Lilian looked pleasantly on, accepting his courtesy to Maria

[Illustration CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 689. SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

ABOUT RABBITS.

We all know that the rabbit is an interesting animal, easily kept in

hutches on a little clover or dandelion. Boys like to keep rabbits,

because they are amusing. In our day, we have kept rabbits, or

_kinnins_, as they were called in the local vernacular, such being a

corruption of the old well-known legal term, coneys. Our coneys though

few in number were an immense source of amusement. We built a house for

them with an exterior courtyard, gathered and brought dandelions for

them, which it was delightful to see them munching. Finally, we made

something of them commercially, which was acceptable in the absence

of pocket-money. They did not bring much--eightpence a pair or so;

but eightpence was a great thing in the days of yore, and was very

serviceable as a means of buying books.

Between the keeping of a few tame rabbits and the liberty enjoyed by

rabbits in a wild state, there is a mighty difference. The tame rabbits

can be kept within bounds; the wild rabbits increase inordinately, and

are apt to do mischief beyond all calculation. Originally a friend to

rabbits, we have lived to know that they are the torment of the farmer.

It is not so much what they consume, but what they contaminate. Whole

fields of hay are ruined by their odious presence. Instances could be

given of farmers claiming damage to the amount of a hundred a year from

their landlords on account of rabbits; and the best thing the landlords

can do is to allow their tenant-farmers to kill all the rabbits they

can lay their hands on. Not until then will there be any peace on the

score of this intolerable nuisance.

The rapid increase of rabbits once they have got a footing is one

of the wonders of nature. We could almost fancy that rabbits were

designed to appropriate the whole earth; for, let alone, there will

spring from a single pair through successive generations in one year

as many as sixty thousand! Of course, at this rate there would soon

be no vegetation left for sheep or cattle, and dead rabbits hanging

up by the heels would be the only butcher-meat. Fortunately nature

adopts means to keep the multiplication of these creatures in check. It

sends birds of prey, such as hawks and other kinds of _raptores_, also

stoats and weasels, whose function is to make constant war on rabbits

and keep their numbers within reasonable bounds. In this way, the

balance of nature is kept up. It would almost seem as if nature, while

creating in profusion, had facilitated the destruction of rabbits; for

so slight is their hold of life, that no quadrupeds, as far as we are

aware, are so easily and painlessly killed. Latterly, the beneficent

balance of nature has been upset, by the reckless shooting of hawks

and other birds of prey, with a view to save the feathered game, and

professional warreners have to be introduced to remedy the error. Yet,

notwithstanding all that warreners and sportsmen can do, rabbits are

apt to become a nuisance.

Considering the enormous trouble which rabbits cause to agriculturists,

it seems incomprehensible how any one should have introduced the animal

into Australia. The act was one of those unwise things which we see

done by heedless though well-meaning people. Some half-mad Scotchman,

thinking of the national emblem, introduced the thistle, which with its

winged seeds has proved bad enough; but nothing so bad, or so wicked,

as has been the introduction of one or two pairs of rabbits. A cry

comes from several parts of Australia that such is the propagation

of these primary rabbit settlers, that unless terrible measures are

adopted, the country will be in a fair way of being eaten up.

A London newspaper, the _Daily Telegraph_, under date January 26,

gives a pitiable account of the rabbit nuisance in Australia. 'At

this moment there are hundreds of square miles to the north of the

famous Burra-Burra Copper Mine in South Australia, where the coneys

swarm to such a degree that they are universally pronounced to be a

nuisance, and "Rabbit Destruction Bills" are the order of the day in

the two legislative Houses at Adelaide. Similar measures will shortly

have to be passed by the legislature of New South Wales, although

the ingenuity of the colonists does not appear to have hit upon any

effectual device for suppressing or controlling the ubiquitous little

pests, which mock the puny efforts hitherto made to thin their numbers.

The "Murray scrub" is alive with them, and even Lord Salisbury's park

at Hatfield--where more rabbits are perhaps to be seen than anywhere

in England, unless it be within the walls of a warren--is left far in

the lurch by the long tongue of land to the west of Adelaide, called

Yorke Peninsula. As their numbers increase, the area over which they

extend their devastating ravages is quickly widened, until the time has

arrived when the growers of cereals must either fight their enemy or

withdraw from the cultivation of plains which might supply corn for the

entire family of man. South Australia has already as many acres of land

under cultivation as her two sister colonies, Victoria and New South

Wales, can shew in combination, and the wheat exported from Adelaide

and other neighbouring ports is of the finest quality, and eagerly

bought by the cities upon the western coast of South America. Viewed

as an agricultural field, South Australia is indeed the most promising

of all the colonies belonging to the Australasian group. She has at

present but a population of from two to three hundred thousand souls

scattered over her enormous surface, which stretches across the length

of the entire continent, and offers verge and room enough for millions

of human beings, provided only that they can learn how to cope with the

rabbits and make rivers of water run in the dry ground.'

Reading this deplorable statement, Lord Elcho comes out with a

suggestion for a cure of the evil: 'I have read in this morning's

_Daily Telegraph_ an article shewing how man is in danger of being

ousted from the Australian world by the fruitful rabbit, unless this

"nimble skipping little animal" is kept within bounds. This certainly

is an alarming prospect for our colonial fellow-subjects; but in this

country, at anyrate, we can as yet secure ourselves in possession

against the invader by the use of guns, traps, snares, and above all,

wire-netting; and my object in now writing is to point out how this

last remedy can be most cheaply and effectively applied. Wire-netting,

as generally used for rabbit-fencing, requires to be made to rest upon

a tolerably deep foundation of broken stones or concrete; otherwise

this "feeble" but cunning "folk" burrow under it. This adds greatly

to the cost, and does not, after all, insure the desired protection,

as the rabbit will even then burrow under the stone foundation. But

if about six or eight inches of the wire-netting at the bottom of the

fence are bent back at a right angle to it, laid down, and pegged

along the ground, the needful result is attained, as the grass, fallen

leaves, &c. soon conceal from view the wire that is thus laid down,

and the rabbit vainly scratches upon it when attempting to burrow

under the obstruction of the upright fencing which stops his way. His

intelligence, great though it be, fails to teach him that his labour is

lost, and that he must commence his tunnel further back. It was at Mr

Hibbert's, near Uxbridge, that I saw wire-netting thus used, with, as

I was assured, the most complete success; and the knowledge of this

cannot, I think, fail to be of use to many of your readers.'

The advice here tendered is well meant, and may be of use in Great

Britain, where arable fields are of a manageable size--twenty acres or

so at the utmost. But the vast stretches of land under crop in South

Australia put all such appliances out of the question. Just about as

well think of surrounding whole counties in England with wire-fencing.

No one could entertain the idea. As the saying is, 'The game would

not be worth the candle.' The Australian agriculturists will have to

try something else. Besides adopting an extensive system of trapping

and stamping, shooting with the adjuncts of dog and ferret, must, if

possible, be resorted to. Rabbits are so nimble in running into their

holes on the approach of danger, that they need to be routed out by a

ferret, a variety of weasel, which seems to be their uncompromising

enemy. English warreners, though smart in the use of the gun, could

do little without the assistance of the ferret, a small and lithe

creature, which they keep for the purpose, letting it loose only when

required. As the ferret, on getting into a hole after a rabbit, would

probably fasten on and make a prey of the animal, it is usual, we

believe, to attach it with a string, one end of which the warrener

holds in his hand, or to cover its mouth with a muzzle of some sort

before turning it loose. This, as a temporary measure, the ferret does

not seem to mind. He goes with great zest after the rabbits, which

being frightened out of their dens, are bagged in nets, or fall under

the pellets of the sportsman. We should say, let our Australian friends

import ferrets--if they can. Whether they could endure the voyage from

England will have to be a matter of experiment, under the care of

experienced warreners.

W. C.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XII.--UNDER-CURRENTS.

The first sight of Fairview was a fresh trial to Marian Reed's

philosophy: I saw her colour rise, and heard her murmured 'Good

gracious!' as we drove in at the gates and round the sweep to the

house. The men-servants were another test of her power of self-command.

But on the whole it was wonderful how well she contrived to avoid

giving expression to her astonishment. Beyond the first hurried

ejaculation and a momentary catching in of the breath now and again,

she exhibited no sign of the effect which the Farrar magnificence had

upon her.

We turned into the first room we came to, and Lilian bade her sister

welcome in her father's name; tenderly and kindly, if a little gravely,

hoping that she would feel it was her home.

'O yes; I am sure we shall get on together,' good-naturedly returned

Marian. 'What is there to prevent it, you know? I think any one must

be hard to please indeed, not to be satisfied here;' looking round

the room until her eyes met the reflection of themselves in the

chimney-glass, where they complacently rested.

I could not but acknowledge that they were good eyes, and that she was

altogether what is called a fine girl, with a handsome face, which to

an uneducated taste might perhaps be preferable to Lilian's--but, I

insisted to myself, only to an unrefined taste. In truth I was woman

enough to admit that much only grudgingly. Though the features were

good, they were rather large, and the colouring too vivid; eyes and

hair so very black, and complexion so very red and white, made it quite

refreshing to me to turn to Lilian's more delicately moulded and tinted

loveliness. Marian Reed was tall as well as large, two or three inches

taller than Lilian; but the latter was tall enough for grace.

She was attired in the most expensive style of mourning, which was a

great deal more be-frilled and be-puffed than Lilian's plain deep black.

There was a few moments' pause on Lilian's side, and then she nervously

began: 'Mary, perhaps Miss Reed would like'----

'Oh, you must not call me "Miss Reed" now, you know,' she interrupted:

'sisters ought not to be stiff with each other.'

I saw that the 'sister' was not to be lost sight of for a moment.

'I was going to say that perhaps you would like to see my aunt at

once--before going to your room--Marian.'

'Aunt! Have you got an aunt, dear?'

'Yes; my father's sister--my dear aunt lives with me.'

'Oh, indeed!' ejaculated Miss Reed, with a somewhat heightened colour.

She had not calculated upon finding any one besides Lilian. 'But,' she

presently added, as though it had suddenly occurred to her, 'if she is

your aunt, of course she is mine too.'

'Will you come, Marian?'

'Yes; of course I will, dear;' and with a parting glance at the glass,

she followed us to the morning-room.

Mrs Tipper rose to receive us with her company manner; and I saw she

was very much struck with Marian Reed's appearance. It was a face and

figure more attractive to Mrs Tipper than Lilian's. Much as she thought

of the quiet loveliness of Lilian, I saw she was quite dazzled by

Marian Reed; and being dazzled, did not judge with her usual good sense.

'Delighted to see you, I'm sure. Charming morning, is it not? I hope

you have had a pleasant drive;' and so forth; running through all the

polite little speeches which belonged to the genteel phase of her life,

and then leaving the other to carry on the talk.

Marian prided herself not a little upon her boarding-school manners;

and felt, I think, quite in her element as she gave a few fine speeches

in return. Seeing that she could keep it up much longer than could the

dear little old lady, and that the latter was growing more and more

silent and uncomfortable, I put in a word or two, which brought us all

to a level again. I am afraid the means which I took to bring Miss

Reed down were a little trying to that young lady. I should not have

employed them had any but ourselves been present, or had I been able

to think of a better way; but I really could not allow her to begin

by making my dear old friend afraid of her, as I saw she very quickly

would. So I inquired after Mr and Mrs Pratt and the children, hoped

business was still flourishing, and so forth; going on to inform Mrs

Tipper that Miss Reed's uncle kept a boot-shop at Islington.

Lilian looked not a little surprised at my making such an allusion, and

Marian flashed an angry glance from her black eyes towards me. But I

saw that this was a young lady who would very soon reign at Fairview,

if some one did not keep her a little in order; and as there seemed to

be no one else to do it, I undertook the task myself. A more refined

way of proceeding would not, I felt sure, have had the desired effect

with Miss Reed. My little speech made Mrs Tipper comfortable, to begin

with.

'Then you won't mind me, my dear,' she said, with a sigh of relief;

'I've been accustomed to trade all my life, before brother, in his

goodness, brought me to live here; and of course my heart's in it.'

And straightway she threw off her company manners and became her dear

homely self again; fussing about the new-comer with all sorts of

hospitable suggestions. 'If you won't take luncheon, say a glass of

wine and a biscuit, dear. It is nearly three hours till dinner-time,

and you mustn't feel shy with us, you know.'

Miss Reed disclaimed feeling in the least degree shy; afraid, I fancy,

of not appearing quite equal to the occasion.

'Shy! O no; not at all;' stiffly.

To help Lilian, who looked timid and shy enough, I suggested that

perhaps Miss Reed might like to go to her room, where one of the maids

could help her to arrange her wardrobe. She elected so to do; and

Lilian and I went with her to the luxurious bed-chamber which had been

prepared for her. Her eyes turned at once towards the cheval glass,

and I noticed that she was mentally contrasting herself with Lilian,

and that the conclusion she arrived at was entirely in her own favour.

Then she preferred to be left to see to the unpacking, assuring us that

she began to feel quite at home already. Lilian, who had not yet quite

recovered her strength, yielded to my persuasions, and went to her own

room to rest until dinner-time.

After dilating upon Marian Reed's evident predilection for examining

herself in any glass she happened to be near, it is but right to

acknowledge my own weakness that afternoon. On entering my room I

walked straight to the dressing-glass, and stood gazing at myself;

ay, and with some little favour too! I had been so accustomed to

contrast myself with Lilian, that I had come to estimate my own looks

at something below their value. In contrast with Marian Reed, my brown

eyes and pale face and all the rest of it came quite into favour again,

and I told myself Philip might have done worse after all. Smiling

graciously at myself, I now saw quite another face to that which

usually greeted me in the dressing-glass, and the more conscious I

became of the fact, the pleasanter I found it.

When Becky, who at my request was appointed to attend to my small

requirements, presently entered the room, I think she also noticed a

change as I made some smiling remark to her over my shoulder.

'How well you do look this afternoon, Miss! There! I do wish they

could see you now--they couldn't call you nothing to look at now!' she

ejaculated, gazing approvingly at me. 'Why don't you let your eyes

shine like that, as if you was laughing inside, down-stairs?'

'Because I don't often laugh inside, as you term it, down-stairs, I

suppose, Becky,' I replied amusedly.

'Then you ought to try to; for it makes you look ever so much

prettier,' she gravely returned.

'Well, perhaps I ought.'

'Of course you ought, Miss. I only wish I could make myself prettier,

only a-smiling. Tom' (Tom was one of the under-gardeners, of late

often quoted by Becky) 'says it's worse when I smiles; though I want

bigger eyes, and a straighter nose, and a new skin, and ever so many

more things, besides a smaller mouth, before I set up for being

good-looking. And they all says I do grin so. I can't help it, because

I'm so happy; but of course it must be nicer to look well when you

laugh, instead of looking as though your head was only held on by a

little bit behind, as they say I do. And I tell them it's all your own

hair, though they won't believe even that. Mr Saunders says it can't

be; though you manage to hide where it joins better than some of the

ladies. But haven't I watched you doing it up many and many a time.'

I had it in my hands, brushing it out as she spoke; and murmured softly

to myself, looking graciously down at it: 'It _is_ long and thick, and

a nice colour too, I think.'

This was something quite new to Becky, who was in the habit of taking

me to task for not making the most of myself. I fancy she thought that

I was at last becoming alive to the importance of looking well.

'To be sure it is! I call it lovely--the colour of the mahogany chairs.

O Miss Haddon dear, do let me run and fetch some flowers to stick in,

like Miss Farrar does, and then they'll see!'

But to Becky's astonishment, I did not want them to see. My mood had

changed; I hastily put up my hair, and turned away from the glass. 'No;

I think I will depend upon the smiling inside, Becky.'

'But you are not smiling. O Miss, I haven't said anything to vex you,

have I?'

'You, Becky!' I turned, and kissed the face Tom despised, astounding

her still more by the unusual demonstration. 'Foolish Becky!' I added,

as with a heightened colour she bent down and kissed the shawl she was

folding up, 'to waste a kiss in that improvident fashion!'

'I've often seen you kiss that little locket that hangs to your

watch-chain when you thought I wasn't looking,' sharply returned Becky.

An idea suddenly suggested itself to me, and I acted upon it without

trying to analyse my reason for so doing.

'Would you like to see what is inside that locket, Becky?'

'Yes; that I should, Miss! I have wondered about it so.' And she added

gravely, understanding that it was to be a confidence: 'You may trust

me never to tell nobody.'

'Of course I know that I can trust you, Becky,' I said, pressing the

spring and disclosing Philip's portrait.

'My! what a nice-looking young gentleman! Who is he?' she asked

herself. 'I haven't never seen him, have I? Not a young brother?'

'No.'

Then, hesitatingly: 'The young man you once walked out with, Miss?'

I nodded.

'And--he's dead, isn't he, dear Miss Haddon?'

Involuntarily I uttered a little cry of pain. Why did every one suppose

him to be dead? 'No, not dead, Becky.'

'Took to walking out with somebody else, and give you up?'

'No; I have not been given up;' my foolish heart sinking. 'Cannot you

think of something else, Becky?'--a little pleadingly.

'Did he do something wrong, Miss, and that made you give _him_ up?

Though he don't look like that neither;' musingly.

I closed the locket, and found that it was time to go down to dinner.

CHAPTER XIII.--ARTHUR TRAFFORD'S TACTICS.

I found Marian Reed in the morning-room with Mrs Tipper, and she had

already assumed the _haut-en-bas_ tone in talking with the little

lady. The latter had innocently thought that the lowliness of their

antecedents would be a bond of union between them; but Miss Marian Reed

considered that her boarding-school education placed her far above the

level of poor people, though she had for a time lived with them. She

had not of late associated with her aunt and cousins; and she had no

sympathy with one like Mrs Tipper, who was not ashamed to talk about

the times when she had lived in a cottage, and done her own washing and

scrubbing. She was loftily explaining that she had never soiled her

hands with 'menial' work, as I entered the room.

Miss Reed had evidently taken a great deal of pains with her toilet;

and I was obliged to acknowledge to myself that she looked very

striking, and better in a room than in walking-gear. Moreover, she got

through the rather trying ordeal of dining for the first time at a

luxurious table, much better than might have been expected. She did not

suffer from any doubts about herself; and was consequently free from

self-consciousness, as well as being quick to note and imitate the ways

of others. In conversation she was quite at ease. The consciousness

of an acquaintance with Mrs Markham, French, music, and so forth;

and the entire freedom from doubt as to her ability to cope with any

question which might arise, imparted an ease and confidence to her

tone not usually seen in girls of more perception. Moreover, I could

not but acknowledge that she was clever in the way of being quick to

seize such ideas as were presented to her. And yet hers was just the

kind of cleverness which makes some people shrink from the designation

as a reproach--the flippant shallow sharpness which so grates upon

the nerves of the mind. She was the kind of girl who would talk a

philosopher mute, and not have the slightest misgivings about the cause

of his silence.

Her bearing towards me had undergone a change, which for a while

somewhat puzzled me. I was not a little amused when I discovered the

cause. Mrs Tipper had innocently divulged the fact that I was paid for

my services at Fairview; and as I had made her a little afraid of me,

the relief of finding that I could be displaced at will was great in

proportion. She was now loftily condescending towards me, sufficiently

marking her sense of the distance between us; though I think somewhat

at a loss to account for my cheerfulness under it. In truth I was

audacious enough to rather enjoy the fun of the situation, and for the

moment did not attempt to hide my amusement.

But when, after dinner, Arthur Trafford made his appearance, the

new-comer's attention was very quickly diverted from me. He was waiting

for us in the morning-room, and naturally enough curious to see the

new-comer. And however great his objection to her coming there, he was

gentleman enough to greet her in the right way. Indeed, now that the

matter had got beyond his control, he was, I think, desirous to make

the _amende_ to Lilian for his previous too dictatorial objections.

Probably, too, he perceived that he was not likely to carry his point

by such means, though he was not hopeless of doing so by another way.

He took great pains to make himself agreeable to Marian Reed; and it

was very evident that his little courteous speeches had their full

effect. He was doubtless the first gentleman she had conversed with;

and I could see that she was a great deal impressed, I think enduing

his deferential politeness and earnest tone with a deeper meaning than

he intended them to have.

Lilian looked pleasantly on, accepting his courtesy to Marian as

a kindness to herself, after what had taken place. She was very

triumphant about it to me afterwards, as a proof of his goodness of

heart, and so forth. For the present she was content to sit apart,

thanking him with an occasional glance.

But after a while, he appeared to consider that he had done quite

sufficient to earn some reward, and drew Lilian out to the garden. Miss

Reed was thumping away at the piano, playing a showy school-piece for

his delectation; and when she presently looked round, she discovered

that her cavalier had disappeared.

'Why, where's'----

'Mr Trafford is with Lilian in the garden,' I explained.

'Oh, is he? Then I will go too'--rising as she spoke. 'I haven't seen

the garden yet.'

'I think you must put up with my attendance, Miss Reed. Lovers are

privileged to be unsociable.'

'Lovers!' she ejaculated. 'You don't mean to say---- _He_ can't be her

lover!'

'He is, I assure you, Miss Reed. They have been engaged some time; and

will be married as soon as circumstances permit.'

'I should never have thought--he wasn't a bit like a lover--to her,'

she said in an angry tone, her colour more raised than I had yet seen

it. In fact, as I suspected, Miss Reed's fancy had been caught--to

herself no doubt she termed it falling in love, and she was a young

lady of very strong impulses, which were entirely untrained. In their

ultra refinement, Arthur Trafford's good looks were precisely the kind

to attract one like Marian Reed--his fashionable languid air being

specially attractive to one who indulged in the kind of literature

which is not remarkable for backbone. She curtly declined going into

the garden with me, and drew a chair towards one of the windows, where

she sat watching the two figures as they passed and repassed in the

strip of moonlight outside, her brows lowering and face darkening.

Mrs Tipper amiably endeavoured to do her part towards entertaining

her; but Marian Reed was not in the mood to be entertained by Mrs

Tipper; and made it so very evident that she was not, that the little

lady became silent and constrained, though, strange to say, I do not

think her admiration for the girl decreased in consequence. Presently

Marian went to the piano again, and amused herself trying bits of

Lilian's songs; apparently considering neither Mrs Tipper nor me worth

cultivating. But I forced myself upon her notice so far as to tell her

that Lilian might consider it to be too soon after her father's death

for song-singing. Miss Reed opined that that was all nonsense. There

was no necessity for being gloomy, and a little singing and music would

rouse her up a little. The music had certainly a rousing effect, though

not in the precise way she imagined; and her singing! Accustomed as I

was to Lilian's sweet voice and pure style, it was almost excruciating

to listen to her songs as rendered by the other's loud untrained voice.

I sat down by my dear old friend's side at a distant window, and did

my best to make up for Marian Reed's rudeness. But she had not taken

offence. As she generally did in such cases, she simply attributed it

all to her own want of breeding, and that being irremediable, accepted

the consequences without repining. Moreover, she was full of admiration

of Marian Reed's good looks.

'Is she not handsome, my dear?' was her little aside to me. 'And seems

so accomplished too.' (One 'tune,' as she termed it, was quite as good

as another, from an artistic point of view, to Mrs Tipper.) 'Such a

good thing for Lilian that Miss Reed has been educated like a lady; is

it not? To tell the truth, I was rather afraid she might turn out to

be a common person like me, you know. At her age, I should never have

done for Fairview; not even so well as I do now. Knowing the piano and

French, does make such a difference; doesn't it?'

I could but raise the hand I held to my lips, dissenting so entirely

as I did from the notion of Marian Reed's superiority. And I believed

that Mrs Tipper herself was only dazzled for a time; her perception was

too true to be blinded for very long. When the lovers re-entered, I saw

that they were regarded by Marian with a new and uneasy curiosity.

In our _tête-à-tête_ that night, Lilian could talk of nothing but her

lover's goodness and readiness to fall in with her scheme for Marian's

welfare. 'Dear Arthur, he made no objections now. He had only objected

at first, because he felt a little hurt, as it was quite natural he

should, at not being consulted. But everything would be well now.' I

listened in some little surprise to this sudden change in his tactics,

until Lilian unconsciously gave me the key.

'Arthur is quite willing now. She is to be always free to live at

Fairview, as long as she is inclined, and have five hundred a year,

as I wish her to have. But he says there is no necessity for legal

arrangements, as though we could not trust each other, you know.'

Had I considered Marian Reed's claims to be as great as Lilian

considered them to be, I might have tried my influence against Arthur

Trafford's in the matter. As it was, I urged no objection to his

arrangement, though I quite understood its import. It would of course

be quite possible for Lilian's husband so to contrive matters that

Marian Reed would not be long inclined to live at Fairview; and as to

the five hundred a year! Well, I believed it would do no real harm to

her if she were by-and-by reduced to two hundred and her former sphere

again. Hers was not the nature to improve in consequence of having more

power in her hands, and a sister or companion for Lilian she never

would be. It was too late in the day for any radical change in her

tastes and habits. They were travelling different roads, and the longer

they lived the farther they would be apart.

Lilian's sentiments, as days passed by, were not difficult to fathom.

Her very anxiety to make the most of anything in favour of the girl her

whole soul shrank from, spoke volumes to me. Indeed she had no little

difficulty in combating the repulsion which it shocked her to feel

towards her father's child.

Marian did not miss anything or suffer, as the other would have done in

her place. She never perceived the underlying cause of Lilian's anxiety

to please and conciliate her. It was not in her nature to see that

Lilian was, so to speak, always pleading for forgiveness for the wrong

done to Marian's mother, and trying to expiate her father's fault.

Then, conscious as she was of shrinking from the coarser mind, which

was being day by day unfolded to us, poor Lilian was terribly afraid

lest it should be apparent to the other; not herself perceiving the

mere fact of its very coarseness rendering it the more impervious. In

truth, self-assertion and _hauteur_ would have won a great deal more

respect from Marian, than did the too evident desire to please. She was

beginning almost to look down upon the girl she could not understand;

conscious how different she herself would have been were she in

Lilian's place and Lilian in hers; and without any misgivings as to her

own superiority. She was also beginning to assume a great deal, and I

was the only one to do battle with her, though I had some difficulty

in keeping her within due bounds now. As it may be supposed, I did not

gain favour with her. There was the difference that she liked Lilian

and looked down upon her; whilst she disliked me and was a little

afraid of me.

Mrs Chichester made great and palpable efforts to act against her

judgment in noticing Miss Reed; 'for dear Lilian's sake,' as she

confided to Robert Wentworth and me. 'It was the only thing to be done

now. Of course she could not but regret that dear Lilian should not

have asked the advice of some judicious friend in the matter. No one

could doubt its being a mistake to bring Miss Reed to Fairview; now did

not Mr Wentworth think so?'

'Yes; Mr Wentworth did think so.'

'And what did dear Miss Haddon think?'

Miss Haddon had advised Lilian to follow her instincts in the matter.

'But pray excuse me; do not you think that is rather dangerous advice

to give--to some persons?'

'Yes; I do, Mrs Chichester.'

At which Mrs Chichester was in a flutter of consternation, lest I

should for one moment imagine that she had meant to be unkind in

leading me on to make such an admission of fallibility, and prettily

begged Mr Wentworth to give his assistance to enable her to obtain my

forgiveness.

It took their united powers of persuasion, and gave Mrs Chichester

opportunities for all sorts of pretty amiabilities, before Miss Haddon

could be brought to reason; and then the former had to be satisfied

with what she termed 'a very slight unbending of the stern brow,' as an

acknowledgment of my defeat.

Then how pleasant and amiable it was to take all the trouble she

did to put me in a good humour with myself again, by pointing out

that the very wisest of us may sometimes err in our judgment, and so

forth. Matters were progressing thus agreeably, when Lilian wanted

Mrs Chichester's advice about the arrangement of some ferns in the

conservatory, and I was left for a few moments alone with Robert

Wentworth.

'Lilian did _not_ obey her instincts in inviting this Miss Reed to come

to reside with her, Miss Haddon.'

I smiled.

'And believing that, you allowed the stigma of being an injudicious

friend to be attached to me.'

'Because I saw you so willed it; and I do not waste my powers of

oratory when they are not required.'

Then, abruptly changing the subject--there was none of the suavity and

consideration, which Mrs Chichester considered to be so essential to

friendship, between him and me--he went on: 'Tell me what you think of

this Miss Reed. Is she what she appears to be?'

'What does she appear to you?'

'Well, I suppose we could not expect her to be quite a gentlewoman, but

really---- Your little Becky is a great deal nearer the mark, according

to my standard.'

'Yes; I think she is.'

'And time will do nothing for her--not the slightest hope of it! She

would never be a companion for Lilian, if they lived together a hundred

years--of course you see that.'

For Lilian! How plainly he was always shewing that she was the centre

to which all his thoughts converged.

'Yes; I see that they will never be companions; but Miss Reed will miss

nothing; she will do no harm to Lilian.'

'Not in one way, perhaps.'

'Not in any way, Mr Wentworth, other than paining her sometimes.'

'But if that might have been avoided?'

'Neither sorrow nor pain, nor any other thing, will injure Lilian in

the long-run. You ought to know that.'

'I am not an advocate for enduring unnecessary pain, Miss Haddon.'

'I believe Lilian will have to suffer--it may be a great deal--and some

preliminary training will enable her to bear what is to come all the

easier.'

'I am afraid Mrs Chichester is right after all, in considering you to

be a little hard, Miss Haddon.'

'Afraid Mrs Chichester is right! I have a great mind to tell her!' I

ejaculated, rising.

'Have a greater mind, and don't,' he smilingly returned.

'But it might be good for you to go into training a little as well as

the rest of us; and Mrs Chichester might not object to undertake'----

'Could not you try what you could do towards bringing me into a

better frame of mind?' he said. 'It would be like an acknowledgment

of weakness to hand me over to Mrs Chichester, you know. You might at

anyrate try what could be done for me before acknowledging yourself

unequal to the task, in that faint-hearted way.'

'In other words, you want me to stay and talk Lilian to you,' was my

mental comment, as I shook my head and moved away.

As I have said, I liked Robert Wentworth better than any other

gentleman who came to Fairview. Arthur Trafford occasionally brought a

friend with him down to dinner; but his friends were not of the pattern

which pleased me--men who looked, and spoke, and moved as though they

were only playing the part of supernumeraries on the stage of life.

With Robert Wentworth there was all the pleasure of feeling that I was

thoroughly understood. I was indeed able to unfold my thoughts to him,

as I could not even to Lilian, love her as I did. She was a girl, and

I a woman, and she deferred to me as to an elder sister; constantly,

though unconsciously, reminding me of the eleven years' difference

between our ages.

Robert Wentworth and I met on equal terms. With him I neither gave nor

obtained quarter; and our encounters were as refreshing as a tonic to

my mental health. Whatever the subject broached, we freely shewed each

other our thoughts about it; and I learned to give and take a blow with

perfect good-humour. I was sometimes not a little startled to find how

completely he was beginning to track out certain tendencies, which I

had hitherto flattered myself were so safely packed away out of sight

as to be unknown to those with whom I associated. More than once the

common-sense which he bantered me about setting too high a value upon,

was blinded, and I was led on by wily steps into the enchanted regions

of romance, and penetrated by their subtle influence, gave words to my

thoughts before I recollected and was on guard again. But no word or

look of Robert Wentworth's wounded my _amour propre_ at such times;

my little flights of fancy met with the gravest respect. In truth, he

was a great deal more tolerant to what he termed my romance, than to

any little slip in my reasoning; because he had the candour to tell me

my ideality was getting starved for want of nourishment, and needed a

little encouragement, whilst my reasoning powers required an occasional

snubbing. 'And as to pretending you have no romance--you are the most

romantic young lady I know. Don't protest; it would not be the least

use; though I will not expose you to the world--not even to Lilian.'

I only knew that he was gradually teaching me to be less ashamed of

such things than I had latterly been, and so rendering me less morbid,

and more fit to be Philip's wife. Philip should thank him for that as

well as other things, by-and-by. The hope that Philip and he would be

friends, and that there would be pleasant communion between us three

in the future, was very cheering to me. How complete would have been

the picture could I have imagined Lilian in it as the wife of Robert

Wentworth--what a delightful quartet!

Meantime, everything was flowing smoothly on with the lovers again. I

think that I was the only one at Fairview to note the change which was

taking place in Marian Reed. She had never been accustomed to exercise

self-control, and was yielding more and more to an infatuation which

was making her life miserable.

She loved Arthur Trafford, as such natures do love, with a wild,

ungovernable, selfish passion; and with unreasoning anger, altogether

refused to accept the existing state of things. She would not accept

happiness in any way but one; and moodily dwelt upon what she

encouraged herself to believe were her wrongs. Why should she be

without a name, dependent upon others' bounty, and denied the love she

craved, whilst Lilian possessed everything? It was easy enough to be

amiable when you had all you wanted! But she did not covet all--only

love, and that was denied her. All this she shewed me in more ways than

one, which roused my suspicion that she was doing what she could to

attract Arthur Trafford, and would have felt no compunction in winning

his love from Lilian, had that been possible. There were occasions when

it was almost impossible to avoid the conclusion that she was trying to

outvie Lilian, in the only way she knew how to outvie a rival. I knew

that she must be spending a great deal more than was right or necessary

upon dress, so constant were the changes she made, availing herself

of everything which is invented in the way of ornament by fashionable

milliners for fashionable woe; whilst her large handsome white

shoulders were thrust upon our notice a great deal more than was in

good taste. And as to her conversation; partly loud and self-asserting;

partly sentimental, accompanied with languishing glances at her hero

from the great black eyes---- But I must not go on. I am afraid I was

not inclined to allow her a single good quality just at this time; and

therefore my judgment must, I suppose, be taken with a grain of salt.

Nevertheless, allowing for hidden good qualities, which I had not given

her credit for possessing, she really was not pleasant as a companion

just now.

Much as dear old Mrs Tipper admired her personally, even she was

obliged to acknowledge that Miss Reed was not quite so amiable and easy

to get on with as could be desired. Indeed, more than once had I found

it necessary to protect the kind little lady from the ill-humour of

Marian, and the sharp way with which I was immediately retorted upon

did not greatly discomfit me. It was enough that I had the power to

keep her within due bounds towards others.

I think it was specially obnoxious to her to find that I was observant

of her demeanour towards Arthur Trafford, and made a point of putting

in an appearance when she happened to be _tête-à-tête_ with him. I was

gravely displeased, as time went on, to find that he not only suspected

the state of Marian Reed's feelings towards him, but amused himself

by making it more apparent, feeding her vanity with all sorts of

exaggerated compliments, accompanied by languishing glances.

Was this conduct worthy of Lilian's affianced husband? I knew that he

did not in reality even admire Marian's style of good looks, and was

only amused by her too evident predilection for him. But what was he,

to find amusement thus? I asked myself, indignant for Lilian's sake.

'You are very uncomplimentary to Miss Reed, I think, Mr Trafford,' I

said one day, when I had been the witness of a scene bordering upon

flirtation between them, and could no longer keep silence. Lilian was

in the garden with her aunt when he arrived, and Marian Reed had found

it out of her power to get rid of me; though she had not scrupled to

let me see that my company was not desired. Arthur Trafford's flattery

had been rather more marked than usual, and I lost all patience.

'Uncomplimentary!' she ejaculated, looking very much astonished. Had he

not been telling her that she had displayed more than usual taste in

her toilet, and was looking dreadfully killing to-night?

'I meant uncomplimentary to your sense, Miss Reed.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'I think Mr Trafford does.'

He flushed up, giving me an angry glance. She answered for him.

'I am sure Mr Trafford did not mean to be uncomplimentary in _any_

way;' with a little defiant toss of the head and glance towards him.

Of course he could only protest that he did not; and she was perfectly

satisfied. He evidently knew better than I did the kind of compliments

which would be most acceptable to her. Indeed I suppose she would not

have considered them to be flattery at all, but simply the truth, which

there was no harm in his telling her.

'She likes that sort of thing,' he said, with a little awkward laugh,

when presently he and I were for a few moments alone together. 'And I

don't see that there can be much harm in saying a few complimentary

words to a girl, if it gratifies her, Miss Haddon.'

'Well, I am glad that you do not _gratify_ her in Lilian's presence, Mr

Trafford; she would perceive what Miss Reed apparently does not.'

He reddened again. 'Lilian is so essentially and entirely different in

every way. You can hardly expect the same kind of refinement in the

other.'

'I suppose not; but I cannot see that that is a reason for treating

them both with disrespect. It is quite as ill a compliment to Lilian as

to Miss Reed, to flatter the latter's vanity as you do.'

'I don't see any ill compliment in telling a good-looking girl that she

is so, if she likes to be told it,' he repeated. 'No one can deny that

she is a fine girl, in her way.'

'I suppose she is; but I admire Lilian too much to be enthusiastic

about Miss Reed's style of beauty, Mr Trafford.'

He was getting more decidedly out of temper, muttering something about

some women being so hard upon their own sex, as he turned away.

I had done no good by my interference, only caused them to be a little

more guarded in my presence, and perhaps dislike me more. But Marian

Reed no longer made any effort to conceal the restless discontent which

devoured her. Not for a moment suspecting the cause, Lilian was greatly

puzzled to account for the other's increasing discontent, and redoubled

her efforts to please, though she was only snubbed for her pains.

'Do you think that I leave anything undone, Mary?' she would anxiously

ask me, when she and I were alone. 'Or do you think that Marian's

feelings are really deeper than we at first imagined them to be,

about--the wrong done to her mother, and that all this luxury jars upon

her?' After waiting a moment for an answer, which came not (how could

I express my belief as to the real cause of Marian's discomfort?), she

went on: 'But you know how much I try to spare her, Mary--you know that

I would not for the world do anything to remind her of the shame. Do I

not share it?'

Yes; I did know. But I could only kiss the sweet brow and murmur some

platitude about hoping that things would right themselves in time. I

would not attempt to inculcate any of the worldly wisdom which it had

cost me my youth to obtain. Rather was I inclined to encourage her pure

faith and trust in others--her ignorance of evil--as long as possible.

The pain which comes with one kind of knowledge, I would spare her as

long as possible. For the present, it did her no harm to believe a

little too much in others; at least so I told myself.

Darling! whatever others might think, _I_ knew that your gentleness

and forbearance did not proceed from weakness. When the time of trial

came, they would see! It was nearer than I imagined it to be, and came

in a different and far more serious form than my gravest fears had

foreshadowed. It was nearly six months after Mr Farrar's death, and

there was beginning to be some talk of preparing for the wedding, which

was to take place in two months, Lilian having yielded to her lover's

importunities the more readily from the knowledge that she was obeying

her father's wishes, when like a sudden thunder-clap, the shock came.

COLOUR-BLINDNESS.

The peculiar defect of vision known as colour-blindness to which many

people are subject, is due to various causes; but very little is known

of its real nature. In different persons it has a different effect,

being in some a complete inability to distinguish between the commonest

colours; while in others it is merely a temporary confusion of the

impressions conveyed by different hues, or a tendency to give the wrong

names to colours, which can be perfectly distinguished from each other,

though the mind cannot verify, so to speak, the distinction.

To take the first case first. A man who is perfectly 'colour-blind'

cannot detect the slightest difference between the stripes on the 'red,

white, and blue' flag; to him the red and green lamps of the railways

are the same; and the leaves and flowers of the most variously stocked

garden are more uniform in tone, in the clearest sunlight, than they

would be to an ordinary eye by moonlight. (The effect of moonlight, it

is well known, is to give a monochromous appearance to the most varied

colours.) In the other case, a man who has, say the three cardinal

colours, red, blue, and yellow, placed before him, can tell that there

_is_ a difference between them, but is unable to identify them; and

while perhaps one day he is able to sort a number of pieces of glass

of these three colours, he will be unable to perform the operation the

next day.