A MERE FLIRTATION

CHAPTER I.

"IT seems strange that Dr. Connor should advise your going away again

in such lovely weather, and from a place to which other people come in

search of health. He might let you have a little peace."

So spoke Norah Guiness to Jeannie Bellew, an only child, a probable

heiress, and the object of enough thought, care, and indulgence to

spoil a much finer nature than she was gifted with.

"It is always a doctor's way. He must order something different from

what you have, however good that may be. I have everything that money

can buy, and instead of being allowed to enjoy it in peace, am sent

hither and thither at the doctor's will. Look at me, Norah. Am I like

an invalid?"

Thus appealed to, Norah surveyed Jeannie as she lay back in a

folding-chair and challenged her scrutiny with a half-defiant air.

Truly there was nothing of an invalid about the girl. There was a rich

colour on her fair face, her figure was symmetrical, and the shapely

hand on which her curly head partly rested was plump and well-rounded.

Norah thought there was no trace of illness, and said so.

"The doctor should know what is best," she replied; "but as an invalid

you appear to me an utter fraud."

A ringing, musical laugh greeted these words, then Jeannie started

from her seat, kissed Norah, declared she always was a dear, sensible

darling, whose judgment was worth that of all the doctors put together,

danced round the room, and finally dropped panting into her seat again,

with a considerably heightened colour.

Norah noticed that Jeannie's hand was pressed to her side, and looked

grave.

"Are you wise to indulge in such violent exercise?" she asked.

"Perhaps not, though it is only the having been pampered and waited on

hand and foot that has made me so susceptible. I must really begin to

live like other girls now I am so well again," said Jeannie.

"Only do not make such a sudden start. Have you any pain?"

"Not a bit, now. I had a little twinge or two, but it is all gone. The

strongest girl would have felt as much if she had been prancing round

as I did a minute ago. I am as well as you are, Norah. It is downright

wicked of Doctor Connor to say that I must have another change for a

month or so, and then he will decide about next winter. As though one

lost nothing by leaving a home like mule with all its comforts. I have

often thought that the loss of them counterbalanced the good done by

the 'entire change' the doctors are so fond of ordering. If I could

take Benvora and all belonging to it, Jet included, away with me, I

should care less. And I would have you, Norah, if I could."

"That is impossible, dear. I am quite indispensable at home. But there

is Jack Corry. You will want him most of all, now your engagement is a

settled thing."

"Want Jack with me!" exclaimed Jeannie. "Why, Norah, what can have

put such an absurd notion into your head? If you realised my feelings

the least little bit, you would know that the sweet drop in my cup of

banishment from Ballycorene is the thought that I shall leave Jack

Corry behind me. He bores me to death. He follows me like a lapdog,

gives me no chance of wishing to see him, for he is here so often that

I am at my wits' end to get rid of him half the time. Jack Corry,

indeed!" And Jeannie gave her pretty head a toss, as though she and the

individual in question had neither thought nor wish in common.

Norah looked utterly bewildered, and heard without understanding her

friend's words.

"I thought you cared so much for Jack," she said. "If not, why did you

act in such a way as to make him think you did? 'Why did you accept his

offer, and allow your engagement to be announced, if—"

Norah hesitated to put her thoughts into words. She was true to

the core herself, and infinitely above the petty vanity and cruel

selfishness combined which make up the character of a flirt—vanity,

which is ever craving for admiration, and never satisfied with what

it gets; selfishness, that cares only for gratifying the whim of the

moment, without heeding what the amusement may cost some true heart;

vanity, that loves to parade the homage that is rendered, yet only

values it so far as it can be displayed and utilised to advance its own

importance, or to while away time that would otherwise hang heavily;

selfishness, that having had its turn served, its little day of

triumph, never asks whether the moths that fluttered round had merely

sunned themselves in the light and suffered no harm, or whether they

had been cruelly scorched whilst suspecting none.

Hard hearts are like diamonds. The flirt's weapons glance harmlessly

aside from them and leave no wound, as the best-tempered tool leaves no

scratch on the surface of the precious stone. But those same weapons

have pierced many a true and tender heart, and virtually killed its

faith in womanly truth, and taught it to doubt the possibility of

honest girlish affection.

It seemed too dreadful for Norah to associate the idea of vanity and

selfishness with her friend Jeannie, a girl just eighteen, and looking

even younger, with her fair face and childish head covered with a crop

of short curls. Yet as she gave a mental glance at the past she felt

that Jeannie's actions and words belied each other.

Jack Corry had long been deemed quite first favourite in the

neighbourhood. He was bright, kindly. To young and old alike, he was

ever ready to render a service, and people used to look at him and say

that this was his one fault. He was the same to all, and no person

could detect any sign of preference towards any of his fair neighbours.

Jeannie Bellew had spent two winters in the Riviera. Whether there now

existed any cause for anxiety on her behalf, there had been enough to

justify the fears of her parents and her own banishment.

A sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, brought on, if truth must

be told, by her own wilfulness, had left the girl without absolute

disease, but extremely sensitive to every change of temperature. After

her second winter in the South, she had returned home with greatly

improved strength and looks, but in other respects rather changed than

improved.

Jeannie, the little schoolgirl, with her artless country manners and

winsome ways, was gone, and in her stead there returned to Ballycorene

one who was a girl in age and looks, but who brought with her more

knowledge of the world than all her feminine neighbours put together

could boast of.

Mrs. Bellew had accompanied her daughter on both occasions, and a

middle-aged, trusty servant waited on the two. But the mother dreaded

the loneliness of life in apartments, where everything and every person

were strange around them, and so the pair spent the two winters in a

large hotel, and gained many experiences which the younger especially

would have been much better without.

Before Jeannie's reappearance, Ballycorene gossips had begun to couple

the name of Jack Corry with that of Norah Guiness, and to say that at

last the way to his heart had been discovered. Also that if he had the

luck to gain Norah's, he would win the greatest treasure that could

enrich his life and brighten a home, though she would be almost a

dowerless maiden.

Perhaps it was because no word or act of Norah's gave Jack Corry cause

to think she bestowed a thought upon him, that he began to devote

much thought to her. She practised no little coquettish airs, did not

pretend to shun him, in order to hire him to seek her. She met him, as

she did others, with the bright smile, the honest look devoid of all

self-consciousness, the kindly greeting which was natural in one whom

he had known all his life, and no more.

No girl looked on Norah as a possible rival. All regarded her as a

true-hearted friend, and saw in her a self-devoting daughter, the one

comfort of her father's life, and a sister almost worshipped by his

three motherless lads. None could accuse her of striving to attract

Jack Corry, and so, when it seemed that he was likely to be attracted,

all the girls with one consent voted, "Better Norah than anyone else."

Then Jeannie Bellew came back to Benvora, changed as aforesaid, a

fashionable young lady instead of a simple country girl, and yet with

the power to act the latter character to perfection when it suited the

whim of the moment. She was prettier than ever, and had acquired an

ease and grace of manner which, together with an almost inexhaustible

wardrobe, threw all the country girls into the shade.

Jeannie's father was very rich; sole owner of a vast manufacturing

concern, which in his skilful hands was always growing in value.

In what way could wealth be better applied than in surrounding his only

child with every luxury that it could purchase? Mr. Bellew was a good

master, and paid his hands liberally. No man ever applied to him in

vain if help was wanted for any good object, and so, as he was generous

to all beside, was he likely to stint where Jeannie was concerned?

The girl had excellent taste in the choice of garments, and did not

care for show and glitter. But everything she wore was in exquisite

harmony with her youth, and only the initiated would have guessed what

a simple morning-robe of muslin and lace had cost her father.

Jack Corry had been in and out at Benvora, Mr. Bellew's place, ever

since he could walk. He could remember the day when he, a boy of ten,

was first trusted to hold Jeannie, a baby three weeks old, in his arms,

and how proud he had felt to kiss her pink cheek, then glad to be rid

of so great a responsibility when the nurse reclaimed her charge.

Jack dropped in on the evening of Jeannie's return. He had cheered Mr.

Bellew with his sunny presence many a time whilst his wife and daughter

were away, and now the older man gave him a hearty welcome.

"Jack is here, Jeannie," he said. "Come to see how you look after your

wanderings in foreign lands. He has been my best neighbour during the

winter, and has deprived himself of many a pleasure to cheer a lonely

man."

Jack deprecated the idea of its being possible for him to have had

better or pleasanter evenings than those he had spent at Benvora, and

congratulated Jeannie on her restored health, as he took in his, the

little plump hand which she promptly extended.

"But you have been good, Jack. Father has told us in nearly every

letter about your kindness to him. You don't know how grateful we are,

mother and I. Are we not, mother?"

Whilst Jeannie was speaking she was also looking straight into Jack's

face and leaving her hand resting in his clasp, as if she had forgotten

that it was there.

What wonder that Jack was in no hurry to relinquish it, that he thought

Jeannie very charming and winsome, and was conscious of an undercurrent

of gladness at the conviction that she had come back unspoiled, the

same simple-minded country lassie whom he had always regarded as a

dear, loving child-friend of his own?

She positively had tears in her eyes, called thither by the thought of

his little attentions to Mr. Bellew. Why, he would have been the most

ungrateful monster in existence if he could have neglected the man who

had tipped him as a boy, given him his first pony, been his good friend

always, and whom, apart from all this, he loved and honoured.

"You'll stay the evening?" said Mr. Bellew to Jack.

"Not to-night. You will want to talk, and Mrs. and Miss—"

"Jeannie," put in the owner of the name, before Jack had time to

finish. "How dare you try to make me grown-up and call me 'Miss,' you

that nursed me when I was a tiny baby? For shame, Jack!"

There was quite a distressed look on Jeannie's face, and Jack was sure

there would be tears directly, and felt and said that he was ashamed of

himself.

"Then take off your overcoat this minute. You are going to say that

we must be tired and want to talk to each other, too. You forget that

father met us, that we spent three days in London, and have made other

halts on the road. To-day we have only been travelling two hours.

Father has told all the home news; we are not a bit tired, and now you

must stay and tell us about everything and everybody else. Do stay,

Jack."

The tone was beseeching, the look no less so. Jack was vanquished

before Mrs. Bellew had time to add—

"Yes, do stay. We shall all be glad to have you, and I cannot tell you

how much I feel all your kind attentions to my husband."

Mrs. Bellew was in earnest in her welcome and in her thanks to Jack.

But she was uneasy. Her eyes had for some time past been opened to the

fact that there were many sides to Jeannie's nature, and somehow she

dreaded, both for the girl herself and for others, the exhibition of

the artless childish side, which most people found so charming, but

which she knew to be the least real and the most dangerous of all.

How could Jack Corry refuse the triple invitation? He was actually on

his way to Mr. Guiness's house, for of late he had dropped in there on

two nights in the week, and he knew that he was expected this evening.

Of late, too, he had begun to delight in seeing a soft flush rise on

Norah's cheek when she gave him her hand, or when she noted how he

followed her movements with looks of interest and approval. The home

of which Norah was the mistress was as well ordered and as refined as

Benvora, and there was true comfort at comparatively little cost. He

had said to himself, "What a home she will some day make of mine!"

He had settled everything in his own mind, and though as yet no direct

word of love had been spoken, he knew that he had been wooing Norah

Guiness by his frequent visits, his manifested pleasure in her society,

and by a thousand looks and nameless attentions that were as eloquent

as speech.

Jack meant them to be so. He was thoroughly honest in paying these

attentions. But he did not regard Norah as one who could be lightly

won, and he wanted to feel sure of his ground before he risked all on a

distinct offer.

He was beginning to feel satisfied with the progress of his wooing, for

he knew she would never wish to bring him to her feet in order to fling

back an honest heart, or make pretence that she had not thought him in

earnest.

She, too, was beginning to feel that he was in earnest, and the thought

filled her with a great gladness. She would not have given her heart

unasked, but was not Jack pleading for it in numberless ways?

He, on his part, argued well for his suit, when he noticed that Norah

was a little shyer than of old, though more thoughtfully kind than

ever. A little more silent, but so careful to listen to every word of

his. And Jack said to himself, "Norah is a pearl amongst girls. What

matters her lack of fortune? She is the rose out of the whole 'rosebud

garden.'"

From his very heart, he thanked God that he had no need to trouble

himself about money, but would have enough and to spare for both. He

had been orphaned very early in life, but was abundantly provided for.

Yet never till he thought of what his ample means would do for Norah

did Jack Corry greatly value them, and then it was for her sake.

"My rose flourishes in a poor soil now; she shall be transplanted into

a fair garden. My pearl's surroundings are all unsuited to so rare a

jewel. It shall have a brave setting when I become the owner."

Jack planned how he would help Norah to increase her father's home

comforts; how he would smooth things for the lads who would be his

brothers, and as such the lawful objects of his care; how, in short, he

would turn the good things he possessed to account for the benefit of

the whole Guiness family, and one in particular, "bless her!"

He had almost made up his mind to tell his tale to Norah on that

evening, when, on his way to her home, he felt it right just to look in

at Benvora, and ask after Mrs. Bellew and Jeannie. He would be sure not

to stay long, and the call was a matter of positive duty to old friends.

CHAPTER II.

JACK CORRY stayed with the Bellews, and Norah Guiness listened in vain

that night for the step to which she had become accustomed, and which

made her heart beat more quickly when it approached.

Her boy brothers made many a journey to the gate to look for Jack, and

grumbled loudly at his nonappearance.

Norah looked and spoke calmly enough. She told the boys they must not

be selfish. They had seen a great deal of Jack Corry lately, and must

not expect him always to give them so much of his time. But while Norah

spoke bravely, she was conscious of a strange foreboding for which she

could not account, and against which she battled bravely, but in vain.

The boys accused her of being cross, and then felt ashamed of

themselves, and said so, when she proved the contrary by her extra

kindness. Her father thought her very silent, and began to tell, what

was news to Norah, that Mrs. Bellew and Jeannie were back at Benvora.

The girl's face brightened directly.

"Then, of course, Jack had gone to see them. How could he do anything

else? I am so glad, for Jeannie must be a great deal better, or they

would not have ventured to return. Mr. Bellew did not expect them until

May, and it is only the middle of April. How delighted he will be!"

The weight was gone; the cloud was nowhere to be seen. Norah, in the

singleness of her heart, was rejoicing in the joy of others, and

feeling that if Jack Corry had not gone straight to Benvora that

evening, he would have fallen many degrees in her estimation. He would

come to them the next night, no doubt.

But Jack did not come, and a week passed before he at length made his

appearance. Then somehow, he was not quite the same Jack who had last

parted with Norah, who had lingered over his leave-taking, and by the

look from his eyes had caused hers to droop, and her heart to beat more

quickly. He was kind, of course; Jack Corry could be nothing else. He

had brought things for the boys which enriched them for the time, and

called forth the remark, "Jack, you are the biggest brick living."

Whereat he had laughed as merrily as usual. He had talked cheerily to

Mr. Guiness, and then—well, he had no time to steal to Norah's side

and talk to her whilst she worked, or beg for a favourite song. Only

just enough for a hurried good-night, and he was gone, almost without

waiting for an answer, quite without the lingering farewell or one of

the looks which had been silently telling a love story to Norah for

months past.

Jack was gone—doubly gone—and Norah, quick to note the change in their

pleasant guest, began to ask herself what could have brought it about.

During the last few days she and Jeannie Bellew had exchanged visits,

and Norah had been struck with the subtle difference which had taken

place in the girl during her absence from home. That daintily-dressed

young lady, with her self-possessed manners and knowledge of the outer

world, could hardly be Jeannie, her girl friend and junior by a couple

of years. Then she was so changeable. At one moment she was almost

patronising to Norah, and would give herself little airs which made

the elder girl smile. Again, she would throw off all the crust she

had gathered during her travels, and seem the most artless, loving,

childish creature imaginable.

As Norah reviewed the position, her eyes were opened to many things of

which she had hitherto thought little. For instance, the difference

between Jeannie Bellew's surroundings and her own had never troubled

her in the least. Benvora was the home of wealth, and all the luxuries

that money could buy were found in profusion beneath its roof.

In the Guinesses' rambling old house a new article was the exception,

and there were few superfluities. Comfort and order prevailed in every

part of it; but its contents had a well-worn look, which suggested

that money was not too plentiful with its occupants. Yet the Guinesses

were rather proud of their home, which, like their name, was no thing

of to-day. The house had stood for many a year, and sheltered several

generations of a family that was well respected far and near. Socially

speaking, the Guinesses stood higher than the Bellews. Jeannie's father

had begun the world with no capital, but good business talents combined

with industry and perseverance. His wife's little fortune had enabled

him to begin in a small way, and at forty-five he was a rich man.

In the old days—that is, two or three years before—Norah Guiness had

never noted word or look on Jeannie Bellew's part that indicated a

consciousness of the difference in their worldly circumstances. The

latter had been rather proud than otherwise to call Norah her friend,

and to be welcomed in the picturesque old house in which she was

mistress. But when Norah went to see Jeannie as soon as possible after

her return, she became conscious of a change in her friend. She could

not have said in what it consisted, but there was a self-complacency

about the girl, a manner which seemed to bid Nora realise all the

advantages of her position when compared with those she possessed, that

jarred on the visitor's sensitive nature.

She noticed how Jeannie glanced at her simple dress, and then looked

down at the tasteful combination of soft falling silk, lace and

ribbons, which was draped so gracefully about her own person; and how

her fingers wandered for a moment amongst the folds, as if she found

a subtle pleasure in touching the dainty materials, and mentally

contrasting them with what met her eye as she looked at Norah.

Then again, when Jeannie returned the visit, Norah could not help

seeing a sort of half-pitying expression on her face, as she looked

round the drawing-room, and her eyes rested on its so-called ornaments.

"If I were you, I would make a clean sweep of a lot of these things. I

know they have 'associations,' but I would pack them—associations and

all—into a big box and put them in the garret. They would keep just as

well there, and you might make this room one of the most picturesque

places imaginable. I would help you, dear. I have seen so much since I

left home that one could never get an idea of in this quiet place, you

know," said Jeannie.

"I could never love any place so well," replied Norah; and she added,

"I am not sure that I should care for the wider experiences you have

had, especially if I must purchase them by previous illness. However,

I am glad you have no longer that excuse for running away from old

friends."

"I am very well now, but I am glad too that illness gives one many

advantages. That is, if one's father has plenty of money. If I had

never been ill, I should have been mewed up at Benvora, and seen

nothing of the world. Now it is delightful to come back too, for a

while, and to think over all the fun I have had."

Then Jeannie returned to the charge about the furniture.

"May I help you to remodel this room, Norah?"

"My dear Jeannie, were I to make the clean sweep you name, the room

would be horribly bare-looking. I do not agree with making a place ugly

because of 'associations,' but without our present 'ornaments,' my

reception room would be a wilderness."

"There are the loveliest muslins and cretonnes, ever so cheap," began

Jeannie; but Norah stopped her by saying quietly—

"I have no money for such things, dear."

"You cannot mean that, Norah. They would cost so little."

"I do mean it, Jeannie, though perhaps many beside yourself would

hardly believe me. I think I must keep on saying it, for if people

plead poverty, those who hear generally give them credit for ample

means," added Norah, with a light laugh.

Afterwards, it seemed to the girl as if she became conscious of many

wants and defects in her surroundings, of which before Jeannie's visit

she had been blissfully unaware. It was in those first few days, too,

that Jack Corry's defection took place, and after his hurried call,

Norah remembered, with acute pain, the glance he had cast at her

comparatively countrified dress.

"He will compare Jeannie's surroundings with mine; her dainty silks and

laces, her costly furs at hand when needed, with my simple stuffs and

cottons; and my plain cloth jacket, which is in its third season, and

which I have been taking such care of that it may last another! And

Jeannie can be so charming that no one can withstand her. As a child

she could do as she liked with me, even. Well, if it should be so, I

only hope that she may not play with Jack's heart. I should be sorry

for that; after all, I should like them both to be happy and true, if

they care for each other."

Dear, unselfish Norah! A little sob followed this mental communing,

for Jack Corry was the first who had stirred the depths of her pure,

tender heart, and how could she help knowing that he had wooed her with

everything but words? At their last meeting before Jeannie's return,

these had seemed trembling on his lips; and now!

Norah's prophetic foreboding was speedily fulfilled. Jack Corry, as her

young brothers said, was "for ever at Benvora, or riding or walking

with Jeannie Bellew."

Her parents were evidently in favour of such companionship, and Mrs.

Bellew especially smiled benignly on handsome Jack Corry, as he became

daily more marked in his attentions to the girl. She had a talk with

her husband on the subject, for, truth to say, Mr. Bellew was not at

first altogether satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and he said

so.

"We seldom disagree, James, but I must own I am glad of it. What could

be better than for Jeannie and Jack to marry? She is certain to be much

run after. Whilst we have been away I have been kept in continual dread

lest some mere adventurer should succeed in gaining her affections. It

is wonderful how people get to know about you and your concerns, no

matter how far you may be from home. Quite unintentionally, I overheard

conversations which were never meant for my ears, and I know that your

position and Jeannie's probable fortune were freely discussed. One

of the speakers had the impertinence to say that the little heiress

would be a great catch for somebody. Think of that, James," added Mrs.

Bellew, indignantly.

"I have not a word against Jack Corry. He is, as a whole, a steady,

right-principled young man, handsome enough to mate with our bonnie

Jeannie, and whilst he is very kind, he is by no means weak of will,

but—"

"I do not see that there is room for a but in regard to Jack. We have

known him all his life; he has ample means, and comes of a good family.

If he and Jeannie care for each other, and in due time marry, we shall

keep her near us, and have a son to our own liking. Think, James, what

a stay it would be if we have to go away again for the winter, for

Jeannie to go as an engaged girl. I should not like to spend another

season like the two last, and without you."

Mrs. Bellew sighed, and looked troubled at the remembrance. She had

gone through a most painful experience, some of the details of which

she had kept from her husband, in order to spare him anxiety.

Jeannie's health, though such as to render the change imperative, had

not been of a kind to prevent her from mixing in the society she and

her mother were placed amongst by reason of their hotel life. Even

during the first winter the girl's head had been a little turned by the

attentions she received, though she was only in her seventeenth year.

She was pretty enough to attract them, though probably she owed a large

share of the notice she received to the report of her father's wealth,

and the fact of her being an only child and his heiress.

Mrs. Bellew had found her position a most difficult one. Her daughter

must not be unduly excited, for fear of ill consequences. She had

already become accustomed to following her own sweet will when at home,

because of her position and the over fondness of her parents, and her

mother was in equal dread of contradicting Jeannie and of giving way to

the new whims born of her novel surroundings.

To the girl, accustomed to constant oversight, it seemed a new and

delightful amusement to baffle Mrs. Bellew's efforts to continue it,

and the residence in a large hotel offered endless opportunities

for evading her mother. The practice, begun in a spirit of fun, was

continued in a less innocent one, and Mrs. Bellew was pained beyond

measure to find that Jeannie had spent many hours in undesirable

companionship, and that the gossips were beginning to talk of "the

little heiress," and couple her name with that of an idle sojourner

under the same roof who was said to be looking out for a young wife

with money.

Happily for the girl, the acquaintance was promptly ended. Apart

from the gossip alluded to, no harm followed. Jeanie had acted

thoughtlessly, and been amused by the talk of one who had seen much,

and could talk brilliantly, and who, though a mere butterfly so far as

the world's work was concerned, was nothing worse.

The second winter Miss Bellew seemed well able to take care of herself;

but her mother could not help feeling that the sweet artlessness of her

child was gone, and that at eighteen Jeannie was a very worldly young

person, and rapidly becoming a very heartless one, though as a rule she

was admired for her charming simplicity and girlishness, the semblance

of which she still kept up.

With such memories it was not wonderful that Mrs. Bellew looked forward

with glad anticipation to the probability of an engagement between

Jeannie and Jack Corry as a happy settlement of all her difficulties,

and did not like her husband's "but," when his attentions were alluded

to. It came again, however.

"There is no one I should prefer to Jack; but, my dear, I doubt whether

he is doing right in paying such court to Jeannie," said Mr. Bellew.

"Whilst you were away he went a great deal to the Guinesses, and I

for one thought that matters were as good as made up between him and

Norah. Other people thought so too, and if Jack Corry meant nothing, he

ought never to have acted as if he did. Jeannie's coming has made the

difference, and I do not like to think about it."

"Jack's name has always been brought up as looking after one girl or

other," said Mrs. Bellew, "and there has been nothing in it, only

people are so fond of meddling in what is no business of theirs. Jack

is such a favourite, and he is kind all round, you know."

"But Norah's affair has been different, and Norah herself is not like

most of the girls. I should be terribly grieved if our Jeannie were to

be the cause of pain to her old friend. Our girl is too young yet to

know her own mind, and I should be glad to see a few more years pass

over her head before she chooses a partner for life."

"She could never choose one more suitable in every way than Jack

Corry," persisted Mrs. Bellew. "If he had any little feeling towards

Norah Guiness, and it has passed away, we cannot help that. Better

he should find out his mistake before it is too late, for both their

sakes. She is a good girl, but she is not like Jeannie," added the

mother, with conscious pride in her darling.

"No, she is not like Jeannie," echoed Mr. Bellew; and he did not wonder

at any man being charmed by his daughter.

All the same, he felt sorry for Norah, very sorry. He hoped she did

not think much about Jack Corry. At any rate, he could not interfere,

though he sighed and shook his head, as if he were by no means

satisfied at the present state of things.

CHAPTER III.

JACK'S attentions gratified Jeannie for several reasons. First, because

she would have found home a dull place without the flattery to which

she had of late become accustomed. Secondly, because he was in every

sense superior to any other young man in the neighbourhood; and lastly,

perhaps most of all, because his devotion would render her an object of

envy to all her girl acquaintances.

So Jeannie smiled on Jack and encouraged him in the prettiest, most

artless fashion, without troubling her head about results, and probably

thinking, as she had done of others, that she might amuse herself very

pleasantly for a while, and there would be no harm done. She would be

going away again, and if Jack should care a little, he would get over

it when she was fairly out of sight. There would be plenty ready to

console him. He might go back to Norah. Poor Norah!

Jeannie had heard of Jack's attentions in that quarter whilst she was

away, and as her thoughts ran over the details, she smiled to herself

at the ease with which she had drawn him from his allegiance. A look of

triumph and gratified vanity accompanied the smile, as Jeannie stood

passing her white fingers through her dainty ribbons, and surveying her

face in an opposite mirror.

The look changed to one of half-contemptuous pity as she turned away

and said to herself—

"No wonder Norah is such a dowdy in her country-made gowns and her

old-fashioned cloth jacket. Jack really has very good taste in dress

for a man. He notices every little change that I make, and always

admires it. I should be very dull without Jack here."

If, however, Jeannie thought of simply making a convenience of her

country admirer, she found herself mistaken. Jack was very much

in earnest, fascinated by the pretty face, the sweet manners, the

childlike graces, the general refinement that marked every act of hers.

He had spoken frankly to Mr. and Mrs. Bellew, and made sure of their

approval, though the former did not give it until he had plainly asked

Jack if there had been any kind of engagement between him and Norah

Guiness.

"I would not utter that dear girl's name in such a connection," he

said; "but for my own daughter's sake everything must be plain and

above-board. You were a great deal at the Guinesses' last winter, and

people were talking."

Jack blushed violently, but declared, with perfect truth, that he had

never said a word of love to Norah; that he thought she was one of the

best girls in the world, and they were such old acquaintances. Surely

he might go in and out without people gossiping, especially as there

were not many houses he dare go to in an unrestrained manner.

"The boys are so nice I made them quite chums," said Jack; "and as to

dear old Mr. Guiness, I used to delight in those fireside talks with

him. We were always all together. I never spent an hour with Norah

alone. But it is always the same in these country places. I have been

given to every girl within twenty miles, and my own consent never

asked. Isn't it a shame? So just to stop everybody's mouth, or to give

the people something true to talk about for once, do say that you will

consent to our engagement, if Jeannie says 'Yes' when I ask her. I will

be contented to wait your time and hers."

Mr. Bellew offered no further opposition. Jack's wooing was continued,

and, with Mrs. Bellew as his friend, soon came to what appeared a

satisfactory conclusion.

Jeannie strongly objected to uttering the affirmative which would bind

her to Jack Corry, and pleaded how short a time she had been at home.

To this the answer was easy.

"It would be too short if we had met as strangers, dear; but we have

known each other all our lives."

Jeannie reflected a little. She had gained a complete triumph in

winning Jack. He was really nicer than anybody she knew. He promised

that she should not be teased or hurried into matrimony. So if she did

get tired of him, or if she were after all to see somebody who was a

great deal nicer still, she could plead her youth and ignorance of her

own mind. Everything would come right. Things always did come right for

her.

So she let her little hand lie in Jack's manly palm as she gave a sort

of consent, enjoying in a fashion the romance of being engaged to such

a fine fellow whilst she was barely eighteen.

What a talk there would be! What congratulations from everybody! And

lots of them would not be real; but, anyway, for a while, Jeannie

knew that she would be the great centre of interest in and around

Ballycorene. She wondered how Norah would look when she called.

This engagement took place just two months after Jeannie's return, and

about the middle of June. Jack would have been perfectly happy but for

certain twinges of conscience concerning Norah Guiness. He could not

recall the conversation with Mr. Bellew, and feel comfortable. He had

told nothing but the truth in reply to that gentleman's questions, yet

he knew that he had not told the whole truth. Hitherto, anything like

duplicity had been foreign to Jack's nature, and he had many a bad

quarter of an hour when he looked into the past and when absent from

Jeannie. With her, he forgot all but herself, and what a happy fellow

he was to have won such a charming creature.

A true-hearted girl can picture for herself what Norah Guiness would

feel at this time. A small, vain, selfish nature could never realise

such a trial, and an attempt to describe it would be lost time.

How the girl schooled herself into outward calmness; how she prayed for

the power to repress every angry and envious thought against Jack Corry

and Jeannie; how she strove to fill up time and thoughts by caring, if

possible, more and better for her father and the boys, may be named but

not described.

If there was one ray of comfort for her, surely she had it in the

knowledge that during all those past months when Jack had seemed to

find his chief happiness in her society, she could recall no word or

act of her own that gave her cause for regret, or that was unbecoming a

pure-minded girl.

She determined to go to Benvora, see Jeannie, and offer her good wishes.

"Thank God, I can do that in all sincerity!" she said to herself.

On the way she met Jack and Jeannie, and in sight of two of the most

arrant gossips Ballycorene could boast, was enabled to lift her honest

face to theirs, shake hands with each, and say the kind words she had

meant to say in a less public place.

The worst seemed over now they had met. Jeannie was effusively

affectionate to Nora, Jack vastly cheered by her calmness and the smile

with which she succeeded in meeting his somewhat conscious looks. Then,

as Norah declined to go on to Benvora, the others, who were going in

her direction, joined her, and they walked together until they reached

her home.

On the whole this outdoor meeting was fortunate, and took the sting

out of some gossiping tongues. People might have their opinions about

Jack Corry's conduct, but as Norah had been seen with him and Jeannie

Bellew, and apparently on the old friendly terms, surely they had no

right to take up cudgels on her behalf.

There was one, only one, who named Jack to Norah, her eldest brother,

Roderick, or Rory, as he was generally called, a lad of fifteen, who

almost worshipped his sister.

"Norah," he said, "I am horribly disappointed in Jack Corry. I thought

him the finest fellow in the world—one that could not do a mean thing

to save his life. But he is a deceitful wretch, and I hate him! If I

were a man, he should pay for his conduct to you, my darling."

The boy flung his arms round Norah's neck and held her in a passionate

embrace, while he kissed her again and again. She felt her cheek moist

with the tears he could not restrain, and was comforted by the thought

of the home affections that were so fully hers. She returned the boy's

caresses, and passed her hand tenderly over his curly head as she said—

"Rory, dear lad, you must not talk of hating Jack. He was always good

to you boys and to all of us, when his time was not so taken up as it

is now. You must not expect him to leave Jeannie for you."

"For me, indeed! as if I cared! It is for you, Norah, you, that I am

grieved and angry. He was always coming after you, not to see us, we

knew that well enough, and everybody said so. They used to joke and

smile about Jack having lost his heart at last, and then they would

say, 'He will have the sweetest girl in Ballycorene—God bless her!'"

"How sweet it is to think that people think so kindly of me!" said

Norah, turning a bright face to Rory. "But they were wrong. They know

better now whom Jack wanted."

"He did not care for Jeannie Bellew then. And if he did not care for

you, why did he pretend to do so? You have told us boys many a time

that truth was a thing of deeds as well as words, and that we could lie

without uttering a syllable. Jack Corry lied in action for months and

months, and he knows it. If I could only pay him out!"

"Rory, my darling, this is hardest of all. I cannot bear even for you

to speak about Jack and me in that way." And Norah covered her face

with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.

Rory was full of remorse; he lavished the tenderest expressions on his

sister, begged her to forgive him, and declared he would never speak

on the subject again. For the boy's sake Norah tried to conquer her

emotion, and at length so far succeeded that she could reply calmly:

"Perhaps it is as well, dear, that there is one person in the world I

can open my heart to. I should never have had courage to name him as

you have done. It is a comfort to know how my boy loves his sister, and

feels for and with her. These last two months have been very dreadful,

Rory, but I am better, now it is really all over. He could not help it;

Jeannie is so pretty and winning, and I am like a country sparrow by

the side of—what bird shall I say, Rory?—a bird of paradise, compared

with her in all her plumage."

"Fine feathers make fine birds. She is not fit to tie your shoe,"

growled Rory.

"Never mind. I have a dear friend in you as well as a brother, a friend

whom I can trust at all times. And though we will not talk of it, we

shall know there is one secret just between us two that will not be

breathed to anyone else in the world."

The thought of Norah's confidence in him, above all others, soothed

Rory. They sealed the compact with a kiss, and Jack Corry's conduct was

named no more between them, though neither forgot it or was likely to

do so.

For a month after his engagement to Jeannie was made public, Norah met

the two from time to time, and could not help noticing that whilst

Jack's devotion increased, his fiancée seemed rather to tolerate than

appreciate it. Then came the conversation between the two girls, in

which Jeannie alluded to the probability of her having to leave home

again by the doctor's orders, and Norah heard the careless words that

have been already recorded: the wish to stay at Benvora in peace or to

be able to take away with her, father, mother, 'Jet' the pony, Norah

herself, any person, anything but Jack Curry.

It was hard to think she could be in earnest when she said, "The one

sweet drop in my cup of banishment is the thought that I shall leave

Jack Corry behind me. He bores me to death."

Could it be possible that after all the affection was one-sided, that

Jeannie had entered upon the engagement without any real love for Jack,

and only as a means of amusing herself and occupying her idle hours?

"You ought not to speak of Jack in such a way," said Norah. "If I were

a mischief-maker, and were to repeat words which you do not mean, but

which would grieve him terribly, what then?"

"I shall say what I like. I mean every word I do say. You are not a

mischief-maker, and would not make mischief to save your own life; but

if you were to repeat what you consider my naughty speech to Jack, he

would not believe me in earnest—more's the pity. I have told him the

same thing myself a score of times. He will not be driven away. So you

see, dear there is no alternative but for me to leave him."

"You cannot be in earnest, Jeannie. You would never think of treating

Jack in such a manner, when you know how he cares for you, and looks on

the engagement between you as the most solemn that can be entered into."

"You look solemn enough, Norah," said Jeannie, lightly. "Let me tell

you this engagement, into which I was fairly worried by my mother and

Jack together, sits lightly on my conscience. I only meant it as a bit

of innocent flirtation; it is they who have made a serious affair of

it, not I."

"Think what poor Jack would feel if he heard you," said Norah, shocked

and grieved at the heartless speech.

"If Jack is made to feel a little, it will do him good, I hope, and

teach him to know his own mind. Has he never flirted, I wonder?"

Jeannie gave a meaning look at Norah, then seeing the rising flush on

her friend's face, she added, "You can remember that Jack's name has

been coupled with that of first one girl, then another, for years and

years past."

"Not seriously, Jeannie. A real engagement was never spoken of until

you and Jack entered into one."

"Well, I did not want this to be a real one, either. All the same, it

has been pleasant enough to have poor Jack at my beck and call, seeing

there is really no one else about here that I should care to employ in

the same manner, and I have become used to such attentions now. But,

Norah, do you remember those balls we used to play with that had a

piece of elastic fastened to them? We threw them, but we could always

draw them back at will. I have always kept my affections discreetly in

check, and, like that old toy, I never let them go so far that I cannot

recall them at will."

Norah sat listening like one in a dream. She had schooled herself to

suffer in silence; nay, she had by persistent effort put self out of

sight, and looking into her own true heart could say that she honestly

wished and prayed for the lasting happiness of these two, believing

that they loved each other. To think that she had battled, suffered,

conquered in vain, and that this girl, so young, so innocent and

winsome to all appearance, could have deliberately set herself to gain

Jack Corry's heart, only to wound it and fling it back to him!

The girl could not speak at first. She sat for a few moments, then,

without allusion to their conversation, she rose, and in a dazed,

mechanical way, said she must go home.

Jeannie went forward to kiss her and say good-bye, but Norah did not,

could not return the caress. She started, though, as if a serpent

had stung her when Jeannie whispered, "Don't be angry, dear. I

only borrowed Jack for a little while; you shall have him back for

altogether."

The words and careless smile were too much for Norah. She flung

Jeannie's hand from her, and, with flashing eyes and righteous

indignation at the girl who had so outraged both friendship and

affection, said, "How dare you say such words to me!"

There was no sign of shrinking or timidity in Norah then, as she stood

at her full height, looking down, both physically and morally, on the

fair form which held so small and selfish a nature. At sight of her,

Jeannie flushed, paled, trembled, and then stammered out, "Surely you

are not angry at my little joke!"

"Joke!" said Norah. "Do you call it a jest to trifle with the purest,

holiest feelings that God has given us the power to entertain one

towards another? Is it a jest to bring a man to your feet, to induce

him to lay bare his heart, to offer you his affection, to devote all

that is best in him, and all that he has to your service, and then

to mock him? Mock him, did I say? To wound him cruelly, to take the

courage, the joy, hope, sunshine, out of his life—and for what? Not

because you valued the priceless gift he had to offer, or that you

wanted it. But you did want the paltry satisfaction of showing your

power over this man, of being the envied of many, because everyone

liked him; of using him in order to make your idle hours pass more

quickly; of preventing any other girl from possessing the honest love

which many would have prized, though you did not know its value. As to

your whispered insult to myself, I have no answer for such words; they

are too contemptible. We are not likely soon to meet again, but, as my

farewell words, let me say: Think, Jeannie, before you decide to spoil

Jack Corry's life, or your own may be saddened by bitter memories that

you will never be able to banish while it lasts."

Norah waited for no reply, but almost fled from Jeannie's presence, and

hurried homeward, to relieve her outraged feelings in the quiet of her

own room.

A smaller nature might have rejoiced that Jack was likely to be doubly

repaid for the pain he had caused herself. But Norah's was not a small

soul, and she could distinguish the difference between Jack's conduct

in yielding to temptation, and Jeannie's actual treachery. Like the

high souled girl she was, Norah would have saved Jack from suffering,

even at the cost of bearing herself a double burden, though she sighed

as the thought came, "Poor Jack! Jeannie could not make him truly

happy."

As to Jeannie, she was frightened and angry by turns as she recalled

Norah's searching words and reproof, but not sorry.

She tossed her pretty head, and said to herself, "What right had she to

take me to task? It is just her jealousy, because Jack left her for me.

She shall not have a chance of rating at me again. She may think what

she likes; I do not care."

The spirit of the spoiled child, the heiress, and the successful flirt,

rose to the occasion. Jeannie decided that after all she had the best

of it, and she smiled at the idea of a coming triumph.

The doctor had decreed that she must go away for a month. Jeannie

resolved that many months should pass before she returned to Benvora,

and took means to hasten her departure—a thing she well knew how to

manage.

Needless to say, there was no farewell between her and Norah Guiness;

but in parting with Jack Corry she made her feelings sufficiently plain.

How it all came about the gossips never knew, but first there was a

whisper about a broken engagement, and then the report was boldly

spread that Jack Corry had been summarily dismissed by his fickle

little fiancée, who was off to foreign parts again.

Mr. Bellew went away for a time with his wife and daughter, so no one

could note how he took the changed aspect of affairs; but those who

knew his kind heart gave him credit for the best feelings towards Jack,

and not a little regret for Jeannie's conduct.

The question that stirred most minds was how Jack would bear it. Would

he get over this blow, and find consolation elsewhere? Would he go back

to Norah? And if so, would she forgive him? How would it all end?

Some said, "Jack deserved the treatment he had received," but most felt

more kindly towards their old favourite, and were sorry for him.

No one had an opportunity of judging for some little time, for Jack

Corry was not to be seen or spoken with. Whether he was at home or not,

no one seemed to know, but he was denied to all who inquired for him

there.

About a fortnight after the departure of the Bellews, Norah Guiness

was returning home after a long walk, when she was caught in a heavy

shower. She kept on her way, and, as there seemed little prospect that

the rain would cease, she decided to take a short cut through a wood.

Her mind was full of sad thoughts, her heart aching at the remembrance

of all that had come and gone in a few short months, when a little turn

in the path brought her close to Jack Corry. Such a changed Jack! The

light seemed to have left his eyes, the gladness to be gone from his

face, and he was pale and weary-looking.

Norah was shocked at the alteration in the fine, gallant young fellow,

who had so often brought brightness to their fireside by his cheery

ways, and she held out her hand in the old kindly fashion.

Jack took it, and clasping it in both his, stood for a moment without

speaking. Then he said:

"You know what has happened, Norah?"

"Yes, Jack. I am so sorry!"

Her lips quivered, her kind eyes filled as she noted the tremulous

voice, and the poor ghost of a smile as he looked in hers.

"Thank God! I can believe you yet. Sometimes I feel as if there was no

truth in the world, when I remember how simple and innocent she seemed.

And she was playing with my heart like a worthless toy, and never cared

for me, never! I should have been miserable if she had become my wife,

but I am miserable without her. I was true to—to—"

He turned away, unable to utter the name of the girl who had deceived

him; and for the first time the full sense of his own conduct to Norah

came to his mind, though conscience had reproached him before.

The girl stood weeping quietly, heedless of rain, of everything but

Jack's misery, and her own longing to comfort him. She was pained to

hear the man's sobs, and then a hollow, racking cough which followed

them.

"Jack," she said, "you must not stay in this rain. Your clothes are

soaked already. You have taken cold and need care."

"Why should I care?" he replied. "I have spent nearly all my time in

this wood since she left; one night I fell asleep under a tree, and

woke in the morning soaked through with dew."

"Jack, you are killing yourself!" cried Norah. "Come home with me. We

can get to the house without being noticed, and my father and the boys

will make you welcome."

How she succeeded in persuading him she could not tell; perhaps her

firm hold of his arm was comforting; at any rate, he let her guide him

where she would.

It was evident to Mr. Guiness that Jack was fearfully ill, and, owing

to reckless exposure of himself, already in a condition of great

danger, and hardly responsible for his actions. The doctor confirmed

his worst fears. Jack was suffering from inflammation of the lungs;

he came of delicate parents, who had died young, and it soon became

evident that he had gone to Mr. Guiness's home to die also. Well for

him that in his last days he had tender nurses, and was surrounded by

true and loving hearts, for the boys, seeing their former friend so

pitifully changed could think of nothing but their old happy times

together, and even Rory was able to forgive him. It seemed terrible for

the lads to think of death in connection with him who had been their

model of all that was manly.

"You have forgiven me, Norah? May God bless you, and make you very

happy!" said Jack, on the day he died. For answer she bent and kissed

the dying lips again and again, and her kind hand was the last that

Jack clasped in his.

It was only after the grave closed over him that Norah knew all Jack's

remorse on her account. But for Jeannie's wiles their two lives might

have been united and happy; but he had loved the little flirt in spite

of reason and conscience, and he had paid the penalty. He had, however,

made a will three days before he and Norah met in the wood, and to

her absolute use he had bequeathed his ample means. He had no near

relatives, and his wealth was at his own disposal. In Norah's hands, he

knew it would prove a blessing not only to her father and the boys, but

to all the poor and friendless within her reach.

Many were the tears she shed by Jack's last resting-place, and gladly

would she have given up the wealth he had endowed her with, could he

have taken it and lived to use it. She has had suitors many since he

died, but they have wooed in vain. Most people think that she has no

love to give, and that her heart is buried with Jack.

As to Jeannie, she made a little capital out of her late fiancée's

death, and told, in confidence, a little sentimental tale about his

devotion and the affection she found herself unable to return as it

deserved. It was to a new admirer she told it, and as she wiped away a

tear or two she added—

"No doubt my parents were wise to part us. Dear Jack came of a delicate

family. He could have had no strength of constitution, or a mere

cold would not have killed him. He left all his money to a girl who

professed to be my friend, but—"

And then Jeannie stopped, as if she could have told another tale of

treachery, but would not.

Later on in the day she listened with apparently artless surprise and

pleasure whilst the new admirer sang a quaint little song, in which

were these words, glancing the while at the Jeannie present—

"'Where's the way to Jeannie's heart?

That I canna answer;

Here about or there about,

Find it if you can, sir.'"

If the singer had known all!

Girl-readers of this story would doubtless be better pleased if Jeannie

had been punished a little, than mated with somebody else, or if she

had died instead of poor Jack, and Jack had lived to marry Norah, and

be happy ever after. But such an ending would have failed to teach a

much-needed lesson, and to show what cruel suffering is brought on true

hearts by what girls are in the habit of calling "a mere flirtation."

Through such conduct many a man has lost faith in the simplicity and

innocence of girlhood and in womanly truth, and has become hard and

cynical. He has lived perhaps for many a year—for such wounds do not

always kill—but only half a life, since it has been embittered and

robbed of its best affections.

Does any girl ask, "Is it possible that one ever lived and acted like

Jeannie Bellew?"

I answer "Yes." The portrait is drawn from life, and is given in its

natural repulsiveness, that it may prove a warning against flirtation.

BY A GIRL'S HAND

CHAPTER I.

LIKE FATHER UNLIKE SON.

"AND so you want to be a-setting up for a gentleman, do you? You think

you know better than anybody else, and that what has been good enough

for me—and my father and grandfather too, for that matter—is not good

enough for you. You are going to be dressed up in broadcloth on week

days, and work with your coat on, are you? Grimblethorpe isn't big

enough for a fine fellow like you to swagger about in. You must have a

market-town, must you? And I suppose you'll be going up and down the

streets o' nights, like plenty more of the same sort that are 'shamed

of the honest work that their fathers took their coats off to do, and

gloried in doing well. You'll be smoking cigars next, and wearing a top

hat, and going in for all the new-fangled ways of spending money that

young fellows practise nowadays, because they have never known what

went to the earning of it. But you'll rue not having taken my advice,

as sure as your name is Mark Walthew."

The speaker, Daniel Walthew, and father of Mark, paused for a minute,

not because he had finished, or that he desired any reply from his son;

he was only out of breath, and was fain to recover it.

More than once Mark had tried to answer these hard words, which pained

him sorely; but all to no purpose. From his earliest childhood he had

been told to speak when he was spoken to. But, though he was now long

past childhood, he was rarely allowed to speak at all if his father

were holding forth, and especially if he were not in a very happy frame

of mind at the time.

Daniel Walthew had always prided himself on what he called "keeping to

his own rut." By this he meant holding to the same opinions, keeping to

the same habits, living on the same spot, doing the same kind of work

as he had done ever since he could remember, and thus following in the

steps of the father and grandfather who had gone before him. Each of

these had saved a good bit of money, and handed it down to be added to

by the next generation. Daniel Walthew had been the only son of his

father, and though there had been three children born to himself, Mark

was the only survivor.

Everybody in Grimblethorpe knew that Daniel Walthew must be well-off,

but nobody, his wife and son included, could have told how well. Daniel

considered that to let a woman or a young man know the length of his

purse would be a great mistake, and only teach idleness, pride, and

extravagance. It was commonly reported that even on his wedding-day

he had half killed his bride by making her walk some twelve miles, on

a hot summer's afternoon, from her native village, where they were

married, to the cottage at Grimblethorpe which was to be her new home.

"We'll send the boxes by carrier," said Daniel; "you and I can walk. I

mean to begin as we shall go on, Barbara."

So the newly-wedded couple walked the dozen miles, side by side when

they started, the young wife plodding on behind, and being waited for

at intervals when she could not keep up with the bridegroom's steady

stride. Daniel was thirty-five at the time, and he had waited until

after his mother's death before he made up his mind to marry. He meant

to live in the old home always, married or single, and he did not

believe in two mistresses under the same roof. He surprised everybody

by taking to wife Barbara Sharp, aged twenty-two, and consequently

thirteen years younger than himself.

A far-seeing man was Daniel, even in this matter. He had watched the

girl closely, for she was in service at Grimblethorpe, before he popped

the question. He knew how thrifty she was, and that, instead of wearing

feathers and finery, and aping those who could afford such things, and

whose position they became, she made her simple garments last twice as

long as most did, and put them together with her own clever fingers.

She liked saving almost as well as he did, and had a "nice bit" in the

bank already.

Of course he might have married somebody higher up than a mere servant.

But would one of the farmers' or tradesmens' daughters have stepped

beside him in his rut? By no means. They would have wanted to drag him

into a wider one, and to scatter to the winds some of the dearly-loved

savings that it had been the work of three generations to bring

together.

It would be different with Barbara Sharp. She would be lifted into

a higher part of the road, albeit the rut might be narrow, and be

mistress instead of maid, though in a much smaller dwelling than the

one in which she served.

Even in the matter of age Daniel had made his calculations. "A wife

should be a dozen years younger than her husband, so as to be able to

nurse him when he gets a good way on in life. A woman gets looked after

by other women folk; but for a man, his wife is the natural nurse."

(Daniel said "natteral.") "And it is very upsetting for him to have

anyone else about him in his latter days."

Self came first with Daniel, even in his way of looking right on to the

very end of life.

He was dreadfully upset on his wedding-day, for just when home was

reached, Barbara's face went white, and down she dropped in a dead

faint on the floor of the "house," as the apartment was called which

did everyday duty for sitting-room and kitchen. There was a parlour,

but it was kept sacred to Sundays and state occasions.

This fainting fit filled Daniel with misgivings. Not so much on account

of the hardships to which he had subjected his bride in making her

walk so many miles during the heat of the day, but lest after all he

had married a delicate woman, and might find her a burden instead of a

helpmeet.

Such, however, was not the case. Barbara, on coming to, seemed properly

ashamed of herself for having excited such a commotion; said such a

thing had never happened before, and she did not think it would again.

She had been mistimed, having worked early and late to do everything

in the way of preparation for her marriage, instead of spending a

needless shilling. On the top of all this, the walk had been too much

for her—that was all, so Daniel was comforted.

Into the rut stepped Barbara, and kept therein close beside her

husband. She had few relatives, and by degrees, as no visits were paid

on either side, she lost sight of these. She was not an inquisitive

woman, and was content to know that there was no fear of want before

their eyes, and to work, that additions might be made to whatever

savings already existed.

The few acres about the cottage belonged to Daniel, and furnished him

with occupation. Her household work, the dairy, poultry, and pigs found

enough for his wife to do. Too much when there was a baby as well. But

Barbara managed. She never dreamed of employing a servant, and she was

so habitually careful and orderly, that both work and expenditure were

reduced to the lowest possible amount.

The two first children, both boys, died just when the toils of nursing

were over, and each could patter unassisted over the red-tiled

house-floor.

It was a very silent place after that. Barbara grieved, and worked more

mechanically, and Daniel mourned after his fashion, thinking to himself

that there was to be no son to follow father and grandfather in the old

rut.

Yet the expenditure was not increased. Every apple in the orchard,

every cabbage in the garden, every scrap of produce that could be

turned into a penny or the half of one, was so turned to account.

Slowly and surely the money kept growing, for the little holding

furnished nearly all that the pair required, and clothes seemed, in

Barbara's careful hands, to grow little the worse for wear.

Daniel's hoards grew—Mr. Mitcheson, the chief lawyer at Claybury, could

have told how fast; for though Barbara did not know it, her husband was

adding field to field, and rents and interest were being turned into

principal, and let out on safe mortgages to increase the income that

was never to be spent, but to go on increasing still.

Daniel liked Mr. Mitcheson, chiefly because he kept in the same rut as

his father and grandfather had followed before him. It was as natural

for a Mitcheson to be the chief lawyer at Claybury, as for Daniel

Walthew to plough, sow, and reap the fields that his forefathers had

first earned, then owned.

Daniel was forty-one and Barbara twenty-eight when their second child

died. Five years later a third child was given them, and the gift

remained. That he had all the affection of which his father was capable

may well be imagined. In the depths of her heart, his mother longed to

do more and better for her boy, to make his young life brighter and

more childlike. But she had been trained to keep in one rut, and felt

that there was no stepping out of it. She had no will but that of her

husband, and she must teach little Mark to keep within the same bounds.

The child was not stinted in one way. He was fed with food convenient

for him; his clothing was good and comfortable, and shaped to promote

freedom of limb and preserve health, by the careful hands of his

mother. She watched him, worked for him, nursed him, as no hireling

could have done; though, thank God! There are many nurses not mothers

who look for their reward less in pounds, shillings, and pence than in

the well-being of the little ones committed to their charge.

But though little Mark's bodily wants were well supplied, his young

heart hungered for young companionship, and no small feet except his

own ever crossed the red-tiled floor. Father could not be troubled

with other people's children; they would be noisy, and sometimes need

asking to a meal. Mother had trained her own little man to the tidiest,

cleanest ways imaginable. She rubbed and scraped his boot soles till

his feet glowed again, and his tread left no mark of mud on step or

ruddy floor. Mrs. Walthew had no time to look after other people's

children, so, though a little schoolfellow might come with Mark as far

as the gate, he came no further. Father and mother knew at what time to

expect the boy, and, in their cut-to-pattern fashion, rejoiced at his

coming.

But if he were later than usual, the time had to be accounted for, and

he was ever admonished to come straight home, and not loiter or play on

the road.

No wonder the boy grew old too fast, and felt that he was doing so—that

in sheer desperation, he worked too hard at his books, and distanced

the motley group of boys and girls that together made up the village

school.

Fortunately, Mr. Mitcheson, after long striving, succeeded in

persuading Mark's father to send him to a high-class grammar school at

Claybury, the one at which he had been taught, and to which his own

sons were now going.

Daniel Walthew hardly thought it possible for Mr. Mitcheson to make a

mistake. All his investments, made by that gentleman's advice, had been

so satisfactory, and the interest was so regularly paid, that he was

delighted Mr. Mitcheson claimed no credit for this.

Daniel Walthew was too wise a man to ask for large percentages. He

always said, "High interest means great risk. I want nothing beyond

five per cent., and if that means risk, four and safety." So the lawyer

found it easy to place his client's money in good hands, and insure the

regular payments of interest in which Daniel delighted.

He alone knew what the sum total of these amounted to, but he was also

aware that a good deal of money went straight into Daniel's hands every

six months without passing through his own.

Mr. Mitcheson looked ahead, and in imagination saw the boy Mark grown

into the man, and heir to all this wealth.

"It would be too terrible," he said, "if that fine lad were to have his

life narrowed down to the limits which at present confine them. The old

man's one ambition is that the boy may keep to the same rut as he walks

in, but I will do my best to free him from such bondage."

Airs. Mitcheson agreed with her husband, and said, "If Mr. Walthew will

send his boy to Claybury as a weekly boarder, we can do something to

brighten the lad's life between Mondays and Saturdays. He will listen

to you if he will to anybody."

But Mr. Mitcheson would have failed in his efforts but for the help

of an unexpected ally, and an unforeseen trouble with regard to Mark

himself.

CHAPTER II.

A PEEP INTO AN EARTHLY PARADISE, AND A MEETING WITH EVE.

"HE is top of the school, and knows more than any of the other

scholars, and all that I can teach him."

"That is good hearing," said Daniel Walthew, as the schoolmaster told

this of Mark, then aged thirteen; but he was not equally gratified when

he added, "The boy ought to go to a better place than this. Give him a

chance, and you will be proud of him."

"I'm proud of him now. Top boy of Grimblethorpe school is good enough

for me, and better than I could ever do."

Daniel Walthew went home rejoicing. His boy's education was completed

to his own satisfaction, and there would be no more school fees to pay.

Now he would take him in hand and guide his steps in the old rut.

But Daniel had planned what he could not carry out.

Mark had tasted of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and hungered

for more. There were no books at home that he did not know by heart.

A weekly local newspaper was the only new literature that came within

the door of the cottage. He had not even the companionship of his old

schoolfellows; he was to share his father's occupations by day, and to

be content with what sufficed to fill up the measure of his parents'

days when working hours were over.

Mrs. Walthew doubted what the result would be, but did not say so. Mark

felt his monotonous life unbearable, but had been too well trained to

rebel. So he did as he was bid, and in a short time became silent,

listless, careless about his food, and spiritless in everything,

besides looking miserably ill.

His mother and father had little faith in doctors, except as persons

who were all of one mind in having long bills. So Mrs. Walthew made

herb tea of the kind drunk by three generations of Walthews, and the

fourth took it from her hand, but grew no better. Then a doctor was

called in. He knew the family history, and he said promptly enough,

"Your boy needs no medicine such as I can give, Mr. Walthew."

Daniel looked cheerful on hearing this, and decided that advice without

physic could not be very costly. He was grievously undeceived when he

found that the advice of this doctor would cost a guinea, whereas the

Grimblethorpe medical man only charged half-a-crown for a visit, and a

bottle of medicine into the bargain.

"What your son wants is something to think about, work for mind as

well as body, and young companions to work amongst. Give him change of

scene, plenty of books, good teachers, bright companions, and you will

save him. Here he will die, or lose his reason."

The doctor was a friend of Mr. Mitcheson's, and therefore to be

trusted, and as the result of the combined advice of lawyer and doctor,

Mark went to Claybury, and stayed there from Monday to Saturday in each

week, whilst his father trod the old rut with only his wife to bear him

company, and both sorely missing their boy's presence.

At first, Daniel Walthew had many misgivings as to the wisdom of the

plan to which he had been brought to consent. Mark's feet had not taken

kindly to the path which sufficed for his father, though he had never

complained of it. But a new interest was created by the lad's very

absence. He was terribly missed during the week; but how delightful it

was to welcome him back on Saturdays, and to hear all he had to tell!

So thought the mother.

But whilst Daniel rejoiced to see the hue of health coming back to his

son's cheeks, and to hear the new glad ring in his voice, he was not

so ready to listen, because with every week's work the lad's store

of knowledge was increasing. He was getting new-fangled notions, and

Grimblethorpe, which had been and still was his father's world, would

never satisfy him when school days were over. "What next?" Daniel asked

himself. But he was afraid to suggest an answer to the question.

Besides the wider school world, and world of books to which Mark had

access now, there was another charmed circle into which he entered

with bated breath. Mrs. Mitcheson did not forget the talk between her

husband and herself about brightening the life of the solitary lad. She

questioned her own sons about him. "How do you like young Walthew?" she

asked.

"Oh, mother, he is most amusing," said Allan. "I do not mean in his

talk, but he has such prim, quiet ways for a boy. He is going to be

a model good boy, and as such most objectionable. He never blots his

exercise-books, or leaves anything out of place, or tears a leaf, or

speaks at a wrong time. He is hatefully goody-goody."

"You are too hard on him, Allan," interposed Fred, who was sixteen, and

a couple of years his brother's senior. "You know how Mark has been

brought up, mother, in such old-fashioned un-boylike ways—they are

very good ways all the same. If I were half as careful and methodical,

I should save myself many a lecture. But Mark is very clever, and his

parents will be very proud of him one of these days. He is a year and

a half younger than I am, but I shall have to work hard to hold my own

against Mark."

"I wonder if Mr. Walthew really will be proud of the result of his

son's school work. It is certain to interfere with his pet plan of

tying the lad down to the same kind of life that he leads himself."

"Why, mother, Mr. Walthew could never expect Mark to go back to the old

life at Grimblethorpe. To dig and delve, to sow and reap on that little

holding, where two or three generations of miserly Walthews have gone

on scraping and hoarding farthings, until they are as rich as —"

"Hush! Fred, your father would be displeased if he heard you talk in

such a manner."

"No one can hear me but yourself, mother, or you may be sure I should

not say a word."

"Tell me about Mark's manners, Fred. I have seen little of him. He is

very shy, is he not?"

"Yes, but he has really nice manners. Old Mr. Walthew, though homely

and countrified, had nothing coarse or uncouth about him."

"Then you think Mark will behave nicely if I ask him here?"

"No fear of that. Do ask him, mother. It will be a real kindness to

him to bring him amongst younger children. He is so much too old for

fourteen," said Fred.

Mark was accordingly invited to Mr. Mitcheson's, and there he entered

on a new and hitherto undreamed-of life. Mrs. Mitcheson did the wisest

and kindest thing possible by handing him over to the tender mercies

of her younger children; for she had a very populous nursery, and Mark

soon became an immense favourite with them all.

In the Walthews' home at Grimblethorpe there was hardly an article of

furniture that had not done duty for two or three generations. This

said much both for the makers and users thereof, but little for the

good taste of either. Everything was hard, bare, and uncompromising,

though exquisitely clean and orderly. Nothing ever seemed to wear out

or get broken in Barbara's careful hands.

After Mark became familiar with the handsome table appointments, soft

carpets, fine pictures, and furniture which combined beauty of form

with comfort in use, he became painfully sensible of the bareness

and ugliness of his home surroundings. How he longed to break those

impossible animals in brown and white pottery which ornamented (?) the

parlour mantelshelf—how he wished to remove the china mugs, with "A

present from Blackshore" in gilt letters on their sides, from the rank

of decorations to the crockery shelf in the cupboard!

Mark compared the hard Windsor chairs with printed patchwork covers,

and the hearthrug made of scraps of cloth sewed on a canvas foundation,

with the velvet-seated furniture, of which, at first, he had been

almost afraid to make use at Mr. Mitcheson's. But there all the

beautiful things were in constant use, and in his own home, the best,

where all were ugly, might only be brought out on rare occasions.

In a general way, the Walthews used thick delft cups and saucers and

two-pronged steel forks. The china tea service, really beautiful and

dainty, seldom graced the board, and three-pronged forks were only seen

on Sundays.

Yet Mark made no mistakes. He was too quietly observant for that, and

Mrs. Mitcheson was greatly delighted with the manners of her young

guest.

"He has been very nicely brought up," she said to her husband. "Who

would guess, to see him at our table, that the very sight of many of

its appliances was new to him but a month ago?"

"Poor fellow! I am not sure whether we are doing him a kindness,"

replied Mr. Mitcheson. "The father is bent on pinning his boy down

to the same dreary life that he leads, and every day's absence from

Grimblethorpe makes it less likely that he will submit to it."

The lawyer's children were boys with one exception. There were

three—Fred, Allan, and Maurice—then the only girl, Dorothy, who was

nearly twelve years old when Mark paid his first visit to the house.

After her came four little masculine steps, the very youngest being

only a few months old.

Dorothy, or Dolly, was the darling of the household, alike the pet

and tyrant of the boys. The elder ones were continually contriving

pleasures for their sister, she as continually playing little mother to

the smaller people in the nursery, each of whom in turn learned to trot

after her as soon as they could trot independently, and to look for her

help in every difficulty.

It was twelve-year-old Dolly who took possession of fourteen-year-old

Mark, questioned him about his home, and pitied him with all her heart

when she found that he had neither brother, sister, nor even a cousin

within reach.

"You poor lonely boy!" she exclaimed. "You say there is only yourself

at home, and no one ever comes to play at your house. What do you do

with yourself on Saturday afternoons and Sundays?"

"I get lessons ready for Monday first of all. Sometimes I fetch things

from the shop for mother, or help father in the garden when there is

anything I can do. On Sundays I go to church once—there is only one

service."

"And then, I suppose, you have somebody to talk to."

"Not often, except my father and mother. I used to have very little

fresh to say to them, but now it is better, for we are not all seeing

the same things the week through, and I can speak about school, and all

that happens at Claybury between Monday and Saturday."

"Next time you are at home you will tell them about me," said Dolly,

with childish frankness, and a little sagacious nod of the head.

Mark assented.

"What else? About the little ones, and how nice it is to be one of a

lot of children—though they do bother you at times, you know," said

Dolly.

"Oh yes. And I shall say how kind your mamma has been to me, and—"

But Mark checked himself, and his face flushed suddenly.

"And what?" persisted Dolly.

"You can guess what," replied Mark. "Think of all that I shall see new;

of any kind words said to me, and then you will know for yourself."

"But if anyone says unkind words, what then?"

"I will keep them to myself. Repeating things helps me to remember

them, and I would rather forget unkind words if I can."

"Now, if anybody vexes me, I always go straight to mamma, and tell

her; or if she is not in, I tell Fred. I believe you were going to say

something to me, only you stopped all in a minute. I saw you go quite

red, too."

The observant little lady was right. Mark was going to say that he

should tell his mother how beautiful everything was at Mr. Mitcheson's,

and how different from his own home surroundings. But he felt that

silence on this point would be best. Somehow, he shrank from drawing

too exact a picture of the cottage at Grimblethorpe.

"Then have you no cousins at all?' persisted Dolly.

"No own cousins or near relatives."

"How horribly poor you must feel! Don't you want any?"

"I should be glad if I had brothers and sisters. There were two baby

boys before me, but they died. If I could choose, I would have a

brother and a sister."

"It's no good troubling now," said Dolly. "If any were to come, they

would be no good for companions, so you would be as well without. Being

a boy, you would not want to nurse a baby, like I always do. They are

such darlings—at least ours are," claiming proprietary right in the

nursery treasures. "Are not your father and mother sorry you have no

cousins or anybody?"

"They grieved when the other children died, but I do not think they

care about relatives. Father says the fewer people have the better; for

if they are richer, they look down on you, and if they are poorer, they

always want to borrow money from you."

Mark said this innocently enough, just repeating his father's words.

But these made Dolly thoughtful, and she remained silent, puzzling over

and trying to understand the difference between this boy's life and

parents and her own.

The Mitchesons were strong in family affection, never disowning their

kindred, but readily responding to all reasonable claims for help and

sympathy one amongst another.

There were no loose links in their family chain; through evil report

and good report, they clung together. They helped the weak, cheered

the troubled, and, if misfortune pursued one of their number, the

prosperous held out kind hands—not empty hands—and set him on his legs

again.

Even if there were a black sheep amongst them, love flung a mantle over

his faults, so that the world at large should not scoff at the sable

fleece, which, maybe, grew whiter in time, as grey hairs replace black

ones, with advancing years and better judgment.

Mark was a problem to Dolly which she could not solve.

She had heard people say that his father was rich; yet, she was sure he

worked in the fields, and wore a coat on week days, like the cottagers

round Claybury. There was no servant—Mark had accidentally told so

much—and therefore his mother must sweep, scrub, and make fires, and

cook, and wash up dishes; no wonder she did not want company. And they

did not care for aunts and uncles and cousins! It must be all very

horrid. But Mark was nice, and so Dolly magnanimously resolved that

she would not "bother"—her favourite, though inelegant, expression—but

would be as good as ever she could to the lonely boy. So she sent her

problem to the winds, and said to Mark—

"I have seven brothers—three older, four younger than I am. One more

does not make much difference; so I will have you to go amongst the big

lot, and make it into four. Then I shall be exactly in the middle, and

you will have eight of us belonging to you. There!"

And Dolly, having settled this matter to her own satisfaction, gave

herself no further anxiety on the subject, but managed to give Mark

something to talk about by initiating him into the mysteries of tennis,

and laughing and making him laugh at his awkwardness.

CHAPTER III.

MR. WALTHEW IS FAR FROM EASY IN HIS MIND.

DANIEL WALTHEW'S mind was much exercised by the fact that his son had

been invited to Mr. Mitcheson's, and treated like one of his own boys,

for the solicitor was a very great man in his eyes. He was not only a

lawyer, but the lawyer to whom noblemen, the first in the county, went

for advice. He had property, too, which made him independent of his

profession, and Mrs. Mitcheson had not come to him empty-handed. He

entertained his aristocratic clients, and was entertained by them, and,

as Mr. Walthew put it, "He thinks no more of a Member of Parliament

coming to dinner, than I should of asking my next-door neighbour to a

cup of tea."

Doubtless he thought less—for it was only after much deliberation that

even such modest hospitality was dispensed at the cottage board at

Grimblethorpe, and such occasions were few and far between.

Daniel Walthew was proud of the honour done to Mark, and yet it

troubled him for two reasons. The first was because he could not

understand that a lady like Mrs. Mitcheson had invited a simple country

lad to her house from sheer kindness of heart, and with the single

desire to brighten his young life.

Secondly, he felt that Mr. Mitcheson's life path lay on a much higher

level than his own, and if Mark got accustomed to mix with grand

people, how would he ever come down to that humble part of the road on

which was his own rut?

"What do you think about it, Barbara?" he asked his wife.

"That Mrs. Mitcheson is very kind to Mark, and I am very thankful to

her."

"But why should she ask him? That's what I want to know. I should like

to know what will be the outcome of it."

"Maybe because you are a customer of her husband, and your father went

and paid good money to his father. I reckon your custom has been worth

a good bit to them from first to last."

"What I am afraid of is that Mark will get stuck-up notions, and when

he has done with schooling, he will not want to settle down here again.

If I were to see him with a cigar in his mouth, swaggering up and down

like some of those empty-headed puppies that think fathers were only

meant to work and scrape money together for them to waste, I should

almost wish that he had followed the others when he was little."

"There is no better boy than Mark; and what is the worth of the money

if neither I nor he is ever to be any the happier for it?" asked

Barbara, stung to speak as she had never done before during more than

twenty-five years of married life. "Why," she continued, "should Mark

be tied to Grimblethorpe? He will be fit for something better, and I

hope he will get it."

Very wroth was Daniel Walthew when these rebellious words met his ear.

He had not married Barbara to teach him what he ought to do, or talk

about money as if she brought him any.

"So you mean to encourage the lad in stuck-up ways, do you?" he asked.

"You want Mark to be a fine, do-nothing gentleman when he leaves

school? I wish I had never sent him, but I've promised him three years,

and I never broke my word yet. He shall have his time, and then—"

There was comfort in the thought. Daniel Walthew never boasted of his

money. It was happiness enough to know of his hoards, and how they

grew—grew, day by day, as the grass grew, without being watched. No

need that others should share the knowledge with him. But Daniel liked

every one to regard him as a man of his word, and he would keep a

promise at any cost to himself. So Barbara knew that Mark was safe up

to seventeen, and by that time something might happen.

However much Mr. Walthew might wish to keep the actual amount of his

property a secret, and perhaps most of all to his son, lest Mark should

thereon found a claim to live as a gentleman, other people talked and

calculated, unassisted by any hint from him. The talk reached Mark's

ears, and he tried to speak about it to his mother.

"Everybody says my father is a very rich man. If he is, why should we

not have a different house from this, and live like other people? It

seems a shame that you should do the cleaning and washing, and that

father should work just like a labouring man, when we might have things

as pretty as the Mitchesons have. It is so pleasant even to look round

one of their rooms, and to sit at a table where the silver and glass

glitter when the light falls on them, and the table-cloth shines like

satin. If we only had a few pretty vases to put flowers here and there,

they would brighten the table, and we have plenty in the garden."

Mrs. Walthew looked terrified when Mark spoke of his father's wealth.

"Hush, dear!" she said. "People talk of things they know nothing about.

How should they? Your father keeps his affairs to himself. As to him

and me dressing up like gentlefolks, and having servants to wait on

us in a big house, we should be fish out of water. We are used to our

work, we couldn't be idle, and if we had to change our ways, we should

be miserable. Let us alone, lad. We are best as we are. As to sticking

flowers about the place, why, you have only to turn your head, and

there they are all in sight, and the sweet smell coming in at the open

door, so that you cannot help knowing they are there."

Mark had to be silent, for he could get no information from his mother

with regard to his father's wealth; only a hurried, frightened whisper,

for Mr. Walthew's step was heard on the gravel.

"Don't trouble yourself! There is only you for everything, but you will

have to humour father, for he can do as he likes with what belongs to

him."

"But, mother, he talks of my coming and living here in his way and

working as he works. I never shall. Do you think if a blind man's eyes

were suddenly opened, and he had the power either to keep his sight or

go back to his old state, he would shut them and choose blindness? I

have seen a better, brighter life, mother. I can never settle down at

Grimblethorpe again."

Mr. Walthew's entrance prevented more conversation, and Mark, seeing

that an allusion to money matters or his own future only troubled his

mother, said no more, but worked harder than ever, and bided his time.

He had, however, a confederate and devoted friend in Dolly Mitcheson.

Dolly was the very soul of honour, and to be trusted. Her brothers, big

and little, chose her as the repository of their secrets, and the one

girl of the family was never known to "peach." It mattered not to her

whether the smallest toddles in the nursery, or Fred, who was growing

tall and manly, chose to speak confidentially, or whether the subject

was trivial or important, she was equally trustworthy in every case.

When Dolly adopted Mark as a brother, in order to make a double

fraternal quartet, she did him a vast service by giving him a friend on

whose truth and good sense he could rely at all times.

At first, when the girl spoke to him in her frank fashion about his

home, and asked him if this and the other in her own were like it,

Mark hesitated, and scarcely knew what to say, whilst his face flushed

painfully. How could this dainty maiden realise the difference between

her parents beautiful house and its surroundings and the cottage he

called home! So he turned the talk from furniture to flowers, and being

great on this subject, he delighted and instructed Dolly by telling her

about those she loved, and such as grew in his father's garden.

As time went on, Mark, after thinking over the matter, decided to tell

this girl friend the exact story of his past life, and to describe,

with the utmost minuteness, the cottage home and its contents, as well

as the narrow circle in which his parents were satisfied to move.

Dolly listened attentively, picturing the while all that Mark was

taking such pains to make clear to her. She could guess, too, what it

cost him; but when he finished she bravely looked in his face and said—

"When people have lived so long in one way they cannot change, Mark,

can they? They are like old trees—if you try to take them up and plant

them somewhere else, the roots cling, and there is no moving them

without breaking some. If people choose to live in a little house

and wait on themselves, instead of in a big one and be waited on by

other people, it is their own business, and nobody has a right to find

fault. One working bee is worth a lot of drones, is he not? Any way,

if your mother has no servants, she has not them to grumble about all

the time she is out calling, as my mamma's visitors do. I do get tired

of hearing them, when I am dressed up and sitting in the drawing-room

sometimes, and I wish they would talk of something else. So does mamma.

I mean to learn how to do everything, and then when I am grown-up, and

have a house and servants, I shall be able to tell them what they do

not know."

Mark agreed with the wisdom of this resolution; then he said:

"You must not think we are without anything that is really necessary.

We have good food, beautifully cooked, and clothes, only they have to

be taken great care of. I know my parents are very fond of me; only

somehow, I have never been a boy like other boys. I never ran, and

jumped, and raced, and got into scrapes, and tore my clothes, or got

sent off to bed, as the neighbours' lads did. I think I was born rather

old."

Dorothy laughed at this, and Mark joined her, then added that he had

been growing younger every day since he came to Claybury, and it was

all through Mr. and Mrs. Mitcheson and herself.

"But you work fearfully hard, Fred says."

"Because I want to get one scholarship at least—two if possible. I

cannot live at Grimblethorpe always, and unless I can give a very

good reason for doing so, my father will insist on my going home, and

working as he does. He calls it 'keeping in the old rut.' If I had

known no different life, I might have done it, but not now."

Months grew into years. Mark Walthew laboured incessantly at his

studies. Daniel would have been more or less than human if he had not

been proud of the place won by his son, of the reports which came at

each term's end, and the prizes he carried off. Mrs. Walthew's glad

tears ran down her cheeks, and even her husband had to turn his back

upon her, that she might not see why his spectacles needed so much

polishing before he could read what "schoolmaster had written about

Mark."

The boy was no country lout or awkward bookworm to look at, but was

growing into a fine youth, whose manners would disgrace no society. His

mother's training had given him right habits to begin with, and under

Mr. Mitcheson's roof he had learnt those practised by persons in a

higher position. Frank, yet modest, simple but refined, sincere without

forwardness, and with a mind richly stored for one so young, Mark

Walthew was indeed a son on whom a father might have rejoiced to bestow

all the advantages money could give.

But all the while Mr. Walthew was saying, "Barbara, this is Mark's last

term. In July, he will come home to stay."

She, with a sinking of the heart, could only answer, "Yes; he will have

had the three years you promised him," and hope for a solution as to

future difficulties which she could foresee, though her husband could

not. Whilst he, nevertheless, confessed that he was not altogether easy

in his mind as to what all this learning would lead to.

CHAPTER IV.

A NEW FACE.

CLAYBURY SCHOOL was richly endowed, and had many valuable scholarships

open to candidates born within a certain radius of its walls. It had

been Mark Walthew's desire to win one of these, believing that if he

succeeded his father would consent to his continuing his studies after

the allotted three years.

His success exceeded his most sanguine hopes. He won two of the best,

and even without further help from Mr. Walthew, might work on for three

more years, and, he trusted, win further distinctions.

"Scholarships!" said old Daniel, when informed of Mark's success.

"Hasn't he been getting scholarships these last three years? He went

for learning, and he should have put some by for future use by this

time. I don't know what you mean by two scholarships. I always lumped

the whole concern, and called it learning. Well, if he has got a double

dose, so much the better; I reckon it will last longer. And when he is

settled down at home, he will have plenty to serve him his lifetime."

Then came the struggle. Mark bared his heart, and told his hopes to his

father, and was answered by a torrent of reproaches—told that he wanted

to set up for a fine gentleman, instead of keeping to the old rut, and

doing the work his father had been proud to do well.

This story begins with some of the words used by the wrathful old man;

many others, far more bitter and cruel, sank deep into Mark's memory,

and grieved him to the heart, but they need not be repeated here.

"If," said Mr. Walthew, "you are resolved to turn your back on home,

and choose a new road for yourself, go, and never darken my doors

again. But if you think of being kept in idleness by the old father's

money, you will find your mistake out; I will never leave you a penny!

You choose now—once and for all!"

"Then I must choose to go, father," said Mark. "God has given me some

talents to account for, and I must use them. I will never ask you for

money; but some day I hope I shall hear you say I have chosen wisely.

If you are not now proud of my success—and, oh, I had so counted on

hearing you and mother say, 'Well done, Mark!'—you shall not be ashamed

of me in after years."

"I am proud of you, Mark," cried Mrs. Walthew, "so proud that I would

not have you stay and be tied down from youth to age, to such a life

as we have led! We are too old to change; but for you it would be a

living death. Go, my son, my one darling, if so be you can choose, and

have no fear of want before your eyes. I have been twenty-eight years

always going the same daily round, without change in anything, except

the growing older. Talk of money! What is it worth if it never gives a

day's brightness, and the only pleasure the owner has is the being able

to say, 'I have so many thousands of pounds, or hundreds of acres'?"

"Listen, my boy. It is terrible for a wife to take the opposite side to

her husband, but I could not bear to think of your growing into a man

like your father. Not that he is dishonest! To gain a hundred pounds,

he would not take a penny wrongfully, or refuse to pay what is fairly

due. He has only robbed himself and me of everything that money could

have bought in the way of happiness for ourselves, or enabled us to

give it to other people. Those who have wealth, and neither the heart

to spend nor give of their abundance, are the poorest of the poor. You

may be blessedly rich with very little money."

Need it be said that Daniel Walthew was not present when his wife spoke

these words to her son? They cheered Mark, for they told him that his

mother's blessing would be on his head, his mother's prayers ever

offered on his behalf. And both hoped that in time the father's views

might change. How could he stand singly against the world?

The world meant Claybury and the country round, for naturally

Mark's success had made his friends proud of him—none more so than

the Mitchesons, and most of all his friend Dolly. Many a time the

true-hearted girl had cheered the boy on, until her own brothers

used to say that the adopted one took the first place of all in her

thoughts, and had more than an eighth share thereof.

Mr. Mitcheson tried to move Mr. Walthew from his resolve, but in vain.

The headmaster of the school used his influence, and spoke in such

terms of Mark's talents and industry, that any other man would have

been delighted beyond measure to call him son.

Not so Daniel Walthew. "I don't hold with learning that takes a man

out of his proper spear, and makes him ashamed of the honest work his

father does," said he, and refused to hear any argument on the other

side, or to speak again on the subject.

So the cottage door closed behind Mark Walthew, and all the articles

purchased for his use went with him. The old man would not suffer a

scrap belonging to him to remain, and the goodly pile of handsome books

which had brightened the dingy parlour no longer lay on its table, to

tell of the boy's school victories.

Daniel Walthew neither spoke of Mark nor allowed any other person to

mention his name.

In his heart he must have felt for the sorrow of his faithful wife,

for he did not hinder her from receiving letters; and he knew that the

tidings they brought must be good by the glad light on her face, though

tears often accompanied it—tears because her husband did not share her

joy.

Mr. Mitcheson still transacted Daniel's legal business, found new

investments for his hoards, and made out deeds when some fresh purchase

was completed. But he felt equal pity and indignation at the sight

of his self-willed client, and his inability to value the good gift

bestowed on him in the shape of his talented and worthy son.

Years passed on. Mark did wonders, and his friends rejoiced that his

career had more than fulfilled their most sanguine expectations.

He was at Claybury, the honoured guest of the headmaster of the old

school, and his name was mentioned in the columns of the principal

local papers. Copies of these came to Mrs. Walthew, who, entering

the kitchen gently, found her husband eagerly reading the paragraphs

relating to his boy.

At sight of her, he angrily thrust the paper between the bars and saw

it burn to ashes. But his wife had caught the expression on his face as

he read, and thanked God for this, as for a ray of light and hope.

"He is not so hard as he seems," she said to herself. And this she not

only thought, but told her son in a letter, written in a cramped hand

and imperfectly spelled, but which the youth kissed—soft-hearted fellow

that he was—because it came from that dear unselfish mother whom he had

only seen very rarely for seven long years.

He was turned four-and-twenty, tall, straight, and healthy, despite

hard brain work, for he had lived temperately, taken outdoor exercises,

and not "burned the candle at both ends."

There was a fair face that lighted at his coming—a warm, loving heart

that did not try to hide its gladness, when, at an evening gathering at

the headmaster's house, in honour of his old pupil, Dolly Mitcheson's

hand was clasped in that of Mark Walthew.

Dorothy was twenty-two now, and for years past she and Mark had known

that each held the first place in the other's heart. Friends—adopted

brother and sister!—these might be and were sweet relationships; but

that which subsisted now was nearer and dearer still.

Dolly had been wooed by wealthy suitors. Mark's father would never

break his word, so that he had only himself to rely upon; but she knew

that a time would come when her lover would be able to claim his bride,

and offer a home of his own winning. And Mark knew that wealth had

sought in vain for Dorothy's regard, and that she would wait, no matter

how long, for her one love.

"There is one chance as to old Daniel," said Mr. Mitcheson to his wife.

"He will hate to go to any other lawyer; it would be stepping out of

his rut. He may not make a will at all. He has said he will leave

nothing to Mark. Let him die intestate, and the lad will get the money,

and the old man keep his word."

The same thought had passed through Mrs. Walthew's mind; and, if truth

may be told, through that of Daniel also.

Before Mark left Claybury, he paid a brief visit to Grimblethorpe, and

saw his mother; not in the cottage—never would he cross its threshold

without his father's leave—but in a field-path, between the waving

corn, they walked and talked together, whilst Daniel Walthew kept a

business appointment with Mr. Mitcheson at Claybury.

The mother fed on that happy meeting for many a day—looking back on it,

and forward to the next.

Winter came, and sturdy old Daniel, who had never known a day's

illness before, was attacked by severe bronchitis, and confined, not

only to house, but to bed for many weeks. It would have been going

out of the regular rut to have outside help; so Barbara toiled and

watched, and nursed him tenderly, getting often hard words and never

thanks—for Daniel was a most impatient patient. It was only when he was

fairly well again, and grumbling over his sadly-neglected plots, that

Barbara's strength gave way. She was simply worn out with loss of rest

and overwork. She had been as hale as Daniel; as independent of doctors

and their physic; but now a great dread fell upon her husband. What if

his wife were to die? He had always made sure she would outlive him,

and counted on her careful nursing to the last.

Who was to nurse her? They had kept themselves to themselves. They had

no neighbours in the ordinary sense, and were unused to asking favours

of anyone.

Worse still, Daniel must go to Claybury on the very day that Barbara

broke down, as deeds had to be signed, and the other party to them

would come a long way to meet him.

Barbara suggested the name of an elderly woman who would bear her

company during his absence, and she further said, "There are nurses at

Claybury. Ask Mr. Mitcheson to give you the name of one."

The lawyer felt sorry to see the trouble of his stout old client,

despite his stubbornness and unreasonable treatment of Mark, and called

Mrs. Mitcheson into consultation about finding a nurse for Mrs. Walthew.

"I think I can find one," she said. "I will do my best, for I am

grieved to hear of Mrs. Walthew's illness. No doubt she has broken down

through overwork and anxiety."

When Daniel Walthew was ready to return, the nurse was forthcoming. She

was young, and pleasant to look upon, but such a picture of neatness!

No frizzled hair or finery, but smooth braids under a cottage bonnet,

whilst wholesome-looking prints, ample aprons, and snug caps, with

stout serviceable boots for outside, and noiseless slippers for indoor

wear, composed her visible wardrobe.

How deft she was in her movements! How tender in her manner towards

the poor invalid! How clever in preparing little things to tempt her

appetite, and how patient and considerate to Daniel himself!

The old man saw his wife's face become more hopeful-looking, and

in time overspread with a faint colour. He noted that her spirits

improved, and that this young presence had a cheering effect on

himself, for the nurse told bright tales, and as her patient gained

strength, went singing about the cottage in a voice that sounded

wondrously sweet, when compared with anything he had ever heard.

Barbara and her young nurse had always plenty to talk about, but

sometimes they stopped suddenly when Daniel came in. He noticed, too,

that she had very pretty ways, and what he called "lady hands," and yet

how clever they were at whatever they attempted!

Barbara went on improving to a certain point, and then stopped. The

doctor was puzzled, and said so. Day after day passed, and no progress

was made. Then she began to go back a little. In mortal dread, Daniel

consulted the nurse, who calmly answered, "Mrs. Walthew wants a

medicine which only you can give her. She wants her son's arms round

her neck, and the sight of his face."

An angry exclamation fell from Daniel's lips, and he left the cottage

for a time. When he returned the nurse was standing with her outdoor

garments on and her box packed ready to depart, as it was the carrier's

day for Claybury.

"You will not leave her!" he cried, aghast at the sight and at the

tears of his wife.

"I would not, if I could do more for her, but I cannot stay to see her

die when it is in your power to save her. If Mrs. Walthew dies, the

blame will be on your head."

The nurse looked fearlessly at Daniel, who turned from her to his wife

as these plain words fell on his ears.

"Have your will," he said. "She must be saved. It is human nature for a

mother to want her only son."

Joyfully the nurse prepared a telegram, and ran with it to the

post-office, Daniel watching the while beside his wife. Not many hours

later Mark stood by his mother, and that too by his father's wish, and

from that moment Mrs. Walthew began to mend.

"I may have been wrong in keeping in one rut all my life, and keeping

other people at a distance," said old Daniel. "Nurse Dora has taught me

a good many lessons in a few weeks, more than I had learned in seventy

years before. I don't know how we shall do without her, and she will

have to leave us soon, she says. Here is Mark, far and away happier

without money than mine has ever made me. That is a good thing. For I

have said I will not leave him any, and I will not break my word."

"Do not make a will at all," said Nurse Dora.

"But I shall, my dear," said the old man, his eyes twinkling with a

knowing expression, such as Mark had never seen in them before. "I

shall make a will, that I may leave you a legacy. And there is no need

to trouble for a way out of the difficulty. I never said I would not

give Mark anything. I am free to do that, and I am not sure but what

there is more pleasure in giving than leaving, for you can see the

fruits of one, and not the other."

"Ah, Miss Dorothy," he continued, "the old man is not quite so blind as

you thought! You have not come to speak to me of late years, but you

have some of the child's face left yet, and you favour your mother.

And my ears have caught old words now and then, and I know how good

and true a heart my lad has won, and what a clever housewife and nurse

can be joined to a born lady. You have won old Daniel as well as young

Mark, and all I can say is, 'May God bless you both, and forgive me!'"

Is it worth while to add another word? To tell how Dolly Mitcheson's

wise resolve, "to learn everything," brought good fruit, or to speak of

the way in which Daniel opened his purse as well as his heart, or of

the renewed health of Mrs. Walthew, the changed cottage, the abandoned

rut, the perfect union between the faithful young pair when they twain

became one, or of the manner in which Daniel kept his word?

He gave a handsome sum to Mark, and that, too, before his marriage;

and when he and Barbara have done with the rest, it will go to "Nurse

Dora," as old Daniel delights to call his daughter-in-law. No fear that

this bequest will disturb the true union between Mark and his wife,

despite the power put into her capable hands by the Married Women's

Property Act!

Dorothy tells her husband in confidence, that however proud she may be

of him, his devoted love and his great attainments, the conquest on

which she plumes herself most of all is her victory over old Daniel's

prejudices, and on having coaxed him out of the narrow path to which he

had restricted himself for threescore years and ten.

THE END.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.