The Project Gutenberg eBook of A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 1 of 3)
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: A moment of madness, and other stories (vol. 1 of 3)

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: January 1, 2024 [eBook #72574]

Language: English

Original publication: London: F. V. White & Co

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MOMENT OF MADNESS, AND OTHER STORIES (VOL. 1 OF 3) ***





A MOMENT OF MADNESS.




                           A MOMENT OF MADNESS,
                           _AND OTHER STORIES_.

                                    BY
                            FLORENCE MARRYAT,
          AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,’
                                ETC., ETC.

                           _IN THREE VOLUMES._

                                 VOL. I.

                        LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO.,
                   31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
                                  1883.

                         [_All Rights reserved._]




_CHEAP EDITION OF_

FLORENCE MARRYAT’S POPULAR NOVELS.


_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d._

_At all Booksellers in Town and Country, and at all Railway Bookstalls._

=MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘A Broken
Blossom,’ ‘Phyllida,’ ‘How They loved Him,’ etc., etc.

=PHYLLIDA.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘My Sister the Actress,’ ‘A
Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.

=THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Love’s Conflict,’
‘Phyllida,’ ‘A Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.

=A BROKEN BLOSSOM.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Phyllida,’ ‘Facing
the Footlights,’ etc., etc.

F. V. White & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand.

COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.




[Illustration]




_PREFACE._


In offering a re-issue of these Stories to the public, I desire
to express my sincere thanks to the Proprietors of ‘Temple Bar,’
‘Belgravia,’ ‘The East Anglian Holiday Annual,’ ‘Judy’s Annual,’
‘Diprose’s Annual,’ ‘The Editor’s Box,’ and ‘The Bolton Evening News,’
for their kindness in giving me permission to reprint them.

                                                    FLORENCE MARRYAT LEAN.

20 REGENT’S PARK TERRACE, N.W., _May 1883_.




[Illustration]




_CONTENTS._


                                          PAGE

    A MOMENT OF MADNESS—

                  CHAPTER I.
        FORTHILL TERRACE, CAMDEN TOWN,       1

                  CHAPTER II.
        TRESHAM COURT, GLAMORGANSHIRE,      28

    CAPTAIN NORTON’S DIARY,                 57

             (IN THREE CHAPTERS.)

    OLD CONTRAIRY,                         191

    ‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’                   223

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




A MOMENT OF MADNESS.




CHAPTER I.

FORTHILL TERRACE, CAMDEN TOWN.


It is the middle of July, but the London season has not, as yet, shown
any symptoms of being on the wane, and the drawing-room of the Honourable
Mrs Carnaby-Hicks is arranged for the reception of visitors. Curtains of
guipure lace, looped with pale-blue ribbons, shroud every window, purple
irises and yellow jonquils as displayed in art needlework, adorn each
chair and sofa; fanciful little tables of silk and velvet, laden with
Sevres and Dresden china are placed in everybody’s way, and a powerful
odour of hot-house flowers pervades the apartment. A double knock
sounds at the door, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks starts from
the dose into which she has fallen, and seizing a novel, sits upright,
and pretends that she is deep in its contents. But she need not have
been so punctilious, for the footman, throwing open the door, announces
her brother, Mr Tresham. Roland enters the room, looking fagged, dusty,
and out of sorts, a complete contrast to the dainty adornments of his
sister’s drawing-room.

‘Well, Roland!’ exclaims Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and what is your news? It
is an age since we have seen you! I was beginning to think you must have
made away with yourself.’

‘No such luck,’ replies her brother, moodily, ‘though I believe it would
be the best thing that I could do.’

He is a handsome man of only thirty years of age, but the look of care
upon his brow makes him appear older. His dress is not exactly shabby,
but it is the dress of a needy gentleman, and did not issue from the
tailor’s hands this season, nor even last.

‘How are you all at home?’ continues the lady.

‘Just the same as usual; a medley of dirt, ill-management, and
unpunctuality! I dread to enter the house.’

‘Ah! Roland, it is too late to advise you now, but that marriage was the
worst day’s work you ever did. Not thirty till September, and with a wife
and six children on your hands. It is a terrible misfortune!’

‘And two hundred a-year on which to support them,’ laughs Mr Tresham,
bitterly. ‘Don’t speak of it, Valeria, unless you wish to drive me mad.
And to add to my troubles I have just received this letter;’ tossing it
over to her.

‘Who is it from?’

‘Lady Tresham! Her generosity seems to be on a par with his! You see how
she writes me word that Sir Ralph is in Switzerland mountain-climbing
with Handley Harcourt, but that if he were at home she fears he would be
unlikely to comply with my request.’

‘Did you ask Ralph for money then?’

‘Not as a gift. I wrote to him for a loan of fifty pounds, to carry
on the war, but of course I should regard it as a debt. The fact is,
Valeria, I don’t know where to look for money; my profession brings me in
nothing, and we cannot live on the miserable pittance my father left me.
It is simply impossible!’

If Roland Tresham has entertained any hope that, on hearing of his
difficulty, his rich sister will offer to lend or give him the money,
which would be a trifle out of her pocket, he has reckoned without his
host. She likes Roland in her way, and is always pleased to see him in
her house, but the woman and the children may starve for aught she will
do to help them. She considers them only in the light of a burthen and
disgrace.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t live on two hundred a-year,’ she answers
shortly. ‘Of course it is very little, but if your wife were worth her
salt she would make you comfortable on it. But that is what comes of
marrying a beauty. They’re seldom good for anything else.’

‘There’s not much beauty left about Juliet now,’ replies Roland Tresham,
‘but I don’t think it is entirely her fault. The children worry her so,
she has no energy left to do anything.’

‘It’s a miserable plight to be in,’ sighs the Honourable Mrs
Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and I can see how it tells upon your health and spirits.
What do you propose to do?’

‘_Do!_ I should like to hang myself. Do you think there is any chance,
Valeria, of your husband getting me a foreign appointment? I don’t care
where it is. I would go out to the Fiji Islands, or Timbuctoo, or to the
devil himself, to get away from it all.’

‘And leave them at home?’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks.

‘Yes! Juliet should have the two hundred, and I would keep myself.
Perhaps if she had only the children to look after, she might get on
better. And the happiest thing for me would be, never to return!’

‘I will ask Mr Carnaby-Hicks about it,’ replies his sister. ‘If it is to
be done at all, it must be before Parliament is prorogued. But I wouldn’t
lose all hope with regard to Ralph on account of Lady Tresham’s letter.
When he returns he can hardly refuse to lend you such a trifling sum as
fifty pounds.’

It does not seem to occur to her that she would miss the money as little
as Sir Ralph himself.

‘I shall not ask him a second time,’ says Roland, ‘nor Lady Tresham
either. They may keep their money to themselves. But how a father can
justify to himself the fact of leaving ten thousand a-year to one son,
and two hundred to the other, beats me altogether!’

‘The money must go with the baronetcy,’ remarks his sister coolly, ‘and
your portion was only intended to supplement your professional income.
You ought to have made a competency by this time, Roland. You would have
done so, had you not hampered yourself in such a reckless manner!’

At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a young
lady, dressed in the height of the reigning fashion.

‘My husband’s niece, Miss Mabel Moore,’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, and then
extending a hand to the girl, she draws her forward. ‘Mabel, dear, this
is my younger brother, of whom you have heard me speak. Ring the bell and
let us have tea. Roland and I have had a long conversation, and I feel
quite fatigued.’

Roland Tresham stares at his new acquaintance with unmitigated surprise.
Miss Moore is a tall, dark girl with a commanding figure, clad in a pale,
cream-coloured dress that fits it like a skin. Her rounded arms, her
well-developed bust and shapely waist are as distinctly displayed as if
the material had been strained across them; and the uninitiated Roland
gazes at her in astonishment.

‘Such a sweet girl,’ whispers Mrs Carnaby-Hicks to him, as Mabel quits
her side; ‘I love her as if she were my daughter. As soon as the season
is over, Mr Carnaby-Hicks and I are going to take her for a tour in
Italy. And, by the way, Roland, could you not manage to accompany us? A
second gentleman would be a great acquisition on the journey, and you
would be invaluable to Mabel and me as a _cicerone_. Do come!’

‘You might as well talk of my going to the moon, Valeria. I should enjoy
it above all things, but it is impossible. Only fancy the delight though
of change of scene and air and freedom from all the horrors of Camden
Town. It would be like a taste of Heaven to me!’

‘I am sure you could manage it if you tried! Come here, Mabel, and
persuade my brother to join us in our trip to Italy.’

‘Oh! Mr Tresham, _do_ come,’ says Mabel, throwing a glance at him from a
pair of dark, languishing eyes. ‘It will double Aunt Valeria’s pleasure
to have your company.’

Roland Tresham has not, as a rule, admired dark eyes in women nor
commanding figures. His wife is very fair, and slight and fragile in
appearance, and when he married her eight years before, he thought her
the loveliest creature God ever made. But as Mabel Moore casts her
black-lashed eyes upon him, he feels a very strong desire to join the
travelling party to Italy.

‘You hold out powerful temptations to me, Miss Moore,’ he answers, ‘but
it is too important a matter to be settled in a day. But if I _can_ go,
you may be sure I will.’

And then he falls to wondering whether Mrs Carnaby-Hicks intends her
offer to be taken as an invitation, and means to defray his expenses. For
she must know he has no money to pay them himself. Meanwhile Miss Moore
pours out his tea, and hands it to him in a porcelain cup with the most
gracious and encouraging of smiles. It is a strange contrast to the man
who knows what he will encounter on reaching home, to be seated among all
the refinement of his sister’s drawing-room, sipping the most fragrant
Pekoe from a costly piece of china, whilst he is waited on by a handsome
woman clad in a cream-coloured skin, every fold of the train of which
shakes out the essence of a subtle perfume. He revels in it whilst it
lasts, though after a while he rises with a sudden sigh of recollection,
and says he must be going home.

‘Don’t forget to ask Hicks about the appointment,’ he whispers to his
sister as he takes his leave. ‘Remember, I will take anything and go
anywhere just to get away from this.’

‘Very good,’ she answers, ‘and don’t _you_ forget that we expect you to
be one of our party to Italy.’

‘Yes! indeed,’ echoes Mabel with a parting glance, ‘I shall not enjoy my
trip at all now, unless Mr Tresham goes with us!’

‘What a good-looking fellow!’ she exclaims as soon as the door has closed
behind him. ‘Aunty! why did you never tell me what he was like?’

‘My dear child, where was the use of talking of him? The unfortunate man
is married, and has no money. Had he been rich and a bachelor, it would
have been a different thing!’

‘I don’t know that,’ says Miss Mabel, ‘for my part I prefer married men
to flirt with; they’re so safe. Besides, it’s such fun making the wives
jealous.’

‘It would take a great deal to make Mrs Tresham jealous,’ says the elder
lady. ‘They’re past all that, my dear. So you can flirt with Roland
to your heart’s content, only don’t go too far. Remember Lord Ernest
Freemantle!’

‘Bother Lord Ernest,’ returns the fashionable young lady in precisely the
same tone as she would have used the stronger word had she been of the
stronger sex.

Meanwhile the gentleman is going home by train to Camden Town: a locality
which he has chosen, not on account of its convenience, but because he
can rent a house there for the modest sum of thirty pounds a-year. His
immediate neighbours are bankers’ clerks, milliners, and petty tradesmen
from the West End, but the brother of Sir Ralph Tresham of Tresham Court,
and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, of 120 Blue Street, Mayfair, has
no alternative but to reside amongst them. He has chosen a profession
in which he has signally failed, and has hampered himself with a wife
and six children, when his private means are not sufficient to support
himself. He fancies he can hear his children shouting even before he
has gained the little terrace in which they reside. They are all so
abominably strong and healthy: their voices will reach to any distance.
And as he comes in sight of the familiar spot, his suspicions turn to
certainties. Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred, three sturdy rascals with faces
surrounded by aureoles of golden hair like angels’ crowns, but plastered
with dirt like the very lowest of human creatures, are hanging on to the
palings which enclose a patch of chickweed and dandelions in front of the
house, and shouting offensive epithets to every passer-by.

‘Can’t you keep inside and behave yourselves? How often have I ordered
you not to hang about the garden in this way?’ exclaims Roland Tresham,
as he cuffs the little urchins right and left. The two youngest rush for
protection to their mother, howling, whilst the eldest sobs out,—

‘Mamma said we might play here.’

‘Then your mother’s as great a fool as you are,’ replies the father,
angrily, as he strides into the house.

Juliet Tresham is waiting to receive him, with a deep frown upon her
brow. Any unprejudiced observer would see at a glance that she is
a lovely woman, but it is the loveliness of beauty unadorned. Her
luxuriant golden hair is all pushed off her face, and strained into a
tight knot at the back of her head. Her large blue eyes are dull and
languid; her lips are colourless, and her ill-fitting, home-made dress
hangs awkwardly upon her figure. In her husband’s eyes, all her beauty
and her grace have faded long ago. He associates her with nothing now,
but weak lungs and spirits, squalling children, badly-cooked dinners, and
an untidy home. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she does not smile
him a welcome home.

‘You might inquire whether the children are in the right or wrong, before
you hit them,’ she says sharply. ‘I told them they might play in the
front garden.’

‘Then they must suffer for your folly, for I won’t have them hanging
about the place like a set of beggars’ brats.’

‘It’s all very fine for you to talk, but what am I to do with them cooped
up in the house, on a day like this? If you had the charge of them, you’d
turn them out anywhere, just to get rid of them.’

‘Why don’t you let the girl look after them?’

‘“_The girl!_” That’s just how you men talk! As if one wretched girl
of fourteen had not enough to do to keep the house clean, and cook the
dinner, without taking charge of half-a-dozen children!’

‘Oh! well, don’t bother me about it. Am I to have any dinner to-day or
not?’

‘I suppose Ann will bring it up when it is ready,’ says his wife
indifferently; ‘you can’t expect to be waited on as if you were the owner
of Tresham Court.’

‘D—n you! I wish you’d hold your tongue!’ he answers angrily.

He calls it his dinner, for the good reason that it is the only dinner he
ever gets, but it is a wretched mockery of the meal.

‘What do you call this?’ he says, as he examines the untempting-looking
viands, and views with disgust the evident traces of black fingers on the
edge of the dish. ‘Take it away, and serve it me on a clean plate. I may
be obliged to swallow any dog’s meat you chose to put before me, but I’ll
be hanged if I’ll eat the smuts off your servant’s hands as well.’

Mrs Tresham, who is occupied at the other end of the table in cutting
slices of bread and salt butter for the tribe of little cormorants by
which she is surrounded, just turns her head and calls through the open
door to the maid-of-all-work in the kitchen.

‘Ann, come and fetch away this dish; your master says it is dirty.’

‘Do it yourself!’ roars her exasperated husband. ‘It is quite bad enough
that you are so lazy, you won’t look after any of my comforts in my
absence, without your refusing to set matters right now.’

His wife takes up the dish in silence, and leaves the apartment,
whereupon two of the children, disappointed of their bread and butter,
begin to cry. Roland Tresham, after threatening to turn them out of
the room if they do not hold their tongues, leaves his seat and leans
out of the open window, disconsolately. What a position it is in which
to find his father’s son! Outside, his neighbours are sitting in their
shirt sleeves, smoking clay pipes in their strips of garden, or hanging
over the railings talking with one another; in the road itinerant
merchants are vending radishes, onions, and shellfish; whilst a strong,
warm smell is wafted right under his nostrils from the pork-pie shop
round the corner. Inside, the children are whimpering for the return
of their mother round a soiled table-cloth which bears a piece of salt
butter, warm and melting, a jar of treacle with a knife stuck in it,
a stale loaf, a metal teapot, and knives and forks which have been
but half-cleaned. A vision comes over Roland of that art-decorated
drawing-room in Blue Street, with the porcelain tea-service, the silken
clad figure, and the subtle perfume that pervaded the scene; and a great
longing for all the delicacies and refinements of life comes over him,
with a proportionate disgust for his surroundings. When his wife returns
with the beefsteak, he pushes it from him. His appetite has vanished with
the delay.

‘I can’t eat it,’ he says impatiently. ‘Take the filth away.’

‘Well, it’s the best I can do for you,’ is her reply. ‘It’s quite enough
for a woman to be nurse and housemaid, without turning cook into the
bargain.’

‘It is a long time since I have expected you to do anything to please
me, Juliet; however, stop the mouths of those brats of yours, and send
them to bed. I want the room to myself. I have work which must be done
this evening.’

She supplies the children’s wants, and hurries them from the room,
whilst her husband sits sulking and dreaming of Blue Street. If his
brother-in-law can only get him a foreign appointment, how gladly he will
fly from this squalid home for ever. He pictures a life by the shores of
the Mediterranean, in the forests of Brazil, on the plains of India, or
the Australian colonies, and each and every one seems a paradise compared
with that which he leads at present.

Mrs Tresham, putting her little ones to rest, feels also that, except for
them, she would lay down her existence. She is utterly sick and wearied
of her life. She is almost cross with Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred,
because they will bolster one another, instead of lying down in their
cots and going to sleep like pattern boys. For Baby Roland is whimpering
for the breast, and two-year-old May is fractious with the pain of
cutting her double teeth. Lily, her mother’s help and companion, is the
only one that waits patiently until her turn arrives to be undressed.
But when the rest are at last subdued, or satisfied, and Juliet Tresham
turns to attend to her eldest daughter, her trembling fingers have busied
themselves but for a few seconds with strings and buttons, before her
arms are cast around the child, and she bursts into a storm of tears.

‘Mamma, why do you cry?’ asks Lily anxiously.

‘Oh, Lily, Lily! It is not my fault—it is not my fault.’

God help her, poor Juliet, it is not! Almost a girl in years, yet laden
with cares such as few wives in her position are ever called upon to
bear, she has sunk beneath the weight of an overwhelming load. Health and
energy have failed her, and her husband’s patience has not proved equal
to the occasion, and so irritability and discontent have crept in on the
one hand, and disgust and indifference on the other. And yet they loved
each other once, oh! so dearly, and believed from their hearts they
would have died sooner than give up their mutual affection.

But Mrs Tresham does not cry long. She persuades herself that the man
downstairs is not worth crying for.

‘Get into bed, Lily, darling, or papa will be coming up to see what we
are about.’

‘I didn’t kiss papa nor wish him good-night,’ says the child.

‘No, no! it doesn’t signify. He doesn’t care for your kisses, nor for
mine.’

She tucks her little girl into her bed and descends to the sitting-room
again, feeling injured and hard of heart. Roland, as she enters, glances
at her with a look of disgust.

‘Your hair is half way down your back.’

She laughs slightly, and, pulling out the fastenings of her hair, lets
the rippling mass fall over her shoulders. Roland used to admire it
so much in the days gone by, and say it was the only gold he cared to
possess. Has she any hope that he will recall his former feelings at the
sight of her loosely falling locks? If so, she is mistaken, for he only
remarks coldly,—

‘I must beg you not to turn my room into a dressing-room. Go and put your
hair up tidily. I hate to find it amongst my papers.’

‘I believe you hate everything except your own comfort,’ she replies.
‘You’re the most selfish man I ever came across.’

‘Perhaps so! But as long as this house belongs to me, you’ll be good
enough to keep your opinions to yourself. If I can’t have comfort when I
come home, I will at least have peace.’

‘And much peace _I_ get, day or night.’

‘It is by your own mismanagement if you do not.’

‘How do you make that out? Has your want of money anything to do with my
mismanagement? Have the children anything to do with it? You ought to be
ashamed of yourself.’

‘Ought I?’ he returns, biting his lip. ‘Then, perhaps, you’ll be glad to
hear that I have applied for a foreign appointment that will take me out
to India, or the Brazils, for the remainder of my life.’

‘Oh, Roland!’ she cries, catching her breath; ‘but not to leave us?’

‘Certainly to leave you. That was the sole object of my application.
Aren’t you delighted to hear it? We lead a cat-and-dog life as things are
at present, and the sooner we are separated the better.’

‘But the children—and _me_!’ she gasps, with a face of chalky whiteness.

‘Oh, don’t be afraid! you will be provided for.’

‘But if you should be ill?’ suggests the woman fearfully.

‘Then I shall die, perhaps, and so much the better. You have not made my
life such a heaven to me that I shall lose much by its resignation.’

Then she falls upon his neck, weeping.

‘Oh, Roland, Roland! do not speak to me like that.’

But he pushes her from him. He has had no dinner, and that is a trial
that never improves the masculine temper.

‘Don’t make a fool of yourself!’ he says roughly.

Juliet raises her head and dries her eyes. She is a proud woman and a
high-spirited one, and never disposed to take a rebuff meekly.

‘I _am_ a fool,’ she answers. ‘Any woman would be a fool who wasted a
regret upon such an icicle as you are. I hope to Heaven you may get your
appointment and go out to the Brazils, and never come back again; for the
less I see and hear of you the better.’

‘Just what I said,’ remarks her husband indifferently. ‘You are as sick
of me as I am of you, and it’s of no use disguising the truth from one
another.’

‘There _was_ a time when you thought nothing too good to say of me,’ she
cries, hysterically.

‘Was there? Well, you can’t expect such things to last for ever, and you
have really made my life such a hell to me of late that you can’t be
surprised if I look forward to any change as a blessing.’

‘Oh! It has come to that, has it—that you want to get rid of me? Why
don’t you put the finishing stroke to your cruelty and say at once that
you hate me?’

‘I am afraid you are making me do something very much like it.’

‘The truth is, you are tired of me, Roland! It is nursing your children
and trying out of our scanty income to provide for your wants that has
brought me down to what I am, and since I have ceased to please your
eyes, I have wearied out your fancy.’

‘Yes! my dear,’ he says, with provoking nonchalance. ‘You are quite
right; I _am_ very tired of you, and particularly at this moment. Suppose
you leave me to my writing, and go to bed.’

Mrs Tresham rushes from the little room and slams the door behind her.
But she does not go to bed. She takes a seat amongst her sleeping
children, and, resting her head upon her hands, weeps for the past
which is slumbering like them, although she thinks it dead. It is just
nine o’clock, and as the hour strikes from a neighbouring church tower,
she sees the postman coming up the street. He enters the _parterre_ of
chickweed and dandelions, and gives a double knock at the front door,
whilst Mrs Tresham, sitting at her bedroom window, wonders vaguely who
the letter can be from. But presently she hears a shout from below—a
mingled shout of surprise and horror and excitement, and startled and
curious she runs downstairs to learn the cause.

Her husband’s handsome face—flushed and animated—turns towards her as she
opens the door.

‘What is the matter?’ she exclaims hurriedly.

‘_What is the matter?_’ he repeats. ‘What is _not_ the matter? My God!
can it possibly be true?’

He has leapt from his seat and passed his fingers through his hair,
which is all on end. His eyes flame like living fire; his whole frame is
trembling; she thinks for the moment that he has gone mad.

‘Roland, you are frightening me terribly! Have you had bad news?’

‘Bad news! No. Glorious news! At least I suppose I ought not to call it
so, because he’s my brother, but he has never been like a brother to me.
Juliet! Only fancy—Ralph is dead, killed by a fall down the mountain
side.’

‘Oh! Poor Sir Ralph! How terrible! But perhaps it is not true.’

‘It _is_ true. This letter is from Lady Tresham’s nephew, Handley
Harcourt, who was with Ralph at the time of his death. And they are
bringing the body to England. And—and—can’t you understand? _I_ am Sir
Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court—with ten thousand a-year to keep it up
on, and—Oh, my God!—my God! I believe the news will drive me mad.’

He casts himself face downwards on the rickety couch in the corner of the
room, and sobs as if, without that relief, his heart would burst with
joy. Meanwhile his wife stands motionless, almost unable to comprehend
the sudden change in their condition, until her husband starts up again,
exclaiming,—

‘What a child I am. But it only proves what I have suffered. To be free,
once and for ever, of all this struggling and starvation—to see my poor
children placed in the position to which they were born—It is too great a
change to be believed in, all at once. My boys shall enter the army and
navy—and my girls have every advantage my wealth can procure them. Oh, it
is too much! It has all happened so suddenly. I feel as if I should die
before I come into it. Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Sir Roland
Tresham, of Tresham Court! Merciful heavens, am I awake or in a dream?’

He has never mentioned his wife whilst enumerating the advantages his
new fortune will bring him. He has never once congratulated himself on
the fact that _she_ will no longer be obliged to slave and work and deny
herself as she has been used to do. All he thinks of are the children and
himself.

‘When will you come into all this, Roland?’ she asks.

‘I am it now! I was the Baronet from the moment of my poor brother’s
death.’

‘And shall we go to Tresham Court soon?’

‘Directly the funeral is over. I shall see the lawyers and Valeria the
first thing in the morning, and know all about it. But I would rather you
went upstairs and left me alone. I must have time to become accustomed
to the idea of this wonderful transformation scene. By to-morrow morning
I shall be all right. Good-night! Good-night! There will be no more
trouble about money now. And Sir Wilfrid shall be at Eton before he knows
what he is about. By Jove! How marvellously things do come round.’

He nods her a careless farewell in an excited sort of manner, and the
new Lady Tresham creeps up to her bed and takes baby Roland in her arms,
and sobs herself to sleep with his chubby face pressed close against her
bosom.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




CHAPTER II.

TRESHAM COURT, GLAMORGANSHIRE.


‘Now you will be able to take that trip to Italy with us,’ says the
Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks a few days later, as Sir Roland and she
sit in the artistic drawing-room in Blue Street together. The funeral
of the late baronet is over—and the new one is installed in his stead.
Lady Tresham and the children are already at the Court, and Sir Roland
has come up to town to see his sister. ‘You can come to Italy with us,’
repeats Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. ‘You are sadly in need of rest and change, and
it will do you all the good in the world. You will find our dear Mabel a
most charming companion, and I am sure you have earned the right to take
a holiday!’

‘I should enjoy it above all things,’ replies Sir Roland, as he glances
at Miss Moore. ‘But do you think it would be advisable. Shall I not be
expected to take up my residence at Tresham Court, at all events for a
while?’

‘Not a bit of it! I hope you are not going to make yourself a slave
to your position. Besides, from what you tell me, I should imagine it
will be all the better for Lady Tresham to get a little accustomed to
housekeeping before you rejoin her. She must need practice.’

Sir Roland lifts his hands deprecatingly.

‘Heaven help my guests if she doesn’t improve! But there seems to be an
excellent staff of servants down there, and the majority will remain with
us. And it would be so delightful to get away from it all. I thirst to
leave the remembrance of the past entirely behind me—when do you start,
Valeria?’

‘The day after to-morrow!’

‘That is sharp work. I shall hardly have time to do my business here and
run down to Tresham Court and back again in a couple of days.’

‘Why go down to the Court? There will only be a scene if you do. Write
and tell Lady Tresham of your intention.’

‘Oh, Sir Roland, I shall _never_ forgive you if you cry off now,’
interposes Mabel. ‘You know it was a bargain that you should go with us
if you could. And aunty means to take Venice on our way. Fancy Venice and
gondolas in this heavenly weather! It will be _too_ delicious.’

Gondolas and Mabel Moore win the day, and Sir Roland agrees to write to
his wife instead of going down to Tresham Court.

‘Now, you are quite, _quite_ sure you are not telling us a story,’ says
Miss Moore, with a winning smile, ‘because I know if you go home that
Lady Tresham will not let you return to us again. You _promise_ only to
write, don’t you?’

‘I _promise_!’ repeats Sir Roland, with an uneasy twinge of conscience
nevertheless. But he keeps his word, and a letter by the next day’s post
informs Juliet that her husband is going to visit Italy with his sister,
and that she must manage matters at Tresham Court as best she can until
his return. This intelligence falls upon the wife like a sudden blow. She
feels very strange and awkward as the mistress of this great rambling
house, with its retinue of servants, but she has been seizing the
opportunity of Sir Roland’s absence to try and become acquainted with the
_ménage_ of the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room, that she may astonish
him with her aptitude on his return. And now he is going to leave her
to fight with all her new responsibilities alone, whilst he is enjoying
a trip upon the Continent. Well, she will not be so mean spirited a
creature as to sit down and weep for his absence. She will show him that
she can enjoy life as well as himself when she has the means to do so.
Yet the tears chase themselves rapidly down her cheeks as she thinks
thus to herself, for Lady Tresham has two nurses now to look after her
children, and can afford to indulge her feelings without spectators.
It is a bright sunny morning in the first week of August; the grounds
of Tresham Court are filled with beautiful flowers and leafy trees and
singing birds, and the pale-faced, weary woman takes her husband’s letter
in her hand, and seats herself beneath the shade of a cedar tree on the
smooth green lawn, and indulges her sorrowful thoughts to their fullest
extent.

Presently she hears a soft voice calling her by name. She looks up in
surprise; beside her stands an elderly lady, dressed in widow’s weeds.

‘Your servants said you were not at home, Lady Tresham, but I caught a
glimpse of your dress through the trees, and hoped you would not deem it
a liberty if I introduced myself to you as the widow of your husband’s
brother.’

‘Lady Tresham!’ cries Juliet, springing to her feet. ‘I am glad to see
you, but I am very untidy; I did not expect any one to call to-day. I did
not even know that you were in the county.’

‘I have a house of my own about five miles from here, but I only returned
to it yesterday. And so you are really Sir Roland’s wife. Why, you are a
mere girl.’

‘Indeed, you are mistaken. It is a long time since I was a girl. I am
twenty-six!’

‘And I am twenty years older than yourself, so you see I have a right to
consider you a girl. But you have been crying. Surely you have no trouble
now. I thought all your troubles lay in the want of means.’

‘We _were_ very, very poor,’ says Juliet, with proud simplicity, ‘and I
am hardly accustomed to the use of money yet. But I was crying—it is very
foolish of me, I know, but I cannot help it—because my husband is going
away.’

‘Going away! and where?’

‘To Italy, with his sister, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. He has been very worried
and upset lately, Lady Tresham, and he wants change, and I know it will
be best for him—but—but—’

‘You feel the responsibility of being left alone; that is very natural.
Yet, perhaps, it will teach you self-dependence. And for my own part, I
am glad Sir Roland is away just now. I want to make friends with you, my
dear; to help you, if it is in my power. I know your husband has thought
hard things of me, and, perhaps, of poor Sir Ralph into the bargain; but
in what we did we believed we were acting for the best. Now, all that is
over; you will neither of you ever want money again, but you may need
advice. And I should like to begin by advising you. Why do you not take
this trip with your husband? You look pale and worn out. It would do you
good as well as him.’

‘He does not want me,’ says Juliet, sadly; ‘he is only going in order to
get away from me.’

‘That is hardly possible. You are a wife of whom any man must be proud.’

‘I used to be told I was pretty,’ replies Lady Tresham, with a faint
blush; ‘but that was a long time ago.’

‘Rubbish, child; you are in your prime. And you have six children; and I
have not even one. What a happy woman you ought to be.’

But Lady Tresham does not answer. The tears are rising thickly to her
eyes, and falling down her cheeks again.

‘I would give them all up—yes, every one!’ she cries, hysterically, ‘to
regain their father’s love. Oh, Lady Tresham, what must you think of me
for speaking like this to an utter stranger?’

‘Cease to look on me as a stranger, then, dear child, and let us be
friends. Cannot I do anything to help you out of this heavy trouble?’

‘Nothing; nothing. It is incurable, and I must bear it as best I can. He
loved me whilst I had the means to make myself look pretty; when I had a
colour in my cheeks, and a gloss upon my hair. But I have lost all that,
Lady Tresham. Days and nights of sickness and privation have robbed me
of my beauty and his love. And then my temper grew irritable, and he
sickened of his home and me; and I shall never know any happiness in this
world again.’

‘If you have somewhat wearied your husband’s love in poverty, you must
regain it in prosperity,’ says Sir Ralph’s widow.

‘Indeed, you do not know him, Lady Tresham.’

‘I do not know Sir Roland, my dear, but I have known many men, and they
are all alike. The philosophy of few of them will survive their personal
discomfort. Sir Roland will find things very different on his return to
England, and the old feelings will have an opportunity of revival. Come,
my dear girl, you must not lose heart.’

‘But I am so ignorant how to order things aright,’ sighs Juliet, ‘I have
had so little experience.’

‘I will be your teacher, if you will permit me. Tresham Court always had
the credit of being well governed under my reign. And first, I would make
an improvement in your dress. Such a beautiful figure was never meant to
be concealed under that clumsy thing.’

‘I was obliged to get my mourning ready made,’ says Juliet, looking down
at her ill-fitting black robe.

‘True; but I must send my dressmaker to you forthwith. And now let me see
the dear little ones. I love children all the more that I have never been
a mother.’ And so the ladies, already friends, drift away into that most
interesting of feminine topics, the nursery, and great plans are laid
for the benefit of Juliet’s little family before they separate again.
On the same day Sir Roland is making his final preparations to join
his sister’s party, though not without a few self-reproaches, which he
stifles by recalling the establishment at Forthill Terrace, Camden Town.
It is only fair, he tells himself, that after so many years of domestic
misery he should use his unexpected liberty by taking a little change.
And for the first few days the change bids fair to fulfil its promise.
The Carnaby-Hicks proceed South leisurely, taking the Rhine on their
way, and Sir Roland can conceive of no more delicious sensation than
floating down the River of Romance on those balmy August evenings by the
side of Mabel Moore. That young lady does not spare him in any way. From
the beginning she claims his attendance for herself, and exercises all
her fascination freely upon the unfortunate man, who cannot help being
attracted by the charms of her person, and the meaning glances she so
liberally bestows upon him.

‘What a pity that Juliet has not a more commanding appearance,’ he thinks
to himself, as he watches Mabel’s fine form distinctly outlined in the
moonlight. ‘Miss Moore has twice her importance; she looks as if she had
been born to a title.’ And Mabel interrupts his reverie by a heavy sigh.

‘Why do you sigh, Miss Moore?’

‘I was thinking how unequally this world is balanced, Sir Roland.
Everything goes wrong, doesn’t it?’

‘I cannot quite agree with that sentiment; not, at least, whilst you and
I are floating down the Rhine together.’

‘But it won’t last.’

‘Not for ever, unfortunately. But let us enjoy it whilst it does.’

‘I cannot thoroughly enjoy myself when I know my pleasure must come to an
end. When I am most happy, I remember that in a few weeks it will all be
over, and we shall be back in Blue Street, and you down at Tresham Court
with your wife and family.’

‘Don’t talk of it please,’ says Sir Roland with a shudder.

‘_Why?_’ asks Miss Moore innocently; ‘don’t you love little children?’

‘Not particularly. Do you?’

‘I don’t care for most people’s children, but I should for yours.’

‘You are very good to say so’, replies Sir Roland: but he knows they are
treading on dangerous ground, and the subject had better be dropped.
As he lies in his berth that night, and thinks over the events of the
day, he remembers how his wife told him before their marriage that she
disliked children, and he had twitted her with the fact on seeing her
devotion to their firstborn. And he recalls how she had looked into his
face with her large blue eyes—so clear and lovely and loving as they were
in those days—and whispered, ‘But this is _yours_, Roland.’ There is
something like a tear in Sir Roland Tresham’s eye as he turns uneasily
in his berth, and thinks how those happy days have faded; but it is of
Juliet, and not of Mabel, he dreams as he falls asleep. The Honourable
Mrs Carnaby-Hicks sees the flirtation going on between her niece and
her brother, but does not concern herself in the matter. Miss Moore
knows what she is about, and is perfectly able to take care of herself;
indeed, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks thinks she can already discern the instinct by
which the young lady is guided. But Sir Roland, who can only interpret
her words and glances by his own lights, believes himself to be on the
verge of a precipice, and yet has not the moral courage to fly from a
temptation that is so flattering to his vanity. Mabel’s chief weapon is
melancholy. She professes melancholy whenever it occurs to her, until Sir
Roland is forced to demand the reason of her serious looks.

‘How can you ask?’ she says one evening—the first of their arrival in
Venice—‘when you know that auntie has asked Lord Ernest Freemantle to
join our party to-morrow?’

‘What difference will that make to us?’

‘Why, will he not expect to be always by my side, and break in upon the
pleasant _têtes-à-tête_ we have had together?’

‘Have they been so _very_ pleasant to you then, Mabel?’

‘Oh, Sir Roland, cannot you judge of my feelings by your own?’

‘If I did that—’ he commences fervently, but there he stops. The vision
of two blue eyes, dimmed with tears, rises before him, and he stamps the
temptation down.

‘Whatever I may feel,’ he says to himself afterwards, ‘I will not allow
my tongue to turn traitor,’ and so Miss Moore is disappointed of her
answer.

Letters came to him frequently from his wife—long letters, in which she
gives him a full account of her friendship with Sir Ralph’s widow, but
not a word of the way in which she is managing the household.

‘I shouldn’t think the presence of the dowager will do much to enliven
the Court,’ remarks Mrs Carnaby-Hicks spitefully.

‘She is not likely to teach my wife extravagance,’ laughs Sir Roland;
‘but Juliet and she seem to get on very well together.’

‘Perhaps she is a style that suits Lady Tresham,’ says his sister. ‘I
have always understood she was a dowdy and a screw.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean to let my wife _screw_,’ replies the baronet uneasily.
‘She has had little enough pin-money hitherto, poor girl, and she shall
have a liberal allowance now, if nothing else.’

‘Why do you call Lady Tresham “poor”?’ whispers Mabel in his ear. ‘I
should have said she was the richest of women.’

‘Not quite that,’ he answers, wilfully misunderstanding her, ‘though
she need have no fear for the future. But she has had barely enough for
comfort until now.’

‘She has always had _you_,’ says Miss Moore, softly.

‘Some ladies might consider that an extra misfortune!’

‘_Some_ might,’ echoes the girl with a heavy sigh, the meaning of which
it is impossible to misconstrue. Lord Ernest Freemantle proves to be
a simple, undersized little gentleman, who is very much enamoured of
Miss Mabel Moore, and becomes proportionately jealous of Sir Roland
Tresham. And the latter, delighted at the feeling he has provoked, takes
pleasure in exciting it to the last degree, by a still closer attendance
on the young lady. One evening, when she has refused to accompany Lord
Ernest and her aunt on a walking expedition through the town, Sir Roland
persuades her to go on the water with him in a gondola. Mabel assents
with alacrity, and they are soon floating together over the placid
surface of the canal, seated under the canopy at one end of the boat,
whilst the gondoliers ply their oars to the music of their own voices at
the other.

‘How I wish we could go floating on like this into eternity,’ remarks Sir
Roland, presently.

‘It would be very easy,’ replies Mabel in a low voice. ‘It is but to cast
ourselves over the side into those dark waters and sink out of sight for
ever. It would be a happier fate—at least for me—than any I have to look
forward to.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that. You are young, and have every prospect of a
happy life before you.’

‘Indeed, I have not.’

‘My dear Mabel, why those tears?’ exclaims Sir Roland, as the girl dashes
her hand across her eyes. ‘What have I said to vex you?’

‘Nothing. But life is so hard, and—and—disappointing.’

He passes his arm around her waist.

‘Tell me what makes it so to you.’

‘Oh, Roland,’ she whispers, ‘_you know_.’

The tone, the words, are too much for him. To hold a pretty woman in his
arms and hear her murmuring her love for himself would be perhaps too
much for any man. Anyway, it disperses all Sir Roland’s prudence.

‘My _darling_,’ he says emphatically, ‘why cannot we end all this misery,
and live for each other from this time forward?’ But as he speaks,
the gondoliers alter their chant, and strike up a little Neapolitan
barcarolle. It is a simple plaintive air, without much merit in itself,
but the last time Sir Roland heard it, it came from Juliet’s lips as
she was hushing a fractious child to rest. In a moment the past scene
rises before him. He can see his wife’s drooping figure, the sad look in
her eyes; can hear the faltering tones of her weary voice. He recalls,
in fact, the mother of his children, the woman who has borne, however
impatiently, the burden and heat of the day with him; and all the best
part of the man’s nature rises up to condemn his present faithless action.

‘God in heaven!’ he exclaims aloud; ‘what am I saying and doing? Mabel,
forgive me! It was the madness of a moment. It shall never be repeated.’

But he has said the words, and they are not to be unsaid. Miss Moore
enjoys the situation. It appeals to her romantic proclivities, and she
clings to him tightly even whilst she murmurs.

‘Oh no; you mustn’t say such things to me. It is very, very wrong. But,
Roland, to know you love me atones for everything. I can die happy now.’

‘Indeed, I had no right to speak to you in such a manner, but your tears
made me lose sight of prudence. Mabel, promise me that you will forget
what I said.’

‘Don’t ask me that, it will be so sweet to remember,’ she says, still
clinging to him. He tries gently to disengage himself.

‘Sit back on your seat, there’s a good girl. These fellows are looking at
us. Mabel, try and be calm. We must never mention this subject again. It
is too painful.’

‘But why should we deny ourselves the poor delights of memory, since it
is all that is left?’

‘We must stamp it out. It can lead to no good for either of us; and for
you, perhaps, to irreparable harm. I am not a Trojan in virtue, Mabel;
you must not try me too hard.’

‘But you will love me always, Roland, will you not?’

What can he say? He knows already that he does not love her at all. But
he is a man, and she is a woman, and he does as many other men would
do—he swears he shall never cease to care for her.

‘If I were free!’ he murmurs; ‘but you see how it is, my darling. I am
bound hand and foot, and we never can be anything more than we are to one
another. I must not quite forget my poor children.’

‘But we shall be friends always, shall we not?’

‘The very best and closest of friends, but we mustn’t trust ourselves
alone again. You are too lovely, Mabel, and I—I am too weak. I am sure
you must see the reason of what I say?’

‘Yes; yes. But let us enjoy this one last evening together. Don’t go home
just yet. Remember it is for the last time.’

He cannot but yield to her entreaty, but when they reach the hotel he
resolves that it must never occur again. Mabel Moore is not the woman to
let him off easily. She will make him remember his avowal of that evening
for ever afterwards, and Sir Roland feels that his only safety lies in
flight. During the self-reproachful night that follows, when the thought
of his wife and children rises up to make him acknowledge that nothing in
the whole world could compensate him for the loss of that which he has
held so loosely, he makes a resolution to return to Tresham Court the
very next morning. Poor Juliet! Now he comes to think of it, he does not
believe he has given her one kiss of congratulation on her newly-acquired
dignity. They were beginning to be very unhappy in the past, he knows,
but it seems hard now that he should have visited the entire blame on
the head of the woman who had so much the heavier portion of the load
to bear. When he rises the following morning his first act is to seek
the apartments of his sister, and inform her of his determination to
return to England. He finds Mrs Carnaby-Hicks radiantly triumphant, and
apparently quite indifferent as to whether he remains with them or not.

‘My dear Roland, you must do just as you think best, and indeed I have
this moment received news that renders it very improbable that we shall
be able to extend our trip to Italy this year. Lord Ernest Freemantle
has proposed to our dear Mabel. Mr Carnaby-Hicks is delighted, and so am
I. I have had hopes of such an occurrence for a long time (for no one
could help seeing how Lord Ernest admired our dear girl), but your taking
her out in the gondola alone last evening brought matters to a crisis.
And indeed, were it not for the issue, I should feel almost disposed
to quarrel with you, Roland, for being so careless of her reputation.
It might have turned matters just the other way. You are too young and
handsome to play such freaks with an unmarried girl.’

‘From what you say, then, I may conclude Miss Moore has accepted Lord
Ernest’s offer.’

‘Why, of course! What else should she do? And as he is anxious the
marriage should take place as soon as possible, I suppose we shall have
to go home again.’

‘Then, will you convey my warmest congratulations to the bride-elect, and
tell her that I trust we shall meet again in England?’

‘Won’t you stop and see her yourself?’

‘I think not—thanks! I see there is a midday train to Paris, which I can
catch if I lose no time. So I will wish you good-bye at once, Valeria!’

‘Good-bye, my dear Roland! We shall, as you say, soon meet again, and I
think you are wise to return, for I am afraid all our fun is over for
this season!’

The midday train takes him to Paris, and the next day he finds himself on
his road to Glamorganshire. The carriage in which he travels is filled
with men, all strangers to him, but who converse freely with one another.

‘Have you seen the new owner of Tresham Court, Conway?’ asks one fellow
of his neighbour.

‘What, Sir Roland? Not yet! He is abroad, so I am told, and won’t be home
till Christmas!’

‘By George! Well, if I were the owner of Lady Tresham the country
wouldn’t see me that didn’t hold her!’

‘Is she so handsome then?’

‘She’s better than handsome! She’s one of the sweetest-looking women I
ever saw. I met her at General Carroll’s last week with the dowager.’

‘Fair or dark?’

‘Fair as a lily, with glorious golden hair, and great blue eyes as clear
as spring water. She’s as graceful as a gazelle, too, and got a voice
like a thrush. She said she was awfully out of practice, but she sung
better than anyone there.’

‘I shall get my mother to take me over to Tresham Court,’ says a
young dandy in the corner; ‘a pretty woman is not to be despised in
Glamorganshire.’

‘You won’t get anything by that, my boy,’ says the first speaker.
‘Handley Harcourt, the dowager’s nephew, has found her out already, and
is there morning, noon, and night.’

Sir Roland is just about to proclaim that the beautiful woman they speak
of is his wife, when the last sentence makes him shrink back in his seat
instead. He feels ashamed to acknowledge her now. What if the scandal
should be true! But no, it is impossible! Juliet has been his wife for
eight long years, and faithful to him in thought, word, and deed. He
would answer for her fidelity as for his own. _His own!_ At that thought
the hot blood courses through Sir Roland’s veins, and mantles in his
handsome face. He has _not_ been faithful to her—he acknowledges it with
shame—but he will atone as there is a heaven above him.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says suddenly, ‘the lady you speak of is my wife, and
had you all been at Tresham Court during my absence, ‘morning, noon, and
night,’ it would not have given me a moment’s uneasiness.’ His confession
is naturally followed by apologies, introductions, hand-shaking, and
general invitations to the Court. Sir Roland even assures the somewhat
shy little dandy in the corner that he has his hearty permission to flirt
with Lady Tresham as much as possible. And then they all light up and
try each other’s cigars, and become the fastest of friends in a very few
minutes. Yet as he leaves them at the station, where the carriage is in
waiting to convey him home, he cannot help wondering at the enthusiasm
his wife’s looks have provoked amongst them. She _used_ to be very pretty
in their first wedded days, before she grew so careless of her personal
appearance—when she took pride in arraying her graceful little form,
and dressing her beautiful hair, but slatternly clothes and unbecoming
_coiffure_ are sufficient to conceal the beauty of any woman. Well! Sir
Roland supposes that such things can be altered, but if he finds that
Juliet’s bad taste is irreparable, he will be content with her as she
is. He has brought enough trouble on her head already—the present shall
never be clouded by his reproaches nor complaints. He is so eager to
make atonement for the past, that the five miles between the station and
Tresham Court appear like ten; but they are accomplished at last, and the
carriage rolls through the iron gates and up the wooded drive. Half-way
they come upon a group of children escorted by their nurses and a groom.
Two beautiful boys in velvet suits, with golden curls falling over their
Vandyke collars, are mounted on one pony, whilst another animal carries
a pair of panniers, from which familiar little faces and blue eyes gaze
up expectantly to meet his own.

‘Can those be my children?’ exclaims Sir Roland to himself; and then he
gives the order to stop, and another minute sees him in the midst of
them. But what a change! He can scarcely believe they are the same brats
who, six weeks ago, used to hang over the garden palings in Camden Town,
and put out their tongues at the passers-by—Lily and May in their white
frocks and black ribbons, and little Roland in his smart pelisse; and the
boys looking such noble fellows in their jackets and knickerbockers, with
sunny hair, and clean faces and hands—it seems like a dream to the father
as he kisses them all round, and admires the ponies and the panniers to
their hearts’ content. He strides on to the house with his bosom swelling
with pride at the appearance of his little ones, and is almost too
pre-occupied to notice that everything is perfectly arranged within the
Court and out.

A footman meets him at the door with the information that her ladyship
awaits him in the morning-room, and thither, still in a dream, Sir
Roland rapidly proceeds. As he enters the apartment he starts back,
thunderstruck with amazement. A lady stands upon the hearthrug—a woman
delicately fair, and very lovely, though still too thin and pale, and
with tears of expectation and suspense within her eyes.

She is robed in black velvet, fitting closely to her graceful figure—at
her throat and wrists are falls of Venetian lace—and her dainty feet are
cased in silk stockings and buckled shoes. Her golden hair cut short upon
her brow, is piled in innumerable little curls upon the top of her head,
which grow longer and longer until they lay in a flossy mass upon her
neck and shoulders. For a moment, Sir Roland gazes at this unlooked-for
apparition in utter silence.

‘Husband!’ says Juliet shyly, ‘don’t you know me?’

‘My dearest!’ he exclaims, rushing forward and clasping her in his arms;
‘how beautiful you have become.’

Then, with the touch of his arms and lips, all her womanhood asserts
itself, and she casts herself, sobbing, on his breast.

‘Oh, Roland! forgive me! forgive me! Take me back and love me as you used
to do!’

‘What have I to forgive you, darling?’

‘All my ill-temper and impatience and want of fortitude. I bore our lot
so badly—I did not deserve to have it bettered—and now that prosperity
has come to us, I feel it will be worthless without your love.’

‘But you have my love, Juliet! you have never lost it. The ills and
discomforts of poverty soured my nature, and made me behave like a brute
to you; but my heart has been yours through it all, dearest wife, and
I have never been more convinced of the fact than during our present
separation.’

She looks up at him and smiles—oh! such a heavenly smile of renewed
happiness and hope.

‘And, Roland, you are quite, _quite_ sure that you love me best of all
the world! That there is no other woman dearer to you than myself?’

He has just _one_ twinge as she puts the question to him; but men are
used to twinges, and he can answer honestly,—

‘Not _one_, my love!—not a single one! nor ever shall be. Take your
husband’s word for it, and let us resolve from this moment to banish the
painful memory of the Past, and live for each other only in the Future.’

       *       *       *       *       *

And so they have and do, and there is only one thing that Lady Tresham
cannot understand, which is Sir Roland’s rooted aversion to Lady Ernest
Freemantle. He will not let his wife invite her down to Tresham Court,
although she has often hinted she would like to visit them, and all
the excuse he can give for his conduct is that he does not choose to
cultivate the lady’s acquaintance.

So the matter rests, and as long as Sir Roland does not renew it, there
is no need he should confess the little scene that took place in the
gondola on the moonlighted Venice canal.


THE END.




[Illustration]




CAPTAIN NORTON’S DIARY.




CHAPTER I.


                                                             MUSHIN-BUNDA.

_June 4th, 18—_.—Thermometer at 100 in the shade, and up to heaven knows
where in the sun; somewhere about boiling heat, I should imagine, if I
may judge by the state of my shirt sleeves. A cheerful climate in which
to ask a man to spend the best days of his life, for the visionary
prospect of surviving twenty years’ service and retiring on half-pay. If
it were not for Janie, I could not stand it. Here we are, cooped up in
an old Dutch fort, with three miles of desert plain between us and the
sea; the very house we live in built on the remains of a cemetery; the
ruined graves of which stare us in the face every time we look out of the
drawing-room windows. The consequence of which is, that Janie would not
stay in the house by herself after dark for any earthly consideration;
and if she cannot procure a female friend to dance attendance on her
fears, I am cut out of my bachelor entertainments. Not that I wish to
complain; far from it; it would be hard if I could not give up some
pleasures in exchange for such a wife as mine—but I have found it awkward
at times. Then we have no society but such as the regiment affords; and
as a married man I am, of course, not so much at the mess as heretofore.
Altogether Mushin-Bunda is not lively; and my wife is the only creature
who makes it bearable to me.

I don’t wonder that the whole cantonment voted me a lucky fellow when I
obtained the promise of her hand. The first time I ever saw her at the
house of her married sister—the wife of Delville, of our 44th, since
ordered to Burmah—I thought her the prettiest, most lovable little woman
I had ever seen; and during the twelve months of our happy married life,
I have had no reason to alter my opinion. Janie is all that a man could
possibly desire in a wife; and so I tell myself twenty times a day. Never
have I seen her face clouded with passion or ill-humour: whatever I
propose to do is invariably the thing she has just been wishing for; she
never dissents from me either in opinion or desire; she never even meets
me without the same quiet smile, which has deservedly gained her the
credit of being such ‘a very sweet young woman.’ She is a cushat-dove,
made to nestle into a man’s affections and to remain there; for who with
a heart could bear to wound the feelings of one so sensitive and pure? I
don’t believe at this moment, that in all the length and breadth of India
there exists a happier or more contented fellow than myself; and if we
only had a little more society, a little company occasionally to turn
our thoughts from dwelling incessantly upon ourselves, our life would
leave nothing to be desired. Not but what my Janie is the world to me;
still, a woman is but a woman after all, and the days are apt to become
monotonous.

Oh, this horrid Mushin-Bunda! could anything reconcile me to a life-long
expatriation in a place like this? The very thought is desolation.

_June 6th._—Two days ago I was complaining of the lack of company to
be found in Mushin-Bunda. This evening I feel inclined to write myself
down an ass, and say that my foolishness has returned upon my own pate,
for we are likely to have more company than we care for. I was in the
verandah this morning smoking and grumbling, and as I turned from the
contemplation of the glaring compound to where Janie sat in her white
dress, bending over some letters she had just received, I decided she was
the only cool thing within my range of sight. The dogs were lying panting
on the gravel with their tongues out. The constant motion of the flapping
punkah did not appear to do more than stir the heat. Even the quiet
easy-going tailor sitting cross-legged at my feet, could not proceed with
his work unless he dipped his black fingers every minute in a bowl of
water. Everything looked hot, horrible, and sticky, except Janie herself.
But there sat my cushat-dove—half buried in the flounces of her muslin
dress—a fair, plump, placid little woman; the effect of heat on whom is
only to make her look more white and cool, with her sunny hair drawn off
her tranquil features, and her calm blue eyes riveted on the open letter
which she held in her hand. None of your passionate, raving, storming
creatures this, who nearly squeeze you to death one moment, and stick
a knife into you the next; but a proper sort of woman for a wife and
mother, or so I choose to call her; and I really couldn’t take my eyes
off her moonlight beauty, until I was roused from my reverie by hearing
her plaintive voice exclaiming,—

‘Oh dear! oh dear! how very unfortunate! Whatever will the poor girl do?’

‘Of whom are you talking, my darling?’ I asked, as I cast away the
remains of my cigar, and advanced towards her.

‘Of my cousin Lionne, Robert dear; Margaret Anstruther, of whom I have
so often spoken to you. I told you some time ago, didn’t I, that in
consequence of her mother’s death she was coming out to the care of our
uncle, Colonel Anstruther, at Madras?’

‘Well, what of it? Has she arrived?’

‘No; but this letter is from Uncle Henry, and he is in such a dilemma.
He expected Margaret to be with him four or five mails ago; but her
guardians have delayed and delayed to send her out; and now, just as he
is ordered off to China to join his regiment, he receives a letter to say
that she will arrive by the next steamer.’

‘And he will have left Madras?’

‘Yes; and for six months at least. He does not know what on earth to do
about it.’

And Janie, in an uncertain manner, kept turning the sheet of paper over
and over in her hands.

‘He must ask one of his lady friends to receive Miss Anstruther,’ I
suggested.

‘So he would, Robert, were it not for so long a time. But a six months’
visit is too much to expect from any stranger. If Emma were only here,
Uncle Henry would have sent Margaret to her.’

‘It is certainly very inconvenient,’ I remarked carelessly.

‘I suppose, Robert dear,’ said Janie, in a dubious and hesitating
manner,—‘I suppose _we_ could not offer to take in Margaret till Uncle
Henry returns from China?’

I started. The idea had not presented itself to me before, and it was
certainly not a pleasant one. I hope I am not of an inhospitable turn
of mind; but the prospect of having a perfect stranger located beneath
our roof for such a length of time was anything but agreeable to me. I
remembered Janie’s want of companionship, and the many times I had had
to resign the society of my brother-officers on her account, and felt
resigned; but the next moment I thought of all my quiet evenings with my
loving little wife being broken in upon; of our cosy walks, and talks,
and drives being done away with, and for six long months—and I daresay
I did look blank. Indeed, I must have done so; for Janie, who is not,
generally speaking, what is termed quick of observation, saw the change
in my countenance and commented upon it.

‘You don’t like the notion, Robert dear?’ she said, in a tone of
disappointment.

‘Well, Janie, I can’t say I do; but if it must be, it must be. What does
your uncle say on the subject?’

‘He says it would be a great convenience, of course, and that he does not
know to whom else to apply, or he would not trouble us. And Margaret and
I were at school together, Robert: we were brought up quite like sisters;
so it would seem strange if she were to go to anyone else. And it is only
for six months; and Uncle Henry says that he does not expect us to be put
to any expense about it, for that he—’

‘Oh, blow the expense!’ I irreverently interrupted. ‘When does Colonel
Anstruther leave Madras, Janie?’

‘Next week; and Margaret is to arrive the week after.’

‘And what arrangements can he make for her joining us at Mushin-Bunda?’

‘Mrs Grant, a friend of his, has offered to receive Margaret on her
arrival, and to keep her until a steamer starts for here, which will
probably not be long first.’

‘Very well. Write to your uncle, and say that we shall be proud to give
Miss Anstruther house-room until such time as he may be able to reclaim
her.’

‘And you’re not vexed about it, Robert dear?’ said Janie timidly.

I stooped and kissed her.

‘Not a bit, darling,’ I answered gaily. ‘Half-a-dozen cousins could make
no difference to our love; and as long as that remains unaltered, I care
for nothing else.’ Upon which my little wife brightened up again, and
prepared to write an answer to her uncle’s letter; and I lit another
cigar, and resumed my old position in the verandah.

I told Janie that the stranger’s coming could make no difference to me;
but I feel that I have not spoken the truth in saying so, and I blame
myself for thinking as strongly as I do upon the subject. Surely I am
swayed by prejudice.

After all, supposing that Miss Anstruther does remain with us during the
whole of her uncle’s sojourn in China, where will be the great misfortune
of entertaining a young lady for a few months? and how could we have
done otherwise than offer to receive a friendless girl, arriving in the
country under such peculiar circumstances? who has also, by marriage,
become a connection of my own, and been reared in such intimate relations
with my wife, as to be looked on by Janie almost in the light of a
sister. It would have been quite impossible to act otherwise; therefore
I feel I had better make a virtue of a necessity. At the same time, try
as I will, I cannot bring myself to look on the anticipated visit as a
pleasure, although I am sure that much of my prejudice arises from my
wife’s innocent praises of her cousin, which prove Miss Anstruther to
be so opposite, in appearance and disposition, to herself, that I feel
I shall never like the girl. Well, I was wishing for more society in
Mushin-Bunda; and now I shall have it. Some one to dance attendance on,
and to mind my p’s and q’s before, for the next six months; and if I
haven’t had enough of society before the end of that time, it’s a pity.
Warren says it’s all nonsense; that he had a friend of his wife’s once
staying in the house for several weeks, and that it was great fun; and
that before Miss Anstruther has been with us half that time, I shall look
on her as a sister, and forget all about my p’s and q’s.

I laugh at the idea, and pretend to agree with him; but it is of no use;
a presentiment of annoyance for me seems to cling to the name of Margaret
Anstruther, until I wish I had never even heard its sound. However, as I
said to my wife, what must be, must be, and the best method of evading a
worry is not to think about it. Easier said than done!

_June 16th._—If anything were necessary to make me take a still farther
dislike to the idea of our expected guest, it would be provided in the
fact that Janie and I have nearly come to words about her, for the first
time in our married life.

‘Come, darling,’ I said to her this evening, when at last the fierce sun
had sunk below the horizon, and it was possible to quit the house; ‘put
on your hat, and let us have a little stroll in the compound together, we
may not have many more opportunities of walking alone.’

Our ‘compound,’ as the ground surrounding an Indian bungalow is usually
called, is a large piece of uncultivated land, sheltered by lanky
cocoa-nut trees, and carpeted with burnt-up turf from end to end, whereof
is cut a sandy track, which we term our carriage-drive.

Janie was ready in a moment, and up and down the track of sand we
wandered, arm-in-arm, inhaling eagerly the faint breath of sea-air wafted
to us from across the plain which separates us from the ocean.

‘Oh, Robert dear!’ said Janie, casting up her pensive blue eyes to meet
my own, ‘I wish I had never written that letter to Uncle Henry. I am more
sure every day that you don’t like the notion of Lionne staying with us.’

I can’t think what put the letter or her cousin into my wife’s head at
that particular moment; for I have not alluded to the subject for several
days past.

‘My dearest child,’ I answered her, ‘whether I like it or not is of
little consequence. There is no alternative; therefore we must bear the
infliction as best we may. Thank heaven, it will not be for ever.’

‘But you are not to look upon it as an infliction, Robert,’ said Janie,
as she squeezed my arm, ‘because, directly you see Margaret, you will
like her.’

I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.

‘But indeed you will,’ continued my little wife with, for her, a most
unusual display of energy. ‘You don’t know how nice-looking she is; tall
and slight, with large dark eyes and—’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘Six feet high, and gaunt
as a cab-horse, with flaming black eyes and hair, and a complexion like
Spanish olives. I know the sort of woman, Janie; you’ve described her to
me often enough. The less said about her beauty the better.’

‘But she’s not a bit like that,’ said dear little Janie, almost ready
to cry at my description of her cousin. ‘Lionne is very graceful and
exceedingly handsome; every one says so. Indeed, Robert dear, you are
quite mistaken.’

‘She won’t be handsome to me,’ I answered, appeasing her with a kiss,
‘since she must be so different from yourself, Janie. Nothing will go
down with me, darling, except it be golden hair and a marble skin; and
then they must be the hair and the skin of but one woman in the world.’
And I looked into the face of my cushat-dove until I made her blush and
laugh nervously with her tremulous happiness. Dear little Janie! God keep
me ever true to her!—‘Why do you call your cousin “Lionne,” instead of
by her proper name?’ I asked, as soon as the billing and cooing episode
had somewhat subsided, and we had leisure to revert to the subject under
discussion. ‘Margaret is pretty enough, and the other has no connection
with it, let alone its signification rendering it very unsuitable for a
lady.’

At this question my wife reddened; but, after a little pressing,
confessed it was a nickname which had been bestowed on Miss Anstruther at
school.

‘She is a dear, generous creature, Robert dear,’ she pleaded; ‘but just
a little hasty, or at least she used to be; but of course she will have
got over all that by this time’ (not so sure, thought I); ‘and we girls
used to call her ‘La Lionne’ just for fun, you know, and somehow the name
stuck to her. Oh, you should have seen her in a rage!’ continued Janie,
warming beneath the recollection; ‘her eyes used to flash such glorious
fire, and she didn’t seem to care what she did. Once, when I offended
her, she flew at me just like a little cat, and bit me on the arm.’ And
Janie laughed softly at the remembrance which made my blood boil.

‘What a she-devil!’ I exclaimed indignantly, as I thought of the fair
flesh, of which I was so tender, lacerated by the teeth of a gaunt
school-girl with vicious black eyes. ‘I should like to have caught her at
it!’

Then Janie seemed to think she had said too much, and tried to retract.

‘Oh, but, Robert dear!’ she exclaimed, ‘she is very different now, you
know; that all happened long ago; and though we still call her Lionne, it
is seldom that she ever gives way to her temper. I have not seen her for
some years; but when we last met we had not a word together during the
whole period of her stay.’

‘And how long may that have been, Janie?’

‘For three weeks; and she was so pleasant and kind, you can’t think.’

Three weeks! I groaned in my spirit; and we are to endure six months
of the company of this lady who is called Lionne, in compliment to
the amiability of her disposition, and bites and scratches like a cat
whenever she is offended. I began to think of clothing myself and my
wife in mail armour during the period of her stay, so that we might be
invulnerable to her attacks; but a remark to that effect to Janie seemed
greatly to discompose her.

‘It is not fair of you, Robert dear,’ she said, with knitted brows,
‘to take my confidence in such a spirit. It is all nonsense to suppose
that Margaret will be like that now; she is a charming girl, who is
universally admired.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ I replied sarcastically. ‘I hope, however,
that she won’t take a liking to me; or that, if she does, she will keep
her charming teeth to herself.’

‘I daresay you won’t be troubled with her long,’ exclaimed Janie, with
a degree of excitement which I foresaw would end in tears. ‘Margaret
attracts lovers wherever she goes, and we shall have her engaged and
married most likely before she has been many weeks in Mushin-Bunda.’

‘Worse and worse,’ I inadvertently replied. ‘If I thought that was to be
the end of it, Janie, I should cut and run at once.’

Visions of my brother officers lounging about the drawing-room all day,
and snarling at each other like rival curs—of a wedding, and all the
paraphernalia and fuss attendant on it—made me give vent to the horror
which I felt in the anticipation.

‘Ah! you didn’t think it all so horrid a year ago!’ said my wife, melting
into the promised tears; ‘but I suppose you have forgotten that by this
time, or wish, perhaps, that it had never been.’

The conclusion struck me as unreasonable; but when women arrive at that
stage they are not in a fit state to be argued with, and are best left
alone.

‘It’s very different when one plays first fiddle in the case, dear
child,’ I answered soothingly; but Janie was no longer in a humour to be
soothed.

‘I don’t believe you think so, Robert,’ she said; ‘and as for poor
Lionne, I’m sure—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! let’s talk of something else than poor Lionne!’ I
answered hastily. ‘I’m sure we’ve had enough of her for one evening; and,
for my part, I’m getting quite sick of her name.’

It was a foolish, unthinking speech to make; and Janie took it so
thoroughly to heart, that she walked away from my side into the house,
and had cried herself sick and ill before I had the manliness to find her
out and ask her pardon for my rudeness, and promise to try and like her
cousin for her sake. I must be more careful of Janie. She is not strong
enough to endure much emotion; and she loves me so tenderly, that the
least suspicion of unkindness on my part upsets her.

Well, this is the first shadow of a disagreement that we have ever had;
may it be the last! That it has occurred on the subject of Margaret
Anstruther, is not likely to increase my predilection in favour of that
young lady.

_June 17th._—I did not go to bed till late last evening, for I was vexed
at what had taken place between myself and Janie, and could not readily
compose myself to sleep. However, I did so at last, vowing to endure all
the cousins in creation fastened upon me for all time, sooner than bring
another needless tear into the tender eyes of my cushat-dove; and was
wakened at gun-fire this morning by the intelligence that the _Ostrich_
(the steamer by which we expected Miss Anstruther to arrive) was
telegraphed from Coeranapoot, and would be off Mushin-Bunda in the course
of a few hours.

Owing to the agreeable peculiarities of the place we live in, I was
obliged at once to rise from my bed, and prepare to ride down to the
fort, the currents here being of such a nature that vessels cannot come
within a couple of miles of land; and if boats are not ready on their
arrival to convey the passengers on shore, they carry them on without
ceremony to the next port. I wakened Janie with a dozen kisses, begged
and prayed of her to think no more of what happened last night, assured
her that I intend to be all that is amiable, and learn to like her cousin
as much as she does, and having thrown myself into my clothes, departed
full of good resolutions, leaving her childish face radiant with smiles,
and beaming in expectation of the coming meeting.

As I turned my horse out of the compound, I met a brother officer,
Forster by name, also mounted, and riding apparently in the same
direction.

‘Where are you off to so early?’ I inquired.

‘I am going on board the _Ostrich_,’ he replied, ‘to try and get a sight
of my friend Dunn, who is to cross to Burmah in her. Will you come with
me?’

‘It is where I am bound for. I am on my way to meet Miss Anstruther, my
wife’s cousin.’

‘Lucky dog!’ said Forster. He is one of those fellows who imagine that
no age, position, or circumstances are powerful enough to prevent a man
admiring a pretty woman. ‘If all I have heard about her from Dunn is
true, you are not likely to have your house much to yourself whilst Miss
Anstruther is in it, Norton.’

‘Well, I shall go out of it, then,’ I answered, not over pleased at the
notion of never being left in peace with Janie.

‘Dunn says she’s beautiful. I didn’t know you expected her in the
_Ostrich_. He’ll never believe now that I went on board with the
intention of seeing himself.’

‘He must have but a small opinion of your friendship for him.’

‘Ah, yes, perhaps; but this is not an ordinary occasion. From all I hear,
Norton, Miss Anstruther must be—you’ll excuse my saying so—a regular
out-and-outer.’

‘Indeed! You know more about her than I do. She has not been above a week
or ten days in Madras.’

‘I know; but Dunn was introduced to her in England, and quite excited to
find she had come out to this country. Will she remain long with you?’

‘Till Colonel Anstruther returns from China,’ I replied, with an inward
sigh.

‘Lucky fellow!’ repeated Forster, with a grin. ‘Don’t you wish he may lay
his venerable bones there?’

I did not feel equal to pursuing this conversation in the strain which
Forster evidently expected of me, and so I tried to turn it.

‘The tide is very high to-day,’ I remarked, as we rode into the fort, and
came in sight of the sea.

‘By Jove! so it is; and yesterday it barely washed the landing-quay. What
a sell it would be, Norton, if some day this sea, with its changeable
tides, was to take it into its head to overflow the fort and flood the
cantonment!’

‘How _could_ it?’ I exclaimed, hastily.

The idea is ridiculous, and as ridiculous my feeling annoyed at it, for
I have never heard it mooted by any one before; and yet it is not a
pleasant one; for the plain is so very level, and we have no protection
whatever from the encroachments of the ocean.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he answered; ‘but I think I’ve read of such things.
It would be a regular washing for these poor devils in the fort, though,
wouldn’t it?’

‘Don’t talk of anything so horrible!’ I answered.

And then we hailed a boat; and dismounting from our horses, gave them
into the charge of their native grooms, and were soon dancing over the
sunny waves. It was dancing with a vengeance; for the cross-currents
are so various, that at one moment we were driven a long way out of our
course, and the next shot back again in the opposite direction with a
rapidity which threatened to upset the frail structure to which we had
trusted ourselves. Meanwhile the _Ostrich_ steamed slowly into sight, and
took up her station at the usual distance from land; whilst we beat about
the harbour for more than an hour, wondering if we should ever board her;
and half afraid, more than once, that she would depart again without our
having accomplished it. But we were successful at last; and the first
object which I saw on reaching the deck was the figure of a girl, sitting
apart by herself in a distant and reserved manner, which I immediately
singled out as that of Miss Anstruther, and the sequel proved that I was
right.

‘Is Miss Anstruther on board?’ was the query which Forster put to his
friend Dunn, as they met at the head of the gangway.

‘Yes, she is,’ was the reply; ‘but I can’t say I’ve seen much of her. She
seems very different from what she was in England last year. But I think
she hates this country, and—’

‘Dunn, this is my friend Captain Norton; allow me to introduce you. Mrs
Norton is Miss Anstruther’s cousin, Dunn; he has come on board expressly
to meet her.’

‘Oh yes, of course; very happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr Dunn; and in
consequence no farther allusion was made to Miss Anstruther’s likes or
dislikes.

Meanwhile I found the captain, and got him to introduce me to the young
lady. It was a proud cold face which she turned towards me as my name was
mentioned to her, and the hand she offered lay very passive in my grasp;
but she said all that was pleasant and polite, and intimated that her
luggage was ready to be put into the boat, and she to follow me at any
time, so that there was no reason for delay; and after I had assured her
how eagerly Janie was on the look-out for her arrival, and she had bidden
adieu to the captain, we prepared to return to shore. We were obliged to
have two boats on account of the luggage; and what was my surprise to
see Forster slip down after us into the second, as though he were one of
the party.

‘You have deserted the company of your friend Dunn very quickly,’ I
remarked to him. ‘The _Ostrich_ does not leave for another hour. I
thought you were going to breakfast on board.’

‘I thought of doing so,’ he answered carelessly (he had been talking of
nothing else on our way there); ‘but perhaps it’s better not—might miss
the boat, you see, which would be awkward. Will you introduce me to Miss
Anstruther?’

I went through the required formula; but after the customary
acknowledgment of it, Miss Anstruther took no further notice of Mr
Forster or myself, and the conversation, after several ineffectual
attempts to draw her into it, was kept up between us alone. Meanwhile, I
could not help stealing an occasional glance to where my wife’s cousin
sat, calm and silent, gazing on the bright glancing waters, and answering
the occasional remarks directed to her with a smile which was almost too
faint to be called so. Only once did I see the expression of her face
change; and that was when the cross-current caught the boat and drove it
all slanting and edgeways, like a bird across the bay, with a velocity
which, for the moment, considerably unsettled each of us. She grew a
little paler then, and I saw her hand (rather a nice hand, by-the-bye)
grasp the seat which she occupied; but still she said nothing.

‘Don’t be frightened, Miss Anstruther,’ I interposed hastily; ‘there is
no real danger. The native boatmen are so skilful that it is very seldom
a boat is upset here.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, in answer to my information, and for a moment
her eyes met mine (she has fine eyes, certainly); and the next time the
boat was driven out of her course I saw, by the unmoved expression of her
face, that she remained at ease.

I suppose it was very courageous, and all that sort of thing; but I
don’t think I liked her any the better for it. A woman, in my idea, is
a creature to be protected, and not to take care of herself. I remember
how Janie shrieked and screamed and clung to me when I brought her on
shore in one of those very boats; and I think I should have liked it
better if Miss Anstruther had exhibited a little more fear. However,
everybody is not like my Janie. When we landed at the fort, Forster, who
is our adjutant, was obliged to leave us, and allow me to take my guest
home in a carriage; but though she talked a little more when we found
ourselves alone, she was anything but sociable; and I was thankful when
we had turned into our own compound, and I could tell her to look out for
Janie on the steps. There was my little bird, of course; all fluttering
with pleasure at the delight of meeting her cousin again; and as soon as
Miss Anstruther had reached the porch she flew into her arms, and her
happiness found vent in a burst of excited tears. I expected to see the
stranger follow suit, knowing that women often cry most when they are
most pleased; but not a drop fell from her eyes. She clasped my wife very
closely to her, it is true, and I saw her lip and nostril twitching; but
she showed no further signs of emotion, though Janie did tell me that,
after they had passed into the bedroom together, her cousin indulged
in what she technically termed ‘a good cry.’ However, of this I knew
nothing. The two girls (Janie is but eighteen, and Miss Anstruther a year
older) remained closeted together for more than an hour; and when they
reappeared at the breakfast-table they looked as fresh as their muslin
dresses, and as far from tears as the day was from rain.

And now, what am I to say of Miss Anstruther’s personal appearance? She
is certainly very different from what I imagined—altogether different. I
will acknowledge so far; and yet I don’t know if I am agreeably surprised
in her or not. She is tall and slight, though not at all thin, with a
lithe figure which reminds me of a leopard or some such animal; and
every time she moves I expect to see her take a waving serpentine leap
which shall land her noiselessly on the opposite side of the room; which
peculiarity brings so forcibly to my mind her nickname of ‘Lionne’ that I
have very nearly called her by it more than once to-day. Her complexion
is pale and sallow (Janie calls it ‘creamy’—so I suppose that is the
right name for it), and her eyes, which are enormous (much too big, in
my opinion; I dislike startling eyes in animals or women), are black,
and very variable in their expression. Her nose is straight, and rather
sharp; and she has an absurdly short upper lip, with a deep channel in
the centre of it—in fact, scarcely any upper lip at all. But she has a
pretty set of teeth (I record this fact to show that I am not permitting
myself to be in the least swayed by prejudice), and apparently a large
quantity of dark hair—at least Janie tells me that when unbound it
reaches to her knees.

Still, although doubtless she can boast of some good features, to call
such a woman beautiful is absurd; and one has only to see her stand side
by side with my rosebud wife to perceive the worse points which she
possesses. It brings out at once, as I made Janie laugh by observing,
all the yellow that is in her. She is not so plain, perhaps, as I
expected; but ‘beautiful’ is the last epithet I should apply to Margaret
Anstruther. No woman who is not fair can possibly be pretty; and how any
man can _prefer_ a dark face is to me inexplicable.

_June 18th._—She certainly is a most extraordinary girl, and even more
disagreeable than I thought her yesterday. We really got on so well
together the first day; she chatted so pleasantly during the forenoon to
Janie and myself, and sung to us in the evening (she has not got a bad
voice by any means), that I began to think I had made a mistake about her
cold, reserved manner, and that if her visit were to last for six weeks
instead of six months, it might not prove such an affliction. And so,
wishing to make myself agreeable, I told Janie this morning at breakfast
that she must be sure and order a very good dinner, as I intended to
ask some of my brother officers to dine with us. I knew that Forster
and others were anxious to make Miss Anstruther’s acquaintance; and a
bright thought struck me this morning, that if I manage well we may get
her engaged and married, and out of the way altogether in the course of
a month. Of course, it will be a great deal of bother; but it will be
much better to get it over in that manner than to have it spun out for
several months, and to wind up perhaps with a wedding after all. So I
have determined to be very hospitable, and keep open house for the next
few weeks; and I sha’n’t let Janie interfere with her cousin in any way;
and we will see what that will do. My wife opened her blue eyes when I
informed her of the impending guests, and said no one had called on Miss
Anstruther yet.

‘Of what consequence is that?’ I said. ‘The whole regiment will call this
morning, and I know they will be dying for an invitation afterwards;’ and
I nodded in a knowing manner at Miss Anstruther, as much as to say that I
knew all about it.

‘I hope you do not invite them on my account,’ she said, curtly,
answering my look.

‘I invite them on their own, Miss Anstruther. You do not seem to know
your value. Young ladies are very scarce in Mushin-Bunda; you could not
have come to a better place, if you want to have it all your own way. I
don’t think you will find a rival here.’

‘A glorious thought to goad one on to victory,’ she said, sarcastically,
and her manner seemed to change from that moment. She became again
reserved and haughty; and when I returned home from my professional
duties, Janie met me almost in tears, with the intelligence that she
was sure dear Lionne was not well, for she had scarcely spoken a word
all day, and had sat so silent during the visits of the officers of the
regiment that Janie had had all the talking to do.

‘Never mind!’ I answered soothingly; ‘she will be different after dinner.
A glass of champagne will thaw her reserve, and draw her out of herself.’

‘But I so much wished that they should admire her,’ said dear little
Janie in a despondent voice.

My predictions, however, with respect to Miss Anstruther were not
verified. She looked very handsome this evening in a sweeping white dress
(‘handsome’ is the correct term of her style of beauty; no one could
call her ‘pretty,’ like Janie for instance, but she certainly looks
handsome, particularly by candle-light), but nothing prevailed to make
her sociable; neither my champagne nor my wife’s coaxing could induce her
to talk or sing as she did last night. She spoke in monosyllables, and
professed herself too tired for any display; and the five men whom I had
asked to dine with us sat alternately talking to my wife, and staring at
her guest, until the time for their departure had arrived. Janie sung
us two or three ballads in her sweet plaintive little voice, but we had
heard them before, of course, and should have been glad of something new.
But all our pressing and entreaty were in vain. Miss Anstruther said she
was too fatigued to sing; and declining even to sit amongst the company,
stood by a window gazing out upon the night. Presently, almost too vexed
at her singular behaviour to remember my politeness, I approached her
side, and said, perhaps rather abruptly,—

‘Why won’t you sing for us?’

‘Because I don’t choose,’ she answered, fearlessly.

‘I thought so,’ I said; and turning away I quitted her again, and took
a seat by Janie’s side. But after a while some fascination, for which I
am unable to account (but which has been felt at times by all people who
on earth do dwell), made me feel that Miss Anstruther was regarding me,
and lifting my eyes, I encountered the glance of hers fixed on my face.
She withdrew them quickly; but not before their gaze had made me feel
uncomfortable—a sensation which I attribute to the fact of their colour,
which I have never liked, and believe I never shall.

The rest of the evening passed dully enough, and I am sure Janie was as
relieved as I was when our friends rose to take their leave, and Miss
Anstruther disappeared in the privacy of her own room.

‘You can’t say that Mademoiselle Lionne has made herself very agreeable
to-night,’ I exclaimed rather triumphantly, as Janie and I found
ourselves alone.

But Janie was hardly a subject to be triumphed over, she was so very
humble and apologetic.

‘I can’t think what is the matter with her, Robert dear; but I assure
you she is not sulky. Only this moment she put her arms round my neck and
kissed me—oh, so nicely! but I don’t think she likes dinner-parties. We
won’t give another.’

‘Not like dinner-parties!’ I exclaimed.

‘No—nor men. She told me she wouldn’t sit in the drawing-room to-morrow
morning.’

‘Not like dinner-parties or men!’ I exclaimed, aghast at the
intelligence. ‘And how the deuce is she to get married, then?’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to get married,’ said Janie demurely.

‘Doesn’t want to get married!’ I growled. ‘Don’t tell me such nonsense!
If she doesn’t want to get married, what is she out here for?’

‘Oh, hush! Robert dear; don’t speak so loud,’ interposed my wife, as she
laid her little hand across my mouth. ‘Do remember, her room is the next
one to this.’

So the conference was stopped, and I cut into my dressing-room to write
my diary. But I never heard such nonsense, and I wouldn’t believe it on
the girl’s own oath. Not like men or dinner-parties, forsooth! It is only
a young lady’s trick to attract attention by appearing to decline it. We
shall never get rid of her at this rate.

_N.B._—Her eyes are not black. I was mistaken. They are grey, and not
such a very dark grey either, except when she is annoyed. It is only in
some lights that they look black. They are fine eyes; but more suited, I
should think, to war than love.

_June 19th._—In some way or other I have offended my lady, for she
will hardly speak to me; and when I proposed to drive her to hear the
regimental band play this evening (Janie not being well), rejected my
offer with a decision which amounted to scorn. Yet she stayed by Janie’s
sofa (so I was told afterwards) during the whole term of my absence,
bathing her head with eau de Cologne, and fanning her, and attending to
all her wants in the most womanly manner; so I suppose she has some good
in her, after all. But so have serpents and tigers, and other beasts
of prey. All I know is, that I’m not going to be insulted by a girl in
my own house, and I shall let Miss Anstruther feel this by keeping up
a distance between us, and treating her with the coldest reserve. Just
when I had been forcing myself to show her politeness, in spite of all
the repulsion I feel to her society, to have my offer rudely rejected is
more than any man can stand. It makes my blood boil to recall the tone
in which she told me she was ‘infinitely obliged,’ but thought, on the
whole, she would rather ‘remain at home.’ She may remain at home for ever
for me now; it will be a long time before I offer to take her out again.

_June 21st._—We have been at it now for two days, bowing to each other
when we meet, and scarcely exchanging a word except in the most formal
manner. Janie sees the change, of course, and is wretched about it. She
keeps turning her wistful glances from one to the other, as if to entreat
us to make it up and be friends; but when she appeals to me in private,
I tell her that it is the fault of her cousin, who is the one to make
the first advances towards reconciliation, as I have not the slightest
idea in what I have offended; and when she talks in her turn to Lionne, I
believe she hears pretty much the same argument. I hope, however, for all
our sakes, that this kind of thing won’t go on much longer; for I know
that it’s deucedly disagreeable, and that I’ve never felt at home since
Miss Anstruther came into the house.

_June 23d._—Colonel Anstruther has sent up a fine Arab from Madras for
the use of his niece, and to-day it arrived under the charge of its
native groom, rather foot-worn and travel-stained, but otherwise in good
condition. It is such a beautiful creature, and my fancy for horses is
so strong, that I really couldn’t help coming a little out of my shell
on its arrival, and expressing my admiration of its various points to
its mistress. She also seemed to forget herself in her pleasure in
the new acquisition; but when I remarked that she would now have some
delightful rides, and would find no lack of cavaliers to accompany her
in Mushin-Bunda, the old expression re-gathered on her face, and she
retreated to the house, and sat for the greater part of the evening in
her own room. What an unpleasant woman! I would rather she bit me than
treated me like this, and suggested to Janie that the alternative would
be pleasant for a change. But Janie wouldn’t laugh; she is too really
unhappy about the state of things.

_June 25th._—Matters remained _in statu quo_ until to-day; but the
thaw has come at last, and, as it should do, from the female side. The
horses were brought round this morning, as usual, to eat their ‘gram’ in
front of the house; and the Arab, having enjoyed two days’ rest and a
thorough grooming, looked in such good condition, that Janie was eager
in her entreaties that her cousin should take her first ride on him this
evening, and form an opinion of her new acquisition. Knowing that my
attendance would be necessary (I have never been able to persuade Janie
to become a horsewoman, she is far too timid), I made an effort to be
more agreeable, and joined my persuasions to those of my wife; but Miss
Anstruther would give no definite answer, and rather put the question to
one side than otherwise; so I thought no more about it. Going towards the
stables, however, in the afternoon, I saw the Arab standing ready saddled
in his stall; and hearing it was by order of the ‘missy,’ concluded that
I had either misunderstood her reticence, or she had changed her mind;
so, telling the horsekeeper to get my animal also ready, returned to the
house to hear what plans had been made in my absence. There I found Miss
Anstruther standing by herself in the verandah, ready attired for her
ride, and looking better in her hat and habit than I remember to have
seen her look before.

‘Janie has a headache, Captain Norton, and is lying down until dinner
time. I believe she is asleep,’ she said, as she observed the roving look
I cast about in search of my wife.

‘Ah, poor little woman, it will be the best thing for her,’ I replied.
‘The horses will be round directly, Miss Anstruther; but I am sorry you
did not make me understand your intention of riding more plainly; it was
quite by chance that I returned home so early.’

At this she turned and regarded me with serious surprise.

‘I had no intention of troubling you,’ she said quickly; ‘I can ride by
myself.’

‘By yourself, and on a strange animal, Miss Anstruther! It is quite out
of the question.’

‘I have ridden all sorts of animals.’

‘Perhaps; but not without an attendant. What would the regiment think to
see you riding alone?’

‘I am sorry, I have mistaken the place,’ she said gravely. ‘I thought
Mushin-Bunda was so very quiet that one might do anything here. I should
not think of troubling you to accompany me.’

And she turned towards the house as though with the intention of giving
up her ride. But I placed myself upon the threshold, and barred her
entrance.

‘You have not been treating me fairly for some days past, Miss
Anstruther. What have I done to offend you?’

‘Nothing,’ she answered in a low voice.

‘Then don’t add insult to your injury by refusing my escort on this
occasion. You need take no more notice of me, you know, than if I
were your groom; and that will not be much alteration from your usual
behaviour.’

She held her head so low that I could hardly see her face; but she
re-entered the verandah as I spoke, and I concluded that my terms were
accepted. In another moment the horses were at the door.

‘Come,’ I said, as gaily as I could, as I held out my hand to aid
her in descending the steps; and as I took hers, I felt that it was
trembling. I put her on her horse. Notwithstanding her height, she is
almost feather-weight; and her elastic figure sprang into the saddle,
from the impetus it received from me, as though she had really been the
animal to which I am so fond of comparing her. So I settled her in her
seat, arranging her skirt and stirrup-leather for her, and handing her
the reins, without once looking in her face; and then I mounted my own
horse, and we rode out of the compound side by side. The silence that we
maintained was ominous. She did not speak a word, and I could think of
nothing to say, although I felt that an explanation was about to take
place between us. I was glad, therefore, when we came to a long strip of
green turf, and I could suggest that she should try of what mettle her
animal was made; a suggestion to which she dumbly assented by breaking
into a canter. As we rode along together, I glanced at her light figure,
poised like a bird upon the saddle, and saw that she rode well, sitting
home to her crupper, and handling her reins as though she were accustomed
to them.

(_N.B._—I have read and heard a good deal about the want of grace in a
woman’s seat on horseback, but, for my own part, I never think a lady
looks so well as in that position, always provided that she understands
her business and has a figure worth looking at. A handsome woman on a
handsome horse is a sight for royalty, and I never know which to admire
most, the mortal or the equine.)

We cantered for a mile or more, and the action of the Arab seemed very
perfect. I made an observation to this effect, when, having left the
running horse-keepers far behind us, we at last drew rein, and found
ourselves alone. But still my remark received no answer, and I was
determined to make her speak.

‘Am I intruding too much upon my privileges, Miss Anstruther, in
venturing an opinion on the subject? Even a groom is sometimes permitted,
you know, to pass his judgment on the new acquisitions to his mistress’s
stables.’

‘Don’t, Captain Norton; oh, pray, don’t.’

The words were uttered so hurriedly that I scarcely understood them;
but when I looked into her face for an explanation, I saw that she was
crying. Now I cannot bear to see a woman cry. They may do anything they
like with me—tease, bully, even insult me—so long as they keep their eyes
dry; but Miss Anstruther’s tears were falling fast upon the bosom of her
riding-habit.

I could not endure to think that she might be annoyed with me and my
bantering; perhaps unhappy at having to live at Mushin-Bunda, for it is a
very dull and uninteresting place; and I said the first thing which came
into my head.

‘My dear girl, what _is_ the matter with you?’

I suppose the question was stupid or ill-timed, or perhaps I don’t
understand the ways of women, for instead of doing Miss Anstruther any
good, it changed her silent tears into such a storm of grief that I was
quite alarmed. I have often seen Janie cry (indeed, my little woman is
rather fond of working her hydraulics on very small occasions), and
I have been the unwilling witness at times to a good many tears from
various members of the fair sex; but never in all my life have I seen
such a tempest of passionate rain as poured from Margaret Anstruther’s
eyes this evening. She sobbed so violently and with so little restraint,
that I began to be alarmed for the effect of her emotion, both on her
horse and herself, and begged and entreated her to be calm, when all of a
sudden, to my astonishment, the storm passed as quickly as it had arisen;
and, except for her heaving bosom and sobbing breath, she was herself
again.

‘What must you think of me?’ she inquired, turning her liquid eyes, still
swimming in tears, upon my countenance. ‘I must have seemed so rude, so
ungrateful to you both.’

‘Think!’ I stammered, remembering all I have thought of her conduct
during the last few days; ‘I don’t think anything, Miss Anstruther; only
I am afraid you cannot be happy with us or here.’

‘Oh, it is not that!’ she exclaimed earnestly. ‘Neither place nor people
can make any difference to me. Dear Janie is everything that is kind;
and you—you have been very patient with me—but nothing can lift off the
humiliation, the degradation, that I feel in being here at all.’

‘Degradation!’ I repeated, rather nettled at the term.

‘Yes, degradation!’ she said emphatically; ‘else why am I in this
country? what is my place in India? I have an uncle here, it is true;
but so have I uncles in England. Why was Colonel Anstruther chosen by my
guardians as the one most fitted to offer me a home? Tell me that.’

‘He is rich, and a bachelor,’ I commenced; ‘and living alone, naturally—’

‘It is not so,’ she interrupted me; ‘and you know it, Captain Norton. It
is because he lives in a country where women are scarce, and men have few
opportunities of choice; where a girl may pick up a husband who might
remain for ever unmarried at home; where we are looked at on arrival
much as though we were articles of sale, and often purchased for motives
unworthy the name of love or honour or esteem. You cannot deny it,
because it is true, and I am wretched;’ and with this Lionne buried her
burning face in her hands.

‘But I can deny it!’ I exclaimed; ‘for if this is the case with some
girls sent out to this country, it is not with all. Look at your cousin
Janie; surely you would never speak of her in that strain.’

‘Janie came out to the care of her sister, her nearest relation,’ was the
low reply.

‘And you have come out to your relations, Miss Anstruther; to friends who
have but one wish, to see you happy and comfortable, and who would never
dream of imputing such motives to an action which—’

‘Did you not dream of it?’ she retorted quickly, as she turned her
glowing glance upon me. ‘What was the question that you put to Janie the
second evening of my arrival. “If she doesn’t want to get married, what
is she here for?” I ought not to have heard it, perhaps, but you spoke
so loudly that it was impossible to avoid doing so. And do you think I
didn’t feel it?’

She spoke so decidedly, and yet so mournfully, her eyes flashed with such
proud indignant fire, whilst her figure seemed bowed beneath the weight
of her humiliation, that I had nothing to say for myself; and having
attempted some stammering reply, which ended very abruptly, found that
she was speaking again, though more to herself than me, and felt myself
constrained to be silent and attend.

‘I saw it from the first day I landed,’ she went on sadly. ‘I perceived
in Mrs Grant’s insinuations, and the remarks of her lady friends, that
I was supposed to have been sent out to India with but one object—to
get a husband; and it sickened me. But when I came here,’ she added in a
lower voice, ‘I hoped it would be different; I hoped that you and Janie,
being so lately married, would look on love and marriage in a holier
light—as something too far removed from earthly calculations to be made
the subject of mere speculation or convenience.’

‘Oh, Miss Anstruther, forgive me!’ I exclaimed.

‘It is I who should have said those words, Captain Norton. You
disappointed me, and I have disappointed you. You raised in me a demon of
a temper, which I should have been ashamed to manifest, which I am now
most heartily ashamed even to recall. And you have been very patient with
me, very good and very gentlemanly. Please forgive me, in your turn.’

And she placed her hand firmly and warmly into mine.

‘You are too kind,’ I stammered, confused beyond measure at this rapid
change of manner in my guest. ‘I spoke thoughtlessly; but I see that
I misjudged you. Only tell me now what you wish to be done, and I will
execute it to the letter.’

‘I don’t deserve that you should do anything, Captain Norton, but hate me
for a rude and sulky wretch; but I am so heartily sorry to have annoyed
you.’

‘Let us forget all that,’ I responded, earnestly; ‘the annoyance was
mutual, and I was the most to blame. Only tell me what to do in future,
Margaret—I may call you Margaret, may I not, since we are cousins?—in
order to make you happy, and then I shall feel that I am quite forgiven.’

‘Treat me as a human being,’ she answered, gaily, ‘and not as an animal
for sale. Don’t ask your brother officers to the house on my account,
nor thrust me forward for their contemplation in any way. Look on me as
what I am: a creature who may stand alone all her life, and be contented
so to stand; to whom marriage is but a chance in the future; so great a
chance indeed, and so undesired a certainty, that she does not even care
to contemplate it nearer; to whom her friends, if they will be her true
and honest friends, are more valuable than a score of admirers.’

‘Whatever I have been, you shall have a true and honest friend in me
henceforward, Margaret.’

‘That’s right; so let us look upon our difference as settled, and make
Janie’s heart glad by the beaming faces we take back with us. And now,
let me hear your true opinion of my uncle’s present to me.’

We discoursed gaily on in different topics till we reached home; when
Janie was indeed made glad (as Margaret had predicted) by the cheerful
conversation we maintained at the dinner-table, and the little bit of
confidence I reposed in her when we found ourselves alone. She was so
delighted to think I should appreciate her dear Lionne at her true value
at last. Not that I told Janie every word that had passed between her
cousin and myself; for, added to its being unnecessary, I am not sure
that my little girl would understand Miss Anstruther’s feelings on the
subject, or properly respect her pride. She would mention it again to her
probably; and in her simplicity, wishing to be kind and interested, try
to sift her reasons to the bottom, and perhaps annoy where she desired to
please. So I only said that our quarrel was altogether done away with,
and would never be renewed; and that, as her cousin seemed to prefer a
quiet life, we would inaugurate no farther dinner-parties on her account;
which would suit us better, I concluded, and be more in accordance with
our usual style of living. To all which my wife heartily agreed; and I
feel more at charity with myself and all mankind than I have done for
some time past. I shall keep my word with Margaret Anstruther; and extend
no farther encouragement to the bachelors who may come lounging about
my house. It is a strange taste on her part; but she must be a girl in
a thousand to dislike admiration, and to look upon careless attentions
as an offence against the solemnity of marriage. It _is_ a solemn thing,
when you come to think, that if you make a mistake upon the subject,
you are in for it, and nothing can pull you out again. I wonder if
Margaret has had an unrequited attachment; I should not be in the least
surprised were I told so; it would be quite in accordance with the grave,
melancholy expression of her eyes, and her dislike to society. I must try
and discover.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




CHAPTER II.


_July 20th_.—Is it possible that I can have let nearly a whole month
slip away without writing a line in my diary? I had no idea of it till
I saw the last date inscribed here; and the month itself seems to have
gone so swiftly, that had it not been for this reminder, I should have
imagined it was not more than a week since I recorded my experiences. I
suppose it is the monotony of the place which makes the time go so fast.
My poor little Janie has not been well during this month: the heat has
been unusually trying, and she lies on her sofa half the day, suffering
from nervous headaches, and a general disinclination to get up and do
anything. In this emergency her cousin has been invaluable; she is
constantly by her side, reading to her, writing her letters, or amusing
her with quiet conversation; indeed, I may say we share the duty, for, of
course, I like to wait on Janie; and the novels which Margaret brought
out from England with her are very entertaining to listen to, and to me
an entirely new field of fancy, as I have scarcely ever looked into a
work of fiction in my life. I imagined novels, particularly modern ones,
were such rubbish; and so I suppose they are. Yet, on a hot day, and when
there is nothing else to do, it is very pleasant to sit still, fanning
Janie and listening to Margaret’s mellow voice as she reads them to us.
We are engaged upon the _Newcomes_ at present. I pity that poor devil
Clive, with such a little fool as Rosy for a wife, and especially when
he might have had a girl like Ethel Newcome. I didn’t care a pin about
the story at first, but I feel quite interested in it now, and anxious to
know if he gets rid of Rosy by any means, so that he may marry the other.
I think it will be very hard lines if he doesn’t. Margaret laughs at me,
and says I am a bloodthirsty monster, and that Clive should be made to
abide the consequences of his folly; and so, I suppose, by rights he
should.

What a genial laugh she has, and how pleasant it is to see her blush and
smile! I can understand now what Janie means by calling her complexion
creamy; it is so smooth and equable, not easily flushed, but at the same
time not liable to become florid and irritable-looking, which is so often
the case with fair skins. We have certainly had some very quiet peaceful
days together. I have faithfully kept the compact I made with her to be
her friend, and I think she appreciates my wish to give her pleasure. We
have had no parties since she expressed a contrary desire, and I have
even told Forster—who is evidently most absurdly spoony on her—that she
does not favour his suit—as I can see by her manner towards him—and that
he really must not come to the house so often. He says, ‘Why not let
him try his luck?’ but I am firm in making him understand that trial
would only end in disappointment for himself. He grumbles; so do several
others; but my wife’s state of health is sufficient excuse for our not
entertaining at present. I told Margaret of what I had said to Forster
relative to her not liking his attentions, and she blushed so crimson
that I stopped in alarm to ask if I had done wrong; but she assured me
to the contrary, and that she does not like the man. I have not had a
good opportunity yet of probing her concerning that former attachment of
which I am suspicious; but I fancy I see signs of it almost every day;
also that she has somehow guessed at my intentions, for I am sure she
has avoided being alone with me lately. Notwithstanding all which we are
very happy, and Lionne is very different from what I expected her to
be. She has not been in a temper once since we arrived at that mutual
understanding.

_July 21st._—Talk of the old gentleman, they say, and he is sure to
appear. I hope I did not raise the slumbering demon in Miss Anstruther’s
breast by my innocent remark of last night; but she has certainly given
us a peep of him since.

I was sitting in my own room this afternoon, occupied with some official
papers, when I heard a confusion of tongues in the compound, and Janie’s
frightened voice, in tones of agitation, entreating me to go to her
assistance. I ran, of course, to find that the cause of her alarm was a
loud altercation going on between Miss Anstruther and some natives in the
back verandah.

‘Oh, do go to them, Robert dear!’ Janie plaintively exclaimed; ‘Lionne is
so angry, and I can’t think what for.’

I dashed upon the scene of action, and took in the circumstances at a
glance. In the centre stood Lionne—a _lionne_ indeed, looking—I could not
help observing it, even whilst I blamed the exhibition—most beautiful
under the influence of her rage. Her dark face glowing with passion, her
arm extended, though powerless to command attention, and her lips pouring
forth a torrent of generous indignant words, alike uncomprehended and
unheeded by those around her. By her side stood two or three servants,
who stared at the lady’s vehemence without attempting to execute her
wishes; whilst before her, in the compound was a group of natives
actively employed in torturing a poor pariah dog by methods too horrible
to relate, and only abating their cruelty to exchange significant grins
and glances with one another at Lionne’s impotent rage. But my appearance
amongst them had the effect of an electric shock upon the herd.

‘What is all this about?’ I demanded angrily of my servants. ‘How dare
you let such a scene go on in my compound?’

‘Oh, Robert! Robert!’ exclaimed Lionne—it is the first time in her life
that she has called me by my Christian name—‘stop them; make them leave
off such horrid cruelty. I did not know you were at home, or I would have
sent for you before.’

The natives had already shrunk back and huddled together, whilst the
unfortunate victim of their experiments still lay panting on the sand
before us.

‘Oh, look at it! look at it!’ she cried excitedly; ‘it is in agony; it
is dying! Oh, you wretches! you inhuman, barbarous savages!’ with an
expression and emphasis which must have made even her English phrases
intelligible to the creatures she addressed; ‘I should like to see every
one of you served in the same way. You are not men, you are devils!’

‘Lionne,’ I said firmly, as I laid my hand on the excited girl’s arm,
‘this is no place for you. Leave me to deal with these men by myself.’

She shook off my grasp impatiently, as though disdaining my control; but
I caught her eye and chained it.

‘Margaret!’

‘But, Captain Norton—’

‘Go in to Janie—you have frightened her enough already—and leave me by
myself. I will come to you by-and-by.’

She saw I was in earnest, and with a heightened colour turned from
the verandah and re-entered the house, where, after having severely
reprimanded my servants, thrashed one or two of the natives, and seen the
tortured animal put out of its misery, I followed her. She was seated by
Janie’s couch, her hand clasped in that of her cousin, her beautiful head
drooped and lowering. I saw that she was ashamed of what had passed; and
so I made no reference to it, but asked my wife in an indifferent tone
on what she had decided to do this evening. She had decided on nothing—in
fact, she wished to do nothing, but to be left to lie still in peace. So,
after a while, I proposed a stroll in the compound to Miss Anstruther;
and she rose to her feet and prepared to follow me.

I think I have already spoken of our compound, which is full of graves.
These graves are very inconveniently situated for a gentleman’s
pleasure-grounds; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that
the gentleman’s pleasure-grounds are inconveniently situated for the
graves, which stretch up to the very windows of the house, and by their
inequality greatly impede the facility of a stroll. We stumbled over
them, and made circuits round about them, for some time in silence, until
both that and the exercise seemed to become oppressive; and by mutual
consent, as it were, we sat down together on a broad flat stone which
covers one of them; and for a few moments neither of us spoke. Then I
stole a glance at Margaret’s face, and saw that it was still clouded and
downcast; and I felt a strange longing to see it brighten up again and
smile upon me.

‘I am sorry you should have been witness to so painful and disgraceful a
scene, Miss Anstruther,’ I ventured to remark.

‘I am sorry you should have been witness to so painful and disgraceful
a scene, Captain Norton,’ she echoed gloomily. ‘Mine was the worst
exhibition of the two: I see it now plainly. Oh, what a wretch you must
think me! What an undisciplined, passionate, unwomanly creature!’ and up
went her hands as shelter to her burning face.

‘Please don’t call yourself names; I can’t subscribe to them. I think you
only what you are—a generous, warm-hearted girl, indignant at the sight
of wrong, only inclined to be a little too hot and hasty in expressing
your indignation. Never be afraid of falling in my good opinion by
showing your true nature, Margaret.’

‘But my nature is so bad, Captain Norton; you cannot think how bad it
is. My temper is so violent; and when it rises, I remember nothing else,
except that I am angry and must show it.’

‘If you never display it in a worse cause, Margaret, than you did this
afternoon, you cannot go far wrong. It was a disgraceful and disgusting
act of cruelty.’

‘Oh, was it not cruel,’ she eagerly exclaimed, ‘to torture one so
utterly defenceless and unarmed? I could look on at men, or dogs, or
any creatures of equal power, fighting with each other, and applaud the
victor; but when it comes to one against such fearful odds, one innocent
creature suffering because of its innocence, I cannot bear it. Many such
sights would kill me; I think that I should burst with rage.’

‘And yet in this world, Margaret, it is usually the defenceless and the
innocent who suffer.’

‘We who are strong should shield them,’ she answered, hastily.

I wonder what made her link her nature with mine in that word ‘we?’ And
yet I feel that I am strong—as she is. The tombstone on which we were
sitting professes to cover the remains of two lovers who died within a
few hours of each other. I told her the story, as it has been related to
me by one of our officers, who has taken the trouble to decipher the old
Dutch letters upon the stone, and asked her if she believed it possible
that grief could have such an effect as to kill within so short a space
of time.

‘It seems unlikely,’ she replied indifferently; ‘but natures are so
various. If true, she must have loved him very devotedly.’

‘And you are the last person to believe in such affection,’ I remarked.
I thought it would be a good occasion to find out if she had ever had an
unfortunate attachment.

‘What makes you think so?’ she answered quickly.

‘Because you have never tried it—have you? You have never been in love
yourself, Margaret?’

I spoke laughingly; but I wish I had not mentioned it. A scarlet flush
mounted to her very forehead as I said the words; and when I pulled her
by the hand and repeated my assertion, she burst into tears, and ran from
me to the house. What a fool I was to touch on such a subject! I don’t
believe, all the same, that it is true, that she has ever been in love;
but I may have wounded her sensitive pride by mentioning it, and cause
her to be reserved with me in future. Indeed, I am sure that she behaved
more distantly towards me even during the remainder of the evening; and a
little circumstance which happened just before we went to bed confirms me
in this opinion.

Janie was quite brisk and lively compared to what she has been lately,
and sung us several songs; but Lionne excused herself from singing, and
remained in a corner with her face buried in a book.

‘Make her come, Robert dear,’ said Janie playfully. ‘Go and pull her out.’

‘Captain Norton knows better than to attempt such a rudeness,’ was the
measured reply, which fell rather as a wet blanket on the other little
woman’s mirth.

‘Why do you call him Captain Norton?’ she said, pouting. ‘You called him
Robert this afternoon when you were in the verandah, Lionne, because I
heard you. Why can’t you do so always?’

Miss Anstruther had disappeared still lower behind her book; but to my
wife’s demand she made no reply.

‘Why won’t you call him Robert?’ said Janie, as she rose from the piano
and took possession of her cousin’s book; ‘he always calls you Margaret.’

The face which she thus disclosed was crimson, and the dark eyes swam in
a blurred mist which was half tears. So painful indeed was the expression
of the whole countenance, that I turned away, and could not contemplate
it.

‘Because I can’t, I really can’t,’ was the reply at last extracted.

‘And why not?’ persisted Janie.

‘It is not pleasant to me; I do not wish it,’ said Miss Anstruther, until
I felt myself constrained to interfere, and desire Janie not to tease her
cousin.

So she released the glowing face with an expression of impatience at
her obstinacy, and Miss Anstruther made use of her liberty by effecting
an immediate disappearance. This confirms me in my impression that I
offended her in the compound this evening, and that it will cause a
difference in our future intercourse. I am very much vexed about it: I
had really begun quite to like the girl. And I cannot dismiss from my
mind the tone in which she said the words, ‘We who are strong should
shelter them.’ Does she imagine that I am not capable of acting a
generous part? I should like to have some opportunity of showing her what
stuff I am made of.

_July 30th._—I have been very much vexed to-day; and though the
circumstance appears trifling, it threatens to lead to serious results.
When we first arrived in Mushin-Bunda—now some eight months ago—I,
in common with others of my regiment, heard several absurd stories
concerning the houses supposed to be haunted in the cantonment and its
neighbourhood—(natives always have a stock of such lies on hand, with
which to feed the imagination of any one fool enough to listen to them);
but of course I placed no credence in their statements, which only
excited a smile from their stupidity. _This_ well was said to be the
quarters of a devil, for which cause no one would ever draw or use the
water from it; and _that_ clump of bamboos to harbour another, which,
issuing in the form of a boa-constrictor, attacked those who were hardy
enough to linger in the compound after dark. With regard to our own
house, I heard that the spirits of the dead who lay buried beneath our
windows had been seen to wander about at night in their grave-clothes;
but of course I took care that such rubbish should not reach the ears
of my wife; equally of course I forbade my servants chattering about
it, and never gave the subject another thought. What was my surprise
and vexation, therefore, when I returned home this afternoon, to find
my wife supported by her cousin in a state of hysterical agitation,
whilst she listened to the garbled statements of half-a-dozen natives,
who all talked together, and interrupted one another, and did everything
they could to render their relation as confused and unintelligible as
possible. My ‘chokra’ or ‘dressing-boy’ was gesticulating in Hindustani;
the butler was vociferating in broken English; and the cook in his native
tongue of Tamil; whilst the ‘maty’ and tailor and ‘cook-boy’ tripped
over each other in any words they could first lay hold of. Margaret
was looking incredulous and a little scornful; Janie was all tears
and flushed cheeks and wide-open eyes; and for the moment I was struck
speechless with astonishment to think what could possibly have happened
during my absence.

‘What is all this about?’ I exclaimed, as I advanced to the centre of the
group.

The servants fell back, conscious they had no business there, and
evidently somewhat doubtful of my reception of their news. But Margaret
gave a sigh of relief at my appearance, and Janie flew to my arms as to
an ark of safety.

‘These men have been frightening Janie out of her wits,’ said Margaret in
a tone of annoyance; ‘and all I could say was insufficient to stop them.’

‘What is it, my dear?’ said I, addressing my wife. ‘What have they told
you?’

‘Oh Robert, do take me away!’ she answered with a convulsive shudder. ‘I
never shall be able to sleep in this house again. They say they have seen
it: a dreadful thing all in white, walking about the graves, and moaning
to itself, and wringing its hands. Oh, Robert dear, do let us go! It
will come into the house next; I am sure it will. I shall die of fright
if you don’t take me away at once.’

She clung to me like a terrified child, and as I marked her burning face
and felt the feverish clasp of her hands, I could not tell what injury
these idiots might not have done her by their folly.

‘What do you mean by this?’ I inquired sternly, as I turned to the group
of natives.

Then they began to cringe and salaam before me, as they attempted to
repeat the story which had so alarmed my wife. But I would not permit
them to do so, but ordered them all out of the room, and turned my
attention towards soothing Janie’s fears.

‘You must not be a child, my dear Janie,’ I said, as I replaced her on
the sofa, and arranged her pillows for her. ‘These natives are always
full of their stupid ghost-stories; but you know better surely than to
believe such folly. There are no such things as ghosts, therefore how
could they have seen one?’

‘Oh, but indeed—indeed, Robert, it is true!’ she said with painful
earnestness. ‘They saw it themselves only last night, and they say it is
like a woman with long hair down her back; and when they tried to touch
it, it vanished away.’

At this I could not help laughing.

‘A pack of heroes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, Janie, there is not one amongst
them man enough to inquire into such a mystery, even if they saw it,
which I don’t believe. I’ve a good mind to give them a hiding all round
to make their eyesight a little clearer.’

‘But what should be their object in repeating it?’ inquired Janie
fearfully.

‘If you will condescend to listen, my dear, you will always find them
ready to talk. They are full to the brim with such idle tales. You should
refuse to hear them, and send them about their business.’

‘Oh but, Robert, can’t we go away from this house? I never could bear
those graves, and now I shall be more frightened of them than ever.’

‘Janie, I thought you were more of a woman,’ I said reproachfully.
‘Where could we go to? You know that all the houses in Mushin-Bunda are
occupied;’ to which fact poor Janie assented with a deep sigh.

‘But, at all events, you won’t go out this evening, Robert, will you?’
she continued imploringly. ‘I could not bear to stay in the house alone
with Margaret and that awful thing.’

I was engaged to attend a public dinner at our mess this evening, for a
couple of officers of the 18th are passing through Mushin-Bunda on their
way to England, and we wished to show them a little civility. I had
been looking forward to the occasion (one sees so few strangers in this
place); but I told my poor little timid wife that I would give it up and
remain at home with her. However, Miss Anstruther very kindly came to my
assistance, and, begging me to keep my engagement, promised not to leave
Janie for a single moment till my return. Upon which, although with much
reluctance, the other consented to my leaving her; and as soon as I could
get away, I went after my servants to learn what folly had induced them
to fly into the presence of their mistress with such a rumour. I found
them almost as frightened as herself, and, oddly enough (for you can
generally catch a native tripping when you cross-examine him), perfectly
firm in adhering to their first statement. Their story is, that as three
of them were returning to their godowns (as they call the huts in the
compound) rather late last night, they saw a tall figure dressed in white
wandering about the graves, and moving its hands in a distressed manner;
and that, as they cried out at the sight (for natives are terribly
superstitious and cowardly), they wakened the other three, who ran out
just in time to see the figure vanish round the house, and they were too
much alarmed to follow up the search. In relating the story to me they
dropped all mention of having touched the supposed ghost, being aware, I
suppose, that I was not likely to credit such an act of bravery on their
parts. I spoke to them all six, both together and individually; and it is
curious that I could not make them contradict themselves in the statement
that they have seen such an apparition. Of course it is all nonsense.
They saw something doubtless; most likely Janie’s ‘ayah’ in her white
cloth, out without leave; but as for a ghost!—folly!

I scolded them well all round for a pack of idiots, forbade their
mentioning the subject again, and threatened them with the stick and
stoppage of wages if they were ever the means of carrying such stories
to their mistress’s ears; so I hope we have heard the last of the ghost.
However, the fright has evidently done Janie no good. When I returned
home from mess this evening, I found that she had had another violent
attack of hysterics, and that her cousin had thought right to send for
our doctor, who happened to be at his own house. He reports my wife very
nervous and feverish, and orders her to be kept as quiet as possible. I
would give a thousand pounds this moment, if I had them, sooner than this
story had reached her ears. She is so sensitive and timid, and her health
is at present so delicate, that I fear the shock may have some ill effect
upon her.

_July 31st._—Janie better, but still feverish. Miss Anstruther watches
over her like a sister. After they had both retired to bed to-night,
I sat at the window for more than a couple of hours, hoping to see
something which might account for the servants’ story, but nothing was
visible. The bright moon lit up the compound till it appeared almost
like day, and the air was so still that I must have heard the slightest
rustle; but I neither saw nor heard anything except my own breathing
and the smoke from my cigar. What awful fools these niggers must be to
believe in ghosts at all!

_August 1st._—Janie was on her sofa again to-day, and so cheerful, that
I hope she has already forgotten her alarm, and that the remembrance may
never be revived. But what has come to Margaret Anstruther? She looked
so careworn this afternoon, so haggard and miserable, compared to her
usual appearance, that, after asking her what was the matter, without
obtaining any satisfactory response, I ventured to remark that I hoped
the ghost-story had not had any effect on her. The start which she gave
on hearing my words, and the flush which mounted to her face, would
almost have made me think that inadvertently I had struck a right chord,
had not the supercilious smile with which she repeated the word ‘effect’
denied the expression of her countenance.

‘I thought it could not be the case,’ I said apologetically; ‘but you are
really looking so ill, Lionne. Will you not come for a ride this evening?’

No; she declined to ride or to walk; she only desired to remain by
Janie’s side and minister to her comfort. So be it, then. I suppose it is
natural she should prefer her cousin’s company to mine, though I am not
aware that I have done anything lately to make her shrink from me as she
appears to do.

_August 4th._—The ghost has appeared again—or rather Janie imagines she
has seen it, which is just as hurtful to her health and spirits. She had
seemed so merry all to-day, and so far removed from the fanciful fears
engendered by the natives’ stupid story, that after she and her cousin
had retired to rest I took my cigar up to the roof of the house, as the
heat has been most oppressive lately, and I longed for a breath of
fresh air. Our house (like most others in Mushin-Bunda) is built with a
flat roof, surrounded by a high parapet, which roof is reached from the
verandah by a flight of steps so much resembling a ladder, that it is not
often I can persuade the ladies to mount it. But, for my own part, I am
constantly in the habit of taking my book and pipe (not to say my glass
of brandy-and-water) to this elevated retreat, and, when there, thinking
on anything or nothing, as the humour may take me. To-night my thoughts
were not very cheerful ones; for, without any especial reason, I felt
what is technically termed ‘dummy.’

Perhaps it is the excessive heat, perhaps the continued weakness of
Janie, but somehow life has not appeared quite so sunny to me lately as
it used to do. I feel so weary by the time the day is at an end, and so
dissatisfied with the manner in which I have spent it, and I seem to rise
each morning with some undefined hope which is never realised. I suppose
it is the monotonous life we lead which breeds discontented thoughts;
we so seldom encounter anything to draw us out of ourselves and our
own concerns. And Margaret Anstruther’s disinclination to society has
increased this disadvantage; for we three—Janie and she and I—have been
thrown completely on each other for company during the last two months.
And yet they have not passed unpleasantly. It is strange that I, who so
much dreaded this interruption to the quiet life which I led with my
wife, should be able to write those words and mean them.

Yet I do mean them—though, at the same time, I cannot believe that
the interruption has made me any happier, for I don’t think I ever
felt so restless and unsettled as I do at present. I keep on fancying
that something is going to happen to me; and start to remember that
there is nothing at all the matter, and that if I have a cause for
dissatisfaction, it must rest with myself. It _must_ be Janie’s illness
that affects me in this manner; it is so unnatural to see the poor little
woman always lying on the sofa, instead of running about with her cousin
and myself.

I had been dreaming somewhat after this fashion on the roof of the house
to-night, for how long or how short a time I should have been quite
unable to say, when I was startled from my reverie by hearing a most
piercing scream in Janie’s voice and proceeding from Janie’s bedroom,
which sounded so shrill and alarming, as it rung through the still night
air, that, though I rose at once to my feet, I felt for the first moment
so paralysed with fear, that it was not until the cry had been repeated
that I ran down to her assistance. I found her in a half-fainting state
on the sill of the bedroom window, which was wide open; but my appearance
changed her condition to one of hysterical weeping, which, whilst it
was more painful to witness, greatly relieved her. Meanwhile the native
servants, lying about the verandah on their mats, were slumbering as
heavily as is their nature, and would not have awakened of themselves had
the cry been twice as piercing, the alarm twice as great.

‘My darling!’ I exclaimed, as I took the shivering form of my wife
(shivering with fear, not cold) into my arms and pressed it to me, ‘what
can have startled you? Have you been dreaming?’

‘Dreaming!’ she repeated in a faint whisper. ‘Oh no, Robert, I was not
dreaming; I was wide awake, and it passed close to me.’

‘_It_—_it_—what do you mean, Janie?’ though I had guessed at once her
fancy.

‘The ghost, Robert!—the dreadful ghost! Ah’ (with another convulsive
shudder), ‘I shall never, never forget the sight!’

‘_The ghost!_ my dear girl, you have really been dreaming. Where do you
fancy you saw it?—in this room?’ for I had entered the room by the window
by this time, and still sat on the sill supporting my wife in my arms.

‘I did not _fancy_,’ she replied, with an earnestness which proved that
she thought she was right; ‘it passed so close to me, Robert, that I
could have touched it with my finger. Ah, why did we ever come to this
fearful place!’

I lifted her up and placed her on her bed again, and then, without
releasing my hold of her trembling fingers, I sat down beside her and
entreated her to tell me all. ‘Let me hear how you saw the ghost, and
where, Janie; and perhaps I may be able to account for the apparent
mystery. And first, why did you leave your bed at all? What waked you?
You were so fast asleep when I left you.’

‘I don’t know what waked me,’ she said nervously; ‘perhaps the heat,
for I felt so restless that I could not sleep, and after a good deal of
tossing about, I got up and walked to the window to cool myself, and see
if you were in the compound anywhere. I was not thinking of the ghost,
Robert, indeed I was not; but directly I reached the window I saw it—ah,
just as they told me, wandering about the graves!’

‘Janie dear, indeed you must be mistaken; it was the moonlight shining on
the white lining of the silver bamboos, or—’

‘Robert!’ she exclaimed, starting up in bed as she clutched me by my arm,
‘I tell you I _saw it_. It was no fancy, but a tall woman dressed all in
white walking in and out of the graves.’

‘You are sure it was a woman?’

‘Oh yes; oh yes; because, when I screamed, it turned round and came
close by this window, and it had long hair hanging right down its back.
Oh, Robert, I thought I should have died!’

‘My poor girl,’ I answered, as I forced her to lie down again, ‘I am not
going to have you frightened in this abominable manner. This is some
trick on the part of the natives; to what end I cannot imagine, but they
shall pay dearly for their little game. Where did this woman go after she
had passed the window?’

‘Oh, I can’t tell, Robert; I don’t know; but I think it vanished round
the house.’

‘Well then, if you will let me leave you, Janie (I will call the ayah to
come and sit by your bedside), I will just look round the compound, and
see if I can find any one loitering about.’

‘Oh, don’t go after it, Robert; pray don’t go after it; it might hurt
you.’

But I could not wait to silence any more of Janie’s fears; had I stayed
to reason them all away, I should have been kept prisoner till morning.
I roused the ayah, bid her stay with her mistress till I returned,
selected a thick stick from my whip-stand, and proceeded on my voyage
of discovery. As I did so, I glanced at my watch, and discovered to my
amazement that it was past one.

What a time I must have been dreaming on the housetop!

I searched the compound and all the accessible portions of the house
thoroughly, but I found and saw nothing. I wakened all the slumbering
occupants of the ‘godowns,’ to see if they had any strangers amongst
them, but only my own domestics came yawningly to be inspected, and
certainly not one of them answers to the description of the supposed
ghost. As I returned, I rapped at the closed venetians of Miss
Anstruther’s bedroom, and, to my astonishment, her voice replied to me
immediately.

‘What! are you awake, Margaret?’ I demanded. ‘Was it the noise disturbed
you?’

‘What noise?’ she asked, as she came near to the venetians.

‘Janie’s scream. She fancies that she saw the ghost (which I hoped she
had almost forgotten), and that it passed close under her windows.’

‘Poor child!’ in a voice of compassion. ‘No, I did not hear, or I should
have gone to her; but I have not been long awake;’ which, indeed, her
voice seemed to testify.

‘Why are you out of your bed?’

‘I cannot sleep; it is so hot,’ she answered with a deep sigh.

‘And you have seen nothing?’

‘Certainly not; and have been sitting at the window till within a minute
ago. I have only just closed the venetians because the moon is so bright.
It must be all Janie’s fancy.’

‘Of course it is her fancy that she has seen a ghost,’ I answered; ‘but
I am not so sure about her having seen nothing at all. However, I shall
find out more about it to-morrow; meanwhile I must not keep you up any
longer. Good-night.’

‘Shall I go to Janie?’ she asked in the same sleepy tone she had employed
before.

‘No, thank you; I am going to her myself.’ And with that I passed on
to resume my guardianship over poor Janie and her terrors. But I am
determined to follow up this mystery until I am enabled to dispel it;
for which reason I shall watch, night after night, for the appearance of
the person who dares to act ‘ghost’ in my compound until I see him; for
which reason also I shall keep my watching a secret even from Janie and
Margaret.

Meanwhile I pooh-pooh the subject to my wife, who easily takes her cue
from me, and will laugh at her own alarm by this time to-morrow.

_N.B._—She must rest with closed venetians until this mystery is
unravelled; and I will steal out of bed after she is fast asleep, and
spend my nights upon the housetop, which commands a view of every part of
the compound. And if I catch the ghost, woe betide his bones; for if I
don’t make them rattle, it’s a pity!

Meanwhile, thinking over matters, it seems strange to me that Margaret
Anstruther, sitting at her window, should not have heard the scream
which reached me so easily upon the roof; or that, at all events, the
conversation which subsequently I held with my wife should not have been
patent to her, as her room is next to ours. However, she appeared half
asleep, even whilst she spoke to me; for her voice was low and dreamy,
and I could hardly catch her words. I wonder what prevents the girl
sleeping! The same mania seems to have fallen upon all of us; for I don’t
feel myself as though I should close my eyes to-night, and every now and
then, as I steal a glance from my writing-table to the bed, I see Janie’s
blue orbs wide open, and watching for the moment when I shall rejoin her.
So I lay down my pen, and go to afford her the protection of my presence.

_August 6th._—I spend my nights now like a sparrow, on the housetop,
so am obliged to write my diary in the daytime. I watched from eleven
last night to four this morning; but I saw nothing. The air was so jolly
and soft, that I had great difficulty in keeping myself awake; but with
tobacco I managed to do it. Janie wondered that I was so sleepy after
parade this morning, and accused me of growing abominably lazy and old.
She has almost recovered her fright again, I am happy to say. Miss
Anstruther, on the contrary, looks worn and ill. I don’t think this
climate can agree with her. I wish she would consent to see the doctor
who attends Janie.

_August 7th._—Was on the roof again all last night. If, under the pursuit
of knowledge, it were only allowable for me to fall asleep, it would
be much pleasanter than remaining downstairs. Towards three o’clock I
thought I had caught the ghost; for I distinctly saw a ‘tall figure,
dressed all in white,’ hovering about the graves; but it proved to be
only an early milkman, going to recover his cows from their jungle
pasture-ground, who thought to make a short-cut by passing through our
compound. This was provoking, after I had taken the trouble to rush
down after him, stick in hand, fully prepared to administer a wholesome
castigation. But this fact tends still more to confirm me in my belief
that what Janie saw was a native wandering about in the moonlight after
his own business.

All domestic servants, and a good many other classes, habitually wear
white clothing; and nothing would be easier, when the imagination is
in a heated and unnatural condition, than for one to mistake their
appearance for that of a ghost. However, I shall not yet give up my
search for the delinquent.

_August 9th._—I have now watched four nights without seeing anything, and
I am beginning to get rather tired of the joke. If the ghost doesn’t soon
make his or her appearance, I shall resume my lawful place of rest, and
wait patiently until it sees fit to call upon me.

_August 10th._—At last I have seen the so-called phantom; and had it been
a lost spirit sent from the nethermost hell to inform me of my future
fate, my hand could hardly shake more than it does now, in recalling the
recollection. But not for the reason which made its appearance one of
terror to the native servants and to my poor Janie.

My terror, my horror, and my shrinking arise from a totally different
cause, and make me wonder, as I write, that I should have heard what I
heard last night, and live to repeat it.

I wish I had not lived; I wish that I were dead!

I was on the roof, as usual, very tired, rather dispirited, and more than
half-disposed to throw up the whole affair, and go downstairs to bed.
Where was the use, I argued with myself, of watching night after night
in that fashion for a ghost which never came? I was convinced that I was
troubling myself for a mere illusion—that the phantom had never existed,
except in Janie’s imagination, or that if a trick had really been played
upon my wife by some of the servants, the rascals had discovered that
I was watching for them, and were too wide awake to repeat it until I
should have given up pursuit. And then with my eyes always fixed upon
that part of the compound where the old Dutch graves are thickest, I
lit a cigar, and watching the thin wreath of smoke which curled from it
into the air, sighed to think how transitory all happiness is in this
world, and how seldom one’s earthly wishes, even when realised, fulfil
the promise of their attainment; until I sufficiently forgot myself, and
the purpose of my being on the housetop in the middle of the night, to
permit the soothing influence of tobacco, added to a soft light breeze,
which fanned me as delicately as though I had been a sleeping infant
to lull me off into a doze. How long I slept I can hardly tell; but I
know that I woke with a start and a shiver, and that the first thing I
did was to rub my eyes, and quickly turn them in the direction of the
tombstones and the graves. What was that which I saw wandering up and
down that plot of ground, just as I had been told it was wont to do? Was
it hallucination or reality? Had the impression with which I fell to
sleep remained upon the retina of my eye to delude my waking fancy? or
was that which I gazed upon a thing of flesh and blood? I rubbed my eyes
again, and shook myself, to be assured that I was quite awake; and then I
advanced to the parapet and leant well over it.

Yes, it was no mistake. A female figure (or a figure dressed up so as
to look like a female), clothed in white, with long dark hair streaming
down her back, was feeling her way, rather than wandering up and down,
between the rows of graves, and, with her hands stretched out before her,
seemed to be muttering or murmuring to herself. I gave myself but time to
be assured that I _did_ see it—that it _was_ there; and then I grasped my
stick and loaded pistol, and prepared to descend and encounter it.

‘Take heed, my fine fellow,’ I said to myself, as I carefully picked my
way down the flight of steps which led to the verandah; ‘don’t insult
me, or attempt to frighten me, as you value the brains in your head, or
a whole bone in your body. I can bear as much as most men when I am put
to the test; but I won’t have my wife frightened out of her wits for the
lives of all the niggers in the world.’

I slunk beneath the shadows cast by the verandah, past the places where
my servants lay asleep to that side of the house where are situated the
bedrooms of my wife and Miss Anstruther, and was glad to see that the
venetians of both windows were closed, so that I trusted no alarm might
reach their ears.

And now, though I was close upon it, the figure seemed to take no notice
of my presence, but still walked cautiously up and down between the rows
of graves, whilst it kept up a sort of moaning to itself. It looked so
strange and unearthly as it thus wandered beneath the moonlight, that
I felt myself shiver as I gazed at it, and yet my belief in the whole
business turning out a trick was strong as ever.

So, after a pause, just sufficient to permit the figure to get as far as
possible away from the vicinity of my wife’s bedroom windows, I sprang
after it; and just as it had turned again towards the house, we met face
to face. What was my surprise, my consternation, in the ghost which had
caused us such trouble and vexation to encounter—Margaret Anstruther! Yet
there she was, no clothing on but her light night-dress; with her unbound
tresses streaming over her shoulders, and her bare feet pressing the turf
as though it pained them.

‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, as I staggered back at the sight of this earthly
apparition, far more alarming to me than if I had seen twenty ghosts;
‘Margaret—Lionne—what are you doing here?’

At the sound of my voice she halted, and turned her head slightly to
one side, as though to listen; and then by the moonlight I perceived to
my horror that her eyes were lifeless although open, and that she was
walking in her sleep. I had never encountered such a sight before, and
for a moment I knew not what to do.

‘Was that Robert?’ she murmured, presently, in a low, husky voice utterly
unlike her own, and as though she were addressing herself, or nobody.

‘Yes, it is I,’ I answered, trying to control my agitation and my tones.
‘Margaret, why are you here? why have you left your bed?’

‘Oh, Robert, Robert!’ she exclaimed, with an expression of anguish which
I shall never forget, ‘save me, save me!’

‘From what am I to save you, Lionne?’

‘From yourself—from yourself, and from me—from my weakness and my folly.
Oh, don’t let me fall! don’t let me fall!’

Although she still spoke dreamily, the sightless orbs which she had
turned upon me were contracted with pain, and I saw that her whole frame
was trembling, I ventured to go close to her, and gently take her hand.

‘You shall not fall, dear Lionne,’ I whispered to her; ‘trust to me. I
will lead you the right way.’

‘_Dear Lionne!_’ she repeated to herself, ‘_dear Lionne!_ he says to me,
_dear Lionne!_’

What was that quick fear which seized me as I listened to her unconscious
words? What that trembling which assailed my limbs, and rendered me
incapable of moving either backwards or forwards? The fear and trembling
fell so suddenly upon me, that I had hardly time to realise their
presence, until they had resolved themselves into a knowledge, fearful as
a thunderbolt from heaven, but certain as that I live—or I must die!

I love her—and she loves me! We have destroyed each other’s happiness.

As this conviction smote me, I dropped her cold fingers, and sinking down
upon the hillock beside which she stood, buried my face in my hands.

Good heavens! how was it that I had never anticipated this—never seen
it coming—never dreamt of such a contingency?—that I had spent day after
day in her company; reading with her, singing with her, riding with her,
listening to her amusing conversation, watching all her womanly kindness
to my wife (ah, my poor wife!), contemplating her beauty from hour to
hour, and never once suspected that I might grow to love her more than
was good or right? And she, the girl whose advent I had dreaded, whose
manners I had so disliked, whose beauty was to me no beauty at all!

Ah, Margaret, Margaret! you may have your revenge now if you will, in
the assurance that never, never more shall the remembrance of that fatal
beauty be purged from my existence.

All was now explained; her worn looks and dispirited appearance; my own
restless and uneasy sensations; the guilty feeling had been growing in
us, surely though unconsciously, for many long days past, and needed but
some such accident as the present to warm it into life.

Have I not reason to wish that I were dead?

I did not sit upon the hillock long; something was waiting to be done,
and that was not the time for thought. I could not even stay to watch her
as she again commenced to pace beneath the moonlight, with the evening
breeze playing with her flimsy raiment, and making it cling about her
graceful figure. I felt that she must be coaxed to return into the house,
and that I was neither the right person nor in a right state of mind to
do it.

So I rose quickly, and explaining the circumstances to Janie’s ayah (an
old woman with more sense than the generality of her tribe), directed her
how to speak soothingly to the young lady, and persuade her to return to
the house, where she need be none the wiser for the untimely stroll which
she had taken; and after a little while I was relieved to see the white
hand in the grasp of the dark one, and the two women, so unlike each
other in all outward appearance, pass into the house together.

So now it is all over; and the grey dawn is here; and as it was not
worth while for me to turn in before going to parade, I sit down to
transcribe the particulars of this adventure before I forget it.

Shall I ever forget it?

I am aware that henceforward, and before the world, I must play a part;
but it is useless to dissemble with my own heart. This night has revealed
to me what I had rather have died than hear, but the truth will make
itself known.

I love her with my whole heart—passionately, fervently, devotedly, as I
have never loved before. What is to come of it? What is to become of her,
of me, of Janie? Are we all to be sacrificed?

As I write, there come into my mind these sentences: one which fell
from her mouth (sweet mouth, that shall never be mine!), and one which
proceeded from my own:

‘We who are strong should shield them;’ and, ‘You shall not fall, trust
to me—I will lead you the right way.’

No, dear Janie, poor innocent child! and you, my beloved one, do not
fear. I will shield both the weak and the strong; you shall not suffer
for my imprudence or my guilt.

Yet how to comfort, how to cure, how to make up to _her_ for the misery I
have entailed on her dear head? Oh, my God! the task will be a hard one!

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




CHAPTER III.


_August 11th_.—I returned from parade this morning tired, feverish,
and with a weight upon my conscience as though I had committed an
unpardonable crime. I felt as if I dared not face my injured wife, still
less the woman who has usurped her place in my affections, or rather who
holds the place in which the other should have reigned.

Yet I was not only obliged to encounter both of them, but to go through
all the formalities of daily life, without which perhaps the trial would
have proved too much for my endurance.

Janie was the first; for since her illness she has not risen to
breakfast, and I have been in the habit of carrying in her tray for her.
It was with a shaking hand that I lifted it to-day; and the poor child
noticed the difference in my demeanour, and asked me tenderly if I were
ill or tired. I had not quite made up my mind, before that, whether I
should inform Janie of her cousin’s propensity for somnambulism or not;
but as I met the trusting glance of her blue eyes, I resolved to do so,
not only because it was a thing which might occur again and frighten her
as before, but also that by confiding even so far in my wife, I seemed
voluntarily to place a wider barrier between Lionne and myself. Therefore
I sat down on the bed, and first binding her to secrecy, I related to her
how I had spent my late nights upon the roof of the house, and by that
means arrived at a solution of the mystery which had alarmed the native
servants and herself.

‘Didn’t I tell you that your ghost would prove to be nothing?’ I said,
trying to speak gaily, in conclusion.

‘Oh, Robert dear,’ was her reply, ‘do you call poor Lionne walking in her
sleep nothing? I think it is horrible—almost as bad as a real ghost; and
if I had been you, I couldn’t have gone near her for worlds. I should
have died of fright first.’

‘But, Janie, you see that I am not a silly little girl, ready to believe
every idle tale which is repeated to her. And you must show yourself to
be a wise woman on this occasion, and be very careful that the story does
not reach your cousin’s ears, as the knowledge is likely to make her
worse instead of better. I shall give the ayah orders to hold her tongue,
and sleep outside the door in future, so that Miss Anstruther may not
wander about again unobserved.’

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

‘Certainly not,’ I replied, decidedly; and I rose to leave her, only
half-satisfied that my wishes would be respected. Janie would not disobey
me knowingly for the world—she has never attempted such a thing; but her
little tongue goes so fast, that she is apt to part with a secret before
she knows that it has left her keeping.

When I returned to the breakfast-room, Lionne was already there, pale
indeed and rather silent, as she has been for several weeks past, but
showing no signs that she was aware of our nocturnal meeting. But as I
took her hand in mine, I felt the blood rush up to my temples, and my
morning greeting must have been nearly unintelligible to her.

Why did I behave so foolishly? She is in all respects the same woman
whom I met yesterday with an ordinary salutation—her manner even has not
altered towards me; and yet the mere consciousness that that of which I
had been vaguely dreaming is reality, was sufficient to make me almost
betray what I feel by the expression of my features.

Is this my boasted strength?

We took a silent meal, and altogether an unprofitable one. I had no
appetite; Lionne only trifled with the eatables upon her plate; and I
think we both felt relieved when the ceremony was concluded.

I did not see her for the remainder of the morning, for I made an excuse
of business, and took my tiffin at the mess. When I returned home at five
o’clock, however, I found Janie earnestly persuading her cousin to take
a ride on horseback.

‘Do make her go, Robert dear,’ she exclaimed, as soon as I came upon the
scene of action. ‘She has not ridden for weeks past, and she does look so
pale. I am sure it will be good for her; you know it will, Robert,’ with
violent winks and blinks which were sufficient in themselves to make the
uninitiated stop to inquire their reason.

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

She hesitated a little, but had no good reason to advance for her
hesitation; and after a little more pressing on Janie’s part, retired to
put on her habit.

‘I am _so_ glad that she is going,’ exclaimed my poor little caged bird,
clapping her hands at her success. ‘Take great care of her, Robert; she
is so kind to me.’

‘I will take care of her, Janie,’ I answered, earnestly, ‘and of you too.
You may trust me, my dear; at least I hope so.’

‘Of course you take care of _me_, sir,’ she replied, with a pretty
pretension of pouting, ‘because I am _your wife_; but I am not so sure
about my poor cousin.’

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

‘Who talked of duty?’ cried my wife, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I never
saw any one grown so grave as you have, Robert; you never seem now to be
able to take a joke.’

I defended myself from this accusation on the plea of having found
several grey hairs in my moustache last week; and before Janie had done
laughing at the idea, Miss Anstruther reappeared, and I lifted her on her
horse as though she were an ordinary friend to me, and my hands did not
tremble under the burden of the creature I loved best in the world.

We rode on in silence together for some moments, and then I turned my
horse’s head towards the sandy plain which I have before mentioned as
lying between us and the ocean, and told her that I was about to take
her down to the beach, that she might derive a little benefit from the
sea-breeze.

‘Colonel Anstruther will not think that we have been taking sufficient
care of you, Margaret, if we send you to him with such pale cheeks as
you have now. I am afraid you find the hot weather very trying.’

‘I never liked the hot weather, even in England,’ she answered vaguely,
whilst the rich blood mounted to her cheek beneath the scrutinising
glance which I had turned towards her.

Our beach at Mushin-Bunda is hardly to be called a beach; for it
possesses scarcely any shingles, but is composed of hillocks of loose
sand which never stay in one place two nights together, but are ever
shifting quarters, and are about as treacherous footing for an animal as
one could desire. We passed over these carefully, however, and then we
found ourselves upon the lower sands, which are daily washed by the sea,
and rendered firm and level. Here we halted; for it was low tide, and the
refreshing salt breeze fanned our hot faces, whilst the horses we rode
stretched out their necks, and dilated their nostrils as though to drink
in as much of it as they could.

Still we were very silent, and under the knowledge which had come to me
the night before, the silence was even more oppressive than usual.

‘This is delicious!’ I exclaimed at last; ‘worth coming farther than
three miles to enjoy. This will do you good, Margaret.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘What would one not give for a little of it
occasionally during these hot nights!’

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

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

‘I don’t think I sleep badly,’ she replied, after a pause. ‘I seldom lie
awake for any length of time, but—’

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

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

‘I guessed it, Margaret. I guess it from your looks, your demeanour, your
languor. I know that you do not rest properly at night, and that if you
will not take seasonable advice you will be ill.’

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

‘But you will be, which, under present circumstances, would greatly
distress Janie. Will you not consent to see a doctor—if not for your own
sake, for ours?’

I thought that physical care might in some measure relieve the mental
disturbance under which she labours, or, at all events, prevent a
repetition of her somnambulistic tendencies by which her secret may, some
day, be made patent to the world. I never imagined she would guess my
meaning; but the next moment I saw the mistake which I had made.

‘What have I been doing?’ she exclaimed, turning round with a rapidity
for which I was totally unprepared. ‘What have I been saying? Tell me
at once, Captain Norton; don’t keep me in suspense.’ And her dark eyes
blazed upon me as though they would search into my very heart.

I trembled beneath the look, and was dumb.

‘Why do you think I cannot rest—that I shall be ill?’ she re-demanded
almost angrily; and then reading the truth, I suppose, in my confused
demeanour, she added in a lower voice, a voice almost of terror, _Have I
been walking in my sleep?_’

The ice was broken, then; and although I still felt very uncomfortable in
speaking to her of the circumstance, I did not see any other course open
to me than to tell her briefly of my endeavour to find out the reason of
my wife’s alarm, and the consequences which had ensued from it.

‘I had not wished to mention this to you,’ I said apologetically,
‘and only the directness of your question should have drawn it from
me. However, as it is, I daresay it is for the best; for though
the occurrence is a common one, it is as well to guard against its
repetition.’

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

I had so slurred over the fact of her speaking at all that I hoped it had
escaped her notice; but the tone in which she put this question portended
that she meant to have it answered.

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

I began to mumble something about the words of sleep-walkers being always
unintelligible, but she brought me back to the point.

‘You must have heard me; in fact, I can see by your face that you _did_
hear. What was it that I said?’

‘I was so sleepy, Margaret,’ I commenced, but I felt my voice shaking
audibly,—‘so sleepy, and altogether so confused, and my memory not being
of the best, that I—I—really I—’

She gazed at me for a minute earnestly, almost hungeringly—I could feel
it, though I did not see it—but I kept my eyes fixed over the sea, and a
dead silence ensued between us. A dead silence, until it was broken by
the living sound of tears; and I turned to see her dear head bent to her
saddle-bow, and her slight figure shaken with her grief.

‘Margaret, dear Margaret!’ I exclaimed, forgetting everything but
herself, ‘it was nothing—indeed it was nothing; a few words spoken
at random, of which no one in his senses would think twice, or be so
presumptuous as to understand as the interpretation of your true feelings
towards him.’

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

‘Be silent!’ she cried, as she lifted an indignant burning face to
mine—‘be silent, Captain Norton! if you do not wish to insult me, or make
me hate myself and you.’ And with that she dashed her hand impetuously
across her eyes, and gathering up her reins, turned her horse’s head away
from the sea-beach and began to canter towards home. I followed her, of
course; but we did not exchange another word, and she would not even
condescend to meet the imploring glance which, as I took her from the
saddle, I lifted towards her face, mutely entreating for forgiveness.

She behaved much the same as usual during the remainder of the evening;
only that I saw she studiously avoided coming in contact with myself.
What a fool I was to say as much as I did! I, who almost registered a
vow this morning that nothing should tear the secret from my lips. And
now I have betrayed her to herself. I see she shuns me; I know she fears
me; I almost believe I have made her hate me. Well, I have brought it on
myself, and I must bear it as best I may; it only proves how little we
know when we think—as I did this morning—that the world cannot hold a
greater misfortune for us than the one we then endure.

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

_August 12th._—I was scarcely surprised when Janie came to-day to tell
me in a broken voice that her cousin had just informed her of her
intention to leave Mushin-Bunda as soon as possible, and that she had
already written to Mrs Grant to ask if she could receive her at Madras
until her uncle’s wishes with respect to her movements should be made
known. I was not surprised, because I felt convinced that, after what
had passed between us yesterday afternoon, her proud spirit would forbid
her remaining under the same roof with me, if any alternative were open
to her; at the same time I felt deeply hurt to think that my imprudence
should be the means of driving her from the shelter of it. Janie, on
the other hand, innocent as to the cause, had no reason to feel hurt,
except by the want of confidence reposed in her; but she was wonderfully
astonished, and disposed to resent my not being so as an additional
grievance.

‘Why, you don’t seem in the least surprised to hear it, Robert!’ she
complained. ‘Has Margaret said anything about it to you before?’

‘The subject has never been broached between us; but Miss Anstruther
has a right, of course, to follow her own inclinations, and we none to
interfere with them.’

‘No; but what can be the _reason_?’

‘Did you not ask her, Janie?’

‘Of course; but she only says that she does not feel so well here as she
did at Madras.’

‘I think that is quite sufficient to account for her desiring a change.
Strength soon gives way in this country; and I don’t think your cousin
has been looking well or strong lately. What we know of her sleep-walking
propensity is a proof of that.’

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

‘By no means, dear. Let her follow the bent of her own wishes; it will be
best for all of us.’

‘But Uncle Henry will be so surprised; and I am afraid he will be
angry—and—and I had so hoped she was going to stay with me, Robert; and
I feel so ill—and—and—so nervous, and I can’t _bear_ that Margaret should
go away.’ And here the poor girl was quite overcome by the prospect of
her own weakness and her companion’s departure, and burst into a flood of
childish tears.

I felt very sorry for Janie. She has so thoroughly enjoyed the society of
her cousin, and she is not in a condition to be vexed and thwarted with
impunity. And then again I thought of Lionne travelling all the way back
to Madras by herself, to accept a home from strangers, with nothing but
her present unhappiness and her future uncertainty to bear her company;
and I felt that neither of these should be the one to suffer, and that
if the circumstances required a victim, it should be myself. I did not
particularly wish to leave my regiment, nor my wife, nor any one else;
but if it is impossible for us to continue on the same footing with one
another, I felt that I should be the one to go. So I did not hesitate;
but telling Janie to keep her tears until she should be sure they were
required, went in search of Margaret Anstruther.

She was neither in the drawing-room nor in the dining-room, but in a
little antechamber which it pleases my wife to call her boudoir, but
which is the dullest and most unfrequented apartment in the house. There
I found her, lying on the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, but
making no attempt at work or reading.

‘Margaret, may I speak to you?’

I could not, because I had offended her, go back to the more formal
appellation of ‘Miss Anstruther;’ it seemed so much as though we had
quarrelled.

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

‘It is of something to which I much desire you should listen,’ I replied.
‘Janie has just been telling me that you purpose leaving us. Is that
true?’

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

‘I will not ask you for what reason,’ I went on to say, ‘because your
wishes are your own, and shall be sacred; but if your decision is not
irrevocable, think twice before you inflict such a disappointment on
poor Janie. You know how weak and ill she is at present.’

‘Captain Norton, I must go.’

‘_Must_ you? If I leave the house myself—if I leave the cantonment, and
do not return?’

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

‘I am. I have long intended going to Haldabad on a shooting excursion,
which may detain me for two or three months. Inadvertently almost I have
delayed it, your visit and Janie’s illness coming in the way; but now
I am ready to start at twelve hours’ notice, if need be—indeed, I am
anxious to be gone.’

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

‘At this moment I believe that my absence will affect Janie less than
your departure would do. She is very much attached to you, and she feels
the comfort of a woman’s presence. Added to which, Margaret, I am in
a great measure responsible to your uncle for your proceedings, and
I shall not feel easy if you leave my house for a stranger’s without
previously asking his consent. He will imagine I have proved unfaithful
to my trust. Do you wish others to think as badly of me as I do of
myself?’

As I uttered these words I dropped my voice almost to a whisper, but she
heard them plainly.

‘Oh, let me go! let me go!’ she exclaimed wildly. ‘It will be better, far
better, for all of us. I cannot, indeed I cannot, remain here; the air of
this place stifles me.’

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

‘No; oh no!’ and her dark eyes were fixed upon me for a moment with an
expression which I would have kept in them for ever; ‘but—you _know_,
Captain Norton, that it is best—that, in fact, we _must part_.’

‘I do know it,’ I replied; ‘and therefore I am going. By this time
to-morrow I hope to have made all necessary preparations, and to be
ready for a start. Meanwhile you will stay here—I know you will,
because I ask you—to comfort and look after Janie until you receive your
uncle’s consent to go to Madras. And when it arrives, and you have left
Mushin-Bunda, I will return to it.’

‘And we shall never, never meet again!’ she said, in a voice so broken as
to be almost inarticulate.

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

‘You have consented?’ were my next words.

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

‘If you are—though you have no need to be—will you give me one
recompense, Margaret?’

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

‘Say you forgive me for what I told you yesterday. I have sorely
reproached myself since.’

She stretched out her hand, and met mine in a grasp which, though firm,
was cold as that of death.

‘Then we part friends?’

It was again myself who spoke; she nodded her head in acquiescence, and I
felt my prudence evaporating, and rushed from the apartment.

Written down, this interview seems nothing; but to those who feel as we
do, the misery of years may be compressed into an hour; and that small
room, for both of us, was worse than a torture-chamber.

I have scarcely seen her since, except at meals; but, as I anticipated,
my wife was so delighted to learn that she should retain her cousin’s
company, that she thought next to nothing of my proposed shooting
excursion, except to beg that I would take care of myself, and to wonder
how I could like going after those ‘horrid bears’ and ‘awful tigers.’
Indeed, on the whole, I half suspect the little woman is rather glad to
get rid of me, and pleased at the idea of having Margaret all to herself
for a few weeks; for she has occasionally displayed the faintest touch of
jealousy when I have broken up their _tête-à-tête_ conferences. So I have
sent them word down to the Fort to lay my ‘dawk’ for me, and I shall
start as soon as to-morrow’s sun goes down.

I almost think we shall have a storm first, which would pleasantly clear
the air; for the sky has been indigo-colour all to-day, and there is a
strange heaviness over everything as I write.

I have been packing my portmanteau and cleaning my weapons, until I have
fairly tired myself out; but were I to stop to think, I could never
summon courage enough to go. The household is asleep, and has been for
hours; and I am sadly in want of rest; for I can hardly keep my eyes open
or guide my pen upon the paper—and yet I feel as though I should never
sleep again.

Bah! I must be mad or dreaming. I am only starting on an ordinary
shooting excursion, and I feel as though I were going to my grave.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Madras, October 20th._—It is more than two months since I transcribed a
line in this written record of my inmost thoughts—more than two months
since that awful, horrible, and most unexpected catastrophe occurred,
which I cannot now recall without a shudder, and which, for a time,
seemed as if it must obliterate my reason or my life. But I am spared
(though I cannot yet say, thank God that it is so); and were it not that
my soul seems to die within me, and my energy to languish for want of
some one or thing to which I may confide my sorrow, I should not have
the courage even now to write the story down. But I must speak, even
though it be but to a silent confidant, for my spirit fails for lack of
sympathy; and therefore I draw out my old diary, and having read (shall
I be ashamed to say with tears?) what I have written in these foregoing
pages, proceed to bring the tale to a conclusion.

Let me try to collect my scattered thoughts, so apt to wander when I
approach this miserable subject, and carry them back to the eventful
moment when I last left off—to the night of the 12th of August.

I had sat up, packing my wardrobe and writing my diary, until I had
fairly tired myself out, and then, having put away my book and writing
materials into the table-drawer, I locked it, and lighting a cigar, sat
down to think; of what, and in what strain, I and these pages, to my
misery, best know.

I had no intention of permitting myself to fall asleep; but it is
my custom to smoke just before retiring to bed, and I should have
anticipated a broken rest without the indulgence. At the same time my
fatigue was greater than I thought, and after a little while drowsiness
came over me, and before I knew that sleep was coming, I was in the land
of dreams.

And such a land! Thank heaven, for those who are not destined in this
world to know substantial happiness, that dreams remain to them.

I dreamt that I was with Margaret again on the sea-shore; not riding, but
wandering hand-in-hand; not speaking coldly or with averted faces, but
eyes to eyes, and heart to heart. I dreamt that I was watching the damask
blush which mantled on her cheek, and listening to the low, mellow sound
of her rich voice, and that mingled with my own reply came the hoarse
murmur of the ocean as it swelled and surged upon the shore.

I dreamt that we were one; one not in the earthly acceptation of the
word, but in that fuller sense by which spirits are united to each other,
never more to part; and that as we strolled upon the beach together we
knew that neither death nor injury could sever us again. And amidst it
all I was listening to the hoarse murmur of the waves, which rolled up to
our very feet, and broke away, but to return with an energy louder and
more imperative than before. I dreamt that as I stood thus, enfolding
my new-found treasure in my arms, I started to find that the sky was
overcast, and that the tide had surrounded us, and was behind as well as
before, and threatening to overwhelm my darling. I dreamt that in my fear
and solicitude I drew her backwards, trembling for her safety, and that
as I whispered words of love and reassurance, I woke—to dream no more.

I woke, at the bidding of a loud and terrified scream from the lips
of my native servants, and springing to my feet, became first aware
of a sensation of intense chillness, and next, as my remaining senses
gradually returned to me, of a hoarse murmur somewhere near me, which
recalled the memory of my dream.

The night was intensely dark; there seemed to be neither moon nor stars,
and for one moment I stood, uncertain which way to move, and waiting to
hear if the cry had only been my fancy, or would be repeated. Too soon
it came again, this time louder, more terrified, more piercing than
before; and its burden words of fearful import, too fearful to be at
first believed. ‘Master! master!’ it said in Hindustani; ‘master, the sea
is on us!’ And before I could scarcely realise the meaning of the words,
the natives who slept in the verandah had rushed into my presence, and
were immediately followed by a huge wave of water, which, with the hollow
roar to which I had listened in my dreams, burst into the unprotected
sitting-rooms, and washed over my feet.

‘Master!’ cried the natives, as they clambered upon tables and chairs,
‘the sea has burst its bounds; the sea is coming on us; the whole
cantonment will be under water!’

‘Close the doors and windows!’ I exclaimed loudly; but no one stirred,
and I attempted to set them the example of doing as I said, but it was
too late. I perceived a dark volume of water stealing stealthily upon
us from all sides, and even as I advanced towards the verandah, a huge
wave dashed against me, washing me to the middle, knocking me backwards
on the drawing-room table, and carrying away a chair as it retreated. At
the same moment, a scream from the women’s apartments told me that the
sea had reached that quarter; and with no thought but for the safety of
those dear to me, I dashed without ceremony into Miss Anstruther’s room.
I found her pale and trembling, but just awakened, sitting on the side of
her bed with her bare feet in a river of sea water.

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

‘The sea has overflowed the cantonment,’ I replied hastily, as I quickly
lifted her in my arms; ‘but trust to _me_, Lionne, and I will take you
to a place of safety.’

She shuddered but made no resistance, until I had carried her to the
dining-room, now half full of water, and was preparing to wade with her
through the verandah, and place her on the roof of the house.

‘But where is Janie?’ she exclaimed, as she looked with horror on the
advancing mass of water; ‘oh, where is Janie?’

At her question I nearly dropped my burden; for the moment I had entirely
forgotten my poor wife, whose screams were patent from the adjoining room.

‘Go to her,’ said Lionne, as she struggled from my embrace, and slid
down into the cold waves, against the violence of which she could hardly
support herself. ‘Go at once! What were you thinking of? She will drown,
if you do not take care.’

‘I am doing as much as I can,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Let me place you in
safety first, and then I will return for her. I cannot carry two at once.’

‘And you would leave her to the last?’ she said indignantly; ‘she, in
whom two lives are wrapt in one! Oh, Robert! I did not think it of you.’

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

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

I found my poor little wife wet through and screaming for help; and
lifting her in my arms, I carried her, buffeting with the water as I
went, through the dining and drawing-rooms to the outer verandah.

‘Hold fast—take the greatest care of yourself,’ I exclaimed in an agony
of fear, as I battled past the white-clad figure which was clinging to
the door-posts. ‘I will return, Lionne, as soon as ever I can.’

‘I am not afraid; God will take care of me,’ was the calm reply; and
I strode forwards into deeper and deeper water with each step. When I
reached the verandah the struggle was severe, for there the waves were
highest and strongest; but although much impeded by Janie’s terrified
clasp, I managed to wade with her to the foot of the ladder, and as soon
as I had accomplished two or three steps of that, the rest was easy. I
toiled with my helpless burden up to the roof, despair lending strength
to my limbs; and as soon as I had reached it, I found myself in a goodly
company of natives, who, with a few unfortunate exceptions, had managed
to gain the top of the house as soon as the flood had surprised them.
Having delivered Janie to the care of the ayah, I rushed down again to
the assistance of Lionne, my heart throbbing as though it would burst
with the fear that my efforts might be made too late. The water was now
higher than ever in the verandah, and I began to be afraid that I should
have to swim back again. I dashed on as vigorously and quickly as I could
towards the door, to the lintels of which I had left her clinging. She
was not there!

The dark water was swaying and surging through the deserted rooms;
the furniture was floating about in the most dire confusion; trunks,
portmanteaus, and other trivial articles knocked up against me at every
turn before they drifted out to sea; but my beloved I saw nowhere. In an
agony I called upon her name, making the walls resound with my voice,
caring nothing who heard or listened to me.

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

But no voice answered mine, no moan or groan reached my ears; and I waded
into the chamber which had been my wife’s.

Ah, what was that?—that helpless mass of white drapery clinging about
delicately-moulded limbs, which swayed about in one corner, prevented by
the wall—thank gracious heaven!—from floating out to sea with chairs and
tables, but being knocked against that cruel wall with every motion of
the waves, until no apparent life was left in it.

I took her senseless body in my arms, thankful even in that condition
to have it there; and lifting the dear white face above the reach of
the impetuous tide, laid my cheek against her own, although I believed
that human warmth would never again visit it. It was no time for words
or even thought. I pressed her to me as fondly as though the waves had
been our bridal bed; and resenting the despair which urged me to let the
cruel water carry us both away together then and there, battled with it
once more, and bore my treasure to the place of safety. But it was with
feelings such as no words of mine can describe, that I laid her beauteous
form, cold, dripping, on the bare bricks with which the roof is paved. I
had already stripped myself of coat and waistcoat for Janie; and there
was nothing on which to lay the senseless body of my darling but the wet
cloths which the natives could contribute, and an old piece of carpet
which was kept up there.

Meanwhile the hoarse flood continued to roll and murmur below, becoming
deeper and deeper with each surge of the mass of waters; and cries of
distress were heard from the surrounding houses; and the articles of
furniture which floated past us began to be mingled with a vision of dead
faces turned sightlessly towards the moon, now beginning to struggle out
from behind the canopy of dark clouds which had hitherto concealed her.
And still I bent above the face which had become so unutterably dear
to me, and prayed heaven to let her know me once more, if but for a
moment’s time.

Meanwhile poor Janie, exhausted by the fright she had undergone, and the
grief she felt at the condition of her cousin, had fallen into a state
which was half sleep and half syncope, and lay reclining with her head
upon her ayah’s lap.

And brother officers shouted to me from the roofs of neighbouring houses,
asking if we were all safe—all well; and I answered that I hoped, I
trusted so; and prayed heaven again to let her know me once more before
she died.

And God granted me my prayer. Towards morning she awoke to consciousness.
Just as the grey dawn commenced to break, and that dreadful flood, which
continued for forty-eight hours to pervade the devoted cantonment, began
to show symptoms of being at its height, she opened her dark eyes and
gazed at me.

‘Where am I?’ she said, faintly.

‘Here, dearest,’ I replied, all reserve vanished in the face of
death,—‘here in my arms; in the arms of him who loves you better than his
life.’

‘It is not hard to die so,’ she whispered; but as she spoke an expression
of agony passed over her countenance.

‘Are you in great pain, Lionne?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with effort.

‘Where, dearest? tell me.’

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

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

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

‘Not mine,’ I murmured in an agony. ‘Lionne, tell me—but once before we
part—say that you love me!’

‘My legacy,’ she whispered, with a faint smile. ‘_Yes_, Robert; with all
my heart—as my life, better than my life.’

‘O God, spare her!’ I cried aloud.

‘O God, take me!’ she said herself; ‘take me from misery and
disappointment to where there are no tears.’

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

Her dark eyes met mine reproachfully.

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

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

She lay quiet for a few moments, and then she opened her eyes wide, and
fixed them upon mine.

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

She fell back in my arms, and for a few minutes I watched with
inexpressible pain the convulsive working of her beautiful features.

‘Better—so much better—that I should go,’ she whispered, after a long
pause; and as she said the words she went.

It was the corpse of Margaret Anstruther, and of all my earthly
happiness, that I laid down upon the sodden rags and piece of carpet.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have no heart to write down the details of what followed. For two days
that cruel flood pervaded Mushin-Bunda before it showed symptoms of
subsiding; and before that time arrived, several hundred lives (chiefly
natives) had been sacrificed. We lost nearly all our furniture, though
several pieces were left stranded in the compound when the waters
retired; amongst others, the writing-table which held my diary.

But what avails it to speak of personal loss at such a time as this? My
poor wife, from the combined effects of cold, fatigue, and terror, had a
very serious illness, from which at one time I almost feared she might
not recover; and on her return to health I brought her to Madras, from
which place I write. She is now herself again; and I am in good health
and tolerable spirits; and—and Margaret sleeps alone in a shady corner
of the English burying-ground at Mushin-Bunda. No, not alone! God is my
witness that my heart sleeps with her!

                      _Note added ten years later._

I have been looking over my old diaries to-day, and burning most of them;
but something within me seems to forbid that I should destroy these few
pages which record the history of my brief acquaintanceship with Margaret
Anstruther. They are the only remembrance I have left of her.

Ten years have waxed and waned since the dark night she died; what have
they left me? A wife whom I love and in whom I trust; who, I may safely
say, I would exchange for no woman living; who has brought me children,
loving and docile as herself, and very dear to me; a happy peaceful home
(no longer in the East); a moderate competence; and a name which I trust
no man holds lightly.

And to these many blessings I add contentment, and wonder what more good
on this earth a mortal could expect.

On this earth none; but whilst I ponder, I thank God that this earth is
not the end of all things.

There was a time when I used to think and say that all my happiness lay
buried in the grave of Lionne; but I have lived to learn and believe that
at the Last Day it shall rise again, with her to bloom, ten thousand
times renewed, in heaven!


THE END.




[Illustration]




OLD CONTRAIRY.


It was at the close of a sultry day in June, that the passenger vessel,
‘Star of the North,’ coasted the island of Martinique on her way to
Barbadoes. The sea was calm as a summer lake, and an ominous stillness
reigned in the surrounding atmosphere that made the words of a song,
trolled out by a free, manly voice from the forecastle, distinctly heard
in every part of the vessel,—

    ‘Wherever you be, by land or sea,
      Why, set your heart at rest;
    For you may be sure, come kill or cure
      Whatever is, is best!’

‘Don’t believe it,’ grumbled an old seaman, who was seated on a coil of
rope mending a sail. ‘I wish I’d had the ordering of my own life, any
way. I’d have soon seen if it was best for me to be situated as I am at
this here present!’

He was a fine old man, with rugged but well-cut features and muscular
limbs. He had a clear blue eye, and silvery locks that showed he had been
a handsome fellow in his day; but something or other had put him out of
love with life, and his habitual mood was one of discontent. A passenger,
who was pacing the quarter-deck, with a thoughtful countenance, turned at
the old sailor’s words and confronted the speaker.

‘Don’t you believe in a Providence that overrules all our actions,
Williams?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘Oh yes, Mr Egerton, I believe in Providence fast enough; but when I see
want and misery and injustice on every side of me, I cannot help thinking
as our actions might be ruled a little straighter for us.’

‘We are all apt to think the same, but that is because we cannot see the
end of the beginning. Perhaps, too, you have never prayed that Providence
might extend its fostering care over you?’

‘You’re mistaken, sir. No man ever prayed more than I used to do. I was
a reg’lar conwarted Christian at one time; and a morial example, but
’twarn’t no manner of use. No one never heard nor answered my prayers,
and so I left off a saying ’em, and I don’t see as my troubles are a bit
the wuss for it, neither. Everybody seems to get much of a muchness in
this world, let ’em wear out their marrer bones or not.’

He re-applied himself to the patching of his sail, and the young man
who had addressed him looked over the dark blue waters and sighed. He,
too, had prayed for some weeks past that a certain blessing on which
he had set his heart might be granted him, and his prayers had been
returned upon his hands, as it were, unanswered. He was a very sad and
disappointed man that evening, but his faith in Heaven was not one whit
shaken by the trouble that had overtaken him. Even the clear, ringing
laughter of Miss Herbert, as she sat on the poop and responded to the
_badinage_ and compliments of the group of gentlemen by which she was
surrounded, although it made Egerton’s brave heart quiver with pain, had
not the power to cause it to despair.

‘Williams,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you are altogether wrong. Prayer
may not be answered at once, nor in the manner we anticipate, but it is
always heard, and what that song says is true,—“Whatever _is_, is best.”
It must be.’

But Williams still looked dubious.

‘It’s all very well for them, sir, as is rich and young, and got all
their life before ’em, to think so. I dare say everything do seem best to
them; but let ’em be sick and sorry and old, and obliged to work hard for
their living, and I warrant they’d sing to a different sort of tune.’

‘Are you sick, Williams?’

‘Pretty middlin’, sir. I’ve done a deal of hard work in my time, and I
has the rhoomatics that bad in my hands sometimes as makes every stitch I
put a trouble to me.’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Well, I’ve had my share of that lot, Mr Egerton; but as I’ve told you
already, ’twas nothin’ to nobody what I suffered nor what I felt, and so
I’ve larned to hold my tongue upon the matter.’

Richard Egerton looked at the old sailor’s rugged face, down which
time or trouble had made many a furrow, and his heart went out to this
fellow-creature, who had sorrowed perhaps as much as he was doing
himself, and had no outward alleviation for the world’s injustice.

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

‘Do you mean them little figures as they move about on a black-and-white
board, same as we use for draughts, sir?’

‘I do.’

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

‘Didn’t it puzzle you at first to understand why the players should
sometimes allow their men to be taken from them, or even place them in
positions of danger where they could not possibly escape being captured?’

‘Yes, sir!’ cried old Williams, brightening up with intelligence. ‘I
remember there was one gentleman that crossed with us last year to
Trinidad, and he used to boast that there was no one on board could beat
him at that game. And no more there was, and his play was always to let
the other sweep near half his men off the board afore he’d begin in
arnest at all. Lord! I’ve stood and watched ’em when I was off duty, many
and many a time, and been as near as possible a-crying out to him to take
care; but he had got the game, sir, at his fingers’ end, and always came
off victor, whoever sat down with him.’

‘Just so. That gentleman’s plan must have seemed inexplicable to
anyone who was ignorant of the rules of chess, but those who knew them
and watched them to the end, would have understood that he allowed his
knights and pawns to be taken only, that he might preserve his queen and
his castle, and win the game for them all. Do you follow me?’

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

‘Only to this point—that you must try and think in the same way of the
dealings of Providence with men. We cannot tell why one of us is rich and
the other poor; why one has blessings in this life and the other nothing
but troubles. But God does. We only see the effect; He knows the cause.
He is the player of the game, Williams, and does not allow one piece to
be taken captive by the enemy, except with a view to final victory.’

‘Well, sir, that’s all very clever argumentation, but it don’t convince
_me_. It’s sorry work listenin’ to reason for comfort. He’s swept away
all my pieces, one arter another—there’s no question about that—and left
me alone in the world, and I can’t see the mercy of it nor the justice
either,’ replied the old man in a discontented tone.

‘But it is not only to the sick and the old and the poor that He deals
out His judgments,’ continued Egerton sadly. ‘We all have our troubles,
in whatever position we may be placed.’

At this moment the man up on the forecastle shouted again at the top of
his voice, ‘Whatever is, is best.’

‘I wish that Ben’s tongue was a little shorter,’ exclaimed Williams
hastily. ‘He’s always a bawlin’ out them cheerful songs, as makes a
feller feel twice as downhearted as he did afore.’

‘’Twould be all the same to you, “Old Contrairy,” whatever he sung,’
remarked another sailor in passing; ‘for the song ain’t written yet as
would give _you_ any satisfaction to listen to.’

‘Well, I likes to hear sense, whatever it be,’ shouted “Old Contrairy”
after him. ‘Look at that bank of clouds, rolling up from leeward. We
shall have a squall before long, as sure as I sits here. However, I
suppose that fool Ben would go on shoutin’ “Whatever is, is best,” if the
“Star of the North” was split into fifty pieces, and he was just goin’
under water with his mouth choke full of weed.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ exclaimed Egerton, as he turned away to seek his
cabin. His conversation with the old seaman had had the effect of
increasing his depression, and he felt as if he could not trust himself
to argue with him any longer. He would have much preferred on this
sultry evening to take up his usual quarters on the poop, where the
rest of the passengers were assembled; but he had not the courage to go
there. So the poor young fellow left the deck, and, entering his cabin
threw himself down upon the sofa, which served him for a bedstead, and
abandoned himself to the luxury of grief. He was altogether too young
and too good-looking to feel so utterly bereft of hope. His bright brown
curls covered a brow which was full of intellect, and bore upon its broad
expanse the best sign of an honourable man—the impress of frankness and
truth. His deep blue eyes, now so dull and troubled with disappointment,
were generally bright and mirthful, and his athletic limbs, although
but the growth of four-and-twenty years, gave promise of an unusual
acquisition of manly strength and power.

And Richard Egerton had other heritages besides those of youth and
beauty. He was the possessor, as the old seaman had intimated, of wealth
and influence. He had been adopted in his infancy by a rich relation,
who had lately died, leaving him the whole of his fortune and his large
estates in Barbadoes, on the condition that he assumed the name of
Egerton, instead of that which had been his by birth. But what did all
these advantages avail the poor lad to-day?—this day which had dawned
so full of hope, and was now about to set upon the heaviest heart he
had ever carried in his bosom. And pretty Amy Herbert, whose laughter
still reached his ear at times, even where he lay, was the cause of all
this trouble. They were not entirely new acquaintances. He had met her
in England some months before, and had taken his passage to Barbadoes
by the “Star of the North” only because he heard that she was going to
travel in it to join her father, who was a civilian of some repute in
Trinidad. He had admired her from the first moment of their acquaintance,
and the weeks they had spent on board had ripened his admiration into
love, and made him hope, as he had had every reason to do, that she was
not indifferent to himself. He believed that his position as owner of
considerable property in the West Indies would have ensured a favourable
reception at the hands of her father, and had approached the subject
of marriage with her, if not with the certainty of being met halfway,
at least with a modest hope that she could not think him presumptuous.
And Amy Herbert had refused his offer—point-blank and without
hesitation—unequivocally and decidedly refused it. It had fallen upon him
as an unmitigated blow. How lovely she had looked that morning when he
found her sitting in her basket-chair in a corner of the poop, shading
her sweet, soft eyes from the glaring light with a rose-lined parasol.
How confidently he had believed that he should see the long lashes
lowered over those beautiful eyes, and the maiden flush of combined
shyness and pleasure mount to that delicate cheek, as he poured forth his
tale of love to her.

Others had watched the young couple sitting so close together on the poop
that morning, and guessed what was going on. Others had seen Richard
Egerton bending lower and lower over his pretty fellow-passenger, and
gazing into her eyes as though he would read her very soul, as he
whispered his hopes to her. The poor young fellow had been very modest
over it, but he had made so sure that Amy Herbert’s looks and actions
could not have deceived him, that he had almost thanked her beforehand
for the answer he expected to receive. And she had listened to his
proposal with well-feigned surprise, and rejected it with ill-advised
haste. She had thought in her silly, girlish inexperience that it was
more correct and womanly to appear horrified at the first idea of
marriage, and she had been almost as despairing as himself as she saw
Richard Egerton take her at her word and turn away without a second
appeal, to hide his wounded pride below. She was deeply repenting
her abrupt dismissal of him as she flirted on the poop with Captain
Barrington, who was returning from leave to join his regiment in
Barbadoes. But how was poor Egerton to know that, as he cast himself
dejectedly upon his narrow berth and lay, face downwards, with his eyes
pressed upon the pillow, lest the hot tears that scorched them should
overflow and betray his weakness? The sound of her voice tortured him. He
believed that she must be in earnest in showing a preference for Captain
Barrington, and he was not yet strong enough to watch her fair face
smiling on another man. So he delivered himself over to melancholy, and
tried hard to believe that he would not have things other than they were.

‘Whatever is, is best,’ he kept on repeating inwardly. ‘It will not do
for me to preach a lesson to another man that I am unable to apply to
myself. Besides, it is true. I know it to be so. My whole existence has
proved it hitherto.’

Yet the smiling, sunlit pastures and cane fields, to which he was taking
his way, and which had seemed so beautiful in prospect when he had hoped
to secure fair Amy Herbert to reign over them as mistress, appeared to
afford him but dull anticipation now.

‘How shall I ever get through the work?’ he thought, ‘and my heavy
heart and sluggish spirit will lay me open to the worst influences of
the country. But I will not despair. My wants and my weakness are not
unknown, and a way will be found for me even out of this “Slough of
Despond.”’

He was suddenly roused from his love-sick reverie by the sound of a low
moaning, which seemed to pervade the surrounding atmosphere. Starting up
on his couch, Egerton now perceived through the porthole that the sky
had become dark, and the noise of the captain of the vessel shouting
his orders through a speaking-trumpet, and the sailors rushing about to
execute them, made him aware that something was wrong. He was not the
man to keep out of the way of danger. Brave as a lion and intrepid as
an eagle, Richard Egerton, from a boy, had ever been the foremost in
any emergency or danger. Now, as the warning sounds reached his ear,
he rushed at once on deck. He remembered ‘Old Contrairy’s’ prophecy of
a squall, and his first thoughts were for the comfort and safety of
Miss Herbert. But as he issued from the passengers’ saloon a fearful
sight awaited him. One of those sudden hurricanes, for which the West
Indies are famous, and which will sometimes swamp the stoutest vessel in
the course of a few seconds, had arisen, and the whole ship’s company
was in confusion. As Egerton sprang upon deck he could distinctly see
what appeared to be a black wall of water advancing steadily to meet
the unfortunate ‘Star of the North.’ With the exception of the noise
consequent on attempting to furl the sails in time to receive the shock
of the approaching storm, there was but little tumult upon deck, for
everyone seemed paralysed with terror.

At the first alarm, Miss Herbert, with the remainder of the passengers
from the poop, had attempted to go below, but, having reached the
quarter-deck, was crouching at the foot of the companion-ladder, too
terrified by the violence of the tornado to proceed further. As for
Egerton, he had to hold on fast to the bulwarks to prevent himself being
washed overboard. His head was bare, and as he stood there, with the
wind blowing his curls about in the wildest disorder, and his handsome
face knit with anxiety and pain, Amy Herbert looked up and saw him, and
registered a vow, in the midst of her alarm, that if they ever came
safely out of that fearful storm she would humble her pride before him
and confess that she had been in the wrong. The moaning of the tempest
increased to a stunning roar, and then the huge wall of water broke upon
the ‘Star of the North’ with a violence to which no thunder can bear
comparison.

All hands were aghast, and the men were dashed about the deck hither and
thither as the wind caught the vessel on her broadside. The awful noise
of the hurricane rendered all communication by speech impossible, but the
captain, by setting the example, stimulated his men to cut away the masts
in order to right the ship, which had been thrown almost on her beam-ends.

In a moment Egerton perceived the danger to which Amy Herbert would be
exposed by the fall of the crashing timber. She was crouching in the most
exposed part of the quarter-deck, her lovely eyes raised upwards, full of
the wildest fear.

‘There! there! Go there!’ he exclaimed frantically, though his voice had
no power to reach her, as he pointed to a more sheltered position under
the companion-ladder. ‘Get under there, for Heaven’s sake!’

She saw the warning gesture of his hand, the agony depicted in his
face, and understood the meaning of them, just as the huge mast bowed
itself towards the sea. Egerton continued his efforts to make her see
the necessity of moving, and she was just about to take advantage of
the hint, when Captain Barrington crawled on all fours into the place
himself. The little man was not too brave by nature, and fear had driven
all thoughts of chivalry out of his head. For the moment the girl did not
see who had forestalled her intention; she only perceived that she had
lost her chance of safety, and waited the event in trembling anxiety.
Down came the topmast with a crashing shock that threatened to sink the
vessel. Yet Amy Herbert was sheltered from possible injury, for, with a
mighty effort, Richard Egerton had quitted his stronghold and flung his
body upon the deck before her. For one moment he was conscious—happily
conscious—that she was safe, and he had saved her; the next, he had
fainted from a blow on the head and the pain of a large splinter of wood
that had been broken from the falling mast and driven with violence into
his arm. He did not hear the scream with which Amy Herbert viewed the
accident, nor see the agonised face which bent above his prostrate form.
He heard, and saw, and knew nothing, until he opened his eyes in his own
cabin and perceived, with the dazed wonder of returning consciousness,
that the old sailor, Williams, and the ship’s doctor, Mr French, were
bending over him.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

‘Is she safe?’ was all Richard Egerton said in reply, as he looked at his
splintered arm. They thought he meant the ‘Star of the North.’

‘Oh yes, she’s safe enough now, sir,’ replied the old seaman; ‘but we’ve
had an awful time of it, and no mistake. We’ve lost our top-gallant mast,
and our spars and hen-coops have been washed overboard, and one of the
boats got adrift in the squall, and the poor “Star” is stript of half her
toggery.’

‘But are any of the passengers injured?’

‘No one but yourself, sir; but two of our best men went over with the
mast, and Ralph White has broke his leg, and there’ll be a tidy little
bill for some one to pay when we gets into port again.’

‘And that reminds me, Williams, that I must go and look after poor
White,’ said the doctor. ‘I think I may leave my patient in your care
now. All you have got to do is to see that he lies there till I come back
again.’

‘I’ll look after the gentleman, doctor, never you fear,’ replied the old
seaman as Mr French left the cabin.

‘It was an awful hurricane, Williams,’ remarked Egerton, with a sigh of
remembrance, as he turned uneasily upon his pillow.

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

‘How little we thought, as we talked together on deck an hour or two ago,
that death was so close at hand for some of us.’

‘Ay, indeed, and with that smiling, burning, treacherous blue sky above
us. You have seen some of the dangers now, sir. I suppose you ain’t
going, in the face of this storm, to hold to Bill’s song, that “Whatever
is, is best.”’

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

‘What! with our tight little ship knocked to pieces in this fashion, and
your arm broken in two places?’

‘Just so, Williams. Heaven sent both the storm and the accident. They
_must_ be for the best.’

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ exclaimed the old sailor in sheer amazement. The
announcement seemed to have taken all the wind out of his sails, and he
sat staring at the wounded man as if he had charge of a lunatic.

‘How comes it that you are attending on me?’ asked Egerton, as Williams
handed him a glass of water.

‘Well, sir, I seem to have took a fancy to your way of talking; so when
they wanted some one here to help the doctor with your arm I offered to
come, that’s all.’

‘It was very good of you. You told me this morning that you had had
troubles, and prayer had never availed to get you out them. Do you mind
telling me what those troubles are?’

‘Not a bit, sir, if I sha’n’t tire you; but it is a long story. I had a
sweetheart when I was a young chap—most young chaps have, you know, sir—I
daresay you’ve had one yourself before now—and I had a school-mate, too,
by name—well! we’ll call him Robert—and we both loved the girl dearly;
but he got her, sir, and I had to go to the wall.’

‘That was very unlucky for you.’

‘Well, it was unfortunate, though he courted her above-board, and all was
fair enough at the time. But the worst of it was that he turned out a
regular bad ’un, and ill-treated his wife shamefully arter he’d married
her. When I came home from sea, it used to make my blood reg’lar boil to
hear poor Lottie tell how he’d beaten and kicked and starved her, for
he’d taken to drink, you see, sir, and all his love had gone like a flash
of lightning.’

‘Was he a sailor too?’

‘Yes, sir, and once, when I come off a long voyage to China and Australy,
and round home by San Francisco, I heard that Lottie was a widder and
in great distress, without hardly a bit of money. Well, I looked her up
pretty sharp, as you may guess, and I found it was all true.’

‘And then you married her.’

‘No, I didn’t sir. I’ve never been married. I don’t deny I asked her,
but she wouldn’t have me, nor no one. She said it was too late, and she
was dyin’, which sure enough she was. But she had a child, sir—little
Dickey—such a dear little chap, with blue eyes—just like her own—and
pretty yeller curls; and when she died she left him on my hands, and
lor’, how fond I was of that little creetur! He took his poor mammy’s
place in my heart altogether.’

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

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

‘Not as I knows of, sir. He may be dead or livin’. It’s all the same to
me now. _That_ was the time I used to pray, Mr Egerton, night and day,
that the little feller I was so proud on might grow up a good man and a
good son to me and a comfort to my old age, and when I lost him I chucked
up religion altogether.’

‘How did you lose him?’

‘In the crudest of ways, sir. He had grow’d up beside me five years, and
I had done everythink for him; and when he’d put his two little arms
round my neck and kiss me, and look so like his poor mother—who was the
only sweetheart I ever had, Mr Egerton—I used to thank the Lord, with
tears in my eyes, for _His_ goodness to me. But it was all a delusion,
sir.’

‘Tell me the end of it.’

‘The end of it was that, when my pretty Dickey was a smart little feller
of about ten years old, I got him a place as ship-boy aboard the ‘Lady
Bird,’ and we sailed for the Brazils together, as proud and ’appy as the
days was long. And I was a teachin’ the boy everythink, Mr Egerton, and
he was gettin’ that ’cute and handy—when, in an evil moment, that man
whom we all thought dead and buried, turned up again somewhere down by
Rio Janeiro, and claimed his boy of me.’

‘What! the father?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course he had the right to do it, and that’s what the
skipper tried to make me understand; but it broke my heart entirely.
He thought he’d make money out of the lad’s wages, and so he took him
away from me, who was just like a father to him; and his screams, as we
parted, have never left my ears since. And when I heard afterwards that
the brute ill-treated Dickey, just as he’d done his poor mammy, I nearly
went mad. The men calls me sulky, and “Old Contrairy,” and sich like
names; but many’s the time when they think me cross, I’m only dreaming
over that time ag’in and cursin’ them as brought me to sich a pitch. I
shall never see my pretty Dickey ag’in, sir, till I meets ’im up above;
and I shall owe Robert Hudson a grudge to the day of my death for robbin’
me of him in that there cruel manner.’

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

‘Please to lie down, sir? The doctor will be arter me if I lets you knock
about in that manner. The name slipped out unawares, for ’tain’t of no
use raking it up ag’in. It has nothin’ to do with my story.’

‘But, pray, tell it me again?’

‘It was Robert Hudson, sir.’

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

‘_Your_ father, sir! But, beggin’ your pardon, how can that be, when
you’re called Egerton?’

‘I know I am; but I took the name from a relation who left me his money
on condition that I did so. My real name is Richard Hudson, and I was
brought up to the sea and adopted by my mother’s cousin, Henry Egerton,
because my father treated me so brutally. He was had up by the police
for thrashing me till I fainted, and then the magistrates gave me over to
the guardianship of Mr Egerton——; and, Williams, can it possibly be?’

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

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

‘At Pinfold?’

‘That is the place. My grandfather had the “Peartree Farm” there, and she
is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Mr Egerton used often to take me to
see her grave.’

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

‘It is quite true that I am the son of Robert and Charlotte Hudson,
and that if I had not changed my name, we should have recognised each
other before now. Do not think I have forgotten you, Williams? I cannot
remember the face of my sailor friend; but I have never forgotten all his
kindness to me. But surely I used to call you “Caleb” in those days, and
have always thought of you by that name since.’

‘True, enough, sir, that’s me—Caleb Williams, and I can hear your sweet
little voice a-callin’ Caleb from the top of the house to the bottom
now; you was never long out of my arms, Mr Egerton. Day and night you was
on this bosom, as you may say, and my heart’s been as empty as a dried
gourd since I lost sight of you. And so you’re my own boy—leastways, what
I used to call my own—and I’ve been a nussin’ you again as I used to
nurse you in the olden times. Oh, bless the Lord for all His mercies!’
cried the old seaman, as he fairly broke down, and sobbed with his face
in his hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

They talked for a long time over the past; Richard Egerton being scarcely
less affected than old Williams, as, one by one, little incidents and
reminiscences came to light to confirm their several identities, and make
him see still more clearly how much he owed to the old man who sat beside
him.

‘And now, Caleb,’ he said, when the evening shadows had deepened into
dusk, ‘this will be your last voyage. I cannot let you work any more. You
know that I have riches, and you must share them.’

‘Oh, sir, you are too good!’

‘Don’t call me “sir” again, please. Call me Richard, Caleb, or “Dickey,”
or anything that pleases your fancy; but the man who acted as a father
to me when I had worse than none, shall never address me as though I were
his superior. What was it you prayed for me to become, Caleb, in those
days when I used to sit on your knee with my little hands clasped about
your neck?’

‘A good man and a good son, my dear, dear boy,’ quavered the old seaman.

‘Well, I will try, at all events, to fulfil the last clause. My cousin
Egerton, who was a rich tradesman, has left me all his property. I have
land and houses in Barbadoes, and I intend to settle there; at least, for
the next few years. You must come and live with me. You will find plenty
of work on the estate to employ your time, if you wish to work; and if
you wish to rest, you shall be idle. My father has been dead in reality
for many years past, so that we shall be left alone and in peace this
time to end our days together.’

‘And there is no one else, my dear boy?’ inquired Williams anxiously.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You are not married, nor likely to be?’

‘I am not married, nor likely to be. There is no one else,’ repeated
Richard Egerton, with a bitter sigh.

‘Don’t sigh like that, sir.’

‘Dickey, please, Caleb.’

‘Dickey, then—my little Dickey, as I loved so hearty. To think I should
have found you again arter all these years—grow’d to such a fine man,
too—and in that awful storm! It beats everythink I ever heard of.’

‘Whatever is, is best,’ replied Egerton. ‘You won’t grumble again, will
you, Caleb, because the answer to your prayer may be delayed a little?’

‘Don’t mention it, my boy. I feels ashamed even to remember it.’

‘You see that even the hurricane has borne its good fruit as well as its
evil. Without it we might never have been made known to each other.’

‘It’s bin a marciful interposition of Providence from beginning to end,’
said old Williams, wiping his eyes. ‘But I should like to see you a bit
more cheerful, Dickey. There has been a sad look in your face the last
four days, which I couldn’t help noticin’, and now that I knows you to
be who you are, I sha’n’t rest satisfied till you smiles in the old way
again.’

Egerton was just about to answer him, when a gentle knock sounded on the
cabin door, which stood ajar in consequence of the heat.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded the old sailor gruffly.

‘It is only I,’ responded a soft, trembling voice, which Egerton at once
recognised as that of Amy Herbert. ‘I came to inquire how Mr Egerton is
getting on, and if I can do anything for him.’

‘No, miss, thank ye, you can’t do nothin’; he’s a-goin’ on very nicely,
and I’m here,’ responded Williams.

‘May I speak to him for a minute?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Richard eagerly, raising himself to a sitting position.

The young lady pushed open the cabin door and stood on the threshold,
blushing like a rose. She looked very beautiful, although her eyes were
swollen with crying, and her dress and hair were in disorder.

‘I felt I could not sleep until I had thanked you for what you did for
me, Mr Egerton,’ she uttered tearfully. ‘You endangered your own life
to save mine, who have done nothing to deserve such a sacrifice on your
part.’

‘Ay, that he did!’ interrupted Williams.

‘It is nothing—nothing,’ said Egerton faintly, for the sight of her had
upset all his courage. ‘You could not help it. It is not your fault
if—if—’

‘If—_what_?’ demanded Amy Herbert.

He turned his eyes towards her, and a new hope ran through his veins like
a reviving cordial. ‘Caleb, my dear old friend,’ he exclaimed tenderly,
‘leave me for five minutes to myself.’

‘What! all alone with the lady?’ returned Caleb, regarding Miss Herbert
as though she were a dangerous animal.

‘Yes, for one moment only. I have something to say for her ear alone.’

He had sprung off the berth in his excitement, and was about to quit the
cabin.

‘Don’t go out, then, my dear boy, for mercy’s sake,’ said Williams, ‘for
you’ve lost a deal of blood, and are weaker than you think for. Will you
promise me?’

‘I do promise, if you will only go.’

The old man shambled out of the cabin as he spoke, and the two were left
alone.

‘I want so much to tell you,’ said Egerton, speaking with some
difficulty, ‘what I had not the courage to say this morning, that I
know it is not your fault. The blame rests entirely on me. It was
my presumption—my madness, if you will—that led me on to speak to
you as I did, and I acquit you of all blame. I know you feel for my
disappointment now—and I thought it would make you easier to hear
this—that is all.’

‘Oh, if I could only make you understand!’ she sobbed.

‘Pray don’t distress yourself. I do understand it all. How can you help
it if you find it impossible to love me?’

‘But I do not—I mean, I can—that is to say, I did not mean—’ stammered
the girl, colouring scarlet at the admission she had been betrayed into
making.

‘Am I to understand that you did not mean what you said this morning?’
exclaimed the young man as he grasped her hand. ‘Amy, you have given me
fresh life. Oh, do not take it back again! Say if you love me!’

Her maidenly bashfulness struggled for a moment with her probity, but the
latter conquered.

‘Yes, I do love you! It was my egregious vanity and love of conquest
that made me trifle with your feelings this morning. I have been very
miserable ever since. I have hoped you would speak to me again, and when
I saw you risk your life for my sake, I wished that I might have died for
you instead.’

‘O Amy, Amy! Your words are opening heaven to me. Darling, is it possible
that you will be my wife?’

‘If you can forgive my heartless rejection of you, Richard. If you can
believe that I am true in saying that I hated each word even as I uttered
it. If you still think me worthy of being your life-companion, I will
give you a very different answer now.’

‘You have made me the very happiest man on earth,’ he cried exultantly,
as he folded her in his arms.

‘Lor’, sir!—I mean my boy, Dickey—you mus’n’t be a-goin’ on like this!’
exclaimed old Caleb, appearing on the scene when least expected. ‘The
doctor’s particular orders was that you were to keep quiet and not bounce
about.’

‘Caleb, my dear friend, I will be as quiet as your heart can wish now,
for mine is at rest. Don’t stare so. Come here, and sit down again,
whilst I explain to this young lady all that you have been to me, and
tell you all that I trust she will very soon be to me.’

‘Oh, we’re to have a missus arter all, then!’ cried the old sailor
meaningly. ‘Why, I thought you told me just now, my boy, that you warn’t
a-goin’ to be spliced!’

‘Ah, Caleb, the storm has sent me a wife as it brought you a son. Had it
not been for that awful hurricane, and the peril in which it placed this
precious life, I am not quite sure if we should ever have been so happy
as we are this evening. Never mind my wounded arm and the gash upon my
cheek; Miss Herbert says she shall like it all the better for a scar. The
wound in my heart is healed, Caleb, and life looks very fair for us all
henceforward. And yet you could not believe “Old Contrairy,”’ he added
playfully, that ‘Whatever is, is best.’


THE END.




[Illustration]




‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’


I came down to breakfast one morning last autumn, and found a letter on
the table from my old friend Bessie Maclean.

Bessie and I were girls at school together, and continued our intimacy
after we left, until we married and went to different parts of the
country. Marriage is a terrible breaker up of old ties; not only by
reason of the separation which generally ensues, but because of the new
duties it entails. We had both married the men of our hearts, however,
and in comfortable circumstances; and so far all was well. But little
by little our correspondence, which at first had been so voluminous and
detailed, became scanty and irregular.

Bessie had half-a-dozen children to occupy her time and attention; and
I—I had my dear husband to fill up the measure of my life, and felt
myself a wicked and ungrateful woman if I even wished for more.

But—there is always a ‘but’ in the happiest worldly existence, is there
not?—Dick and I had no children; and the disappointment had sometimes
caused me to shed bitter tears. In secret though; I had never told my
husband one-half I felt upon the subject.

Of course he twitted me with it sometimes in a playful manner, which
showed that the fact did not sink very deep into his heart, whatever
it did in mine. Yet I had thought occasionally that he looked more
thoughtful than usual when children were in the room: and the idea made
me thoughtful too. Especially I had noticed it when we paid our first
visit to Bessie in her new house; for I must tell you that a few months
before my story commences, Tom Maclean had bought a large farm in the
vicinity of the town where the gaol stands, of which my husband is the
governor. Of course, after so long a separation, Bessie and I were
delighted to find we had become near neighbours again; and as soon as
ever the Macleans were settled, they invited us both over to Poplar Farm,
to stand sponsors to the latest arrival—a little boy whom they called
Richard, after my Dick, God bless him! Poplar Farm was ten or twelve
miles from Chesterwick, however, so I had not seen my friends more than
five or six times since the christening day; and the visits I had paid
them had not quite realised the expectations I had formed of meeting
Bessie again.

I suppose it was my vile envious nature, or perhaps the quiet life I
have led with Dick has made me selfish; but it seemed to me as though
all the time my old school-fellow spent with me was devoted, not to our
friendship, or reminiscences of our girlish days, but to talking about
her children and telling me of their accomplishments or complaints, or
consulting me as to their dresses or amusements. Of course I was pleased
at first to be introduced to her fine brood of boys and girls; but I
could hardly be expected to feel as much interest in them as their mother
did, and I was sorely disappointed to find she had lost so much of hers
in me. She did not seem to care to hear anything about my husband, or
how we loved each other in our happy, peaceful home; nor did she even
talk much about Tom, with her affection for whom I could have sympathised
better than with any other. But he appeared to be almost forgotten or
overlooked in her maternal care for the little ones; and she was more
anxious that Lily’s new hat should become her, or Charley’s medicine
be swallowed without a fit of obstinacy, than that Mr Maclean should
appreciate his dinner, or have his evening hours undisturbed for settling
his accounts. I have observed the same thing—oh! scores of times—amongst
my married female acquaintances; and the fact has done more to reconcile
me to the want of a family than any other.

Not that I believe that the charge of a hundred children could ever make
me forget my darling’s wants—but there, this is not a love story, so I
must try and keep my Dick’s name out of it as much as possible.

I had received several letters from Bessie during the last month, which
had rather surprised me, as she had grown very lazy at correspondence, as
I have said before, and naturally, taking up her residence at Poplar Farm
had not made her write oftener, excepting when she required the benefit
of my experience with regard to the advantages of her new home. Her two
last letters, however, had been written in a very unaccountable strain;
and if I had not known she was comfortably and happily situated, I should
have imagined it was just the reverse.

‘Another letter from Bessie!’ I exclaimed, as I broke the seal. ‘What on
earth can she want now? I suppose she has found out somebody sells whiter
flour than Watkins, or better tea than Amyott? I almost believe, Dick,
she regrets having left Lincolnshire.’

‘I don’t know why she should,’ replied Dick, as he commenced a raid upon
the breakfast-table; ‘for, according to Maclean’s account, they lived in
a perfect swamp there. But why can’t the woman look after her own flour
and tea? Why is she to worry you about everything in this fashion?’

‘Oh! I suppose she thinks, as I have no children, I cannot possibly have
anything to do,’ I said, laughing; ‘for I heard her remark, with regard
to Mrs Anderson, who is in the same plight as myself, that it must be
quite a charity to give her any employment!’

‘Like her impudence,’ growled Dick—(I don’t think Bessie is a favourite
with my husband; perhaps I talked too much about her beforehand),—‘I
should let her know to the contrary if I were you, Dolly. I believe, with
all her fuss and bustle, that you do twice her work in half the time.’

‘Ah! I have only _one_ baby to look after, you see, though he’s a big
one,’ I said, as I gave his head a squeeze with my disengaged hand; ‘but
goodness me, Dick, this letter is worse than the last even. Bessie seems
really in low spirits now. She says that Mr Maclean’s business will take
him away from home for a few nights next week, and she wants me to go
over and spend them with her in—yes, she actually calls Poplar Farm—“this
gloomy ramshackle old place.”’

‘It’s old enough,’ said Dick, ‘and all the better for it; but it’s not
“ramshackle.” Better walls and roof were never built than those of Poplar
Farm. It stands as steady as the gaol.’

‘But about my going to her, Dick—can you spare me?’

‘Can I spare you!’ repeated my husband in that tone of voice that, after
ten years’ marriage, has still the power to make my heart beat faster.
‘Of course I can! I could spare you for good and all, if someone would
only be obliging enough to take you off my hands; but there’s no such
luck in store for me. Only mind the days don’t stretch themselves into
weeks, sweetheart!’

‘Into weeks!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘Have I ever stayed weeks away from
you yet, Dick? I’m not even sure that I shall go at all.’

‘Yes! you’d better go, Dolly; Bessie Maclean is selfish and egotistical,
and somewhat of a fool; but I daresay she’s nervous at the idea of
remaining in that isolated home by herself, particularly as it is all so
strange to her. And you don’t know what fear is, old woman!’

‘I wish she could overhear the character you give her,’ I answered,
laughingly. But Dick was right. I am _not_ a nervous woman, and if I
had been, he would have cured me of it long before. Living in a gaol,
and having, of my own free will, constant access to the prisoners, had
effectually dispersed any ladylike unreasonable fears I may once have
thought womanly and becoming, and made me ashamed of starting at shadows.
So, having sent an affirmative answer to my friend’s appeal, I set out
for Poplar Farm, when the time came, with as much confidence in my
powers of protection as though I had been of the sterner sex.

Dick drove me over in the curricle.

It was a bright November morning: one of those days when the air is crisp
and exhilarating without being in the least degree cold; a day on which
one feels younger, and more hopeful and capable of good—on which one’s
sorrows seem too paltry for consideration, and one’s happiness far more
than one deserves. I experienced this sensation in the fullest sense, as
I crept as close as I could to my husband’s side, and smuggled one hand
beneath his arm.

‘Holloa!’ cried Dick; ‘why, what’s this? Repenting of your promise
already, eh? Oh! you spoony woman, I’m ashamed of you!’

I _was_ repenting it, but I did not tell him so. It is good for people
who love very much to part sometimes, if only to teach them how great a
blessing they possess in each other’s affection.

As we drove up the long-neglected drive of Poplar Farm, I could not help
thinking that Bessie was right in considering it gloomy. The sun had
disappeared again behind an autumn cloud. The trees had shed most of
their leaves, which lay in sodden heaps along the paths, and a chilly
wind had commenced to blow. I drew my cloak closer against my shoulders,
and told Dick what I thought.

‘Nonsense, Dolly!’ he replied. ‘The place is well enough; and when
Maclean has had time to put it in order, will be one of the prettiest
farms in the county. I only wish I had the money to buy such another. But
naturally it does not look its best when the trees are bare.’

‘Stop!’ I cried, suddenly; ‘there’s the baby. Let me get down and kiss
him. That must be the new nurse carrying him, Dick. But what a lugubrious
looking young person she is!’

My husband had good-naturedly drawn up by this time, and I had scrambled
down to meet my little godson, who was about three months old. But as
soon as I had pulled aside the veil that covered his face, I started with
surprise.

‘Oh! how he _has_ gone off!’ I exclaimed.

The baby, who had been so fat and dimpled and red-faced last time I saw
him, was now drawn and white and thin. The change was apparent so that
even Dick could see it from the box-seat.

‘Whew!’ he whistled; ‘why, what’s the matter with the little chap—is he
ill?’

‘Oh no! he’s not ill. He is perfectly well. You don’t think he looks ill,
madam?’ said the girl who was carrying him, anxiously.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a child so changed in my life,’ I answered,
in my blunt fashion. ‘Are you the wet-nurse Mrs Maclean told me she had
engaged for him?’

‘Yes, madam,’ she said, in a very low voice.

I raised my eyes, and examined her then for the first time thoroughly;
and I could not help observing what a remarkable-looking girl she was.
She had the very palest and clearest of complexions—so colourless that
it looked like the finest white wax, and her skin was of the texture of
satin. Her large, clear, grey eyes, which shone with a limpid light,
like agates with water running over them, had a startled look, which
might almost have been mistaken for fear, and her delicately cut mouth
drooped in the most pathetic manner. To add to the mournfulness of her
appearance, her hair was almost completely hidden beneath her cap, and
her dress was the deepest widow’s mourning. I made a few indifferent
remarks about the child, kissed it, and jumped up to my seat again. The
nurse was not the person I felt to whom to speak on the subject of
the baby’s appearance. She made a deep reverence as the carriage moved
off, and I saw she was a very superior sort of young woman; but of what
account was that, where little Dick’s health, and perhaps his life, was
concerned?

‘Bessie’s a greater fool than I took her for,’ I exclaimed, indignantly,
as we drove on towards the house.

‘What’s in the wind now?’ said Dick.

‘Fancy, choosing a wet-nurse for a baby all crape and bombazine and
tears. Why, that girl looks as if she cried night and day. I knew Bessie
had been weak enough to be persuaded by the doctor to give up nursing
baby herself, but she might have exercised a little discretion in the
choice of a substitute. The child is half the size he was last month.’

‘What a lot we know about babies!’ said Dick, in his chaffing way.

‘I should hope I know more than half the mothers I meet,’ I continued,
with some warmth. ‘I should be ashamed to be as ignorant as Bessie
herself, for instance, though she _has_ had six children,’ I added, with
a little droop in my voice.

‘My own Dolly!’ said Dick, fondly; and when he says those words in that
voice, I don’t care for anything else in all the wide, wide world. He
wouldn’t stay—even to dismount from his box, for we knew Mr Maclean had
already left the house, and he thought our chatter would get on better
without him, added to which he had duties demanding him at home. So I
gave him one long, long kiss, and let him go; and as soon as he was out
of sight, turned into the door of Poplar Farm.

Bessie was in the dining-room, where the dinner was already spread,
surrounded by her batch of self-willed unruly children. As she came
forward to meet me, I saw that she looked tired and worn out, and that
her dress was untidy and neglected.

‘It is so good of you to come, Dolly,’ was her greeting, ‘for I am so
worried I don’t know what I should have done without you.’

‘I am very glad to be of use, Bessie; but what worries you—the baby?’

‘Dear me! no. It is something quite different. Why should baby worry me?
He has his wet-nurse, and she takes him completely off my hands.’

‘He is so pulled down,’ I said unhesitatingly, for I took an interest
in my little godson. ‘I met him just now in the drive, and hardly
recognised the child. Are you satisfied his nurse does him justice?’

‘Oh, perfectly so. She is a most estimable young woman, so quiet and
ladylike in her way of speaking. Did you notice her eyes? such a
remarkable colour; and her hands are as white as yours or mine.’

‘But the baby does not appear to be thriving. He can’t inherit her eyes
or her hands, you know, and if he could, I don’t see that they would be
much use to him. What’s her name? Where did you find her?’

‘She’s a Mrs Graham; and she was recommended to me from the Lying-in
Hospital at Chesterwick. I’m sorry you don’t think baby looks well.
Perhaps the change has pulled him down a little, though I really can’t
see it myself.’

I daresay she did not. Bessie is that sort of woman that never will see
anything until it has actually occurred. If her children died, she would
make as great a fuss over them—perhaps more—than mothers who have guarded
theirs from their infancy upwards; yet she will let them eat improper
food, and get damp feet, and remain out in the burning sun without any
covering to their heads; and if you remonstrate with her, her invariable
excuse is, that they have always done so before and got no harm. As if
the fact of a wrong being permitted should make it a right; or because
we have fallen from the top of a house once without injury, we may cast
ourselves thence headlong each day without impunity.

I really never did think, when Bessie and I were girls together, that she
would turn out such a ninny.

‘What _has_ worried you then, since it is not the baby?’ I demanded
presently.

‘Hush! I can’t tell you before the children. It’s an awful business, and
I wouldn’t have them hear of it for worlds. Will you lay your bonnet
aside, and have dinner with us as you are? or I’m afraid it may get cold.
Lily—Charley—Tommy, lay down these toys, and come to the table at once.
Put Bessie up on her high chair; and somebody go and call Annie. Ah!
Dolly, my dear, how well you have kept your figure! What would I not give
to be as slim and neat as you are.’

And although, of course, I would not compare one advantage with the
other, yet I must say that the pleasures of having a family would possess
a great drawback to me, if I were compelled at the same time to become
as rotund and untidy in appearance as poor Bessie is at present. And
I believe the chief thing Tom Maclean fell in love with was her pretty
rounded little figure. Alas! alas!

But I am keeping the early dinner waiting. As soon as it was despatched,
with the usual accompaniments of cutting up the children’s meat, wiping
their mouths, and preventing their throwing the tumblers at each other’s
heads, Mrs Maclean rose and offered to show me to my bedroom. It was next
to her own, and communicated with it by a door.

‘This dear old place!’ I exclaimed as I entered it; ‘you are making it
very pretty, Bessie. Aren’t you glad that you have come into such a
handsome property, instead of having been stuck down in a modern villa,
with the plaster on the walls only half-dry?’

But Bessie did not appear to appreciate my congratulations.

‘Dolly,’ she said, as she sunk down into a chair, ‘I would change Poplar
Farm for the poorest little villa that was ever built.’

‘My dear girl, what do you mean?’

‘_Mean!_ That the house is haunted, Dolly—’

I confess it; I could not help it: I burst into the loudest and rudest
laugh imaginable.

Poplar Farm haunted! What an absurdly unreasonable idea! Why, the last
tenants had only just moved out in time to let the Macleans come in, and
the house had been freshly papered and painted from basement to attic.
There was not a nook nor a corner for a ghost to hide in.

I could not help laughing; and what is worse, I could not stop laughing,
until my friend was offended.

‘You may laugh as much as you like,’ she said at last; ‘but I have told
you nothing but the truth. Do you mean to say that you consider such a
thing impossible?’

‘No! I won’t go as far as that; but I think it is very uncommon, and very
unlikely to occur to—to—to—’

Here I was obliged to halt, for the only words I could think of were,
‘to anyone so material as yourself;’ and I couldn’t quite say that. For
though I do not deny the possibility of apparitions, I believe that the
person who is capable of perceiving them must be composed of more mind
than matter, and there is nothing spiritual nor æsthetic about poor
Bessie.

‘What is the ghost like, and who has seen it?’ I demanded, as soon as I
could command my countenance.

‘Several of the servants and myself,’ replied Bessie; ‘and Tom might have
seen it, too, if he were not so lazy. But one night when the noises were
close to our door, he refused to rouse himself even to listen to them,
and told me to go—Well, dear, I really can’t repeat what he said; but
husbands do not always use the politest language when out of temper, you
know!’

‘Noises! Then the ghost has been heard as well as seen?’

‘Oh yes! and such mournful noises, too. Such weeping and wailing, enough
to break one’s heart. The first time I saw it, Dolly, I thought I should
have died of fright.’

‘Tell me all about it.’

‘I had been sitting up late one Saturday night mending the children’s
socks for Sunday, and Tom had been in bed for a good two hours. Everybody
was in bed but myself, and I thought, as I carried my single candle up
the dark staircase, how silent and ghastly everything appeared. As I
turned into the corridor, I heard a gasping sound like a stifled sob. At
first I could hardly believe my ears; but when it was repeated, my heart
seemed to stand still. I was hesitating whether to go back or forward,
and trembling in every limb, when IT—this dreadful THING—crossed me. It
sprung up, I don’t know from where, in the darkness, and just looked at
me once and rushed away. I nearly sunk to the ground, as you may well
imagine. I had only just time to get inside my own door, when I tumbled
right across the bed, and Tom had to get up and pick up the candlestick,
and help undress me; and really, by the way he went on about it, you’d
have thought it was all my fault.’

‘What was IT like? that is the main thing, Bessie.’

‘My dear, you don’t suppose I looked at it more than I was absolutely
obliged. I know IT was dressed all in white, with snow-white hair hanging
over its face, and fearful staring eyes. It’s a perfect wonder to me I
stand alive here now.’

‘And it has been seen since then?’

‘Oh, several times, and we hear IT every night as regularly as possible
about two o’clock in the morning. The cook has seen it—so has the
housemaid; and not a servant amongst them would fetch a glass of water
from downstairs after ten o’clock, if we were all dying for want of it.’

‘A pleasant state of affairs,’ I ejaculated; ‘and will you take no steps
to investigate the mystery, and dissolve the household fears?’

‘What steps could I take?’

‘Sit up for the apparition, and speak to it; and if it won’t answer, take
hold of it and see if it is flesh and blood or air.’

‘My dear Dolly, I would rather die.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll wake me up when the sounds begin to-night,’ I
answered, ‘for I am curious to hear them.’

But I didn’t tell Bessie that I would be the one to ‘bell the cat;’ for,
though I have little fear, I have no foolhardiness; and if her ghost
turned out to be a real one, I had no wish to interfere with it.

In the evening, as much with a view of pointing out the baby’s condition
to Bessie as for any other reason, I asked her to accompany me to the
nursery, and see him put to bed. I found that he slept in a room alone
with his wet-nurse, who was engaged in bathing the little creature as
we entered. Mrs Graham looked very pretty and delicate as she bent over
the bath, attending to the child; but I observed that she never once
smiled at nor played with him, as nurses usually do with infants during
the process of washing. Little Dick was certainly very attenuated and
languid, and even his mother seemed to observe it when pointed out to
her. Mrs Graham listened to our conversation with rather an anxious
expression on her countenance, and I thought by drawing her out we might
gain some clue to the baby’s ill health.

‘Is your own child strong and vigorous?’ I asked her.

‘My own child is dead, madam,’ she replied.

‘It was your first, I presume? You appear very young.’

‘It was my first. I was twenty last birthday.’

She seemed unwilling to be more communicative, and I did not like to
enter directly on the subject of her husband’s death. Poor child! she
might have loved him as I did Dick. So, as Bessie had sauntered into the
general nursery and left us alone together, I ventured to sound her on
another matter, which I thought might be having a secret effect upon her.

‘Have you seen anything of this apparition the servants speak of, Mrs
Graham?’

‘No, madam,’ she replied, quietly.

‘It is very foolish of people to be frightened of they really don’t know
what; but no one seems to have been brave enough to try and find out the
reason of the mysterious noises heard at night here. You have heard them,
perhaps?’

‘No, madam,’ she said again, without further comment.

‘Would it alarm you to see or hear it?’ I had forced her now to say
something in reply.

‘I think not,’ she answered, ‘I think if spirits can come back from the
dead, they must do so only in sympathy with those they have left behind;
and, if that is possible, and I thought this one came for me, I should
only be too thankful to have a glimpse of its face, or to hear the sound
of its voice. I think those people who have so much fear of spirits can
never have known what it is to lose any one they would lay down their
lives to follow wherever it might lead them.’

She spoke in a low, mournful cadence that touched my heart. Poor girl!
she was thinking of her husband and her own desolate condition. I felt
for and sympathised with her, and before I left the nursery I took her
thin hand and pressed it. She looked surprised, but I had only to say, ‘I
love my own husband as my life,’ to see the tears run into her eyes, and
to know she understood me. Still she was by no means a proper person to
perform the part of a mother towards little Dick, and I resolved before I
left Poplar Farm to try and persuade Bessie to change her.

The rest of the day passed rather monotonously. I worked at one of
Dick’s shirts, and wondered how I ever could have thought Bessie such a
charming companion, whilst she alternatively indulged and scolded her
very unpleasant young family. At last they were all despatched to bed,
and as soon as decency would permit, I yawned and said I should like to
follow their example. So we were all packed away by ten o’clock, my last
act having been to pay a visit to Mrs Graham’s room, where I had left her
fast asleep with my little godson tucked in snugly on her arm. Bessie lay
awake for some time talking of the celebrated ghost, but I was too sleepy
to be a good listener, and am afraid I dropped off in the midst of her
recital. When I waked again, it was by dint of feeling her shake my arm.

‘Dolly! Dolly!’ she was exclaiming, in a low, hurried voice. ‘Listen!
there is the sound, and close against the door.’


END OF VOL. I.




NOTICE.


IMPORTANT NEW WORK by the Author of “Recommended to Mercy.”

_In 2 vols., Crown 8vo, 18s._

Early in June will be published a New Work by

MRS. HOUSTOUN,

Author of “Barbara’s Warning,”

Entitled

MEMORIES OF WORLD-KNOWN MEN,

Containing Personal Recollections of

WORDSWORTH, JOHN WILSON CROKER, THEODORE HOOK, WILLIAM IV., the late LORD
DERBY, MRS. NORTON, HARRISON AINSWORTH, and other well-known personages.

F. V. WHITE & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.




                                                             _June, 1883._

F. V. WHITE & CO.’S SELECT NOVELS.

_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each._


THE FOLLOWING VOLUMES OF THE SERIES ARE NOW READY,

_And can be obtained of all Booksellers in Town and Country, and at all
Railway Bookstalls_.

_Those marked thus (*) can also be had in Picture Boards, 2s._

THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “Love’s Conflict,”
“Phyllida,” “A Broken Blossom,” &c., &c., &c.

    “‘The Root of all Evil’ is quite up to Miss Marryat’s
    reputation, and can be honestly recommended to those who enjoy
    a good strong story, capitally written, in this clever writer’s
    best style.”—_Morning Post._

ALLERTON TOWERS. By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip), Author of “Denis
Donne,” “Friends and Lovers,” &c.

* THE DEAN’S WIFE. By MRS. EILOART, Author of “My Lady Clare,” “How He
Won Her,” “Some of our Girls,” &c., &c., &c.

    “Any reader who wants a good story thoroughly well told cannot
    do better than read ‘The Dean’s Wife.’”—_John Bull._

    “‘The Dean’s Wife’ must be classed as a decidedly good
    novel.”—_Graphic._

* MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “A Broken
Blossom,” “Phyllida,” “How They Loved Him,” &c., &c.

                        _OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._

    “‘My Sister the Actress’ is the best novel we have had
    the pleasure of reading from the pen of Miss Florence
    Marryat.”—_John Bull._

    “The three volumes will be read through with avidity.”—_Court
    Journal._

    “‘My Sister the Actress’ is infinitely above the average run of
    novels.... A skilfully told and remarkably interesting story
    which will add to Miss Marryat’s reputation.”—_Court Circular._

    “The tone of the book is distinctly wholesome.”—_Scotsman._

    “It is both clever and amusing.”—_Daily News._

    “Everywhere it is fresh, lively, and thoughtful.”—_Public
    Opinion._

    “The characters are drawn with great power.... The story is
    one of unusual interest and ought to secure a great number of
    readers.”—_Sunday Times._

    “We can fully recommend the book to our readers as being
    thoroughly interesting and cleverly written.”—_Sylvia’s Home
    Journal._

    “It is a very pretty story and told in the Author’s happiest
    manner.”—_Morning Post._

    “We have been agreeably surprised, and have no hesitation
    in placing this latest work far beyond her previous
    novels.”—_Lloyd’s._

* A BROKEN BLOSSOM. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “Phyllida,” “Facing the
Footlights,” &c., &c., &c.

    “Deserves to be ranked as the most artistic and altogether the
    best work of fiction its clever and prolific author has yet
    written.”—_Scotsman._

    “A really charming story, full of delicate pathos and quiet
    humour, pleasant to read, and pleasant to remember.”—_John
    Bull._

    “‘A Broken Blossom’ is a pleasantly told tale, and will
    doubtless find acceptance with many.”—_Morning Post._

* SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD, Author of “Mollie
Darling,” &c., &c.

    “The story from first to last is attractive, and cannot fail
    to command wide favour.... There is, indeed, throughout
    the whole of the story a most unusual power, not only of
    language but of imagination, and the tender pathos, which is
    introduced in no laboured fashion, adds a charm which it is
    difficult to describe, but impossible for the reader not to
    appreciate.”—_Whitehall Review._

    “There is a genuine flavour of the old-fashioned romance in
    it which is too frequently lacking in what may be termed the
    latter-day novel.”—_Court Circular._

    “‘Sweetheart and Wife’ is a love idyll, skilfully painted
    in the midst of many people and many scenes, described by
    one who writes with that very rare attribute of the modern
    novelist—knowledge of, and familiarity with, the society she
    pictures.”—_Life._

    “So many pretentious people write stupidly and ignorantly of
    fashionable life that it is a real pleasure to come across a
    novel by one who is thoroughly familiar with Society and all
    its little vanities. From this point of view ‘Sweetheart and
    Wife’ is a book which is likely to be in great demand at the
    circulating libraries for some time to come. It is a love
    story, told with charming simplicity and not a little power.
    Many of the descriptions are full of picturesque beauty, the
    dialogue is strikingly natural, and the plot is consistently
    and cleverly developed.”—_Society._

* TWO MEN AND A MAID. By HARRIETT JAY, Author of “The Queen of Connaught,”
“Madge Dunraven,” “The Priest’s Blessing,” &c., &c., &c.

    “Compared with the former works of the authoress of ‘The
    Queen of Connaught’ this novel must be pronounced second to
    none.”—_Graphic._

    “The gradual building up of the incidents preceding the
    wedding and the dim foreshadowing of catastrophe are managed
    with such skill as to produce the greatest excitement of
    expectation.”—_Sunday Times._

    “Abounding in pathetic incidents and strongly dramatic
    situations.”—_North British Daily Mail._

PHYLLIDA. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “My Sister the Actress,” “A
Broken Blossom,” &c., &c., &c.

    “This is one of the most fascinating and interesting novels we
    have met with for a long time.”—_Sunday Times._

    “This is the best of Miss Marryat’s works; the plot is original
    and fantastic, full of spirit and vitality. ‘Phyllida’ is
    decidedly one of the best novels of the season.”—_Court
    Journal._

    “‘Phyllida’ is a novel of which the author may justly be
    proud.”—_Morning Post._

    “It is brightly written and thoroughly readable.”—_Lloyd’s._

    “‘Phyllida’ has all the advantage which a very striking and
    dramatic opening can give it.”—_John Bull._

BARBARA’S WARNING. By MRS. HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy,”
“Lost in the Crowd,” &c., &c.

SOME OF OUR GIRLS. By MRS. EILOART, Author of “The Dean’s Wife,” “How He
Won Her,” &c., &c., &c.

    “... The book is well worth perusing.”—_John Bull._

    “‘Some of Our Girls’ must be commended as a book with an
    unusually good purpose, and as quite interesting enough to
    deserve the attention of the others of ‘our girls’ to whom it
    appeals.”—_Globe._

    “The freshness, the purity, the simplicity of style, the truth
    and the directness of purpose which always characterise Mrs.
    Eiloart’s novels make them very enjoyable reading; and in all
    these points ‘Some of Our Girls’ is fully up to the level of
    its predecessors ... and few who take up the book will lay it
    down without feeling that the author has contributed to their
    intellectual enjoyment.”—_Scotsman._

A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, Author of “Guardian and
Lover,” &c.

THE PRIEST’S BLESSING. By HARRIETT JAY, Author of “Two Men and a Maid,”
“The Queen of Connaught,” &c.

           (Dedicated to the RIGHT HON. W. E. FORSTER, M.P.)

                        _OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._

    “Told with much pathos and power.”—_Era._

    “We can say for ourselves that we have read its three hundred
    pages with unfailing interest.”—_Saturday Review._

    “It is an interesting story, and thoroughly well worth the
    perusal of all who have the welfare at Ireland and the Irish
    honestly at heart.”—_Sunday Times._

    “Intimate knowledge of the national character is shown by the
    writer, who inscribes her book to Mr. Forster in earnest and
    somewhat impulsive language.”—_Daily Telegraph._

    “Miss Harriett Jay is already so well known to the public as
    a perfect mistress of style, that we need bestow no greater
    praise upon the little volume before us than by saying that
    in this respect it fully justifies the reputation acquired by
    the author of ‘The Queen of Connaught.’... Is well and boldly
    written.”—_Court Journal._

    “Miss Jay paints with graphic power the scenes of the
    story, and some of her descriptions of events and
    incidents are most vigorous and refreshing in their terse
    eloquence.”—_Nonconformist._

    “Any one who wishes to realise the mischief which may be done
    by the ceaseless plotting of the Catholic priests cannot do
    better than read ‘The Priest’s Blessing.’”—_Lloyd’s._

    “The novel is certain to attract exceptional
    attention.”—_Graphic._


_POPULAR 2s. NOVELS._

A BROKEN BLOSSOM. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “My Sister the Actress,”
“Phyllida,” &c., &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “Deserves to be ranked as the most artistic and altogether the
    best work of fiction its clever and prolific author has yet
    written.”—_Scotsman._

    “A really charming story, full of delicate pathos and quiet
    humour, pleasant to read, and pleasant to remember.”—_John
    Bull._

THE DEAN’S WIFE. By MRS. EILOART, Author of “How He Won Her,” “Some of
Our Girls,” “My Lady Clare,” &c., &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free,
2s. 4d.

    “Any reader who wants a good story thoroughly well told cannot
    do better than read ‘The Dean’s Wife.’”—_John Bull._

MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “Phyllida,” “How
They Loved Him,” &c., &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “Will be read through with avidity.”—_Court Journal._

    “‘My Sister the Actress’ is infinitely above the average run of
    novels. A skilfully told and remarkably interesting story which
    will add to Miss Marryat’s reputation.”—_Court Circular._

    “The tone of the book is distinctly wholesome.”—_Scotsman._

    “It is both clever and amusing.”—_Daily News._

TWO MEN AND A MAID. By HARRIETT JAY, Author of “The Queen of Connaught,”
“My Connaught Cousins,” &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “Compared with the former works of the authoress of ‘The
    Queen of Connaught’ this novel must be pronounced second to
    none.”—_Graphic._

AN INNOCENT SINNER. By MABEL COLLINS, Author of “Too Red a Dawn,” “In the
Flower of Her Youth,” &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “Miss Collins, who writes with correctness and vigour, has
    chosen in ‘An Innocent Sinner’ to rely for interest on an
    entirely new combination of circumstances. This ... is
    elaborated with some skill.”—_Athenæum._

    “Thinkers, who are not too wise in their own conceit, will give
    the book a much higher place in their esteem than is usually
    accorded to a work of fiction.... The book is one that ought to
    be both read and studied.”—_Whitehall Review._

    “Decidedly remarkable, and very well worth reading.”—_Morning
    Post._

    “Of peculiar originality and power.... For her freedom from
    extravagance in dealing with a topic which makes extravagance
    an almost irresistible temptation, Miss Collins must be
    especially commended.”—_Globe._

    “Must certainly be acquitted of any tendency to the
    conventional or commonplace—the besetting sin of the novelists
    of the day.... The situation is, no doubt, a delicate one, but
    we do not think the author’s treatment of it can be fairly
    objected to on the score of propriety or good taste.”—_Graphic._

    “There are both prettiness and ingenuity in the novel which
    Miss Mabel Collins, the clever daughter of a gifted father, has
    written—‘An Innocent Sinner.’ There is a grace and a power, as
    well as a strangeness, about the book which will secure for it
    many readers.”—_World._

HOW HE WON HER. By MRS. EILOART, Author of “The Dean’s Wife,” “My Lady
Clare,” “Some of Our Girls,” &c., &c.

    In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

A FATAL PASSION. By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, Author of “A Professional
Beauty,” “Guardian and Lover,” &c., &c.

    In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

SINK OR SWIM. By MRS. HOUSTOUN, Author of “Recommended to Mercy,” “Lost
in the Crowd,” &c.

    In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

EYRE OF BLENDON. By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip), Author of “Friends
and Lovers,” “Allerton Towers,” &c., &c.

    In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

GUARDIAN AND LOVER. By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, Author of “A Peeress of
1882,” “A Professional Beauty,” &c., &c.

    In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

THREE FAIR DAUGHTERS. By LAURENCE BROOKE, Author of “The Queen of Two
Worlds,” &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “This is a novel which shows real literary skill and no small
    acquaintance with his craft in its author.”—_Spectator._

    “Mr. Brooke has told well what he had to tell, and has
    produced three readable volumes, natural, entertaining, and
    fairly artistic.... ‘Three Fair Daughters’ is a pretty and a
    prettily-written tale.”—_Athenæum._

    “A vein of pleasant humour and lively fancy runs through this
    story from beginning to end.”—_Queen._

    “Laurence Brooke is a brilliant writer.”—_Court Journal._

    “There is not a dull page in the whole three
    volumes.”—_Scotsman._

    “In furnishing light, pleasant reading and drawing
    lively pictures of modern society, Mr. Brooke has few
    rivals.”—_Morning Post._

SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD, Author of “Mollie
Darling,” &c. In picture boards, 2s.; post free, 2s. 4d.

    “The story from first to last is attractive, and cannot fail
    to command wide favour.... There is, indeed, throughout
    the whole of the story a most unusual power, not only of
    language but of imagination, and the tender pathos, which is
    introduced in no laboured fashion, adds a charm which it is
    difficult to describe, but impossible for the reader not to
    appreciate.”—_Whitehall Review._

    “There is a genuine flavour of the old-fashioned romance in
    it which is too frequently lacking in what may be termed the
    latter-day novel.”—_Court Circular._


_POPULAR NEW NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRARIES._

ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN. By LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD, Author of “Sweetheart
and Wife,” “Mollie Darling,” &c. 2 vols.

POPPY. By MRS. BERESFORD (Flora Hayter), Author of “All Among the
Barley,” &c. 3 vols.

A MOMENT OF MADNESS. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “The Root of all
Evil,” “Phyllida,” “A Broken Blossom,” “My Sister the Actress,” “Facing
the Footlights,” &c., &c. 3 vols.

LOVE AND ITS COUNTERFEIT. By ALICE BERNARD. 3 vols.

VICTOR OR VICTIM? By JOHN SAUNDERS, Author of “Abel Drake’s Wife,” &c. 1
vol.

WAS IT WORTH THE COST? By MRS. EILOART, Author of “My Lady Clare,” “The
Dean’s Wife,” &c. 3 vols.

MONCRIEFFE’S SECOND WIFE. By LOLO, Author of “A Cruel Secret,” “Was Hers
the Fault?” &c. 3 vols.

    “... There are many who will be delighted with ‘Moncrieffe’s
    Second Wife.’”—_Public Opinion._

MISS STANDISH. By MISS A. BEWICKE, Author of “Onwards, but Whither?” &c.
3 vols.

AN APRIL DAY. By PHILIPPA PRITTIE JEPHSON, Author of “Lord Farleigh,” &c.
2 vols.

    “... This graceful story.”—_Athenæum._

    “The story in itself is very real, full of true pathos, and not
    devoid of power.... It is graceful and charming from first to
    last.”—_Morning Post._

    “... It is altogether a pleasant story, pleasantly told, and
    worth spending an idle half-hour over.”—_Whitehall Review._

    “... It is charmingly and freshly told, the language is easy
    and refined ... there is a natural and pictorial grace about
    the book.”—_St. Stephen’s Review._

    “... The book is never dull.... The tone of the story is
    wholesome, unaffected, and pleasant throughout.”—_John Bull._

    “... This novel will be found attractive, and full of romance.”
    —_Public Opinion._

FRANK AYRTON. By MRS. J. M. M. HEWETT. 1 vol.

IN THE FLOWER OF HER YOUTH. By MABEL COLLINS, Author of “Too Red a Dawn,”
“An Innocent Sinner,” &c. 3 vols.

    “Miss Collins’s ably-written story is likely to be well
    received.”—_Athenæum._

    “Miss Collins is acquiring more strength and facility as
    she continues in authorship. The tale before us has some
    well-conceived situations.”—_Academy._

    “Miss Collins has evidently thrown her whole heart into her
    work, for many passages are full of eloquence and fire. The
    pathetic scenes are composed with a power of detail that in
    many cases will thrill the reader. Engrossing as are the first
    and second volumes, the third far excels either.... Miss
    Collins is the author of several stories of fiction, for which
    she has obtained the good opinion of her admirers, but ‘In the
    Flower of Her Youth’ far excels her former efforts.”—_Public
    Opinion._

    “Miss Collins may certainly be congratulated on having
    maintained, so far as the story itself is concerned, the
    originality of style which distinguishes her previous
    books.”—_John Bull._

    “Brough, however, is sketched with so much fidelity that the
    portrait will certainly be recognised by those who remember
    the brilliant, genial, and jovial original who, not so many
    years ago, used to shoulder his way along Fleet-street and
    the Strand, and was once, by the way, a familiar figure in
    the streets of Nottingham.... The description of Siena is
    charming—a complete picture without dry detailed literalness,
    and replete with poetic feeling. ‘In the Flower of Her Youth’
    is in almost all respects an able, and in many respects a
    powerful, book.”—_Nottingham Daily Guardian._

ON DANGEROUS GROUND. By MISS EDITH STEWART DREWRY. 3 vols.

_SECOND EDITION OF_

A PEERESS OF 1882. By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, Author of “Guardian and
Lover,” “A Professional Beauty,” &c. 3 vols.

    “A wide popularity may safely be anticipated.”—_Morning Post._

    “Those who delight in love stories have a feast in store in
    these three volumes.”—_Modern Society._

_THIRD EDITION OF_

FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS. By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of “My Sister the
Actress,” “A Broken Blossom,” &c. 3 vols.

    “‘Facing the Footlights,’ as its name indicates, is highly
    melodramatic.”—_Athenæum._

    “... Is at once an entertaining and well-written romance....
    The characters are admirably drawn.... We must congratulate
    the authoress on the production of a really excellent
    novel.”—_Court Circular._

    “... The story is interesting and well worked out.”—_St.
    James’s Gazette._

FRIENDS AND LOVERS. By ANNIE THOMAS (Mrs. Pender Cudlip), Author of
“Denis Donne,” “Allerton Towers,” &c., &c. 3 vols.

    “The incidents of the story become most interesting from the
    charm of the writer’s style.”—_Queen._

    “... Will be welcomed by the large circle of Mrs. Cudlip’s
    admirers. It is certainly in all respects equal to its
    now numerous predecessors, and in many points superior to
    many.”—_Graphic._

    “Mrs. Pender Cudlip’s tale has great variety of scene and
    incident.... None of the usual materials for the making of a
    good novel are absent in ‘Friends and Lovers,’ and the author
    has shown much skill in weaving a more than usually complicated
    plot. This, united to the writer’s style, always full of
    movement and brightness, will insure a large circle of readers
    for her latest work.”—_Morning Post._


MISCELLANEOUS PUBLICATIONS.

OUR TOUR IN SOUTHERN INDIA. By MRS. J. C. MURRAY AYNSLEY, Author of “Our
Visit to Hindostan,” &c. 1 vol., demy 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d.

UNCLE ANTONY’S NOTE BOOK. By MARY CAUMONT. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 2s. 6d. Post
free, 2s. 9d.

    “Miss Caumont has produced a volume of charming little stories
    for children, full of genuine pathos and dealing with subjects
    and incidents such as young readers can appreciate.”—_Scotsman._

    “This little volume of tales for young folks is well
    written.... We can heartily recommend ‘Uncle Antony’s Note
    Book’ for the amusement it affords and the sound moral it
    conveys.”—_Court Journal._

UNCLE GRUMPY, and other Plays for Juvenile Actors and Actresses. By R.
ST. JOHN CORBET. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 2s. Post free, 2s. 3d.

    “A pleasant little work, which will be a valuable acquisition
    to boys and girls in holiday time. The plays are bright and
    humorous, and, as set forth on the title-page, may be easily
    learned, easily acted, and easily mounted.”—_Liverpool Daily
    Post._

    “As a book of parlour theatricals it is admirably suited to its
    purpose.”—_Dundee Advertiser._

HOUSEHOLD CHEMISTRY FOR THE NON-CHEMICAL. By A. J. SHILTON, F.C.S. Crown
8vo. Limp cloth, 2s. Post free, 2s. 4d.

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF FRED. G. BURNABY, Col. Commanding the Royal
Horse Guards Blue, Author of “A Ride to Khiva.” In Picture Cover, 1s.
Post free, 1s. 2d.

A REVIEW OF THE BELT TRIAL. With List of Witnesses Examined, and a Sketch
of the Life of Mr. Belt, &c., &c. Price 1s. Post free, 1s. 2d.


_NEW NOVELS IN THE PRESS._

A FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE. By MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, Author of “A Peeress of
1882,” “A Fatal Passion,” &c. 3 vols.

UNDER THE LASH. By MRS. HOUSTOUN, Author of “Lost in the Crowd,”
“Recommended to Mercy,” &c. 2 vols.

THROUGH THE STAGE-DOOR. By HARRIETT JAY, Author of “My Connaught
Cousins,” “Two Men and a Maid,” &c. 3 vols.

UNDER THE BAN. By CHARLES GIBBON, Author of “Auld Robin Gray,” &c. 3 vols.

HIS DEAREST WISH. By MRS. HIBBERT WARE, Author of “The King of Bath,” &c.
3 vols.

ONLY AN ACTRESS. By EDITH STEWART DREWRY, Author of “On Dangerous
Ground,” &c. 3 vols.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MOMENT OF MADNESS, AND OTHER STORIES (VOL. 1 OF 3) ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.