A HASTY REMOVAL.
I HAD taken a short cut across the park in my hurry, but, as so often
happens, my more haste turned out worse speed, for I got among the
springs and had to go back.
I knew there was a path higher up on the hillside, leading through a
very quiet and sequestered part of the domain, and crossing the beck by
a little stone footbridge. I struck into this path and following it,
I came out on a level spot of ground surrounded on all sides by high
trees, where was a little pavilion half in ruins. The place had no very
good name, being tenanted by some of the numerous bogeys with which the
place abounded.
I was therefore the more surprised to hear voices from the interior,
and to recognize one of these voices as Lord Bulmer's. I hesitated a
moment what to do. The path ran close under the window, which however
was raised a good deal on this side, and as the ground was soft, and
the shade very deep, I thought I might slip by unperceived. Just as I
came under the window, I heard Lord Bulmer say—
"Let him alone—let him alone. Let my lady manage; she will give him
no rest till she gets him away to Edinburgh, and then she will take
matters into her own hands."
"And your lordship will not forget to put in a word for me!" said
another voice which I did not know for the moment.
"No, no! You shall have your black-eyed damsel, Dangerfield. 'Tis a
pretty creature, too—far more attractive to my eye than yonder statue
of snow."
I did not wait to hear more, but stole past the window and, once
within the shadow of the wood, I ran like a hare till I reached the
neighborhood of the gardens. As ill-luck would have it, I met my lady
face to face in the gallery.
"So, girl, you have been playing truant!" said she. "I have been
sending to seek you everywhere."
"No, madam!" I answered respectfully, for I always strove to act in
such a way as to give her no handle against me. "Miss Leighton gave me
leave to go out, and I have been to see Mrs. Deborah and the old women
at the village."
"Mrs. Deborah! Mrs. Deborah may find—but that does not matter now. Come
into my room."
I followed her, wondering what could be coming next.
My lady had taken Mrs. Philippa's apartment for her own, and had fitted
it up much in the style of the room in Newcastle, that I remembered
so well; with painted jars and china monsters, and all kinds of
decorations in painting, and shell-work, and flower-work, and all the
other ornamental works that ever were invented. The air was heavy with
the same scents I so well recollected, and warm with a fire burning on
the hearth. My lady threw herself into a great chair and I stood before
her, noticing as I did so, how worn she looked, and how her wonderful
beauty—for it was something wonderful even yet—seemed like a mask put
on to hide the real woman underneath. She always gave me the odd idea
of a spirit of some kind, inhabiting a body that was never made for it.
"Lucy Corbet, sit down!" were her first words. I obeyed, wondering more
and more as she added—
"Child, how pretty you are! Ah, if my poor little Magdalene had lived,
she would have been like you. She was dark, too; but I only had her
five years, and then lost her forever. Ah me."
"Your ladyship may have her again!" I could not help saying. "She is in
the hand of the Lord where no evil can touch her."
"So much the better if she is!" was the abrupt reply. "There, child,
don't talk Methodism to me. I am too old for that sort of thing."
"Surely, no one is too old for the comforts of religion, madam!" I
persisted, impelled by I know not what impulse, but I trust a good one.
"It seems as if such a treasure in Heaven should be a strong magnet to
draw one thitherward."
"Tush!" said my lady sharply and bitterly. "What do I know of Heaven or
care to know? I tell you child, this world is all that we can grasp or
hold. What do we know of the other? This alone is ours."
"For how long, madam?"
She winced at the question.
"There, that will do. You have discharged your conscience, and I wish
to hear no more. Listen to me. I like your spirit, child, and if you
will be obedient to me and help me, I will advance your fortunes and
perhaps protect you from some dangers."
"I trust not to fail in my duty, madam!" I began, but she snapped me up.
"Duty! Nonsense—listen to me. Lucy Corbet, Amabel must marry Lord
Bulmer; she must; there is no help for it. If she or you struggle or
oppose, you will but make matters worse for her. If she gives up with a
good grace, he may be kind to her, for he is greatly in love with her,
though she angers him by her coldness. If she continues her present
conduct, he will revenge it on her, when she is in his power, for marry
him she must."
She paused a moment, and then went on in a lighter tone.
"You must see that it is for Amabel's interest to treat Lord Bulmer
with civility at least, since she must marry him at last. Use your
influence to induce her to do so, and I will reward you for it. A very
good match has been proposed for you, better than you have reason to
hope for, with a wellborn gentleman high in the service of King James.
I will persuade my husband to accept the offer, and will provide for
you like a lady. Refuse to do what I wish, and you will leave this
house, and be separated from Amabel forever—for you may be sure that
Lord Bulmer will suffer no one near his wife who shall oppose his power
over her."
She ceased and sat looking at me with those strange eyes, in a way
which made me think of a story Mr. Thorpe had told us, of certain
poison snakes which draw birds into their mouths by looking at them. I
felt as though a web was being woven round me, taking from me all power
of free motion. I made a vigorous effort, said a short prayer for grace
and direction, and then spoke out.
"Madam, will you please tell me in so many words what it is that you
would have me do; then I can tell whether it is in my power or not?"
"Frankly spoken," returned my lady, apparently not ill-pleased. "I will
have you use your influence with Amabel to give up Mr. Cheriton and
consent to marry Lord Bulmer. Tell her that you have received certain
news of her lover's infidelity and his approaching marriage. Work on
her pride, of which she has abundance, and shame her out of caring
for a man who has ceased to care for her. Tell her that Lord Bulmer
has promised never to interfere with her religion, and that he also
promises her every indulgence, even to having you live with her, if you
do not marry."
"And if I refuse to do this?" said I.
"Then you leave this house forever!" she answered, suddenly and
sharply. "There, I do not wish to hear your decision now. Go and think
about it. Remember, girl, that I have your life and character in my
hand—in my hand!" she repeated, shutting her small, thin hand, as if
she would crush something she held within. "Now go, and come when I
send for you!"
I made my curtsy and withdrew to our room. Amabel was not there, having
gone out riding with her father, whom she strove carefully to please in
all things.
I was not sorry to be alone. What a wave of temptation rolled in upon
me! Suppose I were to refuse obedience to my lady, what would be the
result? I should be separated from Amabel, my second self, never,
perhaps, to see her again. My reputation would be ruined. I knew enough
of my lady to know that she would not scruple to tell any story about
me, and I also knew that the fact of living under her roof would be no
advantage to me.
On the other hand, if Amabel married Lord Bulmer it would be no more
than hundreds of girls did every year at the bidding of their parents.
He had been a bad man, no doubt, but not worse than many other young
men. He was very much in love with Amabel, that was plain to be seen,
and she might have such an influence over him as to reform him. I had
heard and read of such things. She would have every thing that the
world has to give, and, if she were not interfered with in religious
matters, why could she not happy after all?
Mr. Cheriton had not written to her, though he might easily have sent a
note in Mrs. Thorpe's letter to me. Perhaps what my lady said was true,
and he was going to marry some one else.
How long I sat pondering these things I do not know, but I was roused
by the sound of the noon bell—the Angelus—which was always rung at
Highbeck when the lord of the manor was at home. In a moment, a clear
vision arose before me. I seemed to be standing once more in the old
convent vault, holding fast to Mother Superior's hand, and gazing with
awe and dread at that sullen and dismal pool, whose black waters hardly
reflected the gleams of the lantern. I smelled the strange damp odor
of the vault. I felt the soft and sticky ground under my feet, which
seemed to catch and hold me fast, and I heard dear mother's sweet and
solemn voice saying—
"This is the pit of destruction, and every willful sin brings you
nearer to it."
The spell was broken. I sprang from my seat and walked rapidly up and
down the room. How could I for a moment have dreamed of such a thing?
What good would it have done if I had consented. I should not have
moved Amabel one hair's breadth, and I should have lost her friendship
forever. I should have been doing the devil's own work, to be paid with
his wages.
No, it never could be, whatever the consequence to her or to me. I
could not do this great wickedness and sin against God. The straight
path was the only safe path, and, though it might seem to be hedged
with briars and built up with stones, I must follow it. Through
whatever scenes of trouble it might lead me in this world, the end was
sure.
Then the tempter would try me on the other side. Was I quite sure which
was the right path? Were not children to obey their parents? Would
not Amabel have great means of doing good? Was not I myself throwing
away chances of usefulness such as I might never have again? Was I not
dishonoring my Christian profession by abetting Amabel's disobedience,
and suffering a slur to be cast on my own good name? Had I not been
taught by my former spiritual guides that falsehood was a venial sin,
and might even become a virtue in the cause of religion?
But I knew now who was speaking to me, and how to answer him. I threw
myself on my knees and prayed earnestly for help and direction, and I
had it. It could never be right to do evil that good might come. I did
not believe that Mr. Cheriton was unfaithful. I had evidence to the
contrary under my hand, and I should be a base liar and slanderer if I
told Amabel what I did not myself believe. No, come what might, I must
be true to her, to my Master, to myself. Oh, if she would only come in,
that I might speak to her, that I might warn her, that I might tell her
what I had heard!
I thought for a moment what it was best for me to do. I took Mrs.
Thorpe's letter, folded it small, and put it into Amabel's prayer-book,
where she would be sure to find it. I wrote a few words to her,
telling her that I might be sent away from her for a time, begging
her to believe that I could not help it, and telling her that I would
communicate with her if possible.
I had hardly finished these preparations when my lady's French woman
knocked at the door, and told me I was to go to her mistress at once. I
found my lady sitting where I had left her. She bade me be seated, and
signed to her woman to withdraw.
"Well, Lucy Corbet, have you considered this matter?"
"I have, madam."
"And what is the answer?"
"The answer is No, madam!" I replied, with a firmness that surprised
myself. "I have looked at the thing on all sides, and have come to the
conclusion that I cannot serve you in this matter."
"Then the thing will be done without you, that is all!" said my lady
coolly, though she looked disconcerted. "The thing will be done all the
same, and you will lose the profit—that is all!"
"What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose
his own soul?" The words seemed to come without any will of mine.
My lady looked taken aback, but she recovered herself in a moment.
"Nonsense, child? Leave such dreams and delusions to the vulgar, and
those who have their living to make thereby. I tell you again, girl,
this world is all we can grasp,—all that we can make sure of. Let us
make ourselves happy here, and leave the next, if there be any next—to
care for itself!"
"Your ladyship is happy here, then!"
"What do you mean? How dare you—" said she, strangely agitated for a
moment. Then resuming her lofty and careless demeanor, "Think well,
Lucy Corbet—think well, before you speak! Is this your final answer?"
"It is madam!" I replied, though a sharp pain seemed to rend my heart
as I thought of all my words involved. "I cannot help you in this
matter."
"Then you leave this house on the instant!" said my lady, sternly.
"Taking with you my own and my husband's anger, and what relics of
character your escapades here and in Newcastle have left you. You
whom my husband, in his folly, has educated to be a fine lady at his
expense. You shall learn what it is to be without a home."
Much more she said, which I will not set down here, calling me a beggar
more than once.
"Not quite a beggar, madam, since Sir Julius has always drawn two
hundred a year from my father's estate!" said I, as she paused from
sheer lack of breath.
"As to what you threaten, I am in the hands of One who knows my
innocence, and will not let my enemies triumph, even though they may
seem to do so for a time. Oh, my lady, think, think of what you are
doing before you take the last downward step that may make return
impossible. Think of your own child in heaven, and of how you would
have had her dealt by, before you go any farther. I do not speak for
myself, though in driving me from my foster-sister, you are breaking
both our hearts. I have both means and friends, who will not see me
wronged."
"But think—oh think. The Judge even now stands before the door. Even
now your hour may have struck, and the world you so love may be
slipping from under your feet. Whose then will those things be which
you have provided? What pleasure will they give you when you lie cold
in death on yonder bed, and cannot raise so much as an eyelid to see or
a finger to touch one of them? You might be so happy with Amabel, if
you would. She would be to you all your own child might have been, if
you would but let her. You know Lord Bulmer to be a wicked, hard, cruel
man—you know it? Oh, do not sin by putting into his power the child the
good Lord has given you, to make up for the one he took away, and to
lead you to Heaven!"
My lady listened without interrupting me, and I almost thought she
was going to yield. But she did not, though I believe her good angel
whispered to her. Her face, which had softened for a moment, grew
hard as stone, and her eyes shone balefully, while her red lips were
compressed to a thread. She stood for a moment at the parting of two
ways. Then she deliberately chose the wrong one, and walked on to her
ruin. She would have the world for her portion, and she had it.
"You will leave this house at once!" said she, taking out her purse
as she spoke. "Wilson will send your clothes after you wherever you
choose. If Amabel ever speaks to you again, I will send her where she
shall learn that there are worse things than step-mothers. But I do not
wish to expose you to temptation by sending you away penniless. What
wages are owing to you?"
My Cornish blood flashed up at this gratuitous insult.
"Thy money perish with thee!" said I. "I have enough of my own, but
if I were starving, I would take nothing from your hand. As to my
character, perhaps Mrs. Deborah's countenance may go as far in the
country as Lady Throckmorton's."
I don't defend myself in saying this. It was not according to the
spirit of meekness and it was foolish besides, for it lost me the
advantage I had while I kept cool. But however unwisely sped, the arrow
reached its mark and found a joint in the armor. Scarcely one of the
county ladies had called upon Lady Leighton.
"You defy me, do you?" said she.
"No!" I replied, recalled to myself. "I was wrong to speak so. Not that
I fear you, Lady Leighton. But I want nothing from this house save what
is rightly mine. I have not wrought for gold, and I have no debts to
put me in any man's power."
She winced at this, I could see, but answered haughtily.
"I am not here to bandy words with a discharged waiting-maid. Go and
put your things together—such as you need at once. The rest I will give
orders about. Leave this house within half an hour, or I will order the
men to put you forth, like what you are!"
It showed the essentially cruel nature of the woman, that she should
add this insult to the injury she had already done me.
And it was to her that I must leave my love, my lily, my other self. I
can hardly recall, even now, without sickness of heart, the feelings
with which I gathered together so many of my possessions as I could
conveniently carry. I had not finished when Mrs. Wilson came to the
room followed by the French waiting-woman.
"So Miss Corbet, I always said pride would have a fall!" said she, in
her old insolent tone, which she had not used toward me for many a day.
"Just be pleased to separate your things from Miss Leighton's, will
you? Fine doings, when a young lady and her waiting-woman keep their
clothes together in the same drawers. But there will be an end of all
that now."
I did not answer, but stepped into the closet to take my Bible and
Prayer-book. Wilson followed me, and, shutting the door as if by
accident, she seized my hand and whispered—
"Poor thing, I know how it is. Don't you take it too much to heart, but
keep up your spirits, and I will look after your things, and send all
safe. I dared not speak before that French spy."
Then aloud. "I cannot let you take that, Miss Corbet—not till I have
Miss Leighton's leave—"
"Wilson, if I have ever done you a good turn, be kind to Miss
Leighton!" I whispered.
"I will, I will, and it shall go hard, but I will get you news of her.
What shall I tell her?"
"Tell her I was sent away—that they would not let me stay to see her. I
am going to Mrs. Deborah."
"Quite right. I'll befriend her, if only to save my poor dear lady
from sinning—don't be too hard on her, Miss Corbet. She is in trouble
herself."
Then aloud again. "There, you have had time enough, in all conscience."
So pack off.
"No, I don't want any money, Miss—" as I offered her a gold piece I had
in my pocket. "There, go. I'd say God bless you, if I dared."
"God bless you, Wilson, and teach you to know and follow Him!" said I.
I followed her down stairs carrying my basket. As I left the Hall, I
had just a glimpse of Amabel, flushed with exercise and looking more
cheerful than I had seen her for a long time. Oh, for one word. But I
dared not linger, and I turned away. Two or three of the men laughed
sneeringly as they saw me go forth, and one of them made an insolent
remark, whereat Harry, the only footman who had remained behind when
Richard left, turned on him and knocked him down into a particularly
thorny rosebush.
"Take that for your impudence to a young lady!" said he, and then
coming to my side. "Let me carry your parcels for you, Miss Corbet!"
"Thank you, Harry, but I fear you will get into trouble with my lady,
and perhaps lose your place!"
"I don't care that for my place!" said Harry, snapping his fingers.
"Besides, I have given warning already. I don't care to stay in this
house as things go now. I wasn't brought up to such things and I don't
care about getting used to 'em."
So saying, he fell behind and carried my bundles all the way to the
Little House.
Mrs. Deborah was in her little garden gathering some late flowers, and
she looked up, surprised enough to see me so soon again. Then observing
Harry with his load, and perhaps seeing something in my face which
told her the story, she opened her arms to me. I fell on her faithful
breast, and the anguish which had been rending my heart found a
merciful vent in a tempest of tears and sobs. Mrs. Deborah led me into
her little parlor, seated me on the sofa, and putting her arms about
me, she let me weep my full before she asked me a single question.
Then, as I grew calmer by degrees, she drew from me the story of my
expulsion from the Hall.
"She is a wicked woman, and you are well out of her hands!" said Mrs.
Deborah. "As to your character, I do not think you have much to fear
upon that score!"
"It is not myself that I think about?" I replied. "I would willingly
bear all she can inflict, to save Amabel out of her hands."
"We must ask God's help for her," said Mrs. Deborah, solemnly. "I know
no better way at present—or at any time."
"But, oh, Mrs. Deborah, what can Sir Julius be thinking of?" I cried.
"How can he let his daughter be so sacrificed?"
Mrs. Deborah's brow darkened. "Child, it is the curse of our house,"
said she abruptly, "that the men should be wholly governed by some
woman or other. His father was so before him, as I know to my cost. My
father married a second time, and his wife—Julius's mother—so drew his
heart away from his elder children that he had hardly a kind word for
us, and would have utterly disinherited us had it been in his power. My
brother's second wife was not a lady, but she was a kind, good woman
and would have been a good friend to the child had she but lived. But
it was not God's will."
"The question is, what is to be done now!" said I, with a little
impatience, I fear.
"We can make no move at present," replied Mrs. Deborah. "All we can do
is to wait. My poor child, it is hard upon you, I know, but you must
see that we must act, if at all, with great caution. Amabel is in her
father's hands and under his roof, and we have no right to interfere,
so long as she is not in actual danger. Take patience, my poor child,
take patience. 'Tis the woman's medicine?"
With that, I fell to crying again, and grew so hysterical that Mrs.
Deborah made haste to put me to bed, and dose me with hartshorn. I was
not given to such attacks, but I was overcome with grief and fatigue. I
quieted myself as soon as I could, and after awhile I fell asleep, and
awoke somewhat refreshed and composed.
I lay a long time thinking over all that had happened. I did not see
how I could have acted otherwise. Even had I dissembled with my lady,
and promised to use my influence for her when I did not intend to do
so, she would soon have found me out, for her eyes were everywhere, and
her French waiting-maid was a ready and willing spy. No, I could not
have done otherwise.
For myself, as I said, I had no cares or fears. Mrs. Deborah would give
me a home as long as I needed one, and so I did not doubt would Mrs.
Brown, were it only to spite her brother's wife, and then there was Mr.
Carey in Exeter. True, it was a long way off, but others had made the
journey and why not I. Again, there was Mrs. Thorpe in Newcastle, and
the old lady of Thornyhaugh. Oh yes, I had a plenty of friends.
But Amabel! To have her so near me, and yet out of my reach, and beyond
my help. It did seem to me that the thought was intolerable, and I
cried aloud in my anguish. Then at last I betook myself to that place
whither I should have gone at first. I laid my case before Him, who has
promised to be the friend of the oppressed and the orphan, told Him all
my woe, and besought His help. I laid my dear one at His feet, as a
mother of old might have brought her suffering babe to the Lord Jesus,
and besought Him to have a care over her. Having thus calmed myself, I
arose, dressed, and went down to seek Mrs. Deborah.
It was near evening, and the level sun was shining into the south and
west windows and lighting up the low rooms. Mrs. Deborah had brought
away so many of her own and Mrs. Chloe's personal matters, that the
little sitting-room had a curiously familiar look, as we see in a dream
a well-known place which we know to be the same, though it not in the
least like the reality.
Mrs. Deborah was sitting with her knitting as of old. She called me
to a seat beside her, and seeing that I had no work, she opened a
drawer, and took out something that carried me back to the old inn at
Newcastle—Mrs. Chloe's bed-quilt knitting.
"There child, you may work at that at odd minutes, if you like. It does
very well to take up when you have nothing else to do, and I should
like to see the quilt finished."
We talked long and earnestly over Amabel's affairs, but when our
conversation was broken off by a call to supper, we could arrive at
no other conclusion than that we had already come to—namely, that we
must wait and let matters take their course for the present. We had
not finished our meal when we heard horses' feet outside, and were
surprised by the entrance of Sir Julius.
With all reverence, I must say the great man reminded me of nothing so
much as of a dog, that has to face his master with a stolen joint of
meat on his conscience. In vain did Sir Julius strut and frown and try
to look big and impressive. He was cowed under his sister's gray eyes
and black brows, and looked as though he expected every moment to be
taken across the old lady's knee and disciplined with her slipper.
He took on an elevated tone of reproof toward me at first, and talked
of ingratitude and the expense he had been put to on my account; but
he came down from his high horse rather suddenly when Mrs. Deborah
remarked, drily, that my father's rents must have a good deal more than
paid all the cost of my education, and that no doubt he would be ready
to account for the surplus, when called upon to do so.
"And pray, Sister Deborah, who is to call me to any such account?"
"Perhaps Lucy herself, when she comes of age, or possibly Mr. Carey,
her trustee, under her uncle's will."
This was news to Sir Julius; he eagerly inquired what his sister meant,
and received an account of Mr. Andrew Corbet's will. He asked to see
the letter, and I showed it to him.
"And you must take just this time to quarrel with my lady!" said he,
irritably. "Why could not you let her say her say, and keep quiet?"
"Because she would not let me!" I answered. "I have ever treated her
with respect as you know, but when she came to require of me to be
downright false to myself and treacherous to Amabel—"
"Oh, false and treacherous!" he broke in peevishly, repeating my words.
"Could you not temporise a little? But you and Amabel have got your
heads full of Methodistical notions, and you are wiser in your own
conceits than ten men that can render a reason."
"They might be that, and not be absolute Solomons, were the reason no
better than some men's!" said Mrs. Deborah, drily.
"And I had such a good match for you, and have pledged my word to
Bulmer that you should marry Dangerfield—and what am I to say to him?"
I did not see that I was called upon to furnish Sir Julius with words,
so I remained silent and knitted as though all my energies were given
to the square of cotton in my hands.
Sir Julius fussed and fumed and swore, and stalked about, and getting
no help from either of us, he suddenly changed his tone, and began to
coax me to come back to the Hall. He would make my peace with my lady.
Dangerfield was a gallant gentleman, and a great favorite with the
prince and King James. He was sure to rise, and I might be a countess
before I died. Amabel and I were two silly girls, quarrelling with our
bread and butter. He wished to Heaven he had left us in our convent.
Then, growing angry again, he vowed that Amabel at least should bend to
his will, and with that, he dashed away.
The next morning early, long before day, I was waked by the trampling
of many horses, and the sound of subdued talking. I rose, and looked
out of my window, which commanded a view of the road. By the bright
moonlight, I saw a train of horsemen. There were about thirty in all,
and Sir Julius rode at their head. I looked eagerly to see if Lord
Bulmer was among the riders. He was a very big man, head and shoulders
above any other man about the place, and looked especially tall on
horseback; but I saw nobody that I could take for him.
I could not sleep again, and the moment I heard Mrs. Deborah stirring,
I went to her room and told her what I had seen.
"He has gone then!" said Mrs. Deborah. "He has cast in his lot with
this young adventurer, and who knows whether he will ever return? I
ought to rejoice in his loyalty and courage, but something seems to
tell me he is influenced neither by one nor the other, but by base
subserviency to the will of a wicked woman."
"Nay, madam!" said I. "Sir Julius has always expressed the warmest
devotion to King James and the prince. One ought not to think the worse
of a good cause because it is espoused by a wicked person."
In my heart, I was by no means sure of the goodness of the cause. All
Mrs. Deborah's lessons—all my reading in Clarendon, Ken, and Sancroft,
had not convinced me of the divine right of kings, and the duty of
absolute, passive obedience to their will; nor had they impressed me
with any very exalted notions of the virtues of the Stuart family, but
I was willing to comfort my dear old friend so far as was possible. My
own heart was full of anxiety for Amabel, left as she was in the power
of her enemies, without even the feeble support of her father's regard.
"Well, Amabel will at least be left in peace for awhile," said Mrs.
Deborah, after a pause. "No doubt Lord Bulmer will have accompanied my
brother."
"He was not with him this morning, I am sure," I replied, and gave my
reasons.
"Even were it so, they will not drive on the business during my
brother's absence."
"I am not so sure of that either," said I.
"She would never be so bold."
I believed Lady Leighton bold enough for anything, and said so,
telling Mrs. Deborah what I had heard in my walk. I did not add what I
thought—that Sir Julius had gone away on purpose to leave matters in
the hands of his wife. One hesitates before telling a sister that her
only brother, the head of her house, is a base coward, even though one
may be convinced that she knows as much already.
[Illustration]