CHAPTER XII.

It was easy for us to understand the cause of my father's sudden

illness and death, when we came to enquire into our financial

condition. The family treasury had been well-nigh emptied of its

contents, by a series of pecuniary losses that had been sustained

unknown to us by my unfortunate father previous to his demise. He had

risked his money with good motives and a hopeful outlook, but the

realization had brought such a merciless contradiction to his sanguine

expectations that he gave way under the cruel and unlooked for blow,

and passed out of the medley and confusion in which he had been thrown

by Fate to grope his way unaided and alone. Although we were no longer

what the world calls rich, we were by no means left destitute or poor.

We were, of course, called upon by the exigencies of our altered

circumstances to make many sacrifices. As this was an inevitable

necessity, it was as well for us to put our shoulders bravely and

generously to the wheel and accept the decree with a respectful

resignation. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away" and men's

defiant or wailing attitudes under an unexpected visitation of

adversity only re-act to their own ultimate prejudice and do not

lessen the heavy burden by a feather-weight.

My step-mother took a rather sensible though worldly view of her

position. She silently resolved that if abnegation were at all

compulsory, and sacrifices demanded by the new tide of affairs, they

would of course be practised, but not where the eye of curious pity

could penetrate.

The world, that had honored and respected her as the wife of a wealthy

man, should never through any fault of hers gain an insight into her

reversed fortunes. This very consciousness, that she had the

scrutinizing eye of society to deceive and a deep misery to veneer

with smooth words and a false glitter, that a fashionable pity had to

be defied and coldly rejected, lent her a heroic fortitude, schooled

her to a forbearance worthy of less sordid motives and flavoured her

very misfortunes with a vital determination that half-soothed the pain

they naturally inflicted.

In the first sad hours of our bereavement we were comforted and

consoled by many friends. I believe that my father was universally

mourned as a good citizen, of sterling worth; he had been no man's

enemy, and had served a goodly number of his fellow-creatures nobly

and generously, without ostentation or self-glory. He was ever a

careful and indulgent, though not an affectionate parent, and now that

he was gone I could afford to interpret his indifference, even in this

way, in a new and more partial manner. He had had no conception of

what the needs of a clinging, susceptible heart may be, and

transgressed entirely out of his ignorance and not through any wilful

intent to make his coldness or carelessness keenly felt.

We never know what our true estimate of any one is until he or she has

been removed beyond the power of our amending or repentant love. If

such a one be called beyond that bourne whence there is no coming

back, how soft, and hallowed, and subdued a light is shed by our

tender, respectful, and sorrowing memory upon what once had been

incentives to our unforgiving and deeply injured pride. If such a one

be cast by accident of circumstances or fate so far away from the

yearning glance of our regretful eyes, so far beyond that pass, where

pleading, human voices become lost in thousand-tongued confusions, how

changed the once bright picture of our lives becomes; how vain and

purposeless all other aims, save that which, with the powerful

strength of a hope that is half despair, pursues the object of our

rash unkindness, with outstretched hands and plaintive tone,

beseeching for a pardon that may never greet our mortal ears? I, who

had lived an obstinate alien from the love and devotion of my parent,

who never went outside the narrow, rigid circle of my unyielding pride

to tempt or merit his regard, now felt a great void left within my

heart which nothing on earth could ever fill again.

When the veil of my former prejudice was rent asunder, and I could

only see the still white features and the folded hands of him from

whose timid love I had become a voluntary exile, how I hated the

sensitive young heart that had turned away in cold rebellion, when its

duty was to glow with an undaunted, even servile fidelity.

Perhaps it was because I found myself so utterly alone, for this death

closed up the narrow by-ways of mutual sympathy that had ever existed

between the widowed Mrs. Hampden and myself. An elder brother of hers

had come to attend her husband's funeral, and had evinced the deepest

and most exclusive solicitude and compassion for her in her

bereavement. He took an intense interest in Fred, holding him at arm's

length for a flattering inspection of his physical perfections, and

looked upon me as some curious outside appendage to the family

pretensions.

They revelled in one another's sustaining sympathy and love, holding

confidential councils by themselves for hours at a time in my late

father's library. I was not intruded upon in my early grief by their

condolences or companionship, they left me uninterrupted to my

broodings and my tears, as if I had not the same right to the

privileges of investigating our altered affairs as they.

Oh, how slow and how weary are those moments of solitary anguish, when

the great tide of universal sympathy is ebbing from us in our grief!

How oppressive the silence of suffering when no soothing accent of

tender and comforting encouragement breaks upon our listening,

impatient ears! How feeble the heart when no helping hand is nigh! How

cheerless the prospect upon which the smile of a sustaining love has

ceased to play!

About a fortnight after the funeral, on a gloomy October day, as I sat

by the window in the privacy of my own room, looking out at falling

leaves, and fading flowers, and drifting clouds, old Hannah rapped

timidly at the door and informed me that "Mrs. Hampden and the

gentleman would like to see me down stairs."

I arose listlessly and sauntered down to the library where they had

all three been just assembled in solemn conclave. My step-mother, in

her fresh black costume and stiff white cap, was seated in a rocking

chair near the door, wearing a placid look of the most harmless and

innocent neutrality: her solicitous brother occupied the extreme outer

margin of a chair by the centre-table, on which his bony hands with

their well-trimmed finger nails were modestly resting, becomingly

folded. The hind legs of his sparingly patronized seat were thrust

into the air by the weight of his high-bred humanity being entirely

deposited upon the front ones. Fred occupied the sofa, where he was

comfortably stretched at full length, with his arms thrown carelessly

over his head which was resting tenderly in his palms.

When I came into the room the three pairs of eyes were simultaneously

turned towards me. My step-mother gave me a gradual look beginning

with the hem of my skirts and reaching my serious face by slow

degrees. Her solicitous brother, without apology or explanation,

lowered his spectacles which, during the family conference, had been

shoved up on his capacious brow, and directed an unflinching stare at

me in the vicinity of my eyes. Fred, who could not take me all in at

once without disturbing himself somewhat, satisfied himself with a

full gaze upon as much of my outline as was easily defined in his

recumbent attitude.

"Have you sent for me?" I asked, indifferently, not addressing anyone

in particular, my aim being merely to break the monotonous silence

which prevailed during my inspection.

The solicitous brother dropped his lower jaw as if he intended to

answer me, after he had given me to understand that I had either

shocked or surprised him very much, or both, and said

"--a--yes, young lady--yes, we have sent for you--a--be seated, young

lady, be seated," he continued, disengaging his modest hands from

their becoming, mutual clasp, and waving one in a graceful, curved

line towards an unoccupied seat in a remote end of the room.

"We think it our duty," he began, in a sepulchral monotone, fastening

his spectacles upon me as if he intended to add, "to frighten you out

of your very wits," which was a rash presumption on my part, however,

for he only said, "to submit to you the result of our careful

investigation into the affairs of your late lamented father." I nodded

a quiet assent, my step-mother pressed a deep-bordered handkerchief to

her eyes, and Fred looked vacantly at the pattern on the wall.

"As you are aware," he continued, clearing his throat which had grown

somewhat rusty from his pompous exordium "the late respected gentleman

in question did not leave matters in as satisfactory a condition as

might have been desired--in fact--eh--well, altogether, the residue of

his once considerable fortune makes but a paltry annuity for his

bereaved survivors. Were Mrs. Hampden the only claimant she would even

then have but a widow's mite, but there are others, unf--others, as

you know, these others, ahem, ahem, of course, have a sort of right to

a reasonable share, although they have youth and energy on their side,

which she has not--however--that is not the point," he put in hastily,

as he detected an uneasy gesture from the object of his solicitude.

"The subject which we have to submit to your consideration, young

lady, is this--we have decided that in her present condition of health

and spirits, Mrs. Hampden is unfit to remain here in the gloomy

presence of depressing associations--in fact it is a question whether

she shall ever be able to resume her domestic duties in this place,"

here the handkerchief with the deep border was again produced, and the

doleful widowed countenance buried in its folds. "We deem it

advisable," said the solicitous brother, casting a look of tender,

heart-stirring compassion upon his afflicted relative, "to remove her

to her native town, where her surroundings will be less suggestive of

the recent heavy loss she has been called upon to sustain, and where

her crushed energies may regain some of their old buoyancy." The

shapely shoulders of the afflicted relative shook with convulsive

sobs, after which melancholy interruptions the solicitous brother

proceeded in a less feeling and more business-like tone.

"As circumstances have kept you estranged from the friends and

immediate relatives of your late father's surviving wife, we feared

you might not be willing to accompany her on this journey. Her son, of

course, would not desert her in any case just now but being still

under age, must submit himself to her immediate guardianship,

therefore, young woman, if you have any particular friends or

relatives of your own whom you would like to visit for an indefinite

time, we beg that you notify them and prepare yourself as soon as

possible. It is Mrs. Hampden's desire that the furniture be disposed

of for safe-keeping, and the house carefully locked and secured before

her departure; I trust, therefore, that you will not delay in

considering the subject, and that you will kindly submit your decision

to us as soon as possible."

There was a dead silence for a few moments after this eloquent

address.

"Is that all?" I then asked coldly and firmly, rising from my seat,

and looking at him straight in the face.

"A--ahem--yes, young lady. I think there is no other point left to be

discussed" the solicitous brother simpered, dropping the hind legs of

his chair and coming towards the door to escort me, and "I trust you

will not experience any inconvenience" he added in a half conciliatory

tone--"we lost no time--eh--in making known our decision to you."

"Oh, you are very kind and considerate. I shall always feel deeply

indebted to you!" I retorted quietly as I swept past him, out of the

room.

I went back to my vacant seat by the window, and threw myself wearily

into it--then--it had come to this--that I was politely turned out of

my own home with no option, no alternative but to seek whatever

shelter I best could find among strangers! It was hard, to be left at

the mercy of such a bitter fate as this! So young, so friendless, so

proud, and a woman!

I did not burst into tears at the melancholy realization, tears were a

mockery then: there was too much fire flaming in my eyes, and boiling

my blood with indignation; my bosom heaved with quick-drawn sighs, and

my lips were smiling in angry scorn. This, then was the result of

their secret conferences, to get rid of me! It was not a difficult

task, if they only knew it, for my pride would fight more than half

their battles for them, and carry me anywhere, to the farthermost

corner of the earth, rather than see me trespass upon their privacy or

interfere with their selfish plans. I was their toy, their tool, they

were not honest enough to challenge me in fair and open combat, they

plotted without me, and behind my back, I would not buckle on my

sword, for so unworthy an engagement, no matter what the issue cost

me. I would let them carry the day. It is the only kind of triumph

designing heroes ever know, and we who are above the cowards'

subterfuge, can well afford to give them this, we would not have it

said, we stood to meet them, lest it might be inferred, that we had

come down from the pedestal of our untarnished dignity, to their

inglorious level.

But these boisterous reflections soon became spent. I could not afford

to be quite so defiant, I, who was alone in the wide world? A serious

duty lay before me, the future, with its burden of uncertain sorrows

lay at my feet, the past was nothing to me now, but a receding vision

of happiness more secure than any I was ever likely to know again. I

must go in search of a home, where would I turn my eyes? North, South,

East or West? they were all strange alike to me? I thought of

Hortense, and my parting promise to her, but there was no comfort in

the remembrance of it now. Any other test of friendship but this! How

could I live under one roof with uncongenial souls like Bayard de

Beaumont? How did I know whether they would welcome me now, when I was

homeless, and in a sense dependent?

I thought of the dear, distant Abbey, where I had passed the happiest

days of my not over-happy life--but it was now some years since I had

left its safe seclusion, and those who had known me and cared for me,

were likely scattered and gone.

I would be greeted with that reserved kindness which good stranger

hearts extend to any homeless waif--and that, would be worse than all!

I thought of my fashionable companions, who had pampered me, and

courted me, in my palmy days. How different they all appeared to me

now, when I was in need of their kindness and favour! Alice Merivale

was away, pleasuring in England, the Hartmanns! the Hunters! the

Pendletons! what a cold shoulder they would turn to me, any of them,

did I seek their shelter in comparative poverty!

And even if they welcomed me, and ministered to my every want, could I

rest quietly beneath their roofs? Could I subdue my rebellious pride

and accept their patronage humbly and gratefully "Ah no," said I,

rising up, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I must think of some other plan,

none of these would ever do?"

While I was yet standing in deliberation by the window, the door

opened softly, and my step-mother glided in. I turned, and looked at

her for a moment, as she advanced towards me and then directed my gaze

back again in silence to the street below. She came nearer and laid

her thin hand upon my shoulder. I recoiled involuntarily.

"Amey" she began in the gentle tones of an eager peace maker, "I have

come to talk to you a little about the subject just mentioned by my

brother."

"Is there anything he left out, pray?" I interrupted incisively.

"No," she answered reproachfully, "but you may not understand our

motives properly?"

"Through no fault of his then," I muttered half savagely, "he was most

explicit, I thought!"

"You are inclined to be unfair to us Amey, and we are trying to do

everything for the best," said my step-mother persuasively.

"That depends on what you mean, by _the best_" I interrupted curtly.

"We mean, the welfare of all concerned," she broke in, "my brother

insists upon my returning with him, and Freddie will, of course,

accompany me. So might you," she added courteously, "but I think it

would not be wise. You would not be happy among my relatives, of that

I am sure. So we think, that leaving you the option of a choice from

among your own numerous friends, is the most discreet policy of all."

"You are very kind," said I, with choking sarcasm, "to have thought of

me at all. You might have given me up with the furniture for

safe-keeping, or locked me securely away here in the house until your

return."

"Don't be so unkind, Amey," my step-mother pleaded amicably, "you

ought to know, that I am concerned in your welfare and will not leave

here, until I see you comfortably lodged."

"Like the furniture?" said I.

She did not answer this with words, but I felt her scrutinizing look

directed full upon me, I knew I was in a most uncharitable and

provoking mood, but I was not responsible, heaven knows, for what I

said or did under such maddening influences. I did not want to give

full vent to my momentary hatred and indignation, and as my step

mother's attitude was tempting me strongly to indulge both, I turned,

and said as calmly as I could:

"Have you anything in particular to say to me, that I have not heard

before? If not, I think we had better separate!"

"I thought you would not object to discuss our projected plans, a

little, with me," she answered with a subdued peevishness. "If you

were not so cold and proud, I would like to offer you a few

suggestions and in some way prove to you, that my guardianship,

limited though it may be, is not merely a formal responsibility."

"What would you have me do?"

"I can't say definitely--but if you would only rouse yourself to a

full realization of your position, there is a great deal in your power

to do. You are an orphan now, and reject my authority in every way--it

is evident that we can never be friends. Why don't you look about you,

for love and devotion that will make a happy substitute for what you

have lost? You are no longer a child; you are quite able to face the

more serious responsibilities of life. If you gave your present

attention to this, there would be no necessity for your going among

strangers."

"If I gave my attention to what?" I interrupted sullenly.

"You understand me very well--if you wished, you could make yourself

very comfortable. Some of the best chances which the city affords are

within your reach; other girls would not need to have them pointed out

so."

"I suppose you mean marriage!" I said indifferently. "Well, there is

just this difference between me and other girls, on this point, _I_

shall never choose matrimony as the lesser of two evils. I shall never

seek it as a refuge, nor grasp it as a ready alternative; _I_ have

been brought up to look upon it as a sacrament, of course, I must

allow for that," I added pointedly.

"That is a very high-sounding principle indeed," she replied, "but it

can hardly be applied just now. You can't help the issues of fate, and

if you were worthy of men's special admiration and love before this, I

suppose a change in your condition, or in the outward circumstances

that affect you but indirectly, can make no difference--" She stopped,

and after an effective pause added, "It will make none to Arthur

Campbell, anyway, of that I am sure."

"Arthur Campbell has never asked me to become his wife," I broke in

emphatically.

"That is your own fault. You have not given him proper encouragement."

"No, because I am not at all certain that I would accept him."

"Then you are a fool," she cried out warmly and indignantly, "and you

deserve your lot. He is everything that one could wish, as far as

wealth and appearance, and family and rank, are concerned. He was,

moreover, a favorite of your poor father's and his friend to the end,"

she added with a tremulous voice, "and your poor father often spoke of

you being married to Arthur Campbell," she continued, persuasively, "I

heard him say it time and again."

"My father said this, you are sure," I exclaimed, looking eagerly into

her face.

"He did indeed, I remember well having heard him," she answered with

deep emphasis.

"But, my father did not know," I began in a low murmur, looking

wistfully out at the yellow leaves and fleeting clouds. I stopped

suddenly, remembering that I was not alone. Before either of us could

speak again Hannah appeared in the doorway with the afternoon mail

between her hands.

This interrupted our _tete-a-tete_. My step-mother took the bundle of

letters, from which she handed me three, and went away to share the

contents of her own with her sympathetic relatives below. Two of mine

were familiar to me; one bearing an English post-mark was from Alice

Merivale, the other was Hortense's dear writing.

I tore them open and, resuming my seat, read them leisurely. How

different they were in every respect! One the effusion of a worldly,

artful, diplomatic beauty, the other an earnest interpretation of the

loving, ardent sentiments of a whole-souled emotional child woman.

Alice had not yet heard of my father's death, and her closely-written

pages told tales of fashionable pleasures and distractions of every

sort. She had yachted and hunted, and bathed and danced, she had dined

with the pompous Lord Mayor of London; she had hung on the braided

coat sleeve of high military relics of modern antiquity, and had been

kissed on both cheeks by all the wrinkled-lipped dowagers of the

surrounding country.

She had been riding and driving, eating and drinking, walking and

talking, with magnates of every age, sex and condition. "At first it

perfectly appalled me, Amey love," she wrote in her strange, facetious

way, "none but the upper, upper cream of humanity wherever I went. Of

course it is taken for granted that I am worthy of the great

privileges extended to me. Everything is so intensely exclusive in

this Christian country. People whose hands are soiled with the stain

of labour, I don't care how refined or how honest it is, never by any

chance find themselves at the mahogany board of aristocracy.

Coat-sleeves bearing the finger-marks of honourable industry could not

safely rub against the sleek broadcloth of high-life unless by

sacrificing some of their beautiful (?) hieroglyphics and forfeiting

to some extent the reputations they have earned and not inherited."

"I wonder what some of these starched patricians would do in our

country, Amey? for there respectable commercial industry is wined and

dined without question by Her Majesty's worthy representatives, the

least evil, I suppose, would be the complete loss of appetite, that

would be sure to assail them."

"I can't tell how much longer we may remain here," her interesting

letter continued, "Papa is still hopeful of wonderful results, there

are some placid suitors going about, loaded with a burden of pedigree

and the honours of their dead, and I know that my sanguine parent

fondly expects, that he shall awake some morning and find our

generation made famous by such a burden being condescendingly laid

before my satin slippers. _Vanitas Vanitatum!_ But, how grand it would

be? Picture it, think of it, common place men! Sir Maximus and Lady

Adlepait? How would the obscure Miss Hampden, fancy that? To be sure,

this indefinite suitor has nought but the borrowed chivalry of his

departed ancestors, and if he seek to crown me at all (which is only a

heart-rending possibility) it must be with the laurels, hard won by

the heroes of a former generation. His silky hands will be full of

nothing more tempting than slender veins of genuine blue-blood--but,

as papa says--what do we want any more money for, we have enough for

any ordinary human life-time?"

"If the project of my anxious parent should assume any definite or

reliable outlines, I shall let you know immediately, for I have

implicit faith in you, and I know you would never betray me, I must

tell my novel experiences and opinions to some one, and the best

someone is you. Take every care of yourself, while I am absent, some

day you will be coming to my manor-house on a visit. I will try to get

a husband who has some unmarried masculine relatives, so as to keep up

the fun of my own courtship among my particular girl-friends. I intend

to make the most of my life while it lasts, I believe in the world I

am most sure of, so don't trouble me with any of your pious lectures,

they only upset me, and make me feel very gloomy. Give my love to

every one who thinks of asking about me, and write a long, chatty,

gossiping letter, very soon to your sincere ALICE."

Her bright, spicy pages had wooed me away from all my gloomy thoughts

and surroundings. My tired spirit had flown across the broad Atlantic

at sight of her missive, and reveled for a few happy moments, amid

phantom pleasures. Now, with her finished letter lying in my listless

fingers, upon my lap, I was creeping back to my sorrows from this

outward sunshine, that had fallen in a golden flood, upon the dark

shadows of my present miseries. The slow awakening to my actual

condition reminded me of my third, unnoticed letter. I took it up

aimlessly, it was unfamiliar to me, and turned it over in my hand.

"Who is it from?" I muttered in quiet astonishment, tearing the thick

envelope across with a half amused curiosity. The reader will not

wonder that my curiosity became still more deeply aroused as I took

out the neatly folded paper which was enclosed, and read the

following--

"MY DEAR AMEY,--I have learned with profound regret of your dear

father's recent demise, and hasten to offer you my most earnest

condolence. It is a great grief, I know, but not without its

consolations, for it is our beautiful privilege, to live in hope,

awaiting the day of a happy re-union with those who are not lost but

only gone before.

"In the early hours of our sorrow, no matter what its nature may be,

we cannot incline ourselves to look upon the brighter side, which our

friends will endeavour to hold up to us; therefore I will not intrude

my feeble words of comfort upon you now; my object in writing to you

at present is to ask you whether you intend to live on with your

father's second wife or not?

"If you should find yourself in any dilemma pertaining to this

critical question, I wish you to understand, that my house and home

(such as they are) will always be open to you. You have a right to

them, and nothing would give me greater pleasure, than to have you

with me. In a sense we are strangers, for circumstances have kept us

apart, but, I think I love you more dearly than any of those with

whose names and lives you are more familiar.

"I am the only surviving relative of your dear, dead mother in this

country; our fathers, being brothers, but as I lost mine in my early

youth, I was brought up in my uncle's house, with your mother for a

little sister.

"It now happens, that you may need the shelter of a real home. I wish

I had better to offer you, but such as it is, I beg you will not

hesitate to accept it, if it can relieve you from greater discomforts.

"I am, my dear Amey,

"Your loving and sincere cousin,

"BESSIE NYLE."

My hands fell into my lap a second time; I was almost dazed with

astonishment. To think that at the very moment when I was puzzling

over the melancholy enigma, of where to find a home whose shelter

could be both generously given and comfortably received, this strange

but earnest offer should suggest itself.

Without a moment's hesitation or forethought, I sat down and wrote a

hurried reply, accepting with eager enthusiasm the shelter of her home

and love, adding, that circumstances would force me to avail myself of

her cordial hospitality even sooner, perhaps, than she expected, as my

step-mother was leaving the house in a week from that date and would

like to see me safely disposed of before her departure.

It was only when this letter was sealed and dispatched that I began to

analyse my extraordinary situation and its possible issues. It is true

that at the time of my decision I saw only a haven of rest rising out

of the gloom and mists that hung heavily about me, some definite

shelter from the storm of confusion and sorrow that had broken upon my

life so suddenly.

But when time wore on a little I began to question myself uneasily

about the step I had so precipitately taken. To act upon my cousin's

kind suggestion, was to go away from all my dearest and fondest

associations; it would oblige me to give up my past life, sorrows and

joys alike; to abandon the few friends, in whose companionship I had

found one of my rarest delights, and to go among strangers who could

not care for me except in a relative or, at most, an indirect way.

What would they say? those who pretended to be interested in my

welfare and happiness, when they found I had gone to a new home among

new faces and strange hearts, would they miss me? Would they wish me

back? or would they soon forget me amid the other gay distractions of

their daily lives?

Should I let them know that I was to leave so soon for an indefinite

length of time? If they were anxious about me they could come and find

it out; but they had come after the funeral and I would not see them;

how could they tell I wanted them now? It was the penalty of my former

indifference that I must need sympathy and consolation when they had

both passed out of my reach.

What a dreary, endless thing life seemed at this period!

A sort of lethargy had taken firm hold of all my senses. I went about

like one dreaming, sighing and weeping, and wishing I were dead. My

heart lay like a heavy stone within my breast, and a dark impenetrable

gloom seemed to have shut out all the brightness of life from my eyes

forever.

It was dreary Autumn weather besides, and that fed my morbid

tendencies considerably, the wind was plaintive and the leaves were

dying, the very sunshine looked pale and cold.

A few days after my reply to cousin Bessie's generous offer I received

a second letter from her which was earnest and loving, and gentle as

the first. She expressed great delight at my decision and ensured me

the heartiest of welcomes on my arrival.

It was now the eve of our departure and most of our preparations were

consummated. I sat in my usual retreat by the window looking out for

the last time upon everything that could remind me of a period when I

was less miserable than I was then. Now, that I had nothing to

distract or busy me, I could sit with folded hands communing with my

past and making uncertain conjectures about my future.

I could be happy with Hortense de Beaumont, I thought, if her family

were not so strange--and yet--could I? after what had passed. My

friendship with her had cost me more than I had ever feared or dreamed

of and still it was not her fault nor my own. It had been our fate,

that we should both have loved the same man, at least not love him,

but be capable of loving him, which is a different thing. She really

loved Ernest Dalton and I?--might have loved him at any moment, but

that moment must never come now.

Hortense should never have cause to think regretfully of what might

have been, were it not for Amey Hampden; I should never stand in her

way except to guard her, to shield her from sorrow or harm.

I could imagine too well what the pain would be to love and to lose in

this instance, and I should therefore never inflict it upon any heart

whose happiness was as dear to me as my own. It is true that up to

this, Ernest Dalton had never spoken to me of his love, how could I

then presume to sacrifice him, when he was not mine to give or to

hold? Ah! whoever does not believe in any love but that which finds an

outlet in articulate words, knows little or nothing about its power or

depth. There is a voiceless love that is neither seen nor heard by

other eyes and ears--and I believe it is the best--underlying the

framework of our lives; it is a part of every pulse and fibre of our

being, no one may know it, no one may heed it, but it glows on

undaunted, with its steady, faithful purpose, ministering to its own

great needs out of the fulness and abundance of its own intensity.

Such is the nature of the noblest sentiments which have ever inspired

a human heart, the love of God is a silent love, but it is also an

active, self-abnegating love, the love of country is a silent love,

too great, too sacred for paltry, feeble words. Is it an active love?

History knows best.

And our love for one another, may it not lean towards this wonderful

perfection? May it not be a silent love of that silence which is far

more expressive than words? May it not brighten our eyes and quicken

our pulse, though our lips look so neutral and dumb? Does any one

doubt it? Anyone at least, whose own keen perceptions have left him

above the necessity of falling in with the ready-made judgments and

opinions of the surface-scanning multitude?

I do not say that such was Ernest Dalton's regard for me; I do not say

that at this time he loved me, I mean in a particular way; but I do

say, because I do think, that he acted as if he could. I was not quite

the same to him as every other woman friend, he had not spoken to me

on many occasions since my return from school; but though they were

few they were sufficient to convince me of this.

If a person be honest and trustworthy, the art of veneering is almost

beyond his grasp. His smile is a true smile, and his frown a sincere

frown; he will not caress you with one hand and cruelly smite you with

the other; he can never be a friend to your face and a foe when your

back is turned. If he loves you it is written on every feature of his

truthful countenance, if he despises you he will show it to you alone.

I doubt if there ever lived a more honest or trustworthy being than

Ernest Dalton.

It was a temptation to fall in love with a man like him, with his

depth of character and his strength of feeling, with truth and wisdom

on his lips, with honor and virtue in his heart. According to our

common ideas of men and what we would like them to be, it was little

wonder that Hortense and I both knowing Ernest Dalton, should have

leaned towards him impulsively from the first, though his years were

double our own. So tall and so dignified as he was, with such a

striking face and such engaging manners, so courteous, so clever, so

good, and he was not yet old, the sprinkling of gray in the hair that

crept over his handsome brow seemed to lend fresh vigour to his looks

and confirm the character which his appearance otherwise insinuated.

But all this was nothing to _me now_, no more than if it had been some

passing dream of summer sun-light and flowers; no more than if some

optical illusion had dazzled my eyes and gladdened my heart for a

short moment, and left me as suddenly again, with my tame and

common-place reality.

I must not even dwell upon the memory of what might have been, for I

was pretty sure to marry some one else, and then Ernest Dalton could

never come back to me in any other light than that of a devoted

friend. "I have saved myself in time," said my thought, as I stood up

and went away from the window, "a day might have come when to give him

up would be to renounce the happiness of my whole life--that day that

I had sometimes fondly, though vainly, dreamed of, with all its

witching possibilities and which now lay crumbled to dust at my feet.

"What else could I expect?" said I, with a weary sigh, "Is not pain

the fate of the great majority, is not sorrow the portion of the

children of men?" Anyhow, I was not likely to see Mr. Dalton ever

again. I had sent him his locket, with a few words explaining that

"_it had been found_ in the library, and _being identified_ as his, I

was happy to return it, hoping that its temporary loss had not caused

him uneasiness or worry."

I thought that was the best way of returning it, under the

circumstances, and the safest for me, it would prevent any awkward

explanations, and accomplish the chief end as effectually as a

personal interview. This opinion, however, was not Mr. Dalton's, for as

I turned from the window I could hear the shrill ringing of a bell

below, and a moment later Hannah came to announce--

"Mr. Dalton!"

"I cannot see him!" I said, "I am busy and tired--and--tell him, I do

not see any one, that will do!"

"Miss Amelia, I think you'd better come," old Hannah suggested, with a

respectful, suasive tone, "he says he is the oldest friend you have,

and so interested in your welfare, you might show him a little more

deference, that's just what he said, when he saw me looking reluctant

about obeying his wish. You know Miss he's always been like a limb of

the family--and it seems unfair."

"Yes, yes Hannah, I will go!" I interrupted eagerly, "tell him, I

shall be down in a moment." I flew to the glass, and began to smoothen

my ruffled hair, it was better after all to go down, as if nothing

were the matter, he was only my friend, my good, trustworthy friend,

and I was not treating him as he merited to be treated in this

capacity.

Having restored some order to my appearance, I followed old Hannah

down the broad stairway, and entered the drawing-room. He was standing

by the mantel, with his back turned, as I went in; in one hand, he

held his hat and stick, in the other some vagrant trifle he had taken

from the mantel-piece, and which he was studying with seemingly great

interest and attention.

At the sound of my foot-fall, he turned slowly around, and came

forward to greet me; his face was very serious, and his manner steady

and quiet.

"I am glad you have come Amey!" he said, as he took my hand and held

it tenderly for a moment, "I feared you would send me away again

to-day--although, I do not wish to intrude upon you in your grief. I

hear, you are going away!" he then added, motioning me to a seat, and

throwing himself half wearily into another, "Is it true?"

"Yes, my cousin, Mrs. Nyle, has written for me," I answered timidly,

"and I have decided to go--to-morrow!"

"To-morrow!" he repeated with some surprise.

"Yes, to-morrow morning, the others take the afternoon train for their

destination," I said quietly.

"How long do you think you will remain away?" he next asked.

"I cannot tell, it will all depend upon circumstances."

"What circumstances, Amey?"

I coloured a little, and looked across the room. It was his privilege

as a friend to ask these questions I supposed, although I was not

quite prepared to answer them.

"Whether I like my new home and friends, and whether they like me," I

began awkwardly.

"Oh, that is what you mean?" he exclaimed gently, interrupting my

reply.

I was silent, this was not a safe subject, what else did he think I

could have meant?

"I suppose if I had not called this afternoon, you would have gone

without bidding me good-bye," he resumed, after a short pause.

"I have not said any good-byes," I answered with an effort to justify

myself. "I didn't see the use" I added, half scornfully, "I am not the

Amey Hampden to the world, now, that I used to be."

"You are to me--you will always be!"

This was a most stable friendship. How good and sincere he was!

"Thank you, Mr. Dalton, it is kind of you to say so, a friend in need,

you know, is a friend indeed."

"It is the only time I could ever feel that I was your friend, Amey,"

he said, with a half melancholy voice, "even when you were a little

child, you never took much notice of me, unless something had gone

wrong."

I liked this allusion to the past, it was timely, and brought out our

present relationship clearly and comfortably. I laughed, and looked at

him freely, as I answered:

"That must have been pretty often, for it seems to me that things have

been going wrong all my life," then fearing to strike a dangerous

key-note, I added, hastily, "but I must not complain, there are

hundreds of people more miserable than I in the world."

"I know one, at any rate, who is," he interrupted, in an undertone. "I

have to thank you for returning my locket," he continued, in the same

strain, as if it had been suggested by the first remark, "I had given

it up as an irretrievable loss."

"Oh! then you got it safely," I exclaimed, with a forced

gratification, "I am so glad it was found, for your sake."

"I would not like to lose it now, it is older than you are, Amey," he

observed, without changing his sonorous voice.

"Is it indeed?" I answered, not knowing what else to say.

"I lost it on the day of the Merivales' last 'At Home,'" he went on,

as if talking to himself, "I had it when I came in here, and I missed

it when I went out."

"You were not here on that day, were you?" I interrupted, impulsively,

after which I could have bitten the end of my tongue off.

He was confused for a moment; it was the first time I had ever seen

him in the least agitated, and in my curious astonishment I lost all

self-control.

"I would remember if you had been here, for the day is clearly stamped

in my memory: it was cold and stormy," I argued, warmly, "I don't

think anyone went out of doors that could help it; it was drifting and

blustering so."

"So it was," he answered, evasively, "what a good memory you have."

"For trifles--yes," said I, somewhat playfully. A pause ensued, during

which he looked straight before him at the pattern on the carpet I

twisted my rings abstractedly round my fingers, trying to think of

something safe to talk about, when, to my surprise, he stood up

abruptly before me, and held out his hand.

"It is growing late," he said, with a friendly smile, "and I must not

detain you; this is," (and he took my timid fingers firmly in his own

deep grasp) "good-bye, I suppose?"

His full gaze was upon me I could feel it I could see it even before I

had raised my eyes.

"This is good-bye," I repeated, meeting his glance bravely and openly.

"Good-bye then, and may God bless you, Amey," he said, with a deep,

earnest voice; "Sometimes when your memory flies back to your old

home, give a kindly thought to your old friends as well, for we shall

often, often think of you."

He was holding my hand all the while, which is not forbidden between

such friends as we were, and without taking it away, I looked

reproachfully into his face, and said:

"Don't think so little of me as to imagine I need this parting

rejoinder, Mr. Dalton; I can ill afford to forget my few good friends,

and you have always been one to me. I hope when we meet again, I will

have no more to reproach you with in this respect than you will have

against me. I could not say more than this."

"Oh, yes you could," he faltered, laying his other hand over my

captive fingers, "but it is better not, my--Amey, at least--never

mind, I was forgetting--good-bye once again, and God bless you."

I could feel the touch of his trembling hands upon my own; I could

hear the sound of his agitated voice vibrating around me--and I might

never see him again!

I stood motionless for a few seconds in the open doorway where he had

just left me, feeling dazed and bewildered. His presence seemed to

linger a little with me after he had gone! Something in the very

atmosphere thrilled me as if his spirit had tarried to witness the

re-action that now took place, and had in tender pity shrouded me with

its consoling and protecting love.

I felt miserable and lonely, and creeping up the stairway again, I

returned to the refuge of my room, and threw myself wearily on my bed.

The twilight was beginning to fall, and with its advancing shadows

came trooping before my tearful eyes all the various episodes of my

chequered life.

To think that mine were what the world had ever called favoured

circumstances! I knew a hundred and one persons who looked upon me as

a happy, gifted girl, because, forsooth, I had had money and position

because I had education and social advantages! If this was what the

world called happiness, what then could its misery be?

The question tormented me, whether in the end it were better to follow

in the dazzling wake of this all-conquering worldliness, and by

crushing all my scruples arise to a new life of careless, thoughtless

gaiety, like Alice Merivale's; or whether the whispers of my better

impulse were the more salutary and satisfactory of the two, and bound

me in all conscience to an obedience and sanction of its precepts.

It was too late now, however, to discuss this point any longer with

myself. I had acted so far upon a magnanimous resolve, which, though

doomed to cast a shadow upon my own personal lot, would flood another

life with the beauty and glory of a compensating sunshine.

"It is more blessed to give than to receive," I said, inwardly, and if

I persevere in this generous determination, though it engender

repeated acts of self-denial, I cannot but be recompensed in the end.

My new home and friends will distract me greatly from my broodings,

and by and by all these ephemeral sorrows will have passed away, as

young sorrows always do, leaving but a faint trace behind them.

"But, if Ernest Dalton be in love with Hortense de Beaumont," said the

little voice on the plaintiffs side, "why does he show you such signs

of preference as these; is that the course, of a truly honourable

man?"

"Surely!" said the defence "If I magnify evidences of a substantial

friendship into something more serious, that is not his

fault--besides, he may love me in a way, but he must love her

better--and, in any case, supposing he should love me best, if I offer

him no encouragement, if I even positively refuse him, Hortense's

happiness cannot but be ultimately benefited by it."

I arose, in a little while, and bathed my face, for the dinner-hour

was near, and I had to play my part for the last time, before the trio

below.

When I went down, they were already seated around the table, my

step-mother in solemn consciousness at one end, and her solicitous

brother looking meekly up at her from the other. Fred had all one side

to himself, the other, was reserved for me.

It was a quiet, formal meal, disturbed now and then by a curt

monosyllable from one or the other of us. We had not much to say to

each other, considering that it was our last repast around that family

board, the dishes and cutlery had all the chat and confusion among

themselves. When it was over, I went back to my own quarters and

attended to my final preparations, the time of my departure was now

near at hand.

Next morning I looked in vain for some friendly face at the depot. No

one had thought of me at the last, though most of my friends had heard

of my intended departure. I could not be convinced so soon that I was

no longer the same person whom these people had flattered and courted

a few short months ago.

Our home, disturbed by the hand of death, was no longer a temple of

society worship where gas-light revels would be held and the comets of

the gay world gathered together to feast. Henceforth, I was an orphan

girl with limited means and uncertain prospects. Some day, if I

married well, these people would suddenly remember my past glories and

then, these slumbering friendships would be likely to revive; to open

their hearts and homes to me again. Until then I must consider myself

as set aside, not rudely, nor coldly, but with a negative intimation

of my altered circumstances which has quite sufficient force for any

soul so keen and sensitive as mine.

In one sense, of course, it was all the same to me. I had never

counted upon these social ties to any extent, and would not feel their

loss acutely but--these poor human hearts of ours--how they will yearn

for other human sympathies and regards? I could have been resigned to

leave my home and early associations if I might take away with me the

soothing conviction that my absence left a void somewhere, anywhere,

that would always be a void until I came back to fill it. I had an

exalted notion of fidelity and remembrance then, which has been

roughly used upon the touchstone of experience since.

But as even this frail compensation was denied me, I saw more clearly

than ever how urgent it was for me to go forth resignedly where

thousands of my fellow-toilers were struggling already, and, without

looking back upon my brighter yesterday, press onward patiently and

forbearingly in the course which an unexpected reverse had opened out

for me.

When night fell I was lodged in my new home.

CHAPTER XII.

My cousin Bessie, or Mrs. Robert Nyle, lived in a small, comfortable

house, on a quiet street, in a small comfortable city, not more than a

day's journey from the place of my former residence.

I had, of course, made many conjectures about the relative merits and

demerits of the new home towards which I was travelling in all haste.

With nothing more accurate to build upon than my cousin's reserved

letters and my own vivid imagination, it could hardly be expected that

I could arrive very near the truth in my speculations about my

uncertain destiny.

Nor did I. I had pictured my cousin Bessie as quite a morbid and prosy

character, suspended midway between a hopeless resignation and a

helpless despair. I thought there must be lines of sadness about her

mouth and a profusion of silver in her hair, I had almost heard her

plaintive sighs, and had begun to invent cures for her nervous

headaches. I do not know why such gloomy foresights loomed up before

me, unless it be because I fancied she was poor and yet educated, and

in our circle at that time it was generally believed that people so

situated were eminently miserable and uncomfortable. We will not be

satisfied with the uncertain until we have made mental sketches of the

people and places connected with it, even though they be all awry, as

mine were in this instance.

Cousin Bessie was a tall, graceful woman with chestnut brown hair and

fine soft eyes, her figure was slight as a girl's, though she was no

longer young, and her step was as active and light as ever it could

have been in her maiden days. She was not a beautiful woman, but there

was as much kindness and dignity combined in her dear face as to make

it more attractive than many a handsome one. I was simply charmed with

her appearance and manner, and made up my mind that I had no further

reason to be solicitous about my future happiness after she had taken

me securely under her charge.

Cousin Bessie's household consisted of her husband, Robert Nyle, and

their two children, Zita and Louis. Mr. Nyle, who was somewhat older

than his wife, was one of these placid, easy going husbands that the

world knows little about on account of their retirement and admirable

domestic qualities. Zita was then a pretty, growing girl of sixteen

summers and Louis a handsome boy of eighteen.

I lived with cousin Bessie for many seasons, and at the end of that

time I had become more truly attached to her and her dear family than

I had ever been to my own. Yet they were plain people, living a quiet,

unostentatious life in the very heart of social exuberances, they were

not rich either, in fact they had little more than medium comforts, of

those which it takes money to buy, but the sweetness and happiness of

their home was not of that kind which gold can gather, it is richer

and rarer far than that.

It pleased me to find that they were not wealthy nor worldly. I had so

little now, myself, that richer relatives would have pitied me and

been urged to bestow petty charities upon me now and then, when my own

diminished income proved insufficient to meet the great demands that

stylish living could not fail to make upon it.

"I hope you won't feel like a captive bird in this little cage of

ours," cousin Bessie remarked with a quiet smile the morning after my

arrival. "I offered it only as a shelter, Amey, you know, until you

can make yourself more comfortable elsewhere."

I looked at her reproachfully and answered without hesitation:

"I am glad you do not specify my time. I hope I may take as long as I

like, to find some place I prefer to this."

"Oh certainly!" said she, with a covert amusement. "You are more than

welcome to remain here, as long as you are contented."

There was a time, when I would have doubted the possibility of my

being satisfied under circumstances such as these, but to look upon

respectable seclusion from a distance, is not really to see, and

understand what it is; there is a latent charm about it, which is

known only to those who embrace it with cheerful hearts.

Cousin Bessie had no servants, not even one, fashionable humanity,

think of _that_! This surprised and even disappointed me at first, but

soon it also became absorbed by that all prevailing spirit of quiet

contentment that presided over their domestic circle, and kept the sun

shining when it was shadow outside.

I did not question cousin Bessie about the necessity for dispensing

with menial assistance. It was a delicate subject, but when Zita and

Louis and Mr. Nyle went away, one morning after breakfast, I began to

clear away the dishes and make myself generally useful.

Cousin Bessie watched me from her corner by the kitchen table, where

she was engaged in preparing some sundries for the next meal and when

I had made my last trip with an armful of the breakfast equipage, she

looked up with a meaning smile, and said,

"This is the see-saw of life, Amey, yesterday you were away up, and

to-day you are away down."

"It is the safer place of the two, Cousin Bessie, don't you think so?"

"Well, if I did not think it, Amey, my life would hardly be worth

living," she answered with a quiet emphasis.

"Why? You don't think you will always be down, do you?" I asked

timidly, plunging a cup and saucer into the boiling water.

"I don't know; we were better off once, in one way, but it is a long

time ago," she answered, taking a large white apron from a peg beside

her in the wall, and offering it to me, "Put this over your dress,

child, and take off your pretty rings," she put in parenthetically,

and then went on--

"Robert was a man of wealth when we married, we had a fine house with

servants and horses and every such luxury--while the money was there

he lavished it upon us: but he lost heavily one year, there was a bank

failure first, and a series of smaller misfortunes followed quickly in

its wake. We had to sacrifice house and horses, and all, and come down

the ladder to our present station. The children found it hard in the

beginning, but they have come to look upon it now, nearly as their

father and I do."

"But you are not poor, cousin Bessie," I interrupted, as I dried a

plate briskly with my linen cloth.

"No: not poor exactly: but we must be careful and economical for

awhile, until Zita and Louis are educated: we will make every

sacrifice that is necessary to grant them a thorough education. When

they are rich in knowledge they won't mind how empty their purses are;

they will feel themselves equal to the best in the land. When they

have finished their courses here, if they show themselves susceptible

to a still higher training, we will make still greater restrictions

upon our household expenses to favor any particular talent they may

have developed. Robert and I decided that long ago."

"I suppose it is a good plan," I said half doubtfully, "if it does not

unfit them for their after-life."

"You mean it may raise them above their station?" cousin Bessie

interrupted eagerly. "Well, you are not the only one who thinks that,

but it never shall. We have seen such a possible danger ahead and have

laboured to avert it I have done my utmost all their lives to bring

them up to frugal habits. We have taught them to live sparingly in

every way; to shun those people and places that tempt one to idle

amusements and questionable pastimes, and never to seek the society of

such persons as are brought up to pity or ridicule poverty and

struggling gentility. They are fond of one another, and in their

mutual companionship do not miss the intercourse which is denied them

with the outside world. I have explained to Zita that the saint whose

name she bears was a poor servant-maid, who was looked down upon and

ignored by those who were better favored by the world; and that like

her, she must be poor and humble in spirit, satisfied to be a little

nobody here if she can be happy hereafter. Louis learned the story of

his royal patron saint when he was a lisping baby at my knee, and

understands now, I think, how secondary material prosperity is to the

advancement of the moral man. I am almost sure he could wear a crown

and rule a nation, and yet look upon such glories as mere accidents of

existence, that must be subject to higher aims and occupations."

"Then you are happy in the possession of very exceptional children,

Cousin Bessie," said I, shaking my towel and hanging it up to dry. My

task was finished, and I sat down beside my industrious cousin who was

now up to her elbows in a basin of flour.

"They are my chief comfort, to tell you the truth," she answered, as

if in soliloquy, while she sifted handfuls of the white powder through

her busy fingers, "and I thank God for this great compensation that

has survived all my other pleasures. There is no wretchedness, I

think, like that which must fill the heart of a mother whose children

have strayed away from her loving, clinging solicitude into the

by-ways of folly or vice. It is a dark blight upon the most buoyant

heart that ever swelled with maternal devotion. I sometimes think I

would rather have never existed, that I could forfeit all the grand

privileges of a created being destined for a noble end, rather than

have become the mother of impious and vicious children."

"Then it is well you have saved yours from such a common fate," I put

in warmly, "for I think in the world's present stage, young people

have a monopoly of all the evil tendencies to which our flesh is

prone."

"You are right there Amey, and more's the pity," cousin Bessie

answered, leaning her white palms on the sides of the dish and looking

out of the kitchen window away over the steeples of the distant

church, as if her glance fell upon the whole wicked world at once.

"There is hardly a channel of sin and guilt that has not been explored

by these young persons, who should not even know of the existence of

such dangers. So much fine manhood is wasted in folly and dissipation;

so many noble energies devoted to degrading causes, so much mental

greatness given to solving the mysteries of villainy and roguery. Oh!

it is written on the brow of modern youth, in flaming characters," she

exclaimed, closing her fingers tightly over the edges of the dish,

upon which her hands still rested. "When I pass along the busy streets

of the town, I see the wickedness of the world on many a fair young

face, and my heart swells with a great desire to know whose life is

being saddened by their extravagances. 'They are dear to someone,

surely,' I say to myself, 'there must be some one from whom they are

trying to hide their deeds of darkness,' and I could almost stop to

plead in favor of that lingering love, that they turn back from the

beck and call of temptation to that other wholesome course which

yields reward both here and hereafter. I cannot help this strong

sentiment that stirs within my breast. I love the beauty of blooming

human nature; I like to see the glow of physical and moral health upon

its beaming countenance, and the stimulus to noble purposes in its

restless heart, but it seems as if this never can be again with the

majority."

"It is a sad outlook, Cousin Bessie, but there must be a remedy

somewhere," I suggested, full of the enthusiasm which had

characterized her remarks.

"Remedy? Yes, of course there's a remedy," she retorted emphatically,

"but the world's votaries have elbowed it out. What can one expect

from a baby girl who has been brought up for the world, but that she

shall be of the world? Little misses who can waltz before they know

the 'Our Father,' who are taught manners before morals, and are given

for their absolute standard 'what others will say.' Can they become

good women? It would be a paradox to suppose so. And our boys in

knickerbockers who smoke cigars and buy ten cent novels, who speculate

in the market of experience with ill-gotten gain, who form opinions of

life from dime shows and contact with veterans in vice; can they grow

in virtue and integrity after such an initiation as this? It would be

nothing less than a moral phenomenon if they did. Yes there is a

remedy, and its application is needed at the very root of the evil.

Let fathers and mothers look abroad over the heads of their prattling

offspring, and realize the fate that is awaiting them if they do not

take proper and timely precautions. I attribute much blame to them

because I have seen results of their carelessness grow and magnify

under my own eyes."

Here the door-bell rang violently, and interrupted cousin Bessie's

wholesome homily on the social irregularities of the day. As her hands

were still buried in flour I started to my feet and answered the hasty

summons. A man in ragged attire stood leaning against the outer post

of the doorway. His soft hat was slouched over one eye, and his

turned-up faded coat-collar but half-concealed the fragments of a

soiled shirt front that lay open on his breast inside. When I

confronted him, he advanced a step and said, with his eyes directed

towards his boots,

"Will you give me a little help, miss, for God's sake. I am starving

and can get no work."

Cousin Bessie from her place by the window could hear his words, and

coming to the door, she looked at him from head to foot. He was young

and stalwart, though so destitute.

"I will give you some work and pay you well for it" she said. "Come,

you are a strapping young fellow and won't find it hard to do."

He was silent for a moment and still kept looking at his dilapidated

boots.

"I will give you the price of an honest, independent supper" she

continued, "that is better than begging it. You will relish it, I

know."

"It's done ma'am" said he, kicking his dusty toes against the step

where he stood. "Show me the work."

Cousin Bessie looked significantly at me and led him out to where his

occupation lay. As she turned to leave him, with a strict injunction

to do it well, he raised his hat from his head and turned reverently

towards her.

"I'll do it as well as mortal hands can do it ma'am" he said with a

tremor in his hoarse husky voice. "You're the first woman as has

spoken a kind word to me since--since--I buried the one that 'ud have

made my life different if she'd lived."

"Your mother?" Asked Cousin Bessie gently.

"No, ma'am, she was more, she was my wife, but only for a year. When I

lost her I lost my luck and my courage, and everything. I've hardly

done a day's good since."

He drew the back of one brawny, dirty hand across his eyes and turned

away his head. Cousin Bessie was looking at him with a great pity in

her countenance.

"Have you a child?" she next asked.

"One, ma'am, a little girl, but not like the mother."

"Where is she?"

"On the streets, like myself, begging her bread and going to ruin," he

answered in dogged despair.

"How old is she?" cousin Bessie asked, with renewed interest.

"Maybe thirteen or thereabout, ma'am, poor, small thing," he replied

with a dash of fatherly love.

"Can she read or write?" was cousin Bessie's next query.

"I couldn't say, ma'am. I never taught her. I've been a heartless

wretch and didn't mind about her much."

"I am afraid you have done her a great injustice," said cousin Bessie,

turning to re-enter the house. "I hope you will try to make some

amends. Begin your work, like a good fellow, and I will see you again

before you go."

She came back to her duties in the kitchen with a thoughtful face and

a slow, measured step.

"Is your hero in rags at his work?" I asked playfully, when she had

closed the door behind her.

"Yes, I am glad to say," she answered, "manual labor is what these

fellows want. I shall keep him busy until evening, now that he has

started, it will only cost me a few pence, and it will keep him out of

so much harm."

There was a pause of a few moments after this. Cousin Bessie then

looked up and said, half regretfully:

"I wish I had a few spare dollars now. I could, perhaps do some good

with them."

"What is your latest freak?" asked I, returning her steady glance.

"I would like to send for his little girl," said she, "the winter is

coming on, and there will be extra work to do, in consequence. She may

be smart enough to clean our windows and wash the wainscoting. She

could run errands and answer the door for a trifle, and we might teach

her her prayers and her catechism and send her to church on Sunday,

which is never done for her now."

"But you do not know who or what she may be," I argued dissuasively.

"That is nothing," she persisted. "She is only a child, and our house

is so small that no harm can be done in it unknown to me. I think it

would do her good if she came. You and Zita might take an interest in

her and make something respectable of her poor, empty life."

"Perhaps you are right, Cousin Bessie," I conceded, "let us send for

her, I can easily afford to clothe her, it will be such a pleasure to

me to contribute towards the success of one of your good works."

And so we sent for her. Next day she arrived, carrying a miniature

wooden box in one hand and a little old faded umbrella in the other.

She was small and dark, with sharp, black eyes and pale features. Her

short hair clustered thickly around her brow and over her ears, from

which hung suspended a pair of long brass ear-rings. A ring of the

same valuable material was conspicuous on one small finger. She was

very ragged and careless-looking, but had an intelligent sparkle in

her quick glance that diverted one's attention from her appearance.

"What is your name?" asked Cousin Bessie, admitting her into the hall.

"Snip, ma'am," she answered, sweeping a glance from the ceiling to the

floor.

"Snip!" we both exclaimed.

"Well, that's what the Grimes and the Dwyers and all them calls me,

anyhow," she argued, with a perfectly placid countenance.

"What does your father call you?" cousin Bessie asked.

"Sometimes he says 'little 'un,' and more times it's 'girly.' I ain't

particular about names, ma'am, suit yourself," she said, without a

change of expression, which was one of stolid earnestness.

"Well, then, we'll call you 'Girly' for the time being," cousin Bessie

interposed, smiling and directing a glance of sly amusement at me.

"I hope you will be a very good little girl while you are in my house

and we shall all be very good to you," Cousin Bessie began in a

premonitory tone. "You must give up your old friends now and listen to

us instead and--" here she paused, as if the next sacrifice had to be

delicately proposed. "I don't like to see those ear-rings nor that

ring with you, they are not becoming to a poor little girl."

Up went the two small hands to the ear-rings, which were hurriedly

dragged out, she pulled the tight brass ring from her finger,

revealing a dark blue circle where it had lain, and gathering them

together in her little palm she looked us straight in the face and

said with great earnestness

"D'ye suppose I care a continental for finery?" Then curling her red

lips as if she had discovered that we so misjudged her, she shook her

bushy head sideways with an emphatic gesture and said with a fiery

indignation, which amused us intensely

"Not I! I hate it! I wore it for spite. I'll give this to either of

you ladies now, and I'll never ask to lay eyes on it again."

Cousin Bessie took them from her saying,

"You look better without them, Girly," then changing her tone to one

of gentle, solicitous enquiry, she asked the pert little stranger,

"Do you ever go to church, Girly, or say any prayers?"

The child's face became shadowed for a moment and her lips quivered.

When she spoke, her voice had lost its bright carelessness, it was low

and broken.

"I'll tell you the truth ma'am, if I died for it. P'raps you'll think

me awful wicked but I'll tell you, now you asked me. One Sunday

morning I was walking past the big church in the far end of the town,

an' the bells began to ring and ring, an' says I, 'I think I'll just

go in an' watch them prayin' but when I peeped in no one was inside. I

turned to the man that pulled the ropes an' asked him when it 'ud

begin. 'In fifteen minutes' says he, like a growl, 'this is the first

bell.' So I ran back to our house, for father and I had a room then

with the Grimes, an' I got some water in the little basin an' washed

my face an' hands good an' clean. I brushed my hair down an' took out

my green shawl that I keep clean an' whole for sometimes, an' put it

on. I got back in lots of time to the church an' crep' into one of the

big seats, waitin' for the music to begin. In a few minutes, along

came a grand little lady, all dressed in velvet, with yellow hair and

a big bonnet, an' a gentleman with her, an' she stood at the door of

the pew an' beckoned me out. 'There's room enough for us all, Miss,' I

whispered, pushing farther down the seat, but here the gentleman

rapped his stick on the wood an' said so cross 'Hurry out, hurry out

there.'"

Here her voice broke into a sob which, however, she swallowed bravely,

and went on after a moment's pause "So I went then to another, a

little one with no cushings on it, 'cause I thought grand people

didn't own that, but I was only there a little while when a fat woman

came rollin' up to me an' catchin' me by the arm said, 'Here, I am not

payin' for this pew for other people to sit in, this is my pew.' I was

mad then, I knew she wasn't a lady, an' I made a face when I was

gettin' out, an' says I, 'Oh, dear' Missis Porpoise, who said it

wasn't your pew, you want a whole pew to yourself anyhow.' The aisles

was all wet, for 'twas a rainy mornin', an' I wasn't goin' to kneel

there with my green shawl on, so I made a bold stroke and darted into

another pew. This time 'twas alright: this was a kept one for

strangers, an' I had it all to myself. The music began, an' oh! it was

so nice! I was quite gettin' over all my temper when such a swell of a

lady came up the aisle with such a swell of a gentleman, an' landed in

beside me. They didn't turn me out, 'cause they'd no right to, but

they did worse. She looked at me an' turned such a mouth on her, then

gathered up her fine flounces as if I was goin' to eat 'em, an' looked

at the gentleman so complainin'-like. Then she pulled out a little bit

of a red and white handkerchief, an' hides her nose in it. I knew well

enough what she was up to, an' didn't mind her at first, but it ain't

pleasant havin' people makin' faces an' stuffin' their noses before

you, an' so I got up an' asked 'em to let me out. When I was passin'

her I gathered in my rags tight an' held my shawl up to my nose just

like she had done, an' says I, in a whisper, as if to myself, 'oh, you

dirty beggars, let me get away from you.' The people in the next pew

looked back an' laughed, an' I saw the color risin' up in her face as

I turned away. I left the church after that, an' says I, 'there's no

room for the poor to be good, I guess I won't try it again; an' you

can bet I didn't," she added, with an emphatic nod of her bushy head,

and a sparkling wrath in her black eyes.

"But that wasn't right, Girly," said cousin Bessie, "it is not that

way in every church, nor is everybody like those three persons you

happened to come across."

"It's equal to me, ma'am; I got enough of it," she retorted, quickly,

"when its fine on a Sunday now, I go to the grave-yard, my mother is

there an' it's a big place, there's room for all kinds in it. I sit

down an' cry a bit, an' ask her to pray for the poor, for they have a

hard time of it here, but I don't think she can hear me, for I'm not

much the better of my prayers."

Cousin Bessie and I here exchanged glances again. Such a hardened

little heart as this was in one so young. We did not remonstrate with

her then, but attended to her more immediate physical wants, there was

something worth caring for in the little waif, and we determined to do

it slowly and surely.

Before the week expired we had initiated her into the ways of the

house, and transformed her exterior, to begin with, into that of a

civilized and respectable member of the great human family.

CHAPTER XIII.

The winter was coming on, as Cousin Bessie had said every leaf was

blown from its bough, and the Autumn sky was grayer and cloudier than

ever.

It was a lonely season, especially for one with such a heart full of

memories as mine, the wind spoke to me in the most plaintive of

whispers, now with the voice of one absent friend, now with that of

another. I had no definite grief at this period under the safe

protecting roof of my good, kind relatives, only that there was an

emptiness about my comfort, which made it incomplete and not quite as

satisfactory as it should have been.

Something was stirring in my breast as if with fluttering wings

against these fetters of the flesh! Something was always asking,

always wishing, always urging me, to do I knew not what '_Taedium

vitae_.' It is the merciless enemy of mortal man! the robber of our

peace, the skeleton in the closet, the dreg in our pleasure-cup, the

ruthless spoiler of our fancy-woven webs! It is the separate sorrow of

men and women, and is the summing up of the stones of all human lives.

Some have grown weary of idleness, pleasure and wealth, and some are

more weary of cold and starvation, and toil, the student is weary of

study, and the artist is weary of art, the vicious grow weary of vice,

and great men grow weary of fame; old men grow tired on their journey,

and children get tired at their play, it is one of those "touches of

nature" that makes our world become "kin." For a sigh is a whisper of

sorrow, no matter what breast may have heaved it, and pain is a pall,

thick and heavy, laid over hopes that are dead.

Some of us have strange lives! secrets, known only to ourselves, that

change the face of all nature before our eyes, we are sent adrift on

every passing current, to explore the truths of experience for

ourselves, and sad lessons some of them are, which we read through our

gathering tears, and learn with a beating heart!

As the autumn months drifted on towards a bleak November, I became

more and more absorbed, looking wistfully out of the windows, or

sitting dreamily before the fire. I often thought of that better land,

whither my angel-mother had flown years ago, my father had gone there

now, too. Would it not be well if I were with them? Only one more

little mound of earth, rising beside theirs, one solitary little

mortal falling back from the weary pilgrimage, and lying down to rest

by the roadside, one heavy heart less among that throbbing multitude,

one faint toiler more, borne from the crowded vineyard.

With my elbows resting on my knees and my face buried in my palms, I

sat and thought of all such weird possibilities, as I looked vacantly

into the fire. There are times when the world, with its exuberance of

pleasure and wealth, is powerless to tempt or cheer us, when its most

splendid pageantry is vapid and shallow to our tired gaze, when its

laughter and song are a noisy discord, that deafens and distracts us!

when its pledges and promises are instruments of selfish purposes and

hidden cunning, and its policy, the exponent of a rabid and

far-reaching materialism. These are moments, when our passions are at

high tide, with our conscience riding on the topmost surface-waves,

they are propitious intervals, if we choose to make the best of them,

or they may only be fitful breaks in the glad monotony of our sensual,

easy-going lives--breaks, that our evil tendencies most often survive,

seeing them rise, and surge, and ebb, in fearless defiance, and then

quietly resuming their old sway, when the moral struggle has subsided!

One afternoon, I made an effort to rouse myself from this growing

lethargy, which had begun to undermine the whole tenor of my

character. Zita and Louis were away, at their schools, and cousin

Bessie was busy as usual over household duties, Girly was frying meat

in the kitchen, and the frizzling, seething noises had almost sent me

to sleep in my chair, where I sat sewing. It wanted a half hour yet of

dinner-time, so I put on my hat and jacket and sauntered out into the

open air.

It was a bracing November day, the dead leaves lay crisp and trodden

by the roadside, and the gray clouds flitted in their solemn silence

across the low-leaden sky, a light wind swayed the naked tree-tops,

and tinged the beaming faces of pedestrians with a healthy roseate

hue. This was a happy contrast to my cheerless mood, and with a

quickened step, I overtook the stream of gayer people that thronged

the lively thoroughfare, and gave myself wholly up to every passing

distraction.

I had no particular business to discharge, except to run away from

myself, and therefore every little peculiarity, every minute feature

of men, women, or things, that suggested themselves to my aimless

scrutiny were carefully reviewed and criticized. I went placidly on

now casting a passing glance on exhibitions of stale confectionery,

now on a display of attractive millinery, again it was a "ten cent"

establishment, offering such bargains as might puzzle the most

economical house-wife, and finally my attention was caught by a

succession of dazzling windows, with their bewildering panorama of

Japanese figures and coloured _bric-a-brac_, windows crowded with fans

and parasols, and variegated lamp-shades, oriental trays and

glove-boxes, pieces of ware, from whose dirty green surface emptily

peered the pale faces of native Japanese, there were whisk-holders,

and wall-baskets, and all sorts of ornaments trimmed in Japanese

fabrics, looking coaxingly out at the public.

Scrolls and mats, panels and firescreens, whereon the hand of art had

caused to spring and flourish these slender Eastern stalks, which

sprout in drooping foliage, at the summit of their lanky height. There

was an endless variety gathered into this limited space, it was a

scene which should provoke a regretful tear, for memory's sake, from

the patriotic oblong eye of any exiled Japanese.

My eyes still wandered over these many-hued trifles, and my mind was

still busy with its vagrant reflections, when a gruff voice said in my

ear:

"Move on there--do you hear."

I started, and saw Zita on one side and Louis on the other; they were

returning from their day's mental toil, and had spied me loitering by

the shop windows. I joined them, and in happy, careless concourse, we

trod our way towards our home. When we reached the house the lamps had

been lighted and the curtains drawn, dinner steamed upon the table.

Feeling better for my walk, I sat down with rosy cheeks and sharpened

appetite to my evening meal. As I was about to begin Mr. Nyle handed me

a letter, which had arrived during my absence. I took it up and looked

at it curiously, a smile broke over my countenance as I did so, for I

recognized Hortense's delicate handwriting.

All during dinner this welcome little letter lay in my lap. Every now

and then I touched it caressingly, as if trying to read it with my

finger-tips, and wondered how long it would be before cousin Bessie

would move her chair away from the table, that I might retire and

gratify myself with its contents.

So much for human foresight and wisdom! We hold our misery in our own

hand, and we do not know it, we look with impatient smiles and

longing, upon that whose fruit is sorrow for our hearts, and we cannot

see it or realize it.

Dinner was over at last, and I glided away from the happy circle to

the quietude of my own quarters I lit the lamp, and seating myself

comfortably in a rocking chair, tore open my friend's letter, and read

as follows:

"My dearest Amey

"I have looked forward with such impatient eagerness to this pleasure

of answering your last dear letter, and now that an opportunity

occurs, I hardly know what to say to you.

"Perhaps it is because there is so much I _might_ tell, if it were

only time, when the time comes you, and only you, shall know all, you

must not blame me for my present reserve, for at best, I could but

half tell it now, any way.

"It is something that has lain on my heart, day and night, for some

years, and that is likely at last to make me happier than I have been

for many a day. You will be glad of it, because it will have made your

poor Hortense so happy. It concerns some one else, about whom, you

must have made many strange conjectures, since your recent visit to

me, I was doubtful then, or I would have told you a little, but now I

feel more sure, and see my way better.

"However, I must not bewilder you with words in the beginning. I shall

only repeat that I see much happiness in the near distance for

Hortense de Beaumont. Heaven grant that nothing shall now come between

me and this long-looked for realization. Mamma sends you her fondest

love, and so does your own HORTENSE."

"_You will be glad, because it will have made your poor Hortense so

happy_!" These words seemed to stand out from all the rest, and

attract my attention more forcibly. "_Some one about whom you must

have made many strange conjectures since your recent visit to me._"

Ah! it was clear enough to me now. She may as well have written her

story through; but, was it not what I had expected? What I had

prepared for? Why should the announcement of its accomplishment shock

or surprise me now? He was nothing to _me_,--but a friend! as friends

we had parted, and if we ever met again, it should only be as

friends--perhaps not even as the friends we were then, if he were

Hortense de Beaumont's husband.

I folded her letter slowly and quietly, and put it safely away; I

wanted never to see it, or read it again, it was the story of my dear

friend's happiness, and it should not bring sorrow, or disappointment

to me, so long as I professed to love her, or sympathize with her. So

kind, so thoughtful, so affectionate a little creature as she had ever

shown herself to me. How many of her heart's treasures she had freely

lavished upon me during the course of our eventful friendship!

If she had had the better fortune of the two, it was her luck, and she

deserved it. "_Heaven grant that nothing now shall come between me and

this long-looked for realization_!" Poor child! how fond she was of

him, could any one cast an impediment between such loves as these?

I turned down the light, and left the room: there were laughter and

merry-making below, perhaps they would help me to forget these gloomy

thoughts. I stepped lightly down the narrow stairway, and entered the

cosy sitting room, where the family were assembled, with a pleasant,

careless countenance.

They were engaged in a lively discussion when I came into the room;

cousin Bessie had just conveyed the tidings, that an invitation had

been left that afternoon for "Zita and Amey" from Mrs. Wayland

Rutherby, asking them to go in on the following day, as Pansy and Lulu

Rutherby had a young lady staying with them, and would like to

introduce her to their friends. "Louis and Papa and myself" she was

just adding, "are expected to drop in after dinner, when there will be

music and a little dancing."

"Did you say we would go, Cousin, Bessie?" I put in, coming towards

her and drawing up a seat beside hers.

"Of course, you will go," she answered emphatically. "Sophie Rutherby

is my old school-friend, and we never refuse her."

"But I prefer not to go Cousin Bessie, I have not been out anywhere

since--my father's death."

"Nonsense child! you are not going to mope away your young life like

this," she broke in indignantly, "however, if you have any scruples,

you can come away after dinner, before the active pleasures

begin--there will be no one there in the afternoon but you and Zita.

Surely you cannot object to that."

So it was settled, that we were to go to Mrs. Rutherby's, and the

eventful afternoon came in due time. Zita was a little longer than

usual before her looking-glass on that occasion, and was as pretty and

fresh as a mountain daisy, when she came down at last to join me

below.

We were received with gushing, girlish enthusiasm, by Pansy and Lulu

Rutherby, in their rare and expensive toilets, they were both pretty

and lively, and we talked and laughed during our first half-hour

together, as though we had been old friends all our lives. Pansy and

Lulu took poor Zita by storm, they showed their latest programmes of

dances, and repeated for her benefit the newest compliments which had

been paid to them by their respective admirers, since they had last

entertained her.

Mrs. Rutherby and her senior guest, the mother of the younger lady,

sat side by side on a remote sofa exchanging confidential whispers

about their daughters. Miss Longfield, the Rutherby's "girl friend,"

and I, of necessity found ourselves thrown together, a little way from

the rest. She was a tall, pale girl with a very high _chignon_, a very

stiff satin dress, and very queer little shoes with very pronounced

heels.

"You belong to Canada, I suppose?" she began looking at me

speculatively from head to foot.

"Yes, I have always lived here," I answered, returning the speculative

glance and concluding that Miss Longfield's complexion was decidedly

sallow.

"Then you've been to Court, I guess?" she next asked.

"To Court," I exclaimed, raising my voice and my eyebrows.

"Why, yes" she retorted somewhat indignantly, "you've got Royalty over

here, haven't you?"

"Oh! now I understand," said I with a covert smile, "you mean, have I

been presented to Her Royal Highness?"

She nodded her _chignon_ affirmatively with a satisfied air, and began

biting her under lip, which operation, however, was immediately

interrupted by an expressive--"It must be awfully nice."

I took the trouble to give my American friend a lengthy description of

our drawing-room receptions, in which she became ardently interested,

never interrupting me until I had come to the end. She then surprised

me with the question.

"Don't you have any refreshments?" put in a high key.

"Not until we get home," said I laughing. "The ceremony is virtually

over when the people have been presented."

This rather disappointed her, I am afraid, but what could I do? She

dismissed the subject summarily by touching upon another new one--that

of our winter sports. I had to describe the tobogganing costumes,

their effect at night when bonfires were burning in the vicinity of

the hills, the sensation of going down, and the excitement of trudging

back again to the top. She listened admirably and seemed thoroughly

appreciative of my generous effort to entertain her. When I had

finished, she remarked very quietly.

"It must be real nice, and ever such good fun, but I could never try

it. It would smother me right there--I'm always under doctors' orders,

you know," she added in a subdued, confidential whisper, "I've got

seven diseases?"

"Have you indeed?" I exclaimed in genuine consternation. "You don't

look as if you had," I continued by way of encouragement, but without

effect, for she interrupted me, fretfully saying:

"Oh, yes I do! Anyone would know I had anaemia, I am so pale, and

dyspepsia, for I eat so few things, and such a little at a time; then

there's dyscrasia, comes from poverty of the blood, and my

palpitations, that prevent me from having any pleasures worth calling

so, besides these," she added, putting her reckoning finger upon her

thumb, "I suffer from neuralgia, and acute rheumatism, and," (on the

second finger of the other, hand, which represented seven) "an

inflammation of the spine. So now, what do you think of that?"

"Well, really I am very sorry for you, poor Miss Longfield'" I said

with an effort to let my sympathy overcome my burning desire to laugh

outright; "you have been very unfortunate indeed, to have contracted

so many diseases at once."