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diff --git a/old/67237-0.txt b/old/67237-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e86c55e..0000000 --- a/old/67237-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7237 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of An Open Verdict, Volume 1 (of 3), by -Mary Elizabeth Braddon - -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: An Open Verdict, Volume 1 (of 3) - A Novel - -Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon - -Release Date: January 23, 2022 [eBook #67237] - -Language: English - -Produced by: David Edwards, Eleni Christofaki 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 AN OPEN VERDICT, VOLUME 1 (OF -3) *** - - - - - -Transcriber’s note - -Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation -inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made -can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters -are indicated as follows: - -_italic_ - - - - - AN OPEN VERDICT - - A Novel - - BY THE AUTHOR OF - ‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’ - ETC. ETC. ETC. - - IN THREE VOLUMES - - VOL. I. - - [Illustration] - - LONDON: - JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. - 4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET, - 1878 - - [_All rights reserved._] - - - - -CONTENTS TO VOL. I. - - - CHAP. PAGE - - I. MRS. DULCIMER HAS HER VIEWS 1 - - II. SWORD AND GOWN 18 - - III. IN THE PARISH CHURCH 31 - - IV. ‘DOWER’D WITH OUR CURSE, AND STRANGER’D WITH OUR OATH’ 54 - - V. HIS ITALIAN WIFE 73 - - VI. CHRISTIAN HAREFIELD’S ANSWER 101 - - VII. MRS. DULCIMER MEANS BUSINESS 120 - - VIII. THE SCRATCHELLS AT HOME 133 - - IX. A FLINTY-HEARTED FATHER 153 - - X. TWO LOVE LETTERS 166 - - XI. BELLA IN SEARCH OF A MISSION 180 - - XII. ‘OH, THINK’ST THOU WE SHALL EVER MEET AGAIN?’ 197 - - XIII. SIR KENRICK’S ANCESTRAL HOME 210 - - XIV. BELLA OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION 219 - - XV. MR. NAMBY’S PRESCRIPTION 245 - - XVI. BELLA GOES ON A VISIT 262 - - XVII. MRS. PIPER’S TROUBLES 272 - - XVIII. A WITNESS FROM THE GRAVE 299 - - - - -AN OPEN VERDICT. - - -CHAPTER I. - -MRS. DULCIMER HAS HER VIEWS. - - -‘SIR KENRICK would be a splendid match for her’, said the Vicar’s wife. - -‘As poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer,’ retorted the Vicar, without -lifting his eyes from a volume of his favourite Bishop Berkeley. - -It was the Vicar’s way in these _tête-à-tête_ conversations by the -domestic hearth. He read, and his wife talked to him. He could keep -his attention on the most intricate chain of argument, and yet never -answer Mrs. Dulcimer’s speculative assertions or vague questionings -away from the purpose. This was the happy result of long habit. The -Vicar loved his books, and his wife loved the exercise of her tongue. -His morning hours were sacred. He studied or read as he pleased till -dinner-time, secure from feminine interruption. But the evening was -a privileged time for Mrs. Dulcimer. She brought a big workbasket, -like an inverted beehive, into the library directly after dinner, and -established herself in the arm-chair opposite the Vicar’s, ready for a -comfortable chat. A comfortable chat meant a vivacious monologue, with -an occasional remark from Mr. Dulcimer, who came in now and then like -a chorus. He had his open book on the reading easel attached to his -chair, and turned the leaves with a languid air, sometimes as if out of -mere absence of mind; but he was deep in philosophy, or metaphysics, -or theology, or antiquarianism, for the greater part of his time; and -his inward ear was listening to the mystic voices of the dead, while -his outward ear gave respectful attention to Mrs. Dulcimer’s critical -observations upon the living. - -‘As poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer,’ repeated the Vicar, with -his eye upon a stiffish passage in Berkeley. - -‘I call it a proper pride,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘And as for poverty, -she would have money enough for both. And then he has the estate.’ - -‘Mortgaged up to the hilt.’ - -‘And the title.’ - -‘Now do you really believe, Selina, that those three letters of the -alphabet, S I R, prefixed to a man’s name, can give him the smallest -possible distinction in the estimate of any of his fellow-creatures not -lunatic?’ - -‘What is the use of talking in that high and mighty way, Clement? I -know that Mary Turner, an insignificant little thing with red hair and -a speckly skin, who was at school with me at the Misses Turk’s, at -Great Yafford, was very much looked up to by all the girls because her -uncle was a baronet. He lived a long way off, and he never took any -notice of her, that we could find out; but he was a baronet, and we -all felt as if there was a difference in her on that account. I don’t -pretend to say that we were not very ridiculous for thinking so, -but still you know a school is only the world in little--and the world -sets a high value on titles. I should like to see Beatrix mistress of -Culverhouse Castle.’ - -‘Her father’s money would be convenient for paying off the mortgages, -no doubt, provided Mr. Harefield approved of the marriage. Rather a -difficult old gentleman, I fancy.’ - -‘Difficult!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer; ‘he’s detestable! a wicked old -tyrant. If it were not for our friendship Beatrix’s life would be -unendurable.’ - -‘Do you really think we are any good to her?’ inquired the Vicar, in -his dreamily uncertain way, as of a man who was too doubtful about the -groundwork of existence to feel any certainty about its minor details. - -This was his Bishop Berkeley mood, his mind varying in hue and tone -according to the book he was reading. Just now he felt that mind was -paramount over matter, and was hardly disposed to interest himself -warmly in a young woman who might have no existence except in his own -idea of her. - -‘My dear, our house is the only notion of home the poor child has,--the -only place where she meets pleasant people, or hears and sees pleasant -things. How can we fail to improve and develop her? I am sure, without -egotism, I may say that I have been a God-send to that motherless girl. -Think how _farouche_ she was when she first came to us.’ - -‘Yes, she was a wild, untamed kind of creature,’ assented the Vicar. -‘Beautiful as a portrait by Rembrandt though, with that tawny skin -of hers. I call her _la belle sauvage_. She always reminds me of -Pocahontas.’ - -‘Now wouldn’t it be a blessing, Clement, if we could see her -well married--married to a man of position, you know--and an -honourable-minded man, like Kenrick? You know you always said he was -honourable. You could always believe him.’ - -‘True, my love. Kenrick had his good qualities. He was not a lad that -my heart ever warmed to, but I believe he did his work honestly, and he -never told me a lie.’ - -‘Then don’t you think,’ urged the enthusiastic Selina, ‘that he would -make Beatrix Harefield an excellent husband?’ - -‘My dear,’ said the Vicar, gravely, ‘you are the best natured of women; -but I am afraid you do a great deal of harm.’ - -‘Clement!’ - -‘Yes, my love. Good-nature in the abstract is undoubtedly beautiful; -but an active good-nature, always on the alert to do some service to -its fellow-creatures, is of all attributes the most dangerous. Even the -attempt of this good man, Bishop Berkeley, to found a college in the -Bermudas resulted in waste of time and money. He would have done better -had he stayed at his Irish Deanery. The man who does least harm in the -world is your calmly selfish person who goes through life by the narrow -path of a rational self-indulgence, and never turns aside to benefit or -interfere with the rest of the human race.’ - -‘One of your dreadful paradoxes, Clement. How does that agree with St. -Paul’s definition of charity?’ - -‘My love, St. Paul’s charity is a supremely passive virtue. It -suffereth long, is not easily provoked, is not puffed up, thinketh no -evil--all which qualities are compatible with strict neutrality as to -one’s fellow-creatures’ affairs.’ - -‘Suffereth long--_and is kind_, you left that out, Clement.’ - -‘Kindness there I take to imply a mental state, and not a pushing, -exacting benevolence,’ replied the Vicar. ‘Charity poketh not its nose -into its neighbour’s business--maketh not matches--busieth not itself -with the conduct of other people’s lives--and never doeth any harm. -Good-nature does no end of mischief--in a perfectly well-meaning way.’ - -The Vicar spoke with some soreness. Poor Mrs. Dulcimer’s good-nature, -and sometimes misdirected energy, had been getting her into trouble -for the last twenty years. Everybody liked her; everybody dreaded and -abhorred her good-nature. She had no children of her own, and was -always full of good advice for the mothers of her acquaintance. She -knew when babies ought to be weaned, and when they were sickening for -the measles. She tried to heal family quarrels, and invariably made the -breach wider. She loved match-making, but her matches, when brought -to the triumphant conclusion of licence or wedding cake, seldom stood -the test of a few years’ matrimony. She was so eager to do the best -for the young men and women of her acquaintance, that she generally -brought ill-assorted people together, taking too broad a view of the -fitness of things, on the ground of income, family, age, and such -vulgar qualifications, and ignoring those subtle differences which set -an eternal mark of separation upon certain members of the human family. - -‘I think, Selina, if I were you, I would leave Beatrix to find -a husband for herself,’ said the Vicar, stretching out his legs -comfortably before the wide hearth. ‘She is young--there is plenty of -time. Let her come here as often as she pleases. I like to see that -Rembrandt face of hers. But let things take their own course. - - “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, - Rough hew them as we will.” - -Don’t you think it is almost an impertinence towards that ever active -Providence for us poor worms to be always taking one another’s lives -under our petty protection, and trying to shape them our way?’ - -‘Clement!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, ruffling her plumes a little. She -wore a good deal of lace frilling and muslin puffing about her neck and -breast, and these adornments were subject to an occasional agitation, -like the feathers of an excited Dorking, or one of the Vicar’s -golden-pencilled Hamburgs. ‘Clement,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you have a -beautiful temper, but I’m afraid you are selfish.’ - -The Vicar laid down his book with a smile of satisfaction. He saw the -opportunity for a paradox. - -‘My love, did you ever know a good-tempered man who wasn’t selfish? -or rather, did you ever know a thoroughly selfish person who wasn’t -good-tempered? Your wisely selfish man knows his own interest too well -to fret and fume about trifles. He knows that, after five-and-twenty -years of age, the supreme good in this life is repose, and that he can -never enjoy it unless he cultivates an easy temper.’ - -‘Selfishness is a vice, Clement.’ - -‘That depends upon what we call selfishness. If a strict neutrality as -to my neighbour’s business means selfishness, assuredly I am the most -selfish of men.’ - -‘The Gospel tells us we are to love our neighbour as ourselves, -Clement.’ - -‘I obey that divine precept implicitly. I never worry myself. I never -worry my neighbour.’ - -The Vicar might have gone a step further, and said that he liked to -feed his neighbour as well as he liked to feed himself--for, in that -one quality of caring for the body as well as for the souls of other -people, Clement Dulcimer was a faithful follower of his Divine Master. - -‘And I’m afraid you allow things in your parish that oughtn’t to be, -Clement, sometimes,’ ventured Mrs. Dulcimer. - -‘My dear, God allows them. They are done under the All-seeing Eye. If -He cannot make men better, do you suppose I can?’ - -‘You might lead them to Him, dear.’ - -‘I try my best to do that, Selina; but I don’t drive them. That’s -where I fall short, I admit. Cyril is trying his hand at the driving -process. He’s young and energetic. We shall see how it answers, and how -long he sticks at it.’ - -‘Cyril is the most earnest young man you’ve ever had as a curate.’ - -‘I taught him myself, and I know what he’s made of,’ murmured the Vicar. - -‘And there’s no denying that he has done good already, Clement. The -schools are better attended, and there are more poor people at church -on a Sunday evening.’ - -‘Since you have such a high opinion of Cyril, how is it that you have -never thought of him as a husband for Beatrix? A clergyman ought to -marry a fortune if he marries at all. He can put the money out to -higher interest than any one else. He keeps a deposit account in -heaven.’ - -‘But, Clement, the title!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘and Culverhouse -Castle. Such a position for dear Beatrix.’ - -‘Ah, to be sure, the position! I suppose a girl thinks more about -that now-a-days than of her lover’s mind or person. But certainly -Cyril is both handsomer and cleverer than his cousin Kenrick. I -should like a curate with a large income, it would be so good for the -parish. And then we might rub on without the weekly offertory Cyril is -always plaguing me to institute, and which I am convinced will set my -congregation against me. Fancy me going up to my pulpit as a beggar -every Sunday, and my people expecting value for their money out of my -sermon. Imagine their remarks at the church door: “Not much there for -sixpence,” “A very poor shilling’s worth,” and so forth.’ - -‘Clement,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, thoroughly scandalized this time, -and with all her frills in motion, ‘you ought never to have been a -clergyman.’ - -‘My love, I freely admit that some easier walk in life might have -suited me better. A sub-librarian’s place, now, in some antique -library, like the Cheetham Institution at Manchester. I should have -had my books round me, and my superior to tell me what to do. No -responsibilities, and leisure for self-culture. But if I am a poor -creature as a parson, you supplement me so well, Selina, that, between -us, I think we do our duty to the parish. That last batch of soup was -excellent. I tasted it yesterday at old dame Hardy’s. The clear soup -we get at Lord Highflyer’s state dinners is mere pot-liquor compared -with it. Indeed, I think,’ pursued the Vicar, dreamily, as if he were -meditating a proposition of Berkeley’s, ‘that all clear soups are more -or less a mistake--tasting only of sherry and burnt sugar.’ - -‘Always thinking of temporal blessings, Clement.’ - -‘They are the only blessings we can fully realize while on this side of -eternity, my dear. We may be excused if we sometimes set an undue value -on them.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer sighed, and opened her workbasket. There were little -shirts and flannel swathings to be made for new-comers into this world -of troubles--heirs apparent to a life of labour, with a reversionary -interest in the workhouse. The Vicar’s wife spread her piece of linen -on the table, and began a series of problems with a parallelogram -in stiff brown paper, in order to find out how she might get the -maximum of baby-shirts out of the minimum of linen. It vexed her that -her husband should take life so lightly, and be troubled about a few -things, when she was troubled about so many. She had no doubt that he -was in the wrong, and that she and Cyril Culverhouse understood the -real meaning of their duties a great deal better than the Vicar. - -Clement Dulcimer was the living embodiment of an idea which at this -time had not yet been put before the world by Mr. Matthew Arnold. He -was all sweetness and light. He believed in culture as the highest -good. He lived among his books, and upon his books; and those books -were of the best that the elect of this world have written. He sought -no happiness beyond his library, save in his garden and poultry yard, -which afforded his senses the gratification of colour and sweet scents, -sunshine and balmy air. He had travelled little, and sighed but faintly -for a pleasure which he found impossible. His books and his poor -absorbed all his spare cash. There was none left for foreign travel--so -Mr. Dulcimer was content to enjoy Greece in the pages of Thucydides, -or Childe Harold--to stand on the threshold of the sacred grove with -Antigone--to know Cithæron only on the lips of Œdipus--to see the sandy -plain of Marathon, or the walls of Thebes, with his mind’s eye alone. - -‘I dare say I should be disappointed if I saw the reality,’ he murmured -placidly. ‘Realities are so disenchanting. Or I might be taken by -brigands, and poor Selina would have to sell her great-grand-father’s -silver tea-kettle to ransom me.’ - -The living at Little Yafford was a good one, and the parish was small. -It was altogether one of those exceptional cures which are reserved -for the more fortunate sons of the Church. Mr. Dulcimer had obtained -it while he was still a young man, the living being in the gift of his -uncle, Sir Philip Dulcimer, of Hawtree Hall and Yafford Park. Yafford -Park was rather a dreary place, with an unwieldly barrack of the -Georgian era in the middle of it, and Sir Philip had been very glad to -grant a large lease of park and mansion to Mr. Piper, the Great Yafford -cotton-spinner, who spent a great deal more money in little Yafford -than Sir Philip would have done, but who was looked down upon by his -neighbours on principle. Great Yafford, the manufacturing town five -miles off, was as Radical a place as you would care to find, but Little -Yafford was essentially aristocratic, ignored the commercial element -altogether, and thought it an affliction to be so near the tall chimney -shafts of the busy town. - -Little Yafford had perhaps some right to give itself airs, on the -strength of being one of the prettiest villages in Yorkshire. It was -like a spoiled beauty, and felt that nothing could be too good for it. -Great bleak hills rose up between it and the bitter east winds, a river -wound in and out of the village like a shining serpent, and licked its -green meadows and garden boundaries. The long low stone bridge was as -old as the Romans. There was not an ugly house in the place--except -that big barrack of Sir Philip’s, and that was hidden behind the fine -old elms and oaks of the park. There was not a neglected garden, or -an objectionable pigsty. The gentry were all well-to-do people, who -bestowed money and care upon the beautification of their homes; while -the poorer parishioners were under the influence of Mr. Dulcimer’s -sweetness and light, and Mrs. Dulcimer’s active good-nature, and -laboured industriously to make their cottages lovely. - -To come from stony, noisy, smoky, crowded Great Yafford to pastoral -Little Yafford, was like coming from purgatory to paradise--an earthly -paradise of rustic beauty and placid repose, content, and harmony. Yet -Mr. Dulcimer’s last new curate, Cyril Culverhouse, breathed many a -thoughtful sigh over the ignorances and even vice which he discovered -in this smiling village. Coming out of some cottage door, over which -the roses and honeysuckle hung in unpruned luxuriance, his lips would -often involuntarily ejaculate the familiar words of the evening -collect--‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord.’ - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -SWORD AND GOWN. - - -AT various periods of his tranquil career the Rev. Clement Dulcimer -had found it convenient to add to his income by taking a private -pupil or two. He could not have endured what he called a herd of -young men, meaning half a dozen, but he rather liked to have a -couple of intelligent young fellows following him about through the -dawdling progress of his out-of-door life, or hanging upon his words -in the comfortable quietude of his study. He was an excellent master -for classics and theology--mathematics he frankly abhorred--and -he taught conscientiously in his own unconventional way. The men -he coached generally came out well; but in after life there was a -tinge of eccentricity in them--a strain imparted by Clement Dulcimer -unawares--and which in one or two cases took the unhappy form of -latitudinarianism. Spinoza on the brain, some people called it. - -The two pupils who had stayed longest at the Vicarage, and occupied the -most important position in the minds of the Vicar and his wife, were -Kenrick Culverhouse and his first cousin Cyril. Old Sir Kenrick and -the Vicar had been at Oxford together, and it seemed the most natural -thing that the baronet should send his only son and his orphan nephew -to his old chum, more especially as he could nowhere else educate -them so well or so cheaply. Culverhouse Castle was a fine historical -place in Hampshire, which tourists went out of their way to see, but -which the late Sir Kenrick did not regard with any enthusiasm. He had -been more or less under a cloud of money difficulties ever since he -could remember, and preferred lodgings in St. James’s to his feudal -birthplace. The moat was all very well, and so was the massive old -keep, on the top of which the gardener had made a kitchen-garden for -gooseberries and strawberry beds; but Sir Kenrick liked Jermyn Street -and the clubs a great deal better; and, if a man must have a castle, -the King’s Bench, in which he had spent some of the liveliest days -of his youth, was much pleasanter to his mind than Culverhouse. Lady -Culverhouse was fond of the castle, no doubt--or at any rate she stayed -there, and it was a tradition in the family that no other air suited -her, and that she was quite rooted to the spot; a tradition which -was all the more firmly established because nobody had ever proposed -taking her anywhere else. Old Sir Kenrick and his wife had gone to -join the family ashes in the vault under Culverhouse Church, and young -Sir Kenrick reigned in his father’s stead. All the quicksilver in the -Culverhouse veins seemed to have run out with the last baronet. Young -Kenrick was steady and thoughtful, and the mortgages weighed upon his -spirits like a nightmare. He was always thinking what the estate would -be if those mortgages could but be paid off. - -It seemed to him an Eldorado. But there were only he and his cousin and -heir presumptive to accomplish this great work. And how were two young -men, moderately gifted, to earn fifty thousand pounds between them? - -‘Unless one of us were to break out into a Walter Scott, or discover a -new motive power to supersede steam, I don’t see how it’s to be done,’ -Kenrick said to Mrs. Dulcimer, in one of his confidential talks with -that good-natured lady, who knew all that he could tell her about the -mortgages and the property. ‘The army won’t do it--and the church -won’t do it--and the law wouldn’t do it under thirty years’ work. -Engineering might do it, perhaps, if we could blossom into Brunels, and -get contracts for railways and things; but, you see, neither of us has -a turn for engineering.’ - -‘You ought both to marry heiresses,’ suggested Mrs. Dulcimer. - -‘Oh no, that’s horrid. We couldn’t do that,’ cried Kenrick. ‘That’s too -contemptible.’ - -This was how Kenrick had talked at seventeen, when he was in his state -of tutelage. He was more reticent about himself and his prospects now, -at nine-and-twenty, but Mrs. Dulcimer had forgotten nothing, and when -Kenrick looked grave, she always thought he was brooding upon the -mortgages. - -‘I know that the dearest wish of his heart is to redeem the family -position,’ she said, and this was what set her thinking about a -marriage between Sir Kenrick and old Mr. Harefield’s only daughter and -heiress. - -Cyril had gone into the church. He loved his profession for its own -sake, and thought very little of the loaves and fishes. He would like -to be a bishop, no doubt, when his time came; but it was for the sake -of having a great influence and doing things in his own way, not for -social status or income, that he would have desired a mitre. Doing -things in his own way--that was Cyril’s idea of a perfect life. To make -his church beautiful, according to his idea of beauty, to have good -music, and a strict adherence to the rubrics in Edward the Sixth’s -Prayer-book, to infuse something of the poetry of old traditions into -the prosaic expression of a reformed faith--to train his flock in his -own way of thinking--to create for himself an enthusiastic and fervent -congregation. These were the things which Cyril Culverhouse believed he -had been sent into the world to do--rather than to help his cousin to -pay off the mortgages, which mattered very little, so long as poor Ken -had money enough to live upon. - -Kenrick had chosen the army for his profession. A military career -offered a poor prospect of paying off the mortgages, but it was at -least a gentleman-like line of life, and the four or five hundred a -year which could be squeezed out of the burdened estate enabled Kenrick -to live like a gentleman among his brother officers. Honour and wealth -might come to him together, perhaps, in the distant future; and when -he was growing old, and had lost the zest of life, he might be able -to do something for Culverhouse Castle. Cyril would be a bishop, most -likely, by that time, and they would sit over their port and filberts -in the wainscoted parlour at Culverhouse, wagging their grey heads -deprecatingly at the shortcomings of the rising generation, condemning -new guns and novel doctrines, new lights of all kinds in camp or temple. - -Kenrick had served in India, and was home on leave. He was very fond -of his cousin, for they had been brought up together, and nothing -could be pleasanter to him than to spend his holiday fishing and -shooting, reading or idling round about Little Yafford. He had liked -the neighbourhood as a lad. He loved it now for the sake of those -boyish days which were so delightful to look back upon--all the lights -in the picture remembered, all the shadows forgotten. He had an almost -filial affection for Mr. and Mrs. Dulcimer--and the hills and moors and -wandering streams of Yorkshire had a charm for him which was second -only to his delight in his native Hampshire. - -The two young men were sitting by Cyril’s hearth on this autumn -evening, talking confidentially over pipe and cigar. They had spent the -day apart, Kenrick tramping over the moors with his gun, Cyril engaged -in his parish work. - -They were talking of Christian Harefield, the owner of the Water House, -one of the most important places in Little Yafford, after the Park, and -the father of that Beatrix whom Mrs. Dulcimer was so anxious to dispose -of matrimonially. - -‘One of the most disagreeable men I ever met in my life,’ said Kenrick. -‘Miss Harefield was driving him in her basket pony carriage--he looked -about as suitable an occupant of a pony carriage as Mephistopheles for -a go-cart--and I met them at the bottom of the hill, going up that -wild road to the moor. I wonder whether he was going to gather the -samolus, left-handed and fasting, or to cut mistletoe with a golden -sickle? Upon my word, he looked as grim and ancient as a Druid. Beatrix -stopped the pony when she saw me, and introduced me to her father. -“This is Sir Kenrick Culverhouse, papa,” she said, whereat the Druid -grunted. “Are you going far up the hill?” I asked, with the originality -which distinguishes these casual conversations; “I’m afraid it will be -dark before you come back.” “Oh, we don’t mind that,” she said, “Puck -and I know our way so well.” So they went up into the thickening mist, -and I saw no more of them. I dare say they are up there still. Do you -know if the old gentleman is quite right in his mind?’ - -‘Yes, his mind is clear enough, so far as I have been able to discover; -he is eccentric.’ - -‘And grumpy.’ - -‘Of a gloomy turn, no doubt. He goes nowhere, and receives no one, -except Mr. Scratchell, his lawyer and agent. He seems like a man whose -whole nature has been soured by a great sorrow. People say that his -wife’s death broke his heart.’ - -‘One would hardly suppose such a being could ever have had a wife--much -less that he could have been fond of her. When did the lady die?’ - -‘Don’t you remember? She died while we were at the Vicarage--about -eleven years ago. There was a good deal of talk about it at the time. -Mr. Harefield and his wife were travelling in Italy. Beatrix and her -governess were with them--she was a child then, you know,--and Mrs. -Harefield died very suddenly--after a few hours’ illness. It was a case -of Asiatic cholera, I believe. People who know Mr. Harefield, or rather -who knew him before that time--for he holds himself aloof from every -one now--say that he has been a changed man since the shock of his -wife’s death.’ - -‘A melancholy story,’ said Kenrick. ‘I forgive him the discourteous -grunt which was his sole recognition of my existence. Poor Beatrix! A -sad beginning for her life.’ - -‘Yes,’ answered Cyril, with warm interest. ‘Motherless so early--with -so strange and gloomy a father. You cannot wonder that she is somewhat -different from other girls.’ - -‘Somewhat different from other girls,’ echoed Kenrick. ‘She is a queen -compared with other girls. That is the difference. She is worth twenty -other girls--a hundred--for she has a character of her own.’ - -Cyril looked at him curiously. - -“‘Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley!’” he exclaimed, ‘You are not often so -enthusiastic, Ken.’ - -‘Because I seldom see anything to praise--in a woman. Don’t be -frightened, Cyril. I do admire Beatrix, but only as I admire anything -else in nature that is noble and rare; and I know that you admire her -with quite another kind of admiration, though you have not honoured me -by communicating your ideas upon the subject.’ - -Cyril knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the old-fashioned hob, and -said not a word until he had filled it again, slowly and thoughtfully. - -Clement Dulcimer was right when he called Cyril the handsomer of -the two cousins. His pale clear-cut face was essentially noble. Yet -it was by no means essentially attractive. That steadfast look and -unchangeable gravity were unpleasing to many; but, on the other hand, -Cyril’s rare smile was beautiful in all eyes. It was the sudden light -of mind brightening the whole countenance; not a mechanical contraction -of the lips revealing a fine set of teeth, and wrinkling the eyelids -agreeably. It was a smile that meant sympathy, regard, beneficence--a -smile that comforted and cheered. The miserable among his flock knew it -well; society saw it seldom. - -Cyril’s eyes were gray, and had that steady look which passes for -severity; his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth beautiful, his brow -broad and high, with hair of neutral brown cut close to the well-shaped -head, and curling crisply--hair like a gladiator’s, said Kenrick, who -rather prided himself upon the lighter auburn of his own locks, as -he also did upon the finer line of his nose, which inclined to the -Grecian, and accorded with his low straight brow and expressionless -eyes, whose pupils seemed to have no more life and colour than the -sculptor’s dint in the marble orb. - -Kenrick had what is called an aristocratic look, and rather flattered -himself upon those evidences of blue blood supposed to exist in an -attenuated but open nostril, a tapering hand, and an arched instep. -These peculiarities, he imagined, declared as plainly as Domesday Book -or title-deeds that the Culverhouses were great people on the other -side of the Channel before they honoured England by coming across the -sea with Norman William to appropriate some portion of it. - -‘She is a noble creature,’ said Cyril, with conviction, when he had -pressed the last shred of latakia into the well-filled bowl, ‘but -she is Christian Harefield’s only child; and he is rich enough and -suspicious enough to impute mercenary motives to any poor man who -ventured to fall in love with his daughter.’ - -‘Fathers have flinty hearts,’ retorted Kenrick, lightly. ‘That’s an old -saying, but sons and daughters generally contrive to follow their own -inclinations in spite of paternal flintiness. I feel very sure that -Beatrix will choose for herself, and marry the man she loves. She is -just the kind of girl to dash herself blindly against the torrent of -paternal wrath. It would be a grand thing for you, Cyril. You could -have the Culverhouse living--a poor benefice, but on your native -soil--and live at the Castle. I doubt if I shall ever be able to occupy -it properly,’ he added, with a regretful sigh. - -‘I would take her without a sixpence, and work for her and cherish -her all the days of my life,’ said Cyril, in a deep-toned voice that -trembled with strong feeling, ‘but I cannot teach her to rebel against -her father. “Honour thy father and thy mother.” She hears me read that -sublime command every other Sunday, and am I to be the first to teach -her to set it at nought?’ - -‘How do you know that the old Druid would object to you?’ - -‘I do not know as much directly, but Beatrix tells me that he will -oppose any choice of hers.’ - -‘Obnoxious ancient Briton! Well, Cyril, all I can say is, if I were in -love with a girl, I should think no more of her father than Romeo did -of old Capulet, and I should sink the fifth commandment till after I’d -married her--and then she could honour her father with a cock robin and -holly bush card at Christmas, or a pair of muffettees on New Year’s -Day, or a sugar egg at Easter.’ - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -IN THE PARISH CHURCH. - - -THE Sunday evening service at Little Yafford parish church was as -fashionable in its own particular way as an Italian opera in June. -Everybody met everybody else there. The psalms were chanted very -fairly, the anthem was always a feature, the prettiest hymns were sung, -and the sermon, whether preached by the vicar or curate, seemed to -have a peculiar life and fervour in it that harmonized with the more -exalted feelings of the flock. The cold realism of Sunday morning gave -place on Sunday evening to a vague enthusiasm, a spiritualized ardour. -Of course there were people for whom that lofty liturgy soared too -high--uncultured souls which demanded to be fed on coarser diet,--but -these were outside the pale, and generally wore a style of bonnet which -would have been a blot on the subdued beauty of the parish church, with -its noble nave, long narrow aisles, carved rood screen, and waggon -roof. These barbarians worshipped in a queer little chapel in High -Street, to which they descended a step or two from the level of the -pavement, and in which tabernacle they might be heard singing their own -particular hymns with the utmost strength of their untrained voices, as -the Church of England people went by, the Dissenters assembling half an -hour earlier than their conforming brethren, and generally prolonging -their service half an hour later. - -It was a pretty scene, that parish church of Little Yafford, in the -late October evening. The clusters of wax candles in the brazen -branches threw just enough light on column and arch to leave the -greater part of the building in shadow. The rich colouring about the -altar made a glow of splendour at the end of the gray stone chancel. -The old oak pews, with their quaintly carved doors, reflected the light -redly on bosses that took every shape, from the graceful _fleur-de-lys_ -to the dog-faced demon or blunt-nosed cherub. The font in its distant -corner gleamed whitely below a cover of crimson cloth. Crimson cushions -in many of the pews, and the dark green and gold adornment of pulpit -and reading desk, the old brass lectern, the new brass candelabra, -brightened the sombre stone and dark brown oak, and made up in some -wise for the loss of the stained glories of the chancel window, dull -and dead at this hour. - -The people came in quietly by twos and threes, and took their places -with the usual hushed and solemn air; then the throng thickened, and -the pews began to fill; and then the bells rang more slowly, and there -came a plaintive strain of melody from the organ, soft and subdued -as a whisper. This swelled presently into a voluntary, and became a -triumphant peal as the vestry door opened and the surpliced choir -entered the chancel, two and two, the small boys first, and the rather -clumsy-looking men bringing up the rear. After these followed Cyril -Culverhouse, looking tall in his white raiment and crimson hood, and -lastly the Vicar, a broad and dignified figure that seemed to have been -intended for lawn sleeves and a bishop’s gown. - -A girl in one of the pews directly facing the chancel looked up from -her open book as Cyril took his place in the reading desk, and then -looked quickly down again, as if the sight were too terrible. That -swift shy look, and sudden fall of the eyelids told a secret old as -Time himself. Mr. Culverhouse was something more than the curate of -Little Yafford to that one member of his congregation. She was a -girl of striking appearance, richly but carelessly dressed in velvet -and silk, with feathers in her bonnet, according to the fashion for -that year made and provided. She had one of those brilliant Southern -complexions--that rich mingling of carnation and palest olive--which -are alone sufficient for good looks; but in her case this charm was -heightened by the splendour of dark Italian eyes, and the warm brown of -rippling hair. Her brow was broad but low, her nose nondescript, her -lips firmly moulded, her teeth faultless, her eyebrows strongly marked, -and of a darker brown than her hair. - -‘I am always afraid of Trix’s eyebrows,’ Isabella Scratchell, the young -lady’s bosom friend, used to say. ‘They remind me of thundery weather.’ - -Miss Scratchell was sitting next her friend in the Harefield pew -to-night. She was a small slim person, distinguished by a pink and -white complexion, and insignificant blunt features of the Dresden china -type. There was a Scratchell pew in one of the aisles, but Beatrix -liked to have her friend with her, and the Water House pew was in the -more aristocratic and fashionable situation, advantages peculiarly -agreeable to Isabella Scratchell. - -Mr. Harefield assisted at the Sunday morning service half a dozen times -or so in a quarter, just often enough to escape the stigma of absolute -indifference or infidelity. His handsome Italian wife had been a Roman -Catholic, and there was a feeling among the more bigoted section of -society in Little Yafford that Mr. Harefield was generally lax in his -ideas, like the Romans when they began to import foreign gods, and that -he would not have minded worshipping Isis and Osiris if those deities -had come in his way. - -‘He has travelled so much, you know, my dear,’ said Mrs. Piper, of the -Park, to Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘and having married a foreigner, you see, one -can hardly expect him to be quite correct in his ideas. A sad education -for that poor girl. I am told he has taught her Greek, and hasn’t -allowed her to learn music. But I think that can hardly be true.’ - -‘It is actually true about the music,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, reflecting -her friend’s look of horror. ‘He hates the piano, and he had Mrs. -Harefield’s old-fashioned Broadwood sent up to the lumber-room in the -tower. But there is no use in thwarting a natural gift. That poor child -has taught herself by ear, and plays and sings very sweetly. She spends -hours up in that old turret room--in the coldest weather--wrapped -in a shawl, picking out our church music. Mrs. Harefield had an -extraordinary gift, you know.’ - -‘I never saw Mrs. Harefield. She died before Ebenezer took the Park.’ - -‘Yes, of course. I ought to have remembered. She was a lovely woman; -and I believe that Christian Harefield was passionately fond of her, in -his way; but it was not a happy marriage; there were quarrels. I did -my best, but not successfully. There is an unconquerable severity and -coldness in that man’s nature; and his wife had one of those ardent, -impetuous dispositions,--you know what I mean.’ - -‘Exactly,’ chimed in the visitor, whose mind had wandered a little, -and who was wondering when the Dulcimers would have a new drawing-room -carpet. The present one was threadbare, and had been ingeniously turned -and pieced, like a puzzle, odd bits of brighter colour fitting in here -and there rather too obviously. That foolish Mr. Dulcimer spent all -his money on books, and never improved his furniture, whereas in Mrs. -Piper’s ideal house there was no litter of books and pamphlets, but the -last fashion in carpets and tapestry table-covers, cabriole chairs and -sofas, and the newest kinds of antimacassars. - -Although Mr. Harefield was not often to be seen in the parish church -himself, he had no objection to his daughter’s frequent attendance -there; and the church and the vicarage afforded the only variety in -the dullest life that a well-born heiress ever led. The music was a -delight to her sensitive ear; for the organist was a fine musician, -and the organ was a noble instrument, which had been presented to -Little Yafford in the reign of William the Third, by a city merchant -who had been born in the village, and who came back there to die -after having made his fortune in hides and tallow. His monument, in -coloured and gilded marbles, after the florid style of the period, -adorned the chancel, and recorded his public and private virtues, and -his munificent gift of the organ, in a long Latin epitaph, with a great -many adjectives ending in _issimus_. - -The Scratchells had a comfortable old house in the village, but Miss -Harefield was not allowed to visit there, although Isabella was her -only friend and companion. Isabella might come to the Water House as -often as she liked, but it was an understood thing that Beatrix was -not to go to Mr. Scratchell’s, a distinction which Mrs. Scratchell and -Isabella’s brothers and sisters resented as invidious. - -‘We are not good enough for the heiress,’ said Clementina Scratchell, -sarcastically. - -‘She’s the most stuck-up young woman I ever saw,’ said Bertie, the -eldest son, a sandy-complexioned, pug-nosed youth, who had been -christened Herbert, but who had more the air of a Samuel or a Thomas. - -Such remarks as these, if overheard, always brought down the paternal -wrath upon the utterer. Even Mrs. Scratchell would remark mildly that -poor people must not quarrel with their bread and butter, and that Mr. -Harefield was a very good client to father, and that it was very kind -of Miss Harefield to be so fond of Bella, although she did look down -upon the others, which might be a little wounding to one’s feelings, -but poor people must not be proud. - -This fact of their poverty had always been kept before the eyes of the -young Scratchells. It encountered them at every turn. If the boys tore -the knees of their trousers in forbidden climbing of trees, they were -reminded mournfully by a desponding mother that their parents were -hard-working people, and that these destructive habits were a direct -wrong to those toil-worn bread-winners. - -‘It isn’t as if your father began life with a fortune, Bertie,’ Mrs. -Scratchell would say. ‘He has to work for every sixpence, and you ought -to have thought of that before you climbed the mulberry tree.’ - -It was in all things alike. The Scratchells were never permitted to -make any mistake as to their place in the social scale. It was to be -a subordinate place always. They were to work for their bread, as -their father had done before them, as their mother worked daily, from -sunrise to sunset, in homely drudgery that made no effect or impression -upon the world, and left nothing behind when life was done, not so -much as an embroidered chair cover, or a thin volume of indifferent -verses, to be admired by the next generation. They were to work, these -young Scratchells. Their education was not given to them for its own -sake--on the sweetness and light principle--but as a preparation for a -laborious career. Herbert was to be apprenticed to Mr. Pontorson, the -surveyor at Great Yafford. Adolphus--poor Mrs. Scratchell had insisted -upon giving her children the cheap luxury of fine names--was promised -a clerkship in a factory. Isabella was already earning a salary as -morning governess to the little Pipers at Yafford Park. It was not -an onerous engagement, and left her afternoons free. Mr. Scratchell -thought she ought to get another engagement to fill up her afternoons, -but as yet Isabella had contrived to avoid this double labour. She was -her father’s favourite, and was believed to have great influence over -him. It was she who was always charged with the task of imparting any -disagreeable intelligence to him, such as the kitchen boiler having -cracked, the supply of coals being nearly run out, or Adolphus having -broken ‘another window.’ The previous fracture on this wretched youth’s -part was always so recent as to exaggerate the iniquity of the present -offence. - -It was scarcely strange, perhaps, if from this Spartan training the -little Scratchells grew up with the idea that poverty was life’s chief -evil. Just as the Stoics believed virtue to be the only good, the young -Scratchells believed want of money to be the only ill. - -‘Ah, my dears, a fat sorrow is better than a lean sorrow,’ Mrs. -Scratchell remarked, plaintively, when she heard of the afflictions of -her wealthier neighbours. - -She could not bring herself even to pity her husband’s patron, Mr. -Harefield, who was supposed to have had his heart broken by the -untimely death of his handsome wife. It seemed to her impossible that -so rich a man, surrounded with all the good things of this life, could -be an object for compassion. - -This close acquaintance with necessity had not endeared that stern -goddess’s countenance to Isabella. She had a secret hankering after -the good things of this life; and to her mind Beatrix Harefield, whose -solitary existence was for most people a subject of pity, was a person -to be envied. Had she not a fine old house to live in, every room -in which was like a picture, horses and carriages at her disposal, -servants to wait upon her, and an unlimited supply of pocket-money? -It was a dull life, of course, but Mr. Harefield would die before -very long, no doubt, and take his gloominess to a more appropriate -habitation, and then Beatrix would be the richest woman in the -neighbourhood, free to drain the cup of pleasure to the lees. - -Ten years ago, when Beatrix was a tall, thin-legged child in a -short black frock, recovering slowly from a severe attack of -whooping-cough, the family doctor ventured to call attention to the -exceeding solitariness of her life, and to suggest that some juvenile -companionship should be procured for her. It was less than a year after -Mrs. Harefield’s death, and the master of the Water House wore an -air of settled gloom which made him, in the minds of his fellow-men, -somewhat unapproachable. The doctor made his suggestion timidly. He was -only the family practitioner of Little Yafford, and was much humbler -in his manners and pretensions than the bakers and butchers of that -settlement; for those traders knew that people must have bread and meat -always, while epidemics, accidents, and chronic diseases were subject -to periods of dulness, sorely depressing to the faculty. If he had -been Dr. Fawcus, the consulting physician of Great Yafford, he would -have ordered playfellows for Miss Harefield with as off-hand an air -as he ordered boiled chicken and barley water. But Mr. Namby made the -suggestion tentatively, quite prepared to withdraw it if it were ill -received. - -‘The child seems dull, certainly,’ said Mr. Harefield. ‘She doesn’t -run, or skip, or scream, like the general run of children. I have -thought it an advantage; but I suppose, as you say, it is a sign of -feebleness of constitution.’ - -‘I think that anything which would enliven her spirits might conduce -to her recovery,’ replied the doctor. ‘She doesn’t gain strength as -fast as I should wish.’ - -‘Really!’ said Mr. Harefield, with a far-off look, as if he were -talking of somebody at the Antipodes. ‘Well, if you think it wise, we -must get her a playfellow. I have received no visitors, as you know, -since my wife’s death. In my best days I always considered society more -or less a bore, and I could not endure to have people about me now. But -we must get a playfellow for the child. Have you a girl that would do?’ - -The surgeon blushed. What an opening it might have been for his -daughter, had she been old enough! Unhappily she was still in her -cradle. He explained this to Mr. Harefield. - -‘My agent, Scratchell, has a little girl, I believe.’ - -‘He has several.’ - -‘One is quite enough,’ said Mr. Harefield. ‘I’ll tell him to send one -of his girls to play with Beatrix.’ - -Writing to his agent on some business matter that evening, Christian -Harefield added this postscript,-- - -‘Oblige me by sending the quietest of your girls to play with my -daughter every afternoon at three.’ - -The request was somewhat curtly put, but the Scratchells saw in it -the opening of a shining path that led to the temple of fortune. From -that hour Isabella was exalted above all her sisters and brothers. She -was like Joseph with his coat of many colours. All the other sheaves -bowed down to her sheaf. She had better raiment than the others, that -she might be presentable at the Water House. She never had her boots -mended more than once. After the second mending they were passed on to -Clementina, whether they fitted or not. Clementina protested piteously. - -Beatrix received her new companion, and absolutely her first -playfellow, with open arms, and a heart overflowing with love that had -run more or less to waste hitherto, or had been squandered on ponies, -dogs, and guinea-pigs. Miss Scales, the governess, was not lovable. -One might as well have tried to love the Druid stones on the moor -above Little Yafford. Christian Harefield wrapped himself in gloom as -in a mantle, and lived apart from all the world. So Isabella’s coming -was like the beginning of a new life for Beatrix. She was enraptured -with this little fair-haired girl, who knew how to play at all manner -of nice games which Beatrix had never heard of, and which Miss Scales -condemned as vulgar. Happily Isabella had been so well drilled in the -needy, careful home, that she behaved with a propriety in which even -Miss Scales could find no flaw. When questioned by Mr. Harefield, the -governess reported favourably, though with a certain condescending -reserve, of the young guest, and, from coming for an hour or two every -afternoon, Isabella came almost to live at the Water House, and to -receive a share of Miss Scales valuable instructions, that lady’s -acquirements being of a solid and unornamental character which Mr. -Harefield approved. - -‘I shall have your girl carefully educated,’ said Christian Harefield -to his man of business. ‘I am bound to make some return for her -services as my daughter’s companion. But if you want her taught music -and dancing, you’ll have to get that done elsewhere. My girl learns -neither.’ - -As well as these educational advantages Isabella received other -benefits which her youthful mind better appreciated, in the occasional -gift of a silk frock or a warm winter jacket, purchased for her by Miss -Scales at Mr. Harefield’s desire; and when Beatrix grew up and had -plenty of pocket-money, she was always giving Bella presents. - -‘It’s like having a fairy godmother,’ said Flora, the third of the -Scratchell daughters, with a pang of envy. - -There sat the two girls in the Water House pew this October evening, -everybody in the parish church knowing their history, and thinking it -a very pretty trait of character in Mr. Harefield’s daughter that she -should be so fond of her humble friend Bella; for it must be understood -that Mr. Scratchell, never having been able to struggle out of the -morass of poverty or to keep more than one maid-servant, hardly took -his full professional rank in the village, or was even regarded as a -gentleman by Act of Parliament. - -It was a recognised fact that without Mr. Harefield’s business, -the collection of rents, and drawing up of leases, and ejection of -troublesome tenants, and so on, the Scratchells could hardly have gone -on existing, outside the workhouse, the solicitor’s practice, over and -above this agency, being of the pettiest and most desultory order. - -Bella’s pretty little Dresden china face was bent over her book as the -choir and clergy came filing in. But though Bella’s head was gracefully -bent, she gave a little upward glance under her auburn eyelashes, and -contrived to see that look in Beatrix’s face which was in itself the -beginning of a history. And then the service began, and both girls -seemed absorbed in their devotions, while Mrs. Dulcimer, contemplating -them benignantly from the vicarage pew, thought what a pretty pair they -made, and wondered whom she could pitch upon as a husband for Bella. -The poor little thing ought to be married. She was not a great heiress -like Beatrix, but it was not the less incumbent upon some good-natured -friend to find her a husband--nay, it was a Christian duty to do so. -Matrimony would be the poor child’s only escape from straitened -circumstances and a life of toil. Everybody knew what a struggle these -poor Scratchells had to make for the bare privilege of living. - -‘She’s rather pretty, and certainly graceful,’ mused Mrs. Dulcimer, -while one of the wicked kings of Israel was misconducting himself. - -Even a clergyman’s wife’s mind will occasionally wander, though her -husband may be reading the lesson. - -‘I wish I could think of some one to suit her,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer to -herself. - -And then it chanced that her glance roamed absently to the -reading-desk, where Cyril’s crisp brown hair and strongly marked brow -showed above the open Prayer-book. - -‘The very man!’ Mrs. Dulcimer ejaculated inwardly, in an ecstasy of -good nature. - -It is so delightful to feel one’s self the providence of one’s -neighbours. Poor Mrs. Dulcimer’s mind was distracted during the rest of -the service. This notion about Cyril was one of those splendid ideas -which take hold of the female mind with over-mastering power, like a -brilliant scheme for turning a silk dress, or making up last year’s -exploded bonnet into the latest fashionable shape for this year. Vainly -did the busy soul try to pin her mind to the Prayer-book. She could not -get her thoughts away from the suitability of a match between Cyril and -Bella. There was a remarkable fitness about it. Neither of them had -any money of their own. That made it so nice. They couldn’t feel under -any obligation to each other. Cyril would, of course, get on well in -the church. People always did who were as earnest and well connected -as Cyril Culverhouse. And then what an admirable wife Bella would make -for a poor man--a girl who had been brought up to pinch, and contrive, -and deny herself, and make sixpence do the work of a shilling! It never -occurred to Mrs. Dulcimer that this long apprenticeship to self-denial -might have induced in Bella a craving for the good things of this life, -and an ardent desire for the opportunity of self-indulgence. - -By the time Cyril went up into the pulpit to preach his sermon, Mrs. -Dulcimer had married him to Isabella, and settled them in a modest but -comfortable living, with the prettiest and most rustic of vicarages, -where the housemaid’s pantry would afford ample scope for Isabella’s -domestic talents, while the ignorance of an agricultural parish would -give full play to Cyril’s energy and earnestness. - -Cyril Culverhouse preached an admirable sermon. He had that gift -of clear and concise language, short sentences, bold and distinct -expression, appropriate metaphor, and strong colouring, which makes -certain books in the English language stand out from all other writing -with a force and power that command the admiration alike of the -cultured and uncultured reader. He had not the subtlety, finesse, and -erudition of his Vicar, who preached for the most part to please his -own fancy, and very often over the heads of his congregation. Cyril’s -earnestness made every sermon an exhortation, a call to repentance -and holy living. It was hardly possible to hear him and not be moved -by him. It would have been sheer stony-heartedness in his hearers to -sit there and listen to him and make no resolve to live better, and be -touched by no pang of compunction for past errors. - -Beatrix listened with all her soul in her eyes. Once and once only -Cyril’s large gaze, sweeping the mass of faces, caught that upward -look of the dark eyes. It seemed to him to take away his breath for a -moment, and checked the progress of a vigorous peroration. He faltered, -substituted a word, recovered himself in an instant, and went on; and -no one knew how that one little look had moved him. - -The clock struck eight as the congregation came trooping out of the -church, with much greeting of neighbours in the darkness just outside -the old stone porch. Mrs. Dulcimer seized upon the two girls, as they -were going away, with a sober-looking man-servant, in a dark livery, in -attendance on the heiress. - -‘You are not going home, Trix,’ cried the Vicar’s wife. ‘You and Bella -must come to the Vicarage to supper. It’s an age since I’ve seen you.’ - -‘Dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I spent the day with you only last Tuesday! I am -quite ashamed of coming so often!’ - -‘You foolish child, you know it is my delight to have you. And Bella -must come to-night. I insist on Bella’s coming too.’ - -This was said with unconscious condescension. It was, of course, a -grand thing for Miss Scratchell to be asked to supper at the Vicarage. - -‘Papa expects me to go straight home,’ said Beatrix, evidently anxious -to accept the invitation. - -‘My love, you know your papa never expects anything from you. You are -quite your own mistress. Parker,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, wheeling suddenly -and addressing herself to the footman, ‘you will be good enough to -tell your master, with my compliments, that I am taking Miss Harefield -to the Vicarage for supper, and that you are to come for her at ten -o’clock. You understand, Parker, at ten; and you can take a glass of -ale in the Vicarage kitchen while Miss Harefield puts on her bonnet.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer always went into details, and overflowed in small acts of -good nature to the inferior classes. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -‘DOWER’D WITH OUR CURSE, AND STRANGER’D WITH OUR OATH.’ - - -THERE was no pleasanter house in Little Yafford or its neighbourhood to -visit on a Sunday evening than the shabby old Vicarage, in which Mr. -and Mrs. Dulcimer had lived happily for the last twenty years. It was -an old house--and had never been a grand house even in its best days; -indeed, there was a legend in Little Yafford that it had once belonged -to a farm, and there was a certain homely substantiality and solidity -about it which favoured that idea. Severe critics declared that there -was not a single good room in the house, and it must be admitted that -all the rooms were low, and that the chimneys projected into them in -a way which modern architecture disallows, leaving a deep recess on -each side to be filled up with books, old china or such miscellaneous -goods as Mrs. Piper, of the Park, denounced comprehensively as rubbish. -The windows were casements, with leaden lattices, and admitted as -little light as was consistent with their obvious functions. Heavy -beams supported the low ceilings, big old grates devoured incalculable -quantities of fuel, but happily coals--pronounced for the most part as -a dissyllable--co-als--were cheap at Little Yafford. - -The furniture was in keeping with the house, for it was all ancient and -shabby, and had a wonderful individuality about it, which, in Clement -Dulcimer’s opinion, quite atoned for its shabbiness. Almost all those -old chairs and tables, and sofas, and brass-mounted sideboards, and -Indian cabinets, and Queen Anne whatnots, had come to the Vicar by -inheritance, and it was to him as if he saw the friendly faces of dead -and gone kindred smiling at him from the three-cornered bureau, or -the Japanese escritoire, or the walnut-wood chest of drawers. He even -got into the way of calling the furniture after the testators who had -left it to him, and would tell his wife to fetch him the packet of -sermon-paper out of Aunt Tabitha, or that he had left his spectacles on -Uncle Joseph. - -The dining-room on this autumnal Sunday evening had a look of homely -comfort which was cheering to a heart not given wholly over to -spiritual things. It was a long low room, with three square casements -on the southern side, and a wide old fireplace, bordered with blue -and white Dutch tiles, at the end. On each side of the fireplace was -the deep recess before mentioned, filled with old oak shelves, on -which were ranged the odds and ends of porcelain and delf which had, -as it were, dropped from various branches of the family tree into -Clement Dulcimer’s lap. Aunt Tabitha’s Swansea tea set, with its -sprawling red roses on a cream-coloured ground; uncle Timothy’s quaint -Lowestoft jugs; cousin Simeon’s Bow punchbowl; grandmamma’s Oriental -dessert-plates; a Chelsea shepherdess _minus_ an arm, a Chelsea -shepherd piping to a headless sheep. There was a good deal of rubbish, -no doubt, as Mrs. Piper declared, amidst that heterogeneous collection; -but there was a great deal more value in those cups and plates than -Clement Dulcimer suspected, or he would have been sorely tempted to -exchange them for books. - -At the end of the room facing the fireplace stood that fine old -sideboard of the Chippendale period, familiarly known as Uncle Joseph. -Facing the windows there was a curtained archway communicating with the -library. - -To-night a big fire burned in the capacious grate, a log of the old -poplar that was blown down in the last high wind blazing merrily at the -top of the coals, as if the stout old tree felt glad to make so jovial -an end. The supper table shone and glittered with old silver and heavy -diamond-cut glass, with here and there a tall-stemmed beaker, or an -engraved flask, as old as the pictures of Teniers or Breughel. A bowl -of chrysanthemums, a ham, a game pie, a sirloin, and a salad made a -glow of colour, and promised a substantial repast. Everybody knew that -what the Vicar gave was of the best, no cheap champagnes or doubtful -moselles, but sound claret, and the finest beer that was brewed on this -side of York. - -The supper-hour was supposed to be nine o’clock, and on returning -from church the gentlemen had come straight to the dining-room. Mrs. -Dulcimer and the two girls found them there when they came downstairs -after taking off their bonnets. - -The Vicar was standing in front of the fire, caressing his favourite -tabby cat with his foot, as that privileged animal rolled upon the -hearth-rug. Sir Kenrick sat in cousin Simeon’s arm-chair, a deep -velvet-covered chair, almost as large as a small house. Cyril stood -looking dreamily down at the fire. - -‘Welcome, young ladies!’ exclaimed the Vicar, cheerily. ‘I thought Mrs. -Dulcimer was never going to give us our supper. Come, Beatrix, this is -your place, at my right hand.’ - -‘And Sir Kenrick will sit next Beatrix,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, on -manœuvring intent. ‘Bella, my love, you next the Vicar, and Cyril must -sit by me. I want to ask him about the next missionary meeting.’ - -They were all seated after good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer’s -desire,--Kenrick by the side of Beatrix, gravely contemplative of the -fine face with its rich un-English colouring; Cyril looking a little -distrait as lively Miss Scratchell discussed his sermon in her bright -appreciative way, and with an air of being quite as well read in -theology as he was. A wonderful girl, Miss Scratchell, with a knack -of picking up stray facts, and educating herself with the crumbs that -fell from other people’s tables, just as her father’s poultry picked up -their nourishment in the open street and in other people’s stable yards. - -‘How did you like the sermon, Sir Kenrick?’ asked Bella, smiling across -the chrysanthemums, and offering to the baronet’s contemplation an -insignificant prettiness, all dimples and pale pink roses. - -‘As much as I like any sermons, except the Vicar’s,’ answered Kenrick, -coolly. ‘I like to hear Mr. Dulcimer preach, because he makes me think. -I sit on tenter-hooks all the time, longing to stand up and argue the -point with him. But as for Cyril’s moral battering-rams and catapults, -and all the artillery which he brings to bear against my sinful soul, -I’m afraid their chief effect is to make me drowsy.’ - -‘They do other people good though,’ said Bella. ‘Mrs. Piper told me she -never felt awakened till she heard Mr. Culverhouse’s Lent sermons.’ - -‘Praise from Mrs. Piper is praise indeed,’ remarked the Vicar. - -‘Oh, but she really does know a good deal about sermons,’ said Bella. -‘She is very fond of what she calls serious reading; she reads a sermon -every morning before she goes to her cook to order the dinners.’ - -‘And then she goes to the larder and looks at the joints to see if -there have been “followers” overnight,’ suggested Kenrick; ‘and -according to her theological reading is the keenness of her eye and the -acidity of her temper. If she has been reading Jeremy Taylor she takes -a liberal view of the sirloin, and orders a hot joint for the servants’ -hall; if she has been reading old Latimer she is humorous and caustic, -and declares cold meat too good for domestic sinners. But if her pious -meditations have been directed by Baxter or Charnock I pity the cook. -There will be short commons in the servants’ hall that day.’ - -Bella laughed heartily. She had a pretty laugh, and she made it a rule -to laugh at any sally of Sir Kenrick’s. It is something for a penniless -village lawyer’s daughter to be on familiar terms with a baronet, even -though his estate be ever so heavily mortgaged. Bella felt that her -intimacy with the Vicarage and its surroundings lifted her above the -rest of the Scratchells. Her younger sisters used to ask her what Sir -Kenrick was like, and if he wore thick-soled boots like common people, -and ever drank anything so vulgar as beer. - -The supper went on merrily. The Vicar talked of men and of books, the -younger men joining in just enough to sustain the conversation. Supper -at the Vicarage, substantial as the meal was, seemed more or less an -excuse for sitting at a table talking, for a couple of hours at a -stretch. Long after the sirloin had been carried off to do duty in the -kitchen, Mr. Dulcimer sat in the carver’s seat, sipping his claret -and talking of men and books. Beatrix could not imagine anything more -delightful than those Sunday evening discourses. - -But now came a message from the footman in the kitchen to remind his -mistress that it was half-past ten. The rule at the Water House was -for every door to be locked and bolted when the clock struck eleven. -Beatrix started up, like Cinderella at the ball. - -‘Oh, Mrs. Dulcimer, I had no idea it was so late.’ - -‘A tribute to my conversation, or a proof of your patience, my dear,’ -said the Vicar. ‘Cyril, you’ll see Miss Harefield home. Jane, run and -get Miss Harefield’s bonnet.’ - -‘Kenrick can see Beatrix home while Cyril tells us about the missionary -meeting,’ said that artful Mrs. Dulcimer. - -‘My dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I can tell you about the missionary meeting -this minute,’ said Cyril. ‘I have had a letter from Mr. Vickerman, and -he will be very happy to preach in the morning this day three weeks, -and to give a lecture in the schoolroom in the evening.’ - -The neat little parlourmaid came back laden with jackets and bonnets, -and Beatrix and Isabella equipped themselves quickly for their walk. - -‘We really don’t want any one,’ remarked Beatrix, blushing, as the two -young men followed them into the hall. ‘Parker is here to take care of -us.’ - -Parker pulled his forelock assentingly. - -‘But I am going with you all the same,’ said Cyril, with gentle -firmness, and he had the audacity to offer Beatrix his arm before Sir -Kenrick could seize his opportunity. - -Naturally Sir Kenrick gave his arm to Miss Scratchell. - -‘What will they say at home when I tell them this?’ thought Bella. - -She liked Cyril best, and admired him as the first among men, but Sir -Kenrick’s title made him the more important person in her mind. - -All the stars were shining out of the dark calm heaven--constellations -and variable stars looking down at them from that unutterable -remoteness beyond the planet Neptune. The walk was not long, but the -way was full of beauty under that starry sky--a road that led downhill -into the watery valley which made the chief loveliness of Little -Yafford. It was a lonely road, leading away from the town--a road -bordered on one side by a narrow wood of Scotch firs, on the other by -a stretch of somewhat marshy common, and so down into the valley where -the Water House rose, with black old tower, ivy-shrouded, above the -winding river. There was an old Roman bridge across the river, and -then came the gate of the Water House, under an ancient archway. - -Cyril walked away with Beatrix’s hand under his arm, the footman -following at a respectful distance. Mr. Culverhouse forgot--or -ignored--the fact of Miss Scratchell’s residence lying exactly the -other way, and left Bella to be disposed of by his cousin. Beatrix also -seemed to forget all about her friend. She did not run back to bid -Bella good night. They would meet to-morrow, no doubt, and Bella, who -was the soul of amiability, would forgive her. - -They walked on in silence, that thrilling silence which tells of -deepest feeling. These are the moments which women remember and look -back upon in the gray sober hours of afterlife. It is not some girlish -triumph--the glory of ball-room or court--which the faded beauty -recalls and meditates upon with that sense of sad sweetness which hangs -round the memories of long ago. No; it is such a moment as this, when -her hand hung tremulous upon her lover’s arm, and words would not come -from lips that were faint with a great joy. - -‘Have you thought of what I said yesterday, Beatrix?’ Cyril asked at -last, in those grave tones of his which to her ear seemed the most -exquisite music. - -‘Did not you say it? What should I do but think of it? When do I ever -think of anything except you and your words?’ she exclaimed, with a -kind of impatience. - -‘And you have spoken to your father, or you have made up your mind to -let me speak to him?’ - -‘I have done neither. What is the use of my speaking, or of your -speaking, unless you want my father to separate us for ever? Do you -think that he will be civil to you when he knows that I love you? Do -you think he would let me marry the man I love? No, that would be -showing me too much kindness. If we lived in the good old fairy tale -days he would send out a herald to invite the ugliest and most hateful -men in the kingdom to come and compete for his daughter’s hand, and the -ugliest and vilest should have the prize. That’s how my father would -treat me if the age we live in would allow him, and as he can’t do -quite so much as that, he will wait quietly till some detestable person -comes in his way, and then order me to marry him.’ - -‘Beatrix, do you think it is right and just to talk like this?’ - -‘I can’t pronounce upon the rightness of it, but I know it is not -unjust. I am saying nothing but the truth. Ah, Cyril, I may seem wicked -and bitter and unwomanly when I talk like this; yes, I am all those -bad things--a woman unworthy to be loved by you, except that I am so -much to be pitied. But who has made me what I am? If you knew how I -used to try to make my father love me! If you could have seen me when -I was a little thin sickly child creeping into his study and crouching -at his knee, to be repulsed just a little more harshly than he would -have sent away a dog! I went on trying against every discouragement. -Who else was there for me to love?--who else was there to love me? My -mother was gone; my governess told me that it was natural for a father -to love his child--an only child--a motherless child most of all. So I -went on trying. And I think the more I tried to win his love the more -hateful I became to him. And now, though we meet two or three times a -day and speak civilly to each other, we live quite apart. When he was -dangerously ill last winter, I used to sit in the corridor outside his -bedroom day and night, fearing that he was going to die, and thinking -that perhaps at the last he might relent, and remember that I was his -daughter, and stretch out his feeble arms to me and take me to his -heart. But though death came very near him--awfully near--there was no -relenting.’ - -‘My darling, life has been very hard for you,’ said Cyril, with deepest -pity. - -She shocked him by her vehemence--but she moved him to compassion by -the depth of bygone misery her present indignation revealed. - -‘My father has been hard to me, and he has hardened me,’ she said. ‘He -turned my heart to stone. It was cold and hard as stone, Cyril, till -you melted it.’ - -‘My dearest, there are many duties involved in that great duty of -honouring your father,’ pleaded Cyril, ‘and perhaps the chief of all -is patience. You must be patient, love; the hour of relenting will come -at last. Duty and filial love will win their reward. But you must never -again speak of your father as you have spoken to-night. It is my duty -to forbid this great sin. I could not see you kneeling at the altar -rails--and put the sacred cup into your hands--knowing you cherished -such a spirit as this.’ - -‘I will not disobey you,’ she answered, with a grave humility. ‘I will -not speak of my father at all.’ - -‘And you will endeavour to think of him with kindness, as you used in -the days when you were trying to win his love?’ - -‘In those days I used to think of him with fear,’ said Beatrix. ‘The -sound of his voice or his footstep always made me shiver. But I had -this saying in my mind, “It is natural for a father to love his -motherless child,” and I did try very hard, very patiently, to make him -love me.’ - -‘Go on trying, dearest, and the love will come at last. Remember the -parable of the unjust judge. Human love, like heavenly love, is to be -won by many prayers. And if I am to be your lover, and your husband, -Beatrix, I can only be so with your father’s knowledge and approval. -Dearly, deeply as I love you, I will not stoop to win you by deceit and -suppression. I would not so dishonour you, I could not so dishonour -myself.’ - -‘Let me go then,’ cried the girl, passionately. ‘Throw me away as -you would throw a withered rose into that river,’ pointing to the -dark stream under the Roman arch--shadowy waters on which the distant -stars shone dimly,--‘you will never win me with his consent. He will -not believe in your love for me. He will misjudge and insult you, for -he believes in no man’s truth or honour. He has made for himself a -religion of hatred and suspicion. Why should we make him the ruler -of our lives--why should we accept misery because he wills us to be -miserable? You are quite sure that you love me, Cyril--it is really -love and not pity that you feel for me?’ she asked, suddenly, with a -gush of womanliness. - -‘The truest, fondest, deepest love man ever felt. Will that content -you?’ - -‘It does more than content me--it makes me exquisitely happy. Then, -since you love me, Cyril, and really choose me above all other -women--so many of them worthy to be so chosen--for your wife, you must -stoop a little. You must be content to take me without my father’s -consent, or blessing, and without his money. But we do not care for -that, do we, either of us?’ - -‘Not a jot, Beatrix. The money is a millstone round your neck. Let that -go, with all my heart. But if you and I were to be quietly married some -day at the old parish church, darling, and were to walk away together -arm in arm into a happy, smiling, useful future, as we might do,--can -you guess what the world would say of your husband?’ - -‘No--unless it said he was foolish to choose so faulty a wife.’ - -‘The world would say that the penniless curate played a crafty game, -and that, knowing Christian Harefield would never consent beforehand -to receive him as a son-in-law, he had hazarded his chances on a -clandestine marriage, counting upon Mr. Harefield’s being won over to -receive him and forgive his daughter afterwards. That is what the world -would say of any man, Beatrix, who married under such circumstances; -and that is what the world shall not say of me.’ - -‘Then you value the world’s opinion more than you value me,’ said -Beatrix. - - ‘“I could not love thee, dear, so much, - Loved I not honour more,”’ - -answered her lover. ‘I shall call upon your father to-morrow.’ - -The church clock and the stable clock at the Water House began to -strike eleven. - -‘Good night, Cyril, you must be the manager of our destiny, but I’m -afraid you will bring about nothing but sorrow and parting.’ - -‘I will do what is right, my dear. I will trust in Him who rules and -governs all hearts--even your father’s when he seems hardest to you.’ - -‘Good night, Cyril.’ - -‘Good night, my best and dearest.’ - -He would not take her to his heart, or kiss the proud lips that were -so near his own as they stood side by side in the shadow of the wide -archway, though the discreet Parker kept his distance. He only took her -hand and pressed it gently, and, with a murmured blessing, left her, -just as the little low door in the archway opened, and the light shone -faintly from within, making a kind of aureole round the bald head of -the old gardener who lived in the mediæval gateway. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -HIS ITALIAN WIFE. - - -THAT deep shadow of gloom which had fallen upon Christian Harefield’s -life seemed to have descended also upon the house he lived in. The -house--with its low ceilings, narrow corridors, strange ins and outs, -odd corners, and black oak panelling--had doubtless been more or less -gloomy of aspect for the last two hundred years. But an old world -gloom like this contrasts pleasantly with the movement and bustle -of glad domestic life--the flashes of sudden colour--the glow of -many hearths--winter’s yule log and summer’s wealth of flowers--the -fresh shrill voices of young children--the hospitalities of eventide, -the passing in and out of many figures, varied yet recurrent as the -combinations of a kaleidoscope. - -For the last fifty years the Water House had been known to all Little -Yafford, and within a radius of twenty miles, as a grave and sober -mansion, where high jinks of any kind were as little to be expected as -a reappearance of white-robed, oak-crowned Druids in that stony circle -on the moor which had once reeked with the blood of human victims. - -Old Christian Harefield, the father of the present owner of the estate, -had been distinguished for various eccentricities, the chief of which -was love of money. He did not love it too well to spend it on himself, -but he loved it too well to waste it upon his fellow-creatures, whom he -did not love. He was a born man-hater. No youthful disappointments, no -wrong-doing of a familiar friend, no inconstancy of a woman, had soured -his temper, or changed the current of his life. In his nursery he had -regarded outside humanity with a cold distrust, and had been selfish -in the transactions of his babyhood. At Eton he was known as the most -respectable of lads, and was universally detested. There was a legend -of his having given a boy he disliked the scarlatina, deliberately and -of malice aforethought; and this was the only thing he had ever been -known to give away. At the University he took care of himself, made -his rooms the prettiest in his quad, rode good horses, read diligently -and took his degree with ease, but he refused all invitations to wine -parties, rather than incur the expense of returning hospitality, and -he was remembered among his contemporaries as Stingy Harefield. When -the time came for him to marry he made no attempt to escape that -ordeal, as it presented itself to him in the form of an alliance with -a certain Jane Pynsent, a young lady whose personal attractions were -not startling, but whose father had enriched himself by commerce, and -had recently acquired a large tract of land in Lincolnshire. The young -lady and the tract of land went in one lot, and Christian married -her, without feeling himself guilty of that kind of sentimental folly -called ‘falling in love;’ a weakness which offended his reason in those -inferior animals whom stern necessity obliged him to acknowledge as -his fellow-creatures. From this alliance of the mercantile classes and -the landed gentry sprang an only child, Christian the second. In his -boyhood and youth he gave indications of a nobler and wider nature -than his father’s. He was careless of money--had his attachments -among his schoolfellows and companions at the University--gave wine -parties on a larger scale than any undergraduate of his year--read -hard--rode hard--was at once dissipated and a student--came through -his examinations with flying colours, and left behind him a reputation -which caused at least half a dozen freshmen to ruin themselves in the -endeavour to imitate ‘Alcibiades Harefield,’ that being the name which -Christian the second had won for himself. - -There were hard words between father and son when the young man went -back to the Water House with a B.A. degree, and a sheaf of bills on a -more tremendous scale than usual. His mother’s estate had been settled -upon Christian the younger, and beyond those paternal reproaches, he -suffered very little from his extravagance. His majority, which had -been wisely, or unwisely, deferred to his twenty-fifth birthday, would -make him independent. He stayed a month or so at the Water House--shot -on the moors--read late of nights in the sombre library--dined out -very often, and saw as little of his father as was consistent with -occupation of the same house. After this brief experience of domestic -life he went off to the Continent, and remained there roaming from -city to city, for the next ten years of his life, his father living -on quietly at the Water House all the time, eating and sleeping and -riding his steady cob, and generally taking care of himself in an -eminently respectable and gentleman-like manner. In the tenth year of -his son’s absence the father died suddenly of apoplexy--a catastrophe -which seemed to most people in Little Yafford the natural close of a -selfish, self-indulgent life. Christian appeared at the Water House in -time for the funeral, after travelling day and night for a week. He saw -his father buried, he examined his father’s papers in Mr. Scratchell’s -presence, and he perused his father’s will drawn by Scratchell, and -leaving everything to ‘my only son, Christian Harefield.’ The will had -been made directly after Mrs. Harefield’s death, when Christian the -younger was still at Eton; and although the father and son had not got -on particularly well together afterwards, Christian the elder had not -troubled himself to alter his bequest. He was too essentially selfish -to leave a shilling away from his own flesh and blood. Christian had -not treated him well, but Christian was in some wise a part of himself; -and although he did not care much for Christian, there was nobody else -for whom he cared at all. - -Christian Harefield, now lord of the double estates, went back to the -Continent, where he was heard of no more for the next five years, at -the end of which time there came a report of his marriage with a very -handsome Italian girl; but as everybody in Little Yafford remarked, -‘there had been no advertisement in the _Times_, which made the whole -thing seem rather odd and irregular.’ A year or two later Mr. Harefield -was heard of as living near Florence with the lovely Italian wife and a -baby, and nine years after his father’s death he came suddenly home to -the Water House, bringing the lovely wife, and a little girl of three -years old, home with him. He was now a man of middle age, very grave -of aspect, but courteous and not inaccessible. Aged people at Little -Yafford began to speculate upon a change at the Water House. It would -be as it had been when the late Christian Harefield was a child, and -old Mr. and Mrs. Harefield gave hunting breakfasts and dinners, and -the old place was kept up altogether as it ought to be--with a great -deal of company in the dining-room, and plenty of waste and riot in the -kitchen and servants’ hall. - -Christian Harefield did not quite realize those hopes which memory had -evoked in the hearts of the oldest inhabitants of Little Yafford; but -he was not unsocial. The Water House resumed something of its ancient -splendour: there was a large household liberally conducted--a fine -stud of horses filled the roomy old stables. Mr. Harefield received -his neighbours cordially, and gave dinners enough to satisfy the most -exacting among his friends. - -There had been a great many stories, for the most part purely the work -of invention; or of that gradual cohesion of casual particles floating -in space, which is the root of all scandal. Some people had heard, as -a certain fact, that the beautiful Italian had been a flower girl, -and that Mr. Harefield had seen her selling violets in the streets -of Florence. Others were equally certain that she had been an opera -singer. Others were assured that ballet-dancing had been her profession -at the time she attracted her wealthy lover’s attention. The more -scandalous hinted darkly that she was somebody else’s runaway wife, and -that Christian Harefield’s marriage was no marriage at all. - -But after Mr. and Mrs. Harefield had been living at the Water House -three months, the slightest allusion to one of these once favourite -scandals would have been about as great a solecism as any one in Little -Yafford could be guilty of. The ancient slanders were sunk in the Red -Sea of oblivion. Those who had been most active in disseminating these -rumours forgot all about them--could not have taxed their memory with -the slightest detail, would have looked quite puzzled if any underbred -intruder in polite society had questioned them on the subject, or -recalled former assertions. There was a dignity about Christian -Harefield, a subdued elegance about his lovely wife, which made such -stories as Little Yafford had formerly believed in obviously and -distinctly impossible. _He_ marry a ballet-girl dancer, the proudest -of men! _She_ sell penny bunches of violets, the most aristocratic of -women! All the best people of Little Yafford visited the Water House, -and swore by Mrs. Harefield. - -She was not a woman to make her influence widely felt even in that -quiet circle. Beauty and elegance were her chief gifts. She was -passionately fond of music--played exquisitely, in a style which was -poetic rather than brilliant--sang sweetly--but not with the power -of voice or splendour of execution which would have justified the -story of her having been a prima donna. She had graceful manners, and -distinction of bearing; but the leading spirits in Little Yafford--Mrs. -Dulcimer, Lady Jane Gowry, and an old Mrs. Dunraven--decided that she -had not much mind. - -‘She can only look lovely, my dear, and curtsey in that foreign way -of hers, which reminds me of my young days, when ladies behaved like -ladies, and good manners had not begun to get obsolete,’ said Lady Jane -to her dear Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘She can only look elegant, and sit at her -piano, and suffer us to admire her, just as we should if she were the -Venus de Milo in the Louvre. I don’t think she has much more feeling or -passion than that one-armed statue; but she is quite as lovely, and I -suppose that is enough for Mr. Harefield.’ - -Everybody agreed that Christian Harefield was devoted to his wife, and -that it was a happy marriage. But for his little girl he had evidently -no very warm regard. As time went on, and no second baby appeared, -the father began to feel himself personally injured by the sex of his -only child. She ought to have been a son. Here was the great Harefield -property in danger of travelling out of the direct line, and belonging -to some spurious Harefield, who should only assume that good old name -by Royal Letters Patent. And it seemed to Christian--large-minded -and cosmopolitan as he considered himself--that it would be a loss -to English society if real Harefields should become extinct in the -land. This idea that his daughter was a mistake grew upon him, and by -slow degrees began to go hand in hand with another idea--of a far -more injurious and dangerous nature--and that was the fancy that his -wife loved the child better than she loved him. Those tender maternal -caresses which the gentle Italian lavished on her little girl galled -her husband almost as much as if he had seen them given to a rival. -This was the first arising of that sombre passion which was afterwards -to turn all his life to poison. He first learnt the meaning of jealousy -when he sat by his own fireside watching the lovely face opposite him -smiling down upon Beatrix. He had never cared for children in the -abstract, never had perceived any special poetry or beauty in young -lives and small round rosy faces, and he could see nothing to love or -admire in Beatrix, who, at this stage of her existence, was small and -sallow, ‘a little yellow thing, all eyes and mouth,’ as he himself -described her. It was a constant irritation to him to see such blind -unreasoning affection squandered upon so unlovely an object. - -He spent one winter and a spring at the Water House, and then carried -his wife away with him to Baden, and from Baden went to Florence for -the winter, leaving Beatrix in charge of a conscientious and elderly -governess at Little Yafford. The child was almost heart-broken at -the loss of that loving mother, but no one except Miss Scales, the -governess, knew anything about it, and Miss Scales wrote Mrs. Harefield -cheery letters, telling her that dear little Trix was getting tall and -strong, and had just gone into words of two syllables. - -Mr. and Mrs. Harefield came back to the Water House, and spent the -summer and autumn at home, and gave parties and made themselves -generally agreeable. Then came winter and a migration to the South, -Beatrix staying behind with Miss Scales as before. This winter she went -into words of three syllables, and made small excursions into various -foreign grammars, taking to Italian naturally, as a duck hatched by a -hen takes to the water. - -This kind of life went on till Beatrix was ten, Mr. and Mrs. -Harefield’s sojourn at the Water House growing briefer each year, -and by degrees there arose a feeling in Little Yafford that Mr. and -Mrs. Harefield were not quite the happiest couple in the world, that -there were more clouds than sunshine in that small home circle. These -things make themselves known somehow. It was hinted that there were -quarrels. Mrs. Harefield had a distressed look sometimes. Beatrix -was rarely found in the drawing-room with her mother when people -called. Good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer discovered that the little girl -was always cooped up in the schoolroom, or sent out for dreary walks -with her governess, and felt herself called upon to interfere and -draw Mrs. Harefield’s attention to this neglect of maternal duty; but -Mrs. Harefield, mildly graceful as she was at all times, received the -remonstrance with a placid dignity which rebuked the good-natured -busybody. - -There was trouble of some kind evidently at the Water House, but no -one in Little Yafford could ever get face to face with the skeleton. -Italian friends of Mrs. Harefield’s appeared upon the scene, but Little -Yafford was not invited to meet these foreigners. Then came autumn, -and another migration to warmer lands, and this time Miss Scales and -Beatrix went with the travellers. - -‘That is more as it should be,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, triumphantly. ‘So -you see, after all, Clement, my remonstrance had some effect.’ - -‘If ever I find that any act of interference with other people’s -conduct of their own affairs has a good effect, I will reverse the -whole theory of morals which I have made for myself in relation to my -neighbour,’ answered Mr. Dulcimer, with unaccustomed energy. - -This last journey was fatal. Six weeks after the travellers left -the Water House, Little Yafford was startled by the tidings of Mrs. -Harefield’s death. She had died suddenly, at a little roadside inn in -the Apennines, the loneliest spot of earth she could well have found -for life’s closing scene. She had gone there alone with her husband on -their way from Venice to Rome, leaving Beatrix and her governess at -Venice. Mr. Harefield was distracted, and had gone off to wander no one -knew where, after sending his child and the governess home to the Water -House. Little Beatrix appeared there by and by, a silent and almost -ghost-like child, whose small face looked unnaturally white above the -dense blackness of her frock. - -‘It’s absolutely heart-rending to see a Christian gentleman’s child -look so like one’s idea of a vampire,’ exclaimed compassionate Mrs. -Dulcimer, and she tried to lure the little girl to the Vicarage with a -view to petting and making her happy; but Miss Scales guarded her pupil -as jealously as if she had been a griffin in a fairy tale keeping watch -and ward over an enchanted princess. - -It was the universal opinion in Little Yafford--a kind of foregone -conclusion--that Mr. Harefield would wander for years, and return to -the Water House after a decade or two, with long gray hair and a bent -backbone, and the general appearance of a pilgrim. He disappointed -everybody’s expectations by coming back early in the spring and taking -up his abode permanently in the grave old house, which now put on that -mantle of silence and gloom which had never been lifted from it since. - -Under this shadow of gloom, encircled by this perpetual silence and -monotony, Beatrix had grown from childhood to womanhood. You could hear -the dropping of the light wood ashes in a distant room as you stood in -the hall at the Water House, or the chirping of a winter robin in the -garden outside the windows, or the ticking of the dining-room clock, -but of human voice or motion there was hardly anything to be heard. The -kitchens and offices were remote, and the servants knew the value of -good wages and a comfortable home too well to let any token of their -existence reach Mr. Harefield’s ears. The master of that silent house -sat in his library at the end of the low corridor, and read, or smoked, -or mused, or wrote in solitude. Sometimes he took his daily ride or -walk in all weathers, for months at a stretch; at other times he would -remain for several weeks without leaving the house. He received no -guests--he visited no one, having taken the trouble, immediately after -his return, to let people know that he had come to the Water House in -search of solitude, and not sympathy. - -Scratchell, his lawyer and agent, and Mr. Namby, the family doctor, -were the only two men freely admitted to his presence, and of these he -saw as little as possible. He allowed Bella Scratchell to be with his -daughter as much as Beatrix pleased to have her, but, save on Sundays, -he never sat at meals with them or honoured them with his society. His -hours were different from theirs, and they had Miss Scales to take care -of them. What could they want more? - -One day, when Beatrix was between sixteen and seventeen, Mrs. Dulcimer -met the misanthrope in one of his solitary walks on the Druids’ moor, -and ventured, not without inward fear and trembling, to attack him on -the subject of his daughter’s solitary life. - -‘It must be very dull for Beatrix at the Water House,’ she said. - -‘I dare say it is, madam,’ answered Christian Harefield, with austere -civility, ‘but I don’t mind that. Dulness is good for young women, in -my opinion.’ - -‘Oh, but, dear Mr. Harefield,’ cried the Vicar’s wife, emboldened by -his politeness, ‘there you differ from all the rest of the world.’ - -‘I have not generally found the rest of the world so wise, my dear -madam, as to distress myself because its opinions and mine happen to be -at variance,’ Mr. Harefield answered coldly. - -Mrs. Dulcimer felt herself baffled. This stony urbanity was too much -for her. But she remembered Beatrix’s pale joyless face as she had seen -it in the chancel pew last Sunday, and made one more heroic effort. - -‘Mr. Harefield, I am not going to ask you to change your own habits----’ - -‘That would be wasted labour, madam----’ - -‘Or to ask people to the Water House----’ - -‘I would not do my friends so great a wrong----’ - -‘But you might at least let Beatrix come to me. We are very quiet -people at the Vicarage,--Clement is absorbed in his books--I in my -workbasket. There would be no gaiety for her, but there would be the -change from one house to another, and we lie higher. You must be damp -at the Water House. I know Beatrix has suffered from neuralgia----’ - -‘A new fashion among young ladies, like the shape of their bonnets. I -never heard of it when I was young----’ - -‘Oh, it was called toothache then, but it was just as excruciating. -Then you really will let her come?’ pursued Mrs. Dulcimer, pretending -to make sure of his consent. - -‘Clement Dulcimer is a gentleman I greatly respect, and you are the -most amiable of women. I cannot see why I should forbid my daughter -coming to you if you like to be troubled with her. But I must make it a -condition that you do not take her anywhere else--that she is to come -to your house and yours alone.’ - -‘Most assuredly. I shall consider your wishes upon that point sacred,’ -protested Mrs. Dulcimer, delighted with her success. - -She called on Beatrix the next day, and carried her off to the -Vicarage. The girl had been carefully educated by conscientious Miss -Scales, and knew everything that a girl of her age is supposed to know, -except the theory of music. She could have enlightened the Vicar about -latitude and longitude, and the subjunctive mood in various languages. -But she had all the deficiencies and peculiarities of a girl whose -life had been lonely. She was proud and shy--what the Vicar called -_farouche_--and it was a long time before her new friends could set her -at ease. But when she did expand they grew very fond of her, and that -new life at the Vicarage was like the beginning of her youth. She had -never felt herself young before. Miss Scales’ prim perfection had been -like a band of iron about her life. Her father’s gloom and hardness -had weighed upon her like an actual burden. She had waked in the -night sobbing, startled from some dim strange dream of an impossible -happiness, by the recollection that she had a father who had never -loved her, who never would love her. - -This hardness of her father’s had gradually hardened her feelings -towards him. She had left off hoping for any change in him, and with -the cessation of hope came a stream of bitterness which overwhelmed -every sweet and filial sentiment. As she grew from child to woman, her -memories of the past took a new shape. Well-remembered scenes acted -themselves over again before her mental vision under a new and more -vivid light. She began to see that there had been unhappiness in her -mother’s life, and that her father had been the cause of it, that the -cloud had always come from him. - -Brief episodes of that bygone life flashed back upon her with a cruel -distinctness. She remembered herself leaning on her mother’s shoulder -one evening as Mrs. Harefield sat at the drawing-room piano weaving -the sweet tangle of Italian melody she loved so well. It was a summer -twilight, and the windows were all open, the garden was full of roses, -the river was shining under the setting sun. - -She remembered her father’s coming in suddenly, and walking up to the -piano. He took her by the wrist with a hard strong hand that hurt her a -little. - -‘Go to your governess,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to your mother.’ - -And then, before she could reach the door, she heard him say,-- - -‘So you have seen Antonio again.’ - -Those words haunted her curiously now that she was growing a woman. -Who was Antonio? She could remember no one in the history of her life -to whom that name belonged. It was an Italian name--the name of one of -those Italian friends of her mother’s who came and went in those memory -pictures, like figures in a dream. She could not distinguish one from -the other. They had all pale dark faces, like ivory that had been long -shut from the light, and dark gleaming eyes, and hair like the shining -wings of the rooks in the tall old elm tops yonder. But she could not -recall any one of them who had impressed her, a wondering child of -seven, more than the rest. - -Yes, there was one--the one who sang so beautifully. She could remember -sitting on her mother’s lap one evening before dinner, the room dimly -lighted, no one present but her mother and the Italian gentleman. She -remembered his sitting at the piano and singing church music--music -that thrilled her till, in a nervous ecstasy, she burst into tears, and -her mother soothed her and carried her away, saying something to the -strange gentleman in Italian as she went towards the door, and he got -up from the piano and came to them and stopped on the threshold to bend -down and kiss her, as she had never been kissed before in all her life. -She could remember the kiss now, though it was ten years ago. - -And he spoke to her mother in Italian, a few hurried words that seemed -half sorrow and half anger. - -Was that Antonio? - -Her mother’s rooms had never been opened by any one but Christian -Harefield since his return to the Water House after that last fatal -journey. There was something ghostly in the idea of those three rooms -facing the river, those three locked doors in the long oak gallery. -Beatrix passed those sealed doors always with a thrill of pain. If her -mother had but lived, how different life would have been for her! There -would have been sorrow perhaps, for she knew there had been sorrow in -the last year of her mother’s life, but they two would have shared -it. They would have clung to each other closer, loved each other more -fondly because of the husband and father’s unkindness. - -‘What would papa matter to me if I had mamma?’ she thought. ‘He would -be only a gloomy person coming in and out, like the dark brief night -which comes in and out among the summer days. We should not have minded -him. We should have accepted him as a part of nature, the shadow that -made our sunshine brighter.’ - -Often and often she sat upon a bench on the river terrace, leaning back -with her arms folded above her head, looking up at those seven blank -windows, darkly shuttered, three windows for the spacious old bedroom, -one for the narrow dressing closet, three for the pretty morning-room -which she remembered dimly, a white panelled room, with pale blue -curtains all worked with birds and flowers in many coloured silks, -black and gold Japanese cabinets, a tall chimney-piece with a curious -old looking-glass above it, let into the wall, pictures, and red and -blue china jars, a faint odour of pot pourri, a piano, a frame for -Berlin woolwork, with a group of unfinished roses that never seemed to -grow any bigger. - -‘Dear room,’ she said, ‘to think that I should live so near you, pass -your door every day, and yet remember you so faintly, as if you were a -dream!’ - -Once a curious fancy flashed upon her as she sat in the evening glow, -looking up at those windows. - -‘Perhaps Antonio’s picture is in that room.’ - -She could just recollect a miniature in a velvet case, which she had -opened one day, the picture of a gentleman. She had only glanced at it, -when her mother took the case from her and put it away. The complexion -was more beautiful than Antonio’s, supposing the gentleman who sang -the church music to have been Antonio; but people’s complexions in -portraits are generally superior to the reality. - - * * * * * - -Kind as her friends at the Vicarage were, Beatrix never talked of these -old memories. The past was a sealed book. Not for worlds could she have -spoken of it--not even to Bella, with whom she conversed as freely, in -a general way, as a little girl talks to her doll. - -The new home life at the Vicarage brightened her wonderfully. Her -reserve wore off as she grew accustomed to that friendly household. -She was enraptured with Mr. Dulcimer’s library. Here, on the Vicar’s -well-stocked shelves, she found those Italian poets her mother must -have loved--prose writers too--quaint old romances, bound in white -vellum, on curious ribbed paper, printed at Venice two hundred -years ago. She spent many an hour sitting on a hassock in the sunny -bow-window, with a pile of those old Italian books on the floor beside -her, while the Vicar sat at his big table annotating Berkeley, or -making excursions into the world of science. - -Here she read the Bridgewater Treatises, and got her first grand idea -of the universe. Here her young mind soared away from the narrow track -along which Miss Scales had conducted it, and entered the regions of -poetry and delight. And here--in this sunny old room, with its walls -of hooks--young Love took her by the hand, and led her across the -threshold of his wonder-world. Here she first met Cyril Culverhouse, -and learnt how fair a thing piety may seem in a bright young soul, -eager to do some good in its generation. Religion hitherto, as -interpreted by Miss Scales, had appeared to her a hard and difficult -business, which no one could take to except under severest pressure--a -system of punishments and penances invented for the torment of mankind. -But in Cyril’s teaching how different it all seemed! Religion became -a sentiment to live or die for. Without it happiness or peace of mind -seemed impossible. - -‘Your mother belonged to the old faith, perhaps,’ he said, one day, -when they were talking of High and Low Church. - -Beatrix gave a faint shiver. - -‘I don’t know,’ she answered, sadly. ‘Mamma never talked to me about -religion. I was too young, perhaps.’ - -Cyril found her curiously ignorant of all that was most vital in -religion, and his first interest in her arose from this very ignorance -of hers. He was so glad to set her right--to get her out of the narrow -Scales track, Miss Scales being essentially Low Church, and scenting -Roman encroachment in an anthem or a surplice. The interest soon -deepened, but he could hardly have told when it first grew into love. -Perhaps that might never have come, if Beatrix’s fresh young soul had -not gone out to meet his unawares, so that ere he knew himself a lover -he found himself beloved. - -The thought was full of rapture, for at this stage of their friendship -she seemed to him the most perfect among women--the lovely embodiment -of youth and innocence, and noble yearnings, truthfulness, purity, all -things fair and holy. But the consideration that she was Christian -Harefield’s heiress dashed his joy. He saw himself in advance--branded -in the sight of men--as the clerical adventurer who, under the guise of -religion, had pushed his own fortune. - -Then it was--while it was still a new thing for them to talk of their -mutual love--that he told Beatrix her father must be informed of their -attachment. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -CHRISTIAN HAREFIELD’S ANSWER. - - -THE Monday after that Sunday evening supper at the Vicarage dragged -more heavily than any day Beatrix could remember since that never-to-be -forgotten awful day when--a little child in a strange city--she -was told of her mother’s death. To-day she felt that a blow was -impending--a stroke that must shatter the rosy chain that bound her -to her bright new life. The strictness of Miss Scales’ rule had been -relaxed since Beatrix’s eighteenth birthday. The lady was now rather -companion and duenna than governess; but Miss Scales was conscientious, -and did not care to take her salary without earning it, so she had -urged upon Beatrix that a young lady of eighteen was in duty bound -to go on improving her mind, and Beatrix had consented to two hours’ -daily reading, on a rigid system. English history one day--Roman -another--Grecian another--Travels on the fourth day--_Belles-lettres_, -represented by the dullest books in the English language, on the -fifth--and French, as exemplified in an intensely proper novel, on the -sixth. And all this reading was to be carefully done, with a good deal -of reference to the best authorities--all obsolete, and improved upon -by the newest lights to be obtained from the last discoveries published -a year or two before the battle of Waterloo. That her favourite -authorities could be superseded was a possibility beyond Miss Scales’ -mental grasp. She had learned out of those books, and would continue to -teach out of them to her dying day. - -Upon this particular Monday the English historians hung somewhat -heavily. Hume was dull--and Rapin furnished no improvement upon him. - -‘Really, Miss Scales dear,’ said Beatrix at last, with a stifled yawn, -‘I don’t think I am appreciating Joan of Arc at all properly this -morning. She was much too good a person to be yawned over like this; -and if she really was burnt at Rouen, and did not get out of that -cruel Beaufort’s clutches, and marry and have ever so many children -afterwards----’ - -‘Joan of Arc--married--and the mother of a family! Beatrix, what are -you dreaming of?’ cried the scandalized Miss Scales, her little gray -ringlets quivering with indignation. - -‘Mr. Dulcimer says she did, and that there are documents to prove it.’ - -‘Mr. Dulcimer is a horrid person to tell you such stories; and after -this I shouldn’t be at all surprised at his going over to Rome.’ - -‘Would you much mind my putting up the books, Miss Scales love?’ asked -Beatrix, in the coaxing way in which she was wont to address her -duenna. ‘My mind isn’t equal to grasping such heroism as Joan’s to-day.’ - -‘You have been looking absent-minded all the morning, certainly.’ - -‘I do feel rather head-achy.’ - -‘Then you’d better take a seidlitz powder--and be sure you put in the -blue paper first----’ - -‘No, thank you, dear, I’m really not ill. But I think a turn in the -garden would do me good. I’ll read ever so much to-morrow, if you’ll -let me.’ - -‘If I’ll let you, Beatrix! When have _I_ ever stood between you and -the improvement of your mind? But I hope you won’t get hold of Mr. -Dulcimer’s crotchets. Joan of Arc not burned at Rouen, indeed! What is -the world coming to? And Archbishop Whately has written a pamphlet to -prove that there was no such person as Napoleon, though my father saw -him--with his own eyes--on board the _Bellerophon_, in Plymouth roads.’ - -Beatrix waited for no further permission to put the dingy old books -back upon their shelves, and go out bare-headed into the autumnal -garden. It was a good old garden at all times--a wide stretch of -lawn following the bend of the river--a broad gravelled walk with -moss-grown old stone vases at intervals--and a stone bench here and -there--flowers in profusion, but of the old-fashioned sort--rare shrubs -and trees--plane and tulip, and Spanish chestnut that had been growing -for centuries--one grand cedar stretching wide his limbs over the -close-shorn sward--a stone sundial with a blatantly false inscription -to the effect that it recorded only happy hours--and for prospect, the -Roman one-arched bridge, with the deep narrow river flowing swiftly -under it,--these in the foreground; and in the distance across the -river the heterogeneous roofs, chimneys, and gables of Little Yafford, -with the good old square church tower rising up in their midst, and -behind this little settlement the purple moor sloping far up towards -the calm grey sky. - -It was a scene so familiar to Beatrix that she scarcely felt its great -beauty, as she walked up and down the river terrace, thinking of Cyril -and the interview that was to take place to-day. She was not hopeful as -to the result of that interview. There were hard thoughts in her mind -about her father. - -‘He has never given me his love,’ she said to herself. ‘Will he be -cruel enough to take this love from me--this love that makes life a new -thing?’ - -While Beatrix was pacing slowly to and fro along the quiet river-side -walk, Cyril was coming down the sloping road to the Roman bridge, -thinking of what he had to do. It was not a pleasant mission by any -means. He was going to beard the lion in his den--to offer himself as -a husband for the richest heiress in the neighbourhood. He, Cyril -Culverhouse, who had not a sixpence beyond his stipend, and who yet -came of too good a family to be called an adventurer. He had never -spoken to Mr. Harefield, and he was going to him to ask for his -daughter’s hand. The position was difficult, but Cyril did not shrink -from facing it. - -He went under the archway into the grassy quadrangle, where the low -stone mullioned windows faced him with their dull blank look, as of -windows out of which no one ever looked. There was a low door in a -corner, studded with iron nails--and a bell that would have been loud -enough for a means of communication with a house a quarter of a mile -away. This noisy bell clanged out unmercifully in the afternoon quiet. - -‘He will never forgive me for ringing such a peal as that,’ thought -Cyril. - -The staid old butler looked at him wonderingly when he asked if Mr. -Harefield was at home. Visitors were rare at the Water House. - -‘He is at home,’ answered the butler, dubiously, as much as to say, -‘but he won’t see you.’ - -‘Will you say that I wish to see him--upon particular business?’ - -The butler led the way to the drawing-room, without a word. He had -heard Mr. Culverhouse preach, at odd times, though himself a member of -the Little Yafford Baptists, and had too much respect for his cloth to -express his opinion as to the uselessness of this proceeding. He led -the way to the drawing-room and left Cyril there. - -It was a pretty room, despite the gloom that had fallen upon it. A -long old room, with oak panelling, a richly carved cornice, and a -low ceiling, a few good Italian pictures, a tall pillared marble -chimney-piece, broad Tudor windows looking towards the river, deep -recesses filled with books, and chairs and sofas of the Louis Seize -period, covered with Gobelins tapestry. - -But there was no sign of occupation--no open piano--not a book out of -its place--not a newspaper or pamphlet on the tables. Everything was in -perfect order, as in a house that is shown and not lived in. - -This was the first time Cyril had been under the roof that sheltered -Beatrix. He looked around him for some trace of her presence, but he -saw no such trace. Did she inhabit this room? No, it was evidently a -room in which no one lived. - -He went to one of the windows and looked out. He could just see the -lonely figure at the end of the river walk, bare-headed under the -sunless sky--a figure full of grace and dignity, to his eye, as it -moved slowly along, the face turned towards the bridge. - -‘Poor child, she is watching for me, perhaps,’ he thought with tender -sadness, ‘waiting and fearing.’ - -‘My master will be pleased to see you, sir,’ said the voice in the -doorway, and Cyril turned to follow the butler. - -He followed him down a corridor that went the whole length of the -house. The butler opened a deep-set oak door, thick enough for a -gaol, and gravely announced the visitor. It was a very solemn thing -altogether, Cyril felt. - -He found himself in a large low room, lined from floor to ceiling with -books on carved oak shelves. A sombre brownness prevailed throughout -the room. All that was not brown leather was brown oak. - -Three low windows looked into a courtyard. A pile of damp logs -smouldered on the wide stone hearth. Cyril had never entered a more -gloomy room. - -The master of the Water House stood before the hearth, ready to -receive his visitor--a tall, powerfully built man, in a long cloth -dressing-gown, like a monk’s habit, which made him look taller than -he really was. The hard, stern face would have done for one of -Cromwell’s Ironsides; the grizzled black hair worn somewhat long, the -large nostrils, iron mouth and jaw, dark deep-set eyes, and heavily -lined forehead were full of character; but it was character that was -calculated to repel rather than to invite sympathy. - -‘You have asked to see me on particular business, Mr. Culverhouse,’ -said Christian Harefield, with a wave of his hand which might or might -not mean an invitation to be seated. He remained standing himself. ‘If -it is any question of church restoration, Mr. Dulcimer ought to know -that my cheque-book is at his command. I take no personal interest in -these things, but I like to do what is right.’ - -‘It is no question of church restoration, Mr. Harefield.’ - -‘Some of your poor people burned out, or washed out, or down with -fever, perhaps? I hear you are very active in good works. My purse is -at your disposal. Pray do not scruple to make use of it. I do so little -good myself, that I am glad to practise a little vicarious benevolence.’ - -He seated himself at a large oak table covered with books and papers, -and opened his cheque-book. - -‘How much shall it be?’ he asked, in a business-like tone. - -Cyril was looking at him thoughtfully. There was something noble in -that iron-gray head, surely--a grand intelligence at least, if not the -highest type of moral good. - -‘Pardon me, Mr. Harefield,’ said the curate, ‘you are altogether -mistaken in the purpose of my visit. I came to ask no favour for -others. I am here as a suppliant for myself alone. I know and love -your daughter, and I have her permission to tell you that she loves -me, and only waits your approval to accept me as her future husband.’ - -Christian Harefield started to his feet, and turned upon the suppliant. - -‘What, it has come already!’ he cried. ‘I knew that it was inevitable; -but I did not think it would come quite so soon. My daughter is -not nineteen, I believe, and she is already a prey for the first -gentlemanly adventurer who crosses her path----’ - -‘Mr. Harefield!’ - -‘Mr. Culverhouse, _I_ was married for my money. My daughter shall -escape that misery if any power of mine can shield her from it. We will -not bandy hard words. You profess to love her--a raw, uncultured girl -whom you have known at most six months--I will give you credit for -being sincere, if you like--for believing that you do love her--and -I can only say that I am sorry your fancy should have taken so -inopportune a direction. My daughter shall marry no man who is not so -entirely her equal in wealth and position that I can feel very sure he -takes her for her own sake.’ - -‘I expected something of this kind from you, Mr. Harefield.’ - -‘You can never know my justification for this line of conduct,’ replied -Mr. Harefield. ‘I marked out this course for myself long ago, when -my daughter was a child. I will spare her a deception that turned my -life to gall. I will spare her disillusions that broke my heart. I am -speaking openly to you, Mr. Culverhouse, more freely than I have spoken -to any man, and I beg that all I have said may be sacred.’ - -‘It shall be so,’ answered Cyril. ‘You think you can protect your -daughter from the possibility of a sorrow like that which has darkened -your own life. But do you not think that Providence is stronger to -guard and save than you can be, and that it might be wiser to let her -obey the instinct of her own heart?’ - -‘As I did,’ cried Christian Harefield, with a laugh. ‘Sir, Providence -did not guard or save me. I was a man--of mature years--and thought I -knew mankind by heart. Yet I walked blindfold into the trap. Would you -have me trust my daughter’s instinct at eighteen, when my own reason at -thirty could so betray me? No, I shall take my own course. If I can -save a silly girl from a future of ruined hopes and broken dreams, I -will so save her, against her own will. I have never played the tender -father, but perhaps in this my sternness may serve my daughter better -than a more loving father’s softness. If Beatrix marries without my -approval she will be a pauper.’ - -‘I would gladly so take her,’ cried Cyril. - -‘And teach her to disobey her father! you, who read the commandments to -her in church every other Sunday, would teach her to set one of them at -nought!’ - -It was Cyril’s own argument. He blushed as he heard it. - -‘Must you withhold your love because you withhold your money?’ he -asked. ‘You say that your own marriage was unhappy because you were a -rich man. Let the weight of riches be lifted from your daughter’s life. -She does not value them--nor do I.’ - -‘What, a Culverhouse--the son of a spendthrift father--a parson, too! -You can afford to despise riches?’ - -‘Yes, because I look round me and see how rarely money can bring -happiness. Perhaps there is not much real and perfect happiness upon -earth; but I am very sure that what little there is has never been -bought with gold. Leave your estate away from your daughter--leave it -where you please--devote it to some great work. Let me have Beatrix -without a sixpence--let me be your son--and if it is possible for -affection to brighten your later life you shall not find it wanting.’ - -‘It is not possible,’ answered Harefield, coldly. ‘I never desired -affection except from one source--and it was not given me. I cannot -open my heart again--its doors are sealed.’ - -‘Against your only child?’ - -‘Against all flesh and blood.’ - -‘Then, if you withhold your love from Beatrix, it would be only right -and reasonable to withhold your fortune, and leave her free to accept -the love which may in some measure atone for the loss of yours.’ - -‘You must have a monstrous good opinion of yourself, Mr. Culverhouse, -when you set your own value above that of one of the finest estates in -this part of Yorkshire.’ - -‘I have no exalted opinion of my own value, but I have a very low -estimate of the blessings of wealth. For such a woman as Beatrix a -great estate can only be a great burthen. She has been brought up in -solitude, she will never be a woman of the world. She does not value -money.’ - -‘Because she has never had to do without it, and because she has seen -very little of what it can do. Launch her in the world to-morrow, and -in one year she will have learned the full value of wealth. No, Mr. -Culverhouse, I cannot accept your judgment in this matter. If I have -withheld my affection from my daughter, so much the more reason that I -should give her the estate which, as my only child, she is entitled to -inherit. And it shall be my business to obtain for her such an alliance -as will place her husband above the suspicion of mercenary motives.’ - -‘And in arriving at this decision you put your daughter’s feelings out -of the question. You do not even take the trouble to make yourself -acquainted with her sentiments.’ - -‘No. I trust to time. I regret that she should have been so soon -exposed to a peril which I had not apprehended for her just yet. If I -had, I should have been more on my guard. I must request you, as a man -of honour, to hold no further communication--either personally or by -letter--with my daughter, and I shall be under the painful necessity of -forbidding any more visiting at the Vicarage.’ - -‘You are asking too much, Mr. Harefield. No man with common sense would -submit to such an exaction as that. I will do more than most men in my -position would be willing to do. Your daughter is young and impulsive, -unversed in worldly knowledge. I will promise to wait for her till she -is of age, and to hold no communication with her in the interval. Two -years hence, if your wishes have conquered, I will submit to my fate. -I will make no claim. But if she still thinks as she thinks to-day, I -shall claim my right to address her on equal terms. But it is my duty -to remind you that your daughter has some strength of will--that she is -a creature of impulse, not easily to be dragooned into subservience to -the ideas and plans of another--even though that other be her father.’ - -‘I shall know how to govern her impulses, sir, and to bring a -stronger will than her own to bear upon her follies. I have no more -to say--except that I rely upon your promise, and consider your -acquaintance with my daughter at an end from this hour.’ - -Cyril had hardly expected anything better than this, yet the actual -discomfiture was no less difficult to bear. To be told that he must -see Beatrix no more, knowing as he did that the girl he loved returned -his love with fullest measure, and was willing to fling every tie to -the winds for his sake! And then her ties were at best so feeble. The -father she was ready to defy for his sake was a father who had never -loved her, who freely confessed his lack of affection for her. Not -much, perhaps, to forfeit such a father’s favour for the sake of a -lover who loved her with all the strength of his strong nature. - -Cyril could not bring himself to say, Disobey your father, fling -fortune to the winds, and be my wife. Duty forbade him, and -consideration for Beatrix was on the side of duty. The day might -come when she would upbraid him with the loss of her father’s -cold liking, and her loss of fortune. He saw himself, far away in -the future, a disappointed man--a failure--high hopes unrealized, -labours unsuccessful, aspirations blighted; saw himself struggling -single-handed against misfortune, and with Beatrix by his side. -Might she not--if life went badly with him--repent her choice? And -what was the bitterness of the present--the loss involved in doing -right--compared with that sharper bitterness, that greater loss, which -might follow in the future upon doing wrong? - -‘My first and last visit to the Water House, I dare say,’ he thought, -as he paused for a minute in the quadrangle, to look up at the ivy-clad -walls, the massive stone mullions and Tudor gables. A fine old house if -its associations had been bright and pleasant, but, looked at as the -dungeon of unloved youth, it appeared dismal as an Egyptian tomb. - -He saw an open door in the cloistered side wall--a door leading to -the garden, and thought how natural it would be for him to go there -in search of Beatrix--thought how happily he would have gone to seek -her if Mr. Harefield’s decision had favoured their love--if he had -given them ever so little encouragement, ever so small a right to look -hopefully towards the future. Now all was blank--a dull, dead despair. - -He went under the archway, and the outer door shut behind him with a -hollow clang in the twilight. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -MRS. DULCIMER MEANS BUSINESS. - - -WHEN a benevolent idea entered the mind of the good-natured Mrs. -Dulcimer, there immediately began a process of incubation or hatching, -as of a patient maternal hen intent on the development of her eggs. -Like that domestic fowl, Mrs. Dulcimer gave her whole mind to the task, -and, for the time being, thought of nothing else. - -The notion of a marriage between Cyril Culverhouse and Bella Scratchell -was now incubating. Bella, of whom Mrs. Dulcimer had not thought much -hitherto, was now taken under her wing, a _protégée_ whose provision in -life was an actual duty. - -Mrs. Dulcimer talked about her to the parlourmaid, while she was -dusting the drawing-room china. The servants at the Vicarage were all -old retainers, who by faithful service had become interwoven in the -very fabric of the family life. The Vicar and his wife could hardly -have believed that home was home with strange faces round them. Crisp, -the man of all work, and Rebecca, the confidential maid, were as much -an integral part of life as the dark ridge of moorland, and the gray -church tower, the winding river, the Vicar’s library, and the faithful -old pointer, Ponto, which had not stood to a bird for the last seven -years, but held the position of friend and familiar, and lived in a -land overflowing with milk and honey. - -‘What a nice young lady Miss Scratchell is, Rebecca!’ said Mrs. -Dulcimer, as she flecked a grain of dust off a Chelsea shepherdess with -her feather-brush. The Vicar’s wife was rarely seen between breakfast -and noon without a feather-brush in her hand. ‘Have you remarked it?’ - -‘She ain’t so handsome as Miss Harefield,’ answered Rebecca, frankly, -‘but she’s a deal affabler. They give her a very good character at the -Park--always punkshall, and a great favourite with the children.’ - -‘She is just the sort of girl to do well in life, Rebecca. She ought to -get a good husband.’ - -Rebecca gave a loud sniff, scenting mischief. - -‘That’s as Providence pleases, ma’am,’ she retorted, rubbing the fender -with her chamois leather; ‘marriages is made in heaven.’ - -‘Perhaps, Rebecca. But a poor man’s daughter like Bella Scratchell has -a very poor chance of meeting an eligible person. Unless it is in this -house, I don’t think she sees any one worth speaking of.’ - -‘There’s the Park, ma’am,’ suggested Rebecca, rubbing the fender almost -savagely. - -‘Oh! at the Park she is only a dependant--quite looked down upon, -you may be sure; for though Mrs. Piper is a good creature, she is -a thorough _parvenue_. Miss Scratchell never sees any of the Park -visitors, you may be sure. She only lunches at the children’s dinners. -They don’t even ask her to play the piano at their parties. They have -a man from Great Yafford. Now don’t you think, Rebecca, that Mr. -Culverhouse would be a nice match for Miss Scratchell?’ - -Rebecca wheeled round upon her knees and confronted her mistress. - -‘Oh, ma’am, I wouldn’t if I was you!’ she exclaimed, energetically. ‘I -wouldn’t have act or part in it. You won’t get no thanks for it. You -never do. Nobody’s never thanked for that kind of thing. You didn’t get -no thanks from Mr. Parker and Miss Morison, and look at the trouble you -took about them. There isn’t an unhappier couple in Little Yafford, if -all folks say is true, and I believe every time they quarrel your name -comes up between ’em. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Dulcimer I shouldn’t -have been such a fool as to marry you,” says he. “My wretchedness is -all Mrs. Dulcimer’s doing,” says she, “and I wish I was dead.” That’s a -dreadful thing to have on your conscience, ma’am, after taking no end -of trouble to bring it about.’ - -‘Nonsense, Rebecca! Is it my fault the Parkers are quarrelsome? Mary -Morison would have quarrelled with any husband.’ - -‘Then she ought never to have had one,’ ejaculated Rebecca, renewing -her savage treatment of the fender. ‘But I recollect when you thought -her perfection.’ - -‘I allow that I was deceived in Miss Morison, Rebecca,’ replied the -Vicar’s wife, meekly. She was very fond of Rebecca, and not a little -afraid of her. ‘But you see Miss Scratchell is quite another sort of -person.’ - -‘Company manners,’ said Rebecca, scornfully. ‘They’ve all got ’em. It’s -the outside crust. You can’t tell what’s inside the pie.’ - -‘I am sure Miss Scratchell is a good girl. See how she has been brought -up. The Scratchells have to study every sixpence.’ - -‘Does that make people good?’ inquired Rebecca, speculatively, -gathering up her brushes and leathers into her box. ‘I don’t think it -would improve my disposition. I like the sixpences to come and go, -without my thinking about ’em.’ - -‘Ah, but, Rebecca, consider what a good wife a girl brought up like -that would make for a poor man. Mr. Culverhouse has nothing but his -curacy, you know.’ - -‘I should ha’ thought a rich young woman would ha’ suited him better. -There’s Miss Harefield, with her large fortune, would be just the -thing.’ - -‘Nonsense, Rebecca! Mr. Harefield would never consent to such a -marriage. Sir Kenrick is the proper husband for Miss Harefield; he can -make her mistress of one of the finest places in Hampshire.’ - -‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ said Rebecca, with something approaching a -groan. ‘Sir Kenrick and Miss Harefield, and Mr. Culverhouse and Miss -Scratchell! Ladies’ chain and set to partners--like the first figure -in a quadrille. You’ve got your hands full, ma’am, and I suppose it’s -no use my talking; but if you wasn’t too wise a lady to take a fool’s -advice, I should say don’t have nothink to do with it.’ - -And with this oracular speech Rebecca took up her box, with all her -implements of war, and left the drawing-room. - -‘Rebecca is a good creature, and an original, but dull,’ thought Mrs. -Dulcimer. ‘I never can make her see things in a proper light.’ - -After the early dinner, and the Vicar’s departure for his daily round -among his parishioners--a sauntering, easy-going visitation at all -times--Mrs. Dulcimer set out in her best bonnet and sable-bordered -mantle to make some calls. The sable mantle was well known in Little -Yafford as a kind of insignia of office. When Mrs. Dulcimer wore it -she meant business, and business with Mrs. Dulcimer meant the business -of other people. Her bonnets were known also, with their different -grades of merit. She had a bonnet for the landed gentry, and a second -best bonnet for the tradespeople, and last year’s bonnet, done up by -Rebecca, for her visits amongst the poor. - -To-day she wore her landed gentry bonnet, and her first visit was to -the Park. - -Whether a man who has made his money in trade, and has taken somebody -else’s mansion and park, can be considered to belong to the landed -gentry, is an open question; but Little Yafford gave Mr. Piper the -benefit of the doubt, and as there were not many rich people in the -village, he ranked high. - -Mrs. Piper was at home, and delighted to see her dear Mrs. Dulcimer. -There is no more lively companion than a good-natured busybody, except -an ill-natured one. Mrs. Dulcimer’s conversation lacked the pungency -and acidity, the cayenne and lemon with which your cynical gossip -flavours his discourse, but she was always well posted in facts, and, -if too much given to pity and deplore, had at least plenty to tell. - -The two matrons had the drawing-room all to themselves--a large and -splendid apartment, furnished in the ugliest style of the later -Georges, but glorified by the Piper family with Berlin woolwork and -beaded cushions, ormolu inkstands, Parian statuettes, Bohemian vases, -malachite envelope-boxes, and mother-o’-pearl albums in great profusion. - -Mrs. Piper was a devoted mother, and, on the children being inquired -for, began a string of praises. - -‘Elizabeth is getting on splendidly with her music,’ she said; ‘you’ll -be quite surprised. She and Mary play the overture to “Zamper.” You’d -be delighted.’ - -‘Miss Scratchell taught them, I suppose?’ - -‘Oh dear no! Miss Scratchell superintends their practice; but they have -a master from Great Yafford, Mr. Jackson, the organist--a very fine -musician. Isabella is a very nice player,’ said Mrs. Piper, with a -patronizing air. She had never got beyond ‘Buy a Broom’ and ‘The Bird -Waltz’ in her own day, but was severely critical now. ‘But I couldn’t -think of having my girls taught by a lady. They don’t get the touch, or -the style, or the execution.’ - -‘What a sweet girl Bella is!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, who had come to -the Park on purpose to talk about Miss Scratchell. - -She was not going to work blindly this time, or to lay herself open -to such reproaches as Rebecca had assailed her with on account of the -Parker and Morison marriage. She would find out all about Bella before -she set to work; and who so well able to inform her as Bella’s employer? - -‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Piper, ‘I am very well satisfied with Bella -Scratchell. She’s the first governess I’ve had that has given me -satisfaction--and I’ve had seven since we’ve lived at Little Yafford. -She’s very young for such a position--with clever girls like mine, who -are much beyond their years, especially; and when Mr. Scratchell first -applied for the situation I felt I couldn’t entertain his proposal. -“Give her a trial, Mrs. Piper,” he said, “you don’t know how she’s been -educated. She’s had all the advantages Miss Harefield has had, and -she’s known a great deal better how to value them.” So I thought it -over, and I agreed to give Bella a trial. She couldn’t well be worse -than the others had been, I considered, and I gave her the chance. Of -course it would be a great opening in life for her to come here. Not -that we make our governess one of the family. I don’t hold with that, -no more does Piper. Miss Scratchell comes and goes quietly, and keeps -her place. She is very useful and domesticated, and when I’ve been ill -I’ve found her a great comfort in looking after the servants for me, -and helping me to go over the tradesmen’s books; for you know what poor -health I’ve had of late years, Mrs. Dulcimer, and what trouble I’ve had -with my servants.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer sighed a sympathetic assent. - -‘If I’m alone she stops to luncheon with me; if I’m not, Bella -superintends the children’s dinner, and after that she can go home as -soon as she likes. The rest of the day is her own.’ - -‘It must be rather dull for a young girl like her, never seeing any -society,’ suggested Mrs. Dulcimer. - -‘I shouldn’t think Mr. Scratchell had brought up his daughters to -expect society, if you mean parties and that sort of thing,’ replied -Mrs. Piper, severely. ‘My children ought to be society enough for a -young woman in Bella’s position.’ - -‘Of course. She would naturally be very fond of them,’ assented the -Vicar’s wife. ‘But I was thinking with regard to her marrying; a girl -who has nothing to expect from her father ought to marry.’ - -Mrs. Piper was averse from match-making. She had married well herself, -and was rather inclined to regard matrimony as a luxury intended for -the favoured few--like a cockade on a coachman’s hat, or a range of -glass houses in one’s garden. - -‘I hope Bella is not thinking of a husband,’ she said, disapprovingly. -‘For my part, when a young woman begins husband-hunting, I always -think her useless for everything else. I should be very sorry to have -Elizabeth taught by a governess who was thinking of husbands. The dear -child would get ideas, and, with her intelligence----’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer’s good nature took fright immediately. - -‘Oh, I do not believe Bella has ever given a thought to such a thing,’ -she exclaimed. ‘She is quite wrapped up in her teaching, and so fond of -your dear girls. But I rather think that Mr. Culverhouse admires her -very much, and you must allow that it would be a suitable match.’ - -‘I should have thought Mr. Culverhouse had more sense. Why, he could no -more afford to marry than his brother can afford to live at Culverhouse -Castle.’ - -‘He has talent and energy, and is sure to succeed, and with such a -well-trained economical wife as Bella----’ - -‘Well, I am sorry to find that Bella has got marriage and love-making -into her head. I shall expect to see a difference in her with the -children----’ - -‘Oh, but I assure you----’ - -In vain did poor Mrs. Dulcimer protest. Mrs. Piper had a fixed idea -that a governess ought to have nothing to do with the tender passion. -Had she not turned away Miss Green for no other reason than because -that unfortunate young person wrote long letters to a young man in New -Zealand, to whom she had been engaged for seven years, and to whom she -expected to be engaged for seven years more, before he would be rich -enough to marry her? - -‘It was such a distraction to her mind, you see, my dear,’ Mrs. Piper -told her intimate friends. ‘I couldn’t possibly allow it.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer left the Park, after having done her _protégée_ some -injury, with the best intentions. From the Park she went to the -village, and stopped at Mr. Scratchell’s door. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE SCRATCHELLS AT HOME. - - -MR. SCRATCHELL occupied a large red brick house at the beginning of -the village street, a house that had once been one of the best, if -not the best in Little Yafford, but which, in its present degenerated -state, looked a very shabby habitation as compared with the smart -Gothic villas of the Great Yafford professional men and tradesmen who -had retired into gentility at Little Yafford. It had been built by -a wealthy brewer, and still adjoined a thriving brewery. But as the -age grew more civilized, the brewer removed his domestic life from -the immediate vicinity of his vats and casks to a stuccoed mansion in -fifteen acres of meadow land, _par excellence_ Park. There was a good -garden behind the substantial roomy old house, and more outbuildings -than the Scratchells had any worthy use for--but which made a -wilderness or playground for the children, and for Mrs. Scratchell’s -poor little family of fowls, which always had a shabby uncombed look, -as of neglected poultry, but which laid more eggs than Mrs. Piper’s -pampered Dorkings and Cochin Chinas. - -Here the Scratchells had lived for the last twenty years, Mr. -Scratchell holding his tenement upon a repairing lease, which seemed -to mean that he was to grub on in the best way he could in dilapidated -premises, and never ask his landlord to do anything for him. Perhaps -when the lease ran out there would be complications; but Mr. Scratchell -hoped that, being a lawyer himself, he should be a match for any lawyer -his landlord might set upon him, and that he should find a loophole -whereby to escape the question of dilapidations. - -It was a gaunt, dreary-looking house in its present state of decay. The -garden was all at the back, and the front of the house came straight -upon the village street, an advantage in the eyes of the younger -Scratchells, as the few passers-by who enlivened the scene came within -half a yard of their inquisitive young noses, which were generally -glued against the window-panes in all intervals of leisure. - -The Scratchell girls did not go to school. That was a luxury which -their father’s limited means could not afford them. They were educated -at home by their mother, in that desultory and somewhat spasmodic form -which maternal education, where the poor house-mother has a multitude -of other duties, is apt to assume. - -Taking all things into consideration, it must be allowed that Mrs. -Scratchell did her work very well. She turned the four girls into -the shabby old schoolroom at eleven o’clock every morning--after -they had helped her to make the beds, dust the rooms, and wash the -breakfast-things. She set them down to their French exercises or their -ciphering, their maps or their English analysis, while she went to -the kitchen to see after the dinner, which generally meant to cook -it, and at twelve she came into the schoolroom with her huge motherly -workbasket--full of stockings to be darned, and under garments to be -pieced--some of them arrived at a stage when piecing seemed little -short of the miraculous--and sat down to hear her children read history -or polite literature in their shrill monotonous voices, while the busy -needle never ceased from its labour. - -Pinnock’s Goldsmith and darning cotton must have been curiously -interwoven in poor Mrs. Scratchell’s mind, and it must have been a -little difficult for her to dissociate the embarrassments of Telemachus -from the intricacies of her domestic patchwork. - -In this wise, however, the young Scratchell girls contrived to get -educated, perhaps pretty nearly as well as the general run of girls, -at home or abroad. The humble and old-fashioned education which Mrs. -Scratchell had received herself she handed down to her daughters. She -could not teach them German, or Italian, for she had never learnt those -languages. She could not ground them in the Latin tongue, for in her -day Latin had been considered an exclusively masculine accomplishment. -She could not teach them the use of the globes, for she had no globes; -nor natural science, for she scarcely knew what it meant. But she made -them plough laboriously through Noel and Chapsal’s French grammar, -until they knew it thoroughly. She taught them English, and Roman, -and Grecian history till they could have set you right upon the dates -and details of any great event you could mention. She made them very -familiar with the geography of this globe, and the manners and customs -of its inhabitants; and she taught them a good deal about common -things, which might or might not be useful to them in after life. - -Upon this particular afternoon Mrs. Scratchell and her five daughters -were assembled in the schoolroom busied with a task of all-absorbing -interest. They were making their winter dresses, and the threadbare -carpet was strewed with shreds and patches of dark blue merino, while -the somewhat stuffy atmosphere was odorous with glazed lining. - -It was a shabby old panelled room, from whose wainscot almost all the -paint had been worn and scrubbed away in the progress of years. But -though the paint was mostly gone a general drabness remained. Narrow -drab moreen curtains hung beside the straight windows--an oblong -mahogany table, with those treacherous contrivances called flaps, -occupied the centre of the room, and was now covered with bodices, -and sleeves, and pockets, and skirts, in various stages of being. -There was an old horsehair sofa against the wall, loaded with books, -slates, and desks which had been thrust aside to make room for the more -agreeable pursuit of dressmaking. There were a dozen chairs of various -shapes and make, the odds and ends of a sale-room or a broker’s shop. -No ornament or beautification of any kind had ever been attempted in -the schoolroom. The apartment was unpretendingly hideous; and yet the -Scratchell children were fond of it, and looked back to it in after -years as the dearest room in the world. Perhaps the only thing that -could be called good in it was the wide old fireplace, with its blue -and white Dutch tiles, basket grate, and capacious hobs, which were so -convenient for cooking toffy or roasting chestnuts. - -Bella was at work with her mother and sisters. She had a natural gift -for dressmaking, as she had for many things, and was the general cutter -out and contriver, and the family arbiter upon fashion. It was she who -decided how the sleeves were to be made, and whether the skirts were to -be plain or flounced. - -She sat among them this afternoon, her busy scissors crunching and -grinding over the table, cutting and slashing with quite a professional -ease and audacity. - -‘What a correct eye and what a steady hand you have, Bella!’ said her -mother, admiringly. ‘It’s quite wonderful.’ - -‘I’d need have something, mother,’ sighed Bella, ‘as I’ve no money.’ - -‘True, my dear. There’s a great deal wanted to make up for the loss of -that. One feels it every day.’ - -‘Every day,’ echoed Bella. ‘Why not say every hour, every moment? When -doesn’t one feel it? It is a steady gnawing pain, like toothache.’ - -‘But Providence has made you so bright and clever, dear. That’s a great -consolation. There’s Miss Harefield now, I don’t suppose _she_ could -make herself a dress.’ - -‘I doubt if she could thread a needle,’ said Bella. ‘But I’d change -places with her any day.’ - -‘What, Bella! and be almost alone in the world? Without a mother--or -sisters--or brothers!’ - -Bella did not say whether she would have borne this latter loss, but -she looked at the four lanky girls in shabby frocks and grubby holland -pinafores, dubiously, as if her mind was not quite made up as to their -value in the sum of life. - -Just then there came a sharp double knock at the street door, and the -four girls rushed to the window and glued their noses against the -panes, like four small jelly-fishes holding on by suction. - -Bella ran across the room and pushed her four sisters on to the floor -in a tumbled heap of brown holland and faded green merino. - -‘You horrid vulgar creatures!’ she exclaimed to these blessings. ‘Don’t -you know that a visitor can see you? Gracious!’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s -Mrs. Dulcimer, and in her best bonnet. Run up and change your gown, -mother, and do your hair up better. I can go and receive her. I’m tidy.’ - -Bella was more than tidy. She would have been presentable anywhere, -with her shining plaits of fair hair, her fresh pink and white -complexion, perfectly fitting black silk dress, and neat collar and -ribbon. Bella was a young woman who would have moved heaven and -earth for the sake of a good gown, and who knew how to take care of -her clothes and make them last twice as long as other people’s--an -invaluable wife for a poor curate, surely, as Mrs. Dulcimer thought. - -Bella went smiling into the best parlour. It was a very shabby old -room to be called best, but it was always kept clean and tidy, and -Bella had taken a good deal of pains with it, and had even spent a -little of her hardly-earned money to brighten it. The faded chintz was -enlivened with starched muslin antimacassars. There was a rustic basket -of ferns and flowers in each of the windows, there were a few little -bits of Oriental china, the relics of bygone prosperity, on the narrow -mantelpiece, there were some water-colour fruit and flower pieces of -Bella’s on the walls, neatly framed, and hung with smart blue ribbons, -instead of the commonplace picture cord. - -Mrs. Dulcimer had taken an approving survey of everything, while -waiting for Bella’s appearance. - -‘Mamma will be down in a minute,’ said Bella, when they had shaken -hands. ‘She has been working at our blue merino dresses, and her hands -were all over dye. She is so pleased at the idea of your coming to see -her.’ - -‘It is such a time since I have called on her. I feel quite ashamed. -But I have so many calls to make.’ - -‘Yes, and you are so good to every one. Mamma is so grateful for your -kindness to me.’ - -‘It is nothing, Bella. I only wish I could be kinder. You are such a -good industrious girl. I wish I could see you comfortably settled in -life.’ - -Bella blushed and smiled. Mrs. Dulcimer’s mania for match-making was -notorious. It was an amiable propensity, but did not always work well. - -‘Don’t worry yourself about me, dear Mrs. Dulcimer. I have no wish to -get settled. I should be sorry to leave poor mamma. I can help her in -so many little ways, you know.’ - -‘Yes, my dear, I know what an excellent daughter you are. A good -daughter will always make a good wife. But in a large family like yours -the sooner a girl marries the better. Let me see, now, how many sisters -have you?’ - -‘Four.’ - -‘Four! good gracious! Five girls in one family! That’s quite dreadful! -I can’t see where five husbands are to come from. Not out of Little -Yafford, I am afraid.’ - -‘But, dear Mrs. Dulcimer, we are not all obliged to marry.’ - -‘My poor child, what else are you to do? There is nothing between that -and being governesses.’ - -‘Then we must all be governesses. I had rather be a tolerably contented -governess than a miserable wife.’ - -‘But you might be a very happy wife--if you marry the man who loves -you.’ - -Bella blushed again, and this time more deeply. Did Mrs. Dulcimer know -or suspect anything? Bella’s heart thrilled strangely. To be loved, how -sweet it sounded! To have her life all at once transformed to something -new and strange, lifted out of this dull level of poverty-stricken -monotony, in which it had crept on for all the years she could remember! - -‘I must wait till the true lover appears, Mrs. Dulcimer,’ she answered -quietly, though the beating of her heart had quickened. ‘I have never -met him yet.’ - -‘Haven’t you, Bella? You may have met him without knowing it. I have an -idea that Cyril Culverhouse is very fond of you.’ - -Now if Bella had heard Mrs. Dulcimer express such an idea in relation -to any one but herself, she would have given the notion exactly its -just value, which would have been nothing--for it was Mrs. Dulcimer’s -peculiar faculty to evolve ideas of this kind from her inner -consciousness--but, applied to herself, the notion had a startling -effect upon Bella’s nerves and brain. - -Could it be? Cyril--her ideal preacher--the man whose earnest eyes -had made her tremble strangely, at odd times, when her own eyes met -them suddenly. Cyril, the only being who had ever made her feel the -littleness of her own views and aspirations, and that, despite all -her gifts, she was a very poor creature. That Cyril could care for -her--value her--love her--it was too bright a dream! She forgot that he -was little better off than herself--that he could do nothing to lift -her out of her dull life of aching poverty. She forgot everything, -except that it would be the sweetest thing in the world to be loved by -him. - -‘Indeed, Mrs. Dulcimer, you must be mistaken’, she said, her voice -trembling a little. ‘Mr. Culverhouse has not given me a thought--he has -never said one word that----’ - -‘My dear, he is too honourable to say anything until he felt himself in -a position to speak plainly, and that would hardly be till he has got a -living. But the Church will not be such slow work for him as it is for -most young men, you may depend. He has great gifts.’ - -‘He has indeed,’ sighed Bella. - -This idea of a living opened quite a delicious picture before the eye -of fancy. Bella saw herself a vicar’s wife--a person of importance -in the village--like Mrs. Dulcimer--inhabiting some pretty vicarage, -full of old china, and modern furniture, surrounded with smiling lawns -and flower-beds, instead of the gooseberry bushes, cabbage rows, and -general utilitarianism and untidiness of the Scratchell garden. And -with Cyril--her Cyril--for the companion of her days. Imagination could -paint no fairer life. - -‘I don’t say that anything has been said, my love, even to me,’ said -Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘But I am long-sighted in these matters. I can see very -far ahead.’ - -This was true, for Mrs. Dulcimer’s apprehension had often been so far -in advance of fact that she had seen inclinations and nascent loves -that had never existed--and had sometimes worried the victims of these -fancied affections into ill-advised matrimony. Most of Mrs. Dulcimer’s -happy couples began, like Benedick and Beatrice, with a little aversion. - -Mrs. Scratchell now appeared, smooth as to her hair and shiny as to -her complexion, and with an unmistakable appearance of having just -changed her gown. She saluted the Vicar’s wife with the old-fashioned -curtsey which had been taught her in her boarding-school days, and -seemed almost overcome when Mrs. Dulcimer shook hands with her. - -‘I’m sure I don’t know how I can thank you for all your goodness to -Bella,’ said the grateful mother. - -‘Indeed, I want no thanks, Mrs. Scratchell. We are all very fond of -Bella at the Vicarage. She is so bright and clever. What a help she -must be to you!’ - -‘She is indeed. I don’t know what we should do without her. She’s the -only one of us that can manage her father when he’s out of temper.’ - -‘What a good wife she would make for a man of limited means!’ - -‘She would know how to make the most of things,’ answered Mrs. -Scratchell, with a sigh; ‘but I really think I’d rather my daughters -kept single all their lives than that they should have to cut and -contrive as I have had. I’ve not a word to say against poor Scratchell. -Poverty tries all our tempers, and his has been more tried than most -men’s. He’s a good father, and a good husband, and I’ve as good -children as any woman need wish to have; but, for all that, I’d rather -my daughters should never marry than that they should marry like me.’ - -‘Oh, Mrs. Scratchell,’ cried the Vicar’s wife, shocked at this slander -against her favourite institution. ‘Surely now, as a wife and mother, -you have fulfilled woman’s noblest mission. You ought to be proud of -having brought up such a nice family and managed things respectably -upon so little.’ - -‘Perhaps I ought,’ sighed Mrs. Scratchell. ‘But I don’t feel anything, -except very tired. I was forty-one last birthday, but I feel as if I -were eighty.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer did not know what to say. Life had been so easy for her. -All good things had fallen unsolicited into her lap. She had never -known an ungratified want, except her yearning for a new drawing-room -carpet. This glimpse of a pinched, overworked existence came upon her -like a revelation. - -‘But you must be so proud of your fine family,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, -bent on being cheerful; ‘so many of them--and all well and thriving.’ - -‘Yes,’ sighed the house-mother, ‘they grow very fast, and they have -fine healthy appetites. It’s better to pay the baker than the doctor, -as I always say to Mr. Scratchell when he complains, but the bills -_are_ very heavy.’ - -‘Now mind, Bella, I shall expect to see you often at the Vicarage,’ -said Mrs. Dulcimer, with her sweetest smile. ‘You are not to wait for -Miss Harefield to bring you, but you are to come and see me, you know, -in a friendly way--and bring your work. I know you are clever at fancy -work.’ - -‘She is clever at everything,’ said the mother, with a doleful pride. -‘I never knew such hands as Bella’s. She can turn them to anything.’ - -‘Bring your work of an afternoon then, Bella, when your mother can -spare you, and come and sit with me. Mr. Culverhouse often drops in -after tea.’ - -And then with much hand-shaking and cordiality, kindly Mrs. Dulcimer -took her leave, and went home happy, her mind glowing with triumphant -benevolence, feeling that she had employed her afternoon in a manner -that St. Paul himself must have approved. - -‘It’s all very well for Clement to talk about charity being a passive -virtue,’ she reflected. ‘Passive good nature would never get that girl -comfortably married. Five daughters, and the father without a sixpence -to give them! Poor dear girls! Husbands must be found for them somehow.’ - -Bella Scratchell felt curiously fluttered after the Vicar’s wife -was gone. The noise of the home tea-table, those rough boys, those -boisterous unkempt girls, with hair like horses’ manes, and an -uncomfortable habit of stretching across the table for everything they -wanted, seemed a shade more trying than usual. - -‘Now then, Greedy,’ cried Adolphus, the second boy, to his sister -Flora. ‘I would scrape the pot if I was you. Yah!’ looking into an -empty marmalade pot. ‘Not a vestige left. I say, Bella, you might stand -a pot of marmalade now and then.’ - -The boys were in the habit of making random demands upon Bella’s -private means, but were not often successful. - -‘I’m sure you want no temptation to eat bread and butter,’ she said. -‘It would be sheer cruelty to ma.’ - -What bliss to be away from them all! This noisy circle--the odour of -Dorset butter--the poor mother’s worried looks, and frequent getting up -to see after this and that--the scolding and disputing--the domestic -turmoil. - -A lonely old bachelor, looking in through the window at the firelit -room, might perchance have envied Mr. Scratchell his healthy young -family might have thought that this circle of eager faces, and buzz -of voices, meant happiness; yet for Bella home meant anything but -happiness. She was heartily tired of it all. - -She pictured herself in that ideal vicarage, with the only man she -had ever admired for her husband. She was thinking of him all through -the confusion of tea-time--the clinking of tea-spoons and rattling of -cups--the spilling of tea--an inevitable feature in every Scratchell -tea party--the fuss about the kettle, with much argumentation between -Mrs. Scratchell and the maid of all work as to whether it boiled or did -not boil--the scrambling for crusts, and general squabbling--through -all she was thinking of Cyril’s earnest face--hearing his thrilling -voice close at her ear. - -‘Can it be true?’ she asked herself. ‘Can it be true that he cares for -me--ever so little even? Oh, it would be too much--it would be heaven!’ - -Here Bertie’s cup of hot tea came into collision with his sister’s -elbow, foundered and went down, amidst a storm of shrill young voices -and maternal expostulation. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -A FLINTY-HEARTED FATHER. - - -BEATRIX walked up and down by the river, till the gray day grew darker -and duller, and the first shadows of evening began to show blue behind -the gables and chimney stacks and square church tower of Little -Yafford. Her heart beat faster as the time went on. Every minute might -bring her a summons to the library to hear her father’s decision. Or -Cyril would come into the garden to seek her, perhaps. But the light -grew grayer--evening was at hand, and there was still no summons. - -‘Can he have gone away without seeing me? Cruel,’ she thought. - -Miss Scales came running out, with her shawl over her head, full of -reproaches about the risk of evening air. - -‘Do you know if papa has had any visitors, Miss Scales, sweet?’ asked -Beatrix, taking her governess’s arm affectionately. - -‘My dear, when does your papa ever have visitors?’ - -‘Then there hasn’t been any one.’ - -‘I have been in my own room all the afternoon!’ - -‘Then you couldn’t have seen any one if they had come,’ said Beatrix. -‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ - -‘My dear Beatrix, you have not your usual amenity of manner,’ -remonstrated the governess. - -‘I beg your pardon, dear, but I have such a frightful headache.’ - -‘If you would only try a seidlitz----’ - -‘No, it will be better by and by. Let us go in----’ - -‘You shall have a cup of tea, dear.’ - -They went in together, and Beatrix pleaded exemption from the formality -of dinner, on account of her headache. She went to her room, and -threw herself on her sofa, and took up the first book that her hand -lighted on, amidst a litter of books and papers on the old-fashioned -writing-table. - -It was Dante. That melodious language which had been her mother’s -native tongue had always been dear to Beatrix, though it was only Miss -Scales’ English lips from which she had learned it. Her mother had -rarely spoken Italian in her presence. She had tried her best to become -an Englishwoman. - -She turned over the familiar pages of the ‘Inferno’ till she came to -the story of Paolo and Francesca. - -‘Perhaps my mother’s history was like that,’ she said. ‘She may never -have loved my father. Poor Francesca! And Dante had known her when she -was a happy, innocent child. No wonder that he should write of her with -infinite pity.’ - -Her thoughts wandered back to that dream-like time of childhood, in -which her mother had been the chief figure in the picture of life. -Poor mother! There was some deep sorrow--some inexpressible grief and -mystery mixed up with those early years. - -Miss Scales brought her some tea, and was full of affectionate -fussiness. - -‘Dearest, kindest Miss Scales, if you would only go and have your -dinner, and leave me quite alone,’ Beatrix entreated. ‘I know that -perfect quiet will cure my headache.’ - -‘I’ll only stop till you have finished your tea, my dear. Oh, -by-the-bye, your papa did have a visitor this afternoon. Quite an -event, is it not? Mr. Culverhouse called, and was in the library for -the best part of an hour, Peacock tells me. I suppose it was about the -schools, or the church, or something.’ - -‘I suppose so,’ said Beatrix. - -Thank Heaven, Miss Scales did not suspect anything. Beatrix could bear -anything better than people’s sympathy. There was much of her father’s -reserve in her nature. She had never made a confidante of Isabella -Scratchell, of whom she was so fond. - -Miss Scales went away to eat her lonely dinner. That meal was served -for the governess and her pupil at half-past five o’clock in the cedar -parlour--a pretty old room looking into the garden. Except on Sundays, -when there was a dreary make-believe family dinner, Mr. Harefield dined -alone at seven o’clock in the spacious dining-room. - -It would not be good for his daughter to dine so late, he said; and -he could not dine earlier. On this pretext he contrived to secure to -himself the solitude which his gloomy soul loved. He was a man who -took no pleasure in eating or drinking. He consumed his food in an -absent-minded manner, for the most part with an open book beside his -plate, and could not have told any one what he had had for dinner half -an hour after he had dined. - -Left to herself Beatrix lay upon the sofa, broad awake, with her arms -folded above her head, still as a statue--waiting for her doom. That -hung in some measure upon her father’s decision of to-day. But it was -a resolute young soul which stood thus face to face with destiny--a -soul capable of desperate things. Every line in the girl’s face told of -decision. The firm lips were closely locked, the large dark eyes looked -steadfastly forward, as if looking into the future and facing its worst -issues. - -At eight o’clock there came a gentle tapping at the door. - -‘Oh, if you please, miss,’ said the housemaid, ‘master wishes to see -you in the library.’ - -‘It has come,’ thought Beatrix, rising from the sofa. She paused for -an instant as she passed the cheval glass to survey herself from head -to foot. She was dressed in dark blue cloth, plainly made, fitting her -like a riding habit--a close linen collar clasped with a gold button. -The tall, full figure had more of womanly pride than girlish grace. - -‘Yes,’ she said to herself, ‘I am like my mother. Perhaps that is why -he hates me. And yet, if he had not loved her better than anything on -earth, why should he be so miserable?’ - -This was a problem that Beatrix had often tried to solve. The loss -which had blighted her father’s life must have been the loss of one -deeply loved. Yet Beatrix’s memory of her mother’s last year on earth -could recall no evidence of a husband’s love. - -Her father was standing with his back to the fire, when she went into -the library, just in the same attitude as that in which he had awaited -Cyril Culverhouse. He had changed his long gray dressing-gown for a -frock coat. That was the only alteration. - -There was but one lamp in the room--a large reading lamp with a crimson -velvet shade which threw all the light on Mr. Harefield’s table. The -rest of the room was in semi-darkness, fitfully illuminated by the wood -fire. - -Mr. Harefield did not waste time upon any ceremonious preamble. - -‘I have had an application for your hand,’ he said, his daughter -standing before him, facing him steadily. - -‘Yes, papa.’ - -‘You know of it, I suppose?’ - -‘Yes, papa.’ - -‘And you approve of it?’ - -She hesitated for a moment, remembering her last conversation with -Cyril. - -‘I am deeply attached to Mr. Culverhouse,’ she said, her voice -trembling a little at the daring confession, ‘and he is the only man I -will ever marry.’ - -‘Indeed! That is coming to the point. How old are you, Beatrix?’ - -‘Nineteen.’ - -‘And you have made up your mind already that there is but one man upon -earth you can love--that you will marry him, and no other?’ - -‘Yes, papa,’ she answered, looking at him with those dark intense eyes -of hers--so like other eyes, long since quenched in eternal night. - -‘Yes, papa, I am very sure of that. Fate may be too strong for me--I -feel sometimes as if I were born for an evil destiny. I may not marry -Cyril, perhaps; but I will never marry any one else.’ - -‘Do you know that when I am dead--if you do not offend me--you will be -a very rich woman?’ - -‘I have never thought about it, papa.’ - -‘Think about it now, then. If you marry to please me you will have an -estate large enough to make you an important personage in the world. If -you marry Cyril Culverhouse you will not have sixpence. I will leave -all I have in the world to found an asylum for----’ - -A coarse word was on his lips, but he checked himself and substituted a -euphuism,-- - -‘An asylum for nameless children.’ - -‘Papa, I should be sorry to offend you,’ said Beatrix, with a quiet -resoluteness that took him by surprise, ‘but the consideration of your -wealth would not influence me in the least. I have seen that money -cannot bring happiness,’ she went on, unconsciously repeating Cyril’s -argument, ‘and I can let the chance of being rich slip by me without -a pang. I have quite made up my mind to marry Cyril--to share his -poverty, and be his patient, hard-working wife--if he will have me.’ - -‘You deliberately announce your intention to disobey me!’ cried Mr. -Harefield, pale with indignation. - -‘You have never given me love. Cyril loves me. Can you expect me to -obey you at the sacrifice of that love? Do you think it is reasonable, -father?’ - -‘Ah!’ sighed Christian Harefield, ‘it is in the blood--it is in the -blood! It would not be natural for her to love me.’ - -He paced the room two or three times, through the sombre shadows, -leaving Beatrix standing by the hearth. Then he came slowly back, and -seated himself in the large arm-chair beside the fire. - -He bent over the logs and stirred them into a blaze. The broad yellow -light leaped up and filled the room with brightness. The grinning faces -in the carved bookcases came to life, the tarnished gilding of the -books seemed new again. - -‘Now listen to me, Beatrix,’ he said, without looking up from the -fire. ‘You complain that I have given you no love. Well, perhaps your -complaint is not baseless. The fountain of my affections was poisoned -at its spring--years ago. If I had loved you my love would have been -baneful. Better that I should lock my heart against you, that you -should grow up at my side almost as a stranger, near and yet far off. -You have so grown up, and, according to my lights, I have done my duty -to you as a father. Now comes the question of obedience. You repudiate -my claim to that. I will put the question in another way. I appeal to -your self-interest. Mr. Culverhouse loves you, you think. Very probably -he does. You are young, handsome, and considering it to his advantage -to fall in love with you, he may have found the task easy. But be -assured that he loves the heiress better than he loves the woman--that -he looks to your fortune as a stepping-stone to his advancement. He is -ambitious, no doubt. All these Churchmen are. They assume the religion -of humility, and yet languish for power. Every country vicar is at -heart a Pope, and believes in his own infallibility. Mr. Culverhouse -knows that a rich wife is the shortest cut to a deanery.’ - -‘Put him to the test,’ cried Beatrix. ‘Let him take me without a -sixpence.’ - -‘Yes, he would do that, believing that time would take the edge off my -anger, and that I should end by leaving you mistress of my estates. He -would speculate upon the chances of the future, and then when I died -and left you nothing, you would have to pay for his disappointment. -A life of poverty and complaint, discontent, and upbraiding. Be -reasonable, Beatrix. Let the bitter experience of my life govern yours. -Great inequality of fortune between husband and wife means that one of -the two is dupe or victim. Wait till a suitor approaches you who has -advantages to offer equal to those you can give. You are tired of this -gloomy home--you want to spread your wings and fly. Be patient for a -little while. For your sake I will come out of my shell. I will take -you to great cities. You shall see the world, and make your own choice, -but make it wisely. This first choice of yours is only a girl’s fancy, -and means nothing.’ - -‘It means life or death, papa,’ she answered, firmly. ‘I shall never -change.’ - -‘And you deliberately refuse to obey me?’ - -‘Yes, I refuse to sacrifice my happiness at your bidding. If you had -loved me it would have been different. Your love would have filled my -heart. But my heart was as empty as a desert. I had nothing but the -memory of my mother, and that was full of sorrow----’ - -‘Hush!’ said Christian Harefield. ‘Do not speak of your mother.’ - -‘Why should I not?’ exclaimed Beatrix, haughtily. ‘She was good, and -pure, and noble. My heart tells me that. Nothing you could say against -her would shake my faith in her. I love her memory better--better than -anything upon this earth--except Cyril.’ - -She said this softly, and for the first time since she had entered her -father’s presence a maidenly blush dyed her face. - -‘Go,’ said Christian Harefield, ‘you and I are as likely to agree -as fire and water. Go. I have no more to say to you. Take your own -course.’ - -She went to the door without a word, but, with her hand upon the lock, -paused, faltered, and came slowly back to the hearth. Unconsciously she -repeated the conduct of Desdemona after her rebellious marriage. She -knelt at her father’s feet, took his hand, and kissed it. - -‘Forgive me for disobeying you,’ she pleaded. ‘The sacrifice you -require is too great.’ - -He answered not a word, but when she had reached the door he said, -‘So long as you are in my house, and under age, I shall insist upon -obedience. You are to go no more to the Vicarage--understand that.’ - -‘Very well, papa.’ - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -TWO LOVE LETTERS. - - -PROUDLY as Beatrix had carried herself while she was face to face with -her father, her firmness gave way all at once when she left him, and -she burst into a flood of tears. - -She went upstairs, intending to go straight to her own room. She -did not want to exhibit her grief before kindly Miss Scales. She -shrank from her governess’s sympathy--would not for worlds have told -her secret, or bared her wounds, or allowed Cyril’s affection to be -canvassed or criticised. She wanted no one’s sympathy or advice, and -had fully made up her mind as to her future course. - -‘If he will be steadfast to me I will be true to him,’ she said within -herself. ‘I laugh at the thought of poverty if it is to be shared with -him.’ - -In the dimly lighted corridor she stopped suddenly, with a start of -surprise. Something had happened which she had never known to occur -before. The key was in the lock of her mother’s room,--that sealed -chamber, the picture of which was more dimly painted on her memory than -a dream of past years--the room she had so languished to see. - -Without a thought of whether it were right or wrong she ran to her room -at the other end of the corridor, fetched a candle, and went back to -her mother’s door. - -The door was unlocked. She took out the key, went in, and locked the -door inside, to secure herself from interruption. - -‘Dear room,’ she said, looking round in the dim light. ‘Yes, I remember -it better now--and mamma sitting there in that low chair by the -fire--and I lying on that white rug with my toys scattered about. Ah, -what happy days! The soft fleecy whiteness used to remind me of snow. -And then when I was tired of play mamma used to take me into her lap -and sing to me. Oh, how I loved her! No, there is no love like that--no -love so sweet, so strong, so holy! Mother, if you could come back to -me for a few short years I would give up Cyril. I would sacrifice -that newer love for the old one--for the old love was dearer, sweeter, -closer, better.’ - -She flung herself on her knees beside the empty chair, and sobbed out -her passionate grief. It seemed to her almost as if there were sympathy -in that contact--a kind of sympathy which comforted her soul. To these -dumb things which breathed of her mother’s presence she could pour out -her sorrow, she could lay bare her heart. No pride restrained her here. - -So she remained for a long time, till her passion had almost worn -itself out in weeping. Then she rose and looked round the room, and -then slowly examined each once familiar object, candle in hand. The -dust lay white upon everything, and the spider had spun his gauzy -draperies from curtain to curtain. - -Yes. Everything was as she had faintly remembered it. There stood the -Japanese cabinets, with their rich raised work representing dragons, -and birds, and fishes, and golden trees, and golden bridges, and golden -temples, all golden on a shining black ground. How often she had stood -before one of those cabinets, admiring the strange creatures! - -‘Are they all gold when they are alive, mamma?’ she had asked once, -‘and do they swim in black water?’ - -There stood the frame, with the Berlin wool roses which she had watched -slowly creeping into life under her mother’s white hands. She lifted -the tissue-paper covering, and looked at the flowers, with awe-stricken -eyes. All these empty years had scarcely faded them--and yet the hands -that had wrought them were dust. - -The centre table was covered with books, and desks, and dainty -workbaskets, all the trifles of a woman’s daily life--just as Mrs. -Harefield had left them. - -Beatrix opened a blotting-book. There was a letter begun in a woman’s -hand--her mother’s doubtless. The sight of it thrilled her, for it was -the first scrap of her mother’s writing she had seen since she was old -enough to distinguish one style of penmanship from another. - -The letter was dated in the year of her mother’s death. - - ‘_The Water House, September 10th, 1840._ - ‘DEAR MRS. DULCIMER, - - ‘We should have been very pleased to come to you on the 22nd, but Mr. - Harefield has made up his mind to leave for Italy on the 18th, so you - see it would be impossible. Thanks for your kind advice about little - Trix. I agree with you that she is far from strong, and I am happy to - tell you that Mr. Harefield has consented to my taking her with me - this year. A winter in the South will----’ - -Here the letter broke off. Mrs. Dulcimer had called, perhaps, and -rendered its completion unnecessary. Beatrix could just remember that -Mrs. Dulcimer used to call rather often in those days. - -The key was in one of the Japanese cabinets. Beatrix unlocked it, and -looked inside. There were two rows of shallow drawers, with tarnished -silver handles. In the first she opened there was a velvet covered -miniature case which Beatrix recognised with a start. It was the one -which her mother had taken out of her hand one day. - -She opened it and looked at the pictured face exquisitely painted -on ivory. It was such a face as one sees in the pictures of the -old Italian masters--darkly beautiful--the lips proud and firm--the -nostrils exquisitely chiselled--the eyes Italian. - -‘Was this Antonio?’ Beatrix asked herself, ‘and who was he? And why was -his influence evil in my mother’s life?’ - -She pursued her examination of the room. What was this small brass -inlaid casket on a table between the windows? It was a neat little -medicine chest with stoppered bottles. She took them out one by one. -They were for the most part empty. But one, labelled laudanum, poison, -was three parts full. She put them back into their places and shut down -the lid. ‘I wonder whether mamma used to take laudanum, as I have done -sometimes, to kill pain?’ she said to herself. - -The morning-room opened into the dressing-room, which communicated with -the bedroom. - -But the door between the morning-room and dressing-room was locked. -Beatrix could explore no further. - -She unlocked the door, restored the key to its place on the other side, -and returned to her own room. She looked at her watch, and found that -it was half-past ten. She had been an hour in that chamber of the dead. - -She locked the door of her own room, just in time to escape a -visitation from Miss Scales, whose gentle tapping sounded on the panel -five minutes afterwards. - -‘Are you going to bed, dear?’ inquired the duenna. - -‘Yes, Miss Scales, love. Good night.’ - -‘Good night, dear.’ - -Beatrix stirred the fire. The autumn nights were getting chill and -shivery. It seemed as if the river became an embodied dampness at this -time of the year, and stole into the house after nightfall, like a -spectre. - -She took out her desk, and in that firm and almost masculine hand of -hers began a letter to Cyril. - -‘Dearest,’ she began. - -No other name was needed. He was her dearest and only dear. - - ‘DEAREST,--My father has told me his decision. It is just as I said - it would be. He will bestow no blessing upon our love. He has sworn - to disinherit me if I marry you. He is quite resolute, and will never - change his mind, he assures me. Nothing you or I could do would - soften him. If you marry me you will marry a pauper. I am to be - penniless. - - ‘Is your mind made up, Cyril? Are you true and steadfast? If so - you will find me firm as rock. Poverty has no terrors for me. I - would marry you, dearest, if you were a farm labourer with a dozen - shillings a week. I would work, drudge, and wash and mend, and be - your happy wife. I have told my father as much as this. I have told - him that I renounce his money and his lands--that I am ready to be - your wife whenever you choose to claim me--that the loss of all he - has to leave cannot make me swerve by one hair’s breadth from my - purpose. - - ‘Do you think me bold, Cyril, or unwomanly, for writing thus frankly? - If you do please pardon me, as Romeo pardoned Juliet, because I - have not “more cunning to be strange.” Write to me, dearest. I am - forbidden to go to the Vicarage any more while I remain under my - father’s roof; so I have little hope of seeing you. Write and tell me - what you wish. - - ‘Your ever affectionate - ‘BEATRIX.’ - -What was Cyril Culverhouse to do on receiving such a letter as this of -Beatrix Harefield’s, after his promise to her father that he would hold -no further communication with her? To leave such a letter unanswered -was impossible to any man. To break his word and answer it in an -underhand manner was impossible to Cyril Culverhouse. - -The woman he loved declared herself all his own. She held the sacrifice -of fortune as a feather weighed against his love. She was ready to be -his wife, unfettered, unburdened by the wealth which had never entered -into his views or desires. The loss of that wealth would weigh as -lightly with him as it did with her. But could he be so selfish as to -take this impetuous girl at her word? Could he say to her, ‘Sacrifice -all things for my sake, fortune and duty, your father’s estate and -your father’s regard. Disobey and defy your father at my bidding?’ -Could he, whose mission it was to teach others their duty, so far -violate his own? - -Cyril told himself that he could not do this thing. He was a man who -had built his life upon principle, and though, in this case, passion -urged him strongly to do wrong, principle was stronger, and insisted -upon his doing right. - -He asked advice from no one--not even from his cousin Kenrick, who had -found out the secret of his heart. - -This is what he wrote to Beatrix within three hours of the delivery of -her letter, hours which he had given to deepest thought:-- - - ‘MY BEST AND DEAREST,--How can I thank you enough for your - noble letter, and for its dear assurance that fortune ranks no - higher in your esteem than it does in mine? How can I answer you - conscientiously, and with a strict adherence to the hard path of - duty--and not seem to answer coldly? - - ‘If I could answer you as my heart prompts I should say, “Let us - begin our life journey at once.” I have no fear of the issue. Were - I a fatalist, I should feel myself strong enough to conquer adverse - fate, with you by my side. Believing as I do in a Divine goodness - governing and guiding all things, I can survey the future with - infinite reliance, feeling certain that all things will be well for - us if we only cleave to the right. - - ‘It would not be right, dearest, for me to profit by the impulse of - your warm heart, which prompts you to make so large a sacrifice for - my sake. You are but just emerging from childhood into womanhood, - and you can hardly measure the losses you are at this moment willing - to incur. Let us wait a few years, love, and if time and experience - confirm your present purpose, most proudly and gladly will I take my - darling to my heart, free from the splendid burden of wealth. Let us - wait at least till you are of age, and then, if you are still true - to your purpose of to-day, you will be justified in choosing for - yourself. No father has the right to impose his wishes upon a child - where a life’s happiness or misery is at stake, but he has the right - to do his uttermost to prevent an unwise choice. Your father has done - me the injustice to think me a fortune-hunter. He might be justified - in thinking me something less than an honourable man, if I were to - take advantage of your guileless nature, which knows not worldly - prudence or the thought of change. - - ‘Love, I dare not write more than this. I dare not let my heart go - out to you, as it would, in fondest words. I want to write soberly, - wisely, if possible. Wait, dear love, for two little years, and, with - God’s help, I shall have won a better position in my profession, a - home which, although humble compared with your father’s house, may be - not unworthy of a true and loving wife. - - ‘During those two years of waiting we shall have to live apart. I - have promised your father that I will make no attempt to see or - communicate with you till after your twenty-first birthday. Even to - convey this letter to you I shall have to appeal to his generosity. I - shall not break that promise. Dear as my work in Little Yafford has - become to me, I shall leave this place as soon as I can hear of an - eligible curacy elsewhere. Hitherto my work has been only a labour of - love. Henceforward I am a man anxious to succeed in my profession. - I do not mean that I am going to sacrifice my Divine calling to the - desire to win a home for my sweet wife,--only that I shall, so far as - may be justifiable, seek to improve my position. - - ‘Farewell, dearest. Remember that while I hold myself bound to you, I - leave you free; and, if the future should show you a fairer life than - that which I can give you, you have but to send me one line, “Cyril, - the dream is ended,” and I will submit, as to the will of God. - - ‘Yours till death, - ‘CYRIL CULVERHOUSE.’ - -This letter Cyril enclosed in an envelope, addressed to Mr. Harefield, -with the following note:-- - - ‘DEAR SIR,--I promised not to write to your daughter until after her - twenty-first birthday. She has written to me, and I cannot leave her - letter unanswered. I must appeal to your kindness therefore to give - her the enclosed letter, read or unread, as it may please you. There - is not a word in it that I should blush for you to read, yet I shall - be grateful if you deliver the letter unread. I cannot think that you - will refuse to make this concession, as, if you do so, you will place - me in the position of having received a noble and self-sacrificing - letter from your daughter, and of leaving it wholly unacknowledged. - - ‘Your obedient servant, - ‘CYRIL CULVERHOUSE.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -BELLA IN SEARCH OF A MISSION. - - -WHILE taking charge of Bella Scratchell’s destiny, Mrs. Dulcimer’s -busy mind had not forgotten the interests of her older _protégé_, Sir -Kenrick Culverhouse, whose mortgaged estate was to be set free by means -of Beatrix Harefield’s fortune. She was quite pleased with herself for -the brilliant idea of disposing comfortably of Cyril by handing him -over to Miss Scratchell, and thus leaving Sir Kenrick without a rival -in the field. - -‘That foolish husband of mine would have been trying to make a match -between Beatrix and his favourite Cyril,’ she said to herself. ‘But if -I can put it into Cyril’s head that Bella Scratchell is very fond of -him, he is almost sure to fall over head and ears in love with her. Men -always do. I have not forgotten Benedick and Beatrice.’ - -All Mrs. Dulcimer’s good intents with regard to Sir Kenrick and the -mortgages were suddenly frustrated by a letter from Beatrix, which at -once surprised and puzzled her. - - ‘DEAREST MRS. DULCIMER,--My father has forbidden me to visit your - pleasant house any more. I am to have no more happy hours in dear Mr. - Dulcimer’s library, or with you in your pretty garden. I cannot tell - you the reason of his harsh conduct. It is nothing that concerns you - or Mr. Dulcimer. It is for a fault of my own that I am henceforward - denied the happiness I found in your friendship and society. - - ‘Pray think of me kindly, and remember that I shall be always, as - long as I live, - - ‘Your grateful and affectionate - - ‘BEATRIX.’ - -Here was a dead lock. Poor Kenrick’s hopes were nipped in the bud. -Happily Kenrick himself had not yet begun to hope. It was Mrs. Dulcimer -who was disappointed. She would have abandoned herself to despair if -she had not been provided with that other scheme in favour of Cyril and -Bella,--a smaller business, but one that served to occupy her mind. -After Mrs. Dulcimer’s visit to the Scratchell domicile, Bella came very -often to the Vicarage, carrying her neat little leather work-bag, and -spending the afternoon in a friendly way. If she did not come of her -own accord, Mrs. Dulcimer would even go the length of sending Rebecca, -or that useful lad who was a boot, knife, and garden boy in the -morning, and a page in the afternoon, to fetch her. The Vicar’s wife -was glad to have a companion who appreciated her conversation better -than the absent-minded Vicar, whose eyes were always on his books, -and whose answers were too obviously mechanical. So it happened that, -through this skilful contriving of Mrs. Dulcimer’s, Bella found herself -very often in Cyril’s society. Cyril was very fond of Mr. Dulcimer, and -had a good deal of parish work to discuss with him. This brought him to -the Vicarage nearly every evening. He used to drop in at the fag end -of the tea--a substantial meal which was tea and supper combined--and -take his place by Mrs. Dulcimer, at a corner of the tray, just in -time for the last decent cup of tea, as the Vicar’s wife would remark -plaintively. - -‘Why don’t you come at seven o’clock, and sit down with us in a -sociable manner,’ she complained, ‘instead of coming in when the teapot -is just exhausted? Bella has been quite anxious about you. “I’m sure -Mr. Culverhouse over-fatigues himself in his devotion to his parish -work,” she said just now.’ - -Bella blushed, and turned her pretty blue eyes shyly upon the curate. - -‘And I am sure you do,’ she said. ‘It’s quite dreadful. You will have a -fever or something. You are so careless about your health.’ - -Cyril saw neither the blush nor the shy look in the soft blue eyes. -Bella’s eyes wore always that soft look in company, but they could -harden and assume a much keener gaze during the everyday business of -life. - -‘I never was ill in my life,’ said Cyril, in a provokingly -matter-of-fact tone, not in the least touched by this feminine interest -in his welfare. - -It was very aggravating, but Benedick was so at first, Mrs. Dulcimer -remembered. - -‘How much I miss Beatrix Harefield!’ said the Vicar. ‘There is -something original about that girl which always interested me--and -then she has such a mind to appreciate books. I never saw so young -a creature fasten as she does on a great book. She seems to have an -instinct which always leads her to the best.’ - -‘She is a noble creature,’ said Cyril, quietly. - -‘What a wife she would have made for your cousin!’ exclaimed Mrs. -Dulcimer, too eager to be able to mask her batteries altogether. - -‘She would make a noble wife--for any man,’ assented Cyril. - -‘Of course, but she and your cousin seemed so peculiarly suited to -each other. There is something about both of them so much above the -common herd--a _je ne sais quoi_--a patrician air--an aristocratic way -of thinking. And then, with such a fortune as Miss Harefield’s, your -cousin’s position----’ - -‘Pray do not let Miss Harefield’s fortune enter into the question,’ -cried Cyril, impatiently. ‘Kenrick is not a fortune-hunter, and Miss -Harefield is far too noble a woman for one to tolerate the idea of her -being married for her money.’ - -‘My dear Cyril, I never had such an idea. You need not take me up so -sharply. Kenrick a fortune-hunter!--of course not. But where these -things combine----However we need not dispute about it. That wretched -Mr. Harefield is resolved to immure his daughter in that dreary old -house of his. She is as badly off as a princess in a fairy tale.’ - -‘Worse,’ said Bella, ‘for there are no adventurous princes in these -degenerate days.’ - -‘How does she bear this cruel treatment?’ asked Cyril, looking at Bella -for the first time, since he had shaken hands with her on arriving. -‘You see her often, don’t you, Miss Scratchell?’ - -‘Two or three times a week. But she is so reserved--even with me, -though we are such old friends. I never quite know what she thinks or -feels. She is all that is nice--and I am devotedly attached to her--but -she never treats me with the same frankness I show to her. She has -looked unhappy since Mr. Harefield put a stop to her visits here--but -she never complains.’ - -‘I should call at the Water House,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘for I long -to see the dear girl; but I really cannot face that dreadful Mr. -Harefield; and, as he has forbidden Beatrix to come here, I dare say he -would not allow her to see me. I wonder you are allowed to visit her, -Bella.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Bella, ‘I don’t count. I am only admitted as a humble -companion. Mr. Harefield thinks no more of me than of one of the -servants.’ - -Tea was over by this time, and the family had retired to the library, -which was Mr. Dulcimer’s favourite evening room. There he had his pet -chair, his reading table and lamp, and could take up a book, or lay -it down as he pleased. Even the backs of his books were dear to him. -In his idler moments he would lean back in his chair and gaze at them -dreamily, in a rapture of content. To him those bindings of various -hues, some sober, some gorgeous, were as familiar faces. There was -Burton yonder, in calf antique, the Oxford edition--there Southey’s -‘Doctor,’ in crimson morocco--there the old dramatists in brown and -gold. Anon came a solid block of histories, from Herodotus to Guizot. - -Mrs. Dulcimer established herself at her work table, with Bella by -her side. The curate seated himself by his Vicar and began to talk of -the parish. In her heart Bella hated that parish talk--the rheumatic -old women--the sick children--men who were out of work or down with -fever--the sufferers--the sinners--the cases of all kinds that needed -help. - -‘If I were a man I would rather be a chimneysweep than a clergyman,’ -she thought. ‘One might get to like sooty chimneys, in time; but I am -sure I could never get to like poor people.’ - -And yet at that moment Bella was contemplating a step which would bring -her into very close contact with the poor of Little Yafford. - -It was a quiet humdrum evening, enlivened only by Mrs. Dulcimer’s -small talk about her neighbours or her needlework, and the indistinct -murmurs of those two men on the other side of the wide old hearth. -But to Bella it was infinitely more agreeable than the noisy evenings -at home--the father’s grumblings and growlings--the squabblings and -snappings of boys and girls--the house-mother’s moaning about the -maid-of-all-work’s misdoings. It was pleasant to sit in this pretty -room, lined with many-coloured volumes, all kept with an exquisite -neatness, which was a feature in Mr. Dulcimer’s love of books. The glow -of the fire, the subdued radiance of the lamps, the rich dark red of -the curtains, made a warm brightness unknown in those bare rooms at -home. And every now and then Bella’s blue eyes shot a glance at the -curate’s earnest face--or, when he was most occupied, dwelt upon it -admiringly for a few moments. - -‘Ten o’clock,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, as the skeleton clock on the -chimney-piece chimed the hour. ‘I wouldn’t make your poor mother uneasy -for the world, Bella dear--Cyril, I know you’ll be kind enough to see -Bella safe home. You pass her door, you know.’ - -Mr. Culverhouse knew it perfectly. - -‘I shall be very happy,’ he said kindly. - -He looked with favour on Bella--as a harmless little thing, and -Beatrix’s friend. - -Bella slipped away, beaming with smiles, to put on her bonnet. ‘That -girl contrives to look well in everything she wears,’ said Mrs. -Dulcimer. ‘Isn’t she pretty?’ - -As this was directly addressed to Cyril, he felt himself compelled to -answer. - -‘Well, yes,’ he deliberated. ‘I suppose she is the kind of little -person usually called pretty. Pink and white prettiness.’ - -‘Pink and white!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you might say as much as that -of a wax doll. Bella’s complexion is as delicate as Dresden china.’ - -‘Don’t be angry with me, Mrs. Dulcimer, but I must confess I hate -Dresden china,’ said Cyril, laughing. ‘But I like Miss Scratchell,’ he -added hastily, ‘because she seems good and amiable. She must have a -hard life with all those brothers and sisters.’ - -‘A hard life,’ echoed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Ah, you don’t know what an angel -that girl is in her mother’s house. She does everything--cuts out her -sisters dresses even--and with such an eye for fashion.’ - -‘I can’t fancy an angel cutting out dresses, or having an eye for -fashion.’ - -‘For shame, Cyril! You young men can’t appreciate domestic virtues. -You would think more of her if I told you that she wanted to go into a -convent, or to chop somebody’s head off, like Judith. That girl will -make a perfect wife.’ - -‘I have no doubt she will. And I dare say you have already decided on -the happy man who is to be her husband,’ replied Cyril, innocently. - -Mrs. Dulcimer actually blushed. - -Bella came back in her neat little bonnet, and comfortable shepherd’s -plaid shawl. Those were days in which women still wore bonnets and -shawls. She looked the picture of sweetness and innocence in that -cottage bonnet, tied under her pretty little chin, and surrounding her -face like a halo. - -‘I am so sorry to trouble you,’ she said, as she walked away from the -Vicarage, with her hand on Cyril’s arm. - -‘It is not the least trouble, but a pleasure to be of use to you.’ - -‘You are much too good. But I am going to be really troublesome. I want -to make you my father confessor.’ - -‘About the husband Mrs. Dulcimer has in view,’ thought Cyril, expecting -to be made adviser in a love affair. - -‘Indeed,’ he said kindly. ‘I am sure you can have nothing very -appalling to confess. And if my advice can be of any use to you it is -entirely at your service.’ - -‘How kind you are!’ exclaimed Bella. ‘I wonder sometimes that you can -find so much kindness for every one--that you can sympathize with so -many--that you are never worn out or impatient, or----’ - -‘I should be very unworthy of my vocation if I could be so easily -wearied,’ said Cyril, stopping this discursive gush of laudation. ‘But -I am waiting to hear your confession.’ - -‘I hardly know how to begin,’ faltered Bella. ‘But--yes. I must say -so. Your sermons have awakened my conscience. I think it must have -been cold and dead till you came to us. But you have taught me to -consider things more deeply. I see what an empty and useless life I am -leading----’ - -‘Why, Mrs. Dulcimer has just been praising your usefulness,’ said -Cyril, kindly, a kindness that fluttered Bella’s heart with baseless -hopes. ‘She has been telling me how much you do for your mother and -sisters.’ - -‘Oh yes,’ replied Bella, carelessly, ‘of course I try to be useful -at home. I work for my own family. But that is such an obvious -duty, and there is a pleasure in doing those things that is almost -self-indulgence.’ - -What a different story Adolphus and Bertie could have told about -Bella’s black looks when she had to sew on buttons for them! - -‘What I should like would be to do some good for the poor, those -wretched creatures for whom you do so much. My mornings are all -occupied in teaching--but I have my afternoons to myself,--and I think -I could spare three afternoons a week, if you would show me how I could -be useful--in visiting and reading, or teaching the children.’ - -‘You are very good,’ said Cyril, thoughtfully, ‘and I like you for -having such a thought. But I really don’t know what to say. I have -several kind ladies who help me.’ - -‘Who run after you, you should say,’ thought Bella, savagely. ‘Forward -minxes.’ - -‘And really I hesitate at the idea of withdrawing you from a home in -which you are so useful. For after all, your mother, with her numerous -family, has as much need of sympathy----’ - -‘As those horrid rheumatic old women,’ thought Bella. ‘I should think -so, indeed.’ - -‘In short, my dear Miss Scratchell, your present life seems to me so -usefully and wisely employed, that I can hardly bring myself to propose -any alteration.’ - -‘Perhaps you think that I should be of no use in the parish work,’ -suggested Bella. - -‘Believe me, no. Indeed, I think, with your taste and handiness, and -industrious habits, you might be of much use. The poor are often sadly -deficient in taste and neatness, and the power to make the best of -things. If you could go among the younger people, and show them how to -be neat and tasteful in their homes, and in their dress, to make the -best of their small resources, to cultivate the beauty of cleanliness -and tidiness--if you could show them how much beauty there is to be -got out of the simplest things--in a word, if you could elevate their -taste----’ said Mr. Culverhouse, with vague yearnings after sweetness -and light. ‘Yes, I am sure you could be useful, as an apostle of the -beautiful.’ - -Bella’s face crimsoned with a happy blush. Her whole being thrilled -with triumph. She took this as a compliment to herself. He thought her -beautiful. Mrs. Dulcimer was right. He loved her, and in good time -would tell her of his love. - -‘Tell me where to go, and what to do,’ she said, in a voice that -trembled with joyful feeling. - -‘I will make out a list of people. I shall not send you among the very -poor, or to those who would pester you for money. I will send you into -homes where there are young people, where sympathy and kindly interest -in small things will be of use.’ - -‘A thousand thanks,’ cried Bella; ‘I shall feel so much happier when I -know that I have some small share in the work you do so nobly. Here we -are at home. Will you come in and see papa?’ - -She devoutly hoped that he would decline, knowing too well the general -untidiness of home at this hour. - -‘Not to-night; it is too late. But I will call in a day or two.’ - -Bertie opened the door, keeping himself wedged behind it, as if it had -been opened by a supernatural power. - -‘Good night,’ said Bella. - -‘Good night,’ said the curate, with a kindness which Bella mistook for -affection. - -‘Why, Bella, what have you been painting your cheeks with?’ cried -Adolphus, when Miss Scratchell entered the family parlour, where -the solicitor was sitting by the fire, reading one of the county -papers--about the only literature with which he ever recreated his -mind--while poor Mrs. Scratchell sighed over a basket of stockings, -mostly past mending, or requiring a miracle of ingenuity in the mender. -It was a miserable home to come back to, Bella thought; and again that -vision of an ideal parsonage arose before her mental eye--a paradise -of roses and rosebud chintz, Venetian blinds, and a pony chaise. The -fulfilment of that dream seemed nearer to her to-night than when first -Mrs. Dulcimer conjured up the delightful picture. - -‘He seemed pleased with my offer to visit his tiresome poor people,’ -thought Bella, as she brushed her soft auburn locks. ‘It will bring -us more together, perhaps; and, if he really cares for me, that will -please him.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -‘OH, THINK’ST THOU WE SHALL EVER MEET AGAIN?’ - - -BELLA’S hopes were realized insomuch that her offer to visit his -cottagers certainly did bring her more directly in contact with Mr. -Culverhouse than she had ever been yet. From that hour Cyril became -friendly and confidential--he had found some one besides the Vicar and -Mrs. Dulcimer to whom he could talk about his poor parishioners, their -wants, their virtues, and their vices. He found Bella full of sympathy. -She took up her new work with ardour. She made friends wherever she -went. His people were full of her praises. Perhaps, if Cyril’s heart -had been free, he might have obliged Mrs. Dulcimer by falling in love -with her latest _protégée_. There was something so nice about Bella -Scratchell--a winning softness, a gentle submission to other people, a -kittenish sleekness and grace, accompanied with all a petted kitten’s -caressing ways. - -‘That girl has really a remarkable sweetness of character,’ said -Cyril, who, like most young men fresh from the university, fancied he -understood mankind. - -He praised Isabella warmly to Mrs. Dulcimer, and thereby stimulated -that lady’s efforts. - -‘How clever it was of you to propose to visit the poor!’ said the -Vicar’s wife to Bella, approvingly. ‘Just the very thing to please him.’ - -‘Oh, dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I hope you don’t think I did it on that -account,’ cried Bella, with a shocked look. ‘It is a real pleasure to -me to be of some little use. When I see how good you and Mr. Dulcimer -are----’ - -‘Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I don’t go among the poor as much as I -ought. Anxious as I am to do good, I don’t get on with them as -well as Clement does. I can’t help telling them when I see things -going wrong, and trying to set them in the right way. And they -resent that. One must look on and smile as if everything was -right--dirt--muddle--extravagance--everything. It is too trying for any -one with an energetic temper. I’m sure only the other day I said to -Maria Bowes--whom I’ve known all my life--“If I were you, Maria, I’d -try to have your keeping-room a little neater--and a few flowers in the -window--and the hearth always swept up. It would be so much nicer for -Bowes when he comes home from his work.” “I dare say I should have it -so if I’d three women-servants, and a boy to clean up after them,” she -answered, quite impertinently, “and, if my keeping-room wasn’t kitchen -and chamber too.” “Do you mean to say that I keep too many servants, -Maria?” I said. “No, ma’am,” she answered, “but I mean that gentlefolks -can’t tell how difficult poor folks find it to cook a bit of victuals, -and keep their children from getting ragged, without fiddle-faddling -with cleaning up a place that’s no sooner cleaned than it’s mucked -again.”’ - -‘I can pity her, poor wretch,’ said Bella, ‘for it’s like that with us -at home, though we make believe to think ourselves gentlefolks. It’s -as much as mother can do to keep things together anyhow; and every -Saturday night is a struggle to get the children’s clothes decent for -Sunday. Mother and I often sit up till after twelve o’clock, sewing on -buttons, and darning stockings.’ - -‘Ah, what a wife you will make, Bella!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, as if -a wife’s one duty were the repair of her husband’s garments. - - * * * * * - -The woods were growing browner, the moorland grayer. The mists of -chill November crept up from the valley, and hung upon the hill-side. -The river was half hidden under a silvery veil, on those dim November -afternoons. An autumnal tranquillity hung over the sombre old Water -House. The dahlias and hollyhocks were dead, the chrysanthemums were -fading--autumn primroses showed pale in quiet nooks of the garden, and -along by the old-fashioned borders stole the welcome odour of late -violets. - -How often Cyril Culverhouse lingered on the old Roman bridge to look at -the house which held the one woman he loved! The entrance tower and a -couple of fine old yew trees hid the river walk from him, or he might -have seen Beatrix pacing slowly up and down in melancholy solitude. - -She had not answered his letter, but he had received a brief note from -Mr. Harefield. - - ‘SIR,--I have delivered your letter to my daughter unread. I hope the - next two years will bring her wisdom. - - ‘Yours obediently, - - ‘CHRISTIAN HAREFIELD.’ - - -Cyril had questioned Bella Scratchell more than once about her friend, -without betraying the warmth of his interest in Beatrix. - -‘Yes, she is very dull, poor thing,’ said Bella. ‘I am more sorry for -her than I can say. I go there as often as I can, and do what I can to -cheer her. But Beatrix was never a cheerful girl, you know, and she -gets graver and more silent every day. Miss Scales is quite anxious -about her, and wants her to take bark.’ - -‘I doubt if bark is a cure for an unhappy home,’ said Cyril. - -‘No--if you call her home unhappy. But really she has everything a -girl could wish. Handsome old rooms to herself--no disorder--no noisy -brothers upsetting things. She has her books--and a governess who -adores her--a fine old garden beautifully kept--a pony carriage--a -horse to ride.’ - -‘Unfortunately those things won’t make youth happy,’ answered the -curate: ‘they might be sufficient for happiness at the end of life; -they are not enough for it at the beginning.’ - -‘I know that life is a very different thing without them,’ sighed Bella. - -‘Would you change places with Miss Harefield?’ asked Cyril. - -Bella blushed and cast down her eyes. - -‘No,’ she said softly. - -She meant that she would not barter her hope of Cyril’s love for the -advantages of Beatrix Harefield’s position, though she had envied those -advantages ever since the childish days in which she first became Miss -Harefield’s playfellow. - -One afternoon, towards the close of November, Cyril was returning from -a tramp across the moor. He had been to a distant village to see the -ailing married daughter of one of his parishioners, who had fancied -that a visit from the kind curate would do her sick daughter more -good than ‘doctor’s stuff.’ It was a clear afternoon, a yellow sunset -brightening the western horizon. This long lonely walk had given him -much time for thought, and he had been thinking of Beatrix all the -way. She was so much in his thoughts that, although he had had no hope -of meeting her, it seemed scarcely strange to him when he heard the -muffled sound of hoofs upon the short grass, and looking round saw her -riding towards him at a fast canter. - -What was he to do? He had promised to hold himself aloof from her. He -was neither to see nor write to her during the two years of probation. -He had made up his mind that she would pass him at that flying pace, -that he would see the slim figure--erect in the saddle, firmly seated -as an Arab on his loosely held courser--flash by him like a vision of -pride and beauty, and be gone. He stood bare-headed to see her pass, -expecting to receive no more notice than a bow, or doubtful even -whether she would see him, when she pulled her horse almost on his -haunches, wheeled round, and met him face to face. - -‘How lucky!’ she cried, flushing with delight. ‘I have been dying to -see you. I thought I could not be mistaken, when I saw your figure in -the distance, and I rode after you.’ - -She slipped lightly out of the saddle, and stood beside him, bridle in -hand, the petted horse rubbing his velvet nose against her shoulder. - -‘William is half a mile behind,’ she said. ‘He’s on one of papa’s old -hunters. Don’t you hear him?’ - -A distant noise, like the puffing of a steam-engine, announced the -groom’s approach. - -‘Cyril,’ cried Beatrix, ‘are you as glad to see me as I am to see you?’ - -‘It is more than gladness that I feel, dear,’ he answered, clasping her -hands and looking earnestly at the expressive face, which had faded to -a sickly pallor after the flush of joy, ‘but, my dearest, how ill you -are looking, how changed----’ - -‘Oh, I have been miserable,’ she said, impetuously, ‘simply miserable. -I miss you every day in the week, every hour in the day. I did not see -you very often, did I? And yet, now that I am forbidden to go to the -Vicarage, it seems as if my life had been spent in your society. Oh, -you have work to do, you have noble ideas to fill your mind! How can -you tell the blankness of a woman’s life, parted from all she loves?’ - -‘My darling, it is not for life; it is only for a little while.’ - -‘A little while!’ she cried, impatiently. ‘A day is an age when one is -miserable. I wake every morning, oh so early! and see the dreary gray -light, and say to myself, “What does it matter? Night and day are alike -to me. I shall not see him.” Cyril, why did you write me that cruel -letter?’ - -The groom had ridden up by this time on his roaring hunter, and was -standing at a respectful distance, wondering what his young mistress -could have to say to the curate, and why she had dismounted in order to -say it. - -‘My own love, how could I write otherwise? I promised your father that -for two years I would respect his desires, that I would counsel you -to no act of disobedience till you were old enough to take the full -measure of your acts--till time had changed impulse into conviction. -How could I have written otherwise than as I did?’ - -‘You could have said, “Defy your father as I do, laugh to scorn the -loss of fortune, as I do. Be my wife. We shall be very poor, perhaps, -for the first few years. But Heaven will take care of us as the ravens -cared for Elijah.” That is how you ought to have written to me.’ - -He was sorely tempted by her--tempted to take her to his heart that -moment, to rain kisses on the sweet pale face that he had never -kissed--to mount her on her lively young bay horse, and steal the -groom’s hunter for himself, and ride off to the Scottish border with -her, and be married by the unlearned priest of Gretna, who was still -plying his profitable trade. Never was man more tempted. But he had -given his promise, and meant to keep it. - -‘Two years hence, my dearest, please God, I will have a home for you -that shall not mean absolute poverty. I cannot break my word, love. We -must wait till you are one-and-twenty. It is not a long time.’ - -‘It would not seem long if my father had been reasonable--if he had -not forbidden me to see you, or write to you. Cyril,’ she said, looking -at him with sudden intensity, ‘is it a sin to wish for the death of any -one?’ - -‘My dear one, you must know that it is--a deadly sin: “Whosoever hateth -his brother is a murderer.”’ - -‘I do not hate my father; but sometimes I find myself thinking of -what would happen if he were to die. I should be free--rich. I could -give you my fortune--you could lavish it all on acts of charity and -beneficence. We would live like poor people. We would devote our lives -to doing good. We would show the world how a parish priest and his wife -ought to live.’ - -‘Beatrix, pray continually against wicked thoughts. There could be no -deadlier sin than to desire your father’s death. God forbid that you -should fall into it! I have never sighed for wealth--nor do I believe -that a man’s opportunities of doing good depend upon the length of -his purse. For one man who will find will and energy, patience and -perseverance, to help his fellow-men, there are a hundred ready to -give their money. No, dear love, we can be happy without your father’s -wealth. We should be no happier for his death. We have but to be true -to each other, and all will be well.’ - -The groom came up to remind his mistress that the short day was -closing, and that the moorland road was dangerous after dark. - -‘God bless you, dearest, and good-bye,’ said Cyril. - -‘Oh, why are you in such haste to get rid of me?’ she cried, -impatiently, in French, the groom standing close by, ready to lift her -on to her horse. ‘It may be ages before we meet again. You talked in -that cruel letter of leaving Little Yafford. When is that to be?’ - -‘I have taken no step yet. This place is dear to me. But I shall leave -soon after Christmas, if I can do so without inconvenience to the -Vicar.’ - -‘I shall feel just a shade more miserable when you are gone,’ said -Beatrix. - -She put her slim foot upon William’s broad palm, and sprang lightly -into her saddle. - -Cyril watched her as she rode slowly down the hill, looking back at him -now and then, forlornly, as from the vessel that was carrying her into -exile. His heart bled for her, but the idea that she had calculated -the possibilities that hung upon her father’s death--that she had even -sinned so deeply as to wish him dead--haunted him painfully. - -Was there a strain of hardness in this impetuous nature--a flaw in this -gem which he had hitherto counted peerless? Well, she was not perfect, -perhaps. His creed taught him that there was no soul so pure but on its -virgin whiteness showed some dark spot of sin. And she had been hardly -treated--held at arm’s length by her father’s coldness. She had been -reared in a home unsanctified by affection. - -He pleaded for her, and excused her in his own mind, and was full of -sorrow for her. - -But for him, as she had said, life was full of interest and action. For -him two years seemed a little while. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -SIR KENRICK’S ANCESTRAL HOME. - - -SIR KENRICK CULVERHOUSE had gone to Hampshire to look at the old -domain. He had plenty of friends in the neighbourhood of Culverhouse, -who would have been glad to give him hospitality, but he preferred the -less luxurious accommodation of his own house, which was maintained -by a couple of faithful old servants, very much in the style of the -Master of Ravenswood’s immortal _ménage_ at Wolf’s Craig. The old -butler was not so amusing or so enthusiastic as Caleb Balderstone; -but he was every whit as faithful, and preferred his board wages and -bacon dumplings, in the halls of the good old race, to those fleshpots -of Egypt which he might perchance have found in the service of some -mushroom gentleman or commercial magnate newly established in the -neighbourhood. - -People had told Kenrick that he ought to let Culverhouse Castle, and -that he might add considerably to his income by so doing. But Kenrick -repudiated the idea of an income so obtained. To allow purse-proud city -people to come and criticise those old familiar rooms, and make rude -remarks upon the shabbiness of the furniture--to have some newly-made -country squire, whose beginnings were on the Stock Exchange, airing -his unaccustomed grandeur in the rooms where meek Lady Culverhouse had -lived her tranquil unoffending life--no; Kenrick would have starved -rather than sanction such a desecration. His mother’s gentle shadow -still occupied the rooms she had loved. He would not have that peaceful -ghost scared away by horsey young ladies or billiard-playing young men. - -At a cost of about a hundred and fifty pounds a year--nearly half his -small income--Kenrick contrived to have the place kept decently; the -gardens free from weeds and ruin; the empty stables protected from wind -and rain; the house preserved from actual decay. And the place was -ready to receive him when he was able to come home, were it but for a -single night. This, in Kenrick’s mind, was much. - -Love of his birthplace, and pride of his race, were the strongest -points in Kenrick’s character; and Culverhouse was assuredly a home -which a man with any sense of the beautiful might be pardoned for -loving to enthusiasm. It had been a fortress in those early days -when the Danish invader was marking his conquering course along the -south-western coast with the blaze of burning villages. It had been an -abbey before the Reformation, and much that belonged to its monastic -period still remained. Some portions had been converted to secular -uses, other parts had been preserved in what might be called a state of -substantial ruin. And this mixture of ecclesiastical ruins and Tudor -dwelling-house made a most picturesque and romantic whole. The massive -outer wall of the cloistered quadrangle still remained, but where the -cloisters had been was now the rose garden--a fair expanse of velvet -turf, intersected with alleys of roses. The chapel door stood in all -its early English purity of line and moulding, but the chapel had -given place to a sunny enclosure, bounded by hedges of honeysuckle and -sweet-briar, a garden in which old-fashioned flowers grew luxuriantly -in prim box-edged beds. - -The house was one of the handsomest in the county. Much too good for a -decayed race, old Sir Kenrick had always said; but young Sir Kenrick -held it as in no wise too good for him. He would not have sold it for -half a million, had he been free to sell it. The situation was perfect. -It stood in a fertile green valley, on the bank of a river which, -insignificant elsewhere, widened here to a noble reach of water, and -curved lovingly round the velvet slopes of the lawn. A long wooden -bridge spanned the river just beyond the old Gothic gateway of the -castle, and communicated with the village of Culverhouse, in which -a population of a hundred and eighty souls fancied itself a world. -Kenrick loved the place--castle, village, river--low-lying water -meadows--ancient avenues--fair green field where the foundations of the -abbey had been marked out with rows of stones--a stone for each pillar -in nave and aisles--chancel and apse--he loved all these things with -a love that was almost a passion. His heart thrilled within him when -he came back to the familiar scene after a year or more of exile. His -nature, not too warm elsewhere, warmed to the old goodies and gaffers -of Culverhouse village with an unalterable tenderness. Poor as he was, -he had always stray sixpences and shillings in his waistcoat pocket to -give these ancient rustics, for beer, or tea, or snuff. He could listen -to their stories of rheumatics and other afflictions with infinite -patience. Their very dialect was dear to him. - -If Kenrick had lived in the Middle Ages, and been exposed to visible -contact with the powers of darkness, Mephistopheles would have -assuredly baited his hook with the Culverhouse estate. - -‘Here are the money-bags,’ he would have said; ‘sign me this bond, -and Culverhouse is yours, free of the mortgages that now degrade and -humiliate your race. For twenty years you may reign securely in the -halls of your ancestors--and then----’ - -Perhaps Kenrick might have had the force of mind to refuse so frankly -diabolical a bargain, but when Mephistopheles assumed the amiable -countenance of Selina Dulcimer, and whispered in his ear, ‘Marry -Beatrix Harefield, and let her fortune revive the glory of your race,’ -the young man was sorely tempted. - -He had promised his cousin Cyril that he would not attempt to become -his rival, but he did not know how far Cyril’s love affair had gone. He -had no idea that Beatrix had already made her choice, irrevocably, and -was ready to sacrifice fortune and her father’s favour for her lover. - -Kenrick was not in love with Beatrix Harefield, in spite of all those -hints and innuendos wherewith Mrs. Dulcimer had artfully striven to -kindle the fire of passion in his heart. He was not in love with her, -but he admired her beyond any woman he had ever met, and he could but -remember that her fortune would give him the desire of his heart. He -was above the meanness of marrying for money. He would not have sold -himself to a woman he disliked or despised, any more than he would have -sold himself to Satan. He would have accounted one bargain as base -as the other. But he would have been very glad to marry a woman with -money, provided he could think her the first of women, and worthy to -rule in the halls of his race. That he should love her was a secondary -necessity. Sir Kenrick was not a young man who considered loving and -being beloved essential to the happiness of life. Nature had made -him of colder stuff than his cousin Cyril. He could do very well -without love, but existence could hardly be tolerable to him without -Culverhouse Castle. - -He thought of Beatrix Harefield as he paced the long tapestried saloon -on the evening of his arrival. He had ordered a fire to be lighted -here, though old Mrs. Mopson, the major-domo’s wife, had strongly -recommended him to sit in the library, or his mother’s morning-room. - -‘You’ll be a deal snuggerer than in that there big room, Sir Kenrick,’ -she urged. ‘I don’t say it’s damp, for I opens the windows every fine -morning--but it’s awful chill, and it’d take a’most a stack of logs to -warm it.’ - -‘Never mind the chilliness, Betty,’ said Kenrick, ‘I want to sit in -the saloon. It’s a treat to see the dear old room again after three -years’ absence.’ - -‘Ah,’ said Betty, ‘there ain’t another room in Hampshire ekal to it,’ -firmly convinced that Hampshire was the world, or at any rate all the -world that was civilized and worth living in. Once, when somebody asked -Betty Mopson if she had ever been so far as London, she replied, ‘No, -thank God, I’m no furriner.’ - -So Betty lighted a pile of logs on the open hearth, and put a pair of -candles on the table near the fire, and wheeled a tapestried arm-chair -beside it, and placed Sir Kenrick’s slippers comfortably in front of -the fender--so that in spite of its long disuse the room had a homelike -aspect when he came to it after his homely dinner. By this dim light -the room looked lovely--all its shabbiness hidden--all its beauties -of form and colour intensified--the figures in the fine old tapestry -standing out in life-like roundness. Theseus and Ariadne--Ariadne -deserted--the coming of Bacchus--hymeneal festival--nymphs and satyrs -frisking against a background of blue sea. - -Kenrick thought of Beatrix Harefield as he walked slowly up and down. -How well her stately beauty would become the room! how well the room -would become her! She was just the wife for the master of such a place -as Culverhouse. It seemed a hard thing that honour forbade his putting -himself forward as her suitor. - -‘How do I know that she cares for Cyril?’ he asked himself; ‘and if -she does not, why should not I have my chance? Cyril is such a close -fellow. I don’t know how far things have gone between them. She may -not care a straw for him. And I may go back to India, and leave her -to be snapped up by some adventurer. I must have the matter placed on -a plainer footing when I go back to Little Yafford. If Cyril does not -mean to go in and win the prize, I must have my innings. It will be -only fair.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -BELLA OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION. - - -NEVER in her life had Isabella Scratchell been so happy as she was -in those winter days which Beatrix spent in her solitary home, or in -long lonely rides or drives across the moor. Isabella, whose time had -seldom been given to idleness, now worked day and night. She could not -altogether withdraw her help from the overtaxed house-mother, so she -sat up for an hour or two nightly, when the rest of the family had gone -to bed, mending and making for the insatiable brood. - -‘Never mind, ma,’ she would say when Mrs. Scratchell was on the verge -of distraction about a skirt, or a ‘waist,’ a pair of impracticable -socks, or trousers that were gone at the knee; ‘leave your basket, and -I’ll make it right when you’re gone to bed.’ - -‘But, Bella, my dear,’ sighed the mother, ‘it’s so bad for your health -to sit up ever so long after twelve. Working so hard as you do all the -day, too. I wish you had never taken that district visiting into your -head.’ - -‘District fiddlesticks!’ growled Mr. Scratchell from behind his -newspaper. He was inconveniently quick of hearing, like the generality -of fathers. ‘District stuff and nonsense! Visiting the poor means -running after curates.’ - -‘It’s a great shame to say such a thing, pa,’ cried Bella, crimsoning. -‘I’m sure I try hard enough to be useful at home, and I give mother the -best part of my salary towards the housekeeping. I ought to be free to -do a little good abroad, if it makes me happy.’ - -‘A little fiddle-faddle,’ retorted the father, not taking the trouble -to lower his newspaper. ‘A deal of good you can do, going simpering -and smirking into cottages, as much as to say, “Ain’t I pretty? How do -you like my bonnet?” And then I suppose you inquire after the state of -their souls, and ask why they don’t teach their children to blow their -noses, and quote Scripture, and talk as if you’d got a freehold estate -in heaven. I hate such humbug. Stay at home and help your mother. -That’s what _I_ call Christianity.’ - -Like most men who never go to church or read their Bibles, Mr. -Scratchell had his own idea of Christianity, and was quite as ready -to assert and defend it as the most learned Churchman. He laid down -the law as arrogantly upon this Christian code of his as if he had -received a revelation all to himself, and was in a position to put the -Established Church right, if it had been worth his while to do so. - -Bella Scratchell went on devoting three afternoons a week to parish -visiting, in spite of paternal opposition. In fact, that paternal -opposition gave a new zest to her work, and she felt herself in her -small way a martyr. - -She told Cyril about her father’s unkindness one afternoon as he was -walking home with her, after an accidental meeting in one of the -cottages. - -‘Papa is so cruel,’ she said; ‘he declares that I can do no good--that -I am too insignificant and silly to be of the least use.’ - -‘You are neither insignificant nor silly,’ answered Cyril, warmly; ‘and -the people like you. That is the grand point. They will generally take -advice from a person they like. And they like bright young faces, and -pleasant friendly manners. You have done good already. I have seen it -in more than one case.’ - -‘I am so glad!’ cried Bella, in a voice that actually trembled with -delight. ‘Are you really pleased with me?’ - -‘I am very much pleased.’ - -‘Then I will go on. Papa may be as unkind as he likes. I am amply -rewarded.’ - -‘My praise is a very small reward,’ replied Cyril, smiling. ‘The -satisfaction of your own conscience is the real good. You know that -your life now is all usefulness.’ - -Bella lived in a fool’s paradise, from this time forward. Mrs. -Dulcimer was always telling her how Cyril had praised her. She met him -continually in the cottages, or at the Vicarage. Her life was full of -delight. She only went to the Water House once or twice a week, though -she had hitherto gone almost every day. She told Beatrix about her -district visiting. - -‘Of course I like being here with you much better than going among -those poor things,’ she said, affectionately; ‘but I felt it a duty to -do something, my life seemed so useless.’ - -‘What is mine, then?’ sighed Beatrix. - -‘Oh dear, with you it is different. With your means you can always be -doing good indirectly. See how much you have done for me. I owe you -and Mr. Harefield my education, my good clothes, my power to help poor -mamma. But I have only my time to give, and I am very happy to devote -some of that to the poor, under Mr. Culverhouse’s guidance.’ - -‘He is kind to you?’ interrogated Beatrix; ‘you like him?’ - -‘He is more than kind to me. He is my master, my teacher, my guide! I -cannot use such a poor word as liking to describe my feelings for him. -I reverence--I almost worship him.’ - -‘He is worthy of your esteem,’ said Beatrix, wondering a little at this -gush of feeling from Bella. - -Mrs. Dulcimer felt that things were working round delightfully towards -the realization of her matrimonial scheme. - -‘I look upon it as quite a settled matter, Rebecca,’ she said one -morning, when the all-important factotum was polishing the old -sideboard, familiarly known as Uncle John. - -‘Having the chimneys swept again before Christmas? yes, mum,’ replied -Rebecca, driving her leather vigorously backwards and forwards across -the shining wood. ‘They’ll want it. We begun fires extra early this -year, and master do pile up the wood and coals, as if he wanted to keep -himself in mind of Bloody Mary’s martyrs at Smiffell, and show his -thankfulness that God made him a Protestant.’ - -‘I wasn’t talking of the chimneys, Rebecca. I was thinking of Mr. -Culverhouse and Miss Scratchell. He’s getting fonder of her every day.’ - -‘He ought to be,’ retorted the maid, snappishly. ‘She runs after him -hard enough. But if I was you, ‘um, I’d leave him to find out his own -feelings. Forced affections are like forced rhubarb, sour and watery. -Uncle John’s in the sulks this morning. I can’t get him to shine nohow. -It’s the damp weather, I suppose. It always makes him dull.’ - -‘Well, Rebecca,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, complacently, ‘if this marriage -takes place soon, as I believe it will, I shall feel that I’ve been the -salvation of Bella Scratchell. If you could see her wretched home----’ - -‘I’ve seen the maid-of-all-work,’ replied Rebecca, curtly, ‘that’s -enough for me. I’ve no call to see inside the house.’ - -Hopefully as things were progressing in Mrs. Dulcimer’s estimation, the -active beneficence of that amiable woman urged her to take some step -which should place matters on a more decided footing. It was more than -a month since she had taken Cyril and Bella under her protection, and -she felt that it was time the gentleman should declare himself. He had -received every encouragement to speak; he had evidently been touched by -Bella’s efforts for the good of her species. He admired Bella’s taste -and industry, her neatness of attire and amiable manners. What more -could he want? - -‘It’s positively ridiculous of him to hang back in this way,’ thought -Mrs. Dulcimer, impatient for action. ‘But I have no doubt his silence -is the result of shyness. Those reserved men are always shy. One gives -them credit for pride, and they are suffering agonies of self-distrust -all the time.’ - -It is generally some combination of trifles which determines the great -events of life. Mrs. Dulcimer was hurried into a line of conduct more -impetuous than sagacious by such a combination. - -First it was a wet afternoon, which fact prevented the Vicar’s wife -going on a round of ceremonious calls, in her best bonnet. She might -have trusted her own body out in the wet, leaving the accident of a -cold in the head to be dealt with by Rebecca, who was a wonderful hand -at domestic medicine, and made gruel that was almost a luxury; but -she could not risk the destruction of her new velvet bonnet and bird -of Paradise. Secondly, Mr. Dulcimer had gone to Great Yafford for a -day’s leisurely prowl among the second-hand book-shops, a recreation -his soul loved. His absence made the Vicarage seem empty, and the day -longer than usual. Mrs. Dulcimer ate her early dinner alone, and felt -miserable. - -After dinner she sent the boy to ask Bella Scratchell to come and spend -the afternoon, and to bring her work. The fire was lighted in the -library, so that the room might be warm and cheerful on the Vicar’s -return; but Mrs. Dulcimer preferred her snug corner by the dining-room -hearth, where she had a comfortable Rockingham chair, and a delightful -little Chippendale table. She opened her charity basket, took out her -pile of baby clothes, and felt that, with Bella to talk to, she could -spend an agreeable afternoon, despite the incessant rain, which came -down with a dismal drip, drip, on the sodden lawn, where the blackbirds -were luxuriating in the unusual accessibility of the worm family. - -Bella’s rapid fingers were wont to be helpful too, with the charity -basket. She would lay aside her dainty strip of embroidery, and devote -herself to herring-boning flannel, or stitching in gussets, with the -most amiable alacrity. - -‘You dear girl, to come through this abominable rain and enliven me!’ -exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, when Bella came in, looking very bright and -pretty after her rainy walk. - -‘I think I would come through fire as well as water to see you, dear -Mrs. Dulcimer,’ replied Bella, affectionately. ‘I was going to sit with -poor Mary Smithers this afternoon,--she is in a decline, you know, and -so patient. Mr. Culverhouse is deeply interested in her. But of course -I would rather come here----’ - -‘You dear unselfish girl! And does Mr. Culverhouse seem pleased with -what you are doing for his people?’ - -‘Very much. His face quite lights up when he comes into a cottage and -finds me there.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, significantly. ‘We all know what that means.’ - -Bella sighed and looked at the fire. Her fool’s paradise was a sweet -place to dwell in, but there were times when the suspicion that it was -only a fool’s paradise, after all, crept like an ugly snake into the -Eden of her mind. - -‘Dear Mrs. Dulcimer,’ she began thoughtfully, after an interval of -silence, in which the Vicar’s wife had been trying to accomplish some -manœuvre, almost as difficult as squaring the circle, with a brown -paper pattern and an awkward bit of flannel. ‘You are too good to be -so much interested in my welfare; but, do you know, sometimes I fancy -you are altogether mistaken--as to--as to--Mr. Culverhouse’s feelings. -He is all that is kind to me--he approves of my poor efforts to be -useful--he praises me--he seems always glad to see me--yet he has never -said a word that would imply----’ - -‘That will come all at once, all in a moment,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, -decisively. ‘It did with Clement. I hadn’t the least idea that he was -in love with me. My father was a bookworm, you know, like Mr. Dulcimer; -and Clement used to come to our house a great deal, and they were -always talking of first editions and second editions, and black-letter -books, and incunabula, and a lot more stuff, of which I hardly knew -the meaning. And one day Clement suddenly asked me to marry him. I -never felt so surprised in my life. I felt sure that my father must -have suggested it to him, but the idea did not offend me. These things -ought to be suggested. There are men who would go down to their graves -miserable old bachelors for want of some one to give them a judicious -hint.’ - -‘And you really think Mr. Culverhouse likes me?’ faltered Bella. - -It was growing every day--nay, every hour--more and more a question -of life or death with her. The old home seemed daily more hateful, -the ideal existence to be shared with Cyril more paradisaic. Suspense -gnawed her heart like a serpent’s tooth. She knew, and felt, that it -was unwomanly to discuss such a question, even with friendly Mrs. -Dulcimer, but she could not help seeking the comfort to be obtained -from such a discussion. - -‘My love, I am sure of it,’ said the Vicar’s wife, with conviction. ‘I -have seen it in a thousand ways.’ - -Bella did not ask her to name one of the thousand, though she would -have been very glad to get more detailed information. - -Again Bella’s eyes sought the fire, and again she gave a little -depressed sigh. Her father had been especially disagreeable lately; -there had been difficulties about bills and taxes--life at home was -at such times a perpetual warfare. Mrs. Piper had been ailing for the -last fortnight; her temper had been ailing too. The Piper children were -stupid and insolent. Existence was altogether a trial. Bella thought -of Beatrix Harefield’s smooth life in the beautiful old Water House, -with its lights and shadows, its old world comfort, its retinue of -well-trained servants. A dull life, no doubt, but a paradise of rest. -As a child, Bella had been envious of her playfellow; but, since both -girls had grown to womanhood, envy had assumed a deeper hue, black as -the juice of the cuttle-fish, which darkens all it touches. - -‘Let me herring-bone those flannels for you, dear Mrs. Dulcimer,’ Bella -said at last, rousing herself from her reverie, and presently the -needle was flying swiftly backwards and forwards, as Miss Scratchell’s -fair head bent over her work. - -She tried to be lively, feeling it incumbent on her to amuse her kind -patroness; and the two women prattled on about servants, and gowns, and -bonnets, and the usual feminine subjects, till four o’clock, when it -was too dark for any more work, and they could only talk on by the red -glow of the fire, till it pleased the omnipotent Rebecca to bring lamps -and candles. - -The Vicarage dining-room was charming by this light. The blocks of -books, the shelves of old china, Uncle John’s portly sideboard, -standing out with a look of human corpulence in the ruddy glow, shining -with a polish that did credit to Rebecca, Aunt Tabitha’s mahogany -bureau glittering with brassy ornamentation, the sombre crimson of the -well-worn curtains giving depth of tone to the picture. Yes it was a -good old room in this changeful and uncertain light, and to Bella, -after the discords and disorders of home, it seemed an exquisite haven -of repose. There had been old-fashioned folding-doors between the -dining-room and library, but these Mr. Dulcimer had removed, replacing -them with thick cloth curtains, which made it easier for him to pass -from room to room. - -The clock had struck four, and Mrs. Dulcimer was beginning to feel -sleepy, when a ring at the house door put her on the alert. - -‘I wonder who it is?’ she said in an undertone, as if the visitor might -hear her outside the hall door. ‘It isn’t Clement, for he has his key. -And it couldn’t be any ordinary caller on such an afternoon. I dare say -it is Mr. Culverhouse come on parish business.’ - -Bella had made the same speculation, and her heart was beating -painfully fast. - -‘If it is I’ll draw him out,’ whispered the Vicar’s wife. - -‘Oh, pray, pray, dear Mrs. Dulcimer, don’t dream of such a thing----’ - -‘Sh, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘don’t you be frightened. I am -not going to compromise you. I hope I have more tact than to do such a -thing as that. But I shall draw him out. I won’t have him trifle with -you any longer. He shall be made to speak his mind.’ - -‘Dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I beg----’ - -‘Mr. Culverhouse, ‘um,’ announced Rebecca. ‘He wanted to see master, -but he says you’ll do. I’ve shown him into the libery.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer rose without a word, squeezed Bella’s hand, put her -finger on her lip mysteriously, and passed through into the next room, -dropping the curtains behind her. Bella grew pale, and trembled a -little as she crept towards the curtains. - -‘I think she must mean me to listen,’ she said to herself, and she took -her stand just by the central line where the two curtains met. - -Mr. Culverhouse had come to beg help for some of his poor people. Widow -Watson’s little boy had fallen into the fire, while his mother was out -getting her little bit of washing passed through a neighbour’s mangle, -and there was old linen wanted to dress his wounds, and a little wine, -as he was very weak from the shock. Good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer ran off -to hunt for the linen, and to get the wine from Rebecca, and Cyril was -left alone in the library. - -Bella stole back to her chair by the fire. He might come in, perhaps, -and find her there. He was quite at home in the house. She felt that -she would look innocent enough, sitting there by the little work-table. -She might even simulate a gentle slumber. She was wise enough to know -that girlhood is never prettier than in sleep. - -Cyril did not come into the dining-room. She heard him walking slowly -up and down the library, deep in thought, no doubt. - -‘If Mrs. Dulcimer is right, he must be thinking of me,’ said Bella. ‘I -think of him all day long. He shuts everything else out of my thoughts.’ - -Presently Mrs. Dulcimer came back. - -‘I have sent off a parcel of linen and some sherry,’ she said. - -‘A thousand thanks for your prompt kindness. It is really a sad -case--the poor mother is almost heartbroken----’ - -‘Poor thing,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘I cannot think how they do manage to -set themselves on fire so often. It’s quite an epidemic.’ - -‘Their rooms are so small,’ suggested Cyril. - -‘True. That may have something to do with it. How tired you must -be this wet day! You’ll stop to tea, of course. Clement has been -book-hunting at Great Yafford, and will be home soon. I have got a -brace of pheasants for him. He’ll want something nice after such a -wretched day. How is Mary Smithers?’ - -Mary Smithers was the girl Bella had talked of visiting. - -‘No better, poor soul,’ said Cyril. ‘There is only one change for her -now.’ - -‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘and that is a blessed one for a girl in -her position.’ - -Her tone implied that heaven was a desirable refuge for the destitute, -a supernal almshouse, with easier terms of election than those common -to earthly asylums. - -‘Have you seen much of poor Mary since she has been ill?’ asked Mrs. -Dulcimer, artfully leading up to her subject. - -‘I see her as often as I can, but not so often as I wish. But she has -been well looked after.’ - -‘Indeed.’ - -‘Your little favourite, Miss Scratchell, has been quite devoted to her, -and fortunately poor Mary has taken a strong fancy to Miss Scratchell.’ - -How fast Bella’s heart was beating now! and how close her ear was to -the narrow line between the curtains! - -‘Your little favourite.’ The careless kindness of his tone had a -chilling sound in Bella’s ear. - -‘I am delighted to hear you say so,’ replied Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Bella -is indeed a dear girl--clever, accomplished, useful; a treasure at -home--beloved wherever she goes. What a wife she will make!’ - -‘A capital one,’ said the curate. ‘I should be very pleased to marry -her----’ - -Bella’s heart gave a leap. - -‘To some thoroughly good fellow who could give her a happy home.’ - -Bella’s heart sank as heavily as a lump of lead. - -‘And no doubt she will marry well,’ pursued the curate, in the same -cheerful tone. ‘She is a very attractive girl as well as a good girl.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer began to feel uncomfortable. Could she have been mistaken -after all? Could she have misled poor Bella? It was not the first -time in her life that her judgment had gone astray--but this time she -had felt particularly sure of her facts, and she had been more than -usually anxious for the success of her scheme. Bella’s home was so -uncomfortable. It was absolutely incumbent on Mrs. Dulcimer, as an -active Christian, to get the poor girl married. Match-making here was -not an amusement, but a stringent duty. - -There was a pause, and for some moments Mrs. Dulcimer thought of -abandoning her idea of drawing Cyril out. The attempt might be -premature. And there was poor Bella listening intently, no doubt, and -having her young hopes blighted by the indifference of the curate’s -tone. Curiosity got the better of discretion, however, and Mrs. -Dulcimer pursued her theme. - -‘She is a sweet pretty girl,’ she said, ‘I really think she grows -prettier every day. I wonder you can talk so cheerfully of marrying her -to somebody else. What a charming wife she would make for you!’ - -‘I dare say she would, if I wanted just that kind of wife, and if she -wanted such a person as me for a husband. But I dare say I am as far -from her ideal of a husband as she is from my ideal of a wife.’ - -Bella’s knees gave way under her at this point, and she sank into a -languid heap upon the floor by the curtains. She did not faint, but she -felt as if there were no more power or life in her limbs, as if she had -sunk upon that spot never to rise any more, as if the best thing that -could happen to her would be to lie there and feel life ebbing gently -away, light slowly fading to eternal darkness. - -‘You astonish me,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, more indignant at the -downfall of this last cherished scheme than she had ever felt -at any previous failure. ‘What more could you want in a wife? -Beauty--cleverness--industry--good management.’ - -‘Dante found only one Beatrice,’ said Cyril, gravely, ‘yet I have no -doubt there were plenty of women in Florence who could sew on shirt -buttons and make soup. I have found my Beatrice. I may never marry her, -perhaps. But I am fixed for life. I shall never marry any one else.’ - -A new life returned to Bella’s limbs now. It was as if the blood that -had just now flowed so sluggishly through her veins was suddenly -changed to quicksilver. She rose to her feet again, and stood, white -as a corpse, with her hands tightly clenched, her lips drawn together -till they made only a thin line of pallid violet. The pretty Dresden -china face was hardly recognisable. - -A sudden conviction had darted into her mind with Cyril’s utterance of -that name--Beatrice. It was as if a flash of lightning had revealed -things close at hand but wrapped in darkness till this moment. - -‘I never was more surprised in my life--or disappointed,’ faltered -Mrs. Dulcimer, quite overcome by this failure. ‘I am so fond of you, -Cyril--and so fond of Bella, and I thought you would make such a nice -couple--that it would be a delightful arrangement in every way.’ - -‘My dear friend, there is a higher Power who rules these things. I am -a believer in the old saying that marriages are made in heaven, and I -have not much faith in the wisdom of earthly match-making.’ - -‘But this was in every way so suitable,’ harped Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Bella -is such a good girl--a model wife for a man who has to make his way in -the world.’ - -‘Heaven defend me from a model wife chosen for me by my friends,’ -ejaculated Cyril. - -‘And you have paid her so much attention--you have been so warmly -interested in her parish work.’ - -‘Not more than I should be in any good work done by any good woman. I -trust,’ pursued Cyril with a sudden look of alarm, ‘that I have done -nothing to mislead Miss Scratchell on this subject. I should hate -myself if I thought it were possible. I can confidently say that I have -never uttered a word that could be misunderstood by the most romantic -young lady. Our conversation has always been perfectly matter of -fact--about other people--never about ourselves. I would as soon take -to writing sonnets as indulge in the sentimental twaddle some curates -cultivate.’ - -‘Pray don’t alarm yourself,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, remembering her -promise to Bella. ‘Miss Scratchell hasn’t an idea upon the subject. I -know that she admires--reveres--esteems you--’ she added, thinking it -just possible to turn the tide of his feelings by the warm south wind -of flattery; ‘but beyond that--no--Bella has too much modesty, I am -sure she has not a thought about being married. It is only I who am -anxious to see her comfortably settled. Of course I cannot blame you -for my having been deceived about your feelings. But I really do think, -Cyril, that when a young man is engaged he ought to let his intimate -friends know all about it. It would prevent misunderstandings.’ - -‘There are reasons why I should not talk about my engagement. It has -not been ratified by the consent of the lady’s family. It may be long -before I can marry.’ - -‘Ah!’ thought Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘some artful girl he met at Oxford, I -daresay. A university town is a regular man-trap.’ - -She was seriously concerned about Bella. The poor girl would fret -perhaps, would lay her sorrow at Mrs. Dulcimer’s door; and for once -in her life the Vicar’s wife felt herself to blame. In the active -exercise of her charity she had done more harm than if she had loved -her neighbour a little less intensely, and left other people’s business -alone. - -‘Poor Bella!’ she thought, and she felt almost afraid to face her -victim; yet she was bound to go and console her, so, after a little -desultory talk with Cyril about nothing particular, she excused -herself, on the pretext of looking after the tea, and left the -curate to amuse himself with the books and periodicals heaped on Mr. -Dulcimer’s table, the sober drab _Quarterly_, the _Edinburgh_ in yellow -and blue, the philosophical _Westminster_, lurking among his more -orthodox brethren, like a snake in the grass. - -The dining-room was empty when Mrs. Dulcimer returned to it. Bella had -carried her crushed heart out of the house, into the gray rainy night, -which seemed in harmony with her desolation. She had crept quietly from -the room, directly the conversation between Cyril and Mrs. Dulcimer had -changed to general topics, and had gone upstairs to put on her bonnet -and shawl. - -On Mrs. Dulcimer’s dressing-table she left a brief pencilled note. - -‘I could not stay after what has happened, dear friend. We have both -been foolish. Pray think no more about it.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer found this little note, presently, when she went upstairs -to arrange her cap, and re-adjust the frilling and puffings about her -neck and shoulders. - -The little note gave her unspeakable relief. - -‘Noble girl!’ she exclaimed, ‘how heroically she takes it. Yet I am -sure she is fond of him. And how good of her not to feel angry with me -for having misled her.’ - -Mrs. Dulcimer would not have been quite so satisfied with the result of -her good-natured manœuvring, could she have seen the figure lying prone -upon the floor of Bella Scratchell’s barely-furnished bedroom--the -dishevelled hair--the clenched hands--the convulsed movements of the -thin bloodless lips: and, perhaps, she might have been for ever cured -of her passion for match-making, could she have heard the curses which -those pallid lips called down upon her matronly head. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -MR. NAMBY’S PRESCRIPTION. - - -IN the dark days of December, Mr. Namby, the family practitioner and -parish doctor of Little Yafford, was agreeably surprised by a summons -to the Water House. His patients there had been inconveniently well -for the greater part of the year, and he had been looking somewhat -dolefully at the blank leaf in his diary which told him that he should -have no account worth speaking of to send in to Mr. Harefield at -Christmas. He was much too benevolent a man to desire the misfortune -of his fellow creatures; but he thought that those favoured ones of -this world, whom Providence has exempted from all the cares of the -impecunious majority, ought at least to be troubled with such small -nervous disorders as would keep the faculty employed. An obscure case -of hysteria, now, was the sort of thing one might look for at the -Water House, and which, without doing vital harm to the patient, would -necessitate a great many attendances from the doctor. - -He plucked up his spirits, therefore, and decapitated his breakfast egg -with an unusual air of sprightliness, on hearing that James from the -Water House had just called, to request that Mr. Namby would be so good -as to look in to see Miss Harefield, during his morning round. - -‘Poor girl! neuralgic, I daresay,’ he murmured cheerfully. ‘The Water -House must be damp, but of course one cannot say anything to frighten -away patients. She is a sweet girl. I shall try the new treatment.’ - -‘If it’s the stuff you gave me, William, it made me worse,’ said Mrs. -Namby. ‘Nothing did me so much good as that cask of double stout you -ordered from the brewer at Great Yafford.’ - -Mr. Namby’s countenance expressed ineffable disgust. - -‘Do you think your constitution would have been in a condition to -profit by that stout if I had not prescribed the new treatment for you -first?’ he exclaimed, and Mrs. Namby, being a wise little woman, went -on cutting bread and butter for her children in a sagacious silence. - -Mr. Namby was shown straight to the study, where Miss Harefield was -accustomed to read history and other erudite works to her governess. -The histories were all dull old fashioned chronicles, which had been -religiously believed when Miss Scales was a little girl, but whereof -most of the facts had faded into mere phantasmagoria, before the fierce -light of nineteenth century research, and the revelations of the Record -Office. - -Beatrix was not reading history on this particular morning. She was -sitting by one of the deep set windows, with her folded arms resting on -the broad oaken ledge, and her heavy eyes watching the drifting clouds -in the windy sky--or the bare black elm-branches tossing against the -gray. - -She looked round listlessly when Mr. Namby came in, and gave him her -hand with a mechanical air, which he often saw in small patients who -were told to shake hands with the doctor. - -‘Dear, dear, this is very bad,’ he said, in his fatherly way. ‘We are -looking quite sadly this morning.’ - -Then came the usual ordeal. The doctor held the slight wrist between -his fingers, and consulted a pale faced watch, with a surreptitious air. - -‘Quick, and irregular,’ he said, ‘and weak. We must do something to set -you right, my dear young lady. Have you been over exerting yourself -lately?’ - -‘She has,’ exclaimed Miss Scales, in an aggrieved tone. ‘She’s been -riding and driving far too much--too much even for the horses, Jarvis -told me, so you may imagine it was too much for her.’ - -‘My dear Miss Scales, you forget that the horse had the greater share -of the labour,’ interposed Beatrix. - -‘I repeat, Beatrix,’ protested Miss Scales, severely, ‘that if it was -too much for the horse it must have been infinitely worse for you. You -have not the constitution of a horse, or the endurance of a horse, or -the strength of a horse. Don’t talk nonsense.’ - -The doctor asked a string of questions. Did she eat well--sleep well? - -Beatrix was obliged to confess that she did neither. - -‘She eats hardly anything,’ said Miss Scales, ‘and I know by her candle -that she reads half the night.’ - -‘What can I do but read,’ exclaimed Beatrix. ‘I have no pleasant -thoughts of my own. I am obliged to find them in books.’ - -‘Oh, dear, dear,’ cried the doctor, ‘why a young lady like you ought to -have her mind full of pleasant thoughts.’ - -Beatrix sighed. - -‘I see what it is--the nervous power over-tasked--a slight tendency -to insomnia. We must not allow this to go on, my dear Miss Harefield. -The riding and driving are all very well, but in moderation. _In medio -tutissimus ibis_, as they used to teach us at school. And a nice -quiet walk with Miss Scales, now, would be a beneficial alternation -with the equestrian exercise. Walk one day, ride the next. If it were -a different time of year I might suggest change of air. Filey--or -Harrogate--but just now of course that is out of the question. Do you -remember what I prescribed for you after the whooping cough?’ - -‘Yes,’ answered Beatrix. ‘You gave me a playfellow.’ - -‘To be sure I did. Well, now, I say again you must have youthful -society. A companion of your own age. I thought Miss Scratchell and you -were inseparable.’ - -‘We used to be--but, since she has gone out as a daily governess, we -have seen much less of each other--and lately she has been particularly -busy. She is very good.’ - -‘And you are fond of her.’ - -‘Yes, I like her very much.’ - -‘Then you must have more of her company. I must talk to papa about it.’ - -‘Oh, pray do not trouble my father,’ exclaimed Beatrix, anxiously. - -‘But he must be troubled. You must have youthful society. I know that -Miss Scales is all kindness, and her conversation most improving.’ Miss -Scales acknowledged the compliment with a stiffish bow. ‘But you must -have a young companion with whom you can unbend, and talk a little -nonsense now and then, not about the Greeks and Romans, you know, but -about your new frocks and your beaux.’ - -Miss Scales looked an image of disgust. - -‘For my own part I believe if Beatrix would employ her mind there would -be none of this repining,’ she remarked severely. ‘Low spirits with -young people generally mean idleness.’ - -‘My dear Miss Scales, I have not been repining,’ remonstrated Beatrix, -wounded by this accusation. ‘I don’t want any one to be troubled about -me. I only wish to be let alone.’ - -She turned from them both with a proud movement of head and throat, and -went on looking out of the window; but her fixed gaze saw very little -of the gray landscape under the gray sky, the dark shoulder of the -moor, tinged with a gleam of livid winter light upon its western edge. - -Mr. Namby looked at her curiously as she stood there with averted face, -palpably, by her very attitude, refusing all sympathy or solicitude -from him or her governess. He was not a profound psychologist. He had, -indeed, given his attention too completely to the management of other -people’s bodies to have had much leisure for the study of the mind, but -he felt instinctively that here was a case of supreme misery--a proud -young soul at war with life--a girl, capable of all girlhood’s warmest -affections, confined to the dry-as-dust companionship of a human -machine for grinding grammar and geography, histories and ologies. A -reasonable amount of this grinding would have been good for Beatrix, -no doubt, thought the village surgeon, who was no enemy to education; -but there must be something brighter than these things in the life of a -girl, or she will languish like a woodland bird newly caged. - -Mr. Namby went down stairs, and asked to see Mr. Harefield--an awful -thing to him always, but duty compelled him to beard the lion in his -den. - -He was shown into the library where Christian Harefield sat among his -books, as usual, brown leather-bound folios and quartos piled upon the -floor on each side of his chair, more books on his desk, and a general -appearance of profound study. What he read, or to what end he read, -no one had ever discovered. He filled commonplace books with extracts, -copied in a neat fine hand, almost as close as print, and he wrote a -good deal of original matter. But he had never given a line to the -world, not so much as a paragraph in _Notes and Queries_; nor had he -ever confided the nature of his studies to friend or acquaintance. He -lived among his books, and in his books, and for the last ten years he -had cared for no life outside them. - -‘Well, Namby, what’s the matter with my daughter?’ he asked, without -looking up from a volume of Plutarch’s ‘Moralia.’ - -‘You have been anxious about her.’ - -‘I have not been anxious. Her governess took it into her head to be -anxious, and wished that you should be sent for. There’s nothing amiss, -I conclude.’ - -‘There is very much amiss. Your daughter’s lonely life is killing her. -She must have livelier company than Miss Scales--and change of air and -scene directly the weather is milder.’ - -‘But there is nothing actually wrong, nothing organic?’ - -‘Nothing that I can discover at present. But there is -sleeplessness--one of the worst foes to life--there is loss of -appetite--there is want of vigour. She must be roused, interested, -amused.’ - -‘Do you mean that she should be taken to London and carried about to -balls and theatres?’ inquired Mr. Harefield. - -‘She is not in a condition for balls and theatres, even if you were -inclined to indulge her so far. No, she wants to be made happier, that -is all.’ - -‘All!’ exclaimed Mr. Harefield. ‘You are moderate in your demands. Do -you suppose that I have a recipe for making young women happy? It would -be almost as miraculous as the wand with which the wicked fairy used to -transform a contumacious prince into a blue bird or a white poodle. I -have let my daughter have her own way in all the minor details of life, -and I have put no limit upon her pocket-money. I can imagine no other -way of making her happy.’ - -‘I think you will be obliged to find some other way,’ answered Mr. -Namby, tremulous at his own audacity; but the lion was unusually mild -this morning, and the doctor felt heroic, ‘unless you want to lose her.’ - -‘Lose her!’ cried Mr. Harefield. ‘Oh, she will last my time, depend -upon it. My lease has not long to run, and then she will be mistress of -her fate, and be happy in her own way.’ - -‘My dear sir, with your noble constitution----’ - -‘Length of days does not depend entirely on constitution. A man must -have the inclination to live. But tell me what I am to do for my -daughter.’ - -‘Let her have her young friend Miss Scratchell to come and stay with -her, and when the spring comes send them both to the sea-side.’ - -‘I have no objection. I will write to Scratchell immediately. His -daughter has been employed at the Park lately, but, as that can only be -a question of remuneration, I can arrange it with Scratchell.’ - -‘I do not think you can do any more at present. I shall send Miss -Harefield a tonic. Good morning.’ - -The village surgeon retired, delighted at getting off so easily. Mr. -Harefield wrote at once to his agent:-- - - ‘Dear Scratchell, - - ‘My daughter is ill, and wants pleasant company. Please let your - girl come and stay with her. If there is any loss involved in your - daughter being away from home, I shall be happy to send you a cheque - for whatever amount you may consider sufficient.’ - - ‘Yours truly, C. H.’ - - -This happened about a fortnight before Christmas, and at a time when -Miss Scratchell’s duties at the Park were in a considerable degree -suspended. She would not have been wanted there at all, under ordinary -circumstances, for the young Pipers, who had a frank detestation of -all kinds of learning, claimed a holiday at this season, and had their -claim allowed. But Mrs. Piper was ill, so ill as to be confined to her -own room; and in this juncture she found Isabella’s domestic talents of -use to her, and, without any extra remuneration, contrived to occupy a -good deal of Isabella’s time. - -A little while ago, when she was living in her fool’s paradise, -believing herself loved by Cyril Culverhouse, this encroachment upon -her leisure would have been aggravating in the extreme to Bella -Scratchell. But just now it was rather a relief than otherwise, for -it gave her an excuse for neglecting her cottagers. She went among -them still, now and then, and was sweet and sympathetic as of old, -reading favourite chapters of St. John to the consumptive dressmaker, -or carrying a bunch of wintry flowers to the wheelwright’s bed-ridden -daughter, a patient victim to spinal complaint; but, so far as -it was possible, she avoided meeting Cyril. There was too keen a -shame, too fierce an agony in the thought of her delusion. In this -innocent seeming Dresden china beauty there existed a capacity for -passionate feeling, unsuspected by her kindred or friends. From love -to vindictiveness was only a step in this intense nature. She hated -Mrs. Dulcimer for having entrapped her--she hated herself for having -fallen so easily into so petty a snare. She hated Cyril for not loving -her--she hated him still more for loving somebody else--and she hated -Beatrix Harefield most of all for being the object of his love. - -‘Has she not enough of the good things of this life without taking him -from me?’ she thought savagely, forgetting that as Cyril had never -belonged to her, Beatrix could hardly be charged with robbery. - -‘He would have cared for me if he had never seen her,’ argued Bella. -‘She is handsomer than I am--grand and noble looking--while I am small -and mean.’ - -Vanity and self-esteem were alike crushed by Cyril’s indifference. She -had been vain of her pink and white prettiness hitherto. Now she looked -at herself in the glass, and scorned her trivial beauty--the blue eyes -and light brown lashes--the indefinite eyebrows, the blunt inoffensive -little nose--the rose-bud mouth, and coquettish dimples. A beauty to -catch fools perhaps; but of no value in the eyes of a man of character, -like Cyril Culverhouse. - -She bore her burden quietly, being very proud, after her small manner, -and no one in that noisy home circle of Mr. Scratchell’s discovered -that there was anything amiss in the eldest daughter of the house. - -Mrs. Dulcimer wrote an affectionate and sympathetic letter to her dear -Bella, and insisted that she should spend a long day at the Vicarage; -as if a long day in Mrs. Dulcimer’s society were a balm that must heal -the sharpest wound. Bella answered the letter in person, being too wise -to commit herself to pen and ink upon so humiliating a subject, and she -received Mrs. Dulcimer’s apologies with an unalterable placidity which -convinced the worthy matchmaker that there was no harm done. - -‘Let us think of the whole affair as a good joke, dear Mrs. Dulcimer,’ -said Bella; ‘but let us keep it to ourselves. I hope you have not -talked about it to Rebecca.’ - -Everybody in Little Yafford knew that Rebecca was Mrs. Dulcimer’s -_confidante_, and that she had a vivacious tongue. - -The vicar’s wife blushed, and trifled nervously with her lace -rufflings. - -‘My love, you cannot suppose that I should say a word about you that -ought not to be said,’ she murmured, affectionately. - -And then Bella knew that Rebecca had been told everything. - -‘It is so nice of you to take it in such a sweet-tempered way,’ said -Mrs. Dulcimer; ‘and it only confirms my good opinion of you; but I am -more angry with _him_ than I can say. You would have suited each other -exactly.’ - -‘Ah, but you see he does not think so,’ replied Bella, with inward -bitterness. ‘I am not his style. He has chosen some one quite -different. You have no idea, I suppose, who the lady is?’ - -‘Some one he met at Oxford, I don’t doubt. He will live to regret his -choice, I daresay. I am almost wicked enough to hope he may. And now, -Bella, when will you come and spend a long quiet day with me?’ demanded -Mrs. Dulcimer, anxious to administer her balsam. - -‘I am hardly ever free now, dear Mrs. Dulcimer. Since Mrs. Piper has -been ill she has asked me to help her a little with the housekeeping. -She is so unfortunate in her servants, you know, always changing, and -that makes her distrustful.’ - -‘My dear, Mrs. Piper doesn’t make her servants happy,’ said Mrs. -Dulcimer. ‘Servants are like other people; they want to be happy, and -nobody can be happy who is being found fault with from morning till -night.’ - -‘I am afraid it is so,’ assented Bella; ‘poor Mrs. Piper means well, -but she is too particular.’ - -‘My dear, if I were to find fault with Rebecca three times in a week, -she would give me warning; and yet she’s almost like my own flesh and -blood. Now, mind, I shall expect you to come and spend a long day with -me the first time you find yourself free.’ - -‘I shall only be too happy,’ murmured Bella. - -‘And I’ll take care you don’t meet Cyril.’ - -‘You are so thoughtful.’ - -‘Well, dear, I think we were sent into the world to think of other -people as well as of ourselves,’ replied the vicar’s wife, with a -self-satisfied air. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -BELLA GOES ON A VISIT. - - -‘HERE’S a fine chance for Bella!’ exclaimed Mr. Scratchell, after -reading his patron’s curt epistle. ‘She is to go and spend Christmas at -the Water House.’ - -‘My word, won’t she have a blow out of mince pies,’ exclaimed the -youthful Adolphus, who, from being somewhat restricted as to the good -things of this life, was apt to take a material view of pleasure. - -‘Bella doesn’t care twopence for mince pies,’ said Clementina. ‘She -likes dresses and bonnets. She would live on bread and water for a -month for the sake of a pretty dress.’ - -Bella herself was not enthusiastic about the invitation to the Water -House. - -‘I don’t see how I can go, papa,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Piper wants me to -look after the housekeeping, and to see to the children’s early dinner. -Mr. Piper hates carving for so many.’ - -‘Mrs. Piper must do without you. She’ll know your value all the better -if she loses your services for a week or two.’ - -‘You ought not to refuse such an invitation, Bella,’ said Mrs. -Scratchell. ‘Christmas time and all--Mr. Harefield will be sure to give -you a handsome present.’ - -‘I might run across to the Park every morning, perhaps, even if I were -staying at the Water House,’ Bella suggested presently. She had been -thinking deeply for the last few minutes. - -‘Of course, you might,’ answered her father. ‘It’s not ten minutes’ -walk, through the fields.’ - -So Mr. Harefield’s letter was answered to the effect that Bella would -be delighted to stay with her dear Miss Harefield, and would be with -her that evening. And all day long there was a grand starching and -ironing of cuffs, collars, and petticoats, at which the younger Miss -Scratchells assisted. - -‘I shall find out all about Cyril,’ thought Bella. ‘What a secret -nature Beatrix must have to be able to hide every thing from me so -long. I have seen her look shy and strange when she met him, and have -half-suspected--but I could not think that if she really cared for him -she would hide it from me.’ - -Bella and her worldly goods arrived at the Water House after dark on -that December evening--Bella walking, under the escort of her brother -Herbert, the worldly goods accompanying her in a wheelbarrow. - -Bella found Beatrix alone in the upstairs sitting-room, which had been -called the schoolroom ever since Miss Scales had been paramount at -the Water House. It was a large panelled room, with old oak furniture -of the Dutch school that had been there since the days of William and -Mary; old blue and white Delft jars, and old pictures that nobody -ever looked at; a high carved oak mantel piece, with a shelf just -wide enough to carry the tiny teacups of the Queen Anne period; an -old-fashioned fireplace, set round with blue and white tiles; a sombre -Turkey carpet, with a good deal of yellow in it; and thick woollen -curtains of a curious flowered stuff. To Bella it was simply one of -the handsomest rooms in the world, and she felt angry with Beatrix for -her want of gratitude to a Providence that had set her in the midst of -such surroundings. - -Beatrix received her old playfellow affectionately. She was more -cheerful this evening than she had been since her father had forbidden -her visits to the vicarage. - -‘A most wonderful thing has happened, Bella,’ she said, when they had -kissed. Bella had taken off her hat, and was comfortably seated in an -arm chair by the fire. ‘Miss Scales has gone for a fortnight’s holiday, -and you and I are to be our own mistresses all Christmas time.’ - -‘How nice!’ cried Bella. - -‘Isn’t it? My father did not at all like it, I believe. But an old aunt -of Miss Scales--an aunt who is supposed to have money--has been so kind -as to get dangerously ill, and Miss Scales has been sent for to attend -her sick bed. She lives in some unknown corner of Devonshire, quite at -the other end of the map, so less than a fortnight’s leave of absence -would hardly have been any use, and papa was compelled to give it. I -am to pay no visits, but I may drive where I like in the pony carriage -on fine days--and ride as often as Jarvis will let me.’ - -Jarvis was the groom who had taught Beatrix to ride her pony ten years -ago, when Mr. Namby had suggested riding as a healthy exercise for the -pale and puny child. - -‘It will be very nice,’ said Bella. - -‘Very nice for me. But I’m afraid it will be a dreadfully dull -Christmas for you, Bella. You will wish yourself at home. Christmas -must be so cheerful in a large family.’ - -‘I can endure the loss of a home Christmas with exemplary resignation,’ -replied Bella, with a graceful little shrug of her pretty shoulders. ‘I -think if there is one time more trying than another in our house, it is -Christmas. The children have a vague idea that they are going to enjoy -themselves--and it shows a wonderful gift of blind faith that they can -have such an idea after so many disappointments. They make the parlours -uncomfortable with holly and laurel, and club together for a bunch -of mistletoe to hang in the passage--they make poor ma promise them -snapdragon and hot elder wine--and then on Christmas Eve one of the -boys contrives to break a window--or to upset papa’s office inkstand, -which holds about a quart, and then the whole family are in disgrace. -Papa and mamma have words--the beef is underdone on Christmas day, and -papa uses awful language about the housekeeping--the boys go out for -an afternoon walk to avoid the storm indoors, and perhaps get caught -in the rain out of doors and spoil their best clothes. After tea pa -and ma have a long talk by the fire, while we young ones squabble over -‘vingt et un’ at the table, and we know by their faces that they are -talking about the new year’s bills, and then we all go to bed feeling -miserable, without exactly knowing why.’ - -‘Poor Bella,’ said Beatrix compassionately. ‘It does seem very hard -that some people should have more money than they know what to do with, -and others so much too little. It’s quite puzzling. The trees and -flowers have everything equally, sun and rain, and dew and frost.’ - -‘No, they don’t,’ said Bella. ‘The trees see life from different -aspects. Some have all the southern sun, and others all the northern -blasts. You are like a carefully trained peach tree on a south wall, -and I am a poor little shrub in a gloomy corner facing the north.’ - -‘Bella,’ cried Beatrix, ‘do you seriously believe that there is much -sunshine in my life?’ - -‘Plenty,’ answered Bella. ‘You have never known the want of money.’ - -‘But money cannot make happiness.’ - -‘Perhaps not, but it can make a very good imitation; and I know that -the want of money can make very real unhappiness.’ - -‘Poor Bella!’ sighed Beatrix again. - -‘Oh! as for me,’ said Bella, ‘I am very well off, since I’ve been at -the Pipers. And then you have always been so kind to me. I am the -favoured one of the family. But it is trying to see how my poor mother -is worried, and how she worries every one else, in the struggle to make -both ends meet. And now tell me about yourself, Beatrix. Papa said you -had been ill.’ - -‘Miss Scales and Mr. Namby have made up their minds that I am ill,’ -answered Beatrix indifferently, ‘but except that I can’t sleep, I -don’t think there’s much the matter.’ - -‘But that is very dreadful,’ exclaimed Bella. ‘Do you mean to say that -you are not able to sleep at all?’ - -‘Very little. Sometimes I lie awake all night--sometimes I get up and -walk about my room, and stare out of the window at the moor and the -river. They look so strange and ghostlike in the dead of the night--not -a bit like the moor and river we know by day. Sometimes I light my -candle and read.’ - -‘And you never sleep?’ - -‘Towards the morning I sometimes drop off into a doze, but I always -wake with a start, just as if the surprise of finding myself asleep had -awakened me.’ - -‘And hasn’t Mr. Namby given you anything to make you sleep?’ asked -Bella. - -‘No. He is giving me tonics, and he says when I get strong the -sleeplessness will leave me. He has refused to give me an opiate, -though I begged very hard for something that would send me to sleep.’ - -‘That seems cruel,’ said Bella, ‘but I suppose he is right. I think he -is a very clever little man. Mrs. Piper has more confidence in him -than in Dr. Armytage, who has a big fee every time he comes over from -Great Yafford, and who never seems to do anything but approve of what -Mr. Namby is doing. Or perhaps he makes some slight alteration in the -diet--recommends sago instead of tapioca--or madeira instead of sherry.’ - -‘Is Mrs. Piper very ill?’ - -‘Dreadfully ill, poor thing. It is an internal complaint that is -killing her. She struggles against it, but I think she knows that it -must be fatal.’ - -‘How sad for her children.’ - -‘Yes, poor little things. She is a very good mother--perhaps a little -too strict, but most careful of her children. They will miss her -dreadfully. I’m afraid Mr. Piper is the sort of man to marry again.’ - -‘Oh, surely not?’ cried Beatrix, ‘that fat red-faced man--with a figure -like a barrel. Who would marry him.’ - -‘Who would refuse him--and his money?’ - -‘Oh, Bella! Now surely you would not marry such a man as that--for all -the money in the world?’ - -‘I would not, well as I know the value of money. But I have no doubt -there are plenty of girls who would. And now, Beatrix, tell me why you -never go to the Vicarage now.’ - -‘Simply because my father has forbidden me.’ - -‘How unkind! But he must have some reason for such a step.’ - -‘He has his reasons no doubt.’ - -‘And has he not told you what they are?’ - -‘Don’t let us talk about it, please, Bella dear. I had rather speak of -anything else.’ - -‘Of course,’ thought Bella, ‘the whole thing is quite clear.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -MRS. PIPER’S TROUBLES. - - -BEATRIX HAREFIELD’S spirits improved in the society of her friend. She -was fond of Bella, and believed in Bella’s faithfulness and affection. -Her reticence on the subject of Cyril Culverhouse had not arisen from -distrust, but from a reserve natural in a girl reared in solitude, -and with a mind lofty and ardent enough to make first love sacred as -religion. - -But when Bella, with every evidence of fondness, entreated to be taken -into her friend’s confidence, Beatrix was not so stoical as to refuse -the comfort of sympathy. - -‘I know you are hiding something from me, Beatrix,’ said Bella, as they -were walking in the wintry garden on the first morning of her visit. -‘There is a reason for your father’s forbidding your visits to the -Vicarage--and a reason for your pale cheeks and sleepless nights. Why -are you afraid to trust me?’ - -‘I am not afraid to trust you. But there are things one does not care -to talk about.’ - -‘Does not one? What are those things, dear? Do you mean that you don’t -care to talk about Mr. Culverhouse?’ - -Beatrix started, and flushed crimson. - -‘How do you know--did any one tell you?’ - -‘My dear Beatrix, I have eyes and ears, and they told me. I have seen -you together. I have heard him speak of you.’ - -‘And you found out----’ - -‘That you adore each other.’ - -‘It is true, Bella. I love him with all my heart and soul--and we are -to be married as soon as I am of age.’ - -‘With your father’s consent?’ - -‘With or without it. That matters very little to me.’ - -‘But if you offend him he may leave his estate to a hospital,’ -suggested Bella, who knew a great deal more about Mr. Harefield’s -property than Beatrix. - -‘He may do what he likes with it. Cyril will not marry me for my -fortune.’ - -‘Of course not, but fortune is a very good thing, and Mr. Culverhouse, -who is poor, must think so.’ - -This arrow glanced aside from the armour of Beatrix’s faith. No one -could have made her believe that her lover had any lurking greed of -wealth. - -‘Then it is all settled,’ said Bella, cheerfully. ‘You will be of age -in two years, and then you are to be married, whether Mr. Harefield -likes or not. I really can’t see why you should be unhappy.’ - -‘I am not to see Cyril, or hear from him, for two years. He is going to -leave this place in the spring. He might be ill--dying--and I should -know nothing, till I took up the _Times_ some morning and saw the -advertisement of his death.’ - -‘He is young and strong,’ replied Bella. ‘There is nothing less likely -than that he should die. I don’t think you need make yourself unhappy -in advance about that.’ - -Her cold hard tone wounded Beatrix, who had expected more sympathy. - -‘Don’t let us talk about him, Bella,’ she said. - -But Bella was determined to talk about him till she had found out all -that there was for her to know. She assumed a more sympathetic tone, -and Beatrix was induced to tell of Cyril’s interview with her father, -and of the letter which her lover wrote to her after that interview. - -The clocks struck eleven a few minutes after this conversation was -ended. - -‘And now I must run to the Park and spend an hour with poor Mrs. -Piper,’ said Bella. ‘I promised to go over every day to make myself -useful. She is so wretched about her servants, if there is no one to -look after them.’ - -‘How painful to have servants that require to be looked after!’ -said Beatrix, who was accustomed to a household that went as if by -clockwork, conducted by a butler and housekeeper who were trusted -implicitly. - -‘It is rather dreadful,’ replied Bella. ‘I think I would sooner have -our maid-of-all-work, with her sooty face and red elbows, than poor -Mrs. Piper’s staff of smart young women, who study nothing but their -own comfort, and come and go as if the Park were an hotel; for our -poor Sarah is at least faithful, and would no more think of leaving us -than of going to the moon. Good-bye, darling, I shall be back before -luncheon.’ - -Beatrix went back to her quiet room, and her books. Her mind had been -much widened by her intercourse with Mr. Dulcimer and his library, and -good books were a consolation and delight to her. She had marked out -a line of serious study, which she fancied might make her fitter to -be Cyril’s wife, and was resolved not to be led astray by any flowers -of literature. Hard reading was a little difficult sometimes, for her -thoughts would wander to the lover from whom cruel fate had parted her; -but she persevered bravely, and astonished Miss Scales by the severity -of her self-discipline. - -Bella tripped briskly across the fields to Little Yafford Park, which -was about half a mile from the village, and only a little less distant -from the Water House. It was Saturday morning, and she knew that Mrs. -Piper would be worried about the weekly bills, which had an unvarying -tendency to be heavier than she expected to find them. - -Mrs. Piper was propped up with pillows in her easy chair by the fire, -while all the youthful Pipers--including a couple of apple-cheeked -ungainly boys from an expensive boarding-school--were making havoc of -her handsomely furnished morning-room--a process eminently calculated -to shorten the brief remnant of her days. - -‘Cobbett, if you don’t leave that malachite blotting book alone -directly, I’ll ring for your pa,’ exclaimed the invalid, as Bella -entered. - -Mr. Piper was a man who had read books in his time--not many, perhaps, -but he remembered them all the better on that account. He was a man -who boasted of thinking for himself; which meant that he asserted -second-hand opinions so forcibly as to make them pass for new, and put -down other people’s arguments with the high hand of a self-conscious -capitalist. - -He had christened his two elder boys Cobbett and Bentham. The -chubby little plague in pinafores was Horne Tooke, the bony boy in -knickerbockers was Brougham. The two girls were living memorials of -Elizabeth Fry and Mary Wolstencroft. His ambition was to see these -children all educated up to the highest modern standard, and able to -occupy an intellectual eminence from which they could look down upon -everybody else. - -‘Money and dulness are sometimes supposed to go hand in hand,’ said Mr. -Piper. ‘I shall take care that my children may be able to exhibit the -pleasing spectacle of capital allied with intelligence.’ - -Unhappily the young Pipers did not take to education quite so kindly as -their father expected them to do. They had no thirst for the Pierian -spring, and, instead of drinking deeply, imbibed the sacred waters in -reluctant sips, as if the fount had been some nauseous sulphur spring -offered to them medicinally. Poor Bella had laboured almost hopelessly -for the last year to drag Brougham through that Slough of Despond, Dr. -Somebody’s first Latin grammar, and had toiled valorously in the vain -effort to familiarize Horne Tooke with words of one syllable. Elizabeth -Fry, whom her mother designed for greatness in the musical world, had -not yet mastered the mysteries of a common chord, or learned the -difference between a major and minor scale. Mary Wolstencroft was a -sullen young person of eleven, who put her chubby fingers in her mouth -at the least provocation, and stubbornly refused to learn anything. - -‘Oh, my dear, I am very glad you have come,’ cried Mrs. Piper. ‘These -children are positively maddening. I like to have them with me, because -it’s a mother’s duty, and I hope I shall do my duty to the last hour -of my life. But they are very trying. Bentham has spilt the ink on the -patchwork table-cover, and Mary has been pulling the Angola’s tail most -cruelly.’ - -The animal which Mrs. Piper insisted on calling the ‘Angola’ was a -magnificent white Angora cat, and really the handsomest living creature -in the Piper household; indeed the Piper children seemed to have -been invented as a foil to the grace and beauty of the cat, to which -they were inferior in every attribute, except the gift of speech, a -privilege they systematically abused. - -Bella examined the injured table-cover, and stroked the offended cat, -and then sat down by Mrs. Piper’s sofa. - -‘I dare say the children are tiresome, dear Mrs. Piper,’ she said, -whereupon Bentham secretly put out his tongue at her, ‘but it must be a -comfort to you to see them all in such good health.’ - -‘Yes, my dear, it is. But I really think there never were such -boisterous children. I am sure when they were all down with the measles -the house was like ‘eaven. The way they use the furniture is enough to -provoke a saint. I sometimes wish Piper hadn’t bought so many ‘andsome -ornaments for my boodwar.’ - -And Mrs. Piper gave a heavy sigh, inwardly lamenting the ten-roomed -villa in the broad high road outside Great Yafford--the best parlour -which no one was allowed to enter--save on special occasions and under -most restrictive conditions--and the everyday parlour, in which the -shabby old furniture could hardly be the worse for ill-usage. - -‘And now, Bella, we’ll go to the books,’ said Mrs. Piper, ‘they’re -something awful this week. There’s fine goings on downstairs now that I -can’t get about.’ - -‘The boys being home from school must make a difference,’ suggested -Bella. - -‘After allowing amply for the boys, the bills are awful. Look at the -baker’s book, Bella. It will freeze your blood.’ - -Bella looked, and was not actually frozen, though the amount was -startling. The household expenses seemed to have been upon an ascending -scale from the beginning of Mrs. Piper’s illness. That careful -housewife’s seclusion had certainly relaxed the stringent economy by -which larder and kitchen had been hitherto regulated. - -The tradesmen’s books were gone through one by one, Mrs. Piper -lamenting much, and doubtful of almost every item. Why so much lard -and butter, why so many eggs? There were mysterious birds in the -poulterer’s book, inexplicable fish in the fishmonger’s. When they came -to the butcher’s book things grew desperate, and the cook was summoned -to render an account of her doings. - -Cook was a plausible young woman in a smart cap, and she proved too -much for Mrs. Piper. She had an explanation for every pound of meat -in the book, and her mistress dared not push inquiry to the verge of -accusation, lest this smart young woman should take advantage of the -impending season and resign her situation then and there, leaving -Mrs. Piper to get her Christmas dinner cooked as she might. Piper was -particular about his dinner. It was the one sensual weakness of a great -mind, and if his meals fell in any way short of his requirements and -expectations, his family circle suffered. The simoom in the desert -was not more sudden or devastating than the whirlwind of Mr. Piper’s -wrath in the dining-room, when the fish was sodden and sloppy, or the -joint presented an interior stratum of rawness under an outer crust of -scorched flesh. - -‘Piper is _so_ particular,’ his wife would remark piteously, ‘and good -cooks are so hard to get.’ - -The fact of the case was that no good cook would endure Mrs. Piper’s -watchfulness and suspicion, and those scathing denunciations which Mr. -Piper sent out by the parlour-maid when the dishes were not to his -liking. - -‘I might have borne Mrs. Piper’s petty prying ways,’ remarked one of -the Park cooks, after giving her mistress warning, ‘or I might have -put up with Mr. Piper’s tempers; but I couldn’t stand him and her -together. That was too much for Christian flesh and blood.’ - -The cook was dismissed, with inward groanings on the part of Mrs. -Piper, and the money for the tradesmen was entrusted to Bella, who was -to pay the bills on her way through the village, and to make divers -complaints and objections which the cook might have omitted to deliver. - -‘I never let a servant pay my bills if I can help it,’ said Mrs. Piper, -‘it gives them too much power.’ - -And Mrs. Piper gave another sigh for the days of old, when her villa in -the Great Yafford Road had been kept as neat as a pin by two servants, -and those two servants had been completely under their mistress’s -thumb, when she herself had given her orders by word of mouth to the -tradespeople, and not so much as a half-quartern loaf had come into the -house without her knowledge and consent. The transition from the tight -economies of mediocre comfort to the larger splendour of unlimited -wealth had been a sore trial to Mrs. Piper. The change had come too -late in her life. She could not reconcile herself to the cost of her -grandeur, although her husband assured her that he was not spending -half his income. - -‘It may be so now, Piper,’ she replied, dubiously, ‘but when the -children grow up you’ll find yourself spending more money. They’ll eat -more, and their boots will come dearer. I feel the difference every -year.’ - -‘When I find myself with less than fifty thousand surplus capital, I -shall begin to grumble, Moggie,’ said Mr. Piper, ‘but I ain’t going to -make a poor mouth till then.’ - -‘Well, Piper, of course it’s nice to live in a big place like this, and -to feel oneself looked up to, and that the best of everything is hardly -good enough for us; but still there are times when I feel as if you and -me had been sent into the world to feed a pack of extravagant servants.’ - -‘We can’t help that, my dear,’ answered Piper, cheerily. ‘Dukes and -duchesses are the same.’ - -‘Ah, but then you see dukes and duchesses are born to it. They’ve not -been used to have their housekeeping in their own hands, as I have. I -suppose it’s when I’m a little low that it preys upon me,’ mused Mrs. -Piper, ‘but I do feel it very trying sometimes. When I think of the -butter and lard that are used in this house it seems to me as if we -must come to the workhouse. No fortune could be big enough to stand -against it.’ - -‘Don’t be a fool, Moggie,’ retorted the manufacturer, unmoved by this -pathetic suggestion. ‘When I was in business I’ve lost five thousand -pounds in a morning by the turn of the market, and I’ve come home and -eat my dinner and never said a word to you about it. What’s your butter -and lard against that?’ - -‘Oh, Piper, I wonder you ever lived through it.’ - -‘I wasn’t a fool,’ answered Piper, ‘and I knew that where there’s big -gains there must be big losses, now and again. A man that’s afraid to -lose a few odd thousands will never come out a millionaire.’ - -Ebenezer Piper had a high opinion of his children’s governess. He -had heard Bella grinding Latin verbs with Brougham, and admired her -tact and patience. He liked to see pretty faces about him, as he -acknowledged with a noble candour, and Bella’s face seemed to him -particularly agreeable. That pink and white prettiness was entirely to -his taste. Something soft and fresh and peachy. The kind of woman who -seemed created to acknowledge and submit to the superiority of man. -Mrs. Piper had been a very fair sample of this pink and white order -of beauty, when the rising manufacturer married her; but time and -ill-health and a natural fretfulness had destroyed good looks which -consisted chiefly of a fine complexion and a plump figure, and the Mrs. -Piper of the present was far from lovely. Her Ebenezer was not the -less devoted to her on that account. He bought her fine dresses, and -every possible combination of ormolu and malachite, mother-o’-pearl and -tortoiseshell, for her boudoir and drawing-room; and he told everybody -that she had been a good wife to him, and a pretty woman in her time, -‘though nobody would believe it to look at her now.’ - -On her way from Mrs. Piper’s boudoir to the hall Miss Scratchell -encountered the master of the house, coming out of the billiard-room, -where he had been knocking the balls about in a thoughtful solitude. - -‘How did you find the missus?’ he asked, after saluting Bella with a -friendly nod. - -‘Pretty much the same as usual, Mr. Piper. I’m afraid there is no -change for the better. She looks worn and worried.’ - -‘She will worry herself when there ain’t no call,’ said Piper. ‘She’s -been bothering over those tradesmen’s books this morning, I’ll warrant, -just as she used fifteen years ago when I allowed her five pounds -a week for the housekeeping. She never did take kindly to a large -establishment. She’s been wearing her life out about fiddle-faddle ever -since we came here--and yet she had set her heart on being a great -lady. She’s a good little woman, and I’m uncommonly fond of her, but -she’s narrer-minded. I ain’t so blind but what I can see that.’ - -‘She is all that is kind and good,’ said Bella, who had always a large -balance of affection at call for anybody who was likely to be useful to -her. - -‘So she is,’ assented Ebenezer, ‘and you’re very fond of her, ain’t -you? She’s fond of you, too. She thinks you are one of the cleverest -girls out. And so you are. You’ve had a hard job with Brougham’s -Latin. He don’t take to learning as I did. I was a self-taught man, -Miss Scratchell. I bought a Latin grammar at a bookstall, when I was -a factory hand, and used to sit up of a night puzzling over it till -I taught myself as much Latin as many a chap knows that’s cost his -parents no end of money. My education never cost anybody anything, -except myself--and it cost me about a pound, first and last, for -books. I don’t know many books, you know, but them I do know I know -thoroughly. The Vicar himself couldn’t beat me at an argument, when -it comes to the subjects I’m up in. But I don’t pretend to know -everything. I ain’t a many-sided man. I couldn’t tell you what breed of -tomcats was ranked highest in Egypt, or where’s the likeliest spot in -the sky to look for a new planet.’ - -‘Everybody knows that you are very clever,’ said Bella, safely. - -‘Well, I hope nobody has ever found me very stupid. But I want my -children to know a deal more than me. They must be able to hold their -own against all comers. I should like ’em to read off the monuments -in Egypt as pat as I can read the newspaper. Like that French fellow -Shampoleon, we heard so much of when I was a young man. Come and have a -look at the conservatory, and take home some flowers for your mar.’ - -‘You are very kind, Mr. Piper; but I’m rather in a hurry. I am not -going home. I am on a visit to the Water House.’ - -‘The deuce you are!’ exclaimed Mr. Piper. ‘There’s not many visitors -there, I take it. You must be uncommon dull.’ - -‘Other people might find it dull, perhaps; but I am very happy there. I -am very fond of Beatrix Harefield.’ - -‘Ah! she’s a fine grown young woman; but she ain’t my style. Looks as -if there was a spice of the devil in her. Come and have a look at the -conservatory. You can take Miss Harefield some flowers.’ - -The conservatory opened out of the hall, to which they had descended -by this time. Bella could not refuse to go in and look at Mr. Piper’s -expensive collection of tropical plants, with long Latin names. -His conservatory was an object of interest to him in his present -comparatively idle life. He knew all the Latin names, and the habits -of all the plants. He cut off some of the blossoms that were on the -wane, and presented them to Bella, talking about himself and his wife -and children all the while. She had a hard struggle to get away, for -Mr. Piper approved of her, just as Dr. Johnson approved of Kitty Clive, -as a nice little thing to sit beside one, or, in other words, a good -listener. - -Bella got back to the Water House in time for luncheon, a meal which -the two girls took together in a snug breakfast parlour on the ground -floor. The dining-room was much too large for the possibility of -cheerfulness. - -‘You have hardly eaten anything, Beatrix,’ remarked Bella, when they -had finished; ‘and you had only a cup of tea at breakfast time. No -wonder you are ill.’ - -‘I dare say if I could sleep better I should eat more,’ answered -Beatrix, listlessly, ‘but the nights are so long--when day comes I feel -too worn out to be hungry.’ - -‘It is all very bad and very foolish,’ said Bella. ‘Why should you have -these sleepless nights? It can’t be grief. You have nothing to grieve -about. Your way lies clear before you. It is only a question of time.’ - -‘I suppose so,’ assented Beatrix; ‘but I can’t see myself happy in the -future. I can’t believe in it. I feel as if all my life was to be spent -in this loveless home--my father holding himself aloof from me--Cyril -parted from me. How can I be sure that he will always love me--that I -shall be the same to him two years hence that I am now? It is a long -time.’ - -‘A long time to be parted without even the privilege of writing to each -other, certainly,’ said Bella; ‘but there is no fear of any change in -Mr. Culverhouse’s feelings. Think what a splendid match you are for a -poor curate.’ - -‘Why do you harp upon that string, Bella?’ cried Beatrix, angrily. ‘You -know that if I marry Cyril I shall forfeit my father’s fortune. Cyril -knows it too. It is a settled thing. I shall go to him penniless.’ - -‘Oh, no, you won’t, dear! Things will never go so far as that. -Your father will get reconciled to the idea of your marrying Mr. -Culverhouse. You must both look forward to that.’ - -‘We neither of us look forward to it. There is no question of fortune -between us. Never speak of such a thing again, Bella, unless you wish -to offend me. And now I am going to drive you to Great Yafford, to do -some shopping. We must buy some Christmas presents for your mamma and -brothers and sisters.’ - -‘Oh, Beatrix, you are too good.’ - -Puck, the pony, was one of the finest specimens of his race, a -thick-necked, stout-limbed animal, and a splendid goer. He would -have dragged his mistress all round England, and never asked for a -day’s rest. He never was sick nor sorry, as the old coachman said -approvingly, when summing up Puck’s qualifications. On the other hand, -he had a temper of his own, and if he was offended he kicked. He would -have destroyed a carriage once a week if he had got into bad hands. But -he understood Beatrix, and Beatrix understood him, and everything went -smoothly between them. - -Great Yafford on a December afternoon was about as ugly a town as one -need care to see; but it was busy and prosperous, and seemed to take an -honest pride in its ugliness, so stoutly did its vestry and corporation -oppose any movement in the direction of beauty. There was one street of -ample breadth and length, intersected by a great many narrow streets. -There was a grimy looking canal, along which still grimier coal barges -crept stealthily under the dull gray sky. There were great piles of -buildings devoted to the purposes of commerce; factories, warehouses, -gas works, dye works, oil works, soap works, bone works, all vying with -one another in hideousness, and in the production of unsavoury odours. - -Ugly as Great Yafford was, however, there was nothing Bella -Scratchell enjoyed so much as a visit to Tower Gate, the broad street -above-named, and a leisurely contemplation of the well-furnished shop -windows, where the fashions, as that morning received from Paris, were -to be seen gratis by the penniless gazer. Banbury and Banburys’, the -chief drapers, afforded Bella as much delight as a lover of pictures -derives from a noble gallery. She would have seen the Venus of Milo for -the first time with less excitement than she felt on beholding ‘our -latest novelties in Paris mantles,’ or ‘our large importation of silks -from the great Lyons houses.’ - -‘Drive slowly, please, Beatrix,’ said Bella, as they entered Tower -Gate; ‘I should like to have a look at Banburys’, though it can’t make -any difference to me, for I have bought my winter things.’ - -‘You can look as long as you like, Bella. I am going in to buy some -gloves, and a few little things. Perhaps you would like to go in with -me.’ - -‘I should very much, dear. They have always such lovely things inside.’ - -Puck was given over to the care of the groom, while the two young -ladies went into Banburys’. It was a very busy time just now. ‘Our -latest novelties’ were being scrutinized and pulled about by an eager -throng of buyers, and the patience of Banburys’ young men was tried to -the verge of martyrdom by ladies who hadn’t quite made up their minds -what they wanted, or whether they wanted anything at all. An ordinary -individual would have had ample time to study the humours of Banburys’ -before being served; but Miss Harefield was known as an excellent -customer, and the shop-walker was in a fever till he had found a young -man to attend upon her. He was a pale young man, in whose face all the -colour had run into pimples, and he had a wild and worried look, which -was not unnatural in a youth whose mind had been tortured by all kinds -of fanciful objections to, and criticisms upon Banburys’ stock, from -nine o’clock that morning, and who had run to and fro over the face -of Banburys’, like a new Orestes driven by the Furies, in search of -articles that never answered the requirements of his customers, proving -always just a little too dear, or too common, too thick or too thin, -too dark or too light, too silky or too woolly for the fair buyer. To -this tormented youth Beatrix seemed an angel of light, so easily was -she pleased, so quickly did she decide upon her purchases. She bought -a dozen pairs of gloves, a pile of ribbons, laces, and other trifles -in the time that an elderly female in black, a little lower down the -counter, devoted to the thrilling question of which particular piece -out of a pile of lavender printed cotton would best survive the ordeal -of the washtub. - -‘What is your sister Clementina’s size?’ inquired Beatrix, looking over -a box of gloves. - -‘Oh, Beatrix, you mustn’t buy any for her,’ whispered Bella. - -‘Yes, I must. And you must tell me her number.’ - -‘Six and three-quarters.’ - -‘The same as yours. I’ll take a dozen of the six and three-quarters.’ - -A large Honiton collar and cuffs, after the fashion of the period--a -dark age in which rufflings and fichus and all the varieties of modern -decorative art were unknown--were chosen for Miss Scales--neck ribbons -for the women servants--warm clothing for certain goodies in the -village--a noble parcel altogether. The pale and haggard youth felt -that he need not quail before the awful eye of Banbury when the day’s -takings came to be summed up. - -After leaving Banburys’, Miss Harefield drove to a chemist’s, and got -out alone to make her purchases. - -‘I couldn’t get what I wanted there,’ she said, and then drove into one -of the narrow streets and pulled up at another chemist’s. - -She went in this way to no less than six chemists’ shops, entering each -alone, and remaining for about five minutes in each. She had a good -many little daintily sealed white parcels by the time she had finished -this round. - -‘Are you going to set up as a doctor?’ Bella asked, laughing. - -‘I have got what I wanted at last,’ Beatrix answered evasively. - -‘What can you have in all those little parcels?’ - -‘Perfumery--in most of them. And now I am going to the Repository to -buy something for your small brothers and sisters.’ - -The Repository was a kind of bazaar in Tower Gate, where there was a -large selection of useless articles at any price from sixpence to a -guinea. Beatrix loaded herself with popular parlour games, Conversation -Cards, Royal Geographical Games, and Kings of England--games which no -one but a drivelling idiot could play more than once without being -conscious of a tendency to softening of the brain--for the young -Scratchells. She bought a handsome workbasket for the industrious -house-mother. She bought scent bottles and thimble cases for the girls, -knives and pocket-books for the boys. - -‘Upon my word, Beatrix, you are too good,’ exclaimed Bella, when she -heard the destination of these objects. - -‘Do you suppose that money can give me any better pleasure than to make -other people happy with it, if I can?’ answered Beatrix. ‘It will never -make me happy.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -A WITNESS FROM THE GRAVE. - - -THE two girls at the Water House lived their solitary life all through -the dark week before Christmas. They read a great deal; Bella confining -herself to the novels from the Great Yafford library, Beatrix reading -those books which she believed were to fit her for companionship with -Cyril Culverhouse in the days to come. They did not find so much to say -to each other as friends of such long standing might have been expected -to find. But Beatrix was by nature reserved about those things nearest -her heart, and her cloistered life gave her little else to talk about. -On the dusky winter afternoons they went up to the lumber-room, and had -a feast of music at the old piano; Bella singing prettily in a clear -soprano voice--thin but not unmelodious--Beatrix playing church music -with the touch of a player in whom music was a natural expression of -thought and feeling, and not a laboriously acquired art. Very rarely -could Beatrix be persuaded to sing, but when she did uplift her fresh -young voice, the rich contralto tones were like the sound of an organ, -and even Bella’s shallow soul was moved by the simple melodies of the -Psalter of those days. - - ‘As pants the hart for cooling streams, - When heated in the chase.’ - -Or, - - ‘With one consent let all the earth - To God their cheerful voices raise.’ - -‘Has Mr. Culverhouse ever heard you sing?’ inquired Bella. - -‘Never. Where should he hear me? I never sing anywhere but in this -room.’ - -‘And in church.’ - -‘Yes, of course, in church. But I do not think even Cyril could -distinguish my voice out of a whole congregation.’ - -‘He might,’ said Bella, ‘all the rest sing through their noses.’ - -For fine days there was the garden, and for variety Puck and the pony -carriage. Miss Harefield took her friend for long drives across the -moor. Once they met Cyril in one of the lanes, and passed him with a -distant recognition. Bella saw Beatrix’s cheek grow pale as he came in -sight. - -‘How white you turned just now,’ she said, when Puck had carried them -ever so far away from the curate of Little Yafford. - -‘Did I?’ asked Beatrix. ‘I don’t think I can be as pale as you. That -was sympathy, I suppose. You felt how hard it was for me to pass him -by.’ - -‘Yes,’ answered Bella in her quiet little way, ‘that was what I felt.’ - -Bella had been staying at the Water House a week and during that time -had seen Mr. Harefield about half a dozen times. He was in the habit -of dining with his daughter and her governess on Sundays. It was not a -pleasant change in his hermit-like life, but he made this sacrifice to -paternal duty. Every Sunday at four o’clock he sat down to dinner with -his daughter and Miss Scales. Now that Miss Scales was away he sat down -alone with the two girls, and looked at them curiously, when he found -himself face to face with them at the board, as if they had been a new -species in zoology which he had never before had the opportunity of -scrutinizing. - -He looked from one to the other thoughtfully while he unfolded his -napkin, as if he were not quite clear as to which was his daughter, and -then, having made up his mind on that point, addressed himself with a -slight turn of the head to Beatrix. - -‘Your friend has grown very much,’ he said. - -‘Do you really think so, Mr. Harefield?’ inquired Bella, with a -gratified simper. It was something to be spoken of in any wise by this -modern Timon. - -Mr. Harefield went on helping the soup without a word. He had quite -forgotten his own remark, and had not heard Bella’s. They got half-way -through the dinner in absolute silence. Then a tart and a pudding -appeared, and the tart, being set down rather suddenly before Mr. -Harefield, seemed to disturb him in the midst of a waking dream. - -‘Have you heard from Miss Scales?’ he asked his daughter abruptly. - -‘Yes, papa. I have had two letters. Her aunt is very ill. Miss Scales -is afraid she will die.’ - -‘She hopes it, you mean. Can you suppose such a sensible person as Miss -Scales would wish a tiresome old woman’s life prolonged when she will -get a legacy by her death?’ - -‘Miss Scales is a good woman, papa. She would not be so wicked as to -wish for any one’s death.’ - -‘Would she not? I’m afraid there are a great many good people on this -earth wishing as hard as they can in the same line. Expectant heirs, -expectant heiresses--waiting to wrench purse and power from a dead -man’s gripe.’ - -After this pleasant speech the master of the house relapsed into -silence. The old butler moved quietly to and fro. There was a gentle -jingle of glass and silver now and then, like the ringing of distant -sleigh-bells. The wood ashes fell softly from the wide old grate. The -clock ticked in the hall outside. Time halted like a cripple. Bella -began to think that even a home Sunday--with Mr. Scratchell swearing at -the cooking and Mrs. Scratchell in tears--was better than this. It was -at least open misery, and the storm generally blew over as rapidly as -it arose. Here there was a suppressed and solemn gloom, as of a tempest -always impending and never coming. What a waste of wealth and luxury -it seemed to sit in a fine old room like this, surrounded by all good -things, and to be obstinately wretched! - -When dinner was over, and certain dried fruits and pale half-ripened -oranges had been carried round by the butler’s subordinate, the butler -himself following solemnly with decanters and claret jug, and nobody -taking anything, the two girls rose, at a look from Beatrix, and left -Mr. Harefield alone. - -‘Will you come up to my room and have some tea, papa?’ Beatrix asked at -the door. - -‘Not to-night, my dear. I have a new number of the _Westminster_ to -read. You and Miss Scratchell can amuse yourselves. Good-night.’ - -No paternal kiss was offered or asked. - -‘Good-night, papa,’ said Beatrix, and she and Bella went away. - -It was a long evening. Bella did not like to open a novel, and did not -care for Bishop Ken, whose ‘Practice of Divine Love’ formed the last -stage in Miss Harefield’s self-culture. The only piano in the house was -ever so far away in the lumber-room, and the lumber-room after dark was -suggestive of ghosts and goblins, or at any rate of rats and mice. - -Sunday evening at the parish church was gayer than this, Bella thought, -as she sat by the fire stifling her frequent yawns, and watched -Beatrix’s thoughtful face bending over Bishop Ken. - -‘Yes, she is much handsomer than I am,’ reflected Bella, with a pang -of envy. ‘How can I wonder that he likes her best! She is like one of -those old prints Mr. Dulcimer showed us one evening--by Albert Durer, I -think. Grave dark faces of Saints and Madonnas. She is like a poem or a -picture made alive. And he is full of romance and poetry. No wonder he -loves her. It is not for the sake of her fortune. He really does love -her.’ - -And then came the question which in Bella’s mind was unanswerable. ‘Why -should she have everything and I so little?’ - -Beatrix read on, absorbed in her book. The clock ticked, the gray -wood ashes dropped upon the hearth, just as they had done in the -dining-room. Outside the deep casement windows the night winds were -blowing, the ragged tree-tops swaying against a cold gray sky. Bella -shivered as she sat by the fire. This was the dreariest Sunday evening -she had ever spent. - -Presently a shrill bell pealed loudly through the house, a startling -sound amidst a silence which seemed to have lasted for ages, nay, to be -a normal condition of one’s existence. Bella gave a little jump, and -sat up in her chair alert and eager. - -‘Could it be Cyril Culverhouse? No, of course not.’ - -His image filled so large a place in her life that even the sudden -ringing of a bell suggested his approach, till reason came to check the -vagaries of fancy. - -The same thought darted into Beatrix’s mind. For a woman deeply in -love, earth holds only one man--her lover. Was it Cyril who came to -claim her; to trample down the barrier of paternal authority, and to -claim her by the right of their mutual love? This idea being, at the -first flash of reason, utterly untenable, lasted no longer with Beatrix -than it had done with Bella. - -‘It must be Miss Scales,’ she said, going to the door. ‘And yet I -should not have thought she would travel on a Sunday. She is so very -particular about Sunday.’ - -Miss Scales belonged to a sect with whom God’s day of rest means a day -of penance; a day upon which mankind holds itself in an apologetic -attitude towards its Maker, as if deprecating the Divine wrath for its -audacity in having taken the liberty to be born. - -The two girls went out into the corridor, and from the corridor to the -square open gallery in the middle of the house, from which the broad -staircase descended. Here, leaning upon the oaken balustrade, they -looked down into the hall. - -It was empty when they first looked, a vacant expanse of black and -white marble. Then there came another peal of the bell, and the butler -walked slowly across to the door, and opened it just wide enough to -reconnoitre the visitor. - -Here there was a brief parley, the drift of which the girls could not -distinguish. They only heard a murmur of masculine voices. - -‘It can’t be Miss Scales,’ whispered Beatrix. ‘They would have brought -in her portmanteau before this.’ - -The parley ceased all at once, the butler threw open the door, and a -gentleman came in out of the windy night, bringing a blast of cold air -with him. He took off his hat, and stood in the centre of the hall, -looking about him, while the butler carried his card to Mr. Harefield. -The stranger was a man of about fifty, tall and spare of figure, but -with a certain nobility of bearing, as of one accustomed to command. -The finely shaped head was beautifully set upon the shoulders, the -chest was broad and deep. As he looked upwards the two girls drew back -into the shadow, still watching him. - -It was a beautiful head, a grand Italian face full of tranquillity -and power, like a portrait by Moroni. The eyes were dark, the skin -was a pale olive, the hair ‘a sable silvered.’ A thrill went through -Beatrix’s heart as she looked at him. - -Yes, she remembered, she knew. This was Antonio. This was the Italian -with the pathetic voice, who sat in the twilight, singing church music, -that summer evening long ago. This was the man whose face memory -associated with the face of her dead mother. She had seen them looking -at her together in those days of early childhood, whose faint memories -are like a reminiscence of some anterior state of being, a world known -before earth. - -The butler came back. - -‘My master will see you, sir.’ - -The stranger followed him out of the hall. Beatrix and Bella could hear -the footsteps travelling slowly along the passage to the library. - -‘Who can he be?’ exclaimed Miss Scratchell, full of curiosity. ‘Perhaps -he is a relation of your papa’s,’ she added, speculatively, Beatrix -having ignored her first remark. - -Beatrix remained silent. She was thinking of the miniature in her -mother’s room, the youthful likeness of the face she had seen to-night. -Who was this man? Her mother’s kinsman, perhaps? But why had his -presence brought sorrow and severance between husband and wife? Little -as she knew of the hard facts that made up the history of her mother’s -life, there was that in Beatrix’s memory which told her this man had -been the cause of evil. - -She roused herself with an effort, and went back to her room, followed -by Bella, who had broken out into fresh yawns on finding that the -advent of the stranger promised no relief to the dulness of the evening. - -‘Eight o’clock,’ she said, as the old clock in the hall announced that -fact, embellishing a plain truth with a little burst of old-fashioned -melody. ‘They are coming out of church by this time. I wonder whether -Mr. Culverhouse has preached one of his awakening sermons? I am sure -we should be the better for a little awakening, shouldn’t we, Beatrix? -I really wish you would talk a little, dear. You look as if you were -walking in your sleep.’ - -‘Do I?’ said Beatrix. ‘Here comes the tea-tray. Perhaps a cup of tea -may enliven us.’ - -‘Well, the urn is company at any rate,’ assented Bella, as the servant -set down the oblong silver tray, with its buff and gold Bristol cups -and saucers, and the massive old urn, dimly suggestive of sisterly -affection in the person of Electra, or needing only a napkin neatly -draped across it to recall the sculptured monuments of a modern -cemetery. - -‘Now, really,’ pursued Bella, while Beatrix was making tea, ‘have you -no idea who that foreign-looking gentleman is?’ - -‘Why should I trouble myself about him? He comes to see papa, not me.’ - -‘Yes, but one can’t help being curious so long as one is human. By the -time my inquisitiveness is worn out I shall be an angel. Your papa has -so few visitors; and this one has such a distinguished appearance. I -feel sure he is some one of importance.’ - -‘Very likely.’ - -‘My dear Beatrix, this lonely life of yours is making you dreadfully -stoical,’ remonstrated Bella. - -‘I should be glad to become stoical. This stranger’s visit cannot make -any difference to me. It will not make my father love me any better, or -feel more kindly disposed towards Cyril. It may make him a little worse -perhaps. It may stir up old bitterness.’ - -‘Why?’ cried Bella, eagerly, her bright blue eyes becoming -unbeauteously round in her excitement. - -‘Don’t talk to me about him any more, please, Bella. I do not know who -he is, or what he is, or whence or why he comes. He will go as he came, -no doubt, leaving no trace of his presence behind him.’ - -But here Beatrix was wrong. This was not to be. In the library the two -men were standing face to face--men who had not met for more than ten -years, who had parted in anger too deep for words. - -Christian Harefield contemplated his visitor calmly, or with that stony -quietude which is passion’s best assumption of calm. - -‘Has the end of the world come,’ he asked, ‘that you come to me?’ - -‘You are surprised that I should come?’ responded the Italian, in very -good English. - -‘I am surprised at two things--your folly and your audacity.’ - -‘I shall not praise my own wisdom. I have done a foolish thing, -perhaps, in coming to England on purpose to do you a service. But I -deny the audacity. There is no act in my past life that should forbid -my entrance to this house.’ - -‘We will not re-open old wounds,’ answered Christian Harefield. ‘You -are a villain; you acted like a villain. You are a coward; you acted -like a coward in flying from the man you had wronged, when he pursued -you in his just and righteous wrath.’ - -‘My career of the last ten years best answers your charge of -cowardice,’ replied the other. ‘My name will be remembered in Italy -with the five days of Milan. I never fled from you; I never knew that -you pursued me.’ - -‘I spent half a year of my life in hunting you. I would have given the -remnant of an unprofitable life then to have met you face to face in -your lawless country, as we are meeting to-night in this room. But now -the chance comes too late. I have outlived even the thirst for revenge.’ - -‘Again I tell you that I never wronged you, unless it was a wrong -against you to enter this house.’ - -‘It was, and you know it. You, my wife’s former lover--the only man she -ever loved--you to creep into my house, as the serpent crept into Eden, -under the guise of friendship and good-will, and poison my peace for -ever.’ - -‘It was your own groundless jealousy that made the poison. From first -to last your wife was the purest and noblest of women.’ - -‘From first to last!’ exclaimed Christian Harefield, with exceeding -bitterness. ‘First, when she introduced you, the lover of her youth, to -her husband’s house, last when she fled from that husband with you for -her companion. Assuredly the purest and noblest among women, judged by -your Italian ethics.’ - -‘With me!’ cried the Italian, ‘with me! Your wife fled with me! You say -that--say it in good faith.’ - -‘I say that which I know to be the truth. When she left me that night -at the inn on the mountain road above Borgo Pace, after a quarrel -that had been just a trifle more bitter than our customary quarrels, -you were waiting for her with a carriage a quarter of a mile from the -inn. You were seen there; she was seen to enter the carriage with you. -Tolerably direct evidence, I fancy. For my daughter’s sake--to save my -own pride and honour--I gave out that my wife had died suddenly at that -lonely inn in the Apennines. Her father was dead, her brother sunk in -the gulf of Parisian dissipation. There was no one interested in making -any inquiries as to the details of her death or burial. The fiction -passed unquestioned. For me it was a truth. She died to me in the hour -she abandoned and dishonoured me; and all trust in my fellow-men, all -love for my race, died within me at the same time.’ - -‘You are a man to be pitied,’ said Antonio, gravely. ‘You have borne -the burden of an imaginary dishonour. You have wronged your wife, you -have wronged me; but you have wronged yourself most of all. Did you get -no letter from the Convent of Santa Cecilia?’ - -‘What letter? No. I had no letter. I left the inn at daybreak -on the morning after my wife’s flight, followed on the track of -your carriage--traced you as far as Citta di Castello--there lost -you--caught the trail again at Perugia, followed you to Narni, and -there again missed you.’ - -‘And you believed that your wife was my companion in that journey?’ - -‘What else should I believe? It was the truth. I heard everywhere that -you were accompanied by a lady--a lady whose description answered to my -wife.’ - -‘Possibly. A tavern-keeper’s description is somewhat vague. The lady -was my sister, whom I was taking from the convent of the Sacred Heart -at Urbino, where she had been educated, to meet her betrothed in Rome, -where she was to be married. Your wife took refuge at the convent of -Santa Cecilia on the night she left you. My sister and I went there -with her--left her in the charge of the Reverend Mother, who promised -her an asylum there as long as she chose to remain. She was to write -to you immediately, explaining her conduct, and telling you that your -violence had compelled her to this course, and that she could only -return to you under certain conditions. I heard the Reverend Mother -promise that a messenger should be despatched to the inn with the -letter as soon as it was daylight.’ - -‘I was on the road at the first streak of dawn,’ exclaimed Mr. -Harefield. ‘I never had that letter. How do I know that it is not all -a lie? How do I know that you have not come here with a deep-laid -plot to cheat and cajole me? I have lived all these years believing -my wife false, accursed, abominable, a woman whose very existence was -a disgrace to me and to her child. And you come now with this fable -about a convent--a sudden flight from an intolerable life--ay, it -was bitter enough in those last days, I confess--a pure and spotless -life, cloistered, unknown. She is living still, I suppose--a professed -nun--hiding that calm face under the shadow of a sable hood?’ - -‘She died within a year of her entrance into the convent, died, as -she had lived, a guest, receiving protection and hospitality from the -sisterhood, among them but not one of them. As your wife the church -could not have received her. The nuns loved her for her gentleness, -her piety, and her sorrow. I have come from her grave. Till within the -last few months I have been a wanderer on the face of my country--every -thought of my brain, every desire of my heart given to the cause of -Italian independence. Only last week I found myself again a traveller -on the mountain road between Urbino and Perugia, and master of my time. -I went to visit the grave of her I had last seen a sorrowful fugitive -from a husband whose very love had been so mixed with bitterness that -it had resulted in mutual misery. The fact that you had never visited -the convent, or communicated in any way with the nuns during all these -years made me suspect some misunderstanding--and in justice to her whom -I loved when life was young and full of fair hopes--and whose memory -I love and honour now my hair is gray, I am here to tell you that -your wife died worthy of your regret, that it is you who have need of -pardon--not she.’ - -‘And I am to take your word for this?’ - -‘No, I knew too well your hatred and distrust to come to you without -some confirmation of my story. At my request, knowing all the -circumstances of the case, the Reverend Mother drew up a full account -of your wife’s reception at the convent, her last illness, and her -death, which came unexpectedly though she had long been ill. My chief -purpose in coming to England was to give you this paper.’ He laid a -large sealed envelope upon the table before Mr. Harefield. ‘Having done -this, my mission is ended. I have no more to say.’ - -The Italian bowed gravely, and left the room, Mr. Harefield -mechanically ringing the bell for the butler to show him out. - -The door closed upon the departing guest, and Christian Harefield stood -looking straight before him with fixed eyes--looking into empty air and -seeing--what? - -A pale pained face, white to the lips, framed in darkest hair, dark -eyes gazing at him with a strained agonized gaze--hands clasped in a -convulsion of grief and anger. - -He heard a voice half choked with sobs. - -‘Husband, you are too cruel--groundless accusations--vilest -suspicions--I will not, I cannot bear this persecution any longer. I -will leave you this very night.’ - -‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘your lover is waiting for you. It was his carriage -that passed us on the road--and _you_ know it.’ - -‘I do,’ she exclaimed with flashing eyes, ‘and I thank God that I have -a friend and defender so near.’ - -And then she left him, to go to her own room as he fancied. He took -her talk of flight as an empty threat. She had threatened him in this -same way more than once in her passion. Their quarrel to-night had been -a little more violent than usual. That was all. His jealousy had been -aroused by the sight of a face he hated, looking out of a travelling -carriage that whirled by them in a cloud of white dust on the sunny -mountain road. He had given free rein to his violence afterwards, when -they were alone at the inn--and had spoken words that no woman could -forgive or forget. - -Late that night he found her gone, and on inquiry discovered that -a carriage had been seen waiting not far from the inn, and a lady, -muffled in a mantle, had been seen to enter it. He heard this some -hours after the event. He had no clue to assist him in discovering the -way the carriage had taken, but he concluded that it had gone on to -Citta di Castello. He had no doubt as to the face he had seen looking -out of the window, athwart that blinding cloud of dust, as the bells -jingled on the ragged old harness, and the driver lashed his jaded -horses. - -The outer door of the Water House shut with a prolonged reverberation, -like the door of an empty church. Antonio was gone. Christian Harefield -sank down in his accustomed seat, and sat staring at the fire, with -hollow eyes, his arms hanging loosely across the oaken arms of the -chair, his long thin hands falling idly, his lips moving faintly, now -and then, but making no sound, as if repeating dumbly some conversation -of the past--the ghosts of words long dead. - -Those haggard eyes, which seemed to be staring at the red logs, were -indeed looking along the corridor of slow dull years to that one point -in the past when life was fresh and vivid, and all this earth flushed -with colour and alive with light. - -He was thinking of the evening when he first saw the girl who was -afterwards his wife. - -It was at a party in Florence--at the house of an Italian -Countess--literary--artistic--dilettante--a party at which the rooms -were crowded, and people went in and out and complained of the heat, -while large and splendid Italian matrons--with eyes that one would -hardly hope to see, save on the canvas of Guido, sat in indolent -grace on the broad crimson divans, languidly fanning themselves, and -murmuring soft scandals under cover of the music. There was much music -at the Countess Circignani’s, and that night a young novice--the -daughter of a Colonel in the Italian army--was led to the piano by -the fair hand of the Countess herself, who entreated silence for her -_protégée_. And then the sweet round voice arose, full of youth and -freshness, in a joyous melody of Rossini’s--an air as full of trills -and bright spontaneous cadences as a skylark’s song. - -He, Christian Harefield, the travelling Englishman, stood among the -crowd and watched the fair face of the singer. He was struck with -its beauty and sweetness; but his was not a nature prone to sudden -passions. This was to be no new instance of love kindled by a single -glance, swift as fire from a burning glass. Before the evening was -ended, Mr. Harefield had been presented to Colonel Murano, and by the -Colonel to the fair singer. The soldier was a patriot, burning for the -release of his country from the Austrian yoke--full of grand ideas -of unification, glorious hopes that pointed to Rome as the capital -of a united Italy. He found the Englishman interested in the Italian -question, if not enthusiastic. He was known to be rich, and therefore -worthy to be cultivated. Colonel Murano cultivated him assiduously, -gave him the entrance to his shabby but patriotic _salon_, where Mr. -Harefield listened courteously while patriots with long hair, and -patriots with short hair, discussed the future of Italy. - -The Colonel was a widower with a son and daughter--the girl newly -released from the convent of an educational order, where her musical -gifts had been cultivated to the uttermost--the son an incipient -profligate, without the means of gratifying his taste for low -pleasures. There was a nephew, a soldier and an enthusiast like his -uncle, who spent all his evenings in the Colonel’s _salon_, singing -with Beatrix Murano, or listening while she sang. - -From the hour in which he first loved Beatrix, Christian Harefield -hated this cousin, with the grave, dark face, sympathetic manners, and -exquisite tenor voice. In him the Englishman saw his only rival. - -Later, this young soldier, Antonio Murano, left Florence on military -duty. The coast was clear, Mr. Harefield offered himself to the Colonel -as a husband for his daughter--the Colonel responded warmly. He could -wish no happier alliance for his only girl. She was young--her heart -had never been touched. She could scarcely fail to reciprocate an -attachment which did her so much honour. - -‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Christian Harefield. ‘I have fancied -sometimes that there is something more than cousinly regard between the -Signora and Captain Murano.’ - -The Colonel laughed at the idea. The cousins had been brought up -together like brother and sister--both were enthusiasts in music -and love of country. There was sympathy--an ardent sympathy between -them--nothing more. - -Christian Harefield’s jealous temper was not to be satisfied so -easily. He kept his opinion; but passion was stronger than prudence, -and a week after he had made his offer to the father he proposed to -the daughter. She accepted him with a pretty submission that charmed -him--but which meant that she had learnt her lesson. She had been told -that to refuse this chance of fortune was to inflict a deliberate and -cruel injury upon those she loved--her father, for whom life had been -a hard-fought battle, unblest by a single victory--her brother, who -was on the threshold of life, and who needed to be put in the right -road by a friend as powerful as Christian Harefield. The girl accepted -her English suitor, loving that absent one fondly all the while, and -believing she was doing her duty. - -Then followed a union which might have been calm and peaceful, nay, -even happy, had fate and Christian Harefield willed it. His wife’s -health rendered a winter in England impossible. The doctors ordered -her southward as soon as autumn began. What more natural than that her -own wishes should point to her native city, the lovely and civilized -Florence? Her husband, at first doting, though always suspicious, -indulged this reasonable desire. At Florence they met the soldier -cousin. He and Mrs. Harefield’s father both belonged to the patriot -party. Both believed that the hour for casting off the Austrian yoke -was close at hand. Colonel Murano’s _salon_ was the rendezvous of all -the _Carbonari_ in the city. It was a political club. Mrs. Harefield -shared the enthusiasm of her father and her cousin, and even her -husband’s stern nature was moved to sympathy with a cause so noble. -Then, by a slow and gradual growth, jealousy took root in the husband’s -heart, and strangled every better feeling. He began to see in his -wife’s love for Florence a secret hankering after an old lover. He -set himself to watch, and the man who watches always sees something -to suspect. His own eyes create the monster. By and by, Antonio -Murano came to England on a secret mission to an exiled chief of the -patriot party, and naturally went northward to visit his cousin. He -was received with outward friendship but inward distrust. Then came -scenes of suppressed bitterness between husband and wife--a sleepless -watchfulness that imagined evil in every look and word, and saw -guilt in actions the most innocent. A life that was verily hell upon -earth. Later there followed positive accusations--the open charge of -infidelity; and, in the indignation kindled by groundless allegations, -Christian Harefield’s wife confessed that she had never loved him, that -she had sacrificed her own inclinations for the benefit of her family. -She confessed further that she had loved Antonio Murano; but declared -at the same time, with tears of mingled anger and shame, that no word -had ever been spoken by either of them since her marriage which her -husband could blame. - -‘You have seen him. He has been your chosen companion and friend,’ -cried Christian Harefield. ‘If you had meant to be true to me you would -never have seen his face after your marriage. Had you been honest -and loyal I would have forgiven you for not loving me. I will never -forgive you for deceiving me.’ - -From that hour there was no longer even the semblance of love between -them. On Mr. Harefield’s part there was an ill-concealed aversion -which extended even to his child. Finally came that last Italian -journey--necessitated by the wife’s fast failing health--and with that -journey the end. They went this time not to Florence, Mrs. Harefield’s -beloved home, but to Venice, where she was a stranger. From Venice -they were to go to Rome for the winter, and it was while they were -travelling towards Rome that the catastrophe came. Christian Harefield -believed that his wife had left him with her cousin--that the whole -thing had been deliberately planned between them, Captain Murano -following them southward from Venice. - -This was the bitter past upon which Christian Harefield looked back as -he sat before his solitary hearth that wintry night. The story of his -wedded life passed before him like a series of pictures. He might have -made it better, perhaps, if he had been wiser, he told himself; but -he could not have made his wife love him, and he had loved her too -passionately to be satisfied with less than her love. They were doomed -to be miserable. - -It was long before he read the Reverend Mother’s statement. The clock -had struck more than once. His servant had come in for the last time, -bringing a fresh supply of wood. The doors had been locked and barred. -The household had gone to bed. It was the dead of night before Mr. -Harefield aroused himself from that long reverie, and opened the sealed -paper which was to confirm Antonio Murano’s story. - -He read it slowly and thoughtfully, and believed it. What motive could -any one have for deceiving him, now, after all these years, when the -griefs and passions of the past were dead things--like a handful of -gray dust in a funeral urn? - -He rose and paced the room for a long time, deep in thought, holding -the Superior’s letter in his hand. Then, as if moved by a sudden -resolution, he seated himself at his table, and began to write a -letter. It was brief--but he was long in writing it, and when it was -done he sat for some time with the letter lying before him--and -his eyes fixed--as if his mind had gone astray into deep thickets -and jungles of conflicting thought. Then, as if again influenced by -a sudden determination, he folded his letter and put it, with the -Reverend Mother’s statement, into a large envelope. - -This he addressed curiously, thus:-- - - ‘For my daughter Beatrix.’ - -Then, leaving this letter on the table, he lighted a candle and went -upstairs to the long passage out of which his wife’s rooms opened. He -unlocked the door of her sitting-room and went in. - - -END OF VOL. I. - - -J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON. - - - - -Corrections - -Pages 15-16, which were misplaced in the original, have been restored. -The first line indicates the original, the second the correction. - -p. 163 - - Let the bitter experience of my live govern yours. - Let the bitter experience of my life govern yours. - -p. 215 - - in spite of all those hints and inuendoes - in spite of all those hints and innuendos - -p. 227 - - Mrs. Dulcimer eat her early dinner alone, - Mrs. Dulcimer ate her early dinner alone, - -p. 245 - - parish doctor of Little Yafford, was agreeable surprised - parish doctor of Little Yafford, was agreeably surprised - -p. 248 - - Have your been over exerting yourself lately? - Have you been over exerting yourself lately? - - ‘She been riding and driving far too much - ‘She’s been riding and driving far too much - -p. 250 - - lately she has been particular busy - lately she has been particularly busy - -p. 254 - - have her own way in all the minor detals of life - have her own way in all the minor details of life - -p. 262 - - She like dresses and bonnets. - She likes dresses and bonnets. - -p. 307 - - in having taken the librety to be born. - in having taken the liberty to be born. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OPEN VERDICT, VOLUME 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. 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