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 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD 
 
 % iffijti 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET' 
 
 ETC. ETC. ETC 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. 
 
 4 SHOE LAXE, FLEET STREET 
 
 1874 
 
 \_AU rights reserved]
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTKD BY WOOPFALL AND KINDEK, 
 MILFORD lANE, STRAND, W.C.
 
 -J 
 
 JS^ ^ 
 (^.' 
 
 jfis ^oW is gfbitaftb 
 
 WILLIAM FEEDEEIC TILLOTSON, ESQ. 
 
 (PROPRIETOR OF ' THE BOLTON WEEKLY JOURNAL '.\ 
 
 THE OTHEE >^E'WSPAPEE PEOPEIETOES 
 
 FOR WHOM THE WORK WAS WRITTEN.
 
 CONTENTS TO VOL. I. 
 
 HAVE A FEW "Words 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Father and Daughter 
 II. Edmund Standen 
 ni. Ix Mr. Hoplixg's Orchard 
 lY. Blind Man's Buff 
 
 V. How IT CA:iiE TO Pass 
 Ti. Mrs. Standen and her Son 
 
 TII. DeR ilENSCH DENKT 
 
 VIII. GoTT Lenkt 
 
 IX. Sylvia at Home . 
 
 X. A Humiliating Rejection 
 XI. Sir Aubrey is Interested 
 
 XII. His Interest Deepens 
 
 xiii. An Uninvited Guest . 
 
 xrv. Yerloren ist verloren 
 XV. ' Alas ! our Lips are held so far apart ' 
 
 xvi. ' So young and so untender ' . 
 XVII. ' Part now, part well, part wide apart ' 
 xviii. Perriam Place 
 
 XIX. • Love, thou art leading Me from Wintry Cold ' 
 
 XX. * Fair as the First that Fell of Womankind ' 
 
 XXI. ' She is Woman, therefore to be Won . 
 xxii. ' In some, Ambition is the Chief Concern ' . 
 xxiii. Mrs. Standen is Inconsistent . . . . 
 
 19 
 
 42 
 
 66 
 
 76 
 
 93 
 
 105 
 
 118 
 
 127 
 
 135 
 142 
 
 151 
 165 
 
 175 
 195 
 203 
 217 
 223 
 
 235 
 250 
 263 
 279 
 296
 
 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 Deep in the green heart of one of the most pastoral 
 shires in England nestled the village of Hedingham. 
 It was a hilly eonntry, and Hedingham lay at the 
 hottom of an irregular basin, nor in all the parish could 
 you have found half-a-dozen acres of level ground. 
 Orchards — and the Hedingham orchards were many 
 and glorious — gardens, meadows, patches of com- 
 mon land were all hill and hollow, as if a storm- 
 tossed ocean had suddenly been transformed into 
 solid earth. Curious must have been those volcanic 
 convulsions which resulted finally in Hedingham. 
 Geologists had their various theories on the subject, 
 but the Hedingham people troubled themselves not 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. ^ 
 
 at all thereupon. So long as cherries and apples 
 ripened in the orchards sloping to the southern 
 sun, or fronting the later glory of the west — so long 
 as all went well in farmyard and barn, piggeries and 
 hen-coops, Hedingham was content. 
 
 It was a prosperous-looking, well-kept village, 
 important enough to blossom into a town perchance 
 by-and-by, under favouring circumstances. Sir 
 Aubrey Perriam, who owned the greater part of the 
 land hereabouts, was a rich man, and if not a 
 liberal landlord, at least a strict one. The plaster 
 walls of all the Hedingham cottages were as white 
 as frequent whitewash could make them. The 
 fences and gates of Hedingham knew not dilapida- 
 tion. In Sir Aubrey's absence — and he was very 
 often absent from the vast and gloomy pile which 
 called him master — his steward's keen eye over- 
 looked Hedingham, and seemed ubiquitous as the 
 eye of Providence itself. Nothing ever escaped that 
 searching gaze, and thus dirt and disorder seemed 
 unknown at Hedingham. 
 
 There was no pleasanter spot than this village 
 of Hedingham on a summer's day. Through the 
 village street there ran a broad swift stream, into 
 whose clear current horses seemed glad to plunge 
 their tired limbs, and the very sight and sound of
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 3 
 
 which refreshed the exhausted pedestrian. One 
 might write a chapter about the green lanes that 
 surrounded Hedingham, and the far-spreading 
 curtain of shade afforded by fine old chestnuts and 
 elms, which gave a park-Hke aspect to the meadows 
 hereabouts, the Hedingham farmers having happily 
 not yet been awakened to the necessity of stubbing 
 up every decent tree on their land. 
 
 This green and fertile village was not far from 
 the barren sea. From the summit of yonder hill, 
 now golden with gorse and broom, the eye might 
 sweep across another fair valley to the wide expanse 
 of ocean. In this West of England the very sea- 
 shore is verdant, and the rich wealth of the land 
 seems almost to run over into the water. 
 
 Look at Hedingham this evening, by the low light 
 of the setting sun, sinking gloriously behind that 
 dense screen of yew and cypress on the western side 
 of the churchyard. The first scene of this drama 
 opens in a garden only divided from the churchyard 
 by a low stone wall and a thick hedge of neatly 
 trimmed yew, which rises tall and dark above the 
 gray stone — the garden of the village school. Mr. 
 Carew, the schoolmaster, says it is a hard thing to 
 live so near the churchyard, and to look out of one's 
 window the first thing every morning upon crumbling 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 old headstones, skulls and crossbones ; but then Mr. 
 Carew is a gentleman not prone to take life pleasantly. 
 A painter could hardly imagine anything more 
 picturesque than that old Norman church, to whose 
 massive walls and stout square tower time has given 
 such rich variety of hue ; that spacious churchyard 
 with its different levels, its sombre old trees, and 
 its crumbling mausoleums, through whose loosened 
 stonework the sinuous ivy creeps at will, a green, 
 living thing pushing its fresh growth into the secret 
 chambers of decay. 
 
 James Carew has no eye for the picturesque, or it 
 may be that though the picture is fair to look upon, 
 he may have had just a little too much of it. For 
 fifteen years he has been schoolmaster at Heding- 
 ham. He has seen the boys he taught when he 
 first assumed that of&ce grow into men, and marry, 
 and rear sons of their own for him to teach. He is 
 grinding the elements of knowledge into a second 
 generation, and in all those fifteen years his own 
 life has grown no whit brighter. The passage of 
 time has not profited him so much as an increase of 
 five pounds a year to his scanty wage. Long service 
 counts for very little with the authorities of Heding- 
 ham. Indeed, there are some who grudge James 
 Carew his meagre stipend, and begin to wonder
 
 t 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 whether the parish schoolmaster is not getting past 
 his work. 
 
 Still, there has heen one change in those fifteen 
 years — a change which would have brightened life 
 for some men, although James Carew has heen in- 
 difierent to it. His only daughter — his only child, 
 indeed — has grown from a child to a woman. She 
 was a plump, fair-haired lassie of five years old 
 when he brought her to this quiet home. She is 
 now a woman, and the acknowledged beauty of 
 Hedingham. She might reign by the same right 
 divine in a much larger place than Hedingham, for 
 it would be hard to find rarer beauty than that of 
 Sylvia Carew. 
 
 She stands by the rustic garden gate in the sun- 
 set, talking to her father, dressed in a well-washed 
 lavender muslin and a plain black straw hat, 
 peerlessly beautiful. Perhaps the greatest attraction 
 of her beauty lies in its rarity. She follows no 
 common type of loveliness ; her placid beauty 
 recalls the form and colouring of an old Venetian 
 picture. The features are classic in their delicate 
 regularity. The nose, straight and finely chiselled, 
 the upper lip short, the mouth a cupid's bow, but 
 the lips somewhat — the veriest trifle — thinner than 
 they should be for perfection ; the chin short, round,
 
 6 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 and dimpled, the forehead low and broad, the shape 
 I of the face an oval. 
 
 The colouring is more striking. Sylvia is ex- 
 quisitely fair — that alabaster fairness — with no more 
 bloom than the heart of a blush rose — which is in 
 itself almost sufficient for beauty. But this com- 
 plexion, which by itself might be an insipid love- 
 liness, is relieved by eyes of darkest, deepest hazel ; 
 that liquid brown which the Venetian masters knew 
 so well how to paint ; eyes of surpassing softness, 
 of incomparable beauty. Her hair is of a much 
 paler shade, yet a shade of the same colour. But 
 here the rich warm brown has a tinge of reddish 
 gold, and female critics aver that Sylvia has red 
 hair. They do not deny her beauty. That is 
 beyond criticism. They merely allege the fact. 
 Sylvia's hair is red. ' Miss Carew is pleasant 
 and soft-spoken enough,' says Miss Bordock, the 
 baker's daughter, ' but I never did trust no one 
 with red hair. They're a'most always double-faced.' 
 Whether Sylvia was double-faced or not time must 
 show. 
 
 Her father stood beside her at the wooden gate, a 
 newspaper in his hand. There was little resem- 
 blance between them, and one could see that if Sylvia 
 inherited her beauty from any mortal progenitor it
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 must have been to the maternal line she was in- 
 debted. Mr. Carew had a hooked nose, a somewhat 
 receding chin, and faded gray eyes which may have 
 once been blue and bright. He had a worn look, 
 as of premature age, and one could imagine him the 
 ill-preseiwed ruin of a good-looking man. His dress 
 was slovenly, but the white hand and taper fingers, 
 the small foot, the general air and bearing, were 
 those of a man who, whatever he might be now, had 
 once written himself down gentleman. 
 
 'Where are you going, child?' he asked, in a 
 tone that was almost a complaint. ' It's strange 
 that you must be always gadding just at the time 
 that I am at leisure.' 
 
 * You don't seem to care particularly about my 
 company, papa, if I do stay at home,' repHed Sylvia 
 coolly. They were not a very afi'ectionate father and 
 daughter. * And it's dull indoors on such an even- 
 ing as this. One might as well be in that ivy-grown 
 old tomb of the de Bossineys yonder, and one's life 
 over and done with.' 
 
 ' You might read the newspaper to me at least, 
 and spare my poor old eyes a Httle. They're tried 
 hard enough all day.' 
 
 ' Other people are almost young at fifty, papa. 
 Why is it that you seem so old?' asked the girl, in
 
 8 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 a speculative tone, as if she were considering a fact 
 in natural history. 
 
 ' Compare my life — for the last fifteen years — with 
 the lives of other people, and you won't be so 
 foolish as to repeat your question, Sylvia. I should 
 feel young enough and seem young enough, too, 
 I dare say, if I were as rich as Sir Aubrey 
 Perriam.' 
 
 The father sighed, and the daughter echoed his 
 sigh, as if the very mention of the lord of the soil 
 were provocative of melancholy thought. 
 
 ' Yes, it must be a grand thing to be rich,' said 
 Sylvia, ' especially for people who have had some 
 experience of poverty. Those people who are born 
 rich seem to have a very dim idea of the enjoyment 
 they might get out of their money. They dawdle 
 through life in a sleepy sort of way, and fritter away 
 their wealth upon a herd of servants, and on some 
 great ugly house, in which they are little more than 
 a cypher. Now, if I were rich, the world would 
 hardly be big enough for me. I'd roam from 
 country to country. I'd climb mountains that no 
 one ever climbed before. I'd make my name 
 
 famous in half-a-dozen different ways. I'd ' 
 
 breaking down with a sudden sigh, ' but I daresay I 
 never shall be anything but a village schoolmaster's
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 daughter, or a village schoolmistress, so it's worse 
 than foolish to talk of happiness or riches.' 
 
 The hazel eyes had brightened while she talked 
 of what she would do with wealth. They were 
 clouded now ; and she looked at the rosy Hght be- 
 yond that dark screen of cypress, with a face that 
 was full of gloomy thought — strangely beautiful even 
 in its gloom, though with a sinister beauty. 
 
 ' You need not be a Tillage schoolmistress unless 
 you are a greater simpleton than I take you to be,' 
 said her father, who had been in no manner dis- 
 turbed by her rhapsody. He had unfolded his 
 newspaper while she was speaking— a London paper 
 which reached this remote world at sunset. ' With 
 your good looks you are bound to make a good 
 marriage.' 
 
 * What, at Hedingham ? ' cried Sylvia, with a 
 scornful laugh. ' Pray, who is the wandering Prince 
 who is to find me at Hedingham? I'm afraid 
 princes of that kind only exist in fairy tales.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Sylvia. Every pretty woman has her 
 chance if she has but patience to wait for it, but ten 
 out of every dozen wreck themselves by marrying 
 scamps or paupers before they are out of their teens. 
 I hope you, Sylvia, have too much sense to make 
 that kind of mistake.'
 
 10 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * I hope so/ said Sylvia ; ' indeed, I mean to be 
 prudence itself, and wait for the Prince. Have I 
 not drained the cup of poverty to the very dregs ? 
 Believe me, papa, I don't want to wear washed-out 
 gowns and last summer's bonnets quite all my 
 life.' 
 
 She looked down at her faded muslin contemp- 
 tuously, as she spoke. She had all the feminine 
 longing for bright colours and fashionably-made 
 dresses — though the finest shops she knew were 
 those in Monkhampton, the neighbouring market 
 town, and the best dressed women she had ever 
 seen were the Miss Toynbees, the retired woollen 
 manufacturer's daughters, who, it was faintly 
 rumoured, had once had dresses straight from 
 Paris. 
 
 * By the way,' she resumed presently, after a 
 pause, * talking of good marriages, I wonder if you 
 would call Mr. Standen a good match for any one. 
 I am not speaking of myself, of course.' 
 
 * I'm glad you're not,' retorted her father sharply, 
 but without lifting his eyes from the newspaper, 
 ' for Edmund Standen would be a very bad match 
 for you. His father, the banker, left every acre and 
 every sixpence he had to leave to his widow — for 
 her to dispose of as she thinks best ; and her son
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 is entirely at her mercy. He's an only son, you'll 
 say, and to whom else could she leave her money. 
 She might leave it to her married daughter, Mrs. 
 Sargent ; and depend upon it she will leave it to the 
 daughter if the son offends her.' 
 
 ' By a foolish marriage, for instance.' 
 
 * By marrying any one she disapproves of. And 
 she's a starched madam, and will be uncommonly 
 hard to please. I daresay she means him for that 
 little girl who lives with her — Miss — Miss Eoch- 
 dale.' 
 
 Sylvia shrugged her shoulders, and made a wry 
 face, as if Miss Eochdale were a very inferior order 
 of being. 
 
 * I shouldn't think he would ever marry her,' she 
 said, ' even to please his mother, whom, I believe, 
 he worships. In the first place her name is Esther. 
 Fancy any one falling in love with an Esther — and 
 in the next place she's dowdy to a degree that is 
 next door to ugliness.' 
 
 * I've never taken particular notice of her,' re- 
 plied Mr. Carew, ' but I believe she has money. Her 
 father was in the Indian Civil Service — a judge, or 
 something of that kind. She was born in Bengal, 
 and sent over to the Standens when she was three 
 or four years old — the mother was some relation of
 
 12 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Standen's, I think. And after toiling and 
 money- scraping out in Calcutta for twenty years, 
 Mr. Kochdale died on the eve of his return — the 
 common close of an Indian career — leaving his 
 daughter well provided for.' 
 
 ' I wish you had gone to India, papa.' 
 
 * To die there ! Thanks for so affectionate a 
 wish.' 
 
 *No, no, of course I don't mean that,' answered 
 the girl somewhat lightly, as if it were a matter of 
 detail. ' But I do wish you had found some 
 position more fitted to your talents — for I know you 
 are very clever — even at the other end of the world. 
 So many men strike out paths for themselves — begin 
 life with so few chances and end in the loftiest 
 stations. I have read the biographies of such men, 
 and never without wondering how you could tamely 
 submit to endure the life you have led here, to waste 
 your keen intellect in the drudgery of a village 
 school, for fifteen long useless years.' 
 
 She spoke with a suppressed passion in her tone, 
 for there were times when she felt undutifully angry 
 at the thought of her father's ignominious career. 
 Not so easily would she have submitted to a life of 
 obscurity, had Heaven made her a man. 
 
 * The men you read of may have started in life
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 with one qualification which I did not possess when 
 I began my career in this place,' said her father 
 coldly, still without looking from the newspaper. 
 
 ' What qualification ?' she asked, eagerly. 
 
 ' Never mind what. Enough that I am what I 
 am. Why seek to pry into the secrets of a life that 
 holds no ray of hope ? You say you know that I 
 have talents. If you do know that you must know 
 that I should not have endured such a life as this 
 could I have put those talents to better use. I did 
 not begin the world as a village schoolmaster. The 
 life you have seen is only the miserable remnant of 
 an earlier existence.' 
 
 * And that was a little brighter, was it not, papa ?' 
 
 * Yes, child, that was pleasant enough while it 
 lasted.' 
 
 ' And what was the misfortune which altered your 
 circumstances ? ' 
 
 ' Y"ou have asked me that question before to-day, 
 Sylvia, and I have told you that the past is a subject 
 I do not ^ish to talk about. Be kind enough to 
 remember that in future.' 
 
 The girl gave a discontented sigh, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 * You have not answered my question,' said her 
 father. ' Where are you going ? '
 
 14 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * Only for a walk in the lanes with Alice Cook 
 and Mary Peter.' 
 
 * I wonder you can care about associating with a 
 sexton's daughter, and a dressmaker.' 
 
 * Have I anybody else to associate with, papa ? 
 What would the young ladies of Hedingham think 
 if I aspired to their company ? Why, I daresay 
 they expect me to drop a curtsy when I meet them, 
 like the school children.' She drew herself up to 
 her fullest height and looked like an outraged queen, 
 at the very idea of these people's insolence. Then 
 in a more indifferent tone she went on, ' You don't 
 suppose I care for Alice or Mary. But they're 
 better than nobody, and they think a great deal of 
 me. What is that you told me Csesar said — better 
 to reign in a village than serve in Kome. I'd rather 
 have such friends as those, who look up to me, than 
 be asked to tea in a patronising way by the Yicar's 
 daughters, who din the school into my ears all the 
 evening. Mary tells me about the fashions, and 
 helps me a little when I have a new dress to make 
 for myself. It isn't often I trouble her. And Alice 
 is a harmless creature enough, and takes no liberties. 
 Besides I could hardly walk about alone.' 
 
 * No,' said her father, with a glance at the fair 
 face. ' That wouldn't do. Perhaps you're right.
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTEE. 15 
 
 Better to have them than no one. Be sure you're 
 not late.' 
 
 * I'll take care, papa. We're going to talk over 
 the arrangements for to-morrow.' 
 
 ' For to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ^ The school treat, papa. You haven't forgotten, 
 surely ? ' 
 
 * To he sure. Yes, the children's tea, and the 
 fancy fair in Harper's field. The place will be in a 
 fine hubbub, I suppose.' 
 
 * We're to have the band from Monkhampton, and 
 they say there are lots of people coming ; county 
 people,' added the girl. ' We don't often have a 
 glimpse of the world at Hedingham ; ' and then, 
 with a profound sigh, ' I daresay the dresses will be 
 lovely. And think of my poor last year's muslin, 
 which has grown ever so much too short for me.' 
 
 * You've grown, I suppose you mean,' said her 
 father. ' You needn't be so doleful about it. New 
 dresses don't make good looks, and no man whose 
 opinion is worth having values a woman for her 
 gown. It's only you women who appraise one 
 another's clothes, &nd sit in judgment upon one 
 another's bonnets.' 
 
 ' Yes, papa, but it's hard to bear scornful looks, 
 and to feel the stamp of poverty branded on one's
 
 16 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 back. I'm sure I wouldn't mind how I pinched or 
 scraped indoors. I'd eat dry bread and drink water 
 if I could only make a decent appearance before the 
 world.' 
 
 'Ah, that's a woman's notion of comfort,' said 
 Mr. Carew, contemptuously. He was particular 
 about what he ate ; his comfortable little six o'clock 
 dinner was the one bright spot in his day. The 
 babble and turmoil of the school were over, the door 
 shut upon those awful boys whom he loathed with 
 an unspeakable loathing, the table laid neatly in the 
 shady parlour. A cutlet or a chicken, a little dish 
 of fruit, a salad, and a tumbler of cheap claret 
 sufficed him ; but even this modest menu cost money 
 which might have been spared for Sylvia's wardrobe, 
 had the schoolmaster been content to eat boiled 
 bacon and beans like his neighbours. 
 
 Two shrill voices sounded in the still air, and two 
 girls emerged from the shadows of the cypress and 
 yew, and came by the narrow churchyard path to- 
 wards the gate of Mr. Carew's garden; two common- 
 place looking damsels enough it must be confessed ; 
 but fresh-complexioned and frank-looking, and with 
 a pleasant air of the country about them. 
 
 * "Well, Sylvia ! ' cried Mary Peter, the elder of 
 the two, ' have you been waiting for us ? '
 
 FATHEK AND DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 * Not very long — besides I've been talking to papa 
 — it didn't matter.' 
 
 * I had the dresses to finish for the Miss Tojnbees. 
 I wish I could have kept them up at my place to 
 show you, but the lady's maid did fidget so. She's 
 been round three times since dinner, so I sent 'em as 
 soon as ever I'd set the last stitch, and all I hope is 
 the boy won't tumble them. Such loves of dresses, 
 Sylvia. However, you'll see them to-morrow, so it's 
 all the same. Clear white grenadine, with blue 
 satin quillings, and blue silk slips, and such lace — 
 real Valenciennes, and seven shillings a yard if it 
 was a penny. The maid seemed afraid I should eat 
 some of it, she was so sharp. I daresay she'll go 
 over every inch with a yard measure.' 
 
 Mr. Carew had retreated before this babble about 
 dressmaking. He had not even troubled himself to 
 respond to the timid salutations of the two damsels. 
 But, for similar discourtesy, Hedingham had long 
 ago set him down as a proud and unfriendly indi- 
 vidual. A good master enough for those rude, 
 rough boys, who trembled at his frown ; but a per- 
 son whose acquaintance nobody cared to cultivate. 
 Yet they owned that, although unpolite, he had the 
 air and bearing of a gentleman, and that his dis- 
 courtesy seemed sometimes sheer absence of mind. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 He had seen better days, said the Hedmghamites, 
 and his temper had been soured by reverse of 
 fortune. Having come to this conclusion, his 
 simple-minded neighbours pitied him, and showed 
 what kindness they could to his pretty daughter. 
 
 * Come, Sylvia,' said Alice Cook, *it will be dark 
 before we've had our walk.'
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 
 
 It was in the very flush of summer, the ripe, rich 
 month of July. The last of the hay had been 
 carried, but tangled wisps of sweet-scented grass 
 still hung here and there on the brambles of the 
 dog-roses, in the narrow lanes, where the wagons 
 had been hard pushed to pass between luxuriant 
 boundaries of sloe and blackberry, wild rose, and 
 woodbine. This particular July had begun with 
 almost tropical splendour. The thermometer (there 
 was only one in the village, by the way, at the post- 
 office and chemist's shop) had been at eighty for the 
 last week, and even after sunset there was a sultry 
 heat like the atmosphere of a hothouse, an atmo- 
 sphere sweetened with the spicy odour of pine trees 
 and clove carnations, the perfume of bean fields, and 
 the sweet-pea hedges that brightened cottage gardens. 
 For an utterly idle existence — the life of those pigs 
 
 c 2
 
 20 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 for instance which lay flat on their sides on the 
 patch of grass before the farm-yard gate, and simply 
 revelled in the sunshine — Hedingham in a hot 
 summer was a most delicious place, a very valley of 
 sensuous delights. But for the majority of man- 
 kind who had to work hard, this weather was a trifle 
 too warm. The farmers looked across the fields of 
 yellowing corn and thanked God for this liberal sun- 
 shine. The farmer's men wiped the drops of toil 
 from their sunburnt foreheads, and languished for 
 a double allowance of cider. Happy those whose 
 work lay on the hill tops whence they could gaze on 
 the wide, cool sea. Happier still, or so it seemed to 
 the landsmen, the fishermen yonder far out upon 
 the blue, whose brown sails flapped lazily in the 
 faint summer wind. 
 
 The three girls went along one of the lanes, till 
 they came to a meadow on the slope of a hill — a 
 meadow which contained some of the finest trees 
 about Hedingham. Here they seated themselves on 
 a grassy bank at the foot of a giant horse chestnut 
 — a bank famous for primroses in spring time — not 
 without some jesting insinuations from Sylvia's 
 companions. 
 
 * We know why Sylvia is so fond of this field, 
 don't we, Alice?' said Mary, jocosely, whereupon
 
 EDMTND STANDEN. 21 
 
 Alice, who was not loquacious, nodded and giggled 
 inanely. 
 
 * I don't know that I like it better than any other 
 meadow,' returned Sylvia with an indifferent air. ' If 
 I do it is for the shade of this chestnut, and because 
 we can catch a glimpse of the sea over the tree tops 
 yonder.' 
 
 ' I thought you didn't care for the woods, or the 
 sea, or anything about Hedingham,' said Mary. 
 
 * I don't very much. I've had too much of it all 
 — trees and flowers that are the same every year, 
 and woods and sea that haven't changed since the 
 Heptarchy. But if we walk we must walk some- 
 where, and if we sit down to rest it must be some- 
 where, and this meadow does as well as any other 
 place.' 
 
 ' And we know some one who always can find us 
 here,' said Mary; after which remark came a sort 
 of giggling duet between !Miss Carew's companions. 
 
 Sylvia felt that her father was right, and that she 
 ought not to associate with these girls. 
 
 * I wish you wouldn't be so vulgar, Mary Peter,' 
 she exclaimed angrily ; ' Some-one, indeed. I sup- 
 pose you mean Mr. Standen, since he's the only 
 person we ever met here.' 
 
 * I didn't know it was vulgar to speak of one's
 
 22 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 friend's beau,' said Mary, wounded ; * but you've 
 sucb high notions, Miss Carew. I sometimes think 
 it's a pity you should associate with me and Alice.' 
 
 * I sometimes think so too,' answered Sylvia, 
 nothing moved. It would have cost her very little 
 to break with these companions of her childhood. 
 Her feelings on the subject of feminine friendships 
 were not deep. 
 
 She had a way of being insolent to these girls, 
 and then passing over the matter lightly, as if she 
 had a right to be as rude as she pleased ; and 
 they, influenced by her superlative beauty, and her 
 superior education — she had educated herself for 
 the most part, but knew a good deal more than 
 many better taught girls of her age — suffered her 
 airs and graces with extreme patience. She had an 
 air of being only half alive in their presence, which 
 was in no means flattering to their self-esteem. She 
 leaned back against the broad base of the chestnut 
 and closed her languid eyelids, and only answered 
 with a listless word or two now and then, while her 
 companions discussed the programme for to-morrow's 
 gala. 
 
 It was to be altogether a grand day for Heding- 
 ham. There was to be the children's treat, buns 
 and tea, and plum-cake, and such rustic sports
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 23 
 
 as kiss-in-the-ring and thread-my-needle, in Mr. 
 Hopling's orchard, one of the finest orchards round 
 Hedingham. This was an annutl festival, hut even 
 repetition did not stale its simple joys. This year 
 there was to he something more than the children's 
 tea-drinking. The Hedingham school-house was 
 ancient, small, inconvenient, and out of repair, and 
 Mr. Vancourt, the vicar, was trying to collect funds 
 for the erection of new buildings of the Gothic 
 order. There had been ah*eady some small move- 
 ments in aid of this good work, and now the Miss 
 Vancourts and their numerous friends and allies 
 had organised a fancy fair, or charity bazaar, to 
 which all the county, so far as the influence of 
 Hedingham could make itself felt, had been bidden. 
 All the most distinguished young ladies of the 
 neighbourhood, that is to say, those whose fathers 
 had either money or position, were to keep stalls. 
 The various treasures of Berlin-wool work, wax- 
 flowers, point lace pincushion-covers and banner 
 screens, teapot stands, slippers, wax-dolls, smoking- 
 caps, babies' shoes, braces, work-bags, shaving- 
 doyleys, match-boxes, pinafores, and cigar-cases, 
 which had been prepared by the industrious fingers 
 of the Hedingham and Monkhampton young ladies, 
 were said to be stupendous in effect, now that they
 
 24 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 were massed together at the vicarage. The bazaar 
 was to be held in Mr. Harper's field, which adjoined 
 Mr. Hopling's orchard, so that benevolently dis- 
 posed people, after spending their money among the 
 pink-striped booths, could walk into the orchard and 
 behold the future recipients of their bounty. They 
 would see the school children at their best, apple- 
 cheeked, joyous, radiant with the lustre of bread and 
 butter and plum-cake, and they would be stimulated 
 to give liberally. Thus, no doubt, had argued the 
 organisers of- the entertainment. 
 
 ' They say there's people coming from twenty 
 miles round,' said Mary Peter, after much disquisi- 
 tion upon to-morrow's proceedings ; ' county families. 
 There's never been such a day in Hedingham since 
 I can remember.' 
 
 *And you can remember thirty years, I should 
 think/ remarked Sylvia without opening her 
 eyes. 
 
 This was meant unkindly, for Miss Peter affected 
 youth. Yet every one knew that it was nine or ten 
 years since she had finished her apprenticeship to 
 Miss Speedwell, of Monkhampton. 
 
 * Father heard tell that Sir Aubrey was to be 
 there,' said Alice Cook, with some sense of impor- 
 tance. It was something to have a father who
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 25 
 
 heard the news direct from the Yicar, after week-daj 
 service. 
 
 Sylvia opened her eyes. Everybody in this place 
 was interested in Sir Aubrey Perriam, though he 
 was only a quiet elderly gentleman, who spent a 
 good deal of his time abroad, and, when he was at 
 home, lived a humdrum kind of life at Perriam 
 Place, with no better society than that of his 
 brother, an invalid and a bookworm. Sir Aubrey 
 was seen in Hedingham village, now and then, 
 when he was at The Place, but the younger brother 
 hardly ever. But, according to report, this younger 
 brother, Mr. Perriam, never went away, but daw- 
 dled on from year's end to year's end alone with 
 his books. No one at Hedingham thought or talked 
 of Mr. Perriam. Sir Aubrey was a sun whose 
 magnitude extinguished all lesser lights. 
 
 * I thought Sir Aubrey was in Paris,' said 
 Sylvia. 
 
 * So he was last week,' replied Alice. ' Father 
 had it from the housekeeper at Perriam — but he was 
 expected home soon — and this morning, while he was 
 taking off his surplice, Mr. Yancourt told father that 
 Sir Aubrey had come, and had promised to be at 
 the bazaar to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I should like to see him,' said Sylvia.
 
 26 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' Haven't you never seen him ? ' asked Alice, with 
 more emphasis than grammar. 
 
 * Never.' 
 
 * Oh, I've seen him ever so many times,' said 
 Mary Peter, with enthusiasm. * He's a noble look- 
 ing old gentleman. I think you'd know he was a 
 baronet if you saw him anywheres, without being 
 told. He dresses beautiful — such taste — and holds 
 himself so straight, and speaks so low and smooth 
 — not like most of our county gentle-folks, which 
 bawls awful, as if they was speaking to somebody 
 on the other side of the road — and then he has 
 such a dear silver-gray moustache, just the colour 
 of that dress I made for Mrs. Baker, for Miss 
 Baker's wedding.' 
 
 ' And what is his brother, Mr. Perriam, like ? ' 
 enquired Sylvia. 
 
 * Oh, nobody ever sets eyes on Mr. Perriam, 
 except the servants at The Place, and they say he's 
 eccentrical and slovenly like in his ways — never puts 
 on boots — and hardly ever wears a coat, and hates 
 new clothes. But I have heard Mrs. Spicer, the house- 
 keeper, say — she's second cousin to my Aunt Susan's 
 husband's brother's wife, so you may call her a rela- 
 tion — that Mr. Perriam and his brother would be as 
 like as two peas if he only dressed himself decently.'
 
 EDMUND STAXDEX. 27 
 
 Sylvia sighed. She had ceased to feel interested 
 in the conversation. What were these Perriams to 
 her ? Only two old fogies, whose wealth made her 
 enviously minded whenever she thought of it. 
 That crimson glohe she had been watching had gone 
 down behind the patch of blue sea yonder, and she 
 had promised her father to be home before it was 
 dark. The darkness would soon follow that red 
 splendour on the horizon Hne, and it was not solely 
 to enjoy Alice Cook's and Mary Peter's conversation 
 that Miss Carew had come here to-night. 
 
 * Come, Mary,' she said listlessly, ' I suppose we 
 had better be going home.' 
 
 * "VMiat's your hurry ? ' asked Mary. 
 
 ' Papa told me to be home before dark.' 
 ' 0, come, you're not generally so particular about 
 your father. Besides, it's not quite dark till ten 
 o'clock at this time of year ; and who knows if some 
 one mightn't happen to come this way who'd be 
 ever so sorry to miss you." 
 
 ' Quite right, Miss Peter, and very kindly sug- 
 gested,' said a pleasant, manly voice, from the other 
 side of the bank. The branches rustled as two 
 strong arms parted them, and a young man stepped 
 lightly do"svn from the higher level of the copse 
 behind the chestnut.
 
 28 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sylvia started to her feet, a wild-rose bloom 
 brightening her face, her eyes sparkling, almost a 
 new creature — animated with sudden joy, and hope, 
 and triumph. Yet she spoke never a word, but 
 only held out her little bare hand by way of 
 welcome. 
 
 The new-comer shook hands all round, but with 
 Sylvia last, and kept her hand in his, as if he had 
 forgotten to let it go. 
 
 ' I thought, perhaps, you might be coming this 
 way for your evening walk, Mr. Standen,' said Mary 
 Peter, urged thereto by an impulse of good 
 manners, since nobody else said anything. Alice 
 Cook could never do much more than giggle ; and 
 Sylvia and Mr. Standen stood and looked at each 
 other as if they never meant to speak again. 
 Indeed, could eyes always be as eloquent, there 
 would seem little need of language. 
 
 ' It was very considerate of you to think about 
 me at all,' said Mr. Standen, without withdrawing 
 his gaze from Sylvia's. They stood face to face 
 under the spreading chestnut boughs, looking at 
 each other as if there were no world beyond that 
 circle of shadow, no time beyond this July sunset. 
 * I always do come here for my evening walk, and 
 sometimes I find this meadow very dreary, while
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 29 
 
 sometimes it seems a little bit of Eden, as it does 
 to-night/ he added, in a lower tone, tightening his 
 clasp of Sylvia's hand. 
 
 * Well, Sylvia,' said Mary, in her business-like 
 tone, ' I think, as mother may be wanting her bit of 
 supper — it is but a morsel of cheese and a lettuce 
 she takes, but she likes things nice and tidy — I'll 
 run home. You can come back with me, Alice, and 
 I daresay Mr. Stan den will take care of SyMa. 
 Good-bye, Sylvia. We shall see you before twelve 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 The two girls curtsied a good night to the gentle- 
 man and sped off, as if this were part of an estab- 
 hshed progi'amme. 
 
 They had scarcely turned their backs ere Sylvia 
 was clasped to her lover's breast. The fair head 
 rested placidly upon his shoulder, the soft hazel 
 eyes looked up at him, full of tenderness. Plighted 
 lovers these, it would seem, by his calm air of pro- 
 prietorship, her look of perfect trust. 
 
 * My Sylvia ! ' he said, as if a world of meaning 
 were shut within the compass of those two words. 
 
 * You are so late this evening, Edmund,' she said, 
 complainingly, 
 
 * We had friends dining with us, darling ; I 
 couldn't get away. Even now I have left the men
 
 30 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 to smoke their cigars and play billiards alone — at 
 the risk of offending them — for the sake of one sweet 
 half-hour with you. How lovely you look to-night, 
 Sylvia, with that sunset tinge upon your hair ! ' 
 
 * Do you really like it ? ' she asked, pleased by his 
 praise. * The girls call it red.' A shower of kisses 
 on the bright auburn hair answered for the lover's 
 estimation of its peculiar colour. ' But I'm sorry 
 you're so late, Edmund, for papa told me to be 
 home early.' 
 
 ' You must cheat papa out of half an hour for my 
 sake, Sylvia. I have something to tell you.' 
 
 ' What ! ' she cried eagerly, and with a half- 
 frightened look. ' Have you told Mrs. Standen ?' 
 
 * Yes, Sylvia,' he answered gravely, 'I have told 
 my mother.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' exclaimed the girl with a gasp, as if this 
 were just the most awful thing in the world. ' And 
 how did she take it ? ' 
 
 ' Why, not so well as I could have wished. Let's 
 sit down here, darling, under our old chestnut, and 
 I'll tell you all about it.' He released her from the 
 arms which had enfolded her till now, and they sat 
 down side by side, her head still resting on his 
 shoulder, one hand clasped in his, as if this loving 
 contact might soften the stern decree of fate, in the
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 31 
 
 person of Mrs. Standen, on whose fiat tlie future 
 lives of these two in a great measure depended. 
 
 * Was she very angi*y ? ' Sylvia asked falteringly. 
 The young man was silent for a few moments, 
 
 looking downward, his good-looking, honest face 
 clouded. It was both good and good-looking, that 
 face of Edmund Standen' s, the features sufficiently 
 regular, the forehead broad and ample, the eyes a 
 clear gray, the complexion tanned somewhat by sun 
 and Tvind — a country gentleman's complexion — the 
 mouth good, and, despite the shade of a thick, brown 
 moustache, full of expression. 
 
 * Am I to be quite frank with you, Sylvia : am I 
 to tell you the truth, however disagreeable, even at 
 the risk of making you dislike my mother ? ' 
 
 * What does it matter what I think of your 
 mother ? ' exclaimed Sylvia, impatiently. ' It is 
 ourselves we have to think about. Tell me the 
 whole truth, of course. She was angry, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' Yes, dear, more angry than I had ever seen her 
 till that moment ; more angry than I should have 
 thought it possible she could be.' 
 
 * What a low, vulgar creature I must seem to her, ' 
 said Sylvia, bitterly. 
 
 ' My sweetest, she knows that you are nothing of 
 the kind. I have told her, and she has heard others
 
 32 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 praise you, and she has seen you herself. It was no 
 such thought influenced her. But she had formed 
 other plans, I suppose, and this engagement of mine 
 disappointed her. She has always been used to 
 think of me as a boy, ready and willing to be ruled 
 by her opinions ; for you know how dearly I love 
 her, Sylvia.' 
 
 * I have heard you say so a thousand times,' said 
 Sylvia,' with something like scorn. 
 
 ' Yesterday she discovered for the first time that 
 I had a will of my own, a heart that was no longer 
 all hers, a mind that could think for itself, and my 
 own plans for my own future. She was both grieved 
 and angry. My heart bled for her, though I felt for 
 the first time in my life that she was in the wrong, 
 that the mother I have loved so dearly could commit 
 a great injustice.' 
 
 * If you would only come to the point,' exclaimed 
 Sylvia, impatiently; 'what did she say about our 
 marriage?' 
 
 * That she would never give her consent to it. I 
 was compelled to remind her that I am a man, and 
 my own master.' 
 
 * Well, what then?' 
 
 ' " Marry Miss Carew if you like," she said, " and 
 break my heart, if you like. But if you do I shall
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 33 
 
 leave everytliiiig I possess to your sister Ellen and 
 her children.'" 
 
 * And she could do that ? ' asked Sylvia, trembling 
 with indignation. 
 
 * Most decidedly. She is mistress of everything 
 my father had to leave. My future, so far as regards 
 my father's fortune, is entirely at her mercy.' 
 
 * How unjust — how wicked ! ' cried Sylvia. 
 
 * It does seem rather hard,' said the young man, 
 regretfully ; ' yet there never was a better mother 
 than mine. And the money was left to her to do 
 what she likes with, after all. She has as good a 
 right to leave it to Ellen as to me.' 
 
 ' She has no such right ; your father intended it 
 for you,' said Sylvia, almost choking with passion. 
 
 She might have been even more angry had Edmund 
 Standen repeated to her one particular speech of his 
 mother's — a speech which had impressed itself in- 
 deUbly on the tablet of his mind. 
 
 * I wall stand between you and ruin, if I can, even 
 if I seem cruel and unjust in doing so. Whatever 
 influence, whatever power I have shall be used to 
 the uttermost to prevent your marriage with Sylvia 
 Carew.' 
 
 * Because she is my inferior in social position ? ' 
 asked the young man angrily. *As if such petty 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 distinctions counted for anything ^except in a be- 
 nighted Tillage like Hedingham ! ' 
 
 * For no such reason/ answered Mrs. Standen, 
 * but simply because she is vain and hollow, selfish 
 and artful. I wish my dear son to marry a good 
 woman.' 
 
 And she flung upon him a look of maternal ten- 
 derness that would have melted any one but a head- 
 strong lover. 
 
 * What right have you to say that of her ? — you, 
 who have seen her half-a-dozen times at most,' he 
 cried indignantly. 
 
 * I have seen quite enough to judge — and I have 
 heard still more.' 
 
 'Petty village gossip. The women hate her on 
 account of her beauty.' 
 
 * And you love her for the sake of her beauty, 
 and for nothing else. Beware of such love, 
 Edmund.' 
 
 * Upon my word, mother, you are too bad,' cried 
 the son, and he left her without another word — 
 banging the door behind him. The passion of 
 anger would hurt us more than it does if there 
 were no doors to bang. 
 
 Yet in his heart of hearts he knew that he did 
 love Sylvia chiefly for the sake of that rare beauty
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 35 
 
 which had dawned upon him like the revelation of a 
 new life, two short months ago, when he came homa 
 from Germany, and saw the girl standing in the 
 afternoon sunshine in one of the side aisles in Hed- 
 ingham church, clad in purest white, a blossom-like 
 creature among the ruddy-cheeked and buxom Hed- 
 ingham girls, many of whom had a full share of 
 vulgar, every-day good looks. Even to-night, as he 
 came to the trysting tree, he was compelled to con- 
 fess to himself, in the course of that self-examina- 
 tion to which all thoughtful men submit their 
 motives, that it was Sylvia's face that had bewitched 
 him. Of her mind he knew very little, beyond the 
 one fact that she loved him ; and, knowing that, he 
 seemed to know all that was needful. She was 
 refined and intelligent, expressed herself Hke a lady, 
 read all the books he lent her, and was able to 
 criticise them somewhat sharply. She had taught 
 herself French and German with very little help 
 from her father. She played with taste and ex- 
 pression on a feeble old piano, which a former ^dear's 
 wife had given her, on leaving Hedingham ; and she 
 sang better than she played. What more could a 
 man desire in a wife than to love and be beloved by 
 her, save to be proud of her ? And Edmund Stan- 
 den felt that this was a wife of whom a better man 
 
 D 2
 
 36 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 than lie might be proud. For, after all, this gift of 
 beauty which philosophy affects to underrate — 
 although Socrates did admire 'Aspasia — is a great 
 and perfect thing, and more certain of social success 
 than any other quality. It needs no assertion on 
 the part of its possessor, it asks no aid from re- 
 nown. It is there — obvious, indisputable, and the 
 world beholds and worships. Nor is it more ephe- 
 meral than any other species of fame. Those names 
 of women which stand out most vividly on the 
 historic page, are the names of women who were 
 simply famous for their beauty. This argument 
 occurred to Edmund Standen to-night as he walked 
 up the hill. After all, what reason had he to be 
 ashamed of loving Sylvia Carew chiefly because of 
 her loveliness. ' Pericles, Caesar, Antony, were all 
 made of the same clay,' he said to himself. ' Each 
 
 fell in love with the loveliest woman of his age.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' Well,' said Sylvia, after a longish pause, ' of 
 course there is no more to be said. Our dream is 
 ended. All we have to do is to bid each other good- 
 bye.' 
 
 Her tones faltered a little, and there were tears in 
 her eyes : yet she pronounced this renunciation of 
 her lover with a calmness curious in one so young.
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 37 
 
 ' Bid each other good-bye ! ' he repeated, astonished. 
 * Why, Sylvia, do you think I can give you up ? ' 
 
 ' I think you could never be so mad as to let your 
 mother make you a pauper, which it seems she has 
 the power to do,' said Sylvia, in whom anger at this 
 moment was stronger than love. 
 
 * My mother shall not make me a pauper, and she 
 shall not rob me of you,' said Edmund, drawing her 
 closer to his side. 
 
 She did not look up at him, but sat with eyes 
 bent upon the ground, and a settled gloom upon her 
 face. For her, this forfeiture of fortune meant so 
 much. It meant the end of all her day-dreams. 
 But she loved him as fondly as it was in her nature 
 to love ; and that nature had its depths of passion, 
 though those depths were yet unsounded. 
 
 *But she can rob you of your father's fortune,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Let it go,' answered her lover lightly. ' I can 
 exist without it. I am not afi-aid of beginning the 
 world, Sylvia, for you and with you. I think I 
 could fight and conquer fate with you for my help- 
 mate.' 
 
 * What could you do ? ' she asked, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Go to the Bar. It would be slow work, of 
 course, at first ; but I might pick up a little by
 
 38 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 literature, perhaps, or in some of the by-ways of 
 life. Or if, on taking counsel with my friends, I 
 found the Bar was likely to be too slow a business, 
 I might get a clerkship and go into commerce. I 
 am young, and not afraid of work. It would be 
 hard if I couldn't earn a living somehow.' 
 
 A living — earning a living somehow ! And Sylvia 
 had fancied that in winning Edmund Standen's love 
 she had opened the door to that bright, pleasant, 
 prosperous, easy-going world, in which everybody 
 had plenty of money — that when he made her his 
 wife she was to bid an everlasting farewell to the 
 scrimped means of the vulgar herd who have to 
 maintain themselves by labour of brain or body. 
 
 ' And then, darling,' continued her lover tenderly, 
 ' happily for our early struggles you have not been 
 bred in an extravagant school, or accustomed to 
 costly pleasures. It will not seem very hard to you, 
 will it, Sylvia, if we have to begin life humbly?' 
 
 Not seem hard, when her rebellious spirit had 
 been at war with her surroundings ever since she 
 had been old enough to compare the lives of other 
 people with her own life ! 
 
 * It's all very well to talk like that,' she said, 
 bursting into tears, ' but you don't know what 
 poverty is.'
 
 EDMUND STANDEN. 39 
 
 Yes, this cheerful resignation to reverse of fortune 
 is easy to the mind that has never known necessity's 
 venomed sting. It is like the ignorant courage of a 
 child who pays his first visit to the dentist, rather 
 pleased at the novelty of the situation. 
 
 ' My dear love, even poverty would be no burden 
 if you and I shared it. Besides, we shan't always 
 be poor. Look at the hundreds of prosperous men 
 who begin the world with a single half-crown.' 
 
 ' Look at my father,' she answered briefly. 
 
 He kissed away her tears, and, circled thus by his 
 protecting arm, she half believed that the light of 
 true love might suffice to gild the pathway of life. 
 But it was only half-belief at best. Lurking in her 
 mind there was the conviction that she had suffered 
 too much already from straitened means, and had no 
 courage for that battle which Edmund Standen faced 
 so calmly. 
 
 *How much is your father's fortune?' she asked. 
 
 * My mother's, you mean, darling.' 
 
 * I only look upon it as hers in trust. How much 
 is it, Edmund ? ' 
 
 * Something like fifteen hundred a year — rather 
 over than under. Then there is the house, and 
 about forty acres of land, and my mother's savings, 
 which must be considerable ; for I don't think she
 
 40 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 can have spent a thousand a year since my father's 
 death.' 
 
 *And you would give up all that for my sake, 
 Edmund?' asked Sylvia, deeply moved. 
 
 ' Every shilling of it, and with hardly a pang.' 
 
 * Oh, how good and true you are, and how dearly 
 I love you ! ' cried the girl, quite overcome at last hy 
 this evidence of devotion. 
 
 The moon stole up from behind the eastward 
 woods, and surprised them into memory of the hour. 
 They went back to Hedingham through the silent 
 fields and lanes, arm in arm, and Sylvia almost 
 forgot the gloomy outlook that had newly opened 
 before her in the happiness of being so utterly 
 beloved. 
 
 * To-morrow your father and all Hedingham shall 
 know of our engagement, Sylvia,' said Mr. Standen, 
 as they paused in the shadowy churchyard path — 
 that path across the churchyard was the nearest way 
 to the schoolhouse — for those last words which lovers 
 are so long saying. 
 
 *No, not to-morrow,' she pleaded, * there will 
 be such talk, and such surprise, and so many 
 people will take your mother's part against us. 
 Let us keep our secret a little longer, dear 
 Edmund.'
 
 EDMUND STANDEX. 41 
 
 And dear Edmund, who was not in a condition 
 to refuse anything, reluctantly consented to some 
 small delay, wondering a little at the subtle 
 ways of women, to whom there seems sweetness 
 in secresy.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN MR. HOPLING'S ORCHARD. 
 
 There were many coloured flags fluttering in the 
 sunshine, and the braying of a brazen band in Hed- 
 ingham by noontide on the festival day ; a combina- 
 tion which to the inhabitants seemed all that this 
 world can give of splendour and excitement. The 
 tents glimmered whitely through the leafage of the 
 elms that screened Mr. Harper's meadow. The tea- 
 tables were already ranged under the old apple trees 
 in Mr. Hopling's orchard, where ruddy cherries and 
 young green apples contrasted pleasantly with the 
 more sombre tints of the foliage. Very few of those 
 ripe cherries would remain to Mr. Hopling after set 
 of sun ; but a man must do something for his 
 parish, and Mr. Hopling was a native of Heding- 
 ham, who had made money as a butcher in Monk- 
 hampton, and retired to his ancestral fields a 
 wealthy man. That orchard had belonged to his
 
 IN MK. HOPLDsG'S orchaed. 43 
 
 great-grandfather, and represented his patrimonial 
 estate, and Mr. Hopling was beyond measure proud 
 of it. He liked to be asked for the loan of it for 
 the school feast ; he liked to think that without his 
 aid the children could hardly have had theii* tea-drink- 
 ing at all ; and he endured the loss of his cherries 
 with calm magnanimity, having taken care to thin 
 the fruit as much as he could before this annual 
 festival. The trees were ever so old and gnarled, 
 and crooked, and encrusted with a pale sea-green 
 parasitical growth, which was born of the salt breeze 
 that swept over that tranquil valley, as if Amphitrite 
 herself had wreathed her wet arms around those 
 rugged old trunks and sinuous old branches. 
 
 Wherever a flag could be stuck conveniently, or 
 inconveniently, a flag appeared ; and those patches 
 of lively primitive colour showed brightly against 
 the cool green of the verdure, or the warmer blue of 
 the cloudless summer sky. 
 
 People were congratulating one another upon the 
 splendour of the day — ' So lucky, when it might 
 have taken a turn this very day, after such a long 
 spell of heat and dry weather.' There had been a 
 short service in the old church — the only cool resort 
 in Hedingham on such a day ; for those solid walls 
 and deeply recessed windows admitted little sun-
 
 44 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 shine, while the dense black-green of cypress and 
 yew cooled the eye that wandered to the prospect 
 outside the open casements. At two o'clock the 
 children were to march in procession to the orchard ; 
 at two o'clock the fancy fair was to begin. The 
 county people would arrive a good deal later no 
 doubt, for it would be beneath county people to be 
 early. The Monkhampton people, less exalted, and 
 more eager for amusement, were likely to assemble 
 much sooner than Burke's landed gentry. Already 
 the Hedingham damsels were decking their stalls, 
 running to and fro — chattering, giggling — inter- 
 changing small secrets and delicate insinuations — 
 admiring one another's dresses, all new for the occa- 
 sion. What a variety of pink, and blue, and peach, 
 and cherry colour, and primrose ! Sylvia's soul 
 sickened as she watched them from the orchard gate, 
 where she was waiting for the coming of the children 
 — those tiresome, perspiring girls and boys, whom 
 it was her duty to keep in order and amuse — at 
 the risk of being lamed for life by their hobnailed 
 boots. 
 
 ' And I am to be poor always,' she said to herself 
 with a sigh, as she contemplated those bright, fresh 
 dresses in the field. There were the white grena- 
 dines Mary Peter had made for the Miss Toynbees ;
 
 45 
 
 spare and somewhat angular damsels, who seemed' 
 all grenadine flounces and blue satin quilling. 
 
 ' They look as if they were dressed for a ball,' 
 thought Sylvia. ' What a dowdy creature I must 
 seem beside them. And Mrs. Standen will be here, 
 I suppose, to stare at me with those odious, cold 
 blue eyes.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen, her arch enemy, whose injustice 
 had dashed the cup of hope and joy from her lips. 
 Could she be mortal and not detest Mrs. Standen ? 
 She was altogether mortal, and she hated her lover's 
 mother most heartily. 
 
 Dress has so strong a hold upon a girl's mind, 
 especially upon a girl bred in a village, that in the 
 contemplation of her better-clad sisters, Sylvia for 
 the moment forgot her own beauty. She forgot that 
 she started with an advantage which all the arts of 
 millinery could not counterbalance. She had dressed 
 herself in white — a plain white muslin gown, with 
 no embellishment save a narrow frill of lace round 
 the throat, ^ith no vestige of coloured ribbon to 
 contrast its purity. She had laid aside her hat, for 
 she was to be in the shady orchard all day, and a 
 hat would have been only an encumbrance. She 
 wore no gloves, for her hands were to be busy by- 
 and-by cutting cake and bread-and butter. The
 
 46 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 golden glory of her auburn hair crowned her head, 
 and gave her a nobler air than any coronet that was 
 ever fashioned by the jeweller. She had the art of 
 twisting the long massive plaits — which would have 
 transformed her into Goethe's Margaret at once, had 
 she let them hang down — into a perfect coronal 
 surmounting the ivory forehead, and giving added 
 height to a form that was already tall. 
 
 * What a gawk that girl looks in her long, straight 
 gown ! ' said Miss Toynbee to Miss Palmer, the 
 doctor's daughter — " and she's as vain as a peacock 
 — gets herself up to attract attention. See what a 
 lot she's made of her hair ! ' 
 
 ' And it's as red as it well can be,' replied Miss 
 Palmer. 'But the gentlemen all admire her. I 
 suppose it's because she looks like one of those 
 horrid pre-Eaphaelite pictures,' added the young 
 lady, who had no enthusiasm for art. 
 
 A rustic beauty who does not know her position is 
 apt to be a stumbling-block in the way of young 
 ladies of standing like the Miss Toynbees ; and 
 there was a prevailing idea in Hedingham that 
 Miss Carew did not know her position. In the first 
 place, she was a great deal too pretty for a village 
 schoolmaster's daughter. It might be argued that 
 for this she was hardly responsible. But the Hed-
 
 IN MR. HOPLING's ORCHARD. 47 
 
 ingham young ladies complained that she made too 
 much of her prettiness, set herself up as a lady, 
 and drew upon herself the attention of mankind by 
 all manner of arts and subtleties. In short, she 
 was just the kind of young woman who in a more 
 Conseryatiye age would have been burned as a 
 witch. 
 
 Nor did her delinquencies end here. It had been 
 rumoured of late that she had been seen walking in 
 the meadows and lanes at dusk with Edmund Stan- 
 den, really the most eligible young man in Heding- 
 ham society. ' Carew had better look after that 
 pretty daughter of his,' said the men. The women 
 whispered about it to one another, and held them- 
 selves a little more aloof from Miss Carew than 
 before. Those who had favoured her with their con- 
 descending notice withdrew it all at once — passed 
 her by with blank, vacant looks, as if there were no 
 such person between them and the empty air. 
 
 Sylvia perceived the change, and smiled to herself 
 bitterly — with that bitterness which some natures 
 acquire in the school of adversity. 
 
 * I suppose they think a Monkhampton banker's 
 son could not possibly marry me,' she thought. 
 * There will be some pleasure iu making them all 
 savage by-and-by.'
 
 48 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 To-day, standing at the orchard gate, she felt her- 
 self very much alone. Edmund Standen was not to 
 come till later in the afternoon, and was to escort 
 his mother and Miss Kochdale, and there could be 
 little chance of his giving much time to her. It 
 would be but a look, a hand-clasp, a few whispered 
 words, perhaps, for the eyes of their little world 
 would be upon them. She had begged him to keep 
 the secret of their engagement; yet, with a woman's 
 inconsistency, she felt it hard that they could be 
 together so little to-day. He would be in his place 
 among the great ones of the land ; she in a lower 
 world, and looked down upon by his people. Her 
 father, upon the plea of indifferent health, managed 
 to creep out of the business altogether. * You have 
 plenty of young people who know how to amuse the 
 little ones ; I should only be in the way ; and the 
 schoolmaster's presence might be a damper,' he 
 said to the Yicar. * Let Sylvia and the other girls 
 manage it all.' 
 
 So to Sylvia, Mary Peter, Alice Cook, and such of 
 the gentry who cared to assist in this philanthropic 
 task, the business of the children's entertainment 
 was left. 
 
 The juvenile revellers came whooping in presently, 
 all breathing hard, after their manner. Half- a-
 
 IN MR. HOPLIXG's ORCHARD. 49 
 
 dozen elderly young ladies accompanied them, led 
 by the Yicar. His daughters had a stall in the 
 bazaar, and thus, as they said themselves, got out of 
 the school treat. 
 
 The day's festivities were inaugurated, as the 
 reporter of the Monkhampton Courier afterwards 
 stated, by a distribution of new penny buns, as a 
 light refreshment appropriate to a hot day. An 
 unauthorised old man was driving a brisk trade in 
 lemonade and ginger beer and ripe gooseberries out- 
 side the orchard. The buns discussed, the young 
 revellers proceeded at once to the enlivening sport 
 of ' Taggy, taggy touchwood,' and being fairly set 
 going, would require little more than general super- 
 vision until tea time, which festive period was three 
 hours off. 
 
 Sylvia noticed that the ladies about the Yicar had 
 that air of being unconscious of her presence which 
 she had observed in other ladies of late — in a word, 
 it was a clear case of taboo. The Yicar, good, easy 
 man, addressed her with his usual familiar kind- 
 ness. The whispers of scandal were slow to reach 
 his charitable ears. She felt the sting of those 
 cold, unseeing looks, though she had hated the 
 patronising graciousness she had enjoyed till lately 
 from the same people. It seemed a hard thing to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 « 
 
 be judged thus, and misjudged, only because her 
 father was poor ; a hard thing that all Hedingham 
 should deem it impossible for Edmund Standen to 
 mean well by her. 
 
 ' Edmund is right,' she thought ; ' these people 
 ought to know of our engagement.' 
 
 ' Will he ever have the courage to own me before 
 them all ? ' she wondered afterwards, when she had 
 walked slowly away from the children and their 
 patronesses to a quiet corner of the great straggling 
 orchard, a corner where there were plum trees so 
 old that they grew nothing but gum. ' It was all 
 very well to talk bravely last night when we were 
 alone together under the chestnut, between sunset 
 and moonrise, and seemed all the world to each 
 other ; but will he really defy his mother, and 
 renounce his fortune, for my sake, and own a school- 
 master's daughter for his future wife before all these 
 stuck-up, purse-proud people, whom he has lived 
 amongst all his life ? ' 
 
 This corner of the orchard was on a higher 
 level than Mr. Harper's meadow, and Sylvia 
 could survey the bazaar as from a platform, 
 without running much risk of being seen herself, 
 unless anyone should happen to look up to the 
 spot where she stood, framed in foliage, looking
 
 51 
 
 across the tangled edge of oak sapling and honey- 
 suckle. 
 
 ^, She had looked forward vriih. some pleasure to 
 this small festival — for the Yicar had given her a 
 ticket for the bazaar, and she and Alice Cook and 
 Mary Peter were to have gone into the field together 
 and seen the county people, and the stalls with 
 their dainty merchandise, and watched the seductive 
 arts by which country-bred young ladies assail the 
 well-filled pockets of country gentlemen ; and behold 
 here she was watching the scene by stealth, as it 
 were, from her shady corner, lacking courage to go in 
 among the gentry, in the face of that taboo, to which 
 she had been newly subjected. She keenly felt the 
 injustice of the whole thing, she profoundly despised 
 the people ; but she couldn't face those unconscious 
 stares, she could not stand before that little world 
 quite alone in her bloom of youth and loveliness. 
 
 ' If ever I can pay them out for their insolence, 
 the payment shall be tenfold,' she said to herself, 
 looking down at the simpering damsels arranging 
 their wares with delicately gloved hands, trying to 
 develop stolid young gentlemen with their hands 
 in their pockets, or the nobs of their canes in their 
 mouths, into purchasers of baby's socks or embroid- 
 ered smoking caps. 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF lamuis
 
 52 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * But I never, never shall have such an oppor- 
 tunity,' she thought. *What glory is there in 
 marrying a disinherited man ? It sounds very 
 romantic, like a story one reads : but what will 
 people say of my husband? I can fancy their 
 sneering pity for *'Poor Edmund Standen, who 
 married so much beneath him and offended his 
 mother." How are we to live without money? 
 Will Edmund be obliged to turn village school- 
 master, I wonder, like my father ? He talked about 
 being a clerk in the city : but that seems almost as 
 bad. I cannot see anything before us except misery. 
 But how good and true he is, and how dearly I 
 ought to love him.' 
 
 Her face softened at the thought, and a lovely 
 smile crept to the soft, full lips. The whole cha- 
 racter of her beauty, which had been curiously 
 cold and hard just now, while she thought of that 
 little world which had set itself against her, changed 
 as she thought of her lover. The face grew youth- 
 ful and innocent again, childlike almost with child- 
 hood's tender trustfulness. 
 
 ' I do love him with all my heart,' she said to 
 herself. ' The first sound of his voice, when we 
 meet after the briefest parting, makes me tremble. 
 The lightest touch of his hand makes me forget
 
 IN MR. HOPLING's ORCHARD. 53 
 
 evei^thmg, except that I love him. Why should 
 his mother try to separate us ? He could never 
 find anyone to love him as well as I — good and 
 brave, and true as he is. It all comes from living 
 in such a place as Hedingham. Because Edmund 
 is good-looking, and his father was rich, Hedingham 
 has set him up as an idol — and his mother believes 
 there is no one good enough for him. Or perhaps 
 she wants him to marry Miss Rochdale, who is like 
 her adopted daughter, and has money, and never 
 misses the early services, and is preached about by 
 everybody in Hedingham as a model of all that's 
 good and proper.' 
 
 The fair face hardened ao^ain with the thought 
 of Esther Rochdale. Hers, doubtless, was the in- 
 fluence that had made Mrs. Standen so cruel, so 
 unjust to her son. Miss Rochdale was in love with 
 Edmund herself, no doubt. 
 
 ' It's almost wicked, when they've been brought 
 up together Like brother and sister,' Sylvia said to 
 herself. * She ought to have a sisterly affection for 
 him, and wish to see him happy. But those quiet 
 girls are always artful.' 
 
 The meadow was filling fast, carriages driving 
 up to the gate, gaily-dressed people alighting, a con- 
 tinual exchange of salutations ; county gentlemen
 
 54 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 all talking very loud, as if tliey meant all Heding- 
 liam to hear them ; the chiefs and heir-apparents of 
 county families hawling at one another with a curious 
 mixture of heartiness and arrogance. 
 
 Sylvia saw the Standen party come in at the gate, 
 Mrs. Standen leaning on her son's arm, Esther 
 Eochdale on the other side, hut not upon his arm. 
 Edmund's mother was a tall woman of about fifty, a 
 woman with a fine face, regular but somewhat large 
 features, blue gray eyes, and iron-gray hair, smoothly 
 banded on the broad forehead. Miss Eochdale was 
 of medium height, a slim fragile-looking figure, a 
 delicate face, a pale olive complexion, and soft dark 
 eyes — a young lady whom her friends called inte- 
 resting, and whom strangers sometimes spoke of as 
 ' foreign looking,' but whom no one had yet called 
 pretty. Yet that small pale face, those large soft 
 eyes, that pensive mouth, were not without a tender 
 poetry of their own. If there was beauty there, it 
 was the kind of beauty which the mass of mankind 
 is apt to disregard — a subdued and subtle charm, 
 like that unpretending loveliness Wordsworth loved 
 to sing. 
 
 A hand was slipt through Sylvia's arm as she 
 stood watching these latest arrivals. 
 
 ' I've been all round the orchard hunting for you,'
 
 IN ME. HOPLIXG'S ORCHARD. 55 
 
 said Mary Peter. * Ain't you coming into the field ? 
 You've got your ticket, you know.' 
 
 ' I shan't use it. I'd rather watch the people 
 from here. What's the use of walking up and down 
 among a lot of people one doesn't know.' 
 
 * I never knew anyone so changeable as you, 
 Sj'lvia. As to not knowing the people, I don't 
 suppose I know many more of them than you do, 
 except customers, and it's very few of my customers 
 will give me so much as a nod in such a place 
 as this ; though perhaps they'll come begging and 
 praying of me to-morrow, as if I was the queen. 
 "Do, Mary, now, try to oblige me with my dress by 
 next Tuesday, even if you have to sit up a night or 
 two to finish it. I assure you it's most important, 
 and I shall be so much obliged." They don't think 
 of the way they've humiliated themselves when I 
 meet them out of doors. Come along, Sylvia.' 
 
 ' I'm not coming. You can go yourself. I don't 
 want you here.' 
 
 * How disagreeable you are, to be sure. But I'll 
 stay a bit to keep you company. I daresay you feel 
 extra dull like, seeing Mr. Standen over there, with 
 his ma and Miss Kochdale,' and Miss Peter, out of 
 the fulness of her heart, put a caressing arm around 
 Sylvia's waist.
 
 56 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' I wish 3^ou wouldn't do that,' exclaimed the 
 schoolmaster's daughter, releasing herself from the 
 friendly embrace. ' I'm sure it's warm enough with- 
 out that kind of thing.' 
 
 * Well, Sylvia, you really are the most ! 
 
 Doesn't Mrs. Standen look nice? That's the last 
 black silk dress I made her— fifteen shillings a yard 
 I should think, and such lace on the body and 
 sleeves. Nobody in Hedingham wears such silks 
 and laces as Mrs. Standen, and yet she isn't an 
 extravagant dresser; never wastes her money on 
 cheap materials, and never wears anything but black 
 silk. There's Miss Rochdale ; she doesn't look bad, 
 does she ? I made her that white muslin ; isn't it 
 sweet ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Sylvia, glancing from the daintily 
 trimmed costume, with its pillow-lace frillings and 
 pink ribbons to her own poor gown. ' She can 
 afford to wear good dresses, with five or six hundred 
 a year to do what she likes with. There, go and 
 enjoy yourself with the rest of the people down 
 there, Mary. You only vex me with your frivolous 
 talk.' 
 
 *I'll leave you till your temper improves. Miss 
 Carew,' answered Miss Peter, with dignity, and 
 Sylvia was once more alone in the shady corner
 
 IN MFt. HOPLDsG's ORCHARD. 57 
 
 under the centui'T-old plum trees, raucb to her own 
 satisfaction. AVas it not just possible that Edmund 
 might slip away from his party and find her in this 
 green retreat, with its perfume of ^ild clematis and 
 honeysuckle ? 
 
 She watched the little party make the round of 
 the stalls. Mrs. Standen stopped to buy something 
 of the Vicar's daughters, and Esther Eochdale also 
 took out her purse — ' just to show people how rich 
 she is,' thought Sylvia, with an envious pang — and 
 there was business transacted to the gratification 
 of all parties. Edmund left the stall laden with 
 parcels. Sylvia saw him speak to his mother, and 
 then go out of the field gate, to put his parcels in 
 the carriage, no doubt. Would he take this oppor- 
 tunity of slipping round to the orchard ? He could 
 come by a little lane without returning to the 
 meadow. Sylvia's heart quickened its beating, as 
 it always did at the thought of Edmund's approach. 
 
 ' Shall I go to the gate and watch for him ?' she 
 asked herself. * No. This is such a quiet spot for 
 us to meet. If he loves me as much as he pretends 
 he will find me here. I think I could track my way 
 to him if he were to hide in the heart of a gi*eat 
 forest. Love would guide me.' 
 
 Love guided Mr. Standen to the corner by the old
 
 58 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 plum trees. Certainly Mr. Hopling's orchard was 
 not a large domain — five or six acres at most. 
 
 He came to her, and took her to his heart as he 
 had done last night, with those strong arms which 
 seemed powerful enough to shield her from every 
 harm. 
 
 * My dearest, I thought I should find you in some 
 quiet nook like this, where we might have five 
 minutes' talk away from the eyes of the world. 
 How lovely you look.' 
 
 ' In this dress ? ' she exclaimed, incredulously, 
 ' when everyone is dressed so beautifully.' 
 
 ' Dress ! — Pshaw. I see a lot of silly finery, hut 
 no one who can compare with my Sylvia. I had a 
 wakeful night, darling, thinking over all we had 
 talked about, but got up this morning in excellent 
 spirits. I have made up my mind as to the future. 
 I shall try to get a situation in the old bank — my 
 father's bank, you know. It is a joint-stock busi- 
 ness now, and has been wonderfully extended since 
 the company bought my father's interest. There 
 are branches all over the west of England. I know 
 my father's name will stand me in good stead with 
 the directors, and I shall rise to a managerial 
 position much sooner than any other man could 
 hope to do. As manager of one of the branches I
 
 IN MR. HOPLIXG's ORCHARD. 59 
 
 should have five or six hundred a year, and on that 
 we can get on capitally and make a happy home for 
 ourselves and our children. I have thought it all 
 out, Sylvia, and am quite resigned to my mother's 
 decision.' 
 
 * How good you are ! ' said the girl, with a shade 
 of scorn iu her look and tone, ' you dance attendance 
 on your mother, like a dutiful son, knowing that she 
 means to cheat you out of your just due.' 
 
 * You mustn't use such hard words, Sylvia. There 
 is no question of cheating ; — my mother has a right 
 to dispose as she pleases of money that was left in 
 her control.' 
 
 ' I can't see that,' cried SyMa, impetuously. ' It 
 was meant for you ; your father saved it for you, 
 or the hulk of his fortune at any rate ; and now 
 you are to toil and slave to earn a pittance. It is 
 shameful.' 
 
 * If I can forgive my mother you must forgive her 
 too, Sylvia. Or I shall think you care more for my 
 father's money than for me,' said Edmund, gi-avely. 
 
 It was the first time that he had spoken to her 
 with anything approaching reproof. 
 
 'Forgive me,' she said; 'I love you with all my 
 heart. I am not afraid even of poverty with you.' 
 
 ' It shall not be poverty, dearest, if I can help it.'
 
 60 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * And now you had better go back to your mother 
 and Miss Eochdale.' 
 
 * They can amuse themselves very well without 
 me, for a little while. Let us talk of the future, 
 darling, for I don't mean to wait long before you and 
 I begin the world together.' 
 
 ' You mean our marriage to be soon,' she said, 
 looking up at him wonderingly, * in spite of your 
 mother's decision ?' 
 
 * In spite of everything ; I am not afraid of the 
 battle of life.' 
 
 * I am glad it is to be soon,' said Sylvia, thought- 
 fully. * The Hedingham ladies look at me as if I 
 were an outcast, only because you and I have been 
 seen together.' 
 
 Mr. Standen muttered something not complimen- 
 tary to the Hedingham ladies. 
 
 ' People must be told of our engagement at once, 
 Sylvia,' he said, after that brief interjection. * My 
 mother knows, and everyone else must know. I'll 
 speak to your father to-night.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid he'll be as much against our marriage 
 as Mrs. Standen.' 
 
 'But why, darling?' asked Edmund, surprised. 
 Was not he, Edmund Standen, even without fortune, 
 a good match for a parish schoolmaster's daughter ?
 
 IN MR. hopling's orchard. 61 
 
 * Because of the change in your prospects/ 
 answered Sylvia. ' My father has suffered so much 
 from poverty that he is more afraid of it than you 
 are, Edmund, and he has some vague idea that I 
 ought to make what he calls a good marriage.' 
 
 'Meaning that you are to marry a man with 
 plenty of money, I suppose.' 
 
 ' I think so.' 
 
 ' I should hardly think a father would sell his only 
 daughter to the bestbidder.' 
 
 * It isn't quite so bad as that. Papa only thinks 
 I ought to marry some one with a settled income. 
 But you needn't tell him that Mrs. Standen means 
 to disinherit you,' she added, with a bright look. 
 The suppression of a truth never troubled Sylvia's 
 conscience. 
 
 ' What, ask his permission to marry you under 
 false pretences ? I am sorry you should think me 
 capable of such a thing, Sylvia.' 
 
 ' Would it be very wrong ? Well, you must do 
 as you please about it ; only I know if papa hears 
 the truth he will oppose our marriage with all his 
 might.' 
 
 * I can endure his opposition, if you will be loyal, 
 dearest. We are not bound to sacrifice our happi- 
 ness to his prejudices, but we are bound to tell him
 
 62 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 the truth. He has been kept m the dark too long 
 ah'eady.' 
 
 ' Tell him then/ answered Sylvia, with a sigh. 
 * I must endure his grumbling and lamentations as 
 well as I can.' 
 
 ' You need not endure long, Sylvia. I'll have 
 our banns given out next Sunday.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' said the girl ; ' all Heding- 
 ham will hear our names given out. Edmund 
 Standen, bachelor, of this parish, and Sylvia Carew, 
 spinster, also of this parish. I daresay some ' of 
 the Hedingham ladies will feel inclined to start up 
 out of their seats, and forbid the banns. And your 
 mother, how will she sit quietly by to hear that 
 announcement three weeks running.' 
 
 ^ My mother has made up her mind to oppose me 
 in the dearest wish of my heart, and she cannot 
 complain if that decision brings some pain to her- 
 self,' said Edmund Standen, with a resolute look 
 which Sylvia knew very well. 'I accept the punish- 
 ment she chooses to inflict upon me, but I refuse 
 to sacrifice the happiness of my future life. I have 
 been an obedient son up to this hour, but there has 
 come a time when submission would mean imbe- 
 cility. Every man has a right to choose for himself 
 when it comes to the choice that must colour his
 
 IN MR. hopling's oechaed. 63 
 
 whole existence. Even if rie is to make a mistake, 
 let it be at least his own mistake, and not some- 
 body else's.' 
 
 The young man spoke rather as if he were argu- 
 ing out a question which he had been for some time 
 debating with himself. The girl listened eagerly, 
 and looked up at him with fond admiration. Yes, 
 this was something like a lover — a man who would 
 stand firm in opposition to all the world, if need 
 were,sfor her sake ; verily a shield against calamity, 
 a rock of strength in the day of misfortune. Xever 
 till this moment had Sylvia felt so proud of him. 
 
 * Are you quite friends with your mother *? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' I hope that I know my duty as a son. There 
 were some bitter words between us the day before 
 yesterday; such words as are not easily forgotten. 
 But I could never be wanting in respect to my 
 mother. I have striven to show her that I still love 
 and honour her, although I take my own course in 
 this matter.' 
 
 * And has she been kind ? ' 
 
 * If possible kinder than usual. Yet there is a 
 cloud between us, and I know she is unhappy. We 
 can but trust in Time. She will forgive me by-and- 
 by, when she learns to know you better.'
 
 64 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' That she will never do. She has a rooted dis- 
 like to me. I have seen it in her face. But don't 
 let us speak of that, Edmund. What need I care, 
 so long as you love me ? But tell me how Miss 
 Kochdale takes our engagement. Is she as angry 
 as your mother ? ' 
 
 Mr. Standen's expression softened at the mention 
 of Miss Eochdale. ' Esther Kochdale,' he said, 
 with a half-careless tenderness, that affection of cus- 
 tom which grows up in the narrow circle of home, 
 ' Oh, she is the dearest girl in the world, and would 
 be the last to disapprove of anything that involved 
 my happiness. But I don't suppose she knows of 
 my engagement. I haven't said a word to her 
 about it, and I daresay my mother has been equally 
 silent. You need fear no unpleasantness from 
 Esther, darling. I feel sure that she will be your 
 friend — and a true one.' 
 
 Sylvia looked doubtful, but said nothing. 
 
 * And now, dearest, I must run back to them,' 
 said Edmund, looking at his watch. He had been 
 a quarter of an hour instead of his intended five 
 minutes. How swiftly the moments had flown in 
 that quiet corner screened by the moss-grown plum 
 trees. Would all his life to come glide past him 
 like that, in a dreamlike rapture too sweet to seem
 
 IN MR. hopling's oechard. 65 
 
 quite real. Xo, there would be his work-a-day life 
 — a stern struggle with fortune. Home and love 
 would be like some magic isle, towards which he 
 would steer his bark at set of sun, across the heavy 
 seas of worldly work and worldly contest — a blessed 
 haven from the storms of life. 
 
 * So soon, Edmund ! ' said the girl disconsolately. 
 
 ' My own one, I've stayed longer than I intended 
 already. My mother will soon be tired of that 
 crowded meadow and the glare of the sun. I must 
 be ready to take her home.' 
 
 ' You might come afterwards, and see the chil- 
 dren at tea.' 
 
 ' I should like it of all things. But the Toyn- 
 bees are to dine with us at six. I shall have to sit 
 at the bottom of the table for a couple of hours — 
 just the nicest time in the evening — making believe 
 to enjoy myself. Good bye.' 
 
 So with a kiss they parted, Sylvia sorely discon- 
 tented with Fate, which seemed inexorable. She 
 had hoped that Edmund would assist at the tea 
 drinking. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BLIND MANS BUFF. 
 
 Sylvia speedily left her corner, tired of watching the 
 little groups of people stop to shake hands and talk 
 to one another for five minutes or so, as if the 
 Vv'orld held no greater affection than the love that 
 hound them, and then separate and stroll away, to 
 exchange the same enthusiastic greetings with other 
 groups. A birdseye view of the Hedingham school 
 bazaar conduced somewhat to the idea that there 
 was something hollow in polite society. People 
 smiled so incessantly, and seemed so inexpressibly 
 glad to see one another; yet Sylvia saw some of 
 those very enthusiasts yawn rather drearily when 
 the gaze of society was off them. 
 
 She went back to the middle of the orchard, 
 where the children were playing blind man's buff. 
 
 They entreated her to join this sport, nay besought 
 her with such earnestness — the Vicar himself being
 
 BLIND man's buff. 67 
 
 master of the revels, and some of the elderly young 
 ladies joining in the juvenile play with gushing 
 vivacity — that she could hardly refuse. She yielded 
 reluctantly, but with a tolerable grace, and very 
 soon afterwards was seized upon by a hulking boy, 
 who put his rough hands over her face and head, 
 fastened his claws triumphantly upon her coronet of 
 shining plaits, and bawled out that he had caught 
 Miss Carew. 
 
 Upon this the handkerchief was bound over 
 Sylvia's eyes, and after being asked some absurd 
 question about her father's horses, she was twisted 
 round three times by the Yicar's friendly hand, and 
 told to catch whom she could. She did not enter 
 into the game with much spirit, so the elderly 
 young ladies remarked to each other maliciously. 
 Such simple sports had no attraction for Sylvia 
 Carew, they said, since there were no young gentle- 
 men here to admire her. 
 
 Sylvia did indeed glide about somewhat listlessly 
 among the gnarled trunks of the apple and cherry 
 trees, more fearful of wounding her face against the^ 
 crooked branches than eager to capture one of the 
 revellers. She stretched out her arms now and 
 then feebly, and tried to pierce the folds of the 
 handkerchief, and even raised her head to look 
 
 F 2
 
 68 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 under it, but the Vicar had made his bandage 
 secure. Justice herself was not blinder than Sylvia 
 Carew. 
 
 Presently the girls and boys grew quieter. There 
 was less screaming and bawling at every doubtful 
 step she took among the trees. She fancied she 
 heard strange voices — the voices of gentry talking 
 at a little distance, one voice with a low languid 
 tone that was new to her, and different from most 
 of the Hedingham voices, lacking that fine hearty 
 loudness which distinguished the natives of the 
 land. 
 
 She groped on wearily, giving her head more than 
 one bump against the rugged branches, whose rough 
 bark caught and dragged her hair, but reaching 
 nothing with her outspread arms except those inter- 
 lacing boughs which seemed to encounter her every- 
 where, dense as the undergrowth of that dreadful 
 forest where the torn trees rained blood. She was 
 beginning to be very tired, and to long for the sum- 
 mons to prepare the tea tables ; — anything so that 
 she were but released from this hateful game — when 
 some one came plump into her arms. 
 
 She clasped the some one eagerly, and was imme- 
 diately saluted by a loud hurrah, in which the 
 Vicar's voice joined heartily, as if she had done
 
 BLIND man's buff. 69 
 
 something wonderful in catching this person. It 
 was neither boy nor girl belonging to the parish 
 school. No starched cotton frock, no corduroy 
 jacket encountered her curious fingers, but the 
 smoothest broadcloath, the soft velvet collar of a 
 gentleman's coat. 
 
 Was it Edmund Standen ? Her first thought 
 was of him ; her light fingers trembled upon the 
 garment which they wandered over. No, it was 
 some one who was neither so tall nor so big as 
 Edmund. Her lifted hand touched his uncovered 
 head. The soft silky hair was smooth and thin, 
 not thick and wavy like Edmund's. 
 
 *I don't know who it is,' she said helplessly, dis- 
 appointed at discovering that it was not Edmund 
 Standen, although after what he had said she had 
 no reason to expect him. But love and reason do 
 not always go hand-in-hand. 
 
 ' Then you must pay forfeit,' cried the shrill voice 
 of a bold big boy ; the kind of boy whom nothing 
 can abash. 
 
 ' And what is the forfeit ? ' asked the voice of the 
 prisoner — the same low languid tones Sylvia had 
 noticed a few minutes ago. 
 
 * A kiss ! ' bawled the irrepressible boy. 
 
 ' Then I venture to claim my privilege,' said the
 
 70 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 gentleman, and a moustachoed lip touched Sylvia's 
 very lightly. It was the reverential salute of a 
 courteous knight. 
 
 A gentle hand loosened the bandage, and she 
 found herself standing, almost in the centre of the 
 orchard, face to face with an elderly gentleman ; the 
 Vicar, the boys and girls, and elderly young ladies 
 all looking on. 
 
 The gentleman was a stranger, a man of between 
 fifty and sixty, nearer perhaps to the later decade 
 than to the earlier, a man with a certain elegance of 
 bearing and appearance that was new to Sylvia, a 
 man with a long oval face, and that regular cast of 
 feature, which seems to bear the stamp of high blood, 
 a face not unlike the portraits of Charles the First, 
 or rather that kind of face grown older, with smooth 
 silver grey hair parted on the high narrow forehead, 
 and a long drooping moustache shading the thin lips. 
 The eyes were blue, and looked kindly at Sylvia, nay, 
 more than kindly, admiringly. That admiring glance 
 brought a vivid blush into the girl's fair face. She 
 was not sorry that the little world of Hedingham 
 should see her admired by this stranger, who seemed 
 a person of distinction. 
 
 * Fairly caught, I think, Sir Aubrey,' said the 
 Vicar chuckling.
 
 BLIND man's buff. • 71 
 
 Sylvia gave a little start, and looked up at tlie 
 stranger with those hazel eyes that had bewitched 
 Edmund Standen — eyes which were lovely enough to 
 subjugate even those colder critics who depreciated 
 the schoolmaster's daughter. She looked up at the 
 elderly gentleman with unconcealed surprise. This 
 was Sir Aubrey Perriam, then, and it was his 
 presence which had caused that flutter of excitement 
 in the orchard, an alertness in the manner of the 
 Vicar and his little band of spinsters, a respectful 
 hush among the children, who stood in a wide ring, 
 staring their utmost, and breathing harder than 
 ever. 
 
 * Faily caught,' repeated the Yicar, pleased that 
 the great landowner should join so pleasantly in 
 these village sports. It would lead doubtless to a 
 handsome subscription to the school fund. 
 
 * Fairly caught, I admit,' said Sir Aubrey's softer 
 tones, as he bent down with a chivalrous air and 
 kissed the little hand that hung helplessly at S^dvia's 
 side. This touch of old-world gallantry thrilled her 
 with a new sense of triumph. She wished that Mrs. 
 Standen had been by to see Sir Aubrey's notice of 
 her. 
 
 * Come,' said the Yicar, briskly, ' now for the 
 tables. It's almost tea time.'
 
 72 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 It would not do to waste any more moments in the 
 contemplation of that little group which formed the 
 centre of the circle. Sylvia blushing and downcast, 
 yet with a pleased look in the half-veiled hazel eyes 
 and on the smiling lips ; Sir Aubrey Perriam look- 
 ing at her with courtly, elderly gentlemanlike admi- 
 ration ; the two making a graceful picture against 
 that background of sunlit orchard. It was all proper 
 and pleasant enough, a great country gentleman 
 admiring a beautiful villager, and so on ; but Mr. 
 Vancourt, the Vicar, felt that any prolongation of the 
 little scene might have been unclerical. He clapped 
 his hands sharply, as if to dispel some subtle magic 
 lurking in the air, called to his votaries, and set the 
 tea-cups and saucers rattling in such a way as to 
 awaken a deeper dreamer than Sir Aubrey Perriam. 
 
 Sylvia went to her duties, much better pleased 
 with life in general than she had been half-an-hour 
 ago. Sir Aubrey Perriam had admired her, and her 
 little world had seen his admiration. That must 
 have been a stab to the hearts of those proud Chris- 
 tians who had cut her remorselessly a little while 
 before. Mary Peter and Alice Cook had also wit- 
 nessed her brief triumph, and though she considered 
 those associates of her girlhood infinitely beneath 
 her, she liked them to behold her success. She
 
 BLIND man's buff. 73 
 
 jingled the cups and saucers gaily as she ranged 
 them along the narrow deal table, with its clean 
 white cloth. She laboured cheerfully at her task of 
 bread and butter cutting, though it promised to be 
 endless. 
 
 ' You remind me of the heroine of a famous 
 romance,' said a voice very near her, and she looked 
 up with a sudden blush. Sylvia's complexion was 
 one to which blushes are natural, a word or a look 
 brought the carnation tint to that delicately pale 
 face. 
 
 It was Sir Aubrey, who was walking up and down 
 the clear space between the tables with Mr. Yan- 
 court. He had made a brief round of the fancy fair, 
 spent a sovereign at one of the stalls, and had come 
 to the orchard to see the school children at play, just 
 five minutes or so before he was captured by Sylvia. 
 Perhaps he had put himself a little in the way of 
 this capture when he saw the white-robed figure 
 coming towards him with outstretched arms. 
 
 Once in the orchard Sir Aubrey seemed to prefer 
 its rustic attractions to the fascinations of the fair 
 stall-keepers in the adjoining meadow. 
 
 * The glare of the sun 3'onder was more than I 
 could endure,' he said, as if to apologise for this 
 preference. ' Now here these fine old trees give a
 
 74 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 delightful shade, and the turf is softer. I should 
 like to see those young people at tea.' 
 
 The Vicar whispered to one of his faithful adher- 
 ents, and five minutes afterwards, as if by magic, a 
 comfortable garden arm-chair, the most luxurious 
 thing in garden chairs, was placed near the head of 
 the tables for Sir Aubrey Perriam's accomodation. 
 It had been brought from the vicarage on the spur of 
 the moment. Mr. Vancourt was resolved that if Sir 
 Aubrey were well disposed towards the schools there 
 should be nothing to damp his ardour. 
 
 Sir Aubrey sank into the garden seat with a con- 
 tented air, and looked about him benignly while 
 those hungry children were fed. Sylvia and the 
 other ladies went to and fro with heaped-up plates, 
 and administered to those devouring scholars. ' Piles 
 of currant cake, innumerable buns, mountains of 
 bread and butter vanished before those youthful 
 consumers. Sylvia had hard work. Sometimes she 
 was at the head of one table pouring out tea, ready 
 milked and sugared — for individual tastes could 
 hardly be considered among so many — from a huge 
 white pitcher ; sometimes at the bottom of the other 
 table cutting up a fresh cake. The supplies had 
 been liberal, but the demand equalled them. 
 
 Sir Aubrey surveyed the whole proceedings with
 
 75 
 
 evident interest ; but those among the Vicar's lady 
 friends who had time to watch him closely observed 
 that his eye seemed to wander after Sylvia Carew 
 wherever she went. If she vanished for a few 
 minutes from his sight, his glance grew listless, and 
 it seemed to brighten when she re-appeared. Where- 
 upon the Hedingham ladies put him down as a 
 wicked elderly gentleman. They had no oj^inion of 
 anyone who admired Sylvia Carew. To be caught by 
 that sho^sN^ beauty was the mark of an inferior mind. 
 Edmund Standen was supposed to be on the road to 
 ruin directly he was seen walking with Sylia Carew. 
 And now, behold. Sir Aubrey Perriam — to whom all 
 Hedingham paid homage, as in duty bound — seemed 
 about to enter upon the same pernicious path. 
 
 More than once had Sylvia herself met the glance 
 of those mild elderly eyes. It was a glance that set 
 her thinking curiously of what might have happened 
 had she not loved and been beloved by Edmund 
 Standen.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 Dean House, which had belonged for the last twenty 
 years to the Standens, lay about half a mile from 
 Hedingham, and the land belonging to it was in 
 another parish, although the Standens were always 
 considered Hedingham people. They had their pew 
 in Hedingham church, which had not yet been 
 restored in the modern-mediaeval style of open oak 
 seats. They subscribed to all Hedingham charities; 
 and, in a word, belonged to Hedingham. 
 
 The house, which had been built in George the 
 First's time, was big and square, and red and 
 imposing. There was some mixture of yellow bricks 
 with the red, and there were stone dressings which 
 relieved the general redness ; but for all that Dean 
 House was essentially a red house, and, seen from 
 one of the hills that rose on every side of it — for 
 this part of England is all hill and valley — made a
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 77 
 
 glowing spot of colour against the background of 
 greenery. 
 
 There were three rows of windows, seven in each 
 row ; a centre of three windows, and a wing on each 
 side. The topmost row was surmounted by a hand- 
 some cornice and stone pediment, which gave a 
 certain grandeur to the grave solid mansion, and 
 testified to the aspiring mind of the wealthy Dean 
 who built the house — planted the three cedars that 
 spread their dark branches above the lawn, and laid 
 down the turf of those two long bowling alleys 
 which terminated in a grassy mound, planted with 
 obelisk-shaped cypresses at the four corners, and 
 crowned by a summer-house of the High Dutch 
 school of architecture. 
 
 Dean House was not enshrined in the aristocratic 
 seclusion of a Park, like Perriam Place, for instance, 
 whose walls the eye of man only beheld dimly in the 
 remote distance, solitary and unapproachable as a 
 Magician's Palace. Dean House fronted the high 
 road, and was open to the public gaze athwart the 
 florid iron-work of a handsome gate. A stone paved 
 walk led across the front garden, where the blaze of 
 scarlet geraniums in huge gi-een tubs was almost 
 painful to behold on a hot summer's day. No one 
 had ever seen a yellow leaf on those geraniums,
 
 78 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 after eight o'clock in the morning. Indeed one 
 must needs be an early riser to discover any trace of 
 neglect or decay in the gardens of Dean House. 
 The two old gardeners had been trained into 
 abnormal vigilance, and whatever sickly leaf or 
 seeding blossom escaped their eyes, was cropped by 
 the stout garden scissors with which Mrs. Standen 
 armed herself when she made her morning round of 
 inspection — a duty she performed daily, regardless 
 of weather. 
 
 The stone paved walk terminated in a broad flight 
 of shallow stone steps, at the top of which there 
 were half-glass doors opening into the hall. This 
 was a spacious apartment, half hall, half billiard 
 room, or summer parlour, commanding a fine view 
 of the flower garden and bowling alley, with the 
 high Dutch pavilion at the end thereof. The lawn 
 with the cedars was at one end of the house, facing 
 the five long windows of the drawing-room. The 
 Dean had taken care that his house should be agree- 
 able to look at on every side. There were no ugly 
 bits, no ungainly outbuildings. Even the kitchen 
 wing was a handsome piece of masonry, looking out 
 upon a wide courtyard and facing the stables, a 
 handsome range of buildings in the same style as 
 the house.
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 79 
 
 The billiard table was a relic of the late Mr. 
 Standen. Mrs. Standen would never have con- 
 sented to buy such a thing, even for a beloved only 
 son. Indeed she could not quite conquer the idea 
 that the game of billiards was sinful. But the best 
 men have their weaknesses, and Mr. Standen, the 
 banker, had liked billiards- His untimely death — 
 he had died at fifty-five years of age, and just seven 
 years after his marriage — made the billiard table 
 sacred. His widow would not bring herself to part 
 with anything that had belonged to him, or even to 
 put it away ignominiously in an empty coach house. 
 So there the billiard table remained, and Edmund 
 Standen played on it under the same hanging lamp 
 that had lighted his father. He would have taught 
 Esther Rochdale to play, and thus secured an oppo- 
 nent on the premises, but against this his mother 
 put her veto with uncompromising severity. Bil- 
 liards for a man might be tolerable, if indulged in 
 
 with moderation. But for a woman ! Only by 
 
 a shiver of horror did Mrs. Standen conclude the 
 sentence. Esther sighed and obeyed, as she always 
 obeyed her adopted mother. But in her heart of 
 hearts she had a hankering for billiards. 
 
 The furniture of Dean House was like the gera- 
 niums in the forecourt and the flowers in the flower
 
 80 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 garden. Dust was a thing unknown. A. ricketty 
 cliair, or a scratch upon the polished tables and 
 sideboards had never been seen by the visitor's 
 enquiring eye. The furniture was old-fashioned 
 without being antique. It belonged to that period 
 of universal clumsiness, at the beginning of this 
 century, when the minds of men where busy with 
 thoughts and fears about great wars, and art and 
 beauty had in a manner gone to sleep all over 
 Europe — witness the furniture of the first French 
 Empire. Indeed, art seems to have taken a nap almost 
 as long as the Sleeping Beauty's magic slumber, 
 before the great awakening of the Gothic revival. 
 Mrs. Standen's furniture, of which she was some- 
 what proud, was ineffably ugly. Everything was in 
 squares, or parallelograms. You could hardly have 
 found Hogarth's line of beauty in all the house. 
 The dark hues of old Spanish mahogany and rose- 
 wood prevailed everywhere, only relieved here and 
 there by a clumsy brass moulding on a chiffonier, 
 or the brass handles of a chest of drawers. The 
 bedsteads were all awe-inspiring four-posters, 
 shrouded by voluminous curtains of drab or green 
 damask, within which a new Diogenes might have 
 made himself a hermitage, where to spend his days, 
 remote from the eye of his fellow-men.
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 81 
 
 The drawing-room, a fine apartment, forty feet 
 long, was furnished en suite with ponderous rose- 
 wood tables, rosewood chiffoniers, rosewood sofas 
 flat against the walls, ^ith square backs and square 
 arms, and a general hardness of aspect. A cool- 
 looking, washed-out chintz shrouded the splendour 
 of the crimson tabouret covers, save on festive 
 occasions. Crimson tabouret curtains fell in long 
 straight folds on either side the five tall windows. 
 No work of art relieved the vast expense of flowered 
 paper, white and gold, somewhat tarnished with 
 long wear — a paper so expensive that it was sup- 
 posed to last for a generation. One tall glass over 
 the chimney-piece reflected the empty walls and a 
 glimpse of the garden through an opposite window, 
 two small low glasses over the chiffoniers dupli- 
 cated the prim rows of Pekin- China cups and saucers, 
 and be-dragoned bowls, and bottle-shaped jars. 
 The rosewood tables were adorned with such 
 ancient trifles as are preserved by ladies in old 
 country houses. An oblong volume of engravings 
 — The Beauties of Tunbridge Wells — tied with 
 faded blue ribbons. A keepsake of the year '35, 
 which opened of itself at a poem by L. E. L. A 
 knitting box in Tunbridge ware, an inkstand of 
 Derbyshire spar, a letter-weight of Cornish sei-pen- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 tine — relics of Mr. and Mrs. Standen's wedding tour. 
 A blotting book worked in satin stitch, the silks 
 faded to palest salmons and faintest grays. A set 
 of Indian chessmen, presented by that generous 
 Anglo-Indian kinsman whom almost every respect- 
 able family possesses. 
 
 In spite of the ugliness and clumsiness of the 
 furniture the room was handsome, and even plea- 
 sant. Space and light go for so much, and the Dean 
 had spared no expense in the way of woodwork or 
 carving. Mrs. Standen's drawing-room had a cool 
 airy look in summer, a cheering warmth in winter, 
 and outside those long windows appeared the 
 smoothest of lawns, shaded by the noblest of trees. 
 Reared in such a home as Dean House, it would 
 have been difficult for Mr. Standen to deny that 
 his lines had been cast in pleasant places. Yet, so 
 perverse is human nature, there were seasons when 
 the irreproachable propriety, the undeviating order 
 of his home almost worried this young man, when 
 he felt, tempted no doubt by some Satanic influ- 
 ence, a wild yearning for a taste of some less perfect 
 domesticity, even a draught from the fiery chalice of 
 Bohemian life. 
 
 The servants were all old servants, trained by 
 Mrs. Standen, servants who had been with her for
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 83 
 
 twenty years or so, and knew ' her ways,' and might 
 be relied upon to do the same thing always in pre- 
 cisely the same manner. There was no preliminary 
 skirmishing when Mrs. Standen entertained com- 
 pany. The largest dinner party could not flutter 
 the serenity of that model household. The parlour- 
 maid knew every shelf in the spacious china closets, 
 where the old Worcester dinner service, splendid in 
 purple and gold, and the Crown Derby dessert 
 service were laid out in state, as it were. She knew 
 all about the best diamond-cut glass, knew exactly 
 what her mistress desired : so that Mrs. Standen 
 had no more trouble than if she had been a duchess 
 \^-ith an establishment of fifty servants. 
 
 To middle age the serenity of such a life is almost 
 enough for content ; but youth is apt to revolt 
 against this calm beatitude, and there were moments 
 when Edmund Standen felt that this sleepy mono- 
 tonous existence had gone on a little too long. 
 The four years which he spent on the continent, as 
 a student at a German university, and afterwards as 
 a wanderer among the famous cities of the world, 
 serving the rich man's apprenticeship to Art and 
 Beauty, made the only break in his life. He looked 
 back at his college days sometimes with a sigh, even 
 now in the glory of his manhood, and thought of 
 
 G 2
 
 84 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 those reckless riotous fellow students with whom 
 the long nights had passed so swiftly in the wine- 
 shops of Heidelberg — thought of vacation tours in 
 the Black Forest, and the various dissipations of 
 that foreign life of which Mrs. Standen had but the 
 vaguest idea. Had he any right to be dissatisfied 
 with his life when his mother loved him so fondly, 
 when his wishes and his fancies were always 
 considered by her — when the grave, noble face 
 brightened at his coming, come when he would, and 
 the quiet voice was always tender to him ? He 
 told himself that he had no right to wish for any 
 wider life than that jog-trot existence at Dean 
 House, and that his chief duty was to be a good 
 son. 
 
 This was before that fatal hour in which he fell in 
 love with Sylvia Carew. He had been wandering 
 about Hedingham one bright April Sunday, and 
 found himself, half an hour before the afternoon 
 service, in the shady old churchyard, where genera- 
 tions of departed Standen s had recorded their 
 respectability in substantial middle-class headstones. 
 It was only of late that the Standens had risen to 
 place and power as it were, in Hedingham. A 
 couple of generations back they had been simple 
 yeomen or traders. Edmund's grandfather had set
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 85 
 
 up that banking business which had given renown 
 to the name of Stan den. 
 
 Edmund dawdled about the churchyard this 
 Sunday afternoon, not knowing particularly well 
 what to do vdih his leisure. He had been strolling 
 about the country in a somewhat vagabond spirit 
 since the close of the morning service, when he 
 ought to have been partaking of the cold luncheon, 
 or early dinner, which marked the Sabbath day at 
 Dean House. This morning he had felt that the 
 orderly meal, so provokingly exact in its resemblance 
 to all foregoing Sabbath meals, would be a burden 
 greater than he could bear. So he had roamed 
 through hawthorn- scented lanes and water-meadows, 
 and loitered by dusky trout- streams, staring at the 
 water, and wishing it were a lawful day, and he were 
 provided with his rod, and sauntered through the 
 slow placid hours. They had been much more 
 pleasantly spent in this idle commune with nature 
 than at his mother's perfectly appointed board ; 
 where he could but repeat the usual Sunday small 
 talk — talk kept on purpose for the day, as it seemed 
 to Edmund Standen — and stare at the diamond-cut 
 decanters and wat^r jug, and yawn feebly in the long 
 intervals of silence. 
 
 ' I should be glad if we regulated our lives a
 
 86 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 little less by the clock,' lie thought, as he rose 
 reluctantly from the green bank above the trout- 
 stream, where he had stretched himself in delicious 
 rest. ' Indeed, sometimes when my mother preaches 
 her little sermon about punctuality I feel that I 
 could hate the man who invented clocks. How nice 
 it must be to be a savage, with no particular time for 
 getting up or going to bed, or dining, or dressing ; 
 nothing but perpetual liberty, and the wild free 
 woods for one's habitation.' He remembered, how- 
 ever, that there was a particular time for the after- 
 noon service, and that he was bound to appear 
 thereat. He had excused himself for preferring 
 this country ramble to attendance at the family 
 meal ; but there was no indulgence that would 
 excuse his absence from afternoon service. So in 
 his anxiety to be punctual he made a little more 
 haste than was necessary, and found himself in the 
 old churchyard half an hour too soon. A small side 
 door stood open, and he looked into the church. 
 The quiet gray old Gothic church, with its barbarous 
 whitewashed walls, its rotten remnant of a carved 
 oak screen, its mutilated columns with faded hatch- 
 ments stuck against the capitals, its low gallery, 
 and clumsy organ, and ponderous pulpit, with 
 monstrous sounding-board ; and that delicious sense
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 87 
 
 of coolness and welcome shadow which made the 
 temple almost lovely. 
 
 A babble of shrill voices had attracted him to this 
 door, and looking in, he saw a row of small children 
 in one of the side aisles, and a girl leaning against 
 the door of a pew with a book in her hand, examin- 
 ing them in the Church Catechism. 
 
 This was Sylvia Carew. The fair, perfect face 
 sm-prised him into such admiration as he had never 
 felt for a woman's beauty till this hour. It was like 
 the one picture in a crowded gallery which rivets the 
 wanderer's gaze, and holds him spell-bound after a 
 half-listless admiration of five hundred other pic- 
 tures; the one melody in all the tangled music of 
 an opera that smites the listener's heart. 
 
 He had no excuse for going into the church, he 
 could only stand in the little archway and look at 
 her, admiringly, almost reverently, as if he had seen 
 one of the marble angels in Dame Sybil Perriam's 
 monument in the chancel yonder conjured into life. 
 While he lingered, lost in contemplation of this 
 beautiful picture, the girl looked up, and their eyes 
 met in that first look which was the unfelt presage 
 of destiny. The girl blushed, and then smiled ; 
 and, encouraged by that friendly smile, Edmund 
 Standen crossed the threshold.
 
 88 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 The catechism was finished. Miss Carew's pupils 
 had stumbled through their answers to those world- 
 known interrogatories more awkwardly and hope- 
 lessly than village school children generally do 
 stumble — for it must be confessed that Miss Carew's 
 class in the Sunday school was always more backward 
 than other classes ; but then, as Sjdyia argued, the 
 people who took the other classes were fine ladies, 
 who taught for their own pleasure, and prided them- 
 selves on their success as teachers, while she taught 
 those tiresome children only because she was obliged. 
 
 ' I'm afraid you find your class rather drowsy this 
 warm day,' said Mr. Standen, not knowing what else 
 to say. 
 
 * They are always stupid and troublesome,' an- 
 swered Sylvia, with a disdainful toss of her pretty 
 head. ' I don't think the weather makes much 
 difference. Mary Jane Harris, will you be good 
 enough to stand on the ground instead of on my 
 feet. I brought them in here because the school 
 was so crowded with children and teachers.' 
 
 ' I think a young lady I know teaches in your 
 Sunday school.' 
 
 ' There are a great many young ladies who teach,' 
 answered Sylvia indifferently; 'but I don't know 
 that their teaching does any good.'
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 89 
 
 * The young lady I mean is Miss Kochdale,' said 
 Edmund, feeling that he had managed to introduce 
 himself to the young lady in quite a creditable 
 manner. He had no doubt that she was a lady, 
 even in the Hedingham sense of the word. He saw 
 no signs of poverty in that neatly mended white 
 gown which became her so admirably. He only 
 knew that she was lovelier than any living woman 
 he had ever seen ; a reminiscence of the world 
 of pictures, rather than a creature of mortal 
 mould. 
 
 * I know Miss Eochdale to speak to,' said 
 Sylvia, * but I don't know much of her,' and 
 then, before Edmund Standen could say another 
 word, she murmured a shy good afternoon, and 
 went away with her little flock, almost as if 
 she had melted from his sight like the memory 
 of that old Italian picture which her perfect 
 face recalled to his mind — a vision of fair tranquil 
 beauty, with golden braided hair, and liquid hazel 
 eyes. 
 
 This was the beginning of that passion which 
 Mrs. Standen spoke of bitterly as Edmund's infa- 
 tuation. He discovered before the day was ended 
 that his peerless beauty was the parish school- 
 master's daughter. But the discovery made very
 
 90 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 little difference in the swift growth of this fatal 
 flame. Before a week was over he knew that he was 
 passionately in love with Sylvia Carew ; that earth 
 and heaven wore a new aspect ; that henceforth to 
 be happy meant to be with her. 
 
 For the dull round of respectable daily life this 
 passion spoiled him utterly. The faultless machin- 
 ery of domesticity at Dean House became intoler- 
 able to him. He could no longer dawdle, with a 
 decent show of contentment, through the long 
 summer evenings, strolling up and down the smooth 
 gravel, or close shaven turf, looking at his mother's 
 geraniums, or pelargoniums, or standard roses, and 
 lingering patiently while she clipped a leaf here, or 
 nipped off an imperfect bud there. Sylvia Carew 
 filled his heart and mind, and he was always longing 
 for their next meeting, always recalling her last 
 words, the fluttering touch of her little hand, the 
 tender upward glance of those divine eyes. 
 
 Accident — he called it Fortune — favoured him. 
 Sylvia and he contrived to meet very often before 
 Hedingham knew of their folly. And in one soft 
 June twilight, reckless of his own future, heedless 
 of any pain this choice might inflict upon the 
 mother who adored him, he asked Sylvia Carew to 
 be his wife.
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 91 
 
 What answer could she give liim but a glad 
 * Yes ' ? His was the first voice that had ever 
 awakened tenderness in her heart ; and village 
 gossip had taught her to consider him the most 
 eligible bachelor in Hedingham.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SON HAVE A FEW WORDS. 
 
 It is lialf-past ten o'clock, and the visitors have de- 
 parted from Dean House, after what the two Miss 
 Toynhees declare gushingly to have been a most 
 enjoyable evening. It has borne a close resemblance 
 to other enjoyable evenings at Hedingham. There 
 has been a well ordered dinner, but not a banquet of 
 surprises such as Heliogabalus or Philip of Orleans 
 might have prepared for his guests ; since every one 
 at Hedingham knows pretty well the strong points of 
 his neighbour's cook, and could make a shrewd guess 
 as to the contents of the silver eiitree dishes before 
 the covers are lifted. Then the ladies have taken a 
 little stroll in the twilight to admire the bedding-out 
 plants, have even visited the hothouses, perhaps at 
 the risk of whitening their festal raiment; while the 
 gentlemen, Edmund Standen, Mr. Toynbee, and Mr. 
 Holmes the curate, have talked politics — airing
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SON HAVE A FEW WORDS. 93 
 
 respectable ConserTative opinions — over their claret 
 and coffee. Then they have all met in the big cool 
 drawing-room for tea and a little music, and they 
 have simpered then- approval of songs and mazourkas 
 which they have heard a good many times since 
 Christmas, and then they have parted, delighted with 
 one another, and with a life which can boast such 
 bright spots as these friendly little dinners. 
 
 If there is one time more than another that seems 
 to lay itself out as it were, for a family quarrel, that 
 period is the empty half-hour after a dinner party. 
 The guests are gone, the society mask, worn perhaps 
 unconsciously but worn all the same, drops off. 
 Feehngs that have been held in repression during 
 this interval of artificial existence spring back upon 
 us with strong rebound. The hatches have been 
 battened down over that dark hold where we keep 
 our emotions, but our bad passions thrust them 
 open when society's restraining influence is with- 
 drawn. 
 
 Esther Eochdale pleaded fatigue, and said good 
 night to her adopted mother, as soon as the guests 
 were gone. ' Good night, dear auntie,' she said, 
 * and I hope you'll go to bed very soon, for you're 
 looking pale and tired — I'm afraid the sun to-day 
 was too much for you.'
 
 94 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 It had been agreed long ago that Esther should 
 call her protectress 'Auntie.' In all things had 
 Mrs. Standen been as a mother to the orphan; yet 
 she could not bear that any lips except those of her 
 own children should call her mother. Edmund's 
 voice alone gave that sacred name its full sweetness, 
 fond though she was of the daughter who had mar- 
 ried, and made for herself new ties and a new home. 
 In her heart of hearts Edmund was as her only 
 child. She would not for the world have owned to 
 such a sentiment, setting her face, as she did, against 
 all sentimentality ; nevertheless this was the feeling 
 that had governed her years ago when she taught the 
 little Indian child to call her ' Auntie.' 
 
 ' The sun was powerful, but I don't mind that,' 
 said Mrs. Standen, with an involuntary glance at her 
 son. 
 
 ' What was it that bored you to-day, if it was not 
 the heat, mother?' asked Edmund, when Esther 
 was gone. 
 
 Those troublesome emotions would not be kept 
 any longer under hatches. The long dull evening, 
 enforced severance from Sylvi^,, and the prosy con- 
 versational meanderings of Mr. Toynbee and the 
 curate had goaded Mr. Standen almost to madness. 
 He felt that it would do him good to quarrel with
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SON HATE A FEW WORDS. 95 
 
 some one — even with his mother. There was no 
 tenderness in that sacred name as his Hps uttered 
 it to-night. 
 
 * I was unhappy about you, Edmund,' answered 
 Mrs. Standen, with a look of pain. 
 
 * Why should you be unhappy about me, mother?' 
 asked the young man coldly, ' I can see no reason. 
 I have always been an obedient son.' 
 
 'You have indeed,' said the mother, stealing a 
 tender look at her darling, who was walking up and 
 down the room with impatient strides. 
 
 ' And I shall be so still. Or if I cannot obey I 
 shall at least know how to submit. Vfhj should 
 you feel unhappy, mother ? You have made your 
 decision, and I am ready to abide by it. We can be 
 friends all the same.' 
 
 ' No, we are not the same to each other — we are 
 not what we were a month ago.' 
 
 'Well, there may be a little difference in our 
 mutual satisfaction, just at first,' Edmund answered 
 with a somewhat bitter smile, ' it takes a man some 
 time to accustom himself to the idea that his mother 
 means to disinherit him. I don't mean as regards 
 the change in his prospects. That is a small thing. 
 But he has to reconcile himself to the knowledge 
 that the mother he loves can deal hardly by him.'
 
 96 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. V 
 
 ' Do you think it is no pain to me to deal hardly 
 with you, Edmund?' 
 
 * If it were so painful you would scarcely do it.' 
 
 * It is for your own sake, Edmund. If my affec- 
 tion has no influence with you, I must use the power 
 your father's will gave me. I would do anything to 
 prevent this wretched marriage.' 
 
 * That you will never do. You can reduce me to 
 beggary, but you cannot rob me of the woman I 
 love. Nothing less than Fate shall do that.' 
 
 * You mean to marry Sylvia Carew, then ?' asked 
 the mother, with a desperate look. She could hardly 
 believe that this idolised son could persist in his 
 opposition to her will. She had entreated him with 
 tears ; she would have gone on her knees to suppli- 
 cate him had there been any hope of success. 
 
 * I told you so the day before yesterday,' he said, 
 moodily. 
 
 * Yes. But some good influence might have 
 softened your heart since then.' 
 
 * There is no hardness in my heart. I have only 
 made up my mind to marry the one woman I can 
 thoroughly love. Is there anything unnatural in a 
 man choosing for himself ? I think you sometimes 
 forget, mother, that I have come to man's estate. 
 You fancy that I am still a little boy, protected
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SON HAVE A FEW WORDS. 97 
 
 from the risk of falling down stairs by a gate on the 
 nursery landing, as I used to be twenty years ago.^" 
 
 * I -should^ not attempt to interfere with your 
 choice, if it were rational, the deliberate result of 
 sober reason — an attachment that had stood the test 
 of time ; but to see you bent upon marrying a girl 
 whom you have only known since last May ; of whom 
 you know positively nothing except that she has a 
 pretty face ' 
 
 ' And that it is the one face upon earth for me, 
 and that she loves me, and that I love her. That's 
 the beginning, middle, and end of a love story, 
 mother. You can't improve it or take away from it, 
 or add to it. No love match from the days of Paris 
 and Helen ever had a longer history. One would 
 think you never had been in love yourself, mother, 
 by your talk of sober reason and rational attach- 
 ments.' / 
 
 This careless thrust went home. Mrs. Standen 
 had dreamed her fond girhsh dream of true love 
 seven years before she married the portly banker, at 
 the sober age of six-and-twenty. She had loved and 
 been beloved, and sacrificed the tenderest hopes of a 
 girl's heart upon the altar of family convenience. 
 Should there not be a small stone altar in the hall of 
 every house, as a symbol of that invisible shrine on 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 which SO many tender feelings are constantly being 
 offered up before the implacable household Nemesis, 
 Necessity ? 
 
 Mrs. Standen would not tell Edmund how she too 
 had suffered. It would have been disrespectful to 
 that generous husband who had loved and trusted 
 her so fully. But she went up to her boy, and 
 gently took his hand, and said, 
 
 ' I know what it is to suffer, Edmund, and to be 
 disappointed, and to own afterw^ards that the dis- 
 appointment was a blessing in disguise.' 
 
 ' I want no such equivocal benefits,' said the 
 young man, impatiently. ' There's no use in argu- 
 ing the point, mother. I mean to be a dutiful son 
 always. Nothing can make any real or lasting dif- 
 ference in my affection for you. But I intend to 
 marry the woman I love.' 
 
 And then after settling the question thus with an 
 air of supreme calm, that quarrelsome demon which 
 had been disquieting' him more or less all the even- 
 ing, broke loose in Mr. Standen's breast, and he 
 exclaimed, angrily-=^ 
 
 * Indeed, I cannot see what substantial reason you 
 can have for objecting to the match. What are we 
 that we should set ourselves up among the old 
 county families ? '
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SOX HAVE A FEW WORDS. 99 
 
 ' On my side at least we have some claim to good 
 blood,' said Mrs. Standen, with dignity. ' The Bos- 
 sineys are as old a family as any in the west of 
 England.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen had been a Miss Bossiney. That 
 crumbling ivy-mantled vault in the churchyard en- 
 shrined the. ashes of her ancestors. She had in- 
 herited the Worcester dinner service, and the Derby 
 dessert service from the Bossineys. 
 
 ^Xi^e the Xk>pplestone8 and the Trelawneys,' I 
 suppose,' replied Edmund, scornfully. ' But when 
 we come to names Carew is as good as any.' 
 
 ' A very good name for those to whom it belongs. 
 But I should question a parish schoolmaster's right 
 to it.' ^^ 
 
 ' What, did younever hear of a gentleman in 
 reduced circumstances ? ' 
 
 ' Barely of any gentleman living so obscure a life 
 as Mr. Carew' s, without some good reason for his 
 pi-efernng-stmh obscurity,' answered Mrs. Standen. 
 
 * You are fullof prejudice, mother,' cried Edmund, 
 quickening his pace, 
 
 ' It is not prejudice, Edmund, but instinct. 
 Trust a mother's feeling in such a case as this. If 
 it^is life or death for you, it is life or death for me. 
 AVreck your happiness and you wreck mine. I have 
 
 H 2
 
 100 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 studied that girl since I found out your infatuation 
 for her.' 
 
 ' A period of three or four weeks ! ' cried the son, 
 scornfully. 
 
 ' Long enough for me to find out a good deal. I 
 have talked to people who know Sylvia Carew. I 
 have been to the school three or four times to see 
 with my own eyes.' 
 
 ' Her character is not exposed to view in a glass 
 case, like the trinkets on a jeweller's counter.' 
 
 * She is shallow enough for me to read her, yes, 
 to the heart of her mystery,' answered Mrs. Standen. 
 ' Frivolous, arrogant, vain — that is the character I 
 hear of her, and what I have seen confirms my 
 informants.' 
 
 ' I wonder you can stoop to listen to petty village 
 gossip, the ill-natured suggestions of women who 
 are envious of my Sylvia's sweet face.' 
 .., * I have talked to some who are above envy. Mrs. 
 Vancourt has seen a good deal of Miss Carew, and 
 her judgment, deliberately arrived at — for she is far 
 too good a woman to condemn hastily — coincides 
 with my own instinct. That girl is not worthy of 
 the sacrifice you are going to make for her.' 
 
 * Sacrifice ? ' echoed Edmund. ' Were I an 
 emperor I should be proud to win her.'
 
 MRS. STANDEN AND HER SON HAVE A FEW WORDS. 101 
 
 * If it were only a question of worldly disad- 
 vantage, if it were merely the dilBference in your 
 social rank, I would cease to oppose you,' said the 
 mother, yearning to be reconciled with this beloved 
 son, and feeling how wide a breach yawned between 
 them. ' I would even say nothing about the mys- 
 tery in Mr. Carew's life, the evident incongruity 
 between the man and his position. If the girl 
 herself were a good girl ' 
 
 * How dare you say that she is anything less 
 than good ?' cried Edmund, the long smothered fire 
 flaming out at last. * How dare you judge her — 
 you who pretend to rule your life by the gospel ? ' 
 
 This was another home-thrust. How is any 
 woman to justify that dim foreboding fear which 
 she calls an instinct "? 
 
 ' I want you to be happy, Edmund,' his mother 
 said piteously. 
 
 ' I can only be' happy in my own way. I 
 can only be happy if I marry the one woman I 
 love.' 
 
 * How can you be sure of your heart ? You are 
 little more than a boy.' 
 
 * It is all very well for you to think me that, 
 mother; but at four- and- twenty I claim the right 
 to consider myself a man.'
 
 102 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' And you are prepared to face beggary, for the 
 sake of this girl ? ' 
 
 ' I am willing to resign my heritage.' 
 
 * Like Esau,' said Mrs. Standen, bitterly. 
 
 * Like Esau, if you will. Things did not go so 
 badly with Esau in after life ; he had his flocks 
 and his herds, like his more astute brother. No, 
 mother, I don't mean to face beggary. I mean to 
 work for my living, as many a better man has done 
 before me. I mean to succeed, God helping me, 
 for my young wife's sake ; and I,' with a sudden 
 change to tenderness, ' I look forward hopefully to 
 the day when you will be reconciled to my choice, 
 and when you will say to me, " After all, Edmund, 
 a true heart is a safe counsellor." ' 
 
 That look of affection from the young man's 
 honest eyes, that tender tone deeply touched the 
 mother. She was not usually demonstrative of her 
 softer feelings, but to-night she laid her head on her 
 son's shoulder and sobbed aloud. 
 
 * My boy,' she cried ; ' I seem to use you hardly, 
 when I love you better than my life.' 
 
 * Why, you foolish mother,' said Edmund, 
 cheerily, every angry feeling gone at sight of his 
 mother's tears, ' do you think an3^thing or anybody 
 can alter the affection we two bear for each other ?
 
 Mrs. standen and her son ha^-e a few words. 103 
 
 Do YOU think a paltry question of money would 
 ever divide us ? Do you think I love you any less 
 because I persist in my choice of a wife ? A man's 
 heart must be small, indeed, if it is not big enough 
 to hold wife and mother.' 
 
 * My best of sons I' murmured Mrs. Standen. 
 ' He who rules above us reads my heart, and knows 
 it holds no selfish feeling where you are concerned. 
 It is no personal prejudice — no mother's jealousy^ 
 that makes me oppose this marriage. But you have 
 made up your mind — why do I speak of it any 
 more ? Let there be no bitterness between us. I 
 can do no more except pray for your happiness.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen had played her ace of trumps, and, 
 as it were, thrown the card away. She had thought 
 that when called upon to weigh the loss of his 
 father's fortune against the gratification of his own 
 caprice, Edmund would have hesitated to pay so 
 heavy a price for his fancy. She saw him calmly 
 resolute, unmoved by the prospect of so great a 
 sacrifice, ready to surrender his heritage as lightly 
 as if it had been one of the banker's silver snuff- 
 boxes — those memorials of the departed, which were 
 piously preserved under a glass case on the chiffo- 
 nier yonder. She saw her tactics fail utterly. She 
 had never meant to rob her boy of the inheritance
 
 104 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 that was justly his. She had never meant to enrich 
 her daughter at the cost of her son. 
 
 She had only striven to stand between Edmund 
 and a passion which that keen instinct of maternal 
 love told her would be fatal.
 
 CHAPTEK YII. 
 
 DEE M E X S C H D E N K T. 
 
 After that little talk with his mother, which had 
 begun in bitterness and ended in mutual pardon, 
 Edmund Standen felt more at peace with himself 
 than he had felt for some time. At least he and 
 his mother fully understood each other, and Edmund 
 felt that in taking his own road he need not turn his 
 back upon that dearly loved mother. It pleased 
 him to think that he might begin his new life 
 perhaps at Monkhampton, within a few miles of 
 Dean House, and be able to see his mother as often 
 as he liked. She should not feel herself deserted. 
 He would take good care of that. Every action of 
 his life should help to prove to her that even while 
 following the bent of his own inclination he was not 
 the less her true son. 
 
 He was in no hurry to go to bed, though it was 
 midnight when he parted from Mrs. Standen at the 
 door of her room, a desperately late hour for Dean
 
 106 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 House. The moon slione full upon the three tall 
 narrow windows of his bedchamber. 
 
 He drew up the blinds and admitted that flood of 
 tender light, and he paced this room as he had paced 
 the room below, thoughtfully, but no longer with 
 angry thoughts. Yes, he would reconcile duty to his 
 mother with this new love. The old tie should not be 
 broken because the new bond was so strong. And by- 
 and-by, when Mrs. Standen became resigned to the 
 inevitable she would surely be kind to Sylvia. She 
 would erect no barrier between the two homes. She 
 would not exclude her son's wife from his father's 
 house. 
 
 ^ Time wears away all rough edges,' he said to 
 himself. ' Those two will grow fond of each other 
 at last. And if God blesses us with children by- 
 and-by, that link will unite us all. No, I do not fear 
 the future — and as for poverty ' 
 
 Edmund Standen, who had never known the want 
 of a five-pound note, dismissed the thought with a 
 careless laugh, and left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 II«--had the plan of his future laid down as 
 neatly as if it had been an architect's specification 
 of a villa. Of course the bank would give him a 
 situation, and a salary of, say, two hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year to start with. He and Sylvia
 
 DER MENSCH DEXKT. 107 
 
 could manage delightfully on two hundred and fifty. 
 They would choose the dearest little house — half 
 cottage, half villa — on the outskirts of the town, on 
 Broomfield Hill, for instance ; a rustic road, from 
 which one looked across intervening wood and 
 meadow to the wide estuary of the Wex, just where 
 it melted into the sea. They would live very quietly, 
 with that modest elegance which Edmund, who knew 
 nothing about housekeeping, fancied compatible with 
 a yearly income of two hundred and fifty pounds. 
 They would have little company, for what society so 
 delightful as their own. They would live only for 
 each other, and spend all their money on themselves. 
 Edmund had the nucleus of a good library, books 
 collected by himself and paid for with his own 
 pocket money. He could still pursue the delightful 
 task of collecting. His income would allow margin 
 for that. And how sweet would be their evenings, 
 when his day's toil was over. Summer evenings in 
 the little garden brimming over with sweet-scented 
 flowers, and with at least one good old tree for 
 shade : a garden on the slope of that steep hill, 
 from which they could watch the sun's golden cup 
 drop down into the cool blue wave. Winter even- 
 ings, when they closed their shutters upon all the 
 outside world, and sat by their cheerful hearth, and 
 
 ^J
 
 108 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 talked of all things in heaven and earth ; while the 
 low minor strain of that ever murmuring sea 
 sounded faintly in the pauses of their talk. 
 
 How sweet it would be to read aloud while his 
 young wife worked. She must be fond of work, of 
 course. All tender, home-loving women are. He 
 could fancy the fair young face bent with a busy 
 look above the capacious workbasket, emblem of 
 matronhood. He could fancy the bright young 
 mind expanding under his teaching. Naturally, at 
 four-and-twenty, he thought himself wise enough to 
 teach. That desultory education, for the most part 
 self-teaching, which had served to make Sylvia seem 
 clever, would now be succeeded by the man's 
 thoughtful and logical process. He would shape 
 his wife's mind, write the wisdom of departed sages, 
 the dreams of mighty poets on that fair tablet, make 
 her, in very truth, his companion, his second self. 
 
 . .Fair vision. He looked out at the moonlit 
 
 garden, where the smooth lawn reflected the shadows 
 of the trees like the still bosom of a lake. He 
 looked dreamily out upon this tranquil old-world 
 picture, his heart throbbing fast with the fulness 
 of his joy, and thought of a home which should 
 be better than this, for it would be shared with 
 Sylvia.
 
 DER MENSCH DEXKT. 109 
 
 ' I'll lide into Monkhampton directly after break- 
 fast to-morrow, and see the principal at the Bank,' 
 he said to himself, ' and I'll call upon Mr. Carew in 
 the evening. All lies clear before me now, and 
 everyone in Hedingham shall know that I am going 
 to marry SyMa Carew.' And thus, supremely 
 satisfied with his prospects, Mr. Standen went to 
 bed. 
 
 * I wonder, by the way, if Esther Eochdale knows 
 anything about my engagement,' he thought, as he 
 di'opped asleep. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The world looked very fair to Edmund Standen 
 next morning when he went down to join in those 
 household prayers which prefaced the eight o'clock 
 breakfast at Dean House. The panelled parlour, 
 where the dark oak panelling had been painted 
 white by some cheerful-minded Goth, had a bright 
 fresh look in the morning sunshine. The carefully 
 appointed table, with its spotless damask, central 
 bowl of flowers, and old-fashioned silver urn, invited 
 appetite. The sideboard, with its corps de reserve 
 of ham and sirloin supported the picture. Windows 
 open to the ground made the flower garden almost 
 a part of the room. Birds were singing their morn- 
 ing h}Tnns of salutation to the sunshine and the
 
 110 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 earth. A veil of summer mist still floated above the 
 dewy grass. 
 
 Esther Rochdale was alone in the room when 
 Edmund entered it. She was standing in one of 
 the open windows, looking thoughtfully at the 
 garden, with that fixed look which sees nothing, lost 
 in a reverie that seemed pensive. But she greeted 
 Edmund with a cordial smile, nevertheless, as they 
 shook hands. Before his German exile they had 
 kissed each other at morning and evening. But 
 when he came home from the grand tour Mr. 
 Standen found no kiss on his adopted sister's lips, 
 though her welcome was of the tenderest ; and he 
 felt somehow that the days of those boy and girl 
 salutations were over. 
 
 She was his junior by five years, and looked 
 younger than she was, so delicately slender was the 
 figure, so youthful the small features, and innocent 
 expression of the pale oval face. 
 
 It was a face whose distinctive charm was sweet- 
 ness, placid, pensive even to melancholy, at times. 
 In Miss Rochdale the stranger would never discover 
 the young lady of independent means. Indeed, so 
 gentle was her manner, so unselfish her every 
 thought, that she had often been mistaken for the 
 meek object of Mrs. Standen's bounty. ' So good of
 
 DER MENSCH DENKT. Ill 
 
 Mrs. Standen to keep that poor little thing, Miss 
 Rochdale,' people had said, surprised when they 
 heard that the ' poor little thing ' possessed an in- 
 alienable income of six hundred a year. 
 
 Yet it must not be supposed that Miss Rochdale 
 was one of those timid and insipid young persons 
 w^ho cannot say Bo to the various geese of their 
 acquaintance. Beneath that calm and gentle exterior 
 there beat a heart capable of heroic deeds ; that 
 ample forehead indicated a mind that could think 
 high thoughts. Esther Rochdale had formed her 
 own opinion of men and books even at nineteen 
 years of age. She had read and thought a great 
 deal in the tranquil life at Dean House, which gave 
 so much leisure for study, as well as for all manner 
 of unselfish acts. Miss Rochdale was Mr. Yan- 
 court's most valued assistant among the poor, and 
 did more work than his three dauofhters o-ot throuo-h 
 among them ; yet people hardly ever heard her 
 name in Dorcas clubs, or saw it figure in a sub- 
 scription list. TMiat her right hand gave from her 
 ample income was hardly known to her left hand. 
 
 ' How bright you look this morning, Edmund,' 
 she said, while they stood at the window waiting for 
 Mrs. Standen, and the beU which assembled the 
 orderly household every morning as the clock struck
 
 112 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 eight. The hall clock had never finished striking 
 before the shrill clang of the bell began. ' That 
 cloudy look has gone which I've noticed so often 
 lately.' 
 
 * My dear girl,' answered Edmund cheerfully, 
 * a secret is just- one of those things that my 
 mental constitution cannot stand. I've been suffer- 
 ing lately from the oppression of a secret.' 
 
 ' You, Edmund,' cried Esther, with an incre- 
 dulous look ; ' why I thought no secret ever crossed 
 the threshold of Dean House. Don't the very 
 housemaids tell Auntie or me everything that 
 happens to them ? But your secret — what secret 
 can you have, from your mother above all people ? ' 
 
 'It has not been a secret from my mother for 
 the last three days. I told her all about it on 
 Tuesday.' 
 
 * Was that what made her so unhappy ? She 
 was crying in her own room the day before yester- 
 day, and even yesterday before she dressed to go 
 out. I saw the traces of tears both times. Oh, 
 Edmund, what could you have done to make her 
 so unhappy ? Was it anything in Germany ? If it 
 was any trouble about money you ought to know that 
 my resources are at your disposal.' 
 
 She had a dim idea that Germany was populated
 
 DER MENSCH DENKT. 113 
 
 b}' gamblers — that Edmund might have become the 
 prey of those harpies. 
 
 * You dear innocent Esther ! ' cried Edmund, 
 touched by her goodness. ' It is nothing about 
 money matters, and if it were, do you think I would 
 be so mean a hound as to trade upon your benevo- 
 lence. My secret related to a subject much nearer 
 to my heart than worldly wealth, for you know I 
 hold that lightly,' added the young man with a lofty 
 air. 
 
 * But how could you be so unkind as to make 
 Auntie unhappy ? ' 
 
 * She chose to make herself so, Esther. That 
 was no work of mine. But my mother and I are 
 both contented now. The little cloud has blown 
 away for ever, and I think she begins to understand 
 that there is one crisis in a man's life in which he 
 must be his own master.' 
 
 The girl looked up at him wonderingly, or with 
 something more than mere wonder, a blank strange 
 look. 
 
 ' What is that crisis, Edmund ?' she asked quietly, 
 that strange look passing swiftly as a flicker of 
 the sunlight across the flower-beds. 
 
 * When he finds himself for the first time in his 
 life honestly, deeply, lastingly in love.' 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 There was a little pause, just about the duration 
 of an electric shock. In that moment Esther's 
 cheek paled ever so slightly, her lips moved faintly, 
 a look of pain came into the dark earnest eyes. But 
 that look was very brief ; and lovers are egotistical. 
 Edmund saw nothing till those sweet lips gave 
 him a friendly smile, while the two little hands were 
 raised to his arm, and rested there with gentle 
 affection. 
 
 * Anything that makes you happy must make me 
 glad, Edmund,' she said tenderly. 'But I hope 
 this love is a wise one. Yet, if it were, it would 
 hardly make your mother unhappy.' 
 
 ' 0, my mother has her own scheme for my exist- 
 ence I have no doubt, and would like me to have 
 fallen in love to order, as it were.' 
 
 A look of pain, much keener than the last, came 
 into Esther's face ; but she was looking downward, 
 and Edmund was not watching her closely. He was 
 thinking of his own wrongs. There was forgiveness 
 between him and his mother, but the sense of sore- 
 ness still lingered. The wound was in process of 
 healing, but not healed. 
 
 * As to the wisdom of my choice,' he said pre- 
 sently, ' that's a jargon of outsiders which never yet 
 applied to true love. A man is not wise in these
 
 DER MENSCH DENKT. 115 
 
 matters. He obeys his destiny, without stopping to 
 consider whether the woman he loves has money in 
 consols, or connections whose influence may assist 
 his career. He loves because he loves. I don't sup- 
 pose the Hedingham gentry, with their narrow 
 notions and petty maxims, will altogether approve 
 my choice. But I have chosen where my heart told 
 me to choose, and I care not a doit for the opinion 
 of the wiseacres who may call me a fool.' 
 
 *Nor for your mother's opinion, Edmund?' said 
 Esther ; ' yet I should have thought there could be 
 no event in your life in which that would not influ- 
 ence you.' 
 
 ' Haven't I told you that in afi'airs of the heart a 
 man must judge for himself? Pshaw, child, what 
 do you know about it ? Wait till you are over head 
 and ears in love with some young gentleman from 
 Oxford or Sandhurst, and then see how much 
 Auntie's grave advice will weigh against the fascina- 
 tions of your admirer. You mustn't take the side of 
 worldly wisdom, Esther. I have counted on your 
 influence to soften my mother's heart towards 
 Sylvia.' 
 
 * Sylvia,' exclaimed Esther, -^dth a look of horror, 
 * Sylvia Carew !' 
 
 * I know of no other Sylvia in this part of the 
 
 I 2
 
 116 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 country,' answered Edmund coolly; 'the name is 
 uncommon.' 
 
 * You — care for — Sylvia Carew. The schoolmas- 
 ter's pretty daughter ! ' 
 
 * And my future wife,' said Edmund, with dignity. 
 * I hope you have nothing to say against her ? * 
 
 ' Edmund how could you ever make such a fatal 
 choice ? ' 
 
 * Fatal ! You and my mother will drive me dis- 
 tracted between you. Fatal ! At the mention of 
 Sylvia's name you both go into heroics — and sigh — 
 and open your eyes wide — and talk about fatality — 
 just as if I were a member of the house of Laius, 
 and doomed to break the canonical table of affinities. 
 In plain words, Esther, what have you to say 
 against Miss Carew ? ' 
 
 * Not much certainly,' said Esther, with her accus- 
 tomed placidity, ' I have thought her vain — and ill- 
 tempered ; but that may have been my mistake.' 
 
 * Yain — well I daresay she knows she is the pret- 
 tiest woman in Hedingham. Ill-tempered — there I 
 know you are mistaken.' 
 
 He thought of Sylvia's sweet smile — the upward 
 look of those melting hazel eyes. Ill-tempered with 
 such eyes, and such a smile ! How these women 
 slander one another !
 
 DEE MEXSCH DENKT. 117 
 
 * Perhaps I have judged her too hastily, Edmund. 
 Yet I hardly think I can have been wrong,' replied 
 Esther, meekly. ' I have seen her slap the poor 
 little children.' 
 
 * Seen her slap the poor little children,' echoed 
 Edmund, scornfully. ' If you had as much of the 
 poor little children as Sylvia has I don't suppose 
 you'd refrain from an occasional tap. You go into 
 the school-house once or twice a week in your dilet- 
 tanti fashio^ just when the humour takes you ; and 
 then you set yourself up as a judge, and pronounce 
 sentence upon Sylvia, who has to endure the plague 
 of those brats every day of her Hfe.' 
 
 Esther did not remind him that she did her work 
 in the Sunday school regularly, and walked from 
 Dean House to Hedingham to do it, in rain or sun- 
 shine, from year's end to year's end, whether the 
 humour did or did not seize her — that she disre- 
 garded headache, and neuralgia, and all the pains to 
 which humanity is subject, when duty called. She 
 only answered him with a hardly audible sigh.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GOTT LENKT. 
 
 ' Hebe comes my mother,' said Edmund, as the 
 rustle of Mrs. Standen's dress soundecLon the stah-- 
 case. The hell clanged out its summons at the 
 same moment. 
 
 * Why, how pale you look, child ! ' said Mrs. Stan- 
 den, as she kissed her adopted daughter. 
 
 * Do I, dear Auntie ? I've heen in the garden a 
 good while, and the morning is rather sultry. It has 
 given me a sHght headache.' 
 
 * Poor little head, so busy and thoughtful for 
 others,' said Mrs. Standen, smoothing the girl's soft 
 dark hair from the calm brow. 
 
 Mother and son kissed each other in the old hearty 
 fashion. The cloud was quite gone. It had melted 
 in those passionate tears wrung from the mother's 
 wounded heart. 
 
 Five women servants came filing in. There was 
 no indoor man at Dean House. Mrs. Standen loved
 
 GOTT LENKT. 119 
 
 the neat-handed Phillises of her own training, but 
 would not have consented to be domineered over by a 
 skilled butler. The cook, and Mrs. Standen's confi- 
 dential maid, both elderly women, and three buxom 
 girls, parlour, house, and laundry maid comprised 
 the Dean House establishment. 
 
 Praj'ers were read, and the morning chapter, and 
 breakfast began. Mrs. Standen had hardly taken 
 her place in front of the urn when a shiill peal from 
 the gate bell startled them all. This was essentially 
 the visitors' bell. All tradesmen, and beings of an 
 inferior order, save the postman or an occasional 
 stranger, entered by the stable gates. 
 
 ' Who can it be so early ? ' exclaimed Edmund, 
 thinking of Sylvia. Could she be ill, oi in trouble 
 of any kind ? Had she sent for him ? 
 
 The parlour maid brought in one of those ominous 
 yellow-covered messages which strike terror to some 
 simple hearts. It was before the days of postal tele- 
 graphs. This had been brought from Monkhampton 
 by special messenger. 
 
 ' Half-a-crown to pay, please ma'am,' said the 
 parlour maid, laying the document by Mrs. Standen's 
 plate, ' and will you please sign the paper to say 
 when it came.' 
 
 The sight of that bilious-hued envelope agitated
 
 120 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Standen. Telegraphic messages were rare at 
 Dean House. She looked at the paper helplessly. 
 
 *Let me do it for you, mother,' said Edmund, 
 looking at his watch. The telegram could not be 
 from Sylvia, so he felt quite comfortable about its 
 contents. Let the universe crumble, she was safe. 
 
 He scrawled the required figures on the paper, 
 fished half-a-crown from the loose treasury in his 
 waistcoat pocket, and gave paper and coin to the 
 servant, while his mother read the message. 
 
 * What's it all about, mother?' he asked, appre- 
 hending no calamity. But his mother had grown 
 deadly pale, and handed him the telegram without a 
 word. 
 
 * From Hanside and Pengross, Grays Inn, to Mrs. 
 Standen, Dean House, near Hedingham. 
 
 * Sad news from Demerara by mail arrived last 
 night. A friend telegraphed to us from Southamp- 
 ton. Mr. Sargent died suddenly of heart disease on 
 the fifteenth of June. Mrs. Sargent seriously ill. 
 Some one ought to go to her at once, if possible. 
 Her brother would be best, as he could arrange busi- 
 ness matters. We fear that Mr. Sargent's affairs 
 are left in a far from satisfactory condition. The 
 mail steamer for St. Thomas leaves Southampton 
 at noon to-morrow. Letter to follow.'
 
 GOTT LENKT. 121 
 
 ' Poor George — in the very prime of life — only six 
 and thirty — and to be cut off suddenly,' murmured 
 Mrs. Standen, in tears. 
 
 * Oh, Auntie, what has happened ?' asked Esther. 
 ' George Sargent is dead. And to think of my 
 
 dear girl, alone in a strange country. What are we 
 to do, Edmund ? How can I ask you to go to her ?' 
 
 She thought of his infatuation — would he tear 
 himself away from the land that held SyMa Carew, 
 even to succour a widowed sister ? 
 
 'Need \o\x ask me to do my duty, mother?' de- 
 manded the young man quietly. ' Of course I shall 
 go to Demerara. Poor George ! One of the best 
 fellows in the world, but I fear by no means prudent. 
 I dare say he has left his affairs in a state of muddle. 
 Don't cry, dear mother. We'll send Ellen a tele- 
 gi-am to say that I shall follow it as fast as the 
 steamer will let me. I shall go up to London by 
 the one o'clock express, and start for St. Thomas by 
 the mail to-morrow.' 
 
 *How good, how noble 3'ou are, Edmund!' ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Standen, to whose maternal mind this 
 self-abnegation seemed almost Roman heroism. 
 
 * I'm not afraid to leave Hedingham, mother,' the 
 young man said in a lower voice, for his mother's 
 ear only, ' I can trust in your honour, and have no
 
 122 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 fear that you will use your influence to part Sylvia 
 and me while my back is turned.' 
 
 * No, Edmund, I am not base enough for that. I 
 will go and see her, if you like,' with a great effort, 
 ' while you are away, and try to like her.' 
 
 * Do, dear mother. You have but to know her in 
 order to love her.' 
 
 Edmund looked at his watch. It was not quite 
 nine. He had three clear hours in which to bid Sylvia 
 farewell, and speak to Mr. Carew. He was resolved to 
 leave nothing unsettled. His engagement to Sylvia 
 must be an established fact before he left Hedingham. 
 
 * What shall I do without you, Edmund,' said the 
 mother with a sigh, while he tried to hurry through 
 his breakfast, eating and drinking mechanically. 
 
 * Come, dear mother, there's no occasion for des- 
 pondency. I need not be away more than three 
 months, at most. Six weeks for the voyage to and 
 fro, and a month or so at Demerara. I am to bring 
 Nelly back with me, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. What should she stay there for, 
 poor child ? She will have a pension, I suppose, but 
 very little besides, if George has died in debt. He 
 was always so reckless, and counted so much upon 
 his expectations from his uncle the General. And 
 now the uncle has outlived the nephew. How sad.'
 
 GOTT LENKT. 123 
 
 * Vitce summa brevis spem nos retat inchoare 
 longam,' muttered Edmund. ' It's dull work waiting 
 for dead men's shoes.' 
 
 ' Tell your poor sister that she still has a home 
 here, Edmund — that she need think of no other.' 
 
 ' And the childi-en,' enquired Edmund, with a wry 
 face ; ' are they to come here too ? Let me see — 
 there are three of them, aren't there ? I think the 
 last was the third.' 
 
 'You might do something more than think about 
 the number of your only sister's children,' said Mrs. 
 Standen, reproachfully. 
 
 * They come so fast, one hasn't time to get a fixed 
 idea about them. Well, I'll bring her home, mother, 
 little ones and all. I don't suppose you'll quite like 
 
 S their sticky paw marks upon the mahogany furniture 
 or their broken toys in the corners of all the rooms. 
 But they'U help to amuse you and Esther when I am 
 gone.' 
 
 He spoke cheerily, to comfort his mother : yet 
 there was a weight of sadness at his heart not^^ith- 
 standing. Three months — three long months — in 
 which he and Sylvia were to be parted. 
 
 ' How I shall yearn for one touch of that little 
 hand, and how I shall pine for my dove,' he thought. 
 ' And how often in too delusive dreams I shall fancy
 
 124 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 her near me ; only to awake to the bitter pain of 
 separation.' 
 
 He made short work of his breakfast, and started 
 up, with an apology to his mother and Esther, to set 
 out for Hedingham. 
 
 * You'll get my portmanteau packed, won't you, 
 mother ? ' he asked. ' You needn't have much put in 
 as I haven't the right kind of clothes for a tropical 
 climate. I'll go to an outfitter in Cornhill and get 
 properly rigged out. You can order the dog-cart for 
 half-past twelve, and have the portmanteau put in. 
 I'll be back by that time.' 
 
 * Are you going to Hedingham ?' 
 
 * Yes, I am going to have a little talk with my 
 future father-in-law.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen shuddered. It was bad enough to 
 think of Sylvia as a daughter-in-law, but it was 
 worse to think of Sylvia's father. The village 
 schoolmaster ! The man who had forty pounds a 
 year, with a house to live in, coals and candles. 
 It was too dreadful to think that this humble 
 official would by-and-by have a right to enter 
 Dean House, would be a relation to its mistress 
 by marriage. 
 
 ' And the man looks and talks like a gentleman,' 
 thought Mrs. Standen. ' That's the worst part of
 
 GOTT LENKT. 125 
 
 the business. There must be some good reason for 
 burying himself alive at Hedingham.' 
 
 She sighed, not yet reconciled to the idea of her 
 son's marriage ; although, moved by a sudden imj^ulse 
 of gratitude and generosity, she had just now pro- 
 mised to visit Sylvia. She looked at Esther's earnest 
 face, which was turned towards her, full of tender 
 compassion. She looked and thought, ^^ith a sharp 
 pang, of a hope which she had cherished for years, 
 and abandoned only a few days ago. Tears came 
 into her eyes, and she turned away her head with a 
 sigh. 
 
 * Dearest Auntie, why are you so unhappy ?' asked 
 the girl affectionately. ' Is it about poor Mrs. 
 Sargent?' 
 
 ' No, my dear. It is about my son. He has made 
 up his mind to marry.' 
 
 ' Against your wish. I know all about it. Auntie. 
 Edmund told me this mornino:.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen turned towards her with a look of 
 sharpest scrutiny, ' And you are not angry with him 
 for such a choice ? ' 
 
 ' Why should I be angry ? All that I have to 
 wish for is that he may be happy — and if he can be 
 happy with Sylvia Carew, what does it matter that 
 she is not his equal in social position ? She is
 
 126 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 really very ladylike in her style and appearance, and 
 better educated than you might expect.' 
 
 ' If he can be happy,' repeated Mrs. Standen, 
 with intensity. 'Yes, Esther, it is that "if" which 
 troubles me.'
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SYLVIA AT HOME. 
 
 Hedingham looked its brightest in the morning sun- 
 shine as Edmund Standen walked along the little 
 street in the valley, where the brawling brook ran 
 merrily in front of the cottage and gardens, and under 
 the gi-een hedges, across which an inquisitive old 
 white horse, or a comfortable looking cow, red like 
 the rich loam of the valley, sometimes thrust a 
 big clumsy head, with half stupid, half enquiring 
 eyes. 
 
 The churchyard wore its accustomed aspect of 
 shady repose, as Edmund crossed it by the familiar 
 foot way that led to the old school-house. A shrill 
 clamour of juvenile voices sounded through the open 
 windows ; for Mr. Carew's scholars worshipped 
 Minerva and the Muses somewhat noisily. The old, 
 old school-house, for which Mr. Yancourt, the vicar, 
 was anxious to substitute a smart gothic erection.
 
 128 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 had a certain rustic picturesqueness of aspect likely 
 to be wanting in the modern building. Houseleek 
 and stonecrop grew undisturbed on the time black- 
 ened thatch, which sloped steeply down to the very 
 windows of the school-room and parlour. The upper 
 story was entirely formed by that sloping roof, the 
 bed chambers all angles, with latticed dormers peep- 
 ing out of the thatch. The indefinable charm of 
 antiquity pervaded the building. The cob walls, 
 faced with crinkly-looking plaster, were half hidden 
 under the rich growth of century- old myrtles and 
 climbing roses, the half-acre of garden, where flowers 
 and vegetables grew side by side in brotherly love, was 
 bright with hollyhocks and carnations, big hoary 
 lavender bushes, breathing their sweet perfume on 
 the summer air, the scarlet blossoms of the humble 
 bean, the gray-blue bloom of the onion. 
 
 To Edmund, this morning, the school-house 
 seemed a delicious dwelling place. He thought of 
 the steamer, and the long weary voyage to Demerara, 
 and longed to stay here and loiter away a tranquil 
 existence in endless joy, instead of doing his duty in 
 that state of life which Providence had assigned to 
 him. 
 
 *If all other trades fail, I can turn schoolmaster,' 
 he reflected. * I would' nt mind teaching stupid boys
 
 SYLVIA AT HOME. 129 
 
 half the day, if I could spend the other half with 
 Sylvia.' 
 
 He opened the door which communicated with 
 that part of the school-house appropriated to Mr. 
 Carew's residence. This door opened straight into 
 the parlour, a fair-sized room, poorly furnished hut 
 neatly kept, and displaying some little attempt at 
 embellishment which looked like Sylvia's handiwork. 
 White muslin curtains draped the two low latticed 
 casements, a row of flower-pots screened the window 
 that faced the sun, a few cheap prints decorated the 
 walls, a flowered chintz cover concealed the shabbi- 
 ness of a decropid sofa ; three rows of books on 
 hanging shelves and a smart china inkstand and desk 
 on a little table brightened the recess by the fireplace ; 
 a pair of green glass candlesticks and a cracked 
 china vase adorned the high chimney-piece. It was 
 not the room of a slovenly housewife, and Mr. Stan- 
 den looked round him with admiring eyes. If his 
 betrothed imparted gi-ace even to such poor surround- 
 ings, what a charm would she lend to the fair home 
 he hoped to give her. 
 
 Sylvia was busy in the adjoining room — a veiy 
 small kitchen — for Mr. Carew's pittance did not 
 allow him to keep a servant, and his daughter had to 
 manage the household work as best she might. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Happily for him she managed it deftly — kept their 
 poor rooms the pink of cleanliness — cooked the epi- 
 cure's small dinner to his perfect satisfaction — never 
 left pails of water or empty jugs standing in his way 
 — rose with the tirds, and got through all the rough 
 part of the work before the Hedingham gentry had 
 left their pillows, in order that no one should see her 
 in her common cotton gown, with sleeves tucked up 
 to the shoulders. Happily for her own peace of 
 mind the work of cleaning those few rooms was not 
 enough to redden or roughen her pretty hands and 
 arms. She had contrived to minister to her father 
 from the time she was twelve years old, without 
 injury to her growing loveliness. Indeed, her beauty 
 may have been improved by that enforced activity 
 which preserved the fresh bloom of her cheek, and 
 the liquid brightness of her eyes. 
 
 She heard the sound of the opening door, and her 
 lover's footsteps, and came out of the kitchen, where 
 she had been preparing the remains of yesterday's 
 chicken for to-day's dinner. The happy look which 
 Edmund knew so well flashed into her face at sight 
 of him, and then changed curiously to a look of 
 fear. 
 
 * My darling, what is the matter ? ' he asked, fold- 
 ing her in his arms.
 
 SYLVIA AT HOME. 131 
 
 ' You have come to tell papa,' she said, ' and I am 
 frightened. I know he will be disagreeable — insult 
 you, perhaps, if you tell him your mother's deter- 
 mination. Why not leave him in the dark, Edmund? 
 Just ask his permission to marry me, and no 
 more.' 
 
 * My pet, you ask me to do a dishonourable thing,' 
 answered Edmund, kissing her fair forehead at the 
 end of his sentence, lest the reproach should seem 
 too severe ; ' and even if I tried to deceive your 
 father I should most likely fail. He would ask for 
 a settlement, or something of that kind, which he 
 could hardly get from a pauper.' 
 
 Sylvia shuddered at the word. It is hard to bid 
 good-bye to one's brightest dream, and SyMa's had 
 been the fancy that she had won the lover she loved, 
 and a rich husband, in Edmund Standen. 
 
 ' I must tell Mr. Carew the truth, dear, and I can't 
 tell it too soon,' said Edmund firmly. ' But I'm 
 sorry to say I've more bad news for you this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Bad news ! How can you have bad news '? 
 What more can your mother rob you of?' 
 
 * My bad news does not concern our fortunes, 
 Sylvia, but our parting. I am going away from 
 Hedingham for three months.' 
 
 K 2
 
 132 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 The girl's cheek paled, but no tear clouded those 
 brilliant eyes. She looked at him fixedly — her lips 
 quivering. 
 
 ' You have changed your mind — you are going to 
 give me up ! ' she said. 
 
 * Give you up, vs^hen I am here to ask your father 
 for your hand ; to give him formal notice of our 
 engagement.' 
 
 ' What is to part us then ? ' 
 
 * Duty, Sylvia, which calls me far away.' 
 
 He told her about the news from Demerara, and 
 his immediate departure. Sylvia pouted and looked 
 disconsolate. She had no sympathy with an 
 unknown widow, above all when that widow was the 
 very person for whose benefit her lover was to be 
 robbed of his rightful inheritance. 
 
 ' It seems hard that you should be obliged to go, 
 Edmund,' she said. ' One would think your sister 
 might find some one else to settle her afi'airs and 
 bring her back to England, that. is to say if she wants 
 an escort. I thought married women were indepen- 
 dent, and could do everything for themselves.' 
 
 * But think of her trouble, Sylvia — her husband 
 so suddenly snatched away from her. They had been 
 married six years, and it was a real love-match. I 
 never knew people more attached to each other.'
 
 SYLVIA AT HOME. 133 
 
 * What took them to Demerara?' asked Sylvia, 
 still disconsolate. 
 
 ' George was a barrister, with a very fair practice 
 when he married, and he and my sister lived as 
 happily as a pair of turtle doves, in a pretty little 
 house at South Kensington. But two years ago he 
 got a judgeship in Demerara. It was too good to 
 refuse, so off they started, to my mother's regret. 
 When they were in England they used to spend a 
 month with us every autumn.' 
 
 ' Of course,' thought Sylvia, ' scheming to cheat 
 you out of your fortune.' 
 
 ' Sylvia,' said Edmund earnestly, * this parting 
 won't make any difference in your love, will it "? You 
 mean to be true to me ? ' 
 
 The loving eyes looked up at him, the little hands 
 clasped his. What need was there of any further 
 answer ? 
 
 ' I love you too dearly to change,' she said, and 
 then added meditatively, ' I sometimes wish I 
 didn't.' 
 
 ' But why, my own one ? ' 
 
 ' Because I don't think our love is lucky for either 
 of us. What has it given you but trouble in the 
 present ? What does it promise us in the future '? ' 
 
 ' Happiness, darling. Happiness, which is not
 
 134 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 to be gauged by the measure of a man's banking 
 account. Trust your fate to me, and we will be 
 happy together, rich or poor. Already the clouds are 
 lifting. My mother and I had a confidential talk 
 last night, which ended pleasantly. She loves me 
 with all her unselfish heart, dear soul, in spite of 
 her prejudices. And she will learn to love you too, 
 my pet, in good time. She has even promised to 
 come and see you while I am away.' 
 
 * Even,' repeated Sylvia, with ever so faint a sneer, 
 I'm sure I ought to be grateful for so much con- 
 descension.' 
 
 'You'll receive her kindly, Sylvia, for my sake.' 
 ' I would do anything for your sake,' said the girl 
 
 fondly. She was swifter in her changes of mood 
 
 than an April sky. 
 
 ' And you will be constant, Sylvia ?' 
 
 * I cannot help being constant. I never loved any 
 one but you, and to the end of my life I shall love 
 you and you only.' 
 
 And she meant it.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A HUMILIATING REJECTION. 
 
 Edmund Standee's interview \^itll Mr. Carew was 
 far from satisfactory His candour evoked no re- 
 sponsive generosity from the schoolmaster. 
 
 * If your mother means to disinherit you, and you 
 have to begin the world without a sixpence, I can't 
 see that my daughter will better her position by 
 marrying you,' said James Carew dryly. 
 
 He had left his rough gang of scholars to their 
 ovm devices, and come into the parlour, whither 
 Sylvia had summoned him, and whence she had 
 fled, leaving her lover to fight his battle as best he 
 might. 
 
 ' We love each other,' pleaded Edmund. 
 
 ' That's a boy and girl reason. But I cannot see 
 that mutual affection is sufficient ground for mutual 
 starvation. To talk about marriage now, with your 
 way to make in the world, is a sheer absurdity.
 
 136 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Come to me by-and-by when you are able to keep a 
 wife, and I may be able to give you a more favourable 
 answer.' 
 
 ' I don't ask your consent to an immediate 
 marriage,' replied Edmund. ' I am willing to wait 
 a few months. By the end of that time I hope to 
 have won a secure income and a home for my wife. 
 She has not been accustomed to splendour or luxury,' 
 he added, with a glance at the homely parlour, 
 ' and she will know how to manage matters upon a 
 moderate income.' 
 
 ' She has been accustomed to the sharpest poverty,' 
 answered Mr. Carew, ' but that is no reason why she 
 should endure its stings to the end of her days. So 
 lovely a girl as my daughter ought to improve her 
 position by marriage.' 
 
 ' Which means that you would sell her to the 
 highest bidder,' said Edmund bitterly. 
 
 * Nothing of the kind. It only means that I will 
 never give my consent to her marriage with a man 
 who has less than a thousand a year of fixed income. 
 That is little enough for the wants of modern life,' 
 added Mr. Carew, with as grand an air as if he had 
 never existed upon smaller means. 
 
 ' Then I am to understand that you refuse your 
 consent,' said Edmund, pale with anger.
 
 A HUMILIATING REJECTION. 137 
 
 ' Absolutely.' 
 
 *Ancl whatever influence you have with your 
 daughter will be used to prevent her marrN'ing 
 me.' 
 
 * Decidedly.' 
 
 * Very well, Mr. Carew. I am bound, however, to 
 inform you that I do. not beHeve your daughter will 
 abide by your decision in this matter.' 
 
 ' There she must please herself,' answered the 
 schoolmaster coolly ; ' I can only try to prevent her 
 throwing herself away, but if she has set her heart, 
 or her mind, whichever it is that governs a woman's 
 impulses, upon marrying a beggar, I cannot help it. 
 I can only forbid you my house,' he concluded, as 
 loftily as if the low ceiled parlour had been a 
 mansion. 
 
 ' You need not trouble yourself to do that,' replied 
 Edmund, ' this is the first time I have crossed your 
 threshold, and it shall be the last. I only came 
 here to-day because I had a duty to perform.' 
 
 ' Oh ! It was your duty to tell me, after you had 
 stolen my daughter's heart,' said the schoolmaster. 
 
 Edmund did not reply to the taunt, though it 
 wounded him. It was Sylvia's fault that he had not 
 made this communication sooner. He could not tell 
 her father that.
 
 138 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' I am going to leave England for some time on 
 family business,' lie said quietly, * will you allow me 
 to bid Sylvia good-bye ? ' 
 
 ' I will allow nothing of the kind. I will coun- 
 tenance no manner of communication between you. 
 If she choose to disobey me, let her take the con- 
 sequences of her own act, and do penance for her 
 folly in a garret or a gutter. I shall not pity her.' 
 
 'And I shall think I do a good action in re- 
 moving her from the custody of such a father,' 
 exclaimed Edmund angrily. 
 
 * Good morning, sir,' said the schoolmaster, 
 opening the door ; * my pupils are clamorous, and 
 I must return to them.' 
 
 Edmund gave him a haughty bow and went out, 
 his bosom swelling with indignation. What would 
 be said in Hedingham should it be known that he 
 had sued for the schoolmaster's daughter, and been 
 contemptuously, refused? His heart beat high with 
 wounded pride. 
 
 He was sufficiently provincial to consider himself 
 of some importance, lightly as he might affect to 
 regard the difference between his rank and Sylvia's 
 when he pleaded love's cause with Mrs. Standen. 
 He felt that in his person the respectability of the 
 Standen family had been outraged.
 
 A HUMILIATING REJECTION. 139 
 
 In this little burst of resentment he had almost 
 forgot Sylvia and love. He was crossing the church- 
 yard, and had just reached a spot where the shade of 
 cypress and yew was deepest, an unfrequented nook 
 by the i^-y-mantled tomb of the Bossineys, when a 
 light step sounded behind him, and presently Sylvia's 
 hands were clasped upon his arm. 
 
 ' Edmund, could you leave me without saying 
 good-bye ? ' 
 
 Anger fled at the sound of that voice. He looked 
 down at his betrothed with the old loving look, 
 mingled with sadness. 
 
 * My dearest, it would have half broken my heart 
 to part thus, but I had no time for lingering, and 
 your father forbad my seeing you.' 
 
 * My father. I don't care a straw for my father's 
 commands where you are concerned. I think I 
 should have run all the way to Monkhampton, 
 under the hot sun, to catch you at the station, 
 if I hadn't overtaken you here. But I have 
 caught you. Stop a minute, Edmund, in this 
 dark shade, and give me one more kiss before 
 you go, and tell me once more, one little once, 
 that you love me.' 
 
 The kiss and the assurance of affection were re- 
 peated a good many times. ' God bless and guard
 
 140 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 you, my sweet wife in the days to come,' said Ed- 
 mund tenderly. 
 
 The words startled Sylvia, and she looked up at 
 him curiously. It was the first time he had ever 
 called her hy that name. 
 
 * Your wife ! ' she repeated. ' Do you think it 
 ever will be, Edmund ? ' 
 
 'What, sweetest?" 
 
 ' Our marriage. You see there are two people to 
 hinder it, Mrs. Standen and papa. Perhaps they 
 will put their heads together and plot against us.' 
 
 ' My mother plot. For shame, Sylvia ! ' 
 
 ' You needn't be offended. I said papa too, I'm 
 sure he's not above plotting. Everything seems 
 against us. This voyage to Demerara for instance, 
 as sudden as if you had received a summons from 
 some one in the moon. Do you honestly think we 
 shall ever be married, Edmund ? ' 
 
 * Yes, my own love. If we are but true to each 
 other.' 
 
 He kissed her once again, and this time it was 
 verily the parting kiss, for the great hoarse bell of 
 the church clock boomed out twelve heavy strokes, 
 till the air round them seemed to tremble, the stal- 
 wart cypress to shiver. 
 
 'Be true to to me, darling,' he cried, with almost
 
 A HUMILIATING REJECTION. 141 
 
 clespairing fondness, ' be true to me, as God knows I 
 shall be true to you.' Then with a desperate wi-ench 
 he put her from him, and hurried away, blinded by 
 tears his manhood was ashamed of. Good-bye was 
 a word he had not courage to utter, and so he left 
 her leaning despondently upon the tomb of the 
 Bossineys ; not weeping — tears with Sylvia were 
 rare — but breathing languid sighs for the loss of so 
 true a lover. 
 
 *How dull the place will seem without him,' she 
 thought dejectedly.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SIR AUBREY IS INTERESTED. 
 
 The fancy fair had been a great success. Such a 
 fund had been raised as justified Mr. Vancourt in 
 bringing a Monkhampton architect to survey the 
 existing school-house, with a view to furnishing 
 plans and specifications for a better one on the same 
 site. 
 
 The vicar and one of his daughters drove into the 
 market town on the afternoon of that day in which 
 Edmund Standen bade a reluctant farewell to Hed- 
 ingham and all that it contained ; the Yicar intent 
 on business, Miss Mary Vancourt intent on the shop 
 windows, which offered the wealth of the newest 
 fashions to the feminine gaze. 
 
 * Oh, look, papa, at those funny brown and yellow 
 stripes,' she exclaimed, as she walked the fat pony 
 at a funeral pace past the showy windows of Mr. 
 Ganzlein, the great Monkhampton draper. * Those
 
 SIR AUBREY IS INTERESTED. 143 
 
 are to be all the rage this year. Florence Toynbee 
 told Die so, and you know she has a cousin in Paris. 
 They're ugly, but rather stylish. I think I shall 
 have one.' 
 
 Mr. Yancourt gazed with indifferent eye upon the 
 splendours of Ganzlein's. The last importation of 
 cuffs and collars — ' sets ' as they were called at 
 Ganzlein's — from Paris or Spitalfields. The Ayr- 
 shire sewed work. The more costly industry of 
 Madeira's convents. The lustrous silks. The 
 dainty umbrellas. He was riding his own hobby, 
 the gothic schoolhouse, and had no sympathy with 
 his daughter's aspirations, which always took the 
 direction of millinery. 
 
 * Drive a little faster, my dear,' he said briskly. 
 ' I want to catch Mr. Spilby before he leaves his 
 office.' 
 
 Mr. Spilby was the architect, who to the strictly 
 professional and aesthetic pursuit of architecture con- 
 joined the more perennially profitable business of an 
 auctioneer and house-agent. He had a little office 
 abutting on the High Street of Monkhampton, at a 
 sharp corner, over against a pump, and where two 
 smaller streets branched off from the main thorough- 
 fare, a situation, in fact, which was considered one 
 of the best in Monkhampton.
 
 144 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. * 
 
 ' You can wait here for me, my dear,' said Mr. 
 Vancourt, as the pony drew up before Mr. Spilby's 
 plate-glass door — a smart looking office was Mr. 
 Spilby's, beautified with framed and glazed views of 
 villas and country seats for sale or hire, houses 
 whose architectural attractions were enhanced, or set 
 off, by preternaturally vivid verdure, and a tropical 
 sky. * You can wait, Mary, while I speak a word or 
 two to Mr. Spilby. I shan't be five minutes.' 
 
 Miss Vancourt gave a little sigh, knowing that 
 under such circumstances the Vicar's five minutes 
 meant half an hour. But she breathed no remon- 
 strance, and settled herself in the comfortable little 
 pony carriage, with her sun-umbrella held so that it 
 should shade her sufficiently and yet not prevent her 
 seeing and being seen. Monkhampton, at four 
 o'clock in the afternoon, was quite a lively place. 
 Three or four carriages, of the barouche or landau 
 tribe, might be seen in the High Street, between 
 four and five, while pony carriages and the lesser fry 
 of vehicles were abundant. 
 
 As Miss Vancourt knew nearly every one who 
 passed she was not without amusement. Now waft- 
 ing a kiss from the tips of her gloved fingers to the 
 occupants of a laudau — now nodding to a fair 
 charioteer in a pony carriage — now exchanging a few
 
 SIR AUBREY IS INTERESTED. 145 
 
 words wdth pedestrians who stopped to shake hands, 
 make a remark or two upon the weather, and enquire 
 with solicitude about the health of the Yancourt 
 family, as if, when last heard of, they had been 
 almost moribund. 
 
 Miss Yancourt stifled a little vawn after exchano:- 
 ing several such gi-eetings, a yawn which may have 
 been caused by the heat of the afternoon or the 
 dullness of her acquaintance. 
 
 ' I wish I could have stopped opposite Ganzlein's,' 
 she thought ; ' I could have had a good look at the 
 new fashions. I might have bought a pair of gloves 
 to keep me in countenance.' 
 
 She looked at her watch, and discovered that the 
 vicar's five minutes had extended to twenty. 
 
 ' He'll stop with Mr. Spilby an hour,' she thought, 
 ' prosing about that old school,' by which she meant 
 the new school. ' I really wish we hadn't helped 
 papa with the Fancy Fair. We shall never hear the 
 last of that tiresome school-house ; and I'm sure 
 the present building does well enough. It keeps 
 out wind and weather, and if the children are a little 
 crowded it's no more than they're accustomed to in 
 their homes. AYhat's the use of disturbing the poor 
 little creatures' ideas of life with fine architecture ; 
 when they must go home to their hovels after all ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Miss Vancourt gave a second yawn, which she 
 hardly took the trouble to conceal. She was sur- 
 prised in the midst of it by the appearance of a 
 gentleman upon a well-groomed chestnut horse, who 
 drew rein on the off-side of the little pony carriage. 
 
 * I thought I couldn't be mistaken,' said this gen- 
 tleman ; ' it is Miss Yancourt.' 
 
 The yawn was strangled untimely, and Miss Van- 
 court became all smiles and brightness. 
 
 * How do you do. Sir Aubrey ? ' she said, shaking 
 hands with the lord of the soil. 'Papa is in the 
 office, talking to Mr. Spilby about the new school - 
 house.' 
 
 ' Indeed. Do you know I am very much interested 
 in that new school-house ? That little Arcadian 
 festivity yesterday afternoon was charming. I was 
 never more gratified.' 
 
 * Eeally ! ' exclaimed Miss Vancourt, brightening. 
 It is so nice to be praised by a person of import- 
 ance. ' It was a very humble attempt, of course, 
 but for a charity bazaar it certainly went off amaz- 
 ingly well.' 
 
 * The bazaar ! ' exclaimed Sir Aubrey. ' I wasn't 
 thinking of the bazaar just then, though it was very 
 nice, and did you young ladies vast credit — all those 
 pretty things worked by your own fair hands —
 
 SIR AUBREY IS INTERESTED. 147 
 
 delightful I am sure. But what I spoke of just now 
 was the children's tea-drinking — such a pretty rustic 
 scene, in that nice old orchard — the happy children 
 — a — arrah — that — arrah — pretty girl who helped to 
 give them their tea — altogether a very sweet scene/ 
 The Baronet's languid tones stumbled curiously to- 
 wards the end of this speech. 
 
 *I suppose you mean Mr. Carew's daughter,' said 
 Miss Yancourt contemptuously. ' Ptather a bold 
 young person. My sister and I used to be kind to 
 her as long as we could afford to do so. But lately 
 there have been some unpleasant reports.' 
 
 ' Unpleasant rep.orts ! ' echoed Sir Aubrey ; ' what 
 kind of reports ? ' 
 
 ' I had rather not discuss the subject, if you 
 please, Sir Aubrey,' replied Miss Yancourt, drawing 
 her lips together primly. 
 
 * I am sorry that Tillage slander should touch so 
 innocent a creature,' said the Baronet, ' for it needs 
 no profound knowledge of the human countenance 
 to see purity in that fair young face.' 
 
 Miss Yancourt sighed gently, but made no reply. 
 It was hardly worth disputing about Sylvia's charac- 
 ter with this senile baronet, who evidently admired 
 her pretty face. Nor could Miss Yancourt have said 
 very much against the young woman had she been 
 
 L 2
 
 148 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 forced to speak plainly. She had only been informed 
 by some one who had been informed by some one 
 else, that Sylvia Carew had been seen walking with 
 Mr. Standen in the shades of evening. And this 
 Sir Aubrey Perriam might have considered insuffi- 
 cient evidence for the condemnation of a village 
 beauty. 
 
 Mr. Vancourt emerged from Mr. Spilby's office 
 anl saved the necessity of further argument. 
 
 * How do you do, Sir Aubrey ; nice weather for 
 the crops. I'm happy to tell you that our little 
 festival, which you were good enough to honour with 
 your presence, was a positive triumph. The bazaar 
 has produced us close upon eighty pounds. This, 
 with previous collections, brings us up to three 
 hundred. So in about two years more, if things go 
 well, we may count upon something very near a 
 thousand, and by that time may certainly begin our 
 work. The old place will hold together very well for 
 a couple of years longer.' 
 
 ' It would last half a century, I'm sure, papa,' 
 said Miss Vancourt disdainfully. ' I can't think 
 why you are so anxious to build new schools. I 
 daresay it will end in a debt which you will be 
 obliged to pay.' 
 
 ' Let us hope that Mr. Vancourt's parishioners
 
 SIR AUBREY IS INTERESTED. 149 
 
 will be too generous to permit such an injustice,' 
 said Sir Aubrey, with an air that implied his own 
 willingness to come to the rescue. Yet the voice of 
 Rumour, in Hedingham, and Swanford, and neigh- 
 bouring parishes, affirmed that Sir Aubrey Perriam 
 was close, and that if there was one thing in this 
 world he most cordially hated, that one thing was to 
 dissever himself from any portion of his wealth. 
 Indeed there were some slanderers so base as to de- 
 clare that, despite his elegant bearing and perfect dress 
 and carefully appointed household, Sir Aubrey was 
 something of a miser. He did not put money away 
 in iron-bound chests, or bury it in the earth ; but 
 he invested it from time to time with studious care, 
 and people found it very difficult to beguile him into 
 the expenditure of it. 
 
 * It's rather prematm-e, perhaps,' said the Yicar, 
 ' with only three hundred in hand ; but I've asked 
 Spilby to come over this evening and look at the old 
 place, and give his opinion about the kind of build- 
 ing adapted to the site — Gothic, of course, it must 
 be.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey was wonderfully interested. 
 
 ' What, Spilby coming to look at your school- 
 house this evening?' said he. * I should like to hear 
 what he says. Clever fellow, Spilby.'
 
 150 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sir Aubrey always praised people. It cost him 
 nothing, and made things generally agreeable. 
 
 * If you will do us the honour of dining at the 
 Vicarage, Sir Aubrey,' said Mr. Vancourt heartily, 
 but stopped abruptly, frozen by a frown from his 
 daughter, a frown which meant that the Vicarage 
 dinner was not good enough to be taken unawares 
 by so great a man as Sir Aubrey. But men are so 
 rash. 
 
 * The idea of papa asking Sir Aubrey to go home 
 with us when we've nothing but soup, and the cold 
 fore-quarter of lamb,' thought Miss Vancourt, in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 Perhaps Sir Aubrey guessed the reason of that 
 unfinished sentence, for he made haste to refuse the 
 Vicar's invitation. 
 
 * You're too good,' he said ; ' but my brother 
 would wait dinner for me. I must ride back to the 
 Place, but I'll come to Hedingham directly after 
 dinner. What time do you expect Spilby ? ' 
 
 'About half-past seven.' 
 
 ' Keep him till half-past eight. I'll be with you 
 by that time ; good-bye. Miss Vancourt ; au revoir, 
 Vicar,' and the baronet touched his chestnut's 
 shoulder with his whip, and rode off at a sharp 
 trot.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 
 
 The sun had left only a low line of crimson behind 
 the cypress and yews in the churchyard, when Sir 
 Aubrey Perriam opened the rustic gate of the 
 school-house garden. He had left his horse at the 
 inn, where the landlord and his underlings were not 
 a little surprised to see the lord of the manor at so 
 late an hour. There was something cheering in 
 his appearance. It seemed as if he meant to take 
 notice of Hedingham. 
 
 ' It's like old times to see you among us again. 
 Sir Aubrey,' said the man, vaguely, for those times 
 were old indeed, older than this mortal life, in which 
 Sir Aubrey had been wont to honour Hedingham 
 with frequent visits. 
 
 * I've come to meet the architect who is to draTv 
 the designs for the new school-house, Barford,' said 
 the baronet, graciously.
 
 152 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ^ Deary me. Yes, our Vicar's such an active gen- 
 tleman, alius up to something,' replied Mr. Barford, 
 who would have preferred a more sleepy vicar and 
 less frequent calls upon his own purse. 
 
 Those improvements of Mr. Vancourt's imposed 
 a tax upon Hedingham — yet it was something to 
 live in a village that stood foremost in the march of 
 civilization. Mr. Vancourt had even talked about 
 restoring the church — doing away with the gallery 
 in which generations of Hedingham folks had 
 listened in slumbrous repose to drowsy afternoon 
 sermons — and beautifying chancel and aisles in 
 some wonderful manner. But the Hedingham 
 people strenuously opposed any such new-fangled 
 notions. They liked the church as their forefathers 
 had sat in it, they said sentimentally; and they 
 liked their money in their pockets ; but this they 
 did not say. 
 
 The architect and Mr. Vancourt had been pacing 
 and measuring and -planning for the last half-hour. 
 Sir Aubrey heard their voices as he opened the little 
 gate and went into the schoolmaster's garden. But 
 he was in no hurry to join them. He strolled slowly 
 along the narrow path, admiring that homely mix- 
 ture of flowers and vegetables, the entanglement of 
 pinks and pansies protected by a border of thick
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 153 
 
 box that had been growing for the last forty years, 
 the tall hollyhocks that screened the cabbages and 
 beans, the spreading rose-bushes. To a man who 
 Hved half the year in Paris this village garden had 
 charms. 
 
 * After all, there is no place like England,' he 
 said to himself, ' and there are no women so pretty 
 as Englishwomen. Where on the continent could 
 one match the pink and white of that girl's com- 
 plexion ? ' 
 
 He found Mr. Vancourt and the architect pacing 
 the little grass plat before Mr. Carew's parlour. 
 Sylvia sat just within the open door, watching them 
 while she worked, making as fair a picture in the 
 twilight as a painter need care to see. Her father 
 lounged against the door-post, smoking his evening 
 pipe. 
 
 Sir Aubrey gave a nod to the Vicar and Mr. 
 Spilby, and went straight to the door, where he 
 wished Miss Carew^ good evening, with bare head. 
 
 The gii'l gave a Httle start at first seeing him, and 
 the fair face crimsoned. What could have brought 
 him here to-night "? To-night of all nights, when 
 poor Edmund was on his dismal way to South- 
 ampton. 
 
 Sir Aubrey saw the blush, and was orratified.
 
 154 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 There were ladies of his acquaintance who affected to 
 consider him an old man. It was pleasant to find 
 that he could flutter the pulse of this lovely young 
 creature. 
 
 ' I hope you are not very much fatigued after 
 your exertions yesterday,' he said courteously. The 
 schoolmaster had laid aside his pipe, and was 
 bringing out a chair. 
 
 ' I am not at all tired, thank you. Sir Aubrey,' 
 replied the girl, smiling at his question, in the 
 serene security of youth and health. ' I really don't 
 know what it is to be tired. I suppose that comes 
 from never riding in carriages.' 
 
 * I would lock up my stables and dismiss my 
 grooms to-morrow, if I could secure the same im- 
 munity,' said Sir Aubrey, with a gentle sigh, sink- 
 ing into the chair which James Carew had placed 
 for him. 
 
 He acknowledged the schoolmaster's courtesy with 
 a stately inclination of his head. * This gentleman 
 is your father, I presume,' he said to Sylvia, in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 * Yes, Sir Aubrey.' 
 
 ' Charmed to know you, Mr. Carew,' murmured 
 the baronet, condescendingly. * I didn't see you in 
 the orchard yesterday.'
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 155 
 
 * No, Sir Aubrey. The children's feast-day is my 
 one day of perfect rest. And as I am not particularly 
 strong, I leave younger and gayer folks to make the 
 little ones merry. My presence would set them 
 gabbling the multiplication table, I fancy, from mere 
 force of habit.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' said Sir Aubrey, laughing, with 
 that easy mechanical laugh acquired in polite 
 society. * Yery good, Mr. Carew. And is this 
 young lady your youngest daughter ? ' 
 
 ' She is my only daughter. Sir Aubrey, my only 
 child." 
 
 * Indeed. You must be very fond of her.' 
 James Carew looked at his daughter with a 
 
 puzzled expression, feeling that he was called upon 
 to say something tender — to let loose some gush of 
 emotion, such as might be expected to flow from the 
 lips of an only child's father. 
 
 But those two had not cultivated the language of 
 the affections, and Mr. Carew had no such words at 
 his command. 
 
 * We get on very well together,' he said, trpng 
 his hardest to be tender, ' but I'm afraid the life is 
 rather a dull one for Sylvia.' 
 
 * You speak with a refinement of accent which I 
 should hardly have expected in '
 
 156 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' In a Hedingham schoolmaster,' said Mr. Carew. 
 ' I don't know about that. I daresay I'm very much 
 behind the new order of national schoolmasters, who 
 are expected to be wonders of erudition. But I 
 came to Hedingham in the good old times, when all 
 people expected of a village schoolmaster was the 
 ability to spell decently and write a fair hand. 
 
 Mr. Carew might have added that in this happier 
 era certificates of character were not so sternly scru- 
 tinised as they are now-a-days. 
 
 * Have you been so long at Hedingham ? ' enquired 
 Sir Aubrey. 
 
 * Fifteen years.' 
 
 ' You surprise me ! With your education, I 
 should have supposed you would have long ago 
 sought and obtained a much better position.' 
 
 Sylvia gave an impatient sigh. This was the 
 very thought she had so often uttered. 
 
 ' Papa doesn't know the meaning of ambition,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' No, I have no ambition. '' Man wants but little 
 here below, nor wants that little long." Why dis- 
 turb the brief span in which he may enjoy his little 
 by fruitless endeavours to make it great? "The 
 gods want nothing," said the Greek, *' and the man 
 who wants least comes nearest to the gods." I have
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 157 
 
 schooled my desires better than I have taught the 
 village children ; and, like Goldsmith's model 
 pastor, feel myself " passing rich with forty pounds 
 a year." ' 
 
 Mr. Carew might have added, that unlike the 
 ideal pastor, he spent the forty pounds strictly upon 
 himself, and thus stretched the money to its utmost 
 limit. 
 
 * I admire your philosophical spirit, sir,' said the 
 baronet approvingly. ' If there were more men of 
 your temper there would be fewer revolutions. Yet 
 for your daughter's sake I can but think it a pity 
 you should have been contented with a position so 
 far below your merits.' 
 
 Sylvia gave another sigh. 
 
 * Oh, papa never thinks of me,' she said, ' so long 
 as he has a servant, to whom he need pay no wages, 
 he is quite satisfied.' 
 
 Now this was not an amiable speech, and from 
 lips less lovely might have seemed wanting in filial 
 respect. But Sir Aubrey looked at the lips, and did 
 not weigh the words that had escaped through that 
 rosy gate. He was thinking how lovely, how intelli- 
 gent the girl was, and what a hard thing it seemed 
 that she should be buried alive in such a place as 
 this — pretty and rustic indeed to contemplate as a
 
 158 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 picture in the summer twilight, but no fitting home 
 for a beautiful young woman. 
 
 He rose hastily, went across the grass to the Vicar 
 and Mr. Spilby, who were leaning against the palings 
 talking prodigiously, Spilby with a pencil and note- 
 book in his hand. There was too dangerous a 
 witchcraft about that fair young face. Witchcraft 
 that might lure a man to his ruin. 
 
 ' In my position a man cannot afford to be 
 fooli&h,' thought the baronet. Perriam Place and 
 all its appurtenances hung round his neck, as it 
 were — a millstone which he could not shake off. ' If 
 I were a youngster, I might make a fool of myself 
 and marry that girl,' he thought. 
 
 Yet in a young man with his life before him such 
 an act would have been more desperate than in a 
 man of Sir Aubrey's age, with whom the best part 
 of life was over, and who might surely choose what 
 comforter he liked for his declining years. Never, 
 perhaps, was a man more free to please himself than 
 Sir Aubrey. Near relations he had none, save his 
 brother, the harmless eccentric Mr. Perriam, who 
 was considered hardly quite right in his mind. 
 There was really nothing to prevent his pleasing 
 himself; except his own prejudices. But these 
 were strong. He had a magnificent idea of his own
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 159 
 
 importance and the grandeur of his place in the 
 world. He had never done anything in competition 
 with his fellow men; and therefore he had never 
 failed. Nothing had ever happened to weaken his 
 faith in himself. 
 
 As a young man he had been affianced to the 
 daughter of a Duke. The Duke was poor, but of 
 loftiest lineage. The girl, Lady Guinevere, had 
 died a month before the day appointed for the 
 marriage, and the blow had fallen heavily on Aubrey 
 Perriam. The portrait of his betrothed still hung 
 in his study at Perriam, and he rarely looked at it 
 without a regretful sigh. 
 
 This disappointment, or rather the memory of his 
 disappointment, for it had long ceased to be more 
 than a sorrowful memory, had kept Su' Aubrey 
 single all these years. With the recollection that 
 his Guinevere was the sweetest of women, there 
 mingled always the thought that she was also the 
 daughter of one of England's oldest Dukes. He 
 ' met with innumerable pretty women, and agreeable 
 women, who would have been glad to become Lady 
 Perriam ; but there was not one worthy to occupy 
 the place that Guinevere was to have filled. They 
 might have brightened his earth with all the tender 
 joys of home ; but they could not have given his
 
 160 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 children a ducal grandfather. Sir Aubrey took that 
 fact to heart, and remained single. 
 
 Yet in every pathway there lurks a snare. Sir 
 Aubrey's tastes were artistic. He had his ideal, his 
 dream of perfect beauty, which he never thought to 
 see realised save on the canvas of his favourite, 
 Titian. And, lo, he had found this dream-picture, 
 this impossible flower of human life, which poets 
 have sung, and painters have painted through all 
 the ages. He had found his ideal, here, in the 
 village of Hedingham — on his own property — but a 
 few miles from the house in which he dwelt. 
 
 He listened politely to all Mr. Spilby's ideas about 
 the new school- house. Mr. Spilby was of opinion 
 that the present building was worn out, used up, 
 that it would hardly hold together for a month 
 longer. 
 
 ' Weather-tight it has not been for the last ten 
 years,' said Mr. Spilby, with profound contempt, 
 ' and how thqse blessed old cob walls have con- 
 trived to hold together at all passes my under- 
 standing.' 
 
 'I'm afraid they must hold together a year or 
 two longer, Spilby,' said the Vicar. ' But you 
 may give us your specification as soon as you like. 
 We shall know where we are when we've got that.'
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 161 
 
 Sir Aubrey pretended the deepest interest, and 
 when Mr. Spilby departed to pick up his gig at the 
 inn, and drive back to Monkhampton, the baronet 
 still lingered, and this time did not refuse the 
 Vicar's offer of a bottle of claret. The Vicarage 
 was on the other side of the churchyard. They had 
 but to pass beneath the gloom of the cypress that 
 had shaded Edmund and SyMa's farewell, cross a 
 more open part of the burial ground, and the 
 windows of the Vicar's substantial dwelling were 
 before them. A low wall only divided the Vicarage 
 garden from the place of tombs. Clumps of dahlias 
 and rose-covered arches rose gaily beyond the grassy 
 mounds, and above the moss-grown head stones the 
 lighted windows of Mr. Vancourt's drawing-room 
 shone out cheerily. Croquet hoops, scattered balls 
 and mallets still adorned the lawn. 
 
 ' Rather a singular man, that schoolmaster of 
 yours,' said the baronet, as they sauntered through 
 the churchyard ; ' a man who has seen better days, I 
 should think. Do you know anything of his ante- 
 cedents ? ' 
 
 * Not a tittle. He came here before my time, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' I wonder how he got the situation. He doesn't 
 talk like a West country man.' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * No, I don't think he belongs to this part of the 
 country.' 
 
 * Yet Carew is a West country name.' 
 
 * It is — and a good one. I've tried more than 
 once to make out what Carews he belongs to. But 
 he's uncommonly close — there's no getting at the 
 bottom of his mind. He's not an agreeable man, 
 by any means, but he's a very good school- 
 master.' 
 
 * What stipend does he get ? ' 
 
 'Forty pounds a year, coals, candles, and the 
 schoolhouse.' 
 
 * Poor fellow ! And he speaks like a gentleman. 
 The daughter is interesting, too, Do you know 
 much of her ? ' 
 
 ' I've seen her change from bud to blossom. She 
 was a slip of a child of twelve, or so, when I first 
 came here.' 
 
 ' She looks amiable — a goodish kind of girl, I 
 should think.' 
 
 ' As good as the generality of girls, I daresay,' 
 says the Yicar, in a tone that was not compli- 
 mentary to the species. ' My daughters tell me 
 she's vain, but as I don't find that they themselves 
 are entirely free from that feminine weakness, I 
 don't attach much weight to the accusation. So
 
 HIS INTEREST DEEPENS. 168 
 
 pretty a girl as Sylvia can hardly help knowing she 
 is pretty.' 
 
 No word of village scandal nor of blemish in the 
 girl's fair fame. Sir Aubrey was glad of that. 
 But he pushed the question still further. ' Your 
 daughter said something this afternoon about 
 certain reports which had prevented her being 
 quite so kind to Miss Carew lately as she had been 
 in the past,' he said. ' Do you know the nature of 
 those reports.' 
 
 * Reports,' cried the Vicar, almost in a passion, 
 ' Hedingham is full of reports. The very air 
 engenders reports. If you go out of your house 
 after dark — a report ! If you take an unaccustomed 
 walk before breakfast — a report ! If a stranger 
 dines with you — the fact is reported. You can 
 hardly eat your dinner in the solitude of your own 
 home without being talked about. You eat poultry 
 when other people eat meat. You are going to the 
 dogs. You dine on a cold sirloin and a salad. You 
 are a miser. I have no patience with village scandal 
 mongers, and my detestation of their gossip is so 
 well known that very few of their inventions ever 
 travel my way. As for Sylvia Carew, I have known 
 her from a child, and I have never had any reason 
 to think ill of her.' 
 
 M 2
 
 164 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sir Aubrey was glad. It was not to be supposed 
 that what men said or thought about this village 
 beauty could be of any consequence to him : yet in 
 his heart of hearts he was glad.
 
 CHAPTEB Xm. 
 
 AN UNIX^'ITED GUEST. 
 
 While the baronet was making himself agreeable 
 in the Vicarage drawing-room, and pretending to 
 mistake Mr. Yancourt's wholesome Medoc for 
 Chateau Margaux, a curious scene was taking 
 place in the school-house parlour — a scene of more 
 dramatic intensity than any which had ever been 
 enacted there since Mr. Carew came to Hedingham. 
 
 Night closed, dark and starless, as the school- 
 master drew his blinds, and seated himself at the 
 little table to read his newspaper by the light of 
 a pair of candles, the second of which was only 
 lighted while Mr. Carew read. With his small 
 pittance it was a matter of some importance whether 
 he burned one or two candles ; so when he folded 
 his paper and laid it aside it was Sylvia's care to 
 extinguish the second candle. 
 
 For a man who lived so much apart from his 
 fellow-men, Mr. Carew was singularly fond of the 
 newspaper. Books interested him little, though he
 
 166 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. , 
 
 bad read a good deal at some period of his life. 
 But the newspaper he devoured — watching the 
 careers of public men — and most of all of commer- 
 cial men, and noting every step in their progress. 
 Very often had Sylvia seen him lay aside the journal 
 with a heart-piercing sigh — a sigh such as the lost 
 in the underworld may have flung after Virgil and 
 Dante as the light of those radiant countenances 
 faded slowly from them and left all dark. Long as 
 the schoolmaster had lived in this quiet seclusion 
 it was evident that he had still yearnings — that still 
 in his breast there were smouldering fires not to be 
 extinguished. Sometimes he would burst out into 
 a sudden passion, and favour Sylvia with a homily 
 upon the crooked ways of Destiny, the insecurity 
 of earthly fortune. But not from a spiritual stand- 
 point did he survey the question — not with heavenly 
 hopes did he entreat his child to fortify herself. 
 He took a purely carnal view of the subject, and 
 taught her that this human life was a jumble of 
 contradictions in which some few pushing indefati- 
 gable spirits got the best of it. These chosen 
 ones reigned above the general chaos, and contrived 
 to enjoy themselves. But for the mass, life meant 
 hopeless confusion. 
 
 Sylvia listened, and agreed with the preacher.
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 167 
 
 She was very ready to find fault with a system 
 which compelled her to wear faded gowns and home- 
 made bonnets. Whether Fate or Society were most 
 to blame she hardly knew ; but she felt there was 
 something amiss — that life was a riddle beyond her 
 power to read aright. 
 
 To-night, however, Mr. Carew was unusually 
 cheerful in his demeanour. He whistled a scrap of 
 Italian music softly, as he drew down the blinds — a 
 reminiscence of his opera-going days. 
 
 * You may sing me a song, Sylvia,' he said, 
 * while I smoke another pipe.' 
 
 The girl seated herself at the piano and obeyed. 
 But as her thoughts were following Edmund Stan- 
 den she chose the saddest melody in her scanty 
 repertoire. He was at Southampton, most likely, by 
 this time, she thought, pacing the lamp-lit streets 
 of the strange town, sad and lonely, and longing 
 for her company. So she sang a pensive Httle song 
 of Sir Walter Scott's, set to a mournful strain — 
 
 * The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken curtain for my head, 
 My lullaby the warder's tread, 
 
 Far, far from love and thee, Mary : 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
 My vesjier song, thy wail, sweet maid. ] 
 
 It will not waken me, Mary.'
 
 168 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Mr. Carew did not take much notice of the song. 
 The plaintive voice soothed him as he smoked, and 
 meditated more hopefully than he had done for 
 some time. 
 
 He told himself that his daughter had made a 
 conquest. Sir Auhrey Perriam was evidently im- 
 pressed — aye, and deeply — by her exceptional beauty. 
 There were looks and tones which it was impossible 
 to mistake. And again, why had the baronet come 
 this evening. That pretended interest in the new 
 school-house was the shallowest artifice. Sir Aubrey 
 had come there to see Sylvia, and for no other 
 reason. 
 
 Such admiration might end in nothing, of course. 
 It was most likely to end in nothing. It was not 
 to be supposed that a man of fortune and position 
 who had lived single to between fifty and sixty 
 years of age, escaping the various snares which 
 must have been laid for him, would fall captive to 
 the charms of a village beauty. 
 
 ' Men are such base slaves to the world they live 
 in, that it would be too much to hope that this man 
 might have courage to please himself,' pondered 
 Mr. Carew. ' However much he admires my 
 daughter, he will be stoic enough to turn his back 
 upon us and forget all about her.'
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 169 
 
 Sylvia had told her father of that little scene in 
 the orchard, and how she had caught Sir Aubrey 
 Perriam at Blindman's Buff, and how he had kissed 
 her hand afterwards like a courtier of the old school. 
 Fealty to Edmund in no wise forbade that she should 
 be gratified by such homage to her beauty ; yet had 
 Edmund ventured to admire any one but herself, 
 she would have objected strongly. 
 
 To-night, even while she was singing, her thoughts 
 wandered from Edmund to the baronet, and she 
 wondered why he had come this evening, and if 
 other people noticed that admiring look in his eyes 
 when he spoke to her. Poor Edmund. If he had 
 only been master of Perriam Place, instead of being 
 dependent upon the will of a tyi-annical mother ! 
 
 ' Look here, Sylvia,' said her father, when he had 
 smoked out his pipe ; ' your fine Mr. Standen and I 
 had a few plain words together to-day. You must 
 have managed matters more artfully than even the 
 generality of women to keep me in the dark till the 
 last moment.' 
 
 * What was the use of speaking, papa ? ' returned 
 the girl with her indifferent air. ' I knew you'd be 
 against us. And we've only been engaged such a 
 short time.' 
 
 ' Engaged, indeed!' cried the schoolmaster, con-
 
 170 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 temptuously," ' you don't tell me that you mean to 
 marry a beggar ? ' 
 
 * I mean to marry Mr. Standen/ answered the 
 gu'l firmly. She looked her father full in the face, 
 and he knew that the look was a defiance. 
 
 ' I should have thought you'd had enough of 
 beggary.' 
 
 * He will work for me,' she said, with that steady 
 look. Her father felt the taunt. What eff'ort had 
 he ever made to lift his child from the dismal swamp 
 of poverty? ' Edmund will work for me,' repeated 
 the girl. ' Why should he not prosper ? He is 
 young and hopeful, and will not sit down and fold 
 his hands, contented with beggary, like that miser- 
 able sluggard those droning boys talk about.' 
 
 ^ I don't know how to argue with a woman,' ex- 
 claimed Mr. Carew scornfully. ' There are depths 
 of silliness to which a man cannot reduce his un- 
 derstanding. Marry Edmund Standen, if you like. 
 Proclaim to everyone in Hedingham that you and he 
 are engaged to be married, and if you mar as bril- 
 liant a prospect as ever a girl had you'll have only 
 yourself to blame by-and-bj^, when you and your 
 husband are starving.' 
 
 ' A brilliant prospect,' echoed the girl with a 
 bitter laugh; * what brilliant prospect can I have
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 171 
 
 here ? ' She glanced disdainfully at her surroundings, 
 and laughed again — not pleasantly. 
 
 ' What should you say to being mistress of Per- 
 riam Place ? ' 
 
 The girl laughed a third time, but this time with 
 less bitterness. ' Poor papa,' she said compassion- 
 ately, ' can you be so foolish as to attach any im- 
 portance to Sir Aubrey's notice?' 
 
 * Great events have sprung from small begin- 
 nings,' answered her father sententiously. * But if 
 you marry Edmund you shut the door in the face of 
 fortune.' 
 
 Sylvia gave an impatient sigh. 
 
 * I wish you wouldn't put such nonsense into 
 my head, papa. It only makes me uncomfortable. 
 Mistress of Perriam Place, indeed, just because an 
 elderly gentleman has paid me a compliment or two. 
 Was there ever such absurdity '? ' 
 
 Mr. Carew said nothing, but began to read his 
 newspaper. Sylvia fidgetted with her work basket, 
 yet made no attempt to work. That foolish speech 
 of her father's had strangely disturbed her. She 
 gave another sigh, heavier than the first. 
 
 * You don't know how good Edmund is, papa,' she 
 said pleadingly. ' You don't know how dearly, how 
 trulv he loves me.'
 
 172 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * I know that he has not a shilling of reliable 
 income,' answered her father, ' and I consider that 
 enough for me to know about any man who wants 
 to marry my daughter.' 
 
 ' I wish he were richer. But Mrs. Standen may 
 relent some day,' said Sylvia musingly. ' He is so 
 good, and brave, and true ; and thinks no more of 
 sacrificing his prospects for my sake than if it were 
 but throwing away a faded flower.' 
 
 ' A convincing proof that he's an arrant fool,' 
 said her father, ' and never likely to succeed in 
 life.' 
 
 ' Is that a rule, papa ? Yet, if clever people 
 always succeeded, you ought to have done better.' 
 
 'I don't pretend to cleverness. I have been a 
 fool in my time — ay, fooled to the top of my bent. 
 Hark, child,' he said, starting ; ' what's that ? ' 
 
 It was a timid knock at the outer door, at an 
 hour when visitors were rare at the school-house. 
 The little Dutch clock in the kitchen had struck ten, 
 a late hour for Hedingham, bedtime even for the 
 gentry, unless they had company. The most dis- 
 sipated of Hedingham dinner parties was over at 
 eleven, and darkness had descended upon the dinner 
 givers by half-past. 
 
 To a nervous temperament any unexpected sum-
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 173 
 
 mons is alarming, were it even the most timid tap 
 at a street door, and to-night Mr. Carew's nerves 
 were somewhat over strung. That notion about the 
 baronet's fancy for his daughter, shadoT^y as it was, 
 had excited him. 
 
 He went to the door and opened it cautiously ; 
 as if prepared to behold a burglar with mask and 
 lanthorn, or perhaps some modern spring-heeled 
 Jack. But the figure he saw was by no means 
 alarming ; only a woman's slender form, clad in 
 garments, which, even in that dim light, looked 
 shabby-genteel. 
 
 * What do you want ? ' he asked, not too gra- 
 ciously. 
 
 A voice answered him in tones so low, that Sylvia, 
 who was straining her ears to catch the reply, heard 
 only a vague murmur. 
 
 But if she heard nothing definite, she saw enough 
 to alarm her in the manner of her father. He gave 
 a start, drew back into the room with a smothered 
 exclamation, then bent forward again, as if to peer 
 into the face of the untimely visitant. 
 
 ' Wait a minute,' he muttered, and then looking 
 back at his daughter, said hurriedly, ' Go up stairs 
 to your room, Sylvia, and stay there till I call you. 
 I want a little quiet talk with this person.'
 
 174 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sylvia looked at liim as if inclined to ask ques- 
 tions. 
 
 ' Go, I say. I'll call you when I want you.' 
 
 Sylvia obeyed, without a word. She took one of 
 the candles with her, leaving the room dimly lighted 
 by the other. 
 
 Into this dim light Mr. Carew ushered the 
 stranger — but not with that air which bespeaks 
 heartiness of welcome. Reluctantly, rather, as a 
 man might admit the sherff's officer who came to 
 deprive him of liberty.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 YEPtLOREN 1ST VERLOREJ^ ! 
 
 The woman entered with a nervous, furtive air, as 
 if she were not quite sure whether that dimly 
 lighted parlour might not he in somewise a trap — 
 which might close upon her to her undoing. She 
 looked around the room curiously — wonderingly 
 — and from the room she looked at the school- 
 master. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, answering the look. ' It's a 
 change, isn't it ? Nothing splendid here — nothing 
 to swell a woman's vanity or feed her pride.' 
 
 * The place looks very poor,' replied the woman 
 falteringly, ' but I've long been used to poverty.' 
 Then with a little gush of feeling she looked straight 
 in his face, and said, * Haven't you one kind word for 
 me, Carford, after aU these years ? ' 
 
 'Drop that name, if you please,' he said angrily. 
 ' Here I'm known as James Carew. You could only 
 have tracked me here by that name.'
 
 176 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' Don't say tracked you here, James. I should 
 never have troubled you if there'd been any other 
 creature upon this earth to whom I could appeal in 
 my distress.' 
 
 * What, have you used them all up — worn them all 
 out — all the fops and flatterers who used to swear by 
 the pretty Mrs. Carford?' 
 
 ' I want so little, James,' pleaded the woman, not 
 replying to this sneer. ' I expect so little.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of that,' cried Mr. Carew, ' this is no 
 place to foster large expectations. Why, woman, 
 do you require to be told that the utmost I have 
 been able to do in all these years has been to find 
 bread for myself and my child ? Do you want 
 words to tell you that, when you see me here ? ' 
 
 He surveyed the room with ineffable contempt ; 
 the woman watching him all the while with her 
 haggard eyes. 
 
 * This room is a palace, James,' she said pre- 
 sently, * compared with the holes that I have occu- 
 pied.' 
 
 She seated herself with a hesitating air, as if 
 doubtful whether the privilege of sitting in that 
 room might not be denied her — seated herself 
 where the light of the one candle shone full upon 
 her wan face.
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREN ! 177 
 
 It was a face that had once been beautiful. 
 That was seen at a glance. Those large hazel 
 eyes, seeming larger for the hollowness of the 
 cheeks, haggard as they were, had not lost all 
 their lustre. The delicate features neither years 
 nor sorrow had changed ; yet on all the face 
 there was the stamp of ruin, a decay beyond hope 
 of restoration. Never again could bloom or fresh- 
 ness brighten that image of departed beauty. 
 Like a ghost appeared this woman to the eyes 
 that had seen her in her prime. The school- 
 master contemplated her for a little while thought- 
 fully, then turned away with a sigh. Such decay 
 is sadder than death. 
 
 Yes, she had been pretty ; and her face bore a 
 painful likeness to another face, now in its flower of 
 loveliness. Those eyes were Sylvia's eyes grown 
 old. Those delicate features had the same model- 
 ling. But all the glory of colouring which made 
 Sylvia resemble a picture by Titian this face had 
 lost. A pale grayness was its pervading tint. The 
 loose hair that strayed across the deeply-lined fore- 
 head was of the same faded neutral hue as the 
 shrunken cheek. If ever the ghost of beauty 
 walked this earth, this was that sorrowful phan- 
 tom — a shade which seemed to say to youth 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 and loveliness, 'Behold how fleeting are your 
 graces ! ' 
 
 A history of woman's decadence might have been 
 written from this woman's dress. The flimsy silk 
 gown, worn at every seam, stained and smeared 
 with the dirt of years — the wretched rag of a shawl 
 which had once called itself black lace, but was now 
 the colour of the grass in Hyde Park after a hot 
 summer — the bonnet, a thing compounded of scraps 
 from a milliner's rag bag — the gloves, last sacrifice 
 to civilization, shrunk from exposure to bad weather 
 till they could scarcely cover even those wasted hands. 
 Genteel penury had reached its ultimate limit. 
 
 ' How did you find me ? ' asked Mr. Carew, after 
 a pause, during which the woman had watched his 
 face closely, trying to read hope there. 
 
 ' Mr. Miles, the cashier, met me in Holborn one 
 day, and seeing me so poor asked me why I did not 
 apply to you. He had seen you in the church here 
 one day when he had come down for a week's fishing 
 in this neighbourhood, and he remembered you. 
 He told me that you seemed comfortably off, and 
 might help me a little. This happened quite three 
 years ago. I did not want to come to you, James. 
 I knew I had no right. I waited till starvation 
 drove me here.'
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREX ! 179 
 
 * Starvation,' cried the schoolmaster, 'if you had 
 enough money to pay your journey down here, you 
 must have been a long way off starvation.' 
 
 * A few shillings did that. I came by a cheap 
 excursion train to Monkhampton. I borrowed half- 
 a- sovereign from my landlady — a good soul, who 
 has been very patient with me.' 
 
 ' Your friend would have done better to keep her 
 money. I have not ten shillings to give you. 
 Good heavens ! is there no corner of the earth 
 remote enough to shelter a man from the eye of 
 the world ? To think that fellow Miles should 
 spy me out even here ! ' 
 
 * He spoke quite kindly of you, James.' 
 
 ' Curse his impertinence ! What right had he 
 to mention my name ? To you of all people ! ' 
 
 * Oh, I know I had no right to come to you,' 
 said the woman, with abject humility. ' There is 
 no pity, no forgiveness — at least, none on earth — 
 for a vdie that has once wronged her husband.' 
 
 * Once wronged ? ' cried James Carew, with in- 
 tensest bitterness. ' Once wronged ? Why, your 
 life was one long series of wrong against me. If 
 it had been but your falsehood as a wife — well, 
 there are men whose philosophy is tough enough 
 to stretch to forgiveness ! I don't say I am one 
 
 N 2
 
 180 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 of those. But it is just possible that, had your one 
 crime been your flight with that scoundrel, time 
 might have taught me to think less hardly of you.' 
 
 Worms are said to turn when trodden on. A 
 curious sparkle glittered in Mrs. Carford's wan 
 eyes ; her lip curled with irrepressible scorn. 
 
 * My crime served as a set-off against yours, 
 James,' she said quietly. * But for that you 
 might have stood in the felon's dock.' 
 
 'But for that! Mr. Mowbray could not afford 
 to prosecute the husband of the woman he seduced 
 for the error of which her extravagance was the 
 chief cause.' 
 
 * My extravagance ! Oh, James, don't be too 
 hard upon me. Who was it most loved show and 
 luxury, and prided himself on his hospitality, 
 and was never satisfied unless life was all plea- 
 sure ? Who was it that belonged to half-a-dozen 
 clubs, where one might have sufficed him ? Who 
 attended every race meeting, and won and lost 
 money so fast that his bewildered brain lost count 
 of gains and losses ? My extravagance indeed ! 
 What was a dressmaker's bill against settling 
 day at Tattersall's, or the price of an occasional 
 box at the opera against a run of ill-luck at 
 Crockford's? And how was I to know that we
 
 VERLOREN 1ST YERLOREN ! 181 
 
 were living beyond our income when I saw you 
 spare nothing to gratify your own fancies. I 
 knew you were only a salaried manager in that 
 great house, but I knew your salary was a large 
 one, and that you occupied a position of influence 
 which your father had held before you. "What 
 was I but a school girl when you married me; 
 and what experience had I to guide me ? Do 
 you think I should have been reckless if you had 
 told me the truth ; if you had only been frank 
 and confessed that we were on the brink of ruin, 
 that you had falsified the accounts of the house, 
 and lived in hourly fear of discovery ? ' 
 
 * Confess to you ! ' cried the husband scornfully ; 
 ' confess to a doll that only Hved to be di-essed and 
 made pretty. Where was I to look for a heart under 
 aU your finery? No, I preferred trusting to the 
 chapter of accidents rather than to such a vdfe as 
 you. I thought I might tide over my difficulties. 
 The deficiency was large, but one great stroke of 
 luck on the turf might have enabled me to make 
 things square. I went on hoping in the face of ruin 
 till one day I went to my office to find a strange ac- 
 countant going through my books ; and came back 
 to my house a few hours later to discover that my 
 wife had eloped with my employer.'
 
 182 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' That wicked act saved you from a convict's cell/ 
 said the woman. 
 
 * At the price of my dishonour,' answered the 
 schoolmaster. ' The same night brought me a 
 letter from my betrayer — the honoured guest at 
 my board — the innocent victim of my fraud, as I 
 had believed him — informing me that my defalca- 
 tions had been long suspected, and had now been 
 proved with mathematical exactness by an examina- 
 tion of the books. The letter, curt, and without 
 signature, informed me further that the house would 
 spare me the disgrace of a prosecution on condition 
 that I withdrew myself from the commercial world, 
 and refrained from any future attempt to obtain 
 credit or employment in the City of London. Of the 
 wife he had stolen from me the villain who penned 
 that letter said nothing.' 
 
 There was a pause. James Carew stopped : ex- 
 hausted by passion which was not the less intense 
 because he held it well in check. 
 
 ' What was I to do ? Submit tamely to my dis- 
 honour, or follow the scoundrel who had stolen my 
 wife ? If I followed him, if I asserted an injured 
 husband's right of satisfaction, he would bring my 
 defalcations against me. I had signed his name to 
 bills for my own advantage. He could denounce me
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREN ! 183 
 
 as a forger. I had kept back moneys that ought to 
 have come to him. He could charge me with theft. 
 Vain to say that I meant to redeem the bills — - 
 that I hoped to replace the money. The thing was 
 done.' 
 
 He paused again, breathless, and wiped the drops 
 from his forehead. The very memory of those days 
 revived the old passion. 
 
 ' I dreaded the felon's fate. But I was a man and 
 not a worm. So I followed you and your seducer — 
 found you, after a long hunt, at Lucerne. How 
 could such guilty souls face the sublimity of nature? 
 Mowbray behaved a shade better than I could have 
 hoped. "We fought, and I wounded him, and left 
 him in the arms of his valet, in a little wood not 
 five hundred yards from the hotel where I found 
 you both. I came back to England, wandered about 
 aimlessly for some time ; carrying Sylvia with me, 
 always expecting to be arrested : and finally came 
 down here, penniless. I found the post of village 
 schoolmaster vacant, applied for it, and after a little 
 delay obtained it, with no better recommendation 
 than a bearing which my patrons were pleased to 
 think that of a gentleman. That is the sum of 
 my history. Yours, I doubt not, can boast more 
 variety.'
 
 184 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * Only the varieties of sorrow and remorse, James,' 
 answered the wife, with a heart-broken sigh. * I 
 was not so guilty, so lost to shame as you deem me. 
 The burden of my sin weighed heavy upon me. I 
 pined for my child. I felt the sharp sting of dis- 
 honour. Grief made me a dull companion; and 
 the day came when I saw weariness in the face 
 that had once known only smiles for me. I felt 
 then that the end was near. My sacrifice had won 
 happiness neither for myself nor the man who 
 still professed to love me. We wandered about 
 the continent till he grew tired, and talked of 
 going back to England. I was heart sick of those 
 garish foreign cities, but the thought of returning 
 filled me with horror. I should see people I had 
 known — people who knew my story. I told him 
 my dread, and for the first time he answered me 
 with a sneer, " There's not much fear of your 
 friends recognizing you," he said. " You forget 
 how changed you are.'' I looked in my glass a 
 little while afterwards, and saw how truly he had 
 spoken. My beauty was gone.' 
 
 * And soon after this mutual discovery, your lover 
 left you, I suppose,' said Mr. Carew. 
 
 * No, that last shame was spared me. I left him. 
 I felt that the chain dragged heavily, and conscience.
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREN ! 185 
 
 which only the thought of his affection could stifle, 
 awoke with all its terrors. I could hardly have 
 found courage to tell my wretched story to a pastor 
 of my own faith, but there was a good old Catholic 
 priest who officiated at a little chapel in the Tyrol, 
 where we had wandered, an old man whose face pro- 
 mised pity. I went to him and told him all. He 
 bade me consider that if I wished to reconcile my- 
 self to offended heaven, my first act must be to 
 leave the path of sin. I told him that I was penni- 
 less, but that I thought if I could get to one of the 
 great cities of Germany I might obtain employment 
 as a governess, or travelling companion, or some 
 kind of situation where a knowledge of languages 
 would be valuable. The good old man lent me a 
 few pounds, enough to take me to Leipsic, and sup- 
 port me there while I looked about me. At first, 
 fortune seemed to favour my efforts, and I thought 
 heaven was reconciled with me. I obtained a situa- 
 tion in a school, to teach English, French, and 
 Italian. The pittance was small, but my chief need 
 was a shelter. Out of that pittance I contrived to 
 repay the good priest's loan, and clothe myself 
 decently. All went well with me till in an evil 
 hour, after I had been three years at the school, and 
 had won the principal's good word by my industry,
 
 186 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 one of my old friends brought a pupil to the school. 
 She was a woman who had admn-ed my lace and 
 jewels, and shared my opera-box, and a dozen other 
 pleasures. She saw me, recognized the wreck of 
 her former acquaintance, and told the principal my 
 story — not too gently. I was dismissed that day, 
 and had to begin the world again, without a charac- 
 ter and without a friend. I need not weary you 
 with the rest of my story. Indeed I have not 
 strength to tell it. Enough Iftiat I have lived. I 
 have hung on to the ragged edge of society, been 
 daily-governess in poor neighbourhoods, danced in 
 the ballet at a theatre in the City Road, gone out as 
 a dressmaker's drudge at fifteenpence a day — but 
 though often face to face with starvation — I have 
 never applied to Horace Mowbray for help.' 
 
 * I read his marriage in the papers some years 
 ago,' said James Carew, ' a great marriage, one that 
 must have doubled his fortune. I suppose he is a 
 millionaire now ? ' 
 
 * Mr. Miles told me that he is very rich,' answered 
 the woman, with a sigh. * He seemed to wonder at 
 my rags.' 
 
 ' And not to give you credit for your penitence,' 
 said her husband, with his cynical laugh. ' This 
 world is not a good place for penitents.'
 
 \T:RL0REN 1ST ^TERLOREN ! 187 
 
 * James,' said the woman, with a sudden appeal, 
 * will you give me something to eat. I am faint 
 with hunger. I have had nothing but a penny bis- 
 cuit all this long day.' 
 
 ' Well, I'll give you a meal. You don't ask to 
 see your daughter — a queer kind of mother.' 
 
 * I don't want her to see me,' said the woman, 
 shuddering. ' Heaven knows how my heart aches 
 at the thought of her. But I couldn't face her in 
 these rags.' 
 
 * Couldn't you?" exclaimed the schoolmaster; 
 ' then you mustn't stay here. This house is not 
 large enough to keep people apart. It isn't like our 
 snug little box at Kilburn, with its drawing-room, 
 and boudoir, and smoking-room, and study. If you 
 want something to eat, Sylvia must bring it.' 
 
 ' Don't let her know who I am,' said the mother, 
 trembling, and turning with a scared look towards 
 the door. 
 
 ' She shall know nothing, unless she has 
 been listening all the time ; which is not im- 
 possible.' 
 
 He opened the door leading into the kitchen, and 
 called Sylvia. The staircase led out of this room, 
 and at the sound of her father's voice Sylvia came 
 fluttering down the stairs. But it was just possible
 
 188 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 that light footstep might have only a minute before 
 ascended. 
 
 There was a pale, unquiet look in the girl's face, 
 but she said not a word. 
 
 * There is a half- famished wanderer in there,' said 
 her father. ' Bring her whatever you can find for 
 supper.' 
 
 Sylvia opened her little larder, and produced the 
 carcase of a fowl, a scrap or two of bacon, some cold 
 potatoes, and a loaf. She . spread a napkin on a 
 tray, and set out these viands with a neatness which 
 was habitual to her — even though her hands 
 trembled a little as they performed the task. Then 
 with that tray in her hands she went into the 
 parlour. 
 
 The wanderer looked at her, and she at the wan- 
 derer ; both faces with something awful in their ex- 
 pression — as flesh and blood may look at a ghost. 
 And indeed each saw a phantom in the face of the 
 other. One the spectre of the past — the other the 
 shade of the future. 
 
 * This is what I was,' thought the mother. 
 
 * This is what I may be,' said the daughter.<j^ y/ 
 Sylvia set the tray' down before the woman, look- 
 ing at her all the while with a half- shrinking curi- 
 osity. That pale wan countenance, where all colour
 
 VERLOEEN 1ST VERLOREN ! '^ 189 
 
 seemed effaced l^ dull gi^ay shadows, was so terribly 
 like her own. $he beheld her own lineaments, with 
 all their beauty vanished. ' What,' she wondered, 
 ' is beauty so dependent on colour and freshness and 
 youth that, though the lines remain, all is lost when 
 youth is gone ? ' 
 
 She remembered Mrs. Standen's handsome mid- 
 dle-age. The matronly repose of the fine face, the 
 clear bright eyes, and the ripe bloom of the cheek. 
 
 ' Care is the destroyer of beauty/ she thought, 
 ' and not Time. God keep me from such a life as 
 mjL pother's.' 
 
 She had heard all. Her curiosity had been 
 awakened by her father's manner, and she had taken 
 care to make herself acquainted with the cause of 
 his agitation. She had heard every syllable, for 
 the doors fitted but loosely in that old house, and 
 the voices had sounded as clearly as if she had been 
 in the same room. Horrified, heart-sick, she had 
 heard of her mother's shame, her father's dishonom*. 
 But though she had a shuddering compassion for 
 the weaker sinner, her chief pity was for herself. 
 By these sins she had been robbed of her birth- 
 right. Her parents' wrong-doing had condemned 
 her to a youth of obscurest penury. They had started 
 fair on the road of life, and of their own guilty wills 
 
 6^ ^ r
 
 190 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 had wandered off into bramble-choked bye-ways, 
 among thorns and briars which wounded her inno- 
 cent limbs. They had enjoyed their brief day of 
 pleasure, and plucked the flowers in the golden 
 valley of sin ; but for her there had been only the 
 rugged stony steep of atonement. She had begun 
 life weighted with the burden of their iniquities. 
 
 The mother looked at her with a heart-rending 
 gaze. Those faded eyes devoured her young beauty ; 
 love's fond yearning spoke in every look, yet fear kept 
 the tremulous lips silent. Never had the sinner so 
 deeply felt her sin. Years of remorse and sorrow 
 weighed as nothing in this moment. The runaway 
 wife looked at the child she had deserted and 
 felt her guilt as keenly as if it had been a thing of 
 yesterday. ^ j 
 
 * How could I leave her ? ' she thought. ' What if 
 James was hard and cruel, and that other pleaded so 
 tenderly ? I had my child. I might have sustained 
 my heart with that comfort. I might have put that 
 strong shield between my weakness and temptation.' 
 
 * You told me you were hungry,' said Mr. Carew. 
 ' You had better eat your supper. ' It's late 
 already.' 
 
 His wife had not seemed conscious that food had 
 been set before her. She watched Sylvia with eyes
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREN ! 191 
 
 that could see nothing else ; or only the past, which 
 made a phantasmal background to that Hving picture. 
 She stammered an apology, and began to eat ; slowly 
 at first, and with an absent air, then ravenously. 
 
 The bird, shorn and disembered though he was, 
 having served Mr. Carew for two dinners, was 
 savoury. The cold potatoes, the bacon, the home- 
 made loaf were luxury to one to whom plenty had 
 been long unknown. She ate like one who had 
 known starvation. Yague complainings, protesta- 
 tions of penitence, evoked no pity from James Carew ; 
 but absolute hunger touched even his cold heart. In 
 dim half-forgotten years he had loved this woman — 
 with no self-sacrificing soul-absorbing devotion, but 
 with just as much love as he was capable of feeling 
 — and it moved him to see her brought so low. 
 
 He opened a cupboard and took out his bottle of 
 claret — vin ordinaire at fifteenpence a bottle — filled 
 a tumbler, and gave it to her. It was the first direct 
 kindness which he had shown her, and she looked up 
 at him with a crouching gratitude — like a dog which 
 has been beaten for wrong-doing, and then restored 
 to his master's favour. 
 
 ' That's kind of you, James,' she murmured, after 
 drinking a Httle of the somewhat crude vintage ; * I 
 haven't tasted wine since I was in the hospital.'
 
 192 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' In the hospital — what for ? ' 
 
 * I got knocked down by a cab, and my arm was 
 broken. They took me to the Eoyal Free Hospital. 
 I was there six weeks. The happiest time I ever had 
 — after — I left Germany.' 
 
 * God help you !' cried Mr. Carew, wdth a groan. 
 * Eat your supper.' 
 
 Sylvia still lingered — fascinated by that spectral 
 face. She had no yearning to fling her arms around 
 this newly-discovered mother. She saw how worn 
 and soiled those rags were, and could hardly have 
 brought herself to touch them, for a love of external 
 purity and a loathing of dirt were innate in Sylvia's 
 mind. No new-fledged affections fluttered her heart, 
 but by degrees a shuddering pity crept into that 
 breast. She went to her father, and whispered in 
 his ear — 
 
 ' Where is — the person to sleep, papa ?' 
 The question puzzled him. He looked at its un- 
 conscious subject doubtfully. Did she mean to plant 
 herself upon him. "Was this late arrival a deep laid 
 scheme intended to saddle him with this woman's 
 maintenance for the rest of his days. If he gave 
 her, out of mere Christian charity, a shelter to-night 
 would she refuse to depart to-morrow morning. She 
 was his very wife. No legal process had ever severed
 
 VERLOREN 1ST VERLOREX ! 193 
 
 her from his table or his home. She could claim 
 shelter and aliment from him if she pleased, and it 
 would be hard for him to dispute the claim, impossi- 
 ble to deny it, without exposure that would mean 
 ruin. 
 
 He looked at her doubtfully. He had had ample 
 cause of complaint against her in those vanished 
 years ; but her sins had been vanity and extrava- 
 gance, not hypocrisy or artifice. Yet she had ended 
 by decei\ing him. She had planned her flight 
 secretly enough, no doubt. He could hardly believe 
 in an unpremeditated elopement ; even in one as reck- 
 less as that vain foolish woman. And, again, poverty 
 engenders vices not original to the character ; poverty 
 teaches artifice, poverty destroys pride. All lofty 
 sentiments are crushed out of being by that grind- 
 ing wheel. So, at least, argued James Carew. A 
 woman who had served such a long apprenticeship to 
 destitution must be dangerous. 
 
 Sylvia stole to the window, lifted the blind to look 
 out. The sky was dark, and the rain fell fast ; noise- 
 less summer rain, soft fertiliser of the beauteous 
 earth. She went back to her father and whispered 
 gaain. 'Let her have my room, papa,' she said, ' I 
 can sleep on the sofa here. You can't turn her out 
 on such a night ; and she looks ill.' 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' She can stay, then,' answered Mr. Carew. 
 
 ' If she makes any attempt to settle herself here I 
 shall know how to meet it,' he said to himself. ' I 
 am not a man to he caught in a trap of her setting.' 
 
 So it was arranged that the wanderer should rest 
 at the schoolhouse for that one night. Mr. Carew 
 took care to specify the extent of his proffered hospi- 
 tality. Rest elsewhere in Hedingham, save on the 
 leeside of a hay- stack, there would have heen none for 
 her. That virtuous village had long been wrapped 
 in restful slumbers, and had a mortai aversion to 
 vagrants.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ' ALAS ! OUR LIPS ARE HELD SO FAR APART.' 
 
 Sylvia took the wanderer upstairs to her own room 
 — a mere cottage chamber in the roof, which sloped 
 like that of a toy Noah's Ark. The furniture was 
 of the poorest, but the girl's vanity had endowed it 
 with a certain grace and prettiness. One could 
 fancy Gretchen's chamber bedecked with the same 
 girlish art. Purest white dimity curtains draped 
 casement and bed, and were tied back coquettishly 
 with knots of green ribbon. The clumsy old walnut- 
 wood bureau had been polished with beeswax till it 
 might almost have served for a mirror. A china 
 vase on the dressing-table was filled with lavender 
 and carnations. The bare boards were scrubbed to 
 spotless whiteness, and the oblong patch of faded 
 carpet beside the narrow bed was neatly bordered 
 with a cheap worsted fringe. The girl's aspiration 
 for the beautiful was visible in every detail. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Mrs. Carford surveyed. the room with that mourn- 
 ful deprecating gaze with which she had looked at 
 Sylvia. Sweet shrine of innocent girlhood ; how 
 long since she, the sinner, had entered such a tem- 
 ple. There was a charm in this cottage chamber 
 which made it fairer than the handsomest apartment 
 her varied life had ever shown her, from the luxury 
 of satin wood and looking-glass in the Kilburn villa, 
 to the more tawdry splendour of continental hotels. 
 And after the garrets that had sheltered her in later 
 years, how gracious was this humble chamber ! 
 True that in shape and size it was hardly superior 
 to those attics in the purlieus of Holborn or the 
 outskirts of the City Koad, but its purity, its neat- 
 ness, its perfume of flowers and sweet country air 
 made it different as Paradise from Orcus. 
 
 ' What a pretty room ! ' she said, falteringly. 
 
 * Pretty ! ' cried Sylvia, scornfully ; 'it's a miser- 
 able little hole, but I try to make it as decent as I 
 can.' 
 
 ' Ah, you don't know what London rooms are.' 
 
 'No, but I thought London was delightful. I 
 hear every one praise it.' 
 
 ' Then they have never known what it is to walk 
 its streets penniless. Those endless wastes of burn- 
 ing pavement under a July sun ! What desert in
 
 ' ALAS ! OUR LIPS ARE HELD SO FAR APART.' 197 
 
 Africa can be worse ? There are two Londons, Miss 
 Carew — one lies to the west, and is a paradise for 
 the rich ; the other spreads east, norths and south, 
 always widening, and is a place of torment for the 
 poor.' 
 
 ' Good night,' said Svhia, briefly, but not un- 
 kindly. She could not conquer her shuddering 
 horror of this woman ; could not own that mass 
 of rags for mother. 
 
 So she went downstairs, and left the wanderer 
 to fall on her knees beside the bed, and bury her 
 haggard face in the white coverlet, and kiss and sob 
 over the lavender-scented sheets. 
 
 ' Oh, my daughter, my daughter ! ' she cried, 
 ' may thy beauty bear thee fairer fruit than mine has 
 brought to me ! God keep and guard thee from the 
 snares of this troubled life ! God give thee the low- 
 liest lot, if it be but too humble for temptation ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Carford was not a student of the human 
 mind, and did not know that in some unquiet souls 
 temptation may be self-engendered. 
 
 The temptation that was destined to attack Sylvia 
 
 Carew took no common form, and sprang from the 
 
 depths of her own subtle mind. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Morning came, fresh and fair. Thrushes and
 
 198 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 blackbirds sang their glad carols to the rising sun. 
 Chanticleer's keen voice shrilled from the farm-yard; 
 the skylark rose above wide fields of ripening corn. 
 And Sylvia was glad of the morning, for night had 
 brought her no slumber. 
 
 She had been lying broad awake on the sofa, 
 which made a comfortable bed enough, thinking of 
 that woman upstairs ; thinking of her with anguish 
 that gnawed her heart, until she fancied that no joys 
 of after-days could ever take the taste of this bitter 
 out of her mouth. Her mother ! She shivered as 
 the words shaped themselves, even in the silence of 
 her soul. So degraded, so guilty, so destitute ; and 
 yet her mother. Sylvia's mind was not wide enough 
 to see that in that very destitution, outcome of long 
 sorrowful years, there lay the sublimity of atone- 
 ment ; that this mother in her rags and helplessness 
 was the modern type of the true Magdalen ; the 
 woman who has washed out her sin in the deep gulf 
 of earthly woe, and can look up to Heaven, humble, 
 but not despairing, Sylvia only comprehended that 
 her mother had fallen. To her the poverty seemed 
 the outward symbol of the fall. 
 
 Could she ever acknowledge this degraded one, 
 even to her little world, above all to Edmund Stan- 
 den ? She shuddered at the thought. This horror.
 
 * ALAS ! OUR LIPS ARE HELD SO FAR APART.' 199 
 
 this depth of humiliation, must be avoided. She 
 did not pause to consider how hard a thing it is for 
 a child to deny its mother — a sin second only to 
 denial of its God. She only thought of how the 
 revelation of this woman's existence must be pre- 
 vented ; but here she felt herself helpless. If Mrs. 
 Carford were to go out into Hedingham this very 
 day, and tell her miserable story, who was to gain- 
 say her — who was to deny her claim ? 
 
 * If I were only rich,' thought Sylvia, with a 
 bitter sigh, ' I would give her money, and she 
 might go away and live peacefully somewhere, and 
 never trouble us any more. But I am helpless and 
 penniless, and shall be penniless all my life, I 
 suppose.' 
 
 She recalled Edmund Standen's hopeful talk 
 about their future ; and her keen intellect, sharp- 
 ened in necessity's stern school, perceived how airy 
 was the foundation on which he based the pillars of 
 his palace. Claude Melnotte, painting that fancied 
 home beside the Italian lake, was a conscious im- 
 postor. Poor Edmund, when he glibly set forth the 
 charms of domestic life upon an unknown income, 
 only imposed upon himself. Yet the suburban villa 
 he described had hardly a surer foundation than 
 , Claude's marble roof.
 
 200 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' Shall I ever sink as low as that ? ' wondered 
 Sylvia — that being the dismal figure on which she 
 had gazed last night. The thought that such decay 
 was possible, even for her, filled her soul with 
 melancholy. She surveyed her lover's prospects 
 with the cold eye of common sense. 
 
 Love sees everything in his own rosy hue, fair as 
 earth in the warm glow of a summer morning, or 
 sunset's golden haze. Common sense revealed the 
 picture with every line cut sharply against winter's 
 dull gray sky. 
 
 Seriously, then, what were Edmund's prospects ? 
 Without experience of commerce or finance he hoped 
 to obtain a situation in a bank, and four or five 
 hundred a year, on the strength of his dead father's 
 name. Suppose the situation were refused to him — 
 or suppose he held it a little while, and, beguiled by 
 a seeming promise of prosperity, they two began life 
 together, until in some evil hour he lost his position 
 at the bank, through incapacity, ill-health, or sheer 
 ill-luck. 
 
 The prospect was not enchanting. 
 
 Nor was there a wide choice of occupation for Mr. 
 Standen. Young as he was, he was almost too old 
 to begin a learned profession, and to succeed in 
 a profession nowadays a man should have either
 
 'alas! our lips are held so far apart.' 201 
 
 superlative talent or powerful friends. Friends 
 Edmund had none, except his mother's grand rela- 
 tions, the de Bossineys, who lived in a stony man- 
 sion in the far west of Cornwall, and were unknown 
 beyond the adjacent post town. He was certainly 
 clever ; in the way in which five young men out of 
 ten are clever. He had read a good deal, could talk 
 well, possessed tastes decidedly intellectual; but of 
 the genius of a Thurlow, a Blomfield, a Paget, he 
 had as yet shown the world no indication. 
 
 Sylvia turned upon her sleepless couch and sighed, 
 and hated Mrs. Standen a little more vehemently 
 than before. Edmund was made to be a country 
 gentleman of the new school, intelligent, philan- 
 thropic, useful in the vestry and at quarter sessions, 
 and destined in ripe middle age to blossom into a 
 member of parliament. This was his vocation ; and 
 missing this, what could he be but a waif and a 
 stray, a mere weed tossed upon life's troubled ocean"? 
 And in a fate so uncertain his fellow-weed Sylvia 
 had no wish to be entangled. 
 
 ' But I love him too dearly to give him up,' she 
 said to herself, with another twist of her restless 
 head upon that sleep-refusing pillow. ' I never, never 
 could give him up. Yet I almost wish that he could 
 see the folly of our engagement and give me up.'
 
 202 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Last niglit — before the coming of that fatal 
 stranger — she had considered her father an inexor- 
 able tyrant. To-day he seemed to her only a man 
 of the world. 
 
 It was but natural that to his worldly eyes the 
 engagement must seem foolish — almost to idiotcy. 
 
 ^ And how inconsistent Edmund is, poor fellow,' 
 she thought. ' Only the day before yesterday he 
 was for having our banns given out next Sunday, 
 and yesterday he talked as coolly as possible about 
 waiting a year for our marriage.' 
 
 Whereby it will be seen that Miss Carew had 
 taken it upon herself to overhear a conversation 
 which so nearly concerned her own interests.
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 ' so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 
 
 Sylvia rose before six, flung open casement and 
 door and let the liglit of glorious day and the sweet 
 morning air in upon the parlour. She performed 
 her toilet in the small scullery, where there ^Yas an 
 ample supply of that cold spring water which is 
 beauty's best balm. Then, arrayed in her neat 
 print dress — washed and ironed by her own hands 
 and always fresh — she swept and dusted the sitting- 
 room — lit the kitchen fire — laid the breakfast table 
 — gathered a bunch of newly opened flowers to 
 brighten it — boiled some eggs — and made the tea. 
 
 The uninvited guest came downstairs while 
 Sylvia was busied with these last duties. In the 
 daylight, which is no friend to haggard faces or 
 shabby garments, Mrs. Carford looked even older 
 and more worn than she had looked last night ; but 
 she had contrived to dress herself in those limp and
 
 204 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 faded rags with a neatness which made them almost 
 respectable. She had made good use of the big can 
 of cold water in Sylvia's room to remove the stains 
 of travel, the grime of flying smuts from the 
 engine, the dust of the road. Her hair, whose 
 faded auburn was almost obscured by advancing 
 grayness, was now smoothly banded across the 
 troubled brow. She had washed her poor rag of 
 a collar before going to bed, and pressed it under 
 Sylvia's big Bible, the gift of the kind Vicar. She 
 had read a chapter in that sacred book, before she 
 lay down ; perhaps with a more earnest spirit than 
 had ever inspired its happier possessor. 
 
 Sylvia saw the poor attempt at decency, but felt 
 that the woman looked not the less a pauper. She 
 had seen women in the workhouse better dressed. 
 She made a mental survey of her own limited ward- 
 robe, considering whether she could spare a gown 
 for this hapless creature. But the gowns were so 
 few, and Sylvia needed them all ; even the old ones, 
 for they helped to save the new. 
 
 ' I hope you slept pretty well,' she said, in reply 
 to the stranger's timid salutation. 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Carew. Yes, pretty well. I 
 am not a sound sleeper at the best of times. I have 
 such bad dreams.'
 
 ' so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 205 
 
 ' Indeed,' murmured Sylvia coldly. She dared 
 not be friendly. It might give the intruder en- 
 couragement. And in her restless heart there 
 was a voice that kept saying — ' When will she 
 go?' 
 
 ' Dreams of the dead — or of those who are dead 
 to me — for my dead are among the living. They 
 visit me in my dreams, and are even kind. Yet 
 the dreams are sad, because I know they are false. 
 I keep saying to myself, "It is only a shadow. It 
 will fade!'" 
 
 Sylvia gave a faint sigh, and then began to cut 
 bread and butter with a business-like air, as if to 
 put an end to sentimentality. 
 
 ' If there were not another world where all wronorg 
 
 o 
 
 shall be righted — where we shall be permitted to 
 begin new lives, warned by the experience of sorrow 
 — who among us could bear the pain we suffer here ? 
 But there is — there must be a better life, Christ 
 did not deceive us. This dark riddle will be solved 
 above.' 
 
 Mrs. Carford raised her eyes to the summer 
 heaven with a look that made them once more 
 beautiful. She was standing in the doorway, drink- 
 ing in the fresh morning air. Sylvia repented her 
 folly in leaving the door open. People might pass
 
 201) TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 the gate and see the stranger, and be moved to 
 inquh'e about her. 
 
 * You had better come away from the door,' she 
 said. ' The morning air is chilly. Come and sit 
 down to your breakfast. You needn't v/ait for papa 
 — he's always late.' 
 
 Mrs. Carford divined the motive of this polite 
 speech. 
 
 'You don't want me to be seen,' she said, coming 
 away from the door. 
 
 ' Oh,' said Sylvia, blushing, ' it isn't exactly that; 
 but people in Hedingham do talk so.' 
 
 Mrs. Carford gave a little sigh, and seated herself 
 in the place indicated. Sylvia could not avoid 
 taking the opposite chair, before the teapot, and 
 thus the two found themselves seated face to face, 
 for the first time within the memory of one of them. 
 
 The other remembered a smartly furnished nur- 
 sery in a suburban villa, and a little petted child 
 of three years old, in a white muslin frock bedizened 
 with blue ribbons, sitting up in a high chair, 
 pouring make-believe tea out of a toy teapot. The 
 picture she saw to-day strangely recalled that 
 phantom picture of the past. 
 
 ' Do you take milk and sugar ? ' asked Sylvia 
 politely.
 
 * so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 207 
 
 ' Who— I ? ' 
 
 The woman looked at her helplessly for a moment, 
 and then burst into tears, the first she had been 
 seen to shed since she had entered that house, save 
 by the watchful eyes of those angels who guard 
 penitent sinners. 
 
 Sylvia looked distressed, but kept her place, and 
 did not stretch out so much as a finger towards the 
 stranger. 
 
 ' Pray don't cry,' she said, ' crying never does any 
 good.' 
 
 Mrs. Carford dried her tears, slowly, silently. 
 She stole a look at the face opposite her, and its 
 indifference pierced her heart. 
 
 * But she knows nothing,' she thought, ' why 
 should I expect her to pity me ? ' 
 
 She had eaten eagerly last night ; but the sharp 
 pangs of hunger once relieved, appetite was languid. 
 She drank her tea, ate one morsel of bread, and de- 
 clined the egg which Sylvia offered. 
 
 They sat in silence, till the ticking of the Dutch 
 clock became a painful sound to both. Then Mrs. 
 Carford turned her sad eyes towards the open case- 
 ment, beyond which the flower garden smiled in 
 the morning sun, bees humming, birds chirping, a 
 look of happiness over all things. Dark beyond
 
 208 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 rose the yew hedge and the tombstones, and to 
 these the stranger's eyes wandered longingly. Oh, 
 to rest till the end of time amidst those cool shadows 
 of cypress and yew, and to wake in eternity a new 
 creature ! 
 
 ' You have a pretty garden,' she said nervously, 
 just to break the silence. 
 
 ^ Do you think it pretty ? I almost hate it for 
 being the same year after year. The same old holly- 
 hocks, the same scarlet-runners, straggling all over 
 the walks and climbing up the pear trees ; the same 
 roses, the same earwigs almost, I believe,' said 
 Sylvia impatiently. ' At the Vicarage they are 
 always making improvements, ferneries and rosaries 
 and wildernesses. But then they have plenty of 
 money and can do anything.' 
 
 ' Do you think money alone can give happiness ? ' 
 asked Mrs. Carford. 
 
 ' Do you think anybody can be happy without it ? ' 
 asked Sylvia. 
 
 * No, the sting of poverty goes deep, but I have 
 seen misery that wealth could not lighten. If I 
 could have my prayers granted for one I fondly loved, 
 I should pray God to make her content with simple 
 joys, happy in obscurity.' 
 
 Sylvia was not listening. She was asking her-
 
 ' so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 209 
 
 self that unanswerable question : ' When will she 
 go ? ' This suspense w^as dreadful. Mary Peter or 
 Alice Cook might come in at any moment, and how 
 was she to explain the presence of this shabby 
 stranger ? 
 
 She felt relieved when her father came down. He 
 would arrange matters no doubt. He could be de- 
 cisive enough on occasion. 
 
 He came into the room, gave Mrs. Carford a cool 
 nod, and took his seat at the table. His daughter 
 ministered to him, buttered his crisp toast, poured 
 out his tea, laid the county newspaper by his plate. 
 
 * Thanks. You can go into the garden, Sylvia, 
 while this lady and I talk. She may want my 
 advice about — about — proceeding with her journey.' 
 
 Sylvia obeyed, nothing loth to escape the op- 
 pression of that atmosphere. She went from the 
 garden to the churchyard, to that very spot where in 
 yesterday's warm noontide she had parted from her 
 lover. Here had he clasped her to his true heart ; 
 here made her swear eternal fidelity. 
 
 And should she not be faithful ? 
 
 * I did not know there was so much trouble in 
 the world yesterday,' she thought wonderingly, for 
 the time had seemed to her very much out of joint 
 even yesterday. ' I wasn't happy then, but I didn't 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 know I had a wretched mother, whom I should be 
 ashamed to own.' 
 
 She threw herself upon the tomb where she had 
 sat after yesterday's parting, and gave a gasping sob 
 and then a long dejected sigh. 
 
 A rustle of drapery sounded close to her, a little 
 gloved hand was gently laid upon hers. 
 
 ' I was just coming to see you. Miss Carew,' said 
 a sweet voice. ' I know how sad you must feel about 
 Edmund.' 
 
 Sylvia sat bolt upright in a moment and faced the 
 sympathizer. It was Miss Kochdale, who had been 
 on her way to the school-house when Sylvia flung 
 herself upon the tomb. She thought it a duty to 
 comfort the girl in Edmund's absence, and that des- 
 pairing self-abandonment had touched her heart. 
 
 ' She must love him very dearly to grieve so 
 deeply,' she reflected. * Yet I thought her shallow 
 and frivolous.' 
 
 ' Thank you, you're very good,' faltered Sylvia 
 nervously, thinking how best to prevent any en- 
 counter between Miss Eochdale and that fatal 
 guest. ' I'm sure I didn't think you'd trouble your- 
 self about me.' 
 
 * Isn't it natural that I should be interested in 
 you?' asked Esther. 'Edmund and I have been
 
 *S0 YOUNG AND SO U^TENDER.' 211 
 
 brought up together like brother and sister. How 
 can I help being interested in — his — future — wife?' 
 
 She said the words slowly, as if they were a little 
 strange to her. 
 
 'I thought you were all against me,' said Sylvia 
 coldly. 
 
 * No one is against you, now. Mrs. Standen 
 opposed the engagement at first, you were such a 
 stranger to her, you know ; but I believe she is 
 reconciled to it now.' 
 
 ' Reconciled ! When she means to disinherit her 
 son ! ' cried Sylvia scornfully. 
 
 * Who can tell what she may do ? As years go 
 by she may grow to love you. How can she refuse 
 you her affection if you are a good wife to her 
 son?' 
 
 ' And how are we to live till she relents ? ' asked 
 Sylvia. 
 
 * Edmund will find a wav to eani his ovi-ji living:. 
 There is something noble in a man who marks out 
 his own career; and I am sure Edmund is capable of 
 winning success mthout any help from his father's 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' What a noble scorn of money you rich people 
 have ! ' said Sylvia. 
 
 Esther did not like the girl's tone. Her grief 
 
 p 2
 
 212 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 had touched Miss Rochdale's kmd heart, her cynicism 
 repelled. 
 
 ' I want to be your friend, if I can,' she said, 
 gently. ' When you and Edmund are married we 
 shall be almost like sisters, for I always think of 
 him as a brother.' 
 
 ' Very right and proper,' thought Sylvia, yet she 
 was not quick to respond to Miss Rochdale's kind- 
 ness, or to believe in her sincerity. And she had 
 chosen the most awkward time for her visit. 
 
 ' I came to tell you that Edmund reached London 
 safely,' said Esther, as if he had gone to Kamt- 
 chatka or Grand Cairo. ' Auntie had a few lines 
 from him this morning, written at the station. 
 Short as the letter was, there was a line about you.' 
 
 * Really,' cried Sylvia, brightening, and favouring 
 Miss Rochdale with the first smile she had bestowed 
 upon her. ' Dear Edmund,' she murmured softly. 
 
 * Only one line — '' Be kind to my Sylvia." ' 
 
 * His Sylvia. Yes, I am his with all my heart,' 
 the girl answered, with a little gush of feeling. For 
 a moment she forgot that her lover could give her 
 only a life which must at least begin with man's 
 vulgar struggle for daily bread. For a moment she 
 forgot that dark vision of a possible future which the 
 sight of Mrs. Carford had evoked.
 
 ' so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 213 
 
 * We have only known each other three short 
 months, and yet we are all the world to each other,' 
 she said softly. ' If any one were to tell me 
 Edmund was dead, it would be the same as if they 
 said the world had come to an end. My world 
 would have perished. Strange, isn't it '? ' 
 
 ' It is the great mystery of love,' answered Esther 
 calmly. ' Now Edmund and I have lived together 
 fourteen years, without one thought of such love as 
 you speak of.' 
 
 ' How could one fall in love vriih. a person one 
 saw every day ? ' exclaimed Sylvia. ' Love must be 
 the beginning of a new life, not the continuation of 
 an old one. I never thought I cared for beautiful 
 landscapes till one day papa took me to Fairlie HiU, 
 and I looked down from that gi'eat height upon a 
 world I had never seen before, and felt a rapture 
 that was like human love. I had heard people talk 
 about the beauty of this place — but I knew it too 
 well to see its prettiness.' 
 
 * And we are to be friends, Sylvia ? ' asked Miss 
 Rochdale, ^ith winning sweetness. 
 
 ' If you like,' answered the other, somewhat in- 
 differently. ' But I am sure our house is hardly 
 fit for you to come to with those horrid noisy boys,' 
 
 ' But I like school children, even if they are noisy.
 
 214 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 I may come sometimes, may not I, and keep you 
 company for an hour or two when you are dull ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes ? Oh, yes, certainly, if you like. I 
 shall always be glad to see you,' answered Sylvia, 
 fondly hoping that Miss Kochdale would not want 
 to go to the school-house to-day. That troublesome 
 guest could hardly be gone yet, however decisive 
 Mr. Carew might be. 
 
 ' I — I won't ask you to come home with me this 
 morning,' she said, trying to seem unconcerned, 
 ' for school is just beginning. Hark, you can hear 
 the boys shouting,' as shrill peals pierced the still 
 air ; ' but whenever you like to come, I'm sure I 
 shall be pleased.' 
 
 * Then I will come once a week while Edmund is 
 away; and I can bring you a new book now and 
 then from the book club. I dare say you are fond 
 of reading,' added the young lady, with an uncon- 
 scious air of superiority. She could only consider 
 Sylvia a young person of lowly station, who might 
 be, perhaps, in advance of other young women of 
 the same degree. 
 
 * Yes,' answered Sylvia, * books are about the 
 only thing worth living for in such a place as this. 
 I like German books best when I can get them. 
 They set one thinking.'
 
 * so YOUNG AND SO UNTENDER.' 215 
 
 Miss Rochdale looked surprised. 
 
 * Do you read German ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, I taught myself French and German be- 
 fore I was fifteen. Papa helped me, of course, but 
 not much.' 
 
 * You deserve great praise,' said Esther. 
 
 * I didn't do it for praise,' answered Sylvia care- 
 lessly. * I only wanted to read the books I had 
 read about in other books — Goethe, Schiller, Victor 
 Hugo — and so on. I did not want to feel myself 
 shut out from the world they have created.' 
 
 Esther was surprised. She had been paraded at 
 the slow academical pace through the grammars of 
 the three chief continental tongues — had read Sylvio 
 Pellico in Italian, a few mild German stories of the 
 Marchen class, adapted to children of six. She 
 could speak French with the nicest adherence to 
 rule, and the Monkhampton accent, imparted by a 
 Swiss-French governess ; but as for reading Goethe 
 or Schiller, save in such homoeopathic doses as are 
 filtered through the pages of a * Select Eeader,' 
 Miss Rochdale had never dreamed of such a 
 thing. 
 
 She gave a little sigh that was almost envious, 
 if so unselfish a soul could feel envy. 
 
 * What a companion this girl must be for
 
 216 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Edmund,' she thought, * and how stupid I must 
 seem after her.' 
 
 * I shall hring you some of Edmund's books,' 
 she said kindly. * I'm sure he won't mind. And 
 now good bye. I came here directly after break- 
 fast on purpose to tell you the good news of his 
 safe arrival ; but another time I shall come in 
 the afternoon, when you're at leisure.' 
 
 She pressed Sylvia's hand and departed. The 
 girl watched her as she walked along the narrow 
 path. 
 
 How fresh and bright her pretty mauve and 
 white muslin dress looked, and the neat little black 
 silk jacket and the linen collar, and broad cuffs 
 with massive gold studs ; and the dainty little 
 brown straw hat with its graceful feather. Sylvia 
 watched her with a sigh. 
 
 * When shall I ever be able to dress as well as 
 that ? ' she thought. * Simple as those things are 
 they must have cost ever so much money.'
 
 CHAPTER XYLl, 
 
 * PART NOW, PART TTELL, PART WIDE APART.' 
 
 While SylTia was in the chnrchyard, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Carford, alias Carew, were coming to an 
 amicable settlement in the school-house parlour. 
 
 * Now, my good soul/ said the schoolmaster, 
 as his wife sat opposite him, with downcast eyes, 
 * I think you must see by this time exactly how 
 matters stand, and that your evil genius could 
 hardly have inspired you with a worse idea than 
 that of coming to seek help from me. It would 
 have been inhuman to turn you out of doors last 
 night, so I gave you your daughter's bedroom. 
 But, as your own good sense must show you, it 
 wouldn't do for you to occupy it a second night. 
 You don't want to confess your relationship to 
 Sylvia. I appreciate the delicacy of a reserve 
 which is only natural under the circumstances. 
 When you left your child seventeen years ago
 
 218 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 you forfeited the right to call her daughter. Use- 
 less now to say, ''I am your mother." She would 
 answer in those awful words of the Gospel, " I 
 never knew you." ' 
 
 ' True,' cried the wanderer, with a sob. 
 
 * Such being the case, the sooner you leave this 
 house and this neighbourhood the better. Out of 
 my poverty — my entire income is less than a pound 
 a week — I will give you a sovereign, enough to take 
 you back to London and repay your landlady's loan. 
 You will, at any rate, be no worse off than when 
 you undertook this foolish journey.' 
 
 ' And no better. Oh, James,' cried Mrs. Car- 
 ford piteously, ' can you do nothing more for me ? 
 Let me stop here, and be your servant, your drudge 
 without wages. I can sleep in a scullery. I shall 
 cost you so little, and no one shall ever hear my 
 lips betray the link between us.' 
 
 ' My good soul,' said Mr. Carew, ' be reasonable ! 
 I could as well afford to keep an elephant as a 
 servant ; and to set up a housekeeper would be to 
 set every tongue in Hedingham wagging. People 
 know that I have just enough to feed myself and 
 my daughter. And as to being my drudge, and 
 sleeping in my scullery, surely there is somebody 
 in all the vast world of London who would take
 
 ' PART NOW, PART AYELL, PART WIDE APART.' 219 
 
 you as a drudge without wages. You needn't have 
 come all the way to Hedingham in search of such a 
 situation as that.' 
 
 * I am not strong, James. I have been out 
 charing, but people complained that I didn't do 
 work enough, and that I set about it awkwardly. 
 They found out that I was a broken-down lady, 
 and that went against me.' 
 
 'Very sad,' exclaimed Mr. Carew, with a sigh, 
 half pity half impatience. ' I see only one resource 
 open to you.' 
 
 * And what is that "? ' asked his wife eagerly. 
 
 ' An appeal to Mr. Mowbray. Let him give you 
 
 some small pension, enough to keep you from 
 starving.' 
 
 * No, James,' she answered, with dignity. * I 
 shall never do that. Let the worst come I can 
 starve. It is only six or seven days' pain, and — 
 a paragraph in the newspapers.' 
 
 She took up the sovereign which her husband 
 had laid upon the table. 
 
 * I'm sorry to rob you of it, James. But you 
 wouldn't like me to be seen wandering about here. 
 This will take me back to London — the gi-eat gulf 
 which swallows up so many sorrows ! ' 
 
 She had brought her bonnet and shawl down-
 
 220 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 stairs with her, knowing that her departure was 
 near. She put them on with her feehle, faltering 
 hands, and was ready to begin her journey. 
 
 * Good bye, James,' she said, stretching out her 
 hand. 
 
 He took it reluctantly, and there was no hearti- 
 ness in his grasp. 
 
 * Say that you forgive me, James. We are both 
 much nearer the grave than when I wronged you.' 
 
 * It's easy to say forgive. Well, we were both 
 sinners. I have no right to be hard. What was it 
 tempted you to leave me ? ' 
 
 'His love,' she answered; ' he loved me as you 
 had never done. If you could know how he bore 
 with me in those sorrowful years, till my remorse 
 wore out even his patience. I think he would have 
 been true to the very end, even though he had 
 grown weary. But I thank God for giving me 
 strength to leave him — to tread the stony way of 
 penitence. It has been made very hard to me ; but 
 I have never regretted that I chose it while life 
 still seemed to smile.' 
 
 * A false smile,' said Mr. Carew. ' Well, you 
 were but a foolish child when I married you ; and 
 I might have been a better guardian. We have 
 marred our lives, both of us. Good-bye.'
 
 * PART NOW, PART WELL, PART WIDE APART.' 221 
 
 Thus they parted, husband and wife, who had 
 met again after seventeen years of severance. Like 
 the memory of a dream seemed the past to both. 
 So dim, so strange, so irrecoverable. 
 
 At the garden-gate Mrs. Carford met Sylvia. 
 
 * Ai-e you going away ? ' asked the girl, looking at 
 her curiously. 
 
 *Yes.' 
 
 * For good ? ' 
 
 The woman smiled at the mockery in the words. 
 
 * For ever,' she answered. ' There is no hole or 
 corner for me in your father's house. I only asked 
 for food and shelter, but he cannot give me even those.' 
 
 * We are so poor,' said Syhia, ' you'd hardly 
 believe how poor ; for we try to put a decent face 
 upon things, and not seem such beggars as we are. 
 I am sorry papa cannot do anything to help you.' 
 
 * I am sorry too, my dear,' replied the woman, 
 with a tender look, ' I should like to live near you, 
 even if it were in the nearest workhouse.' 
 
 That touch of tenderness embarrassed Sylvia. 
 
 ' I am very sorry for you,' she repeated, ' and if 
 ever I am well off, which I don't suppose I ever 
 shall be, I might be able to help you. Can you 
 give me any address where I could write to if ever 
 I had a little money to send you ? '
 
 222 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * How good you are,' cried Mrs. Carford, * Yes, 
 there is my landlady, she is a kind soul, and would 
 keep a letter for me, even if I were not with her, 
 for Heaven knows how long she may he ahle to give 
 me the shelter of a room which I can seldom pay 
 for two weeks running. See, dear young lady, here 
 is the address.' 
 
 She gave Sylvia an old envelope, on which was 
 written, * Mrs. Carford, care of Mrs. Wood, Bell- 
 alley, Fetter-lane.' 
 
 ' It isn't so much the chance of your helping me 
 that I think of,' she said, deeply moved, ' as the 
 kindness that put such a thing into your head. 
 Good-hye, my dear. I am going out into a 
 world which is very cruel to the poor and weak. 
 It's hardly likely that you and I will ever meet 
 again. Let me kiss you hefore I go.' 
 
 Sylvia submitted to that kiss, returned it even ; 
 and with a blessing, spoken amidst sobs, her mother 
 left her.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PERKIAM PLACE. 
 
 Perriam Place had been built by a certain Godfrey 
 Perriam in the days of Queen Anne, on the site 
 where a previous Perriam Place had stood for cen- 
 turies before — the Perriams being old in the land. 
 When this new Perriam was built, Monkhampton 
 returned its member ; and the free and independent 
 electors, to the number of seven-and-twenty, were as 
 serfs and vassals to Sir Godfrey Perriam. He paid 
 them for their allegiance — he, or the member he 
 made them vote for — but none ever dreamed of 
 voting against Sir Godfrey's nominee. 
 
 For a great many years the present red brick 
 building had been called the New Place ; but now 
 age had mellowed its ruddy tones. The magnolias 
 against the southern front stretched high and wide ; 
 the mansion had ripened like the fruit on the garden 
 waUs with the passage of years. 
 
 Perriam Place consisted of a handsome pedi-
 
 224 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 mented centre and two massive wings. Sculptured 
 garlands adorned the stone frieze — the same garlands 
 were repeated, in little, over doors and windows. 
 Before the house stretched a noble lawn, shaded on 
 one side by a clump of cedars, on the other by a 
 group of giant maples. On the left of the house 
 lay the flower garden, a model of old-fashioned hor- 
 ticulture, unimproved by the Capability Browns of 
 later years. On the right were the kitchen gardens, 
 rich in commonplace vegetables, and boasting no 
 dazzling range of orchard-houses, pineries, and 
 vineries — only an old hot-bed or two where the pea- 
 sant gardeners grew cucumbers in the cucumber 
 season. But the want of orchard-houses need be 
 felt but little in a climate where green peas could be 
 grown till November, and where fat plums and 
 ruddy peaches ripened uncared for on the buttressed 
 walls. 
 
 Perriam Place of to-day was exactly like the Per- 
 riam Place of a hundred years ago. Entering that 
 cool, stone-paved hall, and surrounded by that old- 
 fashioned furniture, you might have fancied that 
 Time had grown no older than the date of yonder 
 eight-day clock, which bore its age upon its face, in 
 quaint Eoman numerals, like the title-page of an 
 old book. It was a fundamental principle with the
 
 PERRIAM PLACE. 225 
 
 Perriams not to spend any money which they could 
 honourably avoid spending. They were not miserly 
 or inhospitable — they lived as gentlemen should 
 live — dispensed the orthodox benevolence of country 
 gentlemen — kept a good table in dining parlour and 
 servants' hall — rode good horses — but they never 
 frittered away money. Art they ignored altogether. 
 No canvas, save that of a family portrait, ever 
 graced the walls of Perriam. A few mezzotint en- 
 gravings — Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, Garrick, the 
 great Lord Chatham, and Dr. Johnson — graced the 
 oak panelling in the breakfast parlour ; and these 
 prints were the newest in the house. Perriams suc- 
 ceeded their fathers, and followed one another along 
 the trodden way to Lethe, but no Perriam ever 
 added to or improved the mansion. The things 
 which had satisfied their forefathers satisfied them. 
 They were eminently conservative — objected to new- 
 fangled ways, took their after-dinner wine at a table 
 whose broad expanse of mahogany reflected the ruby 
 of the vintage, and avoided all superfluous expendi- 
 ture of money. If the Perriam housekeeper, intent 
 upon the glory of the house, ventured to hint at 
 any change in the details of a banquet, to suggest 
 that this or that was the fashion up in London 
 freezing was the reply of her lord. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 ^ TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' Fashion ! ' exclaimed Sir Aubrey. ' What do I 
 care about fashion. Do you suppose it matters 
 to me what new-fangled trumpery is invented for 
 parvenu stockbrokers and Manchester cotton lords? 
 They can have no distinction except in wasting 
 money. Let my table be laid as it was when Lord 
 Bolingbroke visited my great-grandfather.' 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke always silenced the housekeeper. 
 He was almost a living presence at Perriam. The 
 best of the spare bedchambers was still called the 
 Bolingbroke Room. Brilliant St. John had slept in 
 it when new Perriam Place was only a year old. 
 Heaven knows what schemes had filled the busy 
 head that pressed yonder pillows. Years after the 
 fallen statesman had returned to Perriam for a little 
 while, a disappointed man, on whose once marvellous 
 life now shone no light save that of woman's faith- 
 ful love. 
 
 The furniture at Perriam was old, sombre, but 
 handsome ; the more modern portion was of the 
 famous Chippendale school — perhaps the only origi- 
 nal and artistic furniture which England ever pro- 
 duced. The rich glow of the prevailing mahogany 
 was relieved and set off by satin wood stringings. 
 There were dainty Pembroke tables with reeded legs, 
 sideboards with brass handles and claw and ball
 
 PERRIAM PLACE. 227 
 
 feet, capacious arm-chairs with lyre-shaped backs, 
 carved by a chisel as correct and delicate in its lines 
 as nature herself, whatnots of lightest build, yet 
 firm as the Eddystone Lighthouse — furniture which 
 in its very simplicity had a gi-ace unknown to the 
 florid ornamentation and gilded pitch pine of the 
 sham Louis-Quatorze school. The draperies were 
 of the same date as the chairs and tables ; Indian 
 brocaded curtains, whose damask had once been 
 vivid as the plumage of tropical birds, still adorned 
 the drawing-room, and, although faded, looked 
 handsomer than any modern fabric. Of ornament 
 there was very little in that vast saloon with its seven 
 long windows and deep bay at the end overlooking 
 the flower garden. Two monster vases of Wor- 
 cester china, rich in purple and gold, surmounted 
 a Florentine marble table in the bay, a table that 
 had stood there in the days of Lord Bolingbroke. 
 A second pan- of jars, huge and oriental, adorned 
 the other end of the room, on either side the 
 wide hearth. The tall marble chimney-piece, on 
 Corinthian columns, bore no ornament save clock 
 and candelabra of bronze, mounted on pedestals of 
 black marble, which coldly contrasted the veinless 
 white of the slab that sustained them. 
 
 No modern frivolities crowded this vast saloon. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 No Davenport, or dos-d-dos, or central ottoman 
 marred its stern simplicity. No fernery or aquarium 
 bespoke tlie tastes of some feminine occupant. No 
 photographic album or stereoscope offered diversion 
 to the idle visitor. The cell of a model prison could 
 hardly have been less fruitful in diversion for the 
 unthinking mind. The amateur of architecture 
 might find something to admire in the three-feet 
 deep cornice, with its variety of moulding and egg- 
 and-dart border, but, save in its architectural beau- 
 ties, the room was barren of interest. 
 
 Yet to the thinker there was some charm in its 
 very repose. That old-world look which told of days 
 gone by, when the world was a century and a half 
 younger. The present lord of Perriam was very 
 proud of his drawing-room, or saloon, as the cham- 
 ber was religiously entitled. Not for kingdoms 
 would he have changed an object in that soberly 
 furnished apartment. And by this wise conservatism 
 he at once testified his reverence for his ancestors, 
 and saved his own money. 
 
 * Photographic album ! ' he exclaimed, when some 
 frivolous person suggested that he should adorn one 
 of the Chippendale tables with that refuge of the 
 mindless guest. ' There were no photograph albums 
 in the time of Bolingbroke, and society was a great
 
 PEBRIAM PLACE. 229 
 
 deal more brilliant then than it is now. If people 
 want to amuse themselves, let them read Pope. 
 There's a fine edition in yonder bookcase.' 
 
 And the baronet pointed the finger of triumph at 
 a dwarf bookcase defended by brass lattices which 
 extended along one side of his saloon. Here neatly 
 ranged were all those authors whose reputation in- 
 creases daily among a generation by which they are 
 for the most part unread — Pope, Prior, Gay, Swift, 
 St. John, Addison, and Steele. Sir Aubrey forgot 
 that the key of that treasury had been mislaid 
 fifteen years ago, and that the books were dusted 
 with a feather brush that went between those criss- 
 crossed wires. 
 
 In the west front were Sir Aubrey's apartments 
 — bedroom vast, gloomy, dressing-room larger than 
 most modern bedrooms, study a mere closet ; and 
 the southern end of the house, communicating, by 
 a narrow passage, with the baronet's rooms, and over- 
 looking the kitchen garden, were the apartments 
 which had been occupied without change for the 
 last thirty years by Sir Aubrey's brother, Mordred 
 Perriam. The ancient Saxon name was almost Mr. 
 Perriam's sole heritage from his ancient race, and 
 but for a stray two hundred a year that came to 
 him from the maternal side of the house, Mordred
 
 230 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Perriam would have been dependent upon his brother 
 for support. As it was, Mr. Perriam lived with his 
 brother, and lived free of expense. He spent the 
 greater part of his own income upon his library, 
 a heterogeneous collection of second-hand books, 
 bought hap-hazard of those provincial booksellers 
 with whom he kept up a never-ending correspond- 
 ence. They were such volumes as Martin Scrib- 
 lerus or Dominie Sampson might have rejoiced in, 
 but which would hardly have provoked the envy of a 
 modern collector. Brown leather bindings ; ancient 
 editions in which the least voluminous author gene- 
 rally ran into forty volumes; queer old ribbed paper, 
 queer old type — no single set perfect. Authors 
 whose names are only preserved in the Dunciad; 
 authors whose brief span of popularity has. left no 
 record whatever. English obscurities, French ob- 
 scurities, Eoman obscurities, German obscurities, 
 cumbered the book- worm's shelves, till to hunt 
 for a genuine classic amidst that uncatalogued 
 chaos was half a day's labour. 
 
 Mr. Perriam had begun many catalogues ; strug- 
 gling on with infinite toil, trotting to and fro 
 between his desk and the shelves with meekest 
 patience ; but the catalogues always ended in 
 muddle. He was always buying, and the supple-
 
 PERRUM PLACE. 231 
 
 mentary catalogue which his latest purchases ren- 
 dered necessary, bothered his somewhat feeble 
 brains. His fly-leaves and addenda grew thicker 
 than the original volume, and he abandoned his 
 task in wild despair. After all, he knew his books, 
 and could have recited all their titles, though per- 
 haps in many cases unfamiliar with their contents. 
 He used to imagine that he had a particular desire 
 to read such and such an author, till he got the 
 author at home. But the volumes once snug on 
 his shelves the desire seemed somehow appeased. 
 When his learned friends talked of an author, Mr. 
 Perriam used to say, ' Ah ! I've got him.' He 
 was too honest to say, ' I've read him.' 
 
 The apartments devoted to Mr. Perriam were airy 
 and spacious like all the rest of the bouse. But 
 large as they were his books overran them. From 
 floor to ceiling, under the windows, over the man- 
 telpiece, wherever a shelf could be put, appeared 
 those endless rows of bro^Ti-backed volumes, hardly 
 brightened here and there by the faded crimson 
 labels of some later editions. Mr. Perriam could 
 not afford to be a connoisseur in bindings. No 
 costly tooled calf, no gilded vellum, no perfumed 
 russia, gratified his sense of scent or feeling. But 
 in his very poverty there lurked a blessing. He had
 
 232 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 taught himself to patch the old bindings, to stain, 
 and sprinkle, and marble the dust-blackened edges, 
 and he never was more serenely content than when 
 he sat before his worktable, and dabbed and fitted, 
 and pasted and furbished the battered old volumes 
 with the aid of a glue-pot, a few scraps of calfskin, 
 a little vermilion, a big pair of scissors, and inex- 
 haustible patience. In his heart of hearts Mr. 
 Perriam felt that could he begin life again he would 
 wish to be a bookbinder. 
 
 Mr. Perriam' s library overlooked the kitchen gar- 
 den. It was a spacious room with a deep bay like 
 that which at the other extremity of the house 
 formed the end of the drawing-room. In the days 
 when there were children at Perriam, this room had 
 been the nursery. Immediately adjoining it was 
 Mr. Perriam' s bedchamber, and next to that a 
 smallish dressing-room, which communicated, by 
 means of a dark little paasage, with Sir Aubrey's 
 bedroom. The brothers were honestly attached to 
 each other, different as were their habits, and liked 
 to be within call of each other. Sir Aubrey's valet 
 slept in his master's dressing-room ; but Mr. Per- 
 riam had no body servant. That was a luxury, or 
 an encumbrance, which he persistently denied him- 
 self. Nor would his wardrobe have afforded either
 
 PERRIAM PLACE. 233 
 
 employment or perquisites for a valet. He never 
 possessed but one suit of clothes, wore those gar- 
 ments nearly threadbare, and passed them on when 
 done with to an underling in the garden ; a deaf 
 old man who wheeled a barrow of dead leaves 
 all the autumn, and rolled the lawns and gravel 
 walks when there were no leaves to fill his barrow. 
 This old gardener used to prowl about the gardens 
 looking like the wraith or double of Mr. Perriam. 
 
 When there were visitors at the Place, ]\Ir. Perriam 
 rarely showed himself. Wlien Sir Aubrey had no 
 guests the brothers dined together; but while the 
 baronet was away Mr. Perriam always dined in his 
 own den, and turned the leaves of some late acquisi- 
 tion as he ate his dinner. He was a slow reader, 
 and had been three years poring over an old copy 
 of Dante, and addling his poor old brains with the 
 commentaries which obscured the text. If he took a 
 walk, it was in the kitchen garden. He liked those 
 prim quadrangles of pot-herbs, the straight narrow 
 walks, the espalier-bounded strawberry beds, the 
 perfect order and quiet of the place, and above all 
 he liked to know that no chance visitor at Perriam 
 would surprise him there. He brought his books 
 here on summer mornings, and paced the paths 
 slowly, reading as he walked; or dozed over an
 
 234 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 open volume, in yonder summer-house before the 
 fish-pond, on sultry afternoons. He trotted up and 
 down between the bare beds for his constitutional, 
 in mid-winter. The kitchen garden was all he 
 knew of the external world, and all he cared to 
 know; so long as he could conduct all his trans- 
 actions with booksellers through the convenient 
 medium of the post. So passed his harmless un- 
 eventful life, and if no man could say that Mordred 
 Perriam had ever done him a service, assuredly 
 none could charge him with a wrong.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ' LOVE, THOU ART LEADING ME FROM WINTRY COLD.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey and his brother dined tete-a-tete on 
 the evening of that day on which Mrs. Carford left 
 the brief shelter of the school-house, to resume her 
 place in life's endless procession. The dining-room 
 at Perriam faced the north-west, and commanded a 
 fine side view of the setting sun. One saw the Day- 
 god sink to his rest without being inconvenienced 
 by his expiring splendour. 
 
 It was eight o'clock, and that western glory was 
 fading, but Sir Aubrey liked the twilight. It 
 was at once soothing and economical, and the 
 baronet did not forget how large a cheque he 
 annually wrote for the Monkhampton tallow-chand- 
 ler. People talked of the cheapness and brilliancy 
 of gas, but Queen Anne herself could not have been 
 more averse from that garish light, had it been 
 suddenly introduced to her notice, than was Sir
 
 236 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Aubrey. Gas at Perriam ! Gas pipes to disfigure 
 those old crystal chandeliers which took all the 
 hues of a peacock's breast in the sunshine ! 
 ' August shade of my grandfather ! ' exclaimed 
 Sir Aubrey, ' what Goth can counsel such desecra- 
 tion ? ' 
 
 Sir Aubrey and his brother sat in the gloaming, 
 and talked ; or at least Mordred talked and Sir 
 Aubrey made believe to listen. The book-worm's 
 harmless babble about his last bargain with a 
 Bristol bookseller did not demand much strain 
 upon the listener's attention. Sir Aubrey gave a 
 vaguely acquiescent murmur now and then, and 
 that was enough. 
 
 Indeed, Sir Aubrey's mind had been wandering a 
 little throughout the ceremony of dinner, and now 
 he sat in a thoughtful attitude with his glass of 
 claret not diminished, looking down into the 
 shadowy gulfs of the polished mahogany table, as 
 if to read the visions he beheld there. 
 
 It was not of his brother's newly acquired twelve- 
 volume edition of Chatterton that he thought ; but 
 of a fair young face he had seen last night in the 
 garden of Hedingham school-house. 
 
 ' Mordred,' he exclaimed suddenly, * did you ever 
 wonder why I have not married ? '
 
 'love, thou art leading me from wintry cold.' 237 
 
 * No,' said Mr. Perriam, ' I never wonder. But I 
 should think the reason was clear enough to the 
 meanest comprehension. You have never forgotten 
 poor Guinivere.' 
 
 * Forgotten her ? no ; and never shall forget her. 
 Yet if, at my soher age, it were possible for a man 
 to feel a romantic love — the love of a poet rather 
 than a man of the world — do you think he ought 
 to trample upon the flower because it has blossomed 
 late ? ' 
 
 * Do you mean to say that you have fallen in 
 love ? ' asked Mordred, aghast. 
 
 * I have seen a face lovely enough to bewitch a 
 saint or a hermit — to thaw the coldest heart that 
 time ever froze. I don't admit that I'm in love. 
 That would be too great a folly. But I feel within 
 me a faculty which I deemed I had long outlived — 
 the capacity to fall in love.' 
 
 Mordred Perriam put his hands to his head, 
 and rubbed his scanty gray hair distractedly. He 
 thought his brother was going mad. 
 
 * Poor Guinivere,' he said feebly, as if the shade 
 of that patrician lady were outraged by Sir Aubrey's 
 folly. ' If she could have Jived to see this day.' 
 
 * If she had lived I might have been the happy 
 father of many children,' answered Sir Aubrey;
 
 238 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * as it is, the estate must go to Horace Perriam 
 whenever you and I are laid beside our ancestors.' 
 
 ' That seems hard,' said Mr. Perriam, who was 
 able to appreciate this common-sense view of the 
 question. ^ If you could find anybody now to replace 
 Lady Guinivere — of the same rank — an alliance 
 which you might be proud of.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey sighed and was silent. His chief 
 purpose in marriage ought to be to provide himself 
 with an heir. How was he to confront that heir in 
 after life if he could not name his maternal grand- 
 father — if for all genealogical purposes • the child 
 were on the maternal side grand fatherless ? 
 
 He sighed again, and with increasing despon- 
 dency. 
 
 * At my age, my dear Mordred, a man can hardly 
 hope to marry a duke's daughter. I shall never 
 meet another Guinivere. Lord Bolingbroke's second 
 wife was a Frenchwoman. He consulted his heart 
 rather than his interest.' 
 
 ' Bolingbroke married the niece of Madame de 
 Maintenon, and the widow of a marquis.' 
 
 ' True, but he married for love,' said Sir Aubrey, 
 impatiently. ' Late in life a man should marry for 
 love, if he is to marry at all. He has so short a 
 span left him in which to be happy. At twenty a
 
 'love, thou art leading me from wintry cold.' 239 
 
 man can afford to consult his interest, and marry a 
 ■Roman he doesn't care for. A youth of domestic 
 misery may be compensated by a middle age of 
 worldly success. But at my age there is nothing 
 left a man to wish for — except happiness.' 
 
 Mr. Perriam regarded his brother in helpless 
 wonderment. Was this abstract philosophy — or the 
 foolishness of an elderly egotist ? 
 
 ' I should have thought you were happy in your 
 present position,' said the brother mildly. ' You 
 have Perriam for a country house, and your entresol 
 in the Faubourg St. Honore — snug, and not very 
 expensive. When you are tired of Perriam, you go 
 to Paris. When you are tired of Paris, you return 
 to Perriam. You have boots and slippers, and 
 brushes and combs, and shirts, and a dress suit at 
 both places — no packing — no bustle — and your 
 valet here is your cook and general servant there. 
 What could be pleasanter, if one must move at 
 all?' 
 
 ' An empty life, at best,' said Sir Aubrey, ' and 
 monotonous. The fact of the matter is,' he went 
 on, in a business-like tone, ' that for some years 
 past I have felt it my duty to marry. If I have 
 shrunk from that duty — preferring the repose and 
 serenity gf a bachelor's life — I have felt myself
 
 240 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 guilty of moral cowardice. It is hard that Perriam 
 should descend to one who is all but a stranger.' 
 
 ' Horace Perriam — a starched prig in the War 
 Office,' said Mordred. ' There is not such another 
 kitchen garden in the west of England ! ' he added, 
 with a sigh. ^ If you could find some one of suit- 
 able rank, I don't say a duke's daughter — but of 
 suitable rank — some good old family — bearing arms 
 which the Perriams need not blush to quarter with 
 their own.' 
 
 This was harping on a string which Mordred had 
 been accustomed to hear twanged by his elder 
 brother. He was surprised to find the baronet 
 indifferent, or even contemptuous, about this ques- 
 tion of rank. 
 
 ' As to family,' he said, ' the Perriams ought to 
 be like the Bourbons — great enough to give rank to 
 their children without aid from the mother. The 
 sons of Louis Quatorze were all princes. My son 
 will be Sir Aubrey Perriam by-and-by, and he could 
 have been no more than Sir Aubrey Perriam if poor 
 Guinivere had been his mother.' 
 
 Mordred made haste to agree with his brother. 
 He rarely disputed a point with any one, unless it 
 were a purely literary question, such as the reason 
 of Ovid's exile, or Tasso's madness, or the identity
 
 'love, thou art leading me from wintry cold.' 241 
 
 of the Man in the Iron Mask, or the authorship of 
 Junius 's letters. 
 
 ' You have seen some one, perhaps, whom you 
 admire — some young lady belonging to one of our 
 county families,' said Mordred. He could not 
 suppose that his brother's eye had fallen to any 
 lower depth than the county families. 
 
 Sir Aubrey winced. He had been so bigoted a 
 high priest in the temple of the family god, and the 
 family god was Caste. How could he justify such 
 sacrilege as would be involved in his admiration of 
 a village schoolmaster's daughter ? 
 
 * I have certainly seen some one I admire, ' he 
 said, with a curious shyness, an almost juvenile 
 shame in this late-born love. ' A young lady who 
 is very pretty, very amiable, altogether worthy of 
 admiration. A young lady whose affection might 
 make any man proud and happy. But she is not of 
 a particularly good family ; or, if her father belongs 
 to an old and respectable family, which is not 
 impossible, since his name is a good one, he is 
 reduced in circumstances and occupies a somewhat 
 humble position.' 
 
 * A curate, perhaps,' suggested Mordred, vaguely. 
 
 * No, he is not in the Church.' 
 
 * Good gracious,' exclaimed Mordred, with an 
 vol. I. B
 
 242 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 awed look, ' you don't mean to say that he is in 
 trade ? ' 
 
 * No, he is not in trade.' 
 
 Mr. Perriam breathed more freely. 
 
 * I am glad of that,' he said. ' I live so secluded 
 from the world that it might seem unimportant to 
 me, hut I shouldn't like to think that any stigma of 
 that kind could attach to us in future. The actual 
 fact might be glossed over in "Burke's Landed 
 Gentry; " but people would remember it all the same.' 
 
 ' Never mind details, my dear Mordred,' returned 
 Sir Aubrey ; * after all, what I have been talking 
 about is perhaps but an idle dream.' 
 
 * You ought to marry,' said Mordred, thinking of 
 his kitchen garden. He begrudged the heir the 
 reversion of those neat walks by the box-bordered 
 beds, where a narrow line of hardy flowers, stocks, 
 sweet-william, mignonette, or nasturtium screened 
 the brocoli and onions that grew within the boun- 
 dary. The dear old garden, with its red earthen- 
 ware seakale pots peeping out of the greenery, and 
 that delicious herby odour which pervades country 
 kitchen gardens. 
 
 * Ah,' said Sir Aubrey, with a sigh, * I shall never 
 marry unless it be for love.' 
 
 Mr. Perriam smiled approvingly across the wide
 
 'love, thou akt leading me from wintry cold.' 243 
 
 shining table ; but his soul was full of wonder. All 
 human love, except his mild affection for Aubrey, 
 had withered in his heart thirty years ago. Indeed, 
 there had never been warmth enough in that placid 
 temperament to kindle the flame of love. Women 
 he looked upon as a race apart, useful doubtless 
 after their lower kind, but to be kept at the furthest 
 possible distance by the Sage. Marriage, Mr. Per- 
 riam regarded as a stern necessity for elder sons. 
 The younger scions of a great race, more happy, 
 could slip through life untried in the matrimonial 
 furnace. That any one should cumber himself with 
 a wife, save when compelled to that burden by the 
 exigencies of a fine estate, seemed to Mr. Perriam 
 almost incredible. A wife who would doubtless take 
 odd volumes of his books from their shelves, to 
 mislay them, or meddle with his papers ! He 
 thanked Providence for having made him the cadet 
 of the house. 
 
 ' For love,' repeated Aubrey to himself, ' for love ! 
 How Mordred and all the world would laugh at my 
 folly, if I dared indulge it. Love at fifty-seven 
 years of age, and for a girl yonng enough to be my 
 gra'nddaughter. It is too wild a folly. Yet if a 
 true affection could be possible to a man of my age, 
 it ought to be possible for me. I have not frit- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 tered away my stock of feeling upon passing 
 fancies. My life has been free from the follies that 
 waste the hearts of some men. Late as the day 
 comes, I ought to be able to love truly, and to win 
 a true heart, if I have but courage to seek for one. 
 Shall I seek it where this new fancy draws me? 
 Shall I trust the augury of eyes and lips that speak 
 but of innocence and truth ? ' 
 
 The butler came to light the candles in the tall 
 silver branches, of pseudo-classic design. 
 
 * Tell Morgan to saddle Splinter,' said Sir Aubrey; 
 ' I'm going for a ride.' 
 
 ' So late, Aubrey ? ' exclaimed Mordred, who liked 
 a quiet evening with his brother. It was nice to be 
 able to prose about his last acquisition to some 
 listener of his own rank — and if Aubrey did not 
 listen, Mordred was too much engrossed by his own 
 discourse to note the inattention. 
 
 *I like a ride in this half-light,' answered the 
 baronet. ' I was out last night till ten.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mordred, with a sigh. ' 1 shall be glad 
 when the winter comes, and we return to our old ways 
 — a big fire burning in the saloon, and you and I on 
 opposite sides of the hearth on nice long evenings.' 
 
 ' Bather dull,' drawled Sir Aubrey, with a yawn. 
 
 ' Dull, when we have each other's company ? '
 
 'IjOye, thou akt leading me from wintry cold.' 245 
 
 ' Yes, that's all very well. But don't you think 
 that for two old fellows like us, a fair, young face 
 would brighten the picture — an innocent, joyous- 
 hearted girl, who would be a wife to me, and yet 
 seem a daughter to both of us — a clear young voice 
 that would fill this old house with music. Our lives 
 are placid enough as it is : but don't you think such 
 a change as I speak of might make them happy? 
 Eh, Mordred ? ' 
 
 * Changes which disturb tranquillity in the hope 
 of realizing happiness are apt to end in disappoint- 
 .ment,' replied Mr, Perriam, with the sententious- 
 ness of a Solon. 
 
 It was not a pleasant speech, and Sir Aubrey felt 
 angry with his brother — a rare sensation on his part, 
 for he had a protecting kindness for this younger 
 brother, whose eccentricities touched the border line 
 of weakness. 
 
 ' Splinter is at the door. Sir Aubrey,' said the 
 butler, and without another word to Mordred, Sir 
 Aubrey departed. 
 
 ' Ah,' moaned his brother, when he had watched 
 horse and rider vanish in the shades of evenincr, 
 * this comes of letting a woman mix herself up 
 with his thoughts. He's changed to me already.'
 
 246 TA.KEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sir Aubrey took the shortest way to Hedingham. 
 It was a foolish fancy, no doubt, which impelled him 
 to take this evening ride — but the scent of the 
 hedgerows was sweet, the air balmy, a faint breath 
 of the distant sea blended with the cool odours of 
 newly shorn fields. There was, in short, no reason 
 why a country gentleman should not enjoy the shadowy 
 landscape, instead of dozing in his favourite arm- 
 chair, by his barren hearth. 
 
 But Sir Aubrey hardly looked at the landscape. 
 His thoughts were swifter than Splinter, and flew 
 on ahead of him, and lighted upon Sylvia Carew. 
 He could think of no excuse for an evening visit to 
 the school-house. All day long he had resisted the 
 impulse that urged him to go there. And now in 
 the evening, after that useless battle with inclination, 
 he was weak enough to indulge his fancy. 
 
 What excuse should he make for intruding upon 
 the schoolmaster's privacy ? He, that all-powerful, 
 the lord of the soil, was positively obliged to ask 
 himself that question. Miss Carew was not a 
 picture hanging on a wall in a public gallery — a fair 
 face which strangers might gaze upon at their 
 pleasure. Lofty as was the height which raised 
 him above these people, there were certain conven- 
 tionalities to be observed, even by him.
 
 'love, thou art leading me from wintry cold.' 247 
 
 He left his horse at the inn, and walked on 
 towards the school-house. A light was burning in 
 the parlour, and the door was shut. He had hoped 
 to find Mr. Carew smoking his pipe in the open 
 doorway, as he had found him yesterday. 
 
 It seemed a very serious thing to knock at the 
 door — almost enough to commit him to some serious 
 step in the future. 
 
 He looked about him doubtfully. Early as it was, 
 no creature was visible. Dim lights twinkled here 
 and there in cottage windows. The children's voices 
 were silent. The Hedingham day was over. Sir 
 Aubrey began to feel that it was very late indeed. 
 
 He took out his watch. There was just enough 
 light for him to see the figures on its white face. A 
 quarter to nine. Yes, decidedly too late for him to 
 intrude upon the schoolmaster, without any definite 
 object. Well, he had gratified his fancy by this 
 evening ride. There was nothing better for him 
 to do than to go back again. 
 
 Stay, what was that ? A glimpse of something 
 white yonder among the dark trees in the churchyard 
 — something which moved. A woman's dress — a 
 girlish figure, tall and slim — robed in white. Twice 
 had he seen Sylvia in a white gown. Was it she ? 
 
 He went round to the churchyard gate, and
 
 248 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 entered that domain of shadow, where the deep 
 gloom of the foliage seemed to tj^pify the deep sleep of 
 those who lay beneath its shade. He walked slowly, 
 looking about him, as if contemplative of the tombs, 
 and in a few minutes found the object of his quest. 
 
 It was Sylvia and no other. She had seated her- 
 self on a low tombstone when he found her, in a 
 thoughtful attitude, her folded arms resting on a 
 headstone that leaned lopsided against the tomb 
 where she sat, her drooping head leaning on her arms. 
 
 * How perfect a statue of meditation,' thought Sir 
 Aubrey. ' Yet what can she have to think so deeply 
 about?' 
 
 His approaching footsteps startled the thinker. 
 Sylvia lifted her head and looked up at him, just able 
 to recognize him in that shadowy place. 
 
 ' Good evening. Miss Carew. I fear I disturbed 
 pleasant meditations.' 
 
 *No, Sir Aubrey, my thoughts were sad. I am 
 thankful to have them dispelled.' 
 
 ' What can one so young and fair have to do with 
 sadness ?' 
 
 The girl w^as not prepared to answer that question 
 plainly. 
 
 * I suppose there is some care in every life. Mine 
 had to do with the troubles of others.'
 
 'love, thou aet leading me from wixtry cold.' 249 
 
 'I thought as much. Youth and innocence can 
 hare few cares of its own. And pray remember, 
 Miss Carew, if ever you have need of a friend you 
 may command my services. As Lord of the Manor 
 I naturally take a warm interest in all that concerns 
 Hedingham,' he added, lest his offer of friendship 
 should seem particular. 
 
 This qualification made the whole speech sound 
 conventional. 
 
 ' I wish he would give me some money to send 
 to Mrs. Carford,' thought Sylvia, for the shadow of 
 last night's visitor had haunted her all the day ; 
 but I could not stoop so low as to beg of him. And 
 of course he means nothing but a mere hollow 
 civility.' 
 
 ' Your father is at home, I suppose ? ' inquired the 
 baronet. 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Aubrey.' 
 
 ' Then I think I should like to look in upon him 
 and say a word or two about this new school-house, if 
 you are quite sure he is disengaged.' 
 
 * I am quite sure. He does nothing but read the 
 paper of an evening. He will be proud to receive 
 your visit.'
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 
 
 Though the baronet had proposed this visit to Mr. 
 Carew, he was in no haste to leave that place of 
 shadows, the old churchyard. This was the first 
 time that he and Sylvia had ever met alone, and it 
 seemed too good an opportunity to be lost. He 
 wanted to know something about the antecedents of 
 the girl who had stolen his heart before he was aware. 
 Her father would be close and guarded, no doubt, if 
 there were anything to conceal ; but these lovely 
 lips must be candour itself. 
 
 * A fine old church,' said Sir Aubrey, as if his 
 thoughts had taken an archaeological bent. *You 
 have lived in Hedingham a long time, I suppose, 
 Miss Carew,' he went on, dismissing the church in a 
 breath. 
 
 ' Ever since I can remember — all my life.' 
 
 * You were born here, then, I conclude.' 
 ' No.'
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 251 
 
 Happily for Sylvia the dusk hid that deep blush of 
 shame which dyed her cheek. She did not even 
 know the name of her birthplace, so dumb had her 
 father been about the past. What should she do if 
 Sir Aubrey asked her home questions ? 
 
 ' Your father has no provincial accent, I observed, 
 continued Sir Aubrey, trying to put his inquiries in 
 a purely conversational form. * He is a Londoner, 
 I conclude.' 
 
 * He came here from London.' 
 
 ' Yet Carew is a west country name.' 
 
 * Is it ?' asked Sylvia helplessly; and then, think- 
 ing that some degree of candour might help her 
 better than persistent reserve, she said, ' My father 
 began life in much better circumstances, I believe, 
 and he does not like talking .ibout the past. I only 
 know that we have lived here ever since I can 
 remember, and always the same kind of life. It is 
 very* monotonous. ' 
 
 To Sir Aubrey this complaint seemed somewhat 
 puerile. He had lived the same life for the last 
 thirty years, of choice ; vibrating, like a pendulum, 
 between Perriam Place and the Fauboui-g St. Honore, 
 and living in Paris almost as quietly as he lived at 
 Perriam. 
 
 * My fair child,' he said in his grand way, * youth
 
 252 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 is full of restless fancies. When you are a few years 
 older you will know that there is no life so happy 
 as that which glides on smoothly amidst familiar 
 scenes.' 
 
 Sylvia sighed, but did not presume to argue the 
 point with Sir Aubrey. She only thought that had 
 she the power such wealth as his can give she would 
 not waste life in monotony. That young aspiring 
 spirit hungered for variety. Sylvia Carew possessed, 
 in an eminent degree, that quality which is at once 
 perilous to the peace of the heart and conducive to 
 the growth of the mind. She was ambitious ; and 
 her ambition, fostered in solitude, and fed on dream s» 
 was at the root of this eager desire for change. 
 
 * You are at least happy in the privilege of in- 
 habiting so beautiful a spot as Hedingham,' said the 
 baronet. 
 
 * Is it really beautiful ? You have seen the Danube 
 — the Black Forest — the Hartz — the Tyrol — the 
 Alps — Kome — Venice ; and jet you think Heding- 
 ham beautiful ?' 
 
 She ran over the names of river, forest, mountains, 
 and city breathlessly. They were on the tip of her 
 tongue, so ardently had she longed to see the scenes 
 they represented. 
 
 ' Yes,' drawled Sir Aubrey, with that soft languor
 
 * FAIK AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 253 
 
 which was not without its charm, ' I have done the 
 grand tour. Very fatiguing business in my day. A 
 succession of wretched inns, musty post-chaises, and 
 dust and bad roads ; and — ahem — insects — which 
 poHteness forbids me to particuLarize. In my time 
 it was esteemed essential for a gentleman to do the 
 grand tour. Nowadays it is the common ^Deople who 
 travel. There is a railroad up the Righi, and Mont 
 Blanc is the Primrose Hill of the modern counter- 
 jumper.' 
 
 SyMa sighed. She began to feel that she lived 
 too late. The world had become vulgarized, and the 
 glory of this earth had in a measure departed. 
 
 'Will you come to see papa now, Sir Aubrey?' 
 she asked, rising from her seat on the tomb. 
 
 ' Whenever you will be kind enough to show me 
 the way.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey felt that he had obtained very little 
 information. It was something to hear that the 
 father of the woman he admired had seen better 
 days ; yet, as the Vicar had told him the same 
 thing, he was no wiser for his talk with Sylvia. She 
 had the air of a lady, he thought, though not that 
 society manner which he should have desired for the 
 future Lady Perriam. There was a suddenness, a 
 freedom in her speech, like a creature only half
 
 254 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 tamed. The beauties whom Sir Aubrey had hitherto 
 admired had been distinguished by a graceful lassi- 
 tude, an elegant weariness. This girl looked as if 
 her veins held quicksilver. But then she was love- 
 lier than the fairest of those more courtly beauties ; 
 and there was a novel charm in that energy — 
 which was never loud-voiced or masculine — that 
 pretty petulance which had so bewitching an air of 
 candour. Those hazel eyes, which she turned to 
 him now in the summer dusk — the fair paleness of 
 that divine complexion ! Where, out of an Italian 
 picture, could he find such beauty ? 
 
 He followed her along the little path, through the 
 gate into the garden, where the lavender bushes 
 looked gray under the stars. 
 
 ' Papa,' said Sylvia, going into the parlour ; ' Sir 
 Aubrey Perriam has come to talk to you about the 
 school.' 
 
 Mr. Carew put aside his pipe and rose hastily to 
 greet the visitor. A very different guest from that 
 wretched supplicant of last night. The school- 
 master was more moved by this unexpected honour 
 than a man of his temperament should have been, 
 but he contrived to conceal his emotion, and received 
 Sir Aubrey as calmly as if he had been accustomed 
 to the ' dropping in ' of baronets.
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 255 
 
 Yet in his heart there was a swelling sense of 
 triumph. *What can he come for, except to see 
 her ? ' he asked himself ; * and a man of his age 
 once hit must he hit deeply. I should draw no 
 augury from a young man's philandering. But this 
 means something serious.' 
 
 The baronet began to talk about the school, and 
 succeeded pretty well in giving a parochial tone to 
 his visit. Would a new school-house prove a positive 
 advantage to the village of Hedingham, or was it 
 only a hobby of the Yicar's ? And was the present 
 site the best possible ground for such a building; 
 and was the scheme popular among the Hedingham 
 people ? Before committing himself to any promise 
 of assistance Sir Aubrey desired to be assured of 
 these facts. 
 
 All these questions sounded strictly proprietorial 
 questions, which a Lord of the Manor would natu- 
 rally put to his lieges. But James Carew saw 
 through the flimsy pretext, and marked the eyes 
 which wandered involuntarily to the spot where 
 Sylvia sat with her back to the open lattice, the 
 night wind faintly stirring her hair. 
 
 * You are fond of books. Miss Carew, I see,' said 
 Sir Aubrey, glancing at the recess on one side of the 
 fireplace, where hung three small painted shelves,
 
 256 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 adorned with blue ribbons. Those scraps of blue 
 told the baronet to whom the books belonged. 
 
 * Yes,' said the father, with a touch of pride, ' she 
 is more studious than most girls of her age, and has 
 taught herself French and German — and, I believe, 
 a little Latin, with very small help from me.' 
 
 Many a time and oft had he grumbled at those 
 studious propensities, complaining, with scant jus- 
 tice, that Sylvia neglected his comforts in order to 
 pore over her books. But he felt to-night that her 
 accomplishments were something to boast of. 
 
 Sir Aubrey went over to the recess, and looked at 
 the books. ' The Sorrows of Werter,' in the ori- 
 ginal. * Eugenie Grandet,' 'Faust,' also in the 
 original. Lamartine's ' Girondists,' Victor Hugo's 
 * Odes et Ballades,' Bulwer's ' Zanoni,' and a dozen 
 others of the same order. Nothing that was not 
 classic. 
 
 Sir Aubrey took down one of the volumes hap- 
 hazard. It was Werter. He opened the book, 
 and on the flyleaf saw something that startled 
 him almost as if his hand had lighted on an 
 adder. 
 
 Sylvia, 
 
 From Edmund, 
 
 In memory of Sunday, April 15th.
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 257 
 
 This Sundaj^ was the day when Edmund Standen 
 first saw Sylvia in the church. 
 
 ' From Edmund,' said Sir Aubrey, looking at the 
 inscription. * Your brother or cousin, I presume ? ' 
 
 * She has neither brother nor cousin,' answered 
 Mr. Carew, looking daggers at his daughter. Those 
 very books had hung above his head for the last 
 three months, and he had never taken the trouble to 
 examine them. 
 
 ' Some village admirer, no doubt,' said the baronet 
 blandly, but pierced to the heart by jealousy's sharp 
 fang. While he had been debating whether he 
 should or should not offend the tutelary Deity of 
 the Perriams by a misalliance, this girl was perhaps 
 the plighted wife of some clodhopper — a boor whose 
 vulgar desires had never soared above a whitewashed 
 hovel and an arbour of scarlet-runners. 
 
 Mr. Carew, seeing rocks to leeward, took rapid 
 counsel with himself, and decided that candour was 
 best. After all he could best exalt his child by 
 showing that she had already been sought by her 
 superior in station. 
 
 It was just possible that the baronet might be of 
 that jealous temper which bids a man draw back 
 from the pursuit of the dearest object, does he but 
 think he has a rival. But this narrow and captious 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 temper is happily rare. Mr. Carew reflected that 
 Mr. Standen's courtship of his daughter was most 
 likely known to the village gossips, and would pro- 
 bably reach the ears of Sir Aubrey. 
 
 Yes, there could be no doubt that the true policy 
 here was candour. 
 
 * Mr. Standen would hardly like to hear himself 
 called a village admirer,' said the schoolmaster. 
 
 ' Standen ! What, the banker's son ? ' 
 ' Yes. He has had the misfortune to fall in love 
 with my foolish daughter yonder, and she has been 
 so silly as to give him some slight encouragement. 
 However, that is all over now. The young gentle- 
 man called upon me yesterday morning to urge his 
 suit, and I gave him a very straightforward answer.' 
 ' You refused him ? ' asked the baronet. 
 
 * Unconditionally. You look surprised, Sir 
 Aubrey. You think that a banker's son would 
 be a very good match for a parish schoolmaster's 
 daughter. And so I grant you he would have 
 been, were there no drawback. If he marries 
 my daughter, he marries her in direct opposition 
 to his mother. And, though I am a poor man, 
 I hold honour before self-interest. I will not 
 suffer my child to enter a family which refuses 
 her an affectionate welcome.'
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 259 
 
 This sounded noble; especially as Mr. Carew's 
 speech gave no hint of Mrs. Standen's power to 
 disinherit her son. 
 
 *I applaud Tour spirit, sir,' said the baronet, 
 stealing a look at Sylvia, curious to know how near 
 this subject was to her heart. 
 
 That drooping face, bent over the needlework in 
 the girl's hands, told him nothing. He saw only 
 the fair young brow, the downcast eyelids with 
 their auburn lashes. The attitude was of calmest 
 repose. Passion could scarcely stir the heart be- 
 neath that tranquil bosom. 
 
 Having discussed the Yicar's pet scheme in all its 
 bearings, Sir Aubrey had no excuse for lingering. 
 Yet he lingered, talking of the village and its 
 surroundings, keenly interested in discovering what 
 kind of man Mr. Carew was. An educated man 
 evidently to begin with, and a man who had at 
 some period of his existence been familiar with 
 poHte society. The glory of Sir Aubrey's presence 
 abashed him not at all. 
 
 The little Dutch clock struck ten, and Sir Aubrey 
 rose with a guilty start. 
 
 * Upon my word, I owe you a hundred apologies,' 
 he said ; ' these summer evenings delude me into a 
 forgetfulness of time.' 
 
 s 2
 
 260 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 * Pray do not apologize for the lateness of your visit, 
 Sir Aubrey. The evening is the only time in which 
 I am my own master, and free to receive a visitor.' 
 
 * Then I may drop in again some evening to hear 
 how the plans progress ? ' asked Sir Aubrey, quite 
 ignoring the fact that nothing serious was likely to 
 be done for the next two years. 
 
 ' I shall be honoured by your visit, Sir Aubrey.' 
 
 ' You are very good,' returned the baronet, and 
 then, with some hesitation, he went on, * If at any 
 time, while the summer evenings last, you would 
 like to bring Miss Carew to see Perriam — unless, 
 indeed, she has seen it already — I should be very 
 happy to show you the house and gardens. There 
 is nothing new-fangled, none of those frivolous 
 inventions for spending money with which people 
 fill their places nowadays, but the gardens are 
 large, and the house is well built. It might repay 
 the trouble of a visit.' 
 
 ' We shall be delighted to come. Sir Aubrey. 
 Neither I nor my daughter has seen Perriam 
 Place.' 
 
 'Why not fix upon a day, then? Could you 
 come to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' We have no engagements,' said Mr. Carew, 
 with his somewhat bitter smile.
 
 * FAIR AS THE FIRST THAT FELL OF WOMANKIND.' 261 
 
 * Let it be to-morrow, then. I shall exj^ect you 
 at eight o'clock, and you can give me any new ideas 
 that may have occurred to you about the school. 
 Shall I send a carriage for you and Miss Carew ? ' 
 
 * You are too kind, Sir Aubrey. No, thanks ; we 
 would rather walk over to Perriam. It is a pleasant 
 walk across the fields.' 
 
 * So be it, then. My brother and I will show 
 you the house and gardens. Perhaps we had better 
 say half-past seven. There might be hardly light 
 enough after eight,' said Sir Aubrey gravely. 
 
 This advancement of the hour would oblige him 
 to dine a little earlier than usual, a serious consi- 
 deration for a gentleman of fixed habits. 
 
 * Half-past seven, if you prefer that hour. Sir 
 Aubrey,' replied the schoolmaster. 
 
 * Thanks. Good night. Good night. Miss Carew. 
 You mustn't laugh at our old-fashioned ways at Per- 
 riam. People tell me we are half a century behind 
 the times. But the Perriams have been Tories 
 ever since they were Perriams. Good night.' And 
 thus, with a somewhat lingering pressure of Sylvia's 
 little hand. Sir Aubrey departed. 
 
 Mr. Carew escorted him to the garden gate with 
 ceremonious politeness. He knew exactly where to 
 draw the line between the respect due to the lord of
 
 262 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 the soil and servility. He stood at the gate and 
 watched the slim upright figure till it vanished in 
 the half dark of the summer night. Then he went 
 slowly hack to the parlour. 
 
 Sylvia had thrown aside her work. She was 
 sitting in a listless attitude, with fixed brooding 
 eyes bent upon the ground, the attitude of one 
 absorbed in deepest thought. 
 
 Mr. Carew looked at her curiously as he barred 
 the door. 
 
 ' " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, 
 taken at the flood, leads on to fortune !" ' he said, 
 very slowly. And this was his sole comment upon 
 Sir Aubrey's visit.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 * SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 
 
 The next morning's post brought Sylvia a letter 
 from Edmund Standen ; a letter written at South- 
 ampton the night before the mail steamer left that 
 port. It was the first letter her lover had ever 
 written to her. At Hedingham it had been easy for 
 them to meet, and there had been no need of letters. 
 And this first love letter was very sweet to her, 
 though a vague flavour of bitterness mingled with 
 that sweetness. So many obstacles arose to block 
 the path along which they two had sworn to travel 
 hand in hand. Sylvia shed some of her rare tears 
 over that letter, and kissed the page which her lover's 
 hand had pressed. Indeed it was a letter which any 
 woman might have been proud to receive — a letter 
 breathing as pure and honest a love as ever man felt 
 for woman ; a brave letter, in which the young man 
 spoke confidently, yet not recklessly, of that battle 
 of life which he was to fight for the maintenance of 
 his home.
 
 264 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' I have begun to prepare myself already, dearest,' 
 he wrote, ' and am endeavouring to supply anything 
 wanting in an education which has up to this point 
 been literary rather than commercial. I provided 
 myself with some of the best books on finance and 
 the economy of banking as I came through London, 
 and am going in seriously for study on the voyage 
 out. I hope to have made myself, in theory at least, 
 a good banker by the time I get back to England, 
 so that I may present myself to the directors at 
 Monkhampton with the double advantage of my 
 father's name and my own knowledge.' 
 
 This was the only business-like paragraph in the 
 letter. The rest was all lover's talk of that rose- 
 coloured future — that almost celestial felicity with 
 which youth's fond credulity invests an earthly lot. 
 But there was not a line which did not go straight 
 home to Sylvia's heart. He trusted her so entirely. 
 Not a thought of doubt breathed in that letter. It 
 was written to a woman whom the writer believed 
 above suspicion. 
 
 ' I should be the worst and basest of women if I 
 betrayed such affection,' thought Sylvia, with a sigh, 
 as she at last laid down that dear letter ' Yet I see 
 nothing but difficulties in our path.' 
 
 She had before the eyes of her mind — those eyes
 
 * SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 265 
 
 which see so many things as the dreamer sits in her 
 quiet chamber — another path which was beset by no 
 perils — a path which seemed to be strewed \Nith 
 roses. Only on this path the genius of domestic 
 love shed not her starry light. There were the roses 
 of worldly prosperity — the honour and reverence of 
 mankind — the splendour of a great triumph. But 
 Love stood with averted face in the backgi-ound of 
 that picture, and cried, * Here I have no place.' 
 
 * No,' said Sylvia, ' I cannot be false to him.' 
 Unhappily when a woman tells herself she can- 
 not betray, it is a sure sign that she has contem- 
 plated the possibility of treachery. 
 
 Mr. Carew was particularly civil to his daughter 
 all this day. There was an altered tone which 
 puzzled Sylvia. She did not know that this novel 
 courtesy was shown to the future Lady Perriam. 
 
 * Do you want a new bonnet, or anything, to 
 make you tidy this evening ? ' he asked, during the 
 mid-day calm, while the schoolboys had gone home 
 to their dinners. 
 
 * I want lots of things, papa,' the girl answered 
 quickly. * But if you can give me a sovereign, that 
 will do.' 
 
 ' A sovereign ! ' exclaimed Mr. Carew, ' do you. 
 think I am made of money ? Here, you can have
 
 266 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 this half-sovereign. It will be hard enough for us 
 to rub on till next quarter, but we must manage 
 somehow.' 
 
 * Thank you, papa ; half a sovereign is better 
 than nothing.' 
 
 ' Be sure you look your best this evening.' 
 
 * Why, papa ? Do you suppose two old gen- 
 tlemen like Sir Aubrey and Mr. Perriam will notice 
 my looks ? ' 
 
 * Sir Aubrey is a gentleman in the prime of 
 life. Don't let me hear you call him old any 
 more.' 
 
 When afternoon school had begun, and Mr. 
 Carew was again absorbed by his uncongenial 
 duties, Sylvia opened her desk and directed an 
 envelope to Mrs. Carford, care of Mrs. Wood, 
 Bell-alley, Fetter-lane. 
 
 She wrote only one line on a sheet of paper : 
 
 * I send a little help — all I have to send.' No 
 signature — no word more. In this sheet of paper 
 she folded the half-sovereign, and carefully enclosed 
 her little packet in the envelope. This done she 
 went to the village post-office, registered her letter, 
 and posted it. 
 
 * I am sending my little bit of pocket-money to 
 my old nurse,' she said to Mr. Prosser, the chemist.
 
 ' SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 267 
 
 in explanation of this unusual proceeding. People 
 who live in a village are expected to explain them- 
 selves, if they deviate ever so little from the beaten 
 track of life. 
 
 Perhaps this one small piece of self-sacrifice was 
 Sylvia's first good action. Destiny might also in- 
 tend it to be her last. 
 
 She gave a little sigh as she dropped the letter 
 in the box, thinking of the Monkhampton draper's, 
 and the sash and neck-ribbons she might have 
 bought with those ten shillings — ribbons that would 
 have given colour and brightness to that plain 
 muslin dress, which she was to iron this afternoon. 
 Cleanliness was the only luxury Miss Carew could 
 afi'ord herself, and for this she was dependent upon 
 her own industry. 
 
 Yet, when half-past six o'clock came, and Sylvia 
 was dressed for the visit to Perriam, no ribbon 
 seemed wanting to set off that beauty whose high- 
 est charm was its spirituality — not the mere sen- 
 suous beauty of a lovely soulless image, but the 
 changeful loveliness of an intellectual being. That 
 still loftier charm of nobility of nature might seem 
 wanting to the keen eye of the acute physiogno- 
 mist, but acute physiognomists are happily rare, 
 and those who looked at Sylvia for the most part
 
 268 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 saw intellect and beauty, and took goodness for 
 granted. 
 
 Mr. Carew seemed to his daughter almost a new 
 man, as they walked across the fields, sometimes by 
 a broad sweep of purple clover, sometimes in the 
 narrow path between tall boundaries of wheat ripe 
 for the sickle, sometimes by a green lane where 
 belated birds chirruped among the darkening leaves 
 of oak and elm. He talked, and with amazing 
 cheerfulness, praised Sir Aubrey's elegant appear- 
 ance and perfect manners, remarked, in passing, 
 that there was no position upon this lower world 
 more agreeable than the position of a country gen- 
 tleman with an unencumbered estate, harped upon 
 the well-known wealth of the Perriams, their quiet 
 manner of living, whereby that wealth must have 
 gathered bulk from year to year like a rolling 
 snowball. 
 
 Sylvia heard and sighed regretfully, and thought 
 of that dear letter locked in her desk at home. 
 
 * I vdsh Edmund had never loved me,' she thought, 
 her mind dwelling upon the writer of that letter, 
 while the schoolmaster talked of Sir Aubrey. *It 
 might have been happier for both of us.' 
 
 Perriam was built in a valley, after the manner 
 of our forefathers, who preferred shelter from bleak
 
 * SHE IS WOMAN, THEEEFORE TO BE WON.' 269 
 
 winds to the splendour of an elevated position, and, 
 save for aggressive or defensive purposes, seldom 
 planted their habitations upon the heights. Around 
 Perriam Place spread some of the most fertile 
 meadows in the county — meadows so richly tim- 
 bered and park-like, that one could scarcely tell 
 where the park ended and the home-farm began. 
 Indeed the park proper was not large, but borrowed 
 dignity from the length of a double avenue, in 
 which the tall old elms, set far back from the road, 
 left space for an inner line of araucarias, or monkey- 
 trees, said to be the finest in England. A stately 
 stone archway, with a lodge on either side, formed 
 the entrance to this avenue. 
 
 Mr. Carew and his daughter did not approach 
 Perriam by this chief entrance. At the edge of the 
 park there was a little old church sunk in a dell, 
 enclosed by a crumbling old stone wall, in whose 
 interstices harts -tongue ferns throve abundantly, and 
 accessible by a narrow lane with a turnstile, through 
 which one came straight into the park itself. The 
 raised terrace of the Italian garden almost touched 
 the wall within whose boundary the Perriams lay 
 buried, in a narrow graveyard which held nothing 
 but Perriams and their immediate vassals. And the 
 level of the garden being considerably above the
 
 270 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 level of the cliurchyard, Sir Aubrey had the ad- 
 vantage of surveying his slumbering ancestors from 
 an eminence, a spectacle conducive to meditation, 
 and reflections of a Horatian character upon the 
 brevity of life, and the mutability of things in gene- 
 ral. The little church, an appendage of Perriam, 
 the graveyard exclusively devoted to Perriams, im- 
 pressed Sylvia with a sense of grandeur which all 
 the gold of the Eothschilds, taken merely as gold, 
 could not have inspired. That family distinction 
 w^hich comes from long establishment in the land, 
 the deep-rooted family tree which has grown and 
 flourished and spread its branches over the same 
 spot almost from the beginning of recorded time, is 
 a kind of renown which seems peculiarly dazzling 
 to the waifs and strays of humanity. Sylvia, who 
 knew nothing of her father's history except his dis- 
 honour, felt this impression keenly, and Sir Aubrey, 
 who in the apple orchard had seemed no more than 
 a courteous elderly gentleman, acquired on his own 
 domain an almost princely character. 
 
 The schoolmaster and his daughter crossed a 
 stretch of level turf, and entered the avenue within 
 a hundred yards of the house. Sylvia had never 
 before been so near that stately pile. She had only 
 seen it from the distance, grand and gloomy, stand-
 
 ' SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 271 
 
 ing aloof from the elms and beeches of the park, 
 the cedars and maples of the lawn — on an island of 
 barren gi-avel and turf laid out stiffly in the Italian 
 style, with a Faunus and a Dryad, a Pan and a 
 Syrinx, simpering on their pedestals at the angles 
 of the walks. 
 
 The hall door stood open, but for ceremony 
 Mr. Carew rang a bell, which made noise enough 
 to have startled the establishment of the Sleeping 
 Beauty. He had scarcely done so when he beheld 
 a gentleman crossing the hall, a gentleman in shoes 
 tied with rusty ribbons, and a coat of somewhat 
 antique cut. 
 
 ' Good evening, Sir Aubrey,' he said. ' You see 
 we are very punctual.' 
 
 Sylvia pulled her father's sleeve. 
 
 * Papa, how can you be so stupid '? ' she whispered, 
 while the gentleman stood smiling inanely, with a 
 look of considerable embarrassment. 
 
 The woman's quick eye had noted the difference 
 of dress, of style, between the two brothers. The 
 faces bore a marked resemblance, a likeness which 
 in the half-light of the hall had been strong enough 
 to deceive the schoolmaster. 
 
 *I beg your pardon,' faltered Mordred Perriam; 
 * you mistake me for my brother. We are gene-
 
 272 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 rally considered alike. Pray walk in. Sir Aubrey 
 expects you.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey opened the dining-room door at this 
 moment, and came out to welcome his visitors. 
 Yes, there was a wide difference between the two 
 men, but it was for the most part a difference of 
 dress and style. The elder brother was as studious 
 in his costume, and as well preserved in his person, 
 as a French marquis of the old regime ; while 
 Mordred Perriam's high limp shirt collar, cambric 
 frill, watered black ribbon and double eyeglass, 
 nankeen waistcoat and chocolate-coloured coat, ill- 
 cut hair, and shaggy eyebrows, bespoke the book- 
 worm's indifference to the mutations of fashion, or 
 the decay of his good looks. Even that chocolate 
 coat was a mark of respect to his brother. Mr. 
 Perriam was never happier than when loosely en- 
 veloped in a dressing-gown which age had rendered 
 dear to him. 
 
 ' How do you do ? ' cried Sir Aubrey. ' So good 
 of you to come. My brother, Mr. Perriam, Miss 
 Carew — Mr. Carew, Mr. Perriam. Shall we take 
 tea before we v/alk round the gardens ? Perhaps we 
 had better. Miss Carew must want a little refresh- 
 ment after her walk, and ladies are generally fond 
 of tea. There will be light enough for the gardens
 
 * SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 273 
 
 afterwards. I have no floricultural specimens to 
 show you ; I leave the cultivation of curious p]^nts 
 to foolish old ladies, who want to spend theii- 
 money. Perriam could he no more than Perriam 
 if I squandered a fortune on orchids.' 
 
 Mr. Carew murmured his acquiescence with a 
 proposition which seemed incontrovertible, and Sir 
 Aubrey led the way to the saloon, where tea had 
 been prepared for the visitors on an oval table in the 
 semicircular bay, or alcove, at the end of the room. 
 The china was Indian, and the silver tray and 
 tea-kettle were specimens of that famous period 
 which still takes highest rank among the connois- 
 seurs of the silversmith's art. A plate of delicate 
 bread and butter, some dry biscuits in a silver 
 basket, and a dish of early plums from the southern 
 wall composed the somewhat unsubstantial meal ; 
 but the schoolmaster had not come to Perriam to 
 eat or to drink, and sipped his tea out of the 
 crimson and gold dragon china with supreme con- 
 tentment. The baronet had placed Sylvia before 
 the tray, with a ceremonious request that she would 
 pour out the tea. 
 
 ' I do it myself when my brother and I are alone,' 
 he said, ' but it seems much more natural as well as 
 much more agreeable to see a lady in that place.' 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sylvia smiled. She felt an almost childish plea- 
 sure, in handling those splendid teacups, that 
 antique teapot, and the curious old tea-kettle, 
 mounted high upon four slim legs. Never hefore 
 to-night had she poured tea out of a silver teapot, 
 never hefore to-night touched such costly china. 
 And then these things had a peculiar charm of 
 their own, which lifted them ahove the common- 
 place splendours of the Monkhampton shop win- 
 dows. They possessed the double charm of age 
 and rarity. 
 
 They lingered a little over that simple banquet, 
 while the dusk deepened yonder on the cedar- 
 shadowed lawn, and the butler, always slow to bring 
 lamps and candles, left them to enjoy the gloaming. 
 Sir Aubrey was in no hurry to break the spell that 
 bound him. He was sitting by Sylvia, watching her 
 v/hite hands as they hovered about the tea-things 
 with such light, gracious movements. Why should 
 he not have her always to pour out his tea, if he 
 chose ? There was no one to question his will. 
 He was supreme master of his life and actions. 
 Only destiny could interpose to prevent his being 
 happy after his own fashion. 
 
 Musing thus, Sir Aubrey fell into a deep silence, 
 which no other member of that small assembly
 
 ' SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 275 
 
 ventured to break. They were there as his vassals, 
 even Mordred, and if the prince were silent who 
 among them should presume to speak? Nor was 
 that stillness uncongenial to the summer dusk, or 
 the splendid gloom of that spacious apartment. 
 
 Sylvia's keen eyes wandered here and there in the 
 gloom. Why, the room was as large as Hedingham 
 Church ! That lofty ceiling, that florid cornice, im- 
 pressed her with an unspeakable sense of grandeur. 
 She thought of the school-house parlour, with its 
 low ceiling, sustained by a clumsy whitewashed 
 beam, in which a rusty iron hook or two, which 
 no mortal hand seemed strong enough to extract, 
 marked where ruder generations had hung their 
 bacon to dry in the reek of the household hearth. 
 What a contrast between those two rooms ! The 
 carpet here was like the turf on the Yicarage lawn, 
 deep and soft, and silent beneath the heaviest foot- 
 fall. The vast room, void of pictures, mirrors, and 
 frippery of all kinds, had an almost awful look in 
 the dusk. An Egyptian temple could have hardly 
 been more solemn. 
 
 ' Come,' said Sir Aubrey, suddenly rousing him- 
 self from that long reverie, ' we shall have very 
 little light for the gardens ; but you must come 
 again, and see them better. Yes,' with a desperate 
 
 T 2
 
 276 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 plunge, * you must come and dine with us some day 
 next week.' 
 
 Sir Aubrey heard his brother's startled move- 
 ment in the dusk yonder. It was the slightest 
 possible movement ; an involuntary action, like 
 the start which some people give at a vivid flash 
 of lightning ; but Sir Aubrey understood it. He 
 knew that there was a wide difference between ask- 
 ing this schoolmaster and his daughter to tea in a 
 purely patronizing way, as befitted the lord of the 
 manor, and inviting them to dinner as if they were 
 his equals. 
 
 ' What would the county say?' thought Mordred, 
 in mute horror. He saw very little of the county 
 himself, and in the serene retirement of his kitchen 
 garden cared very little what the county thought of 
 him. But he had a fixed idea that his brother was 
 bound to defer to the opinion of the county, and if 
 he ever married at all, to marry in accordance with 
 the expectations of the county. Sir Aubrey had 
 been engaged to a Duke's daughter ; and the county 
 would be slow to forgive him the disgrace of a mean 
 alliance. 
 
 But Sir Aubrey had cast the die, and began to 
 feel reckless. ' After all, a man should live for 
 himself,' he thought. ' Shall I have a vinegar-faced
 
 'SHE IS WOMAN, THEREFORE TO BE WON.' 277 
 
 spinster to pour out my tea for the sake of the 
 quarterings on her father's shield '? At my age 
 a man is hound to make the most of his life.* 
 
 They went out into the grounds, this being part of 
 the programme, and a thing to he done. Here, in 
 the cool dusk, Sir Aubrey led his visitors along the 
 stiff walks of the Italian garden, to that wide terrace 
 from which, looking downward, they saw Perriam 
 Church sheltered in its green dell, and the tombs 
 of the Perriam clan showing grapsh white against 
 the surrounding foliage, — such a quiet, half-hidden 
 little church and graveyard. Here verily death 
 must be a peaceful slumber ; no jar of city traffic 
 to stir the sleeper, no roar of steam engine to 
 shake the mouldering dust ! 
 
 Mr. Carew quoted Horace involuntarily, Mr^ 
 Perriam, delighted at the opportunity, began a long 
 story of an Amsterdam Horace of the 16th century, 
 which he had acquired — a wondrous bargain, only 
 one volume being wanting, from a bookseller in 
 Glasgow. Full of his story, Mr. Perriam hooked 
 his arm through the schoolmaster's, and trotted 
 him up and down the terrace^ at his kitchen-garden 
 pace, and thus, placidly unconscious of the mischief 
 he might be doing, left Sir Aubrey and Sylvia to 
 their fate.
 
 278 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 The stars were out in the clear summer heaven, 
 and in that silver light the girl's face seemed 
 divinely beautiful, for all lovely things take new 
 loveliness from the light of moon and stars. It 
 was the face of one of Eaphael's young Madonnas, 
 serenely pensive, with lips half parted in a thought- 
 ful smile, as if those deeply dark eyes looked be- 
 yond the landscape they seemed to rest on, to 
 some fairer spirit land. Sir Aubrey contemplated 
 his companion in silent admiration as she stood 
 leaning a little against the sculptured vase, at an 
 angle of the balustrade. Could anything so lovely 
 be otherwise than good? he asked himself, with 
 little doubt as to the answer. It seemed to him 
 that this outward perfection implied a corre- 
 sponding beauty in the spiritual nature. 
 
 And indeed it is possible that in the soul that 
 belonged to this perfect form there had once been 
 all the elements of goodness, needing only training 
 for their development. Some natures are self- 
 sustaining, like yonder cedar; others are but 
 plants of a parasite growth, which need to be 
 directed by the judicious hand of the gardener.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ' IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 
 
 Not very long did Sir Aubrey keep silence as he 
 and Sylvia stood side by side beneath those tranquil 
 stars. 
 
 There was one point upon which he was very 
 anxious for enlightenment. 
 
 ' Your father — when he honoured me with his 
 confidence last night — appeared to me to take a very 
 correct view of Mr. Standen's position with regard 
 to yourself, Miss Carew,' he said, coming to the 
 point with the straightforwardness of a mind ac- 
 customed to dictate rather than to obey. ' You are 
 too charming a young lady to enter any family which 
 refuses you respect and affection. But fathers are 
 apt to contemplate these subjects from a common- 
 sense point of view, forgetting how far a daughter's 
 feelings may be involved in the matter. I — I hope 
 it is not so in this case. I hope you go with your 
 father in his rejection of Mr. Standen.'
 
 280 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 Sj'lvia's heart beat very fast. Why should Sir 
 Aubrey ask her such a question, unless he meant 
 to ask a still more particular question by-and-by ? 
 What could it matter to him whether she cared or 
 did not care for Mr. Standen ? And how should she 
 answer him ? To tell him the simple truth — to tell 
 him that Edmund Standen was very dear to her, 
 and that she had sworn to be faithful and constant 
 in her love for him, come weal, come woe — this was 
 clearly her duty, her duty at once to Edmund and 
 the sacred, cause of truth. But to do this would be 
 to put an end to Sir Aubrey's very evident infatuation 
 — to destroy that splendid possibility which shone 
 before her dazzled eyes to-night'. And Sylvia had 
 not acquired her ideas of life from a teacher who 
 attached much importance to abstract truth. The 
 lessons her father had instilled were hard lessons, 
 taught in bitterness of spirit. He had taught her 
 that to be happy meant to succeed in life — that 
 poverty and contentment were incompatible — that 
 to miss the one brilliant possibility which every life 
 offers is to embrace ruin. ' Every pretty woman has 
 her chance,' he had said to her, ' if she knows how 
 to wait for it.' Now Sylvia's chance seemed to have 
 come, after very little waiting. Fortune, the winged 
 goddess, stood by her side. She had but to stretch
 
 * IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 281 
 
 forth her hand to detain her — j^et nothing was easier 
 than to scare the bright stranger away. She deli- 
 berated before answering Sir Aubrey's question, and 
 then with bold equivocation made a reply which 
 committed her to nothing. 
 
 ' I cannot help approving of my father's refusal. 
 I have no wish to be looked down upon by Mrs. 
 Standen.' 
 
 ' Looked down upon ! I should think not ! ' cried 
 the baronet indignantly. ' Looked down upon by a 
 provincial banker's widow. You, who are fit to be a 
 Duchess. But never mind Mrs. Standen,' he went 
 on, with some slight hesitation ; ' her insolence is 
 not worth thinking about. The question I would 
 venture to ask is — w^hether Mr. Standen, the young 
 gentleman who gave 3'ou that book, has won your 
 affection ? ' 
 
 This question was too direct to admit of an 
 equivocating answer. Sylvia must either tell the 
 truth, or wrong her lover by deliberate falsehood. 
 Happily neither man nor woman becomes altogether 
 base in a moment. She could not pronounce that 
 direct untruth which policy counselled. She would 
 not forswear herself utterly. But in her reply she 
 was only half true. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said softly, ' Edmund and I do care
 
 282 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 for each other, a little. Only there are so many 
 obstacles in the way of our marriage that ' 
 
 ' That you have both come to the conclusion that 
 it is wisest to abandon all thought of it,' cried Sir 
 Aubrey eagerly. ' I understand.' 
 
 'No,' said Sylvia, 'Edmund is still anxious that 
 I should marry him ; but I ' 
 
 * You see the folly of such a marriage.' 
 
 ' Yes — and I am too proud to accept Mrs. Standen's 
 sufferance.' 
 
 ' Then I may venture to conclude that your 
 heart is not deeply engaged ? ' asked Sir Aubrey 
 earnestly. 
 
 Sylvia sighed. If she had ever had a heart, it 
 was surely given to Edmund Standen. She remem- 
 bered that thrilling voice, with its low tender tones ; 
 those dark gray eyes, with their fond protecting look; 
 the sense of j)eace and security that her lover's 
 presence had ever brought her ; the deep trust which 
 his trustfulness inspired. Hard to resign such gifts 
 as these, which did at times, even to her selfish soul, 
 seem sufficient to make life sweet. 
 
 She sighed, and those thoughtful eyes surveyed the 
 Italian garden, the park that surrounded it, the little 
 old church in the dell, the expanse of meadow land. 
 She knew that far beyond the limit of her gaze the
 
 * IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 283 
 
 land belonged to Sir Aubrey Perriam. She recalled 
 that succinct lecture upon the extent of his wealth 
 which her father had given her that evening. Could 
 mortal love or truth — at best an uncertain quantity 
 — weigh against these positive possessions ? Could 
 she for a moment hesitate, if Fortune offered her in 
 one hand the heart of the man she loved, and in the 
 other Perriam Place ? 
 
 ' And perhaps ten years hence, when my good 
 looks are on the wane, and my temper is soured by the 
 struggles of poverty, I should discover that Edmund 
 had grown tired of me,' she thought, looking at the 
 question in its varied aspects. 
 
 *But I love him, but I love him,' urged her heart. 
 * I love him, and I cannot surrender his love.' 
 
 The stars shone down on the Italian garden. 
 Faunus and the Dryad glimmered whitely athwart 
 orange trees that had scented the air when Henry St. 
 John paced those straight walks with his friend Sir 
 Godfrey Perriam. It was a fair scene which Sylvia's 
 enraptured eyes suiweyed. Yet it was but a mess 
 of pottage after all, against which her evil genius 
 tempted her to barter that fairer heritage — a Avoman's 
 honour. 
 
 ' Tell me the truth,' pleaded Sir Aubrey. ' Had 
 this Mr. Standen won your heart ? '
 
 284 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 She could not answer no, but here coquetry and 
 equivocation came to her aid. 
 
 ' We had only known each other three months 
 when he went aw^ay,' she said, ' and had not met 
 very often in that time.' 
 
 ' Then your heart is not engaged ? ' 
 
 * Not very deeply. In fact I have hardly con- 
 sidered whether I have a heart. But I think I had 
 better remind papa how late it is. Sir Aubrey. Mr. 
 Perriam's interesting conversation may make him 
 forget that we have an hour's walk home.' 
 
 ' You need not walk home. I have ordered the 
 carriage to be ready for you at ten. Give me one 
 more half-hour. Miss Carew. There is another 
 question that I should like to ask you — yes, even 
 to-night. It may seem strange and sudden, but 
 when a man has once made up his mind there is no 
 reason why he should hesitate.' 
 
 He stopped, feeling that he had rushed almost 
 blindfold to the brink of a frightful precipice, 
 a gulf from which, the plunge once made, there 
 could be no retreat. He stopped, and drew 
 breath, as it were, upon the very verge of that 
 dire abyss. But for the runner who has rushed 
 headlong to the. edge, there is no possibility of 
 recoil. Sir Aubrey had but time to perceive
 
 * IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 285 
 
 his desperate position, ere he was over the 
 brink. 
 
 * Is it possible,' he said, ' that this girhsh heart, 
 unawakened by a youthful lover, could be touched by 
 the deeper devotion of a roan long past youth. 
 Sylvia, there are impulses against which it is vain to 
 contend — spells that all the wisdom of a Ulysses is 
 weak to break from. My dearest girl, I think that 
 I must have fallen in love with you that after- 
 noon in the orchard ; for your face has haunted 
 me from that hour to this ; and I know that life 
 henceforward must seem barren to me if you refuse 
 to brighten it.' 
 
 Sylvia gave one wide look that took in all the 
 splendour of Perriam. She had turned her back to 
 the church in the dell, and the mansion stood before 
 her, a little way off, in all its solemn grandeur — 
 the smooth lawn shining like the still bosom of a 
 lake between the Italian garden and the broad stone 
 perron. This was offered to her — this, the finest 
 house she had ever seen, by the gi-andest gentleman 
 she had ever heard of. There was no one in 
 Hedingham whose mind was wide enough to con- 
 ceive greatness beyond the greatness of Sir Aubrey 
 Perriam. 
 
 There was a chokinjTf twitch in her throat. Her
 
 286 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 eyes filled with tears. The tears of pride and 
 triumph. Only in a dream had she ever before felt 
 this swelling sense of victory. She turned to Sir 
 Aubrey and tried to speak, but no words would come. 
 That overpowering sense of gratified ambition stifled 
 her. In that moment Edmund Standen was abso- 
 lutely forgotten. 
 
 Sir Aubrey perceived her agitation, and was deeply 
 touched by it. Had she been unmoved, he would 
 have thought her unworthy of his love. This 
 emotion bespoke a chord which trembled in unison 
 with his own deep feeling. He was not without the 
 power to touch that fresh young heart. 
 
 ' Sylvia, will you be my wife ?' he asked briefly, 
 not being practised in the arts of a lover. 
 
 ' It would be too great an honour for me. Sir 
 Aubrey,' she answered, her voice trembling a little. 
 She was thinking of those Hedingham fine ladies, 
 who had looked her down with their cold repellent 
 stare, who had condemned her unheard. Could 
 Fortune really mean to raise her to a pinnacle from 
 which she could crush them with her scorn ? The 
 mere fact of her elevation would be a supreme 
 revenge. She thought of the homage Hedingham 
 would offer to Lady Perriam, and Edmund Standen 
 remained absolutely forgotten.
 
 *IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 287 
 
 ' What would the world say, Sir Aubrey ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' What would the world say, except that I was 
 happy in winning so peerless a \^ife ? I have been, 
 perhaps, too much the slave of social rank, but you 
 have broken my bonds. Beauty such as yours would 
 make any man a Eadical. The world ! What need 
 I care for the world if I am happy ? A man's home 
 is his world. That uneasy sense of what the world 
 outside his home may be saying of him is the weak- 
 est of all the vanities that ever civilization inspired 
 in the human mind. Let my home be isolated as 
 the wigwam of the savage, so long as it be happy. 
 Sylvia, is there any hope that I can win your re- 
 gard?' 
 
 * How can I do otherT\'ise than admire you, when 
 you are so generous and noble?' she asked softly. 
 A very little while ago she had called Edmund Stan- 
 den noble and generous because he was ■s\'illing to 
 surrender a fortune for her sake. But Sir Aubrey, 
 who was able to make her mistress of Perriam Place, 
 seemed still more generous and noble. 
 
 * Will you be my wife, Sylvia?' pleaded Sir 
 Aubrey, with deepening earnestness. ' I am willing 
 to trust to time to give me your love. I do not 
 think one so gentle and innocent can long w-ithhold
 
 288 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 her heart from a husband who must adore her. If 
 I can trust the future, dearest, to bring us both 
 happiness, will you not trust it too ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' she answered, not withdrawing the hand 
 he clasped, but with her gaze still fixed on yonder 
 mansion, upon whose smooth fa9ade the shadows of 
 the cedar branches looked like funeral plumes. 
 
 It was Perriam Place she accepted rather than Sir 
 Aubrey. 
 
 ' Better for poor Edmund than that he should 
 make himself a pauper for my sake,' she thought, 
 as her lover's image cast a sudden gloom athwart 
 this brilliant prospect. And for the moment she 
 really believed that in accepting Sir Aubrey's offer 
 she w^as acting generously to Edmund Standen. 
 
 And that solemn promise by the tomb of the de 
 Bossineys, that promise so firmly believed in by her 
 absent lover ? Lighter than thistledown weighed 
 that sacred vow in the balance that held the wealth 
 of Perriam, and all the pride and power that went 
 along with it. 
 
 Sir Aubrey held that little hand in his, wonder- 
 ing vaguely at himself, and the change in his scheme 
 of life. He had not intended to take this desperate 
 plunge. His plan had been to make himself 
 thoroughly acquainted with Sylvia and her father
 
 ' IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 289 
 
 before committing himself iu any manner. And, 
 lo, it had needed but the magic of night and star- 
 shine to betray him into this foolish precipitation. 
 He felt that he had been rash almost to madness : 
 he felt that he was exquisitely happy. 
 
 ' Syhda,' he said gently, 'if you can but give me 
 one tithe of the love I feel for you, we ought to be 
 the happiest couple in the west of England.' 
 
 Sylvia thought that as Lady Perriam it would 
 be impossible to be otherwise than happy. 
 
 Mr. Carew and Mr. Perriam had perambulated 
 every walk in the Italian garden by this time, the 
 bookworm still prosing about that wonderful Dutch 
 Horace — a book which was really the veriest dirt in 
 the eyes of accomplished bibliopoles, but which poor 
 Mordred deemed a treasure above price. The school- 
 master listened patiently to the particulars of this 
 bargain — how Mr. Perriam' s eye had been caught by 
 an advertisement in The Bookseller, how he had 
 written to the second-hand dealer, and how the 
 dealer had written to him — all related at much 
 length, and with numerous discursive additions. 
 Very patient was Mr. Carew, for he had an eye 
 upon those two figures by the stone vase ; and he 
 felt that his time was in no manner wasted. 
 
 But when the stable clock chimed the half-hour 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 after nine it seemed incumbent upon him to make 
 some movement. So lie reminded Mr. Perriam how 
 late it was, and the two gentlemen bent their steps 
 towards yonder group. 
 
 ' My dear Sylvia, have you any idea of the hour ? ' 
 asked Mr. Carew. * This beautiful garden, and Sir 
 Aubrey's kindness, have beguiled you into forget- 
 fulness. We have a longish walk before us.' 
 
 * The carriage is ordered for ten,' said Sir Aubrey. 
 ' I could not think of Miss Carew walking home. 
 Come in and take some refreshment, Carew.' 
 
 He gave Sylvia his arm, and they went back to 
 the house, which now shone upon them with a cheer- 
 ful light in its lower windows ; not the vivid bright- 
 ness of gas, but the mellow radiance of lamps and 
 wax candles. 
 
 The saloon, which Sylvia had only seen dimly 
 in the dusk, was now illuminated by a pair of mode- 
 rator lamps, innovations which Sir Aubrey had 
 submitted to under protest, and half a dozen yellow 
 wax candles in a pair of silver candelabra of the 
 Corinthian column design. By this soft light the 
 room looked its best; no colour predominating 
 where every hue was mellowed by time, pale grays 
 and sombre crimsons melting into each other, doors 
 of darkest Spanish mahogany — such a room as a
 
 * IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 291 
 
 painter loves. Sylvia felt somehow that Sir Aubrey's 
 saloon, lacking all the luxurious inventions of modem 
 upholstery, was yet infinitely more splendid than 
 Mrs. Toynbee's brand new drawing-room, upon whose 
 decoration, as the lady exultantly informed her 
 friends, no expense had been spared. There must 
 have been a rood of looking-glass in Mrs. To^Tibee's 
 room. Vast panels of glass from floor to ceiling, 
 reflecting all the distracting twists and convolutions 
 of the gilded chairs and tables, the brassy modem 
 buhl, the French china, the Bohemian glass, the crim- 
 son satin, the mother-of-pearl photograph albums, 
 a room which gave visitors a headache ; while in 
 the Perriam Place saloon the eye reposed as in the 
 shade of summer woods. Once, in a fit of con- 
 descension, or in that expansiveness of spirit which 
 seizes some women when they have a new acquisi- 
 tion to display, Mrs. Toynbee had asked Sylvia to 
 come and see her drawins^-room, and Svlvia had 
 reluctantly accepted the patronizing invitation. She 
 had surveyed those brand new splendours, and won- 
 dered from what wild chaos of the artistic mind 
 upholsterers had evoked the designs for those ser- 
 pentine chairs, those rickety cofi'ee tables, and 
 plaster of Paris pedestals for flower-pots, which 
 looked like gilded lamp-posts. Sylvia had duly 
 
 u 2
 
 292 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 admired the Toynbee drawing-room, and liad been 
 regaled with a stale macaroon and a glass of 
 sherry, which tasted of sulphuric acid and cayenne 
 l^epper. She had not forgotten the room, nor the 
 condescension which had prompted its exhibition. 
 She recalled both now, with a curious smile. 
 
 * When I am Lady Perriam I will ask Mrs. 
 Toynbee to come and see iny drawing-room,' she 
 thought. 
 
 There was just time for some light refreshment of 
 wine and biscuits, and a certain poundcake, upon 
 which the Perriam housekeeper prided herself, before 
 the carriage was announced. There had been time 
 too for Sir Aubrey to engage his new friends to dine 
 at Perriam on the following Tuesday. 
 
 ' Sunday is a leisure day with you, I suppose, 
 Carew,' he said meditatively. He had been think- 
 ing that the Sabbath would seem long and dull to 
 him if he could not see Sylvia. 
 
 * No, Sir Aubrey, I am not my own man till late 
 in the evening. I have to take the school to church.' 
 
 ' Dear me, yes, to be sure,' said the baronet, a 
 little startled. That school business was decidedly 
 unpleasant. He had almost forgotten it while he 
 was talking to Sylvia in the starlight. 
 
 He escorted his guests to the carriage, an old-
 
 * IX SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 293 
 
 fashioned lemon-coloured chariot, in which his father 
 and mother had ridden. But the vehicle, though 
 ancient, had been carefully preserved. The drab 
 damask lining was spotless, the cushions luxurious. 
 Never before had Miss Carew sat in such a carriage. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Sir Aubrey, holding Sylvia's 
 hand with a lingering pressure, while the coachman 
 looked round to see how long his master meant to 
 stand at the carriage door. ' Good-bye, I shall call 
 upon your father on Monday.' 
 
 The chariot drove away, and Sir Aubrey went 
 back to the house slowly, thoughtfully. The gla- 
 mour of Sylvia's presence was hardly gone from 
 him when he awoke to the consciousness that he 
 had done a desperate act. He did not altogether 
 regret the step which he had taken. He was proud 
 to think that Sylvia had accepted him. But he had 
 a dimly doubtful feeling, like that of a purchaser 
 who has just bought something he is not very sure of 
 wanting. The object was a bargain, perhaps, and yet 
 the buyer might have been as well off without it. 
 
 * What will Mordred say ? ' he asked himself, as 
 he went back to the saloon. And beyond Mordred 
 was that outside world which he had affected to 
 despise, a little while ago, on yonder terrace. 
 
 Mordred sat near one of the lamps, turning over
 
 294 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 the leaves of a Quarterly, and utterly unsuspicious. 
 He looked up as his brother came into the room, 
 and in his mild dreamy face there was no indication 
 of curiosity. 
 
 ' A very intelligent person, that Mr. Carew,' he 
 said, * rather superior to his position.' 
 
 ' Bather superior ! I should think so, indeed ! ' re- 
 turned the baronet, almost testily. ' Any one can see 
 at a glance that the man is a gentleman by bu-th 
 and education.' 
 
 ' I wonder how he comes to be a village school- 
 master,' remarked Mordred in a speculative tone. 
 
 ' Because the man is evidently a fellow of your 
 stamp. One of those dreamy intellectual Sybarites 
 who would be content with any position in which 
 they are not required to exert themselves. What 
 would become of you, do you suppose, Mordred, if 
 you hadn't an income, and Perriam to live in ? Do 
 you think you could attain any higher position than 
 Mr. Carew has secured for himself ? ' 
 
 *I daresay not,' answered Mordred meekly; *but 
 it must be tiresome teaching boys. Thank Provi- 
 dence, I'm not obliged to do it.' 
 
 *What do you think of Miss Carew?' asked Sir 
 Aubrey from the shelter of his arm-chair at the 
 other end of the room.
 
 ' IN SOME, AMBITION IS THE CHIEF CONCERN.' 295 
 
 ' The young lady ! ' said Mordred, as if lie had 
 just rememhered the fact of her existence ; ' the 
 young lady who came with Mr. Carew. Eather a 
 pleasing young person, I should think.' 
 
 Pleasing ! Sir Aubrey's goddess of beauty — his 
 Madonna after Raffaelle — his Venus after Titian — 
 summed up in the vapid epithet ' pleasing.' 
 
 After this Sir Aubrey was in no humour to tell 
 Mordred anything. Better, perhaps, to keep his 
 secret till he and Sylvia were actually married. Let 
 people be as much astonished as they pleased after- 
 wards. They could be married quietly some morn- 
 ing by licence, giving no one more than a few hours' 
 notice of the fact. And they could be in Paris 
 before people began to wonder. Sir Aubrey was 
 particularly anxious to escape the wonderment which 
 this somewhat eccentric marriage was likely to 
 occasion.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MES. STANDEN IS INCONSISTENT. 
 
 Sylvia said not a word to lier father about Sir 
 Aubrey's offer during the drive home. Nor had Mr. 
 Carew the faintest suspicion that the affair had 
 reached a crisis. He had been supremely satisfied 
 to note the main fact that Sir Aubrey admired his 
 daughter, and had trusted that time might ripen 
 admiration so decided into love. But that the Lord 
 of the Manor would offer his hand and fortune to 
 this obscure maiden after having seen her only four 
 times, was something beyond Mr. Carew's wildest 
 dream. And here the schoolmaster may have shown 
 himself somewhat deficient in knowledge of human 
 nature. For, to give Sir Aubrey time for the ripen- 
 ing of his fascination into affection, would have been 
 also to give him time for those prudent reflections 
 which must occur to the matured mind of middle 
 age. It was only while the glamour was upon him
 
 MRS. STANDKN IS INCONSISTENT. 297 
 
 that Sir Aubrey was likely to forget rank and race 
 for the sake of this new fancy. And the glamour 
 was strongest while the fancy was newest. 
 
 Satisfied with what he deemed the steady progi-ess 
 of Sir Aubrey's flame, Mr. Carew forbore from 
 questioning his daughter. They drove home almost 
 in silence, and Sylvia left her father in the parlour 
 with a brief good- night. 
 
 Once safe in her own little room, she flung herself 
 beside the bed, where her wretched mother had 
 knelt two nights before, and for the first time in her 
 life wept a flood of passionate tears. The sense of 
 her treason had come upon her in all its fulness 
 during that silent homeward drive. She felt herself 
 the basest and falsest of women. She was half 
 inclined to think that all the splendour this earth 
 could give would be worthless to her without 
 Edmund. Yet, through all, she never contemplated 
 the possibility of retracing the step whicli she had 
 taken — of asking Sir Aubrey to release her from the 
 rash promise of to-night. 
 
 No — she wept for her absent lover, and wept for 
 her ovm infidelity — but she meant to be Lady 
 Perriam all the same. Eemorse gnawed her heart, 
 but she held steadily to the new purpose of her life. 
 She would reign in triumph over the people who had
 
 298 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 slighted her. She would win all that made life 
 worth having. 
 
 Broken and feverish were her dreams that night, 
 during briefest snatches of slumber. One moment 
 her lover's reproachful face was before her, and in 
 the next the stately front of Perriam Place. She 
 was standing in the Italian garden, under a starlit 
 sky, but it was Edmund Standen, and not Sir 
 Aubrey, who stood beside her. 
 
 She awoke from such a dream as this, with an 
 iniquitous thought. ' Sir Aubrey is almost an old 
 man. He may die before many years are over, and 
 I may marry Edmund after all.' 
 
 What pride, what happiness, to make Edmund 
 lord of Perriam ! She forgot that family estates are 
 apt to be entailed. She fancied herself sole mistress 
 of Sir Aubrey's lands and wealth, giving all to her 
 first lover. And cradled by this bright dream Sylvia 
 sank into peaceful slumber just as the birds were 
 beginning to sing. 
 
 She awoke in a frame of mind that was almost 
 cheerful, though that haunting image of her jilted 
 lover still pursued her. ^ After all, it was better for 
 him,' that was the argument with which she strove 
 to pacify the Eumenides of conscience. ' He may 
 marry Miss Kochdale,' she said to herself once, but
 
 MRS. STANDEN IS INCONSISTENT. 299 
 
 that idea was too keen a torment. She could not 
 entertain it. 
 
 ' No, he will be in no hurry to marry,' she 
 thought, ' but he will live with his mother, and be 
 a country gentleman. He is made for that. To 
 reduce him to a clerk's position would be shameful 
 cruelty. It would be selfishness in me to accept the 
 sacrifice his generosity rates so lightly. And how 
 can I doubt that our marriage would result in un- 
 happiness ? He would regret the sacrifice when it 
 was too late. And after an absence of three months 
 his love will have cooled a little, perhaps,' she re- 
 flected, with a regretful sigh. ' Altogether what 
 has happened must be better for both of us, however 
 dearly we may have loved each other. Papa is right. 
 Fortune comes to a woman only once in her life. 
 She must be worse than foolish if she rejects it.' 
 
 It was Sunday. Sylvia hated Sundays. The 
 perpetual church and Sunday school had no charm 
 for her. She knew the Bible history by heart, and 
 was beyond measure weary of those Bible stories 
 whose unsurpassable grandeur is somewhat lowered 
 in the minds of those who hear the sacred volume 
 droned through Sunday after Sunday by the harsh 
 voice of school-children, in a level high-pitched bawl. 
 And then Sunday exposed Miss Carew to some
 
 300 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 mortification from the exhibition of new gowns and 
 bonnets on the part of young-lady teachers. Those 
 young ladies seemed to have something new every 
 Sunday. If they could not dazzle the gaze with a 
 new bonnet, they could generally exhibit a neck 
 ribbon, a pair of cuffs, a parasol, or a collar, which 
 had been on view in Ganzlein's window a day or two 
 before. Sylvia only saw those splendours from the 
 outside of Ganzlein's plate glass. For her Sunday 
 never meant new clothes. 
 
 But to-day how different would be her feelings 
 when those insolent Hedinghamites flounced past 
 her in their Sabbath finery ! How proudly she would 
 return their scornful looks, strong in the thought of 
 the new dresses that she would wear as Lady 
 Perri^m ! Looked at from this point of view, her 
 elevation seemed almost too bright a dream ever to 
 be realized. In the face of that little Hedingham 
 world she became altogether worldly. The Eumen- 
 ides ceased to torment her with Edmund Standen's 
 image. She thought of nothing but her triumph 
 over Hedingham. 
 
 It was on this subject that her thoughts ran all 
 through the morning service — the dresses she would 
 wear, the parties she would give, her Continental 
 tours, all those glories of rank and state which
 
 MRS. STANDEX IS INCONSISTENT. 301 
 
 might be hers as Sir Aubrey's wife. The service, 
 which generally seemed long to this impatient spirit, 
 seemed brief to-day, so splendid were those visions 
 of the future. 
 
 ' I shall come to Hedingham Church on Sunday 
 mornings when I am married,' she said to herself. 
 * It is all very well to have a church of one's own 
 in one's own park. But I should like the Heding- 
 ham people to see my dresses.' 
 
 A little thrill of remorse or compunction stirred 
 her heart at sight of the Dean House pew, where 
 she had been wont to see her lover's tall figure and 
 handsome head every Sunday. Many a look had 
 she stolen in that direction in the Sabbath days that 
 were gone ; many a tender thought had she sent 
 towards that faithful lover; and now her love was 
 a thing of the past. With one sudden wrench she 
 had plucked it out of her heart. But even in the 
 first flush of triumph her heart seemed empty ^^ith- 
 out that banished love. 
 
 There sat Mrs. Standen in her accustomed seat, 
 ^vith Miss Rochdale at her side, both dressed with 
 that extreme correctness which is apt to irritate the 
 temper of less happy females who are conscious of 
 various imperfections in their attire. Mrs. Standen's 
 rich silk dress, Maltese lace shawl, and white bonnet
 
 302 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 with spotless plumage, were provokingly new and 
 neat-looking. Her Honiton collar was adjusted to 
 perfection, her pale lavender gloves had not a 
 wrinkle, even her prayer book looked as if it had 
 just come from the binder's hands. And Miss 
 Rochdale's costume had the same vexatious neat- 
 ness. The fresh-looking muslin, the fashionable 
 sash, the dainty little white tulle bonnet with mauve 
 pansies. Sylvia locked her lips, with that resolute 
 look of hers, as she thought how she would quench 
 the modest light of these provincial toilets when she 
 was mistress of Perriam. 
 
 'It is worth while breaking my heart to be re- 
 venged upon them all,' she said to herself, as a little 
 choking sensation came into her throat at sight of 
 Edmund's empty place. 
 
 She was sitting by the open window after church, 
 listlessly turning the leaves of ' Werter,' and think- 
 ing how Edmund had told her that his love for her 
 was as sudden and as strong as the passion of that 
 unfortunate young German, when she heard the 
 rustle of a silk gown and the click of the garden 
 gate. She started up from her seat, feeling that 
 something was going to happen, and with a shrewd 
 guess as to what that something was. She had 
 been paler than usual all that morning, but
 
 MRS. STA>'DEN IS INCONSISTENT. 303 
 
 she gTew paler still at the thought of what was 
 coming. 
 
 Yes, she had not heen mistaken. It was Mrs. 
 Standen who had opened the garden gate. She was 
 sailing up the little path, in her spreading silk dress, 
 followed by Esther Eochdale. 
 
 Sylvia fancied there was a condescending air in 
 their very walk. They looked like a queen and 
 princess who had come to visit a peasant girl. Her 
 face, ashy pale just now, flamed crimson as the door 
 opened and Mrs. Standen and she stood face to 
 face. 
 
 * I saw you at the window, Miss Garew, so I 
 didn't knock,' said Edmund's mother, in a tone that 
 had a certain stately kindness. 
 
 Esther went to the girl and took her hand, and 
 would have kissed her had there been the faintest 
 encom-agement in Sylvia's face. But there was 
 none. The blush died away, and left the face pale 
 once more. Sylvia drew a chair forward for Mrs. 
 Standen, but uttered no word of welcome. 
 
 * I thought you would like to hear our latest new^s 
 of my son,' said Mrs. Standen, looking keenly at 
 that alabaster face, ' but perhaps you have had a 
 letter by the same post that brought me one, from 
 Southampton. We can hear no more till we hear
 
 304 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 from St. Thomas. Edmund will write from there 
 before he goes on to Demerara in the inter-colonial 
 steamer.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen was not displeased by that pale look 
 in the girl's face. She had a deep feeling at any 
 rate. And Mrs. Standen reproached herself, re- 
 membering how she had condemned this girl as 
 shallow and frivolous. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Sylvia, ' I had a letter from Southamp- 
 ton.' 
 
 Dear letter ! Her first love letter ! She had shed 
 happy tears over its pages. And already she had 
 betrayed the writer. A deep sense of guilt and 
 shame came upon her as she stood before these two 
 — her judges, perhaps. 
 
 ' Pray sit down,' said Mrs. Standen, with lofty 
 kindness, ' I came on purpose to have a little talk 
 with you. I promised Edmund that I would come 
 and see you while he was away.' 
 
 ' You are too good,' replied Sylvia, sitting down, 
 and picking up ' Werter,' which had fallen to the 
 ground just now. 
 
 ' You were reading when we came in,' said 
 Esther, who felt the conversation was coming to a 
 dead-lock. 
 
 'Yes.'
 
 MRS. STANDEE IS INCONSISTENT. 305 
 
 ' I hope YOU have some nice Sunday books,' re- 
 marked Mrs. Standen, directing a suspicious glance 
 at * Werter,' which had not a Sabbatarian aspect. 
 
 * I hate Sunday books,' replied Sylvia, frankly, 
 ' or at least most of them. I rather liked " Ecce 
 Homo." Edmund lent it to me a little while ago.' 
 
 Mrs. Standen cast a horrified look at Esther. 
 They had both heard of that book, and read para- 
 graphs about it in the newspapers ; and were dimly 
 aware that it was not orthodox. And that Edmund 
 should have lent an unorthodox book to his betrothed 
 was enough to curdle their blood. 
 
 * I am sorry my son reads books of that kind, still 
 more sorry that he should lend them to you,' said 
 Mrs. Standen. ' I will send you some nice books 
 to-morrow. Is that a novel in your hand ? ' 
 
 * It is a story,' replied Sylvia, ' a German story.' 
 
 * Oh,' said Mrs. Standen, concluding that a Ger- 
 man story must be some harmless tale of the hob- 
 goblin species. ' That is hardly a nice book for 
 Sunday. Edmund ought to have been more careful 
 in providing you with really nice books.' 
 
 ' I had finished my education before I had the 
 honour to make Mr. Standen's acquaintance,' said 
 Sylvia, with scornful lip. She was not going to be 
 lectured like one of the school-children. She, the 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 future Lady Perriam ! How she could crush this 
 domineering woman hy the simple announcement 
 of her engagement to Sir Aubrey ! But she felt 
 that any statement of that fact to-day would be 
 premature. She had to retire from the old engage- 
 ment with dignity before she acknowledged the 
 new one. \ 
 
 ' It is a common error for young people to think 
 they have finished their education when they have 
 acquired a smattering of a few subjects^' Mrs. Stan- 
 den said severely. ' In my time education was 
 more solid, j We learned slowly, but we learned 
 well.' 
 
 Sylvia gav6 a little impatient sigh. Had they 
 come here to ^catechize her ? 
 
 ' However/ 1 did not come to talk about education,' 
 continued Mrs. Standen, as if divining the meaning 
 Q£..Aa4^ig^T~^ I came for a little really friendly 
 talk. I have no doubt you are aware. Miss Carew, 
 that I have been strongly opposed to this engage- 
 ment between you and Edmund.' 
 
 ' Yes. Mr. Standen told me so.' 
 
 * A time has come, however, when I feel that fur- 
 ther opposition would be both unkind and futile. 
 I do not say that I revoke my decision as to the 
 disposal of his father's fortune.'
 
 MRS. STANDEN IS INCONSISTENT. 307 
 
 Sylvia's heart gave a sudden flutter. What was 
 coming now ? 
 
 ' But,' continued Mrs. Standen, ' I wish to feel as 
 kindly as possible towards the girl my son has 
 chosen for his wife. And if Time should show me 
 that I have been altogether wrong in my ideas, I 
 shall not be too proud to change my mind, and to 
 make a fair division of the estate which I now think 
 of bequeathing entirely to my daughter.' 
 
 ' A fair division,' thought Sylvia, with, supreme 
 scorn. ' That means seven hundred a year. Gen- 
 teel beggary as compared with Sir Aubrey's income. 
 And that only on condition that I give satisfaction to 
 Mrs. Standen — and suffer myself to be dictated to by 
 Mrs. Standen, for the next twenty years of my life.' 
 
 Sylvia's ideas of a competence had expanded 
 since she had thought fifteen hundred a year a 
 noble fortune. 
 
 Mrs. Standen thought she had made a great con- 
 cession by this speech. She looked for some token 
 of gratitude from Sylvia, but there was none. The 
 girl sat silent for a few moments, thinking deeply. 
 It seemed to her that the time had come in which 
 she could creditably withdraw from an engagement 
 which had now become embarrassing. It is rather 
 an awkward thing to be engaged to two gentlemen 
 
 X 2
 
 308 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 at once ; and even Sylvia's well-balanced mind was 
 hardly equal to the situation. 
 
 * You are very good, Mrs. Standen,' she said, with 
 wonderful self-possession, ' and I am glad to find 
 you can act more generously than I had supposed 
 you capable of acting — after what your son told me. 
 But do not you think that an engagement which can 
 never give more than partial satisfaction to you — 
 which interferes with your former plans,' with a 
 brief glance at Esther — ' and which begins in loss 
 to Edmund, had much better be broken off?' 
 
 * What ? ' cried Mrs. Standen, with an incredulous 
 look. But Sylvia went on calmly : 
 
 * While Edmund was here his influence was strong 
 enough to govern all my ideas. I could only see 
 things as he saw them. But since he has been 
 gone, I have had time to think dispassionately. I 
 told him more than once that our engagement was 
 an unlucky one for both of us. I am very sure of it 
 now. And so, Mrs. Standen, with many thanks for 
 the hope which you are good enough to hold out of 
 future clemency, I return you your son's freedom.' 
 
 'Do you mean this. Miss Carew?' asked Mrs. 
 Standen, now as pale as the girl herself. ^Sfee-was 
 as angry with Sylvia for this readiness Jie' give up her 
 lover as for her capture of him.
 
 jmS. STANDEN IS INXOXSISTENT. 309 
 
 ' No, she does not mean it/ cried Esther impul- 
 sively. * She would not break Edmund's heart, and 
 it is bound up in her. She loves him as he deserves 
 to be loved. It is false pride or mistaken gene- 
 rosity that urges her to surrender him. She cannot 
 help loving him, when he loves her so dearly. You 
 are too hard with her, auntie. Speak the truth, 
 Sylvia. Confess that you love him.' 
 
 ' I do,' answered the girl, with passionate empha- 
 sis ; ' but I will never marry him. I will not enter 
 a family that despises me.' 
 
 * No one despises you. Auntie, tell her that you 
 don't despise her.' 
 
 ' I should despise her if she were false to my son,' 
 said the mother sternly. All thought of her own 
 prejudice, her own instinct, was for the moment 
 banished. She thought only of Edmund, and the 
 wro^g-danfi-to^iim . 
 
 ;- - ' I will not enter a family that would receive me 
 on sufferance. I will not be the means of im- 
 poverishing the man I love.' 
 
 * You will not marry an impoverished man,' said 
 Mrs. Standen. * You had better state the case cor- 
 rectly, Miss Carew.' 
 
 * You have always chosen to think badly of me, 
 Mrs. Standen,' returned Sylvia, without flinching ;
 
 310 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 ' you will, no doubt, continue to do so, even 
 though the decision I have arrived at is one 
 that must cause you satisfaction. You have 
 opposed this engagement with all your might. I 
 now release your son from it. What more can 
 you wish ? ' 
 
 * I could wish you had a better heart. Miss 
 Carew.' 
 
 ' Have I a bad heart because I refuse to accept 
 your son's sacrifice ?' 
 
 ' If you loved him, you would think only of his 
 happiness ; which is, most unfortunately, dependent 
 upon your caprice.' 
 
 ' There is no caprice in what I am doing. Poverty 
 is a hard master, and has taught me to know the 
 world better than your son. I am wise enough to 
 know that he would repent his self-sacrifice by-and- 
 by, when it would be too late. My father refused 
 his consent to our marriage the day Edmund left. 
 I thought him cruel and unjust then ; I know better 
 now.' 
 
 ' And pray what has brought you so much wisdom. 
 Miss Carew?' said Mrs. Standen, who had risen, 
 and drawn near the door, and stood there in a 
 haughty attitude, ready to depart. Esther lingered 
 by Sylvia, with a friendly hand stretched out to her
 
 MRS. STANDEN IS INCONSISTENT. Bll 
 
 now and then, as if to restrain the rash impulse 
 that might destroy all her hopes. 
 
 ' Keflection,' answered Sylvia, without a blush. 
 
 ' And am I to write and tell my son your heroic 
 decision ? Am I to tell him that you have chosen 
 the very moment in which I had reconciled myself to 
 this union for your renunciation of him ? ' 
 
 *You need tell him nothing,' answered Sylvia, 
 with a strangled sob ; ' I will write to him myself.' 
 
 ' Then I have nothing more to do than to wish 
 you good morning. My first and last visit to you is 
 ended.* 
 
 ^^~^*^Sylvia,^ cried Eslhef^entreatingly, ' you do not 
 mean this ; you are acting from passion — from false, 
 foolish pride. You do not know how good and true 
 Mrs. Standen is, how well her love is worth winning, 
 even if it must be slowly won. For your own sake 
 — for Edmund's — unsay your rash words. You ovm 
 that you love him.' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' said Sylvia, white to the 
 lips. 
 
 ' Then you cannot mean to give him up.' 
 
 ' I do mean it. It is best and wisest for us both. 
 I do mean it.' 
 
 * Then I have done with you,' said Esther, with 
 more passion than was common to that gentle
 
 312 TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 
 
 nature. ' I leave you to be happy in your own 
 way.' 
 
 They left her, and Sylvia sat like a statue, staring 
 blankly at the ground, and with those last words 
 sounding in her ears. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 '\ 
 
 Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.