The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trial, by Charlotte M. Yonge

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Title: The Trial
       or, More Links of the Daisy Chain

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge

Posting Date: July 19, 2009 [EBook #3744]
Release Date: February, 2003
First Posted: August 15, 2001

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIAL ***




Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE TRIAL

or

MORE LINKS OF THE DAISY CHAIN


by

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE




CHAPTER I

Quand on veut dessecher un marais, on ne fait pas voter les
grenouilles.--Mme. EMILE. DE GIRADIN


'Richard?  That's right!  Here's a tea-cup waiting for you,' as the
almost thirty-year-old Incumbent of Cocksmoor, still looking like a
young deacon, entered the room with his quiet step, and silent greeting
to its four inmates.

'Thank you, Ethel.  Is papa gone out?'

'I have not seen him since dinner-time.  You said he was gone out with
Dr. Spencer, Aubrey?'

'Yes, I heard Dr. Spencer's voice--"I say, Dick"--like three notes of
consternation,' said Aubrey; 'and off they went.  I fancy there's some
illness about in the Lower Pond Buildings, that Dr. Spencer has been
raging so long to get drained.'

'The knell has been ringing for a little child there,' added Mary;
'scarlatina, I believe--'

'But, Richard,' burst forth the merry voice of the youngest, 'you must
see our letters from Edinburgh.'

'You have heard, then?  It was the very thing I came to ask.'

'Oh yes! there were five notes in one cover,' said Gertrude.  'Papa
says they are to be laid up in the family archives, and labelled "The
Infants' Honeymoon."'

'Papa is very happy with his own share,' said Ethel.  'It was signed,
"Still his own White Flower," and it had two Calton Hill real daisies
in it.   I don't know when I have seen him more pleased.'

'And Hector's letter--I can say that by heart,' continued Gertrude.
'"My dear Father, This is only to say that she is the darlint, and for
the pleasure of subscribing myself--Your loving SON,"--the son as big
as all the rest put together.'

'I tell Blanche that he only took her for the pleasure of being my
father's son,' said Aubrey, in his low lazy voice.

'Well,' said Mary, 'even to the last, I do believe he had as soon drive
papa out as walk with Blanche.  Flora was quite scandalized at it.'

'I should not imagine that George had often driven my father out,' said
Aubrey, again looking lazily up from balancing his spoon.

Ethel laughed; and even Richard smiled; then recovering herself, she
said, 'Poor Hector, he never could call himself son to any one before.'

'He has not been much otherwise here,' said Richard.

'No,' said Ethel; 'it is the peculiar hardship of our weddings to break
us up by pairs, and carry off two instead of one.  Did you ever see me
with so shabby a row of tea-cups?  When shall I have them come in
riding double again?'

The recent wedding was the third in the family; the first after a five
years' respite.  It ensued upon an attachment that had grown up with
the young people, so that they had been entirely one with each other;
and there had been little of formal demand either of the maiden's
affection or her father's consent; but both had been implied from the
first.  The bridegroom was barely of age, the bride not seventeen, and
Dr. May had owned it was very shocking, and told Richard to say nothing
about it!  Hector had coaxed and pleaded, pathetically talked of his
great empty house at Maplewood, and declared that till he might take
Blanche away, he would not leave Stoneborough; he would bring down all
sorts of gossip on his courtship, he would worry Ethel, and take care
she finished nobody's education.  What did Blanche want with more
education?  She knew enough for him.  Couldn't Ethel be satisfied with
Aubrey and Gertrude? or he dared say she might have Mary too, if she
was insatiable.  If Dr. May was so unnatural as to forbid him to hang
about the house, why, he would take rooms at the Swan.  In fact, as Dr.
May observed, he treated him to a modern red-haired Scotch version of
'Make me a willow cabin at your gate;' and as he heartily loved Hector
and entirely trusted him, and Blanche's pretty head was a wise and
prudent one, what was the use of keeping the poor lad unsettled?

So Mrs. Rivers, the eldest sister and the member's wife, had come to
arrange matters and help Ethel, and a very brilliant wedding it had
been.  Blanche was too entirely at home with Hector for flutterings or
agitations, and was too peacefully happy for grief at the separation,
which completed the destiny that she had always seen before her.  She
was a picture of a bride; and when she and Hector hung round the
Doctor, insisting that Edinburgh should be the first place they should
visit, and calling forth minute directions for their pilgrimage to the
scenes of his youth, promising to come home and tell him all, no wonder
he felt himself rather gaining a child than losing one.  He was very
bright and happy; and no one but Ethel understood how all the time
there was a sensation that the present was but a strange dreamy parody
of that marriage which had been the theme of earlier hopes.

The wedding had taken place shortly after Easter; and immediately
after, the Rivers family had departed for London, and Tom May had
returned to Cambridge, leaving the home party at the minimum of four,
since, Cocksmoor Parsonage being complete, Richard had become only a
daily visitor instead of a constant inhabitant.

There he sat, occupying his never idle hands with a net that he kept
for such moments, whilst Ethel sat behind her urn, now giving out its
last sighs, profiting by the leisure to read the county newspaper,
while she continually filled up her cup with tea or milk as occasion
served, indifferent to the increasing pallor of the liquid.

Mary, a 'fine young woman,' as George Rivers called her, of blooming
face and sweet open expression, had begun, at Gertrude's entreaty, a
game of French billiards.  Gertrude had still her childish sunny face
and bright hair, and even at the trying age of twelve was pleasing,
chiefly owing to the caressing freedom of manner belonging to an
unspoilable pet.  Her request to Aubrey to join the sport had been
answered with a half petulant shake of the head, and he flung himself
into his father's chair, his long legs hanging over one arm--an
attitude that those who had ever been under Mrs. May's discipline
thought impossible in the drawing-room; but Aubrey was a rival pet, and
with the family characteristics of aquiline features, dark gray eyes,
and beautiful teeth, had an air of fragility and easy languor that
showed his exercise of the immunities of ill-health.  He had been
Ethel's pupil till Tom's last year at Eton, when he was sent thither,
and had taken a good place; but his brother's vigilant and tender care
could not save him from an attack on the chest, that settled his
public-school education for ever, to his severe mortification, just
when Tom's shower of honours was displaying to him the sweets of
emulation and success.  Ethel regained her pupil, and put forth her
utmost powers for his benefit, causing Tom to examine him at each
vacation, with adjurations to let her know the instant he discovered
that her task of tuition was getting beyond her.  In truth, Tom
fraternally held her cheap, and would have enjoyed a triumph over her
scholarship; but to this he had not attained, and in spite of his
desire to keep his brother in a salutary state of humiliation, candour
wrung from him the admission that, even in verses, Aubrey did as well
as other fellows of his standing.

Conceit was not Aubrey's fault.  His father was more guarded than in
the case of his elder sons, and the home atmosphere was not such as to
give the boy a sense of superiority, especially when diligently kept
down by his brother.  Even the half year at Eton had not produced
superciliousness, though it had given Eton polish to the home-bred
manners; it had made sisters valuable, and awakened a desire for
masculine companionship.  He did not rebel against his sister's rule;
she was nearly a mother to him, and had always been the most active
president of his studies and pursuits; and he was perfectly obedient
and dutiful to her, only asserting his equality, in imitation of Harry
and Tom, by a little of the good-humoured raillery and teasing that
treated Ethel as the family butt, while she was really the family
authority.

'All gone, Ethel,' he said, with a lazy smile, as Ethel mechanically,
with her eyes on the newspaper, tried all her vessels round, and found
cream-jug, milk-jug, tea-pot, and urn exhausted; 'will you have in the
river next?'

'What a shame!' said Ethel, awakening and laughing.  'Those are the
tea-maker's snares.'

'Do send it away then,' said Aubrey, 'the urn oppresses the atmosphere.'

'Very well, I'll make a fresh brew when papa comes home, and perhaps
you'll have some then.  You did not half finish to-night.'

Aubrey yawned; and after some speculation about their father's absence,
Gertrude went to bed; and Aubrey, calling himself tired, stood up,
stretched every limb portentously, and said he should go off too.
Ethel looked at him anxiously, felt his hand, and asked if he were sure
he had not a cold coming on.  'You are always thinking of colds,' was
all the satisfaction she received.

'What has he been doing?' said Richard.

'That is what I was thinking.  He was about all yesterday afternoon
with Leonard Ward, and perhaps may have done something imprudent in the
damp.  I never know what to do.  I can't bear him to be a coddle; yet
he is always catching cold if I let him alone.  The question is,
whether it is worse for him to run risks, or to be thinking of himself.'

'He need not be doing that,' said Richard; 'he may be thinking of your
wishes and papa's.'

'Very pretty of him and you, Ritchie; but he is not three parts of a
boy or man who thinks of his womankind's wishes when there is anything
spirited before him.'

'Well, I suppose one may do one's duty without being three parts of a
boy,' said Richard, gravely.

'I know it is true that some of the most saintly characters have been
the more spiritual because their animal frame was less vigorous; but
still it does not content me.'

'No, the higher the power, the better, of course, should the service
be.  I was only putting you in mind that there is compensation.  But I
must be off.  I am sorry I cannot wait for papa.  Let me know what is
the matter to-morrow, and how Aubrey is.'

Richard went; and the sisters took up their employments--Ethel writing
to the New Zealand sister-in-law her history of the wedding, Mary
copying parts of a New Zealand letter for her brother, the lieutenant
in command of a gun-boat on the Chinese coast.  Those letters, whether
from Norman May or his wife, were very delightful, they were so full of
a cheerful tone of trustful exertion and resolution, though there had
been perhaps more than the natural amount of disappointments.  Norman's
powers were not thought of the description calculated for regular
mission work, and some of the chief aspirations of the young couple had
had to be relinquished at the voice of authority without a trial.  They
had received the charge of persons as much in need of them as
unreclaimed savages, but to whom there was less apparent glory in
ministering.  A widespread district of very colonial colonists, and the
charge of a college for their uncultivated sons, was quite as
troublesome as the most ardent self-devotion could desire; and the
hardships and disagreeables, though severe, made no figure in
history--nay, it required ingenuity to gather their existence from
Meta's bright letters, although, from Mrs. Arnott's accounts, it was
clear that the wife took a quadruple share.  Mrs. Rivers had been heard
to say that Norman need not have gone so far, and sacrificed so much,
to obtain an under-bred English congregation; and even the Doctor had
sighed once or twice at having relinquished his favourite son to what
was dull and distasteful; but Ethel could trust that this unmurmuring
acceptance of the less striking career, might be another step in the
discipline of her brother's ardent and ambitious nature.  It is a great
thing to sacrifice, but a greater to consent not to sacrifice in one's
own way.

Ethel sat up for her father, and Mary would not go to bed and leave
her, so the two sisters waited till they heard the latch-key.  Ethel
ran out, but her father was already on the stairs, and waved her back.

'Here is some tea.  Are you not coming, papa?--it is all here.'

'Thank you, I'll just go and take off this coat;' and he passed on to
his room.

'I don't like that,' said Ethel, returning to the drawing-room, where
Mary was boiling up the kettle, and kneeling down to make some toast.

'Why, what's the matter?'

'I have never known him go and change his coat but when some infectious
thing has been about.  Besides, he did not wait to let me help him off
with it.'

In a few seconds the Doctor came down in his dressing-gown, and let
himself be put into his easy-chair; his two daughters waiting on him
with fond assiduity, their eyes questioning his fagged weary face, but
reading there fatigue and concern that made them--rather
awe-struck--bide their time till it should suit him to speak.  Mary was
afraid he would wait till she was gone; dear old Mary, who at
twenty-two never dreamt of regarding herself as on the same footing
with her three years' senior, and had her toast been browner, would
have relieved them of her presence at once.  However, her father spoke
after his first long draught of tea.

'Well!  How true it is that judgments are upon us while we are marrying
and giving in marriage!'

'What is it, papa?  Not the scarlatina?'

'Scarlatina, indeed!' he said contemptuously.  'Scarlet fever in the
most aggravated form.  Two deaths in one house, and I am much mistaken
if there will not be another before morning.'

'Who, papa?' asked Mary.

'Those wretched Martins, in Lower Pond Buildings, are the worst.  No
wonder, living in voluntary filth; but it is all over the street--will
be all over the town unless there's some special mercy on the place.'

'But how has it grown so bad,' said Ethel, 'without our having even
heard of it!'

'Why--partly I take shame to myself--this business of Hector and
Blanche kept Spencer and me away last dispensary day; and partly it was
that young coxcomb, Henry Ward, thought it not worth while to trouble
me about a simple epidemic.  Simple epidemic indeed!' repeated Dr. May,
changing his tone from ironical mimicry to hot indignation.  'I hope he
will be gratified with its simplicity!  I wonder how long he would have
gone on if it had not laid hold on him.'

'You don't mean that he has it?'

'I do.  It will give him a practical lesson in simple epidemics.'

'And Henry Ward has it!' repeated Mary, looking so much dismayed that
her father laughed, saying--

'What, Mary thinks when it comes to fevers being so audacious as to lay
hold of the doctors, it is time that they should be put a stop to.'

'He seems to have petted it and made much of it,' said Ethel; 'so no
wonder!  What could have possessed him?'

'Just this, Ethel; and it is only human nature after all.  This young
lad comes down, as Master Tom will do some day, full of his lectures
and his hospitals, and is nettled and displeased to find his father
content to have Spencer or me called in the instant anything serious is
the matter.'

'But you are a physician, papa,' said Mary.

'No matter for that, to Mr. Henry I'm an old fogie, and depend upon it,
if it were only the giving a dose of salts, he would like to have the
case to himself.  These poor creatures were parish patients, and I
don't mean that his treatment was amiss.  Spencer is right, it was an
atmosphere where there was no saving anyone, but if he had not been so
delighted with his own way, and I had known what was going on, I'd have
got the Guardians and the Town Council and routed out the place.
Seventeen cases, and most of them the worst form!'

'But what was Mr. Ward about?

        '"Says I to myself, here's a lesson for me;
          This man's but a picture of what I shall be,"

'when Master Tom gets the upper hand of me,' returned Dr. May.  'Poor
Ward, who has run to me in all his difficulties these thirty years,
didn't like it at all; but Mr. Henry was so confident with his simple
epidemic, and had got him in such order, that he durst not speak.'

'And what brought it to light at last?'

'Everything at once.  First the clerics go to see about the family
where the infant died, and report to Spencer; he comes after me, and we
start to reconnoitre.  Then I am called in to see Shearman's
daughter--a very ugly case that--and coming out I meet poor Ward
himself, wanting me to see Henry, and there's the other boy sickening
too.  Then I went down and saw all those cases in the Lower Ponds, and
have been running about the town ever since to try what can be done,
hunting up nurses, whom I can't get, stirring dishes of skim milk,
trying to get the funerals over to-morrow morning by daybreak. I
declare I have hardly a leg to stand on.'

'Where was Dr. Spencer?'

'I've nearly quarrelled with Spencer.  Oh! he is in high feather! he
will have it that the fever rose up bodily, like Kuhleborn, out of that
unhappy drain he is always worrying about, when it is a regular case of
scarlet fever, brought in by a girl at home from service; but he will
have it that his theory is proved.  Then I meant him to keep clear of
it.  He has always been liable to malaria and all that sort of thing,
and has not strength for an illness.  I told him to mind the ordinary
practice for me; and what do I find him doing the next thing, but
operating upon one of the worst throats he could find!  I told him he
was as bad as young Ward; I hate his irregular practice. I'll tell you
what,' he said, vindictively, as if gratified to have what must obey
him, 'you shall all go off to Cocksmoor to-morrow morning at seven
o'clock.'

'You forget that we two have had it,' said Mary.

'Which of you?'

'All down to Blanche.'

'Never mind for that.  I shall have enough to do without a sick house
at home.  You can perform quarantine with Richard, and then go to
Flora, if she will have you.  Well, what are you dawdling about?  Go
and pack up.'

'Papa,' said Ethel, who had been abstracted through all the latter part
of the conversation, 'if you please, we had better not settle my going
till to-morrow morning.'

'Come, Ethel, you have too much sense for panics.  Don't take nonsense
into your head.  The children can't have been in the way of it.'

'Stay, papa,' said Ethel, her serious face arresting the momentary
impatience of fatigue and anxiety, 'I am afraid Aubrey was a good while
choosing fishing-tackle at Shearman's yesterday with Leonard Ward; and
it may be nothing, but he did seem heavy and out of order to-night; I
wish you would look at him as you go up.'

Dr. May stood still for a few moments, then gave one long gasp, made a
few inquiries, and went up to Aubrey's room.  The boy was fast asleep;
but there was that about him which softened the weary sharpness of his
father's manner, and caused him to desire Ethel to look from the window
whence she could see whether the lights were out in Dr. Spencer's
house.  Yes, they were.

'Never mind.  It will make no real odds, and he has had enough on his
hands to-day.  The boy will sleep quietly enough to-night, so let us
all go to bed.'

'I think I can get a mattress into his room without waking him, if you
will help me, Mary,' said Ethel.

'Nonsense,' said her father, decidedly.  'Mary is not to go near him
before she takes Gertrude to Cocksmoor; and you, go to your own bed and
get a night's rest while you can.'

'You won't stay up, papa.'

'I--why, it is all I can do not to fall asleep on my feet.  Good night,
children.'

'He does not trust himself to think or to fear,' said Ethel.  'Too much
depends on him to let himself be unstrung.'

'But, Ethel, you will not leave, dear Aubrey.'

'I shall keep his door open and mine; but papa is right, and it will
not do to waste one's strength.  In case I should not see you before
you go--'

'Oh, but, Ethel, I shall come back!  Don't, pray don't tell me to stay
away.  Richard will have to keep away for Daisy's sake, and you can't
do all alone--nurse Aubrey and attend to papa.  Say that I may come
back.'

Well, Mary, I think you might,' said Ethel, after a moment's thought.
'If it were only Aubrey, I could manage for him; but I am more anxious
about papa.'

'You don't think he is going to have it?'

'Oh no, no,' said Ethel, 'he is what he calls himself, a seasoned
vessel; but he will be terribly overworked, and unhappy, and he must
not come home and find no one to talk to or to look cheerful.  So,
Mary, unless he gives any fresh orders, or Richard thinks it will only
make things worse, I shall be very glad of you.'

Mary had never clung to her so gratefully, nor felt so much honoured.
'Do you think he will have it badly?' she asked timidly.

'I don't think at all about it,' said Ethel, something in her father's
manner.  'If we are to get through all this, Mary, it must not be by
riding out on perhapses.  Now let us put Daisy's things together, for
she must have as little communication with home as possible.'

Ethel silently and rapidly moved about, dreading to give an interval
for tremblings of heart.  Five years of family prosperity had passed,
and there had been that insensible feeling of peace and immunity from
care which is strange to look back upon when one hour has drifted from
smooth water to turbid currents.  There was a sort of awe in seeing the
mysterious gates of sorrow again unclosed; yet, darling of her own as
Aubrey was, Ethel's first thoughts and fears were primarily for her
father.  Grief and alarm seemed chiefly to touch her through him, and
she found herself praying above all that he might be shielded from
suffering, and might be spared a renewal of the pangs that had before
wrung his heart.

By early morning every one was astir; and Gertrude, bewildered and
distressed, yet rather enjoying the fun of staying with Richard, was
walking off with Mary.

Soon after, Dr. Spencer was standing by the bedside of his old patient,
Aubrey, who had been always left to his management.

'Ah, I see,' he said, with a certain tone of satisfaction, 'for once
there will be a case properly treated.  Now, Ethel, you and I will show
what intelligent nursing can do.'

'I believe you are delighted,' growled Aubrey.

'So should you be, at the valuable precedent you will afford.'

'I've no notion of being experimented on to prove your theory,' said
Aubrey, still ready for lazy mischief.

For be it known that the roving-tempered Dr. Spencer had been on fire
to volunteer to the Crimean hospitals, and had unwillingly sacrificed
the project, not to Dr. May's conviction that it would be fatal in his
present state of health, but to Ethel's private entreaty that he would
not add to her father's distress in the freshness of Margaret's death,
and the parting with Norman.  He had never ceased to mourn over the
lost opportunity, and to cast up to his friend the discoveries he might
have made; while Dr. May declared that if by any strange chance he had
come back at all, he would have been so rabid on improved nursing and
sanatory measures, that there would have been no living with him.

It must be owned that Dr. May was not very sensible to what his friend
called Stoneborough stinks.  The place was fairly healthy, and his
'town councillor's conservatism,' and hatred of change, as well as the
amusement of skirmishing, had always made him the champion of things as
they were; and in the present emergency the battle whether the enemy
had travelled by infection, or was the product of the Pond Buildings'
miasma, was the favourite enlivenment of the disagreeing doctors, in
their brief intervals of repose in the stern conflict which they were
waging with the fever--a conflict in which they had soon to strive by
themselves, for the disease not only seized on young Ward, but on his
father; and till medical assistance was sent from London, they had the
whole town on their hands, and for nearly a week lived without a
night's rest.

The care of the sick was a still greater difficulty.  Though Aubrey was
never in danger, and Dr. Spencer's promise of the effects of
'intelligent nursing' was fully realized, Ethel and Mary were so
occupied by him, that it was a fearful thing to guess how it must fare
with those households where the greater number were laid low, and in
want of all the comforts that could do little.

The clergy worked to the utmost; and a letter of Mr. Wilmot's obtained
the assistance of two ladies from a nursing sisterhood, who not only
worked incredible wonders with their own hands among the poor, but made
efficient nurses of rough girls and stupid old women. Dr. May, who had
at first, in his distrust of innovation, been averse to the
importation--as likely to have no effect but putting nonsense into
girls' heads, and worrying the sick poor--was so entirely conquered,
that he took off his hat to them across the street, importuned them to
drink tea with his daughters, and never came home without dilating on
their merits for the few minutes that intervened between his satisfying
himself about Aubrey and dropping asleep in his chair.  The only
counter demonstration he reserved to himself was that he always called
them 'Miss What-d'ye-call-her,' and 'Those gems of women,' instead of
Sister Katherine and Sister Frances.




CHAPTER II

Good words are silver, but good deeds are gold.--Cecil and Mary


'It has been a very good day, papa; he has enjoyed all his meals,
indeed was quite ravenous.  He is asleep now, and looks as comfortable
as possible,' said Ethel, five weeks after Aubrey's illness had begun.

'Thank God for that, and all His mercy to us, Ethel;' and the long
sigh, the kiss, and dewy eyes, would have told her that there had been
more to exhaust him than his twelve hours' toil, even had she not
partly known what weighed him down.

'Poor things!' she said.

'Both gone, Ethel, both! both!' and as he entered the drawing-room, he
threw himself back in his chair, and gasped with the long-restrained
feeling.

'Both!' she exclaimed.  'You don't mean that Leonard--'

'No, Ethel, his mother!  Poor children, poor children!'

'Mrs. Ward!  I thought she had only been taken ill yesterday evening.'

'She only then gave way--but she never had any constitution--she was
done up with nursing--nothing to fall back on--sudden collapse and
prostration--and that poor girl, called every way at once, fancied her
asleep, and took no alarm till I came in this morning and found her
pulse all but gone.  We have been pouring down stimulants all day, but
there was no rousing her, and she was gone the first.'

'And Mr. Ward--did he know it?'

'I thought so from the way he looked at me; but speech had long been
lost, and that throat was dreadful suffering.  Well, "In their death
they were not divided."'

He shaded his eyes with his hand; and Ethel, leaning against his chair,
could not hinder herself from a shudder at the longing those words
seemed to convey.  He felt her movement, and put his arm round her,
saying, 'No, Ethel, do not think I envy them.  I might have done so
once--I had not then learnt the meaning of the discipline of being
without her--no, nor what you could do for me, my child, my children.'

Ethel's thrill of bliss was so intense, that it gave her a sense of
selfishness in indulging personal joy at such a moment; and indeed it
was true that her father had over-lived the first pangs of change and
separation, had formed new and congenial habits, saw the future hope
before him; and since poor Margaret had been at rest, had been without
present anxiety, or the sight of decay and disappointment. Her only
answer was a mute smoothing of his bowed shoulders, as she said, 'If I
could be of any use or comfort to poor Averil Ward, I could go
to-night.  Mary is enough for Aubrey.'

'Not now, my dear.  She can't stir from the boy, they are giving him
champagne every ten minutes; she has the nurse, and Spencer is
backwards and forwards; I think they will pull him through, but it is a
near, a very near touch.  Good, patient, unselfish boy he is too.'

'He always was a very nice boy,' said Ethel; 'I do hope he will get
well.  It would be a terrible grief to Aubrey.'

'Yes, I got Leonard to open his lips to-day by telling him that Aubrey
had sent him the grapes.  I think he will get through.  I hope he will.
He is a good friend for Aubrey.  So touching it was this morning to
hear him trying to ask pardon for all his faults, poor fellow--fits of
temper, and the like.'

'That is his fault, I believe,' said Ethel, 'and I always think it a
wholesome one, because it is so visible and unjustifiable, that people
strive against it.  And the rest?  Was Henry able to see his father or
mother?'

'No, he can scarcely sit up in bed.  It was piteous to see him lying
with his door open, listening.  He is full of warm sound feeling, poor
fellow.  You would like to have heard the fervour with which he begged
me to tell his father to have no fears for the younger ones, for it
should be the most precious task of his life to do a parent's part by
them.'

'Let me see, he is just of Harry's age,' said Ethel, thoughtfully, as
if she had not the strongest faith in Harry's power of supplying a
parent's place.

'Well,' said her father, 'remember, a medical student is an older man
than a lieutenant in the navy.  One sees as much of the interior as the
other does of the surface.  We must take this young Ward by the hand,
and mind he does not lose his father's practice.  Burdon, that young
prig that Spencer got down from London, met me at Gavin's, when I
looked in there on my way home, and came the length of Minster Street
with me, asking what I thought of an opening for a medical
man--partnership with young Ward, &c.  I snubbed him so short, that I
fancy I left him thinking whether his nose was on or off his face.'

'He was rather premature.'

'I've settled him any way.  I shall do my best to keep the town clear
for that lad; there's not much more for him, as things are now, and it
will be only looking close after him for a few years, which Spencer and
I can very well manage.'

'If he will let you.'

'There! that's the spitefulness of women!  Must you be casting up that
little natural spirit of independence against him after the lesson he
has had?  I tell you, he has been promising me to look on me as a
father!  Poor old Ward! he was a good friend and fellow-worker.  I owe
a great deal to him.'

Ethel wondered if he forgot how much of the unserviceableness of his
maimed arm had once been attributed to Mr. Ward's dulness, or how many
times he had come home boiling with annoyance at having been called in
too late to remedy the respectable apothecary's half measures.  She
believed that the son had been much better educated than the father,
and after the fearful lesson he had received, thought he might realize
Dr. May's hopes, and appreciate his kindness.  They discussed the
relations.

'Ward came as assistant to old Axworthy, and married his daughter; he
had no relations that his son knows of, except the old aunt who left
Averil her �2000.'

'There are some Axworthys still,' said Ethel, 'but not very creditable
people.'

'You may say that,' said Dr. May emphatically.  'There was a scapegrace
brother that ran away, and was heard of no more till he turned up, a
wealthy man, ten or fifteen years ago, and bought what they call the
Vintry Mill, some way on this side of Whitford.  He has a business on a
large scale; but Ward had as little intercourse with him as possible.
A terrible old heathen.'

'And the boy that was expelled for bullying Tom is in the business.'

'I hate the thought of that,' said the Doctor.  'If he had stayed on,
who knows but he might have turned out as well as Ned Anderson.'

'Has not he?'

'I'm sure I have no right to say he has not, but he is a flashy slang
style of youth, and I hope the young Wards will keep out of his way.'

'What will become of them?  Is there likely to be any provision for
them?'

'Not much, I should guess.  Poor Ward did as we are all tempted to do
when money goes through our hands, and spent more freely than I was
ever allowed to do.  Costly house, garden, greenhouses--he'd better
have stuck to old Axworthy's place in Minster Street--daughter at that
grand school, where she cost more than the whole half-dozen of you put
together.'

'She was more worth it,' said Ethel; 'her music and drawing are
first-rate.  Harry was frantic about her singing last time he was at
home--one evening when Mrs. Anderson abused his good-nature and got him
to a tea-party--I began to be afraid of the consequences.'

'Pish!' said the Doctor.

'And really they kept her there to enable her to educate her sisters,'
said Ethel.  'The last time I called on poor Mrs. Ward, she told me all
about it, apologizing in the pretty way mothers do, saying she was
looking forward to Averil's coming home, but that while she profited so
much, they felt it due to her to give her every advantage; and did not
I think--with my experience--that it was all so much for the little
ones' benefit?  I assured her, from my personal experience, that
ignorance is a terrible thing in governessing one's sisters.  Poor
thing!  And Averil had only come home this very Easter.'

'And with everything to learn, in such a scene as that!  The first day,
when only the boys were ill, there sat the girl, dabbling with her
water-colours, and her petticoats reaching half across the room,
looking like a milliner's doll, and neither she nor her poor mother
dreaming of her doing a useful matter.'

'Who is spiteful now, papa?  That's all envy at not having such an
accomplished daughter.  When she came out in time of need so grandly,
and showed all a woman's instinct--'

'Woman's nonsense!  Instinct is for irrational brutes, and the more you
cultivate a woman, the less she has of it, unless you work up her
practical common sense too.'

'Some one said she made a wonderful nurse.'

'Wonderful?  Perhaps so, considering her opportunities, and she does
better with Spencer than with me; I may have called her to order
impatiently, for she is nervous with me, loses her head, and knocks
everything down with her petticoats.  Then--not a word to any one,
Ethel--but imagine her perfect blindness to her poor mother's state all
yesterday, and last night, not even calling Burdon to look at her; why,
those ten hours may have made all the difference!'

'Poor thing, how is she getting on now?'

'Concentrated upon Leonard, too much stunned to admit another idea--no
tears--hardly full comprehension.  One can't take her away, and she
can't bear not to do everything, and yet one can't trust her any more
than a child.'

'As she is,' said Ethel, 'but as she won't be any longer.  And the two
little ones?'

'It breaks one's heart to see them, just able to sit by their nursery
fire, murmuring in that weary, resigned, sick child's voice, 'I wish
nurse would come.'  'I wish sister would come.'  'I wish mamma would
come.'  I went up to them the last thing, and told them how it was, and
let them cry themselves to sleep.  That was the worst business of all.
Ethel, are they too big for Mary to dress some dolls for them?'

'I will try to find out their tastes the first thing to-morrow,' said
Ethel; 'at any rate we can help them, if not poor Averil.'

Ethel, however, was detained at home to await Dr. Spencer's visit, and
Mary, whose dreams had all night been haunted by the thought of the two
little nursery prisoners, entreated to go with her father, and see what
could be done for them.

Off they set together, Mary with a basket in her hand, which was
replenished at the toy-shop in Minster Street with two china-faced
dolls, and, a little farther on, parted with a couple of rolls,
interspersed with strata of cold beef and butter, to a household of
convalescents in the stage for kitchen physic.

Passing the school, still taking its enforced holiday, the father and
daughter traversed the bridge and entered the growing suburb known as
Bankside, where wretched cottages belonging to needy, grasping
proprietors, formed an uncomfortable contrast to the villa residences
interspersed among them.

One of these, with a well-kept lawn, daintily adorned with the newest
pines and ornamental shrubs, and with sheets of glass glaring in the
sun from the gardens at the back, was the house that poor Mr. and Mrs.
Ward had bought and beautified; 'because it was so much better for the
children to be out of the town.'  The tears sprang into Mary's eyes at
the veiled windows, and the unfeeling contrast of the spring glow of
flowering thorn, lilac, laburnum, and, above all, the hard, flashing
brightness of the glass; but tears were so unlike Ethel that Mary
always was ashamed of them, and disposed of them quietly.

They rang, but in vain.  Two of the servants were ill, and all in
confusion; and after waiting a few moments among the azaleas in the
glass porch, Dr. May admitted himself, and led the way up-stairs with
silent footfalls, Mary following with breath held back.  A voice from
an open door called, 'Is that Dr. May?' and he paused to look in and
say, 'I'll be with you in one minute, Henry; how is Leonard?'

'No worse, they tell me; I say, Dr. May--'

'One moment;' and turning back to Mary, he pointed along a dark
passage.  'Up there, first door to the right.  You can't mistake;' then
disappeared, drawing the door after him.

Much discomfited, Mary nevertheless plunged bravely on, concluding
'there' to be up a narrow, uncarpeted stair, with a nursery wicket at
the top, in undoing which, she was relieved of all doubts and scruples
by a melancholy little duet from within.  'Mary, Mary, we want our
breakfast!  We want to get up!  Mary, Mary, do come! please come!'

She was instantly in what might ordinarily have been a light, cheerful
room, but which was in all the dreariness of gray cinders, exhausted
night-light, curtained windows, and fragments of the last meal.  In
each of two cane cribs was sitting up a forlorn child, with loose locks
of dishevelled hair, pale thin cheeks glazed with tears, staring eyes,
and mouths rounded with amaze at the apparition.  One dropped down and
hid under the bed-clothes; the other remained transfixed, as her
visitor advanced, saying, 'Well, my dear, you called Mary, and here I
am.'

'Not our own Mary,' said the child, distrustfully.

'See if I can't be your own Mary.'

'You can't.  You can't give us our breakfast.'

'Oh, I am so hungry!' from the other crib; and both burst into the
feeble sobs of exhaustion.  Recovering from fever, and still fasting at
half-past nine!  Mary was aghast, and promised an instant supply.

'Don't go;' and a bird-like little hand seized her on either side.
'Mary never came to bed, and nobody has been here all the morning, and
we can't bear to be alone.'

'I was only looking for the bell.'

'It is of no use; Minna did jump out and ring, but nobody will come.'

Mary made an ineffectual experiment, and then persuaded the children to
let her go by assurances of a speedy return.  She sped down, brimming
over with pity and indignation, to communicate to her father this cruel
neglect, and as she passed Henry Ward's door, and heard several voices,
she ventured on a timid summons of 'papa,' but, finding it unheard, she
perceived that she must act for herself. Going down-stairs, she tried
the sitting-room doors, hoping that breakfast might be laid out there,
but all were locked; and at last she found her way to the lower
regions, guided by voices in eager tones of subdued gossip.

There, in the glow of the huge red fire, stood a well-covered table,
surrounded by cook, charwoman, and their cavaliers, discussing a pile
of hot-buttered toast, to which the little kitchen-maid was
contributing large rounds, toasted at the fire.

Mary's eyes absolutely flashed, as she said, 'The children have had no
breakfast.'

'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' and the cook rose, 'but it is the
nurse-maid that takes up the young ladies' meals.'

Mary did not listen to the rest; she was desperate, and pouncing on the
bread with one hand, and the butter with the other, ran away with them
to the nursery, set them down, and rushed off for another raid. She
found that the commotion she had excited was resulting in the
preparation of a tray.

'I am sure, ma'am, I am very sorry,' said the cook, insisting on
carrying the kettle, 'but we are in such confusion; and the nurse-maid,
whose place it is, has been up most of the night with Mr. Leonard, and
must have just dropped asleep somewhere, and I was just giving their
breakfast to the undertaker's young men, but I'll call her directly,
ma'am.'

'Oh, no, on no account.  I am sure she ought to sleep,' said Mary. 'It
was only because I found the little girls quite starving that I came
down.  I will take care of them now.  Don't wake her, pray. Only I
hope,' and Mary looked beseechingly, 'that they will have something
good for their dinner, poor little things.'

Cook was entirely pacified, and talked about roast chicken, and
presently the little sisters were sitting up in their beds, each in her
wrapper, being fed by turns with delicately-buttered slices, Mary
standing between like a mother-bird feeding her young, and pleased to
find the eyes grow brighter and less hollow, the cheeks less wan, the
voices less thin and pipy, and a little laugh breaking out when she
mistook Minna for Ella.

While tidying the room, she was assailed with entreaties to call their
Mary, and let them get up, they were so tired of bed.  She undertook to
be still their Mary, and made them direct her to the house-maid's
stores, went down on her knees at the embers, and so dealt with
matches, chips, and coal, that to her own surprise and pride a fire was
evoked.

'But,' said Ella, 'I thought you were a Miss May.'

'So I am, my dear.'

'But ladies don't light fires,' said Minna, in open-eyed perplexity.

'Oh,' exclaimed the younger sister, 'you know Henry said he did not
think any of the Miss Mays were first-rate, and that our Ave beat them
all to nothing.'

The elder, Minna, began hushing; and it must be confessed that honest
Mary was not superior to a certain crimson flush of indignation, as she
held her head into the grate, and thought of Ethel, Flora, and Blanche,
criticized by Mr. Henry Ward.  Little ungrateful chit!  No, it was not
a matter of laughing, but of forgiveness; and the assertion of the
dignity of usefulness was speedily forgotten in the toilette of the
small light skin-and-bone frames, in the course of which she received
sundry compliments--'her hands were so nice and soft,' 'she did not
pull their hair like their own Mary,' 'they wished she always dressed
them.'

The trying moment was when they asked if they might kneel at her lap
for their prayers.  To Mary, the twelve years seemed as nothing since
her first prayers after the day of terror and bereavement, and her eyes
swam with tears as the younger girl unthinkingly rehearsed her wonted
formula, and the elder, clinging to her, whispered gravely, 'Please,
what shall I say?'

With full heart, and voice almost unmanageable, Mary prompted the few
simple words that had come to her in that hour of sorrow.  She looked
up, from stooping to the child's ear, to see her father at the door,
gazing at them with face greatly moved.  The children greeted him
fondly, and he sat down with one on each knee, and caressed them as he
looked them well over, drawing out their narration of the wonderful
things 'she' had done, the fingers pointing to designate who she was.
His look at her over his spectacles made Mary's heart bound and feel
compensated for whatever Mr. Henry Ward might say of her.  When the
children had finished their story, he beckoned her out of the room,
promising them that he would not keep her long.

'Well done, Molly,' he said smiling, 'it is well to have daughters good
for something.  You had better stay with them till that poor maid has
had her sleep out, and can come to them.'

'I should like to stay with them all day, only that Ethel must want me.'

'You had better go home by dinner-time, that Ethel may get some air.
Perhaps I shall want one of you in the evening to be with them at the
time of the funeral.'

'So soon!'

'Yes, it must be.  Better for all, and Henry is glad it should be so.
He is out on the sofa to-day, but he is terribly cut up.'

'And Leonard?'

'I see some improvement--Burdon does not--but I think with Heaven's
good mercy we may drag him through; the pulse is rather better.  Now I
must go.  You'll not wait dinner for me.'

Mary spent the next hour in amusing the children by the fabrication of
the dolls' wardrobe, and had made them exceedingly fond of her, so that
there was a very poor welcome when their own Mary at length appeared,
much shocked at the duration of her own slumbers, and greatly obliged
to Miss May.  The little girls would scarcely let Mary go, though she
pacified them by an assurance that she or her sister would come in the
evening.

'Don't let it be your sister.  You come, and finish our dolls' frocks!'
and they hung about her, kissing her, and trying to extract a promise.

After sharing the burthen of depression, it was strange to return home
to so different a tone of spirits when she found Aubrey installed in
Ethel's room as his parlour, very white and weak, but overflowing with
languid fun.  There was grief and sympathy for the poor Wards, and
anxious inquiries for Leonard; but it was not sorrow brought visibly
before him, and after the decorous space of commiseration, the smiles
were bright again, and Mary heard how her father had popped in to boast
of his daughter being 'as good as a house-maid, or as Miss
What's-her-name;' and her foray in the kitchen was more diverting to
Aubrey than she was as yet prepared to understand.  'Running away with
the buttered toast from under the nose of a charwoman! let Harry never
talk of taking a Chinese battery after that!' her incapacity of
perceiving that the deed was either valiant or ludicrous, entertaining
him particularly.  'It had evidently hit the medium between the sublime
and ridiculous.'

When evening came, Mary thought it Ethel's privilege to go, as the most
efficient friend and comforter; but Ethel saw that her sister's soul
was with the Wards, and insisted that she should go on as she had begun.

'O, Ethel, that was only with the little ones.  Now you would be of use
to poor Averil.'

'And why should not you? and of more use?'

'You know I am only good for small children; but if you tell me--'

'You provoking girl,' said Ethel.  'All I tell you is, that you are
twenty-three years old, and I won't tell you anything, nor assist your
unwholesome desire to be second fiddle.'

'I don't know what you mean, Ethel; of course you always tell me what
to do, and how to do it.'

Ethel quite laughed now, but gave up the contest, only saying, as she
fondly smoothed back a little refractory lock on Mary's smooth open
brow,  'Very well then, go and do whatever comes to hand at Bankside,
my dear.  I do really want to stay at home, both on Aubrey's account,
and because papa says Dr. Spencer is done up, and that I must catch him
and keep him quiet this evening.'

Mary was satisfied in her obedience, and set off with her father. Just
as they reached Bankside, a gig drove up containing the fattest old man
she had ever beheld; her father whispered that it was old Mr. Axworthy,
and sent her at once to the nursery, where she was welcomed with a
little shriek of delight, each child bounding in her small arm-chair,
and pulling her down between them on the floor for convenience of
double hugging, after which she was required to go on with the
doll-dressing.

Mary could not bear to do this while the knell was vibrating on her
ear, and the two coffins being borne across the threshold; so she
gathered the orphans within her embrace as she sat on the floor, and
endeavoured to find out how much they understood of what was passing,
and whether they had any of the right thoughts.  It was rather
disappointing.  The little sisters had evidently been well and
religiously taught, but they were too childish to dwell on thoughts of
awe or grief, and the small minds were chiefly fixed upon the dolls, as
the one bright spot in the dreary day.  Mary yielded, and worked and
answered their chatter till twilight came on, and the rival Mary came
up to put them to bed, an operation in which she gave her assistance,
almost questioning if she were not forgotten, but she learnt that her
father was still in the house, the nurse believed looking at papers in
Mr. Henry's room with the other gentlemen.

'And you will sit by us while we go to sleep.  Oh! don't go away!'

The nurse was thankful to her for so doing, and a somewhat graver mood
had come over Minna as she laid her head on her pillow, for she asked
the difficult question, 'Can mamma see us now?' which Mary could only
answer with a tender 'Perhaps,' and an attempt to direct the child to
the thought of the Heavenly Father; and then Minna asked, 'Who will
take care of us now?'

'Oh, will you?' cried Ella, sitting up; and both little maids, holding
out their arms, made a proffer of themselves to be her little children.
They would be so good if she would let them be--

Mary could only fondle and smile it off, and put them in mind that they
belonged to their brother and sister; but the answer was, 'Ave is not
so nice as you.  Oh, do let us--'

'But I can't, my dears.  I am Dr. May's child, you know.  What could I
say to him?'

'Oh! but Dr. May wouldn't mind!  I know he wouldn't mind!  Mamma says
there was never any one so fond of little children, and he is such a
dear good old gentleman.'

Mary had not recognized him as an old gentleman at fifty-eight, and did
not like it at all.  She argued on the impracticability of taking them
from their natural protectors, and again tried to lead them upwards,
finally betaking herself to the repetition of hymns, which put them to
sleep.  She had spent some time in sitting between them in the summer
darkness, when there was a low tap, and opening the door, she saw her
father.  Indicating that they slept, she followed him out, and a
whispered conference took place as he stood below her on the stairs,
their heads on a level.

'Tired, Mary?  I have only just got rid of old Axworthy.'

'The nurse said you were busy with papers in Henry's room.'

'Ay--the Will.  Henry behaves very well; and is full of right feeling,
poor fellow!'

'What becomes of those dear little girls?  They want to make themselves
a present to me, and say they know you would like it.'

'So I should, the darlings!  Well, as things are left, it all goes to
Henry, except the �10,000 Ward had insured his life for, which divides
between the five.  He undertakes, most properly, to make them a
home--whether in this house or not is another thing; he and Averil will
look after them; and he made a most right answer when Mr. Axworthy
offered to take Leonard into his office,' proceeded the communicative
Doctor, unable to help pouring himself out, in spite of time and place,
as soon as he had a daughter to himself.  'Settle nothing
now--education not finished; but privately he tells me he believes his
mother would as soon have sent Leonard to the hulks as to that old
rascal, and the scamp, his grand-nephew.'

Mary's answer to this, as his tones became incautiously emphatic, was a
glance round all the attic doors, lest they should have ears.

'Now then, do you want to get home?' said the Doctor, a little rebuked.

'Oh no, not if there is anything I can do.'

'I want to get this girl away from Leonard.  He is just come to the
state when it all turns on getting him off to sleep quietly, and not
disturbing him, and she is too excited and restless to do anything with
her; she has startled him twice already, and then gets upset--tired
out, poor thing! and will end in being hysterical if she does not get
fed and rested, and then we shall be done for!  Now I want you to take
charge of her.  See, here's her room, and I have ordered up some tea
for her.  You must get her quieted down, make her have a tolerable
meal, and when she has worked off her excitement, put her to
bed--undressed, mind--and you might lie down by her.  If you can't
manage her, call me.  That's Leonard's door, and I shall be there all
night; but don't if you can help it.  Can you do this, or must I get
Miss "What-d'ye-call-her" the elder one, if she can leave the Greens in
Randall's Alley?

Well was it that Mary's heart was stout as well as tender; and instead
of mentally magnifying the task, and diminishing her own capabilities,
she simply felt that she had received a command, and merely asked that
Ethel should be informed.

'I am going to send up to her.'

'And shall I give Averil anything to take?'

'Mutton-chops, if you can.'

'I meant sal-volatile, or anything to put her to sleep.'

'Nonsense!  I hate healthy girls drugging themselves.  You don't do
that at home, Mary!'

Mary showed her white teeth in a silent laugh at the improbability,
there being nothing Ethel more detested than what she rather rudely
called nervous quackeries.  Her father gave her a kiss of grateful
approbation, and was gone.

There was a light on the table, and preparations for tea; and Mary
looked round the pretty room, where the ornamental paper, the flowery
chintz furniture, the shining brass of the bedstead, the frilled muslin
toilet, and et ceteras, were more luxurious than what she ever saw,
except when visiting with Flora, and so new as to tell a tale of the
mother's fond preparation for the return of the daughter from school.
In a few moments she heard her father saying, in a voice as if speaking
to a sick child, 'Yes, I promise you, my dear.  Be good, be reasonable,
and you shall come back in the morning.  No, you can't go there.  Henry
is going to bed.  Here is a friend for you.  Now, Mary, don't let me
see her till she has slept.'

Mary took the other hand, and between them they placed her in an
arm-chair, whose shining fresh white ground and gay rose-pattern
contrasted with her heated, rumpled, over-watched appearance, as she
sank her head on her hand, not noticing either Mary's presence or the
Doctor's departure.  Mary stood doubtful for a few seconds, full of
pity and embarrassment, trying to take in the needs of the case.

Averil Ward was naturally a plump, well-looking girl of eighteen, with
clearly-cut features, healthy highly-coloured complexion, and large
bright hazel eyes, much darker than her profuse and glossy hair, which
was always dressed in the newest and most stylish fashion, which, as
well as the whole air of her dress and person, was, though perfectly
lady like, always regarded by the Stoneborough world as something on
the borders of presumption on the part of the entire Ward family.

To Mary's surprise, the five weeks' terrible visitation, and these last
fearful five days of sleepless exertion and bereavement, had not faded
the bright red of the cheek, nor were there signs of tears, though the
eyes looked bloodshot.  Indeed, there was a purple tint about the
eyelids and lips, a dried-up appearance, and a heated oppressed air, as
if the faculties were deadened and burnt up, though her hand was cold
and trembling.  Her hair, still in its elaborate arrangement, hung
loose, untidy, untouched; her collar and sleeves were soiled and
tumbled; her dress, with its inconvenient machinery of inflation,
looked wretched from its incongruity, and the stains on the huge
hanging sleeves.  Not a moment could have been given to the care of her
own person, since the sole burthen of nursing had so grievously and
suddenly descended on her.

Mary's first instinct was to pour out some warm water, and bringing it
with a sponge, to say, 'Would not this refresh you?'

Averil moved petulantly; but the soft warm stream was so grateful to
her burning brow, that she could not resist; she put her head back, and
submitted like a child to have her face bathed, saying, 'Thank you.'

Mary then begged to remove her tight heavy dress, and make her
comfortable in her dressing-gown.

'Oh, I can't!  Then I could not go back.'

'Yes, you could; this is quite a dress; besides, one can move so much
more quietly without crinoline.'

'I didn't think of that;' and she stood up, and unfastened her hooks.
'Perhaps Dr. May would let me go back now!' as a mountain of mohair and
scarlet petticoat remained on the floor, upborne by an over-grown steel
mouse-trap.

'Perhaps he will by and by; but he said you must sleep first.'

'Sleep--I can't sleep.  There's no one but me.  I couldn't sleep.'

'Then at least let me try to freshen you up.  There.  You don't know
what good it used to do my sister Blanche, for me to brush her hair. I
like it.'

And Mary obtained a dreamy soothed submission, so that she almost
thought she was brushing her victim to sleep in her chair, before the
maid came up with the viands that Dr. May had ordered.

'I can't eat that,' said Averil, with almost disgust.  'Take it away.'

'Please don't,' said Mary.  'Is that the way you use me, Miss Ward,
when I come to drink tea with you?'

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' was the mechanical answer.

Mary having made the long hair glossy once more, into a huge braid, and
knotted it up, came forth, and insisted that they were to be
comfortable over their grilled chickens' legs.  She was obliged to make
her own welcome, and entertain her hostess; and strenuously she worked,
letting the dry lips imbibe a cup of tea, before she attempted the
solids; then coaxing and commanding, she gained her point, and
succeeded in causing a fair amount of provisions to be swallowed; after
which Averil seemed more inclined to linger in enjoyment of the
liquids, as though the feverish restlessness were giving place to a
sense of fatigue and need of repose.

'This is all wrong,' said she, with a faint bewildered smile, as Mary
filled up her cup for her.  'I ought to be treating you as guest, Miss
May.'

'Oh, don't call me Miss May!  Call me Mary.  Think me a sister.  You
know I have known something of like trouble, only I was younger, and I
had my sisters.'

'I do not seem to have felt anything yet,' said Averil, passing her
hands over her face.  'I seem to be made of stone.'

'You have done: and that is better than feeling.'

'Done! and how miserably!  Oh, the difference it might have made, if I
had been a better nurse!'

'Papa and Dr. Spencer both say you have been a wonderful nurse,
considering--' the last word came out before Mary was aware.

'Oh, Dr. May has been so kind and so patient with me, I shall never
forget it.  Even when I scalded his fingers with bringing him that
boiling water--but I always do wrong when he is there--and now he won't
let me go back to Leonard.'

'But, Averil, the best nurse in the world can't hold out for ever.
People must sleep, and make themselves fit to go on.'

'Not when there is only one:' and she gasped.

'All the more reason, when there is but one.  Perhaps it is because you
are tired out that you get nervous and agitated.  You will be quite
different after a rest.'

'Are you sure?' whispered Averil, with her eyes rounded, 'are you sure
that is all the reason?'

'What do you mean?' said Mary.

Averil drew in her breath, and squeezed both hands tight on her chest,
as she spoke very low: 'They sent me away from mamma--they told me papa
wanted me: then they sent me from him; they said I was better with
Leonard; and--and I said to myself, nothing should make me leave
Leonard.'

'It was not papa--my father--that sent you without telling you,' said
Mary, confidently.

'No,' said Averil.

'No; I have heard him say that he would take all risks, rather than
deceive anybody,' said Mary, eagerly.  'I have heard him and Dr.
Spencer argue about what they called pious frauds, and he always said
they were want of faith.  You may trust him.  He told me Leonard was in
the state when calm sleep was chiefly wanted.  I know he would think it
cruel not to call you if there were need; and I do not believe there
will be need.'

Something like this was reiterated in different forms; and though
Averil never regularly yielded, yet as they sat on, there came pauses
in the conversation, when Mary saw her nodding, and after one or two
vibrations in her chair, she looked up with lustreless glassy eyes.
Mary took one of these semi-wakened moments, and in the tone of
caressing authority that had been already found effectual, said she
must sleep in bed; took no notice of the murmur of refusal, but
completed the undressing, and fairly deposited her in her bed.

Mary's scrupulous conscience was distressed at having thus led to the
omission of all evening orisons; but if her own simple-hearted loving
supplications at the orphan's bedside could compensate for their
absence, she did her utmost.  Then, as both the room-door and that of
the sick-chamber had been left open, she stole into the passage, where
she could see her father, seated at the table, and telegraphed to him a
sign of her success.  He durst not move, but he smiled and nodded
satisfaction; and Mary, after tidying the room, and considering with
herself, took off her more cumbrous garments, wrapped herself in a
cloak, and lay down beside Averil, not expecting to sleep, but passing
to thoughts of Harry, and of that 23rd Psalm, which they had agreed to
say at the same hour every night.  By how many hours was Harry
beforehand with her?  That was a calculation that to Mary was always
like the beads of the chaplain of Norham Castle.  Certain it is, that
after she had seen Harry lighting a fire to broil chickens' legs in a
Chinese temple, under the willow-pattern cannon-ball tree, and heard
Henry Ward saying it was not like a lieutenant in the navy, she found
herself replying, 'Use before gentility;' and in the enunciation of
this--her first moral sentiment--discovered that it was broad daylight.

What o'clock it was she could not guess.  Averil was sound asleep,
breathing deeply and regularly, so that it was; a pleasure to listen to
her; and Mary did not fear wakening her by a shoeless voyage of
discovery to the place whence Dr. May was visible.

He turned at once, and with his noiseless tread came to her.  'Asleep
still?  So is he.  All right.  Here, waken me the moment he stirs.'

And rather by sign than word, he took Mary into the sickroom, indicated
a chair, and laid himself on a sofa, where he was instantaneously sound
asleep, before his startled daughter had quite taken everything in; but
she had only to glance at his haggard wearied face, to be glad to be
there, so as to afford him even a few moments of vigorous slumber with
all his might.

In some awe, she looked round, not venturing to stir hand or foot. Her
chair was in the full draught of the dewy morning breeze, so chilly,
that she drew her shawl tightly about her; but she knew that this had
been an instance of her father's care, and if she wished to make the
slightest move, it was only to secure a fuller view of the patient,
from whom she was half cut off by a curtain at the foot of the bed.  A
sort of dread, however, made Mary gaze at everything around her before
she brought her eyes upon him--her father's watch on the table,
indicating ten minutes to four, the Minster Tower in the rising
sunlight--nay, the very furniture of the room, and Dr. May's position,
before she durst familiarize herself with Leonard's appearance--he whom
she had last seen as a sturdy, ruddy, healthful boy, looking able to
outweigh two of his friend Aubrey.

The original disease had long since passed into typhus, and the scarlet
eruption was gone, so that she only saw a yellow whiteness, that,
marked by the blue veins of the bared temples, was to her mind
death-like.  Mary had not been sheltered from taking part in scenes of
suffering; she had seen sickness and death in cottages, as well as in
her own home, and she had none of the fanciful alarms, either of
novelty or imagination, to startle her in the strange watch that had so
suddenly been thrust on her but what did fill her with a certain
apprehension, was the new and lofty beauty of expression that sat on
that sleeping countenance.  'A nice boy,' 'rather a handsome lad,' 'a
boy of ingenuous face,' they had always called Leonard Ward, when
animated with health and spirits; and the friendship between him and
Aubrey had been encouraged, but without thinking of him as more than an
ordinary lad of good style.  Now, however, to Mary's mind, the broad
brow and wasted features in their rest had assumed a calm nobility that
was like those of Ethel's favourite champions--those who conquered by
'suffering and being strong.'  She looked and listened for the low
regular breath, almost doubting at one moment whether it still were
drawn, then only reassured by its freedom and absence from effort, that
it was not soon to pass away.  There was something in that look as if
death must set his seal on it, rather than as if it could return to the
flush of health, and the struggle and strife of school-boy life and of
manhood.

More than an hour had passed, and all within the house was as still as
ever; and through the window there only came such sounds as seem like
audible silence--the twittering of birds, the humming of bees, the
calls of boys in distant fields, the far-away sound of
waggon-wheels--when there was a slight move, and Mary, in the tension
of all her faculties, had well-nigh started, but restrained herself;
and as she saw the half-closed fingers stretch, and the head turn, she
leant forward, and touched her father's hand.

Dr. May was on his feet even before those brown eyes of Leonard's had
had time to unclose; and as Mary was silently moving to the door, he
made a sign to her to wait.

She stood behind the curtain.  'You are better for your sleep.'

'Yes, thank you--much better.'

The Doctor signed towards a tray, which stood by a spirit-lamp, on a
table in the further corner.  Mary silently brought it, and as quietly
obeyed the finger that directed her to cordial and spoon--well knowing
the need--since that unserviceable right arm always made these
operations troublesome to her father.

'Have you been here all night, Dr. May?'

'Yes; and very glad to see you sleeping so well.'

'Thank you.'  And there was something that made Mary's eyes dazzle with
tears in the tone of that 'Thank you.'  The Doctor held out his hand
for the spoon she had prepared, and there was another 'Thank you;'
then, 'Is Ave there?'

'No, I made her go to bed.  She is quite well; but she wanted sleep
sorely.'

'Thank you,' again said the boy; then with a moment's pause, 'Dr. May,
tell me now.'

Mary would have fled as breaking treacherously in upon such tidings;
but a constraining gesture of her father obliged her to remain, and
keep the cordial ready for immediate administration.

'My dear, I believe you know,' said Dr. May, bending over him--and Mary
well knew what the face must be saying.

'Both?' the faint tones asked.

'Recollect the sorrow that they have been spared,' said Dr. May in his
lowest, tenderest tones, putting his hand out behind him, and signing
to Mary for the cordial.

'She could not have borne it;' and the feebleness of those words made
Mary eager to put the spoon once more into her father's hands.

'That is right, my boy.  Think of their being together;' and Mary heard
tears in her father's voice.

'Thank you,' again showed that the cordial was swallowed; then a pause,
and in a quiet, sad, low tone, 'Poor Ave!'

'Your mending is the best thing for her.'

Then came a long sigh; and then, after a pause, the Doctor knelt down,
and said the Lord's Prayer--the orphan's prayer, as so many have felt
it in the hour of bereavement.

All was quite still, and both he and Mary knelt on for some short
space; then he arose in guarded stillness, hastily wiped away the tears
that were streaming over his face, and holding back the curtain, showed
Mary the boy, again sunk into that sweet refreshing sleep.  'That is
well over,' he said, with a deep sigh of relief, when they had moved to
a safe distance.  'Poor fellow! he had better become used to the idea
while he is too weak to think.'

'He is better?' asked Mary, repressing her agitation with difficulty.

'I believe the danger is over; and you may tell his sister so when she
wakes.'




CHAPTER III

  And a heart at leisure from itself
  To soothe and sympathize.--Miss Waring


Recovery had fairly set in, and 'better' was the universal bulletin,
eating and drinking the prevailing remedy.

Henry Ward had quickly thrown off his illness.  The sense that all
depended on him, acted as a stimulus to his energies; he was anxious to
be up and doing, and in a few days was down-stairs, looking over his
father's papers, and making arrangements.  He was eager and confident,
declaring that his sisters should never want a home while he lived;
and, when he first entered his brother's room, his effusion of
affection overwhelmed Leonard in his exceeding weakness, and the
thought of which during the rest of the day often brought tears to his
eyes.

Very grateful to Dr. May, Henry declared himself anxious to abide by
his advice; and discussed with him all his plans.  There had been no
will, but the house and land of course were Henry's.  The other
property gave about �2000 to each of the family; and Averil had about
as much again from the old aunt, from whom she had taken her peculiar
name.  The home of all should, of course, still be their present one;
Averil would teach her sisters, and superintend the house, and Leonard
continue at the school, where he had a fair chance of obtaining the
Randall scholarship in the course of a year or two. 'And if not,' said
Henry, 'he may still not lose his University education.  My father was
proud of Leonard; and if he would have sent him there, why should not
I?'

And when Dr. May thought how his own elder sons had insisted on greater
advantages of education for their juniors than they had themselves
enjoyed, he felt especially fatherly towards the young surgeon.  On
only one point was he dissatisfied, and that he could not press.  He
thought the establishment at Bankside too expensive, and counselled
Henry to remove into the town, and let the house; but this was rejected
on the argument of the uncertainty of finding a tenant, and the
inexpediency of appearing less prosperous; and considering that Mr. and
Mrs. Ward had themselves made the place, Dr. May thought his proposal
hard-hearted.  He went about impressing every one with his confidence
in Henry Ward, and fought successfully at the Board of Guardians to
have him considered as a continuation of his father, instead of
appointing a new union doctor; and he watched with paternal solicitude
that the young man's first return to his practice should be neither too
soon for his own health or his patients' fears; giving him no
exhortation more earnest, nor more thankfully accepted, than that he
was to let no scruple prevent his applying to himself in the slightest
difficulty; calling him in to pauper patients, and privately consulting
in cases which could not be visited gratis.  The patronage of Henry
Ward was one of the hobbies that Dr. May specially loved, and he
cantered off upon it with vehemence such as he had hardly displayed for
years.

Aubrey recovered with the tardiness of a weakly constitution, and was
long in even arriving at a drive in the brougham; for Dr. May had set
up a brougham.  As long as Hector Ernescliffe's home was at
Stoneborough, driving the Doctor had been his privilege, and the old
gig had been held together by diligent repairs; but when Maplewood
claimed him, and Adams was laid aside by rheumatism, Flora would no
longer be silenced, and preached respectability and necessity.  Dr. May
did not admit the plea, unless Adams were to sit inside and drive out
of window; but then he was told of the impropriety of his daughters
going out to dinner in gigs, and the expense of flies. When Flora
talked of propriety in that voice, the family might protest and
grumble, but were always reduced to obedience; and thus Blanche's
wedding had been the occasion of Ethel being put into a hoop, and the
Doctor into a brougham.  He was better off under the tyranny than she
was, in spite of the solitude he had bewailed. Young Adams was not the
companion his father had been, and was no loss; and he owned that he
now got through a great deal of reading, and at times a great deal of
sleep; and mourned for nothing but his moon and stars--so romantic a
regret, that Dr. Spencer advised him not to mention it.

After Aubrey's first drives, Dr. Spencer declared that the best way of
invigorating him would be to send him for a month to the sea-side,
while the house could be thoroughly purified before Gertrude's return.
Dr. Spencer and Mary would take care of Dr. May; and Ethel had begun to
look forward to a tete-a-tete with Aubrey by the sea, which they had
neither of them ever seen, when her anticipations were somewhat dashed
by her father's exclaiming, that it would be the best thing for Leonard
Ward to go with them.  She said something about his not being well
enough to travel so soon.

'Oh, yes, he will,' said Dr. May; 'he only wants stimulus to get on
fast enough.  I declare I'll ask Henry about it; I'm just going to meet
him at the hospital.'

And before another word could be said, he let himself out at the back
door of the garden, in which they had been meeting Richard, who was now
allowed to come thus far, though both for Daisy's sake and his flock's,
he had hitherto submitted to a rigorous quarantine; and the entire
immunity of Cocksmoor from the malady was constantly adduced by each
doctor as a convincing proof of his own theory.

'Well, I do hope that will go off!' exclaimed Ethel, as soon as her
father was out of hearing.  'It will be a terrible upset to all one's
peace and comfort with Aubrey!'

'Indeed--what harm will the poor boy do?' asked Richard.

'Make Aubrey into the mere shame-faced, sister-hating, commonplace
creature that the collective boy thinks it due to himself to be in
society,' said Ethel, 'and me from an enjoying sister, into an elderly,
care-taking, despised spinster--a burden to myself and the boys.'

'But why, Ethel, can't you enjoy yourself!'

'My dear Richard, just imagine turning loose a lot of boys and girls,
with no keeper, to enjoy themselves in some wild sea place!  No, no:
the only way to give the arrangement any shade of propriety, will be to
be elderly, infuse as much vinegar as possible into my countenance,
wear my spectacles, and walk at a staid pace up and down the parade,
while my two sons disport themselves on the rocks.'

'If you really think it would not be proper,' said Richard, rather
alarmed, 'I could run after my father.'

'Stuff, Richard; papa must have his way; and if it is to do the boy
good, I can sacrifice a crab--I mean myself--not a crustacean.  I am
not going to be such a selfish wretch as to make objections.'

'But if it would not be the correct thing?  Or could not you get some
one to stay with you?'

'I can make it the correct thing.  It is only to abstain from the fun I
had hoped for.  I meant to have been a girl, and now I must be a woman,
that's all; and I dare say Aubrey will be the happier for it--boys
always are.'

'If you don't like it, I wish you would let me speak to papa.'

'Richard, have you these five years been the safety-valve for my
murmurs without knowing what they amount to?'

'I thought no one complained unless to get a thing remedied.'

'Exactly so.  That is man!  And experience never shows man that woman's
growls relieve her soul, and that she dreads nothing more than their
being acted on!  All I wish is, that this scheme may die a natural
death; but I should be miserable, and deserved to be so, if I raised a
finger to hinder it.  What, must you go?  Rule Daisy's lines if she
writes to Meta, please.'

'I did so.  I have been trying to make her write straighter.'

'Of course you have.  I expect I shall find her organ of order grown to
a huge bump when she comes home.  Oh! when will our poor remnants be
once more a united family? and when shall I get into Cocksmoor school
again?'

When Dr. May came home, his plan was in full bloom.  Henry had
gratefully accepted it, and answered for his brother being able to
travel by the next Monday; and Dr. May wanted Ethel to walk with him to
Bankside, and propose it there--talking it over with the sister, and
making it her own invitation.  Ethel saw her fate, and complied, her
father talking eagerly all the way.

'You see, Ethel, it is quite as much for his spirits as his health that
I wish it.  He is just the age that our Norman was.'

That was the key to a great deal.  Ethel knew that her father had never
admitted any of the many excuses for the neglect of Norman's suffering
for the three months after his mother's death; but though it thrilled
her all over, she was not prepared to believe that any one, far less
any Ward, could be of the same sensitive materials as Norman.  To avoid
answering, she went more than half-way, by saying, 'Don't you think I
might ask those poor girls to come with him?'

'By no manner of means,' said the Doctor, stopping short.  'It is just
what I want, to get him away from his sister.  She minds nothing else;
and if it were not for Mary, I don't know what the little ones would
do; and as to Henry, he is very good and patient; but it is the way to
prevent him from forming domestic tastes to have no mistress to his
house.  He will get into mischief, or marry, if she does not mind what
she is about.'

'That must come to an end when Leonard is well, and goes back to
school.'

'And that won't be till after the holidays.  No, some break there must
be.  When he is gone, Mary can put her into the way of doing things;
she is anxious to do right; and we shall see them do very well.  But
this poor boy--you know he has been always living at home, while the
others were away; he was very fond of his mother, and the first coming
out of his room was more than he could bear.  I must have him taken
from home till he is well again, and able to turn to other things.'

And before Ethel's eyes came a vision of poor Mrs. Ward leaning on her
son's arm, on Saturday afternoon walks, each looking fond and proud of
the other.  She felt her own hardness of heart, and warmed to the
desire of giving comfort.

Bankside was basking in summer sunshine, with small patches of shade
round its young shrubs and trees, and a baking heat on the little porch.

The maid believed Miss Ward was in the garden.  Mr. Leonard had been
taken out to-day; and the Doctor moving on, they found themselves in
the cool pretty drawing-room, rather overcrowded with furniture and
decoration, fresh and tasteful, but too much of it, and a contrast to
the Mays' mixture of the shabby and the curious, in the room that was
so decidedly for use, and not for show.

What arrested the attention was, however, the very sweetest singing
Ethel had ever heard.  The song was low and sad, but so intensely
sweet, that Dr. May held up his hand to silence all sound, and stood
with restrained breath and moistened eyes.  Ethel, far less sensitive
to music, was nevertheless touched as she had never before been by
sound; and the more, as she looked through the window and saw in the
shade of a walnut-tree, a sofa, at the foot of which sat Averil Ward in
her deep mourning, her back to the window, so that only her young
figure and the braids of her fair hair were to be seen; and beyond,
something prostrate, covered with wrappers.  The sweet notes ended, Dr.
May drew a deep sigh, wiped his spectacles, and went on; Ethel hung
back, not to startle the invalid by the sight of a stranger; but as
Averil rose, she saw him raising himself, with a brightening smile on
his pale face, to hold out his hand to the Doctor.  In another minute
Averil had come to her, shaken hands, and seated herself where she
could best command a view of her brother.

'I am glad to see him out of doors,' said Ethel.

'Henry was bent on it; but I think the air and the glare of everything
is too much for him; he is so tired and oppressed.'

'I am sure he must like your singing,' said Ethel.

'It is almost the only thing that answers,' said Averil, her eyes
wistfully turning to the sofa; 'he can't read, and doesn't like being
read to.'

'It is very difficult to manage a boy's recovery,' said Ethel.  'They
don't know how to be ill.'

'It is not that,' replied the sister, as if she fancied censure
implied, 'but his spirits.  Every new room he goes into seems to beat
him down; and he lies and broods.  If he could only talk!'

'I know that so well!' said Ethel.  But to Averil the May troubles were
of old date, involved in the mists of childhood.  And Ethel seeing that
her words were not taken as sympathy, continued, 'Do not the little
girls amuse him?'

'Oh no! they are too much for him; and I am obliged to keep them in the
nursery.  Poor little things!  I don't know what we should do if your
sister Mary were not so kind.'

'Mary is very glad,' began Ethel, confusedly.  Then rushing into her
subject: 'Next week, I am to take Aubrey to the seaside; and we thought
if Leonard would join us, the change might be good for him.'

'Thank you,' Averil answered, playing with her heavy jet watch-guard.
'You are very good; but I am sure he could not move so soon.'

'Ave,' called Leonard at that moment; and Ethel, perceiving that she
likewise was to advance, came forth in time to hear, 'O, Ave! I am to
go to the sea next week, with Aubrey May and his sister.  Won't it--'

Then becoming aware of the visitor, he stopped short, threw his feet
off the sofa, and stood up to receive her.

'I can't let you come if you do like that,' she said, shaking his long
thin hand; and he let himself down again, not, however, resuming his
recumbent posture, and giving a slight but effective frown to silence
his sister's entreaties that he would do so.  He sat, leaning back as
though exceedingly feeble, scarcely speaking, but his eyes eloquent
with eagerness.  And very fine eyes they were!  Ethel remembered her
own weariness, some twelve or fourteen years back, of the raptures of
her baby-loving sisters about those eyes; and now in the absence of the
florid colouring of health, she was the more struck by the beauty of
the deep liquid brown, of the blue tinge of the white, and of the
lustrous light that resided in them, but far more by their power of
expression, sometimes so soft and melancholy, at other moments earnest,
pleading, and almost flashing with eagerness.  It was a good mouth too,
perhaps a little inclined to sternness of mould about the jaw and chin;
but that might have been partly from the absence of all softening
roundness, aging the countenance for the time, just as illness had
shrunk the usually sturdy figure.

'Has Ethel told you of our plan?' asked Dr. May of the sister.

'Yes,' she hesitated, in evident confusion and distress.  'You are all
very kind, but we must see what Henry says.'

'I have spoken to Henry!  He answers for our patching Leonard up for
next week; and I have great faith in Dr. Neptune.'

Leonard's looks were as bright as Averil's were disturbed.

'Thank you, thank you very much! but can he possibly be well enough for
the journey?'

Leonard's eyes said 'I shall.'

'A week will do great things,' said Dr. May, 'and it is a very easy
journey--only four hours' railway, and a ten miles' drive.'

Averil's face was full of consternation; and Leonard leant forward with
hope dancing in his eyes.

'You know the place,' continued Dr. May, 'Coombe Hole.  Quite fresh,
and unhackneyed.  It is just where Devon and Dorset meet.  I am not
sure in which county; but there's a fine beach, and beautiful country.
The Riverses found it out, and have been there every autumn; besides
sending their poor little girl and her governess down when London gets
too hot.  Flora has written to the woman of the lodgings she always
has, and will lend them the maid she sends with little Margaret; so
they will be in clover.'

'Is it not a very long way!' said Averil, thinking how long those ten
yards of lawn had seemed.

'Not as things go,' said Dr. May.  'You want Dr. Spencer to reproach
you with being a Stoneborough fungus.  There are places in Wales nearer
by the map, but without railway privilege; and as to a great gay place,
they would all be sick of it.'

'Do you feel equal to it? as if you should like it, Leonard?' asked his
sister, in a trembling would-be grateful voice.

'Of all things,' was the answer.

Ethel thought the poor girl had suffered constraint enough, and that it
was time to release the boy from his polite durance, so she rose to
take leave, and again Leonard pulled himself upright to shake hands.

'Indeed,' said Ethel, when Averil had followed them into the
drawing-room, 'I am sorry for you.  It would go very hard with me to
make Aubrey over to any one! but if you do trust him with me, I must
come and hear all you wish me to do for him.'

'I cannot think that he will be able or glad to go when it comes to the
point,' said Averil, with a shaken tone.

Dr. May was nearer than she thought, and spoke peremptorily.  'Take
care what you are about!  You are not to worry him with discussions. If
he can go, he will; if not, he will stay at home; but pros and cons are
prohibited.  Do you hear, Averil!'

'Yes; very well.'

'Papa you really are very cruel to that poor girl,' were Ethel's first
words outside.

'Am I?  I wouldn't be for worlds, Ethel.  But somehow she always puts
me in a rage.  I wish I knew she was not worrying her brother at this
moment!'

No, Averil was on the staircase, struggling, choking with the first
tears she had shed.  All this fortnight of unceasing vigilance and
exertion, her eyes had been dry, for want of time to realize, for want
of time to weep, and now she was ashamed that hurt feeling rather than
grief had opened the fountain.  She could not believe that it was not a
cruel act of kindness, to carry one so weak as Leonard away from home
to the care of a stranger.  She apprehended all manner of ill
consequences; and then nursing him, and regarding his progress as her
own work, had been the sedative to her grief, which would come on her
'like an armed man,' in the dreariness of his absence.  Above all, she
felt herself ill requited by his manifest eagerness to leave her who
had nursed him so devotedly--her, his own sister--for the stiff, plain
Miss May whom he hardly knew.  The blow from the favourite companion
brother, so passionately watched and tended, seemed to knock her down;
and Dr. May, with medical harshness, forbidding her the one last hope
of persuading him out of the wild fancy, filled up the measure.

Oh, those tears!  How they would swell up at each throb of the wounded
heart, at each dismal foreboding of the desponding spirit. But she had
no time for them!  Leonard must not be left alone, with no one to cover
him up with his wrappers.

The tears were strangled, the eyes indignantly dried.  She ran out at
the garden door.  The sofa was empty!  Had Henry come home and helped
him in?  She hurried on to the window; Leonard was alone in the
drawing-room, resting breathlessly on an ottoman within the window.

'Dear Leonard!  Why didn't you wait for me!'

'I thought I'd try what I could do.  You see I am much stronger than we
thought.'  And he smiled cheerfully, as he helped himself by the
furniture to another sofa.  'I say, Ave, do just give me the map--the
one in Bradshaw will do.  I want to find this place.'

'I don't think there is a Bradshaw,' said Averil, reluctantly.

'Oh yes, there is--behind the candlestick, on the study chimney-piece.'

'Very well--' There were more tears to be gulped down--and perhaps they
kept her from finding the book.

'Where's the Bradshaw?'

'I didn't see it.'

'I tell you I know it was there.  The left-hand candlestick, close to
the letter-weight.  I'll get it myself.'

He was heaving himself up, when Averil prevented him by hastening to a
more real search, which speedily produced the book.

Eagerly Leonard unfolded the map, making her steady it for his shaking
hand, and tracing the black toothed lines.

'There's Bridport--ten miles from there.  Can you see the name, Ave?'

'No, it is not marked.'

'Never mind.  I see where it is; and I can see it is a capital place;
just in that little jag, with famous bathing.  I wonder if they will
stay long enough for me to learn to swim?'

'You are a good way from that as yet,' said poor Averil, her heart
sinking lower and lower.

'Oh, I shall be well at once when I get away from here!'

'I hope so.'

'Why, Ave!' he cried, now first struck with her tone, 'don't you know I
shall?'

'I don't know,' she said, from the soreness of her heart; 'but I can't
tell how to trust you with strangers.'

'Strangers!  You ungrateful child!' exclaimed Leonard, indignantly.
'Why, what have they been doing for you all this time?'

'I am sure Miss May, at least, never came near us till to-day.'

'I'm very glad of it!  I'm sick of everything and everybody I have
seen!'

Everybody!  That was the climax!  Averil just held her tongue; but she
rushed to her own room, and wept bitterly and angrily.  Sick of her
after all her devotion!  Leonard, the being she loved best in the world!

And Leonard, distressed and hurt at the reception of his natural
expression of the weariness of seven weeks' sickness and sorrow, felt
above all the want of his mother's ever-ready sympathy and soothing,
and as if the whole world, here, there, and everywhere, would be an
equally dreary waste.  His moment of bright anticipation passed into
heavy despondency, and turning his head from the light, he dropped
asleep with a tear on his cheek.

When he awoke it was at the sound of movements in the room, slow and
cautious, out of regard to his slumbers--and voices, likewise low--at
least one was low, the other that whisper of the inaudibility of which
Averil could not be disabused.  He lay looking for a few moments
through his eyelashes, before exerting himself to move. Averil, her
face still showing signs of recent tears, sat in a low chair, a book in
her lap, talking to her brother Henry.

Henry was of less robust frame than Leonard promised to be, and though
on a smaller scale, was more symmetrically made, and had more regular
features than either his brother or sister, but his eyes were merely
quick lively black beads, without anything of the clear depths
possessed by the others.  His hair too was jet black, whereas theirs
was a pale nut brown; and his whiskers, long and curling, so nearly met
under his chin, as to betray a strong desire that the hirsute movement
should extend to the medical profession.  Always point-device in
apparel, the dust on his boot did not prevent its perfect make from
being apparent; and the entire sit of his black suit would have enabled
a cursory glance to decide that it never came out of the same shop as
Dr. May's.

'O, Henry!' were the words that he first heard distinctly.

'It will be much better for every one--himself and you included.'

'Yes, if--'

'If--nonsense.  I tell you he will be quite well enough.  See how well
I am now, how fast I got on as soon as I took to tonics.--Ha, Leonard,
old fellow! what, awake?  What do you say to this plan of old May's?'

'It is very kind of him; and I should be very glad if I am well enough;
but next week is very soon,' said Leonard, waking in the depression in
which he had gone to sleep.

'Oh, next week!  That is as good as next year in a matter like this, as
May agreed with me, here, let us have your pulse.  You have let him get
low, Averil.  A basin of good soup will put more heart into you, and
you will feel ready for anything.'

'I have got on to-day, said Leonard, briskly raising himself, as though
the cheerful voice had been cordial in itself.

'Of course you have, now that you have something to look forward to;
and you will be in excellent hands; the very thing I wanted for you,
though I could not see how to manage it.  I am going to dress.  I shall
tell them to send in dinner; and if I am not down, I shall be in the
nursery.  You won't come in to dinner, Leonard?'

'No, said Leonard, with a shudder.

'I shall send you in some gravy soup, that you may thank me for.  Ave
never would order anything but boiled chickens for you, and forgets
that other people ever want to eat.  There will be a chance of making a
housekeeper of her now.'

How selfish, thought Averil, to want to get rid of poor Leonard, that I
may attend to his dinners.  Yet Henry had spoken in perfect good-humour.

Henry came down with a little sister in each hand. They were his
especial darlings; and with a touch of fatherly fondness, he tried to
compensate to them for their sequestration from the drawing-room, the
consequence of Averil not having established her authority enough to
keep their spirits from growing too riotous for Leonard's weakness.
Indeed, their chatter was Henry's sole enlivenment, for Averil was
constantly making excursions to ask what her patient would eat, and
watch its success; and but for his pleasure in the little girls popping
about him, he would have had a meal as dull as it was unsettled.  As
soon as the strawberries were eaten, he walked out through the window
with them clinging to him, and Averil returned to her post.

'Some music, Ave,' said Leonard, with an instinctive dread of her
conversation.

She knew her voice was past singing, and began one of her most renowned
instrumental pieces, which she could play as mechanically as a
musical-box.

'Not that jingling airified thing!' cried Leonard, 'I want something
quiet and refreshing.  There's an evening hymn that the Mays have.'

'The Mays know nothing of music,' said Averil.

'Stay, this is it:' and he whistled a few bars.

'That old thing!  Of course I know that.  We had it every Sunday at
Brighton.'

She began it, but her eyes were full of tears, partly because she hated
herself for the irritation she had betrayed.  She was a sound, good,
honest-hearted girl; but among all the good things she had learned at
Brighton, had not been numbered the art of ruling her own spirit.




CHAPTER IV

  Griefs hidden in the mind like treasures,
  Will turn with time to solemn pleasures.


On the Monday morning, the two convalescents shook hands in the
waiting-room at the station, surveying each other rather curiously;
while Ethel, trying to conquer her trepidation, gave manifold promises
to Averil of care and correspondence.

Dr. Spencer acted escort, being far more serviceable on the railway
than his untravelled friend, whose lame arm, heedless head, and
aptitude for missing trains and mistaking luggage, made him a charge
rather than an assistant.  He was always happiest among his patients at
home; and the world was still ill enough to employ him so fully, that
Ethel hoped to be less missed than usual.  Indeed, she believed that
her absence would be good in teaching him Mary's full-grown worth, and
Mary would be in the full glory of notability in the purification of
the house.

The change was likewise for Dr. Spencer's good.  He had almost broken
down in the height of the labour, and still looked older and thinner
for it; and after one night at Coombe, he was going to refresh himself
by one of his discursive tours.

He was in high spirits, and the pink of courtesy; extremely flattered
by the charge of Ethel, and making her the ostensible object of his
attention, to the relief of the boys, who were glad to be spared the
sense of prominent invalidism.  The change was delightful to them.
Aubrey was full of life and talk, and sat gazing from the window, as if
the line from Stoneborough to Whitford presented a succession of
novelties.

'What's that old place on the river there, with crow-stepped gables and
steep roofs, like a Flemish picture?'

'Don't you know?' said Leonard, 'it is the Vintry mill, where my
relative lives, that wants to make a dusty miller of me.'

'No fear of that, old fellow,' said Aubrey, regarding him in some
dismay, 'you've got better things to grind at.'

'Ay, even if I don't get the Randall next time, I shall be sure of it
another.'

'You'll have it next.'

'I don't know; here is a quarter clean gone, and the other fellows will
have got before me.'

'Oh, but most of them have had a spell of fever!'

'Yes, but they have not had it so thoroughly,' said Leonard.  'My
memory is not properly come back yet; and your father says I must not
try it too soon.'

'That's always his way,' said Aubrey.  'He would not let Ethel so much
as pack up my little Homer.'

Leonard's quick, furtive glance at Ethel was as if he suspected her of
having been barely prevented from torturing him.

'Oh, it was not her doing,' said Aubrey, 'it was I!  I thought Tom
would find me gone back; and, you know, we must keep up together,
Leonard, and be entered at St. John's at the same time.'

For Aubrey devoutly believed in Tom's college at Cambridge, which had
recovered all Dr. May's allegiance.

The extra brightness was not of long duration.  It was a very hot day,
such as exactly suited the salamander nature of Dr. Spencer; but the
carriage became like an oven.  Aubrey curled himself up in a corner and
went to sleep, but Leonard's look of oppressed resignation grieved
Ethel, and the blue blinds made him look so livid, that she was always
fancying him fainting, and then his shyness was dreadful--it was
impossible to elicit from him anything but 'No, thank you.'

He did nearly faint when they left the train; and while Aubrey was
eagerly devouring the produce of the refreshment room, had to lie on a
bench under Dr. Spencer's charge, for Ethel's approach only brought on
a dangerous spasm of politeness.  How she should get on with him for a
month, passed her imagination.

There was a fresher breeze when they drove out of the station, up a
Dorset ridge of hill, steep, high, terraced and bleak; but it was slow
climbing up, and every one was baked and wearied before the summit was
gained, and the descent commenced.  Even then, Ethel, sitting
backwards, could only see height develop above height, all green, and
scattered with sheep, or here and there an unfenced turnip-field, the
road stretching behind like a long white ribbon, and now and then
descending between steep chalk cuttings in slopes, down which the
carriage slowly scrooped on its drag, leaving a broad blue-flecked
trail.  Dr. Spencer was asleep, hat off, and the wind lifting his snowy
locks, and she wished the others were; but Aubrey lamented on the heat
and the length, and Leonard leant back in his corner, past lamentation.

Down, down!  The cuttings were becoming precipitous cliffs, the drag
made dismal groans; Aubrey, after a great slip forward, looking
injured, anchored himself, with his feet against the seat, by Ethel;
and Dr. Spencer was effectually wakened by an involuntary forward
plunge of his opposite neighbour.  'Can this be safe?' quoth Ethel;
'should not some of us get out?'

'Much you know of hills, you level landers!' was the answer; and just
then they were met and passed by four horses dragging up a stage coach,
after the fashion of a fly on a window-pane--a stage coach! delightful
to the old-world eyes of Dr. Spencer, recalling a faint memory to
Ethel, and presenting a perfect novelty to Aubrey.

Then came a sudden turn upon flat ground, and a short cry of wonder
broke from Aubrey.  Ethel was sensible of a strange salt weedy smell,
new to her nostrils, but only saw the white-plastered, gray-roofed
houses through which they were driving; but, with another turn, the
buildings were only on one side--on the other there was a wondrous
sense of openness, vastness, freshness--something level, gray, but
dazzling; and before she could look again, the horses stopped, and
close to her, under the beetling, weather-stained white cliff, was a
low fence, and within it a verandah and a door, where stood Flora's
maid, Barbara, in all her respectability.

Much wit had been expended by Aubrey on being left to the tender mercy
of cruel Barbara Allen, in whom Ethel herself anticipated a tyrant; but
at the moment she was invaluable.  Every room was ready and inviting,
and nothing but the low staircase between Leonard and the white bed,
which was the only place fit for him; while for the rest, the table was
speedily covered with tea and chickens; Abbotstoke eggs, inscribed with
yesterday's date; and red mail-clad prawns, to prove to touch and taste
that this was truly sea-side. The other senses knew it well: the open
window let in the indescribable salt, fresh odour, and the entire view
from it was shore and sea, there seemed nothing to hinder the tide from
coming up the ridge of shingle, and rushing straight into the cottage;
and the ear was constantly struck by the regular roll and dash of the
waves. Aubrey, though with the appetite of recovery and sea-air
combined, could not help pausing to listen, and, when his meal was
over, leant back in his chair, listened again, and gave a sigh of
content.  'It is one constant hush, hushaby,' he said; 'it would make
one sleep pleasantly.'

His companions combined their advice to him so to use it; and in less
than half an hour Ethel went to bid him good night, in the whitest of
beds and cleanest of tiny chambers, where he looked the picture of
sleepy satisfaction, when she opened his window, and admitted the swell
and dash that fascinated his weary senses.

'My child is all right,' said Ethel, returning to Dr. Spencer; 'can you
say the same of yours?'

'He must rest himself into the power of sleeping.  I must say it was a
bold experiment; but it will do very well, when he has got over the
journey.  He was doing no good at home.'

'I hope he will here.'

'Depend on it he will.  And now what are you intending?'

'I am thirsting to see those waves near.  Would it be against the
manners and customs of sea-places for me to run down to them so late?'

'Sea-places have no manners and customs.'

Ethel tossed on her hat with a feeling of delight and freedom.  'Oh,
are you coming, Dr. Spencer?   I did not mean to drag you out.  You had
rather rest, and smoke.'

'This is rest,' he answered.

The next moment, the ridge of the shingle was passed, and Ethel's feet
were sinking in the depth of pebbles, her cheeks freshened by the
breeze, her lips salted by the spray tossed in by the wind from the
wave crests.  At the edge of the water she stood--as all others stand
there--watching the heaving from far away come nearer, nearer, curl
over in its pride of green glassy beauty, fall into foam, and draw
back, making the pebbles crash their accompanying 'frsch.'  The
repetition, the peaceful majesty, the blue expanse, the straight
horizon, so impressed her spirit as to rivet her eyes and chain her
lips; and she receded step by step before the tide, unheeding anything
else, not even perceiving her companion's eyes fixed on her, half
curiously, half sadly.

'Well, Ethel,' at last he said.

'I never guessed it!' she said, with a gasp.  'No wonder Harry cannot
bear to be away from it.  Must we leave it?' as he moved back.

'Only to smooth ground,' said Dr. Spencer; 'it is too dark to stay here
among the stones and crab-pots.'

The summer twilight was closing in; lights shining in the village under
the cliffs, and looking mysterious on distant points of the coast;
stars were shining forth in the pale blue sky, and the young moon
shedding a silver rippled beam on the water.

'If papa were but here!' said Ethel, wakening from another gaze, and
recollecting that she was not making herself agreeable.

'So you like the expedition?'

'The fit answer to that would be, "It is very pretty," as the Cockney
said to Coleridge at Lodore.'

'So I have converted a Stoneborough fungus!'

'What! to say the sea is glorious?  A grand conversion!'

'To find anything superior to Minster Street.'

'Ah, you are but half reclaimed!  You are a living instance that there
is no content unless one has begun life as a fungus.'

She was startled by his change of tone.  'True, Ethel.  Content might
have been won, if there had been resolution to begin without it.'

'I beg your pardon,' she faltered, 'I ought not to have said it.  I
forgot there was such a cause.'

'Cause--you know nothing about it.'

She was silent, distressed, dismayed, fearing that she had spoken
wrongly, and had either mistaken or been misunderstood.

'Tell me, Ethel,' he presently said, 'what can you know of what made me
a wanderer?'

'Only what papa told me.'

'He--he was the last person to know.'

'He told me,' said Ethel, hurrying it out in a fright, 'that you went
away--out of generosity--not to interfere with his happiness.'

Then she felt as if she had done a shocking thing, and waited
anxiously, while Dr. Spencer deliberately made a deep hole in the
shingle with his stick.  'Well,' at last he said, 'I thought that
matter was unknown to all men--above all to Dick!'

'It was only after you were gone, that he put things together and made
it out.'

'Did--she--know?' said Dr. Spencer, with a long breath.

'I cannot tell,' said Ethel.

'And how or why did he tell you?' (rather hurt.)

'It was when first you came.  I am sure no one else knows it.  But he
told me because he could not help it; he was so sorry for you.'

They walked the whole length of the parade, and had turned before Dr.
Spencer spoke again; and then he said, 'It is strange!  My one vision
was of walking on the sea-shore with her; and that just doing so with
you should have brought up the whole as fresh as five-and-thirty years
ago!'

'I wish I was more like her,' said Ethel.

No more was wanting to make him launch into the descriptions, dear to a
daughter's heart, of her mother in her sweet serious bloom of young
womanhood, giving new embellishments to the character already so
closely enshrined in his hearer's heart, the more valuable that the
stream of treasured recollection flowed on in partial oblivion of the
person to whom it was addressed, or, at least, that she was the child
of his rival; for, from the portrait of the quiet bright maiden, he
passed to the sufferings that his own reserved nature had undergone
from his friend's outspoken enthusiasm.  The professor's visible
preference for the youth of secure prospects, had not so much
discouraged as stung him; and in a moment of irritation at the
professor's treatment, and the exulting hopes of his unconscious
friend, he had sworn to himself, that the first involuntary token of
regard from the young lady towards one or the other, should decide him
whether to win name and position for her sake, or to carry his slighted
passion to the utmost parts of the earth, and never again see her face.

'Ethel,' he said, stopping short, 'never threaten Providence--above
all, never keep the threat.'

Ethel scarcely durst speak, in her anxiety to know what cast the die,
though with all Dr. Spencer's charms, she could not but pity the
delusion that could have made him hope to be preferred to her
father--above all, by her mother.  Nor could she clearly understand
from him what had dispelled his hopes.  Something it was that took
place at the picnic on Arthur's Seat, of which she had previously heard
as a period of untold bliss.  That something, still left in vague
mystery, had sealed the fate of the two friends.

'And so,' said Dr. Spencer, 'I took the first foreign appointment that
offered.  And my poor father, who had spent his utmost on me, and had
been disappointed in all his sons, was most of all disappointed in me.
I held myself bound to abide by my rash vow; loathed tame English life
without her, and I left him to neglect in his age.'

'You could not have known or expected!' exclaimed Ethel.

'What right had I to expect anything else?  It was only myself that I
thought of.  I pacified him by talk of travelling, and extending my
experience, and silenced my conscience by intending to return when
ordinary life should have become tolerable to me--a time that never has
come.  At last, in the height of that pestilential season in India,
came a letter, warning me that my brother's widow had got the mastery
over my poor father, and was cruelly abusing it, so that only my return
could deliver him.  It was when hundreds were perishing, and I the only
medical man near; when to have left my post would have been both
disgraceful and murderous.  Then I was laid low myself; and while I was
conquering the effects of cholera, came tidings that made it nothing to
me whether they or I conquered.  This,' and he touched one of his white
curling locks, 'was not done by mere bodily exertion or ailment.'

'You would have been too late any way,' said Ethel.

'No, not if I had gone immediately.  I might have got him out of that
woman's hands, and made his life happy for years.  There was the sting,
but the crime had been long before.  You know the rest.  I had no
health to remain, no heart to come home; and then came vagrancy indeed.
I drifted wherever restlessness or impulse took me, till all my working
years were over, and till the day when the sight of your father's
wedding-ring showed me that I should not break my mad word by accepting
the only welcome that any creature gave me.'

'And, oh! surely you have been comforted by him?'

'Comforted!  Cut to the heart would be truer.  One moment, I could only
look at him as having borne off my treasure to destroy it; but then
there rose on me his loving, patient, heartbroken humility and
cheerfulness; and I saw such a character, such a course, as showed me
how much better he had deserved her, and filled me with shame at having
ever less esteemed him.  And through all, there was the same dear Dick
May, that never, since the day we first met at the pump in the school
court, had I been able to help loving with all my heart--the only being
that was glad to see me again.  When he begged me to stay and watch
over your sister, what could I do but remain while she lived?'

'So he bound you down!  Oh, you know how we thank you! no, you can't,
nor what you have been to him, and to all of us, through the worst of
our sad days.  And though it was a sacrifice, I do not think it was bad
for you.'

'No, Ethel.  When you implored me to give up my Crimean notion, to
spare your father pain, I did feel for once that you at least thought
me of value to some one.'

'I cannot bear you to speak so,' cried Ethel.  'You to talk of having
been of no use!'

'No honest man of principle and education can be utterly useless; but
when, three days ago, I recollected that it was my sixtieth birthday, I
looked back, and saw nothing but desultory broken efforts, and restless
changes.  Your father told me, when I thought him unaware of the
meaning of his words, that if I had missed many joys, I had missed many
sorrows; but I had taken the way to make my one sorrow a greater burden
than his many.'

'But you do not grieve for my mother still?' said Ethel, anxiously.
'Even his grief is a grave joy to him now; and one is always told that
such things, as it was with you, are but a very small part of a man's
life.'

'I am not one of the five hundred men, whom any one of five hundred
women might have equally pleased,' said Dr. Spencer; 'but it is so far
true, that the positive pain and envy wore out, and would not have
interfered with my after life, but for my own folly.  No, Ethel; it was
not the loss of her that embittered and threw away my existence; it was
my own rash vow, and its headstrong fulfilment, which has left me no
right to your father's peaceful spirit.'

'How little we guessed!' said Ethel.  'So cheerful and ready as you
always are.'

'I never trouble others, he said abruptly.  'Neither man nor woman ever
heard a word of all this; and you would not have heard it now, but for
that sea; and you have got your mother's voice, and some of her ways,
since you have grown older and more sedate.'

'Oh, I am so glad!' said Ethel, who had been led to view her likeness
to her father as natural, that to her mother as acquired.

Those were the last words of the conversation; but Ethel, leaning from
her window to listen to the plash of the waves, suspected that the
slowly moving meteor she beheld, denoted that a cigar was soothing the
emotions excited by their dialogue.  She mused long over that
revelation of the motives of the life that had always been noble and
generous in the midst of much that was eccentric and wayward, and
constantly the beat of the waves repeated to her the half-comprehended
words, 'Never threaten Providence.'

After superintending Aubrey's first bath, and duly installing the
vice-M. D. and her charges, Dr. Spencer departed; and Ethel was
launched on an unknown ocean, as pilot to an untried crew.  She had
been told to regard Leonard's bashfulness as a rare grace; but it was
very inconvenient to have the boy wretchedly drooping, and owning
nothing amiss, apparently unacquainted with any English words, except
'Thank you' and 'No, thank you.'  Indeed, she doubted whether the
shyness were genuine, for stories were afloat of behaviour at
Stoneborough parties which savoured of audacity, and she vainly
consulted Aubrey whether the cause of his discomfiture were her age or
her youth, her tutorship or her plain face.  Even Aubrey could not
elicit any like or dislike, wish or complaint; and shrugging up his
shoulders, decided that it was of no use to bother about it; Leonard
would come to his senses in time.  He was passive when taken out
walking, submissive when planted on a three-cornered camp-stool that
expanded from a gouty walking-stick, but seemed so inadequately
perched, and made so forlorn a spectacle, that they were forced to put
him indoors out of the glare of sea and sky, and hoping that he would
condescend to the sofa when Ethel was out of sight.

Punctilio broke down the next morning; and in the midst of breakfast,
he was forced to lie down, and allow Ethel to bathe his face with
vinegar and water; while she repented of the 'make-the-best-of-it'
letter of the yesterday, and sent Aubrey out on a secret commission of
inquiry about medical men, in case of need.  Aubrey was perfectly well,
and in such a state of desultory enjoyment and sea-side active
idleness, that he was quite off her mind, only enlivening her morning
of nursing by his exits and entrances, to tell of fresh discoveries, or
incidents wonderful to the inland mind.

After dinner, which had driven Leonard to lie on his bed, Aubrey
persuaded his sister to come to see his greatest prize; a quaint old
local naturalist, a seafaring man, with a cottage crammed with pans of
live wonders of the deep in water, and shelves of extinct ones, 'done
up in stane pies,' not a creature, by sea or land, that had haunted
Coombe for a few million of ages, seemed to have escaped him. Such
sea-side sojourns as the present, are the prime moments for coquetries
with the lighter branches of natural science, and the brother and
sister had agreed to avail themselves of the geological facilities of
their position, the fascinations of Hugh Miller's autobiography having
entirely gained them during Aubrey's convalescence.  Ethel tore herself
away from the discussion of localities with the old man, who was guide
as well as philosopher, boatman as well as naturalist, and returned to
her patient, whom she found less feverish, though sadly low and languid.

'I wish I knew what to do for you,' she said, sitting down by him.
'What would your sister do for you?'

'Nothing,' he wearily said, 'I mean, a great deal too much.'  The tone
so recalled Norman's dejected hopelessness, that she could not help
tenderly laying her cold hands on the hot brow, and saying, 'Yes, I
know how little one can do as a sister--and the mockery it is to think
that one place can ever be taken!'

The brown eyes looked at her with moist earnestness that she could
hardly bear, but closed with a look of relief and soothing, as she held
her hand on his forehead.  Presently, however, he said, 'Don't let me
keep you in.'

'I have been out, thank you.  I am so glad to try to do anything for
you.'

'Thank you.  What o'clock is it, please?  Ah, then I ought to take that
draught!  I forgot it in the morning.'

He permitted her to fetch it and pour it out, but as she recognized a
powerful tonic, she exclaimed, 'Is this what you are taking?  May it
not make you feverish?'

'No doubt it does,' he said, lying down again; 'it was only Henry--'

'What! did not my father know of it?'

'Of course he does not, as it seems to be poison.'

'Not exactly that,' said Ethel; 'but I was surprised, for it was talked
of for Aubrey; but they said it wanted watching.'

'Just like Henry,' observed Leonard.

'Well,' said Ethel, repressing her indignation, 'I am glad, at least,
to find a possible cause for your bad night.  We shall see you
refreshed to-morrow, and not wishing yourself at home.'

'Don't think that I wish that.  Home is gone for ever.'

'Home may be gone higher--up to the real Home,' said Ethel, blushing
with the effort at the hint, and coming down to earthlier consolations,
'but even the fragments will grow into home again here, and you will
feel very differently.'

Leonard did not answer; but after a pause said, 'Miss May, is not it a
horrid pity girls should go to school?'

'I am no judge, Leonard.'

'You see,' said the boy, 'after the little girls were born, my mother
had no time for Ave, and sent her to Brighton, and there she begged to
stay on one half after another, learning all sorts of things; but only
coming home for short holidays, like company, for us to wonder at her
and show her about, thinking herself ever so much in advance of my poor
mother, and now she knows just nothing at all of her!'

'You cannot tell, Leonard, and I am sure she has been devoted to you.'

'If she had stayed at home like you, she might have known how to let
one alone.  Oh, you can't think what peace it was yesterday!'

'Was it peace?  I feared it was desertion.'

'It is much better to be by oneself, than always worried.  To have them
always at me to get up my spirits when the house is miserable--'

'Ah,' said Ethel, 'I remember your mother rejoicing that she had not to
send you from home, and saying you were always so kind and gentle to
her.'

'Did she!' cried the boy, eagerly.  'Oh, but she forgot--' and he hid
his face, the features working with anguish.

'So pleased and proud she used to look, walking with you on Saturday
afternoons.'

'Those Saturdays!  They were the only walks she ever would take; but
she would always come with me.'

More followed in the same strain, and Ethel began to gather more
distinct impressions of the Ward family.  She saw that her present
charge was warm and sound-hearted, and that the strength of his
affections had been chiefly absorbed by the homely housewifely mother,
comparatively little esteemed by the modernized brother and sister.  Of
the loss of his father he seemed to think less; it seemed, indeed,
rather to reconcile him to that of his mother, by the grief it spared
her; and it confirmed Ethel's notion, that Mr. Ward, a busy and dull
man, paid no great attention to his children between the plaything
period and that of full development.  The mother was the home; and
Averil, though Leonard showed both love for and pride in her, had
hitherto been a poor substitute, while as to Henry, there was something
in each mention of him which gave Ethel an undefined dread of the
future of the young household, and a doubt of the result of her
father's kind schemes of patronage.

At any rate, this conversation had the happy effect of banishing
constraint, and satisfying Ethel that the let-alone system was
kindness, not neglect.  She was at ease in discussing fossils, though
he contributed no word, and she let him sleep or wake as he best liked;
whilst Aubrey read to her the 'Cruise of the Betsey.'

Henry's prescription was sent to invigorate the fishes, when its
cessation was found to be followed by the recovery of sleep and
appetite, and in the cool of the evening, by a disposition to stroll on
the beach, and lie under the lee of a rock upon a railway rug, which
Ethel had substituted for the 'three-legged delusion.'

There he was left, while his companions went fossil-hunting, and stayed
so long as to excite their compunction, and quicken their steps when
they at length detached themselves from the enticing blue lias.

'What has he got there?' cried Aubrey.  'Hillo, old fellow! have you
fallen a prey to a black cat?'

'Cat!' returned Leonard, indignantly; 'don't you see it is the jolliest
little dog in the world?'

'You call that a dog?' said the other boy with redoubled contempt; 'it
is just big enough for little Margaret's Noah's Ark!'

'It really is a beauty!' said Ethel.  'I have known one of Flora's
guests bring a bigger one in her muff.'

'It is the most sensible little brute,' added Leonard.  'See; beg, my
man, beg!'

And the beauteous little black-coated King Charles erected itself on
its hind legs, displaying its rich ruddy tan waistcoat and sleeves, and
beseeching with its black diamond eyes for the biscuit, dropped and
caught in mid-air.  It was the first time Leonard had looked bright.

'So you expect us to sanction your private dog stealing?' said Aubrey.

'I have been watching for his mistress to come back,' said Leonard;
'but she must have passed an hour ago, and she does not deserve to have
him, for she never looked back for him; and he had run up to me,
frisking and making much of me, as if he had found an old friend.'

'Perhaps it will run home when we move.'

No such thing; it trotted close at Leonard's heels, and entered the
house with them.  Barbara was consulted, and on Leonard's deposition
that the dog's mistress was in deep mourning, opined that she could be
no other than the widow of an officer, who during his lingering illness
had been often laid upon the beach, and had there played with his
little dogs.  This one, evidently very young, had probably, in the
confusion of its puppy memory, taken the invalid for its lost master.

'Stupid little thing,' said Aubrey; 'just like an undersized lady's
toy.'

'It knows its friends.  These little things have twice the sense of
overgrown dogs as big and as stupid as jackasses.'

A retort from Leonard was welcome in Ethel's ears, and she quite
developed his conversational powers, in an argument on the sagacity of
all canine varieties.  It was too late to send the little animal home;
and he fondled and played with it till bed-time, when he lodged it in
his own room; and the attachment was so strong, that it was with a deep
sigh, that at breakfast he accepted Aubrey's offer of conveying it home.

'There she is! he exclaimed in the midst, gazing from the window.

'And see the perfection of the animal!' added Aubrey, pointing to a
broad-backed waddling caricature of the little black fairy.

'Restitution must be made, little as she deserves you, you little
jewel,' said Leonard, picking up the object of his admiration.  'I'll
take you out.'

'No, no; I am not so infectious,' said Ethel, tying on her hat; 'I had
better do it.'

And after Leonard's parting embrace to his favourite, she received it;
and quickly overtaking the pensive steps of the lady, arrested her
progress with, 'I beg your pardon, but I think this is your dog.'

'Poor little Mab! as the dog struggled to get to her, and danced gladly
round her.  'I missed her last night, and was coming to look for her.'

'She joined one of our party,' said Ethel; 'and he was not strong
enough to follow you.  Indeed, he has had scarlet fever, so perhaps it
was better not.  But he has taken great care of the little dog, and
hopes it is not the worse.'

'Thank you.  I wish poor Mab may always meet such kind friends,' said
the lady, sadly.

'She secured her welcome,' said Ethel.  'We were very grateful to her,
for it was the first thing that has seemed to interest him since his
illness; and he has just lost both his parents.'

'Ah!  Thank you.'

Ethel wondered at herself for having been so communicative; but the
sweet sad face and look of interest had drawn her words out; and on her
return she made such a touching history of the adventure, that Leonard
listened earnestly, and Aubrey looked subdued.

When they went out Leonard refused to spread his rug in that only bed
of pulverized shingle; and Ethel respected his avoidance of it as
delicacy to her whose husband had no doubt often occupied that spot.

'He is a thorough gentleman,' said she, as she walked away with Aubrey.

'He might be an Eton fellow,' was the significant reply.

'I wonder what made him so!' said Ethel, musingly.

'Looking at Tom,' returned Aubrey, not in jest.

'Even with that advantage, I don't quite see where he learnt that
refined consideration.'

'Pshaw, Ethel!  The light of nature would show that to any one but a
stupex.'

Ethel was not sorry that such were Aubrey's views of courtesy, but all
thought of that subject was soon lost in the pursuit of ammonites.

'I wonder what Leonard will have picked up now?' they speculated, as
they turned homewards with their weighty baskets, but what was their
amazement, when Leonard waved his hand, pointing to the little black
dog again at his feet!

'She is mine!' he exclaimed, 'my own!  Mrs. Gisborne has given her to
me; and she is to be the happiest little mite going!'

'Given!'

'Yes.  She came as soon as you were gone, and sat by me, and talked for
an hour, but she goes to-morrow to live with an old hag of an aunt.'

'Really, you seem to have been on confidential terms.'

'I mean that she must be a nuisance, because she doesn't like dogs; so
that Mrs. Gisborne can only take the old one, which she could never
part with.  So she wanted to give Mab to some one who would be kind to
her; and she has come to the right shop; hasn't she, my little queen?'

'I thought she almost wished it this morning,' said Ethel, 'when she
heard how you and Mab had taken to each other: but it is a very choice
present; the creature looks to me to be of a very fine sort.'

'Now, Miss May, how could you know that?'

'Why, by her own deportment!  Don't you know the aristocratic look that
all high-bred animals have--even bantams?'

Leonard looked as if this were the most convincing proof of Ethel's
wisdom, and proceeded.  'Well, she is descended from a real King
Charles, that Charles II. brought from France, and gave to Mrs. Jane
Lane; and they have kept up the breed ever since.'

'So that Mab will have the longest pedigree in Stoneborough; and we
must all respect her!' said Ethel, stroking the black head.

'I am only surprised at Leonard's forgetting his place,' said Aubrey.
'Walking before her majesty, indeed!'

'Oh, attendants do come first sometimes.'

'Then it should be backwards!  I have a mind to try lying on the beach
to-morrow, looking interesting, to see what will descend upon me!'

'A great yellow mongrel,' said Ethel, 'as always befalls imitators in
the path of the hero.'

'What?  You mean that it was all the work of Leonard's beaux yeux?'

Leonard gave a sort of growl, intimating that Aubrey was exciting his
displeasure; and Ethel was glad to be at home, and break off the
conversation; but in a few minutes Aubrey knocked at her door, and
edging himself in, mysteriously said,  'Such fun!  So it was your beaux
yeux, not Leonard's, that made the conquest!'

'I suppose she was touched with what I said of poor Leonard's
circumstances, and the pleasure the creature gave him.'

'That is as prosy as Mary, Ethel.  At any rate, the woman told Leonard
yours was the most irresistibly attractive countenance she ever saw,
short of beauty; and that's not the best of it, for he is absolutely
angry.

'No wonder,' laughed Ethel.

'No, but it's about the beauty!  He can't conceive a face more
beautiful than yours.'

'Except the gargoyle on the church tower,' said Ethel, gaping into as
complete a model of that worthy as flesh and blood could perpetrate.

'But he means it,' persisted Aubrey, fixing his eyes critically on his
sister's features, but disturbed by the contortions into which she
threw them.  'Now don't, don't.  I never saw any fellow with a
hundredth part of your gift for making faces,' he added, between the
unwilling paroxysms of mirth at each fresh grimace; but I want to judge
of you; and--oh! that solemn one is worse than all; it is like Julius
Caesar, if he had ever been photographed!--but really, when one comes
to think about it, you are not so very ugly after all; and are much
better looking than Flora, whom we were taught to believe in.'

'Poor Flora!  You were no judge in her blooming days, before wear and
tear came.'

'And made her like our Scotch grandfather.'

'But Blanche! your own Blanche, Aubrey?  She might have extended
Leonard's ideas of beauty.'

'Blanche has a pretty little visage of her own; but it's not so well
worth looking at as yours,' said Aubrey.  'One has seen to the end of
it at once; and it won't light up.  Hers is just the May blossom; and
yours the--the--I know--the orchis!  I have read of a woman with an
orchidaceous face!'

Teeth, tongue, lips, eyes, and nose were at once made to serve in
hitting off an indescribable likeness to an orchis blossom, which was
rapturously applauded, till Ethel, relaxing the strain and permitting
herself to laugh triumphantly at her own achievement, said,  'There! I
do pride myself on being of a high order of the grotesque.'

'It is not the grotesque that he means.' said Aubrey, 'he is very
cracked indeed.  He declares that when you came and sat by him the day
before yesterday, you were perfectly lovely.'

'Oh, then I understand, and it is no matter,' said Ethel.




CHAPTER V

  They stwons, they stwons, they stwons, they stwons.
                                --Scouring of the White Horse


'So' (wrote Ethel in her daily letter to her father) 'mine is at
present a maternal mission to Leonard, and it is highly gratifying. I
subscribe to all your praise of him, and repent of my ungracious
murmurs at his society.  You had the virtue, and I have the reward (the
usual course of this world), for his revival is a very fresh and
pleasant spectacle, burning hot with enthusiasm.  Whatever we do, he
overdoes, till I recollect how Wilkes said he had never been a Wilkite.
Three days ago, a portentous-looking ammonite attracted his attention;
and whereas he started from the notion that earth was dirt, and stones
were stones, the same all over the world, he has since so far
outstripped his instructors, that as I write this he is drawing a plan
of the strata, with the inhabitants dramatically arranged, Aubrey
suggesting tragic scenes and uncomplimentary likenesses.  His talent
for drawing shows that Averil's was worth culture.  If our geology
alarm Richard, tell him that I think it safer to get it over young, and
to face apparent discrepancies with revelation, rather than leave them
to be discovered afterwards as if they had been timidly kept out of
sight.  And whether Hugh Miller's theory be right or wrong, his grand
fervid language leaves the conviction that undoubting confidence in
revelation consists with the clearest and most scientific mind.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'June 30th.--I consider my boys as returned to their normal relations.
I descended on them as they were sparring like lion-cubs at play,
Leonard desisted in confusion at my beholding such savage doings, but
cool and easy, not having turned a hair; Aubrey, panting, done up,
railing at him as first cousin to Hercules, all as a delicate boast to
me of his friend's recovered strength.  Aubrey's forte is certainly
veneration.  His first class of human beings is a large one, though
quizzing is his ordinary form of adoration.  For instance, he teases
Mab and her devoted slave some degrees more than the victim can bear,
and then relieves his feelings in my room by asseverations that the
friendship with Leonard will be on the May and Spencer pattern.  The
sea is the elixir of life to both; Leonard looks quite himself again,
"only more so," and Aubrey has a glow never seen since his full moon
visage waned, and not all tan, though we are on the high road to be
coffee-berries.  Aubrey daily entertains me with heroic tales of diving
and floating, till I tell them they will become enamoured of some "lady
of honour who lives in the sea," grow fishes' tails, and come home no
more.  And really, as the time wanes, I feel that such a coast is
Elysium--above all, the boating.  The lazy charm, the fresh purity of
air, the sights and sounds, the soft summer wave when one holds one's
hand over the tide, the excitement of sea-weed catching, and the
nonsense we all talk, are so delicious and such new sensations, (except
the nonsense, which loses by your absence, O learned doctor!) that I
fully perceive how pleasures untried cannot even be conceived.  But ere
the lotos food has entirely depraved my memory, I give you warning to
come and fetch us home, now that the boys are in full repair.  Come
yourself, and be feasted on shrimps and mackerel, and take one sail to
the mouth of the bay.  I won't say who shall bring you; it would be fun
to have Daisy, and Mary ought to have a holiday, but then Richard would
take better care of you, and Tom would keep you in the best order.
Could you not all come? only if you don't yourself, I won't promise not
to take up with a merman.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'July 4th.--Very well.  If this is to make a strong man of Aubrey, tant
mieux, and even home and Cocksmoor yearnings concern me little in this
Castle of Indolence, so don't flatter yourself that I shall grumble at
having had to take our house on again.  Let us keep Leonard; we should
both miss him extremely, and Aubrey would lose half the good without
some one to swim, scramble, and fight with. Indeed, for the poor
fellow's own sake, he should stay, for though he is physically as
strong as a young megalosaur, and in the water or on the rocks all day,
I don't think his head is come to application, nor his health to
bearing depression; and I see he dreads the return, so that he had
better stay away till school begins again.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'July 7th.--Oh! you weak-minded folks!  Now I know why you wanted to
keep me away--that you might yield yourselves a prey to Flora.  Paper
and chintz forsooth!  All I have to say is this, Miss Mary--as to my
room, touch it if you dare!  I leave papa to protect his own study, but
for the rest, think, Mary, what your feelings would be if Harry were to
come home, and not know what room he was in!  If I am to choose between
the patterns of chintz, I prefer the sea-weed variety, as in character
with things in general, and with the present occasion; and as to the
carpet, I hope that Flora, touched with our submission, will not send
us anything distressing.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'July 17th.--Can you send me any more of the New Zealand letters?  I
have copied out the whole provision I brought with me for the blank
book, and by the way have inoculated Leonard with such a missionary
fever as frightens me.  To be sure, he is cut out for such work.  He is
intended for a clergyman (on grounds of gentility, I fear), and is too
full of physical energy and enterprise to take readily to sober
parochial life.  His ardour is a gallant thing, and his home ties not
binding; but it is not fair to take advantage of his present
inflammable state of enthusiasm, and the little we have said has been
taken up so fervently, that I have resolved on caution for the future.
It is foolish to make so much of a boy's eagerness, especially when
circumstances have brought him into an unnatural dreamy mood; and
probably these aspirations will pass away with the sound of the waves,
but they are pretty and endearing while they last in their force and
sincerity.

            '"Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,
              When thought is speech, and speech is truth;"

'and one's heart beats at the thought of what is possible to creatures
of that age.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'July 21st.--You, who taught us to love our Walter Scott next to our
"Christian Year," and who gave us half-crowns for rehearsing him when
other children were learning the Robin's Petition, what think you of
this poor boy Leonard knowing few of the novels and none of the poems?
No wonder the taste of the day is grovelling lower and lower, when
people do not begin with the pure high air of his world!  To take up
one of his works after any of our present school of fiction is like
getting up a mountain side after a feverish drawing-room or an
offensive street.  If it were possible to know the right moment for a
book to be really tasted--not thrust aside because crammed down--no, it
would not be desirable, as I was going to say, we should only do double
mischief.  We are not sent into the world to mould people, but to let
them mould themselves; and the internal elasticity will soon unmake all
the shapes that just now seem to form under my fingers like clay.

'At any rate, the introduction of such a congenial spirit to Sir Walter
was a real treat; Leonard has the very nature to be fired by him, and
Aubrey being excessively scandalized at his ignorance, routed a cheap
"Marmion" out of the little bookshop, and we beguiled a wet afternoon
with it; Aubrey snatching it from me at all the critical passages, for
fear I should not do them justice, and thundering out the battle, which
stirred the other boy like a trumpet sound.  Indeed, Leonard got Mab
into a corner, and had a very bad cold in the head when De Wilton was
re-knighted; and when "the hand of Douglas was his own," he jumped up
and shouted out, "Well done, old fellow!"  Then he took it to himself
and read it all over again, introductions and all, and has raved ever
since.  I wish you could see Aubrey singing out some profane couplet of
"midnight and not a nose," or some more horrible original parody, and
then dodging apparently in the extremity of terror, just as Leonard
furiously charges him.

'But you would have been struck with their discussions over it.  Last
night, at tea, they began upon the woeful result of the Wager of
Battle, which seemed to oppress them as if it had really happened. Did
I believe in it?  Was I of the Lady Abbess's opinion, that

             '"Perchance some form was unobserved,
              Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved"?


'This from Aubrey, while Leonard rejoined that even if De Wilton had so
done, it was still injustice that he should be so cruelly ruined, and
Marmion's baseness succeed.  It would be like a king wilfully giving
wrong judgment because the right side failed in some respectful
observance.  He was sure such a thing could never be.  Did I ever know
of a real case where Heaven did not show the right?  It was confusing
and alarming, for both those boys sat staring at me as if I could
answer them; and those wonderful searching eyes of Leonard's were
fixed, as if his whole acquiescence in the dealings of Providence were
going to depend on the reply, that could but be unsatisfactory.  I
could only try plunging deep.  I said it was Job's difficulty, and it
was a new light to Leonard that Job was about anything but patience.
He has been reading the Book all this Sunday evening; and is not De
Wilton a curious introduction to it?  But Aubrey knew that I meant the
bewilderment of having yet to discover that Divine Justice is
longer-sighted than human justice, and he cited the perplexities of
high-minded heathen.  Thence we came to the Christian certainty that
"to do well and suffer for it is thankworthy;" and that though no
mortal man can be so innocent as to feel any infliction wholly
unmerited and disproportioned, yet human injustice at its worst may be
working for the sufferer an exceeding weight of glory, or preparing him
for some high commission below. Was not Ralph de Wilton far nobler and
purer as the poor palmer, than as Henry the Eighth's courtier!  And if
you could but have heard our sequel, arranging his orthodoxy, his
Scripture reading, and his guardianship of distressed monks and nuns,
you would have thought he had travelled to some purpose, only he would
certainly have been burnt by one party, and beheaded by the other.  On
the whole, I think Leonard was a little comforted, and I cannot help
hoping that the first apparently cruel wrong that comes before him may
be the less terrible shock to his faith from his having been set to
think out the question by "but half a robber and but half a knight."'

      *      *      *      *      *

'August 1st.--Yesterday afternoon we three were in our private
geological treasury, Leonard making a spread-eagle of himself in an
impossible place on the cliff side, trying to disinter what hope,
springing eternal in the human breast, pronounced to be the paddle of a
saurian; Aubrey, climbing as high as he durst, directing operations and
making discoveries; I, upon a ledge half-way up, guarding Mab and
poking in the debris, when one of the bridal pairs, with whom the place
is infested, was seen questing about as if disposed to invade our
premises.  Aubrey, reconnoitring in high dudgeon, sarcastically
observed that all red-haired men are so much alike, that he should have
said yonder was Hec--.  The rest ended in a view halloo from above and
below, and three bounds to the beach, whereon I levelled my glass, and
perceived that in very deed it was Mr. and Mrs. Ernescliffe who were
hopping over the shingle.  Descending, I was swung off the last rock in
a huge embrace, and Hector's fiery moustache was scrubbing both my
cheeks before my feet touched the ground, and Blanche with both arms
round my waist.  They were ready to devour us alive in their famine for
a Stoneborough face; and as Flora and Mary are keeping home
uninhabitable, found themselves obliged to rush away from Maplewood in
the middle of their county welcomes for a little snatch of us, and to
join us in vituperating the new furniture.  If Mary could only hear
Hector talk of a new sofa that he can't put his boots upon--he says it
is bad enough at Maplewood, but that he did hope to be still
comfortable at home. They have to get back to dine out to-morrow, but
meantime the fun is more fast and furious than ever, and as soon as the
tide serves, we are to fulfil our long-cherished desire of boating
round to Lyme.  I won't answer for the quantity of discretion added to
our freight, but at least there is six feet more of valour, and Mrs.
Blanche for my chaperon.  Bonnie Blanche is little changed by her four
months' matrimony, and only looks prettier and more stylish, but she is
painfully meek and younger-sisterish, asking my leave instead of her
husband's, and distressed at her smartness in her pretty shady hat and
undyed silk, because I was in trim for lias-grubbing.  Her appearance
ought to be an example to all the brides in the place with skirts in
the water, and nothing on to keep off eyes, sun, or wind from their
faces.  I give Flora infinite credit for it.  Blanche and Aubrey walk
arm in arm in unceasing talk, and that good fellow, Hector, has
included Leonard in the general fraternity.  They are highly
complimentary, saying they should have taken Aubrey for Harry, he is so
much stouter and rosier, and that Leonard is hugely grown. Here come
these three boys shouting that the boat is ready; I really think Hector
is more boyish and noisy than ever.


             "Five precious souls, and all agog
              To dash through thick or thin."


I'll take the best care of them in my power.  Good-bye.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'August 2nd.--Safe back, without adventure, only a great deal of
enjoyment, for which I am doubly thankful, as I almost fancied we were
fey, one of the many presentiments that come to nothing, but perhaps do
us rather good than harm for all that.  I hope I did not show it in my
letter, and communicate it to you.  Even when safe landed, I could not
but think of the Cobb and Louisa Musgrove, as I suppose every one does.
We slept at the inn; drove with the Ernescliffes to the station this
morning, and came back to this place an hour ago, after having been
steeped in pleasure.  I shall send the description of Lyme to Daisy
to-morrow, having no time for it now, as I want an answer from you
about our going to Maplewood.  The "married babies" are bent upon it,
and Hector tries to demonstrate that it is the shortest way home, to
which I can't agree; but as it may save another journey, and it will be
nice to see them in their glory, I told them that if you could spare
us, we would go from the 29th to the 4th of September.  This will bring
Leonard home four days before the end of the holidays, for he has been
most warmly invited, Hector adopting him into the brotherhood of papa's
pets.  I am glad he is not left out; and Mary had better prove to
Averil that he will be much happier for having no time at home before
the half year begins. He still shrinks from the very name being brought
before him.  Let me know, if you please, whether this arrangement will
suit, as I am to write to Blanche.  Dear little woman, I hope Hector
won't make a spoilt child of her, they are so very young, and their
means seem so unlimited to them both, Hector wanting to make her and us
presents of whatever we admired, and when she civilly praised Mab,
vehemently declaring that she should have just such another if money
could purchase, or if not, he would find a way.  "Thank you, Hector
dear, I had rather not," placidly responds Blanche, making his
vehemence fall so flat, and Leonard's almost exulting alarm glide into
such semi-mortification, that I could have laughed, though I remain in
hopes that her "rather not" may always be as prudent, for I believe it
is the only limit to Hector's gifts.'

      *      *      *      *      *

'29th, 8 A. M.--Farewell to the Coombe of Coombes.  I write while
waiting for the fly, and shall post this at Weymouth, where we are to
be met.  We have been so happy here, that I could be sentimental, if
Leonard were not tete-a-tete with me, and on the verge of that
predicament.  "Never so happy in his life," quoth he, "and never will
be again--wonders when he shall gee this white cliff again."  But,
happily, in tumbles Aubrey with the big claw of a crab, which he
insists on Leonard's wearing next his heart as a souvenir of Mrs.
Gisborne; he is requited with an attempt to pinch his nose therewith,
And--

2.30. P. M. Weymouth.--The result was the upset of my ink, whereof you
see the remains; and our last moments were spent in reparations and
apologies.  My two squires are in different plight from what they were
ten weeks ago, racing up hills that it then half killed them to come
down, and lingering wistfully on the top for last glimpses of our bay.
I am overwhelmed with their courtesies, and though each is lugging
about twenty pounds weight of stones, and Mab besides in Leonard's
pocket, I am seldom allowed to carry my own travelling bag. Hector has
been walking us about while his horses are resting after their twenty
miles, but we think the parade and pier soon seen, and are tantalized
by having no time for Portland Island, only contenting ourselves with
an inspection of shop fossils, which in company with Hector is a sort
of land of the "Three Wishes," or worse; for on my chancing to praise a
beautiful lump of Purbeck stone, stuck as full of paludinae as a
pudding with plums, but as big as my head and much heavier, he brought
out his purse at once; and when I told him he must either enchant it on
to my nose, or give me a negro slave as a means of transport, Leonard
so earnestly volunteered to be the bearer, that I was thankful for my
old rule against collecting curiosities that I do not find and carry
myself.

'August 30th. Maplewood.--I wonder whether these good children can be
happier, unless it may be when they receive you!  How much they do make
of us! and what a goodly sight at their own table they are! They are
capable in themselves of making any place charming, though the man must
have been enterprising who sat down five-and-twenty years ago to
reclaim this park from irreclaimable down.  I asked where were the
maples? and where was the wood? and was shown five stunted ones in a
cage to defend them from the sheep, the only things that thrive here,
except little white snails, with purple lines round their shells.
"There now, isn't it awfully bleak?" says Hector, with a certain
comical exultation.  "How was a man ever to live here without her?"
And the best of it is, that Blanche thinks it beautiful--delicious free
air, open space, view over five counties, &c. Inside, one traces
Flora's presiding genius, Hector would never have made the concern so
perfect without her help; and Blanche is no child in her own house, but
is older and more at home than Hector, so that one would take her for
the heiress, making him welcome and at ease.  Not that it is like the
Grange, Blanche is furious if I remark any little unconscious imitation
or similarity--"As if we could be like Flora and George indeed!"  Nor
will they.  If Blanche rules, it will be unawares to herself.  And
where Hector is, there will always be a genial house, overflowing with
good-humour and good-nature.  He has actually kept the 1st of September
clear of shooting parties that he may take these two boys out, and give
them a thorough day's sport in his turnip-fields.  "License?  Nonsense,
he thought of that before, and now Aubrey may get some shooting out of
George Rivers." After such good-nature my mouth is shut, though, ay di
me, all the world and his wife are coming here on Monday evening, and
unless I borrow of Blanche, Mrs. Ernescliffe's sister will "look like
ane scrub."'

      *      *      *      *      *

'September 2nd.--Train at Stoneborough, 6.30.  That's the best news I
have to give.  Oh, it has been a weary while to be out of sight of you
all, though it has been pleasant enough, and the finale is perfectly
brilliant.  Blanche, as lady of the house, is a sight to make a sister
proud; she looks as if she were born to nothing else, and is a model of
prettiness and elegance.  Hector kept coming up to me at every
opportunity to admire her.  "Now, old Ethel, look at her? Doesn't she
look like a picture?  I chose that gown, you know;" then again after
dinner, "Well, old Ethel, didn't it go off well?  Did you ever see
anything like her?  There, just watch her among the old ladies.  I
can't think where she learnt it all, can you?"  And it certainly was
too perfect to have been learnt.  It was not the oppression that poor
dear Flora gives one by doing everything so well, as if she had
perfectly balanced what was due to herself and everybody else; it was
just Blanche, simple and ready, pleasing herself by doing what people
liked, and seeing what they did like. It was particularly pretty to see
how careful both she and Hector were not to put Leonard aside--indeed,
they make more of him than of Aubrey, who is quite able to find his own
level.  Even his tender feelings as to Mab are respected, and Blanche
always takes care to invite her to a safe seat on a fat scarlet cushion
on the sofa (Mrs. Ledwich's wedding present), when the footmen with the
tea might be in danger of demolishing her.  Leonard, and his fine eyes,
and his dog, were rather in fashion yesterday evening.  Blanche put out
his Coombe sketches for a company trap, and people talked to him about
them, and he was set to sing with Blanche, and then with some of the
young ladies.  He seemed to enjoy it, and his nice, modest,
gentlemanlike manner told.  The party was not at all amiss in itself.
I had a very nice clerical neighbour, and it is a very different thing
to see and hear Hector at the bottom of the table from having poor dear
George there.  But oh! only one dinner more before we see our own table
again, and Tom at the bottom of it.  Hurrah!  I trust this is the last
letter you will have for many a day, from

                        'Your loving and dutiful daughter,
                                                  'ETHELDRED MAY.'




CHAPTER VI

  The XII statute remember to observe
  For all the paine thou hast for love and wo
  All is too lite her mercie to deserve
  Thou musten then thinke wher er thou ride or go
  And mortale wounds suffre thou also
  All for her sake, and thinke it well besette
  Upon thy love, for it maie not be bette.
                              --Chaucer's 'Court of Love'


'Good-bye, Leonard,' said Ethel, as the two families, after mustering
strong at the station, parted at the head of Minster Street; and as she
felt the quivering lingering pressure of his hand, she added with a
smile, 'Remember, any Saturday afternoon.  And you will come for the
books.'

Glad as she was to be anchored on her father's arm, and clustered round
with rejoicing brothers and sisters, she could not be devoid of a shade
of regret for the cessation of the intimate intercourse of the last
nine weeks, and a certain desire for the continuance of the
confidential terms that had arisen.  The moment's pang was lost in the
eager interchange of tidings too minute for correspondence, and in
approval of the renovation of the drawing-room, which was so skilful
that her first glance would have detected no alteration in the subdued
tones of paper, carpet, and chintz, so complete was their loyalty to
the spirit of perpetuity.  Flora told no one of the pains that, among
her many cares, she had spent upon those tints, not so much to gratify
Ethel, as because her own wearied spirit craved the repose of home
sameness, nor how she had finally sent to Paris for the paper that
looked so quiet, but was so exquisitely finished, that the whole room
had a new air of refinement.

The most notable novelty was a water-coloured sketch, a labour of love
from the busy hands in New Zealand, which had stolen a few hours from
their many tasks to send Dr. May the presentment of his namesake
grandson.  Little Dickie stood before them, a true son of the
humming-bird sprite, delicately limbed and featured, and with elastic
springiness, visible even in the pencilled outline.  The dancing dark
eyes were all Meta's, though the sturdy clasp of the hands, and the
curl that hung over the brow, brought back the reflection of Harry's
baby days.

It would have been a charming picture, even if it had not been by
Meta's pencil, and of Norman's child, and it chained Ethel for more
than one interval of longing loving study.

Tom interrupted her in one of these contemplations.  'Poor Flora,' he
said, with more feeling than he usually allowed to affect his voice,
'that picture is a hard trial to her.  I caught her looking at it for
full ten minutes, and at last she turned away with her eyes full of
tears.'

'I do not wonder,' said Ethel.  'There is a certain likeness to that
poor little Leonora, and I think Flora misses her more every year.'

'Such a child as Margaret is just the thing to cause the other to be
missed.'

'What do you think of Margaret this time?' said Ethel, for Tom alone
ever durst seriously touch on the undefined impression that all
entertained of Flora's only child.

'If Flora were only silly about her,' said Tom, 'one might have some
hope; but unluckily she is as judicious there as in everything else,
and the child gets more deplorable every year.  She has got the look of
deformity, and yet she is not deformed; and the queer sullen ways of
deficiency, but she has more wit than her father already, and more
cunning.'

'As long as there is a mind to work on, one hopes' said Ethel.

'I could stand her better if she were foolish!' exclaimed Tom, 'but I
can't endure to see her come into the room to be courted by every one,
and be as cross as she dares before her mother.  Behind Flora's back, I
don't know which she uses worst, her father or her grandfather.  I came
down upon little Miss at last for her treatment of the Doctor, and
neither he nor Rivers have forgiven me.'

'Poor child!  I don't believe she has ever known a moment's thorough
health or comfort!  I always hope that with Flora's patience and
management she may improve.'

'Pshaw, Ethel! she will always be a misfortune to herself and everybody
else.'

'I have faith in good coming out of misfortunes.'

'Illustrated, I suppose, by ravings about your young Ward.  Mary is
crazy about his sister, and the Doctor lunatic as to the brother, who
will soon kick at him for his pains.'

'I own to thinking Leonard capable of great things.'

Tom made a grimace equal to what Ethel could do in that way, thrust his
hands deep into his pockets, and philosophically observed, 'Behold the
effects of patronage!  Blind Cupid is nothing to him.'

Ethel let it pass, caring too much for Leonard to set him up as a mark
for Tom's satire, which was as different from Aubrey's as quinine from
orange-peel, though properly used, it was a bracing tonic, such as she
often found wholesome.  A cynical younger brother is a most valuable
possession to a woman who has taken a certain position in her own world.

Tom was a sterling character, highly and deeply principled, though not
demonstrative, and showing his Scots descent.  None of the brothers had
been extravagant, but Tom, with the income of his lately achieved
fellowship, performed feats of economy, such as attaining to the
purchase of an ultra perfect microscope, and he was consistently
industrious, so exactly measuring his own powers that to undertake was
with him to succeed, and no one suffered anxiety on his account. As Dr.
Spencer said, he was as sure to fall on his legs as a sandy cat, and so
nobody cared for him.  At home he was sufficient to himself, properly
behaved to his father, civil to Richard, unmerciful in ridicule, but
merciful in dominion over the rest, except Ethel, whom he treated as an
equal, able to retort in kind, reserving for her his most
highly-flavoured sallies, and his few and distant approaches to such
confidence as showed her how little she knew him. His father esteemed
but did not 'get on with' him, and his chief and devoted adherent was
Aubrey, to whom he was always kind and helpful. In person Tom was tall
and well-made, of intelligent face, of which his spectacles seemed a
natural feature, well-moulded fine-grained hand, and dress the
perfection of correctness, though the precision, and dandyism had been
pruned away.

Ethel would have preferred that Leonard and Averil should not have
walked in on the Saturday after her return, just when Tom had spread
his microscope apparatus over the table, and claimed Mary's assistance
in setting up objects; and she avoided his eye when Mary and Averil did
what he poetically called rushing into each other's arms, whilst she
bestowed her greetings on Leonard and Mab.

'Then she may come in?' said Leonard.  'Henry has banished her from the
drawing-room, and we had much ado to get her allowed even in the
schoolroom.'

'It is so tiresome,' said his sister, 'just one of Henry's fancies.'
Ethel, thinking this disloyal, remarked that those who disliked dogs in
the house could not bear them, and did not wonder that Tom muttered
'Original.'

'But such a little darling as this!' cried Averil, 'and after Mrs.
Ernescliffe had been so kind.  Mary, you must see how clever she is.
Leonard is teaching her to play on the piano.'

'I congratulate you,' quietly said Tom; and somehow Ethel felt that
those three words were a satire on her 'capable of great things;' while
Leonard drew up, and Averil coloured, deferring the exhibition of Mab's
accomplishments till 'another time,' evidently meaning out of Tom's
presence.

'Aubrey is gone to the Grange with papa,' Ethel said, glad to lead away
from Mab.

'He told me he was going,' said Leonard, 'but he said you would be at
home.'

Ethel knew that the intonation of that 'you' had curled Tom's lip with
mischief, and dreading that Leonard should discover and resent his
mood, she said, 'We think one of your sea eggs has got among ours; will
you come to the schoolroom and see?'

And leaving Tom to tease and be bored by the young ladies, she led the
way to the schoolroom, where Aubrey's fossils, each in its private
twist of paper, lay in confusion on the floor, whence they were in
course of being transferred to the shelf of a cupboard.

Leonard looked at the disorder with astonished admiration.

'Yes,' said Ethel, 'it is a great mess, but they are to have a regular
cabinet, when Richard has time, or Aubrey has money, two equally
unlikely chances.'

'How much does a cabinet cost?'

'Jones would make a plain deal one for about five-and-twenty shillings.'

'I can't unpack mine properly,' said Leonard, disconsolately.  'Ave is
going to make a place for them, but Henry votes them rubbish.'

'They are dreadful rubbish,' said Ethel.  'It goes against my
conscience to guard them from the house-maid, and if my sister Flora
came in here, I should be annihilated.'

'Of course one expects that in women.'

'Oh, Richard would be as much distracted!  It is a provision of Nature
that there should be some tidy ones, or what would the world come to?'

'It would be a great deal less of a bore.'

'Not at all; we should stifle ourselves at last if we had our own way.
Never mind, Leonard, we make them go through quite as much as they make
us.'

'I am sure I hope so.'

'No, no, Leonard,' she said, becoming less playful, 'we must not do it
on purpose.  Even unconsciously, we plague the spirits of order quite
enough, and they have the right on their side after all.'

'I think a lady is the person to say what one may do or not in the
drawing-room; don't you?' said Leonard.

'That depends.'

'And you let your brother spread his things all over yours!'

'So I do; but I would not if papa minded it, or even if this were
Richard's house, and he did not like it.  Don't begin with worries
about trifles, pray, Leonard.'

'It is not I that care about trifles,' returned the boy.  'How was one
to reckon on a man setting up a monomania about dogs' paws in the hall?'

'I have feared we were rather foolish; I ought to have reminded you to
ask whether Mab would be welcome.'

'I was not going to ask leave, I have no one whose leave to ask,' said
Leonard, in tones at first proud, then sad.

'That's a bad beginning,' returned Ethel.  'As master of the house,
your brother has a right to your compliance, and if you do not all give
way to each other, you will have nothing but dissension and misery.'

'All to each other; yes, that is fair.'

'He must have given way to you in letting you keep the dog at all in
the house' said Ethel.  'It is a real instance of kindness, and you are
bound to let her be as little in his way as possible.'

'He does mean well, I suppose,' said Leonard; 'but he is an awful
bother, and poor Ave gets the worst of it.  One has no patience with
finikin ways in a man.'

'There's no telling how much I owe to my finikin brother Richard,' said
Ethel; 'and if you teach Ave to be loyal to the head of your family,
you will do her as much good as you will do harm by chafing against his
ordinances.'

'Don't you hate such nonsense, Miss May?'

'I can't love order as much as I honour it.  Set tastes aside.  The
point is, that if you are to hold together, Leonard, it must be by
bearing and forbearing, and above all, to your elder brother.'

'Well, it is a blessing that I shall be in school on Monday.'

'So it is,' said Ethel; 'but, barring these fidgets, Leonard, tell me,'
and she looked kindly at him, 'how is it at home?  Better than you
expected, I hope.'

'Blank enough' said Leonard; 'I didn't think I should have minded the
sound of the surgery door so much.'

'You will have Sunday to help you.'

'Yes, Ave and I have been down to the churchyard; Ave does care, poor
girl.  She knows better what it is now, and she was glad to have me to
talk to again, though Miss Mary has been so kind to her.'

'Oh, nobody can be so much to her as you.'

'Poor Ave!' said Leonard, tenderly.  'And look here, this is my
father's watch, and she made me this chain of my mother's hair.  And
they have given me a photograph of my mother's picture; Henry had it
done long ago, but thought it would upset me to give it before I went
away.  If he could but have guessed how I lay and wished for one!'

'Those are the things one never can guess, even when one would give
worlds to do so.'

'You--O, Miss May, you always know the thing that is comfortable.'

'Well,' said Ethel, 'what will be comfortable now is that you should be
the man above being affronted by other people's nonsense--the only way
to show we did not all spoil each other at Coombe.  Now, here is
Woodstock for you, and tell me if this be not your Cidaris.  Oh, and we
have found out the name of your funny spiked shell.'

Ten minutes of palaeontology ensued; and she was leading the way back
to the drawing-room, when he exclaimed, 'Have you heard about the
match, Miss May?'

'Match?  Oh, the cricket match?'

'Stoneborough against All England, on St. Matthew's Day, so I shall
have got my hand in.'

'All England meaning every one that can be scraped up that is not
Stoneborough,' returned Ethel.  'George Larkins has been over here
canvassing Tom and Aubrey.  But you can't be going to play, Leonard;
papa does not half like it for Aubrey.'

'Perhaps not for Aubrey,' said Leonard; 'but I am as well as ever, and
luckily they can't make up a decent eleven without me.  You will come
and see us, Miss May?  I'll find you the jolliest place between the old
lime and the cloister door.'

'As if I had not known the meads ages before your time!' said Ethel.

'I thought you never came to the matches?'

'Ah! you don't remember my brothers' Stoneborough days, when Norman was
cricket mad, and Harry after him, and my father was the best cricketer
in Stoneborough till his accident.

'Yes, Dr. May always comes to see the matches,' said Leonard.  'You
will, won't you now, Miss May?  I didn't think you knew anything about
cricket, but it will be all the better now.'

Ethel laughed, and half promised.

Cocksmoor existed without Ethel on that holiday; and indeed she was
self-reproachful, though pleased, at finding her presence so great a
treat to her father.  Leonard might do the honours of the lime-tree
nook, but she spent but little time there, for Dr. May made her walk
about with him as he exchanged greetings with each and all, while
Gertrude led Richard about at her will, and Mary consorted with the
Ward girls.  With no one on her mind, Ethel could give free attention
to the smoothly-shaven battle-field, where, within the gray walls
shaded by the overhanging elms, the young champions were throwing all
the ardour and even the chivalry of their nature into the contest.

The annual game had been delayed by the illness in the spring, and the
school had lost several good players at the end of the half year; but,
on the other hand, the holidays being over, George Larkins had been
unable to collect an eleven either in full practice or with public
school training; and the veteran spectators were mourning the decay of
cricket, and talking of past triumphs.  The school had the first
innings, which resulted in the discomfiture of Fielder, one of their
crack champions, and with no great honour to any one except Folliot,
the Dux, and Leonard Ward, who both acquitted themselves so creditably,
that it was allowed that if others had done as well, Stoneborough might
have had a chance.

But when 'All England' went in, the game seemed to be more equally
balanced.  Aubrey May, in spite of devoted practice under Tom's
instructions, was, from nervous eagerness, out almost as soon as in,
and in his misery of shame and despair felt like the betrayer of his
cause.  But in due time, with the sun declining, and the score still
low, Tom May came forward, as the last hope of 'All England,' lissom,
active, and skilled, walking up to his wicket with the easy confidence
of one not greatly caring, but willing to show the natives what play
might be.

And his play was admirable; the fortunes of the day began to tremble in
the balance; every one, spectators and all, were in a state of eager
excitement; and Aubrey, out of tone and unable to watch for the crisis,
fairly fled from the sight, rushed through the cloister door, and threw
himself with his face down upon the grass, shivering with suspense.
There he lay till a sudden burst of voices and cheers showed that the
battle was over.

The result?  He could not believe eyes or ears as he opened the door,
to behold the triumphant gestures of Stoneborough, and the crestfallen
air of his own side, and heard the words, 'Folliot missed two chances
of long-leg--Ward--tremendous rush--caught him out--with only one run
to tie.'

Dr. May was shaking hands with Leonard in congratulation, not solely
generous, for let his sons be where they would, Stoneborough triumphs
were always the Doctor's, and he was not devoid of gratitude to any one
who would defeat Tom.  Noting, however, the flitting colour, fluttering
breath, and trembling limbs, that showed the effect of the day's
fatigue and of the final exertion, he signed back the boys, and thrust
Leonard within the cloister door, bidding Aubrey fetch his coat, and
Ethel keep guard over him, and when he was rested and cooled, to take
him home to the High Street, where his sisters would meet him.

'But--sir--the--supper!' gasped Leonard, leaning against the door-post,
unable to stand alone.

'I dare say.  Keep him safe, Ethel.'

And the Doctor shut the door, and offered himself to appease the lads
who were clamouring for the hero of their cause; while Leonard sank
back on the bench, past words or looks for some moments.

'You have redeemed your pennon with your last gasp,' said Ethel, half
reproachfully.

'I was determined,' panted the boy.  'I don't know how I did it.  I
couldn't fail with you looking on.  You did it by coming.'

Reply was spared by Aubrey's return, with the coat in one hand, and a
glass of ale in the other.  'You are to go home with Ethel at once,' he
pronounced with the utmost zest, 'that is, as soon as you are rested.
My father says you must not think of the supper, unless you
particularly wish to be in bed for a week; but we'll all drink your
health, and I'll return thanks--the worst player for the best.'

This was the first time Aubrey had been considered in condition for
such festivities, and the gratification of being superior to somebody
might account for his glee in invaliding his friend.

Cricket suppers were no novelties to Leonard; and either this or his
exhaustion must have made him resign himself to his fate, and walk back
with Ethel as happily as at Coombe.

The sisters soon followed, and were detained to drink tea.  The
cricketers' mirth must have been fast and furious if it exceeded that
at home, for the Doctor thought himself bound to make up for the loss
to Leonard, put forth all his powers of entertainment, and was
comically confidential about 'these Etonians that think so much of
themselves.'

Averil was lively and at ease, showing herself the pleasant
well-informed girl whom Ethel had hitherto only taken on trust, and
acting in a pretty motherly way towards the little sisters.  She was
more visibly triumphant than was Leonard, and had been much gratified
by a request from the Bankside curate that she would entirely undertake
the harmonium at the chapel.  She had been playing on it during the
absence of the schoolmaster, and with so much better effect than he
could produce, that it had been agreed that he would be best in his
place among the boys.

'Ah!' said the Doctor, 'two things in one are apt to be like Aubrey's
compromise between walking-stick and camp-stool--a little of neither.'

'I don't mean it to be a little of neither with me, Dr. May,' said
Averil.  'I shall have nothing to do with my choir on week-days, till I
have sent these pupils of mine to bed.'

'Are you going to train the choir too?' asked Leonard.

'I must practise with them, or we shall not understand one another;
besides, they have such a horrid set of tunes, Mr. Scudamour gave me
leave to change them.  He is going to have hymnals, and get rid of Tate
and Brady at once.'

'Ah! poor Nahum!' sighed the Doctor with such a genuine sigh, that
Averil turned round on him in amazement.

'Yes,' said Ethel, 'I'm the only one conservative enough to sympathize
with you, papa.'

'But does any one approve of the New Version?' cried Averil, recovering
from her speechless wonder.

'Don't come down on me,' said the Doctor, holding up his hands.  'I
know it all; but the singing psalms are the singing psalms to me--and I
can't help my bad taste--I'm too old to change.'

'Oh! but, papa, you do like those beautiful hymns that we have now?'
cried Gertrude.

'Oh! yes, yes, Gertrude, I acquiesce.  They are a great improvement;
but then, wasn't it a treat when I got over to Woodside Church the
other day, and found them singing, "No change of times shall ever
shock"!' and he began to hum it.

'That is the Sicilian Mariners' hymn,' said Averil.  'I can sing you
that whenever you please.'

'Thank you; on condition you sing the old Tate and Brady, not your "O
Sanctissma, O Purissima,"' said the Doctor, a little mischievously.

'Which is eldest, I wonder?' said Ave, smiling, pleased to comply with
any whim of his; though too young to understand the associations that
entwine closely around all that has assisted or embodied devotion.

The music went from the sacred to the secular; and Ethel owned that the
perfectly pronounced words and admirable taste made her singing very
different from that which adorned most dinner-parties.  Dr. May
intensely enjoyed, and was between tears and bravos at the charge of
the Six Hundred, when the two brothers entered, and stood silently
listening.

That return brought a change.  Aubrey was indeed open and bright,
bursting out with eager communications the moment the song ceased, then
turning round with winning apologies, and hopes that he was not
interrupting; but Tom looked so stiff and polite as to chill every one,
and Averil began to talk of the children's bed-time.

The Doctor and Aubrey pressed for another song so earnestly that she
consented; but the spirit and animation were gone, and she had no
sooner finished than she made a decided move to depart, and Dr. May
accompanied the party home.

'Is my father going to put that fellow to bed?' said Tom, yawning, as
if injured by the delay of bed-time thus occasioned.

'Your courtesy does not equal his,' said Ethel.

'Nor ever will,' said Tom.

'Never,' said Ethel, so emphatically that she nettled him into adding,

'He is a standing warning against spoiling one's patients.  I wouldn't
have them and their whole tag-rag and bobtail about my house for
something!'

'O, Tom, for shame!' cried Mary, bursting out in the wrath he had
intended to excite.

'Ask him which is tag, which rag, and which bobtail,' suggested Ethel.

'Mab, I suppose,' said Gertrude, happily closing the discussion, but it
was re-animated by her father's arrival.

'That's a nice girl,' he said, 'very nice; but we must not have her too
often in the evening, Mary, without Henry.  It is not fair to break up
people's home party.'

'Bobber than bobtail,' murmured Tom, with a gesture only meant for
Ethel.

'Ave said he would be out till quite late, papa,' said Mary, in
self-defence.

'She ought to have been back before him,' said Dr. May.  'He didn't
seem best pleased to have found her away, and let me tell you, young
woman, it is hard on a man who has been at work all day to come home
and find a dark house and nobody to speak to.'

Mary looked melancholy at this approach to reproof, and Tom observed in
an undertone,

'Never mind, Mary, it is only to give papa the opportunity of improving
his pupil, while you exchange confidence with your bosom friend.  I
shall be gone in another month, and there will be nothing to prevent
the perfect fusion of families.'

No one was sorry that the evening here came to an end.

'I hope,' said Dr. May at the Sunday's dinner, 'that the cricket match
has not done for that boy; I did not see him among the boys.'

'No,' said Mary, 'but he has met with some accident, and has the most
terrible bruised face.  Ave can't make out how he did it.  Do you know,
Aubrey?'

The Doctor and his two sons burst out laughing.

'I thought,' said Ethel, rather grieved, 'that those things had gone
out of fashion.'

'So Ethel's protege, or prodigy, which is it?' said Tom, 'is turning
out a muscular Christian on her hands.'

'Is a muscular Christian one who has muscles, or one who trusts in
muscles?' asked Ethel.

'Or a better cricketer than an Etonian?' added the Doctor.

Tom and Aubrey returned demonstrations that Eton's glory was
untarnished, and the defeat solely owing to 'such a set of sticks.'

'Aubrey,' said Ethel, in their first private moment, 'was this a fight
in a good cause? for if so, I will come down with you and see him.'

Aubrey made a face of dissuasion, ending in a whistle.

'Do at least tell me it is nothing I should be sorry for,' she said
anxiously.

He screwed his face into an intended likeness of Ethel's imitation of
an orchis, winked one eye, and looked comical.

'I see it can't be really bad,' said Ethel, 'so I will rest on your
assurance, and ask no indiscreet questions.'

'You didn't see, then?' said Aubrey, aggrieved at the failure of his
imitation.  'You don't remember the beauty he met at Coombe?'

'Beauty!  None but Mab.'

'Well, they found it out and chaffed him.  Fielder said he would cut
out as good a face out of an old knob of apple wood, and the doctor in
petticoats came up again; he got into one of his rages, and they had no
end of a shindy, better than any, they say, since Lake and Benson
fifteen years ago; but Ward was in too great a passion, or he would
have done for Fielder long before old Hoxton was seen mooning that way.
So you see, if any of the fellows should be about, it would never do
for you to be seen going to bind up his wounds, but I can tell him you
are much obliged, and all that.'

'Obliged, indeed!' said Ethel.  'What, for making me the laughing-stock
of the school?'

'No, indeed,' cried Aubrey, distressed.  'He said not a word--they only
found it out--because he found that seat for you, and papa sent him
away with you.  They only meant to poke fun, and it was his caring that
made it come home to him.  I wonder you don't like to find that such a
fellow stood up for you.'

'I don't like to be made ridiculous.'

'Tom does not know it, and shall not,' eagerly interposed Aubrey.

'Thank you,' said she, with all her heart.

'Then don't be savage.  You know he can't help it if he does think you
so handsome, and it is very hard that you should be affronted with him,
just when he can't see out of one of his eyes.'

'For that matter,' said Ethel, her voice trembling, 'one likes
generosity in any sort of a cause; but as to this, the only way is to
laugh at it.'

Aubrey thought this 'only way' hardly taken by the cachinnation with
which she left him, for he was sure that her eyes were full of tears;
and after mature consideration he decided that he should only get into
a fresh scrape by letting Leonard know that she was aware of the combat
and its motive.

'If I were ten years younger, this might be serious,' meditated Ethel.
'Happily, it is only a droll adventure for me in my old age, and I have
heard say that a little raving for a grown-up woman is a wholesome sort
of delusion, at his time of life.  So I need not worry about it, and it
is pretty and touching while it lasts, good fellow!'

Ethel had, in fact, little occasion to worry herself; for all special
manifestations of Leonard's devotion ceased.  Whether it were that Tom
with his grave satirical manner contrived to render the house
disagreeable to both brother and sister, or whether Leonard's boyish
bashfulness had taken alarm, and his admiration expended itself in the
battle for her charms, there was no knowing.  All that was certain was,
that the Wards seldom appeared at Dr. May's, although elsewhere Mary
and Aubrey saw a great deal of their respective friends, and through
both, Ethel heard from time to time of Leonard, chiefly as working hard
at school, but finding that his illness had cost him not only the last
half year's learning, but some memory and power of application.  He was
merging into the ordinary schoolboy--a very good thing for him no
doubt, though less beautiful than those Coombe fancies.  And what were
they worth?




CHAPTER VII

  Little specks of daily trouble--
  Petty grievance, petty strife--
  Filling up with drops incessant
  To the brim the cup of life.

  Deeper import have these trifles
  Than we think or care to know:
  In the air a feather floating,
  Tells from whence the breezes blow.--REV. G. MONSELL


The first brightening of the orphaned house of Bankside had been in
Leonard's return.  The weeks of his absence had been very sore ones to
Averil, while she commenced the round of duties that were a heavy
burthen for one so young, and became, instead of the petted favourite,
the responsible head of the house.

She was willing and glad to accept the care of her little
sisters--docile bright children--who were pleased to return to the
orderly habits so long interrupted, and were so intelligent, that her
task of teaching was a pleasant one; and almost motherly love towards
them grew up as she felt their dependence on her, and enjoyed their
caresses.

With Henry she had less in common.  He expected of her what she had not
learnt, and was not willing to acquire.  A man interfering in the
woman's province meets little toleration; and Henry was extremely
precise in his requirements of exact order, punctuality, and
excellence, in all the arrangements of his house.  While breaking her
in to housekeeping, he made himself appear almost in the light of a
task-master--and what was worse, of a despised task-master.  Averil
thought she could not respect a brother whose displeasure was
manifested by petulance, not sternness, and who cared not only about
his dinner, but about the tidy appearance of the drawing-room--nay, who
called that tasty which she thought vulgar, made things stiff where she
meant them to be easy and elegant, and prepared the place to be the
butt of Tom May's satire.

Henry was not a companion to her.  His intellect was lower, his
education had not been of the same order, and he had not the manly
force of character that makes up for everything in a woman's eyes.
Where she had talents, he had pretensions--just enough to make his
judgments both conceited and irritating; and where her deeper thoughts
and higher aspirations were concerned, she met either a blank or a
growing jealousy of the influence of the clergy and of the May family.

Yet Henry Ward was really a good brother, sacrificing much to his
orphan sisters, and living a moral and religious life--such as gained
for him much credit, and made Mrs. Ledwich congratulate Averil on the
great excellence and kindness of her incomparable brother.

Averil assented, and felt it a dreary thing to have an incomparable
brother.

But when Leonard came home, the face of the house was changed.  Now she
had something to look forward to.  Now there was something to hear that
stirred her deeper feelings--some one who would understand and
respond--some one to make common cause with.  Little as she saw of the
schoolboy, there was life in her day, for sympathy and comprehension
had come home with him.

After all, there were recesses in Leonard's confidence to which Ave did
not penetrate; but there was quite enough to be very happy upon,
especially those visions that had been built on the Melanesian letters.
They were not near enough to terrify her with the thought of
separation, and she was sufficiently imbued with Mary May's sentiments
to regard mission-work as the highest ambition.  Leonard's strong will
and manly disposition would have obtained her homage and affection,
even without the lofty sentiments and the lesser graces that made the
brother and sister thoroughly suited to one another; and the bond of
union was unfortunately cemented by equal annoyance at Henry's
peculiarities.

It certainly was rather hard on a young head of a family to have a
younger brother his superior in every respect, and with an inseparable
sister.  That Henry had not found out Leonard's superiority was no
reason that it should not gall him; and his self-assertions were apt to
be extremely irritating.  Even in the first flush of welcome, he had
made it plain that he meant to be felt as master of the house, and to
enforce those petty regulations of exact order that might be easily
borne from a mother, or played with in a sister--would be obeyed
grudgingly from a father, but could be intolerable in a brother.

The reception of Mab and the ammonites was but an earnest of similar
ungracious acts on the one hand, and aggressions on the other, often
unintentional.  Averil did, indeed, smooth matters, but she shared
Leonard's resentment, and outward submission was compensated by murmur
and mockery in private.

Still the household worked on fairly; and Mrs. Ledwich was heard to
declare, with tears in her eyes, that it was beautiful to see such a
happy family of love as those dear young Wards!

'The happy family--in Trafalgar Square!' muttered Dr. Spencer.

The confidence of the happy family was on this wise.  When Leonard came
home with his unpresentable face, he baffled all Ave's anxious
questions, and she was only enlightened by Henry's lamentations, in his
absence, over the hopelessness of a brother who was so low and vulgar
as to box!  Her defence being met by a sneer, she flew to tell Leonard
of the calumny, and was laughed at for her innocence, but extorted that
he had fought with a fellow that talked impudently of some of the
Mays--cause fully sufficient in her eyes; nor did Henry utter any open
reproof, though he contrived to exasperate his brother into fierce
retort and angry gesture by an unnecessary injunction not to show that
ungentlemanly face.

Full consciousness of the difficulties presented by the characters of
the two brothers would have been far too oppressive; and perhaps it was
better for Averil that she had it not, but had her own engrossing
interests and employments drawing off her attention and enlivening her
spirits.  Her church music was her object in life--the dedication of
the talent that had been cultivated at so much time and cost, and the
greatest honour and enjoyment she could imagine, and she had full
participation from Leonard, who had a hearty love for sacred music,
readily threw himself into her plans, and offered voice and taste to
assist her experiments.  Nor had her elder brother any objection to her
being thus brought forward: he was proud of her performance, and
gratified with the compliments it elicited; and all went well till the
new hymnals arrived, and books upon books, full of new tunes, anthems,
and chants, were accumulating on the music-stand.

'What are you about there all the evening, not opening your lips?'

'Leonard is writing out his verses, and I am copying music.'

'I wonder you neither of you will remember that that table was never
meant to be littered over with all sorts of rubbish!'

'I thought tables were to put things on,' returned Leonard coolly.

'Drawing-room tables were not made to be inked!  That cover will be
ruined in a day or two!'

'Very well--then we'll pay for it!' said Leonard, in the same
aggravating tone.

'Here are newspapers spread between it and the ink,' said Averil,
displaying them with an air of injured innocence that made Henry
subside; but he presently exclaimed:

'Is that copying to go on all night?  Can't you speak, nor play
anything, to send one off to sleep?'

With a martyr look, yet a satirical glance, Averil opened the piano;
and Henry settled himself in the master's arm-chair, as one about to
enjoy well-earned rest and entertainment after a hard day's work.

'I say, what doleful drone have you there!'

'I am trying a new chant for the "Nunc Dimittis".'

'Nothing but that day and night!  Give us something worth hearing.'

'I thought you only wanted to go to sleep.'

'I don't want to dream myself into church, listening to Scudamour's
proses: I've quite enough of that on Sunday.'

Ave began to play one of her school waltzes; and the touch of her
fingers on the keys had so sharp-edged and petulant a tone, that
Leonard smiled to himself as he ran his fingers through his hair over
his books.  Nor was it soothing to Henry, who, instead of going to
sleep, began to survey the room, and get food for annoyance.

'I say,' said he, looking across at a little brass-barred bookcase of
ornamental volumes on the opposite chiffonniere, 'what book is out
there?'

'Scott's "Lay",' said Leonard; 'it is up in my room.'

'I told you, Ave, not to let the drawing-room books be carried about
the house to be spoilt!' said Henry, who seldom reproved his brother
direct, but generally through Ave.

'You'd better get some made of wood then,' said Leonard.

'Remember then, Ave, I say I will not have my books taken out, and left
about over the house.'

Leonard dashed out of the room passionately, and presently came
thundering down again, every step audible the whole way, and threw the
book on the table, bringing in a whirlwind, and a flaring sloping
candle dropping upon the precious cloth.  Henry started up and pointed.

'I'm glad of it!' exclaimed Leonard; 'it will be a little amusement for
you.  Good night, Ave!  I'm going to finish up-stairs, since one can't
read, write, or touch a book without your being rowed!'

He was gone, and Averil, though rather frightened, gave him infinite
credit for keeping his temper; and perhaps he deserved it, considering
the annoyance and the nature of the provocation; but she did not
reflect how much might have been prevented by more forethought and less
pre-occupation.  She said not a word, but quietly returned to her
copying; and when Henry came with paper and poker to remove the damage,
she only shoved back her chair, and sat waiting, pen in hand, resigned
and ironical.

'I declare,' grumbled Henry, as he examined the remaining amount of
damage, 'these day-schools are a great inconvenience; there's no
keeping a place fit to be seen with a great uncivilized lad always
hanging about!'

'Leonard is considered particularly gentlemanlike,' said Ave, with lips
compressed, to keep back something about old bachelors.

'Now, I should have thought a lady would have some regard to her own
drawing-room, and object to slovenliness--elbows on table, feet
everywhere!'

'Nothing is in worse taste than constraint,' said Ave from the corners
of her mouth--'at least for those that can trust their manners without
it.'

'I tell you, Ave, you are spoiling the boy.  He is more conceited than
ever since the Mays noticed him.'

'Leonard conceited!'

'Yes; he is getting as stuck up as Tom May himself--your model I
believe!'

'I thought he was yours!'

'Mine?'

'Yes; you always seem to aim at a poor imitation of him.'

There was a blushing angry stammer in reply; and she suppressed her
smile, but felt triumphant in having hit the mark.  Unready at retort,
he gathered himself up, and said: 'Well, Ave, I have only this to say,
that if you choose to support that boy in his impertinences, there will
be no bearing it; and I shall see what I shall do.'

Seeing what shall be done is a threat stimulating to some, but
appalling to others; and Averil was of the latter class, with no desire
for such a spectacle, be it what it might.  She did not apologize for
the trifle--possible ink, a spot of wax, a borrowed book, were far
beneath an apology; but she made up her mind to humour Henry's follies
magnanimously, and avoid collisions, like an admirable peace-maker.  As
soon as bed-time came, she repaired to Leonard's room; and Henry, as he
went along the passage, heard the two young voices ringing with
laughter!  Her retort had been particularly delightful to Leonard.
'That's right, Ave!  I'm glad you set him down, for I thought
afterwards whether I ought not to have stood by you, only his way of
pitching into me through you puts me into such a rage: I shall do
something desperate some day!'

'Never mind it, Leonard; it does not hurt me; and if it did, I should
like to bear a great deal for you.'

'That's all the wrong way,' said Leonard, smiling affectionately.

'No; men do and women suffer.'

'That's trite!' said Leonard, patting her fondly.  'I like you to
do--as you call it--Miss May does, and every one that is worth
anything. I say, Ave, when I go out to the islands, you are coming too?'

'Oh yes!  I know I could do a great deal.  If nothing else, I could
sing; and they have a great aptitude for singing, Mary was telling me.
But that reminds me I must finish copying the hymn for next Sunday;
Henry hindered me, and I have six copies more to do.'

'I'll do some of them,' said Leonard.  'Let us go down now the coast is
clear, if the fire is not out.'

They went down softly, Mab and all, nursed up the fire that Henry had
raked out; and if Saturnalia could be held over the writing out of a
hymn tune, they did it!  At any rate, it had the charm of an assertion
of independence; and to Averil it was something like a midnight meeting
of persecuted Christians--to Leonard it was 'great fun.'

That evening was not a solitary specimen.

Averil and Leonard intended to obviate causes of offence; but they were
young and heedless, and did not feel bound to obedience.  A very little
temptation made them forget or defy Henry's fancies; and Leonard was
easily lashed into answers really unbecoming and violent, for which he
could not bring himself to be sorry, when he thought over the petty
interference and annoyance that had caused them.

These small tyrannies and frets made Averil the more devoted to the
music, which was her rest, her delight, and not only exalted her above
cares, but sanctioned her oblivion of them.  The occupation grew upon
her, never ending, still beginning, with fresh occasions for practice
and new lessons, but though Bankside boys were willing to be taught,
yet it was chiefly in hope of preferment as choristers at the Minster;
and she soon found that a scholar no sooner proved his voice good for
anything, than he went off to be trained for the choir on the
foundation, which fed, clothed, and apprenticed its young singers.  She
found she must betake herself to an elder race if she wanted a reliable
staff of voices; and some young men and women showing themselves
willing, a practice, with Mr. Scudamour to keep order, was organized
for late evenings, twice in the week.  This was rather much!  Henry
opposed at first, on the ground that the evening would be broken up; to
which she answered that for such a purpose they ought to be willing to
sacrifice a little domestic comfort; and when he muttered a petulant
'Pshaw,' looked at him in reproof for sacrilege.  She was not going to
be one of the womankind sitting up in a row till their lords and
masters should be pleased to want them!

Next, he insisted that he would not have her going about the place
after dark, but she was fortified by the curate's promise to escort her
safely, and reduced him to a semi-imprecation which she again viewed as
extremely wicked.  The existence of that meek little helpless Mrs.
Scudamour, always shut up in a warm room with her delicate baby, cut
off Henry from any other possible objection, and he was obliged to
submit.

Leonard would gladly have been his sister's companion on her
expeditions, but he must remain at home and prepare for the morrow's
school-work, and endure the first hour of dreariness unenlivened by her
smile and greeting, and, what was worse, without the scanty infusion of
peace produced by her presence.  Her rapid departure after dinner
always discomposed Henry; and the usual vent for his ill-humour was
either a murmur against the clergy and all their measures, or the
discovery of some of Leonard's transgressions of his code.  Fretted and
irritable at the destruction of evening comfort, he in his turn teased
the fiery temper of his brother.  If there were nothing worse, his
grumbling remarks interrupted, and too often they were that sort of
censure that is expressively called nagging. Leonard would reply
angrily, and the flashes of his passion generally produced silence.
Neither brother spoke to Averil of these evening interludes, which were
becoming almost habitual, but they kept Leonard in a constant sore
sense of injury, yet of uneasy conscience. He looked to the Randall
scholarship as his best hope of leaving home and its torments, but his
illness had thrown him back: he had not only lost the last quarter, but
the acquirements of the one before it were obscured; and the vexations
themselves so harassed and interrupted his evening studies, that he
knew it was unreasonable to hope for it at the next examination, which,
from various causes, was to come after the Christmas holidays; and it
would be well if he could even succeed in the summer.

Innocent as the Mays were of the harmonium business, Henry included
them in the annoyance it gave.  It was the work of the curate--and was
not Dr. May one in everything with the clergy? had he not been
instrumental in building the chapel? was it not the Mays and the clergy
who had made Ave inconveniently religious and opinionative, to say
nothing of Leonard? The whole town was priest--led and bigoted; and Dr.
May was the despot to whom all bowed down.

This was an opinion Henry would hardly have originated: it was the
shaft of an abler man than he--no other than Harvey Anderson, who had
lately become known to the world by a book proving King John to have
been the most enlightened and patriotic of English sovereigns, enduring
the Interdict on a pure principle of national independence, and
devising Magna Charta from his own generous brain--in fact, presenting
a magnificent and misunderstood anticipation of the most advanced
theories of the nineteenth century.  The book had made so much noise in
the world, that the author had been induced to quit his college
tutorship, and become editor of a popular magazine.  He lived in
London, but often came down to spend Sunday with his mother, and had
begun to be looked on as rather the lion of the place.  Henry took in
his magazine, and courted his notice, often bringing him into Averil's
way that she might hear her heroes treated with irony more effectual
than home-made satire; but Ave was staunch.  She hated the sight of Mr.
Anderson; never cut the leaves of his magazine; and if driven to sing
to him, took as little pains as her musical nature would let her do.
But the very strength of her dislike gave it an air of prejudice, and
it was set down less to principle than to party spirit and May
influence.

There was another cause for Henry's being soured.  He was not of the
nature to be filial with Dr. May; and therefore gratitude oppressed,
and patronage embittered him.  The first months of warm feeling at an
end, the old spirit of independence revived, and he avoided consulting
the physician as much as possible.  More than once his management of a
case was not approved by Dr. May; and the strong and hasty language,
and the sharp reproofs that ensued, were not taken as the signs of the
warm heart and friendly interest, but as the greatest
offences--sullenly, but not the less bitterly endured.

Moreover, one of the Whitford surgeons had been called in by a few of
the out-lying families who had hitherto been patients of the Wards; and
worse than all, Mrs. Rivers took her child up to London for three days
in November, and it became known--through a chain of tongues--that it
was for the enlargement of tonsils, on which Mr. Ward had operated a
year before.

'Old May was playing him false!' was Henry's cry.  'His professions
were humbug.  He would endure no one who did not submit to his
dictation; and he would bring in a stranger to ruin them all!'

Little did Henry know of Dr. May's near approach to untruth in denying
that he had a house to let to the opposition surgeon--of his
attestations to his daughter that young Ward was a skilful operator--or
of his vexation when she professed herself ready to undergo anything
for his pleasure, but said that little Margaret's health was another
thing.

Yet even this might have been forgiven, but for that worst rub of
all--Tom May's manners.  His politeness was intense--most punctilious
and condescending in form--and yet provoking beyond measure to persons
who, like Henry and Averil, had not playfulness enough to detect with
certainty whether they were being made game of or not, nor whether his
smoothly-uttered compliments were not innuendoes. Henry was certain of
being despised, and naturally chafed against the prospect of the future
connection between the two medical men of the town; and though Tom was
gone back to Cambridge, it was the rankling remembrance of his
supercilious looks that, more than any present offence or independence
of spirit, made the young surgeon kick against direction from the
physician.  Here, too, Averil was of the same mind.  She had heard Tom
May observe that his sister Gertrude would play quite well enough for a
lady; for the mission of a lady's music was to put one to sleep at
home, and cover conversation at a party; as to the
rest--unprofessionals were a mistake!

After that, the civil speeches with which Tom would approach the piano
only added insult to injury.




CHAPTER VIII

  Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call,
  Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,
  Than now in danger shall be thine,
  Thy dauntless voluntary line.--Marmion


'Drive fast, Will,' said Dr. May, hastily stepping into his carriage in
the early darkness of a December evening.  'Five already, and he is to
be there by 5.25.'

'He' was no other than Harry May, and 'there' was the station.  With
the tidings of the terrible fight of Peiho had come a letter from a
messmate of Harry's with an account of his serious wound in the chest,
describing it as just short of immediately dangerous.  Another letter
had notified his amendment, and that he was invalided home, a few
cheery words from Harry himself scrawled at the end showing that his
power was far less than his good-will: and after two months' waiting
and suspense, a telegram had come from Plymouth, with the words,
'Stoneborough, 5.25.'

In ignorance as to the state of the traveller, and expecting to find
him in a condition requiring great care and watching, Dr. May had laid
his injunctions on the eager family not to rush up to the station en
masse to excite and overwhelm, but to leave the meeting there entirely
to himself and his brougham.  He had, therefore, been exceedingly
annoyed that one of Henry Ward's pieces of self-assertion had delayed
him unnecessarily at a consultation; and when at last he had escaped,
he spent most of his journey with his body half out of the window,
hurrying Will Adams, and making noises of encouragement to the horse;
or else in a strange tumult of sensation between hope and fear, pain
and pleasure, suspense and thankfulness, the predominant feeling being
vexation at not having provided against this contingency by sending
Richard to the station.

After all the best efforts of the stout old chestnut, he and the train
were simultaneously at the station, and the passengers were getting out
on the opposite platform.  The Doctor made a dash to cross in the rear
of the train, but was caught and held fast by a porter with the angry
exclamation, 'She's backing, sir;' and there he stood in an agony,
feeling all Harry's blank disappointment, and the guilt of it besides,
and straining his eyes through the narrow gaps between the blocks of
carriages.

The train rushed on, and he was across the line the same instant, but
the blank was his.  Up and down the gas-lighted platform he looked in
vain among the crowd, only his eye suddenly lit on a black case close
to his feet, with the three letters MAY, and the next moment a huge
chest appeared out of the darkness, bearing the same letters, and
lifted on a truck by the joint strength of a green porter, and a pair
of broad blue shoulders.  Too ill to come on--telegraph, mail
train--rushed through the poor Doctor's brain as he stepped forward as
if to interrogate the chest.  The blue shoulders turned, a ruddy
sun-burnt face lighted up, and the inarticulate exclamation on either
side was of the most intense relief and satisfaction.

'Where are the rest?' said Harry, holding his father's hand in no sick
man's grasp.

'At home, I told them not to come up; I thought--'

'Well, we'll walk down together!  I've got you all to myself.  I
thought you had missed my telegram.  Hollo, Will, how d'ye do? what,
this thing to drive down in?'

'I thought you were an invalid, Harry,' said Dr. May, with a laughing
yet tearful ring in his agitated tone, as he packed himself and his son
in.

'Ay!  I wished I could have let you know sooner how well I had got over
it,' said Harry, in the deep full voice of strong healthy manhood.  'I
am afraid you have been very anxious.'

'We are used to it, my boy,' said the Doctor huskily, stroking the
great firm fingers that were lying lovingly on his knee, 'and if it
always ends in this way, it ought to do us more good than harm.'

'It has not done harm, I hope,' said Harry, catching him up quick. 'Not
to old Mary?'

'No, Mary works things off, good girl.  I flatter myself you will find
us all in high preservation.'

'All--all at home!  That's right.'

'Yes, those infants from Maplewood and all.  You are sure you are all
right, Harry?'

'As sure as my own feelings can make me, and the surgeon of the Dexter
to back them,' said Harry.  'I don't believe my lungs were touched
after all, but you shall all sit upon me when you like--Tom and all.
It was a greater escape than I looked for,' he added, in a lower voice.
'I did not think to have had another Christmas here.'

The silence lasted for the few moments till the carriage drew up behind
the limes; the doors were thrown open, and the Doctor shouted to the
timid anxious figure that alone was allowed to appear in the hall,
'Come and lift him out, Mary.'

The drawing-room was a goodly sight that evening; and the Doctor, as he
sat leaning back in weary happiness, might be well satisfied with the
bright garland that still clustered round his hearth, though the age of
almost all forbade their old title of Daisies.  The only one who still
asserted her right to that name was perched on the sailor's knee,
insisting on establishing that there was as much room for her there as
there had been three years ago; though, as he had seated himself on a
low foot-stool, her feet were sometimes on the ground, and moreover her
throne was subject to sudden earthquakes, which made her, nothing loth,
cling to his neck, draw his arm closer round her, and lean on his broad
breast, proud that universal consent declared her his likeness in the
family; and the two presenting a pleasant contrasting similarity--the
open honest features, blue eyes, and smile, expressive of hearty
good-will and simple happiness, were so entirely of the same mould in
the plump, white-skinned, rosy-cheeked, golden-haired girl, and in the
large, powerful, bronzed, ruddy sailor, with the thick mass of curls,
at which Tom looked with hostility as fixed, though less declared, than
that of his Eton days.

Those were the idle members upon the hearth-rug.  On the sofa, with a
small table to herself, and a tall embroidery frame before her, nearly
hiding her slight person, sat Mrs. Ernescliffe, her pretty head
occasionally looking out over the top of her work to smile an answer,
and her artistically arranged hair and the crispness of her white dress
and broad blue ribbons marking that there was a step in life between
her and her sisters; her husband sat beside her on the sofa, with a red
volume in his hand, with 'Orders,' the only word visible above the
fingers, one of which was keeping his place. Hector looked very happy
and spirited, though his visage was not greatly ornamented by a
moustache, sandier even than his hair, giving effect to every freckle
on his honest face.  A little behind was Mary, winding one of Blanche's
silks over the back of a chair, and so often looking up to revel in the
contemplation of Harry's face, that her skein was in a wild tangle,
which she studiously concealed lest the sight should compel Richard to
come and unravel it with those wonderful fingers of his.

Richard and Ethel were arranging the 'sick albums' which they had
constructed--one of cheap religious prints, with texts and hymns, to be
lent in cases of lingering illness; the other, commonly called the
'profane,' of such scraps as might please a sick child, pictures from
worn-out books or advertisements, which Ethel was colouring--Aubrey
volunteering aid that was received rather distrustfully, as his love of
effect caused him to array the model school-children in colours gaudy
enough, as Gertrude complained, 'to corrupt a saint.'  Nor was his
dilettante help more appreciated at a small stand, well provided with
tiny drawers, and holding a shaded lamp, according to Gertrude,
'burning something horrible ending in gen, that would kill anybody but
Tom, who managed it,' but which threw a beautiful light upon the
various glass dishes, tubes, and slides, and the tall brass microscope
that Tom was said to love better than all his kith and kin, and which
afforded him occupation for his leisure moments.

'I say, Harry,' he asked, 'did you get my letter?'

'Your letter--of what date?  I got none since Mary's of the second of
May, when every one was down in the fever.  Poor old Ward, I never was
more shocked; what is become of the young ones?'

'Oh! you must ask Mary, Miss Ward is a bosom friend of hers.'

'What! the girl that sang like the lark?  I must hear her again.  But
she won't be in tune for singing now, poor thing!  What are they doing?
Henry Ward taken to the practice?  He used to be the dirtiest little
sneak going, but I hope he is mended now.'

'Ask my father,' said mischievous Tom; and Dr. May answered not, nor
revealed his day's annoyance with Henry.

'He is doing his best to make a home for his brother and sisters,' said
Richard.

'My letter,' said Tom, 'was written in Whitsun week; I wish you had had
it.'

'Ay, it would have been precious from its rarity,' said Harry.  'What
commission did it contain, may I ask?'

'You have not by good luck brought me home a Chinese flea?'

'He has all the fleas in creation,' said Daisy confidentially, 'cats'
and dogs', and hedgehogs', and human; and you would have been twice as
welcome if you had brought one.'

'I've brought no present to nobody.  I'd got my eye on a splendid ivory
junk, for Blanche's wedding present, at Canton, but I couldn't even
speak to send any one after it.  You have uncommon bad luck for a
sailor's relatives.'

'As long as you bring yourself home we don't care,' said Blanche,
treating the loss of the junk with far more resignation than did Tom
that of the flea.

'If you only had a morsel of river mud sticking anywhere,' added Tom,
'you don't know the value the infusoria might be.'

'I had a good deal more than a morsel sticking to me once,' said Harry;
'it was owing to my boat's crew that I am not ever so many feet deep in
it now, like many better men.  They never lost sight of me, and somehow
hauled me out.'

Gertrude gave him a hug, and Mary's eyes got so misty, that her skein
fell into worse entanglements than ever.

'Were you conscious?' asked Ethel.

'I can't say.  I'm clear of nothing but choking and gasping then, and a
good while after.  It was a treacherous, unlucky affair, and I'm afraid
I shall miss the licking of rascally John Chinaman.  If all I heard at
Plymouth is true, we may have work handy to home.'

'At home you may say,' said his father, 'Dulce et, &c. is our motto.
Didn't you know what a nest of heroes we have here to receive you? Let
me introduce you to Captain Ernescliffe, of the Dorset Volunteer Rifle
Corps; Private Thomas May, of the Cambridge University Corps; and Mr.
Aubrey Spencer May, for whom I have found a rifle, and am expected to
find a uniform as soon as the wise heads have settled what colour will
be most becoming.'

'Becoming!  No, papa!' indignantly shouted Aubrey: 'it is the colour
that will be most invisible in skirmishing.'

'Gray, faced with scarlet,' said Hector, decidedly.

'Yes, that is the colour of the invincible Dorsets,' said Dr. May.
'There you see our great authority with his military instructions in
his hand.'

'No, sir,' replied Hector, 'it's not military instructions, it is
Crauford's General Orders.'

'And,' added the Doctor, 'there's his bride working the colours, and
Mary wanting to emulate her.'

'I don't think George will ever permit us to have colours,' said Ethel;
'he says that Rifles have no business with them, for that they are of
no use to skirmishers.'

'The matter has been taken out of George's hands,' said Aubrey; 'there
would not have been a volunteer in the country if he had his way.'

'Yes,' explained Ethel, 'the real soldier can't believe in volunteers,
nor cavalry in infantry; but he is thoroughly in for it now.'

'Owing to his Roman matron' quoth Tom.  'It was a wonderful opening for
public spirit when Lady Walkinghame insisted on Sir Henry refusing the
use of the park for practice, for fear we should make targets of the
children.  So the Spartan mother at Abbotstoke, gallantly setting
Margaret aside, sent for the committee at once to choose the very best
place in the park.'

'Papa is chairman of the committee,' added Aubrey, 'he is mayor this
year, so we must encourage it.'

'And Aubrey hit four times at a hundred yards,' triumphantly declared
Gertrude, 'when Edward Anderson and Henry Ward only got a ball in by
accident.'

'Henry Ward ought to be shot at himself,' was Aubrey's sentiment, 'for
not letting Leonard be in the corps.'

'The fellow that you brought to Maplewood?' asked Hector.  'I thought
he was at school.'

'Didn't you know that old Hoxton has given leave to any of the sixth
form to drill and practise? and that trumpery fellow, Henry, says he
can't afford the outfit, though his sister would have given the
uniform.'

'Let me tell you, young folks,' said the Doctor, 'that you are not to
suppose it always hails crack rifles on all sorts of improved systems,
as it does when Captain Hector is in the house.'

'They are only on trial, sir,' apologized Hector.

'Very odd then that they all have an eagle and H. E. on them,' observed
the Doctor dryly.

'Oh! they'll take them again, or I shall find a use for them,' said
Hector.

'Well, if Henry can't afford two,' said Aubrey, holding to his point,
'he ought to give up to his brother; he knows no more how to handle a
rifle--'

'That's the very reason,' muttered Tom.

'And Flora is going to give a great party,' proceeded Gertrude, 'as
soon as the uniform is settled, and they are enrolled.  Blanche and
Hector are to stay for it, and you'll have to wear your lieutenant's
uniform, Harry.'

'I can't be going to balls till I've been up to report myself fit for
service,' said Harry.

'It is not to be a ball,' said Blanche's soft, serious voice over her
green silk banner; 'it is to be a breakfast and concert, ending in a
dance, such as we had at Maplewood.'

'Hollo!' said Harry, starting, 'now I begin to believe in Mrs.
Ernescliffe, when I hear her drawing down herself as an example to
Flora.'

'Only a precedent,' said Blanche, blushing a little, but still grave.
'We have had some experience, you know.  Our corps was one of the
earliest enrolled, and Hector managed it almost entirely.  It was the
reason we have not been able to come here sooner, but we thought it
right to be foremost, as the enemy are sure to attempt our coast first.'

'I believe the enemy are expected on every coast at first,' was Ethel's
aside, but it was not heard; for Harry was declaring,

'Your coast! they will never get the length of that.  I was talking to
an old messmate of mine in the train, who was telling me how we could
burn their whole fleet before it could get out of Cherbourg.'

'If they should slip by,' began Hector.

'Slip by!' and Harry had well-nigh dislodged Daisy by his vehemence in
demonstrating that they were welcome to volunteer, but that the Channel
Fleet would prevent the rifles from being seriously put to the proof--a
declaration highly satisfactory to the ladies, and heartily backed up
by the Doctor, though Blanche looked rather discomfited, and Hector
argued loud for the probability of active service.

'I say, Aubrey,' said Tom, rather tired of the land and sea debate, 'do
just reach me a card, to take up some of this sand upon.'

Aubrey obeyed, and reading the black-edged card as he handed it, said,
'Mrs. Pug.  What?  Pug ought to have been calling upon Mab.'

'Maybe she will, in good earnest,' observed Tom again in Ethel's ear;
while the whole room rang with the laughter that always befalls the
unlucky wight guilty of a blunder in a name.

'You don't mean that you don't know who she is, Aubrey!' was the cry.

'I--how should I?'

'What, not Mrs. Pugh?' exclaimed Daisy.

'Pew or Pug--I know nothing of either.  Is this edge as mourning for
all the old pews that have been demolished in the church?'

'For shame, Aubrey,' said Mary seriously.  'You must know it is for her
husband.'

Aubrey set up his eyebrows in utter ignorance.

'How true it is that one half the world knows nothing of the other!'
exclaimed Ethel.  'Do you really mean you have never found out the
great Mrs. Pugh, Mrs. Ledwich's dear suffering Matilda?'

'I've seen a black lady sitting with Mrs. Ledwich in church.'

'Such is life,' said Ethel.  'How little she thought herself living in
such an unimpressible world!'

'She is a pretty woman enough,' observed Tom.

'And very desirous of being useful,' added Richard.  'She and Mrs.
Ledwich came over to Cocksmoor this morning, and offered any kind of
assistance.'

'At Cocksmoor!' cried Ethel, much as if it had been the French.

'Every district is filled up here, you know,' said Richard, 'and Mrs.
Ledwich begged me as a personal favour to give her some occupation that
would interest her and cheer her spirits, so I asked her to look after
those new cottages at Gould's End, quite out of your beat, Ethel, and
she seemed to be going about energetically.'

Tom looked unutterable things at Ethel, who replied with a glance
between diversion and dismay.

'Who is the lady?' said Blanche.  'She assaulted me in the street with
inquiries and congratulations about Harry, declaring she had known me
as a child, a thing I particularly dislike:' and Mrs. Ernescliffe
looked like a ruffled goldfinch.

'Forgetting her has not been easy to the payers of duty calls,' said
Ethel.  'She was the daughter of Mrs. Ledwich's brother, the Colonel of
Marines, and used in old times to be with her aunt; there used to be
urgent invitations to Flora and me to drink tea there because she was
of our age.  She married quite young, something very prosperous and
rather aged, and the glories of dear Matilda's villa at Bristol have
been our staple subject, but Mr. Pugh died in the spring, leaving his
lady five hundred a year absolutely her own, and she is come to stay
with her aunt, and look for a house.'

'Et cetera,' added Tom.

'What, in the buxom widow line?' asked Harry.

'No, no!' said Richard, rather indignantly.

'No, in the pathetic line,' said Ethel; 'but that requires some
self-denial.'

'Our tongues don't lose their venom, you see, Harry,' put in the Doctor.

'No indeed, papa,' said Ethel, really anxious to guard her brothers. 'I
was very sorry for her at first, and perhaps I pity her more now than
even then.  I was taken with her pale face and dark eyes, and I believe
she was a good wife, and really concerned for her husband; but I can't
help seeing that she knows her grief is an attraction.'

'To simple parsons,' muttered Tom along the tube of his microscope.

'The sound of her voice showed her to be full of pretension,' said
Blanche.  'Besides, Mrs. Ledwich's trumpeting would fix my opinion in a
moment.'

'Just so,' observed the Doctor.

'No, papa,' said Ethel, 'I was really pleased and touched in spite of
Mrs. Ledwich's devotion to her, till I found out a certain manoeuvring
to put herself in the foreground, and not let her sorrow hinder her
from any enjoyment or display.'

'She can't bear any one to do what she does not.'

'What!  Mary's mouth open against her too?' cried Dr. May.

'Well, papa,' insisted Mary, 'nobody wanted her to insist on taking the
harmonium at Bankside last Sunday, just because Averil had a cold in
her head; and she played so fast, that every one was put out, and then
said she would come to the practice that they might understand one
another.  She is not even in the Bankside district, so it is no
business of hers.'

'There, Richard, her favours are equally distributed,' said Aubrey,
'but if she would take that harmonium altogether, one would not
mind--it makes Henry Ward as sulky as a bear to have his sister going
out all the evening, and he visits it on Leonard.  I dare say if she
stayed at home he would not have been such a brute about the rifle.'

'I should not wonder,' said Dr. May.  'I sometimes doubt if home is
sweetened to my friend Henry.'

'O, papa!' cried Mary, bristling up, 'Ave is very hard worked, and she
gives up everything in the world but her church music, and that is her
great duty and delight.'

'Miss Ward's music must be a sore trial to the Pug,' said Tom, 'will it
be at this affair at Abbotstoke?'

'That's the question,' said Ethel.  'It never goes out, yet is to be
met everywhere, just over-persuaded at the last moment.  Now Flora, you
will see, will think it absolutely improper to ask her; and she will be
greatly disappointed not to have the chance of refusing, and then
yielding at the last minute.'

'Flora must have her,' said Harry.

'I trust not,' said Blanche, shrinking.

'Flora will not ask her,' said Tom, 'but she will be there.'

'And will dance with me,' said Harry.

'No, with Richard,' said Tom.

'What!' said Richard, looking up at the sound of his name.  All
laughed, but were ashamed to explain, and were relieved that their
father rang the bell.

'At that unhappy skein still, Mary?' said Mrs. Ernescliffe, as the good
nights were passing. 'What a horrid state it is in!'

'I shall do it in time,' said Mary, 'when there is nothing to distract
my attention.  I only hope I shall not hurt it for you.'

'Chuck it into the fire at once; it is not worth the trouble,' said
Hector.

Each had a word of advice, but Mary held her purpose, and persevered
till all had left the room except Richard, who quietly took the crimson
tangle on his wrists, turned and twisted, opened passages for the
winder, and by the magic of his dexterous hands, had found the clue to
the maze, so that all was proceeding well, though slowly, when the
study door opened, and Harry's voice was heard in a last good night to
his father.  Mary's eyes looked wistful, and one misdirection of her
winder tightened an obdurate loop once more.

'Run after Harry,' said Richard, taking possession of the ivory. 'Good
night; I can always do these things best alone.  I had rather--yes,
really--good night:' and his kiss had the elder brother's authority of
dismissal.

His Maimouna was too glad and grateful for more than a summary 'Thank
you,' and flew up-stairs in time to find Harry turning, baffled, from
her empty room.  'What, only just done that interminable yarn?' he said.

'Richard is doing it.  I could not help letting him, this first evening
of you.'

'Good old Richard! he is not a bit altered since I first went to sea,
when I was so proud of that,' said Harry, taking up his midshipman's
dirk, which formed a trophy on Mary's mantelshelf.

'Are we altered since you went last?' said Mary.

'The younger ones, of course.  I was in hopes that Aubrey would have
been more like old June, but he'll never be so much of a fellow.'

'He is a very dear good boy,' said Mary, warmly.

'Of course he is,' said Harry, 'but, somehow, he will always have a
woman-bred way about him.  Can't be helped, of course; but what a pair
of swells Tom and Blanche are come out!' and he laughed good-naturedly.

'Is not Blanche a beautiful dear darling?' cried Mary, eagerly.  'It is
so nice to have her.  They could not come at first because of the
infection, and then because of the rifle corps, and now it is delicious
to have all at home.'

'Well, Molly, I'm glad it wasn't you that have married.  Mind, you
mustn't marry till I do.'

And Harry was really glad that Mary's laugh was perfectly 'fancy free,'
as she answered, 'I'm sure I hope not, but I won't promise, because
that might be unreasonable, you know.'

'Oh, you prudent, provident Polly!  But,' added Harry, recalled to a
sense of time by a clock striking eleven, 'I came to bring you
something, Mary.  You shall have it, if you will give me another.'

Mary recognized, with some difficulty, a Prayer-Book with limp covers
that Margaret had given him after his first voyage.  Not only was it
worn by seven years' use, but it was soiled and stained with dark
brownish red, and a straight round hole perforated it from cover to
cover.

'Is it too bad to keep?' said Harry.  'Let me just cut out my name in
Margaret's hand, and the verse of the 107th Psalm; luckily the ball
missed that.'

'The ball?' said Mary, beginning to understand.

'Yes.  Every one of those circles that you see cut out there, was in
here,' said Harry, laying his hand over his chest, 'before the ball,
which I have given to my father.'

'O, Harry!' was all Mary could say, pointing to her own name in a
pencil scrawl on the fly-leaf.

'Yes, I set that down because I could not speak to tell what was to be
done with it, when we didn't know that that book had really been the
saving of my life.  That hair's-breadth deviation of the bullet made
all the difference.'

Mary was kissing the blood-stained book, and sobbing.

'Why, Mary, what is there to cry for?  It is all over now, I tell you.
I am as well as man would wish, and there's no more about it but to
thank God, and try to deserve His goodness.'

'Yes, yes, I know, Harry; but to think how little we knew, or thought,
or felt--going on in our own way when you were in such danger and
suffering!'

'Wasn't I very glad you were going on in your own way!' said Harry.
'Why, Mary, it was that which did it--it has been always that thought
of you at the Minster every day, that kept me to reading the Psalms,
and so having the book about me.  And did not it do one good to lie and
think of the snug room, and my father's spectacles, and all as usual?
When they used to lay me on the deck of the Dexter at night, because I
could not breathe below, I used to watch old Orion, who was my great
friend in the Loyalty Isles, and wish the heathen name had not stuck to
the old fellow, he always seemed so like the Christian warrior,
climbing up with his shield before him and his.  A home like this is a
shield to a man in more ways than one, Mary.  Hollo, was that the
street door?'

'Yes; Ritchie going home.  Fancy his being at the silk all this time! I
am so sorry!'

Maugre her sorrow, there were few happier maidens in England than Mary
May, even though her service was distracted by the claims of three
slave-owners at once, bound as she was, to Ethel, by habitual fidelity,
to Harry, by eager adoration, to Blanche, by willing submission.
Luckily, their requisitions (for the most part unconscious) seldom
clashed, or, if they did, the two elders gave way, and the bride
asserted her supremacy in the plenitude of her youthful importance and
prosperity.

Thus she carried off Mary in her barouche to support her in the return
of bridal calls, while the others were organizing a walk to visit Flora
and the rifle target.  Gertrude's enthusiasm was not equal to walking
with a weapon that might be loaded, nor to being ordered out to admire
the practice, so she accompanied the sisters; Tom was reading hard; and
Ethel found herself, Aubrey, and the sailor, the only ones ready to
start.

This was a decided treat, for Aubrey and she were so nearly one, that
it was almost a tete-a-tete with Harry, though it was not his way to
enter by daylight, and without strong impulse, on what regarded
himself, and there were no such confidences as those to Mary on the
previous night; but in talking over home details, it was easier to
speak without Tom's ironical ears and caustic tongue.

Among other details, the story of the summer that Ethel and Aubrey had
spent at Coombe was narrated, and Aubrey indulged himself by describing
what he called Ethel's conquest.

'It is more a conquest of Norman's, and of Melanesia,' said Ethel. 'If
it were not nonsense to build upon people's generous visions at
seventeen, I should sometimes hope a spark had been lit that would
shine some day in your islands, Harry.'

Going up that hill was not the place for Etheldred May to talk of the
futility of youthful aspirations, but it did not so strike either of
the brothers, to whom Cocksmoor had long been a familiar fact.  Harry
laughed to hear the old Ethel so like herself; and Aubrey said, 'By the
bye, what did you do, the day you walked him to Cocksmoor? he was
fuller of those islands than ever after it.'

'I did not mean it,' said Ethel; 'but the first day of the holidays I
came on him disconsolate in the street, with nothing to do, and very
sore about Henry's refusal to let him volunteer; he walked on with me
till we found ourselves close to Cocksmoor, and I found he had never
seen the church, and would like to stay for evening service, so I put
him into the parsonage while I was busy, and told him to take a book.'

'I know,' said Aubrey; 'the liveliest literature you can get in
Richard's parlour are the Missionary Reports.'

'Exactly so; and he got quite saturated with them; and when we walked
home, I was so thankful that the rifle grievance should be a little
displaced, that I led him on to talk and build castles rather more than
according to my resolutions.'

'Hollo, Ethel!' said Harry.

'Yes, I think spontaneous castles are admirable, but I mistrust all
timber from other people's woods.'

'But isn't this a horrid shame of Henry?' said Aubrey.  'Such a little
prig as he is, to take the place of such a fellow as Leonard, a capital
shot already.'

'I wish Henry had been magnanimous,' said Ethel.

'I'd as soon talk of a magnanimous weasel, from what I recollect,' said
Harry.

'And he is worse now, Harry,' continued Aubrey.  'So spruce and silky
out of doors, and such a regular old tyrannical bachelor indoors.  He
is jealous of Leonard, any one can see, and that's the reason he won't
give him his due.'

'You observe,' said Ethel, 'that this boy thinks the youngest brother's
due is always to come first.'

'So it is, in this family,' said Harry.  'No one comes so last as old
Ritchie.'

'But of course,' said Aubrey, rather taken aback, 'if I were not
youngest, I should have to knock under to some one.'

Ethel and Harry both laughed heartily; one congratulating him on not
having carried the principle into the cockpit, the other adding, 'Don't
indoctrinate Leonard with it; there is enough already to breed
bitterness between those brothers!  Leonard ought to be kept in mind
that Henry has so much to harass him, that his temper should be borne
patiently with.'

'He!'

'I don't think papa's best endeavours have kept all his father's
practice for him, and I am sure their rate of living must make him feel
pinched this Christmas.'

'Whew!  He will be in a sweeter humour than ever!'

'I have been trying to show Leonard that there's room for magnanimity
on his side at least; and don't you go and upset it all by common-place
abuse of tutors and governors.'

'I upset it!' cried Aubrey: 'I might as well try to upset the Minster
as a word from you to Leonard.'

'Nonsense!  What's that?'  For they were hailed from behind, and
looking round saw two tall figures, weapon in hand, in pursuit.  They
proved to be Hector Ernescliffe and Leonard Ward, each bearing one of
what Dr. May called the H. E. rifles; but Leonard looked half shy, half
grim, and so decidedly growled off all Aubrey's attempts at inquiry or
congratulation, that Ethel hazarded none, and Aubrey looked
discomfited, wearing an expression which Harry took to mean that the
weight of his rifle fatigued him, and insisted on carrying it for him,
in, spite of his rather insulted protests and declarations that the
sailor was an invalid; Ethel had walked forwards, and found Leonard at
her side, with a darkening brow as he glanced back at the friendly
contest.

'Harry spoils Aubrey as much as all the others do,' said Ethel lightly,
deeming it best to draw out the sting of the rankling thought.

'Ay!  None of them would leave him to be pitied and offered favours by
some chance person,' said Leonard.

'You don't call my brother Hector a chance person?'

'Did you say anything to him, Miss May?' said Leonard, turning on her a
flushed face, as if he could almost have been angered with her.

'I said not one word.'

'Nor Aubrey?'

'The volunteer politics were discussed last night, and Henry got abused
among us; but papa defended him, and said it did not rain rifles.
That's all--whatever Hector may have done was without a word to either
of us--very likely on the moment's impulse.  Did he go to Bankside
after you?'

'No.  I was looking in at Shearman's window,' said Leonard, rather
sheepishly, 'at the locks of the new lot he has got in, and he came and
asked if I were going to choose one, for he had got a couple down from
London, and the man had stupidly put his cipher on both, so he would be
glad if I would take one off his hands.  I didn't accept--I made that
clear--but then he begged, as if it was to oblige him, that I would
come out to Abbotstoke and help him try the two, for he didn't know
which he should keep.'

'Very ingenious of him,' said Ethel laughing.

'Now, Miss May, do tell me what I ought to do.  It is such a beauty,
better than any Shearman ever dreamt of; just look: at the finish of
the lock.'

'By the time you have shot with it--'

'Now don't, pray,' said Leonard, 'I haven't any one to trust for advice
but you.'

'Indeed, Leonard, I can see no objection.  It is a great boon to you,
and no loss to Hector, and he is quite enough my father's son for you
to look on him as a friend.  I can't but be very glad, for the removal
of this vexation ought to make you get on all the better with your
brother.'

'Ave would be delighted,' said Leonard; 'but somehow--'

'Somehow' was silenced by a coalescing of the party at a gate; and
Hector and Harry were found deep in an argument in which the
lieutenant's Indian reminiscences of the Naval Brigade were at issue
with the captain's Southdown practice, and the experiences of the one
meeting the technicalities of the other were so diverting, that Leonard
forgot his scruples till at the entrance of the park he turned off
towards the target with Hector and Aubrey, while the other two walked
up to the house.

The Grange atmosphere always had a strange weight of tedium in it, such
as was specially perceptible after the joyous ease of the house in the
High Street.  No one was in the drawing-room, and Harry gazed round at
the stiff, almost petrified, aspect of the correct and tasteful
arrangement of the tables and furniture, put his hands in his pockets,
and yawned twice, asking Ethel why she did not go in search of Flora.
Ethel shook her head; and in another moment Flora appeared in eager
welcome; she had been dressing for a drive to Stoneborough to see her
brother, little expecting him to be in a state for walking to her.
With her came her little girl, a child whose aspect was always a shock
to those who connected her with the two Margarets whose name she bore.
She had inherited her father's heavy mould of feature and dark
complexion, and the black eyes had neither sparkle in themselves nor
relief from the colour of the sallow cheek; the pouting lips were
fretful, the whole appearance unhealthy, and the dark bullet-shaped
head seemed too large for the thin bony little figure.  Worn, fagged,
and aged as Flora looked, she had still so much beauty, and far more of
refinement and elegance, as to be a painful foil and contrast to the
child that clung to her, waywardly refusing all response to her uncle's
advances.

Flora made a sign to him to discontinue them, and talked of her
husband, who was hunting, and heard the history of Harry's return and
recovery.  In the midst, little Margaret took heart of grace, crossed
the room, and stood by the sailor, and holding up a great India-rubber
ball as large as her own head, asked, 'Uncle Harry, were you shot with
a cannon-ball as big as this?'

Thereupon she was on his knee, and as he had all his father's
fascination for children, he absolutely beguiled her into ten minutes
of genuine childish mirth, a sight so rare and precious to her mother,
that she could not keep up her feint of talking to Ethel. The elderly
dame, part nurse, part nursery governess, presently came to take Miss
Rivers out, but Miss Rivers, with a whine in her voice, insisted on
going nowhere but to see the shooting, and Uncle Harry must come with
her; and come he did, the little bony fingers clasping tight hold of
one of his large ones.

'Dear Harry!' said Flora, 'he wins every one!  It is like a cool
refreshing wind from the sea when he comes in.'

In Flora's whole air, voice, and manner, there was apparent a
relaxation and absence of constraint such as she never allowed herself
except when alone with Ethel.  Then only did she relieve the constant
strain, then only did the veritable woman show herself, and the effort,
the toil, the weariness, the heart-ache of her life become visible; but
close together as the sisters lived, such tete-a-tetes were rare, and
perhaps were rather shunned than sought, as perilous and doubtful
indulgences.  Even now, Flora at once fixed a limit by ordering the
carriage to meet her in a quarter of an hour at the nearest point to
the rifle-ground, saying she would walk there, and then take home Ethel
and any brother who might be tired.

'And see that Margaret does not come to harm,' said Ethel.

'I am not afraid of that,' said Flora, something in her eye belying
her; 'but she might be troublesome to Harry, and I had rather he did
not see one of her fights with Miss Morton.'

'How has she been?  I thought her looking clearer and better to-day,'
said Ethel, kindly.

'Yes, she is pretty well just now,' said Flora, allowing herself in one
of her long deep sighs, before descending into the particulars of the
child's anxiously-watched health.  If she had been describing them to
her father, there would have been the same minuteness, but the tone
would have implied cheerful hope; whereas to Ethel she took no pains to
mask her dejection.  One of the points of anxiety was whether one
shoulder were not outgrowing the other, but it was not easy to discover
whether the appearance were not merely owing to the child's feeble and
ungainly carriage.  'I cannot torment her about that,' said Flora.
'There are enough miseries for her already without making more, and as
long as it does not affect her health, it matters little.'

'No, certainly not,' said Ethel, who had hardly expected this from
Flora.

Perhaps her sister guessed her thought, for she said, 'Things are best
as they are, Ethel; I am not fit to have a beautiful admired daughter.
All the past would too easily come over again, and my poor Margaret's
troubles may be the best balance for her.'

'Yes,' said Ethel, 'it is bad enough to be an heiress, but a beautiful
heiress is in a worse predicament.'

'Health would improve her looks,' began the maternal instinct of
defence, but then breaking off.  'We met Lord H---- yesterday, and the
uniform is to be like the northern division.  Papa will hear it
officially to-morrow.'

'The northern has gray, and green facings.'

'You are more up in it than I.  All we begged for was, that it might be
inexpensive, for the sake of the townspeople.'

'I hear of little else,' said Ethel, laughing; 'Dr. Spencer is as hot
on it as all the boys.  Now, I suppose, your party is to come off!'

'Yes, it ought,' said Flora, languidly, 'I waited to see how Harry was,
he is a great element towards making it go off well.  I will talk it
over with Blanche, it will give somebody pleasure if she thinks she
manages it.'

'Will it give George no pleasure?'

'I don't know; he calls it a great nuisance, but he would not like not
to come forward, and it is quite right that he should.'

'Quite right,' said Ethel; 'it is every one's duty to try to keep it
up.'

With these words the sisters came within sight of the targets, and
found Margaret under Harry's charge, much interested, and considerably
in the way.  The tidings of the colour of the uniform were highly
appreciated; Aubrey observed that it would choke off the snobs who only
wanted to be like the rifle brigade, and Leonard treated its
inexpensiveness as a personal matter, having apparently cast off his
doubts, under Hector's complimentary tuition.  Indeed, before it grew
too dark for taking aim, he and the weapon were so thoroughly united,
that no further difficulty remained but of getting out his thanks to
Mr. Ernescliffe.

Averil was sitting alone over the fire in the twilight, in a somewhat
forlorn mood, when the door was pushed ajar, and the muzzle of a gun
entered, causing her to start up in alarm, scarcely diminished by the
sight of an exultant visage, though the words were, 'Your money or your
life.'

'Leonard, don't play with it, pray!'

'It's not loaded.'

'Oh! but one never can tell:' then, half ashamed of her terror, 'Pray
put it back, or we shall have an uproar with Henry.'

'This is none of Henry's.  He will never own such a beauty as this.'

'Whose is it?  Not yours?  Is it really a rifle!  H. E.?  What's that?'

'Hector Ernescliffe!  Didn't I tell you he was a princely fellow?'

'Given it to you?  Leonard, dear, I am so happy!  Now I don't care for
anything!  What a gallant volunteer you will make!' and she kissed him
fondly.  We will order the uniform as soon as ever it is settled, and I
hope it will be a very handsome one.'

'It will be a cheap one, which is more to the purpose.  I could get
part myself, only there's the tax for Mab, and the subscription to the
cricket club.'

'I would not have you get any of it!  You are my volunteer, and I'll
not give up my right to any one, except that Minna and Ella want to
give your belt.'

'Where are those children?' he asked.

'Henry has taken them to Laburnum Grove, where I am afraid they are
being crammed with cake and all sorts of nonsense.'

'What could have made him take them there?'

'Oh! some wish of Mrs. Pugh's to see the poor little dears,' said
Averil, the cloud returning that had been for a moment dispelled.

'What's the row?' asked Leonard, kindly.  'Has he been bothering you?'

'He wants me to sound Mary May about an invitation for Mrs. Pugh to
Mrs. Rivers's volunteer entertainment.  I am glad I did not say no one
in mourning ought to go, for I must go now you are a volunteer.'

'But you didn't consent to mention her?'

'No, indeed!  I knew very well you would say it was a most improper use
to make of the Mays' kindness, and I can't see what business she has
there!  Then he said, no, she was certain not to go, but the attention
would be gratifying and proper.'

'That is Mrs. Rivers's look-out.'

'So I said, but Henry never will hear reason.  I did not tell you of
our scene yesterday over the accounts; he says that we must contract
our expenses, or he shall be ruined; so I told him I was ready to give
up the hot-house, or the footman, or the other horse, or anything he
would specify; but he would not hear of it--he says it would be fatal
to alter our style of living, and that it is all my fault for not being
economical!  O, Leonard, it is very hard to give up all one cared for
to this housekeeping, and then never to please!'

Leonard felt his brother a tyrant.  'Never mind, Ave dear,' said he,
'go on doing right, and then you need not care for his
unreasonableness.  You are a dear good girl, and I can't think how he
can have the heart to vex you.'

'I don't care while I have you, Leonard,' she said, clinging to him.

At that moment the others were heard returning, and an ironical look
passed between the brother and sister at certain injunctions that were
heard passing about the little India-rubber goloshes; but Henry had
returned in high good-humour, was pleased to hear of his brother's good
fortune, pronounced it very handsome in Mr. Ernescliffe, and even
offered to provide the rest of the equipment; but this was proudly
rejected by Averil, with some of the manifestations of exclusive
partiality that naturally wounded the elder brother.  He then announced
an engagement that he had made with Mrs. Ledwich for a musical evening
the next week.  Averil had her harmonium at her tongue's end, but the
evening was a free one, chosen on purpose to accommodate her; she had
no excuse, and must submit.

'And practise some of your best pieces, Ave,' said Henry.  'Mrs. Pugh
was kind enough to offer to come and get up some duets with yon.'

'I am greatly obliged,' said Averil, dryly, 'but I do not play duets.'

'You would do wisely to accept her kindness, argued Henry.  'It would
be a great advantage to you to be intimate with a lady of her
opportunities.'

'I do not like patronage,' said Averil.

'Ave!  Ave!' cried the children, who had been trying to attract her
attention, 'if you will let us go to Laburnum Grove by twelve o'clock
to-morrow, Mis. Pugh will show us her book of the pretty devices of
letters, and teach us to make one.'

'You will have not finished lessons by twelve.'

'But if we have?'

'No, certainly not, I can't have you bothering every one about that
nonsensical fashion.'

'You shall go, my dears,' said Henry.  'I can't think why your sister
should be so ill-natured.'

Averil felt that this was the way to destroy her authority, and though
she kept silence, the tears were in her eyes, and her champion broke
forth, 'How can you be such a brute, Henry?'

'Come away, my dears,' said Averil, rising, and holding out her hands
to her sisters, as she recollected how bad the scene was for them, but
it was only Minna who obeyed the call, Ella hung about Henry, declaring
that Leonard was naughty, and Ave was cross.

'Well,' shouted Leonard, 'I shan't stay to see that child set against
her sister!  I wonder what you mean her to come to, Henry!'

It was no wonder that Minna and Ella squabbled together as to which was
cross, Henry or Averil, and the spirit of party took up its fatal abode
in the house of Bankside.




CHAPTER IX

  Too oft my anxious eye has spied
  That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide--
  The passing pang of humbled pride.--SCOTT


The winter was gay, between musical evenings, children's parties,
clerical feastings of district visitors, soirees for Sunday-school
teachers, and Christmas-trees for their scholars.  Such a universal
favourite as Harry, with so keen a relish for amusement, was sure to
fall an easy prey to invitations; but the rest of the family stood
amazed to see him accompanied everywhere by Tom, to whom the secular
and the religious dissipations of Stoneborough had always hitherto been
equally distasteful.  Yet be submitted to a Christmas course of music,
carpet-dances, and jeux de societe on the one hand, and on the other
conferred inestimable obligations on the ecclesiastical staff by
exhibitions of his microscope and of some of the ornamental sports of
chemistry.

'The truth is,' was the explanation privately dropped out to Ethel,
'that some one really must see that those two don't make fools of
themselves.'

Ethel stared; then, coming to the perception who 'those two' meant,
burst out laughing, and said, 'My dear Tom, I beg your pardon, but, on
the whole, I think that is more likely to befall some one else.'

Tom held his head loftily, and would not condescend to understand
anything so foolish.

He considered Bankside as the most dangerous quarter, for Harry was
enraptured with Miss Ward's music, extolled her dark eyes, and openly
avowed her attraction; but there were far more subtle perils at
Laburnum Grove.  The fair widow was really pretty, almost elegant, her
weeds becoming; and her disposition so good, so religious, so
charitable, that, with her activity, intelligence, and curate-worship,
she was a dangerous snare to such of mankind as were not sensible of
her touch of pretension.  As to womankind, it needed a great deal of
submissiveness to endure her at all; and this was not Averil Ward's
leading characteristic.

In fact, the ubiquity of Mrs. Pugh was a sore trial to that young lady,
just so superior herself as to detect the flimsiness of the widow's
attainments.  It was vexatious to find that by means of age,
assumption, and position, these shallow accomplishments made a
prodigious show in the world, while her own were entirely overlooked.
She thought she despised the admiration of the second-rate world of
Stoneborough, but it nettled her to see it thus misplaced; and there
was something provoking in the species of semi-homage paid in that
quarter by the youths of the May family.

As to the sailor, Averil frankly liked him very much; he was the
pleasantest young man, of the most open and agreeable manners, who had
ever fallen in her way.  He was worthy to be Mary's brother, for he was
friendly to Leonard, and to herself had a truthfully flattering way
that was delightful.  Without any sentiment in the case, she always
felt disappointed and defrauded if she were prevented from having a
conversation with him; and when this happened, it was generally either
from his being seized upon by Mrs. Pugh, or from her being baited by
his brother Tom.

Averil was hard to please, for she was as much annoyed by seeing Tom
May sitting courteous and deferential by the side of Mrs. Pugh, as by
his attentions to herself.  She knew that he was playing the widow off,
and that, when most smooth and bland in look and tone, he was inwardly
chuckling; and to find the identical politeness transferred to herself,
made her feel not only affronted but insulted by being placed on the
same level.  Thus, when, at a 'reunion' at Laburnum Grove, she had been
looking on with intense disgust while Tom was admiring Mrs. Pugh's
famous book of devices from letters, translating the mottoes, and
promising contributions, the offence was greatly increased by his
coming up to her (and that too just as Harry was released by the
button-holding Mr. Grey) and saying,

'Of course you are a collector too, Miss Ward; I can secure some
duplicates for you.'

She hoard such fooleries?  She have Mrs. Pugh's duplicates?  No wonder
she coldly answered, 'My little sister has been slightly infected,
thank you, but I do not care for such things.'

'Indeed!  Well, I always preserve as many as I can, as passports to a
lady's favour.'

'That depends on how much sense the lady has,' said Averil, trusting
that this was a spirited set down.

'You do not consider.  Philosophically treated, they become a perfect
school in historical heraldry, nay, in languages, in mathematical
drawing, in illumination, said Tom, looking across to the album in
which Mrs. Pugh's collection was enshrined, each device appropriately
framed in bright colours.  His gravity was intolerable.  Was this
mockery or not?  However, as answer she must, she said,

'A very poor purpose for which to learn such things, and a poor way of
learning them.'

'True,' said Tom, 'one pastime is as good as another; and the less it
pretends to, the better.  On the whole, it may be a beneficial outlet
for the revival of illumination.'

Did this intolerable person know that there was an 'illuminator's
guide' at home, and a great deal of red, blue, and gold paint, with
grand designs for the ornamentation of Bankside chapel?  Whether he
knew it or not, she could not help answering, 'Illumination is
desecrated by being used on such subjects.'

'And is not that better than the subjects being desecrated by
illumination?'

Mrs. Pugh came to insist on that 'sweet thing of Mendelssohn's' from
her dear Miss Ward; and Averil obeyed, not so glad to escape as
inflamed by vexation at being prevented from fighting it out, and
learning what he really meant; though she was so far used to the
slippery nature of his arguments as to know that it was highly
improbable that she should get at anything in earnest.

'If his sisters were silly, I should not mind,' said she to Leonard;
'then he might hold all women cheap from knowing no better; but when
they like sensible things, why is every one else to be treated like an
ape?'

'Never mind,' said Leonard, 'he sneers at everybody all alike!  I can't
think how Dr. May came to have such a son, or how Aubrey can run after
him so.'

'I should like to know whether they really think it irreverent to do
illuminations.'

'Nonsense, Ave; why should you trouble yourself about what he says to
tease you? bad luck to him!'

Nevertheless, Averil was not at ease till she had asked Mary's opinion
of illumination, and Mary had referred to Ethel, and brought back word
that all depended on the spirit of the work; that it was a dangerous
thing, for mere fashion, to make playthings of texts of Scripture; but
that no one could tell the blessing there might be in dwelling on them
with loving decoration, or having them placed where the eye and thought
might be won by them.  In fact, Ethel always hated fashion, but feared
prejudice.

The crown of the whole carnival was to be the Abbotstoke entertainment
on the enrolment of the volunteers.  Preparations went on with great
spirit, and the drill sergeant had unremitting work, the target little
peace, and Aubrey and Leonard were justly accused of making fetishes of
their rifles.  The town was frantic, no clothes but uniforms could be
had, and the tradesmen forgot their customers in the excitement of
electing officers.

Averil thought it very officious of Mrs. Pugh to collect a romantic
party of banner-working young ladies before the member's wife or the
mayor's family had authorized it; and she refused to join, both on the
plea of want of time, and because she heard that Mr. Elvers, a real
dragoon, declared colours to be inappropriate to riflemen.  And so he
did; but his wife said the point was not martial correctness, but
popular feeling; so Mary gratified the party by bringing her needle,
Dr. Spencer took care the blazonry of the arms of the old abbey was
correct, and Flora asked the great lady of the county to present the
banner, and gave the invitation to Mrs. Pugh, who sighed, shook her
head, dried her eyes, and said something about goodness and spirits;
and Mrs. Rivers professed to understand, and hope Mrs. Pugh would do
exactly as best suited her.

Was this manoeuvring, or only living in the present?

Mary accompanied Harry for a long day of shopping in London when he
went to report himself, starting and returning in the clouds of night,
and transacting a prodigious amount of business with intense delight
and no fatigue; and she was considered to have fitted out the mayor's
daughters suitably with his municipal dignity, of which Ethel piqued
herself on being proud.

The entertainment was not easy to arrange at such a season, and
Blanche's 'experience,' being of early autumn, was at fault; but Flora
sent for all that could embellish her conservatories, and by one of the
charities by which she loved to kill two birds with one stone, imported
a young lady who gained her livelihood by singing at private concerts,
and with her for a star, supported by the Minster and Cathedral choirs,
hoped to get up sufficient music to occupy people till it should be
late enough to dance.  She still had some diplomacy to exercise, for
Mrs. Ledwich suggested asking dear Ave Ward to sing, her own dearest
Matilda would not object on such an occasion to assist the sweet girl;
and Mrs. Rivers, after her usual prudent fashion, giving neither denial
nor assent, Mrs. Ledwich trotted off, and put Averil into an agony that
raised a needless storm in the Bankside house; Leonard declaring the
request an insult, and Henry insisting that Ave ought to have no
scruples in doing anything Mrs. Pugh thought proper to be done.  And
finally, when Ave rushed with her despair to Mary May, it was to be
relieved at finding that Mrs. Rivers had never dreamt of exposing her
to such an ordeal.

Though it was the year 1860, the sun shone on the great day, and there
were exhilarating tokens of spring, singing birds, opening buds,
sparkling drops, and a general sense of festivity; as the gray and
green began to flit about the streets, and while Mr. Mayor repaired to
the Town Hall to administer the oaths to the corps, his unmartial sons
and his daughters started for the Grange to assist Flora in the
reception of her guests.

The Lord Lieutenant's wife and daughters, as well as the Ernescliffes,
had slept there, and Ethel found them all with Flora in the great hall,
which looked like a winter garden, interspersed with tables covered
with plate and glass, where eating and drinking might go on all day
long.  But Ethel's heart sank within her at the sight of Flora's
haggard face and sunken eyes.  'What is the matter?' she asked Blanche,
an image of contented beauty.

'Matter?  Oh, they have been stupid in marking the ground, and Hector
is gone to see about it.  That's all.  He is not at all tired.'

'I never supposed he was,' said Ethel, 'but what makes Flora look so
ill?'

'Oh, that tiresome child has got another cold, and fretted half the
night.  It is all their fault for giving way to her; and she has done
nothing but whine this whole morning because she is not well enough to
go out and see the practice!  I am sure it is no misfortune that she is
not to come down and be looked at.'

Ethel crossed over to Flora, and asked whether she should go up and see
little Margaret.

'I should be so thankful,' said poor Flora; 'but don't excite her. She
is not at all well, and has had very little sleep.'

Ethel ran up-stairs, and found herself in the midst of a fight between
the governess and Margaret, who wanted to go to the draughty passage
window, which she fancied had a better view than that of her nursery.
Luckily, Aunt Ethel was almost the only person whom Margaret did not
like to see her naughty; and she subsided into a much less
objectionable lamentation after Uncle Harry and his anchor buttons.
Ethel promised to try whether he could be found, and confident in his
good-nature, ran down, and boldly captured him as he was setting out to
see Hector's operations.  He came with a ready smile, and the child was
happy throughout his stay.  Flora presently stole a moment's visit,
intending her sister's release as well as his; but Ethel, in pity to
governess as well as pupil, declared the nursery window to be a prime
post of observation, and begged to be there left.

Margaret began to believe that they were very snug there, and by the
time the bugles were heard, had forgotten her troubles in watching the
arrivals.

Up came the gray files, and Ethel's heart throbbed and her eye
glistened at their regular tread and military bearing.  Quickly
Margaret made out papa; but he was too real a soldier to evince
consciousness of being at his own door, before the eyes of his wife and
daughter; and Aubrey's young face was made up in imitation of his
impassiveness.  Other eyes were less under control, and of these were a
brown pair that wandered restlessly, till they were raised to the
nursery window, and there found satisfaction.

The aunt and niece were too immediately above the terrace to see what
passed upon it, nor could they hear the words; so they only beheld the
approach of the Ensign, and after a brief interval, his return with the
tall green silk colours, with the arms of the old abbey embroidered in
the corner, and heard the enthusiastic cheer that rang out from all the
corps.

Then the colours led the way to the ground for practice, for manoeuvres
were as yet not ready for exhibition.  Almost all the gentlemen
followed; and such ladies as did not object to gunpowder or damp grass,
thither betook themselves, guided by the ardent Mrs. Ernescliffe.
Having disposed of the others in the drawing-rooms and gardens, Flora
and her father came to the nursery, and Ethel was set at liberty to
witness the prowess of her young champions, being assured by Flora that
she would be of more use there in keeping the youthful population out
of danger than in entertaining the more timid in the house.

She slipped out and hurried down a narrow path towards the scene of
action, presently becoming aware of four figures before her, which her
glass resolved into Harry and Tom, a lady in black, and a child.
Evidently the devoted Tom was keeping guard over one of the
enchantresses, for the figure was that of Averil Ward, though, as Ethel
said, shaking hands, she was hardly to be known with only one sister.

'We have been delayed,' said Averil; 'poor little Ella was in an agony
about the firing, and we could not leave her till your
brother'--indicating Harry--'was so kind as to take her to Gertrude.'

'True to the Englishwoman's boast of never having seen the smoke of an
engagement,' said Tom.

'A practising is not an engagement,' said Ethel.

'There may be quite as many casualties,' quoth Tom, indulging in some
of the current ready-made wit on the dangers of volunteering, for the
pure purpose of teasing; but he was vigorously fallen upon by Harry and
Ethel, and Averil brightened as she heard him put to the rout. The
shots were already heard, when two more black figures were seen in the
distance, going towards the gate.

'Is that Richard?' exclaimed Tom.

'Ay, and I do believe, the widow!' rejoined Harry.

'Oh, yes,' said Averil.  'I heard her talking about Abbotstoke Church,
and saying how much she wished to see it.  She must have got Mr. May to
show it to her.'

Ethel, who had no real fears for Richard herself, looked on amused to
watch how the guardian spirit was going to act.  He exclaimed, 'By the
bye, Miss Ward, would you not like to see it?  They have a very nice
brass to old Mr. Rivers, and have been doing up the chancel.'

'Thank you, said Ave, 'I should prefer going to see how Leonard is
getting on.'

'Right, Miss Ward,' said Harry; 'the church won't run away.'

'Well, then,' said Tom, after a moment's hesitation, 'I think I shall
just run down, as the church is open, and see what sort of work they
have made of the chancel.'

Ethel had the strongest fancy to try what he would do if she were to be
seized with a desire to inspect the chancel; but she did not wish to
let Harry and Averil appear on the ground under no escort but Minna's,
and so permitted Tom to leave them to her keeping, and watched him
hasten to break up the tete-a-tete.

Coming among the spectators, who, chiefly drawn up on the carriage
drive, were watching from a safe distance the gray figures in turn take
aim and emit from their rifles the flash and cotton-wool-like tuft of
smoke, Ethel's interest was somewhat diminished by hearing that all the
other marksmen had been distanced by the head keepers of Abbotstoke and
Drydale, between whom the contest really lay.

'The rest is a study of character,' said Dr. Spencer, taking a turn up
and down the road with her.  'I have been watching the various pairs of
brothers; and I doubt if any stand the test as well as the house of
May.'

'There's only one in the field to-day.'

'Yes, but I've seen them together before now, and I will say for even
Tom that he has no black looks when his junior shoots better than he
does.'

'Oh, yes!  But then it is Aubrey.'

Dr. Spencer laughed.  'Lucky household where that "it is" accounts for
all favours to the youngest, instead of for the countenance falling at
his successes.'

'I am afraid I know whom you mean.  But he has no generosity in him.'

'And his sister helps to make him jealous.'

'I am afraid she does; but though it is very sad, one can't wonder at
her preference of the great to the small.'

'Poor girl, I wonder how she will get on when there is a new inmate in
the happy family.'

'Ha! you shocking old gossip, what have you found out now?'

'Negotiation for the introduction of a Pug dog from the best
circles--eh?'

'Well, if he were alone in the world, it would be a capital match.'

'So she thinks, I fancy; but �600 a year might do better than purchase
so many incumbrances.  Depend upon it, the late lamented will remain in
the ascendant till there are no breakers ahead.'

In process of time, ladies, volunteers, and all, were assembled in the
great music-room for the concert; and Ethel, having worked hard in the
service of the company, thought her present duty lay with the sick
child, and quietly crept away, taking, however, one full view of the
entire scene, partly for her own satisfaction, partly in case Margaret
should be inclined to question her on what every one was doing.

There was the orchestra, whose erection Richard had superintended;
there was the conductor in his station, and the broad back of the
Cathedral organist at the piano, the jolly red visages of the singing
men in their ranks, the fresh faces of the choristers full of elation,
the star from London, looking quiet and ladylike, courteously led to
her place by George Rivers himself.  But, for all his civility, how
bored and sullen he looked! and how weary were poor Flora's smiles,
though her manner was so engaging, and her universal attention so
unremitting!  What a contrast to the serene, self-enfolded look of
happiness and prosperity on the pretty youthful face of Blanche, her
rich delicate silk spreading far beyond the sofa where she sat among
the great ladies; and her tall yellow-haired husband leaning against
the wall behind her, in wondering contemplation of his Blanche taking
her place in her own county.

Farther back, among the more ordinary herd, Ethel perceived Mrs. Pugh,
bridling demurely, with Tom on guard over her on one side, and Henry
Ward looking sulky on the other, with his youngest sister in his
charge.  The other was looking very happy upon Leonard's knee, close to
Averil and Mary, who were evidently highly satisfied to have coalesced.
Averil was looking strikingly pretty--the light fell favourably on her
profuse glossy hair, straight features, and brilliant colouring; her
dark eyes were full of animation, and her lips were apart with a smile
as she listened to Leonard's eager narration; and Ethel glanced towards
Harry to see whether he were admiring.  No; Harry was bringing in a
hall arm-chair in the background, for a vary large, heavy,
vulgar-looking old man, who seemed too ponderous and infirm for a place
on the benches.  Richard made one of a black mass of clergy, and Aubrey
and Gertrude had asserted their independence by perching themselves on
a window-seat, as far as possible from all relations, whence they
nodded a merry saucy greeting to Ethel, and she smiled back again,
thinking her tall boy in his gray tunic and black belt, and her plump
girl in white with green ribbons, were as goodly a pair as the room
contained.

But where was the Doctor?

Ethel had a shrewd suspicion where she should find him; and in the
nursery he was, playing at spillekens with his left hand.

It was not easy to persuade him that the music would be wasted on her,
and that he ought to go down that it might receive justice; but
Margaret settled the question. 'You may go, grandpapa.  Aunt Ethel is
best to play at spillekens, for she has not got a left hand.'

'There's honour for me, who used to have two!' and therewith Ethel
turned him out in time for the overture.

Margaret respected her aunt sufficiently not to be extra wayward with
her, and between the spillekens, and a long story about Cousin Dickie
in New Zealand, all went well till bed-time.  There was something in
the child's nervous temperament that made the first hours of the night
peculiarly painful to her, and the sounds of the distant festivity
added to her excitability.  She fretted and tossed, moaned and wailed,
sat up in bed and cried, snapped off attempts at hymns, would not
listen to stories, and received Ethel's attempts at calm grave commands
with bursts of crying, and calls for mamma and papa. The music had
ceased, tuning of violins was heard, and Ethel dreaded the cries being
heard down-stairs.  She was at her wits' end, and was thinking who
would most avail, and could be fetched with least sensation, when there
was a soft knock at the door, and Harry's voice said, 'Hollo, what's
the matter here?'  In he came with his white glove half on, and
perceiving the state of the case said, 'Can't go to sleep?'

'Oh, Uncle Harry, take me;' and the arms were stretched out, and the
tear-stained face raised up.

'We'll put you to sleep as sound as if you were in a hammock just off
middle watch,' said Harry; and the next moment he had her rolled up in
her little blue dressing-gown, nestling on his broad shoulder, while he
walked up and down the room, crooning out a nautical song, not in
first-rate style, but the effect was perfect; the struggles and sobs
were over, and when at the end of a quarter of an hour Harry paused and
looked at the little thin sharp face, it was softened by peaceful sleep.

Ethel pointed to the door.  There stood Flora, her eyes full of tears.

Harry laid the little sleeper on her bed, and covered her up.  Flora
laid her arm on his shoulder and gave him such a kiss as she had not
given even when he had come back as from the dead.  Then she signed to
them to come, but sped away before them, not trusting herself to speak.
Ethel tarried with Harry, who was in difficulties with gloves too small
for his broad hand, and was pshawing at himself at having let Tom get
them for him at Whitford.

'O, Harry,' said Ethel, 'you are the most really like papa of us all!
How did you come to think of it!'

'I'd have given a good deal if any one would have walked quarter-deck
with me some nights last summer,' said Harry, still intent on the
glove.  'What is to be done, Ethel! that rogue Tom always snaps up all
the beauty.  I dare say he has engaged Miss Ward and the widow both.'

It was no time for sentiment; so Ethel suggested getting half into one
glove, and carrying the other.

'You'll be quite irresistible enough, Harry!  And if all the beauty is
engaged, I'll dance with you myself.'

'Will you?' cried the lieutenant, with sparkling eyes, 'then you are a
jolly old Ethel!  Come along, then;' and he took her on his arm, ran
down-stairs with her, and before she well knew where she was, or what
was going on, she found herself in his great grasp passive as a doll,
dragged off into the midst of a vehement polka that took her breath
away.  She trusted to him, and remained in a passive, half-frightened
state, glad he was so happy; but in the first pause heartily wishing he
would let her go, instead of which she only heard, 'Well done, old
Ethel, you'll be a prime dancer yet! you're as light as a feather;' and
before she had recovered her breath, off he led her with 'Go it again!'

When at length, panting and bewildered, she was safely placed on a
seat, with 'You've had enough, have you? mind, I shan't let you off
another time,' she found that her aberration had excited a good deal of
sensation in her own family.  Blanche and Gertrude could not repress
their amusement; and Dr. May, with merry eyes, declared that she was
coming out in a new light.  She had only time to confide to him the
reason that she had let Harry do what he pleased with her, before two
volunteers were at her side.

'Miss May, I did not think you ever danced!'

'Nor I,' said Ethel; 'but you see what sailors can do with one.'

'Now, Ethel' said the other over his shoulder, 'now you have danced
with Harry, you must have this waltz with me.'

'A dangerous precedent, Ethel,' said the Doctor, laughing.

'I couldn't waltz to save my life, Aubrey,' said Ethel; 'but if you can
bear me through a polka as well as Harry did, you may try the next.'

'And won't you--will you--for once dance with me? said his companion
imploringly.

'Very well, Leonard, if I can get through a quadrille;' and therewith
Ethel was seized upon by both boys to hear the story of every hit and
miss, and of each of the difficulties that their unpractised corps had
encountered in getting round the corners between Stoneborough and the
Grange.  Then came Leonard's quadrille, which it might be hoped was
gratifying to him; but which he executed with as much solemn deference
as if he had been treading a minuet with a princess, plainly regarding
it as the great event of the day.  In due time, he resigned her to
Aubrey; but poor Aubrey had been deluded by the facility with which the
strong and practised sailor had swept his victim along; and Ethel grew
terrified at the danger of collisions, and released herself and pulled
him aside by force, just in time to avoid being borne down by the
ponderous weight of Miss Boulder and her partner.

'You did not come to grief with Harry!' muttered the discomfited boy.

'No more did the lamb damage the eagle; but remember the fate of the
jackdaw, Mr. Gray-coat!  I deserve some ice for my exertions, so come
into the hall and get some, and tell me if you have had better luck
elsewhere.'

'I have had no partner but Minna Ward, and she trips as if one was a
dancing-master.'

'And how has Tom been managing?'

'Stunningly civil!  He began with Ave Ward, in the Lancers, and it was
such fun--he chaffed her in his solemn way, about music I believe it
was, and her harmonium.  I could not quite hear, but I could see she
was in a tremendous taking, and she won't recover it all the evening.'

'What a shame it is of Tom!'

'Oh! but it is such fun!  And since that he has been parading with Pug.'

'She has not danced!'

'Oh no!  She got an audience into Meta's little sitting-room--Henry
Ward, Harvey Anderson, and some of the curates; they shut the door, and
had some music on their own hook.'

'Was Richard there!'

'At first; but either he could not bear to see Meta's piano profaned,
or he thought it too strong when they got to the sacred line, for he
bolted, and is gone home.'

'There's Harry dancing with Fanny Anderson.  He has not got Miss Ward
all this time.'

'Nor will,' said Aubrey.  'Tom had put her in such a rage that she did
not choose to dance with that cousin of hers, Sam Axworthy, so she was
obliged to refuse every one else; and I had to put up with that child!'

'Sam Axworthy!  He does not belong to our corps.  How does he come
here?'

'Oh! the old man has some houses in the borough, and an omnium gatherum
like this was a good time to do the civil thing to him. There he is;
peep into the card-room, and you'll see his great porpoise back, the
same old man that Harry in his benevolence assisted to a chair.  He
shook hands with Leonard, and told him there was a snug desk at the
Vintry Mill for him.'

'I dare say!'

'And when Leonard thanked him, and said he hoped to get off to
Cambridge, he laughed that horrid fat laugh, and told him learning
would never put him in good case.  Where shall I find you a place to
sit down?  Pug and her tail have taken up all the room,' whispered
Aubrey, as by the chief of the glittering tables in the hall, he saw
Mrs. Pugh, drinking tea, surrounded by her attendant gentlemen, and
with her aunt and Ella Ward, like satellites, a little way from her.

'Here is a coign of vantage,' said Ethel, seating herself on a step a
little way up the staircase.  'How those people have taken possession
of that child all day!'

'I fancy Leonard is come to reclaim her,' said Aubrey, 'don't you see
him trying to work through and get at her! and Miss Ward told me she
was going home early, to put the children to bed.  Ha! what's the row?
There's Leonard flaring up in a regular rage!  Only look at his
eyes--and Henry just like Gertrude's Java sparrow in a taking--'

'It must not be,' cried Ethel, starting up to attempt she knew not
what, as she heard Leonard's words, 'Say it was a mistake, Henry! You
cannot be so base as to persist!'

There it became evident that Ethel and Aubrey were seen over the
balusters; Leonard's colour deepened, but his eye did not flinch;
though Henry quailed and backed, and the widow gave a disconcerted
laugh; then Leonard pounced on his little sister and carried her off to
the cloak-room.  'What treason could it have been?' muttered Aubrey;
'we shall get it all from Ward;' but when Leonard re-appeared it was
with his sister cloaked and bonneted on his arm, each leading a little
one; he took them to the entrance and was seen no more.

Nor was the true history of that explosion ever revealed in the May
family, though it had grave consequences at Bankside.

Rumour had long declared at Stoneborough that the member's little
daughter was carefully secluded on account of some deformity, and Mrs.
Pugh had been one of many ladies who had hoped to satisfy their
curiosity on this head upon the present occasion.  She had asked Henry
Ward whether it were so, and he had replied with pique that he had no
means of judging, he had never been called in at the Grange. By way of
salve to his feelings, the sympathizing lady had suggested that the
preference for London advice might be from the desire of secrecy, and
improbable as he knew this to be, his vanity had forbidden him to argue
against it.  When no little Miss Rivers appeared, the notion of her
affliction gained ground, and Leonard, whose gray back was
undistinguishable from other gray backs, heard Mrs. Pugh citing his
brother as an authority for the misfortune which Mr. and Mrs. Rivers so
carefully concealed as to employ no surgeon from their own
neighbourhood.

Falsehood, slander, cruelty, ingratitude, breach of hospitality, were
the imputations that fired the hot brain of Leonard, and writhed his
lips, as he started round, confronted the lady, and assured her it was
a--a--a gross mistake.  His father had always attended the child, and
she must have misunderstood his brother.  Then, seeing Henry at a
little distance, Leonard summoned him to contradict the allegation; but
at that moment the sudden appearance of the two Mays put the whole
conclave to silence.

Not aware that Mrs. Pugh had confounded together his intelligence and
her surmise, and made him responsible for both, Henry was shocked and
grieved at his brother's insulting and violent demeanour, and exhausted
himself in apologies and denunciations; while the kind-hearted lady
interceded, for the boy, declaring that she doted on his generous
spirit, but not confessing the piece of female embroidery which had
embroiled the matter; probably not even aware of it, though sincerely
and kindly desirous to avert the brother's anger.  Her amiability,
therefore, only strengthened Henry's sense of his brothers outrage, and
his resolve to call him to account.

It was impossible that night, for Leonard had gone home with the
sisters, and was in bed long before his brother returned.  But at
breakfast Henry found the forces drawn up against him, and his first
attempt to remonstrate was retorted by the demand what he could mean by
spreading such an abominable
report--cruel--unfounded--ungrateful--spiteful--

Averil indeed divined that it was Mrs. Pugh's invention; but Henry was
not inclined to give up Mrs. Pugh, and continued in the belief that
Leonard's fiery imagination had fabricated the sentence, and then most
improperly charged it on the lady, and on himself.  Had it been as
Leonard stated, said Henry, his conduct was shameful and required an
apology, whereupon Leonard burst out in passion at being disbelieved,
and Averil was no less indignant.  The storm raged till the business of
the day interrupted it; and in Henry's absence, Averil and her brother
worked up their wrath again, at the atrocity of the assertion regarding
the child of their entertainers, the granddaughter of their truest,
kindest friend.

Averil would have rushed to Mary with the whole story, but for
Leonard's solemn asseveration that if ever it came to the ears of any
one of the Mays, he should send back his rifle to Mr. Ernescliffe, and
work his way out to one of the colonies rather than again look any of
the family in the face.

Henry divided his opponents next time, asking Leonard, in his sister's
absence, whether he had come to his senses and would apologize?
Leonard hoped Henry had come to his!  On the whole, the dispute had
lost some asperity by the absence of Averil, and though Leonard held
his ground, and maintained that he had every right to deny the
statement, and that it was Henry's duty to make Mrs. Pugh contradict it
everywhere, yet the two approached nearer together, and there was less
misunderstanding, fewer personalities.

But Averil could not forget or forgive.  She persisted in manifesting
her displeasure, and recurred to the subject till her pertinacity wore
out Leonard himself.

'Nonsense, Ave,' he said at last, 'it was a foolish woman's gossip that
Henry ought to have quashed; but that is no reason you should treat
them like toads.'

'Would you have me sanction vile slander?'

'As if you were sanctioning slander by being decently civil!  Is not it
an intolerable thing that we three should never sit down to a meal in
peace together?'

'O, Leonard, don't you think I feel the misery?'

Put an end to it then, and don't pit those poor children one against
the other.  Just fancy Minna's saying to me, "I love you and sister,
but Ella loves Mrs. Pugh and Henry."'

'Yes, they have set Ella against me.  She always appeals to Henry, and
I can do nothing with her.'

Leonard looked out of the window and whistled, then said, as if he had
made a discovery, 'I'll tell you what, Ave, something must be done to
set things to rights between us, and I believe the best thing will be
to call on Mrs. Pugh.'

'Not to apologize!  O, Leonard!'

'Stuff and nonsense!  Only to show we don't bear malice.  Henry had
been at you to call ever so long before this, had he not?'

'I can't see any reason for intimacy.'

'I declare, Ave, you are too bad!  I only want you just to keep the
peace with your own brother.  You have led him the life of a dog these
three days, and now when I want you to be a little obliging, you talk
of intimacy!'

'Only because I know how it will be.  If I give that woman an inch, she
will take an ell.'

'Let her then.  It would be much better than always living at
daggers-drawn with one's brother.'  Then, after waiting for her to say
something, he added, 'If you won't go with me, I shall go alone.'

Averil rose, subdued but not convinced, reverencing her brother, but
afraid of his concessions.

However, the call turned out well.  Mrs. Pugh had a talent for making
herself agreeable, and probably had liked the boy for his outburst. She
would not let Mab be excluded, loaded her with admiration, and was
extremely interested in the volunteer practice, so that both the young
people were subjugated for the time by her pleasant manners, and went
away ashamed of their own rancour against one so friendly and
good-natured, and considerably relieved of their burden of animosity.

Their greeting to their brother was so cordial that he perceived their
good-will, and was sorry that the dread of an evening of warfare had
induced him to accept an invitation to dine at the Swan with Sam
Axworthy and a party of his friends.




CHAPTER X

  This night is my departing night,
    For here nae longer must I stay;
  There's neither friend nor foe of mine
    But wishes me away.
  What I have done through lack of wit,
    I never, never can recall:
  I hope ye're all my friends as yet.
    Good night, and joy be with you all.
                               Armstrong's Good Night


The storm had blown over, but heavy flakes of cloud still cumbered the
air, and gusts of wind portended that it might gather again.

Henry Ward took this opportunity of giving his first dinner party. He
said it was a necessary return for the civilities they had received;
and to Averil's representation that it transgressed the system of rigid
economy that so much tormented her, he replied by referring her to Mrs.
Pugh for lessons in the combination of style and inexpensiveness.

Averil had almost refused, but the lady herself proffered her
instructions, and reluctance was of no avail; nothing but
demonstrations from which her conscience shrank, could have served to
defend her from the officious interference so eagerly and thankfully
encouraged by the master of the house.  Vainly did she protest against
pretension, and quote the example of the Grange; she found herself
compelled to sacrifice the children's lessons to learn of Mrs. Pugh to
make the paper flowers that, with bonbons and sweetmeats, were to save
the expense of good food on the dinner-table, and which she feared
would be despised by Miss May, nay, perhaps laughed over with 'Mr. Tom!'

She hated the whole concern, even the invitation to Dr. and Miss May,
knowing that it was sent in formal vanity, accepted in pure
good-nature, would bring them into society they did not like, and
expose her brother's bad taste.  Only one thing could have added to her
dislike, namely--that which all Stoneborough perceived excepting
herself and Leonard--that this dinner was intended as a step in Henry's
courtship, and possibly as an encouragement of Harvey Anderson's liking
for herself.  Averil held her head so high, and was so little popular,
that no one of less assurance than Mrs. Ledwich herself would have
dared approach her with personal gossip; and even Mrs. Ledwich was
silent here; so that Averil, too young and innocent to connect second
marriages with recent widowhood, drew no conclusions from Henry's
restless eagerness that his household should present the most imposing
appearance.

While the bill of fare was worrying Averil, Leonard was told by Aubrey,
that his father had brought home a fossil Tower of Babel, dug up with
some earth out of a new well, three miles off, with tidings of other
unheard-of treasures, and a walk was projected in quest of them, in
which Leonard was invited to join.  He gladly came to the early dinner,
where he met reduced numbers--the Ernescliffes being at Maplewood, Tom
at Cambridge, and Harry in the Channel fleet; and as usual, he felt the
difference between the perfect understanding and friendship in the one
home, and the dread of dangerous subjects in the other.  The expedition
had all the charms of the Coombe times; and the geological discoveries
were so numerous and precious, that the load became sufficient to break
down the finders, and Ethel engaged a market-woman to bring the baskets
in her cart the next morning.

That morning a note from Richard begged Ethel to come early to
Cocksmoor to see Granny Hall, who was dying.  Thus left to their own
devices, Aubrey and Gertrude conscientiously went through some of their
studies; then proceeded to unpack their treasury of fossils, and
endeavour to sort out Leonard's share, as to which doubts arose. Daisy
proposed to carry the specimens at once to Bankside, where she wanted
to see Leonard's prime echinus; and Aubrey readily agreed, neither of
the young heads having learnt the undesirableness of a morning visit in
a house preparing for a dinner-party too big for it.

However, Leonard made them extremely welcome.  It was too foggy a day
for rifle practice, and all the best plate and china were in the
school-room, his only place of refuge; Ave was fluttering about in
hopes of getting everything done before Mrs. Pugh could take it out of
her hands, and the energies of the household were spent on laying out
the dining-table.  It was clearly impossible to take Gertrude anywhere
but into the drawing-room, which was in demi-toilette state, the
lustres released from their veils, the gayer cushions taken out of
their hiding-places, and the brown holland covers half off.  This was
the only tranquil spot, and so poor little Mab thought, forbidden
ground though it was.  Even in her own home, the school-room, a strange
man had twice trod upon her toes; so no wonder, when she saw her own
master and his friends in the drawing-room, that she ventured in, and
leaping on a velvet cushion she had never seen before, and had never
been ordered off, she there curled herself up and went to sleep, unseen
by Leonard, who was in eager controversy upon the specimens, which
Gertrude, as she unpacked, set down on floor, chair, or ottoman,
unaware of the offence she was committing.  So, unmolested, the young
geologists talked, named, and sorted the specimens, till the clock
striking the half-hour, warned the Mays that they must return; and
Leonard let them out at the window, and crossed the lawn to the side
gate with them to save the distance.

He had just returned, and was kneeling on the floor hastily collecting
the fossils, when the door opened, and Henry Ward, coming home to
inspect the preparations, beheld the drawing-room bestrewn with the
rough stones that he had proscribed, and Mab, not only in the room, but
reposing in the centre of the most magnificent cushion in the house!

His first movement of indignation was to seize the dog with no gentle
hand.  She whined loudly; and Leonard, whom he had not seen, shouted
angrily, 'Let her alone;' then, at another cry from her, finding his
advance to her rescue impeded by a barricade of the crowded and
disarranged furniture, he grew mad with passion, and launched the stone
in his hand, a long sharp-pointed belemnite.  It did not strike Henry,
but a sound proclaimed the mischief, as it fell back from the surface
of the mirror, making a huge star of cracks, unmarked by Leonard, who,
pushing sofa and ottoman to the right and left, thundered up to his
brother, and with uplifted hand demanded what he meant by his cruelty.

'Is--is this defiance?' stammered Henry, pointing to the disordered
room.

'Look here, Averil,' as she appeared at the sounds, 'do you defend this
boy now he has very nearly killed me?'

'Killed you!' and Leonard laughed angrily; but when Henry held up the
elf-bolt, and he saw its sharp point, he was shocked, and he saw horror
in Averil's face.

'I see,' he said gravely.  'It was a mercy I did not!' and he paused.
'I did not know what I was about when you were misusing my dog, Henry.
Shake hands; I am sorry for it.'

But Henry had been very much frightened as well as angered, and
thought, perhaps, it was a moment to pursue his advantage.

'You treat things lightly,' he said, not accepting the hand.

'See what you have done.'

'I am glad it was not your head,' said Leonard.  'What does it cost?
I'll pay.'

'More than your keep for a year,' moaned Henry, as he sighed over the
long limbs of the starfish-like fracture.

'Well, I will give up anything you like, if you will only not be sulky
about it, Henry.  It was unlucky, and I'm sorry for it; I can't say
more!'

'But I can,' said Henry with angry dignity, re-inforced by the sight of
the seamed reflection of his visage in the shivered glass.  'I tell
you, Leonard, there's no having you in the house; you defy my
authority, you insult my friends, you waste and destroy more than you
are worth, and you are absolutely dangerous.  I would as soon have a
wild beast about the place.  If you don't get the Randall next week,
and get off to the University, to old Axworthy's office you go at once.'

'Very well, I will,' said Leonard, turning to collect the fossils, as
if he had done with the subject.

'Henry, Henry, what are you saying?' cried the sister.

'Not a word, Ave,' said Leonard.  'I had rather break stones on the
road than live where my keep is grudged, and there's not spirit enough
to get over a moment's fright.'

'It is not any one individual thing,' began Henry, in a tone of
annoyance, 'but your whole course--'

There he paused, perceiving that Leonard paid no attention to his
words, continuing quietly to replace the furniture and collect the
fossils, as it no one else were in the room, after which he carried the
basket up-stairs.

Averil hurried after him.  'Leonard! oh, why don't you explain?  Why
don't you tell him how the stones came there?'

Leonard shook his head sternly.

'Don't you mean to do anything?'

'Nothing.'

'But you wanted another year before trying for the scholarship.'

'Yes; I have no chance there.'

'He will not do it!  He cannot mean it!'

'I do then.  I will get my own living, and not be a burthen, where my
brother cannot forgive a broken glass or a moment's fright,' said
Leonard; and she felt that his calm resentment was worse than his
violence.

'He will be cooler, and then--'

'I will have no more said to him.  It is plain that we cannot live
together, and there's an end of it.  Don't cry, or you won't be fit to
be seen.'

'I won't come down to dinner.'

'Yes, you will.  Let us have no more about it.  Some one wants you.'

'Please, ma'am, the fish is come.'

'Sister, sister, come and see how I have done up the macaroons in green
leaves.'

'Sister, sister, do come and reach me down some calycanthus out of the
greenhouse!'

'I will,' said Leonard, descending; and for the rest of the day he was
an efficient assistant in the decorations, and the past adventure was
only apparent in the shattered glass, and the stern ceremonious
courtesy of the younger brother towards the elder.

Averil hurried about, devoid of all her former interest in so doing
things for herself as to save interference; and when Mrs. Ledwich and
Mrs. Pugh walked in, overflowing with suggestions, she let them have
their way, and toiled under them with the sensation of being like 'dumb
driven cattle.'  If Leonard were to be an exile, what mattered it to
her who ruled, or what appearance things made?

Only when she went to her own room to dress, had she a moment to
realize the catastrophe, its consequences, and the means of averting
them.  So appalled was she, that she sat with her hair on her shoulders
as if spell-bound, till the first ring at the door aroused her to speed
and consternation, perhaps a little lessened by one of her sisters
rushing in to say that it was Mrs. Ledwich and Mrs. Pugh, and that
Henry was still in the cellar, decanting the wine.

Long before the hosts were ready, Dr. May and Ethel had likewise
arrived, and became cognizant of the fracture of the mirror, for,
though the nucleus was concealed by a large photograph stuck into the
frame, one long crack extended even to the opposite corner.  The two
ladies were not slow to relate all that they knew; and while the aunt
dismayed Ethel by her story, the niece, with much anxiety, asked Dr.
May how it was that these dear, nice, superior young people should have
such unfortunate tempers--was it from any error in management? So
earnest was her manner, so inquiring her look, that Dr. May suspected
that she was feeling for his opinion on personal grounds, and tried to
avert the danger by talking of the excellence of the parents, but he
was recalled from his eulogium on poor Mrs. Ward.

'Oh yes! one felt for them so very much, and they are so religious, so
well principled, and all that one could wish; but family dissension is
so dreadful.  I am very little used to young men or boys, and I never
knew anything like this.'

'The lads are too nearly of an age,' said the Doctor.

'And would such things be likely to happen among any brothers?'

'I should trust not!' said the Doctor emphatically.

'I should so like to know in confidence which you think likely to be
most to blame.'

Never was the Doctor more glad that Averil made her appearance!  He
carefully avoided getting near Mrs. Pugh for the rest of the evening,
but he could not help observing that she was less gracious than usual
to the master of the house; while she summoned Leonard to her side to
ask about the volunteer proceedings, and formed her immediate court of
Harvey Anderson and Mr. Scudamour.

The dinner went on fairly, though heavily.  Averil, in her one great
trouble, lost the sense of the minor offences that would have
distressed her pride and her taste had she been able to attend to them,
and forgot the dulness of the scene in her anxiety to seek sympathy and
counsel in the only quarter where she cared for it.  She went
mechanically through her duties as lady of the house, talking
commonplace subjects dreamily to Dr. May, and scarcely even giving
herself the trouble to be brief with Mr. Anderson, who was on her other
side at dinner.

In the drawing-room, she left the other ladies to their own devices in
her eagerness to secure a few minutes with Ethel May, and disabuse her
of whatever Mrs. Ledwich or Mrs. Pugh might have said.  Ethel had been
more hopeful before she heard the true version; she had hitherto
allowed much for Mrs. Ledwich's embellishments; and she was shocked and
took shame to her own guiltless head for Gertrude's thoughtlessness.

'Oh no!' said Averil, 'there was nothing that any one need have minded,
if Henry had waited for explanation!  And now, will you get Dr. May to
speak to him?  If he only knew how people would think of his treating
Leonard so, I am sure he would not do it.'

'He cannot!' said Ethel.  'Don't you know what he thinks of it himself?
He said to papa last year that your father would as soon have sent
Leonard to the hulks as to the Vintry Mill.'

'Oh, I am so glad some one heard him.  He would care about having that
cast up against him, if he cared for nothing else.'

'It must have been a mere threat.  Leonard surely has only to ask his
pardon.'

'No, indeed, not again, Miss May!' said Averil.  'Leonard asked once,
and was refused, and cannot ask again.  No, the only difficulty is
whether he ought not to keep to his word, and go to the mill if he does
not get the Randall.'

'Did he say he would?'

'Of course he did, when Henry threatened him with it, and talked of the
burden of his maintenance!  He said, "Very well, I will," and he means
it!'

'He will not mean it when the spirit of repentance has had time to
waken.'

'He will take nothing that is grudged him,' said Averil.  'Oh! is it
not hard that I cannot get at my own money, and send him at once to
Cambridge, and never ask Henry for another farthing?'

'Nay, Averil; I think you can do a better part by trying to make them
forgive one another.'

Averil had no notion of Leonard's again abasing himself, and though she
might try to bring Henry to reason by reproaches, she would not
persuade.  She wished her guest had been the sympathizing Mary rather
than Miss May, who was sure to take the part of the elder and the
authority.  Repentance!  Forgiveness!  If Miss May should work on
Leonard to sue for pardon and toleration, and Mrs. Pugh should
intercede with Henry to take him into favour, she had rather he were at
the Vintry Mill at once in his dignity, and Henry be left to his
disgrace.

Ethel thought of Dr. Spencer's words on the beach at Coombe, 'Never
threaten Providence!'  She longed to repeat them to Leonard, as she
watched his stern determined face, and the elaborately quiet motions
that spoke of a fixed resentful purpose; but to her disappointment and
misgiving, he gave her no opportunity, and for the first time since
their sea-side intercourse, held aloof from her.

Nor did she see him again during the week that intervened before the
decision of the scholarship, though three days of it were holidays.
Aubrey, whom she desired to bring him in after the rifle drill,
reported that he pronounced himself sorry to refuse, but too busy to
come in, and he seemed to be cramming with fiery vehemence for the mere
chance of success.

The chance was small.  The only hope lay in the possibility of some
hindrance preventing the return of either Forder or Folliot; and in the
meantime the Mays anxiously thought over Leonard's prospects. His
remaining at home was evidently too great a trial for both brothers,
and without a scholarship he could not go to the University.  The evils
of the alternative offered by his brother were duly weighed by the
Doctor and Ethel with an attempt to be impartial.

Mr. Axworthy, though the mill was the centre of his business, was in
fact a corn merchant of considerable wealth, and with opportunities of
extending his connection much farther.  Had his personal character been
otherwise, Dr. May thought a young man could not have a better opening
than a seat in his office, and the future power of taking shares in his
trade; there need be no loss of position, and there was great
likelihood both of prosperity and the means of extensive usefulness.

Ethel sighed at the thought of the higher aspirations that she had
fostered till her own mind was set on them.

'Nay,' said the Doctor, 'depend upon it, the desk is admirable training
for good soldiers of the Church.  See the fearful evil that befalls
great schemes intrusted to people who cannot deal with money matters;
and see, on the other hand, what our merchants and men of business have
done for the Church, and do not scorn "the receipt of custom."'

'But the man, papa!'

'Yes, there lies the hitch!  If Leonard fails, I can lay things before
Henry, such as perhaps he may be too young to know, and which must
change his purpose.'

Mr. Axworthy's career during his youth and early manhood was guessed at
rather than known, but even since his return and occupation of the
Vintry Mill, his vicious habits had scandalized the neighbourhood, and
though the more flagrant of these had been discontinued as he advanced
in age, there was no reason to hope that he had so much 'left off his
sins, as that his sins had left him off.'  His great-nephew, who lived
with him and assisted in his business, was a dashing sporting young man
of no good character, known to be often intoxicated, and concerned in
much low dissipation, and as dangerous an associate as could be
conceived for a high-spirited lad like Leonard.  Dr. May could not
believe that any provocation of temper, any motive of economy, any
desire to be rid of encumbrances to his courtship, could induce a man
with so much good in him, as there certainly was in Henry Ward, to
expose his orphan brother to such temptations; and he only reserved his
remonstrance in the trust that it would not be needed, and the desire
to offer some better alternative of present relief.

One of the examiners was Norman's old school and college friend,
Charles Cheviot, now a clergyman and an under-master at one of the
great schools recently opened for the middle classes, where he was
meeting with great success, and was considered a capital judge of boys'
characters.  He was the guest of the Mays during the examination; and
though his shy formal manner, and convulsive efforts at young lady
talk, greatly affronted Gertrude, the brothers liked him.

He was in consternation at the decline of Stoneborough school since Mr.
Wilmot had ceased to be an under-master; the whole tone of the school
had degenerated, and it was no wonder that the Government inquiries
were ominously directed in that quarter.  Scholarship was at a low ebb,
Dr. Hoxton seemed to have lost what power of teaching he had ever
possessed, and as Dr. May observed, the poor old school was going to
the dogs.  But even in the present state of things, Leonard had no
chance of excelling his competitors.  His study, like theirs, had been
mere task-work, and though he showed more native power than the rest,
yet perhaps this had made the mere learning by rote even more difficult
to an active mind full of inquiry.  He was a whole year younger than
any other who touched the foremost ranks, two years younger than
several; and though he now and then showed a feverish spark of genius,
reminding Mr. Cheviot of Norman in his famous examination, it was not
sustained--there were will and force, but not scholarship--and besides,
there was a wide blurred spot in his memory, as though all the
brain-work of the quarter before his illness had been confused, and had
not yet become clear.  There was every likelihood that a few years
would make him superior to the chosen Randall scholar, but at present
his utmost efforts did not even place him among the seven whose names
appeared honourably in the newspaper.  It was a failure; but Mr.
Cheviot had become much interested in the boy for his own sake, as well
as from what he heard from the Mays, and he strongly advised that
Leonard should at Easter obtain employment for a couple of years at the
school in which he himself was concerned.  He would thus be maintaining
himself, and pursuing his own studies under good direction, so as to
have every probability of success in getting an open scholarship at one
of the Universities.

Nothing could be better, and there was a perfect jubilee among the Mays
at the proposal.  Aubrey was despatched as soon as breakfast was over
to bring Leonard to talk it over, and Dr. May undertook to propound it
to Henry on meeting him at the hospital; but Aubrey came back looking
very blank--Leonard had started of his own accord that morning to
announce to his uncle his acceptance of a clerk's desk at the Vintry
Mill!

Averil followed upon Aubrey's footsteps, and arrived while the
schoolroom was ringing with notes of vexation and consternation.  She
was all upon the defensive.  She said that not a word had passed on the
subject since the dinner-party, and there had not been a shadow of a
dispute between the brothers; in fact, she evidently was delighted with
Leonard's dignified position and strength of determination, and thought
this expedition to the Vintry Mill a signal victory.

When she heard what the Mays had to propose, she was enchanted, she had
no doubt of Henry's willing consent, and felt that Leonard's triumph
and independence were secured without the sacrifice of prospects, which
she had begun to regard as a considerable price for his dignity.

But Dr. May was not so successful with Henry Ward.  He did not want to
disoblige his uncle, who had taken a fancy to Leonard, and might do
much for the family; he thought his father would have changed his views
of the uncle and nephew had he known them better, he would not accept
the opinion of a stranger against people of his own family, and he had
always understood the position of an usher to be most wretched, nor
would he perceive the vast difference between the staff of the middle
school and of the private commercial academy.  He evidently was pleased
to stand upon his rights, to disappoint Dr. May, and perhaps to gratify
his jealousy by denying his brother a superior education.

Yet in spite of this ebullition, which had greatly exasperated Dr. May,
there was every probability that Henry's consent might be wrung out or
dispensed with, and plans of attack were being arranged at the
tea-table, when a new obstacle in the shape of a note from Leonard
himself.


'My Dear Aubrey,

'I am very much obliged to Dr. May and Mr. Cheviot for their kind
intentions; but I have quite settled with Mr. Axworthy, and I enter on
my new duties next week.  I am sorry to leave our corps, but it is too
far off, and I must enter the Whitford one.

                                      'Yours,
                                          'L. A. Ward.'


'The boy is mad with pride and temper,' said the Doctor.

'And his sister has made him so,' added Ethel.

'Shall I run down to Bankside and tell him it is all bosh?' said
Aubrey, jumping up.

'I don't think that is quite possible under Henry's very nose,' said
Ethel.  'Perhaps they will all be tamer by to-morrow, now they have
blown their trumpets; but I am very much vexed.'

'And really,' added Mr. Cheviot, 'if he is so wrong-headed, I begin to
doubt if I could recommend him.'

'You do not know how he has been galled and irritated,' said the
general voice.

'I wonder what Mrs. Pugh thinks of it,' presently observed the Doctor.

'Ah!' said Ethel, 'Mrs. Pugh is reading "John of Anjou".'

'Indeed!' said the Doctor; 'I suspected the wind was getting into that
quarter.  Master Henry does not know his own interest: she was sure to
take part with a handsome lad.'

'Why have you never got Mrs. Pugh to speak for him?' said Mary.  'I am
sure she would.'

'O, Mary! simple Mary, you to be Ave's friend, and not know that her
interposition is the only thing wanting to complete the frenzy of the
other two!'

Ethel said little more that evening, she was too much grieved and too
anxious.  She was extremely disappointed in Leonard, and almost
hopeless as to his future.  She saw but one chance of preventing his
seeking this place of temptation, and that was in the exertion of her
personal influence.  His avoidance of her showed that he dreaded it,
but one attempt must be made.  All night was spent in broken dreams of
just failing to meet him, or of being unable to utter what was on her
tongue; and in her waking moments she almost reproached herself for the
discovery how near her heart he was, and how much pleasure his devotion
had given her.

Nothing but resolution on her own part could bring about a meeting, and
she was resolute.  She stormed the castle in person, and told Averil
she must speak to Leonard.  Ave was on her side now, and answered with
tears in her eyes that she should be most grateful to have Leonard
persuaded out of this dreadful plan, and put in the way of excelling as
he ought to do; she never thought it would come to this.

'No,' thought Ethel; 'people blow sparks without thinking they may burn
a house down.'

Ave conducted her to the summer-house, where Leonard was packing up his
fossils.  He met them with a face resolutely bent on brightness. 'I am
to take all my household gods,' he said, as he shook hands with Ethel.

'I see,' said Ethel, gravely; and as Averil was already falling out of
hearing, she added, 'I thought you were entirely breaking with your old
life.'

'No, indeed,' said Leonard, turning to walk with her in the paths; 'I
am leaving the place where it is most impossible to live in.'

'This has been a place of great, over-great trial, I know,' said Ethel,
'but I do not ask you to stay in it.'

'My word is my word,' said Leonard, snapping little boughs off the
laurels as he walked.

'A hasty word ought not to be kept.'

His face looked rigid, and he answered not.

'Leonard,' she said, 'I have been very unhappy about you, for I see you
doing wilfully wrong, and entering a place of temptation in a dangerous
spirit.'

'I have given my word,' repeated Leonard.

'O, Leonard, it is pride that is speaking, not the love of truth and
constancy.'

'I never defend myself,' said Leonard.

Ethel felt deeply the obduracy and pride of these answers; her eyes
filled with tears, and her hopes failed.

Perhaps Leonard saw the pain he was giving, for he softened, and said,
'Miss May, I have thought it over, and I cannot go back.  I know I was
carried away by passion at the first moment, and I was willing to make
amends.  I was rejected, as you know.  Was it fit that we should go on
living together?'

'I do not ask you to live together.'

'When he reproached me with the cost of my maintenance, and threatened
me with the mill if I lost the scholarship, which he knew I could not
get, I said I would abide by those words.  I do abide by them.'

'There is no reason that you should.  Why should you give up all your
best and highest hopes, because you cannot forgive your brother?'

'Miss May, if I lived with you and the Doctor, I could have such aims.
Henry has taken care to make them sacrilege for me.  I shall never be
fit now, and there's an end of it.'

'You might--'

'No, no, no!  A school, indeed!  I should be dismissed for licking the
boys before a week was out!  Besides, I want the readiest way to get on
in the world; I must take care of my sisters; I don't trust one moment
to Henry's affection for any of them.  This is no home for me, and it
soon may be no home for them!' and the boy's eyes were full of tears,
though his voice struggled for firmness and indifference.

'I am very sorry for you, Leonard,' said Ethel, much more
affectionately, as she felt herself nearer her friend of Coombe. 'I am
glad you have some better motives, but I do not see how you will be
more able to help them in this way.'

'I shall be near them,' said Leonard; 'I can watch over them.  And
if--if--it is true what they say about Henry and Mrs. Pugh--then they
could have a cottage near the mill, and I could live with them. Don't
you see, Miss May?'

'Yes; but I question whether, on further acquaintance, you will wish
for your sisters to be with their relations there.  The other course
would put you in the way of a better atmosphere for them.'

'But not for six years,' said Leonard.  'No, Miss May; to show you it
is not what you think in me, I will tell you that I had resolved the
last thing to ask Henry's pardon for my share in this unhappy
half-year; but this is the only resource for me or my sisters, and my
mind is made up.'

'O, Leonard, are you not deceiving yourself?  Are the grapes ever so
sour, or the nightshade below so sweet, as when the fox has leapt too
short, and is too proud to climb?'

'Nightshade!  Why, pray?'

'My father would tell you; I know he thinks your cousin no safe
companion.'

'I know that already, but I can keep out of his way.'

'Then this is the end of it,' said Ethel, feeling only half justified
in going so far, 'the end of all we thought and talked of at Coombe!'

There was a struggle in the boy's face, and she did not know whether
she had touched or angered him.  'I can't help it,' he said, as if he
would have recalled his former hardness; but then softening, 'No, Miss
May, why should it be?  A man can do his duty in any state of life.'

'In any state of life where God has placed him; but how when it is his
own self-will?'

'There are times when one must judge for one's self.'

'Very well, then, I have done, Leonard.  If you can conscientiously
feel that you are acting for the best, and not to gratify your pride,
then I can only say I hope you will be helped through the course you
have chosen.  Good-bye.'

'But--Miss May--though I cannot take your advice--' he hesitated, 'this
is not giving me up?'

'Never, while you let me esteem you.'

'Thank you,' he said, brightening, 'that is something to keep my head
above water, even if this place were all you think it.'

'My father thinks,' said Ethel.

'I am engaged now; I cannot go back,' said Leonard.  'Thank you. Miss
May.'

'Thank you for listening patiently,' said Ethel.  'Good-bye.'

'And--and,' he added earnestly, following her back to the house, 'you
do not think the Coombe days cancelled?'

'If you mean my hopes of you,' said Ethel, with a swelling heart, 'as
long as you do your duty--for--for the highest reason, they will only
take another course, and I will try to think it the right one.'

Ethel had mentally made this interview the test of her regard for
Leonard.  She had failed, and so had her test; her influence had not
succeeded, but it had not snapped; the boy, in all his wilfulness, had
been too much for her, and she could no longer condemn and throw him
off!

Oh! why will not the rights and wrongs of this world be more clearly
divided!




CHAPTER XI

  The stream was deeper than I thought
    When first I ventured here,
  I stood upon its sloping edge
    Without a rising fear.--H. BONAR


It was a comfort to find that the brothers parted on good terms.  The
elder was beholden to the younger for the acquiescence that removed the
odium of tyranny from the expulsion, and when the one great disturbance
had silenced the ephemeral dissensions that had kept both minds in a
constant state of irritation, Henry wanted, by kindness and
consideration, to prove to himself and the world that Leonard's real
interests were his sole object; and Leonard rejoiced in being at peace,
so long as his pride and resolution were not sacrificed.  He went off
as though his employment had been the unanimous choice of the family,
carrying with him his dog, his rifle, his fishing-rod, his fossils, and
all his other possessions, but with the understanding that his Sundays
were to be passed at home, by way of safeguard to his religion and
morals, bespeaking the care and consideration of his senior, as Henry
assured himself and Mrs. Pugh, and tried to persuade his sister and Dr.
May.

But Dr. May was more implacable than all the rest.  He called Henry's
action the deed of Joseph's brethren, and viewed the matter as the
responsible head of a family; he had a more vivid contemporaneous
knowledge of the Axworthy antecedents, and he had been a witness to
Henry's original indignant repudiation of such a destiny for his
brother.  He was in the mood of a man whose charity had endured long,
and refused to condemn, but whose condemnation, when forced from him,
was therefore doubly strong.  The displeasure of a loving charitable
man is indeed a grave misfortune.

Never had he known a more selfish and unprincipled measure,
deliberately flying in the face of his parents' known wishes before
they had been a year in their graves, exposing his brother to ruinous
temptation with his eyes open.  The lad was destroyed body and soul, as
much as if he had been set down in Satan's own clutches; and if they
did not mind what they were about, he would drag Aubrey after him!  As
sure as his name was Dick May, he would sooner have cut his hand off
than have sent the boys to Coombe together, could he have guessed that
this was to be the result.

Such discourses did not tend to make Ethel comfortable.  If she had
been silly enough to indulge in a dream of her influence availing to
strengthen Leonard against temptation, she must still have refrained
from exerting it through her wonted medium, since it was her father's
express desire that Aubrey, for his own sake, should be detached from
his friend as much as possible.

Aubrey was the greatest present difficulty.  Long before their illness
the boys had been the resource of each other's leisure, and Coombe had
made their intimacy a friendship of the warmest nature. Aubrey was at
an age peculiarly dependent on equal companionship, and in the absence
of his brothers, the loss of his daily intercourse with Leonard took
away all the zest of life.  Even the volunteer practice lost its charm
without the rival with whom he chiefly contended, yet whose success
against others was hotter to him than his own; his other occupations
all wanted partnership, and for the first time in his life he showed
weariness and contempt of his sisters' society and pursuits.  He rushed
off on Sunday evenings for a walk with Leonard; and though Dr. May did
not interfere, the daughters saw that the abstinence was an effort of
prudence, and were proportionately disturbed when one day at dinner, in
his father's absence, Aubrey, who had been overlooking his
fishing-flies with some reviving interest, refused all his sisters'
proposals for the afternoon, and when they represented that it was not
a good fishing-day, owned that it was not, but that he was going over
to consult Leonard Ward about some gray hackles.

'But you mustn't, Aubrey,' cried Gertrude, aghast.

Aubrey made her a low mocking bow.

'I am sure papa would be very much vexed,' added she, conclusively.

'I believe it was luckless Hal that the mill-wheel tore in your nursery
rhymes, eh, Daisy,' said Aubrey.

'Nursery rhymes, indeed!' returned the offended young lady; 'you know
it is a very wicked place, and papa would be very angry at your going
there.'  She looked at Ethel, extremely shocked at her not having
interfered, and disregarding all signs to keep silence.

'Axworthy--worthy of the axe,' said Aubrey, well pleased to retort a
little teasing by the way; 'young Axworthy baiting the trap, and old
Axworthy sitting up in his den to grind the unwary limb from limb!'

'Ethel, why don't you tell him not?' exclaimed Gertrude.

'Because he knows papa's wishes as well as I do,' said Ethel; 'and it
is to them that he must attend, not to you or me.'

Aubrey muttered something about his father having said nothing to him;
and Ethel succeeded in preventing Daisy from resenting this answer.
She herself hoped to catch him in private, but he easily contrived to
baffle this attempt, and was soon marching out of Stoneborough in a
state of rampant independence, manhood, and resolute friendship, which
nevertheless chose the way where he was least likely to encounter a
little brown brougham.

Otherwise he might have reckoned three and a half miles of ploughed
field, soppy lane, and water meadow, as more than equivalent to five
miles of good turnpike road.

Be that as it might, he was extremely glad when, after forcing his way
through a sticky clayey path through a hazel copse, his eye fell on a
wide reach of meadow land, the railroad making a hard line across it at
one end, and in the midst, about half a mile off, the river meandering
like a blue ribbon lying loosely across the green flat, the handsome
buildings of the Vintry Mill lying in its embrace.

Aubrey knew the outward aspect of the place, for the foreman at the
mill was a frequent patient of his father's, and he had often waited in
the old gig at the cottage door at no great distance; but he looked
with more critical eyes at the home of his friend.

It was a place with much capacity, built, like the Grange, by the monks
of the convent, which had been the germ of the cathedral, and showing
the grand old monastic style in the solidity of its stone barns and
storehouses, all arranged around a court, whereof the dwelling-house
occupied one side, the lawn behind it with fine old trees, and sloping
down to the water, which was full of bright ripples after its agitation
around the great mill-wheel.  The house was of more recent date, having
been built by a wealthy yeoman of Queen Anne's time, and had long
ranges of square-headed sash windows, surmounted by a pediment, carved
with emblems of Ceres and Bacchus, and a very tall front door, also
with a pediment, and with stone stops leading up to it.  Of the same
era appeared to be the great gateway, and the turret above it,
containing a clock, the hands of which pointed to 3.40.

Aubrey had rather it had been four, at which time the office closed. He
looked round the court, which seemed very dean and rather
empty--stables, barns, buildings, and dwelling-house not showing much
sign of life, excepting the ceaseless hum and clack of the mill, and
the dash of the water which propelled it.  The windows nearest to him
were so large and low, that he could look in and see that the first two
or three belonged to living rooms, and the next two showed him business
fittings, and a back that he took to be Leonard's; but he paused in
doubt how to present himself, and whether this were a welcome moment,
and he was very glad to see in a doorway of the upper story of the mill
buildings, the honest floury face of his father's old patient--the
foreman.

Greeting him in the open cordial way common to all Dr. May's children,
Aubrey was at once recognized, and the old man came down a step-ladder
in the interior to welcome him, and answer his question where he should
find Mr. Ward.

'He is in the office, sir, there, to the left hand as you go in at the
front door, but--' and he looked up at the clock, 'maybe, you would not
mind waiting a bit till it strikes four.  I don't know whether master
might be best pleased at young gentlemen coming to see him in office
hours.'

'Thank you,' said Aubrey.  'I did not mean to be too soon, Hardy, but I
did not know how long the walk would be.'

Perhaps it would have been more true had he said that he had wanted to
elude his sisters, but he was glad to accept a seat on a bundle of
sacks tremulous with the motion of the mill, and to enter into a
conversation with the old foreman, one of those good old peasants whose
integrity and skill render them privileged persons, worth their weight
in gold long after their bodily strength has given way.

'Well, Hardy, do you mean to make a thorough good miller of Mr. Ward?'

'Bless you, Master May, he'll never stay here long enough.'

'Why not?'

'No, nor his friends didn't ought to let him stay!' added Hardy.

'Why?' said Aubrey.  'Do you think so badly of your own trade, Hardy?'

But he could not get an answer from the oracle on this head.  Hardy
continued, 'He's a nice young gentleman, but he'll never put up with
it.'

'Put up with what?' asked Aubrey, anxiously; but at that instant a
carter appeared at the door with a question for Master Hardy, and
Aubrey was left to his own devices, and the hum and clatter of the
mill, till the clock had struck four; and beginning to think that Hardy
had forgotten him, he was about to set out and reconnoitre, when to his
great joy Leonard himself came hurrying up, and heartily shook him by
the hand.

'Hardy told me you were here,' he said.  'Well done, old fellow, I
didn't think they would have let you come and see me.'

'The girls did make a great row about it,' said Aubrey, triumphantly,
'but I was not going to stand any nonsense.'

Leonard looked a little doubtful; then said, 'Well, will you see the
place, or come and sit in my room?  There is the parlour, but we shall
not be so quiet there.'

Aubrey decided for Leonard's room, and was taken through the front door
into a vestibule paved with white stone, with black lozenges at the
intersections.  'There,' said Leonard, 'the office is here, you see,
and my uncle's rooms beyond, all on the ground floor, he is too infirm
to go up-stairs.  This way is the dining-room, and Sam has got a
sitting-room beyond, then there are the servants' rooms.  It is a great
place, and horridly empty.'

Aubrey thought so, as his footsteps echoed up the handsome but ill-kept
stone staircase, with its fanciful balusters half choked with dust, and
followed Leonard along a corridor, with deep windows overlooking the
garden and river, and great panelled doors opposite, neither looking as
if they were often either cleaned or opened, and the passage smelling
very fusty.

'Pah!' said Aubrey; 'it puts me in mind of the wings of houses in books
that get shut up because somebody has been murdered!  Are you sure it
is not haunted, Leonard?'

'Only by the rats,' he answered, laughing; 'they make such an
intolerable row, that poor little Mab is frightened out of her wits,
and I don't know whether they would not eat her up if she did not creep
up close to me.  I'm tired of going at them with the poker, and would
poison every man Jack of them if it were not for the fear of her
getting the dose by mistake.'

'Is that what Hardy says you will never put up with?' asked Aubrey; but
instead of answering, Leonard turned to one of the great windows,
saying,

'There now, would not this be a charming place if it were properly
kept?' and Aubrey looked out at the great cedar, spreading out its
straight limbs and flakes of dark foliage over the sloping lawn, one
branch so near the window as to invite adventurous exits, and a little
boat lying moored in the dancing water below.

'Perfect!' said Aubrey.  'What fish there must lie in the mill tail!'

'Ay, I mean to have a try at them some of these days, I should like you
to come and help, but perhaps--Ha, little Mab, do you wonder what I'm
after so long?  Here's a friend for you: as the little dog danced
delighted round him, and paid Aubrey her affectionate respects.  Her
delicate drawing-room beauty did not match with the spacious but
neglected-looking room whence she issued.  It had three great
uncurtained windows looking into the court, with deep window-seats,
olive-coloured painted walls, the worse for damp and wear, a small
amount of old-fashioned solid furniture, and all Leonard's individual
goods, chiefly disposed of in a cupboard in the wall, but Averil's
beautiful water-coloured drawings hung over the chimney.  To Aubrey's
petted home-bred notions it was very bare and dreary, and he could not
help exclaiming, 'Well, they don't lodge you sumptuously!'

'I don't fancy many clerks in her Majesty's dominions have so big and
airy an apartment to boast of,' said Leonard.  'Let's see these flies
of yours.'

Their mysteries occupied the boys for some space; but Aubrey returned
to the charge.  'What is it that Hardy says you'll never put up with,
Leonard?'

'What did the old fellow say?' asked Leonard, laughing; and as Aubrey
repeated the conversation, ending with the oracular prediction, he
laughed again, but said proudly, 'He'll see himself wrong then.  I'll
put up with whatever I've undertaken.'

'But what does he mean?'

'Serving one's apprenticeship, I suppose,' said Leonard; 'they all
think me a fine gentleman, and above the work, I know, though I've
never stuck at anything yet.  If I take to the business, I suppose it
is capable of being raised up to me--it need not pull me down to it,
eh?'

'There need be no down in the case,' said Aubrey.  'My father always
says there is no down except in meanness and wrong.  But,' as if that
mention brought a recollection to his mind, 'what o'clock is it?  I
must not stay much longer.'

'I'll walk a bit of the way home with you,' said Leonard, 'but I must
be back by five for dinner.  I go to rifle practice two days in the
week, and I don't like to miss the others, for Sam's often out, and the
poor old man does not like being left alone at meals.'

The two boys were at the room door, when Aubrey heard a step, felt the
fustiness enlivened by the odour of a cigar, and saw a figure at the
top of the stairs.

'I say, Ward,' observed Mr. Sam, in a rude domineering voice,
'Spelman's account must be all looked over to-night; he says that there
is a blunder.  D'ye hear?'

'Very well.'

'Who have you got there?'

'It is Aubrey May.'

'Oh! good morning to you,' making a kind of salutation; 'have you been
looking at the water?  We've got some fine fish there, if you like to
throw a line any day.--Well, that account must be done to-night, and if
you can't find the error, you'll only have to do it over again.'

Leonard's colour had risen a good deal, but he said nothing, and his
cousin ran down-stairs and drove off in his dog-cart.

'Is it much of a business?' said Aubrey, feeling extremely indignant.

'Look here,' said Leonard, leading the way down-stairs and into the
office, where he pointed to two huge account books.  'Every page in
that one must I turn over this blessed night; and if he had only told
me three hours ago, I could have done the chief of it, instead of
kicking my heels all the afternoon.'

'Has he any right to order you about, out of office hours, and without
a civil word either?  Why do you stand it?'

'Because I can stand anything better than being returned on Henry's
hands,' said Leonard, 'and he has spite enough for that.  The thing
must be done, and if he won't do it, I must, that's all.  Come along.'

As they went out the unwieldy figure of the elder Mr. Axworthy was
seen, leaning out of his open window, smoking a clay pipe.  He spoke in
a much more friendly tone, as he said, 'Going out, eh?  Mind the
dinner-time.'

'Yes, sir,' said Leonard, coming nearer, 'I'm not going far.'

'Who have you got there?' was again asked.

'One of the young Mays, sir.  I was going to walk part of the way back.'

Aubrey thought the grunt not very civil; and as the boys and Mab passed
under the gateway, Leonard continued, 'There's not much love lost
between him and your father; he hates the very name.'

'I should expect he would,' said Aubrey, as if his hatred were an
honour.

'I fancy there's some old grievance,' said Leonard, 'where he was wrong
of course.  Not that that need hinder your coming over, Aubrey; I've a
right to my own friends, but--'

'And so have I to mine,' said Aubrey eagerly.

'But you see,' added Leonard, 'I wouldn't have you do it--if--if it
vexes your sister.  I can see you every Sunday, you know, and we can
have some fun together on Saturdays when the evenings get longer.'

Aubrey's face fell; he had a strong inclination for Leonard's company,
and likewise for the trout in the mill tail, and he did not like his
independence to be unappreciated.

'You see,' said Leonard, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, 'it is
very jolly of you, but I know they would hate it in the High Street if
you were often here, and it is not worth that.  Besides, Aubrey, to
tell the plain truth, Sam's not fit company for any decent fellow.'

'I can't think how he came to ask me to fish.'

'Just to show he is master, because he knew the poor old man would not
like it!  It is one reason he is so savage with me, because his uncle
took me without his consent.'

'But, Leonard, it must be worse than the living at home ever was.'

Leonard laughed.  'It's different being jawed in the way of business
and at one's own home.  I'd go through a good deal more than I do here
in the week to have home what it is now on Sunday.  Why, Henry really
seems glad to see me, and we have not had the shadow of a row since I
came over here.  Don't you tell Ave all this, mind, and you may just as
well not talk about it at home, you know, or they will think I'm going
to cry off.'

Aubrey was going to ask what he looked to; but Leonard saw, or thought
he saw, a weasel in the hedge, and the consequent charge and pursuit
finished the dialogue, the boys parted, and Aubrey walked home, his
satisfaction in his expedition oozing away at every step, though his
resolve to assert his liberty grew in proportion.

Of course it had not been possible to conceal from Dr. May where Aubrey
was gone, and his annoyance had burst out vehemently, the whole round
of objurgations against the Wards, the Vintry Mill, and his own folly
in fostering the friendship, were gone through, and Ethel had come in
for more than she could easily bear, for not having prevented the
escapade.  Gertrude had hardly ever seen her father so angry, and sat
quaking for her brother; and Ethel meekly avoided answering again, with
the happy trustfulness of experienced love.

At last, as the tea was nearly over, Aubrey walked in, quite ready for
self-defence.  Nobody spoke for a little while, except to supply him
with food; but presently Dr. May said, not at all in the tone in which
he had talked of his son's journey, 'You might as well have told me of
your intentions, Aubrey.'

'I didn't think they mattered to anybody,' said Aubrey; 'we generally
go our own way in the afternoon.'

'Oh!' said Dr. May.  'Interference with the liberty of the subject?'

Aubrey coloured, and felt he had not quite spoken truth.  'I could not
give him up, father,' he said, less defiantly.

'No, certainly not; but I had rather you only saw him at home.  It will
be more for our peace of mind.'

'Well, father,' said Aubrey, 'I am not going there any more.  He told
me not himself:' and then with laughing eyes he added, 'He said you
would not like it, Ethel.'

'Poor boy!' said Ethel, greatly touched.

'Very right of him,' said Dr. May, well pleased.  'He is a fine lad,
and full of proper feeling.  What sort of a berth has the old rogue
given him, Aubrey?'

Much relieved that matters had taken this course, Aubrey tried to tell
only as much as his friend would approve, but the medium was not easily
found, and pretty nearly the whole came out.  Dr. May was really
delighted to hear how Sam treated him.

'If that fellow takes the oppressive line, there may be some hope,' he
said.  'His friendship is the worse danger than his enmity.'

When the sisters had bidden good night, the Doctor detained Aubrey to
say very kindly, 'My boy, I do not like to hear of your running counter
to your sister.

'I'm not going there again,' said Aubrey, willing to escape.

'Wait a minute, Aubrey,' said Dr. May; 'I want to tell you that I feel
for you in this matter more than my way of talking may have made it
seem to you.  I have a great regard for your friend Leonard, and think
he has been scandalously used, and I don't want to lessen your
attachment to him.  Far be it from me to think lightly of a friendship,
especially of one formed at your age.  Your very name, my boy, shows
that I am not likely to do that!'

Aubrey smiled frankly, his offended self-assertion entirely melted.

'I know it is very hard on you, but you can understand that the very
reasons that made me so averse to Leonard's taking this situation,
would make me anxious to keep you away from his relations there, not
necessarily from him.  As long as he is what he is now, I would not
lift a finger to keep you from him.  Have I ever done so, Aubrey?'

'No, papa.'

'Nor will I, as long as he is what I see him now.  After this, Aubrey,
is it too much to ask of you to keep out of the way of the persons with
whom he is thrown?'

'I will do so, papa.  He wishes it himself.'  Then with an effort, he
added, 'I am sorry I went to-day; I ought not, but--' and he looked a
little foolish.

'You did not like taking orders from the girls?  No wonder, Aubrey; I
have been very thankful to you for bearing it as you have done.  It is
the worst of home education that these spirits of manliness generally
have no vent but mischief.  But you are old enough now to be thankful
for such a friend and adviser as Ethel, and I don't imagine that she
orders you.'

'No,' said Aubrey, smiling and mumbling; 'but Daisy--'

'Oh, I can quite understand the aggravation of Daisy happening to be
right; but you must really be man enough to mind your own conscience,
even if Daisy is imprudent enough to enforce it.'

'It was not only that,' said Aubrey, 'but I could not have Ward
thinking I turned up my nose at his having got into business.'

'No, Aubrey, he need never fancy it is the business that I object to,
but the men.  Make that clear to him, and ask him to this house as much
as you please.  The more "thorough" he is in his business, the more I
shall respect him.'

Aubrey smiled, and thanked his father with a cleared brow, wondering at
himself for having gone without consulting him.

'Good night, my boy.  May this friendship of yours be a lifelong stay
and blessing to you both, even though it may cost you some pain and
self-command, as all good things must, Aubrey.'

That evening Ethel had been writing to Cambridge.  Tom had passed his
examination with great credit, and taken an excellent degree, after
which he projected a tour in Germany, for which he had for some time
been economizing, as a well-earned holiday before commencing his course
of hospitals and lectures.  Tom was no great correspondent, and had
drilled his sisters into putting nothing but the essential into their
letters, instead, as he said, of concealing it in flummery.  This is a
specimen of the way Tom liked to be written to.


                                           'Stoneborough, Feb. 20th.
'My Dear Tom,

'Dr. Spencer says nothing answers so well as a knapsack.  Get one at
----. The price is L. s. d.  Order extra fittings as required,
including a knife and fork.  Letters from N. Z. of the 1st of November,
all well.  I wish Aubrey was going with you; he misses Leonard Ward so
sorely, as to be tempted to follow him to the Vintry Mill.  I suspect
your words are coming true, and the days of petticoat government
ending.  However, even if he would not be in your way, he could not
afford to lose six months' study before going into residence.

                                           'Your affectionate sister,
                                                    'Etheldred May.'


Tom wrote that he should spend a night in London and come home.  When
he came, the family exclaimed that his microscope, whose handsome case
he carried in his hand, was much grown.  'And improved too, I hope'
said Tom, proceeding to show off various new acquisitions and exchanges
in the way of eye-pieces, lenses, and other appliances of the most
expensive order, till his father exclaimed,

'Really, Tom, I wish I had the secret of your purse.'

'The fact is,' said Tom, 'that I thought more would be gained by
staying at home, so I turned my travels into a binocular tube,' &C.

Aubrey and Gertrude shouted that Tom certainly did love the microscope
better than any earthly thing; and he coolly accepted the inference.

Somewhat later, he announced that he had decided that he should be
better able to profit by the London lectures and hospitals, if he first
studied for half a year at the one at Stoneborough, under the direction
of his father and Dr. Spencer.

Dr. May was extremely gratified, and really esteemed this one of the
greatest compliments his science had ever received; Dr. Spencer could
not help observing, 'I did not think it was in him to do such a wise
thing.  I never can fathom the rogue.  I hope he was not bitten during
his benevolent exertions last winter.'

Meantime, Tom had observed that he had time to see that Aubrey was
decently prepared for Cambridge, and further promoted the boy to be his
out-of-door companion, removing all the tedium and perplexity of the
last few weeks, though apparently merely indulging his own
inclinations.  Ethel recognized the fruit of her letter, and could well
forgive the extra care in housekeeping required for Tom's critical
tastes, nay, the cool expulsion of herself and Gertrude from her twenty
years' home, the schoolroom, and her final severance from Aubrey's
studies, though at the cost of a pang that reminded her of her
girlhood's sorrow at letting Norman shoot ahead of her.  She gave no
hint; she knew that implicit reserve was the condition of his strange
silent confidence in her, and that it would be utterly forfeited unless
she allowed his fraternal sacrifice to pass for mere long-headed
prudence.

Aubrey's Saturday and Sunday meetings with his friend were not yielded,
even to Tom, who endeavoured to interfere with them, and would fain
have cut the connection with the entire family, treating Miss Ward with
the most distant and supercilious bows on the unpleasantly numerous
occasions of meeting her in the street, and contriving to be markedly
scornful in his punctilious civility to Henry Ward when they met at the
hospital.  His very look appeared a sarcasm, to the fancy of the Wards;
and he had a fashion of kindly inquiring after Leonard, that seemed to
both a deliberate reproach and insult.

Disputes had become less frequent at Bankside since Leonard's
departure, and few occasions of actual dissension arose; but the spirit
of party was not extinguished, and the brother and sister had adopted
lines that perhaps clashed less because they diverged more.

Averil had, in reply to the constant exhortations to economize,
resolved to decline all invitations, and this kept her constantly at
home, or with her harmonium, whereas Henry made such constant
engagements, that their dining together was the exception, not the
rule.  After conscientiously teaching her sisters in the morning, she
devoted the rest of her day to their walk, and to usefulness in the
parish.  She liked her tasks, and would have been very happy in them,
but for the constant anxiety that hung over her lest her home should
soon cease to be her home.

Henry's devotion to Mrs. Pugh could no longer be mistaken.  The
conviction of his intentions grew upon his sister, first from a mere
absurd notion, banished from her mind with derision, then from a
misgiving angrily silenced, to a fixed expectation, confirmed by the
evident opinion of all around her, and calling for decision and
self-command on her own part.

Perhaps her feelings were unnecessarily strong, and in some degree
unjust to Mrs. Pugh; but she had the misfortune to be naturally proud
and sensitive, as well as by breeding too refined in tone for most of
those who surrounded her.  She had taken a personal dislike to Mrs.
Pugh from the first; she regarded pretension as insincerity, and
officiousness as deliberate insult, and she took the recoil of her
taste for the judgment of principle.  To see such a woman ruling in her
mother's, her own, home would be bad enough; but to be ruled by her,
and resign to her the management of the children, would be intolerable
beyond measure.  Too unhappy to speak of her anticipations even to
Leonard or to Mary May, she merely endeavoured to throw them off from
day to day, till one evening, when the days had grown so long that she
could linger in the twilight in the garden before her singing practice,
she was joined by Henry, with the long apprehended 'I want to speak to
you, Ave.'

Was it coming?  Her heart beat so fast, that she could hardly hear his
kind commencement about her excellent endeavours, and the house's
unhappy want of a mistress, the children's advantage, and so on.  She
knew it could only tend to one point, and longed to have it reached and
passed.  Of course she would be prepared to hear who was the object of
his choice, and she could not but murmur 'Yes,' and 'Well.'

'And, Ave, you will, I hope, be gratified to hear that I am not
entirely rejected.  The fact is, that I spoke too soon.'  Averil could
have jumped for joy, and was glad it was too dusk for her face to be
seen.  'I do not believe that her late husband could have had any
strong hold on her affections; but she has not recovered the shock of
his loss, and entreated, as a favour granted to her sentiments of
respect for his memory, not to hear the subject mentioned for at least
another year.  I am permitted to visit at the house as usual, and no
difference is to be made in the terms on which we stand.  Now, Ave,
will you--may I ask of you, to do what you can to remove any impression
that she might not be welcome in the family?'

'I never meant--' faltered Averil, checked by sincerity.

'You have always been--so--so cold and backward in cultivating her
acquaintance, that I cannot wonder if she should think it disagreeable
to you; but, Ave, when you consider my happiness, and the immense
advantage to all of you, I am sure you will do what is in your power in
my behalf.'  He spoke more affectionately and earnestly than he had
done for months; and Averil was touched, and felt that to hang back
would be unkind.

'I will try,' she said.  'I do hope it may turn out for your happiness,
Henry.'

'For all our happiness,' said Henry, walking down to the gate and along
the road with her, proving all the way that he was acting solely for
the good of the others, and that Averil and the children would find
their home infinitely happier.

A whole year--a year's reprieve--was the one thought in Averil's head,
that made her listen so graciously, and answer so amiably, that Henry
parted with her full of kind, warm feeling.

As the sage said, who was to be beheaded if he could not in a year
teach the king's ass to speak--what might not happen in a year; the
king might die, the ass might die, or he might die--any way there was
so much gained: and Averil, for the time, felt as light-hearted as if
Mrs. Pugh had vanished into empty air.  To be sure, her own life had,
of late, been far from happy; but this extension of it was bailed with
suppressed ecstasy--almost as an answer to her prayers.  Ah, Ave,
little did you know what you wished in hoping for anything to prevent
the marriage!

She did obey her brother so far as to call upon Mrs. Pugh, whom she
found in ordinary mourning, and capless--a sign that dismayed her; but,
on the other hand, the lady, though very good-natured and patronizing,
entertained her with the praises of King John, and showed her a copy of
Magna Charta in process of illumination.  Also, during her call, Tom
May walked in with a little book on drops of water; and Averil found
the lady had become inspired with a microscopic furore, and was
thinking of setting up a lens, and preparing objects for herself, under
good tuition.

Though Averil was very desirous that Mrs. Pugh should refuse her
brother, yet this was the last service she wished the May family to
render her.  She was sure Tom May must dislike and despise the widow as
much as she did; and since the whole town was unluckily aware of
Henry's intentions, any interference with them was base and malicious,
if in the way of mere amusement and flirtation.  She was resolved to
see what the game was, but only did see that her presence greatly
disconcerted 'Mr. Thomas May.'

Henry was wretched and irritable in the velvet paws of the widow, who
encouraged him enough to give him hope, and then held him aloof, or was
equally amiable to some one else.  Perhaps the real interpretation was,
that she loved attention.  She was in all sincerity resolved to observe
a proper period of widowhood, and not determined whether, when, or how,
it should terminate: courtship amused her, and though attracted by
Henry and his good house, the evidences of temper and harshness had
made her unwilling to commit herself; besides that, she was afraid of
Averil, and she was more flattered by the civilities of a lioncel like
Harvey Anderson; or if she could be sure of what Mr. Thomas May's
intentions were, she would have preferred an embryo physician to a
full-grown surgeon--at any rate, it was right by her poor dear Mr. Pugh
to wait.

She need not have feared having Averil as an inmate.  Averil talked it
over with Leonard, and determined that no power on earth should make
her live with Mrs. Pugh.  If that were necessary to forward his suit,
she would make it plain that she was ready to depart.

'Oh, Leonard, if my uncle were but a nice sort of person, how pleasant
it would be for me and the children to live there, and keep his house;
and I could make him so comfortable, and nurse him!'

'Never, Ave!' cried Leonard; 'don't let the thing be talked of.'

'Oh no, I know it would not do with Samuel there; but should we be too
young for your old scheme of having a cottage together near?'

'I did not know what the Axworthys were like,' returned Leonard.

'But need we see them much?'

'I'll tell you what, Ave, I've heard them both--yes, the old man the
worst of the two--say things about women that made my blood boil.'
Leonard was quite red as he spoke.  'My father never let my mother see
any of the concern, and now I know why.  I'll never let you do so.'

'Then there is only one other thing to be done,' said Averil; 'and that
is for me to go back to school as a parlour boarder, and take the
children with me.  It would be very good for them, and dear Mrs. Wood
would be very glad to have me.'

'Yes,' said Leonard, 'that is the only right thing, Ave; and the Mays
will say so, too.  Have you talked it over with them!'

'No.  I hate talking of this thing.'

'Well, you had better get their advice.  It is the best thing going!'
said Leonard, with a sigh that sounded as if he wished he had taken it.

But it was not to Averil that he said so.  To her he spoke brightly of
serving the time for which he was bound to his uncle; then of making a
fresh engagement, that would open a home to her; or, better still,
suppose Sam did not wish to go on with the business, he might take it,
and make the mill the lovely place it might be.  It was to Aubrey May
that the boy's real feelings came out, as, on the Sunday evening, they
slowly wandered along the bank of the river.  Aubrey had seen a
specimen of his life at the mill, and had been kept up to the knowledge
of its events, and he well knew that Leonard was heartily sick of it.
That the occupation was uncongenial and tedious in the extreme to a boy
of good ability and superior education--nay, that the drudgery was made
unnecessarily oppressive, was not the point he complained of, though it
was more trying than he had expected, that was the bed that he had
made, and that he must lie upon.  It was the suspicion of frauds and
tricks of the trade, and, still worse, the company that he lived in.
Sam Axworthy hated and tyrannized over him too much to make dissipation
alluring; and he was only disgusted by the foul language, coarse
manners, and the remains of intemperance worked on in violent temper.

The old man, though helpless and past active vice, was even more coarse
in mind and conversation than his nephew; and yet his feebleness, and
Sam's almost savage treatment of him, enlisted Leonard's pity on his
side.  In general, the old man was kind to Leonard, but would abuse him
roundly when the evidences of his better principles and training, or
his allegiance to Dr. May, came forward, and Leonard, though greatly
compassionating him, could not always bear his reproaches with
patience, and was held back from more attention to him than common
humanity required, by an unlucky suggestion that he was currying favour
in the hope of supplanting Sam.

'Old Hardy is the only honest man in the place, I do believe,' said
Leonard.  'I'll tell you what, Aubrey, I have made up my mind, there is
one thing I will not do.  If ever they want to make me a party to any
of their cheatings, I'll be off.  That window and the cedar-tree stand
very handy.  I've been out there to bathe in the early summer mornings,
plenty of times already, so never you be surprised if some fine day you
hear--non est inventus.'

'And where would you go?'

'Get up to London, and see if my quarter's salary would take me out in
the steerage to some diggings or other.  What would your brother say to
me if I turned up at the Grange--New Zealand?'

'Say!  Mention Ethel, and see what he would not say.'

And the two boys proceeded to arrange the details of the evasion in
such vivid colouring, that they had nearly forgotten all present
troubles, above all when Leonard proceeded to declare that New Zealand
was too tame and too settled for him, he should certainly find
something to do in the Feejee Isles, where the high spirit of the
natives, their painted visages, and marvellous head-dresses, as
depicted in Captain Erskine's voyage, had greatly fired his fancy, and
they even settled how the gold fields should rebuild the Market Cross.

'And when I'm gone, Aubrey, mind you see to Mab,' he said, laughing.

'Oh!  I thought Mab was to act Whittington's cat.'

'I'm afraid they would eat her up; besides, there's the voyage.  No,
you must keep her till I come home, even if she is to end like Argus.
Would you die of joy at seeing me, eh, little black neb?'




CHAPTER XII

                             Let us meet,
  And question this most bloody piece of work,
  To know it farther.                   Macbeth


'If you please, sir, Master Hardy from the Vintry Mill wants to see
you, said a voice at Dr. May's door early in the morning; and the
Doctor completed his dressing in haste, muttering to himself
exclamations of concern that the old man's malady should have returned.

On entering the study, Hardy's appearance, whiter than even the
proverbial hue of his trade, his agitation of feature, confused eye,
and trembling lip, inspired fears that the case was more alarming than
had been apprehended; but to cheer him, the Doctor began, 'Frightened
about yourself, Master Hardy, eh!  You've come out without breakfast,
and that's enough to put any man out of heart.'

'No, sir,' said the old man, 'it is nothing about myself; I wish it
were no worse; but I've not got the heart to go to tell the poor young
gentleman, and I thought--'

'What--what has happened to the boy?' exclaimed Dr. May, sharply,
standing as if ready to receive the rifle shot which he already
believed had destroyed Leonard.

'That's what we can't say, sir,' returned Hardy; 'but he is gone, no
one knows where.  And, sir, my poor master was found at five o'clock
this morning, in his chair in his sitting-room, stone dead from a blow
on the head.'

'Mind what you are saying!' shouted the Doctor passionately.  'You old
scoundrel, you don't mean to tell me that you are accusing the lad!'

'I accuse nobody, sir,' said the old man, standing his ground, and
speaking steadily, but respectfully, 'I wouldn't say nothing to bring
any one into trouble if I could help it, and I came to ask you what was
to be done.'

'Yes, yes; I beg your pardon, Hardy, but it sounded enough to overset
one.  Your poor master murdered, you say!'

Hardy nodded assent.

'And young Ward missing?  Why, the burglars must have hurt the poor
fellow in defending his uncle.  Have you searched the place?'

'I never thought of that, sir,' said Hardy, his countenance much
relieved; 'it would be more like such a young gentleman as Mr. Ward.'

'Then we'll get over to the mill as fast as we can, and see what can be
done,' said Dr. May, snatching up his hat and gloves. 'You come and
walk with me to Bankside, and tell me by the way about this terrible
business.  Good heavens! they'll have thrown the boy into the river!'

And calling out that his carriage should follow to Bankside, the Doctor
dashed up-stairs, and knocked at Ethel's door.  'My dear,' he said,
'there has been a robbery or something at the Vintry Mill.  I must go
and see Henry Ward about it.  Poor old Axworthy is murdered, and I'm
terribly afraid Leonard has met with some foul play.  You or Mary had
better go and see about Ave presently, but don't believe a word of
anything till you see me again.'

And shutting the door, while Ethel felt as if the room were reeling
round with her, Dr. May was in a few seconds more hastening along by
Hardy's side, extracting from him the little he had to tell.  The old
man had been unlocking the door of the mill at five o'clock, when he
was summoned by loud shrieks from the window of Mr. Axworthy's
sitting-room, and found that the little maid had been appalled by the
sight of her master sunk forward from his gouty chair upon the table,
his hair covered with blood.  Hardy had been the first to touch him,
and to perceive that he had long been dead.  The housekeeper, the only
other servant who slept in the house, had rushed in half-dressed; but
neither nephew appeared.  Young Axworthy had gone the previous day to
the county races, leaving the time of his return doubtful, and Leonard
Ward did not answer when called.  It was then found that his room was
empty, his bed untouched, and the passage window outside his door left
open.  The terrified servants held confused consultation, and while the
groom had hurried off to give the alarm at Whitford, and ride on in
search of Sam Axworthy, Hardy had taken another horse and started to
inform Henry Ward, but his heart failing him, he had come to beg the
Doctor to break the intelligence to the family.

Dr. May had few doubts that the robbers must have entered by the
passage window, and meeting resistance from Leonard, must have dragged
him out, and perhaps thrown him from it, then having gone on to their
murderous work in the old man's sitting-room.  In that great rambling
house, where the maids slept afar off, and the rats held nightly
gambols, strange noises were not likely to be observed; and the thought
of Leonard lying stunned and insensible on the grass, made the Doctor's
pace almost a run, as if he were hastening to the rescue.

When Mr. Ward sent down word that he was not up, Dr. May replied that
he must see him in bed, and followed upon the very heels of the
messenger, encountering no amiable face, for Henry had armed himself
for defence against any possible reproaches for his treatment of any
patient.  Even when Dr. May began, 'Henry, my poor fellow, I have
frightful news for you,' his month was opening to reply, 'I knew we
should lose that case,' let the patient be who he might, when the few
simple words put to flight all petulant jealousy, and restored Henry
Ward to what he had been when in his hour of sickness and affliction he
had leant in full confidence on Dr. May's unfailing kindness.

He was dressed by the time the brougham was at the door, and would have
hurried off without telling his sister of the alarm; but Dr. May,
knowing that the town must soon be ringing with the news, was sending
him to Averil's room, when both rejoiced to see Mary enter the house.
Charging her to keep Averil quiet, and believe nothing but what came
from themselves, they thrust on her the terrible commission and
hastened away, dwelling on the hope that every moment might be
important.

Old Hardy had already mounted his cart-horse, and for him farm roads so
shortened the distance, that he received them at the entrance of the
courtyard, which was crowded with excited gazers and important
policemen.

'Found him?' was the instantaneous question of both; but Hardy shook
his head so sadly, that the Doctor hastily exclaimed, 'What then?'

'Sir,' said Hardy very low, and with a deprecating look, 'he did go up
by the mail train to London last night--got in at Blewer station at
12.15.  They have telegraphed up, sir.'

'I'll lay my life it is all a mistake,' said Dr. May, grasping Henry's
arm as if to give him support, and looking him in the face as though
resolved that neither should be cast down.

'That's not all, sir,' added Hardy, still addressing himself to the
elder gentleman.  'There's his rifle, sir.'

'Why, he was not shot!' sharply cried Dr. May.  'You told me so
yourself.'

'No, sir; but--You'll see for yourself presently!  There's the blood
and gray hairs on the stock, sir.'

'Never fear, Henry; we shall see,' said Dr. May, pressing on, and
adding as soon as they were out of hearing,  'Nothing those folks, even
the best of them, like so well as laying on horrors thick enough.'

A policeman stood at the house door to keep off idlers; but Dr. May's
character and profession, as well as his municipal rank, caused way to
be instantly made for them.  They found a superintendent within, and he
at once began, 'Most unfortunate business, Mr. Mayor--very mysterious;'
then, as a sign from the Doctor made him aware of Henry Ward's near
concern, he added, 'Shall I inform young Mr. Axworthy that you are
here?'

'Is he come?'

'Yes, sir.  He had only slept at the Three Goblets, not half a mile
across the fields, you know, Mr. Mayor--came home too late to disturb
the house here, slept there, and was on the spot at the first
intelligence--before I was myself,' added the superintendent a little
jealously.

'Where is he?'

'In his room, sir.  He was extremely overcome, and retired to his room
as soon as the necessary steps had been taken.  Would you wish to see
the room, sir?  We are keeping it locked till the inquest takes place;
but--'

Henry asked, 'When?' his first word since his arrival, and almost
inarticulate.

He was answered that it would probably be at two that afternoon; the
Whitford coroner had intimated that he was ready, and the down train
would be in by one.  A telegram had just arrived, reporting that the
electric message had anticipated the mail train, and that young Mr.
Ward would be brought down in time.

'Never mind, never heed, Henry,' persisted Dr. May, pressing the young
man's arm as they proceeded to the door of the sitting-room; 'he must
be intensely shocked, but he will explain the whole.  Nay, I've no
doubt we shall clear him.  His rifle, indeed!  I could swear to his
rifle anywhere.'

The superintendent had by this time opened the door of the
sitting-room, communicating on one side with the office, on the other
with the old man's bed-room.

Except that the body had been carried to the bed in the inner chamber,
all remained as it had been found.  There were no signs of robbery--not
even of a struggle.  The cushions of the easy-chair still bore the
impress of the sitter's weight; the footstool was hardly pushed aside;
the massive library table was undisturbed; the silver spoons and
sugar-tongs beside the tumbler and plate on the supper tray; the yellow
light of the lamp still burnt; not a paper was ruffled, not a drawer
pulled out.  Only a rifle stood leaning against the window shutter, and
towards it both friend and brother went at once, hoping and trusting
that it would be a stranger to their eyes.

Alas! alas! only too familiar were the rich brown mottlings of the
stock, the steel mountings, the eagle crest, and twisted H. E. cipher!
and in sickness of heart the Doctor could not hide from himself the
dark clot of gore and the few white hairs adhering to the wood, and
answering to the stain that dyed the leather of the desk.

Henry could not repress an agonized groan, and averted his face; but
his companion undaunted met the superintendent's eye and query, 'You
know it, sir!'

'I do.  It was my son-in-law's present to him.  I wonder where he kept
it, for the ruffians to get hold of it.'

The superintendent remained civil and impassive, and no one spoke to
break the deathly hush of the silent room, filled with the appliances
of ordinary business life, but tainted with the awful unexplained mark
that there had been the foot of the shedder of blood in silence and at
unawares.

The man in authority at length continued his piteous exhibition.  Dr.
Rankin of Whitford had arrived on the first alarm; but would not the
gentlemen see the body?  And he led them on, Dr. May's eyes on the
alert to seize on anything exculpatory, but detecting nothing, seeing
only the unwieldy helpless form and aged feeble countenance of the
deceased, and receiving fresh impressions of the brutality and
cowardice of the hand that could have struck the blow.  He looked,
examined, defined the injury, and explained that it must have caused
instant death, thus hoping to divert attention from his pale
horror-stricken companion, whose too apparent despondency almost
provoked him.

At the Doctor's request they were taken up the staircase into the
corridor, and shown the window, which had been found nearly closed but
not fastened, as though it had been partially shut down from the
outside.  The cedar bough almost brushed the glass, and the slope of
turf came so high up the wall, that an active youth could easily swing
himself down to it; and the superintendent significantly remarked that
the punt was on the farther side of the stream, whereas the evening
before it had been on the nearer.  Dr. May leant out over the
window-sill, still in the lingering hope of seeing--he knew not what,
but he only became oppressed by the bright still summer beauty of the
trees and grass and sparkling water, insensible of the horror that
brooded over all.  He drew back his head; and as the door hard by was
opened, Leonard's little dog sprang from her basket kennel, wagging her
tail in hopes of her master, but in her disappointment greeting one
whom dogs always hailed as a friend,

'Poor little doggie! good little Mab!  If only you could tell us!' and
the creature fondly responded to his gentle hand, though keeping aloof
from Henry, in mindfulness of past passages between them, while Henry
could evidently not bear to look at her.

They gazed round the room, but it conveyed no elucidation of the
mystery.  There were Leonard's books in their range on the drawers, his
fossils in his cupboard, his mother's photograph on his mantel-piece,
his sister's drawings on the wall.  His gray uniform lay on the bed as
if recently taken off, his ordinary office coat was folded on a chair,
and he seemed to have dressed and gone in his best clothes.  While
anxiously seeking some note of explanation, they heard a step, and Sam
Axworthy entered, speaking fast and low in apology for not having
sooner appeared, but he had been thoroughly upset; as indeed he looked,
his whole appearance betraying the disorder of the evening's
dissipation, followed by the morning's shock.

Most unfortunate, he said, that he had not returned earlier.  His
friend Black--Tom Black, of Edsall Green--had driven him home in his
dog-cart, set him down at the turn to cross the fields--moon as light
as day--no notion, of the lateness till he got in sight of the great
clock, and saw it was half-past twelve; so knowing the early habits of
the place, he had thought it best to turn back, and get a bed at the
Three Goblets.  If he had only come home, he might have prevented
mischief!  There ensued a few commonplace words on the old man's infirm
state, yet his independent habits, and reluctance to let any servant
assist him, or even sleep near him.  Sam spoke as if in a dream, and
was evidently so unwell, that Dr. May thought it charitable to follow
the dictates of his own disgust at breaking bread in that house of
horrors, and refuse offers of breakfast.  He said he must go home, but
would return for the inquest, and asked whether Henry would remain to
meet his brother.

'No, no, thank you,' said Henry huskily, as with the driest of throats,
and a perceptible shudder, he turned to go away; the Doctor pausing to
caress little Mab, and say, 'I had better take home this poor little
thing.  She may come to harm here, and may be a comfort to the sister.'

No objection came from Sam, but Mab herself ran back to her house, and
even snarled at the attempt to detach her from it.  'You are a faithful
little beast,' he said, 'and your master will soon be here to set all
straight, so I will leave you for the present;' and therewith he signed
farewell, and breathed more freely as he gained the outer air.

'I'll tell you what, Henry,' he said, as they drove out of the
courtyard, 'we'll bring out Bramshaw to watch the case.  He will see
through this horrible mystery, and throw the suspicion in the right
quarter, whatever that may be, depend upon it.'

Henry had thrown himself back in the carriage with averted face, and
only answered by a groan.

'Come, don't be so downcast,' said Dr. May; 'it is a frightful affair,
no doubt, and Leonard has chosen a most unlucky moment for this
escapade; but he will have a thorough warning against frolics.'

'Frolics indeed!' said Henry, bitterly.

'Well, I'll be bound that's all he has attempted, and it has got him
into a horrid scrape; and ten to one but the police have got the real
ruffians in their hands by this time.'

'I have no hope,' said Henry.

'More shame for you not to feel a certain confidence that He who sees
all will show the right.'

'If!' said Henry, breaking off with a sound and look of such intense
misery as almost to stagger the Doctor himself, by reminding him of
Leonard's violent temper, and the cause Henry had to remember his
promptness of hand; but that Ethel's pupil, Aubrey's friend, the boy of
ingenuous face, could under any provocation strike helpless old age,
or, having struck, could abscond without calling aid, actuated by
terror, not by pity or repentance, was more than Dr. May could believe,
and after brief musing, he broke out in indignant refutation.

'I should have thought so.  I wish I still could believe so' sighed
Henry; 'but--' and there they lapsed into silence, till, as they came
near the town, Dr. May offered to set him down at Bankside.

'No! no, thank you,' he cried in entreaty.  'I cannot see her--Ave.'

'Then come home with me.  You shall see no one, and you will look up
when you are not faint and fasting.  You young men don't stand up
against these things like us old stagers.'

As the carriage stopped, several anxious faces were seen on the watch,
but the Doctor signed them back till he had deposited Henry in his
study, and then came among them.

Gertrude was the first to speak.  'O, papa, papa, what is it!  Mrs.
Pugh has been here to ask, and Ethel won't let me hear, though Tom and
Aubrey know.'

'I took refuge in your order to believe nothing till you came,' said
Ethel, with hands tightly clasped together.

'It is true, then?' asked Tom.

'True that it looks as bad as bad can be,' said the Doctor, sighing
heavily, and proceeding to state the aspect of the case.

'It is a trick--a plot,' cried Aubrey passionately; 'I know it is! He
always said he would run away if they tried to teach him dishonesty;
and now they have done this and driven him away, and laid the blame on
him.  Ethel, why don't you say you are sure of it?'

'Leonard would be changed indeed if this were so,' said Ethel,
trembling as she stood, and hardly able to speak articulately.

Aubrey broke out with a furious 'If,' very different from Henry Ward's.

'It would not be the Leonard we knew at Coombe,' said Ethel.  'He might
be blind with rage, but he would never be cowardly.  No. Unless he own
it, nothing shall ever make me believe it.'

'Own it!  For shame, Ethel,' cried Aubrey. And even the Doctor
exclaimed, 'You are as bad as poor Henry himself, who has not got soul
enough to be capable of trusting his brother.'

'I do trust,' said Ethel, looking up.  'I shall trust his own word,'
and she sat down without speaking, and knitted fast, but her needles
clattered.

'And how about that poor girl at Bankside?' said the Doctor.

'I went down there,' said Tom, 'just to caution the servants against
bringing in stories.  She found out I was there, and I had to go in and
make the best of it.'

'And what sort of a best?' said the Doctor.

'Why, she knew he used to get out in the morning to bathe, and was
persuaded he had been drowned; so I told her I knew he was alive and
well, and she would hear all about it when you came back.  I brought
the youngest child away with me, and Gertrude has got her up-stairs;
the other would not come.  Poor thing!  Mary says she is very good and
patient; and I must say she was wonderfully reasonable when I talked to
her.'

'Thank you, Tom,' said his father with warmth, 'it was very kind of
you.  I wonder if Ave knew anything of this runaway business; it might
be the saving of him!'

'I did,' said Aubrey eagerly; 'at least, I know he said he would not
stay if they wanted to put him up to their dishonest tricks; and he
talked of that very window!'

'Yes, you imprudent fellow; and you were telling Mrs. Pugh so, if I
hadn't stopped you,' said Tom.  'You'll be taken up for an accomplice
next, if you don't hold your tongue.'

'What did he say?' asked the Doctor, impatiently; and then declared
that he must instantly go to Bankside, as soon as both he and Henry had
taken some food; 'for,' he added, 'we are both too much shaken to deal
rationally with her.'

Ethel started up in shame and dismay at having neglected to order
anything.  The Doctor was served in the study alone with Henry, and
after the briefest meal, was on his way to Bankside.

He found Averil with the crimson cheek and beseeching eye that he knew
so well, as she laid her trembling hand on his, and mutely looked up
like a dumb creature awaiting a blow.

'Yes, my dear,' he said, tenderly, 'your brother needs prayer such as
when we watched him last year, he is in peril of grave suspicion.' And
as she stood waiting and watching for further explanation, he
continued, 'My dear, he told you everything.  You do not know of any
notion of his of going away, or going out without leave?'

'Why is Leonard to be always suspected of such things?' cried Averil.
'He never did them!'

'Do you know?' persisted Dr. May.

'But you are mayor!' cried Averil, indignantly, withdrawing her hand.
'You want me to accuse him!'

'My dear, if I were ten times mayor, it would make no difference.  My
jurisdiction does not even cross the river here; and if it did, this is
a graver case than I deal with.  I am come, as his friend, to beg you
to help me to account for his unhappy absence in any harmless way.
Were it ever so foolish or wrong, it would be the best news that ever I
heard.'

'But--but I can't,' said Averil.  'I never knew he was going out! I
know he used to get out at the passage window to bathe and fish before
the house was astir--and--you know he is safe, Dr. May?'

Dr. May would almost sooner have known that he was at the bottom of the
deepest pool in the river, than where he was.  'He is safe, my poor
child.  He is well, and I trust he will be able to prove his innocence;
but he must so account for his absence as to clear himself.  Averil,
there is a charge against him--of being concerned in your uncle's
death.'

Averil's eyes dilated, and she breathed short and fast, standing like a
statue.  Little Minna, whom the Doctor had scarcely perceived, standing
in a dark corner, sprang forward, exclaiming, 'O, Ave, don't be afraid!
Nobody can hurt him for what he did not do!'

The words roused Averil, and starting forward, she cried, 'Dr. May, Dr.
May, you will save him!  He is fatherless and motherless, and his
brother has always been harsh to him; but you will not forsake him; you
said you would be a father to us!  Oh, save Leonard!'

'My dear, as I would try to save my own son, I will do my utmost for
him; but little or nothing depends on me or on any man.  By truth and
justice he must stand or fall; and you must depend on the Father of the
fatherless, who seeth the truth! as this dear child tells you,' with
his hand on Minna's head, 'he cannot be really injured while he is
innocent.'

Awed into calm, Averil let him seat her beside him, and put her in
possession of the main facts of the case, Minna standing by him, her
hand in his, evidently understanding and feeling all that passed.

Neither could throw light on anything.  Leonard had been less
communicative to them than to Aubrey, and had kept his resolution of
uncomplainingly drinking the brewst he had brewed for himself.  All
Averil could tell was, that her uncle had once spoken to Henry in
commendation of his steadiness and trustworthiness, though at the same
time abusing him for airs and puppyism.

'Henry would tell you.  Where is Henry?' she added.

'In my study.  He could not bear to bring you these tidings.  You must
be ready to comfort him, Ave.'

'Don't let him come,' she cried.  'He never was kind to Leonard.  He
drove him there.  I shall always feel that it was his doing.'

'Averil,' said Dr. May gravely, 'do you forget how much that increases
his suffering?  Nothing but mutual charity can help you through this
fiery trial.  Do not let anger and recrimination take from you the last
shreds of comfort, and poison your prayers. Promise me to be kind to
Henry, for indeed he needs it.'

'O, Dr. May,' said Minna, looking up with her eyes full of tears,
'indeed I will.  I was cross to Henry because he was cross to Leonard,
but I won't be so any more.'

Ave drooped her head, as if it were almost impossible to her to speak.

Dr. May patted Minna's dark head caressingly, and said to the elder
sister, 'I will not urge you more.  Perhaps you may have Leonard back,
and then joy will open your hearts; or if not, my poor Ave, the sight
of Henry will do more than my words.'

Mary looked greatly grieved, but said nothing, only following her
father to take his last words and directions.  'Keep her as quiet as
you can.  Do not worry her, but get out this root of bitterness if you
can.  Poor, poor things!'

'That little Minna is a dear child!' said Mary.  'She is grown so much
older than Ella, or than she was last year.  She seems to understand
and feel like a grown-up person.  I do think she may soften poor Ave
more than I can; but, papa, there is excuse.  Mr. Ward must have made
them more miserable than we guessed.'

'The more reason she must forgive him.  O, Mary, I fear a grievous
lesson is coming to them; but I must do all I can.  Good-bye, my dear;
do the best you can for them;' and he set forth again with a bleeding
heart.

At the attorney's office, he found the principal from home, but the
partner, Edward Anderson, on the qui vive for a summons to attend on
behalf of his fellow-townsman, and confident that however bad were the
present aspect of affairs, his professional eye would instantly find a
clue.

Aubrey was in an agony of excitement, but unable to endure the notion
of approaching the scene of action; and his half-choked surly 'Don't'
was sufficient to deter his brother Thomas, who had never shown himself
so kind, considerate, and free from sneer or assumption.  In 'hours of
ease' he might seem selfish and exacting, but a crisis evoked the
latent good in him, and drew him out of himself.

Nor would Henry return to Bankside.  After many vacillations, the
moment for starting found him in a fit of despair about the family
disgrace, only able to beg that 'the unhappy boy' should be assured
that no expense should be spared in his defence; or else, that if he
were cleared and returned home, his welcome should be most joyful. But
there Henry broke off, groaned, said they should never look up again,
and must leave the place.

Except for Averil's own sake, Dr. May would almost have regretted his
exhortations in favour of her eldest brother.

In due time the Doctor arrived at the mill, where the inquest was to
take place, as the public-house was small, and inconveniently distant;
and there was ample accommodation in the large rambling building.  So
crowded was the court-yard, that the Doctor did not easily make his way
to the steps of the hall door; but there, after one brief question to
the policeman in charge, he waited, though several times invited in.

Before long, all eyes turned one way, as a closed fly, with a policeman
on the box, drove in at the gateway, stopped, and between the two men
on guard appeared a tall young figure.

The Doctor's first glance showed him a flushed and weary set of
features, shocked and appalled; but the eyes, looking straight up in
their anxiety, encountered his with an earnest grateful appeal for
sympathy, answered at once by a step forward with outstretched hand.
The grip of the fingers was heated, agitated, convulsive, but not
tremulous; and there was feeling, not fear, in the low husky voice that
said, 'Thank you. Is Henry here?'

'No, he is too--too much overcome; but he hopes to see you at home
to-night; and here is Edward Anderson, whom he has sent to watch the
proceedings for you.'

'Thank you,' said Leonard, acknowledging Edward's greeting.  'As far as
I am concerned, I can explain all in a minute; but my poor uncle--I
little thought--'

There was no opportunity for further speech in private, for the coroner
had already arrived, and the inquiry had been only deferred until
Leonard should have come.  The jury had been viewing the body, and the
proceedings were to take place in the large low dining-room, where the
southern windows poured in a flood of light on the faces of the persons
crowded together, and the reflections from the rippling water danced on
the ceiling.  Dr. May had a chair given him near the coroner, and
keenly watched the two nephews--one seated next to him, the other at
some distance, nearly opposite.  Both young men looked haggard,
shocked, and oppressed: the eye of Axworthy was unceasingly fixed on an
inkstand upon the table, and never lifted, his expression never varied;
and Leonard's glance flashed inquiringly from one speaker to another,
and his countenance altered with every phase of the evidence.

The first witness was Anne Ellis, the young maid-servant, who told of
her coming down at ten minutes after five that morning, the 6th of
July, and on going in to clean the rooms, finding her master sunk
forward on the table.  Supposing him to have had a fit, she had run to
the window and screamed for help, when Master Hardy, the foreman, and
Mrs. Giles, the housekeeper, had come in.

James Hardy deposed to having heard the girl's cry while he was
unlocking the mill door.  Coming in by the low sash-window, which stood
open, he had gone up to his master, and had seen the wound on the head,
and found the body quite cold, Mrs. Giles coming in, they had carried
it to the bed in the next room; and he had gone to call the young
gentlemen, but neither was in his room.  He knew that it had been left
uncertain whether Mr. Samuel would return to sleep at home between the
two days of the county races, but he did not expect Mr. Ward to be out;
and had then observed that his bed had not been slept in, and that the
passage window outside his room was partly open.  He had then thought
it best to go into Stoneborough to inform the family.

Rebecca Giles, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, crying violently,
repeated the evidence as to the discovery of the body.  The last time
she had seen her master alive, was when she had carried in his supper
at nine o'clock, when he had desired her to send Mr. Ward to him; and
had seemed much vexed to hear that the young man had not returned from
rifle practice, little thinking, poor old gentleman!--but here the
housekeeper was recalled to her subject.  The window was then open, as
it was a sultry night, but the blind down.  Her master was a good deal
crippled by gout, and could not at that time move actively nor write,
but could dress himself, and close a window.  He disliked being
assisted; and the servants were not in the habit of seeing him from the
time his supper was brought in till breakfast next morning. She had
seen Mr. Ward come home at twenty minutes or half after nine, in
uniform, carrying his rifle; she had given the message, and he had gone
into the sitting-room without putting down the rifle.  She believed it
to be the one on the table, but could not say so on oath; he never let
any one touch it; and she never looked at such horrid murderous things.
And some remarks highly adverse to the volunteer movement were cut
short.

William Andrews, groom, had been called by Anne Ellis, had seen the
wound, and the blood on the desk, and had gone to fetch a surgeon and
the police from Whitford.  On his return, saw the rifle leaning against
the shutter; believed it to be Mr. Ward's rifle.

Charles Rankin, surgeon, had been called in to see Mr. Axworthy, and
arrived at seven o'clock A. M.  Found him dead, from a fracture of the
skull over the left temple, he should imagine, from a blow from a heavy
blunt instrument, such as the stock of a gun.  Death must have been
instantaneous, and had probably taken place seven or eight hours before
he was called in.  The marks upon the rifle before him were probably
blood; but he could not say so upon oath, till he had subjected them to
microscopic examination.  The hair was human, and corresponded with
that of the deceased.

Samuel Axworthy had slept at the Three Goblets, in consequence of
finding himself too late for admission at home.  He had been wakened at
half-past five, and found all as had been stated by the previous
witnesses; and he corroborated the housekeeper's account of his uncle's
habits.  The rifle he believed to belong to his cousin, Leonard Ward.
He could not account for Leonard Ward's absence on that morning.  No
permission, as far as he was aware, had been given him to leave home;
and he had never known his uncle give him any commission at that hour.

The different policemen gave their narrations of the state of
things--the open window, the position of the boat, &c.  And the
ticket-clerk at the small Blewer Station stated that at about 12.15 at
night, Mr. Ward had walked in without baggage, and asked for a
second-class ticket to London.

Leonard here interposed an inquiry whether he had not said a day
ticket, and the clerk recollected that he had done so, and had spoken
of returning by four o'clock; but the train, being reckoned as
belonging to the previous day, no return tickets were issued for it,
and he had therefore taken an ordinary one, and started by the mail
train.

The London policeman, who had come down with Leonard, stated that, in
consequence of a telegraphic message, he had been at the Paddington
Station at 6.30 that morning; had seen a young gentleman answering to
the description sent to him, asked if his name were Leonard Ward, and
receiving a reply in the affirmative, had informed him of the charge,
and taken him into custody.  The bag that he placed on the table he had
found on the young man's person.

Every one was startled at this unexpected corroboration of the
suspicion.  It was a heavy-looking bag, of reddish canvas, marked with
a black circle, containing the letters F. A. Gold; the neck tied with a
string; the contents were sovereigns, and a note or two.

Dr. May looked piteously, despairingly, at Leonard; but the brow was
still open and unclouded, the eye glanced back reassurance and
confidence.

The policeman added that he had cautioned the young man to take care
what he said, but that he had declared at once that his uncle had sent
him to lodge the sum in Drummond's Bank, and that he would show a
receipt for it on his return.

The coroner then proceeded to examine Leonard, but still as a witness.
Edward Anderson spoke to him in an undertone, advising him to be
cautious, and not commit himself, but Leonard, rather impatiently
thanking him, shook him off, and spoke with freedom and openness.

'I have nothing to keep back,' he said.  'Of course I know nothing of
this frightful murder, nor what villain could have got hold of the
rifle, which, I am sorry to say, is really mine.  Last evening I used
it at drill and practice on Blewer Heath, and came home when it grew
dusk, getting in at about half-past nine.  I was then told by Mrs.
Giles that my uncle wished to speak to me, and was displeased at my
staying out so late.  I went into his room as I was, and put my rifle
down in a corner by the window, when he desired me to sit down and
listen to him.  He then told me that he wished to send me to town by
the mail train, to take some cash to Drummond's Bank, and to return by
to-day's four o'clock train.  He said he had reasons for wishing no one
to be aware of his opening an account there, and he undertook to
explain my absence.  He took the sum from the private drawer of his
desk, and made me count it before him, �124 12s. in sovereigns and
bank-notes.  The odd money he gave me for my expenses, the rest I put
in the bag that I fetched out of the office.  He could not hold a pen,
and could therefore give me no letter to Messrs. Drummond, but he made
me write a receipt for the amount in his memorandum book.  I wished him
good night, and left him still sitting in his easy-chair, with the
window open and the blind down. I found that I had forgotten my rifle,
but I did not go back for it, because he disliked the disturbance of
opening and shutting doors.  While I was changing my dress, I saw from
the window that some one was still about in the court, and knowing that
my uncle wished me to avoid notice, I thought it best to let myself out
by the passage window, as I had sometimes done in early mornings to
bathe or fish, and go across the fields to Blewer Station.  I got down
into the garden, crossed in the punt, and went slowly by Barnard's
hatch; I believe I stopped a good many times, as it was too soon, and a
beautiful moonlight night, but I came to Blewer soon after twelve, and
took my ticket.  At Paddington I met this terrible news.'

As the boy spoke, his bright eyes turned from one listener to another,
as though expecting to read satisfaction on their faces; but as doubt
and disbelief clouded all, his looks became almost constantly directed
to Dr. May, and his voice unconsciously passed from a sound of
justification to one of pleading.  When he ceased, he glanced round as
if feeling his innocence established.

'You gave a receipt, Mr. Ward,' said the coroner.  'Will you tell us
where it is likely to be?'

'It must be either on or in my uncle's desk, or in his pocket.  Will
some one look for it?  I wrote it in his memorandum book--a curious old
black shagreen book, with a silver clasp.  I left it open on the desk
to dry.'

A policeman went to search for it; and the coroner asked what the entry
had been.

'July 5th, 1860.  Received, �120.  L. A. Ward,'--was the answer. 'You
will find it about the middle of the book, or rather past it.'

'At what time did this take place?'

'It must have been towards ten.  I cannot tell exactly, but it was
later than half-past nine when I came in, and he was a good while
bringing out the money.'

The policeman returned, saying he could not find the book; and Leonard
begging to show where he had left it, the coroner and jury accompanied
him to the room.  At the sight of the red stain on the desk, a
shuddering came over the boy, and a whiteness on his heated brow, nor
could he at once recover himself so as to proceed with the search,
which was still in vain; though with a voice lowered by the sickness of
horror, he pointed out the place where he had laid it, and the pen he
had used; and desk, table, drawer, and the dead man's dress were
carefully examined.

'You must know it, Sam,' said Leonard.  'Don't you remember his putting
in the cheque--old Bilson's cheque for his year's rent--twenty-five
pounds?  I brought it in, and he put it away one day last week.  You
were sitting there.'

Sam stammered something of 'Yes, he did recollect something of it.'

Inquiries were made of the other persons concerned with Mr. Axworthy.
Hardy thought his master used such a book, but had never seen it near;
Mrs. Giles altogether disbelieved its existence; and Sam could not be
positive--his uncle never allowed any one to touch his private
memorandums.

As, with deepened anxiety, Dr. May returned to the dining-room, he
caught a glimpse of Henry Ward's desponding face, but received a sign
not to disclose his presence.  Edward Anderson wrote, and considered;
and the coroner, looking at his notes again, recurred to Leonard's
statement that he had seen some one in the yard.

'I thought it was one of the men waiting to take my cousin Axworthy's
horse.  I did not know whether he had ridden or gone by train; and I
supposed that some one would be looking out for him.'

Questions were asked whether any of the servants had been in the yard,
but it was denied by all; and on a more particular description of the
person being demanded, Leonard replied that the figure had been in the
dark shade of the stables, and that he only knew that it was a young
man--whether a stranger or not he did not know; he supposed now that it
must have been the--the murderer, but at the time he had thought it one
of the stable-men; and as his uncle had particularly wished that his
journey should be a secret, the sight had only made him hasten to put
out his light, and depart unseen.  It was most unfortunate that he had
done so.

Others ironically whispered, 'Most unfortunate.'

The coroner asked Mr. Anderson whether he had anything to ask or
observe, and on his reply in the negative, proceeded to sum up the
evidence for the consideration of the jury.

It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real gist
of the evidence.  His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his hands
clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from breaking in
on the coroner's speech; and when at length the question was put to the
jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his eyes set and
glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his brow, every limb as
it were petrified by the shock of what was thus first fully revealed to
him.

So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful murmurs,
and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much sadness
that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of wilful murder
against Leonard Ward.

'Mr. Leonard Ward,' said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known
his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, 'it becomes
my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at the next
assizes.'

Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness
than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but
he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all his
might.  The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen
rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend
held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and pushed
back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a too
horrible dream.  His face softened and quivered as he met the Doctor's
kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered the
coroner's question--that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy, his
age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch what
he should want from his room.

The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to
Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time.

Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said
in a low and strangled voice, 'O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die
with them last year!'

'It was not I who saved you.  He who sent that ordeal, will bring you
through--this,' said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that
belied his words of cheer.

'I thank Him at least for having taken her,' said Leonard, resting his
head on the mantel-shelf beneath his mother's picture, while his little
dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful.

Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and could
only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his emotion,
unable to utter a word.

Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine sympathy,
although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard exclaimed,
'Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don't! you ought not to grieve for me!'

'I'm a fool,' said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with
himself.  'Nonsense! we shall see you out of this!  We have only to
keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.'

'I don't know; I can't understand,' said Leonard, passing his hand over
his weary forehead.  'Why could they not believe when I told them just
how it was?'

At that moment the policeman opened the door, saying, 'Here, sir;' and
Henry hurried in, pale and breathless, not looking in his brother's
face, as he spoke fast and low.

'Ned Anderson says there's nothing at all to be made of this defence of
yours; it is of no use to try it.  The only thing is to own that he
found fault with you, and in one of your rages--you know--'

'You too, Henry!' said Leonard, in dejected reproach.

'Why--why, it is impossible it could have been otherwise--open window,
absconding, and all.  We all know you never meant it; but your story
won't stand; and the only chance, Anderson says, is to go in for
manslaughter.  If you could only tell anything that would give him a
clue to pick up evidence while the people are on the spot.'

Leonard's face was convulsed for a moment while his brother was
speaking; but he recovered calmness of voice, as he mournfully
answered, 'I have no right to wonder at your suspicion of me.'

Henry for the first time really looked at him, and instinctively
faltered, 'I beg your pardon.'

'Indeed,' said Leonard, with the same subdued manner, 'I cannot believe
that any provocation could make me strike a person like that old man;
and here there was none at all.  Except that he was vexed at first at
my being late, he had never been so near kindness.'

'Then is this extraordinary story the truth?'

'Why should I not tell the truth?' was the answer, too mournful for
indignation.

Henry again cast down his eyes, Leonard moved about making
preparations, Dr. May leant against the wall--all too much oppressed
for speech; till, as Leonard stooped, poor little Mab, thrusting her
black head into his hand, drew from him the words, 'My doggie, what is
to become of you?'

A sort of hoarse explosion of 'Ave' from Henry was simultaneous with
the Doctor's 'I tried to get her home with me in the morning, but she
waited your orders.'

'Miss May would not have her now.  After all, prussic acid would be the
truest mercy' said Leonard, holding the little creature up to his face,
and laying his cheek against her silken coat with almost passionate
affection.

'Not while there are those who trust your word, Leonard; as Ethel said
this morning.'

He raised the face which he had hidden against the dog, and looked
earnestly at the Doctor as if hardly venturing to understand him; then
a ray of real gladness and comfort darted into his eyes, which so
enlivened Dr. May, that he was able to say cheerfully, 'We will take
good care of her till you come for her.'

'Then, Henry,' said Leonard, 'it is not unkindness, nor that I remember
things, but indeed I think it will be better for you all, since Dr. May
is so--so--' The word kind was so inadequate, that it stuck in his
throat.  'Take this to Ave,' putting his mother's likeness in his hand,
'and tell her I will write,'

'Poor Ave!'

Leonard imploringly shook his head; the mention of his sister shook him
more than he could bear; and he asked the time.

'Nearly six.'

'Only six!  What an endless day!  There, I am ready.  There is no use
in delaying.  I suppose I must show what I am taking with me.'

'Wait,' said his brother.  'Cannot you say anything to put us on the
track of the man in the yard?'

'I did not see him plain.'

'You've no notion?' said Henry, with a movement of annoyance.

'No.  I only looked for a moment; for I was much more anxious to get
off quietly, than to make any one out.  If I had only waited ten
minutes, it might have been the saving of his life, but my commission
was so like fun, and so important too, that I thought of nothing else.
Can it be not twenty-four hours ago?'

'And why don't you explain why he sent you?'

'I cannot say it so certainly as to be of the slightest use,' said
Leonard.

'He never expressed it either; and I have no right to talk of my
suspicions.'

'Eh! was it to put it out of Sam's way?'

'So I suppose.  Sam used to get all he chose out of the poor old man;
and I believe he thought this the only chance of keeping anything for
himself, but he never told me so.  Stay!  Bilson's cheque might be
tracked.  I took it myself, and gave the receipt; you will find it
entered in the books--paid on either the twenty-third or fourth.'

'Then there's something to do, at any rate,' cried Henry, invigorated.
'Anderson shall hunt out the balance and Sam's draughts on it.  I'll
spare no expense, Leonard, if it is to my last farthing; and you shall
have the best counsel that can be retained.'

Leonard signed thanks with some heartiness, and was going to the door,
when Henry detained him.  'Tell me, Leonard, have you no suspicion?'

'It must have been the person I saw in the court, and, like a fool, did
not watch.  The window was open, and he could have easily got in and
come out.  Can't they see that if it had been me, I should have made
off at once that way?'

'If you could only tell what the fellow was like!'

'I told you he was in the dark,' said Leonard, and without giving time
for more, he called in the man outside, showed the clothes and, books
he had selected, put them into his bag, and declared himself ready,
giving his hand to the Doctor, who drew him near and kissed his brow,
as if he had been Harry setting forth on a voyage.

'Good-bye, my dear fellow; God bless you; I'll soon come to see you.'

'And I,' said Henry, 'will bring Bramshaw to see what is to be done.'

Leonard wrung his brother's hand, murmuring something of love to his
sisters; then put Mab into Dr. May's arms, with injunctions that the
little creature understood and obeyed, for though trembling and whining
under her breath, she was not resisting.

It might be to shorten her distress as well as his own that Leonard
passed quickly down-stairs, and entered the carriage that was to take
him to the county gaol.




CHAPTER XIII

  Tears are not always fruitful; their hot drops
    Sometimes but scorch the cheek and dim the eye;
  Despairing murmurs over blackened hopes,
    Not the meek spirit's calm and chastened cry.
  Oh, better not to weep, than weep amiss!
    For hard it is to learn to weep aright;
  To weep wise tears, the tears that heal and bless,
    The tears which their own bitterness requite.--H. BONAR


To one of the most tender-hearted of human beings had the office of
conveying ill tidings been most often committed, and again Dr. May
found himself compelled to precede Henry Ward into the sister's
presence, and to break to her the result of the inquest.

He was no believer in the efficacy of broken news, but he could not
refuse when Henry in his wretchedness entreated not to be the first in
the infliction of such agony; so he left the carriage outside, and
walked up to the door; and there stood Averil, with Ethel a few steps
behind her.  His presence was enough revelation.  Had things gone well,
he would not have been the forerunner; and Averil, meaning perhaps to
speak, gave a hoarse hysterical shriek, so frightful as to drive away
other anxieties, and summon Henry in from his watch outside.

All day the poor girl had kept up an unnatural strain on her powers,
vehemently talking of other things, and, with burning cheeks and
shining eyes, moving incessantly from one employment to another; now
her needle, now her pencil--roaming round the garden gathering flowers,
or playing rattling polkas that half stunned Ethel in her intense
listening for tidings.  Ethel, who had relieved guard and sent Mary
home in the afternoon, had vainly striven to make Ave rest or take
food; the attempt had brought on such choking, that she could only
desist, and wait for the crisis.  The attack was worse than any
ordinary hysterics, almost amounting to convulsions; and all that could
be done was to prevent her from hurting herself, and try to believe Dr.
May's assurance that there was no real cause for alarm, and that the
paroxysms would exhaust themselves.

In time they were spent, and Ave lay on her bed half torpid, feebly
moaning, but with an instinctive dread of being disturbed.  Henry
anxiously watched over her, and Dr. May thought it best to leave the
brother and sister to one another.  Absolute quiet was best for her,
and he had skill and tenderness enough to deal with her, and was
evidently somewhat relieved by the necessity of waiting on her.  It was
the best means, perhaps, of uniting them, that they should be thus left
together; and Dr. May would have taken home little pale frightened
Minna, who had been very helpful all the time.

'Oh, please not, Dr. May,' she said, earnestly.  'Indeed I will not be
troublesome, and I can give Henry his tea, and carry Ave's cup. Please,
Henry, don't send me:' and she took hold of his hand, and laid it
against her cheek.  He bent down over her, and fondled her; and there
were tears that he could not hide as he tried both to thank Dr. May,
and tell her that she need not leave him.

'No,' said Dr. May; 'it would be cruel to both of you.--Good-bye,
little Minna; I never wanted to carry away a little comforter.'

'I believe you are right, papa,' said Ethel, as she went out with him
to the carriage; 'but I long to stay, it is like doing something for
that boy.'

'The best you did for him, poor dear boy! was the saying you trusted
his word.  The moment I told him that, he took comfort and energy.'

Ethel's lips moved into a strange half smile, and she took Mab on her
lap, and fondled her.  'Yes,' she said, 'I believe I stand for a good
deal in his imagination.  I was afraid he would have been wrecked upon
that horrid place; but, after all, this may be the saving of him.'

'Ah! if that story of his would only be more vraisemblable.'

There was only time briefly to narrate it before coming home, where the
first person they met was Aubrey, exceeding pale, and in great
distress.  'Papa, I must tell you,' he said, drawing him into the
study.  'I have done terrible harm, I am afraid.'  And he explained,
that in the morning, when Mrs. Pugh had come down full of inquiries and
conjectures, and had spoken of the possibility of Leonard's having been
drowned while bathing, he had unguardedly answered that it could be no
such thing; Leonard had always meant to run away, and by that very
window, if the Axworthys grew too bad.

Prudent Tom had silenced him at the time, but had since found that it
had got abroad that the evasion had long been meditated with Aubrey's
privity, and had been asked by one of the constabulary force if his
brother would not be an important witness.  Tom had replied that he
knew nothing about it; but Aubrey was in great misery, furious with
Mrs. Pugh, and only wanting his father to set off at once to assure
them it was all nonsense.

'No, Aubrey, they neither would, nor ought to, take my word.'

'Just hear, papa, and you would know the chaff it was.'

'I cannot hear, Aubrey.  If we were to discuss it, we might give it an
unconscious colouring.  You must calm your mind, and exactly recall
what passed; but do not talk about it to me or to any one else.  You
must do nothing to impair the power of perfect truth and accuracy,
which is a thing to be prayed for.  If any one--even the lawyer who may
have to get up the case against him--asks you about it, you must refuse
to answer till the trial; and then--why, the issue is in the hands of
Him that judgeth righteously.'

'I shall never remember nor speak with his eyes on me, seeing me betray
him!'

'You will be no worse off than I, my boy, for I see I am in for
identifying Hector's rifle; the Mill people can't swear to it, and my
doing it will save his brother something.'

'No, it is not like me.  O! I wish I had stayed at Eton, even if I had
died of it!  Tom says it all comes of living with women that I can't
keep my mouth shut; and Leonard will be so hurt that I--'

'Nay, any tolerable counsel will make a capital defence out of the mere
fact of his rodomontading.  What, is that no comfort to you?'

'What! to be the means of making a fool of him before all the
court--seeing him hear our talk by the river-side sifted by those
horrid lawyers?'

The Doctor looked even graver, and his eye fixed as on a thought far
away, as the boy's grief brought to his mind the Great Assize, when all
that is spoken in the ear shall indeed be proclaimed on the house-tops.

There was something almost childish in this despair of Aubrey, for he
had not become alarmed for the result of the trial.  His misery was
chiefly shame at his supposed treason to friendship, and failure in
manly reserve; and he could not hold up his head all the evening, but
silently devoted himself to Mab, endeavouring to make her at home, and
meeting with tolerable success.

Tom was no less devoted to Ella Ward.  It was he who had brought her
home, and he considered her therefore as his charge.  It was curious to
see the difference that a year had made between her and Minna. They had
the last summer been like one child, and had taken the stroke that had
orphaned them in the same childish manner; but whether the year from
eight to nine had been of especial growth to Minna, or whether there
had been a stimulus in her constant association with Averil, the
present sorrow fell on her as on one able to enter into it, think and
feel, and assume her sweet mission of comfort; whilst Ella, though
neither hard nor insensible, was still child enough to close her mind
to what she dreaded, and flee willingly from the pain and tedium of
affliction.  She had willingly accepted 'Mr. Tom's' invitation, and as
willingly responded to his attentions.  Gertrude did not like people in
the 'little girl' stage, and the elder sisters had their hands and
hearts full, and could only care for her in essentials; but Tom
undertook her amusement, treated her to an exhibition of his
microscope, and played at French billiards with her the rest of the
evening, till she was carried off to bed in Mary's room, when he
pronounced her a very intelligent child.

'I think her a very unfeeling little thing,' said Gertrude.  'Very
unbecoming behaviour under the circumstances.'

'What would you think becoming behaviour?' asked Tom.

'I won't encourage it,' returned Daisy, with dignified decision, that
gave her father his first approach to a laugh on that day; but nobody
was in spirits to desire Miss Daisy to define from what her important
sanction was withdrawn.

Mary gave up her Sunday-school class to see how Averil was, and found
Henry much perturbed.  He had seen her fast asleep at night, and in the
morning Minna had carried up her breakfast, and he was about to follow
it, as soon as his own was finished, when he found that she had slipped
out of the house, leaving a message that she was gone to practise on
the harmonium.

He was of the mind that none of the family could or ought to be seen at
church; and though Mary could not agree with him, she willingly
consented to go to the chapel and try what she could do with his
sister.  She met Mrs. Ledwich on the way, coming to inquire and see
whether she or dear Matilda could do anything for the 'sweet sufferer.'
Even Mary could not help thinking that this was not the epithet most
befitting poor Ave; and perhaps Mrs. Ledwich's companionship made her
the less regret that Ave had locked herself in, so that there was no
making her hear, though the solemn chants, played with great fervour,
reached them as they waited in the porch. They had their own seats in
the Minster, and therefore could not wait till the sexton should come
to open the church.

There was no time for another visit till after the second service, and
then Dr. May and Mary, going to Bankside, found that instead of
returning home, Ave had again locked herself up between the services,
and that Minna, who had ventured on a mission of recall, had come home
crying heartily both at the dreary disappointment of knocking in vain,
and at the grand mournful sounds of funeral marches that had fallen on
her ear.  Every one who had been at the chapel that day was speaking of
the wonderful music, the force and the melody of the voluntary at the
dismissal of the congregation; no one had believed that such power
resided in the harmonium.  Mr. Scudamour had spoken to Miss Ward most
kindly both before and after evening service, but his attempt to take
her home had been unavailing; she had answered that she was going
presently, and he was obliged to leave her.

Evening was coming on, and she had not come, so the other keys were
fetched from the sexton's, and Dr. May and his daughter set off to
storm her fortress.  Like Minna, the Doctor was almost overpowered by
the wonderful plaintive sweetness of the notes that were floating
through the atmosphere, like a wailing voice of supplication.  They had
almost unnerved him, as he waited while Mary unlocked the door.

The sound of its opening hushed the music; Averil turned her head, and
recognizing them, came to them, very pale, and with sunken eyes. 'You
are coming home, dear Ave,' said Mary; and she made no resistance or
objection, only saying, 'Yes.  It has been so nice here!'

'You must come now, though,' said the Doctor.  'Your brother is very
much grieved at your leaving him.'

'I did not mean to be unkind to him,' said Averil, in a low subdued
voice; 'he was very good to me last night.  Only--this is peace--this,'
pointing to her instrument, 'is such a soothing friend.  And surely
this is the place to wait in!'

'The place to wait in indeed, my poor child, if you are not increasing
the distress of others by staying here.  Besides, you must not exhaust
yourself, or how are you to go and cheer Leonard!'

'Oh! there is no fear but that I shall go to-morrow,' said Averil; 'I
mean to do it!' the last words being spoken in a resolute tone, unlike
the weariness of her former replies.

And with this purpose before her, she consented to be taken back by
Mary to rest on the sofa, and even to try to eat and drink.  Her
brother and sister hung over her, and waited on her with a tender
assiduous attention that showed how they had missed her all day; and
she received their kindness gratefully, as far as her broken wearied
state permitted.

Several inquiries had come throughout the day from the neighbours; and
while Mary was still with Ave, a message was brought in to ask whether
Miss Ward would like to see Mrs. Pugh.

'Oh no, no, thank her, but indeed I cannot,' said Averil, shivering
uncontrollably as she lay.

Mary felt herself blushing, in the wonder what would be kindest to do,
and her dread of seeing Henry's face.  She was sure that he too shrank,
and she ventured to ask, 'Shall I go and speak to her?'

'Oh, do, do,' said Averil, shuddering with eagerness.  'Thank you, Miss
Mary,' said Henry slowly.  'She is most kind--but--under the
circumstances--'

Mary went, finding that he only hesitated.  She had little opportunity
for saying anything; Mrs. Pugh was full of interest and eagerness, and
poured out her sympathy and perfect understanding of dear Averil's
feelings; and in the midst Henry came out of the room, with a stronger
version of their gratitude, but in terrible confusion.  Mary would fain
have retreated, but could not, and was witness to the lady's urgent
entreaties to take Minna home, and Henry's thankfulness; but he
feared--and retreated to ask the opinion of his sisters, while Mrs.
Pugh told Mary that it was so very bad for the poor child to remain,
and begged to have Ella if she were a moment's inconvenience to the May
family.

Henry came back with repeated thanks, but Minna could not bear to leave
home; and in fact, he owned, with a half smile that gave sweetness to
his face, she was too great a comfort to be parted with. So Mrs. Pugh
departed, with doubled and trebled offers of service, and entreaties to
be sent for at any hour of the day or night when she could be of use to
Averil.

Mary could not but be pleased with her, officious as she was.  It
looked as if she had more genuine feeling for Henry than had been
suspected, and the kindness was certain, though some of it might be the
busy activity of a not very delicate nature, eager for the importance
conferred by intimacy with the subjects of a great calamity.  Probably
she would have been gratified by the eclat of being the beloved of the
brother of the youth whose name was in every mouth, and her real
goodness and benevolent heart would have committed her affections and
interest beyond recall to the Ward family, had Averil leant upon her,
or had Henry exerted himself to take advantage of her advances.

But Henry's attachment had probably not been love, for it seemed
utterly crushed out of him by his shame and despair.  Everything
connected with his past life was hateful to him; he declared that he
could never show his face at Stoneborough again, let the result be what
it might--that he could never visit another patient, and that he should
change his name and leave the country, beginning on that very Sunday
afternoon to write a letter to his principal rival to negotiate the
sale of his practice.

In fact, his first impression had returned on him, and though he never
disclaimed belief in Leonard's statement, the entire failure of all
confirmation convinced him that the blow had been struck by his brother
in sudden anger, and that, defend him as he might and would, the stain
was on his house, and the guilt would be brought home.

Resolved, however, to do his utmost, he went with Mr. Bramshaw for a
consultation with Leonard on the Monday.  Averil could not go.  She
rose and dressed, and remained resolute till nearly the last minute,
when her feverish faint giddiness overpowered her, and she was forced
to submit to lie on the sofa, under Minna's care; and there she lay,
restless and wretched, till wise little Minna sent a message up to the
High Street, which brought down Mary and Dr. Spencer.  They found her
in a state of nervous fever, that sentenced her to her bed, where Mary
deposited her and watched over her, till her brother's return, more
desponding than ever.

Dr. May, with all Henry's patients on his hands as well as his own, had
been forced to devote this entire day to his profession; but on the
next, leaving Henry to watch over Averil, who continued very feeble and
feverish, he went to Whitford, almost infected by Henry's forebodings
and Mr. Bramshaw's misgivings.  'It is a bad case,' the attorney had
said to him, confidentially.  'But that there is always a great
reluctance to convict upon circumstantial evidence, I should have very
little hope, that story of his is so utterly impracticable; and yet he
looks so innocent and earnest all the time, and sticks to it so
consistently, that I don't know what to make of it.  I can't do
anything with him, nor can his brother either; but perhaps you might
make him understand that we could bring him clear off for
manslaughter--youth, and character and all.  I should not doubt of a
verdict for a moment!  It is awkward about the money, but the alarm
would be considered in the sentence.'

'You don't attend to his account of the person he saw in the
court-yard?'

'The less said about that the better,' returned Mr. Bramshaw.  'It
would only go for an awkward attempt to shift off the suspicion, unless
he would give any description; and that he can't, or won't do. Or even
if he did, the case would be all the stronger against his
story--setting off, and leaving a stranger to maraud about the place.
No, Dr. May; the only thing for it is to persuade the lad to own to
having struck the old man in a passion; every one knows old Axworthy
could be intolerably abusive, and the boy always was passionate. Don't
you remember his flying out at Mr. Rivers's, the night of the party,
and that affair which was the means of his going to the mill at all?  I
don't mind saying so to you in confidence, because I know you won't
repeat it, and I see his brother thinks so too; but nothing is likely
to turn out so well for him as that line of defence; as things stand
now, the present one is good for nothing.'

Dr. May was almost as much grieved at the notion of the youth's
persistence in denying such a crime, as at the danger in which it
involved him, and felt that if he were to be brought to confession, it
should be from repentance, not expediency.

In this mood he drove to Whitford Gaol, made application at the gates,
and was conducted up the stairs to the cell.

The three days of nearly entire solitude and of awful expectation had
told like double the number of years; and there was a stamp of grave
earnest collectedness on the young brow, and a calm resolution of
aspect and movement, free from all excitement or embarrassment, as
Leonard Ward stood up with a warm grateful greeting, so full of
ingenuous reliance, that every doubt vanished at the same moment.

His first question was for Averil; and Dr. May made the best of her
state.  'She slept a little more last night, and her pulse is lower
this morning; but we keep her in bed, half to hinder her from trying to
come here before she is fit.  I believe this ailment is the best thing
for her and Henry both,' added the Doctor, seeing how much pain his
words were giving.  'Henry is a very good nurse; it occupies him, and
it is good for her to feel his kindness!  Then Minna has come out in
the prettiest way: she never fails in some sweet little tender word or
caress just when it is wanted.'

Leonard tried to smile, but only succeeded in keeping back a sob; and
the Doctor discharged his memory of the messages of love of which he
had been the depositary.  Leonard recovered his composure during these,
and was able to return a smile on hearing of Ella's conquest of Tom, of
their Bible prints on Sunday, and their unwearied French billiards in
the week.  Then he asked after little Mab.

'She is all a dog should be,' said Dr. May.  'Aubrey is her chief
friend, except when she is lying at her ease on Ethel's dress.'

The old test of dog-love perhaps occurred to Leonard, for his lips
trembled, and his eyes were dewy, even while they beamed with gladness.

'She is a great comfort to Aubrey,' the Doctor added.  'I must beg you
to send that poor fellow your forgiveness, for he is exceedingly
unhappy about something he repeated in the first unguarded moment.'

'Mr. Bramshaw told me,' said Leonard, with brow contracted.

'I cannot believe,' said Dr. May, 'that it can do you any real harm. I
do not think the prosecution ought to take notice of it; but if they
do, it will be easy to sift it, and make it tell rather in your favour.'

'Maybe so,' said Leonard, still coldly.

'Then you will cheer him with some kind message?'

'To be sure.  It is the time for me to be forgiving every one,' he
answered, with a long tightly-drawn breath.

Much distressed, the Doctor paused, in uncertainty whether Leonard were
actuated by dread of the disclosure or resentment at the breach of
confidence; but ere he spoke, the struggle had been fought out, and a
sweet sad face was turned round to him, with the words, 'Poor old
Aubrey!  Tell him not to mind.  There will be worse to be told out than
our romancings together, and he will feel it more than I shall!  Don't
let him vex himself.'

'Thank you,' said the father, warmly.  'I call that pardon.'

'Not that there is anything to forgive,' said Leonard, 'only it is odd
that one cares for it more than--No, no, don't tell him that, but that
I know it does not signify.  It must not come between us, if this is to
be the end; and it will make no difference.  Nothing can do that but
the finding my receipt.  I see that book night and day before my eyes,
with the very blot that I made in the top of my L.'

'You know they are searching the garden and fields, and advertising a
reward, in case of its having been thrown away when rifled, or found to
contain no valuables.'

'Yes!' and he rested on the word as though much lay behind.

'Do you think it contained anything worth keeping?'

'Only by one person.'

'Ha!' said the Doctor, with a start.

Instead of answering, Leonard leant down on the narrow bed on which he
was seated, and shut in his face between his hands.

The Doctor waited, guessed, and grew impatient.  'You don't mean that
fellow, Sam?  Do you think he has it?  I should like to throttle him,
as sure as my name's Dick May!' (this in soliloquy between his teeth).
'Speak up, Leonard, if you have any suspicion.'

The lad lifted himself with grave resolution that gave him dignity.
'Dr. May,' he said, 'I know that what I say is safe with you, and it
seems disrespectful to ask your word and honour beforehand, but I think
it will be better for us both if you will give them not to make use of
what I tell you.  It weighs on me so, that I shall be saying it to the
wrong person, unless I have it out with you.  You promise me?'

'To make no use of it without your consent,' repeated the Doctor, with
rising hope, 'but this is no case for scruples--too much is at stake.'

'You need not tell me that,' Leonard replied, with a shudder; 'but I
have no proof.  I have thought again and again and again, but can find
no possible witness.  He was always cautious, and drink made him
savage, but not noisy.'

'Then you believe--'  The silence told the rest.

'If I did not see how easy people find it to believe the same of me on
the mere evidence of circumstances, I should have no doubt,' said
Leonard, deliberately.

'Then it was he that you saw in the yard?'

'Remember, all I saw was that a man was there.  I concluded it was
Andrews, waiting to take the horse; and as he is a great hanger-on of
Sam, I wished to avoid him, and not keep my candle alight to attract
his attention.  That was the whole reason of my getting out of window,
and starting so soon; as unlucky a thing as I could have done.'

'You are sure it was not Andrews?'

'Now I am.  You see, Sam had sent home his horse from the station,
though I did not know it; and, if you remember, Andrews was shown to
have been at his father's long before.  If he had been the man, he
could speak to the time my light was put out.'

'The putting out of your light must have been the signal for the deed
to be done.'

'My poor uncle!  Well might he stare round as if he thought the walls
would betray him, and start at every chinking of that unhappy gold in
his helpless hands!  If we had only known who was near--perhaps behind
the blinds--' and Leonard gasped.

'But this secrecy, Leonard, I cannot understand it.  Do you mean that
the poor old man durst not do what he would with his own?'

'Just so.  Whenever Sam knew that he had a sum of money, he laid hands
on it.  Nothing was safe from him that Mr. Axworthy had in the Whitford
Bank.'

'That can be proved from the accounts?'

'You recollect the little parlour between the office and my uncle's
sitting-room?  There I used to sit in the evening, and to feel, rather
than hear, the way Sam used to bully the poor old man.  Once--a
fortnight ago, just after that talk with Aubrey--I knew he had been
drinking, and watched, and came in upon them when there was no bearing
it any longer.  I was sworn at for my pains, and almost kicked out
again; but after that Mr. Axworthy made me sit in the room, as if I
were a protection; and I made up my mind to bear it as long as he
lived.'

'Surely the servants would bear witness to this state of things?'

'I think not.  Their rooms are too far off for overhearing, and my
uncle saw as little of them as possible.  Mrs. Giles was Sam's nurse,
and cares for him more than any other creature; she would not say a
word against him even if she knew anything; and my uncle would never
have complained.  He was fond of Sam to the last, proud of his
steeple-chases and his cleverness, and desperately afraid of him; in a
sort of bondage, entirely past daring to speak.'

'I know,' said Dr. May, remembering how his own Tom had been fettered
and tongue-tied by that same tyrant in boyhood.  'But he spoke to you?'

'No,' said Leonard.  'After that scene much was implied between us, but
nothing mentioned.  I cannot even tell whether he trusted me, or only
made me serve as a protector.  I believe that row was about this money,
which he had got together in secret, and that Sam suspected, and wanted
to extort; but it was exactly as I said at the inquest, he gave no
reason for sending me up to town with it.  He knew that I knew why, and
so said no more than that it was to be private.  It was pitiful to see
that man, so fierce and bold as they say he once was, trembling as if
doing something by stealth, and the great hard knotty hands so crumpled
and shaky, that he had to leave all to me.  And that they should fancy
I could go and hurt him!' said Leonard, stretching his broad chest and
shoulders in conscious strength.

'Yes, considering who it was, I do not wonder that you feel the
passion-theory as insulting as the accusation.'

'I ought not,' said Leonard, reddening.  'Every one knows what my
temper can do.  I do not think that a poor old feeble man like that
could have provoked me to be so cowardly, but I see it is no wonder
they think so.  Only they might suppose I would not have been a robber,
and go on lying now, when they take good care to tell me that it is
ruinous!'

'It is an intolerable shame that they can look you in the face and
imagine it for a moment,' said the Doctor, with all his native warmth.

'After all,' said Leonard, recalled by his sympathy, 'it is my own
fault from beginning to end that I am in this case.  I see now that it
was only God's mercy that prevented my brother's blood being on me, and
it was my unrepenting obstinacy that brought me to the mill; so there
will be no real injustice in my dying, and I expect nothing else.'

'Hush, Leonard, depend upon it, while there is Justice in Heaven, the
true criminal cannot go free,' cried the Doctor, much agitated.

Leonard shook his head.

'Boyish hastiness is not murder,' added the Doctor.

'So I thought.  But it might have been, and I never repented.  I
brought all this on myself; and while I cannot feel guiltless in God's
sight, I cannot expect it to turn out well.'

'Turn out well,' repeated the Doctor.  'We want Ethel to tell us that
this very repentance and owning of the sin, is turning out well--better
than going on in it.'

'I can see that,' said Leonard.  'I do hope that if--if I can take this
patiently, it may show I am sorry for the real thing--and I may be
forgiven.  Oh! I am glad prisoners are not cut off from church.'

Dr. May pressed his hand in much emotion: and there was a silence
before another question--whether there were nothing that could be of
service.

'One chance there is, that Sam might relent enough to put that receipt
where it could be found without implicating him.  He must know what it
would do for me.'

'You are convinced that he has it?'

'There must be papers in the book valuable to him; perhaps some that he
had rather were not seen.  Most likely he secured it in the morning.
You remember he was there before the police.'

'Ay! ay! ay! the scoundrel!  But, Leonard, what possessed you not to
speak out at the inquest, when we might have searched every soul on the
premises?'

'I did not see it then.  I was stunned by the horror of the thing--the
room where I had been so lately, and that blood on my own rifle too.
It was all I could do at one time not to faint, and I had no notion
they would not take my explanation; then, when I found it rejected, and
everything closing in on me, I was in a complete maze. It was not till
yesterday, when I was alone again, after having gone over my defence
with Mr. Bramshaw, and shown what I could prove, that I saw exactly how
it must have been, as clear as a somnambulist.  I sometimes could fancy
I had seen Sam listening at the window, and have to struggle not to
think I knew him under the stable wall.'

'And you are not such a--such a--so absurd as to sacrifice yourself to
any scruple, and let the earth be cumbered with a rascal who, if he be
withholding the receipt, is committing a second murder!  It is not
generosity, it is suicide.'

'It is not generosity,' said the boy, 'for if there were any hope, that
would not stop me; but no one heard nor saw but myself, and I neither
recognized him--no, I did not--nor heard anything definite from my
uncle.  Even if I had, no one--no one but you, believes a word I speak;
nay, even my own case shows what probabilities are worth, and that I
may be doing him the same wrong that I am suffering.  I should only
bring on myself the shame and disgrace of accusing another.'

The steady low voice and unboyish language showed him to be speaking
from reflection, not impulse.  The only tremulous moment was when he
spoke of the one friend who trusted him, and whom his words were
filling with a tumult of hope and alarm, admiration, indignation, and
perplexity.

'Well, well,' the Doctor said, almost stammering, 'I am glad you have
been open with me.  It may be a clue.  Can there be any excuse for
overhauling his papers?  Or can't we pick a hole in that alibi of his?
Now I recollect, he had it very pat, and unnecessarily prominent.  I'll
find some way of going to work without compromising you.  Yes, you may
trust me!  I'll watch, but say not a word without your leave.'

'Thank you,' said Leonard.  'I am glad it is you--you who would never
think a vague hope of saving me better than disgrace and dishonour.'

'We will save you,' said the Doctor, becoming eager to escape to that
favourite counsellor, the lining of his brougham, which had inspired
him with the right theory of many a perplexing symptom, and he trusted
would show him how to defend without betraying Leonard.  'I must go and
see about it.  Is there anything I can do for you--books, or anything?'

No, thank you--except--I suppose there would be no objection to my
having a few finer steel pens.  'And to explain his wants, he took up
his Prayer-Book, which his sister had decorated with several small
devotional prints.  Copying these minutely line by line in pen and ink,
was the solace of his prison hours; and though the work was hardly
after drawing-masters' rules, the hand was not untaught, and there was
talent and soul enough in the work to strike the Doctor.

'It suits me best,' said Leonard.  'I should go distracted with nothing
to do; and I can't read much--at least, not common books. And my
sisters may like to have them.  Will you let me do one for you?'

The speaking expression of those hazel eyes almost overcame the Doctor,
and his answer was by bending head and grasping hand. Leonard turned to
the Collects, and mutely opened at the print of the Son of Consolation,
which he had already outlined, looked up at his friend, and turned
away, only saying, 'Two or three of the sort with elastic nibs; they
have them at the post-office.'

'Yes, I'll take care,' said Dr. May, afraid to trust his self-command
any longer.  'Good-bye, Leonard.  Tom says I adopt every one who gets
through a bad enough fever, so what will you be to me after this second
attack?'

The result of the Doctor's consultation with his brougham was his
stopping it at Mr. Bramshaw's door, to ascertain whether the search for
the receipt had extended to young Axworthy's papers; but he found that
they had been thoroughly examined, every facility having been given by
their owner, who was his uncle's executor, and residuary legatee, by a
will dated five years back, leaving a thousand pounds to the late Mrs.
Ward, and a few other legacies, but the mass of the property to the
nephew.

Sam's 'facilities' not satisfying the Doctor, it was further explained
that every endeavour was being made to discover what other documents
were likely to have been kept in the missing memorandum-book, so as to
lead to the detection of any person who might present any such at a
bank; and it was made evident that everything was being done, short of
the impracticability of searching an unaccused man, but he could not
but perceive that Mr. Bramshaw's 'ifs' indicated great doubt of the
existence of receipt and of pocket-book.  Throwing out a hint that the
time of Sam's return should be investigated, he learnt that this had
been Edward Anderson's first measure, and that it was clear, from the
independent testimony of the ostler at Whitford, the friend who had
driven Sam, and the landlord of the Three Goblets, that there was not
more than time for the return exactly as described at the inquest; and
though the horse was swift and powerful, and might probably have been
driven at drunken speed, this was too entirely conjectural for anything
to be founded on it. Nor had the cheque by Bilson on the Whitford Bank
come in.

'Something must assuredly happen to exonerate the guiltless, it would
be profane to doubt,' said Dr. May continually to himself and to the
Wards; but Leonard's secret was a painful burthen that he could
scarcely have borne without sharing it with that daughter who was his
other self, and well proved to be a safe repository.

'That's my Leonard,' said Ethel.  'I know him much better now than any
time since the elf-bolt affair!  They have not managed to ruin him
among them.'

'What do you call this?' said Dr. May, understanding her, indeed, but
willing to hear her thought expressed.

'Thankworthy,' she answered, with a twitching of the corners of her
mouth.

'You will suffer for this exaltation,' he said, sadly; 'you know you
have a tender heart, for all your flights.'

'And you know you have a soul as well as a heart,' said Ethel, as well
as the swelling in her throat would allow.

'To be sure, this world would be a poor place to live in, if admiration
did not make pity bearable,' said the Doctor; 'but--but don't ask me,
Ethel: you have not had that fine fellow in his manly patience before
your eyes.  Talk of your knowing him!  You knew a boy!  I tell you,
this has made him a man, and one of a thousand--so high-minded and so
simple, so clearheaded and well-balanced, so entirely resigned and free
from bitterness!  What could he not be? It would be grievous to see him
cut off by a direct dispensation--sickness, accident, battle; but for
him to come to such an end, for the sake of a double
murderer--Ethel--it would almost stagger one's faith!'

'Almost!' repeated Ethel, with the smile of a conqueror.

'I know, I know,' said the Doctor.  'If it be so, it will be right; one
will try to believe it good for him.  Nay, there's proof enough in what
it has done for him already.  If you could only see him!'

'I mean to see him, if it should go against him,' said Ethel, 'if you
will let me.  I would go to him as I would if he were in a decline, and
with more reverence.'

'Don't talk of it,' cried her father.  'For truth's sake, for justice's
sake, for the country's sake, I can not, will not, believe it will go
wrong.  There is a Providence, after all, Ethel!'

And the Doctor went away, afraid alike of hope and despondency, and
Ethel thought of the bright young face, of De Wilton, of Job, and of
the martyrs; and when she was not encouraging Aubrey, or soothing
Averil, her heart would sink, and the tears that would not come would
have been very comfortable.

It was well for all that the assizes were so near that the suspense was
not long protracted; for it told upon all concerned.  Leonard, when the
Doctor saw him again, was of the same way of thinking, but his manner
was more agitated; he could not sleep, or if he slept, the
anticipations chased away in the day-time revenged themselves in his
dreams; and he was very unhappy, also, about his sister, whose illness
continued day after day.  She was not acutely ill, but in a constant
state of low fever, every faculty in the most painful state of tension,
convinced that she was quite able to get up and go to Leonard, and that
her detention was mere cruelty; and then, on trying to rise, refused by
fainting.  Her searching questions and ardent eyes made it impossible
to keep any feature in the case from her knowledge.  Sleep was
impossible to her; and once when Henry tried the effect of an anodyne,
it produced a semi-delirium, which made him heartily repent of his
independent measure.  At all times she was talking--nothing but the
being left with a very stolid maid-servant ever closed her lips, and
she so greatly resented being thus treated, that the measure was seldom
possible.  Henry seldom left her.  He was convinced that Leonard's
sentence would be hers likewise, and he watched over her with the
utmost tenderness and patience with her fretfulness and waywardness,
never quitting her except on their brother's behalf, when Ethel or Mary
would take his place.  Little Minna was always to be found on her small
chair by the bed-side, or moving about like a mouse, sometimes
whispering her one note, 'They can't hurt him, if he has not done it,'
and still quietly working at the pair of slippers that had been begun
for his birthday present. Mary used to bring Ella, and take them out
walking in the least-frequented path; but though the little sisters
kissed eagerly, and went fondly hand in hand, they never were sorry to
part:  Ella's spirits oppressed Minna, and Minna's depression vexed the
more volatile sister; moreover, Minna always dreaded Mary's desire to
carry her away--as, poor child, she looked paler, and her eyes heavier
and darker, every day.

No one else, except, of course, Dr. May, was admitted.  Henry would not
let his sister see Mr. Scudamour or Mr. Wilmot, lest she should be
excited; and Averil's 'No one' was vehement as a defence against Mrs.
Pugh or Mrs. Ledwich, whom she suspected of wanting to see her, though
she never heard of more than their daily inquiries.

Mrs. Pugh was, in spite of her exclusion, the great authority with the
neighbourhood for all the tidings of 'the poor Wards,' of whom she
talked with the warmest commiseration, relating every touching detail
of their previous and present history, and continually enduring the
great shock of meeting people in shops or in the streets, whom she knew
to be reporters or photographers.  In fact, the catastrophe had taken a
strong hold on the public mind; and 'Murder of an Uncle by his Nephew,'
'The Blewer Tragedy,' figured everywhere in the largest type; newsboys
on the railway shouted, 'To-day's paper-account of inquest;' and the
illustrated press sent down artists, whose three-legged cameras stared
in all directions, from the Vintry Mill to Bankside, and who aimed at
the school, the Minster, the volunteers, and Dr. Hoxton himself.  Tom
advised Ethel to guard Mab carefully from appearing stuffed in the
chamber of horrors at Madame Tussaud's; and the furniture at the mill
would have commanded any price.  Nay, Mrs. Pugh was almost certain she
had seen one of the 'horrid men' bargaining with the local photographer
for her own portrait, in her weeds, and was resolved the interesting
injury should never be forgiven!

She really had the 'trying scenes' of two interviews with both Mr.
Bramshaw and the attorney from Whitford who was getting up the
prosecution, each having been told that she was in possession of
important intelligence.  Mr. Bramshaw was not sanguine as to what he
might obtain from her, but flattered her with the attempt, and ended by
assuring her, like his opponent, that there was no need to expose her
to the unpleasantness of appearing in court.

Aubrey was not to have the same relief, but was, like his father,
subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution.  He had followed his
father's advice, and took care not to disclose his evidence to the
enemy, as he regarded the Whitford lawyer.  He was very miserable, and
it was as much for his sake as that of the immediate family, that Ethel
rejoiced that the suspense was to be short.  Counsel of high reputation
had been retained; but as the day came nearer, without bringing any of
the disclosures on which the Doctor had so securely reckoned, more and
more stress was laid on the dislike to convict on circumstantial
evidence, and on the saying that the English law had rather acquit ten
criminals than condemn one innocent man.




CHAPTER XIV

  Ah! I mind me now of thronging faces,
    Mocking eyed, and eager, as for sport;
  Hundreds looking up, and in high places
    Men arrayed for judgment and a court.

  And I heard, or seemed to hear, one seeking
    Answer back from one he doomed to die,
  Pitifully, sadly, sternly speaking
    Unto one--and oh! that one, twas I.--Rev. G. E. Monsell


The 'Blewer Murder' was the case of the Assize week; and the court was
so crowded that, but for the favour of the sheriff, Mr. and Mrs.
Rivers, with Tom and Gertrude, could hardly have obtained seats.  No
others of the family could endure to behold the scene, except from
necessity; and indeed Ethel and Mary had taken charge of the sisters at
home, for Henry could not remain at a distance from his brother, though
unable to bear the sight of the proceedings; he remained in a house at
hand.

Nearly the whole population of Stoneborough, Whitford, and Blewer was
striving to press into court, but before the day's work began, Edward
Anderson had piloted Mrs. Pugh to a commodious place, under the escort
of his brother Harvey, who was collecting materials for an article on
criminal jurisprudence.

Some of those who, like the widow and little Gertrude, had been wild to
be present, felt their hearts fail them when the last previous case had
been disposed of; and there was a brief pause of grave and solemn
suspense and silent breathless expectation within the court, unbroken,
except by increased sounds of crowding in all the avenues without.

Every one, except the mere loungers, who craved nothing but excitement,
looked awed and anxious; and the impression was deepened by the
perception that the same feeling, though restrained, affected the judge
himself, and was visible in the anxious attention with which he looked
at the papers before him, and the stern sadness that had come over the
features naturally full of kindness and benevolence.

The prisoner appeared in the dock.  He had become paler, and perhaps
thinner, for his square determined jaw, and the resolute mould of his
lips, were more than usually remarkable, and were noted in the
physiognomical brain of Harvey Anderson; as well as the keen light of
his full dark hazel eye, the breadth of his brow, with his shining
light brown hair brushed back from it; the strong build of his frame,
and the determined force, apparent even in the perfect quiescence of
his attitude.

Leonard Axworthy Ward was arraigned for the wilful murder of Francis
Axworthy, and asked whether he pleaded Guilty or Not Guilty.

His voice was earnest, distinct, and firm, and his eyes were raised
upwards, as though he were making the plea of 'Not Guilty' not to man
alone, but to the Judge of all the earth.

The officer of the court informed him of his right to challenge any of
the jury, as they were called over by name; and as each came to be
sworn, he looked full and steadily at each face, more than one of which
was known to him by sight, as if he were committing his cause into
their hands.  He declined to challenge; and then crossing his arms on
his breast, cast down his eyes, and thus retained them through the
greater part of the trial.

The jurymen were then sworn in, and charged with the issue; and the
counsel for the prosecution opened the case, speaking more as if in
pity than indignation, as he sketched the history, which it was his
painful duty to establish.  He described how Mr. Axworthy, having spent
the more active years of his life in foreign trade, had finally
returned to pass his old age among his relatives; and had taken to
assist him in his business a great-nephew, and latterly another youth
in the same degree of relation, the son of his late niece--the
prisoner, who on leaving school had been taken into his uncle's office,
lodged in the house, and became one of the family.  It would, however,
be shown by witnesses that the situation had been extremely irksome to
the young man; and that he had not been in it many months before he had
expressed his intention of absconding, provided he could obtain the
means of making his way in one of the colonies. Then followed a summary
of the deductions resulting from the evidence about to be adduced, and
which carried upon its face the inference that the absence of the
cousin, the remoteness of the room, the sight of a large sum of money,
and the helplessness of the old man, had proved temptations too strong
for a fiery and impatient youth, long fretted by the restraints of his
situation, and had conducted him to violence, robbery, and flight.  It
was a case that could not be regarded without great regret and
compassion; but the gentlemen of the jury must bear in mind in their
investigation, that pity must not be permitted to distort the facts,
which he feared were only too obvious.

The speech was infinitely more telling from its fair and commiserating
tone towards the prisoner; and the impression that it carried, not that
he was to be persecuted by having the crime fastened on him, but that
truth must be sought out at all hazards.

'Even he is sorry for Leonard!  I don't hate him as I thought I
should,' whispered Gertrude May, to her elder sister. The first witness
was, as before, the young maid-servant, Anne Ellis, who described her
first discovery of the body; and on farther interrogation, the
situation of the room, distant from those of the servants, and out of
hearing--also her master's ordinary condition of feebleness.  She had
observed nothing in the room, or on the table, but knew the window was
open, since she had run to it, and screamed for help, upon which Master
Hardy had come to her aid.

Leonard's counsel then elicited from her how low the window was, and
how easily it could be entered from without.

James Hardy corroborated all this, giving a more minute account of the
state of the room; and telling of his going to call the young
gentlemen, and finding the open passage window and empty bed-room. The
passage window would naturally be closed at night; and there was no
reason to suppose that Mr. Ward would be absent.  The bag shown to him
was one that had originally been made for the keeping of cash, but
latterly had been used for samples of grain, and he had last seen it in
the office.

The counsel for the prisoner inquired what had been on the table at
Hardy's first entrance; but to this the witness could not swear, except
that the lamp was burning, and that there were no signs of disorder,
nor was the dress of the deceased disarranged.  He had seen his master
put receipts, and make memorandums, in a large, black, silver-clasped
pocket-book, but had never handled it, and could not swear to it; he
had seen nothing like it since his master's death. He was further asked
how long the prisoner had been at the mill, his duties there, and the
amount of trust reposed in him; to which last the answer was, that
about a month since, Mr. Axworthy had exclaimed that if ever he wanted
a thing to be done, he must set Ward about it. Saving this speech, made
in irritation at some omission on Sam's part, nothing was adduced to
show that Leonard was likely to have been employed without his cousin's
knowledge; though Hardy volunteered the addition that Mr. Ward was
always respectful and attentive, and that his uncle had lately thought
much more of him than at first.

Rebekah Giles gave her account of the scene in the sitting-room.  She
had been in the service of the deceased for the last four years, and
before in that of his sister-in-law, Mr. Samuel's mother.  She had
herself closed the passage window at seven o'clock in the evening, as
usual.  She had several times previously found it partly open in the
morning, after having thus shut it over-night; but never before, Mr.
Ward's bed unslept in.  Her last interview with Mr. Axworthy was then
narrated, with his words--an imprecation against rifle practice, as an
excuse for idle young rascals to be always out of the way.  Then
followed her communication to the prisoner at half-past nine, when she
saw him go into the parlour, in his volunteer uniform, rifle in hand,
heard him turn the lock of the sitting-room door, and then herself
retired to bed.

Cross-examination did not do much with her, only showing that, when she
brought in the supper, one window had been open, and the blinds, common
calico ones, drawn down, thus rendering it possible for a person to
lurk unseen in the court, and enter by the window.  Her master had
assigned no reason for sending for Mr. Ward.  She did not know whether
Mr. Axworthy had any memorandum-book; she had seen none on the table,
nor found any when she undressed the body, though his purse, watch, and
seals were on his person.

Mr. Rankin's medical evidence came next, both as to the cause of death,
the probable instrument, and the nature of the stains on the desk and
rifle.

When cross-examined, he declared that he had looked at the volunteer
uniform without finding any mark of blood, but from the nature of the
injury it was not likely that there would be any.  He had attended Mr.
Axworthy for several years, and had been visiting him professionally
during a fit of the gout in the last fortnight of June, when he had
observed that the prisoner was very attentive to his uncle.  Mr.
Axworthy was always unwilling to be waited on, but was unusually
tolerant of this nephew's exertions on his behalf, and had seemed of
late to place much reliance on him.

Doctor Richard May was the next witness called.  The sound of that name
caused the first visible change in the prisoner's demeanour, if that
could be called change, which was only a slight relaxation of the firm
closing of the lips, and one sparkle of the dark eyes, ere they were
again bent down as before, though not without a quiver of the lids.

Dr. May had brought tone, look, and manner to the grave impartiality
which even the most sensitive man is drilled into assuming in public;
but he durst not cast one glance in the direction of the prisoner.

In answer to the counsel for the prosecution, he stated that he was at
the Vintry Mill at seven o'clock on the morning of the 6th of July, not
professionally, but as taking interest in the Ward family. He had seen
the body of the deceased, and considered death to have been occasioned
by fracture of the skull, from a blow with a blunt heavy instrument.
The superintendent had shown him a rifle, which he considered, from the
marks on it, as well as from the appearance of the body, to have
produced the injury.  The rifle was the one shown to him; it was the
property of Leonard Ward.  He recognized it by the crest and cipher H.
E.  It had belonged to his son-in-law, Hector Ernescliffe, by whom it
had been given to Leonard Ward.

Poor Doctor!  That was a cruel piece of evidence; and his son and
daughters opposite wondered how he could utter it in that steady
matter-of-fact way; but they knew him to be sustained by hopes of the
cross-examination; and he soon had the opportunity of declaring that he
had known Leonard Ward from infancy, without being aware of any
imputation against him; but had always seen him highly principled and
trustworthy, truthful and honourable, kind-hearted and humane--the last
person to injure the infirm or aged.

Perhaps the good Doctor, less afraid of the sound of his own voice, and
not so much in awe as some of the other witnesses, here in his
eagerness overstepped the bounds of prudence.  His words indeed brought
a tremulous flicker of grateful emotion over the prisoner's face; but
by carrying the inquiry into the region of character and opinion, he
opened the door to a dangerous re-examination by the Crown lawyer, who
required the exact meaning of his unqualified commendation, especially
in the matter of humanity, demanding whether he had never known of any
act of violence on the prisoner's part. The colour flushed suddenly
into Leonard's face, though he moved neither eye nor lip; but his
counsel appealed to the judge, and the pursuit of this branch of the
subject was quashed as irrelevant; but the Doctor went down in very low
spirits, feeling that his evidence had been damaging, and his hopes of
any ray of light becoming fainter.

After this, the village policeman repeated the former statements, as to
the state of the various rooms, the desk, locked and untouched, the
rifle, boat, &c., further explaining that the distance from the mill to
Blewer Station, by the road was an hour and half's walk, by the fields,
not more than half an hour's.

The station-master proved the prisoner's arrival at midnight, his
demand of a day-ticket, his being without luggage, and in a black suit;
and the London policeman proved the finding of the money on his person,
and repeated his own explanation of it.

The money was all in sovereigns, except one five and one ten-pound
note, and Edward Hazlitt, the clerk of the Whitford Bank, was called to
prove the having given the latter in change to Mr. Axworthy for a
fifty-pound cheque, on the 10th of May last.

This same clerk had been at the volunteer drill on the evening of the
5th of July, had there seen the prisoner, had parted with him at dusk,
towards nine o'clock, making an engagement with him to meet on Blewer
Heath for some private practice at seven o'clock on Monday evening.
Thought Mr. Axworthy did sometimes employ young Ward on his
commissions; Mr. Axworthy had once sent him into Whitford to pay in a
large sum, and another time with an order to be cashed. The dates of
these transactions were shown in the books; and Hazlitt added, on
further interrogation, that Samuel Axworthy could not have been aware
of the sum being sent to the bank, since he had shortly after come and
desired to see the account, which had been laid before him as
confidential manager, when he had shown surprise and annoyance at the
recent deposit, asking through whom it had been made.  Not ten days
subsequently, an order for nearly the entire amount had been cashed,
signed by the deceased, but filled up in Samuel's handwriting.

This had taken place in April; and another witness, a baker, proved the
having paid the five-pound note to old Mr. Axworthy himself on the 2nd
of May.

Samuel Axworthy himself was next called.  His florid face wore
something of the puffed, stupefied look it had had at the inquest, but
his words were ready, and always to the point.  He identified the bag
in which the money had been found, giving an account of it similar to
Hardy's, and adding that he had last seen it lying by his cousin's
desk.  His uncle had no account with any London bank, all transactions
had of late passed through his own hands, and he had never known the
prisoner employed in any business of importance--he could not have been
kept in ignorance of it if it had previously been the case.  The
deceased had a black shagreen pocket-book, with a silver clasp, which
he occasionally used, but the witness had never known him give it out
of his own hand, nor take a receipt in it.  Had not seen it on the
morning of the 6th, nor subsequently. Could not account for the sum
found on the person of the prisoner, whose salary was �50 per annum,
and who had no private resources, except the interest of �2000, which,
he being a minor, was not in his own hands. Deceased was fond of
amassing sovereigns, and would often keep them for a longtime in the
drawer of his desk, as much as from �50 to �100.  There was none there
when the desk was opened on the 6th of July, though there had certainly
been gold there two days previously. It was kept locked.  It had a
small Bramah key, which his uncle wore on his watch-chain, in his
waistcoat pocket.  The drawer was locked when he saw it on the morning
of the 6th.

The Doctor, who had joined his children, gave a deep respiration, and
relaxed the clenching of his hand, as this witness went down.

Then it came to the turn of Aubrey Spencer May.  The long waiting,
after his nerves had been wound up, had been a severe ordeal, and his
delicacy of constitution and home breeding had rendered him peculiarly
susceptible.  With his resemblance to his father in form and
expression, it was like seeing the Doctor denuded of that shell of
endurance with which he had contrived to conceal his feelings. The boy
was indeed braced to resolution, bat the resolution was equally visible
with the agitation in the awe-stricken brow, varying colour, tightened
breath, and involuntary shiver, as he took the oath.  Again Leonard
looked up with one of his clear bright glances, and perhaps a shade of
anxiety; but Aubrey, for his own comfort, was too short-sighted for
meeting of eyes from that distance.

Seeing his agitation, and reckoning on his evidence, the counsel gave
him time, by minutely asking if his double Christian name were
correctly given, his age, and if he were not the son of Dr. May.

'You were the prisoner's school-fellow, I believe?'

'No,' faltered Aubrey.

'But you live near him?'

'We are friends,' said Aubrey, with sudden firmness and precision; and
from the utterance of that emphatic _are_, his spirit returned.

'Did you often see him?'

'On most Sundays, after church.'

'Did you ever hear him say he had any thoughts of the means of leaving
the mill privately?'

'Something like it,' said Aubrey, turning very red.

'Can you tell me the words?'

'He said if things went on, that I was not to be surprised if I heard
non est inventus,' said Aubrey, speaking as if rapidity would conceal
the meaning of the words, but taken aback by being made to repeat and
translate them to the jury.

'And did he mention any way of escaping?'

'He said the window and cedar-tree were made for it, and that he often
went out that way to bathe,' said Aubrey.

'When did this conversation take place?'

'On Sunday, the 22nd of June,' said Aubrey, in despair, as the Crown
lawyer thanked him, and sat down.

He felt himself betrayed into having made their talk wear the air of
deliberate purpose, and having said not one word of what Mr. Bramshaw
had hailed as hopeful.  However, the defending barrister rose up to ask
him what he meant by having answered 'Something like it.'

'Because,' said Aubrey, promptly, 'though we did make the scheme, we
were neither of us in earnest.'

'How do you know the prisoner was not in earnest?'

'We often made plans of what we should like to do.'

'And had you any reason for thinking this one of such plans!'

'Yes,' said Aubrey; 'for he talked of getting gold enough to build up
the market-cross, or else of going to see the Feejee Islands.

'Then you understood the prisoner not to express a deliberate purpose,
so much as a vague design.'

'Just so,' said Aubrey.  'A design that depended on how things went on
at the mill.'  And being desired to explain his words, he added, that
Leonard had said he could not bear the sight of Sam Axworthy's tyranny
over the old man, and was resolved not to stay, if he were made a party
to any of the dishonest tricks of the trade.

'In that case, did he say where he would have gone?'

'First to New Zealand, to my brother, the Reverend Norman May.'

Leonard's counsel was satisfied with the colour the conversation had
now assumed; but the perils of re-examination were not over yet, for
the adverse lawyer requested to know whence the funds were to have come
for this adventurous voyage.

'We laughed a little about that, and he said he should have to try how
far his quarter's salary would go towards a passage in the steerage.'

'If your friend expressed so strong a distaste to his employers and
their business, what induced him to enter it?'

Leonard's counsel again objected to this inquiry, and it was not
permitted.  Aubrey was dismissed, and, flushed and giddy, was met by
his brother Tom, who almost took him in his arms as he emerged from the
passage.

'O, Tom! what have I done?'

'Famously, provided there's no miller in the jury.  Come,' as he felt
the weight on his arm, 'Flora says I am to take you down and make you
take something.'

'No, no, no, I can't!  I must go back.'

'I tell you there's nothing going on.  Every one is breathing and
baiting.'  And he got him safe to a pastrycook's, and administered
brandy cherries, which Aubrey bolted whole like pills, only entreating
to return, and wanting to know how he thought the case going.

'Excellently.  Hazlitt's evidence and yours ought to carry him through.
And Anderson says they have made so much out of the witnesses for the
prosecution, that they need call none for the defence; and so the enemy
will be balked of their reply, and we shall have the last word.  I vow
I have missed my vocation.  I know I was born for a barrister!'

'Now may we come back?' said the boy, overwhelmed by his brother's
cheeriness; and they squeezed into court again, Tom inserting Aubrey
into his own former seat, and standing behind him on half a foot at the
angle of the passage.  They were in time for the opening of the
defence, and to hear Leonard described as a youth of spirit and
promise, of a disposition that had won him general affection and
esteem, and recommended to universal sympathy by the bereavement which
was recent in the memory of his fellow-townsmen; and there was a glance
at the mourning which the boy still wore.

'They had heard indeed that he was quick-tempered and impulsive; but
the gentlemen of the jury were some of them fathers, and he put it to
them whether a ready and generous spirit of indignation in a lad were
compatible with cowardly designs against helpless old age; whether one
whose recreations were natural science and manly exercise, showed
tokens of vicious tendencies; above all, whether a youth, whose
friendship they had seen so touchingly claimed by a son of one of the
most highly respected gentlemen in the county, were evincing the
propensities that lead to the perpetration of deeds of darkness.'

Tom patted Aubrey on the shoulder; and Aubrey, though muttering
'humbug,' was by some degrees less wretched.

'Men did not change their nature on a sudden,' the counsel continued;
'and where was the probability that a youth of character entirely
unblemished, and of a disposition particularly humane and generous,
should at once rush into a crime of the deep and deadly description, to
which a long course of dissipation, leading to perplexity, distress,
and despair, would be the only inducement?'

He then went on to speak of Leonard's position at the mill, as junior
clerk.  He had been there for six months, without a flaw being
detected, either in his integrity, his diligence, or his regularity;
indeed, it was evident that he had been gradually acquiring a greater
degree of esteem and confidence than he had at first enjoyed, and had
been latterly more employed by his uncle.  That a young man of superior
education should find the daily drudgery tedious and distasteful, and
that one of sensitive honour should be startled at the ordinary, he
might almost say proverbial, customs of the miller's trade, was
surprising to no one; and that he should unbosom himself to a friend of
his own age, and indulge together with him in romantic visions of
adventure, was, to all who remembered their own boyhood, an
illustration of the freshness and ingenuousness of the character that
thus unfolded itself.  Where there were day-dreams, there was no room
for plots of crime.

Then ensued a species of apology for the necessity of entering into
particulars that did not redound to the credit of a gentleman, who had
appeared before the court under such distressing circumstances as Mr.
Samuel Axworthy; but it was needful that the condition of the family
should be well understood, in order to comprehend the unhappy train of
events which had conducted the prisoner into his present situation.  He
then went through what had been traceable through the evidence--that
Samuel Axworthy was a man of expensive habits, and accustomed to drain
his uncle's resources to supply his own needs; showing how the sum,
which had been intrusted to the prisoner, to be paid into the local
bank, had been drawn out by the elder nephew as soon as he became aware
of the deposit; and how, shortly after, the prisoner had expressed to
Aubrey May his indignation at the tyranny exercised on his uncle.

'By and by, another sum is amassed,' continued Leonard's advocate. 'How
dispose of it?  The local bank is evidently no security from the
rapacity of the elder nephew.  Once aware of its existence, he knows
how to use means for compelling its surrender; and the feeble old man
can no longer call his hard-earned gains his own except on sufferance.
The only means of guarding it is to lodge it secretly in a distant
bank, without the suspicion of his nephew Samuel; but the invalid is
too infirm to leave his apartment; his fingers, crippled by gout,
refuse even to guide the pen.  He can only watch for an opportunity,
and this is at length afforded by the absence of the elder nephew for
two days at the county races.  This will afford time for a trustworthy
and intelligent messenger to convey the sum to town, deposit it in
Messrs, Drummond's bank, and return unobserved. When, therefore, supper
is brought in, Mr. Axworthy sends for the lad on whom he has learnt to
depend, and shows much disappointment at his absence.  Where is he?  Is
he engaged with low companions in the haunts of vice, that are the
declivity towards crime?  Is he gaming, or betting, or drinking?  No.
He has obeyed the summons of his country; he is a zealous volunteer,
and is eagerly using a weapon presented to him by a highly respected
gentleman of large fortune in a neighbouring county; nay, so far is he
from any sinister purpose, that he is making an appointment with a
fellow-rifleman for the ensuing Monday.  On his return at dark, he
receives a pressing summons to his uncle's room, and hastens to obey it
without pausing to lay aside his rifle.  The commission is explained,
and well understanding the painfulness of the cause, he discreetly asks
no questions, but prepares to execute it.  The sum of �124 12s. is
taken from the drawer of the desk, the odd money assigned to travelling
expenses, the �120 placed in a bag brought in from the office for the
purpose, bearing the initials of the owner, and a receipt in a private
pocket-book was signed by him for the amount, and left open on the
table for the ink to dry.

'Who that has ever been young, can doubt the zest and elevation of
receiving for the first time a confidential mission?  Who can doubt
that even the favourite weapon would be forgotten where it stood, and
that it would only be accordant to accredited rules that the window
should be preferable to the door?  Had it not already figured in the
visions of adventure in the Sunday evening's walk? was it not a
favourite mode of exit in the mornings, when bathing and fishing were
more attractive than the pillow!  Moreover, the moonlight disclosed
what appeared like a figure in the court-yard, and there was reason at
the time to suppose it a person likely to observe and report upon the
expedition.  The opening of the front door might likewise attract
notice; and if the cousin should, as was possible, return that night,
the direct road was the way to meet him.  The hour was too early for
the train which was to be met, but a lighted candle would reveal the
vigil, and moonlight on the meadows was attractive at eighteen.
Gentlemen of soberer and maturer years might be incredulous, but surely
it was not so strange or unusual for a lad, who indulged in visions of
adventure, to find a moonlight walk by the river-side more inviting
than a bed-room.

'Shortly after, perhaps as soon as the light was extinguished, the
murder must have been committed.  The very presence of that light had
been guardianship to the helpless old man below.  When it was quenched,
nothing remained astir, the way from without was open, the weapon stood
only too ready to hand, the memorandum-book gave promise of booty and
was secured, though nothing else was apparently touched. It was this
very book that contained the signature that would have exonerated the
prisoner, and to which he fearlessly appealed upon his arrest at the
Paddington Station, before, for his additional misfortune, he had time
to discharge himself of his commission, and establish his innocence by
the deposit of the money at the bank.  He has thus for a while become
the victim of a web of suspicious circumstances.  But look at these
very circumstances more closely, and they will be found perfectly
consistent with the prisoner's statement, never varying, be it
remembered, from the explanation given to the policeman in first
surprise and horror of the tidings of the crime.

'It might have been perhaps thought that there was another alternative
between entire innocence and a deliberate purpose of robbery and
murder-namely, that reproof from the old man had provoked a blow, and
that the means of flight had been hastily seized upon in the moment of
confusion and alarm.  This might have been a plausible line of defence,
and secure of a favourable hearing; but I beg to state that the
prisoner has distinctly refused any such defence, and my instructions
are to contend for his perfect innocence.  A nature such as we have
already traced is, as we cannot but perceive, revolted by the bare idea
of violence to the aged and infirm, and recoils as strongly from the
one accusation as from the other.

'The prisoner made his statement at the first moment, and has adhered
to it in every detail, without confusion or self-contradiction.  It
does not attempt to explain all the circumstances, but they all tally
exactly with his story; he is unable to show by whom the crime could
have been committed, nor is he bound in law or justice so to do; nay,
his own story shows the absolute impossibility of his being able to
explain what took place in his absence.  But mark how completely the
established facts corroborate his narrative.  Observe first the
position in which the body was found, the head on the desk, the stain
of blood corresponding with the wound, the dress undisturbed, all
manifestly untouched since the fatal stroke was dealt.  Could this have
been the case, had the key of the drawer of gold been taken from the
waistcoat pocket, the chain from about the neck of the deceased, and
both replaced after the removal of the money and relocking the drawer!
Can any one doubt that the drawer was opened, the money taken out, and
the lock secured, while Mr. Axworthy was alive and consenting?  Again,
what robber would convey away the spoil in a bag bearing the initials
of the owner, and that not caught up in haste, but fetched in for the
purpose from the office?  Or would so tell-tale a weapon as the rifle
have been left conspicuously close at hand?  There was no guilty
precipitation, for the uniform had been taken off and folded up, and
with a whole night before him, it would have been easy to reach a more
distant station, where his person would not have been recognized.  Why,
too, if this were the beginning of a flight and exile, should no
preparation have been made for passing a single night from home? why
should a day-ticket have been asked for?  No, the prisoner's own
straightforward, unvarnished statement is the only consistent
interpretation of the facts, otherwise conflicting and incomprehensible.

'That a murder has been committed is unhappily too certain.  I make no
attempt to unravel the mystery.  I confine myself to the far more
grateful task of demonstrating, that to fasten the imputation on the
accused, would be to overlook a complication of inconsistencies, all
explained by his own account of himself, but utterly inexplicable on
the hypothesis of his guilt.

'Circumstantial evidence is universally acknowledged to be perilous
ground for a conviction; and I never saw a case in which it was more
manifestly delusive than in the present, bearing at first an imposing
and formidable aspect, but on examination, confuted in every detail.
Most assuredly,' continued the counsel, his voice becoming doubly
earnest, 'while there is even the possibility of innocence, it becomes
incumbent on you, gentlemen of the jury, to consider well the fearful
consequences of a decision in a matter of life or death--a decision for
which there can be no reversal.  The facts that have come to light are
manifestly incomplete.  Another link in the chain has yet to be added;
and when it shall come forth, how will it be if it should establish the
guiltlessness of the prisoner too late?  Too late, when a young life of
high promise, and linked by close family ties, and by bonds of ardent
friendship with so many, has been quenched in shame and disgrace, for a
crime to which he may be an utter stranger.

'The extinction of the light in that upper window was the sign for
darkness and horror to descend on the mill!  Here is the light of life
still burning, but a breath of yours can extinguish it in utter gloom,
and then who may rekindle it!  Nay, the revelation of events that would
make the transactions of that fatal night clear as the noonday, would
never avail to rekindle the lamp, that may yet, I trust, shine forth to
the world--the clearer, it may be, from the unmerited imputations,
which it has been my part to combat, and of which his entire life is a
confutation.'

Mrs. Pugh was sobbing under her veil; Gertrude felt the cause won. Tom
noiselessly clapped the orator behind his brother's back, and nodded
his approval to his father.  Even Leonard lifted up his face, and shot
across a look, as if he felt deliverance near after the weary day, that
seemed to have been a lifetime already, though the sunbeams were only
beginning to fall high and yellow on the ceiling, through the heated
stifling atmosphere, heavy with anxiety and suspense.  Doctor May was
thinking of the meeting after the acquittal, of the telegram to
Stoneborough, of the sister's revival, and of Ethel's greeting.

Still the judge had to sum up; and all eyes turned on him, knowing that
the fate of the accused would probably depend on the colouring that the
facts adduced would assume in his hands.  Flora, who met him in
society, was struck by the grave and melancholy bracing, as it were, of
the countenance, that she had seen as kindly and bright as her
father's; and the deep, full voice, sad rather than stern, the very
tone of which conveyed to every mind how heavy was the responsibility
of justice and impartiality.  In effect, the very force of the
persuasions made for the defence, unanswered by the prosecution,
rendered it needful for him to give full weight to the evidence for the
other side; namely, the prisoner's evident impatience of his position,
and premeditated flight, the coincidence of the times, the being the
last person seen to enter the room, and with the very weapon that had
been the instrument of the crime; the probability that the deceased had
himself opened the drawer, the open window, the flight, and the missing
sum being found on his person, the allegation that the receipt would be
found in the pocket-book, unsupported by any testimony as to the
practice of the deceased; the strangeness of leaving the premises so
much too early for the train, and, by his own account, leaving a person
prowling in the court, close to his uncle's window.  No opinion was
given; but there was something that gave a sense that the judge felt it
a crushing weight of evidence.  Yet so minutely was every point
examined, so carefully was every indication weighed which could tend to
establish the prisoner's innocence, that to those among his audience
who believed that innocence indubitable, it seemed as if his arguments
proved it, even more triumphantly than the pleading of the counsel, as,
vibrating between hope and fear, anxiety and gratitude, they followed
him from point to point of the unhappy incident, hanging upon every
word, as though each were decisive.

When at length he ceased, and the jury retired, the breathless
stillness continued.  With some, indeed, there was the relaxation of
long-strained attention, eyes unbent, and heads turned, but Flora had
to pass her arm round her little sister, to steady the child's nervous
trembling; Aubrey sat rigid and upright, the throbs of his heart
well-nigh audible; and Dr. May leant forward, and covered his eyes with
his hand; Tom, who alone dared glance to the dock, saw that Leonard too
had retired.  Those were the most terrible minutes they had ever spent
in their lives; but they were minutes of hope--of hope of relief from a
burthen, becoming more intolerable with every second's delay ere the
rebound.

Long as it seemed to them, it was not in reality more than a quarter of
an hour before the jury returned, and with slow grave movements, and
serious countenances, resumed their places. Leonard was already in his;
his cheek paler, his fingers locked together, and his eyes scanning
each as they came forward, and one by one their names were called over.
His head was erect, and his bearing had something undaunted, though
intensely anxious.

The question was put by the clerk of the court, 'How find you? Guilty
or Not guilty?'

Firmly, though sadly, the foreman rose, and his answer was, 'We find
the prisoner guilty; but we earnestly recommend him to mercy.'

Whether Tom felt or not that Aubrey was in a dead faint, and rested
against him as a senseless weight, he paid no visible attention to
aught but one face, on which his eyes were riveted as though nothing
would ever detach them--and that face was not the prisoner's.

Others saw Leonard's face raised upwards, and a deep red flush spread
over brow and cheek, though neither lip nor eye wavered.

Then came the question whether the prisoner had anything to say,
wherefore judgment should not be passed upon him.

Leonard made a step forward, and his clear steady tone did not shake
for a moment as he spoke.  'No.  I see that appearances are so much
against me, that man can hardly decide otherwise.  I have known from
the first that nothing could show my innocence but the finding of the
receipt.  In the absence of that one testimony, I feel that I have had
a fair trial, and that all has been done for me that could be done; and
I thank you for it, my Lord, and you, Gentlemen,' as he bent his head;
then added, 'I should like to say one thing more.  My Lord, you would
not let the question be asked, how I brought all this upon myself.  I
wish to say it myself, for it is that which makes my sentence just in
the sight of God.  It is true that, though I never lifted my hand
against my poor uncle, I did in a moment of passion fling a stone at my
brother, which, but for God's mercy, might indeed have made me a
murderer.  It was for this, and other like outbreaks, that I was sent
to the mill; and it may be just that for it I should die--though indeed
I never hurt my uncle.'

Perhaps there was something in the tone of that one word, indeed,
which, by recalling his extreme youth, touched all hearts more than
even the manly tone of his answer, and his confession.  There was a
universal weeping and sobbing throughout the court; Mrs. Pugh was on
the verge of hysterics, and obliged to be supported away; and Gertrude
was choking between the agony of contagious feeling and dread of
Flora's displeasure; and all the time Leonard stood calm, with his
brave head and lofty bearing, wound up for the awful moment of the
sentence.

The weeping was hushed, when the crier of the court made proclamation,
commanding all persons on pain of imprisonment to be silent.  Then the
judge placed on his head the black cap, and it was with trembling hands
that he did so; the blood had entirely left his face, and his lips were
purple with the struggle to contend with and suppress his emotion.  He
paused, as though he were girding himself up to the most terrible of
duties, and when he spoke his voice was hollow, as he began:

'Leonard Axworthy Ward, you have been found guilty of a crime that
would have appeared impossible in one removed from temptation by birth
and education such as yours have been.  What the steps may have been
that led to such guilt, must lie between your own conscience and that
God whose justice you have acknowledged.  To Him you have evidently
been taught to look; and may you use the short time that still remains
to you, in seeking His forgiveness by sincere repentance.  I will
forward the recommendation to mercy, but it is my duty to warn you that
there are no such palliating circumstances in the evidence, as to
warrant any expectation of a remission of the sentence.

And therewith followed the customary form of sentence, ending with the
solemn 'And may God Almighty have mercy on your soul!'

Full and open, and never quailing, had the dark eyes been fixed upon
the judge all the time; and at those last words, the head bent low, and
the lips moved for 'Amen.'

Then Tom, relieved to find instant occupation for his father, drew his
attention to Aubrey's state; and the boy between Tom and George Rivers
was, as best they could, carried through the narrow outlets, and laid
down in a room, opened to them by the sheriff, where his father and
Flora attended him, while Tom flew for remedies; and Gertrude sobbed
and wept as she had never done in her life.

It was some time before the swoon yielded, or Dr. May could leave his
son, and then he was bent on at once going to the prisoner; but he was
so shaken and tremulous, that Tom insisted on giving him his arm, and
held an umbrella over him in the driving rain.

'Father,' he said, as soon as they were in the street, 'I can swear who
did it.'

Dr. May just hindered himself from uttering the name, but Tom answered
as if it had been spoken.

'Yes.  I saw the face of fiendish barbarity that once was over me, when
I was a miserable little school-boy!  He did it; and he has the
receipt.'

Dr. May squeezed his arm.  'I have not betrayed the secret, have I!'

'You knew that he knew it!'

'Not knew--suspected--generosity.'

'I saw him!  I saw him cast those imploring earnest eyes of his on the
scoundrel as he spoke of the receipt--and the villain try to make
himself of stone.  Well, if I have one wish in life, it is to see that
fellow come to the fate he deserves.  I'll never lose sight of him;
I'll dog him like a bloodhound!'

And what good will that do, when--Tom, Tom, we must move Heaven and
earth for petitions.  I'll take them up myself, and get George Rivers
to take me to the Home Secretary.  Never fear, while there's justice in
Heaven.'

'Here's Henry!' exclaimed Tom, withholding his father, who had almost
ran against the brother, as they encountered round a corner.

He was pale and bewildered, and hardly seemed to hear the Doctor's
hasty asseverations that he would get a reprieve.

'He sent me to meet you,' said Henry.  'He wants you to go home--to Ave
I mean.  He says that is what he wants most--for you to go to her now,
and to come to him to-morrow, or when you can; and he wants to hear how
Aubrey is,' continued Henry, as if dreamily repeating a lesson.

'He saw then--?'

'Yes, and that seems to trouble him most.'

Dr. May was past speaking, and Tom was obliged to answer for him--that
Aubrey was pretty well again, and had desired his dearest, dearest
love; then asked how Leonard was.

'Calm and firm as ever,' said Henry, half choked.  'Nothing seems to
upset him, but speaking of--of you and Aubrey, Dr. May--and poor Ave.
But--but they'll be together before long.'

'No such thing,' said Dr. May.  'You will see that certainty cures,
when suspense kills; and for him, I'll never believe but that all will
be right yet.  Are you going home?'

'I shall try to be with--with the dear unhappy boy as long as I can,
and then I'll come home.'

Dr. May grasped Henry's hand, gave a promise of coming, and a message
of love to the prisoner, tried to say something more, but broke down,
and let Tom lead him away.




CHAPTER XV

      Under the shroud
      Of His thunder-cloud
  Lie we still when His voice is loud,
      And our hearts shall feel
      The love notes steal,
  As a bird sings after the thunder peal--C. F. A.


Not till dusk could Dr. May get back to Stoneborough, and then, in an
evening gleam of that stormy day, he was met at the gate of Bankside by
Richard and Ethel.

'You need not come in, papa,' said Ethel.  'She is asleep.  She knows.'

Dr. May sighed with unspeakable relief.

'Mr. Bramshaw telegraphed, and his clerk came down.  It was not so very
bad!  She saw it in our faces, and she was so worn out with talking and
watching, that--that the very turning her face to the wall with hope
over, became sleep almost directly.'

'That is well,' murmured the Doctor.  'And can you be spared, my dear?
If you could come I should be glad, for poor Aubrey is quite done up.'

'I can come.  Mary is with her, and Richard will stay to meet Henry, if
he is coming home, or to send up if they want you; but I think she will
not wake for many hours; and then--oh! what can any one do!'

So Richard turned back to the sorrowful house; and Dr. May, tenderly
drawing Ethel's arm into his own, told her, as they walked back, the
few incidents that she most wanted to hear, as best he could narrate
them.  'You have had a heart-rending day, my dear,' he said; 'you and
Mary, as well as the rest of us.'

'There was one comfort!' said Ethel, 'and that was his own notes. Ave
has all that he has written to her from Whitford under her pillow, and
she kept spreading them out, and making us read them, and--oh! their
braveness and cheeriness--they did quite seem to hold one up!  And then
poor little Minna's constant little robin-chirp of faith, "God will not
let them hurt him."  One could not bear to tell the child, that though
indeed they cannot hurt him, it may not be in her sense!  Look here!
These are her slippers.  She has worked on all day to finish them, that
they might be done and out of sight when he came home this evening.
The last stitch was done as Richard came in; and now I thought I could
only take them out of every one's sight.'

'Poor things! poor things!  And how was it with the child when she
heard?'

'The old sweet note,' said Ethel, less steadily than she had yet
spoken, '"nothing could hurt him for what he had not done."  I don't
know whether she knows what--what is in store.  At least she is not
shaken yet, dear child.'

'And Ave--how did you manage with her through all the day?'

'Oh! we did as we could.  We tried reading the things Mr. Wilmot had
marked, but she was too restless; her hands would wander off to the
letters, caressing them, and she would go back to talk of him--all his
ways from a baby upwards.  I hope there was no harm in letting her do
it, for if there is anything to do one good, it is his noble spirit.'

'If you had only seen his face to-day,' exclaimed the Doctor, half
angrily, 'you would not feel much comfort in the cutting off such a
fellow.  No, no, it won't be.  We'll petition--petition--petition--and
save him, we will!  Minna will be right yet!  They shall not hurt him!'

'Is there really hope in that way?' said Ethel, and a quiver of relief
agitated her whole frame.

'Every hope!  Every one I have seen, or Tom either, says so.  We have
only to draw up a strong enough representation of the facts, his
character, and all that; and there's his whole conduct before and since
to speak for itself.  Why, when it was all over, George heard every one
saying, either he was a consummate hypocrite, or he must be innocent.
Harvey Anderson declares the press will take it up.  We shall certainly
get him off.'

'You don't mean pardoned!'

'Commutation of the penalty.  Come on,' said the Doctor, hurrying at
his headlong pace, 'there's no time to be lost in getting it drawn up.'

Ethel was dragged on so fast, that she could not speak; but it was with
willing haste, for this was the sort of suspense in which motion and
purpose were a great relief after the day's weary waiting. Gertrude,
quite spent with excitement and tears, had wisely betaken herself to
bed; and it would have been well had Aubrey followed her example,
instead of wandering up and down the room in his misery, flushed though
wan, impetuously talking treason against trial by jury, and abusing
dignitaries.  They let him have it out, in all its fury and violence,
till he had tired out his first vehemence, and could be persuaded to
lie on the sofa while the rough draught of the petition was drawn up,
Tom writing, and every one suggesting or discussing, till the Doctor,
getting thorough mastery over the subject, dictated so fluently and
admirably, that even Tom had not a word to gainsay, but observed to
Ethel, when his father had gone up to bed, and carried Aubrey off,
'What an exceedingly able man my father is!'

'Is this the first time you have found that out?' said Ethel.

'Why, you know it is not his nature to make the most of himself!  But
studying under him brings it out more; and there's a readiness about
him that I wish was catching.  But I say, Ethel, what's this?  I no
more doubt who did the deed, than I do who killed Abel; but I had once
seen Cain's face, and I knew it again.  Is it true that the boy was
aware, and told my father?'

'Did he tell you so?'

'Only asked if he had betrayed the secret.  If they both know it--why,
if it be Leonard's taste, I suppose I must say nothing to the contrary,
but he might as well consider his sister.'

'What do you know, Tom?' said she, perplexed.

'Only that there's some secret; and if it be as I am given to
understand, then it is a frenzy that no lucid person should permit.'

'No, Tom,' said Ethel, feeling that the whole must be told, 'it is no
certainty--only unsupported suspicion, which he could not help telling
papa after binding him on honour to make no use of it. Putting things
together, he was sure who the man in the yard was; but it was not
recognition, and he could not have proved it.'

'What Quixotry moved my father not to put the lawyers on the scent?'

Ethel explained; and for her pains Tom fell upon her for her folly in
not having told him all, when he could have gone to Blewer and gathered
information as no professional person could do; then lamented that he
had let Aubrey keep him from the inquest, when the fellow's hang-dog
look would have been sure to suggest to him to set Anderson to get him
searched.  Even now he would go to the mill, and try to hunt up
something.

'Tom, remember papa's promise!'

'Do you think a man can do nothing without committing himself, like
poor Aubrey?  No, Ethel, the Doctor may be clever, but that's no use if
a man is soft, and he is uncommonly soft; and you should not encourage
him in it.'

Ethel was prevented from expressing useless indignation by the arrival
of Mary, asking where papa was.

'Gone to bed.  He said he must go off at six to-morrow, there are so
many patients to see.  Ave does not want him, I hope?'

No, she is still asleep; I was only waiting for Richard, and he had
dreadful work with that poor Henry.'

'What kind of work?'

'Oh, I believe it has all come on him now that it was his
fault--driving Leonard to that place; and he was in such misery, that
Richard could not leave him.'

'I am glad he has the grace to feel it at last,' said Tom.

'It must be very terrible!' said Mary.  'He says he cannot stay in that
house, for every room reproaches him; and he groaned as if he was in
tremendous bodily pain.'

'What, you assisted at this scene?' said Tom, looking at her rather
sharply.

'No; but Richard told me; and I heard the groans as I sat on the
stairs.'

'Sat on the stairs?'

'Yes.  I could not go back to Ave's room for fear of waking her.'

'And how long?'

'Towards an hour, I believe.  I did all that piece,' said Mary,
displaying a couple of inches of a stocking leg, 'and I think it was
pretty well in the dark.'

'Sitting on the stairs for an hour in the dark,' said Tom, as he gave
Mary the candle he had been lighting for her.  'That may be called
unappreciated devotion.'

'I never can tell what Tom means,' said Mary, as she went up-stairs
with Ethel.  'It was a very comfortable rest.  I wish you had had the
same, dear Ethel, you look so tired and worn out.  Let me stay and help
you.  It has been such a sad long day; and oh! how terrible this is!
And you know him better than any of us, except Aubrey.'

Mary stopped almost in dismay, for her sister, usually so firm, broke
down entirely, and sitting down on a low chair, threw an arm round her,
and resting her weary brow against her, gave way to long tearless sobs,
or rather catches of breath.  'Oh! Mary! Mary!' she said, between her
gasps, 'to think of last year--and Coombe--and the two bright boys--and
the visions--and the light in those glorious eyes--and that this should
be the end!'

'Dear, dear Ethel,' said Mary, with fast-flowing tears and tender
caresses, 'you have kept us all up; you have always shown us it was for
the best.'

'It is! it is!' cried Ethel.  'I do, I _will_ believe it!  If I had
only seen his face as papa tells of it, I could keep hold of the glory
of it and the martyr spirit.  Now I only see his earnest, shy,
confiding look--and--and I don't know how to bear it.'  And Ethel's
grasp of Mary in both arms was tightened, as if to support herself
under her deep labouring sobs of anguish.  Ah! he was very fond of you.'

'There never was any one beyond our own selves that loved me so well. I
always knew it would not last--that it ought not; but oh! it was
endearing; and I did think to have seen him a shining light!'

'And don't you tell us he is a shining light now?' said Mary, among the
tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister
herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on
her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.

'He is,' she said, 'and I ought to be thankful for it!  I think I am
generally--but now--it makes it the more piteous--the hopes--the
spirit--the determination--all to be quenched, and so quenched--and to
have nothing--nothing to do for him.

'But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything;
and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.'

Ethel's lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at simple
Mary's trust in her power, but it would hardly have been there but for
the species of hope thus excited, and the sense of sympathy. Mary was
not one to place any misconstruction on what had passed; she well knew
that Leonard had almost taken a brother's place in Ethel's heart, and
she prized him at the rate of her sister's esteem. Perhaps her
prominent thought was how cruel were those who fancied that Ethel's
lofty faith was unfeeling, and how very good Leonard must be to be thus
mourned.  At any rate, she was an excellent comforter, in the sympathy
that was neither too acute nor too obtuse; and purely to oblige her,
Ethel for the first time submitted to her favourite panacea of hair
brushing, and found that in very truth those soft and steady
manipulations were almost mesmeric in soothing away the hard oppressive
excitement, and bringing on a gentle and slumberous resignation.

The sisters were early astir next morning, to inflict on their father a
cup of cocoa, which he rebelled against, but swallowed, and to receive
his last orders, chiefly consisting of messages to Tom about taking the
petition to be approved of by Dr. Spencer and others, and then having
it properly drawn out.  Mary asked if women might sign it, and was
answered with an impatient 'Pshaw!'

'But ladies do have petitions of their own,' said Mary, with some
diffidence.  'Could not we have one?'

His lips were compressed for another 'Pshaw,' when he bethought
himself.  'Well, I don't know--the more the better.  Only it won't do
for you to set it going.  Flora must be the woman for that.'

'Oh, then,' cried Mary, eagerly, 'might not I walk over to breakfast at
the Grange, and talk to Flora?  Ethel, you would not mind going to Ave
instead?  Or will you go to Flora?'

'You had better,' said Ethel.  'I must stay on Aubrey's account; and
this is your doing, Mary,' she added, looking at her warmly.

'Then put on your hat, Mary, and take a biscuit,' said the Doctor, 'and
you shall have a lift as far as the cross roads.'

Thus the morning began with action and with hope.  Mary found herself
very welcome at the Grange, where there was much anxiety to hear of
Aubrey, as well as the more immediate sufferers.  The Riverses had
dined at Drydale, and had met the judges, as well as a good many of the
county gentlemen who had been on the grand jury and attended on the
trial.  They had found every one most deeply touched by the conduct of
the prisoner.  The judge had talked to Flora about her young brother,
and the friendship so bravely avouched; had asked the particulars of
the action to which Leonard had alluded, and shown himself much
interested in all that she related.

She said that the universal impression was that the evidence was dead
against Leonard, and taken apart, led to such conviction of his guilt,
that no one could wonder at the verdict; but that his appearance and
manner were such, that it was almost impossible, under their influence,
not to credit his innocence.  She had reason to believe that petitions
were already in hand both from the county and the assize town, and she
eagerly caught at Mary's proposal of one from the ladies of
Stoneborough.

'I'll drive in at once before luncheon, and take you home, Mary,' she
said.  'And, first of all, we will begin with the two widows, and half
the battle will be won.'

Nay, more than half the battle proved to be already gained in that
quarter.  The writing-table was covered with sheets of foolscap, and
Mrs. Pugh was hard at work copying the petition which Mr. Harvey
Anderson had kindly assisted in composing, and which the aunt and niece
had intended to have brought to the Grange for Mrs. Rivers's approval
that very day.  Harvey Anderson had spent the evening at Mrs. Ledwich's
in drawing it up, and giving his advice; and Flora, going over it word
for word with Mrs. Pugh, felt that it could hardly have been better
worded.

'He is a very clever, a very rising young man, and so feeling, said
Mrs. Ledwich to Mary while this was going on.  'In fact, he is a
perfect knight-errant on this subject.  He is gone to London this
morning to see what can be done by means of the press.  I tell Matilda
it is quite a romance of modern life; and indeed, the sweet girl is
very romantic still--very young, even after all she has gone through.'

Not understanding this, Mary let it pass in calculations on the number
of possible signatures, which the two ladies undertook to collect.

'That is well,' said Flora, as they went away.  'It could not be in
better hands.  It will thrive the better for our doing nothing but
writing our names.'

They met Tom on the like errand, but not very sanguine, for he said
there had of late been an outcry against the number of reprieves
granted, and the public had begun to think itself not sufficiently
protected.  He thought the best chance was the discovery of some
additional fact that might tell in favour of Leonard, and confident in
his own sagacity, was going to make perquisitions at the mill. Every
one had been visiting of late, and now that he knew more, if he and his
microscope could detect one drop of human blood in an unexpected place,
they would do better service to the prisoner than all the petitions
that could be signed.

Averil was somewhat better; the feverishness had been removed by her
long sleep of despair, and her energy revived under the bodily relief,
and the fixed purpose of recovering in time to see her brother again;
but the improvement was not yet trusted by Henry, who feared her doing
too much unless he was himself watching over her, and therefore only
paid Leonard a short visit in the forenoon, going and returning by
early trains.

He reported that Leonard was very pale, and owned to want of sleep,
adding, however, 'It does not matter.  Why should I wish to lose any
time?'  Calm and brave as ever, he had conversed as cheerfully as
Henry's misery would permit, inquiring into the plans of the family,
which he knew were to depend on his fate, and acquiescing in his
brother's intention of quitting the country; nay, even suggesting that
it might be better for his sisters to be taken away before all was
over, though he, as well as Henry, knew that to this Averil would never
have consented.  He had always been a great reader of travels, and he
became absolutely eager in planning their life in the wild, as if where
they were he must be, till the casual mention of the word 'rifle'
brought him to sudden silence, and the consciousness of the condemned
cell; but even then it was only to be urgent in consoling his brother,
and crowding message on message for his sisters; begging Henry not to
stay, not to consider him for a moment, but only whatever might be best
for Ave.

In this frame Henry had left him, and late in the afternoon, Dr. May
had contrived to despatch his work and make his way to the jail, where,
as he entered, he encountered the chaplain, Mr. Reeve, a very worthy,
but not a very acute man.  Pausing to inquire for the prisoner, he was
met by a look of oppression and perplexity.  The chaplain had been with
young Ward yesterday evening, and was only just leaving him; but then,
instead of the admiring words the Doctor expected, there only came a
complaint of the difficulty of dealing with him; so well instructed, so
respectful in manner, and yet there was a coldness, a hardness about
him, amounting to sullenness, rejecting all attempts to gain his
confidence, or bring him to confession.

Dr. May had almost been angry, but he bethought himself in time that
the chaplain was bound to believe the verdict of the court; and
besides, the good man looked so grieved and pitiful, that it was
impossible to be displeased with him, especially when he began to hope
that the poor youth might be less reserved with a person who knew him
better, and to consult Dr. May which of the Stoneborough clergy had
better be written to as likely to be influential with him. Dr. May
recommended Mr. Wilmot, as having visited the boy in his illness, as
well as prepared him for Confirmation; and then, with a heavier load of
sadness on his heart, followed the turnkey on his melancholy way.

When the door was opened, he saw Leonard sitting listlessly on the side
of his bed, resting his head on his hand, entirely unoccupied; but at
the first perception who his visitor was, he sprang to his feet, and
coming within the arms held out to him, rested his head on the kind
shoulder.

'My dear boy--my brave fellow,' said Dr. May, 'you got through
yesterday nobly.'

There was none either of the calmness or the reserve of which Dr. May
had been told, in the hot hands that were wringing his own, nor in the
choking struggling voice that tried to make the words clear--'Thank you
for what you said--And dear Aubrey--how is he?'

'I came away at six, before he was awake,' said the Doctor; 'but he
will not be the worse for it, never fear!  I hope his evidence was less
trying than you and he expected.'

Leonard half smiled.  'I had forgotten that,' he said, 'it was so long
ago!  No, indeed--the dear fellow was--like a bright spot in that
day--only--only it brought back all we were--all that is gone for ever.'

The tenderness of one whom he did not feel bound to uphold like his
brother had produced the outbreak that could not fail to come to so
warm, open, and sensitive a nature, and at such an age.  He was bold
and full of fortitude in the front of the ordeal, and solitude pent up
his feelings, but the fatherly sympathy and perfect confidence drew
forth expression, and a vent once opened, the rush of emotion and
anguish long repressed was utterly overpowering.  His youthful manhood
struggled hard, but the strangled sobs only shook his frame the more
convulsively, and the tears burnt like drops of fire, as they fell
among the fingers that he spread over his face in the agony of weeping
for his young vigorous life, his blasted hopes, the wretchedness he
caused, the disgrace of his name.

'Don't, don't fight against it,' said Dr. May, affectionately drawing
him to his seat on the bed, as, indeed, the violence of the paroxysm
made him scarcely able to stand.  'Let it have its way; you will be all
the better for it.  It ought to be so--it must.'

And in tears himself, the Doctor turned his back, and went as far away
as the cell would permit, turning towards the books that lay on a
narrow ledge that served for a table.  'How long, O Lord, how long?'
were the words that caught his eye in the open Psalms; and, startled as
if at unauthorized prying, he looked up at the dull screened and spiked
window above his head, till he knew by the sounds that the worst of the
uncontrollable passion had spent itself, and then he came back with the
towel dipped in water, and cooled the flushed heated face as a sister
might have done.

'Oh--thank you--I am ashamed,' gasped the still sobbing boy.

'Ashamed!  No; I like you the better for it,' said the Doctor,
earnestly.  'There is no need that we should not grieve together in
this great affliction, and say out all that is in our hearts.'

'All!' exclaimed Leonard.  'No--no words can say that!  Oh! was it for
such as this that my poor mother made so much of me--and I got through
the fever--and I hoped--and I strove--Why--why should I be cut off--for
a disgrace and a misery to all! and again came the heart-broken sobs,
though less violently.

'Not to those who look within, and honour you, Leonard.'

'Within!  Why, how bad I have been, since _this_ is the reckoning!  I
deserve it, I know--but--' and his voice again sank in tears.

'Ethel says that your so feeling comforts her the most; to know that
you have not the terrible struggle of faith disturbed by injustice.'

'If--I have not,' said Leonard, 'it is her doing.  In those happy days
when we read Marmion, and could not believe that God would not always
show the right, she showed me how we only see bits and scraps of His
Justice here, and it works round in the end!  Nay, if I had not done
that thing to Henry, I should not be here now!  It is right! It is
right!' he exclaimed between the heaving sobs that still recurred.  'I
do try to keep before me what she said about Job--when it comes burning
before me, why should that man be at large, and I here? or when I think
how his serpent-eye fell under mine when I tried that one word about
the receipt, that would save my life.  Oh! that receipt!'

'Better to be here than in his place, after all!'

'I'd rather be a street-sweeper!' bitterly began Leonard.--'Oh, Dr.
May, do let me have that!' he cried, suddenly changing his tone, and
holding out his hand, as he perceived in the Doctor's button-hole a
dove-pink, presented at a cottage door by a grateful patient.  For a
space he was entirely occupied with gazing into its crimson depths,
inhaling the fragrance, and caressingly spreading the cool damask
petals against his hot cheeks and eyelids.  'It is so long since I saw
anything but walls!' he said.

'Three weeks,' sadly replied the Doctor.

'There was a gleam of sunshine when I got out of the van yesterday. I
never knew before what sunshine was.  I hope it will be a sunny day
when I go out for the last time!'

'My dear boy, I have good hopes of saving you.  There's not a creature
in Stoneborough, or round it, that is not going to petition for
you--and at your age--'

Leonard shook his head in dejection.  'It has all gone against me,' he
said.  'They all say there's no chance.  The chaplain says it is of no
use unsettling my mind.'

'The chaplain is an old--' began Dr. May, catching himself up only just
in time, and asking, 'How do you get on with him!'

'I can hear him read,' said Leonard, with the look that had been
thought sullen.

'But you cannot talk to him?'

'Not while he thinks me guilty.'  Then, at a sound of warm sympathy
from his friend, he added, 'I suppose it is his duty; but I wish he
would keep away.  I can't stand his aiming at making me confess, and I
don't want to be disrespectful.'

'I see, I see.  It cannot be otherwise.  But how would it be if Wilmot
came to you?'

'Would Mr. May?' said Leonard, with a beseeching look.

'Richard?  He would with all his heart; but I think you would find more
support and comfort in a man of Mr. Wilmot's age and experience, and
that Mr. Reeve would have more trust in him; but it shall be exactly as
will be most comforting to you.'

'If Mr. Wilmot would be so good, then' said Leonard, meekly. 'Indeed, I
want help to bear it patiently!  I don't know how to die; and yet it
seemed not near so hard a year ago, when they thought I did not notice,
and I heard Ave go away crying, and my mother murmuring, again and
again, "Thy will be done!"--the last time I heard her voice.  Oh, well
that she has not to say it now!'

'Well that her son can say it!'

'I want to be able to say it,' said the boy, fervently; 'but this seems
so hard--life is so sweet.'  Then, after a minute's thought: 'Dr. May,
that morning, when I awoke, and asked you for them--papa and mamma--you
knelt down and said the Lord's Prayer.  Won't you now?'

And when those words had been said, and they both stood up again,
Leonard added: 'It always seems to mean more and more!  But oh, Dr.
May! that forgiving--I can't ask any one but you if--' and he paused.

'If you forgive, my poor boy!  Nay, are not your very silence and
forbearance signs of practical forgiveness?  Besides, I have always
observed that you have never used one of the epithets that I can't
think of him without.'

'Some feelings are too strong for common words of abuse,' said Leonard,
almost smiling; 'but I hope I may be helped to put away what is
wrong.--Oh, must you go?'

'I fear I must, my dear; I have a patient to see again, on my way back,
and one that will be the worse for waiting.'

'Henry has not been able to practise.  I want to ask one thing, Dr.
May, before you go.  Could not you persuade them, since home is
poisoned to them, at any rate to go at once?  It would be better for my
sisters than being here--when--and they would only remember that last
Sunday at home.'

'Do you shrink from another meeting with Averil?'

His face was forced into calmness.  'I will do without it, if it would
hurt her.'

'It may for the time, but to be withheld would give her a worse
heart-ache through life.'

'Oh, thank you!' cried Leonard, his face lighting up; 'it is something
still to hope for.'

'Nay, I've not given you up yet,' said the Doctor, trying for a
cheerful smile.  'I've got a prescription that will bring you through
yet--London advice, you know.  I've great faith in the consulting
surgeon at the Home Office.'

By the help of that smile and augury, the Doctor got away, terribly
beaten down, but living on his fragment of hope; though obliged to
perceive that every one who merely saw the newspaper report in black
and white, without coming into personal contact with the prisoner,
could not understand how the slightest question of the justice of the
verdict could arise.  Even Mr. Wilmot was so convinced by the papers,
that the Doctor almost repented of the mission to which he had invited
him, and would, if he could, have revoked what had been said. But the
vicar of Stoneborough, painful as was the duty, felt his post to be by
the side of his unhappy young parishioner, equally whether the gaol
chaplain or Dr. May were right, and if he had to bring him to
confession, or to strengthen him to 'endure grief, suffering
wrongfully.'

And after the first interview, no more doubts on that score were
expressed; but the vicar's tone of pitying reverence in speaking of the
prisoner was like that of his friends in the High Street.

Tom May spared neither time nor pains in beating up for signatures for
the petition, but he had a more defined hope, namely, that of detecting
something that might throw the suspicion into the right quarter.  The
least contradiction of the evidence might raise a doubt that would save
Leonard's life, and bring the true criminal in peril of the fate he so
richly deserved.  The Vintry Mill was the lion of the neighbourhood,
and the crowds of visitors had been a reason for its new master's
vacating it, and going into lodgings in Whitford; so that Tom, when he
found it convenient to forget his contempt of the gazers and curiosity
hunters who thronged there, and to march off on a secret expedition of
investigation, found no obstacle in his way, and at the cost of a fee
to Mrs. Giles, who was making a fortune, was free to roam and search
wherever he pleased.  Even his careful examination of the cotton blind,
and his scraping of the window-sill with a knife, were not remarked;
for had not the great chair been hacked into fragmentary relics, and
the loose paper of the walls of Leonard's room been made mincemeat of,
as memorials of 'the murderer, Ward'?

One long white hair picked out of a mat below the window, and these
scrapings of the window-sill, Tom carried off, and also the scrapings
of the top bar of a stile between the mill and the Three Goblets. That
evening, all were submitted to the microscope.  Dr. May was waked from
a doze by a very deferential 'I beg your pardon, sir,' and a sudden
tweak, which abstracted a silver thread from his head; and Mab showed
somewhat greater displeasure at a similar act of plunder upon her white
chemisette.  But the spying was followed by a sigh; and, in dumb show,
Ethel was made to perceive that the Vintry hair had more affinity with
the canine than the human.  As to the scrapings of the window, nothing
but vegetable fibre could there be detected; but on the stile, there
was undoubtedly a mark containing human blood-disks; Tom proved that
both by comparison with his books, and by pricking his own finger, and
kept Ethel to see it after every one else was gone up to bed.  But as
one person's blood was like another's, who could tell whether some one
with a cut finger had not been through the stile?  Tom shook his head,
there was not yet enough on which to commit himself.  'But I'll have
him!--I'll have him yet!' said he.  'I'll never rest while that villain
walks the earth unpunished!'

Meantime, Harvey Anderson did yeoman's service by a really powerful
article in a leading paper, written from the very heart of an able man,
who had been strongly affected himself, and was well practised in
feeling in pen and ink.  Every word rang home to the soul, and all the
more because there was no defence nor declamation against the justice
of the verdict, which was acknowledged to be unavoidable; it was merely
a pathetic delineation of a terrible mystery, with a little meditative
philosophy upon it, the moral of which was, that nothing is more
delusive than fact, more untrue than truth.  However, it was copied
everywhere, and had the great effect of making it the cue of more than
half the press to mourn over, rather than condemn, 'the unfortunate
young gentleman.'

Mrs. Pugh showed every one the article, and confided to most that she
had absolutely ventured to suggest two or three of the sentences. But a
great deal might be borne from Mrs. Pugh, in consideration of her
indefatigable exertions with the ladies' petition, and it was a decided
success.  The last census had rated Market Stoneborough at 7561
inhabitants, and Mrs. Pugh's petition bore no less than 3024 female
names, in which she fairly beat that of the mayor; but then she had
been less scrupulous as to the age at which people should be asked to
sign; as long as the name could be written at all, she was not
particular whose it was.

Dr. May made his patients agree to accept as his substitute Dr. Spencer
or Mr. Wright, to whom Henry Ward intended to resign practice and
house.  He himself was to go to London for a couple of nights with
George Rivers, who was exceedingly gratified at having the charge of
him all to himself, and considered that the united influence of member
and mayor must prevail.  Dr. Spencer, on the contrary, probably by way
of warning, represented Mr. Mayor as ruining everything by his headlong
way of setting about it, declaring that he would abuse everybody all
round, and assure the Home Secretary, that, as sure as his name was
Dick May, it was quite impossible the boy could have hurt a fly; though
a strict sense of truth would lead him to add the next moment, that he
was terribly passionate, and had nearly demolished his brother.

Dr. May talked of his caution and good behaviour, which, maybe, were
somewhat increased by this caricature, but he ended by very hearty
wishes that these were the times of Jeanie Deans; if the pardon
depended on our own good Queen, he should not doubt of it a moment.
Why, was not the boy just the age of her own son?

And verily there was no one in the whole world whom poor Averil envied
like Jeanie Deans.

So member and mayor went to London together, and intense were the
prayers that speeded them and followed them.  The case was laid before
the Home Secretary, the petitions presented, and Dr. May said all that
man might say on ground where he felt as if over-partisanship might be
perilous.  The matter was to have due consideration: nothing more
definite or hopeful could be obtained; but there could be no doubt that
this meant a real and calm re-weighing of the evidence, with a
consideration of all the circumstances.  It was something for the
Doctor that a second dispassionate study should be given to the case,
but his heart sank as he thought of that cold, hard statement of
evidence, without the counter testimony of the honest, tearless eyes
and simple good faith of the voice and tone.

And when he entered the railway carriage on his road home, the
newspaper that George Rivers attentively pressed upon him bore the
information that Wednesday, the 21st, would be the day, according to
usage, for the execution of the condemned criminal, Leonard Axworthy
Ward.  If it had been for the execution of Richard May, the Doctor
could hardly have given a deeper groan.

He left the train at the county town.  He had so arranged, that he
might see the prisoner on his way home; but he had hardly the heart to
go, except that he knew he was expected, and no disappointment that he
could help must add to the pangs of these last days.

Leonard was alone, but was not, as before, sitting unemployed; he
carefully laid down his etching work ere he came forward to meet his
friend; and there was not the bowed and broken look about him, but a
fixed calmness and resolution, as he claimed the fatherly embrace and
blessing with which the Doctor now always met him.

'I bring you no certainty, Leonard.  It is under consideration.'

'Thank you.  You have done everything,' returned Leonard, quietly;
'and--' then pausing, he added, 'I know the day now--the day after my
birthday.'

'Let us--let us hope,' said the Doctor, greatly agitated.

'Thank you,' again said Leonard; and there was a pause, during which
Dr. May anxiously studied the face, which had become as pale and almost
as thin as when the lad had been sent off to Coombe, and infinitely
older in the calm steadfastness of every feature.

'You do not look well, Leonard.'

'No; I am not quite well; but it matters very little,' he said, with a
smile.  'I am well enough to make it hard to believe how soon all sense
and motion will be gone out of these fingers!' and he held up his hand,
and studied the minutiae of its movements with a strange grave sort of
curiosity.

'Don't--don't, Leonard!' exclaimed the Doctor.  'You may be able to
bear it, but I cannot.'

'I thought you would not mind, you have so often watched death.'

'Yes; but--' and he covered his face with his hands.

'I wish it did not pain you all so much,' said Leonard, quietly. 'But
for that, I can feel it to be better than if I had gone in the fever,
when I had no sense to think or repent; or if I had--I hardly knew my
own faults.'

'You seem much happier now, my boy.'

'Yes,' said Leonard.  'I am more used to the notion, and Mr. Wilmot has
been so kind.  Then I am to see Ave to-morrow, if she is well enough.
Henry has promised to bring her, and leave her alone with me; and I do
hope--that I shall be able to convince her that it is not so very bad
for me--and then she may be able to take comfort. You know she would,
if she were nursing me now in my bed at Bankside; so why should she not
when she sees that I don't think this any worse, but rather better?'

The Doctor was in no mood to think any comfort possible in thus losing
one like Leonard, and he did not commit himself to an untruth. There
was a silence again, and Leonard opened his book, and took out his
etchings, one which he had already promised the Doctor, another for
Aubrey, and at the third the Doctor exclaimed inarticulately with
surprise and admiration.

It was a copy of the well-known Cross-bearing Form in the Magdalen
College Chapel Altar-piece, drawn in pen and ink on a half-sheet of
thick note-paper; but somehow, into the entire Face and Figure there
was infused such an expression as now and then comes direct from the
soul of the draughtsman--an inspiration entirely independent of manual
dexterity, and that copies, however exact, fail to render, nay, which
the artist himself fails to renew.  The beauty, the meekness, the
hidden Majesty of the Countenance, were conveyed in a marvellous
manner, and were such as would bring a tear to the eye of the gazer,
even had the drawing been there alone to speak for itself.

'This is your doing, Leonard?'

'I have just finished it.  It has been one of my greatest comforts--'

'Ah!'

'Doing those lines;' and he pointed to the thorny Crown, 'I seem to get
ashamed of thinking this hardness.  Only think, Dr. May, from the very
first moment the policeman took me in charge, nobody has said a rough
word to me.  I have never felt otherwise than that they meant justice
to have its way as far as they knew, but they were all consideration
for me.  To think of that, and then go over the scoffs and
scourgings!'--there was a bright glistening tear in Leonard's eye
now--'it seems like child's play to go through such a trial as mine.'

'Yes! you have found the secret of willingness.'

'And,' added the boy, hesitating between the words, but feeling that he
must speak them, as the best balm for the sorrow he was causing, 'even
my little touch of the shame and scorn of this does make me know better
what it must have been, and yet--so thankful when I remember why it
was--that I think I could gladly bear a great deal more than this is
likely to be.'

'Oh! my boy, I have no fears for you now.'

'Yes, yes--have fears,' cried Leonard, hastily.  'Pray for me!  You
don't know what it is to wake up at night, and know something is coming
nearer and nearer--and then this--before one can remember all that
blesses it--or the Night of that Agony--and that He knows what it is--'

'Do we not pray for you?' said Dr. May, fervently, 'in church and at
home? and is not this an answer?  Am I to take this drawing, Leonard,
that speaks so much?'

'If--if you think Miss May--would let me send it to her?  Thank you, it
will be very kind of her.  And please tell her, if it had not been for
that time at Coombe, I don't know how I could ever have felt the ground
under my feet.  If I have one wish that never can be--'

'What wish, my dear, dear boy?  Don't be afraid to say.  Is it to see
her?'

'It was,' said Leonard, 'but I did not mean to say it.  I know it
cannot be.'

'But, Leonard, she has said that if you wished it, she would come as if
you were lying on your bed at home, and with more reverence.'

Large tears of gratitude were swelling in Leonard's eyes, and he
pressed the Doctor's hand, but still said, almost inarticulately,
'Ought she?'

'I will bring her, my boy.  It will do her good to see how--how her
pupil, as they have always called you in joke, Leonard, can be willing
to bear the Cross after his Master.  She has never let go for a moment
the trust that it was well with you.'

'Oh! Dr. May, it was the one thing--and when I had gone against all her
wishes.  It is so good of her!  It is the one thing--' and there was no
doubt from his face that he was indeed happy.

And Dr. May went home that day softened and almost cheered, well-nigh
as though he had had a promise of Leonard's life, and convinced that in
the region to which the spirits of Ethel and her pupil could mount,
resignation would silence the wailings of grief and sorrow; the things
invisible were more than a remedy for the things visible.

That Ethel should see Leonard before the last, he was quite resolved;
and Ethel, finding that so it was, left the _when_ in his hands,
knowing the concession to be so great, that it must be met by grateful
patience on her own side, treasuring the drawing meanwhile with
feelings beyond speech.  Dr. May did not wish the meeting to take place
till he was really sure that all hope was at an end; he knew it would
be a strong measure, and though he did not greatly care for the world
in general, he did not want to offend Flora unnecessarily; in matters
of propriety she was a little bit of a conscience to him, and though he
would brave her or any one else when a thing was right, especially if
it were to give one last moment of joy to Leonard, she was not to be
set at naught till the utmost extremity.

And for one day, the sight of Averil would be enough.  She had
struggled into something sufficiently like recovery to be able to
maintain her fitness for the exertion; and Henry had recognized that
the unsatisfied pining was so preying on her as to hurt her more than
the meeting and parting could do, since, little as he could understand
how it was, he perceived that Leonard could be depended on for support
and comfort.  With him, indeed, Leonard had ever shown himself cheerful
and resolute, speaking of anything rather than of himself and never
grieving him with the sight of those failings of flesh and heart that
would break forth where there was more congenial sympathy, yet where
they were not a reproach.

So Averil, with many a promise to be 'good,' and strongly impressed
with warnings that the chance of another meeting depended on the
effects of this one, was laid back in the carriage, leaving poor little
Minna to Mary's consolation.  Minna was longing to go too, but Henry
had forbidden it, and not even an appeal to Dr. May had prevailed; so
she was taken home by Mary, and with a child's touching patience, was
helped through the weary hours, giving wandering though gentle
attention to Ella's eager display of the curiosities of the place, and
explanations of the curious games and puzzles taught by 'Mr. Tom.'
Ethel, watching the sweet wistful face, and hearing the subdued voice,
felt a reverence towards the child, as though somewhat of the shadow of
her brother's cross had fallen on her.

The elder brother and sister meanwhile arrived at the building now only
too familiar to one of them, and, under her thick veil, unconscious of
the pitying looks of the officials, Averil was led, leaning on Henry's
arm, along the whitewashed passages, with their slate floors, and up
the iron stairs, the clear, hard, light coldness chilling her heart
with a sense of the stern, relentless, inevitable grasp in which the
victim was held.  The narrow iron door flew open at the touch of the
turnkey; a hand was on her arm, but all swam round with her, and she
only knew it was the well-known voice; she did not follow the words
between her brothers and the turnkey about the time she was to be left
there, but she gave a start and shudder when the door sprung fast again
behind her, and at the same instant she felt herself upheld by an arm
round her waist.

'Take off your bonnet, Ave; let me see you,' he said, himself undoing
the strings, and removing it, then bending his face to hers for a long,
almost insatiable kiss, as they stood strained in one intense embrace,
all in perfect silence on the sister's part.

'I have been making ready for you,' he said at length, partly releasing
her; 'you are to sit here;' and he deposited her, still perfectly
passive in his hands, upon his bed, her back against the wall.  'Put up
your feet!  There!'  And having settled her to his satisfaction, he
knelt down on the floor, one arm round her waist, one hand in hers,
looking earnestly up into her face, with his soul in his eyes, her
other hand resting on his shoulder.

'How are the little ones, Ave?'

'Very well.  Minna so longed to come.'

'Better not,' said Leonard; 'she is so little, and these white walls
might distress her fancy.  They will remember our singing on the last
Sunday evening instead.  Do you remember, Ave, how they begged to stay
on and on till it grew so dark that we could not see a word or a note,
and went on from memory?' and he very softly hummed the restful
cadence, dying away into

  'Till in the ocean of Thy love
  We lose ourselves in Heaven above.'


'How can you bear to think of those dear happy days!'

'Because you will be glad of them by and by, said Leonard; 'and I am
very glad of them now, though they might have been so much better, if
only we had known.'

'They were the only happy days of all my life!'

'I hope not--I trust not, dearest.  You may and ought to have much
better and happier days to come.'

She shook her head, with a look of inexpressible anguish, almost of
reproach.

'Indeed I mean it, Ave,' he said; 'I have thought it over many times,
and I see that the discomfort and evil of our home was in the spirit of
pride and rebellion that I helped you to nurse.  It was like a wedge,
driving us farther and farther apart; and now that it is gone, and you
will close up again, when you are kind and yielding to Henry--what a
happy peaceful home you may make out in the prairie land!'

'As if we could ever--'

'Nay, Averil, could not you recover it if I were dying now of sickness?
I know you would, though you might not think so at the time.  Believe
me, then, when I say that I am quite willing to have it as it is--to be
my own man to the last--to meet with such precious inestimable kindness
from so many.  Of course I should like to live longer, and do something
worth doing; but if I am to die young, there is so much blessing even
in this way, that nothing really grieves me but the thought of you and
Henry; and if it makes you one together, even that is made up.'

Awe-struck, and as if dreaming, she did not answer, only smoothing
caressingly the long waves of bright brown hair on his forehead.  She
was surprised by his next question.

'Ave! how has Mrs. Pugh behaved?'

'Oh! the woman!  I have hardly thought of her!  She has been very
active about the petition, somebody said; but I don't believe Henry can
bear to hear of her any more than I can.  What made you think of her?'

'Because I wanted to know how it was with Henry, and I could not ask
him.  Poor fellow!  Well, Ave, you see he will depend on you entirely
for comfort, and you must promise me that shall be your great business
and care.'

'How you do think of Henry!' she said, half jealously.

'Of course, Ave.  You and I have no past to grieve over together, but
poor Henry will never feel free of having left me to my self-willed
obstinacy, and let me go to that place.  Besides, the disgrace in the
sight of the world touches him more, and you can tread that down more
easily than he.'  Then, in answer to a wondering look, 'Yes, you can,
when you recollect that it is crime, not the appearance of it, that is
shame.  I do not mean that I do not deserve all this--but--but--' and
his eye glistened, 'Ave, dear, if I could only bring out the words to
tell you how much peace and joy there is in knowing that--with that
vast difference--it is like in some degree what was borne to save us, I
really don't think you could go on grieving over me any more; at least
not more than for the loss,' he added, tenderly; 'and you'll not miss
me so much in a new country, you know, with Henry and the children to
take care of.  Only promise me to be kind to Henry.'

And having drawn forth a faint promise, that he knew would have more
force by and by, Leonard went on, in his low quiet voice, into
reminiscences that sounded like random, of the happy days of childhood
and early youth, sometimes almost laughing over them, sometimes linking
his memory as it were to tune or flower, sport or study, but always for
joy, and never for pain; and thus passed the time, with long intervals
of silent thought and recollection on his part, and of a sort of dreamy
stupor on his sister's, during which the strange peaceful hush seemed
to have taken away her power of recalling the bitter complaints of
cruel injustice, and the broken-hearted lamentations she had imagined
herself pouring out in sympathy with her victim brother.  Instead of
being wrung with anguish, her heart was lulled and quelled by wondering
reverence; and she seemed to herself scarcely awake, and only dimly
conscious of the pale-cheeked bright-eyed face upturned to her, so calm
and undaunted, yet so full of awe and love, the low steady tender
voice, and the warm upholding arm.

A great clock struck, and Leonard said, 'There! they were to come at
four, and then the chaplain is coming.  He is grown so very kind now!
Ave, if they would let you be with me at my last Communion!  Will you?
Could you bear it?  I think then you would know all the peace of it!'

'Oh, yes! make them let me come.'

'Then it is not good-bye,' he said, as he fetched her bonnet and cloak,
and put them on with tender hands, as if she were a child, in readiness
as steps approached, and her escort reappeared.

'Here she is, Henry,' he said, with a smile.  'She has been very good;
she may come again.'  And then, holding her in his arms once more, he
resigned her to Henry, saying, 'Not good-bye, Ave; we will keep my
birthday together.'




CHAPTER XVI

                         The captives went
  To their own places, to their separate glooms,
  Uncheered by glance, or hand, or hope, to brood
  On those impossible glories of the past,
  When they might touch the grass, and see the sky,
  And do the works of men.  But manly work
  Is sometimes in a prison.--S. M. Queen Isabel


'Commutation of punishment, to penal servitude for life.'

Such were the tidings that ran through Stoneborough on Sunday morning,
making all feel as if a heavy oppression had been taken from the air.
In gratitude to the merciful authorities, and thankfulness for the
exemption from death, the first impressions were that Justice was at
last speaking, that innocence could not suffer, and that right was
reasserting itself.  Even when the more sober and sad remembered that
leniency was not pardon, nor life liberty, they were hastily answered
that life was everything--life was hope, life was time, and time would
show truth.

Averil's first tears dropped freely, as she laid her head on Mary's
shoulder, and with her hand in Dr. May's, essayed to utter the words,
'It is your doing--you have twice saved him for me,' and Minna stood
calmly glad, but without surprise.  'I knew they could not hurt him;
God would not let them.'

The joy and relief were so great as to absorb all thought or
realization of what this mercy was to the prisoner himself, until Dr.
May was able to pay him a visit on Monday afternoon.  It was at a
moment when the first effects of the tidings of life had subsided, and
there had been time to look forth on the future with a spirit more
steadfast than buoyant.  The strain of the previous weeks was reacting
on the bodily frame, and indisposition unhinged the spirits; so that,
when Dr. May entered, beaming with congratulations, he was met with the
same patient glance of endurance, endeavouring at resignation, that he
knew so well, but without the victorious peace that had of late gained
the ascendant expression.  There was instead an almost painful
endeavour to manifest gratitude by cheerfulness, and the smile was far
less natural than those of the last interview, as fervently returning
the pressure of the hand, he said, 'You were right, Dr. May, you have
brought me past the crisis.'

'A sure sign of ultimate recovery, my boy.  Remember, dum spiro spero.'

Leonard attempted a responsive smile, but it was a hopeless business.
From the moment when at the inquest he found himself entangled in the
meshes of circumstance, his mind had braced itself to endure rather
than hope, and his present depressed state, both mental and bodily,
rendered even that endurance almost beyond his powers.  He could only
say, 'You have been very good to me.'

'My dear fellow, you are sadly knocked down; I wish--' and the Doctor
looked at him anxiously.

'I wish you had been here yesterday,' said Leonard; 'then you would not
have found me so.  No, not thankless, indeed!'

'No, indeed; but--yes, I see it was folly--nay, harshness, to expect
you to be glad of what lies before you, my poor boy.'

'I am--am thankful,' said Leonard, struggling to make the words truth.
'Wednesday is off my mind--yes, it is more than I deserve--I knew I was
not fit to die, and those at home are spared.  But I am as much cut off
from them--perhaps more--than by death.  And it is the same disgrace to
them, the same exile.  I suppose Henry still goes--'

'Yes, he does.'

'Ah! then one thing, Dr. May--if you had a knife or scissors--I do not
know how soon they may cut my hair, and I want to secure a bit for poor
Ave.'

Dr. May was too handless to have implements of the first order, but a
knife he had, and was rather dismayed at Leonard's reckless hacking at
his bright shining wavy hair, pulling out more than he cut, with
perfect indifference to the pain.  The Doctor stroked the chestnut head
as tenderly as if it had been Gertrude's sunny curls, but Leonard
started aside, and dashing away the tears that were overflowing his
eyes under the influence of the gentle action, asked vigorously, 'Have
you heard what they will do with me?'

'I do not know thoroughly.  A year or six months maybe at one of the
great model establishments, then probably you will be sent to some of
the public works,' said the Doctor, sadly.  'Yes, it is a small boon to
give you life, and take away all that makes life happy.'

'If it were only transportation!'

'Yes.  In a new world you could live it down, and begin afresh.  And
even here, Leonard, I look to finding you like Joseph in his prison.'

'The iron entering into his soul!' said Leonard, with a mournful smile.

'No; in the trustworthiness that made him honoured and blessed even
there.  Leonard, Leonard, conduct _will_ tell.  Even there, you can
live this down, and will!'

'Eighteen to-morrow,' replied the boy.  'Fifty years of it, perhaps! I
know God can help me through with it, but it is a long time to be
patient!'

By way of answer, the Doctor launched into brilliant auguries of the
impression the prisoner's conduct would produce, uttering assurances,
highly extravagant in his Worship the Mayor, of the charms of the
modern system of prison discipline, but they fell flat; there could be
no disguising that penal servitude for life was penal servitude for
life, and might well be bitterer than death itself.  Sympathy might
indeed be balm to the captive, but the good Doctor pierced his own
breast to afford it, so that his heart sank even more than when he had
left the young man under sentence of death.  His least unavailing
consolations were his own promises of frequent visits, and Aubrey's of
correspondence, but they produced more of dejected gratitude than of
exhilaration.  Yet it was not in the way of murmur or repining, but
rather of 'suffering and being strong,' and only to this one friend was
the suffering permitted to be apparent.  To all the officials he was
simply submissive and gravely resolute; impassive if he encountered
sharpness or sternness, but alert and grateful towards kindliness, of
which he met more and more as the difference between dealing with him
and the ordinary prisoners made itself felt.

To Dr. May alone was the depth of pain betrayed; but another comforter
proved more efficient in cheering the prisoner, namely, Mr. Wilmot,
who, learning from the Doctor the depression of their young friend,
hastened to endeavour at imparting a new spring of life on this
melancholy birthday.  Physically, the boy was better, and perhaps the
new day had worn off somewhat of the burthen of anticipation, for Mr.
Wilmot found him already less downcast, and open to consolation.  It
might be, too, that the sense that the present was to have been his
last day upon earth, had made him more conscious of the relief from the
immediate shadow of death, for he expressed his thankfulness far more
freely and without the effort of the previous day.

'And, depend on it,' said Mr. Wilmot, 'you are spared because there is
something for you to do.'

'To bear,' said Leonard.

'No, to do.  Perhaps not immediately; but try to look on whatever you
have to bear, not only as carrying the cross, as I think you already
feel it--'

'Or there would be no standing it at all.'

'True,' said Mr. Wilmot; 'and your so feeling it convinces me the more
that whatever may follow is likewise to be looked upon as discipline to
train you for something beyond.  Who knows what work may be in store,
for which this fiery trial may be meant to prepare you?'

The head was raised, and the eyes brightened with something like hope
in their fixed interrogative glance.

'Even as things are now, who knows what good may be done by the
presence of a man educated, religious, unstained by crime, yet in the
same case as those around him?  I do not mean by quitting your natural
place, but by merely living as you must live.  You were willing to have
followed your Master in His death.  You now have to follow Him by
living as one under punishment; and be sure it is for some purpose for
others as well as yourself.'

'If there is any work to be done for Him, it is all right,' said
Leonard, cheerily; and as Mr. Wilmot paused, he added, 'It would be
like working for a friend--if I may dare say so--after the hours when
this place has been made happy to me.  I should not mind anything if I
might only feel it working for Him.'

'Feel it.  Be certain of it.  As you have realized the support of that
Friend in a way that is hardly granted, save in great troubles, so now
realize that every task is for Him.  Do not look on the labour as
hardship inflicted by mistaken authority--'

'Oh, I only want to get to that!  I have been so long with nothing to
do!'

'And your hearty doing of it, be it what it may, as unto the Lord, can
be as acceptable as Dr. May's labours of love among the poor--as
entirely a note in the great concord in Heaven and earth as the work of
the ministry itself--as completely in unison.  Nay, further, such
obedient and hearty work will form you for whatever may yet be awaiting
you, and what that may be will show itself in good time, when you are
ready for it.

'The right chord was touched, the spirit of energy was roused, and
Leonard was content to be a prisoner of hope, not the restless hope of
liberation, but the restful hope that he might yet render faithful
service even in his present circumstances.

Not much passed his lips in this interview, but its effect was apparent
when Dr. May again saw him, and this time in company with Aubrey.  Most
urgent had been the boy's entreaties to be taken to see his friend, and
Dr. May had only hesitated because Leonard's depression had made
himself so unhappy that he feared its effect on his susceptible son;
whose health had already suffered from the long course of grief and
suspense.  But it was plain that if Aubrey were to go at all, it must
be at once, since the day was fixed for the prisoner's removal, and the
still nearer and dearer claims must not clash with those of the friend.
Flora shook her head, and reminded her father that Leonard would not be
out of reach in future, and that the meeting now might seriously damage
Aubrey's already uncertain health.

'I cannot help it, Flora,' said the Doctor; 'it may do him some
temporary harm, but I had rather see him knocked down for a day or two,
than breed him up to be such a poor creature as to sacrifice his
friendship to his health.'

And Mrs. Rivers, who knew what the neighbourhood thought of the good
Doctor's infatuation, felt that there was not much use in suggesting
how shocked the world would be at his encouragement of the intimacy
between the convict and his young son.

People did look surprised when the Doctor asked admission to the cell
for his son as well as himself; and truly Aubrey, who in silence had
worked himself into an agony of nervous agitation, looked far from fit
for anything trying.  Dr. May saw that he must not ask to leave the
young friends alone together, but in his reverence for the rights of
their friendship, he withdrew himself as far as the limits of the cell
would allow, turned his back, and endeavoured to read the Thirty-nine
Articles in Leonard's Prayer-Book; but in spite of all his abstraction,
he could not avoid a complete consciousness that the two lads sat on
the bed, clinging with arms round one another like young children, and
that it was Leonard's that was the upright sustaining figure, his own
Aubrey's the prone and leaning one.  And of the low whispering murmurs
that reached his would-be deafened ear, the gasping almost sobbing
tones were Aubrey's.  The first distinct words that he could not help
hearing were, 'No such thing!  There can't be slavery where one works
with a will!' and again, in reply to something unheard, 'Yes, one can!
Why, how did one do one's Greek?'--'Very
different!'--'How?'--'Oh!'--'Yes; but you are a clever chap, and had
her to teach you, but I only liked it because I'd got it to do.  Just
the same with the desk-work down at the mill; so it may be the same
now.'

Then came fragments of what poor Aubrey had expressed more than once at
home--that his interest in life, in study, in sport, was all gone with
his friend.

'Come, Aubrey, that's stuff.  You'd have had to go to Cambridge, you
know, without me, after I doggedly put myself at that place.  There's
just as much for you to do as ever there was.'

'How you keep on with your _do_!' cried Ethel's spoilt child, with a
touch of petulance.

'Why, what are we come here for--into this world, I mean--but to _do_!'
returned Leonard; 'and I take it, if we do it right, it does not much
matter what or where it is.'

'I shan't have any heart for it!' sighed Aubrey.

'Nonsense!  Not with all your people at home? and though the voice fell
again, the Doctor's ears distinguished the murmur, 'Why, just the
little things she let drop are the greatest help to me here, and you
always have her--'

Then ensued much that was quite inaudible, and at last Leonard said,
'No, old fellow; as long as you don't get ashamed of me, thinking about
you, and knowing what you are about, will be one of the best pleasures
I shall have.  And look here, Aubrey, if we only consider it right, you
and I will be just as really working together, when you are at your
books, and I am making mats, as if we were both at Cambridge side by
side!  It is quite true, is it not, Dr. May?' he added, since the
Doctor, finding it time to depart, had turned round to close the
interview.

'Quite true, my boy,' said the Doctor; 'and I hope Aubrey will try to
take comfort and spirit from it.'

'As if I could!' said Aubrey, impatiently, 'when it only makes me more
mad to see what a fellow they have shut up in here!'

'Not mad, I hope,' said Dr. May; 'but I'll tell you what it should do
for both of us, Aubrey.  It should make us very careful to be worthy to
remain his friends.'

'O, Dr. May!' broke in Leonard, distressed.

'Yes,' returned Dr. May, 'I mean what I say, however you break in,
Master Leonard.  As long as this boy of mine is doing his best for the
right motives, he will care for you as he does now--not quite in the
same despairing way, of course, for holes in one's daily life do close
themselves up with time--but if he slacks off in his respect or
affection for you, then I shall begin to have fears of him.  Now come
away, Aubrey, and remember for your comfort it is not the good-bye it
might have been,' he added, as he watched the mute intensity of the
boys' farewell clasp of the hands; but even then had some difficulty in
getting Aubrey away from the friend so much stronger as the consoler
than as the consoled, and unconsciously showing how in the last
twenty-four hours his mind had acted on the topics presented to him by
Mr. Wilmot.

Changed as he was from the impetuous boyish lad of a few weeks since, a
change even more noticeable when with his contemporary than in
intercourse with elder men, yet the nature was the same.  Obstinacy had
softened into constancy, pride into resolution, generosity made pardon
less difficult, and elevation of temper bore him through many a
humiliation that, through him, bitterly galled his brother.

Whatever he might feel, prison regulations were accepted by him as
matters of course, not worth being treated as separate grievances. He
never showed any shrinking from the assumption of the convict dress,
whilst Henry was fretting and wincing over the very notion of his
wearing it, and trying to arrange that the farewell interview should
precede its adoption.




CHAPTER XVII

  Scorn of me recoils on you.
                 E. B. BROWNING


After the first relief, the relaxation of his brother's sentence had by
no means mitigated Henry Ward's sense of disgrace, but had rather
deepened it by keeping poor Leonard a living, not a dead, sorrow.

He was determined to leave England as soon as possible, that his
sisters might never feel that they were the relative of a convict; and
bringing Ella home, he promulgated a decree that Leonard was never to
be mentioned; hoping that his existence might be forgotten by the
little ones.

To hurry from old scenes, and sever former connections, was his sole
thought, as if he could thus break the tie of brotherhood.  There was a
half-formed link that had more easily snapped.  His courtship had been
one of prudence and convenience, and in the overwhelming period of
horror and suspense had been almost forgotten.  The lady's attempts at
sympathy had been rejected by Averil without obstruction from him, for
he had no such love as could have prevented her good offices from
becoming oppressive to his wounded spirit, and he had not sufficient
energy or inclination to rouse himself to a response.

And when the grant of life enabled him to raise his head and look
around him, he felt the failure of his plans an aggravation of his
calamity, though he did not perceive that his impatience to rid himself
of an encumbrance, and clear the way for his marriage, had been the
real origin of the misfortune.  Still he was glad that matters had gone
no further, and that there was no involvement beyond what could be
handsomely disposed of by a letter, resigning his pretensions, and
rejoicing that innate delicacy and prudence had prevented what might
have involved the lady's feelings more deeply in the misfortune of his
family: representing himself in all good faith as having retreated from
her proffered sympathy out of devoted consideration for her, and
closing with elaborate thanks for her exertions on behalf of 'his
unhappy brother.'

The letter had the honour of being infinitely lauded by Mrs. Ledwich,
who dwelt on its nobleness and tenderness in many a tete-a-tete, and
declared her surprise and thankfulness at the immunity of her dear
Matilda's heart.  In strict confidence, too, Dr. Spencer (among others)
learnt that--though it was not to be breathed till the year was out,
above all till the poor Wards were gone--the dear romantic girl had
made her hand the guerdon for obtaining Leonard's life.

'So there's your fate, Dick,' concluded his friend.

'You forget the influence of the press,' returned Dr. May.  'People
don't propose such guerdons without knowing who is to earn them.'

'Yes, she has long believed in King John,' said Ethel.

Meantime Averil Ward was acquiescing in all Henry's projects with calm
desperate passiveness.  She told Mary that she had resolved that she
would never again contend with Henry, but would let him do what he
would with herself and her sisters.  Nor had his tenderness during her
illness been in vain; it had inspired reliance and affection, such as
to give her the instinct of adherence to him as the one stay left to
her.  With Leonard shut up, all places were the same to her, except
that she was in haste to escape from the scenes connected with her lost
brother; and she looked forward with dull despairing acquiescence to
the new life with which Henry hoped to shake off the past.

A colony was not change enough for Henry's wishes; even there he made
sure of being recognized as the convict's brother, and was resolved to
seek his new home in the wide field of America, disguising his very
name, as Warden, and keeping up no communication with the prisoner
except under cover to Dr. May.

To this unfailing friend was committed the charge of the brother.  He
undertook to watch over the boy, visit him from time to time, take care
of his health, and obtain for him any alleviations permitted by the
prison rules; and as Henry reiterated to Averil, it was absolutely
certain that everything possible from external kindness was thus
secured.  What more could they themselves have done, but show him their
faces at the permitted intervals? which would be mere wear and tear of
feeling, very bad for both parties.

Averil drooped, and disputed not--guessing, though not yet
understanding, the heart hunger she should feel even for such a dreary
glimpse.

Every hour seemed to be another turn of the wheel that hurried on the
departure.  The successor wished to take house and furniture as they
stood, and to enter into possession as soon as possible, as he already
had taken the practice.  This coincided with Henry's burning impatience
to be quit of everything, and to try to drown the sense of his own
identity in the crowds of London.  He was his sisters' only guardian,
their property was entirely in his hands, and no one had the power of
offering any obstacle, so that no delay could be interposed; and the
vague design passed with startling suddenness to a fixed decision, to
be carried into execution immediately.  It came in one burst upon the
May household that Averil and her sisters were coming to spend a last
evening before their absolute packing to go on the Saturday to London,
where they would provide their outfit, and start in a month for America.

The tidings were brought by Mary, who had, as usual, been spending part
of the morning with Averil.  No one seemed to be so much taken by
surprise as Tom, whose first movement was to fall on his sisters for
not having made him aware of such a preposterous scheme.  They thought
he knew.  He knew that all the five quarters of the world had been
talked of in a wild sort of a way; but how could he suppose that any
man could be crazed enough to prefer to be an American citizen, when he
might remain a British subject?

Repugnance to America was naturally strong in Tom, and had of late been
enhanced by conversations with an Eton friend, who, while quartered in
Canada, had made excursions into the States, and acquired such
impressions as high-bred young officers were apt to bring home from a
superficial view of them.  Thus fortified, he demanded whether any
reasonable person had tried to bring Henry Ward to his senses.

Ethel believed that papa had advised otherwise.

'Advised!  It should have been enforced!  If he is fool enough to alter
his name, and throw up all his certificates what is to become of him?
He will get no practice in any civilized place, and will have to betake
himself to some pestilential swamp, will slave his sisters to death,
spend their money, and destroy them with ague.  How can you sit still
and look on, Ethel?'

'But what could I do?'

'Stir up my father to interfere.'

'I thought you always warned us against interfering with Henry Ward.'

He treated this speech as maliciously designed to enrage him. 'Ethel!'
he stammered, 'in a case like this--where the welfare--the very
life--of one--of your dearest friend--of Mary's, I mean--I did think
you would have been above--'

'But, Tom, I would do my utmost, and so would papa, if it were possible
to do anything; but it is quite in vain.  Henry is resolved against
remaining under British rule, and America seems to be the only field
for him.'

'Much you know or care!' cried Tom.  'Well, if no one else will, I
must!'

With which words he departed, leaving his sister surprised at his
solicitude, and dubious of the efficacy of his remonstrance, though she
knew by experience that Tom was very different in a great matter from
what he was in a small one.

Tom betook himself to Bankside, and the first person he encountered
there was his little friend Ella, who ran up to him at once.

'Oh, Mr. Tom, we are going to America!  Shall you be sorry?'

'Very sorry,' said Tom, as the little hand was confidingly thrust into
his.

'I should not mind it, if you were coming too, Mr. Tom!'

'What, to play at French billiards?'

'No, indeed!  To find objects for the microscope.  I shall save all the
objects I meet, and send them home in a letter.'

'An alligator or two, or a branch of the Mississippi,' said Tom, in a
young man's absent way of half-answering a pet child; but the reply so
struck Ella's fancy, that, springing through the open French window,
she cried,  'Oh, Ave, Ave, here is Mr. Tom saying I am to send him a
branch of the Mississippi in a letter, as an object for his microscope!'

'I beg your pardon,' said Tom, shocked at Averil's nervous start, and
still more shocked at her appearance.  She looked like one shattered by
long and severe illness; her eyes were restless and distressed, her
hair thrust back as if it oppressed her temples, her manner startled
and over-wrought, her hand hot and unsteady--her whole air that of one
totally unequal to the task before her.  He apologized for having taken
her by surprise, and asked for her brother.  She answered, that he was
busy at Mr. Bramshaw's, and she did not know when he would come in.
But still Tom lingered; he could not bear to leave her to exertions
beyond her strength.  'You are tiring yourself,' he said; 'can I do
nothing to help you?'

'No, no, thank you; I am only looking over things.  Minna is helping
me, and I am making an inventory.'

'Then you must let me be of use to you.  You must be as quiet as
possible.  You need rest.'

'I can't rest; I'm better busy!' she said hastily, with quick, aimless,
bustling movements.

But Tom had his father's tone, as he gently arrested the trembling hand
that was pulling open a drawer, and with his father's sweet, convincing
smile, said, 'What's that for?' then drew up a large arm-chair, placed
her in it, and, taking pen and list, began to write--sometimes at her
suggestion, sometimes at his own--giving business-like and efficient
aid.

The work was so grave and regular, that Ella soon found the room
tedious, and crept out, calling Minna to aid in some of their own
personal matters.

Slowly enumerating the articles they came to the piano.  Averil went up
to it, leant fondly against it, and softly touched the keys.  'My own,'
she said, 'bought for a surprise to me when I came home from school!
And oh, how he loved it!'

'Every one had reason to love it,' said Tom, in a low voice; but she
did not heed or hear.

'I cannot--cannot part with it!  When I sit here, I can almost feel him
leaning over me!  You must go--I will pay your expenses myself! I
wonder if we should have such rough roads as would hurt you,' she
added, caressingly toying with the notes, and bringing soft replies
from them, as if she were conversing with a living thing.

'Ah!' said Tom, coming nearer, 'you will, I hope, take care to what
your brother's impetuosity might expose either this, or yourself.'

'We shall all fare alike,' she said, carelessly.

'But how?' said Tom.

'Henry will take care of that.'

'Do you know, Miss Ward, I came down here with the purpose of setting
some matters before your brother that might dissuade him from making
the United States his home.  You have justly more influence than I.
Will you object to hear them from me?'

Ave could not imagine why Tom May, of all people in the world, should
thrust himself into the discussion of her plans; but she could only
submit to listen, or more truly to lean back with wandering thoughts
and mechanical signs of assent, as he urged his numerous objections.
Finally, she uttered a meek 'Thank you,' in the trust that it was over.

'And will you try to make your brother consider these things?'

Poor Ave could not have stood an examination on 'these things,' and
feeling inadequate to undertake the subject, merely said something of
'very kind, but she feared it would be of no use.'

'I assure you, if you would persuade him to talk it over with me, that
I could show him that he would involve you all in what would be most
distasteful.'

'Thank you, but his mind is made up.  No other course is open.'

'Could he not, at least, go and see what he thinks of it, before taking
you and your sisters?'

'Impossible!' said Averil.  'We must all keep together; we have no one
else.'

'No, indeed, you must not say that,' cried Tom, with a fire that
startled Averil in the midst of her languid, dreary indifference.

'I did not mean,' she said, 'to be ungrateful for the kindness of your
family--the Doctor and dear Mary, above all; but you must know-'

'I know,' he interrupted, 'that I cannot see you exiling yourself with
your brother, because you think you have no one else to turn to--you,
who are so infinitely dear--'

'This is no time for satire,' she said, drawing aside with offence, but
still wearily, and as if she had not given attention enough to
understand him.

'You mistake me,' he exclaimed; 'I mean that no words can tell how
strong the feeling is that--that--No, I never knew its force till now;
but, Averil, I cannot part with you--you who are all the world to me.'

Lifting her heavy eyelids for a moment, she looked bewildered, and
then, moving towards the door, said, 'I don't know whether this is jest
or earnest--any way, it is equally unsuitable.'

'What do you see in me,' cried Tom, throwing himself before her, 'that
you should suppose me capable of jesting on such a subject, at such a
moment?'

'I never saw anything but supercilious irony,' she answered, in the
same dreamy, indifferent way, as if hardly aware what she was saying,
and still moving on.

'I cannot let you go thus.  You must hear me,' he cried, and he wheeled
round an easy-chair, with a gesture of entreaty; which she obeyed,
partly because she was hardly alive to understand his drift, partly
because she could scarcely stand; and there she sat, in the same drowsy
resignation with which she had listened to his former expostulation.

Calm collected Tom was almost beside himself.  'Averil!  Averil!' he
cried, as he sat down opposite and bent as close to her as possible,
'if I could only make you listen or believe me!  What shall I say? It
is only the honest truth that you are the dearest thing in the whole
world to me!  The very things that have given you most offence arose
from my struggles with my own feelings.  I tried to crush what would
have its way in spite of me, and now you see its force.'  He saw
greater life and comprehension in her eye as he spoke, but the look was
not encouraging; and he continued: 'How can I make you understand!  Oh!
if I had but more time!--but--but it was only the misery of those
moments that showed me why it was that I was always irresistibly drawn
to you, and yet made instinctive efforts to break the spell; and now
you will not understand.'

'I do understand,' said Averil, at length entirely roused, but chiefly
by resentment.  'I understand how much a country surgeon's daughter is
beneath an M. D.'s attention, and how needful it was to preserve the
distance by marks of contempt.  As a convict's sister, the distance is
so much widened, that it is well for both that we shall never meet
again.'

Therewith she had risen, and moved to the door.  'Nay, nay,' he cried;
'it is for that very reason that all my past absurdity is trampled on!
I should glory in a connection with such as Leonard! Yes, Averil,' as
he fancied he saw her touched, 'you have never known me yet; but trust
yourself and him to me, and you will give him a true brother, proud of
his nobleness.  You shall see him constantly--you shall keep your
sisters with you.  Only put yourself in my hands, and you shall know
what devotion is.'

He would have said more, but Averil recalled herself, and said: 'This
is mere folly; you would be very sorry, were I to take you at your
word.  It would be unworthy in me towards your father, towards Henry,
towards you, for me to listen to you, even if I liked you, and that you
have taken good care to prevent me from doing.'  And she opened the
door, and made her way into the hall.

'But, Averil!--Miss Ward!' he continued, pursuing her, 'if, as I swear
I will, I track out the real offender, bring him to justice, proclaim
Leonard's innocence?  Then--'

She was half-way up the stairs.  He had no alternative but to take his
hat and stride off in a tumult of dismay, first of all at the
rejection, and next at his own betrayal of himself.  Had he guessed
what it would come to, would he ever have trusted himself in that
drawing-room?  This was the meaning of it all, was it?  He, the
sensible man of the family, not only to be such an egregious ass, but
to have made such a fool of himself!  For he was as furious at having
committed himself to himself, as he was at his avowal to Averil--he,
who had always been certain of loving so wisely and so well, choosing
an example of the true feminine balance of excellence, well born, but
not too grand for the May pretensions; soundly religious, but not
philanthropically pious; of good sense and ability enough for his
comfort, but not of overgrown genius for his discomfort; of good looks
enough for satisfaction, but not for dangerous admiration; of useful,
but not overwhelming wealth; of creditable and not troublesome
kindred--that he should find himself plunged headlong into love by
those brown eyes and straight features, by the musical genius, talents
anything but domestic, ill-regulated enthusiasm, nay, dislike to
himself, in the very girl whose station and family he contemned at the
best, and at the very time when her brother was a convict, and her
sisters dependent!  Was he crazed?  Was he transformed?  What frenzy
had come over him to endear her the more for being the reverse of his
ideal?  And, through all, his very heart was bursting at the thought of
the wounds he had given her in his struggles against the net of
fascination.  He had never imagined the extent of the provocation he
gave; and in truth, his habitual manner was such, that it was hard to
distinguish between irony and genuine interest.  And now it was too
late!  What should he be henceforth to her?  What would Stoneborough
and his future be to him?  He would, he believed, have taught himself
to acquiesce, had he seen any chance of happiness before her; but the
picture he drew of her prospects justified his misery, at being only
able to goad her on, instead of drawing her back.  He was absolutely
amazed at himself.  He had spoken only the literal truth, when he said
that he had been unconscious of the true nature of the feelings that
always drew him towards her, though only to assert his independence,
and make experiments by teasing in his ironically courteous way.  Not
until the desolate indifference of her tone had incited him to show her
that Henry was not all that remained to her, had he arrived at the
perception that, in the late weeks of anxiety, she had grown into his
heart, and that it was of no use to argue the point with himself, or
think what he would do, the fact was accomplished--his first love was a
direct contradiction to his fixed opinions, he had offended her
irrevocably and made a fool of himself, and she was going away to
dreariness!

At first he had rushed off into the melancholy meadows, among the
sodden hay-cocks still standing among the green growth of grass; but a
shower, increasing the damp forlornness of the ungenial day, made him
turn homewards.  When, late in the afternoon, Ethel came into the
schoolroom for some Cocksmoor stores, she found him leaning over his
books on the table.  This was his usual place for study; and she did
not at once perceive that the attitude was only assumed on her
entrance, so kneeling in front of her cupboard, she asked, 'What
success?'

'I have not seen him.'

'Oh! I thought I saw you going--'

'Never mind!  I mean,' he added with some confusion, 'I wish for a
little peace.  I have a horrid headache.'

'You!' exclaimed Ethel; and turning round, she saw him leaning back in
his chair, a defenceless animal without his spectacles, his eyes small
and purpled ringed, his hair tossed about, his spruceness gone. 'I am
sure you are not well,' she said.

'Quite well.  Nonsense, I only want quiet.'

'Let me give you some of Aubrey's camphor liniment.'

'Thank you,' submitting to a burning application to his brow; but as
she lingered in anxiety, 'I really want nothing but quiet.'

How like Norman he looks! thought Ethel, as she cast her last glance
and departed.  Can he be going to be ill?  If he would only tell when
anything is the matter!  I know papa says that some of us feel with our
bodies, and some with our minds; but then I never knew Tom much
affected any way, and what is all this to him?  And a sigh betrayed the
suppressed heartache that underlaid all her sensations.  I am afraid it
must be illness; but any way, he will neither tell nor bear to have it
noticed, so I can only watch.

Enter the two little Wards, with a message that Ave was sorry, but that
she was too much tired to come that evening; and when Mary regretted
not having been able to come and help her, Ella answered that 'Mr. Tom
had come and helped her for a long time.'

'Yes,' said Minna; 'but I think he must have done it all wrong, for, do
you know, I found the list he had made torn up into little bits.

Ethel almost visibly started, almost audibly exclaimed.  At tea-time
Tom appeared, his trimness restored, but not his usual colouring; and
Ella hailed him with reproaches for having gone away without telling
her.  The soft attention of which the child had a monopoly did not
fail, though he bent down, trying to keep her to himself, and prevent
their colloquy from attracting notice; but they were so close behind
Ethel's chair, that she could not help hearing: 'We were only gone to
dig up the violets that you are to have, and if you had only stayed you
would have seen Henry, for he came in by the little gate, and when I
went to tell you, you were gone.'

Ethel wondered whether the blushes she felt burning all over her face
and neck would be remarked by those before her, or would reveal to Tom,
behind her, that the child was giving her the key to his mystery.
Marvelling at the exemplary gentleness and patience of his replies to
his little coquettish tormentor, she next set herself to relieve him by
a summons to Ella to tea and cherries.  Fortunately the fruit suggested
Dr. May's reminiscences of old raids on cherry orchards now a mere
name, and he thus engrossed all the younger audience not entirely
preoccupied.  He set himself to make the little guests forget all their
sorrows, as if he could not help warming them for the last time in the
magic of his own sunshine; but Ethel heard and saw little but one
figure in the quietest corner of the room, a figure at which she
scarcely dared to look.

'And there you are!' so went her thoughts.  'It is true then!  Fairly
caught!  Your lofty crest vailed at last--and at such a time!  O, Tom,
generous and true-hearted, in spite of all your nonsense!  How could
she help being touched?  In the net and against his will!  Oh, triumph
of womanhood!  I am so glad!  No, I'm not, it is best this way, for
what an awkward mess it would have been!  She is dear Leonard's sister,
to be sure, and there is stuff in her, but papa does not take to her,
and I don't know whether she would fit in with Tom himself!  But oh!
the fun it would have been to see Flora's horror at finding her one
prudent brother no better than the rest of us!  Dear old Tom!  The May
heart has been too strong for the old Professor nature!  What a
retribution for his high mightiness!  Harry and Richard to be guarded
from making fools of themselves!  What a nice cloak for jealousy!  But
it is no laughing matter!  How miserable, how thoroughly upset, he is!
Poor dear Tom!  If I could only go and kiss you, and tell you that I
never loved you half so well; but you would rather die than let out one
word, I know!  Why, any one of the others would have had it all out
long ago!  And I don't know whether it is quite safe to screen the lamp
from those aching eyes that are bearing it like a martyr!  There!
Well, maybe he will just stand the knowing that I know, provided I
don't say a word; but I wish people would not be so "self-contained!"'

Self-contained Tom still continued in the morning, though looking
sallow and wan; but, in a political argument with his father, he was
snappish and overbearing, and in the course of the day gave another
indication of being thrown off his balance, which was even harder for
Ethel to endure.

Throughout the suspense on Leonard's account, Aubrey had been a source
of anxiety to all, especially to Tom.  The boy's sensitive frame had
been so much affected, that tender dealings with him were needful, and
all compulsion had been avoided. His father had caused him to be put on
the sick-list of the volunteers; and as for his studies, though the
books were daily brought out, it was only to prevent the vacuum of
idleness; and Tom had made it his business to nurse his brother's
powers, avoid all strain on the attention, and occupy without exciting,
bearing with his fitful moods of despondence or of hope, whether they
took the form of talking or of dreaming.

But now that all was over, every one knew that it was time to turn over
a new leaf; and Tom, with his sore heart, did it with a vengeance, and
on the first instance of carelessness, fell on the poor family pet, as
a younger brother and legitimate souffre douleur, with vehemence
proportioned to his own annoyance.  It was a fierce lecture upon
general listlessness, want of manliness, spirit, and perseverance,
indifference to duties he had assumed.  Nonsense about feelings--a
fellow was not worth the snap of a finger who could not subdue his
feelings--trash.

The sisters heard the storm from the drawing-room, and Gertrude grew
hotly indignant, and wanted Ethel to rush in to the rescue; but Ethel,
though greatly moved, knew that female interposition only aggravated
such matters, and restrained herself and her sister till she heard Tom
stride off.  Then creeping in on tiptoe, she found the boy sitting
stunned and confounded by the novelty of the thing.

'What can it be all about, Ethel?  I never had such a slanging in my
life?'

'I don't think Tom is quite well.  He had a bad headache last night.'

Then I hope--I mean, I think--he must have made it worse!  I know mine
aches, as if I had been next door to the great bell;' and he leant
against his sister.

'I am afraid you really were inattentive.'

'No worse than since the heart has gone out of everything.  But that
was not all!  Ethel, can it really be a disgrace, and desertion, and
all that, if I don't go on with those volunteers, when it makes me sick
to think of touching my rifle?' and his eyes filled with tears.

'It would be a great effort, I know,' said Ethel, smoothing his hair;
'but after all, you volunteered not for pleasure, but because your
country wanted defence.'

'The country?  I don't care for it, since it condemned him, when he was
serving it.'

'He would not say that, Aubrey!  He would only be vexed to hear that
you gave in, and were fickle to your undertaking.  Indeed, if I were
the volunteer, I should think it due to him, not to shrink as if I were
ashamed of what he was connected with.'

Aubrey tried to answer her sweet high-spirited smile, but he had been
greatly hurt and distressed, and the late reproach to his manhood
embittered his tears without making it easier to repress them; and
pushing away his chair, he darted up-stairs.

'Poor dear fellow!  I've been very hard on him, and only blamed instead
of comforting,' thought Ethel sadly, as she slowly entered the passage,
'what shall I think of, to make a break for both of those two?'

'So you have been cockering your infant,' said Tom, meeting her. 'You
mean to keep him a baby all his life.'

'Tom, I want to talk to you,' said she.

In expectation of her displeasure, he met it half way, setting his back
against the passage wall, and dogmatically declaring, 'You'll be the
ruin of him if you go on in this way!  How is he ever to go through the
world if you are to be always wiping his tears with an embroidered
pocket-handkerchief, and cossetting him up like a blessed little
sucking lamb?'

'Of course he must rough it,' said Ethel, setting her back against the
opposite wall; 'I only want him to be hardened; but after a shock like
this, one cannot go on as if one was a stock or stake.  Even a machine
would have its wheels out of order--'

'Well, well, but it is time that should be over.'

'So it is;' and as the sudden thought flashed on her, 'Tom, I want you
to reconsider your journey, that you gave up in the spring, and take
him--'

'I don't want to go anywhere,' he wearily said.

'Only it would be so good for him,' said Ethel earnestly; 'he really
ought to see something taller than the Minster tower, and you are the
only right person to take him, you are so kind to him.'

'For instance?' he said, smiling.

'Accidents will happen in the best regulated families; besides, he did
want shaking up.  I dare say he will be the better for it. There's the
dinner-bell.'

To her surprise, she found his arm round her waist, and a kiss on her
brow.  'I thought I should have caught it,' he said; 'you are not half
a fool of a sister after all.'

Aubrey was not in the dining-room; and after having carved, Tom, in
some compunction, was going to look for him, when he made his
appearance in his uniform.

'Oho!' said the Doctor, surprised.

'There's to be a grand parade with the Whitford division,' he answered;
and no more was said.

Not till the eight o'clock twilight of the dripping August evening did
the family reassemble.  Ethel had been preparing for a journey that
Mary and Gertrude were to make to Maplewood; and she did not come down
till her father had returned, when following him into the drawing-room,
she heard his exclamation, 'Winter again!'

For the fire was burning, Tom was sitting crumpled over it, with his
feet on the fender, and his elbows on his knees, and Aubrey in his
father's arm-chair, his feet over the side, so fast asleep that neither
entrance nor exclamation roused him; the room was pervaded with an
odour of nutmeg and port wine, and a kettle, a decanter, and empty
tumblers told tales.  Now the Doctor was a hardy and abstemious man, of
a water-drinking generation; and his wife's influence had further
tended to make him--indulgent as he was--scornful of whatever savoured
of effeminacy or dissipation, so his look and tone were sharp, and
disregardful of Aubrey's slumbers.

'We got wet through,' said Tom; 'he was done up, had a shivering fit,
and I tried to prevent mischief.'

'Hm! said the Doctor, not mollified.  'Cold is always the excuse. But
another time don't teach your brother to make this place like a fast
man's rooms.'

Ethel was amazed at Tom's bearing this so well.  With the slightest
possible wrinkle of the skin of his forehead, he took up the decanter
and carried it off to the cellaret.

'How that boy sleeps!' said his father, looking at him.

'He has had such bad nights!' said Ethel.  'Don't be hard on Tom, he is
very good about such things, and would not have done it without need.
He is so careful of Aubrey!'

'Too careful by half,' said the Doctor, smiling placably as his son
returned.  'You are all in a league to spoil that youngster.  He would
be better if you would not try your hand on his ailments, but would
knock him about.'

'I never do that without repenting it,' said Tom; then, after a pause,
'It is not spirit that is wanting, but you would have been frightened
yourself at his state of exhaustion.'

'Of collapse, don't you mean?' said the Doctor, with a little lurking
smile.  'However, it is vexatious enough; he had been gaining ground
all the year, and now he is regularly beaten down again.'

'Suppose I was to take him for a run on the Continent?'

'What, tired of the hospital?'

'A run now and then is duty, not pleasure,' replied Tom, quietly; while
Ethel burnt to avert from him these consequences of his peculiar
preference for appearing selfish.

'So much for railway days!  That will be a new doctrine at
Stoneborough.  Well, where do you want to go?'

'I don't want to go anywhere.'

Ethel would not have wondered to see him more sullen than he looked at
that moment.  It was lamentable that those two never could understand
each other, and that either from Tom's childish faults, his resemblance
to his grandfather, or his habitual reserve, Dr. May was never free
from a certain suspicion of ulterior motives on his part.  She was
relieved at the influx of the rest of the party, including Richard; and
Aubrey wakening, was hailed with congratulations on the soundness of
his sleep, whilst she looked at Tom with a meaning smile as she saw her
father quietly feel the boy's hand and brow.  The whole family were
always nursing the lad, and scolding one another for it.

Tom had put himself beside Ethel, under the shade of her urn, and she
perceived that he was ill at ease, probably uncertain whether any
confidences had been bestowed on her or Mary from the other side. There
was no hope that the topic would be avoided, for Richard began with
inquiries for Averil.

'She is working herself to death,' said Mary, sadly; 'but she says it
suits her.'

'And it does,' said the Doctor; 'she is stronger every day.  There is
nothing really the matter with her.'

'Contrary blasts keep a ship upright,' said Gertrude, 'and she has them
in abundance.  We found her in the midst of six people, all giving
diametrically opposite advice.'

'Dr. Spencer was really helping, and Mr. Wright was there about his own
affairs,' said Ethel, in a tone of repression.

'And Mrs. Ledwich wanted her to settle on the Ohio to assist the
runaway slaves,' continued Gertrude.

'It does not tease her as if she heard it,' said Mary.

'No,' said the Doctor, 'she moves about like one in a dream, and has no
instinct but to obey her brother.'

'Well, I am glad to be going,' said Daisy; 'it will be flat when all
the excitement is over, and we have not the fun of seeing Tom getting
rises out of Ave Ward.'

This time Tom could not repress a sudden jerk, and Ethel silenced her
sister by a hint that such references were not nice when people were in
trouble.

'By the bye,' said Aubrey, 'speaking of going away, what were you
saying while I was asleep? or was it a dream that I was looking through
Tom's microscope at a rifle bullet in the Tyrol?'

'An inspiration from Tom's brew,' said the Doctor.

'Weren't you saying anything?' said Aubrey, eagerly.  'I'm sure there
was something about duty and pleasure.  Were you really talking of it?'

'Tom was, and if it is to put some substance into those long useless
legs, I don't care if you do start off.'

Aubrey flashed into a fresh being.  He had just been reading a book
about the Tyrol, and Tom not caring at all where they were to go, this
gave the direction.  Aubrey rushed to borrow a continental Bradshaw
from Dr. Spencer, and the plan rapidly took form; with eager
suggestions thrown in by every one, ending with the determination to
start on the next Monday morning.

'That's settled,' said Tom, wearily, when he and Ethel, as often
happened, had lingered behind the rest; 'only, Ethel, there's one
thing.  You must keep your eye on the Vintry Mill, and fire off a
letter to me if the fellow shows any disposition to bolt.'

'If I can possibly find out--'

'Keep your eyes open; and then Hazlitt has promised to let me know if
that cheque of Bilson's is cashed.  If I am away, telegraph, and
meantime set my father on the scent.  It may not hang that dog himself,
but it may save Leonard.'

'Oh, if it would come!'

'And meantime--silence, you know--'

'Very well;' then lingering, 'Tom, I am sure you did the right thing by
Aubrey, and so was papa afterwards.'

His brow darkened for a moment, but shaking it off he said, 'I'll do my
best for your cosset lamb, and bring him back in condition.'

'Thank you; I had rather trust him with you than any one.'

'And how is it that no one proposes a lark for you, old Ethel?' said
Tom, holding her so as to study her face.  'You look awfully elderly
and ragged.'

'Oh, I'm going to be left alone with the Doctor, and that will be the
greatest holiday I ever had.'

'I suppose it is to you,' said Tom, with a deep heavy sigh, perhaps
glad to have some ostensible cause for sighing.

'Dear Tom, when you are living here, and working with him--'

'Ah--h!' he said almost with disgust, 'don't talk of slavery to me
before my time.  How I hate it, and everything else!  Good night!'

'Poor Tom!' thought Ethel.  'I wish papa knew him better and would not
goad him.  Will Averil ever wake to see what she has done, and feel for
him?  Though I don't know why I should wish two people to be unhappy
instead of one, and there is weight enough already.  O, Leonard, I
wonder if your one bitter affliction will shield you from the others
that may be as trying, and more tempting!'




CHAPTER XVIII

  All bright hopes and hues of day
  Have faded into twilight gray.--Christian Year


'No fear of Aubrey's failing,' said Tom; 'he has a better foundation
than nine-tenths of the lads that go up, and he is working like a man.'

'He always did work heartily,' said Ethel, 'and with pleasure in his
work.'

'Ay, like a woman.'

'Like a scholar.'

'A scholar is a kind of woman.  A man, when he's a boy, only works
because he can't help it, and afterwards for what he can get by it.'

'For what he can do with it would have a worthier sound.'

'Sound or sense, it is all the same.'

'Scaffolding granted, what is the building?'

Tom apparently thought it would be working like a woman to give himself
the trouble of answering; and Ethel went on in her own mind, 'For the
work's own sake--for what can be got by it--for what can be done with
it--because it can't be helped--are--these all the springs of labour
here?  Then how is work done in that solitary cell?  Is it because it
can't be helped, or is it 'as the Lord's freeman'?  And when he can
hear of Aubrey's change, will he take it as out of his love, or grieve
for having been the cause?'

For the change had been working in Aubrey ever since Leonard had
altered his career.  The boy was at a sentimental age, and had the
susceptibility inseparable from home breeding; his desire to become a
clergyman had been closely connected with the bright visions of the
happy days at Coombe, and had begun to wane with the first thwarting of
Leonard's plans; and when the terrible catastrophe of the one friend's
life occurred, the other became alienated from all that they had hoped
to share together.  Nor could even Dr. May's household be so wholly
exempt from the spirit of the age, that Aubrey was not aware of the
strivings and trials of faith at the University.  He saw what Harvey
Anderson was, and knew what was passing in the world; and while free
from all doubts, shrank boyishly from the investigations that he
fancied might excite them.  Or perhaps these fears of possible scruples
were merely his self-justification for gratifying his reluctance.

At any rate, he came home from his two months' tour, brown, robust,
with revived spirits, but bent on standing an examination for the
academy at Woolwich.  He had written about it several times before his
return, and his letters were, as his father said, 'so appallingly
sensible that perhaps he would change his mind.'  But it was not
changed when he came home; and Ethel, though sorely disappointed, was
convinced by her own sense as well as by Richard's prudence, that
interference was dangerous.  No one in Israel was to go forth to the
wars of the Lord save those who 'willingly offered themselves;' and
though grieved that her own young knight should be one of the many
champions unwilling to come forth in the Church's cause, she remembered
the ordeal to Norman's faith, and felt that the exertion of her
influence was too great a responsibility.

'You don't like this,' said Tom, after a pause.  'It is not my doing,
you know.'

'No, I did not suppose it was,' said Ethel.  'You would not withhold
any one in these days of exceeding want of able clergymen.'

'I told him it would be a grief at home,' added Tom, 'but when a lad
gets into that desperate mood, he always may be a worse grief if you
thwart him; and I give you credit, Ethel, you have not pulled the curb.'

'Richard told me not.'

'Richard represents the common sense of the family when I am not at
home.'

Tom was going the next day to his course of study at the London
hospitals, and this--the late afternoon--was the first time that he and
his sister had been alone together.  He had been for some little time
having these short jerks of conversation, beginning and breaking off
rather absently.  At last he said, 'Do those people ever write?'

'Prisoners, do you mean?  Not for three months.'

'No--exiles.'

'Mary has heard twice.'

He held out Mary's little leathern writing-case to her.

'O, Tom!'

'It is only Mary.'

Ethel accepted the plea, aware that there could be no treason between
herself and Mary, and moreover that the letters had been read by all
the family.  She turned the key, looked them out, and standing by the
window to catch the light, began to read--

'You need not be afraid, kind Mary,' wrote Averil, on the first days of
her voyage; 'I am quite well, as well as a thing can be whose heart is
dried up.  I am hardened past all feeling, and seem to be made of
India-rubber.  Even my colour has returned--how I hate to see it, and
to hear people say my roses will surprise the delicate Americans.
Fancy, in a shop in London I met an old school-fellow, who was
delighted to see me, talked like old times, and insisted on knowing
where we were staying.  I used to be very fond of her, but it was as if
I had been dead and was afraid she would find out I was a ghost, yet I
talked quite indifferently, and never faltered in my excuses.  When we
embarked, it was no use to know it was the last of England, where _he_
and you and home and life were left.  How I envied the poor girl, who
was crying as if her heart would break!'

On those very words, broke the announcement of Mr. Cheviot.  Tom coolly
held out his hand for the letters, so much as a matter of course, that
Ethel complied with his gesture, and he composedly pocketed them, while
she felt desperately guilty.  Mary's own entrance would have excited no
compunction, Ethel would have said that Tom wanted to hear of the
voyage; but in the present case, she could only blush, conscious that
the guest recognized her sister's property, and was wondering what
business she had with it, and she was unwilling to explain, not only on
Tom's account, but because she knew that Mr. Cheviot greatly
disapproved of petitioning against the remission of capital sentences,
and thought her father under a delusion.

After Tom's departure the next day, she found the letters in her
work-basket, and restored them to Mary, laughing over Mr. Cheviot's
evident resentment at the detection of her doings.

'I think it looked rather funny,' said Mary.

'I beg your pardon,' said Ethel, much astonished; 'but I thought, as
every one else had seen them--'

'Tom always laughed at poor Ave.'

'He is very different now; but indeed, Mary, I am sorry, since you did
not like it.'

'Oh!' cried Mary, discomfited by Ethel's apology, 'indeed I did not
mean that, I wish I had not said anything.  You know you are welcome to
do what you please with all I have.  Only,' she recurred, 'you can't
wonder that Mr. Cheviot thought it funny.'

'If he had any call to think at all,' said Ethel, who was one of those
who thought that Charles Cheviot had put a liberal interpretation on
Dr. May's welcome to Stoneborough.  He had arrived after the summer
holidays as second master of the school, and at Christmas was to
succeed Dr. Hoxton, who had been absolutely frightened from his chair
by the commissions of inquiry that had beset the Whichcote foundation;
and in compensation was at present perched on the highest niche sacred
to conservative martyrdom in Dr. May's loyal heart.

Charles Cheviot was a very superior man, who had great influence with
young boys, and was admirably fitted to bring about the much required
reformation in the school.  He came frequently to discuss his
intentions with Dr. May, and his conversation was well worth being
listened to; but even the Doctor found three evenings in a week a large
allowance for good sense and good behaviour--the evenings treated as
inviolable even by old friends like Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot, the
fast waning evenings of Aubrey's home life.

The rest were reduced to silence, chess, books, and mischief, except
when a treat of facetious small talk was got up for their benefit. Any
attempt of the ladies to join in the conversation was replied to with a
condescending levity that reduced Ethel to her girlhood's awkward sense
of forwardness and presumption; Mary was less disconcerted, because her
remarks were never so aspiring, and Harry's wristbands sufficed her;
but the never-daunted Daisy rebelled openly, related the day's events
to her papa, fearless of any presence, and when she had grown tired of
the guest's regular formula of expecting to meet Richard, she told him
that the adult school always kept Richard away in the winter evenings;
'But if you want to see him, he is always to be found at Cocksmoor, and
he would be very glad of help.'

'Did he express any such wish?' said Mr. Cheviot, looking rather
puzzled.

'Oh dear, no; only I thought you had so much time on your hands.'

'Oh no--oh no!' exclaimed Mary, in great confusion, 'Gertrude did not
mean--I am sure I don't know what she was thinking of.'

And at the first opportunity, Mary, for once in her life, administered
to Gertrude a richly-deserved reproof for sauciness and contempt of
improving conversation; but the consequence was a fancy of the idle
younglings to make Mary accountable for the 'infesting of their
evenings,' and as she was always ready to afford sport to the
household, they thus obtained a happy outlet for their drollery and
discontent, and the imputation was the more comical from his apparent
indifference and her serene composure; until one evening when, as the
bell rung, and mutterings passed between Aubrey and Gertrude, of 'Day
set,' and 'Cheviot's mountains lone,' the head of the family, for the
first time, showed cognizance of the joke, and wearily taking down his
slippered feet from their repose, said, 'Lone! yes, there's the rub!  I
shall have to fix days of reception if Mary will insist on being so
attractive.'

Mary, with an instinct that she was blamed, began to be very sorry, but
broke off amid peals of merriment, and blushes that were less easily
extinguished; and which caused Ethel to tell each of the young ones
privately, that their sport was becoming boy and frog work, and she
would have no more of it.  The Daisy was inclined to be restive; but
Ethel told her that many people thought this kind of fun could never be
safe or delicate.  'I have always said that it might be quite harmless,
if people knew where to stop--now show me that I am right.'

And to Aubrey she put the question, whether he would like to encourage
Daisy in being a nineteenth-century young lady without reticence?

However, as Mary heard no more of their mischievous wit, Ethel was
quite willing to let them impute to herself a delusion that the
schoolmaster was smitten with Mary, and to laugh with them in private
over all the ridiculous things they chose to say.

At last Flora insisted on Ethel's coming with her to make a distant
call, and, as soon as they were in the carriage, said, 'It was not only
for the sake of Mrs. Copeland, though it is highly necessary you should
go, but it is the only way of ever speaking to you, and I want to know
what all this is about Mary?'

'The children have not been talking their nonsense to you!'

'No one ever talks nonsense to me--intentionally, I mean--not even you,
Ethel; I wish you did.  But I hear it is all over the town. George has
been congratulated, and so have I, and one does not like contradicting
only to eat it up again.'

'You always did hear everything before it was true, Flora.'

'Then is it going to be true?'

'O, Flora, can it be possible?' said Ethel, with a startled, astonished
look.

'Possible!  Highly obvious and proper, as it seems to me.  The only
doubt in my mind was whether it were not too obvious to happen.'

'He is always coming in,' said Ethel, 'but I never thought it was
really for that mischief!  The children only laugh about it as the most
preposterous thing they can think of, for he never speaks to a woman if
he can help it.'

'That may not prevent him from wanting a good wife.'

'Wanting a wife--ay, as he would want a housekeeper, just because he
has got to the proper position for it; but is he to go and get our
bonny Mary in that way, just for an appendage to the mastership?'

'Well done, old Ethel!  I'm glad to see you so like yourself.  I
remember when we thought Mrs. Hoxton's position very sublime.'

'I never thought of positions!'

'Never!  I know that very well; and I am not thinking of it now, except
as an adjunct to a very worthy man, whom Mary will admire to the depths
of her honest heart, and who will make her very happy.'

'Yes, I suppose if she once begins to like him, that he will,' said
Ethel, slowly; 'but I can't bring myself to swallow it yet.  She has
never given in to his being a bore, but I thought that was her
universal benevolence; and he says less to her than to any one.'

'Depend upon it, he thinks he is proceeding selon les regles.'

'Then he ought to be flogged!  Has he any business to think of my Mary,
without falling red-hot in love with her?  Why, Hector was regularly
crazy that last half-year; and dear old Polly is worth ever so much
more than Blanche.'

'I must say you have fulfilled my desire of hearing you talk nonsense,
Ethel.  Mary would never think of those transports.'

'She deserves them all the more.'

'Well, she is the party most concerned, though she will be a cruel loss
to all of us.'

'She will not go far, if--'

'Yes, but she will be the worse loss.  You simple Ethel, you don't
think that Charles Cheviot will let her be the dear family fag we have
always made of her?'

'Oh no--that always was wrong.'

'And living close by, she will not come on a visit, all festal, to
resume home habits.  No, you must make up your mind, Ethel--_if,_ as
you say, _if_--he will be a man for monopolies, and he will resent
anything that he thinks management from you.  I suspect it is a real
sign of the love that you deny, that he has ventured on the sister of a
clever woman, living close by, and a good deal looked up to.'

'Flora, Flora, you should not make one wicked.  If she is to be happy,
why can't you let me rejoice freely, and only have her drawn off from
me bit by bit, in the right way of nature?'

'I did not tell you to make you dislike it--of course not.  Only I
thought that a little tact, a little dexterity, might prevent Charles
Cheviot from being so much afraid of you, as if he saw at once how
really the head of the family you are.'

'Nonsense, Flora, I am no such thing.  If I am domineering, the sooner
any one sees it and takes me down the better.  If this does come, I
will try to behave as I ought, and not to mind so Mary is happy; but I
can't act, except just as the moment leads me.  I hope it will soon be
over, now you have made me begin to believe in it. I am afraid it will
spoil Harry's pleasure at home!  Poor dear Harry, what will he do?'

'When does he come?'

'Any day now; he could not quite tell when he could get away.

When they came back, and Dr. May ran out to say, 'Can you come in.
Flora? we want you,' the sisters doubted whether his excitement were
due to the crisis, or to the arrival.  He hurried them into the study,
and shut the door, exulting and perplexed.  'You girls leave one no
rest,' he said.  'Here I have had this young Cheviot telling me that
the object of his attentions has been apparent.  I'm sure I did not
know if it were Mab or one of you.  I thought he avoided all alike; and
poor Mary was so taken by surprise that she will do nothing but cry,
and say, "No, never;" and when I tell her she shall do as she pleases,
she cries the more; or if I ask her if I am to say Yes, she goes into
ecstasies of crying!  I wish one of you would go up, and see if you can
do anything with her.'

'Is he about the house?' asked Flora, preparing to obey.

'No--I was obliged to tell him that she must have time, and he is gone
home.  I am glad he should have a little suspense--he seemed to make so
certain of her.  Did he think he was making love all the time he was
boring me with his gas in the dormitories?  I hope she will serve him
out!'

'He will not be the worse for not being a lady's man,' said Flora, at
the door.

But in ten minutes, Flora returned with the same report of nothing but
tears; and she was obliged to leave the party to their perplexity, and
drive home; while Ethel went in her turn to use all manner of pleas to
her sister to cheer up, know her own mind, and be sure that they only
wished to guess what would make her happiest.  To console or to scold
were equally unsuccessful, and after attempting all varieties of
treatment, bracing or tender, Ethel found that the only approach to
calm was produced by the promise that she should be teased no more that
evening, but be left quite alone to recover, and cool her burning eyes
and aching head.  So, lighting her fire, shaking up a much-neglected
easy-chair, bathing her eves, desiring her not to come down to tea, and
engaging both that Gertrude should not behold her, and that papa would
not be angry, provided that she tried to know what she really wished,
and be wiser on the morrow, Ethel left her.  The present concern was
absolutely more to persuade her to give an answer of some sort, than
what that answer should be. Ethel would not wish; Dr. May had very
little doubt; and Gertrude, from whom there was no concealing the state
of affairs, observed, 'If she cries so much the first time she has to
know her own mind, it shows she can't do without some one to do it for
her.'

The evening passed in expeditions of Ethel's to look after her patient,
and in desultory talk on all that was probable and improbable between
Dr. May and the younger ones, until just as Ethel was coming down at
nine o'clock with the report that she had persuaded Mary to go to bed,
she was startled by the street door being opened as far as the chain
would allow, and a voice calling, 'I say, is any one there to let me
in?'

'Harry!  O, Harry! I'm coming;' and she had scarcely had time to shut
the door previous to taking down the chain, before the three others
were in the hall, the tumult of greetings breaking forth.

'But where's Polly?' he asked, as soon as he was free to look round
them all.

'Going to bed with a bad headache,' was the answer, with which Daisy
had sense enough not to interfere; and the sailor had been brought into
the drawing-room, examined on his journey, and offered supper, before
he returned to the charge.

'Nothing really the matter with Mary, I hope?'

'Oh! no--nothing.'

'Can't I go up and see her?'

'Not just at present,' said Ethel.  'I will see how she is when she is
in bed, but if she is going to sleep, we had better not disturb her.'

'Harry thinks she must sleep better for the sight of him,' said the
Doctor; 'but it is a melancholy business.--Harry, your nose is out of
joint.'

'Who is it?' said Harry, gravely.

'Ah! you have chosen a bad time to come home.  We shall know no comfort
till it is over.'

'Who?' cried Harry; 'no nonsense, Gertrude, I can't stand guessing.'

This was directed to Gertrude, who was only offending by pursed lips
and twinkling eyes, because he could not fall foul of his father. Dr.
May took pity, and answered at once.

'Cheviot!' cried Harry.  'Excellent!  He always did know how to get the
best of everything.  Polly turning into a Mrs. Hoxton.  Ha! ha! Well,
that is a relief to my mind.'

'You did look rather dismayed, certainly.  What were you afraid of?'

'Why, when that poor young Leonard Ward's business was in the papers, a
messmate of mine was asked if we were not all very much interested,
because of some attachment between some of us.  I thought he must mean
me or Tom, for I was tremendously smitten with that sweet pretty girl,
and I used to be awfully jealous of Tom, but when I heard of Mary going
to bed with a headache, and that style of thing, I began to doubt, and
I couldn't stand her taking up with such a dirty little nigger as Henry
Ward was at school.'

'I think you might have known Mary better!' exclaimed Gertrude.

'And it's not Tom either?' he asked.

'Exactly the reverse,' laughed his father.

'Well, Tom is a sly fellow, and he had a knack of turning up whenever
one wanted to do a civil thing by that poor girl.  Where is she now?'

'At New York.'

'They'd better take care how they send me to watch the Yankees, then.'

'Your passion does not alarm me greatly,' laughed the Doctor.  'I don't
think it ever equalled that for the reigning ship.  I hope there's a
vacancy in that department for the present, and that we may have you at
home a little.'

'Indeed, sir, I'm afraid not,' said Harry.  'I saw Captain Gordon at
Portsmouth this morning, and he tells me he is to go out in the Clio to
the Pacific station, and would apply for me as his first lieutenant, if
I liked to look up the islands again.  So, if you have any commissions
for Norman, I'm your man.

'And how soon?'

'Uncertain--but Cheviot and Mary must settle their affairs in good
time; I've missed all the weddings in the family hitherto, and won't be
balked of Polly's.  I say, Ethel, you can't mean me not to go and wish
her joy.'

'We are by no means come to joy yet,' said Ethel; 'poor Mary is overset
by the suddenness of the thing.'

'Why, I thought it was all fixed.'

'Nothing less so,' said the Doctor.  'One would think it was a naiad
that had had an offer from the mountains next, for she has been
shedding a perfect river of tears ever since; and all that the united
discernment of the family has yet gathered is, that she cries rather
more when we tell her she is right to say No than when we tell her she
is right to say Yes.'

'I declare, Ethel, you must let me go up to her.'

'But, Harry, I promised she should hear no more about it to-night. You
must say nothing unless she begins.'

And thinking a quiet night's rest, free from further excitement, the
best chance of a rational day, Ethel was glad that her mission resulted
in the report, 'Far too nearly asleep to be disturbed;' but on the way
up to bed, soft as Harry's foot-falls always were, a voice came down
the stairs, 'That's Harry!  Oh, come!' and with a face of triumph
turned back to meet Ethel's glance of discomfited warning, he bounded
up, to be met by Mary in her dressing-gown.  'O, Harry, why didn't you
come?' as she threw her arms round his neck.

'They wouldn't let me.'

'I did think I heard you; but when no one came I thought it was only
Richard, till I heard the dear old step, and then I knew.  O, Harry!'
and still she gasped, with her head on his shoulder.

'They said you must be quiet.'

'O Harry! did you hear?'

'Yes, indeed,' holding her closer, 'and heartily glad I am; I know him
as well as if I had sailed with him, and I could not wish you in better
hands.'

'But--O, Harry dear--' and there was a struggle with a sob between each
word, 'indeed--I won't--mind if you had rather not.'

'Do you mean that you don't like him?'

'I should see him, you know, and perhaps he would not mind--he could
always come and talk to papa in the evenings.'

'And is that what you want to put a poor man off with, Mary?'

'Only--only--if you don't want me to--'

'I not want you to--?  Why, Mary, isn't it the very best thing I could
want for you?  What are you thinking about?'

'Don't you remember, when you came home after your wound, you said I--I
mustn't--' and she fell into such a paroxysm of crying that he had
quite to hold her up in his arms, and though his voice was merry, there
was a moisture on his eyelashes.  'Oh, you Polly!  You're a caution
against deluding the infant mind!  Was that all?  Was that what made
you distract them all?  Why not have said so?'

'Oh, never!  They would have said you were foolish.'

'As I was for not knowing that you wouldn't understand that I only
meant you were to wait till the right one turned up.  Why, if I had
been at Auckland, would you have cried till I came home?'

'Oh, I'm sorry I was silly!  But I'm glad you didn't mean it, dear
Harry!' squeezing him convulsively.

'There!  And now you'll sleep sound, and meet them as fresh as a fair
wind to-morrow.  Eh?'

'Only please tell papa I'm sorry I worried him.'

'And how about somebody else, Mary, whom you've kept on tenter-hooks
ever so long?  Are you sure he is not walking up and down under the
limes on the brink of despair?'

'Oh, do you think--? But he would not be so foolish!'

'There now, go to sleep.  I'll settle it all for you, and I shan't let
any one say you are a goose but myself.  Only sleep, and get those
horrid red spots away from under your eyes, or perhaps he'll repent his
bargain, said Harry, kissing each red spot.  'Promise you'll go to bed
the instant I'm gone.'

'Well,' said Dr. May, looking out of his room, 'I augur that the spirit
of the flood has something to say to the spirit of the fell.'

'I should think so!  Genuine article--no mistake.'

'Then what was all this about?'

'All my fault.  Some rhodomontade of mine about not letting her marry
had cast anchor in her dear little ridiculous heart, and it is well I
turned up before she had quite dissolved herself away.'

'Is that really all?'

'The sum total of the whole, as sure as--' said Harry, pausing for an
asseveration, and ending with 'as sure as your name is Dick May;'
whereat they both fell a-laughing, though they were hardly drops of
laughter that Harry brushed from the weather-marked pucker in the comer
of his eyes; and Dr. May gave a sigh of relief, and said, 'Well, that's
right!'

'Where's the latch-key?  I must run down and put Cheviot out of his
misery.'

'It is eleven o'clock, he'll be gone to bed.'

'Then I would forbid the banns.  Where does he hang out?  Has he got
into old Hoxton's?'

'No, it is being revivified.  He is at Davis's lodgings.  But I advise
you not, a little suspense will do him good.'

'One would think you had never been in love,' said Harry, indignantly.
'At least, I can't sleep till I've shaken hands with the old fellow.
Good night, father.  I'll not be long.'

He kept his word, and the same voice greeted him out of the
dressing-room: 'How was the spirit of the fell?  Sleep'st thou,
brother?'

'Brother, nay,' answered Harry, 'he was only looking over Latin verses!
He always was a cool hand.'

'The spirit of the Fell--Dr. Fell, with a vengeance,' said Dr. May. 'I
say, Harry, is this going to be a mere business transaction on his
part?  Young folks have not a bit of romance in these days, and one
does not know where to have them; but if I thought--'

'You may be sure of him, sir,' said Harry, speaking the more eagerly
because he suspected the impression his own manner had made; 'he is
thoroughly worthy, and feels Mary's merits pretty nearly as much as I
do.  More, perhaps, I ought to say.  There's more warmth in him than
shows.  I don't know that Norman ever could have gone through that
terrible time after the accident, but for the care he took of him. And
that little brother of his that sailed with me in the Eurydice, and
died at Singapore--I know how he looked to his brother Charles, and I
do assure you, father, you could not put the dear Mary into safer,
sounder hands, or where she could be more prized or happier. He is
coming up to-morrow morning, and you'll see he is in earnest in spite
of all his set speeches.  Good night, father; I am glad to be in time
for the last of my Polly.'

This was almost the only moment at which Harry betrayed a consciousness
that his Polly was less completely his own.  And yet it seemed as if it
must have been borne in on him again and again, for Mary awoke the next
morning as thoroughly, foolishly, deeply in love as woman could be, and
went about comporting herself in the most comically commonplace style,
forgetting and neglecting everything, not hearing nor seeing, making
absurd mistakes, restless whenever Mr. Cheviot was not present, and
then perfectly content if he came to sit by her, as he always did; for
his courtship--now it had fairly begun--was equally exclusive and
determined.  Every day they walked or rode together, almost every
evening he came and sat by her, and on each holiday they engrossed the
drawing-room, Mary looking prettier than she had ever been seen before;
Aubrey and Gertrude both bored and critical; Harry treating the whole
as a pantomime got up for his special delectation, and never betokening
any sense that Mary was neglecting him.  It was the greatest help to
Ethel in keeping up the like spirit, under the same innocent
unconscious neglect from the hitherto devoted Mary, who was only
helpful in an occasional revival of mechanical instinct in lucid
intervals, and then could not be depended on.  To laugh good-naturedly
and not bitterly, to think the love-making pretty and not foolish, to
repress Gertrude's saucy scorn, instead of encouraging it, would have
been far harder without the bright face of the brother who generously
surrendered instead of repining.

She never told herself that there was no proportion between the trials,
not only because her spirits still suffered from the ever-present load
of pity at her heart, nor because the loss would be hourly to her, but
also because Charles Cheviot drew Harry towards him, but kept her at a
distance, or more truly laughed her down.  She was used to be laughed
at; her ways had always been a matter of amusement to her brothers, and
perhaps it was the natural assumption of brotherhood to reply to any
suggestion or remark of hers with something intended for drollery, and
followed with a laugh, which, instead of as usual stirring her up to
good-humoured repartee, suppressed her, and made her feel foolish and
awkward.  As to Flora's advice, to behave with tact, she could not if
she would, she would not if she could; in principle she tried to
acquiesce in a man's desire to show that he meant to have his wife to
himself, and in practice she accepted his extinguisher because she
could not help it.

Mr. Cheviot was uneasy about the chances of Aubrey's success in the
examination at Woolwich, and offered assistance in the final
preparation; but though Aubrey willingly accepted the proposal, two or
three violent headaches from over-study and anxiety made Dr. May insist
on his old regimen of entire holiday and absence of work for the last
week; to secure which repose, Aubrey was sent to London with Harry for
a week's idleness and the society of Tom, who professed to be too busy
to come home even for Christmas.  Mr. Cheviot's opinion transpired
through Mary, that it was throwing away Aubrey's only chance.

In due time came the tidings that Aubrey had the second largest number
of marks, and had been highly commended for the thoroughness of his
knowledge, so different from what had been only crammed for the
occasion.  He had been asked who had been his tutor, and had answered,
'His brother,' fully meaning to spare Ethel publicity; and she was
genuinely thankful for having been shielded under Tom's six months of
teaching.  She heartily wished the same shield would have availed at
home, when Charles Cheviot gave that horrible laugh, and asked her if
she meant to stand for a professor's chair.  She faltered something
about Tom and mathematics.  'Ay, ay,' said Charles; 'and these military
examinations are in nothing but foreign languages and trash;' and again
he laughed his laugh, and Mary followed his example.  Ethel would fain
have seen the fun.

'Eh, Cheviot, what two of a trade never agree?' asked Dr. May, in high
glory and glee.

'Not my trade, papa,' said Ethel, restored by his face and voice, 'only
the peculiarity of examiners, so long ago remarked by Norman, of only
setting questions that one can answer.'

'Not your trade, but your amateur work!' said Mr. Cheviot, again
exploding, and leaving Ethel to feel demolished.  Why, she wondered
presently, had she not held up her knitting, and merrily owned it for
her trade--why, but because those laughs took away all merriment, all
presence of mind, all but the endeavour not to be as cross as she felt.
Was this systematic, or was it only bad taste?

The wedding was fixed for Whitsuntide; the repairs and drainage
necessitating early and long holidays; and the arrangements gave full
occupation.  Mary was the first daughter who had needed a portion,
since Mr. Cheviot was one of a large family, and had little of his own.
Dr. May had inherited a fair private competence, chiefly in land in and
about the town, and his professional gains, under his wife's prudent
management, had been for the most part invested in the like property.
The chief of his accumulation of ready money had been made over to
establish Richard at Cocksmoor; and though living in an inexpensive
style, such as that none of the family knew what it was to find means
lacking for aught that was right or reasonable, there was no large
amount of capital available.  The May custom had always been that the
physician should inherit the landed estate; and though this was
disproportionately increased by the Doctor's own acquisitions, yet the
hold it gave over the town was so important, that he was unwilling it
should be broken up at his death, and wished to provide for his other
children by charges on the rents, instead of by sale and division.  All
this he caused Richard to write to Tom, for though there was no
absolute need of the young man's concurrence in arranging Mary's
settlements, it was a good opportunity for distinctly stating his
prospects, and a compliment to consult him.

Feeling that Tom had thus been handsomely dealt with, his letter to his
father was the greater shock, when, after saying that he doubted
whether he could come home for the wedding, he expressed gratitude for
the opening held out to him, but begged that precedents applicable to
very different circumstances might not be regarded as binding.  He was
distressed at supplanting Richard, and would greatly prefer the
property taking its natural course.  It would be so many years, he
trusted, before there would be room for his services, even as an
assistant, at Stoneborough, that he thought it would be far more
advisable to seek some other field; and his own desire would be at once
to receive a younger son's share, if it were but a few hundreds, and be
free to cut out his own line.

'What is he driving at, Ethel?' asked the Doctor, much vexed.  'I offer
him what any lad should jump at; and he only says, "Give me the portion
of goods that falleth to me."  What does that mean?'

'Not prodigality,' said Ethel.  'Remember what Sir Matthew Fleet said
to Dr. Spencer--"Dick's ability and common sense besides."'

'Exactly what makes me suspicious of his coming the disinterested over
me.  There's something behind!  He is running into debt and destruction
among that precious crew about the hospitals.'

'Harry saw nothing wrong, and thought his friends in good style.'

'Every one is in good style with Harry, happy fellow!  He is no more a
judge than a child of six years old--carries too much sunshine to see
shades.'

'A lieutenant in the navy can hardly be the capital officer that our
Harry is without some knowledge of men and discipline.'

'I grant you, on his own element; but on shore he goes about in his
holiday spectacles, and sees a bird of paradise in every cock-sparrow.'

'Isn't _there_ a glass house that can sometimes make a swan?' said
Ethel, slyly touching her father's spectacles; 'but with you both,
there's always a something to attract the embellishing process; and
between Harry and Aubrey, Dr. Spencer and Sir Matthew, we could hardly
fail to have heard of anything amiss.'

'I don't like it.'

'Then it is hard,' said Ethel, with spirit.  'So steady as he has
always been, he ought to have the benefit of a little trust.'

'He was never like the others; I don't know what to be at with him! I
should not have minded but for that palaver about elder brothers.'

Defend as Ethel might, it was still with a misgiving lest
disappointment should have taken a wrong course.  It was hard to trust
where correspondence was the merest business scrap, and neither
Christmas nor the sister's marriage availed to call Tom home; and
though she had few fears as to dissipation, she did dread hardening and
ambition, all the more since she had learnt that Sir Matthew Fleet was
affording to him a patronage unprecedented from that quarter.

No year of Etheldred May's life had been so trying as this last.  It
seemed like her first step away from the aspirations of youth, into the
graver fears of womanhood.  With all the self-restraint that she had
striven to exercise at Coombe, it had been a time of glorious dreams
over the two young spirits who seemed to be growing up by her side to
be faithful workers, destined to carry out her highest visions; and the
boyish devotion of the one, the fraternal reverence of the other, had
made her very happy.  And now?  The first disappointment in Leonard had
led--not indeed to less esteem for him, but to that pitying veneration
that could only be yielded by a sharing in spirit of the like
martyrdom; a continued thankfulness and admiration, but a continual
wringing of the heart.  And her own child and pupil, Aubrey, had turned
aside from the highest path; and in the unavowed consciousness that he
was failing in the course he had so often traced out with her, and that
all her aid and ready participation in his present interests were but
from her outward not her inward heart, he had never argued the point
with her, never consulted her on his destination.  He had talked only
to his father of his alteration of purpose, and had at least paid her
the compliment of not trying to make her profess that she was gratified
by the change.  In minor matters, he depended on her as much as ever;
but Harry was naturally his chief companion, and the prime of his full
and perfect confidence had departed, partly in the step from boy to
man, but more from the sense that he was not fulfilling the soldiership
he had dreamt of with her, and that he had once led her to think his
talents otherwise dedicated.  She had few fears for his steadiness, but
she had some for his health, and he was something taken away from
her--a brightness had faded from his image.

And this marriage--with every effort at rejoicing and certainty of
Mary's present bliss and probability of future happiness, it was the
loss of a sister, and not the gain of a brother, and Mr. Cheviot did
his utmost to render the absence of repining a great effort of
unselfishness.  And even with her father, her possession of Tom's
half-revealed secret seemed an impairing of absolute confidence; she
could not but hope that her father did her brother injustice, and in
her tenderness towards them both this was a new and painful sensation.
Her manner was bright and quaint as ever, her sayings perhaps less
edged than usual, because the pain at her heart made her guard her
tongue; but she had begun to feel middle-aged, and strangely lonely.
Richard, though always a comfort, would not have entered into her
troubles; Harry, in his atmosphere of sailor on shore, had nothing of
the confidant, and engrossed his father; Mary and Aubrey were both gone
from her, and Gertrude was still a child. She had never so longed after
Margaret or Norman.  But at least her corner in the Minster, her table
at home with her Bible and Prayer-Book, were still the same, and
witnessed many an outpouring of her anxiety, many a confession of the
words or gestures that she had felt to have been petulant, whether
others had so viewed them or not.




CHAPTER XIX

  Long among them was seen a maiden, who waited and wondered,
  Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things;
  Fair was she, and young, but alas! before her extended,
  Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life.--Evangeline.
                                                    LONGFELLOW


'Sister, sister! who is it?  Going to be married!  Oh, do tell us!'
cried Ella Warden--as she now was called--capering round her elder
sister, who stood beneath a gas-burner, in a well-furnished bed-room,
reading a letter, its enclosure clasped within a very trembling hand.

'Mary May, dear Mary,' answered Averil, still half absently.

'And who?'

'Mr. Cheviot,' said Averil, thoroughly rousing herself, and, with a
quick movement, concealing the enclosure in her bosom.  'I remember
him; he was very good, when--'

And there she paused; while Ella chattered on: 'Oh, sister, if you were
but at home, you would be a bridesmaid now, and perhaps we should.
Little Miss Rivers was Mrs. Ernescliffe's bridesmaid.  Don't you
remember, Minna, how we saw her in her little cashmere cloak?'

'Oh, don't, Ella!' escaped from Minna, like a cry of pain, as she leant
back in a rocking-chair, and recollected who had held her up in his
arms to watch Blanche May's wedding procession.

'And how soon will she be married, sister, and where will she live?'
asked the much-excited Ella.

'She will be married in Whitsun week, and as he is headmaster, they
will live in Dr. Hoxton's house.  Dear, good Mary, how glad I am that
she is so full of happiness--her letter quite brims over with it!  I
wonder if I may work anything to send her.'

'I should like to send her some very beautiful thing indeed,' cried
Ella, with emphasis, and eyes dilating at some visionary magnificence.

'Ah, I have nothing to send her but my love!  And I may send _her_ that
still,' said Minna, looking up wistfully at Averil, who bent down and
kissed her.

'And Ave won't let me send mine to Mr. Tom, though I'm sure I do love
him the best of them all,' said Ella.

'That wasn't--' half whispered Minna, but turned her head away, with a
sigh of oppression and look of resignation, sad in so young a child,
though, indeed, the infantine form was fast shooting into tall, lank
girlhood.  Ella went on: 'I shall send him the objects for his
microscope, when I get into the country; for I promised, so sister
can't prevent me.'

'Oh, the country!--when shall we go there?' sighed Minna.

'Your head aches to-night, my dear,' said Averil, looking anxiously at
her listless attitude, half-opened eyes, and the deep hollows above her
collar-bones.

'It always does after the gas is lighted,' said the child, patiently,
'it is always so hot here.'

'It is just like being always in the conservatory at the Grange,' added
Ella.  'I do hate this boarding-house.  It is very unkind of Henry to
keep us here--fifteen weeks now.'

'Oh, Ella,' remonstrated Minna, 'you mustn't say that!'

'But I shall say it,' retorted Ella. 'Rosa Willis says what she
pleases, and so shall I.  I don't see the sense of being made a baby
of, when every one else of our age eats all they like, and is consulted
about arrangements, and attends classes.  And sister owns she does not
know half so much as Cora!'

This regular declaration of American independence confounded the two
sisters, and made Averil recall the thoughts that had been wandering:
'No, Ella, in some things I have not learnt so much as Cora; but I
believe I know enough to teach you, and it has been a comfort to me to
keep my two little sisters with me, and not send them to be mixed up
among strange girls.  Besides, I have constantly hoped that our present
way of life would soon be over, and that we should have a home of our
own again.'

'And why can't we!' asked Ella, in a much more humble and subdued voice.

'Because Henry cannot hear of anything to do.  He thought he should
soon find an opening in this new country; but there seem to be so many
medical men everywhere that no one will employ or take into partnership
a man that nothing is known about; and he cannot produce any of his
testimonials, because they are all made out in his old name, except one
letter that Dr. May gave him.  It is worse for Henry than for us, Ella,
and all we can do for him is not to vex him with our grievances.

Poor Averil! her dejected, patient voice, sad soft eyes, and gentle
persuasive manner, were greatly changed from those of the handsome,
accomplished girl, who had come home to be the family pride and pet;
still more, perhaps, from the wilful mistress of the house and the
wayward sufferer of last summer.

'And shan't we go to live in the dear beautiful forest, as Cora Muller
wishes?'

There was a tap at the door, and the children's faces brightened,
though a shade passed over Averil's face, as if everything at that
moment were oppressive; but she recovered a smile of greeting for the
pretty creature who flew up to her with a fervent embrace--a girl a few
years her junior, with a fair, delicate face and figure, in a hot-house
rose style of beauty.

'Father's come!' she cried.

'How glad you must be!'

'And now,' whispered the children, 'we shall know about going to
Indiana.'

'He says Mordaunt is as tall as he is, and that the house is quite
fixed for me; but I told him I must have one more term, and then I will
take you with me.  Ah! I am glad to see the children in white. If you
would only change that plain black silk, you would receive so much more
consideration.'

'I don't want it, Cora, thank you,' said Averil, indifferently; and,
indeed, the simple mourning she still wore was a contrast to her
friend's delicate, expensive silk.

'But I want it for you,' pleaded Cora.  'I don't want to hear my Averil
censured for English hauteur, and offend my country's feelings, so that
she keeps herself from seeing the best side.'

'I see a very good, very dear side of one,' said Averil, pressing the
eager hand that was held out to her, 'and that is enough for me.  I was
not a favourite in my own town, and I have not spirits to make friends
here.'

'Ah! you will have spirits in our woods,' she said.  'You shall show me
how you go gipsying in England.'

'The dear, dear woods!  Oh, we must go!' cried the little girls.

'But it is going to be a town,' said Minna, gravely.

Cora laughed.  'Ah, there will be plenty of bush this many a day,
Minna!  No lack of butternuts and hickories, I promise you, nor of
maples to paint the woods gloriously.'

'You have never been there?' said Averil, anxiously.

'No; I have been boarding here these two years, since father and
brothers located there, but we had such a good time when we lived at my
grandfather's farm, in Ohio, while father was off on the railway
business.'

A gong resounded through the house, and Averil, suppressing a
disappointed sigh, allowed Cora to take possession of her arm, and,
followed by the two children, became parts of a cataract of people who
descended the great staircase, and flowed into a saloon, where the
dinner was prepared.

Henry, with a tall, thin, wiry-looking gentleman, was entering at the
same time, and Averil found herself shaking hands with her brother's
companion, and hearing him say, 'Good evening, Miss Warden; I'm glad to
meet my daughter's friend.  I hope you feel at home in our great
country.'

It was so exactly the ordinary second-rate American style, that Averil,
who had expected something more in accordance with the refinement of
everything about Cora, except a few of her tones, was a little
disappointed, and responded with difficulty; then, while Mr. Muller
greeted her sisters, she hastily laid her hand on Henry's arm, and
said, under her breath, 'I've a letter from him.'

'Hush!' Henry looked about with a startled eye and repressing gesture.
Averil drew back, and, one hand on her bosom, pressing the letter, and
almost holding down a sob, she took her accustomed seat at the meal.
Minna, too languid for the rapidity of the movements, hardly made the
exertion of tasting food.  Ella, alert and brisk, took care of herself
as effectually as did Rosa Willis, on the opposite side of the table.
Averil, all one throb of agitation, with the unread letter lying at her
heart, directed all her efforts to look, eat, and drink, as usual;
happily, talking was the last thing that was needed.

Averil had been greatly indebted to Miss Muller, who had taken pity on
the helpless strangers--interested, partly by her own romance about
England, partly by their mourning dresses, dark melancholy eyes, and
retiring, bewildered manner.  A beautiful motherless girl, under
seventeen--left, to all intents and purposes, alone in New
York--attending a great educational establishment, far more independent
and irresponsible than a young man at an English University, yet
perfectly trustworthy--never subject to the bevues of the 'unprotected
female,' but self-reliant, modest, and graceful, in the heterogeneous
society of the boarding-house--she was a constant marvel to Averil, and
a warm friendship soon sprang up.  The advances were, indeed, all on
one side; for Ave was too sad, and oppressed with too heavy a secret,
to be readily accessible; but there was an attraction to the younger,
fresher, freer nature, even in the mystery of her mournful reserve; and
the two drew nearer together from gratitude, and many congenial
feelings, that rendered Cora the one element of comfort in the
boarding-house life; while Henry in vain sought for occupation.

Cora had been left under the charge of the lady of the boarding-house,
a distant connection, while her father, who had been engaged in more
various professions than Averil could ever conceive of or remember, had
been founding a new city in Indiana, at once as farmer and land-agent,
and he had stolen a little time, in the dead season, to hurry up to New
York, partly on business, and partly to see his daughter, who had
communicated to him her earnest desire that her new friends might be
induced to settle near their future abode.

American meals were too serious affairs for conversation; but such as
there was, was political, in all the fervid heat of the first
commencements of disunion and threatenings of civil war.  After the
ladies had repaired to their saloon, with its grand ottomans, sofas,
rocking-chairs, and piano, the discussion continued among them; Cora
talking with the utmost eagerness of the tariff and of slavery, and the
other topics of the day, intensely interesting, and of terrible moment,
to her country; but that country Averil had not yet learnt to feel her
own, and to her all was one dreary whirl of words, in which she longed
to escape to her room, and read her letter.  Ella had joined Rosa
Willis, and the other children; but Minna, as usual, kept under her
sister's wing, and Averil could not bear to shake herself free of the
gentle child.  The ladies of the boarding-house--some resident in order
to avoid the arduous duties of housekeeping, others temporarily brought
thither in an interregnum of servants, others spending a winter in the
city--had grown tired of asking questions that met with the scantiest
response, took melancholy for disdain, and were all neglectful, some
uncivil, to the grave, silent English girl, and she was sitting alone,
with Minna's hand in hers, as she had sat for many a weary evening,
when her brother and Mr. Muller came up together, and, sitting down on
either side of her, began to talk of the rising city of
Massissauga--admirably situated--excellent water privilege,
communicating with Lake Michigan--glorious primeval forest--healthy
situation--fertile land--where a colossal fortune might be realized in
maize, eighties, sections, speculations.  It was all addressed to her,
and it was a hard task to give attention, so as to return a rational
answer, while her soul would fain have been clairvoyante, to read the
letter in her breast.  She did perceive, at last, though not till long
after the children had gone to bed, that the project was, that the
family should become the purchasers of shares, which would give them a
right to a portion of the soil, excellent at present for growing corn,
and certain hereafter to be multiplied in value for building; that
Henry might, in the meantime, find an opening for practice, but might
speedily be independent of it.  It sounded promising, and it was
escape--escape from forced inaction, from an uncongenial life, from
injury to the children, and it would be with Cora, her one friend.
What was the demur, and why were they consulting her, who, as Henry
knew, was ready to follow him wherever he chose to carry her?  At last
came a gleam of understanding: 'Then, Doctor, you will talk it over
with your sister, and give me your ultimatum;' and therewith Mr. Muller
walked away to mingle in other conversation, and Henry coming closer to
his sister, she again eagerly said, 'I have it here; you shall see it
to-morrow, when I have read it.'

'It--'

'The letter.'

'How can you be so unguarded?  You have not let the children know? Take
care then, I will not have the subject revived with them.'

'But Minna--'

'It is this heated stove atmosphere.  She will soon forget if you don't
keep it up, and she will be herself when we leave this place, and it
depends on you when we do that, Ave.'

'On me!' she said, with bewildered face.

And Henry, marvelling at her slowness of comprehension, made her
understand that the advance of money, for the purchase at Massissauga,
must come from her means.  His own had been heavily drained by the
removal, the long period of inaction, and moreover what remained had
been embarked in shares in a company, absolutely certain to succeed,
but where they were not at once available for sale.  Averil was now of
age, her property was in her own power, and could not, her brother
assured her, be better invested, than on ground certain to increase in
value.  She looked at him, confused and distressed, aware that it was
too important a step to be taken without consideration, yet unable to
compose her thoughts, or recollect objections.

'Must I answer to-night?' she said.

'No, there is no need for that.  But we must close to-morrow with
Muller, for it is not a chance that will long go begging.'

'Then let me go, please, Henry,' she said, imploringly.  'I will tell
you to-morrow, but I can't now.  I don't seem to understand anything.'

It was late, and he released her, with a kind good night, though still
with a sign of caution.  Cora, however, hastened to join her, and walk
up the stairs with her, eagerly inquiring into the success of the
negotiation, and detailing what she had gathered from her father as to
the improvements he had been making.  She would fain have made Averil
come into her bedroom to build castles there; but this was more than
could be borne, and breaking from her at last, Averil reached her own
room, not to think of Mr. Muller's project, but to cast an anxious
glance at each of the little beds, to judge whether the moment had come
when that famishing hunger might be appeased by the crumb which for
these mortal hours had lain upon her craving heart--the very first
since the one on the arrival at Milbank.

Each brown head was shrouded in the coverings, the long dark fringes
rested safely on the cheeks, and Averil at length drew out the
treasure, and laid it on her hand to dwell on its very sight.  The
address needed to be looked at with lingering earnestness, as if it had
indeed been a missive from another world; she looked, and was tardy to
unfold it, as though, now the moment was come, the sense of being in
communication with her brother must be tasted to the utmost, ere
entering on the utterances that must give pain; and when she did open
the envelope, perhaps the first sensation was disappointment--the lines
were not near enough together, the writing not small enough, to satisfy
even the first glance of the yearning eye.  It was cheerful, it spoke
of good health, and full occupation, with the use of books, daily
exercise, the chaplain's visits, schooling and attendance at chapel,
and of the great pleasure of having heard from her.  'And that good Dr.
May inclosed your letter in one written to me with his own hand, a
kindness I never dared to think of as possible, but which he promises
to repeat.  Your letter and his are the continual food of my thoughts,
and are valued beyond all power of words.  I only hope you knew that I
have not been allowed to write sooner, and have not expected letters.'
Then came a few brief comments on her last inquiries, and entreaties
that she would give him full information of all details of their
present life: 'It will carry me along with you, and I shall live with
you, both as I read, and as I dwell on it afterwards.  Do not indulge
in a moment's uneasiness about me, for I am well, and busy; every one
is as kind to me as duty permits, and Dr. May is always ready to do all
in his power for me.'  There were a few affectionate words for Henry,
and 'I long to send a message to the children, but I know it is better
for them to let me drop from their minds, only you must tell me all
about them; I want to know that the dear little Minna is bright and
happy again.'

No confidences, only generalities; not even any reference to the one
unbroken bond of union, the one support, except in the three scanty
final words, the simplest of blessings.  It was not satisfying; but
Averil recalled, with a start, that no wonder the letter was meagre,
since it was necessarily subject to inspection; and how could the inner
soul be expressed when all must pass under strangers' eyes, who would
think such feelings plausible hypocrisy in a convicted felon. Again she
took it up, to suck to the utmost all that might be conveyed in the
short commonplace sentences, and to gaze at them as if intensity of
study could reveal whether the cheerfulness were real or only assumed.
Be they what they might, the words had only three weeks back been
formed by Leonard's hand, and she pressed her lips upon them in a
fervent agony of affection.

When she roused herself and turned her head, she perceived on Minna's
pillow two eyes above the bed-clothes, intently fixed on her.  Should
she see, or should she not see?  She believed that the loving heart was
suffering a cruel wrong, she yearned to share all with the child, but
she was chained by the command of one brother, and by that acquiescence
of the other which to her was more than a command.  She would not see,
she turned away, and made her preparations for the night without
betraying that she knew that the little one was awake, resuming the
tedious guard on the expression of her face.  But when her long
kneeling had ended, and with it that which was scarcely so much
conscious intercession as the resting an intolerable load on One who
alone knew its weight, just as she darkened the room for the night, the
low voice whispered, 'Ave, is it?'--

And Averil crept up to the little bed: 'Yes, Minna; he is well!  He
hopes you are bright and happy, but he says it is best you should
forget him.'  The brow was cold and clammy, the little frame chill and
trembling, the arms clasped her neck convulsively.  She lifted the
child into her own bed, pressed tight to her own bosom, and though no
other word passed between the sisters, that contact seemed to soothe
away the worst bitterness; and Averil slept from the stillness enforced
on her by the heed of not disturbing Minna's sleep.

Little that night had she recked of the plan needing so much
deliberation!  When she awoke it was to the consciousness that besides
the arrival of Leonard's letter, something had happened--there was some
perplexity--what was it?  And when it came back she was bewildered.
Her own fortune had always appeared to her something to fall back on in
case of want of success, and to expend it thus was binding the whole
family down at a perilous moment, to judge by the rumours of battle and
resistance.  And all she had ever heard at home, much that she daily
heard at New York, inclined her to distrust and dislike of American
speculations.  It was Cora's father!  Her heart smote her for including
him in English prejudice, when Henry liked and trusted him!  And she
had disobeyed and struggled against Henry too long.  She had promised
to be submissive and yielding.  But was this the time?  And the
boarding-house life--proverbially the worst for children--was fast
Americanizing Ella, while Minna drooped like a snowdrop in a hot-house,
and idleness might be mischievous to Henry.

Oh, for some one to consult! for some one to tell her whether the risk
was a foolish venture, or if the terms were safe!  But not a creature
did she know well enough to seek advice from!  Even the clergyman,
whose church she attended, was personally unknown to her; Cora Muller
was her sole intimate; there was a mutual repulsion between her and the
other ladies, and still more with the gentlemen. A boarding-house was
not the scene in which to find such as would inspire confidence, and
they had no introductions.  There was no one to turn to; and in the
dreary indifference that had grown over her, she did not even feel
capable of exerting her own judgment to the utmost, even if she had
been able to gather certain facts, or to know prudent caution from
blind prejudice--often woman's grievous difficulty.  What could a
helpless girl of one-and-twenty, in a land of strangers, do, but try to
think that by laying aside the use of her own judgment she was trusting
all to Providence, and that by leaving all to her brother she was
proving her repentance for her former conduct.

There, too, were her sisters, clamorous with hopes of the forest life;
and there was Cora, urging the scheme with all the fervour of girlish
friendship, and in herself no small element in its favour, engaging for
everything, adducing precedents for every kind of comfort and success,
and making Ave's consent a test of her love. One question Averil asked
of her--whether they should be utterly out of reach of their Church?
Cora herself had been bred up to liberal religious ways, and was ready
to attend whatever denomination of public worship came first to hand,
though that which had descended from the Pilgrim Fathers came most
naturally.  She had been at various Sunday schools, and was a good
conscientious girl, but had never gone through the process of
conversion, so that Rosa Willis had horrified Ella by pronouncing her
'not a Christian.'  She had no objection to show her English friends
the way to the favourite Episcopal Church, especially as it was
esteemed fashionable; and her passion for Averil had retained her
there, with growing interest, drawn on by Averil's greater precision of
religious knowledge, and the beauty of the Church system, displayed to
her as the one joy and relief left to one evidently crushed with
suffering.  The use of Averil's books, conversations with her, and the
teaching she heard, disposed her more and more to profess herself a
member of the Episcopal Church, and she was unable to enter into
Averil's scruples at leading her to so decided a step without her
father's sanction. 'Father would be satisfied whatever profession she
made.  Did people in England try to force their children's
consciences?'  Cora, at Averil's desire, ascertained that Massissauga
had as yet no place of worship of its own; but there was a choice of
chapels within a circuit of five miles, and an Episcopal Church seven
miles off, at the chief town of the county.  Moreover, her father
declared that the city of Massissauga would soon be considerable enough
to invite every variety of minister to please every denomination of
inhabitant. Averil felt that the seven miles off church was all she
could reasonably hope for, and her mind was clear on that score, when
Henry came to take her out walking for the sake of being able to talk
more freely.

No longer afraid of being overheard, he gave kind attention to
Leonard's letter; and though he turned away from the subject sooner
than she wished, she was not exacting.  Again he laid before her the
advantages of their migration, and assured her that if there were the
slightest risk he would be the last to make the proposal.  She asked if
it were safe to invest money in a country apparently on the eve of
civil war?

He laughed the idea to scorn.  How could the rebel states make war,
with a population of negroes sure to rise against their masters? Where
should their forces come from?  Faction would soon be put down, and the
union be stronger than ever.  It was what Averil had been hearing
morning, noon, and night, so no wonder she believed it, and was ashamed
of a futile girlish fear.

And was Henry sure it was a healthy place?  Had she not heard of
feverish swamps in Indiana?

Oh yes, in new unsettled places; but there had hardly been an ailment
in the Muller family since they had settled at Massissauga.

And Averil's last murmur was--Could he find out anything about other
people's opinion of the speculation? did they know enough about Mr.
Muller to trust themselves entirely in his hands?

Henry was almost angry--Could not his sister trust him to take all
reasonable precaution?  It was the old story of prejudice against
whatever he took up.

Poor Averil was disarmed directly.  The combats of will and their
consequences rose up before her, and with them Leonard's charges to
devote herself to Henry.  She could but avow herself willing to do
whatever he pleased.  She only hoped he would be careful.

All thenceforth was pleasant anticipation and hope.  Averil's property
had to be transferred to America, and invested in shares of the land at
Massissauga; but this was to cause no delay in arranging for the
removal, they were only to wait until the winter had broken up, and the
roads become passable after the melting of the snows; and meantime Mr.
Muller was to have their house prepared.  Cora would remain and
accompany them, and in the intervening time promised to assist Averil
with her judgment in making the necessary purchases for 'stepping
westward.'

When Averil wrote their plans to her English friends, she felt the
difficulty of pleading for them.  She was sensible that at Stoneborough
the risking of her property would be regarded as folly on her part, and
something worse on that of her brother; and she therefore wrote with
every effort to make the whole appear her own voluntary act--though the
very effort made her doubly conscious that the sole cause for her
passive acquiescence was, that her past self-will in trifles had left
her no power to contend for her own opinion in greater matters--the
common retribution on an opinionative woman of principle.

Moreover, it was always with an effort that she wrote to Mary May.  A
rejected offer from a brother is a rock in a correspondence with a
sister, and Averil had begun to feel greatly ashamed of the manner of
her own response.  Acceptance would have been impossible; but
irritating as had been Tom May's behaviour, insulting as had been his
explanation, and provoking, his pertinacity, she had begun to feel that
the impulse had been too generous and disinterested to deserve such
treatment, and that bitterness and ill-temper had made her lose all
softness and dignity, so that he must think that his pitying affection
had been bestowed on an ungrateful vixen, and be as much disgusted with
the interview as she was herself.  She did not wish him to love her;
but she regretted the form of the antidote, above all, since he was of
the few who appreciated Leonard; and the more she heard of Ella's
narrations of his kindness, the more ashamed she grew.  Every letter to
or from Mary renewed the uncomfortable sense, and she would have
dropped the correspondence had it not been her sole medium of
communication with her imprisoned brother, since Henry would not permit
letters to be posted with the Milbank address.




CHAPTER XX

  A little hint to solace woe,
  A hint, a whisper breathing low,
  'I may not speak of what I know.'--TENNYSON


At the pace at which rapid people walk alone, when they wish to devour
both the way and their own sensations, Ethel May was mounting the hill
out of the town in the premature heat assumed by May in compliment to
Whitsun week, when a prolonged shout made her turn.  At first she
thought it was her father, but her glass showed her that it was the
brother so like him in figure that the London-made coat, and the hair
partaking of the sand instead of the salt, were often said to be the
chief distinction.  Moreover, the dainty steps over the puddles were
little like the strides of the Doctor, and left no doubt that it was
the one wedding guest who had been despaired of.

'O, Tom, I am glad you are come!'

'What a rate you were running away at!  I thought you had done with
your hurricane pace.'

'Hurricane because of desperate hurry.  I'm afraid I can't turn back
with you.'

'Where is all the world?'

'Blanche is helping Mary arrange the Hoxton--I mean her own
drawing-room.  Hector has brought a dog-cart to drive papa about in;
Daisy is gone with Harry and Aubrey to the Grange for some camellias.'

'And Ethel rushing to Cocksmoor!'

'I can't help it, Tom,' she said, humbly; 'I wish I could.'

'What's this immense pannier you are carrying?'

'It is quite light.  It is twelve of the hats for the children
tomorrow.  Mary was bent on trimming them all as usual, and I was
deluded enough to believe she would, till last evening I found just one
and a half done!  I did as many as I could at night, till papa heard me
rustling about and thumped.  Those went early this morning; and these
are the rest, which I have just finished.'

'Was there no one to send?'

'My dear Tom, is your experience of weddings so slight as to suppose
there is an available being in the family the day before?'

'I'm sure I don't desire such experience.  Why could not they be
content without ferreting me down?'

'I am very glad you have come.  It would have been a great
mortification if you had stayed away.  I never quite believed you
would.'

'I had much rather see the operation I shall miss to-morrow morning. I
shall go back by the two o'clock train.'

'To study their happiness all the way up to town?'

'Then by the mail--'

'I won't torment you to stay; but I think papa will want a talk with
you.'

'The very thing I don't want.  Why can't he dispose of his property
like other people, and give Richard his rights?'

'You know Richard would only be encumbered.'

'No such thing; Richard is a reasonable being--he will marry some of
these days--get the living after Wilmot, and--'

'But you know how papa would be grieved to separate the practice from
the house.'

'Because he and his fathers were content to bury themselves in a hole,
he expects me to do the same.  Why, what should I do?  The place is
over-doctored already.  Every third person is a pet patient sending for
him for a gnat-bite, gratis, taking the bread out of Wright's mouth.
No wonder Henry Ward kicked!  If I came here, I must practise on the
lap-dogs!  Here's my father, stronger than any of us, with fifteen good
years' work in him at the least!  He would be wretched at giving up to
me a tenth part of his lambs, and that tenth would keep us always in
hot water.  His old-world practice would not go down with me, and he
would think everything murder that was fresher than the year 1830.'

'I thought he was remarkable for having gone on with the world,' said
Ethel, repressing some indignation.

'So he has in a way, but always against the grain.  He has a tough lot
of prejudices; and you may depend upon it, they would be more obstinate
against me than any one else, and I should be looked on as an undutiful
dog for questioning them, besides getting the whole credit of every
case that went wrong.'

'I think you are unjust,' said Ethel, flushing with displeasure.

'I wish I were not, Ethel; but when there is one son in a family who
can do nothing that is not taken amiss, it is hard that he should be
the one picked out to be pinned down, and, maybe, goaded into doing
something to be really sorry for.'

There was truth enough in this to seal Ethel's lips from replying that
it was Tom's own fault, since his whole nature and constitution were
far more the cause than his conduct, and she answered, 'You might get
some appointment for the present, till he really wants you.'

'To be ordered home just as I am making something of it, and see as
many cases in ten years as I could in a month in town.  Things are
altered since his time, if he could only see it.  What was the use of
giving me a first-rate education, if he meant to stick me down here?'

'At least I hope you will think long before you inflict the cruel
disappointment of knowing that not one of his five sons will succeed to
the old practice.'

'The throne, you mean, Ethel.  Pish!'

The 'Pish' was as injurious to her hereditary love for 'the old
practice,' and for the old town, as to her reverence for her father.
One angry 'Tom!' burst from her lips, and only the experience that
scolding made him worse, restrained her from desiring him to turn back
if this was the best he had to say.  Indeed she wondered to find him
still by her side, holding the gate of the plantation open for her.  He
peered under her hat as she went through--

'How hot you look!' he said, laying hold of the handles of the basket.

'Thank you; but it is more cumbrous than heavy,' she said, not letting
go; 'it is not _that_--'

An elision which answered better than words, to show that his speech,
rather than hill or load, had made her cheeks flame; but he only drew
the great basket more decisively from her hand, put his stick into the
handle, and threw it over his shoulder; and no doubt it was a much
greater act of good-nature from him than it would have been from
Richard or Harry.

'This path always reminds me of this very matter,' he said; 'I talked
it over with Meta here, on the way to lay the foundation-stone at
Cocksmoor, till Norman overtook us and monopolized her for good, poor
little thing.  She was all in the high romantic strain, making a sort
of knight hospitaller of my father.  I wonder what she is like by this
time, and how much of _that_ she has left.'

'Of the high romantic strain?  I should think it was as much as ever
the salt of life to her.  Her last letter described her contrivances to
make a knapsack for Norman on his visitation tour.  Oh, fancy old June
a venerable archdeacon!'

'You don't think a colonial archdeacon is like one of your great portly
swells in a shovel hat.'

'It must be something remarkable that made Norman portly.  But as for
the shovel hat, Mrs. Meta has insisted on having it sent out.  I was
going to tell you that she says, "I do like such a good tough bit of
stitchery, to fit my knight out for the cause."'

'Marriage and distance have not frozen up her effusions.'

'No; when people carry souls in their pens, they are worth a great deal
more, if they are to go to a distance.'

Ah! by the bye, I suppose Cheviot has put a fresh lock on Mary's
writing-case.'

'I suspect some of Mary's correspondence will devolve on me.  Harry has
asked me already.'

'I wished you had mentioned more about the letters of late.  Leonard
wanted to know more than I could tell him.'

'You don't mean that you have seen him?  O, Tom, how kind of you! Papa
has been trying hard to get a day now that these first six months are
up; but there are two or three cases that wanted so much watching that
he has not been able to stir.'

'I know how he lets himself be made a prisoner, and that it was a
chance whether any one saw the poor fellow at all.'

'I am so glad'--and Ethel turned on him a face still flushed, but now
with gratitude.  'How was he looking?'

'The costume is not becoming, and he has lost colour and grown
hollow-eyed; but I saw no reason for being uneasy about him; he looked
clear and in health, and has not got to slouch yet.  It is shocking to
see such a grand face and head behind a grating.'

'Could he talk'?

'Why, the presence of a warder is against conversation, and six months
of shoe-making in a cell does not give much range of ideas. There was
nothing to be done but to talk on right ahead and judge by his eyes if
he liked it.'

'I suppose you could find out nothing about himself?'

'He said he got on very well; but one does not know that means.  I
asked if he got books; and he said there was a very good library, and
he could get what gave him something to think of; and he says they give
interesting lectures in school.'

'You could not gather what is thought of him?'

'No; I saw but a couple of officers of the place, and could only get
out of them "good health and good conduct."  I do not expect even his
conduct makes much impression as to his innocence, for I saw it stated
the other day that the worst prisoners are those that are always
getting convicted for petty offences; those that have committed one
great crime are not so depraved, and are much more amenable.  However,
he has only three months more at Pentonville, and then he will go to
Portland, Chatham, or Gibraltar.'

'Oh, I hope it will not be Gibraltar!  But at least that terrible
solitude will be over.'

'At any rate, his spirit is not broken.  I could see his eye light up
after I had talked a little while, and he fell into his natural tone
again.  He would not try to put out his hand to me when he came down;
but when I went away, he put it through and we had a good hearty shake.
Somehow it made one feel quite small.'

Ethel could have pledged herself for the soundness of Tom's nature
after those words; but all she did was in an unwonted tone to utter the
unwonted exclamation--'Dear Tom.'

'If my father does not come up, I shall see him once more before he
leaves Pentonville,' added Tom; 'and so you must mind and let me know
all about his people in America.  I found he had no notion of the row
that is beginning there, so I said not a word of it.  But what is all
this about going to Indiana?'

'They are going at the end of April to settle in a place called
Massissauga, where Henry is to farm till practice comes to him.  It is
towards the north of the State, in the county of Pulaski.'

'Ay, in one of the pestilential swamps that run up out of Lake
Michigan.  All the fertile ground there breeds as many fevers and agues
as it does stalks of corn.'

'Indeed! how did you hear that?'

'I looked up the place after Leonard told me of it.  It is as unlucky a
location as the ill luck of that fellow Henry could have pitched on.
Some friend Leonard spoke of--a Yankee, I suppose, meaning to make a
prey of them.'

'The father of their young lady friend at the boarding-house.'

'Oh! a Yankee edition of Mrs. Pugh!'

'And the worst of it is that this is to be done with poor Averil's
fortune.  She has written to Mr. Bramshaw to sell out for her, and send
her the amount, and he is terribly vexed; but she is of age, and there
are no trustees nor any one to stop it.'

'All of a piece,' muttered Tom; then presently he swung the basket
round on the ground with a vehement exclamation--'If any man on this
earth deserved to be among the robbers and murderers, I know who it
is.'  Then he shouldered his load again, and walked on in silence by
his sister's side to the school door.

Richard had been obliged to go to a benefit club entertainment; and
Ethel, knowing the limited literary resources of the parsonage, was
surprised to find Tom still waiting for her, when the distribution and
fitting of the blue-ribboned hats was over, and matters arranged for
the march of the children to see the wedding, and to dine afterwards at
the Grammar-school hall.

'O, Tom, I did not expect to find you here.'

'It is not fit for you to be walking about alone on a Whit Monday.'

'I am very glad to have you, but I am past that.'

'Don't talk nonsense; girls are girls till long past your age,' said
Tom.

'It is not so much age, as living past things,' said Ethel.

'It was not only that, added Tom; 'but I've more to say to you, while
one can be sure of a quiet moment.  Have you heard anything about that
place?' and he pointed in the direction of the Vintry Mill.

'I heard something of an intention to part with it, and have been
watching for an advertisement; but I can see none in the Courant, or on
the walls.'

'Mind he does not slip off unawares.'

'I don't know what to do now that old Hardy is cut off from us.  I
tried to stir up Dr. Spencer to go and investigate, but I could not
tell him why, and he has not the same interest in going questing about
as he used to have.  People never will do the one thing one wants
particularly!'

Tom's look and gesture made her ask if he knew of anything wrong with
their old friend; and in return, she was told that Dr. Spencer's recent
visit to London had been to consult Sir Matthew Fleet.  The foundations
of mortal disease had been laid in India, and though it might long
remain in abeyance, there were from time to time symptoms of activity;
and tedious lingering infirmity was likely to commence long before the
end.

'And what do you think the strange old fellow charged me as we walked
away from dining at Fleet's?'

'Secrecy, of course,' returned the much-shocked Ethel.

'One does keep a secret by telling you.  It was to have my eye on some
lodging with a decent landlady, where, when it is coming to that, he
can go up to be alone, out of the way of troubling Dick, and of all of
you.'

'Tom, how dreadful!'

'I fancy it is something of the animal instinct of creeping away alone,
and partly his law to himself not to trouble Dick.'

'An odd idea of what would trouble Dick!'

'So I told him; but he said, after seeing what it cost my father to
watch dear Margaret's long decay, he would never entail the like on
him.  It is queer, and it is beautiful, the tender way he has about my
father, treating him like a pet to be shielded and guarded--a man that
has five times the force and vigour of body and mind that he has now,
whatever they may have been.'

'Very beautiful, and I cannot help telling you how beautiful,' said
Ethel, greatly moved; 'only remember, it is not to be mentioned.'

'Ha! did he ever make you an offer?  I have sometimes suspected it.'

'No indeed!  It was much--much more beautiful than that!'

'Our mother then?  I had thought of that too, and it accounts for his
having always taken to you the most of us.'

'Why, I'm the least like her of us all!'

'So they say, I know, and I can't recollect enough to judge, except
that'--and Tom's voice was less clear for a moment--'there was
something in being with her that I've never found again, except now and
then with you, Ethel.  Well, he never got over it, I suppose.'

And Ethel briefly told of the rash resolution, the unsettled life, the
neglect of the father's wishes, the grievous remorse, the broken
health, and restless aimless wanderings, ending at last in loving
tendance of the bereaved rival.  It had been a life never wanting in
generosity or benevolence, yet falling far short of what it might have
been--a gallant voyage made by a wreck--and yet the injury had been
less from the disappointment than from the manner of bearing it.
Suddenly it struck her that Tom might suspect her of intending a
personal application of the history, and she faltered; but he kept her
to it by his warm interest and many questions.

'And oh, Tom, he must not be allowed to go away in this manner! Nothing
would so cut papa to the heart!'

'I don't believe he ever will, Ethel.  He may go on for years as he is;
and he said in the midst that he meant to live to carry out the
drainage.  Besides, if it comes gradually on him, he may feel dependent
and lose the energy to move.'

'Oh! what a sorrow for papa!  But I know that not to watch over him
would make it all the worse.'

They walked on gravely till, on the top of the hill, Tom exclaimed,
'They've mounted the flag on the Minster steeple already.'

'It went up yesterday for Harvey Anderson and Mrs. Pugh.  There was a
proposal to join forces, and have a double wedding--so interesting, the
two school-fellows and two young friends.  The Cheviot girls much
regretted it was not to be.'

'Cheviot girls!  Heavens and earth!  At home?'

'Not sleeping; but we shall have them all day to-morrow, for they
cannot get home the same day by setting off after the wedding.  There
will be no one else, for even our own people are going, for Harry is to
go to Maplewood with Blanche, and Aubrey has to be at Woolwich; but we
shall all be at home to-night.'

'Last time was in the volunteer days, two or three centuries ago.'

It was strange how, with this naturally least congenial of all the
family, Ethel had a certain understanding and fellow-feeling that gave
her a sense of rest and relief in his company, only impaired by the
dread of rubs between him and his father.  None, however, happened; Dr.
May had been too much hurt to press the question of the inheritance,
and took little notice of Tom, being much occupied with the final
business about the wedding, and engrossed by Hector and Harry, who
always absorbed him in their short intervals of his company.  Tom went
to see Dr. Spencer, and brought him in, so cheerful and full of life,
that what Ethel had been hearing seemed like a dream, excepting when
she recognized Tom's unobtrusive gentleness and attention towards him.

She was surprised and touched through all the harass and hurry of that
evening and morning, to find the 'must be dones' that had of late
devolved on her alone, now lightened and aided by Tom, who appeared to
have come for the sole purpose of being always ready to give a helping
hand where she wanted it, with all Richard's manual dexterity, and more
resource and quickness.  The refreshment of spirits was the more
valuable as this was a very unexciting wedding. Even Gertrude, not yet
fourteen, had been surfeited with weddings, and replied to Harry's old
wit of 'three times a bridesmaid and never a bride,' that she hoped so,
her experience of married life was extremely flat; and a glance at
Blanche's monotonous dignity, and Flora's worn face, showed what that
experience was.

Harry was the only one to whom there was the freshness of novelty, and
he was the great element of animation; but as the time came near,
honest Harry had been seized with a mortal dread of the tears he
imagined an indispensable adjunct of the ceremony, and went about
privately consulting every one how much weeping was inevitable. Flora
told him she saw no reason for any tears, and Ethel that when people
felt very much they couldn't cry; but on the other hand, Blanche said
she felt extremely nervous, and knew she should be overcome; Gertrude
assured him that on all former occasions Mary did all the crying
herself; and Aubrey told him that each bridesmaid carried six
handkerchiefs, half for herself and half for the bride.

The result was, that the last speech made by Harry to his favourite
sister in her maiden days was thus:--'Well, Mary, you do look
uncommonly nice and pretty; but now'--most persuasively--'you'll be a
good girl and not cry, will you?' and as Mary fluttered, tried to
smile, and looked out through very moist eyes, he continued, 'I feel
horribly soft-hearted to-day, and if you howl I must, you know; so
mind, if I see you beginning, I shall come out with my father's old
story of the spirit of the flood and the spirit of the fell, and that
will stop it, if anything can.'

The comicality of Harry's alarm was nearly enough to 'stop it,' coupled
with the great desire of Daisy that he should be betrayed into tears;
and Mary did behave extremely well, and looked all that a bride should
look.  Admirable daughter and sister, she would be still more in her
place as wife; hers was the truly feminine nature that, happily for
mankind, is the most commonplace, and that she was a thoroughly generic
bride is perhaps a testimony to her perfection in the part, as in all
others where quiet unselfish womanhood was the essential.  Never had
she been so sweet in every tone, word, and caress; never had Ethel so
fully felt how much she loved her, or how entirely they had been one,
from a time almost too far back for memory.  There had not been
intellectual equality; but perhaps it was better, fuller affection,
than if there had been; for Mary had filled up a part that had been in
some measure wanting in Ethel.  She had been a sort of wife to her
sister, and thus was the better prepared for her new life, but was all
the sorer loss at home.

The bridegroom!  How many times had Ethel to remind herself of her
esteem, and security of Mary's happiness, besides frowning down
Gertrude's saucy comments, and trying to laugh away Tom's low growl
that good things always fell to the share of poor hearts and narrow
minds.  Mr. Cheviot did in fact cut a worse figure than George Rivers
of old, having a great fund of natural bashfulness and
self-consciousness, which did not much damage his dignity, but made his
attempts at gaiety and ease extremely awkward, not to say sheepish.
Perhaps the most trying moment was the last, when hearing a few words
between Ethel and Mary about posting a mere scrap, if only an empty
envelope, from the first resting-place, he turned round, with his
laugh, to object to rash promises, and remind his dear sister Ethel
that post-offices were not always near at hand!  After that, when Mary
in her bright tenderness hung round her sister, it was as if that was
the last fond grasp from the substance--as if only the shadow would
come back and live in Minster Street.

Perhaps it was because Ethel had tried to rule it otherwise, Mr.
Cheviot had insisted that the Cocksmoor children's share in the
festivity should be a dinner in the Whichcote hall, early in the day,
after which they had to be sent home, since no one chose to have the
responsibility of turning them loose to play in the Grammar-school
precincts, even in the absence of the boys.  Richard was much afraid of
their getting into mischief, and was off immediately after church to
superintend the dinner, and marshal them home; and the rest of the
world lost the resource that entertaining them generally afforded the
survivors after a marriage, and which was specially needed with the two
Cheviot sisters to be disposed of.  By the time the Riverses were gone
home, and the Ernescliffes and Harry off by the train, there were still
four mortal hours of daylight, and oh! for Mary's power of making every
one happy!

Caroline and Annie Cheviot were ladylike, nice-looking girls; but when
they found no croquet mallets in the garden, they seemed at a loss what
life had to offer at Stoneborough!  Gertrude pronounced that 'she
played at it sometimes at Maplewood, where she had nothing better to
do,' and then retreated to her own devices.  Ethel's heart sank both
with dread of the afternoon, and with self-reproach at her spoilt
child's discourtesy, whence she knew there would be no rousing her
without an incapacitating discussion; and on she wandered in the garden
with the guests, receiving instruction where the hoops might be
planted, and hearing how nice it would be for her sister to have such
an object, such a pleasant opportunity of meeting one's friends--an
interest for every day.  'No wonder they think I want an object in
life,' thought Ethel; 'how awfully tiresome I must be!  Poor things,
what can I say to make it pleasanter?--Do you know this Dielytra?  I
think it is the prettiest of modern flowers, but I wish we might call
it Japan fumitory, or by some English name.'

'I used to garden once, but we have no flower-beds now, they spoilt the
lawn for croquet.'

'And here comes Tom,' thought Ethel; 'poor Tom, he will certainly be
off to London this evening.'

Tom, however, joined the listless promenade; and the first time croquet
was again mentioned, observed that he had seen the Andersons knocking
about the balls in the new gardens by the river; and proposed to go
down and try to get up a match.  There was an instant brightening, and
Tom stepped into the drawing-room, and told Daisy to come with them.

'To play at croquet with the Andersons in the tea-gardens!' she
exclaimed.  'No, I thank you, Thomas!'

He laid his hand on her shoulder--'Gertrude,' he said, 'it is time to
have done being a spoilt baby.  If you let Ethel fag herself ill, you
will rue it all your life.'

Frightened, but without clear comprehension, she turned two scared eyes
on him, and replaced the hat that she had thrown on the table, just as
Ethel and the others came in.

'Not you, Ethel,' said Tom; 'you don't know the game.'

'I can learn,' said Ethel, desperately bent on her duty.

'We would teach you,' volunteered the Cheviots.

'You would not undertake it if you knew better,' said Tom, smiling.
'Ethel's hands are not her strong point.'

'Ethel would just have to be croqued all through by her partner,' said
Gertrude.

'Besides, my father will be coming in and wanting you,' added Tom; 'he
is only at the hospital or somewhere about the town.  I'll look after
this child.'

And the two sisters, delighted that poor little Gertrude should have
such a holiday treat as croquet in the public gardens, away from her
governess elder sister, walked off glorious; while Ethel, breathing
forth a heavy sigh, let herself sink into a chair, feeling as if the
silence were in itself invaluable, and as if Tom could not be enough
thanked for having gained it for her.

She was first roused by the inquiry, 'Shall I take in this letter,
ma'am? it is charged four shillings over-weight.  And it is for Mr.
Thomas, ma'am,' impressively concluded the parlour-maid, as one
penetrated by Mr. Thomas's regard to small economies.

Ethel beheld a letter bloated beyond the capacities of the two bewigged
Washingtons that kept guard in its corner, and addressed in a cramped
hand unknown to her; but while she hesitated, her eye fell on another
American letter directed to Miss Mary May, in Averil Ward's well-known
writing, and turning both round, she found they had the same post-mark,
and thereupon paid the extra charge, and placed the letter where Tom
was most likely to light naturally on it without public comment.  The
other letter renewed the pang at common property being at an end.  'No,
Mab,' she said, taking the little dog into her lap, 'we shall none of
us hear a bit of it!  But at least it is a comfort that this business
is over!  You needn't creep under sofas now, there's nobody to tread
upon your dainty little paws.  What is to be done, Mab, to get out of a
savage humour--except thinking how good-natured poor Tom is!'

There was not much sign of savage humour in the face that was lifted up
as Dr. May came in from the hospital, and sitting down by his daughter,
put his arm round her.  'So there's another bird flown,' he said.  'We
shall soon have the old nest to ourselves, Ethel.'

'The Daisy is not going just yet,' said Ethel, stroking back the thin
flying flakes over his temples.  'If we may believe her, never!'

'Ah! she will be off before we can look round,' said the Doctor; 'when
once the trick of marrying gets among one's girls, there's no end to
it, as long as they last out.'

'Nor to one's boys going out into the world,' said Ethel: both of them
talking as if she had been his wife, rather than one of these fly-away
younglings herself.

'Ah! well,' he said, 'it's very pretty while it lasts, and one keeps
the creatures; but after all, one doesn't rear them for one's own
pleasure.  That only comes by the way of their chance good-will to one.'

'For shame, Doctor!' said Ethel, pretending to shake him by the collar.

'I was thinking,' he added, 'that we must not require too much. People
must have their day, and in their own fashion; and I wish you would
tell Tom--I've no patience to do it myself--that I don't mean to hamper
him.  As long as it is a right line, he may take whichever he pleases,
and I'll do my best to set him forward in it; but it is a pity--'

'Perhaps a few years of travelling, or of a professorship, might give
him time to think differently,' said Ethel.

'Not he,' said the Doctor; 'the more a man lives in the world, the more
he depends on it.  Where is the boy? is he gone without vouchsafing a
good-bye?'

'Oh no, he has taken pity on Annie and Caroline Cheviot's famine of
croquet, and gone with them to the gardens.'

'A spice of flirtation never comes amiss to him.'

'There, that's the way!' said Ethel, half-saucily, half-caressingly;
'that poor fellow never can do right!  Isn't it the very thing to keep
him away from home, that we all may steal a horse, and he can't look
over the wall, no, not with a telescope?'

'I can't help it, Ethel.  It may be very wrong and unkind of me--Heaven
forgive me if it is, and prevent me from doing the boy any harm! but I
never can rid myself of a feeling of there being something behind when
he seems the most straightforward.  If he had only not got his
grandfather's mouth and nose!  And,' smiling after all--'I don't know
what I said to be so scolded; all lads flirt, and you can't deny that
Master Tom divided his attentions pretty freely last year between Mrs.
Pugh and poor Ave Ward.'

'This time, I believe, it was out of pure kindness to me,' said Ethel,
'so I am bound to his defence.  He dragged off poor Daisy to chaperon
them, that I might have a little peace.'

'Ah! he came down on us this morning,' said the Doctor, 'on Richard and
Flora and me, and gave us a lecture on letting you grow old,
Ethel--said you were getting over-tasked, and no one heeding it; and
looking--let's look'--and he took off his spectacles, put his hand on
her shoulder, and studied her face.

'Old enough to be a respectable lady of the house, I hope,' said Ethel.

'Wiry enough for most things,' said the Doctor, patting her shoulder,
reassured; 'but we must take care, Ethel; if you don't fatten yourself
up, we shall have Flora coming and carrying you off to London for a
change, and for Tom to practise on.

'That is a threat!  I expected he had been prescribing for me already,
never to go near Cocksmoor, for that's what people always begin by--'

'Nothing worse than pale ale.'  At which Ethel made one of her faces.
'And to make a Mary of that chit of a Daisy.  Well, you may do as you
please--only take care, or Flora will be down upon us.'

'Tom has been very helpful and kind to me,' said Ethel.  'And, papa, he
has seen Leonard, and he says he looked so noble that to shake hands
with him made him feel quite small.'

'I never heard anything so much to Tom's credit!  Well, and what did he
say of the dear lad?'

The next step was to mention Averil's letter to Mary, which could not
be sent on till tidings had been permitted by Mr. Cheviot.

'Let us see it,' said the Doctor.

'Do you think Charles Cheviot would like it?'

'Cheviot is a man of sense,' said the open-hearted Doctor, 'and there
may be something to authorize preventing this unlucky transfer of her
fortune.'

Nothing could be further from it; but it was a long and interesting
letter, written in evidently exhilarated spirits, and with a hopeful
description of the new scenes.  Ethel read it to her father, and he
told every one about it when they came in.  Tom manifested no
particular interest; but he did not go by the mail train that night,
and was not visible all the morning.  He caught Ethel alone however at
noon, and said, 'Ethel, I owe you this,' offering the amount she had
paid for the letter.

'Thank you,' she said, wondering if this was to be all she should hear
about it.

'I am going by the afternoon train,' he added; 'I have been over to
Blewer.  It is true, Ethel, the fellow can't stand it! he has sent down
a manager, and is always in London!  Most likely to dispose of it by
private contract there, they say.'

'And what has become of old Hardy?'

'Poor old fellow, he has struck work, looks terribly shaky.  He took me
for my father at first sight, and began to apologize most
plaintively--said no one else had ever done him any good.  I advised
him to come in and see my father, though he is too far gone to do much
for him.'

'Poor old man, can he afford to come in now?'

'Why, I helped him with the cart hire.  It is no use any way, he knows
no more than we do, and his case is confirmed; but he thinks he has
offended my father, and he'll die more in peace for having had him
again.  Look here, what a place they have got to.'

And without further explanation of the 'they,' Tom placed a letter in
Ethel's hands.


'My Dear Mr. Thomas,

'I send you the objects I promised for your microscope; I could not get
any before because we were in the city; but if you like these I can get
plenty more at Massissauga, where we are now.  We came here last week,
and the journey was very nice, only we went bump bump so often, and
once we stuck in a marsh, and were splashed all over.  We are staying
with Mr. Muller and Cora till our own house is quite ready; it was only
begun a fortnight ago, and we are to get in next week.  I thought this
would have been a town, it looked so big and so square in the plan; but
it is all trees still, and there are only thirteen houses built yet.
Ours is all by itself in River Street, and all the trees near it have
been killed, and stand up all dead and white, because nobody has time
to cut them down.  It looks very dismal, but Ave says it will be very
nice by and by, and, Rufus Muller says it has mammoth privileges.  I
send you a bit of rattlesnake skin.  They found fifteen of them asleep
under a stone, just where our house is built, and sometimes they come
into the kitchen.  I do not know the names of the other things I send;
and I could not ask Ave, for she said you would not want to be bothered
with a little girl's letter, and I was not to ask for an answer. Rosa
Willis says no young lady of my age would ask her sister's permission,
and not even her mother's, unless her mamma was very intellectual and
highly educated, and always saw the justice of her arguments; but Minna
and I do not mean to be like that.  I would tell Ave if you did write
to me, but she need not read it unless she liked.

                       'I am, your affectionate little friend,
                                                           'ELLA.'


'Well!' said Tom, holding out his hand for more when she had restored
this epistle.  'You have heard all there was in it, except--'

'Except what I want to see.'

And Ethel, as she had more or less intended all along, let him have
Averil's letter, since the exception was merely a few tender words of
congratulation to Mary.  The worst had been done already by her father;
and it may here be mentioned that though nothing was said in answer to
her explanation of the opening of the letter, the head-master never
recovered the fact, and always attributed it to his dear sister Ethel.

'For the future,' said Tom, as he gave back the thin sheets, 'they will
all be for the Cheviots' private delectation.'

'I shall begin on my own score,' said Ethel.  'You know if you answer
this letter, you must not mention that visit of yours, or you will be
prohibited, and one would not wish to excite a domestic secession.'

'It would serve the unnatural scoundrel right,' said Tom.  'Well, I
must go and put up my things.  You'll keep me up to what goes on at
home, and if there's anything out there to tell Leonard--'

'Wait a moment, Tom!'--and she told him what the Doctor had said about
his plans.

'Highly educated and intellectual,' was all the answer that Tom
vouchsafed; and whether he were touched or not she could not gather.

Yet her spirit felt less weary and burdened, and more full of hope than
it had been for a long time past.  Averil's letter showed the
exhilaration of the change, and of increasing confidence and comfort in
her friend Cora Muller.  Cora's Confirmation had brought the girls into
contact with the New York clergy, and had procured them an introduction
to the clergyman of Winiamac, the nearest church, so that there was
much less sense of loneliness, moreover, the fuller and more systematic
doctrine, and the development of the beauty and daily guidance of the
Church, had softened the bright American girl, so as to render her
infinitely dearer to her English friend, and they were as much united
as they could be, where the great leading event of the life of one
remained a mystery to the other.  Yet perhaps it helped to begin a
fresh life, that the intimate companion of that new course should be
entirely disconnected with the past.

Averil threw herself into the present with as resolute a will as she
could muster.  With much spirit she described the arrival at the
Winiamac station, and the unconcealed contempt with which the mass of
luggage was regarded by the Western world, who 'reckoned it would be
fittest to make kindlings with.'  Heavy country wagons were to bring
the furniture; the party themselves were provided for by a light wagon
and a large cart, driven by Cora's brother, Mordaunt, and by the
farming-man, Philetus, a gentleman who took every occasion of asserting
his equality, if not his superiority to the new-comers; demanded all
the Christian names, and used them without prefix; and when Henry
impressively mentioned his eldest sister as Miss Warden, stared and
said, 'Why, Doctor, I thought she was not your old woman!'--the Western
epithet of a wife.  But as Cora was quite content to leave Miss behind
her in civilized society, and as they were assured that to stand upon
ceremony would leave them without domestic assistance, the sisters had
implored Henry to waive all preference for a polite address.

The loveliness of the way was enchanting--the roads running straight as
an arrow through glorious forest lands of pine, beech, maple, and oak,
in the full glory of spring, and the perspective before and behind
making a long narrowing green bower of meeting branches; the whole of
the borders of the road covered with lovely flowers--May-wings, a
butterfly-like milkwort, pitcher-plant, convolvulus; new insects danced
in the shade--golden orioles, blue birds, the great American robin, the
field officer, with his orange epaulettes, glanced before them.  Cora
was in ecstasy at the return to forest scenery, the Wards at its
novelty, and the escape from town.  Too happy were they at first to
care for the shaking and bumping of the road, and the first mud-hole
into which they plunged was almost a joke, under Mordaunt Muller's
assurances that it was easy fording, though the splashes flew far and
wide.  Then there was what Philetus called 'a mash with a real handsome
bridge over it,' i. e. a succession of tree trunks laid side by side
for about a quarter of a mile.  Here the female passengers insisted on
walking--even Cora, though her brother and Philetus both laughed her to
scorn; and more especially for her foot-gear, delicate kid boots,
without which no city damsel stirred.  Averil and her sisters, in the
English boots scorned at New York, had their share in the laugh, while
picking their way from log to log, hand in hand, and exciting
Philetus's further disdain by their rapture with the glorious flowers
of the bog.

But where was Massissauga?  Several settlements had been passed, the
houses looking clean and white in forest openings, with fields where
the lovely spring green of young maize charmed the eye.

At last the road grew desolate.  There were a few patches of corn, a
few squalid-looking log or frame houses, a tract of horrible dreary
blackness; and still more horrible, beyond it was a region of
spectres--trees white and stripped bare, lifting their dead arms like
things blasted.  Averil cried out in indignant horror, 'Who has done
this?'

'We have,' answered Mordaunt.  'This is Maclellan Square, Miss Warden,
and there's River Street,' pointing down an avenue of skeletons.  'If
you could go to sleep for a couple of years, you would wake up to find
yourself in a city such as I would not fear to compare with any in
Europe.  Your exhausted civilization is not as energetic as ours, I
calculate.'

The energetic young colonist turned his horse's head up a slight rising
ground, where something rather more like habitation appeared; a great
brick-built hotel, and some log houses, with windows displaying the
wares needed for daily consumption, and a few farm buildings.  It was
backed by corn-fields; and this was the great Maclellan Street, the
chief ornament of Massissauga.  Not one house had the semblance of a
garden; the wilderness came up to the very door, except where cattle
rendered some sort of enclosure necessary.

Cora exclaimed, 'Oh, Mordaunt, I thought you would have had a garden
for me!'

'I can fix it any time you like,' said he; 'but you'll be the
laughing-stock of the place, and never keep a flower.'

The Mullers' abode was a sound substantial log house, neatly whitened,
and with green shutters, bearing a festal appearance, full of welcome,
as Mr. Muller, his tall bearded son Rufus, and a thin but
motherly-looking elderly woman, came forth to meet the travellers; and
in the front, full stare, stood a trollopy-looking girl, every bar of
her enormous hoop plainly visible through her washed-out flimsy muslin.
This was Miss Ianthe, who condescended to favour the family with her
assistance till she should have made up dollars enough to buy a new
dress!  The elder woman, who went by the name of Cousin Deborah, would
have been a housekeeper in England--here she was one of the
family--welcomed Cora with an exchange of kisses, and received the
strangers with very substantial hospitality, though with pity at their
unfitness for their new home, and utter incredulity as to their success.

Here the Wards had been since their arrival.  Their frame-house, near
the verdant bank of the river, was being finished for them; and a great
brass plate, with Henry's new name and his profession, had already
adorned the door.  The furniture was coming; Cousin Deborah had hunted
up a Cleopatra Betsy, who might perhaps stay with them if she were
treated on terms of equality, a field was to be brought into
cultivation as soon as any labour could be had.  Minna was looking
infinitely better already, and Averil and Cora were full of designs for
rival housewifery, Averil taking lessons meantime in ironing, dusting,
and the arts of the kitchen, and trusting that in the two years' time,
the skeletons would have given place--if not indeed to houses, to
well-kept fields.  Such was her account.

How much was reserved for fear of causing anxiety?  Who could guess?




CHAPTER XXI

                   Quanto si fende
  La rocca per dar via a chi va suso
  N'andai 'nfino ove'l cerchiar si prende
  Com'io nel quinto giro fui dischiuso
  Vidi gente per esso che piangea
  Glacendo a terra tutta volta in giuso
  Adhaesit pavimento anima mia
  Sentia dir loro con si alti sospiri
  Che la parola appena s'intendea.
  'O eletti di Deo, i cui soffriri
  E giustizia e speranza fan men duri--'
                               DANTE. Purgatorio


Ah, sir, we have learnt the way to get your company,' said Hector
Ernescliffe, as he welcomed his father-in-law at Maplewood; 'we have
only to get under sentence.'

'Sick or sorry, Hector; that's the attraction to an old doctor.'

'And,' added Hector, with the importance of his youthful magisterial
dignity, 'I hope I have arranged matters for you to see him.  I wrote
about it; but I am afraid you will not be able to see him alone.'

Great was the satisfaction with which Hector took the conduct of the
expedition to Portland Island; though he was inclined to encumber it
with more lionizing than the good Doctor's full heart was ready for.
Few words could he obtain, as in the bright August sunshine they
steamed out from the pier at Weymouth, and beheld the gray sides of the
island, scarred with stone quarries, stretching its lengthening
breakwater out on one side, and on the other connected with the land by
the pale dim outline of the Chesill Bank.  The water was dancing in
golden light; white-sailed or red-sailed craft plied across it; a ship
of the line lay under the lee of the island, practising gunnery, the
three bounds of her balls marked by white columns of spray each time of
touching the water, pleasure parties crowded the steamer; but to Dr.
May the cheerfulness of the scene made a depressing contrast to the
purpose of his visit, as he fixed his eyes on the squared outline of
the crest of the island, and the precipitous slope from thence to the
breakwater, where trains of loaded trucks rushed forth to the end,
discharged themselves, and hurried back.

Landing at the quay, in the midst of confusion, Hector smiled at the
Doctor's innocent proposal of walking, and bestowed him in a little
carriage, with a horse whose hard-worked patience was soon called out,
as up and up they went, through the narrow, but lively street, past the
old-fashioned inn, made memorable by a dinner of George III.; past the
fossil tree, clamped against a house like a vine; past heaps of slabs
ready for transport, a church perched up high on the slope, and a
parsonage in a place that looked only accessible to goats.  Lines of
fortification began to reveal themselves, and the Doctor thought
himself arrived, but he was to wind further on, and be more struck with
the dreariness and inhospitality of the rugged rock, almost bare of
vegetation, the very trees of stone, and older than our creation; the
melancholy late ripening harvest within stone walls, the whole surface
furrowed by stern rents and crevices riven by nature, or cut into
greater harshness by the quarries hewn by man. The grave strangeness of
the region almost marked it out for a place of expiation, like the
mountain rising desolate from the sea, where Dante placed his prisoners
of hope.

The walls of a vast enclosure became visible; and over them might be
seen the tops of great cranes, looking like the denuded ribs of
umbrellas.  Buildings rose beyond, with deep arched gateways; and a
small town was to be seen further off.  Mr. Ernescliffe sent in his
card at the governor's house, and found that the facilities he had
asked for had been granted.  They were told that the prisoner they
wished to see was at work at some distance; and while he was summoned,
they were to see the buildings.  Dr. May had little heart for making a
sight of them, except so far as to judge of Leonard's situation; and he
was passively conducted across a gravelled court, turfed in the centre,
and containing a few flower-beds, fenced in by Portland's most natural
productions, zamias and ammonites, together with a few stone coffins,
which had once inclosed corpses of soldiers of the Roman garrison.
Large piles of building inclosed the quadrangle; and passing into the
first of these, the Doctor began to realize something of Leonard's
present existence.  There lay before him the broad airy passage, and
either side the empty cells of this strange hive, as closely packed,
and as chary of space, as the compartments of the workers of the
honeycomb.

'Just twice as wide as a coffin,' said Hector, doing the honours of
one, where there was exactly width to stand up between the bed and the
wall of corrugated iron; 'though, happily, there is more liberality of
height.'

There was a ground glass window opposite to the door, and a shelf,
holding a Bible, Prayer and hymn book, and two others, one religious,
and one secular, from the library.  A rust-coloured jacket, with a
black patch marked with white numbers, and a tarpaulin hat, crossed
with two lines of red paint on the crown, hung on the wall.  The Doctor
asked for Leonard's cell, but it was in a distant gallery, and he was
told that when he had seen one, he had seen all.  He asked if these
were like those that Leonard had previously inhabited at Milbank and
Pentonville, and hearing that they were on the same model, he almost
gasped at the thought of the young enterprising spirit thus caged for
nine weary months, and to whom this bare confined space was still the
only resting-place.  He could not look by any means delighted with the
excellence of the arrangements, grant it though he might; and he was
hurried on to the vast kitchens, their ranges of coppers full of
savoury steaming contents, and their racks of loaves looking all that
was substantial and wholesome; but his eyes were wandering after the
figures engaged in cooking, to whom he was told such work was a reward;
he was trying to judge how far they could still enjoy life; but he
turned from their stolid low stamp of face with a sigh, thinking how
little their condition could tell him of that of a cultivated nature.

He was shown the chapel, unfortunately serving likewise for a
schoolroom; the centre space fitted for the officials and their
families, the rest with plain wooden benches.  But it was not an hour
for schooling, and he went restlessly on to the library, to gather all
the consolation he could from seeing that the privation did not extend
to that of sound and interesting literature.  He had yet to see the
court, where the prisoners were mustered at half-past five in the
morning, thence to be marched off in their various companies to work.
He stood on the terrace from which the officials marshalled them, and
he was called on to look at the wide and magnificent view of sea and
land; but all he would observe to Hector was, 'That boy's throat has
always been tender since the fever.'  He was next conducted to the
great court, the quarry of the stones of the present St. Paul's, and
where the depression of the surface since work began there, was marked
by the present height of what had become a steep conical edifice,
surmounted by a sort of watch-tower.  There he grew quite restive, and
hearing a proposal of taking him to the Verne Hill works half a mile
off, he declared that Hector was welcome to go; he should wait for his
boy.

Just then the guide pointed out at some distance a convict approaching
under charge of a warder; and in a few seconds more, the Doctor had
stepped back to a small room, where, by special favour, he was allowed
to be with the prisoner, instead of seeing him through a grating, but
only in the presence of a warder, who was within hearing, though not
obtrusively so.  Looking, to recognize, not to examine, he drew the
young man into his fatherly embrace.

'You have hurt your hands,' was his first word, at the touch of the
bruised fingers and broken skin.

'They are getting hardened,' was the answer, in an alert tone, that
gave the Doctor courage to look up and meet an unquenched glance;
though there was the hollow look round the eyes that Tom had noticed,
the face had grown older, the expression more concentrated, the
shoulders had rounded; the coarse blue shirt and heavy boots were dusty
with the morning's toil, and the heat and labour of the day had left
their tokens, but the brow was as open, the mouth as ingenuous as ever,
the complexion had regained a hue of health, and the air of alacrity
and exhilaration surprised as much as it gratified the visitor.

'What is your work?' he asked.

'Filling barrows with stones, and wheeling them to the trucks for the
breakwater,' answered Leonard, in a tone like satisfaction.  'But pray,
if you are so kind, tell me,' he continued, with anxiety that he could
not suppress, 'what is this about war in America?'

'Not near Indiana; no fear of that, I trust.  But how did you know,
Leonard?'

'I saw, for one moment at a time, in great letters on a placard of the
contents of newspapers, at the stations as we came down here, the
words, 'Civil War in America;' and it has seemed to be in the air here
ever since.  But Averil has said nothing in her letters.  Will it
affect them?'

The Doctor gave a brief sketch of what was passing, up to the battle of
Bull Run; and his words were listened to with such exceeding avidity,
that he was obliged to spend more minutes than he desired on the
chances of the war, and the Massissauga tidings, which he wished to
make sound more favourable than he could in conscience feel that they
were; but when at last he had detailed all he knew from Averil's
letters, and it had been drunk in with glistening eyes, and manner
growing constantly less constrained, he led back to Leonard himself:
'Ethel will write at once to your sister when I get home; and I think I
may tell her the work agrees with you.'

'Yes; and this is man's work; and it is for the defences,' he added,
with a sparkle of the eye.

'Very hard and rough,' returned the Doctor, looking again at the
wounded hands and hard-worked air.

'Oh, but to put out one's strength again, and have room!' cried the
boy, eagerly.

'Was it not rather a trying change at first?'

'To be sure I was stiff, and didn't know how to move in the morning,
but that went off fast enough; and I fill as many barrows a day as any
one in our gang.'

'Then I may tell your sister you rejoice in the change?'

'Why, it's work one does not get deadly sick of, as if there was no
making one's self do it,' said Leonard, eagerly; 'it is work! and
besides, here is sunshine and sea.  I can get a sight of that every
day; and now and then I can get a look into the bay, and
Weymouth--looking like the old time.'  That was his first sorrowful
intonation; but the next had the freshness of his age, 'And there are
thistles!'

'Thistles?'

'I thought you cared for thistles; for Miss May showed me one at
Coombe; but it was not like what they are here--the spikes pointing out
and pointing in along the edges of the leaves, and the scales lapping
over so wonderfully in the bud.'

'Picciola!' said the Doctor to himself; and aloud,  'Then you have time
to enjoy them?'

'When we are at work at a distance, dinner is brought out, and there is
an hour and a half of rest; and on Sunday we may walk about the yards.
You should have seen one of our gang, when I got him to look at the
chevaux de frise round a bud, how he owned it was a regular patent
invention; it just answered to Paley's illustration.'

'What, the watch?' said the Doctor, seeing that the argument had been
far from trite to his young friend.  'So you read Paley?'

'I read all such books as I could get up there,' he answered; 'they
gave one something to think about.'

'Have you no time for reading here?'

'Oh, no!  I am too sleepy to read except on school days and Sundays,'
he said, as if this were a great achievement.

'And your acquaintance--is he a reader of Paley too?'

'I believe the chaplain set him on it.  He is a clerk, like me, and not
much older.  He is a regular Londoner, and can hardly stand the work;
but he won't give in if he can help it, or we might not be together.'

Much the Doctor longed to ask what sort of a friend this might be, but
the warder's presence forbade him; and he could only ask what they saw
of each other.

'We were near one another in school at Pentonville, and knew each
other's faces quite well, so that we were right glad to be put into the
same gang.  We may walk about the yard together on Sunday evening too.'

The Doctor had other questions on his lips that he again restrained,
and only asked whether the Sundays were comfortable days.

'Oh, yes,' said Leonard, eagerly; but then he too recollected the
official, and merely said something commonplace about excellent
sermons, adding, 'And the singing is admirable.  Poor Averil would envy
such a choir as we have!  We sing so many of the old Bankside hymns.'

'To make your resemblance to Dante's hill of penitence complete, as
Ethel says,' returned the Doctor.

'I should like it to be a hill of purification!' said Leonard,
understanding him better than he had expected.

'It will, I think,' said the Doctor, 'to one at least.  I am comforted
to see you so brave.  I longed to come sooner, but--'

'I am glad you did not.'

'How?'  But he did not pursue the question, catching from look and
gesture, that Leonard could hardly have then met him with
self-possession; and as the first bulletin of recovery is often the
first disclosure of the severity of an illness, so the Doctor was more
impressed by the prisoner's evident satisfaction in his change of
circumstances, than he would have been by mere patient resignation; and
he let the conversation be led away to Aubrey's prospects, in which
Leonard took full and eager interest.

'Tell Aubrey I am working at fortifications too,' he said, smiling.

'He could not go to Cambridge without you.'

'I don't like to believe that,' said Leonard, gravely; 'it is carrying
the damage I have done further: but it can't be.  He always was fond of
mathematics, and of soldiering.  How is it at the old mill?' he added,
suddenly.

'It is sold.'

'Sold?' and his eyes were intently fixed on the Doctor.

'Yes, he is said to have been much in debt long before; but it was
managed quietly--not advertised in the county papers.  He went to
London, and arranged it all.  I saw great renovations going on at the
mill, when I went to see old Hardy.'

'Good old Hardy! how is he?'

'Much broken.  He never got over the shock; and as long as that fellow
stayed at the mill, he would not let me attend him.'

'Ha!' exclaimed Leonard, but caught himself up.

A message came that Mr. Ernescliffe feared to miss the boat; and the
Doctor could only give one tender grasp and murmured blessing, and
hurry away, so much agitated that he could hardly join in Hector's
civilities to the officials, and all the evening seemed quite struck
down and overwhelmed by the sight of the bright brave boy, and his
patience in his dreary lot.

After this, at all the three months' intervals at which Leonard might
be seen, a visit was contrived to him, either by Dr. May or Mr. Wilmot;
and Aubrey devoted his first leave of absence to staying at Maplewood,
that Hector might take him to his friend; but he came home expatiating
so much on the red hair of the infant hope of Maplewood, and the fuss
that Blanche made about this new possession, that Ethel detected an
unavowed shade of disappointment.  Light and whitewash, abundant fare,
garments sufficient, but eminently unbecoming, were less impressive
than dungeons, rags, and bread and water; when, moreover, the prisoner
claimed no pity, but rather congratulation on his badge of merit,
improved Sunday dinner, and promotion to the carpenter's shop, so as
absolutely to excite a sense of wasted commiseration and uninteresting
prosperity.  Conversation constrained both by the grating and the
presence of the warder, and Aubrey, more tenderly sensitive than his
brother, and devoid of his father's experienced tact, was too much
embarrassed to take the initiative, was afraid of giving pain by
dwelling on his present occupations and future hopes, and confused
Leonard by his embarrassment.  Hector Ernescliffe discoursed about
Charleston Harbour and New Orleans; and Aubrey stood with downcast
eyes, afraid to seem to be scanning the convict garb, and thus
rendering Leonard unusually conscious of wearing it.  Then when in
parting, Aubrey, a little less embarrassed, began eagerly and in much
emotion to beg Leonard to say if there was anything he could get for
him, anything he could do for him, anything he would like to have sent
him, and began to promise a photograph of his father, Leonard checked
him, by answering that it would be an irregularity--nothing of personal
property was allowed to be retained by a prisoner.

Aubrey forgot all but the hardship, and began an outburst about the
tyranny.

'It is quite right,' said Leonard, gravely; 'there is nothing that
might not be used for mischief if one chose.'

And the warder here interfered, and said he was quite right, and it
always turned out best in the end for a prisoner to conform himself,
and his friends did him no good by any other attempt, as Mr.
Ernescliffe could tell the young gentleman.  The man's tone, though
neither insolent nor tyrannical, but rather commendatory of his charge,
contrasting with his natural deference to the two gentlemen, irritated
poor Aubrey beyond measure, so that Hector was really glad to have him
safe away, without his having said anything treasonable to the
authorities.  The meeting, so constrained and uncomfortable, had but
made the friends more vividly conscious of the interval between the
cadet and the convict, and, moreover, tended to remove the aureole of
romance with which the unseen captive had been invested by youthful
fancy.

To make the best of a prolonged misfortune does absolutely lessen
sympathy, by diminishing the interest of the situation; and even the
good Doctor himself was the less concerned at any hindrance to his
visits to Portland, as he uniformly found his prisoner cheerful,
approved by officials, and always making some small advance in the
scale of his own world, and not, as his friends without expected of
him, showing that he felt himself injured instead of elated by such
rewards as improved diet, or increased gratuities to be set to his
account against the time when, after eight years, he might hope for
exportation with a ticket of leave to Western Australia.

The halo of approaching death no longer lighted him up, and after the
effusion of the first meeting, his inner self had closed up, he was
more ready to talk of American news than of his own feelings, and
seemed to look little beyond the petty encouragements devised to suit
the animal natures of ordinary prisoners, and his visitors sometimes
feared lest his character were not resisting the deadening, hardening
influence of the unvaried round of manual labour among such associates.
He had been soon advanced from the quarry to the carpenter's shop, and
was in favour there from his activity and skill; but his very
promotions were sad--and it was more sad, as some thought, for him to
be gratified by them.  But, as Dr. May always ended, what did they know
about him?




CHAPTER XXII

  Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Grey,
  They were twa bonnie lasses;
  They bigged a bower on yon burn side,
  And theekt it over wi' rashes.


The early glory of autumn was painting the woods of Indiana--crimson,
orange, purple, as though a rainbow of intensified tints had been
broken into fragments, and then scattered broadcast upon the forest.
But though ripe nuts hung on many a bough, the gipsyings had not yet
taken place, except at home--when Minna, in her desperate attempts at
making the best of things, observed, 'Now we have to make the fire
ourselves, let us think it is all play, and such fun.'

But 'such fun' was hard when one or other of the inmates of the house
was lying on the bed shaking with ague, and the others creeping wearily
about, even on their intermediate days.  They had been deluded into
imprudent exposure in the lovely evenings of summer, and had never
shaken off the results.

'Come, Ella,' said Minna, one afternoon, as she descended the bare
rickety stairs, 'Ave is getting better; and if we can get the fire up,
and make some coffee and boil some eggs, it will be comfortable for her
when she comes down and Henry comes in.'

Ella, with a book in her hand, was curled up in a corner of a sofa
standing awry among various other articles of furniture that seemed to
have tumbled together by chance within the barn-like room.  Minna began
moving first one and then the other, daintily wiping off the dust, and
restoring an air of comfort.

'Oh dear!' said Ella, unfolding herself; 'I am so tired.  Where's Hetta
Mary?'

'Oh, don't you know, Hetta Mary went home this morning because Henry
asked her where his boots were, and she thought he wanted her to clean
them.'

'Can't Mrs. Shillabeer come in!'

'Mrs. Shillabeer said she would never come in again, because Averil
asked her not to hold the ham by the bone and cut it with her own knife
when Henry was there!  Come, Ella it is of no use.  We had better do
things ourselves, like Cora and Ave, and then we shall not hear people
say disagreeable things.'

The once soft, round, kitten-like Minna, whom Leonard used to roll
about on the floor, had become a lank, sallow girl, much too tall for
her ten years, and with a care-stricken, thoughtful expression on her
face, even more in advance of her age than was her height.  She moved
into the kitchen, a room with an iron stove, a rough table, and a few
shelves, looking very desolate. The hands of both little girls had
become expert in filling the stove with wood, and they had not far to
seek before both it and the hearth in the sitting-room were
replenished, and the flame beginning to glow.

'Where's the coffee-mill?' said Minna, presently, looking round in
blank despair.

'Oh dear!' said Ella, 'I remember now; that dirty little Polly Mason
came to borrow it this morning.  I said we wanted it every day: but she
guessed we could do without it, for they had got a tea-party, and her
little brother had put in a stone and spoilt Cora Muller's; and she
snatched it up and carried it off.'

'He will serve ours the same, I suppose,' said Minna.  'It is too far
off to go for it; let us make some tea.'

'There's no tea,' said Ella; 'a week ago or more that great Irene Brown
walked in and reckoned we could lend her 'ma some tea and sugar, 'cause
we had plenty.  And we have used up our own since; and if we did ask
her to return the loan, hers is such nasty stuff that nobody could
drink it. What shall we do, Minna?' and she began to cry.

'We must take some coffee up to the hotel,' said Minna, after a
moment's reflection; 'Black Joe is very good-natured, and he'll grind
it.'

'But I don't like to go ail by myself,' said Ella; 'into the kitchen
too, and hear them say things about Britishers.'

'I'll go, dear,' said Minna, gently, 'if you will just keep the fire
up, and boil the eggs, and make the toast, and listen if Ave calls.'

Poor Minna, her sensitive little heart trembled within her at the rough
contemptuous words that the exclusive, refined tone of the family
always provoked, and bodily languor and weariness made the walk trying;
but she was thinking of Ave's need, and resolutely took down her cloak
and hat.  But at that moment the latch was raised, and the bright
graceful figure of Cora stood among them, her feathered hat and
delicate muslin looking as fresh as at New York.

'What, all alone!' she said; 'I know it is poor Ave's sick day.  Is she
better?'

'Yes, going to get up and come down; but--' and all the troubles were
poured out.

'True enough, the little wretch did spoil our mill, but Rufus mended
it; and as I thought Polly had been marauding on you, I brought some
down.'

'Ah!  I thought I smelt it most deliciously as you came in, but I was
afraid I only fancied it because I was thinking about it.  Dear Cora,
how good you are!'

'And have you anything for her to eat?'

'I was going to make some toast.'

'Of that dry stuff!  Come, we'll manage something better:' and off came
the dainty embroidered cambric sleeves, up went the coloured ones, a
white apron came out of a pocket, and the pretty hands were busy among
the flour; the children assisting, learning, laughing a childlike laugh.

'Ah!' cried Cora, turning round, and making a comic threatening gesture
with her floury fingers; 'you ought not to have come till we were
fixed.  Go and sit in your chair by the fire.'

'Dear Cora!'

But Cora ran at her, and the wan trembling creature put on a smile, and
was very glad to comply; being totally unequal to resist or even to
stand long enough to own her dread of Henry's finding all desolate and
nothing to eat.

Presently Cora tripped in, all besleeved and smartened, to set cushions
behind the tired back and head, and caress the long thin fingers.
'I've left Minna, like King Alfred, to watch the cakes,' she said; 'and
Ella is getting the cups.  So your fifth girl is gone.'

'The fifth in five months!  And we let her sit at table, and poor dear
Minna has almost worn out her life in trying to hinder her from getting
affronted.'

'I've thought what to do for you, Ave.  There's the Irish woman, Katty
Blake--her husband has been killed.  She is rough enough, but tender in
her way; and she must do something for herself and her child.'

'Her husband killed!'

'Yes, at Summerville.  I thought you had heard it.  Mordaunt wrote to
me to tell her; and I shall never forget her wailing at his dying away
from his country.  It was not lamentation for herself, but that he
should have died far away from his own people.'

'She is not long from the old country; I should like to have her if--if
we can afford it.  For if the dividends don't come soon from that
building company, Cora, I don't know where to turn--'

'Oh, they must come.  Father has been writing to Rufus about the
arrangements.  Besides, those Irish expect less, and understand old
country manners better, if you can put up with their breakages.'

'I could put up with anything to please Henry, and save Minna's little
hard-worked bones.'

'I will send her to-morrow.  Is it not Minna's day of ague?'

'Yes, poor dear.  That is always the day we get into trouble.'

'I never saw a child with such an instinct for preventing variance, or
so full of tact and pretty ways; yet I have seen her tremble under her
coaxing smile, that even Mis' Shillabeer can't resist.'

'See, see!' cried Ella, hurrying in, 'surely our contingent is not
coming home!'

'No,' said Cora, hastening to the door, 'these must be a reinforcement
marching to take the train at Winiamac.'

'Marching?' said Ella, looking up archly at her.  'We didn't let our
volunteers march in that way.'

They were sturdy bearded backwoodsmen, rifle on shoulder, and with
grave earnest faces; but walking rather than marching, irregularly
keeping together, or straggling, as they chose.

'Your volunteers!' cried Cora, her eyes flashing; 'theirs was toy work!
These are bound for real patriotic war!' and she clasped her hands
together, then waved her handkerchief.

'It is sad,' said Averil, who had moved to the window, 'to see so many
elderly faces--men who must be the prop of their families.'

'It is because ours is a fight of men, not of children; not one of your
European wars of paltry ambition, but a war of principle!' cried Cora,
with that intensity of enthusiasm that has shed so much blood in the
break-up of the Great Republic.

'They do look as Cromwell's Ironsides may have done,' said Averil; 'as
full of stern purpose.'

And verily Averil noted the difference.  Had a number of European
soldiers been passing so near in an equally undisciplined manner, young
women could not have stood forth as Cora was doing, unprotected, yet
perfectly safe from rudeness or remark; making ready answer to the
inquiry for the nearest inn--nay, only wishing she were in her own
house, to evince her patriotism by setting refreshment before the
defenders of her cause.  Her ardour had dragged Averil up with her a
little way, so as to feel personally every vicissitude that befell the
North, and to be utterly unaware of any argument in favour of the
Confederates; but still Averil was, in Cora's words, 'too English;' she
could not, for the life of her, feel as she did when equipping her
brother against possible French invasions, and when Mordaunt Muller had
been enrolled in the Federal army, she had almost offended the exultant
sister by condolence instead of congratulation.

Five months had elapsed since the arrival of Averil in
Massissauga--months of anxiety and disappointment, which had sickened
Henry of plans of farming, and lessened his hopes of practice.  The
same causes that affected him at New York told in Indiana; and even if
he had been employed, the fees would have been too small to support the
expense of horses.  As to farming, labour was scarce, and could only be
obtained at the cost of a considerable outlay, and, moreover, of
enduring rude self-assertions that were more intolerable to Henry than
even to his sisters.  The chief hope of the family lay in the
speculation in which Averil's means had been embarked, which gave them
a right to their present domicile, and to a part of the uncleared waste
around them; and would, when Massissauga should begin to flourish,
place them in affluence.  The interest of the portions of the two
younger girls was all that was secure, since these were fortunately
still invested at home.  Inhabitants did not come, lots of land were
not taken; and the Mullers evidently profited more by the magnificent
harvest produced by their land than by the adventure of city founding.
Still, plenty and comfort reigned in their house, and Cora had imported
a good deal of refinement and elegance, which she could make respected
where Averil's attempts were only sneered down.  Nor had sickness tried
her household.  Owing partly to situation--considerably above the level
of River Street--partly to the freer, more cleared and cultivated
surroundings--partly likewise to experience, and Cousin Deborah's
motherly watchfulness--the summer had passed without a visitation of
ague, though it seemed to be regarded as an adjunct of spring, as
inevitable as winter frost. Averil trembled at the thought, but there
was no escape; there were absolutely no means of leaving the spot, or
of finding maintenance elsewhere.  Indeed, Cora's constant kindness and
sympathy were too precious to be parted with, even had it been possible
to move.  After the boarding-house, Massissauga was a kind of home; and
the more spirits and energy failed, the more she clung to it.

Mr. Muller had lately left home to arrange for the sale of his corn,
and had announced that he might perhaps pay a visit to his son Mordaunt
in the camp at Lexington.  Cora was expecting a letter from him, and
the hope that 'Dr. Warden' might bring one from the post-office at
Winiamac had been one cause of her visit on this afternoon; for the
mammoth privileges of Massissauga did not include a post-office, nor
the sight of letters more than once a week.

The table had just been covered with preparations for a meal, and the
glow of the fire was beginning to brighten the twilight, when the sound
of a horse's feet came near, and Henry rode past the window, but did
not appear for a considerable space, having of late been reduced to
become his own groom.  But even in the noise of the hoofs, even in the
wave of the hand, the girls had detected gratified excitement.

'Charleston has surrendered!  The rebels have submitted!' cried Cora.

And Averil's heart throbbed with its one desperate hope.  No!  _That_
would have brought him in at once.

After all, both were in a state to feel it a little flat when he came
in presenting a letter to Miss Muller, and announcing, 'I have had a
proposal, ladies; what would you say to seeing me a surgeon to the
Federal forces?--Do you bid me go, Miss Muller?'

'I bid every one go who can be useful to my country,' said Cora.

'Don't look alarmed, Averil,' said Henry, affectionately, as he met her
startled eyes; 'there is no danger.  A surgeon need never expose
himself.'

'But how--what has made you think of it?' asked Averil, faintly.

'A letter from Mr. Muller--a very kind letter.  He tells me that
medical men are much wanted, and that an examination by a Board is all
that is required, the remuneration is good, and it will be an
introduction that will avail me after the termination of the war, which
will end with the winter at latest.'

'And father has accepted an office in the commissariat department!'
exclaimed Cora, from her letter.

'Yes,' answered Henry; 'he tells me that, pending more progression
here, it is wiser for us both to launch into the current of public
events, and be floated upwards by the stream.'

'Does he want you to come to him, Cora?' was all that Averil contrived
to say.

'Oh no, he will be in constant locomotion,' said Cora.  'I shall stay
to keep house for Rufus.  And here are some directions for him that I
must carry home.  Don't come, Dr. Warden; I shall never cure you of
thinking we cannot stir without an escort.  You will want to put a
little public spirit into this dear Ave.  That's her one defect; and
when you are one of us, she will be forced to give us her heart.'

And away ran the bright girl, giving her caresses to each sister as she
went.

The little ones broke out, 'O, Henry, Henry, you must not go away to
the wars!' and Averil's pleading eyes spoke the same.

Then Henry sat down and betook himself to argument.  It would be folly
to lose the first opening to employment that had presented itself.  He
grieved indeed to leave his sisters in this desolate, unhealthy place;
but they were as essentially safe as at Stoneborough; their living
alone for a few weeks, or at most months, would be far less remarkable
here than there; and he would be likely to be able to improve or to
alter their present situation, whereas they were now sinking deeper and
more hopelessly into poverty every day.  Then, too, he read aloud
piteous accounts of the want of medical attendance, showing that it was
absolutely a cruelty to detain such assistance from the sick and
wounded.  This argument was the one most appreciated by Averil and
Minna.  The rest were but questions of prudence; this touched their
hearts.  Men lying in close tents, or in crowded holds of ships, with
festering wounds and fevered lips, without a hand to help them--some,
too, whom they had seen at New York, and whose exulting departure they
had witnessed--sufferers among whom their own Cora's favourite brother
might at any moment be numbered--the thought brought a glow of
indignation against themselves for having wished to withhold him.

'Yes, go, Henry; it is right, and you shall hear not another word of
objection,' said Averil.

'You can write or telegraph the instant you want me.  And it will be
for a short time,' said Henry, half repenting when the opposition had
given way.

'Oh, we shall get on very well,' said Minna, cheerfully; 'better,
perhaps for you know we don't mind Far West manners; and I'll have
learnt to do all sorts of things as well as Cora when you come home!'

And Henry, after a year's famine of practice, was in better spirits
than since that fatal summer morning.  Averil felt how different a man
is in his vocation, and deprived of it.

'Oh yes,' she said to herself, 'if I had let ourselves be a drag on him
when he is so much needed, I could never have had the face to write to
our dear sufferer at home in his noble patience.  It is better that we
should be desolate than that he should be a wreck, or than that mass of
sickness should be left untended!  And the more desolate, the more sure
of One Protector.'

There was true heroism in the spirit in which this young girl braced
herself to uncomplaining acceptance of desertion in this unwholesome
swamp, with her two little ailing sisters, beside the sluggish stream,
amid the skeleton trees--heroism the greater because there was no
enthusiastic patriotism to uphold her--it was only the land of her
captivity, whence she looked towards home like Judah to Jerusalem.




CHAPTER XXIII

  Prisoner of hope thou art; look up and sing,
  In hope of promised spring.
                       Christian Year


In the summer of 1862, Tom May was to go up for his examination at the
College of Physicians, but only a day or two before it he made his
appearance at home, in as much excitement as it was in him to betray.
Hazlitt, the banker's clerk at Whitford, had written to him tidings of
the presentation of the missing cheque for �25, which Bilson had paid
to old Axworthy shortly before the murder, and which Leonard had
mentioned as in the pocket-book containing his receipt for the sum that
had been found upon him.  Tom had made a halt at Whitford, and seen the
cheque, which had been backed by the word Axworthy, with an initial
that, like all such signatures of the nephew, might stand either for S.
or F., and the stiff office hand of both the elder and younger Axworthy
was so much alike, that no one could feel certain whose writing it was.
The long concealment, after the prisoner's pointed reference to it,
was, however, so remarkable, that the home conclave regarded the cause
as won; and the father and son hastened triumphantly to the attorneys'
office.

Messrs. Bramshaw and Anderson were greatly struck, and owned that their
own minds were satisfied as to the truth of their client's assertion;
but they demurred as to the possibility of further steps. An action for
forgery, Tom's first hope, he saw to be clearly impossible; Samuel
Axworthy appeared to have signed the cheque in his own name, and he had
every right to it as his uncle's heir; and though the long withholding
of it, as well as his own departure, were both suspicious
circumstances, they were not evidence.  Where was there any certainty
that the cheque had ever been in the pocket-book or even if it had, how
did it prove the existence of young Ward's acknowledgment?  Might it
not have been in some receptacle of papers hitherto not opened?  There
was no sufficient case to carry to the police, after a conviction like
Leonard's, to set them on tracing the cheque either to an unknown
robber, or to Sam Axworthy, its rightful owner.

Mr. Bramshaw likewise dissuaded Dr. May from laying the case before the
Secretary of State, as importunity without due grounds would only tell
against him if any really important discovery should be made: and the
Doctor walked away, with blood boiling at people's coolness to other
folk's tribulations, and greatly annoyed with Tom for having acceded to
the representations of the men of law, and declining all co-operation
in drawing up a representation for the Home Office, on the plea that he
had no time to lose in preparing for his own examination, and must
return to town by the next train, which he did without a syllable of
real converse with any one at home.

The Doctor set to work with his home helpers, assisted by Dr. Spencer;
but the work of composition seemed to make the ground give way under
their feet, and a few adroit remarks from Dr. Spencer finally showed
him and Ethel that they had not yet attained the prop for the lever
that was to move the world.  He gave it up, but still he did not quite
forgive Tom for having been so easily convinced, and ready to be
dismissed to his own affairs.

However, Dr. May was gratified by the great credit with which his son
passed his examination, and took his degree; and Sir Matthew Fleet
himself wrote in high terms of his talent, diligence, and steadiness,
volunteering hopes of being able to put him forward in town in his own
line, for which Tom had always had a preference; and adding, that it
was in concurrence with his own recommendation that the young man
wished to pursue his studies at Paris--he had given him introductions
that would enable him to do so to the greatest advantage, and he hoped
his father would consent.  The letter was followed up by one from Tom
himself, as usual too reasonable and authoritative to be gainsaid, with
the same representation of advantages to be derived from a course of
the Parisian hospitals.

'Ah, well! he is after old Fleet's own heart,' said Dr. May, between
pride and mortification.  'I should not grudge poor Fleet some one to
take interest in his old age, and I did not look to see him so warm
about anything.  He has not forgotten Calton Hill!  But the boy must
have done very well!  I say, shall we see him Sir Thomas some of these
days, Ethel, and laugh at ourselves for having wanted, to make him go
round in a mill after our old fashion?'

'You were contented to run round in your mill,' said Ethel, fondly,
'and maybe he will too.'

'No, no, Ethel, I'll not have him persuaded.  Easy-going folk, too lazy
for ambition, have no right to prescribe for others.  Ambition turned
sour is a very dangerous dose!  Much better let it fly off! I mean to
look out of my mill yet, and see Sir Thomas win the stakes. Only I wish
he would come and see us; tell him he shall not hear a word to bother
him about the old practice.  People have lived and died at Stoneborough
without a May to help them, and so they will again, I suppose.'

Ethel was very glad to see how her father had made up his mind to what
was perhaps the most real disappointment of his life, but she was
grieved that Tom did not respond to the invitation, and next wrote from
Paris.  It was one of his hurried notes, great contrasts to such
elaborate performances as his recent letter.  'Thanks, many thanks to
my father,' he said; 'I knew you would make him see reason, and he
always yields generously.  I was too much hurried to come home; could
not afford to miss the trail.  I had not time to say before that the
Bank that sent the cheque to Whitford had it from a lodging-house in
town.  Landlord had a writ served on S. A.; as he was embarking at
Folkestone, he took out the draft and paid.  He knew its import, if
Bramshaw did not.  I hope my father was not vexed at my not staying.
There are things I cannot stand, namely, discussions and Gertrude.'

Gertrude was one of the chief cares upon Ethel's mind.  She spent many
thoughts upon the child, and even talked her over with Flora.

'What is it, Flora? is it my bad management?  She is a good girl, and a
dear girl; but there is such a want of softness about her.'

'There is a want of softness about all the young ladies of the day,'
returned Flora.

'I have heard you say so, but--'

'We have made girls sensible and clear-headed, till they have grown
hard.  They have been taught to despise little fears and illusions, and
it is certainly not becoming.'

'We had not fears, we were taught to be sensible.'

'Yes, but it is in the influence of the time!  It all tends to make
girls independent.'

'That's very well for the fine folks you meet in your visits, but it
does not account for my Daisy--always at home, under papa's eye--having
turned nineteenth century--What is it, Flora?  She is reverent in great
things, but not respectful except to papa, and that would not have been
respect in one of us--only he likes her sauciness.'

'That is it, partly.'

'No, I won't have that said,' exclaimed Ethel.  'Papa is the only
softening influence in the house--the only one that is tender.  You see
it is unlucky that Gertrude has so few that she really does love, with
anything either reverend or softening about them.  She is always at war
with Charles Cheviot, and he has not fun enough, is too lumbering
altogether, to understand her, or set her down in the right way; and
she domineers over Hector like the rest of us.  I did hope the babies
might have found out her heart, but, unluckily, she does not take to
them.  She is only bored by the fuss that Mary and Blanche make about
them.

'You know we are all jealous of both Charles Cheviots, elder and
younger.'

'I often question whether I should not have taken her down and made her
ashamed of all the quizzing and teasing at the time of Mary's marriage.
But one cannot be always spoiling bright merry mischief, and I am only
elder sister after all.  It is a wonder she is as good to me as she is.'

'She never remembered our mother, poor dear.'

'Ah! that is the real mischief,' said Ethel.  'Mamma would have given
the atmosphere of gentleness and discretion, and so would Margaret. How
often I have been made, by the merest pained look, to know when what I
said was saucy or in bad taste, and I--I can only look forbidding, or
else blurt out a reproof that _will_ not come softly.'

'The youngest _must_ be spoilt,' said Flora, 'that's an ordinance of
nature.  It ends when a boy goes to school, and when a girl--'

'When?'

'When she marries--or when she finds out what trouble is,' said Flora.

'Is that all you can hold out to my poor Daisy?'

'Well, it is the way of the world.  There is just now a reaction from
sentiment, and it is the less feminine variety.  The softness will come
when there is a call for it.  Never mind when the foundation is safe.'

'If I could only see that child heartily admiring and looking up!  I
don't mean love--there used to be a higher, nobler reverence!'

'Such as you and Norman used to bestow on Shakespeare and Scott,
and--the vision of Cocksmoor.'

'Not only _used_,' said Ethel.

'Yes, it is your soft side,' said Flora; 'it is what answers the
purpose of sentiment in people like you.  It is what I should have
thought living with you would have put into any girl; but Gertrude has
a satirical side, and she follows the age.'

'I wish you would tell her so--it is what she especially wants not to
do!  But the spirit of opposition is not the thing to cause tenderness.'

'No, you must wait for something to bring it out.  She is very kind to
my poor little Margaret, and I won't ask how she talks _of_ her.'

'Tenderly; oh yes, that she always would do.'

'There, then, Ethel, if she can talk tenderly of Margaret, there can't
be much amiss at the root.'

'No; and you don't overwhelm the naughty girl with baby talk.'

'Like our happy, proud young mothers,' sighed Flora; and then letting
herself out--'but indeed, Ethel, Margaret is very much improved.  She
has really begun to wish to be good.  I think she is struggling with
herself.'

'Something to love tenderly, something to reverence highly.'  So
meditated Ethel, as she watched her sunny-haired, open-faced Daisy, so
unconquerably gay and joyous that she gave the impression of sunshine
without shade.  There are stages of youth that are in themselves
unpleasing, and yet that are nobody's fault, nay, which may have within
them seeds of strength.  Tom's satire had fostered Daisy's too
congenial spirit, and he reaped the consequence in the want of repose
and sympathy that were driving him from home, and shutting him up
within himself.  Would he ever forgive that flippant saying, which
Ethel had recollected with shame ever since--shame more for herself
than for the child, who probably had forgotten, long ago, her 'shaft at
random sent'?

Then Ethel would wonder whether, after all, her discontent with
Gertrude's speeches was only from feeling older and graver, and perhaps
from a certain resentment at finding how the course of time was wearing
down the sharp edge of compassion towards Leonard.

A little more about Leonard was gathered when the time came of release
for his friend the clerk Brown.  This young man had an uncle at Paris,
engaged in one of the many departments connected with steam that carry
Englishmen all over the world, and Leonard obtained permission to write
to Dr. Thomas May, begging him to call upon the uncle, and try if he
could be induced to employ the penitent and reformed nephew under his
own eye.  It had been wise in Leonard to write direct, for if the
request had been made through any one at home, Tom would have
considered it as impossible; but he could not resist the entreaty, and
his mission was successful.  The uncle was ready to be merciful, and
undertook all the necessary arrangements for, and even the
responsibility of, bringing the ticket-of-leave man to Paris, where he
found him a desk in his office.  One of Tom's few detailed epistles was
sent to Ethel after this arrival, when the uncle had told him how the
nephew had spoken of his fellow-prisoner. It was to Leonard Ward that
the young man had owed the inclination to open his heart to religious
instruction, hitherto merely endured as a portion of the general
infliction of the penalty, a supposed engine for dealing with the
superstitious, but entirely beneath his attention.  The sight of the
educated face had at first attracted him, but when he observed the
reverential manner in chapel, he thought it mere acting the ''umble
prisoner,' till he observed how unobtrusive, unconscious, and retiring
was every token of devotion, and watched the eyes, brightened or
softened in praise or in prayer, till he owned the genuineness and
guessed the depth of both, then perceived in school how far removed his
unknown comrade was from the mere superstitious boor.  This was the
beginning.  The rest had been worked out by the instruction and
discipline of the place, enforced by the example, and latterly by the
conversation, of his fellow-prisoner, until he had come forth sincerely
repenting, and with the better hope for the future that his sins had
not been against full light.

He declared himself convinced that Ward far better merited to be at
large than he did, and told of the regard that uniform good conduct was
obtaining at last, though not till after considerable persecution,
almost amounting to personal danger from the worse sort of convicts,
who regarded him as a spy, because he would not connive at the
introduction of forbidden indulgences, and always stood by the
authorities.  Once his fearless interposition had saved the life of a
warder, and this had procured him trust, and promotion to a class where
his companions were better conducted, and more susceptible to good
influences, and among them Brown was sure that his ready submission and
constant resolution to do his work were producing an effect.  As to his
spirits, Brown had never known him break down but once, and that was
when he had come upon a curious fossil in the stone.  Otherwise he was
grave and contented, but never laughed or joked as even some gentlemen
prisoners of more rank and age had been known to do.  The music in the
chapel was his greatest pleasure, and he had come to be regarded as an
important element in the singing.

Very grateful was Dr. May to Tom for having learnt, and still more for
having transmitted, all these details, and Ethel was not the less
touched, because she knew they were to travel beyond Minster Street.
Those words of Mr. Wilmot's seemed to be working out their
accomplishment; and she thought so the more, when in early spring one
of Leonard's severe throat attacks led to his being sent after his
recovery to assist the schoolmaster, instead of returning to the
carpenter's shed; and he was found so valuable in the school that the
master begged to retain his services.

That spring was a grievous one in Indiana.  The war, which eighteen
months previously was to have come to an immediate end, was still
raging, and the successes that had once buoyed up the Northern States
with hope had long since been chequered by terrible reverses.  On, on,
still fought either side, as though nothing could close the strife but
exhaustion or extinction; and still ardent, still constant, through
bereavement and privation, were either party to their blood-stained
flag.  Mordaunt Muller had fallen in one of the terrible battles on the
Rappahannock; and Cora, while, sobbing in Averil's arms, had still
confessed herself thankful that it had been a glorious death for his
country's cause!  And even in her fresh grief, she had not endeavoured
to withhold her other brother, when, at the urgent summons of
Government, he too had gone forth to join the army.

Cora was advised to return to her friends at New York, but she declared
her intention of remaining to keep house with Cousin Deborah.  Unless
Averil would come with her, nothing should induce her to leave
Massissauga, certainly not while Ella and Averil were alternately laid
low by the spring intermittent fever.  Perhaps the fact was that,
besides her strong affection for Averil, she felt that in her ignorance
she had assisted her father in unscrupulously involving them in a
hazardous and unsuccessful speculation, and that she was the more
bound, in justice as well as in love and pity, to do her best for their
assistance.  At any rate, Rufus had no sooner left home, than she
insisted on the three sisters coming to relieve her loneliness--in
other words, in removing them from the thin ill-built frame house,
gaping in every seam with the effects of weather, and with damp oozing
up between every board of the floor, the pestiferous river-fog, the
close air of the forest, and the view of the phantom trees, now
decaying and falling one against another.

Cousin Deborah, who had learnt to love and pity the forlorn English
girls, heartily concurred; and Averil consented, knowing that the dry
house and pure air were the best hope of restoring Ella's health.

Averil and Ella quickly improved, grew stronger in the intervals, and
suffered less during the attacks; but Minna, who in their own house had
been less ill, had waited on both, and supplied the endless
deficiencies of the kindly and faithful, but two-fisted Katty; Minna,
whose wise and simple little head had never failed in sensible
counsels, or tender comfort; Minna, whom the rudest and most
self-important far-wester never disobliged, Minna, the peace-maker, the
comfort and blessing--was laid low by fever, and fever that, as the
experienced eyes of Cousin Deborah at once perceived, 'meant mischief.'
Then it was that the real kindliness of heart of the rough people of
the West showed itself.  The five wild young ladies, whose successive
domestic services had been such trouble, and whose answer to a summons
from the parlour had been, 'Did yer holler, Avy? I thort I heerd a
scritch,' each, from Cleopatra Betsy to Hetta Mary, were constantly
rushing in to inquire, or to present questionable dainties and nostrums
from their respective 'Mas'; the charwomen, whom Minna had coaxed in
her blandest manner to save trouble to Averil and disgust to Henry,
were officious in volunteers of nursing and sitting up, the black cook
at the hotel sent choice fabrics of jelly and fragrant ice; and even
Henry's rival, who had been so strong against the insolence of a
practitioner showing no testimonials, no sooner came under the
influence of the yearning, entreating, but ever-patient eyes, than his
attendance became assiduous, his interest in the case ardent.

Henry himself was in the camp, before Vicksburg, with his hands too
full of piteous cases of wounds and fever to attempt the most hurried
visit.

'Sister, dear,' said the soft slow voice, one day when Averil had been
hoping her patient was asleep, 'are you writing to Henry?'

'Yes, my darling.  Do you want to say anything?'

'Oh yes! so much;' and the eyes grew bright, and the breath gasping;
'please beg Henry--tell Henry--that I must--I can't bear it any longer
if I don't--'

'You must what, dear child?  Henry would let you do anything he could.'

'Oh, then, would he let me speak about dear Leonard?' and the child
grew deadly white when the words were spoken; but her eyes still sought
Averil's face, and grew terrified at the sight of the gush of tears.
'O, Ave, Ave, tell me only--he is not dead!' and as Averil could only
make a sign, 'I do have such dreadful fancies about him, and I think I
could sleep if I only knew what was really true.'

'You shall, dear child, you shall, without waiting to hear from Henry;
I know he would let you.'

And only then did Averil know the full misery that Henry's decision had
inflicted on the gentle little heart, in childish ignorance, imagining
fetters and dungeons, even in her sober waking moods, and a prey to
untold horrors in every dream, exaggerated by feverishness and
ailment--horrors that, for aught she knew, might be veritable, and made
more awful by the treatment of his name as that of one dead.

To hear of him as enjoying the open air and light of day, going to
church, singing their own favourite hymn tunes, and often visited by
Dr. May, was to her almost as great a joy as if she had heard of him at
liberty.  And Averil had a more than usually cheerful letter to read to
her, one written in the infirmary during his recovery.  His letters to
her were always cheerful, but this one was particularly so, having been
written while exhilarated by the relaxations permitted to
convalescents, and by enjoying an unwonted amount of conversation with
the chaplain and the doctor.

'So glad, so glad,' Minna was heard murmuring to herself again and
again; her rest was calmer than it had been for weeks, and the doctor
found her so much better that he trusted that a favourable change had
begun.

But it was only a gleam of hope.  The weary fever held its prey, and
many as were the fluctuations, they always resulted in greater
weakness; and the wandering mind was not always able to keep fast hold
of the new comfort.  Sometimes she would piteously clasp her sister's
hand, and entreat, 'Tell me again;' and sometimes the haunting
delirious fancies of chains and bars would drop forth from the tongue
that had lost its self-control; yet even at the worst came the dear old
recurring note, 'God will not let them hurt him, for he has not done
it!'  Sometimes, more trying to Averil than all, she would live over
again the happy games with him, or sing their favourite hymns and
chants, or she would be heard pleading, 'O, Henry, don't be cross to
Leonard.'

Cora could not fail to remark the new name that mingled in the
unconscious talk; but she had learnt to respect Averil's reserve, and
she forbore from all questioning, trying even to warn Cousin Deborah,
who, with the experience of an elderly woman, remarked, 'That she had
too much to do to mind what a sick child rambled about.  When Cora had
lived to her age, she would know how unaccountably they talked.'

But Averil felt the more impelled to an outpouring by this delicate
forbearance, and the next time she and Cora were sent out together to
breathe the air, while Cousin Deborah watched the patient, she told the
history, and to a sympathizing listener, without a moment's doubt of
Leonard's innocence, nor that American law would have managed matters
better.

'And now, Cora, you know why I told you there were bitterer sorrows
than yours.'

'Ah!  Averil, I could have believed you once; but to know that he never
can come again!  Now you always have hope.'

'My hope has all but gone,' said Averil.  'There is only one thing left
to look to.  If I only can live till he is sent out to a colony, then
nothing shall keep me back from him!'

'And what would I give for even such a hope?'

'We have a better hope, both of us,' murmured Averil.

'It won't seem so long when it is over.'

Well was it for Averil that this fresh link of sympathy was riveted,
for day by day she saw the little patient wasting more hopelessly away,
and the fever only burning lower for want of strength to feed on.
Utterly exhausted and half torpid, there was not life or power enough
left in the child for them to know whether she was aware of her
condition.  When they read Prayers, her lips always moved for the
Lord's Prayer and Doxology; and when the clergyman came out from
Winiamac, prayed by her and blessed her, she opened her eyes with a
look of comprehension; and if, according to the custom from the
beginning of her illness, the Psalms and Lessons were not read in her
room, she was uneasy, though she could hardly listen.  So came Easter
Eve; and towards evening she was a little revived, and asked Averil
what day it was, then answered, 'I thought it would have been nice to
have died yesterday,'--it was the first time she mentioned death.
Averil told her she was better, but half repented, as the child sank
into torpor again; and Averil, no longer the bewildered girl who had
been so easily led from the death scene, knew the fitful breath and
fluttering pulse, and felt the blank dread stealing over her heart.

Again, however, the child looked up, and murmured, 'You have not read
to-day.'  Cora, who had the Bible on her knee, gently obeyed, and read
on, where she was, the morning First Lesson, the same in the American
Church as in our own.  Averil, dull with watching and suffering, sat on
dreamily, with the scent of primroses wafted to her, as it were, by the
association of the words, though her power to attend to them was gone.
Before the chapter was over, the doze had overshadowed the little girl
again; and yet, more than once, as the night drew on, they heard her
muttering what seemed like the echo of one of its verses, 'Turn you,
turn you--'

At last, after hours of watching, and more than one vain endeavour of
good Cousin Deborah to lead away the worn but absorbed nurses, the
dread messenger came.  Minna turned suddenly in her sister's arms, with
more strength than Averil had thought was left in her, and eagerly
stretched out her arms, while the words so long trembling on her lips
found utterance.  'Turn you to the stronghold, ye prisoners of hope!
O, Leonard dear! it does not hurt!'  But that last word was almost lost
in the gasp--the last gasp.  What 'did not hurt' was death without his
sting.

'O, Cora!  Was he with her?  Is he gone too?' was Averil's cry at the
first moment, as she strained the form of her little comforter for the
last time in her arms.

'And if he is, they are in joy together,' said Cousin Deborah, tenderly
but firmly unloosing Averil's arms, though with the tears running down
her cheeks.  'Take her away, Cora, and both of you sleep.  This dear
lamb is in better keeping than yours.'

Heavy, grievous, was the loss, crushing the grief; but it was such as
to be at its softest and sweetest at Easter, amid the Resurrection
joys, and the budding flowers, though Ella's bitterest fit of weeping
was excited by there being no primroses--the primroses that Minna loved
so much; and her first pleasurable thought was to sit down and write to
her dear 'Mr. Tom' to send her some primrose seed, for Minna's grave.

Minna's grave!  Alas! Massissauga had but an untidy desolate-looking
region, with a rude snake fence, all unconsecrated!  Cora wanted to
choose a shaded corner in her father's ground, where they might daily
tend the child's earthly resting-place; but Averil shrank from this
with horror; and finally, on one of the Easter holidays, the little
wasted form in its coffin was reverently driven by Philetus to
Winiamac, while the sisters and Cora slowly followed, thinking--the one
of the nameless blood-stained graves of a battle-field; the other
whether an equally nameless grave-yard, but one looked on with a
shudder unmixed with exultation, had opened for the other being she
loved best.  'The Resurrection and the Life.--Yes, had not He made His
grave with the wicked, and been numbered with the transgressors!'

Somehow, the present sorrow was more abundant in such comforts as these
than all the pangs which her heart, grown old in sorrow, had yet
endured.

Yet if her soul had bowed itself to meet sorrow more patiently and
peacefully, it was at the expense of the bodily frame.  Already
weakened by the intermittent fever, the long strain of nursing had told
on her; and that hysteric affection that had been so distressing at the
time of her brother's trial recurred, and grew on her with every
occasion for self-restraint.  The suspense in which she lived--with one
brother in the camp, in daily peril from battle and disease, the other
in his convict prison--wore her down, and made every passing effect of
climate or fatigue seize on her frame like a serious disorder; and the
more she resigned her spirit, the more her body gave way.  Yet she was
infinitely happier.  The repentance and submission were bearing fruit,
and the ceasing to struggle had brought a strange calm and acceptance
of all that might be sent; nay, her own decay was perhaps the sweetest
solace and healing of the wearied spirit; and as to Ella, she would
trust, and she did trust, that in some way or other all would be well.

She felt as if even Leonard's death could be accepted thankfully as the
captive's release.  But that sorrow was spared her.

The account of Leonard came from Mr. Wilmot, who had carried him the
tidings.  The prisoner had calmly met him with the words, 'I know what
you are come to tell me;' and he heard all in perfect calmness and
resignation, saying little, but accepting all that the clergyman said,
exactly as could most be desired.

From the chaplain, likewise, Mr. Wilmot learnt that Leonard, though
still only in the second stage of his penalty, stood morally in a very
different position, and was relied on as a valuable assistant in all
that was good, more effective among his fellow-prisoners than was
possible to any one not in the same situation with themselves, and
fully accepting that position when in contact either with convicts or
officials.  'He has never referred to what brought him here,' said the
chaplain, 'nor would I press him to do so; but his whole tone is of
repentance, and acceptance of the penalty, without, like most of them,
regarding it as expiation.  It is this that renders his example so
valuable among the men.'

After such a report as this, it was disappointing, on Dr. May's next
visit to Portland, at two months' end, to find Leonard drooping and
downcast.  The Doctor was dismayed at his pale, dejected, stooping
appearance, and the silence and indifference with which he met their
ordinary topics of conversation, till the Doctor began anxiously--

'You are not well?'

'Quite well, thank you.'

'You are looking out of condition.  Do you sleep?'

'Some part of the night.'

'You want more exercise.  You should apply to go back to the
carpenter's shop--or shall I speak to the governor?'

'No, thank you. I believe they want me in school.'

'And you prefer school work?'

'I don't know, but it helps the master.'

'Do you think you make any progress with the men?  We heard you were
very effective with them.'

'I don't see that much can be done any way, certainly not by me.'

Then the Doctor tried to talk of Henry and the sisters; but soon saw
that Leonard had no power to dwell upon them.  The brief answers were
given with a stern compression and contraction of face; as if the
manhood that had grown on him in these three years was no longer
capable of the softening effusion of grief; and Dr. May, with all his
tenderness, felt that it must be respected, and turned the conversation.

'I have been calling at the Castle,' he said, 'with Ernescliffe, and
the governor showed me a curious thing, a volume of Archbishop Usher,
which had been the Duke of Lauderdale's study after he was taken at
Worcester.  He has made a note in the fly-leaf, "I began this book at
Windsor, and finished it during my imprisonment here;" and below are
mottoes in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin.  I can't construe the Hebrew. The
Greek is oisteon kai elpisteon (one must bear and hope), the Latin is
durate.  Will you accept your predecessor's legacy?'

'I think I read about him in an account of the island,' said Leonard,
with a moment's awakened intelligence; 'was he not the L. of the Cabal,
the persecutor in "Old Mortality?"'

'I am afraid you are right.  Prosperity must have been worse for him
than adversity.'

'Endure' repeated Leonard, gravely.  'I will think of that, and what he
would mean by hope now.'

The Doctor came home much distressed; he had been unable to penetrate
the dreary, resolute self-command that covered so much anguish; he had
failed in probing or in healing, and feared that the apathy he had
witnessed was a sign that the sustaining spring of vigour was failing
in the monotonous life.  The strong endurance had been a strain that
the additional grief was rendering beyond his power; and the crushed
resignation, and air of extinguished hope, together with the
indications of failing health, filled the Doctor with misgivings.

'It will not last much longer,' he said.  'I do not mean that he is
ill; but to hold up in this way takes it out of a man, especially at
his age.  The first thing that lays hold of him, he will have no
strength nor will to resist, and then--Well, I did hope to live to see
God show the right.'




CHAPTER XXIV

  We twa hae wandered o'er the braes,
    And pu'ed the gowans fine;
  I've wandered many a weary foot
    Sin auld lang syne.


These years had passed quietly at Stoneborough, with little change
since Mary's marriage.  She was the happy excellent wife that she was
made to be; and perhaps it was better for Ethel that the first
severance had been so decisive that Mary's attentions to her old home
were received as favours, instead of as the mere scanty relics of her
former attachment.

Mr. Cheviot, as the family shook down together, became less afraid of
Ethel, and did not think it so needful to snub her either by his
dignity or jocularity; though she still knew that she was only on terms
of sufferance, and had been, more than once, made to repent of
unguarded observations.  He was admirable; and the school was so
rapidly improving that Norman had put his father into ecstasies by
proposing to send home little Dickie to begin his education there.
Moreover, the one element wanting, to accomplish the town improvements,
had been supplied by a head-master on the side of progress, and Dr.
Spencer's victory had been won at last.  There was a chance that
Stoneborough might yet be clean, thanks to his reiteration of plans for
purification, apropos to everything.  Baths and wash-houses were
adroitly carried as a monument to Prince Albert; and on the Prince of
Wales's marriage, his perseverance actually induced the committee to
finish up the drains with all the contributions that were neither eaten
up nor fired away!  Never had he been more happy and triumphant; and
Dr. May used to accuse him of perambulating the lower streets snuffing
the deodorized air.

One autumn evening, contrary to his wont, he allowed himself to be
drawn into the May drawing-room, and there fell into one of the bright
bantering talks in which the two old friends delighted, quizzing each
other, and bringing up stories of their life; while Ethel and Gertrude
listened to and laughed at the traditions of a sunnier, gayer, and more
reckless age than their own; and Ethel thought how insufficient are
those pictures of life that close with the fever-dream of youthful
passion, and leave untold those years of the real burthen of manhood,
and still more the tranquil brightness when toil has been overlived,
and the setting sun gilds the clouds that are drifting away.

Ethel's first knowledge of outer life the next morning was the sound of
voices in her father's adjoining room, which made her call out, 'Are
you sent for, papa?'

'Yes,' he answered, and in an agitated tone, 'Spencer; I'll send word.'

Should she mention what she had two years ago heard from Tom?  There
was no time, for the next moment she heard him hurrying down-stairs,
she saw him speeding up the garden.  There was nothing for her to do
but to dress as fast as possible, and as she was finishing she heard
his tread slowly mounting, the very footfall warning her what to
expect.  She opened the door and met him.  'Thank God,' he said, as he
took her hand into his own, 'it has been very merciful.'

'Is it--?'

'Yes.  It must have been soon after he lay down at night.  As calm as
sleep.  The heart.  I am very thankful.  I had thought he would have
had much to suffer.'

And then it appeared that his own observations had made him sure of
what Ethel had learnt from Tom; but as long as it was unavowed by his
friend, he had thought himself bound to ignore it, and had so dreaded
the protracted suffering, that the actual stroke was accepted as a
loving dispensation.

Still, as the close of a life-long friendship, the end of a daily
refreshing and sustaining intimacy, the loss was very great, and would
be increasingly felt after the first stimulus was over.  It would make
Tom's defection a daily grievance, since much detail of hospital care,
and, above all, town work, his chief fatigue, would now again fall upon
him.  But this was not his present thought.  His first care was, that
his friend's remains should rest with those with whom his lot in life
had been cast, in the cloister of the old Grammar-school; but here Mr.
Cheviot looked concerned, and with reluctance, but decision, declared
it to be his duty not to consent, cited the funeral of one of his
scholars at the cemetery, and referred to recent sanatory measures.

Dr. May quickly exclaimed that he had looked into the matter, and that
the cloister did not come under the Act.

'Not technically, sir,' said Mr. Cheviot; 'but I am equally convinced
of my duty, however much I may regret it.'  And then, with a few words
about Mary's presently coming up, he departed; while 'That is too bad,'
was the general indignant outburst, even from Richard; from all but Dr.
May himself.

'He is quite right,' he said.  'Dear Spencer would be the first to say
so.  Richard, your church is his best monument, and you'll not shut him
out of your churchyard nor me either.'

'Cheviot could not have meant--' began Richard.

'Yes, he did, I understood him, and I am glad you should have had it
out now,' said Dr. May, though not without a quivering lip.  'Your
mother has _one_ by her side, and we'll find each other out just as
well as if we were in the cloister.  I'll walk over to Cocksmoor with
you, Ritchie, and mark the place.'

Thus sweetly did he put aside what might have been so severe a shock;
and he took extra pains to show his son-in-law his complete
acquiescence both for the present and the future.  Charles Cheviot
expressed to Richard his great satisfaction in finding sentiment thus
surmounted by sense, not perceiving that it was faith and love
surmounting both.

Dr. Spencer's only surviving relation was a brother's son, who, on his
arrival, proved to be an underbred, shrewd-looking man, evidently with
strong prepossessions against the May family, whose hospitality he did
not accept, consorting chiefly with 'Bramshaw and Anderson.' His
disposition to reverse the arrangement for burying his uncle in 'an
obscure village churchyard,' occasioned a reference to the will, drawn
up two years previously.  The executors were Thomas and Etheldred May,
and it was marked on the outside that they were to have the sole
direction of the funeral.  Ethel, greatly astonished, but as much
bewildered as touched, was infinitely relieved that this same day had
brought a hurried note from Paris, announcing Tom's intention of coming
to attend the funeral.  He would be able to talk to the angry and
suspicious nephew, without, like his father, betraying either
indignation or disgust.

Another person was extremely anxious for Tom's arrival, namely, Sir
Matthew Fleet, who, not a little to Dr. May's gratification, came to
show his respect to his old fellow-student; and arriving the evening
before Tom, was urgent to know the probabilities of his appearance. An
appointment in London was about to be vacant, so desirable in itself,
and so valuable an introduction, that there was sure to be a great
competition; but Sir Matthew was persuaded that with his own support,
and an early canvass, Tom might be certain of success.  Dr. May could
not help being grateful and gratified, declaring that the boy deserved
it, and that dear Spencer would have been very much pleased; and then
he told Ethel that it was wonderful to see the blessing upon Maggie's
children; and went back, as usual, to his dear old Tate and Brady,
with--

  'His house the seat of wealth shall be,
  An inexhausted treasury;
  His justice, free from all decay,
  Shall blessings to his heirs convey.'


And Ethel, within herself, hoped it was no disrespect to smile at his
having so unconsciously turned away the blessing from the father's to
the mother's side.

It was his great pride and pleasure that so many of Maggie's children
were round him to do honour to her old friend's burial--three sons, and
four daughters, and three sons-in-law.  They all stood round the grave,
as near as might be to the stone that Gertrude, as a child, had laid
under his care, when his silver hair had mingled with her golden locks;
and with them was a concourse that evidently impressed the nephew with
a new idea of the estimation in which his uncle had been held.

Tom had travelled all night, and had arrived only just in time. Nobody
was able to say a word to him before setting off; and almost
immediately after the return, Sir Matthew Fleet seized upon him to walk
up to the station with him, and, to the infinite disgust of the nephew,
the reading of the will was thus delayed until the executor came back,
extremely grave and thoughtful.

After all, Mr. Spencer had no available grievance.  His uncle's
property was very little altogether, amounting scarcely to a thousand
pounds, but the bulk was bequeathed to the nephew; to Aubrey May was
left his watch, and a piece of plate presented to him on his leaving
India; to Dr. May a few books; to Tom the chief of his library, his
papers, notes, and instruments, and the manuscript of a work upon
diseases connected with climate, on which he had been engaged for many
years, but had never succeeded in polishing to his own fastidious
satisfaction, or in coming to the end of new discoveries. To Etheldred,
his only legacy was his writing-desk, with all its contents.  And Mr.
Spencer looked so suspicious of those contents, that Tom made her open
it before him, and show that they were nothing but letters.

It had been a morning of the mixture of feelings and restless bustle,
so apt to take place where the affection is not explained by
relationship; and when the strangers were gone, and the family were
once again alone, there was a drawing of freer breath, and the Doctor
threw himself back in his chair, and indulged in a long, heavy sigh,
with a weary sound in it.

'Can I go anywhere for you, father?' said Tom, turning to him with a
kind and respectful manner.

'Oh no--no, thank you,' he said, rousing himself, and laying his hand
on the bell, 'I must go over to Overfield; but I shall be glad of the
drive.  Well, Dr. Tom, what did you say to Fleet's proposal?'

'I said I would come up to town and settle about it when I had got
through this executor business.'

'You always were a lucky fellow, Tom,' said Dr. May, trying to be
interested and sympathetic.  'You would not wish for anything better.'

'I don't know, I have not had time to think about it yet,' said Tom,
pulling off his spectacles and pushing back his hair, with an action of
sadness and fatigue.

'Ah! it was not the best of times to choose for the communication; but
it was kindly meant.  I never expected to see Fleet take so much
trouble for any one.  But you are done up, Tom, with your night
journey.'

'Not at all,' he answered, briskly, 'if I can do anything for you.
Could not I go down to the hospital?'

'Why, if I were not to be back till five,' began Dr. May, considering,
and calling him into the hall to receive directions, from which he came
back, saying, 'There! now then, Ethel, we had better look over things,
and get them in train.'

'You are so tired, Tom.'

'Not too much for that,' he said.  But it was a vain boast; he was too
much fatigued to turn his mind to business requiring thought, though
capable of slow, languid reading and sorting of papers.

Aubrey's legacy was discovered with much difficulty.  In fact, it had
never been heard of, nor seen the light, since its presentation, and
was at last found in a lumber closet, in a strong box, in Indian
packing.  It was a compromise between an epergne and a candelabrum,
growing out of the howdah of an unfortunate elephant, pinning one tiger
to the ground, and with another hanging on behind, in the midst of a
jungle of palm-trees and cobras; and beneath was an elaborate
inscription, so laudatory of Aubrey Spencer, M. D., that nobody
wondered he had never unpacked it, and that it was yellow with
tarnish--the only marvel was, that he had never disposed of it; but
that it was likely to wait for the days when Aubrey might be a general
and own a side-board.

The other bequests were far more appreciated.  Tom had known of the
book in hand, was certain of its value to the faculty, and was much
gratified by the charge of it, both as a matter of feeling and of
interest.  But while he looked over and sorted the mass of curious
notes, his attention was far more set on the desk, that reverently,
almost timidly, Ethel examined, well knowing why she had been selected
as the depositary of these relics.  There they were, some embrowned by
a burn in the corner, as though there had been an attempt to destroy
them, in which there had been no heart to persevere.  It was but
little, after all, two formal notes in which Professor Norman Mackenzie
asked the honour of Mr. Spencer's company to dinner, but in handwriting
that was none of the professor's--writing better known to Ethel than to
Tom--and a series of their father's letters, from their first
separation till the traveller's own silence had caused their
correspondence to drop.  Charming letters they were, such as people
wrote before the penny-post had spoilt the epistolary art--long,
minute, and overflowing with brilliant happiness.  Several of them were
urgent invitations to Stoneborough, and one of these was finished in
that other hand--the delicate, well-rounded writing that would not be
inherited--entreating Dr. Spencer to give a few days to Stoneborough,
'it would be such a pleasure to Richard to show him the children.'

Ethel did not feel sure whether to see these would give pain or
pleasure to her father.  He would certainly be grieved to see how much
suffering he must have inflicted in the innocence of his heart, and in
the glory of his happiness; and Tom, with a sort of shudder, advised
her to keep them to herself, he was sure they would give nothing but
pain.

She had no choice just then, for it was a time of unusual occupation,
and the difference made by their loss told immediately--the more,
perhaps, because it was the beginning of November, and there was much
municipal business to be attended to.

However it might be for the future, during the ensuing week Dr. May
never came in for a meal with the rest of the family; was too much
fagged for anything but sleep when he came home at night; and on the
Sunday morning, when they all had reckoned on going to Cocksmoor
together, he was obliged to give it up, and only come into the Minster
at the end of the prayers.  Every one knew that he was not a good
manager of his time, and this made things worse; and he declared that
he should make arrangements for being less taken up; but it was sad to
see him overburthened, and Tom, as only a casual visitor, could do
little to lessen his toil, though that little was done readily and
attentively.  There were no rubs between the two, and scarcely any
conversation.  Tom would not discuss his prospects; and it was not
clear whether he meant to avail himself of Sir Matthew's patronage; he
committed himself to nothing but his wish that it were possible to stay
in Paris; and he avoided even talking to his sister.

Not till a week after he had left home for London came a letter


'Dear Ethel,

'I have told Fleet that I am convinced of my only right course.  I
could never get the book finished properly if I got into his line, and
I must have peaceable evenings for it at home.  I suppose my father
would not like to let Dr. Spencer's house.  If I might have it, and
keep my own hours and habits, I think it would conduce to our working
better together.  I am afraid I kept you in needless distress about
him, but I wanted to judge for myself of the necessity, and to think
over the resignation of that quest.  I must commit it to Brown. I hope
it is not too great a risk; but it can't be helped.  It is a matter of
course that I should come home now the helper is gone; I always knew it
would come to that.  Manage it as quietly as you can. I must go to
Paris for a fortnight, to bring home my things, and by that time my
father had better get me appointed to the hospital.

'Yours ever,
  'TH. MAY.'


Ethel was not so much surprised as her father, who thought she must
have been working upon Tom's feelings; but this she disavowed, except
that it had been impossible not to growl at patients sending at
unreasonable hours.  Then he hoped that Fleet had not been
disappointing the lad; but this notion was nullified by a remonstrance
from the knight, on the impolicy of burying such talents for the sake
of present help; and even proposing to send a promising young man in
Tom's stead.  'Not too good for poor Stoneborough,' said Dr. May,
smiling.  'No, no, I'm not so decrepit as that, whatever he and Tom may
have thought me; I fancy I could tire out both of them. I can't have
the poor boy giving up all his prospects for my sake, Ethel.  I never
looked for it, and I shall write and tell him so! Mind, Ethel, I shall
write, not you!  I know you would only stroke him down, and bring him
home to regret it.  No, no, I won't always be treated like Karl, in
"Debit and Credit", who the old giant thought could neither write nor
be written to, because his finger was off.'

And Dr. May's letter was the first which this son had ever had from him.


'My Dear Tom,

'I feel your kind intentions to the heart; it is like all the rest of
your dear mother's children; but the young ought not to be sacrificed
to the old, and I won't have it done.  The whole tone of practice has
altered since my time, and I do not want to bind you down to the
routine.  I had left off thinking of it since I knew of your distaste.
I have some years of work in me yet, that will see out most of my old
patients; and for the rest, Wright is a great advance on poor Ward, and
I will leave more to him as I grow older.  I mean to see you a great
man yet, and I think you will be the greater and happier for the
sacrifice you have been willing to make.  His blessing on you.

'Your loving father,
  'R. M.'


What was Tom's answer, but one of his cool 'good letters,' a
demonstration that he was actuated by the calmest motives of
convenience and self-interest, in preferring the certainties of
Stoneborough to the contingencies of London, and that he only wanted
time for study and the completion of Dr. Spencer's book, enforcing his
request for the house.

His resolution was, as usual, too evident to be combated, and it was
also plain that he chose to keep on the mask of prudent selfishness,
which he wore so naturally that it was hard to give him credit for any
other features; but this time Dr. May was not deceived.  He fully
estimated the sacrifice, and would have prevented it if he could; but
he never questioned the sincerity of the motive, as it was not upon the
surface; and the token of dutiful affection, as coming from the least
likely quarter of his family, touched and comforted him.  He dwelt on
it with increasing satisfaction, and answered all hurries and worries
with, 'I shall have time when Tome is come;' re-opened old schemes that
had died away when he feared to have no successor, and now and then
showed a certain comical dread of being drilled into conformity with
Tom's orderly habits.

There was less danger of their clashing, as the son had outgrown the
presumptions of early youth, and a change had passed over his nature
which Ethel had felt, rather than seen, during his fleeting visits at
home, more marked by negatives than positives, and untraced by
confidences.  The bitterness and self-assertion had ceased to tinge his
words, the uncomfortable doubt that they were underlaid by satire had
passed away, and methodical and self-possessed as he always was, the
atmosphere of 'number one' was no longer apparent round all his doings.
He could be out of spirits and reserved without being either
ill-tempered or ironical; and Ethel, with this as the upshot of her
week's observations, was reassured as to the hopes of the father and
son working together without collisions.  As soon as the die was cast,
and there was no danger of undue persuasion in 'stroking him down,' she
indulged herself by a warmly-grateful letter, and after she had sent
it, was tormented by the fear that it would be a great offence.  The
answer was much longer than she had dared to expect, and alarmed her
lest it should be one of his careful ways of making the worst of
himself; but there was a large 'Private,' scored in almost menacing
letters on the top of the first sheet, and so much blotted in the
folding, that it was plain that he had taken alarm at the unreserve of
his own letter.


'My Dear Ethel,

'I have been to Portland.  Really my father ought to make a stir and
get Ward's health attended to; he looks very much altered, but will not
own to anything being amiss.  They say he has been depressed ever since
he heard of Minna's death.  I should say he ought to be doing
out-of-doors work--perhaps at Gibraltar, but then he would be out of
our reach.  I could not get much from him, but that patient, contented
look is almost more than one can bear.  It laid hold of me when I saw
him the first time, and has haunted me ever since.  Verily I believe it
is what is bringing me home!  You need not thank me, for it is sober
calculation that convinces me that no success on earth would compensate
for the perpetual sense that my father was wearing himself out, and you
pining over the sight.  Except just at first, I always meant to come
and see how the land lay before pledging myself to anything; and
nothing can be clearer than that, in the state of things my father has
allowed to spring up, he must have help.  I am glad you have got me the
old house, for I can be at peace there till I have learnt to stand his
unmethodical ways.  Don't let him expect too much of me, as I see he is
going to do.  It is not in me to be like Norman or Harry, and he must
not look for it, least of all now. If you did not understand, and know
when to hold your tongue, I do not think I could come home at all; as
it is, you are all the comfort I look for.  I cross to Paris to-morrow.
That is a page I am very sorry to close.  I had a confidence that I
should have hunted down that fellow, and the sight of Portland and the
accounts from Massissauga alike make one long to have one's hands on
his throat; but that hope is ended now, and to loiter about Paris in
search of him, when it it a plain duty to come away, would be one of
the presumptuous acts that come to no good.  Let them discuss what they
will, there's nothing so hard to believe in as Divine Justice!  And yet
that uncomplaining face accepts it!  You need say nothing about this
letter.  I will talk about Leonard with my father when I get home.

'Ever yours,
  'Thomas May.'




CHAPTER XXV

  But soon as once the genial plain
  Has drunk the life-blood of the slain,
  Indelible the spots remain;
    And aye for vengeance call,
  Till racking pangs of piercing pain
    Upon the guilty fall.
                   AEschylus. (Translated by Professor Anstice.)


If Tom May's arrival at home was eagerly anticipated there, it was with
a heavy heart that he prepared for what he had never ceased to look on
as a treadmill life.  He had enjoyed Paris, both from the society and
the abstract study, since he still retained that taste for theory
rather than practice, which made him prefer diseases to sick people,
and all sick people to those of Stoneborough.  The student life, in the
freedom of a foreign capital, was, even while devoid of license and
irregularity, much pleasanter than what he foresaw at home, even though
he had obtained a separate establishment.  His residence at Paris, with
the vague hope it afforded, cost him more in the resignation than his
prospects in London.  It was the week when he would have been
canvassing for the appointment, and he was glad to linger abroad out of
reach of Sir Matthew's remonstrances, and his father's compunction,
while he was engaged in arranging for a French translation of Dr.
Spencer's book, and likewise in watching an interesting case, esteemed
a great medical curiosity, at the Hotel Dieu.

He was waiting in the lecture-room, when one of the house surgeons came
in, saying, 'Ah! I am glad to see you here.  A compatriot of yours has
been brought in, mortally injured in a gambling fray.  You may perhaps
assist in getting him identified.'

Tom followed him to the accident ward, and beheld a senseless figure,
with bloated and discoloured features, distorted by the effects of the
injury, a blow upon the temple, which had caused a fall backwards on
the sharp edge of a stove, occasioning fatal injury to the spine.
Albeit well accustomed to gaze critically upon the tokens of mortal
agony, Tom felt an unusual shudder of horror and repugnance as he
glanced on the countenance, so disfigured and contorted that there was
no chance of recognition, and turned his attention to the clothes,
which lay in a heap on the floor.  The contents of the pockets had been
taken out, and consisted only of some pawnbroker's duplicates, a
cigar-case, and a memorandum-book, which last he took in his hand, and
began to unfasten, without looking at it, while he took part in the
conversation of the surgeons on the technical nature of the injuries.
Thus he stood for some seconds, before, on the house surgeon asking if
he had found any address, he cast his eyes on the pages which lay open
in his hand.

'Ha!  What have you found?--He does not hear!  Is it the portrait of
the beloved object?  Is it a brother--an enemy--or a debt?  But he is
truly transfixed!  It is an effect of the Gorgon's head!'


'July 15th, 1860.  Received �120.
                              'L. A. WARD.'


There stood Tom May, like one petrified, deaf to the words around, his
dazzled eyes fixed on the letters, his faculties concentrated in the
endeavour to ascertain whether they were sight or imagination. Yes,
there they were, the very words in the well-known writing, the
school-boy's forming into the clerk's, there was the blot in the top of
the L!  Tom's heart gave one wild bound, then all sensation, except the
sight of the writing, ceased, the exclamations of those around him came
surging gradually on his ear, as if from a distance, and he did not yet
hear them distinctly when he replied alertly, almost lightly, 'Here is
a name that surprises me.  Let me look at the patient again.'

'No dear friend?' asked his chief intimate, in a tone ready to become
gaiety or sympathy.

'No, indeed,' said Tom, shuddering as he stood over the insensible
wretch, and perceived what it had been which had thrilled him with such
unwonted horror, for, fixed by the paralyzing convulsion of the fatal
blow, he saw the scowl and grin of deadly malevolence that had been the
terror of his childhood, and that had fascinated his eyes at the moment
of Leonard's sentence.  Changed by debauchery, defaced by violence,
contorted by the injured brain, the features would scarcely have been
recalled to him but for the frightful expression stamped on his memory
by the miseries of his timid boyhood.

'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'  The
awful thought, answering his own struggle for faith in Divine Justice,
crossed him, as he heard the injury on the head defined, in almost the
same scientific terms that had so often rung on his ears as the causes
of Francis Axworthy's death; but this was no society where he could
give vent to his feelings, and mastering himself with difficulty he
answered,  'I know Him.  He is from my own town.'

'Has he friends or relations?'

'Relations, yes,' said Tom, hardly able to restrain a trembling of the
lip, half horror, half irony.  'None here, none near.  They shall know.'

'And means?'

'Once he had.  Probably none now.'

To Tom's great relief, a new case drew off general attention.  There
only remained the surgeon who had called him at first, and with whom he
was particularly intimate.

'Gaspard,' he said, 'shall you have charge of this case?'

'Brief charge it will be, apparently!  I will volunteer to watch it, if
it is your desire!  Is it friendship, or enmity, or simple humanity?'

'All!' said Tom, hastily.  'It is the clearing up of a horrible
mystery--freedom for an innocent prisoner--I must tell you the rest at
leisure.  There is much to be done now in case of his reviving.'

This was remotely possible, but very doubtful; and Tom impressed on
both Gaspard and the nursing sister the most stringent entreaties to
summon him on the first symptom.  He then gave the name of the unhappy
man, and, though unwilling to separate himself from that invaluable
pocket-book, perceived the necessity of leaving it as a deposit with
the authorities of the hospital, after he had fully examined it,
recognizing Leonard's description in each particular, the cipher F. A.
on the tarnished silver clasp, the shagreen cover, and the receipt on a
page a little past the middle.  On the other half of the leaf was the
entry of some sums due to the house; and it contained other papers
which the guilty wretch had been evidently eager to secure, yet afraid
to employ, and that, no doubt, were the cause that, like so many other
murderers on record, he had preserved that which was the most fatal
proof against himself.  Or could it be with some notion of future
relenting, that he had refrained from its destruction?

With brain still seeming to reel at the discovery, and limbs actually
trembling with the shock, Tom managed to preserve sufficient coolness
and discretion to bring back to mind the measures he had so often
planned for any such contingency.  Calling a cabriolet, he repaired to
the police-station nearest to the scene of the contest, and there
learnt that Axworthy had long been watched as a dangerous subject, full
of turbulence, and with no visible means of maintenance.  The officials
had taken charge of the few personal effects in his miserable lodgings,
and were endeavouring to secure the person who had struck the fatal
blow.

His next measure was to go to the British Embassy, where, through his
sister Flora's introductions, and his own Eton connections, he was
already well known; and telling his story there, without any attempt to
conceal his breathless agitation, he had no difficulty in bringing with
him a companion who would authenticate the discovery of the receipt,
and certify to any confession that might be obtained.

A confession!  That was the one matter of the most intense interest.
Tom considered whether to secure the presence of a clergyman, but
suspected that this would put Axworthy on his guard rather than soften
him, and therefore only wrote to the chaplain, begging him to hold
himself in readiness for a summons to the Hotel Dieu, whither he drove
rapidly back with his diplomatic friend, whom he wrought up well-nigh
to his own pitch of expectation.  He had already decided on his own
first address--pitying, but manifesting that nothing, not even
vengeance, could be gained by concealment; and then, according to the
effect, would he try either softening or threatening to extort the
truth.

Gaspard was eagerly awaiting them.  'I had already sent for you,' he
said.  'The agony is commencing; he has spoken, but he has not his full
consciousness.'

Tom hurried on, drawing after him the young diplomate, who would have
hung back, questioning if there were any use in his witnessing the
dying struggles of a delirious man.

'Come, come,' peremptorily repeated Tom, 'there must be some last
words.  Every moment is of importance.'

Yet his trust was shaken by the perception of the progress that death
had made in the miserable frame during his absence.  The fixed
expression of malignity had been forced to yield to exhaustion and
anguish, the lips moved, but the murmurs between the moans were
scarcely articulate.

'He is almost past it,' said Tom, 'but there is the one chance that he
may be roused by my voice.'

And having placed his friend conveniently, both for listening and
making notes, he came close to the bed, and spoke in a tone of
compassion. 'Axworthy, I say, Axworthy, is there anything I can do for
you?'

There was a motion of the lid of the fast-glazing eye; but the terrible
face of hatred came back, with the audible words, 'I tell you, you old
fool, none of the Mays are to come prying about my place.'

Appalled by the deadly malice of the imprecation and the look that
accompanied this partial recognition of his voice, Tom was nerving
himself to speak again, when the dying man, as if roused by the echo of
his own thought, burst out, 'Who?  What is it?  I say Dr. May shall not
be called in!  He never attended the old man!  Let him mind his own
business!  I was all night at the Three Goblets.  Yes, I was! The new
darling will catch it--going off with the money upon him--' and the
laugh made their blood run cold.  'I've got the receipt;' and he made
an attempt at thrusting his hand under the pillow, but failing, swore,
shouted, howled with his last strength, that he had been robbed--the
pocket-book--it would hang him! and with one of the most fearful
shrieks of despair that had perhaps ever rung through that asylum of
pain, woe, and death, the wretched spirit departed.

Tom May turned aside, made a few steps, and, to the infinite surprise
of every one, fell helplessly down in a swoon.  A nature of deep and
real sensibility, though repressed by external reserve and prudence,
could not with entire impunity undergo such a scene.  The sudden
discovery, the vehement excitement forced down, the intense strain of
expectation, and finally, the closing horror of such a death, betraying
the crime without repenting of it, passing to the other world with
imprecations on the lips, and hatred in the glare of the eye, all the
frightfulness enhanced by the familiarity of the allusions, and the
ghastly association of the tones that had tempted and tyrannized over
his childhood, altogether crushed and annihilated his faculties, mental
and bodily.

Oh, when our very hearts burn for justice, how little do we know how
intolerable would be the sight of it!  Tom's caution and readiness
returned as soon as--after a somewhat long interval--he began to
distinguish the voices round him, and perceive the amazement he had
created.  Before he was able to sit up on the couch, where he had been
laid out of sight of the scene which had affected him so strongly, he
was urging his friend to set down all that had been spoken, and on
Gaspard's writing a separate deposition.  The pocket-book, and other
effects, were readily ceded to the British authority, and were carried
away with them.

How Tom got through the remaining hours of the day and the night he
never recollected, though he knew it must have been in the bustle of
preparation, and that he had imparted the tidings to Leonard's friend
Brown, for when he and his friend had attended that which answered to
an inquest on the body, and had obtained a report of the proceedings,
he was ready to start by the night train, bearing with him the
attestations of the death-bed scene at the Hotel Dieu, and the
long-lost memorandum-book, and was assured that the next mail would
carry an official letter to the Home Office, detailing the
circumstances of Samuel Axworthy's decease.  Brown came to bid him
farewell, full of gladness and warm congratulation, which he longed to
send to his friend, but which Tom only received with hasty,
half-comprehending assents.

Late in the afternoon he reached Stoneborough, found no one come in,
and sat down in the fire-light, where, for all his impatience, fatigue
had made him drop asleep, when he was roused by Gertrude's voice,
exclaiming, 'Here really is Tom come, as you said he would, without
writing.  Here are all his goods in the hall.'

'Is it you, Tom!' cried Ethel.  'Notice or no notice, we are glad of
you.  But what is the matter?'

'Where's my father?'

'Coming.  Charles Cheviot took him down to look at one of the boys. Is
there anything the matter?' she added, after a pause.

'No, nothing.'

'You look very odd,' added Gertrude.

He gave a nervous laugh.  'You would look odd, if you had travelled all
night.'

They commented, and began to tell home news; but Ethel noted that he
neither spoke nor heard, only listened for his father.  Gertrude grew
tired of inattentive answers, and said she should go and dress. Ethel
was turning to follow, when he caught hold of her cloak, and drew her
close to him.  'Ethel,' he said, in a husky, stifled voice, 'do you
know this?'

On her knees, by the red fire-light, she saw the 'L. A. Ward,' and
looked up.  'Is it?' she said.  He bowed his head.

And then Ethel put her arm round his neck, as he knelt down by her; and
he found that her tears, her rare tears, were streaming down, silent
but irrepressible.  She had not spoken, had asked no question, made no
remark, when Dr. Mays entrance was heard, and she loosed her hold on
her brother, out without rising from the floor, looked up from under
the shade of her hat, and said, 'O, papa! it is found, and he has done
it!  Look there!'

Her choked voice, and tokens of emotion, startled the Doctor; but Tom,
in a matter-of-fact tone, took up the word: 'How are you, father?--Yes.
I have only met with this little memorandum.'

Dr. May recognized it with a burst of incoherent inquiry and
exclamation, wringing Tom's hand, and giving no time for an answer;
and, indeed, his son attempted none--till, calming himself, the Doctor
subsided into his arm-chair, and with a deep sigh, exclaimed, 'Now
then, Tom, let us hear.  Where does this come from?'

'From the casualty ward at the Hotel Dieu.'

'And from--'

'He is dead,' said Tom, answering the unspoken question.  'You will
find it all here.  Ethel, do I sleep here to-night?  My old room?' As
he spoke, he bent to light a spill at the fire, and then the two
candles on the side-table; but his hand shook nervously, and though he
turned away his face, his father and sister saw the paleness of his
cheek, and knew that he must have received a great shock. Neither
spoke, while he put one candle conveniently for his father, took up the
other, and went away with it.  With one inquisitive glance at each
other, they turned to the papers, and with eager eyes devoured the
written narratives of Tom himself and of the attache, then, with no
less avidity, the French reports accompanying them. Hardly a word was
spoken while Ethel leant against her father's knee, and he almost
singed his hair in the candle, as they helped one another out in the
difficulties of the crooked foreign writing.

'Will it be enough?' asked Ethel, at last, holding her breath for the
answer.

'If there is justice in England!' said Dr. May.  'Heaven forgive me,
Ethel, this business has tried my trust more than anything that ever
befell me; but it will all be right now, and righter than right, if
that boy comes out what I think him.'

'And oh, how soon?'

'Not a moment longer than can be helped.  I'd go up by the mail train
this very night if it would do any good.'

Tom, who reappeared as soon as he had spared himself the necessity of
the narration, was willing and eager to set out; but Dr. May, who by
this time had gathered some idea of what he had gone through, and saw
that he was restless, nervous, and unhinged, began to reconsider the
expedience of another night journey, and was, for once in his life, the
person cool enough to see that it would be wisest to call Bramshaw into
their counsels, and only that night to send up a note mentioning that
they would do themselves the honour of calling at the Home Office the
next day, on matters connected with the intelligence received that
morning from the British Embassy at Paris.

Tom was disappointed; he was in no mood for sitting still, and far less
for talking.  As a matter of business, he would elucidate any question,
but conversation on what he had witnessed was impossible to him; and
when Gertrude, with a girl's lightness, lamented over being balked of a
confession and explanation, he gravely answered, that she did not know
what she was talking of; and his father led away from the subject.
Indeed, Dr. May was full of kindness and consideration, being evidently
not only grateful for the discovery, but touched by his entire absence
of exulting triumph, and his strong sense of awe in the retribution.

That changed and awe-struck manner impressed both the sisters, so that
all the evening Ethel felt subdued as by a strange shock, and even
through the night and morning could hardly realize that it was intense
relief--joy, not sorrow--that made her feel so unlike herself, and that
the burthen was taken away from her heart.  Even then, there was a
trembling of anxiety.  The prisoner might be set free; but who could
give back to him the sister who had pined away in exile, or the three
years of his youthful brightness?  There might be better things in
store; but she knew she must not look again for the boy of ingenuous
countenance, whose chivalrous devotion to herself had had such a charm,
even while she tried to prize it at its lightest worth.  It was foolish
to recollect it with a pang, but there was no helping it.  In the great
tragedy, she had forgotten that the pretty comedy was over, but she
regretted it, rather as she did the pleasant baby-days of Aubrey and
Gertrude.

Indeed, during the day of suspense, while the two physicians were gone
to London, taking with them the papers, and a minute detail of the
evidence at the trial, Gertrude's high spirits, triumph over Charles
Cheviot, and desire to trumpet forth the good news, were oppressive.
How many times that day was Mab stroked, and assured that her master
would come back!  And how often did the two sisters endeavour to
persuade themselves that she was not grown broader in the back!  Mary
was, of course, told early in the day, but Gertrude got less sympathy
from her than answered to that damsel's extortionate expectations, for,
according to her wicked account, Mary's little Charlie had sneezed
three times, and his mamma must regret what sent all the medical
science of Stoneborough away by the early train.

However, Tom came home at night.  The interview had been satisfactory.
The letters received in the morning had prepared the way, and revived
the recollection of the unsatisfactory case of Leonard Axworthy Ward,
and of the representations of the then Mayor of Market Stoneborough.
After all the new lights upon the matter had been looked into, the
father and son had been assured that, as soon as possible, a free
pardon should be issued, so drawn up as to imply a declaration of
innocence--the nearest possible approach to a reversal of the sentence;
and they further were told of a mention of his exemplary conduct in a
late report from Portland, containing a request that he might be
promoted to a post of greater influence and trust before the ordinary
time of probation had passed.  Dr. May was eager to be at Portland at
the same time as the pardon, so to give Leonard the first intelligence,
and to bring him home; and he had warmly closed with Tom's offer to
look after the work, while he himself waited till the necessary forms
had been complied with.  He had absolutely begged Tom's pardon for
going in his stead.  'It is your right,' he said; 'but, somehow, I
think, as I have been more with him, I might do better.'  To which Tom
had assented with all his heart, and had added that he would not go if
he were paid for it.  He had further taken care that the Doctor should
take with him a suit of clothes for Leonard to come home in, and had
himself made the selection; then came back with the tidings that filled
the house with the certainty of joy, and the uncertainty of expectation.

Nobody was, however, in such a fever as Tom himself.  He was
marvellously restless all the morning.  Gertrude asserted it was
because he was miserable at not venturing to set his father's study to
rights; and to be sure he was seen looking round at the litter with a
face of great disgust, and declaring that he was ashamed to see a
patient in a room in such a mess.  But this did not fully account for
his being in and out, backwards and forwards, all the morning, looking
wistfully at Ethel, and then asking some trivial question about
messages left for his father, or matters respecting his own new abode,
where he kept on Dr. Spencer's old housekeeper, and was about to turn
in paperers and painters.  He had actually brought a drawing-room paper
from Paris, a most delicate and graceful affair, much too lady-like for
the old house, as Daisy told him, when she pursued him and her sister
down to a consultation.

Late in the afternoon, as the sisters were coming up the High Street,
they met him setting out in Hector's dog-cart.  'Oh, I say, Ethel,' he
said, drawing up, 'do you like a drive out to Chilford?  Here's a note
come to ask my father to see the old lady there, and I want some one to
give me courage to be looked at, like the curate in the pulpit instead
of the crack preacher.'

It was an offer not to be despised, though Ethel knew what a waiting
there would be, and what a dark drive home.  Up she jumped, and Tom
showed his usual thoughtfulness by ordering Gertrude to run home and
fetch her muff and an additional cloak, tucking her up himself with the
carriage rug.  That affection of Tom's had been slow in coming, but
always gave her a sense of gratitude and enjoyment.

They drove all the seven miles to Chilford without twenty words passing
between them; and when there, she sat in the road, and watched one
constellation after another fill up its complement of stars as well as
the moon permitted, wondering whether Tom's near-sighted driving would
be safe in the dark; but her heart was so light, so glad, that she
could not be afraid, she did not care how long she waited, it was only
sitting still to recollect that deliverance had come to the
captive--Leonard was free--'free as heart can think or eye can see,' as
would keep ringing in her ears like a joy-bell; and some better things,
too.  'Until the time came that his cause was known, the Word of the
Lord tried him.'

Whether she were really too happy to note time, or that gossipry was
deducted from the visit, Tom certainly returned sooner than her
experience had led her to expect, made an exclamation of dismay at
finding the machine was innocent of lamps, and remounted to his seat,
prepared to be extremely careful.

'I could not get them to take me for my father in a new wig,' he said;
'but it was a very easy-going rheumatic case, and I think I satisfied
her.'

Then on he drove for a mile, till he was out of the bad cross-country
road, and at last he said, 'Ethel, I have made up my mind.  There's no
press of work just now, and I find it is advisable I should go to
America before I get into harness here.'

'To America!'

'Yes, about this book of dear old Spencer's.  It is a thing that must
be complete, and I find he was in correspondence with some men of
science there.  I could satisfy my mind on a few points, which would
make it infinitely more valuable, you see--and get it published there
too.  I know my father would wish every justice to be done to it.'

'I know he would; and,' continued Ethel, as innocently as she could,
'shall you see the Wards?'

'Why,' said Tom, in his deliberate voice, 'that is just one thing; I
want particularly to see Henry.  I had a talk with Wright this morning,
and he tells me that young Baines, at Whitford, is going to the dogs,
and the practice coming in to him.  He thinks of having a partner, and
I put out a feeler in case Henry Ward should choose to come back, and
found it might do very well.  But the proposal must come from him, and
there's no time to be lost, so I thought of setting out as soon as I
hear my father is on his way back.'

'Not waiting to see Leonard?'

'I did see him not a month ago.  Besides--' and his voice came to a
sudden end.

'Yes, the first news,' said Ethel.  'Indeed it is due to you, Tom.'

Ten minutes more of silence.

'Ethel, did she ever tell you?'

'Never,' said Ethel, her heart beating.

'Then how did you know all about it?'

'I didn't know.  I only saw--'

'Saw what?'

'That you were very much distressed.'

'And very kind and rational you were about it,' said Tom, warmly; 'I
never thought any woman could have guessed so much, without making
mischief.  But you must not put any misconstruction on my present
intention.  All I mean to do as yet is to induce Henry to remove them
out of that dismal swamp, and bring them home to comfort and
civilization.  Then it may be time to--'

He became silent; and Ethel longed ardently to ask further, but still
she durst not, and he presently began again.

'Ethel, was I very intolerable that winter of the volunteers, when
Harry was at home?'

'You are very much improved since,' she answered.

'That's just like Flora.  Answer like yourself.'

'Well, you were!  You were terribly rampant in Eton refinement, and
very anxious to hinder all the others from making fools of themselves.'

'I remember!  I thought you had all got into intimacies that were for
nobody's good, and I still think it was foolish.  I know it has done
for me!  Well,' hastily catching up this last admission, as if it had
dropped out at unawares, 'you think I made myself disagreeable?'

'On principle.'

'Ah! then you would not wonder at what she said--that she had never
seen anything in me but contemptuous irony.'

'I think, sometimes feeling that you were satirical, she took all your
courtesy for irony--whatever you meant.  I have heard other people say
the same.  But when--was this on the day--the day you went to
remonstrate?'

'Yes.  I declare to you, Ethel, that I had no conception of what I was
going to do!  I never dreamt that I was in for it.  I knew she was--was
attractive--and that made me hate to see Harry with her, and I could
not bear her being carried off to this horrible place--but as to
myself, I never thought of it till I saw her--white and broken--' and
then came that old action Ethel knew so well in her father, of clearing
the dew from the glasses, and his voice was half sob, 'and with no
creature but that selfish brother to take care of her.  I couldn't help
it, Ethel--no one could--and this--this was her answer. I don't wonder.
I had been a supercilious prig, and I ought to have known better than
to think I could comfort her.'

'I think the remembrance must have comforted her since.'

'What--what, has she said anything?'

'Oh no, she could not, you know.  But I am sure, if it did anger her at
the moment, there must have been comfort in recollecting that even such
a terrible trouble had not alienated you.  And now--'

'Now that's just what I don't want!  I don't want to stalk in and say
here's the hero of romance that has saved your brother!  I want to get
her home, and show her that I can be civil without being satirical, and
then, perhaps, she would forgive me.'

'Forgive you--'

'I mean forgiveness won, not purchased.  And after all, you know it was
mere accident--Providence if you please--that brought me to that poor
wretch; all my plans of tracking him had come to an end; any one else
could have done what I did.'

'She will not feel that,' said Ethel; 'but indeed, Tom, I see what you
mean, and like it.  It is yourself, and not the conferrer of the
benefit, that you want her to care for.'

'Exactly,' said Tom.  'And, Ethel, I must have seen her and judged of
my chance before I can be good for anything.  I tried to forget it--own
it as a lucky escape--a mere passing matter, like Harry's affairs--but
I could not do it.  Perhaps I could if things had gone well; but that
dear face of misery, that I only stung by my attempts to comfort, would
stick fast with me, and to go and see Leonard only brought it more
home.  It is a horrid bad speculation, and Flora and Cheviot and
Blanche will scout it; but, Ethel, you'll help me through, and my
father will not mind, I know.'

'Papa will feel as I do, Tom--that it has been your great blessing,
turn out as it may.'

'H'm! has it?  A blessing on the wrong side of one's mouth--to go about
with a barb one knew one was a fool for, and yet couldn't forget!
Well, I know what you mean, and I believe it was.  I would not have had
it annihilated, when the first mood was over.'

'It was that which made it so hard to you to come home, was it not?'

'Yes; but it was odd enough, however hard it was to think of coming,
you always sent me away more at peace, Ethel.  I can't think how you
did it, knowing nothing.'

'I think you came at the right time.'

'You see, I did think that while Spencer lived, I might follow up the
track, and see a little of the world--try if that would put out that
face and voice.  But it won't do.  If this hadn't happened, I would
have tied myself down, and done my best to get comfort out of you, and
the hospital, and these 'Diseases of Climate'--I suppose one might in
time, if things went well with her; but, as it is, I can't rest till I
have seen if they can be got home again.  So, Ethel, don't mind if I go
before my father comes home.  I can't stand explanations with him, and
I had rather you did not proclaim this. You see the book, and getting
Henry home, are really the reasons, and I shan't molest her
again--no--not till she has learnt to know what is irony.'

'I think if you did talk it over with papa, you would feel the comfort,
and know him better.'

'Well, well, I dare say, but I can't do it, Ethel.  Either he shuts me
up at first, with some joke, or--' and Tom stopped; but Ethel knew what
he meant.  There was on her father's side an involuntary absence of
perfect trust in this son, and on Tom's there was a character so
sensitive that her father's playfulness grated, and so reserved that
his demonstrative feelings were a still greater trial to one who could
not endure outward emotion.  'Besides,' added Tom, 'there is really
nothing--nothing to tell.  I'm not going to commit myself.  I don't
know whether I ever shall.  I was mad that day, and I want to satisfy
my mind whether I think the same now I am sane, and if I do, I shall
have enough to do to make her forget the winter when I made myself such
an ass.  When I have done that, it may be time to speak to my father.
I really am going out about the book.  When did you hear last?'

'That is what makes me anxious.  I have not heard for two months, and
that is longer than she ever was before without writing, except when
Minna was ill.'

'We shall know if Leonard has heard.'

'No, she always writes under cover to us.'

The course that the conversation then took did not look much like Tom's
doubt whether his own views would be the same.  All the long-repressed
discussion of Averil's merits, her beautiful eyes, her sweet voice, her
refinement, her real worth, the wonder that she and Leonard should be
so superior to the rest of the family, were freely indulged at last,
and Ethel could give far heartier sympathy than if this had come to her
three years ago.  Averil had been for two years her correspondent, and
the patient sweetness and cheerfulness of those letters had given a far
higher estimate of her nature than the passing intercourse of the town
life had left.  The terrible discipline of these years of exile and
sorrow had, Ethel could well believe, worked out something very
different from the well-intentioned wilful girl whose spirit of
partisanship had been so fatal an element of discord.  Distance had, in
truth, made them acquainted, and won their love to one another.

Tom's last words, as he drew up under the lime-trees before the door,
were, 'Mind, I am only going about the 'Diseases of Climate'.'




CHAPTER XXVI

    And Bishop Gawain as he rose,
  Said, 'Wilton, grieve not for thy woes,
         Disgrace and trouble;
  For He who honour best bestows,
         Can give thee double.'--Marmion


Dr. May had written to Portland, entreating that no communication might
be made to Leonard Ward before his arrival; and the good physician's
affection for the prisoner had been so much observed, that no one would
have felt it fair to anticipate him.  Indeed, he presented himself at
the prison gates only two hours after the arrival of the documents,
when no one but the governor was aware of their contents.

Leonard was as usual at his business in the schoolmaster's department;
and thither a summons was sent for him, while Dr. May and the governor
alone awaited his arrival.  Tom's visit was still very recent; and
Leonard entered with anxious eyes, brow drawn together, and compressed
lips, as though braced to meet another blow; and the unusual room, the
presence of the governor instead of the warder, and Dr. May's
irrepressible emotion, so confirmed the impression, that his face at
once assumed a resolute look of painful expectation.

'My boy,' said Dr. May, clasping both his hands in his own, 'you have
borne much of ill.  Can you bear to hear good news?'

'Am I to be sent out to Australia already?' said Leonard--for a
shortening of the eight years before his ticket-of-leave was the sole
hope that had presented itself.

'Sent out, yes; out to go wherever you please, Leonard.  The right is
come round.  The truth is out.  You are a free man!  Do you know what
that is?  It is a pardon.  Your pardon.  All that can be done to right
you, my boy--but it is as good as a reversal of the sentence.'

The Doctor had spoken this with pauses; going on, as Leonard, instead
of answering, stood like one in a dream, and at last said with
difficulty, 'Who did it then?'

'It was as you always believed.'

'Has he told?' said Leonard, drawing his brows together with the effort
to understand.

'No, Leonard.  The vengeance he had brought on himself did not give
space for repentance; but the pocket-book, with your receipt, was upon
him, and your innocence is established.'

'And let me congratulate you,' added the governor, shaking hands with
him; 'and add, that all I have known of you has been as complete an
exculpation as any discovery can be.'

Leonard's hand was passive, his cheek had become white, his forehead
still knit.  'Axworthy!' he said, still as in a trance.

'Yes.  Hurt in a brawl at Paris.  He was brought to the Hotel Dieu; and
my son Tom was called to see him.'

'Sam Axworthy! repeated Leonard, putting his hand over his eyes, as if
one sensation overpowered everything else; and thus he stood for some
seconds, to the perplexity of both.

They showed him the papers: he gazed, but without comprehension; and
then putting the bag, provided by Tom, into his hand, they sent him,
moving in a sort of mechanical obedience, into the room of one of the
officials to change his dress.

Dr. May poured out to the governor and chaplain, who by this time had
joined them, the history of Leonard's generous behaviour at the time of
the trial, and listened in return to their account of the growing
impression he had created--a belief, almost reluctant, that instead of
being their prime specimen, he could only be in their hands by mistake.
He was too sincere not to have confessed had he been really guilty; and
in the long run, such behaviour as his would have been impossible in
one unrepentant.  He had been the more believed from the absence of
complaint, demonstration, or assertion; and the constant endeavour to
avoid notice, coupled with the quiet thorough execution of whatever was
set before him with all his might.

This was a theme to occupy the Doctor for a long time; but at last he
grew eager for Leonard's return, and went to hasten him.  He started
up, still in the convict garb, the bag untouched.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, when his friend's exclamation had
reminded him of what had been desired of him; and in a few minutes he
reappeared in the ordinary dress of a gentleman, but the change did not
seem to have made him realize his freedom--there was the same
submissive manner, the same conventional gesture of respect in reply to
the chaplain's warm congratulation.

'Come, Leonard, I am always missing the boat, but I don't want to do so
now.  We must get home to-night.  Have you anything to take with you?'

'My Bible and Prayer-Book.  They are my own, sir;' as he turned to the
governor.  'May I go to my cell for them?'

Again they tarried long for him, and became afraid that he had fallen
into another reverie; but going to fetch him, found that the delay was
caused by the farewells of all who had come in his way.  The tidings of
his full justification had spread, and each official was eager to wish
him good speed, and thank him for the aid of his example and support.
The schoolmaster, who had of late treated him as a friend, kept close
to him, rejoicing in his liberation, but expecting to miss him sorely;
and such of the convicts as were within reach, were not without their
share in the general exultation.  He had never galled them by his
superiority; and though Brown, the clerk, had been his only friend, he
had done many an act of kindness; and when writing letters for the
unlearned, had spoken many a wholesome simple word that had gone home
to the heart.  His hand was as ready for a parting grasp from a
fellow-prisoner as from a warder; and his thought and voice were
recalled to leave messages for men out of reach; his eyes moistened at
the kindly felicitations; but when he was past the oft-trodden
precincts of the inner court and long galleries, the passiveness
returned, and he received the last good-byes of the governor and
superior officers, as if only half alive to their import.  And thus,
silent, calm, and grave, his composure like that of a man walking in
his sleep, did Leonard Ward pass the arched gateway, enter on the outer
world, and end his three and a half years of penal servitude.

'I'm less like an angel than he is like St. Peter,' thought Dr. May, as
he watched the fixed dreamy gaze, 'but this is like "yet wist he not
that it was true, but thought he saw a vision."  When will he realize
liberty, and enjoy it?  I shall do him a greater kindness by leaving
him to himself.'

And in spite of his impatience, Dr. May refrained from disturbing that
open-eyed trance all the way down the long hill, trusting to the crowd
in the steamer for rousing him to perceive that he was no longer among
russet coats and blue shirts; but he stood motionless, gazing, or at
least his face turned, towards the Dorset coast, uttering no word,
making no movement, save when summoned by his guide--then obeying as
implicitly as though it were his jailor.

So they came to the pier; and so they walked the length of Weymouth,
paced the platform, and took their places in the train.  Just as they
had shot beyond the town, and come into the little wooded valleys
beyond, Leonard turned round, and with the first sparkle in his eye,
exclaimed, 'Trees!  Oh, noble trees and hedges!' then turned again to
look in enchantment at the passing groups--far from noble, though
bright with autumn tints--that alternated with the chalk downs.

Dr. May was pleased at this revival, and entertained at the start and
glance of inquiring alarm from an old gentleman in the other corner.
Presently, in the darkness of a cutting, again Leonard spoke: 'Where
are you taking me, Dr. May?'

'Home, of course.'

Whatever the word might imply to the poor lad, he was satisfied, and
again became absorbed in the sight of fields, trees, and hedgerows;
while Dr. May watched the tokens of secret dismay in their
fellow-traveller, who had no doubt understood 'home' to mean his
private asylum.  Indeed, though the steady full dark eyes showed no
aberration, there was a strange deep cave between the lid and the
eyebrow, which gave a haggard look; the spare, worn, grave features had
an expression--not indeed weak, nor wandering, but half bewildered,
half absorbed, moreover, in spite of Tom's minute selection of apparel,
it had been too hasty a toilette for the garments to look perfectly
natural; and the cropped head was so suspicious, that it was no wonder
that at the first station, the old gentleman gathered up his umbrella,
with intense courtesy squeezed gingerly to the door, carefully avoiding
any stumble over perilous toes, and made his escape--entering another
carriage, whence he no doubt signed cautions against the lunatic and
his keeper, since no one again invaded their privacy.

Perhaps this incident most fully revealed to the Doctor, how unlike
other people his charge was, how much changed from the handsome
spirited lad on whom the trouble had fallen; and he looked again and
again at the profile turned to the window, as fixed and set as though
it had been carved.

'Ah, patience is an exhausting virtue!' said he to himself.  'Verily it
is bearing--bearing up under the full weight; and the long bent spring
is the slower in rebounding in proportion to its inherent strength.
Poor lad, what protracted endurance it has been!  There is health and
force in his face; no line of sin, nor sickness, nor worldly care, such
as it makes one's heart ache to see aging young faces; yet how utterly
unlike the face of one and-twenty!  I had rather see it sadder than so
strangely settled and sedate!  Shall I speak to him again?  Not yet:
those green hill-sides, those fields and cattle, must refresh him
better than my clavers, after his grim stony mount of purgatory.  I
wish it were a brighter day to greet him, instead of this gray damp
fog.'

The said fog prevented any semblance of sunset; but through the gray
moonlit haze, Leonard kept his face to the window, pertinaciously
clearing openings in the bedewed glass, as though the varying outline
of the horizon had a fascination for him.  At last, after ten minutes
of glaring gas at a junction had by contrast rendered the mist
impenetrable, and reduced the view to brightened clouds of steam, and
to white telegraphic posts, erecting themselves every moment, with
their wires changing their perspective in incessant monotony, he ceased
his gaze, and sat upright in his place, with the same strange rigid
somnambulist air.

Dr. May resolved to rouse him.

'Well, Leonard,' he said, 'this has been a very long fever; but we are
well through it at last--with the young doctor from Paris to our aid.'

Probably Leonard only heard the voice, not the words, for he passed his
hand over his face, and looked up to the Doctor, saying dreamily, 'Let
me see!  Is it all true?' and then, with a grave wistful look, 'It was
not I who did that thing, then?'

'My dear!' exclaimed the Doctor, starting forward, and catching hold of
his hand, 'have they brought you to this?'

'I always meant to ask you, if I ever saw you alone again,' said
Leonard.

'But you don't mean that you have imagined it!'

'Not constantly--not when any one was with me,' said Leonard, roused by
Dr. May's evident dismay; and drawn on by his face of anxious inquiry.
'At Milbank, I generally thought I remembered it just as they described
it in court, and that it was some miserable ruinous delusion that
hindered my confessing; but the odd thing was, that the moment any one
opened my door, I forgot all about it, resolutions and all, and was
myself again.'

'Then surely--surely you left that horror with the solitude?'

'Yes, till lately; but when it did come back, I could not be sure what
was recollection of fact, and what of my own fancy;' and he drew his
brows together in painful effort.  'Did I know who did it, or did I
only guess?'

'You came to a right conclusion, and would not let me act on it.'

'And I really did write the receipt, and not dream it?'

'That receipt has been in my hand.  It was what has brought you here.'
And now to hearing ears, Dr. May went over the narrative; and Leonard
stood up under the little lamp in the roof of the carriage to read the
papers.

'I recollect--I understand,' he said, presently, and sat down, grave
and meditative--no longer dreamy, but going over events, which had at
last acquired assurance to his memory from external circumstances.
Presently his fingers were clasped together over his face, his head
bent, and then he looked up, and said, 'Do they know it--my sister and
brother?'

'No.  We would not write till you were free.  You must date the first
letter from Stoneborough.'

The thought had brought a bitter pang.  'One half year sooner--' and he
leant back in his seat, with fingers tightly pressed together, and
trembling with emotion.

'Nay, Leonard; may not the dear child be the first to rejoice in the
fulfilment of her own sweet note of comfort?  They could not harm the
innocent.'

'Not innocent,' he said, 'not innocent of causing all the discord that
has ended in their exile, and the dear child's death.'

'Then this is what has preyed on you, and changed you so much more of
late,' said Dr. May.

'When I knew that I was indeed guilty of _her_ death,' said Leonard, in
a calm full conviction of too long standing to be accompanied with
agitation, though permanently bowing him down.

'And you never spoke of this: not to the chaplain?'

'I never could.  It would have implied all the rest that he could not
believe.  And it would not have changed the fact.'

'The aspect of it may change, Leonard.  You know yourself how many
immediate causes combined, of which you cannot accuse yourself--your
brother's wrongheadedness, and all the rest.  And,' added the Doctor,
recovering himself, 'you do see it in other aspects, I know.  Think of
the spirit set free to be near you--free from the world that has gone
so hard with you!'

'I can't keep that thought long; I'm not worthy of it.'

Again he was silent; but presently said, as with a sudden thought, 'You
would have told me if there were any news of Ave.'

'No, there has been no letter since her last inclosure for you,' and
then Dr. May gave the details from the papers on the doings of Henry's
division of the army.

'Will Henry let me be with them?' said Leonard, musingly.

'They will come home, depend upon it.  You must wait till you hear.'

Leonard thought a little while, then said, 'Where did you say I was to
go, Dr. May?'

'Where, indeed?  Home, Leonard--home.  Ethel is waiting for us.  To the
High Street.'

Leonard looked up again with his bewildered face, then said, 'I know
what you do with me will be right, but--'

'Had you rather not?' said the Doctor, startled.

'Rather!' and the Doctor, to his exceeding joy, saw the fingers over
his eyes moist with the tears they tried to hide; 'I only meant--' he
added, with an effort, 'you must think and judge--I can't
think--whether I ought.'

'If you ask me that,' said Dr. May, earnestly, 'all I have to say is,
that I don't know what palace is worthy of you.'

There was not much said after that; and the Doctor fell asleep, waking
only at the halts at stations to ask where he was.

At last came 'Blewer!' and as the light shone on the clock, Leonard
said, 'A quarter past twelve!  It is the very train I went by!  Is it a
dream?'

Ten minutes more, and 'Stoneborough' was the cry.  Hastily springing
out, shuffling the tickets into the porter's hand, and grappling
Leonard's arm as if he feared an escape, Dr. May hurried him into the
empty streets, and strode on in silence.

The pull at the door-bell was answered instantly by Ethel herself. She
held out her hand, and grasped that which Leonard had almost withheld,
shrinking as from too sudden a vision; and then she ardently exchanged
kisses with her father.

'Where's Tom?  Gone to bed?' said Dr. May, stepping into the bright
drawing-room.

'No,' said Ethel, demurely; 'he is gone--he is gone to America.'

The Doctor gave a prodigious start, and looked at her again.

'He went this afternoon.' she said.  'There is some matter about the
'Diseases of Climate' that he must settle before the book is published;
and he thought he could best be spared now.  He has left messages that
I will give you by and by; but you must both be famished.'

Her looks indicated that all was right, and both turned to welcome the
guest, who stood where the first impulse had left him, in the hall, not
moving forward, till he was invited in to the fire, and the meal
already spread.  He then obeyed, and took the place pointed out; while
the Doctor nervously expatiated on the cold, damp, and changes of
train; and Ethel, in the active bashfulness of hidden agitation, made
tea, cut bread, carved chicken, and waited on them with double
assiduity, as Leonard, though eating as a man who had fasted since
early morning, was passive as a little child, merely accepting what was
offered to him, and not even passing his cup till she held out her hand
for it.

She did not even dare to look at him; she could not bear that he should
see her do so; it was enough to know that he was free--that he was
there--that it was over.  She did not want to see how it had changed
him; and, half to set him at ease, half to work off her own excitement,
she talked to her father, and told him of the little events of his
absence till the meal was over; and, at half-past one, good nights were
exchanged with Leonard, and the Doctor saw him to his room, then
returned to his daughter on her own threshold.

'That's a thing to have lived for,' he said.

Ethel locked her hands together, and looked up.

'And now, how about this other denouement?  I might have guessed that
the wind sat in that quarter.'

'But you're not to guess it, papa.  It is really and truly about the
'Diseases of Climate'.'

'Swamp fevers, eh! and agues!'

The 'if you can help it,' was a great comfort now; Ethel could venture
on saying, 'Of course that has something to do with it; but he really
does make the book his object; and please--please don't give any hint
that you suspect anything else.'

'I suppose you are in his confidence; and I must ask no questions.'

'I hated not telling you, and letting you tease him; but he trusted me
just enough not to make me dare to say a word; though I never was sure
there was a word to say.  Now do just once own, papa, that Tom is the
romantic one after all, to have done as he did in the height of the
trouble.'

'Well in his place so should I,' said the Doctor, with the perverseness
of not satisfying expectations of amazement.

'_You_ would,' said Ethel; 'but Tom! would you have thought it of Tom?'

'Tom has more in him than shows through his spectacles,' answered Dr.
May.  'So!  That's the key to his restless fit.  Poor fellow!  How did
it go with him?  They have not been carrying it on all this time,
surely!'

'Oh, no, no, papa!  She cut him to the heart, poor boy! thought he was
laughing at her--told him it had all been irony.  He has no notion
whether she will ever forgive him.'

'A very good lesson, Master Doctor Thomas,' said Dr. May, with a
twinkle in his eye; 'and turn out as it will, it has done him
good--tided him over a dangerous time of life.  Well, you must tell me
all about it to-morrow; I'm too sleepy to know what I'm talking of.'

The sleepiness that always finished off the Doctor's senses at the
right moment, was a great preservative of his freshness and vigour; but
Ethel was far from sharing it, and was very glad when the clock sounded
a legitimate hour for getting up, and dressing by candle-light, briefly
answering Gertrude's eager questions on the arrival. It was a pouring
wet morning, and she forbade Daisy to go to church--indeed, it would
have been too bad for herself on any morning but this--any but this, as
she repeated, smiling at her own spring of thankfulness, as she
fortified herself with a weight of waterproof, and came forth in the
darkness of 7.45, on a grim November day.

A few steps before her, pacing on, umbrellaless, was a figure which
made her hurry to overtake him.

'O, Leonard! after your journey, and in this rain!'

He made a gesture of courtesy, but moved as if to follow, not join her.
Did he not know whether he were within the pale of humanity?

'Here is half an umbrella.  Won't you hold it for me?' she said; and as
he followed his instinct of obedience, she put it into his hand, and
took his arm, thinking that this familiarity would best restore him to
a sense of his regained position; and, moreover, feeling glad and
triumphant to be thus leaning, and to have that strong arm to contend
with the driving blast that came howling round the corner of Minster
Street, and fighting for their shelter.  They were both out of breath
when they paused to recover in the deep porch of the Minster.

'Is Dr. May come home?'

'Yes--and--'

Ethel signed, and Mr. Wilmot held out an earnest hand, with, 'This is
well.  I am glad to see you.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Leonard, heartily; 'and for all--'

'This is your new beginning of life, Leonard.  God bless you in it.'

As Mr. Wilmot passed on, Ethel for the first time ventured to look up
into the eyes--and saw their hollow setting, their loss of sparkle, but
their added steadfastness and resolution.  She could not help repeating
the long-treasured lines: 'And, Leonard,


                         "--grieve not for thy woes,
                    Disgrace and trouble;
                    For He who honour best bestows,
                       Shall give thee double."'


'I've never ceased to be glad you read Marmion with me,' he hastily
said, as they turned into church on hearing a clattering of choristers
behind them.

Clara might have had such sensations when she bound the spurs on her
knight's heels, yet even she could hardly have had so pure, unselfish,
and exquisite a joy as Ethel's, in receiving the pupil who had been in
a far different school from hers.

The gray dawn through the gloom, the depths of shadow in the twilight
church, softening and rendering all more solemn and mysterious, were
more in accordance than bright and beamy sunshine with her subdued
grave thankfulness; and there was something suitable in the fewness of
the congregation that had gathered in the Lady Chapel--so few, that
there was no room for shyness, either in, or for, him who was again
taking his place there, with steady composed demeanour, its stillness
concealing so much.

Ethel had reckoned on the verse--'That He might hear the mournings of
such as are in captivity, and deliver the children appointed unto
death.'  But she had not reckoned on its falling on her ears in the
deep full-toned melodious bass, that came in, giving body to the young
notes of the choristers--a voice so altered and mellowed since she last
had heard it, that it made her look across in doubt, and recognize in
the uplifted face, that here indeed the freed captive was at home, and
lifted above himself.

When the clause, in the Litany, for all prisoners and captives brought
to her the thrill that she had only to look up to see the fulfilment of
many and many a prayer for one captive, for once she did not hear the
response, only saw the bent head, as though there were thoughts went
too deep to find voice.  And again, there was the special thanksgiving
that Mr. Wilmot could not refrain from introducing for one to whom a
great mercy had been vouchsafed. If Ethel had had to swim home, she
would not but have been there!

Charles Cheviot addressed them as they came out of church: 'Good
morning--Mr. Ward, I hope to do myself the honour of calling on you--I
shall see you again, Ethel.

And off he went over the glazy stones to his own house, Ethel knowing
that this cordial salutation and intended call were meant to be
honourable amends for his suspicions; but Leonard, unconscious of the
import, and scarcely knowing indeed that he was addressed, made his
mechanical gesture of respect, and looked up, down, and round, absorbed
in the scene.  'How exactly the same it all looks,' he said; 'the
cloister gate, and the Swan, and the postman in the very same
waterproof cape.'

'Do you not feel like being just awake?'

'No; it is more like being a ghost, or somebody else.'

Then the wind drove them on too fast for speech, till as they crossed
the High Street, Ethel pointed through the plane-trees to two round
black eyes, and a shining black nose, at the dining-room window.

'My Mab, my poor little Mab!--You have kept her all this time!  I was
afraid to ask for her.  I could not hope it.'

'I could not get my spoilt child, Gertrude, to bed without taking Mab,
that she might see the meeting.'

Perhaps it served Daisy right that the meeting did not answer her
expectations.  Mab and her master had both grown older; she smelt round
him long before she was sure of him, and then their content in one
another was less shown by fervent rapture, than by the quiet hand
smoothing her silken coat; and, in return, by her wistful eye, nestling
gesture, gently waving tail.

And Leonard!  How was it with him?  It was not easy to tell in his
absolute passiveness.  He seemed to have neither will nor impulse to
speak, move, or act, though whatever was desired of him, he did with
the implicit obedience that no one could bear to see.  They put books
near him, but he did not voluntarily touch one: they asked if he would
write to his sister, and he took the pen in his hand, but did not
accomplish a commencement.  Ethel asked him if he were tired, or had a
headache.

'Thank you, no,' he said; 'I'll write,' and made a dip in the ink.

'I did not mean to tease you,' she said; 'the mail is not going just
yet, and there is no need for haste.  I was only afraid something was
wrong.'

'Thank you,' he said, submissively; 'I will--when I can think; but it
is all too strange.  I have not seen a lady, nor a room like this,
since July three years.'

After that Ethel let him alone, satisfied that peace was the best means
of recovering the exhaustion of his long-suffering.

The difficulty was that this was no house for quiet, especially the day
after the master's return: the door-bell kept on ringing, and each time
he looked startled and nervous, though assured that it was only
patients.  But at twelve o'clock in rushed Mr. Cheviot's little
brother, with a note from Mary, lamenting that it was too wet for
herself, but saying that Charles was coming in the afternoon, and that
he intended to have a dinner-party of old Stoneborough scholars to
welcome Leonard back.

Meanwhile, Martin Cheviot, wanting to see, and not to stare, and to
unite cordiality and unconsciousness, made an awkward mixture of all,
and did not know how to get away; and before he had accomplished it,
Mr. Edward Anderson was announced.  He heartily shook hands with
Leonard, eagerly welcomed him, and talked volubly, and his last
communication was, 'If it clears, you will see Matilda this afternoon.'

'I did not know she was here.'

'Yes; she and Harvey are come to Mrs. Ledwich's, to stay over Sunday;'
and there was a laugh in the corner of his eye, that convinced Ethel
that the torrents of rain would be no protection.

'Papa,' said she, darting out to meet her father in the hall, 'you must
take Leonard out in your brougham this afternoon, if you don't want him
driven distracted.  If he is in the house, ropes won't hold Mrs. Harvey
Anderson from him!'

So Dr. May invited his guest to share his drive; and the excitement
began to seem unreal when the Doctor returned alone.

'I dropped him at Cocksmoor,' he said.  'It was Richard's notion that
he would be quieter there--able to get out, and go to church, without
being stared at.'

'Did he like it?' asked Gertrude, disappointed.

'If one told him to chop off his finger, he would do it, and never show
whether he liked it.  Richard asked him, and he said, "Thank you."  I
never could get an opening to show him that we did not want to suppress
him; I never saw spirit so quenched.'

Charles Cheviot thought it was a mistake to do what gave the appearance
of suppression--he said that it was due to Leonard to welcome him as
heartily as possible, and not to encourage false shame, where there was
no disgrace; so he set his wife to fill up her cards for his
dinner-party, and included in it Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Anderson, for the
sake of their warm interest in the liberated prisoner.

'However, Leonard was out of the scrape,' as the Doctor expressed it,
for he had one of his severe sore throats, and was laid up at
Cocksmoor.  Richard was dismayed by his passive obedience--a novelty to
the gentle eldest, who had all his life been submitting, and now was
puzzled by his guest's unfailing acquiescence without a token of
preference or independence: and comically amazed at the implicit
fulfilment of his recommendation to keep the throat in bed--a wise
suggestion, but one that the whole house of May, in their own persons,
would have scouted.  Nothing short of the highest authority ever kept
them there.

The semblance of illness was perhaps a good starting-point for a return
to the ways of the world; and on the day week of his going to
Cocksmoor, Ethel found him by the fire, beginning his letters to his
brother and sister, and looking brighter and more cheery, but so devoid
of voice, that speech could not be expected of him.

She had just looked in again after some parish visiting, when a quick
soldierly step was heard, and in walked Aubrey.

'No; I'm not come to you, Ethel; I'm only come to this fellow;' and he
ardently grasped his hand.  'I've got leave till Monday, and I shall
stay here and see nobody else.--What, a sore throat?  Couldn't you get
wrapped up enough between the two doctors?'

Leonard's eyes lighted as he muttered his hoarse 'Thank you,' and Ethel
lingered for a little desultory talk to her brother, contrasting the
changes that the three years had made in the two friends.  Aubrey,
drilled out of his home scholarly dreaminess by military and practical
discipline, had exchanged his native languor for prompt upright
alertness of bearing and speech; his eye had grown more steady, his
mouth had lost its vague pensive expression, and was rendered sterner
by the dark moustache; definite thought, purpose, and action, had
moulded his whole countenance and person into hopeful manhood, instead
of visionary boyhood.  The other face, naturally the most full of fire
and resolution, looked strangely different in its serious unsmiling
gravity, the deeply worn stamp of patient endurance and utter
isolation.  There was much of rest and calm, and even of content--but
withal a quenched look, as if the lustre of youth and hope had been
extinguished, and the soul had been so driven in upon itself, that
there was no opening to receive external sympathy--a settled
expression, all the stranger on a face with the clear smoothness of
early youth.  One thing at least was unchanged--the firm friendship and
affection--that kept the two constantly casting glances over one
another, to assure themselves of the presence before them.

Ethel left them together; and her father, who made out that he should
save time by going to Cocksmoor Church on Sunday morning, reported that
the boys seemed very happy together in their own way; but that Richard
reported himself to have been at the sole expense of conversation in
the evening--the only time such an event could ever have occurred!

Aubrey returned home late on the Sunday evening; and Leonard set off to
walk part of the way with him in the dusk, but ended by coming the
whole distance, for the twilight opened their lips in this renewal of
old habits.

'It is all right to be walking together again,' said Aubrey, warmly;
'though it is not like those spring days.'

'I've thought of them every Sunday.'

'And what are you going to do now, old fellow?'

'I don't know.'

'I hear Bramshaw is going to offer you to come into his office.  Now,
don't do that, Leonard, whatever you do!'

'I don't know.'

'You are to have all your property back, you know, and you could do
much better for yourself than that.'

'I can't tell till I have heard from my brother.'

'But, Leonard, promise me now--you'll not go out and make a Yankee of
yourself.'

'I can't tell; I shall do what he wishes.'

Aubrey presently found that Leonard seemed to have no capacity to think
or speak of the future or the past.  He set Aubrey off on his own
concerns, and listened with interest, asking questions that showed him
perfectly alive to what regarded his friend, but the passive inaction
of will and spirits still continued, and made him almost a
disappointment.

On Monday morning there was a squabble between the young engineer and
the Daisy, who was a profound believer in the scientific object of
Tom's journey, and greatly resented the far too obvious construction
thereof.

'You must read lots of bad novels at Chatham, Aubrey; it is like the
fag end of the most trumpery of them all!'

'You haven't gone far enough in your mathematics, you see, Daisy. You
think one and one--'

'Make two.  So I say.'

'I've gone into the higher branches.'

'I didn't think you were so simple and commonplace.  It would be so
stupid to think he must--just because he could not help making this
discovery.'

'All for want of the higher branches of mathematics!  One plus
one--equals one.'

'One minus common sense, plus folly, plus romance, minus anything to
do.  Your equation is worthy of Mrs. Harvey Anderson.  I gave her a
good dose of the 'Diseases of Climate!''

Aubrey was looking at Ethel all the time Gertrude was triumphing; and
finally he said, 'I've no absolute faith in disinterested philanthropy
to a younger brother--whatever I had before I went to the Tyrol.'

'What has that to do with it?' asked Gertrude.  'Everybody was cut up,
and wanted a change--and you more than all.  I do believe the
possibility of a love affair absolutely drives people mad: and now they
must needs saddle it upon poor Tom--just the one of the family who is
not so stupid, but has plenty of other things to think about.'

'So you think it a stupid pastime?'

'Of course it is.  Why, just look.  Hasn't everybody in the family
turned stupid, and of no use, as soon at they went and fell in love!
Only good old Ethel here has too much sense, and that's what makes her
such a dear old gurgoyle.  And Harry--he is twice the fun after he
comes home, before he gets his fit of love.  And all the story books
that begin pleasantly, the instant that love gets in, they are just
alike--so stupid!  And now, if you haven't done it yourself, you want
to lug poor innocent Tom in for it.'

'When your time comes, may I be there to see!'

He retreated from her evident designs of clapper-clawing him; and she
turned round to Ethel with, 'Now, isn't it stupid, Ethel!'

'Very stupid to think all the zest of life resides in one particular
feeling,' said Ethel; 'but more stupid to talk of what you know nothing
about.'

Aubrey put in his head for a hurried farewell, and, 'Telegraph to me
when Mrs. Thomas May comes home.'

'If Mrs. Thomas May comes home, I'll--'

'Give her that chair cover,' said Ethel; and her idle needlewoman,
having been eight months working one corner of it, went off into fits
of laughter, regarding its completion as an equally monstrous feat with
an act of cannibalism on the impossible Mrs. Thomas May.

How different were these young things, with their rhodomontade and
exuberant animation and spirits, from him in whom all the sparkle and
aspiration of life seemed extinguished!




CHAPTER XXVII

  A cup was at my lips: it pass'd
  As passes the wild desert blast!
           *****
  I woke--around me was a gloom
  And silence of the tomb;
  But in that awful solitude
  That little spirit by me stood--
  But oh, how changed!
              --Thoughts in Past Years


Under Richard's kind let-alone system, Leonard was slowly recovering
tone.  First he took to ruling lines in the Cocksmoor account-books,
then he helped in their audit; and with occupation came the sense of
the power of voluntary exertion.  He went and came freely, and began to
take long rambles in the loneliest parts of the heath and plantations,
while Richard left him scrupulously to his own devices, and rejoiced to
see them more defined and vigorous every day.  The next stop was to
assist in the night-school where Richard had hitherto toiled
single-handed among very rough subjects.  The technical training and
experience derived from Leonard's work under the schoolmaster at
Portland were invaluable; and though taking the lead was the last thing
he would have thought of, he no sooner entered the school than
attention and authority were there, and Richard found that what had to
him been a vain and patient struggle was becoming both effective and
agreeable.  Interest in his work was making Leonard cheerful and alert,
though still grave, and shrinking from notice--avoiding the town by
daylight, and only coming to Dr. May's in the dark evenings.

On the last Sunday in Advent, Richard was engaged to preach at his
original curacy, and that the days before and after it should likewise
be spent away from home was insisted on after the manner of the friends
of hard-working clergy.  He had the less dislike to going that he could
leave his school-work to Leonard, who was to be housed at his father's,
and there was soon perceived to have become a much more ordinary member
of society than on his first arrival.

One evening, there was a loud peal at the door-bell, and the maid--one
of Ethel's experiments of training--came in.

'Please, sir, a gentleman has brought a cockatoo and a letter and a
little boy from the archdeacon.'

'Archdeacon!' cried Dr. May, catching sight of the handwriting on the
letter and starting up.  'Archdeacon Norman--'

'One of Norman's stray missionaries and a Maori newly caught; oh, what
fun!' cried Daisy, in ecstasy.

At that moment, through the still open door, walking as if he had lived
there all his life, there entered the prettiest little boy that ever
was seen--a little knickerbocker boy, with floating rich dark ringlets,
like a miniature cavalier coming forth from a picture, with a white
cockatoo on his wrist.  Not in the least confused, he went straight
towards Dr. May and said, 'Good-morning, grandpapa.'

'Ha!  And who may you be, my elfin prince?' said the Doctor.

'I'm Dickie--Richard Rivers May--I'm not an elfin prince,' said the
boy, with a moment's hurt feeling.  'Papa sent me.'  By that time the
boy was fast in his grandfather's embrace, and was only enough released
to give him space to answer the eager question, 'Papa--papa here?'

'Oh no; I came with Mr. Seaford.'

The Doctor hastily turned Dickie over to the two aunts, and hastened
forth to the stranger, whose name he well knew as a colonist's son, a
favourite and devoted clerical pupil of Norman's.

'Aunt Ethel,' said little Richard, with instant recognition; 'mamma
said you would be like her, but I don't think you will.'

'Nor I, Dickie, but we'll try.  And who's that!'

'Yes, what am I to be like?' asked Gertrude.

'You're not Aunt Daisy--Aunt Daisy is a little girl.'

Gertrude made him the lowest of curtseys; for not to be taken for a
little girl was the compliment she esteemed above all others. Dickie's
next speech was, 'And is that Uncle Aubrey?'

'No, that's Leonard.'

Dickie shook hands with him very prettily; but then returning upon
Ethel, observed, 'I thought it was Uncle Aubrey, because soldiers
always cut their hair so close.'

The other guest was so thoroughly a colonist, and had so little idea of
anything but primitive hospitality, that he had had no notion of
writing beforehand to announce his coming, and accident had delayed the
letters by which Norman and Meta had announced their decision of
sending home their eldest boy under his care.

'Papa had no time to teach me alone,' said Dickie, who seemed to have
been taken into the family councils; 'and mamma is always busy, and I
wasn't getting any good with some of the boys that come to school to
papa.'

'Indeed, Mr. Dickie!' said the Doctor, full of suppressed laughter.

'It is quite true,' said Mr. Seaford; 'there are some boys that the
archdeacon feels bound to educate, but who are not desirable companions
for his son.'

'It is a great sacrifice,' remarked the young gentleman.

'Oh, Dickie, Dickie,' cried Gertrude, in fits, 'don't you be a prig--'

'Mamma said it,' defiantly answered Dickie.

'Only a parrot,' said Ethel, behind her handkerchief; but Dickie, who
heard whatever he was not meant to hear, answered--

'It is not a parrot, it is a white cockatoo, that the chief of
(something unutterable) brought down on his wrist like a hawk to the
mission-ship; and that mamma sent as a present to Uncle George.'

'I prefer the parrot that has fallen to my share,' observed the Doctor.

It was by this time perched beside him, looking perfectly at ease and
thoroughly at home.  There was something very amusing in the aspect of
the little man; he so completely recalled his mother's humming-bird
title by the perfect look of finished porcelain perfection that even a
journey from the Antipodes with only gentleman nursemaids had not
destroyed.  The ringleted rich brown hair shone like glossy silk, the
cheeks were like painting, the trim well-made legs and small hands and
feet looked dainty and fairy-like, yet not at all effeminate; hands and
face were a healthy brown, and contrasted with the little white collar,
the set of which made Ethel exclaim, 'Just look, Daisy, that's what I
always told you about Meta's doings.  Only I can't understand
it.--Dickie, have the fairies kept you in repair ever since mamma
dressed you last?'

'We haven't any fairies in New Zealand,' he replied; 'and mamma never
dressed me since I was a baby!'

'And what are you now?' said the Doctor.

'I am eight years old,' said this piece of independence, perfectly well
mannered, and au fait in all the customs of the tea-table; and when the
meal was over, he confidentially said to his aunt, 'Shall I come and
help you wash up?  I never break anything.'

Ethel declined this kind offer; but he hung on her hand and asked if he
might go and see the schoolroom, where papa and Uncle Harry used to
blow soap-bubbles.  She lighted a candle, and the little gentleman
showed himself minutely acquainted with the whole geography of the
house, knew all the rooms and the pictures, and where everything had
happened, even to adventures that Ethel had forgotten.

'It is of no use to say there are no fairies in New Zealand,' said Dr.
May, taking him on his knee, and looking into the blue depths of
Norman's eyes.  'You have been head-waiter to Queen Mab, and
perpetually here when she made you put a girdle round the earth in
forty minutes.'

'Papa read that to the boys, and they said it was stupid and no use,'
said Dickie; 'but papa said that the electric telegraph would do it.'

The little cavalier appeared not to know what it was to be at a loss
for an answer, and the joint letter from his parents explained that his
precocious quickness was one of their causes for sending him home.  He
was so deft and useful as to be important in the household, and
necessarily always living with his father and mother, he took constant
part in their conversation, and was far more learned in things than in
books.  In the place where they were settled, trustworthy boy society
was unattainable, and they had felt their little son, in danger of
being spoilt and made forward from his very goodness and
brightness--wrote Meta, 'If you find him a forward imp, recollect it is
my fault for having depended so much on him.'

His escort was a specimen of the work Norman had done, not actual
mission-work, but preparation and inspiriting of those who went forth
on the actual task.  He was a simple-minded, single-hearted man, one of
the first pupils in Norman's college, and the one who had most fully
imbibed his spirit.  He had been for some years a clergyman, and
latterly had each winter joined the mission voyage among the Melanesian
Isles, returning to their homes the lads brought for the summer for
education to the mission college in New Zealand, and spending some time
at a station upon one or other of the islands.  He had come back from
the last voyage much out of health, and had been for weeks nursed by
Meta, until a long rest having been declared necessary, he had been
sent to England as the only place where he would not be tempted to
work, and was to visit his only remaining relation, a sister, who had
married an officer and was in Ireland. He was burning to go back again,
and eagerly explained--sagely corroborated by the testimony of the tiny
archdeacon--that his illness was to be laid to the blame of his own
imprudence, not to the climate; and he dwelt upon the delights of the
yearly voyage among the lovely islands, beautiful beyond imagination,
fenced in by coral breakwaters, within which the limpid water displayed
exquisite sea-flowers, shells, and fishes of magical gorgeousness of
hue; of the brilliant white beach, fringing the glorious vegetation,
cocoa-nut, bread-fruit, banana, and banyan, growing on the sloping
sides of volcanic rocks; of mysterious red-glowing volcano lights seen
far out at sea at night, of glades opening to show high-roofed huts
covered with mats: of canoes decorated with the shining white shells
resembling a poached egg; of natives clustering round, eager and
excited, seldom otherwise than friendly; though in hitherto unvisited
places, or in those where the wanton outrages of sandal-wood traders
had excited distrust, caution was necessary, and there was peril enough
to give the voyage a full character of heroism and adventure. Bows and
poisoned arrows were sometimes brought down--and Dickie insisted that
they had been used--but in general the mission was recognized, and an
eager welcome given; presents of fish-hooks, or of braid and
handkerchiefs, established a friendly feeling; and readiness--in which
the Hand of the Maker must be recognized--was manifested to intrust
lads to the mission for the summer's training at the college in New
Zealand--wild lads, innocent of all clothing, except marvellous
adornments of their woolly locks, wigged out sometimes into huge
cauliflowers whitened with coral lime, or arranged quarterly red and
white, and their noses decorated with rings, which were their nearest
approach to a pocket, as they served for the suspension of fish-hooks,
or any small article.  A radiate arrangement of skewers from the nose,
in unwitting imitation of a cat's whiskers, had even been known.  A few
days taught dressing and eating in a civilized fashion; and time,
example, and the wonderful influence of the head of the mission,
trained these naturally intelligent boys into much that was hopeful.
Dickie, who had been often at the college, had much to tell of
familiarity with the light canoes that some cut out and launched; of
the teaching them English games, of their orderly ways in school and in
hall; of the prayers in their many tongues, and of the baptism of some,
after full probation, and at least one winter's return to their own
isles, as a test of their sincerity and constancy.  Much as the May
family had already heard of this wonderful work, it came all the closer
and nearer now. The isle of Alan Ernescliffe's burial-place had now
many Christians in it.  Harry's friend, the young chief David, was
dead; but his people were some of them already teachers and examples,
and the whole region was full to overflowing of the harvest, calling
out for labourers to gather it in.

Silent as usual, Leonard nevertheless was listening with all his heart,
and with parted lips and kindling eyes that gave back somewhat of his
former countenance.  Suddenly his face struck Mr. Seaford, and turning
on him with a smile, he said, 'You should be with us yourself, you look
cut out for mission work.'

Leonard murmured something, blushed up to the ears, and subsided, but
the simple, single-hearted Mr. Seaford, his soul all on one object, his
experience only in one groove, by no means laid aside the thought, and
the moment he was out of Leonard's presence, eagerly asked who that
young man was.

'Leonard Ward? he is--he is the son of an old friend,' replied Dr. May,
a little perplexed to explain his connection.

'What is he doing?  I never saw any one looking more suited for our
work.'

'Tell him so again,' said Dr. May; 'I know no one that would be fitter.'

They were all taken up with the small grandson the next day.  He was
ready in his fairy-page trimness to go to the early service at the
Minster; but he was full of the colonial nil admirari principle, and
was quite above being struck by the grand old building, or allowing its
superiority--either to papa's own church or Auckland Cathedral. They
took him to present to Mary on their way back from church, when he was
the occasion of a great commotion by carrying the precious Master
Charlie all across the hall to his mamma, and quietly observing in
resentment at the outcry, that of course he always carried little Ethel
about when mamma and nurse were busy.  After breakfast, when he had
finished his investigations of all Dr. May's domains, and much
entertained Gertrude by his knowledge of them, Ethel set him down to
write a letter to his father, and her own to Meta being engrossing, she
did not look much more after him till Dr. May came in, and said, 'I
want you to sketch off a portrait of her dicky-bird for Meta;' and he
put before her a natural history with a figure of that tiny
humming-bird which is endowed with swansdown knickerbockers.

'By the bye, where is the sprite?'

He was not to be found; and when dinner-time, and much calling and
searching, failed to produce him, his grandfather declared that he was
gone back to Elf-land; but Leonard recollected certain particular
inquiries about the situation of the Grange and of Cocksmoor, and it
was concluded that he had anticipated the Doctor's intentions of taking
him and Mr. Seaford there in the afternoon.  The notion was confirmed
by the cockatoo having likewise disappeared; but there was no great
anxiety, since the little New Zealander appeared as capable of taking
care of himself as any gentleman in Her Majesty's dominions; and a note
had already been sent to his aunt informing her of his arrival.  Still,
a summons to the Doctor in an opposite direction was inopportune, the
more so as the guest was to remain at Stoneborough only this one day,
and had letters and messages for Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, while it was also
desirable to see whether the boy had gone to Cocksmoor.

Leonard proposed to become Mr. Seaford's guide to the Grange, learn
whether Dickie were there, and meet the two ladies at Cocksmoor with
the tidings, leaving Mr. Seaford and the boy to be picked up by the
Doctor on his return.  It was his first voluntary offer to go anywhere,
though he had more than once been vainly invited to the Grange with
Richard.

Much conversation on the mission took place during the walk, and
resulted in Mr. Seaford's asking Leonard if his profession were
settled.  'No,' he said; and not at all aware that his companion did
not know what every other person round him knew, he added, 'I have been
thrown out of everything--I am waiting to hear from my brother.'

'Then you are not at a University?'

'Oh no, I was a clerk.'

'Then if nothing is decided, is it impossible that you should turn your
eyes to our work?'

'Stay,' said Leonard, standing still; 'I must ask whether you know all
about me.  Would it be possible to admit to such work as yours one who,
by a terrible mistake, has been under sentence of death and in
confinement for three years?'

'I must think!  Let us talk of this another time.  Is that the Grange?'
hastily exclaimed the missionary, rather breathlessly. Leonard with
perfect composure replied that it was, pointed out the different
matters of interest, and, though a little more silent, showed no other
change of manner.  He was asking the servant at the door if Master May
were there, when Mr. Rivers came out and conducted both into the
drawing room, where little Dickie was, sure enough.  It appeared that,
cockatoo on wrist, he had put his pretty face up to the glass of Mrs
Rivers's morning-room, and had asked her, 'Is this mamma's room, Aunt
Flora?  Where's Margaret?'

Uncle, aunt, and cousin had all been captivated by him, and he was at
present looking at the display of all Margaret's treasures, keenly
appreciating the useful and ingenious, but condemning the merely
ornamental as only fit for his baby sister.  Margaret was wonderfully
gracious and child-like; but perhaps she rather oppressed him; for when
Leonard explained that he must go on to meet Miss May at Cocksmoor, the
little fellow sprang up, declaring that he wanted to go thither; and
though told that his grandfather was coming for him, and that the walk
was long, he insisted that he was not tired; and Mr. Seaford, finding
him not to be dissuaded, broke off his conversation in the midst, and
insisted on accompanying him, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Rivers rather amazed
at colonial breeding.

The first time Mr. Seaford could accomplish being alone with Dr. May,
he mysteriously shut the door, and began, 'I am afraid Mrs. Rivers
thought me very rude; but though no doubt he is quite harmless, I could
not let the child or the ladies be alone with him.'

'With whom?'

'With your patient.'

'What patient of mine have you been seeing to-day?' asked Dr. May, much
puzzled.

'Oh, then you consider him as convalescent, and certainly he does seem
rational on every other point; but is this one altogether an
hallucination?'

'I have not made out either the hallucination or the convalescent.  I
beg your pardon,' said the courteous Doctor; 'but I cannot understand
whom you have seen.'

'Then is not that young Ward a patient of yours?  He gave me to
understand to-day that he has been under confinement for three years--'

'My poor Leonard!' exclaimed the Doctor; 'I wish his hair would grow!
This is the second time!  And did you really never hear of the Blewer
murder, and of Leonard Ward?'

Mr. Seaford had some compound edifice of various murders in his mind,
and required full enlightenment.  Having heard the whole, he was ardent
to repair his mistake, both for Leonard's own sake, and that of his
cause.  The young man was indeed looking ill and haggard; but there was
something in the steady eyes, hollow though they still were, and in the
determined cast of features, that strangely impressed the missionary
with a sense of his being moulded for the work; and on the first
opportunity a simple straightforward explanation of the error was laid
before Leonard, with an entreaty that if he had no duties to bind him
at home, he would consider the need of labourers in the great harvest
of the Southern Seas.

Leonard made no answer save 'Thank you' and that he would think.  The
grave set features did not light up as they had done unconsciously when
listening without personal thought; he only looked considering, and
accepted Mr. Seaford's address in Ireland, promising to write after
hearing from his brother.

Next morning, Dr. May gave notice that an old patient was coming to see
him, and must be asked to luncheon.  Leonard soon after told Ethel that
he should not be at home till the evening, and she thought he was going
to Cocksmoor, by way of avoiding the stranger.  In the twilight,
however, Dr. May, going up to the station to see his patient off, was
astonished to see Leonard emerge from a second-class carriage.

'You here! the last person I expected.'

'I have only been to W---- about my teeth.'

'What, have you been having tooth-ache?'

'At times, but I have had two out, so I hope there is an end of it.'

'And you never mentioned it, you Stoic!'

'It was only at night.'

'And how long has this been?'

'Since I had that cold; but it was no matter.'

'No matter, except that it kept you looking like Count Ugolino, and me
always wondering what was the matter with you.  And'--detaining him for
a moment under the lights of the station--'this extraction must have
been a pretty business, to judge by your looks!  What did the dentist
do to you?'

'It is not so much that' said Leonard, low and sadly; 'but I began to
have a hope, and I see it won't do.'

'What do you mean, my dear boy? what have you been doing?'

'I have been into my old cell again,' said he, under his breath; and
Dr. May, leaning on his arm, felt his nervous tremor.

'Prisoner of the Bastille, eh, Leonard!'

'I had long been thinking that I ought to go and call on Mr. Reeve and
thank him.'

'But he does not receive calls there.'

'No,' said Leonard, as if the old impulse to confidence had returned;
'but I have never been so happy since, as I was in that cell, and I
wanted to see it again.  Not only for that reason,' he added, 'but
something that Mr. Seaford said brought back a remembrance of what Mr.
Wilmot told me when my life was granted--something about the whole
being preparation for future work--something that made me feel ready
for anything.  It had all gone from me--all but the remembrance of the
sense of a blessed Presence and support in that condemned cell, and I
thought perhaps ten minutes in the same place would bring it back to
me.'

'And did they?'

'No, indeed.  As soon as the door was locked, it all went back to July
1860, and worse.  Things that were mercifully kept from me then, mere
abject terror of death, and of that kind of death--the disgrace--the
crowds--all came on me, and with them, the misery all in one of those
nine months; the loathing of those eternal narrow waved white walls,
the sense of their closing in, the sickening of their sameness, the
longing for a voice, the other horror of thinking myself guilty.  The
warder said it was ten minutes--I thought it hours!  I was quite done
for, and could hardly get down-stairs.  I knew the spirit was being
crushed out of me by the solitary period, and it is plain that I must
think of nothing that needs nerve or presence of mind!' he added, in a
tone of quiet dejection.

'You are hardly in a state to judge of your nerve, after sleepless
nights and the loss of your teeth.  Besides, there is a difference
between the real and imaginary, as you have found; you who, in the
terrible time of real anticipation, were a marvel in that very point of
physical resolution.'

'I could keep thoughts out _then_,' he said; 'I was master of myself.'

'You mean that the solitude unhinged you?  Yet I always found you brave
and cheerful.'

'The sight of you made me so.  Nay, the very sight or sound of any
human being made a difference!  And now you all treat me as if I had
borne it well, but I did not.  It was all that was left me to do, but
indeed I did not.'

'What do you mean by bearing it well?' said the Doctor, in the tone in
which he would have questioned a patient.

'Living--as--as I thought I should when I made up my mind to life
instead of death,' said Leonard; 'but all that went away.  I let it
slip, and instead came everything possible of cowardice, and hatred,
and bitterness.  I lost my hold of certainty what I had done or what I
had not, and the horror, the malice, the rebellion that used to come on
me in that frightful light white silent place, were unutterable!  I
wish you would not have me among you all, when I know there can hardly
be a wicked thought that did not surge over me.'

'To be conquered.'

'To conquer me,' he said, in utter lassitude.

'Stay.  Did they ever make you offend wilfully?'

'There was nothing I could offend in.'

'Your tasks of work, for instance.'

'I often had a savage frantic abhorrence of it, but I always brought
myself to do it, and it did me good; it would have done more if it had
been less mechanical.  But it often was only the instinct of not
degrading myself like the lowest prisoners.'

'Well, there was your conduct to the officials.'

'Oh! one could not help being amenable to them, they were so kind.
Besides, these demons never came over me except when I was alone.'

'And one thing more, Leonard; did these demons, as you well call them,
invade your devotions?'

'Never,' he answered readily; then recalling himself--'not at the set
times I mean, though they often made me think the comfort I had there
mere hypocrisy and delusion, and be nearly ready to give over what
depended on myself.  Chapel was always joy; it brought change and the
presence of others, if nothing else; and that would in itself have been
enough to banish the hauntings.'

'And they did not interfere with your own readings?' said the Doctor,
preferring this to the word that he meant.

'I could not let them,' said Leonard.  'There was always refreshment;
it was only before and after that all would seem mockery, profanation,
or worse still, delusion and superstition--as if my very condition
proved that there was none to hear.'

'The hobgoblin had all but struck the book out of Christian's hand,'
said Dr. May, pressing his grasp on Leonard's shuddering arm.  'You are
only telling me that you have been in the valley of the shadow of
death; you have not told me that you lost the rod and staff.'

'No, I must have been helped, or I should not have my senses now.'

And perhaps it was the repressed tremor of voice and frame rather than
the actual words that induced the Doctor to reply--'That is the very
point, Leonard.  It is the temptation to us doctors to ascribe too much
to the physical and too little to the moral; and perhaps you would be
more convinced by Mr. Wilmot than by me; but I do verily believe that
all the anguish you describe could and would have been insanity if
grace had not been given you to conquer it.  It was a tottering of the
mind upon its balance; and, humanly speaking, it was the self-control
that enabled you to force yourself to your duties, and find relief in
them, which saved you.  I should just as soon call David conquered
because the "deep waters had come in over his soul."'

'You can never know how true those verses are,' said Leonard, with
another shiver.

'At least I know to what kind of verses they all lead,' said the
Doctor; 'and I am sure they led you, and that you had more and brighter
hours than you now remember.'

'Yes, it was not all darkness.  I believe there were more spaces than I
can think of now, when I was very fairly happy, even at Pentonville;
and at Portland all did well with me, till last spring, and then the
news from Massissauga brought back all the sense of blood-guiltiness,
and it was worse than ever.'

'And that sense was just as morbid as your other horrible doubt, about
which you asked me when we were coming home.'

'I see it was now, but that was the worst time of all--the monotony of
school, and the sense of hypocrisy and delusion in teaching--the
craving to confess, if only for the sake of the excitement, and the
absolute inability to certify myself whether there was any crime to
confess--I can't talk about it.  And even chapel was not the same
refreshment, when one was always teaching a class in it, as coming in
fresh only for the service.  Even that was failing me, or I thought it
was!  No, I do not know how I could have borne it much longer.'

'No, Leonard, you could not; Tom and I both saw that in your looks, and
quite expected to hear of your being ill; but, you see, we are never
tried above what we can bear!'

'No,' said Leonard, very low, as if he had been much struck; and then
he added, after an interval, 'It is over now, and there's no need to
recollect it except in the way of thanks.  The question is what it has
left me fit for.  You know, Dr. May,' and his voice trembled, 'my first
and best design in the happy time of Coombe, the very crown of my life,
was this very thing--to be a missionary.  But for myself, I might be in
training now.  If I had only conquered my temper, and accepted that
kind offer of Mr. Cheviot's, all this would never have been, and I
should have had my youth, my strength, and spirit, my best, to devote.
I turned aside because of my obstinacy, against warning, and now how
can I offer?--one who has stood at the bar, lived among felons, thought
such thoughts--the released convict with a disgraced name!  It would
just be an insult to the ministry!  No, I know how prisoners feel.  I
can deal with them.  Let me go back to what I am trained for.  My nerve
and spirit have been crushed out; I am fit for nothing else.  The worst
thing that has remained with me is this nervousness--cowardice is its
right name--starting at the sound of a door, or at a fresh face--a
pretty notion that I should land among savages!'

Dr. May had begun an answer about the remains of the terrible ordeal
that might in itself have been part of Leonard's training, when they
reached the house door.

These nerves, or whatever they were, did indeed seem disposed to have
no mercy on their owner; for no sooner had he sat down in the warm
drawing-room, than such severe pain attacked his face as surpassed even
his powers of concealment.  Dr. May declared it was all retribution for
his unfriendliness in never seeking sympathy or advice, which might
have proved the evil to be neuralgia and saved the teeth, instead of
aggravating the evil by their extraction.

'I suspect he has been living on nothing,' said Dr. May, when, in a
lull of the pain, Leonard had gone to bed.

'Papa!' exclaimed Gertrude, 'don't you know what Richard's housekeeping
is?  Don't you recollect his taking that widow for a cook because she
was such a good woman?'

'I don't think it was greatly Richard's fault,' said Ethel.  'I can
hardly get Leonard to make a sparrow's meal here, and most likely his
mouth has been too uncomfortable.'

'Ay, that never seeking sympathy is to me one of the saddest parts of
all.  He has been so long shut within himself, that he can hardly feel
that any one cares for him.'

'He does so more than at first,' said Ethel.

'Much more.  I have heard things from him to-night that are a
revelation to me.  Well, he has come through, and I believe he is
recovering it; but the three threads of our being have all had a
terrible wrench, and if body and mind come out unscathed, it is the
soundness of the spirit that has brought them through.'

A sleepless night and morning of violent pain ensued; but, at least
thus much had been gained--that there was no refusal of sympathy, but a
grateful acceptance of kindness, so that it almost seemed a recurrence
to the Coombe days; and as the pain lessened, the enjoyment of Ethel's
attendance seemed to grow upon Leonard in the gentle languor of relief;
and when, as she was going out for the afternoon, she came back to see
if he was comfortable in his easy-chair by the drawing-room fire, and
put a screen before his face, he looked up and thanked her with a
smile--the first she had seen.

When she returned, the winter twilight had closed in, and he was
leaning back in the same attitude, but started up, so that she asked if
he had been asleep.

'I don't know--I have seen her again.'

'Seen whom?'

'Minna, my dear little Minna!'

'Dreamt of her?'

'I cannot tell,' he said; 'I only know she was there; and then rising
and standing beside Ethel, he continued--'Miss May, you remember the
night of her death?'

'Easter Eve?'

'Well,' continued he, 'that night I saw her.'

'I remember,' said Ethel, 'that Mr. Wilmot told us you knew at once
what he was come to tell you.'

'It was soon after I was in bed, the lights were out, and I do not
think I was asleep, when she was by me--not the plump rosy thing she
used to be, but tall and white, her hair short and waving back, her
eyes--oh! so sad and wistful, but glad too--and her hands held out--and
she said, "Turn you to the stronghold, ye prisoners of hope.  O
Leonard, dear, it does not hurt."'

'It was the last thing she did say.'

'Yes, so Ave's letter said.  And observe, one o'clock in Indiana is
half-past nine with us.  Then her hair--I wrote to ask, for you know it
used to be in long curls, but it had been cut short, like what I saw.
Surely, surely, it was the dear loving spirit allowed to show itself to
me before going quite away to her home!'

'And you have seen her again?'

'Just now'--his voice was even lower than before--'since it grew dark,
as I sat there.  I had left off reading, and had been thinking, when
there she was, all white but not wistful now; "Leonard, dear," she
said, "it has not hurt;" and then, "He brought me forth, He brought me
forth even to a place of liberty, because He had a favour unto me."'

'O, Leonard, it must have made you very happy.'

'I am very thankful for it,' he said.  Then after a pause, 'You will
not speak of it--you will not tell me to think it the action of my own
mind upon itself.'

'I can only believe it a great blessing come to comfort you and cheer
you,' said Ethel: 'cheer you as with the robin-note, as papa called it,
that sung all through the worst of times!  Leonard, I am afraid you
will think it unkind of me to have withheld it so long, but papa told
me you could not yet bear to hear of Minna.  I have her last present
for you in charge--the slippers she was working for that eighteenth
birthday of yours.  She would go on, and we never knew whether she
fully understood your danger; it was always "they could not hurt you,"
and at last, when they were finished, and I had to make her understand
that you could not have them, she only looked up to me and said,
"Please keep them, and give them to him when he comes home."  She never
doubted, first or last.'

Ethel, who had daily been watching for the moment, took out the parcel
from the drawer, with the address in the childish writing, the date in
her own.

Large tears came dropping from Leonard's eyes, as he undid the paper,
and looked at the work, then said, 'Last time I saw that pattern, my
mother was working it!  Dear child!  Yes, Miss May, I am glad you did
not give them to me before.  I always felt as if my blow had glanced
aside and fallen on Minna; but somehow I feel more fully how happy she
is!'

'She was the messenger of comfort throughout to Ave and to Ella,' said
Ethel, 'and well she may be to you still.'

'I have dreaded to ask,' said Leonard; 'but there was a line in one
letter I was shown that made me believe that climate was not the whole
cause.'

'No,' said Ethel; 'at least the force to resist it had been lost, as
far as we can see.  It was a grievous error of your brother's to think
her a child who could forget.  She pined to hear of you, and that one
constant effort of faith and love was too much, and wasted away the
little tender body.  But oh, Leonard, how truly she can say that her
captivity is over, and that it has not hurt!'

'It has not hurt,' musingly repeated Leonard.  'No, she is beyond the
reach of distracting temptations and sorrows; it has only made her
brighter to have suffered what it breaks one's heart to think of.  It
has not hurt.'

'Nothing from without does hurt!' said Ethel, 'unless one lets it.'

'Hurt what?' he asked.

'The soul,' returned Ethel.  'Mind and body may be hurt, and it is not
possible to know one's mind from one's soul while one is alive, but as
long as the will and faith are right, to think the soul can be hurt
seems to me like doubting our Protector.'

'But if the will have been astray?'

'Then while we repent, we must not doubt our Redeemer.'

Dickie ran in at the moment, calling for Aunt Ethel.  She had dropped
her muff.  Leonard picked it up, and as she took it, he wrung her hand
with an earnestness that showed his gratitude.




CHAPTER XXVIII

  Tender as woman; manliness and meekness
         In him were so allied,
  That those who judged him by his strength or weakness,
         Knew but a single side.--J. WHITTIER


It promised to be a brilliant Christmas at Stoneborough, though little
Dickie regarded the feast coming in winter as a perverse English
innovation, and was grand on the superiority of supple jack above
holly.  Decorations had been gradually making their way into the
Minster, and had advanced from being just tolerated to being absolutely
delighted in; but Dr. Spencer, with his knack of doing everything, was
sorely missed as a head, and Mr. Wilmot insisted that the May forces
should come down and work the Minster, on the 23rd, leaving the Eve for
the adornment of Cocksmoor, after the return of its incumbent.  Mary,
always highly efficient in that line, joined them; and Leonard's
handiness and dexterity in the arts relating to carpentry were as
quietly useful as little Dickie's bright readiness in always handing
whatever was wanting.

The work was pretty well over, when Aubrey, who had just arrived with
leave for a week, came down, and made it desultory.  Dickie, whose
imagination had been a good deal occupied by his soldier uncle, wanted
to study him, and Gertrude was never steady when Aubrey was near.
Presently it was discovered that the door to the tower stair was open.
The ascent of the tower was a feat performed two or three times in a
lifetime at Stoneborough.  Harry had once beguiled Ethel and Mary up,
but Gertrude had never gone, and was crazy to go, as was likewise
Dickie.  Moreover, Aubrey and Gertrude insisted that it was only proper
that Ethel should pay her respects to her prototype the gurgoyle, they
wanted to compare her with him, and ordered her up; in fact their
spirits were too high for them to be at ease within the church, and
Ethel, maugre her thirty years, partook of the exhilaration enough to
delight in an extraordinary enterprise, and as nothing remained but a
little sweeping up, they left this to the superintendence of Mary and
Mr. Wilmot, and embarked upon the narrow crumbling steps of the spiral
stair, that led up within an unnatural thickening of one of the great
piers that supported the tower, at the intersection of nave and
transepts.  After a long period of dust and darkness, and the monotony
of always going with the same leg foremost, came a narrow door, leading
to the ringers' region, with all their ropes hanging down.  Ethel was
thankful when she had got her youngsters past without an essay on them;
she doubted if she should have succeeded, but for Leonard's being an
element of soberness.  Other little doors ensued, leading out to the
various elevations of roof, which were at all sorts of different
heights, the chancel lower than the nave, and one transept than the
other; besides that the nave had both triforium and clerestory.  It was
a sort of labyrinth, and they wondered whether any one, except perhaps
the plumber's foreman knew his way among all the doors.  Then there was
one leading inwards to the eight bells--from whose fascinations Ethel
thought Dickie never would be taken away--and still more charming, to
the clock, which clanged a tremendous three, as they were in the act of
looking at it, causing Leonard to make a great start, and then colour
painfully.  It was hard to believe, as Daisy said, that the old tower,
that looked so short and squat below, could be so very high when you
came to go up it; but the glimpses of the country, through the little
loop-hole windows, were most inviting.  At last, Aubrey, who was
foremost, pushed up the trap-door, and emerged; but, as Dickie followed
him, exclaimed, 'Here we are; but you ladies in crinolines will never
follow!  You'll stick fast for ever, and Leonard can't pass, so there
you'll all have to stay.'

'Aunt Daisy will sail away like a balloon,' added Dickie, roguishly,
looking back at her, and holding on his cap.

But Gertrude vigorously compressed her hoop, and squeezed through,
followed by Ethel and Leonard.  There was a considerable space, square,
leaded and protected by the battlemented parapet, with a deep moulding
round, and a gutter resulting in the pipe smoked by Ethel's likeness,
the gurgoyle.  Of course the first thing Dickie and Aubrey did was to
look for the letters that commemorated the ascent of H. M., E. M., M.
M., in 1852; and it was equally needful that R. R. M., if nobody else,
should likewise leave a record on the leads.  There was an R. M. of
1820, that made it impossible to gainsay him.  The view was not grand
in itself, but there was a considerable charm in looking down on the
rooks in their leafless trees, cawing over their old nests, and in
seeing the roofs of the town; far away, too, the gray Welsh hills, and
between, the country lying like a map, with rivers traced in light
instead of black.  Leonard stood still, his face turned towards the
greenest of the meadows, and the river where it dashed over the wheel
of a mill.

'Have you seen it again?' asked Ethel, as she stood by him, and watched
his eye.

'No.  I am rather glad to see it first from so far off,' he answered,
'I mean to walk over some day.'

'Ethel,' called Gertrude, 'is this your gurgoyle?  His profile, as seen
from above, isn't flattering.'

'O, Daisy, don't lean over so far.'

'Quite safe;' but at that instant a gust of wind caught her hat, she
grasped at it, but only saved it from whirling away, and made it fall
short.  'There, Ethel, your image has put on my hat; and henceforth
will appear to the wondering city in a black hat and feather!'

'I'll get it,' exclaimed the ever ready Dickie; and in another moment
he had mounted the parapet and was reaching for it.  Whether it were
Gertrude's shriek, or the natural recoil away from the grasping hand,
or that his hold on the side of the adjoining pinnacle was insecure, he
lost his balance, and with a sudden cry, vanished from their eyes.

The frightful consternation of that moment none of those four could
ever bear to recall; the next, they remembered that he could only fall
as far as the roof, but it was Ethel and Leonard alone who durst press
to the parapet, and at the same moment a cry came up--

'Oh, come!  I'm holding on, but it cuts!  Oh, come!'

Ethel saw, some five-and-twenty feet below, the little boy upon the
transept roof, a smooth slope of lead, only broken by a skylight, a bit
of churchwarden's architecture still remaining.  The child had gone
crashing against the window, and now lay back clinging to its iron
frame.  Behind him was the entire height within to the church floor,
before him a rapid slope, ended by a course of stone, wide enough
indeed to walk on, but too narrow to check the impetus from slipping
down the inclination above.  Ethel's brain swam; she just perceived
that both Aubrey and Leonard had disappeared, and then had barely power
to support Gertrude, who reeled against her, giddy with horror.  'Oh
look, look, Ethel,' she cried; 'I can't.  Where is he?'

'There!  Yes, hold on, Dickie, they are coming.  Look up--not
down--hold on!'

A door opened, and out dashed Aubrey!  Alas! it was on the nave
clerestory; he might as well have been a hundred, miles off.  Another
door, and Leonard appeared, and on the right level, but with a giddy
unguarded ridge on which to pass round the angle of the tower. She saw
his head pass safely round, but, even then, the horror was not over.
Could he steady himself sufficiently to reach the child, or might not
Dickie lose hold too soon?  It was too close below for sight, the
moulding and gurgoyle impeded her agonized view, but she saw the
child's look of joyful relief, she heard the steady voice, 'Wait, don't
let go yet.  There,' and after a few more sounds, came up a shout, 'all
right!' Infinitely relieved, she had to give her whole attention to
poor Gertrude, who, overset by the accident, giddy with the attempt to
look over, horrified by the danger, confused and distressed by the hair
that came wildly flapping about her head and face, and by the puffs of
wind at her hoop, had sunk down in the centre of the little leaden
square, clinging with all her might to the staff of the weathercock,
and feeling as if the whole tower were rocking with her, absolutely
seeing the battlements dance.  How was she ever to be safely got down
the rickety ladder leading to the crumbling stone stair?  Ethel knelt
by her, twisted up the fluttering hair, bade her shut her eyes and
compose her thoughts, and then called over the battlements to Aubrey,
who, confused by the shock, continued to emerge at wrong doors and lose
himself on the roofs, and was like one in a bad dream, nearly as much
dizzied as his sister, to whose help he came the more readily, as the
way up was the only one plain before him.

The detention would have been more dreadful to Ethel had she known all
that was passing below, and that when the little boy, at Leonard's
sign, lowered himself towards the out-reaching arms of the young man,
who was steadying himself against the wall of the tower, it was with a
look of great pain, and leaving a trail of blood behind him.  When, at
length, he stood at the angle, Leonard calmly said, 'Now go before me,
round that corner, in at the door.  Hold by the wall, I'll hold your
shoulder.'  The boy implicitly obeyed, the notion of giddiness never
seemed to occur to him, and both safely came to the little door, on the
threshold of which Leonard sat down, and lifting him on his knee, asked
where he was hurt?  'My leg,' said Dickie, 'the glass was running in
all the time, and I could not move; but it does not hurt so much now.'

Perhaps not; but a large piece of glass had broken into the slender
little calf, and Leonard steadied himself to withdraw it, as, happily,
the fragment was large enough to give a hold for his hand. The sensible
little fellow, without a word, held up the limb across Leonard's knee,
and threw an arm round his neck, to hold himself still, just saying,
'Thank you,' when it was over.

'Did it hurt much, Dickie?'

'Not very much,' he answered; 'but how it bleeds!  Where's Aunt Ethel?'

'On the tower.  She will come in a moment,' said Leonard, startled by
the exceeding flow of blood, and binding the gash round with his
handkerchief.  'Now, I'll carry you down.'

The boy did not speak all the weary winding way down the dark stairs;
but Leonard heard gasps of oppression, and felt the head lean on his
shoulder; moreover, a touch convinced him that the handkerchief was
soaking, nay dripping, and when he issued at length into the free air
of the church, the face was deadly white.  No one was near, and Leonard
laid him on a bench.  He was still conscious, and looked up with
languid eyes. 'Mayn't I go home?' he said, faintly; 'Aunt Ethel!'

'Let me try to stop this bleeding first,' said Leonard.  'My dear
little man, if you will only be quiet, I think I can.'

Leonard took the handkerchief from his throat, and wound it to its
tightest just above the hurt, Dickie remonstrating for a moment with,
'That's not the place.  It is too tight.'

'It will cut off the blood from coming,' said Leonard; and in the same
understanding way, the child submitted, feebly asking, 'Shall I bleed
to death?  Mamma will be so sorry!'

'I trust--I hope not,' said Leonard; he durst utter no encouragement,
for the life-blood continued to pour forth unchecked, and the next
murmur was, 'I'm so sick.  I can't say my prayers.  Papa!  Mamma!'
Already, however, Leonard had torn down a holly bough, and twisted off
(he would have given worlds for a knife) a short stout stick, which he
thrust into one of the folds of the ligature, and pulled it much
tighter, so that his answer was, 'Thank God, Dickie, that will do! the
bleeding has stopped.  You must not mind if it hurts for a little
while.'

An ejaculation of 'Poor little dear,' here made him aware of the
presence of the sexton's wife; but in reply to her offer to carry him
in to Mrs. Cheviot's, Dickie faintly answered, 'Please let me go home;'
and Leonard, 'Yes, I will take him home.  Tell Miss May it is a cut
from the glass, I am taking him to have it dressed, and will bring him
home.  Now, my dear little patient fellow, can you put your arms round
my neck?'

Sensible, according to both meanings of the word, Dickie clasped his
friend's neck, and laid his head on his shoulder, not speaking again
till he found Leonard was not turning towards the High Street, when he
said, 'That is not the way home.'

'No, Dickie, but we must get your leg bound up directly, and the
hospital is the only place where we can be sure of finding any one to
do it.  I will take you home directly afterwards.'

'Thank you,' said the courteous little gentleman; and in a few minutes
more Leonard had rung the bell, and begged the house surgeon would come
at once to Dr. May's grandson.  A few drops of stimulant much revived
Dickie, and he showed perfect trust and composure, only holding
Leonard's hands, and now and then begging to know what they were doing,
while he was turned over on his face for the dressing of the wound,
bearing all without a sound, except an occasional sobbing gasp,
accompanied by a squeeze of Leonard's finger.  Just as this business
had been completed, the surgeon exclaimed, 'There's Dr. May's step,'
and Dickie at once sat up, as his grandfather hurried in, nearly as
pale as the boy himself.  'O, grandpapa, never mind, it is almost well
now; and has Aunt Daisy got her hat?'

'What is it, my dear? what have you been doing?' said the Doctor,
looking in amazement from the boy to Leonard, who was covered with
blood.  'They told me you had fallen off the Minster tower!'

'Yes I did,' said Dickie; 'I reached after Aunt Daisy's hat, but I fell
on the roof, and I was sliding, sliding down to the wall, but there was
a window, and the glass broke and cut me, but I got my feet against the
bottom of it, and held on by the iron bar, till Leonard came and took
me down;' and he lay back on the pillow, quiet and exhausted, but
bright-eyed and attentive as ever, listening to Leonard's equally brief
version of the adventure.

'Didn't he save my life, grandpapa?' said the boy, at the close.

'Twice over, you may say,' added the surgeon, and his words as to the
nature of the injury manifested that all had depended on the immediate
stoppage of the haemorrhage.  With so young a child, delay from
indecision or want of resource would probably have been fatal.

'There would have been no doing anything, if this little man had not
been so good and sensible,' said Leonard, leaning over him.

'And I did not cry.  You will tell papa I did not cry,' said Dickie,
eagerly, but only half gratified by such girlish treatment as that
agitated kiss of his grandfather, after being a little bit of a hero;
but then Dickie's wondering eyes really beheld such another kiss
bestowed over his head upon Leonard, and quite thought there were tears
on grandpapa's cheeks.  Perhaps old gentlemen could do what was
childish in little boys.

Dickie was to be transported home.  He wished to be carried by Leonard,
but the brougham was at the door, and he had to content himself with
being laid on the seat, with his friend to watch over him, the Doctor
pointing out that Leonard was a savage spectacle for the eyes of
Stoneborough, and hurrying home by the short cut.  Ethel met him in
extreme alarm.  Gertrude's half-restored senses had been totally
scattered by the sight of the crimson traces on the spot of Leonard's
operations, and she had been left to Mary's care; while Ethel and
Aubrey had hastened home, and not finding any one there, the latter had
dashed off to Bankside, whilst Ethel waited, arranging the little
fellow's bed, and trying to trust to Leonard's message, and not let her
mind go back to that fearful day of like waiting, sixteen years ago,
nor on to what she might have to write to Norman and Meta of the charge
they had sent to her.  Her father's cheerful face at first was a pang,
and then came the rebound of gladness at the words.  'He is coming.  No
fear for him, gallant little man--thanks for God's mercy, and to that
noble fellow, Leonard.'

At the same moment Aubrey burst in--'No one at Wright's--won't be in no
one knows how long!  What is to become of us?'  And he sank down on a
chair.

'Ay, what would become of any of us, if no one had a better pate than
yours, sir?' said Dr. May.  'You have one single perfection, and you
had better make the most of it--that of knowing how to choose your
friends.  There's the carriage.'

After a moment's delay, the cushion was lifted out with the little
wounded cavalier, still like a picture; for, true to his humming-bird
nature, a few scarcely-conscious movements of his hands had done away
with looks of disarray--the rich glossy curls were scarcely disordered,
and no stains of blood had adhered to the upper part of his small
person, whereas Leonard was a ghastly spectacle from head to foot.

'So, Master Dicky-bird,' said Dr. May, as they rested him a moment on
the hall-table, 'give me that claw of yours.  Yes, you'll do very well,
only you must go to bed now; and, mind, whatever you did when you were
in Fairy-land, we don't fly here in Stoneborough--and it does not
answer.'

'I am not to go to bed for being naughty, am I?' said Dickie, his brave
white lip for the first time quivering; 'indeed, I did not know it was
wrong.'

The poor little man's spirits were so exhausted, that the reassurance
on this head absolutely brought the much-dreaded tears into his eyes;
and he could only be carried up gently to his bed, and left to be
undressed by his aunt, so great an aggravation to the troubles of this
small fragment of independence, that it had almost overset his courtesy
and self-command.  There was no contenting him till he had had all
traces of the disaster washed from face and hands, and the other foot;
and then, over his tea, though his little clear chirrup was weak, he
must needs give a lucid description of Leonard's bandaging, in the
midst of which came a knock at the door, and a gasping voice--'I'll be
quite quiet--indeed I will!  Only just let me come in and kiss him, and
see that he is safe.'

'O, Auntie Daisy, have you got your hat?'

Wan, tear-stained, dishevelled, Gertrude bit her lip to save an
outburst, gave the stipulated kiss, and retreated to Mary, who stood in
the doorway like a dragon.

'Auntie Daisy has been crying,' said Dickie, turning his eyes back to
Ethel.  'Please tell her I shall be well very soon, and then I'll go up
again and try to get her hat, if I may have a hook and line--I'll tell
you how.'

'My dear Dickie, you had better lie down, and settle it as you go to
sleep,' said Ethel, her flesh creeping at the notion of his going up
again.

'But if I go to sleep now, I shall not know when to say my prayers.'

'Had you not better do so now, Dickie?'

Next came the child's scruple about not kneeling; but at last he was
satisfied, if Aunt Ethel would give him his little book out of the
drawer--that little delicately-illuminated book with the pointed
writing and the twisted cipher, Meta's hand in every touch. Presently
he looked up, and said: 'Aunt Ethel, isn't there a verse somewhere
about giving the angels charge?  I want you to find it for me, for I
think they helped me to hold on, and helped Leonard upon the narrow
place.  You know they are sure to be flying about the church.'

Ethel read the ninety-first Psalm to him.  He listened all through, and
thanked her; but in a few minutes more he was fast asleep.  As she left
the room she met Leonard coming down and held out her hands to him with
a mute intensity of thanks, telling him, in a low voice, what Dickie
had said of the angels' care.

'I am sure it was true,' said Leonard.  'What else could have saved the
brave child from dizziness?'

Down-stairs Leonard's reception from Dr. May was, 'Pretty well for a
nervous man!'

'Anybody can do what comes to hand.'

'I beg your pardon.  Some bodies lose their wits, like your friend
Aubrey, who tells me, if he had stood still, he would have fainted
away.  As long as nerves can do what comes to hand, they need not be
blamed, even if they play troublesome tricks at other times, as I
suspect they are doing now.'

'Yes; my face is aching a little.'

'Not to say a great deal,' said the Doctor.  'Well, I am not going to
pity you; for I think you can feel to-day that most of us would be glad
to be in your place!'

'I am very glad,' said Leonard.

'You remember that child's parents?  No, you have grown so old, that I
am always forgetting what a boy you ought to be; but if you had ever
seen the tenderness of his father, and that sunbeam of a Meta, you
would know all the more how we bless you for what you have spared them.
Leonard, if anything had been needed to do so, you have won to yourself
such a brother in Norman as you have in Aubrey!'

Meantime Ethel was soothing Gertrude, to whom the shock had been in
proportion to the triumphal heights of her careless gaiety.  Charles
Cheviot had come in while his wife was restoring her; and he had
plainly said what no one else would have intimated to the spoilt
darling--that the whole accident had been owing to her recklessness,
and that he had always expected some fatal consequences to give her a
lesson!

Gertrude had been fairly cowed by such unwonted treatment; and when he
would only take her home on condition of composure and self-command,
her trembling limbs obliged her to accept his arm, and he subdued her
into meek silence, and repression of all agitation, till she was safe
in her room, when she took a little bit of revenge upon Mary by crying
her heart out, and declaring it was very cruel of Charles, when she did
not mean it.

And Mary, on her side, varied between assurances that Charles did not
mean it, and that he was quite right--the sister now predominating in
her, and now the wife.

'Mean what?' said Ethel, sitting down among them before they were aware.

'That--that it was all my fault!' burst out Gertrude.  'If it was, I
don't see what concern it is of his!'

'But, Daisy dear, he is your brother!'

'I've got plenty of brothers of my own!  I don't count those
people-in-law--'

'She's past reasoning with, Mary,' said Ethel.  'Leave her to me; she
will come to her senses by and by!'

'But indeed, Ethel, you won't be hard on her?  I am sure dear Charles
never thought what he said would have been taken in this way.'

'Why did he say it then?' cried Gertrude, firing up.

'My dear Mary, do please go down, before we get into the pitiable
last-word condition!'

That condition was reached already; but in Ethel's own bed-room Mary's
implicit obedience revived, and away she went, carrying off with her
most of what was naughtiness in Gertrude.

'Ethel--Ethel dear!' cried she at once, 'I know you are coming down on
me.  I deserve it all, only Charles had no business to say it. And
wasn't it very cruel and unkind when he saw the state I was in?'

'I suppose Charles thought it was the only chance of giving a lesson,
and therefore true kindness.  Come, Daisy, is this terrible fit of
pride a proper return for such a mercy as we have had to-day?'

'If I didn't say so to myself a dozen times on the way home!--only Mary
came and made me so intolerably angry, by expecting me to take it as if
it had come from you or papa.'

'Ah, Daisy, that is the evil!  If I had done my duty by you all, this
would not have been!'

'Now, Ethel, when you want to be worse, and more cutting than anything,
you go and tell me my faults are yours!  For pity's sake, don't come to
that!'

'But I must, Daisy, for it is true.  Oh, if you had only been a naughty
little girl!'

'What--and had it out then?' said Daisy, who was lying across the bed,
and put her golden head caressingly on Ethel's knee.  'If I had plagued
you then, you would have broken me in out of self-defence.'

'Something like it,' said Ethel.  'But you know, Daisy, the little last
treasure that mamma left did always seem something we could not make
enough of, and it didn't make you fractious or tiresome--at least not
to us--till we thought you could not be spoilt.  And then I didn't see
the little faults so soon as I ought; and I'm only an elder sister,
after all, without any authority.'

'No, you're not to say that, Ethel, I mind your authority, and always
will.  You are never a bother.'

'Ah, that's it, Daisy!  If I had only been a bother, you might never
have got ahead of yourself.'

'Then you really think, like Charles Cheviot, that it was my doing,
Ethel?'

'What do you think yourself?'

Great tears gathered in the corners of the blue eyes.  Was it weak in
Ethel not to bear the sight?

'My poor Daisy,' she said, 'yours is not all the burden!  I ought not
to have taken up such a giddy company, or else I should have kept the
boy under my hand.  But he is so discreet and independent, that it is
more like having a gentleman staying in the house, than a child under
one's charge; and one forgets how little he is; and I was as much off
my balance with spirits as you.  It was the flightiness of us all; and
we have only to be thankful, and to be sobered for another time. I am
afraid the pride about being reproved is really the worse fault.'

'And what do you want me to do?--to go and tell papa all about it? I
mean to do that, of course; it is the only way to get comforted.'

'Of course it is; but--'

'You horrid creature, Ethel!  I'll never say you aren't a bother again.
You really do want me to go and tell Charles Cheviot that he was quite
right, and Mary that I'm ready to be trampled on by all my
brothers-in-law in a row!  Well, there won't be any more.  You'll never
give me one--that's one comfort!' said Gertrude, wriggling herself up,
and flinging an arm round Ethel's neck.  'As long as you don't do that,
I'll do anything for you.'

'Not for me.'

'Well, you know that, you old thing! only you might take it as a
personal compliment.  I really will do it; for, of course, one could
not keep one's Christmas otherwise!'  It was rather too business-like;
but elders are often surprised to find what was a hard achievement in
their time a matter of course to their pupils--almost lightly passed
over.

Dickie slept till morning, when he was found very pale, but lively and
good-humoured as ever.  Mr. Wright, coming up to see him, found the
hurt going on well, and told Ethel, that if she could keep him in bed
and undisturbed for the day, it would be better and safer; but that if
he became restless and fretful, there would be no great risk in taking
him to a sofa.  Restless and fretful!  Mr. Wright little knew the
discretion, or the happy power of accommodation to circumstances, that
had descended to Meta's firstborn.

He was quite resigned as soon as the explanation had been
made--perhaps, indeed, there was an instinctive sense, that to be
dressed and moved would be fatiguing; but he had plenty of smiles and
animation for his visitors, and, when propped up in bed, was full of
devices for occupation.  Moreover he acquired a slave; he made a
regular appropriation of Leonard, whom he quickly perceived to be the
most likely person to assist in his great design of constructing a
model of the clock in the Minster tower, for the edification of his
little brother Harry.  Leonard worked away at the table by the bed-side
with interest nearly equal to the child's; and when wire and cardboard
were wanting, he put aside all his dislike to facing the Stoneborough
streets and tradesmen in open day, and, at Dickie's request, sallied
forth in quest of the materials.  And when the bookseller made
inquiries after the boy, Leonard, in the fulness of his heart, replied
freely and in detail--nay, he was so happy in the little man's
well-doing, that he was by no means disconcerted even by a full
encounter of Mrs. Harvey Anderson in the street, but answered all her
inquiries, in entire oblivion of all but the general rejoicing in
little Dickie's wonderful escape.

'Well,' said Aubrey to his sisters, after a visit to his nephew's room,
'Dickie has the best right to him, certainly, to-day.  It is an
absolute appropriation!  They were talking away with all their might
when I came up, but came to a stop when I went in, and Master Dick sent
me to the right-about.'

The truth was, that Dickie, who, with eyes and ears all alive, had
gathered up some fragments of Leonard's history, had taken this
opportunity of catechizing him upon it in a manner that it was
impossible to elude, and which the child's pretty tact carried off, as
it did many things which would not have been tolerated if done rudely
and abruptly.  Step by step, in the way of question and remark, he led
Leonard to tell him all that had happened; and when once fairly
embarked in the reminiscence, there was in it a kind of peace and
pleasure.  The fresh, loving, wondering sympathy of the little boy was
unspeakably comforting; and besides, the bringing the facts in their
simple form to the grasp of the childish mind, restored their
proportion, which their terrible consequences had a good deal
disturbed.  They seemed to pass from the present to the historical, and
to assume the balance that they took in the child's mind, coming newly
upon them.  It was like bathing in a clear limpid stream, that washed
away the remains of morbid oppression.

'I wish mamma was here,' said the little friend, at last.

'Do you want her?  Are you missing her, my dear?'

'I miss her always,' said Dickie.  'But it was not that--only mamma
always makes everybody so happy; and she would be so fond of you,
because you have had so much trouble.'

'But, Dickie, don't you think I am happy to be with your grandfather
and aunt, and hoping to see my own sisters very soon--your aunt, who
taught me what bore me through it all?'

'Aunt Ethel?' cried Dickie, considering.  'I like Aunt Ethel very much;
but then she is not like mamma!'

There could be no doubt that Leonard was much better and happier after
this adventure.  Reluctantly, Dickie let him go back to Cocksmoor,
where his services in church-decking and in singing had been too much
depended on to be dispensed with; but he was to come back with Richard
for the family assembly on Christmas evening.

Moreover, Gertrude, who was quite herself again, having made her peace
with the Cheviots, and endured the reception of her apologies, seized
on him to lay plots for a Christmas-tree, for the delectation of Dickie
on his sofa, and likewise of Margaret Rivers, and of the elite of the
Cocksmoor schools.  He gave in to it heartily, and on the appointed day
worked with great spirit at the arrangements in the dining-room, where
Gertrude, favoured by the captive state of the little boy, conducted
her preparations, relegating the family meals to the schoolroom.

This tree was made the occasion for furnishing Leonard with all the
little appliances of personal property that had been swept away from
him; and, after all, he was the most delighted of the party.  The small
Charlie Cheviot had to be carried off shrieking; Margaret Rivers was
critical; even Cocksmoor was experienced in Christmas-trees; and
Dickie, when placed in the best situation, and asked if such trees grew
in New Zealand, made answer that he helped mamma to make one every year
for the Maori children.  It was very kind in Aunt Daisy, he added, with
unfailing courtesy; but he was too zealous for his colony to be
dazzled--too utilitarian to be much gratified by any of his gifts,
excepting a knife of perilous excellence, which Aubrey, in contempt of
Stoneborough productions, had sacrificed from his own pocket at the
last moment.

Leonard and Dickie together were in a state of great delight at the
little packets handed to the former; studs, purse, pencil-case, writing
materials; from Hector Ernescliffe, a watch, with the entreaty that his
gifts might not be regarded as unlucky; from Ethel, a photographic
book, with the cartes of his own family, whose old negatives had been
hunted up for the purpose; also a recent one of Dr. May with his
grandson on his knee, the duplicate of which was gone to New Zealand,
with the Doctor's inscription, 'The modern Cyropaedia, Astyages
confounded.'  There was Richard, very good, young and pretty; there was
Ethel, exactly like the Doctor, 'only more so;' there was Gertrude,
like nobody, not even herself, and her brothers much in the same
predicament, there was the latest of Mr. Rivers's many likenesses, with
the cockatoo on his wrist, and there was the least truculent and
witchlike of the numerous attempts on Flora; there was Mrs. Cheviot,
broad-faced and smiling over her son, and Mr. and Mrs. Ernescliffe,
pinioning the limbs of their offspring, as in preparation for a family
holocaust; there was Dickie's mamma, unspoilable in her loveliness even
by photography, and his papa grown very bald and archidiaconal; there
was Ethel's great achievement of influence, Dr. Spencer, beautiful in
his white hair; there were the vicar and the late and present
head-masters.  The pleasure excited by all these gifts far exceeded the
anticipations of their donors, it seemed as if they had fallen on the
very moment when they would convey a sense of home, welcome, and
restoration.  He did not say much, but looked up with liquid lustrous
eyes, and earnest 'thank you's,' and caressingly handled and examined
the treasures over and over again, as they lay round him on Dickie's
couch.  'I suppose,' said the child to him, 'it is like Job, when all
his friends came to see him, and every one gave him a piece of money.'

'He could hardly have enjoyed it more,' murmured Leonard, feeling the
restful capacity of happiness in the new possession of the child's
ardent love, and of the kind looks of all around, above all, of the one
presence that still gave him his chief sense of sunshine.  The boyish
and romantic touch of passion had, as Ethel had long seen, been burnt
and seared away, and yet there was something left, something that, as
on this evening she felt, made his voice softer, his eye more
deferential, to her than to any one else.  Perhaps she had once been
his guiding star; and if in the wild tempests of the night he had
learnt instead to direct his course by the "Brightest and best of the
sons of the morning," still the star would be prized and distinguished,
as the first and most honoured among inferior constellations.




CHAPTER XXIX

  Till now the dark was worn, and overhead
  The lights of sunset and of sunrise mixed.--TENNYSON


At New York, Tom wrote a short letter to announce his safe arrival, and
then pushed on by railway into Indiana.  Winter had completely set in;
and when he at length arrived at Winiamac, he found that a sleigh was a
far readier mode of conveyance to Massissauga than the wagons used in
summer.  His drive, through the white cathedral-like arcades of forest,
hung with transparent icicles, and with the deep blue sky above,
becoming orange towards the west, was enjoyable; and even Massissauga
itself, when its skeleton trees were like their neighbours, embellished
by the pure snowy covering, looked less forlorn than when their death
contrasted with the exuberant life around.  He stopped at the hotel,
left his baggage there, and after undergoing a catechism on his
personal affairs, was directed to Mr. Muller's house, and made his way
up its hard-trodden path of snow, towards the green door, at which he
knocked two or three times before it was opened by a woman, whose hair
and freckled skin were tinted nowhere but in Ireland.

He made a step forward out of the cutting blast into the narrow entry,
and began to ask, 'Is Miss Ward here?  I mean, can I see Miss Warden?'
when, as if at the sound of his voice, there rang from within the door
close by a shriek--one of the hoarse hysterical cries he had heard upon
the day of the inquest.  Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed open
the door, and beheld a young lady in speechless terror hanging over the
stiffened figure on the couch--the eyes wide open, the limbs straight
and rigid.  He sprang forward, and lifted her into a more favourable
posture, hastily asking for simple remedies likely to be at hand, and
producing a certain amount of revival for a few moments, though the
stiffness was not passing--nor was there evidence of consciousness.

'Are you Leonard?' said Cora Muller, under her breath, in this brief
interval, gazing into his face with frightened puzzled eyes.

'No; but I am come to tell her that he is free!'  But the words were
cut short by another terrible access, of that most distressing kind
that stimulates convulsion; and again the terrified women instinctively
rendered obedience to the stranger in the measures he rapidly took, and
his words, 'hysteria--a form of hysteria,' were forced from him by the
necessity of lessening Cora's intense alarm, so as to enable her to be
effective.  'We must send for Dr. Laidlaw,' she began in the first
breathing moment, and again he looked up and said, 'I am a physician!'

'Mr. Tom?' she asked with the faintest shadow of a smile; he bent his
head, and that was their introduction, broken again by another
frightful attack; and when quiescence, if not consciousness, was
regained, Tom knelt by the sofa, gazing with a sense of heart-rending
despair at the wasted features and thin hands, the waxen whiteness of
the cheek, and the tokens in which he clearly read long and consuming
illness as well as the overthrow of the sudden shock.

'What is this?' he asked, looking up to Cora's beautiful anxious face.

'Oh, she has been very sick, very sick,' she answered; 'it was an
attack of pleurisy; but she is getting better at last, though she will
not think so, and this news will make all well.  Does she hear? Say it
again!'

Tom shook his head, afraid of the sound of the name as yet, and
scarcely durst even utter the word 'Ella' above his breath.

'She is gone out with Cousin Deborah to an apple bee,' was the
reassuring answer.  'She wanted change, poor child!  Is she getting
better?'

Averil was roused by a cough, the sound which tore Tom's heart by its
import, but he drew back out of her sight, and let Cora raise her, and
give her drink, in a soothing tender manner, that was evident
restoration.  'Cora dear, is it you?' she said, faintly; 'didn't I hear
some one else's voice?  Didn't they say--?' and the shiver that crept
over her was almost a return of the hysteric fit.

'We said he was free,' said Cora, holding her in her arms.

'Free--yes, I know what that means--free among the dead,' said Averil,
calmly, smoothing Cora's hair, and looking in her face. 'Don't be
afraid to let me hear.  I shall be there with him and Minna soon.
Didn't somebody come to tell me?  Please let him in, I'll be quiet now.'

And as she made gestures of arranging her hair and dress, Tom guardedly
presented himself, saying in a voice that trembled with his endeavour
to render it calm, 'Did you think I should have come if I had nothing
better to tell you?' and as she put out her hand in greeting, he took
it in both his own, and met her eyes looking at him wide open, in the
first dawning of the hope of an impossible gladness.  'Yes,' he said,
'the truth is come out--he is cleared--he is at home--at Stoneborongh!'

The hot fingers closed convulsively on his own, then she raised
herself, pressed her hands together, and gasped and struggled fearfully
for breath.  The joy and effort for self-command were more than the
enfeebled frame could support, and there was a terrible and prolonged
renewal of those agonizing paroxysms, driving away every thought from
the other two except of the immediate needs.  At last, when the
violence of the attack had subsided, and left what was either fainting
or stupor, they judged it best to carry her to her bed, and trust that,
reviving without the associations of the other room, the agitation
would be less likely to return, and that she might sleep under the
influence of an anodyne.  Poor Tom! it was not the reception he had
figured to himself, and after he had laid her down, and left her to
Cora and to Katty to be undressed, he returned to the parlour, and
stood over the sinking wood-fire in dejection and dreariness of
heart--wrung by the sufferings he had witnessed, with the bitter words
(too late) echoing in his brain, and with the still more cruel
thought--had it been his father or one of his brothers--any one to
whose kindness she could trust, the shock had not been so great, and
there would have been more sense of soothing and comfort! And then he
tried to collect his impressions of her condition, and judge what would
serve for her relief, but all his senses seemed to be scattered;
dismay, compassion, and sympathy, had driven away all power of forming
a conclusion--he was no longer the doctor--he was only the anxious
listener for the faintest sound from the room above, but none reached
him save the creaking of the floor under Katty's heavy tread.

The gay tinkle of sleigh-bells was the next noise he heard, and
presently the door was opened, and two muffled hooded figures looked
into the room, now only lighted by the red embers of the fire.

'Where's Cora? where's Ave?' said the bright tone of the lesser.  'It
is all dark!' and she was raising her voice to call, when Tom
instinctively uttered a 'Hush,' and moved forward; 'hush, Ella, your
sister has been ill.'

The little muffled figure started at the first sound of his voice, but
as he stepped nearer recoiled for a second, then with a low cry, almost
a sob of recognition, exclaimed, 'Mr. Tom!  Oh, Mr. Tom!  I knew you
would come!  Cousin Deborah, it's Mr. Tom!' and she flew into his arms,
and clung with an ecstasy of joy, unknowing the why or how, but with a
sense that light had shone, and that her troubles were over.  She asked
no questions, she only leant against him with, 'Mr. Tom!  Mr. Tom!'
under her breath.

'But what is it, stranger?  Do tell!  Where are the girls?  What's this
about Avy's being sick?  Do you know the stranger, Ella?'

'It's Mr. Tom,' she cried, holding his arm round her neck, looking up
in a rapturous restfulness.

'I brought Miss Ward-en some good news that I fear has been too much
for her,' said he; 'I am--only waiting to--hear how she is.'

By way of answer, Deborah opened another door which threw more light on
the scene from the cooking stove in the kitchen, and at the same moment
Cora with a candle came down the stairs.

'O, Dr. May,' she said, 'you have been too long left alone in the dark.
I think she is asleep now.  You will stay.  We will have tea directly.'

Tom faltered something about the hotel, and began to look at Cousin
Deborah, and to consider the proprieties of life; but Cousin Deborah,
Cora, and Ella began declaring with one voice that he must remain for
the evening meal, and a bustle of cheerful preparation commenced, while
Ella still hung on his hand.

'But, Ella, you've never asked my good news.'

'Oh dear!  I was too glad!  Are we going home then?'

'Yes, I trust so, I hope so, my dear; for Leonard's innocence has come
to light, and he is free.'

'Then Henry won't mind--and we may be called by our proper name
again--and Ave will be well,' cried the child, as the ideas came more
fully on her comprehension.  'O, Cora!  O, Cousin Deborah, do you hear?
Does Ave know?  May I run up and tell Ave?'

This of course was checked, but next Ella impetuously tore off her
wraps for the convenience of spinning up and down wildly about the
kitchen and parlour.  Leonard himself did not seem to have great part
in her joy; Henry's policy had really nearly rooted out the thought of
him personally, and there was a veil of confusion over the painful
period of his trial, which at the time she had only partially
comprehended.  But she did understand that his liberation would be the
term of exile; and though his name was to her connected with a
mysterious shudder that made her shrink from uttering or hearing
details, she had a security that Mr. Tom would set all right, and she
loved him so heartily, that his presence was sunshine enough for her.

A little discomfited at the trouble he was causing, Tom was obliged to
wait while not only Cousin Deborah, but Cora busied herself in the
kitchen, and Ella in her restless joy came backwards and forwards to
report their preparations, and at times to tarry a short space by his
side, and tell of the recent troubles.  Ave had been very ill, she
said, very ill indeed about a month ago, and Henry had come home to see
her, but had been obliged to go away to the siege of Charleston when
she was better.  They had all been ill ever since they came there, but
now Mr. Tom was come, should not they all go home to dear Stoneborough,
away from this miserable place?  If they could only take Cora with them!

It was still a childish tongue; but Ella had outgrown all her plump
roundness, and was so tall and pale that Tom would hardly have known
her.  Her welcome was relief and comfort, and she almost inspired her
own belief that now all would be well.  His English ideas were rather
set at rest by finding that Mrs. Deborah was to preside at the
tea-table, and that he was not to be almost tete-a-tete with Miss
Muller. Deborah having concluded her hospitable cares, catechized him
to her full content, and satisfied herself on the mystery of the
Wardens' life.

And now what brought himself out?  She guessed he could not find an
opening in the old country.  Tom smiled, explained his opening at home,
and mentioned his charge of his late friend's book.

'So you are come out about the book, and just come a few hundred miles
out of the way to bring this bit of news, that you could have
telegraphed,' said the Yankee dame, looking at him with her keen eyes.
'Well, if you were coming, it was a pity you were not sooner. She has
pined away ever since she came here; and to such a worn-down condition
as hers, poor child, I doubt joy's kinder more upsetting than trouble,
when one is used to it.  There; I'll fix the things, and go up and sit
with Avy.  She'll be less likely to work herself into a flight again if
she sees me than one of you.'

So Tom--less embarrassed now--found himself sitting by the fire, with
Ella roasting her favourite nuts for him, and Miss Muller opposite. He
was taken by surprise by her beautiful face, elegant figure, and
lady-like manner, and far more by her evidently earnest affection for
Averil.

She told him that ever since the fatal turn of little Minna's illness,
Averil had been subject to distressing attacks of gasping and rigidity,
often passing into faintness; and though at the moment of emotion she
often showed composure and self-command, yet that nature always thus
revenged herself.  Suspense--letters from home or from Henry--even
verses, or times connected with the past, would almost certainly bring
on the affection; and the heat of the summer had relaxed her frame, so
as to render it even more unable to resist. There had been hope in the
bracing of winter, but the first frosts had brought a chill, and a
terrible attack of pleurisy, so dangerous that her brother had been
summoned; she had struggled through, however, and recovered to a
certain point, but there had stopped short, often suffering pain in the
side, and never without panting breath and recurring cough.  This had
been a slightly better day, and she had been lying on the sofa,
counting the days to Leonard's next letter, when the well-known voice
fell on her ears, and the one strong effort to control herself had
resulted in the frightful spasms, which had been worse than any Cora
had yet witnessed.

'But she will get well, and we shall go home,' said Ella, looking up
wistfully into Tom's mournful face.

'And I shall lose you,' said Cora; 'but indeed I have long seen it was
the only thing.  If I had only known, she never should have come here.'

'No, indeed, I feel that you would have led her to nothing that was not
for her good and comfort.'

'Ah! but I did not know,' said Cora; 'I had not been here--and I only
thought of my own pleasure in having her.  But if there is any way of
freeing her from this unfortunate speculation without a dead loss, I
will make father tell me.'

This--from Cora's pretty mouth--though only honest and prudent, rather
jarred upon Tom in the midst of his present fears; and he began to
prepare for his departure to the inn, after having sent up Ella to ask
for her sister, and hearing that she still slept soundly under the
influence of the opiate.

When Averil awoke it was already morning, and Cora was standing by her
bed, with her eyes smiling with congratulation, like veronicas on a
sunny day.

'Cora, is it true?' she said, looking up.

Cora bent down and kissed her, and whispered, 'I wish you joy, my dear.'

'Then it is,' she said; 'it is not all a dream?'

'No dream, dearest.'

'Who said it?' she asked.  'O, Cora, that could not be true!' and the
colour rose in her cheek.

'That! yes, Averil, if you mean that we had a visitor last evening. I
took him for Leonard, do you know!  Only I thought his eyes and hair
did not quite answer the description.'

'He is a very gentleman-like person.  Did you not think so?' said
Averil.

'Ah! Ave, I've heard a great deal.  Don't you think you had better tell
me some more?'

'No, no!' exclaimed Averil; 'you are not to think of folly,' as
coughing cut her short.

'I'll not think of any more than I can help, except what you tell me.'

'Never think at all, Cora.  Oh! what has brought him here?  I don't
know how I can dare to see him again; and yet he is not gone, is he?'

'Oh no, he is only at the inn.  He is coming back again.'

'I must be up.  Let me get up,' said Averil, raising herself, but
pausing from weakness and breathlessness.

And when they had forced some food upon her, she carried out her
resolution, though twice absolutely fainting in the course of dressing;
and at length crept softly, leaning on Cora's arm, into the parlour.
Though Tom was waiting there, he neither spoke nor came forward till
she was safely placed upon the sofa, and then gathering breath, she
sought him with her eager eyes, shining, large, lustrous, and wistful,
as they looked out of the white thin face, where the once glowing
colour had dwindled to two burning carnation spots.  It was so piteous
a change that as he took her hand he was silent, from sheer inability
to speak calmly.

'You have come to tell me,' she said.  'I am afraid I could not thank
you last night.'  How different that soft pleading languid voice from
the old half defiant tone!

'I did not know you had been so unwell,' he forced himself to say, 'or
I would not have come so suddenly.'

'I am grown so silly' she said, trying to smile.  'I hardly even
understood last night;' and the voice died away in the intense desire
to hear.

'I--I was coming on business, and I thought you would not turn from the
good tidings, though I was the bearer,' he said, in a broken, agitated,
apologetic way.

'Only let me hear it again,' she said.  'Did you say he was free?'

'Yes, free as you are, or I.  At home.  My father was gone to fetch
him.'

She put her hands over her face, and looked up with the sweetest smile
he had ever seen, and whispered, 'Now I can sing my Nunc dimittis.'

He could not at once speak; and before he had done more than make one
deprecatory gesture, she asked, 'You have seen him?'

'Not since this--not since September.'

'I know.  You have been very good; and he is at home--ah! not home--but
Dr. May's.  Was he well?  Was he very glad?'

'I have not seen him; I have not heard; you will hear soon.  I came at
once with the tidings.'

'Thank you;' and she clasped her hands together.  'Have you seen Henry?
does he know?'

'Could I?  Had not you the first right?'

'Leonard!  Oh, dear Leonard!'  She lay back for a few moments, panting
under the gust of exceeding joy; while he was silent, and tried not to
seem to observe her with his anxious eyes.  Then she recovered a little
and said, 'The truth come out!  Did you say so? What was the truth?'

'He paused a moment, afraid of the shock, and remembering that the
suspicion had been all unknown to her.  She recalled probabilities, and
said,

'Was it from a confession?  Is it known who--who was the real unhappy
person?'

'Yes.  Had you no suspicion?'

'No--none,' said Averil, shuddering, 'unless it was some robber.  Who
was it?'

'You had never thought of the other nephew?'

'You don't mean Samuel Axworthy!  Oh! no.  Why the last thing Leonard
bade me, was always to pray for him.'

'Ah!' said Tom, with bent head, and colouring cheeks; 'but who are
those for whom such as Leonard would feel bound to pray?'

There was a moment's silence, and then she said, 'His enemy!  Is that
what you mean?  But then he would have known it was he.'

'He was entirely convinced that so it must have been, but there was no
proof, and an unsupported accusation would only have made his own case
worse.'

'And has he confessed? has he been touched and cleared Leonard at last?'

'No; he had no space granted him.  It was the receipt in your brother's
writing that was found upon him.'

'The receipt?  Yes, Leonard always said the receipt would clear him!
But oh, how dreadful!  He must have had it all the time.  How could he
be so cruel!  Oh!  I never felt before that such wickedness could be;'
and she lay, looking appalled and overpowered.

'Think of your brother knowing it all, and bidding--and giving you that
injunction--' said Tom, feeling the necessity of overcoming evil with
good.

'Oh! if I had known it, I could not--I could not have been like
Leonard!  And where--what has become of him?' she asked, breathlessly.
'You speak as if he was dead.'

'Yes.  He was killed in a fray at a gaming-house!'

There was a long silence, first of awe, then of thankfulness plainly
beaming in her upraised eyes and transparent countenance, which Tom
watched, filled with sensations, mournful but not wholly wretched.
Shattered as she was, sinking away from her new-found happiness, it was
a precious privilege to be holding to her the longed--for draught of
joy.

'Tell me about it, please,' she presently said.  'Where--how did the
receipt come to light?  Were the police told to watch for it?  I want
to know whom I have to thank.'

His heart beat high, but there was a spirit within him that could not
brook any attempt to recall the promise he had pursued her with, the
promise that he would not rest till he had proved her brother's
innocence.  He dreaded her even guessing any allusion to it, or
fancying he had brought the proffered price in his hand; and when he
began with, 'Can you bear to hear of the most shocking scene I ever
witnessed?' he gave no hint of his true motive in residing at Paris, of
the clue that Bilson's draft had given him in thither pursuing
Axworthy, nor of his severe struggle in relinquishing the quest.  He
threw over all the completest accidental air, and scarcely made it
evident that it was he who had recognized the writing, and all that
turned on it.  Averil listened to the narration, was silent for some
space, then having gone over it in her own mind, looked up and said--

'Then all this came of your being at that hospital;' and a burning
blush spread over the pale cheek, and made Tom shrink, start, and feel
guilty of having touched the chord of obligation, connected with that
obtrusive pledge of his.  Above all, however, to repress emotion was
his prime object; and he calmly answered, 'It was a good Providence
that brought any one there who knew the circumstances.'

She was silent; and he was about to rise and relieve her from the sense
of his presuming on her gratitude, when a cough, accompanied with a
pressure of her hand on her side, betrayed an access of suffering, that
drew him on to his other purpose of endeavouring to learn her
condition, and to do what he could for her relief.  His manner,
curiously like his father's, and all the home associations connected
with it, easily drew from her what he wanted to ascertain, and she
perfectly understood its purport, and was calm and even bright.

'I was glad to be better when Henry went away,' she said; 'he had so
much to do, and we thought I was getting well then.  You must not
frighten him and hurry him here, if you please,' she said, earnestly,
'for he must not be wasting his time here, and you think it will last a
month or two, don't you?'

'I want to persuade Henry to bring you all home, and enter into
partnership with Mr. Wright,' said Tom.  'The voyage would--might--it
would be the best thing for you.'

'Could I ever be well enough again?  Oh, don't tell me to think about
it!  The one thing I asked for before I die has been given me, and now
I know he is free, I will--will not set my mind on anything else.'

There was a look so near heaven on her face, as she spoke, that Tom
durst not say any more of home, or earthly schemes; but, quiet, grave,
and awe-stricken, left her to the repose she needed, and betook himself
to the other room, where Ella, of course, flew on him, having been
hardly detained by Cora from breaking in before.  His object was to go
to see the medical man who had been attending Averil; and Cora assuring
him the horse had nothing to do in the frost, and telling him the times
of the day when he would be most likely to find Dr. Laidlaw, he set
forth.

Averil meantime lay on her sofa calmly happy, and thankful, the worn
and wearied spirit full of rest and gladness unspeakable, in the
fulness of gratitude for the answered prayer that she might know her
brother free before her death.  If she had ever doubted of her own
state, she had read full confirmation in her physician's saddened eyes,
and the absence of all hopeful auguries, except the single hint that
she might survive a voyage to England; and that she wished unsaid.
Life, for the last five years, had been mournful work; there had been
one year of blind self-will, discord, and bitterness, then a crushing
stroke, and the rest exhausted submission and hopeless bending to
sorrow after sorrow, with self-reproach running through all.  Wearied
out, she was glad to lay down the burthen, and accept the evening gleam
as sunset radiance, without energy to believe it as the dawn of a
brighter day.  She shrank from being made even to wish to see Leonard.
If once she began to think it possible, it would be a hard sacrifice to
give it up; and on one point her resolution was fixed, that she would
not be made a cause for bringing him to share their wretchedness in
America.  Life and things of life were over with her, and she would
only be thankful for the softening blessings that came at its close,
without stirring up vain longings for more. That kindness of Tom May,
for instance, how soothing it was after her long self-reproach for her
petulant and cutting unjust reply to his generous affection--generous
above all at such a moment!

And after all, it was he--it was he and no other who had cleared
Leonard--he had fulfilled the pledge he had given when he did not know
what he was talking of.  How she hated the blush that the sudden
remembrance had called up on her face!  It was quite plain that he had
been disgusted by her unkind, undignified, improper tone of rejection;
and though out of humanity he had brought her the tidings, he would not
let her approach to thanking him, she was ashamed that he should have
traced an allusion, the most distant, to the scene he had, doubtless,
loathed in remembrance.  He would, no doubt, go away to-day or
to-morrow, and then these foolish thoughts would subside, and she
should be left alone with Cora and her thankfulness, to think again of
the great change before her!

But Tom was not gone.  Indeed Averil was much more ill before the next
morning, partly from hysteria, the reaction of the morning's
excitement, and partly from an aggravation of the more serious
pulmonary affection.  It was a temporary matter, and one that made his
remaining the merest act of common humanity, since he had found Dr.
Laidlaw a very third-rate specimen, and her brother was too far off to
have arrived in time to be of use.  The fresh science and skill of the
young physician were indeed of the highest value, and under his care
Averil rallied after a few days of prostration and suffering, during
which she had watched and observed a good deal, and especially the good
understanding between her doctor and Cora Muller. When Cousin Deborah
was sitting with her, they always seemed to be talking in the
drawing-room; nay, there were reports of his joining in the fabrication
of some of the delicacies that were triumphantly brought to her room;
and Ella was in a state of impatient pique at being slighted by 'Mr.
Tom,' who, she complained, was always fighting with Cora about their
politics; and Cora herself used to bring what Dr. May had said, as the
choicest entertainment to her sick friend; while to herself he was
merely the physician, kind and gentle to the utmost degree; but keeping
his distance so scrupulously, that the pang awoke that he absolutely
disliked her, and only attended her from common compassion; and, it
might be, found consolation in being thus brought in contact with Cora.
Oh, if it were only possible to own her wrongs, and ask his pardon
without a compromise of maidenliness!  Perhaps--perhaps she might, when
she was still nearer death, and when she was supposed to know how it
was between him and Cora.  Dear Cora, it would be a beautiful reward
for them both, and they would take care of Ella.  Cora would be happier
than ever yet among the Mays--and--Oh! why, why was there so much
unkind selfish jealousy left, that instead of being glad, the notion
left her so very miserable?  Why did the prospect of such happiness for
her self-devoted friend and nurse make her feel full of bitterness, and
hardly able to bear it patiently, when she heard her speak the name of
Dr. May?

Averil had again left her bed, and resumed her place on the sofa before
letters arrived.  There was Leonard's from Cocksmoor Parsonage, the
first real letter she had had from him since his term of servitude had
begun.  It was a grave and thankful letter, very short, doing little
more than mention every one's kindness, and express a hope of soon
meeting her and Ella, however and wherever Henry should think best.
Brief as it was, it made her more thoroughly realize his liberty, and
feel that the yearning towards him in her heart was growing more and
more ardent, in spite of her strivings not to let it awaken.

The same post brought Henry's answer to Tom May's representation. It
was decisive.  He had broken off his whole connection with England, and
did not wish to return to a neighbourhood so full of painful
recollections.  He was making his way rapidly upwards in his present
position, and it would be folly to give up the advantages it offered;
moreover, he had no fears of the future well-doing of the Massissauga
Company.  As soon as the weather permitted it, he hoped to remove his
sister to a healthier locality for change of air, but she could not be
fit for a journey in the winter.  There were plenty of acknowledgments
to the Mays for their kindness to Leonard, from whom Henry said he had
heard, as well as from Dr. May, and others at Stoneborough.  He should
advise Leonard by all means to close with Mr. Bramshaw's offer, for he
saw no opening for him in the United States at present, although the
ultimate triumph over rebellion, &c. &c. &c.--in the most inflated
style of Henry's truly adopted country. No one who had not known the
whole affair would ever enter into Leonard's entire innocence, the
stigma of conviction would cleave to him, and create an impression
against him and his family among strangers, and it was highly desirable
that he should remain among friends.  In fact, it was plain that Henry
was still ashamed of him, and wished to be free of a dangerous
appendage.  Tom was so savagely angry at this letter that he could only
work off his wrath by a wild expedition in the snow, in the course of
which he lost his way, wandered till the adventure began to grow
perilous, came at last upon a squatter, with great difficulty induced
him to indicate the track sufficiently for his English density, and
arrived at Massissauga at nine o'clock at night.  Averil was still on
her sofa, quite calm and quiet, all but her two red spots; but
afterwards, in her own room, she had one of her worst fits of spasms.

However, she was up and dressed by the middle of the next day, and,
contrary to her wont since the first time, she sent Ella out of the
room when her doctor came to see her.

'I wanted to speak to you,' she said, 'I have a great favour to ask of
you.  You will soon be going home.  Would you, could you take Ella with
you?  I know it is a great, a too great thing to ask.  But I would not
have her in any one's way.  I am going to write to Mrs. Wills, at the
school where I was, and Ella's means are quite enough to keep her
there, holidays and all, till Leonard can give her a home.  It will be
much better for her, and a relief to Henry; and it will be giving back
one--one to Leonard!  It will be one thing more that I shall be happy
about.'

Tom had let her go on with her short gentle sentences, because he knew
not how to answer; but at last she said, 'Forgive me, and do not think
of it, if I have asked what I ought not, or would be troublesome.'

Troublesome! no, indeed!  I was only thinking--if it might not be
better managed,' he answered, rather by way of giving himself time to
debate whether the utterance of the one thought in his heart would lead
to his being driven away.

'Pray do not propose Leonard's coming for her!  He must come to this
feverish place in spring.  And if he came, and I were not here, and
Henry not wanting him!  Oh no, no; do not let me think of his coming!'

'Averil,' he said, kneeling on one knee so as to be nearer, and to be
able to speak lower, 'you are so unearthly in your unselfishness, that
I dare the less to put before you the one way in which I could take
Ella home to him.  It is if you would overlook the past, and give me a
brother's right in them both.'

She turned in amazement to see if she had heard aright.  He had removed
his glasses, and the deep blue expressive eyes so seldom plainly
visible were wistfully, pleadingly, fixed on her, brimming over with
the dew of earnestness.  Her face of inquiry gave him courage to go on,
'If you would only let me, I think I could bring you home to see him;
and if you would believe it and try, I believe I could make you
happier,' and with an uncontrollable shake in his voice he ceased--and
only looked.

She sat upright, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes shut, trying to
collect her thoughts; and the silence lasted for several seconds. At
last she said, opening her eyes, but gazing straight before her, not at
him, 'I do not think I ought.  Do you really know what you are saying?
You know I cannot get well.'

'I know,' he said.  'All I ask is, to tend and watch over you while I
may, to bring you home to Leonard, and to be Ella's brother.'

His voice was still and low, and he laid his hand on her folded ones
with reverent solemnity; but though it did not tremble, its touch was
cold as marble, and conveyed to Averil an instant sense of the force of
his repressed emotion.  She started under it, and exclaimed with the
first agitation she had shown, 'No, no; it would cost you too much.
You, young, beginning life--you must not take a sorrow upon you.'

'Is it not there already?' he said, almost inaudibly.  'Would it lessen
it to be kept away from you?'

'Oh, do not go on, do not tempt me,' she cried.  'Think of your father.'

'Nay, think what he is yourself.  Or rather look here,' and he took out
a part of a letter from Ethel, and laid it before her.

'As to papa not guessing your object,' she said, 'that was a vain
delusion if you ever entertained it, so you must not mind my having
explained.  He said if he had been you, it was just what he should have
done himself, and he is quite ready to throw his heart into it if you
will only trust to his kindness.  I do so want you really to try what
that is.'

'And you came for this,' faltered Averil, leaning back, almost overcome.

'I did not come meaning to hurry the subject on you.  I hoped to have
induced Henry to have brought you all home, and then, when I had done
my best to efface the recollection of that unpardonable behaviour, to
have tried whether you could look on me differently.'

'I don't like you to say that,' said Averil, simply but earnestly; 'I
have felt over and over again how wrong I was--how ungrateful--to have
utterly missed all the nobleness and generosity of your behaviour, and
answered in that unjust, ill-tempered way.'

'Nothing was ever more deserved,' he answered; 'I have hated myself
ever since, and I hope I am not as obnoxious now.'

'It was I!' she said; 'I have lived every bit of the winter over again,
and seen that I was always ready to be offended, and somehow I could
not help caring so much for what you said, that lesser things from you
hurt and cut as other people's did not.'

'Do you know what that proves?' said Tom, with an arch subsmile
lighting on his eyes and mouth; and as a glow awoke on her pale cheek,
he added, 'and won't you believe, too, that my propensity to
"contemptuous irony" was all from my instinctive fear of what you could
do to me!'

'Oh, don't repeat that!  I have been so bitterly ashamed of it!'

'I am sure I have.'

'And I have longed so to ask your pardon.  I thought I would leave a
letter or message with Ella that you would understand.'

'You can do better than that now.  You can forgive me.'

'Oh!' said Averil, her hands suddenly joined over her face, 'this is
one joy more!  I cannot think why it is all growing so bright just at
last--at last.  It is all come now!  How good it is!'

He saw that she could bear no more.  He pressed no more for a decisive
answer; he did not return to the subject; but from that time he treated
her as what belonged to him, as if it was his business to think, act,
and judge for her, and to watch over her; and her acquiescence was
absolute.

There was not much speaking between them; there were chiefly skirmishes
between him and Cora, to which she listened in smiling passive
amusement; and even when alone together they said little--actually
nothing at all about the future.  He had written to Ethel on his first
arrival, and on the reply, as well as on Averil's state, all must
depend.  Meanwhile such a look of satisfied repose and peace shone upon
Averil's face as was most sweet to look upon; and though extremely
feeble, and not essentially better, she was less suffering, and could
in great languor, but in calm enjoyment, pass through day by day of the
precious present that had come to crown her long trial.




CHAPTER XXX

  Oh, when its flower seems fain to die,
  The full heart grudges smile or sigh
  To aught beside, though fair and dear;
  Like a bruised leaf, at touch of fear,
  Its hidden fragrance love gives out.--Lyra Innocentum


'The letters at last!  One to Ethel, and three to Leonard!  Now for it,
Ethel!'

Ethel opened--read--ran out of the room without a word, and sought her
father in his study, where she laid before him Tom's letter, written
from Massissauga the day after his arrival.


'Dear Ethel,

'I have found my darling, but too late to arrest the disease--the work
of her brother's perverseness and wrong-headedness.  I have no hope of
saving her; though it will probably be a matter of several months--that
is, with care, and removal from this vile spot.

'I am writing to Henry, but I imagine that he is too much charmed with
his present prospects to give them up; and in her angelic
self-sacrifice she insists on Leonard's not coming out.  Indeed, there
would be no use in his doing so unless she leaves this place; but
should no unforeseen complication supervene, it is my full persuasion
that she could be removed, safely make the voyage, and even be spared
for this summer among us.  Surely my father will not object!  It will
be but a short time; and she has suffered so much, so piteously needs
love and cherishing, that it is not in him to refuse.  He, who
consented to Margaret's engagement, cannot but feel for us.  I would
work for him all my life!  I would never cast a thought beyond home, if
only once hallowed by this dear presence for ever so short a time. Only
let the answers be so cordial as to remove all doubts or scruples; and
when they are sent prepare for her.  I would bring her as quickly as
her health permits.  No time must be lost in taking her from hence; and
I wait only for the letters to obtain her consent to an immediate
marriage.  Furnish the house at once; I will repay you on my return.
There is �200 for the first floor, sitting, and bedrooms; for the rest
the old will do.  Only regard the making these perfect; colouring
pink--all as cheerful and pleasant as money can accomplish.  If Flora
will bear with me, get her to help you; or else Mary, if Cheviot
forgives me.  Only don't spare cost.  I will make it up some way, if
you find more wanted.  I saw an invalid sofa, an improvement on
Margaret's, which I will write to Gaspard to send from Paris.  If you
could only see the desolateness of the house where she has wasted away
these three years, you would long to make a bower of bliss for her.  I
trust to you.  I find I must trust everything to you.  I cannot write
to my father; I have made nine beginnings, and must leave it to you.
He has comforted her, he knows her sorrows; he could not see her and
bid me leave her.  Only there must be no hesitation.  That, or even
remonstrance, would prevent her from consenting; and as to the
objections, I cannot know them better than I do.  Indeed, all this may
be in vain; she is so near Heaven, that I dare not talk to her of this;
but I have written to Leonard, dwelling chiefly on the chance of
bringing her to him.  Her desire to keep him from attempting to come
out will I trust be an inducement; but if you could only see her, you
would know how irreverent it seems to persecute one so nearly an angel
with such matters.  If I may only tend her to the last!  I trust to
you.  This is for my father.

                                          'Ever yours,
                                              'THOMAS MAY.'


The last sentence referred to a brief medical summary of her symptoms,
on a separate paper.

'Can this be Tom?' was the Doctor's exclamation.  'Poor boy! it is
going very hard with him!'

'This would soften it more than anything else could,' said Ethel.

'Oh yes!  You write.  Yes, and I'll write, and tell him he is free to
take his own way.  Poor child! she would have been a good girl if she
had known how.  Well, of all my eleven children that Tom should be the
one to go on in this way!'

'Poor dear Tom!  What do you think of his statement of her case?  Is
she so very ill?'

Dr. May screwed up his face.  'A sad variety of mischief,' he said; 'if
all be as he thinks, I doubt his getting her home; but he is young, and
has his heart in it.  I have seen her mother in a state like this--only
without the diseased lungs.  You can't remember it; but poor Ward never
thought he could be grateful enough after she was pulled through.
However, this is an aggravated case, and looks bad--very bad!  It is a
mournful ending for that poor boy's patience--it will sink very deep,
and he will be a sadder man all his days, but I would not hinder his
laying up a treasure that will brighten as he grows older.'

'Thank you, papa.  I shall tell him what you say.'

'I shall write--to her I think.  I owe him something for not proving
that it is all as a study of pneumonia.  I say, Ethel, what is become
of the "Diseases of Climate?"' he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

'In the nine beginnings.'

'And how about the Massissauga Company?'

'You heartless old worldly-minded father!' said Ethel.  'When you take
to prudence for Tom, what is the world coming to?'

'Into order,' said the Doctor, shaking himself into the coat she held
for him.  'Tom surrendered to a pet patient of mine.  Now for poor
Leonard!  Good-bye, young people!  I am off to Cocksmoor!'

'Please take me, grandpapa,' cried Dickie, hopping into the hall.

'You, you one-legged manikin!  I'm going over all the world; and how
are you to get home?'

'On Leonard's back,' said the undaunted Dickie.

'Not so, master: poor Leonard has news here that will take the taste of
nonsense out of his mouth.'

'I am his friend,' said Dickie, with dignity.

'Then your friendship must not disturb him over his letters.  And can
you sit in the carriage and twirl your thumbs while I am at Fordham?'

'I shall not twirl my thumbs.  I shall make out a problem on my ship
chess-board.'

'That's the boy who was sent from the Antipodes, that he might not be
spoilt!' quoth Aubrey, as the Doctor followed the child into the
carriage.

'Granting reasonable wishes is not spoiling,' said Ethel.

'May the system succeed as well with Dickie as with--' and Aubrey in
one flourish indicated Gertrude and himself.

'Ay, we shall judge by the reception of Ethel's tidings!' cried
Gertrude.  'Now for it, Ethel.  Read us Tom's letter, confute the
engineer, hoist with his own petard.'

'Now, Ethel, confute the Daisy, the green field daisy--the simple
innocent daisy, deluded by "Diseases of Climate."'

'Ethel looks as concerned as if it were fatal truth,' added Gertrude.

'What is it?' asked Aubrey.  'If Henry Ward has gone down in a monitor
at Charleston, I'll forgive him.'

'Not that,' said Ethel; 'but we little thought how ill poor Ave is.'

'Dangerously?' said Aubrey, gravely.

'Not perhaps immediately so; but Tom means to marry at once, that he
may have a chance of bringing her home to see Leonard.'

'Another shock for Leonard,' said Aubrey, quite subdued, 'why can't he
have a little respite?'

'May they at least meet once more!' said Ethel; 'there will be some
comfort in looking to that!'

'And what a fellow Tom is to have thought of it,' added Aubrey. 'Nobody
will ever dare to say again that he is not the best of the kit of us!
I must be off now to the meet: but if you are writing, Ethel, I wish
you would give her my love, or whatever he would like, and tell him he
is a credit to the family.  I say, may I tell George Rivers?'

'Oh yes; it will soon be in the air; and Charles Cheviot will be down
on us!'

Away went Aubrey to mount the hunter that George Rivers placed at his
service.

Gertrude, who had been struck dumb, looked up to ask, 'Then it is
really so?'

'Indeed it is.'

'Then,' cried Gertrude, vehemently, 'you and he have been deceiving us
all this time!'

'No, Gertrude, there was nothing to tell.  I did not really know, and I
could not gossip about him.'

'You might have hinted.'

'I tried, but I was clumsy.'

'I hate hints!' exclaimed the impetuous young lady; 'one can't
understand them, and gets the credit of neglecting them.  If people
have a secret attachment, they ought to let all their family know!'

'Perhaps they do in Ireland.'

'You don't feel one grain for me, Ethel,' said Gertrude, with tears in
her eyes.  'Only think how Tom led me on to say horrid things about the
Wards; and now to recollect them, when she is so ill too--and he--' She
burst into sobs.

'My poor Daisy!  I dare say it was half my fault.'

Gertrude gave an impatient leap.  'There you go again! calling it your
fault is worse than Charles's improving the circumstance.  It was my
fault, and it shall be my fault, and nobody else's fault, except Tom's,
and he will hate me, and never let me come near her to show that I am
not a nasty spiteful thing!'

'I think that if you are quiet and kind, and not flighty, he will
forget all that, and be glad to let you be a sister to her.'

'A sister to Ave Ward!  Pretty preferment!' muttered Gertrude.

'Poor Ave!  After the way she has borne her troubles, we shall feel it
an honour to be sisters to her.'

'And that chair!' broke out Gertrude.  'O, Ethel, you did out of malice
prepense make me vow it should be for Mrs. Thomas May.'

'Well, Daisy, if you won't suspect me of improving the circumstance, I
should say that finishing it for her would be capital discipline.'

'Horrid mockery, I should say,' returned Gertrude, sadly; 'a gaudy
rose-coloured chair, all over white fox-gloves, for a person in that
state--'

'Poor Tom's great wish is to have her drawing-room made as charming as
possible; and it would be a real welcome to her.'

'Luckily,' said Gertrude, breaking into laughter again, 'they don't
know when it began; how in a weak moment I admired the pattern, and
Blanche inflicted it and all its appurtenances on me, hoping to convert
me to a fancy-work-woman!  Dear me, pride has a fall!  I loved to
answer "Three stitches," when Mrs. Blanche asked after my progress.'

'Ah, Daisy, if you did but respect any one!'

'If they would not all be tiresome!  Seriously, I know I must finish
the thing, because of my word.'

'Yes, and I believe keeping a light word that has turned out heavy, is
the best help in bridling the tongue.'

'And, Ethel, I will really try to be seen and not heard while I am
about the work,' said Gertrude, with an earnestness which proved that
she was more sorry than her manner conveyed.

Her resolution stood the trying test of a visit from the elder married
sisters; for, as Ethel said, the scent of the tidings attracted both
Flora and the Cheviots; and the head-master endeavoured to institute a
kind of family committee, to represent to the Doctor how undesirable
the match would be, entailing inconveniences that would not end with
the poor bride's life, and bringing at once upon Tom a crushing anxiety
and sorrow.  Ethel's opinion was of course set aside by Mr. Cheviot,
but he did expect concurrence from Mrs. Rivers and from Richard, and
Flora assented to all his objections, but she was not to be induced to
say she would remonstrate with her father or with Tom; and she
intimated the uselessness thereof so plainly, that she almost hoped
that Charles Cheviot would be less eager to assail the Doctor with his
arguments.

'No hope of that,' said Ethel, when he had taken leave.  'He will
disburthen his conscience; but then papa is well able to take care of
himself!  Flora, I am so thankful you don't object.'

'No indeed,' said Flora.  'We all know it is a pity; but it would be a
far greater pity to break it off now--and do Tom an infinity of harm.
Now tell me all.'

And she threw herself into the subject in the homelike manner that had
grown on her, almost in proportion to Mary's guest-like ways and
absorption in her own affairs.

Six weeks from that time, another hasty note announced that Dr. and
Mrs. Thomas May and Ella were at Liverpool; adding that Averil had been
exceedingly ill throughout the voyage, though on being carried ashore,
she had so far revived, that Tom hoped to bring her home the next day;
but emotion was so dangerous, that he begged not to be met at the
station, and above all, that Leonard would not show himself till
summoned.

Dr. May being unavoidably absent, Ethel alone repaired to the
newly-furnished house for this strange sad bridal welcome.

The first person to appear when the carriage door was opened was a
young girl, pale, tall, thin, only to be recognized by her black eyes.
With a rapid kiss and greeting, Ethel handed her on to the further
door, where she might satisfy the eager embrace of the brother who
there awaited her; while Tom almost lifted out the veiled muffled
figure of his bride, and led her up-stairs to the sitting-room, where,
divesting her of hat, cloak, muff, and respirator, he laid her on the
sofa, and looked anxiously for her reassuring smile before he even
seemed to perceive his sister or left room for her greeting.

The squarely-made, high-complexioned, handsome Averil Ward was entirely
gone.  In Averil May, Ethel saw delicately refined and sharpened
features, dark beautiful eyes, enlarged, softened, and beaming with
perilous lustre, a transparently white blue-veined skin, with a lovely
roseate tint, deepening or fading with every word, look, or movement,
and a smile painfully sweet and touching, as first of the three, the
invalid found voice for thanks and inquiries for all.

'Quite well,' said Ethel.  'But papa has been most unluckily sent for
to Whitford, and can't get home till the last train.'

'It may be as well,' said Tom: 'we must have perfect quiet till after
the night's rest.'

'May I see one else to-night?' she wistfully asked.

'Let us see how you are when you have had some coffee and are rested.'

'Very well,' she said, with a gentle submission, that was as new a
sight as Tom's tenderness; 'but indeed I am not tired; and it is so
pretty and pleasant.  Is this really Dr. Spencer's old house?  Can
there be such a charming room in it?'

'I did not think so,' said Tom, looking in amazement at the effect
produced by the bright modern grate with its cheerful fire, the warm
delicate tints of the furniture, the appliances for comfort and
ornament already giving a home look.

'I know this is in the main your doing, Ethel; but who was the hand?'

'All of us were hands,' said Ethel; 'but Flora was the moving spring.
She went to London for a week about it.'

'Mrs. Rivers!  Oh, how good!' said Averil, flushing with surprise; then
raising herself, as her coffee was brought in a dainty little service,
she exclaimed, 'And oh, if it were possible, I should say that was my
dear old piano!'

'Yes,' said Ethel, 'we thought you would like it; and Hector
Ernescliffe gave Mrs. Wright a new one for it.'

This was almost too much.  Averil's lip trembled, but she looked up
into her husband's face, and made an answer, which would have been odd
had she not been speaking to his thought.

'Never mind! It is only happiness and the kindness.'  And she drank the
coffee with an effort, and smiled at him again, as she asked, 'Where is
Ella?'

'At our house,' said Ethel; 'we mean her to be there for the present.'

Knowing with whom Ella must be, and fearing to show discontent with the
mandate of patience, Averil again began to admire.  'What a beautiful
chair!  Look, Tom! is it not exquisite?  Whose work is it?'

'Gertrude's.'

'That is the most fabulous thing of all,' said Tom, walking round it.
'Daisy!  Her present, not her work?'

'Her work, every stitch.  It has been a race with time.' The
gratification of Averil's flush and smile was laid up by Ethel for
Gertrude's reward; but it was plain that Tom wanted complete rest for
his wife, and Ethel only waited to install her in the adjoining
bed-room, which was as delightfully fitted up as the first apartment.
Averil clung to her for the instant they were alone together, and
whispered, 'Oh, it is all so sweet!  Don't think I don't feel it! But
you see it is all I can do for him to be as quiet as I can!  Say so,
please!'

Ethel felt the throb of the heart, and knew to whom she was to say so;
but Tom's restless approaching step made Averil detach herself, and
sink into an arm-chair.  Ethel left her, feeling that the short clasp
of their arms had sealed their sisterhood here and for ever.

'It is too sad, too beautiful to be talked about,' she said to
Gertrude, who was anxiously on the watch for tidings.

Obedient as Averil was, she had not understood her husband's desire
that she should seek her pillow at once.  She was feeling brisk and
fresh, and by no means ready for captivity, and she presently came
forth again with her soft, feeble, noiseless step; but she had nearly
retreated again, feeling herself mistaken and bewildered, for in the
drawing-room stood neither Tom nor his sisters, but a stranger--a dark,
grave, thoughtful man of a singularly resolute and settled cast of
countenance.  The rustle of her dress made him look up as she turned.
'Ave!' he exclaimed; and as their eyes met, the light in those brown
depths restored the whole past.  She durst not trust herself to speak,
as her head rested on his shoulder, his arms were round her; only as
her husband came on the scene with a gesture of surprise, she said,
'Indeed, I did not mean it!  I did not know he was here.'

'I might have known you could not be kept apart if I once let Leonard
in,' he said, as he arranged her on the sofa, and satisfied himself
that there were no tokens of the repressed agitation that left such
dangerous effects.  'Will you both be very good if I leave you to be
happy together?' he presently added, after a few indifferent words had
passed.

Averil looked wistfully after him, as if he were wanted to complete
full felicity even in Leonard's presence.  How little would they once
have thought that her first words to her brother would be,  'Oh, was
there ever any one like him?'

'We owe it all to him,' said Leonard.

'So kind,' added Averil, 'not to be vexed, though he dreaded our
meeting so much; and you see I could not grieve him by making a fuss.
But this is nice!' she added, with a sigh going far beyond the effect
of the homely word.

'You are better.  Ella said so.'

'I am feeling well to-night.  Come, let me look at you, and learn your
face.'

He knelt down beside her, and she stroked back the hair, which had
fulfilled his wish that she should find it as long, though much darker
than of old.  Posture and action recalled that meeting, when her couch
had been his prison bed, and the cold white prison walls had frowned on
them; yet even in the rosy light of the cheerful room there was on them
the solemnity of an approaching doom.

'Where is the old face?' Averil said.  'You look as you did in the
fever.  Your smile brings back something of yourself.  But, oh, those
hollow eyes!'

'Count Ugolino is Dr. May's name for me: but, indeed, Ave, I have tried
to fatten for your inspection.'

'It is not thinness,' she said, 'but I had carried about with me the
bright daring open face of my own boy.  I shall learn to like this
better now.'

'Nay, it is you and Ella that are changed.  O, Ave, you never let me
know what a place you were in.'

'There were many things better than you fancy,' she answered; 'and it
is over--it is all gladness now.'

'I see that in your face,' he said, gazing his fill.  'You do look ill
indeed; but, Ave, I never saw you so content.'

'I can't help it,' she said, smiling.  'Every moment comes some fresh
kindness from him.  The more trouble I give him the kinder he is.  Is
it not as if the tempest was over, and we had been driven into the
smoothest little sunshiny bay?'

'To rest and refit,' he said, thoughtfully.

'For me, "the last long wave;" and a most gentle smooth one it is,'
said Averil; 'for you to refit for a fresh voyage.  Dear Leonard, I
have often guessed what you would do.'

'What have you guessed?'

'Only what we used to plan, in the old times after you had been at
Coombe, Leonard.'

'Dear sister!  And you would let me go!'

'Our parting is near, any way,' she said, her eye turning to the print
from Ary Scheffer's St. Augustine and Monica.  'Whoever gave us that,
divined how we ought to feel in these last days together.'

'It was Richard May's gift,' said Leonard.  'Ave, there was nothing
wanting but your liking this.'

'Then so it is?' she asked.

'Unless the past disqualifies me,' he said.  'I have spoken to no one
yet, except little Dickie.  When I thought I ought to find some present
employment, and wanted to take a clerkship at Bramshaw's, Dr. May made
me promise to wait till I had seen you before I fixed on anything; but
my mind is made up, and I shall speak now--with your blessing on it,
Ave.'

'I knew it!' she said.

He saw it was safer to quit this subject, and asked for Henry.

'He sent his love.  He met us at New York.  He is grown so soldierly,
with such a black beard, that he is more grown out of knowledge than
any of us, but I scarcely saw him, for he was quite overset at my
appearance, and Tom thought it did me harm.  I wish our new sister
would have come to see me.

'Sister!'

'Oh, did you not know?  I thought Tom had written!  She is a Virginian
lady, whose first husband was a doctor, who died of camp-fever early in
the war.  A Federal, of course.  And they are to be married as soon as
Charleston has fallen.'

Leonard smiled.  And Averil expressed her certainty that it had fallen
by that time.

'And he is quite Americanized?' asked Leonard.  'Does he return to our
own name!  No?  Then I do not wonder he did not wish for me. Perhaps he
may yet bear to meet me, some day when we are grown old.'

'At least we can pray to be altogether, where one is gone already' said
Averil.  'That was the one comfort in parting with the dear Cora--my
blessing through all the worst!  Leonard, she would not go to live in
the fine house her father has taken at New York, but she is gone to be
one of the nurses in the midst of all the hospital miseries.  And, oh,
what comfort she will carry with her!'

Here Tom returned, but made no objection to her brother's stay,
perceiving that his aspect and voice were like fulness to the hungry
heart that had pined so long--but keeping all the others away; and they
meanwhile were much entertained by Ella, who was in joyous spirits; a
little subdued, indeed, by the unknown brother, but in his absence very
communicative.  Gertrude was greatly amused with her account of the
marriage, in the sitting-room at Massissauga, and of Tom's being so
unprepared for the brevity of the American form, that he never knew
where he was in the Service, and completed it with a puzzled 'Is that
all?'

Averil had, according to Ella, been infinitely more calm and composed.
'She does nothing but watch his eyes,' said Ella; 'and ever since we
parted from Cora, I have had no one to speak to!  In the cabin he never
stirred from sitting by her; and if she could speak at all, it was so
low that I could not hear.  School will be quite lively.'

'Are you going to school?'

'Oh yes! where Ave was.  That is quite fixed; and I have had enough of
playing third person,' said Ella, with her precocious Western manner.
'You know I have all my own property, so I shall be on no one's hands!
Oh, and Cora made her father buy all Ave's Massissauga shares--at a
dead loss to us of course.'

'Well,' said Gertrude, 'I am sorry Tom is not an American share-holder.
It was such fun!'

'He wanted to have made them all over to Henry; but Cora was
determined; and her father is making heaps of money as a commissary, so
I am sure he could afford it.  Some day, when the rebellion is subdued,
I mean to go and see Cora and Henry and his wife,' added Ella, whose
tinge of Americanism formed an amusing contrast with Dickie's colonial
ease--especially when she began to detail the discomforts of
Massissauga, and he made practical suggestions for the remedies of
each--describing how mamma and he himself managed.

The younger ones had all gone to bed, Richard had returned home, and
Ethel was waiting to let her father in, when Leonard came back with the
new arrivals.

'I did not think you would be allowed to stay so late,' said Ethel.

'We did not talk much.  I was playing chants most of the time; and
after she went to bed, I stayed with Tom.'

'What do you think of her?'

'I cannot think.  I can only feel a sort of awe.  End as it may, it
will have been a blessed thing to have had her among us like this.'

'Yes, it ought to do us all good.  And I think she is full of
enjoyment.'

'Perfect enjoyment!' repeated Leonard.  'Thank God for that!'

After some pause, during which he turned over his pocket-book, as if
seeking for something, he came to her, and said, 'Miss May, Averil has
assented to a purpose that has long been growing up within me--and that
I had rather consult you about than any one, because you first inspired
it.'

'I think I know the purpose you mean,' said Ethel, her heart beating
high.

'The first best purpose of my boyhood,' he said.  'If only it may be
given back to me!  Will you be kind enough to look over this rough
copy?'

It was the draught of a letter to the Missionary Bishop, Mr. Seaford's
diocesan, briefly setting forth Leonard's early history, his
conviction, and his pardon, referring to Archdeacon May as a witness to
the truth of his narrative.

'After this statement,' he proceeded, 'it appears to me little short of
effrontery to offer myself for any share of the sacred labour in which
your Lordship is engaged; and though it had been the wish of the best
days of my youth, I should not have ventured on the thought but for the
encouragement I received from Mr. Seaford, your Lordship's chaplain.  I
have a small income of my own, so that I should not be a burthen on the
mission, and understanding that mechanical arts are found useful, I
will mention that I learnt shoemaking at Milbank, and carpentry at
Portland, and I would gladly undertake any manual occupation needed in
a mission.  Latterly I was employed in the schoolmaster's department;
and I have some knowledge of music.  My education is of course,
imperfect, but I am endeavouring to improve myself.  My age is
twenty-one; I have good health, and I believe I can bring power of
endurance and willingness to be employed in any manner that may be
serviceable, whether as artisan or catechist.'

'I don't think they will make a shoemaker of you,' said Ethel, with her
heart full.

'Will they have me at all?  There will always be a sort of
ticket-of-leave flavour about me,' said Leonard, speaking simply,
straight-forwardly, but without dejection; 'and I might be doubtful
material for a mission.'

'Your brother put that in your head.'

'He implied that my case half known would be a discredit to him, and I
am prepared for others thinking so.  If so, I can get a situation at
Portland, and I know I can be useful there; but when such a hope as
this was opened to me again, I could not help making an attempt. Do you
think I may show that letter to Dr. May?'

'O, Leonard, this is one of the best days of one's life!'

'But what,' he asked, as she looked over the letter, 'what shall I
alter?'

'I do not know, only you are so business-like; you do not seem to care
enough.'

'If I let myself out, it would look like unbecoming pressing of myself,
considering what I am; but if you think I ought, I will say more.  I
have become so much used to writing letters under constraint, that I
know I am very dry.'

'Let papa see it first,' said Ethel.  'After all, earnestness is best
out of sight.'

'Mr. Wilmot and he shall decide whether I may send it,' he said; 'and
in the meantime I would go to St. Augustine's, if they will have me.'

'I see you have thought it all over.'

'Yes.  I only waited to have spoken with my sister, and she--dear, dear
Ave--had separately thought of such a destination for me.  It was more
than acquiescence, more than I dared to hope!'

'Her spirit will be with you, wherever she is!  And,' with a sudden
smile, 'Leonard, was not this the secret between you and Dickie?'

'Yes,' said Leonard, smiling too; 'the dear little fellow is so fresh
and loving, as well as so wise and discreet, that he draws out all that
is in one's heart.  It has been a new life to me ever since he took to
me!  Do you know, I believe he has been writing a letter of
recommendation of me on his own account to the Bishop; I told him he
must enclose it to his father if he presumed to send it, though he
claims the Bishop as his intimate friend.'

'Ah,' said Ethel, 'papa is always telling him that they can't get on in
New Zealand for want of the small archdeacon, and that, I really think,
abashes him more than anything else.'

'He is not forward, he is only sensible,' said Leonard, on whose heart
Dickie had far too fast a hold for even this slight disparagement not
to be rebutted.  'I had forgotten what a child could be till I was with
him; I felt like a stock or a stone among you all.'

Ethel smiled.  'I was nearly giving you "Marmion", in remembrance of
old times, on the night of the Christmas-tree,' she said; 'but I did
not then feel as if the "giving double" for all your care and trouble
had begun.'

'The heart to feel it so was not come,' said Leonard; 'now since I have
grasped this hope of making known to others the way to that Grace that
held me up,'--he paused with excess of feeling--'all has been joy, even
in the recollection of the darkest days.  Mr. Wilmot's words come back
now, that it may all have been training for my Master's work.  Even the
manual labour may have been my preparation!' His eyes brightened, and
he was indeed more like the eager, hopeful youth she remembered than
she had ever hoped to see him; but this brightness was the flash of
steel, tried, strengthened, and refined in the fire--a brightness that
might well be trusted.

'One knew it must be so,' was all she could say.

'Yes, yes,' he said, eagerly.  'You sent me words of greeting that held
up my faith; and, above all, when we read those books at Coombe, you
put the key of comfort in my hand, and I never quite lost it. Miss
May,' he added, as Dr. May's latch-key was heard in the front door, 'if
ever I come to any good, I owe it to you!'

And that was the result of the boy's romance.  The first tidings of the
travellers next morning were brought near the end of breakfast by Tom,
who came in looking thin, worn, and anxious, saying that Averil had
called herself too happy to sleep till morning, when a short doze had
only rendered her feeble, exhausted, and depressed.

'I shall go and see her,' said Dr. May; 'I like my patients best in
that mood.'

Nor would the Doctor let his restless, anxious son do more than make
the introduction, but despatched him to the Hospital; whence returning
to find himself still excluded, he could endure nothing but pacing up
and down the lawn in sight of his father's head in the window, and
seeking as usual Ethel's sympathy.

There was some truth in what Charles Cheviot had said.  Wedlock did
enhance the grief and loss, and Tom found the privilege of these months
of tendance more heart-wringing than he had anticipated, though of
course more precious and inestimable.  Moreover, Averil's depression
had been a phase of her illness which had not before revealed itself in
such a degree.

'Generally,' he said, 'she has talked as if what she looks to were all
such pure hope and joy, that though it broke one's heart to hear it,
one saw it made her happy, and could stand it.  Fancy, Ethel, not an
hour after we were married, I found her trying the ring on this finger,
and saying I should be able to wear it like my father!  It seemed as if
she would regret nothing but my sorrow, and that my keeping it out of
sight was all that was needful to her happiness. But to-day she has
been blaming herself for--for grieving to leave all so soon, just as
her happiness might have been beginning!  Think, Ethel!  Reproaching
herself for unthankfulness even to tears!  It might have been more for
her peace to have remained with her where she had no revival of these
associations, if they are only pain to her.'

'Oh no, no, Tom.  It only proves the pleasure they do give her.  You
know, better than I do, that there must be ups and downs, failures of
spirits from fatigue when the will is peaceful and resigned.'

'I know it.  I know it with my understanding, Ethel, but as to
reasoning about her as if she was anybody else, the thing is mere
mockery.  What can my father be about?' he added, for the twentieth
time.  'Talking to her in the morning always knocks her up.  If he had
only let me warn him; but he hurried me off in his inconsiderate way.'

At last, however, the head disappeared, and Tom rushed indoors.

'So, Tom, you have made shorter work of twenty-five patients than I of
one.'

'I'll go again,' said poor Tom, in the desperation of resolute
meekness, 'only let me see how she is.'

'Let Ethel go up now.  She is very cheery except for a little headache.'

While Ethel obeyed, Dr. May began a minute interrogation of his son, so
lengthened that Tom could hardly restrain sharp impatient replies to
such apparent trifling with his agony to learn how long his father
thought he could keep his treasure, and how much suffering might be
spared to her.

At last Dr. May said, 'I may be wrong.  Your science is fresher than
mine; but to me there seem indications that the organic disease is in
the way of being arrested.  Good health of course she cannot have; but
if she weathers another winter, I think you may look for as many years
of happiness with her as in an ordinary case.'

It was the first accent of hope since the hysteric scream that had been
his greeting, and all his reserve and dread of emotion: could not
prevent his covering his face with his hands, and sobbing aloud.
'Father, father,' he said, 'you cannot tell what this is to me!'

'I can in part, my boy,' said the Doctor, sadly.

'And,' he started up and walked about the room, 'you shall have the
whole treatment.  I will only follow your measures.  No one at New York
saw the slightest hope of checking it.'

'They had your account, and you hardly allowed enough for the
hysterical affection.  I do not say it is certainty--far less, health.'

'Any way, any way, if I may only have her to lie and look at me, it is
happiness unlooked for!  You don't think I could have treated her
otherwise?'

'No.  Under His blessing you saved her yourself.  You would have
perceived the change if she had been an indifferent person.'

Tom made another turn to the door, and came back still half wild, and
laid his face on his arms upon the table.  'You tell her,' he said, 'I
shall never be able--'

Knocking at Averil's door, Dr. May was answered by a call of 'Tom.'

'Not this time, my dear.  He is coming, but we have been talking you
over.  Ave, you have a very young doctor, and rather too much
interested.'

'Indeed!' she said, indignantly; 'he has made me much better.'

'Exactly so, my dear; so much better that he agrees with me that he
expressed a strong opinion prematurely.'

'They thought the same at New York,' she said, still resolved on his
defence.

'My dear, unless you are bent on growing worse in order to justify his
first opinion, I think you will prove that which he now holds. And,
Ave, it was, under Providence, skill that we may be proud of by which
he has subdued the really fatal disorder.  You may have much to
undergo, and must submit to a sofa life and much nursing, but I think
you will not leave him so soon.'

There was a long pause; at last she said, 'O, Dr. May, I beg your
pardon.  If I had known, I would never--'

'Never what, my dear?'

'Never have consented!  It is such a grievous thing for a professional
man to have a sick wife.'

'It is exactly what he wanted, my dear, if you will not fly at me for
saying so.  Nothing else could teach him that patients are not cases
but persons; and here he comes to tell you what he thinks of the
trouble of a sick wife.'

'Well,' said Dr. May, as he and Ethel walked away together, 'poor young
things, they have a chequered time before them.  Pretty well for the
doctor who hated sick people, Wards, and Stoneborough; but, after all,
I have liked none of our weddings better.  I like people to rub one
another brighter.'

'And I am proud when the least unselfish nature has from first to last
done the most unselfish things.  No one of us has ever given up so much
as Tom, and I am sure he will be happy in it.'

More can hardly be said without straying into the realms of prediction;
yet such of our readers as are bent on carrying on their knowledge of
the Daisies beyond the last sentence, may be told that, to the best of
our belief, Leonard's shoemaking is not his foremost office in the
mission, where he finds that fulness of hopeful gladness which
experience shows is literally often vouchsafed to those who have given
up home, land, and friends, for the Gospel's sake.  His letters are the
delight of more than one at Stoneborough; and his sister, upon her
sofa, is that home member of a mission without whom nothing can be
done--the copier of letters, the depot of gifts, the purveyor of
commissions, the maker of clothes, the collector of books, the keeper
of accounts--so that the house still merits the name of the S. P. G.
office, as it used to be called in the Spenserian era.  But Mrs. Thomas
May is a good deal more than this.  Her sofa is almost a renewal of the
family centre that once Margaret's was; the region where all tidings
are brought fresh for discussion, all joys and sorrows poured out, the
external influence that above all has tended to soften Gertrude into
the bright grace of womanhood.  Mary Cheviot and Blanche Ernescliffe
cannot be cured of a pitying 'poor Tom'--as they speak of 'the
Professor'--in which title the awkward sound of Dr. Tom has been merged
since an appointment subsequent to the appearance of the "Diseases of
Climate".  But every one else holds that not his honours as a
scientific physician, his discoveries, and ably-written  papers--not
even his father's full and loving confidence and gratitude, give
Professor May as much happiness as that bright-eyed delicate wife, with
whom all his thoughts seem to begin and end.









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