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THE WOEKS 
 
 MISS THACKEEAY 
 
MISS THACKERAY'S WORKS. 
 
 Uniform Edition ; each Volume Illustrated with a Vignette 
 Title-page. 
 
 Large crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 ». OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 2. THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 3. FIVE OLD FRIENDS AND A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 4. TO ESTHER ; and other Sketches. 
 
 5. BLUEBEARD'S KEYS ; and other Stories 
 
 6. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH ; TWO HOURS ; FROM 
 
 AN ISLAND. 
 
 7. TOILERS AND SPINSTERS ; and other Essays. 
 
 8. MISS ANGEL; FULHAM LAWN. 
 
 9. MISS WILLIAMSON'S DIVAGATIONS. 
 10. MRS. DYMOND. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
THE WOEKS 
 
 OF 
 
 MISS THACKEEAY 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 OLD KENSINGTON 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1892 
 
OLD KENSINGTON 
 
T'lB life whereof our nerves are scant, 
 Oh ! life, not death, for which wo pant. 
 More life and fuller that I \rant. 
 
 Al,FBBD TuNDYSOir. 
 
OLD KENSINGTON 
 
 B-? 
 
 MISS (THACKERAY) HUcW 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1892 
 
 I All rights reserved] 
 
A DEDICATION 
 
 TO SOME NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 Sometimes new friends meet one along tie mid-way of life, and 
 come forward with sweet unknown faces and with looks that seem 
 strangely familiar to greet ns. 
 
 To some of these new friends I must dedicate my story. It was 
 begun ten years ago, and is older than my god-daughter Margie 
 herself, who is the oldest among them. She is playing with her 
 sister and her little cousins in the sunny Eton nurseries. Harry 
 has a crown on. Annie is a queen who flies on errands. Ada 
 and Lilly are Court ladies. 
 
 My neighbour Dolly and the little Dorotheas, however, have a 
 first right to a presentation copy. It is true that the little ones 
 cannot read, but they need not regret it ; for Margie will take them 
 on her knee and show them the pictures, and Georgie and Stella and 
 Molly shall stand round too, and dark-eyed Httle Margaret can tell 
 them her own sweet little stories, while Francis chimes in from the 
 floor. Eleanor cannot talk, but she can sing ; and so can our Laura 
 at home and her song is her own ; a sweet home song ; the song 
 
X A DEDICATION TO SOME NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 of all children to those who love them. It tells of the past, and 
 one day brings it back without a pang; it tells of a future, not 
 remorselessly strange and chill and unknown, but bound to us by a 
 thousand hopes and loving thoughts — a kingdom-come for us all, 
 not of strangers, but of little children. And meanwhile Laura 
 measures the present with her soft little fingers as she beats time 
 upon her mother's hand to her own vague music. 
 
 P Southwell Gaedems: March 20, 1873 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 GBAP. PA6K 
 
 I. Bricks and Ivy 1 
 
 II. Dutch Tiles 6 
 
 III. To Old Street by the Lanes .... 14 
 
 IV. An Afternoon at Penfold's .... 23 
 V. Steel Pens and Goose Qttills . . .31 
 
 VI. Downstairs in the Dakk . . . . , 39 
 
 VII. Cloud-capped Towers and Gorgeoxts Palaces . 49 
 
 VIII. Immortelles 58 
 
 IX. The Bow-windowed House .... 66 
 
 X. A Snow Garden 75 
 
 XI. Raban meets the Shabby Angel ... 82 
 
 XII. Dorothea by Firelight 92 
 
 XIII. Little Brother and Little Sister . . . 100 
 
 XIV. Rag Dolls 110 
 
 XV. George's Tunes 117 
 
 XVI. A Walking Party 123 
 
 XVII. ' Inner Life ' 135 
 
 XVIII. An Autumn Morning 143 
 
 XIX. Kensington Palace Chapel .... 151 
 
 XX. Rhoda to Dolly 162 
 
 XXI, Cinders 171 
 
 XXII. Mrs. Palmer 178 
 
 XXIII. The Terrace at Aj.l Saints' College . . 186 
 
 XXIV. Roses have Thorns, and Silver Fountains Mud 195 
 XXV. Good-night 206 
 
 XXVI. GOOD-MOEHING 214 
 
ui CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. '"''<'« 
 
 XXVII. Love Lajtb from KuNSiNGTOif to Fdlham . 220 
 
 XXVin. Unborn To-morrow and Dead Yesterday . 231 
 
 XXIX. Under the Great Dome 242 
 
 XXX. Wave or Plame 252 
 
 XXXI. A Boat upon the Water 261 
 
 XXXII. Trust me 269 
 
 XXXIII. Circumstance: . 274 
 
 XXXIV. White Roses 282 
 
 XXXV. 'Only George'' . 292 
 
 XXXVI. The Slow Sad Hours . .... 298 
 
 XXXVII. In an Empty Room 303 
 
 XXXVIII. The Pollard-trees 311 
 
 XXXIX.- Thus far the Mlles are Mea.sured from thy 
 
 Friend 321 
 
 XL. Under the Clock-tower 328 
 
 XLI. I BRING YOU Three Letters — I pray you read 
 
 One 33T 
 
 XLII. Rachel 342 
 
 XLIII. Crags and Fresh Aib ... . 354 
 
 XLIV. White with Gazing 372 
 
 XLV. What Aunt Sarah left for Dolly . . . 383 
 
 XLVI. The Sorrowful Message 394 
 
 XLVTI. From Heart of very Heart . . . 403 
 
 XL VIII. An Explanation 413 
 
 XLIX. Sheep-shearing 421 
 
 L. Tempered Winds ...... 429 
 
 LI. ' Sing Hoarse, with Tears between ' . 439 
 
 LII. An Andante of Haydn's 450 
 
 LIII. That thou art blamed shall not be thy Defect 462 
 
 LIV. Holy St. Francis, what a Cha2«^ge is here ! . 473 
 
 LV. See you not something beside Masonry? . 483 
 
 LVI. The Plaz is played, the Cub tain drops . , 489 
 
OLD KENSINGTON 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 BKICKS AND ITY. 
 
 From the ivy where it dapples 
 A grey ruin, stone by stone, 
 I)o you look for grapes and apples, 
 Or for sad green leaves alone ? 
 
 — E. B. Bbowninb. 
 
 A QUAETEE of a century ago the shabby tide of progress had 
 not spread to the quiet old suburb where Lady Sarah 
 Francis's house was standing, with its many windows dazzling 
 as the sun travelled across the old-fashioned housetops 
 to set into a distant sea of tenements and echoing life. 
 The roar did not reach the old house. The children could 
 listen to the cawing of the rooks, to the echo of the hours, 
 as they struck on from one day to another, vibrating from 
 the old square tower of the church. At night the strokes 
 seemed to ring more slowly than in the day. Little Dolly 
 Vanborough, Lady Sarah's niece, thought each special hour 
 had its voice. The church clock is silent now, but the 
 rooks caw on undisturbed from one spring to another in the 
 Qld Kensington suburb. There are tranquil corners still, and 
 sunny silent nooks, and ivy wreaths growing in the western 
 
 B 
 
2 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 sun ; and jessamines and vine-trees, planted by a former 
 generation, spreading along the old garden-walls. But 
 every year the shabby stream of progress rises and engulfs 
 one relic or another, carrying off many and many a landmark 
 and memory. Last year only, the old church was standing, 
 in its iron cage, at the junction of the thoroughfares. It 
 was the Church of England itself to Dolly and Greorge Van- 
 borough in those early church-going days of theirs. There 
 was the old painting of the Uon and the unicorn banging 
 from the gallery ; the light streaming through the brown 
 saints over the communion-table. In after-life the children 
 may have seen other saints more glorious in crimson and in 
 purple, nobler piles and arches, but none of them have ever 
 seemed so near to heaven as the old Queen Anne building ; 
 and the wooden pew with its high stools, through which 
 elbows of straw were protruding, where they used to kneel 
 on either side of their aunt, watching with awe-stricken faces 
 the tears as they came falling from the widow's sad eyes. 
 
 Lady Sarah could scarcely have told you the meaning of 
 those tears as they fell — old love and life partings, sorrows 
 and past mercies, all came returning to her with the familiar 
 words of the prayers. The tears fell bright and awe-stricken 
 as she thought of the present — of distances immeasurable — 
 of life and its inconceivable mystery ; and then her heart 
 would warm with hope perhaps of what might be to come, 
 of the overwhelming possibilities — how many of them to her 
 lay in the warm clasp of the child's hand that came pushing 
 into hers ! — For her, as for the children, heaven's state was 
 in the old wooden pew. Then the sing-song of the hymn 
 would flood the old church with its homely cadence. 
 
 Prepare your glad Toice3 ; 
 Let HiBTeal lejoice, 
 
 sang the little charity children ; poor little Israelites, with 
 blue stockings, and funny woollen knobs to their fustian 
 
BRICICS AND IVY. 3 
 
 caps, rejoicing, though their pastures were not green as yet, 
 nor was their land overflowing with milk and honey. How 
 ever, they sang praises for others, as all people do at times, 
 thanks be to the merciful dispensation that allows us to 
 weep, to work, to be comforted, and to rejoice with one 
 another's hearts, consciously or unconsciously, as long as 
 life exists. 
 
 Every lane, and corner, and archway had a childish story 
 for Dolly and her brother — for Dolly most especially, because 
 girls cling more to the inanimate aspects of life than boys do. 
 For Dolly the hawthorn bleeds as it is laid low and is trans- 
 formed year after year into iron railings and areas, for par- 
 ticulars of which you are requested to apply to the railway 
 company, and to Mr. Taylor, the house-agent. In those days 
 the lanes spread to Fulham, white with blossom in spring, 
 or golden with the yellow London sunsets that blazed 
 beyond the cabbage-fields. In those days there were gardens, 
 and trees, and great walls along the high-road that came 
 from London, passing through the old white turnpike. 
 There were high brown walls along Kensington Gardens, 
 reaching to the Palace Gate ; elms spread their shade, and 
 birds chirrupped, and children played behind them. 
 
 Dolly Vanborough and her brother had had many a game 
 there, and knew every corner and haunt of this sylvan world 
 of children and ducks and nursemaids. They had knocked 
 their noses against the old sun-dial many and many a time 
 Sometimes now, as she comes walking along the straight ave- 
 nues, Dolly thinks she can hear the echo of their own childish 
 voices whooping and calling to one another as they used to 
 do. How often they had played with their big cousin, Robert 
 Henley, and the little Morgans, round about the stately 
 orange-house, and made believe to be statues in the niches ! 
 
 ' I am Apollo,' cries George Vanborough, throwing him- 
 self into an attitude. 
 
 b3 
 
4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Apollo ! ' cries Eobert, exploding with schoolboy wit : 
 ' an Apollo-guy, you mean.' 
 
 Dolly does not understand why the Morgan boys laugh 
 and Greorge blushes up furiously. When they are tired of 
 jumping about in the sun, the statues straggle homewards, 
 accompanied by Dolly's French governess, who has been 
 reading a novel on a bench close by. They pass along the 
 front of the old palace that stands blinking its sleepy win- 
 dows across elmy vistas, or into tranquil courts where sentries 
 go pacing. Eobert has his grandmother living in the 
 Palace, and he strides off across the court to her apartments. 
 The children think she is a witch, and always on the watch 
 for them, though they do not tell Eobert so. The Morgans 
 turn up Old Street, and George and Dolly escort them 
 so far on their way home. It is a shabby street, with 
 shops at one end and old-fashioned houses, stone-stepped, 
 bow-windowed at the other. Dear Old Street! where an 
 echo still lingers of the quaint and stately music of the past, 
 of which the voice comes to us like a song of Mozart, sound- 
 ing above- the dreamy flutterings of a Wagner of the present ! 
 Little Zoe Morgan would linger to peep at the parrot that 
 lived next door in the area, with the little page-boy, who 
 always winked at them as they went by ; little Cassie would 
 glance wistfully at a certain shop-front where various medals 
 and crosses were exposed for sale. There were even in those 
 days convents and Catholics established at Kensington, and 
 this little repository had been opened for their use. 
 
 When they have seen the little Morgans safe into their 
 old brown house — very often it is John Morgan who comes 
 to the door to admit them— (John is the eldest son, the 
 curate, the tutor, the mainstay of the straggling establish- 
 ment) — ^DoUy and her brother trudge home through the 
 Square, followed by Mademoiselle, still lost in her novel. 
 The lilacs are flowering behind the rusty rails, the chil- 
 
BRICKS AND JVY. 5 
 
 dren know every flagstone and window ; they turn up a 
 passage of narrow doorways and wide-eaved roofs, and so get 
 out into the high-road again. They look up with friendly 
 recognition at the little boy and girl in their quaint Dutch 
 garb standing on their pedestals above the crowd as it passes 
 the Vestry-hall ; then they turn down a sunshiny spring 
 lane, where ivy is growing, and bricks are twinkling in the 
 western sunshine ; and they ring at a gateway where an 
 iron bell is swung. The house is called Church House, 
 and all its windows look upon gardens, along which the 
 sunshine comes flowing. The light used to fill Dolly's slant- 
 ing wooden school-room at the top of the house. When 
 the bells were ringing, and the sun-flood came in and made 
 shadows on the wall, it used to seem to her like a chapel 
 full of music. 
 
 Greorge wanted to make an altar one day, and to light 
 Lady Sarah's ■ toilet candles, and to burn the sandal-wood 
 matches ; but Dolly, who was a little Puritan, blew the 
 matches out and carried the candles back to their places. 
 
 ' I shall go over to the Morgans,' said George, ' since you 
 are so disagreeable.' 
 
 Whether Dolly was agreeable or not, this was what 
 George was pretty sure to do. 
 
OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 DUTCH TILES. 
 
 priceless art ! princely state, 
 E'en while by sense of change opprest, 
 Within to antedate 
 Heaven's age of fearless rest. 
 
 — J. H. Newman. 
 
 Theke are many disconnected pictures in Dorothea Van- 
 borough's gallery, drifting and following each other like the 
 images of a dissolving-view. There are voices and faces 
 changing, people whom she hardly knows to be the same 
 appearing and disappearing. Looking back now-a-days 
 through a score or two of years, Dorothea can see many 
 lights crossing and reflecting one another, many strange 
 places and persons in juxtaposition. She can hear, as we 
 all can, a great clamour of words and of laughter, cries of 
 pain and of sorrow and anger, through all of which sound 
 the sacred voices that will utter to her through life — and 
 beyond life she humbly prays. 
 
 Dorothea's pictures are but mist and fancy work, not 
 made of paint and canvas as is that one which hangs over 
 the fire-place in the wainscot dining-room at Church House 
 in Kensington, where my heroine passed so much of her life. 
 It is supposed by some to be a Van der Heist. It represents 
 a golden brown grandmother, with a coifife and a ruffle and a 
 grand chain round her neck, and a ring on her forefinger, 
 and a double-winged house in the background. This 
 
DUTCH TILES. 7 
 
 placid-faced Dutchwoman, existing two centuries ago, has 
 some looks still living in the face of the Dorothea Van- 
 borough of these days. Her descendants have changed their 
 name and their dress, cast away their ruffles, forgotten the 
 story of their early origin ; but there is still a something that 
 tells of it : in Dolly's slow quaint grace and crumpled bronze 
 hair, in her brother George's black brows, in their aunt Lady 
 Sarah Francis's round brown eyes and big ears, to say nothing 
 of her store of blue Dutch china. Tall blue pots, with dragon 
 handles, are ranged in rows upon the chimney-board under 
 the picture. On either side of the flame below are blue 
 tiles, that Lady Sarah's husband brought over from the 
 Hague the year before he died. Abraham, Jonah, Noah, 
 Balaam tumbling off his blue ass ; the whole sacred history is 
 there, lighted up by the flaring flame of the logs. 
 
 When first George, and Dolly came to live in the old 
 house, then it was the pictures came to life. The ass began 
 to call out Balaam I Balaam I The animals to walk two by 
 two (all blue) into the ark. Jonah's whale swallowed and 
 disgorged him night after night, as George and Dolly sat at 
 their aunt's knee listening to her stories in the dusk of the 
 ' children's hour ; ' and the vivid life that childhood strikes 
 even into inanimate things, awakened the widow's dull 
 heart and the silent house in the old by-lane in Kensington. 
 The lady over the fire-place had married in King Charles's 
 reign ; she was Dorothea Vanborough and the first Countess 
 of Churchtown. Other countesses followed in due course, of 
 whom one or two were engraved in the passage overhead ; 
 the last was a miniature in Lady Sarah's own room, her 
 mother and my heroine's grandmother ; a beautiful and 
 wilful person, who had grievously offended by taking a 
 second husband soon after her lord's demise in 1806. 
 This second husband was himself a member of the Van- 
 borough family a certain Colonel Stanham Vanborough, 
 
8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 a descendant of the lady over tte chimney-piece. He was 
 afterwards killed in the Peninsula. Lady Sarah bitterly 
 lesented her mother's marriage, and once said she would 
 never forgive it. It was herself that she never forgave for 
 her own unforgiveness. She was a generous-hearted woman, 
 fantastic, impressionable, reserved. "When her mother died 
 soon after Colonel Vanbo>-ough, it was to her own home that 
 Lady Sarah brought her little step-brother, now left friend- 
 less, and justly ignored by the peerage, where the elder 
 sister's own life was concisely detailed as ' dau. John Van- 
 borough, last Earl of Churchtown, b. 1790, m. 1807, to 
 Darby Francis, Esq., of Church House, Kensington.' 
 
 Young Stanham Vanborough found but a cold welcome 
 from Mr. Francis, but much faithful care and affection, 
 lavished, not without remorse, by the sister who had been so 
 long estranged. The boy grew up in time, and went out 
 into the world, and became a soldier as his father had 
 been. He was a simple, straightforward youth, very fond 
 of his sister, and loth to leave her, but very glad to be 
 his own master at last. He married in India, the daughter 
 of a Yorkshire baronet, a pretty young lady, who had 
 come out to keep her brother's house. Her name was 
 Philippa Henley, and her fortune consisted chiefly in golden 
 hair and two pearly rows of teeth. The marriage was not 
 so happy as it might have been; trouble came, children 
 died, the poor parents, in fear and trembling, sent their one 
 little boy home to Lady Sarah to save his life. And then, 
 some three years later, their little daughter Dolly was making 
 her way, a young traveller by land and by sea coming from 
 the distant Indian station, where she had been born, to 
 the shelter of the old house in the old by-lane in Ken- 
 sington. The children found the door open wide and 
 the lonely woman on her threshold looking out for them. 
 Mr. Francis was dead, and it was an empty house by this 
 
DUTCH TILES. <) 
 
 time, out of which a whole home had passed away. 
 Lady Sarah's troubles were over, leaving little behind ; the 
 silence of mid-life had succeeded to the loving turmoils and 
 jealousies and anxieties of earlier days, only some memories 
 remained of which the veiy tears and words seem wanting 
 now and then, although other people may have thought 
 that if words failed the widow, the silent deeds were there 
 that should belong to all past affection. 
 
 One of the first things Dolly remembers is a landing- 
 place one bitter east-winded morning, with the white blast 
 blowing dry and fierce from the land, and swirling out to 
 sea through the leafless forest of shipping ; the squalid 
 houses fast closed and double-locked upon their sleeping 
 inmates : the sudden storms of dust and wind ; the distant 
 clanking of some awakening pail, and the bewildered ayah, 
 in her rings and bangles, squatting on the ground and 
 veiling her face in white muslin. 
 
 By the side of the ayah stands my heroine, a little puppy- 
 like girl, staring as Indian children stare, at the strange 
 dismal shores upon which they are cast ; staring at the lady 
 in the grey cloak, who had come on board with her 
 papa's face, and caught her in her arms, and who is her 
 Aunt Sarah ; at the big boy of seven in the red mittens, 
 whose photograph her papa had shown her in the veran- 
 dah, and who is her brother George ; at the luggage as 
 it comes bumping and stumbling off the big ship; at 
 the passengers departing. The stout little gentleman, who 
 used to take her to see the chickens, pats Dolly on the head, 
 and says he shall come and see her ; the friendly sailor who 
 carried her on shore shakes hands, and then the clouds close 
 in, and the sounds and the faces disappear. . . . 
 
 Presently, into Dolly's gallery come pleasanter visions 
 of the old house at Kensington, to which Lady Sarah 
 took her straight away, with its brick wall, and ivy creepers, 
 
lO OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 and many-paned windows, and the stone balls at either side 
 of the door— on one of which a little dark-eyed girl ia 
 sitting, expecting them. 
 
 'Who is dat?' says little three-year-old Dolly, running 
 up, and pulling the child's pinafore, to make sure that she 
 is real. 
 
 Children believe in many things, in fairies, and sudden 
 disappearances ; they would not think it very strange if they 
 were to see people turn to foimtains and dragons in the 
 course of conversation. 
 
 ' That is a nice little girl like you,' said Lady Sarah, 
 kindly. 
 
 * A nice little girl lite me ? ' said Dolly. 
 ' Go away,' says the little strange girl, hiding her face 
 in her hands. 
 
 ' Have you come to play wiss me ? My name is Dollici- 
 avanble,' continues Dolly, who is not shy, and quite used to 
 the world, having travelled so far. 
 
 ' Is that your name ? What a funny name,' says the 
 little girl, looking up. ' My name is Ehoda, but they call 
 me Dody at our house. I'se four years old.' 
 
 Dolly was three years old, but she could not speak quite 
 plain; she took the little girl's hand and stood by the 
 ayah, watching the people passing and repassing, the car- 
 riage being unpacked. Lady Sarah directing and giving 
 people money, George stumping about in everybody's 
 way, and then, somehow, everything and everybody seems 
 going up and down stairs, and in confusion; she is very tired 
 and sleepy, and forgets all the rest. 
 
 Next day Dolly wakes up crying for her papa. It is 
 not the ship any more. Everything is quite still, and her 
 crib does not rock up and down. ' I sought he would be 
 here,' said poor little Dolly, in a croaking, waking voice, 
 sitting up with crumpled curls and bright warm cheeks. It 
 
DUTCH TILES. ii 
 
 is not her papa, but Aunt Sarah, who takes her up and 
 kisses her, and tries to comfort her, while the ayah. Nun 
 Comee, who has been lying on the floor, jumps up and 
 dances in her flowing white garment and snaps her black 
 fingers, and G-eorge brings three tops to spin all at once. 
 Dolly is interested, and ceases crying and begins to smile 
 and to show all her little white teeth. 
 
 Lady Sarah rarely smiled. She used to frown so as not 
 to show what she felt. But Dolly from the first day had 
 seemed to understand her ; she was never afraid of her ; and 
 she used to jump on her knee and make her welcome to the 
 nursery. 
 
 ' Is you very pretty ? ' said little Dolly one day, looking 
 at the grim face with the long nose and pinched lips. ' I 
 think you is a very ugly aunt.' And she smiled up in the 
 ugly aunt's face. 
 
 ' Dolly ! how naughty ! ' said Ehoda, who happened to 
 be in Dolly's nursery. 
 
 Ehoda was a little waif protigie of Lady Sarah's. She 
 came from the curate's home close by, and was often sent in 
 to play with Dolly, who would be lonely, her aunt thought, 
 without a companion of her own age ; Ehoda was Mr. Mor- 
 gan's niece, and a timid little thing ; she was very much 
 afraid at first of Dolly ; so she was of the ayah, with her 
 brown face and earrings and monkey hands ; but soon the 
 ayah went back to India with silver pins in her ears, taking 
 back many messages to the poor child-bereft parents, with a 
 pair of Dolly's shoes, as a remembrance, and a couple of 
 dolls for herself as a token of good-will from her young 
 mistress. They were for her brothers, Nun Comee said, but 
 it was supposed that she intended to worship them on her 
 return to her native land. 
 
 The ayah being gone, little Ehoda soon ceased to be 
 afraid of Dolly, the kind, merry, helpful little playmate, who 
 
u OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 remained behind, frisking along the passages and up and 
 down the landing-places of Church House. She was much 
 nicer, Ehoda thought, than her own real cousins the 
 Morgans in Old Street. 
 
 As days go by, Dolly's pictures warm and brighten from 
 early spring into summer-time. By degrees they reach 
 above the table and over and beyond the garden roller. 
 They are chiefly of the old garden, whose brick walls seem 
 to enclose sunshine and gaudy flowers all the summer 
 through ; of the great Kensington parks, where in due 
 season chestnuts are to be found shining among the 
 leaves and dry grasses; of the pond, where the ducks are 
 flapping and diving ; of the house, which was little Rhoda's 
 home. This was the great bare house in Old Street, with 
 plenty of noise, dried herbs, content, children without end, 
 and thick bread-and-butter. There was also cold stalled 
 ox on Sundays at one. 
 
 In those days life was a simple matter to the children , 
 their days and their legs lengthened together ; they loved, 
 they learned, and they looked for a time that was never to 
 be — ^when their father and mother should come home and live 
 with them again, and everybody was to be happy. As yet 
 the children thought they were only expecting happiness. 
 
 Greorge went to school at Frant, near Tunbridge Wells, 
 and came home for the holidays. Dolly had a governess too, 
 and she used to do her lessons with little Ehoda in the slanting 
 schoolroom at the top of Church House. The little girls did 
 a great many sums, and learnt some French, and read little 
 Arthur's History of England to everybody's satisfaction. 
 
 Kind Lady Sarah wrote careful records of the children's 
 progress to her brother, who had sent them to the faithful 
 old sister at home. He heard of the two growing up with 
 good care and much love in the sunshine that streamed upon 
 the old garden; playing together on the terrace that he 
 
DUTCH TILES. fi 
 
 remembered so well ; pulling up the crocuses and the 
 violets that grew in the shade of the white holly-tree. 
 George was a quaint, clever boy, Sarah wrote ; Dolly was 
 not so quick, but happy and obedient, and growing up 
 like a little spring flower among the silent old bricks. 
 
 Lady Sarah also kept up a desultory correspondence with 
 Philippa, her sister-in-law. Mrs. Vanborough sent many 
 minute directions about the children ; Dolly was to dine 
 ofif cold meat for her complexion's sake, and she wished her to 
 have her hair crimped ; and Greorge was to wear kid-gloves 
 and write a better hand; and she hoped they were very good, 
 and that they sometimes saw their cousin Eobert, and wrote 
 to their uncle. Sir Thomas Henley, Henley Court, Smoke- 
 thwaite, Yorkshire : and she and dear papa often and often 
 longed for their darlings. Then came presents — a spangled 
 dress for Lady Sarah, and silver ornaments for Dolly, and an 
 Indian eword for George, with which he nearly cut ofif 
 JRhoda's head. 
 
14 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 TO OLD STREET BY THE LANES. 
 
 And after April when May follows, 
 
 And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows, 
 
 . . And buttercups the little children's dower. 
 
 — E. Beownino. 
 
 In those days, as I have said, the hawthorn spread across the 
 fields and market-gardens that lay between Kensington and 
 the river. Lanes ran to Chelsea, to Fulham, to North 
 End, where Richardson once lived and wrote in his gar- 
 den-house. The mist of the great city hid the horizon and 
 dulled the sound of the advancing midtitudes ; but close at 
 hand, all round about the old house, were country comers 
 untouched — blossoms instead of bricks in spring-time, sum- 
 mer shade in summer. There were strawberry-beds, green, 
 white, and crimson in turn. The children used to get many 
 a handful of strawberries from Mr. Penfold, the market- 
 gardener at the end of the lane, and bunches of radish when 
 strawberries were scarce. They gathered them for them- 
 selves on a bank where paving-stones and coal-holes are 
 now and a fine growth of respectable modern villas. I 
 believe that in those days there were sheep grazing in 
 Kensington Gore. It is certain that Mr. Penfold kept Al- 
 demeys in the field beyond his orchard ; and that they used 
 to come and drink in a pond near his cottage. He lived 
 with his wife and his daughter, under an old tiled roof, and 
 with a rose-tree growing on the wall. In the window of the 
 
TO OLD STREET BY THE LANES. 1$ 
 
 cottage a little card was put up, announcing that " Curds- 
 and-whey were to be had within," and the children some- 
 times went there to drink the compound out of Emma Pen- 
 fold's doll's tea-things. The old pond was at the garden- 
 gate: there was a hedge round about it, and alder-trees 
 starting up against the sunset, and the lanes, and orchards 
 beyond. The water reflected the sunset in the sky and 
 the birds flying home to the sound of the evening bells. 
 Sometimes Emma would come out of the cottage, and 
 stand watching the children play. She was a pretty girl, 
 with rosy cheeks and dark soft eyes. It was a quaint old 
 corner, lonely enough in the daytime ; but of evenings, 
 people would be passing — labourers from their work, 
 strollers in the fields, neighbours enjoying the air. The cot- 
 tage must have been as old as Church House itself. It was 
 chiefly remarkable for its beautiful damask rose-trees, of 
 which the red leaves sprinkled the threshold, across which 
 pretty Emma Penfold would step. I think it was for 
 the sake of the rose-tree that people sometimes stopped 
 and asked for curds-and-whey. Emma would dispense 
 the horrible mixture, blushing beneath her basket-work 
 plaits. 
 
 Sometimes in May mornings the children would gather 
 hawthorn branches out of the lanes, and make what they 
 liked to call garlands for themselves. The white blossoms 
 looked pretty in Ehoda's dark hair; and Mademoiselle 
 coming to give them their music-lesson, would find the little 
 girls crowned with May-flower wreaths. It was hard work 
 settling down to lessons on those days. How slowly the 
 clocks ticked when the practice hour began ; how the little 
 birds would come hopping on the window-ledge, before Dolly 
 had half finished her sum ; how cruel it was of Mademoiselle 
 to pull down the blind and frighten the poor little birds 
 away. Many pictures in Dolly's gallery belong to this bit of 
 
i6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 her life. It seems one long day as she looks tack to it, for 
 when the sun set Dolly too used to be put to bed. 
 
 As for little Rhoda she would be sent back to Old Street. 
 When prayers were over, long after Dolly was asleep, she 
 would creep upstairs alone to the very top of the house, and 
 put herself to bed and blow out her own candle if Zoe did 
 not come for it. How bare and chill and lonely it was to be 
 all by oneself at the top of that busy house ! ' I don't think 
 they would come, even if I screamed,' Ehoda would think 
 as she lay staring at the cupboard- door, and wondering if 
 there was any one behind it. 
 
 Once th6 door burst open and a great cat jumped out, and 
 Rhoda's shriek brought up one of John Morgan's pupils, who 
 had been reading in his room. 
 
 ' Is anything the matter ? ' eaid the young man at the 
 door. 
 
 ' Oh, no, no — o ! Please don't say I screamed ? ' said 
 'ittle Rhoda, disappearing under the bed-clothes. 
 
 ' Silly child ! ' (This was Aunt Morgan's voice in the 
 passage.) ' Thank you, Mr. Raban, I will go to her. A 
 little girl of ten years old frightened at a cat ! For shame, 
 Rhoda ! There — go to sleep directly,' and her Aunt Morgan 
 vigorously tucked her up and gave her a kiss. 
 
 The Morgans were a cheerful and noisy household ; little 
 Ehoda lived there, but she scarcely seemed to belong to it : 
 she was like a little stray waif born into some strange nest full 
 of active, early, chirping birds, all bigger and stronger than 
 herself. The Rev. John Morgan was master of the nest, 
 which his step-mother kept in excellent order and ruled with 
 an active rod. There were two pupils, two younger brothers, 
 two sisters, and Rhoda Pamell, the forlorn little niece they 
 had adopted. Downstairs the fat parlour-maid and the old 
 coimtry cook were established, and a succeeding generation 
 of little charity-boys, who were expected by Mrs. Morgan to 
 
TO OLD STREET bY THE LANES. 17 
 
 work in the garden, go errands, and learn their catechisms, 
 wbile blacking the young gentlemen's boots in a vault-iike 
 chamber set apart for that purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan was a thrifty woman, and could not bear to 
 think of time or space being wasted, much less comestibles. 
 Her life had been one long course of early rising, moral and 
 physical rectitude. She allowed John to sit in an arm-chair, 
 but no one else if she could help it. When poor little Ehoda 
 was tired, she used to go up to the room she shared with 
 Zne, her youngest cousin, and lie down on the floor. If Zoe 
 toJd her mother, a message would come immediately for 
 Ehoda to help with the poor flannel. 
 
 This poor flannel was Mrs. Morgan's own kingdom. She 
 used to preside over passive rolls of grey and blue. She 
 could cut out any known garment in use in any civilized 
 community. She knew the right side of the stuff, the right 
 way to turn the scissors. She could contrive, direct, turn 
 corners, snip, snap on occasions, talking the whole time ; she 
 was emphatic always. In her moments of relaxation she 
 dearly loved a whisper. She wore a front of curls with a 
 velvet band and Kensington-made gowns and shoes. Cassie 
 and Zoe, when they grew up to be young ladies, used to 
 struggle hard for Knightsbridge fashions. The Kensington 
 style was prim in those day?. The ladies wore a dress some- 
 what peculiar to themselves and cut to one pattern by tiie 
 Misses Trix in their corner house. There was a Kensington 
 world (I am writing of twenty years ago) somewhat apart 
 from the big uneasy world surging beyond the turnpike — a 
 world of neighbours bound together by the old winding 
 streets and narrow corners in a community of vener- 
 able elm-trees and traditions that are almost levelled 
 away. Mr. Awl, the bootmaker, in High Street, exhibited 
 peculiar walking-shoes long after high-heels and kid brode- 
 kins had come into fashion in the metropolis. The larst time 
 
 C 
 
fg OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 I was in his shop I saw a pair of the old-fashioned, flat, 
 sandalled shoes, directed to Miss Vieuxtemps, in Palace 
 Green. Tippets, poke-bonnets, even a sedan-chair, still 
 existed among us long after they had been discarded by 
 more active minds. In Dolly's early days, in Kensington 
 Square itself, high-heels and hoops were not unknown ; but 
 these belonged to ladies of some pretension, who would come 
 in state along the narrow street leading from the Square, 
 advancing in powder, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes — 
 real hoops, real heels, not modem imitations, but relics 
 unchanged since the youth of the ghost-like old sisters. 
 They lived in a tall house, with a mansard roof. As the 
 children passed they used to look up at the cobweb-windows, 
 at the narrow doorway with its oaken dais, and the flagged 
 court and the worn steps. Lady Sarah told Dolly that Mrs. 
 FVancis had known Talleyrand, when he was living there in 
 one of the old houses of the Square. At any time it would 
 be easy to conjure up ghosts of great people with such in- 
 cantations of crumbling wall and oaken device and panel. 
 Not Talleyrand only, but a whole past generation, still lives 
 for us among these quaint old ruins. 
 
 The Kensington tradespeople used to be Conservative, as 
 was natural, with a sentry in the High Street, and such a 
 menagerie of lions and unicorns as that which they kept 
 over their shop-fronts. They always conversed with their 
 customers while they measured a yard of silk or sold a skein 
 of thread across their counters. Dolly would feel flattered 
 when Mr. Baize found her grown. Even Lady Sarah would 
 graciously reply to his respectful inquiries after her health 
 on the rare occasions when she shopped herself. Mrs. Mor- 
 gan never trusted anybody with her shopping. 
 
 ' / always talk to Baize,' she would say, complacently, 
 coming awaj^ after half-an-hour's exchange of ideas with that 
 respectable man. She would repeat his conversation for the 
 
TO OLD STREET BY THE LANES. 19 
 
 benefit of her son and his pupils at tea-time. ' I think 
 tradespeople are often very sensible and well-informed per- 
 sons,' said Mrs. Morgan, 'when they do not forget them- 
 selves, Mr. Eaban. Eadical as you are, you must allow that 
 Kensington tradespeople are always respectful to the clergy — 
 our position is too well established ; they know what is due 
 to us,' said Mrs. Morgan gravely, 
 
 ' They don't forget what is due to themselves,' said Mr. 
 Baban, with an odd sort of smile. 
 
 ' That they don't,' said Eobert Henley, who was Morgan's 
 other pupil at that time. ' I daresay Master George wishes 
 they would ; he owes a terrible long bill at Baize's for ties 
 and kid-gloves.' 
 
 Presently came a ring at the bell. ' Here he is,' cries 
 John, starting up hastily. ' No more tea, thank you, 
 mother.' 
 
 George Vanborough used also to read with John Morgan 
 during the holidays. The curate's energy was unfailing ; he 
 slaved, taught, panted, and struggled for the family he had 
 shouldered. What a good fellow he was I Pack clouds 
 away, no shades or evil things should come near him as he 
 worked ; who ever piped to him that he did not leap, or call 
 to him that he did not shout in answer. With what 
 emphasis he preached his dull Sunday sermon, with what 
 excitement he would to his admiring sisters and mother read 
 out his impossible articles in the Vestryman's Magazine or 
 elsewhere, how liberally he dashed and italicised his sen- 
 tences, how gallantly he would fly to his pen or his pulpit in 
 defence of friend or in attack of foe (the former being flesh 
 and blood, and the latter chiefly spiritual). And then he 
 was in love with a widow — how he admired her blue and 
 pink eyes ; he could not think of marrying until the boys 
 were out in the world and the girls provided for. But with 
 Joe's wit and Tom's extraordinary powexs, and the girls' 
 
 C3 
 
M OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 remarkable amiability, all this would surely be settled in the 
 course of a veiy short time. 
 
 The Morgan family was certainly a most united and 
 affectionate clan. I don't know that they loved each other 
 more than many people do, but they certainly believed in 
 each other more fervently. They had a strange and special 
 fascination for George, who was not too young to appreciate 
 the curate's unselfishness. 
 
 The younger Morgans, who were a hearty, jolly race, used 
 to laugh at George. Poor boy, he had already begun to 
 knock his head, young as it was, against stone walls ; his 
 schoolfellows said he had cracked it with his paradoxes. At 
 twelve he was a stout fellow for his age, looking older than 
 he really was. He was slow and clumsy, he had a sallow 
 complexion, vvdnkino; blue eyes, a turn-up nose, and heavy 
 dark eyebrows ; there was something honest and almost 
 pathetic at times in the glance of these blue eyes, but he 
 usually kept them down from shyness as well as from vanity, 
 he didn't dare look in people's faces, he thought he should 
 see them laughing at him. He was very lazy, as sensitive 
 people often are ; he hated games and active amusements ; 
 he had a soft melancholy voice that was his one endowment, 
 besides his gift for music ; he could work when he chose, but 
 he was beginning life in despair with it, and he was not 
 popular among his companions ; they called him conceited, 
 and they were right ; but it was a melancholy conceit, if they 
 had but known it. The truth was, however, that he was too 
 ugly, too clever, too clumsy to get on with boys of a simpler 
 and wholesomer mind. Even John Morgan, his friend and 
 preceptor, used to be puzzled about him and distressed at 
 times. ' If George Vanborough were only more like his own 
 brothers, there would be something to be done with liim,' 
 thought honest John as those young gentlemen's bullet-heada 
 passed the window wliere tne pupil and his preceptor were at 
 
TO OLD STREET BY THE LANES. 21 
 
 wovk. If only — ^there would be a strange monotony in 
 human nature, I fancy, if all the ' if onlys ' could be realised, 
 and we had the moulding of one another, and pastors and 
 masters could turn assenting pupils out by the gross like the 
 little chalk rabbits Italian boys carry about for sale. 
 
 Dolly was very well contented with her brother just as he 
 was. She trusted his affection, respected his cleverness, and 
 instinctively guessed at his vanities and morbidities. Even 
 when she was quite a child, Dolly, in her sweet downright 
 way, seemed to have the gift of healing the wounds of her 
 poor St. Sebastian, who, when he was a little boy, would 
 come home day after day smarting and bleeding with the 
 arrows of his tormentors. These used to be, alternately, 
 Lady Sarah herself, Cassie Morgan, and Zoe, the two boys 
 when they were at home for the holidays, and little Ehoda, 
 whom he declared to be the most malicious of them all. 
 The person who treated George with most sympathy and 
 confidence was Mrs. Morgan, that active and garrulous old 
 ladv, to whom anybody was dear who would listen to the 
 praises of her children. 
 
 Eobert Henley, as I have said, was also studying with John 
 Morgan. He had just left Eton. Lady Sarah asked him to 
 Church House at her sister-in-law's request ; but he did not 
 often find time to come and see them. He used to be tramp- 
 ing off to Putney, where he and his friend Frank Eaban 
 kept a boat ; or they would be locked up together with ink 
 and blots and paper in John Morgan's study. Eaban was 
 older than Henley. He was at College, but he had come up 
 for a time to read for his degree. 
 
 Old Betty, the cook at John Morgan's, was a Yorkshire 
 woman, and she took a motherly interest in the pupils. She 
 had much to say about young Mr. Eaban, whose relations 
 she knew in Yorkshire. Betty used to call Frank Eaban 
 ' a noist young man.' 
 
±2 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' He's Squoire's hair and grandsun loike,' she told Rhoda 
 and Dolly one day. ' They cannot do n' less nor roast a box 
 when 'a cooms t' hage.' 
 
 After this Rhoda used to stand on tiptoe and respectfully 
 peep through the study window at the heads and the books 
 and the tobacco-smoke within ; but there was a big table in 
 the way, and she could never see much more than her own 
 nose reflected in the glass. Once or twice, when George was 
 in the way, as a great favour he would be allowed to 
 accompany the young men in one of their long expeditions 
 in big boots. They would come home late in the evening, 
 tired and hungry and calling out for food. At whatever 
 hour they came old Betty had a meal of cold meat and cake 
 for them, of which George partook with good appetite. At 
 Church House, if George was late for dinner he had to wait 
 for tea and thin bread-and-butter at eight o'clock. Lady 
 Sarah, who had fought many a battle for George's father, 
 now — from some curious retrospective feeling — seemed to feel 
 it her duty to revive many of her late husband's peculiarities, 
 and one of them was that nothing was to be allowed to 
 interfere with the routine of the house. Routine there was 
 none at the curate's, although there were more hours, 
 perhaps, than in any other house in Old Street. The sun 
 rose and set, the seasons drifted through the back garden in 
 changing tints and lights, each day brought its burden, and 
 the dinner-time was shifted to iti 
 
( 33 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN AFTERNOON AT PENFOLD's, 
 
 Whilst yet the calm hours creep. 
 
 Whilst flowers are gay, 
 Whilst eyes that change ere night 
 
 Make glad the day. 
 Whilst yet the calm hours creepfc 
 Bream thou, and from thy sleep 
 Then wake to weep. 
 
 To this day Dolly remembers the light of a certain after- 
 noon in May when all was hot and silent and sleepy in the 
 school-room at Church House. The boards cracked, the 
 dust-moats floated ; down below, the garden burnt with that 
 first summer glow of heat that makes a new world out of 
 such old, well-worn materials as twigs, clouds, birds, and the 
 human beings all round us. The little girls had been at 
 work, and practised, and multiplied, and divided again ; 
 they had recollected various facts connected with the reign 
 of Richard the Second. Mademoiselle had suppressed many 
 a yawn, Dolly was droning over her sum — six and five made 
 thirteen — over and over again. ' That I should have been, 
 that thou shouldst have been, that he shouldst have been,' 
 drawled poor little Rhoda. Then a great fly hiuns by, as the 
 door opens, and Lady Sarah appears with a zigzag of sun- 
 light shooting in from the passage — a ray of hope. Lady 
 Sarah has her bonnet on, and a sort of put-away-your- 
 lesscDB-children face. 
 
34 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Is there any happiness like that escape on a summer's 
 day from the dull struggle with vacuity, brown paper- 
 «overed books, dates, ink-blots, cramps, and crotchets, into 
 the open air of birds, sounds, flowers, liberty everywhere ? 
 As the children come out into the garden with Lady Sarah, 
 two butterflies are flitting along the terrace. The Spanish 
 jessamine has flowered in the night, and spreads its branches 
 out fragrant with its golden drops. Lady Sarah gathers a 
 sprig and opens Ler parasol- She is carrying a book and a 
 shawl, and is actually smiling. The pigeons go whirring up 
 and down from their pigeon-cote high up in the air. Four 
 o'clock comes sounding across the ivy-wall, the notes strike 
 mellow and distinct above the huin of human insects out 
 and about. Half Lady Sarah's district is sunning itself on 
 the door-steps, children are squatting in the middle of the 
 road. The benches are full in Kensington Gardens, so are 
 the steamers on the river. To these people walking in their 
 garden there comes the creakirg sound of a large wheel- 
 barrow, and at the turn of the path they discover Mr. Pen- 
 fold superintending a boy and a load of gravel. Mr. Pen- 
 fold is a cheerful little man, with gloomy views of human 
 nature. According to Penfold's account there were those 
 (whoever they might be) who was always a plotting against 
 you. They was hup to everything, and there was no saying 
 what they was not at the bottom of. But Penfold could be 
 heven with them, and he kep' hisself to hisself, and named 
 no names. Dolly felt grateful to these unknown beings when 
 shb heard Mr. Penfold telling Lady Sarah they had said as 
 how that Miss Dorothea 'ad been makin' hinquiry respectin' 
 of some puppies. He did not know as how she wished it 
 generally know'd, but he might mention as he 'ad two nice 
 pups down at his place, and Miss Dorothea was welcome to 
 take her choice. 
 
 It is a dream Dolly can scarcely trust herself to con- 
 
AN AFTERNOON AT PEN FOLD'S. 25 
 
 template. Lady Sarah does not say no, but she looks at her 
 watch, telling Dolly to run back fco the house, and see if the 
 post is come in, and continues graciously, ' I am much 
 obliged to you, Penfold ; I have no doubt Miss Dorothea 
 will be glad to have one of your puppies. What is your 
 daughter doing ? Is she at home ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady,' says Penfold, mysteriously pointing over 
 his shoulder with his thumb. ' They would have 'ad us 
 send the gurl away, but she is a good gurl, though she takes 
 her own way, and there are those as puts her hup to it.' 
 
 ' We all like our own waj', without anybody's sugges- 
 tions,' said Lady Sarah, smiling. Then Dolly comes flying 
 from the house, and tumbles over a broom-stick, so that she 
 lias to stop to pick up her handful of letters. 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear : now if you like we will go and 
 see the puppies,' says Aunt Sarah. 'No Indian letter' Cin 
 
 a disappointed voice). 'I wish your mother would . 
 
 Eun on, Dolly.' 
 
 So Dolly runs on with Ehoda, thinking of puppies, and 
 Lady Sarah follows thinking of her Indian letter, which is 
 lying under the lam"el-tree where Dolly dropped it, and where 
 Penfold presently spies it out and picks it up, unconscious 
 of its contents. After examining the seal and some serious 
 thought, he determines to follow the trio. They have 
 been advancing in the shadow of the hedges, through the 
 gaps of which they can see people at work in the sunshiny 
 cabbage-fields. Then they come to Earl's Court, and its 
 quaint old row of houses, with their lattices stufiPed with 
 spring-flowers, and so to the pond by the road-side (^how 
 cool and deep it looked as they passed by), and then by 
 the wicket-gate they wander into Penfold's orchard, of which 
 some of the trees are still in flower, and where Lady Sarah 
 is soon established on the stump of a tree. Her magazine 
 pages flutter as the warm, sweet winds come blowing from 
 
26 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 across the fields — the shadows travel on so quietly that you 
 cannot tell when they go or whither. There is no sound but 
 a little calf bleating somewhere. Rhoda is picking daisies 
 in the shade, Dolly is chirping to herself by the' hedge that 
 separates the orchard from the Penfolds' garden. There is a 
 ditch along one part of the hedge, with a tangle of grass and 
 dock-leaves and mallows ; a bird flies out of the hedge, close 
 by Dolly's nose, and goes thrilling and chirping up into the 
 sky, where the stars are at night ; the daisies and butter- 
 cups look so big, the grass is so long and so green ; there 
 are two purple flowers with long stalks close at hand, but 
 Dolly does not pick them ; her little heart seems to shake 
 like the bird's song, it is aU so pretty ; the dandelions are 
 like lamps burning. She tries to think she is a bird, and 
 that she lives in the beautiful hedges. 
 
 From behind the hawthorn hedge some voices come that 
 Dolly should certainly know. . . . 
 
 ' You'll believe me another time,' cries some one, with a 
 sort of sniff, and speaking in tones so familiar that Dolly, 
 without an instant's hesitation, sets oS' running to the 
 wicket-gate, which had been left open, and through which 
 she now sees, as she expects, George with his curly head and 
 his cricketing cap standing in the Penfolds' garden, and with 
 him her cousin Robert, looking very tall as he leans against 
 a paling, and talks to Mrs. Penfold. There is also another 
 person whom Dolly recognises as Mr. Raban, and she thinks 
 of the ' box,' as she gazes with respect at the pale young 
 man with his watch-chain and horseshoe pin. He has a 
 straw hat and white shoes and a big knobstick in his hand, 
 and nodding to Robert, he strides ofi" towards the cottage. 
 Dolly watches him as he walks in under the porch : no doubt 
 he is going to drink curds and whey, she thinks. 
 
 'Why, Dolly! are you here?' says Robert, coming 
 towards her. 
 
AN AFTERNOON AT PENFOLD'S. 27 
 
 'Missy is often here,' says Mrs. Penfold, looking not 
 over-pleased. ' Is Mrs. Marker with you, my dear ? ' 
 
 Dolly would have answered, hut from the farther end of 
 the garden behind Mrs. Penfold, two horrible apparitions 
 advance, rusty black, with many red bobs and tassels 
 dangling, and deliberate steps and horrible crinkly eyes. 
 Old Betty would call them Bubbly Jocks; Dolly has no 
 name for them, but shrinks away behind her big cousin, 
 
 ' Here are Dolly's bogies,' says George, who is giving him- 
 self airs on the strength of his companionship and his short 
 cut. ' Now then, Dolly, they are going to bite like ghosts.' 
 
 ' Don't,' cried Dolly. 
 
 ' Are yon afraid of turkeys, Dolly ! Little girls of 
 eight years old shouldn't be afraid of anything,' said Rhoda, 
 busy with her flowers. Alas ! Ehoda's philosophy is not 
 always justified by subsequent experience. It is second- 
 hand, and quoted from Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 ' We are going to see the puppies,' says Dolly, recovering 
 her courage as the turkey-cocks go by. ' Won't you come, 
 Robert ? ' 
 
 ' Puppies ! ' said Robert. ' Are you fond of puppies, 
 Dolly ? My Aunt Henley saye she prefers them to her own 
 children.' 
 
 ' So should I,' says Dolly, opening her eyes. 
 
 Presently Robert and Dolly come back, with two little 
 fuzzy heads wildly squeaking from Dolly's lap, and old 
 Bunch, the mother of the twins, following, half-agonised, 
 half-radiant. They set the little staggering bundles down 
 upon the ground, and Dolly squats in admiration while 
 Robert goes off upon his business, and Mrs. Penfold hurries 
 back into the house as Mr. Penfold appears crossing the lane, 
 
 Mr. Penfold was gone : Dolly was still watching with all- 
 absorbed eyes, when George started up. ' I say, Dolly I 
 look there at Aunt Sarah.' 1 
 
28 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Aunt Sarah! What had come to her, and how strange 
 she looked walking through the orchard with a curious 
 rapid step, and coming towards the open wicket-gate, 
 through which the children could see her. Her bonnet was 
 falling off her face, her hair was pushed back, she came 
 very quick, straight on, looking neither to the right nor to 
 the left, with her fixed eyes and pale cheeks. Penfold 
 seemed hurrying after her ; he followed Lady Sarah into 
 the garden, and then out again into the road. She hardlj 
 seemed to know which way she went. 
 
 What had happened ? Why didn't she answer when 
 Dolly called her ? As she passed so swiftly, the children 
 thought that something must have happened ; they did not 
 know what. Greorge set off running after her ; Dolly waited 
 for a minute. 
 
 ' Why did she look so funny ? ' said Ehoda, coming 
 up. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Dolly, almost crying. 
 
 ' She had a black-edged letter in her hand,' said 
 Ehoda, 'that Mr. Penfold brought. When people think 
 they are going to die they write and tell you on black 
 paper.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Penfold came running out of the cottage 
 with a shriek, and the children running too, saw the gar- 
 dener catch Aunt Sarah in his arms, as she staggered and 
 put out her hands. When they came up, she lay back in 
 his arms scarce conscious, and he called to them to brin* 
 some water from the pond. No wonder Dolly remembered 
 that day, and Aunt Sarah lying long and straight upon the 
 grass by the road-side. The letter had fallen from her 
 hand, they threw water upon her face ; it wetted her muslin 
 dress, and her pale cheeks ; a workman crossing from the 
 field, stood and looked on awhile ; and so did the little 
 children from the carpenter's shed up the road, gazing with 
 
AN AFTERNOON AT PENFOLD'S. 29 
 
 wondering eyes at the pale lady beginning to move again at 
 last and to speak so languidly. 
 
 The labourer helped to carry her into the cottage as 
 she revived. Greorge had already run home for Marker. 
 Dolly and Ehoda, who were shut out by Mrs. Penfold, 
 wandered disconsolately about the garden and into the 
 orchard again, where Aunt Sarah's parasol was lying under 
 the tree, and her book thrown face downwards : presently 
 the little girls came straggling back with it to the garden- 
 house once more. 
 
 The parlour door was shut close when they reached it, 
 the kitchen door was open. What was that shrill shivering 
 cry ? Who could it be ? Perhaps it was some animal, 
 thought Dolly. 
 
 In the kitchen some unheeded pot was cooking and 
 boiling over ; the afternoon sun was all hot upon the road 
 outside, and Bunch and the puppies had lain down to sleep 
 in a little heap on the step of the house. 
 
 T.ong, long after, Dolly remembered that day, everything 
 as it happened : Marker's voice inside the room ; young Mr. 
 Raban passing by the end of the lane talking to Emma 
 Penfold. (Mrs. Penfold had unlocked the back-door, and 
 let them out.) After a time the shrill sobs ceased ; then a 
 clock struck, and the boiling pot in the kitchen fell over 
 with a great crash, and Eboda ran to see, and at that 
 moment the parlour door opened, and Lady Sarah came out, 
 very pale still and very strange, leaning, just as if she was 
 old, upon Marker and Mr. Penfold. But she started away 
 and seemed to find a sudden strength, and caught Dolly up 
 in her arms. ' My darling, my darling,' she said, ' you have 
 only me now — only me. Heaven help you, my poor, poor 
 children.' And once more she burst into the shrill sighing 
 sobs. It was Aunt Sarah who had been crying all the time 
 for her brother who was dead. 
 
30 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 This was the first echo of .a mourning outcry that reached 
 the children. They were told that the day was never to 
 come now of which they had spoken so often; their father 
 would never come home — they were orphans. George was 
 to have a tall hat with crape upon it. Marker went into 
 town to buy Dolly stuff for a new black frock. Aunt Sarah 
 did not smile when she spoke to them, and told them that 
 their mamma would soon be home now. Dolly could not 
 understand it all very well. Their father had been but a 
 remembrance ; 'she did not remember him less because Lady 
 Sarah's eyes were red and the letters were edged with black. 
 Dolly didn't cry the first day, though £hoda did ; but in 
 the night when she woke up with a little start and a moan 
 from a dream in which she thought it was her papa who was 
 lying by the pond, Aunt Sarah herself came and bent over 
 her crib. 
 
 But next morning the daisies did not look less pretty, 
 nor did the puppy cease to jump, nor, if the truth be told, 
 did Dolly herself; nor would kind Stanham Vanborough 
 have wished it. . . . 
 
 Eobert came into the garden and found the children 
 with a skipping-rope, £ind was greatly shocked, and told 
 them they should not skip about. 
 
 ' I was not skipping,' said Ehoda. ' I was turning the 
 rope for Dolly.' 
 
 Dolly ran off, blushing. Had she done wrong ? She 
 had not thought so. I cannot say what dim unrealised 
 feelings were in her little heart ; longings never to be 
 realised, love never to be fulfilled. She went up into her 
 nursery, and hid there in a corner until Ehoda came to find 
 her, and to tell her dinner was ready. 
 
( 31 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 STEEL PENS AND GOOSE QUILLS. 
 
 Virtue, how frail it is, 
 
 Friendship too rare ; 
 Love, how it sells poor bliss 
 
 For proud despair. 
 
 TiiE letter announcing poor Stanham's death came from a 
 Captain Palmer, a friend of Stan's, whose ship was stationed 
 somewhere in that latitude, and who happened to have been 
 with him at the time. They had been out boar-hunting in 
 the marshes near Calcutta. The poor Major's illness was 
 but a short one, produced by sunstroke, so the Captain wrote. 
 His affairs were in perfect order. He had been handsomely 
 noticed in the Bengal Hurkaru. Of his spiritual state 
 Captain Palmer felt less able to speak. Although not a 
 professed Christian, poor Stanham had for some time past 
 attended the services of the Scotch chapel at Dum Dum, 
 where Mr. McFlaggit had been permitted to awaken many 
 sleepers to a deep sense of spiritual unrest. Captain Palmer 
 believed that Major Vanborough had insured his life for 
 2,000^., and the widow and children would also be entitled 
 to something from the regimental fund. Captain Palmer 
 then went on to say that he had been attending another 
 deathbed, that of a native gentleman, whose wives and 
 orphan children having been left unprovided for, had been 
 happily brought to see the past errors of their faith and 
 
32 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 had come forward in a body. They were about to be sent 
 to England under the charge of Miss M'Grrudder, who had 
 done so much good work among the Zenanas. Captain 
 Palmer wound up by a friendly offer of assistance and a 
 message from Mrs. Vanborough. She did not feel equal to 
 writing, she was utterly prostrate. She sent fondest love, 
 and would write by the next mail. 
 
 So this was the children's first taste of the fruit of the 
 tree of life and death growing in that garden of Eden and 
 childhood through wiiich we all come wandering into life, a 
 garden blooming still, — it may be, in the square before the 
 house, — where little Adams and Eves still sport, innocent 
 and uncareful for the future, gathering the fruits as they 
 ripen in the sunshine, hearing voices and seeing their 
 childish visions, naming the animals as a new creation passes 
 before them. 
 
 Lady Sarah longed to get away when her first burst of 
 jfrief was over. The sleepy, drowsy old place seemed to 
 stifle her with its calm content and sunny indifference. But 
 she wanted to hear more of Philippa's plans before she 
 formed any of her own, and meanwhile she could cry unob- 
 served within the old walls where she had loved poor Stan, 
 and seen him grow up from a boy ; no wonder, no trium- 
 phant paragon ; but a kindly, gentle, simple creature, whom 
 she had loved with all her heart, as Dolly now loved George, 
 
 and without whom the world seemed a wanting place 
 
 though there were many wiser and more brilliant men left 
 in it than poor Stanham Vanborough. Robert, after some 
 incompetent attempts at consolation, was obliged to return 
 to Cambridge. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Vanborough's ' plans ' were rather vague, and 
 all crossed one another and came on different scraps of 
 papers, contradicting and utterly bewildering, though good 
 Lady Sarah had docketed them and tied them up together 
 
STEEL PENS AND GOOSE QUILLS. 33 
 
 for more convenient reference. They were to write to her 
 by every post, Philippa saicl. Why could theyjnot come to 
 her ? She longed for her children. She scarcely knew how 
 to bear her sorrow. She dreaded the journey, the coldj 
 empty, home-coming, the life in England, so different from 
 what she had dreamed. The doctor said it would be madness 
 for her to move as yet. Her brother. Colonel Henley 
 ('Dear Charles! he was goodness itself), suggested Italy. 
 "Would Lady Sarah consent to this, and meet her with the 
 children ? Or would she even come as far as Paris ? But 
 there were difficulties in everything everywhere — cruel 
 money difficulties, she was tohi. There was a lawsuit now 
 coming on in the Calcutta Courts with the insurance office 
 in which poor dear Stan had insured his life. Captain 
 Palmer said her presence was necessary. If it was given 
 against her, she was utterly penniless ; and, meanwhile, 
 harassed, detained. . . . Perhaps, on her return, she might 
 take boarders or Indian children — would lady Sarah advertise 
 at once. . . . ? What did Greorge advise ? \\'hen should 
 she see them all again ? Her heart yearned in vain — months 
 might elapse. Dependence she could not bear. Even 
 Sarah's kindness was bitter to her, when she thought of tha 
 past. All were kind — all was sad. The poor thing seemed 
 utterly distracted. 
 
 Lady Sarah had written that Church House was her 
 home, and that she must come at once to her home and her 
 children. 
 
 Mrs. Vanborough wrote that this coi\ld not be. Alas, 
 alas ! it was only a bright dream, from which ?he sometimes 
 awoke (so Philippa wrote) to find herself a mourner in a 
 foreign land, watching the slow progress of the law. 
 
 ' Why didn't she come ? ' wrote Lady Henley from the 
 Couit. ' When will she come ? ' the children asked. Her 
 room was ready, the bed was made, the fire burning. Dolly 
 
 D 
 
i4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 used to pick nosegays for her mamma's toilet-table, and stick 
 pins in the cushion in stars. She made little hags of 
 lavender to scent the great cabinet. It was one of those 
 welcomes that are wasted in life, one of those guest-chambers 
 made ready to which the guest does not come. They 
 look just like any other rooms unless you know their 
 history. 
 
 Dolly often followed Marker when she went in to see 
 that all was in order. One day the fire blazed comfortably ; 
 although the rain was beating against the window, a gleam 
 of sun came from the inner dressing-room, that looked out 
 cross-ways along the garden. ' Do you think she will come 
 soon. Marker ? ' Dolly asked, peeping about the room. 
 
 ' I don't think nothing at all, my dear,' said Marker, 
 poking the fire. ' Why don't you go and play with Miss 
 Ehoda ? She came with Mrs. Morgan just now.' 
 
 ' Is Ehoda here ? ' cries Dolly, starting oflf instantly. 
 
 Khoda was there ; she had come with her aunt, who was 
 talking to Lady Sarah in the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan took a very long time to say what she had 
 to say, and had left Ehoda outside in the hall. The little 
 girls listened to Mrs. Morgan's voice as it went on, and on, 
 and on. They sat on the stairs and played at being ladies 
 too, and Ehoda told Dolly a great many secrets that she was 
 not to tell, in a mysterious whisper just like her aunt's. Mr. 
 Baban was gone away, she said, and he had married some- 
 body, and Aunt Morgan said she should never speak to him 
 again, and Mrs. Penfold came crying, and Aunt Morgan 
 scolded and scolded, and Ehoda thought Emma Penfold was 
 gone too, and just then the drawing-room door opened : 
 Mrs. Morgan came out, looking very busy and bustled off 
 with Ehoda. Lady Sarah cut Dolly's questions very short 
 and forbade her going to the cottage again. 
 
 It was the very next day that Dolly and Ehoda met old 
 
STEEL PENS AND GOOSE QUILLS. 35 
 
 Penfold walking in the lane, as they were coming home with 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 Grmnbo ran to meet him, barking, wagging his tail, and 
 creeping along the ground with delight. 
 
 Penfold, who had been passing on, stooped to caress the 
 puppy's head with his brown creased hand, and seeing Dolly, 
 he nodded kindly to her as she walked by with Mademoiselle. 
 
 ' Has Emma come home to the cottage ? ' asked Ehoda, 
 lingering. 
 
 Penfold frowned. His honest red face turned crimson. 
 ' She's not come back, nor will she,' he said. ' She has 
 got a 'usband now, and she is gone a-travellin', and if they 
 hast you, you can tell them as I said so, Miss Bhoda, nor 
 should I say otherwise if they was here to contradic' me.' 
 He spoke in a fierce defiant way. Mademoiselle called 
 shrilly to the children to come on. 
 
 Dolly looked after the old gardener as he slowly walked 
 away down the lane : he looked very old and tired, and she 
 wished her aunt had not told her to keep away from the 
 cottage. 
 
 Emma's name was never mentioned ; Eaban's, too, was 
 forgotten ; Mrs. Vanborough still delayed from one reason 
 and another. 
 
 From Mas. Vanbokohoh to the Lady Sarah Francis, Church House, 
 
 itmi. 
 
 Biigpore, April I — , 18 — . 
 Beabest Sarah,— I fear that you will be totally unprepared (not more so, 
 however, than I was myself) for a great and sudden change in my life of sad 
 regrets (sad and regretful it will ever be), notwithstanding the altered circum- 
 sfances which fate has forced upon me during the last few months that I have 
 .spent in sorrowful retirement, with spirits and health shattered and nerves un- 
 strung. During these long lonely months, weighed down by care and harassed 
 by business, which I was utterly incapable of understanding, I know not what 
 would have become of me if (during my brother's absence on regimental duties) 
 it had not been for the unremitting attention and generous devotion of one 
 without whose support I now feel I could not bring myself to face the struggle 
 
 n 2 
 
36 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 of a solitary life. For the sake of my poor fatherless children more even than 
 for my own, I have accepted the name and protection of Captain Hawtry 
 Palmer, of the Royal Navy, a sailor, of a family of sailors. Joanna, my 
 brother's wife, was a Palmer, and from her I have often heard of Hawtry at a 
 time when I little thought . . . Yon, dearest, who know me as I am, will re- 
 joice that I have found rest and strength in another, though happiness I may 
 not claim. 
 
 Captain Palmer is a man of iron will and fervent principle. He must make 
 me good, I tell him, unless sadness and resignation can be counted for good- 
 ness. Your poor Philippa is but a faulty creature, fraU and delicate, and of 
 little power ; and yet, with all my faults, I feel that I am necessary to him, 
 and, wreck as I am, there are those who do not utterly forget me. And, as he 
 says with his quaint humour, there is not much to choose between the saints 
 and sinners of the world. A thousand thousand kisses to my precious children. 
 You will bring them to mpet me next year, will you not, when Captain 
 Palmer promises that I shall return to my real home — for your home is my 
 home, is it not? 
 
 For the present, I remain on a visit to my friend Mrs. M'Grudder, an 
 intimate friend of Captain Palmer, with one only daughter. 
 
 The marriage will not, of course, take place for six weeks. Joanna will 
 describe her brother to you. I am anxious to hear all she says about Hawtry 
 and myself aod our marriage. Pray announce my great news to my darlings. 
 Let them writs to me without reserve. 
 
 Ever, dearest Sarah, 
 
 Your very devoted 
 
 Philippa, 
 
 Poor Lady Sarah read the letter one white, cold, east- 
 windy day, when the sun shone, and the dry, parching 
 wind blew the wreaths of dust along the ground. As she 
 read the curious, heartless words, it seemed to her that the 
 east- wind was blowing into the room, — into her heart, — 
 drying up all faith in life, all tears for the past, all hope for 
 the future. Had she a heart, this cruel woman, poor Stan's 
 wife and Dolly's mother ? Can women live and be loved, 
 and bear children, and go through life without one human 
 feeling, one natural emotion ; take every blessing of Grod, 
 and every sacred sorrow, and live on, without knowing 
 either the blessing or the sorrow ? Lady Sarah tore the 
 letter ap carefully and very quietly, for Dolly was by her 
 
STEEL PENS AND GOOSE QUILLS. 37 
 
 side, and would have asked to see it. She was not angry 
 just then, but cold and sad, unspeakably sad. ' Poor 
 woman I ' she thought, " was this all ; this the end of Stan's 
 tender life devotion ; this the end of his pride and tender 
 trust ? ' She could see him now, whispering to Philippa, as 
 they sat together on the old bench by the pond, a handsome 
 pair, people said, and well suited. Well suited ! She got 
 up sliivering from her chair, and went to the fire, and threw 
 the letter in, shred by shred, while the sun poured in fierce, 
 and put out the flames. 
 
 ' Are you cold, Aunt Sarah ? ' said Dolly, coming to her 
 side. Sarah moved away. She was afraid that even now it 
 was burnt Dolly might read the cruel letter in the fire. 
 ' For my children's sake ! ' The little red flames seemed to 
 be crackling the words, as they smouldered among the coals, 
 and a shrill, sudden blast against the window seemed hissing 
 out that Captain Palmer was a man of iron will. As they 
 stood side by side. Lady Sarah looked steadily away from 
 little Dolly's eyes, and told her that her mamma was going 
 to marry again. 
 
 Poor Dolly turned the colour of the little flames when 
 her aunt told her. She said nothing, not even to Ehoda, 
 nor to Mrs. Morgan, who called immediately upon hearing 
 the rumour. Lady Sarah was not at home, but Mrs. Morgan 
 came in all the same, and closely questioned Dolly upon the 
 subject. 
 
 ' What is the gentleman's name, my dear ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Dolly. 
 
 ' Why, Mr. Palmer, to be sure,' said Ehoda. 
 
 In due time the news came of the marriage, and then 
 poor Aunt Sarah had to wipe her eyes, and to give up 
 writing on black-edged paper. The clocks went round and 
 round, and the earth rolled on, and seasons spread their 
 feasts, and the winds swept them away in turn ; summer 
 
38 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 liurnt into autumn in cloud and vapour. The winter came 
 closing in, and the Bnow fell thick upon the lanes and the 
 gardens, on the Kensington house-tops and laurel-trees, on 
 the old church tower, and the curate's well-worn waterproof 
 cape, as he trudged to and fro. It fell on the old garden 
 walls and slanting roof of Church House, with little Dolly, 
 safe sheltered within, warming herself by the baked Dutch 
 tiles. 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DAKK. 
 
 D'un linceuil de point d'Angleterre 
 Que Ton recouvre sa beaut^ . . . 
 Que dee violettes de parme 
 Au lieu des tristes fleurs des morts, 
 Ou chaque fleur est une larme, 
 Pleuvent en bouquets snr son corps. 
 
 — T. GrAUTIEtt. 
 
 There are old houses in other places besides Kensington. 
 Perhaps, it is from early associations that Dolly has always 
 had so great a liking for walls furnished with some upholstery 
 of the past, and set up by strong hands that seem to have 
 had their own secrets for making their work last on. Some 
 of these old piles stand like rocks, defying our lives as they 
 have defied the generations before us. We come upon them 
 everywhere, set upon high hills, standing in wide country- 
 places, crowded into the narrow streets of a city. Perhaps 
 it is the golden Tiber that flows past the old doorways, 
 perhaps it is the Danube rushing by, or the grey Thames 
 running to the marshes, or the Seine as it shines between 
 the banks. There is an old house in the Champs Elysees 
 at Paris where most English people have lived in turn, and 
 to which Dolly's fate brought her when she was about twelve 
 years old. 
 
 The prompter rings the bell, and the scene shifts to the 
 
40 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Maison Valin, and to one night, twenty years ago, when the 
 two little girls were tucked up in bed. The dim night- 
 light was put on the round marble table, the curtains were 
 drawn, but all the same they could hear the noise of the 
 horses trampling and the sabots clanking in the courtyard 
 down below. Lady Sarah had sent her little niece to bed, 
 and she now stood at the door and said, ' Good-night, my 
 dears.' The second night-cap was only that of a little stray 
 school-girl come to spend a holiday, from one of those vast 
 and dreary establishments scattered all about the deserted 
 suburbs of the great city: of which the lights were blazing 
 from the uncurtained drawing-room windows, and its great 
 semicircle of dark hills flashing. 
 
 Lady Sarah had come to Paris to meet Dolly's mamma, 
 who had been married more than a year by this time, and 
 who was expected home at last. She was coming alone, 
 she wrote. She had at length received Captain Palm.er's 
 permission to visit her children ; but not even her wishes 
 could induce him to quit his beloved frigate. She should, 
 therefore, leave him cruising along the Coromandel coast, 
 and start in January, for which month her passage was 
 taken. She implored Lady Sarah to meet her in Paris, 
 where some weeks' rest would be absolutely necessary, she 
 said, to recruit her strength after the fatigue of her journey ; 
 and Lady Sarah, with some misgiving, yielded to Dolly's 
 wistful entreaties, and wrote to her old friend the Eev. W. 
 Lovejoy, of the Marmouton Chapel, to take rooms for her for 
 a few weeks, during which Dolly might improve her French 
 accent and her style of dancing (Dolly had been pronounced 
 clumsy by Mrs. Morgan) in the companionship of little 
 Ehoda, who had been sent some time before to be established 
 for a year in a boarding-school near Paris, there to put on 
 the armour of accomplishments that she would require some 
 day in the dismal battle of life. 
 
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DARK. 41 
 
 John Morgan had been loth that the little girl should 
 go ; he was afraid the child might feel lonely away from 
 them all ; but Ehoda said, very sensibly, that, if she was to 
 be a governess, she supposed she had better learn things. 
 So Ehoda was sent off for a year to Madame Laplanche's, 
 towards the end of which time Lady Sarah came to Paris 
 with Dolly and the faithful Marker in attendance. 
 
 Dolly did not trouble her head very much about her 
 accent, but she was delighted to be with her friend again, to 
 say nothing of seeing the world and the prospect of meeting 
 her mother. She went twice a week to Rhoda's school to 
 learn to point her bronze toes and play on the well-worn 
 piano ; and then every morning came Madame de St. 
 Honore, an old lady who instructed Mademoiselle DoUi in 
 the grammar and literature of the country to which she 
 belonged. French literature, according to Madame de St. 
 Honore, was in one snuffy volume which she happened to 
 possess. Dolly asked no questions, and greatly preferred 
 stray scenes out of AthaUe and odd pages from Paul and 
 Virginia to Noel and Chapsal, and I'Abbe Gaultier's Geo- 
 graphy. The two would sit at the dining-room table with 
 the windows open, and the cupboards full of French china, 
 and with the head of Socrates staring at them from over 
 the stove. 
 
 Mr. Lovejoy had selected for his old friend a large and 
 dilapidated set of rooms, the chairs and tables of which had 
 seen better days, and had been in their prime during the 
 classic furniture period of the Great Napoleon. 
 
 The tall white marble clock on the chimney-piece had 
 struck nine, and Lady Sarah was sitting alone in the carpet- 
 less drawing-room on one of the stiff-backed chairs. It was 
 early times for two girls of eleven and twelve to be popped 
 away out of the world ; but Lady Sarah was at that time a 
 strict disiyplinarian, and seemed to think tljat one of the 
 
42 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 grand objects of life was to go to bed and to be up again an 
 hour in advance of everybody else. 
 
 ' And so there is only dreaming till to-morrow morning,' 
 thought Dolly, with a dreary wide-awake sigh. Dolly and 
 Henriette her maid had two beds side by side. Dolly used 
 to lie wide-awake in hers, watching the dawn as it streamed 
 through the old-flowered chintz curtains, and the shadows 
 and pictures flying from the comers of the room ; or, when 
 the night-light burnt dimly, and the darkness lay heaped 
 against the walls, Dolly, still childish for her age, could 
 paint pictiures for herself upon it, bright phantasmagorias 
 woven out of her brain, faces and flowers and glittering 
 sights such as those she saw when she was out in the day- 
 time. Dolly thought the room was enchanted, and that 
 fairies came into it as soon as Henriette was asleep and 
 snoring. To-night little Ehoda was sleeping in the bed, and 
 Henriette and Marker were sitting at work in the next 
 room. They had left the door open ; and, presently, when 
 they thought the children were asleep, began a low, mys- 
 terious conversation in French. 
 
 ' She died on Tuesday,' said Henriette, ' and is to be 
 buried to-morrow.' 
 
 ' She could not have been twenty,' said Marker ; ' and a 
 sweet pretty lady. I can't think where it is I have seen 
 such another as her.' 
 
 ' Pauvre dame,' said Henriette. ' He feels her death 
 very much. He is half-distracted,. Julie tells me.' 
 
 ' Serve him right, the brute ! I should like to give it 
 him ! ' cries the other. 
 
 ' He looks such a handsome smiling gentleman, that Mr. 
 Eab — Eap — Who could have thought it possible ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, they're all smiling enough,' said Marker, who knew 
 
 the world. ' There was a young man in a grocer's shop ' 
 
 And her voice sank into confidences still more m-\ sterious. 
 
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DARK. 43 
 
 'When they came to measure her for her coflBn,' said 
 Henriette, who had a taste for the terrible, ' they found she 
 had grown since her death, poor thing. Julie tells me that 
 she looks more beautiful than you can imagine. He comes 
 and cries out, " Emma ! Emma ! " as if he could wake her 
 -and bring her to life.' 
 
 ' Wake her and bring her to life to kill her again, the 
 wretch ! ' said Marker, ' with his neglect and cruelty.' 
 
 ' He is very young — a mere boy,' said Henriette. ' The 
 concierge says there was no malice in him ; and then he 
 gave her such beautiful gowns ! There was a moire-antique 
 came home the day she died, with lace trimmings. Julie 
 showed it me : she expects to get all the things. They were 
 going to a ball at the Tuileries. How beautiful she would 
 have looked ! ' 
 
 ' Poor child ! ' said Marker. 
 
 ' To die without ever putting it on 1 Dame, I should 
 not like that ; but I should like to have a husband who 
 would buy me such pretty things. I would not mind his 
 being out of temper now and then, and leaving me to do a? 
 I liked for a month or two at a time. I should have amused 
 myself, instead of crying all day, as she did. Julie tells me 
 she has tried on the black velvet, and it fits her perfectly.' 
 
 ' Julie ought to be ashamed of herself,' growled Marker, 
 ' with the poor child lying there still.' 
 
 ' Not in the least,' said Henriette ; ' Julie was very fond 
 of her when she was alive — now she is dead — that is another 
 thing. She says she would not stop in the room for worlds. 
 She thought she saw her move yesterday, and she rushed 
 away into the kitchen and had an attaque de nerfs in con- 
 sequence.' 
 
 ' But did she tell nobody — could it have been true ? ' 
 
 ' Eranpoise told Mm, and they went in immediately, but 
 it was all silent as before. I am glad I sleep upstairs : I 
 
44 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 should not like to be in the room over that one. It is 
 underneath there where are fos petites.^ 
 
 ' She would do no one harm, now or when she was alive, 
 poor thing,' said Marker. ' I should like to flay that man 
 aUve.' 
 
 "■ That would be a pity, Mrs. Marker,' said Henrietta : ' a 
 fine young man like that ! He liked her well enough, allez ! 
 She cried too much : it was her own fault that she was not 
 
 happy.' 
 
 ' I would rather be her than him at this minute,' said 
 Marker. ' Why he sulked and sneered and complained of 
 the bills when he was at home, and went away for days 
 together without telling her where he was going. I know 
 where he was : he was gambling and spending her money 
 on other people— I'd pickle him, I would ! ' said Marker ; 
 ' and I don't care a snap for his looks ; and her heart is as 
 cold as his own now, poor little thing.' 
 
 ' It's supper-time, isn't it ? ' yawned Henriette. 
 
 Then Dolly heard a little rustle as they got up to go to 
 their supper, and the light in the next room disappeared, 
 and everything seemed very silent. The night-light splut- 
 tered a little, the noises in the courtyard were hushed, the 
 familiar chairs and tables looked queer and unknown in the 
 darkness. Ehoda was fast asleep and breathing softly ; Dolly 
 was kicking about in her own bed, and thrilling with terror 
 and excitement, and thinking of what she had heard of the 
 poor pretty lady downstairs. She and Ehoda always used 
 to rush to the window to see her drive off in her smart little 
 carriage, wrapped in her furs, but all alone. Poor little 
 lady ! her unkind husband never went with her, and used to 
 leave her for weeks at a time. Her eyes used to shine 
 through the veil that she always wore when they met her on 
 the stairs ; but Aunt Sarah would hurry past her, and never 
 would talk about her. And now she was dead. Dolly 
 
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DARK. 45 
 
 looked at Rhoda lying so still on her white pillow. How 
 would Ehoda look when she was dead, thought Dolly. 
 
 ' Being asleep is being dead. ... I daresay people 
 would be more afraid of dying if' they were not so used to go 
 to sleep. When I am dying — I daresay I shall die about 
 seventeen — I shall send for John Morgan, and Greorge will 
 come from Eton, and Aunt Sarah will he crying, and, per- 
 haps, mamma and Captain Palmer will be there ; and I shall 
 hold all their hands in mine and say, " Now be friends, for 
 my sake." And then I shall urge Greorge to exert himself 
 more, and go to church on week-days ; and then to Aunt 
 Sarah I shall turn with a sad smile, and say, " Adieu ! dear 
 aunt, you never understood me — you fancied me a child 
 when I had the feelings of a woman, and you sneered at me, 
 and sent me to bed at eight o'clock. Do not crush Greorge 
 and Rhoda as you have crushed me : be gentle with them ; " 
 and then I shall cross my hands over my chest and — and 
 what then ? ' And a sort of shock came over the girl as, 
 perhaps for the first time in her life, she realised the awful 
 awakening. ' Suppose they bury me alive ? It is very 
 common, I know — oh ! no, no, no ; that would be too hor- 
 rible ! Suppose that poor young lady is not dead down- 
 stairs — suppose she is alive, and they bury her to-morrow, 
 and she wakes up, and it is all dark, and she chokes and 
 cries out, and nobody hears. . . . Surely they will take 
 precautions ? — they will make sure. . . . Who will, I 
 wonder ? Not that wicked husband — not that horrid maid. 
 That wicked man has gone to gamble, I daresay; and Julie 
 is trying on her dresses, and perhaps her eyes are opening 
 now and nobody to see — nobody to come. Ah ! this ia 
 dreadful. I must go to sleep and forget it.' 
 
 Jjittle Ehoda turned and whispered something in her 
 dreams ; Dorothy curled herself up in her nest and shut her 
 eyes, and did go to sleep for a couple of hours, and then 
 
46 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Woke up again with a start, and thought it must be morning. 
 Had not somebody called her by name ? did not somebody 
 whisper Dolly in her ear ? so loud that it woke her out of a 
 strange dream : a sort of dream in which strange clanging 
 sounds rung round and round in the air ; in which Dolly 
 herself lay powerless, gasping and desperate on her bed. 
 Vainly she tried to move, to call, to utter; no one 
 came. 
 
 Julie, in white satin, was looking at herself in the glass ; 
 the wicked husband was standing in the door with a horrible 
 scowl. Ehoda, somehow, was quietly asleep in her bed. 
 Ah ! no, she, too, was dead ; she would never wake ; she 
 would not come and save her. And just then Dolly awoke, 
 and started up in bed with wide open childish eyes. What 
 a still quiet room — what a dim light from the lamp — who 
 had spoken ? "Was it a warning ? was it a call ? was this 
 dream sent to her as a token ? as the people in the Bible 
 dreamt dreams and dared not disobey them? Was this 
 what was going on in the room below ? was it for her 
 to go down and save the poor lady, who might be calling 
 to her ? Something within her said ' Gro, go,' and suddenly 
 she found herself standing by the bedside, putting on her 
 white dressing-gown, and then pattering out bare-footed 
 across the wooden floors, out into the dark dining-room, out 
 into the ante-room, all dark and black, opening the front 
 door (the key was merely turned in the lock), walking down- 
 stairs with the dim lamps glimmering and the moonlight 
 pouring in at the blindless window ; and standing at the 
 door of the apartment below. Her only thought was wonder 
 at finding it so easy. Then she laid her hand softly on the 
 lock and turned it, and the door opened, and she found 
 herself in an ante-room like their own, only carpeted and 
 alight. The room was under her own : she knew her way 
 well enough. Into the dark dining-room she passed with a 
 
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE DARK. 4.7 
 
 beating heart, and so came to a door beneath which a ray of 
 light -was streaming. And then she stopped. Was this a 
 dream? was this really herself? or was she asleep in had up- 
 stairs ? or was she, perhaps, dead in her coffin ? A qualm 
 of terror came over her — should she turn and go? — her 
 knees were shaking, her heart was heating so that she could 
 hardly breathe ; but she would not turn back — ^that would 
 be a'thousand times too cowardly. Just then she thought 
 she heard a footstep in the dining-room. With a shuddering 
 effort she raised her hand, and in an instant she stood in the 
 threshold of the chamber. What, was this a sacred chapel ? 
 Silence and light, many flowers, tall tapers burning. It 
 seemed like an awful dream to the bewildered child : the 
 cofl&n stood in the middle of the room, she smelt a faint 
 odour of incense, of roses, of scented tapers, and then her 
 heart stood still as she heard a sudden gasping sigh, and 
 against the light an awful shrouded figure slowly rising and 
 seeming to come towards her. It was more than she could 
 bear : the room span round, once more the loud clanging 
 sounded in her ears, and poor Dolly, with a shuddering 
 
 scream, fell to the ground. 
 
 * # • # • 
 
 A jumble of whispers, of vinegar, of water trickling down 
 her back, and of an officious flapping wet handkerchief ; of 
 kind arms enfolding her : of nurse saying, ' Now she is 
 coming to ; ' of Lady Sarah answering, ' Poor little thing, 
 she must have been walking in her sleep ' — a strange new 
 birth, new vitality pouring in at all her limbs, a dull iden- 
 tity coming flashing suddenly into life, and Dolly opened her 
 eyes to find herself in the nurse's arms, with her aunt bend- 
 ing over her, in the warm drawing-room upstairs. Other 
 people seemed standing about — Henriette and a man whom 
 she could scarcely see with her dim weary eyes, and Julie. 
 Dolly hid her face on the nurse's shoulder. 
 
4g OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 'Oil, nm-se, mirse! have you saved me?' was all she 
 could say. 
 
 ' What were you doing downstairs, you naughty child ? ' 
 said Lady Sarah, in her brisk tones. ' Marker heard a noise 
 and luckily ran after you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Sarah, forgive me ! ' faltered Dolly. ' I went 
 to save the lady — I thought if she opened her eyes and there 
 was no one there — and Julie trying on the dresses, and the 
 
 wicked husband — I heard Henriette telling Marker Oh, 
 
 save me, save me ! ' and the poor little thing burst into 
 tears and clung closer and closer. 
 
 ' You are all safe, dear,' said Marker, ' and the young 
 lady is at rest where nothing will frighten or disturb her. 
 Hush ! don't cry.' 
 
 ' Poor little thing,' said the man, taking her hand ; ' the 
 nuns must have frightened her.' j4nd he raised the child's 
 hand to his lips and kissed it, and then seemed to go away. 
 
 ' I'm ashamed of myself, my lady,' said Marker, ' for 
 having talked as I did with the chance of the children being 
 awake to hear me. It was downright wicked, and I should 
 like to bite my tongue out. Go to bed, Henriette. Be off, 
 Mamzelle July, if you please.' 
 
 ' We are all going to bed ; but Henriette will get Miss 
 Dolly a cup of chocolate first,' said Lady Sarah. 
 
 Dolly was very fond of chocolate ; and this little im- 
 promptu supper by the drawing-room fire did more to quiet 
 and -reassure her than anything else. But she was hardly 
 herself as yet, and could only cUng to Marker's arm and hide 
 her face away from them all. Her aunt kissed her once more, 
 saying, ' Well, I won't scold you to-night ; indeed, I am not 
 sure but that you were quite right to go,' and disappeared 
 into her own room. Then Henriette carried the candle, and 
 Marker carried great big Dolly and laid her down by Ehoda 
 in her bed, and the wearied and tired little girl fell asleep 
 at last, holding Rhoda's hand. 
 
( 49 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CLOUD-OAPPED TOWERS AND aORGEOUS PALACES. 
 Lo ! what Tfrong was her life to thee, Death ? 
 
 EOSSETTI. 
 
 When Dolly awoke next morning Ehoda was dressed and 
 her bed was empty. The window had been opened, but the 
 light was carefully shaded by the old brown curtains. Dolly 
 lay quite still ; she felt strangely tired, and as if she had 
 been for a very long journey, toiling along a weary road. 
 And so she had, in truth ; she had travelled along a road 
 that no one ever retraces, she had learnt a secret that no one 
 ever forgets. Henceforth in many places and hours the 
 vision that haunts each one of us was revealed to her ; that 
 solemn ghost of Death stood before her with its changing 
 face, at once sad and tender and pitiless. Who shall speak 
 of it ? With our own looks, with the familiar eyes of others, 
 it watches us through life, the good angel and comforter of 
 the stricken and desolate, the strength of the weak, the 
 pitiless enemy of home and peaceful love and tranquil days. 
 But perhaps to some of us the hour may come when we fall 
 into the mighty arms, feeling that within them is the home 
 and the love and the peace that they hav© torn from us. 
 
 Dolly was still lying quite quiet and waiting for something 
 to happen, when the door opened, and her aunt's maid came 
 in carrying a nice little tray with breakfast upon it. There 
 was a roll, and some French butter in a white scroU-liise 
 saucer, and Dolly's favourite cup. 
 
50 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' My lady is gone out, Miss Dolly,' said Marker, ' but she 
 left word you was not to be disturbed. It is eleven o'clock, 
 and she is going to take you and Miss Ehoda for a treat 
 wlien she gets back.' 
 
 'A treat!' said Dolly, languidly; 'that will be nice. 
 Marker, I have to push my arms to make them go.' 
 
 But when Dolly had had her bath and eaten her break- 
 fast, her arms began to go of themselves. Once, indeed, she 
 turned a little sick and giddy, for, happening to look out of 
 window into the courtyard below, she saw that they were 
 carrying away black cloths and silver-spangled draperies, 
 which somehow brought up the terror of the night before ; 
 but her nurse kissed her, and made her kneel down and say 
 her prayers, and told her in her homely way that she must 
 not be afraid, that life and death were made by the same 
 Hand, and ruled over by the same Love. ' The poor young 
 lady was buried this morning, my dear,' said Marker, 
 ' before you were awake. Your aunt went with the poor 
 young man.' 
 
 Marker was a short, stout, smiling old woman. Lady 
 Sarah was tall and thin, and silent, and scant in dress, with 
 a brown face and grey hair ; she came in, in her black gown, 
 from the funeral, with her shaggy kind eyes red with tears. 
 
 ' You won't forget, my lady, that you promised the young 
 ladies a treat,' said Marker, who was anxious that Dolly 
 should have something fresh to think of. 
 
 ' I have not forgotten,' said Dolly's aunt, smiling, as she 
 looked at the two children. ' Ehoda must get a remem- 
 brance to take back to school, mustn't she, Dolly ? I have 
 ordered a carriage at two.' 
 
 There is a royal palace familiar to many of us of which 
 the courts are shining and busy, and crowded with people. 
 Flowers are growing among fountains and foliage, and 
 children are at play ; there is a siglit of high gabled roofs 
 
CLOUD-CAPPED TOWERS AND GORGEOUS PALACES. 51 
 
 overhead enclosing it, so do the long lines of the ancient 
 arcades. Some music is playing to which the children are 
 dancing. In this strange little world the children seem to 
 grow up to music in beautiful ready-made little frocks and 
 pinafores, the grown-up people seem to live on grapes 
 and ices and bonbons, and on the enormous pears displayed 
 in the windows of the cafes. Everything is more or less 
 gilt and twinkling, — china flowers bloom delicate and scent- 
 less ; it would seem as if the business of life consisted in 
 wandering here and there, and sipping and resting to the 
 sound of music in the shade of the orange-trees, and gazing 
 at the many wonders displayed ; at the gimcracks and trin- 
 kets and strings of beads, the precious stones, and the silver 
 and gold, and the fanciful jewels. Are these things all dust 
 and ashes ? Here are others, again, of imitation dross and 
 dust, shining and dazzling too : and again, imitations of 
 imitations for the poorest and most credulous, heaped up in 
 harmless glitter and array. Here are opera-glasses to detect 
 tlie deceptions, and the deceptions to deceive the glasses, — 
 bubbles of pomp, thinnest gilding of vanity and good- 
 humour. 
 
 Some twenty years ago Dorothea Vanborough and a great 
 many ladies and gentlemen her contemporaries were not the 
 respectable middle-aged people they are now, but very young 
 folks standing on tip-toe to look at life, which they gazed at 
 with respectful eyes, believing all things, hoping all things, 
 and interested in all things beyond words or the power of 
 words to describe. My heroine was a blooming little girl, 
 with her thick wavy hair plaited into two long tails. She 
 wore a great flapping hat and frilled trousers, according to 
 the barbarous fashion of the time. Little Ehoda was shorter 
 and slighter, with great dark eyes and' a wistful pale face ; 
 she was all shabbily dressed, and had no frills like Dolly, or 
 flowers in her hat. The two stood gazing at the portrait of 
 
 E 2 
 
52 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 a smiling little Prince with a blue ribbon, surmounted by a 
 wreath of flowers, glazed and enclosed in a gilt-locket. I 
 suppose the little girls of the present' bear the same sort 
 of allegiance to the Prince Imperial that Dolly felt for the 
 little smiling Count of Paris of those days. For the King 
 his grandfather, for the Dukes and Princes his uncles, hers 
 was a very vague devotion ; but when the old yellow royal 
 coaches used to come by rumbling and shaking along the 
 Champs Elysees, Dolly for one, followed by her protesting 
 attendant, would set off running as hard as she could, and 
 stand at the very edge of the pavement in the hopes of 
 seeing her little smiling Prince peep out of the carriage- 
 window. He was also to be seen in effigy on cups, on pin- 
 boxes, and bonbons, and, above all, to be worn by the little 
 girls in the ornamental fashion I have described. He 
 smiled impartially from their various tuckers ; and, indeed, 
 many of the youthful possessors of those little gilt lockets 
 are true to this day to their early impressions. 
 
 So both Dolly and Ehoda came to tell Lady Sarah that 
 they had made up their minds, what they most admired. 
 
 The widow had been sitting upon one of the benches in 
 the garden, feeling not unlike the skeleton at a feast — a 
 scanty figm:e in the sunshine, with a heart scarcely attuned 
 to the bustle and chatter around her, but she began to tell 
 herself that there must be some use even in the pomps and 
 vanities of life, when she saw how happy the little girls 
 looked, how the light had come into Dolly's eyes, and then 
 she gave them each a solid silver piece out of a purse, 
 which, contrary to the custom of skeletons, she held ready 
 in lier hand. 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' says Dolly ; ' now I can get no end of 
 things. There's Greorge and Eobert and ' 
 
 ' It is much better to buy one nice thing to take care of 
 
 ' Writton before recent events in France. 
 
CLOUD-CAPPED TOWERS AND GORGEOUS PALACES. 53 
 
 than a great many little ones,' said Ehoda, philosophically. 
 ' Dolly, you don't manage well. I don't want to get every- 
 thing I see. I shall buv that pretty locket. None of the 
 girls in my class nave got one as pretty.' 
 
 'Come along quick then,' said Dolly, 'for fear they 
 should have sold it.' 
 
 They left the Palais Eoyal at last and drove homewards 
 with their treasures. Dolly never forgot that evening ; the 
 carriage drove along through the May-lit city, by teeming 
 streets, by shady avenues, to the sounds of life and pleasure- 
 making. Carriages were rolling along with them; long 
 lines of trees, of people, of pavements led to a great tri- 
 umphal archway, over which the little pink clouds were 
 floating, while an intense sweet thrill of spring rung in the 
 air and in the spirits of the people. Henriette opened the 
 door to them when they got home. 
 
 ' The poor gentleman from below,' she said, ' is waiting 
 for you in the drawing-room. I told him you would not be 
 long,' 
 
 The gentleman was waiting in the drawing-room as Lady 
 Sarah came in with the two little girls shyly following. She 
 would have sent them away, but a sort of shyness habitual 
 to her ma,de her shrink from a scene or an explanation. It 
 m.ay have been some feeling of the same sort which had 
 induced the widower to go away to the farthest window of 
 the room, where he stood leaning out with his back turned 
 for an instant after they had come in. 
 
 Coming in out of the dazzle of the streets, the old yellow 
 drawing-room looked dark and dingy ; the lights reflected 
 from the great amphitheatre without struck on the panelled 
 doors and fusty hangings. All thise furnished houses have 
 a family likeness : chairs with Napoleon backs and brass- 
 bound legs, tables that cry vive Vemjoire as plain as tables 
 
54 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 can utter, old-fashioned secretaries standing demure with 
 their backs against the wall, keeping their counsel and their 
 secrets (if there are, such things as secrets). The laurel- 
 crowned clocks tick beneath their wreaths and memorials 
 of bygone victories, the looking-glasses placidly relate the 
 faces, the passing figures, the varying lights and changes as 
 they pass before them. To-night a dusky golden light was 
 streaming into the room from behind the hills, that were 
 Leaving, so Dolly thought, and dimming the solemn glow of 
 the sky : she saw it all in an instant ; and then, with a throb 
 she recognised this wicked husband coming from the window 
 where he had been standing with his back to them. She 
 had never seen him before so close, and yet she seemed to 
 know his face. He looked very cruel, thought Dolly; he 
 had a pale face and white set lips, and a sort of dull black 
 gleam flashed from his eyes. He spoke in a harsh voice. 
 He was very young — a mere boy, with thick fair hair brushed 
 back from his haggard young face. He might have been, 
 perhaps, about two or three and twenty. 
 
 ' I waited for you. Lady Sarah. I came to say good- 
 by,' he said. 'I am going back to London to-night. I 
 
 shall never forget your ' His voice broke. ' How good 
 
 you have been to me,' he said hoarsely, as he took the two 
 thin hands in his and wrung them again and again. 
 
 The widow's sad face softened as she told him ' to have 
 trust, to be brave.' 
 
 ' You don't know what you say,' he said in a common- 
 place way. ' God bless you.' He was going, but seeing the 
 two, Dolly and Ehoda, standing by the door looking at him 
 with wondering faces, he stopped short. ' I forgot,' he said, 
 still in his hard matter-of-fact voice, ' I brought a cross of 
 Emma's ; I thought she would wish it. It won't bring ill- 
 luck,' he said, with a ghastly sort of laugh. 'She bore 
 crbsses enough in her life, poor soul, but this one, at least, 
 
CLOUD-CAPPED TOWERS AND GORGEOUS PALACES. 55 
 
 had no nails in it. May I give it to your little girl ? ' he said, 
 ' unless she is afraid to take anything from me.' 
 
 Lady Sarah did not say no, and the pale young man 
 looked vaguely from one to the other of the two little girls 
 as they stood there, and then he took one step towards Dolly, 
 who was the biggest, and who was standing, straight and tall 
 for her age, in her light-coloured dress, with her straw hat 
 hanging on her arm. I don't know how to write this of my 
 poor little heroine. If he had seemed more unhappy, if he 
 had not looked so strangely and spoken so oddly, she might 
 have understood him better ; but as it was, she thought he 
 was saying terrible things, laughing and jeering and heart- 
 less ; so judged Dolly in an innocent severity. Is it so ? 
 Are not the children of this world wiser in their generation 
 than the children of light ? Are there not depths of sin and 
 repentance undreamt of by the pure in spirit ? One seems 
 to grasp at a meaning which eludes one as one strains 
 at it, wondering what is the sermon to be preached upon 
 this text. ... It was one that little Dolly, still playing in 
 her childish and peaceful valley, could not understand. She 
 might forgive as time went on ; she had not lived long- 
 enough yet either to forgive or to forget ; never once had it 
 occurred to her that any thought of hers, either of blame or 
 forgiveness, could signify to any other human being, or that 
 any word or sign of hers could have a meaning to any one 
 except herself. 
 
 Dolly was true to herself, and in those days she used to 
 think that all her life long she would be always true, and 
 always say all she felt. As life grows long, and people, 
 living on together through time and sorrow and experience, 
 realise more and more the complexities of their own hearts, 
 and sympathise more and more with the failings and sorrows 
 of others, they are apt to ask themselves with dismay if it 
 is a reality of life to be less and less uncompromising as 
 
56 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 complexities increase, less true to themselves as they are more 
 true to others, and if tHe very angels of God are wrestling 
 and at war in their hearts. All through her life Dolly found, 
 with a bitter experience, that these two angels of charity and 
 of truth are often very far apart until the miracle of love 
 comes to unite them. She was strong and true; in after 
 days she prayed for charity ; with charity came sorrow, and 
 doubt, and perplexity. Charity is long-sufifering and kind, 
 and thinks no evil ; but then comes truth crying out, ' Is 
 not wrong wrong ; is not falsehood a lie ? ' Perhaps it is 
 because truth is not for this life that the two are at variance, 
 until the day shall come when the light shall come, and with 
 the light peace and knowledge and love, and then charity 
 itself will be no longer needed. 
 
 And so Dolly, who in those days had scarcely realised 
 even human charity in her innocent young heart, looked up 
 and saw the wicked man who had been so cruel to his wife 
 coming towards her with a gift in his hand ; and as she saw 
 him coming, black against the light of the sunset, she 
 shrank away behind Ehoda, who stood looking up with her 
 dark wistful eyes. The young man saw Dolly shrink from 
 him, and he stopped short ; but at the same instant he met 
 the tranquil glance of a trustful upturned face, and, with a 
 sigh, he put the cross (shimmering with a sudden flash of 
 light) into little Ehoda's soft clasping hand. 
 
 ' You are not afraid, like your sister ? Will you keep it 
 for Emma's sake ? ' he said again, in a softer voice. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Lady Sarah, never, at 
 the best of times, a ready woman, tried to say something, 
 but the words died away. Dolly looked up, and her eyes 
 met the flash of the young man's two wild burning eyes. 
 They seemed to her to speak. ' I saw you shrink away,' they 
 seemed to say. ' You are right ; don't come near me — don't 
 come near me.' But this was only unspoken language. 
 
CLOUD-CAPPED TOWERS AND GORGEOUS PALACES. 57 
 
 ' Crood-by,' he said suddenly to Lady Sarah. ' 1 am glad 
 to have seen you once more,' and then he went quickly out 
 of the room without looking back, leaving them all standing 
 scared and saddened by this melancholy little scene. 
 
 The lights were burning deeper behind the hills ; the 
 reflections were darker. Had there been a sudden storm ? 
 No ; the sun had set quietly behind Montmartre, where the 
 poor girl was lying there upon the heights above the city. 
 Was it Dolly who was trembling, or was it the room that 
 seemed vibrating to the echo of some disastrous chords that 
 were still ringing in her ears ? 
 
 Dolly went to the window and leant out over the wooden 
 bar, looking down into the rustling glooming lilac garden 
 below. How sad the scent of the lilac-trees in flower 
 seemed as it came flooding up ! She was still angry, but 
 she was sorry too, and two great tears fell upon the wooden 
 bar against which she was leaning. She always remembered 
 that evening when she smelt lilac in flower. 
 
 Ehoda was very much pleased with her cross. 
 
 ' I shall hang it on a black ribbon,' said the child, ' and 
 always think of the poor gentleman when I wear it ; and I 
 shall tell the girls in class all about him and how he gave it 
 to me.' 
 
 ' How you took it from him, you mean,' said Lady Sarah, 
 shortly. 
 
 ' No, indeed. Lady Sarah ; he gave it to me,' cried Rhoda, 
 clutching her treasme quite tight. 
 
53 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 IMMOKTELLES. 
 
 lieb BO lang du lieben kannst, 
 lieb so lang du lieben magst, 
 Die Stunde kommt, die Stunde kommt. 
 Wo du am Graben stehst und klagst. 
 
 Frank: Eaban, having left the three standing silent and 
 sorry in the calm sunset room, ran down to his own apart- 
 ment on the floor beneath. He was to go back to England 
 that night : he felt he could not stay in that place any 
 longer ; the memories seemed to choke him, and to rise up 
 and madden him. As he came now down the echoing stairs 
 he heard the voices of his servants : the front door was wide 
 open. The concierge was standing in the passage in his 
 shirt-sleeves ; M. Adolphe was discoursing ; a milliner 
 was waiting with her bill. ' Not two years married,' he 
 heard them saying ; ' as for him, he will console himself.' 
 Their loud voices suddenly hushed as he appeared. Adolphe 
 flung the door open still wider for his master; but the 
 master could not face them all, with their curious eyes fixed 
 upon him, and he turned and fled down-stairs. Only two 
 years since he had carried her away from her home in the 
 quiet suburban cottage — poor Emma, who wanted to be 
 married, and who had never loved him ! "Where was she 
 now ? Married only two years ! "What years ! And now 
 his remorse seemed almost greater than he could bear. He 
 crossed the crowded road, heedless of the warning cries of 
 
IMMORTELLES. 59 
 
 llie drivers, pushing his way across the stream ; then he got 
 into a deserted country close upon the bustle of the main 
 thoroughfare (they call it Beaujon), where great walls run 
 by lonely avenues, and great gates stand closed and barred. 
 Would they burst open ? Would she, come out with a pale 
 avenging face and strike him ? She, poor child ! Whom 
 did she ever strike in word or thought? Once he got a 
 little ease : he thought he had been a very long way, and be 
 had wandered at last into an ancient lane by a convent wall, 
 beyond the modern dismal Beaujon, in the friendly older 
 quarter. Lime-trees were planted in this tranquil place. 
 There was a dim rain-washed painting upon the wall, a faint 
 vista of fountains and gardens, the lilac-trees were blooming 
 behind it, and the vesper song of the nuns reached his ears. 
 He stood still for an instant, but the song ceased. 
 
 The old avenue led back to the great round Place in 
 front of the Arc ; for, in those days, neither the ride .nor the 
 great new roads were made which now lead thronging to the 
 Bois. And the tide came streaming to the end of the long 
 avenue of the Champs Elysees and no farther, and turned 
 and ebbed away again from the gates of the Douane. 
 Beyond them, the place was silent. The young man hurried 
 on, not caring where he went. If I had loved her, if I had 
 loved her — was the burthen of his remorse. It was almost 
 heavier than he could bear. There were some children 
 swinging on the chains that separate the great arch from 
 the road ; the last rays of the sun were lighting the stones 
 and the gritty platform ; twilight was closing in. I think 
 if it had not been for the children, he would have thrown 
 himself down upon the ground. They screamed shrilly at 
 their play, and the echo from under the great vault gave 
 back their voices. A few listless people were standing 
 about ; a countryman spelling out by the dying lights the 
 pompous lists of victories that had been carved into the 
 
6o OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 stone — Jena, Marengo, Austerlitz. Chiller and more death- 
 like came the twilight creeping on : the great carved figures 
 blew their trumpets, waved their stony laurels, of which the 
 shadows changed so many times a day. He staggered to a 
 bench ; he said to himself, ' I should like this Arc to fall 
 down upon my head and crush me. I am a devil, I am not 
 a man. I killed her with neglect, with reproach, and 
 suspicion 1 But for me she would have been alive now, 
 smiling as when I first saw her. I will go away and never 
 be heard of any more. Gro away — how can I go from this 
 curse ? could Cain escape ? ' Then he began to see what 
 was all round about him again, see it distorted by his mad 
 remorse. All the great figures seemed writhing their arms 
 and legs ; the long lists of battle seemed like funeral 
 processions moving round and round him, fighting and 
 thundering and running into one another. The Arc itself 
 was a great tomb where these legions lay buried. Was it 
 not about to fall with a stupendous crash ; and would the 
 dead people come rising round about at the blast of the 
 trumpets of stone. Here was an Emperor who had wanted 
 to conquer the whole world, and who had all but attained 
 his object. Here was he, a man who had not striven for 
 victory, but yielded to temptation ; a man who had deserted 
 his post, betrayed his trust, cursed a life that he should 
 have cherished. Though his heart were broken on a wheel 
 and his body racked with pain, that would not mend the 
 past, sanctify it, and renew it again. 
 
 A sort of cold sweat lay upon his forehead ; some 
 children were playing, and had come up to the stone bench 
 where he was sitting, and were making little heaps of dust 
 upon it. One of them looked into his face and saw him 
 clench his hand, and the little thing got frightened and 
 burst out crying. The other, who was older, took the little 
 one by the hand and led it away. 
 
IMMORTELLES. 6i 
 
 Of what good was it thinking over the past ? It was 
 over. Emma was dead, lying up on the heights towards 
 which Dolly had been looking from her window. He had 
 been to blame ; but not to blame as he imagined in his mad 
 remorse and despair. He had been careless and impatient, 
 and hard upon her, as he was now hard upon himself. He 
 had married her from a sense of honour, when his boyish 
 fancy was past. His duty was too hard for him, and he had 
 failed, and now he was free. 
 
 It was that very evening — Dolly remembered it after- 
 wards — a letter came from her mother, written on thin lilac 
 paper, in a large and twisted handwriting, sealed and 
 stamped with many Indian stamps. Dolly's mother's letters 
 always took a long time to read ; they were written up and 
 down and on different scraps of paper. Sometimes she sent 
 whole bouquets of faded flowers in ttiem to the children, 
 sometimes patterns for dresses to be returned. Henriette 
 brought the evening's mail in with the lamp and the tea- 
 tray, and put the whole concern down with a clatter of cups 
 and saucers on the table before Lady Sarah. There was 
 also a thick blue lawyer-looking letter with a seal. The 
 little girls peeped up shyly as Lady Sarah laid down her 
 correspondence unopened beside her. She was a nervous 
 woman and afraid of unread letters ; but after a little she 
 opened the lilac epistle, and then began to flush, and turned 
 eagerly to the second. 
 
 ' Who is that from ? ' Dolly asked at last. ' Is it from 
 Captain Palmer ? ' 
 
 ' Her aimt laid one thin brown hand upon the letter, 
 and went on pouring out the tea without speaking. Ehoda 
 looked for a moment, and then stooped over her work once 
 more. Long years afterwards the quiet atmosphere of that 
 lamp-lit room used to come round about Dolly again. The 
 
62 OLD KF.NSINGTON. 
 
 log fire flamed, the clock ticked on. How still it was I the 
 leaves of her book scraped as she turned them, and Bhoda 
 stuck her silken stitches. The roll of the carriages was so far 
 away that it soimded like a distant sea. They were still 
 sitting silent, and Dolly was wondering whether she might 
 speak of the letter again and of its contents, when there 
 came an odd muffled sound of voices and exclamations from 
 the room underneath. 
 
 ' Listen ! ' said Ehoda. 
 
 ' What can it be ? ' said Dolly, shutting up her book and 
 starting up from her chair as Henriette appeared at the 
 door, with her white cap-strings flying, breathless. 
 
 ' They were all disputing downstairs,' she said. ' Per- 
 sons had arrived that evening. It was terrible to hear 
 them.' 
 
 Lady Sarah impatiently sent Henriette about her 
 business, and the sounds died away, and the little girls 
 were sent off to bed. In the morning, her aunt's eyes 
 were so red that Dolly felt sure she must have been 
 crying. Henriette told them that the gentleman was 
 gone. 'Milady had been sent for before he left: she 
 had lent him some money,' said Henriette, ' and paid the 
 milliner's bill ; ' but the strange people who had come had 
 been packing up and canying off everything, to Julie's 
 disgust. 
 
 Events and emotions come very rarely alone, they fly 
 in troops, like the birds. It was that very day that Lady 
 Sarah told Dolly that she had had some bad news — she 
 had lost a great deal of money. An Indian bank had 
 failed in which they all had a share. 
 
 'Your mamma writes in great trouble,' said Lady 
 Sarah, reading out from a lilac scrap. ' " Tell my precious 
 Dolly that this odious bank will interfere once more with 
 my heart's longing to see her. Captain Palmer insists 
 
IMMORTELLES. 63 
 
 upon a cruel delay. I am not strong enough to travel 
 round the Cape as he proposes. You, dear Sarah, might 
 be able to endure such fatigue; but I, alas! have not the 
 power. Once more my return is delayed. " ' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Sarah, will she ever come ? ' said Dolly, 
 struggling not to cry. . . . Dolly only cheered up when she 
 remembered that they were ruined. She had forgotten 
 it, in her disappointment, about her mother. ' Are we 
 really ruined ? ' she said, more hopefully. ' We should 
 not have spent that money yesterday. Shall we have 
 to leave Church House ? Poor mamma ! Poor Aunt 
 Sarah ! ' 
 
 'Poor Marker is most to be pitied,' said Lady Sarah, 
 ' for we shall have to be very careful, and keep fewer maids, 
 and wear out all our old dresses ; but we need not leave 
 Church House, Dolly.' 
 
 ' Then it is nothing after all,' said Dolly, again disap- 
 pointed. ' I thought we should have had to go away and 
 keep a shop, and that I should have worked for you. I 
 should like to be your support in your old age, and 
 mamma's too.' 
 
 Then Tvady Sarah suddenly caught Dolly in her arms, and 
 held her tight for a moment — quite tight to her heart, that 
 was beating tumultuously. 
 
 The next time Ehoda came out of her school for a day's 
 holiday. Lady Sarah took the little girls to a flower-shop 
 hard by. In the window shone a lovely rainbow of sun-rays 
 and flowers ; inside the shop were glass globes and china 
 pots, great white sprays of lilacs, lilies, violets, ferns, and 
 hyacinths, and golden bells, stuck into emerald-blue vases, 
 all nodding their fragrant heads. Lady Sarah bought a 
 great bunch of violets, and two yellow garlands made of 
 dried inamortelles. 
 
 ' Do you know where we are going ? ' she asked. 
 
64 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 DoUj didn't answer ; she was sniffing, with her face 
 buried in a green pot of mignonette. 
 
 ' May I carry the garlands ? ' said Ehoda, raising her 
 great round eyes. ' I know we are going to the poor lady's 
 grave.' 
 
 Then they got into the carriage, and it rolled off towards 
 the heights. 
 
 They went out beyond the barriers of the town by dusty 
 roads, with acacia-trees ; they struggled up a steep hill, and 
 stopped at last at the gate of the cemetery. All round 
 about it there were stalls, with more wreaths and chaplets to 
 sell, and little sacred images for the mourners to buy for the 
 adornment of the graves. Children were at play, and birds 
 'singing, and the sunlight streamed bright. Dolly cried out 
 in admiration of the winding walks, shaded with early green, 
 the flowers blooming, the tombs and the garlands, and the 
 epitaphs, with their notes of exclamation. She began 
 reading them out, and calling out so loudly, that her aunt 
 had to tell her to he quiet. Then Dolly was silent for a 
 little, but she could not help it. The sun shone, the flowers 
 were so bright ; sunshine, spring-time, sweet flowers, all 
 made her tipsy with delight ; the thought of the kind, 
 pretty lady, who had never passed her without a smile, 
 did not make her sad just then, but happy. She ran 
 away for a little while, and went to help some children, 
 who were picking daisies and tying them by a string. 
 
 When she came back, a little sobered down, she found 
 that her aunt had scattered the violets over a new-made 
 grave, and little Ehoda had hung the yellow wreath on the 
 cross at its head. 
 
 Dolly was silent, then, for a minute, and stood, looking 
 from her aunt, as she stood straight and grey before her, to 
 little Rhoda, whose eyes were full of tears. What was there 
 written on the cross '^ 
 
IMMORTELLES. 65 
 
 TO EMMA, 
 
 THE WIFE OF FBANCIS EABAK, 
 
 AND ONLY DAUGHTER OF DAVID PENFOLD. OF EARLSCOURT, 
 
 IN THE PARISH OF KENSINGTON. 
 
 DIED MARCH 20, 18 . AGED 22. 
 
 ' Aunt Sarah,' Dolly cried, suddenly, seizing her aunt's 
 gown, ' tell me, was that young Mr. Eaban from John Mor- 
 gan's house and Emma from the cottage ? When he looked 
 at me once I thought I knew him, only I didn't know who 
 he could be.' 
 
 'Yes, my dear,' said Lady Sarah; 'I did not suppose 
 that you would remember them.' 
 
 ' I remembered,' said Ehoda, nodding her head ; ' but I 
 thought you did not wish me to say so.' 
 
 'Why not?' asked Lady Sarah, 'You are always 
 imagining things, Ehoda. I had forgotten all about them 
 myself ; I had other things on my mind at the time they 
 married,' and she sighed and looked away. 
 
 ' It was when Dolly's papa ' Ehoda began. 
 
 ' Mr. Eaban reminded me of Kensington before he left, 
 said Lady Sarah, hastily, in her short voice. ' I was able to 
 help him, foolish young man. It is all very sad, and he is 
 very unhappy and very much to blame.' 
 
 This was their only visit to poor Emma Eaban's grave. 
 A few days after. Lady Sarah, in her turn, left Paris, and 
 took Dolly and little Ehoda, whose schooling was over, home 
 to England. Ehoda was rather sorry to be dropped at home 
 at the well-known door in Old Street, where she lived with 
 her Aunt Morgan. Yes, it would open in a minute, and 
 all her old life would begin again. Tom and Joe and Cassie 
 were behind it, with their loud voices. Dolly envied her ; it 
 seemed to her to be a noisy elysium of welcoming exclama- 
 tions into which Ehoda disappeared. 
 
66 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX, 
 
 THE BOW-WINDOWED HOITSE. 
 
 Xou'U love me yet, and I can tarry 
 
 Your love's protracted growing ; 
 STou reared that bunch of flowerii you carry. 
 
 From seeds of April's sotriug. 
 
 Rhoda, as she sat at her work, used to peep out of the bow- 
 windows at the people passing up and down the street — a 
 pretty girlish head, with thick black plaits pinned away, and 
 a white frill round the slender throat. Sometimes, when 
 Mrs. Morgan was out, Ehoda would untwist and unpin, and 
 shake down a cloud upon her shoulders ; then her eyes would 
 gleam with a wild wilful light, as she looked at herself in the 
 little glass in the workbox, but she would run away if she 
 heard any one coming, and hastily plait up her coils. The 
 plain-speaking and rough-dealing of a household not attuned 
 to the refinements of more sensitive natures had frightened 
 instead of strengthening hers. She had learnt to be afraid 
 and reserved. She was timid and determined, but things 
 had gone wrong with her, and she was neither brave nor 
 frightened in the right way. She had learnt to think for 
 herself, to hold her own secretly against the universal 
 encroachments of a lively race. She was obliging, and ready 
 to sacrifice her own for others, but when she gave up, she 
 was conscious of the sacrifice. She could forgive her brother 
 unto seven times. She was like the disciple, whose sympathy 
 did not reach unto seventy times seven. 
 
THE BOW-WINDOWED HOUSE. 67 
 
 Rhoda was not strong, like Cassie and Zoe. She vas 
 often tired, as she sat there in the window-corner. She could 
 not always touch the huge smoking heaps that came to table. 
 When all the knives and forks and voices clattered together, 
 they seemed to go through her head. The bells and laughter 
 made her start. She would nervously listen for the boys' 
 feet clattering down the stairs. At Church House there was 
 a fresh silence. You could hear the birds chirruping in the 
 garden all the time Lady Sarah was reading aloud. There 
 were low comfortable seats covered with faded old chintz and 
 tapestry. There were Court ladies hanging on the walls. 
 One wore a pearl necklace ; she had dark bright eyes, and 
 Ehoda used to look at her, and think her like herself, and 
 wonder. There were books to read and times to read them 
 at Church House, and there was Dolly always thinking how 
 to give Ehoda pleasure. If she exacted a certain fealty and 
 obedience from the little maiden, her rule was different from 
 Aunt Morgan's. Dolly had no sheets to sew, no dusty cup- 
 boards to put straight, no horrible boys' shirts to front or 
 socks to darn and darn and darn, while their owners were 
 disporting themselves out of doors, and making frtsh work 
 for the poor little Danaides at home. 
 
 To Dolly, Old Street seemed a delightful place. She 
 never could understand why Rhoda was so unhappy there. 
 It seemed to Dolly only too delightful, for Greorge was for 
 ever going there when he was at home. The stillness of 
 Church House, its tranquil order and cheerful depression, 
 used to weary the boy ; perhaps it was natural enough. 
 Unless, as Rhoda was, they are constitutionally delicate, 
 boys and girls don't want to bask all day long like jelly-fish 
 in a sunny calm ; they want to tire themselves, to try their 
 lungs ; noise and disorder are to them like light and air, 
 wholesome tonics with which they brace themselves for the 
 coming struggles of life. Later in life there are sometimes 
 
 I? 2 
 
68 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 quite old girls and boys whope vitality cannot be repressed. 
 They go up mountains and drive steam-engines. They cry 
 out in print, since it would no longer be seemly for them to 
 shriek at the pitch of their voices, or to set off running 
 violently, or to leap high in the air. 
 
 'The Morgans' certainly meant plenty of noise and 
 cheerful clatter, the short tramp of schoolboy feet, huge 
 smoking dishes liberally dispensed. John Morgan would 
 rush in pale, breathless, and over- worked ; in a limp white 
 neckcloth as befitted his calling, he would utter a breathless 
 blessing on the food, and begin hastily to dispense the 
 smoking heap before him. 
 
 ' Take care, John, dear,' cries Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 'What? where?' says John. 'Why, George! come to 
 lunch ? Just in time.' 
 
 It was in John Morgan's study that George established 
 himself after luncheoiu The two windows stood open as far 
 as the old-fashioned sashes would go. The vine was strag- 
 gling across the panes, wide-spreading its bronzed and 
 shining leaves. The sunlight dazzled throiigh the green, 
 making a pleasant flicker on the walls of the shabby room, 
 with its worn carpet and old-fashioned cane chairs and deal 
 book-cases. 
 
 A door opened into an inner room, through which George, 
 by leaning forward from his arm-chair behind the door, can 
 see Mrs. Morgan's cap-ribbons all on end against the cross- 
 light in the sitting-room windows. Cassie is kneeling on 
 the floor, surrounded by piles of garments ; while her brother, 
 standing in the middle of the room, is rapidly checking off 
 a list of various ailments and misfortunes that are to be 
 balanced in the scales of fate by proportionate rolls of 
 flannel and calico. Good little Cassie Morgan feels never a 
 moment's doubt as she piles her heaps — so much sorrow, so 
 many petticoats ; so mu«h hopeless improvidence, so many 
 
THE BOW-WINDOWED HOUSE. 69 
 
 pounds of tea and a coal-tiejset. In cases of confirmed 
 wickedness, she adds an illuminated text sometimes, and a 
 hymn-book. Do they ever come up, these hymn-books and 
 bread-tickets cast upon the waters ? Is it so much waste of 
 time and seed ? After all, people can but work in their own 
 way, and feel kindly towards their feUow-creatures. One 
 seed is wasted, another grows up ; as the buried flora of a 
 coimtry starts into life when the fields are ploughed in after 
 years. 
 
 ' Gro on, Cassie,' says Mrs. Morgan : ' Bonker — Wickens 
 — Costello.' 
 
 ' Costello is again in trouble,' says John, ' It is too bad 
 of him, with that poor wife of his and all those children. I 
 have to go round to the Court about him now. Tell George 
 I shall be back in ten minutes.' 
 
 ' I have kept some clothes for them,' said Cassie. ' They 
 are such nice little children,' and she looks up flushed and 
 aU over ravellings at the relenting curate, who puts Mrs. 
 Costello down in his relief-book. 
 
 All over John Morgan's study, chairs and tables, such 
 books are lying, with pamphlets, blue books, black books, 
 rolls and registers, in confusion, and smelling of tobacco. 
 
 In this age of good reports and evil reports people seem 
 like the two boys in Dickens's story, who felt when they had 
 docketed their bills that they were as good as paid. So we 
 classify our wrongs and tie up our miseries with red tape ; 
 we pity people by decimals, and put our statistics away with 
 satisfied consciences. John Morgan wrote articles from a 
 cold and lofty point of view, but he left his reports about all 
 over the room, and would rush off to the help of any human 
 being, deserving or undeserving. He had a theory that 
 heaven had created individuals as well as classes ; and at 
 this very moment, with another bang of the door, he was on 
 bi$ way to the police-court, to say a good word for the 
 
70 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 intemperate Costello, who was ruefully awaiting his trial in 
 the dark cell below. 
 
 George, although comfortably established in the Morgan 
 study, was also tired of waiting, and found the house 
 unusually dull. For some time past he had been listening 
 to a measured creaking noise in the garden ; then came a 
 peal of bells from the steeple ; and he went to the window 
 and looke i out. The garden was full of weeds and flowers, 
 with daisies on the lawn, and dandelions and milkwort 
 among the beds. It was not trimly kept, like the garden 
 at home ; but Greorge, who was the chief gardener, thought 
 it a far pleasanter place, with its breath of fresh breeze, and 
 its bit of blue over-roof. For flowers, there were blush- 
 roses, nailed against the wall, that Ehoda used to wear in 
 her dark hair sometimes, when there were no earwigs in 
 them ; and blue flags, growing in the beds among spiked 
 leaves, and London pride, and Cape jessamine, very sweet 
 apon the air, and also ivy, creeping in a tangle of leaves 
 and tendrils. The garden had been planted by the different 
 inhabitants of the old brown house — each left a token. 
 There was a medlar-tree, with one rotten medlar upon a 
 branch, beneath which John Morgan would sit and smoke 
 his pipe in the sun, while his pupils construed Greek upon 
 the little lawn. Only Carlo was there now, stretching 
 himself comfortably in the dry grass (Carlo was one of 
 Bunch's puppies, grown up to be of a gigantic size and an 
 unknown species). Tom Morgan's tortoise was also basking 
 upon the wall. The creaking noise went on after the 
 chimes had ceased, and George jumped out of window on to 
 the water-butt to see what was the matter. He had for- 
 gotten the swing. It hung from a branch of the medlar- 
 tree to the trelHs, and a slim figure, in a limp cotton dress, 
 stood clinging to the rope — a girl with a black cloud of 
 Lairfalling about her shoulders. George stared in amaze- 
 
THE BOW-WINDOWED HOUSE. yi 
 
 ment. Ehoda had stuck some vine-leaves in her hair, and 
 had made a long wreath, that was hanging from the swing, 
 and that floated as she floated. She was looking up with 
 great wistful eyes, and for a minute she did not see him. 
 As the swing rose and fell, her childish wild head went up 
 above the wall and the branches against the blue, and down 
 
 * upon a background of pure gold,' where the Virginian 
 creeper had turned in the sun. Greorge thought it was a 
 sort of tune she was swinging, with all those colours round 
 about her in the sultry summer day. As he leaped down, a 
 feeling came over him as if it had all happened before, as if he 
 had seen it and heard the creaking of the ropes in a dream. 
 Ehoda blushed and slackened her flight. He seemed still to 
 remember it all while the swing stopped by degrees ; and 
 a voice within the house began calling, ' Ehoda ! Ehoda ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I must go,' said Ehoda, sighing. ' I am wasting 
 my time. Please don't tell Aunt Morgan I was swinging.' 
 
 ' Tell her ! ' said George. ' What a silly child you are. 
 Why shouldn't you swing ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! she would be angry,' said Ehoda, looking down. 
 ' I am, very silly. I can't bear being scolded.' 
 
 ' Can't you ? ' says Greorge, with his hands in his pockets, 
 
 ♦ I'm used to it, and don't mind a bit.' 
 
 '■ I shouldn't mind it if ... if I were you, and any one 
 oared for me,' said Ehoda, with tearful eyes. She spoke in 
 a low depressed voice. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Greorge ; ' everybody cares for everybody. 
 Dolly loves, you, so — so do we all.' 
 
 ' Do you ? ' said Ehoda, looking at him in a strange 
 wistful way, and brightening suddenly, and putting back all 
 lier cloudy hair with her hands. Then she blushed up, and 
 ran into the house. 
 
 When Greorge told Dolly about it, Dolly was very sympa- 
 thising, except that she said Ehoda ought to have answered 
 
72 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ■when her aunt called her. ' She. is too much afraid of being 
 scolded,' said Dolly. 
 
 ' Poor little thing ! ' said George. ' Listen to this,' and 
 he sat down to the piano. He made a little tune he 
 called ' The Swing,' with a minor accompaniment recurring 
 again and again, and a pretty modulation. 
 
 ' It is exactly like a swing,' said Dolly. ' George, you 
 must have a cathedral some day, and make them sing all 
 the services through.' 
 
 ' I shall not be a clergyman,' said George, gravely. ' It 
 is all very well for Morgan, who is desperately in love. He 
 has often told me that it would be his ruin if he were 
 separated from Mrs. Carbuxy.' 
 
 George, during his stay in Old Street (he had boarded 
 there for some weeks dming Lady Sarah's absence), had 
 been installed general confidante and sympathiser, and was 
 most deeply interested in the young couple's prospects. 
 
 ' I believe Aunt Sarah has got a living when old Mr. 
 Livermore dies,' he went on, shutting up the piano and 
 coming to the table where Dolly was drawing. ' We must get 
 her to present it to John Morgan.' 
 
 ' But she always says it is for you, George, now that the 
 money is lost,' said Dolly. ' I am afraid it will not be any 
 use asking her. George, how much is prudent ? ' 
 
 ' How much is how much ? ' says George, looking with 
 his odd blue eyes. 
 
 ' I meant prudent to marry on ? ' says Dolly. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know,' says George, indifferently. ' I shall 
 marry on anything I may happen to have.' 
 
 ' What are you children talking about ? ' said Lady Sarahj 
 looking up from her corner by the farthest chimney-piece. 
 She liked one particular place by the fire, from which she 
 could look down the room at the two heads that were bend- 
 ing together over the round table, and out into the garden. 
 
THE BOW-WINDOWED HOUSE. 73 
 
 where a west wind was blowing, and tossing clouds and ivy 
 sprays. 
 
 'We are talking about prudence in marriage,' says 
 George. 
 
 ' How can you be so silly ! ' says Lady Sarah, sharply, 
 At which George starts up offended and marches through 
 the window into the garden. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' said the widow. ' Yes, Dolly, go to him,' 
 she said, in answer to Dolly's pleading eyes. ' Foolish boy ! ' 
 
 The girl was already gone. Her aunt watched the white 
 figure, flying with wind-blown locks and floating skirts along 
 the ivy wall. Dolly caught her brother up by the speckled 
 holly-tree, and the two went on together, proceeding in step 
 to a triumphant music of sparrows overhead, a wavering of 
 ivy along their path ; soft winds blew everywhere, scattering 
 light leaves ; the summer's light was in the day, and shining 
 from the depth of Dolly's grey eyes. The two went and sat 
 down on the bench by the pond, the old stone-edged pond, 
 that reflected scraps of the blue green overhead ; a couple 
 of gold-fishes alternately darted from side to side. George 
 forgot that he was not understood as he sat there throwing 
 pebbles into the water. Presently the wind brought some 
 sudden voices close at hand, and, looking up, they saw two 
 people advancing from the house, Eobert Henley walking 
 by Lady Sarah and carrying her old umbrella. 
 
 ' Oh, he is always coming,' said George, kicking his 
 heels, and not seeming surprised. ' He is staying with his 
 grandmother at the Palace, but they don't give him enough 
 to eat, and so he drops into the Morgans', and now he comes 
 here.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Dolly, looking round. 
 
 Eobert Henley was a tall, handsome young fellow, about 
 twenty, with a straight nose and a somewhat pompous 
 manner. He was very easy and good-natured when it was not 
 
74 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 too much trouble ; he would patronise people both younger 
 and older than himself with equally good intentions, 
 George's early admiration for his cousin I fear is now 
 tinged with a certain jealousy of which Eobert is utterly 
 unconscious; he takes the admiration for granted. He 
 comes up and gives Dolly an affable kiss. ' "Well, Dolly, 
 have you learnt to talk French ? I want to hear all about 
 Paris.' 
 
 'What shall I tell you?' says simple Dolly, greatly 
 excited. ' We had such a pretty drawing-room, Eobert, 
 with harps on all the doors, and yellow sofas, and such a 
 lovely, lovely view.' And Lady Sarah smiled at Dolly's 
 enthusiasm, and asked Eobert if he could stay to dinner. 
 
 ' I shall be delighted,' says Eobert, just like a man of 
 the world. ' My grandmother has turned me out for the day.' 
 
( 75 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 A SNOW GARDEN. 
 
 For every shrub, and every blade of grass, 
 And every pointed thorn seemed wrought in glass } 
 In pearls and rubies rich the haTrthorns show, 
 While through the ice the crimson berries glow . , 
 The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, 
 Glazed over, in the freezing sether shine ; 
 The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, 
 That wave and glitter in the distant sun. 
 
 — Phillips. 
 
 Is it tliat evening or another that they were all assembled 
 in the little bow-windowed drawing-room in Old Street 
 listening to one of Ehoda's interminable ' pieces ' that she 
 learnt at her French school ? And then came a quartette, 
 but she broke down in the accompaniment, and Greorge 
 turned her off the music-stool. 
 
 The doors were open into John's inner room, from which 
 came a last western gleam of light through the narrow win- 
 dows, and beyond the medlar-tree. It would have been dark 
 in the front room, but for those western windows. In one of 
 them sat Lady Sarah leaning back in John's old leathern 
 chair, sitting and listening with her hands lying loosely 
 crossed in her lap ; as she listened to the youthful din 
 of music and voices and the strumming piano and the 
 laughter. She had come by Dolly's special request. Her 
 presence was considered an honour by Mrs. Morgan, but an 
 effort at the same time. In her endeavours to entertain her 
 
r6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 guest, Mrs. Morgan, bolt upright in another corner, had 
 fallen asleep, and was nodding her head in this silent inner 
 room. There was noise and to spare in the front room, 
 people in the street outside stopped to listen to the 
 music. 
 
 When George began to play it seemed another musio 
 altogether coming out of the old cracked yellow piano , 
 smash, bang, crack, he flew at it, thumping the keys, missing 
 half the notes, sometimes jumbling the accompaniment, but 
 seizing the tune and spirit of the music with a genuine feel- 
 ing that was irresistible. 
 
 ' Now all together,' cries Greorge, getting excited. 
 
 It was an arrangement of one of Mendelssohn's four-part 
 songs. ' As pants the hart,' sang Ehoda, shrill and sweet, 
 leading the way. ' As pants the hart,' sang Greorge, "with a 
 sort of swing. ' As pants the hart,' sang Dolly, carefully and 
 restrainedly. She sang with great precision for a child of 
 her age, quietly, steadily ; but even her brother's enthusiasm 
 did not inspire her. Greorge flung his whole impulse into 
 his music, and banged a chord at her in indignation at her 
 tameness. John Morgan piped away with a face of the 
 greatest seriousness, following his pupil's lead ; he had much 
 respect for Greorge's musical capabilities. Cassie and Zoe 
 sang one part together, and now and then Robert Henley 
 came out with a deep trumpet-like note, placing it when he 
 saw an opportunity. Dolly laughed the first time, biit 
 Ehoda's dark eyes were raised admiringly. So they all stood 
 in the twilight, nodding their heads and clearing their 
 voices, happy and harmlessly absorbed. They might have 
 stood for a choir of angels; any one of the old Italian 
 masters might have painted them as they sang, with the 
 addition of Ulies and wings, and gold glories, and the little 
 cherubim who seemed to have flitted quite innocently out of 
 ancient mythologies into the Legende Doree of our own 
 
A SNOW GARDEN. 77 
 
 days ; indififerently holding the music for a St. Cecilia, or the 
 looking-glass for the Mother of Love. 
 
 Dolly, -with her flowing locks, stood like a little rigid 
 Eaphael maiden, with eyes steadily fixed upon her scroll. 
 Ehoda blushed, and shrilled and brightened. How well a 
 golden glory would have become her dark cloudy hair. 
 
 As the room darkened Cassie set some lights, and they 
 held them to read their music by. Greorge kept them all at 
 work, and gave no respite except to Ehoda, whose feel- 
 ings he feared he had hurt. ' Please come and turn over 
 my music, Ehoda,' he said. ' Dolly's not half quick 
 enough.' 
 
 He had found some music in an old box at home the day 
 before, some old-fashioned glees, with a faded and flourishing 
 dedication to the Eight Honourable the Countess of Church^ 
 town, and then in faint ink, S. C. 1799. 
 
 It was easy music, and they all got on well enough, pick- 
 ing out the notes. Lady Sarah could remember her mother 
 playing that same old ballad of ' Ye gentlemen of England' 
 when she was herself quite a little girl. One old tune after 
 another came, and mingled with Mrs. Morgan's sleeping, 
 Lady Sarah's waking dreams of the past that was her own, 
 and of the future that was to be for others ; as the tunes 
 struck upon her ear, they seemed to her like the new lives 
 all about her repeating the old notes with fresh voices and 
 feelings. George was in high good humour, behaving very 
 well until Eobert displeased him by taking somebody else's 
 part ; the boy stopped short, and there might have been some 
 discussion, but Mrs. Morgan's fat maid came in with the tray 
 of gingerbread nuts, and the madeira and orange wine, that 
 the hospitable old lady delighted to dispense, and set it down 
 with a jingle in the back-room where the elder ladies were 
 sitting. 
 
 This gingerbread tray was the grand closing scene of the 
 
78 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 entertainment, and Eobert afifably handed the wine-glasses, 
 and John Morgan, seizing the gingerbread nuts, began scat- 
 tering them all about the room as he forced them upon his 
 unwilling guests. He had his sermon to jSnish for the next 
 day, and he did not urge them to remain. There was a little 
 chattering in the hall : Dolly was tied up and kissed and 
 tucked up in her shawl ; Lady Sarah donned a capoche (as I 
 think she called it) ; they stepped out into the little star-lit 
 street, of which the go-to-bed lights were already biirning in 
 the upper windows. Higher still Orion and his mighty 
 company looked down upon the humble illumination of the 
 zigzag roofs. The door of the bow- windowed house opened 
 to let out the voices. ' Grood-night,' cried everybody, and 
 then the door closed and all was silent again, except for the 
 footsteps travelling down the street. 
 
 Plfteen or twenty years ago, as I have said, Dolly Van- 
 borough and the other ladies and gentlemen her contem- 
 poraries were not the respectable middle-aged people they 
 are now, but for the most part foolish young folks just 
 beginning their lives, looking out upon the world with 
 respectful eyes, arrogant, — perhaps dogmatic, uncertain, — 
 but with a larger belief, perhaps a more heroic desire, than 
 exists among them now. To-day, for a good many of them, 
 expediency seems a great discovery, and the stone that is to 
 turn everything to gold. Take things as you find them, do 
 so and so, not because you feel inclined, or because it is 
 right and generous, but because the neighbours are looking 
 on, it is expected of you ; and then, with our old friend the 
 donkey-man, we stagger off, carrying the ass upon our 
 shoulders. I suppose it is a law of nature that the horizon 
 should lower as we climb down the hill of life, only some 
 people look upwards always, ' And stumble among the briers 
 and tumble into the well.' This is true enough, as regards 
 my heroine, who was often in trouble, often disappointed, 
 
A SNOW GARDEN. 79 
 
 ashamed, angry, but who will persist in her star-gazing to 
 the end of her journey. 
 
 When Dolly was nearly fifteen, her brother George was 
 eighteen, and had just gone to college, starting in high 
 spirits, and with visions of all the letters of the alphabet 
 before him, and many other honourable distinctions. Dolly, 
 dazzled, helped to pack his portmanteau. 
 
 ' Oh, I wish I was going too ! ' Dolly said ; ' girls never do 
 anything, or go anywhere.' 
 
 ' Mamma wants you to go to India,' said Greorge. 
 
 ' But the Admiral won't have me,' says Dolly ; ' he wrote 
 to Aunt Sarah about it, and said they were coming 
 home. Are you going to take all these pipes and French 
 novels ? ' 
 
 ' I can never study without a pipe,' said George ; * and I 
 must keep up my French.' 
 
 Dolly and Lady Sarah were disappointed when George, 
 notwithstanding these appliances for study, returned with- 
 out any special distinctions. The first Christmas that he 
 came back, he brought Eobert Henley with him. The old 
 grandmother in the Palace was dead, and the young man 
 had no longer a lodging in Kensington. The two arrived 
 after dinner, and found Lady Sarah established by the fire in 
 the oak parlour. They had come up driving through a 
 fierce Christmas wind from the station, and were glad of 
 Dolly's welcome and comfortable cups of tea. 
 
 When Dolly awoke next morning up in her little room, 
 the whole country was white with snow. The iron wind was 
 gone, the rigid breath of winter had sobbed itself away, the 
 soft new-fallen snow lay heaped on the fields and the hedges, 
 on the fir-trees and laurels. Dolly ran to the window. 
 George and Eobert were out in the garden already. Over- 
 head was a blue, high heaven ; the white snow-country she 
 could see through her window was sparkling and dazzling 
 
So OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 white. Sharp against the heavens stood the delicate 
 branches of the trees, prismatic lights were radiating from 
 the sloping lawns, a light veil of fallen drift wreathed the 
 distant coppices ; and Dolly, running downstairs soon after, 
 found the dining-room empty, except for the teapot, and 
 she carried her breakfast to the window. She had scarcely 
 finished when George and Eobert both came tapping at the 
 pane. 
 
 ' Come out,' cried Greorge. 
 
 ' Let her finish her breakfast,' said Eobert. ' 
 
 ' I've done,' cried Dolly, gaily jumping up and running 
 to fetch her hat and her coat, and to tie up her long skirts. 
 Dolly possessed a warm fur cloak, which had been Lady 
 Sarah's once, in the days of her prosperity, and which 
 became the girl so well that her aunt liked her to wear it. 
 Henley, standing by a frozen cabbage in the kitchen-garden, 
 watched her approvingly as she came along the snowy path. 
 All her brown furs were glistening comfortably ; the scarlet 
 feather in her hat had caught the light and reflected it on her 
 hair. 
 
 Dolly's hair was very much the colour of seal-skin, two- 
 coloured, the hollows of its rippling locks seemed dark 
 while the crests shone like gold. There was something 
 autumnal in her colours. Dolly's was a brilliant russet 
 autumn, with grey skies and red berries and warm lights. 
 She had tied a scarlet kerchief round her neck, but the 
 snow did not melt for all her bright colours. How pretty it 
 was I leaves lying crisped and glittering upon the white 
 foaming heaps, tiny tracks here and there crossing the path- 
 ways, and then the bird-steps, like chainlets lightly laid upon 
 the smooth, white field. Where the sun had melted the 
 snow in some sheltered comer, some red-breasts were hopping 
 and bobbing ; the snow-sheets glittered, lying heavy on 
 the laurel-leaves on the low fruit walls. 
 
A SNOV/ GARDEN. 8i 
 
 Robert watclied. her coming, with her honest smiling face. 
 She stopped at the end of the walk to clear away a corner of 
 the bed, where a little colony of snowdrops lay crushed by 
 a tiny avalanche that had fallen upon their meek heads. It 
 was the work of an instant, but in that instant Dolly's future 
 fate was decided. 
 
 For, as my heroine comes advancing unconscious through 
 this snow and diamond morning, Henley thinks that is the 
 realization of a dream he has sometimes dreamt, and that 
 the mistress of his future home stands there before him, 
 bright and bonnie, handsome and outspoken. Dorothy rules 
 him with the ascendency of a youthful, indifferent heart, 
 strong in its own reliance and hope ; and yet this maiden is 
 not the person that she thinks herself, nor is she the person 
 that Henley thinks her. She is strong, but with an artificial 
 strength not all her own ; strong in the love of those round 
 about her, strong in youth and in ignorance of evil. 
 
 They walked together down the garden walks and out 
 into the lanes, and home again across the stile. ' Dolly,' 
 said Eobert, as they were going in, ' I shall not forget our 
 morning's expedition together — will you, too, promise me 
 
 ? ' He stopped short. ' What are those ? ' he said, 
 
 sentimentally ; ' snowdrops ? ' and he stooped to pick one or 
 two. Dolly also turned away. ' Here is something that will 
 remind you ' Eobert began. 
 
 'And you,' cries Dolly, flinging a great snow heap 
 suddenly into his face and running away. It was very 
 babyish and vulgar, but Robert looked so solemn that she. 
 could not resist the impulse. He walked back to the house 
 greatly offended. 
 
8a OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 BABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANQEL. 
 
 Christ hath sent us down the angels, 
 
 And the whole earth and the skies 
 
 Are illumed by altar-candles, 
 
 Lit for blessed mysteries. 
 
 And a Priest's hand through creation 
 
 Waveth calm and consecration. . . . 
 
 — E. B. B. 
 
 Sometimes winter days come in autumn, just as hours of old 
 age and middle age seem to start out of their places in the 
 due rotation of life and to meet us on the way. One Octo- 
 ber evening in the following year a damp fog was spreading 
 over London, the lights from the windows streamed faintly 
 upon the thick veils of vapour. Many noisy shadows were 
 out and about, for it was Saturday night, and the winding 
 Kensington thoroughfare was almost blocked by the trucks 
 and the passers-by. It was only six o'clock, but the last 
 gleam of light had died away behind the western chimney- 
 tops ; and with the darkness and notwithstanding the fog^ 
 a cheerful saturnalia had begfun. A loitering, a clamouring 
 through the clouds of mist, witches with and without broom- 
 sticks, little imps darting through the crowd, flaring trucks 
 drawn up along the road, housewives bargaining their 
 Sunday dinners. It seemed a confusion of darkness, candles, 
 paper-shades, oranges, and what not. Now and then some 
 quiet West End carriage would roll by, with lamps burning, 
 through the mist, and horses trampling steadily. Here and 
 
RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL. 8j 
 
 there, a bending head might be seen in some lighted window 
 — it was before the time of Saturday half-holidays — the 
 forge was blazing and hard at work, clink clank fell the 
 iron strokes, and flames flashed from the furnace. 
 
 Beyond the church, and the arch, and the forge, the 
 shop-lights cease, the fog seems to thicken, and a sudden 
 silence to fall upon everything ; while the great veils spread 
 along the road, hiding away how many faces, hearths, and 
 homelike rays. There are sometimes whole years in one's 
 life that seem so buried beneath some gloomy shadow ; 
 people come and go, lights are burning, and voices sound, 
 but the darkness hangs over everything, and the sun never 
 seems to rise. A dull-looking broad-shouldered young man 
 with a beard had come elbowing his way through the crowd, 
 looking about him as he came along. After a moment's 
 hesitation he turned up a side lane, looming away out of 
 the region of lamps. It was so black and silent that he 
 thought at first he must have been mistaken. He had been 
 carefully directed, but there seemed no possibility of a house. 
 He could just make out two long walls ; a eat ran hissing 
 along the top of one of them, a wet foggy wind flickered in 
 his face, and a twig broke from some branch overhead. 
 Frank Eaban, for it was he, wondered if the people he was 
 in search of could be roosting on the trees or hiding behind 
 the walls this damp evening. 
 
 He was turning back in despair when suddenly a door 
 opened, with a flash of light, through the brickwork, and a 
 lantern was held out. 
 
 ' Good-night,' said a loud, cheerful voice ; ' why, your 
 street lamp is out ; take my arm, Zoe. Gro in, Dorothea, you 
 will catch cold.' And two figures, issuing from the wall like 
 apparitions in the Arabian Nights, passed by hurrying 
 along— a big, comfortable great-coat and a small dark thing 
 tripping beside it. Meanwhile, the person who had let them 
 
84 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 out peeped for an instant into the blackness, holding the 
 lantern high up so as to throw its light upon the lane. 
 There came a sudden revelation of the crannies of an old 
 brick wall; of creeping, gi-een ivy, rustling in the light 
 which seemed to flow from leaf to leaf; and of a young 
 face smiling upon the dim vapours. It was all like the slide 
 of a magic-lantern passing on the darkness. Eaban almost 
 hesitated to come forward, but the door was closing on the 
 shining phantasmagoria. 
 
 ' Does Lady Sarah Francis live here ? ' he said, coming up. 
 
 The girl started — looked at him. She, in turn, saw a 
 red beard and a pale face appearing unexpectedly, and with 
 a not uanatural impulse she half closed the door. ' Yes,' 
 she said, retreating a step or two towards the house, which 
 Eaban could now see standing ghost-like within the outer 
 wall. It was dimly lighted, here and there, from the deep 
 windows ; it seemed covered with tangled creepers ; over 
 the open hall door an old-fashioned stone canopy still hung, 
 dripping with fog and ow^ergrown with ivy. 
 
 The girl, with her laatem, stood waiting on the steps. 
 A blooming maiden, in a dark green dress, cut in some 
 quaint old-fashioned way, and slashed with black. Her 
 dress was made of coarse homely stuff, but a gold chain 
 hung round her neck ; it twinkled in the lantern light. Her 
 reddish-brown hair was pinned up in pretty twists, and some 
 berries gUstend among its coils. 
 
 ' If you want to see Lady Sarah,' she said, a little im- 
 patiently, ' come in, and shut the garden door. ' 
 
 He did as he was bid. She ran up the steps into the 
 house, and stood waiting in the old hall, scanning him still 
 by her lamplight. She had put the lantern on a corner of 
 the carved chimney-sill, from whence its glimmers fell upon 
 oaken panels and black-and-white flags of marble, upon a 
 dark oak staircase winding up into the house. 
 
RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL. S5 
 
 ' "Will you go in there ? ' said the girl, in a low voice, 
 pointing to an open door. 
 
 Then she quickly and noiselessly barred and fixed the 
 heavy bolts ; her hands slid along the old iron hasps and 
 hooks. Eaban stood watching her at work ; he found 
 himself comparing her to an ivy plant, she seemed to 
 bloom so freshly in the damp and darkness, as she went 
 moving hither and thither in her odd green gown. The 
 next minute she was springing up the staircase. She 
 stopped, however, on the landing, and leaned over the 
 banisters to point again, with a stiff qidck gesture, to the 
 open door. 
 
 Eaban at last remembered that he had not given his 
 name. ' Will you kindly say that ' 
 
 But the green dress was gone, and Eaban could only 
 walk ii^o the dark room, and make his way through un- 
 known passes, to a smouldering fire dying on the hearth. 
 On his way he tumbled over a growl, a squeak. Then a 
 chair went down, and a cat gave a yell, and sprang into 
 the hall. It was an odd sort of place, and not like any- 
 thing that Eaban had expected. The usual proprieties of 
 life have this advantage, that people know what is coming, 
 and pull at a wire with a butler or a parlour-maid at 
 the other end of it, who also know their parts and in 
 their turn correspond with an invisible lady upstairs, at 
 the right-hand corner of the drawing room fire-place. She 
 is prepared to come forward with a nice bow, and to 
 point to the chair opposite, which is usually on castors, so 
 that you can pull it forward, and as you sit down you 
 say, ' I daresay you may remember,' or ' I have been 
 meaning to,' or, &c. 
 
 But the whole machinery seemed wanting here, and 
 Frank Eaban remained in the dark, looking through the 
 unshuttered black windows, or at the smouldering ashes at 
 
86 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 his feet. At first he speculated on the ivy-maiden, and then 
 as the minutes went by and no one came, his mind travelled 
 back through darkness all the way to the last time he had 
 met Lady Sarah Francis, and the old sickening feeling came 
 over him at the thought of the past. In these last few 
 years he had felt that he must either fight for life or sink 
 for ever. It was through no merit of his own that he had 
 not been utterly wrecked ; that he was here to-night, come 
 to repay the debt he owed ; that, more fortunate than 
 many, he had struggled to shore. Kind hands had been 
 held out to help him to drag safe out of the depths. 
 Lady Sarah's was the first ; then came the younger, firmer 
 grasp of some of his companions, whom he had left but 
 a year or two ago in the old haunts, before his unlucky 
 start in life. It was habit that had taken him back to 
 these old haunts at a time when, by a fortunate, chance, 
 work could be found for him to do. His old friends did 
 not fail him; they asked no questions; they did not try 
 to probe his wounds ; they helped him to the best of theii' 
 ability, and stood by him as men stand by each other, par- 
 ticularly young men. No one was surprised when Mr. 
 Eaban was elected to one of the tutorships at All Saints'. 
 He had taken a good degree, he had been popular in his 
 time, though now he could not be called a popular man. 
 Some wondered that it should be worth his while to settle 
 down upon so small an inducement. Henley^ of St. 
 Thomas's, had refused it when it was pressed upon him. 
 Perhaps Eaban had private means. He had lived like a 
 rich man, it was said, after he left college. Poor Frank ! 
 Those two fatal years had eaten up the many lean kine that 
 were to follow. All he had asked for now was work, and a 
 hope of saving up enough to repay those wb<» had trusted 
 him in his dismay. His grandfather had refused to see him 
 after his marriage. Frank was too proud a man to make 
 
RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL. 87 
 
 advances, but not too proud to work. He gratefully took 
 the first chance that came in his way. The morning he 
 was elected he went to thank one or two of his supporters. 
 He just shook hands, and said ' Thank you ; ' but they did 
 not want any fine speeches, nor was Frank inclined to make 
 them. 
 
 Three years are very long to some people, while they are 
 short to others. Mrs. Palmer had spent them away from her 
 children not unpleasantly, except for one or two passing dif- 
 ferences with the Admiral, who had now, it was said, taken 
 to offering up public prayers for Philippa's conversion. 
 Lady Sarah had grown old in three years. She had had ill- 
 ness and money troubles, and was a poor woman compara- 
 tively speaking. Her hair had turned white, her face had 
 shrunk, while Dolly had bloomed into brightness, and Frank 
 Baban had grown into middle age, as far as hope and feeling 
 went. There he sat in the warm twilight, thinking of the 
 past — ah, how sadly ! He was strong enough for to-day, 
 and not without trust in the future ; but he was still almost 
 hopeless when he thought of the past. He had not forgiven 
 himself. His was not a forgiving nature, and as long as he 
 lived, those two fatal years of his life would make part of 
 bis sorrowful experience. Once Sarah Francis had tried to 
 tell him — (but many things cannot be understood except by 
 those who have first learnt the language) — that for some 
 people the only possible repentance is to do better. Mere 
 repentance, that dwelling upon past misery and evil doing, 
 which people call remorse, is, as often as not, madness and 
 meaningless despair. 
 
 Sometimes Frank wondered now at the irritation which 
 had led him to rebel so furiously at his fate. Poor, gentle 
 fktel he could scarcely understand his impatience with it 
 now. Perhaps, if Emma had lived 
 
 We often, in om- blindness, take a bit of our life, and look 
 
88 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 at it apart as an ended history. We take a phase incomplete, 
 only begun, perhaps, for the finished and irrevocable whole. 
 Irrevocable it may be, in one sense, but who shall say that 
 the past is completed because it is past, any more than that 
 we ourselves are completed because we must die ? Frank 
 had not come to look at his own personal misdoings philoso- 
 phically (as what honest man or woman would), or with any- 
 thing but shrinking pain, as yet ; he could bear no allusion 
 to those sad days. 
 
 ' You know Paris well, I believe Mr. Eaban,' said some 
 /oung lady. ' How long is it since ' 
 
 He looked so odd and angry that she stopped quite fright- 
 ened. Dark fierce lines used to come under his heavy eyes 
 at the smallest attempt to revive what was still so recent 
 and vivid. If it was rude he could not help it. 
 
 He never spoke of himself. Strangers used to think Eaban 
 odd and abrupt when he sometimes left them in the middle 
 of a sentence, or started away and did not answer. His old 
 friends thought him cihanged, but after a great crisis we are 
 used to see people harder. And this one talks, and you 
 think he has told you all ; and that one is silent, and he 
 thinks he has told you nothing. And feelings come and go, 
 the very power to understand them comes and goes, gifts 
 and emotions pass, our inmost feelings change as we go on 
 wandering through the narrow worlds that lie along the 
 commonest commonplaces and ways of life. Into what 
 worlds had poor Frank been wandering as he stood watch- 
 ing the red lights dull into white ashes by the blue tiles of 
 the hearth ! 
 
 Presently a lantern and two dark heads passed the 
 window. 
 
 ' Where is he ? ' said a voice in the hall. ' Dolly, did 
 you say Mr. Eaban was here ? What ! all in the dark ? ' 
 
 The voice had reached the door by this time, and some 
 
RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL. 89 
 
 one came and stood there for an instant. How well he re- 
 membered the kindly croaking tones I When he heard 
 them again, it seemed to him as if they had only finished 
 speaking a minute before. 
 
 Some one came and stood for an instant at the doorway. 
 No blooming young girl with a bright face and golden head, 
 but a grey-haired woman, stooping a little as she walked. 
 She came forward slowly, set her light upon the table, and 
 then looked at him with a pair of kind shaggy eyes, and 
 put out her long hand as of old. 
 
 Kaban felt his heart warm towards the shabby face, the 
 thick kindly brows. Once that woman's face had seemed to 
 him like an angel's in his sorest need. Who says angels must 
 be all young and splendid ; will there not be some comforting 
 ones, shabby and tender, whose radiance does not dazzle nor 
 bewilder ; whose faces are worn, perhaps, while their stars 
 shine with a gentle tremulous light, more soothing to our 
 aching, earth-bound hearts than the glorious radiance of 
 brighter spirits ? Eaban turned very red when he saw his 
 old friend. ' How could you know I was here ? You have 
 not forgotten me ? ' he said ; not in his usual reluctant way, 
 but speaking out with a gentle tone in his voice. ' I should 
 
 have come before, but I ' Here he began to stammer 
 
 and to feel in his pocket. ' Here it is,' and he pulled out a 
 packet. ' If it hadn't been for you I should never have had 
 tbe heart to set to work again. I don't know what I should 
 have done,' he repeated, ' but for you.' And then he looked 
 at her for an instant, and then, with a sudden impulse, Eaban 
 stooped — as he did so she saw his eyes were glistening — he 
 stooped ap J kissed her cheek. 
 
 ' Why, my dear ? ' said Lady Sarah, blushing up. She 
 had not had many kisses in her life Some people would 
 as soon have thought of kissing the poker and tongs. 
 
 Frank blushed up too and looked a little foolish ; but he 
 
90 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 quickly sobered down again. ' You will find it all right,' 
 said Eaban, folding her long thin hand over the little parcel, 
 ' and good-night, and thank you.' 
 
 Still Lady Sarah hesitated. She could not bear to take 
 it. She felt as though he had paid her twice over ; that she 
 ought to give it back to him, and say, ' Here, keep it. I 
 don't want your money, only your kiss and your friendship. 
 I was glad to help you.' She looked up in his pale face in 
 a strange wistful way, scanning it with her grey eyes. 
 They almost seemed to speak, and to say, ' You don't know 
 how I want it, or I would not take it from you.' 
 
 ' How changed you are ! ' she said at last, speaking very 
 slowly. ' I am afraid you have been working too hard to 
 
 pay me. I oughtn't to ' He was almost annoyed by 
 
 this wistful persistency. Why did she stand hesitating? 
 Why did she not take it, and put it in her pocket, and have 
 done with it ? Now again she was looking at the money with a 
 pathetic look. And meanwhile Eaban was wondering, Could 
 it be that this woman cared for money — this woman, who 
 had forced her help upon him so generously ? He hated 
 himself for the thought. This was the penalty, he told 
 himself, for his own past life. This fatal suspicion and mis- 
 trust of others : even his benefactress was not to be spared. 
 
 'I must be going,' he said, starting away in his old stiff 
 manner. ' You will let me come again, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' Come again I Of course you wiU come again,' Lady 
 Sarah said, laying her thin fingers on his arm. ' I shall not 
 let you go now until you have seen my Dolly.' And so saying, 
 she led him back into the hall. ' Gro in, you will find her 
 there. I will come back,' said Lady Sarah, abruptly, with 
 her hand on the door-handle. She looked quite old and feeble 
 as she leant against the oak. Then again she seemed to re- 
 member herself. ' You — you will not say anything of this,' 
 she added, with a sudden imploring look ; and she opened 
 
RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL. 51 
 
 her thin fingers, still clutching the packet of bank-notes and 
 gold, and closed them again. 
 
 Then he saw her take the lantern from the chimney and 
 hurriedly toil up the stairs, and he felt somehow that she 
 was going to hide it away. 
 
 What would he have thought if he could have seen her 
 Bafe in her own room, with the sovereigns spread out upon 
 the bed and the bank-notes, while the poor soul stood eagerly 
 counting over her store. Yes, she loved money, but there 
 were things she loved still more. Sarah Francis, alone in 
 the world, might have been a miser if she had not loved 
 Dolly so dearly — Dolly, who was Stan's daughter. There 
 was always just this difference between Lady Sarah and open- 
 handed people. With them money means little — a moment's 
 weakness, a passing interest. With Lady Sarah to give was 
 doubt, not pleasure ; it meant disorder in her balanced 
 schemes ; it meant truest self-denial : to give was to bestow 
 on others what she meant for Dolly's future ease and liap- 
 piness ; and yet she gave. 
 
92 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 DOROTHEA BY FIEELIttHT. 
 
 The waunut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
 An' leetle fires danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser ; 
 The veiy room, coz she was in, 
 Looked warm from floor to ceilin'. 
 
 — ^Lowell. 
 
 Ladt Sarah had left Eaban to go into the drawing-rooin 
 alone. It was all very strange, he thought, and more and 
 more like a crazy dream. He found himself in a long room 
 of the colour of firelight, with faded hangings, sweeping 
 mysteriously from the narrow windows, with some old chan- 
 deliers swinging from the shadows. It seemed to him, 
 though he could not clearly see them, that there were ghosts 
 sitting on the chairs, denizens of the kingdom of mystery, 
 and that there was a vague flit and consternation in the 
 darkness at the farther end of the room, when through the 
 opening door the gleam of the lantern, which by this time 
 was travelling upstairs, sped on with a long slanting flash. 
 For a moment he thought the place was empty ; the atmo- 
 sphere was very warm and still ; the firelight blazed comfort- 
 ably ; a coal started from the grate, then came a breath, a 
 long, low, sleepy breath from a far-away corner. Was this 
 a ghost ? And then, as his eyes got accustomed, he saw that 
 the girl who had let him in sat crouching by the fire. Her 
 
DOROTHEA BY FIRELIGHT. 93 
 
 face was turned a vay ; the light fell upon her throat and the 
 harmonious lines oi her figure. Eaban, looking at her, 
 thought of one of Licnardo's figures in the Louvre. But 
 this was finer than a Lionardo. What is it in some attitudes 
 that is so still, and yet that thrills with a coming movement 
 of life and action ? It is life, not inanimately resting, but 
 suspended from motion as we see it in the old Greek art. 
 That flying change from the now to the futm-e is a wonder 
 sometimes written in stone ; it belongs to the greatest 
 creations of genius as well as to the living statues and pic- 
 tures among which we live. 
 
 So Dolly, unconscious, was a work of art, as she warmed 
 her hands at the fire : her long draperies were heaped round 
 about her, her hair caught the light and burnt like gold. 
 If Miss Vanborough had been a conscious work of art she 
 might have remained in her pretty attitude, but being a 
 girl of sixteen, simple and somewhat brusque in manners, 
 utterly ignoring the opinions of others, she started up and 
 came to meet Eaban, advancing quick through the dimness 
 and the familiar labyrinth of chairs. 
 
 ' Hush — sh ! ' she said, pointing to a white heap in a 
 further corner, ' Ehoda is asleep ; she has been ill, and we 
 have brought her here to nurse.' Then she went back in 
 the same quick silence, brought a light from the table, and 
 beckoning to him to follow her, led the way to the very 
 darkest and shadiest end of the long drawing-room, where 
 the ghosts had been fiitting before them. There was a tall 
 oak chair, in which she established herself. There was an 
 old cabinet and a sofa, and a faded Italian shield of looking- 
 glass, reflecting waves of brown and reddish light. Again 
 Dolly motioned. Eaban was to sit down there on the sofa 
 opposite. 
 
 Since he had come into the house he had done little but 
 obey the orders he had received. He was amused and not 
 
94 OLD KENSINGTON, 
 
 a little mystified by this young heroine's silent imperious 
 manners. He did not admire them, and yet he could not help 
 watching her, half in wonder, half in admiration of her beauty. 
 She, as I have said, did not think of speculating upon the 
 impression she had created : she had other business on hand. 
 
 ' I knew you at once,' said Dolly, with the hardihood of 
 sixteen, ' when I saw you at the gate.' As she spoke in her 
 girlish voice, somehow the mystery seemed dispelled, and 
 Eaban began to realise that this was only a drawing-room 
 and a young lady after all. 
 
 ' Ever since your letter came last year,' she continued, 
 unabashed, ' I have hoped that you would come, and-^and you 
 have paid her the money she lent you, have you not ? ' said the 
 girl, looking into his face doubtfully, and yet confidingly top. 
 Eaban answered by an immense stare. He was a man 
 almost foolishly fastidious and reserved. He was coiripletely 
 taken aback and shocked by her want of discretion — so he 
 chose to consider it. Dolly, unused to the ways of the world, 
 had not yet appreciated those refinements of delicacy with 
 which people envelop the simplest facts of life. 
 
 As for Eaban, he was at aU times imcomfortably silent 
 respecting himself. ' Dolly ' conveyed no meaning whatever 
 to his mind, although he might have guessed who she was. 
 Even if Lady Sarah had not asked it of him, he would not 
 have answered her. Whatever they may say, reserved people 
 pique themselves upon some mental superiority in the reser- 
 vations they make. Miss Vanborough misinterpreted the 
 meaning of the young man's confused looks and silence. 
 
 He had not paid the money ! she was sorry. Oh, how 
 welcome it would have been for Aunt Sarah's sake and for 
 G-eorge's sake I Poor George I how should she ever ask for 
 money for him now ? Her face fell ; she tried to speak of 
 other things to hide her disappointment. Now she wished 
 she had not asked the question— it must be so uncom- 
 
DOROTHEA BY FIRELIGHT. 95 
 
 fortable for Mr. Eaban she thought. She tried to talk on , 
 one little sentence came jerking out after another, and Eaban 
 answered more or less stifHy. ' Was he not at Cambridge ? 
 Did he know her brother there — George Vanborough ? ' 
 
 Eaban looked surprised, and said, 'Yes, he knew a 
 Mr. Vanborough slightly. He had known him at his tutor s 
 years before.' Here a vision of a stumpy young man 
 flourishing a tankard rose before him. Could he be this 
 beautiful girl's brother ? 
 
 ' Did he know her cousin, Eobert Henley ? ' continued 
 Dolly, eagerly. 
 
 Eaban (who had long avoided Henley's companionship) 
 answered even more stiffly that he did not see much of him. 
 So the two talked on ; but they had got into a wrong key, 
 as people do at times, and they mutually jarred upon each 
 other. Even their silence was inharmonious. Occasionally 
 came a long, low, peaceful breath : it seemed floating on 
 the warm shadows. 
 
 Everything was perfectly commonplace, and yet to 
 Eaban there seemed an element of strangeness and incon- 
 gruity in the ways of the old house. There was something 
 weird in the "whole thing — the defiant girl, the sleeping 
 woman, Lady Sarah, with her strange hesitations and 
 emotions, and the darkness. — How differently events strike 
 people from different points of view. Here was a common- 
 place half-hour, while old Sam prepared the seven-o'clock 
 tea with Marker's help — while Ehoda slept a peaceful little 
 sleep : to Eaban it seemed a strange and puzzling experience, 
 quite out of the common run of half-hours. 
 
 Did he dislike poor Dolly ? That off-hand manner was 
 not Frank Eaban's ideal of womanliness. Lady Sarah, with 
 her chilled silence and restrained emotions, was nearer to it 
 by far, old and ugly though she was. And yet he could not 
 forget Dolly's presence for a single instant. He found him- 
 
96 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 self watching, and admiring, and speculating about her 
 almost against his will. She, too, was aware of this silent 
 scrutiny, and resented it. Dolly was more brusque and 
 iierce and uncomfortable that evening than she had ever 
 been in all her life before. Dorothea Vanborough was one 
 of those people who reflect the atmosphere somehow, whose 
 lights come and go, and whose brilliance comes and goes. 
 Dull fogs would fall upon her sometimes, at others sunlight, 
 moonlight, or faint reflected rays would beam upon her 
 world. It was a wide one, and open to all the winds of 
 heaven. 
 
 So Frank Eaban discovered when it was too late. He 
 admired her when he should have loved her. He judged 
 her in secret when he should have trusted or blamed her 
 openly. A day came when he felt he had forfeited all right 
 even to help her or to protect her, and that, while he was 
 still repenting for the past, he had fallen (as people some- 
 times do who walk backwards) into fresh pitfalls. 
 
 ' My cousin Eobert has asked me and Ehoda to spend a 
 day at Cambridge in the spring,' said Dolly, reluctantly 
 struggling on at conversation. 
 
 Frank Eaban was wondering if Lady Sarah was never 
 coming back. 
 
 There was a sigh, a movement from the distant cor- 
 ner. 
 
 ' Did you call me ? ' said a faint, shrill voice, plaintive 
 and tremulous, and a figure rose from the nest of soft shawls 
 and came slowly forward, dispersing the many wraps that 
 lay coiling on the floor. 
 
 ' Have I been asleep ? I thought Mr. Henley was 
 here ? ' said the voice, confusedly. 
 
 Dolly turned towards her. ' No, he is not here, Ehoda. 
 Sit down, don't stand ; here is Mr. Eaban come to see us.' 
 
 And then in the dim light of the fire and distant candle, 
 
DOROTHEA BY FIRELIGHT. 97 
 
 Raban saw two dark eyes looking out of a pale face that he 
 seemed to remember. 
 
 ' Mr. Eaban ! ' said the voice. 
 
 ' Have you forgotten ? ' said Dolly, hastily, going up to 
 
 1.1 le distant sofa. ' Mr. Raban, from Paris ' she began ; 
 
 then seeing he had followed her, she stopped ; she turned 
 very red. She did not want to pain him. And Raban, at 
 tlie same moment, recognised the two girls he had seen once 
 before, and remembered where it was that he had known the 
 deep grey eyes, with their look of cold repulsion and dislike. 
 
 ' Are you Mr. Raban ? ' repeated Rhoda, looking intently 
 into his face. ' I should have known you if it had not been 
 so dark.' And she instinctively put up her hand and 
 clasped something hanging round her neck. 
 
 The young man was moved. 
 
 ' I ought indeed to remember you,' he said, with sortie 
 emotion. 
 
 And as he spoke, he saw a diamond flash in the firelight. 
 This, then, was the child who had wandered down that 
 terrible night, to whom he had given his poor wife's 
 diamond cross. 
 
 Ehoda saw with some alarm that his eyes were fixed 
 upon the cross. 
 
 ' I sometimes think I ought to send this back to you,' 
 she faltered on, blushing faintly, and still holding it tight • 
 clasped in her hand. 
 
 ' Keep it,' said Raban, gravely ; ' no one has more right 
 to it than you.' Then they were all silent. 
 
 Dolly wondered why Rhoda had a right to the cross, but 
 she did not ask. 
 
 Eaban turned still more hard and more sad as the old 
 memories assailed him suddenly from every side. Here was 
 the past living over again. Though he might have softened 
 to Lady Sarah, he now hardened to himself; and, as it often 
 
 H 
 
38 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 happens, the self-inflicted pain he felt seemed reflected in 
 his manner towards the girls. 
 
 ' I know you both now,' he said, gravely, standing up. 
 ' Grood-night ; will you say good-by to your aunt for me ? ' 
 
 He did not offer to shake hands ; it was Dolly who put 
 out hers. He was very stifif, and yet there was a himible 
 look in his pale face and dark eyes that Dolly could not 
 forget. She seemed to remember it after he was gone. 
 
 Lady Sarah came in only a minute after Frank had left 
 She looked disappointed. 
 
 ' I have just met him in the hall,' she said. 
 
 ' Is he gone ? ' said Dolly. ' Aunt Sarah, he is still very 
 unhappy.' 
 
 A few minutes afterwards Khoda said what a pity that 
 Mr. Eaban was gone, when she saw how smartly the tea-table 
 was set out, how the silver candlesticks were lighted, and 
 some of the good old wine that George liked sparkling in 
 the decanter. Dolly felt as if Mr. Eaban was more dis- 
 agreeable than ever for giving so much trouble for nothing. 
 Ehoda was very much interested in Lady Sarah's visitor, 
 and asked Dolly many more questions when they were alone 
 upstairs. She had been ill, and was staying at Church 
 House to get well in quiet and away from the schoolboys. 
 
 ' Of course one can't ever like him,' Dolly said, ' but one 
 is very sorry for him. Grood-night, Ehoda.' 
 
 ' No, I don't like her,' said Eaban to himself ; and he 
 thought of Dolly all the way home. Her face haunted him. 
 He dined at his club, and drove to the shabby station in 
 Bishopsgate. He seemed to see her still as he waited for 
 his train, stamping by the station fire, and by degrees that 
 bitter vision of the past vanished away and the present 
 remained. Dolly's face seemed to float along before him all 
 the way back as the second-class carriage shook and jolted 
 through the night, out beyond London fog into a region of 
 
DOROTHEA BY FIRELIGHT. fy) 
 
 starlit plains and distant glimmering lights. Vision and 
 visionary travelled on together, until at last the train 
 slackened its thunder and stopped. A few late Cambridge 
 lights shone in the distance. It was past midnight. When 
 Raban, walking through the familiar byways, reached his 
 college-gates, he found them closed and barred ; one gas- 
 lamp flared — a garish light of to-day shining on the ancient 
 carved stones and muUions of the past. A sleepy porter let 
 him in, and as he walked across the dark court he looked up 
 and saw here and there a light burning in a window, and 
 then some far-away college-clock clanged the half-hour, then 
 another, and another, and then their own clock overhead, loud 
 and stunning. He reached his own staircase at last and opened 
 the oak door. Before going in, Raban looked up through 
 the staircase-window at George Vanborough's rooms, which 
 happened to be opposite his own. They were brilliantly 
 illuminated, and the rays streamed out and lighted up many 
 a deep lintel and sleeping-window. 
 
 h2 
 
100 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER Xril. 
 
 LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. 
 
 So ; when the instinct is stilled, and when the deed is accomplished. 
 What thou hast done, and shalt do, shall be declared to thee then ; 
 Go with the sun and the stars, and yet evermore in thy spirit 
 Say to thyself : ' It is good, yet is there better than it ; 
 This that I see is not all, and this that I do is but little, 
 Nevertheless it is good, though there is better than it.' 
 
 — A. Clotigh. 
 
 As the actors pass across the stage of life and play their 
 parts in its great drama, it is not difficult at the outset to 
 docket them for the most part ' a lawyer,' ' a speculator,' * an 
 amiable person,' ' an intelligent, prosy man,' ' a parson,' &c. ; 
 but after watching the piece a little (on this all-the-world 
 stage it is not the play that ends, but the actors and specu- 
 lators that come and go), we begin to see, that although 
 some of the performers may be suited to their parts, there 
 are others whose characters are not so well cast to the 
 piece — Robert Henley, for instance, who is not quite in his 
 element as a very young man. But every one is in earnest 
 in a certain fashion upon this life-stage, and that is why 
 we find the actors presently beginning to play their own 
 characters, instead of those which they are supposed to 
 represent — to the great confusion, very often, of the drama 
 itself. We have all read of a locksmith who had to act the 
 part of a king ; of a nephew who tried to wear his uncle's 
 iocked hat ; of a king who proclaimed himself a god ; and 
 
LITLLF BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. loi 
 
 of the confusion that ensued ; and it is the same in private 
 as in public life, where people are set to work experiments 
 in love, money, sermon, hay, or law-making, with more or 
 less aptitude for the exercise — what a strange jumble it is ! 
 Here is the lawyer making love to his client, instead of 
 writing her will ; the lover playing on the piano while his 
 mistress is expecting him ; the farmer, while his crops are 
 spoiling, pondering on the theory of original sin. Among 
 women, too, we find wives, mothers, daughters, and even 
 professed aunts and nieces, all mth their parts reversed by 
 the unkind freaks of fate. Some get on pretty well, some 
 break down utterly. The higher natures, acting from a 
 wider conception of life, will do their best to do justice to 
 the character, uncongenial though it may be, which happens 
 to be assigned to them. Perhaps they may flag now and 
 then, specially towards the middle of the performance ; but 
 by degrees they come to hear the music of ' duty done.' 
 And duty is music, though it may be a hard sort of fugue, 
 and difficult to practise — one too hard, alas, for our poor 
 Greorge as yet to master. Henley, to be sure, accomplished - 
 his ambitions ; but then it was only a one-fingered scale 
 that he attempted. 
 
 Dolly's was easy music in those early days of her life : at 
 home or in Old Street the girl herself and her surroundings 
 were in a perfect harmony. Dolly's life was a melody 
 played to an accompaniment of loving tones and tender 
 words among the tranquil traditions of the old house and 
 the old ivy-grown suburb in which it stood. Ehoda used to 
 wonder why people cared so much for Dolly, who was so 
 happy, who never sacrificed herself, but did as she liked, 
 and won all hearts to her, even Eobert Henley's, thought 
 Ehoda, with a sigh. As for Dolly, she never thought about 
 her happiness, though Ehoda did. The girl's life sped on 
 peacefully among the people who loved her. She knew she 
 
I02 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 meant so well that it had not yet occurred to her that she 
 might make mistakes in life and fail, and be sorry some 
 day as other folks. Ehoda, comparing her own little back- 
 garret life in the noisy Morgan household with her friend's, 
 used to think that everybody and everything united to spoil 
 her. Dolly was undoubtedly Dorothea Regina — ruler of the 
 household — a benevolent tyrant. The province of the tea- 
 pot was hers — the fortress of the store-room. She had her 
 latch-key. Old Marker and George were the only people 
 who ever ventured to oppose her. "When they did so, Dolly 
 gave in instantly with a smile and a sweet grace that was 
 specially her own. She was a somewhat impetuous and self- 
 diffident person in reality, though as yet she did not know 
 what she was. In looks she could see a tall and stately 
 maiden, with a sweet, round, sleepy face, reflected in the 
 glass, and she took herself for granted at the loving valua- 
 tion of those about her, as people, both old and young, are 
 apt to do. 
 
 Dolly was one of those persons who travel on eagerly 
 by starts, and then sit down to rest. Notwithstanding 
 her impetuous, youthful manner, she was full of humility 
 and diffidence, and often from very shyness and sincerity 
 she would seem rude and indignant when she was half- 
 frightened at her own vehemence; then came passionate 
 self-reproach, how passionate none can tell but some 
 of those who seem to have many selves and many im- 
 pulses, all warring with one another. There are two 
 great classes of women — those who minister, and those who 
 are taken care of by others ; and the bom care-takers and 
 workers are apt to chafe in early life, before people will 
 recognise their right to do. Something is wrong, tempers 
 go wrong, hearts beat passionately, boil over, ache for 
 nothing at all ; they want to comfort people, to live, to 
 love, to come and go, to feel they are at work. It may 
 
UTTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. 103 
 
 be wholesome discipline for such natures to live for years 
 in a kingdom of education of shadows and rules. They 
 may practise their self-denial on the keys of the piano, they 
 may translate their hearts' interest into German exercises 
 and back into English again; but that is poor work, and 
 so far the upper classes pay a cruel penalty imknown to 
 girls of a humbler birth. And so time goes on. For some 
 a natural explanation comes to all their nameless diffi- 
 culties. Others find one sooner or later, or the bright edge 
 of impatient youth wears off. Eaban once called Dolly a 
 beautiful sour apple. Beautiful apples want time and 
 sunshine to ripen and become sweet. If Dolly blamed 
 others, she did not spare herself; but she was much beloved, 
 and, as I have said, she meant so well that she could 
 not help trusting in herself. 
 
 Something of Dolly's life was written in her face, in 
 her clear, happy eyes, in her dark and troubled brow. 
 Even as a girl, people used to say that she had always 
 different faces, and so she had for the multitude ; but for 
 those who loved her it was always the same true, trusting 
 look, more or less worn as time went on, but still the 
 same. She had a peculiar, sudden, sweet smile, that went 
 to the very heart of the lonely old aunt, who saw it often. 
 Dolly never had the training of repression, and perhaps 
 that is why, when it fell upon her in later life, the lesson 
 seemed so hard. She was not brilliant. She could not 
 B(xy things as G-eorge did. She was not witty. Though she 
 loved to be busy, and to accomplish, Dolly could not do 
 things as Ehoda did — clearly, quickly, completely. But how 
 many stupid people there are who have a touch of genius 
 about them. It would be hard to say in what it consists. 
 They may be dull, slow, cross at times, ill-informed, but 
 you feel there is something that outweighs dulness, crossness, 
 want of information. 
 
I04 OLD KENSJNGTOTt. 
 
 Dorothy Vanborough had a little genius in her, though 
 she was apt to look stupid and sulky and indifferent 
 when she did not feel at her ease. Sometimes when reproved 
 ibr this, she would stand gaping with her grey eyes, and 
 looking so oddly like her Aunt Sarah that Mrs. Palmer, 
 when she came home, would lose all patience with her. 
 There was no knowing exactly what she was, her mother 
 used to say. One day straight as an arrow — bright, deter- 
 mined; another day, grey and stiff, and almost ugly 
 and high-shouldered. ' If Dolly had been more taking,' 
 said Mrs. Palmer, judging by the light of her own two 
 marriages, 'she might have allowed herself these quirks 
 and fancies; but as it was, it was a pity.' Her mother 
 declared that she did it on purpose. 
 
 Did she do it on purpose? In early life she didn't 
 care a bit what people thought of her. In this she was 
 a little unwomanly, perhaps, but unwomanly in the best 
 and noblest sense. When with time those mysterious other 
 selves came upon her that we meet as we travel along 
 the road, bewildering her and pointing with all their 
 different experiences, she ceased to judge either herself 
 or others as severely ; she loved faith and truth, and hated 
 meanness and dissimulation as much as ever. Only, 
 being a woman too honest to deceive herself, she found 
 she could no longer apply the precepts that she had used 
 once to her satisfaction. To hate the devil and all his 
 works is one thing, but to say who is the devil and which 
 are his works is another. 
 
 As for George Vanborough, his temper was alternately 
 uproarious and melancholy : there was some incongruity 
 in Ms nature that chafed and irritated him. He had 
 abilities, but strange and cross-grained ones, of no use in 
 an examination for instance. He could invent theories 
 
LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. 105 
 
 out somehow lie never got at the facts ; he was rapid in 
 conclusion, too rapid for poor Dolly, who was expected to 
 follow him wherever he went, and who was sometimes hard 
 put to it, for, unlike George's, her convictions were slower 
 than her sympathies. 
 
 A great many people seem to miss their vocations 
 because their bodies do not happen to fit their souls. 
 This is one of the advantages of middle age : people have 
 got used to their bodies and to their faults ; they know 
 how to use them, to spare them, and they do not expect 
 too much. Greorge was at war with himself, poor fellow : 
 by turns ascetic and self-indulgent, morbid, and over- 
 confident. It is difficult to docket such a character, made 
 up of all sorts of little bits collected from one and another 
 ancestor ; of materials warring against each other, as we 
 have read in Mr. Darwin. 
 
 George's rooms at Cambridge were very small, and looked 
 out across the green quadrangle at All Saints'. Among 
 other instincts, he had inherited that of weaving his nest 
 with photographs and old china, and lining it comfortably 
 from Church House. There were papers and music-books, 
 tankards (most of them with inscriptions), and a divining 
 crystal. The old windows were deep and ivy -grown: at 
 night they would often be cheerfully lighted up. ' Far too 
 often,' say George's counsellors. 
 
 ' I should like to entertain well enough,' says Henley, 
 with a wave of the hand, ' but I can't afford it prudently. 
 Bills have a knack of running up, particularly when they are 
 not paid,' the young man remarks, with great originality, 
 ' and then one can't always meet them.' 
 
 George only answers by a scowl from his little ferret eyes. 
 ' You can pay your own bills twice over if you like,' he 
 grunts out impatiently ; ' mine don't concern you.' 
 
 Eobert said no more ; he had done his part, and he felt he 
 
io6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 could now face Dolly and poor Lady Sarah of the bleeding 
 purse with a clear conscience ; but he could not help remem- 
 bering with some satisfaction two neatly tied-up bundles of 
 bills lying with a cheque-book in his despatch-box at home. 
 He was just going when there came a knock at the door, and 
 a pale man with a red beard walked in and shook hands with 
 George, then somewhat hesitatingly with his companion, and 
 finally sat down in George's three-sided chair. 
 
 Need I say that this was Eaban, who had come to recom- 
 mend a tutor to George ? Was it to George or to Dorothea 
 that Eaban was so anxious to recommend a tutor ? 
 
 George shrugged his shoulders, and did not seem in the 
 least grateful. 
 
 Henley delayed a moment. ' I am glad you agree with 
 me,' he said. ' I also have been speaking to my cousin on 
 the subject.' 
 
 Eaban bowed in the shy way peculiar to him. You never 
 could tell if he was only shy or repelled by your advances. 
 
 ' You and I have found the advantage of a good coach all 
 our Hves,' the other continued, with a subdued air of modest 
 triumph. It seemed to say, ' You will be glad to know that 
 1 am one of the most rising men of the University ; ' and at 
 the same time Eobert looked down apologetically at poor 
 scowling George, who was anything but rising, poor fellow, 
 and well up to his knees in the slough of despond. Nor was 
 it destined that Eobert Henley was to be the man to pull 
 him out. Although he had walked over from St. Thomas's 
 to do so, he walked back again without having effected his 
 purpose. 
 
 ' 1 did not know, till your sister told me, that Mr. Henley 
 was your cousin,' said Eaban, as Eobert left the room. 
 
 ' Didn't you ? ' said George. ' I suppose you did not see 
 any likeness in me to that grenadier with the cameo nose ? ' 
 and turning his back abruptly upon Eaban, he began 
 
LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. 107 
 
 strumming Yankee-doodle on the piano, standing as he 
 played, and putting in a quantity of pretty modulations. It 
 was only to show off ; but Eaban might have been tempted 
 to follow Henley downstairs if he had not caught sight of a 
 photograph of a girl with circling eyes in some strange old- 
 fashioned dress, with a lantern in her hand. It was the work 
 of a well-known amateur, who has the gift of seizing expres- 
 sion as it flies, and giving you a breathing friend, instead of 
 the image of an image. But it was in vain the young 
 professor stayed on, in vain that he came time after time 
 trying to make friends with young Vanborough and to urge 
 him to work. He once went so far as to write a warning 
 latter to Lady Sarah. It did no good, and only made Dolly 
 angry. At Christmas, George wrote that he had not passed, 
 and would be home on the 23rd. He did not add that he 
 had been obliged to sign some bills before he could get away. 
 
 George came home ; with or without his laurels, he was 
 sure of an ovation. Dolly, by her extra loving welcome, 
 only showed her disappointment at his want of success. 
 
 The fatted calf was killed, and the bottle of good wine was 
 opened. ' Old Sam insisted on it,' said Lady Sarah, who had 
 got into a way of taking shelter behind old Sam when she 
 found herself relenting. It was impossible not to relent 
 when Dolly, hearing the cab-wheels, came with a scream of 
 delight flying down the staircase from George's room, where 
 she had been busy making ready. A great gust of cold wind 
 burst into the hall with the open door, by which George was 
 standing, with his bag, a little fussy and a little shy ; but 
 Dolly's glad cry of welcome and loving arms were there to 
 reassure him. 
 
 ' Shut the door,' said Dolly, ' the wind will blow us away. 
 Have you paid your cab ? ' As she spoke the horse was 
 turning round upon its haunches, and the cab was driving 
 ofl", and a pale face looked out for an instant. 
 
io« OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' It's no matter,' said George, pushing to the door. ' Eaban 
 brought me. He is going on to dine somewhere near.' 
 
 'Horrid man I" said Dolly. 'Come, George, and see 
 Aunt Sarah. She is in the drawing-room.' 
 
 Lady Sarah looked at George very gravely over her knit- 
 ting, and her needles began to tremble a little. 
 
 ' What do you wish me to say, George ? That you failed 
 because you couldn't or because you wouldn't try ? ' 
 
 ' Some one must fail,' said George. 
 
 ' It is not fair upon me,' said Lady Sarah, ' that you 
 should be the one. No, Dolly, I am not at all unkind.' 
 
 I have said very little of the changes and economies 
 that had been made at Church House, they affected Lady 
 Sarah and Dolly so little ; but when George came home, even 
 in disgrace, a certain difference was made in the still ways 
 of the house. Old Sam's niece, Eliza Twells, stayed all day, 
 and was transformed into a smiling abigail, not a little 
 pleased with her promotion. One of Lady Sarah's old grey 
 gowns was bestowed upon her. A cap and ribbons were con- 
 cocted by Dolly ; the ribbons were for ever fluttering in and 
 out of the sitting-room, and up and down the passages. 
 There was a sound of voices now, a show of life. Dolly could 
 not talk to herself all through the long months when George 
 was away; but when she had him safe in his little room 
 again the duet was unceasing. 
 
 Eliza Twells down below in the pan-decorated kitchen, in 
 all the excitement of her new dignities, kept the ball going. 
 You could hear old Sam's chuckles all the way upstairs, and 
 the maiden's loud, croaking, cheerful voice. 
 
 ' It's like a saw-mill,' said George, ' but what is that ? ' 
 
 'That is Eliza laughing,' said Dorothea, laughing herself; 
 ' and there is dear old Marker scolding. Oh ! George, how 
 nice it is to have you home again ; and then, as most happy 
 
LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER. 109 
 
 vribrations bring, a sadder after-tone, Dolly sighed and 
 stopped short. 
 
 ' Disgrace is hard to bear,' said G-eorge moodily. 
 
 ' Disgrace ! What do you mean ? ' wondered Dolly, who 
 had been thinking of something quite apart from those un- 
 lucky examinations — something that was not much, and yet 
 she would have found it hard to put her thought into words. 
 For how much there is that is not in words, that never hap- 
 pens quite, that is never realised altogether ; and yet it is as 
 much part of our life as anything else 
 
OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XrV. 
 
 RAG DOLLS. 
 
 And slight Sir Enbert, with his watery smile 
 And educated whisker. 
 
 These were days not to be forgotten by Dolly or by her 
 aunt. Don't we all know how life runs in certain grooves, 
 following phases of one sort or another ? how dreams of 
 coming trouble haunt us vaguely all through a night ? or, 
 again, is it hope that dawns silently from afar to lighten our 
 hearts and to make sweet visions for us before we awake to 
 the heat of the day ? 
 
 It was all tranquil progress from day to day. Raban 
 came to see them once or twice while George was away. It 
 seemed all peace and silence during those years in the old 
 house, where the two women lived so quietly each their own 
 life, thinking their own thoughts. Rumours came now and 
 then of Mrs. Palmer's return ; but this had been put off so 
 often, from one reason or another, that Dolly had almost 
 ceased to dwell upon it. She had settled down to her daily 
 occupations. John Morgan had set her to work in one of 
 his districts. She used to teach in the Sunday-school, help 
 her aimt in a hundred ways. This eventful spring she went 
 into Yorkshire with Marker and a couple of new govms, on a 
 visit to her uncle. Sir Thomas Henley, at Srnokethwaite. 
 She enjoyed herself extremely, and liked her uncle and the 
 
RAG DOLLS. in 
 
 girls very much. Her aunt was not very kind ; ' at least, not 
 so kind as I'm used to,' said Dolly afterwards. They had 
 gone for long walks across the moors ; they had ridden for 
 twenty miles one day. She had seen her mother's picture, 
 and slept in the room that used to he hers when she was a 
 girl, and her cousin Norah had taken her ahout ; but her 
 Aunt Henley was certainly very cross and always saying un- 
 comfortable things, and she was very glad to be home 
 again, and didn't want to go away for years and years. 
 Robert Henley had been there for a couple of days, and 
 had come up to town with her. Jonah Henley was a very 
 kind, stupid boy, not at all like Robert, He was very 
 friendly to Dolly, and used to confide in her. He had made 
 his mother very angry by insisting upon going into the 
 Guards. 
 
 ' She asked my advice,' said Dolly. ' She wanted to 
 know if I didn't think it a foolish, idle sort of life.' 
 
 ' And what did you say ? ' said Lady Sarah. 
 
 ' I said that it might be so for some people who were 
 clever and thoughtful, but that he seemed to have no inte- 
 rests at all, and never opened a book.' 
 
 'My dear child,' cried Lady Sarah, 'no wonder Lady 
 Henley was annoyed ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear me ! I am so very sorry,' cries Dolly, peni- 
 tently, as she walked along. They were going along one of 
 the narrow alleys leading to the Square. 
 
 Day after day Lady Sarah used to leave home and 
 trudge off with her basket and her well-known shabby cloak 
 — it was warm and green like the heart that beat under it 
 — from house to house, in and out, round and about the nar- 
 row little Kensington streets. The parents, who had tried to 
 impose upon her at first, soon found that she had little sym- 
 pathy for pathetic attitudes, and that her quick tongue paid 
 them back in their own coin. They bore no malice. Poor 
 
112 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 people only really respect those who know them as tbey are, 
 and whose sympathy is personal and not ideal. Lady Sarah's 
 w as genuine sympathy ; she knew her flock by name, and 
 she spared no trouble to help those who were trying to help 
 themselves. The children would come up shyly when they 
 saw the straight, scant figure coming along, and look into 
 her face. Sometimes the basket would open and red apples 
 would come out — shining red apples in the dirty little back 
 streets and by-lanes behind Kensington Square. Once 
 Robert Henley, walking to Church House, across some back 
 way, came upon his aunt sitting on an old chair on the step 
 of a rag-shop with a little circle of children round her, and 
 Dolly standing beside her, straight and upright. Over her 
 head swung the legless form of a rag doll, twirling in 
 the wind. On on«} side of the door was some rhymed 
 doggerel about ' Come, cookey, come,' and bring ' your 
 bones,' plastered up against the wall. Lady Sarah, on the 
 step, seemed dispensing bounties from her bag to half-a- 
 dozen little clamorous, half-fledged creatures. 
 
 ' My dear Lady Sarah, what does this mean ? ' said 
 Robert, trying to laugh, but looking very uncomfortable. 
 
 ' I was so tired, Robert, I could not get home without 
 resting,' said Lady Sarah, ' and Mr. Wilkins kindly brought 
 me out a chair. These are some of my Sunday-school 
 children, and Dolly and I were giving them a treat.' 
 
 ' But really this is scarcely the place to If any one 
 
 were to pass — if Run away, run away, run away,' said 
 
 Mr. Henley affably to the children, who were all closing 
 in a ragged phalanx and gazing admiringly at his trousers. 
 ' I'll get you a cab directly,' said the young man, looking up 
 and down. ' I came this short cut, but I had no idea ' 
 
 'There are no cabs anywhere down here,' said Dolly, 
 laughing. ' This is Aunt Sarah's district ; that is her soup- 
 kitchen.' And Dolly pointed up a dismal street with some 
 
RAG DOLLS. 1 13 
 
 flapping washing-lines on one side. It looked all empty and 
 deserted, except that two women were standing in the door- 
 ways of their queer old huddledrup houses. A little further 
 off came a branch street, a blank wall, and some old Queen 
 Anne railings and doorways leading into Kensington Square. 
 
 'Grood-by, little Betty,' said Lady Sarah, getting up 
 from her old straw chair, and smiling. 
 
 She was amused by the young man's unaffected dismay. 
 Philanthropy was quite in Henley's line, but that was, 
 Eobert thought, a very different thing from familiarity. 
 
 ' Now then, Betty, where's your curtsey ? ' says Dolly ; 
 ' and Mick, sir ! ' 
 
 Mick grinned, and pulled at one of his horrible little 
 wisps of hair. The children seemed fascinated by the ' gen- 
 tleman.' They were used to the ladies, and, in fact, accus- 
 tomed to be very rude to Dolly, although she was so severe. 
 
 ' If you will give me an arm, Eobert,' said Lady Sarah, 
 'and if you are not ashamed to be seen with me ' 
 
 ' My dear Lady Sarah ! ' said Eobert, hastily, offering his 
 arm. 
 
 ' Now, children, be off,' says Dolly. 
 
 ' Please, sir, won't you give us 'napeny ? ' said Mick, 
 hopping along with his little deft, bare feet. 
 
 ' Go away, — for shame, Mick ! ' cried Dolly again, while 
 Henley impatiently threw some coppers into the road, after 
 which all the children set off scrambling in an instant. 
 
 ' Oh, Eobert, you shouldn't have done that,' cried Dolly, 
 rushing back to superintend the fair division of kicks and 
 halfpence. 
 
 Eobert waited for her for a moment, and looked at her as 
 she stood in her long grey cloak, with a little struggling 
 heap at her feet of legs and rags and squeaks and con- 
 tortions. The old Queen Anne railings of the corner house, 
 and the dim street winding into rags, made a background to 
 
 I 
 
114 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 this picture of modern times : an old slatternly woman in a 
 night-cap came to her help from one of the neighbouring 
 doorways, and seizing one of the children out of the heap, 
 gave it a cuff and dragged it away. Dolly had lifted Mick 
 off the back of a smaller child — the crisis was over. 
 
 ' Here she comes,' said Lady Sarah, in no way discom- 
 posed. 
 
 Eobert was extremely discomposed. He hated to see 
 Dolly among such sights and surroundings. He tried to 
 speak calmly as they walked on, but his voice sounded a 
 little cracked. 
 
 ' Surely,' he said, ' this is too much for you at times. 
 Do you go very often ? ' 
 
 'Nearly every day, Eobert,' said Dorothea. 'You se^ 
 what order I have got the children into.' 
 
 She was laughing again, and Henley, as usual, was serious. 
 ' Of course I cannot judge,' said he, ' not knowing what 
 state they were in originally.' Then he added, gravely tiirn- 
 ing to Lady Sarah, ' Don't you somehow think that Dolly is 
 very young to be mixed up with a — rag-shops and wicked* 
 ness ? ' 
 
 ' Dolly is young,' said her aunt, not over pleased ; ' bu<. 
 she is very prudent, and I am not afraid of her pawning her 
 clothes a ad taking to drink.' 
 
 ' My dear aunt, you don't suppose I ever thought of such 
 a possibility,' Eobert exclaimed. ' Only ladies do not always 
 consider things from our point of view, and I feel in a cer- 
 tain degree responsible and bound to you as your nearest 
 male protector (take care — here is a step). I should not like 
 other people, who might not know Dolly as we do, to 
 
 imagine that she was accustomed already to ' 
 
 ' My dear Eobert,' said Lady Sarah, ' Dolly has got an 
 aunt and a brother to take care of her ; do you suppose that 
 we would let her do anything that we thought might hurt 
 
RAG DOLLS. tis 
 
 her in other people's opinion ? Dolly, here is Eobert hor- 
 rified at the examples to which you are exposed. He feels 
 he ought to interfere.' 
 
 'You won't understand me,' said Eobert, keeping his 
 temper very good-naturedly. ' Of course I can't help taking 
 an interest in my relations.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Eobert,' said Dolly, smiling and blushing. 
 
 Their eyes met for an instant, and Eobert looked better 
 pleased. It was a bright delightful spring morning. All 
 the windows were shining in the old square, there was a 
 holiday thrill in the air, a sound of life, dogs barking, people 
 stirring and coming out of their hiding-places, animals and 
 birds exulting. 
 
 Dolly used to get almost tipsy upon sunshine. The 
 weather is as much part of some people's lives as the minor 
 events which happen to them. She walked along by the 
 other two, diverging a little as they travelled along, the 
 elder woman's bent figure beating time with quick fluttering 
 footsteps to the young man's even stride. Dolly liked 
 Eobert to be nice to her aunt, and was not a little pleased 
 when he approved of herself. She was a little afraid of him. 
 She felt that beneath that calm manner there were many 
 secrets that she had not yet fathomed. She knew how good 
 he was, how he never got into debt. Ah me ! how she 
 wished Greorge would take pattern by him. Dolly and 
 Ehoda had sometimes talked Eobert over. They gave him 
 credit for great experience, a deep knowledge of the world 
 (he dined out continually when he was in town), and they 
 also gave him full credit for his handsome, thoughtful face, 
 his tall commanding figure. Tou cannot but respect a man 
 of six foot high. 
 
 So they reached the doorway at last. The ivy was all 
 glistening in the sunshine, and as they rang the beU they 
 heard the sound of viumbo's bark in the garden, and then 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 came some music, some brilliant pianoforte-playing, which 
 sounded clear and ringing as it overflowed the garden-wall 
 and streamed out into the lane. 
 
 ' Listen ! Who can that be playing ? ' cries Dolly, 
 brightening up still brighter, and listening with her face 
 against the ivy. 
 
 ' George,' says Kobert. ' Has George come up again ? ' 
 
 'It's the overture to the Freischutz^ says Dolly, con- 
 clusively ; ' it is George.' 
 
 And when old Sam shuffled up at last to open the door, 
 he announced, grinning, that ' Mr. Garge had come, and 
 was playing the peanner in the drawing-room.' 
 
 At the same moment, through the iron gate, they saw a 
 figure advancing to meet them from the garden, with Gumbo 
 caracoUing in advance. 
 
 ' Why there is Ehoda in the garden,' cries Dolly. 
 ' Robert, you go to her. I must go to George.' 
 
( "7 ; 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 George's tunes. 
 
 . . Sing OUT fine songs that tell in artful phraee 
 The secrets of our lives, and plead and pray 
 For alms of memory with the after time. 
 
 _0. W. H. 
 
 Theee is George sitting at the old piano in the drawing- 
 room. The window is wide open. The Venetian glass is 
 dazzling over his head, of which the cauliflower shadow is 
 thrown upon the wall. By daylight, the old damask paper 
 looks all stained and discoloured, and the draperies hang 
 fainting and turning grey and brown and to all sorts of 
 strange autumnal hues in this bright spring sunshine. 
 
 The keys answer to Greorge's vigorous fingers, while the 
 shadow bobs in time from side to side. A pretty little pair 
 of slim gloves and a prayer-book are lying on a chair by the 
 piano ; they are certainly not Greorge's, nor Eliza Twells', 
 who is ostensibly dusting the room, but who has stopped 
 short to listen to the music. It has wandered from the Frei- 
 schutz overture to Kennst Du das Land f which, for the 
 moment, George imagines to be his own composition. How 
 easily the chords fall into their places ! how the melody flows 
 loud and clear from his flngers ! (It's not only on the piano 
 that people play tunes which they imagine to be their own.) 
 As for Eliza, she had never heard anything so beautiful in 
 al] her life. 
 
ii8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Can it play hymn toones, sir ? ' says she, in a hoarse 
 voice. 
 
 Hymn times! George goes ofif into the Hundredth 
 Psalm. The old piano shakes its cranky sides, the pedals 
 groan and creak, the music echoes all round ; then another 
 shadow comes floating along the faded wall, two fair arms are 
 round his neck, the music stops for an instant, and Eliza 
 begins to rub up the leg of a table. 
 
 ' How glad I am you have come ; but why have you 
 come, George — oughtn't you to be reading ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' says George, airily, ' I have only come for the day. 
 Look here : have you ever heard this Russian tune ? I've 
 been playing it to Miss Parnell ; I met her coming from 
 church.' 
 
 ' Miss Parnell ? Do you mean Rhoda ? ' said Dolly, as 
 she sits down in the big chair and takes up the gloves and 
 the prayer-book, which opens wide, and a little bit of fresh- 
 gathered ivy falls out. It is Ehoda's prayer-book, as Dolly 
 knows. She puts back the ivy, while George goes on playing 
 
 ' How pretty ! ' says she, looking at him with her two 
 admiring eyes, and raising her thick brows. 
 
 George, much pleased with the compliment, goes on 
 strumming louder than ever. 
 
 ' Robert is here,' says Dolly, still listening. ' He is in the 
 garden with Rhoda.' 
 
 ' Oh, is he ? ' says George, not over-pleased. 
 
 It was at this moment that Lady Sarah came to the 
 garden-window, still in her district equipments. Eliza 
 Twells, much confused by her mistress's appearance, begins 
 to dust wildly. 
 
 'How d'ye do, George?' said his aunt, coming up to 
 him. ' We didn't expect you so soon again.' 
 
 George offered his cheek to be kissed, and played a few 
 chords with his left hand. 
 
GEORGES TUNES. 119 
 
 * 1 hadn't meant to come,' he said ; ' but I was up at the 
 Btation this morning, seeing a friend off, and as the train was 
 starting I got in. I've got a return-ticket.' 
 
 ' Of course you have,' said Lady Sarah, ' but where will 
 you get a return-ticket for the time you are wasting ? It is 
 no use attempting to speak to you. Some day you will be 
 sorry ; ' and then she turned away, and walked off in her 
 gleaming goloshes, and went out at the window again. She 
 did not join Eobert and Ehoda, who were pacing round and 
 round the garden walk, but wandered off her own way alone. 
 
 ' There ! ' says George, looking up at Dolly for sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Dolly doesn't answer, but turns very pale, and her heart 
 begins to beat. 
 
 ' It is one persecution,' cries George, speaking for himself, 
 since Dolly won't speak for him. ' She seems to think she 
 has a right to insult me — that she has bought it with her 
 hateful money.' 
 
 He began to crash out some defiant chords upon the 
 piano. 
 
 ' Don't, dear,' said Dolly, putting her hand on his. ' You 
 don't know,' she said, hesitating, ' how bitterly disappointed 
 Aunt Sarah has been when — when you have not passed. She 
 is so clever herself. She is so proud of you. She hopes so 
 much.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said George, hunching up sulkily. ' Dolly, 
 you are for ever humbugging. You love me, and perhaps 
 others appreciate me a little ; but not Aunt Sarah. She 
 don't care that ' (a crash) ' for me. She thinks that I can 
 bear insult like Eobert, or all the rest of them who are after 
 her money-bags.' 
 
 He was working himself up more and more, as people do 
 who are not sure they are right. He spoke so angrily that 
 Dolly was frightened. 
 
I20 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Oh, George,' she said, ' how can you say such things ; 
 you mustn't, do you hear ? not to me — not to yourself. Of 
 course Eohert scorns anything mean, as much as you do. 
 Her savings ! they all went in that horrid bank. She does 
 not know where to go for money sometimes, and we ought 
 to spare her, and never to forget what we do owe her. She 
 denies herself every day for us. She will scarcely see a 
 doctor when she is ill, or take a carriage when she is tired.' 
 
 Dolly's heart was beating very quick ; she was determined 
 that, come what might, Greorge should hear the truth from 
 her. 
 
 ' If you are going to lecture me, too, I shall go,' said 
 George ; and he got up and walked away to the open window, 
 and stood grimly looking out. He did not believe Dolly ; 
 he could not afford to believe her. He was in trouble ; he 
 wanted money himself. He had meant to confide in Dolly ; 
 that was one of the reasons why he had come up to town. 
 He should say nothing to her now. She did not deserve hjs 
 confidence ; she did not understand him, and always sided 
 with her aunt. ' Look here, I had better give the whole 
 thing up at once,' he said, sulkily ; ' I don't care to be the 
 object of so many sacrifices.' As he stood there glowering, 
 he was unconsciously watching the two figures crossing the 
 garden and going towards the pond ; one of them, the lady, 
 turned, and seeing him at the window, waved a distant hand 
 in greeting. George's face cleared. He would join Ehoda ; 
 it was no use staying here. 
 
 As he was leaving the room poor Dolly looked up from 
 tlie arm-chair in which she had been sitting despondently : 
 she had tears in her heart though her eyes were dry : she 
 wanted to make friends. ' You know, George,' she said, ' I 
 vrmst say what I think true to you. Aunt Sarah grudges 
 nothing ' 
 
 ' She makes the very most,' says George, stopping short, 
 
GEORGE'S TUNES. I3i 
 
 ' of what she does, and so do you ; ' and he looked away frbm 
 Dolly's entreating face. 
 
 Again poor Dolly's indignation masters her prudence. 
 ' How can you be so mean and ungrateful ? ' she says. 
 
 ' Ungrateful ! ' cries George, in a passion ; ' you get all 
 you like out of Aunt Sarah ; to me she doles out hard words 
 and a miserable pittance,- and you expect me to be grateful. 
 I can see what Kqbert and Frank Eaban think as well as if 
 they said it.' 
 
 Dolly sprang past him and rushed out of the room in tears. 
 
 ' Dolly ! Dolly ! forgive me, do forgive me ! I'm a brute,' 
 says Greorge, running after her, — ^he had really talked on 
 without knowing what he said — ' please stop I ' 
 
 ' Dolly I ' cries Lady Sarah from the breakfast-room. 
 
 Dolly went flying along the oak hall and up the old 
 staircase and across the ivy window. She could not speak. 
 She ran up to her room, and slammed the door, and burst 
 out sobbing. She did not heed the yoices calling then, but 
 in after days, long, long after, she used to hear them at 
 times, and how plainly they sounded, when all was silent — 
 ' Dolly, Dolly 1 ' they called. People say that voices travel 
 on through space, — they travel on through life, and across 
 time, — is it not so ? Years have passed since they may have 
 been uttered, but do we not hear them again and again, and 
 answer back longing into the past ? 
 
 Meanwhile poor Dolly banged the door in indignation 
 She was glad Greorge was soriy, but how dared he suspect 
 her ? How dared Mr. Eaban — ^Mr. Eaban, who did not pay 
 his debts — What did she care? — What did they know? 
 They did not understand how she loved her brother in her 
 own way, her very own ; loving him and taking care for 
 him and fighting his battles. . . . 
 
 ' Oh, Greorge, how cruel you are,' sobbed poor Dolly, 
 sitting on her window-sill. The warm sun was pouring 
 
122 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 tlirough the open casement, spreading the shadow of the 
 panes and the framework upon the carpetless floor; in a 
 corner of the window a little pot of mignonette stood ready 
 to start to life ; a bird came with the shadow of its little 
 breast upon the bars, and chirruped a cheerful chirp. Dolly 
 looked up, breathed in the sun and the bird-chirp, how could 
 she help it ? Then her wooden clock struck, it distracted her 
 somehow, and her indignation abated ; the girl got up, 
 bathed her red eyes, and went to the glass to straighten her 
 crisp locks and limp tucker. 'Who is knocking? — come 
 in,' said Dolly. She did not look round, she was too busy 
 struggling -with her laces : presently she saw a face reflected 
 in the glass beside her own, a pale brown face with black 
 hair and slow, dark eyes, and close little red lips. 
 
 ' Why, Ehoda, have you come for me ? ' said Dolly, look- 
 ing round, sighing and soothed. 
 
 At the same time a voice from the garden below cried 
 out, ' Dolly, come down ! Have you forgiven me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, George,' said Dolly, looking out from her window. 
 
 ' Fere, let me help you,' cried Ehoda. ' Dolly, Mr. 
 Robert and your brother sent me to find you.' 
 
( "3 ; 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 A WALKING PAETT. 
 
 Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
 Beyond it blooms the garden that I lore ; 
 News from the teeming city comes to it, 
 In sound of funeral or marriage bells. 
 
 The young people were starting for another walk that after- 
 noon. Rhoda and Dolly were holding up their parasols and 
 their white dresses out of the dust. They were half-way 
 dowa the sunshiny lane when they met Frank Eaban (of 
 whom they had been speaking) coming to call at Church 
 House. 
 
 ' You had much better come along with us, Frank,' said 
 Greorge, who was always delighted to welcome his friends, 
 however soon he might quarrel with them afterwards. 
 
 ' I have an appointment at five o'clock,' said Eaban, 
 hesitating, and with a glance at Miss Vanborough, who was 
 standing a little apart, and watching the people passing up 
 and down the road. 
 
 ' Five o'clock I ' said George ; ' five o'clock is ever so far 
 away — on board a steamer, somewhere in the Indian Ocean ; 
 the passengers are looking over the ship's side at the por- 
 poises. Where is your appointment ? ' 
 
 'Do you know a place called Nightingale. Lane?' said 
 Frank. 
 
 ' J know Nightingale Lane ; it is as good a place as any 
 
124 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 other. Come, we will show you the way ; ' and, putting his 
 arm through Frank's, George dragged him along. 
 
 ' I wish Greorge had not asked him,' said Eobert, in a low 
 voice. ' There were several things I wanted to consult you 
 about, Dolly 1 but I must get a quiet half-hour. Not now, 
 at some better opportunity.' 
 
 ' "WTiy, Eobert ! ' said Dolly ; ' what can you have to saj 
 that will take half-an-hour ! ' She was, however, much flat- 
 tered that Eobert should wish to consult her, and she walked 
 along brightly. 
 
 It was a lovely spring afternoon : people were all out in 
 the open air ; the little Quaker children who lived in the 
 house at the corner of the terrace were looking out of 
 window with their prim little bonnets, and Dolly, who knew 
 them, nodded gaily as she passed. She was quite happy again. 
 Eobert had looked at her so kindly. She was in charity with 
 the whole world. She had scarcely had a word of explanation 
 with Greorge, but she had made it up with him in her heart. 
 When he asked her for a second help of cold pie at luncheon, 
 she took it as a sign of forgiveness. They went on now by 
 the brown houses of Phillimore Terrace, until they reached a 
 place where the bricks turn into green leaves, and branches 
 arch overhead, and two long avenues lead from the ancient 
 high road of the Trinobants all the way to the palatine 
 heights of Campden Hill. 
 
 When they were in the avenue, the young people went and 
 stood under the shade of a tree. Greorge was leaning against 
 the iron rail that separates the public walk from the park 
 beyond. They were standing with their feet on the turf in 
 a cris-cross of shadow, of twigs, and green blades sprouting 
 between. Beyond the rail the lawns and fields sloped to 
 where the old arcades and the many roofs and turrets of 
 Holland House rose, with their weather-cocks veering upon 
 tiie sky. Great trees were spreading their shadows upon the 
 
A WALKING PARTY. 125 
 
 grass. Some cows were trailing across the meadow, and 
 from beyond the high walls came the echo of the streets 
 without — a surging sound of voices and wheels, a rising tide 
 of life, of countless feet beating upon the stones. Here, 
 behind the walls, all was sweet and peaceful afternoon, and 
 high overhead hung a pale daylight moon. 
 
 ' Are not you glad to have seen this pretty view of the old 
 house, Mr. Eaban ? ' said Dolly to Frank, who happened to b? 
 standing next to her. ' Don't you like old houses ? ' she 
 added, graciously, in her new-found amenity. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Frank. ' They are too much like 
 coffins and fiiU of dead men's bones. Modem lath and 
 plaster has the great advantage of being easily swept away 
 with its own generation. These poor old places seem to me 
 ,all out of place among omnibuses and railway whistles.' 
 
 ' The associations of Holland House must be very inte- 
 resting,' said Eobert. 
 
 ' I hate associations,' said Frank, looking hard at Dolly. 
 ' To-day is just as good as yesterday.' 
 
 Dolly looked surprised, then blushed up. 
 
 It is strange enough, after one revelation of a man or 
 woman, to meet with another of the same person at some 
 different time. The same person and not the same. The 
 same voice and face, looking and saying such other things, to 
 which we ourselves respond how differently. Here were 
 Eaban and Dolly, who had first met by a grave, now coming 
 together in another world and state, with people laughing 
 and talking ; with motion, with festivity. Walking side by 
 side through the early summer streets, where all seemed life, 
 not death ; hope and progress, not sorrow and retrospect — 
 for Dolly's heart was full of the wonder of life and of the 
 dazzling present. After that first meeting, she had begun to 
 look upon the Eaban of to-day as a new person altogether, a 
 person who interested her, though she did not like him. 
 
f36 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Even Dorothea in her softest moods seemed scarcely to thaw 
 poor Frank. When he met her, his old, sad, desperate self 
 used to rise like a phantom between them — no wonder he 
 was cold, and silent, and abrupt. He could talk to others — 
 to Ehoda, who wore his poor wife's shining cross, and had 
 stood by her coffin, as he thought, and who now met him 
 with looks of sympathy, and who seemed to have forgotten 
 the past. To Miss Vanborough he rarely spoke ; he barely 
 answered her if she spoke to him ; and yet I don't think 
 there was a word or look of Dolly's that Eaban ever forgot. 
 All her poor little faults he remembered afterwards ; her im- 
 patient ways, and imperious gestures, her hasty impulse and 
 her innocent severity. What strange debtor and creditoi 
 account was this between them ? 
 
 There are some people we only seem to love all the more 
 because they belong to past sorrow. Perhaps it is that they 
 are of the guild of those who are initiated into the sad secrets 
 of life. Others bring back the pain without its consolation ; 
 and so Dolly, who was connected with the tragedy of poor 
 PVank Eaban's life, frightened him. When, as now, he 
 thought he had seen a remembering look in her eyes, the 
 whole unforgettable past would come before him with cruel 
 vividness. She seemed to him like one of the avenging angels 
 with the flaming swords, ready to strike. Little he knew 
 her ! The poor angel might Kft the heavy sword, but it 
 would be with a trembling hand. She might remember, but 
 it was as a child remembers — with awe, but without judg- 
 ment. The little girl he had known had pinned up her locks 
 in great brown loops ; her short skirts now fell in voluminous 
 folds ; she was a whole head taller, and nearly seventeen : but 
 if the tmth were told, I do not think that any other parti- 
 cular change had come to her, so peaceful had been her 
 experience. Frank was far more changed. He had fought a 
 hard fight with himself since that terrible day he had sat undej 
 
A WALKING PARTY. 127 
 
 the arch in the twilight. He had conquered Peace in some 
 degree, and now already he felt it was no longer peace that 
 he wanted, but more trouble. Already, in his heart, he 
 rebelled at the semi-claustration of the tranquil refuge he 
 had found, where the ivy buttresses and scrolled iron gate- 
 ways seemed to shut out wider horizons. But hitherto 
 work was what he wanted, not liberty. He had made debts 
 and difficulties for himself during that wild, foolish time 
 at Paris ! These very debts and difficulties were his best 
 friends now, and kept him steady to his task. He accepted 
 the yoke, thankful for an honest means of livelihood. He 
 took the first chance that offered, and he put a shoulder to 
 the old pulley at which he had tugged as a boy with a dream 
 of something beyond, and at which he laboured as a man 
 with some sense of duty done. He went on in a dogged, 
 hopeless way from day to day. He is a man of little faith, 
 and yet of tender heart. 
 
 Some one says that the world is a mirror that reflects 
 the faces that we bring to the surface. Frank's scepticisms 
 met him at every turn. He even judged his own ideal ; and as 
 he could not but think of Dolly every hour of the day, he 
 doubted her unceasingly. There seemed scarcely a respon- 
 sive chord left to him with which to vibrate to the song of 
 those about him. Until he beUeved in himself again, he 
 could not heartily believe in others. 
 
 Others, meanwhile, were happily not silent because of 
 his reserve, and were chattering and laughing gaily. Ehoda 
 was sitting on the shady corner of a bench, Greorge was 
 swinging his legs on the railing. Dolly did not sit down. 
 She was not tired ; she was in high spirits. By degrees, 
 she seemed to absorb all her companion's life and bright- 
 ness. So Eaban thought as he glanced from Ehoda's pale 
 face to Miss Vanborough's beaming countenance. Dolly's 
 brown hair was waving in a pretty drift, her violet ribbons 
 
128 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 seemed to make her grey eyes look violet. She had a long 
 neck, a long chin ; her white ample skirt almost hid Rhoda 
 as she sat in her corner. The girl shifted gently from hei 
 seat, and slid away when Dolly — Dolly sobering down — 
 began to tell some of Lady Sarah's stories of Holland House 
 and its inmates. 
 
 ' There was beautiful Lady Diana Rich,' said Dorothea, 
 pointing with her gloved hand. 
 
 'Don't say Diana,' cries George ; ' say Diana.' 
 
 ' She was walking in the Park,' continues his sister, un- 
 heeding the interruption, 'when she met a lady coming 
 from behind a tree dressed, as she was herself, in a habit. 
 Then she recognised herself,' Dolly said, slowly, opening 
 her grey eyes; 'and she went home, and she died within 
 a ' 
 
 Dolly, hearing a rustle, looked over her shoulder, and her 
 sentence broke down. A white figure was coming from behind 
 the great stem of the elm-tree, near which they were standing. 
 In a moment, Dolly recovered herself, and began to laugh. 
 
 ' Rhoda ! ' she said. ' I did not know you had moA'ed. 
 I thought you were my fetch.' 
 
 ' No ; I'm myself, and I don't like ghost stories,' said 
 Ehoda, in her shrill voice. ' They frighten me so, though I 
 don't believe a word of them. Do you, Mr. Eaban ? ' 
 
 ' Not believe I ' cries George, putting himself in between 
 Frank and Rhoda. 'Don't you believe in the White Lady 
 of Holland House ? She flits through the rooms once a year 
 all in white satin, on the day of her husband's execution. 
 They cut off his head in a silver nightcap, and she can't rest 
 in her grave when she thinks of it.' 
 
 ' Poor ghost ! ' said Dolly. ' I'm so sorry for ghosts. I 
 sometimes think I know some live ones,' the girl added, 
 looking at Frank unconsciously, and with more softness than 
 he had believed her capable of. 
 
A WALKING PARTY. izq 
 
 ' The first Lord Holland was a Eich,' said Henley, tapping 
 with his cane upon the iron bars. ' He must have been the 
 tather of Lady Diana. He married a Cope. The Copes 
 built the house, you know. I believe Aubrey de Vere was 
 the original possessor of the property. It then passed to the 
 monks of Abingdon.' 
 
 ' "What a fund of information ! ' said George, laughing. 
 ' Raban is immensely impressed.' 
 
 Eaban could not help smiling ; but Dolly interposed. 
 She saw that her cousin was only half pleased by the levity 
 with which his remarks were received. ' What had Lord 
 Holland done ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' He betrayed everybody,' said Eobert ; ' first one side, 
 then another. He earned his fate — he was utterly unreliable 
 and inconsistent.' 
 
 ' How can an honest man be anything else ? ' cried Greorge, 
 with his usual snort, rushing to battle. ' No honest men are 
 consistent. Take Sir Eobert Peel, take Oliver Cromwell. 
 Lord Holland joined the Commonwealth, and then gave 
 his head to save the King's. It was gloriously inconsis- 
 tent.' 
 
 ' For my part,' Robert answered, with some asperity, 
 ' I must confess that I greatly dislike such impulsive 
 characters. They are utterly unscrupulous.' . . . 
 
 ' Some consciences might have been more scrupulously 
 consistent than Lord Holland's, and kept their heads upon 
 their shoulders,' said Eaban, drily. 
 
 Dolly wondered what he meant, and whether he was 
 ferious. He spoke so shortly that she did not always 
 understand him. 
 
 'I am sure I shall often change my mind,' she said, 
 to her cousin. 
 
 ' You are a woman, you know,' answered Henley, 
 mollified by her sweet looks. 
 
 K 
 
J JO OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 'And women need not trouble tliemselves about their 
 motives ? ' said Frank, speaking in his most sententious way, 
 and ignoring Henley altogether. 
 
 'Their motives don't concern anybody but themselves, 
 cried Dolly, rather offended by Frank's manner. He seemed 
 to look upon her as some naughty child, to be constantly 
 reproved and put down. Why did he dislike her ? Dolly 
 wondered. She couldn't understand anybody disliking her. 
 Perhaps it says well for human nature, on the whole, that 
 people are so surprised to find themselves odious to others. 
 
 Just then some church-bell began to ring for evening 
 service. Five o'clock had come to Kensington, and George 
 proposed that they should walk on with Eaban to the house 
 in Nightingale Lane. 
 
 ' This way, Rhoda,' he said ; ' are you tired ? Take my arm.' 
 
 Ehoda, however, preferred tripping by Dolly's side. 
 
 A painter lived in the house to which Eaban was going, 
 it stood, as he said, in Nightingale Lane, within garden-walls. 
 It looked like a farm-house, with its many tiles and 
 chimneys, standing in the sweet old garden fringed with 
 rose-bushes. There were poplar-trees and snowball-trees, 
 and may-flowers in their season, and lilies-of-the-valley 
 growing in the shade. The lawn was dappled with many 
 shadows of sweet things. From the thatched porch you 
 could hear the rural clucking of poultry and the lowing of 
 cattle, and see the sloping roof of a farm-house beyond the 
 elms. Henley did not want to come in; but Dolly and 
 Ehoda had cried out that it was a dear old garden, and had 
 come up to the very door, smiling and wilfully advancing as 
 they looked about them. 
 
 The old house — we all know our way thither — ^has stood 
 for many a year, and seen many a change, and sheltered 
 many an honoured head. One can fancy Addison wandering 
 in the lanes round about, and listening to the nightingale 
 
A WALKING PARTY. i?i 
 
 * with a much better voice than Mrs. Tofts, and something 
 of Italian manners in her diversions ; ' or Newton, an old 
 man with faded blue eyes, passing by on his way from Pitt 
 House, hard by. Gentle Mrs. Opie used to stay here, and 
 ugly Wilkes to come striding up the lane in the days of Fox 
 and Pitt and iiery periwigs. Into one of the old raftered 
 rooms poor Lord Camelford was carried to die, when he fell 
 in his fatal duel with Mr. Best in the meadows hard by. 
 Perhaps Sir Joshua may have sometimes walked across from 
 Holland House, five minutes off, where he was, a hundred 
 years ago, painting two beautiful young ladles. Only 
 yesterday I saw them; one leant from a window in the 
 wall, the other stood without, holding a dove in her extended 
 hand ; a boy was by her side. Those ladies have left the 
 window long since ; but others, not less beautiful, still come 
 up Nightingale Lane, to visit the Sir Joshua of our own time 
 in his studios built against the hospitable house. My 
 heroine comes perforce, and looks at the old gables and elm- 
 fcrees, and stands under the rustic porch. 
 
 Eobert was seriously distressed. ' Do come away,' said 
 he ; ' suppose some one were to see us.' 
 
 Ehoda, with a little laugh, ran down one of the garden- 
 walks, and George went after her. Dolly stood leaning up 
 against the doorway. She paid no attention to Eobert's 
 remonstrance, and was listening, with upraised eyes, to the 
 bird up in the tree. Frank's hand was on the bell, when, as 
 Eobert predicted, the door suddenly opened wide. A servant, 
 carrying papers and parcels, came out, followed by a lady in 
 a flowing silk dress, with a lace hood upon her head, and by 
 a stately-looking gentleman, in a long grey coat ; erect, and 
 with silver hair and a noble and benevolent head. 
 
 ' Why is not the carriage come up ? ' said the lady to 
 the servant, who set off immediately running with his parcels 
 in his arms ; then seeing Dolly, who was standing blushing 
 
 K 2 
 
132 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 and confused by the open door, she said kindly, ' Have yon 
 come to see the studios ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Dolly, turning pinker still : ' it was only the 
 garden, it looked so pretty; we came to the door with 
 Mr. Eaban.' 
 
 ' I had an appointment with Mr. Eoyal,' said Eaban, also 
 shyly, ' and my friends kindly showed me the way.' 
 
 ' Why don't you take your friends up to see the 
 pictures ? ' said the gentleman. ' Go up all of you now that 
 you are here.' 
 
 ' My servant shall show you the way,' said the lady, witJ. 
 a smile, and as the servant came back, followed by a carriage, 
 she gave him a few parting directions. Then the Councillor 
 and the lady drove off to the India Office as hard as the 
 horses could go. 
 
 It was a white-letter day with Dolly. She followed the 
 servant up an oak passage, and by a long wall, where flying 
 figures were painted. The servant opened a side door into a 
 room with a great window, and my heroine found herself in 
 better company than she had ever been in all her life before. 
 Two visitors were already in the studio. One was a lady 
 with a pale and gentle face — Dolly remembered it long 
 afterwards when they met again — but just then she only 
 thought of the pictures that were crowding upon the walls 
 sumptuous and silent — the men and women pf our day who 
 seem already to belong to the future, as one looks at the 
 solemn eyes watching from the canvas. Sweet women's faces 
 lighted with some spiritual grace, poets, soldiers, rulers, and 
 windbags, side by side, each telling their story in a well- 
 known name. There were children too, smiling, and 
 sketches, half done, growing from the canvas, and here and 
 there a dream made into a vision, of Justice or of Oblivion. 
 Of Silence, and lo ! Titans from their everlasting hills lie 
 watching the mists of life ; or infinite Peace, behold, an 
 
A WALKING PARTY. 133 
 
 Angel of Death is waiting against a solemn disc. Dolly 
 felt as though she had come with Christian to some mystical 
 house along the way. For some minutes past she had been 
 gazing at the solemn Angel — she was absorbed, she could 
 not take her eyes away. She did not know that the painter 
 had come in, and was standing near her. 
 
 ' Do you know what that is ? ' said he, coming up to her. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Dolly in a low voice ; ' I have only once 
 seen death. I think this must be it ; only it is not terrible, 
 as I thought.' 
 
 ' I did not mean to make it terrible,' the painter said, 
 struck by her passing likeness to the face at which she was 
 gazing so steadfastly. 
 
 Eaban also noticed the gentle and powerful look, and in 
 that moment he understood her better than he had ever 
 done before ; he felt as if a sudden ray of faith and love had 
 fallen into Ms dark heart. 
 
 Before they left, Mr. Royal introduced Dolly to the two 
 ladies who were in the studio. He had painted the head oi 
 one of them upon a little wooden panel that leant upon an 
 easel by which the two ladies were standing. One of them 
 spoke : ' How her children will prize your gift, Mr. Royal ; 
 it is not the likeness only, it is something more than likeness.' 
 
 ' Life is short ; one cannot do all things,' said the painter, 
 quietly. 'I have tried not so much to imitate what I see as 
 to paint people and things as I feel them, and as others 
 appear to me to feel them.' 
 
 Dolly thought how many people he must have taught to 
 feel, to see with their eyes, and to understand. 
 
 All the way home she was talking of the pictures. 
 
 ' I saw a great many likenesses which were really ad 
 mirable,' said Robert. 'I have met several of the people 
 out at dinner.' 
 
 Rhoda could not say a single word about the pictures. 
 
134 OLD KENSTNGTON. , 
 
 ' Why, what were you about ? ' said Dolly, after she had 
 mentioned two or three one after another. ' You don't seem 
 to have looked at anything.' 
 
 ' You didn't come into the back room, Dolly. I had an 
 exoeUent cup of tea there,' said G-eorge ; ' that kind lady bad 
 it sent up for us.' 
 
f '35 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ' INNEK LIFE,' 
 
 The idea of a man's intemewing himself is rather odd to be sure. But 
 then that is what we are all of us doing every day. I talk half the time to 
 find out my own thoughts, as a schoolboy turns his pockets inside out to ee« 
 what is in them. — 0. W. Holmes. 
 
 The next time Eaban came to town, he called again at 
 Cluirch House. Then he began to go to John Morgan's, 
 whom he had known and neglected for years. He was 
 specially kind to Ehoda and gentle in his manner when he 
 spoke to her. Cassie, who had experience, used to joke her 
 about her admirer. Not unfrequently Dolly would be in 
 Old Street during that summer, and the deeply-interested 
 recipient of the girls' confidences. 
 
 ' Cassie, do you really mean that he has fallen in love 
 with Ehoda ? ' said Dolly. ' Indeed he is not half good 
 enough for her.' But all the same, the thought of his 
 admiration for her friend somewhat softened Dolly's feelings 
 towards Eaban. 
 
 Ehoda herself was mysterious. One day she gave up 
 wearing her diamond cross, and appeared instead with a 
 pretty pearl locket. She would not say where she had got 
 it. Zoe said it was like Cassie's. ' Had John given it to 
 her ? ' Ehoda shook her head. 
 
 Dolly did not like it, and took Ehoda seriously to task. 
 'Ehoda, how silly to make a mystery about nothing!' 
 Rhoda laughed. 
 
136 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Except for occasional troubles about Geoi'ge, things 
 were going well at Church House that autumn. Eaban sent 
 a warning letter once, which made Uolly very angry. The 
 Admiral talked of coming home in the following spring. 
 Dolly's heart beat at the thought of her mother's return 
 But meanwhile she was very happy. Robert used to come 
 not unfrequently. Rhoda liked coming when he was there ; 
 they would all go out when dinner was over, and sit upon 
 the terrace and watch the sun setting calmly behind the 
 medlar-tree and the old beech walk. Kensington has special 
 tranquil hours of its own, happy jumbles of old bricks and 
 sunset. The pigeons would come from next door with a 
 whirr, and with round breasts shining in the light ; the ivy- 
 leaves stood out green and crisp ; the birds went flying over- 
 head and circling in their evening dance. Three together, 
 then two, then a lonely one in pursuit. 
 
 Dolly stood watching them one evening, in the autumn 
 of that year, while her aunt and Henley were talking. John 
 Morgan, who had come to fetch Ehoda home, was dis- 
 coursing, too, in cheerful tones, about the voice of nature 
 I think it was. 'You do not make enough allowance 
 for the voice of nature,' the curate was saying. ' You cannot 
 blame a man because he is natural, because his impulse cries 
 out against rules and restrictions.' As he spoke a bell in the 
 ivy wall began to jangle from outside, and Dolly and Rhoda 
 both looked up curiously, wondering who it could be. 
 
 ' Rules are absolutely necessary restrictions,' said Henley, 
 stirring his cofifee ; ' we are lost if we trust to our impulses. 
 What are our bodies but concrete rules ? ' 
 
 ' I wonder if it could be George ? ' interrupted Dolly. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Rhoda, quickly, ' because ^ Then she 
 
 stopped short. 
 
 ' Because what, Rhoda ? ' said Lady Sarah, looking at her 
 curiously. The girl blushed up, and seemed embarrassed, 
 
'INNER life: 137 
 
 and tegan pulling the ribbon and the cross round her neck, 
 ft had come out again the last few days. 
 
 ' Have you heard anything of George ? ' Lady Sarah went 
 on. 
 
 ' How should I ? ' said Rhoda, looking up ; then she 
 turned a little pale, then she blushed again. ' Dolly, look,' 
 she said, ' who is it ? ' 
 
 It was Mr. Eaban, the giver of the diamond cross, who 
 came walking up along the side-path, following old Sam. 
 There was a little scrunching of chair-legs to welcome him. 
 John Morgan shook him by the hand. Lady Sarah looked 
 pleased. 
 
 ' This was kind of you,' she said. 
 
 Eaban looked shy. ' I am afraid you won't think so,' he 
 said. ' I wanted a few minutes' conversation with you.' 
 
 Ehoda opened her wide brown eyes. Henley, who had 
 said a stiff ' How-dy-do ? ' and wished to go on with the 
 conversation, now addressed himself to Dolly. 
 
 ' I always doubt the fact when people say that impulse is 
 the voice of one's inner life. I consider that principle should 
 be its real interpretation.' 
 
 Nobody exactly understood what he meant, nor did he 
 himself, if the truth were to be told ; but the sentence had 
 occurred to him. 
 
 'An inner life,' said Dolly, presently, looking at the 
 birds. ' I wonder what it means ? I don't think I have got 
 one.' 
 
 ' No, Dolly,' said Lady Sarah, kindly, ' it is very often only 
 another name for remorse. Not yet, my dear — that has not 
 reached you yet.' 
 
 ' An inner life,' repeated Ehoda, standing by. ' Doesn't it 
 mean all those things you don't talk about — religion and 
 principles ? ' she said, faltering a little, with a shy glance at 
 Frank Eaban. Henley had just iinished his coffee, and heard 
 
138 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 her approvingly. He was going again to enforce the remarx, 
 when Dolly, as usual, interrupted him. 
 
 ' But there is nothi/ng one doesn't talk about,' said the 
 Dolly of those days, standing on the garden-step, with all her 
 pretty loops of brown hair against the sun. 
 
 ' I wish you would preach a sermon, Mr. Morgan, and tell 
 people to take care of their outer lives,' said Lady Sarah, 
 over her coffee-pot, ' and keep them in order while they have 
 them, and leave their souls to take care of themselves. We 
 have all read of the figs and the thistles. Let us cultivate 
 figs ; that is the best thing we can do.' 
 
 • Dear Aunt Sarah,' said Dolly prettily, and looking up 
 suddenly, and blushing, ' here we all are sitting under your 
 fig-tree.' 
 
 Dolly having given vent to her feelings suddenly blushed 
 up. All their eyes seemed to be fixed upon her. What 
 business had Mr. Eaban to look at her so gravely ? 
 
 ' I wonder if the cocks and hens are gone to roost,' said 
 my heroine, confused; and, jumping down from the step, she 
 left the coffee-drinkers to finish their coffee. 
 
 Lady Sarah had no great taste for art or for hric-a-hrac. 
 Mr. Francis had been a collector, and from him she had 
 inherited her blue china, but she did not care at all for it. She 
 had one fancy, however, — a poultry fancy, — which harmlessly 
 distracted many of her spare hours. With a cheerful cluck, 
 a pluming, a spreading out of glistening feathers, a strutting 
 and champing, Lady Sarah's cocks and hens used to awake 
 betimes in the early morning. The cocks would cliaunt 
 matutinal hymns to the annoyance of the neighbourhood, 
 while the hens clucked a cheerful accompaniment to the 
 strains. The silver trumpets themselves would not have 
 sounded pleasanter to Lady Sarah's ears than this crowing 
 noise of her favourites. She had a little temple erected for 
 tliis choir. It was a sort of pantheon, where all parts of the 
 
'INNER UFE: 139 
 
 world were represented, divided ofiF by various latitudinal 
 wires. There were crSve-coeurs from the Pyrenees, with 
 their crimson crests and robes of black satin; there were 
 magi from Persia, puffy, wind-blown, silent, and somewhat 
 melancholy : there were Polish warriors, gallant and splendid, 
 with an air of misfortune so courageously surmounted that 
 fortune itself would have looked small beside it. Then came 
 the Dorkings, feathery and speckly, with ample wings out- 
 stretched, clueking common-place English to one another. 
 
 To-night, however, the clarions were silent, the warriors 
 were sleepy, the cocks and hens were settling themselves 
 comfortably in quaint fluffy heaps upon their roosts, with 
 their portable feather-beds shaken out, and their bills snugly 
 tucked into the down. 
 
 Dolly was standing admiring their strength of mind, in 
 T-etiring by broad daylight from the nice cheerful world, into 
 the dismal darkened bed-chamber they occupied. As Dolly 
 stood outside in the sunset, peeping into the dark roosting- 
 place, she heard voices coming along the path, and Lady 
 Sarah speaking in a very agitated voice. 
 
 ' Cruel boy,' she said, ' what have I done, what have I left 
 undone that he should treat me so ill ? ' 
 
 They were close to Dolly, who started away from the hen- 
 house, and ran up to meet her aunt with a sudden movement. 
 
 ' Wliat is it ? Why is he Who is cruel ? ' said Dolly, 
 
 and she turned a quick, reproachful look upon Eaban. What 
 had he been saying ? 
 
 ' I meant to spare you, my dear,' said Lady Sarah, trem- 
 bling very much, and putting her hand upon Dolly's shoulder. 
 ' I have no good news for you ; but sooner or later you must 
 know it. Your brother has been behaving as badly as 
 possible. He has put his name to some bills. Mr. Eaban 
 heard of it by chance. Wretched boy ! he might be arrested. 
 It is hard upon me, and cruel of George.' 
 
»40 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 They were standing near the hen-house still, and a hen 
 woke up from her dreams with a sleepy oluck. Lady Sarah 
 was speaking passionately and vehemently, as she did when 
 she was excited ; Eaban was standing a little apart in the 
 shadow. 
 
 Dolly listened with a hanging head. She could say nothing. 
 It all seemed to choke her ; she let her Aunt Sarah walk on — 
 she stood quite still, thinking it over. Then came a gleam 
 of hope. She felt as if Frank Eaban must be answerable 
 somehow for George's misdemeanours. Was it all true, she 
 began to wonder. Mr. Eaban, dismal man that he was, 
 delighted in warnings and croakings. Then Dolly raised her 
 head, and found that the dismal man had come back, and 
 was standing beside her. He looked so humble and sorry 
 that she felt he must be to blame. 
 
 ' What have you been telling Aunt Sarah ? ' said Dolly, 
 quite fiercely. ' Why have you made her so angry with my 
 brother ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is your brother himself who has made her 
 angry,' said Eaban, 'I needn't tell you that I am very 
 sorry,' he added, looking very pale ; ' I would do anything I 
 could to help him. I came back to talk to you about it now. 
 
 ' I don't want to hear any more,' cried Dolly, with great 
 emotion. ' Why do you come at all ? What can I say to 
 you, to ask you to spare my poor George ? It only vexes 
 Aer. You don't understand him — how should you ? ' Then 
 melting, ' If you knew all his tenderness and cleverness ? ' — 
 she looked up wistfully ; for once she did not seem stern, 
 but entreating ; her eyes were full of tears as she gazed into 
 his face. There was something of the expression that he had 
 seen in the studio. 
 
 ' It is because I do your brother full justice,' said Eaban, 
 gravely, looking at her fixedly, ' that I have cared to inter- 
 fere.' 
 
'INNER life: 141 
 
 Dolly's eyes dilated, her mouth quivered. Why did slie 
 look at him like that ? He could not bear it. With a 
 sudden impulse — one of those which come to slow natures, 
 one such as that which had wrecked his life before — he said 
 in a low voice, ' Do you know that I would do anything in 
 the world for you and yours ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't know it,' said Dolly. ' I know that you 
 Beem to disapprove of everything I' say, and that you think 
 the worst of my poor George ; that you don't care for him a 
 bit.' 
 
 ' The worst ! ' Eaban said. ' Ah I Miss Vanborough, do 
 you think it so impossible to love those people of whose con- 
 duct you think the worst ? ' 
 
 She was beginning to speak. He would not let her go 
 on. ' Won't you give me a right to interfere ? ' he said ; and 
 he took a step forward, and stood close up to her, with a 
 pale, determined face. ' There are some past things which 
 can never be forgotten, but a whole life may atone for them. 
 Don't you think so ? ' and he put out his hand. Dolly did 
 not in the least understand him, or what was in his mind. 
 
 ' Nobody ever did any good by preaching and inter- 
 fering,' cried the angry sister, ignoring the outstretched 
 
 hand. ' How can you, of all people ? ' She stopped 
 
 short ; she felt that it was ungenerous to call up the past : 
 but in Greorge's behalf she could be mean, spiteful, unjust, 
 if need be, to deliver him from this persecution, — so Dolly 
 chose to call it. 
 
 She was almost startled by the deep cold tone of Frank's 
 voice, as he answered, 'It is because I know what I am 
 speaking of, Miss Vanborough, that I have an excuse for in- 
 terfering before it is too late. You, at all events, wlio re- 
 member my past troubles,need not have reminded me of them.' 
 
 Heartless, cruel girl, she had not understood him. It 
 was as well that she could not read his heart or guess how 
 
:42 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 cruelly she had wounded him. He would keep his secret 
 henceforth. Who was he to love a beautiful, peerless 
 woman, in her pride and the triiimph of her unsullied youth. 
 He looked once more at the sweet, angry face. No, she had 
 not understood him ; so much he could see in her clear eyes. 
 A minute ago they had been full of tears. The tears were 
 all dry now ; the angel was gone ! 
 
 So an event had occurred to Dolly of which she knew 
 uothing. She was utterly unconscious as she came sadly 
 back to the house in the twilight. The pigeons were gone 
 to roost. Lady Sarah was sitting alone in the darkling room. 
 
 ' What a strange man Mr. Eaban is, and how oddly and 
 unkindly he talks,' said Dolly, going to the chimney and 
 striking a light. 
 
 ' What did he say ? ' said Lady Sarah. 
 
 ' I don't quite remember,' said Dolly ; ' it was all so 
 incoherent and angry. He said he would do anything for us, 
 and that he could never forgive George.' 
 
( 143 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XV^IL 
 
 AN AUT13MN MOENINQ. 
 
 Fain would I but I dare not ; I dare and yet I may not ; 
 I may although I care not, for pleasure when I play not. 
 You laugh because you like not ; I jest whenas I joy not 
 You pierce although you strike not ; I strike and yet annoy not. 
 — Thb Shepheed's Descbiption of Love. 
 
 The Palace clock takes up the echo of the Old Church 
 steeple, the sun-dial is pointing with its hooked nose to the 
 Roman figures on its copper face — eleven o'clock says the 
 Palace clock. People go crossing and re-crossing the distant 
 vistas of Kensington Grardens ; the children are fluttering 
 and scampering all over the brown turf, with its autumnal 
 crop of sandwich-papers and orange-peel ; governesses and 
 their pupils are walking briskly up and down the flower- 
 walk that skirts Hyde Park. There is a tempting glitter of 
 horsemanship in the distance, and the little girls glance 
 wistfuUy towards it, but the governesses for the most part 
 keep their young charges to the iron railings and the 
 varied selection of little wooden boards, with Latin names, 
 that are sprouting all along the tangled flower-beds ; 
 the gravel paths are shaken over with fallen leaves, old, 
 brown, purple — so they lie twinkling as the sun shines upon 
 them. 
 
 One or two people are drinking at the little weU among 
 the trees where the children are at play. 
 
 ' Hoy ! hugh ! houp ! ' cries little Betty, jumping high 
 
\U OLD XILNSINGTON. 
 
 into the air, and setting off, followed by a crew of small 
 fluttering rags. What a crisp noise the dead leaves make as 
 the children wade and splash and tumble through the heaps 
 that the gardeners have swept together. The old place 
 echoes with their jolly little voices. The children come, like 
 the leaves themselves, and disport year after year in the sun- 
 shine, and the ducks in tlie round pond feed upon the 
 crumbs which succeeding generations bring from their 
 tables. There are some of us who still know the ducks of 
 twenty years apart. "Where is the gallant grey (goose) that 
 once used to chase unhappy children flying agonized before 
 him ? Where is the little duck with the bright sparkling 
 yellow eyes and the orange beak ? Quick-witted, eager, 
 unabashed, it used to carry off the spoils of the great grey 
 goose itself, too busy careering upon the green and driving 
 all before it, to notice the disappearance of its crusts, 
 although the foolish floundering white ducks, placidly 
 impatient in the pond, would lift up their canary no=es and 
 quack notes of warning. One would still be glad to know 
 where human nature finishes and where ducks begin. 
 
 Overhead the sky lies in faint blue vaults crossed by 
 misty autumnal streamers ; the rooks sweep cawing and 
 circling among the tree-tops ;, a bell is going quick and 
 tinkling : it comes from the little chapel of the Palace hard 
 by. The old royal bricks and windows look red and purple 
 in the autumn sunlight, against gold and blue vapours, and 
 with canopies of azure and grey. 
 
 All the people are coming and going their different ways 
 this October morning. A slim girl, in black silk, is hurrying 
 along from the wide door leading from the Palace Grreen. 
 She stops for an instant to look at the shadow on the old 
 sun-dial, and then hurries on again; and as she goes the 
 brazen hour comes striking and sounding from across the 
 house-roofs of the old suburb. A little boy, playing under 
 
AN AUTUMN MORNING. I4S 
 
 a tree, throws a chestnut at the girl as she hurries by. It 
 falls to the ground, slipping along the folds of her black silk 
 dress. At the same moment two young men, who have met 
 by chance, are parting at the end of one of the long avenues. 
 The girl, seeing them, stops short -and turns back deliberately 
 and walks as far as the old sun-dial before she retraces her 
 steps. 
 
 How oddly all our comings and goings, and purposes and 
 cross-purposes combine, fulfil, frustrate each other. It is 
 like a wonderful symphony, of which every note is a human 
 life. The chapel bell had just finished ringing, as Ehoda 
 (for it is Rhoda) turned in through the narrow door leading 
 to the garden, and John Morgan, with Dolly beside him, 
 came quickly across the worn green space in front of the 
 barracks. 
 
 ' I'm glad I caught you up,' panted good old John, tumb- 
 ling s,nd flying after Dolly. ' So this is your birthday, and 
 you are coming to church ! I promised to take the duty foi 
 Mr. Thompson this morning. I have had two funerals on, 
 and I couldn't get home before. We shall just do it. I'm 
 afraid I'm going too quick for you ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Dolly. I always go quick. I was 
 running after Ehoda. She started to go, and then Aunt 
 Sarah sent me after her. Do you know,' Dolly said, ' Greorge, 
 too, has become so very---I don't know what to call it — — ■ ? 
 He asked me to go to church more often that day he came up.' 
 
 ' Well,' said John, looking at her kindly, and yet a little 
 troubled, ' for myself, I find there's nothing like it ; but then 
 I'm paid for it, you know : it is in my day's work. I hope 
 Greorge is keeping to his ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I hope so,' said Dolly, looking a little wistful. 
 
 ' H'm,' says Jphn, doubtfully ; ' here we are. Gro round 
 to the left, where you see thoge people.' And he darts away 
 and leaves her. 
 
 L 
 
U6 OLD KENSINGTON, 
 
 The clock began striking eleven slowly from the archway 
 of the old Palace ; some dozen people are assembled together 
 in the little Palace chapel, and begin repeating the responses 
 in measured tones. It is a quiet little place. The world 
 rolls beyond it on its many chariot-wheels to busier haunts, 
 along the great high-roads. As for the flesh and the devil, 
 can they be those who are assembled here ? They assemble 
 to the sound of the bell, advancing feebly, for the most part 
 skirting the sunny wall, past the sentry at his post, and along 
 the outer courtyard of the Palace, where the windows are 
 green and red with geranium-pots, where there is a tranquil 
 glimmer of autumnal sunshine and a crowing of cocks. 
 Then the little congregation turns in at a side-door of the 
 Palace, and so through a vestibule, comes into the chapel, 
 of which the bell has been tinkling for some week-day 
 service : it stops short, and the service begins quite suddenly 
 as a door opens in the wall, and a preacher, in a white sur- 
 plice, comes out and begins in a deep voice almost before 
 the last vibration of the bell has died away. As for the 
 congregation, there is not much to note. There are some 
 bent white heads, there is some placid middle-age, a little 
 youth to brighten to the sunshine. The great square window 
 admits a silenced light ; there are high old-fashioned pews 
 on either side of the place, and opposite the communion- 
 table, high up over the heads of the congregation, a great 
 square-curtained pew, with the royal arms and a curtained 
 gallery. It was like Dugald Dalgetty's hiding-place, one 
 member of the congregation thought. She used to wonder 
 if he was not concealed behind the heavy curtains. This 
 reader of the Legend of Montrose is standing alone in a big 
 pew, with one elbow on the cushioned ledge, and her head 
 resting on her hand. She has a soft brown scroll of hair, 
 with a gleam of sunlight in it. She has soft oval cheeks 
 that flush up easily, grey eyes, and black knotted eyebrows, 
 
AN AUTUMN MORNING. 147 
 
 and a curious soft mouth, close fixed now, but it trembles at 
 a word or a breath. She had come to meet her friend. But 
 Ehoda, who is not very far off, goes flitting down the broad 
 walk leading to the great summer-house. It used to stand 
 there until a year or two ago, when the present generation 
 carried it bodily away — a melancholy, stately, grandiose old 
 pile, filling one with no little respect for the people who 
 raised so stately a mausoleum to rest in for a moment. 
 There was some one who had been resting there many mo- 
 ments on this particular morning : a sturdy young man, 
 leaning back against the wall and smoking a cigar. He 
 jumped up eagerly when he saw the girl at last, and, flinging 
 his cigar away, came forward to meet her as she hurried from 
 under the shade of the trees in which she had been keeping. 
 
 'At last, you unpunctual girl, he cried, meeting her 
 and pulling her hand through his arm. ' Do you know how 
 many cigars I have smoked while you have been keeping me 
 waiting ? ' 
 
 She did not answer, but looked up at him with a long 
 slow look. 
 
 ' Dear Greorge, I couldn't get away before ; and when I 
 came just now there was some one talking to you. Your 
 aunt came, and Dolly, and they stayed, oh, such a time. I 
 was so cross, and I kept thinking of my poor George waiting 
 for me here.' 
 
 She could see Greorge smiling and mollified as she spoke, 
 and went on more gaily. 
 
 ' At last, I slipped away ; but I am afraid Dolly must 
 have thought it so strange.' 
 
 ' Dolly ! ' said Greorge Vanborough, impatiently (for, of 
 course, it was Greorge, who had come up to town again with 
 another return-ticket) ; ' she had better take care and not 
 keep you from me again. Come and sit down,' said he. 
 ' I have a thousand things to say to you. . . . ' 
 
 I. 2 
 
t48 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Oh Greorge ! it must only be for a moment,' said Rhoda, 
 hesitating ; ' if anybody were to - 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' cried Greorge, already agitated by the 
 meeting, and exasperated by his long waiting ; ' you are 
 always thinking of what people will say; you have no 
 feeling for a poor wretch who has been counting the minutes 
 till he could see you again — who is going to the devil 
 without you. Ehoda ! I cannot stand this much longer — 
 this waiting and starving on the crumbs that you vouch- 
 safe to scatter from your table. What the deuce does it 
 matter if they doinlt approve ? Why won't you marry me 
 this minute, and have done with it ? There goes a par- 
 son with an umbrella. Shall I run after him and get 
 him to Splice us off-hand? ' 
 
 Ehoda looked seriously alarmed. ' Greorge, don't talk 
 like this,' she said, putting her slim band on his. ' You 
 Would never speak to tne again if I consented to anything 
 so dishonourable ; Lady Sarah would never g;ive you her 
 living ; she would never forg ' 
 
 ' My aunt be hanged ! ' cried Greorge, more and more 
 excited. ' If she were ever so angry she could not divide 
 us if we were Inarried. I am not at all sure that I shall 
 take her living. I only want to earn enough bread and 
 butter for you, Ehoda. Bo'a)^ I believe she might starve you 
 into surrender, Ehoda, take me or leave me, but don't let 
 us go on like this. A woman's idea of honour, I confess, 
 passes my comprehension,' said he, somewhat bitterly. 
 
 ' Can't you understand my not wanting to deceive them 
 all ? ' Ehoda said. 
 
 ' Deceive them all ? ' said Greorge. ' What are we doing 
 now ? I don't Hke it. I don't understand it. I am ashamed 
 to look Dolly in the face when she talks to me about you. 
 Ehoda, be a reasonable, good, kind little Ehoda.' And the 
 young fellow wrung the little hand he held in his, and 
 
AN AUTUMN MORNING. 149 
 
 ihumped the two hands both down together upon the 
 seat. 
 
 He hurt her, but the girl did not wince. She again 
 raised her dark eyes and looked fixedly into his face. When 
 she looked like that she knew very well that George, for one 
 — poor tamed monster that he was — could never defy her. 
 
 ' Dearest Greorge, you know that if I could, I would marry 
 you this moment,' she said. 'But how can I ruin your 
 whole future : — you, who are so sensitive and ill able to bear 
 things? How could we tell Lady Sarah, just now, when — 
 when you have been so incautious and unfortunate ? ' 
 
 ' "When I owe three hundred pounds ! ' cried George, at 
 the pitch of his voice : ' and I must get it from my aunt one 
 way or another — that is the plain English, Ehoda. Don't 
 be afraid ; nothing you say will hurt my feelings. If only.' 
 he added, in a sweet changing voice — ' if only you love mo 
 
 a little, and will help a poor prodigal out of the mire 
 
 But no : you virtuous people pass on with your high-minded 
 scruples, and leave us to our deserts,' he cried, with a sudden 
 change of manner ; and he started up and began walking up 
 and down hastily in front of the summer-house. 
 
 The girl watched him for an instant — a hasty, stumpy 
 figure going up and down, and up and down again. 
 
 ' George ! George ! ' faltered Ehoda, frightened — and her 
 tears brimmed over unaffectedly — ' haven't you any trust in 
 
 my love ? won't you believe me when I tell you, I — I 
 
 you know I would give my life for you if I could ! ' 
 
 George Vanborough's own blue eyes were twinkling. 
 ' Forgive me, darling,' he said, utterly melting in one instant, 
 and speaking in that sweet voice peculiar to him. It seemed 
 to come from his very heart. He sank down by her again. 
 ' You are an angel — there, Ehoda — a thousand thousand 
 miles away from me, though we are sitting side by side ; 
 but when you are unhappy, then I am punished for all my 
 
ijo OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 transgressions,' said George, in his gentle voice. 'Now 1 
 will tell you what we will do : we will teU Dolly all about 
 it, and she will help us.' 
 
 ' Oh ! not Dolly,' said Ehoda, imploring ; ' George ! every- 
 body loves her, and she doesn't know what it means to be 
 unhappy and anxious. Let us wait a little longer, George : 
 we are happy now together, are we not ? You must pass 
 your examination, and take your degree, and it will be easier 
 to tell them then. Come.' 
 
 ' Come where ? ' said George. 
 
 ' There are so many people here,' said Ehoda, ' you mustn't 
 write to me again to meet you. You had much better come 
 and see me at the house.' 
 
 ' I will come and see you there, too,' said George. ' I met 
 Eaban just now. He will be telling them I am in town ; he 
 says my aunt wants to see me on business. Confound him I ' 
 
 ' Was that Mr. Eaban ? ' said Ehoda, opening her eyes. 
 ' Oh I I hope he will not tell them.' She led him across the 
 grass, into a quiet place, deep among the trees, where thef 
 were safe enough; for where so many come and go, two 
 figures, sitting on a felled trunk, on the slope of a leafy 
 hollow, are scarcely noticed. The chestnuts fell now and 
 then plash into the leaves and grasses, the breezes stirred 
 the crisp leaves, the brown sunset of autumn glow tinted 
 and swept to gold the changing world : there were still birds 
 and blue overhead, a sea of gold all round them. George 
 was happy. He forgot his debts, his dreams, the deaths and 
 doubts and failures of life — everything except two dark eyes, 
 a soft harmony of voice and look beside him. 
 
 'You are like Mendelssohn's Songs without Wordsy 
 Ehoda,' said George. 
 
 Ehoda didn't answer. 
 
 ' George, what o'clock is it ? ' she said. 
 
I ISi } 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. 
 
 An' I hallus coined to's ehoorch afoar moy Sally wur dead, 
 An' eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard clock ower my yead, 
 An' I niver knaw'd whot a meiin'd, but I thowt a ad summut to saiiy, 
 An' I thowt a said what a owt to 'a said an' I corned awaay. 
 
 Meanwhile Dolly, who has been looking for Ehoda in vain, 
 stands alone in the pew, listening to the opening exhortation, 
 and, at the same time, wondering alongside of it, as she 
 used to do when she and Ehoda were little girls at Paris 
 long ago. Her thoughts run somewhat in this fashion : — 
 ' Inner life,' thinks Dolly. ' What is inner life ? Greorge 
 says he knows. John Morgan makes it all into the day's 
 work and being tired. Aunt Sarah says it is repentance. 
 Eobert won't even listen to me when I speak of it. Have I 
 got it ? What am I ? ' Dolly wonders if she is sailing 
 straight off to heaven at that moment in the big cushioned 
 pew, or if the ground will open and swallow it up one day, 
 like the tents of Korah and Abiram. This is what she is 
 at that instant — so she thinks at least : Some whitewashed 
 walls, a light through a big window ; John Morgan's voice 
 echoing in an odd melancholy way, and her own two hands 
 lying on the cushion before her. Nothing more : she can 
 go no farther at that minute towards ' the eternal fact 
 upon which man may front the destinies and the immen- 
 sities.' 
 
1 52 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 So Dolly, at the outset of life, at the beginning of the 
 longest five years of her life, stands in the strangers' great 
 pew in Kensington Palace Chapel — a young Pharisee, 
 perhaps, but an honest one, speculating upon the future, 
 making broad her phylacteries ; and with these, strange 
 flashes of self-realisation that came to puzzle her all her life 
 long — standing opposite the great prayer-books, with aU the 
 faded golden stamps of lions and unicorns. It was to please 
 her brother George that Dolly had come to church this 
 Saint's Day. What wouldn't she have done to please him ? 
 Through all his curious excursions of feeling he expected 
 her always to follow, and Dolly tried to follow as she was 
 expected. 
 
 ' For our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of 
 life,' the reader ran on. Dolly was ready enough to be 
 grateful for all these mercies, only she thought that out of 
 doors, in the gardens, she would have felt as grateful as she 
 did now; and she again wondered why it was better to 
 tender thanks in a mahogany box with red stuflBngs, out of 
 a book, instead of out of her heart, in the open air. ' Can 
 this be because I have no inner life ? ' thought Dolly, with 
 her vacant eyes fixed on the clergyman. A bird's shadow 
 flitted across the sun-gleam on the floor. Dolly looked up 
 and saw the branch of the tree through the great window, and 
 the blue depths shining, dazzling, and dominant. Then the 
 girl pushed her hand across her eyes, and tried to forget 
 other thoughts as she stood reading out of the big brown 
 prayer-book. Dolly's gloves had fallen over the side of the 
 pew, and were lying in the oak-matted passage-place, at the 
 feet of a little country cookmaid from one of the kitchens 
 of the Palace, who alternately stared down at the grey 
 gloves and up at the young lady. The little cook, whose 
 mistress was away, had wandered in to the sound of the bel] 
 and sat there with her rosy cheeks, like some russet apple 
 
KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. 153 
 
 t.hat had fallen by chance into a faded reliquary belonging 
 to a sumptuous shrine. Was it because it was Saturday, 
 Dolly wondered, that she could not bring her heart to the 
 altar ? — that the little chapel did not seem to her much 
 more than an allegory ? Are royal chapels only echoes and 
 allegories ? Do people go there to pray real prayers, to 
 long passionately, with beating hearts ? Have dried-up tears 
 ever fallen upon the big pages of the old books with their 
 curling fs and florid s's ? Books in whose pages King Greorge 
 the Third still rules over a shadowy realm, Queen Charlotte 
 heads the Eoyal Family ! 
 
 Dolly had started away from her vague excursions when 
 the Epistle ended. ' Of the tribe of Zabulon twelve 
 thousand, of the tribe of Joseph twelve thousand, of the 
 tribe of Benjamin twelve thousand.' ... It seemed to 
 Dolly but a part of the state and the ceremony that 
 oppressed her. As the armies passed before her, she seemed 
 to hear the chaunt of the multitude, to follow the endless 
 processions of the elect filing past with the seals on their 
 triumphant brows, tlie white robes and palms in their ex- 
 tended hands ! 
 
 But listen, what is this ? John Morgan thundered out 
 the long lists of the tribes ; but his voice softened as he 
 came to the well-loved gospel of the day : — ' Blessed are the 
 poor, for theirs is the kingdom : blessed are they that mourn, 
 for they shall be comforted ; blessed are the merciful, the 
 pure, the peacemakers. . . .' 
 
 ' Are these the real tribes upon earth for whom the 
 blessing is kept ? Am I of the tribe of the merciful, of the 
 peacemakers ? ' Dolly asked herself again. ' How can I make 
 peace ? — ^there is no one angry,' thought the girl ; ' and I'm 
 sure no one has ever done me any harm to be forgiven, 
 except — except Mr. Eaban, when he spoke to Aunt Sarah so 
 cruelly about Greorge. Ought I to forgive that ? ' thought 
 
154 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 the sistei, and yet she wished she had not spoken so 
 unkindly. . . . 
 
 When the end came there was a rustle. The old ladies 
 got up off their knees, the curtains stirred in the big Dugald 
 Dalgetty pew : Dolly was to meet John Morgan in the out«r 
 room, but the old clerk gave her a niessage to say that Mr. 
 Morgan had gone to the chaplain's, and would meet her in 
 the clock court of the Palace. 
 
 ' There was a gentleman asking for him just a minute by,' 
 said the old clerk. 
 
 So Dolly, instead of filing off with the rest of tne congre- 
 gation, went sweeping along the dark vaulted passages with 
 the sunlight at either end — a grey maiden floating in the 
 «hade. 
 
 Dolly's dress was demure enough : for though she liked 
 bright colours, by some odd scruples she denied herself the 
 tints she liked. If she sometimes wore a rose or a blue 
 ribbon, it was Lady Sarah who bought them, and who had 
 learnt of late to like roses and blue ribbons by proxy. 
 Otherwise, she let Dolly come, go, dress as she liked best ; 
 and so the girl bought herself cheap grey gowns and econo- 
 mical brown petticoats: luckily she could not paint her 
 pretty cheeks brown, nor her bright hair grey. Sometimes 
 Ehoda had proposed that they should dress in black with 
 frill caps and crosses, but this Aunt Sarah peremptorily 
 refused to permit. Lady Sarah was a clever woman, with a 
 horror of attitudinising, and some want of artistic feeling. 
 The poor people whom she visited, Rhoda herself, soon dis- 
 covered the futility of any of the little performances they 
 sometimes attempted for Lady Sarah's benefit, 
 
 Dolly stepped out from the dark passage into the Palace 
 courtyard, with its dim rows of windows, its sentinel, its 
 brasses shining, the old doorways standing at prim intervals 
 with knobs and iron bells, which may be pulled to-day, but 
 
KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. 155 
 
 which seem to echo a hundred years ago, as they ring across 
 the Dutch court. The little cookmaid was peeping out of 
 her kitchen-door, and gave a kind little smile. Some one 
 else was waiting, pacing up and down that quiet place, where 
 footsteps can be heard echoing in the stillness. But as Dolly 
 advanced, she discovered that it was not John Morgan, as she 
 imagined. The gentleman, who had reached the end of his 
 walk, now turned, came towards her, looking absently to the 
 right and the left. It was the very last person in the whole 
 world she had expected or wished to see. It was Frank 
 Eaban, with his pale face, who stopped short when he saw 
 her. They had not met since that day when he had talked 
 so strangely. 
 
 If Dolly looked as if she was a little sorry to see Mr. 
 Eaban, Mr. Raban also looked as if he had rather not have 
 met Dolly. He gave a glance round, but there was no way 
 by which he could avoid her, unless he was prepared, like 
 harlequin in the pantomime, to take a summersault and dis- 
 appear through one of the many windows. There was no 
 help for it. They b6th came forward. 
 
 ' How do you do, Miss Vanborough ? ' said Eaban, gravely, 
 holding out his hand, and thinking of the last time they 
 had met. 
 
 ' How do you do ? ' said Dolly, coldly, just giving him 
 her fingers. Then melting a little, as people do who have 
 been over-stifif — ' Have you seen Greorge lately ? how is he ? ' 
 said Dolly, more forgivingly. 
 
 Eaban looked surprised. ' He is quite well . . . Don't 
 
 you — has he not ' he interrupted himself, and then he 
 
 went on, looking a little confused : ' I am only in town for 
 an hour or two. I have been calling at John Morgan's, and 
 they sent me here to find him. Shall I find Lady Sarah at 
 home this afternoon ? ' 
 
 Dolly flushed up. In a moment all her coldness was gone. 
 
156 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Something in his manner made her suspect that all was not 
 well. ' It is something more about Greorge ? ' she said, fright- 
 ened, and she fixed her two circling eyes upon the man. Why 
 was he for ever coming — evil messenger of ill tidings ? She 
 guessed it, she felt it, she seemed to have some second sight 
 as regards Eaban. She almost hated him. A minute ago 
 she had thought she could forgi ye him. 
 
 Dolly's cheeks flushed in vain, her eyes flashed harmless 
 lightning. 
 
 ' Yes, it is about your brother,' said the young man, look- 
 ing away. ' I have at last been able to make that arrange- 
 ment to help him, as Lady Sarah wished. It has taken me 
 some time and some trouble ; ' and without another word he 
 turned and walked away towards the passage. 
 
 I think this was the first time DoUy had ever been snubbed 
 in all her life, except by Greorge^ and that did not count. 
 
 A furtive, quick, yet hesitating footstep flutters after 
 Frank. ' Mr. Eaban,' says Miss Vanborough. 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 ' I did not mean to pain you,' blushing up (she was very 
 indignant still, and half-inclined to cry. But she was in the 
 wrong, and bent upon apology). ' I beg your pardon,' she 
 said, in a lofty, condoning, half-ashamed, half-indignant sort 
 of way ; and she held out her hand. 
 
 Frank Eaban did not refuse the outstretched hand ; he 
 took it in his, and held it tight for an instant, with a grip 
 of which he was scarcely aware, and then he dropped it. 
 ' You don't know,' he said, with some emotion, — ' I hope you 
 will never know, what it is to have done another great wrong. 
 I cannot forget what you said to me that last evening we met ; 
 but you must learn more charity, and believe that even those 
 who have failed once may mean to do right another time.' 
 
 How little she guessed that, as he spoke, he was thinking 
 what a madness had been his ; wondering what infatuation 
 
KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. 1:7 
 
 had made him, even for one instant, dream they could ever 
 be anything to one another. 
 
 As the two made it up, after a fashion, a bell tinkled 
 through the court, a door opened, and John Morgan came 
 rimning down some worn steps, twirling his umbrella like a 
 mill, 
 
 ' Here I am, Dolly. Why, Eaban ! ' he shouts, ' where 
 do you come from ? Dr. Thompson is better — he kept me 
 discussing the church-rates. I couldn't get away. You see, 
 
 where the proportion of Dissenters "Will you have an 
 
 arm ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' said Dolly. 
 
 ' where the proportion is one-fiftieth of the popula- 
 tion ' 
 
 The curate, always enthusiastic, seized Eaban's arm, and 
 plunged with him into the very depths of Dr. Thompson's 
 argument. Dolly lingered behind for a minute, and came 
 after them, along the passage again and out by a dififerent 
 way into an old avenue which leads from the Palace stables, 
 and by a garden enclosed in high brick walls. It used to be 
 Lady Henley's garden, and Dolly sometimes walked there. 
 Now she only skirted the wall. The sun was casting long 
 shadows, the mists were gone, a sort of sweet balmy ripeness 
 was in the air, as they came out upon the green. The win- 
 dows of the old gTiard-house were twinkling ; some soldiers 
 were lounging on the grass. Some members of the con- 
 gregation were opening the wicket-gates of one of the old 
 houses that stood round about in those days, modest depen- 
 dencies of the Palace, quaint-roofed, with slanting bricks and 
 tiles, and narrow panes, from whence autumnal avenues 
 coTild be descried. 
 
 There is a side-door leading from Palace Green to Ken- 
 sington Gardens. "Within the door stands an old stone 
 sumraer-hovse, which is generally brimming over with little 
 
IS8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 children, who for many years past have sat swinging their 
 legs upon the seat. 
 
 As Dolly passed the gate she heard a shout, and out of 
 the summer-house darted a little ragged procession, with 
 tatters flying — Mikey and his sister, who had spied their 
 victim, and now pursued her with triumphant cries. 
 
 ' Tsus ! — hi, Mikey ! — Miss Vamper 1 ' (so they called her). 
 
 'Grive us a 'napeny,' says Mikey. 'Father's got no 
 work, mother was buried on Toosdy ! "We's so 'ungry.' 
 
 'Why, Betty,' said Dolly, stopping short, and greatly 
 shocked, ' is this true ? ' 
 
 'Ess,' says little Betty, grinning, and running back 
 through the wicket. 
 
 ' What did you have for dinner yesterday ? ' says Dolly, 
 incredulous, and pursuing Betty towards the summer-house. 
 
 'Please, Miss, mother give us some bread-and-drippin',' 
 says Mikey, with a caper. 'I mean father did. We's 
 so • . .' 
 
 ' You mean that you have been telling me a wicked 
 story,' interrupted Dolly. 'I am very angry, Mikey. I 
 nm)&r forgive deception. I shall give you no apples — 
 nothing. I . • . .' She stopped short ; her voice sud- 
 denly faltered. She stood quite still watching two people, 
 who came advancing down the avenue that led to the little 
 door, arm-in-arm, and so absorbed in each other, that for a 
 minute they did not see that she ivas standing in the way. 
 It was a chance. If it had not happened then, it would 
 have happened at some other time and place. 
 
 Ehoda had waited until the service was over, and in so 
 doing she had come upon the last person whom she wished 
 to see just then. There stood Dolly by the summer-house, 
 with a pale face, confronting her, with the little ragged crew 
 about her knees. Mikey, looking up, thought that for once 
 ' Miss Vamper ' was in the tantrums. 
 
KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. 159 
 
 Rhoda started back instinctively, meeting two blank, 
 wondering eyes, and would have pulled George away, but it 
 was too late. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said George ; and he came forward, and then 
 they all were quite silent for a minute, George a little in 
 advance, Ehoda lingering still. 
 
 'What does this mean?' said Dolly, coldly, speaking at last. 
 
 ' What does it mean ! ' George burst out. ' Don't you 
 see us ? don't you guess ? It is good news, isn't it ? — Dolly, 
 she loves me. Have you not guessed it all along — ever 
 since — months ago ? ' 
 
 He was half-distracted, half-excited, half-laughing. His 
 eyes were dim with moisture. Any one might see him. 
 What did he care for the ragged children, the people passing 
 by — those silent crowds that flit through our lives ! He came 
 up to Dolly. 
 
 ' You will be tender to her, won't you, and help her, for 
 my sake, and you will be our friend, Dolly ? We had not 
 meant to tell you yet ; but you wish us joy, won't you, 
 dear?' 
 
 ' Tender to her ? Help her ? What help could she 
 want ? ' thought Dolly, looking at Rhoda, who stood silent 
 still, but who made a little dumb movement of entreaty. 
 ' Was it George who was asking her to befriend him ? Was 
 it George, who had mistrusted her all this long time, and 
 kept her in ignorance . . . ? ' 
 
 ' Why don't you answer ? Why do you look like that ? 
 Do you wonder that I or that anybody else should love her ? ' 
 he went on eagerly. 
 
 ' What do you want me to do ? ' DoUy asked. ' I cannot 
 understand it.' 
 
 Her voice sounded hard and constrained : she was hurt 
 and bewildered. 
 
 George was bitterly disappointed. Her coldness shocked 
 
i6o OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 him. Could it be possible that Rhoda was right and I>olIy 
 hard and unfeeling ? 
 
 Poor Dolly I A bitter wave of feeling seemed suddenly 
 to rise from her heart and choke her as she stood there. So I 
 there was an understanding between them ? Did he come 
 to see Rhoda in secret, while she was counting the days till 
 they should meet ? Was it only by chance that she was to 
 learn their engagement ? They had been stopping up the 
 way; as they moved a little aside to let the people pass, 
 Rhoda timidly laid one hand on Dolly's arm, — ' Won't you 
 forgive me ? won't you keep our secret?' she said. 
 
 ' Why should there be any secret ? ' cried Dolly, haughtily. 
 ' How could I keep one from Aunt Sarah ? I am not used to 
 such manceuvrings.' 
 
 Rhoda begaa to cry. Greorge, exasperated by Dolly's 
 manner, burst out with ' Tell her, then I Tell them all— tell 
 them everything ! Tell them of my debts ! Part us ! ' he said. 
 ' You will make your profit by it, no doubt, and Rhoda, 
 poor child, will be sacrificed.' He felt he was wrong, but 
 this made him only the more bitter. He turned away from 
 Dolly, and pulled Rhoda's hand through his ai-m, 
 
 ' I will take care of you, darling,' he said. 
 
 ' Greorge ! Greorge! ' from poor Dolly, sick and chilled. 
 
 ' Dolly ! ' cried another voice from without the gate. It 
 was John Morgan's. He had missed her, and was retracing 
 his steps to find her. 
 
 Poor weak-minded Dolly ! now brought to the trial and 
 found wanting : how could she withstand those she loved ? 
 All her life long it was so with her. As Greorge turned 
 away from her, her heart went after him. 
 
 ' Oh, Greorge ! don't look at me so. My profit ! You 
 have made it impossible for me to speak,' she faltered, as 
 sue moved away to meet the curate and F'rank Raban. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? are you ill ? ' said John Morgan, 
 
KENSINGTON PALACE CHAPEL. i6i 
 
 meeting Dorothea in the doorway. 'Why did you wail 
 behind ? ' 
 
 ' Mikey detained me. I am quite well, thank you,' said 
 Dolly, slowly, with a changed face. 
 
 Eaban gave her a curious look. He had seen some onti 
 disappear into the summer-house, and he thought he recog- 
 nised the stumpy figure. 
 
 John Morgan noticed nothing ; he walked on, talking of 
 the serious aspect things were taking in the East — of Doctor 
 Thompson's gout — of the church-rates. Frank Eaban looked 
 at Dolly once or twice, and slackened his steps to hers. They 
 left her at the co-rner of her lane. 
 
ih3 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 KHODA TO DOLLY. 
 
 Make denials, 
 Increase your services : so seem as if 
 You were inspired to do those duties which 
 You tender to her. . . . 
 
 — Cymbeline. 
 
 DoLLT heard the luncheon-hell ringing as she walked slowly 
 homewards. It seemed to her as if she had heen hearing a 
 story which had heen told her hefore, with words that she 
 rememhered now, though she had listened once without 
 attaching any meaning to them. Now she seemed to awake 
 and understand it all — a hundred little things, unnoticed at 
 the time, crowded back into her mind and seemed to lead 
 up to this moment. Dolly suddenly remembered Ehoda's 
 odd knowledge of Greorge's doings, her blushes, his constant 
 comings of late : she remembered everything, even to the 
 gloves lying by the piano. The girl was bitterly hurt, 
 wounded, impatient. Love had never entered into her cal- 
 culations, except as a joke or a far-away impossibility. It 
 was no such very terrible secret after all that a young man 
 and a young woman should have taken a fancy to each other ; 
 but Dolly, whose faults were the faults of inexperience and 
 youthful dominion and confidence, blamed passionately as 
 she would have sympathised. Then in a breath she blamed 
 herself. 
 
RHODA TO DOLLY. 163 
 
 How often it happens that people meaning well, as Dolly 
 did, undoubtedly slide into some wrong groove from the over- 
 balance of some one or other quality. Dolly cared too much 
 and not too little, and that was what made her so harsh to 
 George, and then, as if to atone for her harshness, too yielding 
 to his wish — to Ehoda's wish working by so powerful a lever. 
 
 Lady Sarah came home late for luncheon, and went up 
 to her room soon after. Dolly gave Frank Raban's message. 
 She herself stopped at home all day expecting George, but 
 no George came, not even Ehoda, whom she both longed 
 and hated to see again. Every one seemed changed to 
 Dolly ; she felt as if she was wandering lost in the familiar 
 rooms, as if George and her aunt and Ehoda were all dif- 
 ferent people since the morning. 
 
 ' "Why are you looking at me, child ? ' said Lady Sarah, 
 suddenly. Dolly had been wistfully scanning the familiar 
 lines of the well-known face; there was now a secret 
 between them, thought the girl, 
 
 Mr. Eaban came in the afternoon, as he had announced, 
 and Dolly, going into the oak room, found him there, 
 standing in the shadow, with a bundle of papers under his 
 arm, and looking more like a lawyer's clerk than a friend 
 who had been working hard in their service. 
 
 Dolly was leaving the room again, when her aunt called 
 her back for a minute. 
 
 ' Did George tell you anything of his difficulties the last 
 time he was in town ? ' Lady Sarah asked from her chimney- 
 comer. ' When was it you saw him, Dolly ? ' She was 
 nervously tying some papers together that slipped out of 
 her hands and fell upon the floor. 
 
 Poor Dolly turned away. There was a minute's silence. 
 
 Dolly flushed crimson. 'I — I don't — I can't tell you,' 
 she said, confusedly. 
 
 She saw Frank Eaban's look of surprise as she turned. 
 
 u 2 
 
1 64 OLD KENSINGTOA. 
 
 What did she care what he thought of her ? What was it 
 to him if she chose to tell a lie and he guessed it ? Oh. 
 Greorge ! cruel boy ! what had he asked ? 
 
 Frank Eaban wondered at Dolly's silence. Since she 
 wished to keep a secret, he did not choose to interfere ; but 
 he blamed her for that, as for most other things ; and yet 
 the more he blamed her the more her face haimted him. 
 Those girl's eyes, with their gi-eat lights and clouds ; that 
 sweet face, that looked so stern and yet so tender too. 
 When he was away from her he loved her ; when he was 
 with her he accused her. 
 
 It was a long, endless day. Miss Moineaux was welcome 
 at tea-time, with her flannel bindings and fluttering gossip. 
 It seemed like a little bit of commonplace, familiar every- 
 day coming in. Dolly went to the door with her when she 
 left them, and saw black trees swaying, winds chasing across 
 the dreary sky, light clouds sailing by. The winds rose 
 that night, beating about the house. A chimney-pot fell 
 crashing to the ground ; elm-branches broke off from the 
 trees and were scattered along the parks. Dolly, in her 
 little room, lay listening to the sobs and moans without, to 
 the fierce hands beating and struggling with her window. 
 She fell into a sleep, in which it seemed to her that she was 
 railing and raving at George again : she awoke with a start 
 to find that it was the wind. She dreamt the history of the 
 day over and over. She dreamt of Eaban, and somehow he 
 always looked at her reproachfully. She awoke very early 
 in the morning, long before it was time to get up, with 
 penitent, loving words on her lips. Had she been harsh to 
 George ? Jealous — was she jealous ? Dolly scorned to be 
 jealous, she told herself. It was her hatred of wrong, her 
 Bense of justice, that had made her heart so bitter. Poor 
 Dolly had yet to discover how far she fell short of her own 
 i^eaL My poor little heroine was as yet on the eve of hei 
 
RHODA TO DOLLY. 165 
 
 long and lonely expedition in life. There might be arid 
 places waiting for her, dreary passes, but there were also 
 cool waters and green pastures along the road. Nor had 
 she yet journeyed from their shade, and from the sound of 
 her companions' voices and the shelter of their protection. 
 
 This was Ehoda's explanation. She was standing before 
 Dolly, looking prettier than ever. She held a flower in her 
 hand, which she had offered her friend, who silently rejected 
 it. Rhoda had looked for Dolly in vain in the house. She 
 found her at last, disconsolately throwing crumbs to the 
 fishes in the pond. Dolly stood sulky and miserable, 
 scarcely looking up when Ehoda spoke. They were safe 
 in the garden out of reach of the quiet old guardians of the 
 house. Ehoda began at once. 
 
 ' He urged it,' said Rhoda, fixing her great dark eyes 
 steadily upon Dolly, ' indeed he did. I said no at first ; I 
 would not even let him be bound. One day I was weak 
 and consented to be engaged. I sinned against my own 
 conscience ; I am chastised.' 
 
 ' Sinned ? ' said Dolly, impatiently ; ' chastised ? Rhoda, 
 Rhoda, you use long words that mean nothing. Oh I why 
 did you not tell Aunt Sarah from the beginning ? She 
 loves Greorge so dearly — so dearly that she would have done 
 anything, consented to everything, and this wretchedness 
 would have been spared. How shall I tell her ? How shall 
 I ever tell her ? I can't keep such a secret. Already I 
 have had to tell a lie.' 
 
 ' I could not bear to be the means of injuring him,' 
 Rhoda said, flushing up. ' I daresay you won't understand 
 me or believe me, but it is true. Indeed, indeed, it is true, 
 Dolly. Lady Sarah would never forgive him now if he were 
 to marry me. She does not like me. Dolly, you know it. I 
 have been culpably foolish ; but I will not damage his future.' 
 
•fi6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 * Of course it is foolish to be engaged,' said Dolly ; ' but 
 there are worse things, Ehoda, a thousand times.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ehoda. ' Dolly, you don't know half. He 
 has been gambling — dear, foolish boy — borrowing money 
 from the Jews. Uncle John heard of it through a pupil of 
 his. He wrote to Mr. Eaban. Oh, Dolly, I love him so 
 dearly, that it breaks my heart. How can I trust him ? 
 How can I ? Oh, how diflScult it is to be good, and to 
 know what one should do.' 
 
 Ehoda flung herself down upon the wooden bench as she 
 spoke, leaning her head against the low brick wall, with its 
 ivy sprays. Dolly stood beside her, erect, indignant, half 
 softened by the girl's passion, and half hardened when she 
 thought of the deception that she had kept up. Beyond 
 the low ivy wall was the lane of which I have spoken, where 
 some people were strolling ; overhead the sky was burning 
 deep, the afternoon shadows came trembling and shimmer- 
 ing into the pond. Lady Sarah had had a screen of creepers 
 put up to shelter her favourite seat from the winds; the 
 great leaves were still hanging to the trellis, gold and 
 brown. 
 
 "- If I thought only of myself should I not have told 
 everybody?' said Ehoda, excitedly, and she clasped her 
 hands ; ' but I feel there is a higher duty to him. I will be 
 his good angel and urge him to work. I will leave him if I 
 stand in his way, and keep to him if it is for good. Do you 
 think I want to be a cause of trouble between him and 
 Lady Sarah ? She might disinherit him. It is you she 
 cares for, and not poor Greorge ; I heard Mr. Eaban say so 
 only yesterday,' cried Ehoda, in a sudden burst of tears. 
 ' He told me so.' 
 
 Dolly waited for a moment, and then slowly turneo 
 away, leaving Ehoda still sobbing against the bricks. Sht 
 couldn't forgive her at that instant ; her heart was bittei 
 
RHODA TO DOLLY. 167 
 
 K 
 
 against her. What had she done to deserve such taunts ? 
 Why had Ehoda come making dissension and unhappiness 
 between them ? It was hard, oh, it was hard. There came 
 a jangling burst of music from the church bells, as if to add 
 to her bewilderment. 
 
 'Dear Rhoda,' said Dolly, coming back, and melting 
 suddenly, ' do listen to me. Tell them all. I cannot see 
 one reason against it.' 
 
 ' Except that we are no longer engaged,' said Ehoda> 
 gravely. ' I have set him free, Dolly ; that is what 1 
 wanted to tell you. I wrote to him, and set him free ; for 
 anything underhand is as painful to me as to you. It was 
 only to please George I consented. Hush ! They are 
 calling me.' 
 
 Engaged or not, poor Dorothea felt that all pleasure 
 in her friend's company was gone ; there was a tacit jar 
 between them — a little rift. Doily for the first time 
 watched Ehoda with critical eyes, as she walked away down 
 the path that led to the house, fresh and trim in her pretty 
 dress, and her black silk mantlet, and with her flower in her 
 hand. Dolly did not follow her. She thought over every 
 single little bit of her life after Ehoda had left her, as she 
 sat there alone, curled up on the wooden seat, with her limp 
 violet dress in crumpled folds, and her brown hair falling 
 loose, with pretty little twirls and wavings. Her grey eyes 
 were somewhat sad and dim from the day's emotion. No, 
 she must not tell her aunt what had happened until she had 
 George's leave. She would see him soon ; she would beg 
 his pardon ; she would make him tell Aunt Sarah. She had 
 been too hasty. She had spoken harshly, only it was diffi- 
 cult not to be harsh to Ehoda, who was so cold^who seemed 
 as if she would not understand. All she said sounded so 
 good, and yet, somehow, it did not come right. Then She 
 began to wonder if it coidd be that Rhoda loved George 
 
l68 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 more than Dolly imagined. Some new glimmer had come 
 to the girl of late — not of what love was, but of what it 
 might be. Only Dolly was fresh and prim and shy, as girls 
 are, and she put the thought far away from her. Love! 
 Love was up in the stars, she thought hastily. All the 
 same she could not bring herself to feel cordially to Rhoda. 
 There was something miserably uncomfortable in the new 
 relations between them ; and Dolly showed it in her manner 
 plainly enough. 
 
 Lady Sarah told Dolly that afternoon that she had 
 written to George to come up at the end of the week. ' He 
 has had no pity on us, Dolly,' she said. ' I have some money 
 that a friend paid back, and with that and the price of a 
 field at Bartlemere, I shall be able to pay for his pastimes 
 during the last year. 
 
 ' Aunt Sarah,' said Dolly suddenly illuminated, ' can't you 
 take some of my money ; do, please, dearest Aunt Sarah.' 
 
 ' What would be the use of that ? ' said Lady Sarah. ' I 
 want the interest for your expenses, Dolly.' She spoke quite 
 sharply, as if in pain, and she put her hand to her side and 
 went away. If Lady Sarah had not been ill herself and pre- 
 occupied, she might have felt that something also ailed Dolly, 
 that the girl was constrained at times, and unlike herself. 
 Dolly only wondered that her aunt did not guess what was 
 passing before her, so patent did it seem, now that she had 
 the key. 
 
 One day Marker persuaded her mistress to go to a doctor. 
 Lady Sarah came back with one of those impossible prescrip- 
 tions that people give. Avoid all anxiety; do not trouble 
 yourself about anything; live generously; distract yourself 
 when you can do so without fatigue. 
 
 Lady Sarah came home to find a Cambridge letter on 
 the table, containing some old bills of George's, which a 
 tradesman had sent on to her ; a fresh call from the unlucky 
 
RHODA TO DOLLY. itig 
 
 bank in which Mr. Francis had invested so much of her 
 money : an appeal from Mikey's fever-stricken cellar, and a 
 foreign scented letter, that troubled her more than all the 
 rest together : — 
 
 TriiKomalee, September 25, ) 8 — . 
 
 Deabest Sarah, — I have many and many a time begUD to write to you, 
 only to destroy bitter records of those sorrows which I must continue to 
 bear alone. Soon we shall be leaving this ill-fated shore, where I have passed 
 so many miserable years gazing with longing eyes at the broad expanse lying 
 so calm and indifferent before me. 
 
 Before long Admiral Palmer sails for England. He gives up his command 
 with great reluctance, and returns viA the Cape ; but I, in my weak state of 
 health, dare risk no longer delay. Friends — kind, good friends, Mrs. and Miss 
 M'Grudder — have offered to accompany me overland, sharing all expenses, and 
 visiting Venice and Titian's — the great master's glorious works — en route, to 
 say nothing of Raphael, and Angelo the divine. We shall rest «. week at 
 Paris. I feel that after so long a journey utter prostration wiU succeed to the 
 excitement which carries me through where I see others, more robust than 
 myself, failing on every side. And then I am in rags — a study for Murillo 
 himself! I cannot come among you all until my wardrobe is replenished. 
 How I look forward to the time when I shall welcome my Dorothea — ours, I 
 may say — for you have been all but a mother to her. On my return I trust 
 to find some corner to make my nest ; and for that purpose I should wish to 
 spend a week or two in London, so as to be within easy reach of all. Sarah, 
 my first husband's sister, will you help me ; for the love of ' auld lang syne,' will 
 you spare a little corner in your dear old house? Expensive hotels I cannot 
 afford. My dear friends here agree that Admiral Palmer's ungraciously-given 
 allowances are beggarly and unworthy of his high position. How differently 
 dear Stan would have wished him to act ! Silver and gold have I none — 
 barely sufficient for my own dress. Those insurances were most unfairly 
 given against the widow and the orphan. Tell my darlings this ; tell them, 
 too, that all that I have is theirs. When I think that for the last six years, 
 ever since my second marriage, a tyrant will has prevented me from folding 
 them to my haart, indignation nearly overcomes the prudence so foreign to my 
 nature. Once more, fond love to you, to my boy, and to Tnafille; and trusting 
 before long to be once more at home, 
 
 Ever your very affectionate 
 
 Phiuppa. 
 
 P.S. — Since writing the above few lines, I find that my husband wishes to 
 compass my death. He again proposes my returning with him by the Cape. 
 Sarah, will you spare me the corner of a garret beneath your roof ? 
 
 The letter was scented with some faint delicious perfume. 
 
170 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Here, take it away,' says Lady Sarah. ' Faugh ! Of course 
 she knows very well that she can have the best bedroom, and 
 the dressing-room for her maid ; and you, my poor Dolly, will 
 
 have a little amusement and some one better fitted to ' 
 
 ' Don't,' cries Dolly, jumping forward with a kiss. 
 
C m ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXr. 
 
 CINDERS. 
 
 'Mid the wreck of is and was, 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed ! 
 
 DoLLT went to afternoon church the day George was expected, 
 When she came home she heard that her brother was up- 
 stairs, and she hurried along the passage with a quick- 
 beating heart, and knocked at his door. It was dark in 
 the passage, and Dolly stood listening — a frightened, grey- 
 eyed, pent-up indignation, in a black dress, with her bonnet 
 in her hand. There was a dense cloud of smoke and tobacco 
 in the room when Dolly turned the lock at last, and she 
 could only cough and blink her eyes. As the fumes cleared 
 away, she saw that George was sitting by the low wooden 
 fireplace. He had been burning papers. How eagerly the 
 flames leaped and travelled on, in bright blue and golden 
 tongues, while the papers fell away black and crackling and 
 changing to cinder. Dolly looked very pale and unlike 
 herself. George turned with a bright haggard sort of smile. 
 
 ' Is that you, Dolly ? ' he said. ' Come in ; the illumina- 
 tion is over. You don't mind the smell of tobacco. I have 
 been burning a box of cigars that Robert gave me. He 
 knows no more about cigars than you do.' 
 
 ' Oh, George,' cried Dolly. ' Is this all you have to say, 
 after making us so unhappy ? * 
 
tyz OLD A'£iVSLVGTON. 
 
 ' What do you want me to say ? ' said George, shrugging 
 his shoulders. 
 
 ' I want you to say that you have told her everything, 
 and that there are no more concealments,' Dolly cried, get- 
 ting angry. ' When Aunt Sarah asked me about you last I 
 felt as if it was written in my face that I was lying.' 
 
 He was going to answer roughly, but he looked up at 
 Dolly's pale agitated face, and was sorry for her. He spoke 
 both kindly and crossly. 
 
 ' Don't make such a talk, Dolly, and a fuss. We have 
 had it out — John Morgan — council of state — she has been — 
 she has been — ' — ^his voice faltered a little bit — ' a great deal 
 kinder than I deserve or had any reason to expect, judging 
 by you, Dolly. It's not your business to scold, you know.' 
 
 ' And she knows all,' said Dolly, eagerly and bright- 
 ening. 
 
 ' She knows all about my debts,' said Greorge, expres- 
 sively. ' She is going to let me try once more for the next 
 scholarship. She shan't be disappointed this time. How- 
 ever, the past is past, and can't be helped. I've been burning 
 a whole drawer full of it . . .' And he struck his foot into 
 the smouldering heap. 
 
 People think that what is destroyed is over, forgetting 
 that what has been is never over, and that it is in vain you 
 bum and scatter the cinders of many a past hope and failure, 
 and of a debt to pay, a promise broken. Debts, promises, 
 failures are there stiU. There were the poems George had 
 tried to write, the account-books he had not filled up, the 
 lists of books he had not read, a dozen mementoes of good 
 intentions broken. 
 
 ' And did you not tell Aunt Sarah about Ehoda ? ' re- 
 peated Dolly, disappointed. « Oh, George, what does Rhoda 
 mean when she says you are no longer engaged ? What does 
 it all mean ? ' 
 
CINDESS. 173 
 
 ' Tt means, it means,' said freorge, impatiently, ' that I 
 am an idiot, but I am not a sneak ; and if a woman trusts 
 me, I can keep her counsel, so long as you don't betray me, 
 Dolly. Only there are some things one can't do, not even 
 for the woman one loves.' Then he looked up suddenly, and 
 seeing Dolly's pained fece, he went on : ' Dolly, I think you 
 would cut off your head if I were to ask you for it : Ehoda 
 won't snip off one little lock of hair. Poor dear, she is 
 frightened at every shadow. She has given me back 
 this,' he said, opening his hand, which he had kept closed 
 before, and showing Dolly a little pearl locket lying in his 
 palm. Then he went on in a low voice, looking into the 
 fire, ' I love' her enough, Grod knows, and I would tell the 
 whole world, if she would let me. But she says no — always 
 no ; and I can trust her, Dolly, for she is nearer heaven 
 than I am. It is her will to be silent,' he said, gently ; 
 ' angels vanish if we would look into their faces too closely. 
 She would like me to have a tranquil spirit, such as her own ; 
 she thinks me a thousand times better than I am,' said 
 Greorge, 'and if I did as she wishes, I could be happy 
 enough, but not contented.' Dolly wondered of what he 
 was thinking, as he went on pacing up and down the room. 
 ' I cannot tell lies to myself, not even for her sake. I cannot 
 take this living as she wishes. If I may not believe in Grod 
 tny own way, I should blaspheme and deny Him, while I 
 confessed Him in some one else's words. You asked me one 
 day if I had an inner life, Dolly,' George said, coming back to 
 the oak chimney-piece again. ' Inner life is only one's self 
 and the responsibility of this one life to the Truth. Some- 
 times I think that before I loved Rhoda I was not all myself, 
 and though the truth was the same it did not concern me in 
 the same degree, and I meant to do this or that as it might 
 be most advisable. Now, through loving her, Dolly, I seem 
 to have come to something beyond us both, and what is 
 
174 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 advisable don't seem to matter any more. Can you under- 
 stand this ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Greorge,' said Dolly, looking at him earnestly — his 
 sallow £ace had firshed up, his closed eyes had opened out. 
 Dolly suddenly flimg her arms round his neck and kissed 
 him. She felt proud of her brother as she listened to him. 
 She had come to blame, she remained to bless him. Ah, if 
 every one knew him as well as she did. She was happier 
 than she had been for many a day, and ready to believe that 
 George could not be wrong. She could not even say no that 
 evening after dinner, when Greorge proposed that they should 
 go over to the Morgans'. 
 
 ' Go, my dears,' said Lady Sarah ; and Dolly got up with 
 a sort of sigh to get her bonnet. Just as they were starting, 
 her cousin Eobert walked in unexpectedly, and proposed to 
 accompany them. He had come in with a serious face, pre- 
 pared to sympathise in their family troubles, and to add a 
 few words in season, if desired, for George's benefit. He 
 found the young man looking most provokingly cheerful and 
 at home. Lady Sarah smiling, and if Dolly was depressed she 
 did not sliow it, for, in truth, her heart was greatly light- 
 ened. The three walked oif together. 
 
 ' We shall not be back to tea,' said Eobert, who always 
 liked to settle things beforehand. But on this occasion 
 Mrs. Morgan's hospitable teapot was empty for once. The 
 whole party had gone off to a lecture and dissolving views 
 in the Town Hall. The only person left behind was Tom 
 Morgan, who was sitting in the study reading a novel, with 
 his heels on the chimney-piece, when, they looked in. 
 
 ' Good-night, Tom,' said Dolly, with more frankness than 
 necessary ; ' we won't stay, since there is only you.' 
 
 'Good-evening,' said Eobert, affably. And they came 
 out into the street again. He went on : ' I am sorry John 
 Morgan was not at home. I want him to fix some time for 
 
CINDERS. 175 
 
 coming down to Cambiidge. Yon must come with him, 
 Dolly. I think it might amuse you.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' says Dolly, delighted. 
 
 This prospect alone would have been enough to make hei 
 walk hack enjoyable, even if Greorge had not been by her 
 side ; if it had not been so lovely a night ; if stars had not 
 burnt sweet and clear overhead ; if soft winds had not been 
 stirring. The place looked transformed, gables and corners 
 standing out in sudden lights. They could see the dim shade 
 of the old church, and a clear green planet flashing with 
 lambent streams beyond the square tower. Then they 
 escaped from the crowd and turned down by the quiet lane 
 where Church House was standing gabled against the great 
 Orion. They found the door ajar when they reached the ivy 
 gate ; the hall door, too, was wide open, and there seemed to 
 be boxes and some confusion. 
 
 'Oh, don't let us go in; come into the garden,' said 
 Dolly, running to the little iron garden-gate inside the 
 outer wall. There was a strange glimmer behind the gate 
 against which the slim white figure was pushing. The 
 garden was dark, and rustling with a trembling in the 
 branches. A great moon had come up, and was hanging 
 over London, serenely silvering the housetops and spires ; 
 its light was rippling down the straight walks, of which the 
 gravel was glittering. 
 
 ' Yes, come,' said George, and the three young people 
 flitted along to their usual haunt by the pond. 
 
 ' "What is that ? ' said Dolly, pointing in the darkness ; 
 ' didn't somebody go by ? ' She was only a girl in her teens, 
 and still afraid of unseen things. 
 
 ' A rat,' cried George, dashing forward. 
 
 ' Oh, stop,' from Dolly. 
 
 * Don't be a goose,' said Robert ; and as he spoke George 
 met them, flourishing an old garden shawl of Lady Sarahs, 
 
176 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 which had been forgotten upon the bench. He flung it 
 weirdly down upon the gravel walk. ' " Dead for a ducat, 
 dead," ' said he. Then he started forward with a strange 
 moonlight gleam upon his face. ' " This counsellor is now 
 most still, most secret, and most grave," ' he said, ' " who 
 was in life a foolish prating knave." ' His voice thrilled, he 
 got more and more excited. 
 
 Eobert began to laugh : ' What is that you are acting ? ' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Acting ? ' cried G-eorge, opening his eyes ; ' " that skull 
 had a tongue in it and could sing once." " Dost thou think 
 Alexander looked o' this fashion i' the earth ? " ' 
 
 ' Do be quiet,' said Henley, impatiently. ' Is not some 
 one calling ? ' 
 
 Some one was calling : lights were appearing and dis- 
 appearing ; the drawing-room window was wide open, and 
 their aunt stood on the terrace making signs, and looking 
 out for them. 
 
 ' Look, there goes a falling star,' said G-eorge. 
 
 ' Ah ! who is that under the tree ? ' cried Dolly again, 
 with a little shriek. ' I knew I had seen some one move ; ' 
 and as she spoke, a figure emerging from the gloom came 
 nearer and nearer to them, almost runnin with two extended 
 arms ; a figure in long fiowing garments, silver in the moon- 
 light, a woman advancing quicker and quicker. 
 
 ' Children, children ! ' said a voice. 'It is I, — George — 
 your mother ! Don't you know me — darlings ? I have come. 
 I was looking for you. Yes, it is I, your mother, chil- 
 dren.' 
 
 Dolly's heart stood still, and then began to throb, as the 
 lady flung her arms round Eobert, who happened to be 
 standing nearest. 
 
 ' Is this George ? I should have known him anywhere,' 
 she cried. 
 
CINDERS. 177 
 
 Was this their mother ? this beautiful, sweet, unseen 
 woman, this pathetic voice ? 
 
 Dolly had seized Greorge's hand in her agitation, and 
 was crunching it in hers. Eobert had managed to extricate 
 himself from the poor lady's agitated clutch. 
 
 ' Here is Greorge. I am Eobert Henley,' he said. ' But, 
 my dear aunt, why — why did you not write ? I should have 
 met you. I ' 
 
 It was all a strange confusion of moonlight, and bewil- 
 derment, and of tears, presently, for Mrs. Palmer began to 
 cry and then to laugh, and finally went off into hysterics in 
 her sod's arms. 
 
(78 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIL 
 
 MKS. PALMER. 
 
 Le ±!aron — ' Je rais m'enf ermer pour m'aliaDdonner a ma douleur. Dites-lBj, 
 s'il me demande, que je suis enfermi et que je m'abandonne a ma douleur . . ' 
 
 —A. Be Mtissbt. 
 
 When they were a little calmed down, when they had left 
 the moon and the stars outside in the garden, and wevt all 
 standing in a group in the drawing-room round the chair in 
 which Mrs. Palmer had been placed, Dolly saw her mother's 
 face at last. She vaguely remembered her out of the long 
 ago, a very young and beautiful face smiling at her : this 
 face was rounder and fuller than the picture, but more 
 familiar than her remembrance. Mrs. Palmer was a stoui 
 and graceful woman, with a sort of undulating motion 
 peculiar to her, and with looks and ways some of which 
 Dolly recognised, though she had forgotten them before. 
 There was a strong likeness to Dolly herself, and even a little 
 bit of George's look when he was pleased, though poor 
 Greorge's thick complexion and snub nose were far, far re- 
 moved from any likeness to that fair and delicate counte- 
 nance. Dolly gazed admiringly at the soft white hand, with 
 the great Louis-Quinze ring upon the forefinger. Though 
 Mrs. Palmer had come off a journey m semi-hysterics, she 
 was beautifully dressed in a black silk dress, all over rippling 
 waved flounces, that flowed to her feet. She was leaning 
 
MRS. PALMER. 179 
 
 back in tlie chair, with half-closed eyes, but with a tender, 
 contented smile. 
 
 ' I knew you would take me in,' she said to Lady Sarah. 
 ' I felt I was coming home — to my dear sister's home. See,' 
 she said, ' what dear Stan gave me for my wedding-gift. 1 
 chose it at Lambert's myself. "We spared no expense. I 
 have never taken off his dear ring ; ' and she put out her soft 
 hand and took hold of Lady Sarah's mitten. ' Oh, Sarah, to 
 think — to think ' 
 
 Lady Sarah shrunk back aa usual, though she answered not 
 unkindly : ' Not now, Philippa,' she said, hastily. ' Of course 
 this house is your home, and always open to you ; at least, 
 when we know you are coming. Why did you not write ? 
 There is no bed ready. I have had the maids called up. It 
 Admiral Palmer had let me know ' 
 
 ' He did not know,' said Mrs. Palmer, getting agitated. ' 1 
 will tell you all. Oh, DoUy, my darling, beware how you 
 marry ; promise me ' 
 
 ' He did not know ? ' interrupted Lady Sarah. 
 
 Dolly's mother got more and more excited. 
 
 ' I had some one to take care of me,' she said. ' My old 
 friend Colonel Witherington was on board, and I told him 
 everything as we were coming along. I telegraphed to you, 
 did I not ? But my poor head fails me. Oh, Sarah, exile is 
 a cruel thing ; and now, how do I know that I have not come 
 home too soon ? ' she said, bursting into tears. ' If you knew 
 all ' 
 
 ' You shall tell us all about it in the morning, when you 
 are rested,' said Lady Sarah, with a glance at Eobert. 
 
 ' Yes, in the morning, yes,' said Mrs. Palmer, looking 
 relieved, and getting up from her chair, and wiping her eyes. 
 ' How good you are to me 1 Am 1 to have my old room where 
 I used to stay as a girl ? Oh, Sarah, to think of my longings 
 being realised at last, and my darling children — dear Stan's 
 
i8o OLD KENSINGTON: 
 
 children — there actually before me.' And the poor thing, 
 with a natural emotion, once more caught first one, then the 
 other, to her, and sat holding her son's hand in both hers. 
 When he tried to take it away she burst into fresh tears ; 
 and, as a last resource, Marker was summoned. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Palmer ! her surprise had been something of a 
 failure ; George was not expansive, nor used to having his 
 hand held : the boy and girl were shy, stiff, taken aback. 
 Aunt Sarah was kind, but cross and bewildered : Mrs. Palmer 
 herself exhausted after twelve hours' railway journey, and 
 vaguely disappointed. 
 
 ' It was just like her,' said Lady Sarah, wearily, to Marker, 
 as they were going upstairs some two hours later, after seeing 
 Mrs. Palmer safe into her room, and bolting the doors, and 
 putting out the lights of this eventful evening. ' What can 
 have brought her in this way ? ' 
 
 Marker looked at her mistress with her smiling round 
 face. ' The wonder to me was whatever kept her away so 
 long from those sweet children, to say nothing of you, my 
 lady.' 
 
 ' She has chosen to make other ties,' said Lady Sarah ; 
 ' her whole duty is to her husband. Good-night, Marker : I 
 do not want you to-night.' 
 
 ' Of course you know best, my lady,' says Marker doubt- 
 fully. ' Good-night, my lady.' 
 
 And then all was quite silent in the old house. The mice 
 peeped out of their little holes and sniffed at the cheese-trap ; 
 a vast company of black beetles emerged from secret places 
 and corners ; the clocks began to tick like mad. Dolly lay 
 awake a long time, and then dreamt of her new mamma, and 
 of the moonlight that evening, and of a floating sea. Mrs. 
 Palmer slept placidly between her linen sheets. Sarah 
 Francis lay awake half the night crying her eyes and her 
 acuiug beart away in bitter tears. Philippa was come. She 
 
MRS. PALMER. i8i 
 
 knew of old what her advent meant. She loved Philippa, 
 but with reserve and pain; and now she would claim her 
 Dolly, she would win her away, and steal her treasure from 
 her again — what chance had she, sad and sorry and silent, 
 with no means of uttering her love? She was a foolish, 
 jealous woman ; she knew it, and with all her true heart she 
 prayed for streng;th and for love to overcome jealousy and 
 loneliness. Once in her life her difficult nature had caused 
 misery so great between her and her husband that the breach 
 had never been repaired, and it was Philippa who had brought 
 it aU about. Now Sarah knew that to love more is the only 
 secret for overcoming that cruellest madness of jealousy, and 
 to love more was her prayer. The dawn came at last, stealing 
 tranquilly through the drawn curtains : with what peace and 
 tranquillity the faint light flowed, healing and quieting hei 
 pain. 
 
 Dolly's new mamma's account of herself next morning 
 was a little incoherent. Her health was very indifferent ; 
 she suffered agonies, and was living upon morphia when the 
 doctor had ordered her home without delay. She had been 
 obliged to come off at a few hours' notice ; she didn't write. 
 The Admiral was fortunately absent on a cruise, or he never 
 would have let her go. He knew what a helpless creature she 
 was. She had borrowed the passage-money from a friend. 
 Would Lady Sarah please advance her a little now, as she 
 was literally penniless, and she wished to make George and 
 Dolly some presents, and to engage a French maid at once ? 
 She supposed she should hear by the next post and receive 
 some remittances. She was not sure, for Hawtry was so 
 dreadfully close about money. She did not know wiiat he 
 would say to her running away. No doubt he would use 
 dreadful language, pious as he was ; that she was used to ; 
 Colonel Witherington could testify to it. . . . And tnen 
 
i82 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 she sighed. ' I have made my own fate ; I must bear my 
 punishment,' she said. 'I shall try some German baths 
 before his return, to brace my nerves for the — the future.' 
 
 There was something soft, harmonious, gently affecting 
 about Dolly's mamma. When Mrs. Palmer spoke she looked 
 at you with two brown eyes shining out of a faded 
 but charming face : she put out an earnest white hand ; 
 there was a charming, natural affectation about her. She 
 delighted in a situation. She was one of those fortunate 
 people whose parts in life coincide with their dispositions. 
 She had been twice married. As a happy wife people had 
 thought her scarcely aware of the prize she had drawn. As 
 an injured woman she was simply perfect. She did not feel 
 the Admiral's indifference deeply enough to lose her self- 
 possession, as he did. Admiral though he was, and extem- 
 pore preacher, he could not always hold his own before this 
 susceptible woman. Her gentle impressiveness completely 
 charmed and won the children over. 
 
 The conversation of selfish people is often far more 
 amusing than that of the unselfish, who see things too dif- 
 fusedly, and who have not, as a rule, the gift of vivid 
 description. Mrs. Palmer was deeply, deeply interested in 
 her own various feelings. She used to whisper long stories 
 to George and Dolly about her complicated sorrows, her 
 peculiar difficulties. Poor thing ! they were real enough, 
 if she had but known them ; but the troubles that really 
 troubled her were imaginary for the most part. She had 
 secured two valiant champions before breakfast next morn- 
 ing, at which meal Eobert appeared. He had slept upon 
 the crisis, and now seemed more than equal to it ; affection- 
 ate to his aunt, with whom he was charmed, readily answer- 
 ing her many questions, skilfully avoiding the subject of her 
 difficulties with the Admiral, of which he had heard before 
 at Henley Court. He was pleased by his aunt's manner and 
 
MJis. palmer: 183 
 
 affectionate dependence, and he treated her from the first 
 with a certain manly superiority. And yet — so she told 
 Dolly — even Robert scarcely understood her peculiar diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 'How can he, dear fellow? He is prejudiced hy Lady 
 Henley — odious woman ! I can trace her influence. She 
 was a Palmer, you know, and she is worthy of the name. 
 I dread my visit to Yorkshire. This is my real home.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer's mother, Lady Henley, had been an Alder- 
 ville, and the Aldervilles are all young, beautiful, helpless, 
 stout, and elegantly dressed. Mrs. Palmer took after them, 
 she said. But helpless as Philippa was, her feebleness always 
 leant in the direction in which she wished to go, and, in 
 some mysterious fashion, she seemed to get on as well as 
 other stronger people. Some young officer, in a compli- 
 mentary copy of verses, had once likened her to a lily. If 
 so, it was a water-lily that she resembled most, with its 
 beautiful pale head drifting on the water, while underneath 
 was a long, limp, straggling stalk firmly rooted. Only those 
 who had tried to influence her knew of its existence, 
 
 Dolly and Greorge hung upon her words. Greorge felt 
 inclined to go off to Ceylon on purpose to shoot the Admiral 
 with one of his own Colt's revolvers. Dolly thrilled with 
 interest and excitement and sympathy. Her mother was 
 like a sweet angel, the girl said to her brother. It was 
 a wonderful new life that had begun for them. The trouble 
 which had so oppressed Dolly of late seemed almost for- 
 gotten for a time. Lady Sarah, coming and going about the 
 house, would look with a strange half-glad, half-sad glance 
 at the three heads so near together in the recess of the 
 window : Philippa leaning back, flushed and pathetic ; George 
 by her side, making the most hideous faces, as he was used 
 to do when excited ; Dolly kneeling on the floor, with her 
 two elbows in her mother's lap, and her long chin upturned 
 
ib4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 in breathless sympathy. Admiral — jealousy — meanness- 
 cruel — mere necessaries : little words like this used to reach 
 Lady Sarah, creaking uneasily and desolately, unnoticed, 
 round and round the drawing-room. 
 
 ' Is it not a pity, Philippa, to put such ideas into their 
 heads ? ' says Lady Sarah, from the other end of the room. 
 
 Then three pair of eyes would be turned upon her with a 
 sort of reproachful wonder, and the trio would wait imtil 
 she was out of hearing to begin again. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was certainly an adaptable woman in some 
 ways : one husband or another, one life or another. So long 
 as she had her emotions, her maid, her cups of tea, her com- 
 fortable sofa, and some one to listen to her, she was perfectly 
 happy. She carried about in herself such an unfailing 
 source of interest and solicitude, that no other was really 
 necessary to her ; although, to hear her speak, you would 
 imagine her fate to be one long regret. 
 
 ' My spirit is quite broken,' she would say, cheerfully. 
 ' Give me that small hand-screen, Dolly ; for your sake, 
 Sarah, I will gladly chaperone Dolly to Cambridge, as Eobert 
 proposes (it must be after my return from Yorkshire) ; but 
 I do wish you would let me write and ask for an invitation for 
 you. George, poor fellow, wants me to bring Ehoda and the 
 Morgan girls. I do hate girls. It is really wicked of him.' 
 
 ' If that were George's worst oflfence ,' said his Aunt 
 
 Sarah, grimly. 
 
 ' My poor boy ! ' said Mrs. Palmer. ' Sarah, you are not 
 a mother, and do not understand him. Come here, darling 
 George. How I wish I could spare you from going back to 
 those horrid examinations ! ' 
 
 George flushed up very red. ' I should be very sorry to 
 be spared,' he muttered. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer used to ask Eobert endless questions about 
 Henley Court, and his aunt Lady Henley. ' Was she look • 
 
MJ!S. PALMER. 185 
 
 ing as weather-beaten as ever ? Did she still wear plaids ? 
 "Vulgar woman ! ' whispered Mrs. Palmer to Dolly. Eobert. 
 pretended not to hear. ' I shall make a point of going 
 there, Robert,' she said, ' and facing the Henley buckram.' 
 Eobert gravely assured her that she would be most welcome. 
 
 Welcome, my dear Robert ! You cannot imagine what 
 an impertinent letter I have received from Joanna,' says 
 Mrs. Palmer. ' I shall go when it is convenient to me, if 
 only to show her that I do not care for anything she can 
 say. Joanna's style is only to be equalled by the Admiral's. 
 The mail will be in on Monday.' 
 
 So Philippa remained a victim, placidly sipping her 
 coffee and awaiting the Admiral's insulting letters. The 
 only wonder was that they had not burst their envelopes and 
 seals, so explosive were they. His fury lashed itself into 
 dashes and blots and frantic loops and erasures. The bills 
 had come in for her bracelets and muf&ers and tinkling 
 ornaments. Had she forgotten the fate of the daughters ot 
 Jerusalem, that went mincing and tinkling with their feet ? 
 She might take a situation as a kitchen-maid for all he 
 cared. She was a spendthrift, idle, extravagant, good-for- 
 nothing, &c. &c. Not one farthing would he allow her, &c. 
 &c. ; and so on. Mrs. Palmer used to go up to her room 
 in high spirits to lie down to rest on the days they arrived, 
 and send for Colonel Witherington to consult upon them. 
 
 She would not come down till dinner was just over, and 
 appeared on these occasions in a long grey sort of dressing- 
 gown and a neglige, little lace cap ; she used to dine off 
 almonds and raisins and cups of coffee, to Lady Sarah's secret 
 indignation. ' Oh, Sarah, yov, will not turn me away ? ' 
 Mrs. Palmer would say, leaning back in languid comfort. 
 Lady Sarah was very sorry, but somewhat sceptical. She 
 would meet Pauline carrying French novek to the library 
 after scenes which had nearly unnerved them all. 
 
i86 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE TERRACE AT ALL SAINTS* COLLEOE. 
 
 Die Bose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne, 
 Die liebt ich einst alle in Liebeswonne. 
 
 — Heine. 
 
 SoMETTHERB in the fairyland of Dorothea's imagination rises a 
 visionary city, with towers and gables straggling against the 
 sky. The streets go up hill and down hill, leading by 
 cloisters and gateways and by walls, behind which gardens 
 are lying like lakes of green among the stones and the ivy, 
 A thrush is singing, and the shrill echoes of some boyish 
 melancholy voices come from a chapel hard by. It is a 
 chapel with a pile of fantastic columns standing in the quiet 
 corner of a lane. All round the side door are niches and 
 winding galleries, branches wreathing, placed there by 
 faithful hands, crisp saints beatified in stony glory. Are 
 these, one is tempted to ask, as one looks at the generous old 
 piles, the stones that cry out now-a-days when men are 
 silent ? They have, for the last century or two, uttered 
 warnings and praises to many a generation passing by : 
 speaking to some of a bygone faith, to others of a living 
 one. They still tell of past love and hope, and of past and 
 present charity. 
 
 But in these times charity is a destroying angel ; even the 
 divine attributes seem to have changed, and Faith, Hope, 
 and Charity have gone each their separate way. 
 
THE TERRACE AT ALL SAINTS' COLLEGE. 187 
 
 To Dolly Vanborough, who had thought happiness was 
 over for ever, it was the first great song of her youth that 
 these old stones sang to her on her eighteenth birthday. She 
 hears it still, though her youth is past. It is the song of the 
 wonder of life, of the divine in the human. As we go on its 
 echoes reach us repeated again and again, reverberating from 
 point to point ; who that has heard them once will ever 
 forget them ? To some they come with happiness and the 
 delight of new undreamt-of sympathy, to others with sorrow 
 and the realisation of love. . . . Its strains came with prayer 
 and long fasting to the saints of old. This song of Pente- 
 cost, I know no better name for it, echoes on from generation 
 to generation from one heart to another. Sometimes by 
 chance one has looked into a stranger's face and seen its 
 light reflected. Frank Eaban saw its light in Dolly's face 
 that day as she came out of the chapel to where her brother 
 had left her. Just for an instant it was there while the 
 psalm still sung in her heart. And yet the light in Dolly's 
 face dimmed a little when she saw, not the person she had 
 expected to see, but Mr. Eaban waiting there. 
 
 ' I came in Henley's place,' said he, hastily, guessing her 
 thought. 'He was sent for by the Vice-Chancellor, and 
 begged me to come and tell you this. He will join us 
 directly.' 
 
 Mr. Eaban had been waiting in the sunshiny street while 
 Dolly deliberately advanced down the worn steps of the 
 chapel, crossed the flagged court, and came out of the narrow 
 iron wicket of which the barred shadow fell upon her white 
 fete-day dress. . Miss Vanborough's face was shaded by a 
 broad hat with curling blue feathers ; she wore a pink rose 
 in her girdle ; it was no saintly costume ; she was but a 
 commonplace mortal maiden in sprigged muslin, and saints 
 wear, as we all know, red and blue, and green stained glass 
 and damask and goatskins ; and yet Frank Eaban thought 
 
ij!8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 there was something saint-like in her bright face, which, for 
 an instant, seemed reflecting all her heart. 
 
 ' Henley lives on my staircase,' continiied Eaban. ' Those 
 pink frills are his. He makes himself comfortable, as you 
 see.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of that,' said Dolly, smiling. ' How nice it 
 must be for you to have him so near.' 
 
 'He always takes ladies to see his rooms,' Eaban con- 
 tinued. ' He is a g^eat favourite with them, and gives tea- 
 parties.' 
 
 ' A great favourite 1 ' said Dolly, warmly. ' Of course one 
 likes people who are kind and good and clever and true and 
 nice.' 
 
 'Who are, in short, an addition sum, made up- of equal 
 portions of all the cardinal virtues,' said Eaban. 
 
 He was ashamed of himself, and yet he did not care to 
 hear Henley's praises from Dolly. It seemed to him dis- 
 honest to acquiesce. 
 
 Dolly stopped for half a second and looked at him. 
 
 Dorothea was a tall woman and their eyes were on a line, 
 and their looks met. My heroine was at no pains to dis- 
 guise the meaning of her indignant glances. ' How can you 
 be so ungenerous ? ' she said, as plainly as if she had spoken. 
 
 Frank answered her silence in words. 
 
 ' No, I don't like him,' he said, ' and he don't like me ; 
 and I don't care to pretend to better feelings than I really 
 have. We are civil enough, and pull very well together. I 
 beg your pardon. I own lie deserves to succeed,' said the 
 young man. ' There, Miss Vanborough, this is our garden, 
 where we refresh ourselves with cigars and beer after our 
 arduous studies.' 
 
 Dolly was still too much vexed to express her admiration. 
 
 They all began calling to them from under the tree. 
 John Morgan, who was of the party, was lying flat upon bia 
 
THE TERRACE AT ALL SAINTS' COLLEGE. 189 
 
 broad back, beaming at the universe, and fanning away the 
 dies. Ehoda was sitting on the grass, in a foam of white 
 muslin and Algerian shawls. George Vanborough, privi- 
 leged for the day, was astride on a wooden table ; a distant 
 peacock went strutting across the lawn ; a little wind came 
 blowing gently, stirring all the shadows ; a college bell 
 began to tinkle a little, and then left off. 
 
 ' Grlorious afternoon, isn't it ? ' says John Morgan, from 
 the grass. 
 
 ' It is like heaven,' says Dolly, looking up and round and 
 about. 
 
 Rhoda's slim fingers clasp her pearl locket, which has 
 come out again. They were in the shade, the sun was 
 shining hot and intense upon the old garden. The roses, 
 like bursting bubbles, were breaking in the heat against the 
 old baked bricks, upon rows of prim collegiate flowers : 
 lilies, and stocks, and marigolds. There was a multiplicity 
 of sweet scents in the air, of shadows falling on the lawns 
 (they flow from the old gates to the river) ; a tone is struck, 
 an insect floats away along the garden wall. With its 
 silence and flowers, and tremulous shades and sunshine, I 
 know no sweeter spot than the old garden of All Saints'. 
 
 The gardener had placed seats and a bench under the 
 old beech-tree for pilgrims to rest upon, weary with their 
 journeys from shrine to shrine. Mrs. Palmer was leaning 
 back in a low garden-chair ; the sweep of her flowing silks 
 seemed to harmonise with her languid and somewhat melan- 
 choly grace. Ehoda was helping to open her parasol (the 
 parasol was dove-coloured and lined with pink). There was 
 a row of Morgans upon the bench ; Mrs. Morgan upright in 
 the midst, nicely curled and trimmed with satin bows and a 
 white muslin daughter on either side. 
 
 It all happened in a moment : the sky burnt overhead, 
 the sun shone upon the river, upon tHe colleges, with their 
 
J 90 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 green gardens : the rays seemed to strike fire where they 
 met the water. The swans were sailing along the stream in 
 placid state, followed by their grey brood, skimming and 
 paddling in and out among the weeds and the green stems 
 and leaves that sway With the ripple of the waters ; a flight 
 of birds high overhead crossed the vault of the heavens and 
 disappeared in the distance. Dorothea Vanborough was 
 standing on the terrace at the end of the old college garden, 
 where everything was so still, so sweet, and so intense that 
 it seemed as if time was not, as if the clocks had stopped on 
 their travels, as if no change could ever be, nor hours nor 
 seasons sweep through the tranquil old place. 
 
 They were all laughing and talking ; but Dolly, who was 
 too lazy and too happy to talk, wandered away from them a 
 little bit, to the garden's end, where she stood stooping over 
 the low wall and watching the water flow by ; there was a 
 man fishing on the opposite bank, and casting his line again 
 and again. In the distance a boat was drifting along the 
 stream, some insects passed out towards the meadows 
 humming their summer drone, a wasp sailed by. Dolly was 
 half standing, half-sitting, against the low terrace wall ; with 
 one hand she was holding up her white muslin skirt, with 
 the other she was grasping the ledge of the old bricks upoc 
 which the lichen had been at work spreading their gold and 
 grey. So the girl waited, sunning herself ; herself a part of 
 the summer's day, and gently blooming and rejoicing in its 
 sweetness like any rose upon the wall. 
 
 There are blissful moments when one's heart seems to 
 beat in harmony with the great harmony : when one is 
 oneself light and warmth, and the delight of light, and a 
 voice in the comfortable chorus of contentment and praise 
 all round about. Such a minute had come to Dolly in her 
 white muslin dress, with the Cam flowing at her feet and the 
 lights dazzling her grey eyes. 
 
■J. HE TERRACE AT ALL SAINTS' COLLEGE. lOi 
 
 Mrs. Morgan gave a loud sneeze under the tree, and the 
 beautiful minute broke and dispersed away. 
 
 ' I wonder what it can be like to grow old,' Dolly wonders, 
 looking up ; 'to remember back for years and years, and to 
 wear stiff curls and satinette ? ' Dolly began to picture to 
 herself a long procession of future selves, each older and 
 more curiously bedizened than the other. Somehow they 
 seemed to make a straight line between herself and Mrs. 
 Morgan under the tree. It was an uncomfortable fancy. 
 Dolly tried to forget it, and leant over the wall, and looked 
 down into the cool depths of the stream again. Was that 
 fish rising ? What was this ? Her own face again look- 
 ing up from the depth. Then Dolly turned, hearing 
 a step upon the gravel, to see Eobert Henley coming to- 
 wards her. He was dressed in his college cap and gown, and 
 he advanced, floating balloon-Uke, along the terrace. He 
 looked a little strange, she thought, as he came up to her. 
 
 ' I couldn't get away before,' he said. ' I hope you have 
 been well looked after.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. Come and sit down here, Eobert. What 
 a delicious old garden this is ! We are all so happy ! Look 
 at those dear little swans in the river ! ' 
 
 ' Do you like the cygnets ? ' said Eobert, abruptly, as he 
 looked her full in the face, and sat down on the low wall 
 beside her. ' Do you remember Charles Martindale ? ' he 
 asked ; ' we met once at John Morgan's, who went out to 
 India ? He is coming home next October.' 
 
 ' Is he ? ' said Dolly. ' Look at that little grey cygnet 
 scuttling away ! ' 
 
 ' Dolly,' said Henley, quickly, ' they sent for me to offer 
 me his place, and I^I — have accepted it.' 
 
 ' Accepted it ? ' said his cousin, forgetting the cygnets, 
 and looking up a little frightened. Will you have to go to 
 India and leave everybody ? ' 
 
192 OLD KENSINGTON: 
 
 Her face changed a little, and Robert's brightened, 
 chough he tried to look as usual. 
 
 ' Not everybody,' he said. ' Not if ' He took the 
 
 soft hand in his that was lying on the wall beside him. 
 ' Dolly ! will you come too ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Me ? ' cried the unabashed Dolly. ' Oh, Robert, how 
 could I?' 
 
 ' You could come if I married you,' said Robert, in his 
 quiet voice and most restrained manner. ' Dearest Dorothea, 
 don't you think you can learn to love me ? It will be nearly 
 five months before I start.' 
 
 It was all so utterly incomprehensible that the girl did 
 not quite realise her cousin's words. Robert was looking' 
 very strange and unlike himself ; Dolly could hardly believe 
 that it was not some effect of the dazzle of light in her own 
 eyes. He was paler than usual ; he seemed somehow stirred 
 from his habitual ways and self. She thought it was not 
 even his voice that she heard speaking. ' Is this being in 
 love ? ' she was saying to herself. A little bewildered flush 
 came into her cheeks. She still saw the sky, and the garden, 
 and the figures under the tree ; then for a minute everything 
 vanished, as tangible things vanish before the invisible, — 
 just as spoken words are hushed and lose their meaning when 
 the silent voices cry out. 
 
 It was but for a moment. There she stood again, staring 
 at Robert with her innocent, grey-eyed glance. 
 
 Henley was a big, black-and-white melancholy young 
 man, with a blue shaved chin. To-day his face was pale, 
 his mouth was quivering, his hair was all on end. Could 
 this be Robert who was so deliberate ; who always knew his 
 own mind ; who looked at his watch so often in church while 
 music was going on ? Even now, from habit, he was turning 
 it about in his pocket. This little trick made Dolly feel 
 more than anything else that it was all true — that her cousin 
 
THE TERRACE AT ALL SAINTS' COLLEGE. 193 
 
 loved her — incredible though it might appear— and yet even 
 still she doubted. 
 
 ' Me,, Eobert ? ' repeated Dorothea, in her clear, childish 
 tones, looking up with her frank yet timid eyes. ' Are you 
 sure, ? ' 
 
 ' I have been sure ever since I first saw you,' said Henley, 
 smiling down at her, ' at Kensington, three years ago. Do 
 you remember the snowball, Dolly ? ' 
 
 Then Dolly's eyes fell, and she stood with a tender, 
 puzzled face, listening to her first tale of love. She sud- 
 denly pulled away her hand, shy and blushing. 
 
 The swans had hardly passed beyond the garden-terrace ; 
 the fisherman had only thown his line once again ; Dolly's 
 mamma had time to shift her parasol ; that was all. Henley 
 waited, with his handsome head a little bent. He was re- 
 gaining his composure ; he knew too much of his cousin's 
 uncompromising ways to be made afraid by her silence. He 
 stood pulling at his watch, and looking at her — at the 
 straight white figure amid dazzling blue and green ; at the 
 line of the sweet face still turned away from him. 
 
 ' I thought you would have understood me better ? ' he 
 said, reproachfully. 
 
 Still Dolly could not speak. For a moment her heart 
 had beat with an innocent triumph, and then came a doubt. 
 Did she love him — could she love him ? Had he then cared 
 for her all this time, when she herself had been so cold and 
 so indifferent, and thinking so little of him ? Only yester- 
 day she had told Ehoda she would never marry. Was it 
 yesterday ? No, it was to-day, an hour ago. . . . What 
 had she done to deserve so much from him ? — what had she 
 done to be so overprized and loved ? At the thought quick 
 upspringing into her two grey eyes came the tears, sparkling 
 like the diamonds in Ehoda's cross. 
 
 'I never thought you thought' -Dolly began. 'Oh, 
 
 
 
J9+ OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Robert ! you have been in earnest all this time, and I only 
 — only playing,' 
 
 ' Don't be unhappy,' said her cousin. ' It was very 
 natural ; I should not have wished it otherwise. I did not 
 want to speak to you till I had something worth your 
 acceptance.' 
 
 ' All this long time ! ' repeated Dolly. 
 
 Did the explanations of true love ever yet run smooth <" 
 ' Dolly ! ' cried Mrs. Palmer, from under the tree. 
 
 ' HuUoa, Eobert ! ' shouted George, coming across the 
 grass towards them. 
 
 ' Oh, Robert ! ' said Dorothea, earnestly, unexpectedly, 
 with a sudden resolution to be true — true to him and to 
 herself, ' thank you a thousand times for what you have told 
 me : only it mustn't be — I don't care enough for you, dear 
 Robert ! You deserve ' 
 
 Henley said not a word. He stood with a half-incre- 
 dulous smile ; his eyes were still fixed on Dolly's sweet face ; 
 he did not answer George, who again called out something 
 as he came up. As for DoUy, she turned to her brother and 
 sprang to meet him, and took his arm as if for protection, 
 and then she walked quickly away without another look, and 
 Henley remained standing where she had been. Instead 
 of the white-muslin maiden, the cygnets may have seen a 
 black-silk young man, who looked at his watch, and then 
 walked away too ; while the fisherman quietly baited his 
 line and went on with his sport. 
 
C I9S ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 BOSES HATE THORNS AND SILTEK FOUNTAINS MUD. 
 
 Love me with thine hand stretched out, 
 Preely, open-minded, 
 Love me with thy loitering foot. 
 Hearing one behind it. 
 
 The doors of the old Library at All Saints' were open wide 
 to admit the sunshine : it lighted up the starched frill 
 collars of Fundator noster as he hung over the entrance. It 
 was good stiff starch, near four hundred years old. The 
 volumes stood in their places, row upon row, line after line, 
 twinkling into the distant corners of the room ; here and 
 there a brass lock gleamed, or some almost forgotten title in 
 faded gold, or the links of the old Bible chained to its oaken 
 stand. ... So the books stood marshalled in their 
 places : brown, and swept by time, by dust, brushed by the 
 passing generations that had entered one by one, bringing 
 their spoils, and placing them safe upon the shelves, and 
 vanishing away. What a silent Babel and medley of time, 
 and space, and languages, and fancies, and follies ! Here 
 and there stands a fat dictionary, or prophetic giammar, the 
 interpreter of echoes to other echoes. So, from century to 
 century, the tradition is handed down, and from silent print 
 and signs it thrills into life and sound. . . . 
 
 Those are not books, but living voices in the recess of the 
 old library. There is a young man stumping up and dowB 
 
 o 2 
 
fga OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 the narrow passage, a young woman leaning against a worm 
 eaten desk. Are they talking of roots, of curves? or are 
 they youthful metaphysicians speculating upon the unknown 
 powers of the soul ? 
 
 ' Oh ! George,' Dolly says, ' I am glad you think I was 
 right.' 
 
 ' Eight ! Of course you would have been very wrong to 
 do otherwise,' says 0-eorge, as usual, extremely indignant. 
 ' Of course you are right to refuse him : you don't care for 
 him ; I can see that at a glance. . . . It is out of the 
 question. Poor fellow ! He is a very good fellow, but not 
 at all worthy of you. It is altogether preposterous. No, 
 Dolly,' said the young fellow, melting ; ' you don't know — 
 how should you ? — what it is — what the real thing is. Never 
 let yourself be deceived by any Brummagem and paste, when 
 the real Koh-i-noor is still to be found — a gem of the purest 
 water,' said George, gertly. 
 
 Dolly listened, but she was only half convinced by 
 George's earnestness. ' I would give anything that this had 
 not happened,' the young man went on. Dolly listened, and 
 said but little in answer. When George scolded her for 
 having unduly encouraged Eobert, she meekly denied the 
 accusation, though her brother would not accept her denial. 
 
 ' Had she then behaved so badly ? Was Eobert un- 
 happy ? Would he never forgive her ? Should she never 
 see him again ? ' Dolly listened sadly, wondering, and lean- 
 ing against the old desk. There was a book lying open upon 
 it — ^the History of the Universe — with many pictures of 
 strange beasts and serpents, roaring, writhing, and whisking 
 their tails, with the Garden of Eden mapped out, and the 
 different sorts of angels and devils duly enumerated. Dolly's 
 mind was not on the old book, but in the world outside it ; 
 she was standing again by the river and listening to Eobert's 
 voice. The story he told her no longer seemed new and 
 
ROSES HA VE THORNS Ssr' SILVER FOUNTAINS MUD. 197 
 
 strange. It was ended for ever, and yet it would never 
 finish as long as she lived. She had thought no one would 
 ever care for her, and he had loved her, and she had sent him 
 away ; but he had loved her. Had she made a mistake, not- 
 withstanding all that Greorge was saying ? Dolly, loving the 
 truth, loving the right, trying for it heartily, in her slow 
 circuitous way, might make mistakes in life, hut they would 
 be honest ones, and that is as much as any of us can hope 
 for, and so, if she strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel, 
 it will be forgiven her. George's opposition was too vague 
 to influence her. When he warned her against Henley, it 
 sounded unreasonable. Warning ! There was no need of 
 warning. She had said no to her cousin. Already the ter- 
 race seemed distant miles and miles off, hours and hours ago, 
 though she could see it through the window, and the swans 
 on the river, and the sunlight striking flame upon the water : 
 she could hardly realise that she had been there, and that 
 with a word and a hasty movement she had sent Eobert 
 away of her own deliberate will. 
 
 ' Yes,' said George, coming up and banging his hand 
 down upon the big book before her ; ' you were right, Dolly. 
 He isn't half good enough for you. This is not like the 
 feeling that I and Ehoda ' 
 
 But Dolly interrupted him almost angrily. ' Not good 
 enough ! It is because he is too good, George, that I — I am 
 not — not worthy of him.' 
 
 It was more than she could bear to hear George 
 speaking so. 
 
 Was Eobert imhappy ? had she used him ill ? The 
 thoughts seemed to smite her as they passed. She began to 
 cry again — foolish girl!— and George, as he watched her 
 worthless tears dribbling down upon the valuable manu 
 script, began to think that perhaps, after all, his sister had 
 wished him to blame, instead of approving of her decision. 
 
t98 OLD KEhSINGTON. 
 
 He was bound to sympathise, since she had kept his secret. 
 ' Don't, Dolly," he said ; ' you will spoil the little devils if 
 you cry over the book.' He spoke so kindly, that Dolly 
 smiled, and began to wipe her eyes. It was not a little 
 thing that George should speak so kindly to her again. 
 When she looked up she saw that he was signalling, and 
 bowing, and waving his cap through the open window. 
 
 'It is the girls. They ought not to miss our college 
 library,' he said, gravely ; and then he walked towards the 
 door, to meet a sound of voices and a trampling of feet. , 
 
 As for Dorothea, with a sudden shy impulse she escaped, 
 tears, handkerchief, and all, and disappeared into the most 
 distant niche of the gallery : many footsteps came sounding 
 up the wooden staircase, and Henley's voice was mingling 
 with the Miss Morgans' shrill treble. 
 
 ' How funny to see so many books ! ' said Zoe, who was 
 a vei-y stupid girl. (Clever people generally make the same 
 remarks as stupid ones, only they are in different words.) 
 
 ' What a delicious old place I ' cried Ehoda, coming in. 
 She was usually silent, and not given to ecstasies. 
 
 ' Why didn't John bring vis here before ? ' said Cassie. 
 ' I do envy you, Mr. George. How nice to be able to read 
 all these books ! ' 
 
 ' I am not so sure of that,' said George, laughing. 
 
 Meanwhile, Zoe had stumped up to the desk, where the 
 history of the whole world was lying open. 
 
 ' Why, look here,' she said ; ' somebody has been reading, 
 I do believe. How funny ! ' 
 
 As for Henley, he had already begun to examine the 
 pictures that hung over every niche. He did not miss one 
 of them as he walked quickly down the gallery. In the last 
 niche of all he found the picture he was in search of. It 
 was not that of a dignitary of the church. It was a sweet 
 face, with brown crisp locks, and clear grey eyes shining from 
 
MSES HA VE THORNS ^ SIL VER FOUNTAINS MUD. 199 
 
 beneath a frown. The face changed, as pictures don't change, 
 when he stood in the arch of the little recess. The pale 
 cheeks glowed, the frown trembled and cleared away. She 
 wondered if he would speak to her or go away. Henley 
 hesitated for an instant, and — spoke. 
 
 ' Dolly, that was not an answer you gave me just now. 
 You did not think that would content me, did you ? ' he 
 said ; and as he looked at her fixedly, her eyes fell. ' Dolly, 
 you do love me a little ? ' he cried ; ' you cannot send me 
 away ? ' 
 
 ' I thought I ought to send you away,' she faltered, 
 looking up at last, and her whole heart was in her face. 
 ' Eobert, I don't know if I love you ; but I love you to 
 love me,' she said. And her sweet voice trembled as she 
 spoke. 
 
 He had no misgivings. ' Dearest Dolly,' he said, in a 
 low voice. ' In future you must trust to me. I will take 
 care of you. You need not have been afraid. I quite 
 understood your feelings just now, and I would not urge you 
 then. Now . ■ . .' He did not finish the sentence. 
 
 When Dolly, the frigid maiden, surrendered, it was with 
 a shy reluctant grace. Hers was not a passionate nature, 
 but a loving one ; feeling with her was not a single simple 
 emotion, but a complicated one of many impulses : of self- 
 diffidences, of deep, deep, strange aspirations, that she 
 herself could scarcely understand. Humility, a woman's 
 pride, the delight of companionship and sympathy, and of 
 the guidance of a stronger will : a longing for better things. 
 All these things were there. Ah ! she would try to be 
 worthier of him. It was a snow and ice and fire maiden who 
 put her trembling hand into Eobert's, and whom he clasped 
 for an instant in his arms. 
 
 Meanwhile some of the party had straggled off again to 
 the hotel after Mrs. Palmer. George was to escort the 
 
joo OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 young ladies, who seemed determined to stay on turning over 
 the manuscripts ; the unlucky Zoe was babbling innocently, 
 knocking over stools and playfully pulling Latin sermons 
 and dictionaries out of their places on the shelves. George, 
 while he made himself agreeable in his peculiar fashion, was 
 wondering what was going on at the farther end of the 
 library. He longed to tell Ehoda and ask her advice ; but 
 that tiresome Zoe was for ever interrupting. Was this a 
 very old book ? Did he like Greek or Latin best ? She 
 thought it all looked very stupid. Was Ehoda coming to 
 the hotel to rest before dinner ? And so on. Ehoda must 
 have gtiessed what was in George's mind, for presently she 
 started away from the page over which she was leaning, and 
 went to the window. 
 
 ' Shall we go out a little way ? ' she said, gently. ' One 
 would like to be everywhere to-day.' 
 
 ' I'm sure we have been everywhere,' said Zoe. 
 
 ' I know you are tired. I shall not allow you to come, 
 dear Zoe,' said Ehoda, affectionately. ' You must rest ; I 
 insist upon it. You look quite worn out. Mr. George, will 
 you help me ? ' And Ehoda began struggling with a heavy 
 chair, which she pulled into the window. ' And here is 
 a stool,' said Ehoda, ' for your feet. We will come back 
 for you directly. My head aches ; I want a little fresh 
 air.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' said Zoe, doubtfully. - Bo I look tired, 
 Ehoda? I am sure . . .' But Ehoda was gone before 
 she had time to say more. Zoe was not sure if she was 
 pleased or not. It was just like Ehoda : she never could 
 understand what people wanted, really ; she was always 
 kissing them and getting them chairs out of the way. No 
 doubt she meant to be kind. Eest ! anybody could rest for 
 themselves. What was that noise ? ' Who is there ? ' says 
 Zoe, out loud, but there was no answer. Yes, she wanted to 
 
KOSES HA VE THORNS S- SILVER FOUNTAINS MUD. 201 
 
 be with the others. Why did they poke her away up here ? 
 by leaning out of the open window she could just see the ivy 
 wall, and the garden beyond. There was no one left under the 
 tree. They were all gone : just like them. How was she to 
 find her way to the hotel ! It was all very well for Ehoda. 
 who had Greorge Vanborough at her beck and call; they 
 knew well enough shu had nobody to take care of her, and 
 they should have waited for her. That was what Zoe thought. 
 There was that noise again, and a murmur, and some one 
 stirring. Poor Zoe jumped up with her heart in her mouth ; 
 she knocked over the stool ; she stood prepared to fly ; she 
 heard some one whispering ; they might be garotters, ghosts, 
 proctors — horror ! Her terrors overpower her. Her high 
 heels clatter down the wooden stairs, out into the sunny, 
 silent court, where her footsteps echo as she runs — poor 
 nymph flying from an echo ! Greorge and Ehoda are walking 
 quietly up and down in the sunshine just beyond tlie ivy 
 gate : their two shadows are flitting as they go. John 
 Morgan is coming in at the great entrance. Zoe ruslies up 
 to him, panting with her terror. 
 
 ' Oh, John,' she says, ' I didn't know where to go. "Why 
 don't you stop with me ? I was all alone, and . . .' 
 
 ' Why, Zoe, tired already I Come along quick to the 
 hotel,' says John, ' or you won't get any rest before dinner.' 
 
 They caught up the Morgans on their way, and met 
 Eaban, coming out of Trinity. Meanwhile Eobert and 
 Dorothea are leisurely following along the street. Henley 
 had regained his composure by this time, and could meet the 
 others with perfect equanimity. Not so his cousin. So 
 many lights were coming and going in her face, so many 
 looks and apparitions, that Eobert thought every one must 
 guess what had happened, as they came into the common 
 sitting-room, where some five-o'clock tea was spread. But 
 there if nothing more true than that people don't see the 
 
202 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 great facts that are starting before their very eyes, so busy 
 are they with the details of life. Mrs. Palmer was trying to 
 disentangle the silk strings of her bag as they came in (she 
 had a fancy for carrying a bag), and she did not observe her 
 daughter's emotion. 
 
 Then came a clatter of five-o'clock teacups at the hotel ; 
 of young men coming and going, or waiting to escort them ac- 
 cording to the kindly college fashion. Dolly was not sorry 
 that she could find no opportunity to speak to her mother. 
 Mrs. Palmer's feelings were not to be trifled with ; and Dolly, 
 in her agitation, scarcely felt strong enough to bear a scene. 
 Robert stayed for a few minutes, rang the bell for hot water, 
 helped to move a horsehair sofa, to open the window. 
 
 What foolish little memories Dolly treasured up in after- 
 life of tea-making and tea-talking. Poor child, her memo- 
 ries were not so very many, but nothing is small and nothing 
 is great at times. 
 
 Frank Raban stood a little apart talking to Rhoda, 
 whose wonderful liquid eyes were steadily fixed upon him. 
 Greorge, on the sofa by his mother, was alternately biting his 
 lips, frowning at Dolly over her tea and love-making, and at 
 Rhoda and her companion. 
 
 ' Darling Greorge, cannot you keep your feet still ? ' said 
 Mrs. Palmer. ' Are you going, Mr. Raban ? Shall we not 
 see you again ? ' 
 
 ' I shall have the honour of meeting you at dinner,' said 
 Raban, stiffly. ' I would come and show you the way, but 
 Mr. Henley has promised to see you safe.' 
 
 Every one seemed coming into the room at once, drinking 
 tea, going away. There seemed two or three Greorges : there 
 were certainly two Dorotheas present. Henley only was 
 composed enough for them all, and twice prevented his 
 cousin from pouring all the sugar into the milk-jug. 
 
 In the middle of the table there was a plateful of 
 
KOSES HA VE THORNS 6- SILVER FOUNTAINS MUD. 203 
 
 dowers, arranged by the waiter. Eobert took out a little 
 6prig of verbena, which he gave to Dorothea. She stuck it 
 in her girdle, and put it away, when she got home, between 
 the leaves of her prayer-book, where it still lies, in memory 
 of the past, a dried-up twig that was once green and sweet. 
 Rhoda, after Raban had left her, came up with her tea- 
 cup, and, for want of something to do, began pulling the 
 remaining flowers out of the dish. 
 
 ' I can't bear to see flowers so badly used,' said Rhoda, 
 piling up the sand with her quick, clever fingers. ' George, 
 will you give me some water ? ' 
 
 In a few minutes the ugly flat dishful began to bloom 
 quite freshly. 
 
 'That is very nicely done,' George said, sarcastically. 
 'Why didn't you get Raban to help you to arrange the 
 flowers, Rhoda, before he left ? ' 
 
 ' We were talking, and I didn't like to interrupt him,' 
 said Rhoda. ' I was asking him all about political economy.' 
 
 George's ugly face flushed. 
 
 ' Are you satisfied that the supply of admiration equals 
 the demand ? ' said George. 
 
 ' George, how can you talk so ? ' says Rhoda. 
 
 An hour later they were all straggling down the narrow 
 cross-streets that led to the college again. 
 
 Dolly came, walking shyly by her lover's side ; Mrs. 
 Palmer leant heavily upon John Morgan's arm. Every 
 moment she dropped her long dress, and had to wait to 
 gather the folds together. Surely the twilight of that 
 summer's day was the sweetest twilight that Dolly had ever 
 set eyes upon. It came creeping from the fields beyond the 
 river, from alley to alley, from one college to another. It 
 seemed to the excited girl to be a soft tranquillising veil let 
 down upon the agitations and excitements of the day. She 
 watched it growing in the old hall, where she presently sat 
 
K.4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 at the cross-table under the very glance of the ubiquitous 
 Fundator, who was again present in his frill and short cloak, 
 between the two deep-cut windows. 
 
 The long table crossed the hall, with a stately decoration 
 of gold and silver cups all down the centre ; there were 
 oaken beams overhead ; old college servants in attendance 
 The great silver tankards went round brimming with claret 
 and hock, and with straggling stems of burrage floating on 
 fragrant seas. 
 
 By what unlucky chance did it happen that some one 
 had written out the names of the guests, each in their place, 
 and that Lolly found a strange yoimg don on one side of her 
 plate, and Kaban on the other ? Henley did not wish to 
 excite remark, and subsided into the place appointed for 
 him, when he found that he was not to sit where he 
 chose. 
 
 ' Drink, Dolly,' said Greorge, who was sitting opposite to 
 her ; ' let us drink a toast.' 
 
 'What shall I drink?' asked Dolly. 
 
 ' Shall we drink a toast to fortune ? ' said George, leaning 
 forward. 
 
 ' I shall drink to the new President of the College of 
 BoggleywoUah,' says John Morgan, heartily. 
 
 Dolly raised her eyes shyly as she put her lips to the 
 enormous tankard and sipped a health. 
 
 As for Eaban, he did not drink the toast, although he 
 must have guessed something of what had happened. He 
 never spoke to Dolly, though he duly attended to her wants, 
 and handed bread, and salt, and silver flagons, and fruit, and 
 gold spoons : still he never spoke. She was conscious that 
 he was watching her. In some strange way the dislike and 
 mistrust he felt for Henley seemed reflected upon poor 
 Dorothea again. Why had she been flirting and talking to 
 that man ? She, of all women, Kobert Henley, of all men, 
 
/^:OSES HA VE THORNS S- SILVER FOUNTAINS MUD. 205 
 
 thought Eaban, as he handed her a pear. Mrs. Palmer 
 looked at Dorothea more than once during dinner. The 
 girl had two burning cheeks , she did not eat ; she scarcely 
 answered the young don when she was spoken to by him ; 
 but once Henley leant forward and said something, then she 
 looked up quickly. Stoicism is after all but a relic of 
 barbarous times, and may be greatly over-rated. 
 
 Dolly had not yet grown so used to her thick-coming 
 experience that she could always look cold when she was 
 moved, dull when she was troubled, indifferent when her 
 whole heart was in a moment's decision. Later it all came 
 easier to her, as it does to most of us. As the ladies left 
 the dining-room Henley got up to let them out, and made a 
 little sign to Dolly to wait behind. Being in a yielding 
 mood, she lingered a minute in the anteroom, looking for her 
 cloak, and allowed the others to pass on. Henley had closed 
 the door behind him and come out, and seemed to be search- 
 ing too. It was very dark in the anteroom, of which the 
 twilight windows were small and screened by green plants. 
 While her aunt was being draped in boumouses by Rhoda, 
 and Mrs. Morgan's broad back was turned upon them, 
 Dorothea waited for an instant, and said, ' What is it, 
 Robert ? ' looking up with her doubtful, yet kindly glance. 
 
 ' Dear Dorothea, I wanted to make sure it was all true,' 
 said Robert, with one of the few touches of romance which 
 he had experienced in all his well-considered existence. ' I 
 began to think it was a dream, and I thought I should like 
 to ask you.' 
 
 ' Whether it is all a dream ? ' said Dolly, almost sadly, 
 ' It is not I who can answer that question ; but you see,' she 
 added, smiling, ' that I have begun to do as you tell me. 
 They will think I am lost.' And she sprang away, with a 
 little wave of the hand. 
 
2o6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXV. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 liove US, God ! love us, man ! we believe, we achieve. 
 Let us live, let us love, 
 For the acts correspond : 
 We are Grlorious, and Die. 
 
 — E. B. B. 
 
 Good-night, dearest Dolly,' whispered Henley, as they all 
 stood waiting for their train in the crowded station. ' You 
 can tell your mother as you go home.' 
 
 ' Here, DoUy I jump in,' cried John Morgan, standing 
 by an open railway-door ; ' your aimt is calling you.' 
 
 'I can't come up till Tuesday,' Henley went on in a low 
 voice, ' but I shall wiite to your mother to-night.' 
 
 He helped her into the dark carriage : everybody seemed 
 to lean forward at once and say good-night ; there was a 
 whistle, a guard banged the door, Mrs. Palmer stretched her 
 long neck through the window, but the train carried her off 
 before she could speak her last words. 
 
 Dolly just saw Henley turning away, and Greorge under a 
 lamp-post ; then they were gone out of the station into the 
 open country ; wide and dim it flowed on either side into the 
 dusk. The day had come to an end — ^the most wonderful 
 day in Dolly's life. Was it a real day ; was it a day out of 
 somebody else's existence ? As Dolly sat down beside her 
 mother she had felt as if her heart would break with wonder 
 and happiness ; it was not big enough to hold the love that 
 
GUOD-NIGHT. 2c-, 
 
 was her portion. He loved her ! She had floated into some 
 new world where she had never been before ; where people 
 had been living all their lives, thought Dolly, and she had 
 never even guessed at it. 
 
 Had her mother felt like this ? Had Frank Eaban's poor 
 young wife felt this when he married her ? So she wondered, 
 looking up at the clear evening sky. Might not death 
 itself be this, only greater still and completer — too complete 
 for human beings? Dolly had got her mother's hand tight 
 in hers. ' My dear child, take care, take care ! ' cried Mrs. 
 Palmer, sharply ; ' my poor fingers are so tender, Mr. 
 Morgan ; and Dolly's is such a grip. I remember once when 
 the Admiral, with his great driving gloves' .... Hei 
 voice sank away, and Dolly's mamma began telling John 
 Morgan all about one episode in her life. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dolly went on with her speculations. How 
 surprised Aunt Sarah would be ; how surprised she was her- 
 self. Dolly had had a dream, so have most young maidens, 
 formless, voiceless, indefinitely vague, but with a meaning 
 to it all the same, and a soul; and here was Eobert, and the 
 soul was his, and he loved her! 'Thanks, half-way up,' 
 murmured Mrs. Palmer to a strange passenger who did not 
 belong to the party. 
 
 ' Tired, Zoe ? ' said John to his sister : ' a little bit 
 sleepy, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Everybody thinks I'm always tired,' said Zoe, in an 
 aggrieved tone : ' Ehoda made me rest ever so long when I 
 didn't want to ; she popped me down on a stool in that stupid 
 old library, and said I looked quite worn out, and then 
 she was off in a minute, and I had to wait, oh I ever so long, 
 and I was frightened by noises.' 
 
 ' Poor Zoe I ' said John, laughing. 
 
 ' It was too bad of her ; and then they all kept leaving 
 me behind,' continued Zoe, growing more and more miserable, 
 
.so8 OLD KRNSINGTVJS. 
 
 ' aad now you say it has been too much for me : I am sure 1 
 wouldn't have missed coming for anything.' 
 
 'Next time we go anywhere you keep with me, Zoe,' 
 said John, good-humouredly, ' and you shan't be left behind.' 
 
 ' I think we are all tired,' said Mrs, Palmer, languidly 
 ' and we shall be thankful to get home. Dolly, my darling, 
 you don't speak ; are you quite worn out too ? ' 
 
 Dolly looked out from her dreams with a glance of so 
 much life and sweetness in her bright face — even the dim 
 lamp-light could not hide her happy looks — that her mother 
 was struck by it. ' You strange child,' she said, ' what are 
 you made of? You look brighter than when we started.' 
 
 ' Dolly is made of a capital stuff called youth and good 
 spirits,' said John Morgan, kindly. 
 
 The rest of the journey was passed in shifting the 
 windows to Mrs. Palmer's various sensations. They all parted 
 hurriedly, as people do after a long day's pleasuring, only 
 Dolly found time to give Rhoda a kiss. She felt more kindly 
 towards her than she had done for many a day past. Ehoda 
 looked curiously, and a little maliciously, into Dolly's face. 
 But she could not read anything more than she guessed 
 already. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was greatly disturbed to find herself driving 
 home alone with Dolly in the hansom. 
 
 ' I am afraid of cabmen. I am not accustomed to them. 
 John Morgan should have come with me,' Mrs. Palmer said. 
 ' I am sure the Admiral would not approve of this ! Ah 1 he 
 will be over. Dolly, darling, ask the man if he is sober. 
 Dear me, I wish Eobert was here.' 
 
 Dolly, too, was wishing that Robert was there instead of 
 herself. Her heart began to beat as she thought of what she 
 had to say. She looked up at Mrs. Palmer's pale face in the 
 bright moonlight through which they were driving home- 
 wards ; through Darks silver and silent and transformed. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. 209 
 
 They come to the river and cross the bridge ; the water is 
 flowing, hushed, and mysterious : the bridge throws a great 
 shadow upon the water ; one barge is slowly passing under- 
 neath the arch. The dim, distant crowd of spires, of chimneys, 
 and slated roofs, are illumined and multiplied by strange silver 
 lights. Overhead a planet is burning and sinking where the 
 sun set while they were still in the college garden. The soft 
 moon-wind comes sweeping fresh into their faces, and Dolly 
 from this trance awakens to whisper, ' Mamma ! I have some- 
 thing to tell you — something that Eobert 
 
 ' He will throw us over ! I know he will 1 ' interrupts 
 Mrs. Palmer, as the cab gave a jolt. 'It is quite unsafe, 
 Dolly, without a gentleman.' 
 
 Poor Dolly forced herself to go on. She took her mother's 
 hand : ' Dear mamma, don't be afraid.' 
 
 ' He was not sober. I thought so at the time,' cried Mrs. 
 Palmer, with a nervous shriek, as they came ofif the bridge. 
 
 Then the cab went more quietly, and Dolly found words 
 to tell her news. So the hansom drove on, carrying many 
 agitations and exclamations along with it. The driver from 
 his moonlit perch may have heard the sounds within. Mrs. 
 Palmer spared herself and Dolly no single emotion. She was 
 faint, she was hysterical, she rallied, she was overcome. Why 
 had she not been told before ? she had known it all along ; 
 she had mentioned it to the Admiral before her departure ; 
 he had sneered at her foolish dreams. Dolly would never 
 have to learn the bitter deception of some wasted lives. 
 Cruel boy ! why had he not told her '' why so reserved ? 
 
 ' He feared that it would agitate you,' DoJ ly said, feeling 
 that Eobert had been right. ' He told me to tell you now, 
 dear.' 
 
 'Dear fellow, he is so thoughtful,' said Mrs. Palmer. 
 ' Now he will be my son, Dolly, my real son. I never could 
 have endured any one of those Henley girls for him. How 
 
 P 
 
Jio OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 angry Lady Henley will be. I warned Robert long ago that 
 she -would want him for one of them. Dolly, you must not 
 be married yet. You must wait till the Admiral returns. 
 He must give you away.' 
 
 When Dolly told her that Eobert wanted to be married 
 before he left for India, Mrs. Palmer said it was preposterous. 
 He might have to sail any day, — that Master told her so ; the 
 fat old gentleman in the white neckcloth. ' No, my Dolly, 
 we shall have you till Eobert comes back. Let the man keep 
 the shilling for his own use.' 
 
 They had reached the turnpike by this time, with its 
 friendly l:)eacon-f]re burning, and the red-faced man had 
 come out with three pennies ready in his hand. Then by 
 dark trees, rustling behind the walls of the old gardens ; past 
 the palace avenue-gates, where the sentry was pacing, with 
 the stars shining over his head ; they come to the ivy-gate 
 at home, and with its lamp burning red in the moonlight. 
 Marker opened the door before they had time to ring. 
 
 'Softly, my dear,' said Marker to Dolly, in a sort of 
 whisper. ' My lady is asleep ; she has not been well, and — ' 
 
 ' Not well ! ' said Mrs. Palmer. ' How fortunate she did 
 not come. What should we have done with her ? I am quite 
 worn 0U+, Marker ; we have had a long day. Let JuUe make 
 me a cup of coffee, and bring it up to my room. Grood-night, 
 my precious Dolly. Don't speak to me, or I shall scream ! ' 
 
 'Marker, is Aimt Sarah ill?' said Dolly, anxious, she 
 knew not why. 
 
 'Don't be frightened, my dear,' said Marker; 'it is 
 nothing ; that is, the Doctor says she only wants rest.' 
 
 Dolly went up to her own room, flitting carefully along 
 the passage, and shading her light. Lady Sarah's door was 
 closed. Mrs. Palmer was safe for the night, with Julie in 
 attendance. Dolly could hear their voices, as she went by. 
 In her own little room all was in order, and cool and straight 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. 211 
 
 for her coming. The window was open, the moonlight fell 
 upon her little bed, where she had dreamt so many peaceful 
 dreams, and Dolly set her light upon the window-seat, and 
 stood looking out. She was half radiant still, half saddened. 
 All the sights and sounds of that long, eventful day were 
 passing before her still : ringing, dazzling, repeating them- 
 selves on the darkness Was it possible that he 
 
 loved her — that she loved him? The trees rustled, the 
 familiar strokes of the church clock came striking twelve, 
 swinging through darkness into silence. ' Do I love him ? 
 I think so,' said Dolly to herself. ' I hope so.' And with an 
 honest heart, she told herself that all should be weU. Then 
 she wondered if she should sleep that night ; she seemed to 
 be living over every single bit of her Life at once. She 
 longed to tell Aunt Sarah her wonderful story. A cock- 
 chafer sailed in at the open window, and Dolly moved the 
 light to save its straggling legs ; a little wind came blowing 
 in, and then Dolly thought she beard a sound as of a door 
 below opening softly. "Was her aunt awake and stirring? 
 She caught up the light and crept down to see. She could 
 hear Julie and Mrs. Palmer still discoursing. 
 
 There is something sacred about a sick-room at times. 
 It seems like holy ground to people coming in suddenly out 
 of the turmoil and emotion of life. Dolly's excitement was 
 hushed as she entered and saw Lady Sarah lying quietly 
 stretched out asleep upon a sofa. It had been wheeled to 
 the window, which was wide open. The curtain was flapping, 
 all the medicine bottles stood in rows on the table and along 
 the shelves. There lay Sarah, with her grey hair smoothed 
 over her brown face, very still and sleeping peacefully — as 
 peacefully as if she was young still, and loved, and happy, 
 with life before her : though, for the matter of that, people 
 whose life is nearly over have more right to sleep at peace 
 tban those who have got to encounter they know not what 
 
 F 2 
 
212 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 trials and troubles — struggles with others, and, most deadly 
 of all, with that terrible shadow of self that rises with fresh 
 might, striking with so sure an aim. What does the mystery 
 mean ? Who is the familiar enemy that our spirit is set to 
 overcome and to struggle with all the night until the dawn ? 
 There lay poor Sarah's life-adversary, then, nearly worn, 
 nearly overcome, sleeping and resting while the spirit was 
 travelling I know not to what peaceful regions. 
 
 Dolly crept in and closed the door. Lady Sarah never 
 stirred. A long time seemed to pass. The wind rose again, 
 the curtain flapped, and the light flickered, and time seemed 
 creeping slowly and more slowly to the tune of the sleeping 
 woman's languid breath. It was a strange ending to the 
 long, glittering day, but at last a flush came into Sarah 
 Francis's cheeks, and she opened her eyes. ... A 
 strange new something was in that placid face — a look. 
 What is it, that first look of change and blurr in features 
 that have melted so tranquilly before us from youth to 
 middle-age, or from middle-age to age, modulating imper- 
 ceptibly ? The light of Dolly's own heart was too dazzling 
 for her to be in a very observant mood just then. 
 
 ' Is that my Dolly ? ' said the sick woman. 
 
 Doily sprang forward. ' Oh 1 I am so glad you are 
 awake,' said the girl. 'Dear Aunt Sarah, has your sleep 
 done you good ? Are you better ? Can you listen to some- 
 thing ? Can you guess ? ' And she knelt down so as to 
 bring her face on a level with the other ; but she couldn't 
 see it very plainly for a dazzle between them. ' Eobert says 
 he loves me ; and, indeed, if he loves me I must love him,' 
 Dolly whispered ; and her face fell hidden against the pillow, 
 and the mist turned to haze. Some bird in the garden out- 
 side began to whistle in its sleep. A belated clock struck 
 something a long way ofi", and then all was silence and dark- 
 ness again. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. 213 
 
 Lady Sarah held Dolly close to her, as the girl knelt 
 beside her. ' Do you care for him ? Is it possible ? ' said 
 Lady Sarah, bewildered. 
 
 Dolly was hurt by her doubt. 'Indeed I do,' she 
 answered, beginning to cry once more, from fatigue and 
 excitement. 
 
 One of the two women in that midnight room was young, 
 with the new kindling genius of love in her heart, and she 
 v/as weeping ; the other was old, with the first knell of death 
 ringing in her ear ; but when Dolly looked up at last she saw 
 that her aunt was smiling very tenderly. Lady Sarah 
 smiled, but she could not trust herself to speak. She had 
 awakened startled, but in a minute she had realised it all. 
 She had felt all along that this must be. She had not 
 wished foi it, but it was come. It was not only of Dolly and 
 of Eobert that Lady Sarah thought that night ; other ghosts 
 came into the room and stood before her. And then came 
 every day, very real, into this dream-world — Marker with a 
 bed-chamber candlestick, walking straight into conflicting 
 emotions, and indignant with Miss Dolly for disturbing her 
 mistress. She had been shutting up and seeing to Mrs. 
 Palmer's coffee. She was scarcely mollified by the great 
 news. Lady Sarah was awake ; Dolly had awakened her. 
 
 ' Let people marry who they like,' said Marker ; ' but 
 don't let them come chattering and disturbing at this time 
 o' night, when thej should a' known better. 
 
214 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 6O0D-M0RNING. 
 
 Qu'nn jenne amonr, plein de myst^, 
 Fardonne a la Tieille amitii. 
 
 Dolly passed through the sleeping house, crept hy the 
 doors, slid down the creaking stairs, into the hall. The 
 shutters were unopened as yet, the dawning day was bolted 
 out, and the place was dark and scattered over with the 
 shreds of the day before. A newspaper was lying on the 
 hall table, pieces of string upon the ground, a crumpled 
 letter, and the long brown-paper coffin in which the silk for 
 her new gown had come home the night before. Each day 
 scatters its dust as it hurries by, and leaves its broken ends 
 and scraps for the coming hours to collect and sort away, 
 dust of mind, and dust of matter. The great kaleidoscope 
 of the world turns round once in its twenty-four hours ; the 
 patterns and combinations shift and change and disperse into 
 new combinations. Perhaps some of us may think that, with 
 each turn, the fragments are shaken up and mixed and 
 broken away more and more, until only an undistinguishable 
 uniform dazzle remains in place of the beautiful blue and red 
 and golden stars and wheels that delighted our youth. 
 
 Dorothea gave a caxxtious pull to the bolt of the outer 
 door and opened it, letting a sudden sweet chill rush of 
 light and fresh air into the closed house, where they had 
 all been asleep through the night. What a morning I All 
 
GOOD-MORNING. 215 
 
 her sudden fears seemed lightened, and she jumped across 
 the step on to the gravel walk, and looked up and round and 
 about. Dark green, gold, glistening bricks, slanting lights, 
 and sweet tremulous shadows ; the many crowding house- 
 roofs and tree-tops aflame in the seven-o'clock sunshine, the 
 birds flapping and fluttering, the mellow old church clock 
 striking seven : the strokes come in solemn procession across 
 the High Street and the old brick-walled garden, and pass 
 on I don't know to what distant blue realms in the vault 
 overhead. 
 
 She stopped to look at a couple of snails creeping up 
 among the nails in the wall. I think she then practised a 
 little mazourka along the straight garden walk. She then 
 took ofi" her hat and stopped to pin back some of the russet 
 of which I have spoken, then she looked up again and drew 
 a great breath ; and then, passing the green beech and the 
 two cut yew-trees, she came to the placid pond in its stone 
 basin at the end of the garden. There it lay in its darkness 
 and light. There were the gold-fish wide-awake, darting 
 and gaping as they rose to the surface; and the water 
 reflected the sky and the laurel-bushes, and the chipped 
 stone edge of the basin. When Dorothea came and looked 
 over the brink she saw her own smiling, disjointed face 
 looking up at her. It was not so bright a face as her own, 
 somehow. It looked up grey and sad from out of this 
 trembling, mystical looking-glass. What was it ? A cloud 
 passing overhead, a little, soft, fleecy, white cloud bobbing 
 along, and then some birds flying by, and then a rustle 
 among the leaves. It was only a moment, during which it 
 had seemed to her as if the throb of nature beat a little 
 more slowly, and as if its rhythm had halted for an instant ; 
 and in that moment the trouble of the night before, the 
 doubt of herself, came back to her. Sometimes Dorothea 
 had wondered, as others have done before her, if there is 
 
2i6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 such a thing as real happiness in nature. Do clouds love to 
 sail quickly on the wind ? Are pools glad to lie placid 
 refracting the sunshine ? When the trees rustle, is it just a 
 chatter and a quiver, or the thrill of life answering life ? 
 The thought of a living nature without consciousness had 
 always seemed to her inexpressibly sad. She had sometimes 
 thought how sad a human life might be that was just a 
 human life, living and working and playing, and coming to 
 an end one day, and falling to the groimd. It was, in tmth, 
 not very unlike the life she might have led herself, and now 
 — now she was alone no longer. There was a meaning to life 
 now, for Henley loved her. She thought this, and then, seer 
 ing a spider's web suddenly gleam with a long lightning flash, 
 she turned with another glad spring of youth to the light. 
 
 On the table, lay a letter sealed and stamped and 
 addressed — ' Miss Vanborough, Church House, Kensington.' 
 It was for her. There was no mistaking it. Her first love- 
 letter. There it lay in black and in white, signed and 
 dated and marked with a crest. Eobert must have written 
 it the night before, after they had left. 
 
 A few minutes ago, in the fresh morning air, it had all 
 seemed like a dream of the night ; here were tangible signs 
 and wonders to recall her to her eillegiance. 
 
 Dolly took it up shyly, this first love-letter, come safe 
 into her hands from the hands which had despatched it. 
 She was still standing reading it in the window when Lady 
 Sarah, who had made an effort, came in, leaning on Marker's 
 arm. The girl was absorbed ; her pretty brown curly head 
 was bent in the ivylight, that dazzled through the leaves ; 
 she heard nothing except the new voice speaking to her ; 
 she saw no one except that invisible presence which was so 
 vividly before her. This was the letter : — 
 
 Mt deahest Dora, — I write you one line, which will, I hope, reach ymi in 
 the morning. You are gone, and already I wish jou back again. Your sweat- 
 
GOOD-MORNING. 217 
 
 ness, your trust iu me, liaTe quite overpowered me. I long to prove to you 
 that I am all you believed me, and worthy of your choice. Do not fear to 
 trust your happiness to me. I have carefully studied your character. I know 
 you even hetter than you know yourself ; and when you hesitated I could 
 appreciate your motives. I feel convinced that we have acted for the best. 
 I would say more, but I must write to your mother and to Lady Sarah by to- 
 night's post. Write to me fully and without reserve. 
 
 Ever yours, dearest Dora, 
 
 E. V. H. 
 
 Inside Dolly's letter was a second letter, addressed to the 
 Lady Sarah Francis, sealed and addressed in the same 
 legible hand. This was not a love-letter; nobody could 
 reasonably be expected to send two by the same post : — 
 
 Mt hear Ladt Sakah, — Dora will have informed you of what has occurred, 
 and I feel that I must not delay expressing to you how sincerely I trust that 
 you will not disapprove of the step we have taken. Although my appointment 
 is not a very lucrative one, the salary is increasing ; and I shall make a point 
 of insuring my life before leaving England, for our dear girl's benefit. I do 
 not know whether Dorothea is herself entitled to any of her father's fortune, 
 or whether it has been settled upon George ; perhaps you would kindly inform 
 me upon this point, as I am most anxious not to overstep the line of prudence, 
 and my future arrangements must greatly depend upon my means. You will 
 have heard of my appointment to the presidentship of the College of Boggley- 
 woUah. India is a long way off, but time soon passes to those who are able 
 to make good use of it; and I trust that in the happiness of one so justly 
 dear to you, you will find consolation for her absence. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Lady Sarah, very truly yours, 
 
 B. Henley. 
 
 P.S. — My widow would be entitled to a pension by the provisions of the 
 Fund. 
 
 This was what Dolly, with so much agitation, put into 
 her aunt's hand, watching her face anxiously as she read it. 
 
 ' May I read it ? ' said Dolly. 
 
 ' It is only business,' said Lady Sarah, crumpling it up, 
 and Dolly turned away disappointed, and began to pour out 
 the tea. 
 
 It was a very agitated breakfast, happy and shy and 
 rather silent, though so much had to be said. Mrs. Palmer 
 
2iS OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 came drifting in, to their surprise, before breakfast was over, 
 in a beautiful white wrapper with satin bows. She also 
 had received a letter. She embraced Dolly and Lady Sarah. 
 
 ' Well, what do you say to our news, Sarah ? I have 
 heard from our dear Robert,' said she. ' You may read his 
 letter — both of you. Sarah, I am sorry to hear you have 
 been ailing. If it would not be giving too much trouble — 
 I have been so upset by all this agitation — I should prefer 
 cofiFee this morning. I was quite frightened about myself 
 last night, Dolly, after I left you .... Dear me, what 
 memories come back to one. Do you remember our mar- 
 riage, Sarah, and ....?' 
 
 'Pray ring again, Dolly,' said Lady Sarah, abruptly, 
 and she went to the door and called Marker, shrilly and 
 impatient. 
 
 ' There is no one but me,' says Mrs. Palmer, pulling out 
 her frills with a deep sigh, ' who cares for those old stories. 
 The Admiral cannot endure them.' 
 
 Dolly's cup of happiness, so full before, seemed overflowing 
 now, it spread and spread. Happiness and sorrow overflow 
 into other cups besides our own. John Morgan looked in 
 opportunely to hear the news and to ask how they all were : 
 his hearty congratulations came with a grateful sense of 
 relief. Dolly longed for sympathy in her happiness. She 
 was glad to be a little stunned by the cheerful view he took 
 of what must be so sad as well as so sweet. The news 
 spread rapidly. 
 
 Old Sam came up with a shining face and set down the 
 copper coal-scuttle, the better to express his good wishes 
 Eliza TweUs tumbled down the kitchen-stairs with a great 
 clatter from sheer excitement, and when Marker, relenting, 
 came up in her big flowing apron for orders, her round face 
 was rippling with smiles. 
 
GOOD-MORNING. 219 
 
 ' Grod bless you kindly, Miss Dolly, my dear,' said the 
 good old woman, giving her a kiss on each cheek. ' I never 
 took up with a husband myself, but I don't blame ye. It is 
 well to have some one to speak our mind to. And did he 
 give you a ring, my dear ? ' 
 
 Dolly laughed and held up her two hands. ' No ring. 
 Marker. I don't like rings. I wish one could be married 
 without one.' 
 
 ' Don't aay that, dearie,' said Marker, gravely. 
 
230 OLD KENSINGTON-, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 tOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FITLHAM. 
 
 Where are the great, whom thou wouldst wish to praise thee? 
 
 Where are the pure, whom thou wouldst choose to love thee ? 
 
 Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, 
 
 Whose high commands would cheer, whose chiding raise thee ? 
 
 Seek, seeker, in thyself, submit to find 
 
 In the stones bread, and life in the blank mind. 
 
 — ^A. T. CtOUGH. 
 
 Robert came up to town on the Tuesday, as he had promised 
 Dolly. As he came along, he told himself that he had 
 deserved some reward for his patience in waiting. He had 
 resisted many a sentimental impulse, not wishing to dis- 
 tract his mind until the summer term was over. He might 
 almost have trusted himself to propose at Easter, and to go 
 on calmly with his papers, for he was not like George, whose 
 wandering attention seemed distracted by every passing 
 emotion. Robert's stifif black face melted a little as he 
 indulged in a lover-like dream. He saw Dolly as she would 
 be one day, ruling his household, welcoming his guests, 
 admired by them all. Henley had too good taste to like a 
 stupid woman. Nothing would ever have induced him to 
 think of a plain one. He wished for a certain amount of 
 good-breeding and habit of the world. . . . All these 
 qualifications he had discovered in his cousin, not to 
 epeak of other prospects depending on her aunt's good plea- 
 sure. 
 
LOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FULHAM. 211 
 
 Old Sam opened the door, griiming his congratulations. 
 Robert found Dolly sitting with her mother on the terrace. 
 Philippa jumped up to meet him, and embraced him too 
 with effusion. 
 
 ' We were expecting you,' she said. ' I have mucA to say 
 to you ; come with me.' And clasping her hands upon his 
 arm, she would have immediately drawn him away into the 
 house, if Eobert had not said with some slight embarrass- 
 ment, ' Presently, my dear aunt, I shall be quite at your 
 service ; but I have not yet spoken to Dolly.' Dolly did not 
 move, but waited for Eobert to come to her — then she 
 looked up suddenly. 
 
 Dolly's manner was charming in those days — a little 
 reserved, but confident and sympathetic, a little abrupt at 
 times, but bright and melancholy at once. Later in life 
 some of its shadows seemed to drown the light in her honest 
 face ; her mistakes made her more shy, and more reserved ; 
 she caiight something of Henley's coldness of manner, and 
 was altered, so her friends thought. 
 
 I don't, for my own part, believe that people change. 
 But it is not the less true that they have many things in 
 them, many emotions and passing moods, and as days and 
 feelings follow, each soul's experience is written down here 
 and there, and in other souls, and by signs, and by work 
 done, and by work undone, and by what is forgotten, as 
 well as that which is remembered, by the influence of to- 
 day, and of the past that is not over. Perhaps, one day, we 
 may know ourselves at last, and read our story plainly 
 written in our own and other people's lives. 
 
 Dolly, in those days, was young and confident and undis- 
 mayed. It seems strange to make a merit as we do of youth, 
 of inexperience, of hardness of heart. Her untroubled young 
 spirit had little sympathy for others more weary and wayworn. 
 She loved, but without sympathy ; but all the same, the bright- 
 
222 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ness of her youth and its unconscious sweetness spread and 
 warmed, and comforted those upon whom its influence fell. 
 Dorothea Vanborough was a woman of many-changing 
 emotions and sentiments ; frank to herself, doubting herself 
 all the while; diffident where she should have been bold, 
 loving the right above all things, and from very excess of 
 scruples, troubled at times, and hard to others. Then came 
 regret and self-abasement and reproach, how bitter none can 
 tell but those who, like her, have suffered from many and 
 complicated emotions — trusting, mistrusting, longing for 
 truth, and, from this very longing, failing often. iShe loved 
 because she was young and her heart was tender and humble. 
 She doubted because she was young and because the truth 
 was in her, urging her to do that which she would not 
 have done, and to feel the things that she would not have 
 felt. But all this was only revealed to her later, only it 
 was there from the beginning. Dolly was very shy and very 
 happy all these early days. 
 
 Frank Raban thought Dolly careless, hard in her judg- 
 ments, spoiled by the love that was showered upon her ; he 
 thought she was not kind to Ehoda. All this he dwelt 
 upon, nor could he forget her judgment upon himself. Poor 
 Raban acknowledged that for him no judgment could be too 
 severe, and yet he would have loved Dolly to be pitiful ; 
 although she could now never be anything to him — never, 
 so long as they both lived. When the news came of her 
 engagement, it was a pain to him that he had long expected, 
 and that he accepted. One failure in life was enough. He 
 made no advance ; he watched her ; he let her go, foolish 
 man! without a word. Sometimes Ehoda would talk to 
 him about Dolly. Frank always listened. 
 
 ' She does not mean to be cold. Indeed, I don't think 
 so — I am so used to her manner that I do not think of it,' 
 Rhoda would say. ' Dear Dolly is full of good and generous 
 
LOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FULHAM. 223 
 
 impulses. She will make Eobert Henley a noble wife if he 
 only gives in to her in everything. I would I were half as 
 good as she is ; but she is a little hasty at times, and wants 
 every one to do as she tells them.' 
 
 ' And you do as everybody tells you,' said Raban. 
 
 And to do Rhoda justice, she worked her fingers to the 
 bone, she walked to poor people's houses through the rain 
 and mud ; she was always good-tempered, she was a valuable 
 inmate in the household. Zoe said she couldn't think how 
 Rhoda got through half, what she did. ' Here, there, and 
 everywhere,' says Zoe, in an aggrieved voice, ' before I have 
 time to turn.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the engagement, the little household 
 at Church House went its usual course. Lady Sarah had 
 followed her own beaten ways so long, that she seemed, 
 from habit, to travel on whether or not her interest went 
 with her. Those old days are almost forgotten now, even 
 by the people who lived in them. With a strange, present 
 thrill Dolly remembers sometimes, as she passes through the 
 old haunts of her early youth, a past instant of time, a 
 past state of sentiment, as bygone as the hour to which it 
 belonged. Passing by the old busy comer of the church 
 not long ago, Dolly remembered how she and Robert had 
 met Raban there one day, just after their news had been 
 made public. He tried to avoid them, then changed his 
 mind and came straight up and shook hands, uttering his 
 good wishes in a cold, odd manner, that Dolly thought 
 almost unkind. 
 
 ' I am afraid my good wishes can add little to your 
 happiness, but I congratulate you,' he said to Robert ; ' and 
 I wish you all happiness,' he said to Dolly ; and then they 
 were all silent for a minute. 
 
 ' You will come soon, won't you ? ' said Dolly, shyly. 
 
 ' Good-by,' said Frank Jlaban, walking away very quickly. 
 
224 
 
 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 He had meant to keep away, but he came just as usual 
 to Church House, and was there even more constantly. Lady 
 Sarah was glad of his companionship for Greorge, who seemed 
 in a very strange and excited state of mind. 
 
 The summer of '54 was an eventful summer ; and while 
 Dolly was living in her own youthful world, concentrated in 
 the overwhelming interests that had come of late, in old and 
 the new ties, so hard to grasp, so hard to loose, armies were 
 marching, fleets were sailing, politicians and emperors were 
 pondering upon the great catastrophe that seemed imminent. 
 War had been declared ; with it the great fleets had come 
 speeding across the sea from one horizon to another. The 
 events of the day only reached Dolly in echoes from a 
 long way off, brought by Eobert and by George, printed in 
 the paper. Eobert was no keen politician. He was too full 
 of his own new plans and new career. Greorge was far more 
 excited, and of a more fiery temper. Frank Eaban and 
 George and he used to have long and angry arguments 
 Eaban maintained that the whole thing was a mistake, a 
 surrender to popular outcry. George and Eobert were for 
 fighting at any price : for once they agreed. 
 
 ' I don't see,' said George, ' what there is in life to make 
 it so preferable to anything else, to every sense of honour 
 and of consideration, of liberty of action. Life, to be worth 
 anything, is only a combination of all these things ; and for 
 one or any of them I think a man should be willing to play 
 his stake.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course, if it were necessary,' said Henley, 
 'one would do what was expected of one. There is my 
 cousin, Jonah Henley, joining his regiment next week. I 
 confess it is on different grounds from you that I approve of 
 
 this war. I do not like to see England falling in the a^ 
 
 estimation of Europe : we can afford to go to war. Eussia's 
 pretensions are intolerable ; and, with France to assist ub, I 
 
LOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FULHAM. 225 
 
 believe the Grovernment is thoroughly justified in the course 
 it is pursuing.' 
 
 ' I don't think we are ready,' said Eaban, in his odd, 
 constrained voice. ' I don't think we are, justified. We sit 
 at home and write heroic newspaper articles, and we send 
 out poor fellows by rank and by file to be pounded at and 
 cut to mincemeat, for what ? Suppose we put things back 
 a hundred years, what good shall we have done ? ' 
 
 '■ But think of our Overland Eoute,' said Henley ; ' sup- 
 pose the future should interfere with the P. and 0.' 
 
 There were green lanes in those days leading from the 
 far end of that lane in which Church House was built to 
 others that crossed a wide and spreading country : it is not 
 even yet quite overflooded by the waves of brick — that tide 
 that flows out in long, strange furrows, and never ebbs away. 
 Dolly and Henley went wandering along these lanes one fine 
 afternoon ; they were going they knew not where ; into a 
 land of Canaan, so Dolly thought it : green cabbages, a long, 
 gleaming canal, hawthorn hedges, and a great overarched 
 sky that began to turn red when the sun set. Now and 
 then they came to some old house that had outstood storms 
 and years, fluttering signals of distress in the shape of old 
 shirts and clothes hung out to dry; in the distance rose 
 Kensington spires and steeples ; now and then a workman 
 trudged by on his way home ; distant bells rang in this 
 wide, desolate country. Women come tramping home from 
 their long day's work in the fields, and look hard at the 
 handsome young couple, Dolly with cast-down eyes, Eobert 
 with his nose up in the air. The women trudge wearily 
 home ; the young folks walk step by step into life. The 
 birds cross the sky in a sudden flight ; the cabbages grow 
 where they are planted. 
 
 They missed the Chelsea Lane. Dolly should have 
 Q 
 
226 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 known the way, but she was absorbed and unobservant, and 
 those cross-ways were a labyrinth except for those who were 
 well used to them. They found themselves presently in the 
 Old Brompton Eoad, with its elm-trees and old gable roofs 
 darkening against the sunset. How sweet it was, with red 
 lights burning, people slowly straggling Hke themselves, 
 and enjoying the gentle ease of the twilight and of the soft 
 west wind. Dolly led Henley back by the old mnding road, 
 with its bends and fancies ; its cottages, within close-built 
 walls ; and stately old houses, with iron scroll-work' on their 
 garden gates, and gardens not yet destroyed. Then they 
 came to a rueful row of bricks and staring windows. A 
 young couple stood side by side against the low rail in front 
 of their home. Dolly remembered this afterwards ; for the 
 sky was very splendid just then, and the young woman's 
 violet dress seemed to blaze with the beautiful light, as she 
 stood in her quaint little garden, looking out across the 
 road to the well-remembered pond and some fields beyond. 
 Along the distant line of the plains great soft ships of 
 vapour were floating ; the windows of the distant houses 
 flashed ; the pond looked all splendid and sombre in its 
 shady comer. The evening seemed vast and sweet, and 
 Dolly's heart was full. 
 
 ' Are you tired ? ' said Eobert, seeing that she lingered. 
 
 ' Tired ? no,' said Dorothea. ' I was looking at the sky, 
 and wondering how it would have been if you had gone 
 away and never ? ' She stopped. 
 
 ' Why think about it ? ' said Robert. ' You would have 
 married somebody else, I suppose.' 
 
 He said it in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and for a 
 moment Dolly's eyebrows seemed to darken over her eyes. 
 It was a mere nothing, the passing shadow of a thought. 
 
 'You are right,' said Dolly, wistfully. 'It is no use 
 thinking how unhappy one might have been. Have you 
 
LOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FULHAM. 227 
 
 ever been very unhappy, Eobert?' Now that she wasi sr 
 happy, Dolly seemed, for the first time, to realise what 
 sorrow might be. 
 
 ' A certain young lady made me very unhappy one day 
 not long ago,' said Eobert, ' when she tried to freeze me up 
 with a snowball.' 
 
 This was not what Dolly meant : she was in earnest, and 
 he answered her with a joke ; she wanted a sign, and no 
 sign was given to her. 
 
 They had just reached home, when Robert said, with his 
 hand on the bell : ' This has not been unhappy, has it, 
 Dolly ? We shall have a great many more walks together 
 when I can spare the time. But you must talk to me more, 
 and not be so shy, dearest.' 
 
 Something flew by as he spoke, and went fluttering into 
 the ivy. 
 
 ' ThaL was a bat,' said Dolly, shrinking, while Robert 
 stood shaking his umbrella-stick among the ivy leaves ; but 
 it was too dark to see anything distinctly. 
 
 ' I hope,' said Robert, sentimentally, ' to come and see 
 you constantly when this term is over. Then we shall know 
 more of each other, Dora.' 
 
 ' Don't we know each other ? ' asked Dolly, with one of 
 her quick glances ; ' I think I know you quite well, Eobert 
 — better than I know myself almost,' she added, with a sigh. 
 
 When they came into the drawing-room the lamp was 
 alight, and Greorge and Rhoda were there with Lady Sarah. 
 George was talking at the very pitch of his melancholy 
 voice. Lady Sarah was listening with a pale, fixed face, like 
 a person who has made up her mind. 
 
 Rhoda was twirling her work round and round her 
 fingers. She had broken the wool, and dropped the stitches. 
 It was by a strong effort that she sat so still. 
 
 ' Here is George announcing his intentions,' said Lady 
 o 3 
 
22S OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Sarah, as they came in. ' Perhaps you, Robert, will be able 
 to preach good sense to him.' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Sarah ! ' Dolly cried, springing forward, ' at 
 last he has told you. . . . Has Ehoda ? ' Dolly's two 
 hands were clasped in excitement. Lady Sarah looked at 
 her in some surprise. 
 
 There was a crash, a scream from Ehoda. The flower- 
 glass had gone over on the table beside her, and all the 
 water was running about over the carpet. 
 
 ' My dress — my Sunday best ! ' cried Ehoda. ' Lady Sarah, 
 I am so sorry.' 
 
 Dolly bent over to pick up the table, and, as she did so, 
 Ehoda whispered, ' Be silent, or you will ruin George.' 
 
 ' Euined ? ' said Eobert. ' Your dress is not ruined, 
 Ehoda. I speak from experience, for 1 wear a silk gown 
 myself.' 
 
 'George says he will not take my living,' said Lady 
 
 Sarah. ' He wishes to be What do you wish to be, 
 
 George ? ' 
 
 George, somewhat confused, said he wished to be a soldier 
 — anything but a clergyman. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you are going to be such a — 
 that you refuse seven hundred a year ? ' said Henley, stopping 
 short, 
 
 ' Confound it ! ' cried George, ' can't you all leave a poor 
 tellow in peace ? ' And he burst out of the room. 
 
 'Come here, Dolly,' said Mrs. Palmer, from a distant 
 corner of the room ; ' make this foolish darling do as his 
 aunt wishes. I am sure the Admiral would quite feel as I 
 do.' 
 
 ' Seven hundred a year,' said Lady Sarah. « Wretched 
 boy ! I shall sell the presentation.' 
 
 ' Oh, Robert ! ' said Dolly, ' he is right if he can't make 
 up his min<l f know Aunt Sarah thinks so ' 
 
LOVE LANE FROM KENSINGTON TO FULHAM. 229 
 
 Dolly could not help being vexed -witli Eobert. He 
 slirugged his shoulders, said that George would regret his 
 decision, and went on to talk of various plans that he him- 
 self had at heart, just as if George had never existed. 
 
 ' I want you to trust Dolly to me for a few days,' said he. 
 ' I want to take her down to Smokethwaite with my aunt. 
 She must see Jonah before he leaves. They all write, and 
 urge her coming.' 
 
 Lady Sarah agreed, with a sigh, and her eyes filled with 
 tears. She turned away abruptly to hide them. 
 
 Many and many were the tears she wiped away, for fear 
 Dolly should see them. George's whole body was not so 
 dear to her as Dolly's little finger. She blamed herself in 
 vain afterwards, when it was too late. Sometimes she could 
 hardly bear to see her niece come into the room with her 
 smiling face, and she scarcely answered when the sweet girl's 
 voice came echoing and calling about the house. Could it 
 be true that it was going, that sweet voice? Laughing, 
 scolding, chattering, hour by hour — were the many foot- 
 steps going, too, and the rustle of her dress, and the look of 
 her happy eyes ? was the time already come for Dolly to 
 fly away from the old nest that had sheltered her for so short 
 a time ? She seemed scarcely to have come — scarcely to 
 have begun her sweet home song — and already she was eager 
 to go ! 
 
 But Rhoda had come up, looking very pale, to say good- 
 night. As she said good-by, Dolly followed her out, and 
 tried to put in some little word for George. .' Ehoda, he has 
 been true to himself,' she whispered ; ' that is best of all — 
 is not it ? ' 
 
 ' Let him be true to himself, by all means,' said Rhoda. 
 
 She was thoroughly out of temper. Dolly had not im- 
 proved matterti by talking about them. George came out 
 of the oak room prepared to walk back with her. 'No, 
 
23° OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 thank you,' said Ehoda, tremWing very much. ' I won't 
 trouble you to come home with me.' 
 
 She was tying her bonnet and pinning on her shawl in 
 an agitated way. Greorge watched her in silence. When she 
 was ready to go, he held out his hand. ' Good-night,' he said. 
 
 ' Grood-night,' said Ehoda, hurrying off without looking 
 up, and passing out into the street. 
 
 It was unbearable. If George loved her he might do as 
 she wished. But he would sacrifice nothing — not one fancy 
 Her Uncle John was a clergyman. It was a very high call- 
 ing. Ehoda thought of the pretty little parsonage-house, 
 and the church, and the cottages all round about, only wait- 
 ing to be done good to, while the apples were baking on the 
 trees and cakes in the oven, all of which good things George 
 had refused — George, who did not know one bit what he 
 was doing, nor what it was to scrape, and starve, and live 
 with dull, stinted, scraping people. Sne was quite tired of 
 it all. It was not a real Hfe that she led ; it was a house- 
 keeper's situation, just like Aunt Morgan. She had done 
 her best, and she had earned a rest, and she would not begin 
 all over again. George might be as true as he liked. Ehoda 
 ran up the steps of the old brown house in a silent passion, 
 and gave a sharp pull at the bell. Yes, she hated it all. 
 She was utterly tired of it all — of the noisy home, of Aunt 
 Morgan's precepts and flannels. She could hear the clink 
 of plates in the dining-room, where the inevitable anters of 
 cheese and cold meat were set out on the shabby table-cloth, 
 where her Aunt Morgan stood in her black cap and stiff 
 brown curls, carving slice after slice for the hungry curate. 
 ' You are late, Ehoda,' said her aunt. ' I suppose you 
 stayed to late dinner with your friends ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but I am not hungry,' said Ehoda, shrinking away. 
 
 ' Why, Ehoda, what is the matter ? ' said John, kindly, 
 and he held out his big hand to her. 
 
( 331 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVIII. 
 
 UNBORN TO-MOKEOW AND DEAD YESTEKDAT. 
 
 Alas, thiice-gentle Caasio, 
 My advocation is not now in tune ; 
 My lord is not my lord ; nor should I know hini. 
 Were he in favour, as in humour, alter'd. 
 
 — Othello. 
 
 Whatetee Lady Sarah may have thought, Mrs. Palmer used 
 to consider Dolly a most fortunate girl, and she used to say 
 so, not a little to Lady Sarah's annoyance. 
 
 ' Extremely fortunate,' repeats Dolly's mamma, looking 
 thoughtfully at her fat satin shoes. ' What a lottery life is ! 
 I was as pretty as Dolly, and yet dear Stanham had not any- 
 thing like Eobert's excellent prospects. Even the Ad 
 
 Don't go, Sarah.' 
 
 Poor Lady Sarah would start up, with an impatient 
 movement, and walk across the room to get away from 
 PMlippa's retrospections. They were almost more than she 
 had patience for just then. She could scarcely have found 
 patience for Philippa herself, if it had not been that she 
 was Dolly's mother. What did she mean by her purrings 
 and self-congratulations? Lady Sarah used to feel most 
 doubtful about Dolly's good fortune just when Philippa 
 was most enthusiastic on the subject, or when Robert 
 himself was pointing out his excellent prospects in his lucid 
 way. 
 
2j2 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Philippa would listen, nodding languid approbation. 
 Dolly would make believe to laugh at Robert's accounts of 
 his coming honours ; but it was easy to see that it was only 
 make-believe incredulity. 
 
 Her aunt could read the girl's sweet conviction in her 
 eyes, and she loved her for it. Once, remembering her own 
 youth, this fantastic woman had made a vow never, so long 
 as she lived, to interfere in the course of true love. True 
 love ! Is this true love, when one person is in love with a 
 phantom, another with an image reflected in a glass ? True 
 love is something more than phantoms, than images and 
 shadows; and yet stirred by phantoms and living among 
 shadows, its faint dreams come to life. 
 
 Lady Sarah was standing by the bookcase, in a sort of 
 zigzag mind of her own old times and of Dolly's to-day. 
 She had taken a book from the shelf — a dusty volume of 
 Bums's poems — upon the fly-leaf of which the name of 
 another Eobert Henley was written. She holds the book in 
 her hand, looks at the crooked writing — 'S. V., from Eobert 
 Henley, May, 1808.' She beats the two dusty, covers 
 together, and puts it back into its place again. That is all 
 her story. Philippa never heard of it, Robert never heard 
 of it, nor did he know that Lady Sarah loved his name — 
 which had been his father's too — better than she loved him. 
 ' Perhaps her happiness had all gone to Dolly,' the widow 
 thought, as she stood, with a troubled sort of smile on her 
 face, looking at the two yormg people through a pane of 
 glass ; and then, like a good woman as she is, tries to 
 silence her misgivings into a little prayer for their 
 happiness. 
 
 Let us do justice to the reluctant prayers that people 
 offer up. They are not the less true because they are half- 
 hearted and because those who pray would sometimes gladly 
 be spared an answer to their petitions. Poor Lady Sarah I 
 
UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY. 233 
 
 ner prayers seemed too much answered as she watched Dolly 
 day hy day more and more radiant and absorbed. 
 
 'My dear creature, what are you doing with all those 
 dusty books ? Can you see our young people ? ' says Mrs. 
 Palmer, languidly looking over her arm-chair. ' I expect 
 Colonel Witherington this afternoon. He admires Dolly 
 excessively, Sarah ; and I really think he might have pro- 
 posed, if Eobert had not been so determined to carry her off. 
 You dear old thing, forgive me ; I don't believe she would 
 ever have married at all if I had not come home. You are 
 in the clouds, you know. I remember saying so to Hawtry at 
 Trincomalee. I should have disowned her if she had turned 
 out an old maid. I know it. I detest old maids. The 
 Admiral has a perfect craze for them, and they all adore 
 him. I should like you to see Miss M'Grrudder — there 
 never was anything so ludicrous, asthmatic, sentimental — 
 frantic. We must introduce Miss Moineaux to him, and 
 the Morgan girls. I often wonder how he ever came to 
 marry a widow, and I tell him so. It was a great mistake. 
 Can you believe it? — Hawtry now writes that second 
 marriages are no marriages at all. Perhaps you agree with 
 him ? I'm sure Dolly is quite ready to do so. I never saw 
 a girl so changed — never. We have lost her, my dear ; 
 make up your mind to it. She is Eobert, not Dolly any 
 more — no thought for any one else, not for me, dear child ! 
 And don't you flatter yourself she will ever . . . Dear me ! 
 Gone ? What an extraordinary creature poor Sarah is I 
 touched, certainly ; and such a wet blanket ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer, rising from her corner, floats across the 
 room, sweeping over several footstools and small tables on 
 her way. She goes to the window, and not caring to be 
 alone, begins to tap with her diamond finger upon the pane, 
 to summon the young couple, who pay not the slightest 
 attention. Fortunately the door opens, and Colonel 
 
234 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Witherington is announced. He is a swarthy man, with 
 shiny hoots, a black moustache ; his handkerchief is scented 
 with Esse-houquet, which immediately permeates the room ; 
 he wears tight dogskin gloves and military shirt-collars. 
 Lady Sarah thinks him vulgar and odious beyond words ; 
 Mrs. Palmer is charmed to see him, and graciously holds out 
 her white hand. She is used to his adoration, and accepts 
 it with a certain swan- like indifference. 
 
 People had different opinions about Mrs. Palmer. In 
 some circles she was considered brilliant and accomplished ; 
 in others, silly and affected. Colonel Witherington never 
 spoke of her except with military honours. 'Charming 
 woman,' he would say ; ' highly cultivated ; you might give 
 her five-and-twenty at the outside. Utterly lost upon that 
 spluttering, old psalm- singing Palmer. Psalms are all very 
 well in their proper place — in the prayer-books, or in 
 church ; but after dinner, when one has got a good cigar, 
 and feels inclined for a little pleasant conversation, it is not 
 the time to ring the bell for the servants, and have 'em 
 down upon their knees all of a row, and up again in five 
 minutes to listen to an extempore sermon. The Admiral 
 runs on like a clock. I used to stay with them at the 
 Admiralty House. Pity that poor woman most heartily I 
 Can't think how she keeps up as she does ! ' 
 
 Little brown Lady Henley at Smokethwaite would not 
 have sympathised with Colonel Withering^on's admiration. 
 She made a point of shrugging her shoulders whenever she 
 heard Philippa's name mentioned. ' If you ask me," she 
 would say, ' I must frankly own that my sister-in-law is not 
 to be depended on. She is utterly selfish ; she only lives 
 for the admiration of gentlemen. My brother Hawtry is a 
 warm-hearted, impulsive man, who would have made any 
 woman happy. If he has looked for consolation in his 
 domestic trials, and found it in religious interests, it is not 
 
UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY. 235 
 
 I who would Uame him. Sir Thomas feels as I do, and 
 deeply regrets Philippa's deplorable frivolity. I do not know 
 much of that poor girl of hers. I have no doubt Eobert has 
 been dazzled by mother and daughter. They are good- 
 looking, and, as I am told, thoroughly well understand the 
 art of setting themselves off to the best advantage. I am 
 fond of Eobert Henley ; but I cannot pretend to have any 
 feeling for Dorothea one way or another. We have asked 
 them here, of course. They are to come after their marriage. 
 I only hope my sister-in-law appreciates her daughter's 
 good luck, and has the sense to know the value of such a 
 man as Eobert Henley.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was perfectly enchanted with her future 
 son-in-law. He could scarcely get rid of her. Eobert, with 
 some discomposure, would find himself sitting on his aunt's 
 sofa, hand-in-hand, listening to long and very unpleasant 
 extracts from her correspondence. ' You dear boy ! ' Mrs. 
 Palmer would say, with her soft, fat fingers firmly clasped 
 round his ; ' you have done me good. Your dear head is 
 able to advise my poor perplexed heart. Dolly, he is my 
 prop. I give you up, my child, gladly, to this dear fellow ! ' 
 These little compliments mollified the young man at first, 
 although he found that by degrees the tax of his aunt's 
 constant dependence became heavier and heavier. Briareus 
 himself could scarcely have supplied arms to support her 
 unsparing weakness, to hand her parcels and footstools about, 
 to carry her shawls and cushions, and to sort the packets of 
 her correspondence. She had the Admiral's letters, tied up 
 with various- coloured ribbons, and docketed, 'Cruel,' 
 ' Moderately Abusive,' ' Apologetic,' ' Canting,' ' Business.' 
 She was always sending for Eobert. Her playful tap at the 
 window made him feel quite nervous. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer had begun to knit him a pair of muffetees, 
 and used slowly to twist pink silk round ivory needles. 
 
i}f, OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 r^ady Henley laughed very loud when she heard this. 
 'Poor Eobert! He wiU have to pay dearly for those 
 mittens,' she said. 
 
 For a long time past Mrs. Palmer had rarely left the 
 house, but the trousseau now began to absorb her ; she 
 used to go driving for long hoiu-s at a time with DoUy, in a 
 jaded fly — she would invite Eobert to accompany them — to 
 Baker Street Bazaar, to Soho Square, to St. Paul's Church- 
 yard, back again to Oxford Street, a corner shop of whicli ' 
 she had forgotten the number. On one occasion, after try- 
 ing three or four corner shops, Eobert called to the coachman 
 to stop, and jumped out. 'I think Dolly and I will walk 
 home,' he said, abruptly ; ' I'm afraid you must give up 
 your shop. Aunt Philippa. It is impossible to find the place.' 
 
 Poor Dolly, who was longing to escape, brightened up, 
 but before she could speak, Mrs. Palmer had grasped her 
 tightly by both hands. ' My dear Eobert, what a proposal ! 
 I could not think of letting Dolly walk all the way home. 
 She would be quite done up. And it is her business, her 
 shopping, you know.' Then reproachfully and archly, ' And 
 I innust say that even the Admiral would scarcely have 
 deserted us so ungaUantly, with all this work on our hands, 
 and all these parcels, and no servant. You dear fellow, you 
 really must not leave us.' 
 
 Eobert stood holding the door open, and looking parti- 
 cularly black. ' I am very sorry indeed,' he said, with a 
 short laugh, ' but you will be quite safe, my dear aunt, and 
 you really seem to have done enough shopping to last for 
 many years to come.' And he put out his hand as a matter 
 of course, to help Dorothea to alight. 
 
 'But she cannot leave me,' says Philippa, excitedly; 
 ' she would not even wish it. Would you, my child ? I 
 never drive alone — never ; I am afraid of the coachman. It 
 is most um-easonali le to propose such a thing.' 
 
UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY. 2}^ 
 
 ' I will answer for your safety,' persisted Eobert. ' My 
 dear aunt, you must get used to doing without your Dolly 
 now. Come, Dora, tlie walk will freshen you up.' 
 
 ' But I don't want to walk, Eobert,' said poor Dolly, with 
 a glance at her mother. ' You may come for me to-morrow 
 instead. You will, won't you ? ' she added, as he suddenly 
 turned away without answering, and she leant out of the 
 carriage-window, and called after him, a little frightened by 
 his black looks and silence. ' Eobert ! I shall expect you,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' I shall not be able to come to-morrow, Dora,' said 
 Henley, very gravely;, and then, raising his hat, he walked 
 off without another word. 
 
 Even then Dolly could not believe that he was seriously 
 angry. She saw him striding along the pavement, and 
 called to him, and made a friendly little sign with her 
 hand as the brougham passed close by a place where he 
 was waiting to cross the road. Eobert did not seem 
 to see either the brougham nor the kind face inside that 
 was smiling at him. Dorothea's eyes suddenly filled up 
 with tears. 
 
 - Boorish ! Boorish ! ' cried Mrs. Palmer, putting up both 
 hands. ' Eobert is like all other men, they leave you at any 
 moment, Dolly — that is my experience, — bitterly gained — 
 without a servant even, and I have ever so much more to do. 
 There is Parkins and Grotto's for India-paper. If only I had 
 known that he was going to be so rude, I should have asked 
 for old Sam.' Mrs. Palmer was still greatly discomposed. 
 ' Pray put up that window, Dolly,' she said, ' and I do wish 
 you would attend to those parcels — -they are falling off the 
 sea,t.' 
 
 Dolly managed to wink away her tears as she bent over 
 the parcels. Forgive her for crying ! This was her first 
 quavroi with Eobert, if auarrel it could be called. She 
 
238 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 thought it over all the way home, surely she had been 
 right to do as her mother wished — why was Egbert 
 vexed ? 
 
 Philippa was in a very bad humour all that evening 
 She talked so pathetically of a mother's feelings, and of the 
 pangs of parting from her child, that Lady Sarah for once 
 was quite sorry for her — she got a little shawl to put over 
 Philippa's feet as she lay beating a tattoo upon the sofa. 
 As for Dolly, she had gone to bed early, very silent and out 
 of spirits. 
 
 That evening's post brought a couple of letters; one 
 was from Greorge to his mother, written in his cranky, 
 blotted handwriting : — 
 
 Cambridge : Ml Saints' College. 
 Deaeest Mamma, — I am coining up for a couple of days. I have, strange 
 as it may sound, been working too hard. Tell Aunt Sarah. Lore to Dolly. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 GrBOBGE. 
 
 The other was for Dolly, and Marker tooK it up to her 
 in her room. This letter flowed in even streams of black 
 upon the finest hot-pressed paper : 
 
 Deabest Dora, — I was much disappointed that you would not come with 
 me, and condemned me to that solitary walk. I hope that a day may come, 
 before very long, when your duty and your pleasures may seem less at 
 Tariance to you than at present ; otherwise I can see little chance of happi- 
 ness in our future life. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 E. V. H. 
 
 'Was he still vexed?' Dolly, who had relented the 
 moment she saw the handwriting, wrote him a little note 
 that evening, by moonlight, and asked Marker to post it. 
 
 I could not leare Mamma all alone (she wrote). I wanted to walk 
 home with you— couldn't you see that I did? I shall expect you to come to 
 Lonehpoii to-moi-row, and we will go wherever you like. — D. 
 
UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY. 239 
 
 Dolly lay awake after this for a long moonlight hour. 
 She was living in what people call the world of feeling. 
 She was absorbed, she was happy, but it was a happiness 
 with a reserve in it. It was peace indeed, but Dolly was too 
 young, her life had been too easy, for peace to be all- 
 sufficient to her. She had found out, by her new experience, 
 that Eobert loved her, but in future that he would rule her 
 too. In her life, so free hitherto, there would be this secret 
 rule to be obeyed, this secret sign. Dolly did not know 
 whether on the whole she liked the thought, or whether she 
 resented it. She had never spoken of it, even to Eobert. 
 ' You see you have to do as you are told,' Henley sometimes 
 said ; he meant it in fun, but Dorothea instinctively felt 
 that there was truth in his words — he was a man who held 
 his own. He was not to be changed by an impulse. Dolly, 
 conscious of some hidden weakness in her own nature, 
 deified obstinacy, as many a woman has done before her, and 
 made excuses out of her own loving heart for Henley's 
 selfish one. 
 
 It was summer still, though August had come again ; 
 the Virginian creepers along the west wall glowed ; crimson- 
 tinted leaves fell in golden rain, the gardener swept up 
 golden dollars and fairy money into heaps and carted them 
 away; the geraniums put out shoots; the creepers started 
 off upon excursions along the gravel-paths : it was a com- 
 fortable old-fashioned world, deep-coloured, russet-tinted, 
 but the sun was hot still and burning, and DoUy dressed her- 
 self in white, and listened to every bell. 
 
 The day passed, however, without any sign of Eobert, or 
 any word from him. But George walked in just as they 
 were sitting down to luncheon. He looked very pale and 
 yellow, and he had black lines under his eyes. He had been 
 staying down at Cambridge, actually reading for a scholarship 
 that Ea'ian had advised his trying for. It was called the 
 
340 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Bulbul scholarship for Oriental languages, and it had been 
 founded by an enlightened Parsee, who had travelled in 
 Europe in shiny boots and an oilskin hat, and who had been 
 so well received at Cambridge that he wished to perpetuate 
 his name there. » 
 
 George had taken up Persian some time ago, when he 
 should have been reading mathematics. He was fond of 
 quoting the ' Eoubaiyit ' of Omar Khayyam, of which the 
 beautiful English version had lately appeared. It was this 
 poem, indeed, which had set him to study the original. He 
 had a turn for languages, and a fair chance of success, Eaban 
 said, if he would only go to bed, and not sit up all night, 
 with soda-water and wet towels round his head. This time 
 he had nearly made himself ill, by sitting up three nights in 
 succession, and the doctor had him sent home for a holiday. 
 
 ' My dear child, what a state your complexion is in ! 
 How ill you look ! ' said his mother. ' It is all those horrid 
 examinations ! ' 
 
 Eestless George wandered out into the garden after 
 dinner, and Dolly followed him. She began to water her 
 roses in the cool of the evening, and George filled the cans 
 with water from the tank and brought them to her. Splash- 
 ing and overflowing, the water lapped into the dry earth 
 and washed the baked stems of the rose-trees. George 
 said suddenly, ' Dolly, do you ever see Eaban now, and do 
 you still snub him ? ' 
 
 ' I don't snub him,' said Dolly, blushing. ' He does not 
 approve of me, George. He is so bitter, and he never seems 
 satisfied.' 
 
 George began to recite — 
 
 ' Ah, love ! could you and I with fate conspire 
 To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 
 
 Would we not shatter it to hits, and then 
 ilemould it nearer to the Heart's Desire ? 
 
 There is Eobert at last, Dolly.' 
 
UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY. 241 
 
 Dolly looked wonderingly at her brother. He had spoken 
 so pointedly, that she coidd not help wondering what he 
 meant ; but the next moment she had sprung forward to 
 meet Henley, with a sweet face alight. 
 
 ' Oh, Kobert, why have you been so long coming ? 
 she said, ' Did you not get my note ? ' 
 
U2 O/.J) K£JVS/NGTQN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 UNDER THE SEEAT DOME. 
 
 Fantasio — ' Je n'en suis pas, je n'en Buis pas.' 
 
 — A. DE MuasBT. 
 
 The wedding was fixed for the middle of September. In 
 October they were to sail. 
 
 Dolly was to be married at the Kensington parish church. 
 Only yesterday the brown church was standing — to-day a 
 white phoenix is rising from its ashes. The old people and 
 the old prayers seem to be passing away with the brown 
 walls. One wonders as one looks at the rising arches 
 what new tides of feeling will sweep beneath them, what 
 new teachings and petitions, what more instant charity, 
 what more practical faith and hope. One would be well 
 content to see the old gates fall if one might deem that these 
 new ones were no longer to be confined by bolts of human 
 adaptation, against which, day by day, the divine decrees of 
 mutation and progress strike with blows that are vibrating 
 through the aisles, drowning the voice of the teachers, jarring 
 with the prayers of the faithful. 
 
 As the doors open wide, the congregations of this prac- 
 tical age in the eternity of ages, see on the altars of to-day 
 new visions of the time. Unlike those of the fervent and 
 mystical past, when kneeling anchorites beheld, in answer to 
 their longing prayers, pitiful saints crowned with roses and 
 radiant with light, and vanishing away, visions of hearts on 
 
UNDER THE GREAT DOME. 243 
 
 Sre and the sacred stigmata, the rewards of their life-long 
 penance ; to-day, the Brother -whom we have seen appears to 
 us in the place of symbols of that which it hath not entered 
 into the heart of man to conceive. The teaching of the 
 Teacher, as we understand it now, is translated into a new 
 language of daily toil and human sympathy ; our saints are 
 the sinners helped out of the mire ; our visions do not 
 vanish ; our heavenly music comes to us in the voices of 
 the school-children ; surely it is as sweet as any that ever 
 reached the enraptured ears of penitents in their cells. 
 
 If people are no longer on their knees as they once were, 
 and if some are afraid and cry out that the divine images of 
 our faith are waxing dimmer in their niches ; if in the 
 Calvaries of these modern times we still see truth blas- 
 phemed, thieves waiting on their crosses of ignorance and 
 crime, sick people crying for help, and children weeping 
 bitterly, why should we be afraid if people, rising from their 
 knees, are setting to their day's work with honest and loving 
 hearts, and going, instead of saying, ' I go,' and remaining 
 and crying, ' Lord, Lord.' 
 
 Once Dolly stopped to look at the gates as she was 
 walking by, thinking, not of Church reform, in those old 
 selfish days of hers, but of the new life that was so soon to 
 begin for her behind those baize doors, among the worm- 
 eaten pews and the marble cherubs, under the window, with 
 all the leaden-patched panes diverging. She looked, flushed 
 up, gathered her grey skirts out of the mud, and went on 
 with her companion. 
 
 The old days were still going on, and she was the old 
 Dolly that she was used to. But there was this difference 
 now. At any time, at any hour, coming into a room 
 suddenly she never knew but that she might find a letter, 
 a summons, some sign of the new existence, and interests that 
 were crowding upon her. She scarcely believed in it all at 
 
 R 'i 
 
244 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 times; but she was satisfied. Slie was walking witb her 
 hand on Eobert's strong arm. She could trust to Eohen; 
 
 —she could trust herself. She sometimes wondered to 
 find herself so calm. Eobert assured her that, when people 
 really loved each other, it was always so ; they were always 
 calm, and, no doubt, he was right. 
 
 The two were walking along the Sunday street on their 
 way to St. Paul's. Family groups and prayer-books were 
 about ; market-carts, packed with smiles and ribbons, were 
 driving out in a long train towards the river. Bells far and 
 near were ringing fitfully. There is no mistaking the day as 
 it comes round, bringing with it a little ease into the strain 
 of life, a thought of peace and home-meeting and rest, and 
 the echo of a psalm outside in the City streets, as well as 
 within its churches. 
 
 Eobert called a hansom, and they drove rapidly along the 
 road towards town. The drifting clouds and lights across the 
 parks and streets made them look changed from their usual 
 aspect. As they left the suburbs and drove on towards the 
 City, Henley laughed at Dorothea's enthusiasm for the wet 
 streets, of which the muddy stones were reflecting the lights 
 of a torn and stormy sky. St. Clement's spire rose sharp 
 against a cloud, the river rolled, fresh blown by soft winds, 
 towards the east, while the lights fell upon the crowding 
 house-tops and spires. Dolly thought of her moonlight drive 
 with her mother. Now, everything was alight and awake 
 again ; she alone was dreaming, perhaps. As they went up 
 a steep crowded hill the horse's feet slipped at every step. 
 ' Don't be afraid, Dora,' said Eobert, protectingly. Then 
 they were driving up a straiter and wider street, flooded with 
 this same strange light, and they suddenly saw a solemn 
 sight ; of domes and spires uprearing ; of mist, of stormy 
 sky. There rose the mighty curve, majestically flung against 
 the dome of domes ! The mists drifting among these moun- 
 
UNDER THE GREAT DOME. 243 
 
 tains and pinnacles of stone only seemed to make them more 
 stately. 
 
 ' Eobert, I never knew how beautiful it was,' 'said Dolly. 
 How glad I am we came ! Look at that great dome and 
 the shining sky. It is like — " see how high the heavens are 
 in comparison with the earth ! " ' 
 
 ' I forget the exact height,' said Eobert. ' It is between 
 three and four hundred feet. You see the ball up at the 
 
 top — they say that twenty-four people ' 
 
 ' I know all that, Eobert,' said Dolly, impatiently. ' What 
 does it matter ? ' 
 
 ' I thought it might interest you,' said Eobert, slightly 
 huffed, ' since you appear to be so little acquainted with St. 
 Paul's. It is very fine, of course ; but I myself have the bad 
 taste to prefer Gothic architecture ; it is far more suitable to 
 our church. There is something painfully — how shall I 
 express it ? — paganish about these capitals and pilasters.' 
 
 ' But that is just what I mean,' said Dolly, looking him 
 full in the face. ' Think of the beautiful old thoughts of the 
 Pagans helping to pile up a Cathedral here now. Don't you 
 think,' she said, hesitating, and blushing at her own boldness, 
 ' that it is like a voice from a long way off coming and har- 
 monising now with ours ? Eobert, imagine building a curve 
 that will make some one happy thousands of years after- 
 wards. . . .' 
 
 ' I am glad it makes you happy, my dear Dorothea. I 
 tell you I have the bad taste not to admire St. Paul's,' 
 Eobert repeated ; ' but here is the rain, we had better make 
 haste.' 
 
 They had come to an opening in the iron railings by this 
 time, and Eobert led the way — a stately figure — climbing the 
 long flight of weather-worn steps that go circling to the peri- 
 style. Dolly followed slowly : as she ascended, the lights 
 seemed to uprise, the columns to stand out more boldly. 
 
246 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Come in,' Eobert said, lifting up the heavy leather 
 curtain. 
 
 Dolly gave one look at the city at her feet, flashing with 
 the many lights and shadows of the impending storm, and 
 then she followed him into the great Cathedral. 
 
 They -were late. The evening service was already begun, 
 and a voice was chanting and ringing from column to column. 
 ' Eejoice in the Lord alway,' it sang, ' and again I say, again 
 I say unto you, rejoice ! rejoice ! ' A number of people were 
 standing round a grating, listening to the voice, but an old 
 verger, pleased with the looks of the two young people, 
 beckoned to them and showed them up a narrow stair into a 
 little oaken gallery, whence they could look down upon the 
 echoing voice and the great crowd of people listening to it ; 
 many lights were burning, for it was already dark within the 
 building. Here a light fell, there the shadow threw some 
 curve into sudden relief; the rolling mist that hung beyond 
 the distant aisles and over the heads seemed like a veil, and 
 added to the mystery. The music, the fire, the arches over- 
 head, made Dolly's heart throb. The Cathedral itself seemed 
 like a great holy heart beating in the midst of the city. 
 Once, when Dolly was a child in the green ditch, her heart 
 had overflowed with happiness and gratitude ; here she was a 
 woman, and tlie future had not failed her — ^here were love 
 and faith to make her life complete — all (lie vibration of fire 
 and music, and the flow of harmonious lines, to express what 
 was beyond words. . . . 
 
 ' Oh ! Eobert, what have we done to be so happy ? ' she 
 whispered, when the service was over and they were coming 
 away in the crowd. ' It almost frightens me,' the girl said. 
 
 Eobert did not hear her at first : he was looking over the 
 people's heads, for the clouds had come down, and the rain 
 was falling heavily. 
 
 ' Frighten you,' said Robert presently, opening his nm- 
 
UNDER THE GREAT DOME. 247 
 
 brella ; ' take my arm, Dolly ; what is there to frighten you ? 
 I don't suppose we are any happier than other people under 
 the same circumstances. Come this way ; let us get out of the 
 crowd.' 
 
 Eobert led the girl down a narrow lane closed by an iron 
 gate. It looked dark and indistinct, although the west still 
 shone with changing lights. Dolly stood up under a doorway, 
 while the young man walked away down the wet flags to look 
 for a cab to take them home. The rain fell upon the pave- 
 ment, upon the stone steps where Dolly was standing, and 
 with fresh cheeks blooming in the mist, and eyes still alight 
 with the radiance and beauty of the psalm she had been 
 singing in her heart. ' I don't suppose we are any happier 
 than other people.' She wished Robert had not said that, it 
 seemed cold, UQgrateful almost. The psalm in her ears 
 began to die away to the dull patter of the rain as it fell. 
 What was it that came to Dolly as she stood in the twilight 
 of the doorway — a sudden chill coming she knew not from 
 whence — -some one light put out on the altar ? 
 
 Dolly, strung to some high quivering pitch, felt a sudden 
 terror. It was nothing ; a doubt of a doubt — a fear of a 
 terror — fearing what — doubting whom ? 
 
 ' The service was very well performed,' said Robert, 
 coming up. ' I have got you a cab.' He helped her in, and 
 then, as he seated himself beside her, began again : ' We 
 shall not have many more opportunities of attending the 
 Cathedral service before we start.' 
 
 Dolly was very silent ; Robert talked on. He wondered 
 at her seeming want of interest, and yet he had only talked 
 to her about her plans and things that she must have cared 
 to hear. ' I shall know definitely about our start to-morrow, 
 or the day after,' he said, as the cab drew up at the door of 
 Church House. Poor Dolly ! She let him go into the 
 diawing-room alone, and ran up to her own little nest 
 
248 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 upstairs. The thought of the possible nearness of her 
 departure had suddenly overwhelmed hef. When it was 
 still far off she had never thought about it. Now she" sat 
 down on the low window-sill, leant her head against the 
 shutter, and watched the last light die out above the ivy 
 wall. The garden shadows thickened ; the night gathered' 
 slowly ; Dolly's heart beat sadly, oh ! how sadly. What 
 hopeless feeling was this that kept coming over her again 
 and again ? coming she knew not from what recesses of the 
 empty room, from behind the fleeting clouds, from the secret 
 chambers of her traitorous heart ? The voice did not cease 
 persecuting. ' So much of you that lives now,' it said', 'will' 
 die when you merge your life into Robert's. So much love 
 will be more than he will want. He takes but a part of what 
 you have to give.' The voice was so distinct that she won- 
 dered whether Marker, who came in to put away her things, 
 would hear it. Did she love Eobert ? Of course she loved 
 him. There was his ring upon her finger. She could hear 
 his voice sounding from the haU below. . . . Were they 
 not going off alone together to a lonely life, across a tem- 
 pestuous sea ? For a moment she stood lost, and forgetting 
 that her feet were still upon the home-hearth and that the 
 far-off sea was still beating upon distant shores. Then she 
 started up impatiently, she would not listen any more. 
 With a push to the door she shut her doubts up in the cup- 
 board where she was used to hang her cloak, and then she 
 came slowly down the wooden stairs to the oak-room below. 
 
 Dolly found a candle alight, a good deal of darkness, 
 some conversation, a sofa drawn out with her mamma repos- 
 ing upon it, Eobert writing at a table to Mrs. Palmer's 
 dictation. 
 
 'My child,' said Mrs. Palmer, 'come here. You have 
 been to St. Paul's. I have been alone the whole afternoon. 
 Your Aunt Sara' never comes near me. I am now getting 
 
UNDER THE GREAT DOME. 249 
 
 tiliis dear fellow to write and order a room for us at Kiugstori. 
 I told you of my little plan. He is making all the arrange- 
 ments. It is to be a little /este on my husband's birthday ; 
 shall we say Tuesday, if fine, Eobert? The Admiral will 
 hear of it, and understand that we do not forget him. 
 People say I have no resentment in my nature. It is as 
 well, perhaps, that I should leave untasted a few of the bitter 
 dregs of my hard lot,' continued Mrs. Palmer, cheerfully. 
 ' Have you written to Eaban, Eobert ? My George would 
 wish him remembered.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't let us have Eaban, Aunt Philippa,' said 
 Eobert. 'There will be Morgan, and Greorge, and your 
 little friend Ehoda will like to come, — and any one else ? ' 
 
 ' I am thankful to say that Mrs. Morgan and those dread- 
 ful twO' girls are going into the country for two days ; that is 
 one reason for fixing upon Tuesday,' says Mrs. Palmer. ' I 
 don't want them, Dolly, dearest. Eeally the society your 
 poor aunt lives in is something too ludicrous. She will be 
 furious ; I have not dared tell her, poor creature. I have 
 accepted an invitation for you on Wednesday. Colonel 
 Witherington's sister, in Hyde Park Gardens, has a large 
 dinner-party. She has asked us all three in the kindest 
 manner. Colonel Witherington called himself with the note 
 this afternoon. I wanted him to stay to dinner. I'm afraid 
 your aunt was vexed. Eobert, while you are about it, just 
 write a line for us all to Mrs. Middleton.' 
 
 Eobert wrote Mrs. Palmer's notes, sealed, and stamped 
 them, and, betweenwhiles, gave a cheerful little description 
 of their expedition. ' Dolly was delighted with the service,' 
 said he ; ' but I am afraid she is a little tired.' Then he got 
 up and pulled an arm-chair for her up to the fire, and then 
 be went back and finished putting up Mrs. Palmer's cor- 
 respondence. He was so specially kind that evening, cheer- 
 ful, and nice to Mrs. Palmer, doing her behests so cleverly 
 
250 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 and naturally, that Dolly forgot her terrors and wondered 
 what evil spirit had possessed her. She began to feel warm 
 and happy once more, and hopeful, and she was unaffectedly 
 sorry when Henley got up and said he must go. 
 
 He was no sooner gone and the door shut than Mrs. 
 Palmer said, languidly, ' I think I should like Frank 
 Raban to be asked, poor fellow. It will please Ehoda, at 
 all events.' 
 
 Dolly blushed up crimson. She had not seen Frank since 
 that curious little talk she had had with George. 
 
 ' But Robert doesn't wish it, mamma,' said Dolly. 
 
 ' Nonsense, child. I wish it. Robert is not your husband 
 yet,' said Mrs. Palmer ; ' and if he were ' 
 
 ' Shall I bring you a pen and ink ? ' Dolly asked, shyly. 
 
 ' Just do as I tell you, dearest,' said her mother, crossly. 
 ' Write, " Dear Mr. Raban, — My mother desires me to write 
 and tell you with what pleasure she would welcome you on 
 Tuesday next, if you would join a small expedition we are 
 meditating, a water-party, in honour of Admiral Palmer's 
 57th birthday." ' 
 
 ' That is not a bit like one of my letters,' said Dolly, 
 finishing quickly. ' Where can Aunt Sarah be ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know, my dear. She left in the rudest 
 manner when Witherington called. I have seen nothing of 
 her.' 
 
 Lady Sarah was sitting upstairs alone — oh, how alone ! 
 — in the cheerless bedroom overheadi, where she used to take 
 her griefs and her sad mistrusts. They seemed to hang from 
 the brown faded curtains by the window ; they seemed to 
 haunt all round the bed, among its washed-out draperies ; 
 they were ranged along the tall chimney-piece in bottles. 
 Here is morphia and chlorodyne, or its equivalent of 
 those days ; here is the ' linament '^linament for a 
 strained heart ! chloroform for anxious love ! Are not each 
 
UNDER THE GREAT DOME. 2ji 
 
 one of those the relics of one or another wound, reopening- 
 again and again with the strains of the present. Sarah's 
 hands are clasped and her head is bent forward as she sits in 
 this half-darkness — leaden grey without, chill within— by the 
 empty hearth. Did Eobert love Dolly ? Had he love in him ? 
 Had she been right to see him through Dolly's eyes ? 
 
 Just then the door opens, and Dolly, flushed, brightening 
 the dull twilight, comes into the room. 
 
 ' Come down direi:tly, you wicked woman,' whe says. 
 ' You will be catching cold here all by yourself.' 
 
OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CilAPTEK XXX. 
 
 WAVE OE FLAME. 
 
 And you have gained a ring. 
 What of it ? 'Tis a figure, a symbol, say 
 A thing's sigu. 
 
 — B. Beoivnikgi, 
 
 How sweet they are, those long sunset evenings on the river ! 
 the stream, flowing by swift and rippling, reflects the sky — 
 sometimes, in the still gleams and depths of dying light, it 
 would seem as if the sky itself reflected the waters. The 
 distant woods stand out in bronzed shadow ; low simset fires 
 burn into dusk beyond the fringe of trees ; sudden sweet 
 glooms fall upon the boats as they glide in and out by dim 
 creeks and ridges. Perhaps some barge travels past through 
 the twilight, drawn by horses tramping along the towing- 
 path, and dragging against the sky. As the boats float 
 shorewards, peaceful sights and sounds are all about, barne 
 upon the flowing water. 
 
 'I am so sorry it is over,' said Dolly, tying on her 
 straw hat. 
 
 The sun was setting, a little star was shining overhead, 
 the last bird had flown home to its nest. Eobert pushed 
 them right through a bed of rustling reeds on their way to 
 the landing-place. It was crowded with dancing boats; 
 many people were standing along the shore ; the gables of 
 the ' Red Lion' had been all aglow for a few minutes past. 
 They could hear the laugh of a boating-party scrambling to 
 
WAVE OK FLAME. 233 
 
 land. Here and there heads were peeping from the bridge, 
 from the landing-places and windows ; some twinkled with 
 the last sunset gleams, others with lights already burning. 
 Dolly had been silent for the last half-hour, scarcely listening 
 to its desultory talk. They had exchanged broadsides with 
 George and John Morgan in the other boat ; but by degrees 
 that vigorously-manned craft had outrun them, rounded a 
 corner, and left them floating mid-stream. Eobert was in no 
 hurry, and Frank was absent, and sometimes almost forgot 
 to row. Looking up now and then, he saw Dolly's sweet face 
 beaming beneath her loose straw hat, with Hampton Court 
 and all its prim terraces for a background. 
 
 ' You are not doing your share of the work, Eaban, 
 by any means,' said Eobert, labouring and not over- 
 pleased. 
 
 'Oh, let us float,' murmured Mrs. Palmer. She was 
 leaning over the side of the boat, weighing it heavily down, 
 and dabbling one fat white hand in the water; with the 
 other she was clasping Dolly's stiff young fingers. ' Truant 
 childi-en ! ' she said, ' you don't know your own happiness. 
 How well I remember one evening just like this, DoUy, when 
 your papa and I were floating down the Hooghly ; and, now 
 that I think of it, my Admiral Palmer was with us — he was 
 captain then. How little we either of us thought in those 
 days. The Palmers are so close one needs a lifetime to 
 understand their ways. I should like to show you a letter, 
 Mr. Eaban, that I received only this morning from my sister- 
 in-law, Joanna — was that a fish or a little bit of stick ? 
 Sweet calm ! Eobert, I am thankful you have never been 
 entangled by one of those ugly girls at Smokethwaite. I 
 know Joanna and her ' 
 
 ' There was never any thought, I assure you,' interrupted 
 Eobert, not displeased, and unable to refrain from disclaiming 
 the accusation. ' My aimt has always been most kind ; she 
 
2;4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 would never have wished to influence my inclinations — shft 
 is very much tried just now, parting from Jonah, who joins 
 his regiment immediately. They are coming up to London 
 with him next Saturday.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I know what it is to part from one's child,' said 
 Philippa, tapping Dolly's fingers. 'I am glad to hear 
 Joanna shows any feeling. My Dolly, if it were not to 
 Eobert, who is so thoughtful, should I be able to bear the 
 thought of parting from you ? Take care — pray take care. 
 You are running into this gentleman's boat. Push off — 
 push off. Ah ! ah I thank you, Mr. Eaban. Look, there is 
 John Morgan. I wish he were here to steer us.' 
 
 ' Don't be frightened, dear,' said Dolly, still holding her 
 mother's hand, as the little rocking-boat made towards the 
 steps, where John Morgan was standing welcoming them all 
 with as much heartiness as if they were returning from some 
 distant journey, and had not met for years. Some people 
 reserve themselves for great occasions, instead of spending 
 their sympathies lavishly along the way. Good old John 
 certainly never spared either sympathy or the expression of 
 his hearty good-will. I don't know that the people, who 
 sometimes smiled at his honest exuberances, found that he 
 was less reliable when greater need arose, because he had 
 been kind day after day about nothing at all. He saved 
 Mrs. Palmer from a ducking on this occasion, as she pre- 
 cipitately flung herself out of the boat on to his toes. 
 Frank Eaban also jumped on shore. Eobert said he would 
 take the Sarah Anne back to her home in the boat- 
 house. 
 
 ' Then I suppose Dolly will have to go too,' said Mrs. 
 Palmer, archly ; and Dolly, with a blush and a smile, settled 
 herself once more comfortably on the low cushioned seat. 
 She looked after her mother trailing up the slope, leaning 
 on the curate's arm, and waving farewells until they passed 
 
IVAVE OR FLAME. 255 
 
 by the garden-gate of the inn. Frank Eaban was slowly 
 following them. Then Dolly and Eobert were alone, and 
 out on the river again. The lightened boat swayed on the 
 water. The air seemed to freshen, the ripples flowed in from 
 a distance, the banks slid by. Eobert smiled as he bent 
 over the sculls. How often Dolly remembered the last 
 golden hour that came to her that day before the lights had 
 died away out of her sky, before the waters had risen, before 
 her boat was wrecked, and Eobert far away out of the reach 
 of her voice ! 
 
 There were many other people coming back to the boat- 
 house. The men were busy, the landing was crowded, and 
 the Sarah Anne had to wait her turn. Eobert disliked 
 waiting extremely. He also disliked the looks of open 
 admiration which two canoes were casting at the Sarah 
 Anne. 
 
 ' There are some big stones by the shore, Dolly,' said 
 Eobert. ' Do you think you could manage to land ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I can,' said active Dolly ; ' and then you can 
 tie the boat to that green stake just beyond them.' As she 
 stood up to spring on shore, she looked round once more. 
 Did some instinct tell her that this was the end of it all, 
 and the last of the happy hours ? She jumped with steady 
 feet on to the wet stone, and stood balancing herself for a 
 moment. The water rippled to her feet as she stood, with 
 both hands outstretched, and her white dress fluttering, and 
 all the light of youth and happiness in her radiant face. 
 And then with another spring she was on land. 
 
 'Well done!' said one of the canoes. Eobert tiu'ned 
 round with a fierce look. 
 
 When he rejoined Dolly, he found her looking about in 
 some distress. 
 
 ' My ring, my pretty ring, Eobert,' she said, ' I have 
 dropped it.' It was a ring he had given her the day before. 
 
zrti OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Dolly had at last consented to wear one, but this was large 
 for her finger. 
 
 ' You careless girl,' said Eobert ; ' here are yonr gloves 
 and your handkerchief. Do you know what that ring 
 cost ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't tell me,' said Dolly ; ' something dreadful, I 
 know.' And she stood penitently watching Eobert scramb- 
 ling back into the boat, and overthrowing and thumping the 
 cushions. And yet, as she stood there, it came into lier 
 mind how many treasures were hers just then, and that of 
 them all a ring was that which she could best bear to lose. 
 
 One of the canoes had come close into shore by this 
 time, and the young man, who was paddling with his two 
 spades, called out, saying, ' Are you looking for anything ? 
 Is it for this ? ' and carefully putting his hand Into the 
 water he pulled out something shining. The ring had 
 dropped off Dolly's finger as she jumped, and was lying on a 
 stone that was half in and half out of the water, and near 
 to the big one upon which she had been standing. 
 
 ' How very fortunate ! ' exclaimed Henley from the b "jat. 
 
 Miss Vanborough was pleased to get back her pretty 
 trinket, and thanked the young man with a very becoming 
 blush. 
 
 ' It is a very handsome cora:l,' Eobert said ; ' it -would 
 have been a great pity to lose it. We must have it made 
 smaller, Dora. It must not come off again.' 
 
 Dolly was turning it round thoughtfully and looking at 
 the Medusa head carved and set in gold. 
 
 'Eobert,' she said once more, 'does happiness never 
 frighten you ? ' 
 
 ' Never,' said Henley, smiling, as she looked up earnestly 
 into his face. 
 
 The old town at Kingston, with its many comers and 
 gables, has something of the look of a foreign city heaped 
 
WAV£ OR FLAME. 237 
 
 upon the river-side. The garden of the old inn runs down 
 with terraces to the water. A side-door leads to the boat- 
 houses. By daylight this garden is somewhat mouldy ; but 
 spiders' webs do not obtrude on summer evenings, and the 
 Londoners who have come out of town for a breath of fresh 
 air, stroll along the terraces, and watch the stream as it 
 flows, unconscious of their serenity. They come here of 
 summer evenings, and sit out in the little arbours, or vralk 
 along the terraces and watch the boats drift with the stream. 
 If they look to the opposite banks they may see the cattle 
 rearing their homed heads upon the sunset, and the distant 
 chestnut groves and galleries of Hampton Court at the bend 
 of the river. 
 
 Near the comer of one of these terraces, a little green 
 weather-cocked summer-house stands boldly facing the re- 
 gattas in their seeison, and beyond it again are a steep bank 
 and some steps to a second terrace, from whence there is the 
 side-door leading to the boats. 
 
 On this particular evening Frank Eaban came quietly 
 zigzagging along these terraces, perhaps with some vague 
 hope of meeting Dorothea on her return. 
 
 There are some years of one's life when one is less alive 
 than at others, as there are different degrees of strength and 
 power to live in the course of the same existence. Frank 
 was not in the despairing state in which we iirst knew him, 
 but he was not yet as other people are, and in hours of 
 depression such as this, he was used to feel lonely and apart. 
 He was used to see other people happy, anxious, busy, hurry- 
 ing after one another, and he would look on as now, with 
 his hands in his pockets, not indifferent, but feeling as if 
 Fate had put him down solitary and silent, into the world — 
 a dumb note (so he used to think) in the great music And 
 yet he knew that the- music was there — that mighty human 
 vibration which exists independent of aU the dumb notes, 
 
 s 
 
2SS OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 cracked instruments, rifted lutes, and broken lyres of 
 which we hear so much, and he had but to open his ears 
 to it. 
 
 Two voices, anything but dumb, were talking inside the 
 little summer-house. Eaban had scarcely noticed them as 
 he came along, listening with the vaguest curiosity, as 
 people do, to reproaches and emotions which do not concern 
 them ; but presently, as he approached the summer-house, 
 a tone struck him familiarly, and at the same instant he 
 saw a dark figure rush wildly from the little wooden house, 
 and leap right over the side of the terrace on to the path 
 below; and then Frank recognised the frantic action — it 
 could only be Greorge. A moment afterwards a woman — 
 he knew her too — came out of the summer-house and stood 
 for an instant panting against the doorway, leaning with her 
 two hands against the lintel. She looked pale, troubled; 
 her hair was pushed back from her white face ; her eyes 
 looked dark, beautiful. Never before had Eaban seen 
 Ehoda (for it was Ehoda) so moved. When she saw him 
 a faint flush came into her cheeks. She came forward a 
 few steps, then she stopped short again. 
 
 She was dragging her silk mantle, which had fallen off. 
 One end was trailing after her along the gravel. 
 
 ' Mr. Eaban, is that you ? ' she said, in an agitated way. 
 'Why did you come ? Is it — is it nearly time to go ? Is 
 Mrs. Palmer come back ? Oh, please take me to her ! ' And 
 then she suddenly burst into tears, and the long black silk 
 mantle fell to the ground as she put out two fluttering 
 hands. > 
 
 Eaban had flung his cigar over the terrace after Greorge. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' he said, anxiously. ' Can I help you in 
 any way ? What has happened ? ' 
 
 The young man spoke kindly, but in his usual matter- 
 of-fa<st voice ; and Ehoda, even in her distress, wondered at 
 
WAVE OR FLAME. 259 
 
 his coldness. No one before ever responded so calmly to 
 whom she had appealed. 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know,' she said ; ' I can't tell you.' And 
 the poor little hands went up again with a desperate 
 gesture. 
 
 Raban was very much touched ; but, as I have said, he 
 had little power of showing his sympathy, and, foolish 
 fellow, doing unto others as he would be done by ; he only 
 said, ' I have guessed something before now, Miss Pamell. 
 I wish I could help you, with all my heart. Does not Miss 
 Vanborough know of this ? Cannot she advise ? . . .' 
 
 Ehoda was in no mood to hear her friend's praises just 
 then. 
 
 ' Dolly,' cried Ehoda, passionately, ' she would have every 
 one sacrificed to George. I would love him if I could,' 
 she said, piteously, ' but how can I ? he frightens me and 
 raves at me ; how can I love him ? Oh ! Mr. Eaban, tell 
 me that it is not wrong to feel thus ? ' And once more the 
 fluttering hands went up, and the dark wistful eyes gazed 
 childishj^, piteously into his face. Ehoda was looking to 
 Frank for the help that should have come to her from her 
 own heart ; she dimly felt that she must win him. over, that 
 if he would he could help her. 
 
 Ehoda pitied herself sincerely, she sobbed out her history 
 to Frank with many tears. ' How can I tell them all ? ' 
 she said; 'it will only make wretchedness, and now it is 
 only I who am unhappy.' 
 
 Was it only Ehoda who was unhappy ? George, flying 
 along the garden half distracted, aching, repentant, might 
 have told another story. She had sent him away. He 
 would do nothing that she wished, she said, he would not 
 accept the independence that Lady Sarah had offered him, 
 Ehoda did not believe in his love, she only wanted him to 
 go, to leave her. Yes, she meant it. And poor George had 
 
 8 2 
 
26o OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 rushed away frantic and indignant. He did not care where 
 he went. He had some vague idea that he would get a 
 boat and row away for ever, but as he was hurrying headlong 
 towards the boat-house he saw Dorothea and Eobert coming 
 arm-in-arm up the little path, and he turned and hurried 
 back towards the inn. Dolly called to him, but he did not 
 answer. Ehoda had sent him away, poor Dolly could not 
 call him back. Eobert shrugged Ms shoulders. 
 
 ' Why do you do that ? ' said Dolly, annoyed ; ' he looked 
 quite ilL 
 
C 261 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXX t. 
 
 A BOAT UPON THE WATER. 
 
 Ich stand gelehnet an den Mast, 
 tjnd zahlte jede Welle. 
 Ade mein schones Vaterland, 
 Mein Schi£f, das segelt schnelle I 
 
 Ich kam schon Liehchen's Haus vorbei, 
 Die Fensterscheiben blinken ; 
 Ich guck' mir fast die Augen aus, 
 Dooh will mir Niemand winkeil. 
 
 Ihr Thranen bleibt mir aus dem Ang, 
 Dass ich nieht dnnkel sehe. 
 Mein krankes Herz, brich mir nicht 
 Vor allzugrossem Wehe ! 
 
 — Heine. 
 
 (jeoeGE was shivering and sick at heart ; the avienue led to 
 a door that opened into the bar of the hotel, and George 
 went in and called for some brandy. The spirits seemed to 
 do him good ; no one seeing a clumsy young fellow in a 
 boating dress tossing off one glassful of brandy after another 
 would have guessed at all the grief and passiofi that were 
 tearing at his poor foolish heart. Rhoda had sent him away. 
 Ilad he deserved this ? Could not she read the truth ? 
 Poor timid faithless little thing. Why had he been so fierce 
 to her, why had he told her he was jealous ? Greorge had a 
 Curious quickness of divination about others, although he 
 was blind about his own concerns. He had reproached 
 Rhoda because she had been talking to Frank, but he knew 
 
202 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 well enough that Frank did not care for Ehoda. Poor 
 child, did she know how it hurt him when she shrank from 
 him and seemed afraid ? Ah ! she would not have been so 
 cruel if she had known all. Thinking of it all he felt as if 
 he had had some little bird in his rough grasp, frightened 
 it, and hurt its wings. Then he suddenly said to himself 
 that he would go back and find his poor frightened bird and 
 stroke it and soothe it, ask it to forgive him. And then he 
 left the place, and as hastily as he had entered ; there was a 
 last glass of brandy untasted on the counter, and he hurried 
 back towards the terrace. He passed the window of the 
 room where Mrs. Palmer was ordering tea from the sofa. 
 DoUy, who had just come in, saw him pass by ; she did not 
 like his looks, and ran out after him, although both Eobert 
 and her mother called her back. George did not see her 
 this time ; he flew past the family groups sitting out in the 
 warm twilight ; he came to the terrace where he had been a 
 few minutes before, and where the two were still standing — 
 Raban, of whom he had said he was jealous, Ehoda, whom 
 he loved — the two were slowly advancing, Frank's square 
 shoulders dark against the light and Ehoda's slight figure 
 bending forward ; she was talking to Eaban as she had so 
 often talked to G-eorge himself, with that language of earnest 
 eyes, tremulous tones, shrinking movements — how well he 
 knew it all. What was she saying ? Was she appealing to 
 Frank to protect her fi.-om his love and despair, from the 
 grief that she had done her best to bring about ? Ehoda 
 laid her hand upon Eaban's arm in her agitation. 
 
 It maddened George beyond bearing, and he stamped 
 his heavy foot upon the gravel. Some people passing up 
 from the boats stared at him, but went on their way ; and 
 Frank, looking up, saw George coming up swinging his 
 angry arms ; his eyes were fierce, his hat was pushed aside. 
 He put Ehoda aside very gently, and took a step forward 
 
A BOAT UPON THE WATER. 263 
 
 between her and Greorge, who stood for a minute looking 
 from one to another, as if he did not understand, and then 
 he suddenly hurst out, with a fierce oath : ' Who told you to 
 put yourself in my way ? ' And, as he spoke, he struck a 
 heavy blow straight at Eaban, who had barely time to parry 
 it with his arm. 
 
 It was an instant's anger — one of those fatal minutes 
 that undo days and months and years that have gone before ; 
 and that blow of George's struck Ehoda's feeble little fancy 
 for him dead on the spot, as she gave a shrill cry of ' For 
 shame ! ' and sprang forward, and would have clung to 
 Eaban's arm. That blow ached for many and many a day 
 in poor Dorothea's heart, for she saw it all from a turn 
 of the path. As for Frank, he recovered himself in an 
 instant. 
 
 ' Gro back, George,' he said ; ' I will speak to you 
 presently.' 
 
 He did not speak angrily. His voice and the steady 
 look of his resolute eyes seemed to sober the poor reprobate. 
 Not so Ehoda's cry of, ' Go, yes go, for shame ! ' 
 
 ' Go ! What is it to you if I go or stay ? Am I in your 
 way ? ' shouts George. ' Have you promised to marry him 
 too ? Have you tortured him too, and driven him half mad, 
 
 and then — and then Oh, Ehoda, do you really wish me 
 
 gone ? ' he cried, breaking down. 
 
 There was a tone in his voice that touched Eaban, for 
 whom the cry was not intended. Nothing would have 
 melted Ehoda just then. She was angry beyond all power 
 of expression. She wanted him gone, she wanted him silent; 
 she felt as if she hated him. 
 
 ' You are not yourself ; you are not speaking the truth,' 
 said the girl, in a hard voice, drawing herself up. Then, as 
 she spoke, all the brandy and all the fury seemed to mount 
 once more into Greorj^e'R head. 
 
264 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' I am myself, and tbat is wny T leave you,' he shouts ; 
 ' you are heartless : you have neither love nor charity in you, 
 and now I leave you. Do you hear me ? ' he cried, getting 
 louder and louder. 
 
 Any one could hear. Dolly could hear as she came 
 hurrying up from the end of the terrace to the spot where 
 her poor boy stood shouting out his heart's secret to unwil- 
 ling ears. More than one person had stopped to listen to 
 the angry voice. The placid stillness of the evening seemed 
 to carry its echo along the dusky garden bowers, out upon 
 the water flowing down below. Some boatmen had stopped 
 to listen ; one or two people were coming up through the 
 twilight. 
 
 'He is not sober,' said Ehoda to Dolly. She spoke with 
 a sort of cold disgust. 
 
 Dolly hardly heard her at the time. All she saw then 
 was her poor George, with his red angry face — Frank trying 
 to pacify him. Should she ever forget the miserable scene ? 
 For long years after it used to rise before her ; she used to 
 dream of it at night — of the garden, the river, the figures 
 advancing in the dark. 
 
 Dolly ran up to her brother, and instinctively put out 
 her arms as if to shield him from every one. 
 
 ' Come, dear ; come with me,' she said flurriedly ; ' don't 
 let them see you like this.' 
 
 ' It would shock their elegant susceptibilities,' cries the 
 irrepressible George ; ' it don't shock them to see a woman 
 playing fast-and-loose with a poor wretch who would "have 
 given his life for her— yes, his life, and his love, and hi? 
 heart's blood ! ' 
 
 Dolly had got her arms tight round George by this time. 
 She had a shrinking dread of Henley seeing him so — he 
 might be coming, she thought. 
 
 ' Robert might see you. Oh, George, please come,' she 
 
A BOAT UPON THE WATER. 265 
 
 whispered, still clinging to him; and suddenly, to Dolly's 
 surprise, George collapsed, with a sigh. His furious fit was 
 over, and he let his sister lead him where she would. 
 
 ' Gro down by the river-side,' said Eaban, coming after 
 them ; ' there are too many people the other way.' He 
 spoke in a grave, anxious tone, and as the brother and sister 
 went their way, he looked after them for a moment. Dolly 
 had got her arm fast linked in Greorge's. The young man 
 was walking listlessly by her side. They neither of them 
 looked back ; they went down the steps and disappeared. 
 
 The place was all deserted by this time ; the disturbance 
 being over, the boatmen had gone on their way. George and 
 Dolly went and sat down upon a log which had been left lying 
 near the water-side ; they were silent ; they could see each 
 Other's faces, but little more. He sat crouching over with 
 his chin resting on his hands. Dolly was full of compassion, 
 and longing to comfort ; but how could she comfort ? Such 
 pain as his was not to be eased by words spoken by another 
 person. When George began to speak at last, his voice 
 sounded so sad and so jarred from its usual sweetness that 
 Dorothea was frightened, as if she could hear in it the echo 
 of a coming trouble. 
 
 ' I wanted that woman to love me,' he said. ' Dolly, you 
 don't know how I loved her.' He was staring at the stream 
 with his starting eyes, and biting his nails. ' We have no 
 luck, either of us,'' he said ; ' I don't deserve any, but you 
 do. Tell Frank I'm sorry I struck him ; she had made me 
 half mad ; she looks at me with those great eyes of hers, 
 and says, " Go ! " and she makes me mad : she does it to 
 them all. . . . But now I have left her ! left her ! left her I ' 
 repeated ugly George, with a sort of sob. ' What does she 
 care ? ' and he got up and shook himself, as a big dog might 
 have done, and went out a step into the twilight, and then 
 came back. 
 
266 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Thank you, old Dolly, for your goodness,' lie said, stand- 
 ing before her. ' I can't face them all again, and Eohert 
 with his confounded supercilious airs. I beg your pardon, 
 Dolly ; don't look angry. I see how good you are, and I 
 see,' he said, staring her full in the face, ' that we have been 
 both running our heads against a wall.' 
 
 He walked on a little way, and Dolly followed. She 
 could not answer him just then. She felt with a pang that 
 George and Kobert would never be friends ; that she must 
 love them apart ; even in heart she must keep them asunder. 
 
 They had come to the place where not an hour ago she 
 had jumped ashore. The boat was still there, as they had 
 left it — tied to the stake. The boatmen were at supper, 
 and had not yet taken it in. ' What are you doing ? ' said 
 Dolly, as Greorge stopped, and began to untie the rope ; 
 ' Greorge, be careful.' 
 
 ' The fresh air will do me good,' he said ; ' don't be 
 afraid ; I'll take care, if you wish it ; ' then he nodded, and 
 got into the boat, where the sculls were lying, and he began 
 to shove off with a rattle of the keel upon the shore. ' I 
 will leave the boat at Teddington,' he said, ' and walk home. 
 Grood-night! good-by ! ' he said. A boatman hearing the 
 voices, came out of the boat-house close by, and while Dolly 
 was explaining, the boat started off with a dull plash of oars 
 falling upon dark waters. Greorge was rowing very slowly, his 
 head was turned towards the garden of the inn. There were 
 lights in the windows, and figures coming and going ; the 
 water swirled against the wall of the terrace ; the scent of 
 the autumnal flowers seemed to fill the air and to stifle him as 
 he passed ; a bird chirped from the darkness of some over- 
 hanging bushes. He could hear his mother's voice : 
 '^Eobert ! it is getting late ; why don't they come in to tea ? 
 I must say it is nasty stuff, and not to compare to that 
 delicious Rangoon flavour.' He paused for a moment ; her 
 
A BOAT UPON THE WATER. 267 
 
 voice died away, and then all was silent. The evening was 
 growing chill ; some mists were rising. George felt the 
 cool damp wind against his hot brow as he rowed doggedly 
 on — past the lights of the windows of the inn, past the 
 town, under the darkness of tlie bridge. 
 
 He left them all behind, and his life and his love, he 
 thought, and his mad passion ; and himself, and Dolly, and 
 Ehoda, and all the hopeless love he longed for and that was 
 never to be his. There were other things in life. So he 
 rowed away into the darkness with mixed anger and peace 
 in his heart. What would Ehoda say when she heard 
 he was gone ? Nothing much ! He knew her well enough 
 to know that DoUy would understand, but her new ties would 
 part them more entirely than absence or silence. 
 
 There is a song of Schubert's I once heard a great 
 singer sing. As she sang, the dull grey river flowed 
 through the room, the bright lamp-lit walls opened out, the 
 mists of a closing darkness surrounded us, the monotonous 
 beat of the rowlocks kept time to the music, and the man 
 rowed away, and silence fell upon the waters. 
 
 So Dolly stood watching the boat as it disappeared along 
 the dark wall ; for a time she thought she heard the plash 
 of the oars out upon the water, and a dark shade gliding 
 away past the wharves, and the houses that crowd down to 
 the shore. 
 
 She was saying her prayers for her poor boy as she 
 walked back slowly to join the others. Eobert met her 
 with a little remonstrance for having hidden away so long. 
 She took his arm and clung to it for a minute, trembling, 
 with her heart beating. ' Oh ! Eobert ; you won't let 
 things come between us ? ' said the girl greatly moved ; ' my 
 poor George is so unhappy. He is to blame, but Ehoda has 
 been hard upon him. Have you guessed it all ? ' ' My dear 
 Dolly,' said Eobert, gravely, ' Ehoda has told us everything. 
 
268 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 She is most justly annoyed. She is quite overcome. She 
 has just gone home with her uncle, and I must say. . . .' 
 ' Don't, don't say anything,' said Dolly, passionately burstings 
 into tears, and her heart went out after her poor George 
 rowing away along the dark river. 
 
{ 269 > 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 TBTTST HE. 
 
 How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 
 
 — B. B. Bbownino. 
 
 The mucli-talked-of tea was standing, black as the waters of 
 oblivion, in the teapot when they rejoined Mrs. Palmer. 
 Philippa was sitting tIte-artSte with Raban, and seemed 
 chiefly perturbed at having been kept waiting, and because 
 John Morgan had carried off Rhoda. 
 
 ' I can't think why he did it,' said Mrs. Palmer, crossly ; 
 ' it is much pleasanter all keeping together, and it is too 
 silly of that littie Rhoda to make such a disturbance. As if 
 George would have said anything to annoy her with all 
 of us present. Tell me, what did really happen, Robert ? 
 Why was I not sent for ? ' 
 
 'I am afraid George was a good deal to blame,' said 
 Robert, in a confidential voice. ' I only came up after the 
 fracas, but, from what I hear, I am afraid he had been 
 drinking at the bar. Dolly can tell you more than I can, 
 foi she was present from the beginning.' 
 
 Dolly was silent : she could not speak. Frank looked at 
 her and saw her blush painfully. He was glad that Miss 
 Vanborough should be spared any farther expKcation, and 
 that Mrs. Palmer beckoned him. into a window to tell him' 
 that the Admiral had the greatest horror of intemperance, 
 and that she remembered a fearful, scene with a kitmutghar 
 
270 ULD KENSINGTON. 
 
 who had drained off a bottle of her eau-de-Cologne. ' Dear 
 George, unfortunately, was of an excitable disposition. Aa 
 for the poor Admiral, he is perfectly ungovernable when he 
 is roused,' said Mrs. Palmer, in her heroic manner. ' I have 
 Been strong men like yourself, Mr. Eaban, turn pale before 
 him. I remember a sub-lieutenant trembling like an aspen 
 leaf : he had neglected to call my carriage. Is it not time 
 to be off? Dolly, what have I done with my little blue 
 shawl ? You say George is not coming ? ' 
 
 'Here is your little blue shawl, mamma,' said Dolly, 
 wearily. She was utterly dispirited : she could not under- 
 stand her mother's indifiference, nor Robert's even flow of 
 conversation : she forgot that they did not either of them 
 realise how serious matters had been. 
 
 ' It is really too naughty of George,' was all that Mrs. 
 Palmer said ; ' and, now that I think of it, he certainly told 
 me he might have to go back to Cambridge to-night, so we 
 may not see him again. Mr. Eaban, if you see him, tell 
 
 him But, I forgot,' with a gracious smile, ' we meet 
 
 you to-morrow at the Middletons'. Robert tells me my 
 brother and his family are come to town this week. It will 
 be but a painful meeting I fear. Dolly, remind me to call 
 there in the morning. They have taken a house in Dean's 
 Yard, of all places. And there is Madame Frisette at nine. 
 How tiresome those dressmakers are.' 
 
 ' Is Madame Frisette at work for Dorothea ? ' asked 
 Robert, with some interest. 
 
 Dolly did not reply, nor did she seem to care whether 
 Madame Frisette was at work or not. She sat leaning back 
 in her corner, with two hands lying listless in her lap, pale 
 through the twilight. Frank Raban, as he looked at her, 
 seemed to know, almost as if she had told him in words, 
 what was passing in her mind. His jealous intuition made 
 him understand it all • he knew too, as well as if Robert 
 
TRUST ME. 271 
 
 had spoken, something of what he was not feeling. They 
 went rolling on through the dusk, between villas and dim 
 hedges and nursery-gardens, beyond which the evening 
 shadows were passing ; and all along the way it seemed to 
 Dolly that she could hear George's despairing voice ringing 
 beyond the mist, and, haunted by this echo, she could 
 scarcely listen with any patience to her companion's ripple 
 of small talk, to Mrs. Palmer's anecdotes of Captains and 
 Colonels and anticipation of coming gaiety and emotions. 
 What a season was before her ! The Admiral's return, 
 Dolly's marriage. Lady Henley's wearing insinuations — she 
 dreaded to think of it all. 
 
 ' You must call for us to-morrow at half-past seven, 
 Robert, and take us to the Middletons'. I couldn't walk 
 into the room alone with Dolly. I suppose Joanna, too, 
 will be giving some at-homes. I shall have to go, however 
 little inclined I may feel.' 
 
 ' It is always well to do what other people do,' said 
 Eobert ; ' it answers much best in the long run.' 
 
 He did not see Dolly's wondering look. Was this the 
 life Dolly had dreamt of ? a sort of wheel of commonplace 
 to which poor unquiet souls were to be bound, confined by 
 platitudes, and innumerable threads, and restrictions, and 
 silences. She had sometimes dreamt of something more 
 meaningful and truer, something responding to her own 
 nature, a life coming straighter from the heart. She had 
 not counted much on happiness. Perhaps she had been 
 too happy to wish for happiness ; but to-night it ocoun-ed 
 to her again what life might be — a life with a truth in it 
 and a genuine response and a nobler scheme than any she 
 bad hitherto realised. 
 
 Frank heard a sigh coming from her comer. They were 
 approaching the street where he wanted to be set down, and 
 he, too, had something in his mind, which he felt he must 
 
272 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 say before they parted. As he wished Dorothea good-night 
 he found a moment to say, in a low voice, ' I hope you may 
 be able to tell Lady Sarah everything that has happened, 
 without reserve. Do trust me. It wiU be best for all youi 
 sakes ; ' and then he was gone before Dolly could answer. 
 
 'What did he say?' said Eobert Henley. 'Are you 
 warm enough, DoUy ? Will you have a shawl ? ' 
 
 He spoke so affectionately that she began to wondei 
 whether it was because they were not alone that he had 
 been cold and disappointing. 
 
 They reached the house, and old Sam came to the door, 
 and Eobert helped to unpack the wrecks of the day's plea- 
 sures — the hampers, and umbrellas, and armfuls of crumpled 
 muslins. Then the opportunity came for Eobert to be im- 
 pulsive if he chose, for Mrs. Palmer floated upstairs with 
 her candle to say good-night to Lady Sarah. She was kissing 
 her hand over the banisters, and dropping all the wax as she 
 went along. 
 
 Eobert came up to Dolly, who was standing in the hall. 
 ' Grood-night,' he said. ' It might have been a pleasant day 
 upon the whole if it had not been for George. You must 
 get him to apologise to Ehoda, Dora. I mean to speak very 
 plainly to him when I see him next.' 
 
 His calmness exasperated her as he stood there with his 
 handsome face looking down a little reproachfully at her 
 flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. 
 
 'Speaking won't do a bit of good, Eobert,' she said, 
 
 hastily. ' Pray don't say much to him ' 
 
 ' I wonder when you will learn to trust me, Dora,' said; 
 her cousin taking her hand. ' How shall we ever get on 
 unless you do ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know,' Dolly answered, wearily ; ' we 
 don't seem to want the same things, Eobert, or to be. 
 going together a bit.' 
 
TRUST ME. 373 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' said Henley. ' You are tired 
 dnd out of spirits to-night.' 
 
 With a sudden reaction Dolly caught hold of his arm, 
 with both hands. ' Robert ! Robert ! Robert ! ' she said, 
 holding him fast and looking as if she could transform him 
 with her eyes to be what she wanted. 
 
 ' Silly child,' he answered, ' I don't think you yourself 
 know what you want. Good-night. Don't forget to be ready 
 in time to-morrow.' 
 
 Then he was gone, having first looked for his umbrella, 
 and the door banged upon Robert and the misty stars, and 
 Dolly remained standing at the foot of the stairs. Frank 
 Raban's words had borne fruit as sensible words should do. 
 ' Trust me,' he had said ; and Henley had used the same 
 phrase, only with Robert ' Trust me ' meant believe that I 
 cannot be mistaken ; with Frank ' Trust me ' meant trust 
 in truth in yoiuBelf and in others. DoUy, with one of those 
 quick impulses which come to impressionable people, suddenly 
 felt that he was right. All along she had been mistaken. 
 It would have been better, far better, from the beginning, 
 to have told Lady Sarah everything. She had been blinded, 
 over-persuaded. Marker came up to shut bolts and put out the 
 lights. Dolly looked up, and she went and laid her tired head 
 on the old nurse's shoulder, and clung to her for an instant. 
 
 ' Is anything the matter, my dearie ? ' said Marker. 
 
 ' Nothing new,' DoUy said. ' Marker, George is not come 
 home. I have so much to say to him ! Don't bolt the door, 
 and please leave a Hght.' 
 
 But George did not come home that night, although 
 the door was left unbolted and the Hght kept burning on 
 purpose. When the morning came his bed was folded 
 smooth, and everything looked straight and silent in his 
 room, which was orderly as places are when the people are 
 away who inhabit them. 
 
 T 
 
274 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 The largest minds, still earthward bent, are small. 
 Who, knowing much, are ignorant of all. 
 
 — Hamilton kim. 
 
 Foe some days before the picnic Mrs. Palmer and Julie had 
 been absorbed in the preparation of two beautiful garments 
 that were to be worn at Mrs. Middleton's dinner, and at a ball 
 at Bucklersbury House, for which Mrs. Palmer was expecting 
 an invitation. Lady Sarah had written at her request to ask 
 for one. Meanwhile the dresses had been growing under 
 Julie's art ; throwing out fresh flounces and trimmings, and 
 ribbons, hour by hour, until they had finally come to per- 
 fection, and were now lying side by side on the bed in the 
 spare room, ready to be tried on for the last time. 
 
 ' Must it be now, mamma ? ' said Dolly. ' Breakfast is 
 just ready, and Aunt Sarah will be waiting.' 
 
 'Julie, go downstairs and beg Lady Sarah not to wait,' 
 said Mrs. Palmer, with great decision. 
 
 Julie came back, saying that Miss Ehoda was with Lady 
 Sarah below, and asking for Miss Dolly. 
 
 'Presently,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'Very pretty, indeed, 
 Julie ! ' Then she suddenly exclaimed, ' You cannot imagine 
 what it is, DoUy, to be linked to one so utterly uncongenial, 
 you who are so fortunate in our dear Eobert's perfect sym- 
 pathy and knowledge of London life. He quite agrees with 
 
CIRCUMSTAiVCE. 27 j 
 
 me m my wish that you should be introduced. Admiral 
 Palmer hates society, except to preach at it — such a pity, 
 is it not ! I assure you, strange as it may seem, I quite dread 
 his return.' 
 
 Dolly stood bolt upright, scarcely conscious of the dress 
 or the pins, or her mother's monologue. She was still think- 
 ing over the great determination she had come to. George 
 aad not come back, but Dolly had made up her mind to tell 
 Lady Sarah everything. She was not afraid ; it was a relief 
 to have the matter settled. She would say no word to injure 
 him. It was she who had been to blame throughout. Her 
 reflections were oddly intermingled with snips and pricks 
 other than those of her conscience. Once, as Julie ran a pin 
 into her arm, she thought how strange it was that Mr. Raban 
 should have guessed everything all along. Dolly longed and 
 feared to have her explanation over. 
 
 ' Have you nearly done ? Let me go down, Julie,' said 
 Dolly, becoming impatient at last. 
 
 But JuHe stiU wanted to do something to the set of the 
 sleeve. 
 
 And while Julie was pinning poor Dolly down, the clock 
 struck nine, and the time was over, and Dolly's opportunity 
 was lost for ever. It has happened to us all. When she 
 opened the dining-room door at last she knew in one instant 
 that it was too late. 
 
 The room seemed fuU of people. Lady Sarah was there ; 
 Mrs. Morgan bristling by the window; Ehoda was there, 
 kneeling at Lady Sarah's knee, in some agitAtion : her bonnet 
 had fallen off, her hair was all curling and rough. She 
 started up as Dolly came in, and ran to meet her. 
 
 ' Oh ! Dolly,' she said, ' come, come,' and she seized both 
 her hands. ' I have told Lady Sarah everything ; she knows 
 alL Oh ! why did we not confide in her long ago ? ' and 
 
 T 3 
 
276 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Rhoda burst into tears. ' Oh, I feel how -wi-ong we hav« 
 been,' she sobbed. 
 
 ' Bhoda has told me everything, Dolly,' said Lady Sarah, 
 in a cold voice — ' everything that those whom I trusted 
 implicitly saw lit to conceal from me.' 
 
 Was it Aunt Sarah who had spoken in that cold harsh- 
 sounding tone ? 
 
 ■•Khoda has acted by my advice, and with my full 
 approval,' said Mrs. Morgan, stepping forward. 'She is not 
 one to look back once her hand is to the plough. When 
 I had seen Greorge's letter — it was lying on the table — I 
 said at once that no time should be lost in acquainting your 
 aunt, Dolly. It is inconceivable to me that you have not 
 done so before. We started immediately after our eight- 
 o'clock breakfast, and all is now clearly understood, I trust, 
 Lady Sarah ; Ehoda's frankness will be a lesson to Dolly.' 
 
 Poor DoUy! she was stiff, silent, overwhelmed. She 
 looked appealingly at her aunt, but Lady Sarah looked away. 
 What could she say ? how was it that she was there a culprit 
 while Ehoda stood weeping and forgiven ? Ehoda who had 
 enforced the silence, Ehoda now taking merit for her tardy 
 frankness \ while Greorge was gone ; and Dolly in disgrace. 
 
 ' Indeed, Aunt Sarah, I would have told you everything,' 
 cried the girl, very much agitated, ' only Ehoda herself made 
 me promise ' 
 
 ' DoUy 1 you never promised,' cried Ehoda. ' But we 
 were all wrong,' ske burst out with fresh penitence ; ' only, 
 Lady Sarah knows all, .and we shall be happier now,' she 
 «aid, wiping her eyes. 
 
 ' Happy in right-doing,' interrupted Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 ' Have we done wrong. Aunt Sarah ? Forgive us,' said 
 Dolly, with a touching ring in her voice. 
 
 Lady Sarah did not answer. She was used to her 
 nephew's misdeeds, but that Dolly — her own Dolly — should 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 277 
 
 have been the one to plot against her cut the poor lady to 
 the heart. She could not speak. ' And DoUy knew it all the 
 time,' she had said to Ehoda a minute before Dolly came in. 
 ' Yes, she knew it,' said Bhoda. ' She wished it, and 
 
 feared '' Here Ehoda blushed very red. ' George told 
 
 me she feared that you might not approve and do for him as 
 you might otherwise have done. Oh ! Lady Sarah, what in- 
 justice we have done you ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps Dolly would wish to see the letter,' said Mrs. 
 Morgan, offering her a paper ; there was no mistaking the 
 cramped writing. There was no daite nor beginning to the 
 note: — 
 
 I have been awake all night thinking over what haa happened. It is 
 not your fault that you do not know what love is, nor what a treasnre I 
 have wasted upon you. I have given you my host, and to you it is worth- 
 less. You can't realise such love as mine. You will not even understand 
 the words that I am writing to you: but it is not your fault, any more 
 than it is mine, that I cannot help loving you. Oh, Bhoda, you don't care 
 80 much for my whole life's salvation as I do for one moment's peace of 
 mind for you. I see it now — I understand all now. Forgive me if I am 
 hurting you, for the sake of all you have made me suffer. I feel as if I 
 could no longer bear my life here. I must go, and yet I must see you once 
 more. You need not be afraid that I should say anything to frighten or 
 distress you. Your terror of me has pained me far more than you have 
 any conception of. God bless you. I had rather your hands smote me than 
 chat another blessed. 
 
 'It is most deplorable that a young man of George's 
 ability should write such nonsense,' said Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 Poor Dolly flushed up and began to tremble. Her heart 
 ached for her poor George's trouble. 
 
 ' It is not nonsense,' she said, passionately ; ' people call 
 what they cannot feel themselves nonsense. Aunt Sarah, 
 you understand, though they don't. You must see how un- 
 happy he is. How can Ehoda turn against him now ? How 
 can she after all that has passed ? What harm has he 
 done ? It was not wicked to love her more than she loved 
 him.' 
 
zyh OLD . KENSINGTON. 
 
 'Do you see no cruelty in all this long deception?' said 
 Lady Sarah, with two red spots burning in her cheeks. 
 ' You must both have had some motive for your silencet 
 Have I ever shown myself cold or unfeeling to you ? ' and 
 the flushed face was turned away from her. 
 
 ' It was not for herself, Lady Sarah,' said Mrs. Morgan, 
 wishing to see justice done. ' No doubt she did not wish to 
 injure Greorge's prospects.' 
 
 Dolly was silent. She had some dim feeling of what 
 was in Lady Sarah's mind ; but it was a thought she put 
 aside — it seemed unworthy of them both. She was ashamed 
 to put words to it. 
 
 If Dolly and her aunt had only been alone all might have 
 been well, and the girl might have made Lady Sarah under- 
 stand how true she had been to her and loyal at heart, 
 although silent from circumstances. Dolly looked up with 
 wistful speaking eyes, and Lady Sarah almost understood 
 their mute entreaty. 
 
 The words of love are all but spoken when some one else 
 speaks other words ; the hands long to grasp each other, and 
 other fingers force them asunder. Alas ! Rhoda stood weep- 
 ing between them, and Mrs. Palmer now appeared in an 
 elegant morning wrapper. 
 
 ' My dearest child, Madame Frisette is come and is wait- 
 ing,' said Dolly's mamma, sinking into a chair. ' She is a 
 delightful person, but utterly reckless for trimmings. How 
 do you do, Mrs. Morgan ; why do you not persuade Lady 
 Sarah to let Madame Frisette take her pattern, and ? ' 
 
 But, as usual, Lady Sarah, freezing under Mrs. Palmer's 
 sunny influence, got up and left the room. 
 
 Rhoda, tearful and forgiven, remained for some time 
 giving her version of things to Mrs. Palmer. She had come 
 to speak to Lady Sarah by her aunt's advice. Auat Morgan 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 279 
 
 liad opened George's letter as it lay upon the breakfast- 
 table, and had been as much surprised as Ehoda herself by 
 its contents. They had come to talk things over with Lady 
 Sarah, to tell her of all that had been making Ehoda so 
 unhappy of late. 
 
 ' I thought she and you, Mrs. Palmer, would have advised 
 me and told me what was right to do,' said the girl, with 
 dark eyes brimming over. ' How can I help it if he loves 
 me ? I know that he might have looked higher.' 
 
 ' The boy is perfectly demented,' said Mrs. Palmer, ' to 
 dream of marrying. He has not a sixpence, my dear child 
 — ^barely enough to pay his cab-hire. He has been most 
 ridiculous. How we shall ever persuade Lady Sarah to pay 
 his debts I cannot imagine ! Dolly will not own to it, but 
 we all know that she does not like parting with her money. 
 I do hope and trust she has made her will, for she looks a 
 perfect wreck.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' entreated poor DoUy. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer paid no heed, except to say crossly, ' I do 
 wish you had shown a little common sense. Dolly, you have 
 utterly injured your prospects. Eobert will be greatly an- 
 noyed ; he counts so much upon dear Sarah's affection for 
 you both. As for me, I have been disappointed far too often 
 to count upon anything. By the way, Dolly, I wish you 
 would go up and ask your aunt whether that invitation has 
 come to Bucklersbury House. Go, child ; why do you look 
 so vacant?' 
 
 Poor Dolly! One by one aU those she trusted most 
 seemed to be failing and disappointing her. Hitherto Dolly 
 had idealised them all. She shrank to learn that love and 
 faith must overcome evil with good, and that this is their 
 reward even in this life, and that to love those who love you 
 is not the whole of its experience. 
 
 Ehoda's letter, miserable as it was, had relieved Dolly 
 
28o OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 from much of her present anxiety about George. That 
 hateful dark river no longer haunted her. He was unhappy, 
 but he was safe on shore. All the same, everything seemed 
 dull, and sad, and undefined that afternoon, and Kobert 
 coming in, found her sitting in the oak-room window with 
 her head resting on her hand and her work lying in her lap. 
 She had taken up some work, but as she set the stitches, it 
 seemed to her, — it was but a fancy — that with each stitch 
 George was going farther and farther away, and she dropped 
 her work at last into her lap, and reasoned herself into some 
 composure; only when her lover came in cheerfully and 
 talking with the utmost ease and fluency, her courage failed 
 her suddenly. 
 
 ' What is the matter ; why do you look so unhappy ? 
 said Eobert. 
 
 ' Nothing is the matter,' said Dolly, ' only most things 
 seem going wrong, Eobert ; and I have been wrong, and 
 there is nothing to be done.' 
 
 ' What is the use of making yourself miserable ? ' said 
 Eobert, good-naturedly scolding her ; ' you are a great deal 
 too apt, Dolly, to trouble yourself unnecessarily. You must 
 forgive me for saying so. This business between Greorge 
 and Ehoda is simply childish, and there is nothing in it to 
 distress you.' 
 
 ' Do you think that nothing is unhappiness,' said Dolly, 
 going on with her own thought, ' unless it has a name and a 
 definite shape ? ' 
 
 ' I really don't know,' said Henley. ' It depends upon . . . 
 What is this invitation, Dora ? You don't mean to say the 
 Duchess has not sent one yet ? ' he said in a much more 
 interested voice. 
 
 ' There is only the card for Aunt Sarah. I am afraid 
 mamma is vexed, and it is settled that I am not to go.' 
 
 ' Not to go ? ' Eobert cried ; ' my dear Dolly, of course 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 281 
 
 you must go ; it is absolutely necessary you should be seen 
 at one or two good houses, after all the second-rate society 
 you have been frequenting lately. Where is your mother ? ' 
 
 When Mrs. Palmer came in, in her bonnet, languid and 
 evidently out of temper, and attended by Colonel Wither- 
 ington, Robert immediately asked, in a heightened tone of 
 voice, whether it was true that Dolly was not to be allowed 
 to go to the ball. 
 
 Philippa replied in her gentlest accents that no girl 
 should be seen without her mother. If an invitation came 
 for them both, everything was ready ; and, even at the last 
 moment, she should be willing to take Dorothea to Bucklers- 
 bury House. 
 
 ' Too bad,' said the Colonel, sitting heavily down in Lady 
 Sarah's chair. ' A conspiracy, depend upon it. They don't 
 Avish for too much counter-attraction in a certain quarter.' 
 
 ' One never knows what to think,' said Mrs. Palmer, 
 thoughtfully ; ' I have left a card this afternoon, Robert, 
 upon which I wrote a few words in pencil, to explain my 
 connection with Sarah. I wished to show that I at least was 
 not unacquainted with the usages of civilised society. Kindly 
 hand me that Peerage.^ 
 
 ' My dear Aunt Philippa,' cried Robert, walking up and 
 down in a state of the greatest perturbation, ' what induced 
 you to do such a preposterous thing ? What will the 
 Duchess think of us all ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer, greatly offended, replied that she could not 
 allow Robert to speak to her in such disrespectful tones. 
 The Duchess might think what she chose ; Dolly should not 
 go without her. 
 
a82 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXrV. 
 
 WHITE EOSES. 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
 Except for love's sake only. 
 
 Some one sent Dolly a great bunch of white roses that after- 
 noon ; they came in with a late breath of summer — shining 
 white with dark leaves and stems — and, as Dolly bent her 
 head over the soft zones, breathing their sweet breath, it 
 seemed to carry her away into cool depths of fragrance. The 
 roses seemed to come straight from some summer garden, 
 from some tranquil place where all was peace and silence. As 
 she stood, holding them in her two hands, the old garden at 
 All Saints' came before her, and the day when Eobert first 
 told her that he loved her. How different things seemed 
 already — the roses only were as sweet as she remembered 
 them. Every one seemed changed since then — Eobert 
 himself most of all ; and if she was herself disappointed, was 
 she not as changed as the rest ? 
 
 But these kind, dear roses had come to cheer her, 
 and to remind her to be herself, of all that had gone 
 before. How good of Eobert to think of them ! She wished 
 they had come before he left, that she might have thanked 
 him. She now remembered telling him, as they were 
 driving down to the river, that no roses were left in their 
 garden. 
 
 'Very pretty,' said her mother. 'Take them away, 
 
WHITE ROSES. 2S3 
 
 Dolly ; they are quite overpowering. You know, Colonel 
 Witherington, how much better people understand these 
 things at Trincomalee : and what quantities of flowers I used 
 to receive there. Even the Admiral once ordered in six dozen 
 lemon-shrubs in tubs for my fete. As for the people in this 
 country, they don't do things by halves, but by quarters, my 
 dear Colonel.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was still agitated, nor did she regain her 
 usual serenity until about six o'clock, when, in answer to a 
 second note from Lady Sarah, the persecuted Duchess sent a 
 blank card for Mrs. Palmer to fill up herself if she chose. 
 
 When Dolly came to say good-night to Lady Sarah she 
 held her roses in her hand : some of the leaves shook down 
 upon her full white skirts ; it was late in the summer, 
 and the sweet heads hung languid on their stalks. They 
 were the last roses that Dolly wore for many and many 
 a day. 
 
 ' So you are going,' said Lady Sarah. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dolly, waiting for one word, one sign to show 
 that she was forgiven : she stood with sun-gilt hair in the 
 light of the western window. ' Dear Aunt Sarah, you are 
 not well. You must not be left all alone,' she went 
 on timidly. 
 
 ' I am quite well — I shall not be alone,' said Lady Sarah. 
 ' Mr. Tapeall is coming, and I am going to sign my will, 
 Dolly,' and she looked her niece hard in the face. ' I shall 
 not change it again whatever may happen. You will have 
 no need in future to conceal anything from me, for the money 
 is yours.' And Lady Sarah sighed, deeply hurt. 
 
 Dolly blushed up. ' Dear Aunt Sarah, I do not want 
 your money,' she said. ' You could never have thought ' 
 
 ' I can only judge people by their deeds,' said Lady Sarah, 
 coldly still. 'You and George shall judge me by mine, 
 whether or not I have loved you ; ' and the poor old voice 
 
284 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Sailed a little, and the lips quivered as she held up her cheek 
 for Dolly to kiss. 
 
 ' Dear, dearest,' said Dolly, ' only forgive me too. If 
 you mean that you are going to leave me money, I shall not 
 be grateful. I have enough. What do I want ? Only that 
 you should love us always. Do you think I would m.arry 
 Eobert if he did not think so too ? ' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle ! Madame is ready,' cried Julie, coming 
 to the door, and tapping. 
 
 ' George, too, would say the same, you know he would,' 
 Dolly went on, unheeding Julie's call. ' But if you give him 
 what you meant for me, dear Aunt Sarah ; indeed that would 
 make me happiest, and then I should know you forgive me.' 
 
 The door creaked, opened, and Mrs. Palmer stood there 
 impatient in her evening dress. 
 
 ' My dear Dolly, what have you got to say to Aunt 
 Sarah ? We shall be dreadfully late, and Eobert is fuming. 
 Do pray come. Grood-night, Sarah — so sorry to leave you.' 
 
 Rather than keep dinner waiting people break off their 
 talk, their loves, their prayers. The Middletons' dinner was 
 waiting, and Dolly had to come away. Some of the rose- 
 leaves were lying on the floor after she had left, and the 
 caressing fragrance stiU. seemed to linger in the room. 
 
 Dolly left home unforgiven, so she thought. Aunt Sarah 
 had not smiled nor spoken to her in her old voice once since 
 that wretched morning scene. 
 
 But, in truth. Lady Sarah was clearer-sighted than people 
 gave her credit for ; she was bitterly hurt by Dolly's want of 
 confidence, but she began to understand the struggle which 
 had been going on in the girl's mind, and so far, things were 
 not so sad as she had imagined at first. They were dismal 
 enough. 
 
 When Marker came to tell Lady Sarah that Mr. Tapeall 
 and his clerks were below, she got up from her chair wearily, 
 
WHITE ROSES. 285 
 
 and went down to meet the lawyer. What did she care now ? 
 8he had saved, and pinched, and laid by (more of late than 
 any one suspected), and Dolly was to benefit, and Dolly did 
 not care ; Eobert only seemed to count upon the money. It 
 is often the most cautious people who betray themselves most 
 unexpectedly. Something in Henley's manner had annoyed 
 Lady Sarah of late. He had spoken of George with constant 
 disparagement. More than once Eobert had let slip a word 
 that showed how confidently he looked for Dolly's inheritance. 
 
 One day Mrs. Palmer had noticed Lady Sarah's eyes upon 
 him, and immediately tried to cover his mistake. Not so 
 Dolly, who said, ' Eobert ! what are you thinking of ? How 
 should we ever be able to afford a country-house if you go 
 into Parliament ? ' 
 
 'Eobert thinks he is marrying an heiress, I suppose,' said 
 Lady Sarah. 
 
 ' No, he doesn't,' Dolly answered ; ' that would spoil it all.' 
 
 This was all the gratitude poor Lady Sarah had saved and 
 pinched herself to win. 
 
 Lady Sarah, as I have said, might have been a money- 
 lover, if her warm heart had not saved her. But she was 
 human, and she could not help guessing at Eobert's comfort- 
 able calculations, and she resented them. Did she not know 
 what it was to be married, not for herself, but for what she 
 could bring ? Was ihat to be her Dolly's fate ? Never, never ! 
 Who knows ? Let her have her own way ; it may be best 
 after all, thought Lady Sarah, wearily. She was tired of 
 battling. Let George inherit, if it so pleased them. To 
 please them was all she had wished or hoped for, and now 
 even the satisfaction of pleasing them in her own way was 
 denied her. But her girl was true ; this she felt. No sordid 
 thoughts had ever come between them, and for this she 
 thanked God in her heart. 
 
 ' You may burn it, Mr. Tapeall,' said Lady Sarah, as the 
 
286 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 lawyer produced a beautiful neatly-written parchment, where 
 Miss Dorothea Vanborough's name was emblazoned many 
 times. ' I want you to make me another. Yes, make it 
 directly, and I will sign it at once, and old Sam can bear 
 witness.' 
 
 ' I shall be happy to receive any further instructions,' 
 said the lawyer ; ' I shall have to take the memorandimi 
 home with me to prepare ' 
 
 'I will sign the memorandum,' said Lady Sarah. ' You 
 can have it copied, if you like, Mr. Tapeall ; but I wish to 
 have this business settled at once, and to hear no more of it. 
 There is a pen and some ink on that table.' 
 
 ' Where did you get your roses ? ' said Eobert to Dolly ; 
 ' I thought you told me they were over.' 
 
 'Did not you send them?' said Dolly, disappointed, 
 ' Who can have sent them ? li^ot Colonel Witherington ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Raban is more likely,' said Mrs. Palmer. ' Julie 
 tells me he came to the door this afternoon.' 
 
 ' How kind of him I ' cried Miss Vanborough. 
 
 ' It was quite unnecessary,' said Eobert. ' Nobody, in 
 society, carries bouquets now.' 
 
 ' Then I am not in society,' said Dolly, laughing ; but 
 although she laughed, she felt sad and depressed. 
 
 When the door opened and Mrs. Palmer, followed by her 
 beautiful daughter and Henley, came into the room at Mrs. 
 Middleton's, Colonel Witherington declared, upon his honour, 
 they quite brightened up the party. White and gracious 
 with many laces and twinklings, Mrs. Palmer advances, taking 
 to society as a duck takes to the water, and not a little pleased 
 with the sensation she is creating. Dolly follows, looking very 
 handsome, but, it must be confessed, somewhat absent. Her 
 mother had excellent taste, and had devised a most becoming 
 costume, and if Dolly had only been herself she would 
 
WHITE ROSES. 2S7 
 
 serlainly have aone credit to it ; but she had not responded 
 to Mademoiselle Julie's efforts — a sudden fit of dull shyness 
 seemed to overpower her. If Frank Kaban had been there 
 she would have liked to thank him for her flowers ; but Mrs. 
 Middleton began explaining to Kobert how sorry she was that 
 his friend Mr. Eaban had been obliged to go off to Cambridge. 
 Dolly was a little disappointed. The silvery folds of her dress 
 fell each in juxtaposition ; but Dolly sat silent and pale and 
 far away, and for some time she scarcely spoke. 
 
 ' That girl does not look happy,' said some one. 
 
 Eobert overheard the speech, and was very much annoyed 
 by it. These constant depressions were becoming a serious 
 annoyance to him. He took Dolly down to dinner, but he 
 devoted himself to a sprightly lady on his left hand, who, 
 with many shrieks of laughter and wrigglings and twinklings 
 of diamonds, spurred him on to a brilliance foreign to his 
 nature. Young as he was, Kobert was old for his age, and a 
 eapital diner-out, and he had the art of accommodating him- 
 self to his audience. Mrs. Palmer was radiant sitting between 
 two white neckcloths : one belonged to the Viscoimt Port- 
 cullis, the other to the faithful Witherington ; and she 
 managed to talk to them both at once. 
 
 Dolly's right-hand neighbour was an upright, rathei 
 stem, soldierly-looking man, with a heavy white moustache. 
 He spoke to her, and she answered with an effort, for her 
 thoughts were still far away, and she was preoccupied still. 
 Dolly was haunted by the sense of coming evil ; she was 
 pained by Eobert's manner. He was still displeased, and he 
 took care to show that it was so. She was troubled about 
 George ; she was wondering what he was about. She had 
 written to him at Cambridge that afternoon a loving, tender, 
 sisterly little letter, begging him to write to his faithful 
 sister Dolly. Again she told herself that it was absurd to be 
 
288 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 her depression, and to speak to the courteouu though rather 
 alarming neighbour on her right hand. 
 
 It was a dinner-party just like any other. They are 
 pretty festivals on the whole, although we aifect to decry 
 them. In the midst of the Middleton dinner-table was an 
 erection of ice and ferns and cool green grass, and round 
 about this circled the entertainment — flowers, dried fruit, 
 processions of cut glass and china, with entrees, diversities of 
 chicken and cutlet, and then ladies and gentlemen alternate, 
 with a host at one end and a hostess at the other, and an 
 outermost ring of attendants, pouring out gold and crimson 
 juices into the crystal cups. 
 
 It is fortunate, perhaps, that other people are not silent 
 always because we are sad. With all its objections — I have 
 read this in some other book — there is a bracing atmosphere 
 in society, a Spartan-like determination to leave cares at 
 honae, and to try to forget all the ills and woes and rubs to 
 which we are subject, and to think only of the present and 
 the neighbours fate has assigned for the time. Little by 
 little, Dolly felt happier and more reassured. Where every- 
 thing was so commonplace and unquestioning, it seemed as 
 if tragedy could not exist. Comedy seems much more real 
 at times than tragedy. Three or four tragedies befall us in 
 the course of our existence, and a hundred daily comedies 
 pass before our eyes. 
 
 Dolly, hearing her mother's silver laugh and Eobert's 
 cheerful duet, was reassured, and she entered little by little 
 into the tune of the hour, and once, glancing up shyly, 
 she caught a very kind look in her neighbour's keen dark 
 eyes. 
 
 He knew nothing of her, except a sweet girlish voice 
 and a blush ; but that was enough almost, for it was Dolly's 
 good fortune to have a voice and a face that told of her aw 
 she was. There are some smiles and 1tlu<he8 that mean 
 
WHITE KOSES. 289 
 
 nothing at all, neither happy emotion nor quick response ; 
 and, again, are there not other well-loved faces which are 
 but the homely disguises in which angels have come into 
 our tents ? Dolly's looks pleased her neighbour, nor was he 
 disappointed when he came to talk to her ; he felt a kindness 
 towards the girl, and a real interest when he discovered her 
 name. He had known her father in India many years 
 before. ' Had she ever heard of David Fane ? ' Colonel 
 Fane seemed pleased when Dolly brightened up and 
 exclaimed. He went on to tell her that he was on his way 
 to the Crimea : his regiment was at Southampton, waiting 
 its orders to sail. 
 
 ' And you are going to that dreadful war ! ' said Dolly, 
 in her girlish tones, after a few minutes' talk. 
 
 Colonel Fane looked very grave. 
 
 ' Your father was a brave soldier,' he said ; ' he would 
 have told you that war is a cruel thing ; but there are worse 
 things than fighting for a good cause.' 
 
 ' You mean not fighting,' said Dolly ; ' but how can we 
 who sit at home in peace and safety be brave for others ? ' 
 
 ' I have never yet known a woman desert her post in the 
 time of danger,' said Colonel Fane, speaking with gentle, 
 old-fashioned courtesy. ' You have your own perils to 
 affront : they find you out even in your homes. I saw a 
 regiment of soldiers to-day,' he said, smiling, ' in white caps 
 and aprons, who fight with some very deadly enemies. 
 They are under the command of my sister, my brother's 
 widow. She is a hospital-nurse, and has charge of a fever- 
 ward at present.' 
 
 Then he went on to tell Dolly that his brother had died 
 of small-pox not long before, and his wife had mourned him, 
 not in sackcloth and ashes, but in pity and love and devotian 
 to others. Dolly listened with an unconscious look of 
 sympathy that touched Colonel Fan« more than words. 
 
 u 
 
J90 OLV KENSINGTON. 
 
 • And is she quite alone now ? ' said Dolly. 
 
 'I should like you to know her some day,' he said. 
 ' She is less alone than anybody I know. She lives near St. 
 Barnabas' Hospital ; and if you will go and see her some- 
 time when she is at home and away from her sick, she will 
 make, not acquaintance, but friends with you, I hope.' 
 
 Then he asked Dolly whether she was an only child, and 
 the girl told him something — far more than she had any 
 idea of — ^about Greorge. 
 
 ' I might have been able to be of some little use to your 
 brother if he had chosen the army for a profession,' said 
 Colonel Fane, guessing that something was amiss. 
 
 Dolly was surprised to find herself talking to Colonel 
 Fane, as if she had known him all her life. A few minutes 
 before he had been but a name. When he offered to help 
 George, Dolly blushed up, and raised two grateful eyes. 
 
 There is something in life which is not love, but which 
 plays as great a part almost — sympathy, quick response — I 
 scarcely know what name to give it ; at any moment, in the 
 hour of need perhaps, a door opens, and some one comes into 
 the room. It may be a common-place man in a shabby 
 coat, a placid lady in a smart bonnet ; does nothing tell us 
 that this is one of the friends to be, whose hands are to help 
 us over the stony places, whose kindly voices will sound tr 
 us hereafter voices out of the infinite. Life has, indeed^ 
 many phases, love has many a metempsychosis. Is it a lost 
 love we are mourning — a lost hope ? Only dim, distant 
 stars, we say, where all was light. Lo, friendship comes 
 dawning in generous and peaceful streams ! 
 
 Before dinner was over. Colonel Fane said to Dolly, ' I 
 hope to have another talk with you some day. I am not 
 coming upstairs now; but, if you will let me do so, I 
 shall ask my sister, Mrs. William Fane, to write to you 
 when she is free.' 
 
WHITE ROSES. 291 
 
 Robert was pleased to see Dolly getting on so well with 
 her neighbour. He was a man of some mark, and a most 
 desirable acquaintance for her. Eobert was just going to 
 introduce himself, when Mrs. Middleton bowed to Lady Port- 
 cullis, and the ladies began to leave the room. 
 
 ' Grood-by,' said Dolly's new friend, very kindly ; ' I shall 
 ask you not to forget your father's old companion. If I come 
 back, one of my first visits shall be to you.' 
 
 Then Dolly stood up blushing, and then she said, ' Thank 
 you, very much ; I shall never forget you. I, too, am going 
 
 away — to India — ^with "" and she looked at Henley, who 
 
 was at that moment receiving the parting fire of the lively 
 lady. There was no time to say more ; she put out her 
 hand with a grateful pressure. Colonel Fane watched Dolly 
 as she walked away in the procession. For her sake he said 
 a few civil words to Henley ; but he was disappointed in him. 
 ' I don't think poor Stan Vanborough would have approved 
 of such a cut-and-dry son-in-law,' the Colonel said to him- 
 self as he lighted his cigar and came away into the open 
 etreet. 
 
292 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXV. 
 
 ' ONLY GEORGE.' 
 
 Nicht mitzuliassen, mitzulieben bin jch da. 
 
 — Antihoite. 
 
 Thoughts seem occasionally to have a life of their own — a 
 life independent; sometimes they are even stronger than 
 the thinkers, and draw them relentlessly along. They seize 
 hold of outward circumstances with their strong grip. How 
 strangely a dominant thought sometimes runs through a 
 whole epoch of life I 
 
 With some holy and serene natures, this thought is peace 
 in life ; with others, it is human love, that troubled love of 
 God. 
 
 The moonlight is streaming over London ; and Greorge is 
 not very far away, driven by his master thought along a 
 bright stream that flows through the gates and by the down- 
 trodden roads that cross Hyde Park. The skies, the streets, 
 are silver and purple ; abbey-towers and far-away houses rise 
 dim against the stars ; lights burn in shadowy windows. 
 The people passing by, and even George, hurrying along in 
 his many perplexities, feel the life and the echo everywhere 
 of some mystical chord of nature and human nature striking 
 in response. The very iron rails along the paths seemed 
 turned to silver. George leaps over a silver railing, and 
 goes towards a great sea of moonlight lying among the grass 
 and encircled by shadowv trees. 
 
*ONLY GEORGE: 293 
 
 In this saaemdonlit stream, flowing into the little drawing- 
 room of the bow-windowed house in Old Street, sits Ehoda, 
 resting her head against the pane of the lantern-like window, 
 and thinking over the events of the last two days. 
 
 On the whole, she feels that she has acted wisely and for 
 the best. Lady Sarah seemed to think so-^Uncle John said 
 no word of blame. It was unfortunate that Aunt Morgan's 
 curiosity should have made her insist upon reading George's 
 letter ; but no harm had come of it. Dolly, of course, was 
 unreasonable. Ehoda, who was accustomed to think of 
 things very definitely, began to wonder what Frank Eaban 
 would think of it all, and whether Uncle John would tell 
 him. She thought that Mr. Eaban would not be sorry to 
 hear of what had occurred. What a pity George was not more 
 like Mr. Eaban or Eobert Henley. How calm they were ; 
 ivhile he — -he was unbearable ; and she was very glad it was 
 all over between them. Lady Sarah was evidently deeply 
 offended with him. 
 
 ' I hope she will leave him eofnethmg,' thought Ehoda. 
 ' He will never be able to make his way. I can see that ; 
 and he is so rough, and I am such a poor little thing,' and 
 Ehoda sighed. ' I shall always feel to him as if he were a 
 brother, and I shall tell Mr. Eaban so if — — ' 
 
 Here Ehoda looked up, and almost screamed out, for 
 there stood George, rippling with moonlight, watching her 
 through the window from the opposite side of the street. He 
 looked like a ghost as he leant against the railings. He did 
 not care who noticed him, nor what other people might 
 think of him. He had come all this way only to see Ehoda 
 once more, and there she was, only separated from him by a 
 pane of glass. 
 
 When Ehoda looked up, George came across and stood 
 under the window. The moonlight stream showed him a 
 silver figure plain marked, upon the darkness. There she 
 
294 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 sat with a drooping head and one arm lightly resting against 
 the bar. Poor boy I He had started in some strange faith 
 that he should find her. He had come up all the way only to 
 look at her once more. All his passionate anger had already 
 died away. He had given up hope, but he had not given 
 up love ; and so he stood there wild and haggard, with 
 pulses throbbing. He had scarcely eaten anything since 
 the evening before. He had gone back to Cambridge 
 he knew not why. He had lain awake all night, and all 
 day he had been lying in his boat hiding under the trees 
 along the bank, looking up at the sky and cursing his fate. 
 
 Ehoda looked up. G-eorge, with a quick movement, 
 pointed to the door, and sprang up the steps of the house. 
 He must speak to her now that she had seen him. For what 
 else had he come ? She was frightened, and did not move 
 at first in answer to his signs. She was alone. Aunt 
 Morgan and the girls were drinking tea at the schools, but 
 Uncle John was in the study. She did not want him to see 
 George. It would only make a fuss and an explanation — 
 there had been too much already. She got up and left the 
 window, and then went into the hall and stood by the door 
 undecided ; and as she stood there she heard a low voice 
 outside say, ' Ehoda ! let me in.' 
 
 Ehoda still hesitated. ' Let me in,' said the voice again, 
 and she opened the door a very little way, and put her foot 
 against it. 
 
 ' Good-night, George,' she said, in a whisper. ' Good- 
 night. Go home. Dolly is so anxious about you.' 
 
 ' I have come to see you,' said George. ' Why won't you 
 let me in, Ehoda Y 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Ehoda. 
 
 ' You need not be afraid, Ehoda,' he said, going back a 
 step. 'Dear, will you forgive me for having frightened 
 you ? ' and he came nearer again. 
 
'ONLY GEORGE.' 295 
 
 ' I can't — ^go, go,' cried Ehoda, hastily. ' Here is some 
 one,' and suddenly, with all her might, she pushed the door 
 in his face. It shut with a bang, with all its iron knobs and 
 locks rattling. 
 
 'What is it?' said John Morgan, looKiiig out of his 
 study. 
 
 ' I had opened the door, Uncle John,' said Ehoda. Her 
 heart beat a little. Would Greorge go away ? She thought 
 she heard footsteps striking down the street. Then she felt 
 more easy. She told herself once more that it was far better 
 to have no scenes nor explanations, and she sat down quietly 
 to her evening's task in a comer of her uncle's study. She 
 was making some pinafores for the little Costellos, and she 
 tranquilly stitched and tucked and hemmed. John Morgan 
 liked to see her busy at her womanly work, her little lamp 
 duly trimmed, and her busy fingers working for others more 
 thriftless. 
 
 And outside in the moonlight Greorge walked away in a 
 new fury. What indignity had he subjected himself to ? 
 He gave a bitter sort of laugh. He had not expected much, 
 but this was worse than anything he had expected. Ee- 
 proaches, coldness, indifference, all these he was prepared 
 for. He knew in his heart of hearts that Ehoda did not care 
 for him ; and what further wrong could she do him than this 
 injury that people inflict every day upon each other ? She 
 had added scorn to her indifference ; and again Greorge 
 laughed to himself, thinking of this wooden door Ehoda had 
 clapped upon his passion, and her summary way of thrusting 
 him out. 
 
 At one time, instead of banging the door, she used to 
 open it wide. She used to listen to him, with her wonderful 
 dark eyes fixed on his face. Now, what had happened ? He 
 was the same man, she was the same woman, and nothing 
 was the same Greorge mechanically walked on towards his 
 
•296 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 own home — if Church House could be so called. He went 
 across the square, and by a narrow back street, and he tried 
 the garden gate, and found it open, and went in, with some 
 vague idea of finding Dolly, and calling her to the bench 
 beside the pond, and of telling her of all his trouble. That 
 slam of the door kept sounding in his ears, a sort of knell to 
 his love. 
 
 But Greorge was in no vein of luck that night. The 
 garden was deserted and mysterious, heavy with sweet scents 
 in the darkness. He went down the dark path and came 
 back again, and there was a rustle among the trees ; and as 
 he walked across the lawn towards the lighted window of the 
 oak room, he heard two voices clear in the silence, floating 
 up from some kitchen below. He knew Sam's croak ; he did 
 not recognise the other voice. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle is gone to dance. I like to dance too,' it 
 said. ' Will you come to a ball and dance with me, Mr. 
 Sam?' 
 
 Then followed old Sam's chuckle. ' I'll dance with you. 
 Mademoiselle,' he said. 
 
 Greorge thought it sounded as if some evil spirit of the 
 night were mocking his trouble. And so Dolly was dancing 
 while he was roaming about in his misery. Even Dolly had 
 forgotten his pain. Even Ehoda had turned him out. Who 
 cared what happened to him now ? 
 
 He went to the window of the oak room and looked in. 
 Lady Sarah was sitting there alone, shading her eyes from 
 the light. There were papers all round about her. The 
 lamp was burning behind her, and the light was reflected in 
 the narrow glass above her tall chimney-piece. 
 
 He saw her put out her hand and slowly take a paper 
 that was lying on the table, and tear it down the middle. 
 Poor Aunt Sarah ! she looked very old and worn and sad- 
 How ill he had repaid her kindness I She should be spared 
 
'ONLY GEORGE.' 297 
 
 all further anxiety and trouble for him. Then he put out 
 his two hands with a wild farewell motion. He had not 
 meant her to see him, but the window was ajar and flew 
 open, and then he walked in ; and Lady Sarah, looking up, 
 saw George standing before her. He was scarcely himself all 
 this time : if he had found Dolly all might have ended 
 differently. 
 
 ' George ? ' said Lady Sarah, frightened by his wild looks, 
 ' what has happened, my dear ? ' 
 
 ' I have come to say good-by to you,' lie wildly cried. 
 ' Aunt Sarah, you will never have any more trouble with me. 
 You have been a thousand thousand times too good to me ! ' 
 And he flung his two arms round her neck and kissed her, 
 and almost before she could speak he was gone. . . . 
 
 A few minutes later Marker beard a fall, and came run- 
 ning upstairs. She found Lady Sarah lying half-consciious 
 on the ground. 
 
298 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 THE SLOW SAD HOUBS. 
 
 And thou wert sad, yet I was not witt thee^ 
 And thou wert sick, ajid yet I was not there. 
 
 — BXBOX. 
 
 Dolly and her mother had left the Middletons' when John 
 Morgan drove up in a hansom, with a message from his 
 mother to bring them back at once. The servant told him 
 that they were only just gone, and he drove off in pursuit. 
 Bucklersbury House was blazing in the darkness, with its 
 many windows open and alight, and its crowds pouring in 
 and its music striking up. Morgan sprang out of his cab 
 and hurried across the court, and under the horses' noses, and 
 pushed among the footmen to the great front door where 
 the inscribing angels of the Mornvng Post were stationed. 
 The servants would have sent him back, but he told his 
 errand in a few hasty words, and was allowed to walk into 
 the hall. He saw a great marble staircase all alight, and 
 people going up; and, by some good fortune, one of the 
 very first persons he distinguished was Dolly, who had only 
 just come, and who was following her mother and Eoberti 
 She, too, caught sight of the familiar face in the hall below, 
 and stopped short. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she said, ' there is John Morgan making 
 signs. Something has happened.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer did not choose to hear. She was going in ; 
 
THE SLOW SAD HOURS. 299 
 
 she was at the gates of Paradise : she was not going to be 
 kept back by John Morgan. There came a cheerful clang 
 of music from above. 
 
 Dolly hesitated; the curate beckoned to her eagerly. 
 ' Mamma, I must go back to him,' said Dolly, and before 
 her mother could remonstrate she had stopped short and 
 iUd behind a diplomat, a lord with a blue ribbon, an aged 
 eountess ; in two minutes she was at the foot of the staircase, 
 Bobert meanwhile serenely proceeding ahead, and imagining 
 that his ladies were following. 
 
 In two words, John Morgan had told Dolly to get her 
 shawl, that her aunt was ill, that she had been asking for 
 her. Dolly flew back to the cloak-room: she saw her 
 white shawl still lying on the table, and she seized it and 
 ran back to John Morgan again, and then they had hurried 
 through the court and among the carriages to the place 
 where the hansom was waiting. 
 
 ' And I was away from her I ' said Dolly. That was nearly 
 all she said. It was her first trouble-^overwhelming, un- 
 endurable, bewildering, as first troubles are. When they 
 drove up to Church House, the front looked black, and 
 closed, and terrible somehow. Dolly's heart beat as she went in. 
 
 Everything seemed a little less terrible when she had 
 run upstairs, and found her aunt lying in the familiar room, 
 with a faint odour of camphor and chloroform, and Marker 
 coming and going very quietly. Mrs. Morgan was there 
 with her bonnet cocked a little on one side ; she came up 
 and took Dolly's hand with real kindness, and said some 
 words of encouragement, and led her to the bedside. As 
 Dolly looked at Aunt Sarah's changed face, she gulped for 
 the first time one of life's bitter draughts. They don't last 
 long, those horrible moments ; they pass on, but they leave 
 a burning taste ; it comes back again and again with the 
 troubles of life. 
 
300 OLD KENSTNGTON. 
 
 Lady Sarah seemed to recognise Dolly when she first 
 came in, then she relapsed again, and lay scarce conscious, 
 placid, indifferently waiting the result of all this nursing 
 and anxious care. The struggles of life and its bustling 
 anxieties had passe>i away from that quiet room, never 
 more to return, 
 
 Dolly sat patiently hy the bedside. She had not taken 
 off her evening dress, she never moved, she scarcely 
 breathed, for fear of disturbing her dear sick woman. If 
 Frank Raban could have seen her then, he would not have 
 called her cold ! Those loving looks and tender ways might 
 almost have poured new life into the worn-out existence that 
 was ebbing away. The night sped on, as such nights do 
 pass. She heard the sound of carriage-wheels coming home 
 at last, and crept downstairs to meet the home-comers. 
 
 Dolly did not ask her mother what had delayed her when 
 the two came in. She met them with her pale face. She 
 was still in her white dress, with the dying roses in her hair. 
 Henley, who had meant to reproach her for deserting them 
 without a word, felt ashamed for once before her. She 
 seemed to belong to some other world, far away from that 
 from which he had just come. She told her story very 
 simply. The doctors said there had been one attack such as 
 this once before, which her aunt had kept concealed from 
 them all. They ordered absolute quiet. Marker was to be 
 nurse, and one other person. ' Of course that must be me, 
 mamma. I think Aunt Sarah would like me best,' she said, 
 with a faint smile. ' Mrs. Morgan I No, dear mamma, not 
 Mrs. Morgan.' Then suddenly she burst into tears. ' Oh, 
 mamma, I have never seen any one so iU,' she said ; but the 
 next minute she had overcome her emotion, and wiped her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' My dearest child, it is most distressing, and that you 
 should have missed your ball, too ' said Philippa. ' T said 
 
THE SLOW SAP HOURS. 30. 
 
 all along, if you remember, that she was looking a perfect 
 wreck. You would not listen to me. Eobert, turn that 
 sofa out of the draught. I shall not go to bed. Julie can 
 come down here and keep me company after you go.' 
 
 ' I must go,' said Eobert ; ' I have still some work to 
 finish. Take care of yourself, Dora — remember you belong 
 to me now. I hope there will be better news in the 
 morning.' 
 
 From one room to the other, all the next day, Dolly went 
 vvith her heavy heart — it seemed to drag at her as she moved, 
 to dull her very anxiety. It was only a pain, it did not rise 
 to the dignity of an emotion. Mrs. Palmer felt herself 
 greatly neglected ; she was taken ill in the afternoon and 
 begged to see the doctor, who made light of her ailment ; 
 towards evening Mrs. Palmer was a great deal better. She 
 came down into the drawing-room, and sent Eliza Twells 
 over for John Morgan. Lady Sarah still lay stricken silent, 
 but her pulse was better, the doctor said : she could move 
 her arm a little : it had been lying helpless before. Faith- 
 ful Marker sat by her side, rubbing her cold hands. 
 
 ' Aunt Sarah, do you know me ? ' whispered Dolly, bend-i 
 ing over her. 
 
 Lady Sarah faintly smiled in answer. 
 
 ' Tell George to come back,' she said slowly. ' Dolly, I 
 did as you wished; are you satisfied?' She had gone back 
 to the moment when she was taken ill. 
 
 ' Dearest Aunt Sarah,' said Dolly, covering her hand with 
 kisses. Then she ran down to tell her mother the good news. 
 ' Aunt Sarah was rallying, was talking more like herself 
 again. We only want George to make her well again. He 
 must come. Where is he ? Why does he not come ? ' 
 
 ' Don't ask me anything about George,' said Mrs. Palmer, 
 putting lip her hands. 
 
 This was the day after the ball, but no George came. 
 
i02 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 although Dolly looked for him at every instant. John 
 Morgan, of his own accord, sent a second message to him 
 and another to Eaban. In the course of the day an answer 
 arrived from the tutor : ' Q. left Cambridge yesterday 
 Tour telegram to him lying unopened.'' 
 
c 303 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 IN AN EMPTY EOOM. 
 Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour. 
 
 — SHAESPEAaS. 
 
 The next day Dolly, coming down into the garden, found 
 Eaban with her mother, and she went up eagerly to meet 
 him, hoping for the news she was looking for. But news 
 there was none, although her mother, arm-in-arm with 
 Raban, had been for the last hour slowly pacing the gravel- 
 walks, recapitulating all their anxieties and all the com- 
 plaints they had against that tiresome boy, 
 
 ' The Admiral will be so shocked. I expect him hourly ; 
 and I look to you, Mr. Raban, to tell me the plain truth.' 
 
 The plain truth was that Frank could discover nothing 
 of George. All that long day he had followed up every 
 trace, been everywhere, questioned every one, including 
 Rhoda, without result. He had come now in the faint hope 
 of finding him at home after all. When Dolly came to meet 
 them, he thought she looked anxious enough already, and he 
 made light of his long efforts, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' I have no doubt G-eorge will turn up at Cambridge in 
 the course of a day or two. I have some business calls me 
 away. I will write immediately on my return,' he said. 
 
 Frank saw Dolly's look of surprise and disappointment 
 as she turned away, and his heart ached for her ; but what 
 could he do ? He watched her as she turned back towards 
 
304 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 the house again, walking slowly aud with a thoughtful bent 
 bead. 
 
 ' It is quite painful to see Dolly, she has no feeling what- 
 ever for me left,' cried Mrs. Palmer. ' Ever since dear 
 George's conduct, I see the saddest change in her. I can 
 do nothing. I would drive her out. Colonel Withering- 
 ton offered me his sister's barouche any day, but DoUj 
 won't hear of it. JL>oIly, you know, is simply impossible,' 
 said Mrs. Pabner. 'I never knew a more desponding 
 nature.' 
 
 ' Indeed ? ' said Eaban. 
 
 IL was not his place to be sorry for her. He was not able 
 to shield her from grief. It was not his place to think for 
 her, to love her in her trouble. It was not for him : all this 
 was for Eobert Henley to do. 
 
 There was a great red sunset in the sky, islands floating, 
 and lakes and seas of crimson light overhead, as Dolly 
 walked sadly and slowly into the house, and went back to 
 the dim sick-room. 
 
 There is no need to dwell upon the slow hours. Dolly 
 found that they came to an end somehow. And all the time 
 one miserable conviction pursued her — Greorge was gone. Of 
 this she was convinced, notwithstanding all they could say 
 to reassure her. While they had been expecting him, and 
 blaming him, and wondering, and discussing his plans, he 
 had fled from them all. Dolly at first did not face the truth, 
 for she had sat by her aunt's bedside half dull, half absorbed 
 by her present anxiety ; but when Lady Sarah began to rally 
 a little, the thought of Greorge grew more constant, the 
 longing for news more unendurable ; time seemed longer : 
 it became an eternity at last. One day she felt as if she 
 could bear it no longer. 
 
 , Kobert found her looking very much moved ; her cheeks 
 were glowing, her eyes were shining blue ; she had a cloak 
 
IN AN EMPTY ROOM. 305 
 
 on her arm, and some white summer dress, and she began 
 tying her bonnet -strings nervously. 
 
 ' Eobert, I want you to take me to Cambridge,' she said. 
 ' I want to go now. I know I could find him — I dreamt it 
 Aunt Sarah wants him back directly. . . . ' 
 
 ' You are quite unreasonable, dearest,' said Eobert, 
 soothingly. 
 
 ' I am not ; I am reasonable,' poor Dolly said, with aL 
 effort at self-control. ' Mr. Raban cannot find him. Robert, 
 let me go.' And Robert yielded reluctantly to her wish. 
 
 ' Have you got a Bradahaw in the house ? ' said he. 
 
 Dolly had got one all ready, with the page turned 
 down — she could spare but a few hours, and was in a hurry 
 to get back. 
 
 After all, sympathy is more effectually administered by 
 indirect means than by the crowbars of consolation with 
 which our friends, even the kindest, are apt to belabour oui 
 grief. According to some, people don't die, they don't fall 
 ill, they don't change, everything always goes right. Some 
 reproach us with our want of faith ; others drag it forth — 
 that silent sorrow that would fain lie half-asleep and resting 
 in our hearts. Poor Dolly could not speak of Greorge 
 scarcely even to Robert. She sat very silently in the rail- 
 way-carriage, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, while he 
 refuted all the fears she had not even allowed herself to 
 realise. This state of things annoyed Robert. He hated to 
 see people dull and indifferent. It was distressing and 
 tiresome too. 
 
 Few people were about when Robert and Dolly came 
 across the great triumphant court of St. Thomas, with its 
 gateways and many stony eyes and narrow doorways. They 
 were on their way to All Saints', close by. The place 
 seemed chiefly given over to laundresses. A freshman was 
 standing under the archeil gateway that leads to the inner 
 
 X 
 
jo6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 court ; he was reading some neatly-written announcement 
 in the glass shrine hanging outside the buttery. The oaken 
 doors were closed. Eobert, seeing a friend crossing the 
 court, went away to speak to him. Dolly walked on a little, 
 and stood by the railings, and the flight of steps that lead 
 into the beautiful inner court of this great Palace of Art. 
 She watched the many lines flowing in waves of stone, of 
 mist. At the far end of the arched enclosure were iron- 
 scrolled gates, with green and gold, and misty veils of 
 autumn drifting in the gardens beyond. And then she 
 remembered the summer's day when she last stood there 
 with George, and as she thought of him suddenly his image 
 came before her so distinctly that she almost called out his 
 name. It was but an instant's impression ; it was gone ; 
 the steps were Robert's ; the image was in her own mind. 
 
 ' Are you tired of waiting ? ' said Henley. ' Now, if you 
 like we will go on to All Saints',' he said. 
 
 It seemed to Dolly as if she was looking at the old 
 summer day, dimmed, silenced, saddened, seen through 
 some darkened pane, as they went on together, passing 
 under archways and galleries, and coming at last into the 
 quaint and tranquil court tliat Dolly remembered so vividly. 
 There she had stood ; and there was George's staircase, and 
 there was his name painted up, and there was his window 
 with its lattice. 
 
 Eobert went ofif for the key of George's room, and Dolly 
 waited. It was so sweet, so sad, so tranquil, like the end 
 of a long life. Dolly wandered in and out the narrow 
 galleries ; the silence of the place comforted her. She was 
 glad to be alone a little bit, unconstrained, to feel as she 
 felt, and not as she ought to feel ; quietly despondent, not 
 nervously confident, as they would all have her be. It was 
 a crumbling, sweet, sunshiny sort of waking dream. Some 
 gleams had broken through the clouds, and shone reflected 
 
IN AN EMPTY ROOM. 307 
 
 from the many lattice windows round about the little court 
 She heard some voices, and some young men hurried by, 
 iaughing as they went. They did not see the young lady 
 with the sweet sad face standing under the gallery. Chry- 
 santhemums were growing up against the wall, with faint 
 lilac and golden heads, the last bright tints left upon the 
 once gorgeous palette of summer. A delicate cool sky hung 
 overhead, and the light was becoming brighter. Dolly 
 passed an open door, and peeped in from the quaint gallery 
 to a warm and darkened room, panelled and carpeted. It 
 was dark and untenanted ; a fire was burning in the grate. 
 
 ' That is Fieldbrook's room ; he will give us some tea 
 presently,' said Eobert, coming up; 'but now we can get 
 into George's.' 
 
 Eobert, who seemed to have keys for every keyhole, 
 opened an oak door, and led the way up some stone steps. 
 George's room was on the first floor. Henley went in first, 
 opened the window, dragged forward a chair. ' If you will 
 rest here,' he said, * I will go and find Fieldbrook. They 
 tell me he last heard from George. I have to speak to the 
 Vice-Chancellor too.' Then he was gone again, after looking 
 about to see that there was nothing he could do for her. 
 
 Dolly was glad to be alone. She sat down in George's 
 three-sided chair, resting her head upon her hand. She 
 was in his room. Everything in the place seemed to have a 
 voice, and to speak to her — 'George, George,' it all said. 
 She looked out of the little window across tlie court. She 
 could see the old windows of the library shining, and then 
 she heard more voices, and more young men hurried by, 
 with many footsteps. 
 
 Ever after, Dolly remembered that last half-hour spent 
 in George's rooms with George : so it seemed to her looking 
 back from a time when she had ceased to hope. She went 
 to the writing-table, and mechanically began to straighten 
 
 X 2 
 
?o8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 the toys and pens lying on the cloth. There was the little 
 dagger his mother had sent him from India years before ; 
 the desk she had given him out of her savings ; and it 
 occurred to her to open the lid, of which she knew the 
 trick. She pushed the spring, and the top flew up with a 
 sudden jerk, as it always did. Then Dolly saw that the box 
 was full of papers hastily thrown in, verses, notes of lectures, 
 and a letter torn through. ' Dearest Eh — ' it began. She 
 had no great shame looking over George's papers, a tear fell 
 on the dear heap as she bent over the signs and ink-marks 
 that told of her poor boy's trouble. What was this ? a 
 letter stamped and addressed to herself. Had it been 
 thrown in with the rest by mistake ? She tore it open 
 hastily, with eager hands. He must have written the night 
 of their water-party : it had no date : — 
 
 Dearest Dolly (said the crooked lines) — This is one more good-by, and one 
 ^ore service that I want you to do me ; and you have never grudged any 
 human being love or help. I am going, and before I go I shall make my vill, 
 and I shall leave what little I have — not to you — ^but to Khoda, and will you 
 Bse to this ? I sometimes think she has not even a heart to help her through 
 life ; she will like my money better than me. It is quite late at night, but I 
 cannot sleep ; she comes and awakens me in my dreams. I shall go away 
 from this as soon as the gates are open. It is no use struggling against my 
 fate ; others are giving their lives for a purpose, and I shall join them if I can 
 I have been flung from my anchor here, and the waves seem to close over me. 
 If I live you will hear from me. Dearest old Dolly, take warning by me and 
 don't expect too much. Crod bless you ! 
 
 G. V. 
 
 Will you pay Miller at the boat-house 2Z. 10s. I owe him? I think I havt 
 cleared up all other scores. I will leave the papers with him. I shall not 
 come back here any more. 
 
 That was all. She was standing with her letter still in her 
 hand, blankly looking at it, when the door opened and Tom 
 Morgan came in. « " If I live." What did he mean ? " Ask 
 at the boat-house ? " ' She laid the letter down and went 
 
IN AN EMPTY ROOM. 309 
 
 on turning over the papers without noticing the young 
 man. 
 
 Tom walked in with a broad grin and great volubility. 
 ' Well ! ' said he, cheerfully, ' I thought it was you ! I was 
 walking with Magniac and some others, and noticed the 
 windows open, and I saw you standing just where you are 
 now, and I said to Magniac, " I know that lady." He wouldn't 
 believe me ; but 1 was right, knew I was. How are you 
 and how is Lady Sarah ? Where is &eorge ? When did 
 he come back ? ' Then suddenly remembering some rumour 
 to which he had paid but little heed at first, ' Nothing 
 wrong, I hope ? ' said Tom. 
 
 ' Tom I where is this ? ' said Dolly, without any pre- 
 amble, in her old abrupt way, and she gave him a crumpled 
 bill which she had been examining. 
 
 Me. Vanbug to J. Hiixex — 
 To hieir of the Wave twelve hoviTS, 
 To man's time, &c. &c. 
 To new coteing bir with tare, &c. 
 
 ' I want to go there,' she said. ' Will you show me the 
 way?' 
 
 ' To the boat-house ? ' said Tom, doubtfully, looking at 
 the bill. ' Miller's, you mean ? ' 
 
 She saw him hesitate. 
 
 ' I must go,' she cried. ' You must take me. Is it 
 Miller's ? Show me the way, Tom.' 
 
 ' Of course I can show you the way if you wish it,' said 
 Tom. 
 
 He looked even more stupid than usual, but he did not 
 like to refuse. He had to be in Hall by three o'clock, that 
 was why he had hesitated. He had been thinking of his 
 dinner ; but Dolly began to tie on her bonnet. She hurried 
 out, and ran downstairs, and he followed her across the 
 court into the street. He was not loth to be seen walking 
 
iio OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 with so pretty a young lady. He nodded to several of his 
 friends with velvet bands upon their gowns ; a professor 
 went by, Tom raised his well-worn cap. 
 
 Dolly might have been amused at any other time by 
 the quaint mediaeval ways of the old place. 
 
 It was out of term-time, but there had been some special 
 meeting of the college magnates. Crimson coats and black, 
 square caps and tassels, and quaint old things were passing. 
 The fifteenth century was standing at a street comer. To- 
 day heartily shook hands with 1500 and hurried on. Dolly 
 saw it all without seeing it. Tom Morgan tried to give her 
 the latest news, 
 
 ' That is Brown,' said he, ' the new Professor of Modem 
 Literature.' Dolly never even turned her head to look after 
 Brown. 
 
 ' There's Smith,' said Tom : ' they say he will be in the 
 first six for the Mathematical Tripos.' 
 
 Then they came out of the busy High Street by a narrow 
 lane, with brick walls on either side. It led to the mill by 
 the river, and beyond the river spread a great country of 
 water-meadows. It was a world, not of to-day or of 1500, 
 but of all times and aU hours. PoUards were growing at 
 intervals, the rive? flowed by dull and sluggish, the land, 
 too, seemed to flow dull and sluggish to meet a grey hori- 
 zon. There were no animals to be seen, only these poUard- 
 trees at intervals, and the spires of Cambridge crowding in 
 the mist. 
 
( 3" ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE POLLAED-TEEBS. 
 
 Kext Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow — 
 His mantle hairy and his bonnet sedge, 
 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
 
 — Lycidas. 
 
 Miss Vanbokough walked on ; she seemed to know the way 
 Ly some instinct ; sometimes she looked at the water, but it 
 gave her a sort of vertigo. Tom looked at Dolly with some 
 admiration as she passed along the bank, with her clear-cut 
 face and stately figure, following the narrow pathway. They 
 came at last to a bend of the river where some boats 
 were lying high and dry in the grass, and where a little 
 boat-house stood upon a sort of jutting-out island among 
 tall trees upspringing suddenly in the waste : tall sycamore, 
 ivy-grown stumps, greens of every autumnal shade, golden 
 leaves dropping in lazy showers on the grass or drifting into 
 the sluggish stream, along which they floated back to Cam- 
 bridge onee more. It was a deserted-looking grove, melan- 
 choly and romantic. But few people came there. But there 
 was a ferryman and a black boat-house, and a flat ferry-boat 
 anchored to the shore. Some bird gave a cry and flew past, 
 otherwise the place was still with that peculiar river silence 
 of tall weeds straggling, of trees drooping their green 
 branches, of water lapping on the brink. 
 
JI2 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Is this the place you wanted ? ' said Tom, ' or was it the 
 other boat-house after all ? ' 
 
 Dolly walked on, without answering him. She beckoned 
 to the boatman ; and then, as he came towards her, her 
 heart began to beat so that she could scarcely speak or ask 
 the question that she had in her mind to ask. "■ Has my 
 brother been here ? Where is his letter ? Is the Wave safe 
 in your little boat-house ? ' This was what she would have 
 said, only she could not speak. Some strange fever had 
 possessed her and brought her so far : now her strength and 
 courage suddenly forsook her, and she stopped short, and stood 
 holding to an old rotten post that stood by the river-side. 
 
 ' Take care,' said Tom ; 'that ain't safe. You might fall 
 in, and the river is deep just here.' 
 
 She turned such a pale face to him that the young man 
 suddenly began to wonder if there was more in it all than 
 he had imagined. 
 
 ' It's perfectly safe I mean,' he said. 'Why, you don't 
 mean to say ' 
 
 He turned red ; he wished with all his heart that lie 
 had never brought her there — that he could jump into the 
 river — that he had stayed to dine in Hall. To his unspeak- 
 able relief unexpected help appeared. 
 
 '- Why, there is Mr. Eaban 1 ' said Tom, as Eaban came 
 out of the boat-house, and walked across under the trees to 
 meet them. 
 
 Dolly waited for the two men to come up to her, as she 
 stood by her stump among the willow-trees. Eaban did not 
 seem surprised to see her. He took no notice of Tom, but 
 he walked straight up to Dolly. 
 
 ' You have come,' he said ; ' I had just sent you a tele- 
 graphic message.' 
 
 His manner was so kind and so gentle that it frightened 
 her more than if he had spoken with bis usual coldness. 
 
THE POLLARD-TREES. 315 
 
 • What is it ? ' she said, ' and why have you come here ? 
 Have you too heard . . .?' 
 
 She scanned his face anxiously. 
 
 Then she looked from him to the old boatman, who was 
 standing a few steps off in his shabby red flannel-shirt, with 
 a stolid brown face and white hair : a not unpicturesque 
 figure standing by the edge of the stream. Winds and rain 
 and long seasons had washed all expression out of old Miller's 
 bronzed face, 
 
 ' George came here on Tuesday,' said Eaban to DoUy ; ' I 
 only heard of it this morning. Miller tells me he gave him 
 a letter or a paper to keep.' 
 
 ' I know it,' said Dolly, turning to the old boatman. ' I 
 am Mr. Vanborough's sister ; I have come for the letter,' she 
 said quickly, and she held out her hand. 
 
 ' This gentleman come and asked me for the paper,' said 
 the old man, solemnly, ' and he stands by to contradict me ii 
 I speak false ; but if the right party as was expected to call 
 should wish for to see it, my wish is to give satisfaction all 
 round,' said the old man. ' I knows your brother weU, Miss, 
 and he know me, and my man too, for as steady a young 
 man and all one could wish to see. The gentleman come up 
 quite hearty one morning, and ask BiU and me as a favour 
 to hisself to sign the contents of the paper ; and he seal it 
 up, and it is safe, as you see, with the seal compact ; ' and 
 then from his pockets came poor Greorge's packet, a thin 
 blue paper folded over, and sealed with his ring. ' Mr. 
 Vanbug he owe me two pound twelve and sixpence,' old 
 Miller went on, still grasping his paper as if loth to give it 
 up, ' and he said as how you would pay the money. Miss.' 
 
 Dolly's hands were fumbling at her purse in a moment. 
 
 ' I don't want nothing for my trouble,' said the old fellow. 
 - 1 knows Mr. Vanbug well, and I thank you. Miss, and you 
 will find it all as the gentleman wished, and good-moraing,' 
 
314 OLD KENSINGTON. " 
 
 said old Miller, trudging hastily away, for a passenger had 
 hailed him from the opposite shore. 
 
 ' I know what it is,' said Dolly. ' See, he has written 
 my name upon it, Mr. Eaban : it is his will. He told me 
 to come here. He is gone. I found his letter.' She began 
 J;o quiver. ' I don't know what he means.' 
 
 'Don't be frightened,' said Eaban smiling, and very 
 itindly. ' He was seen at Southampton quite well and in 
 good spirits. He has enlisted. That is what he means. 
 You have interest, we must get him a commission ; and if 
 this makes him more happy, it is surely for the best.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right,' she said, struggling not to cry. 
 ' How did you hear ? How kind you have been. How shall 
 we ever thank you ! ' Her colour was coming and going. 
 
 ' It was a mere chance,' Eaban said. (It was one of those 
 chances that come to people who have been working un- 
 remittingly to bring a certain result to pass.) ' Don't thank 
 me,' he continued in a low voice ; ' you have never imder- 
 stood how glad I am to be allowed to feel myself your friend 
 sometimes.' 
 
 Raban might have said more, but he looked up, and saw 
 Robert's black face frowning down upon them. Robert was 
 the passenger who had hailed old Miller. For an instant 
 Frank had forgotten that Eobert existed. He turned away 
 hastily, and went and stared into the water at a weed float- 
 ing by. The old boatman waiting by the punt sat on the 
 edge of the shore, watching the little scene, and wondering 
 what the pretty lady's tears might be about. Tom also 
 assisted, open-mouthed — the Morgan family were not used 
 to tears. Mrs. Morgan never cried ; not even when Tom 
 broke his leg upon the ice. 
 
 Robert was greatly annoyed. He had come all the way, 
 along the , opposite bank, looking for Dolly, who had not 
 waited for him ; who had gone off without a word from the 
 
THE POLLARD TREES. 315 
 
 place where lie had expected to find her. Not even her inco- 
 herent ' Oh, Eobert, I am so sorry — I have heard, Mr. Eaban 
 has heard — he has found George for us I ' not even her trustful, 
 gentle look, as she sprang to meet him, seemed to mollify him. 
 He looked anything hut sympathising as he said, ' I have been 
 looking for you everywhere.' 
 
 (' Brown must have told him,' thought Tom Morgan, who 
 was wondering how he had found them out.) 
 
 ' You really must not run off in this way. I told you all 
 along that all this — a — anxiety was quite unnecessary. George 
 is well able to take care of himself. If I had not met Pro-: 
 fessor Brown, I really don't know now ' 
 
 ' But what is to be done, Eobert ? Listen,' inten-upted 
 Dolly. ' He has enlisted ; he was at Southampton yesterday.' 
 
 And together they told Henley what had happened. 
 Eobert took it very coolly. 
 
 ' Of course he has turned up,' said Eobert, ' and we must 
 now take the matter into our own hands, and see what is 
 best to be done. I really think ' (with a laugh) ' he has done 
 the best thing he could do.' 
 
 Dolly was hurt again by his manner. Eaban had said the 
 same thing, but it had not jarred upon her. 
 
 ' I see you do not agree with me,' continued Eobert. 
 ' Perhaps, Eaban, you will give me the name of the person 
 who recognised George Vanborough? I will see him, 
 myself.' 
 
 ' He is a man whom we all know,' said Eaban, gravely, — 
 Mr, Penfold, my late wife's father,' and he looked Eobert 
 full in the face. 
 
 Dolly wondered why Eobert flushed and looked uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 'Come,' he said, suddenly drawing her hand through his 
 arm with some unnecessary violence, ' shall we walk back, 
 Dora ? There are some other things which I must see about. 
 
3i6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 and I should be glad to consult you immediately.' And he 
 would have walked away at once, hut she hung back for 3 
 moment to say one more grateful word to Frank. 
 
 Then Eobert impatiently dragged her off, and Raban, 
 with his foot, kicked at a stone that happened to be lying 
 in the path, and it fell with a circling plash into the river. 
 
 Meanwhile, Eobert was walking awaj, and poor Dolly, 
 who had' not yet recovered from her agitation, was stumbling 
 alongside, weary and breathless. He had her arm in his ; he 
 was walking very rapidly ; she could hardly keep up with his 
 strides. 
 
 This was the moment chosen by Robert Henley to say : — 
 * I want you now to bring your mind to something which 
 concerns myself, Dora, and you. I came here to-day, not 
 only to please you, but also because I had business to attend 
 to. The Vice-Chancellor has, really in the most pleasant 
 and flattering manner, been speaking to me about my 
 appointment, and I have brought a letter for you.' 
 
 ' I am so confused, Robert,' said DoUy. 
 
 ' I will read it to you, then,' said Robert : and imme- 
 diately, in a clear, trumpet-like voice, he began to do so, 
 stopping every now and then to give more emphasis to his 
 sentences. 
 
 The letter was from the Board of Management of the 
 ■College of Boggleywollah. They seemed to be in a difficulty. 
 The illness of Mr. Martindale had already caused gi'eat delay 
 and inconvenience ; the number of applications had never 
 been so numerous ; the organisation never so defective. In 
 the event of Mr. Henley's being able to anticipate his depar- 
 ture by three weeks, the Board was empowered to offer him 
 a quarter's additional salary, dating from Midsummer instead 
 of from Michaelmas : it would be a very great assistance to 
 them if he could fall in with this proposal. A few lines of 
 entreaty from Mr. Martindale were added. 
 
THE POLLARD-TREES. 3' 7 
 
 ' It will have to come sooner or later,' said Henley ; ' it 
 is unfortunate everything happening just now. My poor 
 Dora, I am so sorry for all the anxiety you have had,' he 
 said, ' and yet I am not sure that this is the best thing that 
 could happen under the circumstances ; ' and he attempted 
 to take her hand and draw her to him. 
 
 Dolly stood flushed and troubled, and unresponding. She 
 hardly took Eobert's meaning in, so absorbed had she been 
 in other thoughts. For a moment after he spoke she stood 
 looking away across the river to the plain beyond. 
 
 ' The college must wait,' said she, wearily ; then sud- 
 denly — ' You know I couldn't leave them now. Aunt Sarah 
 and every one, and you, Eobert, couldn't leave me. Don't 
 let us talk about it ! ' 
 
 Eobert did not answer immediately. ' It is no use,' he said 
 deliberately, 'shirking disagreeable subjects. My dearest 
 Dora, Hfe has to be faced, and one's day's work has to be 
 done. My work is to organise the College at BoggleywoUah ; 
 you must consider that ; and a woman's work is to follow her 
 husband. Every woman, when she marries, must expect to give 
 up her old ties and associations, or there could be no possible 
 union otherwise ; and my wife can be no exception to the 
 general rule ' 
 
 ' Eobert, don't talk in this way,' said Dolly, passionate 
 and nervous. ' I don't want you to frighten me.' 
 
 ' You are unreasonable again, dearest,' said Eobert, in his 
 usual formula. ' You must be patient, and let me settle for 
 us both.' 
 
 Eobert might have been more touched if Dolly had 
 spoken less angrily and decidedly. 
 
 ' If I put off going,' said Eobert, soothingly, ' I lose a great 
 deal more than a quarter's salary— I lose the prestige; the great 
 advantage of finding Martindale. I lose three months, which in 
 the present state of affairs may cause irreparable hindrance. 
 
3i8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Three months? — six months I Lady Sarah's illness may lastany 
 indefinite period : who can say how long it may last ? and Lady 
 Sarah herself, I am convinced, would never wish you to change 
 your plans, and your mother will soon have her husband to 
 protect her. You would not have the heart to send me off 
 alone, Dolly. Is the alternative so very painful to you ? ' he 
 said again. And Eobert smiled with a calm and not very 
 anxious expression, and looking down at her. 
 
 Suddenly it all rushed over Dolly. He was in earnest I-^— 
 in earnest ! — impossible. He meant her to go off now, — 
 directly — without seeing George ; without hearing from him 
 again ; while her aunt was lying on her sick bed. How 
 could she go ? He should not have asked such a sacrifice. 
 She did not pause to think. 
 
 'No, a thousand times no, Eobert!' she cried pas- 
 sionately. ' You cafHt go. If you love me, stay,' she said, 
 with great agitation. ' I know you love me. I know you 
 will do as I wish — as it is right to do. Don't go. Dearest 
 Eobert, you mALstrCt go.' Her voice faltered ; she spoke in 
 her old soft tone, with imploring looks, and trembling hands 
 put out. Robert Henley might have hesitated, but the 
 ' must not ' had spoilt it all. 
 
 ' You know what pain it gives me to refuse your request, 
 said Robert ; ' but I have considered the subject as anxiously 
 on your account as mine. I — really I cannot give up my 
 career at this juncture. You have promised to come with 
 me. If you love me you will not hesitate. You can do 
 your aunt no real good by remaining. You can do George 
 no good ; and, besides, you belong to me,' said Robert, 
 growing more and more annoyed. ' As I told you before, I 
 
 must now be your first consideration ; otherwise ' He 
 
 stopped. 
 
 ' Otherwise what ? ' said Dolly. 
 
 ' Otherwise you would not be happy as my wife,' he said. 
 
THE POLLARD-TRKES. 319 
 
 beating bis foot upon the gravel, and looking steadily before 
 him. 
 
 ' Robert I ' said Dolly, blushing up, ' you would not wish 
 me to be ungrateful.' 
 
 ' To whom ? ' said Robert. ' You propose to postpone 
 everything indefinitely, at a time when I had fully calculated 
 upm being settled in life ; when I had accepted an appoint- 
 ment chiefly with a view to our speedy marriage. There ia 
 no saying how long your conscience may detain lis,' cried 
 Henley, getting more and more provoked ; ' nor how many 
 people may fall ill, nor how often Greorge may think proper 
 to make off. You do not perceive how matters stand, dear 
 Dora.' 
 
 Was this all he had to say ? Her heart began to beat 
 with a swift emotion. 
 
 ' I understand you quite well,' she said, in a low voice, 
 ' But, Robert, I, too, have made up my mind, and I cannot 
 leave them, not even for you. You should never have asked 
 it of me,' she cried, with pardonable indignation. 
 
 ' I am not aware that I have ever asked anything that 
 was not for your good as well as my own,' said Henley, in an 
 offended tone. ' I begin to think you have never loved me, 
 Dora, or you would not reproach me with my love for you . 
 Who has influenced you ? ' said he, jealously. ' What does it 
 all mean ? ' 
 
 She stopped short, and stood looking at him steadily, 
 wistfully — ^not as she used to look once, but with eyes that 
 seemed to read him through and through, until the tears 
 came once more to blind their keen sight. 
 
 Eaban, who had crossed by the ferry, and who was walk- 
 ing back along the opposite side, saw the two standing by 
 the river-side, a man and a woman, with a plain beyond, 
 and a city beyond the plain. 
 
 The sun was setl ing sadly grey and russet ; the long day's 
 
320 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 mists dispersing ; light clouds were slowly rising ; turf an<l 
 leaves stood out against the evening ; it was all clear and 
 sweet, and faintly coloured : a tranquil peace seemed to 
 have fallen everywhere. It was not radiance, but peace and 
 subdued calm. Who does not know these evenings? are 
 they sad? are they happy? A break in the shadow. A 
 passing medley of the lights of heaven and earth, of sweet 
 winds and rising vapours. . . . The cool breeze came 
 blowing into their faces, and Dolly turned her head away 
 and looked across the river to the opposite bank, "When she 
 spoke again she was her old self once more. 
 
 She was quite calm now; her eyes no longer wet. 
 ' Eobert,' she said, ' I have something to tell you. I have 
 been thinking things over, and I see that it is right that you 
 should go ; but it is also right that I should stay,' said 
 Dolly, looking him steadily in the face ; ' and perhaps in 
 happier times you will let me come to you, or come back for 
 me, and you must not — you will not — think I do not love 
 you because of this.' 
 
 What was it in her voice that seemed to haunt him — to 
 touch, to thrill that common-place man for one instant into 
 some emotion ? She was so simple and so sad ; she looked so 
 fair and wistful. 
 
 But it was only for an instant. ' Do you mean that you 
 wish to break the engagement ? ' he asked in his coldest voice. 
 
 ' If we love each other what does it matter that we ara 
 free ? ' said Dorothea, with a very sweet look in her face. 
 ' You need fear no change in me,' she said, ' but I want you 
 to be free.' Her voice failed, and she began to walk on 
 luickly. 
 
 ' Eemember, it is your own doing,' she heard him say, as 
 Tom Morgan, who had lingered behind, caught them up. 
 ' But we will speak of all this again,' he added. 
 
 Dolly bent her head, she could not trust herself to 
 answer. 
 
C 3ai ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIX. 
 
 THUS FAR THE MILES ARE MEASURED FROM THY FRIEND, 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange, 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never mies 
 Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange. 
 When I look up, to drop on a new range 
 Of walls and floors, another home than this ? 
 
 — E. B. Browning. 
 
 The three came back to All Saints' by many a winding way, 
 Eaban met them at the college gate in his rusty black 
 gown ; he had to attend some college meeting after chapel. 
 Two or three young men were standing about expecting 
 them. 
 
 ' You will find the tea is all ready,' said Fieldbrook, gaily ; 
 'are you sure, Miss Vanborough, that you would not like 
 something more substantial ? My bedmaker has just been 
 here to ask whether you were an elderly lady, and whether 
 you would wish your bread-and-butter cut thick or thin ? 
 Let me introduce Mr. Magniac, Mr. Smith, Mr. Irvine, Mr. 
 Richmond ; Mr. Morgan you know.' 
 
 DoUy smiled. The young men led her back across the 
 court (as she crossed it the flowers were distilling their 
 colours in the evening light) ; they opened the oak door of 
 the very room she had looked into in the morning, and stood 
 Vjack to let her pass. The place had been prepared for her 
 coming. Tea was laid, and a tower of bread-and-butter 
 stood in the middle of the table. Books were cleared away, 
 
 y 
 
323 OLD KENStNGTON. 
 
 gome flowers were set out in a cup, Fieldbrook heaped on 
 the coals and made the tea, while Raban brought her the 
 arm-chair to rest in. It was a pretty old oak-panelled room 
 beneath the library. A little fiat kettle was boiling on the 
 fire ; the young men stood round about, kind and cheery : 
 Dolly was touched and comforted by their kindness, and 
 they, too, were charmed with her sweet natural grace and 
 beauty. 
 
 It was difficult not to compare this friendly courtesy and 
 readiness with Eobert's coldness. There was Eaban ready to 
 do her bidding at any hour; here was Mr. Fieldbrook 
 emptying the whole canister into the teapot to make her a 
 cup of tea ; Smith had rushed off to order a fly for her. 
 Robert stood silent and black by the chimney ; he never 
 moved, nor seemed to notice her presence. If she looked at 
 him he turned his head away, and yet he saw her plainly 
 enough. He saw Raban too. Frank was standing behind 
 Dolly's chair in the faint green light of the old oriel window. 
 It tinted his old black gown and Dolly's shadowy head as she 
 leant back against the oaken panel. One of the young men 
 thought of an ivory head he had once seen set in a wooden 
 frame. As for Frank, he knew that for him a pale ghost 
 would henceforth haunt that oriel — a fair, western ghost, 
 with anxious eyes, that were now following Robert as he 
 crossed the room with measured steps and went to look out 
 for the fly. 
 
 As he left the room, they all seemed to breathe more 
 freely. Tom Morgan and Mr. Magniac began a series of 
 jokes; Mr. Richmond poked the fire; Mr. Irvine opened 
 the window. Raban sat down by Dolly, and began telling 
 her of a communication he had had from Yorkshire, from 
 his old grandfather, who seemed disposed to take him into 
 favour again, and who wanted Lim to go back and manage 
 the estate. 
 
THUS FAR THE MILES ARE MEASURED. 323 
 
 ' I am very much exercised about it,' said Frank. ' It is 
 going into the land of bondage, you know. The old couple 
 have used me very ill.' 
 
 ' But of course you must go to them,' said Dolly, trying 
 to be interested, and to forget her own perplexities. 'We 
 shall miss you dreadfully, but you must go.' 
 
 ' You will not miss me as I shall miss you,' said Frank. 
 
 And as he spoke, Robert's head appeared at the window. 
 
 ' The fly is come ; don't keep it waiting, Dora,' said 
 Robert, impatiently. 
 
 ' And you will let me know if ever I can do anything for 
 you ? ' persisted Frank, in defiance of Henley's black looks. 
 
 ' Of course I will. I shall never forget your kindness,' 
 said Dolly, quickly putting on her shawl. 
 
 The bells were clanging aU over the place for an evening 
 service. Doors were banging, voices calling, figures came 
 flitting from every archway. 
 
 ' There goes the reader ! he is late,' said Tom Morgan, as 
 a shrouded form darted across their path. Then he pointed 
 out the Rector, a stately figure in a black and rustling silk, 
 issuing from a side door ; and then Rector, friendly young 
 men, arches, gable-ends had vanished, and Dolly and Robert 
 were driving and jolting through the streets together, jolting 
 along through explanation and misunderstanding, and over 
 one another's susceptibilities, and over chance ruts and 
 stones on their way to the station. He began immediately : 
 
 ' We were interrupted in our talk just now ; but I have 
 really very little more to say. If you are dissatisfied, if you 
 really wish to break off your engagement, it is much better 
 to say so at once, without making me appear ridiculous 
 before all those men. Perhaps,' said Henley, ' we may have 
 both made some great mistake, and you have seen some one 
 whom you would prefer to myself ? ' 
 
 ' You must not say such things, Robert,' answered Dolly, 
 
 T 3 
 
324 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 with some emotion. ' You know how unhappy I am. I 
 only want you to let me love you. What more can I say ? ' 
 
 ' Your actions and your words scarcely agree, then,' said 
 Henley, jealous and implacable. ' I confess I shall he greatly 
 surprised, on my return from India at some indefinite period, 
 to find you still in the same mind. I myself make no pro- 
 fessions of extra constancy '' 
 
 ♦ Ob, you are too cruel,' cried poor Dolly, exasperated. 
 
 ' Will you promise me never to see Eaban, for instance ? ' 
 said Eobert. 
 
 ' How can I make such a promise ? ' cried Dolly, indig- 
 nant. 'To turn off a kind friend for an unjust fancy I If 
 you trust me, Eobert, you must believe what I say. Any- 
 how, you are free. Only remember that I shall trust in your 
 love until you yourself tell me that you no longer care 
 for me.' 
 
 The carriage stopped as she spoke. Eobert got out and 
 helped her down, produced the tickets, and paid the flyman. 
 
 The two went back in a dreary tSte-a-tite ; she wanted a 
 heart's sympathy, and he placed a rug at her feet and pulled 
 up the carriage window for fear of a draught. She could not 
 thank him, nor look pleased. Her head ached, her heart 
 ached ; one expression of love, one word of faithful promise 
 would have made the world a different place, but he had not 
 spoken it. He had taken her at her word. She was to be 
 bound, and he was to be free. The old gentleman opposite 
 never looked at them, but instantly composed himself to 
 sleep ; the old lady in the corner thought she had rarely seen 
 a more amiable and attentive young man, a more ungracious 
 young lady. 
 
 Once only Eobert made any allusion to what had passed. 
 ' There will be no need to enter into explanations at present,' 
 he said, in a somewhat uneasy manner. ' You may change 
 your mind, Dora.' 
 
THUS FAR THE MILES ARE MEASURED. 325 
 
 ' I shall never change my mind,' said Dolly, wearily, ' but 
 it is no use troubling mamma and Aunt Sarah ; I wiU tell 
 them that I am not going away. They shall know all when 
 you are gone.' 
 
 Dolly might have safely told Mrs. Palmer, who was not 
 often disquieted by other people's sacrifices. With Lady 
 Sarah it was different. But she was ill, and she had lost her 
 grasp of life. She asked no question, only she seemed to 
 revive from the day when Dolly told her that she was not 
 going to leave her. It was enough for her that the girl's 
 hand was in hers. 
 
 What is Dolly thinking of, as she stands by the sick bed, 
 holding the frail hand ? To what future does it guide her ? 
 Is it to that which Dolly has sometimes imagined contained 
 within the walls of a home ; simple, as some people's lives are, 
 and hedged with wholesome briers, and darling home-ties, and 
 leading straight, with great love and much happiness and 
 sacred tears, to the great home of love? or is it to a broad 
 way, unhedged, unfenced, with a distant horizon, a way un- 
 sheltered in stormy weather, easily missed, but wide and free 
 and unshackled ? . . . 
 
 Mrs. Palmer, who troubled herself little about the future, 
 was for ever going off to Dean's Yard, where the Henleya 
 were comfortably established. The eldest daughter was 
 married, but there were two Lively girls still at home ; there 
 were young officers coming and going about the place. There 
 was poor Jonah preparing to depart on his glorious expedi- 
 tion. He was in good spirits, he had a new uniform. One 
 day, hearing his aunt's voice, he came in to show himself, 
 accoutred and clanking with chains. He was disappointed to 
 find that Dolly was not there as he had expected. Bell 
 admired loudly, but her mother almost screamed to him to 
 go and take the hideous thing off. The dry, brisk-tongued 
 little woman was feeling his departure very acutely. She 
 
S26 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 still made an effort to keep np her old cynical talk, but she 
 broke down, poor soul, again and again ; she had scarcely 
 spirit left to contradict Philippa, or even to forbid her 
 the house. 
 
 The first time she had seen Dolly, she had been prepared 
 to criticise the girl ; Norab and Bell were more cordial, but 
 Lady Henley offered her niece a kid glove and a kid cheek, 
 and was slightly disappointed to find that Dolly's frivolity, 
 upon which she had been descanting all the way to Church 
 House, consisted in an old grey gown and a black apron, and 
 in two black marks under her eyes, for poor Dolly had not 
 had much sleep after that dismal talk with Robert. This 
 was the day after the Cambridge expedition. Miss 
 Vanborough was looking very handsome, notwithstanding 
 the black marks, and she unconsciously revenged herself 
 upon Lady Henley by a certain indifference and pre-oc- 
 cupation, which seemed to put her beyond the reach of 
 that lady's passing shafts ; but one of them wounded her at 
 last. 
 
 ' I suppose Lady Sarah will be left to servants when you 
 go ? ' says Lady Henley. ' Your mother is certainly not to 
 be counted on ; Hawtry is a much better nurse than she is. 
 Poor dear Philippa ! she sees everything reflected in a 
 looking-glass. Your school is a different one altogether 
 from our plain, old-fashioned country ways.' 
 
 Dolly looked surprised ; she had not deserved this un- 
 provoked attack from the little gaily-dressed lady perched 
 upon the sofa. Norah was very much distressed by her 
 mother's rudeness ; Bell was struggling with a nervous 
 inclination to giggle, which was the effect it always produced 
 upon her. 
 
 ' 1 have no doubt mamma would take care of my aunt if 
 it were necessary,' said Dolly, blushing with annoyance. ' But 
 I am not going away,' she said. ' Robert and I have settled 
 
THUS FAR THE MILES ARE MEASURED. 327 
 
 that it is best I should stay behind. We have made up our 
 minds to part.' 
 
 The two girls were listening open-eared. ' Then she has 
 never cared for him, after all,' thought Bell. 
 
 But Lady Henleyknew better : notwithstanding a more 
 than usual share of jealousy and cross-grainedness, she was 
 not without a heart. Dolly's last words had been spoken 
 very quietly, but they told the whole story. ' My dear,' said 
 the little woman, jumping up suddenly and giving her a kiss, 
 ' I did not know this ' (there were tears shining among the 
 new green bonnet-strings) — ' my trial is close at hand. You 
 must forgive me, I — I am very unhappy.' She made a 
 struggle, and recovered herself quickly, but from that minute 
 Dolly and her Aunt Joanna were good friends. 
 
 The next time Robert called in Dean's Yard he was put 
 through a cross-examination by Lady Henley. ' When was 
 he coming back for Dolly ? what terms were they on ? ' Sir 
 Thomas came in to hear all about it, and then Jonah 
 sauntered in. ' Only wish I could get a chance,' said Jonah. 
 Kobert felt disinclined to give Jonah the chance he wished 
 for. Lady Henley was now praising Dolly as much as she 
 had abused her before, and Robert agreed to everything. 
 But he gave no clue to the state of his mind. He was sur- 
 prised to find how entirely Lady Henley ignored his feelings 
 and sympathised with Dolly's determination to remain 
 behind. He walked away thinking that it was far from his 
 intention to break entirely with Dolly, but he had not 
 forgiven her yet ; he was not sorry to feel his liberty ia his 
 own hands again. He meant to come back, but he chose to 
 do it of his own free will, and not because he was bound by 
 any promise. 
 
 As for DoUy, she was absorbed, she was not feeling very 
 much just then J she had been overwrought and overstrained. 
 A dull calm had succeeded to her agitation, and besides 
 Robert was not yet gone 
 
328 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 UNDER THE CLOCK-TOWER. 
 
 I will tell yon when thej parted. 
 
 "When plenteous autumn sheaves were brown. 
 
 Then they parted heavy-hearted. 
 
 The full rejoicing sun looted down 
 
 As grand as in the days liefore : 
 
 Only to them those days of yore 
 
 Could come hack nevermore. 
 
 C. KOBSETTI. 
 
 An archway leads out of the great thoroughfare from West- 
 minster Bridge into the sudden silence of Dean's Yard, 
 where Sir Thomas had taken the house of a country neigh- 
 bour. It stood within the cloisters of the Abbey, over- 
 towered, over-clocked, with bells pealing high overhead 
 (ringing the houi's away, the poor mother used to think). 
 Dolly found time one day to come for half-an-hour to see 
 Jonah before he left. She had a great regard for him. She 
 had also found a staunch friend in Norah with the grey eyes 
 like her own. Bell told Dolly in confidence that her mother 
 had intended Robert to marry Norah, but this had not at all 
 interfered with the two girls' liking for one another. Mrs. 
 Palmer, who was going on farther, set Dolly down at the 
 archway, and as the girl was crossing the Yard she met 
 Robert coming from the house. He was walking along by 
 the railing, and among the dead leaves that were heaped 
 there by the wind, Dolly's heart always began to beat now 
 when she saw Robert. This time he met her, and, with 
 
UNDER THE CLOCK-TOWER. 329 
 
 something of his old manner, said, ' Are you in a hurry ? 
 Will you come with me a little way ? I have something to 
 say.' And he turned into the cloister : she followed him at 
 once. 
 
 From Dean's Yard, one gateway leads to common life 
 and to the day's work, struggling by with creaks and whips 
 and haste ; another gateway brings you to a cloister arched, 
 silent. The day's work is over for those who are lying in 
 the peaceful enclosure. A side door from this cloister leads 
 into the Abbey, where, among high piles and burning 
 windows, and the shrill sweet echoes of the Psalms, a silent 
 voice sometimes speaks of something beyond rest, beyond 
 our feeble mode of work and praise, and our music and 
 Gothic types — of that which is, but which we are not. 
 
 The afternoon service was pealing on and humming 
 within the Abbey as Dolly and Eobert walked slowly along 
 the cloister. He was silent a long time. She tried to ask 
 him what he had to say, but she found it difficult to speak 
 to him now. She was shy, and she scarcely knew upon what 
 terms they were : she did not care to know. She had said 
 that he should be free, and she meant it, and she was too 
 generous to seek to extort unwilliug promises from him, or 
 to imply that she was disappointed that he had given none. 
 
 At last Eobert spoke. ' Dolly, shall you write to me ? ' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Yes, Eobert, if you wish it,' she answered, simply. ' I 
 should like to write to you.' 
 
 As she looked at him, fair and blushing, Eobert said 
 suddenly, ' Tell me, Dora, have you never regretted your 
 decision ? ' 
 
 Dolly turned away — she could not meet his eyes. Hers 
 fell upon a slab to the memory of some aged woman, who 
 had, perhaps, gone through sonae such experience before she 
 had been turned into a stone. Dolly was anything but 
 
33© OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Etone. Tears slowly gathered in her eyes, and Eobert saw 
 them, and caught hold of her hand, and at that minute there 
 came some pealing echo of an organ, and of voices bursting 
 into shrill amens. All her life Dolly remembered that 
 strange moment of parting, for parting she felt it to be. 
 She must tell him the truth. She turned. ' No, Eobert — 
 never once,' she said ; ' although it is even harder than I 
 thought to let you go.' 
 
 They were standing by the door at the end of the first 
 cloister. For the last time he might have spoken then, and 
 told her that he only loved her the more, that distance was 
 nothing to him, that time was nothing; but the service had 
 come to an end, and while he hesitated a verger came out in 
 his black gown, and the congregation followed— one or two 
 strangers, then Jonah and Bell, with red eyes both of them, 
 looking foolish somehow, and ashamed of being seen ; then 
 more strangers, and then with the last remaining verger, 
 came Ehoda and Zoe Morgan, who sometimes went to church 
 at the Abbey. They all joined the young couple' and walked 
 back to the house with them. 
 
 This was Dolly's last chance for an explanation with her 
 cousin. The time was drawing to an end, fate came in 
 between them now, for this very afternoon it was settled 
 rather suddenly, at Sir Thomas's request, that Eobert and 
 Jonah should go as far as Marseilles together. This was 
 Thursday, and the young men were to start on the Saturday 
 evening. 
 
 Lady Henley bore up very well at first, and clenched 
 her teeth, and said they should all come to dinner on 
 Friday. 
 
 ' It is no use sitting alone and crying one's eyes out,' 
 said the poor woman valiantly, and she made Sir Thomas 
 ask a couple of Yorkshire friends to the feast. One was a 
 county hero, in great favour with Bell. The other was Mr. 
 
UNDER THE CLOCK-TOWER. 33' 
 
 Anley, Jonah's godfather. He had a great affection for the 
 family, and regularly dined with them upon grave crises and 
 great occasions. 
 
 Lady Henley, being liberal in her hospitality, ordered ir 
 her viands and her champagne-bottles, and the girls went to 
 Covent Garden and bought fruit and pineapples and autumn 
 dowers to dress the table, and poor Jonah brought in a 
 great baked pie from Grunter's. 
 
 ' It's pate-de-foie-gras,' said he. ' My father likes it. 
 I thought I might as well have it to celebrate the occasion.' 
 And he held it up triumphantly. 
 
 Poor Lady Henley had almost overrated her powers of 
 endurance, for she looked into his honest sallow face, and 
 then suddenly got up and rushed oat of the room. 
 
 ' Gro to her, Jonah,' said the girls, looking very pale. 
 
 Jonah came down after a little while with a very red 
 nose, and then he went out again to buy something else. 
 All day long he kept coming and going in cabs, bringing 
 homti one thing after another — a folding-chair, a stick to 
 open out suddenly, a whole kitchen battery fitted into a tea- 
 kettle, brooches for the girls, toys for his eldest sister's 
 children. As for the contrivances, they served to make one 
 evening pass a little less heavily, and amused them for 
 the time, and gave them something to talk about. But 
 soon after, aU poor Jonah's possessions went down in the 
 Black Sea, in an ill-fated ship, that foundered with far 
 more precious freight on board than tin pans and folding- 
 chairs. 
 
 Punctual to her time on the Friday, Lady Henley was 
 there to receive her guests in her stiffest silks, laces, and 
 jewels, looking like some battered fetish out of a shrine, as 
 she sat at the head of the table. 
 
 Dolly came to dinner sorely against her will, but she was 
 glad she had come when she saw how Jonah brightened up, 
 
332 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ttnd when the poor little -wooden mother held up her fact 
 and kissed her. 
 
 Lady Henley said, ' How do you do ? ' to her guests, but 
 never spoke to any of them. It was a dreary feast. Robert 
 failed at the last moment, and they sat down to a table with 
 a gap where his place should have been. No one ate the 
 pie except Sir Thomas, who swallowed a little bit with a 
 gulp ; then he called for champagne, and his face turned 
 very red, and he looked hard at his son, and drank a long 
 draught. 
 
 Jonah quickly filled his glass, and muttered something 
 as he tossed it off. He had got his mother's hand under the 
 table in his long bony fingers. Lady Henley was sitting 
 staring fixedly before her. As Jonah drank their healths, 
 Norah gave a little gasp. Mr. Anley took snuflf. One of 
 the country neighbours, young Mr. Jack Redmayne, whom 
 JMiss Bell used to meet striding, riding, and walking round 
 about Smokethwaite, had begun a story about some cele- 
 brated mare ; he paused for an instant, then suddenly rally- 
 ing, went on and on with it, although nobody was listening, 
 not even Miss Bell. 
 
 ' I thought it best to go on talking,' he said afterwards. 
 'I hope they don't think it unfeeling. I'm sure I don't 
 know what I said. I put my horse a dozen times over the 
 same gate ; even old Firefly wouldn't stand such treatment.' 
 So the dinner went on ; the servants creaked about, and the 
 candles burnt bright, but no one could rally, and Lady 
 Henley was finally obliged to leave the table. 
 
 Immediately after dinner came old Sam with his cab, 
 and Dolly and her mother got up to go. 
 
 'I cannot think what possessed Joanna to give that 
 funeral-feast,' said Mrs. Palmer, as they were putting on 
 their cloaks. 
 
 ' Hush, mamma,' said Dolly, for Jonah was coming run- 
 
UNDER THS CLOCK-TOWER. 333 
 
 ning and tumbling downstairs breathless from his mother's 
 room. 
 
 ' Look here, Dolly,' he said : ' mother wants you to come 
 and see her to-morrow after I am gone, and don't let her 
 woriy too much, and would you please take this ? ' he said. 
 ' Please do.' 
 
 This was a pretty little crystal watch that he had bought 
 for her, and when Dolly hesitated and exclaimed, he added, 
 entreatingly, ' It is my wedding present. I thought in case 
 we never — I mean that I should like to give it to you 
 myself,' he said, 
 
 'Oh! Jonah,' Dolly answered in a low voice, 'perhaps I 
 may never want a wedding present.' 
 
 'Never mind, keep it,' said Jonah, staring at her hand, 
 ' and I'll look up Greorge the first thing. You know my 
 father has written to his colonel. Keep a good heart, Dolly; 
 we are all in the same boat.' 
 
 He stood watching the cab as it drove away under the stars. 
 
 Dolly was not thinking of Jonah any more. She saw 
 looking at all the passers-by, still hoping to see Eobert. 
 
 ' He ought to have come, mamma, this last night ? ' she 
 said. 
 
 ' My dear, do you ever expect a man to think of anything 
 but his own convenience ? ' said Mrs. Palmer, with great 
 emphasis. 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, why must one ever say good-by ? . said 
 Dolly, going on with her own thoughts. 
 
 ' I believe, even now he might persuade you to run off 
 with him,' said Mrs-. Palmer, laughing. ..... 
 
 It was over. He was gone. He had come and gone. 
 Dolly had both dreaded and longed to be alone with Eobert, 
 but her mother had persistently stayed in the room. It was 
 about four o'clock when he came, and Dolly left her aunt's bed- 
 
33-1 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 side and came down to the summons, and stood for an instant 
 at the drawing-room door. She could near his voice within. 
 She held the door-handle, as she stood dizzy and weary. She 
 thought of the Henleys parting from their son, and envied 
 them. Ah ! how much easier to part where love is a 
 certainty; and now this was the last time— and he was 
 going, and she loved him, and she had sent him away, and 
 he had never said one word of regret, nor promised once to 
 come back. 
 
 She had offered to set him free ; she had said she could 
 not leave them all. At this moment, in her heart, Dolly 
 felt as if she could have left them ; and as if Eobert, in 
 going and in ceasing to love her, was taking away all the 
 light and the strength of her life. He seemed to be making 
 into a certainty that which she had never believed until 
 now, and proving to her by his deeds that his words were 
 true, although she had refused to believe them. She had 
 given him a heart out of her own tender heart, a soul out of 
 her own loving imagination, and now where were her imagi- 
 nations ? Some dry blast seemed to her to be beating about 
 the place, choking her parched throat and drying her tears. 
 Her eyes were dull and heavy-lidded ; her face looked pale 
 and frightened as she opened the door and walked in. 
 'Dolly is so strong,' Mrs. Palmer was saying, 'she has 
 courage for us all. I do not fear for her.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is best as it is,' Henley answered a little 
 liuniedly. ' I shall go out solely with a view to making money, 
 and come home all the sooner. It is certainly better not to 
 disturb Lady Sarah with leave-takings.' 
 
 He looked up and saw Dolly coming across the room, 
 and was shocked by the girl's pale face. 
 
 'My dearest Dora,' said Henley, going to meet her, 
 ' how ill you look ; you would never have been fit for the 
 joiimey.' 
 
UNDER THE CLOCK-TOWER. 335 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' said Dolly. She was quite passive, and 
 let him hold her hand, but a cold shadow of bitterness 
 seemed to have fallen upon her. It was a chilly August day. 
 They had lit a small wood fire, and they now brought some 
 coffee to warm Eobert before he left, Eobert was very 
 much moved, for him. 
 
 He put down his coffee-cup untasted, and stood by the 
 tall chimney looking down into the fire. Then he looked at 
 his watch, and went up to his aunt and said good-by, and 
 then he came and stood opposite Dolly, who was by the 
 window, and looked her steadily in the face. She could not 
 look up, though she felt his eyes upon her, and he kissed 
 her. ' Grod bless you,' he said, deserting his post with a 
 prayer, as people do sometimes, and without looking back 
 once, he walked out of the room. 
 
 Eobert left the room. Dolly stood quite still where he 
 had left her ; she heard the servants' voices outside in the 
 hall, the carriage starting off, some one calling after it, biit 
 the wheels rolled on. She stood dully looking through the 
 window at some birds that were flying across the sky. There 
 (vere cloud heaps sailing, and dead leaves blowing along the 
 terrace, the bitter parching wind was still blowing. It was 
 not so mucn the parting as the manner of it. She had 
 thought it so simple to love and to be loved ; she had never 
 believed that a word would change him. Was it her fault ? 
 Had she been cold, unkind ? She was very young still, she 
 longed for one word of sympathy. She turned to hei 
 mother with a sudden impulse. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' she said, piteously. 
 
 « I cannot think how you can have been so hard-hearted, 
 Dolly,' said her mother. ' / could not have let him go alone. 
 How long the time will seem, poor fellow ! Yes, you have 
 been very tyrannical, Dolly.' 
 
 Was this all the comfort Mrs. Palmer had to give ? 
 
33f> OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Something seemed choking in Dolly's throat ; was it her 
 hard heart that was weighing so heavily ? 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, what could I do ? ' she said. ' I told him 
 he was free : he knows that I love him, but indeed he is 
 free.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer uttered an impatient exclamation. She had 
 been wandering up and down the room. She stopped short. 
 
 ' Free ! what do you mean. You have never said one 
 word to me. What have, you been about ? Do you mean 
 that he may never come back to you ? ' 
 
 But Dolly scarcely heard her mother's words. The door 
 had opened and some one came in. Never come back ? 
 This was Eobert himself who was standing there. He had 
 come to say one more farewell. He went straight up to her 
 and he caught her in his arms. ' There was just time,' he 
 said. ' Grood-by once more, dearest Dora ! ' It was but a 
 moment ; it was one of those moments that last for a life- 
 time. Dolly lived upon it for many a day to come. He 
 loved her, she thought to herself, or he would never have 
 come back to her, and if he loved her the parting had lost 
 iti) sting. 
 
C 33y ; 
 
 CHAPTEK XLI. 
 
 L BRING YOU THEEE LETTEHS 1 PEAT TOU READ ONE. 
 
 Nay, if you read this line, 
 Remember not the hand that writ it. 
 
 The partings were over. Dolly lived upon that last farewell 
 for many a day to come. Such moments are states, and not 
 mere measures of life. Everything else was sad enough. 
 Lady Sarah still lingered. Poor little Lady Henley in her 
 home in Dean's Yard was yellow and silent, and fierce in her 
 anxiety. What was it to her that Sebastopol was to fall 
 before the victorious armies if the price she had to pay was 
 the life of her son ? She kept up as best She could, but the 
 strain told upon her health and her temper. Sir Thomas 
 kept meekly out of the way. The servants trembled and 
 gave warning ; the daughters could not give warning. Woe 
 betide Norah if she were late for breakfast. Ill-fated Bell 
 used to make Tnal-apropos speeches, which were so sternly 
 vented upon her that she used to go off in tears to her 
 father. Sir Thomas himself was in an anxious, unsettled 
 state, coming and going from his desk, poring over maps 
 and papers, and the first of those awful broadsheets of fated 
 names overcame him completely. He burnt the paper, and 
 would not let it go upstairs ; but how keep out the lurid 
 gleam of Victory that was spreading over the country ? Her 
 flaming sword hung over all their heads by one single thread ; 
 it was the life of one man iagainst the whole campaign for 
 
 7 
 
338 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 many of them. Hoarse voices would come shouting and 
 shrieking in the streets; there was but one thought in 
 everybody's mind. All day long it seemed in the air, and a 
 nightmare in the darkness. Poor Sir Thomas had no heart 
 to go out, and used to sit gloomily in a little back study, 
 with a wire blind, and four pairs of boots, and The T'imiie 
 and a blotted cheque-book ; he determined at last to take 
 his wife home to Yorkshire again. There at least some 
 silence was to be found among the moors and the rocky 
 ridges, and some seeming of peace. 
 
 But for a long time Lady Henley refused to go. She 
 was nearer Jonah in London, she said. The post came in 
 one day sooner. It must have brought news to many an 
 anxious home. What letters they are, those letters written 
 twenty years ago, with numbed fingers, in dark tents, on 
 chill battle-fields, in hospital wards. All these correspon- 
 dents are well and in good heart, according to their own 
 accounts. They don't sufier much from their wounds ; they 
 don't mind the cold ; they think of the dear people at home, 
 and write to them after a weary night's watch, or a fierce 
 encounter, in the gentlest words of loving remembrance. 
 The dying man sends his love and a recommendation for. 
 some soldier's children or widow at home ; the strong man 
 18 ready to meet his fate, and is full of compassion for suffer- 
 ing. ' f am writing on poor 's sabretache. I am keeping 
 
 it for his brother at home,' says one. Another has been to 
 see his sick friend, and sends cheering accounts of his state. 
 Then, too, we may read, if we choose, the hearty, ill-spelt 
 correspondence of the common soldiers, all instinct with 
 the same generous and simple spirit. There are also the 
 proclamations of the generals. The French announce : ' The 
 hour is come to fight, to conquer, to triumph over the de- 
 moralised columns of the enemy. The enterprise is great 
 and worthy of their heroism. Providence appears to be on 
 
THREE LETTERS— I PRAY YOU READ ONE. 339 
 
 their side, as well as an immense armament of guns and 
 forces, and the high valour of their English allies and the 
 chosen forces of the Ottoman Empire. The noble confidence 
 of the generals is to pass into the souls of the soldiers.' At 
 the same time, as we read in the English correspondent'? 
 letter, Lord Baglan issues his memorandum, requesting Mr. 
 Commissary-Greneral Filder ' to take steps to insure that the 
 troops shall all be provided with a ration of porter for the 
 next few days.' 
 
 There is the record of it all in the old newspapers. Private 
 Vance's letters are not given, for Dolly kept them for her 
 own reading when they came at last. By the same mail 
 came news from the two last departing travellers. Marker, 
 who had brought in the letters one evening, waited in the 
 doorway. 
 
 ' Greorge ! ' cried Dolly, tearing her first envelope open, 
 and then half-laughing, half-crying, she read her letter out. 
 
 George seemed in good spirits. He wrote from Varna. 
 A previous packet must have been lost, for he said he had 
 written before. This was a cheerful and affectionate letter, 
 quite matter-of-fact, and with no complaints or railings at 
 fate. 
 
 ' I daresay people think me a great fool,' he said, « but, 
 on the whole, I don't regret what I have done, except for 
 any annoyance it may have caused you. If you and mamma 
 woiJd go to the Horse Guards and ask for a commission for 
 me, perhaps two such pretty ladies might mollify the 
 authorities. They say commissions are not difficult to get 
 just now. I shall consult the colonel about it ; I am to ses 
 him again in a day or two. I don't know why I did not 
 speak to him just now when he sent for me.' Then he went 
 on to say that his Bulbul scholarship had stood him in good 
 service, and his little Turkish had been turned to account. 
 He had already passed as second-class interpreter, and be 
 
340 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 had got hold of some books and was getting on. ' This is 
 the reason why the Colonel sent for me yesterday morning. 
 I am Private Vance, remember, only just out of the awkward 
 squad. Our Colonel is a grand old man, with bright eagle 
 eyes, and the heroic manner. He is like one of your 
 favourite heroes. Do you remember Aunt Sarah's talking of 
 David Fane, our father's old friend? When I found out 
 who he was I felt very much inclined to tell him my real 
 name. He said to me at once, " I see you are not exactly 
 what you appear to be. If you will come to me in a day or 
 two I shall be glad to talk to you about your prospects ; in 
 the meanwhile don't forget what a good influence one man 
 of good education and feeling can exert in the ranks of a 
 regiment." Old Fane himself is no bad specimen of a true 
 knight ; we all feel the better for knowing him. He walks 
 with a long swift stride like a deer, tossing his head as he 
 goes. I have never seen him in battle, but I can imagine 
 him leading his men to victory, and I am glad of the chance 
 which has given me such a leader. I wish there were more 
 like him. Tell Baban, if you see him, that I am getting on 
 very well, and that, far from being a black sheep here, no 
 lambskin can compare with my pipe-clay.' Then came 
 something erased. ' Dearest DoUy, you don't know what 
 your goodness has been to me all this time. I hope Eobert 
 appreciates his good luck. This will reach you about the 
 time of your wedding-day. I will send you a little Russian 
 belt when I can find an opportunity. My love to them all, 
 and be kind to Rhoda, for the sake of your most affectionate 
 
 ' G. V.' 
 
 There was a P.S, 
 
 ' I forgot to ask you when I last wrote whether you got ' 
 the letter I wrote you at Cambridge, and if old Miller gave 
 you my packet. I bought the form in the town as I walked 
 down to the boats ; it all seems a horrid dream as I think 
 
THREE LETTERS— I PRAY YOU READ ONE. 341 
 
 of it now, and I am very much ashamed of that whole 
 business ; and yet I should like to leave matters as they are, 
 dear, and to feel that I have done my best for that poor little 
 girl. My love to old John ; tell him to write. There has 
 been a good deal of sickness here, but the worst is over.' 
 
 The paper trembled in Dolly's hand as she dwelt upon 
 every crooked line and twist of the dear handwriting that 
 wrote ' Greorge is safe.' 
 
 ' I told you all along it was absurd to make such a dis- 
 turbance about him. You see he was enjoying himself 
 with his common associates,' said Mrs. Palmer crossly. 
 ' Strangely peculiar,' she added after a moment. ' Dolly, 
 
 did it ever occur to you that the dear boy was a little ? ' 
 
 and she tapped her fair forehead significantly. 
 
 ' He was only unliappy, mamma, but you see he is getting 
 better now,' said Dolly. 
 
 The next time Dolly saw Ehoda she ran up and kissed 
 her, looking so kind that Ehoda was quite surprised and 
 wondered what had happened to make Dolly so nice again. 
 
343 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 RACHEL. 
 
 Shepherd, what's lore, I pray thee teli t 
 It is that fountain and that well 
 Where pleasvire and repentance dwell , 
 It is perhaps that savmcing bell 
 That tolls all into heaven or hell. 
 And this is love as I heard tell. 
 
 It was not only in the hospitals at Varna that people were 
 anxious and at work at the time when Greorge wrote. While 
 the English ships were embarking their stores and their 
 companies, their horses and their battalions, transporting 
 theiil through surf and through storm to the shores of the 
 fierCe Russian Empire ; while Eastern hospitals were 
 organising their wards, niurses preparing to start on their 
 ertand ; while generals were sitting in council, — an enemy 
 had attacked us at home in the very heart of our own great 
 citadel and store place, and the peaceful warriors sent to 
 combat this deadly foe are fighting their own battles. 
 Cholera was the name of the enemy, and among those who 
 had been expecting the onslaught, haranguing, driving 
 companies of somewhat reluctant officials, good old John 
 Morgan had been one of the most prominent. His own 
 district at Kensington was well armed and prepared, but 
 John Morgan's life at Kensington was coming to an end, 
 and he had accepted a certain small living in the city called 
 St. Mary Outh'gate, of which the rector was leaving after five 
 or six years' hard work. ' It is a case of bricks without 
 
RACHEL. 343 
 
 BXravv-,' said the poor worn-out rector. Morgan was full of 
 courage and ready to try his hand. Mrs. Morgan, with a 
 sigh given to the old brown house and its comfortable cup- 
 'joards, had agreed to move goods and chattels shortly into 
 the dark little rectory in the City court, with its iron^tes 
 and its one smutty tree. To the curate's widow and mothei 
 there was an irresistible charm in the thought of a rectory. 
 
 St. Mary Outh'gate was a feeble saint, and unable to pro- 
 tect her votaries from the evil effects of some open sewers 
 and fish-heaps when the cholera broke out — at John's 
 request the move was delayed. The girls remained at Ken- 
 sington, while Mrs. Morgan travelled backwards and forwards 
 between the homes. Every day the accounts grew more and 
 more serious, and in the month of September the mortality 
 had reached its height. 
 
 John's new parish of St. Mary Outh'gate lies on the river 
 side of a great thoroughfare, of which the stream of carts 
 and wheels rolls by from sunrise until the stars set. The 
 rectory-house stood within its iron gates, in a court at the end 
 of a narrow passage. The back of the house looked Into a 
 cross lane leading to the river. The thoroughfare itself was 
 squalid, crowded, bare ; there was nothing picturesque about 
 it ; but in the side streets were great warehouse cranes start- 
 ing from high windows, and here and there some relic ot 
 past glories. Busy to-day had forgotten some old doorway 
 perhaps, or left some garden or terrace-wall, or some old 
 banqueting-room still standing. It had swept the guests 
 into the neighbouring churchyards on its rapid way. To-day 
 was in a fierce and reckless mood : at home and abroad were 
 anxious people watching the times, others were too busy to 
 be anxious. John was hard at work and untiring. He had 
 scarcely had time to unpack his portmanteau and to put up 
 his beloved books and reports. His start had been a dispirit- 
 ing one. People had been dying by scores in the little lane 
 
344 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 at the back of the rectory. Mrs. Morgan herself fell ill of 
 anxiety and worry, and had to go home. It must be con- 
 fessed that the cares of the move and. the capabilities of the 
 drawing-room carpet added not a little to the poor lady's 
 distress. Betty remained to take care of her master, and to 
 give him her mind. John bore the old woman's scolding 
 with great sweetness of temper. ' You do your work, Betty, 
 and let me do mine,' said he. He had taken in two profes- 
 sional nurses after his mother left, and his curate, whose 
 landlady had died of the prevailing epidemic. The two men 
 worked with good will. John came, went, preached, fumed, 
 wrote letters to TAe Times. PYank, who was in town, came 
 to see him one day. He found the curate in good spirits. 
 Things were beginning to look a little less dark, and John 
 was one of those who made the best of chance lights. He 
 received his friend heartily, wheeled his one arm-chair up for 
 him, and lit a pipe in his honour. The two sat talking in 
 the old bare black room leading into the court. John gave 
 a short account of his month's work. 
 
 ' It's over now — at least, the worst is over,' he said, ' and 
 the artisans are at work again. It's the poor little 6liop7 
 keepers I pity, they have lost everything — health, savings, 
 customers — they are quite done up. However, I have a 
 friend in the neighbourhood to whom I go, and Lady Sarah 
 heard of my letter to The, Times and sent me fifty pounds 
 for them the other day. Dolly brought it herself. I was 
 sorry to see her looking worn, poor dear. I think it is a pity 
 that Mrs. Palmer takes so very desponding a view of her 
 daughter's prospects. Dolly seemed disinclined to speak on 
 the subject, so I did not press her, and we all know,' said the 
 curate, in a constrained sort of voice, 'that Henley is a 
 high-minded man, his good judgment, and sense of . . . .' 
 
 ' His own merit,' said Eaban, testily. ' What a thing it 
 18 to have a sense of one's own virtue. He will get on ip 
 
RACHEL. 345 
 
 India, he will get on in every quarter of the world, he will 
 go to heaven and be made an archangel. He has won a 
 prize already that he does not know how to value at its 
 worth, and never will as long as he lives.' 
 
 John Morgan looked very much disturbed. ' I am very 
 sorry to hear you say this. Tell me as a friend, when Mrs. 
 Palmer declares the engagement is broken off, do you really 
 think there is any fear of . . . . ' 
 
 P^rank jumped up suddenly. 
 
 ' Broken off ! ' he cried, trying to hide his face of supreme 
 satisfaction, and he began walking up and down the room. 
 ' Does she say so ? ' 
 
 The dismal little room seemed suddenly illumined ; the 
 smoky court, the smutty-tree, the brown opposite foggy 
 houses were radiant. Frank could not speak. His one 
 thought was to see Dolly, to find out the truth ; he hardly 
 heard the rest of the curate's sentence. ' I have been so 
 busy,' he was saying, ' that I have scarcely had one minute 
 to think about it all ; but I love Dolly dearly, she is a noble 
 creature, and I should heartily grieve to hear that anything 
 had occurred to trouble her. Are you going already ? ' 
 
 There is a little well of fresh water in Kensington 
 Gardens, sparkling among the trees, and dripping into a 
 stone basin. A few stone steps lead down to the lion's head, 
 from whence the slender stream drips drop by drop into the 
 basin; the children and the birds, too, come and drink 
 there. Somewhere near this well a fairy Prince was once 
 supposed to hold his court. The glade is lovely in summer, 
 and pleasant in autumn, especially late in the day, when the 
 shadows are growing long, and the stems of the murmurous 
 elm-trees shine with western gold. 
 
 Frank Raban was crossing from the high-road towards 
 the Palace gate, and he was walking with a long shadow of 
 
345 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 his own, when he chanced to see a nymph standing by the 
 railing and waiting while the stream trickled into the cup 
 below. As he passed she looked up, their eyes met, and 
 Frank stopped short, for the nymph was that one of which 
 he had been thinking as he came along — Dorothea of tht 
 pale face and waving bronze hair. 
 
 As he stopped Eliza came up the steps of the well, 
 bringing her young mistress the glass ; it was still very wet 
 with the spray of the water, and Dolly, smiling, held it out 
 to Raban, who took it with a bow from her hand. It was 
 more than he had ever hoped, to meet her thus alone at the 
 moment when he wanted to see her, to be greeted so kindly, 
 so silently. No frowning Robert was in the background, 
 only Eliza waiting with her rosy face, while Dolly stood 
 placid in the sloping light, in the sunset, and the autumn. 
 Her broad feathered hat was pushed back, her eyes were 
 alight. 
 
 ' I am so glad to see you,' she said. ' You have heard 
 oiir good news from Greorge ? it came, two nights ago. My 
 aunt has been asking for you, Mr. Eaban. What have yon 
 been doing all this time ? ' 
 
 ' I have been at Cambridge,' said Frank. ' I am only 
 up in town for two days ; I was afraid of being in your way. 
 Is everybody gone ? Are you alone ? How is Lady Sarah ? ' 
 
 ' She is better, I think. I am going back to her now,' 
 said Dolly. ' I came here with Eliza to get her some of this 
 chalybeate water. Will you come with me part of the way 
 home ? ' 
 
 Of course he would come. He was engaged to dine at 
 the club, and his hosts never forgave him for failing ; he had 
 letters to answer and they remained on the table. He had 
 left John Morgan in a hurry, too much excited by the news 
 lie had heard to smoke out his pipe in tranquillity, but here 
 was peace under the chestnut-trees where the two shadows 
 
KACHEL. 347 
 
 were falling side by side and lengthening as the world heaved 
 towards the night. 
 
 As they were walking along Frank began telling Dollj 
 about a second letter he had received from his grand- 
 father ; he could never resist the wish to tell her all about 
 himself ; even if she did not care to hear, he liked to tell 
 her. 
 
 ' I am in an uncertain state of mind,' he said. ' Since I 
 saw you my grandfather has taken me into favour again : 
 after these seven years he offers me Leah. He wants me to 
 give up driving young gentlemen and to take to sheep-shear- 
 ing and farming and a good allowance. He writes to me 
 from Harrogate. I should have a house and serve in bondage, 
 and live upon him, and rescue him from the hands of the 
 agents who now perform that office very effectually,' said 
 Eaban, dryly. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' said Dolly, looking at him 
 doubtfully. 
 
 ' This is what I mean,' said Frank ; ' I cannot forget how 
 badly the old people used me, and how for seven years they 
 have left me to shift for myself. I have always failed in 
 ambition. I shall never win Eachel,' he said, ' and I want 
 nothing else that anybody can give me ; and what is the use 
 of putting my head under the tyrannic old yoke ? ' 
 
 ' It is so difiBcult to be just,' Dolly answered, leading the 
 way under the trees. ' When I try to think of right and 
 wrong it all seems to turn into people and what they wish 
 and what I would like to do for them. I wonder if some 
 people can love by rule ? And yet love must be the best 
 rule, mustn't it ? and if yom- poor old grandfather is sorry 
 and begs you to go to him, it seems cruel to refuse.' 
 
 She seemed to be speaking in tune to some solemn strain 
 of music which was floating in the air. 
 
 Frank was looking at the ground, and without raising 
 
340 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 bis eyes he presently said, — ' Well, I suppose you are right ; 
 I shall take your advice and give up the dry crust of liberty 
 and try to be content with cakes and ale ; such strong ale, 
 Miss Vanborough, such heavy cakes,' he added, looking at 
 her absently. 
 
 Dolly blushed up, hesitated : she was rather frightened 
 by the responsibility Frank seemed to put upon her. 
 
 ' Could not you ask some one else ? ' she said, confusedly. 
 •Perhaps Eachel,' she added, not without a little jealous 
 pang, lest Rachel might be Rhoda, and her poor boy's last 
 chance undone. 
 
 The light seemed to come from Eaban's dark eyes. ' I 
 have, asked Rachel,' he said, in a low voice that seemed to 
 thrill clear and distinct on her ears. ' Is it possible ? do 
 you not know it ? Is not your name Rachel to me ? are you 
 not the only Rachel in the whole world for me ? I never 
 thought I should tell you this,' cried Frank, 'until just now, 
 when I heard from John Morgan that you were free ; but 
 now, whatever your answer may be, I tell you, that you may 
 know that you are the one only woman whom I shall ever 
 love. My dear, don't look finghtened, don't turn away. 
 Robert Henley never loved you as I do.' 
 
 His coldness was gone ; his half sarcastic, half sulky, 
 careless manner was gone. It had given way to a sort of 
 tender domiuEiition ; the real generous fire of truth and un- 
 selfish love, that belonged to the man and had always been 
 in him, seemed to flash out. The music stiU clanged on, 
 solemnly jarring with his words. Dolly turned pale and 
 cold. 
 
 ' I am not free ; it has all been a mistake,' she said, very 
 quickly. ' You must not speak to me of Robert like that.' 
 
 His face changed. ' Are you still engaged to him ? ' he 
 asked, looking at her steadily. 
 
 * 1 promised to wait for him, and you have no right to 
 
RACHEL. 34(j 
 
 ask me anything at all,' she cried, turning upon him. ' Oh, 
 why did you — how can you speak to me so ? ' She spoke 
 vehemently, passionately. 
 
 He was silent ; but she had answered his eyes, not his 
 spoken words. He saw that her eyes were full of tears. He 
 had read her too carefully to have had much hope. He saw 
 that she was overpowered, that she was hound to Kobert 
 still, that hia wild dream of happiness was but a vision. 
 It was no new revelation to him. ' You might have guessed 
 it all long ago,' said he, shortly. ' But you would not under- 
 stand me before, when I tried to tell you that I loved you. 
 Now you know all,' he said, with a sigh. ' Forget it if you 
 like.' 
 
 He would have left her, but Eliza had disappeared, and 
 a crowd of people were gathered outside the gate, roughr 
 looking Irish among them from the buildings opposite. A 
 military funeral was passing by, the music had ceased, and 
 the soldiers went tramping down the street in a long and 
 solemn line ; the slow fall of their feet struck upon the 
 hard road and echoed with a dull throb. People were looking 
 on in silence and crowding to the windows and in the door- 
 ways. As the dead man's horse was led by with the empty 
 saddle and the boots swinging from the side, Dolly turned 
 away pale and trembling, and Eaban was glad then he had 
 not left her. She put out her hand for a moment. She 
 seemed blinded and scared. 
 
 Then she recovered herself quickly, and when the crowd 
 gave way, she walked on in silence by his side until they 
 came to the turning that led to the old house. ' Thank you,' 
 she said, a little tremulously. ' Forgive me if I spoke 
 harshly ; it was best to tell you the truth.' 
 
 Baban had meant to leave her without a word : now he 
 suddenly changed his mind. He held out his hand. 
 
 ' Grood-by, Rachel,' he said, still looking at her with 
 
330 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 silent reproach. ' Do not fear that I shall trouble and annoy 
 you again ; it would be hard to take your friendship and 
 confidence away from me because of John Morgan's mistake.' 
 ' How can you be my friend ? ' cried poor Dolly suddenly, 
 passionate and angry once more. ' Leave me now — only go 
 please go.' 
 
 Henley would have been satisfied if he had been present. 
 Frank walked away, bitterly hurt and wounded ; she 
 seemed to resent his love as if it had been an insult. He was 
 disappointed in Dolly, in life ; the light was gone out, that 
 one flash of happiness had shown him his own disappointment 
 all the more plainly. We don't hope, and yet our hearts sink 
 with disappointment : we expect nothing, but that nothing 
 overwhelms us. And meanwhile life is going on, and death, 
 and the many interests and changes of mortals coming and 
 going on their journey through space. When Frank got 
 back to Cambridge he found a telegram summoning him at 
 once to Harrogate. It was sent by some unknown person. 
 
 People part — each carries away so much of the other's 
 life ; very often the exchange is a hard-driven bargain, 
 willingly paid indeed, which the poor debtor is in no inclina- 
 tion to resent : — a whole heart's fidelity and remembrance in 
 sleepless nights, tendered prayers and blessings, and exchange 
 for a little good grammar, a pleasant recollection, and some 
 sand and ink and paper, all of which Dolly duly received that 
 evening. All day long she had been haunted by that little 
 scene at the well ; it seemed to bring her nearer to Henley, 
 and his letter came as an answer to her thoughts. George's 
 letter had been for them all. Eobert's was for herself alone, 
 and she took it up to her room to read. 
 
 Eoberts letter was not very short : it was sufficiently 
 stamped : it said all that had to be said ; and yet, ' How 
 unreasonable I am 1 how can men feel as women do ? ' 
 thought Dolly, kissing thfi letter to make up for her passing 
 
KACHEL. 351 
 
 i^isappointinent. Theu came a thought, but she put it away 
 with a sort of anger and indignation. She would not let her- 
 self think of Frank with pity or sympathy. It seemed disloyal 
 to Robert to be sorry for the poor tut 01. 
 
 Lady Henley also received a blotted scrawl from Jonah 
 by that same post, and she made up her mind at last to go 
 home, and she sent the brougham for Dolly and her mother 
 to come and wish her good- by. On her first arrival Dolly 
 was pounced upon by her cousins and taken in to Sir 
 Thomas. When she came upstairs at last, she found her 
 aunt and her mother in full committee, apparently on good 
 terms, and with their heads close together. The little lady 
 was upon the sofa. Mrs. Palmer was upon the floor, in a 
 favourite attitude. There only could she find complete rest, 
 she said. Lady Henley had a great heap of Jonah's clothes 
 upon the sofa beside her ; she had been folding them up and 
 marking them with her own hands. The drawing-room 
 seemed full of the sound of the bells from the towers outside, 
 and autumn leaves were dropping before the windows. 
 
 ' Come here,' said Lady Henley, holding out her hand to 
 Dolly. ' I have been talking to your mother about you. 
 Look at her — as if there were no chairs in the room 1 I 
 wanted to show you Jonah's letter. Foolish boy, he sends you 
 his love ! I don't know why I should give the message. You 
 know you don't care for him, Dolly. Have you heard from 
 Eobert? Is he properly heart-broken? ' with a sort of hoarse 
 laugh. - Jonah mentions that he seems in very good spirits'.' 
 Then Lady Henley became agitated. Dolly stood silent and 
 embarrassed. ' Why don't you answer,' said her aunt, quite 
 fiercely. ' You can't answer ; you can't show us his letter ; you 
 know in yoiur heart that it has been a foolish affair. Your 
 mother has told me all.' 
 
 Lady Henley was flushed and getting more and more 
 excited, and, at the same time, Philippa gave one of her 
 
352 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 silvery laughs, and starting actively to her feet, came and 
 put her arm round Dolly's waist. 
 
 ' All ! no, indeed, Joanna. Delightful creature as he is, 
 Robert tells one nothing. Forgive me, dearest, it is a fact. 
 He really seemed quite to forget what was due to me, a lady 
 in her own drawing-room, when he said good-by to you. I 
 only mention it, for he is not generally so emprease, and if 
 lie had only explained himself ' 
 
 ' What have you been saying, mamma ? ' said Dolly, 
 blushing painfully. ' There is nothing to explain.' 
 
 ' There is everything to explain,' burst in Lady Henley 
 from her corner ; ' and if you were my own daughter, Dolly, 
 I should think it my duty to remonstrate with you, and to 
 tell you frankly what I have always said from the beginning. 
 There never was the slightest chance of Viappiness in this 
 entanglement for either of you ; take the advice of an older 
 woman than yourself. Eobert has no more feeling for you 
 than — than — a fish, or do you think he would consent to be 
 free ? Ah I if you were not so blinded. . . There is one 
 honest heart,' she said, incoherently, breaking down for an 
 instant. She quickly recovered, however, and Dolly, greatly 
 distressed, stood looking at her, but she could not respond ; if 
 ever she had swerved, her faithful heart had now fully returned 
 to its first allegiance. All they said seemed only to make her 
 feel more aiid more how entirely her mind was made up. 
 
 'Eobert and I understand each other quite well,' said 
 Dolly, gravely. ' I wish him to be free. It is my doing, not 
 his ; please don't speak of this to me^ or to any one else 
 again.' 
 
 She had promised to herself to be faithful, whatever 
 came. Her whole heart had gone after Eobert as he left 
 her. She knew that she loved him. With all her humility, 
 the thought that she had made a mistake in him had been 
 painful beyond measure. It seemed to her now that she wap 
 
RACHEL. 353 
 
 answerable for his faith, for his loyalty, and she eagerly 
 grasped at every shadow of that which she hoped to find in 
 him. 
 
 She walked away to the window to hide her own gather- 
 ing tears. The bells had come to an end suddenly. Some 
 children were playing in the middle of the road and pur- 
 suing one another, and a stray organ-man, seeing a lady at 
 the window, pulled out his stop and struck up a dreary tune 
 — 'Partant pour la Syrie, le jeune et beau Dunois.' It was 
 the tune of those times, but Dolly could never hear it after- 
 wards without a sickening dislike. Dolly, hearing the door 
 bang, turned round at last. 
 
 ' My dear Dolly, she is gone— she is in a passion — she 
 will never forgive you,' said Philippa, coming up in great 
 excitement. 
 
 But she was mistaken. Lady Henley sent Dolly a little 
 note that very evening : — 
 
 My Deab, — I was very angry with you to-day. Perhaps I was wrong to be 
 angry. I will not say forgive an old woman for speaking the tnith ; it is only 
 what you deserve. You must come and see us when you can in Yorkshire. 
 We all feel you belong to us now. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Joanna Henley. 
 
 P.S. — 1 see in this evening's paper that our poor old neighbours at Eaveng- 
 rick died at Harrogate within a day of one another. I suppose your friend 
 Frank Baban comes into the property. 
 
 A k. 
 
354 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIII. 
 
 CRAQS AND FRESH MB. 
 
 My prayers with this I used to charge ; 
 
 A piece of land not very large, 
 
 Wherein there should a garden be ; 
 
 A clear spring flowing ceaselessly ; 
 
 And where, to crown the whole, there should 
 
 A patch be found of growing wood. 
 
 All this and more the gods have sent. 
 
 — Horace : T. Mahtim. 
 
 The old town of Pebblesthwaite, in Yorkshire, slides down 
 the side of a hill into the hollow. Eocks overtop the town- 
 hall, and birds flying from the crags can look straight down 
 into the greystone streets, and upon the flat roofs of the 
 squat houses. Pebblesthwaite lies in the heart of Craven, — 
 a country little known, and not yet within the tramp of the 
 feet of the legions. It is a district of fresh winds and rocky 
 summits, of thymy hill-sides, and of a quaint and arid 
 sweetness. The rocks, the birds, the fresh rush of the moun- 
 tain streams as they dash over the stones, strike Southerners 
 most curiously. We contrast this pleasant turmoil with the 
 sleepy lap of our weed-laden waters, the dull tranquillity of 
 our fertile plains. If we did not know that we are but a 
 day's journey from our homes, we might well wonder and ask 
 ourselves in what unknown country we are wandering. 
 Strange-shaped hills heave suddenly from the plains ; others, 
 rising and flowing tumultuously, line the horizon : overhead 
 great clouds are advancing, heaped in massive lines against a 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 355 
 
 blue and solid sky. These clouds rise with the gusts of a 
 sudden wind that blows into Frank Eaban's face as he comes 
 jogging through the old town on his way to the house, from 
 which he had been expelled seven years before, and to which 
 be was now returning as master. Smokethwaite is the 
 metropolis of Pebblesthwaite, near which is Eavensrick. The 
 station is on a little branch line of rail, starting off from the 
 main line towards these rocks and crags of Craven. 
 
 Frank had come down with the. Henleys, and seen them 
 all driving off in the carriages and carts that had come down 
 to meet them from the Court. Nothing had come for him, 
 and he had walked to the inn and ordered the trap. 
 
 ' Where art goin' ? ' shouts a pair of leather-gaiters 
 btanding firm upon the doorstep of an old arched house 
 opposite. 
 
 ' Eavensrick Coiu-t,' says the driver. 
 ' 'Tis a blustering day,' says old leather-gaiters. 
 The driver cracks his whip, and begins to do the honours 
 of Pebblesthwaite as the horse clatters over the stones. ' Do 
 ye ken t' shambles ? ' he says, pointing to an old arched 
 building overtopped by a gres^t crag. 
 
 ' I know it as well as you do,' says Frank, smiling. 
 Can it be seven years since he left ? Eaban looks about j 
 every stone and every pane of glass seems familiar. The 
 town was all busy and awake. The farmers, sturdy, crop- 
 headed, with baskets on their arms, were chattering and 
 selling, standing in groups, or coming in and out of shops 
 and doorways, careful as any housewives over their pur- 
 chases. There were strange stores — shoes, old iron, £sh, all 
 heaped together ; seven years older than when the last 
 market-day Frank was there, but none the worse for that. 
 There was the old auctioneer, in his tall, battered hat, dis- 
 posing of his treasures. He was holding up a horse's yoke to 
 competition. ' Three shillin' ! four shillin'!' says he. The 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 people crowd and gape round. One fellow, in a crimson 
 waistcoat, driving past in a donkey-cart, stops short and 
 stares hard at the trap and at Raban. Frank knew him, and 
 nodded with a smile. Two more stumpy leather-gaiters, 
 greeting each other, looked up as he drove by, and grinned. 
 He remembered them too. There was the old Quaker, in his 
 white neckcloth, standing at the door of his handsome old 
 shop ; and Squire Anley, walking along to the bank, all 
 dressed from head to foot in loose grey clothes, with his bull- 
 terrier at his heels. And then they drove out into the 
 straight country roads, under the bridge between stone 
 hedges, beyond which the late flames of summer green were 
 still gleaming, — the meadows still shone with spangling 
 autumn flowers. Far away in the hollow hung the smoke of 
 the factory, with its many windows ; a couple of tall chim- 
 neys spouted blackness ; a train was speeding northward ; 
 close at hand a stream was dashing ; the great trees seemed 
 full of birds. It was a different world from that in which he 
 had been basking. Frank already felt years younger as he 
 drove along the road, — ^the old boyish impulses seemed wait- 
 ing at every turn. ' Why, there goes old Brand,' he cried, 
 leaning forward eagerly to look after an old keeper, with a 
 couple of dogs, walking oflf with a gun towards the hills. 
 
 Frank called after the keeper, but the wind carried away 
 his voice. As he drove along by each stile and corner that 
 seemed to have awaited his coming, he suddenly thought of 
 his talk with Dorothea. She had been cruelly hard to him, 
 but he was glad to think now that he had followed her 
 advice about forgiveness of injuries, and made an advance 
 to the poor old people who were now gone. It would have 
 been absurd to pretend to any great sorrow for their death. 
 They had lived their life and shown him little kindness 
 while it lasted. It was a chance now that brought him 
 back to Eavensrick agam. 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 357 
 
 He had written an answer to his grandfather's lettei and 
 accepted his offer, but the only answer which ever came to 
 this was the telegram summoning him to Harrogate. It 
 had been delayed on the way ; and as he went down in the 
 train, the first thing he saw was a paragraph in The Times, — 
 ' At the Mitre Hotel, Harrogate, on the 28th instant, John 
 Raban, Esq., of Eavensrick, Pebblesthwaite, aged 86 ; and 
 on the following day, Antonia, widow of the above John 
 Raban, Esq., aged 75.' The old squire had gone to Harro- 
 gate for the benefit of his health, but he had died quite 
 suddenly; and the poor lady to whom he had left every- 
 thing, notwithstanding his injunctions and elaborate direc- 
 tions as to her future disposal of it, sank the night after his 
 death, unable to struggle through the dark hours. 
 
 And then came confusion, undertakers, lawyers, and 
 agents, in the midst of which some one thought of sending 
 for Frank. He was the old couple's one grandson, and the 
 old lady had left no will. So the tutor came in for the 
 savings of their long lives — the comfortable old house, 
 the money in the bank, the money in the funds, the ox and 
 the ass, and the man-servant and the maid-servant, who had 
 had their own way for so many years past, and preyed upon 
 the old couple with much fidelity. They all attended the 
 funeral in new suits of mourning ordered by the agent. 
 Frank recognised many of them. There was the old house- 
 keeper who used to box his ears as a little boy ; the butler 
 who used to complain of him. He was oppressed by all 
 these yards of black cloth and these dozens of white pocket- 
 handkerchiefs ; and he let them return alone to Eavensrick, 
 and followed in the course of a day or two. 
 
 There are harsh words and unkind judgments in life, 
 but what a might of nature, of oblivion and distraction is 
 arrayed in battle against them ; daylight, lamplight, sounds 
 of birds and animals come in between, and turn the slander, 
 
358 OLD KENSTNGTON. 
 
 the ill-spoken sentence and its fierce retort from its path. 
 What do harsh words matter that -were spoken a week ago ? 
 Seven days' sunshine have brightened since then. "While T 
 am railing at false friends and harsh interpretations, the 
 clematis' flowers have starred the wavering curtain of green 
 that shades my window from the light ; the old Norman 
 steeple has clanged the blue hours, the distant flow of the 
 sea has reached me, with a sound of the twitter of birds in 
 accompaniment. Is it six months ago since A. judged B. 
 unkindly ? A. and B., walking by the opal light of the 
 distant horizon, are thinking no more of coldness and 
 unkindness, but of the fresh sweetness of the autumnal 
 sea. 
 
 As Frank comes driving along the well-known road, and 
 the fresh blustering winds blow into his face, past unkind- 
 ness matters little, every gust sends it farther away. He 
 thinks, with a vague sense of pity, of a poor little ghost that 
 used to run hiding and sihrinking away in dark comers, a 
 little fatalist doomed to break windows, slam doors, and 
 leave gates ajar, through which accusing geese, sheep, 
 ponies would straggle to convict him. He used to think 
 they were all in one league against him. Twice a week on 
 an average he was led up into his grandfather's study, to be 
 cross-examined and to criminate himself hopelessly before 
 that inexorable old judge : — a handsome old man with 
 ■ flowing white locks and a grand manner and opinion upon 
 every subject. If old Mrs, Raban generally supplied the 
 opinions, the language was the Squire's own. Mrs. Baban 
 had been a spoiled old beauty, rouged and frizzed and 
 rustling; she disliked every one who interfered with her 
 own importance. She adored her husband, and was jealous 
 of him to the last. Some chance speech had set her against 
 the poor little ' heir ' as some one called him, and she had 
 decreed that he was a naughty and stupid little boy and waa 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 359 
 
 fco be kept in his place. There rises Frank's little doppel- 
 ganger before him, hanging his head, convicted of having 
 broken the carriage-window, or some such offence ; there 
 sits the old judge in his arm-chair by the library-table, 
 dignified, stately, uttering magnificent platitudes, to which 
 the ancestor in the cauliflower wig is listening with deep 
 attention. Frank seems to hear the echo of his voice and 
 the rustle of his grandmother's dress as she leaves the room : 
 but the horse starts, a partridge scuffles across the road, and 
 he comes back to the present again. 
 
 ' Yan goes,' says the driver, excitedly, standing up on 
 his box. Then they pass a little tumbledown village, and 
 there at a turn of the road rise the chimneys of Eavensrick, 
 and Pen-y-ghent rearing its huge back behind them, and 
 the iron gates, and the old avenue, and the crows flying, 
 whirling, dancing, sliding in twos and threes and twenties- 
 bow often the little doppelganger had watched their mystic 
 dance. Had it been going on for seven years ? 
 
 * There's t' Court,' said Frank's companion — a good- 
 humoured, talkative man. ' T' owd Squire, he were res- 
 pectit, but he let things go.' As he spoke they were passing 
 by a cottage with a broken roof and a generally dilapidated, 
 half-patched look; a ragged woman was standing at the 
 door, two wild-looking children were rolling in the dust ; 
 at the same time a man on horseback, coining the contrary 
 way, rode past them on the road. The driver touched his 
 cap, the woman disappeared into the house. 
 
 ' That's Thomas Close, t' agent,' said Frank's companion. 
 
 Frank, looking back as the carriage turned, saw a curious 
 little scene. One of the children, who was standing in the 
 road, suddenly stamped and clenched his little fist at the 
 agent as he passed. The man reined in his horse, leant 
 back, and cut at the child with his whip ; the little boy, 
 howling, ran into th« cottage. 
 
3^0, OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Frank asked the driver what he knew of the people in 
 the cottage. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders. ' Mai7 Styles she is 
 queer in her ways,' said he: 'i' t' habit o' snuffin' and 
 drinkin'. Joe Styles he follows t' Squire's cart ; t' agent 
 give him notice la-ast Monday — he wer' down at our ya-ard 
 wantin' work, poor chap,' said the man, with a crack of the 
 whip. 'Thomas Close he says he will have nought nor 
 bachelors upon t' farm. He's a ' 
 
 ' Stop,' said Frank : ' I'll get down here : take my 
 portmanteau to the front door and tell them to pay you, 
 and say that — a — I am coming.' 
 
 The man stared, and suddenly gave a low whistle as ht 
 drove off. Meanwhile the new Squire walked up by the 
 back way. He crossed the kitchen-garden and got on to 
 the terrace. How well he knew the way ; the lock of the 
 gate was easier than it used to be — ^the walls were greenei 
 9-nA thicker with leaves and trellis. The old couple were 
 coming back no more, but the beds they had planted were 
 bright with Michaelmas daisies and lilies, and crimson and 
 golden berries with purple leaves were heaping the terrace, 
 where a man was at work snipping at the overgrowth of the 
 box hedges. There was the iron scrolled gate through 
 which you could see the distant view of Pen-y-ghent. 
 There was the old summer-house, where he once kept a 
 menagerie of snails, until they were discovered by Miss 
 lyieal, his grandmother's companion. Coming out of the 
 garden he found himself face to face with the long rows ot 
 doors and of windows — ^those deadly enemies of his youth ; 
 a big brown dog, like a fox, with a soft skin and a friendly 
 nose, came trotting up with a friendly expression. It 
 followed Frank along the back passage leading straight into 
 ^he hall : it was one of those huge stone halls such as people 
 in Yorkshire like. The man in armour stcJod keeping watch 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 361 
 
 m his corner — the lantern swung, every chair was in its 
 place, and the old man's hat and his dogskin gloves lay 
 ready for him on the oak table. 
 
 Then Frank opened the dining-room door. It faced 
 westward, and the light came sliding upon the iloors and 
 walls and shining old mirrors, just as he remembered it. 
 There was the doctor of divinity in his gown and band, who 
 used to make faces at him as he sat at luncheon ; there was 
 the King Charles's beauty, leaning her cheek upon her hand, 
 and pensively contemplating the door and watching her 
 descendants pass through. This one walks firm and quick ; 
 he does not come shuffling and with care ; though give him 
 but time enough, and it may come to that. But, meanwhile, 
 the ancestry on canvas, the old chairs with their fat seats and 
 slim bandy legs, the old spoons curling into Queen Anne 
 scrolls, the books in the bookcases — all have passed out of 
 the grasping old hands, and Frank, who had been denied 
 twenty pounds often when he was in need, might, help 
 himself now, there was no one to oppose his right. 
 
 The next room is the library, and his heart beats a little 
 as he opens the door. There is no one sitting there. The 
 place is empty and in order ; the chair is put against the 
 wall ; the oracle is silent ; there is nothing to be afraid of 
 any more. 
 
 Frank, as he stands in the torture chamber, makes a vow 
 to remember his own youth, if, as time goes on, he should 
 ever be tempted to be hard upon others. Then he walks 
 across to the fireplace and rings the bell. It jangles long 
 and loud ; it startles all the respectable old servants, who 
 are drinking hot beer, in their handsome mourning, in the 
 housekeeper's room. Frank has to ring again before 
 anybody finds courage to come. 
 
 Perrin, the butler, refusing to move, two of the house- 
 maids appear at last, hand in hand. They peep in at the 
 
362 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 door, and give a little shriek when they see the window open 
 and Frank standing there. They are somewhat reassured 
 when a very civil young master, with some odd resemblance 
 to the old eagle-faced Squire, requests them to light a fire 
 and show him to a room. 
 
 ' I came in the back way,' he said. ' I am Mr. Kaban.' 
 
 Frank declines the Squire's room, the great four-post 
 bedstead, and the mahogany splendour, and chooses a more 
 modest apartment on the stairs, with a pretty view of the 
 valley. 
 
 He came down to a somewhat terrible and solitary meal 
 in the great dining-room ; more than once he looked up at 
 his ancestor, now too well-mannered to make faces at the 
 heir. All that evening Frank was busy with Mr. Close. 
 He said so little, and seemed so indifferent, that the agent 
 began to think that another golden age was come, and that, 
 with a little tact and patience, he might be able to rule the 
 new Squire as completely as he had ruled the old one. Close 
 was a vulgar, ambitious man, of a lower class than is usual 
 in his profession. He had begun life as a house-agent. 
 Most of the Squire's property consisted in houses ; he had 
 owned a whole street in Smokethwaite, as well as a couple 
 of mills let out to tenants. 
 
 ' I daresay you won't care to be troubled with all these de- 
 tails,' said the agent, taking up his books as he said good-night. 
 
 'You may as well leave them,' said Frank, sleepily. 
 ' They will be quite safe if you leave them there, Mr. Close. 
 I will just look them over once more.' 
 
 And Mr. Close rather reluctantly put them down, and 
 set out on his homeward walk. 
 
 It was very late, Frank threw open the window when 
 he was alone, and stood on the step looking into the cool 
 blackness ; hazy and peaceful, he could just distinguish the 
 cows in the fields, just hear the rush of the torrent at the 
 
en AGS AND FRESH AIR. 363 
 
 bridge down below. He could see the dewy, veiled flash of 
 the lights overhead. From all this he turned away to Mr. 
 Close's books again. Until late into the night he sat adding 
 and calculating and comparing figures. He had taken a 
 prejudice against the agent, but he wanted to be sure of the 
 facts before he questioned him about their bearing. It was 
 Frank's habit to be slow, and to takebis time. About one 
 o'clock, as he was thinking of going to bed, something came 
 scratching at the window, which opened down to the ground. 
 It was the brown dog Pixie, who came in, and springing up 
 into the Squire's empty chair, went fast asleep. When 
 Frank got up to go to bed. Pixie jumped down, shook him-r 
 self, and trotted upstairs at his heels. 
 
 Frank took a walk early next morning. What he saw 
 did not give him much satisfaction. He first went to the 
 little farm near the bridge. He remembered it trim and 
 well kept. Many a time he had come to the kitchen door 
 and poured out his troubles to kind Mrs. Tanner, the 
 farmer's wife. But the farmer's wife was dead, and the farm 
 had lost its trim, bright look. The flowers were in the 
 garden, the torrent foamed, but the place looked forlorn ; 
 there was a bad smell from a drain ; there was a gap in the 
 paling, a general come-down-in-the-world look about the 
 stables ; and yet it was a pretty place, even in its present 
 neglect. A stableman was clanking about the yard, where 
 some sheep were penned. A girl with gipsy eyes and a faded 
 yellow dress stood at the kitchen-door. She made way for 
 Frank to pass. Tanner himself, looking shrunken, oldened, 
 and worn out, was smoking his pipe by the hearth. He had 
 been out in the fields, and was come in to rest among his old 
 tankards and blackened pipes. 
 
 Frank was disappointed by the old man's dull recogni- 
 tion. He stared at him and tapped his pipe. 
 
 ' Ay, sir,' he said, ' I know you, why not ? Joe Sturt 
 
364 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 from t' " Ploo " told me you bed com'. Foalks com's and 
 go's. T' owd Squire he's gone his way. He's com' oop 
 again a young squire. T' owd farmer maybe will f oiler next. 
 T' young farmer is a wa-aiting to step into his clogs.' 
 
 Old Tanner turned a surly back upon Frank. 
 
 ' Well, good-by,' said the young landlord at last. ' If 
 Mrs. Tanner had been alive she would have been more 
 friendly than you have been.' 
 
 This plain-speaking seemed to suit the old farmer, who 
 turned stiffly and looked over his shoulder. 
 
 ' She wer' kind to all,' said he ; ' even to gra-aspin' land- 
 lords that bring ruin on the farmer, and think nought o' 
 doublin' t' rent. I wo-ant leave t' owd pla-ace,' said Tanner. 
 ' Ye ca-ant turn me out. I know ye would like to thra w it 
 into t' pa-ark, but I'll pay t' la-ast farthin'. Close he wer' 
 here again a-spyin', and he tould me ye had given him the 
 lease. D him.' 
 
 'Don't swear, Tanner,' said Frank, laughing. 'Who 
 wants your farm ? what is it all about ? ' And then it all 
 came out. ' There is some mistake ; I will speak to Closed' 
 Frank said, walking off abruptly to hide his annoyance. 
 
 ' T' cold-blooded fella,' said old Tanner, settling down to 
 his pipe again ; but somehow it had a better flavour than 
 before. 
 
 Close had not been prepared for Frank's early walk, and 
 the new lease he was bringing for the new landlord to sign 
 was already on its way to the Court. The old Squire had 
 refused to turn Tanner out, but the lease was up, and year 
 by year the agent had added to the rent. It was a pretty 
 little place, capable of being made into a comfortable 
 dwelling-house, where Mr. Close felt he could end his 
 days in peace. Old Tanner was past his work, it was absurd 
 of him to cling on. There had been a battle between 
 the two, and poor old Tanner had been going to the wall. 
 
LKAGS AND FRESH AIR. 365 
 
 Presently Frank forgot his indignation, for he met an old 
 friend down the steep lane that led to the moor. 
 
 James Brand was a picturesque figure, advancing between 
 the hedges this bright September morning. He had heavy 
 gaiters, a gun was slung across his shoulders, and a lurcher 
 was leaping at his heels. The old fellow was straight and 
 active, with two blue eyes like pools, and a face as seamed 
 and furrowed as the rocks among which he lived. 
 
 'Thought ye wer' ne'er coomin', Mr. Frank,' said he, 
 quietly ; ' t' wife she sent me to look,' and he held out a 
 horny hand. 
 
 He was very quiet : he turned silently and led the way 
 back to the little stone house built against the slope of the 
 hill. The two trudged together: the keeper went a little 
 ahead. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder 
 with a glance of some satisfaction. Frank followed, stooping 
 imder the low doorway that led into the old familiar stone 
 kitchen, with the long strings of oat-cake hangfing to dry, its 
 oak cupboard and deep window-sills, the great chimney, 
 where Mrs. Brand was busied. Frank remembered every- 
 thing : the guns slung on the walls, the framed almanack, 
 the stuffed wild-fowl, the gleam of the mountain lake 
 through the deep window, the face of his old nurse as she 
 came to meet him. People who have been through trouble, 
 and who have been absorbed in their own interests, some- 
 times feel ashamed when time goes on and they come back 
 to some old home and discover what faithful remembranc(! 
 has followed them all along, and love, to which, perhaps, 
 they never gave a thought. If old things have a charm, old 
 love and old iriendship are like old wine with a special 
 gentle savour of their own. 
 
 Frank had always remembered the Brands with kindness 
 once or twice at Christmas he had sent his old nurse a little 
 remembrance, but that was all ; he had never done anything 
 
366 OT.D KENSINGTON. 
 
 to deserve such affection as that which he read written upon 
 her worn face. Her eyes were full of tears as she welcomed 
 him. She said very little, but she took his hand and looked 
 at him silently, and then almost immediately began to busy 
 herself, bringing out oat-cake and wine from an oak chest 
 that stood in the window. 
 
 ' There is the old oak chest,' said Frank, looking about ; 
 * why, nothing is changed, James I ' 
 
 ' We do-ant change,' said James, looking about, with a 
 silent sort of chuckle. Neither he, nor the old dame, nor 
 the stout-built stone lodge were made to change. It was 
 piled up with heavy stones ; winter storms could not shake 
 it, nor summer heats penetrate the stout walls. 
 
 This part of Craven country flows in strange and abrupt 
 ■waves to the east and to the west. Eocks heap among the 
 heather, winds come blowing across the moors, that lie grey 
 and purple at mid-day, and stem and sweet in the evening 
 and morning ; rivers flow along their rocky beds, hawks fly 
 past, eagles sometimes swoop doAvn into this quaint world of 
 stones and flowers. 
 
 Frank, standing at the door of the keeper's lodge, could 
 look across to the court and to the hills beyond where the 
 woods were waving ; some natural feeling of exultation he 
 may have felt, thinking that all this had come to him when 
 he least expected it ; well, he would do his best, and use it 
 for the best ; he thought of one person who might have told 
 him what to do, with whom, if fate had been propitious, he 
 would gladly have shared these sweet moors and wild-flowers, 
 these fresh winds and foaming torrents, but she had failed 
 him, and sent him away with harsh words that haunted him 
 still. 
 
 James, when they started again, brought him a light for 
 his pipe, and the two trudged off together. James still went 
 ahead. The dogs followed baying. 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 367 
 
 ' So t' Squoire's in his grave,' said James. ' He were a 
 good friend to us,' he said. ' I'm glad no strangers coom t*^ 
 fore. Ye should a' cottoned oop t' old man, Mr. Frank.' 
 
 ' What could I do, James ? ' said Frank, after a moment's 
 silence. ' He forbade me the house. I am only here now by 
 a chance. If there had been a will, I should probably have 
 been far away.' 
 
 ' T'wer' no cha-ance,' said old James. ' He ne'er thought 
 o' disinheritin' ye ; he were a proud ma-an. T'wer' a moonth 
 sin' I last saw t' ould man. He said, " Wall ! I'm a-going 
 from Pebblesthwaite. Ye'll hav' another master, James, afore 
 long ; tell him t' thin the Walden wood, and tak' Mr. 
 Fra-ank down t' hollow whar t' covers lie." He took on 
 sorely ne'er seeing ye, sir.' 
 
 Frank turned very red. ' I wish I had known it sooner, 
 James.' 
 
 Frank came home from his talk with his keeper in a 
 softened and grateful mind. The thought that no injustice 
 had been meant, that his grandfather had been thinking of 
 him with kindness, touched him, and made him ashamed of 
 his long rancour. Now he could understand it all, for he 
 felt that in himself were the germs of this same reticence 
 and difficulty of expression. The letter he had thought so 
 unkind had only meant kindness. It was too late now to 
 regret what was past, and yet the thought of the dead 
 man's goodwill made him happier than he could have sup- 
 posed possible. The whole place looked different, more 
 home-like, less bristling with the past; the lonely little 
 ghost of his childhood was exorcised, and no longer haunted 
 him at every turn. 
 
 Frank, notwithstanding his outward calm, was apt to go 
 to exta-emes when roused, and, after a few mornings spent 
 over accounts with Mr. Close, he gave that gentleman very 
 plainly to understand that, although he did not choose to 
 
368 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 criticise what had passed, he wished his affairs to be con- 
 ducted, in futui"e, in an entirely different manner. The 
 cottages were in a shameful state of disrepair; the rents 
 were exorbitantly high for the accommodation given. . . 
 Mr. Close stared at Frank. The young Squire must be a 
 little touched in the head. When Eaban, carried away by 
 his vexation, made him a little speech about the duties of 
 a country gentleman and his agent, Mr. Close said, ' Very 
 true, sir. Indeed, sir ? Jest so.' But he did not understand 
 one word of it, and Frank might just as well have addressed 
 one of the fat oxen grazing in the field outside. 
 
 ' You will find I have always studied your interests, sir,' 
 said Mr. Close, rubbing his hands, ' and I shall continue to 
 do so. Perhaps you will allow me to point out that the pro- 
 posed improvements will amount to more than you expect. 
 You will have heavy expenses, sir. Some parties let their 
 houses for a time : I have an offer from a wealthy gentleman 
 from Manchester,' said the irrepressible Close. 
 
 Frank shortly answered that he did not wish to let the 
 house, and that he must arrange for the improvements, A 
 domestic revolution was the consequence, for when the new 
 master proposed to reduce the establishment, the butler 
 gasped, choked, and finally burst into tears. He could not 
 allow such aspersions upon his character. What would his 
 old master and mistress have said ? His little savings were 
 earned by faithful service, and sooner than see two under- 
 footmen dismissed, he should wish to leave. 
 
 Mrs. Eoper, the housekeeper, also felt that the time was 
 come for rest and a private bar. She had been used to three 
 in the kitchen, and she should not be doing her duty by 
 herself if she said she could do with less. 
 
 Eaban let them all go, with a couple of years' wages. 
 For the present he only wanted to be left alone. He stayed 
 on with a groom and a couple of countrywomen sent in by 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. 369 
 
 Mrs. Brand. They clattered about the great kitchen, and 
 their red shock heads might be seen half a mile off. Of 
 course the neighbours talked : some few approved ; old 
 friends who had known him before troubled themselves but 
 little ; the rest loudly blamed his proceedings. He was a 
 screw ; he had lived on a crust, and he now grudged every 
 halfpenny. He was cracked (this was Mr. Close's version) ; 
 he had been in a lunatic asylum ; he had murdered his first 
 wife. 
 
 When the county began to call in friendly basket-carriages 
 and waggonettes, it would be shown in by Betty and Becky 
 to the library and the adjoining room, in which Mr. Eaban 
 lived. Frank had brought the lurcher away from the keeper's 
 lodge ; it had made friends with the foxy terrier, and the two 
 dogs would follow him about, or lie comfortably on the rug 
 while he sat at work upon his papers. The periwigged ancestor 
 looked on from the wall, indifferently watching all these 
 changes. One table in the window was piled with business 
 papers, leases, cheque-books, lawyers' letters in bundles. A 
 quantity of books that Frank had sent for from London stood 
 in rows upon the floor. After the amenities and regularities 
 of the last few years, this easy life came as a rest and 
 reinvigoration. He did not want society. Frank was so 
 taken up with schemes for sweeping clean with his new 
 broom, that he was glad to be free for a time, and absolved 
 from the necessity of dressing, of going out to dinner, and 
 making conversation. He would open his windows wide on 
 starry nights. The thymy wind would sough into his face : 
 clear beam the solemn lights ; the woods shivei; softly. Does 
 a thought come to him at such times of a sick woman in an 
 old house far away, of a girl with dark brows and a tender 
 smile, watching by her bedside ? 
 
 People who had been used to the pale and silent college 
 tutor in his stuff-gown, might scarcely have recognised 
 
 V. « 
 
370 OLD KENSINGTON 
 
 Frank riding about from farm to farm in the new and 
 prosperous character of a country gentleman, be-gaitered 
 and be-wideawaked. The neighbours who exclaimed at the 
 shabbiness of Mr. Frank's indoor establishment might also, 
 and with more reason, exclaim at the regiment of barrows 
 and men at work, at the drains digging, roofs repairing, fences 
 painting. The melancholy outside, tumble-down looking 
 houses were smartening up. The people stood at their doors 
 watching with some interest and excitement the works as 
 they hammered on. 
 
 Frank superintended it all himself. He was up to his 
 waist in a ditch one day when the Henley party drove past 
 in the break on their way to call at Eavensrick. They 
 left a heap of cards — Sir Thomas and Lady Henley, Mr. 
 Jonah Anley, Captain Boswarrick — and an invitation for 
 him to dine and sleep the following day. The red-headed 
 girls took the cards in, and grinned at the fine company ; 
 the fine company grinned in return at Sukey. 
 
 ' Why, what sort of society can he have been used to ? ' 
 cried little Mrs. Boswarrick. She was the eldest daughter : 
 a pretty, plump little woman, very much spoilt by hei 
 husband, and by her father, too, whose favourite she was. 
 
 ' He has evidently not been used to associate with butlera 
 and footmen,' said Mr. Anley. 
 
 ' HuUoh ! ' shouted Sir Thomas, as he drove out at the 
 park-gates. ' Look there, Anley ! he is draining Medmere, 
 and there is a new window to the schools. By Jove ! ' 
 
 ' Foolish young man ! ' said Mr. Anley, ' wasting his sub- 
 stance, draining cottages and lighting school-rooms I ' and 
 he looked out with some interest. 
 
 ' Then, Uncle Jonah, you are foolish yourself,' said Bell. 
 
 ' Are you turned philanthropist, Uncle Jonah ? ' said 
 Mrs. Boswarrick. ' I wish some one would take me and 
 Alfred up. What have you been doing ? ' 
 
CRAGS AND FRESH AIR. yj\ 
 
 ' I make it a rule never to do anything at the time that 
 can be put off till the morrow,' said Mr. Anley, apologeti- 
 cally. ' My cottages were tumbling down, my dear, so 1 
 was obliged to prop them up.' 
 
 ' He bought them from papa,' said Bell. ' I can't think 
 why.' 
 
 ' It is all very well for bachelors like you and Eaban to 
 amuse yourselves with rebuilding,' said Sir Thomas, joining 
 in from his box in an aggravated tone ; ' if you were a mar- 
 ried man, Anley, with a wife and daughters and milliners 
 bills, you would see how much was left at the end of the 
 year for improvements.' 
 
 ' To hear them talk, one oughtn't to exist at all,' savB 
 Mr& Boswarrick, with a laugh. 
 
372 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 WHITE WITH GAZING. 
 
 The tender heart beat nu more ; it was to have no more pangs, no mo.-e 
 doubts, no more griefs and trials : its last throb was love ! 
 
 — Pendeknis. 
 
 The Harbingers are come : see, see their mark ! 
 White is their colour. . . . 
 
 — Gr, Herbert. 
 
 Frank accepted Lady Henley's invitation and arrived at 
 Henley Court just before dinner-time one day. The place lies 
 beyond Pebblesthwaite, on the Smokethwaite road. It was a 
 more cheerful house than Ravensrick — a comfortable, modern, 
 stone-piled house, built upon a hill, with windows north and 
 south, and east and west, with wide distant views of valleys 
 and winding roads and moors. Through one break of the 
 hills, when the wind blew south, the chimneys of Smoke- 
 thwaite stood out clear against the sky ; at other times a 
 dull black cloud hung over the gap. The garden was charm- 
 ing : on one side a natural terrace overhung the vaUey ; a 
 copper beech rustled upon the lawn; and a few great 
 chestnut-trees gave shade in summer to the young people 
 of the house, to the cows browsing in the meadow, who 
 would come up to the boundary fence to watch Miss Bell's 
 flirtations with gentle curiosity, or the children at play, or 
 to listen to Sir Thomas reading out the newspaper. He 
 had a loud voice and a secret longing, for parliamentary 
 
WHITE WITH GAZING. iTS 
 
 distinciion. When he read the speeches he would round 
 his periods, address Lady Henley as ' sir,' and imagine him- 
 self in his place, a senator in the company of senators. He 
 was a stupid man, but hospitable, and popular in the neigh- 
 bourhood, far more so than Lady Henley, who was greatly 
 disliked. Bell was fast, handsome. Norah was a gentle, 
 scatter-brained creature, who looked up to everybody ; she 
 especially adored her sister, Mrs. Boswarrick, who had cap- 
 tivated Captain Boswarrick one evenihg at a York baU, where 
 she had danced down a whole regiment of officers. The 
 captain himself was a small and languid man, and he 
 admired energy in others. If Sir Thomas was fond of 
 thundering out the debates, Captain Boswarrick had 3 
 pretty turn for amateur acting and reciting to select audi- 
 ences. Some one once suggested private theatricals. 
 
 ' Never while I live,' said Lady Henley, ' shall there be 
 such mummeries in this house. If Alfred chooses to make 
 a fool of himself and repeat verses to the girls, I have no 
 objection, so long as he don't ask me to sit by.' 
 
 ' I never should have thought of asking you to sit by, 
 Lady Henley,' drawled Alfred. 
 
 When Frank was announced, he found the young ladies 
 in fits of laughter. Captain Boswarrick declaiming in the 
 middle of the room, with Squire Anley and Mr. Eedmayne 
 for audience. Everybody turned round, and the perform- 
 ance suddenly ceased when he entered. The Squire nodded 
 without getting up. 
 
 ' How d'ye do ? ' said Mrs. Boswarrick, holding out half- 
 a-dozen bracelets. ' Mr. Eaban forgets me, I can see. Sit 
 down. Alfred hates being: interrupted. Go on, Alfred ! ' 
 
 Captain Boswarrick's manner would quite change when 
 lie began to recite. He would stamp, start, gesticulate, and 
 throw himself into the part with more spirit than could have 
 been reasonably expected. 
 
374 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 And now, with a glance at his wife, he began again with 
 a stamp, and suddenly pointing — 
 
 That mom owd York •fror all alire 
 
 Wi' leal an' merry hearts ; 
 For t' country foalks com' i' fall drive 
 
 r gigs an' market-carts, 
 An' girt lang trains, wi' whistlin' din, 
 
 Com' w-w-whirrlin' up. 
 
 The little captain, suiting the action to the word, raised his 
 arm with some action to represent the train. It was caught 
 from behind by a firm grasp. Frank had not seen that he 
 had been followed into the room by a stout little man in 
 bran-new clothes, who joined the circle. 
 
 'Take care,' said the stranger, — ^he spoke with a slight 
 Yorkshire accent. ' What are you about, yo'ng man ? What 
 is all this ? Very fascinating, very brilliant, very seductive, 
 very much so, but leading to — what ? ' with a sudden drop 
 of the voice, and the hand he held. Bell went off into a 
 shriek of laughter. 
 
 Captain Boswarrick flushed up. He might have resented 
 the interruption still more if he liad not been somewhat 
 mollified by the string of compliments. 
 
 ' Leading to You would have heard all about it, 
 
 Mr, Stock, if you had not stopped him,' said Mr. Anley. 
 
 ' Shall I make my meaning plainer ? ' said the little man, 
 not heeding the interruption. 'Shall I tell you what I 
 mean ? Social intercourse, music, poetry, — dazzling, I 
 own. I, too, have experienced the charm; I, too, have 
 studied to please; but I have also discovered the vanity 
 of vanities ; go will you one day. A falct, though you don't 
 believe me.' 
 
 ' But in the meanwhile, Mr. Stock, don't grudge us our 
 fun,' said Bessie Boswarrick, coming to the rescue. 
 
 ' I don't grudge it ; far from it,' said the stranger ; ' I 
 was just like you all once ; now — I am not afraid of ridicule 
 
WHITE WITH GAZING. 375 
 
 — I can give you something better than that ; better than 
 that, better than that. You can choose between us: his 
 poetry, my plain speaking. I'm a plain man, — a very plain 
 man ; he, brilliant, highly educated.' 
 
 Captain Boswarrick scarcely knew how to accept all these 
 compliments and in what sense to take them. Mr. Anley 
 listened with the profoundest gravity. Bell giggled and 
 stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth ; but everybody 
 was glad when the door opened and Lady Henley came in, 
 making a diversion. The scene was getting embarrassing. 
 
 ' After dinner, dear Mr. Stock,' said Joanna, courteously, 
 ' we shall be glad to hear anything you may have to say. 
 Let us leave them to their folly, Mr. Eaban. Do you know 
 your neighbour ? — our excellent friend and minister ? ' 
 
 Frank was quite prepared to make Mr. Stock's acquaint- 
 ance — he was an amateur preacher, a retired cavalry officer, 
 living not far from Eavensrick — but he found himself carried 
 off by 8ir Thomas. The baronet had been in town that 
 week, and was in a communicative mood.. He had seen the 
 ladies at Church House, who had asked after Eaban. The 
 Admiral had been heard of from Gibraltar. 
 
 ' He has been writing in the most ill-judged way to kno-n 
 the exact state of affairs between Dolly and my nephew 
 Eobert,' Sir Thomas said confidentially. Sir Thomas always 
 reflected the people with whom he had been living. ' I 
 found my sister greatly overcome — hers is a nervous suscep- 
 tibility, almost amounting to genius, but not under control.' 
 And then, dropping his oratorical tone of voice, he went on 
 to say that they all seemed much disturbed and greatly in 
 want of cheering ; that he had promised to run up again. 
 S Lady Sarah still lingering, poor thing,' he added. ' She 
 has a most devoted nurse in my yoimg niece.' 
 
 Frank asked as indifferently as he could how Miss Van- 
 borough was looking. 
 
376 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 'Not so blooming as I could wish,' said Sir Thomas. 
 - Far from it. My wife is anxious that our friend, Mr. Stock, 
 should impart some of his admirable ministration to her, 
 but we cannot expect her to leave home at present.' 
 
 Mr. Stock's ministration seemed to have won over the 
 simple baronet, whose conversation was deeply interesting to 
 Frank, for he went on alternately praising Mr. Stock and 
 talking aboiit Dolly. Sir Thomas was not the discreetest of 
 men. ' I bad a — some painful explanation with my niece,' 
 be continued, lowering his voice (people seem to think that 
 is a sort of charm against indiscretion) ; ' to you, who are 
 such an old friend, I may safely say that I do not like this 
 vagueness and uncertainty in a matter which so closely 
 concerns Dolly's happiness. The engagement seems to be 
 neither on nor off. . . . She tells me that Eobert is 
 free, but she seems to consider herself bound. ... I 
 have thought it best to write to him plainly on the subject. 
 . . . My wife, as you know, wishes the engagement 
 entirely broken ... at least I think so. . . . ' 
 
 The baronet suddenly stopped short, and looking rathei 
 foolish, began to talk of Mr. Stock again. 
 
 Lady Henley was not so absorbed in her conversation 
 that she hadnot overheardSir Thomas's too candid confidences. 
 She was shaking her head at her husband over her shoulder. 
 
 Frank moved away, and went and stared through one of 
 the windows. Once more hope came to dazzle him. In 
 some moods people grasp at faintest dreams. There was 
 everything smiling, shining, every ridge seemed illuminated : 
 there lay the happy valley flooded with sunlight, life, bright- 
 ness. Children's voices reached him, and meanwhile the 
 recitation had begun again. ' Yan morn in May,' the Captain 
 was saying. But a loud dinner-bell brought it all to a close. 
 
 The sun had set, they had all done dinner. Norah used 
 
WHITE WITH GAZING. 377 
 
 Kt feed the cows of an evening with oat-cake prepared for 
 Sir Thomas, and she now came out into the twilight, calling 
 to her favourites, who stood expecting with their horns 
 rearing against a golden streak. One bolder than the rest 
 was making a hissing noise to attract attention, as Norah 
 oame out with her oat-cake. She called her favourites by 
 name and softly stroked their long noses over the railings. 
 Mr. Redmayne followed soon after, advancing with some 
 precaution. 
 
 ' Miss Norah,' he said, ' Mr. Stock is putting the drawing- 
 room chairs in order — he evidently expects a large congre- 
 gation. A Miss M'Grudder has come. Is it absolutely 
 necessary that one should be present, or may one stop here 
 and feed the cows ? ' 
 
 ' I must go in,' said Norah, demurely. ' Here is the oat- 
 cake, Mr. Redmayne,' and so saying she put the remains 
 into his hand and tripped hastily away. 
 
 Mr. Redmayne, however, preferred to follow Miss Norah, 
 Frank came out as the two went in together — he did not 
 want to be present at the oration. He was distracted and 
 thinking of many things. 
 
 Those few words of Sir Thomas had given him a strange 
 longing to go back, if only for a day, to see Dolly again. 
 He thought of his old friend also lying stricken. He had 
 been very forgetful all these days past, and his conscience 
 reproached him, and his inclination spoke too. There was 
 an early train from Smokethwaite — he had business in town ; 
 why should he not go ? Cruel girl ! was she sad, and could 
 he do nothing to help her ? 
 
 As Frank walked up and down in the twilight, he would 
 hear the boom of Mr. Stock's voice through the open 
 drawing-room windows. When they started a hymn, the 
 cows, who are fond of music, aU crowded up to listen. As 
 for Frank, he was in charity with all men, and prepared to 
 
378 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 believe that all that people did was good. If Mr. Stock 
 liked to give a peculiar expression to the faith which was in 
 him, Eaban for one had no mind to quarrel with it. His 
 own was a silent belief: it seemed growing with happier 
 emotions that were overflooding his heart, but it found its 
 best expression in silence. He took leave of his hosts that 
 evening when he went upstairs to bed. 
 
 The servant had put Frank into Jonah's room. It was 
 a mistake — and Lady Henley did not know of it. There were 
 the poor boy's pistols, his whips, on the wall boxing-gloves 
 and foils. He had somehow got hold of one of those pho- 
 tographs of Dolly of which mention has been made, and 
 hung it up over his chimney. There were a few books on the 
 shelf, Captain Mayne Eeid, Ivanhoe, a few old school-books 
 and poetry-books, and Frank took one down. Frank 
 thought very kindly of poor Jonah as he looked about at 
 his possessions. He was a long time before he could get to 
 sleep, and he got up and lighted his candle and read one of 
 the books off the shelf — it happened to be Kingsley's And/ro- 
 meda — till he fell asleep. Then it was only to dream a con- 
 fused dream : Jonah fighting desperately with some finny 
 monster, like that one on Lady Sarah's tiles, Dolly chained 
 to a rock, and calling for help, while Mrs. Palmer and the 
 Admiral stood wringing their hands on the shore. Was this 
 George coming to their help ? The monster changed to 
 mist, out of which came lightning and thunder — the 
 lightning was the gleam of a sword. The thunder shook 
 the air ; the mists parted ; George, pale and wounded, 
 stretched out his hand and gave Baban the sword ; he looked 
 ^eary with the fight; Frank in his dream rushed forward 
 and struck wildly ; the monster gave a horrible scream. He 
 started up wide awake. He had left his window open ; the 
 morning mist had filled the room, but the scream was a 
 real one ; it was in his ears still. It came from the room 
 
WHITE WITH GAZING. 379. 
 
 oelowf there was a stir of voices, then all was silent 
 again. 
 
 When Frank came down to an early breakfast in the big 
 iining-room he asked the butler if any one had been ill in 
 the night. ' I heard a scream,' he said. 
 
 ' It is my lady in her sleep,' the man answered. ' She 
 often do scream at night since Mr. Jonah left.' 
 
 'I want my man called,' said Frank; 'I am going to. 
 town by the early train.' 
 
 As Frank was changing carriages at one of the stations, 
 the London train went by, and he thought he saw a glimpse 
 of a familiar face ; a grey kid glove was waved. Surely it 
 was Mrs. Palmer, on her way to Henley Court ! 
 
 From DoKOTHBA Vanbobottsh to EoBBET Heniet, Esq., Calcutta. 
 
 I H ivE been hoping for a chance letter, but none has come since that last ona 
 from Alexandria. Aunt Sarah is asleep ; the house is empty, and I am writing 
 to you in the oak-room by the window. Dear Eobert, what shall I say in 
 answer to your letter ? That I du trust you ; that I do know how to love you, 
 and that you in t>irn must trust me. I could almost scold you for what you 
 say about Mr, Raban if I did not think that you are only unfair because you 
 iuve me. I never see him now. He is in Yorkshire ; so is mamma — she is 
 gone for a couple of days. As for me, I cannot leave Aunt Sarah, who depends 
 upon me more and more. I had a long talk with my uncle before he left. Ha 
 asked me a great many questions about you. He tells me he has written. I 
 do not know what he has written ; but please send him a nice letter. Sear 
 Eobert, it is so painful to me to be cross-questioned about your affection for 
 me. I must speak honestly and without disguise to you of all people in the 
 whole world, and so I will confess that if I had known all 
 
 Dolly, who had written thus far, looked up, for old Sam 
 came into the room with a card. 
 
 ' It's Mr. Eaban, Miss,' said he. 
 
 Dolly blushed up crimson. ' I — I can't see him, Sam,' 
 she answered. ' Aunt Sarah is asleep. Say I am engaged.' 
 
 Sam came back with Frank's card. 'Mr. Baban is ip 
 town till Monday, Miiis.' 
 
jSc OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' Put down the card, Sam,' said Dolly, and she bent her 
 head over her letter and went on writing. 
 
 Frank walked away disappointed. ' She might have 
 spared five minutes to a friend who had come a hundred 
 miles to see her,' he said to John Morgan that evening, as 
 they walked back together to Frank's hotel. The waiter 
 met Frank with a note, which had been left during his ab 
 sence. 
 
 Eaban suddenly brightened up ; he read a few words, 
 very stiff, very shy. ' Lady Sarah heard he had called, and 
 wanted to see him ; would he come the following day at 
 five O'clock ? ' It was signed, ' Yours truly, Dorothea 
 Vanborough.' 
 
 ' Well, ' said John Morgan, ' that is Dolly's writing, 
 isntit?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Frank. ' Lady Sarah wants to see me. As 
 for Miss Vanborough, she seems to be studying the art of 
 keeping old friends at a distance.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Morgan, ' since she asks you to go. 
 What is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 The second time old Sam let Frank in at once, and 
 showed him into the drawing-room. 'My lady will be 
 ready directly,' he said. 
 
 Frank waited his summons ; when he was tired of waiting 
 he stepped out upon the terrace, attracted by the beauty of 
 the autumnal evening, and wondering what inexpressible 
 charm the old home had for him. Eavensrick, with all the 
 graces of possession, did not seem to him so much like home 
 as this silent old house where he had no right, no single 
 stake ; where the mistress lay stricken, and parting from this 
 world ; where Dolly lived, but where her heart's interest was 
 not. Already strangers were speculating upon the fate of 
 the old house, and wondering who would come there after 
 Lady Sarah's death. And yet P'rank Rahan, as he paced the 
 
WHITE WITH GAZING. 381 
 
 terrace, felt a tranquil satisfaction and sense of completeness 
 that existed for him in no other place. 
 
 When Dolly came into Lady Sarah's room to tell her that 
 Frank was there, Marker, who had been sitting in a corner, 
 got up gently and left the room. Lady Sarah was net asleep ; 
 she was sitting up on her sofa by the window, of which the 
 sash was half raised to let in the air. Her grey hair was 
 hanging loose ; grey though it was, it fell in shining silver 
 curls about the withered face. 
 
 ' Is that you, Dolly ? I have had a dream,' she said, a 
 little wildly. ' Your father was standing by me and we were 
 looking at a river, and George was a child again, and I held 
 him in my arms, and when I looked into his face it was like 
 the face of that Eaphael child at Dresden. Look out,' she 
 said, beginning to wander again, ' and tell me if the 
 river is there.' 
 
 Dolly unconsciously obeyed, and looked out at the garden, 
 in its shifting, changing lights and tremulous tones of 
 radiance and golden-sombres. She could almost have 
 imagined her aunt's dream to be true if Frank Eaban had 
 not been walking on the terrace. She looked back. 
 
 *Dear Aunt Sarah, it is the sunset that made you dream." 
 
 ' It was a dream,' said Lady Sarah, ' but I tliink I have 
 sometimes seen that river before, Dolly. Christian and 
 Christiana and all the company have crossed it.' Then, 
 smiling : ' I am afraid I have been a tiresome old pilgrim at 
 times.' She pushed back her grey hair and lay looking into 
 the girl's face. ' It is nearly over now,' she said. 
 
 Dolly tried to speak, but some sudden tears seemed to 
 choke her, and Lady Sarah stroked her hand. 
 
 ' Try to be a thankful woman, Dolly,' she said. ' God 
 has blessed you and given you love and trust in others. I 
 see now where I failed.' Then, in her usual tone, she said, 
 ' I should like to see Frank Eaban again.' 
 
382 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Dolly was beginning to say that she would go for him, 
 whem Lady Sarah suddenly cried, — '■ Open the window wide ' 
 open ! let the river come in,' 
 
 Dolly, frightened, threw open the pane, and, as she did so, 
 some evening bell began to ring from a distant chapel, and a 
 gi-eat flight of birds passed across the sky. 
 
 The next minute Frank from the terrace below heard a 
 cry. It was Dolly calling for help. 
 
 ' I am here,' he answered, and, without waiting to think, 
 he sprang up the old oak staircase, and hurried along tha 
 passage to the door of Lady Sarah's room. 
 
 It was aU dark in the passage, but the sun was in the 
 room. Dolly was holding up her aunt in her arms ; her 
 strength seemed to be failing. Frank sprang to help her, 
 and together they raised her up. A little soft breeze came 
 in at the window, and Lady Sarah opened her eyes. She 
 was stiU wandering. 
 
 ' Is this George ? ' she said. ' I have been waiting for 
 you, dear.' 
 
 Then she seemed to recognise Frank, and she let hip 
 hand fall upon his sleeve. 
 
 ' Ah ! he will take care of Dolly,' she whispered, ' for this 
 is ' 
 
 A quick silent brightness came into her face : it may 
 have been some change in the sunset lights. She was dead — 
 lying in a serene and royal peace. 
 
( 3SJ ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XLV. 
 
 ■VTHAT AUNT SAKAH LEFT FOR DOLLT. 
 
 , , . One that was a woman, sir ; 
 But, rest her soul — she's dead ! 
 
 — Shakspeabe. 
 
 Foe an hour Frank kept watch alone in the empty rooms 
 below. The doctor had come and gone. He said, as they 
 knew he would, that all was over, there was nothing more to 
 be done for Sarah Francis. 
 
 Frank had been for the doctor. He had sent a telegram 
 to Mrs. Palmer ; then he came back and waited below in the 
 twilight room, out of which the mistress was gone for ever. 
 
 When death enters a house there is a moment's silence ; 
 then comes the silent tumult that follows death, everybody 
 scared and bustling to the door, acquaintances leave their 
 own names on bits of pasteboard, friends write notes, rela- 
 tions encamp in the dining-room, the pale faces of the living 
 come and look at the place out of which a life has passed 
 away. Servants come and go, busy with the fussy parapher- 
 nalia. It means kindness and honour to the dead, but it 
 seems all contrived to make sorrow grotesque and horrible 
 instead of only sorrowful. 
 
 When the rush of strangers and of neighbours came, it 
 pushed in between Frank and the solemn silence up above. 
 ' How had he come there ? ' they asked him. ' What had 
 the doctor said ? ' ' How old was Lady Sarah ? ' ' Was it 
 
384 OLD KENHINGTON. 
 
 known how things were left?' Then Frank heard Mrs. 
 Morgan sending out for black-edged paper in a whisper, and 
 he started up and left them, for it all jarred upon him and 
 he could bear it no longer. 
 
 He went up and stood for a minute at the door of the 
 room where he had left Dolly in her first burst of grief. At 
 the moment the door opened softly, and Marker came out. 
 Frank turned iway, but in that inst-ant he saw it all again. 
 The light had passed away, but some stars were shining 
 tlirough a mLst, and Dolly was kneeling in the silver shadoW; 
 with a pale upturned face. 
 
 There was no sound. As Frank walked away he thought 
 of two peaceful faces in that upper chamber. Death might 
 be in that room, but sorrow waited abashed for a time in the 
 presence of the Peace of Peace. 
 
 Alas ! though Dolly's friend was faithful and strong, and 
 would gladly have saved her from all sorrow and w ped all 
 tears from her eyes, it was in vain he wished her good 
 wishes ; poor Dolly's cup that day was filled to the very brim 
 with a draught more bitter than she knew of as she knelt in 
 that silent room. 
 
 The sun had set upon a day long to be remembered, 
 when a great victory was won. Since mid-day the guns had 
 been thimdering along the heights, the waters of the Alma 
 were crimson in the sunset. The long day was over now, the 
 heights were won, the dreadful guns were silent ; but all that 
 night men were awake and at work upon the battle-field, 
 sailors from the fleet and others bringing help to the wounded, 
 cai-rying them to the shore, and burying the dead. 
 * * « • • 
 
 They laid Lady Sarah in her grave one quiet autumn 
 day, and came away silentl}'. The blinds were drawn up 
 when they got back to Church House, all the windows were 
 open, the people who had not loved her came and went 
 
WHAT AUNT SARA J/ LEFT FOR DOLLY. 385 
 
 freely now ; it struck Dolly straHgely to hear Mrs. Palmer 
 calling Julie over the stairs. There was a little water-colour 
 of Lady Sarah in her youth, with a dislocated arm and a 
 harp, that George and Dolly had often laughed over together. 
 Now, as she took it down from the niche by the window in 
 the oak room, a sudden burst of longing tears came raining 
 over her hands and the glass, dimming the simpering lady 
 in water-colours. Dolly felt at that minute how much she 
 would have given to have had a fuller explanation with her 
 aunt. A complete clearing up between them had never 
 come in words, and yet the look of Lady Sarah's tender eyes 
 following her about the room, the clasp of that silent hand 
 seemed to say, ' I understand, I trust you,' more plainly than 
 words. ' I have done as you wished,' she had said. Was 
 George forgiven too ? 
 
 And now at least there were no more hidden things 
 between them, and all was peaice in that troubled life. It 
 seemed hard to Dolly at this parting time to be separated 
 from the two she most loved — from Eobert and from Creorge 
 '—who would have shai-ed her grief. Her long watch had 
 told upon her strength and spirits ; eveiy sound made her 
 start, and seemed the harbinger of bad news. She had a 
 longing fancy, of which John Morgan told Frank one day : 
 «he wanted to go oflf to the East, to be allowed to nurse her 
 brother on the spot, and she would learn as others had done 
 if need be. John Morgan spoke of a friend, Mi-s. Fane, 
 who had a home for training nurses ; would he not take her 
 there one day ? John Morg-an agreed to take Dolly to Mrs. 
 Fane's if she wished it. He was glad to do anything she 
 told him, but as for her scheme, they were all opposed to it 
 She was not strong enough to bear much &,tigue. And so, 
 as the kindest people do, they condemned her to ease, to 
 rest of body, to wearing trouble of mind. 
 
 ' We should have her laid up, sir, if we let her go,' said 
 C r! 
 
380 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 John Morgan ; ' and she is a good girl, and has promised to 
 wait patiently until she hears from George. Eohert, I am 
 sure, would greatly disapprove of such a plan.' 
 
 ' I have been thinking of going to the East myself,' said 
 Frank, who had made up his mind for about two seconds. 
 ' Some men I know are taking out stores in a yacht, and 
 want me to join them. If you see Miss Vanborough — I 
 never see her — will you tell her I am going, and will find 
 out her brother . . . ? ' 
 
 ' You had better tell her yourself,' said John Morgan. ' I 
 am sure she would like to know it from you.' Frank only 
 shook his head. 
 
 Frank Eaban used to come to Church House every day ; 
 he saw Sir Thomas, who had come up ; he saw Mrs. Palmer , 
 but, except once, he never saw DoUy. Sometimes he could 
 hear her step turn at the door, once he saw her black dress 
 as she walked away. One day, having gone upstairs, sum- 
 moned by Mrs. Palmer, he looked through a window and 
 caught sight of DoUy in the distance, sitting wrapped in a 
 shawl, on the bench at the garden-end, alone, by the pond 
 where she and George used to go together. She knew Baban 
 was in the house. She waited there until he was gone. 
 
 What strange feeling was it that made her avoid Frank 
 Eaban of all the people that came to the house ? Was she 
 not generous enough to forget what had passed that day by 
 the fountain ? 
 
 ' You are quite cold, my dear child,' said her mother, 
 when Dolly came in pale and shivering. ' Why did you not 
 come in before ? ' 
 
 She had asked herself that very question that day. It 
 was one she could not answer. It was no want of trust in 
 him, no want of gratitude for his kindness, that made her 
 unkind. This much she told herself. She acted by an 
 instinct, and she was right to follow it. She belorged to 
 
WHAT AUNT SARAH LEFT FUR DOLLY. 3S7 
 
 Robert. She had deliberately given him her word, her love, 
 her trust. It was not a half fidelity, a half love that she 
 had promised, and she would be true to her word and to 
 herself. Only it seemed to be her fate, and to come round 
 again and again in her life, short as it was, that what she 
 loved should be at variance with what she felt ; that, loving 
 truth, and longing for one simple and uncomplicated re- 
 sponse and sympathy, she found herself hesitating, fearing 
 to look forward, living from day to day with a secret con- 
 sciousness of something that she would not face. 
 
 This was the saddest time of Dolly's life. Brighter days 
 were to come ; hours that she had not yet dreamt of were 
 in store for her ; but the present was cold and drear : and 
 though chill winds of spring help to ripen a heart for 
 happiness in later life as well as the warm summer rays, 
 Dolly could not know this yet. 
 
 One thing remained to be done. It interested no ore 
 less than those principally concerned. Lady Sarah's will 
 was to be read ; and Frank received a note from Mr. Tapeall, 
 inviting him to come to Church House at a certain time. 
 To-day, thanks to the lawyer's letter, he met Dolly at last. 
 She was coming downstairs as he was crossing the hall. Her 
 black dress made her look older, more stately. She seemed 
 to him to change every time he met her now ; and yet when 
 she spoke she was herself again. She smiled a little, gave 
 him her hand. She seemed inclined to say something, 
 but she stopped short, and walked on into the drawing- 
 room, where the others were already waiting. The Morgans 
 were there, and Ehoda, all sitting silently round the 
 room. 
 
 It was a dull and dismal afternoon : the rain splashed, 
 the sky came down in gray, vaporous glooms ; the red tape 
 was the most cheerful thing in the room. Mr. Tapeall sat 
 untying his parcels at the table ; Sir Thomas, with a silver 
 
 c n 2 
 
388 OLD KENSTNGTON. 
 
 pencil-case and crossed legs, was prepared to listen atten- 
 tively, and make notes, if necessary. Mr. Tapeall looked 
 round. ' We are all here,' lie said, drawing in his chair. 
 • It is unfortunate that Admiral Palmer should not have 
 been able to arrive in time.' 
 
 As Mr. Tapeall looked round, Mrs. Palmer replied, 
 with a languid shrug, ' We are used to do without him, 
 Mr. Tapeall. I had proposed that he should meet me 
 at Paris, but of course he makes his usual diflSculties. 
 What a climate ! ' she said. ' Just look at the atmosphere ! 
 And yet the Admiral wishes to keep us in this dreadful 
 country!' 
 
 'Dear Philippa, this is not the moment. If you will 
 kindly Ustea to our excellent — to Mr. Tapeall,' Sir Thomas 
 began, in his oratorical voice. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer put on the resigned air, and murmured 
 something about the climate, with an expressive glance at 
 the window ; Dolly sat listening, looking down, and quite 
 silent ; Frank thought of the first tim.e he had seen hei 
 sitting by the fire. Mr. Tapeall began. 'Lady Sarah had 
 intended to execute a more formal document, which I have 
 had prepared from the memorandum in my possession,' said 
 he, ' of which I will, with your permission, at once proceed 
 to read the contents.' 
 
 And so in the silence, by Mr, Tapeall's voice, Sarah 
 Francis spoke for the last time in a strange jargon that in 
 her life time she had never used. Her house at Kensington, 
 in the county of Middlesex ; her house in Yorkshire, in the 
 parish of Pebblesthwaite ; all other her messuages, tene- 
 ments ; all her personal property, moaiee invested in Grovem- 
 ment or landed securities, her foreign bonds, &c. &c., she 
 left to her nephew, Greorge Francis Vanborough, of All 
 Saints' College, Cambridge. If he should die without issue 
 or a wiU, it was \x) revert to Dorothea Jane Vanborough, of 
 
WHAT AUNT SARAH LEFT FOR DOLLY. 389 
 
 Chuioh House, in the parish of Kensington, to whom she 
 left her blessing, and, at the said Dorothea's own wish, 
 nothing but the picture in the dining-room, as a token of 
 affection, confidence, and most loving remembrance, and her 
 trinkets. There were also legjacies : — 2501. to the Eev. John 
 Morgan; 2151, to Frank Eaban, Esq.; and, to Philippa's 
 utter amazement and surprise, the sum of 5,000Z. to Philippa, 
 the wife of Admiral Hawtry Palmer, which was to revert 
 to Dolly at her mother's death. There were legacies to 
 Marker and old Sam. Mr. Tapeall a^d Frank Eaban were 
 appointed trustees and executors. 
 
 ' But the wiU' is ijiot signed,' said' Sii Thomas, making a 
 note. 
 
 'The memorandum is signed and attested,' said Mr. 
 Tapeall. ' Lady Sarah had proposed making me sole 
 trustee, but to that I objected;; she then suggested Mr. 
 Raban.' 
 
 ' I quite, understand,' said Dolly, starting up and looking 
 suddenly bright and beaming. ' I am so glad,' she said, and 
 her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 'My dear child^ we deeply feel for you,' said Mrs* 
 Morgan, stepping forward with a beavy foot. 
 
 Eaban too glanced rather anxiously; but he was, re- 
 assured ; there was no mistaking the look of relief and con- 
 tent in the girl's face. It was as if her aunt had spoken ; a 
 sign to Dolly that she had forgiven tfae past ; and; G-eoi;ge 
 must come home now, he must be happy now ; all was as she 
 wished, his long disgrace was over ; she clasped her two 
 hands together. 
 
 Mr. Tapeall continued — ' The whole thing has been com- 
 plicated by previous trusts and claims, making it desirable 
 that the estate should be administered by a business man. 
 This was Lady Sarah's reason for making me trustee,' said 
 Mr. Tapeall.. ' For the present my co-trustee's presence 
 
390 OLD KENSINGTOX. 
 
 wiU not be necessary,' and lie politely bowed to Frank 
 Raban. 
 
 'Thomas, did you hear? 5,000Z. !' cried Mrs. Palmer. 
 ' The poor dear extraordinary old thing must have lost her 
 head. Why, we detested each other. However, it is quite 
 right ; yes, it would have been a thousand pities to dwell 
 af>on trifles. As for my poor Dolly, I must say I do not at 
 all see why G-eorge is to have all those things and DoUy 
 nothing at aU. DoUy, what will Eobert say, poor fellow ? 
 How disappointing. Come here, dearest, and let me give 
 you a kiss.' 
 
 Dolly smiled as she bent over her mother. 'I did not 
 want it, TnaTTiTna ; you will let me live with you.' And then, 
 as she raised her head, her eyes met Saban's anxious glance 
 with a frank srniHTig answer. 
 
 Bhoda sat perfectly bewildered and amazed. Was George 
 heir after all? Was this a part that Dolly was acting? 
 Everything to Geoi^e. £hoda began to think vaguely that 
 there was George's chair, his carpet, his four walls, and there 
 might have been her carpet, her chair. It might have been 
 hers. Her head seemed going round ; she was in a rage 
 with herself, with her Aunt Morgan, with everybody. As for 
 Dolly, she did not know about poverty. How admiringly 
 ilr. Eaban had looked at her. How strangely Dolly was 
 behaving. Afber all, thought Ehoda enviously, hearing 
 Mrs. Palmer chatter on to Mr. Tapeall, Dolly would be cared 
 for. 
 
 ' Certainly, winter abroad,' Mrs. Palmer was saying. ' I 
 require change and rest and a warmer clime, ^Ir. Baban. 
 You must bring George back to us at Paris. So you really 
 go to-morrow ! What a curious sum she has left you ; 
 really the poor dear seems peculiar to the last. How much 
 did you say, Mr. Tapeall — 5,000L — is it only 2001. a year ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Yanborough should be communicated with at once,' 
 
WHAT AUNT SARAH LEFT FOR DOLLY. 391 
 
 said Mr. Tapeall. 'I presume he lias left no instruc- 
 tions ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer here began shaking her head emphatically. 
 'He had nothing to leave,' she erred. ' Nonsense, Dolly ; 
 that paper you have is nothing at all. Yes, Mr. Eaban, we 
 must meet at Paris,' she continued, changing the subject, 
 ' when you come back, as you say, to see to poor Sarah's 
 affairs. It is, however, quite enough that I should be 
 attached to any one or any thing ' 
 
 ' Philippa,' said Sir Thomas, coming up with a note he 
 iiad just made, 'Tapeall wishes to know something more 
 about this paper of George's. Do you know anj^hing of it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh I you may tell Tapeall to bum it,' said Mrs. Palmer, 
 indifferently. ' It is nothing.' 
 
 ' I think it is a will, mamma,' said Dolly, steadily. ' I 
 will give it to Mr. Tapeall, and he can judge.' And she left 
 the room to fetch the paper. 
 
 ' You know nothing of business, my dear Philippa,' said 
 the baronet, with a grim smile. ' Tapeall must not bum 
 wills that are sent to him to keep.' 
 
 ' Shall I ask him to give it back to me ? ' said Mrs. 
 Palmer, rapidly, in a low voice. ' It is only some whim of 
 the boy's. He could not know of poor Sarah's extraordinary 
 arrangements, putting everything out. How childish of 
 Dolly to have spoken of the paper to Tapeall, Pray don't 
 make so much noise with your fingers,' for the baronet, who 
 had many restless little tricks, was drubbing the table ener- 
 getically. 
 
 Frank came up to take leave, and no more was said at 
 the time. He was to be away for two months, and mean- 
 while Mr. Tapeall had promised to act for him. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was very much annoyed with Dolly. She 
 treated her with great coldness, and, to show her displeasure, 
 invited Ehoda to come out with her for a drive every day. 
 
j92 old KENSINGTON. 
 
 As they went along she used to ask Ehoda a great many in- 
 consistent questions, which Ehoda could not in the least 
 understand. Ehoda wondered what she meant. 
 
 One day they drove to Grray's Inn. Mrs. Palmer' said 
 she liked to explore odd nooks. Then she had a chance 
 idea, and stopped the carriage at Mr; Tapeall's oflBce, and 
 went up to see him. She came down smiling, flushed, and 
 yet almost affectionate in her manner to the grim, bald- 
 headed lawyer, who followed her to the door. 
 
 ' Do as you like, dear Mr. Tapeall. As a mother, I should 
 have treasured the memorandum. Of course, your scruples' 
 do you the greatest credit. Good-morning.' 
 
 ' A complete fool, my dear,' said she, with a sudden 
 change of manner to Ehoda, as- the carriage drove off; 'and 
 as for your friend Dolly, she has not common sense.' 
 
 ' Would he not do what you wanted ? ' said Ehoda, won- 
 deringly. 'What a stupid, tiresome man. But oh, Mrs. 
 Palmer, Fm afraid he heard' what you said.' 
 
 ' I do not care if he- did. He would do nothing but bob 
 his vulgar bald head,' cried Mrs. Palmer, more and more 
 irate. 'Coachman, drive to Hyde Park Gardens-; coach- 
 man, go ix> Marshall and Snellgrove's. I suppose, Ehoda, 
 you would not know your way home from here on foot ? ' 
 said Mrs. Palmer^ very crossly, ' Of course I must take you 
 back, but it is quite out of the. way. What is that they are 
 crying in the street ? It ought to be forbidden. Those; 
 wretched creatures make one quite nervous.' 
 
 As Ehoda waited at the shop door, she heard them stilli 
 crying the news ; but two people passing by said, ' It is 
 nothing. There is no news ; ' and she paid no more heed to 
 the voices. But this time there was truth in the lying 
 voices. News had come, and the terrible details of the 
 battle were all in the paper next day; 
 
 Sir Thomas came to the house early, before any one wis 
 
WHAT A UN 7^ SARAH LEFT FOR DOLLY. 3'J3. 
 
 tip, and carried off the papers, desiring the servants to let 
 no one in until his return. He came back in a couple of 
 hours, looking fagged and wearied. He heard with dismay 
 that Dolly had gone out. Mrs. Palmer was still in her 
 room. Terrible news had come, and words failed him to 
 tell it. 
 
394 OLD KENSINGTOti. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVl. 
 
 THE SOEROWFTIIi MESSAGE, 
 
 I have no wealth of grief; no sobs, no tears, 
 
 Nor any sighs, no woids, no OTerflow, 
 
 Nor storms of passion ; no reliefs ; yet oh ! 
 
 I have a leaden grief, and with it fears 
 
 Lest they who think there's nought where nought appears 
 
 May say I never loved him. 
 
 — Hon. Mbs. Knox. 
 
 Dolly was with John Morgan. At that minute they were 
 coming up the steps at the end of a narrow street near the 
 Temple. The steps led up from the river, and came from 
 under an archway. The morning was fine, and the walk 
 had hrought some colour into Dolly's pale cheeks as she 
 came up, emerging from the gloom of the arch. John 
 thought he had not seen her look so like herself for a long 
 time past. DoUy liked the quaint old street, the steps, the 
 river beyond, the alternate life and sleep of these old City 
 places. 
 
 As they came along, John Morgan had been telling DoUy 
 something that had touched her and made her forget for a 
 time the sad preoccupations from which she found it so 
 difficult to escape. He had been confiding in her — George 
 had known the story he told her — ^no one else. It was 
 a melancholy, middle-aged episode of Mrs. Carbuiy's faith- 
 lessness. ' She had waited so long,' said poor John, * and 
 with so much goodness, that it has, I confess, been a blow 
 
THE SORROWFUL MESSAGE. 395 
 
 to me to find that her patience could ever come to an end. 
 I can't wonder at it, but it has been a disappointment. She 
 is Mrs. Philcox now. Philcox is a doctor at Brighton. . . . 
 It is all over now,' said John, slowly, ' but I was glad to 
 leave Kensington at the time.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry and so glad, too, for she could not have 
 been at all worthy of you,' cried Dolly, sympathising. ' Of 
 course, she ought to have waited. People who love don't 
 count time.' 
 
 ' Hush, my dear girl,' said John. ' She was far too good 
 for me, and I was a selfish fool to hope to keep her. How 
 could I expect her to wait for me ? What man has a right 
 to waste a woman's life in uncertainty ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I am waiting for Eobert,' said Dolly. 
 
 John muttered uncomfortably that that was difierent. 
 ' Robert is a very diSerent person to me,' said John. ' Thia 
 is the house.' 
 
 ' What a nice old house,' said Dolly. ' I should like to 
 live here for a little.' John rang at the bell. It was a door 
 with a handsomely carved lintel, over which a few odd bow- 
 windows were built out to get gleams of the river. There 
 was a blank wall, too, leading to the arch ; the steady stream 
 of traffic dinned in the distance of the misty street end. 
 
 Mrs. Fane lived in one of the streets that lead out of the 
 Strand. At one time she had worked for the Sisters of St. 
 James, who lived not far off; but when, for various reasons, 
 she ceased to become an active member of the community, 
 she set up a little liouse of refuge, to which the Sisters often 
 sent their convalescents. She had a sick kitchen for people 
 who were leaving the hospitals, weak still and unfit for their 
 work : mutton-chops and words of encouragement were 
 dealt out to them ; a ground-floor room had been fitted up 
 as a reading-room, in which she gave weekly banquets of 
 strong congou and dripping-cake, such as her guests 
 
39« OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 approved. She was a clever, original-minded woman: she 
 had once thought of being a Sister, hut life by rule had 
 become intolerable to her, and she had gone her own way, 
 and set to work to discover a clue of her own in the labyrinth 
 in which people go wandering in pursuit of the good inten- 
 tions which are snid to lead to a dreary terminus. London 
 itself may be paved with good intentions for all we knowi 
 Who shall say what her stones might cry out if they had 
 voices ? But there they lie cold and hard and silent, except 
 for the monotonous roll of the wheels passing on from 
 suburbs- to markets, to docks, and to warehouses, those cities 
 within a city. 
 
 Charlotte Fane's clue in the labyrinth was a gift for other 
 people's happiness, and a sympathy that no sorrow could 
 ever over-darken. She had not been beautiful in her youth, 
 but now in her middle age all her life seemed written in her 
 kind face, in the clear brown eyes, in the gentle rectitude of 
 her understanding sympathy. Some human beings speak to 
 us unconsciously of trust and hope, as others, in their inner 
 discordance, seem to jar and live out before our very eyes 
 our own secret doubts and failings, and half-acknowledged 
 fears. 
 
 I have a friend, a philosopher, who thinks more justly 
 than most philosophers. The other day when he said, ' To 
 be good is such a tremendous piece of luck,' we all laughed, 
 but there was truth in his words, and I fear this luck of being 
 born good, does not belong to all the people in my little 
 history. John Morgan is good. His soul and his big body are 
 at peace, and evenly balanced. Everything is intensely clear 
 to him. The present is present, the past is past. Present 
 the ti'oubles and the hopes of the people among whom he is 
 living; past the injuries and disappointments, the failures 
 and grievances of his lot ; once over they are immediately 
 put away and forgotten. Charlotte Fane's instincts were 
 
THE SORROWFUL MESSAGE. 397 
 
 higher and keener, perhaps, than the curate's, but she, too, 
 was born in harmony with sweet and noble things. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Morgan, ' I come here whenever I want help 
 and good advice. There are a few sick people upstairs that 
 1 visit. Mrs. Fane will show you her little hospital. Two 
 of her nurses have just gone out to the East. She has been 
 nursing some cholera patients with great success. I sent a 
 letter to The Times on the subject ; I don't know if they have 
 put it in ; I have not seen the paper to-day.' As he spoke, 
 there came a sudden, deep, melodious sound. 
 
 ' That is Big Ben,' said John. ' Three-quarters. We are 
 late.' The strokes fell one by one and filled the air and 
 echoed down the street ; they seemed to sound above the 
 noise and the hurry of the day. 
 
 Dolly remembered afterwards how a man with an organ 
 had come to the end of the street and had begun playing 
 that tune of Queen Hortense's as they went into the house. 
 The door was opened by a smiling-looking girl in a blue 
 dress with some stiff white coiffe and a big apron. 
 
 ' Mrs. Fane expected them ; she would be down directly ; 
 would Mr. Morgan go up and speak to her first ? Mrs. Connor 
 was dying they feared. "Would the lady wait in the nurses' sit 
 ting-room ? ' The little maid opened the door into a back room 
 looking on to a terrace, beyond which the river flowed. 
 There was a bookcase in the room : some green plants were 
 growing in the window, a photograph hung over the chimney 
 of one of Mr. Eoyal's pictures. Dolly knew it again, that 
 silent figure, that angel that ruled the world ; she had come 
 face to face with the solemn face since she had looked at the 
 picture two years ago in the painter's studio. -Seeing it 
 brought back that day very vividly — ^the young men's talk 
 in the green walk: how Ehoda startled her when she came 
 from behind the tree. The clocks were still going on tolling 
 out the hour one by one and ringing- . it out with proay 
 
3^ OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 reiteration, some barges were sailing up the river, some 
 children were at play, and the drone of that organ reached 
 her occasionally ; so did the dull sound of voices in the room 
 overhead. Sh» saw two more white caps pass the window. 
 She had waited sotae minutes, when she saw a paper lying on 
 a chair, and Daily, remembering Joha's letter to The Timest 
 took it up and looked to see if it had been inserted. The 
 letter was almost tha first thing she saw, and she read it 
 through quietly. It was signed ' Clericus,' and advocated a 
 certain treatment for cholera. Long afterwards she talked 
 it over quite calmly ; then she turned the page. A quarter 
 of an hour had passed by, for the clock in the room had 
 begun to strike twelve. Did it strike into her brain ? Did 
 the fatal words come with a shriek from the paper ? What 
 vfas this ? For a minute she sat stunned, staring at the 
 printed words — ^then she knew that she had known it all 
 along, that she never had had hope not for one instant since 
 he left them. For one minute only she could not believe 
 that harm had happened to him, and that was the minute 
 when she read a list printed in pitiless order — ' Killed on 
 the 20th of September ; wounded at the battle of the Alma ; 
 died on the following day of wounds received in action, Cap- 
 tain Errington Daubigney, Lieutenant Alexander Thorpe, 
 — ^th Eegiment, Ensign Greorge Francis Vanborough. . , 
 There were other names following, but she could read no 
 more. No one heard her cry, ' My Greorge, oh, my Greorge ! ' 
 but when the door o^)ened and two nurses came in quietly in 
 their white coififes and blue dresses, they found a poor black 
 heap lying upon the floor in the sunlight. 
 
 » • • * * 
 
 I heard a sailor only the other day telling some women 
 of his watch on the night of the Alma, and how he had 
 worked on with some of the men from his ship, and as they 
 went he searched for the face of a comrade who came irom 
 
THE SORROWFUL MESSAGE. 399 
 
 his own native town. ' His friends lived next door to us,' 
 
 said Captain B , ' and I had promised his mother to look 
 
 after him. I could hear nothing of the poor fellow. They 
 said he was dead, and his name was in the papers ; and they 
 were all in mourning for him at home, when he walked in 
 one day long after. They found it harder to tell his mother 
 that he was alive than that he was dead.' Alas! many a 
 tender heart at home had been struck that day by a deadly 
 aim from those fatal heights for whom no such happy shock 
 was in store. 
 
 ' If it had not been for George,' Jonah afterwards wrote 
 to his mother, ' you would never have seen me again.' 
 
 On that deadly slope, as they struggled up through the 
 deadly storm of which ' the hail lashed the waters below into 
 foam,' Jonah fell, wounded in the leg, and as he feU the 
 bugles sounded, and he was left alone and surrounded. A 
 Russian came up to cut him down. He had time to see the 
 muzzle of a gun deliberately aimed. Jonah himself could 
 hardly tell what happened. Suddenly some soldier, springing 
 from behind, fired, and the gun went up, and Jonah was able 
 to struggle to his feet. He saw his new ally run one man 
 through with his bayonet, and then, with his clenched fist. 
 strike down a third who had come to close quarters. It was 
 a gallant rescue. When a moment came to breathe again 
 Jonah turned. ' Thank you, my man,' he gasped. The man 
 looked at him and smiled. Jonah's nerves were sharpened, 
 for even in that instant he recognised George dressed in 
 his private's dress : his cap had gone, and he was bare- 
 headed. 
 
 As Jonah exclaimed, he was carried on by a sudden rush 
 from behind ; he looked back, and he thought he saw 
 George leap forward and fall. It was a sudden rally — a 
 desperate push — men fell right and left. The Colonel, too, 
 was down a few paces off, and then came a blinding crash. 
 
too OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Jonah himself was knocked over a second time by a spent 
 shell. When he came to himself, he was being carried to 
 the rear, and the tide of battle had swept on. 
 
 That night, while Dolly was at home watching in the 
 mourning house, two men were searching along a slope 
 beyond a vineyard, where a fierce encounter had taken 
 place. A village not far off had been burned to the ground ; 
 there were shreds and wrecks of the encounter lying all 
 about. Some sailors came up with lanterns and asked the 
 men what they were doing, 
 
 ' They were looking for a man of their own corps. The 
 Colonel had been making inquiry,' said the two soldiers. A 
 reward had been offered — it was to be doubled if they 
 brought him in alive. 
 
 ' A gentleman run away from his friends,' said one of 
 the men. ' There is an officer in the Guards has oifered 
 the money ; he's wounded himself, and been carried to the 
 shore.' 
 
 ' Do you take money for it ? ' said one of the sailors, 
 tiirning away, and then he knelt down and raised some one 
 in his arms, and turned his lantern upon the face. 
 
 It was that of a young fellow, who might have seemed 
 asleep at first. He had been shot through the temple in 
 some close encounter. There was no mark except a dull 
 red spot where the bullet had entered. He had been lying 
 on his back on the slope, with his feet towards the sea ; his 
 brows were knit, but his mouth was smiling, 
 
 '"WTiy, that's him, poor fellow!' said Corporal Smith, 
 kneeling down and speaking below his breath. ' So he's 
 dead : so much the worse for him, and for us too — twenty 
 pound is twenty pound.' 
 
 ' Here i& a letter to his sweetheart,' said one of the 
 Bailors, laying the head gently down, and holding out a 
 letter that had fallen from the dead man's belt. 
 
THE SORROWFUL MESSAGE. 40J 
 
 'Miss Vanbur — Vanborough; that's the name,' said 
 Smith. 
 
 The sailors had moved on with their lanterns : they had 
 but little time to give to the dead in their search for the 
 living ; and then the soldiers, too, trudged back to the 
 camp. 
 
 All that night George lay still under the stars, with a 
 strange look of Dolly's own steadfast face that was not there 
 in life. It was nobler than hers now, tear-stained and 
 sorrowing, in the old house at home. Afterwards, looking 
 back, it seemed some comfort to Dolly to remember how 
 that night of mourning had been spent, not discordantly 
 separated from her George whom she had loved, but with 
 him in spirit. 
 
 All that night George lay still under the stars. In the 
 morning, just at sunrise, they laid him in his grave. A 
 breeze blew up from the sea in the soldiers' faces, and they 
 could hear the echo of some music that the French were 
 playing on the heights. Some regiment was changing 
 quarters, and the band was playing ' Partant pour la Syrie,' 
 and the music from the heights swelled over the valley. 
 Then the armies passed on to fresh battle, leaving the 
 soldiers who had fallen lying along the valley and by the 
 sea. 
 
 Jonah, on board ship, heard a rumour that George had 
 been found desperately wounded, but alive. When he came 
 back to the camp he found, to his bitter disappointment, 
 that it was but a vain hope. George's name was on the list 
 of the officers who had died of their woimds on the day after 
 the battle. That unlucky reward had made nothing but 
 confusion. Smith and his companion declared they had 
 found him alive and sent him to the shore to be taken on 
 board. He must have died on the way, they said. Jonah 
 paid the twenty pounds without demur when the men came 
 
 D D 
 
i02 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 to claim it. The letter they brought made their story seem 
 true. Jonah asked tbem a few questions. 'Did he send 
 me this letter for his sister ? ' he said : ' was he able to 
 speak ? ' 
 
 Jonah was choking something down as he tried to speak 
 quietly. 
 
 ' He sent his duty, sir,' said Smith, ' and gave me the 
 letter. He said we should meet in a better world.' 
 
 'Did he use those words?' said Jonah, doubtfully. 
 Something in the man's tone seemed odd to him. 
 
 Smith gained courage as he went on. ' He couldn't 
 speak much, poor gentleman. Joe can teU you as well as 
 me. He said, " Smith, you are a good fellow," says he, 
 didn't he, Joe ? ' 
 
 Joe did not like being appealed to, and stopped Smith 
 short. ' Come along,' he said, grufiBy, ' the Captain don't 
 want you now.' 
 
 Jonah let them go. He was giddy and weak from 
 illness, and overcome. He began to cry, poor fellow, and 
 he did not want them to see it ; he walked up and down, 
 struggling with his grief. His was a simple, grateful heart. 
 
 Colonel Fane, too, saw the men, who had gained con- 
 fidence, and whose story seemed probable : they said nothing 
 of the money that Jonah had offered. Poor Greorge's com- 
 mission had come only the day before the battle. Colonel 
 Fane sent his name home with the list of the officers who 
 bad fallen. He thought of the sweet-looking girl, his old 
 friend's daughter, and remembered their talk together. His 
 heart ached for her as he wrote her a few words of remem- 
 brance and feeling for her sorrow. His praise of George 
 was Dolly's best comfort at that miserable time, and the 
 few words he enclosed written by her brother on the very 
 morning of the battle. 
 
< 403 J 
 
 OHAPTEE XLVII. 
 
 ¥KOM HEART OF VERT HEART. 
 
 Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, 
 Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 
 
 — R. Browntko. 
 
 It was as well perhaps that the cruel news should have 
 come to Dolly as it did, suddenly, without the torture of 
 apprehension, of sympathy. She knew the worst now, she 
 had seen it printed for all the world to read ; she knew the 
 worst even while they carried her upstairs half conscious ; 
 some one said 'higher up,' and then came another flight, 
 and she was laid on a bed and a window was opened, and a 
 flapping handkerchief that she seemed to remember came 
 dabbing on her face. It was evening when she awoke, 
 sinking into life. She was lying on a little bed like her 
 own, but it was not her own room. It was a room with a 
 curious cross comer and a window with white cui'tains, 
 through which the evening lights were still shining. There 
 was a shaded green lamp in a closet opening out of the 
 room, in the corner of which a figure was sitting at work 
 with a coiffe like that one she had seen pass the window as 
 she waited in the room down below. 
 
 A low sob brought the watcher to Dolly's side. She 
 came up carrying the little shaded lamp. Dolly saw in 
 its light the face of a sweet-looking woman that seemed 
 strangely familiar. She said, ' Lie still, my dear child. I 
 
 D D z 
 
404 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 rill get you some food,' and in a few minutes she came back 
 with a cup of broth, which she held to her lips, for to ber 
 surprise Dolly found that her hands were trembling so that 
 she could not hold the cup herself. 
 
 ' You must use my hands,' said the lady, smiling. ' I 
 am Mrs. Fane. You know my brother David. I am a nurse 
 by trade.' 
 
 And nursed by these gentle hands, watched by these kind 
 eyes, the days went by. Dolly 'had narrowly escaped a 
 nervous fever,' the doctor said. ' She must be kept perfectly 
 quiet ; she could not have come to a better place to be taken 
 care of.' 
 
 Mrs. Fane reminded Dolly one day of their first meeting 
 in Mr. Royal's studio. ^ I have been expecting you,' she 
 said, with a smile. ' We seem to belong to each other.' 
 
 Marker came, and was installed in the inner closet. One 
 day Mrs. Pahner came bursting in with much a^tation 
 and many tears ; she had one gKuid piece of news. ' The 
 Admiral was come,' she said ; ' he should come and see Dolly 
 before long ; but Mrs. Palmer's visit did the girl no good, 
 and at a hint &om Mrs. Fane, the Admiral also kept away. 
 He left many parcels and friendly messages. They were all 
 full of sympathy and kindness, and csime many times a day 
 to the door of the nurses' home. But Mrs. Fane was firm, 
 and after that one visit from Mrs. Palmer she kept every- 
 one out, otherwise they would all have wished to sit by 
 Dolly's bed all day long. The kindness of leaving people 
 alone is one which warm-hearted people find least easy to 
 practise ; and, in truth, the best quiet and completest rest 
 comes with a sense of kindness waiting, of friends at hand 
 when the time is come for them. 
 
 One evening, when Dolly was lying heilf asleep, dreaming 
 of a dream of her waking hours, a heavy step came to the 
 door, some one knocked, and when Marker opened with a 
 
FROM HEART OF VERY HEART. 40s 
 
 hush I a gruff voice asked how Dolly was, and grumbled 
 something else, and then the step went stumping down to 
 the sitting-room below. When Dolly asked who had knocked, 
 Marker said, "■ It was only an old man with a parcel, my dear. 
 I soon sent him off,' she added, complacently. 
 
 Dolly was disappointed when Mrs. Fane, coming in, in 
 the morning, told her that the Admiral had called the night 
 before. He had left a message. He would not disturb the 
 invalid. He had come to say that he was ordered off to 
 Ireland on a special mission. He had brought some more 
 guava jelly and tins of turtle soup, also a parcel of tracts, 
 called ' The Sinners' Cabinet.' He told Mrs. Fane that he 
 was taking Mrs. Palmer into Yorkshire, for he did not like 
 leaving her alone. He also brought a note for Dolly. It 
 was a hurried scrawl from Philippa : — 
 
 Chwroh Houte, October 30. 
 Dablino, — My heart is torn. I am off to-morrow morning by cock-crow, of 
 eourse, travelling in the same train, bnt in a different carriage, with my hus- 
 band. This is his arrangement, not mine, for he knows that I cannot and will 
 not submit to those odious fumes of tobacco. Dearest, how »ladly would I 
 hare watched by your pillow for hours had Mrs. Fane permitted the mother 
 that one sad privilege ; but she is trained in a sterner school than I. And, 
 since I must not be with you, come to me without delay. They expect you — 
 your room is prepared. My brother will come for you at a moment's notice. 
 You will find Thomas a far pleasanter travelling companion than Joanna 
 (with whom you are threatened). So not hesitate between them. As for the 
 Admiral, he, as usual, wishes to arrang4 everything for everybody. Opposition 
 is useless until he is gone. And heaven knows I have little strength where- 
 with to resist just now. 
 
 There was a P.S. 
 
 You may as well get that memorandum back from Tapeall if you can. 
 
 Dolly was not used to expect very much from her mother. 
 Mrs. Fane was relieved to find that she was not hurt by Mrs. 
 Palmer's departure ; but this seemed to her, perhaps, saddest 
 of all, and telling the saddest storv. Her mother had sent 
 Dolly baskets of flowers, Mrs. Morgan called constantly with 
 
4o6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 prescriptions of the greatest value. Mrs. Fane had more 
 faith in her own beef-tea than in other people's prescrip- 
 tions. She used to come in to see her patient several times 
 a day. Sometimes she was on her way to the hospital in 
 her long cloak and veiled bonnet. She would tell Dolly 
 many stories of the poor people in their own homes. At 
 certain hours of the day there would be voices and a tramp- 
 ling of feet on the stairs outside. 
 
 ' It is some more of them nurses,' said Marker, peeping 
 out cautiously. ' White caps and aprons — that's what this 
 institootion seems to be kep' for.' 
 
 Marker had an objection to institootions. ' Let people 
 keep themselves to theirselves,' she used to say. She could 
 not bear to have Dolly iU in this strange house, with its 
 silence and stiff orderly ways. She would gladly have 
 carried her home if she could, but it was better for Dolly 
 to be away from all the sad scenes of the last few months. 
 Here she was resting with her grief — it seemed to Ue still 
 for a while. So the hours passed. She would listen with a 
 vague curiosity to the murmur of voices, to the tramp of 
 the feet outside ; bells struck from the steeples round about, 
 high in the air and melodiously ringing ; Big Ben would 
 come swelling over the house-tops: the river brought the 
 soimd to Dolly's open window. 
 
 Clouds are in the sky, a great heavy bank is rising 
 westward. Yellow lights fall fitfully upon the water, 
 upon the barges floating past, the steamers, the boats ; 
 the great spanning bridge and the distant towers are con- 
 fused and softened by a silver autumnal haze ; a few yellow 
 leaves drop from the creeper round the window ; the water 
 flows cool and dim; the fax distant sound of the wheels 
 drones on continually. Dolly looks at it all. It does not 
 seem to concern her, as she sits there sadly and wearily. 
 
FROM HEART OF VERY HEART. 407 
 
 Who does not know these hours, tranquil but sad beyond 
 words, when the pain not only of one's own grief, but of 
 the sorrow of life itself, seems to enter into the soul. It was 
 a pain new to Dolly, and it frightened her. Some one 
 coming in saw Dolly's terrified look, and came and sat down 
 beside her. It was Mrs. Fane, with her kind face, who 
 took her hand, and seemed to know it all as she talked to 
 her of her own life, talked to her of those whom she had 
 loved and who were gone. Each word she spoke had a 
 meaning, for she had lived her words and wept them out one 
 by one. 
 
 She had seen it all go by. Love and friendship had 
 passed her along the way ; some had hurried on before, some 
 had lagged behind, or strayed away from her grasp, and 
 then late in life had come happiness, and to her warm heart 
 tenderest dreams of motherhood, and then the final cry of 
 parting love and of utter anguish and desolation, and that 
 too had passed away. ' But the love is mine still,' she said, 
 ' and lovo is life.' 
 
 To each one of us comes the thought of those who live 
 most again, when we hear of a generous deed, of a truthful 
 word spoken ; of those who hated evil and loved the truth, 
 for the truth was. in them and common to all ; of those whose 
 eyes were wise to see the angels in the field at work among 
 
 the devils The blessing is ours of their love for great 
 
 and noble things. We may not all be gifted with the 
 divinest fires of their nobler insight and wider imagination, 
 but we may learn to live as they did, and to seek a deeper 
 grasp of life, a more generous sympathy. Overwhelmed we 
 may be with self-tortures, and wants, and remorses, swayed by 
 many winds, sometimes utterly indifferent from very weari- 
 ness, but we may still return thanks for the steadfast power 
 of the noble dead. It reigns unmoved through the raving 
 of the storm ; it speaks of a bond beyond death and beyond 
 
*d8 old KENSINGTON. 
 
 life. Something of all this Mrs. Fane taught Dolly by woidH 
 in this miserable hour of loneliness, but still more by her 
 simple daily actions. . . . The girl, hearing her friend 
 speak, seemed no longer alone. She took Mrs. Fane's hand 
 and looked at her, and asked whether she might not come 
 and live there some day, and try to help her with her sick 
 people. 
 
 ' Did I ever tell you that, long ago, Colonel Fane told 
 me I was to come ? ' said Dolly, smiling. 
 
 'You shall come whenever you like,' said Mrs. Fane, 
 smiling, ' but you will have other things to do, my dear, 
 and you must ask your cousin's leave.' 
 
 ' Eobert ! I don't think he would approve,' said Dolly, 
 looking at a letter which had come from him only that 
 morning. ' There are many things, I fear. . .' She stopped 
 short and blushed painfully as one of the nurses came to the 
 door. Only that day Dolly had done something of which 
 she feared he might disapprove. She had written to Mr. 
 Tapeall, in reply to a letter from him, and asked him to lose 
 no time in acting upon Greorge's will. She had a feverish 
 longing that what he had wished should be done without 
 delay. 
 
 There is a big van at the door of the house in Old Street : 
 great packing-cases have been hoisted in ; a few disconsolate 
 chairs and tables are standing on the pavement ; the one 
 looking-glass of the establishment comes out sideways, and 
 stuffed with straw ; the creepers hang for sole curtains to 
 the windows ; Greorge's plants are growing already into 
 tangle in the garden ; John's study is no longer crammed 
 with reports, — the veiy flavour of his tobacco-smoke in it is 
 gone, and the wind comes blowing freshly through the open 
 window. Cassie and Zoe are away in the country on a 
 visit ; the boys are away ; Ehoda and Mrs. Morgan are going 
 l)ack to join John in the City. The expense of the double 
 
FROM HEART OF VERY HEART. 409 
 
 -huusehold is more than the family purse can conveniently 
 meet. The gifts the rector has to hestow are not those of 
 gold or of silver. 
 
 They have been -working hard all the morning, packing, 
 directing : Ehoda showing great cleverness and aptitude, 
 for she was always good at an emergency ; and now, tired 
 out, with dusty hands and soiled apron, she is resting on the 
 one chair which remained in the drawing-room, while Mrs. 
 Morgan, downstairs, is giving some last directions. Ehoda 
 is glad to go ; to leave the old tiresome house ; and yet, as she 
 told Dolly, it is but the old grind over again, which is to 
 recommence, and she hates it more and more. Vague schemes 
 cross her mind — vague and indirect regrets. Is she sorry 
 for Greorge ? Yes, Ehoda is as sorry as it is in her nature 
 to be. She put on a black dress when she heard he was 
 dead ; but again and again the thought came to her how 
 different things might have been. If she had only known 
 all, thought Ehoda, naively, how differently she would have 
 acted." As they sat in the empty room, where they used to 
 make music once, she thought it all over. How dull they 
 had all been ! She felt ill and aggrieved. There was Eaban, 
 who never came near her now. It was all a mistake from 
 the beginning. , . . Then she began to think about her 
 future. She had heard of a situation in Yorkshire — Mrs. 
 Boswarrick wanted a governess for her children. Should 
 she offer herself ? Was it near Eavensrick she wondered ? 
 This was not the moment for such reflections. One of the 
 men came for the chair on which she was sitting. Ehoda 
 then went into the garden, and looked about for the last time, 
 walking once more round the old gravel-walk. Greorge's 
 strawberry-plants had spread all over the bed ; the verbena 
 was green and sprouting ; the vine-wall was draped with 
 falling sprays and tendrils. She pulled a great bunch 
 down and came away, tearing the leaves one by one from 
 
tio OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 the stem. Yes, she would write to ]\Irs. Boswarrick, she 
 thought. 
 
 Old Betty was standing at the garden door. ' T' missus 
 was putten her hounet an,' she said ; ' t' cab wa.s at door ; 
 and t' poastman wanted to knaw whar' to send t' letters : he 
 had brought one,' — and Betty held out a thick envelope, 
 addressed to Miss Parnell. 
 
 It was a long letter, and written in a stiff round hand, on 
 very thick paper. Ehoda understood not one word of it at 
 first; then she looked again more closely. 
 
 'As she stood there reading it, absorbed, with flushed 
 cheeks, with a beating heart, Mrs. Morgan called her 
 hastily. ' Come, child,' she said, ' we shall have to give the 
 cabman another sixpence for waiting ! ' but Ehoda read on, 
 and Mrs. Morgan came up, vexed and impatient, and tapped 
 her on the shoulder. 
 
 ' Don't,' said Ehoda, impatiently, reading still, and she 
 moved away a step. 
 
 ' Are you going to keep me all day, Ehoda ? ' said Mrs. 
 Morgan, indignant and surprised. 
 
 ' Aunt Morgan,' said Ehoda, looking up at last, ' some- 
 thing has happened.' Her eyes were glittering, her lips 
 were set tight, her cheeks were burning bright. ' It is aU 
 mme, they say.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' said the old lady. ' Were the keys 
 in the box, Betty?' Ehoda laid her hand upon her aunt's 
 arm. 
 
 ' Greorge Vanborough has left me all his money ! ' she said 
 in a low voice. For a moment her aunt looked at her in 
 amazement. 
 
 ' But you mustn't take it, my dear ! ' said Mrs Morgan, 
 quite breathless. 
 
 ' Poor George ! it was his last wish,' said Bhoda, gazing 
 axedly before her. 
 
FROM HEART OJf VERY HEART. 411 
 
 Mr. Tapeall was a very stupid old' man, weaving his led 
 tape into ungracious loops and meshes, acting with due 
 deliberation. If an address was to be found in the Eed 
 Book, he would send a clerk to certify it before despatching 
 a letter by post. When Dolly some time before had sent 
 *iim George's will, he put it carefully away in his strong 
 box ; now when she wrote him a note begging him to do at 
 once what was necessary, he deliberated greatly, and deter- 
 mined to write letters to the whole family on the subject. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer replied by return of post. She was not a 
 little indignant when the old lawyer had announced to her 
 that he could not answer for the turn which circumstances 
 might take, nor for the result of an appeal to the law. He 
 was bound to observe that George's will was perfectly valid. 
 It consisted of a simple gift, in formal language, of all his 
 property, real and personal, to Ehoda. By the late ' "Wills 
 Act' of 1837, this gift would pass all the property as it 
 stood at his death ; or, as Mr. Tapeall clearly expressed it, 
 ' would speak as from his death as to the property comprised 
 therein.' Mr. Tapeall recommended that his clients should 
 do nothing for the present. The onus of proof lay with the 
 opposite side. Mr. Eaban had promised to ascertain all 
 particulars, as far as might be : on his return from the 
 Crimea they would be in a better position to judge. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer wrote back furious. Mr. Tapeall had reasons 
 of his own. He knew perfectly well that it was a robbery, 
 that every one would agree in this. It was a plot, she would 
 not say by whom concocted. She was so immoderate in her 
 abuse that Mr. Tapeall was seriously offended. Mrs. Palmer 
 must do him the justice to withdraw her most uncalled-for 
 assertions. Miss Vanborough herself had requested him to 
 prove her brother's will and carry out his intentions as 
 trustee to her property. He considered it his duty to acquaint 
 Miss Parnell with the present state of affairs. Mr. Tapeall 
 
,^l2 • ULD KENSINGTON. 
 
 happened to catch cold and to be confined to his room for 
 some days. He had a younger partner, IVIr. Parch, a man of 
 a more energetic and fiery temperament, and when, in Mr. 
 Tapeall's absence, a letter arrived signed PhiUppa Palmer, 
 presenting her compliments, desiring them at once to destroy 
 that will of her son"s, to which, for their own purposes, no 
 doubt, they were pretending to attach importance, Mr. 
 Parch, irritated and indignant, sat down then and there and 
 wrote off to JMrs. Palmer and to Miss Ehoda PameU by that 
 same post. 
 
 The letter to Mrs, Palmer was short and to the purpose. 
 She was at liberty to consult any other member of the pro- 
 fession in whom she placed more confidence. To Miss Par- 
 nell. Mr. Parch related the contents of his late client's will- 
 
c 413 ) 
 
 CHAPTER xLvirr. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 Oh ! purblind race of miserable men, 
 How many among us at this very hour 
 Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
 By taking true for false, and false for true. 
 Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world, 
 Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
 That other, where we see as we are seen.' 
 
 — Alfbed TE»«rsi)ii. 
 
 Lady Sakah had left much more than anybody expected. She 
 had invested her savings in houses. Some had sold lately 
 at very high prices. A builder had offered a large sum for 
 Church House itself and the garden. It was, as Mr. Tapeall 
 said : the chief difficulty lay in the proof of George's death. 
 Alas for human nature ! after an enterprising visit from 
 Khoda to Grray's Inn (she had been there before with Mrs. 
 Palmer), after a not very long interview, in which Ehoda 
 opened her heart and her beautiful eyes, and in the usual 
 formula expressed her helpless confidence in Mr. Tapeall's 
 manly pro ection, the old lawyer was suddenly far more con- 
 vinced than he had been before of the justice of Miss Par- 
 nell's claims. Her friend and benefactor had died on the 
 21st. He was Lady Sarah's heir, he had wished her to have 
 this last token of his love, but she would give everything up, 
 she said, rather than go to law with those whom she mus't 
 ever revere, as belonging to him. 
 
*t4 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Mr, Tapeall was very much touched hy her generosity. 
 
 ' Keally, you young ladies are outvieing each other,' said 
 he. 'When you know a little more of the world and 
 money's use ' 
 
 Ehoda started to go. 
 
 ' I must not stay now ; but then I shall trust to you 
 entirely, Mr. Tapeall,' she said. ' You will always tell me 
 what to do ? Promise me that you will.' 
 
 'Perhaps, under the circumstances,' said Mr. Tapeall, 
 hesitating, ' it might be better if you were to take some 
 other opinion.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said the girl, ' there is no division: between us. 
 All I wish is to do what is right, and to carry out dear 
 George's wishes.' 
 
 It is not the place here to enter into details which Mr. 
 Tapeall alone could properly explain. It was after an 
 interview with him that Dolly wrote to Ehoda: — 'Mr. 
 Tapeall tells me of your generous offer, dear Ehoda, and that 
 you are ready to give everything up sooner than go to law. 
 Do not think that I am not glad that you should have what 
 would have been yours if you had married my brother. I 
 must always wish what he wished, and I write this to tell 
 you that you must not think of me : my best happiness now 
 is doing what he would have liked.' 
 
 To DoUy it seemed, in her present morbid and over- 
 wrought state, as if this was a sort of expiation for her 
 hardness to Ehoda, whom George had loved, and indeed 
 money seemed to her at that time but a very small thing, 
 and the thought of Church House so sad that she could never 
 wish to go back to it. And Eobert's letters seemed to grow 
 colder and colder, and everything was sad together. 
 
 Frank came to see her one day before she left London ; 
 he had been and come back, and was going again with freah 
 supplies to the East ; fap brought her a handful of dried grass 
 
AN EXPLANATION. 41S 
 
 from the slope where George had fallen. Corporal Smith 
 had shown him the place where ne had found the poor young 
 fellow lying, Frank had also seen Colonel Fane, who had 
 made all inquiries at the time. The date of the boy's death 
 seemed established without doubt. 
 
 When Frank said something of business, and of disputing 
 the will, Dolly said, — ' Please, please let it be. There seems 
 to be only one pain left for me now — that of not doing as 
 he wished.' People blamed Raban very much afterwards for 
 having so easily agi-eed to give up Miss Vanborough's rights 
 
 The storm of indignation, consternation, is over. The 
 shower of lawyers' letters is dribbling and dropping more 
 slowly. Mrs. Palmer had done all in her power, sat up all 
 Qight, retired for several days to bed, risen by daybreak, 
 gone on her knees to Sir Thomas, apostrophised Julie, written 
 letter after letter, and finally come up to town, leaving Dolly 
 at Henley Court. Dolly was in disgrace, direst disgrace. It 
 was all her fault, her strange and perverted obstinacy, that 
 led her to prefer others to her own mother. The Admiral, 
 too, how glad he would have been of a home in London. 
 How explain her own child's conduct? Deai- George had 
 never for one instant intended to leave anything but his own 
 fortune to Rhoda. How could Dolly deny this ? How could 
 she ? Poor Dolly never attempted to deny it. Sir Thomas 
 had tried in vain to explain to his sister that Dolly had 
 nothing whatever to do with the present state of the law. 
 It was true that she steadily refused to put the whole thing 
 into Chancery, as many people suggested ; but Rhoda, too, 
 refused to plead, and steadily kept to her resolution of 
 opposing everything first. 
 
 ' Painfulj indeed, very painful,' said Mr. Stock, ' but 
 absolutely necessary under the circumstances ; othei-wise I 
 should say ' (with a glance at poor pale Dolly), ' let it go, let 
 it go, worm and moth, dross, dross, dross,' 
 
4i6 VL.D KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' jVIr. Stock, you are talking nonsense,' said Mrs. Palmer, 
 quite testily. 
 
 Then Mrs. Palmer came to London with Sir Thomas, 
 and all day long the faded fly — it has already appeared in 
 these pages — travelled from Gray's Inn to Lincoln's Inn, t-» 
 the Temple, and back to Mr. Tapeall's again. Mrs. Palmer 
 lef at card at the Lord Chancellor's private residence, thai 
 picked up her brother at his Club, went off to the City to meet 
 Ehoda face to face, and to insist upon her giving up her ill- 
 gotten wealth. She might have spared herself the journey. 
 Ehoda had left the Eectory. John Morgan received Mrs. 
 Palmer and her companion with a very grave face. Cassie 
 and Zoe left the room. Mrs. Morgan came down in an old 
 cap looking quite crushed and subdued. The poor old lady 
 began to cry. 
 
 John was greatly troubled : he said, ' I don't know how 
 to speak of this wretched business. What can you think of 
 us, Mrs. Palmer ? ' 
 
 ' You had better not ask me, Mr. Morgan,' said Mrs. 
 Palmer. ' I have come to speak to your niece.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to say that Ehoda has left our house,' John 
 said ; ' she no longer cares for our opinion : she has sent for 
 one of her own father's relations.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you can tell me where to find her ? ' said Mrs. 
 Palmer, in her most sarcastic tone. She thought Ehoda was 
 upstairs and ashamed tp come down. 
 
 ' Oh I Mrs. Palmer, she is at Church House,' burst in Mrs. 
 Morgan ; ' we entreated her not to go. John forbade her. Mr. 
 Tapeall gave her leave. If only Frank Eaban were back 
 
 Mrs. Palmer gave a little shriek. ' At Church House 
 already I It is disgraceful, utterly disgraceful, that is what 
 I think. Dolly and all of you are behaving in the most 
 scandalous ' 
 
 ' Poor Dolly has done no harm,' said Morgan, tiuning 
 
AN EXPLANA TION. 4J 7 
 
 rery red. ' She has not unjustly and ungratefully grasped 
 at a quibble, taken what does not belong to her, paid back 
 all your kindness with ingratitude . . .' 
 
 Good-natured Sir Thomas was touched by the curate's 
 earnestness. He held out his hand. 
 
 ' You, of course, Morgan, have nothing to do with the 
 circumstances,' said he. 'Something must be done; some 
 arrangement must be made. Anything is better than going 
 to law.' 
 
 ' If Mrs. Palmer would only see her,' said Mrs. Morgan, 
 earnestly. ' I know Ehoda would think it most kind.' 
 
 'I refuse to see Miss Parnell,' said Mrs. Palmer, with 
 dignity. ' As for Tapeall, Thomas, let us go to him.' 
 
 ' They certainly do not seem to have profited by Ehoda's 
 increase of fortune, living on in that horrible dingy place,' 
 Sir Thomas said, as the fly rolled away towards Gray's Inn 
 once more. On the road Mrs. Palmer suddenly changed her 
 mind, and desired the coachman to drive to Kensington. 
 
 ' Do you really propose to go there ? ' said Sir Thomas, 
 rather doubtfully. 
 
 ' You are like the Admiral, Thomas, for making difficul- 
 ties,' said Mrs. Palmer, excitedly, and calling to the coach- 
 man to go quicker. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when they reached the door 
 of Church House. A strange servant opens to them ; a 
 strange stream of light comes from the hall, where a bright 
 chandelier had been suspended. The whole place seemed 
 different already. A broad crimson carpet had been put 
 down ; some flowers had been brought in and set out on 
 great china jars. Mrs. Palmer was rather taken aback as 
 she asked, with her head far out of the carriage-window, 
 whether Miss Parnell was at home. 
 
 The drawing-room door opens a little bit, Ehoda listens, 
 hesitates whether or not to go out, but Mrs. Palmer in 
 
 E E 
 
4i8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 coming m, and Ehoda retreats, only to give herself room to 
 advance once more as the two visitors are ushered in. The 
 girl comes flying from the other end of the room, bursts out 
 crying, and clings kneeling to Philippa's dress. 
 
 ' At last,' she says. ' Oh, Mrs. Palmer, I did not dare to 
 hope, hut oh ! how good of you to come I ' 
 
 ' Grood, indeed ! No, do not thank me,' said Mrs. 
 Palmer, drawing herself up. ' Have you the face, Ehoda, to 
 meet me — to wish to see me after all the harm you have 
 done to me and to my poor child ? I wonder you dare stay 
 in the same room with me ! ' 
 
 Ehoda did not remark that it was Mrs. Palmer herself 
 who had come to her. Her eyes filled with big tears. 
 
 ' What have I done ? ' she said, appealing to Sir Thomas. 
 ' It is all theirs, and they know it. It will always be theirs. 
 Oh, Mrs. Palmer, if you would only take it all, and let me 
 be your — ^your little companion, as before ! ' cried the girl, 
 with a sob, fixing those wonderful constraining eyes of hers 
 upon Philippa. 'Will you send me away — I, who owe 
 everything to you ? ' she said. And she clasped her hands 
 and almost knelt. The baronet instinctively stepped forward 
 to raise her. 
 
 ' Do not kneel, Ehoda. This is all pretence,' cried Mrs. 
 Palmer. 'Sir Thomas is easily deceived. If the Admiral 
 w?re here he would see through your — your ungrateful dupli- 
 c;il,y.' Ehoda only persisted. How her eyes spoke ! how her 
 hands and voice entreated ! 
 
 ' You would believe me,' she said, ' indeed, you would, if 
 you could see my heart. My only thought is to do as you 
 wish, and to show you that I am not ungrateful.' 
 
 'Then you wiU give it all back,' said Mrs. Palmer, 
 coming to the point instantly, and seizing Ehoda's hand 
 tight in hers. 
 
 ' Of course I will,' said Ehoda, still looking into Mr* 
 
wA' EXPLANATION. 419 
 
 Palmer's eager face. 'I have done so already. It is all 
 yours ; it always will be yours, as before. Dear Mrs. Palmer, 
 this is your house ; your room is ready : I have put some 
 flowers there. It is, oh, so sad here all alone ! the walls seem 
 to call for you ! If you send me away I don't know what will 
 happen to me I ' and she began to cry. ' My own have sent 
 me away ; there is no one left but you, and the memory o< 
 his love for me.' 
 
 I don't know how or where Rhoda had studied human 
 nature, nor how she had learnt the art of suiting herself to 
 others. Mrs. Palmer came in meaning to speak her mind 
 plainly, to overwhelm the girl with reproach ; before she had 
 been in the room two minutes she had begun to soften. 
 There was the entreating Rhoda : no longer shabby little 
 Rhoda from the curate's house, but an elegant lady in a 
 beautiful simple dress, falling in silken folds ; her cloud of 
 dark hair was fashionably frizzed ; her manner had changed — 
 it was appealing and yet dignified, as befitted an heiress. 
 All this was not without its effect upon Philippa's expe- 
 rienced eye. 
 
 Rhoda had determined from the first to win Mrs. Pahner 
 over, to show the world that hers was no stolen wealth, on 
 false position. She felt as if it would make everything com- 
 fortable both to her own conscience, which was not over 
 easy, and to those from whom she was taking her wealth, if 
 only a reconciliation could be brought about : what need was 
 there for a quarrel — for going to law, if only all could be 
 reconciled. She would do anything they wished — seive them 
 in a hundred ways. Uncle John, who had spoken so un- 
 kindly, would see then who was right ; Aunt Morgan, too, 
 who had refused to come with her, would discover her mis- 
 take. There was a certain triumph in the thought of gain- 
 ing over those who had most right to be estranged, so 
 
420 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 thought Khoda, unconsciously speculating upon DoU/s 
 generosity, upon Mrs. Palmer's suddenness of character. 
 
 ' This is all vnost painful to me,' Philippa cried, more 
 and more flurried. ' Ehoda, you cannot expect * 
 
 ' I expect nothing — ^nothing, only I ask everything^ said 
 Ehoda, passionately, to Sir Thomas. ' Oh, Mrs. Palmer, you 
 can send me away from you, if you will ; or you can let me 
 be your daughter. I would give up everything ; I would 
 foUow you anywhere — anywhere — everywhere ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer sank, still agitated, into the nearest arm- 
 chair. It was a new one of Grillow's, with shining new 
 cushions and castors. Ehoda came and knelt beside it, with 
 her lustrous eyes still fixed upon Mrs. Palmer's face. Sir 
 Thomas cleared his throat; he was quite affected by the 
 little scene. Mrs. Palmer actually kissed Ehoda at parting 
 
Lady Hbnlet had always piqued herself upon a certain 
 superiority to emotion of every kind, — youth, love, sorrow had 
 seemed to her ridiculous things for many years. This winter, 
 however, had changed the little wooden woman and brought 
 her grief and anxiety, and revealed secrets to her that she 
 had never guessed before. Often the very commonest facts 
 of life are not facts, only sounds, until they have been lived. 
 One can't listen to happiness, or love, or sorrow — one must 
 have been some things in order to understand others. Lady 
 Henley married somewhat late in life — soberly, without 
 romance. Until then, her horse, her dog, her partner at the 
 last ball, had been objects of about equal interest. She had 
 always scouted all expressions of feeling. She had but little 
 experience ; and coldness of heart comes more often from 
 ignorance than from want of kindness or will to sjrmpathise. 
 Sometimes the fire of adversity warms a cold heart, and 
 then the story is not all sorrowful. The saddest story is that 
 of some ice-bound souls, whom the very fires of adversity 
 cannot reach. Poor Dolly sometimes felt the chill when 
 Pbilippa, unconscious of the stab, would say something, do 
 
422 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 some little thing, that brought a flush of pain into her 
 daughter's cheek. 
 
 The girl would not own it to herself, but there is a whole 
 life reluctant as well as a life consenting. The involuntary 
 words, the thoughts we would not think, the things we 
 would not do, and those that we do not love, are among the 
 strongest influences of our lives. Dolly at this time found 
 herself thinking many things she 'Aoald gladly have left 
 unthought, hoping things sometimes that she hated herself 
 for hoping, indifferent to others that all those round about 
 her seemed to imagine of most consequence, and that she 
 tried in vain to care for too. When Philippa began to re- 
 cover from her first burst of hysteric grief, her spirit!;' 
 seemed to revive. They were enough to overwhelm Dolly at 
 times, for she had inherited her mother's impressionability, 
 and at the same time her father's somewhat morbid fidelity. 
 
 Lady Henley's dislike to her sister-in-law made her clear- 
 sighted as to what was going on, and she tried in many ways 
 to shield the girl from her m^other's displeasure and incessant 
 worry of recrimination. With a view to Jonah's possible 
 interest, she had regretted Dolly's decision not to dispute 
 the will as much as Mrs. Palmer herself, but she could not 
 see her worried. 
 
 ' Philippa is really too bad,' she said one day. ' Thomas, 
 can't you do something — send for some one — suggest some- 
 thing ? ' 
 
 Sir Thomas meekly suggested Eobert Henley. 
 
 ' The very last person I should wish to see,' cried Lady 
 Henley, sharply. 'Bell, did you ever know your father 
 understand anything one said to him ? ' 
 
 Lady Henley's concern was relieved without Sir Thomas's 
 assistance. Before the end of the winter Mrs. Palmer had 
 left Henley Court and firmly established herself at Paris. 
 Dolly remained behind. It was Phili])pa's arrangement, and 
 
SHEEP-SHEARING. 423 
 
 Uolly had been glad to agree to her cousins' eager proposal 
 ihat she should stay on at Henley tor a time. Nobody quite 
 knew how it had happened, except, indeed, that Philippa 
 had intended it all along ; and she now wrote in raptures 
 with the climate, so different from what they had been en- 
 during in Yorkshire. But Joanna did not care for climate 
 — her Palmer constitution was not susceptible to the influence 
 of atmosphere. 
 
 All through that sad winter Dolly stayed on in York- 
 ehire. Their kindness was unwearied. Then, when the 
 snow began to melt at last, the heavy clouds of winter to 
 lighten, when the spring began to dawn, and the summer 
 Bun and the sweet tones of natural things to thrill and stir 
 the world to life, Dolly, too, began to breathe again ; she 
 could not enjoy all this beauty, but it cpmforted her, never- 
 theless. 
 
 The silence of the country was very tranquillising and 
 quieting. She had come like a tired child, sad and over- 
 wearied. Mother Nature was hushing her off to sleep at 
 last. She spent long mornings in the meadows down by 
 the river ; sometimes her cousins took her for walks across 
 the moors, but to Dolly they seemed more like birds than 
 human beings, and she had not strength for their ten-mile 
 flights. 
 
 ' You know what our life is,' she wrote to Eobert, ' and I 
 need not describe it. I try to help my uncle a little of a 
 morning. I go out driving with my aunt, or into the village 
 of an afternoon with Norah ; the wind comes cutting through 
 the trees by the lodge-gate — all the roads are heavy with 
 snow. Everything seems very cold and sad — everything 
 except their kindness, which I shall never forget. Yesterday 
 Aunt Joanna kissed me, and looked at me so kindly that I 
 found myself crying suddenly. Dear Eobert, she showed 
 me the letter you wrote her. I cannot help saying one word 
 
424 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 about that one word in it in which you speak of your doubt- 
 ing that I wish for your return. Why do you say such 
 things or think such imjust thoughts of me ? Your return 
 is the one bright spot in my life just now. Did..I not tell 
 you so when you went away ? If I have ever failed, evei 
 loved you less than you wished, scold me, dear Eobert, as 1 
 am scolding you now, and I will love you the more for it. 
 Yow. and I can understand, but it is hard to explain, even to 
 my aunt, how things stand between us. I trust you utterly, 
 and I am quite content to leave my fate to you.' 
 
 She sat writing by the fire on her knee as she warmed 
 herself by the embers. She paused once or twice and looked 
 into the flame with her sweet dreamy eyes. Where do 
 people travel to as they sit quietly dreaming and warming 
 their feet at the fire ? What long, aimless journeys into 
 other countries, into other hearts ! What strange starts and 
 returns ! Dolly finds herself by the little well in Kensington 
 Grardens, and some one is there, who says things in a strange 
 voice that thrills as Eobert's never did. Does he call hei 
 his Eachel ? Is love a chord ? It had seemed to her one 
 single note until Frank Eaban had spoken. Is this Eobert 
 who is saying that she is the one only woman in all the 
 world for him? Dolly blushes a burning blush of shame 
 all alone as she sits in the twilight when she discovers of 
 what she had been thinking. 
 
 ' What are you burning, Dolly?' said her aunt, coming in. 
 
 It was her letter that Dolly had thrown into the fire. It 
 had seemed to her false somehow, and yet she wrote another 
 to the same effect next day. 
 
 Mr. Anley was going to Paris, and Dolly was to go with 
 him. On the last day before she left her uncle took her for 
 a drive. He had business beyond Pebblesthwaite, and while 
 he went into a house Dolly wandered on through an open 
 gate, and by a little path that led across a field to a stream 
 
SHEEP-SHEARING. 425 
 
 and a great Weating and barking and rushing of waters. 
 It was early spring. As she came round by the bridge she 
 saw a penned crowd of sheep, a stout farmer in gaiters was 
 flinging them one by one into the river, they splashed and 
 struggled in vain ; a man stood up to his waist in the midst 
 of the stream dowsing the poor gentle creatures one by one, 
 as they swam past. The stream dashed along the narrow 
 g^Uy. The dogs were barking in great excitement. The 
 sheep went in black and came out white and fleecy and 
 flurried, scrambling to land. Young Farmer Ehodes stood 
 watching the process mounted on his beautiful mare ; James 
 Brand, with the lurcher in a leash, had also stopped for a 
 moment. He looked up with his kind blue eyes at Dolly as 
 she crossed the bridge, and stood watching the rural scene. 
 The hedges and the river banks were quivering with coming 
 spring, purple buds and green leaves, and life suddenly rising 
 out of silent moors. James Brand came up to where Dolly 
 was standing. He stood sUent for an instant, then he spoke 
 in his soft Yorkshire tones : 
 
 ' T' ship doan't like it,' he said. ' T' water's cold and 
 deep, poor things. 'Tis not t' ship aloan has to be dipped 
 oft-times and washed in t' waters of afiliction,' moralised 
 James, who attended at the chapel sometimes. 
 
 Just then Sir Thomas came up. He knew James Brand 
 and Farmer Tanner too ; he had come to buy some of these 
 very sheep that were now struggling in the water ; and he 
 turned and walked on with Tanner towards the little farm. 
 Dolly would not go in, she preferred waiting outside. All 
 the flowers were bursting into blaze again in the pretty 
 garden. Greraniums coming out in the window, ribes and 
 lilies, dandies, early pansies, forget-me-nots, bachelor's 
 buttons, all the homely garland of cottage flowers was 
 flung there. Beyond the walls were the chimneys of a 
 house showing among the trees. Some men were worMng 
 
426 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 and chopping wood. The red leaves of last winter's frost 
 etill hung to the branches. Brand was coming and goin ^ 
 with his dog at his heels, and he stopped again, seeing Dolly 
 standing alone ; she had some curious interest for him. She 
 had rallied that day from a long season of silent depression. 
 The spring birds seemed to be singing to her, the grass 
 seemed to spread green and soft for her feet, the incense to 
 be scenting the high air ; it was a sweet and fresh and 
 voiceful stillness coming after noise and sorrow and con- 
 fusion of heart. The farmer's garden was half flower, half 
 kitchen garden ; against one wall, rainbowed with moss and 
 weather stains, clustered the blossom of a great crop of 
 future autumn fruits ; the cabbages stood in rows marshalled 
 and glistening too. The moors were also shining, and the 
 birds whistling in the air. 
 
 'Dolly,' said Sir Thomas, coming out fussily, 'I fine' 
 Raban is expected immediately. I will go up to the house 
 and leave a note for him. I thought you had been here 
 before,' said Sir Thomas, as Dolly opened her eyes. This 
 then was Ravensrick. 
 
 The worthy baronet was not above a condescending 
 gossip with James Brand, as they walked up to the house. 
 The number of men employed, the cottages, the school- 
 master's increase of salary. ' Nice old place,' Sir Thomas 
 said, looking round : then he went on — 
 
 'We must have a lady at Ravensrick some of these 
 days.' 
 
 ' Wall,' said old Brand, ' he were caught in t' net once, 
 Sir Thomas ; 'tis well nigh eno' to make a yong man warj. 
 They laid their toils for others, as ye know, but others were 
 sharper than he ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; what a very pretty view,' said Sir Thomas, 
 hastily pointing to a moor upon which a great boulder of 
 rock was lying. 
 
SHEEP-SHEARING. ifiT 
 
 ' That is t' crag,' said Brand ; ' there's a watter-fo' beycmd 
 r ca' that ro-mantic ; Mr. Frank were nigh killed as a boy 
 
 fallin' fra t' side I have known him boy and 
 
 man,' the old fellow went on, with unusual expansion, 
 striking his gun against a felled tree ; ' none could be more 
 fair and honourable than my ma-aster; people slandered 
 him and lied to t' Squire, but Mr. Fra-ank scorned to take 
 mean adva-antage o' silly women, and they made prey of 
 
 him ' They had reached the garden by this 
 
 time, where old Mrs. Eaban used to take her daily yards of 
 walking exercise, and where the old Squire used to sun him- 
 self hour after hour. 
 
 The ragged green leaves of the young chestnuts were 
 coming out, and the red blossoms of the sycamore, and the 
 valley was full of light and blending green. But the house 
 looked dark and closed, only one window was open. It was 
 the library window, and Sir Thomas walked in to write his 
 note. And Dolly followed, looking round and about ; she 
 thought to herself that she was glad to have come — glad 
 to have heard the old keeper's kindly praise of his young 
 master. Frank must be her friend always, even though she 
 never saw him again. The manner of his life and the place 
 of it could never be indifferent to her. But she must never 
 see him again, never think of him, if she could help it. 
 
 The door opened suddenly, and Dolly started from the 
 place where she had been standing ; it was only Becky of 
 the beacon head, who had come in to ask if anything was 
 wanted. 
 
 ' We must be off,' said Sir Thomas ; ' my compliments 
 to Mr. Eaban and this note. Tell him we hope to see him 
 as soon as he can conveniently come over. Your poor Aunt 
 is very anxious always,' he said to Doily in an explanatory 
 voice, and then he stepped out through the window again, _ 
 where Brand was still waiting. 
 
a28 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Dolly looked back once as she left the room. ' Grood- 
 by,' she said in her most secret heart. ' Good-by, forgive 
 me if I have ever wronged you.' As she went out, her 
 dress caught in the window, and with an impatient, hurried 
 movement she stooped and disentangled it. 
 
 As they were driving oiF ag^ain, Sir Thomas complacently 
 announced that the works at Medmere were certainly a 
 failure. ' One would not think so from his manner ; but 
 Raban is a most incautious man,' said he ; 'we must come 
 again when you come back to us, Dolly. Perhaps a certain 
 traveller will be home by then,' he added, good-naturedly. 
 
 ' I shall be gone before Mr. Eaban comes back,' said 
 Dolly. 
 
 ' Robert — Robert. I was speaking of Robert, of course,' 
 said Sir Thomas, pulling at the reins. 
 
 Dolly blushed crimson as she stooped to look for a glove 
 that she had dropped. That night again she awoke suddenly 
 in a strange agony of shame for her involuntary slip^ It 
 seemed to reveal her own secret heart, from which she fain 
 would fly; she had promised to be true, and she was not false, 
 but was this being true ? 
 
 What is it that belongs to a woman of a right, inalien- 
 ably, as to a man probity, or a high-minded sense of honour 
 — is it for women, womanliness and the secret rectitude of 
 self-respect ? My poor Dolly felt suddenly as if even this 
 last anchor had failed, and for a cruel dark hour she lay 
 sobbing on her pillow. Then in the dawn she fell asleep. 
 
C 429 ) 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 TEMPERED WINDS. 
 
 Oh, all comforters, 
 All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, 
 Came with hep coming. 
 
 — Gr. Eliot. 
 
 Fp-ank. Eaban arrived that evening. The fires were burning 
 a cheerful greeting ; the table was laid in the library ; his 
 one plate, his one knife and fork, were ready. After all, it 
 was home, though there was no one to greet him except the 
 two grinning maidens. The dogs were both up at the lodge. 
 As Frank was sitting down to dinner he saw something black 
 lying in one of the windows. He picked it up. It was a 
 glove. Becky roared with laughter when Frank asked her 
 if it was hers ; she was setting down a huge dish with her 
 honest red hands. Her gloves I ' They were made 0' cotton,' 
 she said ; ' blue, wi' red stitchens'.' She suggested that 'this 
 might be t' young lady's ; t' gentleman and t' young lady 
 had come and had walked about t' house wi' James Brand.' 
 ' What gentleman ? — what young lady ? ' asked Baban, 
 ' A pale-faced young lady in bla-ack eloathes,' said Becky. 
 ' T' gentleman were called Sir Tummas. James Brand, he 
 knawed.' 
 
 ' Sir Thomas ! A pale young lady in black I ' 
 Frank stuck the little glove up on the tall chimney. It 
 seemed a welcoming hand put out to greet him on his 
 
4jy OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 return. He had guessed to wtom the glove belonged even 
 before he saw a little inky D marked in the wrist. 
 
 ' So she had been there 1 ' While he had been away life 
 in its fiercest phases had met him, and at such times people's 
 own feelings and histories seem to. lose in meaning, in vivid- 
 ness, and importance. When whole nations are concerned, 
 and the life of thousands is the stake by which the game is 
 played ; then each private story seems lost, for a time, in 
 the great rush of fate. Frank had been twice to the East 
 during that winter. He had seen Jonah, he had disposed of 
 his stores. The little yacht had done her work bravely, and 
 was now cruising in summer seas, and Eaban had come 
 home to his sheep and his furrows — to his old furrows of 
 thought ; how curiously the sight of that little glove brought 
 it all back once more. 
 
 As Frank rode along the lanes, it was difficult to believe 
 that all was tranquil as it seemed. That no ambush was 
 lurking behind the hedges ; that the rumble of carts travtl- 
 ling along with their load from the quarry was no echo of 
 distant guns ; that no secret danger was to be dreaded. This 
 was the second morning after his arrival. The sunshine 
 which Dolly had liked seemed to him also of good omen. 
 The lilacs were coming into flower, the banks were sparkling 
 with flowers: primroses and early hyacinths, summer green 
 and summer light were brightening along the road. Frank 
 rode quietly along on his way to the Court, sure of a welcome 
 from Lady Henley, for had he not seen Jonah ? Bloom, little 
 flowers, along the path ; sing, little birds, from overarching 
 boughs ; beat, honest heart, along the road that leads to the 
 goal of thy life's journey I 
 
 Lady Henley was the first person he saw when he rode 
 iifto the park. Simshiny though it was, she was tucked up 
 in some warm furs and sitting on the lawn in front of the 
 house. 
 
TEMPERED WINDS. I31 
 
 • Ho-w do you do ?' said Lady Henley. 'My husband told 
 iiie you were expected back. I hoped you might come. 
 Well, have you brought me any news ?' 
 
 When Lady Henley heard that Jonah was looking well, 
 that Frank had seen him ten days before, had dined witl 
 him in his hut, she could not make enongh of the messenger 
 of good tidings. He must stay to luncheon ; he must come 
 to dinner : he must see the girls. The luncheon bell rang 
 double-loud in Frank's honour, and Frank was ushered in ; 
 Norah and Bell bounced in almost immediately; an extra 
 plate was set for Frank. The butler appeared and the page 
 with some smoking dishes on a tray. That was all. Frank 
 looked up in vain, hoping to see the door open once more. 
 
 ' I am so sorry Sir Thomas is gone |Up to town with Mr. 
 Anley,' said Lady Henley. ' It is some tiresome business of 
 my sister-in-law's. My niece started with them this morning. 
 We have had her all the winter, poor thing. It is really 
 most provoking about the property, and how Philippa can 
 have made it up with that Parnell girl I cannot imagine. 
 They are inseparable, I hear. Just like Philippa. Dolly is 
 going on to Paris immediately with the Squire to join her 
 mother — quite unnecessary. Have you heard that Eobert 
 Henley is expected back ? It seems to me every one is 
 gone mad,' said Lady Henley. ' He has only been out six 
 months. . . .' 
 
 Frank asked how Miss Vanborough was lopking. 
 
 Bell immediately volunteered a most dismal account. 
 
 ' I am sure Dolly will go into a decline if some one does 
 not clieer her up. Norah and I have done our best. We 
 wanted to take her to the York ball, and we wanted to take 
 her to Lynn Grill, and across the moor to Keithburn, and we. 
 tried to get her to come out huntin' one day. What'she 
 wants is stirring up, and so I told papa ; and, for my part, 
 I'm not at all sorry Eobert is to come home,' says Bell. 
 
432 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Mamma was evidently very much annoyed. 
 
 ' What is the use talking nonsense, Bell ? Eobert would 
 nave done much better if he had stayed where he was, and 
 Dolly too,' said Lady Henley. ' Everybody seems to have 
 lost their head. Here is a letter from the Admiral. He is 
 in town, on his way to America. He wants to meet Dolly . 
 he will just miss her. As for Hawtiy, I think he is pos- 
 sessed. Not that I am at all surprised, poor fellow,' said 
 T/ady Henley, expressively. 'We know what he finds at 
 home . . .' 
 
 Frank went back very much dispirited after his luncheon. 
 It was later in the day, and the flowers and the sunshine 
 seemed to have lost their brightness ; but when he got home 
 the little glove was still on the chimney-piece, with limp 
 fingers extended. 
 
 The Hotel Molleville stands in one of the back streets 
 near the English Embassy at Paris. One or two silent streets 
 run out of the Faubourg St. Honore, and cross and recross 
 each other in a sort of minuet, with a certain stately pro- 
 priety that belongs to tall houses, to closed gates, enclosed 
 courtyards, and high roofs. There is a certain false air of 
 the Faubourg St. Grermain about this special quarter. Some 
 of the houses appear to have drifted over by mistake to the 
 wrong side of the Seine. They have seen many a dynasty go 
 by, heard many a shriek of liberty ; they stand a little on 
 one side of the march of events, that seem to prefer the main 
 thoroughfares. 
 
 The Hotel Molleville is somewhat less stately than its 
 companions. The gates are not quite so lofty ; the windows 
 have seen less of life, and have not been so often broken by 
 eager patriotism. It belongs to a noble family that is some- 
 what come down in the world. The present marquis, a stout, 
 good-humoured man, had been in the navy in his youth, and 
 
TEMPERED WINDS. 433 
 
 there made friends with the excellent Admiral Pallmere, at 
 yhose suggestion he had consented to let a little apartment 
 on the lirst floor to his lady, who had elected to reside in 
 Paris during her husband's absence. 
 
 Paris comes with a cheerful flash of light, a sudden mid- 
 titudinous chorus. The paved streets rattle, the voices 
 chatter, the note is not so deep as the hollow London echo 
 that we all know, that slow chord of a great city. 
 
 Dolly and the Squire come driving along from the station 
 with many jingles and jolts. Little carriages rattle past. It 
 is evening playtime for those in the street. The shops 
 are not yet closed ; there is a lady sitting in every little 
 brilliant shrine along the way. They drive on ; they 
 see long rivers of lamps twinkling into far vistas ; they cross 
 a great confluence of streams of light, of cries of people. 
 
 ' Here we are at the Madeleine,' says jNlr. Anley, look- 
 ing out. 
 
 In another ten minutes they have driven on and reached 
 the English Embassy. Then, with a sudden turn that sends 
 old Marker with her parcels tumbling into Dolly's lap, they 
 drive up a side street and stop at the door of the house 
 where Mrs. Palmer is Hving. 
 
 ' I shall call and see how you are in the morning,' says 
 Mr. Anley, helping DoUy out. He would have accompanied 
 her upstairs, but she begged him to go on. 
 
 The door of the house opens ; Dolly and Marker come 
 into a porte-cochire pervaded with a smeU of dinner that 
 issues from an open door that leads into a great lighted 
 kitchen, where bi-eizen covers and dials are shining upon the 
 wall, where a dinner is being prepared, not without some 
 excitement and clanking of saucepans. The cook comes to 
 the door to see DoUy go by. A concierge comes forward, 
 and Dolly runs up the polished stairs. It all returns to her 
 with strange vividness. 
 
 V ¥ 
 
434 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Dolly rang at the bell, and waited on the first landing, 
 as she had been desired. A man in a striped waistcoat 
 opened the door, and stared in some surprise at the young 
 lady with her parcels and wraps, and at the worthy Marker, 
 also laden with many bags, who stood behind her young 
 mistress. 
 
 'Does Mrs. Palmer live here?' Dolly said, speaking 
 English. 
 
 The man in stripes, for all answer, turned, drew a curtain 
 that hid an inner hall, and stood back to let them pass. The 
 hall was carpeted, curtained, lighted with hanging lamps. 
 Dolly had not expected anything so luxurious. Her early 
 recollections did not reach beyond the bare wooden floors 
 and the china stoves in the old house in the Champs Elysees. 
 She looked round wondering, and she was still more sur- 
 prised when the servant flung open two folding-doors and 
 signed to her to pass. 
 
 She entered, silently treading on the heavy carpet. The 
 place was dim, warm with a fragrant perfume of flowers : a 
 soft lamp-light was everywhere, a fragrant warmth. There 
 was a sense of utter comfort and luxury : tall doors fast 
 closed, draperies shining with dim gold gleams, pictui-es on 
 the walls, couches, lace cushions ; some tall glasses in beau- 
 tiful old frames repeated it all — the dim light, the flowers' 
 golden atmosphere. In the middle of the room a lamp hung 
 over a flower-table, of which the tall pointed leaves were 
 crimsoning in the soft light, the ferns glittering, a white 
 camelia head opening to this alabaster moon. 
 
 The practical Dolly stopped short. There must be some 
 mistake she thought. A lady in a white dress was standing 
 by the chimney, leaning against the heavy velvet top; a 
 gentleman also standing there was listening with bent head 
 to something she was saying. The two were absorbed. They 
 did not notice her, they were so taken up with one another. 
 
TEMPERED WINDS. 435 
 
 Dolly had expected to find her mother and the Admiral. 
 She had come to some wrong place. For an instant she 
 vaguely thought of strangers. Then her heart gave a warning 
 thump before she had put words to her thoughts. She was 
 standing under the lamp by the great spiked leaves, and she 
 suddenly caught hold of the marble table, for the room 
 seemed to shake. 
 
 ' Who IS it, Casimir ? ' said the lady, impatiently, as the 
 servant came up to her. 
 
 The tall gentleman also looked up. 
 
 Dolly's dazzled eyes were gazing at him in bewildered 
 amazements He had quickly stepped back when the man 
 approached, and he now turned his full face and looked at 
 Dolly, who could not speak. She could only stand silent, 
 holding out her trembling hands, half happy, half incredulous. 
 It was Eobert — Eobert, whom she had thought miles away — 
 Robert, whose letter had come only the day before — Eobert, 
 who had been there with Ehoda, so absorbed that even 
 now he scarcely seemed to recognise Dolly in her travel- 
 worn black clothes, looking like a blot upon all this splen- 
 dour. 
 
 This, then, was the moment for which she had waited, 
 and thought to wait so long. He had come back to her. 
 ' Eobert I ' she cried at last. 
 
 Perhaps if they had been alone, the course of their whole 
 lives might have been changed ; if their meeting had been 
 unwitnessed, if Casimir had not been there, if Ehoda had 
 not come up with many an exclamation of surprise, if all 
 those looking-glasses and chairs and tables had not been in 
 the way. . . . Robert stood looking down from the lengith 
 of his six feet. He held a cold hand in his. He did not kiss 
 DoUy, as he had done when he went away. He spoke to her, 
 but with a slight constraint. He seemed to have lost his 
 usual fluency and presence of mind. He was shocked at the 
 
♦36 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 change he saw. Those few months had worn her radiant 
 beauty. She was tired by the journey, changed in manner. 
 All her sweet faith and readiness to believe, and all her 
 belief in Henley, had not made this meeting, to which she 
 had looked forward as ' her one bright spot,' anything like 
 that which she had expected. Something in Eobert's voice, 
 Kis slight embarrassment, something in the attitude of the 
 two as she had seen them when she first came in and thought 
 tliem strangers, something indefinite, but very present, made 
 her shy and strange, and the hand that held her cold fingers 
 let go as Rhoda flung her arms affectionately round her. 
 Then with gentle violence Dolly was led to the fire and 
 pushed down into a satin chair. 
 
 ' I only came last night,' said Henley. ' I was afraid of 
 aiissing you, or I should have gone to meet you.' 
 
 ' We expected you to-morrow, Dolly,' interrupted Rhoda, 
 in her sweet voice : ' we were so surprised to see M/m, walk 
 in;' and she quietly indicated Henley with a little motion 
 of the head. 
 
 ' Evelybody seems to have been running after everybody 
 else. I am ashamed of myself for startling you all,' said Robert, 
 jerking his watch-chain. ' It is a whole series of changes. 
 I will tell you all about it, Dolly, when you are rested. I 
 found I could get leave at the very last instant, and I 
 came off by the steamer. I wrote from Marseilles, but 
 you must have missed my letter. This is altogether a 
 most fortunate, unexpected meeting,' he added, turning to 
 Rhoda. 
 
 Henley's utter want of tact stood him in good service, 
 and made it possible for him to go on talking. Dolly seemed 
 frozen. Rhoda was very much agitated. There seemed to 
 be a curious understanding and sympathy between Robert 
 and Miss Parnell. 
 
 ' Have you seen your mother ? ' said Rhoda, putting her 
 
TEMPERED WINDS. 437 
 
 white hand upon Dolly's shoulder. ' How cold and tired you 
 must he ? Who did you come with, after all ? ' 
 
 ' I came with — I forget,' said Dolly. ' Where is mamma ? 
 and she started up, looking still bewildered. 
 
 ' Your mother lives next door. I myself made the same 
 mistake last night,' said Eobert, and he picked up Dolly'i 
 bags and shawls from the floor, where she had dropped them. 
 Rhoda started up to lead the way. 
 
 ' You may as well come through my room,' she saici, 
 opening a door into a great dim room scented with verbena j 
 and all shining with lace frills and satin folds. A middle- 
 aged lady in a very smart cap, who was reading the paper by 
 the light of a small lamp, looked up as they passed. Ehoda 
 carelessly introduced her as Miss Eougemont. 
 
 ' My companion,' she said, in a low voice, as she opened 
 another door. ' She is very good-natured and is never put 
 out by anything.' 
 
 Dolly followed straight on over the soft carpets, on 
 through another dark room, and then another, to a door 
 from whence eame a gleam of light. 
 
 As Ehoda opened the door there came the sudden jingling 
 of music and a sound of voices ; a man met them carrying a 
 tray of refreshments; a distant voice was singing to the 
 accompaniment of a piano. Julie stood at a table pouring 
 out coffee; she put down the pot with an exclamations 
 ' Good heavens, mademoiselle ! Who ever would have 
 
 thought ? ' Some one came up to ask for coffee, and 
 
 Julie took up her pot again. 
 
 ' How stupid of me to forget ! ' said Ehoda. ' It is your 
 mother's day at home, Dolly. I will send her to you. Wait 
 one minute.' 
 
 Poor Dolly, it was a lesson to her not to come unex- 
 pectedly. 
 
 ' Madame ivill be distressed,' said Julie, coming forward, 
 
438 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' to receive Mademoiselle in such a confusion ! The gentle- 
 men all came ; they brought music ; they want coffee at 
 every instant, or the d I'AnglaiseJ 
 
 As she spoke a little fat man came up to the table, and 
 Julie darted back to hear post. 
 Meanwhile the music went on. 
 
 ■ Fetits, petits, petits oiseaux ! 
 
 sang a tenor voice — 
 
 ' Jolis, jolis, jolis, petits ! ' 
 sang a bass — 
 
 'Jolis, petits, ch&ris!' 
 
 sang the two together. 
 
 But at that instant, with a rush, with a flutter, with her 
 hair dressed in some strange new style, Mrs. Palmer at last 
 appeared and clasped Dolly, with many reproaches. 
 
 ' You naughty child, who ever expected you to-day ! and 
 the Admiral started off to meet you ! How provoking. A 
 wreck ! utterly tired out ! Come to your room directly, 
 dearest. It is quite ready, only full of cloaks and hats. 
 Here, Ehoda, cannot you take her in ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind the cloaks and hats, mamma,' said Dolly, 
 with a smile. ' I had rather stay here ; and Julie will give 
 me and Marker some coffee.' 
 
 ' Marker ! Grood gracious ! I had forgotten all about 
 Marker,' exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. 
 
{ 4J9 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE LI. 
 
 'SING HOAIISK, WITH TEABS BETWEEN.' 
 
 ' Sing sorrow, sing sorrow, triumph the geod.' 
 
 — iEsCHrLus, Agamemnon. 
 
 RoBEBT had come back from India prepared to fight Dolly's 
 battle. Although expressing much annoyance that this dis- 
 agreeable task should have been left to him, he remembered 
 Rhoda as an inoffensive little thing, and he had no doubt 
 but that she would hear reason, if things were clearly put 
 before her. She was too much in her right to be expected to 
 give up everything, but Robert had but little doubt that he 
 should be able to effect a compromise ; he had lived long 
 enough to realise how much weight one definite, clearly- 
 expressed opinion may have in the balance. It was most 
 fortunate that his official duties should have brought him 
 home at this juncture. Dolly must consent to be guided by 
 him. He was in some sense her natural protector still, 
 although he felt at times that there was not that singleness 
 of purpose about his cousin which he should have wished to 
 find in the woman whom he looked upon as his future wife. 
 At this time he had no intention of breaking with her. He 
 wished to keep her in suspense. She deserved it : she had 
 not once thought of him ; she had behaved most childishly — 
 yielded where she should have been firm, sacrificed every- 
 thing to a passing whim ; she had been greatly tried, of 
 course, but even all this might have been partly avoided if 
 
440 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 she had done as he recommended. So thought Eobert as he 
 was tying his white neckcloth in the glass at his hotel. The 
 gilt frame reflected back a serious young man and a neatly- 
 tied cravat, and he was satisfied with both. He came back 
 to a late dinner with Ehoda after Mrs. Palmer's Thursday 
 Afternoon had departed, taking away its cloaks and hats. 
 Signor Pappaforte was the last to go. M. de MoUeville took 
 leave. Mrs. Palmer, needless to say, was charmed with the 
 MoUeville family — counts, marquises, dukes. They all lived 
 in the house, overhead, underfoot. Mdme. la Comtesse was 
 a most delightful person. M. le Comte was the only one of 
 the family she did not take to, M. le Comte being a sensible 
 man, and somewhat abruptly cutting short Mrs. Palmer's 
 many questions and confidences. 
 
 The table was prettily laid in the big dining-room ; the 
 lamp-light twinkled upon the firmament of plates and silver 
 spoons, and the flowers that Ehoda had herself, arranged. 
 She was waiting for her guests. Eobert having, as in duty 
 bound, first rung at his aunt's door, and learned from Julie 
 that Mademoiselle was resting^, and that Madame was dress- 
 ing still, came across to the other apartment, where all was 
 in order and ready to make him comfortable. Ehoda was 
 sitting in her usual place on the little low chair by the fire. 
 She had taken off her white dress — she had put on a velvet 
 gown ; in her dark hair were two diamond stars : they shone 
 in the fire-light as she sat thoughtfully watching the little 
 flame. ' Have you brought them ? ' she said, without look- 
 ing round. ' Are you alone ? Come and sit down here and 
 be warmed while you wait.' 
 
 Ehoda's voice was like a bell, it rang so clear ; when she 
 was excited it seemed to rise and fall and vibrate. At other 
 times she would sit silent ; but though she sat silent, she 
 held her own. Some people have this gift of voiceless 
 emotion, of silent expression . Ehoda was never unnoticed ; 
 
'SING HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.' 441 
 
 lu her corner, crossing a street, or passing a stranger in a 
 crowded room, she would mark her way as she passed along. 
 It was this influence which had haunted poor Greorge all his 
 life, which made itself felt now as it had never done before. 
 Rhoda now seemed suddenly to have bloomed into the sweet- 
 ness and delicate brightness which belongs to some flowers, 
 such as cyclamen and others I could name. She had been 
 transplanted into clear air, into ease of mind and of body ; 
 she suddenly seemed to have expanded into her new life, and 
 her nature had kindled to all sorts of new and wonderful 
 things. Many of these were to be bought with silver and 
 gold ; it was not for affection, nor for the highest emotions, 
 that little Rhoda had pined : hers was the enthusiasm of 
 common-place : it was towards bright things of every kind 
 that this little flame spirit turned so eagerly. Sometimes A 
 gets credit for saying what B may have thought and felt, 
 what C has lived for years with courage and self-denial ; then 
 comes a Rhoda, who loo]<!S it all without an effort or a single 
 word, and no wonder that Robert and many others were 
 struck by her strange beauty and touched by her gentle 
 magnetism of expression and of grace. 
 
 Henley came up, and without any hesitation established 
 himself in the warm corner she indicated. The stiffness he 
 had undoubtedly felt when they first met had worn off since 
 that ' business talk ' — so Rhoda called it ; and now he did 
 not know whether it was business or pleasure as he listened 
 to Rhoda's low song of explanation, and watched her white 
 fingers opening to the fire. Signer Pappaforte's tenor was 
 not to compare to Rhoda's soft performance. Perhaps I am 
 wrong to use such a word ; for, after all, she was as genuine 
 as Dolly herself in her way^as Dolly who had fallen asleep, 
 and was far away in spirit, dreaming a little dream of all 
 that had happened that day. 
 
 Rhoda resumed their conversation qmte naturally. ' We 
 
442 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 may be interrupted,' she said earnestly, ' and there is one more 
 thing I want to say to you. You know better than I do ; 
 you must judge for me. I always hoped that when you came, 
 all would be' arranged. I know nothing of business,' she said, 
 smiling. ' I only know that I like my pretty things, and 
 that it makes me happy to live here, and to have my flowers 
 and my nice dresses and fresh air. Is it wrong ? It seems a 
 sort of new life to me ; ' and a wistful face was gently upraised. 
 ' If Dolly wishes it I will give it all back — everything,' said 
 Bhoda, who knew that she was pretty safe in making this 
 generous offer, and she smoothed the soft velvet fold wistfully 
 with her fingers, as if she felt it was no longer her own. ' Dolly 
 refused, when I begged her to take it all long ago,' she added. 
 ' Now I wish she had agreed before I became accustomed to 
 this new life. I confess that I do not like to look back. 
 Serge and smoke and omnibuses all seem more horrid than 
 ever.' 
 
 Eobert scarcely knew how to answer the poor little thing. 
 '• Did you offer to give it all up ? ' he said, starting up, and 
 walking up and down with long strides to hide his embarrass- 
 ment. ' I was never told of it, or I should certainly have 
 
 ac Dolly should have told me,' he said quickly — all 
 
 his embarrassment turning into wrath against Dolly. 
 
 ' Don't blame her,' said Bhoda, in a low voice ; ' she is 
 so generous, so noble. I can understand her refusing for 
 herself ; though I think if I had loved any one as — as Dolly 
 must love — I should have thought of his interest first of all, 
 and not of my own impulse. I know people might say it is 
 very foolish of me and weak-minded,' she said, faltering. 
 
 ' They could only say that you were a true woman, and 
 respect you for your generous devotion,' said Eobert, taking 
 her hand. He dropped it rather awkwardly as Miss Eouge- 
 mont came into the room, followed almost immediately by 
 Mrs. Palmer. 
 
'SING HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.' 443 
 
 ' That tired child of mine is still asleep,' said Mrs. Palmer. 
 ' Marker wouldn't let me awaken her.' 
 
 ' Then perhaps we had better not wait,' said Ehoda, whose 
 dark eyes were never more wakeful. ' Ring the bell, Miss 
 Eougemont.' 
 
 So Ehoda and her guests sat down with a very good appe- 
 tite to dinner; she charmed them all by her grace as a 
 hostess. Miss Eougemont, who was not a guest, discreetly 
 retired as soon as the meal was over. 
 
 Robert passed a very disturbed night. It was near twelve 
 o'clock next morning when he rang at the door of his aunt's 
 apartment. Dolly had been expecting him for a long time. 
 The baker, the water-carrier with his clanking wooden pails, 
 Mr. Anley's familiar tones, inquiring whether Miss Van- 
 borough was ' engages ' — every ring, every voice had made 
 her heart beat. Eobert found Mr. Anley stiU sitting with 
 Dolly. They were by an open window fuU of spring flowers. 
 The cheerful rattle of the street below, the cries of itinerant 
 vendors, the noisy song of a bird in the sunshine, and the 
 bright morning light itself poured into the room in a great 
 stream of dazzling motes and gold, through which the girl 
 came blushing to meet her kinsman. 
 
 ' I am afraid your long sleep has not rested you,' he said, 
 looking at her hajd, as she stood in the slanting stream, all 
 illuminated for an instant — ^her rough hair radiant, her black 
 gown changed to a purple primrose mist ; then she came out 
 of the light into every day, and again he thought how changed 
 she was. 
 
 ' I have brought you some violets,' and he gave her a 
 bunch that he held in his hand. Eobert thought Dolly 
 changed. How shall I describe her at this time of her life ? 
 The dominant radiance of early youth was gone ; a whole 
 lifetime had come into the last few months. But if the 
 brightest radiance was no longer there, a less self-absorbed 
 
444 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 person than Robert Henley might have been touched by the 
 tender sweetness of that pale face. Its peaceful serenity did not 
 affect him in the same way as Ehoda's appealing glances ; it 
 seemed to tell of a whole experience far away, in which he 
 was not, and which, in his present frame of mind, only 
 seemed to reproach him. 
 
 Dorothea had no thought of reproach. She was a generous 
 girl, imselfish, able to forgive, as it is not given to many to 
 forgi\e. She might remember, but malice was not in he v. 
 Malice and uncharitableness as often consist in the vivid 
 remembrance of the pang inflicted, as in that of the blow 
 which caused it. Dolly never dwelt long upon the pain she had 
 suffered, and so, when the time came to forgive, she could 
 forgive. She had all along been curiously blind to Eobert's 
 shortcomings ; she had taken it for granted that she was in 
 fault when he asserted the fact with quiet conviction ; and 
 njw in the morning light she had been telling herself (all 
 the time Squire Anley had been talking of his plans and 
 benevolent schemes for a dinner at a cafe, presents for half 
 the county, etc. etc.) that perhaps she herself had been sur- 
 prised and embarrassed the night before, that Ehoda was 
 looking on, that Robert was never very expansive or quick to 
 gay all that he really felt, that this would be their real 
 meeting. 
 
 The kind squire soon went off pleased at the idea of a 
 happy lovers' meeting. He knew that there had been some 
 misunderstanding. He looked back as he left the room, but 
 the stream of light was dazzling between them, and he could 
 not see their faces for it. 
 
 ■ He tnight have stayed ; his presence would have been a 
 relief, so Dolly thought afterwards, to that sad sunshiny 
 half-hour through which her heart ached so bitterly. She 
 grasped the poor little bunch of violets tight in her fingers, 
 clencliing the bitter disappointment. It was nothing that 
 
'STNG HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.' 445 
 
 she had to complain of, only everything. Had sorrow 
 opened her eyes, had her own remorse opened her eyes ? 
 
 ' I did not think,' Eobert was saying, ' I should see you 
 so soon again, Dora. Poor Lady Sarah, of course, one could 
 not expect. ... I remember driving away,' he added, 
 hastily, as her eyes filled, ' and wondering when I should get 
 back ; and then — yes. Marker called the cab back. I was 
 glad of it afterwards. I had just time to come in and say 
 good-by again. Do you remember ? ' And he tried to get 
 up a little sentiment. 
 
 Dolly looked, up suddenly. ' "Why did Marker call you 
 baok, Eobert ? ' she asked, in a curious voice. 
 
 ' I had forgotten my great-coat,' said Eobert. ' One 
 wants all one's wraps in the sunny Mediterranean. How 
 pleasant this is ! Is it possible I have ever been away ? ' 
 And then he sat down in an affectionate attitude by Dolly 
 on the green velvet sofa. He would not scold her yet ; he 
 would try kindness he thought. He asked her about her- 
 self, tried to reproach her playfully for her recklessness in 
 money matters, spoke of his own prospects, and the scheme 
 which had brought him home. Martindale had resumed 
 his old post at the college for six months. It is not 
 necessary here to enter into all Eobert's details. He spoke 
 of a growing spirit of disaffection in the East, and suddenly 
 he discovered that Dolly was no longer listening. 
 
 ' Why do you tell me all this, Eobert ? ' she said, hoarsely, 
 forgetting the role of passive acquiescence she had promised 
 herself to play. 
 
 It hurt Dolly somehow, and wearied her to talk to 
 Eobert upon indifferent subjects. The hour had come — the 
 great hour that she had dreaded and longed for — and was this 
 all that it had brought ? Sometimes in a tone of his voice, in 
 a well-known look, it would seem to her that reconciliation 
 was at hand ; but a word more, but a look more, and all 
 
U6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 separation was over for ever — all reproach ; hut neither look 
 nor word came. The key-note to all these variations of 
 feeling never sounded. Poor Dolly hated and loved alter- 
 nately during this cruel hour ; loved the man she had loved 
 BO long, hated this strange perversion of her heart's dream. 
 We love and we hate — not the face, nor the voice, nor the 
 actions of this one or that one, but an intangible essence of 
 all. And there sat Henley, talking very pleasantly, and 
 changed somehow. Was that Eobert ? Was this herself ? 
 Was Robert dead too, or was it her own heart that was so 
 cold. 
 
 Ehoda met her leaving the room some few minutes after. 
 
 ' I have come to fetch you to luncheon,' said Miss 
 Pamell. ' Is Mr. Henley there ? ' I see you have got your 
 violets, DoUy; Miss Rougemont and I showed him the way 
 to the flower-market. We m.et at the door. I am afraid 
 she kept him too long. It was very wicked of her.' 
 
 Mrs. Palmer joined them at luncheon. Miss Eougemont 
 carved and attended to their wants. Dolly was gratefiil for 
 a Benjamin-Uke portion that she found heaped upon her 
 plate, but she could not eat it. Everything tasted bitter some- 
 how. Miss Rougemont was an odd, battered woman, with 
 an inexpressive face ; but she was not so insensible as Rhoda 
 inaagined. More than once during luncheon Dolly found 
 her black rolling eyes fixed upon her face. Once, watching 
 her opportunity, the companion came close up to Dolly and 
 said, in a low voice, ' I wished to say to you that I hope you 
 do not think that it was I who detained Mr. Henley this 
 morning. Miss Pamell, who rarely considers other people's 
 
 feelings, told me that she had told you that / ' Dolly 
 
 blushed up. 
 
 'He came in very fair time,' she said, gently. Miss 
 Rougemont did not seem satisfied. ' Forgive me,' she said. 
 ' I am old and you are young. It is well to be upon one's 
 
STNG HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.' 447 
 
 guard. It was not I who detained Mr. Henley.' She meant 
 well, poor woman; but Dolly started away impatiently, 
 blushing up with annoyance. How dare Miss Eougemont 
 hint, and thrust her impertinent suspicions before her ? 
 
 Squire Anley, with his loose clothes flying, with a parcel 
 under each arm, with bonbons enough in his pockets for all 
 the children in Pebblesthwaite, a list of names and addresses 
 in his hand, was inquiring his way to a dressmaker, Made- 
 moiselle Hays, whose bill he had promised Mrs. Boswarrick 
 to pay. (Squire Anley often paid Mrs. Boswarrick's bills, 
 and was repaid or not, as the case might be. At all events, 
 he had the satisfaction of seeing the little lady in her pretty 
 Paris dresses.) All day long the sunshine has been twinkling, 
 carriages are rattling cheerfully over the stones, sightseers 
 are sightseeing, the shops are full of pretty things. 
 
 Lord Cowley has just driven out of the great gates of 
 the British Embassy, and the soldier has presented arms. 
 Flash goes the bayonet in the sunshine. Squire Anley, 
 looking about, suddenly sees Dorothea on the other side of 
 the street, and crosses to meet her. 
 
 ' Alone ? ' said he. ' This is very wrong. "What are you 
 doing ? Where is everybody ? ' 
 
 'I am not alone,' said Dolly; 'they are in that shop. 
 Rhoda went in to buy something, and she called Robert to 
 give his advice.' 
 
 The Sqiiire opened his eyes. 
 
 ' It was vei-y exemplary of Robert Henley to go when he 
 was called,' he said, laughing. ' And where are you all going 
 to?' 
 
 ' I have to take some money from Mrs. Fane to a sick 
 man in the English Hospital,' Dolly said. ' It is a long waj 
 oflP, I'm afraid. Mamma thought it too far, but they are 
 coming with me.' 
 
 Here Robert came out of the shop to look for Dolly. 
 
4+8 OLD KENSINGTON-. 
 
 ' I did not know you had stayed outside,' he said in his 
 old affectionately dictatorial way, drawing her hand through 
 his arm. ' I should have scolded you, but I see you have done 
 us good service.' And he shook hands with the Squire. 
 
 ' I was on my way to try and find you,' said the Squire. 
 ' I have ordered dinner at the " Trois Freres " at six. Don't 
 be late. I am the most punctual of men, as Miss Dolly 
 knows by sad experience.' 
 
 Punctuality always seems to me a struggle between my- 
 self and all eternity,' said DoUy, smiling. 
 
 Eobert looked at his watch, and then back at the shop. 
 ' There is nothing more necessary,' he said. ' I promised 
 Rhoda to come for her again in twenty minutes. She 
 is divided between blue and sea-green. I am afraid we shall 
 be almost too late for the hospital to-day. Can't you come 
 back, Dolly, and help her in her choice ? ' 
 
 Dolly's face fell. 
 
 ' I can't wait ; I m/wst go,' she said. ' The man is ex- 
 pecting his money to get home, and Mrs. Fane is expecting 
 him.' 
 
 ' To-morrow will do just as well, my dear Dolly. You 
 are as impetuous as ever, I see,' said Eobert. ' We can t 
 leave Ehoda alone, now that we have brought her out.' 
 
 ' To-morrow wovUt do,' cried Dolly, and she suddenly let 
 go his arm. ' I will go alone. I am used to it. I must 
 go,' she insisted, with a nervous vehemence which surprised 
 Mr. Anley. It was very unlike Dolly to be vexed about 
 small matters. 
 
 But here Ehoda, smiling, came in turn from the door of 
 the shop. She was dressed in violet and lilac and bright 
 spring colours ; in her hand she held a little bimch of 
 flowers, not unlike that one which Eobert had given Dolly 
 at her suggestion. 
 
 ' What is all this ? Now we are going to the hospital ? ' 
 
'SING HOARSE, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.' 449 
 
 ehe said. * I should have had my pony-carriage to-morrow 
 ■ — that was my only reason for wishing to put off the espe- 
 dition.' 
 
 A large open carriage with four places was passing hy ; 
 Eobert stopped it, and they all three got in. Mr. Anley 
 watched them as they drove away. He did not quite like the 
 aspect of affairs. He had thought Dolly looking very sad 
 when he met her standing at the shop door. What was 
 Ehoda being' so amiable about ? He saw the lilac bonnet 
 bending forward, and Dolly's crape veil falling as the carriage 
 drove round the corner. 
 
 G a 
 
450 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE LII. 
 
 AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN's. 
 
 On admire les fleurs de serre, 
 Qui, loin de leur soleil natul, 
 Comme des joyaux mis sous verre, 
 Brillent sous un ciel de crystal. 
 
 — T. Gautier. 
 
 The carriage drove through the Place de la Concorde. The 
 fountains were tossing and splashing sunlight, the shadow of 
 the Obelisk was travelling across the pavement. The old 
 palace still stood in its place, with its high crowding roofs, 
 and shadows,' and twinkling vanes. The early green was in 
 every tree, lying bright upon avenues and slopes. It was 
 all familiar — every dazzle and echo brought back Dolly's 
 youthful remembrance. The merry-go-rounds were whirl- 
 ing under the trees. ' Tirez — tirez,' cried the ladies of 
 the rouge-et-noir tables. ' For a penny the lemonade,' 
 sang an Assyrian-looking figure, with a very hoarse voice, 
 and a great tin box on his back. Then came Gruignol's 
 distant shriek, the steady roll of the carriages, and a 
 distant sound of music as a regiment came marching across 
 the bridge. The tune that they were playing sounded like 
 a dirge to poor Dolly's heart, and so she sank back silently 
 and let down her crape veil. 
 
 Meanwhile Ehoda and Robert were talking very happily 
 together They did not see that Dolly was crying behind 
 her veil. 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN S. 451 
 
 The hospital is a tranquil little place at the end of long 
 avenues of plane-trees that run their dreary lengths for miles 
 out of the gates of Paris. A blouse, a heap of stones, a 
 market cart — there is nothing else to break the dreary 
 monotone of straight pavement and shivering plane-tree 
 repeated many hundred times. Sometimes you reach a 
 cross-road : it is the same thing again. They came to the 
 iron gates of the hospital at last, and crossed the front 
 garden, and looked up at the open windows while they 
 waited for admission. A nurse let them in without diffi- 
 culty, and opened the door of a great airy, tranquil ward, 
 where three or four invalids in cotton nightcaps were rest- 
 ing. The windows opened each way into silent gardens. 
 It was all still and hushed and fresh ; it must have seemed 
 a strange contrast to some of the inmates. A rough, battered- 
 looking man was lying on his back on his bed, listlessly 
 tracing the lines of the ceiling with his finger. It was to 
 him that the nurse led Dolly. ' This is Smith,' she said ; 
 ' he is very anxious to go home to England.' 
 
 The man hearing his name, sat up and turned a thin and 
 stubbly-bearded face towards Dolly, and as he looked at her 
 he half rose to his feet and stared at her hard : while she 
 spoke to him, he still stared with an odd frightened look 
 that was not rude, but which Dolly found embarrassing. 
 
 She hastily gave him the money and the message from 
 
 Mrs. Fane. He was to come back to the home in 
 
 Street. The nurse who had nursed him in the Crimea had 
 procured his admission. He had been badly wounded ; lie 
 was better, and his one longing was to get to England again . 
 He had a little money, he said. He wanted to see his boy 
 and give him the money. It was prize-money — the nurse 
 had it to take care of; and still he went on staring at 
 Dolly. 
 
 Dolly could not shake off the impression of that curious. 
 002 
 
4..i;2 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 frightened look. She told the Squire about it when they 
 met at the cafe that evening, as they sat after dinner in the 
 starlight at little tables with coffee and ices before them, 
 and cheerful crowds wandering round and round the arcades 
 — some staring at the glittering shops, others, more senti- 
 mentally inclined, gazing at the stars overhead. Mrs. Palmer 
 was absorbed in an ice. 
 
 Voices change in the twilight as colours do, and it seemed 
 to Dolly that all their voices had the cadence of the night, 
 as they sat there talking of one thing and another. Every 
 now and then came little bursts of revelry, toned down and 
 softened by the darkness. How clear the night was ! What 
 a great peaceful star was pausing over the gable of the old 
 palace I 
 
 The Squire was giving extracts from his Yorkshire cor- 
 respondence. 'Miss Bell said nothing of a certain report 
 whick had got about, to the effect that she was going to be 
 married to Mr. Stock.' ('Pray, pray spare us,' from Mrs. 
 Palmer.) But Bell did say something of expecting to have 
 some news for the Squire on his return, if Norah did not 
 forestall her with it. ' Mr. Eaban is always coming. He is 
 out riding now with papa and Norah ; and we all think it an 
 awfully jolly arrangement, and everybody is making remarks 
 already.' 
 
 ' One would really think Joanna had brought up her girls 
 in the stables,' said Mrs. Palmer. ' I am sure I am very 
 glad that Norah is likely to -do so well. Though I must say 
 I always thought Mr. Eaban a poor creature, and so did you, 
 DoUy.' 
 
 ' I think he is o»e of the best and kindest friends I ever 
 had,' said Dolly, abruptly. 
 
 ' Nonsense, dearest,' said her mother. ' And so you really 
 leave us,' continued Mrs. Palmer, sipping the pink and green 
 ice, with her head on one side, and addressing Mr. Anley. 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN'S. 453 
 
 'I promised Miss Bell that I would ride with her on 
 Thursday,' said the Squire ; ' and a promise, you know . . .' 
 ' It is not every one who has your high sense of honour,' 
 said Mrs. Palmer, bitterly. ' Some promises — those made 
 before the altar, for instance — seem only made to be broken.' 
 ' Those I have never pledged myself to, Madam,' said the 
 Squire, rubbing his hands. 
 
 ' If some people only had the frankness to promise to 
 neglect, to rob and to ill-use their wives, one could better 
 understand their present conduct,' Mrs. Palmer continued, 
 with a raised voice. 
 
 'A promise — what is a promise?' Khoda asked in her 
 clear soft flute ; ' surely people change their minds some- 
 times, and then no one would wish to keep another person 
 bound.' 
 
 ' That is a very strange doctrine, my dear yoimg lady,' 
 said Mr. Anley, abruptly. 'Forgive me, if I say it is a 
 ladies' doctrine. I hope I should not find any price too dear 
 for my honour to pay. I am sure Henley agrees with me.' 
 
 Robert felt the Squire's eyes upon him : he twirled his 
 watch-chain. ' I don't think it is a subject for discussion,' 
 he said, impatiently. ' A gentleman keeps his word, of 
 course, at a — every inconvenience.' 
 
 ' Surely a mosquito ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. As she 
 spoke, a sudden flash of zigzag light from some passage over- 
 head suddenly lighted up the table and the faces of the little 
 party assembled round it ; it lit up one face and another, 
 and flickered for an instant upon Rhoda's dark head : it 
 flashed into Robert's face, and vanished. 
 
 And in that instant DoUy, looking up, had seen Rhodii, 
 as she had never seen her before, leaning forward breathless, 
 with one hand out, with beautiful gloomy eyes dilating and 
 fixed upoQ Robert ; but the light disappeared, and all was 
 dark again. 
 
i54 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 They were all silent. Eobert was recovering his ruffled 
 temper. Mr. Anley was calling for the bill. Dolly was still 
 following that zigzag ray of light in the darkness. Had it 
 flashed into her dreams ? had it revealed their emptiness, 
 and that of my poor Dolly's shrine ? Even Frank Eaban was 
 gone then. A painful incident came to disturb them all as 
 they were still sitting there. The noise in the room over- 
 head had been getting louder and louder. Mr. Anley sug- 
 gested moving, and went to hurry the bill. Presently this 
 noisy window was flung open wide, with a sudden loud burst 
 of shrieks and laughter, and remonstrance, and streams of 
 light — ^in the midst of which a pistol-shot went off, followed 
 by a loud scream and a moment's silence. Mrs. Palmer 
 shrieked. Eobert started up exclaiming. Then came quick 
 confusion, rising, as confusion rises, no one knows how nor 
 from whence : people rushed struggling out of the cafe, 
 hurrying up from the four sides of the quadrangle : a table 
 was overturned. Ehoda flung herself upon Eobert's arm, 
 clinging to him for protection. Dolly caught hold of her 
 mother's hand. ' Hush, mamma, don't be frightened,' she 
 said, and she held her fingers tight. In all the noise and 
 flurry and anxiety of that moment, she had again seen Eobert 
 turn to Ehoda with undisguised concern. He seemed to 
 have forgotten that there was any one else in all that crowd 
 to think of. The Squire, who had been but a few steps 
 away, came hurrying back, and it was he who now drew 
 Dolly and her mother safe into the shelter of an archway. 
 
 The silence of the summer night was broken, the placid 
 beam of the stars overhead put out by flaring lights — and 
 anxious, eager voices, that were rung on every side. ' He 
 has killed himself — ' He wovmded her,' said some. ' Wounded 
 three,' said others. ' She shot the pistol,' cried others. Then 
 came a man pushing through the crowd — a doctor. ' Let 
 liim pass, let him pass!' said the people, surging back to 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN'S. 455 
 
 make way. Squire Anley looked very grave as he stood 
 between the two ladies and the crowd : every minute it grew 
 more dense and more confused. Eobert and Bhoda had been 
 swept off in a different direction. 
 
 Afterwards they learnt that some unhappy wretch, tired 
 of life and ashamed of his miserable existence, had drawn 
 out a pistol and attempted to shoot himself that night as 
 they were sitting under the window. His companions had 
 thought he was in fun, and only laughed until he had drawn 
 the trigger. They were thankful to escape from the crowd, 
 and to walk home through the cheerful streets, rattling and 
 flaring among these unnumbered tragedies. 
 
 The pistol-shot was still in Dolly's ears, and the ray of 
 light still dazzling in her eyes, as she walked home, following 
 her mother and the Squire. 
 
 As she threaded her way step by step, she seemed to be 
 in a sort of nightmare, struggling alone against the over- 
 whelming rush of circumstances, the remorseless partings 
 and histories of life — threading her way alone through the 
 crowds. The people seemed to her absorbed and hurrying 
 by. Were they too alone in the world ? Had that woman 
 passing by been deceived in her trust ? Dolly was surprised 
 at the throb in her heart, at the curious rush of emotions in 
 her mind. They were unlike those to which she was used. 
 ' Your part is played,' said some voice dinning in her ears. 
 ' For him the brand of faithless coldness of heart ; for him 
 the discredit, for him the shame of owning to his desertion. 
 You are not to blame. You have kept your word ; you have 
 been faithful. He has failed. Explanations cannot change 
 the truth of facts. Even strangers see it all. Mr. Anley 
 sees it. Now at last you are convinced,' 
 
 Dolly followed her mother and Mr, Anley upstairs, 
 Rhoda and Eobert were not come in. Mr. Anley, looking 
 very grave, said he would go and look for them, Philippa 
 
4S6 OLD KENSINGTON, 
 
 flung herself wearily upon the drawing-room sofa: the fire 
 was burning, and the little log of wood crumbling in 
 embers. Dolly raked the embers together, and then came and 
 stood by her mother. ' Good-night, mamma,' she said. ' I am 
 tired ; I am going to bed,' she said, in a sort of fixed,heavy way 
 
 ' It is your own fault,' answered her mother, bursting out 
 in vague answer to her own thoughts, ' Mr. Anley says that 
 Eobert is behaving very strangely. If yoii think he i? 
 too attentive to Ehoda, you should tell him so, instead 
 of looking at me in that heavy, disagreeable way. You 
 know as well as I do that he means nothing ; and 
 you are really so depressed, dearest, that it is no wonder a 
 young man prefers joking and flirting with an agreeable 
 girl,' and Mrs. Palmer thumped the cushions. ' Give me a 
 kiss, Dolly,' she said. To do her justice, she was only scold- 
 ing her daughter out of sympathy, and because she did not 
 know what other tone to take, 
 
 Dolly did not answer. She felt hard and fierce ; a sort ot 
 scorn had come over her. There seemed no one to go to now 
 — no, not one. If George had been there, all would have 
 been so different, she thought ; and then his warning words 
 came back to her once more, 
 
 Dolly put her hand to her heart and stood silent until 
 her mother had finished. There was pain and love and fire 
 in a heart like poor Dolly's, humble and passionate, faithful 
 and impressionable, and sadly tried just now by one of thtj 
 bitter trials that come to young lives — blows that seem to 
 jar away the music for ever. Later comes the peaceful 
 possession of life, which is as a revelation when the first flare 
 of youth has passed away ; but for Dorothea that peaceful 
 time was not yet. Everything was sad. She was not blind 
 She could understand what was passing before her eyes. She 
 seemed to read Robert's secret set plainly before her. She 
 had stopped Miss Eougemont more than once when she had 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HAYDNS. 457 
 
 begun some mysterious word of warning ; but she knew well 
 enough what she would have said. 
 
 ' A man must keep his word, at every inconvenience, 
 said Eobert. 
 
 Perhaps if Frank had never spoken, never revealed his 
 story, Dolly might still have been unconscious of the meaning 
 of the signs and words and symbols that express the truth. 
 
 Marker asked no questions. She brushed Dolly's long 
 tawny mane, and left her at last in her white wrapper sitting 
 by the bed. 
 
 ' Are you well, my dearie ? ' said the old woman, coming 
 back and stroking her hair with her hand. 
 
 Dolly smiled, and answered by holding up her face to be 
 kissed, and Marker went away more happy. 
 
 Whatever she felt, whatever her secret determination 
 may have been, Dolly said not one word neither to her 
 mother nor to her friend the Squire. She avoided Miss 
 Eougemont's advances with a sort of horror. To Eobert and 
 Ehoda she scarcely spoke, although she did not avoid them. 
 Eobert thought himself justified in remonstrating with her 
 for her changed manner. 
 
 ' I am waiting until I know what my manner should be, 
 Eobert,' said Dolly, bitterly. 
 
 Eobert thought Dolly very much altered indeed. Aa 
 Dolly shrank back more and more into herself, Ehoda seemed 
 to bloom and brighten — she thought of everybody and every- 
 thing, she tried in a hundred ways to please her friend. 
 Dolly, coming home lonely and neglected, would find, 
 perhaps, fresh roses on her toilet. ' Miss Ehoda put them 
 there,' Marker would say, grimly, and Dolly would laugh a 
 hard sort of laugh. But all this time she said no word, gave 
 no sign. ' For them, should be the shame of confessing 
 their treachery,' said this angry sullen demon that seemed to 
 have possessed the poor child. And all the while Eobert, 
 
4S8 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 serene in his ultimate intentions and honourable sentiments, 
 came and went, and Bhoda put all disagreeable thoughts of 
 the future away. She had never deliberately set herself to 
 supplant her friend, but she had deliberately set herself to 
 win over Henley, and, if possible, to gain his support to her 
 claims. It had seemed an impossible task. Ehoda was 
 siu-prised, flattered, and bewildered to find how easily she 
 \)ad gained her wish, how soon her dream had come true. 
 There it stood solid and complacent before her, laughing at 
 one of her sallies ; Ehoda began to realise that this was, of 
 all dreams, the one she believed in most. It was something 
 for Rhoda to have found a faith of any sort. At all events, 
 there was now one other person besides herself in Ehoda's 
 world. If Dolly was cross, it was her own fault. Miss 
 Rougemont, too, had been disagreeable and prying of late 
 — she must go. And as for Fncle John, if he wrote any 
 more letters like that last one which had come, she should 
 burn them unread. 
 
 No one ever knew the struggle that went on in Dolly's 
 mind all through these bright spring days, while Ehoda 
 was dreaming her tranquil little visions, while Robert was 
 agreeably occupied, flirting with Ehoda, while they were aU 
 coming and going from one pleasant scene to another, and 
 the roses were blooming once more in the garden at All 
 Saints', while Signor Pappaforte was warbling to Mrs. 
 Palmer's accompaniment, and Frank Eaban, riding across 
 the moors, was hard at work upon one scheme and another. 
 He did not know it, but the crisis had come. 
 
 It was a crowded hall, a thousand people sitting in silent 
 and breathless circles. An andante of Haydn's was in the 
 air. It was a sweet and delicate music, both merry and 
 melancholy, tripping to a sunshiny measure that set every- 
 body's heart beating in time. There was a childish gi-ace 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HA YDNS. 459 
 
 about the strain that charmed all the listeners to a tender 
 enthusiasm. It made them cry and laugh at once; and 
 though many sat motionless and stolid, you might see eyes 
 shining and dilating, as mothers' eyes dilate sometimes when 
 they watch their children at play. The childless were no 
 longer childless while that gentle, irresistible music shook 
 from the delicate stiings of the instruments ; the lonely and 
 silent had found a voice ; the hard of heart and indifferent 
 were moved and carried away ; pent-up longings were set 
 free. Other strings were sounding with the Haydn ; and it 
 was not music, though it was harmony, of some sort that 
 struck and shook those mysterious fibres that bind men and 
 women to life. The hopelessness of the lonely, the mad 
 longings of the parted, the storm of life, all seemed appeased. 
 To Dolly, it was George's voice that was speaking once again. 
 ' Peace, be still,' said the music, and a divine serenity was 
 in the great hall where the little tune was thrilling. 
 
 In former times men and women assembled in conclave 
 to see wild beasts tearing their prey ; to-day it was to listen 
 10 a song of Haydn's — a little song, that did not last five 
 minutes. 
 
 It had not ended when Ehoda whispered something into 
 Robert's ear. 
 
 While the music was lasting DoUy was transported ; as 
 it ended her mind seemed clear. She was at peace, she 
 imderstood it all, all malice and uncharitableness seemed 
 dissolved — I know no better word — pangs of wounded pride, 
 bitterness of disappointed trust, shame of unfulfilled promise 
 — such things were, but other things, such as truth, honest 
 intention, were beyond them, and Dolly felt at that moment 
 as if she could rise above her fate, above her own faults, 
 beyond her own failures. She would confess the truth to 
 Robert : she had meant to be faithful to him ; she had 
 failed ; she would take what blame there was upon herself. 
 
46o OLD Kl^NSINGTON. 
 
 and that should be her punishment. She was too keen- 
 sighted not to understand all that had been passing before 
 her eyes. At first wounded and offended, and not unjustly 
 pained, she had determined to wait in silence, to let Henley 
 explain his own intentions, acknowledge his own short- 
 comings. 
 
 But something more generous, more truthful, impelled 
 her now to speak, Ehoda and Eobert were whispering. 
 ' Hush,' Dolly said, and she laid her hand upon Eobert's arm, 
 He started a little uncomfortably, and then began suddenly 
 to nod his head and to twirl his umbrella in time. Ehoda 
 buttoned her long gloves and leant back in a pensive atti- 
 tude. Dolly sat staring at the violins, of which the bows 
 were flowing like the waves of a spring-tide on either side 
 of the circle : beyond the violins were the wind instruments 
 and the great violoncellos throbbing their full hearts. There 
 was instant silence, then a clapping of hands and a sort of 
 murmur and sigh coming from a hundred breasts. As it 
 all died away, Dolly stood up and turned to Eobert: an 
 impulse came to her to do now what was in her heart, to 
 wait no longer. 
 
 ' Eobert ' her voice sounded so oddly that he started 
 
 and half rose, looking down at her upturned face. ' Eobert, 
 I want you to listen to me,' said Dolly. ' I must tell you 
 now when I can speak. I see it all. You were right to 
 doubt me. I know it now. I have not been true to you. 
 You must marry Ehoda,' she said; then, stopping short, 
 ' I'm not jealous, only I am bewildered. . . I am going 
 home. . . Don't come with me ; but you forgive me, 
 don't you, Eobert ? ' 
 
 There was a sudden burst from some overture — the music 
 was beginning again. Before Eobert could stop her, Dolly 
 was gone ; she had started up, she had left her seat, her 
 gloves were lying on the ground, her veil was lying on the 
 
AN ANDANTE OF HAYDN'S. 461 
 
 bench, but it was too late to follow or to call her back ; the 
 people, thinking she was ill, had made way for her, and 
 closed in round the door. 
 
 ' What has happened ? ' said Ehoda. ' Is she ill or angiy ? 
 is she gone ? Oh, what has happened ? Don't leave me 
 here alone, let me come too. . . ' 
 
 Robert flushed up. ' The eyes of the whole place are 
 upon us,' he muttered : then came something like an oath. 
 
 ' Hush, silence,' said the people behind. 
 
 Eobert bit his lip and sat staring at the conductor's rod ; 
 every now and then he gave a little impatient jerk of the 
 head. 
 
 Ehoda waited her time ; he had not followed Dolly. The 
 music went on ; not one note did she hear ; the time seemed 
 interminable. But Robert, hearing a low sigh, turned at 
 last ; he did not speak, but he looked at her. 
 
 ' You are angry ? ' whispered Ehoda. 
 
 ' Why should I be angry with you ? ' he answered, more 
 gently. 
 
4bz OLD KENSINGTON 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 THAT THOU AKT BLAMED SHALL NOT BE THY DEFECT. 
 
 Yesterday tliis day's madness did prepare, 
 To-morrow's silence, triumph, or despair. 
 Drink ! for you know not whence yon came, nor why ; 
 Drink ! for you know not why you go, nor where. 
 
 — Omab Khatvam, 
 
 Once, as Dolly was hurrying away through the passages to 
 the great front entrance, she looked back, for she thought 
 she heard Robert's step coming after her. It was only 
 Casimir, the servant, who had been loitering by a staircase, 
 and had seen her pass. She came to the great wide doors of the 
 music-hall, where the people were congregated, the servants 
 carrying their mistresses' carriage cloaks over their arms, the 
 touters and vendors of programmes. The music was still in 
 her ears ; she felt very calm, very strange. Casimir would 
 have darted ofif for the carriage if she had not stopped him. 
 
 ' Is Mademoiselle indisposed ? Shall I accompany her ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 But although Dolly looked very pale, she said she was 
 not ill ; she would go home alone : and when she was safely 
 seated in the little open carriage he called for her, the colour 
 came back into her cheeks. She leant back, for she was very 
 tired. As she drove along she tried to remember what had 
 happened, to think what more would happen, but .she could 
 not do so. It was a feeling, not an event, that had moved 
 her so ; and the outward events that relate these great unseen 
 
IF BLAMED, NOT THY DEFECT. 463 
 
 bistories to others are to the actors themselves of little con- 
 sequence. As for the future, Dolly could scarcely believe m 
 a future. Was anything left to her now ? Her life seemed 
 over, and she was scarcely twenty ; she was sorry for herself. 
 She did not regret what she had done, for he did not love 
 her. It was Ehoda whom he loved ; Ehoda who seemed to 
 have absorbed everything, little by little. There was nothing 
 that she had spared. Dolly wondered what they would say 
 at the Court. She thought of Frank Eaban, too. If tha 
 Squire's news was true, Frank Eaban would be thinking no 
 more of her, but absorbed in other interests. Even Frank — 
 was any one faithful in life ? Then she thought of Greorge : 
 he had not failed : he had been true to the end, and this 
 comforted her. 
 
 Everything seemed to have failed with her, and yet — ^how 
 shall I explain it ? — Dolly was at peace with herself. In hei 
 heart she knew that she had tried, almost tried to do her 
 best. No pangs of conscience assailed her as she drove home 
 through this strange chaos of regrets and forgetfulness. Her 
 hands fell into her lap as she leant back in the little carriage : 
 it was bringing her away through the dull rattle of the streets 
 to a new home, a new life, swept and garnished, so it seemed 
 to Dolly, where everything was strange and bare— one in 
 which, perhaps, little honour was to be found, little credit. 
 What did she care ! She was too true a lady to trouble 
 herself about resentments and petty slights and difficulties. 
 They had both meant to do right. As for Ehoda, Dolly 
 would not think of Ehoda just then, it hm-t her. For 
 George's sake she must try to think kindly of her ; was it for 
 hj&r to cast a stone ? Dolly came upstairs slowly and steadily, 
 opened the door, which was on the latch, and came in, looking 
 for her mother. Miss Vanborough had never, not even in 
 the days of her happy love, looked more beautiful than she 
 did as she came into the little sitting-room ait home. A light 
 
464 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 was in her face ; it was the self-forgetful look of some- 
 one who has passed for a moment beyond the common 
 state of life, escaping the assaults of selfish passion, into 
 a state where feeling is not destroyed hut multiplied 
 beyond itself. In these moods sacrifice scarcely exists. 
 Tfie vanities of the world glitter in vain, discord cannot jar, 
 and in the midst of tumult and sorrow souls are at peace. 
 
 Mrs. Palmer was not alone ; the Squire was there. He 
 had brought news. He had been detained by a peremptory 
 telegram from Norah — ' Jonah arrives Pans to-morrow ; 
 mamma says, remain; bring Jonah home' — and Jonah, 
 who had come almost at the same time as the telegram, had 
 accompanied the Squire, and was waiting impatiently enough 
 hoping to see Dolly. He had been somewhat bored by the 
 little elderly flirtation which had been going on for the last 
 half-hour between his aunt and his godfather (which sort of 
 pot-pourri, retaining a certain faint perfume of bygone roses, 
 is not uncommon) ; but he did not/move, except to go and 
 stand out upon the balcony and stare up and down the street ; 
 he was leaning over the slender railing when Dolly came in, 
 and so it happened that at first she only saw the Squire 
 sitting by her mother's easy-chair. She gave him her hand. 
 He stood holding it in his, and looking at her, for he saw 
 that something had happened. 
 
 ' Alone I ' said Mrs. Palmer. ' Is Eobert with you ? I 
 have some news for you ; guess, Dolly ; ' and Philippa looked 
 archly towards the window. 
 
 Dolly looked at her mother. ' I left them at the concert,' 
 she said, not asking what the news was. 
 
 ' What made you leave them ? Why do you stare at me 
 like that ? ' cried Mrs. Palmer, forgetting her news. ' Have 
 you had another quarrel? DoUy, I have only just been 
 saying so to Mr. Anley ; under the circumstances you really 
 should not — ^you really should ' 
 
IF BLAMED, NOT THY DEFECT. 465 
 
 ' It has all been a mistake, mamma,' said Dolly, looking 
 up, though she did not see much before her. 'Everything 
 is over. Eobert and I have parted, quite parted,' she 
 repeated sadly. 
 
 ' Parted ! ' exclaimed the Squire ; ' has it come to this ? ' 
 
 ' Parted ! ' cried poor exasperated Philippa. ' I warned 
 you. It is your own fault, Dolly ; you have been possessed 
 all along. Mr. Anley, what is to be done ? ' cried the poor 
 lady, turning from one to the other. ' Is it your doing or 
 Robert's ? Dolly, what is it all about ? ' 
 
 Dolly did not answer for an instant, for she could not 
 speak. 
 
 The Squire began muttering something between his 
 teeth, as he strode up and down the room with his hands in 
 his pockets. 
 
 'Take care, you will knock over the jardiniere,' cried 
 Mrs. Palmer. 
 
 Dolly's eyes were all fuil of tears by this time. As he 
 turned she laid her hand upon the old man's arm. ' It is mj 
 doing, not his,' she said. ' You must not be hard upon him ; 
 indeed it is all my doing.' 
 
 It is your doing now, and most properly,' said the 
 Squire, very gravely, and not in the least in his usual half- 
 joking manner. ' I can only congratulate you upon having 
 got rid of that abominable prig ; but you must not take it 
 all upon yourself, my poor child.' 
 
 Dolly blushed up. ' You think it is not my fault,' she 
 said, and the glow spread and deepened,; 'he was not bound 
 when he left me, only I had promised to wait' — then with 
 sudden courage, ' You will not blame him when I tell you 
 this,' she said: 'I have not been true to him, not quite 
 true — I told him so ; it was a pity, all a pity,' she said, with 
 a sigh. She stood with hanging hands and a sweet, wistful, 
 tender face ; her voice was like a song in its unconscious 
 
 H H 
 
466 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 rhythms, for deep feeling gives a note to people's voices that 
 ifi very affecting sometimes, 
 
 ' You told him so — what will people say ? ' shrieked poor 
 Mrs. Palmer; 'and, here is Jonah, whom we have quite 
 forgotten.' 
 
 Jonah was standing listening with all his honest ears. 
 It seemed to the young soldier that he also had been listening 
 to music, to some sweet sobbing air played with tender 
 touch. It seemed to fill the room even after Dolly had left 
 it ; for when she turned and suddenly saw her cousin it was 
 the climax of that day's agitation. She came up and kissed 
 him with a little sob of surprise and emotion, tried to speak 
 in welcome, and then shook her head and quickly went away, 
 shutting the door behind her. As Dolly left the room the 
 two men looked at one another. They were almost too 
 indignant with Henley to care to say what they thought 
 of his conduct. 'Had not we better go?' said Jonah, 
 awkwardly, after a pause. 
 
 But Mrs. Palmer could not possibly dispense with an 
 audience on such an occasion as this ; she made Jonah 
 promise to return to dinner, she detained the Squire alto- 
 gether to detail to him the inmost feelings of a mother's 
 heart ; she sent for cups of tea. ' Is Miss Dolly in her room, 
 Julie ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, Madame ; she has locked the door,' said Julie. 
 
 ' Gro and knock, then, immediately, Julie ; and come and 
 tell me what she says, poor dear.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Palmer stirs her own tea, and describes all 
 that she has felt ever since first convinced of Eobert's change 
 of feeling. Her experience had long ago taught her to 
 discover those signs of indifference which .... The poor 
 Squire listens in some impatience. 
 
 Meanwhile Robert and Ehoda are driving home together 
 
IF BLAMED, NOT THY DEFECT. 467 
 
 from the concert, flattered, dazzled, each pursuing their ovm 
 selfish schemes, each seeing the fulfilment of small ambitions 
 at hand, and Dolly, sitting at the foot of her bed, is saying 
 good-by again and again. The person she had loved, and 
 longed to see, and thought of day after day and hour after 
 hour, was not Henley, hut some other quite different man, 
 with his face, perhaps, but with another soul and nature. 
 .... That Eobert, who had been so dear to her at one 
 time, so vivid, so close a friend, so wise, so sympathetic, so 
 strong, and so tender, was nothing, no one — he had never 
 existed. The death of this familiar friend, the dispersion 
 of this familiar ghost seemed, for a few hours, as if it meant 
 her own annihilation. All her future seemed to have ended 
 here. It was true that she had accused herself openly of 
 want of faithfulness ; but the mere fact of having accused 
 herself seemed to make that self-reproach lighter and more 
 easy to bear. After some time she roused herself ; Marker 
 was at the door and saying that it was dinner-time, and 
 Dolly let her in and dressed for dinner in a dreamy sort of 
 way, taking the things, as Marker handed them to her, in 
 silence, one by one. The Squire and Jonah were both in the 
 sitting-room when Dolly came in in the white dress she 
 usually wore, with some black ribbons round her waist, and 
 tied into her bronze hair. She did not want to look as if 
 she was a victim, and she tried to smile as usual. 
 
 ' You must not mind me,' she said presently, in return 
 for the Squire's look of sympathy. ' It is not to-day that 
 this has happened ; it began so long ago that I am used to it 
 now.' Then she added, 'Mamma, I should like to see 
 Robert again this evening, for I left him very abruptly, and 
 I am afraid he may be unhappy about me.' 
 
 ' Oh, as to that, Dolly, from what the Squire tells me, I 
 don't think you need be at all alarmed,' cried Dolly's mamma: 
 ' Jonah met him on the stairs with Rhoda, and really, from 
 
 a H 2 
 
468 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 v^hat 1 hear, I tLink he must have already proposed. I wonder 
 if he will have the face to come in himself to announce it.' 
 
 Both Jonah and the Squire began to talk together, 
 hoping to stop Mrs. Palmer's ahrupt disclosures ; but who 
 was there who could silence Mrs. Palmer ? She alluded a 
 great deal to a certain little bird, and repeatedly asked 
 Dolly during dinner whether she thought this dreadful news 
 could be true, and Eobert really engaged to Ehoda ? 
 
 ' I think it is likely to be true before long, mamma,' 
 said Dolly, patiently : ' I hope so.' 
 
 She seemed to droop and turn paler and paler in the 
 twilight. She was hot able to pretend to good spirits that 
 she did not feel ; but her sweetness and simplicity went 
 straight to the heart of her two champions, who would have 
 gladly thrown Eobert out of the first-floor window if Dolly 
 had shown the slightest wish for it. 
 
 After dinner, as they all sat in the front room, with wide- 
 evening windows, Julie brought in the lamp. She would 
 have shut out the evening and drawn down the blinds if 
 they had not prevented her. The little party sat silently 
 watching the light dancing and thrilling behind the house- 
 tops ; nobody spoke. Dolly leant back tvearily. From time 
 to time Mrs. Palmer whispered any fresh surmise into the 
 Squire's ear : ' Why did not Eobert come ? Was sAe keep- 
 ing him back ? ' 
 
 Presently Mrs. Palmer started up: a new idea had 
 occurred to her. She would go in herself, unannounced : 
 she would learn the truth : the Squire, he too, must come. 
 The Squire did as he was bid : as they left the room Joiiah 
 got up shyly from his seat, and went and stood out on the 
 balcony. Dolly asked him whether there was a moon. 
 
 ' There is a moon rising,' said the Captain, ' but you 
 can't see it from where you sit; there from the sofa you can 
 see it.' And then he came back, and wheeled the sofa 
 
IF BLAMED, NOT THY DEFECT. 469 
 
 round, and began turning down the wheel of the lamp, 
 saying it put the moonlight out. 
 
 As the lamp went out suddenly with a splutter, all the dim 
 radiance of the silver evening came in a soft vibration to 
 light the darkened room. One stream of moonlight trickled 
 along the balcony, another came lapping the stone coping 
 of the window : the moon was rising in state and in silence, 
 and Dolly leant back among her cushions, watching it all 
 with wide open eyes. Jonah's dark cropped head rose dark 
 against the Milky Way. As the moon rose above the gable 
 of the opposite roof a burst of chill light flooded the balcony, 
 and overflowed, and presently reached the foot of the couch 
 where Dolly was lying, worn out by her long day. 
 
 Robert, who had been taking a rapid walk on the pave- 
 ment outside, had not noticed! the moon : he was preoccupied 
 by more important matters. Ehoda's speeches were ringing 
 in his ears. Yet it was Dolly's fault all along; he was 
 ready to justify himself; to meet complaint with complaint ; 
 she might have been a happy woman. He had behaved 
 honom'ably and forbearingly ; and now it was really unfair 
 that she should expect anything more from him, or comiplain 
 because he had found his ideal in another and more femi- 
 nine character. 
 
 Dolly had heard the roll of the wheels of the carriage 
 that brought Robert and Rhoda home, but she had not 
 heard the short little dialogue which was being spoken as 
 the wheels rolled under the gateway. The two had not 
 said much on the way. Rhoda waited for Robert to speak, 
 Robert sat gazing at his boots. 
 
 ' One knows what everybody will say,' he said at, last very 
 crossly. 
 
 ' The people who know you as I do will say that Dolly 
 might have been a happy woman,' Rhoda answered ; ' that 
 
470 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 she has wrecked her own happiness ; ' and then they were 
 both again silent. 
 
 Ehoda was frightened, and trembled as she looked into 
 Robert's offended face. She thought that the end of it all 
 might be that he would go — leave her and all other compli- 
 cations, and Ehoda had not a few of her own. If he were to 
 break free ? Ehoda's heart beat with apprehension ; her 
 feeling for Eobert was more genuine than most of her feel- 
 ings, and this was her one excuse for the part she had played. 
 Her nature was so narrow, her life had been so stinted, that 
 the first touch of sentiment overbalanced and carried her 
 away. Dolly possessed the genius of living and loving and 
 being to a degree that Ehoda could not even conceive ; with 
 all her tact and quickness she could not reach beyond her- 
 self. For some days past she had secretly hoped for some 
 such catastrophe as that which had just occurred. She had 
 taken the situation for granted. 
 
 ' One sometimes knows by instinct what people feel,' she 
 said at last. ' I have long felt that Dolly did not understand 
 you ; but then, indeed, you are not easy to understand.' And 
 Eobert, raising his eyes from his boots, met the beautiful 
 gloom of her speaking eyes. 
 
 One has sometimes watched a cat winding its way be- 
 tween little perils of every sort. Ehoda softly and instinct- 
 ively avoided the vanities of Eobert's mind ; she was presently 
 telling him of her troubles, money troubles among the rest. 
 She had spent more than her income ; she did not dare 
 confess to Mr. Tapeall ; she felt utterly incapable of 
 managing that fortune which ought never to have been 
 hers — which she was ready to give up at any hour. 
 
 ' Cleverer people than I am might do something with all 
 this money,' said Ehoda. ' Something worth doing : but I 
 seem only to get into trouble. You say you will help me, 
 but you will soon be gone.' 
 
IF BLAMED, NOT THY DEFECT. 471 
 
 ' I shall be always ready to advise you,' said Eobert. ' If 
 there is anything at any time ' 
 
 ' But when you are gone ? ' said Ehoda, with great emo- 
 tion. 
 
 There was a pause ; the horses clattered in under the 
 gateway. 
 
 ' You must tell me' to stay,' said Eobert in a low voice, 
 as he helped Ehoda out of the carriage. 
 
 As the two slowly mounted the staircase which Dolly had 
 climbed, Jonah, coming away from his aunt's apartment, 
 almost ran up against them. Eobert exclaimed, but Jonah 
 passed on. What did Ehoda care that he brushed past as if 
 he had not seen them ? She was sure he had seen them, and 
 Ehoda had her own reasons for wishing no time to be lost 
 before her news was made public. She had won her great 
 stake, secured her prize : her triumph was not complete 
 until others were made aware of all that had happened. She 
 urged Eobert to tell his aunt at once. 
 
 ' It is only fair to yourself. Dolly will be telling her 
 story — dear Dolly, she is always so kind ; but still, as you 
 have often said, there are two sides to a question. I am 
 afraid your cousin passed us intentionally,' said Ehoda. ' Not 
 that I care for anything now.' 
 
 ' Let us have our dinner in peace,' said Eobert ; ' and 
 then I will tell them anything you like,' and he sank down 
 comfortably into one of the big arm-chairs, not sorry to put 
 after dinner out of her mind. While he was with Ehoda he 
 was at ease with himself, and thought of nothing else ; but 
 he had vague feelings of a conscience standing outside on the 
 landing and ready to clutch him as he passed out of the 
 charm of her presence. 
 
 He did not go straight off to his aunt when he left 
 Ehoda, and so it happened that he missed Mrs. Palmer when 
 she burst in upon Ehoda and Miss Eougemont. The resolute 
 
♦72 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Robert was pacing the pavement outside and trying to make 
 up his mind to face those who seemed to him now more like 
 life-long enemies than friends. He took courage at last and 
 determined to get it over, and he turned up the street again 
 and climhed the staircase once more. Philippa had left the 
 hall-door open, and Eobert walked in as he had been used to 
 do ; he opened the drawing-room door. He was angry with 
 Dolly still, angry with her mother, and ready to resent their 
 reproaches. Eobert opened the drawing-room door and 
 stopped short at the threshold. . . . 
 
 The room was not dark, for the bright moonlight was 
 pouring in. Dolly was still lying asleep. A log burnt low 
 in the fire-place, crimsoning the silver light. Eobert was 
 startled. He came forward a few steps and stood in the 
 darkened room looking at the sleeping girl : something in 
 her unconsciousness, in the utter silence, in the absence of 
 reproach, smote him as no words of blame or appeal could 
 have done. His excuses, his self-assertions, of what good 
 were they here — who cared for them here? She scarcely 
 moved, she scarcely seemed to breathe ; her face looked 
 calm, it was almost like the face of a dead person ; and so 
 she was — dead to him. 
 
 For an instant he was touched ; taken by surprise ; he 
 longed to awaken her, to ask her to forgive him for leaving 
 her ; but as he stood there a dark figure appeared in the 
 open window ; it was Jonah, who did not speak, but who 
 pointed to the door. 
 
 At any other time Eobert might have resented this, but 
 to-night something had moved his cold and selfish heart, 
 some ray from Dolly's generous spirit had imconsciously 
 reached him at last. He turned away and went quietly out 
 of the room, leaving her sleeping still. 
 
 He did not see her agam; two days later she left for 
 England. 
 
( 473 ) 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 HOLY ST. FRANCIS, WHAT A CHANGE IS HERE I 
 
 If when in cheerless wanderings dull and cold, 
 A. sense of human kindliness hath found us, 
 We seem to hare around us 
 An atmosphere all gold. 
 
 — A. Clough. 
 
 Twelve o'clock is striking in a bare room full of sunshine. 
 A woman, who is spending her twelfth year in bed, is eating 
 tripe out of a basin ; another sitting by the fire is dining off 
 gruel ; beds and women alternate all down the ward ; two 
 nurses are coming and going, one of them with a black eye. 
 Little garlands of paper, cleverly cut out, decorate the place 
 in honour of some Eoyal birthday. Two little flags are stuck 
 up. against the wall and flying triumphantly from the farther 
 end of the room. A print of the Royal Family, brilliantly 
 coloured, is also pinned up. Mrs. Fane is walking down the 
 middle of the workhouse infirmary with a basket on her arm, 
 when one of the old women puts out a wrinkled hand to call 
 iier back. 
 
 'Ain't we grand, mum?' says the old woman, looking up. 
 ' It does us all good ;' and she nods and goes on with her 
 gruel again. 
 
 ' How is Betty Hodge to-day ?' says Mrs. Fane. The 
 old woman points significantly.. 
 
 All this time some one has been lying quite still at the 
 .fiu'ther end of the room, covered by a sheet. 
 
474 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ' At eight o'clock this morning she went off werry com- 
 fortaUe,' says the old woman. ' Mrs. Baker she is to scrub 
 the steps now ; the matron sent word this morning.' 
 
 That is all. In this infirmary of the workhouse it is a 
 matter of course that people should die. It does not mean 
 a black carriage, nodding feathers, nor blinds drawn, and 
 tombstones with inscriptions. It means, ease at last, release 
 from the poor old body that used to scrub the steps so wearily 
 day after day. There it was, quite still in the sunshine, with 
 the garlands on the wall. 
 
 '/shan't be long,' said the old tripe-woman, senten- 
 tiously. ' She has been expecting to go for months. A 
 friend has sent her a shroud and some silver paper ready 
 cut ; she says it is all ready, and she has seen the priest.' 
 
 'Ah I Mrs. Blaney, you are a sufferer,' says the nurse 
 with the black eye. ' She can't eat, mum, but she likes her 
 cup of tea ; ' and the nurse, who also likes her cup of tea, 
 eyes the little packet which she sees coming out of Mrs 
 Fane's basket, and fetches a canister, into which she elabo- 
 rately shakes the refreshing shower. 
 
 Mrs. Fane hurries on, for she has a guest at home expect- 
 ing her, and a tea-party organising for that afternoon, and 
 she has still a visit to pay in the men's ward. Some one 
 brought her a message — a man called Smith wanted to speak 
 to her ; and she walked along the whitewashed walls and 
 past check blue counterpanes, looking for her petitioner. 
 By one of the high windows of the ward lay a brown haggard 
 face, with a rough chin, and the little old slip-shod messenger 
 pointed to attract Mrs. Fane's attention. She remembered 
 the man at once. He had come to see her not long before. 
 She had sent him some money to Paris — his own money, 
 that he had given to a nurse to keep. Mrs. Fane looked 
 with her kind round eyes into the worn face that tried to 
 upraise itself to greet her. 
 
HOLY ST. FRANCIS, WHAT A CHANGE IS HERE! ifis 
 
 ' I am sorry to see you here,' she said. ' Did you not find 
 your friends ? ' 
 
 ' Grone to America,' gasped the man. 
 
 ' You know I have still got some of your money,' said 
 Mrs. Fane, sitting down by the bedside. 
 
 ' It were about that I made so bold as to hask for to see 
 you, mum,' said the man. ' I have a boy at Dartford,' he 
 went on, breathing painfully. ' He ain't a good boy, but 
 I've wrote to him to go to you, and if you would please keep 
 the money for him, mum — three pound sixteen the Eeverend 
 calc'lated it — with what you sent for my journey here. I 
 had better have stopped where I was and where the young 
 lady found me. Lord ! what a turn she giv' me. I know'd 
 it was all up when I seed her come in.' 
 
 He was muttering on vacantly, as people do who are very 
 weak. Mrs. Fane's kind heart ached for his lonely woe- 
 begone state. She took his hand in hers — how many sick 
 hands had she clasped in her healing palm — but poor Smith 
 was beyond her help. 
 
 ' I see a young fellow that died beside me at the battle 
 of the Alma,' said Smith, ' and when that young lady came 
 up, as you might be, it brought it all back as it might be 
 now. He was a gentleman, they said ; he weren't half a bad 
 chap.' 
 
 ' Who are you speaking of ? ' said Mrs. Fane, not quite 
 following. 
 
 ' They called him George — George Vance,' said the man ; 
 ' but that were not his name no more than Smith is mine.' 
 
 ' I have heard of a man of that name who was wounded 
 at the Alma ; I did not know that he had died there,' said 
 Mrs. Fane. Her hand began to tremble a little, but she 
 spoke very quietly. 
 
 Smith hesitated for a minute, then he looked up into the 
 elear constraining eyes that seemed to him to be expect- 
 
476 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 ing his answer. 'It ain't no odds to me now,' he said, 
 hoarsely, whether I speak the tru — ^uth or not ; you're a lady, 
 and will keep the money safe for my poor lad. Captain 
 Henley he offered a matter o' twenty pound if we found poor 
 Vance alive. He were a free-handed chap were poor Vance. 
 We know'd he would not grudge the money. . . . And when 
 the Eoosians shot him, poor fellow, it wasn't no odds to him. 
 
 Mrs. Fane looking round saw the chaplain passing, and 
 she whispered to the old attendant to bring him to her. 
 
 ' And so you said that you had found him alive, I 
 suppose ? ' said Mrs. Fane, quickly guessing at the truth. 
 
 ' Well, mum, you ain't far wrong,' said Smith, looking at 
 his thin brown fingers. 'There was another chap of our 
 corps died on the way to the ships. It were a long way to 
 carry them down to the shore : we changed their names. We 
 didn't think we had done no great harm ; for twenty pound 
 is twenty pound ; but I have heard as how a fortune was lost 
 thro' it all — a poor chap like me has no fortune to lose.' 
 
 ' It was the young lady you saw who lost her fortune,' 
 said Mrs. Fane, controlling herself, and trying to hide her 
 agitation. ' You did her great injury, you see, though you 
 did not mean it. But you can repair this wrong. I think 
 you will like to do so,' she said, ' and — and^ — we shall all be 
 very much obliged to you.' ' Mr. Morgan,' Mrs. Fane con- 
 tinued, turning to the chaplain, who had come up to the 
 bedside, ' here is a poor fellow who wishes to do us a service, 
 and to make a statement, and I want you to take it down.' 
 She had writing materials in her basket. She often wrote 
 the sick people's letters for them. 
 
 ' What is it, my man ?' said the chaplain ; but as he 
 listened his face changed. He gave one amazed and sig- 
 nificant glance at Mrs. Fane, then biting his lips and trying 
 to seem unmoved, he wrote and signed the paper ; Mrs. 
 Fane signed it ; and then, at her request, poor bewildered 
 
HOLY ST. FRANCIS, WHAT A CHANGE IS HERE! m 
 
 Smith feebly scrawled his name. He did it because he was 
 told : he did not seem to care much one way or another for 
 anything more. 
 
 ' Joe can tell you all about it,' he said. 'Joe Carter — he 
 has took his discharge. I don't know where he is — Liver- 
 pool may be.' 
 
 John Morgan could hardly contain his excitement, and 
 his umbrella whirled like a mill, as he left the workhouse. 
 ' You are a good woman ; you have done a good morning's 
 work,' said the chaplain, as he came away with Mrs. Fane ; 
 ' say nothing more at present. We must find out this Joe 
 who was with him. Whatever we do let us be silent, and 
 keep this from that wretched, scheming girl.' 
 
 Afterwards, it turned out, that it would have been better 
 far if John Morgan had spoken openly at the time ; but his 
 terror of Ehoda's schemes was so great that he felt that if 
 she only knew all, she would lay hands on Joe, carry off 
 Smith himself, make him unsay all he had said. ' There is 
 no knowing what that woman may not do,' said Morgan. ' She 
 wrote to me ; I have not answered the letter. Do you know 
 that the marriage is actually fixed ? I am very glad that 
 you have got Dolly away from that adder's nest.' 
 
 ' So am I,' said Mrs. Fane, beaming for an instant ; she 
 had long ago taken Dolly to her heart with a confused 
 feeling of some maternal fibre strung, of something more 
 tender and more enduring than the mere friendship between 
 a girl and an older woman. 
 
 I cannot help it if most of those who knew my Dolly 
 persisted in spoiling her. She wanted every bit of kindness 
 and sunshine that came in her way. And yet she was free 
 from the strain that had wrenched her poor little life, she 
 need no longer doubt her own feelings, nor blind herself to 
 that which she would so gladly escape. 
 
 The morbid fight was over, and the woild was at peace. 
 
478 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 It was at peace, but unutterably sad, empty, meaningless. 
 When people complain that their lives are dull and have no 
 meaning, it is that they themselves have no meaning. Dolly 
 ■felt as if she had been in the thick of the fight, and come 
 away wounded. ' I may as well be here as anywhere else,' 
 she had said that moonlight evening when poor Jonah had 
 entreated her in vain to come away with him. 
 
 Dolly would not go back to Henley ; she had her owjq 
 reasons for keeping away. But next morning, when an 
 opportune letter came from Mrs. Fane, Dolly, who had lain 
 awake all night, went to her mother, who had slept very 
 comfortably, and said, ' Mamma, if you can spare me, I think 
 I will go over to England with the Squire and Jonah for a 
 little time, until the marriage is over.' Mrs. Palmer was 
 delighted. 'To Yorkshire? Yes, dearest, the very best 
 thing you can do.' 
 
 ' Not to Henley, mamma,' Dolly said ; ' I should like, 
 please, to go to Mrs. Fane's, if you do not object.' 
 
 ' What a child you are,' cried Mrs. Palmer ; ' you prefer 
 poking yourself away in that horrid, dismal hospital, when 
 poor Jonah is on his knees to you to go back to Henley with 
 him.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that is the reason why I must not go, mamma,' 
 said Dolly, smiling. ' I must not have any explanations 
 with Jonah.' Mrs. Palmer was seriously angry, and settled 
 herself down for another nap. 
 
 So Dolly came to England one summer's afternoon, 
 escorted by her faithful knights. All the streets were warm 
 and welcoming; the windows were open, and the shadows 
 were painting the pretty old towers and steeples of the city ; 
 some glint of an Italian sky had come to visit our northern 
 world. 
 
 John Morgan met her at the train, Mrs. Fane stood on 
 
HOLY ST. FRANCIS, WHAT A CHANGE IS HERE! 479 
 
 the door-step to welcome her, the roar of the streets sounded 
 homelike and hopeful once more. 
 
 As for Lady Henley she was furiously jealous when she 
 heard of Dolly in London, and with Mrs. Fane. She abused 
 her to everybody for a fortnight. Jonah had come home for 
 two days and then returned to town again. ' That is all we 
 get of him after all we have gone through,' cried poor Lady 
 Henley ; ' however, perhaps there is a good reason for it , 
 all one wants is to see one's children happy,' said the little 
 lady to Mr. Eedmayne, who was dining at the Court. 
 
 John Morgan lost no time in writing to his confessor, 
 Frank Eaban, to tell him of the strange turn that events 
 had taken. ' I entreat you to say no word of this to any one,' 
 said Morgan. ' I am afraid of other influence being brought 
 to bear upon this man that we are in search of, and it is 
 most necessary that we should neglect no precautions. 
 Dolly's interests have been too carelessly served by us all.' 
 Eaban was rather annoyed by this sentence in Morgan's 
 letter. What good would it have done to raise an opposi- 
 tion that would have only pained a person who was already 
 sorely tried in other ways ? Frank somewhat shared Dolly's 
 carelessness about money, as we know. Perhaps in his 
 secret heart it had seemed to him that it was not for him to 
 be striving to gain a fortune for Dolly — a fortune that she 
 did not want. Now he suddenly began to blame himself and 
 determined to leave no stone unturned to find the evidence 
 that was wanted. And yet he was more estranged from 
 Dolly at this moment than he had ever been in his life 
 before. He had purposely abstained from any communica- 
 tion with her. He knew she was in London and he kept 
 away. 
 
 Frank Eaban was a man of a curious doggedness and 
 tenderness of nature. When he had once set his mind to a 
 thing he went through with his mind. He could not help 
 
iSo OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 himself any more than some people can help being easily 
 moved and dissuaded from their own inclinations; only he 
 could not help listening to the accounts that now reached 
 him of the catastrophe at Paris, and feeling that any faint 
 persistent hope was now crushed for ever. 
 
 Lady Henley's wishes were apt to colour her impression 
 of events as they happened. According to her version, it was 
 for Jonah's sake that Dolly had broken with Eobert. It was 
 to Jonah that Dolly had confided her real reason for parting 
 from her cousin. ' You know it yourself, Squire. It was 
 painful, but far better than the alternative.' — 'Miss Van- 
 borough's confidences did not extend so 'far as you imagine, 
 my dear lady,' said Mr. Anley : ' I must honestly confess 
 thait I heard nothing of the sort.' 
 
 Lady Henley was peremptory. She was not at liberty to 
 show her son's last letter, but she had full authority for her 
 information. She was not in the habit of speaking at 
 random. Time would show. Lady Henley looked obstinate. 
 The Squire seemed annoyed. Frank Eaban said nothing ; 
 he walked away gloomily; he came less and less to the 
 Court ; he looked very cross at times, although the work he 
 had taken in hand was prospering. Whitewashed cottages 
 were multiplying, a cricket-field had been laid out for the 
 use of the village, Medmere was drained and sown with 
 turnip-seed. Frank was now supposed to be an experienced 
 agriculturist. He looked in the Farmer's Friend regularly. 
 Tanner used to consult him upon a variety of subjects. What 
 was to be done about the sheep? Pitch plaster was no 
 good, should they try Spanish ointment ? Those hurdles 
 must be seen to, and what about the flues and the grinders 
 down at the mill ? 
 
 Notwithstanding these all-absorbing interests, Frank no 
 sooner received Morgan's letter, with its surprising news, than 
 he started off at once to concert measures with the Rector. 
 
HOLY ST. FRANCIS, WHAT A CHANCE IS HERE.' 481 
 
 ' Joe ' was supposed to be at Liverpool, and Frank started for 
 Liverpool and spent a fruitless week looking up all the dis- 
 charged and invalided soldiers for ten miles round. He 
 thought he had found some trace of the man he was in 
 search of, but it was tiresome work, even in Dorothea's 
 interest. John Morgan wrote that Jonah was in London, 
 kind and helpful. Foolish Frank, who should have known 
 better by this time, said to himself that they could have 
 settled their business very well without Jonah's help. Frank 
 did him justice, and wished him back in Yorkshire. May he 
 be forgiven. Diffidence and jealousy are human failings, 
 that bring many a trouble in their train. True love should 
 be far beyond such pitiful preoccupations : and yet, if 
 ever any man loved any woman honestly and faithfully, 
 Frank Eaban loved Dorothea: although his fidelity may 
 have shown want of spirit, and his jealousy want of common 
 sense. Dolly had vaguely hoped that Eaban might have 
 written to her, but the jealous thought that she might show 
 Jonah his letter had prevented him from writing. John Marplot 
 
 wrote that Jonah was often in S Street. Why did not 
 
 the good Eector add that it was Mrs. Fane who asked him 
 to come there ? Dolly was rather provoked when Jonah re- 
 appeared time after time ; one day he offered himself to 
 join them in a little expedition that Mrs. Fane had planned. 
 Mrs. Fane was pleased to welcome the Captain and the 
 Eector too. Six hours of country were to set John Morgan 
 up for his Sunday services. Dolly looked pale, some fresh 
 air would do her good, said her friend. ' Do I want to be 
 done good to ? ' said Dolly, smiling. 
 
 Dolly was standing out on the balcony, carefully holding 
 her black silk dress away from the dusty iron bars. It was 
 a bright gentle-winded Sunday morning, and the countless 
 bells of the district were jangling together, and in different 
 notes calling their votaries to different shrines. The high 
 
 I I 
 
482 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 bell striking quick and clear, the low bell with melancholy 
 cadence, the old-fashioned parish bell swinging on in a sing- 
 song way : a little Catholic chapel had begun its chime an 
 hour before. From the house doors came Sunday folks — 
 children trotting along, with their best hats and conscious 
 little legs, mammas radiant, maid-servants running, cabs 
 going off laden. All this cheerful jingle- jangling filled 
 Dolly's heart with a happy sadness. It was so long since 
 she had heard it, and it was all so dear and so familiar, as 
 she stood listening to it all, that it was a little service in 
 her heart of grateful love, and thanks — for love and for 
 praise ; for life to utter her love, for the peace which had 
 come to her after her many troubles. She was not more 
 happy outwardly in circumstance, but how much more 
 happy in herself none but she herself could tell. How it 
 had come about she could scarcely have explained ; but so 
 it was. She had ceased to struggle ; the wild storm in her 
 heart had hushed away ; she was now content with the fate, 
 which had seemed to her so terrible in the days of her girl- 
 hood. Unloved, misunderstood, was this her fate ? she had 
 in some fashion risen above it — and she felt that the same 
 peace and strength were hers. Peace, she knew not why ; 
 strength coming, she scarcely knew how or whence. It was 
 no small thing to be one voice in the great chorus of voices, 
 to be one aspiration in the great breath of life, and to know 
 that her own wishes and her own happiness were not the 
 sum of all her wants. 
 
( 4S3 ; 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 SEE YOU NOT SOMETHING BESIDE MASONRI ? 
 
 Entering then, 
 Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, 
 The dusky-raftered many-coWebbed Hall, 
 He found an ancient dame in dun brocade, 
 And near her, like a blossom Termeil-white, 
 That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 
 Moved the fair Enid . . . 
 
 — Idylls of the King. 
 
 On the Friday before they were to start on their little ex- 
 pedition, Mrs. Fane was busy ; Dolly had been sitting alone 
 for some time. 
 
 She suddenly called to old Marker, asked her to put on 
 her bonnet and come out with her. Dolly made Marker 
 stop a cab, and they drove off ; the old nurse wanted to turn 
 back when she found out where Dolly was going, but she 
 could not resist the girl's pleading looks. ' It will do me 
 good. Marker,' said Dolly, ' indeed it will. I want to see 
 the dear old place again.' 
 
 All that morning she felt a longing to see the old place 
 once more : something seemed to tell her that she must go. 
 One often thinks that to be in such a place would bring 
 ease, that the sight of such a person would solve all diflB- 
 culties, and one travels off, and one seeks out the friend, and 
 it was but a fancy after all. Poor old Church House I All 
 
 I I 2 
 
4^4 OLD KE2ISINGT0N. 
 
 night long Dolly had been dreaming of her home, un-idnding 
 the skeins of the past one by one. It may have been a fancy 
 that brought Dolly, but it was a curious chance. 
 
 They had come to the top of the lane, and Dolly got 
 out and paid lier cab. Her eyes were dim with the past, 
 that was coming as a veil or a shroud between her and the 
 present. She had no faint suspicion of what was at hand. 
 They walked on unsuspiciously to the ivy gate : suddenly 
 Marker cried out, and then Dolly too gave a little gasp. 
 What cruel blow had fallen? what desecrating hand had 
 dared to touch the dear old haunt ? What was this ? She 
 had not dreamt iMs. The garden wall, so sweet with jessa- 
 mine, was lying low, the prostrate ivy was struggling over a 
 heap of bricks and rubbish, tracks of wheel-barrows ran 
 from the house to the cruel heap, the lawn was tossed up, a 
 mound of bricks stood raised by the drawing-room windows ; 
 tne windows were gone, black hollows stood in their places, 
 a great gap ran down from Dolly's old bed-room up above 
 to the oak room on the terrace, part of the dining-room was 
 gone : pathetic, black, charred, dismantled, the old house 
 stood stricken and falling from its foundation. Dolly's heart 
 beat furiously as she caught Marker's arm. 
 
 'What has happened? ' she said ; 'it is not fire — it is — 
 oh. Marker, this is too much.' 
 
 Poor Marker could not say one word ; the two women 
 stood clinging to each other in the middle of the garden 
 walk. The sky was golden, the shadows were purple among 
 the fallen bricks. 
 
 ' This is too much,' Dolly repeated a little wildly, and 
 then she broke away from Marker, crying out, ' Don't come, 
 don't come.' 
 
 The workmen were gone : for some reason the place was 
 deserted and there was no one to hear Dolly's sobs as she 
 impatiently fled across the lawn. Was it foolish that these 
 
SEE YOU NOT SOMETHING BESIDE MASONRY f 485 
 
 poor old bricks should be so dear to her, foolish that their 
 fall should seem to her somethiDg more than a symbol of all 
 that had fallen and passed away ? Ah no, no. While the 
 old house stood she had not felt quite parted, but now the 
 very place of her life would be no more ; all the grief of 
 that year seemed brought back to her when she stopped 
 short suddenly and stood looking round and about in a, 
 scared sort of way. She was looking for something that 
 was not any more, listening for silent voices. Dolly ! 
 cried the voices, and the girl's whole heart answered 
 as she stood stretching out her arms towards the ulterior 
 shores. At that minute she would have been very glad to 
 lie down on the old stone terrace and never rise again. Time 
 was so long, it weighed and weighed, and seemed to be 
 crushing her. She had tried to be brave, but her cup was 
 full, and she felt as if she could bear no more, not one heavy 
 hour more. This great weight on her heart seemed to have 
 been gathering from a long way off, to have been lasting 
 for years and years ; no tears came to ease this. pain. Marker 
 had sat down on the stone ledge and was wiping her grief in 
 her handkerchief. Dolly was at her old haunt by the pond, 
 and bending over and looking into the depth with strange 
 circling eyes. 
 
 This heavy weight seemed to be weighing her down and 
 drawing her to the very brink of the old pond. She longed 
 to be at rest, to go one step beyond the present, to be lying 
 straight in the murky grey water, resting and at peace. 
 Who wanted her any more ? No one now. Those who had 
 loved her best were dead ; Eobert had left her : every one 
 had left her. The people outside in the lane may have seen 
 her through the gap in the wall, a dark figure stooping among 
 the purple shadows ; she heard their voices calling, but she 
 did not heed them, they were only living voices : then she 
 heard a step upon the gravel close at hand, and she started 
 
4S6 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 back, for looking up, she saw it was Frank Eaban, who came 
 forward. Dolly was not surprised to see him. Everything 
 to-day was so strange, so unnatural, that this sudden meeting 
 seemed but a part of all the rest. She threw up her hands 
 and sank down upon the old bench. 
 
 His steady eyes were fixed upon her. 'What are you 
 doing here ? ' he said, frightened by the look in her face, and 
 forgetting in his agitation to greet her formally. 
 
 'What does it all matter?' said Dolly, answering his 
 reproachful glance, and speaking in a shrill voice : ' I don't 
 care about anything any more, I am tired out, yes very 
 tired,' the girl repeated. She was wrought Up and speaking 
 to herself as much as to him, crying out not to be heard, 
 but because this heavy weight was upon her, and she was 
 struggling to be rid of it and reckless : she must speak to 
 him, to anybody, to the shivering bushes, to the summer 
 dust and silence, as she had spoken to the stagnant water of 
 the pond. She was in a state which is not a common one, in 
 which pain plays the part of great joy, and excitement 
 unloosens the tongue, forces men and women into momentary 
 sincerity and directness, carries all before it ; her long self- 
 control had broken down, she was at the end of her powers — 
 she was only thinking of her own grief and not of him just 
 then. As she turned her pale stone-cut face away and looked 
 across the low laurel bushes, Frank Eaban felt a pang of pity 
 for her of which Dorothea had no conception. He came up 
 to the bench. 
 
 ' Don't lose courage,' he said — ' not yet ; you have been so 
 good all this time.' 
 
 It was not so much what he said which touched her, as 
 the way in which he said it. He seemed to know how 
 terribly she had been suffering, to be in tune even with this 
 remorseless fugue of pain repeated. His kindness suddenly 
 overcame her and touched her ; she hid her face in her 
 
SEE you NOT SOMETHING BESWE MASONRY? 467 
 
 hands and burst out crying, and the tears eased and softened 
 her strained nerves. 
 
 ' It was coming here that brought it all back,' she said ; 
 ' and finding ' Her voice failed. 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' he said. ' How can I forgive myself ? 
 
 It is all my ' He turned quite pale, stopped abruptly, 
 
 and walked away for a few steps. When he came back ht 
 spoke almost in his usual voice, and then and there began to 
 tell Dolly all that had happened, of the curious discovery 
 which Mrs. Fane had made, of Smith's confession, and of all 
 that it involved, that she was now the one person interested 
 in the property, that Ehoda Parnell had no single right to 
 Lady Sarah's inheritance. He told her very carefully, sparing 
 her in every way, thinking of the words which would be 
 simplest and least likely to give pain. 
 
 ' We ought to have told you before,' he repeated. ' We 
 meant to spare you until all the facts were clearly ascertained. 
 We have made a fatal mistake, and now I am only adding to 
 your pain.' 
 
 But the tears with which Dolly listened to him were not 
 bitter, his voice was so kind, his words so manly and 
 •simple. He did not shirk the truth as some people sometimes 
 do when they speak of sorrow, but he faced the worst with 
 the simplicity and directness of a man who had seen it all 
 very near. 
 
 If there are certain states of mind in which facts seem 
 exaggerated, and every feeling is over-wrought, it is at these 
 very times that people are most ready to accept the blessings 
 of consolation. ' Peace, be still,' said the Divine Voice, 
 speaking to the tossing waves. And voices come, speaking 
 in human tones to many a poor tempest-tossed soul. It may 
 be only a friend who speaks, only a lover perhaps, or a 
 brother or sister's voice. Love, friendship, brotherhood 
 give a meaning to the words. Only that day Dolly had 
 
438 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 thought that all was over, and already the miracle was 
 working, the storm was passing from her heart. 
 
 It all seemed as a dream in the night, when she thought 
 it over afterwards. She had not seen Frank again, hut to 
 have seen him once more made all the difference to her. 
 
i 489 J 
 
 CHAPTEE LVI. 
 
 ITIE PLAY IS PLAYED, THE CUKTAIN DE0P6. 
 
 In the battle of life are we all going to try for the honours of championship T 
 If we can do our duty, if we can keep our place pretty honourably through tha 
 combat, let us say ' Laus Deo ' at the end of it, as the firing ceases and the 
 night falls oyer the field. — Eoiindabout Papees. 
 
 Colonel Fane was not a rich man, but he had a house which 
 had been his father's before him, and to which he returned 
 now and again in the intervals of service. It stood at a bend 
 of the river, and among hollows and ivy. He looked forward 
 to ending his work there some day, and resting for a year or 
 two. In the meanwhile the old house was often let in 
 siunmer, and Mrs. Fane looked after the repairs and neces- 
 sary renovations. She sometimes spent a few hours among 
 the sedges and shady chestnut-trees. She loved the old 
 place — as who does not love it who has ever been there ? — 
 and discovered this sleeping bower, where one may dream of 
 chivalry, of fairy land, or of peace on earth, or that one is 
 sunshine, or a river washing between heavy banks ; or turn- 
 ing one's back to the stream see a pasture-country sliding 
 away towards the hills, through shade and fragrant hours, 
 with songs from the hedges and mellow echoes from the dis- 
 tant farms. 
 
 The little party came down, not unprepared to be happy. 
 Mrs. Fane, who never wasted an opportunity, had also 
 brought a little girl from her orphanage, who was to remain 
 
490 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 for a time with the housekeeper at Queensmede — that was 
 the name of the old house. The child was a bright little 
 creature, with merry soft eyes flashing in wild excitement, 
 and the kind lady was somewhat divided between her in- 
 terest in some news that John Morgan was giving her and 
 her anxiety lest little Charlotte, her god-daughter, should 
 jump out of window. 
 
 ' We have to thank the Captain here,' said John Mor- 
 gan, 'for finding the man we were in search of, his evi- 
 dence fully bears out poor Smith's dying declaration. I 
 have sent to Tapeall,' said John, shaking his head.. 'I find 
 that after all my precautions, Ehoda got a hint from him 
 last week. However, it is all right — thanks to the Captain — 
 as right as anything so unfortunately managed can ever 
 be.' 
 
 ' I don't deserve any thanks,' said Jonah. ' Poor Carter 
 found me out. He wanted to borrow 10s.' 
 
 ' When did all this happen ? ' said Mrs. Fane. 
 
 ' Only yesterday,' answered the Eector. ' I telegraphed 
 to Eaban — poor fellow, he had gone off to Shoeburyness on 
 some false scent ; I left word at home in case he should call.' 
 
 Dolly stooped down and held up little Charlotte to see 
 the pretty golden fields fly past, and the sheep and the 
 lambs frisking. 
 
 'Are they gold flowers?' said the little girl. 'Is that 
 where ladies gets their money ? Is you going to be very 
 rich ?' 
 
 Dolly did not answer. The strange news had overcome her ; 
 she had scarcely heard what they all were saying, so many other 
 voices were speaking to her, as she watched the flying fields. 
 Was it all to be hers ? The old house was gone — and this was 
 what she most dwelt upon — ^money was but little in comparison 
 to the desolate home. Could she ever forgive Bhoda thia 
 cruel blow ? Ah ! she might have had it all, if she had but 
 
rHE PLA Y IS PLA YED. THE CURTAIN DROPS. 491 
 
 Kpared the dear home. A letter had come from Eobert 
 only that morning, and all this time Dolly was carrying it 
 unopened in her pocket, failing courage to break the seal 
 and open up the past. 
 
 Shadows and foreboding clouds were far away from that 
 tranquil valley, from the shady chestnut-tree beneath which 
 Dolly is sitting, resting and shading her eyes from the light. 
 
 When the banquet is over they get up from their feast 
 and slioU down to the river side, through the silent village 
 into the overgrown meadow, where green waving things aro 
 throwing their shadows, where an old half-ruined nunnerj 
 stands fronting the sun and the silver river beyond the 
 fields. 
 
 There were nuns at Queensmede once : one might fancy 
 a Guinevere ending her sad life there in tranquil penitence ; 
 a knight on his knees by the river ; a horse browsing in the 
 meadow. The old building still stands among wild-flowers 
 and hay, within sight of the river bend ; the deserted garden 
 is unfenced, and the roses, straggling in the field, mingle 
 their petals with the clover and poppies that spring luxu- 
 riantly. The stable is a gabled building with slender lancet 
 windows, with open doors swinging on the latch. The nuns 
 have passed out one by one from the Lady House, so they 
 call it still. Dolly peeped in at the dismantled walls and 
 pictured their former occupants to herself— women singing 
 and praying with pale sweet faces radiant in the sweet 
 tranquillity of the old place, and yet their life seemed thin 
 and sad somehow. It was here that she found courage at 
 last to read Eobert's letter as she stood in the doorway. She 
 pulled it out and broke the seal : — 
 
 My Deak Dobothea,— 
 
 Notwithstanding all that has happened, I still feel that it is no com- 
 mon tie of friendship and interest which must always bind us together, and 
 that it is due to you that I myself should inform you of a determination which 
 
+92 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 will, as I trust, eventually contribute to everybody's happiness. After what 
 you said to me it will, I know, be no surprise to you to have heard that I have 
 proposed to Khoda, and been accepted by her ; but I am anxious to spare your 
 learning from anybody but myself the fact, that we have determined to put on 
 our marriage, and that this letter will reach you on our wedding day. 
 
 Your friend Bhoda has entirely thrown herself upon my guidance, and 
 under the circumstances it has seemed advisable to me to urge no longer 
 delay. My affairs require my presence in England ; hers also need the 
 most careful management. I am not satisfied with the manner in which 
 certain investments have been disposed of: notwithstanding some perhaps 
 not unnatural reluctance on her part, I propose returning to Church 
 House immediately after our wedding, where, let me tell you, my deal 
 Dora, you will ever find a hearty welcome, and a home if need be. Although 
 I am anxious to forget the past, particularly under my present circum- 
 stances, I cannot but recall once more to yon how differently events might 
 have turned out. I have never had an opportunity of explaining that to 
 you, but I hope you do me the justice to believe that it was not your 
 change of fortune which affected my decision to abide by your determina- 
 tion. I have been most anxious to assure you of this. It was your want 
 of trust which first made me feel how dissimilar we were in many ways, 
 how little chance there was in my being able to influence you as a hus- 
 band. Forgive me for saying that you did not understand my motives, nor 
 do entire justice to the feelings which made me endeavour to persuade you 
 for your own advantage as well as mine. If you had come to India when 
 I wished it much anxiety to yourself and much sorrow would have been 
 spared you. Now it is too late to think of what might or might not have 
 been, only this fact remains, and do not forget it, dear Dora, that you will 
 never have a more sincere friend nor one more ready to advise and assist 
 you in any difficulty than 
 
 Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 E. Henxet. 
 
 Bhoda (did she know I was writing) would unite in most affectionate 
 love. I find her society more and more congenial and dehghtful to me. 
 
 • What are you reading, Dolly ? ' said Jonah, coming up. 
 ' I ought to know that confounded blue paper. Has that 
 fellow the impudence to write to yoQ ? ' Then he asked 
 more shyly, ' May I see the letter ? ' 
 
 ' No, dear Jonah,' Dolly said, folding it up. 'It is a 
 kind letter, written kindly.' 
 
 Then she looked hard at him ai^d blushed a little. ' This 
 U his wedding day,' she said ; ' that is why he wrote to me. 
 
THE PLA Y IS PLA YED, THE CURTAIN DROPS. 493 
 
 Dolly would not show her letter to any one, except to 
 iVlfs. Fane. She felt that it would be commented on ; she 
 was grateful to Eobert for writing it ; and yet the letter 
 made her ashamed now that she began to see him not as he 
 was, but to judge from another standard, and to look at him 
 with other people's eyes. In after days she scarcely ever 
 spoke of him even to her nearest and dearest. To-day she 
 merely repeated the news. No one made any comment in 
 her hearing. They were anxious at first, but Dolly's face 
 was serene, and they could see that she was not unhappy. 
 
 One thing Mrs. Fane could not understand. Eobert 
 evidently knew nothing of the destruction of Church House. 
 
 ' I am glad Eobert had nothing to do with it,' said Dolly, 
 with & sigh. 
 
 ' Will you come wiss me?' said little Charlotte, running 
 up and taking Dolly's hand. Miss Vanborough was not 
 sorry to leave the discussion of Eobert's prospects to others, 
 and she walked away, with the little girl still holding by 
 her hand, and went and stood for a minute on the bridge, 
 looking down at the river and the barge floating by ; it slid 
 under her feet with its cargo of felled wood, and its wild 
 and silent human cargo, and then it went floating away 
 between the summer banks. 
 
 The waters deepened and wavered. Tall waving grasses 
 were also floating and dragging upon the banks, crimson 
 poppies starting here and there, golden iris hanging their 
 heads by the river. Little Charlotte presently ran away, 
 and half sunk in the grasses, stood struggling with a daisy. 
 A sunshiny man came leading a horse from the sleepy old 
 barn that stood beyond the Lady House. Its old bricks 
 were hung with green veils, and with purple and golden 
 nets of lichen and of moss. 
 
 Dolly stopped — ^was it a burst of music ? It was a sweet 
 overpowering rush of honeysuckle scent coming from the 
 
494 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 deserted garden. In this pastoral landscape there was nc 
 sound louder than the lap of the water, or the flowing 
 gurgle of the pigeons straggling from one to another moss- 
 grown ledge. Chance lights stole from the sedge to the 
 grassy banks, from the creek by sweet tumbled grasses to 
 the deserted old grange. Eound about stood the rose-trees, 
 flowering in the wilderness, dropping their blossoms ; the 
 swallows were flying about the eaves ; the daisies sparkled 
 where they caught the sunlight. 
 
 While Dolly and little Charlotte were gathering theii 
 flowers Frank Eaban, who came walking along the fields 
 by the river, had joined the others by the Lady House. 
 Morgan's telegram had summoned him back to London, and 
 his message had brought him on to Queensmede. 
 
 ' Where is Miss Vanborough ? ' he asked presently. 
 
 ' Don't you see her on the bridge ? ' said Jonah, pointing. 
 
 Frank walked on a few steps. He saw her standing on 
 the bridge, high above the torrent. Then he saw her come 
 slowly along, followed by her little companion. . . . 
 
 They were walking slowly away from the field and the 
 deserted garden. As they all straggled slowly homewards 
 with shadows at their feet, the old ivy buttresses of the 
 walls were beginning to shine with vesper light, with 
 deeper and crisper lines in the pure illumination all around. 
 Dolly thought of Haydn's andante again, only here it was 
 light that brought music out of all these instruments; 
 silences, perfumes, and heavy creepers; from the bewildering, 
 sweet old place, overflown with birds, heaped up and falling 
 into hollows. 
 
 Frank walked silently beside Dolly. He had come 
 prepared to sympathise, full of concern for her, and she 
 did not seem to want his help or to care for it any more. 
 That day by the pond, when she had first turned to him in 
 her grief, he had felt nearer to her than now, when in her 
 
rHE PLA Y IS PLA YED, THE CURTAIN DROPS. 49, 
 
 reserve she said no word of all that he knew she must be 
 feeling. Could this be pride? Did she show this indif- 
 ferent face to the world, was she determined that no one 
 should guess at the secret strain ? Was she treating him aa 
 the first come acquaintance ? It was very proper, no doubt, 
 and very dignified, but he was disappointed. He could not 
 understand it. She' must be unhappy, and yet as he looked 
 at her face he saw no effort there — only peace shining from 
 it. She had stopped before a garland of briony that was 
 drooping with beautiful leaves, making a garland of shadowa 
 upon the bricks. She pointed it out to him. 
 
 ' It is very pretty,' said Eaban, ' but I am in no appreci 
 ative mood ; ' and he looked back at Jonah, who came up 
 just then, and began admiring. Why was Jonah always with 
 her ? Why did he seem to join into all their talk ? Frank 
 was jealous of Jonah, but he was still more jealous of Doro- 
 thea's confidence. There seemed to be no end to Dolly's 
 cousins. Here was Jonah, to whom she had already given 
 more of her confidence than to him ; Jonah, who had served 
 her effectually, while he, Frank, had done nothing, worse 
 than nothing, for Dolly, who was walking along, still looking 
 at the bunches of briony she had gathered. It was not a 
 very heroic mood, and I am truly ashamed of my hero's 
 passing ill humour, coming as it did at this inopportune 
 moment to trouble Miss Vanborough's tardy happiness. And 
 yet somehow it did not trouble her ; she saw that Frank was 
 sUent and gloomy, but with her instinct for idealising those 
 she loved, she supposed there was some good reason for it, 
 and she felt that she might perhaps even tiy to find out what 
 was amiss ; it was no longer wrong to take an interest in all 
 that affected him — even Dolly's conscience allowed this — 
 and, when the others walked on, in her sweet voice she asked 
 ' if anything was wrong,' and as she spoke her grey eyes 
 opened kindly. Dolly loved to take care of the people 
 
4<56 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 she loved. There was a motherly instinct in all her affec- 
 tion. 
 
 ' My only concern is for you, and for the news that Jonah 
 Henley has told me,' said Frank ; ' but you did not tell me 
 yourself, so I did not like to speak of it to you.' 
 
 Dolly sighed — then looked up again. ' I do not know 
 how to talk of it all,' she said, ' and that is why I said 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' You are right ! ' Frank answered ; ' when one comes to 
 think of it, there are no words in common language to 
 
 ' Please don't,' said Dolly, pained ; then she added, ' I 
 have been so unhappy, that I must not ever pretend to feel 
 what I am not feeling. Perhaps you may think it strange, I 
 am happy, not unhappy, to-day. You are all so kind ; every- 
 thing is so kind. I hope they too will have a great deal of 
 happiness in their lives. Is not Jonah calling us ? ' Jonah 
 was waiting for them at the gate of the house, and waving a 
 long, shadowy arm, that seemed to reach across the road. 
 
 ' Happiness,' said Frank, lingering, and bitter still, and 
 looking round. ' This is the sort of thing people mean, I 
 suppose ; green pastures and still waters, and if one can be 
 satisfied with grass, so much the better for oneself ; one may 
 enjoy all the things one didn't particularly want — and watch 
 another man win the prize ; another perhaps who doesn't 
 even^ — ' Frank stopped short — ^what was he saying ? he 
 might be giving pain, and he hated himself and his ill 
 humour, jarring and jangling in the peaceful serenity. 
 
 But Dolly finished the sentence calmly enough. ' Who 
 doesn't care for it ; perhaps the prize isn't worth having,' 
 she said very slowly. She did not think of herself until she 
 had spoken ; then suddenly her heart began to beat, and she 
 blushed crimson ; for her eyes met his, and his looks spoke 
 plainly enough — so plainly, that Dolly's grey orbs fell be- 
 
THE PLA V IS PLA YED, THE CURTAIN DROPS. 497 
 
 iieath that fixed dreamy gaze. It seemed to look through her 
 heart. Could he read all that she was thinking ? Ah ! he 
 might read her heart, for she was only thinking as she stood 
 there of all her friend's long fidelity and steady friendship. 
 What had she ever done to deserve it all ? And her heart 
 seemed to answer her thought with a sti-ange silent rapture. 
 Now she might own to herself the blessing of his unfailing 
 friendship ; it was no longer a wrong to any human being. 
 Even if she were never anything more to him, she might 
 openly and gratefully accept his help and his interest ; ac- 
 knowledge the blessing, the new life it had brought her. 
 She had struggled so long to keep the feeling hidden away, 
 it was an unspeakable relief to have nothing more to conceal 
 from herself nor from others — nothing more. She knew at 
 last that she loved him, and she was not ashamed. What a 
 journey she had travelled since they had stood by the spring 
 that autumn day, not a year ago ; what terrible countries 
 she had visited, and had it come to this once more ? Might 
 she love now in happiness as well as in sorrow ? Was she 
 not happy standing in this golden hollow, with the person 
 whom she loved best in all the world ? No other human 
 being was in sight, nothing but the old shady village, float- 
 ing into overflowing green, the sleepy haycocks, the empty 
 barn, the heaping ivy on the wall, the sunlight slanting 
 upon the silence. She did not mean to speak, but Frank, in 
 this utter silence, heard her secret thought at last. ' Don't 
 you know ? ' said Dorothea. ' Oh ! Frank, don't you know ? ' 
 Did she speak the words or look them ? He could scarcely 
 tell, only with unutterable tenderness and rapture in 
 his heart he knew that she was his, that life is kind, that 
 true hearts do come together, that one moment of such 
 happiness and completeness lights up a whole night's wild 
 chaos, and reveals the sweetness of a dawning world. 
 
 K K 
 
+98 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Jonah, who had gone on with Mrs. Fane, came to the 
 door to call them again, but they did not see him, and he 
 went back into the house, where Mrs. Fane and John Mor- 
 gan were hard at work upon an inventory. 
 
 ' Here, let me help you,' said Jonah ; ' I'm not too clumsy 
 to count teacups.' Little Charlotte made herself very useful 
 by carrying a plate from one chair to another. She finally 
 let it drop, and would have cried when it broke, if the good- 
 natured young captain had not immediately given her the 
 ink to hold. This mark of confidence filled her with pride, 
 and dried her tears. ' Sail I 'old it up very high ? ' she 
 said. ' Can you draw a ziant ? I can, wiss your pen.' 
 
 It took them nearly an hour to get through their task, 
 and by this time the tea was ready in the library, the old- 
 fashioned urn hissing and steaming, and Jonah and John 
 Morgan were preparing to set out on their journey home. 
 Frank went with them, and then when he was gone Dolly 
 told her friend her story, and the two sat talking until late 
 into the starlight. 
 
 Two days afterwards an announcement appeared in The, 
 Times, and the world learnt that Eobert Henley and Miss 
 Ehoda Parnell had been married at the British Embassy at 
 Paris by special licence by the Bishop of Oronoco. The next 
 news was that of Dolly's marriage to Frank Eaban. Peb- 
 blesthwaite was very much excited. Lady Henley's indigna- 
 tion was boundless at first, but was happily diverted by the 
 news of her favourite daughter Norah's engagement to Mr. 
 Jack Eedmayne. 
 
 James Brand's blue eyes twinkled a kindly sympathy, 
 when the letter came announcing Frank's happiness. He 
 came up to be present at the wedding. It was in the little 
 city church with its smoke-stained windows. John Mor- 
 gan's voice failed as he read the opening words and looked 
 down at the bent heads of the two who had met at last hand- 
 
THE PLA V /S FLA YED, THE CURTAIN DROPS. 499 
 
 in-hand. ' In perfect, love and peace,' he said ; and, as he 
 said it, he felt that the words were no vain prayers. 
 
 He had no fear for them, nor had they fear for each 
 other. Some one standing in the drizzle of the street out- 
 side saw them drive off with calm and happy faces. It was 
 Eobert Henley, who was passing through London with his 
 wife. Philippa, who saw him, kissed her hand and would 
 have stopped him, but he walked on without looking back. 
 He had been to Mr. Tapeall's that morning, after a painful 
 explanation with Rhoda — Ehoda, who was moodily sitting 
 at the window of her room in the noisy hotel, and going over 
 the wretched details of that morning's talk. It was true 
 that she had sold Church House, tempted by the builder's 
 liberal offer, and wanting money to clear the many extrava- 
 gances of her Paris life ; it was true that she had concealed 
 the lawyer's letter from Eobert in which she learnt that her 
 title to the property was about to be disputed. She had 
 hurried on their wedding, she had won the prize for which 
 her foolish soul had longed ; it was not love so much as the 
 pride of life and of gratified vanity. These things had 
 dazzled her, for these things this foolish little creature had 
 sacrificed her all. Dolly might have been happy in time, 
 even married to Eobert, but for Ehoda what chance was 
 there ? Would her French kid gloves put out their primrose 
 fingers to help her in her lonely hours ? would her smart 
 bonnets crown her home with peace and the content of a 
 loving spirit ? She lived long enough to find out something 
 of the truth, and to come to Dolly one day to help her in her 
 sorest need. This was long after, when Dolly had long been 
 living at Eavensrick, when her children were playing round 
 about her, and the sunshine of her later life had warmed and 
 brightened tlie sadness of her youth. "What more shall T 
 say of my heroine ? That sweet and generous soul, ripening 
 by degrees, slow and credulous, not embittered by the petty 
 
 JC £ 2 
 
5O0 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 pains of life, faithful and tender and vibrating to many 
 tones, is no uncommon type. Her name is one that I gave 
 her long ago, but her real names are many, and are those of 
 the friends whom we love. 
 
 Church House was never rebuilt. At DoUy's wish a row 
 of model lodgings, with iron balconies, patent boilers, venti- 
 lators, and clothes hanging out to dry on every floor, have 
 heen erected on the site of the place where Lady Sarah lived, 
 and so the kind woman's dreams and helpful schemes have 
 come true. 
 
 ' "We could not put back the old house,' said Dolly, ' and 
 we thought this would be the next best thing to do.' The 
 rooms are let at a somewhat cheaper rate than the crowded 
 lodging-houses round about. People, as a rule, dislike the 
 periodical whitewashing, and are fond of stuffing up the 
 ventilators, but otherwise they are very weU satisfied. 
 
 Dolly did not receive many wedding presents. Some time 
 after her marriage, Ehoda sent Dolly a diamond cross ; it was 
 that one that Frank Eaban had given her many years before. 
 She was abroad at the time, and for many years neither 
 Ehoda nor Dolly met again. Mrs. Palmer used to write home 
 accounts of Ehoda's beauty and fashion from Ems, and other 
 watering-places where she used to spend her summers. 
 
 The Admiral, who was still abroad, made it an especial 
 point, so Philippa declared, that she should spend her sum- 
 mers on the Continent. 
 
 One day Mrs. Eaban was turning out some papers in a 
 drawer in her husband's writing-table, when she came upon a 
 packet that she thought must belong to herself. They were 
 written in a familiar writing that she knew at once, for it 
 was Henley's. They were not addressed, and Dolly could 
 not at first imagine how these letters had come there, nor 
 when she had received them. As sle looked she was still 
 more bewildered. They were letters not unlike some that 
 
THE PLA Y IS PLA YED, THE CURTAIN DROPS. 501 ■ 
 
 she had received, and yet they had entirely passed from her 
 mind ; presently turning over a page she read, not her o'wn 
 name on the address, 1 but that of Emma Penfold, and a sen- 
 tence — ' It is best for your welfare that we should not meet 
 again,' wrote Henley. ' I am not a marrying man myself ; 
 circumstances render it impossible. May you be as happy 
 in youi new life. You will have an excellent husband, and 
 one who . . . .' 
 
 'What have you got there?' said Frank, who had 
 come in. 
 
 ' Oh, Frank, don't ask me,' said Dolly, hastily going to 
 the fire that was burning in the grate and flinging the 
 packet into the flames ; then she ran up to him, and clung 
 hold of his arm for a minute. She could not speak. 
 
 Frank looked at the burning packet — at the open 
 drawers — and then he understood it all. ' I thought I had 
 burnt those letters long ago,' he said ; and stooping he took 
 his wife's hand in his and kissed it. 
 
 # * * * # 
 
 As I write the snow lies thick upon the ground outside, 
 upon the branches of the trees, upon the lawns. Here, 
 within, the fire leaps brightly in its iron cage ; the children 
 cluster round the chair by the chimney corner, where the 
 mother sits reading their beloved fairy tales. The hearth 
 was empty once — the home was desolate ; but time after 
 time, day by day, we see the phoenix of home and of love 
 springing from the dead ashes ; hopes are fulfilled that 
 seemed too sweet to dream of; love kindles and warms 
 chilled hearts to life. Take courage, say the happy to those 
 in sorrow and trouble ; are there not many mansions even 
 here ? seasons in their course ; harvests in their season, 
 thanks be to the merciful ordinance that metes out sorrow 
 and peace, and longing and fulfilment, and rest after the 
 storm. 
 
502 OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 Take courage, say the happy — the message of the sorrowfu] 
 is harder to understand. The echoes come from afar, and 
 reach beyond our ken. As the cry passes beyond us into the 
 awful unknown, we feel that this is, perhaps, the voice in 
 life that reaches beyond life itself. Not of harvests to come, 
 not of peaceful home hearths do they speak in their sorrow. 
 Their fires are out, their hearths are in ashes, but see, it wai 
 the sunlight that extinguished the flame. 
 
 PRINTED BT 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW^TEEET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON 
 
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