CHAPTER VIII.

BY THE SCOTCH EXPRESS.

Among other passengers, on a certain fine spring morning, by the 10 a.m.

Scotch express, was one who had been so far able to propitiate the guard

as to secure a whole compartment to himself. He was enjoying himself in

a quiet way--smoking, and skimming his papers, and taking a bird's-eye

view now and again at the landscape that was flying past him at the rate

of forty miles an hour. Few people who cared to speculate as to his

profession would have hesitated to set him down as a military man, even

had not the words, "Captain Ducie," painted in white letters on a black

portmanteau which protruded half-way from under his seat, rendered any

such speculation needless. He must have been three or four-and-forty

years old, judging from the lines about his mouth and eyes, but in some

other respects he looked considerably younger. He wore neither beard nor

whiskers, but his short hair, and his thick, drooping moustache were

both jet black, and betrayed as yet, thanks either to Nature or Art,

none of those straggling streaks of silver which tell so plainly of the

advance of years. He had a clear olive complexion, a large aquiline nose

and deep-set eyes, piercing and full of fire, under a grand sweep of

eyebrow. In person he was tall and thin; broad-chested, but lean in the

flank, with hands and feet that looked almost effeminate, so small were

they in comparison with his size. A black frock-coat, tightly buttoned,

set off to advantage a figure of which he might still be reasonably

proud. The remainder of his costume was in quiet keeping with the first

fashion of the period.

Captain Ducie smoked and read and stared out of the window much as

eleven out of twelve of us would do under similar circumstances, while

milepost after milepost flashed out for an instant and was gone. After a

time he took a letter out of his breast-pocket, opened it, and read it.

It was brief, and ran as under:--

"Stapleton, Scotland, March 31st.

"MY DEAR NED,--Since you wish it, come down here for a few weeks;

whether to recruit your health or your finances matters not.

Mountain air and plain living are good for both. However, I warn

you beforehand that you will find us very dull. Lady B.'s health is

hardly what it ought to be, and we are seeing no company just now.

If you like to take us as we are, I say again--come.

"As for the last paragraph of your letter, I scarcely know in what

terms to answer it. You have already bled me so often the same way,

that I have grown heartily sick of the process. This must be the

last time of asking, my boy; I wish you clearly to understand that.

This place has cost me a great deal of money of late, and I cannot

spring you more than a hundred. For that amount I enclose you a

cheque. Finis coronat opus. Bear those words in mind, and believe

me when I say that you have had your last cheque

"From your affectionate cousin,

"BARNSTAKE."

"Consummate little prig!" murmured Captain Ducie to himself as he

refolded the letter and put it away. "I can fancy the smirk on his face

as he penned that precious effusion, and how, when he had finished it,

he would trot off to his clothes-prop of a wife and ask her whether she

did not think it at once amusing and severe. That letter shall cost your

lordship fifty guineas, I don't allow people to write to me in that

style with impunity."

He lighted another cigar frowningly. "I wonder if I was ever so really

hard up as I am now?" he continued to himself. "I don't think I ever was

quite. I have been in Queer Street many a time, but I've always found a

friend round the corner, or have pulled myself through by the skin of

the teeth somehow. But this time I see no lift in the cloud. My

insolvency has become chronic; it is attacking the very citadel of life.

I have not a single uncle or aunt to fall back upon. The poor creatures

are all dead and buried, and their money all spent. Well!--Outlaw is an

ugly word, but it is one that I shall have to learn how to spell before

long. I shall have to leave my country for my country's good."

He puffed away fiercely for a little while, and then he resumed.

"It would not be a bad thing for a fellow like me to become a chief

among the Red Skins--if they would have me. With them my lack of pence

would be no bar to success. I can swim and shoot and ride: although I

cannot paint a picture, I daresay that I could paint myself; and I know

several fellows whose scalps I should have much pleasure in taking. As

for the so-called amenities of civilized life, what are they worth to

one who, like me, has no longer the means of enjoying them? After all,

it is a question whether freedom and the prairie would not be preferable

to Pall-Mall and a limited income of, say--twelve hundred a year--the

sort of income that is just enough to make one the slave of society, but

is not sufficient to pay for gilding its fetters. A station, by Jove!

and with it the possibility of getting a drop of cognac."

As soon as the train came to a stand, Captain Ducie vacated his seat and

went in search of the refreshment-room. On coming back five minutes

later, he was considerably disgusted to find that he was no longer to

have his compartment to himself. The seat opposite to that on which he

had been sitting was already occupied by a gentleman who was wrapped up

to the nose in rugs and furs.

"Any objection to smoking?" asked the Captain presently as the train

began to move. He was pricking the end of a fresh cigar as he asked the

question. The words might be civil, but the tone was offensive; it

seemed to convey--"I don't care whether you object or not: I intend to

enjoy my weed all the same."

The stranger, however, seemed in nowise offended. He smirked and

quavered two yellow-gloved fingers out of his furs. "Oh, no, certainly

not," he said. "I, too, am a smoker and shall join you presently."

He spoke with the slightest possible foreign accent, just sufficient to

tell an educated ear that he was not an Englishman. If Captain Ducie's

features were aquiline, those of the stranger might be termed

vulturine--long, lean, narrow, with a thin, high-ridged nose, and a chin

that was pointed with a tuft of thick, black hair. Except for this tuft

he was clean shaven. His black hair, cropped close at back and sides,

was trained into an elaborate curl on the top of the forehead and there

fixed with _cosmétique_. Both hair and chin-tuft were of that

uncompromising blue-black which tells unmistakably of the dye-pot. His

skin was yellow and parchment-like, and stretched tightly over his

forehead and high cheek-bones, but puckering into a perfect net-work of

lines about a mouth whose predominant expression was one of mingled

cynicism and suspicion. There was suspicion, too, in his small black

eyes, as well as a sort of lurking fierceness which not even his most

urbane and elaborate smile could altogether eliminate. In person he was

very thin and somewhat under the middle height, and had all the air of a

confirmed valetudinarian. He was dressed as no English gentleman would

care to be seen dressed in public. A long brown velvet coat trimmed with

fur; lavender-coloured trousers tightly strapped over patent leather

boots; two or three vests of different colours under one made of the

skin of some animal and fastened with gold buttons; a profusion of

jewellery; an embroidered shirt-front and deep turn-down collar: such

were the chief items of his attire. A hat with a very curly brim hung

from the carriage roof, while for present head-gear he wore a sealskin

travelling cap with huge lappets that came below his ears. In this cap,

and wrapped to the chin in his bear-skin rug, he looked like some

newly-discovered species of animal--a sort of cross between a vulture

and a monkey, were such a thing possible, combining the deep-seated

fierceness of the one with the fantastic cunning, and the impossibility

of doing the most serious things without a grimace, of the other.

No sooner had Captain Ducie lighted his cigar than with an impatient

movement he put down the window close to which he was sitting. It had

been carefully put up by the stranger while Ducie was in the refreshment

room; but the latter was a man who always studied his own comfort before

that of anyone else, except when self whispered to him that such a

course was opposed to his own interests, which was more than he could

see in the present case.

The stranger gave a little sniggering laugh as the window fell noisily;

then he shivered and drew his furs more closely around him. "It is

strange how fond you English people are of what you call fresh air," he

said. "In Italy fresh air may be a luxury, but it cannot be had in your

hang-dog climate without one takes a catarrh at the same time."

Captain Ducie surveyed him coolly from head to foot for a moment or two.

Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "I must really ask you to

pardon my rudeness," he said, lifting his Glengarry. "If the open window

is the least annoyance to you, by all means let it be shut. To me it is

a matter of perfect indifference." As he spoke he pulled the window up,

and then he turned on the stranger with a look that seemed to imply:

"Although I seemed so truculent a few minutes ago, you see what a

good-natured fellow I am at heart." In most of Captain Ducie's actions

there was some ulterior motive at work, however trivial many of his

actions might appear to an outsider, and in the present case it was not

likely that he acted out of mere complaisance to a man whom he had never

seen nor heard of ten minutes previously.

"You are too good--really far too good," said the stranger. "Suppose we

compromise the matter?" With that his lean hands, encased in

lemon-coloured gloves, let down the window a couple of inches, and fixed

it there with the strap.

"Now really, you know, do just as you like about it," said the Captain,

with that slow amused smile which became his face so well. "As I said

before, I am altogether indifferent in the matter."

"As it is now, it will suit both of us, I think. And now to join you in

your smoke."

From the net over his head he reached down a small mahogany case. This

he opened, and from it extracted a large meerschaum pipe elaborately

mounted with gold filigree work. Having charged the pipe from an

embroidered pouch filled with choice Turkish tobacco, he struck an

allumette and began to smoke.

"Decidedly an acquaintance worth cultivating," murmured the Captain

under his breath. "But what country does the beggar belong to?" A

question more easily asked than answered: at all events, it was one

which the Captain found himself unable to solve to his own satisfaction.

For a few minutes they smoked in silence.

"Do you travel far, to-day?" asked the stranger at length. "Are you

going across the Border?"

"The end of my journey is Stapleton, Lord Barnstake's place, and not a

great way from Edinburgh. Shall I have the pleasure of your company as

far as I go by rail?"

"Ah, no, sir, not so far as that. Only to--. There I must leave you, and

take the train for Windermere. I live on the banks of your beautiful

lake. Permettez-moi, monsieur," and with a movement that was a

combination of a shrug, a grimace and a bow, the stranger drew a

card-case from one of his pockets, and, extracting a card therefrom,

handed it to Ducie.

The Captain took it with a bow, and, sticking his glass in his eye,

read:--

_____________________________________

| |

| |

| M. PAUL PLATZOFF. |

| |

| |

|_Bon Repos, |

| Windermere._ |

|___________________________________|

The Captain in return handed over his pasteboard credential, and, this

solemn rite being accomplished, conversation was resumed on more easy

and agreeable terms.

"I daresay you are puzzling your brains as to my nationality," said

Platzoff, with a smile. "I am not an Englishman; that you can tell from

my accent. I am not a Frenchman, although I write 'monsieur' before my

name. Still less am I either a German or an Italian. Neither am I a

genuine Russian, although I look to Russia as my native country. In

brief, my father was a Russian, my mother was a Frenchwoman, and I was

born on board a merchantman during a gale of wind in the Baltic."

"Then I should call you a true cosmopolitan--a genuine citizen of the

world," remarked Ducie, who was amused with his new friend's frankness.

"In ideas I strive to be such, but it is difficult at all times to

overcome the prejudices of education and early training," answered

Platzoff. "You, sir, are, I presume, in the army?"

"Formerly I was in the army, but I sold out nearly a dozen years ago,"

answered Ducie, drily. "Does this fellow expect me to imitate his

candour?" thought the Captain. "Would he like to know all about my

grandfather and grandmother, and that I have a cousin who is an earl? If

so, I am afraid he will be disappointed."

"Did you see much service while you were in the army?" asked Platzoff.

"I saw a good deal of hard fighting in the East, although not on any

large scale." Ducie was beginning to get restive. He was not the sort of

man to quietly allow himself to be catechised by a stranger.

"I, too, know something of the East," said Platzoff. "Three of the

happiest years of my life were spent in India. While out there I became

acquainted with several gentlemen of your profession. With Colonel

Leslie I was particularly intimate. I had been stopping with the poor

fellow only a few days before that gallant affair at Ruckapore, in which

he came by his death."

"I remember the affair you speak of," said Ducie. "I was in one of the

other Presidencies at the time it happened."

"There was another officer in poor Leslie's regiment with whom I was

also on very intimate terms. He died of cholera a little later on, and I

attended him in his last moments. I allude to a Captain Charles

Chillington. Did you ever meet with him in your travels?"

Captain Ducie's swarthy cheek deepened its hue. He paused to blow a

speck of cigar ash off his sleeve before he spoke. "I did not know your

Captain Charles Chillington," he said, in slow, deliberate accents.

"Till the present moment I never heard of his existence."

Captain Ducie pulled his Glengarry over his brows, folded his arms, and

shut his eyes. He had evidently made up his mind for a quiet snooze.

Platzoff regarded him with a silent snigger. "Something I have said has

pricked the gallant Captain under his armour," he muttered to himself.

"Is it possible that he and Chillington were acquainted with each other

in India? But what matters it to me if they were?"

When M. Platzoff had smoked his meerschaum to the last whiff, he put it

carefully away, and disposed himself to follow Ducie's example in the

matter of sleep. He rearranged his wraps, folded the arms, shut his

eyes, and pressed his head resolutely against his cushion; but at the

end of five minutes he opened his eyes, and seemed just as wakeful as

before. "These beef-fed Englishmen seem as if they can sleep whenever

and wherever they choose. Enviable faculty! I daresay the heifers on

which they gorge possess it in almost as great perfection."

Hidden away among his furs was a small morocco-covered despatch-box.

This he now proceeded to unlock, and to draw from it a folded paper

which, on being opened, displayed a closely-written array of figures, as

though it were the working out of some formidable problem in arithmetic.

Platzoff smiled, and his smile was very different from his cynical

snigger, as his eyes ran over the long array of figures. "I must try and

get this finished as soon as I am back at Bon Repos," he muttered to

himself. "I am frightened when I think what would happen if I were to

die before its completion. My great secret would die with me, and

perhaps hundreds of years would pass away before it would be brought to

light. What a discovery it would be! To those concerned it would seem as

though they had found the key-note of some lost religion--as though they

had penetrated into some temple dedicated to the gods of eld."

His soliloquy was suddenly interrupted by three piercing shrieks from

the engine, followed by a terrible jolting and swaying of the carriage,

which made it almost impossible for those inside to keep their seats.

Captain Ducie was alive to the danger in a moment. One glance out of the

window was enough. "We are off the line? Hold fast!" he shouted to

Platzoff, drawing up his legs, and setting his teeth, and looking very

fierce and determined. M. Platzoff tried to follow his English friend's

example. His yellow complexion faded to a sickly green. With eyes in

which there was no room now for anything save anguish and terror

unspeakable, he yet snarled at the mouth and showed his teeth like a

wolf brought hopelessly to bay.

The swaying and jolting grew worse. There was a grinding and crunching

under the wheels of the carriage as though a thousand huge coffee-mills

were at work. Suddenly the train parted in the middle, and while the

forepart, with the engine, went ploughing through the ballast till

brought up in safety a few hundred yards further on, the carriage in

which were Ducie and Platzoff, together with the hinder part of the

train, went toppling over a high embankment, and crashing down the side,

and rolling over and over, came to a dead stand at the bottom, one huge

mass of wreck and disaster.

(_To be continued._)

SONNET.

Yes, I have heard it oft: a few brief years

True life comprise. The rest is but a dream:

What though to thee like life it vainly seem.

Fool, trust it not; 'tis not what it appears.

We live but once. We die before the shears

Of Atropos the thread have clipped. True life

Is when with ardent youth's and passion's strife

We suffer and we feel. 'Tis when wild tears

Can flow and hearts can break, or 'neath the gaze

Of loved eyes beat. 'Tis when on eager wing

Of Hope we soar, and Past and Future bring

Within the Present's grasp. Ay, we live then,

But when that cup is quaffed what doth remain?

The dregs of days that follow upon days!

JULIA KAVANAGH.

MEDIUMS AND MYSTERIES.

BY NARISSA ROSAVO.

So long as the world lasts, no doubt a large portion of its inhabitants

will run after that which the Scotch expressively term "uncanny." The

absence of accurate knowledge and the impossibility of thorough

scientific investigation, of separating the chaff from the wheat, the

true from the counterfeit, becomes at one and the same time the charm

and the counterblast to diligent searchers.

For the most part, these are persons of inferior mental calibre, of

somewhat unrefined instincts; but, on the other hand, I have known

mighty intellects lose themselves in this maze, where no firm clue can

be seized by which to go forward safely, to advance at all, while the

return journey must be made with _certain_ loss. Persistent endeavour

brings weakened faith in God, in place of that certainty spiritualists

talk of when they say their arts are beneficial, proving a hereafter--a

spiritual world.

It is not thus we get on firm footing. We but advance into sloughs of

despond, led by wills of the wisp; and the girl mediums, the so-called

clairvoyantes, invariably lose mental health and physical strength. It

is but a matter of time, and they become hysteria patients or

inhabitants of lunatic asylums. I have known a clever clergyman of the

Church of England determine to find out the truth, if any, on this path.

He made use of his own daughter in the search. The coil of delusion led

him on until it became a choice of death or madness for the tender

instrument with which he felt his way into the unseen world.

There is _something_ along this road, call it odic force, or what you

will. Science has not, perhaps cannot, ever get firm footing here; but

the result of long and careful observation as yet only enables us to

strike a sort of average. Experiments pursued for years with

table-turning, planchettes, mediums, clairvoyantes, come to this. You do

get answers, strange messages, unaccountable communications; but nothing

is ever told, in any séance, which does not lie perdu in the breast of

someone of the company. There is often no willing deception;

peradventure, no fooling at all: but as you cannot draw water from a dry

well, neither can you get a message except the germ of it broods within

some soul with which you have some present contact.

And then, things being so, what advance can we make?

Many people seem to be unaware that to search after necromancers and

soothsayers is forbidden by the English law. Consequently--let us say--a

great number of cultivated ladies and gentlemen do, even in this

intelligent age, resort to the homes of such folk; aye, and consult

them, too, eagerly, at the most critical junctures in their lives.

I know of a London washerwoman by trade who makes vastly more money by

falling into trances than by her legitimate calling, to which she adds

the letting of lodgings.

On one occasion she was commissioned to comment, in her swoon, on the

truth or constancy of a girl's lover; an unopened letter from him being

placed in her hands as she slept. She did comment on him, and truly. She

said he was not true: that he did not love the girl really, that it was

all a sham. Well, the power by which that clairvoyante spoke was the

lurking distrust within the mind of the girl who stood by with an aching

heart, listening to her doom. Also, perhaps, some virtue we know not of

transfused itself subtilely from the paper upon which that perfidious

one had breathed and written. Who can tell? But in any case the thing is

all a snare and a delusion, and after much observation I can honestly

say--I repeat this--that he or she who dabbles in these mysteries loses

faith in God, and is apt to become a prey to the power of Evil.

And then the delusions, collusions, and hopeless entanglement of deceit

mixed up with Spiritualism! How many tales I could tell--an I would!

There was a certain rich old gentleman in a great centre of trade and

finance. The mediums had hope and every prospect he would make a will,

or had made one, in their favour--endowing them and theirs with splendid

and perpetual grants. This credulous searcher had advanced to the stage

when doubt was terrible. He was ardent to convert others, and thereby

strengthen his own fortress. He prevailed upon two clear-headed business

men, brothers, to attend his séances. With reluctance, to do him a

favour, they, after much difficulty, were induced to yield. Their host

only wanted them, he said, to give the matter the unprejudiced attention

they bestowed on--say--pig-iron.

There was no result whatever at the first sitting. The spirits were out

of temper, obstinate, would not work. The disappointment was great, even

to the novices, who had expected some fun at least. However, it was only

an adjournment. The fun came next night.

All present sat round a table in a dark room, touching hands, with

extended finger points. When the gas was turned up it was discovered

that one of the unbelievers actually had a large bangle on his wrist. It

had not been there before. Of course the spirits had slipped it on. He

let this pass then. He had not the discourtesy to explain that a very

pretty girl at his side had gently manoeuvred it into its place. Her

taper fingers were very soft and worked as spirits might.

This had gone off well, and better followed. Again the lights were

lowered to the faintest glimmer. Soft music played. Forms floated

through the air, now here, now there, plucking at a

tambourine--touching a sweet chord on the open piano. At last, in evil

moment, the most angelic, sylph-like form came all too near our friend

who wore the bangle. The temptation was too great for mortal man. He

extended his arms and took firm, substantial, desperate hold of the

nymph, at the same instant shouting wildly to his brother, "Turn up the

gas, Jim."

The vulgar light revealed that the panting figure struggling from his

grasp was that of his pretty neighbour who had slipped the bangle on his

wrist. Strange to say, the giver of this spiritual feast never forgave

those two brothers for their discourtesy.

But there are, as Hamlet says, real mysteries in this dull, prosaic life

of ours. One or two true tales may not come amiss. I am quite ready to

give any member of the Psychical Society chapter and verse and

authorities, and every available data, if desired.

A certain barrister lost his wife a few years since. He was left with

two little children to care for alone. London was no longer what it had

been to him. He wished to make a home in the suburbs for his little boy

and girl, and at last found one to his mind. He bought a villa near the

river, in a pretty, country-like locality. The house was in bad repair,

and he set workmen at it without delay. One day he took his children

down with him while affairs were still in progress. They played about,

while he sat writing in what was to be the library. Presently they ran

to him. "Oh, papa! Mamma is out here!"

"Oh, no, my dears! Mamma is not there," he replied.

"But she is; indeed she is," they persisted. "She is at the end of the

long passage. We saw her; but she would not let us go on. She waved us

back."

To satisfy the children he must go with them. They led him to a long,

dark corridor leading to back premises. "Ah, she is gone!" they cried in

great disappointment. "Quite gone! But she _was_ there, papa. She would

not let us go on. Come, let us look for her."

"No, children; you wait here," he cried, moved by some sudden, cautious

instinct. He went into the dusky passage, and, after a few steps,

discovered that a trap-door leading to a deep cellar had been left open.

Had the children run along here their destruction would have been almost

certain.

Again, a tale of the late Bishop Wilberforce. So many tales of him have

been current, but I do not believe that this has ever before gone

abroad.

In early days he had a close friend, a school chum, a college companion;

but about the time young Wilberforce took orders these two had a bitter

and hopeless falling out. They never got over the disunion, and fell

utterly apart. The chum became an extensive landowner, and was master of

a charming house in the South of England.

Time passed on, and he grew elderly. He thought of making his will.

Being a great man, not only his solicitor but the solicitor's son

arrived on the scene for the event. All three gentlemen were assembled

in the library, a long room, with many windows running down almost to

the ground. Suddenly the young man present saw a gentleman go by the

first of these windows. The elder lawyer raised his head as the figure

went by the second opening. Last of all the master of the house looked

up.

"Why, that is Wilberforce," he exclaimed. "How many years it is since we

fell out, and I dared him ever again to seek me out."

So saying, he ran to the hall-door to welcome his guest, towards whom no

bitter feeling now remained in his mind. Strange to say, the Bishop was

not at the door, nor could he be found within the grounds. At the moment

of his appearance he had fallen from his horse in this neighbourhood and

had been instantly killed.

ENLIGHTENMENT.

It was not in the lovely morning time

When dew lies bright on silent meadow-ways;

It was not in the splendid noon's high prime,

When all the lawns with sunlight are ablaze;

But in the tender twilight--ere the light

Of the broad moon made beautiful the night.

It was not in the freshness of my youth,

Nor when my manhood laughed in perfect power,

That first I tasted of immortal truth

And plucked the buds of the immortal flower.

But when my life had passed its noon, I found

The path that leads to the enchanted ground.

It was not love nor passion that made dear

That hour now memorable to us two;

Nothing was said the whole world might not hear,

Only--our souls touched, and for me and you,

Trees, flowers and sunshine, and the hearts of men,

Are better to be understood since then.

E. NESBIT.

THE SILENT CHIMES.

PLAYING AGAIN.

It could not be said the Church Leet chimes brought good when they rang

out that night at midnight, as the old year was giving place to the new.

Mrs. Carradyne, in her superstition, thought they brought evil.

Certainly evil set in at the same time, and Captain Monk, with all his

scoffing obstinacy, could not fail to see it. That fine young lad, his

son, fell through the window listening to them; and in the self-same

hour the knowledge reached him that Katherine, his eldest and dearest

child, had flown from his roof in defiant disobedience, to set up a home

of her own.

Hubert was soon well of his bruises; but not of the cold induced by

lying in the snow, clad only in his white nightshirt. In spite of all

Mr. Speck's efforts, rheumatic fever set in, and for some time Hubert

hovered between life and death. He recovered; but would never again be

the strong, hearty lad he had been--though indeed he had never been very

physically strong. The doctor privately hoped that the heart would be

found all right in future, but he would not have answered for it.

The blow that told most on Captain Monk was that inflicted by Katherine.

And surely never was disobedient marriage carried out with the impudent

boldness of hers. Church Leet called it "cheek." Church Leet

(disbelieving the facts when they first oozed out) could talk of nothing

else for weeks. For Katherine had been married in the church hard by,

that same night.

Special licenses were very uncommon things in those days; they cost too

much; but the Reverend Thomas Dancox had procured one. With Katherine's

money: everybody guessed that. She had four hundred a-year of her own,

inherited from her dead mother, and full control over it. So the special

license was secured, and their crafty plans were laid. The stranger who

had presented himself at the Hall that night (by arrangement), asking

for Mr. Dancox, thus affording an excuse for his quitting the

banquet-room, was a young clergyman of Worcester, come over especially

to marry them. When tackled with his deed afterwards, he protested that

he had not been told the marriage was to be clandestine. Tom Dancox went

out to him from the banquet; Katherine, slipping on a bonnet and shawl,

joined them outside; they hastened to the rectory and thence into the

church. And while the unconscious master of Leet Hall was entertaining

his guests with his good cheer and his stories and his hip, hip,

hurrah, his Vicar and Katherine Monk were made one until death should

them part. And death, as it proved, intended to do that speedily.

At first Captain Monk, in his unbounded rage, was for saying that a

marriage celebrated at ten o'clock at night by the light of a solitary

tallow candle, borrowed from the vestry, could not hold good. Re-assured

upon this point, he strove to devise other means to part them. Foiled

again, he laid the case before the Bishop of Worcester, and begged his

lordship to unfrock Thomas Dancox. The Bishop did not do as much as

that; though he sent for Tom Dancox and severely reprimanded him. But

that, as Church Leet remarked, did not break bones. Tom had striven to

make the best of his own cause to the Bishop, and the worst of Captain

Monk's obdurate will; moreover, stolen marriages were not thought much

of in those days.

An uncomfortable state of things was maintained all the year, Hall Leet

and the Parsonage standing at daggers drawn. Never once did Captain Monk

appear at church. If he by cross-luck met his daughter or her husband

abroad, he struck into a good fit of swearing aloud; which perhaps

relieved his mind. The chimes had never played again; they pertained to

the church, and the church was in ill-favour with the Captain. As the

end of the year approached, Church Leet wondered whether he would hold

the annual banquet; but Captain Monk was not likely to forego that. Why

should he? The invitations went out for it; and they contained an

intimation that the chimes would again play.

The banquet took place, a neighbouring parson saying grace at it in the

place of Tom Dancox. While the enjoyment was progressing and Captain

Monk was expressing his marvel for the tenth time as to what could have

become of Speck, who had not made his appearance, a note was brought in

by Rimmer--just as he had brought in one last year. This also was from

Mrs. Carradyne.

"_Please come out to me for one moment, dear Godfrey. I must say a

word to you._"

Captain Monk's first impulse on reading this was to send Rimmer back to

say she might go and be hanged. But to call him from the table was so

very extreme a measure, that on second thoughts he decided to go to her.

Mrs. Carradyne was standing just outside the door, looking as white as a

sheet.

"Well, this is pretty bold of you, Madam Emma," he began angrily. "Are

you out of your senses?"

"Hush, Godfrey! Katherine is dying."

"What?" cried the Captain, the words confusing him.

"Katherine is dying," repeated his sister, her teeth chattering with

emotion.

In spite of Katherine's rebellion, Godfrey Monk loved her still as the

apple of his eye; and it was only his obstinate temper which had kept

him from reconciliation. His face took a hue of terror, and his voice a

softer tone.

"What have you heard?"

"Her baby's born; something has gone wrong, I suppose, and she is dying.

Sally ran up with the news, sent by Mr. Speck. Katherine is crying out

for you, saying she cannot die without your forgiveness. Oh, Godfrey,

you will go, you will surely go!" pleaded Mrs. Carradyne, breaking down

with a burst of tears. "Poor Katherine!"

Never another word spoke he. He went out at the hall-door there and

then, putting on his hat as he leaped down the steps. It was a wretched

night; not white, clear, and cold as the last New Year's Eve had been,

or mild and genial as the one before it; but damp, raw, misty.

"You think I have remained hard and defiant, father," Katherine

whispered to him, "but I have many a time asked God's forgiveness on my

bended knees; and I longed--oh, how I longed!--to ask yours. What should

we all do with the weight of sin that lies on us when it comes to such

an hour as this, but for Jesus Christ--for God's wonderful mercy!"

And, with one hand in her father's and the other in her husband's, both

their hearts aching to pain, and their eyes wet with bitter tears, poor

Katherine's soul passed away.

After quitting the parsonage, Captain Monk was softly closing the garden

gate behind him--for when in sorrow we don't do things with a rush and a

bang--when a whirring sound overhead caused him to start. Strong,

hardened man though he was, his nerves were unstrung to-night in company

with his heartstrings. It was the church clock preparing to strike

twelve. The little doctor, Speck, who had left the house but a minute

before, was standing at the churchyard fence close by, his arms leaning

on the rails, probably ruminating sadly on what had just occurred.

Captain Monk halted beside him in silence, while the clock struck.

As the last stroke vibrated on the air, telling the knell of the old

year, the dawn of the new, another sound began.

Ring, ring, ring! Ring, ring, ring!

The chimes! The sweet, soothing, melodious chimes, carolling forth the

Bay of Biscay. Very pleasant were they in themselves to the ear.

But--did they fall pleasantly on Captain Monk's? It may be, not. It may

be, a wish came over him that he had never thought of instituting them.

But for doing that, the ills of his recent life had never had place.

George West's death would not have lain at his door, or room been made

by it for Tom Dancox, and Katherine would not be lying as he had now

left her--cold and lifeless.

"Could _nothing_ have been done to save her, Speck?" he whispered to the

doctor, whose arms were still on the churchyard railings, listening to

the chimes in silence--though indeed he had asked the same question

indoors before.

"Nothing; or you may be sure, sir, it would have been," answered Mr.

Speck. "Had all the medical men in Worcestershire been about her, they

could not have saved her any more than I could. These unfortunate cases

happen now and then," sighed he, "showing us how powerless we really

are."

Well, it was grievous news wherewith to startle the parish. And Mrs.

Carradyne, a martyr to belief in ghosts and omens, grew to dread the

chimes with a nervous and nameless dread.

II.

It was but the first of February, yet the weather might have served for

May-day: one of those superb days that come once in a while out of their

season, serving to remind the world that the dark, depressing, dreary

winter will not last for ever; though we may have half feared it means

to, forgetting the reassuring promise of the Divine Ruler of all things,

given after the Flood:

"_While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat,

and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease._"

The warm and glorious sunbeams lay on Church Leet, as if to woo the bare

hedges into verdant life, the cold fields to smiling plains. Even the

mounds of the graveyard, interspersed amidst the old tombstones, looked

green and cheerful to-day in the golden light.

Turning slowly out of the Vicarage gate came a good-looking clergyman of

seven-or-eight-and-twenty. A slender man of middle height, with a sweet

expression on his pale, thoughtful face, and dark earnest eyes. It was

the new Vicar of Church Leet, the Reverend Robert Grame.

For a goodish many years have gone on since that tragedy of poor

Katherine's death, and this is the second appointed Vicar since that

inauspicious time.

Mr. Grame walked across the churchyard, glancing at the inscriptions on

the tombs. Inside the church porch stood the clerk, old John Cale, keys

in hand. Mr. Grame saw him and quickened his pace.

"Have I kept you waiting, Cale?" he cried in his pleasant, considerate

tones. "I am sorry for that."

"Not at all, your reverence; I came afore the time. This here church is

but a step or two off my home, yonder, and I'm as often out here as I be

indoors," continued John Cale, a fresh-coloured little man with pale

grey eyes and white hair. "I've been clerk here, sir, for

seven-and-thirty years."

"You've seen more than one parson out then, I reckon."

"More than one! Ay, sir, more than--more than six times one, I was going

to say; but that's too much, maybe. Let's see: there was Mr. Cartright,

he had held the living I hardly know how many years when I came, and he

held it for many after that. Mr. West succeeded him--the Reverend George

West; then came Thomas Dancox; then Mr. Atterley: four in all. And now

you've come, sir, to make the fifth."

"Did they all die? or take other livings?"

"Some the one thing, sir, and some the other. Mr. Cartright died, he was

old; and Mr. West, he--he--" John Cale hesitated before he went on--"he

died; Mr. Dancox got appointed to a chaplaincy somewhere over the seas;

he was here but about eighteen months, hardly that; and Mr. Atterley,

who has just left, has had a big church with a big income, they say,

given to him over in Oxfordshire."

"Which makes room for me," smiled Robert Grame.

They were inside the church now; a small and very old-fashioned church,

with high pews, dark and sombre. Over the large pew of the Monks,

standing sideways to the pulpit, sundry slabs were on the wall, their

inscriptions testifying to the virtues and ages of the Monk family dead

and gone. Mr. Grame stood to read them. One slab of white marble, its

black letters fresh and clear, caught especially his eye.

"Katherine, eldest child of Godfrey Monk, gentleman, and wife of the

Reverend Thomas Dancox," he read out aloud. "Was that he who was Vicar

here?"

"Ay, 'twas. She married him again her father's wish, and died, poor

thing, just a year after it," replied the clerk. "And only twenty-three,

as you see, sir! The Captain came down and forgave her on her dying bed,

and 'twas he that had the stone put up there. Her baby-girl was taken to

the Hall, and is there still: ten years old she must be now; 'twas but

an hour or two old when the mother died."

"It seems a sad history," observed Mr. Grame as he turned away to enter

the vestry.

John Cale did the honours of its mysteries; showing him the chest for

the surplices; the cupboard let into the wall for the register-book; the

place where candles and such-like stores were kept. Mr. Grame opened a

door at one end of the room and saw a square flagged place, containing

grave-digging tools and the hanging ropes of the bell which called

people to church. Shutting the door again, he crossed to a door on the

opposite side. But that he could not open.

"What does this lead to?" he asked. "It is locked."

"It's always kept locked, that door is, sir; and it's a'most as much as

my post is worth to open it," said the clerk, his voice sinking to a

mysterious whisper. "It leads up to the chimes."

"The chimes!" echoed the new parson in surprise. "Do you mean to say

this little country church can boast of chimes?"

John Cale nodded. "Lovely, pleasant things they be to listen to, sir,

but we've not heard 'em since the midnight when Miss Katherine died.

They play a tune called 'The Bay of Biscay.'"

Selecting a key from the bunch that he carried in his hand, he opened

the door, displaying a narrow staircase, unprotected as a ladder and

nearly perpendicular. At its top was another small door, evidently

locked.

"Captain Monk had all this done when he put the chimes up," remarked he.

"I sweep the dust off these stairs, once in three months or so, but

otherwise the door's not opened. And that one," nodding to the door

above, "never."

"But why?" asked the clergyman. "If the chimes are there, and are, as

you say, melodious, why do they not play?"

"Well, sir, I b'lieve there's a bit of superstition at the bottom of

it," returned the clerk, not caring to explain too fully lest he should

have to tell about Mr. West's death, which might not be the thing to

frighten a new Vicar with. "A feeling has somehow got abroad in the

parish (leastways with a many of its folk) that the putting-up of its

bells brought ill-luck, and that whenever the chimes ring out some

dreadful evil falls on the Monk family."

"I never heard of such a thing," exclaimed the Vicar, hardly knowing

whether to laugh or lecture. "The parish cannot be so ignorant as that!

How can the putting-up of chimes bring ill-luck?"

"Well, your reverence, I don't know; the thing's beyond me. They were

heard but three times, ringing in the new year at midnight, three years,

one on top of t'other--and each time some ill fell."

"My good man--and I am sure you are good--you should know better,"

remonstrated Mr. Grame. "Captain Monk cannot, surely, give credence to

this?"

"No, sir; but his sister up at the Hall does--Mrs. Carradyne. It's said

the Captain used to ridicule her finely for it; he'd fly into a passion

whenever 'twas alluded to. Captain Monk, as a brave seaman, is too bold

to tolerate anything of the sort. But he has never let the chimes play

since his daughter died. He was coming out from the death-scene at

midnight, when the chimes broke forth the third year, and it's said he

can't abear the sound of 'em since."

"That may well be," assented Mr. Grame.

"And finding, sir, year after year, year after year, as one year gives

place to another, that they are never heard, we have got to call 'em

amid ourselves, the Silent Chimes," spoke the clerk, as they turned to

leave the church. "The Silent Chimes, sir."

Clinking his keys, the clerk walked away to his home, an ivy-covered

cottage not a stone's-throw off; the clergyman lingered in the

churchyard, reading the memorials on the tombstones. He was smiling at

the quaintness of some of them, when the sound of hasty footsteps caused

him to turn. A little girl was climbing over the churchyard-railings (as

being nearer to her than the entrance-gate), and came dashing towards

him across the gravestones.

"Are you grandpapa's new parson?" asked the young lady; a pretty child

of ten, with a dark skin, and dusky-violet eyes staring at him freely

out of a saucy face.

"Yes, I am," said he. "What is your name?"

"What is yours?" boldly questioned she. "They've talked about you at

home, but I forgot it."

"Mine is Robert Grame. Won't you tell me yours?"

"Oh, it's Kate.--Here's that wicked Lucy coming! She's going to groan at

me for jumping here. She says it's not reverent."

A charming young lady of some twenty years was coming up the path. She

wore a scarlet cloak, its hood lined with white silk; a straw hat shaded

her fair face, blushing very much just now; in her dark-grey eyes might

be read vexation, as she addressed Mr. Grame.

"I hope Kate has not been rude? I hope you will excuse her heedlessness

in this place. She is but a little girl."

"It's only the new parson, Lucy," broke in Kate without ceremony. "He

says his name's Robert Grame."

"Oh, Kate, don't! How shall we ever teach you manners?" reprimanded the

young lady in much distress. "She has been greatly indulged, sir,"

turning to the clergyman.

"I can well understand that," he said, with a bright smile. "I presume

that I have the honour of speaking to the daughter of my patron--Captain

Monk?"

"No; Captain Monk is my uncle: I am Lucy Carradyne."

As the young clergyman stood, hat in hand, a feeling came over him that

he had never seen so sweet a face as the one he was looking at. Miss

Lucy Carradyne was saying to herself, "What a nice countenance he has!

What kindly, earnest eyes!"

"This little lady tells me her name is Kate."

"Kate Dancox," said Lucy, as the child danced away. "Her mamma was

Captain Monk's eldest daughter; she died when Kate was born. My uncle is

very fond of Kate; he will hardly have her controlled at all."

"I have been in to see my church! John Cale has been doing its honours

for me," smiled Mr. Grame. "It is a pretty little edifice."

"Yes, and I hope you will like it; I hope you will like the parish,"

frankly returned Lucy.

"I shall be sure to do that, I think. As soon, at least, as I can feel

convinced that it is to be really mine," he added, with a quaint

expression. "When I heard, a week ago, that Captain Monk had presented

me--an entire stranger to him--with the living of Church Leet, I could

not believe it. It is not often that a nameless curate, without

influence, is spontaneously remembered."

"It is not much of a living," said Lucy, meeting the words half

jestingly. "Worth, I believe, but about a hundred and sixty pounds

a-year."

"But that is a great rise for me--and I have a house to myself large

and beautiful--and am a Vicar and no longer a curate," he returned,

laughingly. "I cannot _imagine_, though, how Captain Monk came to give

it me. Have you any idea how it was, Miss Carradyne?"

Lucy's face flushed. She could not tell this gentleman the truth: that

another clergyman had been fixed upon, one who would have been

especially welcome to the parishioners; that Captain Monk had all but

nominated him to the living. But it chanced to reach the Captain's ears

that this clergyman had expressed his intention of holding the Communion

Service monthly, instead of quarterly as heretofore, so he put the

question to him. Finding it to be true, he withdrew his promise; he

would not have old customs broken in upon by modern innovation, he said;

and forthwith he appointed the Reverend Robert Grame.

"I do not even know how Captain Monk heard of me," continued Mr. Grame,

marking Lucy's hesitation.

"I believe you were recommended to him by one of the clergy attached to

Worcester Cathedral," said Lucy.--"And I think I must wish you

good-morning now."

But there came an interruption. A tall, stately, haughty young woman,

with an angry look upon her dark and handsome face, had entered the

churchyard, and was calling out as she advanced:

"That monkey broken loose again, I suppose, and at her pranks here! What

are you good for, Lucy, if you cannot keep her in better order? You know

I told you to go straight on to Mrs. Speck, and--"

The words died away. Mr. Grame, who had been hidden by a large upright

tombstone, emerged into view. Lucy, with another blush, spoke to cover

the awkwardness.

"This is Miss Monk," she said to him. "Eliza, it is the new clergyman,

Mr. Grame."

Miss Monk recovered her equanimity. A winning smile supplanted the anger

on her face; she held out her hand, grandly gracious. For she liked the

stranger's look: he was beyond doubt a gentleman--and an attractive man.

"Allow me to welcome you to Church Leet, Mr. Grame. My father chances to

be absent to-day; he is gone to Evesham."

"So the clerk told me, or I should have called this morning to pay my

respects to him, and to thank him for his generous and most unexpected

patronage of me. I got here last night," concluded Mr. Grame, standing

uncovered as when he had saluted Lucy. Eliza Monk liked his pleasant

voice, his taking manners: her fancy went out to him there and then.

"But though papa is absent, you will walk up with me now to the Hall to

make acquaintance with my aunt, Mrs. Carradyne," said Eliza, in those

tones that, gracious though they were, sounded in the light of a

command--just as poor Katherine's had always sounded. And Mr. Grame went

with her.

But now--handsome though she was, gracious though she meant to be--there

was something about Eliza Monk that seemed to repulse Robert Grame,

rather than attract him. Lucy had fascinated him; she repelled. Other

people had experienced the same kind of repulsion, but knew not where it

lay.

Hubert, the heir, about twenty-five now, came forward to greet the

stranger as they entered the Hall. No repulsion about _him_. Robert

Grame's hand met his with a warm clasp. A young man of gentle manners

and a face of rare beauty--but oh, so suspiciously delicate! Perhaps it

was the extreme slenderness of the frame, the wan look in the refined

features and their bright hectic that drew forth the clergyman's

sympathy. An impression came over him that this young man was not long

for earth.

"Is Mr. Monk strong?" he presently asked of Mrs. Carradyne, when Hubert

had temporarily quitted the room.

"Indeed, no. He had rheumatic fever some years ago," she added, "and has

never been strong since."

"Has he heart disease?" questioned the clergyman. He thought the young

man had just that look.

"We fear his heart is weak," replied Mrs. Carradyne.

"But that may be only your fancy, you know, Aunt Emma," spoke Miss Monk

reproachfully. She and her father were both passionately attached to

Hubert; they resented any doubt cast upon his health.

"Oh, of course," assented Mrs. Carradyne, who never resented anything.

"We shall be good friends, I trust," said Eliza, with a beaming smile,

as her hand lay in Mr. Grame's when he was leaving.

"Indeed I hope so," he answered. "Why not?"

III.

Summer lay upon the land. The landscape stretched out before Leet Hall

was fair to look upon. A fine expanse of wood and dale, of trees in

their luxuriant beauty; of emerald-green plains, of meandering streams,

of patches of growing corn already putting on its yellow hue, and of the

golden sunlight, soon to set and gladden other worlds, that shone from

the deep-blue sky. Birds sang in their leafy shelters, bees were

drowsily humming as they gathered the last of the day's honey, and

butterflies flitted from flower to flower with a good-night kiss.

At one of the windows stood, in her haughty beauty, Eliza Monk. Not,

surely, of the lovely scene before her was she thinking, or her face

might have worn a more pleasing expression. Rather did she seem to gaze,

and with displeasure, at two or three people who were walking in the

distance: Lucy Carradyne side by side with the clergyman, and Miss Kate

Dancox pulling at his coat-tails.

"Shameful flirt!"

The acidity of the tone was so pronounced that Mrs. Carradyne, seated

near and busy at her netting, lifted her head in surprise. "Why, Eliza,

what's the matter? Who is a flirt?"

"Lucy," curtly replied Eliza, pointing with her finger.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Carradyne, after glancing outwards.

"Why does she persistently lay herself out to attract that man?" was the

passionate rejoinder.

"Be silent, Eliza. How can you conjure up so unjust a charge? Lucy is

not capable of _laying herself out_ to attract anyone. It lies but in

your imagination."

"Day after day, when she is out with Kate, you may see him join

her--allured to her side."

"The 'allurer' is Kate, then. I am surprised at you, Eliza: you might be

talking of a servant-maid. Kate has taken a liking for Mr. Grame, and

she runs after him at all times and seasons."

"She ought to be stopped, then."

"Stopped! Will you undertake to do it? Could her mother be stopped in

anything she pleased to do? And the child has the same rebellious will."

"I say that Robert Grame's attraction is Lucy."

"It may be so," acknowledged Mrs. Carradyne. "But the attraction must

lie in Lucy herself; not in anything she does. Some suspicion of the

sort has, at times, crossed me."

She looked at them again as she spoke. They were sauntering onwards

slowly; Mr. Grame bending towards Lucy, and talking earnestly. Kate,

dancing about, pulling at his arm or his coat, appeared to get but

little attention. Mrs. Carradyne quietly went on with her work.

And that composed manner, combined with her last sentence, brought gall

and wormwood to Eliza Monk.

Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the

French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the

conspirators. But she was not in time. Seeing her coming, or not seeing

her--who knew?--Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home.

So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but

Lucy. The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping.

* * * * *

"I am here, Grame. Don't go in."

The words fell on the clergyman's ears as he closed the Vicarage gate

behind him, and was passing up the path to his door. Turning his head,

he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the May tree, pink and

lovely yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked, sitting down beside

him.

"Ever so long; waiting for you," replied Hubert.

"I was but strolling about."

"I saw you: with Lucy and the child."

They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the

minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for

good. Believing--as he did believe--that Hubert's days were numbered,

that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently

strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land.

"What an evening it is!" rapturously exclaimed Hubert.

"Ay: so calm and peaceful."

The rays of the setting sun touched Hubert's face, lighting up its

extreme delicacy; the scent of the closing flowers filled the still air

with its sweetness; the birds were chanting their evening song of

praise. Hubert, his elbow on the arm of the bench, his hand supporting

his chin, looked out with dreamy eyes.

"What book have you there?" asked Mr. Grame, noticing one in his other

hand.

"Herbert," answered the young man, showing it. "I filched it from your

table through the open window, Grame."

The clergyman took it. It chanced to open at a passage he was very fond

of. Or perhaps he knew the place, and opened it purposely.

"Do you know these verses, Hubert? They are appropriate enough just now,

while those birds are carolling."

"I can't tell. What verses? Read them."

"Hark, how the birds do sing,

And woods do ring!

All creatures have their joy, and man hath his,

Yet, if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter than in present is.

Not that we may not here

Taste of the cheer;

But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,

So must he sip and think

Of better drink

He may attain to after he is dead."

"Ay," said Hubert, breaking the silence after a time, "it's very true, I

suppose. But this world--oh, it's worth living for. Will anything in the

next, Grame, be more beautiful than _that_?"

He was pointing to the sunset. It was marvellously and unusually

beautiful. Lovely pink and crimson clouds flecked the west; in their

midst shone a golden light of dazzling refulgence, too glorious to look

upon.

"One might fancy it the portals of heaven," said the clergyman; "the

golden gate of entrance, leading to the pearly gates within, and to the

glittering walls of precious stones."

"And--why! it seems to take the form of an entrance-gate!" exclaimed

Hubert in excitement. For it really did. "Look at it! Oh, Grame, surely,

surely the very gate of Heaven cannot be more dazzlingly beautiful than

that!"

"And if the gate of entrance is so unspeakably beautiful, what will the

City itself be?" murmured Mr. Grame. "The Heavenly City! the New

Jerusalem!"

"It is beginning to fade," said Hubert presently, as they sat watching;

"the brightness is going. What a pity!"

"All that's bright must fade in this world, you know; and fade very

quickly. Hubert! it will not in the next."

* * * * *

Church Leet, watching its neighbours' doings sharply, began to whisper

that the new clergyman, Mr. Grame, was likely to cause unpleasantness to

the Monk family, just as some of his predecessors had caused it. For no

man having eyes in his head (still less any woman) could fail to see

that the Captain's imperious daughter had fallen desperately in love

with him. Would there be a second elopement, as in the days of Tom

Dancox? Would Eliza Monk set her father at defiance, as Katherine did?

One of the last to see signs and tokens, though they took place under

her open eyes, was Mrs. Carradyne. But she saw at last. The clergyman

could not walk across a new-mown field, or down a shady lane, or be

hastening along the dusty turnpike road, but by some inexplicable

coincidence he would be met by Miss Monk; and when he came to the Hall

to pass an hour with Hubert, she generally made a third at the

interview. It had pleased her latterly to take to practising on the old

church organ; and if Mr. Grame was not wiled into the church with her

and her attendant, the ancient clerk, who blew the bellows, she was sure

to alight upon him in going or returning.

One fine evening, dinner over, when the last beams of the sun were

slanting into the drawing-room, Eliza Monk was sitting back on a sofa,

reading; Kate romped about the room, and Mrs. Carradyne had just rung

the bell for tea. Lucy had been spending the afternoon with Mrs. Speck,

and Hubert had now gone to fetch her home.

"Good gracious, Kate, can't you be quiet!" exclaimed Miss Monk, as the

child in her gambols sprung upon the sofa, upsetting the book and its

reader's temper. "Go away: you are treading on my flounces. Aunt Emma,

why do you persist in having this tiresome little reptile with us after

dinner?"

"Because your father will not let her be sent to the nursery," said Mrs.

Carradyne.

"Did you ever know a child like her?"

"She is but as her mother was; as you were, Eliza--always rebellious.

Kate, sit down to the piano and play one of your pretty tunes."

"I won't," responded Kate. "Play yourself, Aunt Emma."

Dashing through the open glass doors, Kate began tossing a ball on the

broad gravel walk below the terrace. Mrs. Carradyne cautioned her not to

break the windows, and turned to the tea-table.

"Don't make the tea yet, Aunt Emma," interrupted Miss Monk, in a tone

that was quite like a command. "Mr. Grame is coming, and he won't care

for cold tea."

Mrs. Carradyne returned to her seat. She thought the opportunity had

come to say something to her niece which she had been wanting to say.

"You invited Mr. Grame, Eliza?"

"I did," said Eliza, looking defiance.

"My dear," resumed Mrs. Carradyne with some hesitation, "forgive me if I

offer you a word of advice. You have no mother; I pray you to listen to

me in her stead. You must change your line of behaviour to Mr. Grame."

Eliza's dark face turned red and haughty. "I do not understand you, Aunt

Emma."

"Nay, I think you do understand me, my dear. You have incautiously

allowed yourself to fall into--into an undesirable liking for Mr. Grame.

An _unseemly_ liking, Eliza."

"Unseemly!"

"Yes; because it has not been sought. Cannot you see, Eliza, how he

instinctively recedes from it? how he would repel it were he less the

gentleman than he is? Child, I shrink from saying these things to you,

but it is needful. You have good sense, Eliza, keen discernment, and you

might see for yourself that it is not to you Mr. Grame's love is

given--or ever will be."

For once in her life Eliza Monk allowed herself to betray agitation. She

opened her trembling lips to speak, but closed them again.

"A moment yet, Eliza. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that Mr.

Grame loved you; that he wished to marry you; you know, my dear, how

utterly useless it would be. Your father would not suffer it."

"Mr. Grame is of gentle descent; my father is attached to him," disputed

Eliza.

"But Mr. Grame has nothing but his living--a hundred and sixty pounds

a-year; _you_ must make a match in accordance with your own position. It

would be Katherine's trouble, Katherine's rebellion over again. But this

was mentioned for argument's sake only; Mr. Grame will never sue for

anything of the kind; and I must beg of you, my dear, to put all idea of

it away, and to change your manner towards him."

"Perhaps you fancy he may wish to sue for Lucy!" cried Eliza, in fierce

resentment.

"That is a great deal more likely than the other. And the difficulties

in her case would not be so great."

"And pray why, Aunt Emma?"

"Because, my dear, I should not resent it as your father would. I am not

so ambitious for her as he is for you."

"A fine settlement for her--Robert Grame and his hundred--"

"Who is taking my name in vain?" cried out a pleasant voice from the

open window; and Robert Grame entered.

"I was," said Eliza readily; her tone changing like magic to sweet

suavity, her face putting on its best charm--"About to remark that the

Reverend Robert Grame has a hundred faults. Aunt Emma agrees with me."

He laughed lightly, regarding it as pleasantry, and inquired for Hubert.

Eliza stepped out on the terrace when tea was over, talking to Mr.

Grame; they began to pace it slowly together. Kate and her ball sported

on the gravel walk beneath. It was a warm, serene evening, the silver

moon shining, the evening star just appearing in the clear blue sky.

"Lucy being away, you cannot enjoy your usual flirtation with her,"

remarked Miss Monk, in a light tone.

But he did not take it lightly. Rarely had his voice been more serious

than when he answered: "I beg your pardon. I do not flirt--I have never

flirted with Miss Carradyne."

"No! It has looked like it."

Mr. Grame remained silent. "I hope not," he said at last. "I did not

intend--I did not think. However, I must mend my manners," he added more

gaily. "To flirt at all would ill become my sacred calling. And Lucy

Carradyne is superior to any such trifling."

Her pulses were coursing on to fever heat. With her whole heart she

loved Robert Grame: and the secret preference he had unconsciously

betrayed for Lucy had served to turn her later days to bitterness.

"Possibly you mean something more serious," said Eliza, compressing her

lips.

"If I mean anything, I should certainly mean it seriously," replied the

young clergyman, his face blushing as he made the avowal. "But I may

not. I have been reflecting much latterly, and I see I may not. If my

income were good it might be a different matter. But it is not; and

marriage for me must be out of the question."

"With a portionless girl, yes. Robert Grame," she went on rapidly with

impassioned earnestness, "when you marry, it must be with someone who

can help you; whose income will compensate for the deficiency of yours.

Look around you well: there may be some young ladies rich in the world's

wealth, even in Church Leet, who will forget your want of fortune for

your own sake."

Did he misunderstand her? It was hardly possible. She had a large

fortune; Lucy none. But he answered as though he comprehended not. It

may be that he deemed it best to set her ill-regulated hopes at rest for

ever.

"One can hardly suppose a temptation of that kind would fall in the way

of an obscure individual like myself. If it did, I could but reject it.

I should not marry for money. I shall never marry where I do not love."

They had halted near one of the terrace seats. On it lay a toy of

Kate's, a little wooden "box of bells." Mechanically, her mind far away,

Eliza took it up and began, still mechanically, turning the wire which

set the bells to play with a soft but not unpleasant jingle.

"You love Lucy Carradyne!" she whispered.

"I fear I do," he answered. "Though I have struggled against the

conviction."

A sudden crash startled them; shivers of glass fell before their feet;

fit accompaniment to the shattered hopes of one who stood there. Kate

Dancox, aiming at Mr. Grame's hat, had sent her ball through the window.

He leaped away to catch the culprit, and Eliza Monk sat down on the

bench, all gladness gone out of her. Her love-dream had turned out to be

a snare and a delusion.

"Who did that?"

Captain Monk, frightened from his after-dinner nap by the crash, came

forth in anger. Kate got a box on the ear, and was sent to bed howling.

"You should send her to school, papa."

"And I will," declared the Captain. "She startled me out of my sleep.

Out of a dream, too. And it is not often I dream. I thought I was

hearing the chimes."

"Chimes which I have not yet been fortunate enough to hear," said Mr.

Grame with a smile. Eliza recalled the sound of the bells she had set in

motion, and thought it must have penetrated to her father in his sleep.

"By George, no! You shall, though, Grame. They shall ring the new year

in when it comes."

"Aunt Emma won't like that," laughingly commented Eliza. She was trying

to be gay and careless before Robert Grame.

"Aunt Emma may _dis_like it!" retorted the Captain. "She has picked up

some ridiculously absurd notion, Grame, that the bells bring ill-luck

when they are heard. Women are so foolishly superstitious."

"That must be a very far-fetched superstition," said the parson.

"One might as well believe in witches," mocked the Captain. "I have

given in to her fancies for some years, not to cross her, and let the

bells be silent: she's a good woman on the whole; but be hanged if I

will any longer. On the last day of this year, Grame, you shall hear the

chimes."

* * * * *

How it came about nobody exactly knew, unless it was through Hubert, but

matters were smoothed for the parson and Lucy.

Mrs. Carradyne knew his worth, and she saw that they were as much in

love with one another as ever could be Hodge and Joan. She liked the

idea of Lucy being settled near her--and the vicarage, large and

handsome, could have its unused rooms opened and furnished. Mr. Grame

honestly avowed that he should have asked for Lucy before, but for his

poverty; he supposed that Lucy was poor also.

"That is so; Lucy has nothing of her own," said Mrs. Carradyne to this.

"But I am not in that condition."

"Of course not. But--pardon me--I thought your property went to your

son."

Mrs. Carradyne laughed. "A small estate of his father's, close by here,

became my son's at his father's death," she said. "My own money is at my

disposal; the half of it will eventually be Lucy's. When she marries, I

shall allow her two hundred a-year: and upon that, and your stipend, you

will have to get along together."

"It will be like riches to me," said the young parson all in a glow.

"Ah! Wait until you realise the outlets for money that a wife entails,"

nodded Mrs. Carradyne in her superior wisdom. "Not but that I'm sure

it's good for young people, setting-up together, to be straitened at the

beginning. It teaches them economy and the value of money."

Altogether it seemed a wonderful prospect to Robert Grame. Miss Lucy

thought it would be Paradise. But a stern wave of opposition set in from

Captain Monk.

Hubert broke the news to him as they were sitting together after dinner.

To begin with, the Captain, as a matter of course, flew into a passion.

"Another of those beggarly parsons! What possessed them, that they

should fix upon _his_ family to play off their machinations upon! Lucy

Carradyne was his niece: she should never be grabbed up by one of them

while he was alive to stop it."

"Wait a minute, father," whispered Hubert. "You like Robert Grame; I

know that: you would rather see him carry off Lucy than Eliza."

"What the dickens do you mean by that?"

Hubert said a few cautious words--hinting that, but for Lucy's being in

the way, poor Katherine's escapade might have been enacted over again.

Captain Monk relieved his mind by some strong language, sailor fashion;

and for once in his life saw he must give in to necessity.

So the wedding was fixed for the month of February, just one year after

they had met: that sweet time of early spring, when spring comes in

genially, when the birds would be singing, and the green buds peeping

and the sunlight dancing.

But the present year was not over yet. Lucy was sewing at her wedding

things. Eliza Monk, smarting at their sight as with an adder's sting,

ran away from it to visit a family who lived near Oddingly, an

insignificant little place, lying, as everybody knows, on the other side

of Worcester, famous only for its dulness and for the strange murders

committed there in 1806--which have since passed into history. But she

returned home for Christmas.

Once more it was old-fashioned Christmas weather; Jack Frost freezing

the snow and sporting his icicles. The hearty tenants, wending their way

to the annual feast in the winter twilight, said how unusually sharp the

air was, enough to bite off their ears and noses.

The Reverend Robert Grame made one at the table for the first time, and

said grace at the Captain's elbow. He had heard about the freedom

obtaining at these dinners; but he knew he was utterly powerless to

suppress it, and he hoped his presence might prove some little

restraint, just as poor George West had hoped in the days gone by: not

that it was as bad now as it used to be. A rumour had gone abroad that

the chimes were to play again, but it died away unconfirmed, for Captain

Monk kept his own counsel.

The first to quit the table was Hubert. Captain Monk looked up angrily.

He was proud of his son, of his tall and graceful form, of his handsome

features, proud even of his bright complexion; ay, and of his estimable

qualities. While inwardly fearing Hubert's signs of fading strength, he

defiantly refused to recognise it or to admit it openly.

"What now?" he said in a loud whisper. "Are _you_ turning renegade?"

The young man bent over his father's shoulder. "I don't feel well;

better let me go quietly, father; I have felt oppressed here all

day"--touching his left side. And he escaped.

There was present at table an elderly gentleman named Peveril. He had

recently come with his wife into the neighbourhood and taken on lease a

small estate, called by the odd name of Peacock's Range, which belonged

to Hubert and lay between Church Dykely and Church Leet. Mr. Peveril put

an inopportune question.

"What is the story, Captain, about some chimes which were put up in the

church here and are never allowed to ring because they caused the death

of the Vicar? I was told of it to-day."

Captain Monk looked at Mr. Peveril, but did not speak.

"One George West, I think. Was he parson here?"

"Yes, he was parson here," said Farmer Winter, finding nobody else

answered Mr. Peveril, next to whom he sat. He was a very old man now,

but hale and hearty still, and a steadfast ally of his landlord. "Given

that parson his way and we should never have had the chimes put up.

Sweet sounding bells they are."

"But how could the chimes kill him?" went on Mr. Peveril. "Did they kill

him?"

"George West was a quarrelsome, mischief-making meddler, good for

nothing but to set the parish together by the ears; and I must beg of

you to drop his name when at my table, Peveril. As to the chimes, you

will hear them to-night."

Captain Monk spoke in his sternest tones, and Mr. Peveril bowed. Robert

Grame had listened in surprise. He wondered what it all meant--for

nobody had ever told him of this phase of the past. The table clapped

its unsteady hands and gave a cheer for the chimes, now to be heard

again.

"Yes, gentlemen," said the Captain, not a whit more steady than his

guests. "They shall ring for us to-night, though it brought the parson

out of his grave."

A few minutes before twelve the butler, who had his orders, came into

the dining-room and set the windows open. His master gave him another

order and the man withdrew. Entering the drawing-room, he proceeded to

open those windows also. Mr. Peveril, and one or two more guests, sat

with the family; Hubert lay back in an easy-chair.

"What are you about, Rimmer?" hastily cried out Mrs. Carradyne in

surprise. "Opening the windows!"

"It is by the master's orders, ma'am," replied the butler; "he bade me

open them, that you and the ladies might get a better hearing of the

chimes."

Mrs. Carradyne, superstitious ever, grew white as death. "_The chimes!_"

she breathed in a dread whisper. "Surely, surely, Rimmer, you must be

mistaken. The chimes cannot be going to ring again!"

"They are to ring the New Year in," said the man. "I have known it this

day or two, but was not allowed to tell, as Madam may guess"--glancing

at his mistress. "John Cale has got his orders, and he'll set 'em going

when the clock has struck twelve."

"Oh, is there no one who will run to stop it?" bewailed Mrs. Carradyne,

wringing her hands in all the terror of a nameless fear. "There may yet

be time. Rimmer! can you go?"

Hubert came out of his chair laughing. Rimmer was round and fat now, and

could not run if he tried. "I'll go, aunt," he said. "Why, walking

slowly, I should get there before Rimmer."

The words, "walking slowly," may have misled Mrs. Carradyne; or, in the

moment's tribulation, perhaps she forgot that Hubert ought not to be the

one to use much exertion; but she made no objection. No one else made

way, and Hubert hastened out, putting on his overcoat as he went towards

the church.

It was the loveliest night; the air was still and clear, the landscape

white and glistening, the moon bright as gold. Hubert, striding along at

a quick walk, had traversed half the short distance, when the church

clock struck out the first note of midnight. And he knew he should not

be in time--unless--

He set off to run: it was such a very little way! Flying along without

heed to self, he reached the churchyard gate. And there he was

forced--forced--to stop to gather up his laboured breath.

Ring, ring, ring! broke forth the chimes melodiously upon Hubert's ear.

"Stop!" he shouted, panting; "stop! stop!"--just as if John Cale could

hear the warning: and he began leaping over all the gravestones in his

path, after the irreverent fashion of Miss Kate Dancox.

"Stop!" he faintly cried in his exhaustion, dashing through the vestry,

as the strains of "The Bay of Biscay" pursued their harmonious course

overhead, sounding louder here than in the open air. "Sto--"

He could not finish the word. Pulling the little door open, he put his

foot on the first step of the narrow ladder of a staircase: and then

fell prone upon it. John Cale and young Mr. Threpp, the churchwarden's

son, who had been the clerk's companion, were descending the stairs,

after the chimes had chimed themselves out, and they had locked them up

again to (perhaps) another year, when they found some impediment below.

"What is it?" exclaimed young Mr. Threpp. The clerk turned on his

lantern.

It was Hubert, Captain Monk's son and heir. He lay there with a face of

deadly whiteness, a blue shade encircling his lips.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

WINTER IN ABSENCE.

The earth is clothed with fog and mist,

The shrivelled ferns are white with rime,

The trees are fairy-frosted round

The portion of enchanted ground

Where, in the woods, we lovers kissed

Last summer, in the happy time.

They say that summer comes again;

In winter who believes it true?

Can I have faith through days like this--

Days with no rose, no sun, no kiss,

Faith in the long gold summer when

There will be sunshine, flowers and you?

Keep faith and me alive, I pray;

Feed me with loving letters, dear;

Speak of the summer and the sun;

Lest, when the winter-time be done,

Your summer shall have fled away

With me--who had no heart to stay

The slow, sick turning of the year.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF "THROUGH HOLLAND," "LETTERS FROM

MAJORCA," ETC. ETC.

Morlaix awoke to a new day. The sunshine was pouring upon it from a

cloudless sky--a somewhat rare vision in Brittany, where the skies are

more often grey, rain frequently falls, and the land is overshadowed by

mist.

[Illustration: GATEWAY, DINAN.]

So far the climate of Brittany resembles very much that of England: and

many other points of comparison exist between Greater Britain and Lesser

Brittany besides its similarity of name. For even its name it derives

from us; from the fact that in the fifth and sixth centuries the Saxons,

as they choose to call them, went over in great numbers and settled

there. No wonder, then, that the Bretons possess many of our

characteristics, even in exaggeration, for they are direct descendants

of the ancient Britons.

They have, for instance, all the gravity of the English temperament, to

which is added a gloom or sombreness of disposition that is born of

repression and poverty and a long struggle with the ways and means of

existence; to which may yet farther be added the influence of climate.

Hope and ambition, the two great levers of the world, with them are not

largely developed; there has been no opportunity for their growth.

Ambitions cannot exist without an aim, nor hope without an object. Just

as in certain dark caves of the world, where daylight never penetrates,

the fish found there have no eyes, because, from long disuse of the

organ, it has gradually lessened and died out; so hope and ambition

amongst the moral faculties must equally disappear without an object in

life.

It is therefore tolerably certain that where, according to

phrenologists, the organ of Hope is situated, there the Breton head will

be found undeveloped.

Now without hope no one can be constitutionally happy, and the Bretons

would be amongst the unhappiest on earth, just as they are amongst the

most slow-moving, if it were not for a counterbalancing quality which

they own in large excess. This virtue is veneration; and it is this

which saves them.

They are the most earnest and devoted, almost superstitiously religious

of people. They observe their Sabbaths, their fasts and feasts with a

severity and punctuality beyond all praise. With few exceptions, their

churches are very inferior to those of Normandy, but each returning

Sunday finds the Breton churches full of an earnest crowd, evidently

assembled for the purpose of worshipping with their whole heart and

soul. The rapt expression of many of the faces makes them for the moment

simply beautiful, and if an artist could only transfer their fervency to

canvas, he would produce a picture worthy of the masters of the Middle

Ages, and read a lesson to the world far greater than that of an

_Angelus_ or a _Magdalene_.

It is a sight worth going very far to see, these earnest worshippers,

with whom the head is never turned and the eye never wanders. The

further you pass into the interior of Brittany--into the remote

districts of the Morbihan, for instance--where the outer world, with its

advancement and civilization, scarcely seems to have penetrated, there

fervency and devotion are still full of the element of superstition;

there you will find that faith becomes almost synonymous with a strict

observance of prayers, penances and the commands of the Church. When the

Angelus rings out in the evening, you will see the labourer, wending his

way homeward, suddenly arrest his steps in the ploughed field, and with

bent head, pass in silent prayer the dying moments of _crépuscule_.

There will scarcely be an exception to the rule, either in men or women.

The reverence has grown with their growth, having first been born with

them of inheritance: the heritage and the growth of centuries. All over

the country you will find Calvaries erected: huge stone crosses and

images of the Crucifixion, many of them crumbling and beautiful with the

lapse of ages, the stone steps at their base worn with the devotion of

pilgrims: crosses that stand out so solemnly and picturesquely in the

gloaming against the background of the grey, cold Breton skies, and give

a religious tone to the whole country.

The Bretons have ever remained a race apart, possessing their own

language, their own habits, manners and customs; not becoming absorbed

with other nations, nor absorbing in themselves any foreign element.

Separated from Normandy by no visible boundary line, divided by no

broad Channel, the Bretons are as different from the Normans as the

Normans are distinct from the English. They have a high standard of

integrity, of right and wrong, there is the distinct feeling of

_Noblesse oblige_ amongst them; their _noblesse_ consisting in the fact

that, being Breton, _il faut agir loyalement_. If they pass you their

word, you may be sure they will not go from it: it is as good as their

bond. They are a hundred years behind the rest of mankind, but there is

a great charm and a great compensation in their simplicity.

Normandy may be called the country of beautiful churches, Brittany of

beautiful towns.

This is eminently true of Morlaix, for, in spite of the removal of many

an ancient landmark, it is still wonderfully interesting. In situation

it is singularly favoured and romantic, placed as it is on the sides of

three deep ravines. Hills rise on all sides, shutting in the houses;

hills fertile and well-wooded; in many places cultivated and laid out in

gardens, where flowers grow and flourish all the year round, and

orchards that in spring-time are one blaze, one wealth of blossoming

fruit trees.

We looked out upon all this that first morning. Not a wealth of

blossoming trees, for the blossoms were over. But before us stretched

the high hills, and surrounding us were all the houses of Morlaix, old

and new. The sun we have said shone upon all, and we needed all this

brightness to make up for the discomforts of the past night. H.C.

declared that his dreams had been of tread-mills, monastic penances, and

the rack; but he had survived the affliction, and this morning was eager

for action.

It was market-day, and the market-place lay just to the right of us. The

stalls were in full force; the butter and poultry women in strong

evidence, and all the other stalls indigenous to the ceremony. There was

already a fair gathering of people, many of them _paysans_, armed with

umbrellas as stout and clumsy as themselves. For the Bretons know and

mistrust their own climate, and are too well aware that the day of a

brilliant morning too often ends in weeping skies. Many wore costumes

which, though quaint, were not by any means beautiful. They were heavy

and ungraceful, like the people themselves: broad-brimmed hats and loose

trunk hose that hung about them like sacks, something after the fashion

of Turkish pantaloons; and the men wore their hair in huge manes,

hanging down their backs, ugly and untidy; habits, costumes and people

all indicative of la Bretagne Bretonnante--la Basse Bretagne.

It was a lively scene, in which we longed to take a part; listen to the

strange language, watch the ways and manners of this distinctive race,

who certainly are too aboriginal to win upon you at first sight.

The hotel was wide awake this morning, full of life and movement. All

who had had to do with us last night gave us a special greeting. They

seemed to look upon us almost as _enfants de la maison_; had taken us

in and done for us under special circumstances, and so had special

claims upon us. Moreover, we were English, and the English are much

considered in Morlaix.

We looked upon last night's adventures as the events of a dream, though

at the time they had been very painful realities. The first object in

the hotel to meet our gaze was André, his face still tied up like a

mummy, still looking the Image of Misery, as if he and repose had known

nothing of each other since we had parted from him. He was, however,

very anxious for our welfare, and hoped we had slept well on our

impromptu couches.

Next, on descending, we caught sight of Madame, taking the air and

contemplating the world at large at the door of her bureau. The moment

we appeared the air became too strong for her, and she rapidly passed

through her bureau to a sanctum sanctorum beyond, into which, of course,

we could not penetrate. We looked upon this as a tacit confession of a

guilty conscience, and agreed magnanimously to make no further allusion

to her lapsed memory. So when we at length met face to face, she, like

André, was full of amiable inquiries for our health and welfare.

We sallied forth, and whatever we thought of Morlaix last night, we

thought no less of it to-day.