rest, and Swan proceeded to explain matters. 

"It seems, sir, that the new mistress said some time ago, that if therewas a conservatory along the front of the house, the rooms could beentered from it, and need not be thoroughfares; so Mr. John Mortimerbuilt one, for he prizes every word she ever said. Now he had allersallowed me to sell for my own benefit such of my seedlings as wecouldn't use ourselves. And Fergus sent, when the children were ill, andmade me a handsome bid for them. But there air things as can't be madefair and square anyhow. The farrier has no right to charge me so highfor shoeing my horse that I'm forced to sell him my horse to pay hisbill; but he has a right to say he won't shoe him at all. Well, Ireckoned as a fair price wouldn't do for me, and an unfair price I wasabove asking, so I flung the seedlings on my pea-sticks, and made abon-fire on 'em. "

"You did! I think that was waste, Swan. I think it was wrong. "

"No, sir, I think not; for, as I said, some things won't pay at anyfigure. Their soil's better than ours. He meant to bribe me, and so beatme, and bring me down through my own plants. But would it pay a man toinsure his brig that was not seaworthy (though he was to get £50, 000 ifshe went down) provided he had to sail in her himself? Better by halfbreak her up in the harbour, and have a dry burial for his corpse whenhis time was come, and mourners to follow, decent and comfortable. Nowit's reason that if I'd known of this here new conservatory, and the newlad I'm to have to help me, I'd have kept them. "

"Mrs. Swan, " said Valentine, observing that she was moving away, "ifit's agreeable to you, I'll come in shortly and take a cup of tea withyou. "

Mrs. Swan expressed herself pleased, and Swan marched off after her toget ready some cuttings which he was very desirous to send to thegardener at Melcombe. 

"How Swanny talks!" said Barbara, who had now returned with her sistersin the carriage, and joined Valentine; "he is so proud when his wife hasher best things on, her silk gown and her grand shawl; she only wearsthem at flower shows and great days like this because she's aMethodist. "

Mrs. Swan, in fact, consented out of wifely affection to oblige herhusband by wearing this worldly array when he specially desired it, butshe always sighed more than usual, and behaved with even more sobrietyand gravity then, as if to show that the utmost splendour of the worldas represented by the satinet gown and a Paisley shawl could not makeher forget that she was mortal, or puff up her heart with unbecomingpride. 

Valentine, when a young boy, had often taken tea with Mrs. Swan, generally by invitation, when radishes and fruit were added to thebuttered muffins. 

On this occasion she gave him brown bread and butter, and some delicateyoung onions, together with a cake, baked in honour of Mr. Mortimer'swedding. Valentine thought it was only due to her that she should betold something concerning Joseph's wedding. A man's mother does notoften care to hear of her son's love for another woman, but Valentineexpected to please Mrs. Swan on this occasion. 

"Like old times to see you, sir, " she said, "ain't it, Nicholas?"

Then Valentine, seated at his ease, told his story, and was aware beforeit was half over that Swan was attempting to feign a surprise he did notfeel, and that Mrs. Swan was endeavouring to keep within due bounds herexpression of the surprise she did feel. 

"Bless my heart!" she exclaimed, "you take this very easy, Nicholas. "

Then Mr. Swan said, looking rather foolish, "Well, Maria, there's manymore wonderful things in this world to hear on than to hear that a youngman have fell in love with a young woman. "

Mrs. Swan gasped. "Our Joey!" she exclaimed; "and what will Mr. Mortimerthink?"

Valentine sat, composed, and almost impassive. 

"You think she likes our boy, sir?"

"I am sure of it. "

"How is he ever to maintain her as she'll expect!"

"She has a thousand pounds of her own; that will help him. I havewritten to him that he must settle it on her. "

Here Mrs. Swan's added surprise made her thoughtful. 

"She is a good, modest, virtuous young lady, as I've heerd, " said Swan, looking pointedly at Valentine, as if to admonish-him that the motherwould like to have this confirmed. 

"Yes, " answered Valentine, with great decision; "she is all that andmore, she is very affectionate, and has a good temper. "

"Well, " said Swan, drawing a deep breath, "all I have to observe is, that wives were made afore coats of mail, though coats of female wouldbe more to the purpose here" (he meant coats of arms), "and, " continuedthe gardener, with that chivalrous feeling which lies at the very coreof gentlemanhood, "I'm not going to disparage my son, my Joey, thatwould be to disparage her _chice_. If she thinks he's ekal to be herhusband, she'll respect him as a wife should. Why, bless you, Maria, mydear, if you come to that, there's hardly a young man alive that's ekalto his young wife, whether she be gentle or simple. They're clean aboveus, most on 'em. But he can rise; Joseph can rise if she'll help him. "

"My word!" repeated Mrs. Swan several times over; and then added slowly, "It'll be an awk'ard thing for Swan if Mr. Mortimer should take offenceabout this. "

Valentine was perfectly aware that something either in his manner, orhis account of his own part in the matter, had much surprised them; alsohe thought that their poor place and preferment in this world seemed tothem to be menaced by it. He did what he could to dissipate any suchthoughts, and added a request that until they heard from Joseph that hewas actually married nothing might be said about the matter. Thisrequest was very welcome to Mrs. Swan. It seemed to put off an eventfulday, which she was not ready for even in imagination. 

"Swan, " said Valentine, "when he had taken leave of his hostess, this isno news to you. "

"No, sir, Joseph told me all about it afore he sailed, and how hethought he'd got over it. Mr. Mortimer knows, as you're aware. Well, lastly, Joseph wrote again and told me he was fairly breaking his heartabout her, and he should try his chance once more. You see, sir, hisways and fashions and hers are not alike. It would not have answeredhere--but there they'd both have to learn perfectly new ways andmanners, and speak to their feller creatures in a new language. There'shardly another Englishman for her to measure him with, and not oneEnglish lady to let her know she should have made a better match. "

"Mr. Mortimer knows?"

"Ay, sir. "

"And you never told your wife?"

"No, she has a good deal to hear, Mr. Valentine, besides that, and Ithought I'd tell it her all at once. "

Valentine saw that he was expected to ask a question here. 

"What, Swanny, is something else coming off then?"

"Ay, sir; you see, Mr. Melcombe, I'm lost here, I'm ekal to somethingbetter, Mr. Mortimer knows it as well as I do. He's said as much to memore than once. What he'll do without me I'm sure I don't know, but Iknow well enough he'll never get such another. "

"No, I don't suppose he will. "

"There ain't such a gardener going--not for his weight in gold. But I'moff in the spring. I've done a'most all but break it to my wife. It'sJoseph that's helping me, and for hindrance I've got a Methodist chapeland a boarded floor. There's boarded floors to her kitchen, and backkitchen, as Mr. Mortimer put in for her, because she was so rheumatic, they air what she chiefly vally's the place for. But at some of themsmall West India islands there's a fine opening, Joey says, for a manwith a headpiece as can cultivate, and knows what crops require, and Iought to go. I'm only sixty-one or thereabouts. You'll not say anythingabout it, sir, " he continued, as the twins, who were in the garden, cametowards Valentine. 

They brought him in triumph to the schoolroom, which was decorated, andfull of the wedding presents the children had made for their father andthe dear mamma. 

"And you'll remember, " said Bertram, "how you promised us--promised us_with all your might, _ that we should come to Melcombe. "

"Yes, all of us, " proceeded Anastasia; "he said the little ones too. "

"So you should have done, you poor darlings, but for that accident, "said Valentine. 

"And we were to see the pears and apples gathered, and have such fun. Doyou know that you're a sort of uncle now to us?"

"What sort? The right sort?"

"Yes, and now when shall we come?"

"I am afraid I shall be away all the winter. "

"In the spring, then, and father and the dear mamma. "

"It's a long time till the spring, " said Valentine, with a sigh; "but ifI am at Melcombe then-"

"You'll have us?"

"Yes. "

"Then let it be in the Easter holidays, " said Johnnie, "that I may cometoo. "

"All right, " said Valentine, and he took leave of them, and departed inone of their father's carriages for the Junction, muttering as he lookedback at the house, "No, you'll never see Melcombe, youngsters. I shallbe at the other end of the earth, perhaps, by that time. "

"Oh, what a long time to wait!" quoth the younger Mortimers; "fivemonths and a half to Easter--twenty-three weeks--twenty-three timesseven--what a lot of days! Now, if we were going to sea, as the Brandonbaby is, we shouldn't mind waiting. What a pity that such a treat shouldcome to a little stupid thing that does nothing but sputter and crowinstead of to us! Such a waste of pleasure. " They had never heard of"the irony of fate, " but in their youthful manner they felt it then. 

So St. George Mortimer Brandon was borne off to the _Curlew_, and there, indifferent to the glory of sunsets, or the splendour of bays andharbours, he occupied his time in cutting several teeth, in learning toseize everything that came near him, and in finding out towards the endof the time how to throw or drop his toys overboard. He was evenobserved on a calm day to watch these waifs as they floated off, and wasconfidently believed to recognise them as his own property, while insuch language as he knew, which was not syllabic, he talked and scoldedat them, as if, in spite of facts, he meant to charge them with beingdown there entirely through their own perversity. 

There is nothing so unreasonable as infancy, excepting the maturerstages of life. 

His parents thought all this deeply interesting. So did the old uncle, who put down the name of St. George Mortimer Brandon for a large legacy, and was treated by the legatee with such distinguishing preference asseemed to suggest that he must know what he was about, and have an eyealready to his own interests. 

Four months and a half. The Mortimers did not find them so long inpassing as in anticipation, and whether they were long or short to theirfather and his new wife, they did not think of considering. Only a senseof harmony and peace appeared to brood over the place, and they felt thesweetness of it, though they never found out its name. There was morefreedom than of yore. Small persons taken with a sudden wish to go downand see what father and mamma were about could do so; one would gotapping about with a little crutch, another would curl himself up at theend of the room, and never seem at all in the way. The new feminineelement had great fascinations for them, they made pictures for Emily, and brought her flowers, liking to have a kiss in return, and to feelthe softness of her velvet-gown. 

The taller young people, instead of their former tasteless array, woredelightfully pretty frocks and hats, and had other charming decorationschosen for them. They began to love the memory of their dead mother. What could she not have been to them if she had lived, when only astep-mother was so sweet and so dear and so kind? And mamma had said tothem long before she had thought of marrying father, that their motherwould have greatly wished them to please their father's wife, and loveher if they could. Nothing was so natural as to do both, but it wasnice, to be sure, that she would have approved. 

It was not long after John Mortimer and his wife returned from theirvery short wedding tour that they had a letter from Valentine, and hehad spoken so confidently of his intended absence in the south of Europeduring the later autumn and the whole winter, that they were surprisedto find he had not yet started, and surprised also at the excessiveannoyance, the unreasonable annoyance he expressed at having beendetained to be a witness at some trial of no great importance. The trialhad not come on so soon as it should have done, and he was keptlingering on at this dull, melancholy Melcombe, till he was almost mopedto death. 

Emily folded up this letter with a sensation of pain and disappointment. She had hoped that prosperity would do so much for Valentine, andwondered to find him dissatisfied and restless, when all that life canyield was within his reach. 

His next letter showed that he meant to stay at Melcombe all the winter. He complained no more; but from that time, instead of stuffing hisletters with jokes, good and bad, he made them grave and short, andEmily was driven to the conclusion that rumour must be right, the rumourwhich declared that young Mr. Melcombe was breaking his heart for thatpretty, foolish Laura. 

At last the Easter holidays arrived, Johnnie came home, and forthwithEmily received a letter from Valentine with the long-promisedinvitation. The cherry orchards were in blossom, the pear-trees werenearly out; he wanted his sister and John Mortimer to come, and bringthe whole tribe of children, and make a long stay with him. Someextraordinary things were packed up as presents for cousin Val, an oldand much-loved leader, and Emily allowed more pets and more toys toaccompany the cavalcade than anybody else would have thought it possibleto get into two carriages. The little crutch, happily, was no longerwanted. 

All the country was white with blossom when Valentine met his guests atthe door of Melcombe House. It was late in the afternoon. Emily thoughther brother looked thin, but the children rushing round him, and takingpossession of him, soon made her forget that, and the unwelcome thoughtof Laura, for she saw his almost boyish delight in his young guests, andthey made him sit down, and closed him in, thrusting up, with tyrannousgenerosity, cages of young starlings, all for him, and demanding that aroom, safe from cats, should immediately be set aside for them. Then tworestless, yelping puppies were proudly brought forward, hugged in theirowner's arms. Emily, who loved a stir, and a joyous chattering, felt herspirits rise. Her marriage had drawn the families yet nearer together, and for the rest of that evening she pleased herself with the thought. 

The next morning she wanted to see this beautiful house and garden. Valentine was showman, and the whole family accompanied her, wanderingamong the great white pear-trees, and the dark yews, then going into thestable-yard, to see the strange, old out-buildings, with doors of heavy, ancient oak, and then on to the glen. 

Valentine did not seem to care about his beautiful house, he ratherdisparaged it. 

"You're not to say, 'it's well enough, ' when it's beautiful, " observedAnastasia. 

Then with what was considered by the elder portion of the party to be apretty specimen of childish sagacity, Hugh admonished his littlesister--

"But he mustn't praise his own things; that's not good manners. He talksin this way to make us think that he's not conceited; but he reallyknows in his heart that they're very handsome. "

"Is he grander than father, mamma dear?" asked Anastasia. 

"I don't think so, my sweet, " answered Emily laughing. "I see you arenot too grand, Val, to use your father's old repeater. "

"No, " said Valentine, who had been consulting rather a shabby old watch, and who now excused himself for leaving the party on the ground of anappointment that he had made. "This, and a likeness of him that I havein the house, are among the things I most value. "

What did the appointment matter to them?

John noticed that he walked as if weary, or reluctant perhaps to leavethem. He was the only person who noticed anything, for you mustunderstand that the place was full of nests. All sorts of birds builtthere, even herons; and to stand at the brink of the glen, and actuallysee them--look down on to the glossy backs of the brooding mothers, andcount the nests--wealth incalculable of eggs, and that of all sorts, --todo this, and not to be sure yet whether you shall ever finger them, is asensation for a boy that, as Mr. Weller said, "is more easier conceivedthan described. "

And so Valentine went in. There were two appointments for him to keep, one with his doctor, one with his lawyer. The first told him he hadunduly tired himself, and should lie down. So lying down, in hisgrandmother's favourite sitting-room, he received the second, but coulddecide on nothing, because he had not yet found opportunity to consultthe person principally concerned. 

So after the man of law had departed, Valentine continued to lie quietlyon the sofa for perhaps an hour; he closed his eyes, and had almost theair of a man who is trying to gather strength for something that he hasto do. 

Children's voices roused him at last. Emily was moving up the gardentowards the house, leaning on John's arm; the two younger children werewith them, all the others having dispersed themselves about the place. 

Valentine sat up to gaze, and as their faces got nearer a suddenanguish, that was not envy, overcame him. 

It was not so much the splendour of manly prime and strength that struckhim with the contrast to himself, not so much even the sight of love, asof hope, and spring, and bloom, that were more than he could bear. Howsufficient to themselves they seemed! How charming Emily was! A womandestined to inspire a life-long love seldom shows much consciousness ofit. "I never saw a fellow so deeply in love with his wife, " thoughtValentine. "Surely she knows it. What are you saying to her, John?" Theyhad stopped under the great fruit-trees near the garden-door. John bentdown one of the blossom-laden boughs, and she, fair, and almost pale, stood in the delicate white shadow looking at it. 

Beautiful manhood and womanhood! beautiful childhood, and health, andpeace! Valentine laid himself down again and shut his eyes. 

Emily had betrayed a little anxiety about him that morning. He was verythin, she said; he must take care of himself. 

"Oh, yes, " he had answered, "I shall do that. I have been very unwell, but I am better now. " And then he had noticed that John looked at himuneasily, and seemed disturbed when he coughed. He thought that as theystood under the fruit-trees John had caught sight of him. 

"I knew he would come up as soon as he found opportunity, and here heis, " thought Valentine, not moving from his place, but simply lifting uphis head as John entered. "What have you done with Emily?" he asked. 

"Emily is gone up to her dressing-room. She means to hear the childrenread. "

"Ah, " exclaimed Valentine, with a sudden laugh of good-humouredraillery, "of all womankind, John, you have evidently secured the pearl, the 'one entire and perfect chrysolite. ' You know you think so. "

"Yes, " answered John gravely, "but don't put me off, my dear fellow. "

"What do you want? What do you mean?" said Valentine, for John sittingdown near him, held out his hand. "Oh, nonsense; I'm all right. " But heput his own into it, and let John with his other hand push up the sleeveof his coat. 

"Too thin by half, isn't it?" he said, affecting indifference, as Johngravely relinquished it; "but I am so mummied up in flannels that itdoesn't show much. "

"My dear fellow, " John Mortimer repeated. 

"Yes, I have been long unwell, but now I have leave to start in oneweek, John. I'm to take a sea voyage. You told me you could only stayhere a few days, and there is a great deal that ought to be done whileyou are here. Don't look so dismayed, the doctors give me every hopethat I shall be all right again. "

"I devoutly hope so----"

"There's nothing to drive the blood from your manly visage, " Valentinesaid lightly, then went on, "There is one thing that I ought not to haveneglected so long, and if I were in the best health possible I stillought to do it, before I take a long sea voyage. " He spoke now almostwith irritation, as if he longed to leave the subject of his health andwas urgent to talk of business matters. John Mortimer, with as muchindifference as he could assume, tried to meet his wishes. 

"You have been in possession of this estate almost a year, " he said, "so I hope, indeed I assume, that the making of a will is not what youhave neglected?"

"But it is. "

Rather an awkward thing this to be said to the heir-at-law. He pausedfor a moment, then remarked, "I met just now, driving away from yourdoor, the very man who read to us our grandmother's will. "

"I have been telling him that he shall make one for me forthwith. "

"When I consider that you have many claims, " said John, "and considerfurther that your property is all land, I wonder at your----"

"My neglect. Yes, I knew you would say so. "

"When shall this be done then?"

"To-morrow. "

Then Valentine began to talk of other matters, and he expressed, with adirectness certainly not called for, his regret that John Mortimershould have made the sacrifices he had acknowledged to, in ordereventually to withdraw his name and interest altogether from his bankingaffairs. 

John was evidently surprised, but he took Valentine's remarksgood-humouredly. 

"I know you have had losses, " continued Valentine. "But now you have gota partner, and----"

"It's all settled, " said John, declining to argue the question. 

"You fully mean to retire from probable riches to a moderatecompetence?"

"Quite; I have, as you say, made great sacrifices in order to do so. "

"I rather wonder at you, " Valentine added; "there was no great risk, hardly any, in fact. "

"I do not at all repent my choice, " said John with a smile in his eyesthat showed Valentine how useless it was to say more. John was amused, surprised, but not moved at all from his determination. He thoughtproper to add, "My father, as you know, left two thousand pounds eachto every one of my children. "

"And he gave the same sum to me, " Valentine broke in. "You said myproperty was all land, but it is not. And so, John, you will no longerbe a rich man. "

"I shall be able to live just as I do at present, " answered JohnMortimer, calmly turning him round to his own duty. "And you haverelatives who are decidedly poor. Then one of your sisters has married acurate without a shilling, or any seeming chance of preferment; and yourbrother, to whom you owe so much, has cramped his resources very muchfor the sake of his mother's family. Of course, when I married Emily, Iinsisted on repaying him the one thousand pounds he had made over to heron her first marriage, but----"

"Giles is very fairly off, " interrupted Valentine, "and some day nodoubt his wife will have a good fortune. "

"I thought the old man had settled eight thousand pounds on her. "

"He made a settlement on her when she was to marry me, and he signed it. But that settlement was of no use when she married St. George. "

"Had he the imprudence, then, to leave everything to chance?"

"Even so. But, John, St. George will never have a single acre ofMelcombe. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A PRIVATE CONSULTATION. 

 "Remove from me the way of lying... I have chosen the way of truth. "--PSALM cxix. 29, 30. 

"Why, you young rogues, you make your father blush for your appetites, "said John Mortimer to his boys, when he saw Valentine at the head of thetable, serving out great slices of roast beef at a luncheon which wasalso to be early dinner for the children. 

Valentine had placed Emily at the other end of the table. "Take myplace, John, " he now said laughing, "I always was a most wretchedcarver. "

"No, love, no, " pleaded Emily to her husband in a quick low tone ofentreaty, and John, just in time to check himself in the act of rising, turned the large dish toward him instead, and began to carve it, makingas if he had not heard Valentine's request. But Valentine having takensome wine and rested for a few moments, after the slight exertion, whichhad proved too much for his strength, looked at his sister till sheraised her eyes to meet his, smiled, and murmured to her across thetable, "You daughter of England, 'I perceive that in many things you aretoo superstitious. '"

Emily had nothing to say in reply. She had made involuntary betrayal ofher thought. She shrank from seeing her husband in her brother's place, because she was anxious about, afraid for, this same brother. She hadeven now and then a foreboding fear lest ere long she should see Johnthere for good. But to think so, was to take a good deal for granted, and now Valentine chose to show her that he had understood her feelingperfectly. 

She would fain not have spoken, but she could not now amend her words. "Never was any one freer from superstition than he, " she thought, "butafter all, in spite of what John tells me of his doctor's opinion, andhow the voyage is to restore him, why must I conceal an anxiety sonatural and so plainly called for? I will not. I shall speak. I shalltry to break down his reserve; give him all the comfort and counsel Ican, and get him to open his mind to me in the view of a possiblechange. "

Emily was to take a drive at four o'clock, her husband and her brotherwith her. 

In the meantime Valentine told her he was going to be busy, and John hadpromised to help him. "An hour and a half, " he sighed, as he mounted thestairs with John to his old grandmother's sitting-room, "an hour and ahalf, time enough and too much. I'll have it out, and get it over. "

"Now then, " said John Mortimer, seating himself before a writing-table, "tell me, my dear fellow, what it is that I can do to help you?"

He did not find his position easy. Valentine had let him know pointedlythat he should not leave the estate to his half brother. All was in hisown power, yet John Mortimer might have been considered the rightfulheir. What so natural and likely as that it should be left to him? Johndid not even feign to his own mind that he was indifferent about this, he had all the usual liking for an old family place or possession. Hethought it probable that Valentine meant it to come to him, and wantedto consult with him as to some burdens to be laid on the land for thebenefit of his mother's family. 

If Valentine's death in early youth had been but a remote contingency, the matter could have been very easily discussed, but hour by hour JohnMortimer felt less assured that the poor young fellow's own hopeful viewwas the true one. 

Valentine had extended himself again on the sofa. "I want you presentlyto read some letters, " he said; "they are in that desk, standing beforeyou. "

John opened it, and in the act of turning it towards him his eyeswandered to the garden, and then to the lovely country beyond; theyseemed for the moment to be arrested by its beauty, and his hand paused. 

"What a landscape!" he said, "and how you have improved the place, Val!I did not half do it justice the last time I came here. "

"I hate it, " said Valentine with irritation, "and everything belongingto it. "

John looked at him with scarcely any surprise. 

"That is only because you have got out of health since you came here;you have not been able to enjoy life. But you are better, you know. Youare assured that you have good hope of coming back recovered. I devoutlytrust you may. Forget any morbid feelings that may have oppressed you. The place is not to blame. Well, and these letters--I only see two. Arethey all?"

"Yes. But, John, you can see that I am not very strong. "

"Yes, indeed, " said John with an involuntary sigh. 

"Well, then, I want you to be considerate. I mean, " he added, when heperceived that he had now considerably astonished John Mortimer--"I meanthat when you have read them. I want you to take some little time tothink before you speak to me at all. "

"Why, this is in my uncle's handwriting!" exclaimed John. 

"Yes, " answered Valentine, and he turned away as he still reclined, thathe might not see the reader, "so it is. "

Silence then--silence for a longer time than it could have taken to readthat letter. Valentine heard deep breathing from time to time, and therustling of pages turned and turned again. At last, when there was stillsilence, he moved on the sofa and looked at his cousin. 

John was astonished, as was evident, and mystified; but more than that, he was indignant and exceedingly alarmed. 

Valentine had asked him to be considerate. His temper was slightlyhasty; but he was bearing the request in mind, and controlling it, though his heightened colour and flashing eyes showed that he sufferedkeenly from a baffling sense of shame and impending disgrace. Thesefeelings, however, were subsiding, and as they retired his astonishmentseemed to grow, and his hand trembled when he folded up the letter forthe last time and laid it down. 

He took up the second letter, which was addressed to his grandmother, and read it through. 

It set forth that the writer, Cuthbert Melcombe, being then in London, had heard that morning the particulars of his young uncle's death atsea, had heard it from one of the young man's brother officers, and feltthat he ought to detail them to his mother; he then went on to relatecertain commonplace incidents of a lingering illness and death at sea. 

After this he proceeded to inform his mother that he had bought for herin Leadenhall Street the silver forks she had wished for, and was aboutto pack them up, and send them (with this letter enclosed in the parcel)by coach to Hereford, where his mother then was. 

"Why did you show me this?" said John in a low, husky tone. "There isnothing in it. "

"I found it, " Valentine replied, "carefully laid by itself in a desk, asbeing evidently of consequence. "

"We know that all the other Melcombes died peaceably in their beds, "John answered; "and it shows (what I had been actually almost driven todoubt) that this poor young fellow did also. There is no real evidence, however, that the letter was written in London; it bears no post-mark. "

"No, " said Valentine; "how could there be? It came in a parcel. THELETTER, John, will tell you nothing. "

"I don't like it, " John Mortimer answered. "There is a singularformality about the narrative;" and before he laid it down he lifted itslightly, and, as it seemed half unconsciously, towards the light, andthen his countenance changed, and he said beneath his breath, "Oh, that's it, is it!"

Valentine started from the sofa. 

"What have you found?" he cried out, and, coming behind John, he alsolooked through the paper, and saw in the substance of it a water-mark, showing when it had been pressed. Eighteen hundred and seven was thedate. But this letter was elaborately dated from some hotel in London, 1804. "A lie! and come to light at last!" he said in an awe-struckwhisper. "It has deceived many innocent people. It has harboured here along time. "

"Now, wait a minute, " answered John. "Stop--no more. You asked me to beconsiderate to you. Be also considerate to me. If, in case of yourdeath, there is left on earth no wrong for me to right, I desire you tobe silent for ever. "

He took Valentine by the arm and helped him to the sofa, for he wastrembling with excitement and surprise. 

"There is no wrong that can be righted now, " Valentine presently foundvoice enough to say; "there never has been from the first, unless I ammistaken. "

"Then I depend on your love for me and mine--your own family--to besilent in life, and silent after death. See that no such letters asthese are left behind you. "

"I have searched the whole place, and there is not another letter--notone line. You may well depend on me. I will be silent. "

John stood lost in thought and amazement; he read Daniel Mortimer'sletter again, folded it reverently, and pressed it between his hands. "Well, I am grateful to him, " Valentine heard him whisper, and he sankinto thought again. 

"Our fathers were perfectly blameless, " said Valentine. 

John roused himself then. "Evidently, thank God! And now these twoletters--they concern no one but ourselves. " He approached the grate; afire was burning in it. He lifted off the coals, making a hollow bed inits centre. "You will let me burn them now, of course?"

"Yes, " said Valentine; "but not together. "

"No; you are right, " John answered, and he took old Daniel Mortimer'sletter and laid it into the place he had prepared, covering it with theglowing cinders, then with the poker he pushed the other between thelower bars, and he and Valentine watched it till every atom wasconsumed. 

There was no more for him to tell; John Mortimer thought he knew enough. Valentine felt what a relief this was, but also that John's amazement byno means subsided. He was trying hard to be gentle, to be moderatelycalm; he resolutely forbore from any comment on Valentine's conduct; buthe could not help expressing his deep regret that the matter should havebeen confided to any one--even to Brandon--and finding, perhaps, thathis horror and indignation were getting the better of him, he suddenlystarted up, and declared that he would walk about in the gallery forawhile. "For, " he said pointedly to Valentine, "as you were remarking tome this morning, there is a good deal that ought to be done at once, "and out he dashed into the fresh spring air, and strode about in thelong wooden gallery, with a vigour and vehemence that did not promisemuch for the quietness of their coming discussion. 

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, went by--almost half an hour--before JohnMortimer came in again. 

Valentine looked up and saw, as John shut himself in, that he lookedalmost as calm as usual, and that his face had regained its customaryhue. 

"My difficulty, of course, is Emily, " he said. "If this had occurred ayear ago it would have been simpler. " Valentine wondered what he meant;but he presently added in a tone, however, as of one changing thesubject, "Well, my dear fellow, you were going to have a talk with me, you know, about the making of your will. You remarked that you possessedtwo thousand pounds. "

Valentine wondered at his coolness, he spoke so completely as usual. 

"And what would you have me do with that?" he answered with a certaindirectness and docility that made John Mortimer pause; he perceived thatwhatever he proposed would be done. 

"I think if you left a thousand pounds to the old aunt who brought yourmother up, and has a very scanty pittance, it would be worthy of yourkindly nature, and no more than her due. "

"Well, John, I'll do it. And the other thousand?"

"Louisa has married a rich man's son, and I have made a handsomesettlement on Emily, but your sister Lizzie has nothing. "

"I will leave her the other thousand; and--and now, John, there is theestate--there is Melcombe. I thought you had a right to know that therehad been a disadvantage as regarded my inheritance of it, but you areperfectly----" He hesitated for a word. 

John turned his sentence rather differently for him, and went on withit. "But you feel that I am perfectly entitled to give you my opinion?"

"Certainly. "

"I advise that you leave it for a county hospital. "

"John!"

"Unconditionally and for ever, for, " John went on calmly and almostgently, "we are here a very long way from the county town, where theonly hospital worth anything is situated. This house has, on twostories, a corridor running completely through it, and is otherwise sobuilt that it would require little alteration for such a purpose. Therevenue from the land would go a good way towards supporting it. Therefore, as I said before--" Then pausing, when he observed the effectof his words on Valentine, he hesitated, and instead of going on, said, "I am very sorry, my dear Valentine. "

"This is a shock to me, " said Valentine. "It shows me so plainly thatyou would not have acted as I have done, if you had been in my place. "

As he seemed to wait for an answer, John said, with more decidedgentleness, "I suppose it does;" and went on in a tone half apology, half persuasion, "But you will see your lawyer to-morrow, and, using alldiscretion, direct him as I propose. "

"Yes. Nothing at all is to go to you then?"

"I should like to have this portrait of your father; and, Val, I wish toassure you most sincerely that I do not judge your conduct. I have noopinion to give upon it. "

"I have a good right to tell you now, that I have for some months fullyintended to give up the place. "

"Well, I am glad of that. "

"I hope to recover, and then to work, living abroad, the better toconceal matters. I had quite decided, John; and yet what you have doneis a shock to me. I feel that I am judged by it. I told you in theautumn that I meant to go away; I did. But though I took the estate soeasily, so almost inevitably, I could not get away from it, though Iwished and tried. "

"But you can now. If you want money, of course you will look to me tohelp you. And so you could not manage to go?"

"No. So long as I was well and in high spirits I never meant to go; butone night I got a great shock, and walking home afterwards by the mere, I felt the mist strike to my very marrow. I have never been well since. I had no heart to recover; but when I might have got away I was detainedby that trumpery trial till I was so ill that I could not safely travel;but now, John, I am ready, and you cannot imagine how I long to be off, and, please God, begin a better life, and serve Him as my old fatherdid. I have three hundred pounds of honest money in hand, besides thetwo thousand your father gave me. But, John, Emily is my favouritesister. "

"There!" said John, "I was afraid this would come. "

"If I _should_ die young--if she _should_ find that I have left everyshilling and every acre away from you and her, two of the people I lovemost, and thrown it into the hands of strangers, I could not bear toknow that she would think meanly of my good sense and my affection afterI am gone. "

John was silent. 

"For, " continued Valentine, "no one feels more keenly than she does thatit is not charity, not a good work, in a man to leave from his ownfamily what he does not want and can no longer use, thinking that it isjust as acceptable to God as if he had given it in his lifetime, when heliked it, enjoyed it--when, in short, it was his own. "

"You alienate it with no such thoughts. "

"Oh, no, God forbid! But she will think I must have done. There ishardly any one living who cares for me as much as she does. It would bevery distressing for me to die, knowing she would think me a fanatic, ora fellow with no affection. "

"I was afraid you would think of this. "

"You will say something to her, John. All will depend on you. She willbe so hurt, so astonished that I should have done such a thing that shewill never open her lips about it to you. I know her, and, and----"

John seemed to feel this appeal very keenly: he could not look Valentinein the face. "I acknowledge, " he muttered, "that this is hard. "

"But you will say _something_ to her?"

"If you can think of anything in the world that would not be better leftunsaid--if you can think of any one thing that for the sake of her loveand sorrow, and my peace and your own memory, should not be left to thesilence you deprecate--then tell me what it is. "

Neither spoke for some time after that. At last the poor young fellowsaid, with something like a sob, "Then you meant _that_ when youmentioned Emily?"

"Yes, I did. I felt how hard it was. I feel it much more now I know youare going to divest yourself of any profit during your life. " He hadbeen looking at Valentine anxiously and intently. The large eyes, toobright for health; the sharp, finely-cut features and pallid forehead. Suddenly turning, he caught sight of himself in the glass, and stoodarrested by a momentary surprise. Very little accustomed to consider hisown appearance, for he had but a small share of personal vanity, he wasall the more astonished thus to observe the contrast. The fine hues ofhealth, the clear calm of the eyes, the wide shoulders and grand manlyframe. This sudden irresistible consciousness of what a world of lifeand strength there was in him, had just the opposite effect of whatseemed the natural one. "Perhaps he may survive us both, " he thought. "Who can tell?"

"But it seems to me, " he continued aloud, "that we have talked as if itwas more than likely that Emily and I were to have some knowledge andconsciousness of this will of yours; and yet the vicissitudes of lifeand the surprises of death ought to place them almost outside ourthoughts of probability, I hope to see you some day as grey-headed asyour father was. _I_ hope it indeed! it may well be the case, and I notbe here to see. "

Valentine, always hopeful, was very much cheered by this speech. He didnot know how John's thought had been turned in this direction by astrong sense of that very improbability which he wanted to leave out ofthe question. 

They remained some time in silence together after this--John lost inthought, Valentine much the better for having relieved his mind. ThenEmily came to the door ready for her drive, and looking very sweet andserene. 

"Come, you have been talking long enough. John, how grave you look! Icould not forbear to let you know that some letters have arrived. St. George and Dorothea are at home again, and the baby can almost walkalone. But, Val, it seems that you have been inviting young Crayshawhere?"

"I have taken that liberty, madam, " said Valentine. "Have you anythingto say against it?"

Emily smiled, but made no answer. 

"That boy and I suit each other uncommonly well, " continued Valentine. "Our correspondence, though I say it, would be worth publishing--stuckas full of jokes as a pincushion should be of pins. It often amused mewhen I was ill. But his brother is going to take him home. "

"Ah, home to America!" said Emily, betraying to neither John norValentine the pleasure this news gave her. 

John was silent, still deeply pondering the unwelcome surprise of theafternoon. Valentine was refreshed by her presence, and at finding hisavowal over. 

"And so, " continued Valentine, "he wrote to me and asked if I wouldhave him for two days before he left. He knew that you would all behere, and he wanted to take leave. "

"He is a droll young fellow, " said Emily. "Johnnie will miss his 'chum. 'One of the letters was from him. He is to be here in an hour, andJohnnie has started off to meet him, with Bertie and one of the girls. "

The other of the girls, namely, Gladys, had betrayed just a littleshyness, and had left his young allies to go and fetch Crayshaw withouther. Emily meeting her in the corridor as she came up-stairs, hadstopped and given her a cordial kiss. 

"She is so very young, " thought the warm-hearted step-mother. "She willsoon forget it. "

She took Gladys with her, and after their short drive managed that theyshould be together when young Crayshaw appeared; and she helped herthrough a certain embarrassment and inclination to contradict herselfwhile answering his reproachful inquiries respecting Blob, his dog. 

"Father would not let us bring him, " said Barbara, confirming theassurance of the others on that head. 

"I have a great mind to go back all the way round by Wigfield to takeleave of him, " said Crayshaw. "You think I don't love that dog? All Iknow is, then, that I called him out of his kennel the last time I lefthim--woke him from his balmy slumber, and kissed him. "

"Oh, yes, we know all about that, " observed Barbara. "It was quite dusk, mamma, and Johnnie had stuck up the kitchenmaid's great mop, leaningagainst the roof of Blob's kennel, where he often sits when he is sulky. We all went to see the fun, and Cray thrust his face into it. It lookedjust like Blob's head. "

"I'm sure I don't know what A. J. Mortimer could see of a military naturein that tender incident, " said Crayshaw, with great mildness. "I didnot expect, after our long friendship, to have a Latin verse writtenupon me, and called 'The Blunderbuss. '"

Crayshaw had grown into a handsome young fellow, and looked old for hisyears, and manly, though he was short. He had quite lost his former airof delicate health, and, though sorry to part with the young Mortimers, could not conceal a certain exultation in the thought of leaving school, and returning to his native country. 

"Scroggins has been growing faster than ever, " he said, half-enviously. "Whenever he gets from under my eyes he takes advantage of it to runup. "

Emily remonstrated. "I don't like to hear you call Johnnie 'Scroggins. '"

"Oh, that's only my poetical way; the old poets frequently did it. 'Lines to his Mistress, Eliza Wheeler, under the name of Amaryllis. ' Youoften see that kind of thing. In the same way I write to my chum, A. J. Mortimer, under the name of Scroggins. 'Scroggins, of vertuous fathervertuous son. ' I think it sounds extremely well. "

Valentine was very well pleased the next afternoon to find himselfsitting among a posse of young Mortimers and Crayshaw, under the greatpear and apple trees, the latter just coming out to join their blossomto that of their more forward neighbours. It was his nature to laugh andmake laugh, and his character to love youth, his own being peculiarlyyouthful. His usual frame of mind was repentant and humble, and he wasvery grateful for the apparent removal of illness. He was soon to bewell, and hope and joy woke up in his heart, and came forth to meet thespring. 

John Mortimer and Emily sat near enough, without joining the group, tocatch the conversation, when they chose to listen. John was peculiarlygrave and silent, and Emily was touched for the supposed cause. Valentine was the only relation left who had lived in his presence. Sheknew he had almost a brother's affection and partial preference forhim. She knew that he had doubts and fears as to his health, and shethought of nothing more as the cause of his silence and gravity. 

She made some remark as to Valentine's obvious improvement that morning;in fact, his spirits were lightened, and that alone was enough torefresh him. Things were making progress also in the direction hewished; his berth was secured, his courier was engaged, and some of hispacking was done. 

By degrees the mere satisfaction of Emily's presence made it easier forJohn Mortimer to accept the consolation of her hope. He began to thinkthat Valentine might yet do well, and the burnt letters receded into thebackground of his thoughts. Why, indeed, unless his cousin died, need heever allow them to trouble him again?

Valentine looked from time to time at John and at Emily, and consideredalso the situation, thinking, "He loves her so, his contentment with heris so supreme, that nothing of dead and done crime or misery will hangabout his thoughts long. He will get away, and in absence forget it, asI shall. I'll take a long look, though, now, at these high gables, withthe sunshine on them, and at those strange casements, and these whitetrees. I know I shall never regret them, but I shall wish to rememberwhat they were like. "

He looked long and earnestly at the place and at the group. The faces ofsome were as grave as their father's. 

Little Hugh, having a great matter to decide, could hear and see nothingthat passed. What should he give Crayshaw for a keepsake? The best thinghe had was his great big plank, that he had meant to make into asee-saw. It was such a beauty! Cray loved carpentering. Now, thequestion was--Cray would like it, no doubt, but would the ship take itover? How could it be packed?

Next to him sat Gladys, and what she felt and thought she hardly knewherself. A certain link was to be snapped asunder, which, like somegrowing tendril, had spread itself over and seemed to unite two adjacenttrees. 

Cray was in very high spirits at the thought of going home. She felt shemight be dull when he was gone. 

She had read his letter to Johnnie; there was in it only a very slightallusion to her. She had told him how the German governess had begun oneto her, "Girl of my heart. " He had not answered, but he showed thus thathe had read her anecdote. 

His letter to Johnnie ran as follows:--

"Augustus John of my heart, --When I heard I was going home to America, Iheaved up one of the largest sighs that ever burst from a young-manlybosom. I'm better now, thank you. In short, I feel that if I were to bedeprived of the fun of the voyage, it would blight a youth of heretoforeunusual promise. 

"George Crayshaw, when he saw my dismay at the notion of leaving thislittle island (into which, though you should penetrate to the verycentre, you could never escape the salt taste of the sea-air on yourlips), said he was ashamed of me. The next day, when I was furiousbecause he declared that we couldn't sail for three weeks on account ofpacking the rubbish he has collected, he said so again. There is a greatwant of variety in that citizen, " &c. 

Gladys was roused from her cogitations by hearing Valentine say--

"Sitting with your back to Barbara! You'll have to take some lessons inmanners before you go where they think that 'the proper study of mankindis _wo_man. '"

"It was I who moved behind him, " said Barbara, "to get out of the sun. "

Crayshaw replied with a sweet smile and exceeding mildness of tone--

"Yes, I must begin to overhaul my manners at once. I must look out foran advertisement that reads something like this:--

"'The undersigned begs to thank his friends and the public for theircontinued patronage, and gives notice that gentlemen of neglectededucation can take lessons of him as usual on his own premises, ateightpence an hour, on the art of making offers to the fair sex. N. B. --This course paid in advance. 

"'Dummy ladies provided as large as life. Every gentleman brings a cleanwhite pocket-handkerchief, and goes down on his own knees when he learnsthis exercise, Fancy styles extra. 

"'Signed, "'Valentine Melcombe. 

"'References exchanged. '"

"You impudent young dog!" exclaimed Valentine, delighted with thissally, and not at all sorry that Mr. And Mrs. Mortimer were out ofhearing--they having risen and strolled down to a lower portion of theorchard. 

Valentine was seated on a low garden-chair, and his young guests weregrouped about him on a Persian carpet which had been spread there. Gladys was roused from her reverie by seeing Valentine snatch a piece ofpaper from Crayshaw--peals of laughter following his pretended readingof it. 

"They actually think, those two, of having their poems printed, " Barbarahad been saying. 

"It would only cost about £30, " said Crayshaw, excusing himself, "andMrs. Mortimer promised to subscribe for twenty copies. Why, Lord Byrondid it. If he wrote better Latin verse than Scroggins does, where isit?"

"The first one, then, " said Barbara, "ought to be Johnnie's parody thathe did in the holidays. Mamma gave him a title for it, 'Ode on a DistantProspect of leaving Harrow School. '"

Then it was that Valentine snatched the paper. 

"Most of them are quite serious, " Crayshaw here remarked. 

"Ah, so this is the list of them, " said Valentine, pretending to read:--

"'POEMS BY TWO SCHOOLBOYS. '

"One. --'Lines written on a late Auspicious Occasion' (I do so like thatword auspicious), 'and presented to my new step-uncle-in-law, with asmile and a tear. ' I'll read them:--

 "'Respecting thee with all my might, Thy virtues thus I sing. '"

"It's a story!" shouted Johnnie, interrupting him. "I don't respect youa bit, and I never wrote it. "

"Two, " proceeded Valentine, "'The Whisper, by a Lisper, ' and 'The Stickof Chocolate, a Reverie. ' Now, do you mean to tell me that you did notwrite these?"

"No, I didn't! you know I didn't!"

"Four, " Valentine went on, "'The City of the Skunk, an Ode. ' Now, Cray, it is of no use your saying you did not write this, for you sent me acopy, and told me that was the poetical name for Chicago. "

"Well, " said Crayshaw, "I tried that subject because Mr. Mortimer saidsomething about the true sustenance of the poetic life coming from therace and the soil to which the poet belonged; but George was so savagewhen I showed it to him that I felt obliged to burn it. "

"Five. --'To Mrs. M. Of M. , '" continued Valentine. "It seems to be asong:--

 "'Oh, clear as candles newly snuffed Are those round orbs of thine. '"

"It's false, " exclaimed Crayshaw; "Mrs. Melcombe indeed! She's fat, she's three times too old for me. "

"Why did you write it, then?" persisted Valentine. "I think this line, --

 "'Lovely as waxwork is thy brow, '

"does you great credit. But what avails it! She is now another's. I gother wedding cards this morning. She is married to one Josiah Fothergill, and he lives in Warwick Square. 

"Six--'The Black Eye, a Study from Life. '"

"But their things are not all fun, cousin Val, " said Gladys, observing, not without pleasure, that Crayshaw was a little put out at Valentine'sjoke about Mrs. Melcombe. "Cray is going to be a real poet now, and someof his things are very serious indeed. "

"This looks very serious, " Valentine broke in; "perhaps it is one ofthem: 'Thoughts on Futurity, coupling with it the name of my Whiskers, '"

"There's his ode to Sincerity, " proceeded Gladys; "I am sure you wouldlike that. "

"For we tell so many stories, you know, " remarked Barbara; "say so manythings that we don't mean. Cray thinks we ought not. "

"For instance, " said Johnnie, "sometimes when people write that they arecoming to see us, we answer that we are delighted, when in reality wewish that they were at the bottom of the sea. "

"No, no, " answered Valentine, in a deprecatory tone; "don't say at thebottom, that sounds unkind. I'm sure I never wished anybody more thanhalf-way down. "

Two or three days after this a grand early dinner took place atMelcombe. All the small Mortimers were present, and a number ofremarkable keepsakes were bestowed afterwards on Crayshaw by way ofdessert. After this, while Mr. And Mrs. John Mortimer sat together inthe house the party adjourned to the orchard, and Crayshaw presentlyappeared with a small box in which had hitherto been concealed his owngifts of like nature. Among them were two gold lockets, one for each ofthe twins. 

"I helped him to choose them, " said Johnnie, "and he borrowed the moneyof his brother. "

"There's nothing in them, " observed Barbara. "It would be much moreromantic if we put in a lock of Cray's hair. "

"I thought of that, " quoth the donor, "but I knew very well that thefirst new friend you had, you would turn it out and put his in, just asboth of you turned my photograph out of those pretty frames, and put inPrince Leopold after he had passed through the town. You are to wearthese lockets. "

"Oh yes, " said Barbara, "and how pretty they are with their little goldchains!"

"Cray, if you will give me a lock of your hair, I promise not to take itout, " said Gladys. 

She produced a little pair of scissors, and as he sat at her feet, cutoff a small curl, and between them they put it in. A certain wistfulnesswas in her youthful face, but no one noticed it. 

"I shouldn't wonder, " she remarked, "if you never came back any more. "

"Oh yes, I shall, " he answered in a tone of equal conviction andcarelessness. 

"Why? you have no friends at all but us. "

"No, I haven't, " he answered, and looked up at her as she stoodknitting, and leaning against a tree. 

"Of course you'll come, " exclaimed Johnnie, "you're coming for yourwedding tour. Your wife will make you; you're going to be married assoon as you're of age, old fellow. "

Then Crayshaw, blushing hotly, essayed to hit Johnnie, who forthwithstarted up and was pursued by him with many a whoop and shout, in a wildcircling chase among the trees. At length, finding he was not to becaught, Crayshaw returned a good deal heated, and Johnnie followedsmiling blandly, and flung himself on the grass breathing hard. 

"Well, I'm glad you two are not going to finish up your friendship withanother fight, " said Valentine. 

"He's always prophesying something horrid about me, " exclaimed Crayshaw. "Why am I to be married any more than he is, I should like to know? If Ido, you'll certainly have to give up that visit to California, that Mr. Mortimer almost promised you should make with me. Gladys, I suppose hewould not let you and Barbara come too?"

"Oh no. I am sure he would not. "

"What fun we might have!"

"Yes. "

"I don't see if you were a family man, why it shouldn't be done, " saidJohnnie, returning to the charge, "but if you won't marry, even tooblige your oldest friends, why you won't. "

"Time's up, " said Valentine, looking at his watch, "and there's mydog-cart coming round to the door. "

The youth rose then with a sigh, took leave of Valentine, andreluctantly turned towards the house, all the young Mortimers following. They were rather late for the train, so that the parting was hurried, and poor little Gladys as she gazed after the dog-cart, while Johnniedrove and Crayshaw looked back, felt a great aching pain at her heart, and thought she should never forget him. 

But perhaps she did. 

The young Mortimers were to leave Melcombe themselves the next day, andValentine was to accompany them home, sleeping one night at theirfather's house by way of breaking his journey, and seeing his familybefore he started on his voyage. 

He was left alone, and watched his guests as their receding figures werelost among the blossoming trees. He felt strangely weak that afternoon, but he was happy. The lightness of heart that comes of giving up somewrong or undesirable course of action (one that he thought wrong) mightlong have been his, but he had not hitherto been able to get away fromthe scene of it. 

To-morrow he was to depart. Oh, glad to-morrow!

He laid himself back in his seat, and looked at the blue hills, andlistened to the sweet remote voices of the children, let apple-blossomsdrop all over him, peered through great brown boughs at the empty sky, and lost himself in a sea of thought which seemed almost as new to himand as fathomless as that was. 

Not often does a man pass his whole life before him and deliberatelycriticize himself, his actions and his way. 

If he does, it is seldom when he would appear to an outsider to havemost reasonable occasion; rather during some pause when body and mindboth are still. 

The soul does not always recognise itself as a guest seated within thisframe; sometimes it appears to escape and look at the human life it hasled, as if from without. It seems to become absorbed into the auguststream of being; to see that fragment _itself_, without self-love, andas the great all of mankind would regard it if laid open to them. 

It perceives the inevitable verdict. Thus and thus have I done. Theywill judge me rightly, that thus and thus I am. 

If a man is reasonable and sees things as they were, he does not oftenfix on some particular act for which to blame himself when he deploresthe past, for at times of clear vision, the soul escapes from thebondage of incident. It gets away from the region of particulars, andknows itself by nature even better than by deed. There is a commonthought that beggars sympathy in almost every shallow mind. It seldomfinds deliberate expression. Perhaps it may be stated thus:--

The greatness of the good derived from it, makes the greatness of thefault. 

A man tells a great lie, and saves his character by it. No wonder itweighs on his conscience ever after. And yet perhaps he has toldcountless lies, both before and since, told them out of merecarelessness, or from petty spite or for small advantages, and utterlyforgotten them. Now which of these, looked at by the judge, is the greatoffender? Is the one lie he repents of the most wicked, or are thosethat with small temptation he flung about daily, and so made that onenotable lie easy?

Was it strange that Valentine, looking back, should not with any specialkeenness of pain have rued his mistake in taking Melcombe?

No. That was a part of himself. It arose naturally out of his character, which, but for that one action, he felt he never might have fully known. 

So weak, so longing for pleasure and ease, so faintly conscious of anynoble desire for good, so wrapped up in a sense as of the remoteness ofGod, how could it be otherwise?

If a man is a Christian, he derives often in such thoughts a healingconsciousness of the Fatherhood and Humanity of God. He perceives thathe was most to be pitied and least to be judged, not while he stood, butwhen he fell. There is no intention of including here hardened crimes ofdishonesty, and cruelty, and violence, only those pathetic descentswhich the ingrain faults and original frailty of our nature make soeasy, and which life and the world are so arranged as to punish evenafter a loving God forgives. 

"Those faults, " he may say, "they seem to live, though I shall die. Theyare mine, though I lose all else beside. Where can I lay them down, where lose them? Is there any healing to be found other than in Hissympathy, His forgiveness who made our nature one with His to raise itto Himself?"

The world is not little. Life is not mean. It spreads itself inaspiration, it has possession through its hope. It inhabits allremoteness that the eye can reach; it inherits all sweetness that theear can prove; always bereaved of the whole, it yet looks for a whole;always clasping its little part, it believes in the remainder. Sometimes, too often, like a bird it gets tangled in a net whichnotwithstanding it knew of. It must fly with broken wings ever alter. Or, worse, it is tempted to descend, as the geni into the vase, for alittle while, when sealed down at once unaware, it must lie in the darkso long, that it perhaps denies the light in heaven for lack of seeingit. 

If those who have the most satisfying lot that life can give are tobreathe freely, they must get through, and on, and out of it. 

Not because it is too small for us, but too great, it bears so manydown. On the whole that vast mass of us which inherits its narrowestportion, tethered, and that on the world's barest slope, does best. 

The rich and the free have a choice, they often choose amiss. Yet nochoice can (excepting for this world) be irretrievable; and that samebeing for whom the great life of the world proved too much, learns oftenin the loss of everything, what his utmost gain was not ordained toteach. 

He wanted all, and at last he can take that all, without which nothingcan make him content. He perceives, and his heart makes answer to, theyearning Fatherhood above; he recognises the wonderful upward drawingwith love and fear. 

 "This is God! He moves me so, to take of Him what lacks; My want is God's desire to give; He yearns To add Himself to life, and so for aye Make it enough. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

HIS VISITOR. 

 "The fairy woman maketh moan, 'Well-a-day, and well-a-day, Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one, and thou didst cast my rose away. ' Hark! Oh hark, she mourneth yet, 'One good ship--the good ship sailed, One bright star, at last it set, one, one chance, forsooth it failed. '

 "'Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes, show thy face as thee beseems, For yet is starlight in the skies, weird woman piteous through my dreams, 'Nay, ' she mourns, 'forsooth not now, veiled I sit for evermore, Rose is shed, and charmèd prow shall not touch the charmèd shore. 

 "There thy sons that were to be, thy small gamesome children play; There all loves that men foresee straight as wands enrich the way. Dove-eyed, fair, with me they wonn where enthroned I reign a queen, In the lovely realms foregone, in the lives that might have been. "

That glad to-morrow for Valentine never came. At the time when he shouldhave reached Wigfield, a letter summoned his brother to Melcombe. 

Emily and John Mortimer had delayed their return, for Valentine, whetherfrom excitement at the hope of setting off, or from the progress of hisdisease, had been attacked, while sitting out of doors, with such suddenprostration of strength that he was not got back again to the housewithout the greatest difficulty. They opened a wide window of the "greatparlour, " laid him on a couch, and then for some hours it seemeddoubtful whether he would rally. 

He was very calm and quiet about it, did not at all give up hope, butassented when his sister said, "May I write to St. George to come toyou?" and sent a message in the letter, asking his brother to bring hiswife and child. 

He seemed to be much better when they arrived, and for two or three daysmade good progress towards recovery; but the doctors would not hear ofhis attempting to begin his journey, or even of his rising from the bedwhich had been brought down for him into the wide, old-fashionedparlour. 

And so it came to pass that Brandon found himself alone about midnightwith Valentine, after a very comfortable day of little pain ordiscomposure. All the old intimacy had returned now, and more than theold familiar affection. Giles was full of hope, which was all thestronger because Valentine did not himself manifest that unreasonablehopefulness which in a consumptive patient often increases as strengthdeclines. 

His will was signed, and in his brother's keeping; all his affairs weresettled. 

"I know, " he had said to his brother, "that I have entirely brought thisillness on myself. I was perfectly well. I often think that if I hadnever come here I should have been so still. I had my choice; I had myway. But if I recover, as there seems still reason to think I may, Ihope it will be to lead a higher and happier life. Perhaps even someday, though always repenting it, I may be able to look back on thisfault and its punishment of illness and despondency with a thankfulheart. It showed me myself. I foresee, I almost possess such a feelingalready. It seems to have been God's way of bringing me near to Him. Sometimes I feel as if I could not have done without it. "

Valentine said these words before he fell asleep that night, and Giles, as he sat by him, was impressed by them, and pondered on them. So younga man seldom escapes from the bonds of his own reticence, when speakingof his past life, his faults, and his religious feelings. This was notlike Valentine. He was changed, but that, considering what he hadundergone, did not surprise a man who could hope and believe anything ofhim, so much as did his open, uncompromising way of speaking about sucha change. 

"And yet it seems strange, " Valentine added, after a pause, "that weshould be allowed, for want of knowing just a little more, to throwourselves away. "

"We Could hardly believe that it was in us, any of us, to throwourselves away, " Brandon answered, "if we were always warned to thepoint of prevention. "

Valentine sighed. "I suppose we cannot have it both ways. If God, because man is such a sinner, so overruled and overawed him that nocrime could be committed, he would be half-unconscious of the sin in hisnature, and would look up no more either for renewal or forgiveness. Menobliged to abstain from evil could not feel that their nature was lowerthan their conduct. When I have wished, Giles, as I often have donelately, that I could have my time over again, I have felt consoled, inknowing this could not be, to recollect how on the consciousness of thefault is founded the conscious longing for pardon. But I will tell youmore of all this to-morrow, " he added; and soon after that he fellasleep. 

A nurse was to have watched with him that night, but Brandon could notsleep, and he desired that she should rest in an adjacent room till hecalled her. In the meantime, never more hopeful since he had first seenValentine on reaching Melcombe, he continued to sit by his bed, frequently repeating that he would go up-stairs shortly, but not able todo it. 

At one o'clock Valentine woke, and Brandon, half excusing himself forbeing still there, said he could not sleep, and liked better to wake inthat room than anywhere else. 

Valentine was very wakeful now, and restless; he took some nourishment, and then wanted to talk. All sorts of reminiscences of his childhood andearly youth seemed to be present with him. He could not be still, and atlength Brandon proposed to read to him, and brought the lamp near, hoping to read him to sleep. 

There was but one book to be read to a sick man in the dead of thenight, when all the world was asleep, and great gulfs of darkness lurkedin the corners of the room. 

Giles read, and felt that Valentine was gradually growing calmer. Healmost thought he might be asleep, when he said--"St. George, there's noair in this room. "

"You must not have the windows open, " answered Brandon. 

"Read me those last words again, then, " said Valentine, "and let me lookout; it's so dark here. "

Brandon read, "The fulness of Him that filleth all in all. "

Valentine asked to have the curtain drawn back, and for more than anhour continued gazing out at the great full moon now rapidly southing, and at the lofty pear-trees, so ghostly white, showering down theirblossom in the night. Brandon also sat looking now at the scene, now athim, till the welcome rest of another sleep came to him; and the moonwent down, leaving their shaded lamp to lighten the space near it, andgleam on the gilding of quaint old cabinets and mirrors, and framescontaining portraits of dead Melcombes, not one of whom either of thesebrothers had ever seen. 

Brandon sat deep in thought, and glad to hear Valentine breathing soquietly, when the first solemn approaches of dawn appeared in the east;and as he turned to notice the change, Valentine woke, and gazed outalso among the ghostly trees. 

"There he is, " said Valentine, in his usual tone of voice. 

"Who is?" asked Brandon. 

"My father--don't you see him walking among the trees? He came to see myuncle--I told you so!"

Brandon was inexpressibly startled. He leaned neared, and looked intoValentine's wide-open eyes, in which was no sign of fear or wonder. 

"Why, you are half asleep, you have been dreaming, " he presently said, in a reassuring tone. "Wake up, now; see how fast the morning dawns. "

Valentine made him no answer, but he looked as usual. There was nothingto bespeak increased illness till he spoke again, faintly andfast--"Dorothea--did he bring Dorothea?"

Giles then perceived with alarm that he was not conscious of hispresence--took no notice of his answer. He leaned down with sudden andeager affright, and heard Valentine murmur--"I thought he would have letme kiss her once before I went away. "

Brandon started from his knees by Valentine's bed as this last faintutterance reached him, and rushed up-stairs to his wife's room with allthe speed he could command. 

Oh, so fast asleep! her long hair loose on the pillow. How fair shelooked, and how serene, in her dimpled, child-like beauty!

"Love, love!--wake up, love! I want you, Dorothea. "

She opened her startled eyes, and turned with a mother's instinct toglance at her little child, who was asleep beside her, looking scarcelymore innocent than herself. 

"Love, make haste! Valentine is very ill. I want you to come to him. Where's your dressing-gown?--why here. Are you awake now? What is it, doyou ask? Oh, I cannot tell--but I fear, I fear. "

He rushed down-stairs again, and was supporting Valentine's head withhis arm when Dorothea appeared, and stopped for one instant in thedoorway, arrested by some solemn words. Could it be Valentine thatspoke? There was a change in his voice that startled her, and as shecame on her face was full of tender and awe-struck wonder. 

"The fulness of Him, " he said, "that filleth all in all. "

Brandon looked up, and in the solemn dawn beheld her advancing in herlong white drapery, and with her fair hair falling about her face. Shelooked like one of those angels that men behold in their dreams. 

Valentine's eyes were slowly closing. 

"Kiss him, my life!" said Brandon, and she came on, and kneeling besidehim put her sweet mouth to his. 

Valentine did not have that kiss!