CHAPTER XVII.

DEEPLY WALLS AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

Major Strickland rang the bell, and the door was opened by a servant who

was strange to Janet.

"Be good enough to inform Lady Chillington that Major Strickland and

Miss Hope have just arrived from town, and inquire whether her ladyship

has any commands."

The servant returned presently. "Her ladyship will see Major Strickland.

Miss Hope is to go to the housekeeper's room."

"I will see you again, poverina, after my interview with her ladyship,"

said the Major, as he went off in charge of the footman.

Janet, left alone, threaded her way by the old familiar passages to the

housekeeper's room. Dance was not there, being probably in attendance on

Lady Chillington, and Janet had the room to herself. Her heart was heavy

within her. There was a chill sense of friendlessness, of being alone in

the world upon her. Were these cold walls to be the only home her youth

would ever know? A few slow salt tears welled from her eyes as she sat

brooding over the little wood fire, till presently there came a sound of

footsteps, and the Major's hand was laid caressingly upon her shoulder.

"What, all alone!" he said; "and with nothing better to do than read

fairy tales in the glowing embers! Is there no one in all this big house

to attend to your wants? But Dance will be here presently, I have no

doubt, and the good old soul will do her best to make you comfortable. I

have been to pay my respects to her ladyship, who is in one of her

unamiable moods this evening. I, however, contrived to wring from her a

reluctant consent to your paying Aunt Felicity and me a visit now and

then at Eastbury, and it shall be my business to see that the promise is

duly carried out."

"Then I am to remain at Deepley Walls!" said Janet. "I thought it

probable that my visit might be for a few weeks only, as my first one

was."

"From what Lady Chillington said, I imagine that the present arrangement

is to be a permanent one; but she gave no hint of the mode in which she

intended to make use of your services, and that she will make use of you

in some way, no one who knows her can doubt. And now, dear, I must say

good-bye for the present; good-bye and God bless you! You may look to

see me again within the week. Keep up your spirits, and--but here comes

Dance, who will cheer you up far better than I can."

As the Major went out, Dance came in. The good soul seemed quite

unchanged, except that she had grown older and mellower, and seemed to

have sweetened with age like an apple plucked unripe. A little cry of

delight burst from her lips the moment she saw Janet. But in the very

act of rushing forward with outstretched arms, she stopped. She stopped,

and stared, and then curtsied as though involuntarily. "If the dead are

ever allowed to come back to this earth, there is one of them before me

now!" she murmured.

Janet caught the words, but her heart was too full to notice them just

then. She had her arms round Dance's neck in a moment, and her bright

young head was pressed against the old servant's faithful breast.

"Oh, Dance, Dance, I am so glad you are come!"

"Hush, dear heart! hush, my poor child! you must not take on in that

way. It seems a poor coming home for you--for I suppose Deepley Walls is

to be your home in time to come--but there are those under this roof

that love you dearly. Eh! but you are grown tall and bonny, and look as

fresh and sweet as a morning in May. Her ladyship ought to be proud of

you. But she gets that cantankerous and cross-grained in her old age

that you never know what will suit her for two minutes at a time. For

all that, her spirit is just wonderful, and she is a real lady, every

inch of her. And you, Miss Janet, you are a thorough lady; anybody can

see that, and her ladyship will see it as soon as anybody. She will like

you none the worse for being a gentlewoman. But here am I preaching away

like any old gadabout, and you not as much as taken your bonnet off yet.

Get your things off, dearie, and I'll have a cup of tea ready in no

time, and you'll feel ever so much better when you have had it."

Dance could scarcely take her eyes off Janet's face, so attracted was

she by the likeness which had rung from her an exclamation on entering

the room.

But Janet was tired, and reserved all questions till the morrow; all

questions, except one. That one was--

"How is Sister Agnes?"

Dance shook her head solemnly. "No worse and no better than she has been

for the last two months. There is something lingering about her that I

don't like. She is far from well, and yet not exactly what we call ill.

Morning, noon and night she seems so terribly weary, and that is just

what frightens me. She has asked after you I don't know how many times,

and when tea is over you must go and see her. Only I must warn you, dear

Miss Janet, not to let your feelings overcome you when you see her--not

to make a scene. In that case your coming would do her not good, but

harm."

Janet recovered her spirits in a great measure before tea was over. She

and Dance had much to talk about, many pleasant reminiscences to call up

and discuss. As if by mutual consent, Lady Chillington's name was not

mentioned between them.

As soon as tea was over, Dance went to inquire when Sister Agnes would

see Miss Hope. The answer was, "I will see her at once."

So Janet went with hushed footsteps up the well-remembered staircase,

opened the door softly, and stood for a moment on the threshold. Sister

Agnes was lying on a sofa. She put her hand suddenly to her side and

rose to her feet as Janet entered the room. A tall, wasted figure robed

in black, with a thin, spiritualised face, the natural pallor of which

was just now displaced by a transient flush that faded out almost as

quickly as it had come. The white head-dress had been cast aside for

once, and the black hair, streaked with silver, was tied in a simple

knot behind. The large dark eyes looked larger and darker than they had

ever looked before, and seemed lit up with an inner fire that had its

source in another world than ours.

Sister Agnes advanced a step or two and held out her arms. "My darling!"

was all she said as she pressed Janet to her heart, and kissed her again

and again. They understood each other without words. The feeling within

them was too deep to find expression in any commonplace greeting.

The excitement of the meeting was too much for the strength of Sister

Agnes. She was obliged to lie down again. Janet sat by her side,

caressing one of her wasted hands.

"Your coming has made me very, very happy," murmured Sister Agnes after

a time.

"Through all the seven dreary years of my school life," said Janet, "the

expectation of some day seeing you again was the one golden dream that

the future held before me. That dream has now come true. How I have

looked forward to this day none save those who have been circumstanced

as I have can more than faintly imagine."

"Are you at all acquainted with Lady Chillington's intentions in asking

you to come to Deepley Walls?"

"Not in the least. A fortnight ago I had no idea that I should so soon

be here. I knew that I could not stay much longer at the Pension

Clissot, and naturally wondered what instructions Madame Delclos would

receive from Lady Chillington as to my disposal. The last time I saw her

ladyship, her words seemed to imply that, after my education should be

finished, I should have to trust to my own exertions for earning a

livelihood. In fact, I have looked upon myself all along as ultimately

destined to add one more unit to the great tribe of governesses."

"Such a fate shall not be yours if my weak arm has power to avert it,"

said Sister Agnes. "For the present your services are required at

Deepley Walls, in the capacity of 'companion' to Lady Chillington--in

brief, to occupy the position held by me for so many years, but from

which I am now obliged to secede on account of ill-health."

Janet was almost too astounded to speak.

"Companion to Lady Chillington! I! Impossible!" was all that she could

say.

"Why impossible, dear Janet?" asked Sister Agnes, with her low, sweet

voice. "I see no element of impossibility in such an arrangement. The

duties of the position have been filled by me for many years; they have

now devolved upon you, and I am not aware of anything that need preclude

your acceptance of them."

"We are not all angels like you, Sister Agnes," said Janet. "Lady

Chillington, as I remember, is a very peculiar woman. She has no regard

for the feelings of others, especially when those others are her

inferiors in position. She says the most cruel things she can think of

and cares nothing how deeply they may wound. I am afraid that she and I

would never agree."

"That Lady Chillington is a very peculiar woman I am quite ready to

admit. That she will say things to you that may seem hard and cruel, and

that may wound your feelings, I will also allow. But granting all this,

I can deduce from it no reason why the position should be refused by

you. Had you gone out as governess, you would probably have had fifty

things to contend against quite as disagreeable as Lady Chillington's

temper and cynical remarks. You are young, dear Janet, and life's battle

has yet to be fought by you. You must not expect that everything in this

world will arrange itself in accordance with your wishes. You will have

many difficulties to fight against and overcome, and the sooner you make

up your mind to the acceptance of that fact, the better it will be for

you in every way. If I have found the position of companion to Lady

Chillington not quite unendurable, why should it be found so by you?

Besides, her ladyship has many claims upon you--upon your best services

in every way. Every farthing that has been spent upon you from the day

you were born to the present time has come out of her purse. Except mere

life itself, you owe everything to her. And even if this were not so,

there are other and peculiar ties between you and her, of which you know

nothing (although you may possibly be made acquainted with them

by-and-by), which are in themselves sufficient to lead her to expect

every reasonable obedience at your hands. You must clothe yourself with

good temper, dear Janet, as with armour of proof. You must make up your

mind beforehand that however harsh her ladyship's remarks may sometimes

seem, you will not answer her again. Do this, and her words will soon be

powerless to sting you. Instead of feeling hurt or angry, you will be

inclined to pity her--to pray for her. And she deserves pity, Janet, if

any woman in this sinful world ever did. To have severed of her own

accord those natural ties which other people cherish so fondly; to see

herself fading into a dreary old age, and yet of her own free will to

shut out the love that should attend her by the way and strew flowers on

her path; to have no longer a single earthly hope or pleasure beyond

those connected with each day's narrow needs or with the heaping

together of more money where there was enough before--in all this there

is surely room enough for pity, but none for any harsher feeling."

"Dear Sister Agnes, your words make me thoroughly ashamed of myself,"

said Janet, with tearful earnestness. "Arrogance ill becomes one like me

who have been dependent on the charity of others from the day of my

birth. Whatever task may be set me either by Lady Chillington or by you,

I will do it to the best of my ability. Will you for this once pardon my

petulance and ill-temper, and I will strive not to offend you again?"

"I am not offended, darling; far from it. I felt sure that you had

good-sense and good-feeling enough to see the matter in its right light

when it was properly put before you. But have you no curiosity as to the

nature of your new duties?"

"Very little at present, I must confess," answered Janet, with a wan

smile. "The chief thing for which I care just now is to know that so

long as I remain at Deepley Walls I shall be near you; and that of

itself would be sufficient to enable me to rest contented under worse

inflictions than Lady Chillington's ill-temper."

"You ridiculous Janet! Ah! if I only dared to tell you everything. But

that must not be. Let us rather talk of what your duties will be in your

new situation."

"Yes, tell me about them, please," said Janet, "and you shall see in

time to come that your words have not been forgotten."

"To begin: you will have to go to her ladyship's room precisely at eight

every morning. Sometimes she will not want you, in which case you will

be at liberty till after breakfast. Should she want you it will probably

be to read to her while she sips her chocolate, or it may be to play a

game of backgammon with her before she gets up. A little later on you

will be able to steal an hour or so for yourself, as while her ladyship

is undergoing the elaborate processes of the toilette, your services

will not be required. On coming down, if the weather be fine, she will

want the support of your arm during her stroll on the terrace. If the

weather be wet, she will probably attend to her correspondence and

book-keeping, and you will have to fill the parts both of amanuensis and

accountant. When Mr. Madgin, her ladyship's man of business, comes up to

Deepley Walls, you will have to be in attendance to take notes, write

down instructions, and so on. By-and-by will come luncheon, of which, as

a rule, you will partake with her. After luncheon you will be your own

mistress for an hour while her ladyship sleeps. The moment she wakes you

will have to be in attendance, either to play to her, or else to read to

her--perhaps a little French or Italian, in both of which languages I

hope you are tolerably proficient. Your next duty will be to accompany

her ladyship in her drive out. When you get back, will come dinner, but

only when specially invited will you sit down with Lady Chillington.

When that honour is not accorded you, you and I will dine here, darling,

by our two selves."

"Then I hope Lady Chillington will not invite me oftener than once a

month," cried impulsive Janet.

"The number of your invitations to dinner will depend upon the extent of

her liking for you, so that we shall soon know whether or no you are a

favourite. She may or may not require you after dinner. If she does

require you, it may be either for reading or music, or to play

backgammon with her; or even to sit quietly with her without speaking,

for the mere sake of companionship. One fact you will soon discover for

yourself--that her ladyship does not like to be long alone. And now,

dearest, I think I have told you enough for the present. We will talk

further of these things to-morrow. Give me just one kiss and see what

you can find to play among that heap of old music on the piano. Madame

Delclos used to write in raptures of your style and touch. We will now

prove whether her eulogy was well founded."

Janet found that she was not to occupy the same bed-room as on her first

visit to Deepley Walls, but one nearer that of Sister Agnes. She was not

sorry for this, for there had been a secret dread upon her of having to

sleep in a room so near that occupied by the body of Sir John

Chillington. She had never forgotten her terrible experience in

connection with the Black Room, and she wished to keep herself entirely

free from any such influences in time to come. The first question she

asked Dance when they reached her bed-room was--

"Does Sister Agnes still visit the Black Room every midnight?"

"Yes, for sure," answered Dance. "There is no one but her to do it. Her

ladyship would not allow any of the servants to enter the room. Rather

than that, I believe she would herself do what has to be done there.

Sister Agnes would not neglect that duty if she was dying."

Janet said no more, but then and there she made up her mind to a certain

course of action of which nothing would have made her believe herself

capable only an hour before.

Early next forenoon she was summoned to an interview with Lady

Chillington. Her heart beat more quickly than common as she was ushered

by Dance into the old woman's dressing-room.

Her ladyship was in demi-toilette--made up in part for the day, but not

yet finished. Her black wig, with its long corkscrew curls, was

carefully adjusted; her rouge and powder were artistically laid on, her

eyebrows elaborately pointed, and in so far she looked as she always

looked when visible to anyone but her maid. But her figure wanted

bracing up, so to speak, and looked shrunken and shrivelled in the old

cashmere dressing-robe, from which at that early hour she had not

emerged. Her fingers--long, lean and yellow--were decorated with some

half-dozen valuable rings. Increasing years had not tended to make her

hands steadier than Janet remembered them as being when she last saw her

ladyship; and of late it had become a matter of some difficulty with her

to keep her head quite still: it seemed possessed by an unaccountable

desire to imitate the shaking of her hands. She was seated in an

easy-chair as Janet entered the room. Her breakfast equipage was on a

small table at her elbow.

As the door closed behind Janet, she stood still and curtsied.

Lady Chillington placed her glass to her eye, and with a lean forefinger

beckoned to Janet to draw near. Janet advanced, her eyes fixed steadily

on those of Lady Chillington. A yard or two from the table she stopped

and curtsied again.

"I hope that I have the happiness of finding your ladyship quite well,"

she said, in a low, clear voice, in which there was not the slightest

tremor or hesitation.

"And pray, Miss Hope, what can it matter to you whether I am well or

ill? Answer me that, if you please."

"I owe so much to your ladyship, I have been such a pensioner on your

bounty ever since I can remember anything, that mere selfishness alone,

if no higher motive be allowed me, must always prompt me to feel an

interest in the state of your ladyship's health."

"Candid, at any rate. But I wish you clearly to understand that whatever

obligation you may feel yourself under to me for what is past and gone,

you have no claim of any kind upon me for the future. The tie between us

can be severed by me at any moment."

"Seven years ago your ladyship impressed that fact so strongly on my

mind that I have never forgotten it. I have never felt myself to be

other than a dependent on your bounty."

"A very praiseworthy feeling, young lady, and one which I trust you will

continue to cherish. Not that I wish other people to look upon you as a

dependent. I wish--" She broke off abruptly, and stared helplessly round

the room. Suddenly her head began to shake. "Heaven help me! what do I

wish?" she exclaimed; and with that she began to cry, and seemed all in

a moment to have grown older by twenty years.

Janet, in her surprise, made a step or two forward, but Lady Chillington

waved her fiercely back. "Fool! fool! why don't you go away?" she cried.

"Why do you stare at me so? Go away, and send Dance to me. You have

spoilt my complexion for the day."

Janet left the room and sent Dance to her mistress, and then went off

for a ramble in the grounds. The seal of desolation and decay was set

upon everything. The garden, no longer the choice home of choice

flowers, was weed-grown and neglected. The greenhouses were empty, and

falling to pieces for lack of a few simple repairs. The shrubs and

evergreens had all run wild for want of pruning, and in several places

the dividing hedges were broken down, and through the breaches sheep had

intruded themselves into the private grounds. Even the house itself had

a shabby out-at-elbows air, like a gentleman fallen upon evil days.

Several of the upper windows were shuttered, some of the others showed a

broken pane or two. Here and there a shutter had fallen away, or was

hanging by a solitary hinge, suggesting thoughts of ghostly flappings

to and fro in the rough wind on winter nights. Doors and window frames

were blistering and splitting for want of paint. Close by the sacred

terrace itself lay the fragments of a broken chimney-pot, blown down

during the last equinoctial gales and suffered to lie where it had

fallen. Everywhere were visible tokens of that miserly thrift which,

carried to excess, degenerates into unthrift of the worst and meanest

kind, from which the transition to absolute ruin is both easy and

certain.

For a full hour Janet trod the weed-grown walks with clasped hands and

saddened eyes. At the end of that time Dance came in search of her. Lady

Chillington wanted to see her again.

(_To be continued._)

SPES.

"When we meet," she said. We never

Met again--the world is wide:

Leagues of sea, then Death did sever

Me from my betrothed Bride.

When we parted, long ago--

Long it seems in sorrow musing--

Fair she stood, with face aglow,

In my heart a hope infusing.

Now I linger at the grave,

While the winds of Winter rave.

"When we meet," the words are ringing

Clear as when they left her lips,

Clear as when her faith upspringing

Fronted life and life's eclipse--

Rest, dear heart, dear hands, dear feet,

Rest; in spite of Death's endeavour,

Thou art mine; we soon shall meet,

Ocean, Death be passed for ever.

Thus I linger by the grave,

Cherishing the hope she gave.

JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A.

(Author of "Last Year's Leaves.")

LONGEVITY.

BY W.F. AINSWORTH, F.S.A.

Disdain of the inevitable end is said to be the finest trait of mankind.

Some profess to be weary of life, of its pains and penalties, its

anxieties and sufferings, and to look upon death as a relief. Such

states of mind are not real; they are either assumed or affected. No one

can really hold the unsparing leveller--dreaded of all--in contempt. As

to pretended wearisomeness of life, laying aside the love of life and

fear of death, which are common to all mankind, there are habits and

ties of affection, joys and hopes that never depart from us and make us

cling to existence.

There are, no doubt, pains and sufferings which make many almost wish

for the time being for death as a release; but these pass away. Time

assuages all grief, as Nature relieves suffering beyond endurance by

fainting and insensibility. Man may nerve himself to death or become

resigned to it and meet it even with cheerfulness; and he may, in all

sincerity of heart, offer up his life to his Maker to save that of a

beloved one; but there is a latent--an unacknowledged--yet an

irrepressible reserve in such frames of mind.

Few men can prepare for death, or offer themselves up for a sacrifice,

without feelings of a mixed nature playing a part in the act; whether

forced or springing from self-abnegation. As to suicide, it is

inevitably accompanied by certain--albeit various and different--degrees

of mental alienation or disease. No one who is in a really healthy state

of mind, whose faculties are perfectly balanced, or who is at peace with

God and man, commits suicide. The temporary exaltation of grief,

despondency or disappointment produces as utter a state of insanity as

disease itself.

Man, as a rule, desires to live. It is part of his nature to do so; and

exceptions to the rule are rare and unnatural--so much so that they in

all cases imply a certain degree of mental alienation. Even the

weariness, lassitude and despondency which lead some to talk of death as

a release is mainly to be met with in the pampered and the idle. Such

feelings, no doubt, take possession also of the poor and the lowly; but

that, mostly, when there is no work or no incitement to it. There is

always joy and happiness in work and in doing one's duty.

It is then the normal condition to wish to live, and a most abnormal one

to wish to die; and with many there is even a further aspiration, and

that is to prolong a life which, with all its drawbacks, is to so many a

desirable state of things.

Examples of rare longevity are carefully treasured up and even placed on

record. As whenever a human being is carried away, causes from which we

are supposed to be free, or against which we take precautions, are

complacently sought for, so instances of longevity are studied to

discover what habits and manners, what system of diet, or conduct, and

which environing circumstances, have most tended to ensure such a

result.

Numerous treatises have been written on the subject, both in this

country and on the continent; but it cannot be said that the result has

been eminently satisfactory. When carefully inquired into, it has been

found that the most contradictory state of things has been in existence.

It is not always to the strong that long life is given, nor is such, as

often supposed, hereditary. Riches and the comforts and luxuries they

place at man's disposal no more conduce to long life than poverty. Even

moderation and temperance, so universally admitted as essentials to

health and long life, are found to have their exceptions in

well-attested cases of prolongation of life with the luxurious and

self-indulgent and even in the intemperate and the inebriate. Strange to

say, even health is not always conducive to long life. There is a common

proverb (and most proverbs are founded upon experience) about creaking

hinges, and so it is that people always ailing have been known to live

longer than the strong, the hearty, and the healthy. The latter have

overtaxed their strength, their spirits, and their health. Even vitality

itself, stronger in some than others, may in excess conduce to the

premature wearing out and decay of the faculties and powers.

It is not surprising, then, that great difficulties have had to be

encountered in fixing any general laws by which longevity can be

assured; yet such are in existence, and like all the gracious gifts of a

most merciful Creator, are at the easy command and disposal of mankind.

They are to be found in implicit obedience to the Laws of God and

Nature. These imply the use and not the misuse or abuse of all the

powers and faculties given to us by an all-wise and all-merciful

Providence. If human beings would only abide by these laws they would

not only enjoy long health and long life but they would also pass that

life in comfort and happiness.

With respect to the physical, intellectual and moral man, work is the

essential factor in procuring health and happiness. Idleness is the bane

of both. Man and woman were born to work either by hand or brain. Man in

the outer world, woman in the home. The man who lives without an object

in life is not only not doing his duty to God, but he is a curse to

himself and others. But work, like everything else, should be limited.

Many cannot do this, and overtax both their physical and intellectual

energies. The employment of labour should be regulated by the

capabilities of the working-classes, not by the economy or profits to be

obtained by extra labour; and legislation, if paternal, as it should be,

ought to protect the toiler in all instances--not in the few in which

it attempts to ameliorate his condition. So with every pursuit or

avocation, the leisure essential to health and happiness is too often

sacrificed to cupidity, and when this is the case there can be no

longevity.

Exercise is beneficial to man; but it should not be taken in excess, or

in too trying a form. It is very questionable if what are called

"Athletic Sports" are not too often as hurtful as they are beneficial.

It is quite certain that they cannot be indulged in with impunity after

a certain time of life.

Sustenance is essential alike to life and longevity, but it is trite to

say it must be in moderation, and as far as possible select. So in the

case of temperance, moderation is beneficial, excess hurtful. Total

abstainers defeat the very object they propose to advocate when they

propose to do away with all because excess is hurtful. Extremes are

always baneful, and the monks of old were wise in their generation when

they denounced gluttony and intemperance as cardinal vices. The physical

powers are as a rule subject to the will, which is the exponent of our

passions and propensities and of our moral and intellectual impulses.

Were it not so we could not curb our actions, restrain our appetites, or

keep within that moderation which is essential to health, happiness and

longevity.

Our passions and propensities are imparted to us for a wise purpose, and

are therefore beneficial in their use. It is only in their neglect,

misuse or abuse that they become hurtful. A French author has

pertinently put it thus: "The passions act as winds to propel our

vessel, our reason is the pilot that steers her; without the winds she

would not move, without the pilot she would be lost."

Even our affections, so pure and beautiful in themselves, may, by abuse,

be made sources of mischief, evil and disease. The abuses are too well

known to require repetition here. The powers of energy and resistance,

beneficial in themselves, in their abuse bring about the spirit of

contradiction, violence and combat.

It seems passing strange that even our moral feelings should be liable

to abuse; but it is so, even with the best. Benevolence and charity may

be misplaced or be in excess of our means. They assume the shape of

vices in the form of prodigality and extravagance. The honest desire to

acquire the necessities of life or the means for moral and intellectual

improvement may in excess become cupidity or covetousness, and lead even

to the appropriation of what is not our own. Kleptomania is met with in

the book-worm or the antiquarian, as well as in the feminine lover of

dress or those in poverty and distress. Firmness may become obstinacy;

the justifiable love of self may, by abuse, become pride; and a proper

and chaste wish for the approbation of others may be turned into the

most absurd of vanities. Even religion itself may be carried to

uncharitableness, fanaticism and persecution. Still more strange it must

appear that even the intellectual faculties should be liable to abuse;

but it is part of the pains and penalties of the constitution of man

that it should be so. It is so to teach us that moderation is wisdom and

the only conduct that leads to health and happiness.

The abuse of the moral faculties is directly injurious; that of the

intellectual faculties mostly so in an indirect manner. Such abuses are

more hurtful by the influence they have upon the conduct than they have

upon the intellect itself. If a man's judgment is unsound, for example,

it leads to deleterious consequences, not only to himself, but to

others. If the powers of observation are weak, and a person is deficient

in the capacity of judging of form, distance or locality, he will be

incapacitated from success in many pursuits of life without his

suffering thereby, except in an indirect manner. The imagination, the

noblest manifestation of intellect, may, without judgment, be allowed to

run riot, or abused by its exaltation; and with the faculty of wonder

may lead to superstition, fanaticism and folly. The intellectual

faculties may be altogether weak or almost wanting. In such cases we

have foolishness merging into idiocy.

The examples here given of use, as opposed to neglect, misuse, or abuse,

are simply illustrative of the point in question. They might be extended

in an indefinite degree, especially if it were proposed to enter into

details. They will, however, suffice for the purpose in view, which is

to show that the use of all the powers and faculties granted to us by

the Creator is intended for our benefit, and is conducive to health,

happiness and longevity, but that their neglect or their abuse leads to

misery, pain, affliction, disaster and disease.

The lesson to be conveyed is that moderation is essential in all things.

Why is it that the sickly and the ailing sometimes survive the strong

and hearty? Because suffering has taught the former moderation, whilst

the sense of power leads the latter to excesses which too often prove

fatal. Everyone has, in his experience, known instances of the kind.

But the use and not the neglect or abuse of the faculties is the

observance of the laws of God and Nature. If neglect and misuse of our

faculties lead to loss of power, so their abuse leads to bad conduct and

its pains and penalties. What has been here termed moderation, as a

medium between neglect, use and abuse, is really obedience to the laws

of God and Nature.

The whole secret of health, happiness and longevity lies then in this

simple observance, if it can only be fully understood, appreciated in

all its importance, and carried out in all the smallest details of life.

As such perfection is rare, and somewhat difficult to attain--the trials

and temptations of life being so great--so are none of the results here

enumerated often arrived at; but that is no reason why man should not

endeavour to reach as near perfection as possible, and enjoy as much

health and happiness as he can. One of the most common and one of the

greatest errors is to suppose that happiness is to be obtained by the

pursuit of pleasure and excitement. The temporary enjoyment created by

such is inevitably followed by reaction--lassitude and weariness--and

human nature is palled by the surfeit of amusement as much as it is by

the luxuries of the table. There cannot be a more humiliating spectacle

than that of the man of the world, as he is called, or the woman of

fashion or pleasure. Blasé is too considerate an expression. Such

persons are worn-out prematurely in body, mind and intellect--they are

soulless and unsympathetic--the wrecks of the noble creatures God

created as man and woman in all the simplicity of their nature.

It is surely worth while, then, considering whether the enjoyment of

health and happiness is not worth a little study and a little sacrifice

of the vain and imaginary pleasures of the world. There is no doubt that

some amount of restraint and some power of self-control are requisite to

ensure moderation. But the disdain of many pleasures is a chief part of

what is commonly called wisdom.

It is with waking and sleeping, with talking and walking, with eating

and drinking, with toil and labour, with all the acts of life, that

moderation or obedience to the laws of Nature requires some little

sacrifice in their observance; but it is quite certain that without this

obedience there is neither health nor happiness nor longevity.

SONNET.

Who said that there were slaves? There may be men

In bondage, bought or sold: there are no slaves

Whilst God looks down, whilst Christ's most pure blood laves

The black man's sins; whilst within angel ken

He bears his load and drags his iron chain.

The slaves are they whom, on His Judgment Day,

God shall renounce for aye and cast away.

Oh, Jesus Christ! Thou wilt give justice then!

A drop of blood shall seem a swelling sea,

More piercing than a cry the lowest moan.

Come down, ye mountains! in your gloom come down,

And bury deep the sinner's agony!

Master and slave have past; Time, thou art gone:

Eternity begins--Christ rules alone!

JULIA KAVANAGH.

THE SILENT CHIMES.

NOT HEARD.

That oft-quoted French saying, a mauvais-quart-d'heure, is a pregnant

one, and may apply to small as well as to great worries of life: most of

us know it to our cost. But, rely upon it, one of the very worst is that

when a bride or bridegroom has to make a disagreeable confession to the

other, which ought to have been made before going to church.

Philip Hamlyn was finding it so. Standing over the fire, in their

sitting-room at the Old Ship Hotel at Brighton, his elbow on the

mantelpiece, his hand shading his eyes, he looked down at his wife

sitting opposite him, and disclosed his tale: that when he married her

fifteen days ago he had not been a bachelor, but a widower. There was no

especial reason for his not having told her, save that he hated and

abhorred that earlier period of his life and instinctively shunned its

remembrance.

Sent to India by his friends in the West Indies to make his way in the

world, he entered one of the most important mercantile houses in

Calcutta, purchasing a lucrative post in it. Mixing in the best society,

for his introductions were undeniable, he in course of time met with a

young lady named Pratt, who had come out from England to stay with her

elderly cousins, Captain Pratt and his sister. Philip Hamlyn was caught

by her pretty doll's face, and married her. They called her Dolly: and a

doll she was, by nature as well as by name.

"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," is as true a saying as the

French one. Philip Hamlyn found it so. Of all vain, frivolous, heartless

women, Mrs. Dolly Hamlyn turned out to be about the worst. Just a year

or two of uncomfortable bickering, of vain endeavours on his part, now

coaxing, now reproaching, to make her what she was not and never would

be--a reasonable woman, a sensible wife--and Dolly Hamlyn fled. She

decamped with a hair-brained lieutenant, the two taking sailing-ship for

England, and she carrying with her her little one-year-old boy.

I'll leave you to guess what Philip Hamlyn's sensations were. A calamity

such as that does not often fall upon man. While he was taking steps to

put his wife legally away for ever and to get back his child, and

Captain Pratt was aiding and abetting (and swearing frightfully at the

delinquent over the process), news reached them that Heaven's vengeance

had been more speedy than theirs. The ship, driven out of her way by

contrary winds and other disasters, went down off the coast of Spain,

and all the passengers on board perished. This was what Philip Hamlyn

had to confess now: and it was more than silly of him not to have done

it before.

He touched but lightly upon it now. His tones were low, his words when

he began somewhat confused: nevertheless his wife, gazing up at him with

her large dark eyes, gathered an inkling of his meaning.

"Don't tell it me!" she passionately interrupted. "Do not tell me that I

am only your second wife."

He went over to her, praying her to be calm, speaking of the bitter

feeling of shame which had ever since clung to him.

"Did you divorce her?"

"No, no; you do not understand me, Eliza. She died before anything could

be done; the ship was wrecked."

"Were there any children?" she asked in a hard whisper.

"One; a baby of a year old. He was drowned with his mother."

Mrs. Hamlyn folded her hands one over the other, and leaned back in her

chair. "Why did you deceive me?"

"My will was good to deceive you for ever," he confessed with emotion.

"I hate that past episode in my life; hate to think of it: I wish I

could blot it out of remembrance. But for Pratt I should not have told

you now."

"Oh, he said you ought to tell me?"

"He did: and blamed me for not having told you already."

"Have you any more secrets of the past that you are keeping from me?"

"None. Not one. You may take my honour upon it, Eliza. And now let us--"

She had started forward in her chair; a red flush darkening her pale

cheeks, "Philip! Philip! am I legally married? Did you describe yourself

as a _bachelor_ in the license?"

"No, as a widower. I got the license in London, you know."

"And no one read it?"

"No one save he who married us: Robert Grame, and I don't suppose he

noticed it."

Robert Grame! The flush on Eliza's cheeks grew deeper.

"Did you _love_ her?"

"I suppose I thought so when I married her. It did not take long to

disenchant me," he added with a harsh laugh.

"What was her Christian name?"

"Dolly. Dora, I believe, by register. My dear wife, I have told you all.

In compassion to me let us drop the subject, now and for ever."

Was Eliza Hamlyn--sitting there with pale, compressed lips, sullen eyes,

and hands interlocked in pain--already beginning to reap the fruit she

had sown as Eliza Monk by her rebellious marriage? Perhaps so. But not

as she would have to reap it later on.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn spent nearly all that year in travelling. In

September they came to Peacock's Range, taking it furnished for a term

of old Mr. and Mrs. Peveril, who had not yet come back to it. It stood

midway, as may be remembered, between Church Leet and Church Dykely, so

that Eliza was close to her old home. Late in October a little boy was

born: it would be hard to say which was the prouder of him, Philip

Hamlyn or his wife.

"What would you like his name to be?" Philip asked her one day.

"I should like it to be Walter," said Mrs. Hamlyn.

"_Walter!_"

"Yes, I should. I like the name for itself, but I once had a dear little

brother named Walter, just a year younger than I. He died before we came

home to England. Have you any objection to the name?"

"Oh, no, no objection," he slowly said. "I was only thinking whether you

would have any. It was the name given to my first child."

"That can make no possible difference--it was not my child," was her

haughty answer. So the baby was named Walter James; the latter name also

chosen by Eliza, because it had been old Mr. Monk's.

In the following spring Mr. Hamlyn had to go to the West Indies. Eliza

remained at home; and during this time she became reconciled to her

father.

Hubert brought it about. For Hubert lived yet. But he was just a shadow

and had to take entirely to the house, and soon to his room. Eliza came

to see him, again and again; and finally over Hubert's sofa peace was

made--for Captain Monk loved her still, just as he had loved Katherine,

for all her rebellion.

Hubert lingered on to the summer. And then, on a calm evening, when one

of the glorious sunsets that he had so loved to look upon was illumining

the western sky, opening up to his dying view, as he had once said, the

very portals of Heaven, he passed peacefully away to his rest.

II.

The next change that set in at Leet Hall concerned Miss Kate Dancox.

That wilful young pickle, somewhat sobered by the death of Hubert in the

summer, soon grew unbearable again. She had completely got the upper

hand of her morning governess, Miss Hume--who walked all the way from

Church Dykely and back again--and of nearly everyone else; and Captain

Monk gave forth his decision one day when all was turbulence--a resident

governess. Mrs. Carradyne could have danced a reel for joy, and wrote to

a governess agency in London.

One morning about this time (which was already glowing with the tints

of autumn) a young lady got out of an omnibus in Oxford Street, which

had brought her from a western suburb of London, paid the conductor, and

then looked about her.

"There!" she exclaimed in a quaint tone of vexation, "I have to cross

the street! And how am I to do it?"

Evidently she was not used to the bustle of London streets or to

crossing them alone. She did it, however, after a few false starts, and

so turned down a quiet side street and rang at the bell of a house in

it. A slatternly girl answered the ring.

"Governess-agent--Mrs. Moffit? Oh, yes; first-floor front," said she

crustily, and disappeared.

The young lady found her way upstairs alone. Mrs. Moffit sat in state in

a big arm-chair, before a large table and desk, whence she daily

dispensed joy or despair to her applicants. Several opened letters and

copies of the daily journals lay on the table.

"Well?" cried she, laying down her pen, "what for you?"

"I am here by your appointment, madam, made with me a week ago," said

the young lady. "This is Thursday."

"What name?" cried Mrs. Moffit sharply, turning over rapidly the leaves

of a ledger.

"Miss West. If you remember, I--"

"Oh, yes, child, my memory's good enough," was the tart interruption.

"But with so many applicants it's impossible to be at any certainty as

to faces. Registered names we can't mistake."

Mrs. Moffit read her notes--taken down a week ago. "Miss West. Educated

in first-class school at Richmond; remained in it as teacher. Very good

references from the ladies keeping it. Father, Colonel in India."

"But--"

"You do not wish to go into a school again?" spoke Mrs. Moffit, closing

the ledger with a snap, and peremptorily drowning what the applicant was

about to say.

"Oh, dear, no, I am only leaving to better myself, as the maids say,"

replied the young lady smiling.

"And you wish for a good salary?"

"If I can get it. One does not care to work hard for next to nothing."

"Or else I have--let me see--two--three situations on my books. Very

comfortable, I am instructed, but two of them offer ten pounds a-year,

the other twelve."

The young lady drew herself slightly up with an involuntary movement.

"Quite impossible, madam, that I could take any one of them."

Mrs. Moffit picked up a letter and consulted it, looking at the young

lady from time to time, as if taking stock of her appearance. "I

received a letter this morning from the country--a family require a

well-qualified governess for their one little girl. Your testimonials

as to qualifications might suit--and you are, I believe, a

gentlewoman--"

"Oh, yes; my father was--"

"Yes, yes, I remember--I've got it down; don't worry me," impatiently

spoke the oracle, cutting short the interruption. "So far you might

suit: but in other respects--I hardly know what to think."

"But why?" asked the other timidly, blushing a little under the intent

gaze.

"Well, you are very young, for one thing; and they might think you too

good-looking."

The girl's blush grew red as a rose; she had delicate features and it

made her look uncommonly pretty. A half-smile sat in her soft, dark

hazel eyes.

"Surely that could not be an impediment. I am not so good-looking as all

that!"

"That's as people may think," was the significant answer. "Some families

will not take a pretty governess--afraid of their sons, you see. This

family says nothing about looks; for aught I know there may be no sons

in it. 'Thoroughly competent'--reading from the letter--'a gentlewoman

by birth, of agreeable manners and lady-like. Salary, first year, to be

forty pounds.'"

"And will you not recommend me?" pleaded the young governess, her voice

full of soft entreaty. "Oh, please do! I know I should be found fully

competent, and I promise you that I would do my very best."

"Well, there may be no harm in my writing to the lady about you,"

decided Mrs. Moffit, won over by the girl's gentle respect--with which

she did not get treated by all her clients. "Suppose you come here again

on Monday next?"

The end of the matter was that Miss West was engaged by the lady

mentioned--no other than Mrs. Carradyne. And she journeyed down into

Worcestershire to enter upon the situation.

But clever (and generally correct) Mrs. Moffit made one mistake,

arising, no doubt, from the chronic state of hurry she was always in.

"Miss West is the daughter of the late Colonel William West," she wrote,

"who went to India with his regiment a few years ago, and died there."

What Miss West had said to her was this: "My father, a clergyman, died

when I was a little child, and my uncle William, Colonel West, the only

relation I had left, died three years ago in India." Mrs. Moffit somehow

confounded the two.

This might not have mattered on the whole. But, as you perceive, it

conveyed a wrong impression at Leet Hall.

"The governess I have engaged is a Miss West; her father was a military

man and a gentleman," spake Mrs. Carradyne one morning at breakfast to

Captain Monk. "She is rather young--about twenty, I fancy; but an older

person might never get on at all with Kate."

"Had good references with her, I suppose?" said the Captain.

"Oh, yes. From the agent, and especially from the ladies who have

brought her up."

"Who was her father, do you say?--a military man?"

"Colonel William West," assented Mrs. Carradyne, referring to the letter

she held. "He went to India with his regiment and died there."

"I'll refer to the army-list," said the Captain; "daresay it's all

right. And she shall keep Kate in order, or I'll know the reason why."

* * * * *

The evening sunlight lay on the green plain, on the white fields from

which the grain had been reaped, and on the beautiful woods glowing with

the varied tints of autumn. A fly was making its way to Leet Hall, and

its occupant, looking out of it on this side and that, in a fever of

ecstasy, for the country scene charmed her, thought how favoured was the

lot of those who could live out their lives amidst its surroundings.

In the drawing-room at the Hall, watching the approach of this same fly,

stood Mrs. Hamlyn, a frown upon her haughty face. Philip Hamlyn was

still detained in the West Indies, and since her reconciliation to her

father, she would go over with her baby-boy to the Hall and remain there

for days together. Captain Monk liked to have her, and he took more

notice of the baby than he had ever taken of baby yet. For when Kate was

an infant he had at first shunned her, because she had cost Katherine

her life. This baby, little Walter, was a particularly forward child,

strong and upright, walked at ten months old, and much resembled his

mother in feature. In temper also. The young one would stand sturdily in

his little blue shoes and defy his grandpapa already, and assert his own

will, to the amused admiration of Captain Monk.

Eliza, utterly wrapt in her child, saw her father's growing love for him

with secret delight; and one day when he had the boy on his knee, she

ventured to speak out a thought that was often in her heart.

"Papa," she said, with impassioned fervour, "_he_ ought to be the heir,

your own grandson; not Harry Carradyne."

Captain Monk simply stared in answer.

"He lies in the _direct_ succession; he has your own blood in his veins.

Papa, you ought to see it."

Certainly the gallant sailor's manners were improving. For perhaps the

first time in his life he suppressed the hot and abusive words rising to

his tongue--that no son of that man, Hamlyn, should come into Leet

Hall--and stood in silence.

"_Don't_ you see it, papa?"

"Look here, Eliza: we'll drop the subject. When my brother, your uncle,

was dying, he wrote me a letter, enjoining me to make Emma's son the

heir, failing a son of my own. It was right it should be so, he said.

Right it is; and Harry Carradyne will succeed me. Say no more."

Thus forbidden to say more, Eliza Hamlyn thought the more, and her

thoughts were not pleasant. At one time she had feared her father might

promote Kate Dancox to the heirship, and grew to dislike the child

accordingly. Latterly, for the same reason, she had disliked Harry

Carradyne; hated him, in fact. She herself was the only remaining child

of the house, and her son ought to inherit.

She stood this evening at the drawing-room window, this and other

matters running in her mind. Miss Kate, at the other end of the room,

had prevailed on Uncle Harry (as she called him) to play a game at toy

ninepins. Or perhaps he had prevailed on her: anything to keep her

tolerably quiet. She was in her teens now, but the older she grew the

more troublesome she became; and she was remarkably small and

childish-looking, so that strangers took her to be several years younger

than she really was.

"This must be your model governess arriving, Aunt Emma," exclaimed Mrs.

Hamlyn, as the fly came up the drive.

"I hope it is," said Mrs. Carradyne; and they all looked out. "Oh, yes,

that's an Evesham fly--and a ramshackle thing it appears."

"I wonder you did not send the carriage to Evesham for her, mother,"

remarked Harry, picking up some of the ninepins which Miss Kate had

swept off the table with her hand.

Mrs. Hamlyn turned round in a blaze of anger. "Send the carriage to

Evesham for the governess! What absurd thing will you say next, Harry?"

The young man laughed in good humour. "Does it offend one of your

prejudices, Eliza?--a thousand pardons, then. But really, nonsense

apart, I can't see why the carriage should not have gone for her. We are

told she is a gentlewoman. Indeed, I suppose anyone else would not be

eligible, as she is to be made one of ourselves."

"And think of the nuisance it will be! Do be quiet, Harry! Kate ought to

have been sent to school."

"But your father would not have her sent, you know, Eliza," spoke Mrs.

Carradyne.

"Then--"

"Miss West, ma'am," interrupted Rimmer, the butler, showing in the

traveller.

"Dear me, how very young!" was Mrs. Carradyne's first thought. "And what

a lovely face!"

She came in shyly. In her whole appearance there was a shrinking, timid

gentleness, betokening refinement of feeling. A slender, lady-like girl,

in a plain, dark travelling suit and a black bonnet lined and tied with

pink, a little lace border shading her nut-brown hair. The bonnets in

those days set off a pretty face better than do these modern ones.

That's what the Squire tells us.

Mrs. Carradyne advanced and shook hands cordially; Eliza bent her head

slightly from where she stood; Harry Carradyne stood up, a pleasant

welcome in his blue eyes and in his voice, as he laughingly

congratulated her upon the ancient Evesham fly not having come to grief

en route. Kate Dancox pressed forward.

"Are you my new governess?"

The young lady smiled and said she believed so.

"Aunt Eliza hates governesses; so do I. Do you expect to make me obey

you?"

The governess blushed painfully; but took courage to say she hoped she

should. Harry Carradyne thought it the very loveliest blush he had ever

seen in all his travels, and she the sweetest-looking girl.

And when Captain Monk came in he quite took to her appearance, for he

hated to have ugly people about him. But every now and then there was a

look in her face, or in her eyes, that struck him as being familiar--as

if he had once known someone who resembled her. Pleasing, soft dark

hazel eyes they were as one could wish to see, with goodness in their

depths.

III.

Months passed away, and Miss West was domesticated in her new home. It

was not all sunshine. Mrs. Carradyne, ever considerate, strove to render

things agreeable; but there were sources of annoyance over which she had

no control. Kate, when she chose, could be verily a little elf, a demon;

as Mrs. Hamlyn often put it, "a diablesse." And she, that lady herself,

invariably treated the governess with a sort of cool, indifferent

contempt; and she was more often at Leet Hall than away from it. The

Captain, too, gave way to fits of temper that simply terrified Miss

West. Reared in the quiet atmosphere of a well-trained school, she had

never met with temper such as this.

On the other hand--yes, on the other hand, she had an easy place of it,

generous living, was regarded as a lady, and--she had learnt to love

Harry Carradyne for weal or for woe.

But not--please take notice--not unsolicited. Tacitly, at any rate. If

Mr. Harry's speaking blue eyes were to be trusted and Mr. Harry's

tell-tale tones when with her, his love, at the very least, equalled

hers. Eliza Hamlyn, despite the penetration that ill-nature generally

can exercise, had not yet scented any such treason in the wind: or there

would have blown up a storm.

Spring was to bring its events; but first of all it must be said that

during the winter little Walter Hamlyn was taken ill at Leet Hall when

staying there with his mother. The malady turned out to be gastric

fever, and Mr. Speck was in constant attendance. For the few days that

the child lay in danger, Eliza was almost wild. The progress to

convalescence was very slow, lasting many weeks; and during that time

Captain Monk, being much with the little fellow, grew to be fond of him

with an unreasonable affection.

"I'm not sure but I shall leave Leet Hall to him," he suddenly observed

to Eliza one day, not observing that Harry Carradyne was standing in the

recess of the window. "Halloa! are you there, Harry? Well, it can't be

helped. You heard what I said?"

"I heard, Uncle Godfrey: but I did not understand."

"Eliza thinks Leet Hall ought to go in the direct line--through her--to

this child. What should you say to that?"

"What could he say to it?" imperiously demanded Eliza. "He is only your

nephew."

Harry looked from one to the other in a sort of bewildered surprise: and

there came a silence.

"Uncle Godfrey," he said, starting out of a reverie, "you have been good

enough to make me your heir. It was unexpected on my part, unsolicited;

but you did do it, and you caused me to leave the army in consequence,

to give up my fair prospects in life. I am aware that this deed is not

irrevocable, and certainly you have the right to do what you will with

your own property. But you must forgive me for saying that you should

have made quite sure of your intentions beforehand: before picking me

up, if it be only to throw me down again."

"There, there, we'll leave it," retorted Captain Monk testily. "No

harm's done to you yet, Mr. Harry; I don't know that it will be."

But Harry Carradyne felt sure that it would be; that he should be

despoiled of the inheritance. The resolute look of power on Eliza's

face, bent on him as he quitted the chamber, was an earnest of that.

Captain Monk was not the determined man he had once been; that was over.

"A pretty kettle of fish, this is," ruefully soliloquised Harry, as he

marched along the corridor. "Eliza's safe to get her will; no doubt of

that. And I? what am I to do? I can't repurchase and go back amongst

them again like a returned shilling; at least, I won't; and I can't turn

Parson, or Queen's Counsel, or Cabinet Minister. I'm fitted for nothing

now, that I see, but to be a gentleman-at-large; and what would the

gentleman's income be?"

Standing at the corridor window, softly whistling, he ran over ways and

means in his mind. He had a pretty house of his own, Peacock's Range,

formerly his father's, and about four hundred a-year. After his mother's

death it would not be less than a thousand a-year.

"That means bread and cheese at present. Later--Heyday, young lady,

what's the matter?"

The school-room door, close by, had opened with a burst, and Miss Kate

Dancox was flying down the stairs--her usual progress the minute

lessons were over. Harry strolled into the room. The governess was

putting the littered table straight.

"Any admission, ma'am?" cried he quaintly, making for a chair. "I should

like to ask leave to sit down for a bit."

Alice West laughed, and stirred the fire by way of welcome; he was a

very rare visitor to the school-room. The blaze, mingling with the rays

of the setting sun that streamed in at the window, played upon her sweet

face and silky brown hair, lighted up the bright winter dress she wore,

and the bow of pink ribbon that fastened the white lace round her

slender, pretty throat.

"Are you so much in need of a seat?" she laughingly asked.

"Indeed I am," was the semi-grave response. "I have had a shock."

"A very sharp one, sir?"

"Sharp as steel. Really and truly," he went on in a different tone, as

he left the chair and stood up by the table facing her; "I have just

heard news that may affect my whole future life; may change me from a

rich man to a poor one."

"Oh, Mr. Carradyne!" Her manner had changed now.

"I was the destined inheritor, as you know--for I'm sure nobody has been

reticent upon the subject--of these broad lands," with a sweep of the

hand towards the plains outside. "Captain Monk is now pleased to inform

me that he thinks of substituting for me Mrs. Hamlyn's child."

"But would not that be very unjust?"

"Hardly fair--as it seems to me. Considering that my good uncle obliged

me to give up my own prospects for it."

She stood, her hands clasped in sympathy, her face full of earnest

sadness. "How unkind! Why, it would be cruel!"

"Well, I confess I felt it to be so at the first blow. But, standing at

the outside window yonder to pull myself together, a ray or two of light

crept in, showing me that it may be for the best after all. 'Whatever

_is_, is right,' you know."

"Yes," she slowly said--"if you can think so. But, Mr. Carradyne, should

you not have anything at all?--anything to live upon after Captain

Monk's death?"

"Just a trifle, I calculate, as the Americans say--and it is calculating

I have been--that I need not altogether starve. Would you like to know

how much it will be?"

"Oh, please don't laugh at me!"--for it suddenly struck the girl that he

was laughing, perhaps in reproof, and that she had spoken too freely. "I

ought not to have asked that; I was not thinking--I was too sorry to

think."

"But I may as well tell you, if you don't mind. I have a very pretty

little place, which you have seen and heard of, called by that

delectable title Peacock's Range--"

"Is Peacock's Range yours?" she interrupted, in surprise. "I thought it

belonged to Mr. Peveril."

"Peacock's Range is mine and was my father's before me, Miss Alice. It

was leased to Peveril for a term of years, but I fancy he would be glad

to give it up to-morrow. Well, I have Peacock's Range and about four

hundred pounds a-year."

Her face brightened. "Then you need not talk about starving," she said,

gaily.

"And, later, I shall have altogether about a thousand a-year. Though I

hope it will be very long before it falls to me. Do you think two people

might venture to set up at Peacock's Range, and keep, say, a couple of

servants upon four hundred a-year? Could they exist upon it?"

"Oh, dear, yes," she answered eagerly, quite unconscious of his drift.

"Did you mean yourself and some friend?"

He nodded.

"Why, I don't see how they could spend it all. There'd be no rent to

pay. And just think of all the fruit and vegetables in the garden

there!"

"Then I take you at your word, Alice," he cried impulsively, passing his

arm round her waist. "You are the 'friend.' My dear, I have long wanted

to ask you to be my wife, and I did not dare. This place, Leet Hall,

encumbered me: for I feared the opposition that I, as its heir, should

inevitably meet."

She drew away from him, with doubting, frightened eyes. Mr. Harry

Carradyne brought all the persuasion of his own dancing blue ones to

bear upon her. "Surely, Alice, you will not say me nay!"

"I dare not say yes," she whispered.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Of it altogether; of your friends. Captain Monk

would--would--perhaps--turn me out. And there's Mrs. Carradyne!"

Harry laughed. "Captain Monk can have no right to any voice in my

affairs, once he throws me off; he cannot expect to have a finger in

everyone's pie. As to my mother--ah, Alice, unless I am much mistaken,

she will welcome you with love."

Alice burst into tears: emotion was stirring her to its depths.

"_Please_ to let it all be for a time," she pleaded. "If you speak it

would be sure to lead to my being turned away."

"I _will_ let it be for a time, my darling, so far as speaking of it

goes: for more reasons than one it may be better. But you are my

promised wife, Alice; always recollect that."

And Mr. Harry Carradyne, bold as a soldier should be, took a few kisses

from her unresisting lips to enforce his mandate.

IV.

Some time rolled on, calling for no particular record. Mr. Hamlyn's West

Indian property, which was large and lucrative, had been giving him

trouble of late; at least, those who had the care of it gave it, and he

was obliged to go over occasionally to see after it in person. Between

times he stayed with his wife at Peacock's Range; or else she joined him

in London. Their town residence was in Bryanstone Square; a very pretty

house, but not a large one.

It had been an unfavourable autumn; cold and wet. Snow had fallen in

November, and the weather continued persistently dull and dreary. One

gloomy afternoon towards the close of the year, Mrs. Hamlyn, shivering

over her drawing-room fire, rang impatiently for more coal to be piled

upon it.

"Has Master Walter come in yet?" she asked of the footman.

"No, ma'am. I saw him just now playing in front there."

She went to the window. Yes, running about the paths of the Square

garden was the child, attended by his nurse. He was a sturdy little

fellow. His mother, wishing to make him hardy, sent him out in all

weathers, and the boy throve upon it. He was three years old now, but

looked older; and he was as clever and precocious as some children are

at five or six. Her heart thrilled with a strange joy only at the sight

of him: he was her chief happiness in life, her idol. Whether he would

succeed to Leet Hall she knew not; since the one time he mentioned it,

Captain Monk had said no more upon the subject, for or against it.

Why need she have longed for it so fervently? to the setting at naught

the expressed wishes of her deceased uncle and to the detriment of Harry

Carradyne? It was just covetousness. As his father's eldest son (there

were no younger ones yet) the boy would inherit a fine property, a large

income; but his doting mother must give him Leet Hall as well.

Her whole heart went out to the child as she watched him playing there.

A few snowflakes were beginning to fall, and dusk would soon be drawing

on, but she would not call him in. Standing thus at the window, it

gradually grew upon her to notice that something was standing back

against the opposite rails, looking fixedly at the houses. A young, fair

woman apparently, with a profusion of light hair; she was draped in a

close dark cloak which served to conceal her figure, just as the thick

veil she wore concealed her face.

"I believe it is _this_ house she is gazing at so attentively--and at

_me_," thought Mrs. Hamlyn. "What can she possibly want?"

The woman did not move away and Mrs. Hamlyn did not move; they remained

staring at one another. Presently Walter burst into the room, laughing

in glee at having distanced his nurse. His mother turned, caught him in

her arms and kissed him passionately. Wilful though he was by

disposition, and showing it at times, he was a lovable, generous child,

and very pretty: great brown eyes and auburn curls. His life was all

sunshine, like a butterfly's on a summer's day; his path as yet one of

roses without their thorns.

"Mamma, I've got a picture-book; come and look at it," cried the eager

little voice, as he dragged his mother to the hearthrug and opened the

picture-book in the light of the blaze. "Penelope bought it for me."

She sat down on a footstool, the book on her lap and one arm round him,

her treasure. Penelope waited to take off his hat and pelisse, and was

told to come for him in five minutes.

"It's not my tea-time yet," cried he defiantly.

"Indeed, then, Master Walter, it is long past it," said the nurse. "I

couldn't get him in before, ma'am," she added to her mistress. "Every

minute I kept expecting you'd be sending one of the servants after us."

"In five minutes," repeated Mrs. Hamlyn. "And what's _this_ picture

about, Walter? Is it a little girl with a doll?"

"Oh, dat bootiful," said the eager little lad, who was not yet as quick

in speech as he was in ideas. "It says she--dere's papa!"

In came Philip Hamlyn, tall, handsome, genial. Walter ran to him and was

caught in his arms. He and his wife were just a pair for adoring the

child.

But nurse, inexorable, appeared again at the five minutes' end, and

Master Walter was carried off.

"You came home in a cab, Philip, did you not? I thought I heard one

stop."

"Yes; it is a miserable evening. Raining fast now."

"Raining!" she repeated, rather wondering to hear it was not snowing.

She went to the window to look out, and the first object her eyes caught

sight of was the woman; leaning in the old place against the railings,

in the growing dusk.

"I'm not sorry to see the rain; we shall have it warmer now," remarked

Mr. Hamlyn, who had drawn a chair to the fire. "In fact, it's much

warmer already than it was this morning."

"Philip, step here a minute."

His wife's tone had dropped to a half-whisper, sounding rather

mysterious, and he went at once.

"Just look, Philip--opposite. Do you see a woman standing there?"

"A woman--where?" cried he, looking of course in every direction but the

right one.

"Just facing us. She has her back against the railings."

"Oh, ay, I see now; a lady in a cloak. She must be waiting for someone."

"Why do you call her a lady?"

"She looks like one--as far as I can see in the gloom. Does she not? Her

hair does, any way."

"She has been there I cannot tell you how long, Philip; half-an-hour,

I'm sure; and it seems to me that she is _watching_ this house. A lady

would hardly do that."

"This house? Oh, then, Eliza, perhaps she's watching for one of the

servants. She might come in, poor thing, instead of standing there in

the rain."

"Poor thing, indeed!--what business has any woman to watch a house in

this marked manner?" retorted Eliza. "The neighbourhood will be taking

her for a female detective."

"Nonsense!"

"She has given me a creepy feeling; I can tell you that, Philip."

"But why?" he exclaimed.

"I can't tell you why; I don't know why; it is so. Do not laugh at me

for confessing it."

Philip Hamlyn did laugh; heartily. "Creepy feelings" and his imperiously

strong-minded wife could have but little affinity with one another.

"We'll have the curtains drawn, and the lights, and shut her out," said

he cheerily. "Come and sit down, Eliza; I want to show you a letter I've

had to-day."

But the woman waiting outside there seemed to possess for Eliza Hamlyn

somewhat of the fascination of the basilisk; for she never stirred from

the window until the curtains were drawn.

"It is from Peveril," said Mr. Hamlyn, producing the letter he had

spoken of from his pocket. "The lease he took of Peacock's Range is not

yet out, but he can resign it now if he pleases, and he would be glad to

do so. He and his wife would rather remain abroad, it seems, than return

home."

"Yes. Well?"

"Well, he writes to me to ask whether he can resign it; or whether I

must hold him to the promise he made me--that I should rent the house to

the end of the term. I mean the end of the lease; the term he holds it

for."

"Why does he want to resign it? Why can't things go on as at present?"

"I gather from an allusion he makes, though he does not explicitly state

it, that Mr. Carradyne wishes to have the place in his own hands. What

am I to say to Peveril, Eliza?"

"Say! Why, that you must hold him to his promise; that we cannot give up

the house yet. A pretty thing if I had no place to go down to at will in

my own county!"

"So far as I am concerned, Eliza, I would prefer to stay away from the

county--if your father is to continue to treat me in the way he does.

Remember what it was in the summer. I think we are very well here."

"Now, Philip, I have _said_. I do not intend to release our hold on

Peacock's Range. My father will be reconciled to you in time as he is to

me."

"I wonder what Harry Carradyne can want it for?" mused Philip Hamlyn,

bowing to the imperative decision of his better half.

"To live in it, I should say. He would like to show his resentment to

papa by turning his back on Leet Hall. It can't be for anything else."

"What cause of resentment has he? He sent for him home and made him his

heir."

"_That_ is the cause. Papa has come to his senses and changed his mind.

It is our darling little Walter who is to be the heir of Leet Hall,

Philip--and papa has so informed Harry Carradyne."

Philip Hamlyn gazed at his wife in doubt. He had never heard a word of

this; instinct had kept her silent.

"I hope not," he emphatically said, breaking the silence.

"_You hope not?_"

"Walter shall never inherit Leet Hall with my consent, Eliza. Harry

Carradyne is the right and proper heir, and no child of mine, as I hope,

must or shall displace him."

Mrs. Hamlyn treated her husband to one of her worst looks, telling of

contempt as well as of power; but she did not speak.

"Listen, Eliza. I cannot bear injustice, and I do not believe it ever

prospers in the long run. Were your father to bequeath--my dear, I beg

of you to listen to me!--to bequeath his estates to little Walter, to

the exclusion of the true heir, rely upon it the bequest would _never

bring him good_. In some way or other it would not serve him. Money

diverted by injustice from its natural and just channel does not carry a

blessing with it. I have noted this over and over again in going through

life."

"Anything more?" she contemptuously asked.

"And Walter will not need it," he continued persuasively, passing her

question as unheard. "As my son, he will be amply provided for."

A very commonplace interruption occurred, and the subject was dropped.

Nothing more than a servant bringing in a letter for his master, just

come by hand.

"Why, it is from old Richard Pratt!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlyn, as he turned

to the light.

"I thought Major Pratt never wrote letters," she remarked. "I once heard

you say he must have forgotten how to write."

He did not answer. He was reading the note, which appeared to be a short

one. She watched him. After reading it through he began it again, a

puzzled look upon his face. Then she saw it flush all over, and he

crushed the note into his pocket.

"What is it about, Philip?"

"Pratt wants a prescription for gout that I told him of. I'm sure I

don't know whether I can find it."

He had answered in a dreamy tone with thoughts preoccupied, and quitted

the room hastily, as if to search for it.

Eliza wondered why he should flush up at being asked for a prescription,

and why he should have suddenly lost himself in a reverie. But she had

not much curiosity as to anything that concerned old Major Pratt--who

was at present staying in lodgings in London.

Downstairs went Mr. Hamlyn to the little room he called his library,

seated himself at the table under the lamp, and opened the note again.

It ran as follows:

"DEAR PHILIP HAMLYN,--The other day, when calling here, you spoke

of some infallible prescription to cure gout that had been given

you. I've symptoms of it flying about me--and be hanged to it!

Bring it to me yourself to-morrow; I want to see you. _I suppose

there was no mistake in the report that that ship did go

down?_--and that none of the passengers were saved from it?

"Truly yours,

"RICHARD PRATT."

"What can he possibly mean?" muttered Philip Hamlyn.

But there was no one to answer the question, and he sat buried in

thought, trying to answer it himself. Starting up from the useless task,

he looked in his desk, found the infallible prescription, and then

snatched his watch from his pocket.

"Too late," he decided impatiently; "Pratt would be gone to bed. He goes

at all kinds of unearthly hours when out of sorts." So he went upstairs

to his wife again, the prescription displayed in his hand.

Morning came, bringing the daily routine of duties in its train. Mrs.

Hamlyn had made an engagement to go with some friends to Blackheath, to

take luncheon with a lady living there. It was damp and raw in the early

portion of the day, but promised to be clear later on.

"And then my little darling can go out to play again," she said, hugging

the child to her. "In the afternoon, nurse; it will be drier then; it is

really too damp this morning."

Parting from him with fifty kisses, she went down to her comfortable and

handsome carriage, her husband placing her in.

"I wish you were coming with me, Philip! But, you see, it is only ladies

to-day. Six of us."

Philip Hamlyn laughed. "I don't wish it at all," he answered; "they

would be fighting for me. Besides, I must take old Pratt his

prescription. Only picture his storm of anger if I did not."

Mrs. Hamlyn was not back until just before dinner: her husband, she

heard, had been out all day, and was not yet in. Waiting for him in the

drawing-room listlessly enough, she walked to the window to look out.

And there she saw with a sort of shock the same woman standing in the

same place as the previous evening. Not once all day long had she

thought of her.

"This is a strange thing!" she exclaimed. "I am _sure_ it is this house

that she is watching."

On the impulse of the moment she rang the bell and called the man who

answered it to the window. He was a faithful, attached servant, had

lived with them ever since they were married, and previously to that in

Mr. Hamlyn's family in the West Indies.

"Japhet," said his mistress, "do you see that woman opposite? Do you

know why she stands there?"

Japhet's answer told nothing. They had all seen her downstairs yesterday

evening as well as this, and wondered what she could be watching the

house for.

"She is not waiting for any of the servants, then; not an acquaintance

of theirs?"

"No, ma'am, that I'm sure she's not. She is a stranger to us all."

"Then, Japhet, I think you shall go over and question her," spoke his

mistress impulsively. "Ask her who she is and what she wants. And tell

her that a gentleman's house cannot be watched with impunity in this

country--and she will do well to move away before the police are called

to her."

Japhet looked at his mistress and hesitated; he was an elderly man and

cautious. "I beg your pardon, madam," he began, "for venturing to say as

much, but I think it might be best to let her alone. She'll grow tired

of stopping there. And if her motive is to attract pity, and get alms

sent out, why the fact of speaking to her might make her bold enough to

ask for them. If she comes there to-morrow again, it might be best for

the master to take it up himself."

For once in her life Mrs. Hamlyn condescended to listen to the opinion

of an inferior, and Japhet was dismissed without orders. Close upon

that, a cab came rattling down the square, and stopped at the door. Her

husband leaped out of it, tossed the driver his fare--he always paid

liberally--and let himself in with his latch-key. To Mrs. Hamlyn's

astonishment, she had seen the woman dart from her standing-place to the

middle of the road, evidently to look at or to accost Mr. Hamlyn. But

his movements were too quick: he was within in a moment and had closed

the outer door. She then walked rapidly away, and disappeared.

Eliza Hamlyn stood there lost in thought. The nurse came in to take the

child; Mr. Hamlyn had gone to his room to dress for dinner.

"Have you seen the woman who has been standing out there yesterday

evening and this, Penelope?" she asked of the nurse, speaking upon

impulse.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. She has been there all the blessed afternoon. She came

into the garden to talk to us."

"Came into the garden to talk to you?" repeated Mrs. Hamlyn. "What did

she talk about?"

"Chiefly about Master Walter, ma'am. She seemed to be much taken with

him; she clasped him in her arms and kissed him, and said how old was

he, and was he difficult to manage, and that he had his father's

beautiful brown eyes--"

Penelope stopped abruptly. Mistaking the hard stare her mistress was

unconsciously giving her for one of displeasure, she hastened to excuse

herself. The fact was, Mrs. Hamlyn's imagination was beginning to run

riot.

"I couldn't help her speaking to me, ma'am, or her kissing the child;

she took me by surprise. That, was all she said--except that she asked

whether you were likely to be going into the country soon, away from the

house here. She didn't stay five minutes with us, but went back to stand

by the railings again."

"Did she speak as a lady or as a common person?" quite fiercely demanded

Mrs. Hamlyn. "Is she young?--good-looking?"

"Oh, I think she is a lady," replied the girl, her accent decisive. "And

she's young, as far as I could see, but she had a thick veil over her

face. Her hair is lovely, just like silken threads of pale gold,"

concluded Penelope as Mr. Hamlyn's step was heard.

He took his wife into the dining-room, apologising for being late. She,

giving full range to the fancies she had called up, heard him in silence

with a hardening, haughty face.

"Philip, you know who that woman is," she suddenly exclaimed during a

temporary absence of Japhet from the dining-room. "What is it that she

wants with you?"

"I!" he returned, in a surprise very well feigned if not real. "What

woman? Do you mean the one who was standing out there yesterday?"

"You know I do. She has been there again--all the blessed afternoon, as

Penelope expresses it. Asking questions of the girl about you--and

me--and Walter; and saying the child has your beautiful brown eyes. _I

ask you who is she?_"

Mr. Hamlyn laid down his knife and fork to gaze at his wife. He looked

quite at sea.

"Eliza, I assure you I know nothing about it. Or about her."

"Indeed! Don't you think it may be some acquaintance, old or new?

Possibly someone you knew in the days gone by--come over seas to see

whether you are yet in the land of the living? She has wonderful hair,

which looks like spun gold."

All in a moment, as the half-mocking words left her lips, some idea

seemed to flash across Philip Hamlyn, bringing with it distress and

fear. His face turned to a burning red and then grew white as the hue of

the grave.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.