'And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?'

'I mid be. I have never said so to 'ee.'

'But Sir John is known to have a lady, and issue of her!'

The knight looked down. 'How did thy mind get filled with such as this?'

he asked.

'One of my kindred came.'

'A traitor! Why should he mar our life? Ah! you said you had a brother

at sea--where is he now?'

'Here!' came from close behind him. And flinging open the door, Roger

faced the intruder. 'Liar!' he said, 'to call thyself her husband!'

Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sailor, who seized him by the

collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger under. But in a few

seconds he contrived to extricate his right arm, and drawing from his

belt a knife which he wore attached to a cord round his neck he opened it

with his teeth, and struck it into the breast of Sir John stretched above

him. Edith had during these moments run into the next room to place the

child in safety, and when she came back the knight was relaxing his hold

on Roger's throat. He rolled over upon his back and groaned.

The only witness of the scene save the three concerned was the nursemaid,

who had brought in the child on its father's arrival. She stated

afterwards that nobody suspected Sir John had received his death wound;

yet it was so, though he did not die for a long while, meaning thereby an

hour or two; that Mistress Edith continually endeavoured to staunch the

blood, calling her brother Roger a wretch, and ordering him to get

himself gone; on which order he acted, after a gloomy pause, by opening

the window, and letting himself down by the sill to the ground.

It was then that Sir John, in difficult accents, made his dying

declaration to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apothecary; which was

to this purport, that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife at

Clyfton, and who had borne him three children, was in truth and deed,

though unconsciously, the wife of another man. Sir John had married her

several years before, in the face of the whole county, as the widow of

one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly after her union with him,

having adventured to the North to join the revolt of the Nobles, and on

that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea. Two years ago,

having discovered this man to be still living in France, and not wishing

to disturb the mind and happiness of her who believed herself his wife,

yet wishing for legitimate issue, Sir John had informed the King of the

facts, who had encouraged him to wed honestly, though secretly, the young

merchant's widow at Havenpool; she being, therefore, his lawful wife, and

she only. That to avoid all scandal and hubbub he had purposed to let

things remain as they were till fair opportunity should arise of making

the true case known with least pain to all parties concerned, but that,

having been thus suspected and attacked by his own brother-in-law, his

zest for such schemes and for all things had died out in him, and he only

wished to commend his soul to God.

That night, while the owls were hooting from the forest that encircled

the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling through the wooden

piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of his wife. She

concealed nothing of the cause of her husband's death save the subject of

the quarrel, which she felt it would be premature to announce just then,

and until proof of her status should be forthcoming. But before a month

had passed, it happened, to her inexpressible sorrow, that the child of

this clandestine union fell sick and died. From that hour all interest

in the name and fame of the Horseleighs forsook the younger of the twain

who called themselves wives of Sir John, and, being careless about her

own fame, she took no steps to assert her claims, her legal position

having, indeed, grown hateful to her in her horror at the tragedy. And

Sir William Byrt, the curate who had married her to her husband, being an

old man and feeble, was not disinclined to leave the embers unstirred of

such a fiery matter as this, and to assist her in letting established

things stand. Therefore, Edith retired with the nurse, her only

companion and friend, to her native town, where she lived in absolute

obscurity till her death in middle age. Her brother was never seen again

in England.

A strangely corroborative sequel to the story remains to be told. Shortly

after the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune returned

from the Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious, living in

widowed state at Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly brief

courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and elsewhere has

ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong, who

remarried her for appearance' sake only.

The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates

and honours, and his son after him, there being nobody on the alert to

investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have made to

the present generation, however, had there been such a one, for the

family in all its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct these

many score years, the last representative but one being killed at the

siege of Sherton Castle, while attacking in the service of the

Parliament, and the other being outlawed later in the same century for a

debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion house and

its appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed, excepting

one small wing, which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is visible as

you pass along the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. The outline of the

old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.

This, then, is the reason why the only lawful marriage of Sir John, as

recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not appear in the

pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.

Spring 1893.

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE--A FAMILY TRADITION

According to the kinsman who told me the story, Christopher Swetman's

house, on the outskirts of King's-Hintock village, was in those days

larger and better kept than when, many years later, it was sold to the

lord of the manor adjoining; after having been in the Swetman family, as

one may say, since the Conquest.

Some people would have it to be that the thing happened at the house

opposite, belonging to one Childs, with whose family the Swetmans

afterwards intermarried. But that it was at the original homestead of

the Swetmans can be shown in various ways; chiefly by the unbroken

traditions of the family, and indirectly by the evidence of the walls

themselves, which are the only ones thereabout with windows mullioned in

the Elizabethan manner, and plainly of a date anterior to the event;

while those of the other house might well have been erected fifty or

eighty years later, and probably were; since the choice of Swetman's

house by the fugitive was doubtless dictated by no other circumstance

than its then suitable loneliness.

It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn, the hour of two having

been struck by Swetman's one-handed clock on the stairs, that is still

preserved in the family. Christopher heard the strokes from his chamber,

immediately at the top of the staircase, and overlooking the front of the

house. He did not wonder that he was sleepless. The rumours and

excitements which had latterly stirred the neighbourhood, to the effect

that the rightful King of England had landed from Holland, at a port only

eighteen miles to the south-west of Swetman's house, were enough to make

wakeful and anxious even a contented yeoman like him. Some of the

villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown down their scythes, and

rushed to the ranks of the invader. Christopher Swetman had weighed both

sides of the question, and had remained at home.

Now as he lay thinking of these and other things he fancied that he could

hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up to his house--a byway,

which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread was at any time

more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it had stood in

a thoroughfare. The footfall came opposite the gate, and stopped there.

One minute, two minutes passed, and the pedestrian did not proceed.

Christopher Swetman got out of bed, and opened the casement. 'Hoi! who's

there?' cries he.

'A friend,' came from the darkness.

'And what mid ye want at this time o' night?' says Swetman.

'Shelter. I've lost my way.'

'What's thy name?'

There came no answer.

'Be ye one of King Monmouth's men?'

'He that asks no questions will hear no lies from me. I am a stranger;

and I am spent, and hungered. Can you let me lie with you to-night?'

Swetman was generous to people in trouble, and his house was roomy. 'Wait

a bit,' he said, 'and I'll come down and have a look at thee, anyhow.'

He struck a light, put on his clothes, and descended, taking his horn-

lantern from a nail in the passage, and lighting it before opening the

door. The rays fell on the form of a tall, dark man in cavalry

accoutrements and wearing a sword. He was pale with fatigue and covered

with mud, though the weather was dry.

'Prithee take no heed of my appearance,' said the stranger. 'But let me

in.'

That his visitor was in sore distress admitted of no doubt, and the

yeoman's natural humanity assisted the other's sad importunity and gentle

voice. Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion that this man

represented in some way Monmouth's cause, to which he was not unfriendly

in his secret heart. At his earnest request the new-comer was given a

suit of the yeoman's old clothes in exchange for his own, which, with his

sword, were hidden in a closet in Swetman's chamber; food was then put

before him and a lodging provided for him in a room at the back.

Here he slept till quite late in the morning, which was Sunday, the sixth

of July, and when he came down in the garments that he had borrowed he

met the household with a melancholy smile. Besides Swetman himself,

there were only his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (the latter was,

oddly enough, a woman's name here), and both had been enjoined to

secrecy. They asked no questions and received no information; though the

stranger regarded their fair countenances with an interest almost too

deep. Having partaken of their usual breakfast of ham and cider he

professed weariness and retired to the chamber whence he had come.

In a couple of hours or thereabout he came down again, the two young

women having now gone off to morning service. Seeing Christopher

bustling about the house without assistance, he asked if he could do

anything to aid his host.

As he seemed anxious to hide all differences and appear as one of

themselves, Swetman set him to get vegetables from the garden and fetch

water from Buttock's Spring in the dip near the house (though the spring

was not called by that name till years after, by the way).

'And what can I do next?' says the stranger when these services had been

performed.

His meekness and docility struck Christopher much, and won upon him.

'Since you be minded to,' says the latter, 'you can take down the dishes

and spread the table for dinner. Take a pewter plate for thyself, but

the trenchers will do for we.'

But the other would not, and took a trencher likewise, in doing which he

spoke of the two girls and remarked how comely they were.

This quietude was put an end to by a stir out of doors, which was

sufficient to draw Swetman's attention to it, and he went out. Farm

hands who had gone off and joined the Duke on his arrival had begun to

come in with news that a midnight battle had been fought on the moors to

the north, the Duke's men, who had attacked, being entirely worsted; the

Duke himself, with one or two lords and other friends, had fled, no one

knew whither.

'There has been a battle,' says Swetman, on coming indoors after these

tidings, and looking earnestly at the stranger.

'May the victory be to the rightful in the end, whatever the issue now,'

says the other, with a sorrowful sigh.

'Dost really know nothing about it?' said Christopher. 'I could have

sworn you was one from that very battle!'

'I was here before three o' the clock this morning; and these men have

only arrived now.'

'True,' said the yeoman. 'But still, I think--'

'Do not press your question,' the stranger urged. 'I am in a strait, and

can refuse a helper nothing; such inquiry is, therefore, unfair.'

'True again,' said Swetman, and held his tongue.

The daughters of the house returned from church, where the service had

been hurried by reason of the excitement. To their father's questioning

if they had spoken of him who sojourned there they replied that they had

said never a word; which, indeed, was true, as events proved.

He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the visitor had withdrawn since

the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to him upstairs. But

he preferred to come down and dine with the family.

During the afternoon more fugitives passed through the village, but

Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept indoors. In the

evening, however, Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening in

silence to these tidings and more, wondered what might be in store for

him for his last night's work.

He returned homeward by a path across the mead that skirted his own

orchard. Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard

expostulating inside the hedge, her words being: 'Don't ye, sir; don't! I

prithee let me go!'

'Why, sweetheart?'

'Because I've a-promised another!'

Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he saw the girl struggling

in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to kiss her; but finding

her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, he reluctantly

let her go.

Swetman's face grew dark, for his girls were more to him than himself. He

hastened on, meditating moodily all the way. He entered the gate, and

made straight for the orchard. When he reached it his daughter had

disappeared, but the stranger was still standing there.

'Sir!' said the yeoman, his anger having in no wise abated, 'I've seen

what has happened! I have taken 'ee into my house, at some jeopardy to

myself; and, whoever you be, the least I expected of 'ee was to treat the

maidens with a seemly respect. You have not done it, and I no longer

trust you. I am the more watchful over them in that they are motherless;

and I must ask 'ee to go after dark this night!'

The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what his impulse had brought

down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply for a

time. When he did speak his soft voice was thick with feeling.

'Sir,' says he, 'I own that I am in the wrong, if you take the matter

gravely. We do not what we would but what we must. Though I have not

injured your daughter as a woman, I have been treacherous to her as a

hostess and friend in need. I'll go, as you say; I can do no less. I

shall doubtless find a refuge elsewhere.'

They walked towards the house in silence, where Swetman insisted that his

guest should have supper before departing. By the time this was eaten it

was dusk and the stranger announced that he was ready.

They went upstairs to where the garments and sword lay hidden, till the

departing one said that on further thought he would ask another favour:

that he should be allowed to retain the clothes he wore, and that his

host would keep the others and the sword till he, the speaker, should

come or send for them.

'As you will,' said Swetman. 'The gain is on my side; for those clouts

were but kept to dress a scarecrow next fall.'

'They suit my case,' said the stranger sadly. 'However much they may

misfit me, they do not misfit my sorry fortune now!'

'Nay, then,' said Christopher relenting, 'I was too hasty. Sh'lt bide!'

But the other would not, saying that it was better that things should

take their course. Notwithstanding that Swetman importuned him, he only

added, 'If I never come again, do with my belongings as you list. In the

pocket you will find a gold snuff-box, and in the snuff-box fifty gold

pieces.'

'But keep 'em for thy use, man!' said the yeoman.

'No,' says the parting guest; 'they are foreign pieces and would harm me

if I were taken. Do as I bid thee. Put away these things again and take

especial charge of the sword. It belonged to my father's father and I

value it much. But something more common becomes me now.'

Saying which, he took, as he went downstairs, one of the ash sticks used

by Swetman himself for walking with. The yeoman lighted him out to the

garden hatch, where he disappeared through Clammers Gate by the road that

crosses King's-Hintock Park to Evershead.

Christopher returned to the upstairs chamber, and sat down on his bed

reflecting. Then he examined the things left behind, and surely enough

in one of the pockets the gold snuff-box was revealed, containing the

fifty gold pieces as stated by the fugitive. The yeoman next looked at

the sword which its owner had stated to have belonged to his grandfather.

It was two-edged, so that he almost feared to handle it. On the blade

was inscribed the words 'ANDREA FERARA,' and among the many fine chasings

were a rose and crown, the plume of the Prince of Wales, and two

portraits; portraits of a man and a woman, the man's having the face of

the first King Charles, and the woman's, apparently, that of his Queen.

Swetman, much awed and surprised, returned the articles to the closet,

and went downstairs pondering. Of his surmise he said nothing to his

daughters, merely declaring to them that the gentleman was gone; and

never revealing that he had been an eye-witness of the unpleasant scene

in the orchard that was the immediate cause of the departure.

Nothing occurred in Hintock during the week that followed, beyond the

fitful arrival of more decided tidings concerning the utter defeat of the

Duke's army and his own disappearance at an early stage of the battle.

Then it was told that Monmouth was taken, not in his own clothes but in

the disguise of a countryman. He had been sent to London, and was

confined in the Tower.

The possibility that his guest had been no other than the Duke made

Swetman unspeakably sorry now; his heart smote him at the thought that,

acting so harshly for such a small breach of good faith, he might have

been the means of forwarding the unhappy fugitive's capture. On the

girls coming up to him he said, 'Get away with ye, wenches: I fear you

have been the ruin of an unfortunate man!'

On the Tuesday night following, when the yeoman was sleeping as usual in

his chamber, he was, he said, conscious of the entry of some one. Opening

his eyes, he beheld by the light of the moon, which shone upon the front

of his house, the figure of a man who seemed to be the stranger moving

from the door towards the closet. He was dressed somewhat differently

now, but the face was quite that of his late guest in its tragical

pensiveness, as was also the tallness of his figure. He neared the

closet; and, feeling his visitor to be within his rights, Christopher

refrained from stirring. The personage turned his large haggard eyes

upon the bed where Swetman lay, and then withdrew from their hiding the

articles that belonged to him, again giving a hard gaze at Christopher as

he went noiselessly out of the chamber with his properties on his arm.

His retreat down the stairs was just audible, and also his departure by

the side door, through which entrance or exit was easy to those who knew

the place.

Nothing further happened, and towards morning Swetman slept. To avoid

all risk he said not a word to the girls of the visit of the night, and

certainly not to any one outside the house; for it was dangerous at that

time to avow anything.

Among the killed in opposing the recent rising had been a younger brother

of the lord of the manor, who lived at King's-Hintock Court hard by.

Seeing the latter ride past in mourning clothes next day, Swetman

ventured to condole with him.

'He'd no business there!' answered the other. His words and manner

showed the bitterness that was mingled with his regret. 'But say no more

of him. You know what has happened since, I suppose?'

'I know that they say Monmouth is taken, Sir Thomas, but I can't think it

true,' answered Swetman.

'O zounds! 'tis true enough,' cried the knight, 'and that's not all. The

Duke was executed on Tower Hill two days ago.'

'D'ye say it verily?' says Swetman.

'And a very hard death he had, worse luck for 'n,' said Sir Thomas.

'Well, 'tis over for him and over for my brother. But not for the rest.

There'll be searchings and siftings down here anon; and happy is the man

who has had nothing to do with this matter!'

Now Swetman had hardly heard the latter words, so much was he confounded

by the strangeness of the tidings that the Duke had come to his death on

the previous Tuesday. For it had been only the night before this present

day of Friday that he had seen his former guest, whom he had ceased to

doubt could be other than the Duke, come into his chamber and fetch away

his accoutrements as he had promised.

'It couldn't have been a vision,' said Christopher to himself when the

knight had ridden on. 'But I'll go straight and see if the things be in

the closet still; and thus I shall surely learn if 'twere a vision or

no.'

To the closet he went, which he had not looked into since the stranger's

departure. And searching behind the articles placed to conceal the

things hidden, he found that, as he had never doubted, they were gone.

When the rumour spread abroad in the West that the man beheaded in the

Tower was not indeed the Duke, but one of his officers taken after the

battle, and that the Duke had been assisted to escape out of the country,

Swetman found in it an explanation of what so deeply mystified him. That

his visitor might have been a friend of the Duke's, whom the Duke had

asked to fetch the things in a last request, Swetman would never admit.

His belief in the rumour that Monmouth lived, like that of thousands of

others, continued to the end of his days.

* * * * *

Such, briefly, concluded my kinsman, is the tradition which has been

handed down in Christopher Swetman's family for the last two hundred

years.

A MERE INTERLUDE

CHAPTER I

The traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for the

fidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth

to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine's personality.

People were wrong, he declared, when they surmised that Baptista Trewthen

was a young woman with scarcely emotions or character. There was nothing

in her to love, and nothing to hate--so ran the general opinion. That

she showed few positive qualities was true. The colours and tones which

changing events paint on the faces of active womankind were looked for in

vain upon hers. But still waters run deep; and no crisis had come in the

years of her early maidenhood to demonstrate what lay hidden within her,

like metal in a mine.

She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria's, one of the Isles

of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, as there

understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland for two

years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College for Teachers,

and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, near Tor-upon-

Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examination and holidays.

The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista

applied herself to her new duties as best she could, till an uneventful

year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing as she

walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of a person who

had something on her mind. A widow, by name Mrs. Wace, in whose house

Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting-room and bedroom till

the school-house should be built, noticed this change in her youthful

tenant's manner, and at last ventured to press her with a few questions.

'It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Then it is the salary?'

'No, nor the salary.'

'Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear.'

Baptista was silent for a few moments. 'It is Mr. Heddegan,' she

murmured. 'Him they used to call David Heddegan before he got his

money.'

'And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call David?'

'An old bachelor at Giant's Town, St. Maria's, with no relations

whatever, who lives about a stone's throw from father's. When I was a

child he used to take me on his knee and say he'd marry me some day. Now

I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do it. And

father and mother says I can't do better than have him.'

'He's well off?'

'Yes--he's the richest man we know--as a friend and neighbour.'

'How much older did you say he was than yourself?'

'I didn't say. Twenty years at least.'

'And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?'

'No--he's not unpleasant.'

'Well, child, all I can say is that I'd resist any such engagement if

it's not palatable to 'ee. You are comfortable here, in my little house,

I hope. All the parish like 'ee: and I've never been so cheerful, since

my poor husband left me to wear his wings, as I've been with 'ee as my

lodger.'

The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return the

sentiment. 'But here comes my perplexity,' she said. 'I don't like

keeping school. Ah, you are surprised--you didn't suspect it. That's

because I've concealed my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don't

care for children--they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom

nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead.

Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for the inspector. For

three months before his visit I didn't sleep soundly. And the Committee

of Council are always changing the Code, so that you don't know what to

teach, and what to leave untaught. I think father and mother are right.

They say I shall never excel as a schoolmistress if I dislike the work

so, and that therefore I ought to get settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan.

Between us two, I like him better than school; but I don't like him quite

so much as to wish to marry him.'

These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; till at

length the young girl's elderly friend and landlady threw in her opinion

on the side of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she

declared, the uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista's natural

dislike for teaching, it would be as well to take what fate offered, and

make the best of matters by wedding her father's old neighbour and

prosperous friend.

The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them as usual

in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossing by packet

from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of April her face wore

a more settled aspect.

'Well?' said the expectant Mrs. Wace.

'I have agreed to have him as my husband,' said Baptista, in an off-hand

way. 'Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But I have agreed

to do it, and so the matter is settled.'

Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on the

subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them.

Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from time to

time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; that

it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of leaving

the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced more

specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after her

return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.

She now corresponded regularly with Mr. Heddegan. Her letters from him

were seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs. Wace. Had

she read more of their interiors than the occasional sentences shown her

by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, rusty handwriting

of Miss Trewthen's betrothed conveyed little more matter than details of

their future housekeeping, and his preparations for the same, with

innumerable 'my dears' sprinkled in disconnectedly, to show the depth of

his affection without the inconveniences of syntax.

CHAPTER II

It was the end of July--dry, too dry, even for the season, the delicate

green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favoured end of the kingdom

tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the pure fresh moisture from

the skies. Baptista's boxes were packed, and one Saturday morning she

departed by a waggonette to the station, and thence by train to

Pen-zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water

immediately to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan's wife on the Wednesday

of the week following.

She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day had

loomed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure till

this last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at home long

beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than herself, she said, she was to

be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey silk frock, and there

were no preparations to make that had not been amply made by her parents

and intended husband.

In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr. She

here obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier, where she

learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plying between the town

and the islands had left at eleven o'clock; the usual hour of departure

in the afternoon having been forestalled in consequence of the fogs which

had for a few days prevailed towards evening, making twilight navigation

dangerous.

This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and it

became obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days,

unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the island' sailing-

boats and come to fetch her--a not very likely contingency, the sea

distance being nearly forty miles.

Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than one

occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reason as

the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as

she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay was certainly

inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it would leave less

than a day's interval between her arrival and the wedding ceremony.

Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. It was

indeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it would not be too

much to say that, although she was going to do the critical deed of her

life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable relief at the

postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner after making

discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even to passivity

itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment of receiving

information that the steamer had sailed, replied 'Oh,' so coolly to the

porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointed at her lack of

disappointment.

The question now was, should she return again to Mrs. Wace, in the

village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived.

She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great;

moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to

become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would have been a

trifle humiliating.

Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was to secure a

respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popular seaside resort

confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, in which, though

she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she was practically a

stranger.

Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer's shop; where she made

herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. An early

cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out to reconnoitre.

Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and having a

sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at the

booksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churches;

not that for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices;

but tourists looked at them, and so would she--a proceeding for which no

one would have credited her with any great originality, such, for

instance, as that she subsequently showed herself to possess. The

churches soon oppressed her. She tried the Museum, but came out because

it seemed lonely and tedious.

Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, these

headquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always,

attractive. From the more picturesque streets she went to the town

gardens, and the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at work

there, loading and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians.

'Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!'

The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start, and

became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then she said in her usual

undemonstrative manner, 'O--is it really you, Charles?'

Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the new-comer

glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment--even

temper--in his eye.

'I am going home,' continued she. 'But I have missed the boat.'

He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, in the

intensity of his critical survey. 'Teaching still? What a fine

schoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!' he said with a slight

flavour of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her.

'I know I am nothing to brag of,' she replied. 'That's why I have given

up.'

'O--given up? You astonish me.'

'I hate the profession.'

'Perhaps that's because I am in it.'

'O no, it isn't. But I am going to enter on another life altogether. I

am going to be married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.'

The young man--fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride and

passionateness--winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding.

'Who is Mr. David Heddegan?' he asked, as indifferently as lay in his

power.

She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant of Giant's

Town, St. Maria's island--her father's nearest neighbour and oldest

friend.

'Then we shan't see anything more of you on the mainland?' inquired the

schoolmaster.

'O, I don't know about that,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding-school your father

was foolish enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" wife in the

Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin

tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous matter, and great tenpenny nails?'

'He's not in such a small way as that!' she almost pleaded. 'He owns

ships, though they are rather little ones!'

'O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tedious to

stand still. I thought you would be a failure in education,' he

continued, when she obeyed him and strolled ahead. 'You never showed

power that way. You remind me much of some of those women who think they

are sure to be great actresses if they go on the stage, because they have

a pretty face, and forget that what we require is acting. But you found

your mistake, didn't you?'

'Don't taunt me, Charles.' It was noticeable that the young

schoolmaster's tone caused her no anger or retaliatory passion; far

otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. 'How is it you are at

Pen-zephyr?' she inquired.

'I don't taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a friendly way, as I

should to any one I wished well. Though for that matter I might have

some excuse even for taunting you. Such a terrible hurry as you've been

in. I hate a woman who is in such a hurry.'

'How do you mean that?'

'Why--to be somebody's wife or other--anything's wife rather than

nobody's. You couldn't wait for me, O, no. Well, thank God, I'm cured

of all that!'

'How merciless you are!' she said bitterly. 'Wait for you? What does

that mean, Charley? You never showed--anything to wait for--anything

special towards me.'

'O come, Baptista dear; come!'

'What I mean is, nothing definite,' she expostulated. 'I suppose you

liked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on your part,

and that you never meant to make an honourable engagement of it.'

'There, that's just it! You girls expect a man to mean business at the

first look. No man when he first becomes interested in a woman has any

definite scheme of engagement to marry her in his mind, unless he is

meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. However, I did at last mean an

honourable engagement, as you call it, come to that.'

'But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures a

woman's position and credit, sooner than you think.'

'Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have asked you

to marry me.'

She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing very

uncomfortable. Presently he said, 'Would you have waited for me if you

had known?' To this she whispered in a sorrowful whisper, 'Yes!'

They went still farther in silence--passing along one of the beautiful

walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene or

situation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he clasped his

fingers round the small of her arm--quite lightly, and without any

attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, 'Now I hold you, and my

will must be yours.'

Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, 'I have merely run down

here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going off to the

north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations at Redrutin

quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How little I thought of

meeting you! How very different the circumstances would have been if,

instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour or so, possibly for

ever, you had been now just going off with me, as my wife, on our

honeymoon trip. Ha--ha--well--so humorous is life!'

She stopped suddenly. 'I must go back now--this is altogether too

painful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood you are in to-day.'

'I don't want to pain you--you know I do not,' he said more gently. 'Only

it just exasperates me--this you are going to do. I wish you would not.'

'What?'

'Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.'

'I must do it now,' said she.

'Why?' he asked, dropping the off-hand masterful tone he had hitherto

spoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, however, as if

she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. 'It is never

too late to break off a marriage that's distasteful to you. Now I'll say

one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me instead of him,

even now, at the last moment, though you have served me so badly.'

'O, it is not possible to think of that!' she answered hastily, shaking

her head. 'When I get home all will be prepared--it is ready even

now--the things for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's new suit,

and everything. I should require the courage of a tropical lion to go

home there and say I wouldn't carry out my promise!'

'Then go, in Heaven's name! But there would be no necessity for you to

go home and face them in that way. If we were to marry, it would have to

be at once, instantly; or not at all. I should think your affection not

worth the having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this

evening, where we could be married by licence on Monday morning. And

then no Mr. David Heddegan or anybody else could get you away from me.'

'I must go home by the Tuesday boat,' she faltered. 'What would they

think if I did not come?'

'You could go home by that boat just the same. All the difference would

be that I should go with you. You could leave me on the quay, where I'd

have a smoke, while you went and saw your father and mother privately;

you could then tell them what you had done, and that I was waiting not

far off; that I was a school-master in a fairly good position, and a

young man you had known when you were at the Training College. Then I

would come boldly forward; and they would see that it could not be

altered, and so you wouldn't suffer a lifelong misery by being the wife

of a wretched old gaffer you don't like at all. Now, honestly; you do

like me best, don't you, Baptista?'

'Yes.'

'Then we will do as I say.'

She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consented to the

novel proposition at some moment or other of that walk was apparent by

what occurred a little later.

CHAPTER III

An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than

consideration. The first thing they did in carrying it out was to return

to the railway station, where Baptista took from her luggage a small

trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case have required

after missing the boat. That same afternoon they travelled up the line

to Trufal.

Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifference to

things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journey

independently of her though in the same train. He told her where she

could get board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant nod

to her of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and to see

about the licence.

On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of the

pro-cathedral. In the afternoon they walked together in the fields,

where he told her that the licence would be ready next day, and would be

available the day after, when the ceremony could be performed as early

after eight o'clock as they should choose.

His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, was as

impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and passed,

and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement was to get the

ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next morning, so as to

go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place in time for the boat's

departure the same day. It was in obedience to Baptista's earnest

request that Stow consented thus to make the whole journey to Lyonesse by

land and water at one heat, and not break it at Pen-zephyr; she seemed to

be oppressed with a dread of lingering anywhere, this great first act of

disobedience to her parents once accomplished, with the weight on her

mind that her home had to be convulsed by the disclosure of it. To face

her difficulties over the water immediately she had created them was,

however, a course more desired by Baptista than by her lover; though for

once he gave way.

The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded it. By

six o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in that part of

England in the summer season. By nine they were husband and wife. They

packed up and departed by the earliest train after the service; and on

the way discussed at length what she should say on meeting her parents,

Charley dictating the turn of each phrase. In her anxiety they had

travelled so early that when they reached Pen-zephyr they found there

were nearly two hours on their hands before the steamer's time of

sailing.

Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streets of

the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, the household

at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of events from her own

lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some Lyonessian might

be prowling about there, or even have come across the sea to look for

her. To meet any one to whom she was known, and to have to reply to

awkward questions about the strange young man at her side before her well-

framed announcement had been delivered at proper time and place, was a

thing she could not contemplate with equanimity. So, instead of looking

at the shops and harbour, they went along the coast a little way.

The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered up on

some cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St. Michael's

Mount and other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he would run

down to the beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into the sea.

Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it was gloomy,

she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than a quarter of

an hour at the outside, and she passively assented.

Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. Then he

again proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she saw him

emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white fringe of

foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once in the water he

seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a long time; and,

unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize his want of it at that

distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, and gazed at the still

outline of St. Michael's--now beautifully toned in grey.

Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with the

approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best she

could, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would reach home

in the evening--a very late time they would say; but, as the delay was a

pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr. Heddegan to-morrow

still practicable. Then Charles would have to be produced from the

background. It was a terrible undertaking to think of, and she almost

regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily that morning. The rage of

her father would be so crushing; the reproaches of her mother so bitter;

and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and perhaps cause estrangement

till death. There had obviously been no alarm about her at St. Maria's,

or somebody would have sailed across to inquire for her. She had, in a

letter written at the beginning of the week, spoken of the hour at which

she intended to leave her country schoolhouse; and from this her friends

had probably perceived that by such timing she would run a risk of losing

the Saturday boat. She had missed it, and as a consequence sat here on

the shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.

This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline of St.

Michael's Mount to look about for her husband's form. He was, as far as

she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then he was dressing. By

moving a few steps she could see where his clothes lay. But Charles was

not beside them.

Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if her senses

were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spot resembling

a man's head or face showed anywhere. By this time she was alarmed, and

her alarm intensified when she perceived a little beyond the scene of her

husband's bathing a small area of water, the quality of whose surface

differed from that of the surrounding expanse as the coarse vegetation of

some foul patch in a mead differs from the fine green of the remainder.

Elsewhere it looked flexuous, here it looked vermiculated and lumpy, and

her marine experiences suggested to her in a moment that two currents met

and caused a turmoil at this place.

She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. The way

down was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes it

occurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first for help.

Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland till she met

a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she exclaimed, 'I think a

gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I cannot see him as I

could. Will you please run and help him, at once, if you will be so

kind?'

She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicating it

vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her way with the

idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in her faintness, that

she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced about and dragged herself

back again. Before reaching the now dreaded spot she met one of the men.

'We can see nothing at all, Miss,' he declared.

Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign of Charley's

clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come had disappeared, it

must have been in some other direction, for she had not met them going

away. They, finding nothing, had probably thought her alarm a mere

conjecture, and given up the quest.

Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley had

undressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt that he was

drowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while his clothes,

lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried away by the

rising tide.

She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensation

succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, and

leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance,

the last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, also

his image, in her mind's eye, waned curiously, receded far away, grew

stranger and stranger, less and less real. Their meeting and marriage

had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that she could hardly

believe that she had played her part in such a reckless drama. Of all

the few hours of her life with Charles, the portion that most insisted in

coming back to memory was their fortuitous encounter on the previous

Saturday, and those bitter reprimands with which he had begun the attack,

as it might be called, which had piqued her to an unexpected

consummation.

A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, had

characterized Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of a

tyrant; and it might pretty truly have been said that he had stung her

into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life did these

reflections operate to make him; and then they would be chased away by an

interval of passionate weeping and mad regret. Finally, there returned

upon the confused mind of the young wife the recollection that she was on

her way homeward, and that the packet would sail in three-quarters of an

hour.

Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the station

awaiting her onward journey.

She looked in that direction; and, entering one of those undemonstrative

phases so common with her, walked quietly on.

At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning she went

to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death by drowning to

the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a relative. Posting

this stealthily, and with a fearful look around her, she seemed to

acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her way to the station as

if followed by a spectre.

When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had left

there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning just

lapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed. Quickly as

these things had been done, the whole proceeding, nevertheless, had been

almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she had come to any definite

conclusion on her course.

Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, which

removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed, that

she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but fragmentary, but

she could easily piece them out.

'A man drowned--swam out too far--was a stranger to the place--people in

boat--saw him go down--couldn't get there in time.'

The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may as well

be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley, with the

over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for his strength,

and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his lifeless body being at

that moment suspended in the transparent mid-depths of the bay. His

clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by the rising tide, and

floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out of sight of the passers-

by till a day or two after.

CHAPTER IV

In ten minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyage of

four or five hours, at whose ending she would have to tell her strange

story.

As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes disappeared behind Mousehole

and St. Clement's Isle, Baptista's ephemeral, meteor-like husband

impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in such a trance-like

state that she had been an hour on the little packet-boat before she

became aware of the agitating fact that Mr. Heddegan was on board with

her. Involuntarily she slipped from her left hand the symbol of her

wifehood.

'Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt 'ee. "I reckon she

don't see me, or won't see me," I said, "and what's the hurry? She'll

see enough o' me soon!" I hope ye be well, mee deer?'

He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about five and fifty, of the

complexion common to those whose lives are passed on the bluffs and

beaches of an ocean isle. He extended the four quarters of his face in a

genial smile, and his hand for a grasp of the same magnitude. She gave

her own in surprised docility, and he continued: 'I couldn't help coming

across to meet 'ee. What an unfortunate thing you missing the boat and

not coming Saturday! They meant to have warned 'ee that the time was

changed, but forgot it at the last moment. The truth is that I should

have informed 'ee myself; but I was that busy finishing up a job last

week, so as to have this week free, that I trusted to your father for

attending to these little things. However, so plain and quiet as it is

all to be, it really do not matter so much as it might otherwise have

done, and I hope ye haven't been greatly put out. Now, if you'd sooner

that I should not be seen talking to 'ee--if 'ee feel shy at all before

strangers--just say. I'll leave 'ee to yourself till we get home.'

'Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr. Heddegan.'

He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away immediately, and minutely

inspected the surface of the funnel, till some female passengers of

Giant's Town tittered at what they must have thought a rebuff--for the

approaching wedding was known to many on St. Maria's Island, though to

nobody elsewhere. Baptista coloured at their satire, and called him

back, and forced herself to commune with him in at least a mechanically

friendly manner.

The opening event had been thus different from her expectation, and she

had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passively allowed

circumstances to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made.

It was near dusk when they touched the pier of Giant's Town, where

several friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her father had a

lantern in his hand. Her mother, too, was there, reproachfully glad that

the delay had at last ended so simply. Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter

went together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, to the house, rather

in advance of her husband and Mr. Heddegan, who talked in loud tones

which reached the women over their shoulders.

Some would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good mother; but though well

meaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed their mark. This

might have been partly attributable to the slight deafness from which she

suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterances came from her lips.

'Ah, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you've got over safe. It is all

ready, and everything so well arranged, that nothing but misfortune could

hinder you settling as, with God's grace, becomes 'ee. Close to your

mother's door a'most, 'twill be a great blessing, I'm sure; and I was

very glad to find from your letters that you'd held your word sacred.

That's right--make your word your bond always. Mrs. Wace seems to be a

sensible woman. I hope the Lord will do for her as he's doing for you no

long time hence. And how did 'ee get over the terrible journey from Tor-

upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? Once you'd done with the railway, of course, you

seemed quite at home. Well, Baptista, conduct yourself seemly, and all

will be well.'

Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, her father and Mr. Heddegan

immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic that she had

felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in the centre of

her mind.

The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the well-spread table, the old

chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of the times ere she knew

or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take off her things,

her mother remaining below to complete the disposition of the supper, and

attend to the preparation of to-morrow's meal, altogether composing such

an array of pies, from pies of fish to pies of turnips, as was never

heard of outside the Western Duchy. Baptista, once alone, sat down and

did nothing; and was called before she had taken off her bonnet.

'I'm coming,' she cried, jumping up, and speedily disapparelling herself,

brushed her hair with a few touches and went down.

Two or three of Mr. Heddegan's and her father's friends had dropped in,

and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had been subjected to. The

meal was a most merry one except to Baptista. She had desired privacy,

and there was none; and to break the news was already a greater

difficulty than it had been at first. Everything around her, animate and

inanimate, great and small, insisted that she had come home to be

married; and she could not get a chance to say nay.

One or two people sang songs, as overtures to the melody of the morrow,

till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, her mother having

retired a little earlier. When Baptista found herself again alone in her

bedroom the case stood as before: she had come home with much to say, and

she had said nothing.

It was now growing clear even to herself that Charles being dead, she had

not determination sufficient within her to break tidings which, had he

been alive, would have imperatively announced themselves. And thus with

the stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; her story should

remain untold. It was not that upon the whole she thought it best not to

attempt to tell it; but that she could not undertake so explosive a

matter. To stop the wedding now would cause a convulsion in Giant's Town

little short of volcanic. Weakened, tired, and terrified as she had been

by the day's adventures, she could not make herself the author of such a

catastrophe. But how refuse Heddegan without telling? It really seemed

to her as if her marriage with Mr. Heddegan were about to take place as

if nothing had intervened.

Morning came. The events of the previous days were cut off from her

present existence by scene and sentiment more completely than ever.

Charles Stow had grown to be a special being of whom, owing to his

character, she entertained rather fearful than loving memory. Baptista

could hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving about

downstairs. But she did not rise till her mother's rather rough voice

resounded up the staircase as it had done on the preceding evening.

'Baptista! Come, time to be stirring! The man will be here, by heaven's

blessing, in three-quarters of an hour. He has looked in already for a

minute or two--and says he's going to the church to see if things be well

forward.'

Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and took the easy course. When

she emerged from the regions above she was arrayed in her new silk frock

and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the former for

breakfasting, and her common slippers over the latter, not to spoil the

new ones on the rough precincts of the dwelling.

It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length on this part of the

morning's proceedings. She revealed nothing; and married Heddegan, as

she had given her word to do, on that appointed August day.

CHAPTER V

Mr. Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride's manner during and after

the wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had been considerable

reluctance on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourly arrangement, and,

as a philosopher of long standing, holding that whatever Baptista's

attitude now, the conditions would probably be much the same six months

hence as those which ruled among other married couples.

An absolutely unexpected shock was given to Baptista's listless mind

about an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly finished the

mid-day dinner when the now husband said to her father, 'We think of

starting about two. And the breeze being so fair we shall bring up

inside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least.'

'What--are we going to Pen-zephyr?' said Baptista. 'I don't know

anything of it.'

'Didn't you tell her?' asked her father of Heddegan.

It transpired that, owing to the delay in her arrival, this proposal too,

among other things, had in the hurry not been mentioned to her, except

some time ago as a general suggestion that they would go somewhere.

Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, and one to the

mainland the pleasantest of all.

She looked so distressed at the announcement that her husband willingly

offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday off the island for

a whole year. Then she pondered on the inconvenience of staying at

Giant's Town, where all the inhabitants were bonded, by the circumstances

of their situation, into a sort of family party, which permitted and

encouraged on such occasions as these oral criticism that was apt to

disturb the equanimity of newly married girls, and would especially worry

Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly, she agreed not

to disorganize her husband's plans for the wedding jaunt, and it was

settled that, as originally intended, they should proceed in a

neighbour's sailing boat to the metropolis of the district.

In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without difficulty or mishap.

Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed them over, they

strolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and obedient.

Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before their return,

but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their first

business was to find an inn; and in this they had unexpected difficulty,

since for some reason or other--possibly the fine weather--many of the

nearest at hand were full of tourists and commercial travellers. He led

her on till he reached a tavern which, though comparatively unpretending,

stood in as attractive a spot as any in the town; and this, somewhat to

their surprise after their previous experience, they found apparently

empty. The considerate old man, thinking that Baptista was educated to

artistic notions, though he himself was deficient in them, had decided

that it was most desirable to have, on such an occasion as the present,

an apartment with 'a good view' (the expression being one he had often

heard in use among tourists); and he therefore asked for a favourite room

on the first floor, from which a bow-window protruded, for the express

purpose of affording such an outlook.

The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry that particular

apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any other in the house,

was unoccupied.

'The gentleman who has the best one will give it up to-morrow, and then

you can change into it,' she added, as Mr. Heddegan hesitated about

taking the adjoining and less commanding one.

'We shall be gone to-morrow, and shan't want it,' he said.

Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady earnestly continued that

since he was bent on having the best room, perhaps the other gentleman

would not object to move at once into the one they despised, since,

though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equally large.

'Well, if he doesn't care for a view,' said Mr. Heddegan, with the air of

a highly artistic man who did.

'O no--I am sure he doesn't,' she said. 'I can promise that you shall

have the room you want. If you would not object to go for a walk for

half an hour, I could have it ready, and your things in it, and a nice

tea laid in the bow-window by the time you come back?'

This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the fussy old tradesman, and

they went out. Baptista nervously conducted him in an opposite direction

to her walk of the former day in other company, showing on her wan face,

had he observed it, how much she was beginning to regret her sacrificial

step for mending matters that morning.

She took advantage of a moment when her husband's back was turned to

inquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of the gentleman

who was sucked down in the eddy while bathing.

The shopman said, 'Yes, his body has been washed ashore,' and had just

handed Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the heading, 'A

Schoolmaster drowned while bathing,' when her husband turned to join her.

She might have pursued the subject without raising suspicion; but it was

more than flesh and blood could do, and completing a small purchase

almost ran out of the shop.

'What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?' said Heddegan, hastening after.

'I don't know--I don't want to stay in shops,' she gasped.

'And we won't,' he said. 'They are suffocating this weather. Let's go

back and have some tay!'

They found the much desired apartment awaiting their entry. It was a

sort of combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was prettily

spread with high tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers in the midst,

and a best-parlour chair on each side. Here they shared the meal by the

ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though the view had been engaged,

regardless of expense, exclusively for Baptista's pleasure, she did not

direct any keen attention out of the window. Her gaze as often fell on

the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, and on the table as much as

on either, beholding nothing at all.

But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, upon which her

eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird upon a snake.

For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung a hat; such a

hat--surely, from its peculiar make, the actual hat--that had been worn

by Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when she saw a railway ticket

sticking up from the band. Charles had put the ticket there--she had

noticed the act.

Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured something incoherent. Her

husband jumped up and said, 'You are not well! What is it? What shall I

get 'ee?'

'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and desperately; 'at that chemist's

shop you were in just now.'

He jumped up like the anxious old man that he was, caught up his own hat

from a back table, and without observing the other hastened out and

downstairs.

Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of the door, then

spasmodically rang the bell. An honest-looking country maid-servant

appeared in response.

'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. 'It does not

belong to us.'

'O yes, I'll take it away,' said the young woman with some hurry. 'It

belongs to the other gentleman.'

She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took the hat out of the room.

Baptista had recovered her outward composure. 'The other gentleman?' she

said. 'Where is the other gentleman?'

'He's in the next room, ma'am. He removed out of this to oblige 'ee.'

'How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there,' said Baptista,

sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth.

'He's there,' said the girl, hardily.

'Then it is strange that he makes no noise,' said Mrs. Heddegan,

convicting the girl of falsity by a look.

'He makes no noise; but it is not strange,' said the servant.

All at once a dread took possession of the bride's heart, like a cold

hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there was a possibility

of reconciling the girl's statement with her own knowledge of facts.

'Why does he make no noise?' she weakly said.

The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her questioner. 'If I tell

you, ma'am, you won't tell missis?' she whispered.

Baptista promised.

'Because he's a-lying dead!' said the girl. 'He's the schoolmaster that

was drownded yesterday.'

'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'Then he was in this room till

just now?'

'Yes,' said the maid, thinking the young lady's agitation natural enough.

'And I told missis that I thought she oughtn't to have done it, because I

don't hold it right to keep visitors so much in the dark where death's

concerned; but she said the gentleman didn't die of anything infectious;

she was a poor, honest, innkeeper's wife, she says, who had to get her

living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing to the drownded

gentleman being brought here, she said, it kept so many people away that

we were empty, though all the other houses were full. So when your good

man set his mind upon the room, and she would have lost good paying folk

if he'd not had it, it wasn't to be supposed, she said, that she'd let

anything stand in the way. Ye won't say that I've told ye, please, m'm?

All the linen has been changed, and as the inquest won't be till

to-morrow, after you are gone, she thought you wouldn't know a word of

it, being strangers here.'

The returning footsteps of her husband broke off further narration.

Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maid

quickly withdrew, and Mr. Heddegan entered with the smelling salts and

other nostrums.

'Any better?' he questioned.

'I don't like the hotel,' she exclaimed, almost simultaneously. 'I can't

bear it--it doesn't suit me!'

'Is that all that's the matter?' he returned pettishly (this being the

first time of his showing such a mood). 'Upon my heart and life such

trifling is trying to any man's temper, Baptista! Sending me about from

here to yond, and then when I come back saying 'ee don't like the place

that I have sunk so much money and words to get for 'ee. 'Od dang it

all, 'tis enough to--But I won't say any more at present, mee deer,

though it is just too much to expect to turn out of the house now. We

shan't get another quiet place at this time of the evening--every other

inn in the town is bustling with rackety folk of one sort and t'other,

while here 'tis as quiet as the grave--the country, I would say. So bide

still, d'ye hear, and to-morrow we shall be out of the town altogether--as

early as you like.'

The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmastered its complaisance, and

the young woman said no more. The simple course of telling him that in

the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied their own

might, it would have seemed, have been an effectual one without further

disclosure, but to allude to that subject, however it was disguised, was

more than Heddegan's young wife had strength for. Horror broke her down.

In the contingency one thing only presented itself to her paralyzed

regard--that here she was doomed to abide, in a hideous contiguity to the

dead husband and the living, and her conjecture did, in fact, bear itself

out. That night she lay between the two men she had married--Heddegan on

the one hand, and on the other through the partition against which the

bed stood, Charles Stow.

CHAPTER VI

Kindly time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from the present

of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o'clock in the morning; she had been

ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but in a state of cold

stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse her so much as to say

a few sentences. When questioned she had replied that she was pretty

well.

Their trip, as such, had been something of a failure. They had gone on

as far as Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreaties to return

home. This they could not very well do without repassing through Pen-

zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived.

In the train she had seen a weekly local paper, and read there a

paragraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that the

funeral was to take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday.

After reading this she had shown no reluctance to enter the fatal

neighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they should take

their rest at a different lodging from the first; and now comparatively

braced up and calm--indeed a cooler creature altogether than when last in

the town, she said to David that she wanted to walk out for a while, as

they had plenty of time on their hands.

'To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?'

'Partly for shopping,' she said. 'And it will be best for you, dear, to

stay in after trotting about so much, and have a good rest while I am

gone.'

He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, her first

visit was made to a shop, a draper's. Without the exercise of much

choice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also a black stuff gown; a

black mantle she already wore. These articles were made up into a parcel

which, in spite of the saleswoman's offers, her customer said she would

take with her. Bearing it on her arm she turned to the railway, and at

the station got a ticket for Redrutin.

Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the paralyzed mood of the

former day, while she had resolved not to blast utterly the happiness of

her present husband by revealing the history of the departed one, she had

also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, feminine

sentiment of decency, to the small extent to which it could do no harm to

any person. At Redrutin she emerged from the railway carriage in the

black attire purchased at the shop, having during the transit made the

change in the empty compartment she had chosen. The other clothes were

now in the bandbox and parcel. Leaving these at the cloak-room she

proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reached the side of a hill

whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained.

It was now a little before two o'clock. While Baptista waited a funeral

procession ascended the road. Baptista hastened across, and by the time

the procession entered the cemetery gates she had unobtrusively joined

it.

In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives (not a few), the

paragraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had drawn together

many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them she passed

unnoticed, and with a quiet step pursued the winding path to the chapel,

and afterwards thence to the grave. When all was over, and the relatives

and idlers had withdrawn, she stepped to the edge of the chasm. From

beneath her mantle she drew a little bunch of forget-me-nots, and dropped

them in upon the coffin. In a few minutes she also turned and went away

from the cemetery. By five o'clock she was again in Pen-zephyr.

'You have been a mortal long time!' said her husband, crossly. 'I

allowed you an hour at most, mee deer.'

'It occupied me longer,' said she.

'Well--I reckon it is wasting words to complain. Hang it, ye look so

tired and wisht that I can't find heart to say what I would!'

'I am--weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get home to-morrow for

certain, I hope?'

'We can. And please God we will!' said Mr. Heddegan heartily, as if he

too were weary of his brief honeymoon. 'I must be into business again on

Monday morning at latest.'

They left by the next morning steamer, and in the afternoon took up their

residence in their own house at Giant's Town.

The hour that she reached the island it was as if a material weight had

been removed from Baptista's shoulders. Her husband attributed the

change to the influence of the local breezes after the hot-house

atmosphere of the mainland. However that might be, settled here, a few

doors from her mother's dwelling, she recovered in no very long time much

of her customary bearing, which was never very demonstrative. She

accepted her position calmly, and faintly smiled when her neighbours

learned to call her Mrs. Heddegan, and said she seemed likely to become

the leader of fashion in Giant's Town.

Her husband was a man who had made considerably more money by trade than

her father had done: and perhaps the greater profusion of surroundings at

her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was not without an

effect upon her. One week, two weeks, three weeks passed; and, being pre-

eminently a young woman who allowed things to drift, she did nothing

whatever either to disclose or conceal traces of her first marriage; or

to learn if there existed possibilities--which there undoubtedly did--by

which that hasty contract might become revealed to those about her at any

unexpected moment.

While yet within the first month of her marriage, and on an evening just

before sunset, Baptista was standing within her garden adjoining the

house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad in a greasy

black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in the slums of a

city, had an odd appearance in St. Maria's. The tramp, as he seemed to

be, marked her at once--bonnetless and unwrapped as she was her features

were plainly recognizable--and with an air of friendly surprise came and

leant over the wall.

'What! don't you know me?' said he.

She had some dim recollection of his face, but said that she was not

acquainted with him.

'Why, your witness to be sure, ma'am. Don't you mind the man that was

mending the church-window when you and your intended husband walked up to

be made one; and the clerk called me down from the ladder, and I came and

did my part by writing my name and occupation?'

Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband was out of earshot. That

would have been of less importance but for the fact that the wedding

witnessed by this personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan,

but the one on the day previous.

'I've had a misfortune since then, that's pulled me under,' continued her

friend. 'But don't let me damp yer wedded joy by naming the particulars.

Yes, I've seen changes since; though 'tis but a short time ago--let me

see, only a month next week, I think; for 'twere the first or second day

in August.'

'Yes--that's when it was,' said another man, a sailor, who had come up

with a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary to join in (Baptista

having receded to escape further speech). 'For that was the first time I

set foot in Giant's Town; and her husband took her to him the same day.'

A dialogue then proceeded between the two men outside the wall, which

Baptista could not help hearing.

'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh,' repeated the decayed

glazier. 'Where's her goodman?'

'About the premises somewhere; but you don't see 'em together much,'

replied the sailor in an undertone. 'You see, he's older than she.'

'Older? I should never have thought it from my own observation,' said

the glazier. 'He was a remarkably handsome man.'

'Handsome? Well, there he is--we can see for ourselves.'

David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself at the upper end of the

garden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from the husband to the

wife, saw the latter turn pale.

Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and cunning man--too far-seeing

and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple and straightforward

means--and he held his peace, till he could read more plainly the meaning

of this riddle, merely adding carelessly, 'Well--marriage do alter a man,

'tis true. I should never ha' knowed him!'

He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Baptista, and moving on to where

he could again address her, asked her to do him a good turn, since he

once had done the same for her. Understanding that he meant money, she

handed him some, at which he thanked her, and instantly went away.

CHAPTER VII

She had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had been an

awkward one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner or later

the secret must leak out. As it was, she suspected that at any rate she

had not heard the last of the glazier.

In a day or two, when her husband had gone to the old town on the other

side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the door, and the worthy

witness of her first marriage made his appearance a second time.

'It took me hours to get to the bottom of the mystery--hours!' he said

with a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her pride very deeply.

'But thanks to a good intellect I've done it. Now, ma'am, I'm not a man

to tell tales, even when a tale would be so good as this. But I'm going

back to the mainland again, and a little assistance would be as rain on

thirsty ground.'

'I helped you two days ago,' began Baptista.

'Yes--but what was that, my good lady? Not enough to pay my passage to

Pen-zephyr. I came over on your account, for I thought there was a

mystery somewhere. Now I must go back on my own. Mind this--'twould be

very awkward for you if your old man were to know. He's a queer temper,

though he may be fond.'

She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it would be; and the hush-

money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, the satisfaction of

watching the man to the steamer, and seeing him diminish out of sight.

But Baptista perceived that the system into which she had been led of

purchasing silence thus was one fatal to her peace of mind, particularly

if it had to be continued.

Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the difficulty was past. But

another week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant's Walk

(the name given to the promenade), she met the same personage in the

company of a fat woman carrying a bundle.

'This is the lady, my dear,' he said to his companion. 'This, ma'am, is

my wife. We've come to settle in the town for a time, if so be we can

find room.'

'That you won't do,' said she. 'Nobody can live here who is not

privileged.'

'I am privileged,' said the glazier, 'by my trade.'

Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she received a visit from the

man's wife. This honest woman began to depict, in forcible colours, the

necessity for keeping up the concealment.

'I will intercede with my husband, ma'am,' she said. 'He's a true man if

rightly managed; and I'll beg him to consider your position. 'Tis a very

nice house you've got here,' she added, glancing round, 'and well worth a

little sacrifice to keep it.'

The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on this third occasion as she

had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve that, if the

attack were once more to be repeated she would face a revelation--worse

though that must now be than before she had attempted to purchase silence

by bribes. Her tormentors, never believing her capable of acting upon

such an intention, came again; but she shut the door in their faces. They

retreated, muttering something; but she went to the back of the house,

where David Heddegan was.

She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; she knew

that well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better now than

she had done at first. Yet, as she herself began to see, the secret was

one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name and Charles's stood

indelibly written in the registers; and though a month only had passed as

yet it was a wonder that his clandestine union with her had not already

been discovered by his friends. Thus spurring herself to the inevitable,

she spoke to Heddegan.

'David, come indoors. I have something to tell you.'

He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that during the last

week or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some private business

harassed him. She repeated her request. He replied with a sigh, 'Yes,

certainly, mee deer.'

When they had reached the sitting-room and shut the door she repeated,

faintly, 'David, I have something to tell you--a sort of tragedy I have

concealed. You will hate me for having so far deceived you; but perhaps

my telling you voluntarily will make you think a little better of me than

you would do otherwise.'

'Tragedy?' he said, awakening to interest. 'Much you can know about

tragedies, mee deer, that have been in the world so short a time!'

She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made her task the harder. But

on she went steadily. 'It is about something that happened before we

were married,' she said.

'Indeed!'

'Not a very long time before--a short time. And it is about a lover,'

she faltered.

'I don't much mind that,' he said mildly. 'In truth, I was in hopes

'twas more.'

'In hopes!'

'Well, yes.'

This screwed her up to the necessary effort. 'I met my old sweetheart.

He scorned me, chid me, dared me, and I went and married him. We were

coming straight here to tell you all what we had done; but he was

drowned; and I thought I would say nothing about him: and I married you,

David, for the sake of peace and quietness. I've tried to keep it from

you, but have found I cannot. There--that's the substance of it, and you

can never, never forgive me, I am sure!'

She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning black or

blue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his chair, and

began to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion.

'O, happy thing! How well it falls out!' he exclaimed, snapping his,

fingers over his head. 'Ha-ha--the knot is cut--I see a way out of my

trouble--ha-ha!' She looked at him without uttering a sound, till, as he

still continued smiling joyfully, she said, 'O--what do you mean! Is it

done to torment me?'

'No--no! O, mee deer, your story helps me out of the most heart-aching

quandary a poor man ever found himself in! You see, it is this--I've got

a tragedy, too; and unless you had had one to tell, I could never have

seen my way to tell mine!'

'What is yours--what is it?' she asked, with altogether a new view of

things.

'Well--it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' said he, looking on the

ground and wiping his eyes.

'Not worse than mine?'

'Well--that depends upon how you look at it. Yours had to do with the

past alone; and I don't mind it. You see, we've been married a month,

and it don't jar upon me as it would if we'd only been married a day or

two. Now mine refers to past, present, and future; so that--'

'Past, present, and future!' she murmured. 'It never occurred to me that

you had a tragedy, too.'

'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'In fact, four.'

'Then tell 'em!' cried the young woman.

'I will--I will. But be considerate, I beg 'ee, mee deer. Well--I

wasn't a bachelor when I married 'ee, any more than you were a spinster.

Just as you was a widow-woman, I was a widow-man.

'Ah!' said she, with some surprise. 'But is that all?--then we are

nicely balanced,' she added, relieved.

'No--it is not all. There's the point. I am not only a widower.'

'O, David!'

'I am a widower with four tragedies--that is to say, four strapping

girls--the eldest taller than you. Don't 'ee look so struck--dumb-like!

It fell out in this way. I knew the poor woman, their mother, in Pen-

zephyr for some years; and--to cut a long story short--I privately

married her at last, just before she died. I kept the matter secret, but

it is getting known among the people here by degrees. I've long felt for

the children--that it is my duty to have them here, and do something for

them. I have not had courage to break it to 'ee, but I've seen lately

that it would soon come to your ears, and that hev worried me.'

'Are they educated?' said the ex-schoolmistress.

'No. I am sorry to say they have been much neglected; in truth, they can

hardly read. And so I thought that by marrying a young schoolmistress I

should get some one in the house who could teach 'em, and bring 'em into

genteel condition, all for nothing. You see, they are growed up too tall

to be sent to school.'

'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four great girls to teach the rudiments

to, and have always in the house with me spelling over their books; and I

hate teaching, it kills me. I am bitterly punished--I am, I am!'

'You'll get used to 'em, mee deer, and the balance of secrets--mine

against yours--will comfort your heart with a sense of justice. I could

send for 'em this week very well--and I will! In faith, I could send

this very day. Baptista, you have relieved me of all my difficulty!'

Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter was concerned. Baptista

was too stupefied to say more, and when she went away to her room she

wept from very mortification at Mr. Heddegan's duplicity. Education, the

one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude a young wife so!

The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not suffer her

eyes to turn towards him. He did not attempt to intrude upon her

reserve, but every now and then looked under the table and chuckled with

satisfaction at the aspect of affairs. 'How very well matched we be!' he

said, comfortably.

Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista saw her husband rush down to

meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door four tall, hipless,

shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from the eldest to the

youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of them standing Heddegan.

He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of his whiskers and beard,

and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forrard, and shake hands

properly with your stepmother.'

Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went out, leaving them together.

On examination the poor girls turned out to be not only plain-looking,

which she could have forgiven, but to have such a lamentably meagre

intellectual equipment as to be hopelessly inadequate as companions. Even

the eldest, almost her own age, could only read with difficulty words of

two syllables; and taste in dress was beyond their comprehension. In the

long vista of future years she saw nothing but dreary drudgery at her

detested old trade without prospect of reward.

She went about quite despairing during the next few days--an unpromising,

unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been married six weeks. From

her parents she concealed everything. They had been amongst the few

acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of his secret, and were

indignant enough when they saw such a ready-made household foisted upon

their only child. But she would not support them in their remonstrances.

'No, you don't yet know all,' she said.

Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the retributive fairness of this

issue. For some time, whenever conversation arose between her and

Heddegan, which was not often, she always said, 'I am miserable, and you

know it. Yet I don't wish things to be otherwise.'

But one day when he asked, 'How do you like 'em now?' her answer was

unexpected. 'Much better than I did,' she said, quietly. 'I may like

them very much some day.'

This was the beginning of a serener season for the chastened spirit of

Baptista Heddegan. She had, in truth, discovered, underneath the crust

of uncouthness and meagre articulation which was due to their

Troglodytean existence, that her unwelcomed daughters had natures that

were unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded to

their young lives before their mother's wrong had been righted, had

operated less to crush them than to lift them above all personal

ambition. They considered the world and its contents in a purely

objective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect them as that of

certain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they knew rather than

suffered.

This was such an entirely new way of regarding life to a woman of

Baptista's nature, that her attention, from being first arrested by it,

became deeply interested. By imperceptible pulses her heart expanded in

sympathy with theirs. The sentences of her tragi-comedy, her life,

confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, as

exemplified by these girls, there was nothing to dislike, but infinitely

much to pity, she learnt with the lapse of each week in their company.

She grew to like the girls of unpromising exterior, and from liking she

got to love them; till they formed an unexpected point of junction

between her own and her husband's interests, generating a sterling

friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence there had

threatened to be neither friendship nor love.

October, 1885.