CHAPTER III.

_August 11th_.—I returned from parade this morning tired, feverish,

and with a weight upon my conscience as though I had committed an

unpardonable crime. I felt as if I dared not face my injured wife, still

less the woman who has usurped her place in my affections, or rather who

holds the place in which the other should have reigned.

Yet I was not only obliged to encounter both of them, but to go through

all the formalities of daily life, without which perhaps the trial would

have proved too much for my endurance.

Janie was the first; for since her illness she has not risen to

breakfast, and I have been in the habit of carrying in her tray for her.

It was with a shaking hand that I lifted it to-day; and the poor child

noticed the difference in my demeanour, and asked me tenderly if I were

ill or tired. I had not quite made up my mind, before that, whether I

should inform Janie of her cousin’s propensity for somnambulism or not;

but as I met the trusting glance of her blue eyes, I resolved to do so,

not only because it was a thing which might occur again and frighten her

as before, but also that by confiding even so far in my wife, I seemed

voluntarily to place a wider barrier between Lionne and myself. Therefore

I sat down on the bed, and first binding her to secrecy, I related to her

how I had spent my late nights upon the roof of the house, and by that

means arrived at a solution of the mystery which had alarmed the native

servants and herself.

‘Didn’t I tell you that your ghost would prove to be nothing?’ I said,

trying to speak gaily, in conclusion.

‘Oh, Robert dear,’ was her reply, ‘do you call poor Lionne walking in her

sleep nothing? I think it is horrible—almost as bad as a real ghost; and

if I had been you, I couldn’t have gone near her for worlds. I should

have died of fright first.’

‘But, Janie, you see that I am not a silly little girl, ready to believe

every idle tale which is repeated to her. And you must show yourself to

be a wise woman on this occasion, and be very careful that the story does

not reach your cousin’s ears, as the knowledge is likely to make her

worse instead of better. I shall give the ayah orders to hold her tongue,

and sleep outside the door in future, so that Miss Anstruther may not

wander about again unobserved.’

‘And I mustn’t tell Lionne, then, that you caught her?’ said Janie, in a

voice of disappointment.

‘Certainly not,’ I replied, decidedly; and I rose to leave her, only

half-satisfied that my wishes would be respected. Janie would not disobey

me knowingly for the world—she has never attempted such a thing; but her

little tongue goes so fast, that she is apt to part with a secret before

she knows that it has left her keeping.

When I returned to the breakfast-room, Lionne was already there, pale

indeed and rather silent, as she has been for several weeks past, but

showing no signs that she was aware of our nocturnal meeting. But as I

took her hand in mine, I felt the blood rush up to my temples, and my

morning greeting must have been nearly unintelligible to her.

Why did I behave so foolishly? She is in all respects the same woman

whom I met yesterday with an ordinary salutation—her manner even has not

altered towards me; and yet the mere consciousness that that of which I

had been vaguely dreaming is reality, was sufficient to make me almost

betray what I feel by the expression of my features.

Is this my boasted strength?

We took a silent meal, and altogether an unprofitable one. I had no

appetite; Lionne only trifled with the eatables upon her plate; and I

think we both felt relieved when the ceremony was concluded.

I did not see her for the remainder of the morning, for I made an excuse

of business, and took my tiffin at the mess. When I returned home at five

o’clock, however, I found Janie earnestly persuading her cousin to take

a ride on horseback.

‘Do make her go, Robert dear,’ she exclaimed, as soon as I came upon the

scene of action. ‘She has not ridden for weeks past, and she does look so

pale. I am sure it will be good for her; you know it will, Robert,’ with

violent winks and blinks which were sufficient in themselves to make the

uninitiated stop to inquire their reason.

‘I daresay it will,’ I answered, obliged to say something. ‘Won’t you be

persuaded?’ addressing Lionne.

She hesitated a little, but had no good reason to advance for her

hesitation; and after a little more pressing on Janie’s part, retired to

put on her habit.

‘I am _so_ glad that she is going,’ exclaimed my poor little caged bird,

clapping her hands at her success. ‘Take great care of her, Robert; she

is so kind to me.’

‘I will take care of her, Janie,’ I answered, earnestly, ‘and of you too.

You may trust me, my dear; at least I hope so.’

‘Of course you take care of _me_, sir,’ she replied, with a pretty

pretension of pouting, ‘because I am _your wife_; but I am not so sure

about my poor cousin.’

‘Be sure, then, Janie, if you can. I shall try to do my duty by both of

you.’

‘Who talked of duty?’ cried my wife, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I never

saw any one grown so grave as you have, Robert; you never seem now to be

able to take a joke.’

I defended myself from this accusation on the plea of having found

several grey hairs in my moustache last week; and before Janie had done

laughing at the idea, Miss Anstruther reappeared, and I lifted her on her

horse as though she were an ordinary friend to me, and my hands did not

tremble under the burden of the creature I loved best in the world.

We rode on in silence together for some moments, and then I turned my

horse’s head towards the sandy plain which I have before mentioned as

lying between us and the ocean, and told her that I was about to take

her down to the beach, that she might derive a little benefit from the

sea-breeze.

‘Colonel Anstruther will not think that we have been taking sufficient

care of you, Margaret, if we send you to him with such pale cheeks as

you have now. I am afraid you find the hot weather very trying.’

‘I never liked the hot weather, even in England,’ she answered vaguely,

whilst the rich blood mounted to her cheek beneath the scrutinising

glance which I had turned towards her.

Our beach at Mushin-Bunda is hardly to be called a beach; for it

possesses scarcely any shingles, but is composed of hillocks of loose

sand which never stay in one place two nights together, but are ever

shifting quarters, and are about as treacherous footing for an animal as

one could desire. We passed over these carefully, however, and then we

found ourselves upon the lower sands, which are daily washed by the sea,

and rendered firm and level. Here we halted; for it was low tide, and the

refreshing salt breeze fanned our hot faces, whilst the horses we rode

stretched out their necks, and dilated their nostrils as though to drink

in as much of it as they could.

Still we were very silent, and under the knowledge which had come to me

the night before, the silence was even more oppressive than usual.

‘This is delicious!’ I exclaimed at last; ‘worth coming farther than

three miles to enjoy. This will do you good, Margaret.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘What would one not give for a little of it

occasionally during these hot nights!’

‘You do not sleep well,’ I said, struck by a sudden impulse.

She coloured as I addressed her; but that is nothing new.

‘I don’t think I sleep badly,’ she replied, after a pause. ‘I seldom lie

awake for any length of time, but—’

‘But when you rise in the morning, you feel unrefreshed and tired.’

‘How do you know that?’ she demanded quickly.

‘I guessed it, Margaret. I guess it from your looks, your demeanour, your

languor. I know that you do not rest properly at night, and that if you

will not take seasonable advice you will be ill.’

‘I am not ill,’ she answered in a low voice.

‘But you will be, which, under present circumstances, would greatly

distress Janie. Will you not consent to see a doctor—if not for your own

sake, for ours?’

I thought that physical care might in some measure relieve the mental

disturbance under which she labours, or, at all events, prevent a

repetition of her somnambulistic tendencies by which her secret may, some

day, be made patent to the world. I never imagined she would guess my

meaning; but the next moment I saw the mistake which I had made.

‘What have I been doing?’ she exclaimed, turning round with a rapidity

for which I was totally unprepared. ‘What have I been saying? Tell me

at once, Captain Norton; don’t keep me in suspense.’ And her dark eyes

blazed upon me as though they would search into my very heart.

I trembled beneath the look, and was dumb.

‘Why do you think I cannot rest—that I shall be ill?’ she re-demanded

almost angrily; and then reading the truth, I suppose, in my confused

demeanour, she added in a lower voice, a voice almost of terror, _Have I

been walking in my sleep?_’

The ice was broken, then; and although I still felt very uncomfortable in

speaking to her of the circumstance, I did not see any other course open

to me than to tell her briefly of my endeavour to find out the reason of

my wife’s alarm, and the consequences which had ensued from it.

‘I had not wished to mention this to you,’ I said apologetically,

‘and only the directness of your question should have drawn it from

me. However, as it is, I daresay it is for the best; for though

the occurrence is a common one, it is as well to guard against its

repetition.’

‘_What did I say?_’ was the only reply which she made to my concluding

observation.

I had so slurred over the fact of her speaking at all that I hoped it had

escaped her notice; but the tone in which she put this question portended

that she meant to have it answered.

‘What did I say to you, Captain Norton?’ she repeated firmly.

I began to mumble something about the words of sleep-walkers being always

unintelligible, but she brought me back to the point.

‘You must have heard me; in fact, I can see by your face that you _did_

hear. What was it that I said?’

‘I was so sleepy, Margaret,’ I commenced, but I felt my voice shaking

audibly,—‘so sleepy, and altogether so confused, and my memory not being

of the best, that I—I—really I—’

She gazed at me for a minute earnestly, almost hungeringly—I could feel

it, though I did not see it—but I kept my eyes fixed over the sea, and a

dead silence ensued between us. A dead silence, until it was broken by

the living sound of tears; and I turned to see her dear head bent to her

saddle-bow, and her slight figure shaken with her grief.

‘Margaret, dear Margaret!’ I exclaimed, forgetting everything but

herself, ‘it was nothing—indeed it was nothing; a few words spoken

at random, of which no one in his senses would think twice, or be so

presumptuous as to understand as the interpretation of your true feelings

towards him.’

But in my anxiety and ardour I had blurted out far more than I intended.

‘Be silent!’ she cried, as she lifted an indignant burning face to

mine—‘be silent, Captain Norton! if you do not wish to insult me, or make

me hate myself and you.’ And with that she dashed her hand impetuously

across her eyes, and gathering up her reins, turned her horse’s head away

from the sea-beach and began to canter towards home. I followed her, of

course; but we did not exchange another word, and she would not even

condescend to meet the imploring glance which, as I took her from the

saddle, I lifted towards her face, mutely entreating for forgiveness.

She behaved much the same as usual during the remainder of the evening;

only that I saw she studiously avoided coming in contact with myself.

What a fool I was to say as much as I did! I, who almost registered a

vow this morning that nothing should tear the secret from my lips. And

now I have betrayed her to herself. I see she shuns me; I know she fears

me; I almost believe I have made her hate me. Well, I have brought it on

myself, and I must bear it as best I may; it only proves how little we

know when we think—as I did this morning—that the world cannot hold a

greater misfortune for us than the one we then endure.

Oh, Lionne, Lionne! what is to be the end of this?

_August 12th._—I was scarcely surprised when Janie came to-day to tell

me in a broken voice that her cousin had just informed her of her

intention to leave Mushin-Bunda as soon as possible, and that she had

already written to Mrs Grant to ask if she could receive her at Madras

until her uncle’s wishes with respect to her movements should be made

known. I was not surprised, because I felt convinced that, after what

had passed between us yesterday afternoon, her proud spirit would forbid

her remaining under the same roof with me, if any alternative were open

to her; at the same time I felt deeply hurt to think that my imprudence

should be the means of driving her from the shelter of it. Janie, on

the other hand, innocent as to the cause, had no reason to feel hurt,

except by the want of confidence reposed in her; but she was wonderfully

astonished, and disposed to resent my not being so as an additional

grievance.

‘Why, you don’t seem in the least surprised to hear it, Robert!’ she

complained. ‘Has Margaret said anything about it to you before?’

‘The subject has never been broached between us; but Miss Anstruther

has a right, of course, to follow her own inclinations, and we none to

interfere with them.’

‘No; but what can be the _reason_?’

‘Did you not ask her, Janie?’

‘Of course; but she only says that she does not feel so well here as she

did at Madras.’

‘I think that is quite sufficient to account for her desiring a change.

Strength soon gives way in this country; and I don’t think your cousin

has been looking well or strong lately. What we know of her sleep-walking

propensity is a proof of that.’

‘Then I mustn’t persuade her to stop with us, Robert?’ continued Janie,

pleadingly.

‘By no means, dear. Let her follow the bent of her own wishes; it will be

best for all of us.’

‘But Uncle Henry will be so surprised; and I am afraid he will be

angry—and—and I had so hoped she was going to stay with me, Robert; and

I feel so ill—and—and—so nervous, and I can’t _bear_ that Margaret should

go away.’ And here the poor girl was quite overcome by the prospect of

her own weakness and her companion’s departure, and burst into a flood of

childish tears.

I felt very sorry for Janie. She has so thoroughly enjoyed the society of

her cousin, and she is not in a condition to be vexed and thwarted with

impunity. And then again I thought of Lionne travelling all the way back

to Madras by herself, to accept a home from strangers, with nothing but

her present unhappiness and her future uncertainty to bear her company;

and I felt that neither of these should be the one to suffer, and that

if the circumstances required a victim, it should be myself. I did not

particularly wish to leave my regiment, nor my wife, nor any one else;

but if it is impossible for us to continue on the same footing with one

another, I felt that I should be the one to go. So I did not hesitate;

but telling Janie to keep her tears until she should be sure they were

required, went in search of Margaret Anstruther.

She was neither in the drawing-room nor in the dining-room, but in a

little antechamber which it pleases my wife to call her boudoir, but

which is the dullest and most unfrequented apartment in the house. There

I found her, lying on the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, but

making no attempt at work or reading.

‘Margaret, may I speak to you?’

I could not, because I had offended her, go back to the more formal

appellation of ‘Miss Anstruther;’ it seemed so much as though we had

quarrelled.

‘If it is of anything I should care to hear,’ she said languidly.

‘It is of something to which I much desire you should listen,’ I replied.

‘Janie has just been telling me that you purpose leaving us. Is that

true?’

‘It is,’ she answered curtly, but not unkindly.

‘I will not ask you for what reason,’ I went on to say, ‘because your

wishes are your own, and shall be sacred; but if your decision is not

irrevocable, think twice before you inflict such a disappointment on

poor Janie. You know how weak and ill she is at present.’

‘Captain Norton, I must go.’

‘_Must_ you? If I leave the house myself—if I leave the cantonment, and

do not return?’

‘You are not in earnest?’ she said, raising her eyes to mine, too weary

to be called surprised.

‘I am. I have long intended going to Haldabad on a shooting excursion,

which may detain me for two or three months. Inadvertently almost I have

delayed it, your visit and Janie’s illness coming in the way; but now

I am ready to start at twelve hours’ notice, if need be—indeed, I am

anxious to be gone.’

‘And what will Janie say to that, Captain Norton?’ she demanded in a

lowered voice.

‘At this moment I believe that my absence will affect Janie less than

your departure would do. She is very much attached to you, and she feels

the comfort of a woman’s presence. Added to which, Margaret, I am in

a great measure responsible to your uncle for your proceedings, and

I shall not feel easy if you leave my house for a stranger’s without

previously asking his consent. He will imagine I have proved unfaithful

to my trust. Do you wish others to think as badly of me as I do of

myself?’

As I uttered these words I dropped my voice almost to a whisper, but she

heard them plainly.

‘Oh, let me go! let me go!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘It will be better, far

better, for all of us. I cannot, indeed I cannot, remain here; the air of

this place stifles me.’

‘I have made you despise me,’ I said despondently.

‘No; oh no!’ and her dark eyes were fixed upon me for a moment with an

expression which I would have kept in them for ever; ‘but—you _know_,

Captain Norton, that it is best—that, in fact, we _must part_.’

‘I do know it,’ I replied; ‘and therefore I am going. By this time

to-morrow I hope to have made all necessary preparations, and to be

ready for a start. Meanwhile you will stay here—I know you will,

because I ask you—to comfort and look after Janie until you receive your

uncle’s consent to go to Madras. And when it arrives, and you have left

Mushin-Bunda, I will return to it.’

‘And we shall never, never meet again!’ she said, in a voice so broken as

to be almost inarticulate.

I dared not answer her; had I spoken, I must have poured out all my heart.

‘You have consented?’ were my next words.

‘Yes, since you think it best; only I am sorry to be the means of driving

you from home.’

‘If you are—though you have no need to be—will you give me one

recompense, Margaret?’

She lifted her eyes inquiringly; speech seemed almost lost to her.

‘Say you forgive me for what I told you yesterday. I have sorely

reproached myself since.’

She stretched out her hand, and met mine in a grasp which, though firm,

was cold as that of death.

‘Then we part friends?’

It was again myself who spoke; she nodded her head in acquiescence, and I

felt my prudence evaporating, and rushed from the apartment.

Written down, this interview seems nothing; but to those who feel as we

do, the misery of years may be compressed into an hour; and that small

room, for both of us, was worse than a torture-chamber.

I have scarcely seen her since, except at meals; but, as I anticipated,

my wife was so delighted to learn that she should retain her cousin’s

company, that she thought next to nothing of my proposed shooting

excursion, except to beg that I would take care of myself, and to wonder

how I could like going after those ‘horrid bears’ and ‘awful tigers.’

Indeed, on the whole, I half suspect the little woman is rather glad to

get rid of me, and pleased at the idea of having Margaret all to herself

for a few weeks; for she has occasionally displayed the faintest touch of

jealousy when I have broken up their _tête-à-tête_ conferences. So I have

sent them word down to the Fort to lay my ‘dawk’ for me, and I shall

start as soon as to-morrow’s sun goes down.

I almost think we shall have a storm first, which would pleasantly clear

the air; for the sky has been indigo-colour all to-day, and there is a

strange heaviness over everything as I write.

I have been packing my portmanteau and cleaning my weapons, until I have

fairly tired myself out; but were I to stop to think, I could never

summon courage enough to go. The household is asleep, and has been for

hours; and I am sadly in want of rest; for I can hardly keep my eyes open

or guide my pen upon the paper—and yet I feel as though I should never

sleep again.

Bah! I must be mad or dreaming. I am only starting on an ordinary

shooting excursion, and I feel as though I were going to my grave.

This is folly—monomania; I shall be thankful when the hour comes for me

to leave.

* * * * *

_Madras, October 20th._—It is more than two months since I transcribed a

line in this written record of my inmost thoughts—more than two months

since that awful, horrible, and most unexpected catastrophe occurred,

which I cannot now recall without a shudder, and which, for a time,

seemed as if it must obliterate my reason or my life. But I am spared

(though I cannot yet say, thank God that it is so); and were it not that

my soul seems to die within me, and my energy to languish for want of

some one or thing to which I may confide my sorrow, I should not have

the courage even now to write the story down. But I must speak, even

though it be but to a silent confidant, for my spirit fails for lack of

sympathy; and therefore I draw out my old diary, and having read (shall

I be ashamed to say with tears?) what I have written in these foregoing

pages, proceed to bring the tale to a conclusion.

Let me try to collect my scattered thoughts, so apt to wander when I

approach this miserable subject, and carry them back to the eventful

moment when I last left off—to the night of the 12th of August.

I had sat up, packing my wardrobe and writing my diary, until I had

fairly tired myself out, and then, having put away my book and writing

materials into the table-drawer, I locked it, and lighting a cigar, sat

down to think; of what, and in what strain, I and these pages, to my

misery, best know.

I had no intention of permitting myself to fall asleep; but it is

my custom to smoke just before retiring to bed, and I should have

anticipated a broken rest without the indulgence. At the same time my

fatigue was greater than I thought, and after a little while drowsiness

came over me, and before I knew that sleep was coming, I was in the land

of dreams.

And such a land! Thank heaven, for those who are not destined in this

world to know substantial happiness, that dreams remain to them.

I dreamt that I was with Margaret again on the sea-shore; not riding, but

wandering hand-in-hand; not speaking coldly or with averted faces, but

eyes to eyes, and heart to heart. I dreamt that I was watching the damask

blush which mantled on her cheek, and listening to the low, mellow sound

of her rich voice, and that mingled with my own reply came the hoarse

murmur of the ocean as it swelled and surged upon the shore.

I dreamt that we were one; one not in the earthly acceptation of the

word, but in that fuller sense by which spirits are united to each other,

never more to part; and that as we strolled upon the beach together we

knew that neither death nor injury could sever us again. And amidst it

all I was listening to the hoarse murmur of the waves, which rolled up to

our very feet, and broke away, but to return with an energy louder and

more imperative than before. I dreamt that as I stood thus, enfolding

my new-found treasure in my arms, I started to find that the sky was

overcast, and that the tide had surrounded us, and was behind as well as

before, and threatening to overwhelm my darling. I dreamt that in my fear

and solicitude I drew her backwards, trembling for her safety, and that

as I whispered words of love and reassurance, I woke—to dream no more.

I woke, at the bidding of a loud and terrified scream from the lips

of my native servants, and springing to my feet, became first aware

of a sensation of intense chillness, and next, as my remaining senses

gradually returned to me, of a hoarse murmur somewhere near me, which

recalled the memory of my dream.

The night was intensely dark; there seemed to be neither moon nor stars,

and for one moment I stood, uncertain which way to move, and waiting to

hear if the cry had only been my fancy, or would be repeated. Too soon

it came again, this time louder, more terrified, more piercing than

before; and its burden words of fearful import, too fearful to be at

first believed. ‘Master! master!’ it said in Hindustani; ‘master, the sea

is on us!’ And before I could scarcely realise the meaning of the words,

the natives who slept in the verandah had rushed into my presence, and

were immediately followed by a huge wave of water, which, with the hollow

roar to which I had listened in my dreams, burst into the unprotected

sitting-rooms, and washed over my feet.

‘Master!’ cried the natives, as they clambered upon tables and chairs,

‘the sea has burst its bounds; the sea is coming on us; the whole

cantonment will be under water!’

‘Close the doors and windows!’ I exclaimed loudly; but no one stirred,

and I attempted to set them the example of doing as I said, but it was

too late. I perceived a dark volume of water stealing stealthily upon

us from all sides, and even as I advanced towards the verandah, a huge

wave dashed against me, washing me to the middle, knocking me backwards

on the drawing-room table, and carrying away a chair as it retreated. At

the same moment, a scream from the women’s apartments told me that the

sea had reached that quarter; and with no thought but for the safety of

those dear to me, I dashed without ceremony into Miss Anstruther’s room.

I found her pale and trembling, but just awakened, sitting on the side of

her bed with her bare feet in a river of sea water.

‘What _is_ the matter?’ she gasped as I entered.

‘The sea has overflowed the cantonment,’ I replied hastily, as I quickly

lifted her in my arms; ‘but trust to _me_, Lionne, and I will take you

to a place of safety.’

She shuddered but made no resistance, until I had carried her to the

dining-room, now half full of water, and was preparing to wade with her

through the verandah, and place her on the roof of the house.

‘But where is Janie?’ she exclaimed, as she looked with horror on the

advancing mass of water; ‘oh, where is Janie?’

At her question I nearly dropped my burden; for the moment I had entirely

forgotten my poor wife, whose screams were patent from the adjoining room.

‘Go to her,’ said Lionne, as she struggled from my embrace, and slid

down into the cold waves, against the violence of which she could hardly

support herself. ‘Go at once! What were you thinking of? She will drown,

if you do not take care.’

‘I am doing as much as I can,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Let me place you in

safety first, and then I will return for her. I cannot carry two at once.’

‘And you would leave her to the last?’ she said indignantly; ‘she, in

whom two lives are wrapt in one! Oh, Robert! I did not think it of you.’

‘But, my beloved—’ I commenced, in an agony at her delay.

‘Go!’ she said authoritatively; and I left her to her fate, and went.

I found my poor little wife wet through and screaming for help; and

lifting her in my arms, I carried her, buffeting with the water as I

went, through the dining and drawing-rooms to the outer verandah.

‘Hold fast—take the greatest care of yourself,’ I exclaimed in an agony

of fear, as I battled past the white-clad figure which was clinging to

the door-posts. ‘I will return, Lionne, as soon as ever I can.’

‘I am not afraid; God will take care of me,’ was the calm reply; and

I strode forwards into deeper and deeper water with each step. When I

reached the verandah the struggle was severe, for there the waves were

highest and strongest; but although much impeded by Janie’s terrified

clasp, I managed to wade with her to the foot of the ladder, and as soon

as I had accomplished two or three steps of that, the rest was easy. I

toiled with my helpless burden up to the roof, despair lending strength

to my limbs; and as soon as I had reached it, I found myself in a goodly

company of natives, who, with a few unfortunate exceptions, had managed

to gain the top of the house as soon as the flood had surprised them.

Having delivered Janie to the care of the ayah, I rushed down again to

the assistance of Lionne, my heart throbbing as though it would burst

with the fear that my efforts might be made too late. The water was now

higher than ever in the verandah, and I began to be afraid that I should

have to swim back again. I dashed on as vigorously and quickly as I could

towards the door, to the lintels of which I had left her clinging. She

was not there!

The dark water was swaying and surging through the deserted rooms;

the furniture was floating about in the most dire confusion; trunks,

portmanteaus, and other trivial articles knocked up against me at every

turn before they drifted out to sea; but my beloved I saw nowhere. In an

agony I called upon her name, making the walls resound with my voice,

caring nothing who heard or listened to me.

‘Lionne, Lionne! my dearest, my beloved! where are you? Speak to me.’

But no voice answered mine, no moan or groan reached my ears; and I waded

into the chamber which had been my wife’s.

Ah, what was that?—that helpless mass of white drapery clinging about

delicately-moulded limbs, which swayed about in one corner, prevented by

the wall—thank gracious heaven!—from floating out to sea with chairs and

tables, but being knocked against that cruel wall with every motion of

the waves, until no apparent life was left in it.

I took her senseless body in my arms, thankful even in that condition

to have it there; and lifting the dear white face above the reach of

the impetuous tide, laid my cheek against her own, although I believed

that human warmth would never again visit it. It was no time for words

or even thought. I pressed her to me as fondly as though the waves had

been our bridal bed; and resenting the despair which urged me to let the

cruel water carry us both away together then and there, battled with it

once more, and bore my treasure to the place of safety. But it was with

feelings such as no words of mine can describe, that I laid her beauteous

form, cold, dripping, on the bare bricks with which the roof is paved. I

had already stripped myself of coat and waistcoat for Janie; and there

was nothing on which to lay the senseless body of my darling but the wet

cloths which the natives could contribute, and an old piece of carpet

which was kept up there.

Meanwhile the hoarse flood continued to roll and murmur below, becoming

deeper and deeper with each surge of the mass of waters; and cries of

distress were heard from the surrounding houses; and the articles of

furniture which floated past us began to be mingled with a vision of dead

faces turned sightlessly towards the moon, now beginning to struggle out

from behind the canopy of dark clouds which had hitherto concealed her.

And still I bent above the face which had become so unutterably dear

to me, and prayed heaven to let her know me once more, if but for a

moment’s time.

Meanwhile poor Janie, exhausted by the fright she had undergone, and the

grief she felt at the condition of her cousin, had fallen into a state

which was half sleep and half syncope, and lay reclining with her head

upon her ayah’s lap.

And brother officers shouted to me from the roofs of neighbouring houses,

asking if we were all safe—all well; and I answered that I hoped, I

trusted so; and prayed heaven again to let her know me once more before

she died.

And God granted me my prayer. Towards morning she awoke to consciousness.

Just as the grey dawn commenced to break, and that dreadful flood, which

continued for forty-eight hours to pervade the devoted cantonment, began

to show symptoms of being at its height, she opened her dark eyes and

gazed at me.

‘Where am I?’ she said, faintly.

‘Here, dearest,’ I replied, all reserve vanished in the face of

death,—‘here in my arms; in the arms of him who loves you better than his

life.’

‘It is not hard to die so,’ she whispered; but as she spoke an expression

of agony passed over her countenance.

‘Are you in great pain, Lionne?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with effort.

‘Where, dearest? tell me.’

‘Everywhere—all over. I was knocked down so often.’

‘Ah, my beloved! and I not there to help you.’

‘You were doing your duty, Robert; and it will soon be over now—all will

be over soon—all pain—_all_—’

‘Not mine,’ I murmured in an agony. ‘Lionne, tell me—but once before we

part—say that you love me!’

‘My legacy,’ she whispered, with a faint smile. ‘_Yes_, Robert; with all

my heart—as my life, better than my life.’

‘O God, spare her!’ I cried aloud.

‘O God, take me!’ she said herself; ‘take me from misery and

disappointment to where there are no tears.’

‘And how am I to live without you?’ I exclaimed.

Her dark eyes met mine reproachfully.

‘Janie—your child,’ she gasped. ‘I—I could have been—nothing.’

‘You are all the world to me!’ I exclaimed, passionately.

She lay quiet for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes wide, and

fixed them upon mine.

‘_Promise_,’ she gasped—‘Janie—to love—to love—to comfort—to—’

She fell back in my arms, and for a few minutes I watched with

inexpressible pain the convulsive working of her beautiful features.

‘Better—so much better—that I should go,’ she whispered, after a long

pause; and as she said the words she went.

It was the corpse of Margaret Anstruther, and of all my earthly

happiness, that I laid down upon the sodden rags and piece of carpet.

* * * * *

I have no heart to write down the details of what followed. For two days

that cruel flood pervaded Mushin-Bunda before it showed symptoms of

subsiding; and before that time arrived, several hundred lives (chiefly

natives) had been sacrificed. We lost nearly all our furniture, though

several pieces were left stranded in the compound when the waters

retired; amongst others, the writing-table which held my diary.

But what avails it to speak of personal loss at such a time as this? My

poor wife, from the combined effects of cold, fatigue, and terror, had a

very serious illness, from which at one time I almost feared she might

not recover; and on her return to health I brought her to Madras, from

which place I write. She is now herself again; and I am in good health

and tolerable spirits; and—and Margaret sleeps alone in a shady corner

of the English burying-ground at Mushin-Bunda. No, not alone! God is my

witness that my heart sleeps with her!

_Note added ten years later._

I have been looking over my old diaries to-day, and burning most of them;

but something within me seems to forbid that I should destroy these few

pages which record the history of my brief acquaintanceship with Margaret

Anstruther. They are the only remembrance I have left of her.

Ten years have waxed and waned since the dark night she died; what have

they left me? A wife whom I love and in whom I trust; who, I may safely

say, I would exchange for no woman living; who has brought me children,

loving and docile as herself, and very dear to me; a happy peaceful home

(no longer in the East); a moderate competence; and a name which I trust

no man holds lightly.

And to these many blessings I add contentment, and wonder what more good

on this earth a mortal could expect.

On this earth none; but whilst I ponder, I thank God that this earth is

not the end of all things.

There was a time when I used to think and say that all my happiness lay

buried in the grave of Lionne; but I have lived to learn and believe that

at the Last Day it shall rise again, with her to bloom, ten thousand

times renewed, in heaven!

THE END.

[Illustration]

OLD CONTRAIRY.

It was at the close of a sultry day in June, that the passenger vessel,

‘Star of the North,’ coasted the island of Martinique on her way to

Barbadoes. The sea was calm as a summer lake, and an ominous stillness

reigned in the surrounding atmosphere that made the words of a song,

trolled out by a free, manly voice from the forecastle, distinctly heard

in every part of the vessel,—

‘Wherever you be, by land or sea,

Why, set your heart at rest;

For you may be sure, come kill or cure

Whatever is, is best!’

‘Don’t believe it,’ grumbled an old seaman, who was seated on a coil of

rope mending a sail. ‘I wish I’d had the ordering of my own life, any

way. I’d have soon seen if it was best for me to be situated as I am at

this here present!’

He was a fine old man, with rugged but well-cut features and muscular

limbs. He had a clear blue eye, and silvery locks that showed he had been

a handsome fellow in his day; but something or other had put him out of

love with life, and his habitual mood was one of discontent. A passenger,

who was pacing the quarter-deck, with a thoughtful countenance, turned at

the old sailor’s words and confronted the speaker.

‘Don’t you believe in a Providence that overrules all our actions,

Williams?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘Oh yes, Mr Egerton, I believe in Providence fast enough; but when I see

want and misery and injustice on every side of me, I cannot help thinking

as our actions might be ruled a little straighter for us.’

‘We are all apt to think the same, but that is because we cannot see the

end of the beginning. Perhaps, too, you have never prayed that Providence

might extend its fostering care over you?’

‘You’re mistaken, sir. No man ever prayed more than I used to do. I was

a reg’lar conwarted Christian at one time; and a morial example, but

’twarn’t no manner of use. No one never heard nor answered my prayers,

and so I left off a saying ’em, and I don’t see as my troubles are a bit

the wuss for it, neither. Everybody seems to get much of a muchness in

this world, let ’em wear out their marrer bones or not.’

He re-applied himself to the patching of his sail, and the young man

who had addressed him looked over the dark blue waters and sighed. He,

too, had prayed for some weeks past that a certain blessing on which

he had set his heart might be granted him, and his prayers had been

returned upon his hands, as it were, unanswered. He was a very sad and

disappointed man that evening, but his faith in Heaven was not one whit

shaken by the trouble that had overtaken him. Even the clear, ringing

laughter of Miss Herbert, as she sat on the poop and responded to the

_badinage_ and compliments of the group of gentlemen by which she was

surrounded, although it made Egerton’s brave heart quiver with pain, had

not the power to cause it to despair.

‘Williams,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you are altogether wrong. Prayer

may not be answered at once, nor in the manner we anticipate, but it is

always heard, and what that song says is true,—“Whatever _is_, is best.”

It must be.’

But Williams still looked dubious.

‘It’s all very well for them, sir, as is rich and young, and got all

their life before ’em, to think so. I dare say everything do seem best to

them; but let ’em be sick and sorry and old, and obliged to work hard for

their living, and I warrant they’d sing to a different sort of tune.’

‘Are you sick, Williams?’

‘Pretty middlin’, sir. I’ve done a deal of hard work in my time, and I

has the rhoomatics that bad in my hands sometimes as makes every stitch I

put a trouble to me.’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Well, I’ve had my share of that lot, Mr Egerton; but as I’ve told you

already, ’twas nothin’ to nobody what I suffered nor what I felt, and so

I’ve larned to hold my tongue upon the matter.’

Richard Egerton looked at the old sailor’s rugged face, down which

time or trouble had made many a furrow, and his heart went out to this

fellow-creature, who had sorrowed perhaps as much as he was doing

himself, and had no outward alleviation for the world’s injustice.

‘Did you ever watch two people play a game of chess, Williams?’ he asked,

presently.

‘Do you mean them little figures as they move about on a black-and-white

board, same as we use for draughts, sir?’

‘I do.’

‘Oh yes! I’ve watched the passengers playing that game many a time.’

‘Didn’t it puzzle you at first to understand why the players should

sometimes allow their men to be taken from them, or even place them in

positions of danger where they could not possibly escape being captured?’

‘Yes, sir!’ cried old Williams, brightening up with intelligence. ‘I

remember there was one gentleman that crossed with us last year to

Trinidad, and he used to boast that there was no one on board could beat

him at that game. And no more there was, and his play was always to let

the other sweep near half his men off the board afore he’d begin in

arnest at all. Lord! I’ve stood and watched ’em when I was off duty, many

and many a time, and been as near as possible a-crying out to him to take

care; but he had got the game, sir, at his fingers’ end, and always came

off victor, whoever sat down with him.’

‘Just so. That gentleman’s plan must have seemed inexplicable to

anyone who was ignorant of the rules of chess, but those who knew them

and watched them to the end, would have understood that he allowed his

knights and pawns to be taken only, that he might preserve his queen and

his castle, and win the game for them all. Do you follow me?’

‘I think I can, sir, though I don’t know where the dickens you’re a

leading me to.’

‘Only to this point—that you must try and think in the same way of the

dealings of Providence with men. We cannot tell why one of us is rich and

the other poor; why one has blessings in this life and the other nothing

but troubles. But God does. We only see the effect; He knows the cause.

He is the player of the game, Williams, and does not allow one piece to

be taken captive by the enemy, except with a view to final victory.’

‘Well, sir, that’s all very clever argumentation, but it don’t convince

_me_. It’s sorry work listenin’ to reason for comfort. He’s swept away

all my pieces, one arter another—there’s no question about that—and left

me alone in the world, and I can’t see the mercy of it nor the justice

either,’ replied the old man in a discontented tone.

‘But it is not only to the sick and the old and the poor that He deals

out His judgments,’ continued Egerton sadly. ‘We all have our troubles,

in whatever position we may be placed.’

At this moment the man up on the forecastle shouted again at the top of

his voice, ‘Whatever is, is best.’

‘I wish that Ben’s tongue was a little shorter,’ exclaimed Williams

hastily. ‘He’s always a bawlin’ out them cheerful songs, as makes a

feller feel twice as downhearted as he did afore.’

‘’Twould be all the same to you, “Old Contrairy,” whatever he sung,’

remarked another sailor in passing; ‘for the song ain’t written yet as

would give _you_ any satisfaction to listen to.’

‘Well, I likes to hear sense, whatever it be,’ shouted “Old Contrairy”

after him. ‘Look at that bank of clouds, rolling up from leeward. We

shall have a squall before long, as sure as I sits here. However, I

suppose that fool Ben would go on shoutin’ “Whatever is, is best,” if the

“Star of the North” was split into fifty pieces, and he was just goin’

under water with his mouth choke full of weed.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ exclaimed Egerton, as he turned away to seek his

cabin. His conversation with the old seaman had had the effect of

increasing his depression, and he felt as if he could not trust himself

to argue with him any longer. He would have much preferred on this

sultry evening to take up his usual quarters on the poop, where the

rest of the passengers were assembled; but he had not the courage to go

there. So the poor young fellow left the deck, and, entering his cabin

threw himself down upon the sofa, which served him for a bedstead, and

abandoned himself to the luxury of grief. He was altogether too young

and too good-looking to feel so utterly bereft of hope. His bright brown

curls covered a brow which was full of intellect, and bore upon its broad

expanse the best sign of an honourable man—the impress of frankness and

truth. His deep blue eyes, now so dull and troubled with disappointment,

were generally bright and mirthful, and his athletic limbs, although

but the growth of four-and-twenty years, gave promise of an unusual

acquisition of manly strength and power.

And Richard Egerton had other heritages besides those of youth and

beauty. He was the possessor, as the old seaman had intimated, of wealth

and influence. He had been adopted in his infancy by a rich relation,

who had lately died, leaving him the whole of his fortune and his large

estates in Barbadoes, on the condition that he assumed the name of

Egerton, instead of that which had been his by birth. But what did all

these advantages avail the poor lad to-day?—this day which had dawned

so full of hope, and was now about to set upon the heaviest heart he

had ever carried in his bosom. And pretty Amy Herbert, whose laughter

still reached his ear at times, even where he lay, was the cause of all

this trouble. They were not entirely new acquaintances. He had met her

in England some months before, and had taken his passage to Barbadoes

by the “Star of the North” only because he heard that she was going to

travel in it to join her father, who was a civilian of some repute in

Trinidad. He had admired her from the first moment of their acquaintance,

and the weeks they had spent on board had ripened his admiration into

love, and made him hope, as he had had every reason to do, that she was

not indifferent to himself. He believed that his position as owner of

considerable property in the West Indies would have ensured a favourable

reception at the hands of her father, and had approached the subject

of marriage with her, if not with the certainty of being met halfway,

at least with a modest hope that she could not think him presumptuous.

And Amy Herbert had refused his offer—point-blank and without

hesitation—unequivocally and decidedly refused it. It had fallen upon him

as an unmitigated blow. How lovely she had looked that morning when he

found her sitting in her basket-chair in a corner of the poop, shading

her sweet, soft eyes from the glaring light with a rose-lined parasol.

How confidently he had believed that he should see the long lashes

lowered over those beautiful eyes, and the maiden flush of combined

shyness and pleasure mount to that delicate cheek, as he poured forth his

tale of love to her.

Others had watched the young couple sitting so close together on the poop

that morning, and guessed what was going on. Others had seen Richard

Egerton bending lower and lower over his pretty fellow-passenger, and

gazing into her eyes as though he would read her very soul, as he

whispered his hopes to her. The poor young fellow had been very modest

over it, but he had made so sure that Amy Herbert’s looks and actions

could not have deceived him, that he had almost thanked her beforehand

for the answer he expected to receive. And she had listened to his

proposal with well-feigned surprise, and rejected it with ill-advised

haste. She had thought in her silly, girlish inexperience that it was

more correct and womanly to appear horrified at the first idea of

marriage, and she had been almost as despairing as himself as she saw

Richard Egerton take her at her word and turn away without a second

appeal, to hide his wounded pride below. She was deeply repenting

her abrupt dismissal of him as she flirted on the poop with Captain

Barrington, who was returning from leave to join his regiment in

Barbadoes. But how was poor Egerton to know that, as he cast himself

dejectedly upon his narrow berth and lay, face downwards, with his eyes

pressed upon the pillow, lest the hot tears that scorched them should

overflow and betray his weakness? The sound of her voice tortured him. He

believed that she must be in earnest in showing a preference for Captain

Barrington, and he was not yet strong enough to watch her fair face

smiling on another man. So he delivered himself over to melancholy, and

tried hard to believe that he would not have things other than they were.

‘Whatever is, is best,’ he kept on repeating inwardly. ‘It will not do

for me to preach a lesson to another man that I am unable to apply to

myself. Besides, it is true. I know it to be so. My whole existence has

proved it hitherto.’

Yet the smiling, sunlit pastures and cane fields, to which he was taking

his way, and which had seemed so beautiful in prospect when he had hoped

to secure fair Amy Herbert to reign over them as mistress, appeared to

afford him but dull anticipation now.

‘How shall I ever get through the work?’ he thought, ‘and my heavy

heart and sluggish spirit will lay me open to the worst influences of

the country. But I will not despair. My wants and my weakness are not

unknown, and a way will be found for me even out of this “Slough of

Despond.”’

He was suddenly roused from his love-sick reverie by the sound of a low

moaning, which seemed to pervade the surrounding atmosphere. Starting up

on his couch, Egerton now perceived through the porthole that the sky

had become dark, and the noise of the captain of the vessel shouting

his orders through a speaking-trumpet, and the sailors rushing about to

execute them, made him aware that something was wrong. He was not the

man to keep out of the way of danger. Brave as a lion and intrepid as

an eagle, Richard Egerton, from a boy, had ever been the foremost in

any emergency or danger. Now, as the warning sounds reached his ear,

he rushed at once on deck. He remembered ‘Old Contrairy’s’ prophecy of

a squall, and his first thoughts were for the comfort and safety of

Miss Herbert. But as he issued from the passengers’ saloon a fearful

sight awaited him. One of those sudden hurricanes, for which the West

Indies are famous, and which will sometimes swamp the stoutest vessel in

the course of a few seconds, had arisen, and the whole ship’s company

was in confusion. As Egerton sprang upon deck he could distinctly see

what appeared to be a black wall of water advancing steadily to meet

the unfortunate ‘Star of the North.’ With the exception of the noise

consequent on attempting to furl the sails in time to receive the shock

of the approaching storm, there was but little tumult upon deck, for

everyone seemed paralysed with terror.

At the first alarm, Miss Herbert, with the remainder of the passengers

from the poop, had attempted to go below, but, having reached the

quarter-deck, was crouching at the foot of the companion-ladder, too

terrified by the violence of the tornado to proceed further. As for

Egerton, he had to hold on fast to the bulwarks to prevent himself being

washed overboard. His head was bare, and as he stood there, with the

wind blowing his curls about in the wildest disorder, and his handsome

face knit with anxiety and pain, Amy Herbert looked up and saw him, and

registered a vow, in the midst of her alarm, that if they ever came

safely out of that fearful storm she would humble her pride before him

and confess that she had been in the wrong. The moaning of the tempest

increased to a stunning roar, and then the huge wall of water broke upon

the ‘Star of the North’ with a violence to which no thunder can bear

comparison.

All hands were aghast, and the men were dashed about the deck hither and

thither as the wind caught the vessel on her broadside. The awful noise

of the hurricane rendered all communication by speech impossible, but the

captain, by setting the example, stimulated his men to cut away the masts

in order to right the ship, which had been thrown almost on her beam-ends.

In a moment Egerton perceived the danger to which Amy Herbert would be

exposed by the fall of the crashing timber. She was crouching in the most

exposed part of the quarter-deck, her lovely eyes raised upwards, full of

the wildest fear.

‘There! there! Go there!’ he exclaimed frantically, though his voice had

no power to reach her, as he pointed to a more sheltered position under

the companion-ladder. ‘Get under there, for Heaven’s sake!’

She saw the warning gesture of his hand, the agony depicted in his

face, and understood the meaning of them, just as the huge mast bowed

itself towards the sea. Egerton continued his efforts to make her see

the necessity of moving, and she was just about to take advantage of

the hint, when Captain Barrington crawled on all fours into the place

himself. The little man was not too brave by nature, and fear had driven

all thoughts of chivalry out of his head. For the moment the girl did not

see who had forestalled her intention; she only perceived that she had

lost her chance of safety, and waited the event in trembling anxiety.

Down came the topmast with a crashing shock that threatened to sink the

vessel. Yet Amy Herbert was sheltered from possible injury, for, with a

mighty effort, Richard Egerton had quitted his stronghold and flung his

body upon the deck before her. For one moment he was conscious—happily

conscious—that she was safe, and he had saved her; the next, he had

fainted from a blow on the head and the pain of a large splinter of wood

that had been broken from the falling mast and driven with violence into

his arm. He did not hear the scream with which Amy Herbert viewed the

accident, nor see the agonised face which bent above his prostrate form.

He heard, and saw, and knew nothing, until he opened his eyes in his own

cabin and perceived, with the dazed wonder of returning consciousness,

that the old sailor, Williams, and the ship’s doctor, Mr French, were

bending over him.

* * * * *

‘You’ll do now,’ remarked the doctor as he held a cordial to his lips.

‘Is she safe?’ was all Richard Egerton said in reply, as he looked at his

splintered arm. They thought he meant the ‘Star of the North.’

‘Oh yes, she’s safe enough now, sir,’ replied the old seaman; ‘but we’ve

had an awful time of it, and no mistake. We’ve lost our top-gallant mast,

and our spars and hen-coops have been washed overboard, and one of the

boats got adrift in the squall, and the poor “Star” is stript of half her

toggery.’

‘But are any of the passengers injured?’

‘No one but yourself, sir; but two of our best men went over with the

mast, and Ralph White has broke his leg, and there’ll be a tidy little

bill for some one to pay when we gets into port again.’

‘And that reminds me, Williams, that I must go and look after poor

White,’ said the doctor. ‘I think I may leave my patient in your care

now. All you have got to do is to see that he lies there till I come back

again.’

‘I’ll look after the gentleman, doctor, never you fear,’ replied the old

seaman as Mr French left the cabin.

‘It was an awful hurricane, Williams,’ remarked Egerton, with a sigh of

remembrance, as he turned uneasily upon his pillow.

‘You may well say that, sir; and it’s just a miracle as we’re still

afloat.’

‘How little we thought, as we talked together on deck an hour or two ago,

that death was so close at hand for some of us.’

‘Ay, indeed, and with that smiling, burning, treacherous blue sky above

us. You have seen some of the dangers now, sir. I suppose you ain’t

going, in the face of this storm, to hold to Bill’s song, that “Whatever

is, is best.”’

‘Yes, I am, Williams,’ replied the young man firmly.

‘What! with our tight little ship knocked to pieces in this fashion, and

your arm broken in two places?’

‘Just so, Williams. Heaven sent both the storm and the accident. They

_must_ be for the best.’

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ exclaimed the old sailor in sheer amazement. The

announcement seemed to have taken all the wind out of his sails, and he

sat staring at the wounded man as if he had charge of a lunatic.

‘How comes it that you are attending on me?’ asked Egerton, as Williams

handed him a glass of water.

‘Well, sir, I seem to have took a fancy to your way of talking; so when

they wanted some one here to help the doctor with your arm I offered to

come, that’s all.’

‘It was very good of you. You told me this morning that you had had

troubles, and prayer had never availed to get you out them. Do you mind

telling me what those troubles are?’

‘Not a bit, sir, if I sha’n’t tire you; but it is a long story. I had a

sweetheart when I was a young chap—most young chaps have, you know, sir—I

daresay you’ve had one yourself before now—and I had a school-mate, too,

by name—well! we’ll call him Robert—and we both loved the girl dearly;

but he got her, sir, and I had to go to the wall.’

‘That was very unlucky for you.’

‘Well, it was unfortunate, though he courted her above-board, and all was

fair enough at the time. But the worst of it was that he turned out a

regular bad ’un, and ill-treated his wife shamefully arter he’d married

her. When I came home from sea, it used to make my blood reg’lar boil to

hear poor Lottie tell how he’d beaten and kicked and starved her, for

he’d taken to drink, you see, sir, and all his love had gone like a flash

of lightning.’

‘Was he a sailor too?’

‘Yes, sir, and once, when I come off a long voyage to China and Australy,

and round home by San Francisco, I heard that Lottie was a widder and

in great distress, without hardly a bit of money. Well, I looked her up

pretty sharp, as you may guess, and I found it was all true.’

‘And then you married her.’

‘No, I didn’t sir. I’ve never been married. I don’t deny I asked her,

but she wouldn’t have me, nor no one. She said it was too late, and she

was dyin’, which sure enough she was. But she had a child, sir—little

Dickey—such a dear little chap, with blue eyes—just like her own—and

pretty yeller curls; and when she died she left him on my hands, and

lor’, how fond I was of that little creetur! He took his poor mammy’s

place in my heart altogether.’

The old sailor stopped here, and drew his hand across his eyes.

‘Did he die too, Williams?’ inquired Egerton.

‘Not as I knows of, sir. He may be dead or livin’. It’s all the same to

me now. _That_ was the time I used to pray, Mr Egerton, night and day,

that the little feller I was so proud on might grow up a good man and a

good son to me and a comfort to my old age, and when I lost him I chucked

up religion altogether.’

‘How did you lose him?’

‘In the crudest of ways, sir. He had grow’d up beside me five years, and

I had done everythink for him; and when he’d put his two little arms

round my neck and kiss me, and look so like his poor mother—who was the

only sweetheart I ever had, Mr Egerton—I used to thank the Lord, with

tears in my eyes, for _His_ goodness to me. But it was all a delusion,

sir.’

‘Tell me the end of it.’

‘The end of it was that, when my pretty Dickey was a smart little feller

of about ten years old, I got him a place as ship-boy aboard the ‘Lady

Bird,’ and we sailed for the Brazils together, as proud and ’appy as the

days was long. And I was a teachin’ the boy everythink, Mr Egerton, and

he was gettin’ that ’cute and handy—when, in an evil moment, that man

whom we all thought dead and buried, turned up again somewhere down by

Rio Janeiro, and claimed his boy of me.’

‘What! the father?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course he had the right to do it, and that’s what the

skipper tried to make me understand; but it broke my heart entirely.

He thought he’d make money out of the lad’s wages, and so he took him

away from me, who was just like a father to him; and his screams, as we

parted, have never left my ears since. And when I heard afterwards that

the brute ill-treated Dickey, just as he’d done his poor mammy, I nearly

went mad. The men calls me sulky, and “Old Contrairy,” and sich like

names; but many’s the time when they think me cross, I’m only dreaming

over that time ag’in and cursin’ them as brought me to sich a pitch. I

shall never see my pretty Dickey ag’in, sir, till I meets ’im up above;

and I shall owe Robert Hudson a grudge to the day of my death for robbin’

me of him in that there cruel manner.’

‘_Who_ did you say?’ cried Egerton, starting up in his berth.

‘Please to lie down, sir? The doctor will be arter me if I lets you knock

about in that manner. The name slipped out unawares, for ’tain’t of no

use raking it up ag’in. It has nothin’ to do with my story.’

‘But, pray, tell it me again?’

‘It was Robert Hudson, sir.’

‘But Robert Hudson was the name of _my_ father!’

‘_Your_ father, sir! But, beggin’ your pardon, how can that be, when

you’re called Egerton?’

‘I know I am; but I took the name from a relation who left me his money

on condition that I did so. My real name is Richard Hudson, and I was

brought up to the sea and adopted by my mother’s cousin, Henry Egerton,

because my father treated me so brutally. He was had up by the police

for thrashing me till I fainted, and then the magistrates gave me over to

the guardianship of Mr Egerton——; and, Williams, can it possibly be?’

‘Sir, sir! don’t keep me in suspense. What was the maiden name of your

mother?’

‘Charlotte Erskine, and she was born in Essex.’

‘At Pinfold?’

‘That is the place. My grandfather had the “Peartree Farm” there, and she

is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Mr Egerton used often to take me to

see her grave.’

‘Oh, sir! this is very, very wonderful! Is it possible you can be my

little Dickey?’

‘It is quite true that I am the son of Robert and Charlotte Hudson,

and that if I had not changed my name, we should have recognised each

other before now. Do not think I have forgotten you, Williams? I cannot

remember the face of my sailor friend; but I have never forgotten all his

kindness to me. But surely I used to call you “Caleb” in those days, and

have always thought of you by that name since.’

‘True, enough, sir, that’s me—Caleb Williams, and I can hear your sweet

little voice a-callin’ Caleb from the top of the house to the bottom

now; you was never long out of my arms, Mr Egerton. Day and night you was

on this bosom, as you may say, and my heart’s been as empty as a dried

gourd since I lost sight of you. And so you’re my own boy—leastways, what

I used to call my own—and I’ve been a nussin’ you again as I used to

nurse you in the olden times. Oh, bless the Lord for all His mercies!’

cried the old seaman, as he fairly broke down, and sobbed with his face

in his hands.

* * * * *

They talked for a long time over the past; Richard Egerton being scarcely

less affected than old Williams, as, one by one, little incidents and

reminiscences came to light to confirm their several identities, and make

him see still more clearly how much he owed to the old man who sat beside

him.

‘And now, Caleb,’ he said, when the evening shadows had deepened into

dusk, ‘this will be your last voyage. I cannot let you work any more. You

know that I have riches, and you must share them.’

‘Oh, sir, you are too good!’

‘Don’t call me “sir” again, please. Call me Richard, Caleb, or “Dickey,”

or anything that pleases your fancy; but the man who acted as a father

to me when I had worse than none, shall never address me as though I were

his superior. What was it you prayed for me to become, Caleb, in those

days when I used to sit on your knee with my little hands clasped about

your neck?’

‘A good man and a good son, my dear, dear boy,’ quavered the old seaman.

‘Well, I will try, at all events, to fulfil the last clause. My cousin

Egerton, who was a rich tradesman, has left me all his property. I have

land and houses in Barbadoes, and I intend to settle there; at least, for

the next few years. You must come and live with me. You will find plenty

of work on the estate to employ your time, if you wish to work; and if

you wish to rest, you shall be idle. My father has been dead in reality

for many years past, so that we shall be left alone and in peace this

time to end our days together.’

‘And there is no one else, my dear boy?’ inquired Williams anxiously.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You are not married, nor likely to be?’

‘I am not married, nor likely to be. There is no one else,’ repeated

Richard Egerton, with a bitter sigh.

‘Don’t sigh like that, sir.’

‘Dickey, please, Caleb.’

‘Dickey, then—my little Dickey, as I loved so hearty. To think I should

have found you again arter all these years—grow’d to such a fine man,

too—and in that awful storm! It beats everythink I ever heard of.’

‘Whatever is, is best,’ replied Egerton. ‘You won’t grumble again, will

you, Caleb, because the answer to your prayer may be delayed a little?’

‘Don’t mention it, my boy. I feels ashamed even to remember it.’

‘You see that even the hurricane has borne its good fruit as well as its

evil. Without it we might never have been made known to each other.’

‘It’s bin a marciful interposition of Providence from beginning to end,’

said old Williams, wiping his eyes. ‘But I should like to see you a bit

more cheerful, Dickey. There has been a sad look in your face the last

four days, which I couldn’t help noticin’, and now that I knows you to

be who you are, I sha’n’t rest satisfied till you smiles in the old way

again.’

Egerton was just about to answer him, when a gentle knock sounded on the

cabin door, which stood ajar in consequence of the heat.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded the old sailor gruffly.

‘It is only I,’ responded a soft, trembling voice, which Egerton at once

recognised as that of Amy Herbert. ‘I came to inquire how Mr Egerton is

getting on, and if I can do anything for him.’

‘No, miss, thank ye, you can’t do nothin’; he’s a-goin’ on very nicely,

and I’m here,’ responded Williams.

‘May I speak to him for a minute?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Richard eagerly, raising himself to a sitting position.

The young lady pushed open the cabin door and stood on the threshold,

blushing like a rose. She looked very beautiful, although her eyes were

swollen with crying, and her dress and hair were in disorder.

‘I felt I could not sleep until I had thanked you for what you did for

me, Mr Egerton,’ she uttered tearfully. ‘You endangered your own life

to save mine, who have done nothing to deserve such a sacrifice on your

part.’

‘Ay, that he did!’ interrupted Williams.

‘It is nothing—nothing,’ said Egerton faintly, for the sight of her had

upset all his courage. ‘You could not help it. It is not your fault

if—if—’

‘If—_what_?’ demanded Amy Herbert.

He turned his eyes towards her, and a new hope ran through his veins like

a reviving cordial. ‘Caleb, my dear old friend,’ he exclaimed tenderly,

‘leave me for five minutes to myself.’

‘What! all alone with the lady?’ returned Caleb, regarding Miss Herbert

as though she were a dangerous animal.

‘Yes, for one moment only. I have something to say for her ear alone.’

He had sprung off the berth in his excitement, and was about to quit the

cabin.

‘Don’t go out, then, my dear boy, for mercy’s sake,’ said Williams, ‘for

you’ve lost a deal of blood, and are weaker than you think for. Will you

promise me?’

‘I do promise, if you will only go.’

The old man shambled out of the cabin as he spoke, and the two were left

alone.

‘I want so much to tell you,’ said Egerton, speaking with some

difficulty, ‘what I had not the courage to say this morning, that I

know it is not your fault. The blame rests entirely on me. It was

my presumption—my madness, if you will—that led me on to speak to

you as I did, and I acquit you of all blame. I know you feel for my

disappointment now—and I thought it would make you easier to hear

this—that is all.’

‘Oh, if I could only make you understand!’ she sobbed.

‘Pray don’t distress yourself. I do understand it all. How can you help

it if you find it impossible to love me?’

‘But I do not—I mean, I can—that is to say, I did not mean—’ stammered

the girl, colouring scarlet at the admission she had been betrayed into

making.

‘Am I to understand that you did not mean what you said this morning?’

exclaimed the young man as he grasped her hand. ‘Amy, you have given me

fresh life. Oh, do not take it back again! Say if you love me!’

Her maidenly bashfulness struggled for a moment with her probity, but the

latter conquered.

‘Yes, I do love you! It was my egregious vanity and love of conquest

that made me trifle with your feelings this morning. I have been very

miserable ever since. I have hoped you would speak to me again, and when

I saw you risk your life for my sake, I wished that I might have died for

you instead.’

‘O Amy, Amy! Your words are opening heaven to me. Darling, is it possible

that you will be my wife?’

‘If you can forgive my heartless rejection of you, Richard. If you can

believe that I am true in saying that I hated each word even as I uttered

it. If you still think me worthy of being your life-companion, I will

give you a very different answer now.’

‘You have made me the very happiest man on earth,’ he cried exultantly,

as he folded her in his arms.

‘Lor’, sir!—I mean my boy, Dickey—you mus’n’t be a-goin’ on like this!’

exclaimed old Caleb, appearing on the scene when least expected. ‘The

doctor’s particular orders was that you were to keep quiet and not bounce

about.’

‘Caleb, my dear friend, I will be as quiet as your heart can wish now,

for mine is at rest. Don’t stare so. Come here, and sit down again,

whilst I explain to this young lady all that you have been to me, and

tell you all that I trust she will very soon be to me.’

‘Oh, we’re to have a missus arter all, then!’ cried the old sailor

meaningly. ‘Why, I thought you told me just now, my boy, that you warn’t

a-goin’ to be spliced!’

‘Ah, Caleb, the storm has sent me a wife as it brought you a son. Had it

not been for that awful hurricane, and the peril in which it placed this

precious life, I am not quite sure if we should ever have been so happy

as we are this evening. Never mind my wounded arm and the gash upon my

cheek; Miss Herbert says she shall like it all the better for a scar. The

wound in my heart is healed, Caleb, and life looks very fair for us all

henceforward. And yet you could not believe “Old Contrairy,”’ he added

playfully, that ‘Whatever is, is best.’

THE END.

[Illustration]

‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’

I came down to breakfast one morning last autumn, and found a letter on

the table from my old friend Bessie Maclean.

Bessie and I were girls at school together, and continued our intimacy

after we left, until we married and went to different parts of the

country. Marriage is a terrible breaker up of old ties; not only by

reason of the separation which generally ensues, but because of the new

duties it entails. We had both married the men of our hearts, however,

and in comfortable circumstances; and so far all was well. But little

by little our correspondence, which at first had been so voluminous and

detailed, became scanty and irregular.

Bessie had half-a-dozen children to occupy her time and attention; and

I—I had my dear husband to fill up the measure of my life, and felt

myself a wicked and ungrateful woman if I even wished for more.

But—there is always a ‘but’ in the happiest worldly existence, is there

not?—Dick and I had no children; and the disappointment had sometimes

caused me to shed bitter tears. In secret though; I had never told my

husband one-half I felt upon the subject.

Of course he twitted me with it sometimes in a playful manner, which

showed that the fact did not sink very deep into his heart, whatever

it did in mine. Yet I had thought occasionally that he looked more

thoughtful than usual when children were in the room: and the idea made

me thoughtful too. Especially I had noticed it when we paid our first

visit to Bessie in her new house; for I must tell you that a few months

before my story commences, Tom Maclean had bought a large farm in the

vicinity of the town where the gaol stands, of which my husband is the

governor. Of course, after so long a separation, Bessie and I were

delighted to find we had become near neighbours again; and as soon as

ever the Macleans were settled, they invited us both over to Poplar Farm,

to stand sponsors to the latest arrival—a little boy whom they called

Richard, after my Dick, God bless him! Poplar Farm was ten or twelve

miles from Chesterwick, however, so I had not seen my friends more than

five or six times since the christening day; and the visits I had paid

them had not quite realised the expectations I had formed of meeting

Bessie again.

I suppose it was my vile envious nature, or perhaps the quiet life I

have led with Dick has made me selfish; but it seemed to me as though

all the time my old school-fellow spent with me was devoted, not to our

friendship, or reminiscences of our girlish days, but to talking about

her children and telling me of their accomplishments or complaints, or

consulting me as to their dresses or amusements. Of course I was pleased

at first to be introduced to her fine brood of boys and girls; but I

could hardly be expected to feel as much interest in them as their mother

did, and I was sorely disappointed to find she had lost so much of hers

in me. She did not seem to care to hear anything about my husband, or

how we loved each other in our happy, peaceful home; nor did she even

talk much about Tom, with her affection for whom I could have sympathised

better than with any other. But he appeared to be almost forgotten or

overlooked in her maternal care for the little ones; and she was more

anxious that Lily’s new hat should become her, or Charley’s medicine

be swallowed without a fit of obstinacy, than that Mr Maclean should

appreciate his dinner, or have his evening hours undisturbed for settling

his accounts. I have observed the same thing—oh! scores of times—amongst

my married female acquaintances; and the fact has done more to reconcile

me to the want of a family than any other.

Not that I believe that the charge of a hundred children could ever make

me forget my darling’s wants—but there, this is not a love story, so I

must try and keep my Dick’s name out of it as much as possible.

I had received several letters from Bessie during the last month, which

had rather surprised me, as she had grown very lazy at correspondence, as

I have said before, and naturally, taking up her residence at Poplar Farm

had not made her write oftener, excepting when she required the benefit

of my experience with regard to the advantages of her new home. Her two

last letters, however, had been written in a very unaccountable strain;

and if I had not known she was comfortably and happily situated, I should

have imagined it was just the reverse.

‘Another letter from Bessie!’ I exclaimed, as I broke the seal. ‘What on

earth can she want now? I suppose she has found out somebody sells whiter

flour than Watkins, or better tea than Amyott? I almost believe, Dick,

she regrets having left Lincolnshire.’

‘I don’t know why she should,’ replied Dick, as he commenced a raid upon

the breakfast-table; ‘for, according to Maclean’s account, they lived in

a perfect swamp there. But why can’t the woman look after her own flour

and tea? Why is she to worry you about everything in this fashion?’

‘Oh! I suppose she thinks, as I have no children, I cannot possibly have

anything to do,’ I said, laughing; ‘for I heard her remark, with regard

to Mrs Anderson, who is in the same plight as myself, that it must be

quite a charity to give her any employment!’

‘Like her impudence,’ growled Dick—(I don’t think Bessie is a favourite

with my husband; perhaps I talked too much about her beforehand),—‘I

should let her know to the contrary if I were you, Dolly. I believe, with

all her fuss and bustle, that you do twice her work in half the time.’

‘Ah! I have only _one_ baby to look after, you see, though he’s a big

one,’ I said, as I gave his head a squeeze with my disengaged hand; ‘but

goodness me, Dick, this letter is worse than the last even. Bessie seems

really in low spirits now. She says that Mr Maclean’s business will take

him away from home for a few nights next week, and she wants me to go

over and spend them with her in—yes, she actually calls Poplar Farm—“this

gloomy ramshackle old place.”’

‘It’s old enough,’ said Dick, ‘and all the better for it; but it’s not

“ramshackle.” Better walls and roof were never built than those of Poplar

Farm. It stands as steady as the gaol.’

‘But about my going to her, Dick—can you spare me?’

‘Can I spare you!’ repeated my husband in that tone of voice that, after

ten years’ marriage, has still the power to make my heart beat faster.

‘Of course I can! I could spare you for good and all, if someone would

only be obliging enough to take you off my hands; but there’s no such

luck in store for me. Only mind the days don’t stretch themselves into

weeks, sweetheart!’

‘Into weeks!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘Have I ever stayed weeks away from

you yet, Dick? I’m not even sure that I shall go at all.’

‘Yes! you’d better go, Dolly; Bessie Maclean is selfish and egotistical,

and somewhat of a fool; but I daresay she’s nervous at the idea of

remaining in that isolated home by herself, particularly as it is all so

strange to her. And you don’t know what fear is, old woman!’

‘I wish she could overhear the character you give her,’ I answered,

laughingly. But Dick was right. I am _not_ a nervous woman, and if I

had been, he would have cured me of it long before. Living in a gaol,

and having, of my own free will, constant access to the prisoners, had

effectually dispersed any ladylike unreasonable fears I may once have

thought womanly and becoming, and made me ashamed of starting at shadows.

So, having sent an affirmative answer to my friend’s appeal, I set out

for Poplar Farm, when the time came, with as much confidence in my

powers of protection as though I had been of the sterner sex.

Dick drove me over in the curricle.

It was a bright November morning: one of those days when the air is crisp

and exhilarating without being in the least degree cold; a day on which

one feels younger, and more hopeful and capable of good—on which one’s

sorrows seem too paltry for consideration, and one’s happiness far more

than one deserves. I experienced this sensation in the fullest sense, as

I crept as close as I could to my husband’s side, and smuggled one hand

beneath his arm.

‘Holloa!’ cried Dick; ‘why, what’s this? Repenting of your promise

already, eh? Oh! you spoony woman, I’m ashamed of you!’

I _was_ repenting it, but I did not tell him so. It is good for people

who love very much to part sometimes, if only to teach them how great a

blessing they possess in each other’s affection.

As we drove up the long-neglected drive of Poplar Farm, I could not help

thinking that Bessie was right in considering it gloomy. The sun had

disappeared again behind an autumn cloud. The trees had shed most of

their leaves, which lay in sodden heaps along the paths, and a chilly

wind had commenced to blow. I drew my cloak closer against my shoulders,

and told Dick what I thought.

‘Nonsense, Dolly!’ he replied. ‘The place is well enough; and when

Maclean has had time to put it in order, will be one of the prettiest

farms in the county. I only wish I had the money to buy such another. But

naturally it does not look its best when the trees are bare.’

‘Stop!’ I cried, suddenly; ‘there’s the baby. Let me get down and kiss

him. That must be the new nurse carrying him, Dick. But what a lugubrious

looking young person she is!’

My husband had good-naturedly drawn up by this time, and I had scrambled

down to meet my little godson, who was about three months old. But as

soon as I had pulled aside the veil that covered his face, I started with

surprise.

‘Oh! how he _has_ gone off!’ I exclaimed.

The baby, who had been so fat and dimpled and red-faced last time I saw

him, was now drawn and white and thin. The change was apparent so that

even Dick could see it from the box-seat.

‘Whew!’ he whistled; ‘why, what’s the matter with the little chap—is he

ill?’

‘Oh no! he’s not ill. He is perfectly well. You don’t think he looks ill,

madam?’ said the girl who was carrying him, anxiously.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a child so changed in my life,’ I answered,

in my blunt fashion. ‘Are you the wet-nurse Mrs Maclean told me she had

engaged for him?’

‘Yes, madam,’ she said, in a very low voice.

I raised my eyes, and examined her then for the first time thoroughly;

and I could not help observing what a remarkable-looking girl she was.

She had the very palest and clearest of complexions—so colourless that

it looked like the finest white wax, and her skin was of the texture of

satin. Her large, clear, grey eyes, which shone with a limpid light,

like agates with water running over them, had a startled look, which

might almost have been mistaken for fear, and her delicately cut mouth

drooped in the most pathetic manner. To add to the mournfulness of her

appearance, her hair was almost completely hidden beneath her cap, and

her dress was the deepest widow’s mourning. I made a few indifferent

remarks about the child, kissed it, and jumped up to my seat again. The

nurse was not the person I felt to whom to speak on the subject of

the baby’s appearance. She made a deep reverence as the carriage moved

off, and I saw she was a very superior sort of young woman; but of what

account was that, where little Dick’s health, and perhaps his life, was

concerned?

‘Bessie’s a greater fool than I took her for,’ I exclaimed, indignantly,

as we drove on towards the house.

‘What’s in the wind now?’ said Dick.

‘Fancy, choosing a wet-nurse for a baby all crape and bombazine and

tears. Why, that girl looks as if she cried night and day. I knew Bessie

had been weak enough to be persuaded by the doctor to give up nursing

baby herself, but she might have exercised a little discretion in the

choice of a substitute. The child is half the size he was last month.’

‘What a lot we know about babies!’ said Dick, in his chaffing way.

‘I should hope I know more than half the mothers I meet,’ I continued,

with some warmth. ‘I should be ashamed to be as ignorant as Bessie

herself, for instance, though she _has_ had six children,’ I added, with

a little droop in my voice.

‘My own Dolly!’ said Dick, fondly; and when he says those words in that

voice, I don’t care for anything else in all the wide, wide world. He

wouldn’t stay—even to dismount from his box, for we knew Mr Maclean had

already left the house, and he thought our chatter would get on better

without him, added to which he had duties demanding him at home. So I

gave him one long, long kiss, and let him go; and as soon as he was out

of sight, turned into the door of Poplar Farm.

Bessie was in the dining-room, where the dinner was already spread,

surrounded by her batch of self-willed unruly children. As she came

forward to meet me, I saw that she looked tired and worn out, and that

her dress was untidy and neglected.

‘It is so good of you to come, Dolly,’ was her greeting, ‘for I am so

worried I don’t know what I should have done without you.’

‘I am very glad to be of use, Bessie; but what worries you—the baby?’

‘Dear me! no. It is something quite different. Why should baby worry me?

He has his wet-nurse, and she takes him completely off my hands.’

‘He is so pulled down,’ I said unhesitatingly, for I took an interest

in my little godson. ‘I met him just now in the drive, and hardly

recognised the child. Are you satisfied his nurse does him justice?’

‘Oh, perfectly so. She is a most estimable young woman, so quiet and

ladylike in her way of speaking. Did you notice her eyes? such a

remarkable colour; and her hands are as white as yours or mine.’

‘But the baby does not appear to be thriving. He can’t inherit her eyes

or her hands, you know, and if he could, I don’t see that they would be

much use to him. What’s her name? Where did you find her?’

‘She’s a Mrs Graham; and she was recommended to me from the Lying-in

Hospital at Chesterwick. I’m sorry you don’t think baby looks well.

Perhaps the change has pulled him down a little, though I really can’t

see it myself.’

I daresay she did not. Bessie is that sort of woman that never will see

anything until it has actually occurred. If her children died, she would

make as great a fuss over them—perhaps more—than mothers who have guarded

theirs from their infancy upwards; yet she will let them eat improper

food, and get damp feet, and remain out in the burning sun without any

covering to their heads; and if you remonstrate with her, her invariable

excuse is, that they have always done so before and got no harm. As if

the fact of a wrong being permitted should make it a right; or because

we have fallen from the top of a house once without injury, we may cast

ourselves thence headlong each day without impunity.

I really never did think, when Bessie and I were girls together, that she

would turn out such a ninny.

‘What _has_ worried you then, since it is not the baby?’ I demanded

presently.

‘Hush! I can’t tell you before the children. It’s an awful business, and

I wouldn’t have them hear of it for worlds. Will you lay your bonnet

aside, and have dinner with us as you are? or I’m afraid it may get cold.

Lily—Charley—Tommy, lay down these toys, and come to the table at once.

Put Bessie up on her high chair; and somebody go and call Annie. Ah!

Dolly, my dear, how well you have kept your figure! What would I not give

to be as slim and neat as you are.’

And although, of course, I would not compare one advantage with the

other, yet I must say that the pleasures of having a family would possess

a great drawback to me, if I were compelled at the same time to become

as rotund and untidy in appearance as poor Bessie is at present. And

I believe the chief thing Tom Maclean fell in love with was her pretty

rounded little figure. Alas! alas!

But I am keeping the early dinner waiting. As soon as it was despatched,

with the usual accompaniments of cutting up the children’s meat, wiping

their mouths, and preventing their throwing the tumblers at each other’s

heads, Mrs Maclean rose and offered to show me to my bedroom. It was next

to her own, and communicated with it by a door.

‘This dear old place!’ I exclaimed as I entered it; ‘you are making it

very pretty, Bessie. Aren’t you glad that you have come into such a

handsome property, instead of having been stuck down in a modern villa,

with the plaster on the walls only half-dry?’

But Bessie did not appear to appreciate my congratulations.

‘Dolly,’ she said, as she sunk down into a chair, ‘I would change Poplar

Farm for the poorest little villa that was ever built.’

‘My dear girl, what do you mean?’

‘_Mean!_ That the house is haunted, Dolly—’

I confess it; I could not help it: I burst into the loudest and rudest

laugh imaginable.

Poplar Farm haunted! What an absurdly unreasonable idea! Why, the last

tenants had only just moved out in time to let the Macleans come in, and

the house had been freshly papered and painted from basement to attic.

There was not a nook nor a corner for a ghost to hide in.

I could not help laughing; and what is worse, I could not stop laughing,

until my friend was offended.

‘You may laugh as much as you like,’ she said at last; ‘but I have told

you nothing but the truth. Do you mean to say that you consider such a

thing impossible?’

‘No! I won’t go as far as that; but I think it is very uncommon, and very

unlikely to occur to—to—to—’

Here I was obliged to halt, for the only words I could think of were,

‘to anyone so material as yourself;’ and I couldn’t quite say that. For

though I do not deny the possibility of apparitions, I believe that the

person who is capable of perceiving them must be composed of more mind

than matter, and there is nothing spiritual nor æsthetic about poor

Bessie.

‘What is the ghost like, and who has seen it?’ I demanded, as soon as I

could command my countenance.

‘Several of the servants and myself,’ replied Bessie; ‘and Tom might have

seen it, too, if he were not so lazy. But one night when the noises were

close to our door, he refused to rouse himself even to listen to them,

and told me to go—Well, dear, I really can’t repeat what he said; but

husbands do not always use the politest language when out of temper, you

know!’

‘Noises! Then the ghost has been heard as well as seen?’

‘Oh yes! and such mournful noises, too. Such weeping and wailing, enough

to break one’s heart. The first time I saw it, Dolly, I thought I should

have died of fright.’

‘Tell me all about it.’

‘I had been sitting up late one Saturday night mending the children’s

socks for Sunday, and Tom had been in bed for a good two hours. Everybody

was in bed but myself, and I thought, as I carried my single candle up

the dark staircase, how silent and ghastly everything appeared. As I

turned into the corridor, I heard a gasping sound like a stifled sob. At

first I could hardly believe my ears; but when it was repeated, my heart

seemed to stand still. I was hesitating whether to go back or forward,

and trembling in every limb, when IT—this dreadful THING—crossed me. It

sprung up, I don’t know from where, in the darkness, and just looked at

me once and rushed away. I nearly sunk to the ground, as you may well

imagine. I had only just time to get inside my own door, when I tumbled

right across the bed, and Tom had to get up and pick up the candlestick,

and help undress me; and really, by the way he went on about it, you’d

have thought it was all my fault.’

‘What was IT like? that is the main thing, Bessie.’

‘My dear, you don’t suppose I looked at it more than I was absolutely

obliged. I know IT was dressed all in white, with snow-white hair hanging

over its face, and fearful staring eyes. It’s a perfect wonder to me I

stand alive here now.’

‘And it has been seen since then?’

‘Oh, several times, and we hear IT every night as regularly as possible

about two o’clock in the morning. The cook has seen it—so has the

housemaid; and not a servant amongst them would fetch a glass of water

from downstairs after ten o’clock, if we were all dying for want of it.’

‘A pleasant state of affairs,’ I ejaculated; ‘and will you take no steps

to investigate the mystery, and dissolve the household fears?’

‘What steps could I take?’

‘Sit up for the apparition, and speak to it; and if it won’t answer, take

hold of it and see if it is flesh and blood or air.’

‘My dear Dolly, I would rather die.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll wake me up when the sounds begin to-night,’ I

answered, ‘for I am curious to hear them.’

But I didn’t tell Bessie that I would be the one to ‘bell the cat;’ for,

though I have little fear, I have no foolhardiness; and if her ghost

turned out to be a real one, I had no wish to interfere with it.

In the evening, as much with a view of pointing out the baby’s condition

to Bessie as for any other reason, I asked her to accompany me to the

nursery, and see him put to bed. I found that he slept in a room alone

with his wet-nurse, who was engaged in bathing the little creature as

we entered. Mrs Graham looked very pretty and delicate as she bent over

the bath, attending to the child; but I observed that she never once

smiled at nor played with him, as nurses usually do with infants during

the process of washing. Little Dick was certainly very attenuated and

languid, and even his mother seemed to observe it when pointed out to

her. Mrs Graham listened to our conversation with rather an anxious

expression on her countenance, and I thought by drawing her out we might

gain some clue to the baby’s ill health.

‘Is your own child strong and vigorous?’ I asked her.

‘My own child is dead, madam,’ she replied.

‘It was your first, I presume? You appear very young.’

‘It was my first. I was twenty last birthday.’

She seemed unwilling to be more communicative, and I did not like to

enter directly on the subject of her husband’s death. Poor child! she

might have loved him as I did Dick. So, as Bessie had sauntered into the

general nursery and left us alone together, I ventured to sound her on

another matter, which I thought might be having a secret effect upon her.

‘Have you seen anything of this apparition the servants speak of, Mrs

Graham?’

‘No, madam,’ she replied, quietly.

‘It is very foolish of people to be frightened of they really don’t know

what; but no one seems to have been brave enough to try and find out the

reason of the mysterious noises heard at night here. You have heard them,

perhaps?’

‘No, madam,’ she said again, without further comment.

‘Would it alarm you to see or hear it?’ I had forced her now to say

something in reply.

‘I think not,’ she answered, ‘I think if spirits can come back from the

dead, they must do so only in sympathy with those they have left behind;

and, if that is possible, and I thought this one came for me, I should

only be too thankful to have a glimpse of its face, or to hear the sound

of its voice. I think those people who have so much fear of spirits can

never have known what it is to lose any one they would lay down their

lives to follow wherever it might lead them.’

She spoke in a low, mournful cadence that touched my heart. Poor girl!

she was thinking of her husband and her own desolate condition. I felt

for and sympathised with her, and before I left the nursery I took her

thin hand and pressed it. She looked surprised, but I had only to say, ‘I

love my own husband as my life,’ to see the tears run into her eyes, and

to know she understood me. Still she was by no means a proper person to

perform the part of a mother towards little Dick, and I resolved before I

left Poplar Farm to try and persuade Bessie to change her.

The rest of the day passed rather monotonously. I worked at one of

Dick’s shirts, and wondered how I ever could have thought Bessie such a

charming companion, whilst she alternatively indulged and scolded her

very unpleasant young family. At last they were all despatched to bed,

and as soon as decency would permit, I yawned and said I should like to

follow their example. So we were all packed away by ten o’clock, my last

act having been to pay a visit to Mrs Graham’s room, where I had left her

fast asleep with my little godson tucked in snugly on her arm. Bessie lay

awake for some time talking of the celebrated ghost, but I was too sleepy

to be a good listener, and am afraid I dropped off in the midst of her

recital. When I waked again, it was by dint of feeling her shake my arm.

‘Dolly! Dolly!’ she was exclaiming, in a low, hurried voice. ‘Listen!

there is the sound, and close against the door.’

END OF VOL. I.

NOTICE.

IMPORTANT NEW WORK by the Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”

_In 2 vols., Crown 8vo, 18s._

Early in June will be published a New Work by

MRS. HOUSTOUN,

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Entitled

MEMORIES OF WORLD-KNOWN MEN,

Containing Personal Recollections of

WORDSWORTH, JOHN WILSON CROKER, THEODORE HOOK, WILLIAM IV., the late LORD

DERBY, MRS. NORTON, HARRISON AINSWORTH, and other well-known personages.

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_June, 1883._

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“Recommended to Mercy,” &c. 2 vols.

THROUGH THE STAGE-DOOR. By HARRIETT JAY, Author of “My Connaught

Cousins,” “Two Men and a Maid,” &c. 3 vols.

UNDER THE BAN. By CHARLES GIBBON, Author of “Auld Robin Gray,” &c. 3 vols.

HIS DEAREST WISH. By MRS. HIBBERT WARE, Author of “The King of Bath,” &c.

3 vols.

ONLY AN ACTRESS. By EDITH STEWART DREWRY, Author of “On Dangerous

Ground,” &c. 3 vols.