GIRLHOOD and WOMANHOOD

The Story of some Fortunes and Misfortunes

BY SARAH TYTLER

AUTHOR OF "PAPERS FOR THOUGHTFUL GIRLS, " "CITOYENNE JACQUELINE, "ETC. ETC. 

LONDONWM. ISBISTER, LIMITED56, LUDGATE HILL1883

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE I. CAIN'S BRAND, 1

 ON THE MOOR, 1

 THE ORDEAL, 16

 "HE LAY DOWN TO SLEEP ON THE MOORLAND SO DREARY, " 29

 MERCY AND NOT SACRIFICE, 37

 II. ON THE STAGE AND OFF THE STAGE, 62

 THE "BEAR" AT BATH, 62

 LADY BETTY ON THE STAGE, 72

 MISTRESS BETTY BECOMES NURSE, 77

 MASTER ROWLAND GOES UP TO LONDON, 86

 MISTRESS BETTY TRAVELS DOWN INTO SOMERSETSHIRE, 90

 BETWEEN MOSELY AND LARKS' HALL, 96

 III. A CAST IN THE WAGGON, 108

 DULCIE'S START IN THE WAGGON FOR HER COMPANY, 108

 TWO LADS SEEK A CAST IN THE WAGGON, 113

 REDWATER HOSPITALITY, 122

 OTHER CASTS FOLLOWING THE CAST IN THE WAGGON, 134

 DULCIE AND WILL, AT HOME IN ST. MARTIN'S LANE, 151

 SAM AND CLARISSA IN COMPANY IN LEICESTER SQUARE, 158

 STRIPS SOME OF THE THORNS FROM THE HEDGE AND THE GARDEN ROSES, 161

 IV. ADAM HOME'S REPENTANCE, 167

 WILD, WITTY NELLY CARNEGIE, 167

 A GALLANT REBUFFED. --NELLY'S PUNISHMENT, 172

 A MOURNFUL MARRIAGE EVE, 177

 NELLY CARNEGIE IN HER NEW HOME, 179

 NELLY'S NEW PASTIMES, 185

 THE LAIRD CONSCIENCE-SMITTEN, 186

 BLESSING AND AFFLICTION. --ADAM HOME'S RETURN, 192

 THE RECONCILIATION AND RETURN TO STANEHOLME, 197

 V. HECTOR GARRET OF OTTER, 202

 THE FIRE, 202

 THE OFFER, 211

 THE NEW HOME, 228

 THE PAGES OF THE PAST, 236

 THE MOTHER AND CHILD, 248

 THE STORM, 259

 VI. THE OLD YEOMANRY WEEKS, 268

 THE YEOMEN'S ADVENT. --PRIORTON SPRUCES ITSELF UP, 268

 A MATCH-MAKER'S SCHEME, 275

 A MORNING MEETING AND AN EVENING'S READING, 280

 THE BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 293

 VII. DIANA, 302

 AN UNDERTAKING, 302

 THE FULFILMENT, 311

 HAZARD, 316

 THE LAST THROW, 323

 VIII. MISS WEST'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE, 337

CAIN'S BRAND

I. --ON THE MOOR. 

Cain's brand! that is no fact of the far past, no legend of the MiddleAges, for are there not Cains among us; white-faced, haggard-featuredCains to the last? Men who began with a little injury, and did not dreamthat their gripe would close in deadly persecution? Cains who slew thespirit, and through the spirit murdered the body? Cains unintentionally, whom all men free from the stain of blood, and to whom in the Jewisheconomy the gates of the Cities of Refuge would have stood wide open, yet who are never again light of thought and light of heart? On theirheads the grey is soon sprinkled, and in the chamber of their hearts isdrawn a ghastly picture, whose freshness fades, but whose distinctcharacters are never obliterated. 

Of this class of men, of hot passions, with rash advisers, who meditatedwrong, but not the last wrong, victims of a narrow, imperious code ofhonour, only to-day expunged from military and social etiquette, was theLaird of the Ewes. Many of us may have seen such another--a tall, lithefigure, rather bent, and very white-headed for his age, with a wistfuleye; but otherwise a most composed, intelligent, courteous gentleman ofa laird's degree. Take any old friend aside, and he will tell, withrespectful sympathy, that the quiet, sensible, well-bred Laird, hassuffered agonies in the course of his life, though too wise and modest aman to hold up his heart for daws to peck at, and you will believe him. Look narrowly at the well-preserved, well-veiled exterior, and you willbe able to detect, through the nicely adjusted folds, or even when it isbrightened by smiles, how remorse has sharpened the flesh, and griefhollowed it, and long abiding regret shaded it. 

Twenty years before this time, Crawfurd of the Ewes, more accomplishedthan many of the lairds, his contemporaries, and possessed of the slyhumour on which Scotchmen pride themselves, had been induced to write aset of lampoons against a political opponent of his special chief. Hewas young then, and probably had his literary vanity; at least heexecuted his task to the satisfaction of his side of the question; andwithout being particularly broad and offensive, or perhaps very fine intheir edge, his caricatures excited shouts of laughter in the parish, and in the neighbouring town. 

But he laughs best who laughs last. A brother laird, blind with fury, and having more of the old border man in him than the Laird of the Ewes, took to his natural arms, and dispatched Mr. Crawfurd a challenge tofight him on the Corn-Cockle Moor. No refusal was possible then, noneexcept for a man of rare principle, nerve, and temper. The Laird of theEwes had no pretensions to mighty gifts; so he walked out with hissecond one autumn morning when his reapers were flourishing theirsickles, met his foe, and though without the skill to defend himself, heshot his man right through the head. He was tried and acquitted. He wasthe challenged, not the challenger; he might have given the provocation, but no blame was suffered to attach to him. His antagonist, with aforeboding of his fate, or by way of clearing his conscience, as theknights used to confess of a morning before combat, had exoneratedMr. Crawfurd before he came upon the ground. The Court was stronglyin his favour, and he was sent back to his family and property withoutanything more severe than commiseration; but that could never reach hisdeep sore. 

How was this gentle, nervous, humorous Laird to look out upon the world, from which he had sent the soul of a companion who had never even harmedhim? The widow, whom he had admired as a gay young matron, dwelt not amile from him in her darkened dwelling; the fatherless boy wouldconstantly cross the path of his well-protected, well-cared-forchildren. How bear the thousand little memories--the trifling dates, acts, words, pricking him with anguish? They say the man grew sick atthe mere sight of the corn-cockle, which, though not plentiful on othermoors, chanced to abound on this uncultivated tract, and bestowed on itits name; and he shivered as with an ague fit, morning after morning, when the clock struck the hour at which he had left his house. He did insome measure overcome this weakness, for he was a man of ordinarycourage and extraordinary reserve, but it is possible that he enduredthe worst of his punishment when he made no sign. 

The Laird was a man of delicate organism, crushed by a blow from whichhe could not recover. Had he lived a hundred years earlier, or been asoldier on active service, or a student walking the hospitals, he mighthave been more hardened to bloodshed. Had his fate been different, hemight have borne the brunt of the offence as well as his betters; butthe very crime which he was least calculated to commit and surviveencountered him in the colours he had worn before the eventful day. 

Yet there was nothing romantic about Crawfurd of the Ewes, or aboutthe details of his deed, with one singular exception, and this wasconnected with his daughter Joanna. The rest of the family werecommonplace, prosperous young people, honest enough hearts, but tooshallow to be affected by the father's misfortune. The father's sourgrapes had not set these children's teeth on edge. Joanna--Jack, orJoe, as they called her in sport--whom they all, without any idea ofselfishness or injustice, associated with the Laird, as one member ofthe family is occasionally chosen to bear the burdens of theothers, --Joanna was papa's right hand, papa's secretary, steward, housekeeper, nurse. It had always been so; Joanna had been set asideto the office, and no one thought of depriving her of it, any morethan she dreamt of resigning it. 

Joanna was the child born immediately after the duel, and on the waxenbrow of the baby was a crimson stain, slight but significant, which twofingers might have covered. Was this the token of retribution--thethreat of vengeance? The gossips' tongues wagged busily. Some said itwas Cain's brand, "the iniquity of the fathers visited on the children;"others alleged more charitably that it ought to prove a sign in theLaird's favour, to have the symbol of his guilt transferred to ascape-goat--the brow of a child. However, the gossips need not havehidden the child's face so sedulously for the first few days from themother. Mrs. Crawfurd took the matter quite peaceably, and was relievedthat no worse misfortune had befallen her or her offspring. "Poor littledear!" it was sad that she should carry such a trace; but she daresayedshe would outgrow it, or she must wear flat curls--it was a pity thatthey had gone quite out of fashion. It was the father who kissed themark passionately, and carried the child oftenest in his arms, and lether sit longest on his knee; and so she became his darling, and learntall his ways, and could suit herself to his fancies, and soothe hispains, from very youthful years. The public recognised this peculiarproperty of her father in Joanna, and identified her with the sorrowfulperiod of his history. She was pointed out in connexion with thestory--the tragedy of the county, --and she knew instinctively that therewould be a whispered reference to her whenever it was told in society. 

The Crawfurds had a cousin visiting them--an English cousin, PollyMusgrave--from the luxury and comparative gaiety of her rich, childless aunt's house in York. Polly was a well-endowed orphan, hadno near family ties, and had been educated in the worldly wisdom andepicurean philosophy of a fashionable girls' school. She had come tospend a few weeks, and get acquainted with her Scotch country cousins. Polly had not found her heart, but it was to the credit of her senseand good-nature that she made the very best of a sojourn that hadthreatened to be a bore to her. She dazzled the girls, she romped withthe boys, she entered with the greatest glee into rural occupations, rode on the roughest pony, saw sunset and sunrise from Barnbougle, andthreatened to learn to milk cows and cut corn. She broughtinconceivable motion and sparkle into the rather stagnant countryhouse, and she was the greatest possible contrast to Joanna Crawfurd. Joanna was a natural curiosity to Polly, and the study amused her, just as she made use of every other variety and novelty, down to thepoultry-yard and kitchen-garden at the Ewes. 

The girls were out on the moor, in the drowsy heat of a summer day, grouped idly and prettily into such a cluster as girls will fall intowithout effort. Susan, the beauty--there is always a beauty amongseveral girls--in languid propriety, with her nice hair, and herscrupulously falling collar and sleeves, and her blush of a knot ofribbon; Lilias, the strong-minded, active person, sewing busily atcharity work, of which all estimable households have now their share;Constantia, the half-grown girl, lying in an awkward lump among the hay, intently reading her last novel, and superlatively scorning the societyof her grown-up relatives; Joanna, sitting thoughtfully, stroking oldGyp, the ragged terrier, that invariably ran after either Joanna or herfather; and Polly, who had been riding with Oliver, standing with hertucked-up habit, picturesque hat and feathers, smart little gentleman'sriding-gloves and whip, and very _espiègle_ face--a face surrounded bywaves of silky black hair, with a clear pale skin, and good eyes andteeth, which Polly always declared were her fortune in the way of goodlooks; but her snub nose was neither of a vulgar nor coarse tendency--itwas a very lively, coquettish, handsomely cut, irresistible cock nose. 

If these girls on the moor had been tried in the fire heated seventimes, it would not have been to the strong-minded, broad-chested, dark-browed Lilias that they would have clung. They would have comecrouching in their extremity and taken hold of the skirt of round, soft, white Joanna, with the little notable stain on her temple. 

Polly was detailing her adventures and repeating her news with a relishthat was appetizing. 

"We went as far as Lammerhaugh, when Oliver remembered that he had acommission for your father at Westcotes, just when my love, Punch, wasbroken off his trot, and promised to canter, and the morning was sofresh then--a jewel of a morning. It was provoking; I wanted Noll tocontinue absent in mind, or prove disobedient, or something, but yougood folks are so conscientious. "

"Duty first, and then pleasure, " said Lilias emphatically. 

"That was a Sunday-school speech, Lilias, and spoken out of school; youought to pay a forfeit; fine her, Susie. "

"Aren't you hot, Polly?" asked Susan, without troubling herself to takeup the jest. 

"Not a bit--no more than you are; I'm up to a great deal yet; I'll go tothe offices and gather the eggs. No, I am warm though, and I don't wantto be blowsy to-night; I think I'll go into the house to the bath-room, and have a great icy splash of a shower-bath. "

"You'll hurt your health, Polly, for ever bathing at odd hours, as youdo, " remonstrated Joanna. 

"All nonsense, my dear; I always do what is pleasantest, and it agreeswith me perfectly. In winter, I do toast my toes; and you know I eathalf-a-dozen peaches and plums at a time like a South Sea Islander, only I believe they feast on cocoa-nut and breadfruit; don't they, Conny? You are the scholar; you know you have your geography at yourfinger-ends yet. "

"Oh, don't tease me, Polly!" protested Conny impatiently. 

"Dear Jack, hand me a sprig of broom to stick in Conny's ear, " persistedPolly in a loud whisper. 

Constantia shook her head furiously, as if she were already horriblytickled, and that at the climax of her plot. 

"Never mind, Conny, I'll protect you. What a shame, Polly, to spoil herpleasure!" cried Joanna indignantly. 

"I beg your pardon, Donna Quixotina. "

"I wonder you girls can waste your time in this foolish manner, "lectured Lilias, with an air of superiority; "you are none of you betterthan another, always pursuing amusement. "

"What a story, Lilias!" put in Polly undauntedly; "you know I sew yardupon yard of muslin-work, and embroider ells of French merino, andtask myself to get done within a given time. Aunt Powis says I makemyself a slave. "

"Because you like it, " declared Lilias disdainfully; "you happen to be aclever sewer, and you are fond of having your fingers busy andastonishing everybody--besides, you admire embroidery in muslin andcloth; and even your pocket-money--what with gowns and bonnets, ticketsto oratorios and concerts, and promenades, and 'the kid shoes andperfumery, ' which are papa's old-fashioned summing up of our expenses, bouquets and fresh gloves would be nearer the truth--won't always meetthe claims upon your gold and silver showers; and Susan, " added Lilias, not to be cheated out of her diatribe, and starting with new alacrity, "practising attitudes and looking at her hands; and Conny reading hertrashy romances. "

"It is not a romance, Lilias, " complained Conny piteously; "it is a taleof real life. "

"It is all the same, " maintained the inexorable Lilias; "one of the mostaggravating novels I ever read was a simple story. "

"Oh, Lilias, do lend it to me!" begged Polly; "I'm not literary, but itis delightful to be intensely interested until the very hair rises onthe crown of one's head. "

"I don't know that you would like it, " put in Joanna; "it is not one ofthe modern novels, and it has only one dismal catastrophe; it is thefine old novel by Mrs. Inchbald. "

"Then I don't want it; I don't care for old things, since I have not apalate for old wines or an eye for old pictures. I hate the musty, buckram ghosts of our fathers. "

"Oh! but Mrs. Inchbald never raised ghosts, Polly; she manoeuvredstately, passionate men and women of her own day. "

"The wiser woman she. But they would be ghosts to me, Jack, unless theywere in the costume of the present day; there is not an inch of me givento history. "

"And you, Joanna, " concluded Lilias, quite determined to breast everyinterruption and finish her peroration, "you have listened, and smiled, and frowned, and dreamt for an hour. "

"I was waiting in case papa should want me, " apologized Joanna, rather humbly. 

"That need not have hindered you from hemming round the skirt ofthis frock. "

"Oh, Lilias! I am sorry for you, girl, " cried Polly. "You're in adiseased frame of mind; you are in a fidget of work; you don't know theenjoyment of idleness, the luxury of laziness. You'll spoil yourcomplexion; your hair will grow grey; no man will dare to trifle withsuch a notable woman!"

"I don't care!" exclaimed Lilias bluntly and magnanimously. "I don'twant to be trifled with; I don't value men's admiration. "

"Now! Now!! Now!!! Now!!!!" protested Polly; "I don't value men'sadmiration either, of course, but I like partners, and I would not befond of being branded as a strong-minded female, a would-be LadyBountiful, a woman going a-tracking; that's what men say of girls whodon't care to be trifled with. But, Lilias, are you quite sure you don'tbelieve in any of the good old stories--the 'goody' stories I would callthem if I were a man--of the amiable girl who went abroad in the oldpelisse, and who was wedded to the enthusiastic baronet? My dears, youmust have observed they were abominably untrue; the baronet, weak andfalse, always, since the world began, marries the saucy, spendthriftgirl, who is prodigal in rich stuffs, and bright colours, and becomingfits, and neat boots and shoes--who thinks him worth listening to, andlaughing with, and thinking about--the fool. "

"Really, Polly, you are too bad, " cried both Susan and Lilias at once;their stock-in-trade exhausted, and not knowing very well what theymeant, or what they should suggest further if this sentence were notanswer enough. 

"Now, I believe Joanna does not credit the goody stories, or does notcare for them, rather; but we are not all heroines, we cannot all affordan equal indifference. "

Joanna coloured until the red stain became undistinguishable, and evenPolly felt conscious that her allusion was too flippant for the cause. 

"So you see, Lilias, " she continued quickly, "I'm not the least ashamedof having been caught fast asleep in my room before dinner the otherrainy day. I always curl myself up and go to sleep when I've got nothingbetter to do, and I count the capacity a precious gift; besides, I willlet you into a secret worth your heads: it improves your looks immenselyafter you've been gadding about for a number of days, and horriblydissipated in dancing of nights at Christmas, or in the oratorio week, or if you are in a town when the circuit is sitting--not present as aprisoner, Conny. "

"Polly!" blazed out Constantia, who, on the plea of the needle-likesharpness and single-heartedness which sometimes distinguishes herfifteen years, was permitted to be more plain-spoken and ruder than hersisters; "I hate to hear you telling of doing everything you like withsuch enjoyment. I think, if you had been a man, you would have been anabominable fellow, and you are only harmless because you are a girl. "

Polly laughed immoderately. "Such a queer compliment, Conny!"

"Hold your tongue, Conny. "

"Go back to your book; we'll tell mamma, " scolded the elder girls;and Conny hung her head, scarlet with shame and consternation. 

Conny had truth on her side; yet Polly's independence and animaldelight in life, in this artificial world, was not to be altogetherdespised either. 

Polly maintained honestly that the girl had done no harm. She was gladshe had never had to endure senior sisters, and if she had beenafflicted with younger plagues, she would have made a point of notsnubbing them, on the principle of fair play. 

"And you were a little heathenish, Polly, " suggested Joanna, "not givingfair play to the heroism of the ancients. "

But Susan had long been waiting her turn, testifying more interest inher right to speak than she usually wasted on the affairs of the state. She wished to cross-examine Polly on a single important expression, andalthough Susan at least was wonderfully harmless, her patience couldhold out no longer. 

"Why are you afraid of being blowsy to-night, Polly?"

"I'm not frightened, I would not disturb myself about a risk; but you'vekept an invitation all this time under my tongue, not in my pockets, Iassure you;" and Polly elaborately emptied them, the foppish breastpocket, and that at the waist. 

"It is only from Mrs. Maxwell, " sighed Susan; "we are never invitedanywhere except to Hurlton, in this easy way. "

"But there is company; young Mr. Jardine has come home to Whitethorn, and he is to dine with the Maxwells, and we are invited over to Hurltonin the evening lest the claret or the port should be too much for him. "

The girls did not say "Nonsense!" they looked at each other; Joanna wasvery pale, the red stain was very clear now. At last Lilias spoke, hesitating a little to begin with, "It is so like Mrs. Maxwell--withouta moment's consideration--so soon after his return, before we had metcasually, as we must have done. I dare say she is sorry now, when shecomes to think over it. I hope Mr. Maxwell will be angry with her--theprovoking old goose, " ran on Lilias, neither very reverently nor verygratefully for an excellent, exemplary girl. 

"There is one thing, we can't refuse, " said Susan with marvellousdecision; "it would be out of the question for us to avoid him; it wouldbe too marked for us to stay away. "

"Read your book, Conny, " commanded Lilias fiercely; "you weresufficiently intent upon it a moment ago; girls should not be madeacquainted with such troubles. "

"I don't want to be a bar upon you, " cried the belated Conny, rising andwalking away sulkily, but pricking her ears all the time. 

"Joanna, you had better mention the matter to papa. "

"Don't you think you're making an unnecessary fuss?" remarked Polly. "Ofcourse, I remembered uncle's misfortune, " she admitted candidly, "thoughnone of you speak of it, and I noticed Oliver stammer dreadfully whenMrs. Maxwell mentioned Mr. Jardine; but I thought that at this time ofday, when everybody knew there was no malice borne originally, and UncleCrawfurd might have been killed, you might have been polite andneighbourly with quiet consciences. I tell you, I mean to set my cap atyoung Mr. Jardine of Whitethorn, and when I marry him, and constitutehim a family connexion, of course the relics of that old accident willbe scattered to the winds. "

"Oh! Polly, Polly!" cried the girls, "you must never, never speak solightly to papa. "

"Of course not, I am not going to vex my uncle; I can excuse him, but Joanna need not look so scared. There is not such a thing asretribution and vengeance, child, in Christian countries; it is youwho are heathenish. Or have you nursed a vain imagination ofencountering Mr. Jardine, unknown to each other, and losing yourhearts by an unaccountable fascination, and being as miserable asthe principals in the second last chapter of one of Conny's threevolumes? or were you to atone to him in some mysterious, fantastic, supernatural fashion, for the unintentional wrong? Because if you havedone so, I'm afraid it is all mist and moonshine, poor Jack, quite asmuch as the twaddling goody stories. "

"Polly, " said Joanna angrily, but speaking low, "I think you might spareus on so sad a subject. "

"I want you to have common sense; I want you to be comfortable; nowonder my uncle has never recovered his spirits. "

"Indeed, Polly, I don't think you've any reason to interfere inpapa's concerns. "

"I don't see that you are entitled to blame Joanna, " defended sisterLilias, stoutly;--Lilias, who was so swift to find fault herself. 

"There, I'll say no more; I beg your pardon, I merely intended to showyou your world in an ordinary light. "

"Do you know, Polly, that Mrs. Jardine has never visited us since?"asked Susan. 

"Very likely, she was entitled to some horror. But she is a reasonablewoman. Mr. Maxwell told me--every third party discusses the story behindyour backs whenever it chances to come up, I warn you--Mr. Maxwellinformed me that she never blamed Uncle Crawfurd, and that she sent herson away from her because she judged it bad for him to be brought upamong such recollections, and feared that when he was a lad he might betampered with by the servants, and might imbibe prejudices and aversionsthat would render him gloomy and vindictive, and unlike other people forthe rest of his life; she could not have behaved more wisely. I aminclined to suppose that Mrs. Jardine of Whitethorn has more knowledgeof the world and self-command than the whole set of my relations here, unless, perhaps, my Aunt Crawfurd--she will only speculate on yourdresses--that is the question, Susan. "

II. --THE ORDEAL. 

"Would you not have liked to have gone with the other girls, Joanna? forConny, she must submit to be a _halflin_ yet. But is it not dull for youonly to hear of a party? country girls have few enough opportunities ofbeing merry, " observed Mr. Crawfurd, with his uneasy consciousness, andhis sad habit of self-reproach. 

"Oh, Mr. Crawford, it would not have done--not the first time--Joannahad much better stay at home on this occasion. She is too well broughtup to complain of a little sacrifice. "

It is curious how long some wives will live on friendly terms with theirhusbands and never measure their temperaments, never know where the shoepinches, never have a notion how often they worry, and provoke, and paintheir spouses, when the least reticence and tact would keep the ship andits consort sailing in smooth water. 

Mrs. Crawfurd would have half-broken her heart if Mr. Crawfurd had notchanged his damp stockings; she would fling down her work and look outfor him at any moment of his absence; she would not let any of herchildren, not her favourite girl or boy, take advantage of him; she wasa good wife, still she did not know where the shoe pinched, and so shestabbed him perpetually, sometimes with fretting pin-pricks, sometimeswith sore sword-strokes. 

"My dear, I wish you were not a sacrifice to me. " It is a heart-breakingthing to hear a man speak quite calmly, and like a man, yet with aplaintive tone in his voice. Ah! the old, arch spirit of the literaryLaird of the Ewes had been shaken to its centre, though he was atolerable man of business, and rather fond of attending markets, sales, and meetings. 

"Papa, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Joanna indignantly. "I amvery proud to help you, and I go out quite as often as the others. Doyou not know, we keep a card hung up on Lilias's window-shutter, and wewrite down every month's invitations--in stormy weather they are notmany--and we fulfil them in rotation. You don't often want me in theevenings, for you've quite given me up at chess, and you only condescendto backgammon when it is mid-winter and there has been no curling, andthe book club is all amiss. Lilias insists upon the card, because theparties are by no means always merry affairs, and she says thatotherwise we would slip them off on each other, and pick and choose, andbe guilty of a great many selfish, dishonourable proceedings. "

"Lilias is the wise woman in the household. I'm aware there is a wisewoman in every family--but how comes it that Lilias is the authoritywith us? It always rather puzzles me, Joanna; for when I used to imploreMiss Swan to accept her salary, and pay Dominie Macadam his lawfuldemand of wages for paving the boys' brains in preparation for the HighSchool, they always complimented me with the assurance that you were myclever daughter. "

"Because they saw your weak side, I dare say, my dear, " suggestsMrs. Crawfurd. 

"No, I am the cleverest, papa; I am so deep that I see that it is easierto live under an absolute monarchy than to announce myself a member of arepublic, and assert my prerogatives and defend my privileges--but Iconfess I have a temper, papa. Lilias says I am very self-willed, and Imust grant that she is generally in the right. "

"You don't feel satisfied with the bridle, child, till it gets intostronger hands. "

"Yes, Joanna has a temper, " chimed in Mrs. Crawfurd, pursuing her ownthread of the conversation. "Strangers think her softer than Susan; butI have seen her violent, and when she takes it into her head, she is themost stubborn of the whole family. I don't mean to scold you, my dear;you are a very good girl, too, but you are quite a deception. "

"Oh, mamma! what a character!" Joanna could not help laughing. "I mustamend my ways. "

Of course, Joanna was violent at times, as we imagine a sensitive girlwith an abhorrence of meanness and vice, and she was stubborn when shewas convinced of the right and her friends would assert the wrong. Mr. Crawfurd's idea was, that Joanna had a temper like Cordelia, not whenshe spoke in her pleased accents, "gentle, soft, and low, " but when shewas goaded into vehemence, as will happen in the best regulated palacesand households. 

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawfurd, five minutes afterwards, disturbingthe cosy little party round the tea-table by her sudden air of distress. "Oh! dear, dear me! Susie has left her pearl sprigs behind her. Therethey are on the loo-table. My pearl sprigs, Mr. Crawfurd, that I usedto wear when I was young; they have come in again for the hair, andSusie settled they were just the thing to give a more dressed look toher spring silk--these easy way parties are so ill to manage, and Pollywas of the same mind, and she came in to show me the effect, for Ialways like to see the girls after they are dressed, and be satisfiedhow they look--and there she has forgotten the box, and she will appearquite a dowdy, and be so vexed. "

"I don't think it will signify very much, mamma; Susan looks very wellin her blue silk. "

"But it is such a pity, Joanna; so unfortunate, --she only put them outof her hand for one moment, and you see there they are still;" and soMrs. Crawfurd sounded the lamentation, and dwelt on its salient points, and ingeniously extracted new grounds of regret, till, by dint ofrepetition, in ten minutes more Mr. Crawfurd and Joanna were almostpersuaded that Susan had sustained a serious loss. 

"Send a servant with the foolery, " proposed Mr. Crawfurd, seeking alittle relief, and tolerably affronted at his interest in the question. 

"I don't think it would do. Would it, Joanna? There is always suchconfusion at Hurlton when there is company? and then they have peopledining. There would be a mistake, and my pearls are no joke, Mr. Crawfurd. They cost papa fifty pounds when they were so prettily set togo to Sir William's ball. Ah! you don't remember it. There would be afuss, and Lilias would not like it. If Oliver had not been there atdinner, or Charlie had been at home--"

"Of the two evils choose the least, " recommended Mr. Crawfurd, taking uphis book. 

"If you are very anxious, mamma, " said Joanna, "as it is very early, andthey set out to walk round by the garden at Houndswood to get somegeraniums, which Polly saw yesterday, and set her heart upon; if youorder out the ponies and Sandy, I think Conny and I could easily rideover to Hurlton, and deliver the little parcel to the girls in time. Itwould be a nice evening ride for us, since you are afraid that Connyhangs too much over her books. "

"Thank you, dear; that is just like you, Joanna, you are so sensible andhelpful, no wonder papa monopolizes you. I will be so glad that Susiehas the pearls. Such a pity, poor dear! that her evening should bespoilt, and they lying ready to be put on. Conny? Yes, indeed, that girlwill be getting spine complaint, or the rickets. In my day it was sewingin frames that twisted girls; but these books in the lap, the head pokedforward, one shoulder up, and knees half as high as the shoulder, are athousand times worse. "

"Good luck to you, Jack. Now you deserve your name, since you constituteyourself groom of the chambers to your sisters. "

Joanna laughed back to him. "Come and meet us, papa. " And in theshortest interval given to tie on their hats and skirts, the girls wereracing along to Hurlton. 

In that moorland country, with outlying moorland fields where it was notprimitive nature--in a large family like that of the Crawfurds, roughwalking ponies swarmed as in Shetland. They were in constant request atthe Ewes, and the girls rode them lightly and actively, with thetable-boy, Sandy, at their heels, as readily as they walked. PerhapsJoanna was the least given to the practice, though she availed herselfof it on this domestic occasion. 

Joanna was a deception, as her mother said. She was a little, round, soft thing, whom you would have expected to flash over with sunshine. She was not a melancholy girl--as you may have been able to judge--andit was not her blame that anything in her position had developed herinto a thoughtful, earnest character. But then she was always fanciedyounger than she really was; people supposed her as easy as her mother, while she could be vehement, and was firm to tenacity. Perhaps thereason of the puzzle might be, not only that she had a little of thatconstitutional indolence which serves to conceal latent energy, butthat, in trifles, she did inherit, in a marked degree, the unexacting, kindly temper which causes the wheels of every-day life to turn easily. She allowed herself to be pushed aside. She accepted the fate orsuperstition which linked her with her father's sorrow; she was content, she thought, to suffer the dregs of his act with him; she wished shecould suffer for him; the connexion had indeed a peculiar charm for herenthusiasm and generosity, like her admiration of this Corncockle Moor. 

Corncockle Moor, in its dreariness, loneliness, and wildness, now hungout a vast curtain, which Joanna and Conny were skirting under thegolden decline of day, not so far from the spot where the little groupof men had gathered on the autumn morning, and the two sharp, shortcracks, and the little curl of blue smoke had indicated where one lifehad gone out, and another was blasted in a single second. Joanna hadscarcely got time to wonder how Harry Jardine and her sisters would lookat each other, and she did not allow herself to think of it now. Shewould wait till she had skilfully avoided any chance of encountering thecompany, delivered her mother's errand, and was safe with Conny, cantering homewards. Even then she would not dwell on the notion, lesther father should allude to the stranger, and she should betray anyfeeling to discompose him. "I must take care of papa. Papa is mycharge, " repeated Joanna, proud as any Roman maid or matron. 

What malign star sent Mrs. Maxwell into the bedroom, just as Joanna hadentered it? She ought to have been only quitting the dining-room forthe drawing-room, but Mrs. Maxwell was always to be found where she wasleast expected. She was a good-natured, social, blundering body, whomgirls condescended to affect, because she liberally patronized youngpeople, proving, however, quite as often the marplot, as the maker oftheir fortunes--not from malice, but from a certain maladroitness andfickleness. Mrs. Maxwell took it into her head to lay hands on Joanna, and to send out for Conny, whom Joanna had cautiously deposited in thepaddock, and to insist that they should remain, and join the party. Shewould take no denial; she never got them all together; it was so cruelto leave out Joanna and Conny, a pair of her adopted children, since shehad no bairns of her own to bless herself with. She had plenty ofpartners, or the girls would dance together. Yes, say no more aboutit; she was perfectly delighted with the accession to her number--itwas to be. 

Conny's eyes sparkled greedily. "Oh, Joanna! mamma won't be angry. "

Oh, Conny! you traitor!

"There, it will be a treat to Conny, and there is nothing to prevent it. Conny has let the cat out of the bag, as Tom would say. Conny consents, Joanna may sulk as she pleases. "

"I won't sulk, Mrs. Maxwell; I'll go off by myself, and leave youConstantia, since she wishes it. "

"To hear of such a thing! You girls won't allow it. It is very shabby, Susan, Lilias, Miss Musgrave, that Joanna should not have a littleamusement with the rest. "

"I'm sure we won't prevent it, Mrs. Maxwell, we don't stand in the way, "said Lilias stiffly; "Joanna is free to remain or return as she chooses. Joanna, you had better stay, or there will be a scene, and the wholehouse will hear of it. "

"Keep her, Mrs. Maxwell, please, " cried Miss Polly mischievously; "mycousin Joan is so scarce of her countenance, that I want to know how shecan behave in company. "

"Very well, I assure you, " avouched Mrs. Maxwell zealously; then shebegan to remember, and start, and flounder--"only she is so modest. Joanna, my dear, you cannot be so stupid as to hesitate from a certainreason?"

"Oh, no. You can send back Sandy, Mrs. Maxwell, since you are so good. Mamma knows what we will require; or I will write a little note. "

Joanna could have borne any encounter rather than a discussion of theobstacle with Mrs. Maxwell--a discussion which might be gone over againany day to anybody. 

But Joanna was terribly vexed and provoked that she had exposed herselfto this infliction, though she was fain to comfort herself with theargument that it would make no difference to papa's feelings; and shetrusted that she and Conny would slip into the drawing-room when theguests were occupied, and subside into corners, and escape attention. 

Joanna was established in her recess, nearly confident that she was notconspicuous, and considerably interested in watching Harry Jardine. 

Mrs. Jardine's intentions had been in a great measure fulfilled. Theyoung Laird of Whitethorn had grown up at his English school and Germanuniversity without the cloud which rested on his father's end descendingon his spirit. He was as strong and pleasant and blithe as his father, with the self-possession which a life amongst strangers, and theavailable wallet of a traveller's information, could graft upon hisgentle birth and early manhood. At the same time, there was no deceptionabout Harry Jardine. While he was gay and good-humoured, he had an airof vigour and action, and even a dash of temper lurking about his blackcurls and bright eyes, which prepared one for hearing that he had notonly hobnobbed with the Göttingen students, but had also won theirprizes, and thrashed them when they aspired to English sports; and hadtravelled four nights without sleep, under stress of weather, to reachWhitethorn on the day he had fixed to his mother. He had brought asteady character along with him, too; they said that he had been a goodson, and had remembered that his mother was a widow, and had enduredenough grief to last her all her days. Mrs. Jardine, who was not aflatterer, declared that Harry had not cost her a care which she neededto grudge. There is enough temptation, and to spare, for men like HarryJardine, but it is not in such that early self-indulgence and lamentableweakness may be feared. 

Harry Jardine was the style of man fitted to command the admiration ofJoanna Crawfurd. Contemplative girls love men of experience. Staid girlslove men with a dash--a dash of bravery, self-reliance, or even ofrecklessness. Harry Jardine's gladness to be at home; his interest ineverything and everybody; the pleasant tone in which he referred to hismother; the genuine fun of which he gave a glimpse; the ring of hislaugh, were all set store upon by Joanna with a sober satisfaction. 

Harry had not been so agreeable, or felt the world so pleasant, twohours before. It was impossible to escape memories or to hide wincing;but he had said to himself that these associations ought to have beenworn threadbare by familiarity, or to have been approached gradually, and he could not conquer his awkwardness or crush his susceptibility. But youth is pliable and versatile, and Harry Jardine was determined toevince no dislike, and make no marked distinction. Very soon the MissCrawfurds and their cousin blended with the other young ladies in hisview, --nay, he discovered that he had come across a cousin of theirssettled abroad, and was qualified to afford them information of hisprospects and pursuits handsomely. 

So far Joanna's penalty had been moderate, until, towards the close ofthe evening, when most of the young people had gone into the library toget some refreshments, she found herself left in her corner almostalone, with Mr. Jardine talking to Mrs. Maxwell within a few yards ofher. This was the occurrence which Joanna had dreaded. "By the prickingof her thumbs" she was aware of a wicked destiny approaching her. Mr. Jardine in his conversation glanced towards her, then looked away, andbeat his foot on the carpet, and a twitch passed over the muscles of hisface, and his smile, though he still affected a smile, had lost all itsglow. Joanna dared not look any longer. Mrs. Maxwell was certainlyspeaking of her. Perhaps in her rash inconsiderate way she hadvolunteered information. 

Perhaps Harry Jardine had himself made inquiry--the pale girl who keptin the background, with the little scar--was it--on her temple? Joannaquivered under the process, and the witness beneath the light brown hairthrobbed painfully. She was glad when Mr. Jardine walked away quickly;but the next moment he came back and turned directly towards her. 

"I have been introduced to your sisters, Miss Crawfurd, and you mustexcuse further ceremony from me. Will you allow me to take you intothe next room and get a glass of wine or a biscuit for you? You shouldnot try fasting at an evening party. Mrs. Maxwell would call it a verybad example. "

He spoke fast, with a laugh, and crimsoned all over. She knewperfectly well what he was about. He was determined to perform allthat could possibly be required of him. He would put down invidiouscomments, disarm gossip, in short cut off the gorgon's head at thefirst struggle. They might term it unnatural, overdone, but at leastit would not be to do again; and Harry Jardine's was the temper, that, if you presented an obstacle to it, it itched the more to grapple withthe obstacle on the spot. 

Precisely for the reason that she could not ride away from the party, after Mrs. Maxwell assailed her with a motive for her conduct, Joannacould not repel his overture. It was incredibly trying to her. He sawhow differently she was affected from her sisters. He was aware ofanother influence. He felt very uncomfortable. Why, the very flesh ofhis arm, which she touched lightly enough, crept, when the superstitionof the old ordeal of the bier flashed upon him, as he caught, with afurtive glance, the tiny brand prickling and burning to fieryincandescence above the waxen face. Was it a splash of his father'sblood impressed there, till the "solid flesh" would verily "melt"? Wasit his neighbourhood which brought out the ruddy spot, that, like thescarlet streaks down Lady Macbeth's little hands, would not wash off?Absurd folly! But he wished he had done with it. He wished old ladieswould confine themselves to their own concerns. He hoped fainting wasnot heard of among the girls of the moors--that would be a talk! Hesupposed he must say something commonplace and civil; he must task hisbrains for that purpose. He coined a remark, and Joanna answered himquietly and with simplicity. She must have possessed and exercisedgreat self-command. It struck Harry Jardine. It was a quality he valuedhighly, possibly because he felt such difficulty in looking it up on hisown account. All through the few minutes' further conversation andassociation between them, it impressed him, conjointly with the oddrecoiling sensations, which he had so rapidly shaken off, where hersisters were concerned. 

Harry had the faults of his kind, not inveterately, for he spoke goodEnglish to women; but as he indulged in his dear island slang to men, hefelt bound to use it to himself. "This poor little woman is thoroughgame, " he said to himself. "I can see that she is as tender as a littlebird, yet she has shown as much pluck as a six-foot grenadier? She hasnot flinched at all. I can do justice to this spirit. " He remembered itall the time when Polly Musgrave was sounding him, and when he did notchoose to give her the slightest satisfaction. 

"I saw you with my cousin Joanna, Mr. Jardine; you'll find her in theSpanish style. "

"Not in complexion certainly. Do you mean in name?"

"Oh, no! Do you know so little about the south of Scotland after all?You had better conceal this piece of ignorance. I am sure you understandthis much--a general acquaintance with the whole habitable globe wouldnot atone for a deficiency with regard to this one dear little spot ofearth. Joanna is as common a name in the south of Scotland as Dorothy isin the north of England. Examine the register, and see if you have nottwenty Jardine cousins christened Joanna. I call Joanna in the Spanishstyle, because, although she conceals it, and you cannot have found itout yet, she is a vestige of romantic chivalry. Joanna is a DonnaQuixotina, an unworldly, unearthly sort of girl, with a dream of tiltingwith the world and succouring the distressed. I term it a dream, because, of course, she will never accomplish it, any more than theknight of La Mancha, and she will be obliged to descend from her stiltsby-and-by. I call Susan in the beautiful style, and Lilias in the goodstyle, and Conny in the sweet sixteen style. "

"Miss Musgrave, I am not versed in ladies' styles, you must teach me;"and Polly and he looked into each other's eyes, and laughed and feltthey were match for match. 

And Joanna had a little regret that Mr. Jardine should, like most men, be caught with Polly Musgrave; not that Joanna did not admire Polly, though she was her antithesis, and count her handsome and brilliant inher way, like any sun-loving dahlia or hollyhock; but Joanna had noenthusiasm in her admiration of Polly, and she had a little enthusiasmin her estimation of Harry Jardine. 

III. --"HE LAY DOWN TO SLEEP ON THE MOORLAND SO DREARY. "

Polly Musgrave was gone with flying colours. She had been indefatigablein procuring her aunt, uncle, and cousins, parting gifts that would suittheir tastes; she had actually toiled herself in paying courtesy-callsround the neighbourhood; and she had written half-a-dozen letters, andevinced a considerable amount of successful management in procuring aninvitation for two of her cousins to join her during the week or weeksof York's gaieties. She would have had Joanna also, but Joanna would notleave home at the season when her father was liable to his worstrheumatic twinges. Polly had shown herself really good-natured under herease and luxury, and Joanna had been a little penitent and vexed thatshe did not like Polly any more than in a cousinly way. Whether Pollywas right in saying that Joanna was romantic or not, Polly had not aparticle of romance in her constitution, though much was flourishing, fresh, and fragrant, in pure, commonplace, selfish, good-naturedworldliness, for it is a mistake to suppose that quality (withouthypocrisy) has not its attractive guise. Without knowing herselfromantic, Joanna was apt to quarrel in her own mind with cleverer girls, accomplished girls, pleasant girls, even good girls, sensible women, business women, nay religious women, until she feared she must befault-finding, satirical, sour--as her sisters protested at intervals. Joanna, sour? Joanna, so charitable and sympathizing? Take comfort, Joanna; the spirit is willing, though the flesh is weak. 

The Ewes was in its normal condition; the parish was in its normalcondition; the excitement of Harry Jardine's return to Whitethorn haddied out; he might shoot, as it was September, or fish still, or farm, or ride, or read as he pleased. He retained his popularity. His fatherhad been a popular man, fully more popular than Mr. Crawfurd of theEwes. Harry was even more approved, for mingling with the world hadsmoothed down in him the intolerance of temper which beset his father. What did Joanna Crawfurd say to such compromising agreeability? Joannawas disarmed in his case; she contradicted herself, as we all do. Shehad the penetration to perceive that many externals went to raise HarryJardine's price in the eyes of the world; externals which had little todo with the individual man, --youth, a good presence, a fair patrimony, freedom from appropriating ties. Strip Harry of these, render himmiddle-aged, time-worn or care-worn, reduce him to poverty, marry him, furnish him with a clamorous circle of connections, land-lock him withchildren! Would the difference not be startling? Would he need to becondemned for the world's favour, then? Joanna trowed not. 

The Crawfurds met Mr. Jardine occasionally, but there was no probabilityof the acquaintance ripening, since Mr. Crawfurd could not call forHarry at Whitethorn, and Harry did not see the necessity of offering hiscompany at the Ewes. Mrs. Jardine had not visited much since the shockof her widowhood, and she only now began to recur to her long-disusedvisiting-list on Harry's account. Though a reasonable woman, it isscarcely requisite to say that she did not propose to renew herfriendship with the family at the Ewes. The blow which rendered herwithout control did not break her spirit, but it pressed out itsbuoyance. Mrs. Jardine was a grave, occupied, resigned woman, no longera blithe one, very fond and proud of Harry, but grateful, not glad inher fondness and pride. 

The frost had come early, strong, and stern on those Highlands of theLowlands, those moors of the south. The "lustre deep" at twilight anddawn, the imperial Tyrian dye at noon, the glorious "orange and purpleand grey" at sunset and sunrise, which, once known and loved, man neverforgets, nor woman either--all would soon be swept away this year, andJoanna regretted it. She liked the flower-garden, but, after all, thegarden was tame to the moor. The moor's seasons were, at best, short--short the golden flush of its June; short the red gleam of itsSeptember. Not that the lowland Moor has not its dead, frosted grace inits winter winding-sheet, and its tender spring charm, when curlewsscream over it incessantly. But Joanna had never seen the autumn soshort as this year; and she had heard them tell, that in the Fall, whenpoor Mr. Jardine was killed, the heather remained bright till November. 

Thinking of that date caused Joanna, when she strolled out on the moorone morning, to go near the scene with its melancholy celebrity. 

It was quite early in the morning, a hail shower lying all around, though the sky was a deep sapphire blue, with the wan ghost of the moonlingering on the horizon, and the atmosphere bitter cold. The breakfastwas late at the Ewes, owing to Mr. Crawfurd's delicate health, andbecause Mrs. Crawfurd had her fancies like Mrs. Primrose. Thus Joannawas frequently abroad before breakfast, and, like most persons ofhealthy organization, was rather tempted to court the stinging air as itblew across the heather, bracing her whole frame, nipping her fingersand toes, and sending blush-roses into her cheeks. 

Joanna was walking along, feeling cheerful, although she was in thatneighbourhood, and vaunting to herself that their moor was infinitelysuperior to a park, when a grey object caught her eye, lying beyondsome whin bushes--a thing raised above the ground, but stretched stilland motionless. Joanna stopped with a strange thrill. No! it was noton that piece of earth; but so must he have lain on that disastrousmorning, far removed from the abundance, and garnered goods, andheartiness of harvest. 

Joanna stood a moment, then reproaching herself with cowardice, egotism, inhumanity, she advanced, her heart fluttering wildly. Yes, it was a manin tweed-coat, trousers, and cap; and stay! was that a gun by his side?Joanna could not go a step further; she closed her eyes to hide theblood which she felt must be oozing and stealing along the ground, orelse congealed among the heather and it was only after she had toldherself how far she was from home, and how long it would be ere shecould run back for assistance, that she opened them and approached thefigure. There was no blood that she could see; the man might not bedead, but stupefied or insensible. Oh, dear! it was Harry Jardine ofWhitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of theheather dinted into his brown cheek. 

It darted into Joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance hadoccurred. She remembered Susan had said, yesterday, that she had met Mr. Jardine going in shooting garb across the moor in the afternoon, and hehad stopped her and asked if she had seen a dog. He had taken out a newdog and lost it, and was vexed at wasting half the morning in thepursuit. She recalled, with a peculiar vividness of perception, thatsomebody had observed, one day lately, that Mr. Jardine was not sostrong as he looked; that he had fever while abroad, just before he camehome, and that his mother was annoyed because he would not take care ofhimself, and complained that he was constantly over-taxing hisunrecovered powers, and subjecting himself to fresh attacks of illness. Joanna remembered, with a pang, that she had laughed at the remark, mentally conjuring up Harry Jardine's athletic, sunburnt comeliness. 

Joanna freed herself more quickly from this phantom than from the last, and, while she did so, called out his name, and stepped to his side, stooping down and even touching him. He was breathing, though he wasvery cold and stiff, and she did not rouse him. Oh, Joanna was verythankful! But what should she do next? Life must be very faint, andfrozen in the muscular, active young man. He had loitered at his sporttill the dusk; he had been bewildered on the moor--strange to him as toa foreigner; he had wandered here and there impatient and weary; butstill more angry with himself than alarmed. He had sat down in theintense chill and dim darkness to recover himself; no way forewarned, "simply because he was on Corncockle Moor, so near home, " on a Septembernight. He had sunk down further and further, until the stealthy foesprang upon him and held him fast--the sleep from which there is sotardy an awakening. 

Joanna dared not leave the faint, vital spark to smoulder down or leapout. The moor was very unfrequented at this hour; at certain periods ofthe day, portions of it, intersected by meandering tracks, were crossedby men labouring in the adjacent fields or quarry; but till then it wasonly the circumstance of alarm being excited on Harry's account, or herprotracted absence giving rise to surmise and search, that could bringthem companions. 

As a forlorn hope Joanna raised her voice and cried for assistance; fearand distress choked the sound, and the freezing air caused it to fall onthe silence with a ringing quaver. She persevered, however, every nowand then varying the appeal, "Papa, Lilias, Sandy, do some of you cometo me; I want you here, for God's sake! here. "

She took his big hands and chafed them between her own little ones; shelifted his head on her lap, her fingers getting entangled in his curlyhair, she prayed for him that he might be restored to them. 

He continued to breathe dully and heavily; his eyes never unclosed; shefelt tempted to raise the lashes, as she would lift up and peep underthe lids of a child. Ah! but she feared to see the balls sightless andglazing over fast. The marked, lively face was placid as if it were setin death, and the slight contraction between the brows, which she hadremarked the first night she saw him, was almost effaced. How dreadfulit would be if he died on her knees there, in the solitude of the moor!The son at the daughter's feet, as his father at her father's. How wouldhis mother bear it? Her father would never survive this mournfulre-writing of the old letters traced in blood. It should be she ratherwho should die; and Joanna in her piety, her goodness, her great lovefor her father, her exquisite kindness for Harry Jardine, did ask God ifHe sought a life, in His justice and mercy, to allow hers to pay forHarry's, to substitute her in some way for Harry; and Joanna wellremembered that prayer afterwards. 

Joanna was beginning to cower and fail in her trial. Suddenly she shookherself up, when she was lapsing into a heap nearly as passive as thatbeside her; a suggestion darted across her brain; she detected in thelittle pocket of her dress a bottle of a strong essence and perfume, which Polly Musgrave had forced upon her the day she left. 

Joanna was quick and clear in following out a notion. With tremblingfingers she poured the hot, stimulating, subtle liquid into her hollowhands, and bathed his forehead. She unloosed his cravat, and sent thewarm stream over his throat and chest, rubbing them with her free hand, while she supported his head on the other arm; and inspired with freshcourage and trust she called anew this time a shrill, echoing call, andHarry Jardine shivered, sobbed, and stretched himself, and slowly openedhis sealed eyes, looking her first vaguely and then wonderingly in theface, and her father's and Lilias's voices rose from opposite sides ofthe heath, near and far in reply. "What is it, Joanna? What has keptyou? What has happened? We missed you; we were getting anxious; we arecoming, coming!"

IV. --MERCY AND NOT SACRIFICE. 

Harry Jardine was taken to the Ewes some hours before his mother, whohad happily been deceived as to his return on the previous night, waseven apprised of his narrow escape. He received the greatest kindnessfrom the Crawfurds, and his mother herself found it incumbent on her towrite a little note to the Ewes, thanking the family for their humanityand benevolence towards her son. It is possible, had Mrs. Jardine beenawakened to her son's danger a little sooner, and before its traces wereentirely blotted out, the expressions in the note might have been a fewshades less general and cold. 

Mr. Crawfurd excused her fully. He would not have expected Harry to comeback to the Ewes, though he rejoiced, from the bottom of his heart, thatJoanna had served the young fellow. How much his poor father would havebeen delighted in him? Mr. Crawfurd rejoiced, although he was toorighteous and humble-minded to say to himself that God was appeased, orthat He had permitted this atonement as a sign in answer to hislife-long penance. 

Harry Jardine represented a different theory; he would be a dolt, abrute, unpardonably vindictive, if he did not cherish all friendlyfeelings to the Crawfurds; if he did not visit them openly and frankly. He did visit at the Ewes, but he found the plainest opportunities readymade for him during one fortnight at Hurlton, to come in contact withJoanna Crawfurd. She had gone there to look after Conny, suborned byMrs. Maxwell, and laid up with a sore throat, and forlorn and wretchedif one of her sisters was not looking after her. 

This intercourse could scarcely fail to have one grand climax. Joanna, the thoughtful, imaginative, true, tender woman--a fair woman besides, with that one little blot which singularly appealed to him with a harshsweet voice--a sufficiently rare woman, to stand quite distinct from hersisters and companions in the light of the practical, active, ardent, honest heart--became the one mistress in the world for Harry Jardine, coveted and craved by him as the best gift of God, without which theothers were comparatively worthless, and for which he could have beenwilling to sacrifice them one and all. Harry himself, in after years, confessed that since the moment he awakened from that leaden drowsinesson the moor, the image of Joanna Crawfurd, tending him as a mother hersick child, was constantly before him. 

Joanna had not precisely the same experience. From the moment that, withthe prescience of a woman where feelings are concerned, she saw the end, she avoided Harry Jardine with all her power. Harry's generousdetermination and daring, his fearlessness, confidence, andsteadfastness overpowered her. 

Mr. Crawfurd was dreadfully upset by Harry Jardine's application to him, his claim for forbearance, his entreaty for grace, and his candidconfession that his mother was violently opposed to his suit. It was acase which could neither be considered nor rejected without remorse. Oh, bitterness, which spread like an infection through so many years, andinto such different relations, and spoilt even the young man'sfairness, good faith, free forgiveness, and the purity and earnestnessof his passion, the pearl of his manhood, which, if lost to him, wouldbe a loss indeed! How Harry implored Mr. Crawfurd to spare it to him, toreflect that it was the greatest benefit which he asked at his hands, topause before he denied it to him solely because he had been theunfortunate means of depriving him of his father!

Harry had agitating scenes with his mother besides; these two had neverbeen placed against each other before, and the contest between them wasneither gracious nor good for either heart. 

"Harry, I am horrified at you; it is a dishonour to your poor father'smemory; it is shocking to think of it; and if you have been so lost toduty as to fall into so unnatural an entanglement, it is surely theleast you owe to both parents to give it up. "

"Mother! I cannot see it as you do; my father fully exonerated Mr. Crawfurd--you have told me so a hundred times. No one, not you, hiswidow, mourned my father as Mr. Crawfurd mourned--nay, mourns him tothis day. "

"Harry, do you wish to see a bloody guest present at your wedding?"

"Mother, that is a baseless, cruel horror. You would not wish me tomaintain a hereditary feud on the principle of my forefathers. I cannottell what the Christian religion teaches if it does not enjoinforgiveness of injuries. "

"I hope I am a Christian, Harry, and I have tried to forgive myenemies, but it is one thing to make every allowance for them andentertain charitable feelings towards them, and another to ally myselfwith them, and constitute them my closest friends. Harry, the wholeneighbourhood would shrink from the idea of what you contemplate. "

"If my principles and my heart said Yes, not the neighbourhood, butthe whole world might cry No, and I would not feel bound to listen tothe clamour. "

"A young man's improper boast, Harry, and since you force me to it, notthe world alone--I tell you nature objects to that girl--that girl ofthem all; how can you look her in the face and think of love?"

"Would you have me think of hate? Since you make the allusion, I declareto you, mother, that mark appeals to you and me in another fashion. Cain's brand! do they call it? And who set the brand, and when, onCain's brow? Sovereign clemency, after the wanderer's punishment wasmore than he could bear, if the reflection of my father's blood wastransmitted to so innocent and noble a proxy, it must have been designedto teach such as you and me New Testament lessons of perfect charity. "

"Harry, I have never been able to look that girl in the face. "

"Mother, I pray never to forget that face, although it remain like anangel's face to me, because it is the fairest example of the human facedivine that I ever hope to behold. "

"Harry Jardine, you are mad, or worse; these are some of the sickeningFrench and German sentimentalities against which I have been warned. There is such a thing as a wholesome sense of repulsion, an honestmanly recoil, a pure instinct of loathing, a thousand times to bepreferred to this morbid mixture of good and evil, friend and foe, lifeand death, this defiance of decency and general opinion. "

"Very true, mother; but there are a thousand exceptional cases, and amillion points of ruthless prejudice. 'An eye for an eye, and a toothfor a tooth, ' sounded very righteous and respectable in the ears of theJews, yet I believe the sentence had its condemnation, and the amendmentwas neither French nor German. "

"Harry, you are profane, and you forget what is due to yourself and me. "

The last saying was a hard one; his mother could be no judge of hisprofanity, but he had been a good son, and it had not been withouta curb upon him that the strong man had accustomed himself to leaveso much of the power and authority of Whitethorn in the wilfulwoman's hands. 

In the library at the Ewes Mr. Crawfurd was addressing Joannavery gently. 

"My dear, I am very sorry it cannot be; of course Mrs. Jardine willnever consent, but it goes to my heart to grieve you. "

"Papa, I cannot help it. "

"And to grieve Harry Jardine. "

"Papa, that is worse; but do not think that anybody--that heblames you. "

"We shall trust, my dear, that he will soon recover thedisappointment. "

"Of course--it is not a great loss. "

"My dear, pray don't smile when it hurts you, for I cannot bear it; itis natural that this should be a heavy cross to you; but setting itaside as unavoidable, is there no respect in which I can lighten it toyou? No indulgence which you could fancy that I could procure for you?No old wish of his Joan's that papa could by an effort gratify? Surely Icannot be so miserable, child. "

"Oh, no, papa! I mean you can please in a great many things; you alwayscould, and you always will. Women are not like men, their natures arenot so concentrated. They have so many tastes and whims, you know; Ipossess them by the score, and I will never cease to relish theirfulfilment so long as you and I keep labouring together, papa. I am notgoing to be a hypocrite, papa. This strange story has vexed me a gooddeal, but I was aware from the first of its unsubstantial character. Istill want money to be charitable on my own account, like Lilias. I've anotion to revive our old greenhouse; I've a longing to see a little ofthe world with you, sir, in spring and summer; I've never beenindifferent to silks and muslins, though I think my chief weakness indress is the very finest of fine chintz prints, ever so dear a yard, papa, which an artist might paint, and more of a Duchess's wear thanvelvet. All these matters are acceptable to me, papa. "

"You are sure that you are my pet and darling. "

"Yes, papa; you have spoilt me. "

Joanna was gone to her own room; there she laid her head on her arm, andasked her heart bitterly, "Have I succeeded in deceiving papa? Can hebelieve for a moment that any poor precious treasure in the wide worldwill make up to me for the want of Harry Jardine; that there is anythingleft me but Heaven instead of Harry Jardine? But then there is papa, dear papa, and I used to be papa's. What will not women do for theirchildren? I always thought I could attain as much for papa. I was proudto prove my love to him, and I will drive out Harry's image for papa'ssake, though I should die in the struggle. "

Harry did not altogether admire this resolution. He was a good fellow, an excellent fellow, and he had the true, ineffable devotion to JoannaCrawfurd; but he was not free from jealousy and irritation, as well assorrow and fear, when he was compelled to part from her for a time, andcontent himself with swearing fidelity on his own account, and seeingher occasionally as an ordinary acquaintance, until their relativepositions should be changed, or his truth fail. 

The common world rolled on its course; the seasons succeeded each other, although even they seemed to culminate in dull, monotonous vanity andvexation of spirit. The frosty wind had swept "that lustre deep fromglen and brae, " and the chill watery mosses alone looked green and freshwhen the snow melted. It was the cold under which Joanna Crawfurdshivered and shrank; at least so she assured every friendly person whoremarked that she was thin, and paler than ever. Mrs. Jardine had lookedher in the face, nay, kept nervously glancing at her when she wasvisible at church, on the loch where the curling match was played, or inthe concert-room at the county town. 

Of course the girl would get over it; yet Joanna bore a suspiciouslikeness to Mrs. Jardine's sister Anne, who did not "get over" such across. Mrs. Jardine remembered well her sister Anne's parting look, andnow, strive as she would, she could not resist the conviction that itwas hovering over Joanna Crawfurd's face. Mrs. Jardine, like the Lairdof the Ewes, could have cried, "Pray do not smile, girl; you do not knowhow you look; we, the initiated, have not stony enough hearts to standthat. " Mrs. Jardine was surprised that Harry could be so foolish as toredden and appear displeased at Joanna Crawfurd's gaiety. 

Mrs. Jardine almost complained against Providence that she was condemnedto punish her only child. Then she could not help speculating whether, if by some unimaginable arrangement of events, she had been thesufferer, and Harry's father had been spared to him, he would havedenied Harry his happiness in the name of her memory, and from a senseof righteous animosity, whether, if she could have looked down purifiedand peaceful from the spirit-world, she would have desired thesacrifice, and whether she would not have pleaded against it for loveand mercy's sake?

The winter was gone, the early spring was at hand, and all around theoutskirts of the moor, like an incense to spring and the Lord of thespring, rose the smoke of the whin burnings which were to clear theground for the sweet young grass, to employ the nibbling teeth ofhundreds on hundreds of sheep and lambs. Joanna Crawfurd had never sosighed for spring, never sat in such passive inertness (highlyprovocative to Lilias), receiving and realizing what it brought to her. 

But the period of listlessness and inaction, life-long to some, wasnearly ended for this pair. With the last snowdrops of the garden inFebruary, and the first glinting gowans of the lea in March, came thenews to the country-side of the bankruptcy of one of the first of thechain of banks, whose defalcations have accomplished more in causingproperty to change hands than the lances of the moss-troopers. The youngLaird of Whitethorn held money in the shape of his father's shares inone of those unlucky banks; and so it fell upon him one morning like aclap of thunder that he was responsible for about as much as the acresof Whitethorn would retrieve, besides the trifling morsel to whet hisappetite in the loss of his loose thousands. Harry Jardine was likely toknow himself as "landless, landless, " as ever a proscribed Macgregor. 

Harry rose to the encounter. "I am sorry for you, mother, and I do notpretend that I shall not regret the old moorland acres; but I shall dovery well, notwithstanding. I'm old to learn a profession; but how manyvolunteers and retired lieutenants had to study and serveapprenticeships after the long wars! I will stick in; I don't mind it onmy own account, and I will be proud to provide for you. I say, mother, don't vex yourself; perhaps it is the best thing that can happen to me. I don't think a fellow gets well seasoned unless he is knocked about atsome time: better late than never. I have been coveting change--anychange and occupation, an engrossing occupation--for the last fewmonths. " He said that to reconcile her to what was an overwhelming blowto her, and his words aroused her with a sharp pang. Had Harry becomeso miserable and sick of his blessings that he was ready to welcome thecold-bath of labour and poverty as a relief to his oppressive languor, and a ground of hope for his fainting mind?

But Harry came in to her with a troubled face, on another day--a mildday--a subtle, penetrating, relaxing day, under whose balmy breath it isdoubly difficult to contend with encircling difficulties, and reject theone clue suddenly vouchsafed to lead us out of the labyrinth. 

"I must tell you, mother, though, of course, it cannot be in thecircumstances--he does not see it--but there is no fatality to bindme to his views. Mr. Crawfurd of the Ewes sent for me this morning, and I went to him immediately; I could not tell what he might haveto say to me. "

"Without consulting your mother, Harry?"

"Yes, mother, " answered Harry, with unconscious sternness, "because itmight have been my own business, entirely my own affair, with which nomortal, not even you, can be entitled to interfere. But it was only tooffer and urge upon me a loan of money to enable me to satisfy thebank's claims, if they come to the worst, and retain Whitethorn, payinghim at my leisure. I assure you that it was delicately done; my father'sghost may rest in peace. I beg your pardon, mother; I did not mean topain you. I am afraid I do speak queerly at times. Well, well; it was akind, confiding, neighbourly action, though I refused it decidedly, fromthe man whose alliance is forbidden to us. I had no resource but torespect myself, as I respected him; and it is no great matter that ithurt me to cut up that gentle, inoffensive old man, endeavouring to showhis rue for having proved, twenty years ago, what my father was to atleast an equal degree, and what I have no assurance that I would nothave found myself, to a far greater extent than either of them--a slaveto a false code of honour. "

Harry sat down, haggard, dispirited, half-desperate. His mother made noreply. All the rest of the day she walked about the house like arestless spirit; half the night she paced up and down her chambersoftly, lest Harry should hear her, and come in again, and begin tocaress her; for she could not endure Harry's kisses now--they were likeJoanna Crawfurd's smiles. 

Was Harry quarrelling with his father's memory? It was a ghastlysacrilege to her; yet might he not arrive at cursing in his heart, evenwhile he was grasping the devil within him by the throat? What had itnot cost him? First, his young love and the cream of his happiness; andnow his paternal acres, and his position among the independent, influential gentlemen of his native county. He might not value the lastin his present fever and rashness, but he would weigh it more justlyhereafter. The moorland inheritance was not of great money purchase, butit had descended to its possessors through long generations. It washallowed by venerable associations. The name and the property togetherwere of some importance in this nook of the south. Harry's father had afamily affection for his _place_, and, doubtless, Harry entertained italso, undeveloped as yet, but to grow and acquire full maturity one day, addressing him at every pensive interval with a vain craving andyearning. And, again, in the confusion and distraction of Mrs. Jardine's feelings, there was her sister Anne haunting her dreams, andreproaching her with having forgotten her; and lastly, one verse in herwell-worn Bible was constantly standing out before her aching eyes inletters of fire, and shining into her rebellious but scared heart, "Iwill have mercy and not sacrifice. "

It is one thing to have been Christians all our lives, drawn along by acurrent, only broken by comparatively trivial, every-day temptations, contests and sacrifices, and another thing to wrestle with a decree thatall at once confronts and contradicts a master-passion, a deeply-foundedverdict, a strongly-rooted opinion whose overthrow will shake the entireframework of our lives. 

Mrs. Jardine descended the stairs the next morning very pale andexhausted, and for the first time (though she was a widow by apeculiarly sorrowful visitation), with a certain wistful air which Harryhad observed in Mr. Crawfurd. It touched him--a fiery, doggedman--extremely, in the one case as in the other. His mother, on theannouncement of his loss, had insisted on undertaking various domesticexaminations with respect to general retrenchment; he had humoured her, under the impression that it diverted her mind, and broke the force ofwhat was a great calamity to her. He believed that she had over-exertedherself, and he commenced to remonstrate in the imperious, reproachful, affectionate tone, which the mother loves in her manly son. 

"Yes, Harry, I have undertaken too much, and therefore I have requestedthe company of two friends, who will be willing to lighten our burden. "

"Strangers in the house at this time, mother?" exclaimed Harry, bewildered. "Well, if you can bring yourself to suggest it, and wish it, I need have no objection. Never mind me, mother. Besides, I shall befrom home. Yes, I do believe it will be a good plan. "

"I thought, Harry, " said Mrs. Jardine, so tremulously that Harry feltquite alarmed for his upright, obdurate mother, "as Mr. Crawfurd hadbeen so friendly in his intentions towards you--the only man who hascome forward with such a proposal and entreaty--isn't he, Harry?--thattwo of the Miss Crawfurds might consent to pay us a visit at last. Ibelieve they would waive all ceremony, and their father would like it. It would show that we were willing, at least, to be reconciled in ourevil day; that we appreciated their magnanimity; that we were not meanas well as malicious, Harry. "

Harry stared, "Mother, " he said slowly, colouring violently, "are youprepared for the consequences of inviting the Miss Crawfurds here, orwhat do you mean?"

"I have counted the cost, Harry; I have written and sent away a note, asking if Miss Joanna and one of her sisters will have so muchconsideration for an old afflicted woman. "

Harry burst away from her, that she might not read the glow which was inhis eyes and searched through his whole being. 

Mrs. Jardine cried a little, as a woman might say, quietly andcomfortably; a strange thing for her, since she was one of those womenwho shed vehement tears or none at all; then she dried her eyes andfolded her hands reverently, saying, "I have a strange sense of calmand of Divine favour this morning. I am sure I am not mystical, but onejogs along the beaten way, and gets stupified, and doubts whether onecan be a Christian or no, there is so little conviction of the fact inwhat divines, from the Bible, call 'the inner man of the spirit;' butwhen we conquer our wills, and obey one of His everlasting decrees, thenwe do feel that we must belong to Him, and we have an assurance of Hispresence, which is a great enough reward without the gratification ofearthly afflictions. Ah! I have had dear old Annie's voice ringing in myears all the morning; and I have heard George Jardine bidding me takecare of Harry, as he always did before he went from home, except thelast day when he dared not face me. "

The Crawfurds came to Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd sent them at once; hewould not listen to a single objection or obstacle, though Lilias andConny were with Polly Musgrave, and it was inconvenient to spare theothers on a moment's warning. Susan could not understand it--why theyshould be bidden to Whitethorn now, when it had been so long debarred tothem; but Susan liked company, even company under a cloud; and she had acuriosity to inspect Whitethorn, into which not one of them had put afoot, except papa and mamma, long ago. Joanna made no demur, though, amonth before, nothing would have induced her to believe that she wouldbe staying with Susie this March at Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd walked withhis daughters to the great gate, and Joanna, looking back, saw him, onhis return, switching the thistle-heads in the hedge, as she had neverwitnessed him attempt in her experience; she could almost fancy he waswhistling, as Harry Jardine went piping along before he fell in lovewith her. 

It was a trial when Harry Jardine was introduced into the Crawfurds'company; but Mrs. Jardine was very hospitable and kind, and Harryrapidly recovered or assumed his usual ease and animation, and Susansoon lost all peculiar consciousness, and Joanna fell back on thewoman's armour, dinted, but not broken, of her self-control. In a fewhours they did wonderfully well together. Susan was delighted with thenovelties of the old-fashioned country-house, and Harry was notparticularly downcast in his misfortunes; he was almost as amusing asever, and invented fun for her as if he had never heard the name ofbank, and, finally, he did not complain of the arrangement, of whichSusan highly approved, that she should be Harry's companion, and Joannashould belong to Mrs. Jardine. Joanna was so sedate, and, although shewas not a business-woman like Lilias (how Susan would boast of theground she had gained when she wrote and amazed Lilias!) she was used toassociating with older people, and could suit herself to their ways andbe handy to them. 

Harry smiled blandly on the partition for three whole days. At theclose of the third day, when Susan and Joanna were brushing their hairtogether, Susan started the proposal that they should return to theEwes whenever Mrs. Jardine's inventories, and settling and sorting ofaccounts, were brought to an end; "because, Joanna, Harry is gettingcross; I am sure of it; he is not half so agreeable as he was thefirst night. I think he is angry because his mother keeps you toherself, and sends me to talk to him and give him music. When I cometo think of it, it is a very senseless plan of hers, and perhaps sheis spiteful though she is so attentive, and I am not frightened at herany longer. She is a quick woman, but as pleasant as possible; but ifyou please, Joanna, you can be shut up with her, and go out with hertill we leave, for I should not care for it very much, and I see nocall for it on my part; and I am certain we had better fix on goinghome again as soon as we can manage it. "

"Very well, Susan; only you speak very fast; I can scarcely followyou. It strikes me you are wrong on one point. I never noticed thatHarry Jardine was tired of being your host, or that he minded who satnext him. "

"Not tired of me exactly, or careless of my enjoyment, because, to besure, Harry Jardine is courting all of us. Nonsense, Joanna, you neednot affect to be sage and precise and unconcerned. I am not so silly, and it is very conceited of you, and I have no patience with you. Ofcourse I was not blind and deaf, and I have not lost my memory. HarryJardine is continually looking after you, whatever his mother persuadesherself. He never notices what I wear, and he remembered ribbons youwore months since. I put on mine, and he looked at it and said, 'That islike one of Joanna's; is it not?' Now I know very well he never callsany of us by our Christian names to other people, and only you to one orother of us, and he does it pointedly, as if to express, 'I mean to beyour brother-in-law one of these days, and I want to keep you in mind ofmy intentions, so I take the liberty. '"

"Why don't you say, 'Mr. Jardine, Joanna does not like a liberty takenwith her name'?"

"I dare say! and have him reply, 'Did Joanna tell me so herself?' Ibelieve he would be only too glad to have you speak to him on anysubject, and I put him into such a fume about your appearance, Jack! Ofcourse, I intended no harm, the words came out somehow. You remember, last night, his showing me an engraving he had bought. 'Tell me some onethat is like, ' he said to me. It was the least in the world like you, orlike your mode of dressing your hair, but it flattered you, as thesechance likenesses always do. 'Is it a little like Joanna?' I askedtrying him; and I continued, 'Our Joanna would be rather a pretty girlif it were not for the blemish;' and there I stopped short, for Irecollected that I should not have mentioned it to him. I wish you hadseen him, how hot and haughty he was, as if you were not my own sister, and as if I had not more business with you than he had yet. 'I wonderhow any one who has any regard for Joanna can term that mark a defect:it is very sacred and beautiful, otherwise Joanna is without spot'--andthere he caught himself and turned away--he was about to add, 'orwrinkle or any such thing, ' and I am afraid it was a quotation from theBible; but I fancy he felt that he was making a fool of himself, andheld his tongue. We ought to speak of going home. "

"Susie, dear, don't be unreasonable; you know what a claim this familyhas upon ours; you know what papa desires. "

"I know nothing except that Harry Jardine wants me out of his way, andyou in his way. It is very disagreeable to me, and a greatresponsibility to me. You are an interested party, you cannot beexpected to see things as you should. "

"Why not? I told you to correct him when he was wrong. But I thought youwere great friends; and poor Mrs. Jardine, Susan, I can be of use to herin her adversity. I can do things for her as I do for--"

"As you do for papa; there is a fine confession!"

Joanna ensconced herself in silence. Susan had provocation, but Joannatook great care next day not to support Harry Jardine in his levity anddiscontent. All the morning she spent with Mrs. Jardine; she pinnedherself to her sleeve until, after luncheon, she was taken by the oldlady into her own room, with its bright fire and shining dogs, itsbroad, easy couch, its table, with the handsome ponderous writing-desk, flanking the handsome heavy dressing-case, and its look-out from thewarmly-curtained windows quite across the moor. 

"What a comfortable room, Mrs. Jardine!" Joanna could not helpexclaiming; "I never saw a more fresh, inspiriting view to my taste, andsuch a stretch of sky, --you may sit and foretell all weathers here. "

"Yes, my dear, and I have foretold all weathers here. I'll talk to you alittle of my nice room, and why I am so sorry to think of leaving it. "

"We hope you will not leave it, " Joanna ventured, timidly. 

"Ah! that rests with others now. But I came here a gay girl; I visitedat Whitethorn before my marriage, Joanna; I dwelt here a thoughtless, happy young wife; and here I kept Harry, not quite so troublesome asnow; and here I lay a heart-stricken widow while they were bringing homethe corpse of my husband, who had left me a vigorous, determined man twohours before. "

"It must have been dreadful! dreadful!" murmured Joanna faintly; butlifting up her face to Mrs. Jardine with the earnest confiding eyes, theblanched cheeks, and that seal on her brow--"Oh, how often papa and Ihave thought of it, and pitied you and ourselves!"

"My dear, it was one of those dispensations of Providence which onenever forgets to the end of a long life. But I was a sinner, I deservedwhat I bore; we all deserve the sorest evil that can afflict us; and, thank God, there is mercy mingled with the greatest misery. I do notspeak often of it, but I can do so to-day; and I find it is a relief totalk to you of our misfortune, because you can sympathize with me; youwere a sufferer in it like myself; it cannot be to many other livingpersons what it is to us two. I have had that brought home to me, mylove. I do not grieve or frighten you, Joanna?"

"No, Mrs. Jardine, I have lamented it all my life. I am very gratefulthat you should let me say that papa was very sorry; they sound verylittle words, Mrs. Jardine, but you understand them, and papa willnever cease to be sorry in this world, and we have only wanted tocomfort you. "

"Poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Jardine absently. "Crawfurd of the Ewes, anaccomplished, pleasant fellow--so broken a man!"

They talked a little longer of the tragedy with composed but strongmutual interest and commiseration; and Mrs. Jardine acknowledged thatsuch pity was not like the world's pity, but was delicate and tender asthe ministry of any Barnabas or son of consolation; and when shefinished, she kissed Joanna on the forehead, and said to herself, "Harrywas right. If this is the sign of George Jardine's blood, it was placedthere to pay her father's debt, and set her apart for us. "

"Now, the sun is shining out, Joanna--'a clear shining afterrain, '--don't you like the Bible words?--I know you do. You must have awalk yet. Why, the violets will be out in another ten days. Hand me mygarden bonnet, and we will have a turn in the garden or shrubbery. I sawHarry and your sister take the way there. My dear, you have the look ofa sister I was very fond of, and I think Mr. Jardine would have admiredyou. Yonder they are, Joanna. I should like that you would send MissCrawfurd to me, and have a stroll with Harry yourself. You will injureyour health, child, if you do not attend more to yourself. And, Joanna, if my son questions you as to what I said to you, for he is a curiousfellow, tell him I have been reading a text for myself this morning, andfor several mornings--'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice. ' Andalthough I am an old woman, I have got it by heart. And bid him show youthe thorn walk. "

Joanna did not like to decline a commission of Mrs. Jardine's, but shecould no more have asked Harry to walk with her than if he had been aduke. However, Harry was loitering and watching them, and came forwardat this moment, and Mrs. Jardine herself appropriated Susan, andtransferred Joanna to Harry. 

"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness to my mother, " saidHarry formally--no Joanna this time, no name at all. "I never saw mymother take so much to any one, " he continued eagerly; "she is naturallya self-reliant, reserved woman; but she has opened up to you?"

"Yes, " answered Joanna softly; "and do you know, she has been talking tome of the past. "

Harry started. "What did she say, Joanna? She could not offend you. Praywhat did she say to you?"

"She did not offend me--far from that--she was very good, and she gaveme a message to you, if you were inquisitive--she had been studying atext, 'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice. '"

"Ah! I am very happy to understand it. "

"It seems easily understood; and she advised us to walk in the thornwalk. Is it near at hand? Shall we have time?"

"We must take time, we cannot disappoint my mother. The thorn walk is afavourite with her all the year round, although it is only in its beautyin the month of May. Shall I explain to you why she has selected itto-day?"

"Yes, if you please. "

"My father lived here, when he was a young man, with his uncle thelaird. They had no near female relative. It was a dull house, as dull anestablishment as my mother and I maintain together. "

"Much duller, I should think. "

"No; for before a certain time he was not sensible of its deficiency; hehad no definite wishes or hopes for an increase to their circle, are-modelling of their housekeeping. My mother was distantly related tohim; she came on a visit to my grand-uncle with an elderly lady, who wasalso a connexion; she was a lively young girl then. My father often toldher afterwards to what an incalculable degree her presence brightenedthe old house and the two forlorn gentlemen; it would have been utterdarkness if she had left them again to their old hazy sunlessness; so myfather took the desperate step of leading her to the thorn walk. It wasthe month of May then, and it was covered with blossoms, sending a whiteshower on their bent heads from a whole line of trysting trees; but, when I think of it, March, which is lightly esteemed, is preferable toMay, for March has all the promise of the year in prospect; and see, ithas cloth of gold and silver to step upon, in the shape of the bright, commonplace, unjustly overlooked crocuses. "

"You have been reading the seedsman's tallies, Mr. Jardine. "

"Never mind; you agree with me?"

"The world and the poets choose May. And you begin to be eccentric andchoose March. "

"My father conducted my mother here; she has told me the circumstances ahundred times, though she is a quiet woman; and she wore such a clothgown as you wear to-day. "

"Mr. Jardine, you are talking nonsense; this is a new stuff, I assureyou it has not been half-a-dozen months out of the looms; and do yousuppose, sir, that I shall wear this dress in the month of May?"

"That comes of confiding those details to men. I always thought it was agown like this one; and he asked her to abide at Whitethorn, and crownhis lairdship and gladden and sweeten his entire future career; and hesucceeded at last in winning her consent. And this is the thorn walk, Joanna, and I am free to re-enact the old passage in two lives, andplead with you not to desert Whitethorn if we are to retain it. I ampoorer by a few thousands since I first made the same prayer to you; butyour father puts no weight on the difference, or, in his raregenerosity, lets it tell in my favour; and I don't think we need breakour hearts about our little loss, if we look to our great gain. Here Ibeg you, as the humblest and most sincere of your petitioners, to putyour life into my life, and cause the united life to bud and blossominto the May of the heart. "

"And November and December would come to that year likewise. "

"Yes, they will; but they will tread hard upon the real new-year, theveritable new year, that will

 "Ring out the false, ring in the true"

of this hoary world. Will you travel to it with me, Joanna? Shall westrive and pray, and help each other to reach it together? Shall webegin it even here? Your father will bestow you solemnly and gladly; mymother will accept you with a blessing. "

Joanna said, "Yes; God bless us, Harry, " reverently; and, reverently, God blessed them. 

Harry was energetic, and Joanna was prudent, and old Mrs. Jardine wasproud of the spirit with which they saved the swamped estate ofWhitethorn even from Mr. Crawfurd's bond; and having helped themselves, they helped others, then and ever afterwards. 

Polly Musgrave applied to them in time. Polly had written on JoannaCrawfurd's marriage a jeering, jibing letter. "So you have gone and doneas I prophesied, after all your wrath on the moor, and preciseness atHurlton. But, first, you were as silly as possible, and wanted to revivethe Middle Ages, which was quite in Don Quixote's tone; you to pine anddie, and he to shoot himself (as violent deaths are hereditary), oraddict himself to loose living and destruction. Then, when he loses hismoney, and in common sense you may both think better of it, shake handsand go your several ways; you make all up, post haste, and come togetherwith a flourish of trumpets, and poverty _will_ come in at the door, andlove fly out at the window. Fie! I am ashamed of you, after all!"

But Polly wrote in a different strain a year or two later:--"DEARCOUSIN JOANNA, --I am not so healthy and heartless as I used to be, and I have been teased with a desire to come to Whitethorn, and perhapsprofit by your carriage in this world, as I never dreamt of once upon atime. But I will say this for myself, I only wrote and crowed over youwhen you were quite able to afford it. I was very glad of yourhappiness, child (as our grandmother wrote, and one of our grandmotherswas the same person! think of that, Harry Jardine!). Is Harry Jardine aspromising as he used to be before you took him in hand; or is thepromise fulfilled in an upright, generous, gladsome (and because of thatlast word you would insist on adding godly) man? He was a man of whom tomake a spoon or spoil a horn, and you were the woman to perform thedelectable feat. "

Polly had found her heart not a very lofty one, not a very sensitiveone--but an honest and kind heart in the main, which was permitted toextricate itself from the slough of luxury and self-indulgence, and beatwarmly and faithfully throughout the rest of its course. 

ON THE STAGE AND OFF THE STAGE. 

I. --THE "BEAR" AT BATH. 

The Place was old Bath, in the days immediately succeeding those ofAlexander Pope and William Hogarth, and dovetailing into those of HoraceWalpole and the Wesleys. 

The Age was one of rackets and reaction from morning till night, andBath was the head-quarters of the first--the scene of the pump-room, theraffle, the public breakfast, the junketing at mid-day, the ball atmidnight, the play, the ridotto. 

The Scene was a private room in the "Bear, " when it was crowded withpeers, bullies, rooks, highwaymen, leaders of fashion, waiting-women, and stage stars. The "Bear" was held by great Mrs. Price, a hostesslarge, shining, portly--a friendly great woman, too magnificent to befussy, or mean, or spiteful. The "Bear" looked out on the Parade, withits throngs of beaux--veritable beaux, with Beau Nash at theirhead--wigged, caned, and snuff-boxed, and belles with trains borne byblack boys, cambric caps and aprons, and abundance of velvet patches. Inand out of its yawning doorway strutted fine gentlemen, chaplains, andwits, while grooms, public and private, swarmed round the house. Itsbroad stairs and low wide corridors, traversed by the more privatecompany, led to sitting rooms of all degrees, panelled with oak or linedwith cedar, with worked worsted wonders in the shape of chairs, andChina monsters by way of ornaments. 

The Person was a handsome woman, attired negligently in what was calleda sacque, with a mob-cap. She sat sipping a dish of tea, as sober womenwill after fatigue or in anticipation of exertion, and making occasionalreference to some shabby, well-worn volumes and printed sheets piled upbeside her. Her attitude was studious, for days when a chapter of theBible, a cookery recipe, a paper by Addison or Dick Steele, or a copy ofverses, included all the knowledge after which the gentler sex aspired;her retirement was remarkable at that gay era, and in that gaddingneighbourhood; and her morning dress, though it would not have offendeda Tabitha Tidy, looked plain among the silvered mazarines and thetippets of pheasants' tails. 

She was a woman of about five-and-twenty; but her beauty, though stillin its prime, showed the wear and tear of years. Had it not been thatits chief power lay in the intellect and goodness which sat on thecapacious but not cloudy brow, and gleamed out of the cordial darkblue eyes, and hovered round the somewhat wide and somewhat lined butnever sensual mouth--you would have said this was a faded queen whomthe world was mad to worship. As it was, she did look faded thisspring afternoon, and occasionally fretted audibly enough as sheturned over the leaves of her volumes, and sighed "heigho!" as shelooked at her repeater--not quite so common an appendage as the littleGeneva story-tellers, though a footpad carried always a goodly supply, and a gentleman's gentleman of very fine prestige would wear a couple, "one in each fob"--and sipped her tea; which, by the way, she drank, not out of one of the diminutive China cups, but out of an oldbattered, but very shining little silver tankard. 

Anon my lady rose and strolled to a back window. She looked across thenoisy, crowded stable-yard into the corner of a garden, where a lilacbush was budding into dusty dim purple and a hoary apple-tree blossomedwhite and pink like a blushing child, away over the green fields to afarmhouse upon a hill, where russet and yellow stacks proved thefarmer's command of ready money, or caution in selling. From just suchanother farmhouse as that on which our bright benevolent woman--even inthe dumps--was gazing wistfully, issued Caroline Inchbald, a beauty, anda generous, virtuous woman under great temptations, a friend and rivalon equal terms with Amelia Opie. 

But hark! an arrival in the next room: fresh guests--country people ofconsequence, for they were ushered in by Mrs. Price herself, whoreceived in person their orders for an incongruous meal, neither dinnernor supper, to recruit them for some gala in which they had the prospectof figuring, to judge from a torrent of exclamations which piercedthrough a convenient cupboard in the partition. 

"Make haste, girls, " in bass tones. 

"Eat away, Fiddy, " in treble, mimicking the bass. 

"Uncle, don't attempt the game-pie. We'll be too late, as sure as ourheads. Didn't you hear Mrs. Price say there was a power of companywanting seats; it would be too bad if we lost the sight after all. "

"What, Prissy, worse than Admiral Byng's defeat, or my spoilt medal?"

"Oh! Uncle Rowland, how can you joke! Now, Fiddy, there's a dearcreature, don't have anything to say to the cream-tart. What althoughwe're as hungry as hawks, if we only get a good view to talk about atthe Vicarage and Larks' Hall. "

"There--Prissy, dear, then I've done. I'll just run and shake our myrtlecrapes and fresh pinch our stomachers. "

"Hold! no such thing, lasses. I'm not to be left here to feed insolitude, and without e'er a portfolio or picture. You little geese, itis two good hours to the exhibition. Are you to be frizzing, andpainting, and lacing, and mincing, and capering for two mortal hours, and your poor country uncle left to spoil his digestion for want ofsomething else to do than eat? Is that your gratitude, when here have Icome against my will to introduce you to the wicked, gay world, andspoil your Arcadian simplicity? Don't make faces, Prissy!"

"Oh! Uncle Rowland; you are making base pretences. "

"Indeed, sir, I think you are as wild to see the wonders as we are. "

But the remonstrance had its effect, for the young ladies evidently satdown again, and, by the clatter of knives and forks, one could judgethey condescended to do some justice to the good things provided fortheir solace, while the conversation went on in more regular order. 

The lady in the Nankin sitting-room had decidedly the advantage in thissituation, as she did not soliloquize in private, and she heard throughthe cupboard and the locked door of communication the chat of herneighbours. They spoke no treason, and they ought to be more prudent ifthey told secrets: it was a real benefit to a lonely wight, a littleirritated in nerve and temper, to be a party to their lively, affectionate, simple intercourse; and, as the truth must be told, thelady in the Nankin sitting-room crossed her hands with a motion ofindolent interest and turned her head with an air of listless pleasure, nodding and beating her foot lightly on the floor now and then, ininterjection and commentary. She could figure the group perfectly. Tworosy little girls brought into the town for a day and a night's shoppingand gadding, as they would call it, under the escort of an indulgentuncle: a bachelor probably, else madam, his wife, would have been thereto keep them in order; and not so very elderly, for the good man was ofwhat is styled a sprightly turn, and though his nieces submitted to hisauthority, there was a decidedly modified amount of reverence in the wayin which they insisted, "You must comb out your curls, Uncle Rowland. "

"And I'll tie your cravat for you, sir, and make you quite smart. We arenot to appear abroad with a country bumpkin or a fright of a student, are we, Prissy?"

And mutual jokes were bandied pretty freely. 

"Now, Prissy, are we to see the famous Traveller?"

"No, sir, it is to be the Virtuoso, with the mock copper coins. "

"Bronze, child, bronze. "

"We're to have nobody in particular, only Lady Betty, " chimed in themore girlish voice. "The company, the other gentlefolks, will be quitesufficient besides. "

"And Fiddy will scream when the blunderbusses are fired. Shall wetake the precaution of putting cotton in her ears beforehand?"derided the man. 

Then the single lady fixed further, that Prissy (Mistress Priscilla, doubtless, in company down in Somersetshire) was the cleverest and mostforward, and that Fiddy (Mistress Fidelia) was the shyest and, perhaps, the prettiest, for she was clearly Uncle Rowland's favourite. But then, for all her rosy cheeks, poor child! she was delicate, since there was aconstant cry from the conductor of the party, "Fiddy, you vain doll, remember your mantle; Madam is not here to wrap you up, nor Granny. "

"Oh, sir! we've lots of scarfs and shawls, all for Fiddy; and she is totie on her Iris hood against the draughts. "

"What! one of the poppies and bluebells that Will Honeycomb admired?She'll beat you, Prissy, out and out. I would sicken and bear hercompany. "

"I wonder to hear you, sir. I can tell you, Granny would not coddle meso. Granny is always preaching of hardening weakness. "

"Ah, the old mother is no milksop!"

There, was she not right? Had she not full hints of the history of theVicarage and madam its mistress, the mother of these two littlegirls; and of the parish priest her husband, their father--the youngerbrother of the tolerably educated squire yonder, with his Larks' Hall;and of Granny, who kept house there still for her elder son, where shehad once reigned queen paramount in the hearty days of her homelygoodman. It was a scroll fairly unfolded, and perfectly legible to theexperienced woman. 

"Uncle Rowland, " prefaced the soft voice, more quietly, "do you reallythink the gay world of the town so much more vicious than the soberworld of the country?"

"Why, no, my dear, " answered the manly voice, now graver, and with alittle sadness in its ring, "ignorance is not innocence, and depravityis vastly more general than any mode. Nevertheless, there are customs ofwhich I would greatly prefer Prissy and Fiddy to remain unaware, liketheir mother before them. "

"But Granny lived in the great world, and there is not one of us likeGranny. "

"The risk is too great, child; the fire is wondrous strong, though thepure gold be sometimes refined in the process--as your father wouldpreach. "

"And, sir, this Mistress Lumley, or Lady Betty, as they called herdownstairs, is as virtuous as she is clever. "

"You may depend upon that, Miss, or you had not come to Bath to see herplay. They term the poor soul Lady Betty because she has turned on herheel from the worthless London sparks, and taught them to keep theirdistance. "

"Uncle Rowland, I don't think you heartily sympathize with charming LadyBetty. "

"Tut! child, I have not seen her. You would not have me captivated ere Iever set eyes on my enslaver? But, to speak honestly, little Fiddy, Iown I have no great leaning to actresses and authoresses. There areperils enough in a woman's natural course, without her challenging theextremes of a fictitious career. More than that, Fiddy, I have not muchfaith in the passion that is ranted to the public; even if it werealways a creditable passion. Those who are sorely hurt don't bawl, child: deep streams are still. "

"I will play to him, " the lady of the Nankin sitting-room says toherself, her lips parting with a slight smile, and her colour rising atthe same time. Your true woman is easily pained, and, the more fullyfurnished, the more finely skilled, she is all the more susceptible toblame as to praise, and so on that account the less qualified for publiclife. There was many a strong enough argument against the stage and thedesk which Master Rowland might have used instead of his weak one. 

Lady Betty, in that bubbling, frothing, steaming London--Mistress Lumleyin the provinces--was a young actress of great repute and goodcharacter, who had compelled success, like Mrs. Siddons after her, andreigned for several seasons, and still her fame was paramount and herrespectability unquestioned. In those very dissipated days of Queen Anneand the early Georges, the broad prejudices which darken the stage werelight in tint and slender in force. The great world was tumultuous, giddy, reckless, with innumerable victims falling suddenly into itsyawning chasms, like the figures from the bridge in Mirza's vision; andthe theatre was not a more exposed sphere than many another, and thatmade all the difference in the world. Very few save the strictestMethodists condemned it, when Henry Brooke wrote for it, and Dr. Johnsonstood with his hands behind his back in the green room. 

Mrs. Betty Lumley, tall, comely, high-principled, warm-hearted, andingenuous, was come of yeomen ancestors. She did not see a play in abarn and run away after the drama, like Caroline Inchbald; but on thedeath of her father and mother, she went up with an elder sister andyoung brother to London to seek for an employment and a livelihood. Encountering some person of dramatic pursuits--manager, stage-painter, ticket-taker, or the like, or the wife of one or other--she wasrecommended to the stage. She was supported in the idea by all herconnections, for then no one questioned the perfect respectability ofthe profession. She studied hard in new, though not uncongenial fields;she ventured; she tried again and again, with the "modest butindomitable pluck" of genius, and she at last won a position and aprospect of independence. In all this nobody blamed her; on thecontrary, the magnates of the hour--kings, councillors, bishops--awardedher great credit for her parts, her industry, her integrity, her honour. 

Not a lady of quality in London was more respected and admired, rightlyor wrongly, than Mistress Betty. At the same time it is possible that, having reached the goal, could she have turned back and begun her walkanew, she would have hesitated before following this thorny path. It wasa thorny path, for all its applause and success; nay, on account ofthem; even with a good woman like Mistress Betty it required all hersincerity, her sobriety, and, according to the prevailing standard, herreligion, to deliver her from imminent danger. Moreover, with theattainment of the object, had come the bitter drops which qualified thecup. Her plain, fond, innocent sister was in her grave; and so withinthe two last years was the young brother, for whom her interest hadprocured a post of some importance in the Colonies, whence he bequeathedto Mistress Betty, his dear distinguished sister, his little savings. She struggled to be resigned, and was not only weary, but tempted tograsp at material rewards. This was the turning-point of her life. Shewould be virtuous to the last. Her honest, clear character revolted atvice; but she might harden, grow greedy of power, become imperious andarrogant. For, remember, I do not say that Mistress Betty had contractedno contamination. No, no; she had suffered from her selfish fits, hervain fits, her malicious fits--she had experienced her hours of boldnessand levity--she had made her own way to eminence--she had struggled withunscrupulous rivals--she had heard much which we would have wished hernot to have heard--she had been a member of that wild, ultra-fine, coarse, scandalous society: but as we find saints in strange companysometimes, so the cordial, faithful, generous woman remained with only aslight coating of affectation and worldliness, thirst for praise, desireafter excitement, habit of command. 

"I'll play to this horrid country Justice, " whispers Mistress Betty, quite roused, and looking animated and brilliant already. "I hear by thegentleness of his voice, when he speaks of the sins and sorrows ofmankind, and when he addresses his little girl, that the fellow has aheart; but he gave me no quarter, and he shall receive none in return. I'll conquer him. To come within sight and sound of the boards with hismuddy boots and his snarls, spoiling the enjoyment of the lasses!"

Very true, Mistress Betty, it was neither very wise nor very gallant;but you ought to remember that the most loyal prejudices are sometimesas loyally abandoned. 

II. --LADY BETTY ON THE STAGE. 

The principal theatre of the queen of watering-places in her palmy dayswas filling fast, as it had done for the last two nights. Otherattractions lost their power. Ombre, basset, hazard, lansquenet, loo, spread their cards and counters in vain for crafty or foolhardy fingers. The master of the ceremonies found his services at a discount; no troopsof maidens, no hosts of squires, answered to his appeal; no double setswere forming to the inspiring strains of "Nancy Dawson. " The worthy, charming, gifted Lady Betty had come down for three nights to improve, entertain, and enrapture, and this being her last night the theatreconstituted the only orbit in which the planets would revolve. 

The world was here in full-blown variety; sublime, languid peers, needyplacemen, hilarious foxhunters, brave tradesmen, aspiring mechanics, poor good-for-nothings; sober housewives, whose thoughts were still oftheir husbands' shirt-fronts and their hasty-puddings, and who neverdreamt that they were impugning their sobriety by attending a play; andabove all, fine ladies armed with their fans and their essences. As awhole, the audience was in a vastly respectful attitude--the gentlementapping their snuff-boxes meditatively, and desisting in a great measurefrom their loud laughter, their bets, their cursing and swearing; theladies only whispering behind their handkerchiefs, and moving to causetheir diamonds to sparkle, all in acknowledgment of the vicinity of thefair and potent Lady Betty. 

The play was _Venice Preserved_, and Lady Betty entered in an earlyscene. Truly a fine woman--not so lovely as Anne Oldfield, not so superbas Sarah Siddons; but with a frank, fair, womanly presence--bright, genial, quick, passionate through the distress of Belvidera, therepudiated daughter and beggared wife. 

Dressed in the English fashion under the Georges, walked the maidenreared in the air blowing off the lagoons within the shadow of the grimlion of St. Mark, to such sentimental accompaniments as the dipping oarand the gondolier, and finished off with the peculiar whims of BettyLumley. She wore a fair, flowered brocade, for which William Hogarthmight have designed the pattern and afterwards prosecuted for paymentthe unconscionable weaver; a snow-white lace kerchief was crossed overher bosom and reached even to her shapely chin, where it met the littleblack velvet collar with its pearl sprig; her brown hair (which hadshown rather thin, rolled up beneath her mob-cap) was shaken out andgathered in rich bows with other pearl sprigs on the top of her head;her cheeks showed slightly hollow, but were so fresh, so modest, socool in their unpainted paleness, and on the smallest provocationacquired the purest sea-shell pink which it would have been a sin and ashame to eclipse with staring paint; the contour, a little sharper thanit had once been, was only rendered more delicate by the defect, and sosweet yet--so very sweet; her beautiful arms were bare to the elbow, butshaded with falls of cobweb lace; and in one hand, poised daintilybetween two fingers, she held a natural flower, a bunch of common ruralcowslips. At this period of the year such an appendage under any othertouch would have been formal as the Miss Flamborough's oranges, but itwas graceful in this woman's slight clasp. 

"Enchanting creature!" "Fine woman!" "Otway's devoted wife to the life!"murmured the company, in a flutter of genuine admiration--forgettingthemselves, these Sir Plumes and Belindas, once in a way. 

"I do hope the poor soul will not be deserted and undone--she's soeasy to serve--and all Bath, and, for that matter, Lon'on too, as Ibelieve, at her feet!" says Mrs. Price, emphatically, to youngMedlicot, whom she is patronizing for one night, because he knowssomewhat of plays and players; and who, in spite of his allegiance toswimming, simpering Clarissa, would give a fortune to paint that pose. Belvidera need fear no lolling, no sneering, no snapping at her littlepeculiarities this night. 

As she came on, "kind, good, and tender, " telling poor distracted, misguided Jaffier, in his humiliation, that she joyed more in him thandid his mother, Lady Betty darted a sharp, searching glance through theboxes. Ah! yonder they were! The little girls the parson's daughters, with their uncle the squire, fault-finding, but honourable. Tworound-faced, eager, happy girls, intent upon the play, and the greatLondon star, beautiful, bewitching Lady Betty, who is now looking atthem--yes, actually staring them full in the face with her deep, melting, blue eyes, while she reassures her cowardly husband. How dareduncle Rowland disparage her?

There was uncle Rowland, younger than Lady Betty had taken him for--notmore than five-and-forty--his coat trimmed with silver lace, a littleold-fashioned, and even a little shabby in such company, his Mechlin tierather out of date and already disordered, and his cocked-hat crushedbelow his arm. His face is bluff and ruddy among his pinched and sallowbrethren: that of a big English gentleman, who hunted, shot, or fished, or walked after his whistling ploughman every morning, and on occasionsdaringly dashed in amongst the poachers by the palings of his park orpaddock on summer evenings; yet whose hands were reasonably white andflexible, as if they handled other things than guns and fishing-rods, and whose eyes, at once clear and meditative, had studied more than thespire of his brother's church and the village street, more than quietcountry towns, and loud watering-places, and deep metropolises. 

Master Rowland had no family ties beyond the Vicarage; and was in nohurry to marry or settle, as the phrase went; though he was settled longago, and might have married once a year without any impediment from oldmadam, as Mistress Betty would have been swift to suppose. He perfectlyapproved of Mr. Spectator's standard of virtue--"Miss Liddy can dance ajig, raise a pasty, write a good hand, keep an account, give areasonable answer, and do as she is bid;" but then, it only made himyawn. The man was sinking down into an active-bodied, half-learned, half-facetious bachelor. He was mentally cropping dry and solid foodcontentedly, and, at the same time, he was a bit of a humourist. Heloved his little Prissy and Fiddy, as dear god-daughters, whom he hadspoilt as children, and whom he was determined to present with portionswhen he presided at their wedding dinners; but he had no mind to takeany of their fellows, for better for worse, as his companion, till deathdid them part. 

Then Lady Betty stepped upon the stage at Bath, and before a multitudeof frivolous and simple, or gross and depraved spectators, incapableof comprehending her, she played to the manly, modestly intellectualsquire. 

Master Rowland woke up, looked his fill, as open-mouthed as the rest, and while he did so, his system received a shock. Lady Betty wasrevenged to an extent she had not foreseen. 

The noble woman went with her whole soul into the sorrows of thedark-eyed, brown-faced sister whom Titian might have painted, and madethem accord with her fair English love of justice, her blue-eyeddevotion to her husband, her Saxon fearlessness and faith in the hour ofdanger: only she did look strange and foreign when, in place of lyingprostrate in submission and rising in chaste, meek patience to rear herorphan son, she writhed, like a Constance in agony, and died morespeedily from her despair than Jaffier by the dagger which on thescaffold freed Pierre. The assembly rose in whole rows, and sobbed andswooned. Mrs. Prissy and Mrs. Fiddy cried in delicious abandonment;Master Rowland sat motionless. 

"I declare I had forgotten the Justice, " reflects Lady Betty, restingbehind the scenes. "I do believe I am that poor Belvidera for the lasthalf-hour. I meant to bring the man to tears. His blooming face was aswhite as a sheet;--poor, dear, good man, I hope he's none the worse ofit. "

Master Rowland knows full well that she is Mistress Betty Lumley thegreat London actress, not Belvidera the Venetian senator's daughter; buthe will never again turn from the chill of his stone-arched hall, wherehis fingers have grown benumbed riveting a piece of armour or copying anepitaph or an epigram, or linger under his mighty oak-tree, or advisewith his poor tenants, or worship in church, without the sickening senseof a dull blank in his heart and home. 

III. --MISTRESS BETTY BECOMES NURSE. 

Bath was sleeping as soundly as if it had been a quaker town: any soundsof riot were scattered and subdued. The dowager did not count her gainsas she clutched them, while borne along the street by the glare of thedropping flambeaux. Her son, who, like the young Duke of Marlborough andhis brother peer, carried no meaner change than golden guineas, did notclink them as he tossed them to the chairmen fighting for the prize. The "Bear" was reasonably still for a great public-house with twos andthrees of travellers departing at all hours, as waiters and ostlersstirred on their behalf, horses trotted out from adjoining stables, andcircles of chariots suffered displacement--all in addition to thedistinct and fervent sensation of the night coach. 

Suddenly a noise and a flurry arose in the grey light and its generalrepose. Accents of terror and anxiety are heard, and a movement of pityand distress arises and grows in the establishment. A young girl isattacked by violent illness--a life in its spring-time is threatenedwith sudden extinction; friends at hand are seeking remedies andbewailing the calamity--friends at a distance, all unconscious, arementioned with subdued voices and averted eyes. 

Mrs. Price was wiping her eyes and carrying up restoratives with her ownhands. "'Twas Mistress Fiddy, whom she had known from a child; the nieceof Master Rowland, who had always supported the house; and madam, hermother, away at the Vicarage, and the dear child, so good and quiet. "

"I will come, my good Mrs. Price. My sister had these fainting fits; I'mused to them. I'll revive the child: the poor child, I am sure she'llnot be offended at the liberty. Pooh! I can sit up as well as sleepafter playing. Dear! dear! Many a night I was happy to sit up with Deb, "pleaded an urgent, benevolent voice, waxing plaintive towards theconclusion of the speech. 

"Indeed you are too gracious, my lady--I mean madam, " protested theperplexed, overwhelmed Mrs. Price; "but I dare not venture withoutMaster Rowland's consent: he will do everything himself, issue hisorders even, although Dr. Fulford's been upstairs lending his advicethese ten minutes. "

"A fudge for doctors when there's a helpful woman at hand, Mrs. Price?Convey my message to the squire; inform him that I've hadexperience--mind, experience--and am a full-grown, reasonable woman, andnot a fine lady. I know the poor little sister will be shaking like aleaf, and frightening the darling; and you are stiff in the jointsyourself, Mrs. Price, and a little overcome. I'm just the person, so letme in!"

Master Rowland, without his coat (for though he had an orderly turn ofhis own, he was not a methodical enough man to travel with a gown andslippers in his valise), was labouring to recover his niece; MistressPrissy, with her cloak huddled round her, was making magnanimousefforts to aid her uncle; while the poor little sufferer--guileless, affectionate Mistress Fiddy--lay pale, faint, and chill, with lifeflickering beneath her half-closed eyelids and in the gushes of herfitful breath. Master Rowland's trouble rendered him outwardly coldand hard, as it does some men; yet Mistress Fiddy's closing eyesturned trustfully to him, and her weak fingers clung tightly to hisstrong hand. 

"No, no; the fewer onlookers the better. What would a stranger do here, Mrs. Price?" he inquired angrily, remembering, with a pang, that certainnew, unaccountable, engrossing emotions had quite banished Fiddy fromhis thoughts and notice, when he might have detected the signs ofapproaching illness, met them and vanquished them before their climax. 

"Bid him speak a word with me, Mrs. Price, a gentleman cannot refuse. Ihave reasons which will excuse my importunity, " reiterated thatsympathetic voice. 

He walked out doggedly, and never once lifted his eyes. "Madam, I amyour servant; but we do not need your help: my niece would be scared bythe presence of a stranger. Reserve your charity----" "for the poor" hewas about to add; but she put her frank hand upon his arm, and said, "Your worship, I believe I could nurse the young lady better thananybody: I have seen my dear sister afflicted, as I judge similarly. Donot stand on ceremony, sir, and deprive a poor girl of a benefit whichProvidence has sent her, if you would not regret it. I beg your pardon, but do let me succour her. "

He looked up. There she stood in her white wrapping-gown and cap, readyprepared for her patient; so appropriate-looking in dress and face, withher broad forehead full of thought, and her cheek flushed with feeling;an able tender woman in her prime, endeavouring to do Christian offices, longing to pour balm into gaping, smarting wounds, imploring to beallowed to fulfil her mission. He bowed, and stood aside; she curtsied, and passed in. He heard her voice the next moment, low, but perfectlyaudible, cheerful and pleasant, addressing Mistress Prissy. "My dearmadam, your uncle has permitted me to count myself a mature friend, likemadam your mother; and after this introduction you will excuse me fortaking care of you. Doctor, what drops do you favour? You have themthere; if you please, I'll offer them: I've administered them before. "She spoke to the doctor very courteously; perhaps remarking that he wasyoung and somewhat agitated. "Mayn't I chafe Mistress Fiddy's hands, doctor? You're better, my dear?"

Mistress Fiddy's head was on her arm; her eyes were raised to hernurse's face wonderingly but complacently, and, though quite conscious, Mistress Fiddy involuntarily sighed out "mother. " Very motherly was theelder woman's assurance: "Yes, my dear, I'll serve as madam your motherin her absence, till madam herself comes; and she'll laugh at ourconfusion and clumsiness, I warrant. "

Mistress Fiddy smiled a little smile herself. Nature was reacting in itsown redemption; the necessary stimulus was obtained, and the little lasswas in a fair way of recovery. 

But Mistress Betty did not leave off her cares; she elected herselfmistress of the sick room--for she reigned there as everywhere else. She dismissed shivering, tearful, grateful Prissy with a hug, and awhispered promise that her dear sister Fiddy would be as lively as agrig in the morning; got rid of the doctor and Mrs. Price, and allbut routed Master Rowland, succeeding in driving him as far as thenext room. 

How light her foot was--light as her fingers were nimble; how cleverlyshe shaded the sick girl from the light, without depriving her of air!How resigned Fiddy was to be consigned to her! how quickly and entirelythe child had confided in her; she had hailed her as another mother!Mistress Betty was putting the chamber to rights, in defiance of allthe chamber-maids of the "Bear;" she was concocting some refreshingdrink, for which Mrs. Price had supplied the materials, over the fire, which she had ordered in case of mould and damp, even in thewell-seasoned "Bear. " Once she began to sing softly what might have beena cradle-song, but stopped short, as if fearing to disturb Fiddy, andcomposed herself to perfect stillness. Then Master Rowland heardMistress Fiddy question Mistress Betty in her weak, timid voice, onFiddy's own concerns. "You said you had seen these fits before, madam?May I be so bold as to ask, did the sufferer recover?"

There was a moment's silence. "It was my sister, Fiddy: she was mucholder than I. She had a complication of diseases, besides being liableto swoons all her life. My dear, she died, as we must all die when ourtime comes; and may we all be as well prepared as was Deb! In themeantime we are in God's hands. I have been taken with fainting fitsmyself, Fiddy, ere now. I think they are in my constitution, but theyare not called out yet, and I believe they will be kept under; as, Ifully trust, country air, and exercise, and early hours, will conqueryours. "

"And you will take great care of yourself, and go into the countrysometimes, dear Mistress Betty, " pleaded the girl fondly, forgettingherself. 

Mistress Betty laughed, and turned the conversation, and finally readher patient to sleep with the Morning Lesson, given softly andreverently, as good Bishop Ken himself might have done it. 

The poor squire was a discomfited, disordered Sir Roger. He could notcope with this fine woman; and then it came home to him imperativelythat he was precisely in that haggard, unbecoming state of looks andcostume significantly expressed in those days by the powder being out ofa man's hair and his frills rumpled. So he absented himself for an hour, and returned freshened by a plunge in the river and a puff in his wig. But, alas! he found that Mistress Betty, without quitting MistressFiddy's bedchamber, and by the mere sleight of hand of tying on a workedapron with vine clusters and leaves and tendrils all in purple and greenfloss silks, pinning a pink bow under her mob-cap, and sticking in herbosom a bunch of dewy ponceau polyanthuses, had beat him mostcompletely. 

Mistress Fiddy was, as Mistress Betty had predicted, so farre-established that she could breakfast with the party and talk ofriding home later in the day; though wan yet, like one of those roseswith a faint colour and a fleeting odour in their earliest bud. AndMistress Betty breakfasted with the Parnells, and was such company asthe little girls had never encountered before; nor, for that matter, their uncle before them, though he kept his discovery a profound secret. It was not so pleasant in one sense, and yet in another it made him feellike a king. 

This was Mistress Betty's last day in Bath, and she was to travel up toTown in the train of my Lord and Lady Salop, by easy stages and longhalts; otherwise she must have hired servants, or carried pistols, andbeen prepared to use them, in the mail. Fortunately the Salops' chariotsand gigs did not start till the afternoon, so that Mistress Betty hadthe morning to spend with her new friends, and she was delighted tobestow it on them; though my Lord and Lady and their satellites wereperpetually sending lacqueys with compliments, conveniences, and littleofferings to court Mistress Betty, --the star in the plenitude of herlustre, who might emulate Polly Peacham, and be led to the altar byanother enslaved Duke of Bolton. 

How pleasant Mistress Betty was with the girls! Upon the whole, sheslighted "the Justice, " as she had dubbed him. She saw with her quickeyes that he was something superior; but then she saw many men quite aswell-looking, well-endowed, well-mannered, and with as fair intellects, and more highly cultivated than he. 

But she did not often find a pair of unsophisticated little girls won toher by her frankness and kindness, and dazzled by her goodness andgreatness. How she awoke Fiddy's laugh with the Chit-Chat Club and theSilence Stakes. What harmless, diverting stories she told them of highlife--how she had danced at Ranelagh, sailed upon the Thames, eaten herbun at Chelsea, mounted one of the eight hundred favours which cost aguinea a piece when Lady Die became a countess, and called upon LadyPetersham, in her deepest mourning, when she sat in her state-bedenveloped in crape, with her children and grandchildren in a row at herfeet! And then she told that she was born in a farmhouse like that onthe hill, and would like to know if they roasted groats and played atshovelboard there still; and ended by showing them her little silvertankard, which her godfather the jolly miller had given her, and out ofwhich her elder sister, who had never taken kindly to tea, had drunkher ale and her aniseed water. And Fiddy and Prissy had each a draughtof milk out of it, to boast of for the rest of their lives, as if theyhad sipped caudle out of the caudle-cup at a royal heir's christening. 

Mistress Betty made the girls talk, too, --of their garden, the oldparish clerk, the housekeeper at Larks' Hall, granny, madam, the vicar, and, to his face, of Uncle Rowland, his horses and colts, his cows andcalves, his pictures and cabinets. They spoke also of Foxholes, of Lettyand Grizel, of Sedley and Bearwood, and Dick Ashbridge--at whose namePrissy laughed saucily, and Fiddy bit her lips and frowned as fiercelyas she was able. With what penetration Mistress Betty read theirconnections, and how blithely and tenderly she commented upon them!

Mistress Betty promised to send her young friends sets of silk for theirembroidery (and kept her word); she presented Prissy with her enamelsnuff-box, bearing an exact representation of that ugly building of St. James's; and Fiddy with her "equipage"--scissors, tablets, and all, chased and wreathed with tiny pastorals, shepherds reclining and pipingon sylvan banks, and shepherds and shepherdesses dancing on velvetlawns. 

Mistress Betty kissed the girls at parting, and wished them health, peace, and good husbands; she held out her hand to Master Rowland, whotook it with a crimson cheek, and raised it to his lips: pshaw! shenever once looked at him. 

The poor bachelor squire drove off, but for his manhood, groaninginwardly. Lady Betty had acted, and caught not only her share of MasterRowland's ticket, to which she was fairly entitled, but the cream of hisfancy and the core of his heart; with which she had no manner ofbusiness, any more than with the State Papers and the Coronation-jewels. 

IV. --MASTER ROWLAND GOES UP TO LONDON. 

In the green-room of one of the great London theatres--David Garrick's, perhaps--the stage company and their friends were waiting the call-boyand the rising of the curtain. 

As strange boards as any--as broad contrasts. Here a king, with hiscrown cast down; there a beggar, with his wallet laid aside. But kingsand beggars are not affording the glaring discrepancies of Hogarth's"Olympus in a Barn, " but suggesting and preserving the distinctions farbelow the buskins, the breastplate, the sandals, the symars. Here areheroes, with the heroism only skin deep; and peers, like their Graces ofBolton and Wharton, with less of the lofty, self-denying graces and theancient chivalry, than the most grovelling of ploughmen. 

Among the crowd, Lady Betty is biding her time, very _nonchalant_, and alittle solitary in her state. Ladies who are independent, exclusive, andinflexible, however admired and respected, are generally left to enjoytheir own opinions unmolested and at their leisure, whether behind thestage curtain or elsewhere. 

Just then a country gentleman, whose murrey coat has a certain countrycut, while his complexion breathes of hay-fields and hedge sides, isintroduced, gazes round, and steps up to her. Mistress Betty cries out, "La!"--an exclamation not a whit vulgar in her day--"the Justice!" Andshe holds forth both her hands. "How are dear Mistress Prissy andMistress Fiddy? Have you come up to town for any time, sir? I wishprosperity to your business. "

He has not held such kind, unaffected, friendly hands since they parted;he has only once before held a hand that could have led a Jaffier toconfess his conspiracy--that could have clung to a crushed man, andstriven to raise him when calamity, like a whirlwind, cast him down. 

The squire is sensibly moved, and Mistress Betty vindicates herwomanliness by jumping at a conclusion and settling in her own mind thathis brain is addled with this great London--its politicians, itsmohawks, its beggars in Axe Lane, its rich tradesmen in CranbourneAlley, its people of quality, fashion, and taste in their villas atTwickenham. 

He asks if she is on in Belvidera, and when he hears that it is anotheractress's benefit, and that she has only consented to appear in asecondary part in a comedy of Sir John's, who is now a greatcastle-builder, he does not trouble himself to enter a box; at which sheis half flattered, half perplexed. He waits, hot and excited, until hershort service is over. He will not call upon her at her lodgings, because, in his delicacy, he has so keen a remembrance of her exposedposition. 

In the corner behind the curtain, bounded by the refreshment table, andfilled with the prompter's monotonous drawl, --far, far from his barleyripe for the mowing, his boxwood peacocks, his greyhaired Hal and hisbuxom milkmaids; far from old madam, the pedantic, formal vicar, youngmadam, brisk, hot, and genial, and his old charmers Prissy andFiddy, --the squire told his tale of true love. The man threw down thecosts and besought Mistress Betty Lumley, Lady Betty, to renounce thestage, forsake fame, quit studies, rehearsals, opening-nights, andconcluding curtsies amidst the cheers of thousands, to go down with himto rural Larks' Hall, to grow younger, happier, and better every day, and die like Lady Loudon in her hundredth year, universallyregretted, --above all, to fill up the gulf which had yawned in themarket-place of his existence since that night at Bath. 

It was a primitive proceeding. Lady Betty was amazed at the man'sassurance, simplicity, and loyalty. He spoke plainly--almostbluntly--but very forcibly. It was no slight or passing passion whichhad brought the squire, a gentleman of a score and more of honourabledescents, to seek such an audience-chamber to sue a pasteboard queen. Itwas no weak love which had dislodged him from his old resting-place, andpitched him to this dreary distance. 

Mistress Betty was taken "all in a heap;" she had heard many alove-tale, but never one with so manly a note. Shrewd, sensitiveMistress Betty was bewildered and confounded, and in her hurry shemade a capital blunder. She dismissed him summarily, saw how white hegrew, and heard how he stopped to ask if there were no possiblealternative, no period of probation to endure, no achievement to beperformed by him. She waved him off the faster because she becameaffrighted at his humility; and got away in her chair, and wrung herhands, and wept all night in the long summer twilight, and satpensive and sick for many days. 

In time, Mistress Betty resumed her profession; but she was unusuallylanguid: she played to disappointed houses, and cherished always, withmore romance, the shade of the brave, trustful, Somersetshire squire andantiquary. Suddenly she adopted the resolution of retiring from thestage in the summer of her popularity, and living on her savings and herpoor young brother's bequest. Her tastes were simple; why should shetoil to provide herself with luxuries? She had no one now for whose oldage she could furnish ease, or for the aims and accidents of whoserising station she need lay by welcome stores; she had not even a nephewor niece to tease her. She would not wear out the talents a generous manhad admired on a mass of knaves and villains, coxcombs and butterflies;she would not expose her poor mind and heart to further deterioration. She would fly from the danger; she would retire, and board with hercousin Ward, and help her with a little addition to her limited income, and a spare hand in her small family; and she would jog-trot onwards forthe rest of her life, so that when she came to die, Mistress Prissy andMistress Fiddy would have no cause to be ashamed that so inoffensive, inconspicuous, respectable a person had once been asked to stand to themin the dignified relation of aunt. The public vehemently combated Mrs. Betty's verdict, in vain; they were forced to lament during twice ninedays their vanished favourite, who had levanted so unceremoniouslybeyond the reach of their good graces. 

V. --MISTRESS BETTY TRAVELS DOWN INTO SOMERSETSHIRE. 

A formal but friendly letter came to Mistress Betty, when her life wasone of long dusty exertion, and her heart was very thirsty and parched. The shabby-genteel world and the tradesman's life, unless in exceptionalcases of great wealth, were different things a hundred and fifty yearsago from what they are now. The villas at Twickenham, the ruralretreats, the gardens, the grottos, the books, the harpsichords, thewater-colour drawings, belonged to the quality, or to the literarylions: to Lady Mary or Pope, Horace Walpole or his young friends theBerrys. The half-pay officer's widow, the orphan of the bankrupt in theSouth Sea business, the wife and family of the moderately flourishinghaberdasher, or coach-builder, or upholsterer--the tobacconist rose farabove the general level--were cooped up in the City dwellings, andconfined to gossip, fine clothes, and good eating if they could affordthem. A walk in the City gardens, a trip to Richmond Hill, and theshows, were their pastimes, and Mr. Steele's 'Christian Hero, ' 'AnAdvice to a Daughter, ' and De Foe's 'History of the Plague, ' were theirmental delectation. 

But Mistress Betty had the soul of a martyr; she had resigned herself tosinking down into the star of cousin Ward's set, who went on holidays tothe play--mostly honest, fat and fatuous, or jaunty and egotisticalfolk, who admired the scenery and the dresses, but could no more havemade a play to themselves than they could have drawn the cartoons. Shehelped cousin Ward, not only with her purse, but with a kinswoman'sconcern in her and hers: she assisted to wash and dress the children ofa morning; she took a turn at cooking in the middle of the day; shehelped to detain Master Ward at the tea-table, and to keep his wig andknee-buckles from too early an appearance and too thorough a soaking ofhis self-conceit and wilfulness at his tavern; and she heard the ladstheir lessons, while she darned their frills before supper. 

Then arrived the summons, over which Mistress Betty, a little worn byvoluntary adversity, shed "a power" of joyful tears. To travel down intoSomersetshire, and stroll among the grass in the meadows, and the gorseon the commons, which she had not seen for twelve months; to feed thecalves, and milk the cows, and gather the eggs, and ride Dapple, and tieup the woodbine, and eat syllabub in a bower; to present "great friezecoats" and "riding-hoods" to a dozen of the poorest old men and women inthe parish; to hear prayers in a little grey church, through whose openwindows ivy nodded, and before whose doors trees arched in vistas; tosee her sweet little Prissy and Fiddy, who had taken such a fancy toher, and the vicar, and madam, and granny, and find them all perfectlyagreeable, and not slighting her or doubting her because she had been awoman of fashion and an actress; and Master Rowland well disposed ofelsewhere; Larks' Hall deserted by its master--the brave, generous, enamoured squire--heigho! Mistress Betty, for all her candour, goodhumour, and cordiality, had her decent pride, and would not have thrownherself at any man's head. 

Somersetshire, in spite of Bath, was as antediluvian a hundred and fiftyyears ago as the lanes and coombes of Devonshire. Larks' Hall, Foxholes, Bearwood, the Vicarage of Mosely, and their outlying acquaintances, their yeomen and their labourers, lived as old-fashioned and hearty alife as if the battle of Sedgemoor had never been fought. 

Down in Somersetshire, among its orchards, nutteries, and blackberrythickets, poor little Mistress Fiddy was drooping, as girls would pinesometimes, even in the days of Will Shakspeare, ere cloth-yard shaftswere abolished from merry England, when there were still mayings amongthe hyacinths, and milkmaids' dances under the thorns, and mummings whenthe snow fell. And Dick Ashbridge shot and fished in the mostdisconsolate abandonment, though the girl yet ran past him "like aghost" when the beetle and bat were abroad, and he was still mooningabout the vicarage meadows. 

Neither of them knew for certain, and nobody could predict exactly, thatshe would live to wed Dick, bear him children, and leave him a sorrowfulwidower, whose heart was chastened--not torn. No; nor could the goodfolk in Somersetshire understand how closely Lady Betty and little Fiddywere bound up together, and how little Fiddy was to return Lady Betty'skindness, in the days when the little girl should be the teacher, andthe fine woman the scholar, and the lesson to be learnt came fromregions beyond the stars. 

In the meantime, Fiddy was a sick, capricious, caressed darling in acambric cap and silk shawl, on whom fond friends were waiting lovingly:whom nobody in the world, not even the doctor, the parish clerk, or thehousekeeper at Larks' Hall, dreamt of subjecting to the wholesomemedicine of contradiction--unless it might be Granny, when she came inwith her staff in her hand. She would laugh at their excess of care, andorder them to leave off spoiling that child; but even Granny herselfwould let fall a tear from her dim eyes when she read the register ofthe child's age in the family Bible. 

"Ah!" sighs whimsical little Mistress Fiddy, "if only Lady Betty werehere--great, good, kind, clever, funny, beautiful Lady Betty--who curedme that night at Bath, papa and mamma, I would be well again. She knowsthe complaint; she has had it herself; and her face is so cheering, herwit so enlivening, and she reads the lessons so solemnly and sweetly. Omamma! send for Mistress Betty; she will come at once; she does not playnow; the prints say so. She will be the better of the country air too. Send for Mistress Betty to Mosely. "

Madam was in a difficulty. An actress at the vicarage! And MasterRowland had been so rash. He had dropped hints, which, along with hishurried visit to London, had instilled dim, dark suspicions into theminds of his appalled relations of the whirlpool he had just coasted, they knew not how: they could not believe the only plain palpablesolution of the fact. And Granny had inveighed against women of fashionand all public characters, ever since Uncle Rowland took that jaunt totown, whence he returned so glum and dogged. But then, again, how couldthe mother deny her ailing Fiddy? And this brilliant Mistress Bettyfrom the gay world might possess some talisman unguessed by the quietfolks at home. Little Fiddy had no real disease, no settled pain: sheonly wanted change, pleasant company, and diversion, and would be plumpand strong again in no time. And Mistress Betty had retired from thestage now; she was no longer a marked person: she might pass anywhere asMistress Lumley, who had acted with success and celebrity, and withdrawnat the proper moment, with the greatest dignity and discretion. AndMaster Rowland was arranging his affairs to make the grand tour in theprime of life: his absence would clear away a monstrous objection. Whatwould the Vicar say? What would Granny say?

The Vicar ruled his parish, and lectured in the church; but in theparsonage he thought very much as madam did, and was only posed when oldmadam and young madam pulled him different ways. 

And Granny! Why, to madam's wonder, Granny required no wheedling, but--apprised of the deliberation, by the little minx Prissy, who inFiddy's illness attended on Granny--she sent for madam before madam evenknew that the proposal had been so much as mooted to her, and struck herstick on the ground in her determined way, and insisted that MistressBetty should be writ for forthwith and placed at the head of the child'ssociety. Granny, who had soundly rated fine ladies and literary womennot two days before! It was very extraordinary; but Granny must have herway. The children paid her affectionate duty, young madam did herhalf-grateful, half-vexed homage, the Vicar and Master Rowland deferredto her in her widowhood and dependence, and with little less grace andreverence than what she had taught them to practise when they were ladsunder tutelage. She was, in fact, the fully accredited mistress ofLarks' Hall. 

And Granny, in reality, presided at the vicarage; not oppressively, forshe was one of those sagacious magnates who are satisfied with thesubstance of power without loving its show. Notwithstanding, sheprevented the publication of more than two calf-skin volumes at a timeof the Vicar's sermons; she turned madam aside when she would have hungthe parlour with gilt leather, in imitation of Foxholes; and sherestricted the little girls to fresh ribbons once a month, andstomachers of their own working. And so, when Granny decreed thatMistress Betty was to be invited down to Mosely, there was no morequestion of the propriety of the measure that there would have been ofan Act of Council given under the Tudors; the only things left to orderwere the airing of the best bedroom, the dusting of the ebony furniture, and the bleaching on the daisies of old madam's diamond quilt. 

Down to Somersetshire went Mistress Betty, consoling cousin Ward withthe gift of a bran-new mantua and a promise of a speedy return, andbraving those highwaymen who were for ever robbing King George's mail;but the long, light midsummer nights were in their favour, and theirmounted escort had to encounter no paladins of the road in scarlet coatsand feathered hats. 

Mistress Betty's buoyant spirit rose with the fresh air, the greenfields, and the sunshine. She was so obliging and entertaining to aninvalid couple among her fellow-travellers, an orange nabob fromIndia and his splendid wife, that they declared she had done them moregood than they would derive from the Pump-room, the music, and thecards, to which they were bound. They asked her address, and pressedher to pay them a visit; when they would have certainly adopted her, and bequeathed to her their plum. As it was, half-a-dozen years later, when, to her remorse, she had clean forgotten their existence, theyastounded her by leaving her a handsome legacy; which, with theconsent of another party concerned--one who greatly relished the merename of the bequest, as a proof that nobody could ever resist LadyBetty--she shared with a cross-grained grand-nephew whom theautocratic pair had cut off with a shilling. 

VI. --BETWEEN MOSELY AND LARKS' HALL. 

At Mosely Mistress Betty alighted at last, entered the wicket-gate, andapproached the small, weather-stained, brick house. She made her curtsyto madam, asked the Vicar's blessing--though he was not twenty-fiveyears her senior and scarcely so wise--hugged the little girls, particularly sick Fiddy, and showered upon them pretty tasteful towntreasures, which little country girls, sick or well, dearly love. Fiddy's eyes were glancing already; but she did not leave off holdingMistress Betty's hand in order to try on her mittens, or to turn thehandle of the musical box. And Mistress Betty finally learned, with somepanic and palpitation, which she was far too sensible and stately awoman to betray, that the Justice was not gone--that Master Rowland, inplace of examining the newly-excavated Italian cities, or dabbling instate treason in France, was no further off than Larks' Hall, confinedthere with a sprained ankle: nobody being to blame, unless it wereGranny, who had detained Master Rowland to the last moment, or UncleRowland himself, for riding his horse too near the edge of the sandpit, and endangering his neck as well as his shin-bones. However, MistressBetty did not cry out that she had been deceived, or screechdistractedly, or swoon desperately (though the last was in herconstitution), neither did she seem to be brokenhearted by the accident. 

But Granny's reception of her was the great event of the day. Granny wasa picture, in her grey gown and "clean white hood nicely plaited, "seated in her wicker seat "fronting the south, and commanding thewashing-green. " Here Granny was amusing herself pickinggooseberries--which the notable Prissy was to convert intogooseberry-fool, one of the dishes projected to grace the town lady'ssupper--when Mistress Betty was led towards her. 

It was always a trying moment when a stranger at Mosely was presented toold Madam Parnell. The Parnells had agreed, for one thing, that it wouldbe most proper and judicious, as Mistress Betty had quitted thestage--doubtless in some disappointment of its capabilities, orcondemnation of the mode in which it was conducted, --to be chary intheatrical illusions, to drop the theatrical _sobriquet_ Lady Betty, andhail their guest with the utmost ceremony and sincerity as MistressLumley. But Granny turned upon her visitor a face still fresh, in itssmall, fine-furrowed compass, hailed her as Lady Betty on the spot, andemphatically expressed all the praise she had heard of her wonderfulpowers; regretting that she had not been in the way of witnessing them, and declaring that as they escaped the snares and resisted thetemptations of her high place, they did her the utmost honour, for theyserved to prove that her merits and her parts were equal. Actually, Granny behaved to Lady Betty as to a person of superior station, andpersisted in rising and making room for the purpose of sharing with herthe wicker seat; and there they sat, the old queen and the young. 

Young madam had been quite determined that, as Uncle Rowland was sounfortunate as to be held by the foot at Larks' Hall from his tour, heshould not risk his speedy recovery by hobbling over to Mosely, when shecould go herself or send Prissy every morning to let him know how theinvalid was. But the very day after Mistress Betty's arrival old madamsecretly dispatched Tim, the message-boy, to desire the squire to orderout the old coach, and make a point of joining the family party eitherat dinner or at supper. Young madam was sufficiently chagrined; but thenthe actress and the squire met so coldly, and little Fiddy was flushingup into a quiver of animation, and Mistress Betty was such delightfulcompany in the slumbrous country parsonage. 

It is pleasant to think of the doings of the Parnells, the witcheries ofMistress Betty, and the despotism of old madam, during the next month. Indeed, Mistress Betty was so reverent, so charitable, so kind, sogentle as well as blithe under depressing influences, and so wittyunder stagnation, that it would have been hard to have lived in the samehouse with her and have been her enemy: she was so easily gratified, soeasily interested; she could suit herself to so many phases of thismarvellous human nature. She listened to the Vicar's "argument" withedification, and hunted up his authorities with diligence. She scouredyoung madam's lutestring, and made it up in the latest and most elegantfashion of nightgowns, with fringes and buttons, such as our own littlegirls could match. She made hay with Prissy and Fiddy, and not onlyaccomplished a finer cock than weak Fiddy and impatient Priss, butsurpassed the regular haymakers. And she looked, oh! so well in herhaymaker's jacket and straw hat--though young madam was always sayingthat her shape was too large for the dress, and that the slight hollowsin her cheeks were exaggerated by the shade from the broad-brimmedflapping straw. 

Of course Mistress Betty performed in the "Traveller" and "CrossPurposes, " and gave out riddles and sang songs round the hearth of arainy evening, or about the cherrywood table in the arbour, of acloudless twilight, much more pat than other people--that was to belooked for; but then she also played at love after supper, loo andcribbage for a penny the game--deeds in which she could have no originalsuperiority and supremacy--with quite as infectious an enthusiasm. 

To let you into a secret, young madam was in horror at one time thatDick Ashbridge was wavering in his allegiance to her white rosebud, Fiddy; so enthralling was this scarlet pomegranate, this purple vine. But one evening Mrs. Betty turned suddenly upon the mad boy, to whom shehad been very soft, saying that he bore a great resemblance to hercousin's second son Jack, and asked how old he was? and did he not thinkof taking another turn at college? This restored the boy to his sensesin a trice, and she kissed Mistress Fiddy twice over when she bade hergood night. 

But old madam and Lady Betty were the chief pair of friends. Granny, with her own sway in her day, and her own delicate discrimination, acuteintellect, and quick feelings, was a great enough woman not to bejealous of a younger queen, but to enjoy her exceedingly. Madam Parnellhad seen the great world as well as Lady Betty, and never tired ofreviving old recollections, comparing experiences, and tracing the fatesof the children and grandchildren of the great men and women hercontemporaries. Prissy and Fiddy vowed over and over again, that thestirring details were more entertaining than any story-book. For thisreason, Granny took a personal pride in Lady Betty's simplest feat, aswell as in her intellectual crown, and put her through every stage ofher own particular recipes for cream cheese and pickled walnuts. 

"The dickons!" cried a Somerset yeoman: "The Lon'on madam has opened thefive-barred gate that beat all the other women's fingers, and gatheredthe finest elder-flowers, and caught the fattest chicken; and they tellme she has repeated verses to poor crazed Isaac, till she has lulled himinto a fine sleep. 'Well done, Lon'on!' cries I; 'luck to the finelady:' I never thought to wish success to such a kind. " Granny, too, cried, "Well done, Lon'on! Luck to the fine lady!" If all Helens werebut as pure, and true, and tender as Lady Betty!

Granny would have Lady Betty shown about among the neighbours, andmaintained triumphantly that she read them, Sedleys, Ashbridges, andHarringtons, as if they were characters in a printed book--not that shelooked down on them, or disparaged them in any way; she was far moretolerant than rash, inexperienced Prissy and Fiddy. And Granny orderedLady Betty to be carried sight-seeing to Larks' Hall, and made minutearrangements for her to inspect Granny's old domain, from garret tocellar, from the lofty usher-tree at the gate to the lowly

 "Plaintain ribbed that heals the reapers' wound"

in the herb-bed. No cursory inspection would suffice her: thepragmatical housekeeper and the rosy milkmaids had time to give up theirhearts to Lady Betty like the rest. Master Rowland, as in courtesybound, limped with the stranger over his helmets and gauntlets, hiswooden carvings, his black-letter distich; and, although she was notoverflowing in her praises, she had seen other family pictures byGreuze, and she herself possessed a fan painted by Watteau, to which hewas vastly welcome if he cared for such a broken toy. 

She fancied the head of one of the Roman emperors to be like his Graceof Montague; she had a very lively though garbled familiarity with thehistories of the veritable Brutus and Cassius, Coriolanus, Cato, Alexander, and other mighty, picturesque, cobbled-up ancients, intowhose mouths she could put appropriate speeches; and she accepted aloan of his 'Plutarch's Lives, ' "to clear up her classics, " as she saidmerrily; altogether poor Squire Rowland felt that he had feasted at anintellectual banquet. 

At last it was time to think of redeeming her pledge to cousin Ward;and, to Mistress Betty's honour, the period came while Master Rowlandwas still too lame to leave Larks' Hall, except in his old coach, andwhile it yet wanted weeks to the softening, gladdening, overwhelmingbounty of the harvest-home. 

Then occurred the most singular episodes of perverseness and reiteratedinstances of inconsistency of which Granny had been found guilty in thememory of man, either as heiress of Larks' Hall or as old madam of thevicarage. At first she would not hear of Mistress Betty's departure, andasked her to be her companion, during her son's absence, in his house ofLarks' Hall, where all at once she announced that she meant to take upher temporary residence. She did not approve of its being committedentirely to the supervision of Mrs. Prue, her satellite, theschoolmaster's daughter who used so many long words in cataloguing herpreserves and was so trustworthy: Mrs. Prue would feel lonesome; Mrs. Prue would take to gadding like the chits Prissy and Fiddy. No, shewould remove herself for a year, and carry over her old man Morris alongwith her, and see that poor Rowley's goods were not wasted or hiscuriosities lost while he chose to tarry abroad. 

Master Rowland stared, but made no objection to this invasion; Mrs. Betty, after much private rumination and great persuasion, consented tothe arrangement. Young madam was obliged to be ruefully acquiescent, though secretly irate at so preposterous a scheme; the Vicar, good man, to do him justice, was always ponderously anxious to abet his mother, and had, besides, a sneaking kindness for Mistress Betty; the girls wereprivately charmed, and saw no end to the new element of breadth, brightness, and zest, in their little occupations and amusements. 

When again, of a sudden, after the day was fixed for Master Rowland'sdeparture, and the whole family were assembled in the vicarageparlour--old madam fell a-crying and complaining that they were taking_her_ son away from her--robbing her of him: she would never live to seteyes on him again--a poor old body of her years and trials would notsurvive another flitting. _She_ had been fain to gratify some of hiswishes; but see if they would not destroy them both, mother and son, bytheir stupid narrow-mindedness and obstinacy. 

Such a thing had never happened before. Who had ever seen Grannyunreasonable and foolish? The Vicar slipped his hand to her wrist, inexpectation that he would detect signs of hay-fever, though it was afull month too late for the complaint--there had been cases in thevillage--and was shaken off with sufficient energy for his pains. 

"Mother, " exclaimed Master Rowland, haughtily, "I understand you; but Ihad a plain answer to a plain question months ago, and I will have noreversal to please you. Pity craved by an old woman's weakness! favoursgranted in answer to tears drawn from dim eyes! I am not such a slave!"

The others were all clamouring round Granny, kissing her hand, kneelingon her footstool, imploring her to tell them what she wanted, what shewould like best, what they could go and do for her; only the squirespoke in indignant displeasure, and nobody attended to him but MistressBetty. 

It did appear that the squire had been too fast in repelling advanceswhich did not follow his mother's appeal. Mistress Betty gave notoken--she stood pulling the strings of her cap, and growing first veryred, and then ominously white, like any girl. 

Perhaps the squire suspected that he had been too hasty, that he had notbeen grateful to his old mother, or generous to the woman who, howeverfine, and courted, and caressed, was susceptible of a simple woman'sanguish at scorn or slight. Perhaps there flashed on his recollection acertain paper in the 'Spectator, ' wherein a young lady's secretinclination towards a young gentleman is conclusively revealed, not byher advances to save his pride, but by her silence, her blushes, herdisposition to swoon with distress when an opportunity is afforded herof putting herself forward to attract his notice--nay, when she is evenurged to go so far as to solicit his regard. 

Master Rowland's brow lightened as if a cloud lowering there hadsuddenly cleared away--Master Rowland began to look as if it were a muchmore agreeable experience to contemplate Mistress Betty nervous andglum, than Lady Betty armed at a hundred points, and all butinvulnerable--Master Rowland walked as alertly to her side as if therewere no such things as sprains in this world. "Madam, forgive me if Ihave attributed to you a weak complacency to which you would nevercondescend. Madam, if you have changed your mind, and can now toleratemy suit, and accord it the slightest return, I am at your feet. "

Assuredly, the tall, vigorous, accomplished squire would have beenthere, not figuratively but in his imposing person. Family explanationswere admissible a century and a half ago; public declarations weresometimes a point of honour; bodily prostration was by no meansexploded; matter-of-fact squires knelt like romantic knights; SirCharles Grandison and Sir Roger de Coverley bent as low for their ownpurposes as fantastic gauze and tinsel troubadours. 

But Mistress Betty prevented him. "I am not worth it, Master Rowland, "cried Mistress Betty, sobbing and covering her face with her hands; and, as she could not have seen the obeisance, the gentleman intermitted it, pulled down the hands, kissed Madam Betty oftener than the one fairsalute, and handed her across the room to receive Granny's blessing. Granny sat up and composed herself, wished them joy (though she had thegrace to look a little ashamed of herself), very much as if she hadobtained her end. 

There is no use in denying that young madam took to bed for three days, and was very pettish for a fortnight; but eventually gave in to thematch, and was not so much afflicted by it as she had expected, afterthe first brunt. Granny, in her age, was so absurdly set on the_mésalliance_, and so obliging and pleasant about everything else--theVicar and the little lasses were so provokingly careless of the wrongdone them and the injury to the family, --that she knew very well, whenher back was turned, they formed as nonsensically hilarious a bridalparty as if the wedding had concerned one of themselves and not thebachelor uncle, the squire of Larks' Hall. And Mistress Betty ordereddown the smartest livery; and the highest gentry in Somersetshire wouldhave consented to grace the ceremony, had she cared for their presence, such a prize was she in their country-houses when they could procure hercountenance during their brief sojourn among sparkling rills andwoodland shades. Altogether, young madam, in spite of her vanities andhumours, loved the children, the Vicar, Granny, the bridegroom, and even(with a grudge) the bride, and was affected by the sweet summer seasonand the happy marriage-tide, and was, in the main, too good to prove akill-joy. 

Master Rowland and Mistress Betty were married by Master Rowland's ownbrother in the Vicar's own church, with Fiddy and Prissy and the Sedleysfor bridesmaids, and Dick Ashbridge for a groom's-man. Cousin Ward, brought all the way from town to represent the bride's relations, wascrying as if she were about to lose an only daughter. For Granny, shewould not shed one bright, crystal tear on any account; besides, she wasever in state at Larks' Hall to welcome home, the happy couple. Ah, well, they were all happy couples in those days!

At Larks' Hall Mistress Betty bloomed during many a year; for a finewoman knows no decay; she only passes from one stage of beauty andexcellence to another, wearing, as her rightful possession, allhearts--her sons', as their father's before them. And Master Rowland nolonger sat lonely in his hall, in the frosty winter dusk or under theusher-oak in the balmy summer twilight, but walked through life brisklyand bravely, with a perfect mate; whom he had not failed to recognize asa real diamond among the bits of glass before the footlights--a diamondwhich his old mother had consented to set for him. 

Our squire and Lady Betty are relics of a former generation. We havesquires as many by thousands, as accomplished by tens of thousands; butthe inimitable union of simplicity and refinement, downrightness anddignity, disappeared with the last faint reflection of Sir Roger deCoverley. And charming Lady Betty departed also with early hours, pillions, and cosmetics--that blending of nature and art, knowledge ofthe corrupt world and abiding true-heartedness, which then existed--asort of marvel. 

A CAST IN THE WAGGON. 

I. --DULCIE'S START IN THE WAGGON FOR HER COMPANY. 

Old and young were clamouring hoarsely and shrilly by daybreak oneSeptember morning round a little girl, one of a cloth-worker's numerousfamily. She had been rather a tender lass, and change of air was thoughtgood for her full growth. Though she was still small, she was close onher one-and-twentieth year, and her friends held it was high time forher to see the world. It was seeing the world to go with a late mayor'sdaughter, an orphan and an heiress, who had been visiting thecloth-worker's family, and would have Dulcie to live with her for awhilein a neighbouring town as a friend and companion. 

Mind those worthy warm-hearted relatives of Dulcie's had no idea of herreturning to her parents' nest in a hurry, though the two towns, Fairfaxand Redwater, were within a day's journey by waggon of each other. Dulcie would see the world, and stay in her new abode in the nextcountry town, or lose her character for dignity and spirit; and girlswere fain to be thought discreet and decided a hundred years ago or so. She might as lief marry as not, when she was away on her travels. Girlsmarried then with far less trouble than they accomplished such ajourney. They ran down to Richmond and married on a Sunday, to save atalk and a show; they walked out of the opera where Handel might beperforming, and observant gentlemen took the cue, followed on theirheels, and had the knot tied by a priest, waiting in the house oppositethe first chair-stand. Indeed, they contracted alliances sounceremoniously, that they went to Queen Caroline's or the Princesses'drawing-room, without either themselves or the world appearing quitesure whether they were maids or wives. Dear! dear! what did come ofthese foolish impulsive matches? Did they fulfil the time out of mindadage, "Happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing"? or that other oldproverb, "Marry in haste, and repent at leisure"? Which was the truth?

It is a pity that you should see Dulcie, for the first time, in tears. Dulcie, who only cried on great occasions, in great sorrow or greatjoy--not above half-a-dozen times in her life. Dulcie, whom thesmallpox could not spoil, with her pretty forehead, cat's eyes, andfine chin. Does that description give you an idea of Dulcie--DulcieCowper, not yet Madam, but any day she liked Mistress Dulcie? It seemsexpressive. An under-sized, slight-made girl, with a little faceclearly, very clearly cut, but round in all its lines as yet; anintelligent face, an enthusiastic face, a face that could be veryshrewd and practical, and, at the same time, a face that could belavishly generous. The chief merit of her figure lay in thisparticular, that she "bridled" well. Yes, it is true, we have almostforgotten the old accomplishment of "bridling"--the head up and thechin in, with the pliant knees bent in a low curtsey. Dulcie"bridled, " as she prattled, to perfection. She had light brown hair, of the tint of a squirrel's fur, and the smoothness of a mouse's coat, though it was twisted and twirled into a kind of soft willowy curlswhen she was in high dress. Ah! no wonder that Kit Cowper, thecloth-worker, groaned to see that bright face pass from his ninepinalley; but it was the way of the world, or rather the will ofProvidence to the cloth-worker, that the child should fulfil herdestiny. So Dulcie was launched on the sea of life, as far asRedwater, to push her fortune. 

No wonder Dulcie was liked by Clarissa Gage. Clarissa was two yearsyounger than Dulcie, but she was half-a-dozen years older in knowledgeof the world, and therefore fell in love with Dulcie for the sake ofvariety. Clarissa had the bones of a noble woman under her pedantry andaffectation; she was a peg above Dulcie in station, and a vast dealbefore her in the world's estimation. She was indeed "a fortune;" andyou err egregiously if you suppose a fortune was not properly valued ahundred years ago. Men went mad for fair faces and glib tongues, butsolidly and sensibly married fortunes, according to all the oldnews-prints. But Clarissa was also a beauty, far more of a regularbeauty than Dulcie, with one of those inconceivably dazzling complexionsthat blush on like a June rose to old age, and a stately height andpresence for her years. She had dark brown curls of the deep brown ofmountain waters, with the ripple of the same, hanging down in a wreathof tendrils on the bend of the neck behind. With all her gifts, MistressClary had the crowning bounty which does not always accompany so manyinferior endowments: she had sense under her airs, and she was goodenough to like Dulcie instinctively, and to think how nice it would beto have Dulcie with her and Mistress Cambridge in their formal brickhouse, with the stone coping and balcony, at Redwater. Besides, (creditto her womanhood, ) Clarissa did reflect what a fine thing it would befor Dulcie Cowper getting up in years, really getting up in years, however young in spirit, to have the variety, and the additional chanceof establishing herself in life. Certainly, Redwater was a town of moreconsideration than Fairfax, and had its occasional assemblies andperformances of strolling players; and Clarissa, in right of herfather's family, visited the vicar and the squire, and could carryDulcie along with her, since the child's manners were quite genteel, andher clothes perfectly presentable. 

It was a harmonious arrangement, in which not only Clarissa but MistressCambridge agreed. Cambridge was one of those worthy, useful persons, whom nobody in those strangely plain but decidedly aristocraticdays--not even Clarissa and Dulcie, though they sat with her, ate withher, hugged her when they wanted to coax her--ever thought or spoke ofotherwise than "Cambridge, a good sort of woman in her own way. " Theonly temporary drawback to the contentment of the party was the showerof tears which fell at Dulcie's forcible separation from her relatives. It was forcible in the end; all the blessings had been given in thehouse--don't sneer, they did her no harm, no harm, but a vast deal ofgood--and only the kisses and tears were finished off in the street. 

After all this introduction, it is painful to describe how the companytravelled. It was in a stage waggon! But they could not help it. Wenever stated that they were out-and-out quality; and not even all thequality could travel in four coaches and six, with twelve horsemenriding attendance, and an unpaid escort of butchers, bakers, andapothecaries, whipping and spurring part of the way for the custom. Whatcould the poor Commons do? There were not stage coaches in every quarterof the great roads; and really if they pocketed their gentility, thehuge brown waggons were of the two extinct conveyances the roomier, airier, and safer both from overturns and highwaymen. The seats weresoft, the space was ample, and the three unprotected females wereconsidered in a manner incognito, which was about as modest a style asthey could travel in. Of course, they were not in their flowered silks, their lutestrings, their mantuas. We are assured every respectable womantravelled then in a habit and hat, and no more thought of hoops than ofhair powder. The only peculiarity was that beneath their hats they woremob-caps, tied soberly under the chin, and red or blue handkerchiefsknotted over the hat, which gave them the air of Welsh market-women, ormarvellously clean and tidy gipsies. Clarissa was spelling out the wordsin _Pharamond_--a French classic; Dulcie was looking disconsolatelystraight before her through their sole outlet, the bow at the end of thewaggon, which circumscribed as pretty and fresh a circle of common andcornfield, with crimson patches of wood and the blue sky above, as onemight wish to see. Occasionally the crack of a sportsman's gun was heardto the right or left, followed by a pheasant or a string of partridgesdarting across the opening of the canvas car; but as yet no claimant hadsolicited the privilege and honour of sharing the waggon and the viewwith our fair travellers. 

II. --TWO LADS SEEK A CAST IN THE WAGGON. 

"Hullo, Joe! we want a lift, " cries a brisk voice, and the couple ofgreat steeds--they might have been Flanders mares or Clydesdale horses, so powerful were they over the shoulders, so mighty in theflanks--almost swerved out of their direct line and their decorum. Twofellows suddenly started up from a couch where they had lain at lengthon a hay-stack, slid down the height, crashed over an intervening bit ofwaste land, and arrested the waggoner in his smock-frock and cloutedshoes. 

"Get in, Will, and take possession. Ha! hum! here are ladies: where willwe stow our feet? I declare Will is on their skirts already, with moregreen slime than is carried on the breast of a pond. I believe he thinksthem baggage--lay figures, as they've turned aside their heads. Gentlefolks for a wager! duchesses in disguise! I must make up to them, anyhow. Ladies, at your service; I humbly beg your pardon for having somuch as thought of incommoding you, but indeed I was not aware of yourpresence. Come, Will, tumble out again instantly, and do not let us beso rude as to plague the ladies. "

Poor Will! very stiff and tired, stared about him, disturbed anddiscomforted, and prepared to perform the behest of his more energeticcompanion. 

Dulcie did a little of her "bridling, " but said never a word; Clarissalifted her large, rather languishing eyes, let them fall again on hermittens, and remained dumb. They speak before they were spoken to? notthey, they knew better. At the same time, when Will stumbled as healighted on his weary feet, they were guilty of an inclination totitter, though the accident was excusable, and the point of the jokesmall. 

"You are very polite, sirs, " protested Cambridge, making round eyes, andreddening and blowing at being constituted the mouthpiece of the partyon any interest save that of victuals. "I vow it is very prettybehaviour; but as it is a public carriage, I don't think we are atliberty to deprive Joe of his money, and you, sirs, of your seats. Whatsay you, Mistress Clary?"

"I decline to give an opinion, " answered Clarissa with great dignity; inwhich she broke down a little by adding hastily, in half audibleaccents. "Be quiet, Dulcie!" for Dulcie's risible faculties had beenexcited in a lively degree. She had been crying so lately that there wasa hysterical turn in her mirth, and having once given way to it shecould not restrain herself, but was making all sorts of ridiculous facesand spasms in her throat without effect. You see, these were twoordinary, happy young girls; and the stiff starch of their manners andpretensions only brought out in a stronger light, and with a broadercontrast, their youthful frolicsomeness. 

"I think, sirs, you may come in--that is, if you keep your distance, "Mistress Cambridge decided, with solemn reservation. With a multitude ofapologies and thanks, the two young men, more considerate and courteousin their forward and backward fashion than many a fine gentleman of thetime, clambered up, and coiled themselves into corners, leaving arespectful void between them and the original occupants of the waggon. 

Tranquillity settled down on the travellers--a tranquillity only brokenby the drowsy rumble of the waggon-wheels, and the perennial whistle ofthe stooping, grizzled waggoner. Dulcie was just thinking that theymight have been Turks, they were so silent, when Mistress Cambridgestirred the still atmosphere by the inquiry--

"Pray, sirs, have you happened to fall in with any stubble chickens inyour walk; I think you said you had been walking hereabouts?" affordingClarissa an opportunity of complaining afterwards, in the retirement ofthe little inn's private room, that these young fellows would judge thema set of gluttons or farmers' daughters abroad for a holiday, apinggentlewomen, instead of being duchesses in disguise. 

Although the girls never lifted their eyes, yet, by a magic only knownto such philosophers, they had taken as complete an inventory of theyoung men, beginning at their wardrobes, as if they had looked at themcoolly from head to foot for a whole half-hour. They were aware thatthe fellows were in plain suits, though one of them was not without theair of being fine on occasions. Their coats were cloth, not brocade orvelvet; their ruffles were cambric, not lace; their shoe-buckles wereonly silver; their hats were trimmed with braid, and neither with goldnor silver edging. They were not my lords; they were not in regimentals;they did not rap out oaths; they had not the university air; they showedno parson's bands; they were not plain country bumpkins--what were they?

After all, it was scarcely worth inquiry whether the newcomers belongedto law or physic; for the young women in their pride and petulance feltbound not to consider the investigation worth the trouble. The lad whowas the leader, and who was unquestionably of gentle enough nurture, wasa plain little fellow, sallow and homely-featured, although agood-natured person might suppose from his smiling sagacity that inanimated conversation it would be quite possible to forget his face inhis countenance. The other was ruddy, with a face as sharply cut as agirl's, and delicate features not fitting his long limbs--clearly he wasno better than a nincompoop. Yes, the girls were perfectly justifiablein whispering as the waggon stopped to bait at the "Nine Miles House, "and they got out to bait also--

"What a pair!"

"Such a fright, the little fellow, Clary!"

"Such a goose, the tall fellow, Dulcie!"

It is a sad truth that foolish young women will judge by the exterior, leap at conclusions, and be guilty of rude and cruel remarks. 

What would come of it if the silly, sensitive hearts were in earnest, orif they did not reserve to themselves the indefeasible right of changingtheir opinions?

At the "Nine Miles House" the wayfarers rested, either in the sandedparlour, or the common kitchen of the ale-house. Mistress Clarissa andher party had the sanded parlour for themselves; the young men, withtheir cramped legs, stumbled into the flitch-hung kitchen, the moreentertaining room of the two, and had plates of beans and bacon, a toastand a tankard; for the day was in September, and the wind was alreadybracing both to body and appetite. Mistress Clarissa carried her privatestores, and Cambridge laid out her slices of roasts and broils, platesof buns and comforts, and cruets with white wines. But when did aheroine remain in a sanded parlour in an inn, when she could stroll overthe country and lose her way, and get run at by wild cattle, and staredat by naughty gentlemen? Clary was not so mean-spirited, though she wasphysically lazier than Dulcie; she was eager to scamper across thestubble fields (where Cambridge expected chickens to roam in flocks), and to wander, book in hand, by yon brook with the bewitching pollards. 

Dulcie could not accompany her. Dulcie being a practical woman, a needlein innocent sharpness, had peeped about the waggon to inspect theirluggage, and had found to her horror that one of her boxes had burst itsfastenings--that very box with her respected mother's watered tabby, andher one lace head on the place of honour on the top. So she andCambridge had an earnest consultation on the accident, which resulted intheir proceeding to tuck up their skirts, empty the receptacle with thegreatest care and tenderness, and repack it with such skill that a ropewould replace its rent hinges. Dulcie was not for walking. 

Clarissa was thus forced to saunter alone, and after she had got to thebrook and the pollards, she sat down, and leant her arms on the bars ofan old farm gate. Soon tiring of looking about her, staring at theminnows and the late orange coltsfoot and white wild ranunculus, and thestraw-coloured willow-leaves drooping into the water, she took out ofher pocket that little brown French classic, _Pharamond_, and startedagain to accompany the French storyteller, advancing on the very tallestof stilts that storyteller ever mounted. It was a wonder truly thatClary on her mossy bank, and by a rustic stile, had not preferred thevoices of the winds and the waters, the last boom of the beetle, thelast screech of the martin, the last loud laugh of the field-workersborne over a hedge or two on the breeze, to the click and patter ofthese absurd Frenchmen's tongues. 

At last Clarissa bethought her of the hour, sprang up, carefully putaway her volume--volumes and verses were precious then--and began topick her steps homewards. Ah! there had been a wretch of a man lookingat her--actually drawing her in his portfolio--the ugly fellow in thewaggon. Thank goodness, he could not have recognized her as hisfellow-traveller; he had copied the old farm-gate from the other side, and he could only have got a glimpse of her figure through the bars withnot so much as the crown of her hat above them. He had only put her infaithfully by a line or two, and three dots, and he did not observe hernow as she passed behind him and scanned his performance ere shescampered off. But what a risk she had run of having her likeness takenwithout her knowledge or consent, and carried about the country by awalking gentleman!

It was quite an adventure; yet how could Clary think it so when anearthquake and a whole town burnt to ashes were nothing in her Frenchnovels! But, still true to the instinct of personality which causes usto think a molehill in reference to our dear selves a world moremomentous and interesting than a mountain in reference to a princess ofthe blood-royal, stately Clarissa flew off like a lapwing to tell Dulciethat she had just had such an escape, and hit on such a discovery--shehad found out all about the two fellows; they were a couple of painters. Marry! it was a marvel to see the one so hearty, and the other so rosy. Doubtless they did not have an odd penny in their purse between them. 

Clarissa came too late; she encountered Dulcie running out to meet her, all alive with the same news, only gathered in a more orthodox manner. The fair, soft lad, whom they had reckoned a nincompoop, had shakenhimself up in his companion's absence, and had offered his landlady adrawing for his share of the dinner, "if you will score the value offthe bill. " And the landlady had repeated the story to Cambridge andDulcie when she showed the picture to them, and expressed her convictionthat the lad was far gone in the spleen--he seemed always in a brownstudy; too quiet-like for a lad. She should have no peace in her mindabout him if she were in any way related to him. Bless her heart! hewould sell another for something much less than a crown. 

Dulcie, all in a glow, had actually been chaffering with the painter forone of those wonderful groups of luscious peaches, mellow pears, Julyflowers, and striped balsamine, singing birds and fluttering insects, full of extravagant beauty. In the business, too, Dulcie had been by farthe more overcome of the two. The painter, roused to a job, had notcheated her; on the contrary, he had been as usual a conscientiousspendthrift of his powers. He had conducted the negotiation in theplainest, manliest spirit, looking the eager girl in the face with hisblue eyes, and receiving her crown-piece in his hand, which was noblerthan his face, inasmuch as it was seamed with the action of his paintsand tools, without a notion of anything unbecoming or degrading. 

The brother painter shook his head when he returned, and found what Willhad been about in his absence. 

"Man, man, didn't I bargain that I was to pay for your company, andhaven't I put you in the worst bed, and allowed you the burnt meat andthe sodden bread, and the valise to carry twice as often as I took itmyself, to satisfy your plaguy scruples? And yet you could go andscurvily steal a march upon me the moment you were out of my sight!But, " brightening immeasurably, and bowing low, "you have certainlycontrived what I had not the face to attempt--an introduction to theladies--although, no doubt, it was very simply done, and you are a verymodest man, as I do not need to tell them. Ladies, I am Sam Winnington, son of the late gallant Captain Winnington, though I should not callhim so; and this is Will Locke, the vagrant child of an excellent man, engaged, I believe, in the bookselling and stationery trade. We arepainters, if it please you, on a tour in search of sketches andcommissions. I beg to assure you, that I do portraits on a great scaleas well as a small, and Will sometimes does lions in the jungle, as wellas larks in a tuft of grass. "

Cambridge was more posed than ever by the fresh advance included in thismerry speech; but the girls were quite of another mind, and took thematter forthwith into their own hands, as is usual with the class, andbore down caution and experience, particularly when it proceeded fromtheir housekeeper. They liked the young man's congenial sense andspirit, they secretly hankered after his vivacity; they were, with theirdear woman's romance, all afire in three minutes about pictures, gods, and goddesses, historic scenes, and even scratches in Indian ink. A truewoman and a painter are hand and glove at a moment's warning in any age. Cambridge could but drop naturally into the background, and regard theconstant puzzle, "How girls can talk with fellows!"

The chance companions were once more packed into the waggon, pleasantlymixed together this time, and away they trundled yet many weary miles bythe sunset and the light of the moon. The boughs in the horses' collarsdangled brown, Cambridge and the waggoner nodded drowsily; but, divineprivilege of youth! the spirits of the lads and lasses only freshened asthe long day waned and they neared the goal. They were _dramatispersonæ_ on a moving stage, jesting like country folks going to a fair. Even Will Locke was roused and lively as he answered Dulcie'spertinacious, pertinent questions about the animal and vegetable life heloved so well; while Dulcie, furtively remembering the landlady'ssuggestion, wondered, kind heart! if she could use the freedom tomention to him that ground ivy was all but infallible in early stages ofthe spleen, and that turnip broth might be relied on to check everyincipient cough. Clarissa was coquettish, Sam Winnington was gallant. With all the girls' mock heroism, and all their arrogance and precision, trust me, girls and lads formed a free and friendly company in the end. 

III. --REDWATER HOSPITALITY. 

Clarissa and Dulcie did do the young men service in their calling. Theysaid it would be a shame not to help two such likely fellows (you knowthey had undauntedly set the one down as a fright and the other as agoose in the morning); they were sure they were industrious and worthy, and they would give bail for their honesty. So they spoke right and leftto the few influential families who were at Redwater of the two youngpainters, who by mere luck had come with them in the waggon, had put upat the "Rod and Fly, " and were waiting for commissions. Had the Warrensor the Lorimers not heard of them? they would come bound they were acouple of geniuses, from their conversation. 

The old world grinned, and said to the girls' faces that the lasses hadbetter not be too zealous for the lads; they were generally fit tomanage their own business, and something more into the bargain. UncleBarnet would not care to have his niece Clary fling herself away withher tidy fortune on a walking gentleman, though he were a genius. 

The result was that Dulcie "bridled" in a twitter of wounded faith andanger. Clarissa was superb and scornful. She ordered a full-lengthportrait, and fixed the hour for the sitting within the week. Dulcie setoff alone with Master Will Locke--Dulcie, who knew no more of Redwaterthan he should have done, if his wits had not been woolgathering--tofind the meadow which was beginning to purple over with the meadowsaffron. 

But for all the townspeople laughed at Mistress Clary's and MistressDulcie's flights, they never dreamt of them as unbecoming or containinga bit of harm. Fine girls like Clary and Dulcie, especially anaccomplished girl like Clary, who could read French and do japan, besides working to a wish in cross-stitch and tent-sketch, were notpersons to be slighted. The inhabitants saw for themselves that thepainters had coats which were not out at elbows, and tongues, one ofwhich was always wagging, and the other generally at rest, but whichnever said a word fairly out of joint. They needed no furtherintroduction; the gentlemen called for the young men, the ladiescurtsied to them in the bar of the "Rod and Fly, " in the church-porch, in the common shop, and began conversations with them while they werechaffering at the same counter for the same red ribbons to tie up themen and the women's hair alike; and they felt that their manners werevastly polite and gracious, an opinion which was not far from thetruth. 

The Vicar lent the painters books. The Mayor invited them to supper. Thenearest Justice, who was a family man, with a notable wife, had them toa domestic party, where they heard a little girl repeat a fable, and sawthe little coach which the Justice had presented to his son and heir, then in long clothes, in which he was to be drawn along the smooth oakboarded passages of the paternal mansion as soon as he could situpright. 

Lastly, Clarissa Gage, under the sufficient guardianship of Cambridge, treated the strangers to a real piece of sport--a hop on thewashing-green, under her mulberry-tree. It commenced at four o'clock inthe afternoon, and ended with dusk and the bats, and a gipsy fire, androasting groats and potatoes in the hot ashes, in imitation of thefreakish oyster supper which Clary had attended in town. 

Clary took care to have her six couples well assorted, and not to besevered till the merry-making was over; she did not mind uniting herselfto Master Sam Winnington, and Dulcie to Master Will Locke--mind! thearrangement was a courteous compliment to the chief guests, and it gavecontinual point to the entertainment. The company took a hilariouspleasure in associating the four two-and-two, and commented openly onthe distribution: "Mistress Clary is mighty condescending to thisjackanapes. " "Mistress Dulcie and t'other form a genteel pair. "

To be sure the two young men heard the remarks, which they might havetaken as broad hints, and the girls heard them too, uttered as they werewithout disguise; but so healthy were our ancestors, that nobody was putout--not even soft, mooning Will Locke. Nothing came of it thatevening, unless a way Dulcie had of pressing her red lips together, throwing back her little brown head, shaking out the powder from hercurls, and shaking down the curls themselves, with a gleeful laugh, which appeared to turn her own "bridling" into derision; and a highassertion of Clary's that she was determined never to wed a man beneaththe rank of a county member or a peer. Now, really, after Clary haddanced fifteen dances, and was about to dance other five, withoutstopping, with a portrait painter, of her own free will, this wasdrawing a longish and very unnecessary bow. But then Sam Winnington didnot take it amiss or contradict her. He said she was right, and he hadno doubt she would keep her word, and there was a quick, half-comic, half-serious gleam from the depths of his grey eyes which made ClarissaGage look more bashful and lovelier than any man had ever yet beheldher. Pity the member or the peer could not have been that man!

Imagine the party after Mistress Cambridge had provided them with someof her favourite chickens, and more substantial Dutch beef, with wetfruit and dry, cold Rhenish and sugar, and mulled wine against the dewand damp feet, collecting merrily round the smoky fire, with little jetsof flame shooting up and flashing out on the six couples! Sam Winningtonin his silk stockings and points neatly trussed at the knee, was onall-fours poking the blue and red potatoes into the glowing holes. Another man with rough waggishness suddenly stirred the fire with an oakbranch, and sent a shower of sparks like rockets into the dark blue sky, but so near that it caused the women to recoil, screaming and hidingtheir faces on convenient shoulders, and lodged half-a-dozen instrumentsof ignition and combustion in Sam Winnington's hair, singeing it andscorching his ears. Had Sam not been the best-natured and most politicfellow in the world, he would have dragged the aggressor by the collaror the cuff over the smoking crackling wood, and made the ladies shriekin greater earnest. 

There was the strange ruddy light now on this face, now on that--on WillLocke's as he overturned a shovel of groats at Dulcie's feet, and onDulcie's, so eager to cover his blunder, that she quite forgot thecircumstances of the case, and never came to herself till she had burntall the five tips of her rosy fingers catching the miller's pearls. ThenWill Locke was so sorry, stroked the fingers so daintily, hung uponCambridge so beseechingly, imploring her to prepare a cool mash forMistress Dulcie's finger points, the moment they were all gone--thatDulcie could have cried for his tenderness of heart, and quickness andkeenness of remorse. 

Conjure up the whole fourteen--the Vicar and Cambridge of thenumber--when the fire had sunk white in ashes, when they could scarcelysee each other's faces, and only guess each other's garments, having around at "Puss in the corner, " running here and rushing there, seizingthis shoulder-knot, holding tight like a child by that skirt, drawingup, pulling back, whirling round all blowsy, all panting, all faint withfun and laughter, and the roguish familiarity which yet thought no evil. Very romping, was it not? very hoydenish? yes certainly. Very improper?by no means. It was practised by dignitaries of the Church, still moreclassic than the Vicar scuttling and ducking after Cambridge (you neversaw the like), and by the pink and pride of English womanhood. 

Redwater was hospitable to these painter lads, as we understandhospitality, unquestionably, ungrudgingly hospitable; but it was morethan hospitable to them, it was profitable to them in a pecuniary sense, without which great test of its merits they could not long have tarriedwithin its bounds. They were neither fools nor hypocrites to pretend tobe clean indifferent to the main chance. 

The Vicar fancied a likeness of himself in his surplice, which hisparishioners might buy and engrave, if they had a mind to preserve hislineaments when he was no longer among them. The Justice took a notionto have his big girls and his little girls, his boy and nurse, hiswife, and himself as the sheltering stem of the whole young growth, inone canvas. 

But the great achievement was Sam Winnington's picture of Clarissa, "notas a crazy Kate this time, " she told him saucily, "but myself in my hairand brocade, to show what a grand lady I can be. " Thus Clarissa dressedherself out in one of those magnificent toilettes all in the autumnmornings, and sat there in state for hours, for the sole benefit ofposterity, unless Sam Winnington was to reap a passing advantage by theprocess. Clarissa in her brocade, with the stiff body and the skirtstanding on end, her neckerchief drawn through the straps of her bodice, her bouquet pinned, "French fashion, " on her side; surely that picturewas a masterpiece. So speaking was the copy of her deep brown hair, hersoft, proud cheek, the wave of her ripe red lips, that a tame whitepigeon, accustomed to sit on her shoulder, flew into the window right atthe canvas, and, striking against the hard, flat surface, fellfluttering and cooing in consternation to the ground. If that was not anacknowledgment of the limner's fidelity, what could be?

Clary, in person, played my lady very well, reclining in her father'sgreat chair. Her hall was roomy enough; it had its space for SamWinnington's easel as well as Clary's harpsichord, and, what was moreuseful, her spinning-wheel, besides closets and cupboards withoutnumber. Sam Winnington entertained Clarissa; he was famous in years tocome for keeping his sisters in good humour. He told her of the academyand the president's parties, of the public gardens and the wild beastshows; and how the Princesses had their trains borne as they crossed thepark. He asked her what quality in herself she valued the most; andowned that he was hugely indebted to his coolness. When his colours werenot drying fast enough, he read her a page or two of grand heroicreading from Pope's 'Homer' about Agamemnon and Achilles, Helen andAndromache; when she tired of that he was back again to the sparklinggossip of the town, for he was a brilliant fellow, with a clearintellect and a fine taste; and he had stored up and arranged elegantlyon the shelves of his memory all the knowledge that was current, and alittle more besides. 

When he was gone, Clary would meditate what powers of conversation hehad, and consider rather glumly how she would miss the portrait painterwhen he migrated to his native air, the town; how dull Redwater wouldbe; how another face would soon supplant hers on the canvas! He hadshown her others in his portfolio quite as blooming and dignified, though he had tumbled them carelessly over; and so he would treat herswhen another's was fresh before him. Clary would be restless and crossat her own suppositions; for where is the use of being a beauty and awit if one must submit to be either forgotten or beaten, even by aportrait painter?

In the meantime, the Vicar also wanted a _facsimile_ of his hayfield, asit looked when the haymakers were among the tedded grass, or under theRedwater ash-trees, to present him with a pleasant spectacle within, nowthat the bleak autumn was coming on, and there would be nothing withoutbut soaked or battered ground, dark skies, and muddy or snowy ways. TheMayor desired a pig-sty, with the most charming litter of little blackand white pigs, as nice as guinea-pigs, and their considerably coarsergrunting mamma, done to hand. He was a jolly, prosaic man, Master Mayor, very proud of his prosaicness, as you rarely see a real man of hispoetry: he maintained, though Mrs. Mayor nearly swooned at the idea, that he would sooner have a pig-sty than a batch of heroes. Perhaps theheroes of Master Mayor's day had sometimes wallowed in the mire tosuggest the comparison. And Clarissa Gage would have her bower done--herclematis bower before the leaves were brown and shrivelled and thereonly remained the loving spindle-shanked stems clinging faithfully tothe half-rotten framework which they could no longer clothe withverdure. 

What a bower Will Locke made of Clary's bower! as unique as SamWinnington's portrait of Clary herself. It was not the literal bower;and it would not have suited Master Mayor or the Justice, though itmight have had a charm for the Vicar. We will go with the Vicar;although he also had his bombast, and, when elevated by company andcheer, denominated Cambridge a goddess, and raised in the poor woman'sbreast expectations never to be realized. We don't altogether approvethat wonderful bit of work, but we like it. There never were such deepdamask roses as hung over the trellis, there never were such flamingsunflowers, or pure white lilies as looked in at the sides. Squirrelsdon't frequent garden bowers unless they are tamed and chained by theleg. Our robin redbreasts are in the fields in summer, and do not perchon boughs opposite speckled thrushes when they can get abundance ofworms and flies among the barley. We have not little green lizards atlarge in England; the only one ever seen at Redwater was in theapothecary's bottle. Still what a bower that is! What a blushing, fluttering bower, trilling with song, glancing and glowing with thebronze mail of beetles and the softened glory of purple emperors! What athing it was to examine; how you could look in and discover afresh, anddwell for five minutes at a time on that hollow petal of a flowersteeped in honey, on that mote of a ladybird crawling to its couch ofolive moss. 

Dulcie was speechless with admiration before this vision of Clarissa'sbower. Heigho! it was an enchanted bower to Dulcie as to Will Locke. Itwas veritably alive to him, and he could tell her the secrets of thatlife. What perfume the rose was shedding--he smelt it about his palette;what hour of the clock the half-closed sunflower was striking; whencethe robin and the thrush had come, and what bean fields they had flownover, and what cottage doors they had passed; of what the lizard wasdreaming in south or east as he turned over on his slimy side--all wereplain to him. 

Ostensibly Dulcie was taking lessons from Will Locke in flower-painting, for Dulcie had a delicate hand and a just eye for colours, and thesweetest, natural fondness for this simple, common, beautiful world. AndWill Locke was a patient, indulgent teacher. He was the queerest mixtureof gentleness and stubbornness, shyness and confidence, reserve andcandour. He claimed little from other people, he exacted a great dealfrom himself. He was the most retiring lad in society, backward and outof place; he was free with Dulcie as a girl of her own stamp could be. He had the most unhesitating faith in his own ability, he relied on itas on an inspiration, he talked of it to Dulcie, he impressed it uponher until he infected her with his own credulity until she believed himto be one of the greatest painters under the sun. She credited hisstrangest imagination, and that quiet lad had the fancy of a prince ofdreamers. 

In the end Dulcie was humble and almost awed in Will Locke's presence. Now here comes the sign of Dulcie's innate beauty of character. HadDulcie been a commonplace, coarse girl, she would have been wearied, aggrieved, fairly disgusted by Will Locke in three days. But Dulcie wasbrimfull of reverence, she was generous to the ends of her hair, sheliked to feel her heart in her mouth with admiration. 

The truth of the matter was, Dulcie would have been fain to lift up WillLocke's pencil as they pretend Cæsar served Titian, to clean hispalette, gather flowers for him, busk them into a nosegay, preserve themin pure water, and never steal the meanest for her own use. Will Lockewas her saint, Dulcie was quite ready to be absorbed in his beams. Wellfor her if they did not scorch her, poor little moth!

Oh! Dulcie, Dulcie, your friends could not have thought it of you--noteven Clary, tolerably misled on her own account, would have believed youserious in your enamourment, though you had gone down on your knees andsworn it to them. It was nothing but the obliging humour of MistressDulcie and the single-heartedness of the youth; still even in this mildview of the case, if their friends had paid proper attention to them, they would have counselled Dulcie to abide more securely by her chaircovers, and my simple man to stick more closely to his card or hisivory, his hedges or his hurdles. 

Sometimes, late as the season was, Will Locke and Dulcie went outpicking their steps in search of plants and animals, and it wasfortunate for Dulcie that she could pull her mohair gown through herpocket-holes, and tuck her mob-cap under her chin beneath her hat, foroccasionally the boisterous wind lifted that trifling appendage rightinto the air, and deposited it over a wall or a fence, and Will Lockewas not half so quick as Dulcie in tracing the region of its flight, neither was he so active, however willing, in recovering the truant. Why, Dulcie found his own hat for him, and put it on his head to bootone day. He had deposited it on a stone, that he might the better lookin the face a dripping rock, shaded with plumes of fern and tufts ofgrass, and formed into mosaic by tiny sprays of geranium faded intocrimson and gold. It was a characteristic of Will that while he was sofanciful in his interpretation, the smallest, commonest text sufficedhim. The strolls of these short autumn days were never barren ofinterest and advantage to him. The man carried his treasures withinhimself; he only needed the slightest touchstone from the outsideworld to draw them out. A fieldmouse's nest was nearly as good to himas an eagle's eyrie, an ox-eyed daisy as a white rose, a redhemp-nettle as a foxglove. He put down his hat and stood contemplatingthe bit of rock, until every morsel of leaf told him its tale, andthen proceeded to fill his pockets and hands with what the poorestcountry boy would have deemed the veriest weeds; and at last he wouldhave faced round, and marched home, unconscious that his fair hair, bleached like a child's, was undefended from a pitiless showerimpending over his head. Dulcie lingered dutifully behind, picked upthat three-cornered hat timidly, called his attention to hisnegligence, and while he stooped with the greatest ease in life, she, bashfully turning her eyes another way, finally clapped the coveringon his crown, as a mother bonnets her child. 

IV. --OTHER CASTS FOLLOWING THE CAST IN THE WAGGON. 

Clary and Dulcie were slightly censured for their officiousness in theaffairs of these painter fellows: but it is in the nature of women notto take well with contradiction: it is in the nature of good women tofly furiously in the face of whatever crosses their generosity, orthwarts their magnanimity. 

The crisis came about in this way: Will Locke had finished his work longbefore Sam; not that Will was more industrious, but he had not got halfthe commissions at only half the price, and that was about the usualdivision of labour between them. The two men were born to it. Sam's arttook the lucrative shape of portrait-painting; Will's the side of flowerand fruit and landscape painting, which was vilely unremunerative then, and allegorical painting, which no one will be at the pains tounderstand, or, what is more to the purpose, to buy, in this enlightenednineteenth century. Sam, who was thriving already, fell in love withClarissa Gage, with her six thousand pounds fortune: there was nopremeditation, or expediency, or cunning, in the matter; it was the luckof the man. But Will Locke could never have done it: he, who could nevermake a clear subsistence for himself, must attach himself to apenniless, cheery, quick little girl like Dulcie; and where he could notwell maintain one, must provide for two at the lowest estimate. WillLocke was going, and there was no talk of his return; Dulcie washelping him to put up his sketches with her orderly, ready, andrespectful hands. 

"When we are parted for good, I shall miss you, " he said, simply. 

Her tender heart throbbed with gratitude, but she only answered, "Are weto be parted for good? Will you never come back to Redwater?"

"I cannot come back like Sam, " he affirmed, sadly, not bitterly; "I amnot a rising man, Dulcie, though I may paint for future ages. "

A bright thought struck Dulcie, softening and warming her girlishface, till it was like one of those faces which look out of FraAngelico's pictures, and express what we are fond of talkingabout--adoration and beneficence: "Could I paint for the potteries, Master Locke?" For, in his noble thriftless way, he had initiated herinto some of the very secrets of his tinting, and Dulcie was made boldby the feats she had achieved. 

"What should set you labouring on paltry porringers?--you are providedwith your bit and sup, Mistress Dulcie. "

"I thought it might be fine to help a great painter like you, " confessedthe gentle lass; very gently, with reluctance and pain, for it was wrungby compulsion from her maidenliness. 

"Do you think so? I love you for thinking it, " he said directly: but hewould never have done so, brave as he was in his fantasies, without herdrawing him on. 

However, after that speech, there was no further talk of their partingfor good: indeed, Dulcie would do her part; and slave at these "mugs andpigs" to any extent; and all for a look of his painting before hequitted the easel of nights; a walk, hanging upon his arm, up PrimroseHill; a seat by his side on the Sundays in the city church where heworshipped. Dulcie did not care to trouble her friends at home with thematter: instead, she had a proud vision of surprising them with thesight of--her husband. "They would be for waiting till they could sparemoney to buy more clothes, or perhaps a chest of drawers; they could notafford it; no more could Will find means to fly up and down the country. Father dear will be pleased to see him so temperate: he cannot drinkmore than a glass of orange-wine, or a sip of cherry-brandy; he says itmakes his head ache: he prefers the clear, cold water, or at most a dishof chocolate. Mother may jeer at him as unmanly; she has a fine spirit, mother: and she may think I might have done better; but mother has growna little mercenary, and forgotten that she was once young herself, andwould have liked to have served a great genius with such a loving heartand such blue eyes as Will's. Ah! the girls will all envy me, when theyget a glance from Will's blue eyes: and let them, for he is too good afellow to look at anybody but his poor ordinary silly wife, and if hedid, the odds are that he would not see them: could not see whethertheir hair were black or red. Ah me! I am not sure whether Will alwayssees me--poor me--and not one of his angels from paradise. "

But Dulcie did mean to tell Clary, and to ask her what she wouldadvise her to wear for her wedding-gown, and whether she and SamWinnington would be best maid and best man. But Clary put her footthrough the plan neatly. Clary was in one of her vapourish moods whenshe inquired one night, "Is Will Locke coming down again, Dulcie? Oh!what ever is he seeking here? What more can we do for him? Nobodywants any more sheep or goats (were they sheep or goats, Dulcie?), orstrawberries and currants, unless as mutton, and kid, and preserves. And, Dulcie, you must not stand in your own light, and throw away anymore notice upon him; it is wasting your time, and the word of him maykeep away others. A match with him would be purely preposterous: evenSam Winnington, who is a great deal more of a scamp, my dear, treatshim as a sublime simpleton. "

What induced Clary to attempt to lock the stable after the steed wasstolen? What drove her off all of a sudden on this dreadfully candid andprudent tack? She only knew. Possibly it was to ease her own troubledconscience: but with Sam Winnington constantly dangling about herskirts, and receiving sufficient encouragement, too, it was hard forDulcie to bear. She was in a fine passion; she would not tell Clary, after that round of advice; no, not a word. How did she know what Clarywould do next? Perhaps forbid Will the house, when he came back fromLondon with the licence, lock her into a room, and write an evil reportto her friends? No, Dulcie could keep her own counsel: she was sorry tolive in Clary's house, and eat the bread of deceit, but she would notrisk Will's happiness as well as her own. 

Will Locke reappeared on the scene within a fortnight. The lad did nottell Dulcie, though, that he had walked the most of the way, and thathe had rendered himself footsore, in order to be able to count outDulcie's modest expenses up to town, and perhaps a month'shousekeeping beforehand: for that was the extent of his outlook. WillLocke appointed the Vicar to meet him and a young woman in Redwaterchurch, the very morning after his return: there was no use in delay, except to melt down the first money he had hoarded; and Will andDulcie were like two children, eager to have the business over anddone with, and not to do again by the same parties. The Vicar wasquite accustomed to these sudden calls, and he submitted to them witha little groan. He did not know who the young woman might be, and hedid not care; it might be Mistress Cambridge, it might be MistressClarissa herself, it might be the still-room maid, or the barmaid atthe "Rod and Fly;" it was all one to him. As for the young painterfellow, the quiet lads were as likely to slip into these scrapes asthe rattles; indeed, the chances were rather against them: the Vicarwas inclined to cry, "Catch Mr. Sam Winnington in such a corner. " Butthe Vicar was in no way responsible for a youth who was not even hisown parishioner; he was not accountable for his not having worldlygoods wherewith to endow the young woman whom he was to lead to thealtar. Oddly enough, though worldly goods are undoubtedly introducedinto the service, there are no accompanying awkward questions: suchas, "What are your worldly goods, M. ?" or, "Have you any worldlygoods, M. ?" The Vicar did not care at all, except for his incipientyawns, and his disordered appetite; he was a rebuke to gossips. 

When the hour came, Dulcie was distressed: not about wrongdoing, for thegirl had no more idea that she was doing wrong than you have when youwrite a letter on your own responsibility, and at your own dictation;not at the absence of friends, for in Dulcie's day friends wereconsidered very much in the way on such occasions. Indeed, the bestaccredited and most popular couples would take a start away from theircompanions and acquaintances, and ride ten miles or so to be marriedprivately, and so escape all ceremony. Dulcie was troubled by the wantof a wedding-gown; yes, a wedding-gown, whether it is to wear well ornot, is to a woman what a wig is to a barrister, what a uniform is to asoldier. Dulcia's had no existence, not even in a snip; no one couldcall a half-worn sacque a wedding-gown, and not even her mother's tabbycould be brought out for fear of observation. Only think! a scouredsilk: how could Dulcie "bridle" becomingly in a scoured silk? Therewould have been a certain inappropriateness in its shabbiness in thecase of one who had done with the vanities of this world: but a scouredsilk beside bridal blushes!--alas, poor Dulcie!

In every other respect, there appears something touching as well ashumorous in that primitive marriage-party on the grey October morning, with the autumn sunbeams, silver not golden, faintly brightening theyellowing vine, over the sexton's house, and the orange and greylichens, the only ornaments outside the solid old church, with its low, heavy Saxon arches. The Vicar bowed with ceremony, and with a dignifiedand deliberate air, as he recognised Mistress Dulcie; the old clerk andhis wrinkled wife stumbled into an apprehension that it was MistressClarissa Gage's friend who was to have the knot tied all by herself soearly: but it was nothing to them either--nothing in comparison with theChristmas dole. The lad and lass so trustful, so isolated, making such atremendous venture, deserved to have the cheery sunshine on their lot, if only for their faith and firmness. 

When it was over, Dulcie plucked Will's sleeve, to turn him into thevestry. One must be the guide if not the other, and "it's main often thewoman, " the old clerk would tell you, with a toothless grin. 

Then Dulcie went with Will straight to the "Rod and Fly;" for such wasthe established rule. These occurrences were so frequent, that they hadtheir etiquette cut out for them. From the "Rod and Fly" Will and Dulciesent the coolest and most composed, the most perfectly reasonable andpolite of messages, to say they had got married together that morning, and that Mistress Cambridge need not have the trouble of keepingbreakfast for Mistress Dulcie. A separate apology was sent from Dulciefor not having procured the watercresses which she was to have soughtfor Cambridge. Further, Mr. And Mrs. Will Locke would expect all oftheir friends who approved of the step they had taken to come to the"Rod and Fly, " and offer their congratulations and drink their healthsthat morning without fail; as the young couple had to start by the verywaggon in which they had first set eyes on each other. "Think of that, Will!" Dulcie had exclaimed, breathlessly, as if she was calling hisnotice to a natural phenomenon. They had now to ask and receiveDulcie's parents' blessing before they began housekeeping in Will'slodgings in London, on the strength of a month's prices with futureorders and outwork from the potteries. Oh! these old easy beginnings!What have we gained by complicating them?

Will Locke and Dulcie had cast the die, and, on the first brush of theaffair, their friends at Redwater took it as ill as possible: Clarissawas hysterical, Sam Winnington was as sulky as a bear. If this treatmentwere to be regarded as a foreshadowing of what the behaviour of theauthorities at Fairfax would prove, then the actors in the little dramamight shake in their shoes. But Will Locke placidly stood the storm theyhad brewed, only remembering in years to come some words which Dulciedid not retain for a sun-down. Dulcie was now affronted and hurt, nowsteady as a stepping-stone and erect as a sweet-pea, when either of thetwo assailants dared to blame Will, or to imply that he should haverefrained from this mischief. Why, what could Will have done? What couldshe have done without him? She was not ashamed to ask that, the momentthey reflected upon Will Locke, though she had not borne his name anhour. Oh! child, child!

Notwithstanding, it was very trying to Dulcie when Clary protestedthat she never would have believed that Dulcie could have stolen sucha march upon her; never. Dulcie to deceive her! Dulcie to betray her!Poor Clary! Whom could she turn to for affection and integrity, in thedays that might remain to her in this wicked world? She had walked allalong the street with its four or five windows in every gable turnedto the thoroughfare, with her handkerchief at her eyes, while thewhole town was up, and each window full. She was so spent now, withher exertions and her righteous indignation, that she sat fanningherself in the bar: for Will and Dulcie could not even afford aprivate room to receive their wedding company so summarily assembled. Never was such a business, in Clary's opinion; not that she had notoften heard of its like--but to happen to a kind, silly, credulouspair, such as Dulcie and Will Locke! Clary sat fanning herself, andcasting knots on her pocket-handkerchief, and glancing quickly at SamWinnington's gloomy, dogged face, so different from the little man'swonted bland, animated countenance. What on earth could make SamWinnington take the wilful deed so much to heart? Hear him ratingWill, whom he had been used to patronize in a careless, graciousstyle, but upon whom he now turned in strong resentment. Thesereproaches were not unprovoked, but they were surely out of bounds;and their matter and manner rankled in the breasts of both these menmany a day after they had crossed the Rubicon, and travelled far intothe country on whose borders they were still pressing. 

"You have disgraced yourself and me, sir! You have gone far to ruin thetwo of us! People will credit us of the same stock: a pair of needy andreckless adventurers!"

"Master Winnington, I was willing: I could do what I liked with myselfwithout your leave; and I suppose Will Locke was equally independent, "fired up Dulcie. 

"We'll never be mistaken for the same grain, Sam Winnington, " declaredWill Locke, with something like disdain. "I always knew that we wereclean different: and the real substance of the wood will come out moreand more distinctly, now that the mere bark is rubbed off. "

Clary was modified at last; she kissed and sobbed over Dulcie, wishedher joy sincerely, half promised to visit her in town, and slipped aposy ring from her own hand to the bride's, on the very finger whereWill Locke had the face to put the marriage-ring which wedded a comely, sprightly, affectionate young woman to struggles and disappointments, and a mad contest between spirit and matter. But Sam Winnington wouldnot so much as shake hands with Will; though he did not bear any maliceagainst Dulcie, and would have kissed her fingers if she would haveallowed it: and the young men, erstwhile comrades, looked so glumly andgrimly at each other, that it was a universal relief when the greatwaggon drew up at the inn door. 

Dulcie, in another character now, and that even before the fall ofthe russet leaves--half ashamed but very proud, the little goose! ofthe quick transformation--stepped into the waggon; the same boxeswere piled beside her; Will leapt in after her, and away theyrolled. There was nothing more for Dulcie to do but to wave her handto Clary and Cambridge, and the women of the inn (already fathomsdeep in her interest), and to realize that she was now a marriedwoman, and had young Will Locke the great painter, in his chrysalisstate, to look after. 

But why was Sam Winnington so irate? He had never looked sweet on Dulciefor half a second. Was it not rather that a blundering dreamer like WillLocke had anticipated him, marred his tactics, and fatally injured hisscientific game? Sam came dropping down upon Redwater whenever he couldfind leisure, when the snow was on the ground, or when the peaches wereplump and juicy, for the next two or three years. If he had not beencoming on finely in his profession, heightening his charges five guineasat a time, and if Clary had not possessed that six thousand pounds'fortune, they would have done off the matter in a trice, like Will Lockeand Dulcie Cowper. Poor Sam! poor Clary!--what an expenditure of hoursand days and emotions, they contrived for themselves! They were oftenwretched! and they shook each other's faith: it is doubtful if they everquite recovered it. They were so low occasionally that it must have beendreadfully difficult for them to get up again; they were so bitter thathow they became altogether sweet once more, without any lingeringremains of the acrid flavour in their mouths, is scarcely to beimagined. They were good and true in their inmost hearts; but it doesappear that some of the tricks of which they were guilty left them lesshonest human creatures. There was a strong dash of satire in Sam's funafterwards; there was a sharpness in Clary's temper, and a despotism inher dignity. To be sure, Clary always liked Sam's irony a thousand timesbetter than another man's charity, and Sam ever thought Clary'simpatient, imperious ways far before the cooing of any turtle-dove inthe wood; but that was only an indication that the real metal wasthere, not that it was not smirched and corroded with rust. 

The first effect of Will and Dulcie's exploit was extremely prejudicialto the second case on the books. Uncle Barnet, a flourishing Londonbarrister, a man with strong lines about his mouth, a wart on hisforehead, and great laced flaps at his coat pockets, and who wassupposed to be vehemently irresistible in the courts, hurried down toRedwater on purpose to overhaul Clary. What sort of doings were thoseshe presided over in her maiden house at Redwater? Not the runawaymarriage of a companion; that occurred every day in the most politecircles; Clary could not fairly be called to account for such a trifle;besides, a girl without a penny might do as she chose. But there wassomething a vast deal more scandalous lurking in the background: therewas word of another fellow of the same kidney buzzing about Clary--Clarywith her six thousand pounds' fortune, her Uncle Barnet, her youth, herhandsome person, her what not? Now, as sure as Uncle Barnet's name wasBarnet, as he wore a wig, as there was justice in the country, he wouldhave the law of the fellow. Don't tell him the man was advancing rapidlyin his profession. What was a painter's profession?--or the son of agallant Captain Winnington? If a gallant Captain Winnington could donothing more than gallant, he did not deserve the name; it was a pieceof fudge to cheat foolish women with. Yes; he would have the law of thefellow if he buzzed about his niece; he would have the law of Clary ifshe encouraged him. 

What could Clary do? she had been taught to look up to Uncle Barnet;she had seen polite society under his wife's wing; she had obeyed him atonce as her Mentor and her Mæcenas--as her father and prime-minister. She cried and kissed his hand, and promised not to forget her position, and to be a good girl; and as she was not engaged to Sam Winnington, anddid not know for certain that he would return to Redwater for thegrass-mowing or the hop-gathering, she thought she might be free topromise also that she would not see him again with her will. Of course, she meant to keep her word if she might; but there are two at abargain-making: and observe, she said "with her will;" she made noreference to Sam Winnington's pleasure. And yet, arrogant as Clary couldbe on her worst side, she had found her own intentions and purposesknocked down by Sam Winnington's determinations before now. 

When Sam Winnington did come down next, Clary had such honour andspirit, that she ordered the door to be shut in his face; but then shecried far more bitterly than she had done to Uncle Barnet, in the samehall where Sam had painted her and jested with her; and somehow heraffliction reached Sam's ears, living in a little place like Redwater atthe "Rod and Fly" for several days on end. 

At last another spice entered into the dish; another puppet appeared onthe boards, and increased the disorder of the former puppets. The countymember did turn up. Clary was a prophet: he came on a visit to hiscousin the Justice, and was struck with tall, red and white, andlarge-eyed Clary; he furbished up an introduction, and offered her themost marked attention. 

Mistress Clarissa was in ecstasy, so her gossips declared, and so shealmost persuaded herself, even after she had certain drawbacks to herpleasure, and certain cares intruding upon her exultation; after she wasagain harassed and pestered with the inconvenient resuscitation of thatincorrigible little plain, vain portrait painter, Sam Winnington. He wasplain--he had not the county member's Roman nose; and he was vain--Claryhad already mimicked the fling of his cravat, and the wave of his whitehands. Clever, smart fellows, like Sam Winnington, are generallycoxcombs. Oh, Sam! where, in order to serve your own turn now, be yourpurple shadows, your creamy whites, your marvellous reading of people'scharacters, and writing of the same on their faces, their backs, theirvery hands and feet, which should leave the world your delighted debtorlong after it had forgotten yon member's mighty services?

Clarissa had never danced so many dances with one evening's partner aswith the smitten member, at the assembly given on the spur of themoment in his honour, whereat Sam Winnington, standing with his hatunder his arm, and leaning against the carved door, was an observantspectator. He was not sullen as when Will Locke and Dulcie tumbledheadlong into the pit of matrimony! he was smiling and civil; but hislips were white and his eyes sunken, as if the energetic young painterdid not sleep of nights. 

Clary was not sincere; she gave that infatuated, tolerably heavy, red-faced, fox-hunting member, own cousin to the Justice, every reasonto suppose that she would lend him the most favourable ear, when hechose to pay her his addresses, and then afforded him the amplestprovocation to cry, "Caprice--thy name is woman. " She had just sung"Tantivy" to him after supper, when she sailed up to Sam Winnington, andaddressed him demurely:--

"I have come to wish you good-night, sir. "

"And I to wish you farewell, madam. "

"Farewell is a hard word, Master Winnington, " returned Clary, with agreat tide of colour rushing into her face, and a gasp as for breath, and tracing figures nervously on the floor with her little shoe and itsbrave paste-buckle. 

"It shall be said though, and that without further delay, unless threevery different words be put in its place. "

"Sir, you are tyrannous, " protested Clary, in a tremulous voice. 

"No, Mistress Clarissa, I have had too good cause to know who has beenthe tyrant in this business, " declared Sam Winnington, speaking outroundly, as a woman loves to hear a man, though it be to her owncondemnation, "You have used me cruelly, Clarissa Gage; you have abusedmy faith, wasted the best years of my life, and deceived my affections. "

"What were the three words, " asked Clary, faint and low. 

"'Yours, Sam Winnington;' or else, 'Farewell, Clarissa Gage?'"

"Yours, Sam Winnington. "

He caught her so sharp up by the arm at that sentence, that some personssaid Mistress Clarissa had staggered and was about to swoon; others, that the vulgar fellow of a painter had behaved like a brute, pulled herto his side as she was marching past him, and accused her of perjurybefore the whole ball-room. Bold men were apt at that time to seizeaggravating women (especially if they were the wives of their bosoms) bythe hairs of their heads, so that a trifling rudeness was little thoughtof. The county member, however, pricked up his long ears, flushed, fiercely stamped to the particular corner, and had a constable in hiseye to arrest the beggarly offender; but before he could get at thedisputants, he had the mortification to see them retreat amicably into aside room, and the next thing announced to him was, that MistressClarissa had evanished home, before anybody could get rightly at thebottom of the mystery. 

Very fortunately, the county member ascertained the following day, before he had compromised his pride another hair's-breadth, that thefickle damsel had accepted the painter's escort the previous evening, and had admitted the painter at an incredibly early hour the subsequentmorning. After such indiscretion, the great man would have nothing moreto say to Mistress Clarissa, but departed in great dudgeon, and wouldnever so much as set his foot within Redwater again; not even at thefollowing election. 

Uncle Barnet was forced to come round and acknowledge, with a very badgrace, that legislation in heiresses' marriages--in any marriage--is outof the question. No man knew how a marriage would turn out; you might aswell pledge yourself for the weather next morning; certainly there weresigns for the wise; but were weather almanacs deceptive institutions orwere they not? The innocent old theory of marriages being made in heavenwas the best. Clary was not such a mighty catch after all: a sixthousand pounds' fortune was not inexhaustible, and the county membermight never have come the length of asking its owner's price. People didtalk of a foolish engagement in his youth to one of his yeomen'sdaughters, and of a wealthy old aunt who ruled the roast; though herwell-grown nephew, not being returned for a rotten borough, voted withdignity for so many thousands of his fellow-subjects in the Commons. Uncle Barnet, with a peculiarly wry face, did reluctantly what he didnot often advise his clients to do, unless in desperatecircumstances--he compromised. 

Clary was made a wife in the height of summer, with all the rites andceremonies of the Church, with all the damasks, and laces, and leadingsby the tips of the fingers, and lavishings of larkspurs, lupins, andtiger-lilies proper for the occasion, which Dulcie had lost. Nay, thesupper came off at the very "Rod and Fly, " with the tap open to theroaring, jubilant public; a score of healths were drunk upstairs withall the honours, the bride and bridegroom being king and queen of thecompany: even Uncle Barnet owned that Sam Winnington was verycomplaisant--rather exceed in his complaisance, he supplementedscornfully; but surely Sam might mend that fault with others in thebright days to come. It is only the modern English who act Hamlet_minus_ the Prince of Denmark; sitting at the bridal feast without brideor bridegroom. They say hearts are often caught on the rebound, and ifall ill-treated suitors spoke out warmly yet sternly like SamWinnington, and did not merely fence about and either sneer or whine, more young fools might be saved, even when at touch-and-go with theirfolly, after the merciful fate of Clary and to the benefit of themselvesand of society. 

V. --DULCIE AND WILL, AT HOME IN ST. MARTIN'S LANE. 

While Sam and Clarissa were fighting the battles of vanity and theaffections down in the southern shire in quite a rural district, amongmills and ash-trees, and houses with gardens and garden bowers, Williamand Dulcie were combating real flesh-and-blood woes--woes that would notso much set your teeth on edge, as soften and melt your tough, dryheart--among the bricks and mortar of London. These several years werenot light sunshiny years to the young couple. It is of no use sayingthat a man may prosper if he will, and that he has only to cultivatepotatoes and cabbages in place of jessamine and passion flowers; no usemaking examples of Sir Joshua and Vandyke, and telling triumphantly thatthey knew their business and did it simply--only pretending to get alivelihood and satisfy the public to the best of their ability, butending in becoming great painters. One man's meat is another man'spoison; one man's duty is not his neighbour's. When shall we apprehendor apply that little axiom? The Duchess of Portland killed threethousand snails in order that she might complete the shell-work forwhich she received so much credit; Dulcie would not have put her footvoluntarily on a single snail for a pension. 

It was Will Locke's fate to vibrate between drudgery and dreaming;always tending more inevitably towards the latter, and lapsing into moredistant, absorbing trances, till he became more and more fantastic andunearthly, with his thin light hair, his half-transparent cheek, and hisstrained eyes. To prophesy on cardboard and canvas, in flower andfigure, with monster and star, crescent and triangle, in emerald greenand ruby red and sea blue, in dyes that, like those of the Bassani, resembled the clear shining of a handful of jewels, to prophesy in highart, to be half pitied, half derided, and to starve: was that WillLocke's duty?

Will thought so, in the most artless, unblemished, unswerving style; andhe was a devout fellow as well as a gifted one. He bowed to revelation, and read nature's secrets well before he forsook her for heaven, orrather Hades. He devoted himself to the sacrifice; he did not grudge hislust of the eye, his lust of the flesh, his pride of life. He devotedDulcie, not without pangs; and he devoted his little sickly childrenpining and dying in St. Martin's Lane. He must follow his calling, hemust fulfil his destiny. 

Dulcie was not quite such an enthusiast; she did love, honour, and obeyWill Locke, but she was sometimes almost mad to see him such a wreck. Ithad been a sent evil, and she had looked down into the gulf; but she hadmissed the depths. She had never seen its gloomy, dark, dreary nooks, poor lass! in her youthful boldness and lavishness; and our littlefeminine Curtius in the scoured silk, with the powdered brown curls, hadnot merely to penetrate them in one plunge, but had to descend, stumbling and groping her way, and starting back at the sense ofconfinement, the damp and the darkness. Who will blame her that shesometimes turned her head and looked back, and stretched up her armsfrom the desert to the flesh-pots of Egypt? She would have borneanything for her husband; and she did work marvels: she learned toengrave for him, coloured constantly with her light, pliant fingers, anddrew and painted from old fresh memories those articles of stoneware forthe potteries. She clothed herself in the cheapest and most lasting ofprinted linen sacques and mob caps, and hoods and aprons, fed herselfand him and the children on morsels wellnigh miraculously. She evenswallowed down the sight of Clary in her cut velvet and her own coach, whose panel Sam Winnington himself had not thought it beneath him totouch up for Clary's delectation and glory. If Will would only havetarried longer about his flowers and bees, and groves and rattlesnakes:if he had even stopped short at faces like those of Socrates, Cæsar, Cleopatra, Fair Rosamond--what people could understand with help--andnot slid off faster and more fatally into that dim delirium of good andevil, angels and archangels, the devil of temptation and the goblin ofthe flesh, the red fiend of war, and the pale spirit of peace!

The difference which originated at Will and Dulcie's marriage hadended in alienation. Dulcie thought that Sam Winnington would havebridged it over at one time, if Will would have made any sign ofmeeting his overtures, or acknowledged Sam's talents and fortune: nay, even if Will had refrained from betraying his churlish doubts of Sam'sperfect deserts. 

But no, this Will would not deign to do. The gentle, patient painter, contented with his own estimation of his endowments, and resigned tobe misjudged and neglected by the world, had his own indomitabledoggedness. He would never flatter the world's low taste forcommonplace, and its miserable short-sightedness; he would never payhomage to Sam Winnington which he did not deserve--a man very far fromhis equal--a mere clever portrait-painter, little better than askilled stonemason. Thus Sam Winnington and Will Locke took toflushing when each other's names were mentioned--sitting bolt uprightand declining to comment on each other's works, or else dismissingeach other's efforts in a few supremely contemptuous words. Certainlythe poor man rejected the rich not one whit less decidedly than therich man rejected the poor, and the Mordecais have always the best ofit. If we and our neighbours will pick out each other's eyes, commendus to the part of brave little Jack, rather than that of thebelligerent Giant, even when they are only eyeing each other previousto sitting down to the ominous banquet. 

But this was a difficulty to Dulcie, as it is to most women. No onethinks of men's never showing a malign influence in this world; it isonly good women who are expected to prove angels outright here below. But it does seem that there is something more touching in their havingto stifle lawful instincts, and in their being forced to oppose andovercome unlawful passions--covetousness, jealousy, wrath, "hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. "

Dulcie, with the sharpness of her little face, divested of all itscounterbalancing roundness--a keen, worn little face since the day ithad smiled so confusedly but generously out of the scurvy silk in thechurch at Redwater--was a sweet-looking woman under her care-laden air. Some women retain sweetness under nought but skin and bone; they willnot pinch into meanness and spite; they have still faith and charity. One would not wonder though Dulcie afforded more vivid glimpses of _ilBeato's_ angels after the contour of her face was completely spoilt. 

You can fancy the family room in St. Martin's Lane, some five or sixyears after Will Locke and Dulcie were wed, with its strange litter ofacids and aquafortis, graving tools and steel plates. Will and Dulciemight have been some of the abounding false coiners, had it not been forthe colours, the canvas, and the vessels from the potteries, all huddledtogether without attention to effect. Yet these were not without order, for they were too busy people to be able to afford to be purelydisorderly. They could not have had the curtain less scant, for thedaylight was precious to them; they had not space for more furniturethan might have sufficed a poor tradesman or better sort of mechanic;only there were traces of gentle birth and breeding in the casts, theprints and portfolios, the Dutch clock, and the great hulk of astate-bed hung with the perpetual dusky yellow damask, which served as anursery for the poor listless little children. 

Presently Dulcie looked after the sops, and surreptitiously awarded Willthe Benjamite's portion, and Will ate it absently with the only appetitethere; though he, too, was a consumptive-looking man--a good deal moreso than when he attracted the pity of the good wife at the "Nine MilesInn. " Then Dulcie crooned to the children of the milk-porridge she wouldgive them next night, and sang to them as she lulled them to sleep, herold breezy, bountiful English songs, "Young Roger came tapping atDolly's window, " and "I met my lad at the garden gate, " and brushedtheir faces into laughter with the primroses and hyacinths she hadbought for Will in Covent Garden Market. Will asked to see them in thespring twilight, and described the banks where they grew, with somerevival of his early lore, and added a tale of the fairies who made themtheir round tables and galleries, which caused the eldest child (theonly one who walked with Dulcie in his little coat to the church wherehe was christened) to open his heavy eyes, and clap his hot hands, andcry, "More, father, more. " Will and Dulcie looked gladly into eachother's eyes at his animation, and boasted what a stamping, thunderingman he would yet live to be--that midge, that sprite, with Dulcie'ssmall skeleton bones, and Will's dry, lustreless, fair hair!

Anon while Dulcie was still rocking one of these weary children moaningin its sleep, Will must needs strike a light to resume his belovedlabours; but first he directed his candle to his canvas, and called onDulcie to contemplate and comprehend, while he murmured and raved to herof the group of fallen men and women crouching in the den--of the windof horror raising their hair, --of the dawn of hope bursting in theeastern sky, and high above them the fiendish crew, and the captains ofthe Blessed still swaying to and fro in the burdened air, and strikingdeadly blows for supremacy. And Dulcie, open-eyed and open-mouthed as ofold, looked at the captives, as if listening to the strife that was tocome, and wellnigh heard the thunder of the captains and the shouting, while her eye was always eagerly pointed to that pearly streak which wasto herald the one long, cool, calm, bright day of humanity. No wonderDulcie was as demented as Will, and thought it would be a very littlematter though the milk-porridge were sour on the morrow, or if thecarrier did not come with the price in his pocket for these sweet pots, and bowls, and pipkins: she believed her poor babies were well at restfrom the impending dust, and din, and danger; and smiled deep, quietsmiles at Clary--poor Clary, with her cut velvet, her coach, and herblack boy. Verily Will and Dulcie could afford to refer not onlypleasantly but mercifully, to Sam Winnington and Clary that night. 

"It is contemptible to lose sight of the sublimity of life even to enjoyperfect ease and happiness. " That is a very grand saying; but, oh dear!we are poor creatures; and though Dulcie is an infinitely nobler beingnow than then, the tears are fit to start into our eyes when we rememberthe little brown head which "bridled finely, " the little feet whichpranced lightly, and the little tongue which wagged, free from care, inthe stage waggon on the country road yon clear September day. 

VI. --SAM AND CLARISSA IN COMPANY IN LEICESTER SQUARE. 

Sam and Clarissa were worshipful people now. Uncle Barnet no longerinvited them to his second-rate parties; Uncle Barnet was really proudto visit them in their own home. Sam Winnington was a discerningmortal; he had a faculty for discovering genius, especially thatwork-a-day genius which is in rising men; and he certainly hadbird-lime wherewith he could fix their feet under his hospitabletable. The best of the sages and wits of the day were to be met in SamWinnington's house; the best of the sages and wits of the day thoughtClary a fine woman, though a little lofty, and Sam a good fellow, anhonest chum, a delightful companion, and at the same time the princeof portrait-painters. What an eye he had! what a touch! How muchperception of individual character, and at the same time, what soberjudgment and elegant taste to preserve his sitters, ladies andgentlemen, as well as men and women! Cavaliers would have it, theladies and gentlemen, like Sam's condescension at his wedding-feast, overtopped the mark; but it was erring on the safe side. Who would notsink the man in the gentleman? After all, perhaps the sages and witswere not altogether disinterested: almost every one of them filled SamWinnington's famous sitter's chair, and depended on Sam's tastefulpencil handing down their precious noses and chins to posterity. 

Sam and Clary were going abroad, in that coach, which had made DulcieLocke look longingly after it, and ponder what it would be for one ofher frail children to have "a ride" on the box as far as Kensington. They were bound for the house of one of the lordly patrons of arts andletters. They were bound for my Lord Burlington's, or the Earl ofMulgrave's, or Sir William Beechey's--for a destination where they werea couple of mark and distinction, to be received with the utmostconsideration. Sam reared smartly his round but not ill-proportionedperson in his rich brocade coat, and Clary towered in the corner withher white throat, and her filmy ivory-coloured laces. 

We won't see many more distinguished men and women than the members ofthe set who frequented the old London tea-parties; and Sam Winningtonand Clary were in it and of it, while Will Locke and Dulcie werepoverty-stricken and alone with their bantlings in the garret in St. Martin's Lane. What becomes of the doctrine of happiness being equallydivided in this world, as so many comfortable persons love to opine?Possibly we don't stand up for it; or we may have our loophole, by whichwe may let ourselves out and drag it in. Was that illustrious voyage allplain sailing? Sam Winnington used to draw a long sigh, and lay back hishead and close his eyes in his coach, after the rout was over. He wasnot conscious of acting; he was not acting, and one might dare another, if that other were not a cynic, to say that the motive was unworthy. Hewanted to put his sitters on a good footing with themselves; he wantedto put the world on a good footing with itself; it was the man's nature. He did not go very far down; he was not without his piques, and likeother good-natured men--like Will Locke, for that matter--when he wasonce offended he was apt to be vindictive; but he was buoyant, and thatlittle man must have had a great fund of charity about him somewhere tobe drawn upon at first sight. Still this popularity was no joke. Therewere other rubs. The keen love of approbation in the little man, whichwas at the bottom of his suavity, was galled by the least condemnationof his work and credit; he was too manly to enact the old man and theass, but successful Sam Winnington was about as soon pricked as a manwho wears a fold of silk on his breast instead of the old plate armour. 

Clary had her own aggravations: with all her airs Clary was not a matchfor the indomitable, unhesitating, brazen (with a golden brazenness)women of fashion. Poor Clary had been the beauty at Redwater, the mostmodish, the best informed woman there; and here, in this world ofLondon, to which Sam had got her an introduction, she was a nobody;scarcely to be detected among the host of ordinary fine women, except bySam's reflected glory. This was a doubtful boon, an unsatisfactory risein the social scale. Then Clary had nobody beyond Sam to look to, andhope and pray for: she had not even sickly children to nurse, likeDulcie. Sam would only live to future generations in his paintings. Ah, well! it was fortunate that Sam was a man of genius. 

You may believe, for all the grand company, the coach, the cut velvet, the laces, and the black boy, that this world was but a mighty sorry, uneasy place to Sam and Clarissa as they rolled home over the pavement, while Will and Dulcie slept with little betwixt them and the stars. 

VII. --STRIPS SOME OF THE THORNS FROM THE HEDGE AND THE GARDEN ROSES. 

Will Locke lay dying. One would have thought, from his tranquillity, confidence, and love of work, even along with spare diet, that he wouldhave lived long. But dreamland cannot be a healthy region for a man inthe body to inhabit. Will was going where his visions would be as noughtto the realities. He was still one of the most peaceful, the happiest offellows, as he had been all his life. He babbled of the pictures hewould paint in another region, as if he were conscious that he hadpainted in a former state. It seemed, too, that the poor fellow'sspiritual life, apart from his artist career, took sounder, cheeriersubstance and form, as the other life grew dimmer and wilder. Dulcie wasalmost reconciled to let Will go; for he would be more at home in thespirit-world than here, and she had seen sore trouble, which taught herto acquiesce, when there were a Father and a Friend seen glimmeringlybut hopefully beyond the gulf. Dulcie moved about, with her childholding by her skirts, resigned and helpful in her sorrow. 

The most clouded faces in the old room in St. Martin's Lane--with itsold litter, so grievous to-day, of brushes, and colours, and gravingtools, and wild pictures which the painter would never touch more--werethose of Sam Winnington and Clary. Will had bidden Sam and Clary be sentfor to his deathbed; and, offended as they had been, and widely severedas they were now, they rose and came trembling to obey the summons. Clary gave one look, put her handkerchief quickly to her eyes, and thenturned and softly covered the tools, lifted the boiling pot to the sideof the grate, and took Dulcie's fretful, wondering child in her lap. Shewas not a fine lady now, but a woman in distress. Sam stood immoveableand uncertain, with a man's awkwardness, but a face working withsuppressed emotion. 

Will felt no restraint; he sat up in his faded coat with his cravat opento give him air, and turning his wan face with its dark shadow towardsSam Winnington in his velvet coat, with a diamond ring sparkling on hissplashed hand, and his colour, which had grown rosy of late years, heightened with emotion, addressed his old friend. 

"I wanted to see you, Sam; I had something on my mind, and I could notdepart with full satisfaction without saying it to you; I have doneyou wrong. "

Sam raised his head, startled, and stared at the sick man: poor WillLocke; were his wits utterly gone? they had always been somewhat toseek: though he had been a wonderful fellow, too, in his ownway--wonderful at flowers, and birds, and beasts, if he had but beencontent with them. 

"I called you a mere portrait-painter, Sam, " continued the dying man; "Irefused to acknowledge your inspiration, and I knew better: I saw thatto you was granted the discernment to read the human face and the soulbehind it, as to me it was given to hold converse with nature and thesubtle essence of good and evil. Most painters before you have paintedmasks; but yours are the clothings of immortals: and your flesh iswonderful, Sam--how you have perfected it! And it is not true what theytell you of your draperies: you are the only man alive who can renderthem picturesque and not absurd, refined and not stinted. You were agenteel fellow, too, from the beginning, and would no more do a dirtyaction when you had only silver coins to jingle in your pockets, thannow when they are stuffed with gold moidores. "

"Oh, Will, Will!" cried Sam, desperately bowing his head; "I have donelittle for you. "

"Man!" cried Will, with a kingly incredulity, "what could you do for me?I wanted nothing. I was withdrawn somewhat from my proper field, tomould and colour for daily bread; but Dulcie saved me many a wastedhour, and I could occupy the period of a mechanical job inconceiving--no, in marshalling my visions. Mine was a different, analtogether higher line than yours, Sam; you will forgive me if I havetold you too abruptly, " and the poverty-stricken painter, at his lastgasp, looked deprecatingly at his old honoured associate. 

But he was too far gone for ceremony; he was too near release for pain. He had even shaken hands with the few family cares he was capable ofexperiencing, and had commended Dulcie to Sam Winnington without asingle doubt. He felt, like Gainsborough, that they were all going toheaven, and Vandyke was in the company. Where was the room formisunderstanding now! Here was the end of strife, and the conclusion ofthe whole matter. Some other sentences Will spoke before his partingbreath; and when his hearers heard him murmuring the word "garment, "they fancied he still raved of his calling--on to the end. But his mindhad turned and taken refuge in another calling, and it was in referenceto it that he quoted the fragment of a verse, "And besought him thatthey might touch if it were but the border of his garment; and as manyas touched him were made whole. " "Sam, have you put forth your hand?"

Thus Will Locke departed rejoicing. Dulcie, a thin forlorn widow woman, talked with a lingering echo of his elevation, of her Will's beingbeyond lamentation, and of herself and her boy's being well off withtheir faith in the future. Dulcie had a proud, constant presentiment inthe recesses of her woman's heart that the husband and father's goodname and merited reputation would surely find his memory out in thisworld yet. She had no material possessions save a few of his gorgeous, gruesome, hieroglyphical pictures, and what she had borrowed orinherited of his lower cunning in tinting, a more marketable commodityin the present mind of society. 

Dulcie disposed of Will's paintings, reluctantly, realizing anastonishing amount; astonishing, unless you take into account the factthat his companions and contemporaries were not sure that he was a meremadman now that he had gone from their ranks. They wished to atone fortheir dislike to his vagaries by preserving some relics of the curioushandling, the grotesque imagination, the delicate taste, and the finelyaccurate knowledge of vegetable and animal forms which had passed away. 

Then Dulcie went back in the waggon to her old friends at Fairfax, and, by so doing, probably saved her sole remaining child. Dulcie didnot know whether to be glad or sorry when she found that Will's boyhad no more of his father's genius than might have been derived fromher own quick talents, and neat, nice fingers. And she was comforted:not in the sense of marrying again--oh dear, no! she cherished thememory of her Will as a sacred thing, and through all her returningplumpness and rosiness--for she was still a young woman--never forgotthe honour she had borne in being a great painter's wife and companionfor half-a-dozen years. Perhaps, good as she was, she grew rather tobrandish this credit in the faces of the cloth-workers and theirwives; to speak a little bigly of the galleries and the Academy, ofchiaroscuro and perspective, of which the poor ignoramuses knewnothing: to be obstinate on her dignity, and stand out on hergentility far before that of the attorneys' and the doctors'wives;--and all this though she had been, as you may remember, theleast assuming of girls, the least exacting of wives. But women havemany sides to their nature, and remain puzzles--puzzles in theirvirtues as in their vices; and if Dulcie were ever guilty ofostentation, you have not to dive deep to discover that it was out ofrespect to her Will--to her great, simple, single-hearted painter. 

No, Will Locke's was not a life wrecked on the rocks of adversity, anymore than Sam Winnington's was stranded on the sandbanks of prosperity. The one did a little to mellow the other before the scenes closed, andWill Locke was less obliged to Sam Winnington than Sam to Will in theend. Will's nature and career were scarcely within the scope of Sam'sgenial material philosophy; but the thought of them did grow to crossSam's mind during his long work-hours; and good painters' hours aremostly stoutly, steadily, indefatigably long. He pondered them even whenhe was jesting playfully with the affable aristocrat under his pencil;he spoke of them often to Clary when he was sketching at her work-tableof an evening; and she, knitting beside him, would stop her work andrespond freely. Then Sam would rise, and, with his hands behind hisback, go and look at that lush, yet delicate picture of the RedwaterBower which he had got routed out, framed, and hung in Clary'sdrawing-room. He would contemplate it for many minutes at a study, andhe would repeat the study scores and scores of times with always thesame result--the conviction of the ease and security resulting fromspiritualizing matter, and the difficulty and hopelessness ofmaterializing spirit. And after these long looks into the past, Samwould be more forbearing in pronouncing verdicts on his brethren, worsted in the effort to express what was inherent in their minds; wouldnot decide quite so dogmatically, that all a man had to do was to besound and diligent, and keep himself far apart from high-flown rubbish, like a common-sense, sober-minded Englishman. And Sam came to be lessfeverishly anxious about his own monopoly of public esteem; less nettledat art-criticism; perhaps less vivacious in his talents and well-doing, but more manly and serene in his triumph, as Will Locke had been manlyand serene in his failure. 

Will Locke's life and death, so devoid of pomp and renown, might bebeyond lamentation, after all. 

ADAM HOME'S REPENTANCE. 

I. --WILD, WITTY NELLY CARNEGIE. 

"A bonny bride's sune buskit; eh, Nanny Swinton?"

"But ye're no bonny, Miss Nelly; na, na, ye cannot fill the shoon o' yerleddy mother; ye're snod, and ye may shak yer tails at the Assembly, butye're far ahint Lady Carnegie. "

"An' I've but to dance my set with young Berwickshire Home, I care notthough I bide at home after all. "

But Nelly Carnegie would have little liked that resource, though she nowflung the powder out of her nut-brown hair, and tapped her little mirrorwith her fan. 

In a low dark closet, up a steep stair, in a narrow, confined, dark-browed house in the Canongate of Edinburgh, one of the belles of17--made her toilette. Her chamber woman, in curch and tartan screen, was old nurse and sole domestic of the high-headed, strong-minded, stately widow of a wild north-country laird, whose son now ruled alonein the rugged family mansion among the grand, misty mountains ofLochaber. Nelly Carnegie was no beauty; not fair as a red-and-whiterose, like Lady Eglinton, or any one of her six daughters; not dainty, like poor imprisoned Lady Lovat; she was more like desperate LadyPrimrose, flying shrieking from her mad husband's sword and pistols, orfierce Lady Grange, swearing her bootless revenge on the wily, treacherous, scared Lord of Session. She was but wild, witty NellyCarnegie, whom no precise, stern mother could tame, no hard life at herembroidery or her spinet could subdue. She was brown as a gipsy, skin, eyes, and hair--the last a rich, ruddy chestnut brown--with nothing todistinguish her figure but its diminutiveness and the nimbleness of theshapely hands and feet; while her mother's lace lappets were higher byhalf a foot than the crown of many a manikin on whom she looked down, and her back that never bent or leant for a second on rail or cushion, was straight as an arrow, as well as long. But Nelly, in her absurd, magnificent brocade, and her hoop, that made her small figure like alittle russet cask, and with busk and breast-knot and top-knot, wasadmired, as odd people will choose what is irregular, strange, and racy, in preference to what is harmonious, orderly, and insipid. 

Nelly had a cavalier to walk by her sedan, as her mother and shetraversed the rough streets. He handed her out at the old Assembly door, but she flung away his hand, and followed her mother alone within thedignified precincts, leaving a gloom and a storm on a lowering brow, unshaded by the cocked hat, then carried under the wearer's arm. 

The old Assembly Rooms where potent Jacky Murray presided, where urbaneDuncan Forbes won all hearts, where a gentle laird wooed in sweetnumbers--and in vain--the Annie Laurie of that well-known old song, arenow almost forgotten. Other things have passed away in company with thewigs and ruffles, the patches and snuff. The grace may remain, and therefinement be thorough where then it was superficial, but thecourtliness of conscious superiority, the picturesque contrarieties andbroken natural land that lay below the heaths and craters, exist but asthe black gloom and red glare of the past. 

There the grave responsible Lord of Session, sober in mien as Scotchmenare wont to be, sat at midnight and roared over his claret in the madorgies of the Hell-fire Club; here the pawky, penetrating lawyer, shrewdboth from calling and character, played the reckless game of acorrespondence with the stage Court of St. Germains; yonder mettlebeauty sailed along on her high-heeled shoes to finish the night'striumph at an oyster supper in a den behind the Luckenbooths. And thereagain walked an imperial dowager, who still span her own linen andstruck her serving-man with her ivory cane. Truly the old EdinburghAssembly Rooms had their secrets, and contained exciting enough elementsunder their formal French polish. 

The regular balls at the Assembly Rooms were eras in Nelly Carnegie'slife, and yet she met always the same company. She knew every face andname, and what was worse, danced nightly with the same partner. Theselect society was constituted at the commencement of the season, andwhen once the individual fan was drawn from the cocked-hat of fate, there was no respite, no room for change. Young Home of Staneholme hadknowledge of the filigree circle through which Nelly was wont to inserther restless fingers, and Lady Carnegie furthered his advances; so thatalthough Nelly hated him as she did the gloomy Nor' Loch, she receivedhis escort to and from the Assembly Rooms, and walked with him hersingle minuet, as inevitably as she lilted Allan Ramsay's songs, orscalded her mouth with her morning's porridge. 

Nelly's suitor was not ill to look upon, so far as flesh and blood went. He was a well-made, robust fellow, whose laced coat and deep vest showedthe comely, vigorous proportions of youth. The face was manly, too, inspite of its beardless one-and-twenty, but the broad eyebrows sank, either in study or sullenness, and the jaw was hard and fixed. 

Yet to see how Nelly strained her bonds, how she gecked and flouted andlooked above him, and curtsied past him, and dropped his hand as if itwere live coals, while the heavy brow grew darker, until it showed likea thunderstorm over the burning red of the passion-flushed cheek. 

"Tak tent, Nelly, " whispered a sedate companion, sensible, cautious, andcanny, whose flaxen hair over its roll had the dead greyness of age, though the face below was round and dimpled; "young Staneholme drew hissword last night on the President's son because he speered if he hadskill to tame a goshawk. "

"Tak tent, yerself, Janet Erskine, " Nelly responded wrathfully; "thinktwice ere you wed auld Auchtershiel. "

Janet shrank, and her bright blue eye blinked uneasily, but noadditional colour came into her cheek, nor did her voice shake, thoughit fell. "It must be, Nelly; I daurna deny my father, and mony mairdrink forby Auchtershiel; and if he cursed his last wife out and in, anddrove her son across the sea, they were thrawn and cankered, and he wastheir richtfu' head. I'll speak him fair, and his green haughs are abraw jointure. But, Nelly, do ye believe that the auld Laird--the auldane before Auchtershiel himself, he that shot the Covenanter as he hungby the saugh over the Spinkie-water, and blasphemed when heprayed--walks at night on the burn bank?"

"I dinna ken; if I did not fear a livin' sorrow, I would daur a deadane, " Nelly protested, with a shade of scorn in her levity; "and ye canbide in the house on the soft summer nights. The Lady of Auchtershielneed not daunder by the burn side; she can be countin' her house pursein the still room; but if I were her, I would rather beg my bread. "

"Whisht, for shame, Nelly Carnegie, " was returned with a shrillness inthe measured tones; "you would not; and ye'll learn yer own task, andsay Yes to sour, dour Staneholme. "

"I never will; I'll let myself be starved to death, I'll throttle myselfwith my own hands first, " cried Nelly Carnegie, fire flashing in herlarge eyes and on her dark cheeks; and looking up in her defiance shemet the glow for glow of Staneholme's star. Time-serving Janet Erskinemoved off in unconcealed trepidation, and Nelly stood her ground alone, stamping her foot upon the boards, and struggling in vain against thecruel influence which she could not control, and to which she would notbend. 

"He need not gloom and look at me; hearkeners never hear good ofthemselves, " Nelly thought, with passionate vehemence; but her sparklingeyes fell slowly, and her proud panting heart quailed with a long throb. 

II. --A GALLANT REBUFFED. --NELLY'S PUNISHMENT. 

The next time Nelly saw Adam Home was by the landing in the Canongate, in whose shelter lay the draw-well wherein the proud, gently-bornlaird's daughter every afternoon dipped the Dutch porcelain jug whichcarried the fresh spring-water wherewith to infuse her mother'scherished, tiny cup of tea. Young Home was passing, and he steppedaside, and offered to take the little vessel from her hand, and stoopand fill it. He did this with a silent salutation and glance that, retaining its wonted downward aim, yet suddenly lightened as if it lovedto rest upon the little girlish figure, in its homely tucked-up gown, the crimson hood drawn over the chestnut hair that turned back in acrisp wave from the bold, frank, innocent face. But she waved him off, and balancing her foot upon the edge-stone, saw herself reflected in thesteel-like water. Then he begged with rare softness in a voice that wasrough and gruff, unless it deepened with strong feeling--

"Will you suffer me, Nelly Carnegie? I would give my hand to pluck but aflower to serve you. "

Had he tried that tone at first, before she was more than chilled by hissombre and imperious gravity, before her mother supported himunrelentingly and galled and exasperated her by persecution, he mighthave attracted, fascinated, conquered. As it was, she jeered at him. 

"Serve me! he could do me no better service than 'mount and go. ' A posy!it would be the stinging-nettle and dank dock if he gathered it. "

The revenge he took was rude enough, but it was not unheard of in thosedays. He caught her by the wrist, and under the shadow of the abuttinggable he kissed the knitted brow and curling lips, holding her the whilewith a grasp so tight that it gave her pain. When she wrung herself fromhim, she shook her little hand with a rage that quivered through everynerve, and had more of hate than of romping folly or momentary pique inits passion. 

"Nelly Carnegie, " said her mother, as she carefully pulled out the edgeof a coil of yellow point-lace, which rested on her inlaid foreignwork-table, and contrasted with her black mode cloak and white skinnyfingers, and looking with her keen, cold, grey eyes on the rebelliousdaughter standing before her, went on, "I have word that Staneholme goessouth in ten days. "

Nelly could have said, "And welcome, " but she knew the consequences, andforbore. 

"He's willin' to take you with him, Nelly, and he shows his good bloodwhen he holds that a Carnegie needs no tocher. "

Still Nelly did not answer, though she started so violently that herloosely-crossed hands fell apart; and Nanny Swinton, who was about herhousewifery in the cupboard off the lady's parlour, heard every word, and trembled at the pause. 

"Your providing is not to buy, " continued the mistress of thearistocratic family, whose attendance was so scanty and their wants soill supplied that even in necessaries they were sometimes pinched;"we've but to bid the minister and them that are allied to us in thetown, and Nanny will scour the posset dish, and bring out the big Indianbowl, and heap fresh rose-leaves in the sweet-pots. You'll wear mymother's white brocade that she first donned when she became a Leslie, sib to Rothes--no a bit housewife of a south-country laird. She was anoble woman, and you're but a heather lintie of a lass to come of a goodkind. So God bless you, bairn; ye'll tak the blast of wind andgang. "

As if the benediction had loosened the arrested tongue, Nelly burstout--"Oh, mother, mother! no. "

Lady Carnegie, in her own person, had looked upon death with unblenchingfront, and had disowned her only son because, in what appeared to othersa trifle, he had opposed her law. Nor did a muscle of her marked facenow relax; her occupation went on without a check; she did not deign toshow surprise or displeasure, although her voice rose in harsh, ironicalemphasis--

"Nelly Carnegie, what's your will?"

"Not that man, mother; not that fearsome man!" pleaded Nelly, withstreaming eyes and beseeching tones, her high spirit for the momentbroken; her contempt gone, only her aversion and terror urging ahearing--"The lad that's blate and dull till he's braggit by hisfellows, and then starker than ony carle, wild like a north-countrycateran; even the haill bench o' judges would not stand to conter him. "

"He'll need his stiff temper; I couldna thole a man but had a mind ofhis own, my dear, " ejaculated Lady Carnegie in unexpected, clear, cherryaccents, as if her daughter's extremity was diversion to her. 

"Oh, spare me, spare me, mother, " Nelly began again. 

"Hooly and fairly, Nelly Carnegie, " interrupted the mother, stilllightly and mockingly, "who are you that ye should pick and choose? Whatbetter man will speer your price? or think ye that I've groats laid byto buy a puggy or a puss baudrons for my maiden lady?"

"I'll work my fingers to the bone, mother; my brother Hugh will not seeme want. "

"Eat bite or sup of his victuals, or mint a Carnegie's working to meagain, Nelly, and never see my face more. "

The lady had lapsed into wrath, that burned a white heat on her wrinkledbrow, and was doubly formidable because expressed by no hasty word orgesture. 

"Leave my presence, and learn your duty, belyve, for before the turn ofthe moon Staneholme's wife ye sall be. "

Do not think that Nelly Carnegie was beaten, because she uttered nofurther remonstrance. She did not sob, and beg and pray beyond a fewminutes, but she opposed to the tyrannical mandate that disposed of herso summarily the dead weight of passive resistance. She would give notoken of submission; would make no preparation; she would neither stirhand nor foot in the matter. A hundred years ago, however, the head of afamily was paramount, and household discipline was wielded withoutmercy. Lady Carnegie acted like a sovereign: she wasted no time onarguments, threats or entreaties. She locked her wilful charge into adark sleeping-closet, and fed her on bread and water until she shouldconsent to her fate. Sometimes Nelly shook the door until its hingescracked, and sometimes she flung back the prisoner's fare doled out toher; and then her mother came with a firm, slow, step, and in her hard, haughty manner commanded her to cease, or she would tie her hand andfoot, and pour meat and drink down her throat in spite of her. ThenNelly would lie down on the rough boards, and stretch out her hands asif to push the world from her and die in her despair. But the young lifewas fresh and strong within her. She panted for one breath of the breezethat blew round craggy Arthur's Seat, and one drink of St. Anthony'sWell, and one look, if it were the last, of the golden sunshine, nobeams of which could penetrate her high, little window. She would fainhave gone again up the busy street, and watched the crowds ofpassengers, and listened to the bustling traffic, and greeted herfriends and acquaintances. Silence and solitude, and the close air thatoppressed her, were things very foreign to her nature. In the darknight, when her distempered imagination conjured up horrible dreams, Nanny Swinton stole to her door, and bemoaned her bird, her lamb, whispering hoarsely, "Do her biddin', Miss Nelly; she's yer leddymother; neither man nor God will acquit you; your burden may be lichterthan ye trow. " And Nelly was weary, and had sinful, mad thoughts ofliving to punish her enemies more by the fulfilment of their desire thanby the terrors of her early death. So the next time her mother tapped onthe pannel with her undaunted, unwearied "Ay or no, Nelly Carnegie? Ginthe bridal be not this week, I'll bid him tarry another; and gin heweary and ride awa', I'll keep ye steekit here till I'm carried out acorp before ye, and I'll leave ye my curse to be coal and candle, andsops and wine, for the lave o' yer ill days. "

Nelly gasped out a husky, wailing "Ay, " and her probation was at an end. 

III. --A MOURNFUL MARRIAGE EVE. 

There was brief space now for Nelly's buying pearlins and pinners, andsacques and mantles, and all a young matron's bravery, or for decoratinga guest chamber for the ceremony. But Lady Carnegie was not to be balkedfor trifles. Nanny Swinton stitched night and day, with salt tears fromaged eyes moistening her thread; and Nelly did not swerve from hercompact, but acted mechanically with the others as she was told. With astrange pallor on the olive of her cheek, and swollen, burning lids, drooping over sunk violent lines beneath the hot eyeballs, and cold, trembling hands, she bore Staneholme's stated presence in these long, bleak March afternoons. He never addressed her particularly, although hetook many a long, sore look. Few and formal then were the lover'sdevoirs expected or permitted. 

The evening was raw and rainy; elderly gentlemen would have needed"their lass with a lantern, " to escort them from their chambers. Theold city guard sputtered their Gaelic, and stamped up and down forwarmth. The chairmen drank their last fee to keep out the cold--andin and out of the low doorways moved middle-aged women barefooted, and in curch and short gown, who, when snooded maidens, had gazed onthe white cockade, and the march of Prince Charlie Stuart and hisHighlandmen. Down the narrow way, in the drizzly dusk, ran a slightfigure, entirely muffled up. Fleet of foot was the runner, and blindlyshe held her course. Twice she came in contact with interveningobstacles--water-stoups on a threshold, gay ribbons fluttering from abooth. She was flying from worse than death, with dim projects ofbegging her way to the North, to the brother she had parted from when achild; and ghastly suggestions, too, like lightning flashes, of seizinga knife from the first butcher's block and ending her misery. 

Hasty steps were treading fast upon her track. She distinguished themwith morbid acuteness through the speed of her own flight. They weremingled steps--a feeble hurrying footfall, and an iron tread. Shethreaded a group of bystanders, and, weak and helpless as she was, prepared to dive into a mirk close. Not that black opening, NellyCarnegie, it is doomed to bear for generations a foul stain--the sceneof a mystery no Scottish law-court could clear--the Begbie murder. Butit was no seafaring man, with Cain's red right hand, that rushed aftertrembling, fainting Nelly Carnegie. The tender arms in which she hadlain as an infant clutched her dress; and a kindly tongue faltered itsfaithful, distressed petition--

"Come back, come back, Miss Nelly, afore the Leddy finds out; ye hae naerefuge, an' ye're traced already by mair than me. "

But in a moment strong hands were upon her, holding her like afluttering moth, or a wild panting leveret, or a bird beating its wings;doing her no violence, however, for who would brush off the down, ortear the soft fur, or break the ruffled feathers? She struggled sofrantically that poor old Nanny interposed--

"Na, sir; let her be; she'll gae hame wi' me, her ain bornserving-woman. And oh, Staneholme, be not hard, it's her last nicht. "

That was Nelly Carnegie's marriage eve. 

On the morrow the marriage was celebrated. The bridegroom might pass, inhis manly prime and his scarlet coat, although a dowf gallant; but whowould have thought that Nelly Carnegie in the white brocade which washer grandmother's the day that made her sib to Rothes--Nelly Carnegiewho flouted at love and lovers, and sported a free, light, brave heart, would have made so dowie a bride? The company consisted only of LadyCarnegie's starched cousins, with their husbands and their daughters, who yet hoped to outrival Nelly with her gloomy Lauderdale laird. 

The hurried ceremony excused the customary festivities. The family partycould keep counsel, and preserve a discreet blindness when the ringdropped from the bride's fingers, and the wine stood untasted beforeher, while Lady Carnegie did the honours as if lonely age and narrowcircumstances did not exist. 

IV. --NELLY CARNEGIE IN HER NEW HOME. 

The March sun shone clear and cold on grey Staneholme, standing on theverge of a wide moor, with the troubled German Ocean for a background, and the piping east wind rattling each casement. There was haste andhurry in Staneholme, from the Laird's mother down through her buxommerry daughters to the bareheaded servant-lasses, and the substitutesfor groom and lacquey, in coarse homespun, and honest, broad bluebonnets. There was bustle in the little dining-room with its highwindows, which the sea-foam sometimes dimmed, and its spindle-leggedchairs and smoked pictures. There was blithe work in the cheerful hall, in whose broad chimney great seacoal fires blazed--at whose hummingwheels the young Mays of Staneholme, as well as its dependants, stilltook their morning turn. There was willing toil in the sleeping-rooms, with their black cabinets and heavy worsted curtains. And there was athronged _mêlée_ in the court formed by the outhouses, over whose wallsthe small-leaved ivy of the coast clustered untreasured. Staneholme'sfavourite horse was rubbing down; and Staneholme's dogs were airing incouples. Even the tenantry of the never-failing pigeon-house at thecorner of the old garden were in turmoil, for half-a-score of theirnumber had been transferred to the kitchen this morning to fill thegoodly pasties which were to anticipate the blackberry tarts and sweetpuddings, freezing in rich cream. But the sun had sunk behind the moorwhere the broom was only budding, and the last sea-mew had flown to itsscaur, and the smouldering whins had leaped up into the first yellowflame of the bonfires, and the more shifting, fantastic, brilliantbanners of the aurora borealis shot across the frosty sky, before thefirst faint shout announced that Staneholme and his lady had come home. With his wife behind him on his bay, with pistols at his saddle-bow, and"Jock" on "the long-tailed yad" at his back, with tenant retainers andveteran domestics pressing round--and ringing shouts and homely huzzasand good wishes filling the air, already heavy with the smoke of goodcheer--Staneholme rode in. He lifted down an unresisting burden, took inhis a damp, passive hand, and throwing over his shoulder brief, brokenthanks, hurried up the flight of stairs, through the rambling, crookedpassages into the hall. 

Staneholme was always a man of few words. He was taken up, as was right, with the little lady, whose habit trailed behind her, and who neverraised her modest eyes. "Well-a-day! the Laird's bargain was of sma'buik, " thought the retainers, but "Hurrah" for the fat brose and lumpsof corned beef, and the ale and the whisky, with which they are now tobe regaled!

In the hall stood Joan and Madge and Mysie, panting to see their grandEdinburgh sister. They were only hindered from running down into theyard by the deposed mistress of Staneholme, whose hair was as white assnow, and who wore no mode mantle nor furbelows nor laces, like proudLady Carnegie. She was dressed in a warm plaiden gown and a close mobcap, with huge keys and huswife balancing each other at eitherpocket-hole, and her cracked voice was very sweet as she reiterated"Bide till he bring her here, my bairns, " and her kindly smile wasmotherly to the whole world. But think you poor vanquished NellyCarnegie's crushed heart leapt up to meet these Homes--that her eyesglanced cordially at Joan, and Madge, and Mysie--that her cheek wasbent gratefully to receive old Lady Staneholme's caress? No, no; Nellywas too wretched to cry, but she stood there like a marble statue, andwith no more feeling, or show of feeling. Was this colourless, motionless young girl, in her dusty, disarranged habit, and the featherof her hat ruffled by the wind, the gay Edinburgh beauty who had wonStaneholme! What glamour of perverse fashion had she cast into his eyes!

"Wae's me, will dule never end in this weary warld? Adam lad, Adam, whatdoom have you dragged doon on yoursel'?" cried Lady Staneholme; andwhile the thoughtless, self-absorbed girls drew back in disappointment, she met her son's proud eyes, and stepping past him, let her hand presslightly for a second on his shoulder as she took in hers Nelly'slifeless fingers. She said simply to the bride, "You are cold and weary, my dear, and supper is served, and we'll no bide making compliments, butyou're welcome hame to your ain gudeman's house and folk; and so I'lllead you to your chamber in Staneholme, and then to the table-head, yourfuture place. " And on the way she explained first with noble humilitythat she did not wait for a rejoinder, because she had been deaf eversince Staneholme rode post haste from Edinburgh from the last sitting ofthe Parliament; and that since she was growing old, although it waspleasant to her to serve the bairns, yet she would be glad to relinquishher cares, and retire to the chimney-corner to her wheel and her book;and she blessed the Lord that she had lived to see the young mistress ofStaneholme who would guide the household when she was at her rest. Nelly heard not, did not care to recognise that the Lady of Staneholme, in her looks, words, and actions, was beautiful with the rare beauty ofa meek, quiet, loving spirit which in those troublous days had buddedand bloomed and been mellowed by time and trial. Nor did Nelly pause toconsider that had she chosen, she whose own mother's heart had nevermelted towards her, might have been nestled in that bosom as in an arkof peace. 

When Lady Staneholme conducted Nelly down the wide staircase into thechill dining-room, and to the chair opposite the claret-jug of themaster of the house, Nelly drew back with sullen determination. 

"Na, but, my bairn, I'm blithe for you to fill my place; Staneholme'smither may well make room for Staneholme's wife, " urged the lady, gently. 

But Nelly remained childishly rooted in her refusal to preside at hisboard, unless compelled; and her brow, knit at the remembrance of herfall, was set to meet the further encounter. Joan and Madge and Mysie, with their blooming cheeks, and their kissing-strings new for theoccasion, stared as if their strange sister was but half endowed withmother wit; and Lady Staneholme hesitated until Adam Home uttered hisshort, emphatic "As she pleases, mother, " while the flush flew to hisforehead, and his firm lip shook. 

Staneholme had resolved never to control the wife he had forced into hisarms, beyond the cold, daily intercourse which men will interchange witha deadly foe, as well as with a trusty frere; never to approach herside, nor attempt to assuage her malice nor court her frozen lips intoa smile. This was his purpose, and he abode by it. He farmed his land, he hunted, and speared salmon, was rocked in his fishing-boat as far asSt. Abbs, read political pamphlets, and sat late over his wine, andsometimes abetted the bold smuggling, much like his contemporaries. Butno pursuit which he followed with fitful excess seemed to satisfy him asit did others, and he never sought to supplement it by courting hisalien wife. 

Lady Staneholme would fain have made her town-bred daughter-in-lawenamoured with the duties of a country life, and cheered the strangejoylessness of her honeymoon. Failing in this attempt, she, with acovert sigh, half-pain, half-pleasure, resumed the old oversight oflarder and dairy. Such care was then the delight of many anunsophisticated laird's helpmate; and, to the contented Lady ofStaneholme, it had quite made up for the partial deprivation of socialintercourse to which her infirmity had subjected her. Joan, Madge, andMysie, wearied of haughty Nelly after they had grown accustomed to thegrand attire she wore, denied that they had ever been dazzled with it, and ceased to believe that she had danced minuets in the Assembly Roomsbefore Miss Jacky Murray. They had their own company and their ownstories, into which they had no temptation to drag an interloper. 

Nelly, in her desolation standing apart in the centre of the wholesome, happy family circle, grew to have her peculiar habits and occupations, her self-contained life into which none of the others could penetrate. 

V. --NELLY'S NEW PASTIMES. 

The sea-pink and the rock saxifrage were making the rugged rocks gay, the bluebell was nodding on the moor, and Nelly had not died, as shefoolishly fancied she should. She had learned to wander out along theshore or over the trackless moor for hours and hours, and often returnedfootsore and exhausted. She who had been accustomed only to theCanongate and High Street of Edinburgh, the tall houses with theiroccasional armorial bearings, the convenient huckster shops--theirirregular line intersected by the strait closes, the traffic and gossip;or to the forsaken royal palace, and the cowslips of the King'sPark--could now watch the red sunset burnishing miles on miles of wavingheather, and the full moon hanging above the restless tide. She couldlisten to the surf in the storm, and the ripple in the calm, to the cryof the gull and the wh-r-r of the moorcock; pull wild thyme, and pick uprose-tinted shells and perforated stones; and watch shyly her hardycottar servants cutting peats and tying up flax, and even caughtsnatches of their rude Border lore of raid and foray under doughtyHomes, who wore steel cap and breastplate. 

The coast-line at Staneholme was high and bold, but in place ofdescending sheerly and precipitately to the yellow sands, it sloped in agreen bank, broken by gullies, where the long sea-grass grew in tangledtufts, interspersed with the yellow leaves of the fern, and in whosesheltered recesses Nelly Carnegie so often lingered, that she left themto future generations as "Lady Staneholme's Walks. "

There she could see the London smacks and foreign luggers beating up toride at the pier of Leith. There she could sit for hours, half-hidden, and protected from the sea blast, mechanically pulling to pieces thedried, blackened seaweed blown up among the small, prickly blush roses. In her green quilted petticoat and spencer she might have been one ofthe "good people's changelings, " only the hue of her cheek was more likethat of a brownie of the wold; and, truly, to her remote world there wasan impenetrable mystery about the young mistress of Staneholme, in herestrangement and mournfulness. Some said that she had favoured anotherlover, whom Staneholme had slain in a duel or a night-brawl; some thatthe old Staneholmes had sold themselves to the Devil, and a curse was ontheir remotest descendants; for was not the young laird _fey_ at times, and would not the blithe sisters pass into care-worn wives and matrons?

There sat Nelly, looking at the sea, musing dreamily and drearily on OldEdinburgh, or pondering with sluggish curiosity over the Homes, andwhat, from casual looks and words, she could not help gathering of theirhistory. The Lairds of Staneholme had wild moss-trooper blood in theirveins, and they had vindicated it to the last generation by unsettledlives, reckless intermeddling with public affairs, and inveterate feudswith their brother lairds. 

Adam Home's was a hot heart, constant in its impetuosity, buried beneathan icy crust which he strove to preserve, but which hissed and crackledwhen outward motives failed, or when opposition fanned the inner glow. With the elements of a despot but half tamed, and like many anothertyrant, unchallenged master of his surroundings, Staneholme wielded hisauthority with fair result. Tenant and servant, hanger-on and sprig ofthe central tree, bore regard as well as fear for the young laird--allsave Staneholme's whilom love and wedded wife. 

Nelly did not wish to understand this repressed, ardent nature, althoughits developments sometimes forced themselves upon her. She had heardStaneholme hound on a refractory tyke till he shouted himself hoarse, and yet turn aside before the badger was unearthed; she had seen himclimb the scaurs, and hang dizzily in mid-air over the black water, tosecure the wildfowl he had shot, and it was but carrion; and once, Joanand Madge, to whom he was wont to be indulgent in a condescending, superior way, trembled before the stamp of his foot and the kindlingflash of his eye. Some affair abroad had disturbed him and he came intothe hall, when his sisters' voices were raised giddily as they playedoff an idle, ill-thought-of jest on grave, cold Nelly. "Queans andfools, " he termed them, and bade them "end their steer" so harshly, thatthe free, thoughtful girls did not think of pouting or crying, butshrank back in affright. Nelly Carnegie, whom he had humbled to thedust, was below his anger. 

When the grey mansion of Staneholme basked in the autumn sun, anauspicious event gladdened its chambers. Joan was matched with a gay, gallant young cousin from Teviotdale, and from the commencement of theshort wooing to the indefatigable dance which the young bride herselfled off right willingly, all was celebrated with smiles and blessings, and harvest-home fulness of joy and gratitude. But a dark shadow movedamong the merrymakers. A young heart robbed of its rights, like anupbraiding ghost, regarded the simple, loving, trusting pair, andcompared their consecrated vows with the mockery of a rite into which ithad been driven. 

The only change time brought to Nelly, was the progress of anunacknowledged bond between her and good old Lady Staneholme. Theobstacle to any interchange of ideas and positive confidence betweenthem, was the inducement to the tacit companionship adopted by the sick, wayward heart, with its malady of wrong and grief. Influenced by aninstinctive, inexplicable attraction, Nelly's uncertain footstepsfollowed Lady Staneholme, and kept pace with her soft tread, when sheoverlooked her spinners and knitters, gave out her linen and spices, turned over her herbs, and visited her sick and aged. There they wereseen--the smiling, deaf old lady, fair in her wrinkles, and her mute, dark, sad daughter whom in patient ignorance she folded in her mantle ofuniversal charity. 

VI. --THE LAIRD CONSCIENCE-SMITTEN. 

Under a pale February sun Nelly was out on the sea-braes, where thesprays of the briar-roses were swept in circles, streaming far and wide. She lingered in the hollow, and strayed to the utmost limit of her path. As she was returning, her eye fell on the folds of an object flutteringamong the tedded grass. It was Staneholme's plaid. This was the firsttime he had intruded upon her solitary refuge. When Nelly climbed theascent, and saw the mansion house, with its encumbered court, she coulddistinguish the sharp sound of a horse's hoof. Its rider was already outof sight on the bridle-road. Michael Armstrong, the laird's man, wasmounting his own nag; Wat Pringle, the grieve, and other farm folk, stood looking after the vanished traveller; Liddel, the Tweedsideretriever, paced discontentedly up and down; and old Lady Staneholme mether on the threshold, and as on the night of her arrival at Staneholme, led her up the staircase and into her sleeping-chamber. Nelly marked, with dim dread, the tear-stains on the pallid cheeks of placid age, andthe trembling of the feeble hand that guided her. She had nothing tofear; but what was the news for which there was such solemn preparation?

"My puir bairn, " Lady Staneholme began brokenly, "I've had an interviewwith my son, and I've learnt, late, some passages in the past; and Iwonder not, but I maun lament, for I am a widow mother, Nelly, and myonly son Adam who did you wrong and showed you no pity, has got hisorders to serve with the soldiers in the Low Countries. He has notstayed to think; he has left without one farewell: he is off and away, to wash out the sins of him and his in his young blood. I will never seehis face more: but you are a free woman; and, as the last duty he willreceive at your hand, he bids you read his words. "

Nelly's hand closed tightly over its enclosure. "Who says I told he didme wrang?" she said, proudly, her dilated eyes lifted up to thedeprecating ones that did not avoid her gaze. 

"Na, na, ye never stoopit to blame him. Weary fa' him! NellyCarnegie, " ejaculated honest Lady Staneholme, "although he is my ainthat made you his, sair, sair against your woman's will, and so bingedup blacker guilt at his doorstane, as if the lightest heritage o' sinwerena' hard to step ower. But, God forgive me! It's old Staneholmerisen up to enter afresh upon his straits, and may He send him pardonand peace in His ain time. "

"Nelly" (Staneholme's letter said), --"for _my_ Nelly you'll never be, though the law has given me body and estate, --what garred me love youlike life or death? I've seen bonnier, and you're no so good as mymother, or you would have forgiven me long syne. Why did you laugh, andmock, and scorn me, when I first made up to you among your fineEdinburgh folks? Had you turned your shoulder upon me with stillsteadfastness, I might have been driven to the wall--I would havebelieved you. When you said that you would lie in the grave sooner thanin my arms, you roused the evil temper within me; and though I hadmounted the Grassmarket, I swore I would make you my wife. What call ortitle had you, a young lass, to thwart your lady mother and the Laird ofStaneholme? And when I had gone thus far--oh! Nelly, pity me--there wasno room to repent or turn back. I dared not leave you to dree alane yourmother's wrath: there was less risk in your wild heart beating itself todeath against the other, that would have gladly shed its last drop forits captive's sake. But Heaven punished me. I found, Nelly, that thehand that had dealt the blow could not heal it. How could I approach youwith soft words, that had good right to shed tears of blood for mydeeds? So, as I cannot put my hand on my breast and die like my father, I'll quit my moors and haughs and my country; I'll cross the sea andbear the musquetoon, and never return--in part to atone to you, for yousall have the choice to rule with my mother in the routh and goodwill ofStaneholme, or to take the fee for the dowager lands of Eweford, anddwell in state in the centre of the stone and lime, and reek, and lordsand ladies of Edinburgh; in part because I can hold out no longer, norbide another day in Tantalus, which is the book name for an ill place offruitless longing and blighted hope. I'll no be near you in your danger, because when other wives cry for the strong, grieved faces of theirgudemen, you will ban the day your een first fell upon me. NellyCarnegie, why did my love bring no return; no ae sweet kiss; never yet akind blink of your brown een, that ance looked at me in gay defiance, and now heavily and darkly, till they close on this world?"

Something more Staneholme raved of this undeserved, unwon love, whosepossession had become an exaggerated good which he had continued tocrave without word or sign, with a boy's frenzy and a man's stanchness. Nelly lost her power of will: she sat with the paper in her hand as ifshe had ceased to comprehend its contents--as if its release frombondage came too late. 

"Dinna ye ken, Nelly woman, his presence will vex you no longer? you'reat liberty to go your own gate, and be as you have been--that was hispropine, " whispered Lady Staneholme, in sorrowful perplexity, butwithout rousing Nelly from her stupor. They lifted her on her bed, andwatched her until her trial took hold of her. No stand did Nelly makeagainst pain and anguish. She was sinking fast into that dreamless sleepwhere the weary are at rest, when Lady Staneholme stood by her bed andlaid an heir by her side, bidding her rejoice, in tones that fell offinto a faint quivering sob of tenderness and woe; but Nelly's crushed, stunned heart had still some hidden spring among its withered verdure, and her Benoni called her back from the land of forgetfulness. 

VII. --BLESSING AND AFFLICTION--ADAM HOME'S RETURN. 

Nelly recovered, at first slowly but cheeringly, latterly with a doubtand apprehension creeping over her brightening prospect--until, all toocertainly and hopelessly, her noon, that had been disturbed withthunder-claps and dashing rain, was shrouded in grey twilight. 

Nelly would live, but her limbs would never more obey her active spirit, for she had been attacked by a relentless malady. The little feet thathad slid in courtly measure, and twinkled in blithe strathspeys, andwandered restlessly over moor and brae, were stretched out in leadenhelplessness. When she was young, she "had girded herself and gonewhither she would;" but now, ere she was old, while there was not onesilver thread in those chestnut locks, "another would gird her and carryher whither she would not. " And oh! to think how the young mother'sheart, ready to bud and bloom anew, was doomed to drag out a protractedexistence, linked to the corpse-like frame of threescore and ten, untilthe angel of death freed it from its tabernacle of clay. 

Nelly never spoke of her affliction--never parted from her baby. Travelling with difficulty, she removed to Edinburgh, to the aspiringtenement in the busy Canongate, which she had quitted in herdistraction. Lady Carnegie, in her rustling silk and with her clickingivory shuttle, received her into her little household, but did not careto conceal that she did so on account of the aliment Staneholme hadsecured to his forsaken wife and heir. She did not endure the occasionalsight of her daughter's infirmities without beshrewing them, as areflection on her own dignity. She even sneered and scoffed at them, until Nanny Swinton began to fear that the judgment of God might strikeher lady--a venerable grandame still without one weakness of bodilydecay or human affection. 

And did Nelly fret and moan over the invalid condition for which therewas neither palliation nor remedy? Nay, a blessing upon her at last; shebegan to witness a good testimony to the original mettle and bravery ofher nature. She accepted the tangible evil direct from God's hand, sighingly, submissively, and with a noble meekness of resignation. Sherose above her hapless lot--the old Nelly Carnegie, though subdued andchastened, was in a degree restored. 

"Nanny! Nanny Swinton!" called Nelly from her couch, as she managed tohold up, almost exultingly, the big crowing baby, in its quaintest ofmantles and caps, "Staneholme's son's a braw bairn, well worthy LadyCarnegie's coral and bells. "

"'Deed is he, " Nanny assented. "He'll grow up a stately man like hisgrandsire;" and recurring naturally to forbidden memories, she went on:"He'll be the marrow of Master Hugh. Ye dinna mind Master Hugh, LadyStaneholme?--the picture o' auld Lady Carnegie. That I sud call herauld!"

Nelly's brow contracted with something of its old indignation. "There'snever a look of the Carnegies in my son; he has his father's brow andlip and hair, and you're but a gowk, Nanny Swinton!" and Nelly lay backand closed her eyes, and after a season opened them again, to tell NannySwinton that "she had been dreaming of a strange foreign city, full ofpictures and carved woodwork, and of a high-road traversing a richplain, shaded by apple and chestnut trees, and of something winding andglittering through the branches, " leaving Nanny, who could not stand thesight of two magpies, or of a cuckoo, of a morning before she had brokenher fast, sorely troubled to account for the vision. 

The gloaming of a night in June was on the Canongate and the silentpalace of the gallant, gentle King James. Lady Carnegie was gracing somerout or drum; Nanny Swinton was in her kitchen, burnishing hersuperannuated treasures, and crooning to herself as she worked; Nelly, in her solitary, shadowy room, lay plaiting and pinching the cambric andmuslin gear whose manufacture was her daily occupation, with her child'sclumsy cradle drawn within reach of her hand. Through the dim light, shedistinguished a man's figure at the door. Nelly knew full well thoselineaments, with their mingled fire and gloom. They did not exasperateher as they had once done; they appalled her with great shuddering; andsinking back, Nelly gasped--

"Are you dead and gone, Staneholme? Do you walk to seek my love that yeprigget for, but which canna gladden you now? Gae back to the bottom ofthe sea, or the bloody battle-field, and in the Lord's name rest there. "

The figure stepped nearer; and Nelly, even in her blinding terror, distinguished that it was no shadowy apparition, but mortal likeherself. The curdling blood rushed back to Nelly's face, flooding thecolourless cheek, and firing her with a new impulse. She snatched herchild from its slumber, and clasped it to her breast with her thintransparent hands. 

"Have you come back to claim your son, Adam Home? But you'll have totear him from me with your man's strength, for he's mine as well asyours; and he's my last, my only jewel. "

And Nelly sat bolt upright, her rosy burden contrasting with her young, faded face, and her large eyes beginning to flame like those of a wildbeast about to be robbed of its young. 

"Oh no, Nelly, no, " groaned Staneholme, covering his face; "I heard ofyour distress, and I came but to speer of your welfare. " And he made amotion to withdraw. 

But Nelly's heart smote her for the wrong her rash words had done him--awayworn, conscience-smitten man--and she recalled him relentingly. 

"Ye may have meant well. I bear you no ill-will; I am stricken myself. Take a look at your laddie, Adam Home, before ye gang. "

He advanced when she bade him, and received the child from her arms; butwith such pause and hesitation that it might have seemed he thought moreof his hands again meeting poor Nelly Carnegie's, and of her breathfanning his cheek, than of the precious load she magnanimously intrustedto him. He did look at the infant in his awkward grasp, but it was witha stifled sigh of disappointment. 

"He may be a braw bairn, Nelly--I know not--but he has no look ofyours. "

"Na, he's a Home every inch of him, my bonny boy!" Nelly assented, eagerly. After a moment she turned her head, and added peevishly, "I'm asick woman, and ye needna mind what I say; I'm no fit for company. Goodday; but mind, I've forgotten and forgiven, and wish my bairn's fatherwell. "

"Nanny Swinton, " called Nelly to her faithful nurse, as she lay awake onher bed, deep in the sober dimness of the summer night, "think you thatStaneholme will be booted and spurred with the sun, riding through theLoudons to Lauderdale?"

"It's like, Lady Staneholme, " answered Nanny, drowsily. "The keep o' manand beast is heavy in the town, and he'll be tain to look on his ainhouse, and greet the folk at home after these mony months beyond theseas. Preserve him and ilka kindly Scot from fell Popish notions rifeyonder!"

"A miserable comforter are you, Nanny Swinton, " muttered her mistress, as she hushed her child, and pressed her fevered lips to each tinyfeature. 

VIII. --THE RECONCILIATION AND RETURN TO STANEHOLME. 

But Staneholme came again in broad light, the next day--the next--andthe next, with half excuses and vague talk of business. Lady Carnegiedid not interdict his visits, or blame his weakness and inconsistency, for they were seemly in the eyes of the world--which she honoured, afterherself, although she washed her hands of the further concerns of thesefools. 

And Nelly talked to him with a grave friendliness, like one restoredfrom madness or risen from another world. "Staneholme, you've neverkissed the wean, and it's an ill omen, " she said, suddenly, watching himintently as he dandled the child; and as if jealous of any omissionregarding it, she appeared satisfied when he complied with her fancy. 

"The curtain is drawn, and the shadow is on you; but is that a scar onyour brow, Staneholme, and where did you get it?"

"A clour from a French pistol;" it was but skin deep--he was off hiscamp-bed in a few days. 

He stooped forward, as he spoke slightingly, and pushed back the hairthat half obscured the faint blue seam. 

"Whisht!" said Nelly, reprovingly, "dinna scorn sickness; that bitstroke might have cost Lady Staneholme her son and my bairn his father;"and she bent towards him in her turn, and passed her fingers curiouslyand pityingly over the healed wound, ignorant how it burned and throbbedunder her touch. "When the bairn is grown, and can rin his lane, Staneholme, " Nelly informed him in her new-found freedom of speech, "Iwill send him for a summer to Staneholme; I'll be lonesome without him, but Michael Armstrong will teach him to ride, and he'll stand by LadyStaneholme's knee. " Staneholme expressed no gratitude for the offer, hewas fastening the buckle of his beaver. The next time he came he twisteda rose in his hand, and Nelly felt that it must indeed be Beltane: shelooked at the flower wistfully, and wondered "would the breezes beshaking the bear and the briar roses on the sea-braes at Staneholme, orwere the grapes of southern vines bonnier than they?" He flung down theflower, and strode to her side. 

"Come hame, Nelly, " he prayed passionately; "byganes may be byganes now. I've deserted the campaign, I've left its honours and its dangers--and Icould have liked them well--to free men, and am here to take you hame. "

Nelly was thunderstruck. "Hame!" she said, at last, slowly, "where youcompelled me to travel, where I gloomed on you day and night, as Ivowed; I, who would not be a charge and an oppression to thefarthest-off cousin that bears your name. Are you demented?"

"And this is the end, " groaned Staneholme, in bitterness; "I dreamt thatI would win at last. I did not love you for your health and strength, oryour youth and beauty. I declare to you, Nelly Carnegie, your face isfairer to me, lying lily white on your pillow there, than when it wasfresh like that rose; and when others deserted you and left you forlorn, I thought I might try again, and wha kent but the ill would be blottedout for the very sake of the strong love that wrought it?"

A dimness came across Nelly's eyes, and a faintness over her chokingheart; but she pressed her hands upon her breast, and strove against itfor the sake of her womanhood. 

"And I dreamed, " she answered slowly and tremulously, "that it bude tobe true, true love, however it had sinned, that neither slight norhate, nor absence nor fell decay could uproot; and that could tempt meto break my plighted word, and lay my infirmity on the man thatbargained for me like gear, and that I swore--Heaven absolve me!--Iwould gar rue his success till his deein' day. Adam Home, what are youseekin' at my hands?"

"Nae mair than you'll grant, Nelly Carnegie--pardon and peace, and myyoung gudewife, the desire o' my eyes. I'll be feet to you, Nelly, aslong's I'm to the fore. "

"Big tramping feet, Staneholme, " said Nelly, trying to jest, and pushinghim back; "dinna promise ower fair. Na, Adam Home, you'll wauken thebairn!"

So Staneholme bought the grand new family coach of which the Homes hadtalked for the last generation; and Lady Carnegie curtsied hersupercilious adieus, and hoped her son and daughter would be betterkeepers at home for the future. And Nanny Swinton wore her new gownand cockernonie, and blessed her bairn and her bairn's bairn, throughtears that were now no more than a sunny shower, the silver mist ofthe past storm. 

There was brooding heat on the moors and a glory on the sea whenStaneholme rode by his lady's coach, within sight of home. 

"There will be no great gathering to-night, Staneholme; no shots orcheers; no lunt in the blue sky; only doubt and amaze about an old manand wife: but there will be two happy hearts that were heavy as stanebefore. Well-a-day! to think I should be fain to return this way!"

Staneholme laughed, and retorted something perhaps neither quite modestnor wise; but the ready tongue that had learnt so speedily to pouritself out to his greedy ears did not now scold and contradict him, butsighed--

"Ah, Adam Home, you do not have the best of it; it is sweet to be beat;I didna ken--I never guessed that. "

Gladly astounded were the retainers of Staneholme at their young laird'sunannounced return, safe and sound, from the wars; but greater and moreagreeable was their friendly surprise to find that his sick wife, whocame back with him unstrengthened in body, was healed and hearty inspirit. Well might good old Lady Staneholme rejoice, and hush her boldgrandson, for the change was not evanescent or its effects uncertain. AsStaneholme drove out his ailing wife, or constructed a seat for her onthe fresh moor, or looked at her stitching his frilled shirts asintently as the child's falling collars, and talked to her of his dutiesand his sports, his wildness was controlled and dignified. And when hesat, the head and protector of his deaf old mother, and his littlefrolicsome, fearless child, and his Nelly Carnegie, whose spirit hadcome again, but whose body remained but a sear relic of her bloomingyouth, his fitful melancholy melted into the sober tenderness of apenitent, believing man, who dares not complain, but who must praise Godand be thankful, so long as life's greatest boons are spared to him. 

HECTOR GARRET OF OTTER. 

I. --THE FIRE. 

A calm, pure summer moonlight fell upon the Ayrshire mosses and deans, but did not silver, as far as we are concerned, the Carrick Castle ofBruce, nor Cameron's lair amidst the heather, nor landward Tintock, noreven seagirt Ailsa Craig, but only the rolling waves of the Atlantic anda grey turreted mansion-house built on a promontory running abruptlyinto the water. The dim ivory light illuminated a gay company met in thedwelling with little thought of stillness or solemnity, but with theirown sense of effect, grouped carelessly, yet not ungracefully, in anold-fashioned, though not unsuitable drawing-room. 

They needed relief, these brilliant supple figures; they demanded thebackground of grey hangings, scant carpet, spindle-legged chairs, andhard sombre prints. To these very cultivated, very artificial andpicturesque personages, a family sitting-room was but a stage, wherelively, capricious, yet calculating actors were engaged in playingtheir parts. 

The party were mostly French, from the mass of gallant, dauntlessemigrants, many of whom were thus entertained with grateful, commiserating hospitality in households whose members had but latelybasked in the sparkling geniality of the southern atmosphere, now luridand surcharged with thunder. 

There was a Marquise, worldly, light, and vain, whom adversity had notbroken, and could not sour; an Abbé, bland and double, but gentle andkindly in his way; a soldier, volatile, hot-headed, brave as a lion, simple as a child; an older man, sad, sneering, indifferent to thisworld and the next, but with the wrecks of a noble head, and, God helphim, a noble heart. 

Of the three individuals present of a different nation and creed, twoclosely resembled the others with only that vague, impalpable, butperceptible distinction of those whose rearing affords a superficialgrowth which overspreads but does not annihilate the original plant. Theone was a young man, buoyant, flippant, and reckless as the Frenchsoldier, but with a bold defiance in his tone which was all his own; theother a young girl, coquettish and vivacious as the Marquise, but with adeep consciousness under her feigning, an undercurrent of watchful prideand passion, of which her model was destitute. The last of the circlewas a fair-haired, broad-shouldered lad, who stood apart from theothers, big, shy, silent:--but he was earnest amid their shallowness, noble amid their hollowness, and devoted amid their fickleness. How hegazed on the arch, haughty girl, with her lilies and roses, herpencilled brows, her magnificent hair magnificently arranged, with herrich silk and airy lace, and muslin folded and gathered and fallinginto lines which were the very poetry of attire, unless where a piquantprovoking frill, band, or peak, reminded the gazer that the princess wasa woman, a mocking mischievous woman, as well as a radiant lady! How helistened to her contradictory words, witty and liquid even in their mostworthless accents! how he drank in her songs, the notes of her harp, therustle of her dress, the fall of her foot! how he started if she moved!how he saw her, though his eyes were on the ground, and though his headwas in his hands, while she marked him ceaselessly, half with crueltriumph, half with a flutter and faintness which she angrily andscornfully resisted and denied. 

A few more gay _bons mots_ and repartees, a last epigram from the Abbé, a court anecdote from the Marquise which might have figured in one ofthose letters of Madame de Sévigné where the freshness of the haymakerof Les Rochers survives the glare and the terrible staleness of theVersailles of Louis XV. , a blunt camp jest from the soldier, a sarcasmfrom the philosopher, a joyous barcarole, strangely succeeded by asnatch from that lament of woe wrung forth by the fatal field ofFlodden, and the company dispersed. The horse's hoofs of the singlestranger of the evening rung on the causeway, as he made for the smoothsands of the bay, the lights one by one leaping out, and the pale moonremaining mistress of Earlscraig as when the warder on yon tower peeredout over the waters for the boats of the savage Irish kern, or lit thebale-fire that summoned Montgomery and Muir to ride and run for the loveor the fear of Boswell of Earlscraig. 

Had these old-world times returned by magic? had a crazed serving-manrevived the vanished duties of his warlike predecessor? was the wraithof seneschal or man-at-arms conjuring up a ghostly beacon to stream intothe soft air? was an evil spirit about to bewilder and mislead a fatedship to meet its doom on the jagged rocks beneath the dead calm of thatglassy sea? So dense was the vapour that suddenly gathered overEarlscraig, till like an electric flash, a jet of flame sprang from ahigh casement and lit up the gathering obscurity. No horn blew, no buglesounded, no tramp of horse or hurrying feet broke the silence; the houselay in profound rest, and the sleepers slept on, though truly that wasno phantom glare, no marsh gleam, but the near presence of an awful foe. 

And the smoke burst forth in thicker, more suffocating volume; the redstreamers shot up again and again, and the burning embers fell likethickest swarms of fire-flies, before a single hasty step roused an echoalready lost in the roar and crackle of fire. A scared, half-dressedservant ran out into the court, flung up his hands as he looked aroundhim, then hurried back, and suddenly the great bell pealed out itsfaithful alarum. "Good folk, good folk, danger is at the door! ForJesu's sake and your dear lives, up and flee! The angels hold out theirhands, Sodom is around you--away, away!"

The summons was not in vain. Within a few seconds clamorous outcries, shrieks of dismay, the dashing open of doors and windows, answered theproclamation. A horror-struck crowd assembled rapidly in the court; butnotwithstanding that the Abbé's wan face and shaven crown appearedspeedily, and the soldier shouted, "Who is in danger? _mes camarades, suivez-moi!_" the philosopher instinctively elected himself commander;he rose, tall and erect, over the heads of his fellows; his face flushedand brightened; and he spoke words of wisdom and resolution whose spiritmen recognised through the veil of his frozen tongue; while cravensshrank back, brave men rallied round him!

"Where is Boswell? _Mon Dieu!_ the house is burning and the master isnot found! Adolphe, _sauve la Marquise, cet escalier n'est pas perdu_. But where is Boswell? Show his room to me--the nearest way--quick, or heperishes. _Ah, le voilà!_"

Down a flight of side steps stumbled the butler and a favourite groom, bearing between them the young laird, motionless, senseless, his dressdishevelled, but unscathed by flame, and unstained by blood; stillbreathing, but his marked imperious features were unconscious, heavy, and lethargic. 

The Abbé and his elder friend exchanged glances. The brow of the lattercontracted in disgust and gloom. 

"Adolphe and he played billiards against my desire, as if he were not_bête_ enough already, " he said in an undertone. "Lay him here, myfriends, " to the servants, "and listen to me. If you love the Seigneur, let him never know that thus it happened this night. Cover him with amantle; he will awake to see his chateau a ruin. _Mais, n'importe_, wewill do our best. Carry out what is most precious; bring up buckets ofwater. _Ma foi!_ there is enough at hand. "

Yes; at their feet, but by a few fathoms unavailable, lay the broadsea, sufficient to extinguish the conflagration of a thousand cities, while the house above was rent with fierce heat, which reddened the sealike blood. 

The Marquise was rescued sobbing and shivering, but she shared herblanket with one of the poor servant-girls. Even the old bed-riddennurse, so blind and stupid with age that none could satisfy her of thecause of the tumult and din, was carried out, and placed on the grassterrace beside the master; where no sooner did she apprehend intuitivelythe neighbourhood of her proudly cherished nursling, than she left offher weak wailing, and began to croon over him as fondly and contentedlyas when he lay an innocent babe in his cradle:

"Are you weary, Earlscraig? Have you come back sorely tired from thehunt or the race? Weary fa' the men folk that let you lie down with thedew-draps on your bonny curls--bonnier than Miss Alice's, for a' theirfleechin'--as if it were high noon. No but noontide has its ills, too;but you would never heed a bonnet, neither for sun nor wind. A wildladdie, a wild laddie, Earlscraig!"

Eager but ignorant hands were piling up heaps of miscellaneousgoods--pictures, feather-beds, old armour, plate, mirrors, harness, carpets, and wearing apparel. All were tossed together in wildconfusion. The moon was hidden; air, earth, and water were lurid; ahot blast blew in men's faces, which alone remained white and haggard, when a murmur and question, a doubt and frenzy, first stirred and fastconvulsed the mass. "Where is Miss Alice?" Ay, where was Miss Alice?Who had seen her? Speak, in God's name!--shout her name until hervoice replies, and men's shuddering souls are freed from this ghastlynightmare. 

Miss Alice! Alice Boswell! are you safe, lamenting unseen the home ofyour fathers? Or are you within that turret whose foundation rockdescends sheer into the sea--that turret close by which the demon beganhis work, where his forked tongue is now licking each loophole andoutlet, where beams are bursting and the yawning jaws of hell are aboutto swallow up the rapid wreck--forgotten, forsaken--the queen of hearts, the wooed and worshipped beauty; fair and sweet, ripe and rare, the soledaughter of the race; the charm and delight of its grey heads?

Oh, Father, thou art terrible in thy decrees! Oh, men, ye are miserablefools! She is there by the blazing framework of the window of herchamber, which she has never quitted; her hair loose, some portion ofher dress cast about her, her eyes wide open and glazing with terror, but strangely beautiful--with a glory behind and about her; an unearthlybrightness upon brow and cheek, and white arms stretched outimploringly, despairingly for help in her utmost need. 

They pressed forward; they looked up in anguish; old men who hadfollowed her when a fairy child, friends of long standing, acquaintancesof yesterday. Again and again the gallant soldier penetrated the lowdoorway; again and again he swerved and recoiled from the furnace fumesthat met him--a more fearful encounter than the fury of thesans-culottes and the reeking pools beneath the guillotine. 

"_Courage, soldats! Vive la mort, pour la femme et pour la gloire!_" andwith a shout half-exulting, half-maddened, the Gallic blood again firedto the desperate feat. Then there was a diversion--a rush to theopposite side of the building--a ladder might be of use there. A notionof forcing open a closed-up and disused gallery of communication, seizedhold of these agitated minds, and this afforded a vent to the pent-upsympathy and distress. New energy supplanted stupor; and through thedeep hush of the fire could be distinguished the blows of axe andhammer, wielded lustily by stalwart and devoted arms, eager to clear away of life and liberty for the captive. 

But this was a work of time, and louder crackled and hissed the flames. A fiercer blaze filled the sky, and glittered back from the waves; theserpent tongues drew together, and shot up through the room in a yellowpyramid. In vain! in vain! The zealous labourers panted in the sicknessof horror and the chill of great awe. 

"A boat! a boat!" called a voice from the outer circle. The thinker, thescorner, stood on the verge of the rocks above the illuminated sea, hishead bare, his coat stripped off. "Let Mademoiselle cast herself fromthe casement instantly; it is her only hope. I can swim; I will hold herup until a boat is launched. _Courage, Mademoiselle!_ trust in God andin me. "

"Yes, Marquise, " he whispered for a second to his countrywoman near him;"I have lost God for many a day; I have found him again in this hour. A_Te Deum_ for my requiem!" and looking aghast upon his face in the greatlight, the Marquise crossed herself, and averred ever afterwards thatit was transformed like unto that of his patron saint, St. Francis. Thenext moment he plunged into the midnight sea. Those who witnessed theaction declared that the reflection of the burning was so strong that heseemed to sink into a lake of fire, where he rose again presently, andbreasted the waters stoutly. 

The girl saw the design; she comprehended it, and the hoarse murmur ofencouragement that hailed its presence of mind. The concentration of theflames, which threatened every moment to bring down a portion of theponderous roof in one destroying crash, left a freer passage. Sheadvanced quickly--she put her foot on the smouldering sill; she paused, hesitated. It was a fearful alternative. 

"Leap down, leap down, Miss Alice; a drowning man has two lives, aburning man but one. Down, down, or you are lost!"

But another cry mingled with the vehement appeal--a piercing, confidentcry, that would have vibrated on the dull ear of the dying, though itsaid only, "I am coming. Alice Boswell: I am coming!"

He was there, on his panting, foam-flecked horse: he flung himself fromhis saddle; he heard her answer, "Hector Garret, save me, save me!"

He broke the circle as Samson burst the green withes: he paralysed allremonstrance; he vanished into the abyss which the great staircasepresented. He must have borne a charmed life to reach thus far--when amightier roar, a perfect column of fire, a thundering avalanche ofglowing timber and huge stones descended with a shock of an earthquake, and rebounded into the sea, engulfing for ever the fair slight formwithin. 

By daring and magnanimous effort and main force, other arms bore backHector Garret from the tottering walls and shaken foundation: and theboat rowed out and delivered the heroic Frenchman. The sinking in of theturret roof satiated the destroyer, so that the further wing of thehouse was preserved. Its master lived unharmed, to rouse himself fromhis portentous slumber and face his calamity, while the lover laywrithing and raging in the clutch of wild fever. 

But the summer sun shining down on the sea, once more blue and clear asheaven, fell on black yawning gaps and mounds of ashes; on shiveredglass and strewn relics of former luxury; on the very grass of thepromontory, brown and withered, and trodden into the earth for many ayard; on the horrible grave of the maiden who had watched her own imagein the crystal pools, lilted her siren songs to the break of the waves, woven at once chains for her adorers and the web of that destiny whichburied her there, unshrouded and uncoffined. 

II. --THE OFFER. 

The Clyde was forded by man and horse where ships now ride at anchor;but the rush of trade, not quite so deep and rapid fifty years since asnow, yet strong and swift, the growth of centuries, was hurrying, jostling, trampling onward in Jamaica Street and Buchanan Street andtheir busy thoroughfares. Within our quarter, however, were stillnessand dimness, the cold, lofty, classic repose of the noble college towhich a professor's house was in immediate vicinity. 

The room, large, low-roofed, with small, peaked windows, had not beenbuilt in modern times. The furniture was almost in keeping: roomysettees, broad, plain, ribbed-back chairs, with faded worked covers, the task of fingers crumbled into dust, heavy bookcases loaded withproportionably ponderous or curiously quaint volumes, and mirrors, with their frames like coffins covered with black velvet and relievedby gilding. 

The only fresh and fragrant thing in the room--ay, or in the house, where master and mistress and servants were old and withered--was ayoung girl seated on a window-seat, her hands lightly crossed, watchingthe white clouds in the July sky, white, though nothing else is so inGlasgow, where the air is heavy with perpetual smoke and vapour. 

That girl, too broad-browed and large-eyed for mere youthful beauty, butwith such an arch, delicate, girlish mouth and chin as betokened her afrank, unsophisticated, merry child after all, was Leslie Bower, theyoung daughter and only child of an erudite and venerated professor. 

Leslie had no brothers and no sisters, and in a sense she had neitherfather nor mother, for Professor Bower was the son, husband, and fatherof his books, and he had so mighty a family of these, ancient andmodern, that he had very little time or attention to spare for ties ofthe flesh. He was a mild, absent, engrossed old man, flashing intoenergy and genius in his own field of learning, but in the world ofordinary humanity a body without a soul. 

Professor Bower married late in life a timid, shrinking English wife, who, removed from all early ties, and never mingling in Glasgow society, lapsed into a stillness as profound as his own. 

Dr. Bower took little notice of his child; what with duties and studies, he had no leisure; he read in his slippered morning gown, he read atmeals, he read by his evening lamp; probably, if Mrs. Bower would haveconfessed it, he kept a volume under his pillow. No wonder he was ablear-eyed, poking, muttering old man, for he was much more interestedin Hannibal than in Bonaparte, and regarded Leslie, like the house, theyearly income, the rector, the students, the janitors, as one of manyabstract facts with which he troubled himself as little as possible. 

Mrs. Bower cared for Leslie's health and comfort with scrupulous nervousexactness, but she was incapable of any other demonstration of regard. She was as shy and egotistical as poor Louis XVI. , and perhaps it wouldhave demanded as tragic a domestic revolution to have stirred her up tolively tenderness. Leslie might have been as dubious as Marie Antoinetteof the amount of love entertained for her by her nearest kin, butcuriously, though affectionate and passionate enough to have been thepure and innocent child of some fiery Jocobin, she had not vexed herselfabout this mystery. One sees every day lush purple and rose-floweredplants growing in unaccountable shade; true, their associates are paleand drooping, and the growth of the hardier is treacherous, and maydistil poison, but the evil principle is gradual, and after conditionshave been confirmed and matured. 

The stronger portion of Leslie's nature, which required abundant andinvigorating food, was slow of development; the lighter side flourishedin the silent, dull house, where nothing else courted the sunbeam. Inher childhood and girlhood, Leslie had gone out to school, and althoughalways somewhat marked and individual in character, she had companions, friends, sufficient sympathy and intercourse for an independent, buoyantnature at the most plastic period of its existence. This stage of lifewas but lately left behind; Leslie had not long learnt that now she wasremoved from classes and masters, and must in a great measure confineher acquaintances to those who returned her visits at her father'shouse; and as visitors put mamma and papa about, and did not suit theirhabits, she must resign her little world, and be almost as quiet andsolitary as her elders. Leslie had just begun to sigh a little for theold thronged, bustling class-rooms which she had lightly esteemed, andwas active by fits and starts in numerous self-adopted occupations whichcould put former ones out of her head, and fill up the great blanks inher time and thoughts, for she was not inclined to sit down under adifficulty, and instinctively battled with it in a thousand ways. 

Thus Leslie had her flower-painting--few natural flowers she saw, poorgirl--card boxes, worsted vases, eggshell baskets, embroidery pieces, canary bird, and books--the last greedily devoured. She did not assisther mother, because although their household was limited, Mrs. Bower'squiet, methodical plans were perfect, and she gently declined allinterference with her daily round. Neither did Leslie work for herfather, because the professor would as soon have employed her canarybird. She was not thoughtful and painstaking for the poor, because, though accustomed to a species of almsgiving, she heard nothing, sawnothing of nearer or higher association with her neighbours. Yet therewas capacity enough in that heart and brain for good or for evil. 

So Leslie sat there, pausing in her sewing, and gazing idly at the sky, with a girl's quick pensiveness and thick-coming fancies, as she mused. 

How blue it was yonder! What glorious clouds! yet the world below wasrather stupid and tiresome, and it was hard to say what people toiled soarduously for. There were other lands and other people: should she eversee them? Surely, for she was quite young. She wished they could go insummer 'down the water, ' out of this din and dust, to some coast villageor lonely loch between lofty purple mountains, such as she had seen whenwith Mrs. Elliot; papa might spare a few weeks, people no richer did;they had no holidays, and it was so hot and close, and always the same. But she supposed she must be contented, and would go away to cool andcompose herself in the crypt of their own cathedral. How grand it was;how solemn the aisles and arches on every side, like forest trees; andthen the monuments--what stories she invented for them! St. Mungo'sWell! St. Mungo, austere, yet beneficent; with bare feet, cowled head, scarred back, and hardest of all, swept and garnished heart, with hisfruitful blessing, 'Let Glasgow flourish. ' What would St. Mungo thinknow of the city of the tree, the fish, and the bell?

This hoar, venerable, beautiful feat of art was to the imprisonedGlasgow girl as St. Paul's to such another isolated imaginative nature. 

There was a knock at the street-door; a very decided application of thequeer, twisted knocker. Leslie roused herself: not a beggar's tap that;none of the janitors; and this was not Dr. Murdoch's or Dr. Ware's hour:the girl was accurate in taps and footsteps. Some one was shown in; aman's voice was heard greeting "Dr. Bower, " before the study door wasclosed. Leslie started up with pleased surprise, --"Hector Garret ofOtter! he will come upstairs to see us; he will tell us how the countryis looking; he will bring news from Ferndean, " and for the next hour shesat in happy, patient expectation. 

Mrs. Bower, a fair, faded, grave woman, came into the room, and sat downwith her needlework in the other window. 

"Mamma, " exclaimed Leslie, "do you know that Hector Garret of Otter isdownstairs with papa?"

"Yes, Leslie. "

"He never fails to ask for us; don't you think we'll see him hereby-and-by?"

"I do not know; it depends upon his engagements. "

"I wonder what brings him to Glasgow just now; he must find it so muchmore agreeable at home, " with a little sigh. 

"Leslie, I don't think you have anything to do with that. "

"No, certainly; Hector Garret and I are two very different persons. "

"Leslie!"

"Well, mamma. "

"I wish you would not say Hector Garret; it does not sound proper in agirl like you. "

"I suppose it does not. He must have been a grown-up man when I was achild. I have caught the habit from papa, but I have not the leastinclination to use the name to his face. "

"I should think not, Leslie;" and the conversation dropped. 

Presently the stranger entered deliberately; a tall, fair, handsome manof eight-and-thirty or forty, with one of those cold, intellectual, statuesque faces in which there is a chill harmony, and which are typesof a calm temperament, or an extinct volcano. Perhaps it was that castof countenance which recommended him to the Bowers; yet Leslie was dark, bright, and variable. 

The visitor brought a gift in his hand--a basket of flowers and summerfruit, of which Leslie relieved him, while she struggled in vain to lookpolitely obliged, and not irrationally elated. 

"So kind of you to trouble yourself! Such a beautiful flower--wild rosesand hawthorn too--I like so much to have them, though they wither verysoon. I dare say they grew where

 'Fairies light On Cassilis Downans dance. '

(Burns was becoming famous, and Leslie had picked up the linessomewhere. ) And the strawberries, oh, they must be from Ferndean. "

The bearer nodded and smiled. 

"I knew it by instinct, " and Leslie began eating them like a temptedchild, and stained her pretty lips. "Those old rows on each side of thesummer-house where papa first learnt his lessons--I wonder if there arejackdaws there still: won't you have some?"

"No, thank you. What a memory you have, Miss Bower!"

"Ferndean is my Highland hill. When papa is very stiff and helpless fromrheumatism, he talks of it sometimes. It is so long ago; he was sodifferent then. "

Mr. Garret and Mrs. Bower exchanged a few civil words on his journey, the spring weather, the state of the war, like two taciturn people whoforce their speeches; then he became Leslie's property, sat down besideher, watched her arranging her flowers, helped her a little, and spokenow and then in answer to her questions, and that was sufficient. 

Hector Garret was particularly struck this evening with the incongruityof Leslie's presence in the Professor's dry, silent, scholastic home, and with her monotonous, shaded existence, and her want of naturalassociations and fitting companionship. He pondered upon her future; hewas well acquainted with her prospects; he knew much better than she didthat the money with which his father had bought up the mortgages onFerndean, and finally the estate itself, was drained and scattered longago, and that the miserable annuity upon which the Professor restedpeacefully as a provision for his widow and child, died with the former. It was scarcely credible that a man should be so regardless of his ownfamily, but the echo of the mystic, sublime discourses of the Greekporches, the faint but sacred trace of the march of vast armies, and thefall of nations, caused Leslie to dwindle into a mere speck in thecreation. Of course she would be provided for somehow: marry, or makeher own livelihood. Socrates did not plague himself much about the fateof Xantippe: Seneca wrote from his exile to console his mother, but theepistles were for the benefit of the world at large, and destined todescend to future generations of barbarians. 

What a frank, single-hearted young girl she seemed to HectorGarret--intelligent, capable of comprehending him in a degree, amusinghim with her similes and suggestions; pretty, too, as one of those wildroses or pinks that she prized so highly, though she wore a sober, green, flowered silk dress. He should like to see her in a white gown. He supposed that was not a convenient town wear. Pope had unmaskedwomen, but he could not help thinking that a fresh, simple, kind younggirl would be rather a pleasant object of daily encounter. She wouldgrow older, of course. That was a pity; but still she would beprogressing into an unsophisticated, cordial, contented woman, whomservants would obey heartily--to whom children would cling. Even men hada gush of tenderness for these smiling, unobtrusive, humble mothers; andbest so in the strain and burden of this life. 

Leslie knew nothing of these meditations. She only understood HectorGarret as a considerate friend, distinguished personally, and giftedmentally--for her father set great store upon him--but, unlike the gruffor eager servants to whom she was accustomed, condescending to heryouth and ignorance, and with a courtesy the nearest to high-breedingshe had ever met. She was glad to see Hector Garret, even if he did notbring a breath of the country with him. She parted from him with a senseof loss--a passing sadness that hung upon her for an hour or two, likethe vapour on the river, which misses the green boughs and waving woods, and sighs sluggishly past wharfs and warehouses. 

It was a still greater surprise to Leslie when Hector Garret came againthe next evening. He had never been with them on two successive daysbefore. She supposed he had gone back to Ayrshire, although he had notdistinctly referred to his speedy return. But he was here, and Leslieentertained him as usual. 

"Should you not like to see Ferndean?" inquired Hector Garret. 

"Don't speak of it, " Leslie cautioned him, soberly; "it would be far toogreat happiness for this world. "

"Why, what sort of dismal place do you think the world?"

"Too good a place for you and me, " Leslie answered evasively, and with atouch of fun. 

"But this is the very season for Ferndean and Otter, when the pasture isgay as a garden, and you can have boating every day in the creeks, moresheltered than the moorland lochs. "

The tears came into Leslie's eyes. 

"I think it is unkind of you, Mr. Garret, to tempt me with suchpictures, " she answered, half pettishly. 

"I mean to be kind, " he responded quickly. "I may err, but I can takerefuge in my intentions. You may see Ferndean and Otter, if you canconsent to go there, and dwell there as a grave man's friend and wife. "

Leslie started violently, and the blood rushed over her face. 

"I beg your pardon, Sir, but you don't mean it?"

"I do mean it, Leslie, as being the best for both of us; and I ask youplainly and directly to marry me: if you agree, I hope and trust thatyou will never regret it. "

Leslie trembled very much. She said afterwards that she pinched her armto satisfy herself that she was awake, but she was not quite overcome. 

"I was never addressed so before. I do not know what to say. You arevery good, but I am not fit. "

He interrupted her--not with vows and protestations, but resolutely andconvincingly. 

"I am the best judge of your fitness, --but you must judge for yourselfalso. I am certain of your father's and mother's acquiescence, so I donot mention them. But do not hurry; take time, consult your own heart;consider the whole matter. I will not press for your decision. I willwait days, weeks. I will go down to Otter in the meantime, if you preferit. But if you do say yes, remember, dear Leslie, you confer upon me thegreatest boon that a woman can bestow on a man, and I think I am capableof appreciating it. "

He spoke with singular impartiality, but without reassuring his hearer. Leslie looked helplessly up to him, excited and distressed. 

He smiled a little, and sighed a brief sigh. 

"You are not satisfied. You are too candid and generous. You wish me totake my refusal at once. You feel that I am too old, too dull topresume--"

"Oh, no, no, " Leslie exclaimed, seeing herself convicted of terribleselfishness and conceit, while her heart was throbbing even painfullywith humility and gratitude. "You have done me a great honour, and ifyou would not be disappointed--if you would bear with me--if you are notdeceiving yourself in your nobleness--I should be so happy to go toFerndean. "

He thanked her eloquently, and talked to her a little longer, kindly andaffectionately, and then he offered to seek her father; and left her toher agitated reflections. What a fine, dignified man he looked! Could itbe possible that this was her lot in life? And the very sun which hadrisen upon her planning a walk with Mary Elliot next week, was yetstreaming upon her poor pots of geraniums on the dusty window-sill. Shequitted her seat, and began to walk quickly up and down. 

"Leslie, you are shaking the room. " Mamma had been in the further windowwith her sewing all the time. 

Leslie stole behind the brown window-curtain, fluttering her hand amongthe folds. 

"Leslie, you are pulling that curtain awry. "

"I cannot help it, mamma. "

"Why not, child? Are you ill?"

"Yes--no, mamma. I don't know what to think--I can't think. But HectorGarret has asked me to be his wife. "

Mrs. Bower's needle dropped from her fingers. She stared at herdaughter. She rose slowly. 

"Impossible, Leslie, " she observed. 

Leslie laughed hysterically. 

"Yes, indeed. It was very strange, but I heard every word. "

"Are you certain you are not mistaken?"

Mrs. Bower had never so cross-examined her daughter in her life; butLeslie was not disturbed or vexed by her incredulity. 

"Quite certain. I know it was only yesterday that you scolded me fortaking liberties with his name; but he was perfectly serious, and hehas gone to tell papa. "

Mrs. Bower gazed wistfully on Leslie, and a faint red colour rose inher cheek, while she interlaced her fingers nervously. 

"Leslie, " she asked again, in a shaking voice, "do you know what youare doing?"

Leslie looked frightened. 

"Is it so very terrible, mamma? I should possibly have married someday--most girls mean to do it; and only think of Ferndean and Otter. Besides, there is nobody I could like so well as Hector Garret, I amquite sure, although I little guessed he cared so much for me;" andLeslie's eye's fell, and a sunny, rosy glow mantled over her whole face, rendering it very soft and fair. 

"I see it is to be, Leslie. May it be for your welfare, my dear;" andher mother stooped abruptly, and kissed the young, averted cheek. 

Leslie was awed. She dreaded that her father would be equally moved, and then she did not know how she could stand it. But she might havespared herself the apprehension; for when the Professor shuffled in hesat down as usual, fumbled for his spectacles, looked round with themost unconscious eye, observed that "Ware" had that day exceeded in hislecture by twenty minutes--"a bad practice, " (Dr. Bower was himselfnotoriously unpunctual, ) and took not the slightest notice of any eventof greater importance, until Leslie's suspense had been so long on therack that it began to subside into dismay, when glancing up for amoment, he observed parenthetically, as he turned a page--"Child! youhave my approval of a union with Hector Garret--an odd fancy, but thatis no business of ours, "--dropped his eyes again on his volume, and madeno further allusion to the subject for the rest of the evening--no, norever again, of his own free will. Hector Garret assailed him onpreliminaries, his wife patiently waylaid and besieged him for thenecessary funds, acquaintances congratulated him--he was by compulsiondrawn more than once from roots and æsthetics; but left to himself, hewould have assuredly forgotten his daughter's wedding-day, as he haddone that of her baptism. 

Leslie recovered from the stunning suddenness of her fate, and awokefully to its brightness. To go down to Ayrshire and dwell there amonghills and streams, and pure heather-scented air, like any shepherdess;to be the nearest and dearest to Hector Garret:--already theimaginative, warm-hearted girl began to raise him into a divinity. 

Leslie was supremely content, she was gay and giddy even with presentexcitement; with the pretty bustle of being so important and sooccupied--she whose whole time lately had been vacant and idle--sowilling to admire her new possessions, so openly elated with theirsuperiority, and not insensible to the fact that all these prominentobtrusive cares were but little superfluous notes of the great symphonyupon which she had entered, and whose infinitely deeper, fuller, highertones she would learn well, by-and-by. 

Leslie Bower was the personification of joy, and no one meddled with hervisions. Hector Garret was making his preparations at Otter; and whenLeslie sang as she stitched, and ran lightly up and down, only theservants in the kitchen laid their heads together, and confided to eachother that "never did they see so daffin' a bride; Miss Leslie shouldken that a greetin' bride's a happy bride!" But no one told Leslie--noone taught her the tender meaning of the wise old proverb--no one warnedher of the realities of life, so much sadder, so much holier, purer, more peaceful than any illusion. Her mother had relapsed into herordinary calmness, rather wounding Leslie's perceptions when she allowedherself to think of it, for she did not read the lingering assiduitythat was so intent it might have been employed upon her shroud. Andthere was no one else--no; Leslie was quite unaware that her gladnesswas ominous. 

Only the shadow of a warning crossed Leslie's path of roses, and shedisregarded it. Her confidence in Hector Garret and in life remainedunbounded. 

Leslie had gone to the best known of her early companions, her cupbrimming over in the gracious privilege of begging Mary Elliot to beher bridesmaid. The Elliots had been kind to her, and had once taken herto their cheerful country-house; and now Mary was to witness theceremony, and Hector Garret had said that she might, if she pleased, payLeslie a long visit at Otter. 

Mary Elliot was a little older, a little more experienced in womanlyknowledge than Leslie. 

"How strange it sounds that you should be married so soon, Leslie, fromyour old house, where we thought you buried. We believed that you mustlead a single life, unless your father made a pet of one of hisstudents: and then you must have waited until he left college. "

"It is the reverse. I have no time to lose, " nodded Leslie; "onlyHector Garret is not old-looking. I don't believe that he has agrey hair in his head. He is a far handsomer man than Susan Cheyne'ssister's husband. "

"I know it; he was pointed out to me in the street. Is he very fond ofyou, Leslie?"

"I suppose--a little, or he would not have me. "

"Does he flatter you, pretend that you are a queen, say all manner offine things to you? I should like to be enlightened. "

"No, no, Mary; real men are not like men in books--and he is notfoolish. "

"But it is not foolish in a lover. They are all out of theirsenses--blinded by admiration and passion. "

"Perhaps; but Hector Garret is a clever man, only he speaks when he isspoken to, and does not forget you when out of sight. And do you know, I have been used to clever people, and decidedly prefer to look up toa man?"

"What does he call you, Leslie?"

"Why, Leslie, to be sure, or Miss Bower. You would not have him say Mrs. Garret yet?" And Leslie covered her face and laughed again, and reddenedto the tips of her fingers. 

"Not 'Bonnie Leslie, ' 'Jewel, ' 'Angel, '" jested Mary, thrilling at theecho of a certain low, fluttered voice, that had sounded in her own earsand would wilfully repeat, "Winsome Mary, " "Little Woman, " "Witch!"

"No, " Leslie replied, with honest frankness, "that would be speakingnonsense; and if Hector Garret thinks nonsense that is bad enough. "

"Do you remember how we talked sometimes of our husbands?"

"Yes, I do. They were all to be heroes. "

"And you were to be courted on bended knees. Yes, Leslie, solicitedagain and again; and when you yielded at last, it should be such an actof grace that the poor fellow would be half mad with delight. "

"I was mad myself. I was full of some song or bit of poetry. I tell youagain, Mary, if you have not found it out for yourself, real life is notlike a book. Hector Garret is not the man to beg and implore, and waitpatiently for a score of years. I wish you saw how he manages his stronghorse. He sits, and does not yield a hair's breadth. Though it paws andrears, he just holds its head tight and pats its neck. Now, I want himto check and guide me. I have been left a great deal to myself. Papa andmamma are not young, and it appears to me that a single child is notenough to draw out the sympathies of a staid, silent couple. They havebeen very kind to me all my life, and I ought to be glad that they willnot miss me much. But although it was wrong, I have often felt a littleforlorn, and been tempted to have bad, discontented thoughts all bymyself. However, that is over, and I hope I'm going to be a good andsensible woman now. And, Mary, I am so anxious to have your opinion uponmy crimson pelisse, because mamma does not profess to be a judge; and Icannot be certain that it is proper merely on a mantua-maker's word andmy own taste. I would like to do Hector Garret credit; not that I canreally do so in any eyes but his own. "

III. --THE NEW HOME. 

Hector Garret had his girl wife at Otter, and very sunny her existencewas for the lustrum of that honeymoon. It was almost sufficient for herto be at liberty, fairly installed in her castle in the air, a countryhome. And its lord and master was generous and indulgent, and wasted, hedid not care to say how many days, in displaying to her the greenruinousness of Ferndean--in climbing the hills and hunting out thewidest views for her--in taking her out in his boat, and rowing her insunshine and shade, enjoying her wonder and exultation mostbenevolently. In a short time he left her to herself, for he had muchproperty, to whose numerous details he attended with rigidconscientiousness, and he had been a student from his youth, and satalmost as much as Dr. Bower in his library, although it was an airierand more heterogeneously fitted-up sanctuary. Leslie was perfectlysatisfied; in fact, while the novelty around her was fresh, shepreferred to wander about at her leisure, and find out places forherself, because Hector Garret was always hurrying her, and she wastrying so hard to be clever, active, and amiable. Ah, that slight strainalready perceptible, that growth of ignorance, misconception, andextravagant reverence--what fruit would it bear?

Otter was a rambling white house in a green meadow opening to the sea. Its salient points were its size and age. The slowest-growing shrubs inits pleasance were tough, seamed, branched and bowed with time. Therewere few trees in the neighbourhood except at forsaken Ferndean; butthere were slow swelling hills crowned with heather closing in thevalley over which Otter presided with the dignified paternal characterof the great house of strath, or glen. Leslie smiled when she firstheard the natives of the district term the grey or glittering track thatbounded the western horizon, "The Otter Sea, " but very soon she fellinto the use of the same name, and was conscious of feeling far moreinterest in the boats and ships that crossed that limited space, than inthose which she saw from the hilltops spread far and wide over a greatexpanse broken only by the misty Irish coast-line. Indeed, Hector Garretexplained to her that he had seignorial claims over that strip ofwaves--that the seaweed, and, after certain restrictions, the fragmentsof wreck cast upon its sands, were his property, quite as much as if hehad waved his banner over it, like the gallant Spaniard, in the name ofhis Most Catholic Majesty. 

Leslie had variety in her locality; the beach, with its huge bouldersand inspiring music; the fields and "uplands airy, " with their hedgewealth of vetch, briar, and bramble; the garden, the ancient walledgarden, at whose antiquities Hector Garret laughed. 

Leslie played sad pranks in the early season of her disenthralment. Shewandered far and near, and soiled her white gowns, to the despair of theOtter servant who did up the master's shirts and managed the mistress'sclear-starching, but who never dreamt, in those days of frills, robes, and flounces, of styling herself a laundress. Leslie filled her apronwith mosses and lichens: she stole out after the reapers had left thepatch of oats which was not within sight of the house, and gatheredamong the sheaves like a Ruth. She grew stout and hardy, and, in spiteof her gipsy bonnet, as brown as a berry under this out-of-door life, until no one would have known the waxen-faced city girl; and many a timewhen Hector Garret left his study in the dusk and found his way to thedrawing-room, he discovered her asleep from very weariness, with herhead laid down on her spindle-legged work-table, and the white moonbeamstrying to steal under her long eyelashes. He would tread softly, andstand, and gaze, but he never stooped and kissed her cheek in merryfrolic, never in yearning tenderness. 

Such was Leslie's holiday; let her have it--it ended, certainly. Theblack October winds began to whistle in the chimneys and lash the Ottersea into foam; the morning mists were white and dense on the hills, andsometimes the curtain never rose the whole day; the burns were hoarseand muddy, the sheep in fold, the little birds silent. Leslie loved theprospect still, even the wild grey clouds rent and whirled across thesky, the watery sun, and the ragged, wan, dripping verdure; but it madeher shiver too, and turn to her fireside, where she would doze and yawn, work and get weary in her long solitary hours. Hector Garret was patientand good-humoured; he took the trouble to teach her any knowledge towhich she aspired; but he was so far beyond her, so hopelessly superior, that she was vexed and ashamed to confess to him her ignorance, and itwas clear that when he came up to her domain in the evening he likedbest to rest himself, or to play with her in a fondling, toying way. After the first interminable rainy day which she had spent by herself atOtter, when he entered and proceeded in his cool, rather lazy fashion totap her under the chin, to inquire if she had been counting the raindrops, to bid her try his cigar, she felt something swelling in herthroat, and answered him shortly and crossly; but when she found that hetreated her offended air as the whim of a spoilt child, and was ratherthe more amused by it, she determined that he should not be entertainedby her humours. Perilous entertainment as it was, Leslie could not haveafforded it; her wilderness tamed her so that she welcomed Hector Garreteagerly, submitted to be treated as a child, exerted herself to prattleaway gaily and foolishly when her heart was a little heavy and herspirits languid. 

Leslie saw so little of her husband--perhaps it was the case with allwives; her father and mother were as much apart--but Leslie did notunderstand the necessity. She did not like her life to be selfish, smooth, and aimless, except for her own fancies, as it had been fromthe first. She wanted to share Hector Garret's cares and his work whichhe transacted so faithfully. She wished he thought her half as worthconsulting as his steward. She had faith in woman's wit. She had anotion that she herself was quick and could become painstaking. Shetried entering his room once or twice uninvited, but he always looked sodiscontented, and when she withdrew so relieved, that she could notpersevere in the attempt. 

When Hector Garret went shooting or fishing, Leslie would haveaccompanied him gladly, would have delighted in his trophies, andcarried his bag or his basket, like any gillie or callant of theHighlands or Lowlands, if he would have allowed it; but his excursionswere too remote and fatiguing, and beyond the strength that was supposedconsistent with her sex and nurture. 

Little fool! to assail another's responsibilities and avocations whenher own were embarrassing her sufficiently. Her household web had gotwarped and entangled in her careless, inexperienced hands, and vexed andmortified her with a sense of incapacity and failure--an oppressionwhich she could not own to Hector Garret, because there was no commonground, and no mutual understanding between them. When Leslie came toOtter she found the housekeeping in the hands of an Irish follower ofthe Garrets--themselves of Irish origin; and Hector Garret presentedBridget Kennedy to his wife as his faithful and honoured servant, whomhe recommended to a high place in her regard. Bridget Kennedy displayedmore marked traces of race than her master, but it was the Celticnature under its least attractive aspect to strangers, proud, passionate, fanciful, and vindictive. She was devoted to her master, andcapable of consideration for Leslie on his account--though jealous ofher entrance upon the stage of Otter; but she evinced this reflectedinterest by encroachments and tyranny, a general determination to adheredoggedly to her own ways, and to impose them upon her mistress. 

Leslie began by admiring Bridget, as she did everything else at Otter. Leslie would have propitiated the mayor of the palace with kind wordsand attentions, but when she was snapped up in her efforts, she drewback with a girl's aptness to be affronted and repelled. Next Lesliebegan to angrily resist Bridget's unbecoming interference with hermovements, and design of exercising authority and control over the childwhom the master had chosen to set over his house; but her fitfulimpulses were met and overruled by stubborn and slenderly veiledfierceness. Leslie was not weak, but she was undisciplined; and she whohad been the young Hotspur of the most orderly and pacific of families, learnt to tremble at the sound of Bridget's crutch in the lobbies, andher shrill voice rating the servants who flew to do her bidding. 

In proportion as Leslie cowered at her subordinate, the subordinate wastempted to despise her and lord it over her. 

Hector Garret was blind to this contention. For his own part, hehumoured Bridget or smiled at her asperities, as suited him; and it isprobable that if he had been appealed to, he would have adopted his oldfavourite's side, and censured Leslie as touchy, inconsiderate, perhapsa little spiteful. But he never was made umpire, for Leslie had all thedisadvantage of a noble temper in an unseemly struggle. Bridget plaguedLeslie, but Leslie would not injure Bridget, --no, not for the world. Theimperious old woman was Hector Garret's friend; he had said that he hadknown no firmer friend than Bridget Kennedy. She had closed his father'seyes, she had stood by himself in sickness and sorrow (for all hisstrength and self-command, Hector had known sickness and sorrow--thatwas a marvel to Leslie)--Bridget might clutch her rights to the end, what did it signify? only a little pique and bitterness to aninterloper. 

Leslie had ceased to credit that she would ever become the wise, helpfulwoman that she had once warmly desired to see herself. Her own defectswere now familiar and sorely disheartening to her, and she had grownaware that she could not by inspiration set and preserve in smooth, swift motion the various wheels of Otter, not even if--unlooked for andundesired sequel!--she received express permission to dance upon thehead of old Bridget. 

Leslie had fancied once, when Hector Garret told her how few neighbourslived within visiting distance, that she should not want society: butthe solitude was matter of regret, especially when it proved that of thefew families who exchanged rare intercourse, some of better birth thanbreeding scarcely held the daughter of the disinherited laird andGlasgow scholar as their equal in social rank, or a spouse worthy of themaster of Otter, or indeed entitled to their special esteem. 

The only house without any pretension within sight of Otter was situatedat the other extremity of the bay, on a peninsula projecting far intothe sea. It had been built in the days when each mansion was afortalice, and when safety from enemies was of more moment than theconvenience of friends. 

This Earlscraig was now little more than a grim, grey turret, seldomoccupied; the companion body of the building had been destroyed nearly ascore of years before by a fire--the tragedy of the country-side, as itconsummated the ruin of an old family--and in its horrors a lady of thehouse perished miserably. So the sight of its cold cluster of chimneys, wind-rocked walls, and scorched and crumbling vestiges of suddendestruction, far from adding to the cheerfulness of the landscape, was ablot on its rural prosperity. 

The homes of humbler friends were foreign thresholds to Leslie; thereserved, engrossed, dignified master of Otter crossed them with a freerstep. Leslie could but address her servants, and venture to intermeddlebashfully with their most obvious concerns. She had neither tongue noreye for more distant and difficult dependants. 

But Leslie was not dying of ennui or spleen, or miserable and with anameless fathomless misery. She was only disenchanted--conscious offeeling a great deal older than she had done six months since. How couldshe have been so credulous, so vain! Verily, every path of roses has itspanoply of thorns. 

IV. --THE PAGES OF THE PAST. 

One winter night Leslie, in her deep chair, observed Hector Garretturning over the leaves of an old pocket-book. Hector; catching her eye, offered it to her with a "See, Leslie, how my father chronicled thefashions"--he never did suppose her susceptible of very grave interests. 

In the dearth of other amusements Leslie pored over the ancient diary, and found more suggestive paragraphs than the entry indicated: "AbelFurness has sent me a waistcoat an inch and a half shorter, and a pairof clouded silk hose for the black ditto, ordered. " There were--"Threepounds English to my boy Hector, to keep his pocket during his stay atArdhope. " "A crown to Hector as fee for fishing out the black stot thatbroke its neck over the rocks. " "A letter from Utrecht from my sonHector; a fair hand and a sensible diction. " "Forty pounds over andabove paid to please Hector on the bond over the flax-fields ofFerndean. " "A small stipend secured to my thriftless kinsman, WillieHamilton, by the advice and with the aid of my son Hector. " "ToEarlscraig with Hector:" this notice was repeated many times, until therecord closed abruptly with the tremulous thanksgiving--"My dear son andheir, Hector, recovered of his malady by the blessing of God. "

Very plainly lay the life-clue of that silent heart, traced in the fadedink of those yellowing pages. How old men cherished their offspring!What did Hector Garret think of those mute but potent witnesses of aregard that he could know no more on earth? She knew he prized the book, for she had seen it carefully deposited in one of the private drawers inhis study. She opened it at the beginning, and slipping her fingers intoits gilded pockets, discovered a folded paper. It contained merely asprig of heather, and written on the enclosure--"From my dear wife, Isobel; her first gift. " Two dates were subjoined, with thirty years'interval--that of the receipt of the token, and that of the inscriptionof the memorandum. 

With flushing cheeks Leslie sat, and spread out the crushed, brittlespikes, so fondly won, so dearly held. She was sure Hector had not oneleaf, riband, or ring which she had given him. Once when he was gayerthan his wont, and plagued her with his jesting petting, she took up thescissors and cut off a lock of his hair. He did not notice the thefttill it was accomplished, and then he stood half-thoughtful, half-contemptuous. He had not a hair of hers, but of course the wholehead was his; his father had judged otherwise. 

This earlier Hector Garret--she had heard Bridget enlarge upon hismerits. "A fine man, like the master, but frank and light of heart untilhe lost the lady--ay, a real lady! grand and gladsome--the old lady ofOtter. " Leslie longed for a vision of those old occupants of her placeand her husband's; to have a vivid experience of how they looked, spoke, and lived; to see them in spirit--in their morning good wishes, theirnoonday cares, their evening cheer, their nightly prayers? Was theirunion only apparent? were they severed by a dim, shapeless, insurmountable barrier, for ever together, yet for ever apart?

These shades lingered and abode with Leslie in her lonely vigils, ereshe distinguished whether their language was that of warning orreproach. She studied their material likenesses--the last save one inthe picture-gallery--honest faces, bright with wholesome vigour; theirson Hector's was a finer physiognomy, but the light had left lip andeye, and Leslie missed it as she gazed wistfully at these shadows, andcompared them with their living representative. 

A stranger came to Otter: that was an unfrequent event, even when thespring was advancing, and the boats which had been drawn up for thewinter were again launched in the cove, and the brown nets hung anew todry on the budding whins and gowans--the April gowans converting thehaugh into a "lily lea. " Their nearest neighbour, only an occasionalresident among them, lounged over with his whip, dog-call, and dogs, andentered the drawing-room at Otter, to be introduced for the first timeto its mistress. Leslie's instincts were hospitable, and they were by nomeans strained by exercise; but she did not like this guest; she felt aninvoluntary repugnance to him, although he was very courteous toher--with an elaborate, ostentatious homage that astonished and confusedher. He was a man of Hector Garret's age, but, even in his rough coat, with marked remains of youthful foppishness and pretension. He was atall man, with beard and moustache slightly silvered; his aquilinefeatures were sharpened and drawn; his bold searching eyes sunken. Hewas a gentleman, even an accomplished and refined gentleman in mannerand accent--and yet there was about him a nameless coarseness, thebrutishness of self-indulgence and low aims and ends, which no polishcould efface or conceal. 

Leslie, notwithstanding her slight knowledge of life, apprehended this, and shrank from the man; but he addressed Hector Garret with the ease ofan intimate associate--and Hector Garret, with his pride andscrupulousness, suffered the near approach, and only winced when thestranger accosted Leslie, complimented Leslie, put himself coolly on thefooting of future friendship with the lady of the house. 

The day wore on, and still the visitor remained, entertaining himself, and discoursing widely, but for the most part on practices and motivesstrange at Otter. 

"So you've married, after all, Hector, " he said, suddenly, as they sattogether in the twilight: "well, I excuse you, " with a laugh and a touchon the shoulder. 

The words were simple enough, but they tingled in Leslie's ears likeinsolence, and Hector Garret, so hard to rouse, bit his lips while heanswered indifferently--"And when does your time come, Nigel? Are theshadows not declining with you?"

"Faith, they're so low, that there's not light left for the experiment;besides, French life spoils one for matrimony here, at least so poorAlice used to say--'no galling bonds on this side of the Channel'--thepeaceful _couvent grille_, or a light _mariage de convenance_ among thepleasant southerns;--not that they are so pleasant as they were formerlyeither. "

Hector Garret got up and walked to one of the window recesses, his browknit, his teeth set. 

Leslie rose to steal from the room. 

"Nay, stay, madam, " urged the bland, brazen intruder; "don't rob us sosoon of a fair, living apology for _fades souvenirs_. "

But "Go, Leslie, we will not detain you, " Hector Garret exclaimed, impatiently; and Leslie hurried to her own chamber in a tumult ofsurprise and indignation, and vexed suspicion. Mysteries had not ceased;and what was this mystery to which Hector Garret deigned to lend himselfin disparaging company with a sorry fine gentleman?

Bridget Kennedy was there before her, making a pretence of fumbling inthe wardrobe, her head shaking, her lips working, her eyes blazing withrepressed rage and malice. 

"Is he there, madam, still?" she demanded, impetuously. "Is he torturingand maddening Master Hector with his tones and gestures? He!--he thatought to crouch among the bent grass and fern sooner than pass the otheron the high road. Borrowing and begging, to lavish on his evil courses:he who could not pay us--not in red gold, but with his heart'sblood--the woe he wrought. They had guileful, stony hearts, theBoswells, before they ever took to foreign lightness and wickedness: andevil to him who trafficked with them in life or death. "

"Who is he, Bridget? I do not know him; I cannot understand, " gaspedLeslie. 

"Don't ask me, madam--you, least of all. "

"Tell me, Bridget, tell me, " implored the girl, frightened, yetexasperated, catching the old woman's withered hands, and holdingthem fast. 

"Don't ask me, madam, " reiterated Bridget, sternly. "Better not. "

"I will know; what do you mean? Oh, you hurt me, you hurt me! I will askHector Garret himself. I cannot bear this suspense!"

"Child, do you choose what you can bear? Beware!" menaced the nurse;then, as Leslie would have broken from her--

"Have it, then! He is the brother of that Alice Boswell who perished inthe burning of Earlscraig nigh twenty years ago. "

"Poor lady, Bridget, " Leslie said, with a bewildered, excited sob. "Poorunhappy lady; but what has that to do with him, with me? I understand nobetter. Help me, Bridget Kennedy--a woman, like myself. I will not letyou go. "

"Madam, what good will it serve? It is small matter now:" then halfreluctantly, half with that possession with which truth fills itskeeper, slowly and sadly she unfolded the closed story. "What had MasterHector to do with Alice Boswell? He had to do with her as a man has todo with his heart's desire, his snare, his pitfall. "

"He loved her, Bridget; he would have wedded her. I might never havebeen his--that is all. "

"Love, marriage!" scornfully; "I know not that he spoke the words, buthe lay at her feet. Proud as Master Hector was, she might have troddenon his neck; cool as Master Hector seems to others, he was fire to her. I have seen him come in from watching her shadow, long hours below herwindow, in the wind and rain, and salt spray. I have known him when hevalued her glove in his bosom more than a king's crown--blest, blest ifhe had but a word or a glance. But it is long gone by, madam. MasterHector has gained wisdom and gravity, and is the head of the house; andfor fair Miss Alice, she has gone to her place. Yes, she was a beauty, Miss Alice; she could play on stringed instruments like the heavenlyharpers, and speak many tongues, and work till the flowers grew beneathher fingers. She learnt to wile men's souls from their bodies, ifnothing more, in the outlandish parts where she was bred. "

"So fair, so gifted--did she care for him in return, Bridget? Did shelove him as he loved her?" asked a faint voice. 

"What need you mind, madam?" sharply. "It is ill speaking harsh words ofthe dead. Did I not say she had gone to her place? God defend you fromsuch a passage. Let her rest. Sure she cared for him, as she cared foraught else save herself. She scattered smiles and favours on scores. Heknew at last what she took, and what she gave, if he did not guess italways. "

"Why did he not save her, Bridget? die with her!"

"Madam, " bitterly, "he did what man could do. They say he was more likea spirit than a mortal; but if he was to lose his love, how could evenMaster Hector fight against his Maker? He was fain to follow her; hedallied with death for weeks and months. Those were fell days at Otter, but the Lord restored him, and now he is himself again, and no womanwill ever move Master Hector more. "

There was silence in the room for a space. At last Bridget broke it: "Doyou want anything more with me, madam, or shall I go?"

Haughty as Bridget Kennedy was, she spoke hesitatingly, almostpitifully. She had stabbed that young thing, sitting pale and coldbefore her; and no sooner was the deed done than her strong, deep natureyearned over her victim as it had never done to Hector Garret's girlwife, in the first rosy flush of her thoughtless gladness. 

"Nothing more. " The words were low and heavy, and when Bridget left her, Leslie raised her hands and linked them together, and stretched them outin impotence of relief. 

What was this news that had come to her as from a far country?--thisblinding light, this burst of knowledge that had to do with the verysprings of a man's nature, this fountain so full to some, so empty toothers? She had been deceived, robbed. Hector Garret was AliceBoswell's--in life and death, Alice Boswell's. 

This love, which she had known so slightly, measured so carelessly--oh, light, shallow heart!--had been rooted in his very vitals, hadconstrained him as a conqueror his captive, had been the very essence ofthe man until it spent itself on Alice Boswell's wild grave. He had cometo her with a lie in his right hand, for he was bound and fettered inheart, or else but the blue, stiff corpse of a man dead within; he hadbetrayed her woman's right, her best, dearest, truest right, her callto love and be loved. Another might have wooed her as he had wooed AliceBoswell; to another she might have been the first, the only one! sheknew now why she was no helpmeet, no friend for him; why his hand didnot raise her to his eminence, his soul's breath did not blow upon hers, and create vigour, goodness, and grace to match his own. Deep had notcried unto deep: heart had not spoken to heart: the dry bones, thevacant form, the empty craving, were her portion; and out of suchunnatural hollowness have arisen, once and again, deadly lust and sin. 

Why had none stepped in between her and this cruel mockery andtemptation? "Mother, mother, how could you be false to your trust? Wereyou, too, cheated and bereft of your due? left a cold, shrinking woman, withering, not suddenly, but for a whole lifetime?"

Leslie sat long weighing her burden, until a tap at the door and BridgetKennedy's voice disturbed her. "Earlscraig is gone, madam; Master Hectoris sitting alone with his thoughts in your room. May be, he is missinghis cup of tea, or, if you please, madam, his lady's company that he isused to at this hour. "

Leslie rose mechanically, walked out, and entered her drawing-room. Whatdid he there, his eyes fixed on the broken turret of Earlscraig, definedclearly on the limited horizon, his memory hovering over the fate offair Alice Boswell?

Was it horrible to be jealous of a dead woman? to wish herself in thatever-present grave, sacred to him as the holiest, though no priestblessed it, no house of God threw over it the shadow of the fingerpointed to heaven--the cross that bore a world's Saviour? But that swiftand glowing passage from life and light and love, such as his todarkness, forgetfulness--eternity. How could she have faced it? Bridget, her old enemy, had prayed she might be delivered from it, whatever hertrials. 

"Nigel Boswell is gone at last; he was an old playfellow, and fortuneand he have been playing a losing game ever since, " he said, inunsuspecting explanation, as he joined her where she sat in herfavourite window. 

She did not answer him; she was stunned, and sat gazing abstractedly onthe wallflowers rendering golden the mossy court wall, or far away onthe misty Otter sea. She thought he had relapsed into his reveries, waswith the past, the spring-tide of his life, the passion of his earlymanhood, while she was a little school-girl tripping demurely and safelyalong the crowded Glasgow streets. If she had looked up at him she wouldhave seen that he was observing her curiously--wondering where his youngwife had acquired that serious brow, those fixed eyes. 

"What are you thinking of, Leslie?"

"Nothing; I cannot tell, " hastily and resolutely. 

"That sounds suspicious. " He put his hand on her head, as he had a habitof doing, but she recoiled from him. 

"A shy little brain that dreads a finger of mine on its soft coveringmust discover its secrets. Are they treasures, Leslie?"

Oh, blind, absent, reckless man, what treasure-keeper kept such ward!

Lightly won, was lightly held. 

Leslie struggled with her oppression for several dull feverish days;then, driven by her own goading thoughts, her sense of injury, herthirst for justice and revenge, she left the house and wandered out onthe beach to breathe free air, to forget herself in exertion, fatigue, stupor. It was evening, dark with vapour--gloomy, with a rising gale, and the sea was beginning to mutter and growl. Leslie sat shivering bythe water's edge, fascinated by the sympathy of nature with her bitterhopelessness. A voice on the banks and meadows, even in the chill nightair, whispered of spring advancing rapidly, with buds and flowers, withsap, fragrance, and warmth, and the tender grace of its flood of green;but here, by the waves, a passing thunder-cloud, a stealthy mist, awhistling breeze, darkened the scene, and restored barren, dismal winterin a single hour. The night drooped down without moon or star, and stillLeslie sat listless, drowsy with sorrow, until as she rose she sank backsick and giddy; and then the idea of premature death, of passing awaywithout a sign, of hiding her pain under the silent earth that hascovered so many sins and sorrows, first laid hold of her. 

The notion was not fairly welcome: she was young; her heart had beenrecently wrung; she had been listless and disappointed--but she hadloved her few isolated engagements, her country life, her householddignity, the protection of her husband. She could not divest herselfof these feelings at once. She feared the great unknown into whichshe should enter; but still death did not appal her as it might havedone: it was something to be scanned, waited for, and submitted to, as a true sovereign. 

The cold wind pierced her through and through; the rain fell; she couldnot drag herself from the shelving rock, though the tide was rising. Shefelt frozen, her limbs were like lead, and her mind was wandering, orlapsing into unconsciousness. 

She did not hear a call, an approaching foot; but her sinking pulsesleapt up with sudden power and passion when Hector Garret stooped overher, and endeavoured to raise her. 

"Here, Bridget, she is found! Leslie, why have you remained out so late?You have been sleeping; you have made yourself ill. How can you be sorash, so imprudent? It is childish--wrong. You have made usanxious--distressed us. Poor old Bridget has stumbled further in searchof you, this squally night, than she has ventured on the sunniestmorning for many a year. "

He was excited, aggrieved; he upbraided her. He had sympathy for oldBridget's infirmities; he knew nothing of his wife's misery. 

Leslie resisted him as she had done since that day, slipped from hisclasp, strove to steady herself, and to walk alone in her weakness. Bridget put her feeble arm around her. 

"Lean on me, madam, and I will lean on you, for I am frail, and the roadis rough, and the wind is blowing fresh, besides the darkness. " "I knewthat would quiet her, " she muttered. "Poor old Bridget indeed! saidMaster Hector. Poor colleen! misled, misguided. Cruel makes cruel. St. Patrick could not save himself from the hard necessity. "

Hector Garret was content since he saw Leslie safe; he accused her ofcaptiousness and nervousness, but it was the waywardness and perversityof illness. He had tried her simple nature with too much alienation fromher kind; she had grown morbid on the baneful diet, tutored though shehad been to self-dependence. He had been to blame; but her merry temperwould come back, and the rose to her cheek, and the spring to her foot, with other ties, other occupations--dearer, more sufficient. 

V. --THE MOTHER AND CHILD. 

"How is the poor child, Bridget Kennedy? Does she fare as she shoulddo?"

"The child is as fine a child, Master Hector, as if she had been a boy, and a Garret, on both sides of the house, and will thrive if her motherwill let her. There are mothers that would hinder their bairns in thedeath-rattle, and there are others that so watch their little ones thatthe angels of God are displaced from their cradles; and the weary humancare haunts and harasses the infant, and stops its growth. "

"I am not learned in these matters, Bridget. You brought me up; I trustyou to rear my children. "

"None shall rear them but their mother, Master Hector; none shall comebetween her and them. I have ruled long at Otter, but I dare not disputewith her there. "

"Settle it as you like. I did not mean them--I was not thinking of themat all. I asked for their mother. You have experience. Is shewell--happy as she should be?"

"I wish you would not provoke such mistakes, Master Hector, " saidBridget, pettishly; "I wish you would find some other name for yourwife. You should know best, but is it suitable to term the nursling andthe parent by the same title? I am a foolish old woman, but it seemsstrange to me. Your father did not confound them. "

"Ah! I dare say not. We will find a Christian name for the new comer, and end the Comedy of Errors, since you dislike it, and Leslie too, doubtless; for women are nice on these points. "

 * * * * *

"Leslie, what shall we call the baby?" inquired Hector Garret the nexttime he stood by his wife's side, wishing to divert her by a pleasantdifficulty, and to vary the expression of those large eyes--larger nowthan ever--which, he knew not why, fascinated him by the intensity oftheir gaze. "I cause Bridget to blunder oddly between you two; so sether at rest by fixing as soon as you can the momentous question. "

"I have fixed, " answered Leslie, quietly. 

"I commend your foresight; a man, now, would have left the alternativeopen to the last. "

"Mrs. Garret's first daughter must be named after Mrs. Garret's mother, "declared Bridget, authoritatively. 

"No, " said Leslie, hastily; "I have named her after myself--if you donot object, " she added, with a flush, half shame, half pride. 

"I? Oh, no; do as you will. It will not solve Bridget's puzzle; but I amcontent. Leslie is a bonnie name. "

Leslie compressed her lip. 

"My mother's name is bonnier, " she said, abruptly; "my mother's name isAlice. "

He started, and gazed at her keenly while she continued, falteringly, but with a stubborn will in her speech:--

"I wish my baby to be mine in everything, particularly as she is agirl. I am neither wise nor clever, nor strong now. I fear I am oftenpeevish; but you will excuse me, because I am a weak, ignorant woman. Such defects are not fatal in a mother; hundreds have overcome themfor their children. I trust that I will be, if not what a better womanmight have been, at least more to my child than any other can be. Hermother!--so holy a tie must confer some peculiar fitness. Yes; my babyis mine, and must lie on my knees, and learn to laugh in my poor face. And so I wish her to have my name also, that there may be a completeunion between us. "

Hector Garret knew now what intelligence had reached his wife, and whilethe old wound burnt afresh, the shyness of his still but sensitivenature, the pride of the grave strong man, were offended and injured. But with regard to his wife he was only conscious of the petulant, unreasonable, unkind surface; he did not sound her deep resentment andjealousy; he did not dream of the anguish of the secret cry whoseoutward expression struck upon his vexed ears; he did not hear her innerprotest: "I will not have my baby bear his love's name, recall her tohim, be a memorial of her--be addressed with fondness as much for thesake of old times as for her own, the innocent!--be brought up toresemble Alice, trained to follow in her footsteps, until, if I died, my child would be more Alice Boswell's than mine. Never, never!"

Hector Garret little knew Leslie Bower; slowly he arrived at thediscovery. First a troubled suspicion, then a dire certainty. Not thetransparent, light-hearted, humble girl, whom a safe, prosperous countryhome, an honourable position, a kindly regard, left more thansatisfied--happy: but the visionary, enthusiastic woman, confiding, butclaiming confidence for confidence; tender and true, but demanding likesincerity, constancy, purity, and power of devotion. Had he but knownher the first! But a man's fate lies in one woman. Had he but left herin her girlish sweetness and gaiety; had he never approached her withhis cold overtures--his barren, artificial expediency and benevolence!She erred in ignorance and inexperience; but he against the bitter fruitof knowledge, in wilful tampering with truth--reluctantly, misgivingly--selfishly cozening his conscience, hardening himself inunbelief, applying salve to the old vital stab to his independence. Hehad erred with an egotistical and presumptuous conceit of protecting anddefending the young full life which would have found for itself anoutlet, and flown on rapid, free, and rejoicing, had he only refrainedfrom diverting its current into a dull, dark, long-drained channel, where it was dammed up, or oozed out sluggishly, gloomily, despairingly--without natural spring-time, sunshine, abundance, gladness, until lost in the great sea. 

He had viewed but the soft silken bud, whose deep cup was drunk withdew, --its subtle, spicy fragrance pervading, lingering after the leaveswere drooping and the bloom fled, but its rich, royal hues were yet tocome. In his blind coarse blundering, he had mistaken the bud for theflower, the portal for the church; he had entered with heedless, profanefoot, and blighted the blossom and rifled the altar. For the leaves hadbeen unclosed, the gates unbarred under his neglect; and Leslie, with anoble woman's frankness, generosity, and meekness--that true meeknesswhich oftenest cleaves and melts the ringing metal of a highspirit--Leslie had begun to love him, to fix her heart upon him, to growto him--stolid, sardonic statue that he was!--until that shock exposedhis flaws and wrenched her from her hold. Better to be thus rudelydissevered, perhaps, than to waste her womanliness, puny and pale fromits vague bald nourishment, on a fraud and a farce. 

Hector Garret awoke from his delusion, from his scholarly reveries, hisactive enterprise. "He that provideth not for his own house is worsethan an infidel. " So he watched Leslie: he saw her rise up with herthoughtful face, very individual it appeared now, and go up and downcarrying her baby. He was aware that she was appropriating it as hertreasure; that she was saying to herself some such words--"Silver andgold have I none, but this is my pearl beyond price; she will be enoughfor me; she must be so; I will make her so. She and I will waste no moresilly tears on hard, changeable men. They are not like us, littledaughter; they pass us by, or they love us once with fierce desire; andwhen satiated or balked, they turn to us again to please their eye, flatter their ear, vary their leisure; to anatomize and torture likeother favourites of an hour. We will have none of them, save to do ourduty. We will live for each other. "

Not that she deprived him of his rights as a father; she was toomagnanimous to be unjust, and she would not have balked that puppet, towhose service she consecrated herself, of one privilege which any pangsof hers could purchase. 

She presented their child to him with a serious stateliness, as if itwas so very solemn a ceremony that its performance emancipated her fromordinary emotion; she came and consulted him on the small questions thatconcerned its welfare with the same absorbing care. If he came near herwhen she bore the child in her arms, she offered it to him immediately:she was righteous as well as valiant--yes, very valiant. He contemplatedher stedfastness with wonder. After the blow which overcame her, when acompensation was given her--a blessing to atone for the gall in her cup, she accepted it and cherished it, and set herself to be grateful for itand worthy of it immediately. The fortitude which, after theinvoluntary, inevitable rebellion, would permit no more idle repining, the decent pride that hid its own disease and bore it bravely, even thesternness that set its teeth against reaction--he recognised them all;it was studying the reflection of his own lofty features in the fragile, quivering flesh of a girl. 

What is often proposed, rarely practised, Leslie did. She changed herways: with what travail of spirit, what heart-sickness she alone couldtell. It is no common slight or safe influence that causes a revulsionin the whole bodily system; it is no skin-deep puncture that bleedsinwardly; it is no easy lesson that the disciple lays to heart; butLeslie surmounted and survived it. She had escaped her responsibilities, and slumbered at her post. She would do so no longer. She belonged now, after little Leslie, to her household, and its members might yet be thebetter for her, and Hector Garret should respect--not pity her. Shevindicated her matronhood suddenly and straightforwardly, but with asedateness and firmness that was conclusive of her future power; she hadmuch to acquire, but she would gain something every day and every hour, until Otter should own no abler mistress. Then for her child, she wouldteach herself that she might instruct her daughter, so that if sheproved inquiring and meditative like her father, she need not soon wearyof her simple mother, and turn altogether to a more enlightened andprofound instructor. Surely there was some knowledge that a woman couldbest store up and dispense, some gift wherein the vigorous andwell-trained man did not bear the universal palm? Leslie strove tocultivate her talents; for these, in her position, there was scarcely achoice of fields, but she had eminently the power of observation, andher sharpened motives supplied the defects of her early education. Leslie became a naturalist--the most original and untrammelled ofnaturalists, for she proceeded upon that foundation of anecdotal andexperimental acquaintance with herb and tree, insect, bird, and beast, and even atmospheric phenomena, whose unalloyed riches are peculiar torustic and isolated genius. 

Hector Garret observed this growing taste, and appreciated it. Lesliehad ceased to apologize for her stupidity, and to be shy of hisscrutiny. When he found her procuring and preserving this or thatspecimen, or noting down a primitive fact, if he asked an explanation hehad one directly. 

"This pale flower, and that with the green flowers and the great leaves, are lady's-smock and lady's-mantle; they say they are named after theVirgin, but I think Adam must have named them in the Garden. --Bridgettells me that the Irish believe the fairies sleep in these bells. --Thisis the plant of whose root cats are so fond that they burrow about itand nibble it, and as it does not hurt them, I have dug up a bit for ourpuss--little Leslie looks after her already. --I have been writing downthe day when the swallows twittered at the window, to compare with theirarrival next summer. Peggy Barbour saw a double nest with one hole lastyear; it must have been an old pair and a young maintaining a jointroof-tree. --Yes, of course, these are jay's feathers. "

Another resource which Leslie found within Hector Garret's perceptionwas that of music. She had been endowed with a flexible, melodiousvoice, and as soon as she had use for them, she gathered by magic ahost of ditties, blithe or sad, stirring or soothing, from theromantic fervour of 'Charlie, he's my darling, ' to the pathos of'Drummossie Moor, ' or the homely, biting humour of 'Tibbie Fowler, ' tocarol to the accompaniment of the ancient spinet, in order to cheer orlull the child. 

Hector Garret would move to his study-window, and open it softly, in thegloaming hour when the purple sunset was on the sea, and the batsabroad from the old chimneys, to listen to his wife in the room abovesinging to her child. He did not hear her music otherwise: if he hadsolicited it, she would have complied, with a little surprise, but hedid not seek the indulgence. 

The alteration in Leslie which matured her unexpectedly from a girl to awoman affected powerfully both the arbiters of her destiny. BridgetKennedy, from a tyrant, was fairly transformed into her warmest and mostfaithful adherent. There was something high and great in the wild oldwoman, that could thus at once confess her error, admit greatness in anyform in another, and succumb to it reverently. Truly, Bridget Kennedywas like fire to the weak and foolish, a scourge and a grizzly phantom;to the brave and capable, a minister fearless, fond, and untiring to herlast breath. 

It was very strange to Hector Garret to be sensible of Bridget's lapsefrom his side, --to hear the present mistress, the subdued diligentwoman, canonized to the level of the grand, glad lady of Otter to whomBridget had been so long fanatically loyal. He said to himself that thechild had helped to effect it, the precious descendant, the doted-onthird generation; but he was uncertain. He himself was so impressed withthe patient woman he had formed out of the lively girl, so tortured by aconviction that he had gagged and fettered her--that her limbs werecramped and benumbed, her atmosphere oppressive, her lifeself-denying--that he could bear it no longer. 

"God forgive me, Leslie, for the wrong I have done you!" he confessedone night with a haggard, remorseful face, when she stood, constrainedand pensive, on his joyless hearth. 

She looked up quickly, and laughed a dry laugh. "You are dreaming, " shereplied. "How much larger Otter is than the Glasgow house! it was a merecupboard in comparison. How much pleasanter the fields and hills andsands than the grimy, noisy streets where my head ached and my eyes wereweary. And little Leslie is a thousand times dearer than my own people, or any companions that I ever possessed. Hush! hush! I hear her cry;don't detain me, unless for anything I can do for you--because nothingkeeps me from Leslie. "

The coals of fire were heaped upon his head: there could be noreparation. 

Why was Hector Garret not resigned? It was a cruel mistake, but it mighthave been worse, for hearts are deceitful, and what is false and banefulis apt to prove an edge-tool. Here was permanent estrangement, comfortless formality, cold, compulsory esteem; but there was notreachery in the household, no malignant hate, no base revenge. 

But Hector Garret would not rest: he had far less or far more energythan his wife; he walked his lands a moody, harassed man. The turmoiland distraction of his youth seemed recalled; he lost his equanimity;his regular habits faded from him. Leslie could no longer count on hisprolonged absence, his short stated visits; he would be with her at anytime within doors or without--to exchange a word or look, and go as hecame, to return as unaccountably and inconsistently. It vexed Leslie;she tried not to see it; it made her curious, anxious; and what had sheto do with Hector Garret's flushed cheek and shining eye? Someanniversary, some combination of present associations and pastrecollections--a tendency to fly from himself, besetting at times themost self-controlled--might have caused this change in his appearance. Ah! better twist and untwist the rings of little Leslie's fair hair, anddress and undress her as she had done her doll; better examine the shellcracked by the yellow-hammer, and count the spots on the broad, brownleaf of the plane, than perplex herself with so uncongenial adifficulty. But the difficulty pursued her nevertheless, and baffled andbewitched her as it has done wiser people. 

The master and mistress of Otter were spectators of the harvest home, the plentiful feast, the merry dance in the spacious barn where theirshare of the fruits of the earth was about to be garnered. Leslie stoodin her complimentary, gay gala ribbons, with her fingers meeting uponher wedding-ring, looking composedly and with interest on the buxomwomen and stalwart men, the loving lads and lasses, the cordial husbandsand wives. Hector Garret, however, scarcely tarried to reply to hishealth and prosperity drunk in a flowing bumper, but broke from thescene as if its good was his evil, its blessing his curse. 

In the parish church where Leslie had exhibited her bridal finery shenow listened to the clergyman, and bent her head in penitence andworship, and was disturbed by Hector Garret's gesture of restlessnessand attitude of care. 

When the new moon was rising in the sky, Leslie would bid the little onelook up and clap her hands, while Hector paced up and down unquiet anddissatisfied. Then she would carry the child off to her cradle pillow, and coming back would stand and look at the moon, while he was close toher, murmuring "Leslie! Leslie!" But she would turn upon him pale andcold as the moon above her, and would address him, "See, yonder is aship doubling Earlscraig point and steering into the Otter sea. "

VI. --THE STORM. 

The October winds, tossing the late oats and the frosted heather, werelashing the Otter sea into heaving waves and flakes of foam. Thatwestern sea has its annals and its trophies, as well as den and moor. Edward Bruce crossed it to give to Ireland as dauntless a king as hewhom a woman crowned, and who found a nameless grave; and there, in theglassy calm of a summer night, the vessel, with its passengers lulled infatal security and slumber, sank like lead, fathoms beyond the aid ofmodern science with its myriads of inventions and its hardyself-confidence. 

The few fishers of Otter were exposed to the swell rolling from NewEngland and Labrador to Galloway and Argyle; many a lamp stood day andnight in cottage windows, many an anxious woman forsook her brood, andunder her sheltering plaid ran here and there, dizzy and desperate, tobeg for counsel, and for tidings of the husband and father whose boatwas due, and who was still exposed to the pitiless fury of the tempest. 

Hector Garret was early summoned to marshal his men in order to succourthose who were within his reach; to think, plan, and act to the lastfor those who were amissing, but might yet be rescued. He had been uponthe beach all day; he had been handling rope and line; he had been readyat any moment to launch his own boat among the breakers. 

Leslie, too, had been abroad. She had been in several houses, especiallyin those whose young children were of the same age as Leslie. In all shemet the same abandonment; whether the heads of the families chanced tobe young or old, worthy or unworthy, mattered not; they were now thesole thought, the object of racking anxiety, lamented over beforehandwith sore lamentation. If they were safe, all was well; if they werelost, these wives and mothers were bereaved indeed. The Sabine women didnot cling to their rough masters with more touching fidelity. The menwere in trouble--their imprudence, their intemperance, their violencewere blotted out. 

Leslie went home in disturbance and pain. She, too, placed a light inher window; she, too, left her infant untended, and strained her eyes topierce the storm. Hector Garret must have descried her figure as heapproached the house, for he came straight to her room, and stood amoment with his dripping clothes and a glow on his face. 

"Don't go, Leslie; I'll be back presently. "

She put a restraint upon herself, and became busied with therefreshments laid out for him. He came in immediately, and advancedtowards her with the same eager phrase, "Don't go, Leslie, " and hegrasped her gown lightly. She sat down while he ate and drank. 

"I'll have a cup of tea, Leslie; pour me out my tea as you used to do. "She had always poured out tea for him, but not always with him close by, and his detaining hand upon her dress. 

"This is like old times. They were very foolish--those old times, butthey have their sweetness to look back upon them. "

She interrupted him--"They are all safe, are they not?"

"Every man of them, thank God. "

He was spent with his exertions; he was fevered and incoherent; she lethim speak on, detailing the minutest particulars. She even said withanimation, and the tears in her eyes--

"Their protector and deliverer! God will bless you for this, HectorGarret. "

He bent his head, but he held out his arms: "Will you bless me, Leslie?"

His voice was thick and hoarse; it petrified her, so still was she--sodumb; and at that moment the knocker sounded, and importunate voiceswere demanding the Laird of Otter. 

He obeyed the summons, spoke with his servants a little time, andreturned to find Leslie in the same arrested posture, with the sameblanched face. He had resumed his seaman's coat, and carried his cap inhis hand. He was calm now, and smiling, but with a face wan and shadowedwith an inexpressible cloud. 

"It may not be, Leslie, " he said, soft and low; "Nigel Boswell's boat isin sight, struggling to make Earlscraig; he was always rash andunskilled, though seaward born and bred. If he is not forestalled, hisboat will be bottom upmost, or crushed like glass within the hour. Itrust I will save him; but if there be peril and death in my path, thenlisten to what I say, and remember it. Whatever has gone before, at thismoment I am yours; you may doubt it, deny it--I swear it, Leslie. Despise me, reject me if you will; I cannot perish misinterpreted andmisjudged. I loved Alice Boswell. My love is ashes with its object. Idid not love you once; I love you now. I love a living woman truer, higher, holier than the dead; and for my love's sake, not for myvows--the first for love, if it be the last. "

He had her in his arms; his lingering kisses were on her eyes, her hair, her hands. He was gone, and still she remained rooted to the ground. Wasit amazement, anger, terror?--or was it a wild throb of exultation forthat, the real moment of their union? or because she had won him, andwas his who had slighted her, sinned against her--but who was stillHector Garret, manly, wise, and noble--the hero of her girlhood. 

She was roused reluctantly by the entrance of Bridget Kennedy, shakingin every limb. 

"Madam, why did you let Master Hector go?--he has had the look of adoomed man this many a day. It is thus that men are called, as plain aswhen the Banshee cries. Madam, say your prayers for Master Hector whilehe is still in life. "

"I must go to him, Bridget; I must follow him. Don't try to keep me. Heis my husband, too. The poor women were crowding on the beach thismorning. Let me go!"

She understood that he was exposing himself for another--that his lifehung on the turning of a straw. She ran upstairs, but she did not seekher child, and when she descended, Bridget had still to fetch her mantleand bonnet. The old woman did not seek to detain her, but ejaculatedthrough her chattering teeth, as she peered out after her and wrung herhands, "She will bring the Master back, if anything can; nought willharm her. I, poor miserable wretch, would but clog her swiftness. Ay, hewill hearken to her voice; he has been waiting for the sound weeks andmonths. Who would have said that Master Hector, like Samson, would twicebe given a prey to a woman! He will hear her above the winds and waves;body or soul, he will obey her, as he did Alice Boswell twenty years agoin fire and ruin. "

Leslie hurried on in the darkness, her little feet tripping, her slightform borne back by the blast. Not thus had she wandered on those sunny, summer days when she first knew Otter; but there was that within, in themidst of her distress, that she would not have resigned for that lightlife twice over. 

She reached the beach; the roar of the surf and the shriek of the windwere in her ears, but no human presence was visible. There flashed backupon her the vision of her hopelessness and helplessness on such anotherblustering, raging night--but the recollection brought no comfort. Shepaused in dismay, with nothing but the mist and the driving rain beforeher. Stay! obscurely, and at intervals, she caught sight of a light, nowborne on the crest of these giant waves, now sunk and lost. Hark! apistol-shot! that must be Boswell's appeal for aid; and yonder layEarlscraig--yonder also was Hector toiling to rescue his ancient friendand persistent foe. She should be there too. At Earlscraig their destinywould be wrought out. 

Leslie sped along in the tumult of earth and sky; the road was more thana mile, and at such a season and in such weather very toilsome anddangerous--but what deeds have not tender women achieved, strung bylove, or hate!

When Leslie gained the promontory, she found the old house deserted--thefew servants were on the shore, aiding or watching Hector Garret and hismen in their efforts to save the last of his line, cast away within theshadow of his own rocks and towers. 

Leslie shrank from descending among the spectators; she remained spentand breathless, but resolute still, where she could spy the firstwayfarer, hear the first shout of triumph, and steal away in thedarkness, fleeing home unmarked and undetained. 

It was the first occasion on which she had been close to Earlscraig. Thesituation, at all times exposed, was now utterly forlorn. The spray wasrising over the land, the waves were sapping its old foundation, theweird winds were tearing at the coping of the shattered house; and onthe side where Alice Boswell's turret had stood, stones were rumbling, and wild weeds streaming. The scene was very dismal and eerie, butLeslie did not shudder or faint; her senses were bent on one aim, shewas impervious to all else. She sank down in a kneeling position, staring with unwinking eyes, praying with her whole heart in an agony. The light which had beguiled her, passed beyond her sight after tossingfor some time to and fro. She could not regain it, she could onlycontinue ready to seize the first signal of bliss, or woe. 

It did not come. The storm raged more madly; the desolation grew moreappalling; Leslie's brain began to whirl; the solitude was rife withshapes and voices. 

Above all stood fair Alice Boswell, wreathed in white flames--from thewavering cloudy mass of forms the gallant exile plunged anew into theflood, now seething and rushing to meet its prey. 

"Oh woman--Alice Boswell--I did not steal your lover! you kept him fromme long after God and man had given him to me. There are no vows andcaresses in the grave. We have had but one meeting and parting; but one!Oh, stranger, he is spending his life for her brother, as you were readyto fling down yours for her. Will none of you be appeased? Then take usboth; in mercy leave not the other! In death let us not be divided!"

The pang was over; Leslie passed into insensibility. When she recoveredherself, the spectres of that horrible dream still flitted around her, for did she not distinguish through the surge and the blast HectorGarret's foot speeding to receive his doom?

But "Leslie, " not "Alice, " was his cry. Beneath the very arches ofEarlscraig, where fair Alice Boswell, her rich hair decked for one, herbright eyes sparkling for another, her sandal buckled for a third, hadstood, and waved to him her hand--"Leslie! Leslie!" was his cry, uttered with such aching longing, such utter despair. It was the wail ofno mocking ghost, but the human cry of a breaking heart. 

Leslie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; but there was no needof speech to indicate to him his weak, fluttering treasure. Found oncemore! Found for ever! raised and borne away swiftly and securely. Noword of explanation, no reproach for folly and desperation, no recitalof his labours, no information regarding others, but--strange fromHector Garret's stern lips, and sweet as strange--murmurs of fondnessand devotion: "Sweet Leslie! mine only--mine always!" Scoutings atweariness, cheery reckonings of their way, his heart beating againsthers, her cheek to his; and it was only when Bridget Kennedy openedthe door, and he asked her whether she had yet a chamber for thistruant, that Leslie was aware how well Hector Garret had performed hispart, and how many guests the hospitable walls of Otter sheltered thateventful night. 

Bridget was solemnly praising heaven, whose arm had been about them, andrestored them both in the flower of their days, to Otter, and to theirbairn. 

"We have come back for more than Otter and the bairn, Leslie. Bridgetand all the men of Ayr could not have held her here, my faithful wifethat needs must be my love, she has proved herself so true!"

He was throwing off her drenched cloak, and chafing her cold hands. Oneof them was clenched on its contents. He opened the stiffened finger, and found a lock of hair. 

"It was all belonging to you that I had, Hector, " she whispered; "I tookit long ago, with your knowledge but without your consent. I would notlook at it, or touch it; I kept it for little Leslie. But you said thatyou were mine, and it was something of yours to hold; you were mine, andit was part of you. "

 * * * * *

"Better for Scotland that weans greet than bearded men, " averred theLord of Glammis; but he did not say, better for the men, or better forthose who plight hand and heart with them, that the keen, clear eye meltnot, either with ruth or tenderness. Nay, the plants of household faithand love, scathed by some lightning flash, pinched by some poverty ofsoil, will lift their heads and thrive apace when once they have beenwatered with this heavenly rain--and like the tree of the Psalmistgrowing by the river, will flourish pleasantly, and bear much goodlyfruit thenceforth, and fade not at all, but instead, be transplantedinto "the land that is far away. "

THE OLD YEOMANRY WEEKS. 

I. --THE YEOMEN'S ADVENT. --PRIORTON SPRUCES ITSELF UP. 

Time changes both defences and amusements. Now we have volunteer reviewsin place of old yeomanry weeks. But it is worth while looking back onwhat was so hearty, quaint, humorous, and stirring in times bygone. 

Beasts as well as men had their day in the past. The tramp of horses, their brisk neigh, and the flourish of their long tails added to thegeneral attraction. The coats of the Yeomen, too, were of the mostsanguinary red. And there were other charms. The calling out of thetroop for ten days involved a muster from all the county for twelve orfifteen miles round. There was thus an inroad of country friends. Thegenial system of billeting was in vogue, too, so that every bed wasfull. And allies and satellites called in, in happy succession, to sharethe bustle and glee. A company of respectable theatrical stars, patronized both by officers and privates, visited the town; and awonderfully brilliant yeomanry ball, attended alike by gentle andsimple, wound up the successful interlude in ordinary life. 

The little town of Priorton spruced itself up for its yeomanry weeks, and was all agog, as it never was at any other time. The campaigncommenced by the arrival on horseback of a host of country gentlemen andfarmers, in plain clothes as yet. But they carried at their saddle-bows, packages containing their cherished ensigns and symbols--in their casethe very glory of the affair. Along with these in many cases camejudicious presents of poultry and game. 

There were such hand-shakings in the usually quiet streets, suchgroomings of horses at stables behind old-fashioned little taverns, suchpipe-claying of belts and polishing of helmets, and, above all, suchjoyous anticipatory parties in private houses!

The season was always the height of the summer, not perhaps in everyrespect the best for such a muster. Stout Yeomen had even been known tofaint while at drill; the combined influences of the fatigue, the heat, and last night's hilarity being too much for them. But farmers andfarming lairds could well quit their lands unless in the beginning ofJuly, when the June hoeing of turnips and beans had been got through, the first grass cut, and while there was still a good three weeks beforebarley-harvest. Trees were then dusky in their green, and gooseberriesand currants tinted the Priorton gardens with rich amber and crimson. Roses redder than the yeomen's coats were in full flower for everywaistcoat and waistband. The streets and roads were dusty, under blueskies or black thunderclouds; but the meadows were comparatively cooland fresh, and now white with the summer snow of daisies. The bustle ofthe Yeomen, like the trillings of wandering musicians, was heard only inthe brooding heat of summer afternoons, or the rosy flush of summersunset, the prime of the year lending a crowning charm to their advent. 

It was a delightful start, that first réveillée of the bugle at five ofthe clock on a July morning. Youngsters whom nought else could havetempted out of bed so early darted up at the summons. They envied papasand uncles, brothers and cousins in the ranks of the Yeomen. Comelyblooming young faces joined the watch at the windows. Cloaks wereloosely cast about rounded shoulders, and caps were hastily snatched upto hide dishevelled hair; while little bare pink feet would sometimesshow themselves. But the young ladies only peeped out behind the windowcurtains, in the background of the noisy demonstrative band ofyoungsters. 

Distant voices, excited and impatient, were soon heard; then the jingleof spurs, and the clank of swords, as half-bashful Yeomen descended thestairs for their _début_ in the street. At last appeared importantfamiliar persons, now strikingly transformed by their martial dress, butterribly uncomfortable and self-conscious. 

The horses were led to the doors, and to the women who stayed at homethe mounts were the exquisitely comic incidents of the day. The returnof the members of the troop, now broken to their work, and detached intogroups of threes and fours, and chatting and laughing at their ease, wasquite tame in comparison. The country gentlemen and farmers were, ofcourse, generally well used to the saddle, and could get upon theirBucephaluses without difficulty, and ride cavalierly, or prick brisklyout of sight, as they were in good time or too late. But here and therea solicitor or banker, or wealthy shopkeeper, ambitious of being amongthe Yeomen, would meet with unhappy enough adventures. He might be seenissuing from his doorway with pretended unconcern, but with anxiousclearings of the throat and ominously long breaths, while his nag, strange to him as John Gilpin's, was brought up to the mounting-place. The worthy man would plant his foot in the stirrup next him, but, notthrowing himself round decidedly enough, the horse would swerve andrear, while he looked on beseechingly and helpless. Then he would trythe other side, still failing to swing himself into the saddle. He wouldgrow more and more flustered. His wife, in her clean muslin cap andspotless calico wrapper, with her little lads and lasses--one, two, three--would then step out on the pavement to give cautious advice. Thewould-be Yeoman would become more and more nervous, while his comradesrode by with jeering glances, and the passengers stood still. Littleboys would begin to whoop and hurrah, and a crowd, even at this earlyhour, would gather round to enjoy the experiment. "Hey, Nancy! get me akitchen chair, " the town-bred Yeoman at last would say in desperation tohis elderly commiserating maid-servant in the distance; and from thatsteady halfway stand he would climb into the saddle with a groan, settlehimself sack fashion, and, working the bridle laboriously with his arms, trot off, to return very saddle-sick. 

Then some stubborn young fellow, possessed with the notion of showingoff a dashing horse, would insist on riding a vicious, almost dangerousanimal, which would on no account endure the sight of his flamingregimentals on the occasions of his mountings and dismountings. Once inthe saddle, he would master it thoroughly, and pay it back in kind withwhip and spur, compelling the furious beast to face a whole line of redcoats, and wheel, march, charge, and halt, with perfect correctness. Butthe horse would have its moment of revenge as its rider leapt to andfrom the saddle. If it encountered the scarlet and the glitter of brassand steel, at that instant it would get quite wild, paw the air, flingout its hoofs, snort and dart off wildly, to the danger of its own andits master's life. But the young soldier would not be beat. Day afterday the contest would be renewed. At length he would resort to acompromise, and his groom would bring out the animal with its headignominiously muffled in a sack; and now the Yeoman would mount withcomparative safety. 

But the bugle is sounding to drill in the early summer morning. Tra-li-la! the clear music suits with the songs of the birds and the dewon the grass. The last lagging Yeoman is off, gone to receive a publicreprimand from his strict commanding officer, but sure to have theaffront rubbed out next morning by a similar fault, and a similarexperience, on the part of a comrade. 

The drill ends at the common breakfast hour, when the Yeoman may besupposed to return and feast sumptuously. Then "civil" work commences. Yeomen who had offices or shops, attended them with slight relics oftheir uniform. A stranger might have been pardoned had he imagined aninvasion was daily expected, or that an intestine war was on the pointof breaking out. In consideration of the hot weather, undress uniformwas permitted on all save field days, and thus the toiling Yeomenenjoyed a little cool in their white ducks and jackets, though the redmark, the helmet's line, was still to be traced on their sun-brownedforeheads. 

There was an afternoon's drill. It was a little of a fag, being in factrather like a dish heated up a second time, as a duty twice done mostlyalways is. But the evening was particularly gay. Then the Yeomen weresupposed to be enjoying themselves. Pleasant, if they had always enjoyedthemselves in an innocent fashion. That many of them did so, it is onlycharitable to believe. And while the fast and foolish, the gross andwicked were swilling and roystering in evil localities, the generous, manly, gentle souls gratified the matrons with whom they were billetedby walking with them and their daughters through the streets, or intothe nearest meadow; or perhaps they treated them to the play. 

I have only heard of those days. But I should have liked to have seenthe bluff kind faces above the stiff stocks and scarlet coats, and thejoyous smiles which shone upon them. I should have liked to have heardthe quiet town ringing with such blithe laughter. Little jokes wouldcause the people to laugh, as little accidents would cause them to shaketheir heads. Sandy Hope's horse, for instance, lost a shoe while at thegallop, stumbled, and threw its rider, dislocating his shoulder, andbreaking his arm. What a sensation the news created! It could scarcelyhave been greater even though Sandy's brains had been dashed out. Notonly Sandy himself, but Sandy's kindred to the remotest degree, weredeeply commiserated. The commanding officer sent his compliments everymorning with inquiries after him. The troop doctor was besieged byanxious acquaintances. Sandy's comrades never ceased calling upon him, and sat for hours drinking beer at his open window. Delicious messes andrefreshing drinks a thousand times better than beer, were sent to Sandy. Then the nosegays, the books he got! Sandy received a perfect ovation. It was even proposed that the ball should be put off because Sandy waslying in pain; and it was certain that no fewer than three reputedsweethearts of Sandy's stayed at home on the ball night. Yet the stupidfellow was so slightly hurt, that within the fortnight he was walkingthe streets of Priorton more briskly than ever!

Priorton was kindly in its gaiety, and each had an interest in theother. I should have liked to have known the old town when it was thusgiven up for ten days, half to military exercises, half to fraternityand feasting. I should have been sorry when the feasting wasintemperate, but I would no more have condemned the general feastingbecause of that circumstance, than I would condemn the gift of speechbecause some of us are so left to ourselves as to tell lies or say badwords. 

II. --A MATCH-MAKER'S SCHEME. 

It was a well-known and accredited fact that in consequence of thesefestivities of the Yeomen more matches were made up in this briefinterval than during any other period of the year. Match-makingindividuals seriously counted on the yeomanry weeks; and probablyfar-seeing young ladies had fitting matches in their eye, as well as thefireworks and the introductory gaiety, when they came in troops toPriorton to entertain the lucky Yeomen. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Spottiswoode, the wife of the chief magistrate, whowas likewise banker of Priorton, to her spouse, "your cousin, Bourhope, has asked his billet with us: I must have my sister Corrie in to meethim. "

Mrs. Spottiswoode was a showy, smart, good-humoured woman, but notover-scrupulous. She was very ready at adapting herself tocircumstances, even when the circumstances were against her. For thatreason she was considered very clever as well as very affable, among thematrons of Priorton. Mr. Spottiswoode was "slow and sure:" it wasbecause of the happy alliance of these qualities in him that the peopleof Priorton had elected him chief magistrate. 

"My dear, " deliberately observed long, lanky Mr. Spottiswoode, "would itnot be rather barefaced to have Bourhope and Corrie here together?"

"Oh, I'll take care of that, " answered the lady, with a laugh and a tossof her ribbons; "I shall have some other girl of my acquaintance to bearCorrie company;--some worthy, out-of-the-way girl, to whom the visitwill be like entering another world, " continued Mrs. Spottiswoode, witha twinkle of her black eyes. "What do you think of Corrie and my cousinChrissy Hunter, of Blackfaulds? The Hunters have had such a deal ofdistress, and so much fighting with embarrassment--though I believe theyare getting clearer now--that the poor lassie has had no amusement buther books, and has seen absolutely nothing. "

Mr. Spottiswoode had no inclination to contradict his wife forcontradiction's sake, and as he could rely on her prudence as on herother good qualities, he said, "Well, Agnes, I have no objection; Hunterof Blackfaulds is an honest man though he is poor, and he is rightinghimself now. "

The invitations were dispatched, and accepted gratefully. The guestsarrived before Bourhope occupied his quarters; ostensibly they came sosoon to prepare for him. Corrie had nothing Roman about her except hername, Cornelia. She was a tall, well-made, fair-faced, serene beauty;the sole remaining maiden daughter of a Scotchman who had returned fromthe Indies with a fortune, as so many returned then. He had alreadyendowed Mrs. Spottiswoode with a handsome "tocher, " and since hismarriage had settled within five miles of Priorton. Chrissy, again, wasone of a large, struggling family; a small girl, a very little crookedin figure, and with irregular features, and a brown complexion. If shehad not possessed a bright, intelligent expression, she would certainlyhave been plain--as indeed she was to those who did not heed expression. It was a delightful chance to Chrissy, this brief transplanting intothe flourishing, cheerful town-house, amid the glowing gaiety of theyeomanry weeks. Accordingly she was constantly engaged in checking offevery little detail on the finger-points of her active mind, in orderthat she might be able to describe them to her secluded sisters and hersick mother at home. She was determined not to miss one item ofinterest; never to sleep-in so as to lose the mount; never to stray inher walks and fail to be in the house for the return of the afternoondrill. She would pace the meadows among the gay promenaders, even whenthe evening was cloudy, and would not care though she walked alone. Shewould enjoy the play when Mrs. Spottiswoode chose to take her, and noteven object to a squeeze in the box. The squeeze was really part of thefun! But she did not care to have her attention distracted from thestage, even by the proffers of fruit from the Yeomen. As to the ball, she did not allow herself to think much of that. Who would ever havedreamt of Chrissy figuring at a fine yeomanry ball! She would nottrouble herself because she wore an old worked white frock of hermother's, taken up by tucks to suit her, and yellowed by frequentwashing and long keeping. She would not fret because she could not spendmoney upon a hair-dresser. She must dress her own hair--which wasscanty, like every other outward adornment of hers. This was littlematter, she reflected, for it would not dress under the most skilfulartist into those enormous bows on the crown of the head which everybodythen wore--it would only go into comb-curls like little hair turrets oneach side of her round, full forehead, which was by no means scanty. Shehad no ornaments in the way of jewellery, save a coral necklace; whileCorrie had a set of amethysts--real amethysts--ear-rings, brooch, andnecklace, and a gold cross and a gold watch, which she rarely wound up, and which was therefore, as Chrissy said, "a dead-alive affair. " ButCorrie was a beauty and an heiress, and ornaments became her person andposition; while on Chrissy, as she herself admitted with great goodsense, they would only have been thrown away. And what did Chrissy carefor her appearance so long as her dress was modest and neat? She couldwalk about and listen to the ravishing music, and study the charactersshe saw, from Corrie up to the Countess, wife of the one earl who cameto Priorton, and who was Colonel of the yeomanry. The day or two beforethe Yeomanry arrived was spent by the two girls in walking about, shopping and making calls. Corrie, though a beauty, proved herself avery dull companion for another girl to walk with. Very pretty to lookat was Corrie in a fair, still, swan-like style of beauty; and she had agreat many pretty dresses, over which she became a little more animatedwhen Chrissy, as a last resource and for their relief, would ask her toturn them over and show them again. Corrie, of course, never dreamt ofoffering poor Chrissy a loan of any of those worked pelerines or aprons, which would have fitted either equally well. But Chrissy did not wantthem, and she got a use out of them as they were brought out one by oneand spread before her. Ere the Yeomanry came, Chrissy knew the stock byheart, and could have drawn them, and cut out patterns and shapes ofthem, and probably did so, the little jade, when she got home. 

Bourhope came with his fellows, and was more specially introduced toCorrie and Chrissy. He had had some general acquaintance with both ofthem before. He gallantly expressed his pleasure at the prospect ofhaving their society during his stay at Priorton. He was a farmer whosefather had made money at war prices. He had bought his own farm, andthus constituted his son a small laird. He had an independent bearing, as well as an independent portion of the world's goods; he was really amanly fellow in his brown, ruddy, curly, strapping comeliness. Butbetter still, Bourhope was an intelligent fellow, who read other thingsthan the newspapers, and relished them. He was a little conceited, nodoubt, in consequence of comparing himself with others, but he had agood heart. Corrie and Chrissy both regarded him with scarcely concealedinterest and admiration. Chrissy wished that the lads at home would growup to be as comely and manly; Corrie made up her mind to have just sucha husband as Bourhope. 

It was evident the very first night that Bourhope was taken with Corrie. He stared and stared at her, admiring her waxen complexion, the bend ofher white throat, and the slope of her white shoulders; and even changedhis seat at one time, as it seemed, in order to see her better. Hequickly claimed her as his partner at loo, and engaged her to walk outwith him to hear the band practising next evening. Chrissy thought itall very natural, and all the more enjoyable. But she caught herselffancying Bourhope and Corrie married, and rebuked herself for carryingher speculations so far. Only she could not help thinking how Bourhopewould weary after the marriage--say when there was a snow-storm, or athree days' fall of rain at the farmhouse. But that was Bourhope'saffair; if he was pleased, what business was it of hers? Bourhope hadthis in common with Chrissy: he could entertain himself. 

During the first three days of the week, Bourhope was zealous in lookingat, and attaching himself to, Corrie. But a sharp observer might haveremarked that after that he flagged a little, taking more as a matter ofcourse and politeness the association he had established between her andhim at tea, loo, and the evening promenade. He would even stifle a yawnwhile in Corrie's company, though he was a mettlesome and not a listlessfellow. But that was only like men, to prize less what they had covetedwhen it was half won. 

So for a short time matters stood. Corrie, fair and swan-like, Bourhopereasonably impressionable, Mr. And Mrs. Spottiswoode decidedlyfavourable, Chrissy Hunter harmless, if not even helpful. Mrs. Spottiswoode knew that those who dally with a suggestion are in greatdanger of acting on it, and had very little doubt that the next tendays' work, with the crowning performance of the ball, would issue indeciding the desirable match between Bourhope and Corrie. 

III. --A MORNING MEETING AND AN EVENING'S READING. 

At this juncture it struck Bourhope, riding home from the morningdrill, to ask himself what could possibly take Chrissy Hunter out soearly every morning. He had already seen her once or twice, keepingout of the way of him and his companions, and returning again fromthe opposite end of Priorton, which was flanked by the doctor's house. Corrie, he noticed, was never with her. Indeed, Bourhope had a strongsuspicion that Corrie retreated to her pillow again after showing himher lovely face--lovely even in the pink curl-papers. But Chrissycertainly dressed immediately, and took a morning walk, by which hercomplexion at least did not profit. Not being a very strong littlewoman, her brown face was apt to look jaded and streaky, whenBourhope, resting from the fatigues of his drill, lounged with thegirls in the early forenoon in Mrs. Spottiswoode's drawing-room. So itwas worth while, he thought, to spur up to Chrissy, and inquire whattook her abroad at such an untimely hour. 

When Bourhope caught a nearer glimpse of Chrissy he was rather dismayedto see that she had been crying. Bourhope hated to see girls crying, particularly girls like Chrissy, to whom it was not becoming. He had noparticular fancy for Cinderellas or other beggar-maids. He would havehated to find that his kinsfolk and friendly host and hostess, for whomhe had a considerable regard, were mean enough and base enough tomaltreat a poor little guest of their own invitation. Notwithstandingthese demurs, Tom Spottiswoode of Bourhope rode so fast up to Chrissy asto cause her to give a violent start when she turned. 

"Hallo! Do you go to market, Miss Chrissy? or what on earth takes youout in the town before the shutters are down?" pointing with hissheathed sword to a closed shop. 

Chrissy was taken aback, and there was something slightly hysterical inher laugh, but she answered frankly enough, "I go to Dr. Stark's, Mr. Spottiswoode. Dr. Stark attends my mother, and is at Blackfaulds everyday. I wait in his laboratory till he comes there before setting out; hegoes his rounds early, you know. He lets me know how mother wasyesterday, and as he is a kind man, he carries our letters, --Maggie andArabella and I are great writers, and postage comes to be expensive--agreat deal too expensive for us at Blackfaulds; but the doctor is a kindman, and he 'favours' our letters. And Mr. Spottiswoode, " she said, warming with her subject and impelled to a bit of confidence, "do youknow, Dr. Stark thinks my mother will be about again in a few months. You are aware her knee-joint has been affected. We were even afraid shewould never put down her foot again. It would have been a dreadful trialfor all of us. " Chrissy spoke simply, in a rather moved voice. 

Bourhope was slightly moved, too. He had never heard much about Mrs. Hunter, of Blackfaulds, except that she was a woman who had been longailing; and also occasional remarks about the consequences of her beinglost or spared to her family. 

Chrissy was grateful for his evident sympathy, and gratified by it; but, as if half ashamed of having elicited it, she at once began to prattleto him on other subjects. Bourhope had leapt from his horse, and wasdoing Chrissy the honour of walking at her side, his beast's bridle overhis arm, and his spurs ringing on the pavement. A sparkling prattle thatwas of Chrissy's about the fine morning, the town, and theyeomanry--few topics, but well handled and brilliantly illustrated. Bourhope had dared to confess to himself how sorry he was when hereached Mr. Spottiswoode's door. 

[Illustration]

Next morning Bourhope detached himself from his comrades when heapproached the town, and looked narrowly for Chrissy. It would be butcivil to inquire for poor Mrs. Hunter. So bent was he on being thuscivil, that though Chrissy was far in advance, he knew her by the pinkgingham trimming of her morning bonnet, fluttering like rose-leaves inthe morning sun. He came up to her, and politely asked after her mother. Chrissy was a little confused, but she answered pleasantly enough. Shewas not nearly so talkative, however, as on the preceding morning, though Bourhope made witty comments on the letter she held in her hand, and pertinaciously insisted on her telling him whether she mentioned himin her return letters! He reminded her that they were cousins in a way. This was the first time Chrissy had known of any one hunting up arelationship with her; and though pleased in her humility--Chrissy wasno fool in that humility of hers--Bourhope, she knew, was destined forher cousin Corrie. He was out of Corrie's way just now, and was onlycourteous and cordial to her as living for a time under the same roof. She liked the ruddy, curly, independent, clever fellow of a farmerlaird, who, out of the riches of his kindness, could be courteous andcordial to a poor plain girl. Bourhope could never overtake Chrissycoming from Dr. Stark's again. He spied and peeped and threw out hints, and hurried or loitered on the way to no purpose. Chrissy took carethat people should not notice the fact of her being escorted home in theearly morning by Bourhope. 

A chance conversation between Mrs. Spottiswoode and Corrie wasoverheard one day by Bourhope, when they imagined him deep in"Blackwood;" for it was the days of the "Noctes. " Mr. Hunter, ofRedcraigs, Corrie's father, had not been well one day, and a messagehad been sent to that effect to her. But Corrie was philosophic, andnot unduly alarmed. "Papa makes such a work about himself, " she saidcandidly to Mrs. Spottiswoode. "Very likely he has only taken lobsterat supper, or his Jamaica rum has not agreed with him, and he isbilious this morning. I think I will send out a box of colocynth, anda bit of nice tender veal, to put him in good humour again. You know, Agnes, if I were to drive out, I would not get back in time for theevening walk in the meadows. Besides, I was to see Miss Aikin aboutthe change in the running on of my frills. It would overturn all myplans to go, and my head gets so hot, and I look so blowsy, when myplans are disarranged, " Corrie concluded, almost piteously. 

"Yes, but Corrie, " hesitated Mrs. Spottiswoode, "you know Dr. Stark isnot easy about papa just now. I think I had better go out myself. It isunlucky that Spottiswoode is to have several other yeomen who dobusiness at the Bank, at dinner to-day with Bourhope; but I dare sayMary will manage that, as Chrissy will mix the pudding for her. So Iwill go myself to Redcraigs; all things considered, it would be a pityfor you not to be in your best looks----"

Bourhope at this point fell into a fit of coughing, and lost the rest ofthe dialogue; but perhaps his occasional snort of disapprobation wascalled forth as much by this interlude as by the audacious judgments ofthe Shepherd and Tickler. 

The day unluckily turned out very rainy, and the drill was gone throughin a dense white mist, which caused every horse to loom large as anelephant, and every rider to look a Gog or Magog. The young ladies, sofond of a change of costume at this time in Priorton, could do noshopping; the walk in the meadows at sunset with the lounging yeomen hadto be given up. The green meadows were not inviting, the grass wasdripping, the flowers closed and heavy, the river red and drumly. Allwas disappointing; for the meadows were beautiful at this season withtheir summer snow of daisies--not dead-white snow either, for it wasbroken by patches of yellow buttercups, crow's-foot, lady's-finger, andvetch, and by the crimson clover flowers and the rusty red of sorrel, and the black pert heads of the nib-wort plaintain, whose black upon thewhite of ox-eye daisies has the rich tone of ermine. 

Instead of walks, there were gatherings round shining tables; andbottles and glasses clinked cheerily in many a parlour. But Mr. Spottiswoode was sober by inclination. The impressiveness of office, which had quite the contrary effect on many provosts of his era, onlyadded to his characteristic caution. The yeomen, too, knew well wherehilarity ended and excess began. So there was little fear of excess inMr. Spottiswoode's house. Mrs. Spottiswoode, a genius in her own line, had a cheerful fire in her drawing-room, and sat by the hearth with herchildren tumbling round her, while Corrie, fairer than ever in theblinking fire-light, and Chrissy, brown and merry, sat on either side ofher. She invited the farmer laird to enter that charmed ring, which, ofcourse, he could not help contrasting with the loneliness andcomfortlessness of Bourhope. But though Bourhope sat next Corrie, acertain coldness crept over the well-arranged party. He caught himselfglancing curiously at the book Chrissy Hunter had been almost burningher face in reading by the fire-light before he came in. Mrs. Spottiswoode did not much care for reading aloud, but she took the hintin good part, and called on Chrissy to tell what her book was about, andso divert Bourhope without wholly monopolizing his attention. 

Chrissy was rather shy at first. She never told stories freely awayfrom home; but she was now pressed to do it. After a little, however, she put her own sympathetic humour and pathos into the wondrousnarrative, till she literally held her listeners spell-bound. And nowonder. Those were the days of Scott's early novels, when they weregreatly run after, and the price of a night's reading was high. Chrissy's cousin "Rob" was a bookseller's apprentice, and his master, for the purpose of enabling Robbie to share his enthusiasm, would lendthe apprentice an uncut copy. Robbie brought it out to Blackfaulds, and then all would sit up, sick mother among the rest, to hear themread aloud, till far into the small hours. 

Who can tell what that cordial of pure, healthful intellectual diversionmay have been, even to the burdened father and sick mother atBlackfaulds! To Chrissy--the very speaking of it made her clasp herhands over her knee, and her grey eyes to shine out like stars--asBourhope thought to himself. 

How suggestively Chrissy discoursed of Glendearg, and the widow ElspethGlendinning, her two lads, and Martin and Tib Tacket, and the gentlelady and Mary Avenel. With what breadth, yet precision, she reproducedpursy Abbot Boniface, devoted Prior Eustace, wild Christie of theClinthill, buxom Mysie Hopper, exquisite Sir Percy Shafton, and eventried her hand to some purpose on the ethereal White Lady. PerhapsChrissy enjoyed the reading as much as the great enchanter did thewriting. Like great actors, she had an instinctive consciousness of theeffect she produced. Bourhope shouted with laughter when theincorrigible Sir Percy, in the disguise of the dairywoman, described hisrouting charge as "the milky mothers of the herd. " Corrie actuallyglanced in affright at the steaming windows and the door ajar, andpinched Chrissy's arm when she repeated for the last time the words ofthe spell:--

 "Thrice to the holly brake-- Thrice to the well;-- Wake thee, O wake, White Maid of Avenel. "

The assembly paid Chrissy the highest compliment an assembly can pay aspeaker. They forgot their schemes, their anxieties, themselves even, tofasten their eyes and hearts on the brown girl--the book dropping fromher hand, but the story written so graphically on her memory. Corriewas the first to recover herself. "Oh dear!" she cried, "I have forgot Iwas to take down my hair for Miss Lothian to point it at eight o'clock, "and hurried out of the room. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode roused herself next, and spoke a few words ofacknowledgment to Chrissy. "Upon my word, Chrissy, your recital has beenquite as good as the play. We are much obliged to you. I am afraid yourthroat must be sore; but stay, I have some of the theatre oranges here. No, bairns, you are not to have any; it is far too late for you to beup. Dear me; I believe you have been listening to Chrissy's story likethe rest of us!" But Mrs. Spottiswoode was not under any apprehensionabout the success of Chrissy's reading. Mrs. Spottiswoode proved this byimmediately leaving Chrissy _tête-à-tête_ with Bourhope while she wentto put the children to bed, and see if Mr. Spottiswoode, who was doing aquiet turn of business in his office, would have a game of cards beforesupper. She had really never heard of a girl being married simply forher tongue's sake! She perhaps knew the line in the song too--

 "Very few marry for talking, "

and had found its truth in her own experience, for she was a shrewd, observant woman. 

Bourhope, it should be understood, was longest subjected to theinfluence of Chrissy's story-telling power. Indeed, when he did somewhatrecover from it, his fancy created fine visions of what it would be tohave such a storyteller at Bourhope during the long, dark nights ofwinter and the endless days of summer. Bourhope was no ignoramus. He hadsome acquaintance with "Winter's Tales" and summer pastorals, but hisreading was bald and tame to this inspiration. He thought to himself itwould really be as good as a company of players purely for his ownbehoof, without any of the disadvantages. He stammered a little inexpressing the debt he owed to Chrissy, and she could only eagerly replyby saying, "Not to me, not to me the praise, Mr. Spottiswoode, but tothe great unknown. Oh! I would like to know him. "

Bourhope was stimulated to do at once what he was sure to do ultimately:he presented his hospitable entertainers with a box at the play. Nodoubt it was a great delight to Chrissy; for it was in the days whenactors were respectable artists and play-going was still universal. Chrissy in her freshness enjoyed the provincials as well as if they hadbeen first-rate--took the good and left the bad, and sat quiteentranced. 

Bourhope, although he was decidedly intellectual for his calling, watched Chrissy rather than the stage. He read the feeling of the momentreflected in her sagacious yet sensitive face. Once he turned round andtried the same experiment with Corrie. He might as well have expected toborrow a living soul from well-moulded stucco or marble. He now realizedin a more lively manner than ever, that geese may look fair and whiteand soft and shapely as swans till they expose their waddling. He triedin church the process he had learned at the play, and, it must beconfessed, not without effect--Chrissy's expression giving a fairnotion of the good Priorton minister's earnestness and eloquence. 

But at length Chrissy, aware of the liberty Bourhope took in thusmaking her his study, got restless and troubled in her sound head andwarm heart. She was no fool in her simplicity. She knew that Bourhopedid not in any sense belong to Mrs. Spottiswoode and Corrie, and shehad shrewdly suspected of late that their anticipated arrangementswould not be carried out. She could not help occasionally turning overin her mind the circumstance that Cecilia was very plain, but thatdepressed Mortimer Delville nevertheless bestowed his heart on her, though the gift, like her fortune, was disastrous to Cecilia for manya long day. Chrissy thought that if Bourhope were independent andoriginal enough to like her--to love her--he was his own master; therewas nothing between him and his inclination save her inclination andher father and mother's will. And there was little doubt about fatherand mother's will with respect to a man so worthy, so unexceptionable, and so well endowed as Bourhope. 

Nor was there anything like duty to the Spottiswoodes to stand betweenBourhope and Chrissy. But still Chrissy's nice sense of honour wasdisturbed, for had she not a guess that a very different result had beenexpected? Nay, she had even a half-comical notion that she herself hadbeen expressly selected as a companion to Corrie Hunter during thegaieties of the yeomanry weeks, because she would also prove a sort ofharmless foil. 

A dream of love was a grand shock to Chrissy's quiet life, making wildyet plaintive music, like all nature's true harmonies, within her, andfilling her mind with tremulous light which glorified every object, andwas fain even to dazzle herself. It was not unnatural that Bourhopeshould excite such a dream. But Chrissy was not completely dazzled. Itwas only a dream as yet, and she would be the mistress of her dream; itshould not be the mistress of her. So she resolved, showing herself areasonable, thoughtful, conscientious woman, as well as a loving, fairlyproportioned, and lovely human spirit. 

Chrissy retained all her sober senses. She recollected what was due bothto the hero and to the others concerned. She was neither a weak victim, nor a headstrong, arrogant, malicious conqueror. Like all genuine women, she struggled against yielding herself without her due--without acertainty that there was no irreversible mistake in the matter. She wasnot a girl to get love-sick at the first bout, nor one to run even at aworthy lover's beckoning, though she would sacrifice much, and do itproudly, joyously, for true affection, when once it had confesseditself. So she shrank from Bourhope, slipped away from, and managed toavoid him. He was puzzled and vexed, and almost exasperated by doubts asto whether she cared for or wished to accept his notice and regards. Little brown Chrissy taught the bold Yeoman a lesson in her own quietway. She slowly forced upon him the conviction that any gifts orattainments of his--the prosperous, cultivated farmer laird--were asdross compared with the genius and acquirements of Chrissy Hunter, whommany short-sighted men called insignificant and plain amid the povertyand cares of Blackfaulds. Bourhope was not radically mercenary: he hadno certainty that his superiority in worldly estate would secure thestrange good upon which he set his heart, and he was at once stimulatedand incensed by her indifference to his advances. So he had nocommunication with Chrissy, apart from a demure interchange of words ingeneral conversation, for three days before the grand review and theball, except in a single incident of the pipe-claying of his belts. 

The gentlemen of the old yeomanry who had not servants to do it forthem, did their own pipe-claying, and might generally be seen doing itvery indifferently to the accompaniment of private whistling or socialbawling to each other over adjacent walls in the back courts and greensof Priorton. Bourhope was one day doing his rather gloomily in the backcourt, and succeeding very ill, when Chrissy, who saw him from a window, could endure it no longer. Chrissy was not what most intellectual womenare described as being--an abstracted, scared being, with two lefthands. The exigency of her situation as eldest daughter at Blackfauldshad rendered her as handy as other girls, and only unlike them in beinga great deal more fertile in resource. How could such a woman stand andsee Bourhope destroying his accoutrements, and in danger of smearinghimself from head to foot with pipe-clay? Chrissy came tripping out, andaddressed him with some sharpness--"That is not right, Mr. Spottiswoode;you will never whiten your belt in that way, you will only soil the restof your clothes. I watched the old sergeant doing it next-door for MajorChristison. Look here:" and she took the article out of his hands, andproceeded smartly to clean it. Poor Bourhope bowed to her empire, though he would much rather their positions had been reversed: he wouldrather a thousand times have brushed Chrissy's shoes than that sheshould clean his belt. She was gone again the moment she had directedhim. A portion of his belt was now as white as snow; but nothing wouldhave induced her to stay. 

Bourhope was new to the humiliations as well as the triumphs oflove--that extreme ordeal through which even tolerably wise and sincerespirits must pass before they can unite in a strictness of uniondeserving the name. He was not exactly grateful for the good suggestion;indeed, he had a little fight against Chrissy in his own breast justthen. He told himself it was all a whim, he did not really care for thegirl--one of a large family in embarrassed circumstances. No, it wouldbe absurd to fall in love with a little coffee-coloured girl whose oneshoulder was a fraction of an inch further out than the other. He wasnot compelled to marry either Corrie or Chrissy--not he! Poeh! he wasnot yet half through with his bachelor days. He would look about alittle longer, enjoy himself a little more. At the word enjoymentBourhope stopped short, as if he had caught himself tripping. If ChrissyHunter was ugly, she was an ugly fairy. She was his fate, indeed; hewould never see her like again, and he would be a lost and wrecked manwithout her. 

IV. --THE BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

The review and the ball were still in store. Bourhope would not bebeaten with that double shot in reserve. It would go hard with thebrown, curly, independent laird if he were beaten, for already he wasshaken more in his pride and confidence than he ever thought to be. 

The review, for which all the drilling had been undertaken, went offwithout serious effect on the contesting parties. The only thing was, that Bourhope was so disturbed and so distracted in his mind that hecould not attend to orders, and lost his character as a yeoman, and allchance of being future fugleman to his corps. And this, although theMajor had said, when the drills began, that there was not a finer man ormore promising dragoon than Bourhope in the regiment. 

Chrissy's bright, tranquil satisfaction in contemplating, from the boxof Mrs. Spottiswoode's phaeton, the stand of county ladies, with theirgorgeousness and grace, was decidedly impaired. The review, with itstramping and halting, its squares and files, its shouting leaders, galloping aides-de-camp, flashing swords and waving plumes, wascertainly very fine. All the rest of Priorton said so and proved so, forthey stood or sat for a whole day witnessing it, under a scorching sun, on foot, and in every description of vehicle from a corn-cart to acoroneted carriage. Yes, the review was very fine to the mass; but itwas only a confused, hollow, agitating play to Chrissy as to Bourhope. Still she lost sight of the grand general rank and file, byconcentrating her regard on one little scarlet dot. It was to her a playwith its heart a-wanting, and yet the whirl and movement were welcomefor a moment as substitutes for that heart. 

The ball remained, and Bourhope was resolute it should settle thequestion for him. It was the commendable fashion at Priorton that noyoung lady should refuse to dance with an acquaintance without theexcuse of a previous engagement, under the penalty of having to sit therest of the night. Bourhope would get Chrissy to himself that night(balls were of some use, after all, he thought), and have an opportunityof hearing a terribly decisive word, and of getting a reason for thatword too, should it prove unfavourable. In short, he would storm thefortress, and beat down its faltering guard then or never. 

Others besides Bourhope had determined on making the ball a theatre ofexplanations. Mrs. Spottiswoode was not pleased with the aspect ofthings as between Bourhope and Corrie. Their affair made no advance, andthe ball was the conclusion of the yeomanry weeks. The yeomen werealready to all intents and purposes disbanded, and about to return, likeCincinnatus, to their reaping-hooks. Corrie was evidently not contented. She was listless and a little peevish, unless when in the company ofother yeomen than Bourhope--a rare thing with Corrie, who was really avery harmless girl. But she looked elegant in her ball dress, and hadalways a train of admirers on such occasions. And then, of course, manymen needed the spur of jealousy to induce them to take the bold leap ofmatrimony. Chrissy, too, had her own fears and doubts about this ball. Bourhope hitherto had only pursued her, if he had pursued her, in rathera secret manner. She would now see how he would treat her on a publicoccasion. His conduct would then be marked and conspicuous, and evenMrs. Spottiswoode's and Corrie's eyes would be opened to it. Then, again, he would have an opportunity of contrasting her personally withall the girls about Priorton. Chrissy gazed wistfully into the glass asshe fastened her yellow scrimp old white frock, and sighed. But she didnot look so much amiss as she supposed: she was young, slight, and fullof subtle character. And with her scarlet coral beads twisted among herdark little turret curls and bows, there was piquancy and attraction inChrissy. But her first purely disinterested and unbounded pleasure inthe gaiety was grievously chequered, and it was to be feared the accountshe would carry home of her first ball to expectant Blackfaulds would bedisappointing. 

There were only two chaises in repair in Priorton, to convey the wholetownspeople in rotation to the ball. It was thus unavoidable that someshould be very early, as well as some very late. Mr. Spottiswoode, asProvost, was of course among the first after the Colonel and his lady, old country people, who stood arm-in-arm, bluff and bland, under theevergreens over the door, and shook hands with everybody, great andsmall--a family of pretty girls meanwhile laughing behind them. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode wore a splendid bunch of white feathers tipped withstraw-colour in her blue gauze turban. Even Chrissy's dazed eyes noticedthat, as well as the white ribbon in Provost Spottiswoode's bottle-greencoat, which pointed him out an honorary steward. But how handsome browncurly Bourhope looked in his red coat!

A strange thought came over Chrissy. She did not wish Corrie, in herwhite crape and French ribbons, and so tall and straight and fair, tobe blighted in her beauty--no, not for a moment. But Chrissy was cruelenough to cherish a passing wish that, by some instantaneoustransformation, Bourhope might be pitted with smallpox, or scarred withgunpowder, or have premature age brought upon him as with the wave of awand--the soul within being left unchanged, however. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode, unlike Chrissy, was quite alive to the practical. Sheremarked everything with keen eyes, and determined now to be at thebottom of the business. She should either go in and win triumphantly, ortake a sudden tack and sail away with flying colours, as if she hadnever entertained the most distant intention of coming to closequarters, and thus give the impression that she never had any intentionof promoting a match between Bourhope and Corrie. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode thought Bourhope looked as if he were going to dosomething desperate. His first blunder had been to hand, or rather lift, Chrissy into the chaise instead of Corrie, at starting from their owndoor. He repeated the unaccountable blunder at the County Rooms, whichcompelled him to take Chrissy into the ball-room; and while Chrissy wasstill gazing in bewilderment and admiration at the evergreens andchalked floors, and talking, laughing couples, Mrs. Spottiswoode couldscarcely believe her ears when she distinctly heard Bourhope askChrissy's hand for the first dance, saying that he would have engaged itbefore if he had got the opportunity. 

Now Mrs. Spottiswoode had no doubt that Bourhope would solicit hersister Corrie for this dance, and therefore she had peremptorilyforbidden Corrie to engage herself in any other quarter, even whenCorrie had demurred at the certainty of the arrangement. It was very oddof Bourhope, unless he thought Chrissy would have no chance of any otherpartner, and wanted to spare a plain little girl's mortification at thevery commencement of the evening. "That must be it, " Mrs. Spottiswoodesaid to herself, and was consoled by Corrie's hand being immediatelyrequested for the Colonel's nephew. 

The Colonel's wife opened the ball with the most popular and oldestprivate for partner, and, of course, Chrissy and Bourhope stood belowCorrie and the Colonel's nephew. But Bourhope and Chrissy did not mindCorrie's precedence, and were talking to each other quite intimately. Bourhope was forgetting the figure and bending across to Chrissy, thoughhe was saying nothing particular, and speaking out quite loud. But helooked engrossed and excited. If it had been any other girl but Chrissy, Mrs. Spottiswoode would have called it a flirtation, and more than aflirtation. Chrissy looked well in her shabby dress, almost prettyindeed, in the new atmosphere. Mrs. Spottiswoode was aggrieved, disgusted in the first instance, but she would not just yet believe suchan incredible contradiction to her well-laid scheme. Match-makinginvolves so many parties, there are such wheels within wheels ofcalculation and resource. She glanced at Corrie, who was dancing verycomplacently with the Colonel's nephew, and exchanging passing wordswith yeomen who tried to get speech with her. In her white crape, andteeth as white, and her dimples, she was safe, heart-whole andprosperous--a beauty who might pick and choose a suitable husband, even though Bourhope, infatuated, threw himself away. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode gave a sigh of relief. Failure now would only becomparative. 

The dance being over, Bourhope sat down beside Chrissy. No, she turnedher head the other way, and he rose up and strolled through the room. But he was soon back in his old place. 

He wanted to dance with Chrissy again. She hesitated, grew nervous, andcast her eyes on Mrs. Spottiswoode. He went straight to their hostess, and said, "Mrs. Spottiswoode, you have no objection that I dance thisdance again with Miss Chrissy Hunter?"

"None in the world, Bourhope, " said Mrs. Spottiswoode, with a spasmodicsmile, "why should I?"

"Why, indeed?" he returned, "or every dance? May I tell her so?"

"That is as she and you may agree. You are aware that would appearsomething serious, " she said, trying to laugh. 

"I will take the consequences, " he significantly assured her, and wentback and told Chrissy so, and then he drove her to her inmost citadel, and beat her there. 

Other eyes than Mrs. Spottiswoode's were attracted to the pair. Half-a-dozen matrons' heads went wagging significantly; girlswhispered and tittered; gentlemen opened their eyes, shaped theirmouths as if about to whistle, strolled up and took their observationsof the pre-occupied, unconscious couple quite coolly, and thenspeculated and gossiped. 

Mrs. Spottiswoode read these comments as well as what had gone before, and was ready with her magnanimity. It was this which constituted her atruly able tactician. She shifted her tack before the shout of maliciousexultation and ridicule could have been raised at her discomfiture. By adexterous sleight of hand, she shuffled her cards and altered her suit. In a moment Mrs. Spottiswoode was winking and nodding with the matronsinterested in the news of the night. She arrested a good-humouredyeoman, and crossed the room on his arm, to express and receivecongratulations. "You have found out the secret? Foolish fellow, Bourhope; he cannot conceal his feelings, though their display ispremature. I must scold him for exposing himself and her. Poor dear! sheis not accustomed to this sort of thing. But I am so delighted--so nice, isn't it? Such an excellent marriage for my cousin Chrissy--a good girl, a very clever girl--such a fortunate beginning for the Blackfauldsfamily. I often say the first marriage makes or mars a family of girls. It is so lucky that I invited Chrissy for the yeomanry weeks thissummer. It is a great deal better than if it had been Corrie, becauseCorrie can wait, " with a careless wave of her hand in the direction inwhich Corrie moved, deliberately followed by her train. "Corrie has toomany admirers to make up her mind speedily, yet she takes it all veryquietly. But this is so appropriate--Mr. Spottiswoode's cousin and mycousin--nobody could have planned it better. "

She turned round, and heard a blunt booby of a farmer speaking out hismind. She at once took him up--"You would not have thought it? Youcannot comprehend what has come over Bourhope, or what he sees in thatthin, yellow mite, Miss Hunter of Blackfaulds, even though she were asgood as a saint, and as wise as the Queen of Sheba? Oh! come, Balquin, you do not allow sufficient latitude to goodness and cleverness. I tellyou, Bourhope has neither eyes nor ears for anybody but that mite; hecounts his colourless daisy far before the gayest painted face. He knowsthat we are remarking on them now, and he is holding his head as high asif he had sought and won a queen. He is right; she will prove asensible, cheerful wife to him. Bourhope will have the cleverest, bestwife in the county, for all your swaggering. And that is something, whena man comes to be old and has an old wife like me. Not old, Balquin?away with you. I wish the Provost heard you. Do you think to flatter mebecause I am in spirits about my cousin's match? No, it is not lost thata friend gets, Balquin. "

The public of Priorton did not know whether most to admire Mrs. Spottiswoode's diplomacy, or this rare instance of poetic justice. 

DIANA. 

I. --AN UNDERTAKING. 

"He will not last ten years' time, Die; and then you will be rich andindependent--the lady of Ashpound. "

"Don't mention it, sir, unless you mean to tempt me to commit murdernext. "

The speakers in the old drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, in the southcountry, thirty years ago, were Mr. Baring and his daughter Diana. Hewas a worn and dissipated-looking man, with a half-arrogant, half-baseair--implying a whole old man of the world of a bad day gone by. He wasflawless in his carving, his card-dealing, his frock-coat and tie:corrupt to the core in almost everything else. She was a tall, full-formed woman, in her flower and prime, with a fine carriage andgait, which rendered it a matter of indifference that she wore as plainand simple a muslin gown as a lady could wear. Her hair was of the pale, delicate, neutral tint which the French call _blond-cendré_, a littletoo ashen-hued for most complexions. It was not wavy hair, but very softand pure, as if no atmosphere of turmoil and taint had ruffled orsoiled it. It made Miss Baring's fresh, clear complexion a shade toobright in the carmine, which took off the greyness of the flaxen hue andrelieved the cold and steel-like gleam in her grey-blue eyes. Thefeatures of the face were fine and regular, like Mr. Baring's; butinstead of the handsome, aristocratic, relentless aquiline nose, whichwas the most striking feature in the gentleman's face, the lady's was amodified Greek nose, broad enough at the base slightly to spoil itsbeauty but largely to increase its intellectual significance. 

The "he" of the conversation, who was not to last ten years, was GervaseNorgate of Ashpound--a poor, impulsive, weak-willed, fast-living youngneighbouring squire. Unluckily for himself, he had been early left hisown master, and had ridden post-haste to the dogs ever since. Suddenlyhe had taken it into his muddled head to pull up in his career, and, ifneed be, to chain and padlock, hedge and barricade himself with a wifeand family, before Ashpound should be swallowed up by hungry creditors, and he had hurried himself into a forlorn grave. 

Mr. Baring was willing to let him off as a pigeon to be plucked, and touse him instead as an unconscious decoy-duck in getting rid of Die; notthat Mr. Baring had an unnatural aversion to his daughter, but that shewas a drag upon him both for the present and the future. But Die, afterone night's reflection, accepted Gervase Norgate to escape worse evil, having neither brother nor sister nor friend who would aid her. What Diedid on that night; whether she merely "slept on the proposal, " like awise, well-in-hand, self-controlled woman; whether she outwatched themoon, plying herself with arguments, forcing herself to overcome herdeadly sick loathing at the leap, nobody knows. If Die had learnedanything worth retaining, in the shifts and shams of her life, it wasperfect reticence. The result was that Gervase Norgate was coming to wooas an accepted wooer at Newton-le-Moor on the evening of the summer daywhen Mr. Baring confidentially assured the bride that the bridegroomwould not last ten years. 

Newton-le-Moor was what its name suggested, an estate won from thesouthern moors by other and worthier adventurers than John FitzwilliamBaring. In his hands the place was drifting back to the originalmoorland. Everything, except the stables and kennels, had been sufferedto go to wreck. The house was of weather-streaked white stone, in partstaring and pretentious, in part prodigal and vagabondish. Thedrawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, like most drawing-rooms, was acommentary--more or less complete--on the life and character of itsowner. If it did not represent all his practices and pursuits--hisrepudiation of just claims and obligations; his sleeping till noon andwaking till morning, and faring sumptuously at his neighbours' expense;his fleecing of every victim who crossed his false door by borrowing, bill-discounting, horse-dealing, betting, billiards, long and shortwhist, and brandy-drinking--at least it painted one little peculiarityof John Fitzwilliam Baring very fairly. Not one accessory which couldcontribute to his comfort and enjoyment was wanting, from theexceedingly easy chair for his back, to the alabaster lamp for hiseyes, and the silver pastile-burner for his nose. On the other hand, there was scarcely an article that had no special reference to JohnFitzwilliam Baring which was not in the last stages of decay. 

On this evening, before Gervase Norgate came up with her father from thedining-room, where he might sit too long, considering who was waitinghim, Diana had her tea-table arranged, and sat down behind it as if todo its honours. She showed no symptoms of discomposure, unless that herrose-colour flickered and flushed in a manner that was not natural toit; yet she had so entrenched herself, that when Gervase Norgateentered, with an irregular, unsteady step, although as nearly sober ashe ever was, she could not be touched except at arm's length, and by thetips of the fingers, over which he bowed. 

Mr. Norgate was not in his flower and prime. He was not above a year ortwo Miss Baring's senior; but his whole being had suffered eclipsebefore it reached maturity, though he still showed some remains of whatmight have been worth preserving. His physique had been what no wordinterprets so fitly as the Scotch word "braw, "--not huge and unwieldy insize and strength, but manly and comely. His shoulders were still broad, though they slouched. His hand and arm were still a model, somewhatwasted and shaken, of what in muscular power and lightness a hand andarm should be. His dark brown hair, dry and scanty at five-and-twenty, still fell in waves. His eyes, dulled and dimmed, were still the kindly, magnanimous, forgiving blue eyes. His mouth had always been a heavymouth (better at all events than a mean mouth); it was coarse now, butwith strange lines of gentleness breaking in upon its tendency toviolence. But his carriage, though he was pre-eminently a well-made man, was the attribute most spoilt about him. He had the blustering yetshuffling bearing of a man who is fully convinced that he has gone tothe dogs, and it did not alter its expression that he was making aneffort to quit his canine associates. Perhaps the effort required to beconfirmed before its effects could be seen; perhaps he was not settingabout the right way of redeeming himself, after all. 

Mr. Baring was pompous in his high breeding--the first gentleman inEurope was pompous also. Mr. Baring brought forward his intendedson-in-law as his young friend, and alluded pointedly to the summerevening and its event as an "auspicious occasion. " But he was cut shortby a frosty glance from Die, and a brief remark that she was not surethat this evening and its party were more auspicious than usual. 

Although Miss Baring was a person of very little consequence in herfather's house, she acted on Mr. Baring as a drag. Her cold looksinadvertently damped him; and she had a way, which he could not accountfor in his daughter, of making blunt speeches, like that on theauspicious occasion and on her being left a rich young widow, if GervaseNorgate did for himself smartly. This was discomfiting even to a man whopiqued himself on his resources in conversation. Die had uttered twiceas many of these abrupt, unamiable, unanswerable rejoinders withinthese twenty-four hours, since she had accepted Gervase Norgate's hand. 

Whatever Mr. Baring thought of the rebuff, he was above exhibiting anysign of his feelings, and no one could have refused him the tribute ofconsideration for the position of his companions, as he blandlyannounced that he had the day's 'Chronicle' to read, and begged to beexcused for accomplishing the task before post-time. He retired to siphis tea and disappear behind the folds of his newspaper. It was thefirst evening for a dozen years that he had not handled cue orfingered cards. 

Gervase Norgate, assuming his character of a man about to amend hisways, marry, and settle, sat by Die Baring. He noted and summed up thegirl's good points, as no man in love ever yet did. She was afiner-looking woman than he had supposed, --one to be proud of as hepresented her to his friends as his wife; pity that he had so fewcreditable friends left now! He could think of none at that momentexcept his strong-minded old Aunt Tabby, who had some sneaking kindnessfor him in the middle of her scorn, and his old man, Miles. Die Baringwould not tolerate his boon companions--not that he wanted her totolerate them; she would not suit for his mistress and manager if shedid; though where she got her niceness--seeing what her father was up toin cool, barefaced scampishness, in horse-flesh, bones, andpasteboard--he could not tell. --She was a capable woman he was certain, if she got a fair field for her capability. She was clever: anybody withhalf an eye or an ear might recognize that. And she would want all hercleverness--ay, and her will and temper--for what she would have to do. But she had undertaken the task, and it was not much to the purpose thatif she had not been the daughter of a disreputable spendthrift she woulddoubtless as lief have touched live coals as have submitted to be hiswife. Ah, well, it was his luck in his last toss-up, and he had neverbeen lucky before; yet he had never felt so great a reluctance toconclude his engagement of twenty-four hours, and clinch his repentance, as he did at this moment. It was good for him that he stood committed. But why had he not sought out some humble, meek lass, who would stillhave looked up to him and reckoned him not quite such a reprobate, butbelieved that there was some good left in him, and liked him a littlefor himself--not married him to suit her own book and save him for herown sake, if it were possible? Why had he not chosen a simple pet lamb, in place of a proud heifer who scarcely took the trouble to conceal fromhim how it galled her neck to put it into his yoke? Psha! he would breakany poor heart with his incorrigible wildness and beastly sottishness ina month's time. A woman without a heart; a good, hard-mouthed, strong-pulling, well-wearing woman, --honest, and a lady; a handsome, superior woman, and far beyond his deserts, was the wife for him. 

Gervase pursued this line of thought; but he spoke to Miss Baring, after a little introductory flourish about the weather, his ridefrom Ashpound, and the embroidery which she had taken up, in adifferent strain. 

"You have shown a great, I must say an unmerited, trust in me, MissBaring--Diana: but I mean--I swear I mean to do the best I can for youand myself. I have thought better of the life I have been leading; Ishall turn over a new leaf, and be another man if you will help me. "

The confession was fatally facile, like most confessions, but it wassincere, and not without its touching element, which, however, did notreach her. 

She replied, without being greatly moved, and corrected what might be aslight misconception on his part: "I am quite aware, Mr. Norgate, thatyou have been rather wild; but since you mean to do better, I am willingto try you and to be your wife. "

Diana's candid acquiescence had the same disconcerting influence uponGervase that her speeches had on her father, unlike as the men were: itstruck him dumb when he should have overwhelmed her with thanks. After awhile he recovered himself, took heart of grace, and blundered out thathe was grateful, --a happy man; would she not say Gervase, when she washaving him altogether?

"I suppose I may, " acceded Diana, with a hard smile. "There, Gervase--itis not hard to say, " as if she were humouring him. 

He did not ask for any more favours or rights, but maundered a little onnobody calling him Gervase for many a day except his aunt Tabby, and shecontracted it to Jarvie, which had a stage-coach flavour. 

"Tell me something about your aunt Tabby. Do you know, I have notvisited an aunt since I was a little girl of ten?" This afforded him anopening more naturally and pleasantly, and the two went off on AuntTabby instead of accomplishing more courtship, and got on a littlebetter. Diverging from Aunt Tabby to her place, and from her place toAshpound, they went on with mention of Gervase's factotum, Miles, anddiscussed capabilities and future arrangements with wonderful commonsense. 

Mr. Baring swallowed his last gape over his 'Chronicle, ' concludedthat the couple had surely had their swing of private conversation forone night, and resolved to curtail the courtship to the shortestdecorous bounds. So Mr. Baring looked at his watch, and said quitelovingly to Gervase: "My boy, when I do act the family man, I do thething thoroughly, by supping in my dressing-room at eleven. What! youare off? A pleasant ride to you. You will receive your orders fromDie, I fancy, when to report yourself in attendance. To-morrow is it, or next day? Make yourself at home, my dear fellow. Happy to thinkthat you are going to be one of us--a son for me to be proud of. Good-night. God bless you. "

Thus the preliminaries to the alliance ended with Gervase bowing againover the tips of Die's fingers. He had not the smallest inclination toraise them to his lips. 

"I will do my duty by him, " said Diana to herself, when she was in thesanctuary of her own bare room. And what a poor sanctuary it had been!"It may be bad in me to have him, but what can I do? and what can he do, for that matter? If I do my duty by him, surely some good will come ofit. " Perhaps her imagination was haunted by a garbled version of thetext about him who turns a sinner from the error of his ways and coversa multitude of sin. 

II. --THE FULFILMENT. 

"She's a fine woman the mistress, a rare fine woman; but she's goingthe wrong way. It's the cart before the horse, and I tell you it's notconformable; and the master, God help him, poor fellow, will never bebrought to go at the tail of the cart--never. " So ruminated GervaseNorgate's old servant, Miles, pushing back the tufts of ragged redhair on his long head ruefully, as he sat "promiscuous" in what he waspleased to call his pantry at Ashpound, while he contemplated with theeye of the body his chamois skin for what he proudly denominated hissilver, and with the eye of the mind the new régime and its rulingspirit. 

"She's a fine woman, " remarked also of her new niece, Miss TabithaNorgate, of Redwells. "She's a fine woman, a great deal too good forhim; but she oughtn't to have gone and married Jarvie, or to havemarried anybody, there's the long and the short of it. She ought to haveremained single, like me. She was made to stand alone, while he wanted awoman and as many children as she could muster to hang round hisneck--the liker a millstone the better, --he won't drown: he could nottake the straight road without a weight to ballast him and keep himsteady. If he had consulted me, I would have advised him to marry thatdawdling, whimpering Susie Lefroy, the widowed daughter of the Vicar, with her unprovided-for orphans. Jarvie might have stepped into a youngfamily at once, and he would have been a kind stepfather--he might haverighted himself then. To go and marry a clever, active, handsome, well-born woman like Die Baring. Oh! dear, dear, what folly!"

In spite of her critics, Mrs. Gervase Norgate spared no pains to acquitherself of her obligation, and to discharge her debt at Ashpound. Ashpound was a much more exhilarating residence than Newton-le-Moor. AtNewton-le-Moor the desolation of prodigality and immorality wasobjective and deductive. At Ashpound the desolation was subjective andinductive, a plague-spot within; and although the flush of decay wasvisible, Gervase would struggle against it to the last. He would make aneffort to preserve the pleasant, rambling, mellow brick house, most ofit one-storied and draped with jessamine and clematis as old as thebuilding; the belt of ash-trees round the ferny dells of the littlepark; and the whitewashed offices, in excellent repair; the well caredfor cattle and poultry-yard; the amply-stocked, flourishing gardens; thepretty gardener's house and lodge--the prettiest things about the place, as his father had left them to him. To the last Gervase would aim atkeeping up the place, to his mother's drawing-room, his father's study, Miles's pantry and cellar, even the modern housekeeper's room, and themaids' gallery, in comfort and pleasantness. Only his ownrooms--dining-room, smoking-room, bedroom--had been suffered to showtraces of many a brawl and fray. It was as if he had deemed anythinggood enough for a scapegrace and beast like him, and thought to pay thewhole price in his own person. It would not be with his will if anyother person, high or low, contributed to his heavy forfeits. AndGervase Norgate's servants, new as well as old, had a pitiful likingfor him, a remorseful regard for his interests, even when these clashedwith their own. So when Gervase had removed the traces, repaired thedamages, and taken the decisive step of forbidding the inroads of hisevil associates, Mrs. Gervase Norgate found a peaceful, prosperous-seeming, as well as fair, country home awaiting her. 

Neither did Mrs. Gervase Norgate droop or mope; she was alive to everyadvantage, alert to improve every opportunity. Frankly she praised thehouse at Ashpound, which she had formerly known at the distance ofcommon acquaintanceship, but now knew in the nearness of home, fromgarret to cellar. "What a well-seasoned, kindly dwelling you have here, Gervase. How I like the windows opening down to the floors, the creepingplants, the hall window-seats, and the attics with their pigeon-holebureaux. " She made herself familiar with its details, and she flatteredits old occupants with the extent of her intimacy and appreciation. Shedid not let the grass grow beneath her feet in learning and acquiringits owner's habits. Early rising had been one of the good old countryhabits which had stuck to Gervase. And not a dairymaid at Ashpound wasup and abroad at so primitive an hour as its mistress, ready to walkwith the Squire to his horses' stalls and paddocks, his cattle sheds, his game preserves, his workpeople in the fields; anywhere but to thesign of the 'Spreading Ash-tree, ' in the village of Ash-cum-thorpe, forhis morning draught. 

"Well-a-day, " cried Dolly; "I would not be the mistress, to rise and goto her work afore the stroke of six, and she a fine lady born and bred, for all the hats and feathers, table heads, and carriage-seats in thishere world. If I ever have a word to say to Luke Jobling, I know it willbe with an eye to a good long lie in the morning when he has gone to hismowing or his reaping. How Madam does it without ever drooping aneyelid, none of us can tell; but they do say the gentlefolks are asstrong as steel when they like to put out their strength; happen it isthe high living as gives it to them. I know Madam puts us to our mettlehere. And lawk! the Squire, he's as restless and lost like as a newweaned calf. Eh! I had liefer have the holding-in of a senseless calf, though I had not Luke to help me with the bars of the gates, than theholding in of a full-grown, whole-witted man. But the poormistress--them as don't know the rights of a thing calls hersaucy--young lady though she be, she do work hard for her place andliving, she do, since she has got Master Gervase and Ashpound. "

Anticipating her husband's commands, Diana was ever ready to bear himcompany, to share his engagements and amusements, walking, riding, shooting, fishing, playing billiards, cribbage, bowls, racket, backgammon, draughts, for hours on a stretch; to go abroad attending themarket and doing banking business at Market Hesketh, dining out with theVicar or with any country host save Mr. Baring--Mrs. Gervase Norgatesetting her face against the paternal hospitalities--dancing at thecounty balls as one of the leaders. She did not seem to know whatweariness meant. She would trudge whole half-days with him and thekeepers, after luncheon, beating the plantations and pacing theturnip-fields to start and bring down birds, and she would be saunteringwith him on the terrace and in the park after dinner all the same. Shewould be in the saddle ten hours during a long day's hunt, as the autumnadvanced and the meets assembled, and within an hour of alighting at thedoor of Ashpound, she would have exchanged muddy bottle-green orWaterloo blue cloth for glistening white satin, and be stepping into thecarriage with Gervase to be present at one of their wedding parties. 

There was something positively great in the intentness with whichthe woman pursued her end of the man's salvation; the vigilance withwhich she ever kept sight of the wounded quarry she was to rescueand to restore. The neighbourhood watched the struggle withinterest, admiration, hostile criticism, not very delicatediversion. Only to John Fitzwilliam Baring the struggle was amatter of indifference--rather of repugnance. He would have likedDie to be more feminine and more helpless. 

Would Die slacken in her energy and devotion? Would Gervase be able tobear his cure much longer?

Beyond the honeymoon, and with the feeling decidedly growing, GervaseNorgate was gratified by his wife's sacrifice of herself in everyrespect, and long before he grew accustomed to it and felt easy underit, he was touched by it. He liked her company too, for he was fond ofsociety, and had been lonely since his father and mother died. She wasan observant, intelligent woman, high-minded and pure-hearted, andvastly superior to his late satellites. She was eager to suit herself tohim, and made herself as free with him as she could be, as far as heknew, with any one. At this season Gervase Norgate was attracted tosomething warmer, sweeter, more intimate in their intercourse. Heenjoyed her quick remarks and shrewd conclusions. He was pleased with, and proud of the new blossoming of her beauty under the combinedinfluences of an open-air life, constant occupation, and a powerfulobject. He was willing to wait till more tender feelings should awakenbetween them. It looked as if Gervase Norgate had turned over a newleaf: his cheek lost its dull, engrained red, or its pallor; his lipsgrew firmer; his eyes clearer and cooler; he raised his head, and threwoff something of the slouch of his shoulders and the swing anduncertainty of his walk. 

"How well you look in that pretty dress, Diana!" he would say; "Ideclare you are as brave a figure as any in my Lord's picture-gallery. Let me fetch you a cluster of monthly roses, though I am not fit to holdthe candle to you. " Or, "Come, Die, let us have a stroll and a smoke inthe garden. " Or, "Sit still for another game, will you? My hand is justin and my luck beginning. I know you are never tired. Mrs. Gervase, youare a trump--the ace of trumps. "

Ignorant spectators might have set them down for a good, happy, well-metyoung couple, with regard to whom it would be simply and equallyappropriate to wish "God bless them. "

III. --HAZARD. 

Diana did not slacken in her devotion, but there came a limit to theendurance of Gervase. The gleam of success was but the gleam beforethe overcast. 

First, Gervase was conscious of being nettled by the distance whichexisted between him and Diana. And certainly, to be sensible of his armbeing arrested by an unseen obstacle when he thought to put it round hisown wife's waist, to collapse in the mere idea of asking her to give hima kiss, never to have felt so fully the dissipated, degraded fool he hadbeen, as he felt then, was not a pleasant sensation. It may soundimmoral, but it seemed as if, had Gervase been more depraved, therewould have been more hope for him, since he would have appreciated thegulf between him and his guardian less. 

Then the old craving returned like a death thirst. The old, wild, worthless, low companions, were cognisant, as if by instinct, of arelapse. Eager to hail its signs, and profit by them, they waylaid himat the 'Spreading Ash, ' with "Hey, don't you dare to swallow a singleglass in your own village, to give custom to your villager, man?" Theywaylaid and gathered round him in the market-place of Market Hesketh, with "Well met, Mr. Gervase Norgate. Lord! are you alive still? for wehad doubted it. Don't speak to him to detain him, you fellows; don't yousee Mrs. Gervase has her eye upon him, and is craning her neck todiscover what is keeping him? Off with you, sir, since you are ahusband, a reformed rake, and a church-goer. If you had gone and joinedthe Methodists, you might have been a preacher yourself by this time. Oh! we don't want to spoil sport and balk your good intentions; but, byGeorge, Gervase, we never thought you would have been the man to betied so tight to a woman's apron-string. You must spare us one morecarouse for old friendship's sake, my boy, just to try what it is likeagain, and hear all the news. Ah! your teeth are watering; come along;Madam is not to swallow you up entirely. "

They got him away from his wife, and made him leave her sitting anhour in the carriage, with a pair of young horses pawing and rearingand endangering her very life in the yard of the 'Crown. ' They madehim send her home without him, and kept him till they had nothing moreto say than "Heave the poor devil into a gig, and drive him up to hisown door and put him down there. It is the best you can do forhim, --the fool was always so easily upset; and it will do for her atthe same time--give her something to hold her cursed high white headin the air and turn up her nose for; serve her impudence right fortaking it upon her to act as private policeman to Jarvie. " They senthim home to her, a beast who had been with wild beasts. They did itfor the most part heedlessly, in jollity and jeering; but they did itnot the less effectually. The wild beast of sensuality had him again;not one devil, but seven, had entered into him; and reigning king overthe others, an insensate devil of cruel jealousy of his wife, of hisgaoler, resenting her efforts, defying her pains. 

Diana did not take Gervase Norgate's backsliding to her very heart, wasnot wounded to death by it as if she had loved him. But she did not givehim up. She was a tenacious woman, and Gervase Norgate's salvation washer one chance of moral redemption from the base barter of hermarriage. She did not reproach him: she was too proud a woman, too coldto him, to goad and sting him by reproaches. They might have served herend better than the terrible aggravation of her silence. She was justtoo, and she did not accuse him unduly. She said to herself, "He is apoor, misguided fellow, a brute where drink is concerned: when I marriedhim, that was as clear as day. I have no right to complain, though heresume his bad courses. " Still she left no stone unturned; she wasprepared, as before, to ride and walk and play with him at all hours;she ignored his frequent absences and the condition in which he cameback, as far as possible. She abetted old Miles in clearing away, silently and swiftly, the miserable evidences of mischief. She smuggledout of sight, and huddled into oblivion, battered hats, broken pipes andsticks, stopperless flasks, cracked, smoky lanterns--concealing themwith a decent, decorous, sacred duplicity even from Aunt Tabby, whotrotted across the country on her father's old trotting mare, took herobservations, and departed, shaking her head and moralizing on the text, "Cast not your pearls before swine. "

Diana sat at her forlorn post in the billiard-room, or by thecribbage-board, or at the piano which Gervase had got for her. She hadsome small skill to play and sing to him, and was indefatigable inlearning the simple tunes and songs he liked. And night after night shewas left alone, unapproached, uncalled for; or else Gervase stumbled infrom the dining-room or from an adjournment to the village tavern, wherehe was the acknowledged king and emperor, bemussed, befumed, giddy, hilarious, piteously maudlin, or deliriously furious. She stooped tosmile and answer his random ravings and to comply with his demands. Ifshe escaped actual outrage and injury in his house and hers, it was notbecause she did not provoke him, for there was nothing in his wife whichGervase hated so heartily, resented so keenly, as her refraining fromcontradicting him. But below the grossness and sin of the poor lout andcaitiff there was a fund of sullen, latent manliness and kindness, whichheld him back from insulting the defenceless woman--for all her prideand purity--who was his wife, just as it had held him back from dallyingwith and caressing her as his mistress. 

The neighbourhood which had furnished both a dress-circle and a pit towitness Diana's spectacle, was not astonished at the fate of theadventure. Its success would have been little short of a miracle, andthese were not the days of faith in miracles; so the neighbourhood didnot pity Mrs. Gervase Norgate, for she had been foolhardy at the best, and her fortune or misfortune had only been what ought to have beenexpected. For that matter Mrs. Gervase Norgate would not have thankedthe world for its pity, though it had been lavishly vouchsafed. 

There was one point on which Diana did not hesitate to contradictGervase, and persisted in contradicting him. She would not suffer him, if she could help it, to frequent Newton-le-Moor, or to consort with Mr. Baring. For to go to Newton-le-Moor was to go among the Philistines; andlawless as Gervase was in his own person, it should never be with hiswife's consent that he should go and be plundered by her own flesh andblood--his errors rendering him but a safer and a surer prey. 

Gervase was standing restless and indignant by the low bow-window of hiswife's drawing-room, opening on the flower-garden, which had been laidout in their honeymoon, and in which she continued to take pleasure, though the wealth of glowing autumn geraniums and verbenas had givenplace to the few frosted winter chrysanthemums. It was but the middle ofthe day, and he had risen and had his cup of tea laced with brandy andcrowned with brandy, so that the jaded man was comparatively fresh, butirritable to the last nerve, each jarring nerve twanging likeharpstrings, sending electric thrills of vexation and rage over hiswhole body at the cross of every straw. 

Diana, who had been up and busy for hours, was sitting at her desk; herbrow, whatever cares lurked behind it, unruffled and white; a seemly, reasonable, refined woman, aggrieved every day she lived, but scorningto betray a knowledge of the grievance. 

"Don't go to Newton, above all by yourself, Gervase, " the wife wasentreating, gravely and earnestly. "I am afraid my father may take theopportunity of trying to get money from you. He has entered horses forthe Thorpe stakes: he will seek to make you enter them, and you toldme yourself May and Highflyer were not fit to run this year. Or hewill seek to lead you into some other transaction in horse-flesh, orhave you into the house to play billiards and remain to dinner andcards all night, and there is always high play at Newton. My father isa needy man, and needy men are tempted to be unscrupulous; at leasthis code implies few scruples, where the letter of the laws of honouris complied with. "

"It comes ill off your hand to say so, " observed Gervase harshly. Undoubtedly he spoke no more than the truth, and such a life as GervaseNorgate's was not a school for magnanimity. 

Die winced a little; and she was a woman whose fair cheek so rarelyblushed, that her blushing was like another woman's crying. Die nevercried; Gervase Norgate had never wrung a tear from her, or seen hershed a tear. 

"Well, it was hard for me to say it, " she admitted, with an accent ofreproach in her equable tones; "but there the wrong and the shame are, and I owe it to myself and to you to warn you. "

"I wonder how much I owe your being here to Newton-le-Moor beinglittle better than a not very reputable gambling-house, " exclaimedGervase rudely. 

She looked at him with her wide-open eyes, as if she had been struck, but did not care to own the blow. 

"It was not to much profit where you were concerned, " he continued, inan infatuation of brutality; "it did not get you so much as apocket-handkerchief, or a flower-garden like that down there, or, "glancing round him, "trumpery hangings and mirrors, and a new gown ortwo, or any other of the miserable trash for which women sellthemselves. "

She neither spoke nor stirred. 

He had worked himself into a blindness of rage, in which he could seenothing before him but the possibility of moving her, of breaking downand destroying her calm front. 

"And I wonder how much you owe your being here to my being a prodigalclutching at any respite? You may well come down lightly on my faults, Madam; they have made you the mistress of Ashpound in the present, andwon for you its widow's jointure in the future. If I had known allbeforehand, I might not have encumbered myself in vain. As it is, Ido not think it becomes you to lecture me on keeping company with yourown father. "

She got up and left the room. 

It was time, when all was lost, even honour. If he had not been himself, she might have passed over his taunts with simple shame and disgust; butgiven, as they were, when she held that he knew what he was saying--as aproof that he had not a particle of respect and regard for her aftertheir months of wedlock, they were a certain indication of his ruin andher reward. 

IV. --THE LAST THROW. 

"Poor Mrs. Gervase Norgate, she must have been so put about to have togo away with her husband last night. How the scamp got into thedrawing-room I cannot tell; but he could do nothing but lean against thewall: he could not have bitten his fingers to save his life. She did notshow her mortification unless by going away immediately. A wonderfulamount of countenance has that poor young woman; but I take it she willnot go out with him again if she can help it--and she need not, she neednot, Lady Metcalfe. I can tell you he shall not be asked within my doorsagain; but I shall be very glad if you will always remember to send hera card, poor thing: she can go out without him, it must come to thateventually. It is not a mere kindness; she is really a credit and anornament to your parties, to the county set altogether. But the soonershe learns to go out without him, and keep him in the background, thebetter for all parties. She has the command of a good income still, witha very tolerable jointure behind it, and Ashpound is a pretty place; nota fine place, like my lord's, but a very pretty place for a sensiblewoman's management and enjoyment. "

One of Gervase Norgate's oldest neighbours, a fussy but good-natured, middle-aged baronet, pronounced this judgment. 

There was nothing left for Diana but to resign Gervase to his fate, andgather up the gains which were left her. The most impartial authoritiesdecided so. The gains would have sufficed for many a woman. Mrs. GervaseNorgate had comparative riches, after the cash scramble in which she hadbeen brought up. Gervase had not succeeded in wasting above one-third ofhis fortune, and would doubtless end his career before he made away withthe whole. Mrs. Gervase was the mistress of Ashpound, and most peoplewould have valued it as what newspapers describe as a most desirableresidence, a most eligible investment. If she ever had a child--a son, though she shuddered at the idea, --he would be the young Squire, theheir of Ashpound. In the meantime, Gervase Norgate was not a churl: hedid not dream of stinting his wife in her perquisites, though he was notfond of her, and they now no longer lived comfortably together. Shemight have out his mother's carriage every day, or she might haveanother built for her, and drive it with a pair of ponies if she chose;she had a well-bred, fine-mounted, thin-legged, glossy-coatedsaddle-horse kept for her sole use, and she might have a second bred andbroken for her any year she liked. She could even employ her owndiscretion in the income to be spent in the housekeeping. Ready moneywas becoming short with him; but his sense of her rights, and his faithin her prudence, had not failed. She had only to draw on his banker oragent to have her draught honoured. Whatever sums she might devote toher personal pleasures, her prodigal husband would not call in question. She might indulge in fine clothes, recherché jewellery, embellishmentsand ornaments for her rooms; she might take up art or literature, orheaths, or melons, or poultry, or flannel petticoating and soup-makingfor the poor (Sunday-schools and district visiting were hardly infashion), and pursue one, or other, or all, for occupation andamusement, without impairing her resources; and she claimed a veryrespectable circle of friends as Mrs. Gervase Norgate, though she hadbeen friendless, and getting always more friendless, as Miss Baring. Theworld had put its veto on the risk of her marriage with Gervase Norgate, in so far as its excusable element--the reformation of GervaseNorgate--was concerned; but with commendable elasticity it had alloweditself to be considerably influenced by the advantages which themarriage had obtained and secured for Diana, as well as by her conductin their possession, and had awarded her the diploma of its esteem. Ahandsome, ladylike, sensible, well-disposed, sufficiently-agreeable, though quiet young matron, almost too wise and forbearing for her years, was its verdict. It was wonderful how well she had turned out, considering how she had been exposed; for every one knew JohnFitzwilliam Baring, and how little fitted he was for the care of amotherless daughter. The more tender-hearted and sentimental world beganto look upon Mrs. Gervase Norgate's bad husband, whom she had married inthe face of his offence, as one of her merits, --a chief merit, to makeof her a popular victim and martyr, no matter that she was not naturallyconstituted for the _rôle_, was not frank enough for popularity, notmeek enough for martyrdom. 

Even Miss Tabitha, who had still a friendly feeling for the culprit, hadnothing to say against Mrs. Gervase, except that she was too good forhim. Poor Miles listened wistfully for his master's reeling step, andwent out in the night air, risking his rheumatism, for which Mr. Gervasehad always cared, making sure that the old boy had a screen to hispantry, and shutters to his garret. He watched lest his master shouldmake his bed of the cold ground and catch a deadly chill; caring for thebesotted man, when he found him, with reverence and tenderness, as forthe chubby boy who had bidden so fair to be a good and happy man, worthyof all honour, when Miles had first known him as his young master. Milesresented feebly the perishing of the forlorn hope of a rescue, andmuttered fatuously the cart had been put before the horse, and the reinstaken out of the whip hand, and that'd never do. What could come of theunnatural process but a crashing spill?

Diana could not accept the solution. Nineteen women out of twenty, whohad acted as she had done, would have taken the compensations, perhapsbeen content with the indemnifications of her lot; but Diana was thetwentieth. Whether the cost of his mercenary marriage was far beyondwhat she had estimated it, she lost heart and hope and heed of theworld's opinion, and was on the high road to loss of conscience, fromthe moment she was convinced that Gervase Norgate was lost. 

Diana gave up going into the society which was so willing to welcomeher, which thought so well of her. She relinquished all pride inpersonal dignity and propriety, as she had never done when she hadlocked her doors to shut out the jingling rattle of the bones, and, occasionally, the curses, not loud but deep, which broke in upon therepose of the long nights at Newton-le-Moor. She ceased to exert herselfto regulate the expenditure of the house, to preserve itsrespectability, to wipe out the signs of its master's ruin. Old Milesmight strive to keep up appearances, but his mistress no longer aidedand abetted him. It had become a matter of indifference to Mrs. Gervasewhether the dragged carpet, the wrenched-down curtain, the shatteredchair, were removed or repaired, or not: she took no notice. 

By the time Ashpound was budding in spring, Mrs. Gervase Norgate hadfallen away, and changed rapidly for the worse, to the disappointmentand with the condemnation of her acquaintances. She lay in bed half themorning, dawdled over her breakfast, and trailed her way from place toplace, ageing too, with marvellous celerity. 

Sunk in the mire as Gervase was, he noted the transformation in his wifewith discomposure and vexation. It fretted him always, and infuriatedhim at times, to discover that she was likely to justify his contempt byproving a poor wife after all. Her rule ended, her energy exhausted, given over to an unprincipled, destructive listlessness and, carelessness, such a prospect did not make Gervase amend the error ofhis ways: but it caused his road to ruin to be harder to tread, itcaused the fruits of his vice to be more bitter between his teeth, itdrove him at times to reflect when it was madness to reflect. She wouldnot take the luxuries which she had bought dearly, which he wanted herto take. Her person, drawing-room, flower-garden were fast showingneglect and cheerlessness, in spite of him, or to spite him, as he vowedsavagely. Here was his sin cropping out and meeting him in the life ofanother, and that other a woman. She was going to ruin with him as trulyand faithfully as if they had been a pair of fond lovers. The shygoodwill of Gervase Norgate's early married life had waned intodiscontent and dislike, and was fast settling into rooted hatred. 

"Lawk!" Dolly the dairymaid reflected indignantly, "Madam is become ascareless and trolloping-like as master is wild. If we don't take care, no one will continue to call on us and hinvite us with our equals. Forthat matter, the mistress has denied herself to every morning callerthis spring, and it is my opingen she never so much as sends hapologiesto them dinner cards as she twists into matches. If it were me, now, wouldn't I cut a dash of myself? She didn't care a bit of cheese-curdfor him, folks say, when she had him to begin with, so why she shouldpine for his misdeeds now, is more than I can compass. "

It was on a clear, fragrant evening in June, when the world was all inflower, that a whispering, and pulling of skirts and sleeves, andthrowing up of hands and eyes, arose among the servants at Ashpound, ata sight that was seen there. The servants' hall were gathered secretlyat a side-door and a lobby-window, and were watching Mrs. GervaseNorgate feeling her way, like a blind woman, her tall figure bent down, crouched together, swaying, along the pleached alley from the garden. 

One or two of the more sensitive of the women covered their faces andwrung their hands. Old Miles tugged at his tufts of red hair and smotehis hands together distractedly. The new shame was too open forconcealment; he could only cry, "God ha' mercy; there is not one to mendanother; what will we do?"

As living among men and women given up to delusions begets delusions inrational minds with a dire infectiousness, so living with GervaseNorgate, and day by day regarding the evil which could not be stayed, Diana had caught the fell disease. 

A whisper of the culminating misfortunes of Ashpound spread abroad likewild-fire, soon ceased to be a whisper, and became a loud scandal; andDiana lost her credit as summarily as she had acquired it. It was--"Thatwretched Mrs. Gervase Norgate came of an evil stock, though drinking wasnot Mr. Baring's vice. They were an ill-fated race, these Barings, witha curse--the curse of ruined men--upon them. Who knew, indeed, but ifpoor Gervase Norgate, come of honest people at least, had gone intoanother family--one which he could have respected, which could haveshown him a good example and remonstrated with him with authority--hemight have been reclaimed?"

About the middle of summer there came a seasonably rainy period, such asfrequently precedes a fine harvest. But Gervase Norgate was so ailingthat he could not go out and look at his fields, where the corn in theear was filling rarely, and the growth of second clover was knee-deep. He was forced to keep the house. He loathed food, and his sleep hadbecome a horror to him. He had fits of deadly sickness and of shakinglike an aspen. His only resource, all the life that was left to him, wasto be found in his cellar; and even Miles, seeing his master'sextremity, brought out and piteously pressed the brandy upon him. 

Gervase's cronies had never come about his house since his marriage. There had been something in Diana which had held them at arm's length;and although they had heard and scoffed at her fall, they had not thewit to discern that it clean removed the obstacle to their harbouringabout the place as they had done before her reign and abdication. Theymight come and go now by day and night without feeling themselves toomuch for Mrs. Gervase Norgate, or being compelled to regard her as abeing apart from them. But they did not comprehend the bearing of thecommon degradation, and they had not returned to their haunt as theymight have done. 

Gervase had declined into such a state of fractiousness and sullenness, that he was very poor company even for illiterate country-bred men likehimself. He was something of a ghastly spectacle, as he sat there, withhis glass three-fourths empty, and part of its contents spilt aroundhim, trying to smoke, trying to warm himself, with the soles of hisboots burnt from being pressed on the top of the wood fire, his teethchattering, at intervals, notwithstanding, as he cast furtive, darkglances behind him. 

Gervase was alone. Mrs. Gervase was dozing on a drawing-room couch, nottroubling to order a fire, though the room was on the ground-floor, --apleasant room in sunshine, but looking dull and dismal in wet and gloom. She had lain there all the evening, with her hair, tumbled by theposture, fallen down and straying in dim tresses on her shoulders. 

Overcome by illness, Gervase at last defied his shrinking from his roomand bed, and retired for the night. His uneven footsteps and the closingof his door had not long sounded through the house, which might havebeen so cheery and was so dreary and silent, when Mrs. Gervase, cold andcomfortless, rose and proceeded to the study. She was drawn by the fireand the light, but she was drawn more irresistibly by the subtle, potentodour in the air. She came on like a sleep-walker. She sank down in thechair which her husband had occupied, and stretched out her fine whitehand to the decanters which Miles had not removed. She had raised one, and was about to pour its contents into a glass, when a noise at thedoor startled her, and caused her to hold her arm suspended. Gervase, returning for the bottle she grasped, stood in the doorway. 

Ruined husband and ruined wife confronted each other on their stainedhearthstone. His weakness, replaced by failing strength, gathered up andincreased tenfold by horror and rage. Her eyes glared defiance, and herpresence there, in her white dress, with the crimson spots on eachcheek, and the fair hair scattered around her, was a presence of ominousbeauty, the hectic beauty of the fall. A feather's weight might haveturned the scale whether Gervase should totter forward and deal Diana adeadly blow which should finish the misfortunes of that generation atAshpound, and brand Ashpound itself with the inhuman mark of an awfulcrime; or whether he should melt in his misery, weep a man's scaldingtears, and bemoan their misery together. Diana's words were thefeather's weight: she broke God's unbearable silence, and by God's powerand mercy saved both. She cried out, not so much in self-defence, forshe was a daring, intrepid woman, as in righteous accusation, "You darenot blame me, for you taught me, you brought me to it. "

Through his undone condition he owned the truth of the accusation, andthe old spring of manliness in him welled up to protect the woman whospoke the truth and impeached him justly of her ruin as well as his own. 

"No, I dare not blame you. We are two miserable sinners, Die. " And helet his arms fall on the table and bowed his head over them. 

He had spared her, he had not taunted her, and he had not called her Diefor many a day before. She put down the decanter and cowered back witha sense of guilt which made her glowing beauty pale, fade, wither, likethe sere leaf washed by the heavy tears of a November night's rain. 

When Gervase Norgate lifted up his bent head again, all the generositythat had ever looked out of his comely face reappeared in its changedfeatures for a moment. "I have smitten you when you came and tried tocure me, Die. And I cannot cure myself. I believe, before God, if I canget no more drink, I shall go to-night; but I shall go soon, anyhow, nomistake, and I ought to do something to save you, when I brought you toit. So, do you see, Die? here go the drink and me together. " And withthat he took up the decanters and dashed them, one after the other, onthe hearthstone, the wine and brandy running like life-blood in bubblingred streams across the floor. He summoned Miles, and demanded hiskeys--all the keys of closet and cellar in the house. And when the oldman, flustered and scared, did not venture to dispute his will, hecaught up the keys, cast them into the white core of the wood-fire, piled the blazing logs upon them, and stamped them down, sending showersflying up the wide chimney. 

Then the blaze of passion died away from Gervase's brow, the force ofself-devotion ebbed out of him, his unfastened vest and shirt collar didnot allow him air enough, and he fell back, gasping and quaking andcalling the devils were upon him. 

Old Miles wrung his hands, and shouted "Help, " and cried the Master wasdying, was dead. 

But Diana pushed the old servant aside, put her arms round Gervase, andraised him on her breast, telling him, "Do not think of dying for me, Gervase; I am not worthy. You must not die, I will not have you die. Oh, God! spare him till I kneel at his feet and beg him to forgive all mydisdainful pity, and we repent together. "

Gervase Norgate did not die that night: it might have been easier forhim if he had, for he lay, sat, walked in the sunshine deadly sick formonths. When men like him are saved, it is only as by fire, by letting apart of the penal fire pass over them, and enduring, as David did, thepains of hell. 

But all the time Die did not leave him. Night and day she stood by him, renouncing her own sin for ever. She shared vicariously its revoltinganguish and agonizing fruits, in his pangs. And the woman learned tolove the man as she would have learned to love a child whom she hadtended every hour for what looked like a lifetime, whom she had broughtback from a horrible disease and from the brink of the grave, to whoserecovery she had given herself body and soul, in a way she had neverdreamt of when she first undertook the task. She had lulled him to sleepas with cradle songs, she had fed him with her hands, ministered to himwith her spirit. She learned to love him exceedingly. 

Other summer suns shone on Ashpound. Gervase and Diana had come backfrom a lengthened sojourn abroad. Gervase, going on a visit to hisfaithful old Aunt Tabby, looked behind him, to say, half-shamefacedly, half-yearningly, "I wish you would come with me, Die; I do not think Ican pay the visit without you. " And she exclaimed, with a little laugh, beneath which ran an undercurrent of feeling, still and deep, "Ah! yousee you cannot do without me, sir. " And he rejoined, laughing too, but alittle wistfully, "I wish I could flatter myself that you could not dowithout me, madam. "

She assured him, with a sudden sedateness which hid itself shyly on hisbreast, "Of course I could not do without you to save me from being apillar of salt, to make me a loving, happy woman. "

"God help you, happy Die!"

"Yes, Gervase; it is those who have been tried that can be trusted, andI have been in the deep pit, and all clogged with the mire along withyou, and He who brought us out will not suffer us to fall back and belost after all. "

The neighbours about Ashpound were slow to discover, as erring men andwomen are always slow to discover, that God is more merciful than they, and that he can bring good out of evil, light out of darkness; but theydiscovered it at last, and, after a probation, took Mr. And Mrs. GervaseNorgate back into society and its esteem and regard, and the family atAshpound became eventually as well considered, and as much sought afterin friendship and marriage, as any family among the southern moors, longafter John Fitzwilliam Baring had dressed for dinner, and taken a fitwith a cue in his hand. 

As for Aunt Tabby and old Miles, they said, "All's well that ends well. "But old Miles stood out stubbornly, "That it is not a many carts aforethe horses as comes in at the journey's end, and it ain't dootiful-likein them when they does do it, though I'm content. " And Aunt Tabbyargued, "It is shockingly against morality to conclude that herfall--and who'd have thought a strong woman like her would fall?--hasbeen for his rising again. "

MISS WEST'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE. 

I. 

"Miss West, I will thank you to see that the school-books and theschool-work are in their proper places, and the school-room locked forthe holidays. "

The speaker, Miss Sandys, was the proprietor of Carter Hill School, andMiss West was the governess. The season was Christmas, and the children, without an exception, had departed rejoicing. 

With a sense of liberty as keen as the children's, but with a glee of adecidedly soberer kind, Miss West executed the commission, and then tookher place beside her superior at the parlour-fire. 

Miss Sandys was quite an elderly woman. She was over fifty, and hadgrown grey in the service. Her features, even in her prime, had beengaunt, like the rest of her person. But she had mellowed with age, andhad become what the Germans call _charakteristisch_, and what we mayterm original and sagacious. She dressed well--that is, soberly andsubstantially--in soft wools or strong silks, as she possibly did notfind it easy to do in her youth. She was stately, if somewhat stiff, inher deportment. At present she felt intoxicated at the prospect ofenjoying for ten days the irresponsibility of private life. 

Miss West had not by any means attained the Indian summer of MissSandys; she was still in the more trying transition stage. In spite ofthe shady hollows in the cheeks, and the haggard lines about themouth, she was a young woman yet. Indeed, had it not been for thosehollows and lines, she would have been pretty--as she was when theclear cheeks had no wanness in their paleness, but were round andsoft; when the straight mouth pouted ever so little, and the sharpeyes were bright, and the fine dark hair was profuse instead ofscanty. But she laid no claim to prettiness now, and dressed asplainly as feminine propriety would allow. 

As she sat in the linen and drugget-covered parlour, which was adrawing-room when in full-dress, she could not help a half-consciousrestraint creeping over her. But this was not because Miss Sandys was anogress, rather because she herself had grown semi-professional even inholiday trim. She looked into the compressed fire in the high, old-fashioned grate, and wondered how she would pass the coming idleweek. She had spent a good many idle weeks at Carter Hill before; butthey always came upon her afresh with a sense of strangeness, bringingat the same time a tide of old associations. 

Miss Sandys was a blunt woman by nature, and it was only by great effortthat she had become fine-edged. So she said to Miss West, with a sortof naïve abruptness, "I'll tell you what, Miss West, we'll have cake totea, because there are only you and I, and it is the first night of theholidays; and we'll have a strong cup, since we have all the teapot toourselves. I think I shall try my hand this week at some of my oldtea-cakes and pies and things which my mother taught me to bake. I amgoing to have my cousin Jamie and his wife here. He is a rough sailor, and his conversation does not suit before the girls. She was only asmall farmer's daughter, and cannot behave prettily at all. But they areworthy people, and are the nearest relations I have left in the world. Perhaps I'll take you to see them in the summer, Miss West. Ah, dear! itis liberty-hall at my cousin Jamie's little place. Peggy's Haven, hecalls it, after his old ship and his old wife. But it is a fine changefor me, though it would not do for the young people to hear aboutit--you understand, Miss West. "

Miss West understood, and she readily acquiesced in the prospect ofmeeting Captain and Mrs. Berwick. She was even flattered by it. Theright chord of genuine nobility was in her, though she was reported tobe satirical. It was true that she was slightly disposed to make abrupt, ironical speeches, the practice being one of her few small privileges. But she felt that Miss Sandys' confidence was honourable alike to giverand receiver, and that the terms on which she lived with her employerdid no discredit to either. The fact was that Miss West returned thanksfor these same terms in the middle of her confession of errors every dayof her life. 

Accordingly Miss West drank the strong tea, and did her best to relishthe little blocks of cake, though they were slightly stale; and not theless did she enjoy them that she settled in her private mind to proposebuttered toast next time, and to prepare it herself. She listened andreplied to Miss Sandys' conversation, which did not now run so much onschool incidents as on affairs in general. Miss Sandys' talk was shrewdand sensible at all times, and not without interest and amusement, especially when it diverged, at this point and that, to her ownexperience, and to the customs and opinions of her youth, when fadedMiss West was a baby. 

Christmas brought holidays to Miss Sandys' school, but Christmas Evewas, in other respects, very unmarked. It would have been dull, almostgrim, to English notions. There was no Christmas tree, no waits, nodecorating of the church for the morrow. Still, it was the end of theyear--the period, by universal consent, dedicated to goodwill andrejoicing all over the world--the old "daft days" even of sober, austereScotland. Jenny and Menie, in the kitchen, were looking forward to thatHandsel Monday which is the Whit Monday of country servants, and thefamily gathering of the peasantry in Scotland. First footing and NewYear's gifts were lighting up the servant girls' imaginations. Theformer may be safely looked upon as over with Miss Sandys and Miss West, but they were not without visions of New Year's gifts--the useful, considerate New Year's gifts of mature years. Miss West was at thismoment knitting an exquisitely fine, yet warm, veil which she had beguntwo months ago, and which she had good hopes of completing within thenext few days. Miss Sandys had a guess that this veil was for her velvetbonnet, and looked at it admiringly as a grand panacea for her springface-ache. 

In the course of the evening Miss Sandys, after a fit of absence ofmind, suddenly asked Miss West's name. 

On the spur of the moment, she answered, with surprise, "Why, Miss West, to be sure. What do you mean, Miss Sandys?" Then she reflected, laughed, and owned that she had almost forgotten that she had a Christian name. But she had certainly got one, and it was Magdalene, or Madge, orMaddie; once it was Mad; and as she said Mad she laughed a second time, to conceal a break in her voice. 

Miss Sandys smiled awkwardly and guiltily, and observed quickly, "MyChristian name is Christian. Did you know that, Miss West? Oh, I forgot;you must have seen it marked on the table and bed linen. "

"Mine is to be read on my pocket-handkerchiefs. Our Christian namespreserved on table-cloths and pocket-handkerchiefs!--droll, isn't it, Miss Sandys?"

"Of course they are in our books and letters, " corrected matter-of-factMiss Sandys. "I dare say they are in a couple of family Bibles, too (atleast, I can speak for one), and in the records of births and baptismsin session books, if these are not destroyed by damp and rats; and sincenames are recorded in heaven, " Miss Sandys was drawn on to ramble, "surely our Christian names are there, my dear. "

Miss West knew as well as if she had been told it, that Miss Sandys wasabout to bestow on her a present with which her Christian name was to beconnected. Miss Sandys' eyes had failed through long looking overlessons, and she no longer did any handiwork, save coarse knitting, hemming, and darning. But she had a fuller purse than her companion, andshops, even metropolitan shops, were to be reached by letter from CarterHill. 

In addition to the strong tea and the cake, Miss Sandys further treatedMiss West to a supper of such dainties as toasted cheese and Edinburghale. There were prayers--they seemed quite family prayers--with only thefour worshippers to join in them. Then there was a shake of the hands, and Miss West lit her candle, retired, and shut herself up in her ownlittle room. Its daily aspect was so unchanged, that it appeared whenshe entered it as though the holidays had not come, and that it muststill be the ordinary bustling school life. 

She sat down, though there was no fire, and thought a little, till shefell on her knees and prayed in low murmurs that God would enable her tobear this season, which made her heavy, sick, and faint withassociations, and that He would render her contented with manyundeserved blessings, and resigned to many natural penalties which Heordained. Next, with strange inconsistency to all but the Hearer ofprayer and the Framer of the wayward human heart, she besought to beforgiven and delivered from levity and folly--to be kept humble andmindful of death. "It is ill tearing up weeds by the roots, " she said toherself plainly, when she had risen from her knees, "and I am vain andvolatile, and I like to mystify and tease my neighbour to this day. "

II. 

Christmas Day rose with a clear, frosty blue sky. Miss Sandys and MissWest both felt the unwonted stillness of the house; and they could nothelp a lurking suspicion that time without public occupation might hanga dead weight on their hands. The two ladies went through the ceremonyof wishing each other a merry Christmas, Scotland though it was. MissSandys went off to put into execution her holiday cooking practice--forit was refreshing to her to have a bowl instead of a book in hergrasp--and to make her preparations for welcoming her primitive cousins. Miss West sat down to write her letters and to work at her veil and ather other New Year's gifts. 

She wished she could work with her mind as well as her fingers, so thatit might not run on picturing what this day was in tens of thousands ofhomes throughout Christendom. It had always been an unruly member thisfancy of hers, and it was particularly busy at this season. Yesterdaythe roads had resounded with the blithe tramp of eager feet hieinghomewards. To-day the air was ringing with the pleasant echo of voicesround hearths, the fires of which flashed like the sun, and where ageand youth met in the perfect confidence and sweet fearlessness of familyaffection. In her mind's eye, she had yesterday seen railways andcoaches disgorging their cheerful loads; she had witnessed the meetingsat lodge gates, in halls, and on the thresholds of parlour and cottagekitchens; she had looked on the bountiful boards, where cherished guestscrowned the festival, of which Miss Sandys' rasping tea and stale cakewas a half-pathetic, half-comic version. To-day she was in spirit withthe multitude walking in close groups to holly-wreathed churches, sharing in the light-hearted thoughtlessness of many an acknowledgment, and in the deep gratitude of many a thanksgiving. She strove to putherself aside altogether in her meditations, and simply to rejoice withthose who rejoiced; but she had not attained this degree ofunselfishness; she could not help believing sometimes that she hadplucked all the thorns and none of the roses of life. But if you supposethat she betrayed this yearning and pining to the world at large, youare very much mistaken. As has been told, she had the right chord ofgenuine nobility and generosity in her, and she laboured to fit hercross to her own back, so that it might not overshadow and crush others. Her fingers went nimbly about her gifts--trifling things, only enough togladden simple hearts. She gratified Miss Sandys by praising her rustyaccomplishments in cookery; she uttered a jest or two for the benefit ofJenny and Menie, who had a liking for her, though they called her"scornful;" and she brought in holly and box from the garden to decoratethe sitting-rooms. The last move, however, proved nearly a failure, forthere was one little pink and white blossom of laurustinus, which hadventured out in a sheltered nook, though half of its leaves wereblanched ashen grey. It somehow or other raised such a tide of sentimentin her as all but overcame her. 

Miss West desired work for this season, and she got work, and tolerablyhard work too, for besides completing her New Year's gifts, she had tohelp to entertain Captain and Mrs. Berwick. 

The visitors were so vulgar, according to fine people, that they werenot even sensible of their own vulgarity. And so good-natured were they, that they were not offended because cousin Sandys did not invite themwith any of the genteel parents of her pupils. They took this reservedhospitality as a complimentary admission of their kinsmanship. But theywere not intrinsically more coarse-minded than many dukes and duchesses. Captain Berwick, it is true, was nautical in his tone, and talked shop, but that is permitted to sea captains in novels, nay, enjoined uponthem. He was apt to be broad in his jokes, and to use unwarrantableexpressions, for which he bent his shock head in penitent apology themoment after he had used them. "It is the effect of bad habits, Kirstenand Peggy, " he would cry: "you women know nothing of bad habits any morethan of bad words. "

Mrs. Berwick was a particularly round-eyed woman, and was plump andruddy where the Captain was battered and weather-beaten. She placed thescene of most of her narratives in the kitchens of her acquaintances, and scrambled with her _dramatis personæ_ through the strong situationsof a servant's history. 

Nevertheless the manner of the Berwicks was not without the refreshinginfluence of common, rude fresh air. They were not exceptionallycoarse-minded, but unluckily they were neither strong nor fine minded. They were ponderous, clumsy beings, and although genuine andwarm-hearted, were destitute of internal resources. They expected to beconstantly eating and drinking, or to be constantly entertained. If theywere not entertained, they showed their weariness without restraint, byyawning outrageously. The entertaining of Captain and Mrs. Berwick wastherefore no sinecure. But Miss West was loyal. She walked with theCaptain, so that he might have more than his one smoke a day, andperseveringly copied and sang Braham's songs for him. She designed andcut out patterns for Mrs. Berwick, who, as the Captain had saved money, did not make her own dresses, but nevertheless loved to accumulatepatterns of sleeves, capes, and flounces. She listened to her tales, andhelped her to as much more kitchiana as she could produce on shortnotice. She told how Betsy had worn feathers and been taken to prison onsuspicion of theft; and how Marianne her sister had hoarded her wages inorder to secure legal advice for Betsy, and had captivated and marriedan officer of the court in which Betsy had been tried, and how it hadall happened in a family where Miss West had lived. 

III. 

Captain and Mrs. Berwick were gone. The holidays at Carter Hill were allbut ended--"all but ended, " Miss Sandys repeated with a little sigh ofrelief, and an inclination to moralize on that weariness which is theresult of pleasure. When Miss West came down in the morning the kettlewas steaming on the hob, the teapot under its cosie, and the couple ofrolls and the dish of sausages were set in their places. MissSandys--her working apron lying ready to take up on the side-tablebehind her--was bent to the last on buns and pork pies, though shefrankly admitted they were vanity. But the girls must be broken fromtheir home dainties by degrees, and Jenny and Menie must have "cakes" tocarry to their homes on their Handsel Monday. 

Miss West found a letter on her plate. It caused her complexion tochange, and her sharp eyes to fasten on it fixedly. No wonder her headswam and her ears rang. She was going through the uncomfortable processof turning back some ten or twelve years in her life. It was a strangeletter to come to her--a large letter, which had been charged doublepostage; a letter with the elements of mortification in it, as well asother elements, both to sender and receiver. It was written in a big, scampering hand. 

 "Dear Mad, " it began, "it is so queer to be addressing you again. I remember when I used to say 'Mad' to a white-faced, dark-eyed girl. Was she pretty, I wonder? Some people said so, but I don't know, only I have never seen a face quite equal to hers since--never. Mad and I were great friends when I used to visit her elder brother; great friends, indeed, in a bantering, biting way. But it was Mad who bantered and bit; certainly I did not banter and bite again, rarely even so much as gave a gentle pinch, for I would not have hurt Mad for the world, and Mad did not hurt me. At least she never meant it seriously, and she was always so piteously penitent when she thought she had wounded my feelings. Oh, dear, quizzing Mad! she had such a soft heart in its bristling shell, and I hurt it. I hurt Mad--yes, I know; I know to my sorrow and shame. 

 "Mad, do you remember how you went every day to meet a timid little brother coming from school along a lonely moorland road, where there were broomy braes in June and heathery braes in September? What a convenient custom it was for me, since the little brother, unlike little monsters of the same kind, had neither eyes nor ears but for his own avocations, and trotted on obediently in front of us. The sight of my own little Bill's satchel gives me a turn, and makes me feel spoony to this day. Do you remember your great dog, Mad? (what a child you were for pets!)--and who it was used to go to the kennel to feed it with you? If that dog had been a true Bevis, it would have torn that hulking fellow where he stood, yet he meant no harm; nay, he had a strong persuasion that he was doing something meritorious (how he hit it I can't tell) in not committing himself and binding you when he had no more than a clerk's paltry income. But I have heard that trees, stripped of leaves in flowery May, revenge themselves by bursting out green, if the frosts will let them, in foggy November. So the prudence of twenty-five may be the folly of thirty-five. It was rank mean-spiritedness in me not to go through thick and thin, through flood and fire, for Mad. What in the world was worth striving for if she was not worth it? Ah, I lost my chance when I might have taken it, and trusted the rest to Providence! But I did not know, though I fancied I did, the value of the jewel, the price of which, in stern self-restraint, I refused to pay. I might have been another man if I had not been so prudent, for, as I have said, not another face has been to me quite (no, not by a long chalk) what Mad's once was. It was only yesterday that I heard by chance--and the story has haunted me since--that Mad is still a single woman, her family all dispersed, and she a teacher in a school--my quizzing, affectionate Mad a drudging, lonely teacher!

 "After being so prudent, it is not wonderful to record that I was fickle, though circumstances, and not my will, separated Mad and me at first. I could not get down to the old place so regularly as I was wont to do, which annoyed me, and I did my best to get rid of the obstacles. When I did get down, Mad was not at home, and I had no right to follow her. We met seldomer; we grew stiffer and stranger to each other. You are acquainted with the process, Miss West, though perhaps not fully with my share in it. The impression which Mad had made on me, unique as it was, faded and was overlaid by others. I met another girl, whom I liked too, and whom it appeared so much simpler--more expedient and advantageous--for me to love and to marry. I married her, breaking no vows, not writing myself faithless, far less treacherous, but only fickle. Yet I had once known, if ever man knew, that I had made Mad's strong heart--I think it was strong, although it was soft to me--beat in tune with mine. I had done all I could, short of saying the words, to impress Mad with what were my wishes and intentions, I had preferred her in every company, followed her when I was down at the old place, like her shadow (her shadow, indeed!). I had elected her my confidante and adviser, and poured all my precious opinions and plans--my very scrapes--into her curious, patient ears. Mad, have you forgotten how once, like an old-fashioned, grandiloquent muff, I showed you the picture of a perfect woman in a book of poetry--'Paradise Lost' it might have been, and 'Eve' for any special appropriateness in the picture--and broadly hinted my private idea that the perfect woman was fulfilled in Mad!--lively, faulty Mad! Your sisters were very anxious to read the passage which I had selected for your study, and from which I was evidently pointing a moral; but you closed the book abruptly in the old seat behind the round tea-table with the brass rim. I suppose the sisters don't know the passage to this day?

 "Having been fickle, I was a great deal better off in my wife than I deserved. Remember, Mad, my wife and the mother of my children was a good woman; I was reasonably happy with her, and I trust I bore her tender reverence. She died and left me with our children two winters ago. When we meet again, it will be where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Now, when I can do her no wrong, I think of another to whom I did wrong; than whom there was never another to me the same--no, nothing like it. Learning that Mad has been true--oh! Mad, _you_ could never have been anything else but true--I have wondered whether I might not be allowed to do something to atone, whether I was not worth having still, and whether I could not--a bold phrase, but it will out--make it up to Mad, a solitary single woman, a teacher in a school. Oh! Mad, I say again, what a hard fate for you!

 "I cannot offer an immense inducement. I am not a merchant prince, though I am richer than I was in the old days; yet somehow I do not care to boast of my riches to Mad, and I am a widower with two small children--not models. I dare not send you my _carte_, and I don't want yours. You are always the same Mad to me that you have been through all those years, and will be to the end of the chapter, whether you answer me yes or no. You will answer yes. You were always great for magnanimity, and flamed up on it, dark eyes, white cheeks, and all, when you were a wild lassie. Don't tell me you are less magnanimous as a brave, hard-working woman, or you will sap my faith in womankind. 

 "Mad, how this Christmas season stirs me with the far-off murmurs of another Christmas, when you and I pulled the holly and the other thing--the thing with the tiny, fair, frost-bitten clusters of blossom--some sort of laurel wasn't it? That old Christmas, who can describe? What glamour over the prosaic family dinner and carpet dance to see the old year out and the new year in? Say the word, Mad, and before the first full moon of this new year has waned to half a cheese she will shine down upon us, anew, with the old shining. I swear it on the part of your old friend, BILL NAIRNE. "

What Miss West said when she read the letter was, "Make it up, indeed!Redeem me from such degradation! Crown me with such honour! Intolerablearrogance! How could he take it upon him? But it is like Bill; conceitedfellow!"

Miss West was properly indignant. The letter was so unsuitable in everyrespect. All her life she had been famous as a woman of spirit--thespirit which will cause a woman to decline an obligation as long asindependence is possible, and which will not have for pity what itcannot have for love. She would prove to Bill Nairne that it was no suchhard fate as he supposed to teach a school under Miss Sandys, no suchpromotion, as he fondly imagined, to be placed at the head of thehousehold of a pompous widower with a pair of spoilt children. She wouldconvince him that a woman of her age is more difficult to please than agirl, and is not to be led off her feet by a few impertinently recalledreminiscences, nor to be won by the tardy wag of a finger. She wouldteach Bill Nairne a lesson undreamt of in his philosophy--that all thenonsense about old maids, their humiliations, their forlorn condition, and their desperate welcoming of late offers was wholly false. 

She selected the smallest sheet of note-paper from the packet lyingbeside the exercises in her desk, and wrote:--

 "Dear Sir, --I am glad to be able to tell you that, on the whole, teaching in a school is not so hard a fate as you think. Miss Sandys is an excellent woman, a reliable friend, and an agreeable companion. The girls and their antecedents exhibit life to me under considerable variety of characters and circumstances, and as pupils they are mostly affectionate as well as interesting. I must remain indebted for your good opinion, and you have my best wishes for your future welfare, but I beg to decline your--gratuitous" (Miss West had written the word, but she changed it into--not gracious, but) "generous offer. Without offence to you, old times do not come again. 

 "Believe me, yours very sincerely, M. WEST. "

Miss West read her letter, and considered it was, perhaps, too brief. She did not want to part with him in an unfriendly fashion. Her lastwords to Bill Nairne must be such as she herself could think of withoutpain. So she rummaged among her Christmas gifts, and found a dancingDervish and a brightly-embroidered ball. These she wrapped up with theletter, and made a small parcel of the whole, after she had added thispostscript: "Please give the enclosed toys as cheap New Year'splaythings to the children. Tell them, if you choose, that they comefrom an old friend of papa's, whose name was--Mad. "

IV. 

Miss West took the letter to the post-office herself after dinner, asshe was going to inquire for a pupil who lived near Carter Hill, and whowas sick--unhappy child!--from holiday junketing. Miss West could notrecover her equanimity till that letter was out of the house. It hadshaken her, satirical and discreet though she was. It had also given hera guilty sensation towards Miss Sandys. She could not endure that eventhe servants should read the address:--"W. Nairne, Esq. , Waterloo Lodge, Bridgeton, Strokeshire, " though W. Nairne, Esq. , might have stood forher brother-in-law, her uncle by marriage, or her maternal grandfatherfor aught they could tell. She held her hand over the superscription asif to hide it from herself as she walked along under the newly-risenmoon, as it cast its light on a crisp sprinkling of snow. It was trueChristmas weather at last, and this was something like a Christmasadventure for her. But not the less did she wish the Christmas ended, and the moon replaced by gas jets of the smallest size. "A pretty storyfor the girls if they should get hold of it, " she thought, andshuddered. She did not recover altogether till she had posted herpacket, and walked half a mile further on. At length she passed througha creaking gate and a shrubbery, and was shown up to a smartdrawing-room. She was there to ask for the health of Miss VictoriaMiddlemass, the daughter of a gentleman who led a country gentleman'slife on the proceeds of a sleeping partnership in a mercantile house ina large town at some distance. 

Mrs. Middlemass came in hurriedly. She had only time to wish Miss West amerry Christmas and a good New Year, and to announce that Vicky wasquite herself again, except that the bun fever had left her rather pale, and she had not got back all her appetite. She could not, however, makethe same complaint of Mr. Middlemass, who had just come in ravenouslyhungry from the train. He had been accompanied by another gentleman, whohad been introduced to him before he left the north, and whom Mr. Middlemass would not allow to go over to the inn at Stoneham, where hewas to spend a few days with a friend. Mr. Middlemass and his newacquaintance were still at dinner. 

Miss West was hurrying away after having discharged her commission, inorder not to detain Mrs. Middlemass from her husband and his guest, andnot to impose on master or servant the trouble of seeing her home. 

But as they were exchanging smothered good-byes near the opendining-room door, Mr. Middlemass, who was frank and hospitable, brokethrough the clatter of knives and forks, and called out unceremoniously, "My dear, who is that you are taking leave of?"

"It is only Miss West, my dear, " his wife replied softly to quiet him. 

"Miss West!" and he banged from his seat and bounced to the door. "MissWest! the very woman in the nick of time. Stay, Miss West, and thankyour stars; here's an old friend come a long way to see you. "

Miss West turned, and there, behind the cordial face of the master ofthe house, who suspected nothing, and was only happy to be helpful to abrother merchant, were the perfectly recognizable lineaments of that oldpersonable fellow, Bill Nairne. 

Miss West for a second fancied that the letter she had posted to him tenminutes before had sped like a telegram to its destination, and that hehad sped back on the telegraphic wires to remonstrate with her andexpose her. The next instant she was sensible that the accident of hisbeing there in person must be a result of a previous change of mind onhis part. 

Bill Nairne had stared, and stammered in mechanical accents, after Mr. Middlemass supplied him with the keynote, "Miss West, the very person, let us thank our stars!" But he soon recovered himself, and then shookher hand warmly, and declared, in his old, off-hand manner, "I shall seeyou home, Miss West;" for Miss West had no sooner recovered her breathand her small share of colour, than she combated Mr. Middlemass'spressing invitation to remain and spend the evening with them. No; MissSandys was expecting her; she thanked him and Mrs. Middlemass, but shecould not stay on any account, so that there would be no use in sendingover a message or a note to Carter Hill. Neither was it on Miss West'scards that Bill Nairne should escort her to Carter Hill, or, indeed, that she should have any escort at all. "Do not think of such a thing; Icould not allow it. " Mrs. Middlemass came to Miss West's aid, andalleged in her ignorance, "There is no occasion for it, Mr. Nairne; itis only a step to Carter Hill, and Miss West is accustomed to walkacross after dinner, when Miss Sandys has a message for us. Remember, weare very quiet people here compared to what you are in the north. Besides, if Miss West is timid, I can manage to send a servant, or, " shewent on with greater hesitation, "Mr. Middlemass will be delighted togo, he knows the way; but you must not put yourself about on anyconsideration. "

Miss West rather indignantly denied being timid, timidity being out ofher _rôle_, and then she judged prematurely that the matter was settled. She had got so accustomed to order about girls that she had fallen intothe bad habit of expecting that her will should be law to all the world, with the exception of Miss Sandys. As for Mr. And Mrs. Middlemass, theyat least knew that she could take care of herself. 

It was another shock to Miss West, another tumultuous, inopportunereturn to the experience of half a score years back, to find that shecould no more dictate to Bill Nairne on this small matter than she couldhave done it as Mad of the old days. 

"Say no more about it, Miss West. I'll go home with you, of course. "Bill thus put her down with an intrepidity, if anything, increased withhis increased weight physically and commercially. 

This completely confounded Miss West, and made a greater muddle of herformer and her present identities than had yet been effected. 

"I'll see Miss West home, and we'll have a talk together of our oldfriendship as we walk along, " Bill maintained with the confidentcoolness of power, towards the self-contained, self-sustained teacher. 

It was something unprecedented for Miss West to be walking to CarterHill on a man's arm, an old friend's arm. She felt an odd sensationstealing over her as if she were no longer able to take care of herself, as if she were no longer herself, her late self, at all; and the moonhelped the illusion. 

Silence descended on Miss West and Bill Nairne, after the first forcedcommonplaces. He glanced furtively at her, and lost his confidence andcoolness, and hung his head--the respectable prosperous merchant!--butnot at what _he_ saw. What did she see? Nothing but that the sword hadworn the scabbard. Mad had been true to herself. Mad could not have beenotherwise than true, as he had written. But the consciousness of whatMad would see when she lifted up her eyes and looked him in the facemade him droop his head. He had got a glimpse of it that morning, when, as the thought of Mad grew more and more vivid in his mind, he sawsomething reflected in the glass which did not necessarily belong tobodily maturity. The conviction returned to him with fresh, poignantregret, in the peaceful hush and subdued splendour of the winter night. There were lines in his face which Mad should never have seen there, without which he would have been nearer heaven. There were hard, unbelieving lines, supercilious lines, self-indulgent lines, lines ofthe earth, earthy, corresponding to hard and gross lines in the spiritwithin. The respectable, prosperous merchant, had fallen from hisoriginal level. He had not attained to the chivalrous, Christian manhoodwhich he had the prospect of when he was Mad's promising lover. He hadlowered his standard, forsaken his principles, lost his faith a fewtimes since then. The gulf between Mad and him was wider now. He feltthis walking on the moonlight December night by Mad's side again. 

It was in a somewhat different tone from that of his letter that BillNairne said at last, "Mad, will you have the worst of me? Will you dosomething for me and mine after all? I might have been another man if Ihad got you long ago, Mad. "

"Would you have been a better and a happier man, Bill? Could I doanything for you yet? Answer me truly, " she said, hurriedly heaping theself-forgetful, quivering sentences one upon another. 

"Anything!" exclaimed big Bill Nairne with intense conviction andhyperbole, more excusable than his old prudence and fickleness, "Anything! Mad, you could do everything with me, and with little Billand Bob. We should no longer be egotistical and frivolous, with you tokeep us right, you good, single-hearted Mad. "

 * * * * *

Miss Sandys was entitled to say, "You have come out this Christmas, MissWest. I shan't allow my assistant to be taken off her satirical staidfeet another Christmas. I'll lock the next one up for the holidays. Itis all those holidays; you would never have thought of such foolishthings had you been busy teaching. I'll lock the next one up, or I'llsend her to her friends, who will live, I trust, in some peacefulvalley, where there are no old acquaintances, or for that matter, men ofany kind. I shall, indeed, Miss West, for I hate changes. " Miss Sandyshad not to dread changes much longer. A sister of Miss West came andsupplied her place, and lived so long with Miss Sandys that she closedher superior's eyes like a dutiful daughter, and succeeded to thegoodwill of Carter Hill School. 

 * * * * *

PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO. , LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON. 

 * * * * *

 Transcriber's Notes Page 21 "everyday" changed to "every-day" Page 30 "common-place" changed to "commonplace" Page 45 "lifelong" changed to "life-long" Page 62 duplicate "it" removed Page 77 "face was white" changed to "face was as white" Page 81 "confided in her; the" changed to "confided in her; she" Page 85 "Fox-holes" changed to Foxholes Page 110 "she "bridled" well, " changed to "she "bridled" well. " Page 112 "company travelled, " changed to "company travelled. " Page 152 "It had been a sen" changed to "It had been a sent" Page 186 "sea-weed" changed to "seaweed" Page 186 "careworn" changed to "care-worn" Page 201 "praise God and he" changed to "praise God and be" Page 215 "canary bird, " changed to "canary bird. " Page 222 "selfishnesss" changed to "selfishness" Page 241 "suspense?" changed to "suspense!" Page 247 "powr" changed to "power" Page 248 "their mother, " changed to "their mother. " Page 255 "to the pathos" changed to "to the pathos of" Page 293 "circnmstances" changed to "circumstances" Page 297 "small-pox" changed to "smallpox" Page 307 "horseflesh" changed to "horse-flesh" Page 342 duplicate "a" removed Page 344 "New-Year's" changed to "New Year's" Page 348 "themsevles" changed to "themselves"