The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories

By Florence Marryat

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Title: The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: September 29, 2025 [eBook #76950]

Language: English

Original publication: Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1883

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY, AND OTHER STORIES ***





 THE GHOST
 OF
 CHARLOTTE CRAY
 AND OTHER STORIES.

 BY
 FLORENCE MARRYAT
 (MRS. FRANCIS LEAN),
 AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” “FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,”
 ETC., ETC.


 _COPYRIGHT EDITION._




 LEIPZIG
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
 1883.
 _The Right of Translation is reserved._




 CONTENTS.

 THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY
 THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE
 AMY’S LOVER
 LITTLE WHITE SOULS
 STILL WATERS
 CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA
 THE SECRET OF ECONOMY
 “MOTHER”
 IN THE HEART OF THE ARDENNES
 A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE




 THE
 GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY.

Mr. Sigismund Braggett was sitting in the little room he called his
study, wrapped in a profound--not to say a mournful--reverie. Now,
there was nothing in the present life nor surroundings of Mr. Braggett
to account for such a demonstration. He was a publisher and
bookseller; a man well to do, with a thriving business in the city,
and the prettiest of all pretty villas at Streatham. And he was only
just turned forty; had not a grey hair in his head nor a false tooth
in his mouth; and had been married but three short months to one of
the fairest and most affectionate specimens of English womanhood that
ever transformed a bachelor’s quarters into Paradise.

What more could Mr. Sigismund Braggett possibly want? Nothing! His
trouble lay in the fact that he had got rather more than he wanted.
Most of us have our little peccadilloes in this world--awkward
reminiscences that we would like to bury five fathoms deep, and never
hear mentioned again, but that have an uncomfortable habit of cropping
up at the most inconvenient moments; and no mortal is more likely to
be troubled with them than a middle-aged bachelor who has taken to
matrimony.

Mr. Sigismund Braggett had no idea what he was going in for when he
led the blushing Emily Primrose up to the altar, and swore to be hers,
and hers only, until death should them part. He had no conception a
woman’s curiosity could be so keen, her tongue so long, and her
inventive faculties so correct. He had spent whole days before the
fatal moment of marriage in burning letters, erasing initials,
destroying locks of hair, and making offerings of affection look as if
he had purchased them with his own money. But it had been of little
avail. Mrs. Braggett had swooped down upon him like a beautiful bird
of prey, and wheedled, coaxed, or kissed him out of half his secrets
before he knew what he was about. But he had never told her about
Charlotte Cray. And now he almost wished that he had done so, for
Charlotte Cray was the cause of his present dejected mood.

Now, there are ladies _and_ ladies in this world. Some are very shy,
and will only permit themselves to be wooed by stealth. Others, again,
are the pursuers rather than the pursued, and chase the wounded or the
flying even to the very doors of their stronghold, or lie in wait for
them like an octopus, stretching out their tentacles on every side in
search of victims.

And to the latter class Miss Charlotte Cray decidedly belonged. Not a
person worth mourning over, you will naturally say. But, then, Mr.
Sigismund Braggett had not behaved well to her. She was one of the
“peccadilloes.” She was an authoress--not an author, mind you, which
term smacks more of the profession than the sex--but an “authoress,”
with lots of the “ladylike” about the plots of her stories and metre
of her rhymes. They had come together in the sweet connection of
publisher and writer--had met first in a dingy, dusty little office at
the back of his house of business, and laid the foundation of their
friendship with the average amount of chaffering and prevarication
that usually attend such proceedings.

Mr. Braggett ran a risk in publishing Miss Cray’s tales or verses, but
he found her useful in so many other ways that he used occasionally to
hold forth a sop to Cerberus in the shape of publicity for the sake of
keeping her in his employ. For Miss Charlotte Cray--who was as old as
himself, and had arrived at the period of life when women are said to
pray “Any, good Lord, any!”--was really a clever woman, and could turn
her hand to most things required of her, or upon which she had set her
mind; and she had most decidedly set her mind upon marrying Mr.
Braggett, and he--to serve his own purposes--had permitted her to
cherish the idea, and this was the Nemesis that was weighing him down
in the study at the present moment. He had complimented Miss Cray, and
given her presents, and taken her out a-pleasuring, all because she
was useful to him, and did odd jobs that no one else would undertake,
and for less than any one else would have accepted; and he had known
the while that she was in love with him, and that she believed he was
in love with her.

He had not thought much of it at the time. He had not then made up his
mind to marry Emily Primrose, and considered that what pleased Miss
Cray, and harmed no one else, was fair play for all sides. But he had
come to see things differently now. He had been married three months,
and the first two weeks had been very bitter ones to him. Miss Cray
had written him torrents of reproaches during that unhappy period,
besides calling day after day at his office to deliver them in person.
This and her threats had frightened him out of his life. He had lived
in hourly terror lest the clerks should overhear what passed at their
interviews, or that his wife should be made acquainted with them.

He had implored Miss Cray, both by word of mouth and letter, to cease
her persecution of him; but all the reply he received was that he was
a base and perjured man, and that she should continue to call at his
office, and write to him through the penny post, until he had
introduced her to his wife. For therein lay the height and depth of
his offending. He had been afraid to bring Emily and Miss Cray
together, and the latter resented the omission as an insult. It was
bad enough to find that Sigismund Braggett, whose hair she wore next
her heart, and whose photograph stood as in a shrine upon her bedroom
mantelpiece, had married another woman, without giving her even the
chance of a refusal, but it was worse still to come to the conclusion
that he did not intend her to have a glimpse into the garden of Eden
he had created for himself.

Miss Cray was a lady of vivid imagination and strong aspirations. All
was not lost in her ideas, although Mr. Braggett _had_ proved false to
the hopes he had raised. Wives did not live for ever; and the chances
and changes of this life were so numerous, that stranger things had
happened than that Mr. Braggett might think fit to make better use of
the second opportunity afforded him than he had done of the first. But
if she were not to continue even his friend, it was too hard. But the
perjured publisher had continued resolute, notwithstanding all Miss
Cray’s persecution, and now he had neither seen nor heard from her for
a month; and, manlike, he was beginning to wonder what had become of
her, and whether she had found anybody to console her for his untruth.
Mr. Braggett did not wish to comfort Miss Cray himself; but he did not
quite like the notion of her being comforted.

After all--so he soliloquised--he had been very cruel to her; for the
poor thing was devoted to him. How her eyes used to sparkle and her
cheek to flush when she entered his office, and how eagerly she would
undertake any work for him, however disagreeable to perform! He knew
well that she had expected to be Mrs. Braggett, and it must have been
a terrible disappointment to her when he married Emily Primrose.

Why had he not asked her out to Violet Villa since? What harm could
she do as a visitor there? particularly if he cautioned her first as
to the peculiarity of Mrs. Braggett’s disposition, and the quickness
with which her jealousy was excited. It was close upon Christmas-time,
the period when all old friends meet together and patch up, if they
cannot entirely forget, everything that has annoyed them in the past.
Mr. Braggett pictured to himself the poor old maid sitting solitary in
her small rooms at Hammersmith, no longer able to live in the
expectation of seeing his manly form at the wicket-gate, about to
enter and cheer her solitude. The thought smote him as a two-edged
sword, and he sat down at once and penned Miss Charlotte a note, in
which he inquired after her health, and hoped that they should soon
see her at Violet Villa.

He felt much better after this note was written and despatched. He
came out of the little study and entered the cheerful drawing-room,
and sat with his pretty wife by the light of the fire, telling her of
the lonely lady to whom he had just proposed to introduce her.

“An old friend of mine, Emily. A clever, agreeable woman, though
rather eccentric. You will be polite to her, I know, for my sake.”

“An _old_ woman, is she?” said Mrs. Braggett, elevating her eyebrows.
“And what do you call ‘old,’ Siggy, I should like to know?”

“Twice as old as yourself, my dear--five-and-forty at the very least,
and not personable-looking, even for that age. Yet I think you will
find her a pleasant companion, and I am sure she will be enchanted
with you.”

“I don’t know that: clever women don’t like me, as a rule, though I
don’t know why.”

“They are jealous of your beauty, my darling; but Miss Cray is above
such meanness, and will value you for your own sake.”

“She’d better not let me catch her valuing me for _yours_,” responded
Mrs. Braggett, with a flash of the eye that made her husband ready to
regret the dangerous experiment he was about to make of bringing
together two women who had each, in her own way, a claim upon him, and
each the will to maintain it.

So he dropped the subject of Miss Charlotte Cray, and took to admiring
his wife’s complexion instead, so that the evening passed
harmoniously, and both parties were satisfied.

For two days Mr. Braggett received no answer from Miss Cray, which
rather surprised him. He had quite expected that on the reception of
his invitation she would rush down to his office and into his arms,
behind the shelter of the ground-glass door that enclosed his chair of
authority. For Miss Charlotte had been used on occasions to indulge in
rapturous demonstrations of the sort, and the remembrance of Mrs.
Braggett located in Violet Villa would have been no obstacle whatever
to her. She believed she had a prior claim to Mr. Braggett. However,
nothing of the kind happened, and the perjured publisher was becoming
strongly imbued with the idea that he must go out to Hammersmith and
see if he could not make his peace with her in person, particularly as
he had several odd jobs for Christmastide, which no one could
undertake so well as herself, when a letter with a black-edged border
was put into his hand. He opened it mechanically, not knowing the
writing; but its contents shocked him beyond measure.


 “Honoured Sir,--I am sorry to tell you that Miss Cray died at my
 house a week ago, and was buried yesterday. She spoke of you several
 times during her last illness, and if you would like to hear any
 further particulars, and will call on me at the old address, I shall
 be most happy to furnish you with them.--Yours respectfully,

                                               “Mary Thompson.”


When Mr. Braggett read this news, you might have knocked him over with
a feather. It is not always true that a living dog is better than a
dead lion. Some people gain considerably in the estimation of their
friends by leaving this world, and Miss Charlotte Cray was one of
them. Her persecution had ceased for ever, and her amiable weaknesses
were alone held in remembrance. Mr. Braggett felt a positive relief in
the knowledge that his dead friend and his wife would never now be
brought in contact with each other; but at the same time he blamed
himself more than was needful, perhaps, for not having seen nor
communicated with Miss Cray for so long before her death. He came down
to breakfast with a portentously grave face that morning, and imparted
the sad intelligence to Mrs. Braggett with the air of an undertaker.
Emily wondered, pitied, and sympathised, but the dead lady was no more
to her than any other stranger; and she was surprised her husband
looked so solemn over it all. Mr. Braggett, however, could not dismiss
the subject easily from his mind. It haunted him during the business
hours of the morning, and as soon as he could conveniently leave his
office, he posted away to Hammersmith. The little house in which Miss
Cray used to live looked just the same, both inside and outside: how
strange it seemed that _she_ should have flown away from it for ever!
And here was her landlady, Mrs. Thompson, bobbing and curtseying to
him in the same old black net cap with artificial flowers in it, and
the same stuff gown she had worn since he first saw her, with her
apron in her hand, it is true, ready to go to her eyes as soon as a
reasonable opportunity occurred, but otherwise the same Mrs. Thompson
as before. And yet she would never wait upon _her_ again:

“It was all so sudden, sir,” she said, in answer to Mr. Braggett’s
inquiries, “that there was no time to send for nobody.”

“But Miss Cray had my address.”

“Ah! perhaps so; but she was off her head, poor dear, and couldn’t
think of nothing. But she remembered you, sir, to the last; for the
very morning she died, she sprung up in bed and called out,
‘Sigismund! Sigismund!’ as loud as ever she could, and she never spoke
to anybody afterwards, not one word.”

“She left no message for me?”

“None, sir. I asked her the day before she went if I was to say
nothing to you for her (knowing you was such friends), and all her
answer was, ‘I wrote to him. He’s got my letter.’ So I thought,
perhaps, you had heard, sir.”

“Not for some time past. It seems terribly sudden to me, not having
heard even of her illness. Where is she buried?”

“Close by in the churchyard, sir. My little girl will go with you and
show you the place, if you’d like to see it.”

Mr. Braggett accepted her offer and left.

When he was standing by a heap of clods they called a grave, and had
dismissed the child, he drew out Miss Cray’s last letter, which he
carried in his pocket, and read it over.


 “You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on
 business” (so it ran), “nor to send letters to your private address,
 lest it should come to the knowledge of your wife, and create
 unpleasantness between you; but I _shall_ call, and I _shall_ write,
 until I have seen Mrs. Braggett, and, if you don’t take care, I will
 introduce myself to her and tell her the reason you have been afraid
 to do so.”


This letter had made Mr. Braggett terribly angry at the time of
reception. He had puffed and fumed, and cursed Miss Charlotte by all
his gods for daring to threaten him. But he read it with different
feelings now Miss Charlotte was down there, six feet beneath the
ground he stood on, and he could feel only compassion for her frenzy,
and resentment against himself for having excited it. As he travelled
home from Hammersmith to Streatham, he was a very dejected publisher
indeed.

He did not tell Mrs. Braggett the reason of his melancholy, but it
affected him to that degree that he could not go to office on the
following day, but stayed at home instead, to be petted and waited
upon by his pretty wife, which treatment resulted in a complete cure.
The next morning, therefore, he started for London as briskly as ever,
and arrived at office before his usual time. A clerk, deputed to
receive all messages for his master, followed him behind the
ground-glass doors, with a packet of letters.

“Mr. Van Ower was here yesterday, sir. He will let you have the copy
before the end of the week, and Messrs. Hanley’s foreman called on
particular business, and will look in to-day at eleven. And Mr. Ellis
came to ask if there was any answer to his letter yet; and Miss Cray
called, sir; and that’s all.”

“_Who_ did you say?” cried Braggett.

“Miss Cray, sir. She waited for you above an hour, but I told her I
thought you couldn’t mean to come into town at all, so she went.”

“Do you know what you’re talking about, Hewetson? You said _Miss
Cray!_”

“And I meant it, sir--Miss Charlotte Cray. Burns spoke to her as well
as I.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, turning as white as a sheet.
“Go at once and send Burns to me.” Burns came.

“Burns, who was the lady that called to see me yesterday?”

“Miss Cray, sir. She had a very thick veil on, and she looked so pale
that I asked her if she had been ill, and she said ‘Yes.’ She sat in
the office for over an hour, hoping you’d come in, but as you didn’t,
she went away again.”

“Did she lift her veil?”

“Not whilst I spoke to her, sir.”

“How do you know it was Miss Cray, then?”

The clerk stared. “Well, sir, we all know her pretty well by this
time.”

“Did you ask her name?”

“No, sir; there was no need to do it.”

“You’re mistaken, that’s all, both you and Hewetson. It couldn’t have
been Miss Cray! I know for certain that she is--is--is--not in London
at present. It must have been a stranger.”

“It was not, indeed, sir, begging your pardon. I could tell Miss Cray
anywhere, by her figure and her voice, without seeing her face. But I
_did_ see her face, and remarked how awfully pale she was--just like
death, sir!”

“There! there! that will do! It’s of no consequence, and you can go
back to your work.”

But any one who had seen Mr. Braggett, when left alone in his office,
would not have said he thought the matter of no consequence. The
perspiration broke out upon his forehead, although it was December,
and he rocked himself backward and forward in his chair with
agitation.

At last he rose hurriedly, upset his throne, and dashed through the
outer premises in the face of twenty people waiting to speak to him.
As soon as he could find his voice, he hailed a hansom, and drove to
Hammersmith. Good Mrs. Thompson opening the door to him, thought he
looked as if he had just come out of a fever.

“Lor’ bless me, sir! whatever’s the matter?”

“Mrs. Thompson, have you told me the truth about Miss Cray? Is she
really dead?”

“_Really dead_, sir! Why, I closed her eyes, and put her in the coffin
with my own hands! If she ain’t dead, I don’t know who is! But if you
doubt my word, you’d better ask the doctor that gave the certificate
for her.”

“What is the doctor’s name?”

“Dodson; he lives opposite.”

“You must forgive my strange questions, Mrs. Thompson, but I have had
a terrible dream about my poor friend, and I think I should like to
talk to the doctor about her.”

“Oh, very good, sir,” cried the landlady, much offended. “I’m not
afraid of what the doctor will tell you. She had excellent nursing and
everything as she could desire, and there’s nothing on my conscience
on that score, so I’ll wish you good morning.” And with that Mrs.
Thompson slammed the door in Mr. Braggett’s face.

He found Dr. Dodson at home.

“If I understand you rightly,” said the practitioner, looking rather
steadfastly in the scared face of his visitor, “you wish, as a friend
of the late Miss Cray’s, to see a copy of the certificate of her
death? Very good, sir; here it is. She died, as you will perceive, on
the twenty-fifth of November, of peritonitis. She had, I can assure
you, every attention and care, but nothing could have saved her.”

“You are quite sure, then, she is dead?” demanded Mr. Braggett, in a
vague manner.

The doctor looked at him as if he were not quite sure if he were sane.

“If seeing a patient die, and her corpse coffined and buried, is being
sure she is dead, _I_ am in no doubt whatever about Miss Cray.”

“It is very strange--most strange and unaccountable,” murmured poor
Mr. Braggett, in reply, as he shuffled out of the doctor’s passage,
and took his way back to the office.

Here, however, after an interval of rest and a strong brandy and soda,
he managed to pull himself together, and to come to the conclusion
that the doctor and Mrs. Thompson _could_ not be mistaken, and that,
consequently, the clerks _must_. He did not mention the subject again
to them, however; and as the days went on, and nothing more was heard
of the mysterious stranger’s visit, Mr. Braggett put it altogether out
of his mind.

At the end of a fortnight, however, when he was thinking of something
totally different, young Hewetson remarked to him, carelessly,--

“Miss Cray was here again yesterday, sir. She walked in just as your
cab had left the door.”

All the horror of his first suspicions returned with double force upon
the unhappy man’s mind.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” he gasped, angrily, as soon as he could speak.
“Don’t attempt to play any of your tricks on me, young man, or it will
be the worse for you, I can tell you.”

“Tricks, sir!” stammered the clerk. “I don’t know what you are
alluding to. I am only telling you the truth. You have always desired
me to be most particular in letting you know the names of the people
who call in your absence, and I thought I was only doing my duty in
making a point of ascertaining them----”

“Yes, yes! Hewetson, of course,” replied Mr. Braggett, passing his
handkerchief over his brow, “and you are quite right in following my
directions as closely as possible; only--in this case you are
completely mistaken, and it is the second time you have committed the
error.”

“Mistaken!”

“Yes!--as mistaken as it is possible for a man to be! Miss Cray
_could_ not have called at this office yesterday.”

“But she did, sir.”

“Am I labouring under some horrible nightmare?” exclaimed the
publisher, “or are we playing at cross purposes? Can you mean the Miss
Cray I mean?”

“I am speaking of Miss Charlotte Cray, sir, the author of ‘Sweet
Gwendoline,’--the lady who has undertaken so much of our compilation
the last two years, and who has a long nose, and wears her hair in
curls. I never knew there was another Miss Cray; but if there are two,
that is the one I mean.”

“Still I _cannot_ believe it, Hewetson, for the Miss Cray who has been
associated with our firm died on the twenty-fifth of last month.”

“_Died_, sir! Is Miss Cray dead? Oh, it can’t be! It’s some humbugging
trick that’s been played upon you, for I’d swear she was in this room
yesterday afternoon, as full of life as she’s ever been since I knew
her. She didn’t talk much, it’s true, for she seemed in a hurry to be
off again, but she had got on the same dress and bonnet she was in
here last, and she made herself as much at home in the office as she
ever did. Besides,” continued Hewetson, as though suddenly remembering
something, “she left a note for you, sir.”

“A note! Why did you not say so before?”

“It slipped my memory when you began to doubt my word in that way,
sir. But you’ll find it in the bronze vase. She told me to tell you
she had placed it there.”

Mr. Braggett made a dash at the vase, and found the three-cornered
note as he had been told. Yes! it was Charlotte’s handwriting, or the
facsimile of it, there was no doubt of that; and his hands shook so he
could hardly open the paper. It contained these words:


 “You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on
 business, nor to send letters to your private address, lest it should
 come to the knowledge of your wife, and create unpleasantness between
 you; but I _shall_ call, and I _shall_ write until I have seen Mrs.
 Braggett, and if you don’t take care I will introduce myself to her,
 and tell her the reason you have been afraid to do so.”


Precisely the same words, in the same writing of the letter he still
carried in his breast pocket, and which no mortal eyes but his and
hers had ever seen. As the unhappy man sat gazing at the opened note,
his whole body shook as if he were attacked by ague.

“It is Miss Cray’s handwriting, isn’t it, sir?”

“It looks like it, Hewetson, but it cannot be. I tell you it is an
impossibility! Miss Cray died last month, and I have seen not only her
grave, but the doctor and nurse who attended her in her last illness.
It is folly, then, to suppose either that she called here or wrote
that letter.”

“Then _who could it have been_, sir?” said Hewetson, attacked with a
sudden terror in his turn.

“That is impossible for me to say; but should the lady call again, you
had better ask her boldly for her name and address.”

“I’d rather you’d depute the office to anybody but me, sir,” replied
the clerk, as he hastily backed out of the room.

Mr. Braggett, dying with suspense and conjecture, went through his
business as best he could, and hurried home to Violet Villa.

There he found that his wife had been spending the day with a friend,
and only entered the house a few minutes before himself.

“Siggy, dear!” she commenced, as soon as he joined her in the
drawing-room after dinner; “I really think we should have the
fastenings and bolts of this house looked to. Such a funny thing
happened whilst I was out this afternoon. Ellen has just been telling
me about it.”

“What sort of a thing, dear?”

“Well, I left home as early as twelve, you know, and told the servants
I shouldn’t be back until dinner-time; so they were all enjoying
themselves in the kitchen, I suppose, when cook told Ellen she heard a
footstep in the drawing-room. Ellen thought at first it must be cook’s
fancy, because she was sure the front door was fastened; but when they
listened, they all heard the noise together, so she ran upstairs, and
what on earth do you think she saw?”

“How can I guess, my dear?”

“Why, a lady, seated in this very room, as if she was waiting for
somebody. She was oldish, Ellen says, and had a very white face, with
long curls hanging down each side of it; and she wore a blue bonnet
with white feathers, and a long black cloak, and--”

“Emily, Emily! Stop! You don’t know what you’re talking about. That
girl is a fool: you must send her away. That is, how could the lady
have got in if the door was closed? Good heavens! you’ll all drive me
mad between you with your folly!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, as he threw
himself back in his chair, with an exclamation that sounded very like
a groan.

Pretty Mrs. Braggett was offended. What had she said or done that her
husband should doubt her word? She tossed her head in indignation, and
remained silent. If Mr. Braggett wanted any further information, he
would have to apologise.

“Forgive me, darling,” he said, after a long pause. “I don’t think I’m
very well this evening, but your story seemed to upset me.”

“I don’t see why it should upset you,” returned Mrs. Braggett. “If
strangers are allowed to come prowling about the house in this way, we
shall be robbed some day, and then you’ll say I should have told you
of it.”

“Wouldn’t she--this person--give her name?”

“Oh! I’d rather say no more about it. You had better ask Ellen.”

“No, Emily! I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Well, don’t interrupt me again, then. When Ellen saw the woman seated
here, she asked her her name and business at once, but she gave no
answer, and only sat and stared at her. And so Ellen, feeling very
uncomfortable, had just turned round to call up cook, when the woman
got up, and dashed past her like a flash of lightning, and they saw
nothing more of her!”

“Which way did she leave the house?”

“Nobody knows any more than how she came in. The servants declare the
hall door was neither opened nor shut--but, of course, it must have
been. She was a tall gaunt woman, Ellen says, about fifty, and she’s
sure her hair was dyed. She must have come to steal something, and
that’s why I say we ought to have the house made more secure. Why,
Siggy! Siggy! what’s the matter? Here, Ellen! Jane! come, quick, some
of you! Your master’s fainted!”

And, sure enough, the repeated shocks and horrors of the day had had
such an effect upon poor Mr. Braggett, that for a moment he did lose
all consciousness of what surrounded him. He was thankful to take
advantage of the Christmas holidays, to run over to Paris with his
wife, and try to forget, in the many marvels of that city, the awful
fear that fastened upon him at the mention of anything connected with
home. He might be enjoying himself to the top of his bent; but
directly the remembrance of Charlotte Cray crossed his mind, all sense
of enjoyment vanished, and he trembled at the mere thought of
returning to his business, as a child does when sent to bed in the
dark.

He tried to hide the state of his feelings from Mrs. Braggett, but she
was too sharp for him. The simple, blushing Emily Primrose had
developed, under the influence of the matrimonial forcing-frame, into
a good watch-dog, and nothing escaped her notice.

Left to her own conjecture, she attributed his frequent moods of
dejection to the existence of some other woman, and became jealous
accordingly. If Siggy did not love her, why had he married her? She
felt certain there was some other horrid creature who had engaged his
affections and would not leave him alone, even now that he was her own
lawful property. And to find out who the “horrid creature” was became
Mrs. Emily’s constant idea. When she had found out, she meant to give
her a piece of her mind, never fear! Meanwhile Mr. Braggett’s evident
distaste to returning to business only served to increase his wife’s
suspicions. A clear conscience, she argued, would know no fear. So
they were not a happy couple, as they set their faces once more
towards England. Mr. Braggett’s dread of re-entering his office
amounted almost to terror, and Mrs. Braggett, putting this and that
together, resolved that she would fathom the mystery, if it lay in
feminine _finesse_ to do so. She did not whisper a word of her
intentions to dear Siggy, you may be sure of that! She worked after
the manner of her amiable sex, like a cat in the dark, or a worm
boring through the earth, and appearing on the surface when least
expected.

So poor Mr. Braggett brought her home again, heavy at heart indeed,
but quite ignorant that any designs were being made against him. I
think he would have given a thousand pounds to be spared the duty of
attending office the day after his arrival. But it was necessary, and
he went, like a publisher and a Briton. But Mrs. Emily had noted his
trepidation and his fears, and laid her plans accordingly. She had
never been asked to enter those mysterious precincts, the house of
business. Mr. Braggett had not thought it necessary that her blooming
loveliness should be made acquainted with its dingy, dusty
accessories, but she meant to see them for herself to-day. So she
waited till he had left Violet Villa ten minutes, and then she dressed
and followed him by the next train to London.

Mr. Sigismund Braggett meanwhile had gone on his way, as people go to
a dentist, determined to do what was right, but with an indefinite
sort of idea that he might never come out of it alive. He dreaded to
hear what might have happened in his absence, and he delayed his
arrival at the office for half-an-hour, by walking there instead of
taking a cab as usual, in order to put off the evil moment. As he
entered the place, however, he saw at a glance that his efforts were
vain, and that something had occurred. The customary formality and
precision of the office were upset, and the clerks, instead of bending
over their ledgers, or attending to the demands of business, were all
huddled together at one end whispering and gesticulating to each
other. But as soon as the publisher appeared, a dead silence fell upon
the group, and they only stared at him with an air of horrid mystery.

“What is the matter now?” he demanded, angrily, for like most men when
in a fright which they are ashamed to exhibit, Mr. Sigismund Braggett
tried to cover his want of courage by bounce.

The young man called Hewetson advanced towards him, with a face the
colour of ashes, and pointed towards the ground-glass doors dumbly.

“What do you mean? Can’t you speak? What’s come to the lot of you,
that you are neglecting my business in this fashion to make fools of
yourselves?”

“If you please, sir, she’s in there.”

Mr. Braggett started back as if he’d been shot. But still he tried to
have it out.

“_She!_ Who’s _she?_”

“Miss Cray, sir.”

“Haven’t I told you already that’s a lie.”

“Will you judge for yourself, Mr. Braggett?” said a grey-haired man,
stepping forward. “I was on the stairs myself just now when Miss Cray
passed me, and I have no doubt whatever but that you will find her in
your private room, however much the reports that have lately reached
you may seem against the probability of such a thing.”

Mr. Braggett’s teeth chattered in his head as he advanced to the
ground-glass doors, through the panes of one of which there was a
little peephole to ascertain if the room were occupied or not. He
stooped and looked in. At the table, with her back towards him, was
seated the well-known figure of Charlotte Cray. He recognised at once
the long black mantle in which she was wont to drape her gaunt
figure--the blue bonnet, with its dejected-looking, uncurled
feather--the lank curls which rested on her shoulders--and the
black-leather bag, with a steel clasp, which she always carried in her
hand. It was the embodiment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of
that; but how could he reconcile the fact of her being there with the
damp clods he had seen piled upon her grave, with the certificate of
death, and the doctor’s and landlady’s assertion that they had watched
her last moments?

At last he prepared, with desperate energy, to turn the handle of the
door. At that moment the attention of the more frivolous of the clerks
was directed from his actions by the entrance of an uncommonly pretty
woman at the other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as
this seldom brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding-place. Lilies,
roses, and carnations vied with each other in her complexion, whilst
the sunniest of locks, and the brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a
girlish charm not easily described. What could this
fashionably-attired Venus want in their house of business?

“Is Mr. Braggett here? I am Mrs. Braggett. Please show me in to him
immediately.”

They glanced at the ground-glass doors of the inner office. They had
already closed behind the manly form of their employer.

“This way, madam,” one said, deferentially, as he escorted her to the
presence of Mr. Braggett.

Meanwhile, Sigismund had opened the portals of the Temple of Mystery,
and with trembling knees entered it. The figure in the chair did not
stir at his approach. He stood at the door irresolute. What should he
do or say?

“Charlotte,” he whispered.

Still she did not move.

At that moment his wife entered.

“Oh, Sigismund!” cried Mrs. Emily, reproachfully, “I knew you were
keeping something from me, and now I’ve caught you in the very act.
Who is this lady, and what is her name? I shall refuse to leave the
room until I know it.”

At the sound of her rival’s voice, the woman in the chair rose quickly
to her feet and confronted them. Yes! there was Charlotte Cray,
precisely similar to what she had appeared in life, only with an
uncertainty and vagueness about the lines of the familiar features
that made them ghastly.

She stood there, looking Mrs. Emily full in the face, but only for a
moment, for, even as she gazed, the lineaments grew less and less
distinct, with the shape of the figure that supported them, until,
with a crash, the apparition seemed to fall in and disappear, and the
place that had known her was filled with empty air.

“Where is she gone?” exclaimed Mrs. Braggett, in a tone of utter
amazement.

“Where is _who_ gone?” repeated Mr. Braggett, hardly able to
articulate from fear.

“The lady in the chair!”

“There was no one there except in your own imagination. It was my
great-coat that you mistook for a figure,” returned her husband
hastily, as he threw the article in question over the back of the
arm-chair.

“But how could that have been?” said his pretty wife, rubbing her
eyes. “How could I think a coat had eyes, and hair, and features? I am
_sure_ I saw a woman seated there, and that she rose and stared at me.
Siggy! tell me it was true. It seems so incomprehensible that I should
have been mistaken.”

“You must question your own sense. You see that the room is empty now,
except for ourselves, and you know that no one has left it. If you
like to search under the table, you can.”

“Ah! now, Siggy, you are laughing at me, because you know that would
be folly. But there was certainly some one here--only, where can she
have disappeared to?”

“Suppose we discuss the matter at a more convenient season,” replied
Mr. Braggett, as he drew his wife’s arm through his arm. “Hewetson!
you will be able to tell Mr. Hume that he was mistaken. Say, also,
that I shall not be back in the office to-day. I am not so strong as I
thought I was, and feel quite unequal to business. Tell him to come
out to Streatham this evening with my letters, and I will talk with
him there.”

What passed at that interview was never disclosed; but pretty Mrs.
Braggett was much rejoiced, a short time afterwards, by her husband
telling her that he had resolved to resign his active share of the
business, and devote the rest of his life to her and Violet Villa. He
would have no more occasion, therefore, to visit the office, and be
exposed to the temptation of spending four or five hours out of every
twelve away from her side. For, though Mrs. Emily had arrived at the
conclusion that the momentary glimpse she caught of a lady in Siggy’s
office must have been a delusion, she was not quite satisfied by his
assertions that she would never have found a more tangible cause for
her jealousy.

But Sigismund Braggett knew more than he chose to tell Mrs. Emily. He
knew that what she had witnessed was no delusion, but a reality; and
that Charlotte Cray had carried out her dying determination to call at
his office and his private residence, _until she had seen his wife!_




 THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF
 RUSHMERE.

 “On the banks of the Wye, Monmouthshire.--To be Let, furnished, a
 commodious Family Mansion, surrounded with park-like grounds. Stabling
 and every convenience. Only two and a-half miles from station, church,
 and post-office. Excellent fishing to be procured in the
 neighbourhood. Rent nominal to a responsible tenant.”


Such, with a few trifling additions, was the advertisement that caught
my eye in the spring of 18--.

“My dear Jane,” I said, as I handed the paper over to my wife, “this,
I think, is the very thing we want.”

I was a London practitioner, with a numerous family and a large circle
of patients; but the two facts, though blessings in themselves, were
not without their disadvantages.

The hostages which I had given to fortune had made that strenuous
action which attention to my numerous patients supplied incumbent on
me; but the consequent anxiety and want of rest had drawn so largely
on my mental and physical resources, that there was no need for my
professional brethren to warn me of the necessity of change and
country air. I felt myself that I was breaking down, and had already
made arrangements with a friend to take my practice for a few months,
and set me at liberty to attend to my own health. And being
passionately fond of fishing, and all country pleasures and pursuits,
and looking forward with zest to a period of complete quiet, the
residence alluded to (if it fulfilled the promise of its
advertisement) appeared to be all that I could desire.

“Park-like grounds!” exclaimed my wife, with animation. “How the dear
children will enjoy themselves.”

“And two and a-half miles from church or station,” I responded
eagerly. “No neighbours, excellent fishing, and at a nominal rent. It
sounds too good to be true.”

“Oh, Arthur! you must write, and obtain all the particulars this very
day. If you put it off, some one will be sure to take the house before
we have time to do so.”

“I shall go and see the city agents at once,” I replied, resolutely.
“It is too rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your
hopes too high, my dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.”

But when I had seen Messrs. Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really
seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the
house in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an
old gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking
the situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for
letting. The owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had
authorised the agents to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it
was really a bargain to anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted
that the loneliness of the position of Rushmere was the reason of its
cheapness; but when I heard the rent at which they offered to let me
take it, if approved of, for three months, I was quite ready to agree
with Messrs. Quibble & Lye in their idea of a bargain, and that, for
those who liked solitude, Rushmere offered extraordinary advantages.

Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into
Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when
I saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the
opportunity afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude
with which I had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country
house, comfortably furnished, and, to all appearance, well built,
standing in enclosed grounds, and on a healthy elevation; but,
notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was too much a man of the
world to believe, under the circumstances, that its greatest
disadvantage lay in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about for
damp walls, covered cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering
foundations, but I could find none.

“The chimneys smoke, I suppose?” I remarked, in a would-be careless
tone, to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who
crept after me wherever I went.

“Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.”

“The roof leaks, perhaps?”

“Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.”

“Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?”

“A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The
last tenants left at Christmas.”

“Empty for six months!” I exclaimed. “How long is it, then, since the
gentleman who built it died?”

“Old Mr. Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or
more.”

“Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of
letting it stand vacant?” thought I to myself.

But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face,
as though anxious to learn what my decision would be.

“No vermin, I hope?” I suggested, as a last resource. “You are not
troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?”

“Oh, I don’t sleep here at night, sir, thank heaven!” she answered in
a manner which appeared to me unnecessarily energetic. “I am only
employed by day to air the house, and show it to strangers. I go home
to my own people at night.”

“And where do your people live?”

“Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest
cottage to Rushmere.”

And then--apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a
drawback to the letting of the property--she added, quickly,--

“Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very
convenient, though a bit lonesome.”

I perfectly agreed with her, the “lonesomeness” of the situation
proving no detraction in my eyes.

On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the
house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain
at once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were
transplanted from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye.
It was the middle of May when we took possession, and the country wore
its most attractive garb. The children were wild with delight at being
let loose in the flower-bespangled fields, and, as I watched the
tributaries of the river, and perceived the excellent sport they
promised me, I felt scarcely less excited than the children. Only my
wife, I thought, became inoculated with some of the absurd fears of
the domestics we had brought with us from town, and seemed to consider
the locality more lonely and unprotected than she had expected to find
it.

“It’s a charming place, Arthur,” she acknowledged, “and marvellously
cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we
shall have to send for everything to the town. Not even the country
carts, with butter and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.”

“My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles
from church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But
I thought we looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of
being intruded on by strangers.”

“Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages
near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to
break in at night, and rob us.”

“Pooh, nonsense! What will you be afraid of next? The locks and bolts
are perfectly secure, and both Dawson and I have firearms, and are
ready to use them. Your fears are childish, Janie.”

But all my arguments were unavailing, and each day my wife grew more
nervous, and less willing to be left alone. So much so, indeed, that I
made a practice of seeing that the house fastenings were properly
secured each night myself, and of keeping a loaded revolver close to
my hand, in case of need. But it damped my pleasure, to find that Jane
was not enjoying herself; and the country looked less beautiful to me
than it had done at first. One night I suddenly awoke, to find that
she was sitting up in bed, and in an attitude of expectation.

“My dear, what is the matter with you?”

“Oh, hush! I am sure that I hear footsteps on the stairs--footsteps
creeping up and down.”

I listened with her, but could detect no sound whatever.

“Lie down again, Jane--it is only your imagination. Every one is fast
asleep in bed.”

“I assure you, Arthur, I am not mistaken. Once they came quite near
the door.”

“If so, it can only be one of the servants. You don’t wish me to get
up and encounter Mary or Susan in her night-dress, do you? Consider my
morals!”

“Oh no, of course not,” she replied with a faint smile; yet it was
some time before she fell to sleep again.

It was not many nights before my wife roused me again with the same
complaint.

“Arthur, don’t call me silly, but I am _certain_ I heard something.”

To appease her fears, I shook off my drowsiness, and, with a lighted
candle, made a tour of the house; but all was as I had left it.

Once, indeed, I imagined that I heard at my side the sound of a quick
breathing; but that I knew must be sheer fancy, since I was alone.

The only circumstance that startled me was finding Dawson, the man
servant, who slept on the ground floor, also awake, and listening at
his door.

“What roused you, Dawson?”

“Well, sir, I can hardly say; but I fancied I heard some one going up
the stairs a little while ago.”

“You heard me coming down, you mean.”

“No, sir, begging your pardon, it was footsteps going up--lighter than
yours, sir. More like those of a woman.”

Yet, though I privately interrogated the female servants on the
following day, I could not discover that any of them had been out of
their beds; and I forbore to tell my wife what Dawson had said in
corroboration of her statement.

Only I was as much annoyed as astonished when, as I finished my
catechism of Mary, our head nurse, she informed me that she had made
up her mind to leave our service. Mary--my wife’s right hand--who had
been with us ever since the birth of our first child! The announcement
took me completely aback.

“What on earth is your reason for leaving us?” I demanded angrily; for
I knew what a blow her decision would be to Jane. “What have you to
find fault with?”

“Nothing with you or the mistress, sir; but I can’t remain in this
house. I wouldn’t stay in it a night longer, if it were possible to
get away; and I do hope you and Mrs. Delamere will let me go as soon
as ever you can, sir, as it will be the death of me.”

“What will be the death of you?”

“The footsteps, sir, and the voices,” she answered, crying. “I can
hear them about the nurseries all night long, and it’s more than any
mortal can stand--it is, indeed.”

“Are you infected with the same folly?” I exclaimed. “I see what it
is, Dawson has been talking to you. I didn’t know I had such a couple
of fools in my establishment.”

“Mr. Dawson has said nothing to me about nothing, sir,” she answered.
“I hear what I hear with my own ears; and I wouldn’t stay a week
longer in this ’aunted place, not if you was to strew the floor with
golden guineas for me.”

Not possessing either the capability or the inclination to test Mary’s
fidelity by the means she alluded to, and finding her determination
unalterable, I gave her the desired permission to depart; only making
it a stipulation that she should not tell her mistress the real reason
for her leaving us, but ascribe it to bad news from home, or any other
cause.

But though I could not but believe that the woman’s idiotic terrors
had blinded her judgment, I was extremely surprised to find she should
have been so led astray, as I had always considered Mary to possess a
remarkably clear head and good moral sense. The wailing and
lamentation, from both mother and children, at the announcement of her
departure made me still more angry with her obstinacy and folly. But
she continued resolute; and we were driven to try and secure some one
to fulfil her duties from the neighbouring town. But here a strange
difficulty met us. We saw several fresh, rosy-cheeked maidens, who
appeared quite willing to undertake our service, until they heard
where we resided, when by an extraordinary coincidence, one and all
discovered that some insurmountable obstacle prevented their coming at
all. When the same thing had occurred several times in succession, and
Jane appeared worn out with disappointment and fatigue, the landlord
of the inn where we had put up for the day appeared at the door, and
beckoned me out.

“May I make bold enough to ask if you want a servant to go to
Rushmere?” he inquired of me in a whisper.

“Certainly, we do. Our nurse has been obliged to leave us suddenly,
and we want some one to supply her place.”

“Then you may give it up as a bad job, sir; for you’ll never get one
of the country people here about to set a foot in Rushmere--not if you
were to live there till the day of your death.”

“And why not?” I demanded, with affected ignorance.

“What, haven’t you heard nothing since you’ve been there, sir?”

“Heard? What should I have heard, except the ordinary noises of the
household?”

“Well, you’re lucky if you’ve escaped so far,” returned the landlord,
mysteriously; “but it ain’t for long. No one who lives in Rushmere
lives there _alone_. I can tell you the whole story if you like?”

“I have no desire to listen to any such folly,” I replied, testily. “I
am not superstitious, and do not believe in supernatural sights or
sounds. If the people round about here are foolish enough to do so, I
cannot help it; but I will not have the minds of my wife or family
imbued with their nonsense.”

“Very good, sir; I hope you may be able to say as much two months
hence,” said the man, civilly.

And so we parted.

I returned to Janie, and persuaded her he had told me that all the
girls of that town had a strong objection to leave it, which was the
reason they refused to take service in the country. I reminded her
that Susan was quite competent to take charge of the whole flock until
we returned to London; and it would be better after all to put up with
a little inconvenience than to introduce a stranger to the nursery. So
my wife, who was disappointed with the failure of her enterprise, fell
in with my ideas, and we returned to Rushmere, determined to do as
best we could with Susan only.

But I could not forget the landlord’s earnestness, and,
notwithstanding my incredulity, began to wish we were well out of
Rushmere.

For a few days after Mary’s departure we slept in peace; but then the
question of the mysterious footsteps assumed a graver aspect, for my
wife and I were roused from deep slumber one night by a loud knock
upon the bedroom door, and springing up to answer it, I encountered,
on the threshold, Dawson, pale with fright, and trembling in every
limb.

“What do you mean by alarming your mistress in this way?” I inquired,
angrily.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” he replied, with chattering teeth, “but I
thought it my duty to let you know. There’s some one in the house
to-night, sir. I can hear them whispering together at this moment; and
so can you, if you will but listen.”

I advanced at once to the banisters, and certainly heard what seemed
to be the sound of distant voices engaged in altercation; and, light
in hand, followed by Dawson, I dashed down the staircase without
further ceremony, in hopes of trapping the intruders.

But all in vain. Though we entered every room in turn, not a soul was
visible.

I came to the conclusion that the whole alarm was due to Dawson’s
cowardice.

“You contemptible fool, you are as chicken-hearted as a woman!” I
said, contemptuously. “You hear the frogs croaking in the mere, or the
wind blowing through the rushes, and you immediately conclude the
house is full of thieves.”

“I didn’t say it was thieves,” the man interposed, sullenly; but I
took no notice of the muttered remark.

“If you are afraid to sleep downstairs by yourself,” I continued, “say
so; but don’t come alarming your mistress again, in the middle of the
night, for I won’t allow it.”

The man slunk back into his room, with a reiteration that he had not
been mistaken; and I returned to bed, full of complaints at having
been so unnecessarily roused.

“If this kind of thing goes on,” I remarked to my wife,” I shall
regret ever having set eyes on Rushmere. That a pack of silly
maid-servants should see a robber in every bush is only to be
expected; but how a sensible man like Dawson, and a woman of education
like yourself, can permit your imagination to betray you into such
foolish fears, is quite past my comprehension.”

Yet, notwithstanding my dose of philosophy, poor Jane looked so pale
upon the following morning, that I was fain to devise and carry into
execution a little excursion into the neighbouring country before she
regained her usual composure.

Some time passed without any further disturbance, and though upon
several occasions I blamed myself for having brought a family, used to
a populous city like London, to vegetate in so isolated a spot as
Rushmere, I had almost forgotten the circumstances that had so much
annoyed me.

We had now spent a month in our temporary home. The fields and
hedgerows were bright with summer flowers, and the children passed
most of their time tumbling amongst the new-mown hay. Janie had once
more regained courage to sit by herself in the dusk, and to rest with
tolerable security when she went to bed. I was rejoicing in the idea
that all the folly that had marred the pleasure of our arrival at
Rushmere had died a natural death, when it was vividly and painfully
recalled to my mind by its actual recurrence.

Our second girl, a delicate little creature of about six years old,
who, since the departure of her nurse, had slept in a cot in the same
room as ourselves, woke me up in the middle of the night by
exclaiming, in a frightened, plaintive voice, close to my ear,--

“Papa! papa! do you hear the footsteps? Some one is coming up the
stairs!”

The tone was one of terror, and it roused my wife and myself
instantly. The child was cold, and shaking all over with alarm, and I
placed her by her mother’s side before I left the room to ascertain if
there was any truth in her assertion.

“Arthur, Arthur! I hear them as plainly as can be,” exclaimed my wife,
who was as terrified as the child. “They are on the second landing,
There is no mistake about it this time.”

I listened at the half-opened door, and was compelled to agree with
her. From whatever cause they arose, footsteps were to be distinctly
heard upon the staircase--sometimes advancing, and then retreating, as
though afraid to venture farther; but, still, not to be mistaken for
anything but the sound of feet.

With a muttered exclamation, I seized my revolver.

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, hurriedly; “there is not the slightest
occasion for it. And, whatever happens, do not venture on the landing.
I shall be quite safe.”

And without further preamble, only desirous to settle the business
once for all, and give the intruders on my domains a sharp lesson on
the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_, I sprang down the staircase. I had not
stayed to strike a light; but the moon was shining blandly in at the
uncurtained passage window, and the landing was as bright as day. Yet
I saw no one there. The thief (if thief it were) must have already
taken the alarm, and descended to the lowest regions. I fancied I
could detect the same footsteps, but more distinctly marked, walk by
me with a hurried, frightened movement, accompanied by a quick,
sobbing breath; and, as I paused to consider what such a mystery could
indicate, a pair of heavily-shod feet rushed past me, or seemed to
rush, upon the stairs. I heard an angry shout commingle with a faint
cry of terror below the landing whereon I stood; then, the discharge
of a firearm, followed by a low groan of pain--and all was still.

Dark and mysterious though it appeared to be, I did not dream of
ascribing the circumstance to any but a natural cause. But there was
evidently no time for hesitation, and in another moment I had flown
down the stairs, and stood in the moonlighted hall. It was empty!
Chairs, table, hatstand, stood in their accustomed places; the
children’s garden hats and my fishing tackle were strewn about; but of
animated nature there was not a sign, of the recent scuffle not a
trace!

All was quiet, calm, and undisturbed, and, as I gazed around in mute
bewilderment, the perspiration stood in thick drops upon my brow and
chin.

My first collected thought was for my wife and the best means by which
to prevent her sharing the mystification and dread which I have no
hesitation in confessing that I now experienced; but as I turned to
remount the staircase, I caught sight of some dark mass lying at the
further end of the passage, and going up to it, found to my surprise
the body of Dawson, cold and insensible.

The explanation of the mystery was before me--so I immediately
determined. The man, whom I knew to be replete with superstitious
terror, imagining he heard the unaccountable noise of footsteps, had
evidently supplied that which had reached my ear, and in his alarm at
my approach had discharged his firearm at the supposed marauder.
Pleasant for me if he had taken a better aim: So I thought as I
dragged his unconscious body into his bedroom, and busied myself by
restoring it to sensation.

As soon as he opened his eyes, and was sufficiently recovered to
answer me, I asked,--

“What on earth made you discharge your gun, Dawson? I must take it out
of your keeping, if you are so careless about using it.”

“I didn’t fire, sir.”

“Nonsense! you don’t know what you are talking about. I heard the shot
distinctly as I came downstairs.”

“I am only telling you the truth, sir. There is the fowling-piece in
that corner. I have not drawn the trigger since you last loaded it.”

I went up and examined the weapon. What Dawson had said was correct.
It had not been used.

“Then who did fire?” I said, impatiently. “I could swear to having
heard the report.”

“And so could I, sir. It was that that knocked me over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, sir, pray take the mistress and the children away from this place
as soon as possible. It’s no robbers that go up and down these stairs
of nights, sir. It’s something much worse than that.”

“Dawson, if you begin to talk such folly to me, I’ll discharge you on
the spot. I believe the whole lot of you have gone mad.”

“But listen to my story, sir. I had gone to bed last night, as tired
as possible, and thinking of nothing but getting a good long sleep.
The first thing that roused me was some one trying the handle of my
door. I lay and listened to it for some time before I was fully awake,
and then I thought maybe you wanted something out of my room, and was
trying not to wake me; so I got out of bed and opened the door. But
there was nobody there, though I fancied I heard some one breathing
hard a few yards off from me. Well, I thought to myself, sir, this is
all nonsense; so I came back to bed again, and lay down. But I
couldn’t sleep; for directly the door was closed, I heard the
footsteps again, creep, creeping along the passage and the wall, as
though some one was crouching and feeling his way as he went. Then the
handle of the door began to creak and turn again--I see it turn, sir,
with my own eyes, backwards and forwards, a dozen times in the
moonlight; and then I heard a heavier step come stumbling downstairs,
and there seemed to be a kind of scuffle. I couldn’t stand it no
longer, so I opened the door again; and then, as I’m a living
Christian, sir, I heard a woman’s voice say ‘Father!’ with a kind of
sob, and as the sound was uttered there came a report from the first
landing, and the sound of a fall, and a deep groan in the passage
below. And it seemed to go right through me, and curdle my blood, and
I fell all of a heap where you found me. And it’s nothing natural,
sir, you may take my word for it; and harm will come of your stopping
in this house.”

So saying, poor Dawson, who seemed in real earnest, fell back on his
pillow with a heavy sigh.

“Dawson,” I said, critically, “what did you eat for supper last
night?”

“You’re never going to put down what I’ve told you, sir, to supper. I
took nothing but a little cold meat, upon my word. And I was as
sensible, till that shot knocked me over, as you are this moment.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you seriously believe the report of a
firearm could have reached your ears without one having been
discharged?”

“But didn’t you say you heard it yourself, sir?”

This knocked me over, and I did not know what to answer him. In the
attempt to allay what I considered his unreasonable fear, I had
forgotten my own experience in the matter. And I knew that I had
heard, or imagined I heard, a shot fired, and it would be very
difficult for any one to persuade me I was mistaken. Still, though I
held no belief in supernatural agencies, I was an earnest student of
the philosophical and metaphysical school of Germany, and acquainted
with all the revealed wonders of magnetism and animal electricity. It
was impossible to say whether some such effect as I have described
might not have been produced upon my brain by the reflection of the
fear or fancy on that of my servant; and that as he had imagined the
concussion of firearms, so I might have instantaneously received the
impression of his mind. It was a nice question for argument, and not
one to be thought over at that moment. All my present business lay in
the effort to disabuse Dawson’s mind of the reality of the shock it
had received.

“I said I fancied I heard something like the report of a firearm; but
as none had been fired, of course I must have been mistaken. Come,
Dawson, I must go back, or Mrs. Delamere will wonder what has become
of me. I conclude you are not such a coward as to be afraid to be left
by yourself?”

“I never feared a man in my life, sir; but the strongest heart can’t
stand up against spirits.”

“Spirits!” I exclaimed, angrily. “I wonder what on earth you will talk
to me about next? Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Dawson--if I hear
anything more of this, or am disturbed again at night by your folly,
I’ll pack you back to London without a character. Do you understand
me?”

“I understand you, sir,” the man answered, humbly; and thereupon I
left him to himself.

But, as I reascended the staircase, I was not satisfied either with my
own half-formed solution of the mystery, or my servant’s reception of
my rebuke. He evidently would prefer dismissal to passing such another
night. I could read the resolution in his face, although he had not
expressed it in so many words. When I reached my wife’s room, I was
still more surprised. Janie and the child lay in a profound slumber. I
had expected to find both of them in a state of anxious terror to
learn the meaning of the noise that was going on below; but they had
evidently heard nothing. This welcome fact, however, only tended to
confirm me in the belief I had commenced to entertain, of the whole
circumstance being due to some, perhaps yet undiscovered, phase of
brain reading, and I fell to sleep, resolved to make a deeper study of
the marvels propounded by Mesmer and Kant. When I awoke, with the
bright June sun streaming in at the windows, I had naturally parted
with much of the impression of the night before. It is hard to
associate any gloomy or unnatural thoughts with the unlimited glory of
the summer’s sunshine, that streams into every nook and cranny, and
leaves no shadows anywhere. On this particular morning it seemed to
have cleared the cobwebs off all our brains. The child had forgotten
all about the occurrence of the night. I was, as usual, ready to laugh
away all ghostly fears and fancies; and even Janie seemed to regard
the matter as one of little moment.

“What was the matter last night, Arthur, dear?” she asked, when the
subject recurred to her memory. “I was so sleepy I couldn’t keep awake
till you came up again.”

“Didn’t you hear the fearful battle I held with the goblins in the
hall?” I demanded, gaily, though I put the question with a
purpose--“the shots that were exchanged between us, and the groans of
the defeated, as they slunk away into their haunted coal-cellars and
cupboards?”

“Arthur, what nonsense! Was there any noise?”

“Well, I frightened Dawson, and Dawson frightened me; and we squabbled
over it for the best part of an hour. I thought our talking might have
disturbed you.”

“Indeed, it didn’t, then. But don’t mention it before Cissy, Arthur,
even in fun, for she declares she heard some one walking about the
room, and I want her to forget it.”

I dropped the subject; but meeting Dawson as I was smoking my pipe in
the garden that afternoon, I ventured to rally him on his fright of
the night before, and to ask if he hadn’t got over it by that time.

“No, sir; and I never shall,” he replied, with a sort of shiver. “And
I only hope you may come to be convinced of the truth of it before
it’s too late to prevent harm you may never cease to repent of.”

There was so much respectful earnestness in the man’s manner, that I
could not resent his words nor laugh at them, as I had done before;
and I passed by him in thoughtful silence.

What if there were more in all this than I had ever permitted myself
to imagine? What if the assertions of my man-servant, the unaffected
terror of my wife and child, the fears of my nurse, the evident
shrinking of the old woman who had charge of the house, the opposition
from the servants of the neighbouring town, combined with what I had
heard myself, were not simple chimeras of the brain--fancies
engendered by superstition or timidity or ignorance; but indications
of a power beyond our control, the beginning and the end of which may
alike remain unknown until all things are revealed? I had, with the
majority of educated men, manfully resisted all temptation to believe
in the possibility of spirits, of whatever grade, making themselves
either seen or heard by mortal senses. I use the word “manfully,”
although I now believe it to be the height of manliness to refuse to
discredit that which we cannot disprove, and to have sufficient
humility to accept the belief that there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. But at that juncture I
should have considered such a concession both childish and cowardly.
Yet, there was sufficient doubt in my mind, notwithstanding the
glorious June sun, respecting my adventure of the night before, that I
resolved, whatever happened, that I would satisfy myself as to the
value of the fears of those about me.

I could not keep my wife and children in a house where they might be
liable at any moment to be frightened out of their seven senses, from
whatever cause, without ascertaining the reason of it. Some reason
there must be, either natural or otherwise; and I determined, if
possible, to learn it that very night. I would not tell Dawson or
anyone of my intention; but I would keep watch and ward in the old
parlour on the ground floor, so as to be ready to rush out at a
moment’s notice, and seize any intruder who might attempt to disturb
us. I still believed--I could not but believe--that the footsteps
which so many of us had heard were due to some trickster, who wished
to play upon our nerves in that lonely old house. I had heard of such
things being done, purposely to keep visitors away; and I determined,
whosoever it might be, whether our own servants or strangers, that
they must take their chance of being shot down like any other robber.

According to my resolution, I said nothing to Janie, but tried to
render the evening as cheerful and merry a one as possible.

I ordered strawberries and cream into the hayfield, and played with my
troop of little ones there, until they were so tired they could hardly
walk for the short distance that lay between them and their beds. As
soon as they were dismissed, and we had returned to the house, I laid
aside the newspapers that had arrived by that morning’s post, and
which I usually reserved for the evening’s delectation, and taking my
wife upon my knee, as in the dear old courting days, talked to her
until she had forgotten everything but the topics on which we
conversed, and had no time to brood upon the coming night, and the
fears it usually engendered. Then, as a last duty, I carried to Dawson
with my own hands a strong decoction of brandy and water, with which
I had mixed something that I knew, under ordinary circumstances, must
make him sleep till daylight.

“Drink this,” I said to him. “From whatever cause, our nerves were
both shaken last night, and a little stimulant will do neither of us
harm.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, as he finished the tumbler at a draught;
“I don’t deny I’m glad to have it. I dread the thoughts of the night
before us.”

“Lock your door on the inside,” I added as I left him, “and don’t get
up whether the handle moves or not. Then, at all events, you will feel
secure till the morrow.”

“Keys won’t keep _them_ out,” muttered Dawson, as he entered his
sleeping apartment.

But I would not notice the allusion, though I understood it.

I went up to bed with my wife as usual; and it was not until I saw she
was sound asleep that, habited in my dressing-gown and slippers, I
ventured to creep softly out of the room and take my way downstairs
again.

It was then about twelve o’clock. The moonlight was as bright as it
had been the night before, and made every object distinctly visible.
From the loud snoring which proceeded from Dawson’s room, I concluded
that my opiate had taken due effect, and that I should be permitted to
hold my vigil undisturbed. In one hand I grasped a loaded revolver,
and in the other a huge knotted stick, so determined was I not to be
taken by my tormentors at a disadvantage. I turned into the general
sitting-room, which opened on the hall. All was as we had left it; and
I ensconced myself on one of the large old-fashioned sofas, trusting
to my curiosity to keep me awake.

It was weary waiting. I heard one and then two sound from the big
clock in the hall; still there was no other noise to break the
silence. I began to relapse into my first belief that the whole
business was due to imagination. From this I passed to
self-satisfaction; self-satisfaction induced inertion, and inertion
brought on heavy sleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I had
reason afterwards to think, not more than half-an-hour.

However, that point is immaterial. But what waked me--waked me so
completely that in a moment all my faculties were as clear as
daylight--was the sound of a hoarse breathing. I sat up on the sofa
and rubbed my eyes.

The room was fully lighted by the moon. I could see into each corner.
Nothing was visible. The sound I had heard must then have proceeded
from outside the door, which was open; and I turned towards it, fully
expecting to see Dawson enter in a somnambulistic condition, brought
on by his dreams and my soporific.

But he did not appear. I rose and looked into the hall. It was empty,
as before. Still the breathing continued, and (as I, with now
fully-awakened faculties, discovered) proceeded from a corner of the
parlour where stood an old-fashioned secretary and a chair. Not daring
to believe my senses, I advanced to the spot and listened attentively.
The sound continued, and was unmistakably palpable. The breathing was
hoarse and laboured, like that of an old man who was suffering from
bronchitis or asthma. Every now and then it was interrupted by a
short, roupy cough. What I suffered under this mysterious influence I
can hardly tell. Interest and curiosity got the better of my natural
horror; but even then I could not but feel that there was something
very awful in this strange contact of sound without sight. Presently
my eyes were attracted by the chair, which was pushed, without any
visible agency, towards the wall. Something rose--I could hear the
action of the feet. Something moved--I could hear it approaching the
spot where I stood motionless. Something brushed past me, almost
roughly--I could feel the contact of a cloth garment against my
dressing-gown, and heard the sound of coarsely shod feet leaving the
room. My hair was almost standing on end with terror; but I was
determined to follow the mystery to its utmost limits, whether my
curiosity were satisfied by the attempt or not.

I rushed after the clumping feet into the hall; and I heard them
slowly and painfully, and yet most distinctly, commence to toil up the
staircase. But before they had reached the first landing, and just as
I was about to follow in their wake, my attention was distracted by
another sound, which appeared to be close at my elbow--the sound of
which Dawson had complained the night before--that of a creeping step,
and a stifled sobbing, as though a woman were feeling her way along
the passage in the dark. I could discern the feeble touch as it felt
along the wall, and then placed an uncertain hold upon the
banisters--could hear the catching breath, which dared not rise into a
cry, and detect the fear which caused the feet to advance and retreat,
and advance a little way again, and then stop, as though dread of some
unknown calamity overpowered every other feeling. Meanwhile, the
clumping steps, that had died away in the distance, turned, and
appeared to be coming downstairs again. The moon streamed brightly in
at the landing window. Had a form been visible, it would have been as
distinctly seen as by day. I experienced a sense of coming horror, and
drew back in the shadow of the wall. As the heavy footsteps gained the
lower landing, I heard a start--a scuffle--a faint cry of “Father!”
and then a curse--the flash of a firearm--a groan--and I remember
nothing more.

When I recovered my consciousness, I was lying on the flat of my back
in the passage, as I had found poor Dawson the night before, and the
morning sun was shining full upon my face. I sat up, rubbed my eyes,
and tried to remember how I had come there. Surely the moon had looked
in at that window when I saw it last. Then in a moment came back upon
my mind all that I had heard whilst holding my vigil during the past
night; and I sprang to my feet, to see if I could discover any traces
of the tragedy which seemed to have been enacted in my very presence.

But it was in vain I searched the parlour, the passage, and the
stairs. Everything remained in its usual place. Even the chair, which
I could swear I saw pushed against the wall, was now standing primly
before the secretary, and the door of the room was closed, as it
usually was when we retired for the night. I slunk up to my
dressing-room, anxious that my wife should not discover that I had
never retired to rest; and having plunged my head and face into cold
water, took my way across the sunlighted fields, to see if the fresh
morning air might not be successful in clearing away the confusion
with which my brain was oppressed. But I had made up my mind on one
point, and that was that we would move out of Rushmere as soon as it
was possible to do so. After a stroll of a couple of hours, I
re-approached the house. The first person I encountered was the under
nurse, Susan, who ran to meet me with a perturbed countenance.

“Oh, sir, I’m so thankful you’ve come back! Dawson has been looking
for you for the last hour, for poor missus is so ill, and we don’t
know what on earth to do with her.”

“Ill! In what way?” I demanded quickly.

“That’s what we can’t make out, sir. Miss Cissy came up crying to the
nursery, the first thing this morning, to tell me that her mamma had
tumbled out of bed, and wouldn’t speak to her; and she couldn’t find
her papa. So I ran downstairs directly, sir; and there I found my
mistress on the ground, quite insensible, and she hasn’t moved a limb
since.”

“Good heavens!” I inwardly exclaimed, as I ran towards the house, “is
it possible she can have been affected by the same cause?”

I found Janie, as the nurse had said, unconscious; and it was some
time before my remedies had any effect on her. When she opened her
eyes, and understood the condition she had been in, she was seized
with such a fit of nervous terror that she could do nothing but cling
to me, and entreat me to take her away from Rushmere.

Remembering my own experience, I readily promised her that she should
not sleep another night in the house if she did not desire it. Soothed
by my words, she gradually calmed down, and was at last able to relate
the circumstance which had so terrified her.

“Did you sleep in my room last night, dear Arthur?” she asked,
curiously.

“I did not. But since you awoke, you surely must have been aware of my
absence.”

“I know nothing, and remember nothing, except the awful horror that
overpowered me. I had gone to sleep very happy last night, and none of
my silly fears, as you have called them, ever entered my head. Indeed,
I think I was in the midst of some pleasant dream, when I was awakened
by the sound of a low sobbing by the bedside. Oh, such a strange,
unearthly sobbing” (with a shudder). “I thought at first it must be
poor little Cissy, who had been frightened again, and I put out my
hand to her, saying,--

“‘Don’t be afraid, dear. I am here.’

“Directly, a hand was placed in mine--a cold, damp hand, with a
deathlike, clayey feel about it that made me tremble. I knew at once
it was not the child’s hand, and I started up in bed, exclaiming,--

“‘Who are you?’

“The room was quite dark, for I had pinned my shawl across the blind
to keep the moon out of my eyes before I went to bed, and I could
distinguish nothing. Yet still the cold, damp hand clung to mine, and
seemed to strike the chill of death into my very bones. When I said,
‘Who are you?’ something replied to me. I cannot say it was a voice.
It was more like some one hissing at me through closed teeth, but I
could distinguish the name ‘Emily.’

“I was so frightened, Arthur, I did not know what to do. I wrenched my
hand away from the dead hand. You were not there, and I called out
loudly. I would have leaped out of bed, but that I heard the creeping
footsteps, accompanied by the sobbing breath, go round the room,
crying, ‘Father, father!’

“My blood seemed to curdle in my veins. I could not stir until it was
gone. I heard it leave the room distinctly, although the door was
never opened, and walk upon the landing as though to go downstairs. I
was still sitting up in bed listening--listening--only waiting till
the dreadful thing had quite gone away, to seek your presence, when I
heard a heavy step clumping downstairs, then the report of a gun. I
don’t know _what_ I thought. I remember nothing that followed; but I
suppose I jumped out of bed with the intention of finding you, and
fainted before I could reach the dressing-room. Oh, Arthur! what was
it? What is it that haunts this house, and makes even the sunshine
look as gloomy as night? Oh, take us away from it, or I am sure that
something terrible will happen!”

“I _will_ take you away from it, my dear. We will none of us sleep
another night beneath its roof. What curse hangs over it, I cannot
tell; but whether the strange sounds we have heard proceed from
natural or supernatural causes, they alike render Rushmere no home for
us. We will go to the hotel at ---- this very day, Janie, and deliver
up the keys of Rushmere again to Messrs. Quibble & Lye.”

I then related to her my own experience, and that of Dawson; and
though she trembled a little whilst listening to me, the idea of
leaving the place before nightfall rendered the heavy fear less
alarming than it would otherwise have been.

The servants, upon learning the resolution we had arrived at, were
only too ready to help us to carry it out. Our personal possessions
were packed in an incredibly short time, and we sat down that evening
to a comfortable family dinner in the good old-fashioned inn at ----.
As soon as the meal was concluded, and the children sent to bed, I
said to my wife,--

“Janie, I am going to ring for the landlord, to see if he can throw
any light on the cause of our experiences. I never told you that, when
we came to this inn to try for a nurse to supply Mary’s place, he
informed me that nobody from his country-side would live at Rushmere;
and asked me, in a manner which assured me he could have said more if
he had chosen, if we had not heard anything whilst there. I laughed at
the question then, but I do not feel so disposed to laugh at it now;
and I am going to beg him to tell me all he may know. If nothing more,
his story may form the stratum of a curious psychological study. Would
you like to be present at our interview?”

“Oh yes, Arthur; I have quite recovered my nerves since I’ve lost
sight of Rushmere, and I feel even curious to learn all I can upon the
subject. That poor, sobbing voice that whispered ‘Emily’--I shall not
forget its sound to my dying day.”

“Ring the bell, dear, and let us ask if the landlord is at leisure. To
my mind, your experience of the details of this little tragedy appears
the most interesting of all.”

The landlord, a Mr. Browser, entered at once; and as soon as he heard
my request, made himself completely at home with us.

“After the little rebuff you gave me t’other day, I shouldn’t have
ventured to say nothing, sir; but when I see your family getting out
of the fly this afternoon, I says to Mrs. Browser, ‘If that don’t mean
that they can’t stand Rushmere another night, I’m a pumpkin.’ And I
suppose, now, it did mean it, sir?”

“You are quite right, Mr. Browser. The noises and voices about the
house have become so intolerable, that it is quite impossible I can
keep my family there. Still, I must tell you that, though I have been
unable to account for the disturbances, I do not necessarily believe
they are attributable to spirits. It is because I do not believe so
that I wish to hear all you may be able to tell us, in order, if
possible, to find a reason for what appears at present to be
unreasonable.”

“Well, sir, you shall hear, as you say, all we have to tell you, and
then you can believe what you like. But it ain’t I as can relate the
story, sir. Mrs. Browser knows a deal more than I do; and with your
leave, and that of this good lady here, I’ll call her to give you the
history of Rushmere.”

At this information, we displayed an amount of interest that resulted
in a hasty summons for Mrs. Browser. She was a fat, fair woman, of
middle age, with ruddy cheeks, and a clear blue eye--not at all like a
creature haunted by her own weak imagination, or who would be likely
to mistake a shadow for a substance. Her appearance inspired me with
confidence. I trusted that her relation might furnish me with some
clue to the solution of the occurrences that had so confounded us.
Safe out of the precincts of Rushmere, and with the lapse of twelve
hours since the unaccountable swoon I had been seized with, my
practical virtues were once more in the ascendant, and I was inclined
to attribute our fright to anything but association with the
marvellous.

“Be I to tell the story from the beginning, Browser?” was the first
sentence that dropped from Mrs. Browser’s lips.

Her lord and master nodded an affirmative, whereupon she began:--

“When the gentleman as built Rushmere for his own gratification, sir,
died, the house let well enough. But the place proved lonely, and
there was more than one attempt at robbery, and people grew tired of
taking it. And above all, the girls of the village began to refuse to
go to service there. Well, it had been standing empty for some months,
when a gentleman and his wife came to look after it. Browser and I--we
didn’t own this inn at that time, you will understand, sir, but kept a
general shop in the village, and were but poorly off altogether,
although we had the post-office at our place, and did the best
business thereabouts. The key of Rushmere used always to be left in
our keeping, too, and our boy would go up to show folks over the
house. Well, one damp autumn day--I mind the day as if ’twere
yesterday, for Browser had been ailing sadly with the rheumatics for
weeks past, and not able to lift his hand to his head--this gentleman
and lady, who went by the name of Greenslade, came for the keys of
Rushmere. I remember thinking Mr. Greenslade had a nasty, curious look
about his eyes, and that his wife seemed a poor, brow-beaten creature;
but that was no business of mine, and I sent Bill up with them to show
the house. They took it, and entered on possession at once; and then
came the difficulty about the servants. Not a soul would enter the
place at first. Then a girl or two tried it, and came away when their
month was up, saying the house was so lonesome, they couldn’t sleep at
nights, and the master was so queer-spoken and mannered, they were
afraid of him.”

“Don’t forget to say what he was used to do at nights,” here put in
the landlord.

“La, Browser, I’m a-coming to it. Everything in its time. Well, sir,
at last it came to this, that Mrs. Greenslade hadn’t a creature to
help her in anythink, and down she came to ask if I would go to them
for a few days. I stared; for there was the shop to be tended, and the
post-office looked after, and I hadn’t been used to odd jobs like
that. But my husband said that he could do all that was wanted in the
business; and we were very hard drove just then, and the lady offered
such liberal pay, he over-persuaded me to go, if only on trial. So I
put my pride in my pocket, and went out charing. I hadn’t been at
Rushmere many days, sir, before I found something was very wrong
there. Mr. Greenslade hardly ever spoke a word, but shut himself up in
a room all day, or went mooning about the fields and common, where he
couldn’t meet a soul; and as for the poor lady, la! my heart bled for
her, she seemed so wretched and broken-down and hopeless. I used often
to say to her--

“‘Now, ma’am, do let me cook you a bit of something nice, for you’ve
eaten nothing since yesterday, and you’ll bring yourself down to
death’s door at this rate.’

“And she’d answer,--

“‘No, thank you, Mrs. Browser: I couldn’t touch it. I feel sometimes
as if I’d never care to eat or drink again.’

“And Mr. Greenslade, he was just as bad. They didn’t eat enough to
keep a well-grown child between the two of them.”

“What-aged people were they?” I asked.

“Well, sir, I can hardly say; they weren’t young nor yet old. Mr.
Greenslade, he may have been about fifty, and his lady a year or two
younger; but I never took much count of that. But the gentleman looked
much the oldest of the two, by reason of a stoop in his shoulders and
a constant cough that seemed to tear his chest to pieces. I’ve known
him shut himself up in the parlour the whole night long, coughing away
fit to keep the whole house awake. And his breathing, sir--you could
hear it half a mile off.”

“He was _assmatical_, poor man! that’s where it was,” interposed Mr.
Browser.

“Well, I don’t know what his complaint was called, Browser; but he
made noise enough over it to wake the dead. But don’t you go
interrupting me no more after that fashion, or the gentleman and lady
will never understand the half of my story, and I’m just coming to the
cream of it.”

“I assure you we are deeply interested in what you are telling us,” I
said, politely.

“It’s very good of you to compliment me, sir, but I expect it will
make matters clearer to you by-and-by. You’re not the first tenants of
Rushmere I’ve had to tell this tale to, I can tell you, and you won’t
be the last, either. One night, when I couldn’t sleep for his nasty
cough, and lay awake, wishing to goodness he’d go to bed like a
Christian, I made sure I heard footsteps in the hall, a-creeping and
a-creeping about like, as though some one was feeling their way round
the house. ‘It can’t be the mistress,’ I thought, ‘and maybe it’s
robbers, as have little idea the master’s shut up in the study.’ So I
opened the door quickly, but I could see nothing.”

“Exactly my own experience,” I exclaimed.

“Ah, sir, maybe; but they weren’t the same footsteps, poor dear. I
wish they had been, and she had the same power to tread now she had
then. The hall was empty; but at the same time I heard the master
groaning and cursing most awful in the parlour, and I went into my own
room again, that I mightn’t listen to his wicked oaths and words. I
always hated and distrusted that man from the beginning. The next day
I mentioned I had heard footsteps, before ’em both, and the rage Mr.
Greenslade put himself into was terrible. He said no robbers had
better break into his house, or he’d shoot them dead as dogs.
Afterwards his wife came to me and asked me what sort of footsteps
they seemed; and when I told her, she cried upon my neck, and begged
me if I ever heard a woman’s step to say nothing of it to her husband.

“‘A woman’s step, ma’am,’ I replied; ‘why, what woman would dare break
into a house?’

“But she only cried the more, and held her tongue.

“But that evening I heard their voices loud in the parlour, and there
was a regular dispute between them.

“‘If ever she could come, Henry,’ Mrs. Greenslade said, ‘promise me
you won’t speak to her unless you can say words of pity or of
comfort.’

“‘Pity!’ he yelled, ‘what pity has she had for me? If ever she or any
emissary of hers should dare to set foot upon these premises, I shall
treat them as house-breakers, and shoot them down like dogs.’

“‘Oh no! Henry, no!’ screamed the poor woman; ‘think who she is. Think
of her youth, her temptation, and forgive her.’

“‘I’ll never forgive her--I’ll never own her,’ the wretch answered
loudly; ‘but I’ll treat her, or any of the cursed crew she associates
with, as I would treat strangers who forced their way in to rob me by
night. ’Twill be an evil day for them when they attempt to set foot in
my house.’

“Well, sir, I must cut this long story short, or you and your good
lady will never get to bed to-night.

“The conversation I had overheard made me feel very uncomfortable, and
I was certain some great misfortune or disgrace had happened to the
parties I was serving; but I didn’t let it rest upon my mind, till a
few nights after, when I was wakened up by the same sound of creeping
footsteps along the passage. As I sat up in bed and listened to them,
I heard the master leave the parlour and go upstairs. At the same
moment something crouched beside my door, and tried to turn the
handle; but it was locked, and wouldn’t open. I felt very uneasy. I
knew my door stood in the shadow, and that whoever crouched there must
have been hidden from Mr. Greenslade as he walked across the hall.
Presently I heard his footsteps coming downstairs again, as though he
had forgotten something. He used to wear such thick boots, sir, you
might hear his step all over the house. His loaded gun always stood on
the first landing; when he reached there he stopped, I suppose it was
his bad angel made him stop. Anyway, there was a low cry of ‘Father,
father!’--a rush, the report of the gun, a low groan, and then all was
still.

“La! sir, I trembled so in my bed, you might have seen it shake under
me.”

“I’ve seen it shake under you many a time,” said Browser.

“Perhaps you would like to tell the lady and gentleman my exact
weight, though I don’t see what that’s got to do with the story,”
replied his better half, majestically.

“I don’t think I should ever have had the courage to leave my room,
sir, unless I had heard my poor mistress fly down the staircase, with
a loud scream. Then I got up, and joined her. Oh, it was an awful
sight! There, stretched on the floorcloth, lay the dead body of a
young girl; and my mistress had fainted dead away across her, and was
covered with the blood that was pouring from a great hole in her
forehead. On the landing stood my master, white as a sheet, and
shaking like an aspen leaf.

“‘So, this is your doing!’ I cried, angrily. ‘You’re a nice man to
have charge of a gun. Do you see what you’ve done? Killed a poor girl
in mistake for a robber, and nearly killed your wife into the bargain.
Who is this poor murdered young creature? Do you know her?’

“‘Know her!’ he repeated, with a groan. ‘Woman, don’t torture me with
your questions. _She is my own daughter!_’

“He rushed upstairs as he spoke, and I was in a nice quandry, left
alone with the two unconscious women. When my poor mistress woke up
again, she wanted me to fetch a doctor; but it would have been of no
use. She was past all human help.

“We carried the corpse upstairs between us, and laid it gently on the
bed. I’ve often wondered since where the poor mother’s strength came
from, but it was lent her for the need. Then, sitting close to me for
the remainder of the night, she told me her story--how the poor girl
had led such an unhappy life with her harsh, ill-tempered father, that
she had been tempted into a foolish marriage by the first lover that
offered her affection and a peaceful home.

“‘I always hoped she would come back to us,’ said Mrs. Greenslade,
‘for her husband had deserted her, leaving her destitute; and yet,
although she knew how to enter the house unobserved, I dreaded her
doing so, because of her father’s bitter enmity. Only last night, Mrs.
Browser, I awoke from sleep, and fancied I heard a sobbing in my room.
I whispered, “Who is there?” And a voice replied “Emily!” But I
thought it was a dream. If I had known--if I had but known!’

“She lay so quiet and uncomplaining on my knee, only moving now and
then, that she frightened me; and when the morning broke, I tried to
shift her, and said,--

“‘Hadn’t I better go and see after the master, ma’am?’

“As I mentioned his name, I could see the shudder that ran through her
frame, but she motioned me away with her hand.

“I went upstairs to a room Mr. Greenslade called his dressing-room,
and where I guessed he’d gone; and you’ll never believe, sir, the
awful sight as met my eyes. I didn’t get over it for a month--did I,
Browser?”

“You haven’t got over it to this day, I’m sometimes thinking, missus.”

“That means I’m off my head; but if it wasn’t for my head, I wonder
where the business would go to. No, sir--if you’ll believe me, when I
entered the room, there was the old man dead as mutton, hanging from a
beam in the ceiling. I gave one shriek, and down I fell.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” cried Janie.

“Well, ma’am, when I came to again, all was confusion and misery. We
had the perlice in, and the crowner’s inquest, and there was such a
fuss, you never see. Some of Mrs. Greenslade’s friends came and
fetched her away; but I heard she didn’t live many months afterwards.
As for myself, I was only too glad to get back to the shop and my old
man, and the first words I said to him was,--

“‘No more charing for me.’

“And now, sir, if I may make so bold, what do you think of the story?”
demanded the landlord. “Can you put this and that together now?”

“It is marvellous,” I replied. “Your wife has simply repeated the
scene which we have heard enacted a dozen times in Rushmere. The
footsteps were a nightly occurrence.”

“I heard the voice!” exclaimed Janie, “and it whispered ‘_Emily_.’”

“The handle of my servant’s door was turned. The report of the gun was
as distinct as possible.”

“That is what everybody says as goes to Rushmere, sir. No one can
abide the place since that awful murder was committed there,” said
Mrs. Browser.

“And can you account for it in any way, sir?” demanded her husband,
slyly. “Do you think, now that you’ve heard the story, that the noises
are mortal, or that it’s the spirits of the dead that causes them?”

“I don’t know what to think, Browser. There is a theory that no
uttered sound is ever lost, but drifts as an eddying circle into
space, until in course of time it must be heard again. Thus our evil
words, too often accompanied by evil deeds, live for ever, to testify
against us in eternity. It may be that the Universal Father ordains
that some of His guilty children shall expurgate their crimes by
reacting them until they become sensible of their enormity; but this
can be but a matter for speculation. This story leaves us, as such
stories usually do, as perplexed as we were before. We cannot tell--we
probably never _shall_ tell--what irrefragable laws of the universe
these mysterious circumstances fulfil; but we know that spirit and
matter alike are in higher hands than ours; and, whilst nature cannot
help trembling when brought in contact with the supernatural, we have
no need to fear that it will ever be permitted to work us harm.”

This little analysis was evidently too much for Mr. and Mrs. Browser,
who, with a look of complete mystification on their countenances, rose
from their seats, and wished us respectfully good-night; leaving Janie
and me to evolve what theories we chose from the true story of the
Invisible Tenants of Rushmere.




 AMY’S LOVER.

It was five o’clock--five o’clock on a dull November afternoon--as
I, Elizabeth Lacy, the wretched companion of Lady Cunningham, of
Northampton Lodge, in the town of Rockledge, stood gazing from the
dining-room windows at the grey curtain of fog which was slowly but
surely rising between my vision and all outward things, and thinking
how like it was in colour and feeling and appearance to my own sad
life. I have said that I was the “wretched” companion of Lady
Cunningham: is it very ungrateful of me to have written down that
word? I think not; for if a wearisome seclusion and continual
servitude have power to make a young life miserable, mine had fairly
earned its title to be called so. I had withered in the cold and
dispiriting atmosphere of Northampton Lodge for four years past, and
had only been prevented rupturing my chains by the knowledge that I
had no alternative but to rush from one state of bondage to another.
To attend upon old ladies like an upper servant--to write their
letters, carry their shawls, and wait upon them as they moved from
room to room--this was to be my lot through life; and if I ever
dreamed that a brighter one might intervene, the vision was too faint
and idealistic to gild the stern realities which were no dreams.

I daresay there are plenty of people in this world more miserable than
I: indeed, I knew it for a fact even at the time of which I speak; and
the few friends I possessed were never tired of telling me that I was
better off than many, and that I should strive to look on the bright
side of things, and to thank heaven who had provided me with a safe
and respectable home, when I might have been upon the parish. Did not
Job have friends to console him in his trouble? Do not we all find in
the day of our distress that, whatever else fails, good advice is
always forthcoming? Well! perhaps I _was_ ungrateful: at all events, I
was young and headstrong, and good advice irritated and worried,
instead of making me any better. I knew that I was warmly clothed,
whilst beggars stood shivering at the corner of the streets, and that
beneath the care of Lady Cunningham no harm could happen to me, whilst
women younger than myself broke God’s holy laws to put bread in their
mouths. And yet, and yet, so perverse is human nature, and so perverse
was mine above all others, that, engaged on my monotonous round of
duty, I often envied the beggars their liberty and their rags; and
even sometimes wished that I had not been reared so honestly, and had
the courage to be less respectable and more free. Perhaps one reason
why my life chafed me so fearfully, was because I had not been brought
up to it. Five years before, I had been the child of parents in good
circumstances, and loved and made much of, as only daughters generally
are. My father, who held the comfortable living of Fairmead in
Dorsetshire, had always managed to keep up the household of a
gentleman, and my poor delicate mother and myself had enjoyed every
luxury consistent with our station in life. She had had her
flower-garden and her poultry and her pony-chair, and I my pets and my
piano and--my lover. Ah! as I stood at the wire-blinded windows of
Lady Cunningham’s dining-room that sad November afternoon, and
recalled these things, I knew by the pang which assailed me at the
thought of Bruce Armytage, which loss of them all had affected me
most. My father and mother, who from my youth up had so tenderly loved
and guarded me, were in their graves, and with them had vanished all
the luxuries and possessions of my early days. But though I stood
there a penniless orphan, with no joy in my present and very little
hope in my future, the tears had not rushed to my eyes until my memory
had rested on Bruce Armytage; and then they fell so thickly that they
nearly blinded me; for mingled with his memory came shame as well as
regret, and to a woman perhaps shame is the harder feeling of the two.
His conduct had been so very strange, so marvellously strange and
unaccountable to me, that to that day I had found no clue to it. When
he first came down and took lodgings in Fairmead--for the purpose of
studying to pass his examination for the law, he said--he had seemed
so very, very fond of me that our engagement followed on the avowal of
his love as a matter of course. But then his family interfered; they
thought, perhaps, that he ought to marry some one higher than myself,
though my father was a gentleman, and no man can be more; at any rate,
_his_ father wrote to say that Bruce was far too young (his age was
then just twenty) to fix upon his choice for life, and that no regular
engagement must be made between us until he returned from the two
years’ foreign tour he was about to make. My father and mother said
that old Mr. Armytage was right, and that in two years’ time, both I
and my lover would be better able to form an opinion on so serious a
matter. Bruce and I declared it was all nonsense, that fifty years of
separation could make no difference to us, and that what we felt then,
we should feel to our lives’ end. And they smiled, the old people,
whilst our young hearts were being tortured, and talked about the
evanescence of youthful feelings, whilst we drank our first draught of
this world’s bitterness. How seldom can old people sympathise with the
young! How soon they become accustomed to the cold neutral tints of
middle age, and forget even the appearance of the warm fires of youth
at which they lighted those passions which time has reduced to ashes!
It was so with my parents: they were not unkind, but they were
unsympathetic; they rather hoped, upon the whole, that I should forget
Bruce Armytage; and, in order to accomplish their end, they pretended
to believe it. But he went, with the most passionate protestations
upon his lips, that as soon as he returned to England, no earthly
power should keep us separate; and he never came back to me again! My
father and mother had died rather suddenly, and within a few months of
each other; our home had been broken up, and at the age of nineteen I
had been sent forth upon the world to earn my own living; and, at the
age of three-and-twenty, I was at the same trade, neither richer nor
poorer than at first, but with all my faith in the constancy and
honour of mankind broken and destroyed; for Bruce Armytage had never
found me out, or, as far as I knew, inquired after me. His family had
permitted me to leave Fairmead and enter on my solitary career without
a word of remonstrance or regret; since which time I had had no
communication with them, though at that period my pride would not have
forbidden my sending an account of my trouble to Bruce, believing that
he cared for me. Correspondence between us during his foreign tour had
been strictly prohibited, and I had no means of ascertaining his
address. For a while I had expected he would write or come to me; but
that hope had long died out, and the only feeling I had left for him
was contempt--contempt for his fickleness and vacillation, or the
pusillanimity which could permit him to give up the woman he had sworn
to marry because his father ordered him to do so. No! filial obedience
carries very little weight with the heart that is pitted against it;
and as I thought of it and him, I bit my lip, dashed my hand across my
eyes, and hoped the day might yet come when I should be able to show
Bruce Armytage how greatly I despised him.

At this juncture the housemaid came bustling into the room with a
little note for me--a dear little cocked-hat note--which seemed to
speak of something pleasant, and at the writer of which I had no need
to guess, for I had but one friend in Rockledge who ever sent such
notes to me.

“Waiting for an answer,” said the bearer curtly; and I tore it open
and devoured its contents.


 “Dear Lizzie,--I think you will be _very much_ surprised to hear
 that your little friend Amy is engaged to be married! However, it is
 quite true, although the business was only settled this morning; and
 the young gentleman has promised to spend the evening with us, and to
 bring a cousin whom he is anxious to introduce. Will you come and take
 tea with us also? The doctor has only just told me that Lady
 Cunningham dines out to-night, or I should have sent before. Do come,
 Lizzie. Amy is crazy to see you and tell you all her secrets, and you
 know that you are always sure of a welcome from your affectionate
 friend,

                                                “Mary Rodwell.”


The perusal of this little epistle threw me into a perfect whirl of
excitement and delight, which would have appeared extraordinary to any
one who had not been acquainted with the maddening monotony of my
daily existence. These Rodwells, the family of the good old doctor who
attended Lady Cunningham, were my only friends in Rockledge, the only
people with whom I ever caught a glimpse of a happy domestic life,
such as had been once my own. To spend the evening at their large,
old-fashioned house, which rang from basement to attic with the sound
of happy voices, was the only dissipation by which my days were ever
varied, and a relaxation all the more precious because, on account of
Lady Cunningham’s requirements, it came so rarely to me. And on the
afternoon in question, when I had allowed myself to become absorbed by
fanciful thought, the cordial and unexpected invitation warmed my
chilled spirits like a draught of generous wine. All things seemed
changed for me: I no longer saw the grey fog nor remembered my
mournful past, but in their stead pictured to myself the
brightly-lighted, crimson-curtained room at Dr. Rodwell’s house, and
heard the ringing laughter and merry jests of his many boys and girls.
In a moment I had shaken off my despondency--my eyes sparkled, my
heart beat: I was in a flutter of anticipation at the pleasure in
store for me.

“Is there any answer, miss?” demanded the housemaid, who had been
waiting whilst I read my note.

“Yes, yes; I will go, of course. Say I will be there in half-an-hour,”
I replied, for my evening, in consequence of Lady Cunningham’s
absence, was at my own disposal. “And, Mary, please bring me up a jug
of hot water; I am going to take tea with Mrs. Rodwell.”

“Well, I’m very glad of it, miss; it’s a shame you shouldn’t have a
holiday oftener than you do,” returned my sympathising hearer as she
departed with my answer.

I must say that, during my years of servitude, I had nothing to
complain of respecting the treatment I received from the hands of
servants. I have read of needy companions and governesses being
cruelly insulted and trampled on by their inferiors; I never was. From
the first they saw I was a gentlewoman, and to the last they treated
me as such.

With a hasty vote of thanks to Mary for her kind speech, I ran
upstairs to my own bedroom to make the few preparations needful for my
visit. I knew that Mrs. Rodwell would not desire me to dress; but to
arrange my hair anew with a blue ribbon woven in it, and to change my
dark merino body for a clear muslin Garibaldi, made me look fresh and
smart, without taking up too much of the precious time I had to spend
at her house. Besides, were there not to be some gentlemen present? At
that thought my mind reverted to the wonderful news of Amy’s
engagement, and I could scarcely proceed with my toilet for thinking
of it. Little Amy! younger by five years than myself, who had always
appeared so shy and modest and retiring--was it possible she could
have had a lover without my knowing it? And now to be actually
engaged! going to be married at her age! It almost seemed incredible,
until I remembered with a sudden sigh that I had been no older myself
when Bruce Armytage proposed to me, and had been able to keep my
secret very well until the necessity for doing so was over.

But I would not let such thoughts engross me now, for I had no wish to
carry a long face to Mrs. Rodwell’s house; and so I hurried on the
remainder of my things, and wrapping myself up warmly in a dark cloak,
hurried bravely out into the evening air. It was then six o’clock, and
the fog was denser than before; but what cared I for outer dullness
any longer? My imagination ran on before me, vividly picturing the
cheerful scene in which I should so soon mingle, and my feet tripped
after it joyous as my heart. I had not far to go, and my eagerness
shortened the way; so that in a few minutes, I was rapping at Dr.
Rodwell’s hall door and scraping my feet upon his scraper. How quickly
it was opened by little Amy herself! And what a mixture of
bashfulness, pleasure, and self-importance was in her blushing face as
I threw my arms around her neck and warmly congratulated her.

“Come upstairs, Lizzie,” she entreated in a whisper; “come up and take
off your things, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

We were soon in her own room--that cozy room in which she and her
younger sister Mattie slept, and which bore so many evidences of their
mother’s tender care and thought for them.

“And so you are really engaged to be married, Amy?” I exclaimed as the
door closed behind us. “That was a very astounding piece of
intelligence to me, who had never heard the faintest whisper of such a
thing before.”

“You forget you have not been near us for a month,” she answered,
laughing; “but the truth is, Lizzie, it was all so uncertain till this
morning that mamma said it would be very unwise to mention it to
anybody; so that you were the first recipient of the news, after all.”

“Well, I suppose I must be satisfied with that; and when did you meet
him, Amy?”

“Last month, up in London, while I was staying with my Aunt
Charlesworth.”

“And is it a settled thing, then?”

“Oh yes! His parents have consented, and are coming to Rockledge on
purpose to call on us. And--and--_he_ came down this morning to tell
papa; and I believe we are to be married in the spring.”

“So soon?” I ejaculated, thinking how easily some people’s courtships
ran.

“Yes,” replied Amy, blushing; “and he is here this evening, you know,
with his cousin, who is staying at Rockledge with him. He talked so
much about this cousin, but oh! he is not _half_ so nice-looking as
himself; and--and--I hope you will like him, Lizzie dear,” kissing me
affectionately as she spoke, “for I have told him so much about you.”

“I am sure I shall, Amy,” I replied as I returned her caress; we were
on the staircase at the time, descending to the dining-room. “I assure
you I am quite impatient to see your hero. By-the-bye, dear, what is
his name?”

“Armytage.” And then, seeing my blank look of amazement, she repeated
it--“Armytage. Have you never heard the name before? I think it’s such
a pretty one. Amy Armytage,” she whispered finally in my ear, as,
laughing merrily, she pushed me before her into the dining-room.

It was all done so suddenly that I had no time to think about it, for
before the echo of her words had died away, I was in the midst of the
family group, being warmly kissed by Mrs. Rodwell, and Mattie, and
Nelly, and Lotty, and shaken hands with by the dear, kind old doctor,
and his rough school-boys.

“Well, Lizzie dear,” exclaimed my motherly hostess, as she claimed me
for a second embrace, “this is quite an unexpected treat, to have you
here to-night; I thought we were never going to see you again. But you
look pale, my child; I am afraid you are kept too much in the house.
Doctor, what have you been about, not to take better care of Lizzie?
You should give her a tonic, or speak to Lady Cunningham on the
subject.”

But the good old doctor stuck both his fingers into his ears.

“Now, I’m not going to have any talk about pale looks or physic
bottles to-night,” he said; “the time for doctoring to-day is over.
Miss Lizzie, you just come and sit between Tom and me, and we’ll give
you something that will beat all the tonics that were ever invented.
Here, Mattie, pass the scones and oatcakes down this way, will you? If
you children think you are going to keep all the good things up at
your end of the table, you are very much mistaken,” and with no gentle
touch my hospitable friend nearly pulled me down into his own lap.

“Now, doctor!” exclaimed Mrs. Rodwell, with an affectation of
annoyance, “I will not have you treat my guests in this way. Lizzie
has come to see _me_, not _you_, and she sits by no side but mine.
Besides, you have not even given me time to introduce the gentlemen to
her. Lizzie, my dear, we must all be friends here this evening. Mr.
Bruce Armytage, Mr. Frederick Armytage--Miss Lacy. And now, doctor,
we’ll go to tea as soon as you please.”

I had known from the moment of my entering the room that there were
strangers in it, but I had not dared to glance their way. Amy’s
announcement of her lover’s name had come too unexpectedly to permit
me to form any fixed idea upon the subject, excepting that it was the
same as mine had borne, and yet, when Mrs. Rodwell repeated it with
the familiar prefix, strange to say, I seemed to hear it with no
second shock, but to have known the bitter truth all along.

Not so, however, Bruce Armytage; for Mrs. Rodwell’s introduction was
scarcely concluded before I heard his voice (unforgotten through the
lapse of years) exclaim, “Miss Lacy!” in a tone of surprise, which
could not but be patent to all.

Cold and pulseless as I had felt before, the mere tones of his voice
sent the blood rushing from my heart to my head, till the room and the
tea-table and the group of living figures swam before my dazzled eyes.
I felt my weakness, but I determined all the more that no one else
should guess at it, and mentally stamped upon my heart to make it
steady against the moment when its energies should be required.

“You have met Mr. Armytage before, Lizzie?” said Mrs. Rodwell, with a
pleasant astonishment.

Then I lifted my eyes and looked at him. Good God! What is the vital
force of this feeling, called love, which Thou hast given to us, far
oftener to prove a curse than a blessing, that after years of
separation, coldness, and neglect, it has the strength to spring up
again, warm and passionate as ever, at the sight of a face, the tone
of a voice, or the touch of a hand? Has nothing the power to trample
life out of it? Will it always revive when we think it most dead, and
turn its pale mutilated features up to the glare of day? Shall our
mortal dust, even when confined in the mould, stir and groan and
vainly strive to make itself heard, as the step of one whom we have
loved passes sorrowfully over the fresh grass beneath which we lie?

I lifted up my eyes, and looked upon Bruce Armytage, to be able to say
truly if I had met him before. Yes, it was he, but little altered
during our five years of separation, excepting that he had passed from
a boy to a man. He coloured vividly beneath my steady gaze; for a
moment I thought he was about to seize my hand, but my eyes forbade
him, and he shrank backward.

“Mr. Armytage and I _have_ met before,” I said, with a marvellous
quietness, in answer to Mrs. Rodwell’s previous question--“when I was
living in my old home at Fairmead; but that is so many years ago that
we are nothing but strangers to each other now.”

At these words any purpose which he might have entertained of claiming
me as an old acquaintance evidently died out of Bruce Armytage’s mind;
for, retreating a few paces, he bowed coldly to me, and took a seat,
where his proper place now was, by Amy’s side.

“Oh, not strangers, my dear--oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Rodwell, who had
taken my answer in its literal sense. “You must all be friends
together here, you know, if it is only for Amy’s sake. Mr. Frederick
Armytage, will you be so kind as to pass the muffins up this way?
Thank you! Now, Lizzie, my dear, you must make a good tea.”

I sat down between my host and hostess, triumphant on the subject of
the manner in which I had acquitted myself, and feeling strong enough
for any future trial; but before many minutes had elapsed I was
overtaken by a sickly and oppressive sensation for which I was quite
unable to account. The hot flush which had risen to my face whilst
speaking to Bruce Armytage died away, leaving a cold, leaden weight
upon my breast instead; my pulses ceased their quick leap and took to
trembling; the rich dainties which the doctor and his wife heaped upon
my plate nauseated me even to contemplate; and a whirring confusion
commenced in my head, which obliged me to rally all my forces before I
could answer a simple question. The noise and laughter of the
tea-table seemed to increase every minute; and if one might judge from
the incessant giggling of Amy, Mattie, Nelly, and Lotty, the two
gentlemen at the other end were making themselves very agreeable. I
tried to eat; I tried to force the buttered toast and plum cake and
rich preserves down my throat, but there was something there which
utterly prevented my swallowing them.

“Lizzie, my dear, are you not well?” inquired Mrs. Rodwell, presently.
The friendly interrogation saved me. I had just been relapsing into a
state of weakness which might have resulted in hysteria: her words
recalled me to myself. Should all the table know that I was grieving?
Or rather should he--he who had deserted me, and had forsworn himself,
who now sat by the side of his newly betrothed--guess that his
presence had the slightest power to affect me? Good heavens! where was
my pride? where the contempt which I had hoped to have an opportunity
of showing for him? I almost sprang from my chair at the thought.

“Not well, dear Mrs. Rodwell!” I exclaimed, speaking as fast and as
shrilly as people generally do under the circumstances; “why, what can
make you think so? I never felt better in my life. But, really, you do
so oppress me with good things that it is quite impossible I can do
justice to them all, and talk at the same time. No, doctor, not
another piece of cake. I couldn’t, really; thank you all the same. You
know there is a limit of all things, though you never seem to think so
where I am concerned.”

Whilst my voice thus rang out, harshly and unnaturally, across the
table, I felt the dark eyes of Bruce Armytage were regarding me from
the other end, and I wished I had the courage to stare him down, but I
had not. By-and-by, however, when he was again engaged in
conversation, I tried to let my eyes rove in his direction, as though
I were an uninterested hearer, but the moment that they reached him,
he raised his own as if by intuition, and my lids dropped again. I
hated myself for this indecision, though I felt it was but
nervousness, and that were we alone together but for five minutes I
should have strength of mind to look him in the face, and tell him
what I thought of his behaviour. As it was, however, it was a great
relief to me when the doctor gave the order to march, and the whole
party adjourned to the drawing-room. As soon as we had entered it, Amy
left her lover’s side and flew to mine.

“Oh, Lizzie,” she whispered as we sat in a corner together, “do tell
me what you think of him! I am dying to hear. Is he not very
handsome?”

“Very handsome,” I answered with closed lips.

“Much better looking than his cousin?”

“Yes, certainly; there is no comparison between them,” which was true,
inasmuch as Frederick Armytage, with his fair hair and blue eyes, was
a washed-out, sickly-looking creature by the side of his dark,
stalwart cousin Bruce.

“I knew you would say so, Lizzie; I was sure you would agree with me.
But just fancy your having met Bruce before! Where was it, and when?
I couldn’t ask you a lot of questions at tea-time, but you made me so
curious.”

“Amy,” I said suddenly, for I felt this was a subject on which she
must not be inquisitive, “when I knew Mr. Bruce Armytage, I was living
at home with my dear father and mother at Fairmead, and you must be
aware that an allusion to those days cannot be a pleasant allusion to
me. So, please, like a dear girl, don’t ask me any more questions
about it, or let me remember that I ever saw your friend before I met
him here to-night.”

“I won’t,” said Amy, submissively. “Poor, dear Lizzie!” and she
stroked my hand with her soft little palm.

“And do not mention me to him, either. Our acquaintance was but a
brief one: he can have no interest left in the matter.”

“Oh, but he has though, Lizzie,” with a shy upward glance. “He was
talking about you all tea-time; his cousin and I thought he would
never stop. He asked where you were, and what you were doing, and
seemed so sorry when I told him of Lady Cunningham, and what a cross
old thing she is, and said several times that he could not get over
the surprise of having met you here to-night.”

“Indeed! He has a more retentive memory than I have; you can tell him
so next time he speaks of me.” I answered so haughtily that little Amy
looked timidly up in my face, and I remembered suddenly that I was
speaking of her lover. “There is your mamma beckoning to you, Amy; and
Mattie and Tom are clearing away the chairs and tables. I suppose they
want a dance. Tell them I shall be charmed to play for them;” and
then, seeing that Bruce Armytage was crossing the room with a view to
seeking Amy, I quickly left my seat, and taking possession of the
music-stool, commenced to rattle off a polka. Soon they were all
busily engaged in dancing, and the noise occasioned by their feet and
voices almost prevented my hearing the conversation which Mrs.
Rodwell, who had taken up a station with her knitting close to the
piano, addressed to me.

“You were very much surprised to hear our news, Lizzie, I’m sure,” she
began, as she bent toward my ear.

“Very much surprised, Mrs. Rodwell--never more so.”

“Ah!” with a sigh, “dear Amy is full young--only eighteen last
October, you know, Lizzie; but I think she’ll be happy. I’m sure I
trust so. He is a very steady young man, and they are to live in
Rockledge, which is a great comfort to me.”

“In Rockledge!” Was I to undergo the pain of continual intercourse
with him, or the alternative of quitting my present situation? “Did I
hear you rightly, Mrs. Rodwell?”

“Yes, my dear. His papa, who appears to be a very pleasant old
gentleman, has decided to set him up in an office here, that Amy may
not be separated from her family. So thoughtful of him, Lizzie, is it
not?”

“Very!” I remembered the pleasant old gentleman’s conduct on a similar
occasion more immediately concerning myself, and could scarcely trust
my voice to answer her.

“You have heard that Mr. Armytage is in the law, have you not?” I
nodded my head; I had heard it. “A nice profession--so gentlemanly;
and he is a fine-looking young man too; don’t you think so? I have
heard that some people prefer his cousin’s looks to his; but beauty is
such a matter of taste, and Amy is quite satisfied on the subject. You
may stop playing now, my dear, for they have all done dancing. Nelly,
child, how hot you are! Come away at once from the draught of the
door.”

“A waltz, a waltz, Lizzie!” they all shouted as they surrounded the
piano.

“Perhaps Miss Lacy is tired,” suggested the deep voice of Bruce
Armytage. I had been going to plead for a brief respite, but at that
sound the desire for repose fled, and without a look in his direction
I returned to the instrument and began to play the dance they had
asked for. But I had not been so occupied long before I became aware
that some one amongst them continued to hover about the piano, and
felt by intuition that it was Bruce Armytage. At that discovery my
fingers flew faster and more gaily, and I regarded the notes before me
with a fixed smile, whilst, in order to keep up my courage, I kept
repeating to myself: “He deserted me: he left me for no fault of mine.
My father and mother died, and he never came near me in my sorrow. He
is fickle, base, dishonourable--unworthy of regard.” I tried to set
the notes of the waltz that I was playing to the words, “Fickle, base,
dishonourable!” but they refused to be so matched, and only seemed to
repeat instead, “I loved him, I loved him, I loved him!” and then a
blurred mist came before my eyes, and I had to play from memory; for
Bruce Armytage had taken up his station at the back of the piano and
was looking me full in the face.

“It is a long time since we met, Miss Lacy,” he remarked presently,
but in so low a voice that had my hearing not been sharpened by anger
at his daring to address me, I do not think I should have caught the
words.

“Do you think so?” I answered carelessly, for I felt that I must say
something.

“How can you ask? Have the last five years passed so pleasantly as to
leave no evidence of the flight of time?”

“Considering,” I replied, panting with indignation at what appeared to
me such thorough indifference to my feelings, “considering, Mr.
Armytage, that during the years you speak of, I have lost both my dear
parents, I should think you might have spared me the allusion.”

“Forgive me. I do not mean to wound you. But if the loss of your
parents is the only loss you have to regret during those five years,
you are happier than some, Miss Lacy. Death is natural, but there are
griefs (the loss of love and hope, for instance) almost too unnatural
to be borne.”

How dared he, how dared he--he who had treated me in so cruel and
unnatural a manner himself, who had but just plighted his faith afresh
to my friend--quietly stand there, looking me in the face with his
dark, searching eyes, and taunt me with the barrenness of the life
which he had made sterile? Much as I had loved him--much as I feared I
loved him still--I could have stood up at that moment and denounced
him to them all as a traitor and a coward. But I thought of Amy, dear
little innocent, confiding Amy, and I was silent.

“_I_ have not lost them,” I answered him, quietly. “Therefore I cannot
sympathise with your allusion. The death of my dear parents was more
than sufficient trouble for me; all else of solace that this world can
give me is mine.”

“Do you mean to tell me--” he commenced quickly.

“I mean to tell nothing,” I replied in the same cold tones. “I am not
in the habit of discussing my private affairs with strangers. Had you
not better go to Amy? I see that she is sitting out this dance.”

Upon which he gravely inclined his head in acquiescence, and left me
to myself.

“Lizzie, Lizzie, how fast you have been playing! We are all out of
breath,” exclaimed Mattie, as she and Tom danced up to my side. “Get
up, there’s a good girl, and let me take your place; we are going to
have a game of ‘Magical Music.’ Tom, will you go out first? That’s
right; now, girls, what shall we hide? Oh, papa’s keys; they will do,
and then, if he wants them, he will take quite an interest in coming
and joining in the game himself.”

I resigned my seat, and stole a hasty glance at the other end of the
room. Mrs. Rodwell was busily engaged upon her knitting, and Bruce was
sitting on an ottoman close by Amy’s side; so, gasping for fresh air
and one moment’s solitude, and unperceived by the laughing group of
children, I left the apartment and ran hastily up to the bedroom which
I had first entered. The gas was lighted there, and the fire burned
warmly on the hearth, but in my present state of feeling neither
warmth nor light was what I most desired. I felt as though I were
choking--as though, if no relief were at hand, I must scream aloud, or
dash my head against the wall, for my nerves were overstrung, and the
demon of hysteria was gaining strength with every minute, and I almost
feared would win the victory. But pride came to my assistance--that
mighty supporter of human weakness--and flying to the window, I raised
the sash and leaned my head out of it, drinking in deep draughts of
the foggy night air. And as I did so, watching the bustle in the
street below, and the calm stars in the sky above, I felt strength
return to me,--strength, not to avoid suffering, but to suffer in
patience. The tears rose to my eyes and fell quietly over my cheeks,
and as they fell they seemed to dissolve the hard, dry lump which had
settled in my throat and threatened to deprive me of breath. I thought
of Bruce Armytage as I had known him in the past, and my tears fell
fast for the loss I had sustained in him; but I thought of him also as
I saw him in the present, and pride and jealousy made me dash them
from my eyes, and resolve that if I died--yes, if I died of grief and
love and longing combined--he should never have the gratification of
knowing that I had retained one particle of my old affection for him.
With which intent I hurried on my walking things, determined not to
expose myself any longer to the danger of betrayal; but before I had
finished doing so, Mrs. Rodwell was in the room, all anxiety to know
what had occasioned my sudden absence.

“What is the matter, Lizzie? Did you feel the heat of the room? Why,
my dear child, you are never going! It is only just nine o’clock.”

“Yes, dear Mrs. Rodwell, I think I had better do so. Lady Cunningham
will not be late to-night, and you know how particular she is about my
being home before her. Please let me go.”

“Well, dear, it must not be so long again before we see you. We must
try and get up a few parties this winter, as it will be Amy’s last in
the home circle. And mind, Lizzie, you are to be one of her
bridesmaids; she insists upon it.”

“Ah! She is very kind, as you all are, but we will talk of that when
the time comes. Good-night, dear Mrs. Rodwell. Kiss the girls for me.
I won’t go into the drawing-room, such a figure as I am.”

But Mrs. Rodwell accompanied me down the stairs, conversing as she
went.

“I am sorry the doctor is from home, my dear; he would have seen you
round to Northampton Lodge; but he is never to be depended on from one
hour to another, you know.”

“Oh, it is of no consequence, Mrs. Rodwell; I am used to going alone.”

“But I don’t half like your doing it, Lizzie: the night is so very
dark, and--”

“Allow me to have the pleasure of accompanying Miss Lacy, Mrs.
Rodwell,” said the voice of Bruce Armytage. We had reached the
drawing-room floor by that time, and he stood on the threshold of the
open door.

“No, no!” I exclaimed, as I shrank backward; “I do not desire it--I
would rather go alone;” and with a hasty kiss on Mrs. Rodwell’s cheek,
I ran down the remaining stairs and out at the hall door. The wind was
blowing fresh and cold as I turned into the open air, and the night
was very dark, but I thought of nothing but his offer to accompany me,
and I hurried onward. Did he wish to add insult to injury?

But I had not gone far when I heard the sound of footsteps running
after me; and I had hardly realised it was indeed himself before he
was by my side, apologising for his presence by the excuse that Mrs.
Rodwell had desired him to overtake me and see me home. Would I
forgive what might otherwise seem an intrusion to me? I was too
indignant to vouchsafe him any answer.

We walked on in silence side by side for several minutes, I with my
head bent down and holding my thick cloak around me, and he vainly
endeavouring to look me in the face. At last, as though making a great
effort, he cleared his throat, and said,

“I suppose, after the manner in which you spoke to me at the piano
this evening, my pride ought to forbid my attempting any further
explanation with you, but in this case I have one feeling more
powerful than pride, Miss Lacy, and I must ask you what you meant by
saying that all that this world could give of solace was yours?”

“I meant what I said,” I answered abruptly, “or rather, that I require
no pity from you or any other stranger. Our paths in life are widely
enough divided now: let each walk in his own track, without
interfering with the other.”

“That is easier said than done, perhaps,” he replied; “it is difficult
in this world for people to forget what they have been.”

“It does not appear so to me.”

“Ah, perhaps you are differently, more happily, constituted than most.
They told me so long ago, though I did not believe them. Will you
consider an old friend impertinent for asking if that from which you
derive your solace now is the same from which you derived it then? and
if so, why I still find you unsettled in life?”

“You are speaking in riddles,” I replied. “I do not understand you.”

“Your present engagement--is it the same which separated us? Do not be
afraid to tell me the truth, Lizzie. I have borne a good deal in my
lifetime, and am proof against suffering.”

His voice was so tender and kind, so much like the voice which I
remembered in the old days of our love, that it won me to listen to
him quietly.

“My engagement!” I echoed in surprise. “What are you talking of? I
have never been engaged--never since”--and then I halted, fearing what
my revelation might suggest to him.

“What do you tell me?” he exclaimed. “What object have you in
deceiving me? Were you not engaged, even before your parents’ death,
to young Hassell, of Fairmead, and was it not by his father’s means
that your present situation was procured for you? I little thought to
meet you here,” he added bitterly. “I imagined you were married long
ago, or I should have been more careful of my own feelings. And now
you are engaged for the third time! How easily life runs for some
people!”

“Who could have told you such a falsehood?” I said, turning to him.
“It is true that old Mr. Hassell stood my friend when I had not one in
the world, and that he found my present situation for me; but as to
being engaged to his son, why, he is a married man--he married my own
cousin.”

“Could the mistake have arisen so?” said Bruce Armytage, as he seized
my hand. “Oh, Lizzie, do not be angry; think what I have gone through!
When I returned home from that wretched foreign tour, during which I
was not allowed to correspond with you, the first news which I heard
from my own family was, that your father and mother had died some
eighteen months before, and that you were engaged to Robert Hassell,
and living with some old lady (no one could tell me where) until the
time for your marriage arrived. I would not believe them; I rushed
down to Fairmead myself to make inquiries, and reached there on the
very day of young Hassell’s wedding with Miss Lacy. Do you think I was
a coward not to stop and see the bride, believing her to be yourself?
Perhaps I was; but I flew from the spot as though I had been haunted;
and I suffered--ah, Lizzie, I cannot tell how much! It is so fearful,
so awful a thing to teach one’s self to believe the heart in which we
have trusted to be faithless and unworthy.”

“I know it,” I said in a low voice, which was nearly choked by my
tears.

“How I have lived since that time I can hardly tell you,” he continued
as he pressed my hand. (I knew it ought not to remain in his, but it
was so sweet to feel it there.) “I have had very little hope, or
peace, or happiness, though I have struggled on through it all, and
made myself a name in my profession. And then to meet you again
to-night so unexpectedly, still free, but promised to another, myself
and my love so evidently forgotten, and to feel that it has been but a
chance that separated us! Oh, Lizzie, it is almost harder than it was
at first.”

“I am not engaged,” I answered, sobbing; “you choose to take my words
at the piano as meaning so, but it was your mistake, not mine. I have
lived much in the manner you describe yourself to have done--not very
happily, perhaps, and finding my best relief in work. But I am glad to
have met you, Bruce--glad to have heard from your own lips what parted
us; and I thank you for this explanation, though it comes too late.”

“But why too late, my dearest?” he exclaimed joyfully. “Why, if you
are free to accept my hand, and can forgive all that has made us so
unhappy in the past, should we not bury our mutual trouble in mutual
love? Oh, Lizzie, say that you’ll be mine--say that you’ll be my own
wife, and help me to wipe out the remembrance of this miserable
mistake!”

I thought of Amy. I looked at him with astonishment; I recoiled from
him almost with disgust. Was I to accept happiness at the expense of
that of my dear friends, of the only creatures who had shown me any
affection during my long years of exile from him? Oh no. I would
rather perish in my solitude. The very fact that he could propose it
to me made him sink lower in my estimation.

“Bruce!” I exclaimed, “you must be mad, or I am mad so to tempt you
from your duty. Think of all your offer involves--of the distress, the
disappointment, the shame it would entail on those who have been more
than friends to me; and consider if it is likely I could be so
dishonourable to them as to take advantage of it.”

“I don’t understand you, my darling,” he said, with a puzzled look.

“Not understand?” I reiterated, in surprise, “when your engagement to
Amy Rodwell was only settled this morning, and the preliminaries for
your marriage are already being talked of! Would you break her heart
in the attempt to heal mine? Bruce, we must never see each other again
after this evening.”

“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!” he said, shaking his head, “we are playing at
dreadful cross-purposes. Did it never enter into your wise little pate
to inquire _which_ Mr. Armytage was going to marry Amy Rodwell? I can
assure you I have no desire or intention to risk getting a pistol-shot
through my heart for stepping into my cousin Frederick’s shoes.”

“And is it really--is it really, then, _Frederick_ whom she is going
to marry?” I exclaimed, breathless with the shock of this new
intelligence. “Oh, how can she?”

“It is indeed,” he answered, laughing. “Lizzie, did you seriously
think that it was I? Why, what a taste you must give me credit for, to
choose that pretty little piece of white-and-pink china, after having
had the chance of such a woman as yourself! And now, what is my
answer?”

What it was I leave for my readers to guess. Let those who have
thirsted until life’s blood lay as dry dust in their veins, thrust the
chalice of sparkling wine from their parched lips if they will: I am
not made of such stern stuff as that.




 LITTLE WHITE SOULS.

I am going to tell you a story which is as improbable an one as you
have ever heard. I do not expect anybody to believe it; yet it is
perfectly true. The ignorant and bigoted will read it to the end
perhaps, and then fling it down with the assertion that it is all
nonsense, and there is not one word of truth in it. The wiser and more
experienced may say it is very wonderful and incredible, but still
they know there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of
in their philosophy. But no one will credit it with a hearty,
uncompromising belief. And yet neither ridicule nor incredulity can
alter the fact that this is a true history of circumstances that
occurred but a few years since, and to persons who are living at the
present time.

The scene is laid in India, and to India, therefore, I must transplant
you in order that you may be introduced to the actors in this
veracious drama, premising that the names I give, not only of people
but of places, are all fictitious.

It is Christmas time in a single station on the frontiers of Bengal,
and a very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal Muftis find
it in consequence. For to be quartered in a single station means to be
compelled to associate with the same people day after day and month
after month and year after year; and to carry on that old quarrel with
Jones, or to listen to the cackle of Mrs. Robinson, or be bored with
the twaddle of Major Smith, without any hope of respite or escape, and
leaving the gentlemen out of the question, the ladies of the 145th
Bengal Muftis are not in the best frame of mind at the time my story
opens to spend the day of peace and goodwill towards men together.
Regimental ladies seldom are. They are quarrelsome and interfering,
and back-biting enough towards each other in an English garrison town,
but that is a trifle compared to the way in which they carry on in our
outlying stations in India. And yet, the ladies of the 145th Bengal
Muftis are not bad specimens of the sex, taken individually. It is
only when they come in contact that their Christian love and charity
make themselves conspicuous. Mrs. Dunstan, the wife of the Colonel, is
the most important of them all, and the most important personage, too,
in this little story of a misfortune that involved herself, therefore
let Mrs. Dunstan be the first to advance for inspection.

As we meet her, she is seated in a lounging chair in her own
drawing-room, at Mudlianah, with a decided look of discontent or
unhappiness upon her countenance. The scene around her would seem fair
enough in the eyes of those who were not condemned to live in it. Her
room is surrounded by a broad verandah, which is so covered by
creepers as to be a bower of greenery. Huge trumpet-shaped blossoms of
the most gorgeous hues of purple, scarlet and orange, hang in graceful
festoons about the windows and open doorways, whilst the starry
jessamine and Cape honeysuckle fill the air with sweetness. Beyond the
garden, which is laid out with much taste, though rather in a wild and
tangled style, owing to the luxuriance of the vegetation, lie a range
of snowy hills which appear quite close in the transparent atmosphere,
although in reality they are many miles away.

Mrs. Dunstan’s room is furnished, too, with every luxury as befits the
room of a colonel’s wife, even in an up country station. The chairs
and sofas are of carved ebony wood, and cane work from Benares; the
table is covered with flowers, books and fancy work; a handsome piano
stands in one corner; the floor is covered with coloured matting, and
in the verandah are scattered toys from various countries, a token
that this comfortable home does not lack the chief of married joys, a
child-angel in the house.

The mistress, too, is still young and still handsome, not wanting the
capacity for intellectual nor the health for physical enjoyment, there
must be some deeper reason than outward discomfort therefore for that
sad far-away look in her eyes and the pain which has knitted her brow.
Yes, “Mees Margie MacQueerk” (as she would style herself), has been
giving Mrs. Dunstan an hour of her company that morning, and as usual
left her trail behind her.

“Mees Margie” is a tall quaint, ill-favoured Scotchwoman on the wrong
side of fifty, who has come out to India to keep the house of her
brother, the doctor of the 145th. She is a rigid Presbyterian, with a
brogue as uncompromising as her doctrine and a judgment as hard as
nails. Never having been tempted to do anything wrong, she is
excessively virtuous, and has an eye like a hawk for the misdoings of
others; indeed she is so excellent a detective that she discovers the
sins before the sinners have quite made up their minds to commit them.
She is the detestation of the regiment, and the Colonel’s wife has
been compelled in consequence to show Miss MacQuirk more attention
than she would otherwise have done to make up for the neglect of the
others. For never does Miss Maggie pass half-an-hour without hinting
at a fresh peccadillo on the part of somebody else. She has a rooted
conviction that all soldiers are libertines, not fit to be trusted out
of sight of their wives or sisters, and if she has no new misdemeanour
to relate on the part of the masters, the servants are sure to come in
for their share of abuse, and so Miss Maggie MacQuirk manages to find
food for scandal all the year round. Ethel Dunstan ought to know her
foibles well enough to mistrust her by this time, and had the doctor’s
sister come in with some new story of young Freshfield’s flirting, on
Mr. Masterman’s card playing, she would have been as ready as ever to
laugh at the old Scotchwoman’s mountainous molehills, and to assure
her she was utterly mistaken. But Miss MacQuirk’s discourse this
morning had taken a different turn. She had talked exclusively of the
latest arrival in Mudlianah: lovely Mrs. Lawless, who has just
returned with her husband, Jack Lawless, from staff duty in the
northwest provinces, and how her beauty seemed to have addled the
heads of all the men of the 145th Bengal Muftis. And there was a great
deal of truth in Miss MacQuirk’s assertions, and that is what has made
them go home to the heart of Ethel Dunstan. We are all so ready to
believe anything that affects our own happiness.

“Deed, and it’s jeest freetful,” said Miss Margie, in her provincial
twang, “to see a set of dunderheeds tairned the wrang way for the sake
of a wee bit of a pasty face wi’ two beeg eyes in the meedle of it.
It’s eno’ to mak’ a God-fearing woman praise the Laird that has kept
her in the straight path. For I’ll no affairm that it’s by mee ain
doin’ that I can haud up my heed the day with the Queen o’ England
herself if need be.”

“But Mrs. Lawless is very, _very_ lovely--there cannot be two opinions
on that subject,” cried generous-hearted Mrs. Dunstan. “For my own
part I never saw a more beautiful face than hers, and my husband says
just the same thing.”

“Eh! I nae doot it! The Cairnal’s heed is tairned like all the rest o’
them. But he cannot ca’ it reet that men should rin after a leddy that
has a lawfu’ meeried husband of her ain.”

“But you have such strange notions, Miss MacQuirk. If a gentleman
shows a lady the least attention you call it ‘running after her.’ We
are like one family shut up in this little station by ourselves. If we
are not to be on friendly terms with each other, we are indeed to be
pitied.”

“Friendly tairms,” exclaimed Miss Margie. “Do you call it ‘friendly
tairms’ to be walking in the dairk with anither mon’s wife? An’ that’s
jeest what my gude brother saw yester e’en as he was comin’ hame fra’
mess.”

“What man! whose wife?” asked Ethel Dunstan, for once interested in
Miss MacQuirk’s scandal.

“Aye! I dinna ken the mon, but the leddy was Mrs. Lawless hersel’. And
her husband was at the mess the while, for Andrew left him at the
table, and he was comin’ home in the dark and he saw Mrs. Lawless in
her garden at the dead o’ neet walkin’ with a strange mon--a tall mon,
and stout, and not unlike the Cairnal, Andrew says.”

“What nonsense, Charlie was back from mess by eleven o’clock,” said
Mrs. Dunstan, with an air of annoyance. “When you repeat such stories,
Miss MacQuirk, be good enough to keep my husband’s name out of them,
or you may get into trouble.”

“Ah, well, Mrs. Dunstan, I only mentioned that it was like the
Cairnal. Doubtless he was at mess or at home the while. It was
half-past ten when Andrew retairned. But it is hairdly reet that Mrs.
Lawless should be walking in her gairden at that hour o’ neet and with
anither mon than her husband. I doot but one should infairm Mr.
Lawless of the caircumstance.”

“Well, I advise you not to be the one,” replied Ethel Dunstan, tartly.
“Jack Lawless is considered a fire-eater amongst men, and I don’t
think he would spare the woman even who tried to take away his wife’s
character.”

“Eh, Mrs. Doonstan, who talks of takin’ awa’ her character? I doot
it’s but little she’s got, puir thing, and it ’twould be a sin to rob
her of it. But it’s a terrible thing to see how gude luiks air rated
abuve guid deeds, and enough to mak’ all honest men thank the Laird
who has presairved them fra the wiles of the enemy. And now I’ll wish
you the gude mairnin’, Mrs. Doonstan, for I have several other calls
to pay before tiffin.”

And so the old scandal-monger had left the colonel’s wife in the
condition in which we found her.

Of course if there had been no more truth in it than in the generality
of Miss MacQuirk’s stories Ethel Dunstan would have laughed at and
forgotten it. But there is just sufficient probability of its being a
fact to give a colouring to the matter.

For Mrs. Lawless is not a woman that the most faithful husband in
creation could look at without some degree of interest, and Colonel
Dunstan being guileless of harm, has expressed his admiration of her
in the most open manner. She is a graceful, fairy-like creature, of
two or three-and-twenty, in the flush of youth and beauty, and yet
with sufficient knowledge of the world to render her the most charming
companion. She has a complexion like a rose leaf, a skin as white as
milk, large limpid hazel eyes, a pert nose, a coaxing mouth, and hair
of a sunny brown. Fancy such a woman alighting suddenly in an
out-of-the-way, dull, dried up little hole of a station like
Mudlianah, and in the midst of some twenty inflammable British
officers. You might as well have sent a mitrailleuse amongst them for
the amount of damage she did. They were all alight at the first view
of her, and hopelessly burned up before the week was over. She is
devoted to her Jack, and has in reality no eyes nor thoughts except
for him; but he has become a little used to her charms, after the
manner of husbands, and so she flirts with the rest of the regiment
indiscriminately, and sheds the light of her countenance on all alike,
from the Colonel downwards. The wives of the 145th Bengal Muftis have
received Mrs. Lawless but coldly. How can they look into her heart and
see how entirely it is devoted to her husband? All they see is her
lovely, smiling face, and contrasting it with their own less beautiful
and somewhat faded countenances, they imagine that no man can be proof
against her fascinations, and jealousy reigns supreme in the 145th
with regard to Cissy Lawless.

Ethel Dunstan has no need to fear a rival in her Colonel’s heart,
because she possesses every atom of his affection, and he has proved
it by years of devotion and fidelity, but when a woman is once jealous
of another, she forgets everything except the fear of present loss.
Colonel Dunstan is vexed when he comes in that morning from regimental
duty to find his wife pale and dispirited, still more so to hear the
tart replies she makes to all his tender questioning.

“Are you not well, my darling?” he asks.

“Quite well, thank you; at least as well as one can be in a hole like
Mudlianah. Charlie! where have you been this morning?”

“Been, dear! Why, to mess and barracks, to be sure! Where else should
I have been?”

“There are plenty of houses to call at, I suppose. What is the use of
pretending to be so dull? You made a call late last night, if I am not
much mistaken!”

“Last night! What, after mess? I only went home with Jack Lawless for
a minute or two.”

“Did you go home with Mr. Lawless?”

“Yes; at least--he didn’t walk home with me exactly; but he came in
soon afterwards.”

“Of course she was in bed?”

“Oh no, she wasn’t. She was as brisk as a bee. We talked together for
a long time.”

“So I have heard! In the garden,” remarks Mrs. Dunstan pointedly.

“Yes! Was there any harm in that?” replies her husband. “Our talk was
solely on business. Is anything the matter, Ethel, darling? You are
not at all like yourself this morning.”

But the only answer Mr. Dunstan gives him is indicated by her suddenly
rising and leaving the room. She is not the sort of woman to tell her
husband frankly what she feels. She thinks--and perhaps she is
right--that to openly touch so delicate a matter as a dereliction from
the path of marital duty, is to add fuel to the flame. But she suffers
terribly, and in her excited condition Colonel Dunstan’s open avowal
appears an aggravation of his offence.

“‘He is too noble to deceive me,’ she thinks, ‘and so he will take
refuge in apparent frankness. He confesses he admires her, and he will
tell me every time he goes there, and then he will say,--“How can you
suspect me of any wrong intention when I am so open with you?”’

“Business indeed! As if he could have any business with a doll like
Mrs. Lawless. It is shameful of her to flirt with married men in this
disgraceful way.”

Yet Mrs. Dunstan and Mrs. Lawless meet at the band that evening, and
smile and bow to and talk with one another as if they were the best
friends in the world; but the Colonel is prevented by duty from doing
more than arrive in time to take his wife home to dinner, and so
Ethel’s heart is for the while at rest. But during dinner a dreadful
blow falls upon her. A note is brought to the Colonel, which he reads
in silence and puts into the pocket of his white drill waistcoat.

“From Mr. Hazlewood, dear?” says Ethel interrogatively.

“No, my love, purely on business,” replies the Colonel, as he helps
himself to wine. But when the meal is concluded he walks into his
dressing-room, and re-appears in his mess uniform.

“Going to mess, Charlie?” exclaims his wife, in a tone of
disappointment.

“No, my darling--business! I may be late. Good-night!” and he kisses
her and walks out of the house.

“Business,” repeats Mrs. Dunstan emphatically; and as soon as his back
is turned, she is searching his suit of drill. Colonel Dunstan has not
been careful to conceal or destroy the note he received at dinner. It
is still in his waistcoat pocket. His wife tears it open and reads:--


 “Dear Colonel,--Do come over this evening if possible. I have had
 another letter, which you must see. I depend upon you for everything.
 You are the only friend I have in the world. Pray don’t fail me.--Ever
 yours gratefully,

                                                 “Cissy Lawless.”


“Cat!” cries Mrs. Dunstan indignantly, “deceitful, fawning,
hypocritical cat! This is the way she gets over the men--pretending to
each one that he is the only friend she has in the world--a married
woman, too! It’s disgusting! Miss MacQuirk is quite right, and some
one ought to tell poor Jack Lawless of the way she is carrying on. And
Charlie is as bad as she is! It was only to-day he told me as bold as
brass that that creature’s eyes are so innocent and guileless-looking
they reminded him of little Katie’s--and not ten minutes afterwards,
he said my new bonnet from England was a fright, and made me look as
yellow as a guinea. Oh! what is this world coming to, and where will
such wickedness end? I wish that I was dead and buried with poor
mamma.” And so Mrs. Dunstan cries herself to sleep, and when her
husband comes home and kisses her fondly as she lies upon the pillow,
he decides that she is feverish, and has not been looking well lately
and must require change, and remains awake for some time thinking how
he can best arrange to let her have it.

In the middle of that night, however, something occurs to occupy the
minds of both father and mother to the exclusion of everything else.
Little Katie, their only child, a beautiful little girl of three years
old, is taken suddenly and dangerously ill with one of those violent
disorders that annually decimate our British possessions in the east.
The whole household is roused--Dr. MacQuirk summoned from his bed--and
for some hours the parents hang in mental terror over the baby’s cot,
fearing every minute lest their treasure should be taken from them.
But the crisis passes. Little Katie is weak but out of danger, and
then the consideration arises what is the best thing to facilitate her
recovery. Dr. MacQuirk lets a day or two pass to allow the child to
gain a little strength, and then he tells the Colonel emphatically
that she must be sent away at once--to England if possible--or he will
not answer for her life. This announcement is a sad blow to Colonel
Dunstan, but he knows it is imperative, and prepares to break the news
to his wife.

“Ethel, my dear, I am sorry to tell you that MacQuirk considers it
quite necessary that Katie should leave Mudlianah for change of air,
and he wishes her, if possible, to go to England at once.”

“But it is _not_ possible, Charlie. We could never consent to send the
child home alone, and you cannot get leave again so soon. Surely it is
not absolutely necessary she should go to England.”

“Not absolutely necessary, perhaps, but very advisable, not only for
Katie, but for yourself. You are not looking at all well, Ethel. Your
dispirited appearance worries me sadly, and in your condition you
should take every care of yourself. I hardly like to make the proposal
to you, but if you would consent to take Katie home to your sister’s,
say for a twelvemonth, I think it would do your own health a great
deal of good.”

But Colonel Dunstan’s allusion to her want of spirits has recalled all
her jealousy of Mrs. Lawless to Ethel’s mind, and the journey to
England finds no favour in her eyes.

“You want me to go away for a twelvemonth,” she says sharply, “and
pray what is to become of you meanwhile?”

“I must stay here. You know I cannot leave India.”

“You will stay with Mrs. ----, I mean with the regiment, whilst I go
home with the child.”

“Yes. What else can I do?”

“Then I shall _not_ go. I refuse to leave you.”

“Not even for Katie’s sake?”

“We will take her somewhere else. There are plenty of places in India
where we can go for change of air; and if you _cared_ for me, Charlie,
you would never contemplate such a thing as a whole year’s
separation.”

“Do you think I _like_ the idea, Ethel? What should I do left here all
by myself? I only proposed it for your sake and the child’s.”

“I will not go,” repeats Mrs. Dunstan, firmly, and she sends for Dr.
MacQuirk and has a long talk with him.

“Dr. MacQuirk, is it an absolute necessity that Katie should go to
England?”

“Not an absolute necessity, my dear leddy, but, from a mee-dical point
of view, advisable. And your own hee-alth also--”

“Bother my health!” she cries irreverently. “What is the nearest place
to which I could take the child for change?”

“You might take her to the Heels, Mrs. Doonstan--to the heels of
Mandalinati, which are very salubrious at this time of the year.”

“And how far off are they?”

“A matter of a coople of hundred miles. Ye canna get houses there, but
there is a cairs-tle on the broo’ o’ the Heel that ye may have for the
airsking.”

“A castle, that sounds most romantic? And whom must we ask, doctor?”

“The cairs-tle is the property of Rajah Mati Singh, and he bee-lt it
for his ain plee-sure, but he doesna’ ceer to leeve there, and so he
will lend it to any Europeans who weesh for a change to the Heels of
Mandalinati.”

“Rajah Mati Singh! That horrid man! There will be no chance of seeing
him, will there?”

“No, no, Mrs. Doonstan! the Rajah will not trouble ye! He never goes
near the cairs-tle noo, and ye will have the whoole place to yersel’
in peace and quietude.”

“I will speak to the colonel about it directly he comes in. Thank you
for your information, Dr. MacQuirk. If we must leave Mudlianah, I
shall be delighted to stay for a while at this romantic castle on the
brow of the hill.

“Yes,” she says to herself, when the doctor is gone, “we shall be
alone there, I and my Charlie, and it will seem like the dear old
honeymoon time, before we came to live amongst these horrid flirting
cats of women, and perhaps some of the old memories will come back to
him, and we shall be happy, foolish lovers again as we used to be long
ago before I was so miserable.”

But when Colonel Dunstan hears of the proposed visit to the
Mandalinati Hills, he does not seem to approve of it half so much as
he did of the voyage to England.

“I am not at all sure if the climate will suit you or the child,” he
says, “it is sometimes very raw and misty up on those hills. And then
it is very wild and lonely. I know the castle MacQuirk means--a great
straggling building standing quite by itself, and in a most exposed
position. I really think you will be much wiser to go to England,
Ethel.”

“Oh, Charlie! how unkind of you, and when you know the separation will
kill me!”

“It would be harder, just at first, but I should feel our trouble
would be repaid. But I shall always be in a fidget about you at
Mandalinati.”

“But, Charlie, what harm can happen when you are with us?”

“My dear girl, I can’t go with you to the castle.”

“Why not?”

“Because business will detain me here. How do you suppose I can leave
the regiment?”

“But you will come up very often to see us--every week at least; won’t
you, Charlie?”

“On a four days’ journey! Ethel, my dear, be reasonable. If you go to
Mandalinati, the most I can promise is to get a fortnight’s leave
after a time, and run up to see how you and the dear child are getting
on. But I don’t like your going, and I tell you so plainly. Suppose
you are taken ill before your time, or Katie has another attack, how
are you to get assistance up on those beastly hills? Think better of
it, Ethel, and decide on England. If you go, Captain Lewis says he
will send his wife at the same time, and you would be nice company for
each other on the way home.”

“Mrs. Lewis, indeed! an empty-headed noodle! Why, she would drive me
crazy before we were half-way there. No, Charlie; I am quite decided.
If _you_ cannot accompany me to England, I refuse to go. I shall get
the loan of the castle, and try what four weeks there will do for the
child.”

And thus it came to pass that Mrs. Dunstan’s absurd jealousy of Mrs.
Lawless drives her to spend that fatal month at the lonely castle on
the Mandalinati Hills, instead of going in peace and safety to her
native land. For a brief space Hope leads her to believe that she may
induce Mrs. Lawless to pass the time of exile with her. If her woman’s
wit can only induce the fatal beauty to become her guest, she will
bear the loss of Charlie’s society with equanimity. But though Cissy
Lawless seems for a moment almost to yield, she suddenly draws back,
to Mrs. Dunstan’s intense annoyance.

“The old castle on the hills!” she exclaimed. “Are you and Colonel
Dunstan really going there? How delightfully romantic! I believe no
end of murders have been committed there, and every room is haunted.
Oh, I should like to go, too, of all things in the world! I long to
see a real ghost, only you must promise never to leave us alone,
Colonel, for I should die of fright if I were left by myself.”

“But I shall not be there, I am sorry to say,” replies the colonel.
“My wife and Katie are going for change of air, but I must simmer
meanwhile at Mudlianah.”

Pretty Cissy Lawless looks decidedly dumfoundered, and begins to back
out of her consent immediately. “I pity you,” she answers, “and I pity
myself too, for I expect we shall have to simmer together. I should
like it of all things, as I said before, but Jack would never let me
leave him. He is such a dear, useless body without me. Besides, as you
know, colonel, I have business to keep me in Mudlianah.”

Business again! Ethel turns away in disgust; but it is with difficulty
she can keep the tears from rushing to her eyes. However, there is no
help for it, and she must go. Her child is very dear to her, and at
all risks it requires mountain air. She must leave her colonel to take
his chance in the plains below--only as he puts her and the child into
the transit that is to convey them to the hills, and bids her farewell
with a very honest falter in his voice he feels her hot tears upon his
cheek.

“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, be true to me! Think how I have loved you. I am
so very miserable.”

“Miserable, my love, and for this short parting? Come, Ethel, you must
be braver than this. It will not be long before we meet again,
remember.”

“And, till then, you will be careful, won’t you, Charlie, for my sake,
and think of me, and don’t go too much from home? and remember how
treacherous women are; and I am not beautiful, I know, my darling; I
never was, you know,” with a deep sob, “like--like Mrs. Lawless and
others. But I love you, Charlie, I love you with all my heart, and I
have always been faithful to you in thought as well as deed.” And so,
sobbing and incoherent, Ethel Dunstan drives away to the Mandalinati
Hills, whilst the good colonel stands where she left him, with a
puzzled look upon his honest sunburnt face.

“What does she mean?” he ponders, “by saying she is not beautiful like
Cissy Lawless, and telling me to remember how treacherous women are,
as if I didn’t know the jades. Is it possible Ethel can be
jealous--jealous of that poor, pretty little creature who is breaking
her heart about her Jack? No! that would be too ridiculous, and too
alarming into the bargain; for even if I can get the boy out of the
scrape, it is hardly a matter to trust to a woman’s discretion. Well,
well, I must do the best I can, and leave the rest to chance. Ethel to
be jealous! the woman I have devoted my life to! It would be too
absurd if anything the creatures do can possibly be called so.”

And then he walks off to breakfast with the Lawlesses, though his
heart is rather heavy, and his spirits are rather dull for several
days after his wife starts for the castle on the hill. Ethel, on the
other hand, gets on still worse than her husband. As she lies in her
transit, swaying about from side to side over the rough country roads,
she is haunted by the vision of Charlie walking about the garden till
the small hours of the morning, hand in hand with Cissy Lawless, with
a mind entirely oblivious of his poor wife and child, or indeed of
anything except his beautiful companion. Twenty times would she have
decided that she could bear the strain no longer, and given the order
to return to Mudlianah, had it not been for the warning conveyed in
the fretful wailing of her sickly child--his child--the blossom of
their mutual love. So, for Katie’s sake, poor Ethel keeps steadfastly
to her purpose, and soon real troubles take the place of imaginary
ones, and nearly efface their remembrance. She is well protected by a
retinue of native servants, and the country through which she travels
is a perfectly safe one; yet, as they reach the foot of the hills up
which they must climb to reach the celebrated castle, she is surprised
to hear that her nurse (or Dye), who has been with her since Katie’s
birth, refuses to proceed any further, and sends in her resignation.

“What do you mean, Dye?” demands her mistress with a natural vexation,
“you are going to leave Katie and me just as we require your services
most. What can you be thinking of? You, who have always professed to
be so fond of us both. Are you ill?”

“No, missus, I not ill, but I cannot go up the hill. That castle very
bad place, very cold and big, and bad people live there and many
noises come, and I want to go back to Mudlianah to my husband and
little children.”

“What nonsense, Dye! I didn’t think you were so foolish. Who has been
putting such nonsense into your head? The castle is a beautiful place,
and you will not feel at all cold with the warm clothes I have given
you, and we have come here to make Miss Katie well, you know, and you
will surely never leave her until she is quite strong again.”

But the native woman obstinately declares that she will not go on to
the Mandalinati hills, and it is only upon a promise of receiving
double pay that she at last complainingly consents to accompany her
mistress to the castle. Ethel has to suffer, however, for descending
to bribery, as before the ascent commences every servant in her employ
has bargained for higher wages, and unless she wishes to remain in the
plains she is compelled to comply with their demands. But she
determines to write and tell Charlie of their extortion by the first
opportunity, and hopes that the intelligence may bring him up,
brimming with indignation, to set her household in order. Her first
view of the castle, however, repays her for the trouble she has had in
getting there. She thinks she has seldom seen a building that strikes
her with such a sense of importance. It is formed of a species of
white stone that glistens like marble in the sunshine, and it is
situated on the brow of a jutting hill that renders it visible for
many miles round. The approach to it is composed of three terraces of
stone, each one surrounded by mountainous shrubs and hill-bearing
flowers, and Ethel wonders why the Rajah Mati Singh, having built
himself such a beautiful residence, should ever leave it for the use
of strangers. She understands very little of the native language, but
from a few words dropt here and there she gathers that the castle was
originally intended for a harem, and supposes the rajah’s wives found
the climate too cold for susceptible natures. If they disliked the
temperature as much as her native servants appear to do, it is no
wonder that they deserted the castle, for their groans and moans and
shakings of the head quite infect their mistress, and make her feel
more lonely and nervous than she would otherwise have done, although
she finds the house is so large that she can only occupy a small
portion of it. The dining hall, which is some forty feet square, is
approached by eight doors below, two on each side, whilst a gallery
runs round the top of it, supported by a stone balustrade, and
containing eight more doors to correspond with those on the ground
floor. These upper doors open into the sleeping chambers, which all
look out again upon open-air verandahs commanding an extensive view
over the hills and plains below. Mrs. Dunstan feels very dismal and
isolated as she sits down to her first meal in this splendid dining
hall, but after a few days she gets reconciled to the loneliness and
sits with Katie on the terraces and amongst the flowers all day long,
praying that the fresh breeze and mountain air may restore the roses
to her darling’s cheeks. One thing, however, she cannot make up her
mind to, and that is to sleep upstairs. All the chambers are
furnished, for the Rajah Mati Singh is a great ally of the British
throne, and keeps up this castle on purpose to ingratiate himself with
the English by lending it for their use; but Ethel has her bed brought
downstairs, and occupies two rooms that look out upon the moonlit
terraces. She cannot imagine why the natives are so averse to this
proceeding on her part. They gesticulate and chatter--all in Double
Dutch, as far as she is concerned--but she will have her own way, for
she feels less lonely when her apartments are all together. Her Dye
goes on her knees to entreat her mistress to sleep upstairs instead of
down; but Ethel is growing tired of all this demonstration about what
she knows nothing, and sharply bids her do as she is told. Yet, as the
days go on, there is something unsatisfactory--she cannot tell
what--about the whole affair. The servants are gloomy and
discontented, and huddle together in groups, whispering to one
another. The Dye is always crying and hugging the child, while she
drops mysterious hints about their never seeing Mudlianah again, which
make Ethel’s heart almost stop beating, as she thinks of native
insurrections and rebellions, and wonders if the servants mean to
murder her and Katie in revenge for having been forced to accompany
them to Mandalinati.

Meanwhile, some mysterious circumstances occur for which Mrs. Dunstan
cannot account. One day, as she is sitting at her solitary dinner with
two natives standing behind her chairs, she is startled by hearing a
sudden rushing wind, and, looking up, sees the eight doors in the
gallery open and slam again, apparently of their own accord, whilst
simultaneously the eight doors on the ground floor which were standing
open shut with a loud noise. Ethel looks round; the two natives are
green with fright; but she believes that it is only the wind, though
the evening is as calm as can be. She orders them to open the lower
doors again, and having done so, they have hardly returned to their
station behind her chair before the sixteen doors open and shut as
before. Mrs. Dunstan is now very angry; she believes the servants are
playing tricks upon her, and she is not the woman to permit such an
impertinence with impunity. She rises from table majestically and
leaves the room, but reflection shows her that the only thing she can
do is to write to her husband on the subject, for she is in the power
of her servants so long as she remains at the castle, where they
cannot be replaced.

She stays in the garden that evening, thinking over this occurrence
and its remedy, till long after her child has been put to bed--and as
she re-enters the castle she visits Katie’s room before she retires to
her own, and detects the Dye in the act of hanging up a large black
shawl across the window that looks out upon the terrace.

“What are you doing that for?” cries Ethel impetuously, her suspicions
ready to be aroused by anything, however trivial.

The woman stammers and stutters, and finally declares she cannot sleep
without a screen drawn before the window.

“Bad people’s coming and going at night here!” she says in
explanation, “and looking in at the window upon the child; and if they
touch missy she will die. Missus had better let me put up curtain to
keep them out. They can’t do me any harm. It is the child they come
for.”

“Bad people coming at night! What on earth do you mean, Dye? What
people come here but our own servants? If you go on talking such
nonsense to me I shall begin to think you drink too much arrack.”

“Missus, please!” replies the native with a deprecatory shrug of the
shoulders; “but Dye speaks the truth! A white woman walks on this
terrace every night looking for her child, and if she sees little
missy, she will take her away, and then you will blame poor Dye for
losing her. Better let me put up the curtain so that she can’t look in
at window.”

Ethel calls the woman some opprobrious epithet, but walks away
nevertheless, and lets her do as she will; only the next day she
writes a full account to Charlie of what she has gone through, and
tells him she thinks all the servants are going mad. In which opinion
he entirely agrees with her.


 “For ‘mad’ read ‘bad,’” he writes back again, “and I’m with you. There
 is no doubt upon the matter, my dear girl. The brutes don’t like the
 cold, and are playing tricks upon you to try and force you to return
 to the plains. It is a common thing in this country. Don’t give way to
 them, but tell them I’ll stop their pay all round if anything
 unpleasant happens again. I think now you must confess it would have
 been better to take my advice and try a trip home instead. However, as
 you are at Mandalinati, don’t come back until your object in going
 there is accomplished. I wish I could join you, but it is impossible
 just yet. Jack Lawless is obliged to go north on business, and I have
 promised to accompany him. Keep up a good heart, dearest, and don’t
 let those brutes think they have any power to annoy or frighten you.”


“Going north on business!” exclaims Ethel bitterly; “and she is going
too, I suppose; and Charlie can find time to go with them, though he
cannot come to me. Oh, it is too hard. It is more than any woman can
be expected to bear! I’m sure I wish I had gone to England instead.
Then I should at least have had my dear sister to tell my troubles to,
and he--he would have been free to flirt with that wretched woman as
much as ever he chose.”

And the poor wife lies in her bed that night too unhappy to sleep,
while she pictures her husband doing all sorts of dishonourable
things, instead of snoring as he really is in his own deserted couch.
Her room adjoins that in which the Dye is sleeping with her little
girl, and the door between them stands wide open. From where she lies,
Ethel can see part of the floor of Katie’s bedroom, from which the
moonlight is excluded in consequence of the great black shawl which
the nurse continues to pin nightly across the window-pane. Suddenly,
as she watches the shaded floor without thinking of it, a streak of
moonshine darts right athwart it, as if a corner of the curtain had
been raised. Always full of fears for her child, Ethel slips off her
own bed, and with noiseless, unslippered feet runs into the next room,
only in time to see part of a white dress upon the terrace as some
unseen hand hastily drops the shawl again. She crosses the floor, and
opening the window, looks out. Nobody is in sight. From end to end of
the broad terraces the moonlight lies undisturbed by any shadow,
though she fancies her ear can discern the rustling of a garment
sweeping the stone foundation. As she turns to the darkened chamber
again, she finds the Dye is sitting up, awake and trembling.

“Who raised that shawl just now, Dye? Tell me--I will know!” says Mrs.
Dunstan.

“Oh, mam! How can poor Dye tell? Perhaps it was the English lady come
to take my little missy! Oh! when shall we go back to Mudlianah and be
safe again?”

“English fiddlesticks! Don’t talk such rubbish to me. I am up to all
your tricks, but you won’t frighten me, and so you may tell the
others. And I shall not go back to Mudlianah one day sooner for
anything you may say or do--”

Yet Mrs. Ethel does not feel quite comfortable, even though her words
are so brave. But shortly afterwards her thoughts are turned into
another direction, whether agreeably or otherwise, we shall see. As
she is sitting at breakfast the next morning, a shouting of natives
and a commotion in the courtyard warns her of a new arrival. She
imagines it is her husband, and rushes to meet him. But, to her
surprise and chagrin, the figure that emerges from the transit is that
of Mrs. Lawless looking as lovely in her travelling dress and rumpled
hair as ever she did in the most extravagant _costume de bal_.

“Are you surprised to see me?” she cried, as she jumps to the ground.
“Well, my dear, you can hardly be more surprised than I am to find
myself here. But the fact is, Jack and the Colonel are off to Hoolabad
on business, so I thought I would take advantage of their absence to
pay you a visit. And I hope you are glad to see me?”

Of course Mrs. Dunstan says she _is_ glad, and in a measure her words
are true. She is glad to keep this fascinating wicked flirt under her
eye, where it is impossible she can tamper with the affections of her
beloved Charlie, and she is glad of her company and conversation,
which is as sociable and bright as a clever little woman can make it.
Mrs. Lawless is full of sympathy, too, with Mrs. Dunstan’s fears and
the bad behaviour of her servants, and being a very good linguist, she
promises to obtain all the information she can from them, and make
them fully understand their mistress’s intentions in return.

“It’s lucky I came, my dear,” she says brightly, “or they might have
made themselves still more offensive to you. But you have the dear
Colonel and Jack to thank for that, for I shouldn’t have left home if
they had not done so.”

“Ah, just as I imagined,” thinks Ethel, “she would not have left him
unless she had been obliged, and she has the impudence to tell me so
to my very face. However, she is here, and I must make the best of it,
and be thankful it has happened so.” And so she lays herself out to
please her guest in order to keep her by her as long as she possibly
can.

But a few days after Cissy’s arrival she receives a letter that
evidently discomposes her. She keeps on exclaiming, “How provoking,”
and “How annoying,” as she peruses it, and folds it up with an
unmistakable frown on her brow.

“What is the matter?” demands Ethel. “I hope it is not bad news.”

“Yes, it is very bad news. They have never gone after all, Mrs.
Dunstan, and Jack is so vexed I should have left Mudlianah before he
started.”

“But now you are here, you will not think of returning directly, I
hope,” says Ethel, in an anxious voice.

“Oh no, I suppose not--it would be so childish--that is, unless Jack
wishes me to do so. But I have hardly recovered from the effects of
the journey yet; those transits shake so abominably. No, I shall
certainly stay here for a few weeks, unless my husband orders me to
return.”

Yet Mrs. Lawless appears undecided and restless from that moment,
which Mrs. Dunstan ascribes entirely to her wish to return to
Mudlianah, and her flirtation with the Colonel, and the suspicion
makes her receive any allusions to such a contingency with marked
coolness. Cissy Lawless busies herself going amongst the natives and
talking with them about the late disturbances at the castle, and her
report is not satisfactory.

“Are you easily frightened, Mrs. Dunstan?” she asks her one day
suddenly.

“No, I think not. Why?”

“Because you must think me a fool if you like, but I am; and the
stories your servants have told me have made me quite nervous of
remaining at the castle.”

“A good excuse to leave me and go back to Mudlianah,” thinks Mrs.
Dunstan; and then she draws herself up stiffly, and says, “Indeed! You
must be very credulous if you believe what natives say. What may these
dreadful stories consist of?”

“Oh! I daresay you will turn them into ridicule, because, perhaps, you
don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Ghosts! I should think not, indeed. Who does?”

“I do, Mrs. Dunstan, and for the good reason that I have seen more
than one.”

“You have seen a spirit? What will you tell me next?”

“That I hope you never may, for it is not a pleasant sight. But that
has nothing to do with the present rumours. I find that your servants
are really frightened of remaining at the castle. They say there is
not a native in the villages round about who would enter it for love
or money, and that the reason the Rajah Mati Singh has deserted it is
on account of its reputation for being haunted.”

“Every one has heard of that,” replies Ethel, with a heightened
colour, “but no one believes it. Who should it be haunted by?”

“You know what a bad character the Rajah bears for cruelty and
oppression. They say he built this castle for a harem, and kidnapped a
beautiful English woman, a soldier’s daughter, and confined her here
for some years. But, finding one day that she had been attempting to
communicate with her own people, he had her most barbarously put to
death, with her child and the servants he suspected of conniving with
her. Then he established a native harem here, but was obliged to
remove it, for no infant born in the house ever lived. They say that
as soon as a child is born under this roof, the spirit of the white
woman appears to carry it away in place of her own. But the natives
declare that she is not satisfied with the souls of black children,
and that she will continue to appear until she has secured a white
child like the one that was murdered before her eyes. And your
servants assure me that she has been seen by several of them since
coming here, and they feel certain that she is waiting for your baby
to be born that she may carry it away.”

“What folly!” cries Mrs. Dunstan, whose cheeks have nevertheless grown
very red. “It’s all a _ruse_ in order to make me go home again. In the
first place, I should be ashamed to believe in such nonsense, and in
the second, I do not expect my baby to be born until I am back in
Mudlianah.”

“But accidents happen some times, you know, dear Mrs. Dunstan, and it
would be a terrible thing if you were taken ill up here. Don’t you
think, all things considered, it would be more prudent for you to go
home again?”

“No, I do not,” replied Mrs. Dunstan, decidedly. “I came here for my
child’s health, and I shall stay until it is re-established.”

“But you must feel so lonely by yourself.”

“I have plenty to do and to think of,” says Ethel, “and I never want
company whilst I am with my little Katie.”

She is determined to take neither pity nor advice from the woman who
is so anxious to join the Colonel again.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Mrs. Lawless, somewhat
timidly, “because it makes it easier for me to tell you that I am
afraid I must leave you. I daresay you will think me very foolish, but
I am too nervous to remain any longer at Mandalinati. I have not slept
a wink for the last three nights. I must go back to Jack.”

“Oh! you must go back to Jack!” repeats Mrs. Dunstan, with a sneer at
Mrs. Lawless. “I hate duplicity! Why can’t you tell the truth at
once?”

“Mrs. Dunstan! What do you mean?”

“I mean that I know why you are going back to Mudlianah as well as you
do yourself. It’s all very well to lay it upon ‘Jack,’ or this
ridiculous ghost; but you don’t deceive me. I have known your
treachery for a long time past. It is not ‘Jack’ you go back to
cantonment for--but my husband, and you are a bad, wicked woman.”

“For your husband!” cried Cissy Lawless, jumping to her feet. “How
dare you insult me in this manner! What have I ever done to make you
credit such an absurdity?”

“You may call it an absurdity, madam, if you choose, but I call it a
diabolical wickedness. Haven’t you made appointments with him, and
walked at night in the garden with him, and done all you could to make
him faithless to his poor, trusting wife? And you a married woman,
too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“Mrs. Dunstan, I will not stand this language any longer. I, flirt
with your husband--a man old enough to be my father! You must be out
of your senses! Why, he must be fifty if he’s a day!”

“He’s not fifty,” screams Ethel, in her rage. “He was only forty-two
last birth-day.”

“I don’t believe it. His hair is as grey as a badger. Flirt with the
Colonel, indeed. When I want to flirt I shall look for a younger and a
handsomer man than your husband, I can tell you.”

“You’d flirt with him if he were eighty, you bold, forward girl, and I
shall take good care to inform Mr. Lawless of the way you have been
carrying on with him.”

“I shall go down at once, and tell him myself. You don’t suppose I
would remain your guest after what has happened for an hour longer
than is absolutely necessary. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Dunstan,
and a civil tongue for the future.”

“Oh, of course, you’ll go to Mudlianah. I was quite prepared for that,
and an excellent excuse you have found to get back again. Good day,
madam, and the less we meet before you start the better. Grey haired,
indeed! Why, many men are grey at thirty, and I’ve often been told
that he used to be called ‘Handsome Charlie’ when he first joined the
service.”

But the wife’s indignant protests do not reach the ears of Cissy
Lawless, who retires to her own apartments and does not leave them
until she gets into the transit again and is rattled back to
Mudlianah. When she is fairly off there is no denying that Ethel feels
very lonely and very miserable. She is not so brave as she pretends to
be, and she is conscious that she has betrayed her jealous feelings in
a most unladylike manner, which will make Charlie very angry with her
when he comes to hear of it. So what between her rage and her despair,
she passes the afternoon and evening in a very hysterical condition of
weeping and moaning, and the excitement and fatigue, added to terror
at the stories she has heard, bring on the very calamity against which
Mrs. Lawless warned her. In the middle of the night she is compelled
by illness to summon her Dye to her assistance, and two frightened
women do their best to alarm each other still more, until with the
morning’s light a poor little baby is born into the world, who had no
business, strictly speaking, to have entered it till two months later,
and the preparations for whose advent are all down at Mudlianah. Poor
Ethel has only strength after the event to write a few faint lines in
pencil to Colonel Dunstan, telling him she is dying, and begging him
to come to her at once, and then to lie down in a state of utter
despair, which would assail most women under the circumstances. She
has not sufficient energy even to reprove the Dye, who laments over
the poor baby as if it were a doomed creature, and keeps starting
nervously, as night draws on again, at every shadow, as though she
expected to see the old gentleman at her elbow.

She wears out Ethel’s patience at last, for the young mother is
depressed and feeble and longs for sleep. So she orders the nurse to
lay her little infant on her arm, and to go into the next room as
usual and lie down beside Katie’s cot; and after some expostulation,
and many shakings of her head, the Dye complies with her mistress’s
request. For some time after she is left alone, Ethel lies awake, too
exhausted even to sleep, and as she does so, her mind is filled with
the stories she has heard, and she clasps her little fragile infant
closer to her bosom as she recalls the history of the poor murdered
mother, whose child was barbarously slaughtered before her eyes. But
she has too much faith in the teaching of her childhood quite to
credit such a marvellous story, and she composes herself by prayer and
holy thoughts until she sinks into a calm and dreamless slumber. When
she wakes some hours after, it is not suddenly, but as though some one
were pulling her back to consciousness. Slowly she realises her
situation, and feels that somebody, the Dye she supposes, is trying to
take the baby from her arms without disturbing her.

“Don’t take him from me, Dye,” she murmurs, sleepily; “he is so
good--he has not moved all night.”

But the gentle pressure still continues, and then Ethel opens her eyes
and sees not the Dye but a woman, tall and finely formed, and fair as
the day, with golden hair floating over her shoulders, and a wild, mad
look in her large blue eyes, who is quietly but forcibly taking the
baby from her. Already she has one bare arm under the child, and the
other over him--and her figure is bent forward, so that her beautiful
face is almost on a level with that of Mrs. Dunstan’s.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” exclaims Ethel in a voice of
breathless alarm, although she does not at once comprehend why she
should experience it. The woman makes no answer, but with her eyes
fixed on the child with a sort of wild triumph draws it steadily
towards her.

“Leave my baby alone! How dare you touch him?” cries Ethel, and then
she calls aloud, “Dye! Dye! come to me!”

But at the sound of her voice the woman draws the child hastily away,
and Ethel sees it reposing on her arm, whilst she slowly folds her
white robes about the little form, and hides it from view.

“Dye, Dye,” again screams the mother, and as the nurse rushes to her
assistance the spirit woman slowly fades away, with a smile of success
upon her lips.

“Bring a light. Quick,” cries Ethel. “The woman has been here; she has
stolen my baby. Oh, Dye, make haste; help me to get out of bed. I will
get it back again if I die in the attempt.”

The Dye runs for a lamp, and brings it to the bedside as Mrs. Dunstan
is attempting to leave it.

“Missus dreaming!” she exclaims quickly, as the light falls on the
pillow. “The baby is there--safe asleep. Missus get into bed again,
and cover up well, or she will catch cold!”

“Ah! my baby,” cries Ethel, hysterically, as she seizes the tiny
creature in her arms, “is he really there? Thank God! It was only a
dream. But, Dye, what is the matter with him, and why is he so stiff
and cold? He cannot--he cannot be--dead!”

Yes, it was true! It was not a dream after all. The white woman has
carried the soul of the white child away with her, and left nothing
but the senseless little body behind. As Ethel realises the extent of
her misfortune, and the means by which it has been perpetrated, she
sinks back upon her pillow in a state of utter unconsciousness.

 * * * * * *

When she once more becomes aware of all that is passing around her,
she finds her husband by her bedside, and Cissy Lawless acting the
part of the most devoted of nurses.

“It was so wrong of me to leave you, dear, in that hurried manner,”
she whispers one day when Mrs. Dunstan is convalescent, “but I was so
angry to think you could suspect me of flirting with your dear old
husband. I ought to have told you from the first what all those
meetings and letters meant, and I should have done so only they
involved the character of my darling Jack. The fact is, dear, my boy
got into a terrible scrape up country--and the Colonel says the less
we talk of it the better--however, it had something to do with that
horrid gambling that men will indulge in, and it very nearly lost Jack
his commission, and would have done so if it hadn’t been for the dear
Colonel. But he and I plotted and worked together till we got Jack out
of his scrape, and now we’re as happy as two kings; and you will be so
too, won’t you, dear Mrs. Dunstan, now that you are well again, and
know that your Charlie has flirted no more than yourself?”

“I have been terribly to blame,” replies poor Ethel. “I see that now,
and I have suffered for it too, bitterly.”

“We have all suffered, my darling,” says the Colonel, tenderly; “but
it may teach us a valuable lesson, never to believe that which we have
not proved.”

“And never to disbelieve that which we have not disproved,” retorts
Ethel. “If I had only been a little more credulous and a little less
boastful of my own courage, I might not have lived to see my child
torn from my arms by the spirit of the white woman.”

And whatever Ethel Dunstan believed or not, I have only, in concluding
her story, to reiterate my assertion that the circumstances of it are
_strictly true_.




 STILL WATERS.

I often wonder if when, as the Bible tells us, “the secrets of all
hearts shall be revealed,” they will be revealed to our
fellow-creatures as well as to the Almighty Judge of men.

I am not usually given to philosophise, but the above remark was drawn
from me by the receipt of a letter this morning from my niece, Justina
Trevor, announcing the death of her “dear friend,” Mrs. Benson, which
recalled the remembrance of an incident that took place a few months
since, whilst I was staying at Durham Hall, in Derbyshire, the estate
of her late husband, Sir Harry Trevor. I am an old bachelor, though
not so old as I look; yet when I confess that I write “General” before
my name, and have served most of my time in hot climates, it will
readily be believed that no one would take me for a chicken. It was
after an absence of fourteen years that, last November, I arrived in
England, and put up at an hotel near Covent Garden, which had been a
favourite resort of mine during my last stay in London. But I soon
found that I had made a great mistake, for the town was dark, damp,
dirty, deserted, detestable; in fact, no adjective, however long and
however strong, could convey an adequate idea of the impression made
upon me by a review of the great metropolis; and it was with a feeling
of intense relief that I perused a letter from my niece Justina, to
whom I had duly announced my advent, in which she insisted that her
“dear uncle” must spend his first Christmas in England nowhere but at
Durham Hall, with Sir Harry and herself. Now Justina, if not my only,
is certainly my nearest relative, and _I_ knew that _she_ knew that I
was an old fellow on the shady side of sixty-five, with a couple of
pounds or so laid by in the Oriental Bank, and with no one to leave
them to but herself or her children; but I was not going to let that
fact interfere with my prospects of present comfort; and so, ordering
my servant to repack my travelling cases, the next day but one saw us
_en route_ for Derbyshire.

It was evening when I arrived at Durham Hall, but even on a first view
I could not help being struck with the munificent manner in which all
the arrangements of the household seemed to be conducted, and
reflected with shame on the unworthy suspicion I had entertained
respecting those two pounds of mine in the Oriental Bank, which I now
felt would be but as a drop in the ocean to the display of wealth
which surrounded me. The hall was full of guests, assembled to enjoy
the hunting and shooting season, and to spend the coming Christmas,
and amongst them I heard several persons of title mentioned; but my
host and hostess paid as much attention to me as though I had been the
noblest there, and I felt gratified by the reception awarded me.

I found my niece but little altered, considering the number of years
which had elapsed since I had last seen her; her children were a fine,
blooming set of boys and girls, whilst her husband, both in appearance
and manners, far exceeded my expectations. For it so happened that I
had not seen Sir Harry Trevor before, my niece’s marriage having taken
place during my absence from England; but Justina had never ceased to
correspond with me, and from her letters I knew that the union had
been as happy as it was prosperous. But now that I met him I was more
than pleased, and voted his wife a most fortunate woman. Of unusual
height and muscular build, Sir Harry Trevor possessed one of those
fair, frank Saxon faces which look as if their owners had never known
trouble. His bright blue eyes shone with careless mirth and his yellow
beard curled about a mouth ever ready to smile in unison with the
outstretching of his friendly hand.

He was a specimen of a free, manly, and contented Englishman, who had
everything he could desire in this world, and was thankful for it. As
for Justina, she seemed perfectly to adore him; her eyes followed his
figure wherever it moved; she hung upon his words, and refused to stir
from home, even to take a drive or walk, unless he were by her side.

“I must congratulate you upon your husband,” I said to her, as we sat
together on the second day of my visit. “I think he is one of the
finest fellows I ever came across, and seems as good as he is
handsome.”

“Ah, he is, indeed!” she replied, with ready enthusiasm; “and you have
seen the least part of him, uncle. It would be impossible for me to
tell you how good he is in all things. We have been married now for
more than ten years, and during that time I have never had an unkind
word from him, nor do I believe he has ever kept a thought from me. He
is as open as the day, and could not keep a secret if he tried. Dear
fellow!” and something very like a tear twinkled in the wife’s eyes.

“Ay, ay,” I replied, “that’s right. I don’t know much about matrimony,
my dear, but if man and wife never have a secret from one another they
can’t go far wrong. And now perhaps you will enlighten me a little
about these guests of yours, for there is such a number of them that I
feel quite confused.”

Justina passed her hand across her eyes and laughed.

“Yes, that is dear Harry’s whim. He will fill the house at Christmas
from top to basement, and I let him have his way, though all my
visitors are not of my own choosing. With whom shall I commence,
uncle?”

We were sitting on a sofa together during the half hour before dinner,
and one by one the guests, amounting perhaps to fifteen or twenty,
came lounging into the drawing-room.

“Who, then, is that very handsome woman with the scarlet flower in her
hair?”

“Oh, do you call _her_ handsome?” (I could tell at once from the tone
of Justina’s voice that the owner of the scarlet flower was no
favourite of hers.) “That is Lady Amabel Scott, a cousin of Harry’s:
indeed, if she were not, she should never come into _my_ house. Now,
there’s a woman, uncle, whom I can’t bear--a forward, presuming,
flirting creature, with no desire on earth but to attract admiration.
Look how she’s dressed this evening--absurd, for a home party. I
wonder that her husband, Mr. Warden Scott (that is he looking over the
photograph book), can allow her to go on so! It is quite disgraceful.
I consider a flirting married woman one of the most dangerous members
of society.”

“But you can have no reason to fear her attacks,” I said, confidently.

The colour mounted to her face. My niece is not a pretty
woman--indeed, I had already wondered several times what made Trevor
fall in love with her--but this little touch of indignation improved
her.

“_Of course not!_ But Lady Amabel spares no one, and dear Harry is so
good-natured that he refuses to see how conspicuous she makes both him
and herself. I have tried to convince him of it several times, but he
is too kind to think evil of any one, and so I must be as patient as I
can till she goes. Thank Heaven, she does not spend her Christmas with
us! For my part, I can’t understand how one can see any beauty in a
woman with a turned-up nose.”

“Ho, ho!” I thought to myself; “this is where the shoe pinches, is it?
And if a lady will secure an uncommonly good-looking and agreeable man
all to herself, she must expect to see others attempt to share the
prize with her.”

Poor Justina! With as many blessings as one would think heart could
desire, she was not above poisoning her life’s happiness by a touch of
jealousy; and so I pitied her. It is a terrible foe with which to
contend.

“But this is but one off the list,” I continued, wishing to divert her
mind from the contemplation of Sir Harry’s cousin. “Who are those two
dark girls standing together at the side table? and who is that
quiet-looking little lady who has just entered with the tall man in
spectacles?”

“Oh, those--the girls--are the Misses Rushton; they are pretty, are
they not?--were considered quite the belles of last season--and the
old lady on the opposite side of the fireplace is their mother: their
father died some years since.”

“But the gentleman in spectacles? He looks quite a character.”

“Yes, and is considered so, but he is very good and awfully clever.
That is Professor Benson: you must know him and his wife too, the
‘quiet-looking little lady,’ as you called her just now. They are the
greatest friends I have in the world, and it was at their house that I
first met Harry. I am sure you would like Mary Benson, uncle; she is
shy, but has an immense deal in her, and is the kindest creature I
ever knew. You would get on capitally together. I must introduce you
to each other after dinner. And the professor and she are so
attached--quite a model couple, I can assure you.”

“Indeed! But whom have we here?” as the door was thrown open to admit
five gentlemen and two ladies.

“Lord and Lady Mowbray; Colonel Green and his son and daughter;
Captain Mackay and Mr. Cecil St. John,” whispered Lady Trevor, and as
she concluded dinner was announced, and our dialogue ended.

As the only persons in whom my niece had expressed much interest were
Lady Amabel Scott and Mrs. Benson, I took care to observe these two
ladies very narrowly during my leisure moments at the dinner-table,
and came to the conclusion that, so far as I could judge, her estimate
was not far wrong of either of them. Lady Amabel was a decided beauty,
notwithstanding the “turned-up nose” of which her hostess had spoken
so contemptuously: it was also pretty evident that she was a decided
flirt. During my lengthened career of five-and-sixty years, I had
always been credited with having a keen eye for the good points of a
woman or a horse; but seldom had I met with such vivid colouring, such
flashing eyes, and such bright speaking looks as now shone upon me
across the table from the cousin of Sir Harry Trevor. She was a lovely
blonde, in the heyday of her youth and beauty, and she used her power
unsparingly and without reserve. My observation quickened by what
Justina’s flash of jealousy had revealed, I now perceived, or thought
I perceived, that our host was by no means insensible to the
attractions of his fair guest, for, after conducting her in to dinner
and placing her by his side, he devoted every second not demanded by
the rights of hospitality to her amusement. Yet, Lady Amabel seemed
anything but desirous of engrossing his attention; on the contrary,
her arrows of wit flew far and wide, and her bright glances flashed
much in the same manner, some of their beams descending even upon me,
spite of my grey hairs and lack of acquaintanceship. One could easily
perceive that she was a universal favourite; but as Mr. Warden Scott
seemed quite satisfied with the state of affairs, and calmly enjoyed
his dinner, whilst his wife’s admirers, in their fervent admiration,
neglected to eat theirs, I could not see that any one had a right to
complain, and came to the conclusion that my niece, like many another
of her sex, had permitted jealousy to blind her judgment.

I felt still more convinced of this when I turned to the contemplation
of the other lady to whom she had directed my attention--the
professor’s wife, who was her dearest friend, and through whose means
she had first met Sir Harry Trevor. There was certainly nothing to
excite the evil passions of either man or woman in Mrs. Benson. Small
and insignificant in figure, she was not even pleasing in countenance;
indeed, I voted her altogether uninteresting, until she suddenly
raised two large brown eyes, soft as a spaniel’s and shy as a deer’s,
and regarded me. She dropped them again instantly, but as she did so I
observed that her lashes were long and dark, and looked the longer and
darker for resting on perfectly pallid cheeks. _Au reste_, Mrs. Benson
had not a feature that would repay the trouble of looking at twice,
and the plain, dark dress she wore still farther detracted from her
appearance. But she looked a good, quiet, harmless little thing, who,
if she really possessed the sense Lady Trevor attributed to her, might
prove a very valuable and worthy friend. But she was certainly not the
style of woman to cause any one a heartache, or to make a wife rue the
day she met her.

And indeed, when, dinner being over, we joined the ladies in the
drawing-room, and I saw her surrounded by my grand-nephews and nieces,
who seemed by one accord to have singled her out for persecution, I
thought she looked much more like a governess or some one in a
dependent situation than the most welcome guest at Durham Hall. Sir
Harry seemed pleased with her notice of his children, for he took a
seat by her side and entered into conversation with her, the first
time that I had seen him pay his wife’s friend so open a compliment.
Now I watched eagerly for the “great deal” that by Justina’s account
was “in her;” but I was disappointed, for she seemed disinclined for a
_tête-à-tête_, and after a few futile attempts to draw her out, I
was not surprised to see her host quit his position and wander after
Lady Amabel Scott into the back drawing-room, whither my niece’s eyes
followed him in a restless and uneasy manner.

“I promised to introduce you to Mrs. Benson, uncle,” she exclaimed, as
she perceived that I was watching her, and willy-nilly, I was taken
forcible possession of, and soon found myself occupying the chair left
vacant by Sir Harry.

“We can so very seldom persuade Mary to stay with us; and when she
does come, her visits are so brief that we are obliged to make a great
deal of them whilst they last,” was part of Justina’s introduction
speech; and on that hint I commenced to speak of the charms of the
country and my wonder that Mrs. Benson did not oftener take occasion
to enjoy them. But barely an answer, far less an idea, could I extract
from my niece’s valued friend. Mrs. Benson’s brown eyes were not once
raised to meet mine, and the replies which I forced from her lips came
in monosyllables. I tried another theme, but with no better success;
and had just decided that she was as stupid as she looked, when, to my
great relief, the professor arrived with a message from Lady Trevor,
and bore his wife off into another room.

Several days passed without bringing forth much incident. The
gentlemen spent most of their time in the shooting-covers or
hunting-field, and did not meet the ladies until evening re-assembled
them in the drawing-room; on which occasions I used to get as far as I
could from Lady Trevor and the professor’s wife, and in consequence
generally found myself in the vicinity of Sir Harry and Lady Amabel.
Yet, free and intimate as seemed their intercourse with one another,
and narrowly as, in Justina’s interest, I watched them, I could
perceive nothing in their conduct which was not justified by their
relationship, and treated it as a matter of the smallest consequence,
until one afternoon about a fortnight after my arrival at Durham Hall.

With the exception of Sir Harry himself, who had business to transact
with his bailiff, we had all been out shooting, and as, after a hard
day’s work, I was toiling up to my bedroom to dress for dinner, I had
occasion to pass the study appropriated to the master of the house,
and with a sudden desire to give him an account of our sport,
incontinently turned the handle of the door. As I did so I heard an
exclamation and the rustle of a woman’s dress, which were sufficient
to make me halt upon the threshold of the half-opened door, and ask if
I might enter.

“Come in, by all means,” exclaimed Sir Harry. He was lying back
indolently in his arm-chair beside a table strewn with books and
papers,--a little flushed, perhaps, but otherwise himself, and, to my
astonishment, quite alone. Yet I was positive that I had heard the
unmistakable sound of a woman’s dress sweeping the carpet.
Involuntarily I glanced around the room; but there was no egress.

Sir Harry caught my look of inquiry, and seemed annoyed. “What are you
staring at, Wilmer?” he demanded, in the curtest tone I had yet heard
from him.

“May I not glance round your den?” I replied courteously. “I have not
had the honour of seeing it before.”

Then I entered into a few details with him concerning the day’s sport
we had enjoyed; but I took care to be brief, for I saw that my
presence there displeased him, and I could not get the rustle of that
dress out of my mind. As I concluded, and with some remark upon the
lateness of the hour, turned to leave the room, a cough sounded from
behind a large Indian screen which stood in one corner. It was the
faintest, most subdued of coughs, but sufficiently tangible to be
sworn to; and as it fell upon my ear I could not help a change of
countenance.

“All right!” said my host, with affected nonchalance, as he rose and
almost backed me to the door. “We’ll have a talk over all this after
dinner, Wilmer; sorry I wasn’t with you; but, as you say, it’s late.
_Au revoir!_” and simultaneously the study door closed upon me.

I was very much startled and very much shocked. I had not a doubt that
I was correct in my surmise that Sir Harry had some visitor in his
room whom he had thought it necessary to conceal from me; and though
Hope suggested that it might have been his wife, Common Sense rose up
to refute so absurd an idea. Added to which, I had not traversed
twenty yards after leaving him before I met Justina attired in her
walking things, and just returning from a stroll round the garden.

“Is it very late, uncle?” she demanded, with a smile, as we
encountered one another. “I have been out with the children. Have you
seen Mary or Lady Amabel? I am afraid they will think I have neglected
them shamefully this afternoon.”

I answered her questions indifferently, thinking the while that she
had no occasion to blame herself for not having paid sufficient
attention to Lady Amabel Scott, for that it was she whom I had
surprised _tête-à-tête_ with Sir Harry Trevor, I had not a shadow
of doubt.

Well, I was not the one to judge them, nor to bring them to judgment;
but I thought very hard things of Sir Harry’s cousin during the
dressing hour, and pitied my poor niece, who must some day inevitably
learn that it was a true instinct which had made her shrink from her
beautiful guest. And during the evening which followed my discovery, I
turned with disgust from the lightning glances which darted from Lady
Amabel’s blue eyes, and the arch smile which helped to make them so
seductive. I could no longer think her beauty harmless: the red curves
of her mouth were cruel serpents in my mind; poisoned arrows flew from
her lips; there was no innocence left in look, or word, or action; and
I found myself turning with a sensation of relief to gaze at the
Quakerlike attire, the downcast eyes, and modest appearance of the
professor’s wife, whilst I inwardly blamed myself for having ever been
so foolish as to be gulled into believing that the flaunting beauty of
Lady Amabel Scott was superior to Mrs. Benson’s quiet graces.

I did not have much to say to Sir Harry Trevor during that evening:
indignation for his deception towards Justina made me disinclined to
speak to him, whilst he, for his part, seemed anxious to avoid me. For
a few days more all went on as usual: my host’s affability soon
returned, and every one, my niece included, appeared so smiling and
contented, that I almost began to think I must have been mistaken, and
that there could have been no real motive for concealing Lady Amabel
in Sir Harry’s room, except perhaps her own girlish love of fun. I
tried to think the best I could of both of them; and a day came but
too soon when I was thankful that I had so tried.

It was about a week after the little incident related above that Sir
Harry Trevor was shooting over his preserves, accompanied by his
guests. We had had a capital day’s sport and an excellent luncheon--at
which latter some of the ladies had condescended to join us--and were
beating the last cover preparatory to a return to Durham Hall, when
the report of a fire-arm was quickly followed by the news that Sir
Harry Trevor had been wounded.

I was separated from him by a couple of fields when I first heard of
the accident, but it did not take me long to reach his side, when I
perceived, to my horror, that he was fast bleeding to death, having
been shot through the lungs by the discharge of his own gun whilst
getting through the hedge. I had seen men die from gunshot wounds
received under various circumstances, and I felt sure that Sir Harry’s
hours were numbered; yet, of course, all that was possible was done at
once, and five minutes had not elapsed before messengers were flying
in all directions--one for the doctor, another for the carriage, a
third for cordials to support the sinking man; whilst I entreated Mr.
Warden Scott and several others to walk back to the Hall as though
nothing particular had happened, and try to prevent the immediate
circulation of the full extent of the bad news. Meanwhile, I remained
by the wounded man, who evidently suspected, by the sinking within
him, that he was dying.

“Wilmer!” he gasped, “old fellow, have I settled my hash?”

“I trust not, Sir Harry,” I commenced; but I suppose that my eyes
contradicted my words.

“Don’t say any more,” he replied, with difficulty. “My head a little
higher--thanks. I feel it will soon be over.”

And so he lay for a few moments, supported on my knee, with his fast
glazing eyes turned upward to the December sky, and his breath coming
in short, quick jerks.

The men who had remained with me seemed as though they could not
endure the sight of his sufferings; one or two gazed at him speechless
and almost as pale as himself; but the majority had turned away to
hide their feelings.

“Wilmer,” he whispered presently, but in a much fainter voice than
before, “it’s coming fast now;” and then, to my surprise, just as I
thought he was about to draw his last breath, he suddenly broke into
speech that was almost a sob--“Oh, if I could only have seen her
again! I wouldn’t mind it half so much if I could but have seen Pet
again! Call her, Wilmer; in God’s name, call her!--call Pet to
me--only once again--only once! Pet! Pet! Pet!” And with that name
upon his lips, each time uttered in a shorter and fainter voice, and
with a wild look of entreaty in his eyes, Sir Harry Trevor let his
head drop back heavily upon my knees and died.

When the doctor and the carriage arrived, the only thing left for us
to do was to convey the corpse of its master back to Durham Hall.

For the first few hours I was too much shocked by the suddenness of
the blow which had descended on us to have leisure to think of
anything else. In one moment the house of feasting had been turned
into the house of mourning; and frightened guests were looking into
each other’s faces, and wondering what would be the correct thing for
them to do. Of my poor niece I saw nothing. The medical man had
undertaken to break the news of her bereavement to her, and I confess
that I was sufficiently cowardly to shrink from encountering the
sorrow which I could do nothing to mitigate.

As I passed along the silent corridors (lately so full of mirth and
revelry) that evening, I met servants and travelling-cases at every
turn, by which I concluded, and rightly, that the Christmas guests
were about at once to take their departure; and on rising in the
morning, I found that, with the exception of Lady Amabel and Mr.
Warden Scott, who, as relatives of the deceased, intended to remain
until after the funeral, and the professor and Mrs. Benson, on whose
delicate frame the shock of Sir Harry’s death was said to have had
such an effect as to render her unfit for travelling, Durham Hall was
clear.

Lady Amabel had wept herself almost dry: her eyes were swollen, her
features disfigured, her whole appearance changed from the violence of
her grief, and every ten minutes she was ready to burst out afresh.

We had not been together half-an-hour on the following morning before
she was sobbing by my side, entreating me to give her every particular
of “poor dear Harry’s” death, and to say if there was anything she
could do for Justina or the children; and notwithstanding the
repugnance with which her conduct had inspired me, I could not repulse
her then. However she had sinned, the crime and its occasion were both
past--Sir Harry was laid out ready for his burial, and she was
grieving for him.

I am an old man, long past such follies myself, and I hope I am a
virtuous man; but all my virtue could not prevent my pitying Lady
Amabel in her distress, and affording her such comfort as was
possible. And so (a little curiosity still mingling with my
compassion) I related to her in detail, whilst I narrowly watched her
features, the last words which had been spoken by her cousin. But if
she guessed for whom that dying entreaty had been urged, she did not
betray herself.

“Poor fellow!” was her only remark as she wiped her streaming
eyes--“poor dear Harry! Used he to call Justina ‘Pet?’ I never heard
him do so.”

Whereupon I decided that Lady Amabel was too politic to be very
miserable, and that my pity had been wasted on her.

Of Mrs. Benson I saw nothing, but the professor talked about attending
the funeral, and therefore I concluded that my niece had invited them,
being such intimate friends, to remain for that ceremony.

On the afternoon of the same day I was told that Justina desired to
speak to me. I sought the room where she was sitting, with folded
hands and darkened windows, with nervous reluctance; but I need not
have dreaded a scene, for her grief was too great for outward show,
and I found her in a state which appeared to me unnaturally calm.

“Uncle,” she said, after a moment’s pause, during which we had
silently shaken hands, “will you take these keys and go down
into--into--his study for me, and bring up the desks and papers which
you will find in the escritoire? I do not like to send a servant.”

I took the keys which she extended to me, and, not able to trust
myself to answer, kissed her forehead and left the room again. As I
turned the handle of the study door I shuddered, the action so vividly
recalled to me the first and last occasion upon which I had done so.
The afternoon was now far advanced, and dusk was approaching: the
blinds of the study windows also were pulled down, which caused the
room to appear almost in darkness. As I groped my way toward the
escritoire I stumbled over some article lying across my path,
something which lay extended on the hearth-rug, and which even by that
feeble light I could discern was a prostrated body.

With my mind full of murderous accidents, I rushed to the window and
drew up the blind, when to my astonishment I found that the person
over whom I had nearly fallen was no other than poor little Mrs.
Benson, who was lying in a dead faint before the arm-chair. Fainting
women not being half so much in my line as wounded men, I felt quite
uncertain in this case how to act, and without considering how the
professor’s wife had come to be in the study or for what reason, my
first impulse was to ring for assistance. But a second thought, which
came I know not how or whence, made me lift the fragile, senseless
body in my arms and carry it outside the study door into the passage
before I called for help, which then I did lustily, and female
servants came and bore the poor “quiet-looking little lady” away to
her own apartments and the care of her husband, leaving me free to
execute the errand upon which I had been sent. Still, as I collected
the desk and papers required by my niece, I could not help reflecting
on the circumstance I have related as being a strange one, and could
only account for it in my own mind by the probable fact that Mrs.
Benson had required some book from the late Sir Harry’s shelves, and,
miscalculating her strength, had left her bedroom with the design of
fetching it, and failed before she could accomplish her purpose. I
heard several comments made on the occurrence, during the melancholy
meal which we now called “dinner,” by her husband and Lady Amabel
Scott, and they both agreed with me as to the probable reason of it;
and as soon as the cloth was removed the professor left us to spend
the evening with his wife, who was considered sufficiently ill to
require medical attendance.

We were a rather silent trio in the drawing-room--Lady Amabel, Mr.
Scott, and I--for ordinary occupations seemed forbidden, and every
topic harped back to the miserable accident which had left the hall
without a master. The servants with lengthened faces, as though
attending a funeral, had dumbly proffered us tea and coffee, and we
had drunk them without considering whether we required them, so
welcome seemed anything to do; and I was seriously considering whether
it would appear discourteous in me to leave the hall and return on the
day of the funeral, when a circumstance occurred which proved more
than sufficiently exciting for all of us.

I had taken the desk, papers, and keys, and delivered them into my
niece’s hands, and I had ventured at the same time to ask whether it
would not be a comfort to her to see Mrs. Benson or some other friend,
instead of sitting in utter loneliness and gloom. But Justina had
visibly shrunk from the proposal; more than that, she had begged me
not to renew it. “I sent for you, uncle,” she said, “because I needed
help, but don’t let any one make it a precedent for trying to see me.
I _couldn’t_ speak to any one: it would drive me mad. Leave me alone:
my only relief is in solitude and prayer.”

And so I had left her, feeling that doubtless she was right, and
communicating her wishes on the subject to Lady Amabel Scott, who had
several times expressed a desire to gain admittance to her widowed
cousin.

Judge, then, of our surprise, equal and unmitigated, when, as we sat
in the drawing-room that evening, the door silently opened and Justina
stood before us! If she had been the ghost of Sir Harry himself risen
from the dead, she could hardly have given us a greater start.

“Justina!” I exclaimed, but as she advanced toward us with her eyes
riveted on Lady Amabel, I saw that something more than usual was the
matter, and drew backward. Justina’s countenance was deadly pale; her
dark hair, unbound from the night before, flowed over the white
dressing-gown which she had worn all day; and stern and rigid she
walked into the midst of our little circle, holding a packet of
letters in her hand.

“Amabel Scott,” she hissed rather than said as she fixed a look of
perfect hatred on the beautiful face of her dead husband’s cousin, “I
have detected you. You made me miserable whilst he was alive--you know
it--with your bold looks and your forward manners and your shameless,
open attentions; but it is my turn now, and before your husband I will
tell you that--”

“Hush, hush, Justina!” I exclaimed, fearful what revelation might not
be coming next. “You are forgetting yourself; this is no time for such
explanations. Remember what lies upstairs.”

“Let her go on,” interposed Lady Amabel Scott, with wide-open,
astonished eyes; “I am not afraid. I wish to hear of what she accuses
me.”

She had risen from her seat as soon as she understood the purport of
the widow’s speech, and crossed over to her husband’s side; and
knowing what I did of her, I was yet glad to see that Warden Scott
threw his arm about her for encouragement and support. She may have
been thoughtless and faulty, but she was so young, and _he_ was gone.
Besides, no man can stand by calmly and see one woman pitted against
another.

“Of what do you accuse me?” demanded Lady Amabel, with heightened
colour.

“Of what do I accuse you?” almost screamed Justina. “Of perfidy, of
treachery, toward him,” pointing to Mr. Warden Scott, “and toward me.
I accuse you of attempting to win my dear husband’s affections from
me--which you never did, thank God!--and of rendering this home as
desolate as it was happy. But you failed--you failed!”

“Where are your proofs?” said the other woman, quietly.

“_There!_” exclaimed my niece, as she threw some four or five letters
down upon the table--“there! I brought them for your husband to
peruse. _He_ kept them; generous and good as he was, _he_ would have
spared you an open exposure, but I have no such feelings in the
matter. Are you to go from this house into another to pursue the same
course of action, and perhaps with better success? No, not if I can
prevent it!”

Her jealousy, rage, and grief seemed to have overpowered her; Justina
was almost beside herself. I entreated her to retire, but it was of no
avail. “Not till Warden Scott tells me what he thinks of his wife
writing those letters with a view to seducing the affections of a
married man,” she persisted.

Mr. Scott turned the letters over carelessly.

“They are not from my wife,” he quietly replied.

“Do _you_ dare to say so?” exclaimed Justina to Lady Amabel.

“Certainly. I never wrote one of them. I have never written a letter
to Harry since he was married. I have never had any occasion to do
so.”

The widow turned towards me with an ashen-grey face, which it was
pitiful to behold.

“Whose are they, then?” she whispered, hoarsely.

“I do not know, my dear,” I replied; “surely it matters little now.
You will be ill if you excite yourself in this manner. Let me conduct
you back to your room;” but before I could do so she had fallen in a
fit at my feet. Of course, all then was hurry and confusion, and when
I returned to the drawing-room I found Lady Amabel crying in her
husband’s arms.

“Oh, Warden dear,” she was saying, “I shall never forgive myself. This
all comes of my wretched flirting. It’s no good your shaking your
head; you know I flirt, and so does every one else; but I never meant
anything by it, darling, and I thought all the world knew how much I
loved you.”

“Don’t be a goose!” replied her husband, as he put her gently away
from him; “but if you think I’m going to let you remain in this house
after what that d----’d woman---- Oh, here is General Wilmer! Well,
General, after the very unpleasant manner in which your niece has been
entertaining us, you will not be surprised to hear that I shall take
my wife away from Durham Hall to-night. When Lady Trevor comes to her
senses you will perhaps kindly explain to her the reason of our
departure, for nothing under such an insult should have prevented my
paying my last respects to the memory of a man who never behaved
otherwise than as a gentleman to either of us.”

I apologised for Justina as best I was able, represented that her mind
must really have become unhinged by her late trouble, and that she
would probably be very sorry for what she had said by-and-by; but I
was not surprised that my arguments had no avail in inducing Mr. Scott
to permit his wife to remain at Durham Hall, and in a few hours they
had left the house. When they were gone I took up the letters, which
still lay upon the table, and examined them. They were addressed to
Sir Harry, written evidently in a woman’s hand, and teemed with
expressions of the warmest affection. I was not surprised that the
perusal of them had excited poor Justina’s wrathful jealousy. Turning
to the signatures, I found that they all concluded with the same
words, “Your loving and faithful Pet.” In a moment my mind had flown
back to the dying speech of poor Sir Harry, and had absolved Lady
Amabel Scott from all my former suspicions. She was not the woman who
had penned these letters; she had not been in the last thoughts of her
cousin. Who, then, had been? That was a mystery on which Death had set
his seal, perhaps for ever. Before I retired to rest that night I
inquired for my poor niece, and heard that she had Mrs. Benson with
her. I was glad of that: the women were fond of one another, and
Justina, I felt, would pour all her griefs into the sympathising ear
of the professor’s wife, and derive comfort from weeping over them
afresh with her. But after I had got into bed I remembered that I had
left the letters lying on the drawing-room table, where they would be
liable to be inspected by the servants, and blow the breath of the
family scandal far and wide. It was much past midnight, for I had sat
up late, and all the household, if not asleep, had retired to their
own apartments; and so, wrapping a dressing-gown about me, and
thrusting my feet into slippers, I lighted my candle, and descended
noiselessly to the lower apartments. But when I reached the
drawing-room the letters were gone: neither on the table nor the
ottoman nor the floor were they to be seen; and so, vexed at my own
carelessness, but concluding that the servants, when extinguishing the
lights, had perceived and put the papers away in some place of safety,
I prepared to return to my own room.

The bedrooms at Durham Hall were situated on either side of a
corridor, and fearful of rousing the family or being caught in
deshabille, I trod on tiptoe, shading my candle with my hand. It was
owing to this circumstance, I suppose, that I had reached the centre
of the corridor without causing the least suspicion of my presence;
but as I passed by the apartment where the remains of my unfortunate
host lay ready for burial, the door suddenly opened and a light
appeared upon the threshold. I halted, expecting to see emerge the
figure of my widowed niece, but lifting my eyes, to my astonishment I
encountered the shrinking, almost terrified, gaze of the professor’s
wife. Robed in her night-dress, pallid as the corpse which lay within,
her large frightened eyes apparently the only living things about her,
she stood staring at me as though she had been entranced. Her brown
hair floated over her shoulders, her feet were bare; one hand held a
lighted candle, the other grasped the packet of letters of which I had
been in search. So we stood for a moment regarding one another--I
taking in these small but important details; she looking as though she
implored my mercy and forbearance. And then I drew back with the
gesture of respect due to her sex, and, clad in her white dress, she
swept past me like a startled spirit and disappeared.

I gained my own room, but it was not to sleep. A thousand incidents,
insignificant in themselves, but powerful when welded into one, sprang
up in my mind to convince me that Justina and I and everybody had been
on a wrong tack, and that in the professor’s wife, the “quiet-looking
little lady” with her Quaker-like robes, downcast eyes and modest
appearance, in the “best friend” that my niece had ever possessed, I
had discovered the writer of those letters, the concealed visitor in
Sir Harry’s room, the “Pet” whose name had been the last sound heard
to issue from his dying lips. For many hours I lay awake pondering
over the best course for me to pursue. I could not bear the thought of
undeceiving my poor niece, whose heart had already suffered so much;
besides, it seemed like sacrilege to drag to light the secrets of the
dead. At the same time I felt that Mrs. Benson should receive some
hint that her presence in Durham Hall, at that juncture, if desired,
was no longer desirable. And the next day, finding she was not likely
to accord me an interview, I made the reception of the missing letters
a pretext for demanding one. She came to her room door holding them in
her hand, and the marks of trouble were so distinct in her face that I
had to summon all my courage to go through the task which I considered
my duty.

“You found these in the drawing-room last night?” I said, as I
received them from her.

“I did,” she answered, but her voice trembled and her lips were very
white. She seemed to know by instinct what was coming.

“And you went to find them because they are your own?” She made no
answer. “Mrs. Benson, I know your secret, but I will respect it on one
condition--that you leave the Hall as soon as possible. You must be
aware that this is no place for you.”

“I never wished to come,” she answered, weeping.

“I can believe it, but for the sake of your friend, of your husband,
of yourself, quit it as soon as possible. Here are your letters--you
had better burn them. I only wished to ascertain that they were
yours.”

“General Wilmer”--she commenced gaspingly, and then she turned away
and could say no more.

“Do you wish to speak to me?” I asked her gently.

“No--nothing; it is useless,” she answered with a tearless, despairing
grief which was far more shocking to behold than either Justina’s or
Lady Amabel’s. “He is gone, and there is nothing left; but thank you
for your forbearance, and good-bye.”

So we parted, and to this day, excepting that she is released from all
that could annoy or worry her, I have learned nothing more. How long
they loved, how much or in what degree of guilt or innocence, I
neither know nor have cared to guess at; it is sufficient for me that
it was so, and that while Justina was accusing the beautiful Lady
Amabel Scott of attempting to win her husband’s heart from her, it had
been given away long before to the woman whom she termed her dearest
friend--to the woman who had apparently no beauty, or wit, or
accomplishments with which to steal away a man’s love from its
rightful owner, but who nevertheless was his “loving and faithful
Pet,” and the last thought upon his dying lips.

Professor and Mrs. Benson never returned to Durham Hall. It was not
long afterwards that I heard from my niece that his wife’s failing
health had compelled the professor to go abroad; and to-day she writes
me news from Nice that Mrs. Benson is dead. Poor Pet! I wonder if
those scared brown eyes have lost their frightened look in heaven?

I believe that Justina has made an ample apology for her rudeness to
Lady Amabel and Mr. Warden Scott. I know I represented that it was her
duty to do so, and that she promised it should be done. As for
herself, she is gradually recovering from the effects of her
bereavement, and finding comfort in the society of her sons and
daughters; and perhaps, amongst the surprises which I have already
spoken of as likely to await us in another sphere, they will not be
least which prove how very soon we have been forgotten by those we
left in the world behind us.




 CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA.

A couple of springs ago, business compelling some friends of mine to
cross over into Spain, I gladly accepted the cordial invitation they
extended to me to visit with them that “splendid realm of old
romance.”

Our destination was Utrera, a small town situated between Seville and
Xeres, and lying in the midst of those vast plains so often mentioned
in the _Conquest of Granada_.

I confess that I was rather disappointed to find how hurriedly we
passed through Madrid and Seville, and I longed to be permitted to
linger for a little space within their walls; but ours was not
entirely a party of pleasure, and a diversion was soon created in my
thoughts by our arrival at Utrera, which, from a distance, presented a
most Oriental appearance. The houses, many of which are built in the
Moorish fashion and dazzlingly white, stand out clearly defined
against the deep blue southern sky; the tall tower of Santiago, with
little perhaps but its unusual height to recommend it to a stranger’s
notice, has, nevertheless, an imposing appearance; and even a palm
tree, which, solitary and alone, rears its stately head in the centre
of the town, puts in its claim for adding in no small degree to the
effect of the whole picture. Notwithstanding, with all the combined
advantages of white houses, tall towers, solitary palm trees and
romantic situations, I would advise no one who is not a traveller at
heart or intent upon his worldly profit to fix his residence in this
primitive little Andalusian town.

We first took up our quarters at the posada, with the intention of
remaining there during our stay, but were soon obliged to abandon the
idea, for, though the best inn in Utrera, it was most uncomfortable,
and noisy beyond description.

We began to look about us, therefore, and were soon installed in a
small but beautifully clean and cool-looking house in a street leading
out of the plaza, and found no reason to be discontented with our
abode. It boasted of a pleasant patio (or inner courtyard) and a wide
verandah or gallery, into which our rooms opened. As the days grew
warmer (and very warm indeed they grew after a while) this patio was
our greatest comfort; for, following the example of our neighbours, we
had it covered with an awning, and spent the greater part of the day,
seated with our books or work, beside its mimic fountain. But if we
gained in material comfort by exchanging the noisy and dirty posada
for apartments of our own, we had also drawn down upon ourselves the
burden of housekeeping, which we found in Spain to be no sinecure.
Some friends who had resided a few months in the town, and acquired a
fair knowledge of the language, manners, and customs of the natives of
Utrera, volunteered to send us a maid, warranted honest and a
tolerable proficient in the art of cookery. But she proved a care-full
blessing. To give her her due, she possessed one good quality, and we
found by experience that it was about the only one she or her
sisterhood could boast of: she was very fond of water. The floors of
our new house were formed of stone, partially covered by strips of
matting which were easily removed; and we soon lived in a perpetual
swamp. Antonia was always both ready and willing to “clean up,” and
never seemed happier than when dashing water in all directions, or
brushing away vigorously at the matting with her little short-handled
broom.

By the way, I wonder why Spanish women prefer to bend double over
their sweeping, instead of adopting our easier method of performing
the same operation? In vain did I strive to convince Antonia of the
advantages attendant on the use of a broom with a long handle: she
only smiled, shook her head, and went obstinately on her weary way.

The water for our own consumption was drawn daily from the Moorish
aqueduct just outside the town, and brought to us by the aguador, an
old fellow who wore a rusty black velvet turban hat stuck full of
cigarettes, besides having one always in his mouth. He would pour the
water from his wooden barrels into a large butt which stood in the
kitchen; but as we discovered that he (together with all who felt so
inclined) dipped his glass, with the fingers that held it, into the
reservoir whenever he wished to quench his thirst, we speedily
invested in a filter.

We soon found that it was utterly impossible to infuse any ideas of
cookery or housework into the head of the fair Antonia. If we showed
her how to lay the tablecloth and place the dishes, she eyed us with
surprise, bordering on contempt, that ladies should perform such
menial offices; and the next day all our instructions were as though
they had never been. It was the same with everything, until we decided
that it was far less trouble to wait on ourselves, and our life at
Utrera resolved itself into a picnic without an end.

Nevertheless, when we arose one morning to find that Antonia (wearied
perhaps of English suggestions) had quietly walked off and left us to
shift entirely for ourselves, we felt inclined to think that we had
undervalued her. But she had received her wages on the day before, and
we learned afterward that under those circumstances it is a common
thing for Spanish servants to quit their places without any warning,
and return home for a while to live at their ease on the produce of
their labour.

Our next attendant was Pepa, a bright, dark-eyed girl, who always
looked so picturesque, with a spray of starry jessamine or scarlet
verbena coquettishly placed in her black hair, that it was impossible
not to overlook her misdemeanours. She had such an arch way of tossing
her head and shaking her long gold earrings that there was no
resisting her; and indeed Pepa was but too well aware of the fact
herself, and made the best use of her knowledge.

But the dinners were still our _bêtes noires_, and in these,
notwithstanding all her prettiness, she could help us little better
than her predecessor. The meat which we procured was simply uneatable,
but happily animal food is little needed in those southern climes, and
we had plenty of game. Hares, partridges, and wild ducks were most
abundant; and a woman used constantly to call on us with live quails
for sale, which she would despatch by sticking one of their own
feathers into their brains.

Of course, everything was more or less spoiled which we entrusted to
the tender mercies of our handmaid; but fortunately there were no
epicures amongst us, and we generally received the goods the gods
provided with contentment if not gratitude, and had many resources to
turn to in order to eke out a distasteful meal. The bread was
excellent, and we always had an abundance of oranges, chestnuts,
melons, and pomegranates; so that, under the circumstances, we were
not to be pitied.

But one day Pepa, disheartened by her repeated failures, begged to be
allowed to serve us a Spanish dinner, after tasting which, she
affirmed, we should never desire to eat any other; and having received
the permission of her mistress, she set to work, and at the usual hour
triumphantly placed the national dish of “puchero” upon the table. We
gathered round it rather doubtfully, but after the first timid trial
pronounced it, “not so bad, though rather rich.” It seemed to contain
a little of everything--beef, lard, garlic, garbanzos (or small, hard
beans), lettuce, pepper, potatoes, and I know not what besides; and
the mixture had been kept simmering in an earthenware pot for hours.
The next dish served by Pepa was “gaspacho,” or a Spanish salad, which
is mixed quite differently from an English one, and to most tastes not
so palatable. And then she placed before us a large dish of rice,
profusely sprinkled with cinnamon, and various small cakes fried in
oil; and Pepa’s Spanish dinner (which, by the way, was only a sample,
I suppose, of the most ordinary national fare), was concluded.

We were thankful that it had been sufficiently good to enable us to
praise it enough to give her satisfaction, though we were compelled to
adopt more than one ruse in order, without hurting her feelings, to
escape having the same feast repeated every day.

There are not many “lions” in Utrera, but, such as they are, of course
we visited them. The principal one perhaps is in the vaults beneath
the church of Santiago, but we were scarcely prepared for the ghastly
spectacle which met our gaze there. It appears that, many years ago,
while digging for some purpose round the church, the workmen found
several bodies, which, owing to some peculiar quality of the soil in
which they had been buried, were in a wonderful state of preservation;
and, by order of the authorities, they were placed in upright
positions against the walls of the church vaults. The old sacristan,
who acted as our cicerone, pointed out the bodies to us with his
lighted torch, and directed our attention especially to one, evidently
that of a very stout woman, which had still a jacket and skirt
clinging to it. Strange to say, the bodies were all clothed, although
in most cases it had become difficult to distinguish the garments from
the remains, for all seemed to partake of the same hue and texture. It
is a humbling sight to look upon the dead after they have turned again
to their dust, and with but a semblance of the human frame left
clinging to them, as though in mockery of our mortality. We could not
bear to see the idlers who had followed our party down into the vaults
jeering at the appearance of these poor carcases, and touching them in
a careless and irreverent manner. Had we had our way, they should all
have been tenderly consigned again to the bosom of their mother earth,
and we experienced a strange sensation of relief as we turned our
backs upon them and emerged once more into the open air.

The principal object of a stroll in Utrera is a visit to the Church of
Consolation, which stands on the outskirts of the town, at the end of
a long walk bordered with lines of olive trees. At intervals along the
way benches are placed, and here on Sundays and feast-days the
inhabitants congregate as they come to and from the church. The latter
is an interesting edifice, though its architecture is unpretending
enough.

Its nave is lofty, and on the white-washed walls hang hundreds of
little waxen and silver limbs, and effigies, with articles of
children’s clothing and an endless assortment of plaited tails of
hair. These are all offerings made to “Our Lady of Consolation,” in
fulfilment of vows or as tokens of thanksgiving for recovery from
sickness; and there is something very touching in the idea of these
women giving up their most cherished possessions (for every one knows
how justly proud the Spanish are of their magnificent hair) as
tributes of gratitude to her from whom they have received the favours.

The walls near the western door of the Church of Consolation are hung
with innumerable pictures, each bearing so strong a resemblance to the
other, both in style and subject, that they might have been drawn by
the same hand. As works of art they are valueless, for even the rules
of perspective are ignored in a most comical manner, and with slight
variations they all represent the same subject. On one hand is an
invalid man, woman or child, as the case may be, and on the other a
kneeling figure imploring aid for them of the “Virgin of Consolation,”
who is also portrayed appearing to the suppliant, and encircled by a
golden halo. Beneath the painting is inscribed the name of the
patient, the nature of his disease, and the date of his recovery.

At the back of the church is a large garden belonging to one of the
richest proprietors in the neighbourhood of Utrera, and as the midday
heat became more oppressive it was a favourite haunt of ours during
the cool of the evening, when the air was laden with the perfume of
orange blossoms and other sweet-smelling flowers. The owners of the
garden permitted it to grow wild, but that circumstance only enhanced
its beauty. The orange trees were laden with golden fruit, of which we
were courteously invited to gather as much as we pleased. But our
visits to this charming retreat were necessarily short, for, as in
most southern latitudes, there was scarcely any twilight in Utrera,
and it always seemed as though the ringing of the Angelus were a
signal for the nights immediately to set in. But what glorious nights
they were! The dingy oil-lamps in the streets (for gas is an
innovation which had not yet found its way there) were little needed,
as the sky always seemed to be one bright blaze of beautiful stars.

The cemetery at Utrera is a quiet spot, surrounded by a high white
wall and thickly planted with cypress trees, which give it a most
solemn and melancholy appearance. They have the custom there (I am not
sure it is not prevalent in other parts of Spain) of burying the dead
in recesses in the walls, which are built expressly of an immense
thickness; the coffins are shoved into these large pigeon-holes, and
the opening is closed with a marble slab, which bears the inscription
usual in such cases, somewhat after the fashion of open-air catacombs.
But little respect seemed to be shown to the dead.

One day I met some children bearing a bier, upon which was stretched
the corpse of a little girl clothed in white garments and with a
wreath of flowers placed upon the placid brow. The children,
apparently quite unaware of the reverence due to their sacred burden,
carelessly laughed and chatted as they bore it along the highway,
sometimes sitting down to rest, and then hurrying forward with
unseemly haste, as though to make up for lost time. A tall man,
wrapped in a huge cloak, and who evidently belonged to the little
_cortège_, followed at a distance, but he too performed the duty at
his leisure, and seemed to find nothing extraordinary or out of the
way in the children’s want of decorum.

With the exception of periodical visits to the Church of Consolation
before mentioned, the people of Utrera rarely seemed to leave their
houses. To walk for the sake of walking is an idea which finds little
favour with a Spanish lady, and my friends and myself were looked upon
as very strange beings for taking so much exercise and caring to
explore the surrounding country.

But to our English taste it was pleasant to stroll up the Cadiz road
until we reached a small mound situated thereon, which was belted with
shady trees and amply provided with stone seats. This elevation
commanded the view of a vast extent of country, with the grand
frowning hills of the Sierra Nevada in the far distance, which the
gorgeous sunsets always invested with a strange, unearthly beauty. The
intense solitude of the scene, too, was not without its own peculiar
charm. At intervals the silence would be broken by the approach of a
picturesque-looking peasant bestriding a mule, the silvery jangle of
whose bells had been heard in the calm atmosphere for some time before
he made his personal appearance. These muleteers never failed to
interrupt the monotonous chants they are so fond of singing, to wish
us a friendly “Buenas tardes” (“Good evening”) while proceeding on
their way, and then we would listen to the sound of the mule’s bells
and the low rich voice of his master until both died away in the
distance, and the scene resumed its normal condition of undisturbed
tranquillity.

We made an expedition once, by the new railroad, to Moron, a very old
town perched on an almost perpendicular rock and visible for miles
distant. The heat was intense, but we toiled manfully up the steep and
execrably-paved street from the station, and, weary and footsore, were
thankful to find ourselves within the cool walls of the fine old
church. It possesses some valuable Murillos--one of which,
representing the head of our Blessed Lord, is especially beautiful.
The altar-rails, screen and reredos are all richly gilt, and the
sacristan, taking us into the vestry, unlocked several massively
carved chests, which disclosed some valuable plate and precious
stones; referring to which, he boasted, with pardonable pride, that
Utrera could not produce anything half so handsome. And indeed the
inhabitants of Moron may well congratulate themselves on these
treasures having escaped the grasp of the French during the war, for
the sacristan related to us how everything had been hidden away and
miraculously preserved from the hands of the spoiler.

But my chit-chat is drawing to a close. It was not without a certain
regret that we bade farewell to Utrera, for during the whole of our
stay there we had experienced nothing but kindness from all with whom
we had come in contact, and the memory of our sojourn in that little,
out-of-the-way Andalusian town, if not fraught with brilliant
recollections, will, at all events, take its rank with that portion of
the past which has been too peaceful to rise up again to trouble us.
And it were well if we could say the same for every part of our
storm-ridden lives.




 THE SECRET OF ECONOMY.

Apparently, there has been much to say and write lately upon
domestic economy. From the time, indeed, that the question of the
possibility of marriage upon three hundred a-year was mooted, the
subject has never fairly been dropped.

Men, with incomes of less than three hundred a-year, do not seem to
like the idea that they are bound in consequence to renounce all
thoughts of matrimony, and inquiries respecting the matter from
aggrieved bachelors are constantly cropping up in those corners of the
weekly papers devoted to correspondence. They have even gone so far
lately as to suggest, since it seems impossible in this century of
riots and rinderpest to curtail one’s expenses, whether it may not be
both lawful and feasible to curtail one’s family.

The question of, on how much, or on how little, a certain number of
persons can exist, is certainly one which affects the mass, but which,
to be answered with fairness, must be put individually. There are
women and women. What one housekeeper can accomplish on three hundred
a-year, another cannot effect on three thousand, for it is not
incompatible with many luxuries to possess very little comfort; and
comfort is, after all, the essence of domestic felicity.

Yet, it is not fair to lay the whole blame of the impossibility of
marriage in these days upon a moderate income, on the extravagance of
women, for the difficulty is just as often attributable to the
disinclination of men to resign the luxuries to which they have been
accustomed. For every really extravagantly disposed female mind there
may be found two thriftily disposed ones; and had such minds but been
endued with the proper knowledge to carry out their efforts to do
well, existence might not be found so difficult a matter as it appears
to be at present.

It is true that the “girl of the period” (not the _Saturday
Reviewer’s_ “girl” by any manner of means), is, generally, better
dressed and more accustomed to luxury than her mother was before her.
But it must be remembered that the expenses of a girl before marriage
are regulated by the wishes of her parents, and because they like to
see her sail about in the last Parisian fashion, it by no means
follows that she will always expect to be dressed the same, or that
she will not cheerfully resign some of the luxuries she has been
accustomed to, to meet the means of the man who has taken it upon
himself to support her.

Apropos of which I have far oftener been called upon to remonstrate
with newly-married female friends on their folly in stripping the
trousseaux, which had been prepared for them with such care, of all
their pretty trimmings of lace and ribbon and embroidery, in order to
adorn the little frocks and caps which are scarcely ever noticed but
by the mother herself, than to blame them for out-running their
husbands’ means in order to procure such vanities.

Various reasons may combine to make the parent, who can afford it,
take pleasure in seeing her daughter well dressed. A true mother is
naturally proud of a girl’s good looks; and anxious to show them off
to the best advantage; or the feeling that her child may not long be
with her may make her desirous to please her to the utmost whilst she
remains. Of course, the indulgence may arise from lower and more
mercenary motives, such as have been attributed for many a long year
to the stereotyped “Belgravian mother”; but even in such a case it
does not follow that the girl will never be able contentedly to
accommodate herself to a lower range of comfort. It is not to be
expected that, single-handed, she should put away from her the
luxuries which her parents’ income can command; but it remains to be
proved whether she will not willingly exchange them to become the
mistress of a house of her own, even though it may be smaller than the
one to which she has been accustomed. Naturally parents wish to see
the children, for whom perhaps they have worked and slaved,
comfortably settled in life; and it is folly for men with barely
sufficient money to keep themselves to rave against fathers who refuse
to sanction their daughters’ starving with them.

But the idea as to what constitutes starvation has risen with the
times. A little while ago, it used to be the clergyman with a large
family on eighty pounds a-year: a twelvemonth back it rose to the
celebrated “three hundred;” and but a few weeks since I heard a lady
gravely affirm that any one who contemplated marriage now-a-days with
an income of less than two thousand, must be either a madman or a
fool.

Knowing my incompetence for the task, I have no intention in this
paper of trying to decide on how small a sum it is possible to
maintain a family in this luxurious age. I only wish to say a few
words upon what I consider to be the secret of the economy which has
need to be exercised in these days in the largest household as well as
in the smallest.

The order of her household is a true woman’s battle-field, and the
better she can manage it, the more comforts she can command, and the
more regularity she can enforce upon a small income and with few
servants, the greater is the triumph of her victory. If means are
unlimited the triumph is lost; and the woman who has a thousand a-year
for her housekeeping, and is content to let her husband enjoy no more
luxury upon it than his friend who spends five hundred, allowing the
surplus to be wasted for want of a little thought or supervision, is
not a true woman or a good one. For if prodigality is not a sin in
itself, it arises from the indulgence of a combination of sins,
amongst which selfishness holds chief rank.

Take the care of her household out of a woman’s hands and what remains
for her to do? As a generality she would sit in idleness, for these
are not the days when mothers nurse and look after their own children,
and, thanks to the sewing machine, the toil of needlework is over,
even in the poorest families.

She would probably take up a novel the first thing in the morning,
thereby unfitting herself for any solid work for the remainder of the
day; or she would waste her time on fancy-work, or unnecessary
letter-writing, or on anything but what sensible people who know they
will be called to account hereafter for the use they have made of the
brains God has given them would do.

And, as a rule, I believe few women would like to be lightened of
their trouble in this respect. The sex is uncommonly fond of a “little
brief authority,” and even those who have every aid at their command,
generally choose to dabble in their housekeeping affairs. And it is
just this “dabbling” which does harm, which often increases the
expenses instead of lessening them.

I am not a second Mrs. Warren; I have no ambition to try and teach my
sex how to manage their husbands, houses and children on two hundred
a-year, by wiping out the bread-pan every morning with a clean cloth;
and making one stick of wood do the duty of two by placing it in the
oven to dry the night before.

Mrs. Warren’s plan of economy is the general one; or rather, she
follows the general idea of what economy consists of, namely, in
exercising a constant supervision over servants, and straining every
nerve to make the leg of mutton last a day longer than it does with
other people. And I for my part believe that the women of England will
never know the secret of true economy until they have dropped all such
petty interference with the kitchen, and learned to guard their
husbands’ interests with their _heads_ instead of their _eyes_. There
is no doubt that in order to be thrifty it is necessary in a great
measure to limit one’s expenses, and it is a good plan habitually to
ask oneself before completing a purchase “Can I do without it?”

In nine cases out of ten debts and difficulties are incurred
unnecessarily, for articles which added neither to our respectability
nor our comfort, and which, if seriously asked, we should have
acknowledged we could have done just as well without. Take the
generality of English families, cut off all the superfluities in which
they indulge, all the things which are necessary neither to their
existence nor their position as gentle-people, and, as a rule, it will
be found that such absorb a third at least of their income.

It is not only men who have interested themselves in the questions
which have lately sprung up respecting the general rise in prices, and
the increasing difficulties which assail the householder. Women are
constantly comparing notes with each other; wondering “where on earth”
the money can go to, and lamenting the exorbitant weekly bills they
are called upon to pay.

Some have tried to meet their increased expenses by diminishing their
number of servants; others by curtailing the kitchen fare (the worst
and most unprofitable species of domestic economy); a few have gone
another way to work, and simply tried with how many superfluities they
could dispense; and I think these few have succeeded the best.

It was much the fashion a short time back for women to write to the
papers complaining of the worthlessness of their servants, and it was
not until more than one impertinent letter reflecting on their
mistresses had been published from the pens (or the supposed pens) of
servants themselves, that the correspondence was perceived to be
_infra dig._, and dropped. We all know that we are very much in the
power of our servants, both as regards comfort and economy; and to
regulate their actions, we must sway themselves.

As a class, they are much what they have ever been; their characters
varying with the authority placed over them. If ignorant, they are
bigoted; if educated, presumptuous; they regard their superiors as
their natural enemies, and not one in fifty of them is to be entirely
trusted. They no longer look upon the house they enter as their home;
they think of it more as a boarding house which they can vacate at
their convenience, and themselves as birds of passage, here to-day and
gone to-morrow.

To deal with and to control such minds effectually, it needs to show
them that ours is infinitely the superior. If we let them perceive
that we have no means of keeping watch over them except we do it
personally, we lower ourselves to their level, and fail to gain their
respect.

Make your servants admire you; make them wonder at the clearness of
your perception, the quickness of your calculations, and the
retentiveness of your memory, and inwardly they will acknowledge
themselves the inferior, and be afraid to disobey.

You will always hear servants speak with admiration of a mistress who
has (to quote their own phraseology) “eyes in her back;” the fact
being that it requires a mind not only educated in the popular sense
of the word, but sharpened by friction with the world, to enable one
to _perceive_ without _seeing_; and that is a state to which the
lumpish minds of the mass never attain, and which consequently
commands their wonder and respect.

The “excellent housekeeper” who trots round her kitchen every morning
as a rule, opening each dresser-drawer, and uncovering the soup-tureen
and vegetable-dishes, to see that no “perquisites” are concealed
therein, may occasionally light on a piece of unhallowed fat, but she
loses a hundredfold what she gains. While she imagines she has made a
great discovery, her servants are laughing in their sleeves at her
simplicity; for they have a hundred opportunities of concealing to her
one of finding, and are doubtless as cunning as herself. And for such
a mistress--for one who is for ever prying and trying to find out
something--the lower classes have the greatest contempt; they will
neither obey nor save for her; they will even go the length of wasting
in order to annoy.

But, by this, I have not the least notion of maintaining that the
members of that community, of whom I said, but a page before, that not
one in fifty is to be trusted, are to be left to do the housekeeping
by themselves.

A lady of my acquaintance, married to an extremely obstinate man, was
asked how she managed to influence him as she did. “Because I never
let him know I do it,” was the reply. “I always have my own way, but I
make him think my way is his.”

Something of the same sort of management is necessary with servants.
Have your own way, but make them imagine that your way is theirs. They
are truly but “children of a larger growth.”

But, in order to do this, you must prove yourself cleverer than they
are.

Let no one grumble at the stir which has been made lately regarding
the improved education of women, nor that public schools and colleges
are being organised for their benefit. If the knowledge thus acquired
is never needed for the female doctors, and lawyers, and members of
Parliament, which, as fixed institutions, England may never see, it
will be only too welcome in domestic life; for the usual style of
conducting a woman’s education is sadly detrimental to her interests
in housekeeping.

What is the use of their being able to play and sing and imperfectly
splutter German and Italian, when they are puzzled by the simplest
bookkeeping? Hardly a woman of modern times thoroughly understands
arithmetic, either mental or otherwise; and many have forgotten, or
never properly acquired, even the commonest rules of addition,
subtraction, and division. How is it to be expected then that they are
fit to be trusted with money, or having it in their hands to lay it
out to the best advantage.

But to return to “head-economy,” as it should be exercised with regard
to servants.

We will suppose that a mistress, desirous of keeping within her
allowance without curtailing the real comfort of her husband and
children, has asked herself that simple question--“Can we do without
it?” on more than one occasion, and found it answer, in so far that,
though several superfluities, such as dessert after dinner, and
preserves and cakes for tea have disappeared, all the solid
necessaries remain, and the weekly bills are no longer higher than
they ought to be. How should she act in order to keep down her
expenditure to a settled sum; to be sure that as much, but no more
than is needful, is used in the kitchen, the dining-room, and the
nursery; and yet to prevent her servants resenting her interference,
or exclaiming at her meanness?

It is really very easy, far easier than the other plan, if women would
only believe it to be so. It needs no store-room full of hoarded
goods, with the key of which the servants are more familiar than
yourself; no stated times for measuring out half-pounds of sugar and
dispensing tea by ounces; no running down to the lower regions a dozen
times a day to give out what may have been forgotten; or to satisfy
oneself whether they really _do_ cut joint at the kitchen supper, or
revel in fresh butter when they should be eating salt.

But it does require the knowledge necessary to keep the housekeeping
books properly. A thorough acquaintance with the prices of articles,
and the different quantities which a household should consume; and
above all, to have what is commonly called “one’s wits about one.”

If every tradesman with whom you deal has a running account with you;
if nothing in his book is paid for but what you have written down
yourself; if your cook has orders to receive no meat without a check;
has proper scales for weighing the joints as they come in, and makes a
note of any deficiency (the checks being afterwards compared with the
butcher’s book); it is impossible that the tradespeople can cheat you,
and if your money is wasted, you must waste it yourself.

It is an old-fashioned plan to pay one’s bills at the end of each
week; but it is a very good one. Little things which should be noticed
may slip the memory at a longer period. Besides, it is a useful
reminder; it shows how the money is going, and if the tradesmen find
you are careful, it makes them so.

Following this plan, a quarter of an hour every morning sees the
housekeeping affairs settled for the day, leaving the mistress at
leisure to pursue her own avocations, and the cook to do her business
in the kitchen. It is simply a glance at the larder, and then to write
down all that will be required until that time on the morrow; the
dinner and breakfast orders on a slate, and the other articles in the
books appropriated to them. After a little while it will be found that
the labour is purely mechanical; in a quiet family the consumption is
so regular that the weekly bills will scarcely vary, and the
mistress’s eye will detect the least increase, and find out for what
it has been incurred.

At the close of each month the debit and credit accounts should be
balanced, and then, if the allowance is at any time exceeded, it will
generally be proved that it has gone on the superfluities before
mentioned, and not on the actual expense of maintaining the household.
When people talk of the difficulties of “living”, the thoughts of
their listeners invariably fly to the cost of bread and meat, and they
unite in abusing the tradespeople, who send their children to
fashionable schools on the profits which they extort from us. But
there are various ways in which men and women can save, besides
dispensing with unnecessary eatables.

What woman, for instance, in these days, buying a dress, does not pay
twice as much for its being made and trimmed ready for her use as she
did for the original material? And who that has feet and fingers, and
a sewing machine, could not sit down and make it in a few hours for
herself?

But she will tell you, most likely, that she cannot cut out properly,
that she has not the slightest taste for trimming, and that she was
not brought up to dressmaking like a dressmaker. Ah, my dear sisters!
are not these the days when we should all learn? _Men_ may go through
life with the knowledge but of one thing--for if they are acquainted
with the duties of their profession, they succeed--but women need to
know _everything_, from putting on a poultice to playing the piano;
and from being able to hold a conversation with the Lord Chancellor,
to clear-starching their husbands’ neckties.

I don’t say we must _do it_, but I maintain that we should know how.

Men are really needed but in one place, and that is, public life; but
we are wanted everywhere. In public and in private, upstairs and
downstairs, in the nursery and the drawing-room,--nothing can go on
properly without us; and if it does, if our husbands and our servants
and our children don’t need us, we cannot be doing our duty.

Above all, we have the training of the mistresses of future
households, and the mothers of a coming generation--the bringing up,
in fact, of the “girls of the next period.”

If we cannot amend the faults we see in ourselves (an assertion which
should be paradoxical to anyone gifted with the least energy), if we
think it is too late to sit down in our middle age, and learn to rub
the rust off our brains, and to work our heads with our fingers, we
can rear them in a different fashion.

If we are wasteful and extravagant and useless--deserving of all the
hard things which have been said of us lately, let us at least take
heed that our daughters are not the same.




 “MOTHER.”

It was close upon Easter. The long, dark days of Lent, with their
melancholy ceremonials, were nearly over, and, as if in recognition of
the event, the sun was shining brightly in the heavens. The hawthorn
bushes had broken into bloom, and the wild birds were bursting their
little throats in gratitude. The boys were almost as wild and joyous
as the birds, as they rushed about the playground, knocking each other
over in the exuberance of their glee, and forgetting to be angry in
the remembrance that the next day would be Holy Thursday, when they
should all go home to their fathers and mothers to spend the Easter
holidays. I alone of the merry throng sat apart under the quick-set
hedge, joining in neither game nor gaiety, as I wondered, with the
dull, unreasoning perception of childhood, why I had been the one
selected, out of all that crowd of boys, to have no part in their
anticipation or their joy. Even poor, lame Jemmy, who had no
remembrance of his father or his mother, and who had been, in a way,
adopted by our schoolmaster, and lived all the year round, from
January to December, in the same dull house and rooms, looked more
cheerful than I did. He was incapacitated by his infirmity from taking
part in any one of the noisy games that were going on around us, yet
he smiled pleasantly as he came limping up towards me on his crutches,
and told me that Mrs. Murray (who bestowed on him all the mother’s
care he would ever know) had promised, if he were good, to give him a
donkey ride during Easter week, and some seeds to plant in his strip
of garden.

“What’s the matter with you, Charlie?” he asked presently; “aren’t you
glad to be going home?”

“Oh! I don’t care,” I answered, listlessly.

“Don’t _care_ about seeing your father and mother again?”

“I haven’t got a mother,” I rejoined, quickly.

“Is your mother dead, like mine? Oh, I _am_ sorry! But your father
loves you for them both, perhaps.”

“No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t care a bit about me. He never asks to see
me when I do go home; and he frightens me. I wish I might stay all the
holidays with Mrs. Murray, like you do.”

“That _is_ bad,” quoth the lame child. “Well, maybe they’ll forget to
send for you, Charlie, and then we’ll have fine times together, you
and I.”

I had not the same hope, however. I knew that if by any oversight my
father forgot to send the servant for me, that my schoolmaster would
take the initiative and despatch me home himself.

How I dreaded it. The gloomy, half-closed house, the garden paths,
green with damp and thick with weeds, the servants acting entirely
upon their own authority, and the master querulous, impatient, and
unjust, either shut up in his own room brooding over the past and
present, or freely distributing oaths, complaints, and sometimes even
blows, amongst the unfortunate inmates of his household. As for
myself, I seldom came within the range of his arm without being
terrified away, and it had been a great relief to me when I returned
home for the previous Christmas holidays to find that he was absent,
and the term of my penance passed peacefully, if nothing else. But now
he was at home again, so my master informed me, my father had never
dreamt of writing to me, and I looked forward to the coming visit with
dread. A strange, unnatural state of things for a child of eight years
old, who had never known a mother’s love nor care, had never even
heard her name mentioned by any one with whom he was connected.

“What was your mother like?” continued Jemmy, after a few minutes’
pause, during which we two unfortunates had been ruminating upon our
lot. “Had she light-coloured hair, like Mrs. Murray, or dark, like the
cook?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, sadly. “I never saw her, that I remember.”

“Haven’t you got a likeness of her at home?” he demanded with
surprise. “Wait till I show you mine.”

He fumbled about in his waistcoat, and produced a much faded
daguerreotype of an ordinary-looking young woman in old-fashioned
habiliments.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he exclaimed, with weak enthusiasm as he
pressed the miniature to his lips.

“Oh, how I wish she hadn’t died! I know I should have loved her so
much!”

I made no reply. Poor Jemmy’s imagination did not run so fast as mine.
If my mother had lived to side with my father, where should I have
been between them? I turned my face away, and sighed.

It was strange that I had no idea of what my mother had been like. I
have never even formed one, neither had I any relation to whose memory
I might have appealed on the subject. My father lived a solitary,
aimless life in the old neglected house I have alluded to, seldom
leaving his own apartments, except at meal times, and certainly never
asking any friend to enter them to bear him company. The servants had
their parents, or lovers, or brothers, to visit them by stealth in the
kitchen, but the master sat by himself, gloomy and preoccupied, and
irritable almost to frenzy when provoked. No wonder I wished that I
could have spent the Easter holidays with Mrs. Murray. But a great
surprise was in store for me. The boys had hardly concluded the game
of football they had been carrying on during my colloquy with Jemmy,
when Mrs. Murray came smiling down the playground in search of me.

“I’ve a piece of news for you, Master Vere,” she exclaimed. “Some one
is waiting to see you in the parlour.”

“Not papa!” I said, quickly.

“No; not your papa,” replied Mrs. Murray, laying her hand
compassionately on my shoulder, “but a new friend--a lady whom you
will like very much indeed.”

“A _lady!_” I repeated, in utter bewilderment, whilst my schoolmates
crowded round Mrs. Murray, with the question, “Is she come to take
Vere home?”

“Perhaps! most probably,” was her answer, whilst exclamations of, “Oh,
I say, that’s a jolly shame. It isn’t fair. School doesn’t break up
till to-morrow. _We_ sha’n’t get off to-day, try as hard as we may,”
greeted her supposition from every side, and I, trembling like a
culprit, affirmed that I would much rather not be introduced to the
pleasures of home one hour earlier than was needful.

“Come into the parlour, dear, and see the lady,” Mrs. Murray replied,
“and we will decide what to do afterwards.”

So my face and hair were hurriedly washed and arranged, and I
sheepishly followed my master’s wife to the formal little apartment
dedicated to the reception of visitors, where we found the lady she
had alluded to.

Shall I ever forget her face as she rose to greet me, and drew me into
her arms! Such a fair, sweet, fresh face as it was, but with an amount
of sorrowful thought pictured in the serious eyes.

“And so this is Charlie Vere,” she said, as she gazed into my
features. “I should have known you anywhere, my darling, from your
likeness to your father! And now do you guess who I am?”

“No!” I answered, shyly; for Mrs. Murray had slipped away and left me
all alone with the stranger.

“I am your mother, dear; your new mother who means to love you very
dearly, and I have come to take you home!”

Mother and Home! How sweet the dear familiar words sounded in my ears;
familiar, alas! to everyone but me. The hawthorn blossoms in the
playground seemed to smell sweeter than they had done before, as she
pronounced them, and the birds’ chorus rang out harmoniously.

“Will papa be there?” I asked, nervously.

“Papa! of course! What would home be without your father?”

I had found it much pleasanter without him than with him hitherto, but
some instinct made me hold my tongue.

“Don’t you love papa, dear?” the lady went on softly. “Don’t you think
that he loves you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, picking my fingers.

“Poor child! Perhaps you have thought not, but that will all be
altered now. But you have not yet told me if you will like to have me
for a mother!”

“I think I shall like you very much!”

“That’s right, so we will go home together and try to make each other
happy. You want a mother to look after you, dear child, and I want a
little boy to love. We will not part again, Charlie, now I have found
you, not for the present, at all events. You have been too long away
from home as it is. That is why I came to-day. I could not wait till
to-morrow, even: I was so impatient to see you and to take you home.”

How she dwelt and lingered on the word and repeated it, as though it
gave her as much happiness to listen to as it did me.

“Will _you_ be there?” I asked, presently.

“Of course, I shall--always! What would be the use of a mother,
Charlie, if she didn’t live in the house close to you, always ready to
heal your troubles and supply your wants to the utmost of her power?”

“Oh! let us go at once!” I exclaimed, slipping my hand into hers. All
dread of my father seemed to have deserted me. The new mother was a
guardian angel, under whose protection I felt no fear. She was
delighted with my readiness.

“So we will, Charlie! We need not even wait for your box to be packed.
Mrs. Murray can send on everything to-morrow. And papa will be anxious
until he sees us home again!”

My father anxious about me! That was a new thing to be wondered at. I
was too much of a baby still to perceive that his anxiety would be for
_her_--not for me! I had not yet been able to grasp the idea that she
was his wife. I only regarded her as my new mother.

As we passed out of the house, I asked leave to say good-bye to my
friend Jemmy.

“His mother is dead, like mine,” I said, in explanation. “He will be
so pleased to hear that I have got a new one.”

“Poor boy!” she sighed; “we will ask him to spend the summer holidays
with you, Charlie. A great happiness like ours should make us anxious
to make others happier.”

And when Jemmy came forward on his crutches, and smiled his
congratulations on the wonderful piece of news I had to give him, she
stooped down and kissed his forehead. Then we passed out of the
playground together, I clinging to her hand, and proud already to hear
the flattering comments passed upon her appearance by the other boys,
and to remember that from that time forward she was to be called _my
mother_.

 * * * * * * * * *

Lilyfields, as my father’s house was designated, was not more than ten
or twelve miles from the school; but we had to make a little railway
journey to reach it, and I thought I had never travelled so pleasantly
before. My new mother laughed so often and chatted so continuously to
me, that I caught the infection of her mirthful loquacity, and, long
before we got home, had revealed so much of my past life and feelings,
that more than once I brought a shadow over her sunny face, and closed
her smiling lips with a sigh. But as we left the train and commenced
to walk towards Lilyfields, my old fears showed symptoms of returning,
and my sudden silence, with the tightening clasp of my hand, did not
pass unobserved by my companion.

“What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?”

“Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays
begin?” I whispered.

Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.

“If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you
home, Charlie.”

“And you are not afraid of him?”

“_Afraid!_” The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she
ejaculated the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea,
when they caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a
thousand little joys instead.

“There he is!” she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me
with her.

He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within
sight of us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by,
open-mouthed with astonishment.

“My angel,” he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close
to his; “life has been insupportable without you.”

“Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to
get back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to
welcome him home.”

She lifted me up in her arms--big boy as I was--and held me towards
him for a kiss. How strange it was to feel my father kiss me; but he
did so, though I think his eyes never left her face the while. Then he
took her hand, and held it close against his heart, and they walked
through the silent, balmy-breathed fields together. As I entered the
house I could hardly help exclaiming aloud at the marvellous changes
that had taken place there. Not an article of furniture had been
changed, not a picture moved from its place, yet everything looked
bright as the glorious spring. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned,
and lace curtains, snowy table-cloths, and vases of flowers, with here
and there a bright bit of colour in the shape of a rug, or a piece of
china, had transformed the house--not into a paradise--but into _a
home_. Even my father was changed like his surroundings. He looked ten
years younger, as with nicely kept hair, and a becoming velveteen
lounging coat, he sunk down into an easy-chair, and deprecated, whilst
he viewed with delight, the alacrity with which my new mother insisted
upon removing his boots and fetching his slippers. It was such a
novelty to both of us to be attended to in any way, that I was as much
surprised as he to find that the next thing she did was to take me
upstairs, and tidy me for tea herself, showering kisses and love words
upon me all the while. Oh! the happy meal that followed. How unlike
any we had taken in that house before! I, sitting up at table, with my
plate well provided; my father in his arm-chair, looking up with
loving eyes at each fresh proof of her solicitude for him, and my new
mother seated at the tea-tray, full of smiles and innocent jests,
watching us both with the utmost affection; but apparently too excited
to eat much herself. Once my father noticed her want of appetite and
reproached her with it.

“I am too happy to eat, Harold!” was her reply.

“Too happy,” he repeated in a low voice, “_really_ too happy! No
regrets, my Mary, no fears! Your future does not terrify you. You
would not undo the past if it were in your power!”

“Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a
semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.”

“God bless you!” was all he answered.

If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for
before many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life
was an unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and
despondency--the most unnatural feelings a young child can
entertain--had all passed away. I no longer dreaded my father’s
presence; on the contrary, it was my greatest treat to bear him
company as he worked in the garden, or whistled over his carpentering,
or accompanied my mother in strolls about the country.

He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too;
and although his new-born love was for _her_, and not for me, the
glory of it was reflected in his treatment of me.

So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have
thought my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my
father without a bright face, she was not always so careful in my
presence, thinking me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in
her countenance; and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I
marked the same look steal over her which I had observed on the
occasion of our first meeting--an undercurrent of thoughtful
sadness--the look of one who had suffered, who still suffered, from a
pain which she kept to herself.

Once I surprised her in tears--a violent storm of tears, which she was
powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason
of them.

“Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did Prince
bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?”

My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for
any other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly?
and she was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What
possible cause could she have for tears?

My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her
burning face against my cheek.

“Will my little boy love me always?” she
asked--“always--always--whatever happens?”

“Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you
don’t know what it was like before you came here!”

“Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,” said my mother,
as she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts.

But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly
before me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which
she would try to disguise by excessive mirth.

So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister
was born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the
greatest possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to
have a playmate so dependant on me, and yet so entirely my own. I
positively worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the
signal for my being sent back to school, but this time only as a
weekly boarder.

Hitherto my mother had taught me herself, and very sorry I was to give
up those delightful lessons, which were rendered so easy by the
trouble she took to explain them to me; but her time was too much
taken up with her baby to allow her to devote sufficient to me.
Besides, I was now eleven years old, growing a great lad, and able to
take every advantage of the education afforded me at Mr. Murray’s
school.

My old friend, Lame Jemmy, who had spent many a pleasant week at
Lilyfields meanwhile, was still there to welcome me back and make me
feel less of a stranger; and my father took away the last sting of the
new arrangement by buying me a sturdy pony on which to ride backwards
and forwards every week to see my mother and him.

But the greatest pang which I experienced was parting, even for a few
days, with baby Violet. I cried over her so much, indeed, that I made
my mother cry too, as she asked God to bless the boy who had been a
true son to her. I was very glad to think she loved me so much, for I
loved her dearly in return; but as I galloped back to Lilyfields every
Saturday afternoon, my thoughts were all for the dimpled baby sister
whom I would carry about in my arms, or roll with amongst the
newly-mown grass, rather than with those who had proved themselves to
be real parents to me,--she from the commencement of her knowledge of
me, and he from the date of his knowing her. It was my mother alone I
had to bless for it all. But I had grown accustomed to happiness by
this time, and took it as my due.

My parents were very proud of their little daughter, who grew into a
lovely child, but she did not seem to afford them as much pleasure as
pride. Sometimes I detected my mother looking at her as we romped
together, with more pain in the expression of her face than anything
else. Once she caught her suddenly to her bosom, and kissed her golden
curls with passion, exclaiming,--

“Oh, my heart, if I were to go, what would become of you?--what
_would_ become of you?”

I was still too young to grasp the full meaning of her words, but I
knew my mother meant that if she died, no one would take such good
care of Violet as she had done. So I marched up to her confidently,
with the assurance that _I_ would take that responsibility upon my own
shoulders.

“Don’t be afraid, mamma! As soon as I am a man, I mean to get a house
all to myself, and the best rooms in it shall be for Violet.”

She looked at me with her sweet, earnest, searching gaze for a moment,
and then folded me in one embrace with her own child.

“Father’s boy!” she murmured, caressingly over me--“father’s brave,
loving boy! No, Charlie, I will not be afraid! If it be God’s will
that I should go, I will trust Violet to father and to you.”

 * * * * * * *

Meanwhile my father was a very contented man. He had undergone much
the same change as myself, and forgotten, in the sunshine that now
surrounded him, all the miserable years he had spent in that once
desolate mansion.

I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We
were like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour,
never giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the
bar.

Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter,
but always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as
though he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my
mother warded off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he
were a sick child, that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her
quiet way through the kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet
clinging to her gown, regulating the household machinery by her own
supervision, that no accident might occur to ruffle her husband’s
temper.

I believed her in those days--I believe her still to be the noblest
woman ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me--or rather, I should
say, seemed strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of
puzzlement--and that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields.
True, my father had made himself so unsociable in the old days that
strangers might well have been shy of intruding themselves upon him
now; but my mother was so sweet and gentle, I felt it must be their
loss rather than hers, that so few people knew her. When, as a lad of
fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance to her, she put it aside as a
matter of course.

“When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to
render the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly
aware that I should have to depend for companionship upon him alone.
We have each other, and we have you and Violet. We want no other
society but yours.”

Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come
to see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should
have liked an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts
up at the Hall. But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes
came in for a chat with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a
meal at Lilyfields.

As I grew still older, and others remarked on the circumstance in my
hearing, I came to the conclusion that my father must have offended
his own friends by marrying my mother, whose connections might be
inferior to his own. This idea was confirmed in my mind by observing
that she occasionally received letters she was anxious to conceal,
which, knowing the frankness of her disposition, and her great love
for him, appeared very strange to me. One day, indeed, my suspicions
became certainties. It so happened that my mother had appeared very
fidgety and unlike herself at the breakfast-table, and more than once
had spoken to Violet and me in a voice hardly to be recognised as her
own. We felt instinctively that something was the matter, and were
silent, but my father, who was not well, seemed irritated by the
unusual annoyance. He wished to remain quietly at home that morning,
but my mother found a dozen reasons why he should ride to the
neighbouring town and take me with him. He combatted her wish for some
time, till, finding that her arguments were revolving themselves into
entreaty, his affection conquered his irresolution, and we set off
together. It was not a genial day for a ride, and the trifling
commissions my mother had given us to execute were not of sufficient
consequence to turn the duty into a pleasure. I was rather pleased
than otherwise, therefore, when we had left Lilyfields some miles
behind us, to find that my pony had cast a shoe, and to be able,
according to my father’s direction, to turn back and walk it gently
home again, whilst he went forward to do my mother’s bidding.

When I reached Lilyfields I left the animal in the stables, and,
walking up to the house, gained the hall before anyone was sensible of
my approach. What was my surprise to hear a loud altercation going on
within the parlour. My first impulse was to open the door; but as my
mother turned and saw me standing on the threshold, she came forward
and pushed me back into the hall.

“Go away!” she whispered hurriedly; “go upstairs; hide yourself
somewhere, and do not come down until I call you!”

Her eyes were bright as though with fever, and a scarlet spot burned
on either cheek. I saw she was labouring under the influence of some
strong excitement, and I became intensely curious to learn the reason.

“Whom have you in there?” I demanded, for I had caught sight of
another figure in the drawing-room.

“Oh! you wish to know who I am, young man, do you?” exclaimed a
coarse, uncertain voice from the other side the half-opened door.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of myself, as _some_ people ought to be, and
you’re quite welcome to a sight of me if it’ll give you any pleasure.”

The door was simultaneously pulled open, and a woman stood before me.

How shall I describe her.

She may have been beautiful, perhaps, in the days long past, but all
trace of beauty was lost in the red, blotchy, inflamed countenance she
presented to my gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot; her hair dishevelled;
her dress tawdry and untidy, and if she had even been a gentlewoman,
which I doubted, she had parted with every sign of her breeding. As
she pushed her way up behind my mother--looking so sad and sweet and
ladylike beside her--she inspired me with nothing but abhorrence.

“Who is this person?” I repeated, with an intimation of disgust that
apparently offended the stranger, for in a shrill voice she commenced
some explanation which my mother was evidently most anxious I should
not hear.

“Oh, Charlie! do you love me?” she whispered.

“Mother! yes!”

“Then go up to your room, now, _at once_, and wait there till I come
to you! I will speak to you afterwards--I will tell you _all_--only go
now!”

She spoke so earnestly that I could not refuse her request, but did as
she desired me at once, the woman I had seen, screaming some
unintelligible sentence after me as I ascended the stairs. But when I
found myself alone, the scene I had witnessed recurred rather
unpleasantly to my memory. It was an extraordinary circumstance to see
a stranger at all within our walls; still more so a woman, and one who
dared to address my mother in loud and reproachful tones. And I was
now sixteen, able and willing to defend her against insult, why,
therefore, had she not claimed my services to turn this woman from the
house, instead of sending me upstairs, as she might have done little
Violet, until she had settled the matter for herself? But then I
remembered the trouble my mother had taken to get my father and me
away from Lilyfields that morning, and could not believe but that she
had foreseen this visitation and prepared against it. It was then as I
had often supposed. She had relations of whom she was ashamed, with
whom she did not wish my father to come in contact. Poor mother! If
this was one of them, I pitied her! I believed the story I had created
myself so much, that I accepted it without further proof, and when my
mother entered the room, and laying her head against my shoulder,
sobbed as if her heart would break, I soothed her as well as I was
able, without another inquiry as to the identity of the person with
whom I had found her.

“Don’t tell your father, Charlie!” she said, in parting. “Don’t
mention a word to anyone of what you have seen to-day. Promise me,
darling! I shall not be happy till I have your word for it!”

And I gave her my word, and thought none the less of her for the
secrecy, although I regretted it need be.

Not long after this my father articled me, at my own request, to an
architect in London, and my visits to the happy home at Lilyfields
became few and far between. But I had the consolation of knowing that
all went well there, and that I was taking my place in the world as a
man should do.

I had worked steadily at my profession for two years, and was just
considering whether I had not earned the right to take a real good
long holiday at Lilyfields (where Violet, now a fine girl of seven
years old, was still my favourite plaything), when I received a letter
from the doctor of the village--desiring me to come home at once as my
father was ill, beyond hope of recovery. I knew what that meant--that
he was already gone; and when I arrived at Lilyfields I found it to be
true; he had died of an attack of the heart after a couple of hours’
illness. The shock to me was very great. I had never loved my father
as I did my mother; the old childish recollections had been too strong
for that, but the last few years he had permitted me to be very happy,
and I knew that to _her_ his loss must be irreparable. Not that she
exhibited any violent demonstration of grief. When I first saw her, I
was surprised at her calmness. She sat beside my father’s body, day
and night, without shedding a tear; and she spoke of his departure as
quietly as though he had only gone on a journey from which she fully
expected him to return. But though her eyes were dry, they never
closed in sleep, and every morsel of colour seemed to have been
blanched out of her face and hands. So the first day passed, and when
the second dawned, I, having attained the dignity of eighteen years,
thought it behoved me to speak of my late father’s affairs and my
mother’s future.

“Where is father’s will, mother?”

“He never made one, dear!”

“Never made a will! That was awfully careless.”

“Hush, Charlie!”

She would not brook the slightest censure cast on her dead love.

“But there _must_ be a will, mother.”

“Darling, there is none! It was the one thought that disturbed his
last moments. But I am content to let things be settled as they may.”

“Lilyfields will be yours of course, and everything in it,” I answered
decidedly. “No one has a better right to them than you have. And you
and Violet will live here to your lives’ end, won’t you?”

“Don’t ask me, dear Charlie, don’t think of it--not just yet at least!
Let us wait until--until--it is all over, and then decide what is best
to be done!”

Before it was all over; matters were decided for us.

It was the day before the funeral. I had just gone through the
mournful ceremony of seeing my father’s coffin soldered down, and, sad
and dispirited, had retired to my own room for a little rest, when I
heard the sound of carriage wheels up on the gravel drive. I peered
over the window blind curiously, for I had never heard of my father’s
relations, and had been unable in consequence to communicate with any
of them. A lumbering hired fly, laden with luggage, stopped before the
door, and from it descended, to my astonishment, the same woman with
the fiery red face whom I had discovered in my mother’s company two
years before. I decided at once that, whatever the claims of this
stranger might be, she could not be suffered to disturb the widow in
the first agony of her crushing grief, and, quick, as thought, I ran
down into the hall and confronted her before she had entered the
house.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” I commenced, “but Mrs. Vere is unable to
see anyone at present. There has been a great calamity in the family,
and--”

“I know all about your calamity,” she interrupted me rudely, “if it
were not for that I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you cannot see Mrs. Vere!” I repeated.

“And pray who _is_ Mrs. Vere?” said the woman.

“My mother,” I replied proudly, “and I will not allow her to be
annoyed or disturbed.”

“Oh! indeed, young man. It strikes me you take a great deal of
authority upon yourself; but as I mean to be mistress in my own house,
the sooner you stop that sort of thing the better! Here! some of you
women!” she continued, addressing the servants who had come up from
the kitchen to learn the cause of the unusual disturbance. “Just help
the flyman up with my boxes, will you--and look sharp about it.”

I was thunderstruck at her audacity.

For a moment I did not know what to answer. But when this atrocious
woman walked past me into the parlour, and threw herself into my dead
father’s chair, I followed her, and felt compelled to speak.

“I do not understand what you mean by talking in this way,” I said.
“Mrs. Vere is the only mistress in this house, and--”

“Well, young man, and suppose _I_ am Mrs. Vere!”

“I can suppose no such thing. You cannot know what you are talking
about. My mother--”

“_Your mother!_ And pray, what may your name be and your age?”

“Charles Vere; and I was eighteen last birthday,” I said, feeling
compelled, I knew not by what secret agency, to reply.

“Just so! I thought as much! Well, I am Mrs. Vere, and I am your
mother!”

“_My mother!_ You must be mad, or drunk! How dare you insult the dead
man in his coffin upstairs. My mother! Why, she died years ago, before
I can remember.”

“Did she? That’s the fine tale madam, who’s been taking my place here
all this time has told you, I suppose. But I’ll be even with her yet.
I’m your father’s widow, and all he’s left behind him belongs to me,
and she’ll be out of this house before another hour’s over her head,
or my name’s not Jane Vere!”

“You lie!” I exclaimed passionately. This tipsy, dissipated,
coarse-looking creature, the woman who bore me, and whom I had
believed to be lying in her grave for sixteen years and more. Was it
wonderful that at the first blush my mind utterly refused to credit
it? The angry accusation I have recorded had barely left my lips, when
I looked up and saw _my mother_--the woman who had come as an angel of
light into my father’s darkened home, and watched over me with the
tenderest affection since--standing on the threshold, pale and
peaceful in her mourning garb, as the Spirit of Death itself.

“Mother! say it is not true,” I cried as I turned towards her.

“Oh, Charlie, my darling boy! my brave, good son! Be quiet! bear it
like a man; but it _is_ true!”

“This--this woman was my father’s _wife!_”

“She was!”

“And _you_, mother!” I exclaimed in agony.

“I was only the woman that he loved, Charlie,” she answered, with
downcast eyes. “You must think no higher of me than that!”

“I think the very highest of you that I can. You were my father’s
loving companion and friend for years: you saved his life and his
reason! You were _his_ true, true wife, and _my_ mother. I shall never
think of you in any lower light.”

My emotion had found vent in tears by that time. It was all so new and
so horrible to believe, and my mother’s hand rested fondly on my bowed
head.

Then that other woman, whose existence I can never recall without a
shudder, seized her hateful opportunity, and levelled the most
virulent abuse at my poor martyr mother’s head. Words, such as I had
never heard from a female before, rained thickly from her lips, until
I lost sight of my own grief in my indignation at the shower of
inuendoes which were being hurled at the person dearest to me of all
the world.

“Be silent,” I said in a loud authoritative voice. “Were you twenty
times my mother I would not permit you to speak as you are speaking
now. If it is true that you were my father’s wife, why were you not in
your proper place, instead of leaving your lawful duties to another?”

“Oh! madam here can answer that question better than myself. She knows
well enough there was no room left for me where she was.”

“Untrue!” murmured my mother, but without any anger. “I would have
shielded your character from your boy’s censure, as I have done for so
long, but justice to the dead compels me to speak. You left this home
desolate for many miserable years before I entered it. You deserted
your child in his infancy, but your husband had so good and forgiving
a heart that, when you cried to him for pardon, he took you back again
and condoned your great offence, and therefore, when you left him a
second time, the law contained no remedy for his wrong. He was
compelled to live on--alone--dishonoured and comfortless, whilst
you--you can best tell your son what your life has been since.”

“Anyway I am Mrs. Vere,” retorted the other, “and my husband has died
intestate, and his property belongs to me, so I’ll thank you to take
your brat, and clear out of my house before the sun goes down.”

“Oh! mother, this is infamous! It can never be!”

“It _must_ be, Charlie! It is the law. I knew all this when I
consented to come here as your father’s wife. He never deceived me for
a single moment; and if I have any regret that he put off providing
against this contingency until it was too late, it is only for fear
lest he should be regretting it also. But, my dear, _dear_ love!” she
added in a lower tone, “I acquit you of this as of all things. I know
your great love for me never failed, and I am content!”

“I will not believe it without further proof!” I exclaimed. “I will
send Ellen at once for the solicitor. I cannot leave you alone with
this horrid woman!”

“Hush, Charlie! she is your mother.”

“I will not acknowledge it. _You_ are the only mother I have ever
had--the only mother I ever will have to my life’s end.”

Mr. Chorberry, the solicitor, came without delay, but he could give me
no comfort. My poor father, by that strange indifference which has
been the curse of so many, had put off making his will until it was
too late, by reason of which he had left the one to whom he owed most
in the world, the woman who had sacrificed friends and reputation to
spend her life in a dull country home, administering to his pleasures,
entirely dependant on her own resources for support--whilst the
faithless, drunken creature he had the misfortune to be still chained
to, walked in as the lawful wife, and claimed her share of the
property. There was only one drop of balm in his decision. I, as my
father’s son, shared what he had left behind him, but my angel mother
and dear baby-sister were cast upon the world to shift for themselves.

And this was the law.

Oh, father! did your spirit look down from whichever sphere it had
been translated to, and witness this?

“But, surely,” I said to Chorberry, “there can be no necessity for my
mother leaving Lilyfields before the funeral?”

“Of course there is no necessity; but do you think it advisable, under
the circumstances, that she should remain? Mrs. Vere has the legal
power to enforce her departure, and I am afraid will not be slow to
use it.”

My mother evidently was of one mind with him, for in an incredibly
short space of time she had packed her belongings. Mrs. Vere, standing
over her meanwhile to see she did not purloin anything from the house,
and was waiting in the hall with little Violet, ready to go to the
house of the clergyman’s wife, who, to her honour, having heard how
matters stood at Lilyfields, had promptly sent my mother an invitation
to the vicarage for the night.

“Are you ready, dear mother?” I said sadly, as I joined her in the
hall, and drew her arm within my own.

“Well, Mr. Charles, I suppose I shall see you back again here before
long?” screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Vere down the staircase.

I started.

_See me back!_ Was it possible that this woman believed I intended to
make friends with her?

“We’ve been parted long enough, it strikes me,” she continued; “and
now your father’s gone, and left no one behind him but yourself I
suppose you’ll be looking out for my share of the property at my
death, so we may as well let bye-gones be bye-gones, eh?”

“I wish for none of your property, madam,” I answered haughtily,
“since the law gives it to you you are welcome to keep it.”

“Charlie, dear, think what you may be resigning,” urged my mother in
my ear.

“I think of nothing but _you_, mother!”

“Hoity, toity! here’s manners,” cried the other woman. “You seem to
forget, Master Charlie, that _I’m your mother!_”

Still holding my mother’s hand, I turned and confronted her.

“I forget nothing, madam! I wish I could; but I remember that _here_
stands the woman who laboured where you refused to work; who loved,
where you had insulted and betrayed; who was faithful where you were
faithless and undeserving; and, I say, that here stands my dead
father’s true wife; and here stands, in God’s sight, _my mother!_ The
blessing of man may not have sanctified her union, but the blessing of
heaven shall be upon it and upon her--upon the creatures she rescued
from a living death and upon the gracious hand with which she did it,
until time itself shall be no more.”

So saying, I passed with _my mother_ beyond the gates of Lilyfields,
to make a new life for her in some quiet spot where she might outlive
her grief, and to repay, if possible, by the protection and support of
my manhood, the love she had given me as a little child.




 IN THE HEART OF THE
 ARDENNES.

Fever is raging in Brussels, and we are advised to quit the town as
soon as possible. The question is, where to go. I suggest Rochefort in
the Ardennes, having ascertained previously that the place is healthy;
but my friends laugh at me. “Rochefort in February! We shall all be
frozen to death.” “At least,” I argue, “there is pure air to breathe.”
“But you can have no idea of the dulness,” is all the reply I receive;
“Rochefort, with its one street and its one resident is bad enough in
the summer, but at this season it will be unendurable.” Yet I am not
to be turned from my purpose. I consider it is better to be frozen
outwardly than burned inwardly; and that when one is flying from a
pestilence, there is no time to regret the numerous pleasures left
behind, or the few that loom in the future. And so we settle finally
that, notwithstanding its promised disadvantages, we will thankfully
accept the refuge Rochefort can afford us; and having made up our
minds to go, we start twenty-four hours afterwards.

Being pent-up in a railway carriage with half-a-dozen manikins and
womanikins, who suck oranges half the time, and obtrude their little
persons between your view and the window the other half, is not
perhaps the most favourable situation from which to contemplate the
beauties of nature; for which reason, perhaps, it is as well that for
the first part of our journey nature presents no beauties for our
contemplation, and thereby our naturally mild tempers are prevented
from boiling over. But when we have accomplished about fifty miles
(Rochefort being distant from Brussels seventy miles) the country
begins to assume a different and far more engaging aspect. The flat
table-land, much of it marshy and undrained, which has scarcely been
varied hitherto, gives place to swelling hills, half rock, half
heather, and charming copses of fir, some of which are very extensive.
The scenery becomes altogether more wooded and naturally
fertile-looking; and houses and farmsteads lose all trace of British
contiguity, and become proportionately interesting to curious English
eyes. The train is an express, and as it dashes past the fragile,
roughly-built little stations with which the road is bordered, it is
amusing, or rather I should say it would be amusing, did it not
suggest the idea of accidents, to see the signal-flags displayed by
peasant-women in every variety of attitude and costume.

Here stands a stolid, solid Belgian girl, of eighteen years of age
probably, and stout enough for forty, with a waist like a tar-barrel,
and legs to match, who nurses her flag as if it were a baby, and gazes
at the flying train with a countenance which could not be more
impassive were it carved in wood. We have hardly finished laughing at
her, when the train rushes past another station, at which appears a
withered old crone, her head tied up in a coloured handkerchief, and
her petticoats, cut up to her knees, looking cruelly short for such a
wintry day, and displaying a pair of attenuated legs and feet for
which the huge wooden _sabots_ look miles too large. She waves about
the signal-flag in a nervous, agitated manner, which suggests the idea
that she is not quite sure whether she has caught up the right one or
not; but before we have time to be made uncomfortable by the fact, we
are passing another of these Belgic “shanties,” at the door of which
appears for a moment a middle-aged woman, who waves the signal at us
in a menacing manner, and rushes back immediately to her children or
her cooking.

Remembering our own signalmen, and the importance attached to their
capabilities and education for the important office assigned them, it
ceases to be a matter of amusement to see the lives of hundreds daily
intrusted to the direction of such ignorant creatures as these. I
suppose that “Monsieur,” smoking at his ease by the fireside in the
little wooden station-house, directs the actions of his mother, wife,
or daughter; but what are the authorities about not to insist on his
performing his duty himself?

Notwithstanding all which, however, our train reaches Jemelle (the
nearest station to Rochefort) in safety, and in the midst of a wind
sufficient, if not to take our heads, to take our hats off, we and our
belongings come to the ground. It takes some minutes to get our nine
packages together; and when we present ourselves at the door of the
diligence, it is nearly full. I look despairingly at the nurse and all
the children, and decide that the younger members of the family must
go by diligence, and the elder shall walk with me to Rochefort. But
the Rochefortians are too polite to permit such a thing. Two of them
insist upon getting out and giving up their places to the children. I
protest against such a proceeding, of course, as in duty bound, but
they will hear of no excuse, and start off walking at such a pace that
they are out of sight before the diligence is set in motion. At last
the luggage is all packed away on the top, and we are all packed away
inside, in company with two gentlemen, who open the conversation
pleasantly by asking us where we come from, and telling us that we
must not expect to find Rochefort as large as Brussels, which, to say
truth, we had scarcely anticipated. The talk becomes fragmentary, for
the diligence rattles and jolts over the stony, hilly road, and the
bells on the horses’ collars jangle in unison; and the baby is so
enchanted with the noise, that he shouts till no one can be heard but
himself. But twenty minutes’ purgatory brings us into a long, steep,
narrow street, paved with stones, and bordered with grey-and-white
houses; and I have hardly time to ask, “Is this Rochefort?” when the
diligence draws up before a whitewashed house with a sign swinging
before the door, and I am asked if we are for the Hôtel Biron. No, we
are for the Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or; and as no one seems to be for
the Hôtel Biron, the diligence continues to climb the stony street
until it reaches the summit, and halts before the Hôtel de la Cloche
d’Or.

Here we all unpack ourselves; and a buxom German landlady, with a
kind, motherly face, comes down the steps to greet us. She has
received my letter; the beds are all ready for us; the dinner will be
on the table in half-an-hour; we are to be pleased to enter, and make
ourselves at home. We _are_ very pleased; for we are dreadfully tired
(not cold, for the weather is unnaturally mild), and have not had
anything substantial to eat all the day. We climb up the steps of the
hotel, which looks just like a farmhouse abutting on the main street,
and find ourselves in a sanded room, containing a long wooden table,
with benches either side of it, and bearing evident reminiscences of
smoking and drinking--in fact, “not to put too fine a point on it,”
the public tap-room--but where we are met by the landlady’s two eldest
daughters, Thérèse and Josephine, who are beaming in their welcome.
They usher us into a second room, where the children scream at the
sight of a table laid for dinner, and the four corners of which bear
bowls of whipped cream and custard, and rosy Ardennes apples, and
biscuits just out of the oven. The little people want to begin at
once, and cannot be brought to see the necessity of washing their
faces and hands first or waiting till the meat and potatoes shall be
placed upon the table. Would Madame like to see the _chambres à
coucher_ at once? Madame saying yes, Thérèse catches up the youngest
child but one, and, preceded by Josephine, we enter first a scullery,
next a bricked passage, thence mount a most perilous set of dark
narrow stairs, and stumble into a long whitewashed corridor, which
terminates in a glass-door opening on to a garden. Here three doors
successively thrown open introduce us to our bedrooms; and the trunks
having been brought up the breakneck stairs, we take possession at
once. The little white-curtained beds are small, but beautifully
clean, and each one is surmounted by its eider-down quilt in a
coloured cotton case. Two little islands of carpet in a sea of painted
boards represent the coverings of the floors; and the washing-stands
are only deal-tables, and there are no chests of drawers; but we
inhale the fresh, vigorous breeze which is pouring through the windows
(open even at that season), and think of fever-infected Brussels, and
are content. But though it is all very nice and clean, we cannot
possibly wash without water, nor dry our hands without towels.

An imbecile shout from the door for anybody or anything brings a
broad-featured, rosy, grinning German girl to our aid, who, when she
is asked her name, says it is Katrine, but we can call her by any name
we please. The pronunciation of “Katrine” not presenting those
difficulties to our foreign tongues which the owner of it seems to
anticipate, we prefer to adhere to her baptismal cognomen, instead of
naming her afresh, and desire Katrine to bring us some hot water and
towels; on which she disappears, still on the broad grin, and returns
with a pail of warm water, which she sets down in the middle of the
room. We manage well enough with that, however, but are at our wits’
end when, on being asked for more of the same fluid with which to mix
the baby’s bottle, she presents it to us in a washing-basin. But as, a
few minutes after, I encounter her in the corridor carrying a
coffee-pot full to E----’s room, I conclude that in Rochefort it is
the fashion to use vessels indiscriminately, and resolve thenceforth
to take the goods the gods provide, without questioning.

On descending to the dining-room, we find that the gods have been very
munificent in their gifts. After the soup appears roast beef; and as
we are very hungry, we cause it to look foolish, and are just
congratulating each other on having made an excellent dinner, when in
trots Thérèse, pops our dirty knives and forks upon the table-cloth,
whips away our plates, with that which contains the remainder of the
beef, and puts down a dish of mutton-chops in its stead. We look at
one another in despair; we feel it to be perfectly impossible to begin
again upon mutton-chops, and I am obliged to hint the same to
Thérèse in the most delicate manner in the world. She expostulates;
but to no purpose, and leaves the room, mutton-chops in hand. But only
to give place to her mother, who enters with a countenance of dismay
to inquire what is wrong with the cooking that we cannot eat.

Nothing is wrong; we have eaten remarkably well. It is our
capabilities of stowage which are at fault. Will we not have the hare,
which is just ready to be served up?

Sorry as we are to do it, we must decline the hare; and as we affirm
that we are ready for the pudding, and nothing else, we feel we have
sunk in Madame’s estimation.

The pudding, a _compote_ of apples and preserves, with the whipped
cream and custard, is delicious; and as soon as we have discussed it,
we are very thankful to stretch ourselves under the eider-down quilts,
and know the day to be over. We have done work enough that day to
entitle us to twelve hours’ repose; yet we are all wide-awake with the
first beams of the morning sun.

We dress ourselves with the pleasurable anticipation of seeing new
things, however simple, and come down-stairs to a breakfast-table, in
its way as plentifully spread as the dinner-table of the night before.
We have an abundance of milk,--so fresh from the cow that it is
covered with froth, and the jug which contains it is quite
warm,--eggs, cold meat, home-made bread in huge brown loaves, good
butter, and strong clear coffee. In fact, we come to the conclusion
that our landlady knows how to live, and we no longer marvel at the
rosy cheeks and full forms of Thérèse and Josephine, nor that Madame
herself fills out her dresses in such a magnificent manner.

E---- has been for a stroll before breakfast, and brings back a report
of ruins on the high ground; he has already unpacked his sketch-books
and sharpened his pencils. We, not being walking encyclopædias, seize
our _Continental Bradshaw_, and find that the ruins are those of a
castle in which Lafayette was made prisoner by the Austrians in 1792.

As soon as breakfast is concluded, we rush off to see the ruined
castle, which stands on an eminence just above the hotel, and which
our landlady (who walks into our sitting-room and takes a chair in the
most confiding manner possible whenever she feels so inclined) informs
us, although not open to the public, belongs to a lady whose house is
built on the same ground, and who will doubtless allow us to look over
it. We can see the remains of the castle before we reach them, and
decide that it must have been uglier and less interesting when whole
than now, having been evidently designed with a view to strength
rather than beauty. The little winding acclivitous path which leads to
it, bounded by a low wall fringed with ferns and mosses, is perhaps
the prettiest part of the whole concern; but just as we have scaled
it, and come upon the private dwelling-house, our poetic meditations
are interrupted by the onslaught of half-a-dozen dogs (one of which is
loose, and makes fierce snaps at our unprotected legs), which rush out
of their kennels at chains’ length, and bark so vociferously, that we
feel we have no need to make our presence known by knocking at the
door. A child appears at it; and we inquire politely if we may see the
ruins, at which she shakes her head, and we imagine she doesn’t
understand our Parisian French.

But in another moment we are undeceived, for the shrill, vixenish
voice of a woman (may dogs dance upon her grave!) exclaims sharply
from the open door, “_Fermez, fermez; on ne peut pas entrer_.” The
child obediently claps it to in our faces, and we retrace our steps,
with a conviction that the lady is like her castle--more strong than
beautiful. E--is so disgusted that he will not even sketch the ruins
from the opposite side of the road, up which another precipitous path
leads us to a long walk, which in summer must be a perfect bower, from
the interlacing of the branches of the trees with which it is
bordered; and from which we have a far better view of the ruins than
the utmost politeness of their owner could have afforded us. But no;
judgment has gone out against them; we decide they are heavy and
unpicturesque, and not worth the trouble; and we walk on in hopes of
finding something better: and are rewarded. At the close of the long
overshadowed walk, a quaint little chapel, beside which stands a
painted wooden crucifix nearly the size of life, excites our
curiosity, and, walking round it, we come upon one of the loveliest
scenes, even in the month of February, that Nature ever produced.

A green valley, creeping in sinuous folds between two ranges of high
hills; one rocky and coated with heather, the other clothed with wood.
Beneath the rocky range there winds a road bordered by trees,--along
which we can see the red diligence which brought us from the station
taking its jangling way,--and beside it runs a stream, terminating in
a cascade and a bridge, and the commencement of the lower part of
Rochefort. All the fields are cut upon the sides of hills, and are
diversified by clumps of rock covered with ferns, and usually the
groundwork of a well, protected by a few rough planks, or the
fountain-head of a mountain-stream which trickles down until it joins
the river. This is the valley of Jemelle, to see which in the proper
season would alone be worth a journey to Rochefort. We look and
admire, and lament the impossibility of ever transferring such a scene
to canvas as it should be done; and then we turn back whence we came,
and find we are standing at the entrance of an artificial cave,
situated at the back of the crucifix before alluded to, and which
forms perhaps as great a contrast to the natural loveliness we have
just looked upon, as could well be. Apparently it is the tomb of some
woman, by the framed requests which hang on either side that prayers
may be offered for the repose of her soul; but had her friends turned
out upon her grave all the maimed and motley rubbish to be found in a
nursery playbox of some years’ standing, they could scarcely have
decorated it in a less seemly manner. At the end of the cave is a
wooden grating, behind which is exhibited one of those tawdry
assemblages of horrors which tend more perhaps than all else to bring
ridicule on the Roman Catholic religion, so utterly opposed are they
to our conceived ideas of what is sacred. Two or three rudely-carved
and coarsely-painted, almost grotesque, wooden groups of the dead
Christ, the Holy Family, and the Crucifixion, form the groundwork of
this exhibition: the interstices being filled up with gold-and-white
jars of dirty artificial flowers; framed prints of saints with lace
borders, reminding one of the worst description of valentines; and
composite figures, supposed to represent the same individuals, and
which may have cost fifty centimes apiece. The collection is such as
to make the spectator shudder to see holy things so unholily treated;
and it is difficult to conceive how, in this century, when art has
been carried to such a pitch that even our commonest jugs and basons
have assumed forms consistent with it, anyone, even the lowest, can be
satisfied with such designs and colouring as these things display.

Returning homeward by the lower part of the town, we pass a _maison
religieuse_ dedicated to St. Joseph, and in the garden see the good
little sisters joining their pupils, to the number of forty or fifty,
in a merry game of “Here we go round the mulberry-bush,” and
apparently taking as much pleasure in the exercise as the youngest
there. The church and churchyard stand at this end of Rochefort. There
is nothing in the building to attract one’s notice, except that we
agree that it is the ugliest we have ever seen; but we walk round the
little churchyard, the paucity of graves in which speaks well for the
climate of the place. The crosses and railings, made of the commonest
wood and in the most fragile manner, are all rotting as they stand or
lie (several having assumed the recumbent position); and we are
leaving the spot with the conviction that we have wasted five minutes,
when we come against a crucifix fastened by heavy iron clamps against
the wall of the church. A common iron cross, rusty and red from damp
and age, with a figure nailed on it of the most perfect bronze, old
and hard, and dark and bright, and as unchanged by weather and
exposure as on the day (perhaps hundreds of years ago) it was first
placed there.

Toiling up the street again, and examining the shops as we go, I say
that, much as I like Rochefort, I do not advise any one to come here
in order to purchase their wedding _trousseau_, or lay in a stock of
winter clothing. We look in vain for something to buy in remembrance
of the place; but can see nothing out of the way, except it is a
yellow teapot, holding at the least four quarts, and with a curled
spout to prevent the tea coming out too fast, which must be almost
necessary with such a load of liquid. The teapot is delicious, and
quite unique; but scarcely worth, we think, the trouble of
transportation. We have but just decided this matter to our
satisfaction when we come upon a “miscellaneous warehouse,” upon whose
front is painted “_Cartes pour les grottes de Rochefort_,” and
remember that we must see the famous grotto, and turn in to ask the
price of admission. Five francs a-head; children half-price. We think
the charge is high; but Monsieur C-- (to whom the grotto belongs)
takes us into his house and shows us prints of the different views of
its interior, which fire our imagination to that degree, that we
decide at once to see it the next morning. We look over a book also in
which visitors to the grotto have written down their first
impressions; and these testimonials excite our curiosity still
further. A Persian describes himself as having been suddenly
transported into fairyland; and can liken the vast caverns to nothing
but the palace of his great master the Sultan, and the various forms
assumed by the stalactites to those of lovely houris grouped about
him. A French poet, in rapturous verse, compares the grotto to the
enchanted halls of the Arabian Nights, and the stalactites to “frozen
tears.” Every traveller declares the sight to have been more wonderful
and beautiful than anything he has ever seen before, until we become
quite sorry to think we must put off seeing it until the morning; and
our expectations are heightened by the rapid assurance of Monsieur C--
(who always keeps his hands moving, and never stops to consider his
commas), that it is “_trèsbeautrèsbeautrèsbeau!_” However, we agree
to return the next day at eleven o’clock, when he promises the guides
shall be in readiness for us; and we go home to another excellent
dinner, the pleasure of which is only marred by the fact that
Thérèse _will_ make us use the same knives and forks for every
course; and we haven’t the strength of mind to resist.

Yesterday I spoke to madame on the necessity of engaging someone
during the mornings to read French and German with the girls, as we
shall most likely be here for a month; and it is too long a time for
them to be idle. Madame did not think I should find a _demoiselle_ in
Rochefort who could instruct them; but there is a _professeur_ here
who has passed all his college examinations, and who, if he has the
time, will doubtless be very glad of the employment. I asked her to
send for the _professeur_ that I might speak to him on the subject;
and here, just as we have done dinner, he arrives; for madame throws
open the door, and with a certain pride in her voice (pride that
Rochefort should possess such an article), announces “_Monsieur le
Professeur_.” I glance up, thinking of Charlotte Brontë and her
professor, and hoping this one may not prove as dirty and seedy and
snuffy, and, to my amazement, see standing on the threshold a lad of
about seventeen or eighteen, dressed in green trousers and a blue
blouse, and holding his cap in his hand. The two girls immediately
choke, and bury their faces in their books, which renders my task of
catechising rather a difficult one; and I glance at E-- for aid, but
his countenance is almost level with the table as he pretends to draw.
So I find there is nothing to be done but to beg the _professeur_ to
be seated,--a request which he steadily refuses to comply with; and as
he stands there, twisting his cap in his hands, he looks so like a
butcher-boy, that it is a mercy I do not ask him what meat he has
to-day.

But the poor young man is so horribly nervous, as he tells me that,
though qualified for a tutor, he has never taught before, that I have
not the heart to refuse him on account of his youth; besides, is he
not the sole _professeur_ in Rochefort? So I give him leave to come
the next morning, and try, at all events, what he can do with the
girls; and he looks very happy for the permission. And we see him a
minute afterwards, striding proudly down the street, whistling as he
goes, and holding his head half an inch higher for having “got a
situation.” Of course the children make merry over him for the rest of
the evening, and cannot recall the appearance of their _professeur_
without shrieks of laughter; but he comes the next morning,
nevertheless, to commence his duties, and proves to be quite as
particular as older teachers, and much more competent than some, and
takes the youngest girl completely aback by telling her she shall be
punished if she is not steady.

At eleven o’clock the next morning we are all ready to view the
grottoes, and E-- and I, with the two eldest children, start off on
our expedition. The way to their entrance lies through Monsieur C--’s
park, which in summer must be a very charming resort. He has collected
here all the wild animals indigenous to the Ardennes, and shows them
to us as we walk to the mouth of the grottoes. Close to his house he
has a splendid wolf and three foxes--the golden, silver, and common
fox. I should have preferred to keep these interesting specimens a
little further off from my own nose; but there is no accounting for
tastes. In the aviary he has squirrels, guinea-pigs, doves, pigeons,
and the most magnificent pair of horned owls I have ever seen. These
birds, which are as fierce as possible, have eyes of jet and amber, as
big as half-crowns, and when in their rage they spring at passers-by,
they make a noise with their beaks just like castanets.

A little farther up the park we come upon the Ardennes deer, which are
thicker built and less graceful than the English fallow-deer, with
which they are consorting; and a wild boar, with fierce tusks and a
savage grunt, wallowing in a _parterre_ of clay, which, nevertheless,
knows his master, and puts his ugly snout out to be scratched between
the palisades of his domain. Monsieur C-- only conducts us as far as
the entrance of the grotto, and there delivers us over to the care of
the guides, two in number, who each carry a couple of petroleum lamps,
and have “Grottes de Rochefort” written on their hatbands. They ask us
if we will have costumes to enter the caves with, and we decline, not
knowing the dirt we shall encounter; but we exchange our own hats for
little, grey linen ones, trimmed with a cockade and bunch of small red
feathers in front, made after the pattern of those adopted by the
monkeys on the organs, and in which we appear very comical to each
other’s eyes. Everything is ready, and down we go--down the first
flight of steps, which is steep but easy, and which, Monsieur C--
shouts after us, will be the most difficult descent of all (I wonder
if he impresses that fable on all his visitors) until the ivy and
fern-covered entrance is passed, and we enter the very mouth of the
cave, which is yet light enough to let us see that several such
flights have still to be descended. We have hardly reached the middle
of the second, and daylight is not yet left behind us, when E-- calls
out that he cannot breathe, and must go up into the fresh air again.
The guides insist that monsieur must be mistaken, and no one is ever
taken ill there. I insist, on the other hand, that monsieur’s wishes
must be complied with, and we must reaccompany him to the top, which
we do. I would rather not go back again then, and make the dark
pilgrimage alone with the children, but E-- begs we will, and the
girls look disappointed; so we retrace our steps, leaving him in the
park.

I confess that as I go down the second time I feel a little nervous,
and my limbs shake. I don’t like this going down, down, down into the
shades of eternal night, with no companions but two little children.

But at last we stand on level ground again. There is no light anywhere
except from the guides’ lamps, the foremost one (who is always
spokesman) waves his above his head, and introduces _la grande salle_.
I look up and around me, but all is black as pitch. I feel that I am
standing on broken flints and a great deal of mud; and as the guide’s
lamp throws its faint gleam here and there, I see that the cavern we
stand in is very vast and damp, and uncommonly like a huge cellar; but
I can’t say I see anything more. In another minute the guide has
turned, and leads us through a passage cut in the rock. We are not
going up or downstairs now, but picking our way over slippery stones
and between places sometimes so narrow and sometimes so low, that our
shoulders get various bumps and bruises, and the guide’s warning of
“_Garde tête!_” sounds continuously. Every now and then we come upon
a larger excavation, which is called a _salle_, and given some name
consequent on the likeness assumed by the stalactites contained in it.
Thus one is called _salle de Brahma_, because it contains a large
stalactite, somewhat resembling the idol of that name. Another _salle
du sacrifice_, because its principal attraction is a large flat stone,
at the foot of which is another, shaped sausage-wise, and entitled
_tombeau de la victime_. We pace after the guides through these
cavernous passages for what appears to me miles, my mind meanwhile
being divided between fear that I should leave my boots behind me in
the slushy clay, or that either of my children should tumble down or
knock her head. Every cavern is like the other, and I look in vain for
stalactites which shall remind me of “houris grouped about the
sultan,” or “frozen tears.” The guides occasionally produce a fine
effect by burning a little red fire, or letting-off a rocket, or
climbing singly up the more perilous places, that we may watch the
gradual ascent of their flickering lamps, and judge of the height of
the larger _salles_. But I suppose the enthusiastic scribblers in the
visitors’ book would consider me the possessor of a very darkened
intellect if they heard me affirm that I have seen better effects on
the stage, and climbed greater heights with much more convenience.
Perhaps I have not a sufficiently appreciative soul for grottoes; but
the greater part of the grotto of Rochefort comes up exactly to my
idea of a mine, and nothing more.

The “glittering” stalactites are nowhere. The cave is lined with
stalactites, but (with the exception of a few white ones) they are all
of a uniform pale-brown colour, and have no idea of glittering or
being prismatic. The greatest wonder of the grotto is its vastness,
which may be estimated from the fact that we are two hours going over
it, and then have not traversed the whole on account of fresh works
being carried on in parts. We penetrate to its very depths to see the
river and the waterfall, but the mud is so excessive that we are
compelled to stop, and let the guide descend with his lamp and flash
it over the water, which is really very pretty, and, strange to
relate, contains good trout.

Then we plough our way upwards again; up fungus-covered ladders, and
wet, slippery stairs, upon which it is most difficult to keep a
footing, until we arrive at decidedly the finest sight there--the
_salle du sabbat_. Here the guides send up a spirit-balloon, to show
us the height and extent of the vast cavern, and we are rather
awe-struck, particularly as, in order that we may see the full effect,
the other guide plants us on three chairs and takes away both the
lamps, leaving us seated in the darkness, on the edge of a precipice.
The blackness is so thick about us that we can almost _feel_ it; and
the silence is that of death. My youngest girl slips her little hand
in mine, and whispers, “Mamma, supposing he weren’t to come back
again!” and I can’t say the prospect pleases. However, the balloon
reaches the top of the cavern, and is hauled back again; and the guide
_does_ come back; and, whilst he is assisting his fellow to pack it
away, I sing a verse of “God save the Queen,” for the children to hear
the echo, which is stupendous.

Then we see the prettiest thing, perhaps, we have seen yet. At the top
of the _salle du sabbat_ there is a kind of breakage in the side, and
a large cluster of stalactites. One guide climbs up to this place and
holds his lamp behind the group, whilst the other calls out “_la femme
qui repose_;” when lo! before us there appears almost an exact
representation of a woman, reclining with crossed legs, and a child on
her bosom. It is so good an imitation, that it might be a figure
carved in stone and placed there, and I think the sight gave us more
pleasure than anything in the grotto. We have come upon several groups
of stalactites already, to which the guides have given names, such as
_l’ange de la résurrection_, _l’oreille de l’éléphant_, and _le
lion Belge_; but though they have, of course, borne some resemblance
to the figures mentioned, the likeness is only admitted for want of a
better. This likeness, however, is excellent, could hardly be more
like; and we are proportionately pleased. With the _salle du sabbat_
and the balloon the exhibition is ended; and we are thankful to emerge
into the fresh air again, and to leave slippery staircases and the
smell of fungi behind us.

We feel very heated when we stand on the breezy hill again, for the
grotto, contrary to our expectation, has proved exceedingly warm, and
the exercise has made us feel more so; and daylight looks so strange
that we can scarcely persuade ourselves we have not been passing the
night down below. We have picked up several little loose bits of stone
and stalactite during our progress, and when we reach home, we spread
them out before us on the table, and try to remember where they came
from. Here is a bit of marble, veined black-and-white; and here is
white stone, glistening and silvery. Here is the stalactite, a
veritable piece of “frozen tears” and _couchant houris_.

Well, we have been a little disappointed with the grottoes of
Rochefort, perhaps; we have not found the crystallisations quite so
purple-and-amber as we anticipated, or the foundations quite so clean;
but, after all, it is what we must expect in this life. If the grotto
is not so brilliant as we expected, it is at least a very wonderful
and uncommon sight; and so in this life, if we can but forget the
purple-and-gold, we may extract a great deal of amusement from very
small things, if we choose to try. With which bit of philosophy I
conclude.




 A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE;
 OR,
 THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE.

I am an author. I am something worse than that--I am a Press writer.
I am worse than that still--I am a Press writer with a large wife and
a small family. And I am an Amateur Detective! I don’t mean, of
course, that I reckon the last item as part of my profession, but my
friends always come to me if they are in any difficulty, and set me to
do all kinds of queer jobs, from restoring and reconciling a truant
husband to his wife, to making the round of the “Homes for Lost Dogs”
in order to find Lady Softsawder’s pet poodle. Even Jones couldn’t
complete his great work, “The Cyclopædia of the Brain,” without
asking my assistance (for a consideration, of course) with his fifth
section, “The Origin of Dreams.” Jones is full of fire and
imagination, but he does not care for plodding, and he knew me of old
for a good steady compiler. I agreed with alacrity. “The Origin of
Dreams” would fill those hungry little mouths of mine for three months
at the very least. But how to do it whilst they gaped around me!--how
to cover the one table in my solitary sitting-room with valuable works
of reference at the risk of their being touched by greasy
fingers!--how to wade through volume after volume, placing a mental
mark there and a material one here, whilst my offspring either
surreptitiously removed the one or irretrievably obliterated
remembrance of the other, by attracting my attention to the manner in
which they attempted to scalp each other’s heads or gouge out each
other’s eyes! I tried it for a week in vain.

My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which
was to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered
tomes which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried
on at home, and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for
reflection, and left me without energy to labour at night. I was about
to resign the task in despair--to tell Jones to give it to some more
capable or more fortunate labourer in the wide field of
speculation--when Fate came to my rescue in the person of the Hon.
Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son.

“My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,” he
remarked to me, in his friendly manner, “and he wants your assistance,
Trueman, if you’ll give it him.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?”

“Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in
love with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person--he,
with his twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor
remonstrated with him--told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and
all that sort of thing, he actually ran away!”

“Left Lord Seaborne’s house?”

“Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want
to make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so
he hasn’t said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out
where Cockleboat is--you’re so clever at that sort of thing--and just
bring him home again.”

“An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad
has gone?”

“Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you
wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of
course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear
something of the young scamp for us.”

“What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?”

“Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it
into his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last
birthday, and will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next
five years--very lucky for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not
be.”

“True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season.
Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?”

“I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to
Norwich for us or not?”

“I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.”

The offer had come most opportunely; even as Captain Rivers was
speaking it had flashed through my mind that here was the very
opportunity that I desired to carry out my project of writing the
fifth section of Jones’ Cyclopædia;--a remote lodging in one of the
back streets of the quiet old city of Norwich, whence I could carry on
my inquiries all day, and where I might sit up and write out my notes
all night. And Lord Seaborne’s generosity in such cases was too well
known to permit of any doubt on the subject whether I should not (by
accepting his proposal) be killing two birds with one stone. So I did
accept it, with gratitude, and having obtained all the information
possible respecting the mysterious disappearance of Master Julian
Cockleboat, I packed up the black-lettered tomes, and, embracing my
smiling wife and children, who appeared rather pleased than otherwise
at the prospect of getting rid of me for a few weeks, started for
Norwich.

I have a great respect for old county towns: there is a dignified
sobriety and sense of unimpeachable respectability about them that
impress me. I like their old-world institutions and buildings--their
butter crosses and market steps; their dingy bye streets with
kerbstones for pavements; their portentous churches and beadles; their
old-fashioned shops and goods and shopmen. I like the quiet that
reigns in their streets, the paucity of gas they light them up with,
the strange conveyances their citizens ply for hire--in fact, I like
everything with which the world in general finds fault. So it was with
a sense of pleasure I found myself wandering about the streets of
Norwich, on the look-out for some place in which to lay my head. I had
rather have been there than at the seaside, although it was bright
July weather, and I knew the waves were frothing and creaming over the
golden sands beneath a canopy of cloudless blue sky. I preferred the
shaded, cloister-like streets of the county town, with its cool flags
under my feet, and its unbroken sense of calm.

I did not turn into the principal thoroughfares, with their gay shops
and gayer passengers, but down the less-frequented bye-ways, where
children playing in the road stopped open-mouthed to watch me pass,
and women’s heads appeared above the window-blinds, as my footfall
sounded on the narrow pavement, as though a stranger were something to
be stared at. Many windows held the announcement of “Rooms to Let,”
but they were too small--too modern, shall I say--too fresh-looking to
take my fancy.

I connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as
if I could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled
with scarlet geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon “The
Origin of Dreams,” to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted.
Down a narrow street, into which the sun seemed never to have
penetrated, I found some tall, irregular, dingy-looking
buildings--most of which appeared to be occupied as insurance, wine,
or law offices,--and in the lower window of one there hung a card with
the inscription, “Apartments for a Single Gentleman.”

It was just the place from which to watch and wait--in which to
ponder, and compare, and compose,--and I ascended its broken steps,
convinced that the birth-place of “The Origin of Dreams” was found. A
middle-aged woman, with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my
summons to the door. The weekly rent she asked for the occupation of
the vacant apartments sounded to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was
due to my experience of the exorbitant demands of London landladies.
But when I explained to her the reason for which I desired her rooms,
namely, that I might sit up at night and write undisturbed, her
countenance visibly fell.

“I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.”

“Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?”

“Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!”

“What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?”

Her face twitched as she answered, “I have no other lodgers, sir.”

“Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?”

“My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are
permitted to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the
upper rooms (which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and
in order. But the clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they
wouldn’t interfere with your night-work.”

“What will, then?”

“I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They
_will_ breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the rats,” I answered, cheerfully. “I’ll catch as
many as I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your
only objection, the rooms are mine. May I see them?”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, as she closed the door behind me and led
the way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding
doors, which had once formed the dining saloon of a splendid mansion.

“The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the
basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to
lodgers. They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat
and clean.”

She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and
the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the
unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep
indentation in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked
amazed.

“Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,” I
said, jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest.

“It must be my good man,” she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the
mattress; “perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot
weather makes the best feel weak, sir.”

“Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you
my first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to
fetch my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything
that is most handy, for my dinner.”

All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I
suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her
roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt
very much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window
thinking how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and
how much good work I should get through without fear of interruption
or distraction. The office clerks had long gone home, the upper rooms
were locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide
uncarpeted staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I
remembered the rats, and “The Origin of Dreams;” and thinking it
probable that my honest old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell
to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me a good supply of candles.

“You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?” she
inquired. “I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be
real tired.”

“Not at all, my good Mrs. Bizzey” (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), “I
am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your
friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a
light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.”

“Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you, sir,” she said, earnestly, as
she withdrew to fetch the candles.

I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How
imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that
night. “The Origin of Dreams” required thought--deep and speculative
thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than
stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at
the dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be
allowed to speak so paradoxically) to the silence?--for there is
silence that can be heard.

When Mrs. Bizzey brought me the candles, she asked me if I required
anything else, as she and Mr. Bizzey were about to retire to the
marital couch, which I afterwards ascertained was erected in the
scullery. I answered in the negative, and wished her good-night,
hearing her afterwards distinctly close the door at the head of the
kitchen stairs and descend step by step to the arms of her lord and
master. But Mrs. Bizzey’s intrusion had murdered my reverie. I could
not take up the chain of thought where she had severed the links. The
night air, too, seemed to have grown suddenly damp and chilly, and I
pulled down the window sash with a jerk, and taking out my note-book
and writing-case drew a chair up to the table and commenced to think,
playing idly with my pen the while. Soon the divine afflatus (the
symptoms of which every successful writer knows so well) came down
upon me. I ceased to think--or rather to be aware that I was thinking.
My pen ran over the paper as though some other hand guided it than my
own, and I wrote rapidly, filling page after page with a stream of
ideas that seemed to pour out of my brain involuntarily. Time is of no
account under such circumstances, and I may have been scribbling for
one hour or for three, for aught I knew to the contrary, before I was
roused to a sense of my position by hearing a footfall sound through
the silent, deserted house.

Now, although I have described my condition to be such as to render me
impervious to outer impressions, I am certain of one thing--that no
noise, however slight, had hitherto broken in upon it. It was the
complete absence of sound that had permitted my spirit to have full
play irrespective of my body; and directly the silence was outraged,
my physical life re-asserted its claims, and my senses became all
alive to ascertain the cause of it. In another moment the sound was
repeated, and I discovered that it was over my head--not under my
feet. It could not, then, proceed from either of the old couple, whom
I had heard lock themselves up together down below. Who could it be?

My first idea, emanating from my landlady’s information that the noise
might proceed from rats, I had already dismissed with contempt. It was
the reverberation of a footstep. There could be no doubt about that;
and my next thought naturally flew to burglars, who were making an
attempt on the safes in the offices above. What could I do? I was
utterly unarmed, and to go in pursuit of midnight robbers in so
defenceless a condition would be simply delivering myself into their
power. I certainly might have shied a couple of Jones’ black-lettered
books at their heads, for they were ponderous enough to knock any man
down, but I might not take a steady aim, and it is better not to
attempt at all than to attempt and fail.

Meanwhile, the sounds overhead had increased in number and become
continuous, as though some one had commenced to walk up and down the
room. Surely no midnight thief would dare to create so much
disturbance as that! Detection of his crime would be inevitable. Or
did he trust to the sound sleep of the porter and his wife in the
kitchen below, not knowing that I, existent and wakeful, intervened
between himself and them? In another minute I believe that I should
have cast all consequences to the winds, and rushed, not _in_, but
_up_ to the rescue, forgetting I was a husband and a father, and armed
with Jones’ patent self-acting leveller, alone have ascended to the
upper storey to investigate the cause of the midnight disturbance I
heard. Only--_I didn’t!_ For before I had had time to shoulder my
weapons and screw my courage up to the sticking-point, another sound
reached my ears that made the patent levellers drop on the table again
with a thump,--the sound, not of a step, but a groan--a deep, hollow,
unmistakable groan, that chilled the marrow in my bones to such a
degree that it would have been a disgrace to any cook to send them up
to table.

I knew then that I must have been mistaken in my first theory, and
that the sounds I overheard, whether they proceeded from mortals or
not, had no connection with the nefarious occupation of housebreakers.
But they had become a thousand times more interesting, and I listened
attentively.

The groan was followed by some muttered words that sounded like a
curse, succeeded by louder tones of reproach or anger. Then the
footsteps traversed the floor again, and seemed to be chasing someone
or something round and round the room. At last I heard another groan,
followed by a heavy fall.

I started to my feet. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Bizzey must have been roused
by such an unusual commotion, and would come upstairs to learn the
reason! But no!--they did not stir. All was silent as the grave below,
and above also. The noises had suddenly ceased. I appeared to be alone
in the empty house. It was all so strange that I put my hands up to my
head and asked myself if I were properly awake. I was hardly satisfied
on this point before the sounds recommenced overhead, and precisely in
the same order as before. Again I listened to the pacing feet--the
groan--the curse--the chase--the fall! Each phase of the ghostly
tragedy--for such I now felt sure it must be--was repeated in
rotation, not once, but a couple of dozen or more times; and then at
last the disturbance ceased as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had
commenced.

I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock, and already the early
birds on the look-out for the worm had begun to herald the dawn with a
few faint twitters in the trees in the cloister. I threw off my
clothes impatiently, and lying down in my bed, gave myself up, not to
sleep, but reflection on what was best to be done. I had not the
slightest doubt left as to the cause of the noises I had heard. My
landlady might ascribe them to rats, but were she closely questioned
she would probably acknowledge the truth--that she knew the sounds to
proceed from spirits, popularly called ghosts; which accounted for all
her hesitation and change of countenance when speaking to me about the
apartments, also for the low price she asked for her rooms, and her
evident wish to dissuade me from sitting up at night.

Naturally the poor woman was afraid she should never secure a lodger
if the truth were known; but as far as I was concerned, she was
altogether mistaken--I was not afraid of her ghosts. On the contrary,
as I lay in bed and thought on what had just occurred, I congratulated
myself that, by a third strange coincidence, my visit to Norwich
promised to turn out all that I could desire.

I must “lay” these ghosts, of course--_i.e._, if they interfered with
my graver work; but to have the opportunity of doing so was the very
thing my heart was set upon. Is my reader surprised to hear this? Then
I must take him further into my confidence.

When I confessed I was an author, Press writer, amateur detective, and
father of six children, I did not add the crowning iniquity, and write
myself down a believer in ghosts and spiritualism. Every man
acknowledges himself a spirit, and to have been created by the power
of a spirit. Most men believe that spirits have the capability of free
volition and locomotion, and many that they have exercised these
powers by re-appearing to their fellow spirits in the flesh. But to
assert publicly that you believe in all this because you have proved
it to be the truth, is to throw yourself open to the charge of being a
dupe, or a madman, or a liar. Therefore I had preferred until then to
keep my faith a secret. My children’s bread depended in a great
measure on the reputation I kept up as a man of sense, and I had not
dared to risk it by attempting to put my theories into practice. Not
that I was entirely ignorant of the rules pertaining to the science of
spiritualism. Under cover of the darkness that hides all
delinquencies, I had attended several circles gathered for the sole
purpose of investigating the mysteries of other worlds; but it had
always been accomplished with the utmost secrecy, as my wife was
hysterically disposed, and the mere mention of a spirit would have
upset the house for days together.

I had never, therefore, had the opportunity of pursuing spiritualism
on my own account; and until the day broke I lay awake, congratulating
myself on the good luck that had thrown me, cheek by jowl, with a
party of ready-made ghosts, whom a very little encouragement would, I
trusted, induce to pay me a visit in my own apartments.

All the next day I wandered through the streets of Norwich and in the
country surrounding them, speculating--not on the whereabouts of
Julian Cockleboat, nor “The Origin of Dreams”--but how I should
persuade my landlady to help me unravel the mysterious occurrence of
the night before. At last I bethought me that “honesty is the best
policy” after all, and decided that I would make a clean breast of my
suspicions and desires. If Mrs. Bizzey were a sensible woman, she
would prove only too ready to aid me in ridding her apartments of
visitors that must injure their reputation; and, at all events, I
could but try her. So I opened the subject on the very first
opportunity. The woman was clearing away my tea-things the same
evening, when she remarked that I had not eaten well.

“I am afraid you sit up too much at night, sir, to make a good
appetite.”

“Other people seem to sit up in this house at night as well as myself,
Mrs. Bizzey,” I replied, significantly.

“I don’t understand you,” she said, colouring.

“Why, do you mean to say you never hear noises;--that you were not
disturbed last night, for instance, by the sound of groans and voices,
and of some one falling about in the upper rooms?”

“Oh, sir, you don’t mean to tell me as you’ve heard them already!”
exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, clasping her hand and letting a teacup fall in
her agitation. “If you go too, you’ll be the third gentleman that has
left within a fortnight on that account; and if a stop ain’t put to
it, the house will get such a name that nobody will put a foot inside
the door for love or money.”

“But I don’t mean to go, Mrs. Bizzey; on the contrary, I should be
very sorry to go; and if you and your husband will consent to help me,
I will do my best to stop the noises altogether,” for the idea of
forming a little circle with these worthy people had suddenly flashed
into my mind.

“How can me and my good man help you, sir?”

“Is Mr. Bizzey at home? If so, go downstairs and fetch him up here,
and I will explain what I mean to you both at the same time.”

She left the room at once, and in a few minutes returned with a
dapper-looking little old fellow, in knee-breeches and a red plush
waistcoat, who pulled his forelock to me on entering.

“This is Mr. Bizzey, sir, and I’ve been telling him all you say as we
came up the stairs.”

I leant back in my chair, folded my hands, and looked important.

“I suppose you must have heard the science of spiritualism mentioned?”
I commenced, grandly.

“The science of _what_, sir?” inquired Mr. Bizzey, with a puzzled air.

“Of spiritualism--_i.e._, the power of converse or communication with
disembodied spirits.”

“Lor’! you never mean ‘_ghosts_,’ sir?” said the old woman.

“I do, indeed, Mrs. Bizzey. I suppose you believe that spirits (or
ghosts, as you call them) may re-appear after death?”

“Oh, yes,” interposed the husband; “for I mind the night that my poor
mother lay dying, there was an apparition of a turkey-cock that sat
upon the palings opposite our cottage, and when it fluttered off ’em
with a screech, just for all the world like a real turkey, you know,
sir, she turned on her side suddenly, and give up the ghost. I’ve
always believed in apparitions since then.”

“And when my sister Jane lay in of her last,” chimed in Mrs. Bizzey,
“there was a little clock stood on the mantel-shelf that had always
been wound up regular and gone regular ever since she was married; and
we was moving a lot of things to one side, and we moved that clock and
found it had stopped; and the nurse, she said to me, ‘Mark my words if
that’s not a warning of death;’ and, sure enough, Jane died before the
morning, which makes me so careful of moving a clock since then that
I’d rather go three miles round than touch one if a body lay sick in
the house.”

“I see that you both take a most sensible view of the business, and
are fully alive to the importance attached to it,” I answered; “I
hope, therefore, to secure your assistance to find out what these
unusual and mysterious noises in your house portend, and what the
authors require us to do for them.”

Then--whilst the old man scratched his head with bewilderment, and the
old woman looked scared out of her seven senses--I explained to them,
as well as I was able, the nature of a séance, and asked them if they
would come and sit at the table with me that evening and hold one.

“But, lawk a mussy, sir, you never want to speak to them!” cried Mrs.
Bizzey.

“How else are we to ascertain for what reason these spirits disturb
your lodgers and render your rooms uninhabitable by their pranks?”

“I should die of fright before we had been at it five minutes,” was
her comment; but her husband was pluckier, and took a more practical
view of the matter.

“You’ll just do as I bid you, missus, and hold your chatter. There’s
no doubt these noises are a great nuisance--not to say a loss--and if
this gentleman will be good enough to try and stop them, and can’t do
without us, I’ll help him for one, and you will for another.”

Mrs. Bizzey protested, and wept, and was even refractory, but it was
all of no avail, and before we separated it had been agreed we should
meet again at ten o’clock, and hold a séance. There was some
whispering between the old couple after that that I did not quite
understand, but as it ended by Mrs. Bizzey ejaculating, “Nonsense; I
tell you the house will be quiet enough by ten o’clock,” I concluded
he was referring to some expected visitor, and dismissed the subject
from my mind. As soon as they had disappeared I delivered myself up to
self-gratulation. I was really going to hold a séance, under my own
direction and the most favourable circumstances with a large haunted
house at my command, and no one to be any the wiser for my dabbling in
the necromantic art. I took out an old number of the “Spiritualist,”
and referred to the directions for forming circles at home. I prepared
the paper, pencils, and speaking tubes, and symmetrically arranged the
table and chairs.

Nothing was wanted when Mr. and Mrs. Bizzey entered my room at the
appointed hour--he looking expectant, and she very much alarmed. I was
prepared for this, however, and insisted upon their both joining me in
a glass of whisky and hot water before commencing the sitting,
alleging as a reason the fact that the presence of spirits invariably
chills the atmosphere, whether in summer or winter. So I mixed three
bumping tumblers of toddy, strong enough to give us the courage we
required for the occasion; and after we had (according to the
directions) engaged for some little time in light and friendly
conversation, I induced my friends to approach the table.

It was now, I was glad to see by my watch, about half-past
eleven--just about the time when the mysterious sounds had commenced
the night before; and having lowered the lamp, much to Mrs. Bizzey’s
horror, until it was represented by a mere glimmer of light, I
instructed her husband and herself how to place their hands upon the
table, linked with mine, and the séance began.

I had enjoined perfect silence on my companions, and after we had been
sitting still for about fifteen minutes, during which I had watched in
vain for some symptoms of movement on the part of the table, we all
heard distinctly the sound of a foot creeping cautiously about the
upper rooms, upon which Mrs. Bizzey, too frightened to shriek, began
to weep, and her husband, in order to stop her, pinched her violently
in the dark.

“Hush!” I exclaimed, almost as agitated as the woman. “Do not disturb
them for your life, and whatever you may see, don’t scream.”

“La, sir, you never mean to say that they’ll come downstairs!”

“I cannot say what they may do. I think I hear a step descending now.
But remember, Mrs. Bizzey, they will not hurt you, and try and be
brave for all our sakes.”

We were in a state of high nervous excitement for the next five
minutes, during which the same noises I had heard the night before
were repeated overhead, only that the courses were louder and
delivered with more determination, and the falls appeared to succeed
each other like hail.

“Oh, sir, what are they a-doing?” exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, paralysed
with terror. “They must be killing each other all round.”

“Hush!” I replied. “Listen, now. Some one is pleading for love or for
mercy. How soft and clear the voice is!”

“It sounds for all the world like my poor sister Jane when she was
asking her husband to forgive her for everything she had done amiss,”
said the old woman.

“Perhaps it is your sister Jane, or some of your relations,” I
replied. “She may want you to do something for her. Would you be
afraid if she were suddenly to open the door and come into the room?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure, sir; but I hope she mayn’t. It makes me
curdle all over only to think of it.”

“They’re quieter now. Let us ask if there is any one present who
wishes to speak to us,” I said; and addressing the table to that
effect, I commenced to spell out the alphabet rather loudly--“A, B,
C,” etc.

Whether from my nervousness, or the united strain we laid upon it, I
know not, but the table certainly began to rock at that juncture,
though I could make neither head nor tail of its intentions. Treating
it in the orthodox manner by which Britons invariably attempt to
communicate with a foreigner who does not understand one word of the
language spoken, I began to bawl at the table, and my A, B, C, must
have reverberated through the empty house.

Again the old woman whispered mysteriously to the old man, but he
dismissed her question with an impatient answer; and my attention was
too much attracted in another direction at that moment to give much
heed of what they were doing. My ear had caught the sound of a
descending footstep, and I felt sure the spirits were at last about to
visit us _in propriæ personæ_. But dreading the effect it might have
on Mrs. Bizzey’s nerves, I purposely held my tongue, and applied
myself afresh to a vigorous repetition of the alphabet, striving to
cover the approaching footstep by the noise of my own voice, although
I was trembling with excitement and delight at the successful issue of
my undertaking. At last I plainly heard the footstep pause outside the
door, as though deliberating before it opened it. The old man was
apparently too deaf or too absorbed to notice it, and his wife was in
a state of helpless fright. I alone sufficiently retained my senses to
see the door slowly open, and a white-robed figure--a real,
materialised spirit--stand upon the threshold. The gesture of delight,
which I could not repress, roused my companions from their reverie;
and as soon as Mrs. Bizzey turned and saw the figure, she recognised
it.

“It’s Jane!” she screamed. “It’s my own poor sister Jane come back
from the grave to visit me again, with her red hair and blue eyes; I
can see ’em as plain as plain. I’ll die of the shock, I know I shall!”

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed sternly, fearful, lest by her folly she should
scare the newly-born spirit back to the spheres. “If it is your
sister, speak to her as you used to do. Tell her you are glad to see
her, and ask if she wants anything done.”

“Oh, Jane!” said the old woman, half falling upon her knees, “don’t
come a-nigher me, for mercy’s sake! I never kept nothing of yourn back
from the children except the old blue dress, which it wouldn’t have
been no use for them to wear, and the ring, which I had asked you to
give me a dozen times in your life, and you had always refused. I’d
give ’em both back now if I could, Jane, but the gownd have been on
the dust-heap these twenty years past, and the ring I sold the minute
my man was laid up with rheumatis. Forgive me, Jane, forgive me.”

“_Why, what on earth are you making such a row about?_” replied the
spirit.

I leapt to my feet in a moment.

“This is some shameful hoax!” I exclaimed. “Who are you, and what do
you do here?”

“I should think I might put the same question to you, since I find you
sitting in the dark, at dead of night, with my landlord and landlady.”

“Lor’, Mr. Montmorency, it’s never you, sir!” ejaculated old Bizzey,
with a feeble giggle.

The voice seemed familiar to me. Who on earth was this Mr.
Montmorency, who had intruded upon our séance at the most important
juncture? I turned up the lamp and threw its light full upon his
features. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “it’s Julian Cockleboat.”

The young man was equally astonished with myself.

“Did Lord Seaborne send you after me?” he said, guessing the truth at
once. “And how did you find out I was lodging here?”

“Aha, my boy!” I replied, unwilling to deny the _kúdos_ with which he
credited me, “that’s _my_ secret. Do you suppose I have gained the
name of the amateur detective among my friends for nothing? No, no! I
am in Norwich expressly for the purpose of restoring you to your
guardian, and as I knew that to show my hand more openly would be to
scare you off to another hiding place, I devised this little plan for
making you reveal yourself in your true character.”

“Did Robson tell you, then, that I had taken an engagement at the
theatre here?”

“Never you mind, Mr. Cockleboat; it is quite sufficient that I knew
it. This is a proper sort of house to play hide-and-seek in, isn’t
it?”

I was dispersing the table and chairs again with angry jerks as I
spoke, fearful lest my attempted investigation of the occult mysteries
should be discovered before I had removed its traces.

“Still I can’t understand how you discovered that Mr. Montmorency was
myself, although naturally my night rehearsals must have disturbed
you. But you told me you had no other lodgers,” continued Julian
Cockleboat reproachfully, to the Bizzeys.

“And you said the same thing to me,” I added, in similar tones.

“Well, sir--well, Mr. Montmorency, I’m very sorry it should have
happened so,” replied the landlord, turning from one to the other,
“but it’s all my old woman’s fault, for I said to her--”

“You did nothing of the sort,” interrupted his better half; “for when
I come to you and told you as a second gentleman wanted rooms here, it
was you as said, ‘Let him have the little room upstairs, and no one
will be ever the wiser if he takes his meals out of a day.’”

“But we never thought--begging your pardon, Mr. Montmorency--as you’d
take such a liberty with the upper offices as to make noises in them
as should disturb the whole house.”

“Well, what was I to do?” replied the young man, appealing to me.
“They’ve given me three leading parts to get up at a fortnight’s
notice, and if I don’t study them at night I have no chance of being
ready in time.”

“In fact,” I said, oracularly, “you’ve been cheating each other all
round. Mr. Bizzey has cheated his employers by letting apartments to
which he has no right; you have cheated the Bizzeys by using one which
you never hired of them; and I have--” “cheated myself,” I might have
added, but I stopped short and looked wise instead.

“And it was never no ghosts after all!” said Mrs. Bizzey, in accents
of disappointment, as her husband marched her downstairs.

 * * * * * * *

There is nothing more to tell. I reconciled Mr. Julian Cockleboat to
his guardian and his destiny; and I wrote “The Origin of Dreams,” the
best part, by the way (as all the critics affirmed), of “The
Cyclopædia of the Brain.” I made more money by my little trip than
six months of ordinary labour would have brought me; and Lord Seaborne
speaks of me to this day, amongst his acquaintances, as the “very
cleverest amateur detective he has ever known.”

And so I am.

 THE END.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

This book is volume 2179 in the _Collection of British Authors,
Tauchnitz Edition_ series.

Obsolete and inconsistent spellings (e.g. basons, inuendoes,
firearm/fire-arm, man-servant/man servant, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: correct some quotation mark pairings/nestings.

[The Invisible Tenants of Rushmere]

Change “Though we entered _evey_ room in turn” to _every_.

[Little White Souls]

“_aud_ a very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal"
_and_.

“love and charity make themselves _conspicious_” to _conspicuous_.

“but very _advisible_, not only for Katie, but for yourself” to
_advisable_.

“supported by a stone _ballustrade_, and containing eight more” to
_balustrade_.

“happened for an hour longer than is _apsolutely_ necessary” to
_absolutely_.

[Still Waters]

“flowed over the _white-dressing gown_ which she had worn” to
_white dressing-gown_.

(“_Dont_ be a goose!” replied her husband, as he put her) to _Don’t_.

[Chit-Chat from Andalusia]

“who evidently belonged to the little _cortége_” to _cortège_.

[“Mother.”]

“You have been too long away from home as it _it_” to _is_.

 [End of text]








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