CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM The Bequest of Roger p. Clark Cornell University Library PR 5227.R7A73 The story of Elizabeth, with other tales 3 1924 013 540 046 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013540046 THE HOUSEHOLD LIBRAEY OF MODERN FICTION. UNIFORM, COMPACT, LEGIBLE, HANDSOME, CBEAP. To bring within reach of all intelligent American readers the choicest works of modern Fiction, in a form at once tasteful and inexpensive, Messes. Fields, Osgood, & Co. have begun the " Household Edition." It is designed to afford, in uniform, compact, and handsome style, the works of the most eminent of Modern English Novelists. This Edition already comprises the complete works of the following authors. George Eliot's Novels. 5 vols. . . Per vol. $1.00. Charles Reade's Novels. 8 vols. . . " 1.00. Thackeray's Novels. 5 vols. ..." 1.25. Thackeray's Miscellanies. 5 vols. •* 1.25. Miss Thackeray's Writings. 2 vols. . " 1.00. • Any volume of the above sold separately, or sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the Publishers, FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO, Boston. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH WITH OTHER TALES AND SKETCHES. ANNE ISABELLA (THACKERAY. ; HOUSEHOLD EDITION. BOSTON: FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO. 1869. University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,, Cambridge. J l/frt4Sl4 LH*l*f iTVttJkf CONTENTS. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH 1 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood 79 ClNDEEELLA ..... 89 Beauty and the Beast 108 Little Red Riding Hood ....... 136 Jack the Giant-Killer 164 OUT OF THE WORLD, and TO ESTHER. Out of the World 223 To Esther 252 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 3. m. c. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. CHAPTER I. If singing breath, or echoing chord, To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! THIS is the story of a foolish wo- man, who, through her own folly, learnt wisdom at last ; whose troubles — they were not very great, they might have made the happiness of some less eager spirit — were more than she knew how to bear. The lesson of life was a hard lesson to her. She would not learn, she revolted against the wholesome doctrine. And while she was crying out that she would not learn, and turning away and railing and complaining against her fate, days, hours, fate, went on their course. And they passed unmoved ; and it was she who gave way, she who was altered, she who was touched and torn by her own complaints and regrets. Elizabeth had great soft eyes and pretty yellow hair, and a sweet flitting smile, which came out like sunlight over her face, and lit up yours and mine, and any other it might chance to fall upon. She used to smile at herself in the glass, as many a girl has done before her ; she used to dance about the room, and think : " Come life, come life, mine is going to be a happy one. Here I am awaiting, and I was made handsome to be admired, and to be loved, and to be hated bv a few, and worshipped by a few, and envied by all. I am handsomer than Lsetitia a thousand times. I am glad I have no money as she has, and that I shall be loved for myself, for my beaux yeux. One person turns pale when they look at him. Tra la la, tra la la ! " and she danced along the room singing. There was no carpet, only a smooth polished floor. Three tall windows looked out into a busy Paris street paved with stones, over which carriages and cabs and hand- trucks were jolting. There was a clock, and artificial flowers in china vases on the chimney, a red velvet sofa, a sort of e'tagere with ornaments, and a great double-door wide open, through which you could see a dining-room, also bare t polished, with a round table and an oil-cloth cover, and a white china stove, and some waxwork fruit on the sideboard, and a maid in_a white cap at work in the window. Presently there came a ring at the bell. Elizabeth stopped short in her dance, and the maid rose, put down her work, and went to open the door ; and then a voice, which made Eliza- beth smile and look handsomer than ever, asked if Mrs. and Miss Gilmour were at home ? Elizabeth stood listening, with her fair head a little bent, while the maid said, " No, sure," and then Miss Gil- mour flushed up quite angrily in the inner room, and would have run out. She hesitated only for a minute, and then it was too late ; the door was THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. shut, and Clementine sat down again to her work. " Clementine, how dare you say I was not at home 1 " cried Elizabeth, suddenly- standing before her. " Madame desired me to let no one in in her absence," said Clementine, primly. " I only obeyed my orders. There is the gentleman's card." " Sir John Dampier " was on the card, and then, in pencil, " I hope you will be at home in Chester Street next week. Can I be your avant-courier in any way ? I cross to-night." Elizabeth smiled again, shrugged her shoulders, and said to herself : " Next week ; I can afford to wait bet- ter than he can, perhaps. Poor man ! After all, Hyena bien d'autres " ; and she went to the window, and, by lean- ing out, she just caught a glimpse of the Madeleine and of Sir John Dam- pier walking away ; and then present- ly she saw her mother on the opposite side of the street, passing the stall of the old apple-woman, turning in un- der the archway of the house. Elizabeth's mother. was like her daughter, only she had black eyes and black hair, and where her daughter was wayward and yielding, the elder woman was wayward and determined. They did not care much for one anoth- er, these two. They had not lived to- gether all their lives, or learnt to love one another, as a matter of course; they were too much alike, too much of an age : Elizabeth was eighteen, and her mother thirty-six. If Elizabeth looked twenty, the mother looked thirty, and she was as vain, as fool- ish, as fond of admiration as her daughter. Mrs. Gilmonr did not own it to herself, but she had been used to it all her life, — to be first, to be much made of; and here was a little girl who had sprung up somehow, and learnt of herself to be charming, — more charming than she had ever been in her best days ; and now that they had slid away, those best days, the elder woman had a dull, uncon- scious discontent in her heart. Peo- ple whom she had known, and who had admired her but a year or two ago, seemed to neglect her now and to pass her by, in order to pay a certain homage to her daughter's youth and brilliance : John Dampier, among oth- ers, whom she had known as a boy, when she was a young woman. Good mothers, tender-hearted women, brighten again and grow young over their children's happiness and success. Caroline Gilmonr suddenly became old, somehow, when she first witnessed her daughter's triumphs, and she felt that the wrinkles were growing under her wistful eyes, and that the color was fading from her cheeks, and she gasped a little sigh and thought : "Ahl how I suffer! What is it? what can have come to me 1 " As time passed on, the widow's brows grew darker, her lips set ominously. One day she suddenly declared that she was weary of London and London ways, and that she should go abroad ; and Elizabeth, who liked everything that was change, that was more life and more experience, — she had not taken into account that there was any other than the experience of pleasure in store for her, — Elizabeth clapped her hands and cried : " Yes, yes, mam- ma ; I am quite tired of London and all this excitement. Let us go to-Parisfor the winter, and lead a quiet life." " Paris is just the place to go to for quiet," said Mrs. Gilmonr, who was smoothing her shining locks in the glass, and looking intently into her own dark gloomful eyes. " The Dampiers are going to Par- is," Elizabeth went on ; " Lady Dam- pier and Sir John, and old Miss Dampier and Lajtitia. He was say- ing how he wished you would go. We could have such fun ! Do go, dear, pretty mamma ! " As Elizabeth spoke, Mrs. Gilmonr's dark eyes brightened, and suddenly her hard face melted ; and, still look- ing at herself in the glass, she said : "We will go if you wish it, Elly. I thought you had had enough of balls." But the end of the Paris winter came, and even then Elly had not THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. had enough ; not enough admiration, not enough happiness, not enough new dresses, not enough of herself, not enough time to suffice her eager, longing desires, not enough- delights to fill up the swift-flying days. I cannot tell you — she could not have told you herself — what she wanted, what perfection of happiness, what wonderful thing. She danced, she wore beautiful dresses, she flirted, she chattered nonsense and sentiment, she listened to music ; her pretty little head was in a whirl. John Dampier followed her from place to place ; and so, indeed, did one or two others. Though she was in love with them all, I believe she would have married this Dampier if he had asked her, but he never did. He saw that she did not really care for him ; opportunity did not befriend him. His mother was against it ; and then, her mother was there, looking at him with her dark, reproachful eyes, — those eyes which had once fascinated and then repelled him, and that he mistrusted so and almost hated now. And this is the secret of my story ; but for this it would never have been written. He hated, and she did not hate, poor woman! It would have been better, a thousand times, for herself and &r her daughter, had she done so. Ah me ! what cruel perversion was it, that the best of all good gifts should have turned to trouble, to jealousy, and wicked rancor ; that this sacred power of faithful devotion, by which she might have saved herself and en- nobled a mean and earthly spirit, should have turned to a curse instead of a blessing ! There was a placid, pretty niece of Lady Dampier, called Lastitia, who had been long destined for Sir John.- La;titia and Elizabeth had been at school together for agood many dreary years, and were very old friends. Elizabeth all her life used to triumph over her friend, and to bewilder her with her careless, gleeful ways, and yet win her over to her own side, for she was irresistible, and she knew it. Per- haps it was because she knew it so well that she was so confidentand so charm- ing. Loetitia, although she was sin- cerely fond of her cousin, used to won- der that her aunt could be against such a wife for her son. " She is a sort of princess," the girl used to say ; " and John ought to have a beautiful wife for the credit of the family." " Your fifty thousand pounds.would go a great deal further to promote the credit of the family, my dear," said old Miss Dampier, who was a fat, plain-spoken, kindly old lady. "I like the girl, though my sister-in-law does not ; and I hope that some day she will find a very good husband. I confess that I had rather it were not John." And so one day John was informed by his mother, who was getting alarmed, that she was going home, and that she could not think of cross- ing without him. And Dampier, who was careful, as men are mostly, and wanted to think about his decision, and who was auxious to do the very best for himself in every respect, — as is the way with just and good and respectable gentlemen, — was not at all loath to obey her summons. Here was Lsetitia, who was very fond of him, — there was no doubt of that, — with a house in the country and money at her bankers' ; there was a wayward, charming, beautiful girl, who did n't care for him very much, who had little or no money, but whom he certainly cared for. He talked it all over dispassionately with his aunt, — so dispassionately that the old woman got angry. " You are a model young man, John. It quite affects me, and makes me forget my years to see the admira- ble way in which you young people conduct yourselves. You have got such well-regulated hearts, it 's quite a marvel. You are quite right ; Tishy has got £50,000, which will all go into your pocket, and respect- able connections, who will come to your wedding, and Elly Gilmour has 8 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. not a penny except what her mother will leave her, — a mother with a bad temper, and who is sure to marry again ; and though the girl is the prettiest young creature I ever set eyes on, and though yon care for her as you never cared fur any other woman be- fore, men don't marry wives for such absurd reasons as that. You are quite right to have nothing to do with her ; and I respect you for your noble self-denial." And the old lady began to knit away at a great long red com- forter she bad always on hand for her other nephew the clergyman. " But, my dear aunt Jean, what is it you want me to do 1 " cried John. "Drop one, knit two together," said the old lady, cliquetting her needles. She really wanted John to marry his cousin, but she was a spinster still and sentimental ; and she could not help being sorry for pretty Eliza- beth; and now she was afraid that she had said too much, for her nephew frowned, put his hands in his pockets, and walked out of the room. He walked down stairs, and out of the door into the Rue Royale, the street where they were lodging ; then he strolled across the Place de la Concorde, and in at the gates of the Tuileries, where the soldiers were pacing, and so along the broad path, to where he heard a sound of music, and saw a glitter of people. Turn te turn, bom, bom, bom, went the mili- tary music ; twittering busy little birds were chirping up in the branch- es ; buds were bursting ; colors glim- mering ; tinted sunshine flooding the garden, and music, and the people; old gentlemen were reading newspa- pers on the benches; children were playing at hide-and-seek behind the statues; nurses gossiping, and nod- ding their white caps, and dandling their white babies ; and there on chairs, listening to the music, the mammas were sitting in grand bon- nets and parasols, working, and gos- siping too, and ladies and gentlemen went walking up and down before them. All the windows of the Tuile- ries were ablaze with the sun ; the terraces were beginning to gleam with crocuses and spring flowers. As John Dampier was walking along, scarcely noting all this, he heard his name softly called, and turning round he saw two ladies sit- ting under a budding horse-chestnut- tree. One of them he thought look- ed like a fresh spring flower herself smiling pleasantly, all dressed in crisp light gray, with a white bonnet, and a quantity of bright yellow cro- cus hair. She held out a little gray hand and said : — " Won't you come and talk to us ? Mamma and I are tired of listening to music. We want to hear somebody talk." And then mamma, who was Mrs. Gilmour, held out a straw-colored hand, and said, " Do you think sensi- ble people have nothing better to do than to listen to your chatter, Elly '< Here is your particular Mend, M. de Vaux, coming to us. You can talk to him." Elizabeth looked up quickly at her mother, then glanced at Dampier, then greeted M. de Vaux as pleasant- ly, almost as she had greeted.him, " I am afraid I cannot stay now," said Sir John to Elizabeth. " I have several things to do. Do you know that we are going away immedi- ately!" Mrs. Gilmour's black eyes seemed to flash into his face as he spoke. He felt them, though he was looking at Elizabeth, and he could not help turn- ing away with an impatient move- ment of dislike. " Going away ! O, how sorry I am," said Elly. " But, mamma, I forgot, — you said we were going home, too, in a few days ; so I don't mind so much. You will come and say good by, won't you ? " Elizabeth went on, while M. de Vaux, who had- been waiting to be spoken to, turned away rather provoked, and made some re- mark to Mrs. Gilmour. And then THE STOKY OF ELIZABETH. Elizabeth seeing her opportunity, and looking up, frank, fair, and smiling, said quickly : " To-morrow at three, mind, — and give my love to Lseti- tia," she went on, much more deliber- ately, " and my best love to Miss Dampier ! and O, dear ! why does one ever have to say good by to one's friends ? Are you sure you are all really going ? " " Alas ! " said Dampier, looking down at the kind young face with strange emotion and tenderness, and holding out his hand. He had not meant it as good by yet, but so Elly and her mother understood it. " Good by, Sir John ; we shall meet again in London," said Mrs. Gil- mour. " Good by," said Elly, wistfully raising her sweet eyes. As he walked away, he carried with him a bright picture of the woman he loved, looking at him kindly, happy, surrounded with sunshine and bud- ding green leaves, smiling and holding out her hand ; and so he saw her in his dreams sometimes ; and so she wonld appear to him now and then in the course of his life ; so he some- times sees her now, in springtime, generally when the trees are coming out, and some little chirp of a sparrow or some little glistening green bud conjures up all these old bygone days again. Mrs. Gilmour did not sleep very sound all that night. While -Eliza- beth lay dreaming in her dark room, her mother, with wild-falling black hair, and wrapped in a long red dress- ing-gown, was wandering restlessly up and down, or flinging herself on the bed or the sofa, and trying at her bedside desperately to sleep, or falling on her knees with clasped out- stretched hands. Was she asking for her own happiness at the expense of poor Elly's t I don' t like to think so, — it seems so cruel, so wicked, so unnatural. But remember, here was a passionate selfish woman, who for long years had hid one dream, one 1 * idea; who knew that she loved this man twenty times — twenty years — more than did Elizabeth, who was but a little child when this mad fancy began. " She does not care for him a hit," the poor wretch said to herself over and over again. " He likes her, and he would marry her if — if I chose to give him the chance. She will be as happy with anybody else. I could not bear this, — it would kill me. I never suffered such horrible torture in all my life. He hates me. It is hopeless; and I — I do not know whether I hate him or I love him most. How dare she tell him to come to-morrow, when she knew I would be out. She shall not see him. We will neither of us see him again ; never, — oh ! never. But I shall suf- fer, and she will forget. Oh.! if I' could forget ! " And then she would fall down on her knees again ; and because she prayed, she blinded her- self to her own wrong-doings, and thought that Heaven was on her side. And so the night went on. John Dampier was haunted with strange dreams, and saw Caroline Gilmour more than once coming and going in a red gown and talking to him, though he could not understand what she was saying ; sometimes she was in his house at Guildford ; sometimes in Paris ; sometimes sitting with Elly up in a chestnut-tree, and chattering like a monkey ; sometimes gliding down interminable rooms and open- ing door after door. He disliked her worse than ever when he woke in the morning. Is this strange ? It would have seemed to me stranger had it not been so. We are not blocks of wax and putty with glass eyes, like the people at Madame Tussaud's ; we have souls, and we feel and we guess at more than we see round about us, and we influence one another for good or for evil from the. moment we come into the world. Let us be humbly thankful if the day comes for us to leave it before we have done 10 THE STOKY OF ELIZABETH. any great harm to those who lire their lives along-side with ours. And so the next morning Caroline asked her daughter if she would come with her to M. le Pasteur 'Tourneur's at two. " I am sure you would be the better for listening to a good man's exhortation," said Mrs. Gil- mour. " I don't want to go, mamma. I hate exhortations," said Elizabeth, pettishly ; " and you know how ill it made me last Tuesday. How can you like it, — such dreary, sleepy talk ? It gave me the most dreadful headache." " Poor child ! " said Mrs. Gilmour, " perhaps the day may come when you will find out that a headache is not the most terrible calamity. But you understand that if you do not choose to come with me, you must stay at home. I will not have you going about by yourself, or with any chance friends, — it is not respect- able." Elly shrugged her shoulders, but resigned herself with wonderful good grace. Mrs. Gilmour prepared her- self for her expedition: she put on a black silk gown, a plain bonnet, a black cloak. I cannot exactly tell you what change came over her. It was not the lady of the Tuileries the day before ; it was not the woman in the red dressing-gown. It was a respectable, quiet personage enough, who went off primly with her prayer- book in her hand, and who desired Clementine on no account to let any- body in until her return. " Miss Elizabeth is so little to be trusted," so she explained quite un- necessarily to the maid, " that I can- not allow her to receive visits when I am from home." And Clementine, who was a stiff, ill-humored woman, pinched her lips and said, " Bien, madame." And so when Elizabeth's best chance for happiness came to the door, Clem- entine closed it again with great alacrity, and shut out the good for- tune, and sent it away. I am sure that if Dampier had come in that day and seen Elly once more, he could not have helped 6peaking to her and making her and making him- self happy in so doing. I am sure that Elly, with all her vanities and faults, would have made him a good wife, and brightened his dismal old house ; but I am not sure that happi- ness is the best portion after all, and that there is not something better to be found in life than mere worldly prosperity. Dampier walked away, almost re- lieved, and yet disappointed too. " Well, they will be back in town in ten days," he thought, " and we will see then. But why the deuce did the girl tell me three o'clock, and then not be at hpme to see- me 1 " And as ill-luck would have it, at this moment, up came Mrs. Gilmour. " I have just been to see you, to say good by," said Dampier. " I was very sorry to miss you and your daughter." " I have been attending a meeting at the house of my friend the Pas- teur Tourneur," said Mrs. Gilmour; " but Elizabeth was at home, — would not she see you ? " She blushed up very red as she spoke, and so did John Dampier ; her face glowed with shame, and his with vex- ation. " No ; she would not see me," cried he. " Good by, Mrs. Gilmour." " Good by," she said, and looked up with her black eyes; but he was staring vacantly beyond her, busy with his own reflections, and then she felt it was good by forev«r. He turned down a wide street, and she crossed mechanically and came along the other side of the road, as I have said ; past the stall of the old apple-woman ; advancing demurely, turning in under the archway of the house. She had no time for remorse. " He does not care for me," was all she could think ; " he scorns me, — he has behaved as no gentleman would behave." (Poor John ! — in justice THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 11 to him I must say that this was quite an assumption on her part.) And at the same time John Dampier, at the other end of the street, was walking away in a huff, and saying to him- self that " Elly is a little heartless flirt ; she cares for no one but herself. I will have no more to do with her. Loetitia would not have served me so." Elly met her mother at the door. " Mamma, how could you be so horrid and disagreeable ? — why did you. tell Clementine to let no one in 1 " She shook back her curly locks, and stamped her little foot, as she spoke, in her childish anger. " You should not give people ap- pointments when I am out of the way,'' said Mrs. Gilmour, primly. " Why did you not come with me ? Dear M. Tourneur's exposition was quite beautiful." " I hate Monsieur Tourneur ! " cried Elizabeth ; " and I should not do such things if you were kind, mamma, and liked me to amuse my- self and to be happy ; but you sit there, prim and frowning, and think- ing everything wrong that is harm- less ; and you spoil all my pleasure ; and it is a shame — and a shame — and you will make me hate you too " ; and she ran into her own room, banged the door, and locked it. I suppose it was by way of com- pensation to Elly that Mrs. Gilmour sat down and wrote a little note, ask- ing Monsieur de Vaux to tea that evening to meet M. le Pasteur Tour- neur and his son. Elizabeth sat sulking in her room all the afternoon, the door shut ; the ■hum of- a busy city came in at her open window ; then the glass panes blazed with light, and she remembered how the windows of the Tuileries had shone at that time the day before, and she thought how kind and how handsome Dampier looked, as he c ime walking along, and how he was worth ten Messieurs de Vaux and twenty foolish boys like Anthony Tournour. The dusky shadows came creeping round the room, dimming a pretty picture. It was a commonplace little tableau de genre enough, — that of a girl sit- ting at a window, with clasped hands, dreaming dreams more or less silly, with the light falling on her hair, and on the folds of her dress, and on the blazing petals of the flowers on the balcony outside, and then overhead a quivering green summer sky. But it is a little picture that nature is never tired of reproducing ; and, besides nature, every year, in the Royal Academy, I see half a dozen such rep- resentations. In a quiet, unconscious sort of way, Elly made up her mind, this summer afternoon, — made up her mind, know- ing not that perhaps it was too late, that the future she was accepting, half glad, half reluctant, was, maybe, already hers no more, to take or to leave. Only a little stream, appar- ently easy to cross, lay, as yet, be- tween her and the figure she seemed to see advancing towards her. She did not know that every day this little stream would widen and widen, until in time it would be a great ocean lying between them. Ah ! take care, my poor Elizabeth, that you don't tumble into the waters, and go sinking down, down, down, while the waves close over your curly yellow locks. " Will you come to dinner, madem- oiselle 1 " said Clementine, rapping at the door with the finger of fate which had shut out Sir John Dampier only a few hours ago. " Go away ! " cries Elizabeth. "Elizabeth! dinner is ready," says her mother, from outside, with un- usual gentleness. "I don't want any dinner," says Elly ; and then feels very sorry and very hungry the minute she has spoken. The door was locked, but she had forgotten the window, and Mrs. Gilmour, in a minute, came along the balcony, with her silk dress rustling against the iron bars. "You silly girl! come and eat." said her mother, still strangely kind 12 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. and forbearing. " The Vicotnte de Vaux is coming to tea, and Monsieur Tourneur and Anthony; you must come and have your dinner, and then let Clementine dress you ; you will catch cold if you sit here any longer " ; and she took the girl's hand gently and led her away. For the first time in her life, Eliza- beth almost felt as if she really loved her mother ; and, touched by her kindness, and with a sudden impulse, and melting, and blushing, and all ashamed of herself, she said, almost before she knew what she had spoken : " Mamma, I am very silly, and I 've behaved very badly, but 1 did so want to see him again." Mrs. Gilmour just dropped the girl's hand. "Nonsense, Elizabeth; your head is full of silly school-girl notions. I wish I had had you brought up at home instead of at Mrs. Straight- board's." " I wish you had, mamma," said Elly, speaking coldly and quietly; " Lastitia and I were both very miser- able there." And then she sat down at the round table to break bread with her mother, hurt, wounded, and angry. Her fare looked hard and stern, like Mrs. Gilmour's ; her bread choked her; she drank a glass of water, and it tasted bitter, somehow. Was Caroline more happy 1 did she eat with better appetite ? She ate more, she looked much as usual, she talked a {rood deal. Clementine was secretly thinking what a good-for- nothing, ill-tempered girl mademoi- selle was ; what a good woman, what a good mother, was madame. Clemen- tine revenged some of madame's wrongs upon Elizabeth, by pulling her hair after dinner, as she was plaiting and pinning it up. Elly lost her temper, and violently pushed Clementine away, and gave her warn- ing to leave. Clementine, furious, and knowing that some of the company had already arrived, rushed into the drawing-room with her wrongs. "Mademoiselle m'a poussee, madame ; mademoiselle m'a dit des injures ; mademoiselle m'a congfediee — " But in the mid- dle of her harangue, the door flew open, and Elizabeth, looking like an empress, bright cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, hair crisply curling, and all dressed in shining pink silk, stood before them. CHAPTER H. But for his funeral train which the bride- groom sees in the distance, Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession 7 But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service 7 But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract 7 I don't think they had ever seen anybody like her before, those two MM. Tourneurs, who had just ar- rived ; they both rose, alitlle man and a tall one/ father and son; and he- sides' these gentlemen, there was an old lady in a poke bonnet sitting there too, who opened her shrewd eyes and held out her hand. Clemen- tine was crushed, eclipsed, forgotten. Elizabeth advanced, tall, slim, stately, with widespread pettuoats; but she began to blush very much when she saw Miss Dampier. For a lew min- utes there was a little confusion of greeting, and voices, and chairs moved about, and then : — " I came to say good by to you," said the old lady, " in case.wc should not meet again. I am going to Scot- land in a month or two, — perhaps I may be gone by the time you get back to town." " no, no ! I hope not," said Elizabeth. She was very much ex- cited, the tears almost came into her eyes. " We shall most likely follow you in a week or ten days," said Mrs. Gilmour, with a sort of laugh ; " there is no necessity for any sentimental leave-taking." , " Does that woman mean what she says ■? " thought the old lady, looking at her; and then turning to Elizabeth THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 13 again, she continued : " There is no knowing what may happen to any one of us, my dear. There is no harm in saying good by, is there ? Have you any message for Lsetitia or Catherine?" " Give Laetitia my very best love," said Elly, grateful for the old lady's kindness; "and — and I was very, very sorry that I could not see Sir John when he came to-day so good- naturedly." " He must come and see you in London," said Miss Dampier, very kindly still. (She was thinking, " She does care for him, poor child.") " yes ! in London," repeated Mrs. Gilmour; so that Elly looked quite pleased, and Miss Dampier again said to herself : " She is decided- ly not coming to London. What can she mean ? Can there be any- thing with that Frenchman, De Vaux ? Impossible ! " A'nd then she got up, and said aloud: "Well, good by. I have all my old gowns to pack up, and my knitting, Elly. Write to me, child, sometimes ! " " yes, yes ! " cried Elizabeth, flinging her arms round the old lady's neck, kissing her, and whispering, " Good by, d-ar, dear Miss Dampier." At the door of the apartment, Clementine was waiting, hoping for a possible five-franc piece. " Bon soir, madame," said she. " indeed," said Miss Dampier, staring at her, and she passed out with a sort of sniff, and then she walked home quietly through the dark back-streets, only, as she went along, she said to herself every now and then, she hardly knew why, " Poor Elly, —poor child ! " Meanwhile, M. Tourneur was taking Elizabeth gently to task. Elizabeth was pouting her red lips and sulking, and looking at him defiantly from under her drooped eyelids ; and all the time Anthony Tourneur sat ad- miring her, with his eyes wide open, and his great mouth open too. He was a big young man, with immense hands and feet, without any manners to speak of, and with thick hair growing violently upon end. There was a certain distinction about his father which he had not inherited. Young Frenchmen of this class are often singularly rough and unpolished in their early youth; they tone down with time, however, as they see more of men apd of women. An- thony had never known much of either till now ; for his young com- panions at the Protestant college were rough cubs like himself; and as for women, his mother was dead (she had been an Englishwoman, and died when he was ten years old), and old Fran- coise, the cuisiniere, at home, was al- most the only woman he knew. "His father was more used to the world and its ways : he fancied he scorned them all, and yet the pomps and vanities and the pride of life had a horrible attraction for this quiet pastcur. He was humble and am- bitious : he was tender-hearted, and hard - headed, and narrow - minded. Though stern to himself, he was weak to others, and yet feebly resolute when he met with opposition. He was not a great man ; his qualities neutralized one another, but he had a great repu- tation. The Oratoire was crowded on the days when he was expected to preach, his classes were thronged, his pamphlets went through three or four editions. Popularity delighted him. His manner had a great charm, his voice was sweet, his words well chosen ; his head was a fine melan- choly head, his dark eyes flashed when he was excited. Women espe- cially admired and respected Stephen Tourneur. — Mrs. Gilmour was like another per- son when she was in his presence. Look at her to-night, with her smooth Black hair, and her gray silk gown, and her white hands busied pouring out his tea. See how she is appeal- ing to him, deferentially listening to his talk. I cannot write his talk down here. Certain allusions can have no place in a little story like this one, and yet they were allusions H THE STOKY OF ELIZABETH. so frequently in his thoughts and in his mouth that it was almost uncon- sciously that he used them. He and his brethren like him have learned to look at this life from a loftier point of view than Elly Gilmour and world- lings like her, who feel that to-day they are in the world and of it, not of their own will, indeed, — though they are glad that they are here, — but waiting a further dispensation. Tourneur, and those like him, look at this life only in comparison with the next, as though they had already passed beyond, and had but little con- cern with the things of today. They speak chiefly of sacred subjects ; they have put aside our common talk, and thougnt, and career. They have put them away, and yet they, are men and women, after all. And Stephen Tourneur, among the rest, was a soft- hearted man. To-night, as indeed often before, he was full of sympathy for the poor mother who had so often spoken of her grief and care for her daughter, of her loneliness. He un- derstood her need ; her want of an adviser, of a friend whom she could reverence and defer to. How meekly she listened to his words, with what kindling interest she heard him speak of what was in his heart always, with what gentleness she attended to his wants. How womanly she was, how much more pleasant than any of the English, Scotch, Irish old maids who were in the habit of coming to consult him in their various needs and troubles ! He had never known her so tender, so gentle, as to-night. Even Elly, sulking, and beating the tattoo with her satin shoes, thought that her mother's manner was very strange. How could any one of the people sit- ting round that little tea-table guess at the passion of hopelessness, of rage, of despair, of envy, that was gnawing at the elder woman's heart 1 at the mad, desperate determination she was making ? And yet every now and then she said odd, imploring things, — she seemed to be crying wildly for sympathy, — she spoke of other people's troubles with a start- ling earnestness. De Vaux, who arrived about nine o'clock, and asked for a soupgan de th£, and put in six lumps of sugar, and so managed to swallow the mix- ture, went away at ten, without one idea of the tragedy with which he had been spending his evening, — a tragical farce, a comedy, — I know not what to call it. Elly was full of her own fancies ; Monsieur Tourneur was making up his mind ; Anthony's whole head was rustling with pink silk, or dizzy with those downcast, bright, bewildering blue eyes of Elly's, and he sat stupid- ly counting the little bows on her skirt, or watching the glitter of the rings on her finger, and wishing that she would not look so cross when he spoke to her. She had brightened up considerably while De Vaux was there; but now, in truth, her mind was travelling away, and she was picturing to herself the Dampiers at their tea-table, — Tishy, pale and list- less, over her feeble cups ; Lady Dam- pier, with her fair hair and her hook nose, lying on the sofa; and John in the arm-chair by the fire, cutting dry jokes at his aunt. Elly's spirits had travelled away like a ghost, and it was only her body that was left sitting in the little gaudy drawing- room ; and, though she did not know it, there was another ghost flit- ting along-side with hers. Strangely enough the people of whom she was thinking were assembled together very much as she imagined them to be. Did they guess at the two pale phantoms that were hovering about them % Somehow or other, Miss Dampier, over her knitting, was still muttering, " Poor child ! " to the click of her needles ; and John Dam- pier was haunted by the woman in red, and by a certain look in Elly's eyes, which he had seen yesterday when he found her under the tree. Meanwhile, at the other side of Paris, the other little company was assembled round the fire ; and Mrs. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 15 Gilmour, with her two hands folded tightly together, was looking at M. Tourneur with her great soft eyes, and saying : " The woman was never yet born who could stand alone, who did not look for some earthly coun- sellor and friend to point out the road to better things, — to help her along the narrow thorny way. Wounded, and bruised, and weary, it is hard, hard for us to follow our lonely path." She spoke with a pathetic passion, so that Elizabeth could not think what had come to her. Mrs. Gilmour was generally quite capable of standing, and going, and coming, without any assistance whatever. In her father's time, Elly could remember that there was not the slightest need for his interference in any of their arrange- ments. But the mother was evidently in earnest to night, and the daughter quite bewildered. Later in the even- ing, after Monsieur de Vaux was gone, Mrs. Gilmour got up from her ehair and flung open the window of the balcony. All the stars of heaven shone splendidly over the city. A great, silent, wonderful night had gathered round about them unawares ; a great calm had come after the noise . and business of the careful day. Caroline Gilmour stepped out with a gasping sigh, and stood looking up- wards ; they could see her gray figure dimly against the darkness. Mon- sieur Tourneur remained sitting by the fire, with his eyes cast down and his hands folded. Presently he too rose and walked slowly across the room, and stepped out upon the balcony ; and Elizabeth and Anthony remained behind, staring vacantly at one another. Elizabeth was yawning and wondering when they would go. " You are sleepy, miss," said young Tourneur, in his French-English. Elly yawned in a very unmistak- able language, and showed all her even white teeth : " I always get sleepy when I have been cross, Mr. Anthony. I have been cross ever since three o'clock to-day, and now it is long past ten, and time for us all to go to bed : don't you think so t " " I am waiting for my father," said the young man. " He watches late at night, but we are all sent off at ten." " ' "We ! ' — you and old Fran- coise ? " " I and the young Christians who live in our house, and study with my father and read under his direction. There are five, all from the south, who are, like me, preparing to be ministers of the gospel. Another great wide yawn from Elly. " Do you think your father will stop much longer, — if so, I shall go to bed. O dear me ! " and with a sigh she let her head fall back upon the soft cushioned chair, and then, somehow, her eyes shut very softly, and her hands fell loosely, and a little quiet dream came, something of a garden and peace, and green trees, and Miss Dampier knitting in the sunshine. Click, click, click, she heard the needles, but it was only the clock ticking on the mantel-piece. Anthony was almost afraid to breathe, for fear he should wake her. It seemed to him very strange to be sit- ting by this smouldering fire, with the stars burning outside, while through the open window the voices of the two people talking on the balcony came to him in .a low murmuring sound. And there opposite him Elly, asleep, breathing so softly and looking so wonderfully pretty in her slumbers. Do you not know the peculiar, peace- ful feeling which comes to any one sitting alone by a sleeping per- son ? I cannot tell which of the two was for a few minutes the most tran- quil and happy. Elly was still dreaming her quiet, peaceful dreams, still sitting with Miss Dampier in her garden, under a chestnut-tree, with Dampier coming towards them, when suddenly some voice whispered " Elizabeth " in her ear, and she awoke with a start of chill surprise. It was not Anthony 16 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. who had called her, it was only fancy ; but as she woke he said : — " Ah ! I was just going to wake you." What had come to him. He seem- ed to have awakened too, — to have come to himself suddenly. One word which had reached him, — he had very big sharp ears, — one word dis- tinctly uttered amid the confused murmur on the balcony, brought another word of old Francoise's to his mind. And then in a minute, — he could not tell how it was, — jt was all clear to him. Already he was beginning to learn the ways of the world. Elly saw him blush up, saw his eyes light with intelligence, and his ears grow very led ; and then he sat up straight in his chair, and look- ed at her in a quick, uncertain sort of way. " You would not allow it," said he, suddenly, staring at her fixedly with his great flashing eyes. "I never thought of Such a thing till this minute. Who ever would ? " "Thought of what? What are you talking about ? " said Elly, star- tled. " Ah ! that is it." And then he turned his head impatiently : " How stupid you must have been. What can have put such a thing into his head and hers. Ah, it is so strange, I don't know what to think or to say " ; and he sank back in his chair. But, somehow or other, the idea which had occurred to him was not nearly so disagreeable as he would have expected it to be. The notion of some other companionship besides that of the five young men from the south, instead of shocking him, filled him with a vague, delightful excite- ment. "Ah! then she would come and live with us in that pink dress," he thought. And meanwhile Eliza- beth turned very pale, and she too began dimly to see what he was think- ing of, only she could not be quite sure. " Is it that I am to marry him 1 " she thought ; " they cannot be plotting that." " What is it, M. Anthony ? " said she, very fierce. "Is it — they do not think that I would ever — ever dream or think of marrying you ? " She was quite pale now, and her eyes were glowing. Anthony shook his head again. " I know that," said he ; " it is not you or me." " What do you dare to imply 1 " she cried, more and more fiercely. " You can't mean, — you would never endure, never suffer that — that — " The words failed on her lips. " I should like to have you for a sister, Miss Elizabeth," said he, look- ing down ; " it is so triste at home." Elly half started from her chair, put up her white hands, scarce knowing what she did, and then suddenly cried out, " Mother ! mother ! " in a loud, shrill, thrilling voice, which brought Mrs. Gilmour back into the room. And Monsieur Tourneur came too. Not one of them spoke for a minute. Elizabeth's horror-stricken face fright- ened the pasteur, who felt as if he was in a dream, who had let himself drift along with the feeling of the moment, who did not know even now if he had done right or wrong, if he had been carried away by mere earthly impulse . and regard for his own happiness, or if he had been led and directed to a worthy helpmeet, to a Christian com- panion, to one who had the means and the power to help him in his labors. Ah, surely, surely he had done well, he thought for himself, and for those who depended on him. It was not without a certain dignity at last, and nobleness of manner, that he took Mrs. Gilmour's hand, and said : — " You called your mother just now, Elizabeth ; here she is. Dear woman, she has consented to be my best earthly friend and companion, to share my hard labors ; to share a life poor and arduous, and full of care, and despised perhaps by the world ; but rich in eternal hope, blessed by prayer, and consecrated by a Chris- tian's faith." He was a "little man, THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 17 but he seemed to grow tall as he spoke. His eyes kindled, his face lightened with enthusiasm. Elizabeth could not help seeing this, even while she stood shivering with indignation and sick at heart. As for Anthony, he got up, and came to his father and took both his hands, and then suddenly flung his arms around his neck. Elizabeth found words at last : — " You can suffer this 1 " she said to Anthony. "You have no feelings, then, of decency, of fitness of memory for the dead. You, mamma, can de- grade yourself by a second marriage 1 Oh ! for shame, for shame ! " and she burst into passionate tears, and flung herself down on a chair. Monsieur Tourneur was not used to be thwarted, to be reproved ; he got very pale, he pushed Anthony gently aside, and went up to her. " Elizabeth," said he, " is this the conduct of a devoted daughter ; are these the words of good- will and of peace, with which your mother should be greeted by her children 1 I had hoped that you would look upon me as a friend. If you could see my heart, you would know how ready I am ; how gladly I would love you as my own child," and he held out his hand. Elly Gil- mour dashed it away. " Go," she said ; " you have made me wretched ; / hate your life and your ways, and your sermons, and we shall all be miserable, every one of us ; I know well enough it is for her money you marry her. O, go away out of my sight." Tourneur had felt doubts. Elizabeth's taunts and opposition reassured him and strengthened him in his purpose. This is only human nature, as well as pasteur nature in particular. If everything had gone smoothly, very likely he would have found out a snare of the Devil in it, and broken it off, not caring what grief and suffer- ing he caused to himself in so doing. Now that the girl's words brought a flush into his pale face and made him to wince with pain, he felt justified, nay, impelled to go on, — to be firm. And now he stood up like a gentle ; man, and spoke : — "And if I want your mother's money, is it hers, is it mine, was it given to me or to her to spend for our own use 1 Was it not lent, will not an account be demanded hereafter ? Unhappy child! where have you found already such sordid thoughts, such unworthy suspicions t Where is your Christian charity 1 " "I never made any pretence of having any," cried Elizabeth, stamp- ing her foot and tossing her fair mane. " You talk and talk about it and about the will of Heaven, and suit yourselves, and break my heart, and look up quite scandalized, and forgive me for my wickedness. But I had rather be as wicked as I am than as good as you." " Allons, taisez-vous, Mademoiselle Elizabeth ! " said Anthony, who had taken his part ; " or my father will not marry your mother, and then you will be in the wrong, and have made everybody unhappy. It is very, very sad and melancholy in our house ; be kind and come and make us happy. If I am not angry, why should you mind i but see here, I will not five my consent unless you do, and I know my father will do nothing against my wishes and yours." Poor Elizabeth looked up, and then she saw that her mother was crying too ; Caroline had had a hard day's work. No wonder she was fairly harassed and worn out. Eliza- beth herself began to be as bewildered, as puzzled, as the rest. She put her hand wearily to her head. She did not feel angry any more, but very tired and sad. "How can I say I think it right when I think it wrong ? It is not me you want to marry, M. Tourneur ; mamma is old enough to decide. What need you care for what a silly girl like me says and thinks ■? Good night, mamma ; I am tired and must go to bed. Good night, Monsieur Tourneur. Good night, M. Anthony. O dear ! " sighed Elizabeth, as she went out of the 18 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. room with her head hanging, and with pale cheeks and dim eyes. You could hardly have believed it was the triumphant young beauty of an hour ago. But it had always been so with this impetuous, sensitive Eliz- abeth ; she suffered, as she enjoyed, more keenly than anybody else I ever knew ; she put her whole heart into her life without any reserve, and then, when failure and disappointment came, she had no more heart left to endure with. I am sure it was with a humble spirit that Tourneur that night, before he left, implored a benediction on himself and on those who were about to belong to him. He went away at eleven o'clock with Anthony, walking home through the dark, long streets to his house, which was near one of the gates of the city. And Caroline sat till the candles went out, till the fire had smouldered away, till the chill night-breezes swept round the room, and then went stupefied to bed, saying to herself: " Now he will learn that others do not despise me, and I — I will lead a good life." CHAPTEE IH. Le temps emporte sur son aile Et le printem ps et l'hirondelle, Et la vie et lus jours perdus j Tout a'en va comme la fumee, L'espe>ance et la renommee, Et moi qui vous ai tant aim ee, Et toi qui ne t'en souviens plus ! A low, one-storied house standing opposite a hospital, built on a hilly street, with a great white porte- cochere closed and barred, and then a garden wall : nine or ten windows only a foot from the ground, all blinded and shuttered in a row; a brass plate on the door, with Stephen Tourneur engraved thereon, and grass and chickweed growing between the stones and against the white walls of the house. Passing under the arch- way, you come into a grass-grown court-yard ; through an iron grating yon see a little desolate- garden with wallflowers and stocks and tall yel- low weeds all flowering together, and fruit-trees running wild against the wall. On one side there are some empty stables, with chickens peck- etting in the sun. The house is built in two long low wings ; it has a dreary moated-grange sort of look ; and see, standing at one of the upper windows, is not that Elizabeth look- ing out 1 An old woman in a blue gown and a white coif is pumping water at the pump, some miserable canaries are piping shrilly out of green cages, the old woman clacks away with her sabots echoing over the stones, the canaries cease their piping, and then nobody else comes. There are two or three tall poplar- trees growing along the wall, which shiver plaintively ; a few clouds drift by, and a very distant faint sound of military music comes borne on the wind. " Ah, how dull it is to be here ! Ah ! how I hate it, how I hate them all !" Elizabeth is saying to herself: " There is some music, all the Champs Elystes are crowded with people, the soldiers are marching along with glistening bayonets and flags flying. Not one of them thinks that in a dismal house not very far away there is anybody so unhappy as I am. This day year — it breaks my heart to think of it — I was nine- teen ; to-day I am twenty, and I feel a hundred. O, what a sin and shame it is to condemn me to this hateful life. O, what wicked people these good people are. 0, how dull ! 0, how stupid ! O, how prosy ! 0, how I wish I was dead, and they were dead, and it was all over ! " How many weary yawns, I wonder, had poor Elizabeth yawned since that first night when M. Tourneur came to tea 1 With what distaste she set herself to live her new life I cannot attempt to tell you. It bored her, and wearied and displeased her, and she made no secret of her displeasure, you may be certain. But what an- THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 19 noyed her most of all, what seemed to hcv so inconceivable that she could never understand or credit it, was the extraordinary change which had come over her mother. Mme. Tour- ncur was like Mrs. Gilmour in many things, but so different in others that Elly could hardly believe her to be the same woman. The secret of it all was a love of power and admira- tion, purchased no matter at what sacrifice, which had always been the hidden motive of Caroline's life. Now she found that by dressing in black, by looking stiff, by attending endless charitable meetings, prayer- meetings, religious meetings, by influ- encing M. Tourneur, who was him- self a man in authority, she could eat of the food her soul longed for. " There was a man once who did. not care for me, he despised me," she used to think sometimes ; " he liked that silly child of mine better ; he shall hear of me one day." Lady Dampier was a very strong partisan of the French Protestant Church. Mme. Tourneur used to hope that she would come to Paris again and carry home with her the fame of her virtues, and her influ- ence, and her conversion ; and in the mean while the weary round of poor Elly's daily existence went on. To- day, for two lonesome hours, she stood leaning at that window with the refrain of the distant music echoing in her ears long after it had died away. It was like the remembrance of the past pleasures of her short life. Such a longing for sympathy, for congenial spirits, for the pleasures she loved so dearly, came over her, that the great hot tears welled into her eyes, and the bitterest tears are those which do not fall. The gate bell rang at last, and Clementine walked across the yard to unbolt, to unbar, and to let in Monsieur Tour- neur, with books under his arm, and a big stick. Then the bell rang again, and Madame Tourneur follow- ed, dressed in prim scant clothes, ac- companied by another person even primmer and scantier than herself; this was a widowed step-sister of M. Tourneur's, who, unluckily, had no home of her own, so the good man received her and her children into his. Lastly, Elizabeth, from her window, saw Anthony arrive with four of the young Protestants, all swinging their legs and arms. (The fifth was de- tained at home with a bad_ swelled face.) All the others were now com- ing back to dinner, after attending a class at the Pasteur Boulot's. They clattered past the door of Elly's room, — a bare little chamber, with one white curtain she had nailed up herself, and a straight bed and a chair. A clock struck five. A mel- ancholy bell presently sounded through the house, and a strong smell of cabbage came in at the open window. Elly looked in the glass ; her rough hair was all standing on end curling, her hands were streaked with chalk and brick from the win- dow, her washed-out blue cotton gown was creased and tumbled. What did it matter ? she shook her head, as she had a way of doing, and went down stairs as she was. On the way she met two untidy-looking little girls, and then clatter, clatter, along the uncarpeted passage, came the great big nailed boots of the pupils ; and then at the dining-room door there was Clementine m a yellow gown, — much smarter and trimmer than Elizabeth's blue cotton, — carrying a great long loaf of sour bread. Madame Tourneur was already at her post, standing at the head of the table, ladling out the cabbage soup with the pieces of bread floating in every plate. M. Tourneur was eat- ing his dinner quickly ; he had to ex- amine a class for confirmation at six, and there was a prayer-meeting at seven. The other prim lady sat op- posite to him with her portion before her. There was a small table-cloth, streaked with blue, and not over clean ; hunches of bread by every plate, and iron knives and forks. 20 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. Each person said grace to himself as he came and took his place. Only- Elizabeth flung herself down in a chair, looked at the soup, made a face, and sent it away untasted. " Elizabeth, ma fille, vous ne man- gez pas," said M. Tourneur, kindly. •'I can't swallow it!" said Eliza- beth. " When there are so many poor people starving in the streets, you do not, I suppose, expect us to sympathize with such pampered fancies ? " said the prim lady. Although the sisters-in-law were apparently very good friends, there was a sort of race of virtue always be- ing run between them, and just now Elly's shortcomings were a thorn in her mother's side, so skilfully were they wielded by Mrs. Jacob. Lou- Lou and Tou-Tou, otherwise Louise and Therese, her daughters, were such good, stupid, obedient, uninterest- ing little girls, that there was really not a word to say against them in re- tort ; and all that Elly's mother could do, was to be even more se- vere, more uncompromising than Ma- dame Jacob herself. And now she said : — " Nonsense, Elizabeth ; you must really eat your dinner. Clementine, bring back Miss Elizabeth's plate." M. Tourneur looked up, — he thought the soup very good himself, hut he could not bear to see anybody distressed. " Go and fetch the bou- illie quickly, Clementine. Why should Elizabeth take what she does not like ? Rose," said he to his sister, " do you remember how opr poor mother used to make us breakfast off — porridge, I think she called it, — and what a bad taste it had, and how we used to cry i. " " We never ungratefully objected to good soup," said Rose. " I make a point of never giving in to Lou-Lou and Tou-Tou when they have their fancies. I care more for the welfare of their souls than for pampering their bodies." "And I only care for my body," Elly cried. "Mamma, I like por- ridge, will you have some for me 1 " " Ah ! hush ! hush ! Elizabeth. You do not think what you say, my poor child," said Tourneur. " What is mere eating and drinking, what is food, what is raiment, but dust and rottenness ? You only care for your body ! — for that mass of corruption. Ah, do not say such things, even in jest. Remember, that for every idle word — " "And is there to be no account for spiteful words ? " interrupted Elizas beth, looking at Mrs. Jacob. Monsieur Tourneur put down the glass of wine he was raising to his lips, and with sad, reproachful glan- ces, looked at the unruly stepdaugh- ter. Madame Jacob, shaking with indignation, cast her eyes up and opened her mouth, and Elizabeth be- gan to pout her red lips. One min- ute and the storm would have burst, when Anthony upset a jug of water at his elbow, and the stream trickled down and down the table-cloth. These troubled waters restored peace for the moment. Poor Tourneur was able to finish his meal, in a puddle truly, but also in silence. Mrs Jacob, who had received a large portion of the water in her lap, retired to change her dress, the young Christians snig- gered over their plates, and Anthony went on eating his dinner. I don't offer uny excuse for Eliza- beth. She was worried, and vexed, and tried beyond her powers of en- durance, and she grew more way- ward, more provoking every day. It is very easy to be good-natured, good- tempered, thankful and happy, when you are in the country you love, among your own people, living your own life. But if you are suddenly transplanted, made to live some one else's life, expected to see with anoth- er man's eyes, to forget your own identity almost, all that happens is, that you do not do as you were ex- pected Sometimes it is a sheer im- possibility. What is that rare prov- erb about the shoe 1 Cinderella THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 21 slipped it on in an instant ; but you know her poor sisters cut off their toes and heels, and could not screw their feet in, though they tried ever so. Well, they did their best ; but Elly did not try at all, and that is why she was to blame. She was a spoiled child, both by good and ill fortune. Sometimes, when she sat sulking, her mother used to look wondering at her with her black eyes, without say- ing a word. Did it ever occur to her - that this was her work, that Elizabeth might have been happy now, honored, prosperous, well loved, but for a little lie which had been told, — but for a little barrier which had been thrown, one summer's day, between her and John Dampier 1 Caroline had long ceased to feel remorse, — she used to say to herself that it would be much better for Elizabeth to marry An- thony, she would make anybody else miserable with her wayward temper. Anthony was so obtuse that Eliza- beth's fancies would not try him in the least. Mrs. Gilmour chose to term obtuseness a certain chivalrous devotion which the young man felt for her daughter. She thought him dull and slow, and so he was ; but at the same time there were gleams of shrewdness which came quite unex- pectedly, you knew not whence ; there was a certain reticence and good sense of which people had no idea. An- thony knew much more about her and about his father than they knew about him. Every day he was learn- ing to read the world. Elly had taught him a great deal, and he in return was her friend always. Elly went out into the court-yard after dinner, and Anthony followed her, — one little cousin had hold of each of his hands. If the. little girls had not been little French Protestant girls, Elizabeth would have been very fond of them, for she loved children ; but when they ran up to her, she mo- tioned them away impatiently, and Anthony told them to go and run round the garden. Elizabeth was sittinr on a tub which had been over- turned, and resting her pretty dis- hevelled head wearily against the wall. Anthony looked at her for a minute. " Why do you never wear nice dresses now," said he at last, " but this ugly old one always 1 " "Is it not all vanity and corrup- tion ? " said Elizabeth, with a sneer ; " how can you ask such a question ? Everything that is pretty is vanity. Your aunt and my mother only like ugly things. They would like to put out my eyes because they don't squint ; to cut offmy hair because it is pretty." " Your hair ! It is not at all pretty like that," said Anthony; "it is all rough, like mine." Elizabeth laughed and blushed very sweetly. " What is the use, who cares 1 " " There are a good many people coming to-night," said Anthony. " It is our turn to receive the prayer-meet- ing. Why should you not smooth your curls and change your dress t " " And do you remember what hap- pened once, when I did dress, and make myself look nice % " said Eliz- abeth, flashing up, and then begin- ning to laugh. Anthony looked grave and puzzled ; for E.izabeth had caused quite a scan- dal in the community on that occa- sion. No wonder the old ladies in their old dowdy bonnets, the young ones in their ill-made woollen dresses, the preacher preaching against the vanjties of the world, had all been shocked and outraged, when after the sermon had begun, the door opened, and Elizabeth appeared in the cele- brated pink silk dress, with flowers in her hair, white lace falling from her shoulders, a bouquet, a gold fan, and glittering bracelets. Mme. Jacob's head nearly shook off with horror. The word was with the Pasteur Bou- lot, who did not conceal his opinion, and whose strictures introduced into the sermon^ were enough to make a less hardened sinner quake in her shoes. Many of the great leaders of the Protestant world in Paris had been present on that occasion. Some 22 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. would not speak to her, some did speak very plainly. Elizabeth took it all as a sort of triumph, bent her head, smiled, fanned herself, and when ordered out of the room at last by her mother, left it with a splendid courtesy to the Rev. M. Boulot, and thanked him for his beautiful and im- proving discourse. And then, when she was up stairs in her own room again, where she had been decking herself for the last hour, — the tallow candle was still spluttering on the ta- ble, — her clothes all lying about the room, — she locked the door, tore off her ornaments, her shining dress, and flung herself down on the floor, cry- ing and sobbing as if her heart would break. " 0, I want to go ! I want to go ! 0, take me away ! " she prayed and sobbed. " O, what harm is there in a pink gown more than a black one! O, why does not John Dampier come and fetch ine? 0, what dolts, what idiots, those people are ! What a heart-broken girl I am ! Poor Elly, poor Elly, poor, poor girl ! " said she, pitying herself, and stroking her tear-stained cheeks. And so she went on, until she had nearly worn herself out, poor child. She really was almost heart-broken. This uncongenial atmosphere seemed to freeze and chill her best impulses. I cannot help being sorry for her, and .sympathizing with her against that rigid community down below, and yet, after all, there was scarcely one of the people whom she so scorned who was not a better Christian than poor Elizabeth, more self-denying, more scrupulous, more patient in ef- fort, move diligent, — not one of them that did not lead a more useful life than hers. It was in vain that her mother had offered her classes in the schools, humble neighbors to visit, sick people to tend. " Leave me alone," the girl would say. " You know how I hate, all that cant ! " Mme. Tourneur herself spent her whole days doing good, patronizing the poor, lecturing the wicked, dosing the sick, superintending countless charitable communities. Her name was on all the committees, her deci- sions were deferred to, her wishes consulted. She did not once regret the step she had taken; she was a clever, ambitious, active-minded wo- man ; she found herself busy, virtuous, and respected ; what more could she desire t Her daughter's unhappiness did not give her any very great con- cern. " It would go off in time," she said. But days went by, and Elly was only more hopeless, more heart- broken; black lines came under the blue eyes ; from being a stout hearty girl, she grew thin and languid. See- ing her day by day, they none of them noticed that she was looking ill, except Anthony, who often imagined a change would do her good ; only how was this to be managed 1 He could only think of one way . He was thinking of it, as he followed her out into the court-yard to-day. The sun was low in the west, the long shadows of the trees flickered across the stones. Say what he would, the blue gown, the wall, the yellow hair, made up a pretty little piece of coloring. With all her faults, Anthony loved Elly better than any other human being, and would have given his life to make her happy. " I cannot bear to see you so un- happy," said he, in French, speaking very simply, in his usual voice. " Elizabeth, why don't you do as your mother has done, and marry aErench pasteur, who has loved you ever since the day he first saw you ? You should do as you liked, and leave this house, where you are so miserable, and get away from Aunt Rose, who is so ill- natured. I would not propose such a scheme if I saw a chance for something better ; but anything would be an improvement on the life you are lead- ing here. It is wicked and profitless, and you are killing yourself and wast- ing your best days. You are not tak- ing up your cross with joy and with courage, dear Elizabeth. Perhaps by starting afresh — " His voice failed him, but his eyes spoke and finished the sentence. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 23 This was Anthony's scheme. Elly opened her round eyes, and looked at him all amazed and wondering. A year ago it would have been very dif- ferent, and so she thought as she scanned him. A year ago she would have scorned the poor fellow, laughed at him, tossed her head, and turned away. But was this the Elly of a year ago ? This unhappy, broken-spirited girl, with dimmed beauty, dulled spirits, in all her ways so softened, saddened, silenced It was almost another person than the Elizabeth Gilmour of former times, who spoke, and said, still looking at him stead- fastly : " Thank you, Anthony ; I will think about it, and tell you to-morrow what — what I think." Anthony blushed, and faltered a few unintelligible words, and turned away abruptly, as he saw Madame Jacob coming towards them. As for Elly, she stood quite still, and perfectly cool, and rather bewildered, only somewhat surprised at herself. " Can this be me 1 " she was thinking. " Can that kind fellow be the boy I used to laugh at so often 1 Shall I take him at his word ? Why not — t" But Madame Jacob's long nose came and put an end to her wonder- ings. This lady did not at all approve of gossiping ; she stepped up with an inquiring sniff, turned round to look after Anthony, and then said, rather viciously : " Our Christian brothers and sisters will assemble shortly for their pious Wednesday meetings. It is not by exchanging idle words with my nephew that you will best prepare, your mind for the exercises of this evening. Retire into your own room, and see if it is possible to compose yourself to a fitter frame of mind. Tou-Tou, Lou-Lou, my children, what are you about ? " " I am gathering pretty flowers, mamma," shouted Lou-Lou. " I am picking up stones for my little basket," said Tou-Tou, coming to the railing. " I will allow four minutes," said ■ their mother, looking at her watch. " Then you will come to me, both of you, in my room, and apply yourselves to something more profitable than filling your little baskets. Elizabeth, do you mean to obey me ? " very much to Madame Jacob's sur- prise, Elizabeth walked quietly before her into the house without saying one word. The truth was, she was pre- occupied with other things, and forgot to be rebellious. She was not even rebellious in her heart when she was up stairs sitting by the bedside, and puzzling her brains over Anthony's scheme. It seemed a relief certainly to turn from the horrible monotony of her daily life, and to think of his kindness. He was very rough, very uncouth, very young; but he was shrewd, and kind, and faithful, more tolerant than his father, — perhaps because he felt less keenly ; — not sen- sitive, like him, but more patient, dull over things which are learnt by books, but quick atlearningother not less use- ful things which belong to the experi- ence of daily life. When Elly came down into the refectoire where they were all assembled, her mother was surprised to see that she had dressed herself, not in the objectionable pink silk, but in a soft gray stuff gown, all her yellow hair was smooth and shin- ing, and a little locket hung round her neck lied witha blue ribbon. The little bit of color seemed reflected somehow in hereyes. They looked blue to-night, as they used to look once when she was happy. 'Madame Toumeur was quite delighted, and came up and kissed her, and said, "Elly, this is how I like to see you." Madame Jacob tossed her head, and gave a rough pull at the ends of the ribbon. " This was quite unnecessa- '"Ah ! " cried Elly, "you have hurt me." " Is not that the locket Miss Dam- pier gave you ? " said Madame Tour- neur. " You had best put such things away in your drawer another time. But it is time for you to take your place." 24 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. CHAPTER IV. TJnhappier are they to whom a higher in- stinct has been given, who struggle to be persons, not machines ; to whom the universe is not a warehouse, or at best a fancy bazaar, but a mystic temple and hall of doom. A number of straw chairs were ranged along the room, with a row of seats behind, for the pasteurs who were to address the meeting. The people began to arrive very punctually : One or two grand-looking French ladies in cashmeres, a good many limp ones, a stray man or two, two English clergymen in white neck- cloths, and five or six Englishwomen in old bonnets. A little whispering and chattering went on among the young French girls, who arrived guarded by their mothers. The way in which French mothers look after their daughters, tie their bonnet- strings, pin their collars, carry their books and shawls, &c, and sit beside them, and always answer for them if they are spoken to, is very curious. Now and then, however, they relax a little, and allow a little whispering with young companions. There was a low murmur and a slight bustle as four pasteurs of unequal heights walked in and placed themselves in the reserved seats. M. Stephen Tour- neur followed and took his place. With what kind steadfast glances he greeted his audience ! Even Elizabeth could not resist the charm of his manner, and she admired and re- spected him, much as she disliked the exercise of the evening. His face lit up with Christian fer- vor, his eyes shone and gleamed with kindness, his voice, when he began to speak, thrilled with earnestness and sincerity. There was at times a wonderful power about the frail little man, the power which is won in many a desperate secret struggle, the power which comes from a whole life of deep feeling and honest endeavor. No wonder that Stephen Tourneur, who had so often wrestled with the angel and overcome his own passion- ate spirit, should have influence over others less strong, less impetuous than his own. Elly could not but admire him and love him, many of his fol- lowers worshipped him with the most affecting devotion ; Anthony, his son, loved him too, and would have died for him in a quiet way, but he did not blindly believe in his father. But listen ! What a host of elo- quent words, of tender thoughts, come alive from his lips to-night. What reverent faith, what charity, what fervor ! The people's eyes were fixed upon his kind, eloquent face, and their hearts all beat in sympathy with his own. One or two of the Englishwomen began to cry. One French lady was swaying herself backwards and for- wards in rapt attention ; the two clergymen sat wondering in thejr white neckcloths. What would they give to preach such sermons ? And the voice went on uttering, entreating, encouraging, rising and sinking, ring- ing with passionate cadence. It ceased at last, and the only sounds in the room were a few sighs, and the suppressed sobs of one or two women. Elizabeth sighed among others, and sat very still with her hands clasped in her lap. For the first time in her life she was wondering whether she had not perhaps been in the wrong hitherto, and Tourneur, and Madame Jacob, and all the rest in the right, — and whether happiness was not the last thing to search for, and those things of which he had spoken the first and best and only necessities. Alas ! what strange chance was it that at that moment she raised her head and looked up with her great blue eyes, and saw a strange familiar face under one of the dowdy English bonnets, — a face, thin, pinched, with a hooked nose, and sandy hair, — that sent a little thrill to her heart, and made her cry out to herself eagerly, as a rush of old memories and hopes came over her, that happiness was sent into the world for a gracious purpose, and that love meant good- ness and happiness too sometimes. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 25 And, yes — no — yes — that was Lady Dampier! and was John in. Paris, perhaps f and Miss Dampier ? and were the dear, dear old days come back 7 .... After a few minutes" the congre- gation began to sing a hymn, the English ladies joining in audibly with their queer accents. The melody swayed on, horribly out of tune and out of time, in a wild sort of minor key. Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou sang, one on each side of their mother, ex- ceedingly loud and shrill, and one of the clergymen attempted, a second, after which the discordance reached its climax. Elly had laughed on one or two occasions, and indeed I do not wonder. To-day she scarcely heard the sound of the voices. Her heart was beating with hope, delight, won- der; her head was in a whirl, her whole frame trembling with excite- ment, that increased every instant. Would M. Boulot's sermon never come to an end % Monsieur Bontemps' exposition, Monsieur de Marveille's reports, go on forever and ever ? But at last it was over : a little rustling, a little pause, and all the voices beginning to murmur, and the chairs scraping ; people rising, a little group forming round each favorite pastenr, hands outstretched, thanks uttered, people coming and going. With one bound Elly found herself standing by Lady Dampier, holding both her hands, almost crying with delight. The apathetic English lady was quite puzzled by the girl's exag- gerated expressions. She cared very little for Elly Gilmour herself; she liked her very well, but she could not understand her extraordinary warmth of greeting. However, she was car- ried away by her feelings to the ex- tent of saying : " You must come and see us to-morrow. We are only passing through Paris on our way to Sehlangenbad for Lastitia ; she has been sadly out of health and spirits lately, poor dear. We are at the Hotel du Louvre. You must come and lunch with us. Ah ! here is 2 your mother. How d'ye do, dear Madame Tourneur ? What a privi- lege it has been ! What a treat Mossu Tourneur has given us to-night. I have been quite delighted, I assure you,' - said her ladyship, bent on being gracious. Mme. Tourneur made the most courteous of salutations. " I am glad you came, since it was so," said she. " I want you to let Elly come and see me," continued Lady Dampier; " she must come to lunch ; I should be so glad if you would accompany her. I would offer to take her to the play, but I suppose you do not ap- prove of such things any more." " My life is so taken up with other more serious duties," said Mme. Tourneur, with a faint superior smile, " that I have little time for mere worldly amusements. I cannot say that I desire them for my daugh- ter." " O, of course," said Lady Dam- pier. " I myself — but it is only en passant, as we are all going on to Sehlangenbad in two days. It is really quite delightful to find you set- tled here so nicely. What a privilege it must be to be so constantly in Mossu Toarneur's society ! " Madame Tourneur gave a bland assenting smile, and turned to speak to several people who were standing near. " Monsieur de Marveille, are you going ? Thanks, I will be at the committee on Thursday without fail. Monsieur Boulot, you must remain a few minutes ; I want to consult you about that case in which la Com- tesse de Glaris takes so deep an in- terest. Lady Macduff has also writ- ten to me to ask my husband's inter- est for her. Ah, Lady Sophia ! how glad I am you have returned; is Lady Matilda better 1 " " Well, I '11 wish you good by, Ma- dame Tourneur," said Lady Dam- pier, rather impressed, and not much caring to stand by quite unnoticed while all these greetings were going on. " You will let Elly come to- morrow ? " 26 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. " Certainly," said Mme. Tourneur. " You will understand how it is that I do not call. My days are much occupied. I have little time for mere visits of pleasure and ceremony. Mon- sieur Bontemps, one word — " " Elly, which is the way out ? " said Lady Dampier, abruptly, less and less pleased, but more and more impressed. " I will show you,'' said Elly, who had been standing by all this time, and she led the way bare-headed into the court, over which the stars, were shin- ing tranquilly. The trees looked dark and rustled mysteriously along the wall, but all heaven was alight. • Elly looked up for an instant, and then turned to her companion and asked her, with a voice that faltered a little, if they were all together in Paris % " No ; Miss Dampier is in Scot- land still," said my lady. It was not Miss Dampier' s name of which Elizabeth Gilmour was longing to hear, she did not dare ask any more ; but it seemed as if a great weight had suddenly fallen upon her heart, as she thought that perhaps, after all, he was not come ; she should not hear of him; see him, who knows? per- haps, never again. Elly tried to unbar the great front door to Jet out her friend ; but she could not do it, and called to old Fran- coise, who was passing across to the kitchen, to come and help her. And suddenly the bolt, which had stuck in some manner, gave way, the gate opened wide, and as it opened Elly saw that there was somebody stand- ing just outside under the lamp-post. The foolish child did not guess who it was, but said " Good night," with a sigh, and held out her soft hand to Lady Dampier. And then, all of a sudden the great load went away, and in its place came a sort of undreamt- of peace, happiness, and gratitude. All the stars seemed suddenly to blaze more brightly ; all the summer's night to shine more wonderfully ; all trouble, all anxiousness, to melt away ; and John Dampier turned round and said : — " Is that you, Elizabeth ? " " And you T " cried Elly, springing forward, with both her hands out- stretched. "Ah! I did not think who was outside the door." " How did you come here, John ? " said my lady, very much flustered. " I came to fetch you," said her son. " I wanted a walk, and Letty told me where you were gone." Lady Dam- pier did not pay much attention to his explanations ; she was watching Elly with a dissatisfied face ; and glancing round too, the young man saw that Elly was standing quite still under the archway, with her hands folded, and with a look of dazzled delight in her blue eyes that there was no mis- taking. " You don't forget your old friends, Elly % " said he. " I ! never, never," cried Elizabeth. "And I, too, do not forget," said he, very kindly, and held out his hand once more, and took hers, and did not let it go. " I will come and see you, and bring Laitifia," he added, as his mother looked up rather severely. " Good night, dear Elly ? I am glad you are unchanged." People, .however slow they maybe naturally, are generally quick in dis- covering admiration, or affection, or respectful devotion to themselves. Lady Dampier only suspected, her son was quite sure of poor Elly's feelings, as he said good night under the arch- way. Indeed he knew a great deal more about them than did Elizabeth herself. All she knew was that the great load was gone ; and she danced across the stones of the yard", clapping her hands in her old happy way. The windows of the salle were lighted up. She could see the people within com- ing and going, but she did not notice Anthony, who was standing in one of them. He, for his part, was watching the little dim figure dancing and flit- ting about in the starlight. Had he, then, anything to do with her happi- ness? Was he indeed so blessed? THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 27 His heart was overflowing with hum- ble gratitude, with kindness, with wonder. He was happy at the mo- ment, and was right to be grateful. She was happy, too, — as thoroughly happy now, and carried away by her pleasure, as she had been crushed and broken by her troubles. " Ah ! to think that the day has come at last, after watching all this long, long, cruel time ! I always knew it would come. Everybody gets what they wish for sooner or later. I don't think anybody was ever so miserable as I have been all this year, but at last — at last — " No one saw the bright, happy look that came into her face, for she was standing in the dark out- side the door of the house. She wanted to dream, she did not want to talk to anybody ; she wanted to tell herself over and over again how hap- py she was; how she had seen him again ; how he had looked ; how kindly he had spoken to her. Ah ! yes, he had cared for her all the time ; and now he had come to fetch her away. She did not think much of poor Anthony ; if she did, it was to say to herself that somehow it would all come right, and everybody would be as well contented as she was. The door of the house opened- while she still stood looking up at the stars. This time it was not John Dampier, but the Pasteur Tourneur, who came from behind it. He put out his hand and took hold of hers. *' You there, Elizabeth ! Come in, my child, you will be cold." And he drew her into the hall, where the Pasteurs Boulot and De Marveille were pulling on their cloaks and hats, and bidding everybody good night. The whole night Elizabeth lay starting and waking, — so happy that she could not bear to go to sleep, to cease to exist for one instant. Often it had been the other way, and she had been thankful to lay her weary head on her pillow, and close her ach- ing eyes, and forget her troubles. But all this night she lay wondering what the coming day was to bring forth. She had better have gone to sleep. The coming day brought forth noth- ing at all, except, indeed, a little note from Laetitia, written on a half-sheet of paper, which was put into her hand about eleven o'clock, just as she was sitting down to the dejeuner a lafour- chette. " Hotel du Ruts', Place Vend3me. u Wednesday Evening. " My dear Elizabeth, — I am so disappointed to think that I shall not perhaps see you after all. Some friends of ours have just arrived, who are going on to Schlangenbad to-mor- row, and Aunt Catherine thinks it will be better to set off a little sooner than we had intended, so as to travel with them. I wish you might be able to come and breakfast with us about nine to-morrow ; but I am afraid this is ask- ing almost too much, though I should greatly enjoy seeing you again. Good by. If we do not meet now, I trust that on our return in a couple of months we may be more fortunate, and sec much of each other. We start at ten, and shall reach Strasbourg about eight. " Ever, dear Elizabeth, "Affectionately yours, " Laetitia Malcolm. " What has happened 1 ", said Madame Tourneur, quite frightened, for she saw the girl's face change and her eyes suddenly filling with tears. " Nothing has happened," said Eliz- abeth. " I was only disappointed to think I should not see them again." And she put out her hand and gave her mother the note. " But why care so much for people who do not care for you ? " said her mother. " Lady Dampier is one of the coldest women I ever knew ; and as for Lastitia, if she loved you in the least, would she write you such a note as this ? " " Mamma ! it is a very kind note," said Elizabeth. "I know she loves me." 28 , THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. " Do you think she cried over it, as you did 1 " said her mother. " ' So disappointed ' — ' more fortunate on our return through Paris ' ? " " Do not let us judge our neighbors so hastily, my wife," said M. Tour- neur. " Let Elizabeth love her friend. What can she do better ? " Caroline looked up with an odd ex- pression, shrugged her shoulders, and did not answer. Until breakfast was over, Elly kept up pretty well ; but when M. Tour- neur rose and went away into his writ- ing-room, when Anthony and the young men filed off by an opposite door, and Mme. Tourneur disappeared to look to her household duties, — then, when the room was quiet again, and only Madame Jacob remained sewing in a window, and Lou-Lou and Tou-Tou whispering over their lessons, suddenly the canary burst out into a shrill piping jubilant song, and the sunshine poured in, and Elly's heart began to sink. And then sud- denly the horrible reality seemed real- ized to her They were gone, — those who had come, as she thought, to rescue her. Could it be true, — could it be really true 1 She had stood lonely on the arid shore waving her signals of dis- tress, and they who should have seen them never heeded, but went sailing away to happier lands, disappearing in the horizon, and leaving her to her fate. That fate which — it was more than she could bear. It seemed more terrible than ever to her to-day Ah ! silly girl, was her life as hard as the lives of thousands struggling along with her in the world, tossed and bro- ken against the rocks, while she, at least, was safely landed on the beach f She had no heart to think of others. She sat sickening with disappoint- ment, and once more her eyes filled up with stinging tears. " Lou-Lou, Tou-Tou, come up to your lessons," said Mrs. Jacob. " I do not wish you to see such a wicked example of discontent." The little girls went off on tiptoe ; and when these people were gone, Elizabeth was left quite alone. " I dare say I am very wicked," she was saying to herself. " I was made wicked. But this is more than I can bear, — to live all day with the people I hate, and then when I do love with my whole heart, to be treated with such cruel indifference, — such cold- ness. He ought to know, he must know, that he has broken my heart. Why does he look so kindly, and then forget so heartlessly ?...." She hid her face in her hands, and bent her head over the wooden table. She did not care who knew her to be unhappy, — what pain her unhappi- ness might give. The person who was likely to be most wounded by her poignant grief came into the room at the end of half an hour, and found her sitting still in the same attitude, with her head hanging, and her tears dribbling on the deal table. This was enough answer for poor An- thony. "Elizabeth," he faltered, "I see you cannot make up your mind." " Ah ! no, no, Anthony, not yet," said Elizabeth ; " but you are the only person in the world who cares for me ; and indeed, indeed, I am grateful." And then the poor little head sank down again, overwhelmed with its load of grief. " Tell me, Elizabeth, is there any- thing in the world I can do to make you more happy ? " said Anthony. "My prayers, my best wishes, are yours. Is there nothing else 1 " " Only not to notice me," said Elly; " only to leave me alone." And so Anthony, seeing that he Gould do nothing, went away very sad at heart. He had been so happy and confident the night before, and now he began to fear that what he longed for was never to be his. Poor boy, he buried his trouble in his own heart, and did not say one word of it to father, or mother, or young com- panions. Five or six weeks went bv, and THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 29 Elly heard no more of the Dampiers. Every day she looked more ill, more haggard ; her temper did not mend, her spirits did not improve. In June . the nve young men went home to their families. M. and Madame Tourneur went down to Fontaine- bleau for a week. Anthony set off for the South of France to visit an uncle. He was to be ordained in the autumn, and was anxious to pay this visit before his time should be quite taken up by his duties. Clementine asked for a holiday, and went off to her friends at Passy ; and Elly re- mained at home. It was her own fault : Monsieur Tourneur had begged her to come with them ; her mother had scolded and remonstrated, all in vain. The wayward girl declared that she wanted no change, no company, that she was best where she was. Only for a week ? she would stay, and there was an end of it. I think the secret was, that she could not bear to quit Paris, and waited and waited, hoping against hope. " I am afraid you will quarrel with Madame Jacob," said her mother, as she was setting off. " I shall not speak to her," said Elly ; and for two days she was as good as her word. But on the third day this salutary silence was bro- ken. Madame Jacob, coming in with her bonnet on, informed Elizabeth that she was going out for the after- noon. " I confess it is not without great apprehensions lest you should get into mischief," says the lady. " And pray," says Elly, " am I more likely to get into mischief than you are ? / am going out." " You will do nothing of the sort," says Madame Jacob. " I will do exactly as I choose," says Elizabeth. In a few minutes a battle royal was raging; Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou look on all eyes and ears ; old Fran- coise comes up from the kitchen, and puts her head in at the door. Madame Jacob was desiring her, on no account, to let Elizabeth out' that afternoon, when Lou-Lou said, "There, that was the street-door shutting " ; and Tou-Tou said, " She is gone." And so it was. The wilful Elizabeth had brushed past old Francoise, rushed up to her own room, pulled out a shawl, tied on her bonnet, defiantly, run down stairs and across the yard, and, in a minute, was walking rapidly away without once looking behind her. Down the hill, past the hospital, — they were carrying a wounded man in at the door as she passed, and she just caught a glimpse of his pale face, and turned shrinking away. Then she got into the Faubourg St. Honore, with its shops and its cab-stands, and busy people coming and going ; and then she turned up the Rue d'An- gouleme. In the Champs Elysees the afternoon sun was streaming; there was a crowd, and, as it happened, soldiers were marching along to the sound of martial music. She saw an empty bench, and sat down for a minute to regain breath and equa- nimity. The music put her in mind of the day when she had listened at her window, — of the day when her heart was so heavy and then so light, — of the day when Anthony had told her his scheme, when John Dampier had waited at the door : the day, the only one — she was not likely to for- get it when she had been so happy, just for a little. And now — 1 The bitter remembrance came rushing over her ; and she jumped up, and walked faster and faster, trying to escape from it. She got into the Tuileries, and on into the Rue de Rivoli, but she thought that people looked at her strangely, and she turned homewards at last. It was lonely, wandering about this busy city by herself. As she passed by the columns of St. Philip's Church, somebody came out, and the curtain swung back, and Elly, looking up, saw a dim, quiet interior, full of silent rays of light, falling from the yellow windows and so THE STORY -OF ELIZABETH. checkering the marble. She stopped, and went in with a sudden impulse. One old woman was kneeling on the threshold, and Elly felt as if she, too, wanted to fall upon her knees. What tranquil gloom, and silence, and re- pose ! Her own church was only- open at certain hours. Did it always happen that precisely at eleven o'clock on Sunday mornings she was in the exact frame of mind in which she most longed for spiritual communion and consolation '< To be tightly wedged in between two other devo- tees, plied with chuufferettes by the pew-opener, forced to follow the ex- tempore supplications of the preacher, — did all this suffice to her wants ? Here was silence, coolness, a faint, half-forgotten smell of incense, there were long, empty rows of chairs, one or two people kneeling at the little altars, five or six little pious candles burning in compliment to the various saints and deities to whom they were dedicated. The rays of the little candles glimmered in the darkness, and ' the foot-falls fell quietly along the aisle. I, for my part, do not blame this poor foolish heart, if it offered up an humble supplication here in the shrine of the stranger. Poor Elly was not very eloquent ; she only prayed to be made a good girl and to be happy. But, after all, eloquence and long words do not mean any more. She walked home, looking up at the sunset lines which were streaking the sky freshly and delicately ; she thought she saw Madame Jacob's red nose up in a little pink cloud, and began to speculate how she would be received. And she had nearly reached her own door, and was" toiling wearily up the last hilly piece of road, when she heard some quick steps behind ; somebody passed, turned round, said, "Why, Elly! I was going to see you." In an instant, Elly's blue eyes were all alight, and her ready hand out- stretched to John Dampier, — for it was he. CHAPTER V. In looking backward, they may find that several things which were not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. He had time to think, as he greeted her, how worn she looked, how shab- bily she was dressed. And yet what a charming, talking, brightening face it was. When Elly smiled, her bon- net and dress became quite new and becoming, somehow. In two minutes he thought her handsomer than ever. They walked on, side by side, up the hilly street. She, trying to hide her agitation, asked him about Lsetitia, about his mother, and dear Miss Dampier. " I think she does care for me still," said Elly ; " but you have all left off." " My dear child," said he, " how can you think anything so foolish ? " " I have nothing else to do," said Elly, plaintively ; " all day long I think about those happy times which are gone. I thought you had forgot- ten me when you did not come." Dampier laughed a little uneasily. " I have had to take them to their watering-place," said he ; "I could not help it. But tell me about your- self. Are you not comfortable 1 " he asked. " I am rather unhappy," said Eliza- beth. " I am not good, like they are, and oh ! I get so tired " ; and then she went on and told him what miserable days she spent, and how she hated them, and she longed for a little pleasure and ease and happiness. He was very much touched, and very, very sorry. " You don't look well," he said. " You should have some amusement, — some change. I would take you anywhere you liked. Why not come now, for a drive 1 See, here is a little open carriage passing. Surely, with an old friend like me, there can be no harm." And he signed to the driver to stop. Elizabeth was quite frightened at the idea, and said, " no, no ! THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 31 indeed." Whereas, Dampier only said : " O yes ! indeed, you must. Why, I knew you when you were a baby, — and your father and your grandmother, — and I am a respecta- ble middle-aged man, and it will do you good, and it will soon be a great deal too dark for any of your pas- teurs to recognize you and report. We have been out riding togeth- er before now, — why not come for a little drive in the Bois ? Why not 1 " So said Elly to herself, doubtfully ; and she got in, still hesitating, and in a minute they were rolling away swiftly out at the gates of Paris, out towards the sunset, — so it seemed to Elizabeth, — and she forgot all her fears. The heavens glowed overhead ; her heart beat with intensest en- joyment. Presently, the twilight came falling with a green glow, with stars, with evening perfumes, with lights twinkling from the carriages reflected on the lakes as they rolled past. And so at last she was happy, sometimes silent frtjm delight, some- times talking in her simple, foolish way, and telling him all about her- self, her regrets, her troubles, — about Anthony. She could not help it, — indeed, she could not. Dam- pier, for his part, cried out at the notion of her marrying Anthony, made fun of him, laughed at him, pitied him. The poor fellow, now that she compared him to John Dampier, did indeed seem dull, and strangely uncouth, and commonplace. " Marry that cub," said Sir John ; " you must n't do it, my deaf. You would be like the princess in the fairy tale, who went off with the bear. It 's downright wicked to think of such a thing. Elizabeth, promise me you won't. Does he ever climb up and down a pole "i is he fond of buns ? is he tame * If your father were alive, would he suffer such a thing t Prom- ise me, Elly, that you will never be- come Mrs. Bruin." " Yes ; I promise," said Elly, with a sigh. "But he is so kind. No- body is as — " And then she stopped, and thought : " Yes ; here was some one who was a great deal kinder." Talking to Dampier was so easy, so pleasant, that she scarcely recognized her own words and sen- tences ; it was like music in tune after music out of tune ; it was like run- ning on smooth rails after rolling along a stony road : it was like breath- ing iresh air after a heated stifling atmosphere. Somehow, he met her half-way, she need not explain, reca- pitulate, stumble for words, as she was forced to do with those practical, impractical people at home. He un- derstood what she wanted to say before she had half finished her sen- tence; he laughed at her fine little jokes ; he encouraged, he cheered, he delighted her. If she had cared for him before, it was now a mad adora- tion which she felt for this man. He suited her ; she felt now that he was part of her life, — the better, no- bler, wiser part ; and if he was the other half of her life, surely, somehow, she must be as necessary to him as he was to her. Why had he come to see her else ? Why had he cared for her, and brought her here ? Why was his voice so gentle, his manner so kind and sympathetic ? He had cared for her once, she knew he had ; and he cared for her still, she knew he did. If the whole world were to deceive her and fail her, she would still trust him. And her instinct was not wrong : he was sincerely and heartily her friend. The carriage put them down a few doors from M. Tourneur's house, and then Elly went boldly up to the door and rang at the bell. " I shall come at four o'clock to- morrow, and take you for a drive," said John ; " you look like another woman already." " It is no use asking Madame Jacob," said Elly ; " she would lock me up into my room. I will come somehow. How shall I thank you 1 " 32 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. " By looking well and happy again. I shall be so glad to have cured you." " And it is so pleasant to meet with such a kind doctor," said Elly, looking up and smiling. "Good by, Elly," repeated Sir John, quite affected by her gentle looks. Old Franeoise opened the door. Elly turned a little pale. " Ah, ha ! vous voila," says the old woman ; " m&hante fille, you are going to get a pretty scolding. Where have you been ? " " Ah, Franeoise ! " said Elly, " I have been so happy. I met Sir John Dampier : he is an old, old friend. He took me for a drive in the Bois. Is Madame Jacob very, very an- gry?" " Well, you are in luck,'' says the old woman, who could never resist Elizabeth's pretty pleading ways ; " she came home an hour ago and fetched the children, and went out to dine in town, and I told her you were in your room." " Ah, you dear kind old woman ! " said Elly, flinging her arms round her neck, and giving her a kiss. " There, there ! " said the unblush- ing Franeoise ; " I will put your cou- vert in the salle." "Ah! I am very glad. I am so' hungry, Franeoise," said Elly, pull- ing off her bonnet, and shaking her loose hair as she followed the old wo- man across the court-yard. So Elizabeth sat down to dine off dry bread and cold mutton. But though she said she was hungry, she was too happy to eat much. The tal- low candle flickered on the table. She thought of the candles in St. Philip's Church ; then she went over every word, every minute which she had spent since she was kneeling there. Old Franeoise came in with a little cake she had made her, and found Elizabeth sitting, smiling, with her elbows on the table. "Allons, allons ! " thought the old cook. " Here, eat, mamzelle," said she ; "faut plus sortir sans permission, — hein ? '* " Thank you, Franeoise. How nice ! how kind of you ! " said Eliza- beth, in her bad French, — she never would learn to talk properly; and then she ate her cake by the light of the candle, and this little dim tallow wick seemed to cast light and bril- liance over the whole world, over her whole life, which seemed to her as if it would go on forever and ever. Now and then, a torturing doubt, a misgiving, came over her, but these she put quickly aside. Madame Jacob was pouring out the coffee when Elly came down to break- fast next morning, conscious and ashamed, and almost disposed to con- fess. " I am surprised," said Ma- dame Jacob, " that you have the im- pudence to sit down at table with me " ; and she said it in such an acid tone that all Elly's sweetness and ashamedness and penitence turned to bitterness. " I find it very disagreeable," says Elly ; " but I try and resign my- self." "I shall write to my brother about you," continued Madame Jacob. " Indeed ! " says Elizabeth. " Here is. a letter which he has written to me. What fun if it should be about you ! " It was like Tourneur's hand- writing, but it did not come from him. Elly opened it carelessly enough, but Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou exchanged looks of intelligence. Their mother had examined the little missive, and made her comments upon it : — "Avignon, Rue de la Clochette, " Chez le Pasteitr Ch. Toubnede. "My dear Elly, — I think of you so much and so constantly that I cannot help wishing to make you think of me, if only for one 'minute, while you read these few words. I have been telling my uncle about you ; it is he who asks me why I do not write. But there are some things which are not to he spoken or to be written, — it is only bv one's life that The story of Elizabeth. 33 one can try to tell them ; and you, alas ! do not care to hear the story of my life. I wonder will the day ever come when you will listen to it ? " I have been most kindly received by all my old friends down in these parts. Yesterday I attended the ser- vice in the Temple, and heard a most soul-stirring and eloquent oration from the mouth of M. le Pasteur David. I receive cheering accounts on every side. A new temple has been opened at Beziers, thanks to the munificence of one of our corMgion- naires. The temple was solemnly opened on the Monday of the Pente- cost. The discourse of dedication was pronounced by M. le Pasteur Borrel, of Nismes. Seven pasteurs en robe attended the ceremony. They tell me that the interdiction which had weighed for some years upon the temple at Fouqueure (Charente) has been taken off, and that the faithful were able to reopen their temple on the first Sunday in June. Need I say what vivid actions of grace were uttered on this happy occasion'? A Protestant school has also been estab- lished at Montauban, which seems to be well attended. I am now going to visit two of my uncle's confreres, MM. Bertoul and Joseph Aubre'. Of M. Bertoul I have heard much good. " Why do I tell you all this ? Do you care for what I care t Could you ever bring yourself to lead the life which I propose to lead t Time only will show, dear Elizabeth. It will also show to you the faithfulness and depth of my affection. " A. T." Elly put the letter down with a sigh, and went on drinking her coffee and eating her bread. Madame Jacob hemmed and tried to ask her a question or two on the subject, but Elly would not answer. Elly some- times wondered at Anthony's fancy for her, knowing how little suited she was to the way of life she was lead- ing ; she was surprised that his rigid 2* notions should allow him to entertain such an idea for an instant. But the truth was that Anthony was head over ears in love with her, and thought her perfection at the bottom of his heart. Poor Anthony ! This is what he got in return for his letter : — " Mi dear Anthony, — It cannot be — never — never. But I do care for you, and I mean to always. For you are my brother in a sort of way. "lam your affectionate, grateful " Elly." "P. S. — Your father and my mother are away at Fontainebleau. Madame Jacob is here, and more disagreeable than anything you can imagine." And so it was settled ; and Elly never once asked herself if she had been foolish or wise ; but, after think- ing compassionately about Anthony for a minute or two, she began to think about Dampier and said to herself thVit she had followed his advice, and he must know best; and Dampier himself, comfortably breakfasting in the coffee-room of the hotel, was thinking of her, and, as he thought, put away all unpleasant doubts or suggestions. " Poor little thing ! dear little thing ! " he was saying to himself. " I will not leave her to the tender mercies of those fanatics. She will die — I see it in her eyes — if she stays there ! My mother or Aunt Jean must come to her help ; we must not desert her. Poor, poor little Elly, with her wistful face ! Why did not she make me marry her a year ago f I was very near it." He was faithful next day to his appointment, and Elly arrived breath- less. " Madame Jacob had locked her up in her room," She said, only she got out of window and clambered down by the vine, and here she was. '• But it is the last time," she added. " Ah ! let us make haste ; is not that Francoise 1" He helped her in, and in a minute they were driving along the Faubourg. Elly let down the veil. John saw that her hand was 34 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. trembling, and asked if she was afraid ? "I am afraid, because I know I am doing wrong," said Elly; "only I think I should have died for want of fresh air in that hateful prison, if I had not come." " You used to like your little apart- ment near the Madeleinebetter," said Dampier ; " that was not a prison." " I grow sick with regret when I think of those days," Elly said. " Do you know that day you spoke to ns in the Tuileries was the last happy day of my life, except — " " Except ? " said Dampier. " Except yesterday," said Elly. " It is so delightful to do something wrong again." " Why should you think that this is doing wrong ? " said Dampier. " You know me, and can trust me, — can't yon, Elly 1 " " Have I shown much mistrust 1 " said Elly, laughing ; and then she added more seriously, " I have been writing to Anthony this morning, — I have done as you told me. So you see whether I trust you or not." " You have refused him ? " said Dampier. " Yes ; are you satisfied ? " said Elly, looking with her bright blue- eyed glance. " He was unworthy of you," cried Dampier, secretly rather dismayed to find his advice so quickly acted up- on. What had he done ? would not that marriage, after all, have been the very best thing for Elly perhaps 1 He was glad and sorry, but I think he would rather have been more sorry and less glad, and have heard that Elly had found a solution to all her trou- bles. He thought it necessary to be sentimental ; it was the least he could do, after what she had done for him. "Why wouldn't you let me in when I came to see you one day long ago, just before I left Paris 1 " he asked, suddenly. "Do you know what I wanted to say to you ? " Elly blushed up under her veil. ." Mamma had desired Clementine to let no one in. Did yen not know I would have seen you if I could t " " I knew nothing of the sort," said Dampier, rather sadly. " I wish — I wish — I had known it." He for- got that, after all, that was not the real reason of his going away with- out speaking. He chose to imagine that this was the reason, — that he would have married Elly hut for this. He forgot his own careful scruples and hesitations ; his doubts and in- decision ; and now to-day he forgot everything, except that he was very sorry for Elly, and glad to give her a little pleasure. He did not trouble himself as to what people would say of her, — of a girl who was going about with a man who was neither her brother nor her husband. No- body would know her. The only people to fear were the people at home, who should never hear any- thing about it. He would give her and give himself a little happiness, if he could ; and he said to himself that he was doing a good action in so doing ; he would write to his aunt about her, he would 'be her friend and her doctor, and if he could bring a lit- tle color in those wasted cheeks and happiness into those sad eyes, it would be wicked and cruel not to do so. And so, like a quack doctor, as he was, he administered his drug, which soothed and dulled her pain for the moment, only to increase and hasten the progress of the cruel malady which was destroying her. They drove along past the Madeleine, along the broad glittering Boulevards, with their crowds, their wares, people thronging the pavements, horses and carriages travelling along-side with them ; the world, the flesh, and the devil jostling and pressing past. " There is a theatre," cried Elly, as they came to a sudden stop. " I wonder, shall I ever go again 1 What fun it used to be ! " " Will you come to-night"? " asked Dampier, smiling. " I will take care of you." Elly, who had found her good THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 35 spirits again, laughed and clasped her hands. " How I should like it ! Oh ! how I wish it was possible, but it would be quite, quite impossible." " Have you come to think such vanities wrong 1 " said Dampier. " Not wrong. Where is the harm ? Only unattainable. Imagine Ma- dame Jacob; think of the dragons, who would tear me to pieces if they found me out, — of Anthony, — of my stepfather."' " You need not show them the play-bill," said Dampier, laughing. " You will be quite sure of not meet- ing any of the pasteurs there. Could not you open one of those barred win- dows and jump out ? I would come with a ladder of ropes, if you will let me" " I should not want a ladder of ropes," said Elly ; " the windows are quite close to the ground. What fun it would be ! but it is quite, quite impossible, of course." Dampier said no more. He told the driver to turn back, and to stop at the Louvre ; and he made her get out, and took her up stairs into the great golden hall with the tall win- dows, through which you can see the Seine as it rushes under the bridges, and the light as it falls on the ancient stately quays and houses, on the cathedral, on the towers of Paris. It was like enchantment to Elly ; all about the atmosphere was golden, was bewitched. She was eagerly drinking her cup of happiness to the dregs, she was in a sort of glamour. She hardly could believe that this was herself. They went and sat down on the great round sofa in the first room, opposite the " Marriage of Cana," with " St. Michael killing the Drag- on " on one side, and the green pale wicked woman staring at them from behind : the pale woman with the unfathomable face. Elly kept turn- ing round every now and then, fasci- nated by her cold eyes. Dampier was a connoisseur, and fond of pic- tures, and he told Elizabeth all about those which he liked best; told her about the painters, — about their histories. She was very ignorant, and scarcely knew the commonest stories. How she listened, how she treasured up his words, how she re- membered, in after days, every tone as he spoke, every look in his kind eyes ! He talked when he should have been silent, looked kind when he should have turned his eyes away. What cruel kindness! what* fatal friendship ! He imagined she liked him ; he knew it, indeed : but he fancied that she liked him and loved him in the same quiet way in which he loved her, — hopelessly, regret- fully, resignedly. As he walked by her side along these wonderful galler- ies, now and then it occurred to him that, perhaps, after, all, it was scarce- ly wise; but he put the thought quickly away, as I have said already, and blinded himself, and said, surely it was right. They were standing before a. kneeling abbess in white flannel, painted by good old Philip of Champagne, and laughing at her droll looks and her long nose, when Sir John, happening to turn round, saw his old acquaintance De Vaux coming directly towards them, with his eye-glasses stuck over his nose, and his nose in the air. He came up quite close, stared at the abbess, and walked on without apparently seeing or recognizing them. Elly had not turned her head, but Dampier drew a long breath when he was gone. Elly wondered to see him lookkag so grave when she turned round with a smile and made some little joke. " I think we ought to go, Elly," said he. " Come, this place will soon be shut." They drove home through the busy street, o.nce more, through the golden sunset. They stopped at the corner by the hospital, and Elly said " Good by," and jumped out. As Elly was reluctantly turning to go away, Dam- pier felt that he must see her once more; that he couldn't part from her now. " Elly," he said, " I shall be 36 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. here at six o'clock on Friday. This is Tuesday, is n't it ? and we must go to the play just once together. Won't you come t Do, please, come 1 " " Shall I come ? I will think about it all to-morrow,'' said Elly, "and make up my mind." And then Dampier watched the slim little figure disappear under the door-way. Fortune was befriending Elly to- day. Old Francoise had left the great door open, and now she slipped in and ran up to her own room, where she found the key in the lock. She came down quite demurely to dinner when Lou-Lou came to summon her to the frugal repast. All dinner-time she thought about her scheme, and hesitated, and de- termined, and hesitated, and wished wistfully, and thqn suddenly said to herself that she would be happy her own way, come what might. " We will eat, drink, and be merry," said Elly to herself, with a little wry face at the cabbage, " for to-morrow we die." And so the silly girl almost enjoyed the notion of running wild in this reckless way. Her whole life, which had been so dull and wearisome before, glittered with strange happiness and bewildering hope. She moved about the house like a person in a dream. She was very silent, but that of late had been her habit. Madame Jacob looked surprised sometimes at her gentleness, but thought it was all right, and did not trouble herself about much else besides Tou-Tou's and Lou-Lou's hymns and lessons. She had no suspicion. She though^ that Elizabeth's first escapade had been a mere girlish freak ; of the second she knew nothing ; of the third not one dim imagination entered her head. She noticed that Elly did not eat, but she looked well and came dancing into the room, and she (Mme. Jacob) sup- posed it was all right. Was it all right f The whole summer nights Elly used to lie awak« with wide-open eyes, or spring from her bed, and stand for long hours leaning from her window, staring at the stars and tell- ing them all her story. The life she was leading was one of morbid ex- citement and feverish dreams. • CHAPTER VI. What are we sent on earth for ? Say to toil, Nor seek to leave the tending of the vines, For all the heat of day till it declines, And death's mild curfew shall from work ass oil. ' Madame Jacob had a friend at Asnieres, an old maiden lady, Tou- Tou's godmother, who was well-to-do in the world, with her .£ 200 a year, it was said, and who lived in a little Chinese pagoda by the railway. Now and then this old lady used to write and invite Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou and their mother to come and see her, and you may be sure her invitations were never disregarded. Mme. Jacob did look at Elizabeth rather doubtfully when she found on Wednesday morning the usual ill- spelt, ill-written little letter. But, after all, Tou-Tou's prospects were not to be endangered for the sake of looking after a young woman like Elizabeth, were she ten times more wayward and ill-behaved, and so the little girls were desired to make up their paquets. It was a great event in Mme. Jacob's eyes ; the honse echoed with her directions ; Erancoise went out to request assistance, and came back with a friend, who helped her down with the box. The little girls stood at the door to stop the omnibus, which was to take them to the station. They were off at last. The house door closed upon them with a satisfactory bang, and Elly breathed freely and ran through the deserted rooms, clapping and waving her hands, and dancing her steps, and feeling at last that she was free. And so the morning hours went by. Old Erancoise was not sor- ry either to see everybody go. She was sitting in the kitchen in the after- noon, peeling onions and potatoes, THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 37 when Elly came wandering in in her restless way, with her blue eyes shin- ing and her curly hair pushed back. What a tranquil little kitchen it was, with a glimpse of the court-yard out- side, and the cocks and the hens, and the poplar-trees waving in the sun- shine, and the old woman sittingin her white cap busy at her homely work. Elly did not think how tranquil it was, but said to herself, as she looked at Franeoise, how old she was, and what a strange fate hers, that she should be there quietly peeling onions at the end of her life. What a hor- rible fate, thought Elizabeth, to be sitting by one's grave, as it were, par- ing vegetables and cooking broth to the last day of one's existence. Poor Erancoise ! And then she said out loud, " Franeoise, tell me, are cooks like ladies ; do they get to hate their lives sometimes 1 Are you not tired to death of cooking pot-au-feu ? " " I am thankful to have pot-au- feu to cook," said Franeoise. " Mad- emoiselle, I should like to see you gplucher vegetables sometimes, as I do, instead of running about all day. It would he much better for you." " Ecoutez, Franeoise," said Elly, imploringly ; " when I am old like you, I will sit still by the fire ; now that I am young I want to run about. I am the only young person in this house. They are all old here, and like dead people, for they only think of heaven." " That is because they are on the road," said Erancoise. " Ah ! they are good fplks, — they are." " I see no merit in being good," Elizabeth said, crossly, sitting down on the table and dabbling her fingers in a bowl of water, which stood there ; " they are good because they like it. It amuses them, it is their way of thinking, t- they like to be better than their neighbors." " Fi done, Elizabeth'! " said Fran- poise. "You do not amuse them; but they are good to you. Is it Anthony's way of thinking when he bears with all your caprices ? When my master comes home quite worn out and exhausted, and trudges off again without so much as waiting for his soup, if he hears he is wanted by some poor person or other, does he go because it pleases him, or because he is serving the Lord in this world, as he hopes to serve Him in the next ? " Elly was a little ashamed, and said, looking down : " Have you always lived here with him, Franeoise ? " "Not I," said Franeoise; "ten years, that is all. But that is long enough to tell a good man from a bad one. Good people live for others, and don't care about themselves. I hope when I have known you ten years, that you too will be a good woman, mademoiselle." " Like Madame Jacob 1 " said Elly. Franeoise shrugged her shoulders rather doubtfully, and Elly sat quite still watching her. Was it not strange to be sitting there in this quiet every- day kitchen, with a great unknown world throbbing in her heart. " How Jittle Erancoise guesses ! " thought Elly ; " Franeoise, who is only thinking of her marmite and her potatoes." Elly did not know it, but Franeoise had a very shrewd suspicion of what was going on in the poor little passionate heart. " The girl is not suited here," thought the old woman. " If she has found some one, so much the better ; Clementine has told me something about it. If madame were to drive him off again, that would be a pity. But I saw them quite plainly that day I went to Martin, the chemist's, driving away in that little carriole, and I saw him that night when he was waiting for his mother." So old Franeoise peels potatoes, and Elly sits wondering and saying over to herself, " Good people live for others." Who had she ever lived for but for herself t Ah ! there was one person whom she would live and die for now. Ah ! at last she would be good. " And about the play ? " 38 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. thought Elly ; " shall I go, — shall I send him word that I will not ? There is no harm in a play ; why should I not please him and accept his kindness? it is not the first time that we have been there together. I know that plays are not wrong, whatever these stupid people say. Ah ! surely if happiness is sent.to me, it would be wicked to turn away, instead of being always — always grateful all my life." And so, though she told her- self that it could not be wrong to go, she forgot to tell herself that it was wrong to go with him ; her scruples died away. one by one ; once or twice she thought of being brave and stay- ing away, and sending a message by old Francoise, but she only thought of it. All day long, on Friday, she wander- ed about the empty house, coming and going, like a girl bewitched. She went into the garden; she picked flowers and pulled them to pieces, trying to spell out her fate ; she tried to make a wreath of vine-leaves, but got tired, and flung it away. Old Francoise, from her kitchen window* watched her standing at the grating and pulling at the vine ; but the old woman's spectacles were somewhat dim, and she did not see Elly's two bright feverish eyes and her burning cheeks from the kitchen window. As the evening drew near, Elly's cheeks became pale, and her courage nearly failed her, but she had been three days at home. Monsieur and Madame Tourneur were expected the next morning ; she had not seen Dampier for a long, long time, — so it seemed to her. Yes, she would go ; she did not care. Wrong? Right 1 It was neither wrong nor right, — it was simply impossible to keep away. She could not think of one reason in the world why she should stop. She felt a thousand in her heart urging, order- ing, compelling her to go. She went up to her own room after dinner, and began to dress, to plait, and to smooth her pretty curly hair. She put on a white dress, a black lace shawl, and then she found that she had no gloves. Some of her ancient belongings she kept in a drawer, but they were not replaced as they wore out. And Elly possessed diamond rings and brace- lets in abundance; but neither gloves, nor money to buy them. What did it matter 1 She did not think about it twice; she puton her shabby bonnet and ran down stairs. She was just going out, when she remembered that Francoise would wonder what had be- come of her, and so she went to the kitchen door, opened it a little way, and said, " Good night, Francoise ! don't disturb me to-night, I want to get up early to-morrow." Francoise, who had invited a friend to spend the evening, said, " Bon soir, mamzelle ! " rather crossly, — she did not like her kitchen invaded at all times and hours, — and then Elly was free to go. She did not get out by the window, there was no need for that, but she unfastened it, and unbarred the shut- ter on the inside, so that, though everything looked much as usual on the outside, she had only to push, and it would fly open. As she got to the door, her heart began to beat, and she stopped for an instant to think. Inside, here, where she was standing, was dulness, weariness, security, death ; outside, wonderful happiness, dangerous hap- piness, and life, — so it seemed to her. Inside were cocks and hens, and sermons, weary exhortations, old Francoise peeling her onions. Out- side, John Dampier waiting, the life she was created for, fresh air, congen- ial spirits, light and brightness, — and heaven there as well as here, thought Elly, clasping her hands; heaven spreading across the housetops as well as over this narrow court-vard. "What shall I do? Oh ! shalfl be forgiven ? Oh ! it will be forgiven me, surely, surely ! " the girl sighed, and, with trembling hands, she undid the latch and went out into the dusky street. The little carriole, as Francoise THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 30 called it, was waiting, a short way down, at the corner of the hospital ; and Dampier came to meet her, look- ing very tall and straight through the twilight. She wondered at his grave, anxious face ; but, in truth, he too was exceedingly nervous, though he would not let her know it : he was be- ginning to be afraid for her, and had resolved that he would not take her oat again ; it might, after all, be un- pleasant for them both ; he had seen De Vaux, and found out, to his an- noyance, that he had recognized them in the Louvre the day before, and had passed them by on purpose. There was no knowing what trouble he might not get poor Elly into. And, besides, his aunt Jean was on her way to Paris. She had been keeping house for Will Dampier, she wrote, and she was coming. Will was on his way to Switzerland, and she should cross with him. That very day John had received a letter from her, in answer to the one he had written about Elly. He had written it three days ago ; but he was not the same man he had been three days ago.. He was puzzled, and restless, and thoroughly wretched, that was the truth, and he was not used to be unhappy, and he did not like it. Elly's face haunted him day and night ; he thought of her contin- ually ; he tried, in vain, to forget her, to put her out of his mind. Well, on the whole, he was glad that his aunt was coming, and very glad that his mother and Lsetitia were still away, and unconscious of what he was thinking about. "So you did not lose courage'?" he said, as they were driving off. "How did you escape Madame Ja- cob ■> " " I have been all alone," said Elly, " these two days. How I found cour- age to come I cannot tell you. I don't quite believe that it is I myself who am here. It seems impossible. I don't feel like myself. I have not for some days past. All I know is, that I am certain those horrible long days have come to an end." John Dampier was frightened — he hardly knew why — when he heard her say this. " I hope so, most sincerely," said 'he. "But, after all, Elly, we men and women are rarely contented ; and there are plenty of days, more or less tiresome, in store for me and for you, I hope. We must pluck up our cour- age and go through with them. You are such a sensitive, weak-minded lit- tle girl that you will go on breaking your heart a dozen times a day to the end of your life." Dampier looked very grave as he spoke, though it was too dark for her to see him. He was angry and pro- voked with himself, and an insane im- pulse came over him to knock his head violently against the sides of the cab. Insane, do I say ? It would have been the very best thing he could have done. But they drove on all the same : Elly in rapture. She was not a bit afraid now. Her spirits were so high and so daring that they would carry her through anything; and when she was with Dampier she was content to be happy, and not to trouble herself with vague appre- hensions. And she was happy now : her eyes danced with delight, her heart beat with expectation, she seemed to have become a child again, she was not like a woman any more. " Have you not a veil ? " said Dam- pier, as they stopped before the thea- tre. There was a great light, a crowd of people passing and repassing ; other carriages driving up. " No," said Elly. " What does it matter ? Who will know me 1 " " Well, make haste, Here, take my arm,!' said Sir John, hurriedly ; and he hastily sprang down and helped her out. " Look at the new moon," said El- ly, looking up smiling. " Never mind the new moon. Come, Elly," said Dampier. And so they passed on into the theatre. Dampier was dreading recognition. He had a feeling that thcv would be 40 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. sure to come against some one. Elly feared no one. When the play began she sat entranced, thrilling with inter- est, earned away. Faust was the piece which they were representing; and as each scene was played before her, as one change after another came over the piece, she was lost more and more in wonder. If she looked up for an instant it was to see John Dam- pier's familiar face opposite ; and then outside the box, with its little curtain, great glittering theatre-lights, crystals reflecting the glitter, gilding, and silken drapery ; everywhere hundreds of people, silent, and breathless too, with interest, with excitement. The music plays, the scene shifts and changes, melting into fresh combina- tions. Here is Faust. Listen to him as he laments his wasted life. Of what use is wisdom ? What does he care for knowledge ? A lonely man without one heart to love, one creature to cherish him. Has he not wilfully wasted the best years of his life ? he cries, in a passion of rage and indig- nation, — wasted them in the pursuit of arid science, of fruitless learning ? Will these tend him in his old age, soothe his last hours, be to him wife, and children, and household, and holy home ties 1 Will these stand by his bedside, and close his weary, aching eyes, and follow him to his grave in the churchyard 1 Faust's sad complaint went straight to the heart of his hearers. The church bell was ringing up the street. Fathers, mothers, and children were wending their way obedient to its call. And the poor desolate old man burst into passionate and hopeless lamenta- tion. It was all so real to Elly that she almost began to cry herself. She was so carried away by the play, by this history of Faust and of Margaret, that it was in vain Dampier begged her to be careful, to sit back in the shade of the curtain, and not to lean forward too eagerly. She would draw back for a minute or two, and then by de- grees arlvr.nco her pretty, breathless head, turning to him every now and then. It was like a dream to her. Like a face in a dream, too, did she presently recognize the face of De Vaux, her former admirer, opposite, in one of the boxes. But Margaret was coming into the chapel with her young companions, and Elly was too much interested to think of what he would think of her. Just at that mo- ment it was Margaret who seemed to her to be the important person in the world. De Vaux was of a different opin- ion : he looked towards them once or twice, and at the end of the second act, Dampier saw him get up and leave his seat. Sir John was pro- voked and annoyed beyond measure. He did not want him, De Vaux least of all people in the world. Every moment he felt as he had never felt before, — how wrong it was to have brought Elly, whom he was so fond of, into such a situation. For a mo- ment he was undecided, and then he rose, biting his lips, and opened the door of the box, hoping to intercept him; but there was his Mephis- topheles, as ill-luck would have it, standing at the door ready to come in. " I thought I could not be mis- taken," De Vaux began, with a smirk, bowing, and looking signifi- cantly from one to the other. " Did you see me in the gallery of the Louvre the other day 1 " Elly blushed up very red, and Dam- pier muttered an oath as he caught sight of the other man's face. He was smiling very disagreeably. John glanced a second time, hesitated, and then said, suddenly and abruptly. - " No, you are not mistaken. This is Miss Gilmour, my fiancie, M. de Vaux. I dare say you are surprised that I should have brought her to the play. It is the custom in our coun- try." He did not dare look at Elly as he spoke. Had he known what else to say he would have sail it. De Vaux was q-ite satisfied, r.-'.A THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 41 instantly assumed a serious and im- portant manner. The English miss was to him the most extraordinary being in creation, and he would be- lieve anything you liked to tell him of her. He was prepared to sit down in the vacant chair by Elizabeth, and make himself agreeable to her. The English miss was scarcely aware of his existence. Faust, Mar- garet, had been the whole world to her a minute ago. Where was she now t . . . . where were they ? . . . . Was she the actress ' and were they the spectators looking on 1 . . . . Was that the Truth which he had spoken 1 Did he mean it % Was there such wonderful, wonderful hap- piness in store for a poor little wretch like herself ? Ah ! could it be, — could it be true ? Her whole soul shone in her trembling eyes, as she looked up for one instajit, and up- turned her flashing, speaking, beam- ing face. Dampier was very pale, and was looking vacantly at the stage. Margaret was weeping, for her troubles had begun. Mephistopheles was laughing, and De Vaux chatting on in an agreeable manner with his hat between his knees. After some time, he discovered that they were not pay- ing attention to one single word he was saying; upon which he rose in an empresse manner, wished them good by politely, and went away very well pleased with his own good breed- ing. And then, when he was gone, when the door was shut, when they were alone together, there was a si- lence, and Elly leaned her head against the side of the box ; she was trem- bling so that she could not sit up. And Dampier, looking white and gray in the face somehow, said, in an odd, harsh voice : — " Elly, you must not mind what I was obliged to say just now. You see, my dear child, that it does n't do. I ought never to have brought you, and I could think of no better way to get out of my scrape than to tell him that lie." " It was — it was a lie * " repeat- ed Elly, slowly raising herself up- right. " What could I do V Sir John continued, very nervously and exceed- ingly agitated. "Elly, my dear little girl, I could not let him think you were out upon an unauthorized esca- pade. We all know how it is, but he does not. You must, you do forgive me, — only say you do." " And it is not true ? " said Elly, once more, in a bewildered piteous way. "I — I belong to Lsetitia. Itwas settled before we came abroad," fal- tered Dampier ; and he just looked at her once, and then he turned away. And the light was gone out of her face ; all the sparkle, the glitter, the amazement of happiness. Just as this shining theatre, now full of life, of light, of excitement, would be in a few hours black, ghastly, and void. John Dampier did not dare to look at her again, — he hesitated, he was picking- and choosing the words which should be least cruel, least insulting ; and while he was still choking and fumbling, he heard a noise outside, a whispering, as the door flew open. Elly looked up and gave a little low plaintive cry, and two darkling,ifrown- ing men in black coats came into the box. They were the Pasteurs Boulot and Tourneur. Who cares to witness, who cares to read, who cares to describe, scenes such as these ? Reproach, condemnation, righteous wrath, and indignation, and then one crushed, bewildered, almost desperate little heart. She was hurried out into the night air. She had time to say good by, not one other word. He had not stretched out a hand to save her. The play was going on, all the people were sitting in their places, one or two looked up as she passed by the open doors. Then 'they came out into the street; the stars were all gone, the night was black with clouds, and a heavy rain was pouring down u pon the earth. The drops fell wet upon her 42 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. bare, uncovered head. " Go under shelter," said the Pasteur Boulot ; but she paid no heed, and in a minute a cab came up, the two men clasped each other's hands in the peculiar si- lent way to which they were used. Boulot walked away. And Elly found herself alone, inside the damp vehicle, driving over the stones. Her stepfather had got upon the box : he was in a fury of indignation, so that he could not trust himself to be with her. His indignation was not what she most feared. Another torturing doubt filled her whole heart. Her agony of hopelessness was almost unendur- able: she was chilled through and through, but she did not heed it, — and faint, and sick, and wearied, but too unhappy to care. Unhappy is hardly the word, — bewilderment, a sort of crushed dull misery, would better de- scribe her state. She felt little re- morse : she had done wrong, but not very wrong, she thought. She sat motionless in the corner of the jolting cab, with the rain beating in at the open window, as they travelled through the black night and the splashing streets. By what unlucky chance had M. Boulot been returning home along the Boulevards about half past seven at the very moment when Elly, jump- ing from the carriage, stopped to look up at the little new moon ? He, poor man, could hardly believe his eyes. He did not believe them, and went home wondering, and puzzling, and asking himself if that audacious girl could be so utterly lost as to set her foot in that horrible den of iniquity. Ah ! it was impossible ; it was some one strangely like her. She could not be so lost, so perverted. But the chances were still against Elly ; for when he reached the modest little apartment where he lived, his maid- servant told him that* M. Tourneur had been there some time, and was waiting to see him. And there in the study, reading by the light of the green lamp, sat Tourneur, with his low-crowned hat lying on the fcclo. He had come up on some business connected with an appointment he wanted to obtain for Anthony. His wife was to follow him next day, he said, and then he and Boulot full to talking over their affairs and An- thony's prospects and chances. " foor Anthony, he has been sorely tried and proved of late," said his fa- ther. "Elizabeth will never make him happy." " Never — never — never ! " cried Boulot. " Elizabeth ! — she ! — the last person in the world a pastor ought to think of as a wife ! " " If she were more like her mother/' sighed Tourneur. " Ah ! that would be different," said Boulot; " but the girl causes me deep anxiety, my friend. Hers is, I fear, an unconverted spirit. Her heart is of this world ; she requires much earnest teaching. Did you take her to Fontainebleau with you % " " She would not come," said Tour- neur ; " she is at home with my .sister, Madame Jacob ; or rather by herself, for my sister went away a day or two ago." " Tourneur, you do not do wisely to leave that girl alone; she is not to be trusted," said the other, suddenly remembering all his former doubts. And so, when Tourneur asked what he meant, he told him what he had seen. The mere suspicion was a blow for our simple-minded pasteur. He loved Elly ; with all her wayward- ness, there was a look in her eyes which nobody could resist. In his heart of hearts he liked her better for a daughter-in-law than any one of the decorous young women who were in the habit of coming to be catechised by him. But to think that she had deceived him, to think that she had forgotten herself so far, forgotten his teaching, his wishes, his firm convic- tions, sinned so outrageously ! Ah, it was too much ; it was impossible, it was unpardonable. He fired up, and in an agitated voice said it eotild not THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 43 be ;. that he knew her to be inca- pable of such horrible conduct, and then, seizing his hat, he rushed down stairs and called a carriage which hap- pened to be passing by. " Where are you going ? " asked Boulot, who had followed him, some- what alarmed. " I am going home, to see that she is there. Safe in her room, and shel- tered under her parents' roof, I hum- bly pray. Far away from the snares and dangers and temptations of the world." Alas ! poor Elly was not at home, peacefully resting or reading by the lamplight. Francoise, to be sure, told them she was in bed, and Tour- neur went hopefully to her door and knocked : — " Elly," he cried, " mon enfant ! 6tes-vous la, ma fille 1 Repondez, Elizabeth ! " and he shook the door in his agitation. Old Francoise was standing by, holding the candle, Boulot was lean- ing against the wall. But there came no answer. The sile"hce struck chill. Tourneur's face was very pale, his lips were drawn, and his eyes gleam- ed as he raised his head. He went away for a minute and came back with a little tool ; it did not take long to force back the lock, ■ — the door flew open, and there was the empty room all in disorder ! In silence truly, but emptiness is not peace always, silence is not tran- quillity ; a horrible dread and terror came over poor Tourneur ; Francoise's hand, holding the light, began to tremble guiltily. Boulot was dread- fully shocked : — " My poor friend ! my poor friend ! " he began. Tourneur put his hand to his head : — " How has this come to pass, — am I to blame ? " said he. " Oh ! un- happy girl, what has she done ? — how has she brought this disgrace upon us ? " and he fell on his knees by the bedside, and buried his head in the clothes, — kneeling there praying for Elly where she had so often knelt and poured out all her sad heart Elly, at that minute, — sitting in the little box, wondering, delighted, thrilling with interest, with pleasure, — did not guess what a strange scene was taking place in her own room at home ; she did not once think of what trouble, what grief, she was- causing to others, and to herself, poor child, most of all. Only a few minutes more, — all the music would cease abruptly for her ; all the lights go out ; all the sweetness turn to gall and to bitterness. Nearer and nearer comes the sad hour, the cruel awaken- ing ; dream on still for a few happy minutes, poor Elly ! — nearer and nearer come these two angry silent men, in their black, sombre clothes, — nearer and nearer the cruel spoken word which will chill, crush, and destroy. Elizabeth's dreams lasted a little longer, and then she awoke at last. CHAPTER VII. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown ; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand, thousand sighs to save, Lay me, oh ! where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there. It was on the evening of the Mon- day after that Miss Dampier arrived in Paris, with her bonnet-box, her knitting, her carpet-bag. She drove to Meurice's, and hired a room, and then she asked the servants there who knew him whether Sir John Dampier was still staying in the house. They said he had left the place some time before, but that he had called twice that day to ask if she had arrived. And then Miss Dampier, who always liked to make herself comfortable and at home, went up to her room, had the window opened, light brought, and ordered some tea. She was sitting at the table in her cap, in her comfort- 44 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. able black gown, with her knitting, her writing-desk, her books, all set out about the room. She was pour- ing out tea for herself, and looking as much at home as if she had lived there for months, when the door opened, and her nephew walked in. She was delighted to see him. " My dear Jack, how good of you to come ! " said the old lady, looking up at him, and holding out her hand. " But you don't look well. You have been sitting up late and racket- ing. Will you have some tea to re- fresh you ? I will treat you to any- thing you like." "Ah, don't make jokes," said Dampier. " I am very unhappy. Look here, I have got into the most horrible scrape ; and not myself only." And the room shook, and the tea- table rattled, as he went pacing up and down the room with heavy foot- steps. "I want to behave like a gentleman, and I wake up one morn- ing and find myself a scoundrel. Do you see 1 " " Tell me about it, my dear/' said Miss Dampier, quietly. And then poor John burst out and told all his story, confounding him- self, and stamping, flinging himself about into one chair after another. " I meant no harm," he said. " I wanted to give her a little pleasure, and this is the end. I think I have broken her heart, and those pasteurs have murdered her by this time. They won't let me see her ; Tourneur almost ordered me out of the house. Annt Jean, do say something; do have an opinion." " I wish your cousin was here," said Miss Dampier ; " he is the par- son of the family, and bound to give us all good advice; let me write to him, Jack. I have a certain reliance on Will's good sense." " I won't have Will interfering with my affairs," cried the other, testily. " And you — you will not help me, I see?" " I will go and see Elizabeth," said Miss Dampier, " to-night, if you like. I am very, very sorry for .her, and for you too, John. What more can I say ? Come again in an hour, and I will tell you what I think." So Miss Dampier was as good as her word, and set off on her pilgrim- age, and drove along the lighted streets, and then past the cab-stand and the hospital to the house with the shuttered windows. Her own heart was very sad as she got out of the carriage and rang at the bell. But looking up by chance, she just saw a gleam of light which came from one of the upper windows and played upon the wall. She took this as a good omen, and said to herself that all would be well. Do you be- lieve in omens'? The light came from a room where Elly was lying asleep, and dreaming gently, — calm, satisfied, happy for once, heedless of the troubles and turmoils and anx- ieties of the waking people all round about her. She looked very pale, her hands were loosely clasped, the light was in the window, flickering ; and meanwhile, beneath the window, in the street, Miss Dampier stood wait- ing under the stars. She did not know that Elly saw her in her dim dreams, and somehow fancied that she was near. The door opened at last. How black the courtyard looked behind it ! " What do you want ? " said Clementine, in a hiss. " Who is it?" " I want to know how Miss Gil- mour is," said Miss Dampier, quite humbly, " and to see Monsieur or Madame Tourneur." " Vous etes Madame Dampierre," said Clementine. " Madame est oc- cupee. Elle ne recoit pas." " When will she be disengaged % " ' said the old lady. " Ma foi ! " said Clementine, shrugging her shoulders, " that I can- not tell you. She has desired me to say that she does not wish to see anybody." And the door was shut with a bang. Elly woke up, startled from her sleep ; and old Francoise, THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 45 happening to come into the room, carried the candle away. Miss 1) ampier went home very sad and alarmed, she scarcely knew why. She wrote a tender little letter to Elly next day. It was : — " Dear Child, — You must let me come and see you. We are very unhappy, John and I, to think that his imprudence has caused you such trouble. He does not know how to beg you to forgive him, — you and M. Tourneur and your mother. He should have known better ; he has been unpardonably thoughtless, but he is nearly broken-hearted about it. He has been engaged to Lsetitia for three or four months, and you know how long she has loved him. Dearest Elly, you must let me come and see you, and perhaps one day you may be trusted to the care of an old wo- man, and you will come home with me for a time, and brighten my lonely little house. Your affectionate old' friend, " Jean Dampier." But to this there came no answer. Miss Dampier went again and could not get in. She wrote to Madame Tourneur, who sent back the letter un- opened. John Dampier walked about, pale and haggard and remorseful. One evening he and his aunt were dining in the public room of the hotel, and talking over this affair, when the waiter came and told them that a gentleman wanted to speak to Miss Dampier, and the old lady got up and went out of the room. She came back in an instant, looking very agi- tated. " John ! " she said, — "0 John ! " and then began to cry. She could not speak for a minute, while he, quite frightened for his part, has- tily went to the door. A tall young man was standing there, wrapped in a loose coat, who looked into his face and said : — " Are you Sir John Dampier f My sister Elizabeth would like to see yon again. I have come for you." " Your sister Elizabeth ! " said Dampier, looking surprised. The other man's face changed as he spoke again. " I am Anthony Tourneur ; I have come to fetch you, because it is her wish, and she is dy- ing, we fear." The two men- stood looking at one another for one horrible moment, then Dampier slowly turned his face round to the wall. In that one in- stant all that cruel weight which had almost crushed poor Elly to death came and fell upon his broad shoul- ders, better able, in truth, to bear it, than she had ever been. He looked up at last. " Have I done this ? " said he to Tourneur, in a sort of hoarse whisper. " I meant for the best." " I don't know what you have done," said the other, vefy sadly. "Life and death are not in your hands or mine. Let us pray that our mis- takes may be forgiven us. Are you ready now 3 " Elly's visions had come to an end. The hour seemed to ba very near when she should awake from the dream of life. Dim figures of her mother, her stepfather,, of old Fran- coise, came and stood by her bedside. But how far off they appeared ; how distant their voices sounded ! Old Franeoise came into her room the morning after Elly had been brought home, with some message from Tour- neur, desiring her to come down stairs and speak to him : he had been lying awake all night, thinking what he should say to her, praying for her, imploring grace, so that he should be allowed to touch the re- bellious spirit, to point out all its errors, to bring it to the light. And meanwhile, Elly, the rebellious spirit, sat by her bedside in a sort of bewil- dered misery. She scarcely told her- self why she was so unhappy. She wondered a little that there was agony so great to be endured ; she had never conceived its existence before. Was he gone forever, — was it Lseti- tia whom he cared for 1 " You know •16 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. that I belong to Lsetitia," he Fad said. How could it be ? all heaven and earth would cry out against it. Lastitia's, — Lsetitia, who cared so little, who was so pale, and so cold, and so indifferent ? How could he speak such cruel words ? shame, shame ! that she should be so made to suffer. " A poor little thing like me," said Elly, " lonely and friend- less and heart-broken." The pang was so sharp that it seemed to her like physical pain, and she moaned, and winced, and shivered under it, — was it she herself or another person that was here in the darkness ? She was cold too, and yet burning with thirst ; she groped her way to the jug, and poured out a little water, and drank with eager gulps. Then she began to take off her damp clothes ; but it tired her, and she forgot to go on ; she dropped her cloak upon the floor and flung herself upon the bed, with a passionate outcry. Her mouth was dry and parched, her throat was burning, her hands were burning too. In the darkness she seemed to see his face, and Lsfetitia's glaring at her, and she turned sick and giddy at the sight ; presently, not theirs only, but a hundred others, — Tourneur's, Boulot's, Faust's, and Mephistophe- les's, — crowding upon her and glar- ing furiously. She fell into a short, uneasy sleep once, and woke up with a moa!n as the hospital clock struck three. The moon was shining into her room, ineffably gray, chill, and silent, and as she woke, a horror, a terror, came over her, — her heart scarcely beat ; she seemed to be sink- ing and dying away. She thought with a thrill that her last hour was come ; the terror seemed to bear down upon her, nearer and closer and irre- sistible, — and then she must have fallen back senseless upon her bed. And so when Francoise came with a message in the morning, which was intended to frighten the rebellious spirit into submission, she found it gone, safe, far away from reproach, from angry chiding, and the poor lit- tle body lying lifeless, burnt with fierce fever, and racked with dull pain. All that day Elly was scarcely sensible, lying in a sort of stupor. Francoise, with tender hands, un- dressed her and laid her within the sheets ; Tourneur came and stood by the poor child's bedside. He had brought a doctor, who was bending over her. " It is a sort of nervous fever," said the doctor, " and I fear there that is some inward inflammation as well ; she is very ill. This must have been impending for some time past." Tourneur stood with clasped hands and a heavy heart, watching the changes as they passed over the poor little face. Who was to blame in this ? He had not spoken one word to her the night before. Was it grief? was it repentance? Ah me! Elly was dumb now, and conld not answer. All his wrath was turned against Dampier; for Elly he only felt the tenderest concern. But he was too unhappy just now to think of his anger. He went for Madame Tourneur, who came back and set to work to nurse her daughter; but she was frightened and agitated, and seemed scarcely to know what she was about. On the morning of the second day, contrary to the doctor's expectations, Elly recovered her con- sciousness ; on the third day she was better. And when Tourneur came into the room, she said to him with one of her old pretty, sad smiles : " You are very angry with me, are you not? You think I ought not to have gone to the play with John Dampier ? " "Ah, my child," said Tourneur, with a long-drawn, shivering sigh, " I am too anxious to be angry." "Did he promise to marry you, Elly ? " said Madame Tourneur, who was sitting by her bedside. She was looking so eagerly for an answer that she did not see her husband's look of reproach. " How could he ? " said Elly, sim- ply. "He is going to marry Lsetitia." THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 47 " Tell me, my child," said Tour- neur, gently taking her hand, " how often did you go with him ? " " Three times," Elly answered, faintly. " Once to the Bois, and once to the Louyre, and then that last time," and she gasped for breath. Tourncur did not answer, but bent down gently, and kissed her forehead. It was on that very day that Dam- pier called. Elly seemed somehow to know that he was in the house. She got excited, and began to wander, and to call him by his name. Tourneur heard her, and turned pale, and set his teeth as he went down to speak to Sir John. In the evening the girl was better, and Anthony arrived from the south. And I think it was on the fifth day that Elly told Anthony that she wanted to see Dampier once again. " You can guess how it has been," she said, " and I love him still, but not as I did. Anthony, is it not strange ? Perhaps one is selfish when one is dying. But I want to see him — just once again. Everything is so changed. I cannot understand why I have been so unhappy all this time. Anthony, I have wasted all my life; I have made nobody happy, — not even you." " You have made me love you, and that has been my happiness," said An- thony. " I have been very unhappy too ; but I thank Heaven for having known you, Elly." Elly thought that she had but a little time left. What was there in the solemn nearness of death that had changed her so greatly t She had no terror : she was ready to lie down and go to sleep like a tired child in its mother's arms. Worldly! we call some folks worldly, and truly they have lived for to-day and cared for to-day ; but for them, as for us, the great to-morrow comes, and then they cease to be worldly, — is it not so t Who shall say that such and such a life is wasted, is purposeless ? that such and such minds are narrow, are mean, are earthly 1 The day comes, dawning freshly and stilly, like any other day in all the year, when the secret of their life is ended, and the great sanctification of Death is theirs. Boulot came to see Tourneur, over whom he had great influence, and insisted upon being shown to Eliza- beth's bedside. She put out her hand and said, " How d'ye do, Monsieur Boulot 1 " very sweetly, but when he had talked to her for some little time, she stopped him and said : " You cannot know how near these things seem, and how much more great and awful and real they are, when you are lying here like me, than when you are standing by another person's sick- bed. Nobody can speak of them to me as they themselves speak to me." She said it so simply, with so little intention of offence, that Boulot stopped in the midst of his little ser- mon, and said farewell quite kindly and gently. And then, not long after he was gone, Anthony came back with the Dampiers. They walked up the wooden stairs with hearts that ached sorely enough. Miss Dampier was calm and composed again ; . she had stood by many a death-bed, — she was expecting to go herself before very long, — but John was quite unnerved. Little Elly, whom he had pitied and looked down upon and patronized, was she to be to him from this minute a terror, a lifelong regret and remorse ? — he could hardly summon courage to walk into the room when the door was opened and Anthony silently motioned him to pass through it. And yet there was nothing very dreadful. A pale, sweet face lying on the little white bed ; the gentle eyes, whose look he knew so well, turned expectantly towards him ; a cup with some flowers ; a little water in a glass by the bedside ; an open window ; the sun setting behind the poplar-trees. Old Francoise was sitting in the window, sewing ; the birds were twit- tering outside. JohnDampierthought it strange that death should come in this familiar guise, — tranquilly, with 48 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. the sunset, the rustling leaves of the trees, the scent of the geraniums in the court helow, the cackle of the hens, the stitching of a needle, — he almost envied Elly, lying resting at the end of her journey : Elly, no longer the silly little girl he had laughed at, chided, and played with, — she was wise now, in his eyes. She could not talk much, but what she said was in her own voice and in her old manner, — " You kind peo- ple, to come and see me," she said, and beckoned to them to approach nearer. Miss Dampier gave her nephew a warning touch, she saw how agitated he was, and was afraid that he would disturb Elizabeth. But what would he not have done for her ? He con- trolled himself, and spoke quietly, in a low voice : — " I am very grateful to you, dear Elly, for sending for me. I was long- ing to hear about you. I want to ask you to forgive me for the ill I have done you. I want to tell you just once that I meant no harm, only it was such a pleasure to myself that I persuaded myself it was right. I know you will forgive me. All my life I will bless you." And his head fell as he spoke. " What have I to forgive ? " fal- tered Elly. " It seems so long ago ! — Faust and Margaret, and those pleasant drives. Am I to forgive you because I loved you 1 That was a sort of madness ; but it is gone. I love you still, dear John, but differ- ently. I am not mad now, but in mv senses. If I get well, how changed it will be — if I die — " If she died ? Dampier, hating himself all the while, thought, with a chill pang, that here would be a horrible solution to all his perplexi- ties. Perhaps Elly guessed some- thing of what was passing in his mind, for she gave him her hand once more, and faltered : — " My love to Lsetitia," and, as she spoke, she raised her eyes, with the old familiar look in them. It was more than he could bear ; he stooped and kissed her frail, burn- ing fingers, and then, with scorched, quivering lips, turned aside and went softly out of the room. Anthony and Madame Tourneur were standing out- side, and as Dampier passed she looked at him piteously, and her lips trembled too, but she did not speak. It seemed to him somehow — only he was thinking of other things — as if Elly's good and bad angels were waiting there. He himself passed on with a hanging head ; what could he say to justify himself? — his sorrow was too real to be measured out into words, his penitence greater almost than the offence had been. Even Tourneur, whom he met in the court- yard, almost forgave him as he glanced at the stricken face that was passing out of his house into the street. After he was gone, Elly began to wander. Erancoise, who had never taken such a bad view of Elly's con- dition as the others, and who strongly disapproved of all this leave-taking, told Miss Dampier that if they wanted to kill her outright, "they need only let in all Paris to stare at her, as they had been doing for the last two days ; and Miss Dampier, meekly taking the hint, rose in her turn to go. But Elly, from her bed, knew that she was about to leave her, and cried out piteously, and stretched out her hands, and clutched at her gown. "Eaut rester," whispered Eran- coise. " I mean to stay," said Miss Dam- pier, after, a moment's deliberation, sitting down at the bedside and unty- ing her bonnet. Under her bonnet she wore a little prim cap, with loops of gray ribbon ; out of her pocket she pulled her knit- ting and a pair of mittens. She folded up her mantlet and put it away ; she signed to Erancoise to leave her in charge. When Tourneur came in he found her installed, and as much at home as if she were there by rights. Elly wished it, she told him, and she THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 49 would stay were ten pasteurs opposed to it. Tourneur reluctantly consented at last, much against his will. It seemed to him that her mother ought to be Elly's best nurse, but Madame Tourneur eagerly implored him to let Miss Dampier remain ; she seemed strangely scared and helpless, and changed and odd. " 0, if you will only make her well ! " said she to the old Scotchwoman. " How can I make her well ? " Miss Dampier answered. " I will try and keep her quiet, that is the chief thing ; and if M. Tourneur will let me, I should like to send for my old friend, Dr. Benin." And her persistency overcame Tourneur's bewildered objections ; her quiet good sense and determination carried the day. Doctor Bertin came, and the first doctor went off in a huff, and Elly lay tossing on her bed. What a weary rack it was to her, that little white bed ! There she lay, scorched and burning, — consumed by a fierce fire. There she lay through the long days and the nights, as they followed one by one, waiting to know the end. Not one of them dared think what that end might be. Doc- tor Bertin himself could not tell how this queer illness might turn ; such fevers were sometimes caused by men- tal disquietude, he said. Of infection there was no fear ; he came day after day, and stood pitifully by the bed- side. He had seen her once before in her brilliance and health ; he had never cared for her as he did now that she was lying prostrate and helpless in their hands. Madame Jacob had carried off her children at the first alarm of fever ; the house was kept darkened and cool and quiet ; and patient Miss Dampier sat waiting in the big chair for good or for ill fortune. Sometimes of an evening she would creep down stairs and meet her nephew in the street out- side and bring him news. And besides John, there was poor Anthony wandering about the house, 8 wretched, anxious, and yet resigned. Often, as a boy, he had feared death ; the stern tenets to which he belonged made him subject to its terrors, but now it seemed to him so simple a thing to die, that he wondered at his own past fears. Elly thought it a simple thing to die, but of this fever she was weary, — of this cruel pain and thirst and misery ; she would moan a little, utter a few complaining words, and wander off into delirium again. She had been worse than usual one evening, the fever higher. It was a bad account that Miss Dampier had to give the doctor when he came, to the anxious people waiting for news. All night long Elly's kind nurse sat patiently in the big arm-chair, knit- ting, as was her way, or sometimes letting the needles fall into her lap, and sitting still with clasped hands and a wistful heart. The clocks of the city struck the dark hours as they passed, — were these Elly's last upon earth ? Jean Dampier sadly won- dered. The stars set behind the pop- lar-trees, a night-breeze came shiver- ing now and then through the open window. The night did not appear so very long ; it seemed hastening by, dark and silent, relentless to -the wearied nurse; for presently, before she knew it almost, it seemed as if the dawn had begun ; and somehow, as she was watching still, she fell asleep for a little. While she slept the shadows began to tremble and fade, and fly hither and thither in the death- like silence of the early morning, and when she awoke it was with a start and a chill terror, coming, she knew not whence. She saw that the room was gray, and black no longer. Her heart began to beat, and with a ter- rified glance she looked round at the bed where Elly was lying. She looked once, and then again, and then suddenly her trembling hands were clasped in humblest thanksgiving, and the gray head bent lower and lower. There was nothing to fear any more. Elly was sleeping quietly on 50 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. her pillow, the fiery spots had faded out of her cheeks, her skin looked fresh and moist, the fever had left her. Death had not yet laid his cold hand on the poor little prey, he had not come while the nurse was sleeping, — he had not called her as yet. I speak in this way from long habit and fool- ishness. For, in truth, had he come, would it have been so sad, would it have been so hard a fate, — would it have been Death with his skeleton's head, and his theatrical grave-clothes, and his scythe, and his hour-glass 1 Would it have been this, or simply the great law of Nature working peacefully in its course, — only the seed falling into the ground, only the de- cree of that same merciful Power which sent us into the world ? — us men and women, who are glad to exist, and grateful for our own creation, into a world where we love to tarry for a while ? Jean Dampier, sitting there in the dawning, thought something of all this, and yet how could she help ac- knowledging the mercy which spared her and hers the pang of having fatally injured this poor little Elly, whom she had learned to love with all her tender old heart 1 It seemed a de- liverance, a blessing a hundred times beyond their deserts. She had been prepared for the worst, and yet she had shrunk with terror from the chastisement. Now, in this first moment of relief, — now that, after all, Elly was, perhaps, given back to them, to youth, to life, — she felt as if she could have borne the blow better than she had ever dared to hope. The sun rose, the birds chirped freshly among the branches, the chill morning spread over the city. Sleepers began to stir, and to awake to their daily cares, to their busy life. Elizabeth's life, too, began anew from this hour. Some one said to me just now that we can best make others happy by the mere fact of our own existence ; as she got well day by day, Elly found that it was so. How had she deserved so much of those about her ? she often wondered to herself. A hindrance, a trouble, a vexation to them, was all she had ever been ; and yet as one by one ihey came to greet her, she felt that they were glad. Anthony's eyes were full of tears ; Tourneur closed his for an instant, as he uttered a silent thanksgiving, — she herself did not know how to thank them all. And here, perhaps, my story ought to end, but in truth it is not finished, though I should cease to write it down, and it goes on and on as the years go by. CHAPTER VIII. Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset, waning slow From fringes of the faded eve. O happy planet, eastward go, Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes, That watch me from the glen below. And so she had left all behind, Elizabeth thought. Paris, the old house, mother, stepfather, and pas- teur, the court-yard, the familiar wearisome life, the dull days breaking one by one, John Dampier, her hope- less hopes, and her foolish fancies, — she had left them all on the other side of the sea for a time, and come away with kind Miss Dampier. Here, in England, whither her good friend had brought her to get well, the air is damp with sea-breezes ; the at- mosphere is not keen and exciting as it is abroad ; the sky is more often gray than blue ; it rarely dazzles and bewilders you with its brilliance; there is humidity and vegetation, a certain placidity and denseness and moisture of which some people com- plain. To Elizabeth, — nervous, ea- ger, excitable, — this quiet green country, these autumn mists were new life. Day by day she gained strength, and flesh, and tone, and health, and good spirits. But it was only by slow degrees THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 51 that this good change was effected ; weaknesses, faintnesses, relapses, — who does not know the wearisome course of a long convalescence ? To-night, though she is by way of being a strong woman again, she feels as if she was a very, very old one, somehow, as she sits at the window of a great hotel looking out at the sunset. It seems to her as if it was never to rise again. There it goes sinking, glorying over the sea, blaz- ing yellow in tho west. The place grows dark ; in the next room through the open door her white bed gleams chilly ; she shudders as she looks at it, and thinks of the death-bed from which she has scarce risen. There are hours, especially when people are still weak and exhausted by sickness, when life seems unbearable, when death appears terrible, and when the spirit is so weary that it seems as if no sleep could be deep enough to give it rest. " When I am dead," thought Elizabeth ; " ah me ! my body will be at rest, but I myself, shall I have for- gotten — do I want to forget . . . A " Meanwhile Miss Dampier, wrapped in her gray cloak, is taking a brisk solitary little walk upon the wooden pier which Elly sees reflected black against the sea. Aunt Jean is serene- ly happy about, her charge ; delighted to have carried her off against all op- position ; determined that somehow or other she shall never go back ; that she shall be made happy one day. It is late in the autumn. Tourists are flocking home ; a little procession of battered ladies and gentlemen carrying all sorts of bundles and bags and parcels disembarks every day ; and then another procession of ladies and gentlemen goes to see them land. Any moment you may chance to encounter some wan sea-sick friend staggering along with the rest of the sufferers, who are more or less other people's friends. The waves wash up and down, painted yellow by the sun- set. There is no wind, but it has been blowing hard for a day or two, and the sea is not yet calm. How pleasant it is, Miss Dampier thinks ; chill, fresh, wholesome. This good air is the very thing for Elly. Along the cliffs the old lady can see the peo- ple walking against the sky like little specks. There are plenty of fishing- boats out and about. There is the west still blazing yellow, and then a long gray bank of clouds ; and with a hiss and a shrill clamor here comes the tossing, dark-shadowed steamer across the black and golden water. All the passengers are crowding on deck and feebly gathering their be- longings together ; here the Frederic William comes close along-side, and as everybody else rushes along the pier to inspect the new-comers, good old Jean trots off, too, to see what is what. In a few minutes the passen- gers appear, slowly rising through a trap like the ghost in the Corsican Brothers. First, a lilac gentleman, then a mouldy green gentleman (evidently a foreigner), then an orange- lady. Then a ghostly blue gentleman, then a deadly white lady, then a pale lemon-colored gentleman with a. red nose. Then a stout lady, black in the face, then a faltering lady's-maid, with a bandbox. Then a gentleman with an um- brella. Jean Dampier is in luck to-night, as, indeed, she deserves to be : a more kindly, tender-hearted, unselfish, old woman does not exist, — if that is a reason for being lucky, — however, she has been my good friend for many a long year, and it is not to-day that I am going to begin to pay her compli- ments. I was saying she is in luck, and she finds a nephew among the passen- gers, — it is the gentleman with the umbrella ; and there they are, greet- ing one another in the most affection- ate manner. The Nephew. — " Let me get my portmanteau, and then I will come and talk to you as much as you like." 52 THE STOKY OF ELIZABETH. The Aunt. — " Never mind your portmanteau, the porter will look after it. Where have you been, Will ? Where do you come from ? I am at the ' Flag Hotel,' close by." The Nephew. — " So I hear." The Aunt. — " Who told you that ? " The Nephew. — "A sour-faced wo- man at Paris. I asked for you at Meurice's, and they sent me to this Madame Tourneur. She told me all about you. What business is it of yours to go about nursing mad girls'" Aunt Jean. — " Elly is not mad. You have heard me talk of her a hundred times. I do believe I saved her life, Will; it was my business, if anybody's, to care for her. Her heart was nearly broken." The Nephew. — " John nearly broke her heart, did he 1 I don't believe a word of it" {smiling very sweetly). " You are always running away with one idea after another, you silly old woman. Young ladies' hearts are made of india-rubber, and Lady Dampier says this one is an artful — designing — horrible — abomina- ble—" Aunt Jean (sadly). — "Elly nearly died, that is all. You are like all men, Will, — " The Nephew (interrupting). — " Don't ! Consider, I 'm just out of the hands of the steward. Let me have something to eat before we en- ter into any sentimental discussion. Here (to a porter), bring my portman- teau to the hotel. — Nonsense (to a flyman), what should I do with your carriage * " Will Dampier was a member of the Alpine Club, and went year by year to scramble his holiday away up and down mountain-sides. He was a clergyman, comfortably installed in a family living. He was something like his cousin in appearance, but, to my mind, better looking, browner, broader, with bright blue eyes and a charming smile. He looked like a gentleman. He wore a clerical waist- coat. He had been very much com- plimented upon his good sense; and he liked giving advice, and took pains about it, as he was anxious not to lose his reputation. Now and then, however, he did foolish things, but he did them sensibly, which is a very different thing from doing sensible things foolishly. It seems to me that is just the difference between men and women. Will was Miss Dampier's ideal of what a nephew should be. They walked back to the hotel together, chattering away very comfortably. He went into the coffee-room and ordered his dinner, and then he came back to his aunt, who was walking on the lawn outside. Meanwhile the sun went on setting, the windows lighted up one by one. It was that comfortable hour when people sit down in little friendly groups and break bread, and take their ease, the business of the day being over. Will Dampier and his aunt took one or two turns along the gravel path facing the sea; he had twenty min- utes to wait, and he thought they might be well employed in giving good counsel. " It seems to me a very wild scheme of yours, carrying off this unruly young woman," he began ; " she will have to go home sooner or later. What good will you have done ? " " I don't know, I 'm sure," says Miss Dampier, meekly ; " a holiday is good for us at all times. Have n't you enjoyed yours, Will 1 " " I should rather think I had. You never saw anything so pretty as Berne the other morning as I was coming away. I came home by the Rhine, you know. I saw Aunt Dam- pier and Tishy for an hour or two." " And did you see John at Paris ? " " No ; he was down at V , staying with the M s. And now tell me about the young lady with the heart. Is she up stairs tearing her hair? Aunt Dampier was furi- ous." " So she had heard of it ? " said THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 53 Miss Dampier, thoughtfully. And - then she added rather sharply, " You can tell her that the young lady is quite getting over her fancy. In fact, John does n't deserve that she should remember him. Now, listen, Will, I am going to tell you a story." And then, in her quiet, pleasant, old- fashioned way, she told him her ver- sion of all that had been happen- ing. Will listened and laughed, and said, " You will think me a brute, but I agree with Aunt Dampier. Your young woman has behaved as badly as possible ; she has made a dead set at poor John, who is so vain that any woman can get him into her clutches." " What do you mean 1 " cries the annt, quite angry. " If she had really cared for him, would she have forgotten all about him already ? I warn you, Aunt Jenny ; I don't approve of your hero- ine." " I must go and look after my he- roine," says Miss Dampier, dryly. *' I dare say your dinner is ready." But Will Dampier, whose curiosity at all events was excited, followed his aunt up stairs and along the passage, and went in after her as she opened a door ; went into a dim chill room, with two wide-set windows, through which the last yellow streaks of the sunset were fading, and the fresh evening blast blew in with a gust as they entered. It was dark, and noth- ing could be seen distinctly, only something white seemed crouching in a chair, and as the door opened they heard a low sobbing sigh, which seemed to come out of the gloom ; and then it was all very silent. "Elly, my dear child," said Miss Dampier, " what is the matter % " There was no answer. " Why don't you speak ? " said the kind old lady, groping about, and running up against chairs and tables. " Because I can't speak without crying," gasps Elly, beginning to cry. " And it 's so ungrateful — " "You are tired, dear," says Aunt Jean, "and cold," — taking her hand ; and then turning round and see- ing that her nephew had come in with her, she said : " Ring the bell, Will, and go to your dinner. If you will tell them down stairs to send up some tea directly I shall be obliged to you." William Dampier did as he was bid, and walked away consider- ably mollified towards poor Elly. " One is so apt to find fault with people," he was thinking. "And there she was crying up stairs all the time, poor wretch." He could never bear to see a wo- man cry. His parishioners — the women, I mean — had found this out, and used to shed a great many tears when he came to see them. He had found them out, — he knew that they had found him out, and yet as sure as the apron-corner went up, the half-crown came out of the pocket. 9.30. — Reading Room, Flag Hotel, Boatstown. — Mr. William Dampier writing at a side-table to a married sister in India. Three old gentlemen come creaking in ; select limp news- papers and take their places. A young man who is going to town by the 10.30 train lies down on the sofa and falls asleep, and snores gently. A sooth- ing silence. Mr. Dampier's blunt pen travels along the thin paper " What a dear old woman Aunt Jen- ny is I How well she tells a story ! Lady Dampier was telling me the same story the other day. I was very much bored. I thought each one person more selfish and disagree- able than the other. Now Aunt Jen- ny takes up the tale. The personages all brighten under her friendly old spectacles, and become good, gentle- hearted, romantic, and heroic all at once, — as she is herself. I was a good deal struck by her report of poor John's sentimental imbroglio. I drank tea with the imbroglio this evening, and I can't help rather liking her. She has a sweet pretty face,' and her voice, when she talks, pipes and thrills like a musical snuff-box. 54 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. Aunt Jenny wants her for a niece, that is certain, and says that a man ought to marry the wife he likes best. You are sure to agree to that ; I won- der what Miles says 1 But she 's torn with sympathy, poor old dear, and first cries over one girl, and then over the other. She says John came to her one day at Paris in a great state of mind, declared he was quite determined to finish with all his uncertainty, and that he had made up his mind to break with Lsetitia, and to marry Elizabeth, if she was still in her old way of thinking. Aunt Jean got frightened, refused to interfere, car- ried off the young lady, and has not spoken to her on the subject. John, who is really behaving very foolishly, is still at Paris, and has not followed them, as I know my aunt hoped he would have done. I can't help being very sorry for him. Lady Dampier has heard of his goings on. A Frenchman told some people, who told some people who — you know how things get about. Some day when I don't wish it, you will hear all about me, and write me a thun- dering letter all the way from Luck- now. There is no doubt about the matter. It would be a thousand pities if John were to break off with Lastitia, to speak nothing of the cruelty and the insult to the poor child. "And so Bosey and Posey are coming home. I am right sorry for their poor papa and mamma. I hope you have sometimes talked to my nieces about their respectable uncle Will. They are sure to be looked after and happy with Aunt Jenny, but how you will be breaking your hearts after them ! A priest ought perhaps to talk to you of one consolation very certain and efficacious. But I have always found my dear Prue a better Christian than myself, and I have no need to preach to her." Will Dampier wrote a close straight little handwriting ; only one side of his paper was full, but he did not care to write any more that night : he put up his letter in his case, and walked out into the garden. It was a great starlight night The sea gloomed vast and black on the horizon. A few other people were walking in the garden, and they talked in hushed yet distinct voices. Many of the windows were open and alight. Will looked up at the win- dow of the room where he had been to see his aunt. That was alight and open, too, and some one was sitting with clasped hands, looking at the sky. Dampier lit a cigar, and he, too, walked along gazing at the stars, and thinking of Prue's kind face as he went along. Other constellations clus- tered above her head, he thought ; be- tween them lay miles of land and sea, great countries, oceans rushing, plains arid and unknown; vast jungles, de- serted cities, crumbling in a broiling sun ; it gave him a little vertigo to try and realize what hundreds of miles of distance stretched between their two beating hearts. Distance so great, and yet so little ; for he could love his sister, and think of her, and see her, and talk to her, as if she was in the next room. What was that distance which could be measured by miles, compared to the immeasurable gulf that separates each one of us from the nearest and dearest whose hands we may hold in our own 1 Will walked on, his mind full of dim thoughts, such as come to most people on starlit nights ; when con- stellations are blazing, and the living soul gazes with awe-stricken wonder at the great living universe, in the midst of which it waits and trembles and adores. " The world all about has faded away," he thought ; " and lies dark and dim and indistinct. People are lying like dead people stretched out, unconscious on their beds, heedless, unknowing. Here and there in the houses, a few dead people are lying like the sleepers. Are they as unconscious as the living f " He goes to the end of the garden, and stands looking upward, until he can- not think longer of things so far above THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 55 him. It seems to him that his hrain is like the string of an instrument, which will break under the passionate vibration of harmonies so far beyond his powers to render. He goes back in- to the house. Everything suddenly grows strangely real and familiar, and yet it seemed, but a moment ago, as if to-day and its cares had passed away forever. CHAPTER IX. To humbler functions, awful Power, I call thee : I myself commend .Unto thy guidance from this hour. O, let my weakness have an end. Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice — The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live. Ode to Duty. Elly had a little Indian box that her father had once given to her. It served her for a work-box and a treas- ure casket. She kept her scissors in it and her ruby ring ; some lavender, a gold thimble, and her father's pic- ture. And then in a lower tray were some cottons and tapes, one or two letters, a pencil, and a broken silver chain. She had a childish habit of playing with it still, sometimes, and setting it to rights. It was lying on the breakfast-table next morning when Will Dampier came in to see his aunt. Miss Dampier, who liked order, begged Elly to take it off, and Dampier politely, to save her the trou- ble, set it down somewhere else, and then came to the table and asked for some tea. The fishes had had no luck that morning, he told them ; he had been out in a boat since seven o'clock, and brought back a basketful. The sea air made them hungry, no doubt, for they came by dozens — lit- tle feeble whiting — and nibbled at the bait. " I wish you would come," he said to his aunt ; " the boat bobs up and down in the sunshine, and the breeze is delightfully fresh, and the people come down on the beach and stare at you through telescopes." As he talked to his aunt he glanced at Elly, who was pouring out his tea ; he said to himself that she was cer- tainly an uncommonly pretty girl ; and then he began to speculate about an odd soft look in her eyes. " When I see people with that expression," he wrote to his sister, " I always ask myself what it means ? I have seen it in the glass, sometimes, when I have been shaving. Miss Gilmour was not looking at me, but at the muffins and teacups. She was nice- ly dressed in blue calico ; she was smiling ; her hair trim and shiny. I could hardly believe it was my wail- ing banshee of the previous night." (What follows is to the purpose, so I may as well transcribe a little more of Will's letter.) "When she had poured out my tea, she took up her hat and said she should go down to the station, and get The Times for my aunt. I should have offered my ser- vices, but Annt Jean made me a sign to stay. What for, do you think ? To show me a letter she had received in the morning from that absurd John, who cannot make up his mind. ' I do not,' he says, ' want you to talk poor Elly into a grande passion. But if her feelings are unchanged, I will marry her to-morrow, if she chooses ; and I dare say Tishy will not break her heart. Perhaps you will think me a fool for my pains ; but I shall not be alone in the world. What was poor little Elly herself when she cried for the moon ? ' This is all rodomontade ; John is not acting fairly by Lsetitia, to whom he is bound by every possi- ble promise. " My aunt said just now that it would be hard for Tishy if he married her, liking Elizabeth best : and there is truth in that. But he must n't like her best ; Miss Gilmour will get over her fancy for him, and he must get over his for her. If he had only be- haved like a man and married her right off two years ago, and never hankered after the flesh-pots of Egypt, or if he had only left her alone to set- tle down with her French pasteur, — 56 THE STOBY OF ELIZABETH. "'If — if,' cried my aunt, impa- tiently, when I said as much (you know her way), — ' he has done wrong and been sorry for it, Will, which of us can do more ? I doubt whether you would have behaved a bit better in his place.' " This portion- of Mr. Will's letter was written at his aunt's writing- book immediately after their little talk. Elly came in rosy from her walk, and Will went on diligently, looking up every now and then with the sense of bien-etre which a bachelor experiences when he suddenly finds himself domesticated and at home with kind women. Miss Dampier was sitting in the window. She had got The Times in her hand, and was trying to read. Every now and then she looked up at her nephew, with his curly head bent over his writing, at Elly leaning lazi- ly back in her chair, sewing idly at a little shred of work. Her hair was clipped, the color had faded out of her cheeks, her eyes gleamed. Pretty as she was, still she was changed, — how changed from the Elizabeth of eight- een months ago whom Miss Dampier could remember ! The old lady went on with her paper, trying to read. She turned to the French correspond- ent, and saw something about the Chamber, the Emperor, about Italy ; about M. X , the rich banker hav- ing resolved to terminate his exist- ence, when fortunately his servant enters the room at the precise mo- ment when he was preparing to pre- cipitate himself . . . . " The servant to precipitate .... the window .... the .... poor Tishy! At my age I did think I should have done with sentimental troubles. Heigh-ho ! heigh-ho ! " sighs Miss Dampier. Elly wanted some thread, and rose with a soft rustle, and got her box, and came back to her easy-chair. Out of the window they could see all the pleasant idle business of the little seaport going on, the people stroll- ing in the garden, or sitting in all sorts of queer corners, the boats, the mariners (I do believe they are hired to stand about in blue shirts, and shake their battered old noses as they prose for hours together). The wait- er came and took away the breakfast, William went on with his letter, and Miss Dampier, with John's little note in her pocket, was, as I say, reading the most extraordinary things in The Times all about her own private con- cerns. Nobody spoke for some ten minutes, when suddenly came a little gasp, a little sigh from Elly's low chair, and the girl said, " Aunt Jean ! look here," almost crying, and held out something in her thin hand. " What is it, my dear ? " said Miss Dampier, looking up hastily, and pulling off her spectacles : they were dim somehow, and wanted wiping. " Poor dear, dearest Tishy," cried Elly, in her odd impetuous way. " Why does he not go to her 1 Aunt Jean, look here, I found it in my box, — only look here " ; and she put a little note into Miss Dampier's hand. Will looked up curiously from his writing. Elly had forgotten all about him. Miss Dampier took the letter, and when she had read what was written, and then turned over the "page, she took off her glasses again with a click, and said, " What non- sense ! " And so it was nonsense, and yet the nonsense touched Elizabeth and brought tears into her eyes. They came faster and faster, and then sud- denly remembering that she was not aione, and ashamed that Dampier should see her cry again, she jumped up with a shining, blushing tear- dimmed tender face, and ran away out of the room. Aunt Jean looked at Will doubtfully, then hesitated, and gave him the little shabby letter that had brought these bright tears into the girl's eyes. Dear old soul ! she made a sort of confessor of her nephew. The confessor saw a few foolish words which La?titia must have writ- ten days ago, never thinking that her THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 57 poor little words were to be scanned by stranger eyes, — written perhaps unconsciously on a stray sheet of pa- per. There was " John. Dear John! Dear, dearest ! I am so hap .... John and Lastitia. John my jo. Goose and gander. And then, by some odd chance, she must have fold- ed the blotted sheet together and for- gotten what she had written and sent it off to Elly Gilmour, with a little careless note about Schlangenbad, and " more fortunate next time," on the other side. " Poor little Letty ! " thought Dampier, and he doubled the paper up, and put it back into the lavender box as the door opened, and Miss Gil- mour came back into the room. She had dried her eyes, she had fastened on her gray shawl. She picked up her hat, which was lying on the floor, and began pulling on two very formidable looking gauntlets over her slim white hands. "I am go- ing for a little walk," she said to Miss Dampier. " Will you " — hesitating and blushing — " direct that little note of Laetitia's to Sir John ? I am going along the cliff towards the pretty little bay." Will was quite melted and touched. Was this the scheming young wo- man, against whom he had been warned ? the woman who had en- tangled his cousin with her wiles 1 " Aunt Jenny," he says, with a sad- den glance, " are you going to tell her why John Dampier does not go to Laetitia 1 " "Why does he not go?" Elly re- peats, losing her color a little. "He says that if you would like him to stay, he thinks he ought not to go," says Jean Dampier, hesitating, and tearing corners off The Times newspaper. Will Dampier turned his broad back and looked out of window. There was a moment's silence. They could hear the tinkling of bells, the whistling of the sea, the voices of the men calling to each other in the port : the sunshine streamed in : Ellv was 3* standing in it, and seemed gilt with a golden background. She ought to have held a palm in her hand, poor little martyr ! It seemed a long time, it was only a minute, and then she spoke ; a sweet honest blush came deepening into Elizabeth's pale cheeks : " I don't want to marry him because I care for him," she said, in a thrilling, pathetic voice. " Why should Lsetitia, who is so fond of him, suffer because I be- haved so badly 1 " The tears once more came welling up into her eyes. " I shall think I ought to have died instead of getting well," she said. " Aunt Jean, send him the little note ; make him go, dear aunt Jean." Miss Dampier gave Elly a kiss ; she did not know what to say ; she could not influence her one way or another. She wrote to John that morning, taking good care to look at the back of her paper first. "Flao Hotel, Boatstoww, " November lbth. " My dear Jack, — "I had great doubts about communicating your let- ter tp Elizabeth. It seemed to me that the path you had determined up- on was one fall of thorns and difficul- ties, for her, for you, and for my niece Lastitia. But although Elly is of far too affectionate a nature ever to give up caring for any of her friends, let me assure you that her feelings are now only those of friendly regard and deep interest in your welfare. When I mentioned to her the contents of your letter (I think it best to speak plainly), she said, with her eyes full of tears, that she did not want to marry you, — that she felt you were bound to return to Lastitia. She had been much affected by discovering the enclosed little note from your cousin. I must say that the part which con- cerns you interested me much, more so than her letter to her old friend. But she was evidently preoccupied at the time, and Elly, far from feeling neglected, actually began to cry, she 58 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. was so touched by this somewhat sin- gular discovery. Giris' tears are easily dried. If it lies in my power, Bhe shall yet be made happy. " There is nothing now, as you see, that need prevent your fulfilling your engagements. You are all very good children, on the whole, and I trust that your troubles are but fleeting clouds that will soon pass away. That you and Lsetitia may enjoy all prosperity is the sincere hope and de- sire of your " Affectionate old aunt, "J. M. Dampiek." Miss Dampier, having determined that she had written a perfectly im- partial letter, put it up in an envelope, rang the bell, and desired a waiter to post it. Number twenty-three's bell rang at the same moment ; so did number fif- teen ; immediately after a quantity of people poured in by the eleven-o'clock train ; the waiter flung the letter down on his pantry table, and rushed off to attend to half a dozen things at once, of which posting the note was not one. About three o'clock that afternoon Miss Dampier in her close bonnet was standing in the passage talking to a tall young man with a black waistcoat and wide-awake. " What are you going to do ? " he Baid. " Could n't we go for a drive somewhere 1 " " I have ordered a carriage at three," said Miss Dampier, smiling. " We are going up on the hills. You might come, too, if you liked it." And when the carriage drove up to the door there he was, waiting to hand her in. He had always, until he saw her, imagined Elly a little flirting person, quite different from the tall young lady in the broad hat,~with the long cloak falling from her shoulders, who was prepared to accompany them. She had gone away a little, and his aunt sent him to fetch her. She was standing against the railing, looking out at the sea with her sad eyes. There was the lawn, there was the sea, there was Elly. A pretty young lady always makes a pretty picture ; but out of doors in the sunshine she looks a prettier young lady than any- where else, thought Mr. Will, as Elizabeth walked across the grass. He was not alone in his opinion, more than one person looked up as she passed. He began to think that far from doing a foolish thing his aunt had shown her usual good sense in taking such good care of this sad, charming, beautiful young woman. It was no use trying to think ill of her. With such a face as hers, she has a right to fall in love with anybody she pleases, he thought ; and so, as they were walking towards the carriage, Will Dampier, thinking that this was a good opportunity for a little confi- dential communication, said, some- what in his professional manner : "You seem out of spirits, Miss Gil- mour. I hope that you do not regret your decision of this morning." " Yes, I do regret it," said poor Elly, and two great tears came drib- bling down her • cheeks. " Do you think that when a girl gives up what she likes best in the world she is not sorry ? I am horribly sorry." Will was very much puzzled how to answer this unexpected confidence. He said, looking rather foolish : — " One is so apt to ask unnecessary questions. But, take my word for it, you have done quite right, and some day you will be more glad than you are now." I must confess that my heroine here got exceedingly cross. " Ah, that is what people say who do not know of what they are talking. What business of yours" is my poor, unlucky, bruised and broken fancy ? " she said. " Ah ! Why were you ever told ? What am I ? What is it to you ? " All the way she sat silent and dull, staring out at the landscape as they went along ; suffering, in truth, poor child, more than either of her com- panions could tell : saying good by to THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 59 the dearest hope of her youth, tearing herself away from the familiar and the well-loved dreams. Dreams, do I say t They had been the Realities to her, poor child ! for many a day. And the realities had seemed to be the dreams. They drove along a straight road, and came at last to some delightful fresh downs, with the sea sparkling in the distance, and a sort of autum- nal glow on the hills all about. The breeze came in fresh gusts, the car- riage jogged on, still up hill, and Will Dampier walked along-side, well pleased with the entertainment, and making endless jokes at his aunt. She rather liked being laughed at; but Elly never looked up once, or heeded what they said. They were going towards a brown church, that was standing on the top of a hill. It must have been built by the Danes a thou- sand years ago. There it stood, look- ing out at the sea, brown, grim, soli- tary, with its graveyard on the hill- side. Trees were clustering down in a valley below ; but here, up above, it was all bleak, bare, and solitary, only tinted and painted by the brown and purple sunshine. They stopped the carriage a little way off, and got out and passed through a gate, and walked up the hill-top. Elly went first, Will fol- lowed, and Miss Dampier came slow- ly after. As Elly reached the top of the hill she turned round, and stood against the landscape, like a picture with a background, and looked back and said : — " Do you hear 1 " The organ inside the church was playing a chant, and presently some voices began chanting to the playing of the organ. Elly went across the graveyard, and leaned against the porch, listening. Eive minutes went by ; her anger was melting away. It was exquisitely clear, peaceful, and tranquil here, up on this hill where the dead people were lying among the grass and daisies. All the bitterness went away out of her heart, somehow, in the golden glow. She said to her- self that she felt now, suddenly, for the first time, as if she could bury her fancy and leave it behind her in this quiet place. As the chant went on, her whole heart uttered in harmo- ny with it, though her lips were silent. She did not say to herself, what a small thing it was that had troubled her : what vast combina- tions were here to make her hap- py; hills, vales, light, with its won- drous refractions, harmony, color ; the great ocean, the great world, roll- ing on amid the greater worlds be- yond! But she felt it somehow. The voices ceased, and all was very si- lent. " 0, give thanks," the Psalm began again ; and Elly felt that she could indeed give thanks for mercies that were more than she had ever deserved. When she was at home with her mother she thought — just now the thought of returning there scarce gave her a pang — she should remem- ber to-day, all the good hopes, good prayers, and aspirations which had come to her in this peaceful grave- yard up among the hills. She had been selfish, discontented, and un- grateful all her life, angry and chafed but an hour ago, and here was peace, hers for the moment; here was tranquil happiness. The mad, rash delight she had felt when she had been with John Dampier was nothing compared to this great natural peace and calm. A sort of veil seemed lift- ed from her eyes, and she felt for the first time, that she could be happy though what she had wished for most was never to be hers, — that there was other happiness than that which she had once fancied part of life itself. Did she ever regret the decision she had made? Did she ever see occa- sion to think differently from this? If, in after times, she may have felt a little sad, a little lonely now and then, — if she may have thought with a moment's regret of those days that were now already past and over for- 60 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. ever, — still she knew she had done rightly when she determined to bury the past, with all kindness, with rev- erent hands. Somehow, in some strange and mysterious manner, the bitterness of her silly troubles had left her, — left her a better girl than she had been ever before. She was more good, more happy, more old, more wise, now, and, in truth, there was kindness in store for her, there were suns yet to shine, friendly words to be spoken, troubles yet to be en- dured, other than those sentimental griefs which had racked her youth so fiercely. While they were all on the hill-top the steamer came into the port earlier than on the day when Will Dampier arrived. One of the passengers walked up to the hotel and desired a waiter to show him to Miss Dampier's room. It was empty, of course ; chairs pushed about, windows open, work and books on the table. The paper was lying on the floor, — the passen- ger noticed that a corner had been torn off; a little box was open on the table, a ruby ring glittering in the tray. " How careless ! " he thought ; and then went and flung himself into a great arm-chair. So! she had been here a minute ago. There was a glove lying on a chair ; there were writing-materials on a side-table, — a blotting-book open, pens with the ink scarcely dry ; and in this room, in this place, he was going to decide his fate, — right- ly or wrongly he could not tell. Lsetitia is a cold-blooded little crea- ture, he kept saying to himself; this girl, with all her faults, with all her impulses, has a heart to break or to mend. My mother will learn too late that I cannot submit to such dic- tation. By Jove ! what a letter it is ! He pulled it out of his pocket, read it once more, and crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace. It was cer- tainly not a very wise composition, — long, vicious, wiry tails and flourish- es. "John, words cannot," &c, &c. " What Lady Tomsey, &c, &c. " How horror-struck Major Potterton, &c. ; &c. ; and finally concluded with a command that he should instantly return to Schlangenbad ; or, failing this, an announcement that she should immediately join him, wherever he might be ! So Sir John, in a rage, packed up and came off to Boatstown, — his mother can follow him or not, as she chooses ; and here is walking up and down the room, while Elly, driving over the hills, is saying farewell, farewell, good by to her old love for- ever. Could he have really cared for any- body ? By some strange contradic- tion, now that the die is cast, now that, after all these long doubts and mistrusts, he has made up his mind, somehow new doubts arise. He wonders whether he and Elly will be happy together ? He pictures stormy scenes ; he intuitively shrinks from the idea of her unconventionalities, her eagerness, her enthusiasm. He is a man who likes a quiet life, who would appreciate a sober, happy home, — a gentle, equable companion, to greet him quietly, to care tor his tastes and his ways, to sympathize, to befriend him. Whereas now it is he who will have to study his companion all the rest of his life ; if he thwart her she will fall ill of sorrow, if he satisfy her she will ask more and more; if he neglect her, — being busy, or weary, or what not, — she will die of grief; if he want sympathy and common sense, she will only adore him. Poor Elly! it is hard upon her that he should make such a bugbear of her poor little love. His courage is oozing out at his finger-ends. He is in a rage with her, and with himself, and with his mother, and with his aunt. He and everybody else are in a league to behave as badly as possible. He will try and do his dnty, he thinks, for all that, for my hero "is an honest- hearted man, though a weak one. It is not Lady Dampier's letter that shall influence him one way or an- other ; if Elly is breaking her heart THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 61 to have him, and if Letty does n't care one way or the other, as is likely enough, well then he will marry Elizabeth, he cries, with a stout des- peration, and he dashes up and down the room in a fury. And just at this minute the waiter comes in, and says Miss Dampier has gone out for a drive, and will not be back for some time. Mr. Dampier is staying in the house, but he has gone out with her, and who shall he say 7 And Sir John, looking up, gives his name and says he will wait. Upon which the waiter suddenly remembers the letter he left in his pantry, and, feeling rather guil- ty, proposes to fetch it. And by this time Elly, and Will, and Miss Dampier have got into the car- riage again and are driving home- wards. There was a certain humility about Elly, with all her ill-humors and varieties, which seemed to sweeten her whole nature. Will Dampier, who was rather angry with her for her peevishness, could not help forgiving her, when, as he helped her out of the carriage in the court-yard, she said : — " I don't quite know how to say it, — but I was very rude just now. I was very unhappy, and I hope you will forgive me," and she looked up. The light from the hills was still in her face. " It was I who was rude," says Will, good-naturedly holding out his hand ; and of course he forgave her. The band' was playing, the garden was full of people ; but Aunt Jenny was cold, and glad to get home. The ladies' went up stairs : Will remained down below, strolling up and down in the garden with the rest of the people; but at five o'clock the in- defatigable bell began to ring once more ; the afternoon boat was getting rip its steam, and making its prepa- rations to cross over to the other side. Will met a friend of his, who was going over in it, and he walked down with him to see him off. He went on board with him, shook hands, and turned to come away. At that minute some one happened to look round, and Will, to his immense surprise, recognized his cousin. That was John ; those were his whiskers ; there was no doubt about it. He sprang forward and called him by name. " John," he said, " you here 7 " " Well ! " said John, smiling a little, " why not me, as well as you 7 are you coming across 7 " " Are you going across 7 " said Will, doubtfully. "Yes," the other answered; "I came over on business ; don't say any- thing of my having been here. Pray remember this. I have a particular reason." " I shall say nothing," said Will. " I am glad you are going, John," he added, stupidly. " I think I know your reason, — a very nice, pretty reason too." " So those women have been telling you all about my private affairs 7 " said Sir John, speaking quick, and looking very black. " Your mother told me first," Will said. " I saw her the other day. For all- sakes, I am glad you are giving up all thoughts of Elly Gilmour." " Are you 7 " said John, dryly. They waited for a minute in awkward silence, but as they were shaking hands and saying " Good by," sud- denly John melted and said : "Look here, Will, I should like to see her once more. Could you manage this for me 7 I don't want her to know, you know ; but could you bring her to the end of the pier 7 I am going back to Letty, as you see, so I don't think she need object." Will nodded, and went up the lad- der and turned towards the house without a word, walking quickly and hurrying along. The band in the garden burst out into a pretty mel- ancholy dance tune. The sun went 62 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. down peg by peg into the sea ; the steamer still whistled and puffed as it got up its steam. Elly was sitting alone. She had lighted a candle, and was writing home. Her hat was lying on a chair beside her. The music had set her dreaming ; her thoughts were far away, in the dismal old home again, with Francoise, and Anthony, and the rest of them. She was beginning to live the new life she had been pictur- ing to herself; trying to imagine her- self good and contented in the hate- ful old home ; it seemed almost en- durable jnst at this minute, when suddenly the door burst open, and Will Dampier came in with his hat on. " I want you to come out a little way with me," he said. " I want you to come and see the boat off. There 's no time to lose." " Thank you," said Elly, " but I 'm busy." " It won't take you five minutes," he said. She laughed. " I 'm lazy and rather tired." Will could not give up. He per- sisted: he knew he had a knack of Eersuading his old women at home ; e tried it on Miss Gilmour. " I see you have not forgiven me," he said ; " you won't trust yourself with me." " Yes, indeed," said Elly ; " I am only lazy." The time was going. He looked at his watch; there were but five minutes — but five minutes for John to take leave of his love of many a year ; but five minutes and it would be too late. He grew impatient. " Pray, come," he said. " I shall look upon it as a sign that you have forgiven me. Will you do me this favor, — will you come ? I assure you I shall not be ungrateful." Elly thought it odd, and still hesi- tated ; but it seemed unkind to refuse. She got up, fetched her hat and cloak, and in a minute he was hurrying her along across the lawn, along the side of the dock, out to the pier's end. They were only just in time. " You are very mysterious," said Elly. " Why do you care so much to seethe boat go out? How chilly it is! Are you not glad to be here on this side of the water t Ah ! how soon it will be time for me to go back ! " Will did not answer, he was so busy watchingthe people moving about on board. Puff ! puff! Cannotyou im- agine the great boat passing close at their feet, going out in the night into the open sea ; the streaks of light in the west; Elly, with flushed, rosy-red cheeks, like the sunset, standing under the lighthouse, and talking in her gentle voice, and looking out, saying it would be fine to-morrow 1 Can't you fancy poor Sir John leaning against a pile of baggage, smoking a cigar, and looking up wist- fully 1 As he slid past he actually caught the tone of her voice. Like a drowning man who can see in one instant years of his past life flashing before him, Sir John saw Elly — a woman with lines of cave in her face, — there, standing in the light of the lamp, with the red streams of sunset beyond, and the night closing in all round about; and then he saw her as he had seen her once, — a happy, unconscious girl, brightening, smiling at his com- ing : and as the picture travelled on, a sad girl, meeting him in the street by chance, — a desperate, almost broken- hearted woman, looking up gray ly into his face in the theatre. Puff ! puff ! — it was all over, she was still smil- ing before his eyes. One last glimpse of the two, and they had disappeared. He slipped away right out of her ex- istence, and she did not even guess that he had been near. She stood un- witting for an instant, watching the boat as it tossed out to sea, and then said, " Now we will go home." A sudden gloom and depression seemed to have come over her. She walked along quite silently, and did not seem to heed the presence of her compan- ion. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 63 CHAPTER X. .... Poor forsaken Flos ! Not all her brightness, aportfulness, and bloom. Her sweetness and her wildness, and her wit, Gould save her from desertion. No ; their loves Were off the poise. Love competent Makes better bargains than love affluent. Before he went to bed that night, Dampier wrote the end of his letter to Prue. He described, rather amusing- ly, the snubbing which Elly had given him, the dry way in which Sir John had received his advances, the glances of disfavor with which Aunt Jean listened to his advice. " So this is all the gratitude one gets for interfering in the most sensible manner. If you are as ungrateful, Prue, for this im- mense long letter, I shall, indeed, have labored in vain. It is one o'clock. Bong ! there it went from the tower. Good night, dear ; your beloved broth- er is going to bed. Love to Miles. Kiss the children all round for their and your affectionate W. D." Will Dampier was not in the least like his letter. I know two or three men who are manly enough, who write gentle, gossiping letters like women. He was a big, commonplace young man, straight-minded and ten- der-hearted, with immense energy, and great good spirits. He believed in himself; indeed, he tried so heartily and conscientiously to do what was right, that he could not help knowing more or less that he was a good fellow. And then he had a happy knack of seeing one side of a question, and having once determined that so and so was the thing to be done, he could do so and so without one doubt or compunction. He belonged to the school of athletic Christianity. I heard some one once say that there are some of that sect who would almost make out cock-fighting to be a religious ceremony. William Dam- Eier did not go so far as this ; but he eartily believed that nothing was wrong that was done with a Christian and manly spirit. He rode across country, he smoked pipes, he went out shooting, he played billiards and cricket, he rowed up and down the river in his boat, and he was charming with all the grumbling old men and women in his parish, he preached capital sermons, — short, brisk, well considered. He enjoyed life and all its good things with a grateful temper, and made most people happy about him. One day, Elly began to think what a different creed Will Dampier's was from her stepfather's, only she did not put her thoughts into words. It was not her way. Tourneur, with a great heart, set on the greatest truth, feeling the con- stant presence of those mightier dis- pensations, cared but little for the affairs of to-day : they seemed to him subordinate, immaterial ; they lost all importance from comparison to that awful reality that this man had so vividly realized to himself. To Dam- pier, it was through the simple lan- guage of his daily life that he could best express what good was in him. He saw wisdom and mercy, he saw order and progression, he saw infinite variety and wonder in all natural things, in all life, at all places and hours. By looking at this world, he could best understand and adore the next. And yet Tourneur's was the loftier spirit ; to him had come a certain knowledge and understanding, of which Dampier had scarce a concep- tion. Dampier, who felt less keenly, could well be more liberal, more for- bearing. One of these two told Elly that we were put into the world to live in it; and to be thankful for our crea- tion ; to do our duty, and to labor until the night should come when no man can work. The other said, sadly, you are born only to overcome the flesh, to crush it underfoot, to turn away from all that yon like most, innocent or not. What do I care ? Are you an immor- tal spirit, or are you a clod of earth ? Will you suffer that this all- wondrous, all-precious gift should be clogged, 64 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. and stifled, and choked, and destroyed, maybe, by despicable daily concerns ? Toumeur himself set an example of what he preached by his devoted, humble, holy, self-denying life. And yet Elly turned with a sense of infinite relief to the other creed : she could understand it, sympathize with it, try to do good, though to be good was beyond her frail powers. Already she was learning to be thankful, to be cheerful, to be unselfish, to be keenly penitent for her many shortcomings. As the time drew near when an answer to her note might be expected, Miss Dampier grew anxious and fidgety, dropped her stitches, looked out for the post, and wondered why no letter came. Elly was only a lit- tle silent, a little thoughtful. She used to go out by herself and take long walks. One day Will, return- ing from one of his own peregrina- tions, came upon her sitting on the edge of a cliff staring at the distant coast of France. It lay blue, pale, like a dream-country, and glimmered in the horizon. Who would believe that there was reality, busy life in all earnest, going on beyond those calm, heavenly-looking hills ! Another time his aunt sent him out to look for her, and he found her at the end of the pier, leaning against the chain, and still gazing towards France. In his rough friendly manner he said, " I wish you would look an- other way sometimes, Miss Gilmour, up or down, or in the glass even. You make me feel very guilty, for to tell the truth I — I advised John — " " I thought so," Elly cried, inter- rupting. " And you were quite right. I advised him too," she said, with a smile. " Don't you think he has taken your advice 1 " Will looked down uncomfortably. " I think so," he said, in a low tone. And, meanwhile, Miss Dampier was sitting in the window and the sunshine, knitting castles in the air. " Suppose he does not take this as an answer? Suppose Lastitia has found somebody else, suppose the door opens and he comes in, and the sun shines into the room, and then he seizes Elly's hand, and says, ' Though you give me up, I will not give up the hope of calling you mine,' and Elly glances up bright, blushing, happy Suppose Lady Dampier is furious, and dear Tishy makes peace ? I should like to see Eliza- beth mistress of the dear old house. I think my mother was like her. I don't approve of cousins' marriages. . . . . How charming she would look coming along the old oak gal- lery ! " Look at the old maid in. the window building castles in the air through her spectacles. But it is a ridiculous sight; she is only a fat, foolish old woman. All her fancies are but follies flying away with caps and jingling bells, — they vanish through the windows as the door opens and the young people come in. " Here is a letter for you the porter gave me in the hall," said Will, as carelessly as he could ; Jean saw Elly's eyes busy glancing at the writing. " Mr deak aunt Jean, — Many thanks for your note, and the en- closure. My mother and Lsetitia are with me, and we shnll all go back to Friar's Bush on Thursday. Elly's decision is the wisest under the cir- cumstances, and we had better abide by it. Give her my love. Lajtitia knows nothing, as my mother has had the grace to be silent. " Yours affectionately, "J. CD." " P. S. — You will be good to her, won't you ? " Miss Dampier read the note im- perturbably, but while she read there seemed to run through her a cold thrill of disappointment, which was so unendurable that after a minute she got up and left the room. When she came back, Elly said with a sigh, " Where is he ? " "At Paris," said Miss Dampier. "They have saved him all trouble THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 65 and come to him. He sends you his love, Elly, which is very handsome of him, considering how much it is .worth." " It has been worth a great deal to me," said Elly, in her sweet voice. "It is all over; but I am grateful still and always shall be. I was very rash ; he was very kind. Let me be grateful, dear aunt Jean, to those who are good to me." And she kissed the old woman's shrivelled hand. Miss Gilmour cheered up wonder- fully from that time. I am sure that if she had been angry with him, if she had thought herself hardly used, if she had had more of what people call self-respect, less of that sweet humility of nature, it would not have been so. As the short, happy, delightful six weeks which she was to spend with Miss Dampier came to an end, she began to use all her philosophy and good resolves to reconcile herself to going home. Will Dampier was gone. He had only been able to stay a week. They missed him. But still they managed to be very com- fortable together. Tea-talk, long walks, long hours on the sands, novels and story-books, idleness and content- ment, — why could n't it go on for- ever t Elly said. Aunt Jean laughed and said they might as well be a couple of jelly-fish at once. And so the time went by, but one day, just be- fore she went away, Mr. Will appear- ed again unexpectedly. Elly was sitting in the sun on the beach, throwing idle stones into the sea. She had put down her novel on the shingle beside her. It was Deer- brook, I think, — an old favorite of Jean Dampier's. Everybody knows what twelve o'clock is like on a fine day at the seaside. It means little children, nurses in clean cotton gowns, groups of young ladies scat- tered here and there ; it means a great cheerfulness and tranquillity, a delightful glitter, and life, and light : happy folks plashing in the water, bathing-dresses drying in the sun, all sorts of aches, pains, troubles, van- ishing like mist in its friendly beams. Elly was thinking : " Yes, hdw pleas- ant and nice it is, and how good, how dear, Aunt Jean is ! Only six months, and she says I am to come to her in her cottage again." ( Splash a stone goes into the water.) " Only six months ! I will try and spend them better than I ever spent six months before. Eugh ! If it was not for Mme. Jacob .... I really do love my stepfather, and could live happily enough with him." ( Splash. ) Suddenly an idea came to Elly, — the Pasteur Boulot was the idea. "Why should not he marry Mme. Jacob ? He admires her immensely. Ah ! what fun that would be ! " (Splash, splash, a couple of stones.) And then, tramp, tramp, on the shingle behind her, and a cheery man's voice says, " Here you are ! " Elly stares up in some surprise, and looks pleased, and attempts to get up, but Will Dampier — he was the man — sits down beside her, opens his umbrella, and looks very odd. "I only came down for the day," he said, after a little prelim- inary talk. " I have been with Aunt Jean : she tells me you are going home to-morrow." " Yes," says Elly, with a sigh ; " but I 'm to come back again and see her in a little time." " I 'm glad of that," says the cler- gyman. " What sort of place do you live in at Paris ? " "It is rather a dull place," says Elly. "I'm very fond of my step- father; besides him, there is Antho- ny, and five young pupils, there is an old French cook, and a cross maid, and my mother, and a horri — a sister of Monsieur Tourneur's, and Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou, and me." " Why, that is quite a little colo- ny," said Dampier. " And what will you do there, when you get back ■? " " I must see," said the girl, smil- ing. " Till now I have done nothing at all ; but that is stupid work. I B 66 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. shall teach Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou a little, and mind the house if my mother will let me, and learn to cook from Francoise. I have a no- tion that it may be useful some day or other." "Do, by all means,'' said "Will; " it is a .capital idea. But as years go on, what do you mean to do ? Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou will grow up, and you will have mastered the art of French cookery — " " How can you ask such things t " Elly said, looking out at the sea, " I cannot tell, or make schemes for the future." "Pray forgive me,'' said Will, " for asking such a question, but have you any idea of marrying M. Antho- ny eventually ? " " He is a dear old fellow," said Elly, flushing up. " I am not going to answer any such questions. I am not half good enough for him, — that is my answer." " But suppose — 1" "Pray don't suppose. I am not going to marry anybody, or to think much about such things ever again. Do you imagine that I am not the wiser for all my experience ? " " Are you wise now t " said Will, still in his odd manner. " Look at that pretty little fishing- smack," Elly interrupted. " Show it," he went on, never heeding, "by curing yourself of your fancy for my cousin John ; by curing yourself, and becoming some day a really useful personage and member of society." Elly stared at him, as well she might. " Come back to England some day," he continued, still looking away, " to your home, to your best vocation in life, to be happy, and use- ful, and well loved," he said, with a sweet inflection in his voice ; " that is no very hard fate." " What are you talking about 1 " said Elly. " How can I cure myself ? How can I ever forget what is past ? I am not going to be discontented, or to be particularly happy at home. I am going to try — to try and do my best." "Well, then, do your best to get cured of this hopeless nonsense," said Mr. William Dampier, "and turn your thoughts to real good sense, to the real business of life, and to mak- ing yourself and others happy, instead of wasting and maudling away the next few best years of your life, re- gretting and hankering after what is past and unattainable. For some strong minds, who can defy the world and stand alone without the need of sympathy and sustainmcnt, it is a fine thing to be faithful to a chimera," he said, with a pathetic ring in his voice. " But I assure you infidelity is better still sometimes, more human, more natural, particularly for a confiding and uncertain person like yo'urself. Was he thinking of to-day as ha spoke? Was he only thinking of Elly, and preaching only to her ? " You mean I had better marry him 1 " said Elly, while her eyes filled up with tears, and she knocked one stone against another. " And yet Aunt Jean says, ' No ! ' — that I need not think of it. It seems to me as if I — I had rather jump into the sea at once," said the girl, dashing the stones away, " though I love him dearly, dear old fellow ! " " I did not exactly mean M. An- thony," said Will, looking round for the first time and smiling at her tears and his own talk. Elizabeth was puzzled still. For, in truth, her sad experience had taught her to put but little faith in kindness and implications of kindness, — to attach little meaning to the good-nature and admiration a beauti- ful young woman was certain to meet with on every side. It had not oc- curred to her that Will, who had done so little, seen her so few times , could be in love with her ; when John, for whom she would have died, who said and looked so much, had only, been playing with her, and pitying her as if she had been a child ; and she said, THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 67 still with tears, but not caring much : — " I shall never give a different an- swer. I believe you are right, but I have not the courage to try. I think I could try and be good if I stay as I am ; but to be bound and chained to Anthony all the rest of my life, — once I thought it possible ; but now — You who advise it do not know what it is." "But I never advised it," Will said; "you won't understand me. Dear Elizabeth, why won't you see that it is of myself that I am speak- ing?" EUy felt for a moment as if the sea had rushed up suddenly, and caught her away on its billows, and then the next moment she found that she was only sitting crying in the sun, on the sands. " Look here : every day I live, I get worse and worse," she sobbed. " I flirt with one person after another, — I don't deserve that you should ever speak to me again, — I can't try and talk about myself, — I do like you,, and — and yet I know that the only person I care for really is the one who does not care for me ; and if I mar- ried you to-morrow, and I saw John coming along the street, I should rush away to meet him. I don't want to marry him, and I don't know what I want. But, indeed, I have tried to be good. You are stronger than me, don't be hard upon me." " My dear little girl," said Will, loy- ally and kindly, " don't be unhappy, you have not flirted with me. I could n't be hard upon you if I tried : you are a faithful little soul. Shall I tell you about myself t Once not so very long ago I liked Tjshy almost as well as you like John. There, now, you see that you have done no great harm, and only helped to cheer me up again, and I am sure that you and I will be just as good friends as ever. As for John," he added, in quite a different tone, " the sooner you forget all about him the better." Will took her hand, which was ly- ing limp on the shingle, said " Good by," took up his umbrella, and walked away. And so, by some strange arrange- ment, EUy put away from her a sec- ond time the love of a good and hon- orable man, and turned back impo- tently to the memory — it was no more — of a dead and buried passion. Was this madness or wisdom t Was this the decree of fate or of folly ? She sat all in a maze, staring at the sea and the wavelets, and in half an hour rushed into the sitting-room, flung her arms round Miss Dampier's neck, and told her all that hap- pened. CHAPTER XI. Of all the gifts of Heaven to us below, that felicity is the sum and the chief. I tremble as I hold it, lest I should lose it, and be left alone in the blank world without it. Again, I feel humiliated to think that I possess it : as has- tening home to a warm fireside, and a plen- tiful table, I feel ashamed sometimes before the poor outcast beggar shivering in the street. Ellt expected, she did not know why, that there would be some great difference when she got-back to the old house at Paris. Her heart sank as Clementine, looking just as usual, opened the great door, and stepped forward to help with the box. She went into the court-yard. Those cocks and hens were pecketting between the stones, the poplar-trees shivering, Francoise in her blue gown came out of the kitchen : it was like one of the dreams which used to haunt her pil- low. This sameness and monotony was terrible. Already in one minute it seemed to her that she had never been away. Her mother and father were out.- Mme. Jacob came down stairs with the children to greet her and see her. Ah ! they had got new frocks, and were grown, — that was some relief. Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou were not more delighted with their little check black-and-white alpacas than Elly was. Anthony was away, — she was 68 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. glad. After the first shock the girl 'took heart and courage, and set her- self to practise the good resolutions she had made when she was away. It was not so hard as she had fancied to be a little less ill-tempered and dis- contented, because you see she had really behaved so very badly before. But it was not so easy to lead the cheerful devoted life she had pictured to herself. Her mother was very kind, very indifferent, very unhappy, Elizabeth feared. She was ill too, and out of health, hut she bore great suffering with wonderful patience and constancy. Tourneur looked hag- gard and worn. Had he begun to discover that he could not understand his wife, that he had not married the woman he fancied he knew so well, but some quite different person 1 Ill- temper, discontent, he could have en- dured and dealt with, but a terrible mistrust and doubt had come into his heart, he did not know how or when, and had nearly broken it. A gloom seemed hanging over this sad house ; a sort of hopeless dreari- ness. Do you remember how cheer- ful and contented Caroline had been at first ? By degrees she began to get a little tired now and then, — a little weary. All these things grew just a little insipid and distasteful. Do you know that torture to which some poor slaves have been subjected ? I believe it is only a drop of water falling at regular intervals upon their heads. At first they scarcely heed it, and talk and laugh ; then they become silent ; and still the drop falls and drips. And then they moan and beg for mercy, and still it falls ; and then scream out with horror, and cry out for death, for this is more than they can bear, — but still it goes on falling. I have read this some- where, and it seems to me that this applies to Caroline Tourneur, and to the terrible life which had begun for her. Her health failed, and she daily lost strength and interest in the things by which she was surrounded; then they became wearisome. Her tired frame was not equal to the constant exertions she had imposed upon her- self ; from being wearisome, they grew hateful to her ; and, one by one, she gave them up. Then the terrible sameness of a life in which her heart was no longer set, seemed to crush her down day by day ; a life never lived from high and honorable mo- tives, but for mean and despicable ends ; a life lofty and noble to those who, with great hearts and good cour- age, knew how to look beyond it, and not to care for the things of the world, but dull and terrible beyond expression to a woman whose whole soul was set amidst the thorns and thistles, and who had only rushed by chance into this narrow path blind- fold with passion and despair. Now she has torn the bandage off her eyes ; now she is struggling to get out of it, and beating against the thorns, and wearily trying to trace back her steps. Elly used to cry out in her childish way. Caroline, who is a woman, is silent, and utters not one word of complaint ; only her cheeks fall away and her eyes glare out of great black rings. Elly came home blooming and well, and was shocked and frightened at first to see the change which had come over her mother. She did not ask the reason of it, but, as we all do sometimes, accepted without much speculation the course of events. Things come about so simply and naturally that people are often in the midst of strangest histories without having once thought so, or wondered that it should be. Very soon all the gloomy house, though she did not know it, seemed brightened and cheered by her coming home. Even Mme. Jacob relented a little when she heard Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou's shouts of laughter one day coming through the open window. The three girls were at work in the garden. I do not know that they were doing much good-ex- cept to themselves. It was a keen, clear, brilliant winter morning, and THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 69 the sun out of doors put out the smouldering fires within. The little girls were laughing and working with all their hearts. Elly was laughing too, and tearing; up dried old plants, and heaping broken flower- pots together. Almost happy, almost contented, almost good And there is many a worse state of mind than this. She was sighing as she laughed, for she was thinking of her- self, pacing round and round the neglected garden once not so long ago ; then she thought of the church on the hill-top, then of Will Dampier, and then of John, and then she came upon a long wriggling worm, and she jumped away and forgot to be senti- mental. Besides working in the gar- den, she set to teaching the children in her mother's school. What this girl turned her hand to, she always did well and thoroughly. She even went to visit some of the sick people, and though she never took kindly to these exercises, the children liked to say their lessons to her, and the sick people were glad when she came in. She was very popular with them all ; perhaps the reason was, that she did not do these things from a sense of duty, and did not look upon the poor and the sick as so many of us do, as a selfish means for self-advancement ; she went to them because it was more convenient for her to go than for any- body else, — she only thought of their needs, grumbled at the trouble she was taking, and it never occurred to her that this unconsciousness was as good as a good conscience. My dear little Elizabeth ! I am glad that at last she is behaving pretty well. Tourneur strokes her head sometimes, and holds out his kind hand to her when she comes into his room. His eyes follow her fondly as if he were her father. One day she told him about William Dampier. He sighed as he heard the story. It was all ordained for the best, he said to himself. But he would have been glad to know her happy, and he pat- ted her cheek and went into his study. Miss Dampier's letters were Elly'g best treasures : how eagerly she took them from Clementine's hands, how she tore them open and read them once, twice, thrice ! No novels inter- est people so much as their own, — a story in which you have ever so little a part to enact thrills, and excites, and amuses to the very last. You don't skip the reflections; the descrip- tions do not weary. I can fancy Elly sitting in a heap on the floor, and spelling out Miss Dampier's ; Tou- Tou and Lou-Lou looking on with respectful wonder. But suddenly the letters seemed to her to change. They became short and reserved ; they were not interesting any more. Looked for so anxiously, they only brought disappointment when they came, and no word of the people about whom she longed to hear, no mention of theirdoings. Even Lady Dampier's name would have been welcome. But there was nothing. It was in vain she read and re-read so eagerly, longing and thirsting for news. Things were best as they were, she told herself a hundred times ; and so, though poor Elly sighed and wearied, and though her heart sank, she did not speak to any one of her trouble : it was a wholesome one, she told her- self, one that must be surmounted and overcome by patience. Some- times her work seemed almost great- er than her strength, and then she would go up stairs and cry a little bit and pity herself, and sop up all her tears, and then run round and round the garden once or twice, and come back, with bright eyes and glowing cheeks, to chatter with Erancoise, to look after her mother and Stephen Tourneur, to scold the pupils and make jokes at them, to romp with the little girls. One day she found her letter wait- ing on the hall-table, and tore it open with a trembling hope Aunt Jean described the weather, the pig- sty, made valuable remarks on the news contained in the daily papers, 70 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. signed herself, ever, her affectionate old friend. And that was all. Was not that enough ? Elly asked herself, with such a sigh. She was reading it over in the door-way of the salle-a- manger, bonneted and cloaked, with all the remains of the midday meal congealing and disordered on the table. " Es-tu prSte, Elizabeth * " said Tou-Tou, coming in with a little basket, — there were no stones in it this time. " Tiens, voila ce que ma tante cnvoie a cette pauvre Madame Jonnes." Madame Jonnes was only Mrs. Jones, only an old woman dying in a melancholy room hard by, — in a melancholy room in a deserted street, where there were few houses, but long walls, where the mould was feeding, and yellow placards were pasted and defaced and flapping in shreds, and where Elly, picking her little steps over the stones, saw blades of grass growing between them. There was a chantier — a great wood- yard — on one side ; now and then a dark door-way leading into a black and filthy court, out of which a gut- ter would come with evil smells, flow- ing murkily into the street ; in the distance, two figures passing ; a child in a nightcap, thumping a doll upon a curbstone ; a dog snuffing at a heap ; at the end of the street the placarded backs of tall houses built upon a rising ground ; a man in a blouse wheeling a truck, and singing out dismally ; and meanwhile, good old Mrs. Jones was dying close at hand, under this black and crumbling door-way, in a room opening with cracked glass-doors upon the yard. She was lying alone upon her bed ; the nurse they had sent to her was gossiping with the porter in his lodge. Kindly and dimly her eyes opened and smiled somehow at the girl, out of the faded bed, out of a mystery of pain, of grief, and soli- tude. It was a mystery indeed, which Elizabeth, standing beside it, could not understand, though she herself had lain so lately and so resignedly upon a couch of sickness. Age, abandonment, seventy years of life, — how many of grief and trouble ? As she looked at the dying, indifferent face, she saw that they were almost ended. And in the midst of her pity and shrinking compassion Elly thought to herself that she would change all with the sick woman, at that minute, to have endured, to have surmounted so much. She sat with her till the dim twilight came through the dirty and patched panes of the windows. Even as she waited there her thoughts went wandering, and she was trying to pic- ture to herself faces and scenes that she could not see. She knew that the shadows were creeping round about those whom she loved, as quietly as they were rising here in this sordid room. It was their evening as it was hers ; and then she said to her- self that they who made up 80 large a part of her life must, perforce, think of her sometimes : she was part of their lives, even though they should utterly neglect and forget and abandon her ; even though they should never meet again from this day ; though she should never hear their names so much as mentioned ; though their paths should separate forever. For a time they had travelled the same road, — ah ! she was thankful even for so much ; and she unconsciously pressed the wasted hand she was holding; and then her heart thrilled with tender, unselfish gladness as the feeble fingers tried to clasp hers, and the faltering whisper tried to bless. She came home sad and tired from her sick woman's bedside, thinking of the last kind gleam of the eyes as she left the room. She went straight up stairs and took off her shabby dress, and found another, and poured out water and bathed her face. Her heart was beating, her hands trembling. She was remembering and regretting ; she was despairing and longing, and yet resigned, as she had learnt to THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. 71 be of late. She leaned against the wall for a minute before she went down ; she was dressed in the blue dress, with her favorite little locket hanging round her neck. She put her hand tired ly to her head ; and so she stood, as she used to stand when she was a child, in a sort of dream, and almost out of the world. And as she was waiting a knock came at the door. It was Clementine who knocked, and who said, in the sing- song way in which Frenchwomen speak, — " Mademoiselle, voilSt pour vous." It was too dark to see anything except that it was another familiar- looking letter. Elly made up her mind not to be disappointed any more, and went down stairs leisurely to the study, where she knew she should find Toumeur's lamp alight. And she crossed the hall and turned the handle of the door, and opened it and went in. The. lamp with its green shade on the table lit up one part of the room, but in the duskiness, standing by the stove and talking eagerly, were two people whom she could not distin- guish very plainly. One of them was Tourneur, who looked round and came to meet her, and took her hand ; and the other .... Suddenly her heart began to beat so that her breath was taken away. What was this % Who was this — t What chance had she come upon 1 ? Such mad hopes as hers were they ever fulfilled ? Was this moment, so sudden, so unlooked for, the one for which she had despaired and longed, for which she had waited and lived through an eternity of grief? Was it John Dampier into whose hand Tourneur put hers t Was she still asleep and dreaming one of those de- lighting but terrible dreams from which, ah me ! she must awake 1 In this dream she heard the pasteur say- ing, " II a bien des choses a. vous dire, Elizabeth," and then he seemed to go away and to leave them. In this dream, bewildered and trem- bling, with a desperate effort, she pulled her hand away, and said : " What does it mean ? Where is Tishy 1 Why do you come, John I Why don't you leave me in peace ? " And then it was a dream no lon- 5er, but a truth and a reality, when ohn began to speak in his familiar way, and she heard his voice, and saw him before her, and — yes, it was he ; and he said : " Tishy and I have had a quarrel, Elly. We are nothing to one another any more, and so I have come to you — to — to — tell you that I have behaved like a fool all this time." And he turned very red as he spoke, and then he was silent, and then he took both her hands and spoke again : " Tell me, dear," he said, looking up into her sweet eyes, — " Elly, tell me, would you — won't you — be content with a fool for a husband 1 " And Elizabeth Gilmour only answered, " O John, John ! " and burst into a great flood of happy tears : tears which fell raining peace and calm af- ter this long drought and misery ; tears which seemed to speak to him, and made him sad, and yet happier than he had ever dreamt of or ima- gined; tears which quieted her, soothed her, and healed all her troubles. Before John went away that night, Elly read Miss Dampier's letter, which explained his explanations. The old lady wrote in a state of in- coherent excitement. — It was some speech of Will's which had brought the whole thing about. " What did he say ? " Elly asked, looking up from the letter with her shining eyes. Sir John said : " He asked me if I did not remember that church on the bill, at Boatstown ? We were all out in the garden, by the old statue of the nymph. Tishy suddenly stopped, and turned upon me, and cried out, when was I last at Boatstown 1 And then I was obliged to confess, and we had a disagreeable scene enough, and she appealed to William, — gave me my conge', and I was not sorry, Elly.'* 72 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. "But had you never told her about — ? " " It was from sheer honesty that I was silent," said Sir John ; "a man who sincerely wishes to keep his word does n't say, ' Madam, I like some one else, but I will marry you if you insist upon it ' ; only the worst of it is, that we were both uncomfortable, and I now find she suspected me the whole time. She sent me a note in the evening. Look here." The note said : — " I have been thinking about what I said just now in the garden. I am more than ever decided that it is best we two should part. But I do not choose to say good by to you in an angry spirit, and so this is to tell you that i forgive you all the injustice of your conduct to me. Everybody seems to have been in a league to de- ceive me, and I have not found out one true friend among you all. How could you for one moment imagine that I should wish to marry a man who preferred another woman 1 You may have been influenced and worked upon ; but for all that I should never be able to place confidence in you again, and I feel it is best and hap- piest for us both that all should he at an end between us. " You will not wonder that, though I try to forgive you, I cannot help feeling indignant at the way in which I have been used. I could never un- derstand exactly what was going on in your mind. You were silent, you equivocated ; and not you only, everybody seems to have been think- ing of themselves, and never once for me. Even William, who professes to care for me still, only spoke by chance, and revealed the whole his- tory. When he talked to you about Boatstown, some former suspicions of mine were confirmed, and by the most fortunate chance two people have been saved from a whole lifetime of regret. . " I will not trust myself to think of the way in which I should have been bartered had I only discovered the truth when it was too late. If I speak plainly, it is in justice to my- self, and from no unkindness to you ; for though I bid you farewell, I can still sincercely sign myself, " Yours affectionately, " Letitia." Elly read the letter, and gave it back to him, and sighed, then smiled, then sighed again, and then went on with Miss Dampier's epistle. Eor some time past, Jean Dampier wrote, she had noticed a growing sus- picion and estrangement between the engaged couple. John was brusque and morose at times, Tishy cross and defiant. He used to come over on his brown mare and stop at the cot- tage gate, and ask about Elly, and then interrupt her before she could answer and change the talk. He used to give her messages to send, and then retract them. He was al- ways philosophizing and discoursing about first affections. La;titia, too, used to come and ask about Elly. Miss Dampier hoped that John himself would put an end to this false situation. She did not know how to write about either of them to Elly. Her perplexities had seemed unend- ing. " But I also never heard that you came to Boatstown," Elly said. . " And yet I saw you there," said John, " standing at the end of the pier." And then he went on to tell her a great deal more, and to confess all that he had thought while he was waiting for her. Elly passed her hand across her eyes with the old familiar action. " And you came to Boatstown, and you went away when you read Tishy's writing, and you had the heart to be angry with me ? " she said. "I was worried, and out of tem- per," said John. " I felt I was doing wrong when I ran away from Tishy. I blamed you because I was in a rage with myself. I can't bear to think of it. But I was punished, Elly. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. 73 Were you ever jealous 1" She laughed and nodded her head. "I dare say not," ho went on ; " when I sailed away and saw you standing so confidentially with Will Dampier, I won't try and tell you what I suf- fered. I could hear to give you up, — but to see you another man's wife, — Elly, I know you never were jealous, or you would understand what I felt at that moment." When their tete-a-tete was over they went into the next room. All the family congratulated them, Madame Tourneur among the rest; she was ill and tired that evening, and lying on the yellow Utreeht velvet sofa. But it was awkward for them and un- comfortable, and John went home early to his inn. As Elly went up to bed that night, Francoise brought her one other piece of news, — Madame Jonnes was dead. They had sent to acquaint the police. But Elly was so happy, that, though she tried, she could not be less happy because of this. All the night she lay awake, giving thanks and praise, arid saying over to her- self, a hundred times, "At last — at last!" At last ! after all this long rigma- role. At last ! after all these despair- ing adjectives and adverbs. At last ! after all these thousands of hours of grief and despair. Did not that one minute almost repay her for them all ? She went on telling herself, as I have said, that this was a dream, — from which she need never awake. And I, who am writing her story, wonder if it is so, — wonder if even to such dreams as these there may not be a waking one day, when all the visions that surround us shall vanish and dis- appear forever into eternal silence and oblivion. Dear faces, — voices, whose tones speak to us even more familiarly than the tender words which they utter ! It would, in truth, seem almost too hard to bear, if we did not guess — if we were not told — how the love which makes such things so dear to us endures in the eternity out Of which they have passed. 4 Happiness like Elly's is so vague and so great that it is impossible to try to describe it. To a nature like hers, full of tenderness, faithful and eager, it came like a sea, ebbing and flowing with waves, and with the sun shining and sparkling on the water, and lighting the fathoms below. I do not mean to say that my poor little heroine was such a tremendous crea- ture that she could compass the depths and wide extent of a sea in her heart. Love is not a thing which belongs to any one of us individually ; it is everywhere, here and all round about, and sometimes people's hearts are opened, and they guess at it, and realize that it is theirs. Dampier came early next morn- ing, looking kind and happy and bright, to fetch her for a walk; Elly was all blue ribbons and blue eyes; her feet seemed dancing against her will, she could hardly walk quietly along. Old Prancoise looked after them as they walked off towards the Bois de Boulogne; Tou-Tou and Lou-Lou peeped from their bedroom window. The sun was shining, the sky had mounted Elly's favorite col- ors. CHAPTER XII. blessed rest, royal night ! Wherefore seemeth the time so long Till I see yon stars in their fullest light, And list to their loudest song ? When I first saw Lady Dampier, she had only been married a day or two. I had been staying at Guild- ford, and I drove over one day to see my old friend Jean Dampier. I came across the hills and by Coombe Bot- tom and along the lanes, and through the little village street, and when I reached the cottage I saw Elly, of whom I had heard so much, standing at the gate. She was a very beauti- ful young woman, tall and straight, with the most charming blue eyes, a sweet frank voice, and a taking man- ner, and an expression on her face 74 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. that I cannot describe. She had a blue ribbon in her hair, which was curling in a crop. She held her hat full of flowers ; behind her the lat- tices of the cottage were gleaming in the sun ; the creepers were climbing and flowering about the porch. All about rose a spring incense of light, of color, of perfume. The country folks were at work in the fields and on the hills. The light shone beyond the church spire, beyond the cottages and glowing trees. In- side the cottage, through the lattice, I could see Aunt Jean nodding over her knitting. She threw down her needles to welcome me. Of course I was going to stay to tea, — and I said that was my intention in coming. As the sun set, the clouds began to gather, com- ing quickly we knew not from whence; but we were safe and dry, sitting by the lattice. and gossiping, and mean- while Miss Dampier went on with her work. Elly had been spending the day with her, she told me. Sir John was to come for her, and presently he arrived, dripping wet, through the April shower which was now pouring over the fields. The door of the porch opens into the little dining-room, where the tea was laid : a wood-fire was crackling in the tall* cottage chimney. Eliza- beth was smiling by the hearth, toast- ing cakes with one hand and holding a book in the other, when the young man walked in. He came into the room where we were sitting and shook hands with us both, and then he laughed and said he must go and dry himself by the fire, and he went back. So Jean Dampier and I sat mum- bling confidences in the inner room, and John and Elly were chattering to one another by the burning wood logs. The door was open which led, with a step, into the dining-room, where the wood-fire was burning. Dark- ness was setting in. The rain was over, the clouds swiftly breaking and coursing away, and such a bright, mild-eyed little star peeped in through the lattice at us two old maids in the window. It was a shame to hear, but how could we help it 1 Out of the fire-lit room the voices came to us, and when we ceased chattering for an in- stant, we heard them so plainly : — " I saw Will to-day," said "a voice. " He was talking about Lsetitia. I think there will be some news of them before long. Should you be glad ? " " Ah ! so glad. I don't want to be the only happy woman in the world." "My dearest Elly ! " said the kind voice. " And you will never regret, — And are you happy ? " " Can you ask ? " said Elly. " Come into the porch, and I will tell you." And then there was a gust of fresh rain-scented air, and a soft rustle, and the closing click of a door. And then we saw them pass the win- dow, and Jean clasped my hand very tightly, and flung her arms round my neck, and gave me a delighted kiss. " You dear, silly woman," said I, " how glad I am they are so happy together ! " " I hope she won't catch cold," said Jean, looking at the damp walks. " Could not you take out a shawl t " " Let her catch cold ! " said I ; " and in the mean time give me some tea, if you please. Remember, I have got to drive home in the dark." So we went into the next room. Jean rang for the candles. The old silver candlesticks were brought in. by Kitty on a tray. " Don't shut the curtains," said Miss Dampier ; " and come here, Mary, and sit by the fire." While Elizabeth and John Dampier were wandering up and down in the dark damp garden, Jenny and I were comfortably installed by the fire, drinking hot, sweet tea, and eating toasted cakes, and preserves, and cream. I say we, but that is out of modesty, for she had no appetite, whereas I was very hungry. " Heigh-ho ! " said Jean, looking at THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. the fire. " It 's a good thing to be young, Mary. Tell me honestly: what would you give — " " To be walking in the garden with young Dampier," said I (and I burst out laughing), " without a cloak, or an umbrella, or india-rubbers ? My dear Jenny, where are your five wits t " " where indeed? " said Jean, with another sigh. " Yet I can remember when you used to cry instead of laughing over such things, Mary." Her sadness had made me sad. "Whilst the young folks were whisper- ing outside, it seemed as if we two old women were sitting by the fire and croaking the elegy of all youth, and love, and happiness. " The night is coming for you and me, Jenny," I said. " Dear me, how quickly ! " " The night is at hand," echoed she, softly, and she passed her fingers across her eyes, and then sighed, and got up slowly and went to the door which opened into the porch. And then I heard her call me. " Come here ! " she said, " Mary ! " And the* I, too, rose stiffly from my chair, and went to her. The clouds had cleared away. From the little porch, where the sweet-brier was climbing, we could see all the myriad worlds of heaven, alight and blazing, and cir- cling in their infinite tracks. An aw- ful, silent harmony, power and peace, and light and life eternal, — a shining benediction seemed to be there hang- ing above our heads. " This is the night," she whispered, and took my hand in hers. And so this is the end of the story of Elizabeth Gilmour, whose troubles, as I have said, were not very great ; who is a better woman, I fancy, than if her life had been the happy life she prophesied to herself. Deeper tones and understandings must have come to her out of the profoundness of her griefs, such as they were. For when other troubles came, as they come to all as years go by, she had learnt to endure and to care for others, and to be valiant and to be brave. And I do not like her' the less because I have spoken the truth about her, and writ- ten of her as the woman she is. I went to Paris a little time ago. I saw the old grass-grown court ; I saw Francoise and Anthony, and Tou- Tou and Lou-Lou, who had grown up two pretty and modest and smiling young girls. The old lady at As- nieres had done what was expected, and died and left her fortune to Tou- Tou, her goddaughter. (The little Chinese pagoda is still to let.) Poor Madame Jacob did not, however, en- joy this good luck, for she died sud- denly one day, some months before it came to them. But you may be sure that the little girls had still a father in Tourneur, and Caroline too was very kind to them in her uncertain way. She loved them because they were so unlike herself, — so gentle, and dull, and guileless. Anthony asked me a great many questions about Elizabeth and her home, and told me that he meant to marry Lou- Lou eventually. He is thin and pale, with a fine head like his father, and a quiet manner. He works very hard, he earns very little, — he is one of the best men I ever knew in my life. As I talked to him, I could not but com- pare him to Will Dampier and to John, who are also good men. But then they are prosperous and well-to- do, with well-stored granaries, with vineyards and fig-trees, with children growing up round them. I was won- dering if Elizabeth, who chose her husband because she loved him, and for no better reason, might not have been as wise if she could have appre- ciated the gifts better than happiness, than well-stored granaries, than vine- yards, than fig-trees, which Anthony held in his hand to offer ? Who shall say? Self-denial and holy living are better than ease and prosperity 1 But for that reason some people wilfully turn away from the mercies of Heaven, and call the angels devils, and its gracious bounties temptation. Anthony has answered this ques- tion to himself as we all must do. 76 THE STOEY OF ELIZABETH. His father looks old and worn. I fear there is trouble still under his roof, — trouble, whatever it may be, which is borne with Christian and courageous resignation by the master of the house : he seems, somehow, in these later years to have risen beyond it. A noble reliance and peace are his ; holy thoughts keep him company. The affection between him and his son is very touching. Madame Tourneur looks haggard and weary : and one day, when 1 hap- pened to tell her I was going away, she gasped out suddenly, — " Ah ! what would I not give — " and then was silent and turned aside. But she remains with her husband, which is more than I should have given her credit for. And so, when the appointed hour came, I drove off, and all the person, ages of my story came out to bid ma - farewell. I looked back for the last time at the court-yard with the hens pecketting round about the kitchen door; at the garden with the weeds and flowers tangling together in the sun ; at the shadows falling across the stones of the yard. I could fancy Elizabeth a prisoner within those walls, beating like a bird against the bars of the cage, and revolting and struggling to be free. The old house is done away with and exists no longer. It was pulled down by order of the Government, and a grand new boulevard runs right across the place where it stood. FIVE OLD FRIENDS, DEDICATED TO FIVE YOUNG PRINCESSES. A. C. R. A. H. M. I S. A. M. M. A. B. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY H THE WOOD. A KIND enchantress one day put into my hand a mystic volume prettily lettered and bound in green, saying, " I am so fond of this book. It has all the dear old fairy tales in it ; one never tires of them. Do take it." I carried the little book away with me, and spent a very pleasant quiet evening at home by the fire, with H. at the opposite corner, and other old friends, whom I felt I had some- what neglected of late. Jack and the Beanstalk, Puss in Boots, the gallant and quixotic Giant-killer, and dearest Cinderella, whom we every one of us must have loved, I should think, ever since we first knew her in her little brown pinafore : I wondered, as I shut them all up for the night between their green boards, what it was that made these stories so fresh and so vivid. Why did not they fall to pieces, vanish, explode, disappear, like so many of their contemporaries and de- scendants ? And yet far from being forgotten and passing away, it would seem as if each generation in turn as it came into the world looks to be de- lighted still by the brilliant pageant, and never tires or wearies of it. And on their side the princes and princesses never seem to grow any older; the castles and the lovely gardens flourish without need of repair or whitewash, or plumbers or glaziers. The prin- cesses' gowns, too, — sun, moon, and star color, — do not wear out, or pass out of fashion, or require altering. Even the seven-leagued boots do not appear to be the worse for wear. Numbers of realistic stories for chil- dren have passed away. Little Henry and his Bearer, and Poor Harry and Lucy, have very nearly given up their little artless ghosts and prattle, and ceased making their own beds for the instruction of less excellently brought- up little boys and girls, and notwith- standing a very interesting article in the Saturday Revieiv, it must be owned that Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton are not familiar playfellows in our nurseries and school-rooms, and have passed somewhat out of date. But not so all these centenarians, — Prince Riquet, Carabas, Little Red Biding-hood, Bluebeard and others. They seem as if they would never grow old. They play with the chil- dren, they amuse the elders, there seems no end to their fund of spirits and perennial youth. H-, to whom I made this remark, said from the opposite chimney-cor- ner : " No wonder ; the stories are only histories of real living persons turned into fairy princes and princesses. Fairy stories are everywhere and every day. We are all princes and princesses in disguise, or ogres or wicked ' dwarfs. All these histories are the histories of human nature, which does not seem to change very much in a thousand years or so, and we don't get tired of the fairies because they are so true to it." After this little 1 speech of H.'s, we spent an unprofitable half-hour re- viewing our acquaintance, and class- ing them under their real characters and qualities. We had dined with Lord Carabas only the day before and met Puss in Boots, — Beauty and the Beast were also there ; we uncharita- 80 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. bly counted up, I am ashamed to say, no less than six Bluebeards. Jack and the Beanstalk we had met just starting on his climb. A Red Riding- hood; a girl with toads dropping from her mouth : we knew three or four of each. Cinderellas — alas ! who does not know more than one dear, poor, pretty Cinderella? and as for sleeping Princesses in the Woods, how many one can reckon up ! Young, old, ugly, pretty, awakening, sleeping still. " Do you remember Cecilia Lul- worth," said H., "and Dorlicote? Poor Cecilia ! " Some lives are couleur de rose, people say; others seem to be, if not couleur de rose all through, yet full of bright beautiful tints, blues, pinks, little bits of harmonious cheer- fulness. Other lives, not so brilliant, and seeming more or less gray at times, are very sweet and gentle in tone, with faint gleams of gold or lilac to brighten them. And then again others are black and hopeless from the beginning. Besides all these, there are some which have always ap- peared to me as if they were of a dark, dull hue ; a dingy, heavy brown, which no happiness, or interest, or bright color could ever enliven. Blues turn sickly, roses seem faded, and yellow lilacs look red and ugly upon these heavy backgrounds. "Poor Cecilia," as H. called her, — hers had always seemed to me one of these latter existences, unutterably dull, common- place, respectable, stinted, ugly, and useless. Lulworth Hall, with the great dark park bounded by limestone walls, with iron gates here and there, looked like a blot upon the bright and lovely landscape. The place from a distance, compared with the surrounding coun- try, was ii blur and'a blemish, as it were, sad, silent, solitary. Travellers passing by sometimes asked if the place was uninhabited, and were told, "No, shure, — the fam'ly lives thear all the yeaurr round." Some charitable souls might wonder what life could be like behind those dull gates. One day a young fellow riding by saw rather a sweet woman's face gazing for an instant through the " bars, and he went on his way with a momentary thrill of pity. Need I say that it, was poor Cecilia who looked out vacantly to see who was passing along the high-road. She was sur- rounded by hideous moreen, oil- cloth, punctuality, narrow-mindedness, horse-hair, and mahogany. Loud bells rang at intervals,regular, monotonous. Surly but devoted attendants waited upon her. She was rarely alone ; her mother did not think it right that a girl in Cecilia's position should "race "about the grounds unattend- ed ; as for going outside the walls it was not to be thought of. When Cecilia went out, with her gloves on, and her galoches, her mother's com- panion, Miss Bowley, walked beside her up and down the dark laurel walk at the back of the house, — up and down, down and up, up and down. "I think I am getting tired, Maria," Miss Lulworth would say at last. "If so, we had better return to the hall," Maria would reply, " although it is before our time." And then they would walk home in silence, between the iron railings and laurel-bushes. As Cecilia walked erectly by Miss Bowley's side, the rooks went whirl- ing over their heads, the slugs crept sleepily along the path under the shadow of the grass and the weeds ; they heard no sounds except the caw- ing of the birds, and the distant monotonous hacking noise of the gardener and his boy digging in the kitchen-garden. Cecilia, peeping into the long drab I drawing-room on her return, might I perhaps see her mother, ere^ct and dignified, at her open desk, compos-! ing, writing, crossing, re- writing, an | endless letter to an indifferent cousin in Ireland, with a single candle and a small piece of blotting-paper, and a pen-wiper made of ravellings, all spread out before her. " You have come home early, Cecil," says the lady, without look-. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 81 itig, up. " You had better make the mGi>i of your time, and practise till the dressing-bell rings. Maria will kindly Cake up your things." And then in the chill twilight Cecilia sits down to the jangling in- strument with the worn silk (lutings. A faded rack it is upon which her fingers have been distended ever since she can remember. A great many people think there is noihiag in the world so good for children as scold- ings, whippings, dark cupboards, and dry bread and water, upon which they expect them to grow up into tall, fat, cheerful, amiable men and women ; and a great many people think that for grown-up young peo- ple the silence, the chillness, the mo- notony, and sadness of their own fad- ing twilight days is all that is re- quired. Mrs. Lulworth and Maria Bowley her companion, Cecilia's late governess, were quite of this opinion. They themselves, when they were little girls, had been slapped, snub- bed, locked up in closets, thrust into bed at all sorts of hours, flattened out on backboards, set on high stools to play the piano for days together, made to hem frills five or six weeks long, and to learn immense pieces of poetry, so that they had to stop at home all the afternoon. And though Mrs. Lulworth had grown up stupid, suspicious, narrow-minded, soured, and overhearing, and had married for an establishment, and Miss Bowley, her governess's daughter, had turned ont nervous, undecided, melancholy, and anxious, and had never married at all, yet they determined to bring up Cecilia as they themselves had been brought up, and sincerely thought they could not do better. When Mrs. Lulworth married, she said to Maria : " You must come and live with me, and help to educate my children some day, Maria. For the present I shall not have a home of my own ; we are going to reside with my husband's aunt, Mrs. Dor- mer. She is a very wealthy person, far advanced in years. She is great- 4* ly annoyed with Mr. and Mrs. John Lulworth's vagaries, and she has asked me and my husband to take their places at Dorlicote Hall." At the end of ten years Mrs. Lulworth wrote again : " We are now per- manently established in our aunt's house. I hear you are in want of a situation ; pray come and superin- tend the education of my only child Cecilia (she is named after her god- mother, Mrs Dormer). She is now nearly three years old, and I feel that she begins to require some disci- pline." This letter had been written at that same desk twenty-two years be- fore Cecilia began her practising this autumn evening. She was twenty- five years old now, but like a child in experience, in ignorance, in placid- ity ; a fortunate stolidity and slow- ness of temperament had saved her from being crushed and nipped in the bud, as it were. She was not bored because she had never known any other life. It seemed to her only natural that all days should be alike, rung in and out by the jangling breakfast, lunch, dinner, and prayer bells. Mr. Dormer — a little chip of a man — read prayers suitable for every day in the week ; the ser- vants filed in, maids first, then the men. Once Cecilia saw one of the maids blush and look down smiling as she marched out after the others. Miss Lulworth wondered a little, and thought she would ask Susan why she looked so strangely; but Susan married the groom soon after, and went away, and Cecila never had an opportunity of speaking to her. Night after night Mr. Dormer re- placed his spectacles with a click, and pulled up his shirt-collar when the service was ended. Night after night old Mrs. Dormer coughed a little moaning cough. If she spoke, it was generally to make some little bit- ter remark. Every night she shook hands with her nephew and niece, kissed Cecilia's blooming cheek, and patted out of the room. She was a 82 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. little woman with starling eyes. She had never got oyer her husband's death. She did not always know when she moaned. She dressed in black, and lived alone in her turret, where she had various old-fashioned occupations, ' — tatting, camphor- boxes to sort, a real old spinning- wheel and distaff among other things, at which Cecilia, when she was a child, had pricked her fingers trying to make it whir as her aunt did. Spinning-wheels have quite gone out, but I know of one or two old ladies who still use them. Mrs. Dormer would go nowhere, and would see no one. So at least her niece, the mas- ter-spirit, declared, and the old lady got to believe it at last. I don't know how much the fear of the ob- noxious John and his wife and chil- dren may have had to do with this arrangement. When her great-aunt was gone it was Cecilia's turn to gather her work together at a warning sign from her mother, and walk away through the long chilly passages to her slumbers in the great green four-post bed. And so time passed, Cecilia grew up. She had neither friends nor lovers. She was not happy nor unhappy. She could read, but she never cared to open a book. She was quite con- tented; for she thought Lulworth Hall the finest place, and its inmates the most important people, in the world. She worked a great deal, embroidering interminable quilts and braided toilet-covers and fish-napkins. She never thought of anything but the uttermost commonplaces and platitudes. She considered that be- ing respectable and decorous, and a little pompous and overbearing, was the duty of every well-brought-up lady and gentleman. To-night she banged away very placidly at Rhodes's air, for the twentieth time breaking down in the same passage and mak- ing the same mistake, until the dress- ing-bell rang, and Cecilia, feeling she had done her duty, then extinguished her candle, and went up stairs across the great chill hall, up the bare oil- cloth gallery, to her room. Most young women have some pleasure, whatever their troubles may be, in dressing, and pretty trinkets, and beads and ribbons and necklaces. An unconscious love of art and in- tuition leads some of them, even plain ones, to adorn themselves. The col- ors and ribbon ends brighten bright faces, enliven dull ones, deck what is already lovable, or, at all events, make the mostof what materials there are. Even a May-pole, crowned and flowered and tastily ribboned, is a pleasing object. And, indeed, the art of decoration seems to me a charm- ing natural instinct, and one which is not nearly enough encouraged, and a gift which every woman should try to acquire. Some girls, like birds, know how to weave, out of ends of rags, of threads and morsels and straws, a beautiful whole, a work of real genius for their habitation. Frivolities, say some ; waste of time, say others, — expense, vanity. The strong-minded dowagers shake their heads at it all, — Mrs. Lulworth among them ; only why had Nature painted Cecilia's cheeks of brightest pink, instead of bilious orange, like poor Maria Bowley's t why was her hair all crisp and curly? and were her white even teeth and her clear gray eyes vanity and frivolity too? Cecil- ia was rather too stout for her age ; she had not much expression in her face. And no wonder. There was not much to be expressive about in her poor little stinted life. She could not go into raptures over the mahog- any sideboard, the camphene lamp in the drawing-room, the four-post beds in-doors, the laurel-bushes without, the Moorish temple with yellow glass windows, or the wigwam summer- house, which were the alternate boun- daries of her daily walks. Cecilia was not allowed a fire to dress herself by : a grim maid, how- ever, attended, and I suppose she was surrounded, as people say, by every comfort. There was a horse-hair THE SLEEPING. BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 83 sofa, with a creaking writing-table before it, a metal inkstand, a pair of plated candlesticks : everything was large, solid, brown, as I have said, grim, and in its place. The rooms at Lulworth Hall did not take the impress of their inmate, the inmate was moulded by the room. There were in Cecilia's no young-lady-like trifles lying here and there; upon the chest of drawers there stood a mahogany work-box, square, with a key/ and a faded needle-book and darning-cotton inside, — a little dusty chenille, I believe, was to he seen round the clock on the chimney-piece, and a black and white check dressing- gown and an ugly little pair of slip- pers were set out before the toilet-ta- ble. On the bed, Cecilia's dinner costume was lying, — a sickly green dress, trimmed with black, — and a white flower for her hair. On the toilet-table an old-fashioned jasper serpent-necklace and a set of ame- thysts were displayed for her to choose from, also mittens and a cou- ple of hair-bracelets. The girl was quite content, and she would go down gravely to dinner, smoothing out her hideous toggery. Mrs. Dormer never came down be- fore dinner. All day long she stayed up in her room, dozing and trying remedies, and occasionally looking over old journals and letters until it was time to come down stairs. She liked to see Cecilia's pretty face at one side of the table, while her nephew carved, and Mrs. Lulworth recounted any of the stirring events of the day. Mrs. Dormer was used to the life, — she was sixty when they came to her, she was long past eighty now, — the last twenty years had been like a long sleep, with the dream of what hap- pened when she was alive and in the world continually passing before her. When the Lulworths first came to her she had been in a low and nervous state, only stipulated for quiet and peace, and that no one was to come to her house of mourning. The John Lulworths, a cheery couple, broke down at the end of a month or two, and preferred giving up all chance of their aunt's great inheritance to liv- ing in such utter silence and seclu- sion. Upon Charles, the younger brother and his wife, the habit had grown, until now anything else would have been toil and misery to them. Except the old rector from the village, the doctor now and then, no other human creature ever crossed the threshold. " For Cecilia's sake," Miss Bowley once ventured to hint, — " would it not be desirable to see a little more society ?...." " Cecilia with her expectations has the whole world before her, Maria ! " said Mrs. Lulworth, severely ; and in- deed to this foolish woman it seemed as if money would add more to her daughter's happiness than the de- lights, the wonders, the interests, the glamours of youth. Charles Lul- worth, shrivelled, selfish, dull, worn- out, did not trouble his head about Cecilia's happiness, and let his wife do as she liked with the girl. This especial night when Cecilia came down in her ugly green dress, it seemed to her as if something un- usual had been going on. The old la- dy's eyes looked bright and glittering, her father seemed more animated than usual, her mother looked mysteri- ous and put out. It might have been fancy, but Cecilia thought they all stopped talking as she came into the room ; but then dinner was an- nounced, and her father offered Mrs. Dormer his arm immediately, and they went into the dining-room. It must have been fancy. Every- thing was as usual. " They have put up a few hurdles in Dalron's field, I see," said Mrs. Lulworth. " Charles, you ought to give orders for repairing the lock of the harness- room." " Have they seen to the pump-han- dle ? " said Mr. Lulworth. " I think not." And there was a, dead silence. "Potatoes," said Cecilia to the footman. " Mamma, we saw ever so 84 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. many slugs in the laurel walk, Maria and I, — did n't we, Maria ? I think there are a great many slugs in our place." Old Mrs. Dormer looked up while Cecilia was speaking, and suddenly interrupted her in the middle of her sentence. " How old are you, child V she said ; " are you seventeen or eigh- teen ? " " Eighteen ! Aunt Cecilia, I am five-and-twenty," said Cecilia, staring. " Good gracious ! is it possible ? " said her father, surprised. " Cecil is a woman now," said her mother. " Five-and-twenty," said the old la- 'dy, quite crossly. " I had no idea time went so fast. She ought to have been married long ago ; that is, if she means to marry at all." " Pray, my dear aunt, do not put such ideas — " Mrs. Lulworth began. "I don't intend to marry," said Cecilia, peeling an orange, and quite unmoved, and she slowly curled the rind of her orange in the air. " I think people are very stupid to mar- ry. Look at poor Jane Simmonds, — her husband beats her ; Jones saw her." " So you don't intend to marry ? " said the old lady, with an odd inflec- tion in her voice. " Young ladies were not so wisely brought up in my early days," and she gave a great sigh. " I was reading an old letter this morn- ing from my brother John, your poor father, Charles, —7 all about happi- ness, and love in a cot, and two little curly- headed boys — Jack, you know, and yourself. I should rather like to see Jack again." " What, my dear aunt, after his unparalleled audacity ? I declare the thought of his impudent letter makes my blood boil," exclaimed Mrs. Lul- worth. " Does it 1 " said the old lady. " Cecilia, my dear, you must know that your uncle has discovered that the entail was not cut off from a cer- tain property which my father left me, and which I brought to my hus- band. He has therefore written mtf a very business-like letter, in which he wishes for no alteration at present, but begs that, in the event of my mak- ing my will, I should remember this, and not complicate matters by leav- ing it to yourself, as had been my in- tention. I see nothing to offend in the request. Your mother thinks differently." Cecilia was so amazed at being told anything that she only stared again, and, opening a wide mouth, popped into it such a great piece of orange that she could not speak for some minutes. " Cecilia has certainly attained years of discretion," said her great- aunt ; " she does not compromise her- self by giving any opinion on matters she does not understand." Then the old lady got up and slowly led the way back to the drawing-room again, across the great empty hall. Notwithstanding her outward im- perturbability, Cecilia was a little stirred and interested by this history, and by the short conversation which had preceded it, and after an hour's silence she ceased working, and looked up from the embroidered shaving- cloth she was making. Her mother was sitting upright in her chair as usual, netting with vigorous action. Her large foot outstretched, her stiff bony hands working and jerking mo- notonously. Her father was dozing in his arm-chair ; old Mrs. Dormer, too, was nodding in her corner. The monotonous Maria was stitching in the lamplight. Gray and black shad- ows loomed all round her. The far end of the room was quite dark ; the great curtains swept from theirancient cornices. Cecilia, for the first time in all her life, wondered whether she should live all her life in this spot, — ever go away ? It seemed impossible, unnatural, that she should ever do so. Silent, dull as it was, she was used to it, and jlid not know what was amiss Was anything amiss ? Mrs. Charles Lulworth certainly seemed to think so. She made the tea THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 85 in frowns and silence, and closed the lid of the teapot with a clink which re- echoed through the room. Young Frank Lulworth, the law- yer of the family, — John Lulworth's eldest son, — it was who had found it all Out. His father wrote that with Mrs. Dormer's permission he pro- posed coming down in a day or two to show her the papers, and to explain to her personally how the matter stood. " My son and I," said John Lulworth, " both feel that this would be far more agreeable to our feelings, and perhaps to yours, than having re- course to the usual professional in- tervention, for we have - no desire to press our claims for the present, and we only wish that in the ultimate dis- posal of your property you should be aware how the matter really stands. We have always been led to suppose that the estate actually in question has been long destined by you for your grand-niece, Cecilia Lulworth. I hear from our old friend Dr. Hicks, that she is remarkably pretty and very amiable. Perhaps such vague possi- bilities are best unmentioned, but it has occurred to me that in the event of a mutual understanding springing up between the young folks, — my son and your grand-niece, — the connec- tion might be agreeable to us all, and lead to a renewal of that family inter- course which has been, to my great regret, suspended for some time past." Old Mrs. Dormer, in her shaky Italian handwriting, answered her nephew's letter by return of post : — " Mx deak Nephew, — I must acknowledge the receipt of your epis- tle of the 13th instant. By all means invite your son to pay us his proposed visit. We can then talk over busi- ness matters at our leisure, and young Francis can be introduced to his rela- tives. Although a long time has elapsed since we last met, believe me, my dear nephew, not unmindful of bygone associations, and yours very truly always, " C. Dokmee." The letter was in the postman's bag when old Mrs. Dormer in- formed Mrs. Charles of what she had done. Frank Lulworth thought that in all hi9 life he had never seen anything so dismal, so silent, so neglected, as Dor- licote Park, when he drove up a few days after, through the iron gates and along the black laurel wilderness which led to the house. The laurel branches, all unpruned, untrained, were twisting savagely in and out, wreathing and interlacing one anoth- er, clutching tender shootings, wrest- ling with the young oak-trees and the limes. He passed by black and som- bre avenues leading to mouldy tem- ples, to crumbling summer-houses ; he saw what had once been a flower- garden now all run to seed, ;— wild, straggling, forlorn ; a broken-down bench, a heap of hurdles lying on the ground, a field-mouse darting across the road, a desolate autumn sun shin- ing upon all this mouldering orna- ment and confusion. It seemed more forlorn and melancholy by contrast, somehow, coming as he did out of the loveliest country and' natural sweet- ness into the dark and tangled wilder- ness within these limestone walls of Dorlicote. The parish of Dorlicote-cum-Rock- ington looks prettier in the autumn than at any other time. A hundred crisp tints, jewelled rays, — grays, browns, purples, glinting golds, and silvers, rustle and sparkle upon the branches of the nut-trees, of the bushes and thickets. Soft blue mists and purple tints rest upon the distant hills ; scarlet berries glow among the brown leaves of the hedges ; lovely mists fall and vanish suddenly, reveal- ing bright and sweet autumnal sights ; blackberries, stacks of corn, brown leaves, crisping upon the turf, great pears hanging sweetening in the sun over the cottage lintels, cows grazing and whisking their tails, blue smoke curling from the tall farm chimneys : all is peaceful, prosperous, golden. 86 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. You can see the sea on clear days from certain knolls and hillocks Out of all these pleasant sights young Lulworth came into this dreary splendor. He heard no sounds of life, — he saw no one. His coach- man had opened the iron gate. " They doan't keep no one to moind the gate," said the driver ; " only tradesmen cooms to th' 'ouse." Even the gardener and his boy were out of the way ; and when they got sight of the house at last, many of the blinds were down and shutters shut, and only two chimneys were smoking. There was some one living in the place, however, for a watch-dog who was lying asleep in his kennel woke up and gave a heart-rending howl when Frank got out and rang at the bell. He had to wait an immense time before anybody answered, although a little page in buttons came and stared at him in blank amazement from one of the basement windows, and never moved. Through the same window Frank could see into the kitchen, and he was amused when a sleepy fat cook came up behind the little page and languidly boxed his ears, and ordered him off the premises. The butler, who at last answered the door, seemed utterly taken aback, — nobody had called for months past, and here was a perfect stranger tak- ing out his card, and asking for Mrs. Dormer as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The under-but- ler was half asleep in his pantry, and had not heard the door-bell. The page — the very same whose ears had been boxed — came wondering to the door, and went to ascertain whether Mrs. Dormer would see the gentleman or not. " What a vault, what a catacomb, what an ugly old place ! " thought Frank, as he waited. He heard steps far, far away : then came a long silence, and then a heavy tread slow- ly approaching, and the old butler beckoned to him to follow, — through a cobweb-color room, through a brown room, through a gray room, into a great dim drab drawing-room, where the old lady was sitting alone. She had come down her back stairs to re- ceive him ; it was years since she had left her room before dinner. Even old ladies look kindly upon a tall, well-built, good-Jooking, good- humored young man. Frank's nose was a little too long, his mouth a lit- tle too straight ; but he was a hand- some young fellow with a charming manner. Only as he came up he was somewhat shy and undecided, — he did not know exactly how to address the old lady. This was his great- aunt. He knew nothing whatever about her, but she was very rich ; she had invited him to come, and she had a kind face, he thought : should he — ought he to embrace her, — perhaps he ought, and he made the slightest possi- ble movement in this direction. Mrs. Dormer, divining his object, pushed him weakly away. "How do you do? No embraces, thank you. I don't care for kissing at my age. Sit down, — there, in that chair opposite, — and now tell me about your father, and all the family, and about this ridiculous discovery of yours. I don't believe a word of it." The interview between them was long and satisfactory on the whole. The unconscious Cecilia and Miss Bowley returned that afternoon from their usual airing, and, as it happen- ed, Cecilia said, " O Maria ! I left my mittens in the" drawing-room last night. I will go and fetch them." And little thinking of what was awaiting her, she flung open the door and marched in through the ante- room, — mushroom hat and brown veil, galoches and dowdy gown, as usual. " What is this 1 " thought young Lulworth; "why, who would have supposed it was such a pretty girl ? " for suddenly the figure stopped short, and a lovely fresh face looked up in utter amazement out of the hideous disguise, "There, don't stare, child," said the old lady. " This is Francis Lul- THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 87 worth, a very intelligent young man, who has got hold of your fortune and ruined all your chances, my dear. He wanted to embrace me just now. Francis, you may as well salute your cousin instead : she is much more of an age for such compli- ments," said Mrs. Dormer, waving her hand. The impassive Cecilia, perfectly bewildered and not in the least under- standing, only turned her great sleepy astonished eyes upon her cousin, and stood perfectly still as if she was one of those beautiful wax-dolls one sees stuck up to be stared at. And, indeed, a stronger-minded person than Cecilia might have been taken aback, who had come into the drawing-room to fetch her mittens, to be met in such an astounding fashion. If she had been surprised before, utter con- sternation can scarcely convey her state of mind when young Lulworth stepped forward and obeyed her aunt's behest. Frank, half laughing, half kindly, seeing that Cecilia stood quite still and stared at him, supposed it was expected, and did as he was told. The poor girl gave one gasp of horror, and blushed for the first time, I believe, in the course of her whole existence. Bowley, fixed and open- mouthed from -the inner room, sud- denly fled with a scream, which re- called Cecilia to a sense of outraged propriety ; for, blushing and blinking more deeply, she at last gave three little sobs, and then, O horror ! burst into tears ! " Highty-tighty ; what a much ado about nothing ! " said the old lady, losing her temper and feeling not a little guilty, and much alarmed as to what her niece Mrs. Lulworth might say were she to come on the scene. "I beg your pardon. I am so very, very sorry, said the young man, quite confused and puzzled. " I ought to have known better. _ I frightened you. I am your cousin, you know, and really, — pray, pray excuse my stupidity," he said, look- ing anxiously into the fair placid face along which the tears were coursing in two streams, like a child's. " Such a thing never happened in all my life before," said Cecilia. " I know it is wrong to cry, but really — really — " " Leave off crying directly, miss," said her aunt, testily, " and let us have no more of this nonsense." The old lady dreaded the mother's arrival every instant. Frank, half laughing, but quite unhappy at the poor girl's distress, had taken up his hat to go that minute, not knowing what else to do. "Ah! you 're going," says old Mrs. Dormer ; " no wonder. Cecilia, you have driven your cousin away by your rudeness." " I 'm not rude," sobbed Cecilia. " I can't help crying." " The girl is a greater idiot than I took her for," cried the old lady. " She has been kept here locked up, until she has not a single idea left in her silly noddle. No man of sense could endure her for five minutes. You wish to leave the place, I see, and no wonder ? " " I really think," said Frank, " that under the circumstances it is the best thing I can do. Miss Lul- worth, I am sure, would wish me to go." "Certainly," said Cecilia. "Go away, pray go away. 0, how silly I am!" Here was a catastrophe ! The poor old fairy was all puzzled and bewildered : her arts were power- less in this emergency. The princess had awakened, but in tears. Al- though he had said he was going, the prince still stood by, distressed and concerned, feeling horribly guilty, and yet scarcely able to help laugh- ing; and at that instant, to bring matters to a climax, Mrs. Lulworth's gaunt figure appeared at the drawing- room door. " I wash my hands of the whole concern," said Mrs. Dormer, limping off to her corner in a great hurry and flutter. " Your daughter is only 88 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. a few degrees removed from an idiot, ma'am." Poor Cecilia ! her aunt's reproaches only scared her more and more ; and for the first time in her life she was bewildered, discomposed, forgetful of hours. It was the hour of calisthen- ics ; but Miss Lulworth forgot every- thing that might have been expected from a young lady of her admirable bringing up. " mamma, I did n't mean to be rude," repeated Cecilia, crying still, and the sweet, wet, vacant face, looked imploringly and despairingly up into Frank's. " I 'm so sorry, please forgive me," she said. He looked so kind, so amused, so gentle and handsome, that Cecilia actually felt less afraid of him at this moment than she did of her mother, who, with tight lips and sharp eyes, was surveying the two. " Go and take off your galoches and your walking-dress, Cecilia," said Mrs. Lulworth, exactly in her usual voice, " and do not come down without your apron." In a few minutes, when Cecilia re- turned, blushing and more lovely than ever, in her great apron and dark stuff dress, it was to find her cousin comfortably installed in a big easy-chair, and actually talking above his breath to Miss Bowley. He sprang up and dame to meet the girl, and held out his hand, "In token that you forgive me," he said. " I thought it was I who had been rude and unkind," Cecilia falteringly said. " How good of you not to be vexed ! " " Cecilia," said Mrs. Lulworth and Miss Bowley both at once, in differ- ent tones of warning ; but the princess was awake now, and her simplicity and beauty touched the young prince, who never, I think, really intended to go, even when he took up his hat. Fairy tales are never very long, and this one ought to come to an end. Certainly the story would not have been worth the telling if they had not been married soon after, and lived happily all the rest of their lives. # * * * * It is not in fairy tales only that things fall out as one could wish, and indeed, as H. and I agreed the other night that fairies, although in- visible, have not .entirely vanished out of the land. It is certainly like a fairy transfor- mation to see Cecilia nowadays in her own home with her children and husband about her. Bright, merry, full of sympathy and interest, she seems to grovigSprettier every min- When Frank fell in love with her and proposed, old Mrs. Dormer insist- ed upon instantly giving up the Dor- licote Farm for the young people to live in. Mr. and Mrs. Frank Lulworth are obliged to live in London, but they go there every summer with their children ; and for some years after her marriage, Cecilia's godmother, who took the opportunity of the wed- ding to break through many of her •recluse habits, used to come and see her every day in a magnificent yellow chariot. CINDERELLA. IT is, happily, not only in fairy tales that things sometimes fall out as one could wish, that anxieties are allayed, mistakes explained away, friends reconciled ; that people inherit large fortunes, or are found out in their nefarious schemes ; that long- lost children are discovered disguised in soot, that vessels come safely sail- ing into port after the storm ; and that young folks who have been faith- ful to one another are married off at last. Some of these young couples are not only happily married, but they also begin life ity pleasant palaces tastefully decorated, and with all the latest improvements ; with conven- ient cupboards, bath-rooms, back staircases, speaking-tubes, lifts from one story to another, hot and cold water laid on ; while outside lie well- kept parks, and gardens, and flower- beds ; and from the muslin-veiled windows they can see the sheep brows- ing; the long shadowy grass, deer starting across the sunny glades, swans floating on the rivers, and sail- ing through the lilies and tall lithe reeds. There are fruit-gardens, too, where great purple plums are sunning on the walls, and cucumbers lying asleep among their cool dark leaves. There are glass-houses where heavy dropping bunches of grapes are hang- ing, so that one need only open one's mouth for them to fall into it all ready cooked and sweetened. Some- times, in addition to all these good things, the young couple possess all the gracious gifts of youth, beauty, gay and amiable dispositions. Some one said, the other day, that it seemed as if Fate scarcely knew what she was doing, when she lavished with such profusion every gift and delight upon one pair of heads, while others were left bald, shorn, unheeded, dis- hevelled, forgotten, dishonored. And yet the world would be almost too sad to bear, if- one did not sometimes see happiness somewhere. One would scarcely believe in its possible exist- ence, if there was nobody young, for- tunate, prosperous, delighted ; nobody to think of with satisfaction, and to envy a little. The sight of great hap- piness and prosperity is like listening to harmonious music, or looking at beautiful pictures, at certain times of one's life. It seems to suggest pos- sibilities, it sets sad folks longing ; but while they are wishing, still, may- be, a little reproachfully, they realize the existence of what perhaps they had doubted before. Fate has been hard to them, but there is compensa- tion even in this life, they tell them- selves. Which of us knows when his turn may come? Happiness is a fact : it does lie within some people's grasp. To this or that young fairy couple, age, trial, and trouble may be in store ; but now at least the pres- ent is golden ; the innocent delights and triumphs of youth and nature are theirs. I could not help moralizing a little in this way, when we were staying with young Lulworth and his wife the other day, coming direct from the struggling dull atmosphere of home to the golden placidity of Lulworth farm. They drove us over to Cliffe Court, — another oasis, so it seemed 90 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. to me, in the arid plains of life. Cliffe Court is a charming, cheerful Italian-looking house, standing on a hill in the midst of a fiery furnace of geraniums and flower-beds. " It be- longs to young Sir Charles Richard- son. He is six-and-twenty, and the handsomest man in the county," said Frank. " no, Frank ; you are joking, surely," said Cecilia; and then she stared, and then blushed in her odd way. She still stared sometimes when she was shy, as she used to do before she married. So much of her former habits Ce- cilia had also retained, that as the .clock struck eight every morning a great punctual breakfast-bell used to ring in the outer hall. The dining- room casement was wide open upon the beds of roses, the tea was made, Cecilia in her crisp white morning dress, and with all her wavy bronze hair curling about her face, was wait- ing to pour it out, the eggs were boiled, the bacon was frizzling hot upon the plate to a moment ; there was no law allowed, not a minute's grace for any- body, no matter how lazy. They had been married a little more than two years, and were quite established in their country home. I wish I could perform some incantation like those of my friends the fairies, and conjure up the old farm bodily with a ma^ic wave of my pen, or by draw- ing a triangle with a circle through it upon the paper, as the enchanters do. The most remarkable things about the farm were Hts curious and beautiful old chimneys, — indeed the whole county of Sussex is celebrated for them, and the meanest little cottages have noble-looking stacks all orna- mented, carved and weather-beaten. There were gables also, and stony mullioned windows, and ancient steps with rusty rings hanging to them, af- fixed there to fasten the bridles of horses that would have run away sev- eral hundred years ago, if this pre- caution had not been taken. And then there were storehouses and ricks and barns, all piled with the abun- dance of the harvest. The farm-yard was alive with young fowls and cocka and hens; and guinea-hens, those gentle little dowagers, went about glistening in silver and gray, and Cecilia's geese came clamoring to meet her. I can see it all as I think about it. The old walls are all carved and ornamented, sometimes by art and work of man's hand, some- times by time and lovely little natural mosses. House-leeks grow in clumps upon the thatch, a pretty girl is peep- ing through a lattice window, a door is open while a rush of sweet morning scent comes through the shining oak- en passage from the herb-garden and orchard ■behind. Cows with their soft brown eyes and cautious tread are passing on their way to afield across the road. A white horse waiting by his stable door shakes his head and whinnies. Frank and Cecilia took us for a walk after breakfast the first morning we came. We were taken to the stables first and the cow-houses, and then we passed out through a gate into a field, and crossing the field we got into a copse which skirted it, and so by many a lovely little winding path into the woods. Young Lul- worth took our delight and admira- tion as a personal compliment. It was all Lulworth property as far as we could see. I thought it must be strangely delightful to be the posses- sor of such beautiful hills, mist, sun- shine and shadow, violet tones, song of birds, and shimmer of foliage; but Frank, I believe, looked at his future prospects from a material point of view. " You see it ain't the poetic part of it which pays," he said. But he appreciated it nevertheless, for Ce- cilia came out of the woods that morn- ing, all decked out with great convol- vulus leaves, changed to gold, which Frank had gathered as we went along and given to her. This year all the leaves were turning to such beautiful colors that people remarked upon it, CINDERELLA. 91 and said they never remembered such a glowing autumn; even the year when Frank came to Dorlicote was not to compare to it. ■ Browns and russet, and bright amber and gold flecks, berries, red leaves, a lovely blaze and glitter in the woods along the lanes and beyond the fields and copses. All the hills were melting with lovely color in the clear warm autumn air, and the little nut-wood paths seemed like Aladdin's wonder- ful gardens, where precious stones hung to the trees ; there was a twinkle and crisp shimmer, yellow leaves and golden light, yellow light and golden leaves, red hawthorn, convolvulus- berries, holly-berries beginning to glow, and heaped-up clustering pur- ple blackberries. The sloe-berries, or snowy blackthorn fruit, with their soft gloom of color, were over, and this was the last feast of the year. On the trees the apples hung red and bright, the pears seemed ready to drop from their branches and walls, the wheat was stacked, the sky looked violet behind the yellow ricks. A blackbird was singing like a ripple of water, somebody said. It is hard to refrain from writing of all these lovely things, though it almost is an imper- tinence to attempt to set them down on paper in long lists, like one of Messrs. Rippon and Barton's circulars. As we were walking along the high-road on our way back to the farm, we passed a long pale melancholy-looking man riding a big horse, with a little sweet- faced creature about sixteen who was cantering beside him. He took off his hat, the little girl kissed her hand as they passed, nod- ding a gay triumphant nod, and then we watched them down the hill, and disappearing at the end of the lane. " I am quite glad to see Ella Ash- ford out riding with her father again," said Lulworth, holding the garden gate open for us to pass in. " Mrs. Ashford called here a day or two ago with her daughter," said Ce- cilia. " They 're going to stay at the Ravenhill, she told mc. I thought Colonel Ashford was gone too. I suppose he is come back." " Of course he is," said Frank, " since we have just seen him with Ella, and of course his wife is away for the same reason." " The child has grown very thin," said H. " She has a difficult temper," said Cecilia, — who, once she got an idea into her soft, silly head, did not easily get rid of it again. " She is a great anxiety to poor Mrs. Ashford. She is very different, she tells me, to Julia and Lisette Gamier, her own daugh- ters." " I knew them when they were chil- dren," said H. " We used to see a great deal of Mrs. Ashford when she was first a widow, and I went to her second wedding." We were at Paris one year, — ten years before the time I am writing of, — and Mrs. Gamier lived over us, in a tiny little apartment. She was very poor, and very grandly dressed, and she used to come rustling in to see us. Rustling is hardly the word, she was much too graceful and womanly a person to rustle ; her long silk gowns used to ripple, and wave, and flow away as she came and went ; and her beautiful eyes used to fill with tears as she drank her tea and confided her troubles to us. H. never liked her; but I must confess to a very kindly feeling for the poor, gentle, beautiful, forlorn young creature, so passionate- ly lamenting the loss she had sustained in Major-General Gamier. He had left her very badly off, although she was well connected, and Lady Jane Peppercorne, her cousin, had offered her and her two little girls a home at Ravenhill, she used to tell us in her epktre manner. I do not know why she never availed herself of the offer. She said once that she would not be doing justice to her precious little ones, to whom she devoted herself with the assistance of an experienced attendant. My impression is, that the little ones 92 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. used to scrub one another's little ugly faces, and plait one another's little light Chinese-looking tails, while the experienced attendant laced and dressed and adorned, and scented and powdered their mamma. She really was a beautiful young wonian, and would have looked quite charming if she had left herself alone for a single instant, but she was always posing. She had dark blight eyes ; she had a lovely little arched mouth ; and hands so white, so soft, so covered with rings, that one felt that it was indeed a priv- ilege when she said, " 0, how do you do ? " and extended two or three gentle confiding fingers. At first she went nowhere except to church, and to walk in the retired paths of the Park de Monceau, although she took in Galignani and used to read the lists of arrivals. But by degrees she be- gan to — chiefly to please me, she said — go out a little, to make a few ac- quaintances. One day I was walking with her down the Champs Elysees, when she suddenly started and looked up at a tall, melancholy-looking gen- tleman who was passing, and who stared at her very hard ; and soon after that it was that she began telling me she had determined to make an effort for her children's sake, and to go a little more into society. She wanted me to take her to Madame de Girouette's, where she heard I was going one evening, and where she be- lieved she should meet an old friend of hers, whom she particularly wished to see again. Would I help her ? Would I be so very good ? Of course I was ready to do anything I could. She came punctual to her time, all gray moire and black lace ; a remise was sent for, and we set off, jogging along the crowded streets, with our two lamps lighted, and a surly man, in a red waistcoat and an oilskin hat, to drive us to the Rue de Lille. All the way there, Mrs. Gamier was strange, silent, nervous, excited. Her eyes were like two shining craters, I thought, when we arrived, and as we climbed up the interminable flights of stairs. I guessed which was the old friend in a minute : a tall, well-look- ing, sick-looking man with a gray mustache, standing by himself in a corner. I spent a curious evening, distract- ed between Madame de Girouette's small-talk, to which I was supposed to be listening, and Mrs. Garnier's murmured conversation with her old friend in the corner, to which I was vainly endeavoring not to attend. " My dear, imagine a bouillon sur- mounted with little tiny flutings all round the bottom, and then three ruches, alternating with three . little volants, with great choux at regular in- tervals ; over this a tunic, caught up at the side by a jardiniere, a ceinture a la Bag." " When you left us I was a child, weak, foolish, easily frightened and influenced. It nearly broke my heart. Look me in the face if you can, and tell me you do, not believe me," I heard Mrs. Gamier murmur- ing in a low thrilling whisper. She did not mean me to hear it, but she was too absorbed in what she was saying to think of all the people rfiund about her. " Ah, Lydia, what does it matter now ? " the friend answered in a sad voice which touched me somehow. " We have both been wrecked in our ventures, and life has not much left for either of us now." " It is cut en biais," Madame de Girouette went on ; "the pieces which are taken out at one end are let in at the other : the effect is quite charm- ing, and the economy is immense." " For you, you married the person you loved," Lydia Gamier was an- swering ; " for me, out of the wreck I have at least my children, and a re- membrance and a friend, — is it so ? ' Ah, Henry, have I not at least a friend?" " Everybody wants one," said Ma- dame de Girouette, concluding ber conversation, " and they cannot be made fast enough to supply the de- mand. I am promised mine to wear CINDERELLA. 93 to-morrow at the opening of the salon, but I am afraid that you have no chance. How the poor thing is over- worked, — her magazine is crowded, — I believe she will leave it all in charge of her premiere demoiselle, and retire to her campagne as soon as the season is over." " And you will come and see me, will you not ? " said the widow, as we went away, looking up at her friend. I do not know to this day if she was acting. I believe, to do her jus- tice, that she was only acting what she really felt, as many of us do at times. I took Mrs. Garnier home as I had agreed. I did not ask any questions. I met Colonel Ashford on the stairs next day, and I was not surprised when, about a week after, Mrs. Gar- nier flitted into the drawing-room early one morning, and, sinking down at my feet in a careless attitude, seized my band, and said that she had come for counsel, for advice She had had an offer from a person whom she respected, Colonel Ashford, whom I might have remarked that night at Madame de Girouette's ; would I — would I give her my candid opinion ? for her children's sake, did I not think it would be well to think seriously ? . . . . " And for your own too, my dear," said I. " Colonel Ashford is in Par- liament, he is very well off. I be- lieve you will be making an excel- lent marriage. Accept him by all means." " Dear friend, since this is your real heartfelt opinion, I value your judgment too highly not to act by its dictates. Once, years ago, there was thought of this between me and Hen- ry. I will now confide to you, my heart has never failed from its early , devotion. A cruel fate separated us. I married. He married. We are brought together as by a miracle, but our three children will never know the loss of their parents' love," &c, &c. Glance, hand pressure, &c, — tears, &c. Then a long, soft, irritating kiss. I felt for the first time in my life in- clined to box her ears. The little Garniers certainly gained by the bargain, and the coionel sat down to write home to his little daughter, and tell her the news. Poor little Ella, I wonder what sort of anxieties Mrs. Ashford had caused to her before she had been Ella's fa- ther's wife a year. Miss Ashford made the best of it. She was a cheery, happy little creature, looking at everything from the sunny side, adoring her father, running wild out of doors, but with an odd turn for housekeeping, and order and method at home. Indeed, for the last two years, ever since she wis twelve years old, she had kept her father's house. Languid, gentle, easily im- pressed, Colonel Ashford was quite curiously influenced by this little daughter. She could make him come and go, and like and dislike. I think it was Ella who sent him into Parlia- ment : she could not bear Sir Rain- ham Richardson, their next neighbor, to be an M. P., and an oracle, while her father was only a retired colonel. Her ways and her sayings were a strange and pretty mixture of child- ishness and precociousness. She would be ordering dinner, seeing that the fires were alight in the study and dining-room, writing notes to save her father trouble (Colonel Ashford hated trouble), in her cramped, crooked, girlish hand ; the next min- ute she was perhaps flying, agile-foot- ed, round and round the old hall, skipping up and down the oak stairs, laughing out like a child as she played with her puppy, and dangled a little ball of string under his black nose. Puff, with a youthful bark, would seize the ball and go scuttling down the corridors with his prize, while Ella pursued him with her quick flying feet. She could sing charmingly, with a clear true piping voice, like a bird's, and she used to dance to her own singing in the pret- tiest way imaginable. Her dancing 94 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. was really remarkable: she had the most beautiful feet and hands, and as she seesawed in time, still singing and moving in rhythm, any one seeing her could not fail to have been struck by the weird-like little accomplish- ment. Some girls have a passion for dancing, — boys have a hundred oth- er ways and means of giving vent to their activity and exercising their youthful limbs, and putting out their eager young strength ; but girls have no such chances ; they are condemned to walk through life for the most part, quietly, soberly, putting a curb on the life and vitality which is in them. They long to throw it out, they would like to have wings to fly like a bird, and so they dance some- times with all their hearts, and might and energy. People rarely talk of the poetry of dancing, but there is some- thing in it of the real inspiration of art. The music plays, the heart beats time, the movements flow as natural- ly as the branches of a tree go wav- ing in the wind One day a naughty boy, who had run away, for a lark, from his tutor and his school-room at Cliffe, hard by, and who was hiding in a ditch, happened to see Ella alone in a field. She was looking up at the sky and down at the pretty scarlet and white pimpernels, and listening to the birds ; suddenly she felt so strong and so light, and as if she must jump about a little, she was so happy ; and so she did, shaking her pretty golden mane, waving her poppies high over- head, and singing higher and higher, like one of the larks that were floating in mid air. The naughty boy was much frightened, and firmly believed that he had seen a fairy. " She was all in white," he said afterwards, in an aggrieved tone of voice. " She 'd no hat, or anything; she bounded six foot into the air. You never saw anything like it." Master Richardson's guilty con- science had something to do with his alarm. When his friends made a few facetious inquiries he answered quite sulkily : " Black pudden ? she offered me no pudden or anything else. I only wish you had been there, that 's all, then you 'd believe a fellow when he says a thing, in- stead of always chaffing." * Ella gave up her dancing after the new wife came to Ash Place. It was all so different ; she was not allowed any more to run out into the fields alone. She supposed it was very nice having two young companions like Lisette and Julia, and at first, in her kindly way, the child did the honors of her own home, showed them the way which led to her rabbits, her most secret bird's-nest, the old ivy-grown smugglers' hole in the hollow. Li- sette and Julia went trotting about in their frill trousers and Chinese tails of hair, examining everything, mak- ing their calculations, saying noth- ing, taking it all in (poor little Ella was rather puzzled, and could not make them out). Meantime her new mother was gracefully wandering over the house on her husband's arm, and standing in attitudes, admiring the view from the windows, and asking gentle little indifferent questions, to all of which Colonel Ashford replied unsuspectingly enough. " And so you give the child an al- lowance ? Is she not very young for one ? And is this Ella's room ? how prettily it is furnished ! " " She did it all herself," said her father, smiling. " Look at her rock- ing-horse, and her dolls' house, and her tidy little arrangements." The housekeeping books were in a little pile on the table ; a very sus- picious-looking doll was lying on the bed, so were a pile of towels, half marked, but neatly folded ; there was a bird singing in a cage, a squir- rel, a little aged dog — Puff's grand- mother — asleep on a cushion, some sea-anemones in a glass, gaping with their horrid mouths, strings of birds' eggs were suspended, and whips were hanging up on the walls. There was a great bunch of flowers in the window, and a long daisy -chain CINDERELLA. 95 :fastened up in festoons round the glass ; and then on the toilet-table there were one or two valuable trin- kets set out in their little cases. " Dear me," said Mrs. Ashford, " is it not a pity to leave such temp- tation in the way of the servants ? Little careless thing, — had I not bet- ter keep them for her, Henry ? they are very beautiful." And Mrs. Ashford softly collected Ella's treasures in her long white hands. " Ella has some very valuable things," Colonel Ashford said. " She keeps them locked up in a strong box, I believe ; yes, there it is in the corner." " It had much better come into my closet," Mrs. Ashford said. " 0, how heavy ! Come here, strong-arm, and help me." Colonel Ashford obedient- ly took up the box as he was bid. " And I think I may as well finish marking the dusters," said Mrs. Ash- ford, looking round the room as she collected them all in her apron. " The books, of course, are now my duty. I think Ella will not be sorry to be relieved of her cares. Do you know, dear, I think I am glad, for her sake, that you married me, as well as for my own. I think she has had too much put upon her, is a little too decided, too prononcee for one so young. One would not wish to see her grow up before the time. Let them remain young and careless while they can, Henry." So when Ella came back to mark the dusters that she had been hem- ming, because Mrs. Milton was in a hurry for them and the housemaid had hurt her eye, they were gone, and so were her neat little books that she had taken such pride in, and had been winding up before she gave them to Mrs. Ashford to keep in future; so was her pretty coral necklace that she wore of an evening ; and her pearls with the diamond clasp ; and her beautiful clear carbuncle brooch that she was so fond of, and her little gold clasp bracelet. Although Eliza and Susan had lived with them all her life long, they had never taken her things, poor Ella thought, a little bit- terly. " Quite unsuitable, at your age, dearest," Mrs. Ashford mur- mured, kissing her fondly. And Ella never got them back any more. Many and many other things there were she never got back, poor child. Ah me ! treasures dearer to her than the pretty coral necklace and the gold clasp bracelet, — liberty, confidence, — the tender atmosphere of admiring love in which she had al- ways lived, the first place in her fa- ther's heart. That should never be hers again, some one had determined. The only excuse for Mrs. Ashford is that she was very much in love with her husband, and so selfishly attached to him that she grudged the very care and devotion which little Ella had spent upon her father all these years past. Every fresh proof of thought and depth of feeling in such a child- ish little creature hurt and vexed the other woman. Ella must be taught her place, this lady determined, not in so many words. Alas ! if we could always set our evil thoughts and schemes to words, it would perhaps be well with us, and better far than drifting, unconscious, and unwarned, into nameless evil, unowned to one's self, scarcely recognized. And so the years went by. Julia and Lisette grew up into two great tall fashionable bouncing young la- dies ; they pierced their ears, turned up their pigtails, and dressed very elegantly. Lisette used to wear a coral necklace, Julia was partial to a clear carbuncle brooch her mother gave her. Little Ella, too, grew up like a little green plant springing up through the mild spring rains and the summer sunshine, taller and pret- tier and sadder every year. And yet perhaps it was as well after all that early in life she had to learn to be content with a very little share of its bounties ; she might have been spoilt and over-indulged if things had gone on as they began, if nothing had ever thwarted her, and if all her life she 96 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. had had her own way. She was a bright smiling little thing for all her worries, with a sweet little face ; in- deed her beauty was so remarkable, and her manner so simple and charm- ing, that Julia and Lisette, who were a year or two her elders, used to com- plain to their mother nobody ever noticed them when Ella was by. Lady Jane Peppercorne, their own cousin, was always noticing her, and actually gave her a potato off her own plate the other day. " I fear she is a very forward, de- signing girl. I shall not think of taking her out in London this year," Mrs. Ashford said, with some asper- ity ; " nor shall I allow her to appear at onr croquet-party next week. She is far too young to be brought out." So Ella was desired to remain in her own room on this occasion. She nearly cried, poor little thing, but whatcouldshedo; herfatherwasaway, and when he came back Mrs. Ash- ford would be sure to explain every- thing to him. Mrs. Ashford had ex- plained life to him in so strangely ingenious a manner that he had got to see it in a very topsy-turvy fashion. Some things she had explained away altogether, some she had distorted and twisted, poor little Ella had been explained and explained, until there was scarcely anything of her left at all. Poor child, she sometimes used to think she had not a single Wend in the world, but she would chide her- self for such fancies : jf must be fancy. Her father loved her as much as ever, but he was engrossed by business, and it was not to be expected he should show what he felt before Julia and Lisette, who might be hurt. And then Ella would put all her drawers in order, or sew a seam, or go out and pull up a bedful of weeds to chase such morbid fancies out of her mind. Lady Jane Peppercorne, of whom mention has been already made, had two houses, one in Onslow Square, another at Hampstead. She was very rich, she had never married, and was consequently far more sentimental than ladies of her standing usually are. She was a nighty old lady, and lived sometimes at one house, some- times at the other, sometimes at hotels here and there, as the fancy seized her. She was very kind as well as nighty, and was constantly doing generous things, and trying to help any one who seemed to be in trouble or who appeared to wish for anything she had it in her power to grant. So when Mrs. Ashford said, " O, Lady Jane, pity me ! My husband says he cannot afford to take me to town this year. I should so like to go, for the dear girls' sake, of course, — " Lady Jane gave a little grunt, and said, " I will lend yon my house in Onslow Square, if you like, — that is, if you keep my room ready for me in case I want to come up at any time. But I dare say you won't care for such an unfashionable quar- ter of the world." " O Lady Jane, how exceedingly kind, how very delightful and unex- pected ! " cried Mrs. Ashford, who had been hoping for it all the time, and who hastened to communicate the news to Lisette and Julia. " I shall want a regular outfit, mamma," said Julia, who was fond of dress. " Perhaps we shall meet young Mr. Richardson in town." " I shall be snapped up directly by some one, I expect," said Lisette, who was very vain, and thought her- self irresistible. " Am I to come too ? " asked Ella, timidly, from the other end of the room, looking up from her sewing. " I do not know," replied her step- mother, curtly, and Ella sighed a little wistfully, and went on stitching. " At what age shall you let me come out ' " she presently asked, shyly. " When you are tit to be trusted in the world, and have cured your un- ruly temper," said Mrs. Ashford. Ella's eyes filled with tears, and she blushed up ; but her father came into the room, and she smiled through her CINDERELLA. 97 tears, and thought to herself that since her temper was so bad, she had better begin to rule it that very instant "When Mrs. Ashfbrd began to explain to her husband, however, how much better it would be for Ella to remain in the country, the child's wistful glance met his, and for once he insisted that she should not be left behind. It is a bright May morning after a night of rain, and although this is London and not the country any move, Onslow Square looks bright and clean. Lady Jane has had the house smartly done up : clean chintz, striped blinds, a balcony full of mignonette. She has kept two little rooms for herself and her maid, but all the rest of the house is at the Ashfords' disposal. Everybody is satisfied, and Ella is en- chanted with her little room up stairs. Mrs. Ashford is making lists of visits and dinner-parties and milliners' ad- dresses ; Lisette is looking out of win- dow at some carriages which are pass- ing ; the children and nurses are sit- ting under the trees in the square ; Julia is looking at herself in the glass and practising her court courtesies ; and Ella is in the back room arrang- ing a great heap of books in a book- case. " I should so like to go to the Palace, mamma," she says, looking up with a smudgy face, for the books were all dirty and covered with dust. " Do you think there will be room for me 1 " Ella had no proper pride, as it is called, and always used to take it for granted she was wanted, and that some accident prevented her from go- ing with the others. " I am sorry there is no room for you, Ella," said Mrs. Ashford, in her deep voice ; " I have asked Mr. Richardson to come with us, and if he fails, I promised to call for the Countess Bricabrac. Pray, if you do not care for walking in the square this afternoon, see that my maid puts my things properly away in the cupboards, as well as Julia's and Lisette's, and help her to fold the dresses, because it is impossible for 5 one person to manage these long trains unassisted." " Very well," said Ella, cheerfully. " I hope you will have a pleasant day. How nice it must be to be going ! " " I wish you would learn not to wish for everything and anything that you happen to hear about, Ella," said Mrs. Ashford. " And by the way, if you find any visitors coming, go away, for I cannot allow you to be seen in this dirty state." " There 's a ring," said Ella, gath- ering some of the hooks together. " Good by." Young Mr. Richardson, who was announced immediately after, passed a pretty maid-servant, carrying agreat pile of folios, upon the stairs. She looked so little fitted for the task that he involuntarily stopped and said, " Can I assist you » " The little maid smiled and shook her head, with- out speaking. " What a charming little creature ! " thought Mr. Rich- ardson. He came to say that he and his friend, Jack Prettyman, were go- ing to ride down together, and would join the ladies at the Palace. " We are to pick Colonel Ashford up at his club," Mrs. Ashford said, " and Madame de Bricabrac. I shall count upon you then." And the young ladies waved him gracious au revoirs from the balcony. " Oh ! don't you like white waist- coats, Julia 1 " said Lisette, as she watched him down the street. They are gone. Ella went up to help with the dresses, but presently the maid said in her rude way that she must go down to dinner, and she could not have anybody messing the things about while she was away. Carter hated having a " spy " set over her, as she called Miss Ashford. The poor little spy went back to the drawing-room. She was too melan- choly and out of spirits to dress her- self and go out. Her face was still smudgy, and she had cried a little over Lisette's pink tarlatane. Her heart sank down, down, down. She did so long for a little fun and delight, a 98 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. and laughter and happiness. She knew her father would say, " Where is Ella ? " and her mother would an- swer, " 0, I really cannot account for Ella's fancies. She was 6nlky this morning again. I cannot manage her strange tempers." The poor child chanced to see her shabby face and frock and tear-stained cheeks in one of the tall glasses over the gilt tables. It was very silly, but the woe-begone little face touched her so ; she was so sorry for it that all of a sudden she burst out sob, sob, sob, crying. " 0, how nice it must be to be loved and cherished, and very happy ! " she thought. " 0, I could be so good if they would only love me ! " She could not bear to think more directly of her father's change of feeling. She sat down on the floor, as she had a way of doing, all in a little heap, staring at the empty grate. The fire had burnt out, and no one had thought of relighting it. For a few minutes her tears overflowed, and she cried and cried in two rivulets down her. black little face. She thought how forlorn she was, what a dull life she led, how alone she lived, — such a rush of regret and misery over- powered her, that she hid her face in her hands, unconscious of anything else but. her own sadness She did not hear the bell ring, nor a carriage stop, nor Lady Jane's foot- steps. That lady came across the room and stood looking at her. " Why, my dear little creature, what is the matter ? " said Lady Jane at last. " Crying 1 don't you know it is very naughty to cry, no matter how bad things are ? Are they all gone, — are you all alone 1 " Ella jumped up quite startled, blushed, wiped her tears in a smudge. " I thought nobody would see me cry," she said, " for they are all gone to the Crystal Palace." " And did they leave you behind quite by yourself? " the old lady asked. " They were so sorry they had no room for me," said good-natured lit- tle Ella. She could not bear to hear people blamed. "They had prom- ised Madame de Bricabrac." " Is that all ? " said Lady Jane, in her kind, imperious way. " Why, I have driven in from Hampstead on purpose to go there too. There 's a great flower-show to-day, and you know I am a first-ra te gardener. I've brought up a great hamper of things. Put on your bonnet, wash your face, and come along directly. I 've plenty of room. Who is that talking in that rude way ? " for at that instant Carter called out with a sniff from the drawing-room door, without look- ing in : — "Wow then, Miss Ella, you can come and help me fold them dresses. I'm in a hurry." Carter was much discomposed when, instead of her victim, Lady Jane appeared, irate, dignified. " Go up stairs directly, and do not forget yourself again," said the old lady. " O, I think I ought to go and fold up the dresses," said Ella, hesitating, flushing, blushing, and looking more than grateful. " How very, very kind of you to think of me ! I 'm afraid they would n't — I'm afraid I 've no bonnet. 0, thank you, I — but — ", "Nonsense, child," said Lady Jane ; " my maid shall help that woman. Here," ringing the bell vio- lently (to the footman), "what have you done with the hamper I brought up ? let me see it unpacked here im- mediately. Can't trust those people, my dear, — always see to everything myself." All sorts of delicious things, scents, colors, spring-flowers and vegetables, came out of the hamper in delightful confusion. It was a hamper full of treasures, — sweet, bright, delicious- tasted, — asparagus, daffodillies, blue- bells, salads, cauliflowers, hothouse flowers, cowslips from the fields, azalias. Ella's natty little fingers arranged them all about the room in plates and in vases so perfectly and so quickly that old Lady Jane cried out in admiration : — CINDERELLA. 99 "Why, you would be a first-rate girl, if you did n't cry. Here, you John, get some bowls and trays for the vegetables, green peas, straw- berries ; and 0, here 's a cucumber and a nice little early pumpkin. I had it forced, my dear. Your step- mother tells me she is passionately fond of pumpkins. Here, John, take all this down to the cook ; tell her to put it in a cool larder, and order the carriage and horses round directly. Now then," to Ella, briskly, "go arid pat your things on, and come along with me. / '11 make matters straight. I always do. There, go directly. I can't have the horses kept. Raton, my coachman, is terrible if he is kept waiting, — frightens me' to death by his driving when he is put out." Ella did not hesitate a moment longer; she rushed up stairs; her little feet flew as they used to do for- merly. She came down in a minute, panting, rapturous, with shining hair and a bright face, in her very best Sunday frock, cloak, and hat. Shabby enough they were, but she wns too happy, too excited, to think about the deficiencies in her toilet. " Dear me, this never will do, I see," said the old lady, looking at her disapprovingly ; but she smiled so kindly, as she spoke, that Ella was m>t a bit frightened. " Indeed, I ha^e no other," she said. " John," cried the old lady, " where is my maid ? Desire her to come and speak to me directly. Now then, sir ! " All her servants knew her ways much too well not to fly at her com- mands. A maid appeared as if by magic. " Now, Batter, be quick ; get that blue and silver bournous of mine from the box up stairs, — it will look very nice ; and a pair of gray kid gloves, Batter ; and let me see, my dear, you would n't look well in a brocade. No, that gray satin skirt, Batter ; her own white bodice will do, and we can buy a bonnet as we go along. Now, quick ; am I to be kept waiting all day? " Ella in a moment found herself transformed somehow into the most magnificent lady she had seen for many a day. It was like a dream, she could hardly believe it ; she saw herself move majestically, sweeping in silken robes across the very same pier-glass, where a few minutes before she had looked at the wretched little melancholy creature, crying with a dirty face, and watched the sad tears flowing " Now then, — now then," cried Lady Jane, who was always saying " Now then," and urging people on, — "where 's my page, — are the out- riders there % They are all work- house boys, my dear ; they come to me as thin and starved as church- mice, and then I fatten them up and get 'em situations. I always go with outriders. One 's obliged to keep up a certain dignity in these Chartist days — universal reform — suffrage — vote by ballot. I J ve no patience with Mr. Gladstone, and it all rests with us to keep ourselves well aloof. Get in, get in ! Drive to Sydenham, if you please." Lady June's manners entirely changed when she spoke to Eaton. And it is a fact that coachmen from their tall boxes rule with a very high hand, and most ladies tremHe before them. Eaton looked very alarming in his wig, with his shoe-buckles and great red face. What a fairy tale it was ! There was little Ella sitting in this lovely chariot, galloping down the Bromp- ton Road, with all the little boys cheering and hurrahing ; and the lit- tle outriders clattering on ahead, and the old lady sitting bolt upright as pleased as Punch. She really had been going to Sydenham ; but I think, if she had not, she would have set off instantly, if she thought she would make anybody happy by so doing. They stopped at a shop in the Brompton Road, — the wondering shopwoman came out. 100 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. " A white bonnet, if yon please," said Lady Jane. " That will do very well. Here, child, put it on, and mind you don't crease the strings." And then away and away they went once more through the town, the squares, over the bridges. They saw the ships and steamers coming down the silver Thames, but the carriage never stopped : the outriders paid the tolls and clatted on ahead. They rolled along pleasant country lanes and fields, villas and country-houses, roadside inns, and pedestrians, and crawling carts and carriages. At the end of three quarters of an hour, during which it seemed to Ella as if' the whole gay cortege had been flying through the air, they suddenly stop- ped at last, at the great gates of a Crystal Palace blazing in the sun, and standing on a hill. A crowd was looking on. All sorts of grand people were driving up in their car- riages; splendid ladies were passing in. Two gentlemen in white waist- coats were dismounting from their horses just as Ella and Lady Jane were arriving. They rushed up to the carriage door, and helped them to the ground. " And pray, sir, who are you ? " said Lady Jane, as soon as she was safely deposited on her two little flat feet with the funny old-fashioned shoes. - The young man colored up and bowed. " You don't remember me, Lady Jane," he said. " Charles Richardson, — I have had the honor of meeting you at Ash Place, and at Cliffe, my uncle's house. This is my friend Mr. Prettyman." " This is Mr. Richardson, my dear Ella, and that is Mr. Prettyman. Tell them to come back in a couple of hours " (to the page)," and desire Raton to see that the horses have a feed. Now then, — yes, — give her your arm, and you are going to take me ? — very well," to the other white waistcoat ;,and so they went into the Palace. What are young princes like now- adays? Do they wear diamond aigrettes, swords at their sides, top- boots, and little short cloaks over one shoulder? The only approach to romance that I can see, is the flower in their button-hole, and the nice lit- tle mustaches and curly beards in which they delight. But all the same besides the flower in the button, there is also, I think, a possible flower of sentiment still growing in the soft hearts of princes in these days, as in the old days long, long ago. Charles Richardson was a short ugly little man, very gentlemanlike, and well dressed. He was the next heir to a baronetcy ; he had a pale face and a snub nose, and such a fine estate in prospect — Cliffe Court its name was — that I do not wonder at Miss Lisette's admiration for him. As for Ella, she thought how kind he had been on the stairs that morning ; she thought what a bright genial smile he had. How charming he looked, she said to herself; no, never, never had she dreamt of any one so nice. She was quite — more than satisfied ; no prince in romance would have seemed to her what this one was, there actually walking beside her. As for Richardson himself, it was a case of Jove at first sight. He had seen m&ny thousand young ladies in the last few years, but not one of thejn to compare with this sweet-faced, ingenuous, tender, bright little crea- ture. He offered her his arm, and led her along. Ella observed that he said a few words to his friend ; she little guessed their purport. " You go first," he whispered, " and, if you see the Ash- fords, get out of the way. I should have to walk with those girls, and my heart is here transfixed forever.". . . . " Where have I seen you before ? " he went on, talking to Ella, as they roamed through the beautiful courts and gardens, among fountains and flowers, and rare objects of art. " Forgive me for asking you, but I must have met you somewhere long ago, and have never forgotten you. CINDERELLA. 101 I am haunted by your face." Ella was too much ashamed to tell him where and how it was they had met .that very morning. She remembered him perfectly, but she thought he would rush away and leave her, if she told him that the untidy little scrub upon the stairs had been herself. And she was so happy : music playing, flowers blooming, the great wonder- ful fairy Palace flashing overhead; the kind, clever, delightful young man to escort her ; the gay company, the glitter, the perfume, the statues, the interesting figures of Indians, the dear, dear, kind Lady Jane to look to for sympathy and for good-humored little nods of encouragement. She had never been so happy ; she had never known what a wonder the Palace might be. Her heart was so full. It was all so lovely, so incon- ceivably beautiful and delightful, that she was nearly tipsy with delight; her head turned for an instant, and she clung to young Richardson's pro- tecting arm. " Are you faint % are you ill ? " he said anxiously. "0 no ! " said Ella, " it 's only that everything is so beautiful; it is almost more than I can bear. I — I am not often so happy ; O, it is so charming ! I do not think anything could be so delightful in all the world." She looked herself so charming and un- conscious as she spoke, looking up with her beautiful face out of her white bonnet, that the young fellow felt as if he must propose to her, then and there, off-hand on the very spot ; and at the instant he looked up passionately, — O horror ! — hecaught sight of the Ashfords, mother, daugh- ters, Madame de Bricabrac, all in a row, coming right down upon them. " Prettyman, this way, to the right," cried little Richardson, desperately; and Prettyman, who was a good- natured fellow, said : " This way, please, Lady Jane ; there 's some peo- ple we want to avoid over there." # # # * * " I 'm sure it was," Lisette said. " I knew the color of his waistcoat. Who -could he have been walking with, I wonder ? " " Some lady of rank, evidently," said Julia. " I think they went up into the gallery in search of us." " Let us go into the gallery, dears," said Mrs. Ashford, and away they trudged. * * * # * The young men and their compan- ions had gone into the Tropics, and meanwhile were sitting under a spreading palm-tree, eating pink ices ; while the music played and played more delightfully, and all the air was full of flowers and waltzes, of delight, of sentiment. To young Richardson the whole Palace was Ella in every- thing, in every sound and flower and fountain ; to Ella young Richard- son seemed an enormous giant, and his kind little twinkling eyes were shining all round her. Poor dear ! she was so little used to being happy, her happiness almost overpowered her. " Are you going to the ball at Guildhall to-morrow ? " Mr. Richard- son was saying to his unknown prin- cess. " How shall I ever meet you again? will you not tell me your name? But — " " I wonder what o'clock it is, and where your mother can be, Ella," said Lady Jane ; "it 's very odd we have not met." * » * * * " I can't imagine where they can have hid themselves," said Julia, very crossly, from the gallery overhead. " I'm so tired, and I'm ready to drop," said Miss Lisette. " 0, let us sit," groaned Madame de Bricabrac. " I can walk no more ; what does it matter if we do not find your friends t " " If we take our places at the door," said Lisette, " we shall be sure to catch them as they pass." * * * * * " Perhaps I may be able to go to the ball," said the princess, doubtfully. 102 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. "I — I don't know.'' Lady Jane madebelievenottobelis teni ng. The voices in the gallery passed on. Lady Jane, having finished her ice, pulled but her little watch, and gave a scream of terror. " Heavens ! my time is up," she said. " Raton will frighten me out of my wits, driving home. Come, child, come — come — come. Make haste — thank these gentlemen for their escort," and she went skurrying along, a funny little active figure, followed by the breath- less young people. They got to the door at last, where Baton was waiting, looking very ferocious. " 0, good by," said Ella. " Thank you so much,'' as Richartlson helped her into the chariot. "And you will not forget me?" he said, in a low voice. " I shall not need any name to remember you by." " My name is Ella," she answered, blushing, and driving off; and then Ella flung her arms round Lady Jane, and began to cry again, and said : " 0, 1 have been so happy ! so happy ! How good, good of you to make me so happy ! 0, thank you, dear Lady Jane ! " The others came back an hour after them, looking extremely cross, and were much surprised to find Lady Jane in the drawing-room. " I am not going back till Wednesday," said the old lady. " I 've several things to do in town Well, have you had a pleasant day ? " " Not at all," said Mrs. Ashford, plaintively. " The colonel deserted us; we didn't find our young men till just as we were coming away. We are all very tired, and want some supper, — some of your delicious fruit, Lady Jane." " O dear, how tired I am!" said Julia. " Poor Richardson was in very bad spirits," said Lisette. " What a place it is for losing one another ! " said old Lady Jane. " I took Ella there this afternoon, and though I looked about I could n't see you anywhere." " Ella ! " cried the other girls, astonished ; " was she there ?".... But they were too much afraid of Lady Jane to object more openly. That evening, after the others left the room, as Ella was pouring out the tea, she summoned up courage to ask whether she might go to the ball at Guildhall with the others next evening. " Pray, pray, please take me," she implored. Mrs. Ashford looked up amazed at her audacity. Poor little Ella ! refused, scorned, snubbed, wounded, pained, and dis- appointed. She finished pouring out the tea in silence, while a few bitter scalding tears dropped from her eye3 into the teacups. Colonel Ashford drank some of them, and asked for more sugar to put into his cup. " There, never mind," he said, kindly. He felt vexed with his wife, and sorry for the child ; but he was, as usual, too weak to interfere. " You know you are too young to go into the world, Ella. When your sisters are married, then your turn will come." Alas ! would it ever come 1 The day's delight had given her a longing for more ; and now she felt the beau- tiful glittering vision was only a vision, and over already: the cloud- capped towers, the gorgeous palace ; and the charming prince himself, — was he a vision too ? Ah ! it was too sad to think of. Presently Lisette and Julia came back : they had been up stairs to see about their dresses. " I shall wear my bird-of-paradise, and my yellow tarlatane," said Li- sette ; " gold and purple is such a lovely contrast." " Gobert has sent me a lovely thing," said Julia ; " tri-color flounces all the way up, — she has so much taste." Good old Lady Jane asked her maid next morning if any dress was being got ready for Miss Ella. Hear- ing that she was not going, and that no preparations were being made, she despatched Batter on a secret mission, and ordered her carriage at nine o'clock that evening. She went out herself soon after breakfast in a hired CINDERELLA. 103 brougham, dispensing with the out- riders for once. Ella was hard at work all day for her sisters ; her little fingers quilled, fluted, frilled, pleated, pinned, tacked the trimmings on, their dresses more dexterously than any dressmaker or maid-servant could do. She looked so pretty, so kind, and so tired, so wistful, as she came to help them to dress, that Lisette was quite touched, and said : " Well, Ella, I should n't wonder if, after I am snapped up, you were to get hold of a husband some day. I dare say some people might think you nice- looking." " 0, do you think so really, Li- sette 1 " said Ella, quite pleased ; and then faltering, " Do you think . . . . Shall you see Mr. Richardson ? " " Of course I shall," said Lisette. " He was talking great nonsense yes- terday after we found him ; saying that he had met with perfection at last, — very devoted altogether; scarcely spoke to me at all ; but that is the greatest proof of devotion, you know. I know what he meant very well. I should n't be at all surprised if he was to propose to-night. I don't know whether I shall have him. I 'm always afraid of being thrown away," said Lisette, looking over her shoulder at her train. Ella longed to send a message, a greeting of some sort, to Lisette's adorer. 0, how she envied her ! what would she not have given to be going too ? . . . . " What ! are not you dressing, child 1 " said Lady Jane, coming into the room. "Are they again obliged to call for Madame de Bricabrac ? I had looked up a pair of shoe-buckles for you in case you went ; but keep them all the same, they only want a little rubbing up." " 0, thank you ; how pretty they are ; how kind you are to me ! " said Ella, sadly. "I — I — am not go- ing." And she gulped down a great sob. It was just dreadful not to go ; the poor child had had a great draught of delight the day before, and she was aching and sickening for more, and longing with a passion of longing which is only known to very young people, — she looked quite worn and pale, though she was struggling with her tears. " Eub up yeur shoe-buckles, — that will distract you," said the old lady, kindly. " They are worth a great deal of money, though they are only paste ; and if you peep in my room you will find a little pair of slippers to wear them with. I hope they will fit. I could hardly get any small enough for you." They were the loveliest little white satin slippers, with satin heels, all embroidered with glass beads ; but, small as they were, they were a little loose, only Ella took care not to say so, as she tried them on. We all know what is coming, though little Ella had no idea of it. The ball was at Guildhall, one of the grandest and gayest that ever was given in the city of London. It was in honor of the beautiful young Prin- cess, who had juste landed on our shores. Princes, ambassadors, nobles, stars, orders and garters, and decora- tions, were to be present; all the grandest, gayest, richest, happiest people in the country, all the most beautiful ladies and jewels and flow- ers, were to be there to do homage to the peerless young bride. The Ash- fords had no sooner started, than Lady Jane, who had been very mys- terious all day, and never told any one that she had been to the city to" pro- cure two enormous golden tickets which were up in her bedroom, now came, smiling very benevolently, into the drawing-room. Little Ella was standing out in the balcony with her pale face and all her hair tumbling down her back. She had been too busy to put it up, and now she was only thinking of the ball, and pictur- ing the dear little ugly disappointed face of Prince Richardson, when he should look about everywhere for her in vain, — while she was standing 10-1 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. hopelessly gazing after the receding carriage. " Well, my dear, have you rubbed tip the shoe-buckles ? That is right," said the old lady. " Now come quick into my room and see some of my conjuring." Conjuring ! It was the most beautiful white net dress, frothed and frothed up to the waist, and looped up with long grasses. The conjur- ing was her own dear old pearl neck- lace with the diamond clasp, and a diamond star for her hair. It was a bunch of grasses and delicate white azalias for a head-dress, and over all the froth a great veil of flowing white net. The child opened her violet eyes, gasped, screamed, and began dancing about the room like a mad thing, jumping, bounding, clapping her hands, all so softly and gayly, and yet so lightly, in such an ecstasy of delight, that Lady Jane felt she was more than rewarded. '" Ah ! there she is at last ! " cried Mr. Richardson, who was turning carefully round' and round with the energetic Lisette. " What do you mean 1 " said Li- sette. Can you fancy her amazement when she looked round and saw Ella appearing in her snow and sunlight dress, looking so beautiful that every- body turned to wonder at her, and to admire ? As for Ella, she saw no one, nothing ; she was looking up and down, and right and left, for the kind little pale plain face which she wanted. " Excuse me one minute, Miss Lisette," said Mr. Richardson, leav- ing poor Lisette planted in the mid- dle of the room, and rushing forward. " Are you engaged," Ella heard a breathless voice saying in her ear, " for the next three, six, twenty dances ? I am so delighted you have come ! I thought you were never coming." Julia had no partner at all, and was standing close bv the entrance with her mother. They were both astounded at the apparition. • Mrs. Ashford came forward to make sure that her eyes were not deceiving her. Could it be — ? yes, — no, — yes, it was Ella ! She (licked her fan indignantly into an alderman's eye, and looked so fierce that the child began to tremble. "Please forgive me, mamma/' said Ella, piteously. " Forgive you ! never," said Mrs. Ashford, indignant. " What does all this mean, pray?" she continued. "Lady Jane, I really must — " and then she stopped, partly because she was so angry she could scarcely speak, and partly because she could not afford to quarrel with Lady Jane until the season was over. " You really must forgive me, dear Lydia," said Lady Jane. " She wanted to come so much, I could not resist bringing her." Weber's inspiriting Last Waltz was being played ; the people and music went waving to and fro like the waves of the sea, sudden sharp notes of exceeding sweetness sound- ed, and at the sound the figures all swayed in harmony. The feet kept unseen measure to the music; the harmonious rhythm thrilled and con- trolled them all. The music was like an enchantment, which kept them moving and swaying in circles and in delightful subjection. Lassi- tude, sadness, disappointment, Ella's alarm, all melted away for the time ; pulses beat, and the dancers see- sawed to the measure. All that evening young Richard- son danced with Ella and with no one else : they scarcely knew how the time went. It was a fairy world : they were flying and swimming in melody, — the fairy hours went by to music, in light, in delightful com- panionship. Ella did not care for Mrs. Ashford's darkening looks, for anything that might happen : she was so happy in the moment, she al- most forgot to look for Lady Jane's sympathetic glance. CINDERELLA. 105 " You must meet me in the ladies' cloak-room punctually at half past eleven," her patroness had whispered to her. " I cannot keep Raton, with his bad cough, out after twelve ■o'clock. Mind you are punctual, for I have promised not to keep him waiting." " Yes, yes, dear Lady Jane," said Ella, and away she danced again to the music. And time went on, and Julia had no partners ; and Colonel Ashford came up to his wife, saying, — " I 'm so glad you arranged for Ella too," he said. " How nice she is looking ! What is the matter with Julia ; why don't she dance 1 " Tumty, tumty, tumty, went the instruments. And meanwhile Mr. Richardson was saying : " Your dancing puts me in mind of a fairy I once saw in a field at Cliffe long ago. Nobody would ever believe me, but I did see one." " A fairy, — what was she like 1 " asked Ella. " She was very like you," said Mr. Richardson, laughing. " I do believe it teas you, and that was the time when I saw you before." " No, it was not," said Ella, blush- ing, and feeling she ought to confess. " I will tell you," she said, " if you will promise to dance one more dance with me, after you know. — Only one." " Then you, too, remember," he cried, eagerly. " One more dance ? — twenty, — forever and ever. Ah, you must know, you must guess, the feeling in my heart " " Listen first," said Ella, trem- bling very much and waltzing on very slowly. " It was only the other day — " The clock struck three quarters. " Ella, I am going," said Lady Jane, tapping her on the shoulder. " Come along, my dear — " " One word ! " cried Richardson, eagerly. " You can stay with your mother if you like," the old lady went on, preoccupied, — she was thinking of 5* her coachman's ire, — " but I advise you to come with me." " 0, pray, pray stay ! " said young Richardson ; " where is your mother ? Let me go and ask her ? " " You had better go yourself, Ella," said old Lady Jane. " Will you give me your arm to the door, Mr. Richardson ? " Ella went up to Mrs. Ashford, — she was bold with happiness to-night, and made her request. " Stay with me? certainly not, it is quite out of the question. You do me great honor,", said the lady, laughing sar- castically. " Lady Jane brought you, Lady Jane must take you back," said the stepmother. " Follow your chaperone if you please, I have no room for you in my brougham. Go directly, miss ! " said Mrs. Ashford, so savagely that the poor child was quite frightened, and set off running after the other two. She would have caught them up, but at that instant Lisette — who had at last secured a partner — came waltzing up in such a violent, angry way, that she bump- ed right up against the little flying maiden and nearly knocked her down. Ella gave a iow cry of pain . they had trodden on her foot roughly, — they had wounded her ; her little satin slipper had come off. Poor Ella stooped and tried to pull at the slipper, but other couples came sur- ging up, and she was alone, and frightened, and obliged to shuffle a little way out of the crowd before she could get it on. The poor little frightened thing thought she never should get through the crowd. She made the best of her way to the cloak-room : it seemed to her as if she had been hours getting there. At last she reached it, only to see, to her dismay, as she went in at one door, the other two going out of another a long way off! She called, but they did not hear her, and at the same moment St. Paul's great clock began slowly to strike twelve. " My cloak, my cloak, anything, please," she cried in great agitation and 106 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. anxiety ; and a stupid, bewildered maid hastily threw a shabby old shawl over her shoulders, — it belong- ed to some assistant in the place. Little Ella, more and more frighten- ed, pulled it up as she hurried along the blocked passages and corridors all lined with red and thronged with people. They all stared at her in surprise as she flew along. Present- ly her net tunic caught in a door-way and tore into a long ragged shred which trailed after her. In her agi- tation her comb fell out of her hair, — she looked all scared and frighten- ed, — nobody would hare recognized the beautiful triumphal princess of half an hour before. She heard the link-men calling, " Peppercorne's car- riage stops the way I and she hur- ried faster and faster down the endless passages and steps, and at last, just as she got to the door-way — horror ! she saw the carriage and outriders going gleaming off in the moonlight while everything else looked black, dark, and terrible. " Stop, stop, please stop ! " cried little Ella, rushing out into the street through the amazed footmen and link- men. " Stop ! stop ! " she cried, fly- ing past Richardson himself, who could hardly believe his eyes. Raton only whipped his horses, and Ella saw them disappearing into gloom in the distance in a sort of agony of despair. She was excited beyond measure, and exaggerated all her feel- ings. What was to be done t Go back? — that was impossible; walk home ? — she did not know her way. Was it fancy 1 — was not somebody following herl She felt quite des- perate in the moonlight and darkness. At that instant it seemed to her like a fairy chariot coming to her rescue, when a cabman, who was slowly passing, stopped and said, " Cab, mum t " "Yes ! O yes ! To Onslow Square," cried Ella, jumping in and shutting the door In delight and re- lief. She drove off just as the bewil- dered little Richardson, who had fol- lowed her, reached the spot. He came up in time only to see the cab drive off, and to pick up something which was lying shining on the pave- ment. It was one of the diamond buckles which had fallen from her shoe as she jumped in. This little diamond buckle might, perhaps, have led to her identification if young Richardson had not taken the precau- tion of ascertaining from old Lady Jane Ella's name and address. He sent a, servant next morning with a little parcel and a note to in- quire whether one of the ladies had lost what was enclosed, and whether Colonel Ashford would see him at one o'clock on business. " Dear me, what a pretty little buckle ! " said Lisette, trying it on her large flat foot. " It looks very nice, don't it, Julia % I think I guess — don't you ? — what he is coming for. I shall say ' No.' " " It 's too small for you. It would do better for me," said Julia, contem- plating her own long slipper, embel- lished with the diamonds. " It is not ours. We must send it back, I sup- pose." " A shoe-buckle? " said Ella, com- ing in from the kitchen, where she had been superintending preserves in her little brown frock. " Let me see it. 0, how glad I am ! it is mine. Look here ! " and she pulled the fel- low out of her pocket. " Lady Jane gave them to me." And so the prince arrived before luncheon, and was closeted with Colo- nel Ashford, who gladly gave his con- sent to what he wanted. And when Mrs. Ashford began to explain things to him, as was her way, he did not listen to a single word she said. He was so absorbed wondering when Ella was coming into the room. He thought once he heard a little rustle on the stairs outside, and he jumped up and rushed to the door. It was Ella, sure enough, in her shabby lit- tle gown. Then he knew where and when he had seen her before. " Ella, why did you run away from CINDERELLA. 107 me last night 1 " he said. "You see I have followed you after all." They were so good, so happy, so de- voted to one another, that even Li- sette and Julia relented. Dear little couple ; good luck go with them, happiness, content and plenty. There was something quite touching in their youth, tenderness, and simplicity ; and as they drove off in their carriage for the honeymoon, Lady Jane flung the very identical satin slipper after them which Ella should have lost at the ball. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. i. EAIRY times, gifts, music and dances, are said to be over, or, as it has been said, they come to us so disguised and made familiar by habit that they do not seem to us strange. H. and I, on either side of the hearth, these long past winter evenings could sit without fear of fiery dwarfs skipping out of the ashes, of black puddings coming down the chimney to molest us. The clock ticked, the window-pane rattled. It was only the wind. The hearth-brush remained motionless on its hook. Pussy dozing on the hearth, with her claws quietly opening to the warmth of the blaze, purred on and never once startled us out of our usual pla- cidity by addressing us in human tones. The children sleeping peace- fully up stairs were not suddenly whisked away and changelings de- posited in their cribs. If H. or I opened our mouths pearls and dia- monds, djd not drop out of them, but neither did frogs and tadpoles fall from between our lips. The looking- glass tranquilly reflecting the com- fortable little sitting-room, and the stiff ends of H.'s cap-ribbons, spared us visions of wreathing clouds part- ing to reveal distant scenes of horror and treachery. Poor H. ! I am not sure but that she would have gladly looked in a mirror in which she could have sometimes seen the images of those she loved; but our chimney- glass, with its gilt moulding and bright polished surface, reflects only such homely scenes as two old women at work by the fire, some little Indian children at play upon the rug, the door opening and Susan bringing in the tea-things. As for wishing-cloths and little boiling pots, and such like, we have discovered that instead of rubbing lamps, or spreading magic table-cloths upon the floor, we have but to ring an invisible bell (which is even less trouble), and a smiling genius in a white cap and apron brings in anything we happen to fancy. When the clock strikes twelve, H. puts up her work and lights her candle ; she has not yet been transformed into a beautiful princess all twinkling with jewels, neither does a scullion ever stand be- fore me in rags ; she does not murmur farewell forever and melt through the key-hole, but " Good night," as she closes the door. One night at twelve o'clock, just after she had left me, there was indeed a loud orthodox ring at the bell, which started us both a little ; H. came running down again without her cap, Susan appeared in great alarm from the kitchen. " It is the back-door bell, ma'am," said the girl, who had been sitting up over her new Sunday gown, .but who was too frightened to see who was ringing. I may as well explain that our lit- tle house is in a street, but that our back windows have the advantage of overlooking the grounds of the villa belonging to our good neighbor and friend Mr. Griffiths in Castle Gar- dens, and that a door opens out of our little back garden into his big one, of which we are allowed to keep the key. This door had been a pos- BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 109 tern-gate once upon a time, for a bit of the old wall of the park is still standing, against which our succeed- ing bricks have been piled. It was a fortunate chance for us when our old ivy-tree died and we found the quaint little door-way behind it. Old Mr. Griffiths was alive then, and when I told him of my discovery, he good- naturedly cleared the way on his side, and so the oak turned once more upon its rusty hinges to let the children pass through, and the nurse-maid, instead of pages and secret emissaries and men-at-arms ; and about three times a year young Mr. Griffiths stoops under the arch on his way to call upon us. I say young Mr. Griffiths, but I suppose he is over thirty now, for it is more than ten years since his father died. When I opened the door, in a burst of wind and wet, I found that it was Guy Griffiths who stood outside bare- headed in the rain, ringing the bell that winter night. " Are you up ? " he said. " For Heaven's sake come to my mother, she 's fainted ; her maid is away ; the doctor does n't come. I thought you might know what to do." And then he led the way through the dark garden, hurrying along before me. Poor lady, when I saw her I knew that it was no fainting-fit, but a par- alytic stroke, from which she might perhaps recover in time ; I could not tell. For the present there was little to he done : the maids were young and frightened ; poor Guy wanted some word of sympathy and encour- agement. So far I was able to be of use. We got herto bed and took off her finery, — she had been out at a dinner-party, and had been stricken on her return home, — Guy had dis- covered her speechless in the library. The poor fellow, frightened and over- come, waited about, trying to be of help, but he was so nervous that he tumbled o^er us all, and knocked over the chairs and bottles in his anxiety, and was of worse than no use. His kind old shaggy face looked pale, and his brown eyes ringed with anxiousness. I was touched by the young fellow's concern, for Mrs. Griffiths had not been a tender mother to him. How she had snapped and laughed at him, and frightened him, with her quick sarcastic tongue and hard unmotherlike ways ! I wondered if she thought of this as she lay there cold, rigid, watching us with glassy .senseless eyes. ■ The payments and debts and re- turns of affection are at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone, others deal out their affection at interest, others again take every- thing, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch and go their way and leave their benefactor pen- niless and a beggar. Guy himself, hard-headed as he was, and keen over his ledgers in Moorgate Street, could not have calculated such sums as these. All that she had had to give, all the best part of her shallow store, poor Julia Griffiths had paid to her husband, who did not love her : to her second son, whose whole life was a sorrow to his parents. When he died she could never forgive poor Guy for living still, for being his father's friend and right hand, and sole suc- cessor. She had been a real mother to Hugh, who was gone ; to Guy, who was alive still and patiently waiting to do her bidding, she had shown herself only a step-dame ; and yet I am sure no life-devoted parent could have been more anxiously watched and tended by her son. Perhaps — how shall I say what I mean ? — if he had loved her more and been more entirely one with Eer now, his dismay would have been less, his power greater to bear her pain, to look on at her struggling agony of impotence. Even pain does not come between the love of people who really love. The doctor came and went, leaving some comfort behind him. Guy sat up all that night, burning logs on the fire in the dressing-room, out of the 110 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. bedroom in which Mrs. Griffiths was lying. Every now and then I went in to him, and found him sitting over the hearth shaking his great shaggy head, as he had a way of doing, and Jriting his fingers, and muttering, " Poor soul, poor mother." Some- times he would come in creaking on tiptoe; but his presence seemed to ■agitate the poor woman, and I was obliged to motion him back agaim Once when I went in and sat down for a few minutes in an arm-chair beside him, he suddenly began to tell me that there had been trouble be- tween them that morning. " It made it very hard to bear," be said. I asked him what the trouble had been. " I told her I thought I should like to marry," Guy confessed with a rueful face. (Even then I could hardly help smiling.) " Selfish beast that I am. I upset her, poor soul. I behaved like a brute." His .distress was so great that it was almost impossible to console him, and it was in vain to as- sure him that the attack had been produced by physical causes. " Doyou want to marry any one in particular 1 " I asked at last, to divert his thoughts, if I could, from the present. "No," said he ; " at least — of course she is out of the question — only I thought perhaps some day I should have liked to have a wife and children and a home of my own. Why, the count- ing-house is not so dreary as this place sometimes seems to me." And then, though it was indeed no time for love-confidences, I could not help asking him who it was that was out of the question. Guy Griffiths shrugged his great round shoulders impatiently, and gave something between a groan and sigh and smile (dark and sulky as he looked at times, a smile brightened up his grim face very pleasantly). " She don't even know my name," he said. " I saw her one night at the play, and then in a lane in the country a little time after. I found out who she was. She 's a daughter of old Barly the stockbroker. Belinda they call her, — Miss Belinda. It 's rather a silly name, isn't hi" (This, of course, I politely denied.) "I'm sure I don't know what there is about her," he went on in a gentle voice ; " all the fellows down there were head over ears in love with her. I asked — in fact I went down to Farm- borough in hopes of meeting her again. I never saw such a sweet young creature — never. I never spoke to her in my life." " But you know her father?" I asked. "Old Barly ? — Yes," said Guy. "His wife was my father's cousin, and he and I are each other's trustees for some money which was divided be- tween me and Mrs. Barly. My par- ents never kept up with them much, but I was named trustee in my father's place when he died. I did n't like to refuse. I had never seen Belinda then. Do you like sweet sleepy eyes that wake up now and then? Was that my mother calling ? " For a minute he had forgotten the dreary present. It all came rushing back again. The bed creaked, the patient had moved a little on her pillow, and there was a gleam of some intelligence in her pinched face. The clock struck four in quick tinkling tones ; the rain seemed to have ceased, and the clouds to be parting ; the rooms turned sud- denly chill, though the fires were burning. When I went home, about five o'clock, all the stars had come out and were shooting brilliantly overhead. The garden seemed full of a sudden freshness and of secret life stirring in the darkness ; ,the sick woman's light was burning faintly, and in my own window the little bright lamp was flickering which H.'s kind fingers had trimmed and put there ready for me when I ' should return. When we reached the little gate, Guy opened it and let me pass under some dripping green creeper which had been blown loose from the wall. Helook my old hand in both his big ones, and began to say something that ended in a sort of inarticulate sound as he turned BEAtJTY AND THE BEAST. Ill away and trudged back to his post again. I thought of the many meet- ings and partings at this little postern §ate, and last words and protestations, ome may have been more sentimental perhaps than this one, but Guy's grunt of gratitude was more affecting to me than many a long string of words. I felt very sorry for him, poor old fellow, as I barred the door and climbed up stairs to my room. He sat up watch- ing till the morning. But I was tired, and soon went to sleep. II. Some people do very well for a time. Chances are propitious, the way lies straight before them up a gentle inclined plane, with a pleasant prospect on either side. They go rolling straight on, they don't exactly know how, and take it for granted that it is their own prudence and good driving and deserts which have brought them prosperously so far up- on their journey. And then one day they come to a turnpike, and destiny pops out of its little box and demands a toll, or prudence trips, or good sense shies at a scarecrow put up by the wayside, — or nobody knows why, but the whole machine breaks down on the road and can't be set going again. And then other vehicles go past it, hand-trucks, perambulators, cabs, omnibuses, and great prosper- ous barouches, and the people who were sitting in the broken-down equi- page get out and walk away on foot. On that celebrated and melancholy Black Monday of which we have all heard, poor John Barly and his three daughters came down the carpeted steps of their comfortable sociable for the last time, and disappeared at the wicket of a little suburban cottage, — disappeared out of the prosperous, pompous, highly respectable circle in which they had" gyrated, dragged about by two fat bay horses, in the greatest decorum and respectability ; dining out, receiving their friends, returning their civilities. Miss Bar- lys had left large cards with their names engraved upon them in return for other large cards upon which were inscribed equally respectable names, and the addresses of other equally commodious family mansions. A mansion — so the house-agents tell us — is a house like another with the addition of a back staircase. The Barlys and all their friends had back staircases to their houses and to their daily life as well. They only wished to contemplate the broad, swept, car- peted drawing-room flights. Indeed to Anna and Fanny Barly this mak- ing the best of things, card-leaving and visiting, seemed a business of vital importance. The youngest of the girls, who had been christened by the pretty silly name of Belinda, had only lately come home from school, and did not value these splendors and proprieties so highly as her sisters did. She had no great love for the life they led. Sometimes, looking over the balusters of their great house in Capulet Square, she had yawned out loud from very weariness, and then she would hear the sound echoing all the way up to the skylight, and rever- berating down from baluster to bal- uster. If she went into the drawing- room, instead of the yawning echoes the shrill voices of Anna and of Fan- ny were vibrating monotonously as they complimented Lady Ogden upon her new barouche, until Belinda could bear it no longer and would jump up and run away to her bedroom to es- cape it all. She had a handsome bedroom, draped in green damask, becarpeted, four-posted, with an enor- mous mahogany wardrobe of which poor Belle was dreadfully afraid, for the doors would fly open of their own accord in the dead of night, revealing dark abysses and depths unknown, with black ghosts hovering suspended or motionless and biding their time. There were other horrors ; shrouds waving in the blackness, feet stirring, 112 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. and low creakings of garroters, which she did not dare to dwell upon as she hastily locked the doors and pushed the writing-table against them. It must therefore be confessed, that to Belinda the days had been long and oppressive sometimes in this handsomely appointed Tyburnean palace. Anna, the eldest sister, was queen-regnant; she had both ability and inclination to take. the lead. She was short, broad, and dignified, and some years older than either of her sisters. Her father respected her business-like mind, admired her am- bition, regretted sometimes secretly that she had never been able to make up her mind to accept any of the eligible young junior part- ners, the doctor, the curate, who had severally proposed to her. But then of course, as Anna often said, they could not possibly have got on with- out her at home. She had been in no hurry to leave the comfortable kingdom where she reigned in undis- puted authority, ratifying the de- cisions of the ministry down stairs, appealed to by the butler, respectfully dreaded by both the housemaids. Who was there to go against her ? Mr. Barly was in town all day and left everything to her ; Fanny, the second sister, was her faithful ally. Fanny was sprightly, twenty-one, with black eyes and a curl that was much admired. She was fond of fashion, flirting, and finery, inquisi- tive, talkative, feeble-minded, and en- tirely devoted to Anna. As for Belle, she had only come back from school the other day. Anna could not quite understand her at times. Fanny was of age and content to do as she was hid ; here was Belle at eighteen as- serting herself very strangely. Anna and Fanny seemed to pair off some- how, and Belle always had to hold her own without any assistance, ot less, indeed, her father was present. He had a great tenderness and affec- tion for his youngest child, and the happiest hour of the day to Belinda was when she heard him come home and call for her in his cheerful quav- ering voice. By degrees it seemed to her, as she listened, that the cheer- fulness seemed to be dying away out of his voice, and only the quaver re- mained ; but that may have been fancy, and because she had taken a childish dislike to the echoes in the house. At dinner-time, Anna used to ask her father how things were going in the City, and whether shirtings had risen any higher, and at what pre- mium the Tre Rosas shares were held in the market. These were some shares in a Cornish mine company of which Mr. Barly was a director. Anna thought so highly of the whole concern that she had been anxious to invest a portion of her own and her sister Fanny's money in it. They had some small inheritance from their mother, of part of which they had the control when they came of age ; the rest was invested in the Funds in Mr. Griffiths's name, and could not be touched. Poor Belle, being a minor, had to be content with sixty pounds a year for her pin-money, which was all she could get for her two thousand pounds. When Anna talked business, Mr. Barly used to be quite dazzled by her practical clear-headedness, her calm foresight and powers of rapid calcula- tion. Fanny used to prick up her ears and ask, shaking her curl play- fully, how much girls must have to be heiresses, and did Anna think they should ever be heiresses? Anna would smile and nod her head, in a calm and chastened sort of way, at this childish impatience. "You should be very thankful, Frances, for all you have to look to, and for your excellent prospects. Emily Ogden, with all her fine airs, would not be sorry to be in your place." At which Fanny blushed up bright red, and Belinda jumped impatiently upon her chair, blinking her white eyelids im- patiently over her clear gray eyes, as she had a way of doing. " I can't bear talking about money," she said ; BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 113 " anything is tetter . . . . " Then she too stopped short and blushed. " Papa, interrupted Fanny, play- fully, "when will you escort us to the pantomime again 1 The Ogdens are all going next Tuesday, and you have been mast naughty and not taken us anywhere for such a long time." Mr. Barly, who rarely refused any- thing anybody asked him, pushed his chair away from the table and an- swered, with strange impatience for him, "My dear, I have had no time lately for plays and amusements of any sort. After working from morn- ing to night for you all I am tired, and want a little peace of an evening. I have neither spirits nor — " " Dear papa, said Belinda, eager- ly, " come up into the drawing-room and sit in the easy-chair, and let me play you to sleep." As she spoke, Belinda smiled a delightful fresh, sweet, tender smile, like sunshine fall- ing on a fair landscape. No wonder the little stockbroker was fond of his youngest daughter. Frances was pouting, Anna frowned slightly as she locked up the wine, and turned over in her mind whether she might not write to the Ogdens and ask them to let Frances join their party ; as for Belinda, playing Mozart to her father in the dim drawing-room up stairs, she was struck by the worn and har- assed look in his face as he slept, snoring gently in accompaniment to her music. It was the last time Belle ever played upon the old piano. Three or four days after, the crash came. The great Tre Bosas Mining Company (Limited) had failed, and the old established house of Barly and Co. unexpectedly stopped pay- ment. If poor Mr. Barly ,had done it on purpose, his ruin could not have been more complete and ingenious. When his affairs came to be looked into, and his liabilities had been met, it was found that an immense fortune had been muddled away, and that scarcely anvthing would be left but a small furnished -cottage, which had been given for her life to an old aunt just deceased, and which reverted to Fan- ny, her godchild, and the small sum which still remained in the Three per Cents, of which mention has been made, and which could not be touched until Belle, the youngest of three daughters, should come of age. After two or three miserable days of confusion, — during which the machine which had been set going with so much trouble still revolved once or twice with the force of its own impetus, the butler answering the bell, the footman bringing up the coals, the cook sending up the dinner as usual, — suddenly everything col- lapsed, and the great mass of furni- ture, servants, human creatures, an- imals, carriages, business and pleas- ure engagements, seemed over- thrown together in a great struggling mass, panting and bewildered, and trying to get free from the confusion of particles that no longer belonged to one another. First, the cook packed up her things and some nice damask table- cloths and napkins, a pair of sheets, and Miss Barly's umbrella, which happened to be hanging in the hall ; then the three ladies drove off with their father to the cottage, where it was decided they should go to be out of the way of any unpleasantness. He had no heart to begin again, and was determined to give up the battle. Belle sat with her father on the back seat of the carriage, looking up into his haggard face a little wistfully, and trying to be as miserable as the others. She could not help it, — a cottage in the country, ruin, roses, novelty, clean chintzes instead of damask, a little room with mignon- ette, cocks crowing, had a wicked, morbid attraction for her which she could not overcome. She had longed for such a life when she had gone down to stay with the Ogdens at Farmborough last month, and had seen several haystacks and lovely lit- 114 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. tie thatched cottages, where she had felt she would have liked to spend the rest of her days ; one in particu- lar had taken her fancy, with dear little latticed windows and a pigeon- cote and two rosy little babies with a kitten toddling out from the ivy porch ; but a great rough-looking man had come up in a slouched wide- awake and frightened Emily Ogden so much that she had pulled Belinda away in a hurry .... but here a sob from Fanny brought Belle back to her place in the barouche. Anna felt she must bear up, and nerved herself to the effort. Upon her the blow fell more heavily than upon any of the others. Indignant, injured, angry with her father, furi- ous with the managers, the directors, the shareholders, the secretary, the unfortunate company, with the Bank- ruptcy Court, the Ogdens, the laws of fate, the world in general, with Fanny for sobbing, and with Belle for looking placid, she sat blankly staring out of window as they drove past the houses where they had vis- ited, and where she had been enter- tained nn honored guest ; and now — she put the hateful thought away — bankrupt, disgraced ! Her bonnet was crushed in, she did not say a word, but her face looked quite fierce and old, and frightened Fanny into fresh lamentations. These hysterics hnd been first brought on by the sight of Emily Ogden driving by in the new barouche. This was quite too much for her poor friend's forti- tude. "Emily will drop us, I know she will," sobbed Fanny. " O An- na ! will they ever come and ask us to their Thursday luncheon-parties any more t " " My children," said Mr. Barly, with a placid groan, pulling up the window, " we are disgraced ; we can only hide our heads away from the world. Do notexpectthat any onewill ever come near us again." At which announcement Fanny went off into new tears and bewailings. As for the kind, bewildered, weak-headed, soft- hearted little man, he had been so utterly worn out, harassed, worried, and wearied of late, that it was al- most a relief to him to think that this was indeed the case. He sat holding Belle's hand in his, stroking and pat- ting it, and wondering that people so near London did not keep the roads in better repair. " We must be get- ting near our new abode," said he at last almost cheerfully. " You speak as if you were glad of our shame, papa," said Anna, sudden- ly, turning round upon him. " 0, hush ! " cried Belle, indig- nantly. Fortunately the coachman stopped at this moment on a spot a very long way off from Capulet Square ; and leaning from his box, asked if it was that there little box across the common. " 0, what a sweet little place ! " cried Belinda. But her heart rather sank as she told this dreadful story. Myrtle Cottage was a melancholy- little tumbledown place, looking over Dumbleton Common, which they had been crossing all this time. It was covered with stucco, cracked and stained and mouldy. There was a stained-glass window, which was bro- ken. The veranda wanted painting. From outside it was evident that the white muslin curtains were not so fresh as they might have been; There was a little garden in front, planted with durable materials. Even out of doors, in the gardens in the sub- urbs, the box-edges, the laurel-bushes, and the fusty old jessamines are apt to look shabby in time, if they are never renewed. A certain amount of time and money might, perhaps, have made Myrtle Cottage into a pleasant little habitation ; but (judg- ing from appearances) its last inhabi- tants seemed to have been in some want of both these commodities. Its helpless new occupants were not likely to have much of either to spare. A little dining-room, with glass drop candlesticks and a rickety table, and a print of a church and a Dissenting minister on the wall. A little draw- BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 115 ing-voom, with a great horse-hair sofa, a huge round table in the middle of the room, and more glass drop candle- sticks, also a small work-table of glass over faded worsted embroidery. Four little bedrooms, mousey, musty, snuffy, with four posts as terrific as any they had left behind, and a small black dungeon fot a maid-servant. This was the little paradise which Belle had been picturing to herself all along the road, and at which she looked round half sighing, half dis- mayed. Their bundles, baskets, blank- ets were handed in, and a cart full of boxes had arrived. Fanny's parrot was shrieking at the top of its voice on the narrow landing. " What fun ! " cried Belinda, stur- dily, instantly setting to work to get things into some order, while Fanny lay exhausted upon the horse-hair sofa ; and Anna, in her haughtiest tones, desired the coachman to drive home, and stood watching the reced- ing carriage until it had dwindled away into the distance, — coachman, hammer-cloth, bay horses, respecta- bility, and all. When she re-entered the house, the parrot was screeching still, and Martha, the under-house- maid — now transformed into a sort of extract of butler, footman, ladies' maid, and cook, was frying some sausages, of which the vulgar smell pervaded the place. III. Belle exclaimed, but it required all her courage and natural bright- ness of spirit to go on looking at the bright side of things, praising the cottage, working in the garden, giving secret assistance to the two bewildered maids who waited on the reduced little family, cheering her father, smiling, and putting the best face on things, as her sisters used to do at home. If it had been all front stairs in Capulet Square, it was all back staircase at the cottage. Rural roses, calm sunsets, long shadows across the common, are all very well ; but when puffs of smoke come out of the chimney and fill the little place ; when, if the window is opened a rush of wind and dust — worse almost than the smoke — comes eddying into the room, and careers round the four narrow walls ; when poor little Fanny coughs and shudders, and wraps her shawl more closely round her with a groan ; when the smell of the kitchen frying-pan perfumes the house, and a mouse scampers out of the cupboard, and blackbeetles lie struggling in the milk- jugs, and the pump runs dry, and spiders crawl out of the tea-caddy, and so forth, — then, indeed, Belle deserves some credit for being cheer- ful under difficulties. She could not pretend to very high spirits, but she was brisk and willing, and ready to smile at her father's little occasional puns and feeble attempts at jocularity. Anna, who had been so admirable as a general, broke down under the fatigue of the actual labor in the trenches which belonged to their new life. A great many people can order others about very brilliantly and satis- factorily, who fail when they have to do the work themselves. Some of the neighbors called upon them, but the Ogdens never appear- ed. Poor little Fanny used to take her lace^work and sit stitching and looping her thread at the window which overlooked the common with its broad roads, crossing and recross- ing the plain ; carriages came rolling by, people came walking, children ran past the windows of the little cottage, but the Ogdens never. Once Fanny thought she recognized the barouche, — Lady Ogden and Emily sitting in front, Matthew Ogden on the back seat ; surely, yes, surely it was he. But the carriage rolled off in a cloud of dust, and disappeared behind the wall of the neighboring park ; and Frances finished the loop, and passed her needle in and out of the muslin, feeling as if it was through her poor little heart that she was piercing and 11G FIVE OLD FEIENDS. sticking ; she pulled out a long thread, and it seemed to her as if the sunset stained it jed like blood. In the mean while Belle's voice had been singing away overhead, and Fanny, going up stairs presently, found her, with one of the maids, clearing out one of the upper rooms. The window was open, the furniture was piled up in the middle. Belle, with her sleeves tucked up and her dress carefully pinned out of the dust, was standing on a chair, hammer in hand, and fixing up some dimity curtains against the window. Table- cloths, brooms, pails, and brushes were lying about, and everything looked in perfect confusion. As Fan- ny stood looking and exclaiming, Anna also came to the door from her own room, where she had been taking a melancholy nap. " What a mess you are making here ! " cried the elder sister, very angrily. " How can you take up Martha's time, Belinda 1 And oh ! how can you forget yourself to this degree ? You seem to exult in your father's disgrace." Belinda flushed up. " Really, Anna, I do not know what you mean," said she, turning round, vexed for a minute, and clasp- ing a long curtain in both arms. " I could not bear to see my father's room looking so shabby and neglect- ed ; there is no disgrace in attending to his comfort. See, we have taken down those dusty curtains, and we are going to put up some others," said the girl, springing down from the chair and exhibiting her treas- ures. '• And pray where is the money to come from," said Anna, " to pay for these wonderful changes 1 " " They cost no money," said Be- linda, laughing. " I made them my- self with my own two hands. Don't you remember my old white dress that you never liked, Anna ? Look how I have pricked my finger. Now, go down," said the girl, in her pretty imperative way, " and don't come up again till I call vou." Go down at Belle's bidding Anna went off fuming, and imme- diately set to work also, but in a dif- ferent fashion. She unfortunately found that her father had returned, and was sitting in the little sitting-room down below by himself, with a limp pa- per of the day before open upon his knees. He was not reading. He seemed out of spirits, and was gazing in a melancholy way at the smouldering fire, and rubbing his bald head in a perplexed and troubled manner. See- ing this, the silly woman, by way of cheering and comforting the poor old man, began to exclaim at Belinda's behavior, to irritate him, and over- whelm him with allusions and re- proaches. " Scrubbing and slaving with her own hands," said Anna. " Forget- ting herself ; bringing us down lower indeed than we are already sunk. Pa- pa, she will not listen to me. You should tell her that you forbid her to put us all to shame by her behavior." When Belle, panting, weary, tri- umphant, and with a blackened nose and rosy cheek, opened the door of the room presently and called her father exultingly, she did not notice, as she ran up stairs before him, how wearily he followed her. A flood of light came from the dreary little room overhead. It had been transformed into a bower of white dimity, bright windows, clean muslin blinds. .The fusty old carpet was gone, and a clean crumb-cloth had 'been put down, with a comfortable rug before the fire- place. A nosegay of jessamine stood on the chimney, and at each corner of the four-post bed the absurd young decorator had stuck a smart bow, made out of some of her own blue ribbons, in place of the terrible plumes and tassels which had waved there in dust and darkness before. One of the two arm-chairs which blocked up the wall of the -dining- room had been also covered out of some of Belinda's stores, and stood comfortably near the' open window. The sun was setting over the great BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 117 common outside, behind the mill and the distant fringe of elm-trees. Mar- tha, standing all illuminated by the sunshine, with her mop in her hand, was grinning from ear to ear, and Belle turned and rushed into her father's arms. But Mr. Barly was quite overcome. " My child," he said, "why do you trouble yourself so much for me 1 Your sister has told me all. I don't deserve it. I cannot bear that you should be brought to this. My Belle working and slaving with your own hands through my fault, — through my fault." The old man sat down on the side of the bed by which he had been standing, and laid his face in his hands, in a perfect agony of remorse and regret. Belinda was dismayed by the result of her la- bors. In vain she tried to cheer him and comfort him. The sweeter she seemed in his eyes, the more miser- able the poor father grew at the condition to which he had brought her. For many days after he went about in a sort of despair, thinking what he could do to retrieve his ruined for- tunes ; and if Belinda still rose be- times to see to his comfort and the better ordering of the confused little household, she took care not to let it be known. Anna came down at nine, Fanny at ten. Anna would then spend several hours regretting her for- mer dignities, reading the newspaper and the fashionable intelligence, while the dismal strains of Fanny's piano (there was a jangling piano in the lit- tle drawing-room,) streamed across the common. To a stormy spring, with wind flying and dust dashing against the window-panes, and gray clouds swiftly bearing across the wide open country, had succeeded a warm and brilliant summer, with sunshine flooding and spreading over the coun- try. Anna and Fanny were able to get out a little now, but they were soon tired, and would sit down under a tree and remark to one another how greatly they missed their accus- tomed drives. Belinda, who had sometimes at first disappeared now and then to cry mysteriously a little bit by herself over her troubles, now discovered that at eighteen, with good health and plenty to do, happiness is possible, even without a carriage. One day Mr. Barly, who still went into the City from habit, came home with some news which had greatly excited him. Wheal Tre Rosas, of which he still held a great many shares which he had never been able to dispose of, had been giving some signs of life. A fresh call was to be made ; some capitalist, with more money than he evidently knew what to do with, had been buying up a great deal of the stock. The works were to be resumed. Mr. Barly had always been satisfied that the concern was a good one. He would give ev- erything he had, he told Anna that evening, to be able to raise enough money now to buy up more of the shares. His fortune was made if he could do so ; his children replaced in their proper position, and his name restored. Anna was in a state of greater flutter, if possible, than her father himself. Belle sighed ; she could not help feeling doubtful, but she did not like to say much on the subject. " Papa, this Wheal has proved a very treacherous wheel of fortune to us," she hazarded, blushing and bending over her sewing ; " we are very, very happy as we are." " Happy 1 " said Anna, with a sneer. " Really, Belinda, you are too ro- mantic," said Fanny with a titter ; while Mr. Barly cried out, in an excited way, " that she should be happier yet, and all her goodness and dutifulness should be rewarded in time." A sort of presentiment of evil came over Belinda, and her eyes filled up with tears ; but she stitched them away and said no more. Unfortunately the only money Mr. Barly could think of to lay his hands upon was that sum in the Three per Cents upon which they were now liv- 118 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. ing ; and even if he chose he could not touch any of it until Belinda came of age; unless, indeed, young Mr. Griffiths would give him permis- sion to do so. " Go to him, papa," cried Anna, enthusiastically. " Go to him ; en- treat, insist upon it, if necessary." All that evening Anna and Frances talked over their brilliant prospects. " I should like to see the Ogdens again," said poor little Fanny. " Perhaps we shall if we go back to Capulet Square." " Certainly, certainly," said Anna. " I have heard that this Mr. Griffiths is a most un- couth and uncivilized person to deal with," continued Miss Barly, with her finger on her chin. "Papa, would n't it be better for me to go to Mr. Griffiths instead of you ? " This, however, Mr. Barly would not con- sent to. Anna could hardly contain her vex- ation and spite when he came back next day dispirited, crestfallen, and utterly wretched and disappointed. Mr. Griffiths would have nothing to say to it. " What 's the good of a trustee," said he to Mr. Barly, " if he were to let you invest your money in such a speculative chance as that 1 ? Take my advice, and sell out your shares now, if you can, for anything you can get." " A surly, disagreeable fellow," said poor old Mr. Barly. " I heartily wisli he had nothing to do with our affairs." Anna fairly stamped with rage. " What insolence, when it is our own. Papa, you have no spirit to allow such interference." Mr. Barly looked at her gravely, and said he should not allow it. An- na did not know what he meant. Belinda was not easy about her father all this time. He came and went in an odd excited sort of way, stopping short sometimes as he was walking across the room, and stand- ing absorbed in thought ! One day he went into the City unexpectedly about the middle of the day, and came back looking quite odd, pale, with curious eyes ; something was wrong, she could not tell what. In the mean time Wheal Tre Rosas seemed, spite of Mr. Griffiths's prophe- cies, to be steadily rising in the world. More business had been done, the shares were a trifle higher. A meeting of directors was convened, and actually a small dividend was declared at midsummer. It really seemed as if there was some chance after all that Anna should be rein- stated in the barouche, in Capulet Square, and her place in society. She and Fannie were half wild with delight. "When we leave," — was the beginning of every sentence they uttered. Fanny wrote the good news to her friend Miss Ogden, and, under these circumstances, to Fan- ny's unfeigned delight, Emily Ogden thought herself justified in driving over to the village one fine afternoon and affably partaking of a cracked cupful of five-o'clock tea. ' It was slightly smoked, and the milk was turned. Belinda had gone out for a walk and was not there to see to it at all ; I am afraid she did not quite for- give Emily the part she had played, and could not make up her mind to meet her. One morning Anna was much ex- cited by the arrival of a letter di- rected to Mr. Barly in great round handwriting, aiul with a huge seal, all over bears and griffins. Her fa- ther was forever expecting news of his beloved Tre Rosas, and he broke the seal with some curiosity. But this was only an invitation to dine and sleep at Castle Gardens from Mr. Griffiths, who said he had an offer to make Mr. Barly, and concluded by saying that he hoped Mr. Barly for- gave him for the ungracious part he had been obliged to play the other day, and that, in like circumstances, he would do the same by him. " I sha' n't go," said"Mr. Barly, a little doggedly, putting the letter down. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 119 "Not go, papa? Why, you may be able to talk him over if you get him quietly to yourself. Certainly you must go, papa," said Anna. " 0, I'm sure he means to relent, — how nice!" said Fanny. Even Belinda thought it was a pity he should not accept the invitation, and Mr. Barly gave way as usual. He asked them if they had any commands for him in town. " 0, thank you, papa," said Fran- ces. " If you are going shopping, I wish you would bring me back a blue alpaca, and a white grenadine, and a pink sou-poult, and a — " " My dear Fanny, that will be quite sufficient for the short time you re- main here," interrupted Anna, who went on to give her father several com- missions of her own, — some writing- paper stamped with Barly Lodge and their crest in one corner; a jacket with buttons for the knife-boy they had lately engaged upon the strength of their coming good fortune; anew umbrella, a house-agent's list of man- sions in the neighborhood of Capulet Square, the Journal des Modes, and the New Court Guide. " Let me see, there was something else," said Anna, thoughtfully. " Belle," said Mr. Barly, " how comes it you ask for nothing 1 What can 1 bring you, my child ? " Belle looked up with one of her bright melancholy smiles and replied, " If you should see any roses, papa, I think I should like a bunch of roses. We have none in the garden." " Roses ! " cried Fanny, laughing. "I didn't know you cared for any- thing but what was useful, Belle." " I quite expected you would ask for a saucepan, or a mustard-pot," said Anna, with a sneer. Belle sighed . again, and then the three went and stood at the garden- gate to see their father off. It made a pretty little group for the geese on the common to contemplate, — the two young sisters at the wicket, the elder under the shade of the veranda, Belle upright, smiling, waving her slim hand ; she was above the middle height, she had fair hair and dark eye- brows and gray eyes, over which she had a peculiar way of blinking her smooth white eyelids ; — and all about, the birds, the soft winds, the great green common with its gorgeous furze- blossom blazing against the low bank of clouds in the horizon. Close at hand a white pony was tranquilly cropping the grass, and two little vil- lage children were standing outside the railings, gazing up open-mouthed at the pretty ladies who lived at the cottage. IV. The clouds which had been gather- ing all the afternoon broke shortly be- fore Mr. Barly reached his entertain- er's house. He had tried to get there through Kensington Gardens, but could not make out the way, and went wandering round and round in some perplexity under the great trees with their creaking branches. The storm did not last long and the clouds dis- persed at sunset. When Mr. Barly rang at the gate of the villa in Castle Gardens at last that evening, he was weary, wet through, and far less tri- umphant than he had been when he left home in the morning. The but- ler who let him in gave the bag which he had been carrying to the footman, and showed him the way up stairs immediately to the comfortable room which had been made ready for him. Upholsterers had done the work on the whole better than Belle with all her loving labor. The chairs were softer than her print-covered horse- hair cushions. The wax-lights were burning, although it was broad day- light. Mr. Barly went to the bay- window. The garden outside was a sight to see : smooth lawns, arches, roses in profusion and abundance, hanging and climbing and clustering everywhere, a distant gleam of a foun- tain, of a golden sky, a chirruping and rustling in the bushes and trel- 120 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. lises after the storm . The sunset which was lighting up the fern on the rain- sprinkled common was twinkling through the rose-petals here, bringing out odors and aromas and whiffs of de- licious scent. Mr. Barly thought of Belle, and how he should like to see her flitting about in the garden and picking roses to her heart's content. As he stood there he thought, too, with a pang, of his wife whom he had lost, and sighed in a sort of despair at the troubles which had fallen upon him of late ; what would he not give to undo the work of the last few months, he thought, — nay, of the last few days ? He had once come to this very house with his wife in their early days of marriage. He remem- bered it now, although he had not thought of it before. Sometimes it happens to us all that things which happened ever so long ago seem to make a start out of their proper places in the coarse of time, and come after us, until they catch us up, as it were, and surround us, so that one can hear the voices, and see the faces and colors, and feel the old sensations and thrills as keen- ly as at the time they occurred, — all so curiously and strangely vivid that one can scarcely conceive it possible that years and years perhaps have passed since it all happened, and that the present shock proceeds from an ancient and almost forgotten impulse. And so as Mr. Barly looked and re- membered and thought of the past, a sudden remorse and shame came over him. He seemed to see his wife standing in the garden, holding the roses up over her head, looking like Belle ; like, yet unlike. Why it should have been so, at the thought of his wife among the flowers, I can- not tell ; but as he remembered her he began to think of what he had done, — that he was there in the house of the man he had defrauded, — he began to ask himself how could he face him 1 how could he sit down beside him at table, and break his bread ? The poor old follow fell back with a groan in one of the comfortable armchairs. Should he confess? O no, — no, that would be the most terrible of all! What he had done is simply told. When Guy Griffiths refused to let Mr. Barly lay hands on any of the money which he had in trust for his daugh- ters, the foolish and angry old man had sold out a portion of the sum be- longing to Mi-. Griffiths which still remained in his own name. It had not seemed like dishonesty at the time, but now he would have gladly — O, how gladly ! awakened to find it all a dream. He dressed mechanically, turning over every possible chance in his own mind. Let Wheal Tre Rosas go on and prosper, the first money should go to repay his loan, and no one would be the wiser. He went down into the library again when he was ready. It was empty still, and, to his relief, the master of the house had not yet come back. He waited a very long time, looking at the clock, at the reviews on the table, at the picture of Mrs. Griffiths, whom he could remember in her youth, upon the wall. The butler came in again to say that his master had not yet re- turned. Some message had come by a boy, which was not very intelligible, — he had been detained in the City. Mrs. Griffiths was not well enough to leave her room, but she hoped Mr. Barly would order dinner, — anything he required, — and that her son would shortly return. It was very late. There was noth- ing else to be done. Mr. Barly found a fire lighted in the great dining- room, dinner laid, one plate and one knife and fork, at the end of the long table. The dinner was excellent, so was the wine. The butler uncorked a bottle of champagne, the cook sent up chickens and all sorts of good things. Mr. Barly almost felt as if he, by some strange metempsychosis had been converted into the owner of this handsome dwelling and all that belonged to it. At twelve o'clock Mr. Griffiths had not yet returned, and his BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 121 guest, after a somewhat perplexed and solitary meal, retired to rest. Mr. Baily breakfasted by himself again next morning. Mr. Griffiths had not returned all night. la his secret heart Mr. Griffiths's guest was almost relieved by the absence of his entertainer : it seemed like a respite. Perhaps, after all, everything would go well, and the confession which he had contemplated with such terror the night before need never be made. For the present it was clearly no use to wait any longer at the house. Mr. Barly asked for a cab to take him to the station, left his compliments and regrets, and a small sum of money behind him, and then, as the cab de- layed, strolled out into the front gar- den to wait for it. Even in the front. court the roses were all abloom ; a great snow cluster was growing over the door-way, a pretty tea-rose was hanging its head over the scraper; against the outer railing which separated thehouse from the road, rose-trees had been planted. The beautiful pink fragrant heads were pushing through the iron rail- ings, and a delicious little rose-wind came blowing in the poor old fellow's face. He began to think again — no wonder — of Belle and her fancy for roses, and mechanically, without much reflecting upon what he was about, he stopped and inhaled the ravishing sweet smell of the great dewy flowers, and then put out his hand and gathered a spray from which three roses were, hanging ; .... as he gather- ed it, a sharp thorn ran into his finger, and a heavy grasp was laid upon his arm " So it is yon, is it, who sneak in and steal my roses ? " said an angry voice. " Now that I know who it is, I shall give you in charge." Mr. Barly looked round greatly startled. He met the fierce glare of two dark brown eyes under shaggy brows, that were frowning very fierce- ly. A broad, thick set, round-shoul- dered young man of forbidding aspect had laid hold of him. The young 6 man let go his grasp when he saw the mistake he had made, but did not cease frowning. "Oh! it is you, Mr. Barly," he said. " I was just going," said the stock- broker, meekly. " I am glad you have returned in time for me to see you, Mr. Griffiths. I am sorry I took your rose. My youngest daughter is fond of them, and I thought I might, out of all this garden-full, you would not — she had asked — " There was something so stern and unforgiving in Mr. Griffiths's face that the merchant stumbled in his words, and stopped short surprised, in the midst of his explanations. " The roses were not yours, not if there were ten gardens full. I won't have my roses broken off," said Grif- fiths; "they should be cut with a knife. Come back with me ; I want to have a little talk with you, Mr. Barly." Somehow the old fellow's heart be- gan to beat, and he felt himself turn rather sick. " I was detained last night by some trouble in my office. One of my clerks, in whom I thought I could have trusted, absconded yesterday afternoon. I have been all the way to Liverpool in pursuit of him. What do you think should be done with him'?" And Mr. Griffiths, from under his thick eyebrows, gave a quick glance at his present victim, and seemed to expect some sort of answer. " You prosperous men cannot realize what it is to be greatly tempt- ed," said Mr. Barly, with a faint smile. "Do you know that Wheal Tre Rosas has come to grief a second time ? " said young Mr. Griffiths, ab- ruptly, holding out the morning's Times, as they walked along. " I am not a prosperous man ; 1 had a great many shares in that unlucky con- cern." Poor Barly stopped short and turned quite pale, and began to shake, 122 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. so that he had to put his hand out and lean against the wall. Failed ! Was he doomed to mis- fortune 1 Then there was never any chance for him, — never. No hope ! No hope of paying back the debt which weighed upon his conscience. He could not realize it. Failed ! The rose had fallen to the ground ; — the poor unlucky man stood still, staring blankly in the other's grim, unrelent- ing face. " I am ruined," he said. " You are ruined ! Is that tlie Worst you have to tell me ? " said Mr. Griffiths, still looking piercingly at him. Then the other felt that he knew all. " I have been very unfortunate, — and very much to blame," said Mr. Barly, still trembling; — "terribly to blame, — Mr. Griffiths. I can only throw myself upon your clem- ency." " My clemency ! my mercy ! I am no philanthropisr," said Guy, savagely. " I am a man of business, and you have defrauded me ! " " Sir," said the stockbroker, finding some odd comfort in braving the worst, "you refused to lot me take what was my own ; — I have sold out some of your money to invest in this fatal concern. Heaven knows it was not for myself, but for the sake of — of — others ; and I thought to repay you erelong. You can repay your- self now. You need not reproach me any more. You can send me to prison if you like. I — I — don't much care what happens. My Belle, my poor Belle, — my poor girls ! " All this time Guy said never a word. He motioned" Mr. Barly to follow him into the library. Mr. Barly obeyed, and stood meekly waiting for the coming onslaught. He stood in the full glare of the morning sun, which was pouring through the unblinded window. His poor old head was bent, and his scanty hair stood on end in the sun- shine. His eyes, avoiding the glare, went vacantly travelling along the scroll- work on the fender, and so to the coal- scuttle and to the skirting on the wall, and back again. Dishonored, — yes. Bankrupt, — yes. Three- score years had brought him to this, — to shame, to trouble. It was a hard world for unlucky people, but Mr. Barly was too much broken, too weary and indifferent, to feel very bitterly even against the world. Meanwhile Guy was going on with his reflections, and, like those amongst us who are still young and strong, he could put more life and energy into his condemnation and judgment of actions done, than the unlucky perpe- trators had to give to the very deeds themselves. Some folks do wrong as well as right, with scarcely more than half a mind to it. " How could you do such a thing? " cried the young man, indignantly, be- ginning to rush up and down the room in his hasty, clumsy way, knock- ing against tables and chairs as he went along. " How could you do it % " he repeated. " I learnt it yester- day by chance. What can I say to you that your own conscience should not have told you already 1 ? How could yon do it ? " Guy had reached the great end window, and stamped with vexation and a mixture of anger and sorrow. For all his fierceness and gruffness, he was sorry for the poor feeble old man whose fate he held in his hand. There was the garden outside, and its treasure and glory of roses ; there was the rose- spray, lying on the ground, that old Barly had taken. It was lying broken and shining upon the gravel, — one rose out of the hundreds that were bursting, and blooming, and fainting and falling on their spreading stems. It was like the wrong old Barly had done his kinsman, — one little wrong, Guy thought, one little handful out of all his abundance. He looked back, and by chance caught sight of their two figures reflected in the glass at the other end of the room, — his own image, the strong, round- BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 123 backed, broad-shouldered young man, with gleaming white teeth and black bristling hair ; the feeble and uncer- tain culprit, with his broken wander- ing looks, waiting his sentence. It was not Guy who delivered it. It came — no very terrible one after all, prompted by some unaccountable secret voice and impulse. Have we not all of us sometimes suddenly felt ashamed in our lives in the faGe of misfortune and sorrow ? Are we Pharisees, standing in the market- place, with our phylacteries displayed to the world 1 we ask ourselves, in dismay, — does this man go home justified rather than we ? Guy was not the less worthy of his Belinda, poor fellow, because a thought of her crossed his mind, and because he blushed up, and a gentle look came into his eyes, and a shame into his heart, — a shame of his strength and prosperousness, of bis probity and high honor. When had he been tempted ? "What was it but a chance that he had been born what he was 1 And yet old Barly, in all his troubles, had a treasure in his possession for-, which Guy felt he would give all his good fortune and good repute, his roses, — red, white, and golden, — his best heart's devotion, which he secret- ly felt to be worth all the rest. Now was the time, the young man thought, to make that proposition which he had in his mind. " Look here," said Guy, hanging his great shaggy head, and speaking quickly and thickly, as if he was the culprit instead of the accuser. " You imply it was for your daughters' sake that you cheated me. I cannot con- sent to act as you would have me do and take your daughters' money to pay myself back. But if one of them — Miss Belinda, since she likes roses — chooses to come here and work the debt off, she can do so. My mother is in bad health and wants a com- panion ; she will engage her at — let me see, a hundred guineas a year, and in this way, by degrees, the debt will be cleared off." " In twenty years," said Mr. Barly, bewildered, relieved, astonished. " Yes, in twenty years," said Guy, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. " Go home and con- sult her, and come back and give me the answer." And as he spoke, the butler camo in to say that the hansom was at the door. Poor old Barly bent his worn meek head and went out. He was shaken and utterly puzzled. If Guy had told him to climb up the chimney he would have obeyed. He could only do as he was Did. As it was, he clambered with difficulty into the hansom, told the man to go to the station for Dumbleton, and he was driving off gladly when some one called after the cab. The old man peered out anxiously. Had Griffiths changed his mind ? Was his heart hardened like Pharaoh's at the eleventh hour ? It was certainly Guy who came hastily after the cab, looking more awkward and sulky than ever. " Hoy ! Stop ! You have forgotten the roses for your daughter," said he, thrusting in a great bunch of sweet foam and freshness. As the cab drove along, people passing by looked up and envied the man who was carrying such loveliness through the black and dreary London streets. Could they have seen the face looking out behind the roses they might have ceased to envy. Belle was on the watch for her father at the garden gate, and ex- claimed with delight, as she saw him toiling up the hill from the station with his huge bunch of flowers. She came running to meet him with flut- tering skirts and outstretched hands, and sweet smiles gladdening her face. " papa, how lovely ! Have you had a pleasant time 1 " Her father hardly responded. " Take the roses, Belle," he said. " I have paid for them dearly enough." He went into the house wearily, and sat down in the shabby arm-chair. And then he 124 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. turned and called Belinda to him wist- fully, »nd put his trembling arm round about her. Poor old Baily was no mighty Jephthah ; but his feeble old head bent with some such pathetic Jonging and remorse over his Belle as he drew her to him, and told her, in a few simple broken words, all the story of what had befallen him in those few hours since he went away. He could not part from her. "I can't, I can't," he said, as the girl put her tender arms round his neck Guy came to see me a few days after his interview with old Mr. Barly, and told me that his mother had sur- prised him by her willing acquiescence in the scheme. I could have explained matters to him a little, but I thought it best to say nothing. Mrs. Griffiths had overheard, and understood a word or two of what he had said to me that night, when she was taken ill. Was it some sudden remorse for the past ? was it a new-born mother's tenderness stirring in her cold heart, which made her question and cross-question me the next time that I was alone with her ? There had often been a talk of some companion or better sort of attendant. After the news came of poor old Bariy's failure, it was Mrs. Griffiths herself who first vaguely alluded again to this scheme. " I might engage one of those girls — the — the Belinda, I think vou called her ? "^ I was touched and took her cold hand and kissed it. " I am sure she would be an im- mense comfort to you," I said. " You would never regret your kindness." The sick woman sighed and turned away impatiently, and the result was the invitation to dinner, which turned out so disastrously. V. When Mr. Barly came down to breakfast the morning after his return, ho found another of those great square official-looking letters upon the table. There was a check in it for £ 100. " You will have to meet heavy ex- penses," the young man wrote. , " I am not sorry to have an opportunity of proving to you that it was not the money which you have taken from me I grudged, but the manner in which you took it. The only reparation you can make me is by keeping the en- closed for your present necessity." In truth the family prospects were not very brilliant. Myrtle Cottage was resplendent with clean windows and well-scrubbed door-steps, but the furniture wanted repairing, the larder refilling. Belle could not darn up the broken flap of the dining-room table, nor conjure legs of mutton out of bare bones, though she got up ever so early ; sweeping would not mend the hole in the carpet, nor could she dust the mildew-stains off the walls, the cracks out of the looking-glass. Anna was morose, helpless, and jealous of the younger girl's influence over her father. Fanny was delicate ; one gleam of happiness, however, streaked her horizon : Emily Ogden had written to invite her to spend a few days there. When Mr. Barly and his daughter had talked over Mr. Griffiths's proposition, Belle's own good sense told her that it would be folly to throw away this good chance. Let Mrs. Griffiths be ever so trying and difficult to deal with, and her son a thousand times sterner and ruder than he had already shown himself, she was determined to bear it all. Belinda knew her own powers, and felt as if she could endure anything, and that she should never forget the generosity and forbearance he had shown her poor father. Anna was delighted that her sister should go; she threw off the shawl in which she had muffled herself up ever since their reverses, brightened up wonderfully, talked mysteriously of Fanny's pros- pects as she helped both the girls to pack, made believe to shed a few tears as Belinda set off with her father, and. bustled back into the house with re- BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 125 newed importance. Belinda looked back and waved her hand, but Anna's back was already turned upon her, and she was giving directions to the page. Poor Belinda ! For all her courage and cheerfulness her heart sank a little as they reached the great bronze gates in Castle Gardens. She would have been more unhappy still if she had not had to keep up her father's spirits. It was almost dinner-time, and Mrs. Griffiths's maid came down with a message. Her mistress was tired, and just going to bed, and would see her in the morning; Mr. Griffiths was diuing in town; Miss Williamson would call upon Miss Barly that evening. . Dinner had been laid as usual in the great dining-room, with its mar- ble columns and draperies, and Dutch pictures of game and of birds and flowers. Three servants were in waiting, a great silver chandelier lighted the dismal meal, huge dish- covers were upheaved, decanters of wine were handed round, all the en- trees and delicacies came over again. Belle tried to eat to keep her father in company. She even made little jokes, and whispered to him that they evidently meant to fatten her up. The poor old fellow cheered up by degrees ; the good claret warmed his feeble pulse, the good fare com- forted and strengthened him. " I wish Martha would make us ice-pud- dings," said Belle, helping him to a glittering mass of pale-colored cream, with nutmeg and vanilla, and all sorts of delicious spices. He had just fin- ished the last mouthful when the but- ler started and rushed out of the room, a door banged, a bell rang vio- lently, a loud scraping was heard in the hall, and an echoing voice said : " Are they come ? Are they in the dining-room ? " And the crimson curtain was lifted up, and the master of the house entered the room carry- ing a bag and a great-coat over his arm. As he passed the sideboard the button of the coat caught in the fringe of a cloth which was spread upon it, and in a minute the cloth and all the glasses and plates which had been left there came to the ground with a wild crash, which would have made Belle laugh, if she had not been too nervous even to smile. Guy merely told the servants to pick it all up, and put down the things he was carrying and walked straight across the room to the two frightened people, at the far end of the table. Poor fellow ! After shaking hands with old Barly and giving Belle an abrupt little nod, all he could find to say was : — " I hope you came of your own free- will, Miss Barly * " and as he spoke he gave a shy scowl and eyed her all over. " Yes," Belle answered, blinking her soft eyes to see him more clearly. " Then I'm very much obliged to you," said Guy. This was such an astonishingly civil answer that Belinda's courage rose. Poor Belinda's heart failed her again, however, when Griffiths, still in an agony of shyness, then turned to her father, and in his roughest voice said : — " You leave early in the morning, but I hope we shall keep your daugh- ter for a very long time." Poor fellow ! he meant no harm, and only intended this by way of conversation. Belle in her secret heart said to herself that he was a cruel brute ; and poor Guy, having made this impression, broken a dozen wine-glasses, and gone through un- told struggles of shyness, now wished them both good night. " Good night, Mr. Barly ; good night, Miss Belle," said he. Some- thing in his voice caused Belle to re- lent a little. " Good night, Mr. Griffiths," said the girl, standing up, a slight grace- ful figure, simple and nymph-like, amidst all this pomp of circumstance. As Griffiths shuffled out of the room he saw her still ; all night he saw her I in his dreams. That bright winsome 126 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. young creature, dressed in white soft folds, with all the gorgeous gildings and draperies, and the lights burning, and the pictures and gold cups glim- mering round about her. They were his, and as many more of them as he chose : the inanimate, costly, sicken- ing pomps and possessions ; but a pure spirit like that, to be a bright living companion for him ? Ah, no ! that was not to be, — not for him, not for such as him. Guy, for the first time in his life, as he went up stairs that evening, stopped and looked at himself attentively in the great glass on the staircase. He saw a great lout- ish, round-backed fellow, with a shag- gy head and brown glittering eyes, and little strong white teeth like a dog's ; he gave an uncouth sudden caper of rage and regret at his own appearance. " To think that happi- ness and life itself and love eternal depend upon tailors and hair-oil," groaned poor Guy, as he went into his room to write letters. Mrs. Griffiths did not see Belle that evening ; she was always nervously averse to seeing strangers, but she had sent for me to speak to her, and as I was leaving she had asked me to go down and speak to Miss Barly be- fore I went. Belinda was already in her room, but I ventured to knock at the door. She came to meet me with a bright puzzled face and all her pret- ty hair falling loose about her face. She had not a notion who I was, but begged me to come in. When I had explained things a little, she pulled ont a chair for me to sit down. " This house seems to me so mys- terious and unlike anything else I have ever known," said she, " that I 'm very grateful to any one who will tell me what I 'm to do here, — please sit down a little while." I told her that she would have to write notes, to add up bills, to read to Mrs. Griffiths, and to come to me whenever she wanted any help or comfort. "You were quite right to come," said I. " They are excellent people. Guy is the kindest, best fel- low in the whole world, and I have long heard of you, Miss Barly, and I'm sure such a good daughter as you have been will be rewarded some day." Belle looked puzzled, grateful, a little proud, and very charming. She told me afterwards that it had been a great comfort to her father to hear of my little visit to her, and that she had succeeded in getting him away without any very painful scene. Poor Belle ! I wonder how many tears she shed that day after her father was gone ? While she was waiting to be admitted to Mrs. Grif- fiths she amused herself by wander- ing about the house, dropping a little tear here and there as she went along, and trying to think that it amused her to see so many yards of damask and stair-carpeting, all exactly alike, so many acres of chintz of the same pattern. "Mr. Griffiths desired me to say that this tower room was to be made ready for you to sit in, ma'am," said the respectful butler, meeting her and opening a door. " It has not been used before." And he gave her the key, to which a label was affixed, with " Miss Barly's Boom " writ- ten upon it, in the housekeeper's scrawling handwriting. Belle gave a little shriek of admira- tion. It was a square room, with four windows, overlooking the gar- dens, the distant park, and the broad cheerful road which ran past the house. An ivy screen had been trained over one of the windows, roses were clustering in garlands round the deep sill casements. There was an Indian carpet, and pretty silk curtains, and comfortable chintz chairs and sofas, upon which beautiful birds were flying and lilies wreathing. There was an old-fashioned-looking piano, too, and a great bookcase filled with books and music. " They certainly treat me in the most magnificent way," thought Belle, sinking down upon the sofa in the window which overlooked the rose-garden, and in- BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 127 haling a delicious breath of fragrant air. " They can't mean to be very unkind." Belle, who was a little curious, it must be confessed, looked at everything, made secret notes in her mind, read the titles of the books, examined the china, discovered a bal- cony to her turret. There was a little writing-table, too, with paper and pens and inks of various colors, which es- pecially pleased her. A glass cup of cut roses had been placed upon it, and two dear little green books, in one of which some one had left a paper- cutter. The first was a book of fairy tales, from which I hope the good fairy edi- tress will forgive me for stealing a sentence or two. The other little green book was called the Golden Treasury; and when Belle took it up, if opened where the paper-cutter had been left, at the sev- enth page, and some one had scored the sonnet there. Belle read it, and sdmehow, as she read, the tears in her eyes started afresh. Being your slave, what should T do but tend Upon the houvs and times of your desire ? it began. "To " had been scrawled underneath ; and then the letter following the " To " erased. Belle blinked her eyes over it, but could make nothing out. A little , further on she found another scoring — 0, my love 's like a red, red rose That 's newly sprung in June ! 0, my love 's like the melody That 's sweetly played in tune ! and this was signed with a G. " Love !■ That is not for me ; but I wish I had a slave," thought poor Belle, hanging her head over the book as it lay open in her lap, " and that he was clever enough to tell me what rny father is doing at this min- ute." She could imagine it for her- self, alas ! without any magic inter- ference. She could see the dreary little cottage, her poor old father wearily returning alone. She nearly broke "down at the thought, but some one knocked at the door at that in- stant, and she forced herself to be calm as one of the servants came in with a telegram. Belinda. tore open her telegram in some alarm and trem- bling terror of bad news from home ; and then smiled a sweet loving smile of relief. The telegram camo from Guy. It was dated from his office. " Your father desires me to send word that he is safe home. He sends his love. I have been to D. on business, and travelled down with him." Belinda could not help saying to herself that Mr. Griffiths was very kind to have thought of her. His kindness gave her courage to meet his mother. It was not very much that Belle had to do for Mrs. Griffiths; but ■whatever it was she accomplished well and thoroughly, as was her way. Whatever the girl put her hand to, she put her whole heart to at the same time. Her energy, sweetness, and good spirits cheered the sick wo- man and did her infinite good. Mrs. Griffiths took a great fancy to her, and liked to have her about her. Belle lunched with her the first day. She had better dine down below, Mrs. Griffiths said ; and when dinner-time came the girl dressed herself, smoothed her yellow curls, and went shyly down the great staircase into the dining- room. It must be confessed that she glanced a little curiously at the table, wondering whether she was to dine alone or in company. This problem was soon solved ; a side-door burst open, and Guy made his appearance, looking shy and ashamed of it as he came up and shook hands with her. " Miss Belinda," said he, " will you allow me to dine with you 1 " " You must do as you like," said Belinda, quickly, starting back. "Not at all," said Mr. Griffiths. " It is entirely as you shall decide. If you don't like my company, you need only say so. I shall not be of- fended. Well, shall we dine to- gether ? " " 0, certainly," laughed Belinda, confused in her turn. So the two sat down to dine to- 128 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. gether. For the first time in his life Guy thought the great room light enough and bright and comfortable. The gold and silver plate did n't seem to crush him, nor the draperies to suffocate, nor the great columns ready to fall upon him. There was Belinda picking her grapes and playing with the sugar-plums. He could hardly believe it possible. His poor old heart gave great wistful thumps (if such a thing is possible) at the sound of her voice. She had lost much of her shy- ness, and they were talking of any- thing that came into their heads. She hud been telling him about Myrtle Cottage, and the spiders there, and looking up, laughing, she was sur- prised to see him staring at her very sadly and kindly. He turned away abruptly, and began to help himself to all sorts of things out of the silver dishes. " It 's very good of you," Guy said, looking away, " to come and brighten this dismal house, and to stay with a poor suffering woman and a great uncouth fellow like my- self." "But you are both so very kind," said Belinda, simply. " I shall never forget — " " Kind ! " cried Guy, very roughly. " I behaved like a brute to you and your father yesterday. I am not used to ladies' society. I am stupid and shy and awkward." " If you were very stupid," said Belle, smiling, "you would not have said that, Mr. Griffiths. Stupid peo- ple always think themselves charm- ing." When Guy said good night imme- diately after dinner as usual, he sighed, and looked at her again with such kind and melancholy eyes that Belle felt an odd affection and com- Eassion for him. "I never should ave thought it possible to like him so much," thought the girl, as she slowly went along the passage to Mrs. Grifflths's door. It was an odd life this young crea- ture led in the great silent stifling house, with uncouth Guy for. her playfellow, the sick woman's com- plaints and fancies for her duty in life. The silence of it all, its very comfort and splendidness, oppressed Belinda more at times than a sim- pler and more busy life. But the garden was an endless pleasure and refreshment, and she used to stroll about, skim over the terraces and walks, smell the roses, feed the birds and the gold-fishes. Sometimes I have stood at my window watching the active figure flitting by in and out under the trellis, fifteen times round the pond, thirty-two times along the terrace walk. Belle was obliged to set herself tasks, or she would have got tired sometimes of wandering about by herself. All this time she never thought of Guy ex- cept as a curious sort of companion ; any thought of sentiment had never once occurred to her. VI. One day that Belle had been in the garden longer than usual, she re- membered a note for Mrs. Griffiths that she had forgotten to write, and springing up the steps into the hall, on the way, with some roses in her apron, she suddenly almost ran up against Guy, who had come home earlier than usual. The girl stood blushing and looking more charming than ever. The young fellow stood quite still too, looking with such ex- pressive and admiring glances that Belinda blushed deeper still, and made haste to escape to her room. Presently the gong sounded, and there was no help for it, and She had to go down again. Guy was in the dining-room as polite and as shy as usual, and Belinda gradually forgot the passing impression. The butler put the dessert on the table and left them, and when she had finished her fruit, Belinda got up to say good by. As she was leaving the room she BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 129 heard Gay's footsteps following. She stopped short. He came up to her. He looked very pale, and said suddenly, in a quick, husky voice, " Belle, will you marry me ? " l J oor Belinda opened her gray eyes full in his face. She could "hardly be- lieve she had heard aright. She was startled, taken aback, but she followed her impulse of the mo- ment and answered gravely, "No, Guy." He was n't angry or surprised. He had known it all along, poor fel- low, and expected nothing else. He only sighed, looked at her once again, and then wSnt away out of the room. Poor Belle ! she stood there where he had left her, — the lights burnt, the great table glittered, the curtains waved. It was like a strange dream. She clasped her hands together, and then suddenly ran and fled away up to her own room, — frightened, utter- ly puzzled, bewildered, not knowing what to do or to whom to speak. It was a comfort to be summoned as usual to read to Mrs. Griffiths. She longed to pour out her story to the poor lady, but she dreaded agitating her. She read as she was bid. Once she stopped short, but her mistress impatiently motioned her to go on. She obeyed, stumbling and tumbling over the words before her, until there came a knock at the door, and, con- trary to his custom, Guy entered the room. He looked very pale, poor fellow, and sad and subdued. " I wanted to see you, Miss Belinda," he said aloud, " and to tell you that I hope this will make no difference, and that you will remain with us as if nothing had happened. You warned me, mamma, but I could not help myself. It's my own fault. Good night. That is all I had to say." Belle turned wistfully to Mrs. Griffiths. The thin hand was im- patiently twisting the coverlet. " Of course — Who would have anything to say to him 1 — Foolish fellow ! " 6* she muttered in her indistinct way. " Go on, Miss Barly." " 0, but tell me first, ought I remain here 1 " Belie asked implor- ingly. " Certainly, unless you are unhap- py with us," the sick woman answer- ed, peevishly. Mrs. Griffiths never made any other allusion to what had happened. I think the truth was that she did not care very much for anything outside the doors of her sick-room. Perhaps she thought her son had been over hasty, and that in time Belinda might change her mind. To people lying on their last sick-beds, the terrors, anxieties, long- ings of life seem very curious and strange. They seem to forget that they were once anxious, hopeful, eager themselves, as they lie gazing at the awful veil which will so soon be withdrawn from before their fad- ing eyes. A sort of constraint came between Guy and Belinda at first, but it wore away by degrees. He often alluded to his proposal, but in so hopeless and gentle a way that she could not be angry ; still she was disquieted and unhappy. She felt that it was a false and awkward position. She could not bear to see him looking ill and sad, as he did at times, with great black rings under his dark eyes. It was worse still when she saw him brightened up with happi- ness at some chance word she let fall now and then, — speaking inadver- tently of his house as " home," or of the roses next year. He must not mistake her. She could not bear to pain him by hard words, and yet sometimes she felt it was her duty to speak them. One day she met him in the street, on her way back to the house. The roll of the passing car- riage-wheels gave Guy confidence, and, walking by her side, he began to say, " Now I never know what de- lightful surprise may not be waiting for me at every street corner. Ah, Miss Belle, my whole life might be one long dream of wonder and hap- I 130 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. piness, if . . . ." " Don't speak like this ever again, or I shall have to go away," said Belle, interrupting, and crossing the road, in her agita- tion, under the very noses of two omnibus horses. " I wish I could like you enough to marry you. I shall always love you enough to be your friend ; please don't talk of anything else." Belle said this in a bright brisk imploring decided tone, and hoped to have put an end to the matter. That day she came to me and told her little story. There were almost as many reasons for her staying as for her leaving, the poor child thought. I could not advise her to go, for the assistance that she was able to send home was- very valuable. (Guy laughed, and ut- terly refused to accept a sixpence of her salary.) Mrs. Griffiths evi- dently wanted her ; Guy, poor fel- low, would have given all he had to keep her, as we all knew too well. Circumstance orders events some- times, and people themselves, wiih all their powers and knowledge of good and of evil, are but passive instru- ments in the hands of fate. News came that Mr. Barly wars ill ; and lit- tle Belinda, with an anxious face, and a note in her trembling iand, came into Mrs. Griffiths's room one day to say she must go to him direct- ly. " Your father is ill," wrote Anna. " Les convenances demand your im- mediate return to him." Guy hap- Jiened to be present, and when Belle eft the room he followed her out into the passage. " You are going * " he said. " I don't know what Anna means by ' les convenances,' but papa is ill, and wants me," said Belinda, almost crying. " And I want you,'' said Guy ; " but that don't matter, of course. Go — go, since you wish it." After all, perhaps it was well she was going, thought Belle, as she went to pack up her boxes. Poor Guy's sad face haunted her. She seemed to carry it away in her box with her other possessions. It would be difficult to describe what he felt, poor fellow, when he came upon the luggage standing ready corded in the hull, and he found that Belle had taken him at his word. He was so silent a man, so self-contained, so diffident of his own strength to win her love in time, so unused to the ways of the world and of women, that he could be judged by no ordinary rule. His utter despair and bewilderment would have been laughable almost, if they had not been so genuine. He paced about the garden with hasty uncertain footsteps, muttering to himself as he went along, and angrily cutting at the rose-hedges. " Of course she must go, since she wished it ; — of course she must,— of course, of course. What would the house be like when she was gone ? " For an instant a vision of a great dull vault without warmth, or light, or color, or possible comfort anywhere, rose before him. He tried to imagine what his life would be if she never came back into it ; but as he stood still trying to seize the picture, it seemed to him that it was a thing not to be imagined or thought of. Wherever he looked he saw her, everywhere and in every- thing. He had imagined himself un- happy ; now he discovered that for the last few weeks, since little Belinda had come, he had basked in the sum- mer she had brought, and found new life in the sunshine of her presence. Of an evening he had come home eagerly from his daily toil looking to find her. When he left early in the morning he would look up with kind eyes at her windows as he drove away. Once, early one morning, he had passed her near the lodge-gate, standing in the shadow of the great aspen-tree, and making way for the horses to go by. Belle was holding back the clean stiff folds of her pink muslin dress ; she looked up with that peculiar blink of her gray eyes, smiled, and nodded her bright head, BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 131 and shrunk away from the horses. Every morning Guy used to look under the tree after that to see if she were there by chance, even if he had parted from her but a minute before. Good stupid old fellow! he used to smile to himself at his own foolish- ness. One of his fancies about her was that Belinda was a bird that would fly away some day, and perch up in the branches of one of the great trees, far, far beyond his reach. And now was this fancy coming true t was she going — leaving him — flying away where he could not follow her ? He gave an inarticulate sound of mingled anger and sorrow and ten- derness, which relieved his heart, but which puzzled Belle herself, who was coming down the garden-walk to meet him. " I was looking for you, Mr. Grif- fiths," said Belle. " Your mother wants to speak to you. I, too, want- ed to ask you something," the girl went on, blushing. " She is kind enough to wish me to come back But — " Belle stopped short, blushed up, and began pulling at the leaves sprouting on either side of the narrow alley. When she looked up after a minute, with one of her quick short- sighted glances, she found that Guy's two little brown eyes were fixed upon her steadily. " Don't be afraid that I shall trouble you," he said, reddening. " If you knew — if you had the small- est conception what your presence is to me, you would come back. I think you would." Miss Barly didn't answer, but blushed up again and walked on in silence, hanging her head to conceal the two bright tears which had come into her eyes. She was so sorry, so very sorry. But what could she do ? Guy had walked on to the end of the rose-garden, and Belle had followed. Now, instead of turning towards the house, he had comeout into the bright- looking kitchen-garden, with its red brick walls hung with their various draperies of lichen and mosses, and garlands of clambering fruit. Four little paths led up to the turf carpet which had been laid down in the centre of the garden : here a fountain plashed with a tranquil fall of waters upon water ; all sorts of sweet kitchen herbs, mint and thyme and parsley, were growing along the straight-cut beds. Birds were pecking at the nets along the walls ; one little sparrow that had been drinking at the foun- tain flew away as they approached. The few bright-colored straggling flowers caught the sunlight and re- flected it in sparks like the water. The master of this pleasant place put out his great clumsy hand, and took hold of Belle's soft reluctant ringers. " Ah, Belle," he said, " is there no hope for me? Will there never be any chance 1 " " I wish with all my heart there was a chance," said poor Belle, pull- ing away her hand impatiently. " Why do you wound and pain me by speaking again and again of what is far best forgotten ? Dear Mr. Grif- fiths, I will marry you to-morrow, if you desire it," said the girl, with a sudden impulse, turning pale and re- membering all that she owed to his forbearance and gentleness ; " but please, please don't ask it." She looked so frightened and desperate that poor Guy felt that this was worse than anything, and sadly shook his head. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I don't want to marry you against your will, or keep you here. Yes, you shall go home, and I will stop here alone, and cut my throat if I find I cannot bear the place without you. I am only joking. I dare say I shall do very well," said Griffiths with a sigh ; and he turned away and began stamping off in his clumsy way. Then he suddenly stopped and look- ed back. Belle was standing in the sunshine with her face hidden in her hands. She was so puzzled, and sorry, and hopeless, and mournful. The only thing she could do was to 132 FIVE OLD FRIENDS. cry, poor child! — and by some in- stinct Griffiths guessed that she was crying ; he knew it, — his heart melted with pity. The poor fellow came back trembling. " My dearest," he said, " don't cry. What a brute I am to make you cry ! Tell me any- thing in the whole world I can do to make you happy." " If I could only do anything for you," said Belle, " that would make me happier." "Then come back, my dear,'' said Guy, " and don't fly away yet forever, as you threatened just now. Come back and cheer up my mother, and make tea and a little sunshine for me, until — until some confounded fellow comes and carries you off," said poor Griffiths. " 0, that will never be. Yes ; I '11 come," said Belle, earnestly. " I '11 go home for a week and come back ; indeed I will." " Only let me know," said Mr. Griffiths, " and my mother will send the carriage for you. Shall we say a week'? " he added, anxious to drive a hard bargain. " Yes," said Belinda, smiling ; " I '11 write and tell you the day." Nothing would induce Griffiths to order the carriage until after dinner, and it was quite late at night when Belle got home. VII. Poor littlo Myrtle Cottage looked very small and shabby as she drove up in the darkness to the door. A brilliant illumination streamed from all the windows. Martha rubbed her elbows at th