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 LI B RAHY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N 1VERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 6Z3 
 
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 V.I
 
 SOWING THE WIND.
 
 SOWING THE WIND 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 E. LYNN LINTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' LIZZIE LORTON OF GRETRIGG,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE STREET, 
 
 STRAND. 
 
 1867. 
 [The right of translation and reproduction is reserved.]
 
 PKINTKD UT J. K. TAYLOK AND CO., 
 LITTLE QUKKN 8TKKET, LINCOLN 'S INN HBLDS.
 
 
 INSCRIBED 
 
 TO 
 
 MY BELOVED BROTHER 
 
 AND 
 
 LIFE-LONG FRIEND 
 
 ARTHUR T. LYNN. 
 
 S
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. Smothered in Kose-Leayes .... 1 
 II. The Thin End of the Wedge . . . .21 
 
 III. The Widow of Charles Osborn, m.e.c.s. 46 
 
 IV. Honor Wilson's Legacy 74 
 
 V. Cousin Jane 95 
 
 VI. The Invalid Lodger 127 
 
 VII. Massinger's Residuary Legatee . . 157 
 
 VIII. At the Hermitage 196 
 
 IX. Are You a Royer, Mr. Wyndham ? . 227 
 
 X. Contrasts 244 
 
 XI. Shadows 270
 
 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 
 
 In a richly-furnished room in Hyde Park Square 
 sat two young people, gravely playing at back- 
 gammon. The board was of ebony and silver; 
 the stakes were dainty bonbons piled up in a 
 filagree gold basket; the young people them- 
 selves were in full evening costume; and the 
 room was white and gold and crimson, with 
 costly ornaments crowding marqueterie tables 
 and gilded etageres, marble slabs and buhl sup- 
 ports, carved brackets and enamelled pedestals, 
 wherever there was the possibility of placing 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 them. It was quite a wilderness of costliness 
 and ornament ; but it was kept from the appear- 
 ance of frippery, or even of scattered effect, by 
 the background of the deep red velvet curtains, 
 and the pure white of the panelled walls. 
 
 The two who sat in the midst of all this luxury 
 were in keeping with their surroundings — young 
 and beautiful as was befitting ; wedded, loving, 
 and happy. The one was a man of the type 
 which some call -elegant, and others distinguished 
 — tall, and slightly built, but with shoulders too 
 narrow and drooping for the firmer kind of 
 manly beauty, and with a habit of carrying his 
 head turned over the left shoulder shyly, which 
 gave him a boyish and retreating expression, as 
 of one afraid to expose himself — a man who never 
 stood square, face to face and chest broadside, 
 but always a little turned edgewise, with one foot 
 in advance of the other; and the habit was as 
 expressive as it w<as instinctive. His face was 
 a long oval, and of a sallow hue; his hair was 
 black, and fell in soft locks naturally waved 
 and carefully arranged ; and his eyes were of a
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 3 
 
 ratlier metallic brown when they could be seen, 
 but they were generally cast down, and looked 
 up only at intervals and swiftly, like the eyes of 
 some shy beast within its covert, and as if afraid 
 to have it seen that they looked. He wore a 
 small finely-pointed moustache, but else was 
 clean-shaven; and his face had a curiously Spa- 
 nish expression, but without the Spanish mascu- 
 linity of look. His hands and feet were small, 
 and his whole character, as expressed by bear- 
 ing, face, and figure, was that of a refined and 
 careful gentleman of the true Brahmin class, but 
 without either strength or daring. 
 
 The other was of a quite different type. She was 
 slightly above the middle height, generously mo- 
 delled and richly coloured, with large soft eyes of 
 the true Irish blue, and with a profusion of bright 
 golden hair — not hair of the sleek and silky 
 kind, but mutinous hair, that would curl and 
 break from out the triple bands round the well- 
 shaped head in a kind of aureole, wherein the 
 light was caught by each separate spiral thread, 
 and given back in wonderful intensity of lustre ; 
 
 b2
 
 4 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 her skin was clear, and of a low colour — a rich, 
 creamy white, where the tender little shadows, 
 passing into the soft fringe of young hair round 
 the neck and temples, were golden too ; her lips 
 were broad, and of Italian richness in their colour; 
 she had the loveliest arms and shoulders that ever 
 woman had, and she had the finely-arched feet 
 of a thorough-bred; but her hands, though white 
 and shapely, were a trifle large — like the hands of 
 all capable women. She wore the same- sized 
 gloves as did her husband, but her hands were 
 firmer than his, and with a fuller and broader 
 palm ; his were long and thin and dry and nar- 
 row. Indeed there was a general sentiment of 
 abounding physical life about her that contrasted 
 strongly with his more languid grace ; and the 
 contrast was a true one, and expressed the dif- 
 ference between them. And yet Aylott St. John 
 Aylott was the master, and Isola, his wife, knew 
 no will save his. 
 
 Married at seventeen, she had now been five 
 years a wife ; but her state of matronhood had 
 brought with it little knowledge of the world,
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 5 
 
 and less experience of life. Her husband was a 
 man who kept no society, and rarely stirred from 
 home. Reserved and shy, he was also proud and 
 sensitive ; and haunted by the fear of ridicule, he 
 was studiously cold in manner, and carefully 
 avoided all outward demonstrations. He loved 
 his wife, and he was intensely proud of his 
 family name, and though only the son of a 
 wealthy incumbent and the grandson of a dean, 
 held himself as too far removed from the ordi- 
 nary middle class to render familiar association, 
 save with the five great professions, possible. 
 The only person he admitted to his table was 
 Richard Norton, the family solicitor; and this 
 was the lowest point to which his pride could 
 stoop. He was of no profession ; for as he had 
 inherited his father's property of two thousand 
 a year, judiciously invested, he had no need to 
 work; and as his money was still where his 
 father had placed it, under Richard Norton's 
 superintendence, he had not even the pleasure 
 of managing his own affairs, and seeing his pos- 
 sessions dwindle in the process, as his occupa-
 
 6 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 tion. And he had no brothers or sisters to break 
 up his isolation. True, there had been a sister 
 once — a poor, misguided child whose sinful folly 
 had broken her father's heart ; but she was dead 
 now, and her very name and memory seemingly 
 forgotten. Even Isola did not know the shameful 
 story of her husband's only sister ; he was too 
 proud to be able to tell even her how the Aylott 
 ermine had once been stained; and as Harriet 
 was dead now — had not Richard Norton buried 
 her only a few months after her flight ? — there 
 was no need to point out her grave, and show 
 the shadow lying across it. He would talk freely 
 enough of his mother, whom he just remembered 
 as one of the loveliest creatures under heaven, 
 and tell how she died away from home, in the 
 house of a physician under whose care she had 
 been placed, and what a terrible day it was when 
 news of her death came — and freely enough of 
 his father; but his sister's name was brushed 
 away from both heart and lips ; and had he been 
 asked now, he would most probably have denied 
 that he had ever had a sister at all.
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 7 
 
 His chief reminiscences were of his father, a 
 grave, tender, sorrow -laden man, who was said 
 to have never smiled again after his wife's death. 
 And in truth the sun of Mark Aylott's life went 
 down into the night for ever as they laid that 
 beloved woman in her grave — that woman for 
 whose love he had suffered so much — and more 
 than suffered, God pardon him ! Though then 
 close on forty, he took orders and entered the 
 Church, where, as the incumbent of Greythorpe, 
 a poor manufacturing town, he worked hard and 
 faithfully at his post till he died — a week after 
 his daughter's elopement with a travelling circus - 
 rider. All but this last fact St. John would tell 
 Isola again and again ; and these were his only 
 family histories. 
 
 It would almost seem by the social barrenness 
 of the past as if the world had stood aloof from 
 the Aylott house — and yet for what cause ? St. 
 John had never been to school, consequently he 
 had made no friends of his own standing ; there 
 were no uncles, aunts, nor cousins, no family 
 connexions anyhow, near or distant, belonging
 
 8 , SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 to him ; and when he married Isola Conway, the 
 two young creatures stood alone in the world, 
 without a friend between them to help or mar 
 their happiness. 
 
 For Isola was an orphan, without living rela- 
 tions of any degree save one aunt — the sore 
 point of the Conways. This was a Mrs. Osborn, 
 her mother's sister, who had married a scampish, 
 poverty-stricken, atheistic surgeon, and had of 
 course been cut by the whole family. Charles 
 Osborn, M.R.C.S., with his spatulous fingers 
 and loose professional talk, was as little con- 
 genial to the dashing gallantry of Captain 
 Conway, his brother-in-law and Isola' s father, 
 as he would have been to St. John Aylott him- 
 self; consequently, Mrs. Osborn had been ta- 
 booed, and, still under the ban, was known to 
 Isola only by name. And Isola* s greatest 
 charm in the eyes of her husband was this 
 isolation of circumstance. He was even glad 
 that no children had come to break up the 
 perfect solitude of their home ; had they come, 
 he would have been jealous of them, as so many
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 9 
 
 rivals to himself, and would have never borne 
 to see his wife's attention diverted from him and 
 his pleasures, and their well-being studied in- 
 stead. Thus he was perfectly content with things 
 as they were, and above all with IsoWs want of 
 family ties. The aunt who had married the 
 atheistic surgeon was certainly an ugly branch 
 in the Conway genealogical tree ; but as she was 
 out of sight he did not actively resent what was 
 only a disgrace in abeyance, and not an aggres- 
 sive sore. 
 
 During their five years of marriage, St. John 
 had not left Isola's side for half an hour, nor 
 had she ever crossed the threshold alone. If he 
 had by rare chance business in the city, he 
 drove there in the brougham, taking her with 
 him; if she had shopping on hand, he accom- 
 panied her, and sat turning over silks and muslins 
 with as much critical interest as herself. Her 
 milliner and her dressmaker knew Mr. Aylott quite 
 as well as they knew his lady, they said, and 
 asked his opinion before consulting hers. And 
 as to Isola herself, it never occurred to her as
 
 10 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 possible that she should choose even a pair of 
 gloves without her husband's sanction, or take 
 an independent line of thought or action on any 
 matter whatsoever, from morals to bonnets. 
 Her husband ruled her life, without a question 
 of divided authority ever rising between them; 
 he tricked her out with jewels, loaded her with 
 rich dresses and costly trinkets, till she scarcely 
 knew what to do with the finery which no one but 
 himself ever saw; he filled her home with ex- 
 pensive furniture and rare knicknacks, till it was 
 oppressive in its completeness, having no fu- 
 ture save breakages ; he ordered her daily life 
 as if she had been a child without reason or free 
 will, and led her to her pleasures and her likings 
 as to a drill-ground. All as the expression of 
 his love, and what he thought due from a man's 
 superior position, but leaving on her a certain 
 cramped and stifled feeling, as of one struggling 
 in silken fetters, and smothered under rose-leaves. 
 His life was a monotonous piece of orderly 
 conventionalism, and he never felt the repetition 
 dull. It was a still life ; a regular and luxurious
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 11 
 
 life ; a life of quiet voice s, of checked laughter, 
 of stately service, of perfect appointments ; there 
 was no passion in it, no excitement, no haste, 
 no slovenliness ; it was all dress and solitude and 
 well-trained domestic machinery, and the quiet 
 succession of days and hours, with no home 
 events to set things out of order, and with no 
 outside diversion. It was a life which included 
 neither continuous occupation nor social plea- 
 sures; it was neither domestic in the way of 
 active management, nor gay in the way of 
 social amusement; it was simply a cloistered 
 life, with a London drawing-room for the cell, 
 and a young married couple for the priest and 
 nun. But it was a life after St. John Aylott's 
 heart, and he would not have exchanged for it 
 any other the world could have given him. It 
 was the life of an English gentleman, he used 
 to say emphatically, and that was the highest 
 point to which God had yet raised humanity ; — in 
 his heart he thought, the highest point to which 
 humanity would ever be raised in this world, 
 and the best preparation for the next.
 
 12 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 And now the completeness which was so suffi- 
 cient to the husband was becoming somewhat 
 barren to Isola. She would stand by the win- 
 dow, looking wearily at the plashing of the win- 
 ter rain, or as wearily at the waving of the sum- 
 mer trees, and long to be that bright-faced wo- 
 man hurrying onward in the cutting wind, poorly- 
 clad and unprotected as she was, but with a pur- 
 pose, an object, that gave her strength and ani- 
 mation ; she would envy the school-girls walking- 
 two and two, and laughing merrily as the girlish 
 joke flashed from each to each — unformed, child- 
 ish girls, who knew nothing, and whose lives 
 had yet to come — but still she envied them, 
 watching them through the golden bars of her 
 well-found prison; she pined to follow that 
 wretched mother home, to take her children, 
 ragged and half-starved, and feed and clothe 
 them, as she had read of in certain pleasant books 
 that made her heart yearn as she read. When 
 she heard the voices of the little ones next door, 
 tears would come into her eyes for the emptiness 
 of the arms that longed to hold a child of her
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 13 
 
 own to her heart ; and even when the rich city 
 tradesman, their father, brought home his noisy- 
 friends to dinner on Sunday, and they sat out on 
 the balcony smoking and laughing, she envied 
 even them, and wished that she was the friend of 
 that loud-voiced, merry woman who sat among 
 them, rubicund and ample in her shining silks, 
 and seemed to enjoy their jokes and rejoice as 
 much as they. She longed she knew not for 
 what, and felt an indefinable oppression she 
 could not understand. She seemed to herself 
 like one of the Arabian Nights' princesses shut 
 up in a brazen tower, where were all sweet fruits 
 and rich apparel — where was all that girlish 
 heart could desire — save what ? Not the prince ; 
 she had found him, and so far was better off than 
 the princess in the brazen tower waiting for 
 him. What was it then she wanted ? Married to 
 a husband who adored her, and who was hand- 
 some, young, well-bred, and rich — what was 
 wanting to complete her happiness ? Ought she 
 not to feel that her life was closed, and that she 
 had no right to demand a wider horizon ?
 
 14 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Nevertheless, these objectless, luxurious days 
 of hers weighed on her like imprisonment or spi- 
 ritual death ; and her soul cried out for the freer 
 air of human sympathy and work, of even suffer- 
 ing, as a relief from the cloying sweetness of the 
 present time. Yet all this sense of emptiness 
 and oppression was "buried in the innermost 
 depths of her heart, and no one knew that she 
 was not as content as all men said she ought to 
 be. Least of all had St. John Aylott any suspi- 
 cion that the idol he had set up in his drawing- 
 room altar was yearning for aught beyond the 
 incense of his love, the richness of his offerings, 
 the safety, seclusion, and luxury of the shrine in 
 which he had confined her. Had he known it, 
 he would have mourned for her as for one on the 
 broad way of inevitable destruction, and would 
 have taken it as meaning weariness of himself 
 only, and as the death-song of both love and 
 happiness for all time to come. She did well, 
 then, to keep back in the silence of her own soul, 
 scarcely confessing to herself, the weariness of 
 her days ; she did well even to preach false
 
 SMOTHEEED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 15 
 
 words of peace to herself, and to assure herself 
 again and again, as she did, that she was quite 
 happy, quite content, asking nothing more than 
 what she had of fate or fortune at their kindest — 
 yearning for nothing nobler than to fill up the 
 narrow measure of her husband's life, and to sa- 
 tisfy the pride which did not even ask the world 
 to witness his triumph. She did well. Things 
 had not come yet to the point when she might 
 assert her human rights ; and, in the meantime, 
 she must content herself in her shrine, and be well 
 pleased at the incense offered. 
 
 They were sitting together as usual, on the 
 evening when this story opens, playing at back- 
 gammon for dainty bonbons. Luck had been on 
 Isola's side to-night, and she had already won 
 three dashing games, when they heard the post- 
 man's ring, and a letter rattle through the box. 
 They had just begun their fourth hit — St. John a 
 little put out at his ill-success — when the servant 
 brought her a letter. Now a letter to Isola was 
 as unusual an event as was a visitor. Save cir- 
 culars announcing sales conducted on high moral
 
 16 ROWING THE WIND. 
 
 principles, and now and then answers or queries 
 from ladies respecting servants, few letters of any 
 kind were dropped into the Aylotts' box ; so that 
 when the machine in plush brought her on the 
 silver salver a real letter — a letter in a long en- 
 velope, and addressed in a fine, thin, pointed 
 hand — it was an event which made her heart beat 
 and her cheeks flush, as if she had been a school- 
 girl receiving her first secret love-note. But the 
 flush soon faded, and left her face with an almost 
 scared expression on it, as she continued her 
 reading. 
 
 " Oh, St. John!" she said, when she had fin- 
 ished, " I am afraid you will be so annoyed ! " 
 
 She handed the letter to him with a pretty look 
 of loving sorrow, as if she had somehow done 
 him wrong, and was repentant. He took it and 
 read it in silence, as she had done. 
 
 " I am sorry for it," he said coldly when he had 
 finished, laying it on the table, and turning away. 
 
 "What can I do?" asked Isola anxiously. 
 " What would you like me to do, St. John ?" 
 
 u Like ! " he repeated a little impatiently, " I
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 17 
 
 think you know what I should like, Isola ; not to 
 see her, of course ! " 
 
 Isola looked down, troubled. "Would that 
 be right V she asked in a low voice. " Poor 
 mamma told me that if Mr. Osborn were to die, I 
 was to be sure to be kind to aunt Juliana and 
 cousin Jane, for that they would be very poor, 
 and that I was to help them in every way I could. 
 Ought I to refuse to see her— poor mamma's 
 sister — my only relation V s 
 
 '"'That is just it!" said St, John. " Your re- 
 lation ! Had she not been that, I would not have 
 cared so much for the intrusion. But I cannot 
 bear to think of any one having the right to say 
 you belong to them, however remotely. The 
 charm of our married life will be broken," he 
 added fretfully. "You will be no longer my 
 Isola!" 
 
 " Could such a little thing as this make any dif- 
 ference to you V she said affectionately, rising 
 from her chair and going over to him. 
 
 " You may say what you like, Isola, it is a nui- 
 sance,^ he answered, still in an injured tone 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 throwing the dice at random. " You know how 
 much I resent the idea of any intrusion, and how 
 I have liked the entire isolation of your life. And 
 the widow of a low-bred, free-thinking surgeon, 
 too — the one to ruin my house ! — such an un- 
 worthy association altogether I" 
 
 "It would have been worse if he had been 
 alive," put in Isola. 
 
 " Worse ! it could not be worse," said St. 
 John. 
 
 " But what can I do ?" she asked again, coming 
 back to the main point, and with her face still 
 troubled and her heart still anxious. 
 
 (t Do as you like," he answered stiffly, after a 
 moment's pause. "You always do as you like, 
 Isola ; I only tell you what I should prefer, and I 
 leave you free to follow out your own inclinations. 
 It is your affair, not mine. I have no such dis- 
 agreeable connections in my family, I rejoice to 
 say ; and it will be long before our happiness is 
 menaced by anything of the kind occurring on my 
 side." 
 
 He spoke as if seriously displeased, as, indeed,
 
 SMOTHERED IN ROSE-LEAVES. 19 
 
 he was, being one of those with whom annoyance 
 by circumstance takes the form of personal dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 "It is so unexpected/' said Isola, partly for 
 want of something else to say. 
 
 " It is what I might have looked for, had I not 
 been blind when I married you/' he returned 
 coldly. 
 
 And Isola saw that no good was to be got by 
 continuing the conversation. 
 
 " I will answer her to-morrow/' she then said. 
 " We can speak about it again." 
 
 t( I do not wish to speak about it again/' said 
 St. John as coldly as before. "You know ex- 
 actly what I think and feel about it altogether. 
 It is a mere pretence to say we will speak about 
 it again/' petulantly. 
 
 Isola did not answer. Her husband had not 
 often been so annoyed as this, and had not often 
 spoken to her so unpleasantly ; but whenever his 
 temper had been roused by chance trouble, she 
 had carefully avoided occasion of further annoy- 
 ance. Yet that was difficult, too ; for when he 
 
 c2
 
 20 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 was cross lie was cross throughout, and made it 
 equally an offence whether she spoke or kept 
 silence. 
 
 " Where are we now ?" she said after a short 
 pause, cheerfully, taking up her dice-box and rat- 
 tling the dice. " What was your last throw, St. 
 John ? deuce ace V 
 
 " I shall not play any more to-night ; the game 
 is spoiled/' said Aylott St. John Aylott, shutting 
 up the board.
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 
 
 1 ' I say, Wyndham, I wish, you would look iuto 
 this for me/' said Smith, the editor of the ' Comet/ 
 tossing over a packet and a letter to his ' sub/ a 
 bright-eyed, energetic-looking, rather undersized 
 man, with a profusion of black hair and beard, 
 and a general look of animation and business 
 about him. " The girl writes creditably enough, 
 but not quite up to our mark ; but if what she 
 says is true, and she is capable of being pulled 
 into shape, we might give her a review now and 
 then; at all events, you see about it, like a good 
 fellow ; I am too much bothered with this Mexi- 
 can business to look after anything just now."
 
 22 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Harvey Wyndham took the packet and the 
 note. He glanced through the first, saw that it 
 contained a few water-colour sketches and a crude 
 but vigorous article on some small event that had 
 just happened ; a better article in substance than 
 what many practised pressmen would have sent 
 in; yet not quite fitted for the leader of a 
 " daily " — certain feminine blunders in political 
 economy running through it, and the whole paper 
 wanting that subtle but telling touch of the prac- 
 tised hand. 
 
 "Well V 3 said Smith after a pause. 
 " She has good stuff in her, but she wants 
 training/' said Harvey. 
 
 " Just my idea ; but we might make her useful. 
 Have you read her letter V 
 " No, I am reading it now." 
 It was a short note, stating that she, the writer, 
 " was one of the women who had to win her bread 
 by her own exertions, and not only her own bread 
 but her mother's also, her father — a surgeon — 
 having lately died, and left them with only busi- 
 ness debts and complications. She had been
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 23 
 
 tolerably well educated, and could do a great 
 many things fairly well, but as yet bad not found 
 her speciality, unless perhaps in literature. She 
 enclosed this article as a specimen of what she 
 could do if she was put to it. Would the editor 
 of the ' Comet ' kindly look it over, and tell her if 
 it showed any power of composition ? Of course 
 she did not expect that it would be accepted and 
 used out of hand, as she knew that all people 
 must go through a certain apprenticeship before 
 they could succeed ; but it might serve as an in- 
 dication of her capacity, and whether she could 
 make anything of herself or no. And would he 
 glance at the accompanying water-colour sketches, 
 and tell her in which she seemed most likely to 
 do best, art or literature ? She apologized for 
 asking his advice so freely, but she was quite 
 alone in the world, save her mother, who was not 
 a business person, and therefore could not help 
 her ; so she must fight her way as if she was a 
 man, and put aside all false shame. She would 
 be glad of any advice the editor of the ' Comet ' 
 would give her ; but would he please not recom-
 
 24 SOWING THE WIND, 
 
 mend her to be a governess ? for she had a horror 
 of children and hated teaching beyond everything 
 else, and she would rather go out as a housemaid 
 than as a governess." The letter was signed 
 "Jane Osborn" in a large, bold hand, and the 
 address was in Seymour Street, near Cavendish 
 Square. N.B. — They had a lot of rooms to let ; 
 the house was a huge gangrel place that was 
 eating them up, and they could not dispose of the 
 lease ; — did the editor know any one to recom- 
 mend ? They were very clean and cheap. If he 
 would not mind putting an advertisement in his 
 paper, it should be paid for honestly when she 
 knew what it was." Again another " J. 0.," if 
 possible more bold and decided than the first. 
 
 (< What always amuses me in women's letters 
 is the small bit of individualism and private his- 
 tory so sure to come in with the business," said 
 Harvey Wyndham, laughing lightly. ' ' And then 
 the naive way in which they ask for favours that 
 cost both time and money ! the utterly uncon- 
 scious habit they have of levying black-mail, and 
 never saying ' thank you ' when they have got it \"
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. ZO 
 
 " Ah, poor things! they are awfully ignorant 
 of business/' said Smith compassionately. "But 
 we'll put in the advertisement for her, and not 
 charge her, What are the sketches like ? You 
 are a better judge of those things, Wyndham, 
 than I. You were a brother of the brush once 
 yourself, weren't you V* 
 
 "Yes!" he laughed. "I have been pretty 
 well everything in my time." 
 
 " A kind of handy man to art and literature, 
 hey ?" 
 
 "About that, Smith; and no master yet !" 
 
 " Well ! what are those sketches like ?" 
 
 "Like her writing — clever and vigorous, but 
 unpractised. She has plenty of go in her, and 
 with a little rubbing up will do." 
 
 " Can you go and look after her ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Harvey; " I can judge better by 
 seeing her. I'll go in a day or two — when I've 
 written my books clear. I say, Smith, how do 
 you find this employment of women answer in 
 the office ? 
 
 " Pretty well when they have common sense,
 
 26 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 which is not often/' said Smith. "Their two 
 worst faults are looseness and partiality; and 
 their most annoying, the uncertainty of their 
 work and their want of reliable power. One day 
 they do magnificently, and you think you have 
 found a treasure ; the next, they send you in a 
 dozen slips of trash you cannot use, though you 
 reserved the subject specially for them, and 
 threw over a better man who was sure to have 
 done his work at least creditably. And that 
 makes them awkward to trust." 
 
 " Very," said Harvey laconically. 
 
 "Then they are so desperately touchy !" con- 
 tinued Smith in an injured tone. "If you pull 
 them up for their faults, and rap their knuckles 
 as you would a man's, they fire up and stand 
 upon their dignity as ' ladies ' — the little fools ! 
 The fact is, the creatures want the cream of both 
 states — the independence and money-getting 
 power of men, and the conventional respect of 
 drawing-room ladies : which is ridiculous, you 
 know, and can't be done." 
 
 " Then why do you have them?" asked Harvey.
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 27 
 
 He was a quick worker himself, and always 
 grudged the giving away of work which he felt 
 he could have done as well as another. 
 
 " Why ? Because they do better than men in 
 some things — their perceptions are finer; and 
 because I pity them so much, poor creatures ! 
 Such a mass of unprotected females as we have 
 now ! They must live, you know ; and if they 
 have not men to work for them, they must work 
 for themselves." 
 
 " Ship them off to the colonies ; organize a 
 large middle-class female emigration. That is 
 the only remedy," said Harvey. 
 
 " Maybe ; but in the meantime they must live, 
 as I said before ; and as some of them can write, 
 I like to give them a lift when I can. They 
 do well enough when under control, but they 
 want a master always. They pay, you know, 
 on the whole ; but I confess they are a deal of 
 bother." 
 
 " So I should think," said the ' sub ' philosophi- 
 cally. 
 
 And then they both laughed, and took up the
 
 28 . SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 tangled ends of the Mexican matter, just then 
 the most exciting question of the day. 
 
 Shortly after this, Harvey Wyndham went to 
 the address in Seymour Street indicated by Jane 
 Osborn, He knocked at the door, and follow- 
 ing the sickly-looking servant-girl upstairs, was 
 ushered into the large, comfortless, half-furnished 
 " first-floor front," which a card in the window 
 told was to let. Two people were in the room 
 as he entered. One was a pretty, fair, faded 
 woman of middle age, shabbily dressed in what 
 were meant to be coquettish widow's weeds, with 
 good features spoiled by an expression of vanity 
 and weakness, and with manners singularly deli- 
 cate, but fluttered and without confidence. The 
 other was a tall, bony girl, of twenty-one or 
 thereabouts; not so much coarse as strong, not 
 so much bold as hard. She was decidedly plain; 
 but she had fine grey eyes, large, deep-set, and 
 intelligent, and she had a profusion of rich au- 
 burn hair, which another turn.,of the scale would 
 have dyed to red. Her skin was of a duck's-egg 
 white, fine and soft but covered with freckles;
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 29 
 
 her nose was blunt and positive ; her lips wide, 
 clumsy, and ill-defined; her hands were small 
 and good, but her nails were dirty; and her 
 shoes were down at heel, with the stockings 
 rumpled round her ankles. She was quite as 
 well dressed in material as her mother ; but while 
 the one made her shabbiness to be forgotten in 
 her innate elegance and scrupulous neatness, 
 the other conveyed the impression of being in 
 rags. In manner she was familiar and abrupt ; 
 in gesture, angular and ungraceful ; but her face 
 lighted up with so much intelligence when she 
 spoke, that nothing was seen but the deep-set 
 clear grey eyes, and the waving masses of red 
 gold hair, looped in such a grand framework 
 round her well-shaped head. Mother and daugh- 
 ter made a strong contrast as they stood together 
 by the window, and Harvey, looking at the 
 powerful, purpose-like face of the younger, re- 
 peated to himself his first dictum to Smith, 
 " She'll do." 
 
 " You have called about the rooms, sir V said 
 Mrs. Osborn in her clear, finely-toned voice in- 
 terrogatively.
 
 30 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " No; about Miss Osborn's writings/' an- 
 swered Harvey pleasantly. 
 
 " I thought so," said the younger lady in an 
 abrupt manner. 
 
 " You did ? why V — he smiled. 
 
 " I don't know; you looked like business, I 
 suppose : I know of no other reason/' answered 
 Jane Osborn, in an off-hand kind of way, tossing 
 back her hair. 
 
 Harvey looked at her with an expression half 
 of amusement half of interest. He liked her 
 direct tone — "no nonsense about her/' he 
 thought; and felt decidedly disposed to befriend 
 her, in spite of his professional dislike to woman's 
 work and professional jealousy of interference in 
 the press. She was a new study to him ; and 
 Harvey Wyndham was always on the look-out for 
 new studies, as part of his stock in trade. 
 
 " What can you do ?" he then said as abruptly 
 as herself, taking his tone from her, as he gene- 
 rally did with his company. 
 
 " Anything I might be put to/' answered 
 Jane.
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 31 
 
 " That means nothing. The world is deluged 
 with ' general ability/ " said Harvey. " No spe- 
 ciality v 
 
 " No : how should I ? I want the first start, as 
 every one does ; you men yourselves want it when 
 you begin life, and I only ask for what you have." 
 
 " Women generally want a good deal more 
 than men," answered Harvey, remembering what 
 his editor had said, and, as was his wont, airing 
 another's opinions for his own benefit. " They 
 want all sorts of special coaching and bolstering 
 up, and are too sensitive to be reliable workers 
 when all is done." 
 
 " I am not a woman of that kind," said Jane 
 contemptuously ; ' ' and I despise the whole idiotic 
 class of womanish women as much as you do." 
 
 " My dear !" remonstrated her mother weakly, 
 " you use such strong language !" 
 
 " Well, mamma, what of that ? Bad things 
 want strong language to scarify them as they de- 
 serve," Jane answered. 
 
 u You are ' thorough/ at all events/ " laughed 
 Harvey Wyndham in a tone of approbation.
 
 32 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 u I hope so/' she said quite gravely. " What- 
 ever I may be, I am no humbug and no coward." 
 
 " But you might be more gentle and pretty be- 
 haved," suggested Mrs. Osborn a little fretfully. 
 
 " Pretty behaved ! that's like you, mamma !" 
 cried Jane with extreme disdain. 
 
 " I hope it is, my dear ; I hope I never forget 
 who and what I am, though I did marry your 
 poor papa, who was only a surgeon, when I 
 might havo had Dr. Bliss, who was a physician, 
 and Mr. Twamlow, who was a minor canon." 
 Mrs. Osborn answered with what she meant to 
 be stately dignity of manner, poor soul ! 
 
 " "Well, mamma, I don't suppose it is very in- 
 teresting to the gentleman to hear all about our 
 private concerns and your love affairs when you 
 were a girl," said Jane impertinently. ** He 
 has come on business, and I dare say his time is 
 valuable." 
 
 " Not at all !" said Harvey good-naturedly. 
 " On the contrary, I should like to know all 
 about you, from first to last." 
 
 " There is nothing to tell, and nothing that
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 33 
 
 any one can know/' broke in Jane hurriedly, as 
 if to prevent her mother from speaking. " Cer- 
 tainly nothing romantic in any way ! My father 
 was a general practitioner — " 
 
 "A medical man; he was M.R.C.S.," inter- 
 rupted the mother. 
 
 " Osborn, surgeon/' reiterated Jane stolidly. 
 u He died about six months ago, leaving us very 
 badly off. We have the lease of the house, and 
 that is all we have ; and we let it out in apart- 
 ments, as you see — but that is very precarious 
 and we have already made bad debts. So you 
 see I must do something for our living — mamma 
 cannot." 
 
 " I wish I could V* said Mrs. Osborn, with an 
 artificial sigh wonderfully eloquent in its way. 
 " But I was brought up so differently ! Of course 
 as girls my sister and I were never allowed to do 
 anything for ourselves ; and when I married as I 
 did" — another sigh — " poor dear Mr. Osborn 
 was in very good circumstances, and insisted in 
 keeping me as I had been used to be kept. So 
 I never had any opportunity of learning to be 
 vol. i. I)
 
 34 • SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 practical and useful ; and I have not my daugh- 
 ter's strength of character, which would enable 
 me to turn my hand to anything, whether lady- 
 like or not." 
 
 • " No, you are not much alike," said Harvey, 
 looking from one to the other. • 
 . " We should be in the Queen's Bench next 
 week if we were," Jane said composedly. 
 
 " And if you had not me to keep you up to 
 something like lady-like habits, we should be 
 worse off than even in the Queen's Bench, let me 
 tell you, Jane !" returned Mrs. Osborn sharply, 
 — a timid look of mingled fear and apology cross- 
 ing her face immediately after. And that look, 
 and the few sentences preceding it, gave Harvey 
 the key of the whole domestic situation. 
 
 " That is just as it should be !" he said. 
 " There is nothing like good contrasts to work 
 well. You see the one supplies the wants of the 
 other, and so the wheel goes round." 
 
 " I must say I should like it better if Jaue 
 was more like me, or even poor Theodora," said 
 Mrs. Osborn plaintively.
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 35 
 
 • ( i And who is Theodora, if I may ask V 3 said 
 Harvey. 
 
 • "My sister \ 33 sighed Mrs. Osborn — "was] I 
 ought rather to have said — for, alas ! she died 
 about ten years ago, leaving a sweet little girl 
 tiiat my aunt Conway brought up. And her 
 husband died too. -He was our cousin, so my 
 -sister kept her name. It is a good name, is it 
 ■not — Conway r - with a lingering accent of pride in 
 4ier voice ; '" Osborn is not a bad name either, 
 
 though it is Osborn without the^ I am sorry to 
 say," she continued. " My dear husband, though 
 not in the highest walks of his, profession, was of 
 a good branch ; the younger branch certainly ; 
 iDut of good blood all the same." 
 
 " Not so good as the Conways," said Harvey 
 at a hazard. 
 
 She simpered, smiled, and sighed. " No," 
 she said, looking down, " certainly not so good. 
 You see I married beneath myself, sir. Poor Mr. 
 -Osborn was not my equal in station, and my 
 family never forgave me; but he was so hand- 
 some! — so like Lord George Granville ! They 
 
 D 2
 
 36 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 were as like as twin brothers, only that Mr. 
 Osborn was the handsomest." 
 
 " Pompey and Caesar/' said Harvey laughing. 
 
 " Quite so — that was just it — as like as Pom- 
 pey and Caesar/' replied Mrs. Osborn fervently. 
 
 Jane gave an impatient snort. "What rub- 
 bish !" she said disdainfully. 
 
 "My niece is very well married/' continued 
 Mrs. Osborn, who had not heard the remark. 
 " She married young Mr. Aylott, son of the rec- 
 tor of Greythorpe and grandson of the dean of 
 Chatham." 
 
 "What! that puppy St. John Aylott ?" cried 
 Harvey. 
 
 "Do you know him?" Mrs. Osborn asked in 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Not personally, I am glad to say; but my 
 father was once mixed up in some business mat- 
 ter with old Aylott — I forget what it was now 
 — and I have seen this St. John once or twice. 
 I heard that he married not long after the rec- 
 tor's death, and that his wife was a very beautiful 
 girl. Richard Norton, my lawyer and theirs,
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 37 
 
 told me so. And so she is your niece, is she ? 
 Do you see her often ? M 
 
 Mrs. Osborn shook her head. " No," she said 
 pathetically, " I do not know her." 
 
 " No ? why don't you hunt her up then ? She 
 might be useful to you if you want help. They 
 are as rich as Jews/' said Harvey Wyndham with 
 astonishment. 
 
 "We don't want her help/' said Jane very 
 hastily. " I prefer to work for myself, and to be 
 under obligations to no one. I hate all the tribe 
 of rich relations, turning up their noses at poor 
 cousins, and being insolent or patronizing as 
 they are in the humour. I hate the whole kind 
 of thing, and with my consent we will never go 
 into it." 
 
 " Pardon me, but that is not spoken with the 
 good sense or business-like way of looking at 
 things that I should have expected from you," 
 said Harvey very quietly. "These are the 
 heroics of a school-girl, not the rational calcu- 
 lations of a woman of business." 
 
 " Why, what would you have us do ? — fawn
 
 38 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 and beg, and" be thankful for scraps? ".cried Jane 
 vehemently. " Is giving up one's self-respect 
 fOr a little advantage good business faculty, I 
 should like to know? and trusting to charity, and 
 not to oneself, the best way of getting on in life ? 
 If it is, I would rather not have anything to do 
 with it, and I'd rather not get on at all." 
 
 " Gently, gently, Miss Osborn ! Now you are 
 losing your temper; which is quite an unneces- 
 sary proceeding, and one not very flattering to 
 your strength of mind. Only weak people are 
 soon moved to anger, remember." Harvey 
 spoke with imperturbable good-humour, and in 
 the tone of a master giving a lesson to his 
 pupil. 
 
 " There, Jane, how often I have said the same 
 thing to you \" cried Mrs. Osborn triumphantly. 
 " Now you see how right I am, and how much to 
 blame you are." 
 
 Jane shook back her magnificent untidy hair 
 and laughed. " You are right," she said plea- 
 santly, " and I was wrong; but I was not so 
 cross as I seemed, I was only vehement."
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 39 
 
 " Vehement ! you are always vehement/ ' said 
 her mother pettishly. 
 
 " Well, mamma, I believe I am ; but I don't 
 mean to be savage. It is only a bad way I have ; 
 and you, of all people, ought to know that it 
 means nothing," Jane answered. 
 
 And Harvey, holding out his hand to her, said, 
 by way of coping to the little episode, " Now I 
 have no fear of you, Miss Osborn. A woman 
 who can bear to hear the truth is sure to do. 
 You are educable, and that is all we want." 
 
 " It depends on who tells the truth, and what 
 it is like when it is told," said Jane philosophi- 
 cally. " And now, if you please, will you tell 
 me what I can do ? I suppose you come from 
 the editor of the ' Comet/ if you are not the 
 editor himself." 
 
 " No, I am not," interrupted Harvey ; " I wish 
 I was." 
 
 " Well then, you come from him ; so please to 
 tell me — am I to do anything for the paper ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Harvey, "if you work well and 
 don't blunder. You shall have a batch of re-
 
 40 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 views to do for us, first of all. You must feel 
 your way you know at first, and if you do well, 
 you will get better things in time." 
 
 " I'll do my best," said Jane sturdily. 
 
 " All right then ! Fll see and send the books 
 off to-morrow; and," laughing, "don't forget 
 my advice about the Aylotts. One never knows, 
 you know ; and angels are often entertained un- 
 awares." 
 
 " I shall follow it, most decidedly," said Mrs. 
 Osborn. 
 
 "And you ?" he turned to Jane, the smile still 
 on his bright and animated face. 
 
 " If mamma goes, that will be enough," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Osborn drily, set- 
 tling her crape cuff; "perhaps, as you say, I had 
 better make the first visit alone. I know the 
 usages a little better than you do ; besides, you 
 will be occupied at home." 
 
 "You are quite welcome, mamma, I am sure !" 
 returned the young lady shortly. " I suspect that 
 will always be the division of labour between us
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 41 
 
 — bread-winning for me, and visiting fine folk 
 for you ; and I don't envy you your share." 
 
 "Then we don't envy each other, my dear/' 
 said Mrs. Osborn quietly. 
 
 Harvey rose to go. 
 
 " I am glad I have seen you !" he said to Jane 
 in that cheery tone of his, which sounded so as- 
 suring — and the sentiment of professional frater- 
 nity beaming from his face. u We'll see you 
 through, never fear ! and, take my word for it, 
 you'll do." He said this as if he had promised 
 her a thousand a year, and was going now to 
 prepare the transfer deeds. " Good morning to 
 you ; I hope to see you again soon, and to be 
 good friends into the bargain. We are fellow- 
 workers, you know, so we ought to be good 
 friends, oughtn't we ?" 
 
 11 Good morning, and thank you," returned 
 Jane. And at that moment she looked almost 
 handsome, her face was so full of hope and the 
 strength which comes from pleasant thoughts. 
 "But what is your name all this time?" she 
 then asked abruptly. " The girl only said l a
 
 42 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 gentleman/ and you have not told us, remem- 
 ber." 
 
 " Harvey Wyndham," lie answered, " sub-edi- 
 tor of the ' Comet/ Here, if you want to write 
 to me, there's my club," and he laid a card on 
 the table with " Mr. Harvey Wyndham, the 
 Johnson," engraved on it. 
 
 " Thank you, I'll write to you at the ' Johnson ; 
 then, if I want your advice about anything," said 
 Jane, as if she had known him a dozen years at 
 least. 
 
 " Do so, and I promise to answer," he laughed ; 
 and, still laughing, shook hands with both the 
 ladies and left the room. 
 
 " My dear, are you not very familiar ?" asked 
 Mrs. Osborn with fretful timidity when Harvey 
 had fairly gone. "In my time, when I was a 
 young girl, we should not have dreamt of such 
 sudden friendships, and with quite a stranger 
 too ! Write to him at his club ! it is really 
 improper, Jane ! — really improper ! I did not 
 like to check you before him, because I never 
 like to say anything disagreeable to you, but
 
 THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. 43 
 
 I was shocked at your familiarity; I must say I 
 was." 
 
 "I was not familiar , mamma," said Jane; 
 '/ when one has business to do with men, one 
 cannot be like a little school-girl, or a fine lady 
 either ; one must go to the point, and not pre-, 
 tend to be shy or bashful or anything like that. 
 It is too absurd," contemptuously. 
 
 " Well, my dear, I know that you will have 
 your own way, so it is of no use talking," said 
 Mrs. Osborn sighing. "I only wish that you 
 would be more guided by me than you are, and 
 not think yourself better able to judge of every- 
 thing than I am. It would save your poor 
 mamma some trouble, Jane, and yourself a few 
 mistakes perhaps." 
 
 "Mamma, I cannot be everything," Jane said 
 seriously. u If I have to work for you and take 
 care of you, I must do it in my own way, and not 
 be a mere machine guided by you or any one 
 else. I let you do as you like, and you must 
 let me do as I like. You go to see this Mrs. 
 Aylott of yours, and I stay at home to write
 
 44 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 for the f Comet/ and surely that is a fair bar- 
 gain." 
 
 ft Oh yes ! — by the by, my niece. I will write 
 to her first, I think/' cried Mrs. Osborn : she 
 was easily diverted in her current of thought. 
 " I will write and tell her that I shall come and 
 call on her some day soon — that will be the best 
 way, don't you think so, Janey ?" 
 
 "If you like, mamma," was the indifferent 
 answer. 
 
 " But what do you think best, Jane V asked 
 her mother anxiously. For all her querulous as- 
 sumption of authority, she would not have dared 
 lift her finger against her daughter's prohibition, 
 and always waited for her permission before she 
 finally undertook anything. 
 
 " You know what I feel about it, mamma. I 
 hate the whole kind of thing from first to last. 
 But I may be wrong. Mr. Wyndham says lam 
 and he knows the world better than I do." 
 
 " Then you think I had better write V reite- 
 rated Mrs. Osborn. 
 
 " Just as you like yourself, mamma," said Jane
 
 THE THIN END OP THE WEDGE. 45 
 
 more courteously than usual. " Do as you like 
 best ; it is quite a thing for you alone to decide, 
 and I won't interfere in any way." 
 
 "Then Pll go and write at once," said Mrs. 
 Osborn, considerably relieved. 
 
 Which was the way in whereby came about 
 that Isola Aylott received a note from her un- 
 known aunt Juliana, widow of Charles Osborn, 
 M.R.C.S., announcing her widowhood, hinting at 
 her poverty, and expressing her intention of call- 
 ing at 200, Hyde Park Square, at some very 
 early date — the adverb underlined. The note 
 concluded with her daughter's love to her cousin 
 Isola, and her own kind regards to her nephew 
 Mr. St. John Aylott, whose acquaintance she was 
 really quite anxious to make — she had heard so 
 much that was good of him. If Jane had seen 
 that little piece of gratuitous flattery, there would 
 have been hot work that night in Seymour Street, 
 Cavendish Square.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORJS T , M.R.C.S. 
 
 It was just one o'clock. St. John Aylott was 
 finishing the City article, always the last portion 
 of his morning's intellectual exercise ; and Isola, 
 apparently absorbed in the mysteries of a bead- 
 work pomegranate, was thinking of the note to 
 be written to that unlucky aunt of hers, and what 
 should she say ? 
 
 For herself she ardently desired to see her — 
 the only one who could speak to her of her be- 
 Joved mother — the only one who had known her 
 father, and who could tell her whether the minia- 
 ture worn as a bracelet clasp was like him or no, 
 and how he stood and looked and walked and 
 spoke, when young and beautiful like an Apollo,
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 47 
 
 and before that horrid accident maimed him for 
 life ; and then the cousin, so nearly her own age 
 — only a year between them — why, they might 
 be like sisters together if they suited : as they 
 would be sure to do, thought Isola yearning^. 
 •Had she been even surrounded by friends, it would 
 have, been only natural that she should have 
 wished to see these relatives of hers, but as things 
 were, her heart turned towards them with an 
 almost painful longing of girlish need for womanly 
 love. And yet she was going to decline aunt 
 Juliana's visit. St. John had been cold and dis- 
 pleased with her ever since the note of yesterday 
 •evening, and she had been accustomed to live 
 so entirely for his pleasure that it came to her as 
 a matter of course to refuse the thing which lay 
 nearest to her heart, because he disliked it. She 
 was only thinking now how most tenderly to 
 word her letter, that the pain of her denial might 
 be softened. 
 
 Yet what a difficult task it was ! She had pro- 
 mised her mother to befriend this poor sister if 
 ever the time came when she should neecl befriend-
 
 48 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 ing ; and the time had come now — but her pro- 
 mise ? If she could have helped her with money, 
 that would have been something ; but she did not 
 hold her own little fortune, inherited from her 
 mother and therefore almost due, according to 
 her ideas, to aunt Juliana. It was one of St. 
 John's fancies that she should not possess a purse 
 and that she should owe everything to him j and 
 she had not troubled herself about it until now. 
 Sometimes she had wished that she could have 
 given a shilling to some wretched creature selling 
 battered flowers at the carriage window, or to some 
 pale, shivering child, looking with longing eyes 
 at the happy little ones feasting in the confec- 
 tioners'; but that was all : now, however, she felt 
 inclined to question her husband's right to with- 
 hold her income, when she could have made such 
 good and loving use of it. And this dissatisfac- 
 tion was of itself almost a revolution in the young 
 wife's heart ; the first time as it was that she 
 had put into intelligible form the fact that her 
 married life possessed a flaw, and that she had 
 cause of grief against her husband.
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHAELES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 49 
 
 While tliinking thus, full of trouble at the task 
 before her — full of trouble too at St. John's 
 uncomfortable coldness — the visitors' bell rang 
 sharply, and soon after the footman opened the 
 drawing-room door, saying, " A lady wants to 
 see you, ma'am/' 
 
 Before Isola could speak, a fair-faced middle- 
 aged woman, dressed in widow's mourning, entered 
 the room — a woman tripping, conscious, simper- 
 ing, coquettish — aunt Juliana herself, storming 
 the citadel and mistress of the situation, through 
 weakness rather than through courage. 
 
 Coming up to Isola, she held out a small 
 tightly- gloved hand, saying in a mincing tone, 
 yet honestly moved for all its affectation, " What ! 
 is this- my niece ? — is this poor Theodora's little 
 Isola ? My dear child, I am so glad to see you — 
 so very glad !" she repeated, giving both her 
 hands now to intensify her pleasure ; and stand- 
 ing on tiptoe, she leaned forward and kissed her, 
 catching just the edge of Isola's chin. 
 
 " Dear aunt Juliana !" cried Isola startled out 
 of both doubt and fear ; and holding the faded 
 
 vol. i. E
 
 £0 , SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 little woman in her round firm arms, she returned 
 the kiss with girlish warmth and a strange and 
 sudden outflow of family feeling. 
 
 " And this is the husband \" then said Mrs. 
 Osborn, turning to St. John who had risen as 
 she entered, and now stood coldly and stiffly by 
 the window, half turned away. But Mrs. Osborn 
 did not seem to notice his glacial aspect ; or if 
 she saw it, then not to regard it. 
 
 Fluttering up to him with her best company 
 manners and in her most graceful attitude — her 
 head bent so that her pale blue eyes might be 
 raised with that half-bashful, half-coquettish look 
 for which she had been so often praised when a 
 girl, her lips open and smiling, and the tips of 
 her fingers delicately spread and pushing back 
 her hair — she offered her hand quite pleasantly, 
 indeed almost a little patronizingly ; and Aylott 
 St. John Aylott, proud, sensitive, exclusive as he 
 was, found himself compelled to shake hands 
 with, and thus in a manner welcome to his house, 
 his wife's unlucky aunt, the widow of Charles 
 Osborn, the coarse free-thinking surgeon. It
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 51 
 
 cost liim an effort ; but he did it ; for though 
 proud and conventional to an irrational point, he 
 was a gentleman^ and understood the force of a 
 gentleman's obligations. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, dear Mr. Aylott ! — 
 my nephew as you must let me call you/' said 
 Mrs. Osborn, with what she meant to be a pretty 
 air of youthful enthusiasm. 
 
 « Thank you/' said St. John coldly. 
 He did not say that he was glad to see her; 
 but Isola, going up to her and putting her arm 
 round her again, said affectionately, " And we 
 are very glad to see you, dear aunt Juliana — 
 very, very glad I" 
 
 "Bless you for that, dear \" said the little wo- 
 man with less than her usual affectation. "And 
 you are so like my poor Theodora ! " she added, 
 beginning to cry. " I declare it has quite upset 
 me, seeing you ! I was so fond of your dear 
 mamma ! We were more than sisters — twin 
 cherries on one stalk — and you are so like her ! 
 it brings it all back to me again — all these long 
 years — and all that has happened too ; and I so 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 cut off from every one, and I am sure, for no 
 fault of poor Mr. Osborn's ; and now they are all 
 dead and gone but you and me V* 
 
 And then breaking down entirely, she turned 
 away and sobbed. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear aunt ! you will make yourself 
 ill!" was Isola's rudderless word of comfort, as 
 she bent over the poor creature sobbing for the 
 results of that great life's mistake of hers ; but 
 St. John frowned heavily, devoutly wishing that 
 Osborn, surgeon, was alive again, to be still the 
 effectual barrier between Seymour StreetandHyde 
 Park Square, or that in going to his long home 
 he had taken his wife with him as his companion. 
 
 ^For the first time since their marriage Isola 
 was not alive to his displeasure. Though at no 
 time tearfully disposed, like so many women, and 
 though a fit of weeping was a thing as rare to 
 her as to a man, yet her eye-lashes were wet now 
 as she caressed her aunt tenderly. It seemed as 
 if she held part of the dear lost mother in her 
 arms — as if the grave had opened, and she stood 
 face to face with the dead newly risen. Though
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBOliX, M.R.C.S. 53 
 
 so utterly unlike in character and feature too, 
 there was the usual subtle family likeness — that 
 undefinable something in the voice and the 
 smile and the unconscious gesture of the hand 
 and the turn of the head, that reminded Isola 
 strongly, she scarcely knew how or where, of her 
 mother ; and it would have seemed to her as if 
 she was offering an indignity to that mother's 
 self, had she treated this her representative with 
 coldness or disdain. It is such a strange sensa- 
 tion, that of seeing for the first time one who has 
 belonged to the dead beloved ! Though but the 
 echo of the song — the reflection of the glory — 
 yet has it the ring of the master chord, and the 
 sheen of the living light; if not the dear mother's 
 self, yet it is one who was as her second self — 
 who knew her in her beauty, and to whom she is 
 as present to-day as if it was only an hour ago 
 when last parted with. And when Isola held 
 Mrs. Osborn to her heart, it was as much the 
 mother as the aunt that she caressed, as much the 
 dead past as the breathing present that she clasped. 
 Mrs. Osborn's deeper feelings were never of
 
 54 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 long continuance. Drying her eyes, and push- 
 ing back her scanty blonde hair, which she still 
 wore in feathery straw-coloured ringlets, she 
 looked up into Isola's warm and noble face 
 bending over her, with a quiver of lightsome va- 
 nity passing over her own. 
 
 "You see what a young thing your aunt is 
 still !" she said simpering. "I often say to my 
 daughter, ' Jane, I shall never be as old as you 
 are/ And I never shall, my dear ; for Jane is so 
 staid and wise ! — so strong ! quite a strong-minded 
 woman, as one may say — and I am just like a girl 
 yet. My heart is as young as ever — a thing of 
 beauty, you know ! and I don't think I shall 
 ever live to be an old woman/' laughing lightly, 
 " no more than the birds, my dear." 
 
 " You are very sweet as you are/' said Isola 
 tenderly ; while St. John, with almost a spasm 
 passing over his handsome Spanish-looking face, 
 lowered his head and occupied himself by folding 
 the edges of the ' Times' with mathematical ac- 
 curacy. 
 
 r< You dear little girl ! you will quite spoil your
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 55 
 
 aunt," said Mrs. Osborn. " It is very long now 
 since I heard a compliment on myself. I used 
 to have plenty, I can tell you ; but poor Mr. Os- 
 born was not a man of that kind, and Jane 
 takes more after her poor papa than me. She is 
 an Osborn, not a Conway. Now you are a Con- 
 way, Isola ; and so like poor Theodora ! — though 
 she was short and dark, and you are tall and 
 fair. You are like your papa too — poor Archi- 
 bald ! — such a handsome man as he was ! I re- 
 member when we first met him as if it was only 
 yesterday, and Theodora's petticoat half a yard 
 below her dress, and she all blushes and confu- 
 sion and wanting to run away ; but I held her 
 tight, and cousin Archibald walked back with 
 poor papa to Browbridge, and Theodora and I 
 pinned up the petticoat behind their backs." 
 
 " And then they married ?" said Isola, as her 
 aunt paused for a full stop and breath. 
 
 " Yes, and then they married : not all at once 
 you know, dear, because they had to make love 
 and all that, and we had to get the wedding- 
 dresses ; but then they married certainly, and a
 
 56 . SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 year after I married too ; but cousin Archibald 
 never liked poor dear Mr. Osborn, and he cer- 
 tainly was very cool to him, though Mr. Osborn 
 was the handsomest of the two, all except his 
 hands ; and his hands were not good, decidedly ; 
 though he could set a broken leg as well as Lis- 
 ton, I have often heard him say ; and draw teeth 
 like an angel. ' And you have a handsome hus- 
 band too, my dear, as well as your poor mamma 
 ■and me," she continued, looking at St. John ; 
 "and what a lovely home!" gazing round the 
 room. " What exquisite taste in everything ! 
 just like poor Theodora and me ! Theodora had 
 especial good taste, the dear love! and did every- 
 thing well. And I see you have inherited the 
 Conway faculty, my dear." 
 
 "No indeed, all this is St. John's taste," 
 said Isola hastily, "I had nothing to do with it. 
 It was all done when I came to it five years ago." 
 
 " Had you not better give Mrs. Osborn a 
 detailed account of every separate piece of fur- 
 niture ?" said St. John with a forced laugh. 
 
 " Then there are two of you with taste," cried
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 57 
 
 the little woman briskly, " for I am certain you 
 have good taste, Isola ; you cannot be poor Theo- 
 dora's child else, Your name was her choice — 
 Isola — such a sweet name I think ! so romantic 
 and uncommon. Don't you think it a beautiful 
 name, Mr. St, John?" 
 
 " Rather/' said St. John curtly. 
 
 " Rather ! " laughed Isola, holding up her 
 hand to him ; but he did not take it. 
 
 He was never a demonstrative man, and not 
 very good-tempered under trials, and just now 
 he was grievously annoyed, and all the more so, 
 as he did not know how to help himself out of 
 his difficulty. It was not as if aunt Juliana had 
 disgraced herself in any way, so that he might 
 have a moral as well as a conventional leverage 
 for her expulsion ; if a fool — as she was mani- 
 festly, thought St. John — she was an honest 
 woman ; and though it is disagreeable to be 
 associated with fools, yet folly cannot be trans- 
 lated into a crime, according to the present 
 condition of society. He wished it could. 
 There was nothing for him to do, so far as he
 
 58 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 could see, but to bear the infliction as well as 
 might be ; but his f well as might be * did not 
 exclude the most intense annoyances, which he 
 showed in his own way. 
 
 " Oh, that is very cold praise," said Mrs. 
 Osborn with what she meant to be a playful 
 smile, shaking her forefinger at St. John. 
 " Naughty man ! how would you have liked any- 
 thing so common as Isabel or Sarah instead? 
 She would have been Sarah or Isabel, I can tell 
 you, but for Theodora and me, so you know 
 who you have to thank," laughing. " You were 
 born on Lago Maggiore, my dear," turning to 
 Isola; "just think anything so delightful! — and 
 your dear mamma called you Isola in remem- 
 brance of an island there ; so you are Isola Bella 
 by rights. Eesola you know, not Eisola — that's 
 the way to pronounce it; of course you know 
 that ? — Eesola ? Our aunt Conway who brought 
 you up, your grand-aunt, was dreadfully put out 
 about it, I remember ; and old Mr. Fryer, our 
 clergyman, would scarcely christen you ; but 
 Theodora and I both stood to it, and we won
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHAELES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 59 
 
 tlie day at last. So there you are, Isola, like no 
 one else, and not Isabel or Sarah, like all the 
 shop girls in London ; which is a great mercy," 
 thankfully. 
 
 Isola smiled. ' ' I like my name myself," she 
 said, " but I like it best when those I love are 
 pleased with it." She looked at her husband 
 as she spoke, but he, still occupied with folding 
 the f Times/ did not look at her. 
 
 " You dear little thing, how pretty of you ! " 
 said Mrs. Osborn simpering. <{ And yours is a 
 fine name too," she added, speaking to St. 
 John. "Aylott St. John Aylott; so like Sir 
 John, unless people know the exact way of pro- 
 nouncing it ; there are not many better names 
 presented at court, let me tell you. I was quite 
 proud when I read it in the paper, as married 
 to one of us ; Isola Conway and Aylott St. John 
 Aylott — I thought them the finest names I 
 had seen anywhere, and was so proud I can't 
 tell you ! So was poor dear Mr. Osborn. We 
 had a little party that night in your honour, 
 and you should have heard yourselves toasted !
 
 60 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 It was quite pretty the way that poor dear Mr. 
 Osborn spoke of his nephew and niece ; he was 
 a good speaker when he warmed up to his sub- 
 ject, and he did warm up to that ! I remember 
 poor Mr. Massinger, the artist — he is dead now 
 — he was there too ; and we had Canter, the fine 
 tenor you know, and poor Miss Treadaway the 
 Shakespearian reader — she's dead too now, poor 
 thing. Oh, I assure you it was a first-rate party, 
 and Mr. Osborn spoke his very best." 
 
 St. John drew himself haughtily away. The 
 idea that his marriage had been made the sub- 
 ject of a general practitioner's congratulations, 
 and bandied about in the equality of a joint 
 family history among his low artist companions, 
 hurt his pride as keenly as a blow would have 
 done. Rapid resolutions to leave London, and 
 go down to the remotest corner of England, 
 passed through his brain ; he felt as if his whole 
 peace and honour were destroyed — as if his 
 house door had been shattered, and a free way 
 made for all the world to penetrate into the 
 most sacred parts of his home. He who had
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 61 
 
 kept himself so exclusive, so retired, for whose 
 association no one short of the aristocracy or pro- 
 fessional dignitaries had been good enough, to be 
 at the mercy of gossips like these — to be discussed 
 and paraded as " my nephew " in the vulgar circle 
 gathered round an atheistical spatulous-fingered 
 surgeon ! It was a terrible trial to his pride, poor 
 fellow ; and if he did not -bear the ordeal with- 
 out wincing, we can scarcely wonder at his pain. 
 
 After this came some talk of Jane, Mrs. 
 Osborn unwittingly, and by reason of her fool- 
 ishness, giving a decidedly disagreeable impres- 
 sion of that young person; bringing into full 
 relief all the hardness and unpleasantness which 
 characterized her, while leaving out of sight the 
 unselfishness and the generosity, the truthfulness 
 and honesty, which would have gained forgive- 
 ness for even worse offences than an untidy habit 
 of attire and an unpleasing method of speech. 
 
 She did not mean to paint her daughter dis- 
 agreeably, but incontinence of speech has some- 
 times the same effect as spitefulness, and minia- 
 ture-painting of character for the most part por-
 
 62 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 trays more blemishes than beauties. Still, she 
 could not quite obscure that great broad outline 
 which was so grand in Jane; and for all that 
 her silliness filled in the details crookedly, Isola 
 caught enough to make her feel assured that her 
 cousin, if an original, was neither small nor un- 
 worthy, and that she had qualities which would 
 make her a valuable friend and a not ignoble 
 adviser. But St. John felt his gorge rise more 
 and more against both mother and daughter; 
 and as he sat balancing the paper-knife ab- 
 stractedly across his finger, thought how he 
 could best get rid now of this piece of feathery 
 folly, and how interpose a barrier between her 
 and Isola which should be effectual for all time 
 to come. He was more seriously displeased with 
 his wife than he would have thought possible 
 half an hour ago ; and she^ — she knew that she 
 was displeasing him, yet she went on in her ob- 
 noxious course. Loyalty to the dead mother, 
 and the strange stirring of her heart for this so 
 unusual family feeling, proved stronger than her 
 dread of his annoyance; and despite the anger
 
 THE WIDOW OP CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 63 
 
 which he did not care to conceal, she treated 
 Mrs. Osborn affectionately, and when luncheon 
 was announced, asked her cordially to stay, as 
 she rose and was preparing to curtsey herself 
 away in a shower of coquettish affectations. 
 
 And after some little pressing, and a great 
 deal of girlish pretence, aunt Juliana did stay, 
 overjoyed to be once more at a table luxuri- 
 ously served, and as used to be in her younger 
 days, before Mr. Osborn's handsome face and 
 bold free tongue had lured her into the dingy 
 insufficiency of Seymour Street. And St. John 
 Aylott had to give her his arm and conduct 
 her to the dining-room, as if she had been the 
 gorgeous widow of a duke, and not the shabby 
 relict of a low-class surgeon getting his daily 
 bread out of pills and teeth. 
 
 Certainly there was one little point of comfort 
 in this uncomfortable condition of things : Mrs. 
 Osborn was a gentlewoman born, and did not 
 disgrace him before the servants. She was 
 affected and shabby, and her dress had that in- 
 effaceable mark of home-make and clever con-
 
 64 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 trivance which men perceive if they cannot ex- 
 plain ; but she was evidently accustomed to the 
 usages, as she said of herself, and understood 
 the etiquette of a well-conducted table. She 
 draped herself in her purple as if it had never 
 been torn or frayed, and drew the folds with 
 conscious grace about her meagre shoulders ; and 
 even the wondering servants understood that she 
 " was one of the right sort though she might be a 
 trifle down/' and treated her with less than might 
 have been expected of that quiet disrespect always 
 shown to inferior guests in grand houses. 
 
 She failed however in one thing — she admired 
 too much ; the only sign of disuse that she gave. 
 But she was like a creature long athirst stooping 
 now to drink, and she could not repress her 
 satisfaction. The bed-room, every little orna- 
 ment and appliance of Isola's dressing-table, the 
 furniture, the service, the dishes, the wines — all 
 were like glimpses of a long-lost world to her, 
 and she could not breathe in the precious airs 
 in silence — she must say to others how precious 
 they were. But her praises irritated St. John
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 65 
 
 as much as any glaring ignorance of forms would 
 have done, and he fretted through the meal as 
 painfully if a real misfortune had befallen him. 
 To have been brought so suddenly face to face 
 with the one deformity of his married life, and 
 to be forced to acknowledge and receive it ! 
 Poor St. John ! and poor Isola ! 
 
 When Mrs. Osborn at last fluttered away in a 
 nearly lunatic condition of happiness, Isola went 
 up to her husband somewhat timidly yet very 
 lovingly, and frankly too. 
 
 "I hope you are not much vexed," she said. 
 " But I could not help it, dear ! Poor mamma's 
 sister ! and so like her in some things! And she 
 is ladylike, St. John \» 
 
 " I will say nothing about it for this once, but 
 it must never happen again," said St. John, 
 turning away. 
 
 " What can I do, dear, if she calls again ? You 
 heard her say that she would do so," asked the 
 wife anxiously. 
 
 " Tell Banks that we are not at home to her 
 for the future," was his answer. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 QQ SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " St. John \" 
 
 She lifted her face, flushed and distressed. 
 
 " You care more for this mere stranger, seen 
 for the first time, than you do for me ?" he said 
 sternly. 
 
 " No ! no ! of course not ! but — " she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Well! but what, Isola ? 
 
 u I should be glad to see her again, dear j I 
 liked her." 
 
 e< Liked her ! " cried St. John with a raised 
 voice ; " liked that vain, weak, shabby woman ? 
 you liked her, Isola ? 
 
 11 Yes, I know that she is vain and weak too," 
 returned Isola, " but she is affectionate and good- 
 hearted. She is a goose, I admit," smiling j 
 "she always was, I believe, poor darling; but 
 still there is something about her very loveable. 
 And then she is my own — perhaps that is the 
 reason." 
 
 "That last argument is unanswerable," said 
 St. John with a sudden spasm at his heart that 
 nearly choked him. " Take your own course
 
 THE WIDOW OP CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 67 
 
 now, I will not oppose her coming again. Please 
 yourself, as you always do, Isola ; but do not ask 
 me to approve of what you do, or to say that you 
 do right. Your own ! — let her be your own ; I 
 of course am nothing ! Now, if you please, we 
 will drop the subject," he added hastily, as Isola 
 was about to speak ; " it has lasted too long 
 already." 
 
 The drive that afternoon was a silent one. St. 
 John was chafing at this as it seemed to him 
 entire destruction of the special charm which had 
 hitherto distinguished his home; his Isola was 
 no longer his alone — his own solely and wholly ; 
 she was shared like any other wife, with aunts 
 and cousins and a whole tribe of relatives, to 
 warp something of her allegiance, and weaken 
 something of her love. The absoluteness of his 
 possession was at an end, and he saw nothing 
 now before him but a deluge of new affections, of 
 new interests and emotions, which would soon 
 make shipwreck of his home. And then, not 
 being of the nature of those who can hold their 
 own against unpleasant influences, she did seem 
 
 p2
 
 68 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 less lovely to him to-day for this so unlovely 
 connection of hers, and as if some of the finest 
 and sweetest links uniting them were snapped 
 asunder. And while he was torturing his soul 
 with thoughts like these, Isola was thinking how 
 she could best reconcile opposing duties — ear- 
 nestly desirous to do all that was most pleasing 
 to her husband, yet anxious not to fail the mo- 
 ther in her aunt ; anxious too, to be of some 
 good use to her in her need, and grateful, in her 
 spiritual loneliness, for the advent of even so 
 weak and shallow a nature as poor aunt Juli- 
 ana's. But she did not want to vex him : how 
 then could she be true to both her duties ? A 
 grave problem ! weighing down that young head 
 with its anxious balance, but never coming to 
 the right adjustment whereby graciousness and 
 loyalty could be fairly meted out to each. 
 
 "Jane, she is charming!" were Mrs. Osborn's 
 first words when she reached home; "we must 
 go and see them again very soon ; and you must 
 come next time ; we must go very often ! She is 
 an angel, and had the loveliest blue muslin I ever
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 69 
 
 saw. I tried to carry the pattern in my eye, but 
 I am afraid I cannot manage it, else I would 
 make one for you out of that black alpaca of 
 mine — you know which I mean ? She was so 
 sweet and kind that I dare say she would let 
 me have the pattern if I asked ; but I did not 
 like to, you know, only the first time of going ; 
 and her husband a rather stand-off kind of per- 
 son I must say, though so handsome, and with a 
 very elegant figure and a sweet little mous- 
 tache." 
 
 "I am glad that you are pleased, mamma," 
 was Jane's tranquil rejoinder ; " so they did not 
 snub you after all ?" 
 
 " Snub me ? what do you mean, Jane ? and 
 where ever did you hear such vulgar language ? 
 I am sure not from me ! I never taught you 
 such words, and I can tell you, such expressions 
 as those will not do at your cousins' ! And I am 
 sure I hope you will mind what you say when 
 you do go there, else they will think that I am a 
 vulgar creature to have taught you such dreadful 
 things ! Snub me, indeed ! I should think not !
 
 70 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 They were kinder to me than you often are, 
 Jane ! Ladies and gentlemen don't snub, as 
 you call it. And such a house as they have ! It 
 was like old times to see all those lovely things ; 
 and such a luncheon ! — and madeira ! — just like 
 the Browbridge madeira that poor papa used to 
 give us on birthdays. Ah !" with that peculiar 
 sigh of satisfaction which tells so much, " I have 
 enjoyed myself to-day! — thoroughly! And what 
 have you been doing, hey ?" 
 
 tf I ? I have been reading a stupid novel that 
 has been sent me to review. Such trash as it is ! 
 But that does not signify. I may cut it up, so I 
 don't care. Oh ! and I have been doing something 
 else. I have let the second floor back." 
 
 " And not the drawing-room ?" in a tone of 
 disappointment. 
 
 u I said the second floor back," repeated Jane, 
 giving a slight sniff. 
 
 " Well ! that is better than nothing," said 
 Mrs. Osborn with apologetic briskness ; " and 
 you are a dear good Jeannette, whatever you have 
 done. Who is it to ? Mr. Wyndham V
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHARLES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 71 
 
 " No," said Jane in a peculiarly stolid tone of 
 voice. 
 
 " I thought it not unlikely. He seemed to be 
 quite taken with you, Jane ; and now these books/' 
 said Mrs. Osborn friskily. 
 
 " Mamma ! how can you talk such rubbish V* 
 was Jane's contemptuous remark ; " it is to no 
 gentleman at all, but to a lady just returned 
 from America." 
 
 " From America ? Oh dear ! Jane, I hope 
 she will pay her rent all right ! I hope you had 
 some references with her ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Richard Norton, Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields," said Jane. 
 
 " Richard Norton ! I think I have heard that 
 name before somewhere — dear me ! I am sure I 
 have. I wonder where it can have been, and if 
 poor papa knew him, or what. Can you remem- 
 ber where I must have heard it, Jane V 
 
 " Yes," said Jane, " Mr. Wyndham mentioned 
 the name yesterday." 
 
 "Ah, Miss Jane!" said her mother slyly. 
 Then, seeing the cloud gathering on her daughter's
 
 72 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 face,, she added very hastily, " I think I will go 
 and see this Mr. Norton now. I have my best 
 bonnet on, and I feel a little unsettled. That is the 
 best thing I can do, don't you think so, Jane ?" 
 
 "You will be very tired, mamma, knocking 
 about like this," said Jane roughly. She meant 
 it for kindness. 
 
 " Oh no, I shan't ! I can take a Bank omnibus, 
 and be put down at Little Turnstile, you know, 
 and that will not give me much walking, don't 
 you see ? I think I had better go and see about 
 it at once," bustling up. "But, by the by," 
 stopping short, "what is her name all this 
 time ?" 
 
 " Mrs. H. Grant," said Jane, reading from a 
 card. 
 
 u Give it me," said Mrs. Osborn. 
 
 She looked at it and read the name, with " Mr. 
 Kichard Norton " written at the top in the same 
 handwriting as the card itself. Turning it over, 
 according to the restless way she had, she sud- 
 denly exclaimed, "Why, here is another name, 
 Jane ! Who's this, I wonder ?"
 
 THE WIDOW OF CHAELES OSBORN, M.R.C.S. 73 
 
 " What is it, mamma V 3 asked Jane indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 "Gilbert Holmes/' said Mrs. Osborn, "The 
 Travellers' Club." 
 
 "Oh, bother!" cried Jane, "Gilbert Holmes 
 is no business of ours. Some friend of hers, I 
 dare say. She looks just the helpless little idiot 
 to make friends with every one she meets." 
 
 " But it is so very odd," returned her mother, 
 " so suspicious, I may say, Jane." 
 
 " Leave Gilbert Holmes alone, mamma, and go 
 and see Mr. Norton about the reference, if you 
 are going at all," said Jane authoritatively. 
 
 And Mrs. Osborn fussed herself away obedi- 
 ently, saying to herself as she went along, " Poor 
 Jane, what a Turk she is, and how she thinks she 
 manages me !"
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HONOR WILSON'S LEGACY. 
 
 Richard Norton was at home. This was one of 
 his peculiarities, and the main cause of his pro- 
 fessional success — he was always at home. Go 
 when you would, you found him sitting in his 
 dusty little office, surrounded by papers and 
 ready to give a bland and willing hearing to your 
 trouble. He seemed to have no other life save 
 at that desk of his, and to know no other 
 pleasure than what was to be had in drawing out 
 wills and marriage settlements, and fighting cases 
 through the various law-courts. His whole ex- 
 istence was professional ; and from the starched 
 and spotless shirt-collar to the well-fitting and
 
 75 
 
 irreproachable boots — from the first word of quiet 
 advice " not to go to law if it could be avoided " 
 to the last shifty turn of sharp practice, he was 
 the lawyer and the gentleman throughout. 
 
 Too much used to evil to affect either horror or 
 surprise at any manifestation of it that might be 
 offered, nothing shocked his moral sense, and 
 nothing moved him to generous anger. He ac- 
 cepted humanity as so many averages, and vice 
 and crime and knavery as of the inalienable con- 
 ditions resulting. But he was a kindly-natured 
 man all the same, and could feel sympathy if not 
 abhorrence. He was specially kind and helpful 
 to women, whom he pitied as victims and de- 
 spised as slaves, and whom he helped to get to- 
 gether an independent income by every means 
 possible to him, save giving them tangible assis- 
 tance out of his own pocket. That did not come 
 into his code of morals anyhow; which at least 
 had the effect of rendering his good offices less 
 embarrassing to the recipient. He had always 
 on hand a stock of distressed females, who cost 
 him money's worth in time and thought, and for
 
 76 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 whom lie took real trouble gratuitously; and, 
 good-looking bachelor though he was, and still 
 in the prime of life, unhappy wives, disconsolate 
 widows, and desolate orphans, all flocked to him 
 as naturally as penitents to a confessor; and no 
 one thought it odd, or looked suspiciously on the 
 arrangements. 
 
 He was at home now when Mrs. Osborn 
 called, but engaged. " Would she wait ? Mr. 
 Norton would not be long," the clerk said, hand- 
 ing her a dusty chair and the supplement of the 
 day's f Times/ which he seemed to think reading 
 quite lively enough for a client waiting for an 
 audience, and which Mrs. Osborn took patiently, 
 as if it formed part of the natural order of pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 While she was sitting there, conning over the 
 various prices of coals and the excellencies of the 
 Sydenham suits, a dark -haired, well-set, business- 
 like man was talking to Mr. Norton in the inner 
 office — our old friend Harvey Wyndham, just 
 now hampered with an executorship that was 
 giving him no end of trouble, and of which there
 
 77 
 
 was one special clause that plagued him like the 
 deuce and all, according to his own manner of 
 expression. So he came to Eichard Norton, 
 whom he had employed a year or two ago when 
 one of his publishers had broken some techni- 
 cality of agreement which u gave him the pull on 
 him/' and he thought that a lawsuit would be a 
 fine advertisement for his book, and give it a lift 
 by no means to be despised. And as Norton 
 had pulled him through that with success, he 
 thought he would give him a turn with this, and 
 see what would come of it. 
 
 " But the most embarrassing thing of all is a 
 bequest of five hundred pounds to one Honor 
 Wilson or her heirs ; and who Honor Wilson is, 
 or where she lives, or how to get at her, I know 
 no more than the man in the moon," said Harvey 
 impatiently, in continuation of his narrative. 
 
 " Honor Wilson ! indeed I" exclaimed Richard 
 Norton . 
 
 " Do you know her V } asked Harvey. 
 
 " I once knew a woman of the name of Honor 
 Wilson," returned the lawyer cautiously.
 
 78 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Harvey smiled. " The answer betrays more 
 than it tells/' he said lightly. 
 
 "You must not be too clever, Mr. Wyndham," 
 said Mr. Norton with unmoved gravity; "you 
 may look through mill-stones, you know." 
 
 "You are right/' Harvey answered, catching 
 his tone. " It is a way we men of the world have, 
 but it is not a safe one ; and, as you say, we get 
 nothing by spending our time in looking into 
 mill-stones and searching for mare's nests. Is 
 Honor Wilson alive now V 3 he continued in a 
 quiet, matter-of-fact manner, simply addressing 
 himself to the business on hand. 
 
 " I have lost sight of her for some years/' an- 
 swered the lawyer ; then, as if to prevent further 
 questioning, he took a sheet of paper whereon to 
 make notes, and turned the table on his client 
 dexterously. " Who did you say the testator was ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Massinger, the artist," answered Harvey ; " a 
 great friend of mine, though he was an older man 
 by twenty years or so." 
 
 "How does he particularize this Honor Wil- 
 son ? — any profession ? — any special indication ?"
 
 honor wilson's legacy. 79 
 
 " No, only of Clipstone Street, Fitzroy Square." 
 
 « The date of the will?" 
 
 " Thirty-three years ago." 
 
 " Have you made inquiries in Clipstone Street V 
 
 "Yes, but the people of the house have 
 changed fifty times since then, and I could get no 
 information. One old woman, a neighbour, who 
 was called in as the oldest inhabitant of the quar- 
 ter, said she thought she remembered the name 
 as that of a 'fine rash' girl who once lodged 
 there. She had something to do with men who 
 paint, the old woman said ; and, according to 
 her, was no better than she should be, poor 
 soul." 
 
 " Just so," said Richard Norton drily. " Ho- 
 nor Wilson was an artist's model." 
 
 "Massinger's?" 
 
 " Yes, Massinger's." 
 
 "I understand that accent," Harvey Wynd- 
 ham said with a little laugh. " Model, and 
 something more I would say ? " 
 
 " You are quite right," returned Eichard Nor- 
 ton. " She was his model and something more."
 
 80 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Well, I always suspected that poor Massin- 
 ger had had something to take the heart out of 
 him somehow/' said Harvey. " I suppose it 
 was this girl ? It must have been more than a 
 mere liaison, as he left her this legacy ; and none 
 of his own family knew of any attachment what- 
 ever among the confessed relations of society. 
 I should think it was this Honor Wilson ? " He 
 looked as if waiting for an answer. 
 
 "Most likely/' Mr. Norton returned philoso- 
 phically. " He was madly in love with her, I 
 believe, and when she left him he nearly broke 
 his heart. He was never the same man again, I 
 have understood; but I did not keep up my 
 acquaintance with him, and we drifted quite 
 apart for years before he died ; as men do drift in 
 London." 
 
 " Did you follow the fortunes of Honor Wilson 
 after she left him ? Do you know what became 
 of her?" 
 
 " She married," answered Mr. Norton. " Who 
 is the residuary legatee ?" he then asked. 
 
 " Gilbert Holmes, Massinger's nephew," an-
 
 honor wilson's legacy. 81 
 
 swered Harvey ; u a man out in California, I be- 
 lieve; at all events not to the fore. I have 
 written to him at his agent's, but hearing no- 
 thing, I presume he is still out of the country." 
 
 " I know Gilbert Holmes well/' said Mr. Nor- 
 ton ; " and I think you may count on seeing him 
 soon." 
 
 "Has he returned?" asked the other. 
 
 ' ( I cannot answer for that, for I have not seen 
 him, but I believe he has." 
 
 " I will give him tbe business to do as soon as 
 he is here," cried Harvey. " He has all the 
 good of it, and I have not the benefit of a penny- 
 piece, so he ought to take the trouble. He may 
 find out this Honor Wilson and release me. It 
 is going to be no end of a bother, that I can 
 see." 
 
 " Leave the matter in abeyance for a short 
 time," said Richard Norton. "1 dare say I 
 could trace out this woman," he continued, look- 
 ing down and drawing figures on his blotting- 
 paper, " but it will be a work of time, and you 
 must leave the matter alone for the present. We 
 
 vol. i. G
 
 82 • SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 cannot hand it over to Gilbert Holmes yet — not 
 until we have thoroughly satisfied ourselves that 
 Honor Wilson is dead and has left no heirs/' 
 here he coughed slightly; "but that will take 
 time to prove, and for the present leave things 
 alone." 
 
 "I ask nothing better/' said Harvey. "My 
 time is so taken up with my own work that a 
 thing of this kind is a horrid bore, I can tell you. 
 I do not see any material in it even/' laughing. 
 " If I saw an article now — or the backbone of a 
 novel — that would be something; but a mere 
 piece of troublesome business, with no possibi- 
 lities in it — " He shrugged his shoulders, but 
 watched Mr. Norton's face keenly. 
 
 " Just so/' said Richard Norton, looking up 
 with a curious glaze over his eyes. "As you say, 
 if there were materials for a romance, now, in 
 the history of Honor Wilson and her heirs — " 
 Here he stopped ; his accent made the sentence 
 complete. 
 
 " One is never in want of material," Harvey 
 answered after a pause; "for what odd things
 
 83 
 
 there are in life ! If we authors were to put into 
 our novels half of what we know to be actual 
 fact, we should have the critics down upon us for 
 ( unnatural incidents/ f strained effects/ and 'want 
 of truth to nature ' generally. We dare not write 
 what we know, and that is the simple truth." 
 
 "Just what I am continually saying/' said 
 Richard Norton. "Men in my profession hear 
 so much ; we of all men know how much stran- 
 ger truth is than fiction." 
 
 " And the odd coincidences that come about — 
 the strange lines of relation that cross one at ail 
 times ! Every one knows something of every- 
 body, and go where we will — meet whom we 
 will — we never get to absolute isolation." 
 
 " Very true," said the lawyer rising, to give 
 Harvey a hint that the interview was at an end. 
 These are reflections which every one makes; 
 and as they formed part of the stock-in-trade of 
 the lawyer himself, it was scarcely to be expected 
 that he should be much interested in them from 
 another. Besides, he looked upon Harvey as 
 clever enough in a way, full of pushing business 
 
 o2
 
 84 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 faculty, which ranked as a moral virtue with 
 Richard Norton, but flashy and superficial too : in 
 which perhaps he was not so far out. Harvey 
 took the hint, and shaking hands with that warm 
 and genial shake of his, so peculiarly part of his 
 dumb language, passed into the outer office, 
 where Mrs. Osborn was sitting, still occupied 
 with the supplement of the ' Times/ 
 
 (t Mr. Wyndham ! " cried the widow, in ex- 
 treme delight at seeing a face she knew. 
 
 " Is that you, Mrs. Osborn ? I hope nothing 
 very serious brings you to our friend here," was 
 his laughing rejoinder. 
 
 " A case in point," said Mr. Norton. " Here 
 are two visitors — two chance visitors, as one 
 may say, of whom one is a stranger" — with a 
 little bow to Mrs. Osborn — " and whose business 
 is, I presume, totally foreign to each other, and 
 yet they are acquainted. Now, how many diver- 
 gences did it take to make that coincidence?" 
 
 Mr. Norton said this in the tone and manner 
 of a man probing a really deep and difficult point 
 of social statics.
 
 " Yes, indeed," simpered Mrs. Osborn ; " and I 
 have to thank you, Mr. Wyndham, for another 
 charming coincidence. I followed your advice, 
 you see," flirting her handkerchief. 
 
 u What a wonderful woman ! " ejaculated Mr. 
 Norton. " I wish some of my ladies would fol- 
 low my advice ! " 
 
 "And I went to-day, and I have been so 
 happy ! " continued the widow excitedly, while 
 Harvey looked at her in amazement, having to- 
 tally forgotten the advice to which she referred. 
 " My niece is such a sweet person ! and Mr. 
 Aylott is charming too !" 
 
 " Oh, I see \" broke in Mr. Harvey Wyndham. 
 
 " But my niece is the dearest creature imagin- 
 able ! Such a beauty ! — and so like her poor 
 mother ! " 
 
 "Aylott? that is not a common name," said 
 Mr. Norton. " What Aylotts are you talking of, 
 pray? The Aylotts of Exeter, or the Aylotts of 
 Newcastle ?" 
 
 "Aylott St. John Aylott, son of the incum- 
 bent of Greythorpe and grandson of the dean of
 
 86 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Chatham. He married a Conway — my niece, 
 Isola Conway/' said Mrs. Osborn, as if she had 
 been speaking of the alliance of Percies and 
 Plantagenets at the least. " Do you know them, 
 Mr. Norton?" just a shade condescendingly, her 
 relationship exalting her for the moment. 
 
 " Yes, very well. I am his solicitor/' said Mr. 
 Norton with a smile. " Their business has been 
 in our house for three generations. I knew the 
 late Mr. Aylott intimately" — with another smile, 
 a little more veiled than the last — " and did all 
 his business for him." 
 
 "Was there not something queer about his 
 marriage ? " asked Harvey. 
 
 " Queer ? In what way?" Mr. Norton spoke 
 quite naturally, and as if he had never heard a 
 rumour. 
 
 " He married some low woman, did he not ? — a 
 dressmaker, or cook, or something of that kind ? 
 So I remember hearing. And then his daughter 
 — did she not run off with a groom ? I have only 
 an indistinct recollection, but I know there was 
 some scandal about the old fellow's womankind."
 
 87 
 
 "I don't know what you may have heard," 
 said Mr. Norton quietly ; . " but you have cer- 
 tainly heard very far from the truth if you have 
 heard any scandal. Mr. Aylott's wife was a per- 
 fectly respectable young lady — a remarkably fine 
 woman, and an honour to any man's establish- 
 ment ; the daughter, poor girl, did make an un- 
 fortunate marriage ; but she is dead now, and so 
 that matter is at an end." 
 
 "What was the mother's name ? " asked Har- 
 vey Wyndham ; " where did she come from ? " 
 
 " She was a Miss Fitzwilliam," said Mr. Nor- 
 ton very distinctly, " Harriet Fitzwilliam ; and 
 she came out of Cornwall." 
 
 " I am glad you have denied the story," Har- 
 vey returned; "for I have always believed it ; and 
 believed too that his unfortunate marriage stood in 
 the way of the old fellow's preferment. I remember 
 it being said that he would have been a dignitary 
 else, for all that he went into the church so late 
 in life. You know there were not wanting ill- 
 natured people to say that he took orders as a 
 kind of penance for his sin in marrying a good-
 
 88 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 for-nought — indeed many people said that lie 
 never married at all : which I always thought 
 scandal, I must own. Still, the daughter's esca- 
 pade gave some colour to these reports of the 
 mother's having been loose and odd." 
 
 " You see the mistake now/' said Mr. Nortou. 
 
 " Oh, perfectly/' answered Harvey. 
 
 " I am sure there is nothing odd about my 
 niece and nephew/' said Mrs. Osborn. " As 
 charming young people as I have ever seen — 
 quite charming they are ! " 
 
 " Can't you introduce me, Norton ? " laughed 
 Harve} T Wyndham pleasantly. 
 
 The lawyer shook his head. " Young Aylott 
 is a queer fellow about that kind of thing," he 
 said. " He is one of those reserved men who 
 shrink from society of all kinds. A thousand 
 pities, as I often say to him j but what can be 
 done? A high-spirited young fellow with money 
 and bis own master — who has any chance of guid- 
 ing him against his will ? I wish I could make 
 him see life and his social duties differently. I 
 have done my best, I can assure you."
 
 89 
 
 " What a duffer ! " said Harvey pityingly. 
 
 " It is a great misfortune for her/' Mrs. Osborn 
 said. "She ought to go out everywhere; a beau- 
 tiful young creature like that ought to go to balls 
 and parties every night \ and to all the courts 
 and concerts, and everything. We used to go 
 to everything when we were her age; though 
 to be sure Browbridge was not like London; but 
 then our poor papa had not my nephew's purse." 
 
 "Persuade him to take Mrs. Aylott about!" 
 laughed Richard Norton, as if he had given her a 
 riddle to guess. 
 
 u I wish I could ; I should like to have the 
 pleasure of introducing her/' said Mrs. Osborn 
 enthusiastically. "Is she not beautiful, Mr. 
 Norton ? " 
 
 " Superb!" cried that gentleman with fervour. 
 
 " I must positively know her if you go on like 
 this/' exclaimed Harvey laughing. " It is cruel ! 
 Mrs. Osborn, you must introduce me if Mr. Nor- 
 ton will not." 
 
 " Very well, I will," she answered with a flutter 
 of the familiar purple. " I am her aunt and can
 
 90 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 surely take such a responsibility as this on my- 
 self." 
 
 " You are standing all this time, Mrs. Osborn," 
 said Mr. Norton, moving towards the inner office. 
 " Will you not come into my office, and tell me 
 what I can do for you V' 
 
 " I do not want to take up your time," she an- 
 swered, with an almost appealing look towards 
 Harvey Wyndham — she did so desire to go out 
 of the place with him ! — it would be such a plea- 
 sure to her to walk once more with a well-dressed, 
 well-looking man, through the crowded thorough- 
 fare ! " I have only called to ask if this lady's 
 reference is correct. She has offered to take a 
 spare room we have in Seymour Street — since my 
 poor husband's death, and not wanting rooms 
 for the patients and consultations and things, we 
 have more space than we want; and as we are 
 two ladies alone, my daughter and I, and neither 
 of us very old yet," with a simper, " we are 
 obliged to be very particular, you see," spread- 
 ing out her fingers like the Venus di Medici, and 
 pushing back her hair.
 
 honor wilson's legacy. 91 
 
 " Who is she ?" asked the lawyer, taking the 
 paper from her hand. " Oh ! Mrs. H. Grant, is 
 it, from California ? My God ! and to you," he 
 muttered below his breath. " I see she gives 
 me as a reference," he then said in a matter- 
 of-fact voice, but looking at Mrs. Osborn from 
 under his eyebrows furtively. " Yes, I think I 
 may endorse her ; I think I may," reflectively. 
 " Yes , you may trust her for the rent and general 
 propriety, I think. She has just returned from 
 California, has she not V* abruptly. 
 
 " Yes, and that made me rather suspicious of 
 her, I must confess. America or California or 
 some place like that — so very odd, you know, for 
 a lady to have gone out there !" said Mrs. Osborn 
 with a look of innocent astonishment, as if it 
 fatigued her even to think of such a thing. 
 
 " Talk of coincidences again; look here," said 
 Mr. Norton to Harvey, showing him the name of 
 Gilbert Holmes on the back of the card. " The 
 very man we were speaking of." 
 
 " By George, so it is !" cried Harvey. " The 
 Travellers' Club, too ?"
 
 92 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Yes, but his agent's, where you have written, 
 is safe. You will hear from him in a day or 
 two, you may be sure." 
 
 " I hope I shall," said Harvey, stretching him- 
 self, " and so get rid of this will business. By 
 the by," turning to Mrs. Osborn, " did your 
 daughter get her packet from the office to-day ? 
 I was very careful in sending it early, and choos- 
 ing what I thought she would like." 
 
 Harvey Wyndham understood the value of 
 patronage as well as most people, and knew ex- 
 actly where it placed him, both to give and re- 
 ceive. And he wanted Richard Norton to think 
 him a social potentiality, for there were sundry 
 bills of his coming due, which he would rather 
 not have to meet single-handed — so he was cast- 
 ing about for a staff of strength, if haply such 
 could be found. 
 
 " Yes, thank you, so much, I am sure !" 
 said Mrs. Osborn. "I left her hard at work, 
 poor girl, when I came away. She is a very 
 good girl is Jane — though I am her mother 
 and perhaps ought not to say so — but she is cer-
 
 honor wilson's legacy. 93 
 
 tainly an industrious creature if ever there was 
 one." 
 
 " Oh ! you need not thank me I" said Harvey 
 pleasantly ; " we brethren of the press are bound 
 to help each other, aud it is only the duty of us 
 older stagers to give a helping hand to begin- 
 ners." 
 
 " Has this lady a daughter who writes V put 
 in Richard Norton. 
 
 " Yes, a sensible girl, with a capital square 
 head of her own — a girl that will do, if once she 
 gets a fair start," answered Harvey. 
 
 " Oh, you are too kind, I am sure !" simpered 
 the mother, " and my daughter thinks so too \" 
 with an arch look that made Richard Norton 
 smile. He knew that special bait so well ! 
 
 After this there were a few more words, by 
 way of final drainage, and then Harvey, taking 
 his leave, found himself entangled at the door 
 with the fair-faced widow; and for the sake of 
 courtesy and good nature gratified her wish so 
 far as to walk through Lincoln's Inn Fields with 
 her, and put her into an omnibus in Holborn.
 
 94 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " If lie would take a fancy to poor Jane !" 
 thought the widow, ringing the changes on that 
 thought all the way home, and arriving finally at 
 the blessed conviction that Harvey Wyndham 
 and her daughter were made for each other, and 
 that they would marry and write books together, 
 when perhaps she would go to the Aylotts' to 
 live, drink madeira every day for luncheon, and 
 wear blue muslins like Isola's. But then her 
 widow's cap ! heigho ! and her forty-three years, 
 with the latter half spent in bitter servitude to 
 poverty, and straining to make two wide gaping 
 ends meet decently together ! Dear ! dear ! what a 
 pity that she could not be young again ! — though 
 to be sure her poor dear husband used to say 
 no woman was worth anything till she was forty, 
 and she was only three years beyond ! Oh ! if 
 she could only be young again, and redeem the 
 past in a blue muslin like Isola's !
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 COUSIN JANE. 
 
 St. John Aylott was a difficult person to deal 
 with. He was one of those refined and honour- 
 able men whom one must esteem for certain high- 
 class qualities, but whose uneasy tempers and 
 fretfulness under small annoyances make them 
 trying companions to live with, and tax a wo- 
 man's fidelity of respect sorely. Sensitive and 
 reserved; loving yet undemonstrative; easily 
 wounded but never uncovering his wound — sim- 
 ply withdrawing himself in coldness and silence 
 and leaving others to guess when the shaft had 
 fallen and where it had struck; he was always 
 taking offence at slights existing nowhere save in
 
 96 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 his own imagination, or fretting at some want of 
 loving responsiveness which no one but himself 
 would have noticed at all, but never coming to a 
 frank explanation nor making an intelligible com- 
 plaint. He expected that his inner life should be 
 discerned without the aid of speech, and that he 
 should be understood by a kind of mesmeric free- 
 masonry not necessitating utterance. And he 
 was hurt and grieved when those with whom he 
 lived failed in such insight. 
 
 Isola had long since learnt these peculiarities 
 of his ; but she accepted them as she accepted 
 most things — with that calm patience which is 
 neither the sleepy indifference of the phlegmatic 
 nor the slavishness of the weak, but which is the 
 healthy self-command of power and the broad 
 charity of wisdom. Hitherto their wills had 
 never come into collision. The obedience which 
 a young creature of seventeen, already used to 
 live under domination, would instinctively pay 
 her husband had not been broken up, and the 
 girl grew into the woman with all old habits un- 
 disturbed. It was still absolute authority on the
 
 COUSIN JANE. 97 
 
 one hand, and as absolute submission on the 
 other ; and if Isola pined for a wider life, she 
 pined dumbly, and no one knew that she felt her 
 bonds hang heavy on her wrists. 
 
 This matter of Mrs. Osborn perplexed St. John 
 Aylott as nothing had perplexed him before. He 
 did not know how to act, and he was not the man 
 to seek advice. He did not like to forbid his 
 wife an association where no moral blame at- 
 tached, but he wished her, of her own free will, 
 to sacrifice her desires to his. Yet he was too 
 proud and reticent to • say this, so took refuge in 
 coldness and unhappiness, according to his wont. 
 And he was unhappy. Small as was the whole 
 burden of his annoyance, yet he suffered as if it 
 had been the ruin of his life, and went about in a 
 state of gloomy misery that made Isola's very 
 heart ache to see. But what could she do ? He 
 was her husband truly, and she therefore owed 
 him obedience; but had she no sense of right 
 herself ? was the better thing of no account ? and 
 ought she to commit a baseness, as it seemed to 
 her, merely out of cowardly fear and to keep him 
 VOL. i. H
 
 98 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 in good humour? Was it right to give up a 
 moral principle, simply to please even a hus- 
 band ? Ought she not rather to believe in the 
 real nobleness underlying this meaner conven- 
 tionalism, and to act up to the better self now 
 hidden ? These were the thoughts of conscience, 
 not of self-will ; and right or wrong, they affected 
 her powerfully. They touched the unsolved pro- 
 blem of married life, and uncovered the cancer- 
 ous sore of home, namely, the right of the woman 
 to independent moral action in opposition to her 
 husband's will — her duty to God as represented 
 by her conscience, or her duty to the social law 
 as represented by her wifely submission. And 
 Isola was just beginning to be afloat between 
 these two great tidal opinions. 
 
 Still the matter rested in abeyance. Mrs. 
 Osborn had not called again in Hyde Park 
 Square, and Isola had taken no measures to in- 
 vite or forbid, but sat waiting on chance and the 
 ordering of events, bearing her husband's varying 
 moods with an elastic cheerfulness which fretted 
 him more than the most vehement outburst of
 
 COUSIN JANE. 99 
 
 temper would have done. But not understand- 
 ing fully his perverseness, whether he was pee- 
 vish or silent, formally polite or coldly dictatorial, 
 she was always the same — patient, affectionate, 
 forbearing — not seeing when he meant to annoy 
 her, and not resenting what he intended should 
 offend. Can a greater wrong be offered to any one 
 who means to be disagreeable and aggressive ? 
 
 They had not to wait long on chance and the 
 ordering of events. The temptation of going 
 again to the place where she had been so happy 
 for her hour's readmission into a lost elysium, 
 was too strong for Mrs. Osborn to resist. Of 
 those with whom the lessons of bitter experi- 
 ence fade like unfixed photographs in the sun- 
 light, so soon as fortune turns her wheel but half 
 a spoke's length to their favour, she had forgot- 
 ten now that she had ever married into poverty 
 and social humility, and been ostracized in con- 
 sequence. She was simply Juliana Conway again 
 — a widow with a daughter of whom she stood in 
 mortal fear — but a Conway all the same, and of 
 equal rights and privileges with the rest; and 
 
 h2
 
 TOO SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the likelihood of Aylott St. John Aylott object- 
 ing to her society never crossed her poor feather- 
 brain as possible. Exactly five days then, after 
 the first visit, and precisely at one o'clock, the 
 door-bell of 200, Hyde Park Square, was rung 
 sharply as before, and both Isola and St. John 
 knew who was standing on the doorstep waiting 
 for admission. Isola flushed to the very roots of 
 her hair, while St. John turned white and livid 
 as the servant flung open the drawing-room door, 
 announcing " Mrs. and Miss Osborne." 
 
 " You dear little thing ! you see I have come 
 again \" said Mrs. Osborn airily. " I could not 
 keep away any longer; and I have brought 
 Jane this time, as I said I would. There, Jane, 
 that is your dear cousin Isola, and so like your 
 poor aunt Theodora and your uncle Archibald ! 
 and that is your cousin St. John. Mr. St. John, 
 do you think Jane anything like me, poor dear V* 
 fluttering up to him and laughing girlishly. 
 
 St. John gave one glance to the new cousin 
 standing in a kind of defiant awkwardness near 
 the door ; only one — he did not care to give a
 
 COUSIN JANE*. 101 
 
 second, neither did he speak ; but Isola, though 
 also shocked, conventionally, at the untidy red- 
 gold hair flowing in unruly masses everywhere, 
 the crumpled dress, the angular action, the 
 superficial unloveliness of the new comer, went 
 up to her kindly and said, " I am glad to see you, 
 cousin Jane," in a bright and cheery voice, cor- 
 dially, as she did most things. And as she looked 
 into her freckled face, plain and unattractive as 
 it was, she felt the strength and honesty that 
 shone through it, and knew that here was one 
 whom she could respect and believe in, and 
 whose influence would be pure and healthy. 
 
 Still St. John did not speak. He stood where 
 he had risen from his easy chair when they 
 entered, quite silent, with a displeased and 
 haughty face turned slightly away. Jane walked 
 straight up to him and offered her hand. 
 
 " How do you do, St. John Aylott V she said 
 in her harsh abrupt way, quite unconscious that 
 the ends of her fingers were through her gloves, 
 and that St. John Aylott would as soon have 
 touched a reptile as her hand. It was well for
 
 102 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 her that she did not see him, immediately after, 
 draw his handkerchief through his fingers as if 
 to wipe off a soil. 
 
 " I am afraid we are nuisances/' she then said, 
 fixing her eyes on him searchingly. 
 
 "Nuisances! no! no!" cried I sola hurriedly, 
 " we are very glad to see you." 
 
 Jane made an odd kind of grunt. It was a 
 wordless ejaculation and might mean anything. 
 
 "Jane I" said her mother in a low voice, half 
 beseechingly. 
 
 " There is nothing I hate more than humbug," 
 said Jane, wheeling round and looking straight 
 into Isola's face. "If one is in the way, why 
 can't people say so, and not pretend that they 
 are glad to see one when all the time they are 
 wishing one at Jericho ? If we are in your way 
 now, or your husband's, why on earth not say 
 so, and just send us off for another time !" 
 
 " But you are not in the way," repeated Isola ; 
 " and even if you were," smiling a little timidly, 
 " would it not be our duty to give up our own 
 pleasure for yours ?"
 
 COUSIN JANE. 103 
 
 " Not at tlie expense of truth," said Jane 
 argumentatively. She was one of the women 
 bristling at all times with argumentation, pre- 
 ferring inded any amount of discussion to agree- 
 ment, liking, as she said, to get to the back of 
 people's minds. " I don't like to hear you up- 
 hold humbug, Isola, in any form. You look too 
 honest for that, and I shall never be good friends 
 with you if you give in to it." 
 
 She said this quite as if her friendship was 
 worth having; as indeed it was — as is the friend- 
 ship of every honest soul. But her words grated 
 on St. John, and irritated him almost beyond his 
 power of self-control. Things were going rather 
 too fast, he thought, when Jane Osborn, that 
 rude, unlovely boy- woman, that ill-dressed, crum- 
 pled creature standing there, could presume to 
 patronize his wife, and prescribe the tone of 
 thought that alone could ensure her friendship ! 
 
 " I hope Miss Osborn will find my wife worthy 
 of her kind patronage/' he said with a strange 
 flash in his eye. " We can scarcely hope to 
 obtain her friendship," with a sneer.
 
 104 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 11 Oh ! nothing signifies to me but a person's 
 real worth/' Jane answered indifferently — " your 
 wife or a duke's, it is all the same. It is cha- 
 racter, not station, that I look at." 
 
 " Of course your own moral superiority gives 
 you the right of choosing your friends from all 
 stations/' said St. John ironically. 
 
 <c Ah!" said Jane rubbing her nose, a trick 
 she had at times, tt there's not much recognition 
 of moral superiority in that speech. You are 
 mistaken if you think I do not understand you, 
 Mr. St. John." 
 
 She spoke without a trace of ill-humour j 
 she only wanted to let him know that she un- 
 derstood him, that was all. 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," he said 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 "No?" was her matter-of-fact reply. "I 
 should have thought you would. You look as 
 if you had perception ; but looks^ often deceive 
 one." 
 
 " I am sure that you are clever, dear Mr. 
 St. John, very clever indeed !" said Mrs. Osborn
 
 COUSIN JANE. 105 
 
 flatteringly ; then in an undertone, " Jane, I am 
 ashamed of you ! how can you be so rude ?" 
 
 " Don't be absurd, mamma \" retorted Jane 
 aloud, "I am not rude, and you know that I am 
 not!" 
 
 " Pray-, do not let me be the cause of any 
 dissension between you and your daughter," said 
 St. John, speaking to Mrs. Osborn. 
 
 " Oh ! mamma and I are always sparring [" 
 cried Jane philosophically. "We are so tho- 
 roughly unlike in all things that we never agree 
 for five minutes together. That is nothing- 
 new \" 
 
 " Well, I do not wish to be the cause of either 
 sparring or disagreeing," said St. John with 
 almost ferocious irony; "and as I should be 
 sorry to be that cause, I will wish you good 
 morning." 
 
 He bowed with contemptuous stateliness and 
 passed out ; and soon after Isola heard the street 
 door shut hastily, and knew that her husband 
 had left the house alone, for the first time since 
 they married. She felt her face and neck flush
 
 106 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 again, but when the first pain was over she was 
 relieved that he had gone, knowing what he 
 would have suffered and shown had he remained. 
 His going, too, left her freer both to feel and 
 to express ; for in spite of his annoyance she 
 was glad to see the Osborns, all drawbacks 
 notwithstanding. The strange glory of the mo- 
 ther's likeness still hung round her aunt, render- 
 ing her in a manner sacred to Isola, while Jane, 
 abrupt and rude as she was, was yet so full of 
 character, so strong and truthful, that she was 
 like "a bath of life" to the woman stifled by 
 conventionalities and denied the free use of even 
 thought. And though she was as disagreeable 
 as must needs be an earnest, energetic woman, 
 not pretty in person, nor graceful in manner, nor 
 conciliatory in speech, nor sympathetic with 
 artificial woes, yet Isola forgave all her unplea- 
 santness for the sake of her nobleness and 
 power. What signified an ungainly manner or 
 an unlovely person compared with truth and 
 strength? she thought, looking at the blunt- 
 nosed, freckled face before her with kindly
 
 COUSTN JANE. 107 
 
 warmth. And Jane caught the look and said to 
 herself, " She is worth saving." Without know- 
 ing why, she felt there must be something good 
 about one who, living in such a room as this 
 and with such a husband as Aylott St. John 
 Aylott, could yet recognize any good in her. 
 
 " What do you do with yourself cousin Isola, 
 all day — this kind of thing?" she said abruptly, 
 pointing in disdain to the embroidery-frame 
 where the beadwork pomegranate was still in 
 progress. 
 
 " This or something like it/' answered Isola 
 a little wearily. 
 
 "And nothing more serious? nothing more 
 earnest and useful?" 
 
 The young wife shook her head with a painful 
 smile. 
 
 " Tell me how you pass your days," said Jane ; 
 " tell me just what you do as the rule — we will 
 not mind the exceptions." 
 
 Isola told her without parade or exaggeration. 
 She made but a poor show for herself, she knew, 
 but she told the truth, just as things were.
 
 108 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " And this \ou call life!" cried Jane with an 
 impatient snort ; " I call it death ! a sleepy, sloth- 
 ful, sinful waste of time and energy, for which 
 you ought to blush, you and your husband too. 
 I wonder at you, Isola ! You look good, and you 
 are not a fool I should say — how can you consent 
 to such a life ? you, with all your money too !" 
 
 " What can I do 1" said Isola with a kind of 
 despair in her voice. 
 
 " Do ? are there no poor to help ? no charities 
 to see to ? Have you no duties, do you think ? 
 Was it ever meant that you should lead a life of 
 nothing but lazy self-indulgence while there is 
 all this misery and wretchedness in the world to 
 try to cure ? You are wrong, Isola ! shamefully 
 wrong ! and so I tell you to your face." 
 
 Jane spoke warmly. She felt that she had 
 her word of truth to say, and she said it. No- 
 thing ever daunted her when she was once roused 
 as she was roused now; and nothing silenced. 
 Had she been a guest of the Queen herself, she 
 would have taken her stand on the equal rights 
 of humanity and the almighty power of truth,
 
 COUSIN JANE. 109 
 
 and would have measured forces as fencers mea- 
 sure foils. 
 
 " You forget that my husband would not like 
 me to be active/' said Isola in a low voice. 
 
 "What does that signify?" snapped Jane. 
 " What does it matter what he likes or dislikes ? 
 The question is of absolute right, not of a man's 
 temper. Are you to kill your soul because he 
 likes to kill his ? I hate all this slavishness in 
 women ! — it is abominable \ n 
 
 " My dear Jane, what is the good of your being 
 so violent ? " remonstrated Mrs. Osborn ; " can- 
 not you state your opinion without using such 
 very strong language? You know my great 
 objection to all this unladylike violence." 
 
 (t It is good for her to have the truth broadly 
 stated/' said Jane. " Women like her never 
 hear it — how should they ? " 
 
 " But is it your place, my dear, to say dis- 
 agreeable things, true or not? and I am sure 
 in this case quite untrue!" said Mrs. Osborn. 
 " What can you know of your dear cousin's life, 
 which we can all see for ourselves is a most
 
 110 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 charming one — whether it is according to your 
 own ideas or not? And besides, my dear, what 
 are your ideas ? No better than mine or any 
 other person's. If your cousin likes one thing 
 and you like another, why should not her thiug 
 be as good as yours V 
 
 Mrs. Osborn said this quite triumphantly. It 
 was not often that she got to anything so like 
 demonstration as this. 
 
 " It is my place to tell Isola of her faults ! " 
 cried Jane a little excitedly. " It is the place of 
 every truth- loving person to rebuke the sins of 
 others. If I tell her that she is idle and doing 
 no good with her life — that she is pitiful and 
 weak in suffering herself to be made into a slave 
 — and that she owes a higher duty to God and 
 to her own soul than to that mere man her hus- 
 band — if I try to make her into one of the nobler 
 kind of women with self-reliance and independ- 
 ence, I am only doing my true human duty, 
 and no one shall stop me. I am telling her what 
 it is right she should know. She can do as she 
 likes afterwards, but my conscience at the least
 
 COUSIN JANE. Ill 
 
 is clear. I have shaken my soul free of the sin 
 of countenancing what I hold to be her moral 
 debasement : I have no part in her ruin ! " 
 
 She said this with a certain religious fervour 
 that made her plain face almost beautiful, if stern 
 still, and severe. 
 
 " But what can I do, Jane V returned Isola. 
 " For myself I should be only too grateful to be of 
 some use in the world. I should like to visit the 
 poor, and go to the Sunday-schools and hospitals. 
 I would not mind what I did that had any good 
 purpose in it ; but how can I, when so distinctly 
 against my husband's wishes ? He would never 
 tolerate anything like this, and I must please 
 him first of all things." 
 
 " By no means," Jane said authoritatively. 
 " Please him first of all things ? — stuff ! Just be- 
 cause he is a man and you are a woman ? What 
 a hideous doctrine V s 
 
 " No, not because of that, but because sacrifice 
 is higher than self-will," interposed Isola. 
 
 " Sacrifice ! rubbish !" sniffed Jane, tossing 
 back her head. " To give up real good for the
 
 112 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 mere whims of another is no sacrifice righteously 
 put, but a self-degradation — an immoral lying 
 down to Juggernaut. Sacrifice yourself for a 
 good cause if you like — for the progress of prin- 
 ciples, for truth, freedom, humanity — but not to 
 foolish whims and fancies like your husband's." 
 
 " Good gracious, Jane, where ever did you get 
 such radical opinions ?" cried Mrs. Osborn ;"Iam 
 sure not from me ; and if your poor dear father 
 who is dead and gone, could rise out of his grave 
 and hear you holding forth like this, I am sure 
 he would be sorry that he ever made you such a 
 dreadful radical with his free opinions said out as 
 bold as anything before you." 
 
 " St. John is not very strong," began Isola. 
 
 " Pshaw !" said Jane, " if there is one thing more 
 revolting to me than another, it is to hear silly 
 women excuse the selfishness of men by saying 
 they are not strong. If they are not strong they 
 ought to be, and the sooner they are swept off 
 the face of the earth the better. We don't want 
 weaklings of either sex ; and the world w r ould go 
 far better if all the muffs and fools were cleared
 
 COUSIN JANE. 113 
 
 off like so many weeds or vermin. But silly peo- 
 ple only think of the individual, and not of society 
 at large; and depend upon it, Isola, we shall 
 never come to any good till the individual is lost 
 sight of, and the good of the race alone consi- 
 dered. You may take it as a divine truth — not 
 acted on yet, unhappily — we are not our own, but 
 our generation's; and if we can do no good to 
 that, we had better be done with and put away 
 the quickest possible." 
 
 "Then I hope that I shall never live to see 
 that day," cried Mrs. Osborn indignantly. " I 
 am not very strong myself; and if all those who 
 have weak hearts and poor foolish heads like 
 mine are to be put to death, I am sure it will 
 not be a very comfortable or Christian-like ar- 
 rangement." 
 
 "You," continued Jane, turning to Isola and 
 not noticing her mother's remark, " you are just- 
 as bad as any of them. You think of the annoy- 
 ance you would give at home if you went counter 
 to your husband's fancies ; you never think of 
 the good you would do to others — the good that 
 
 vol. I. I
 
 114 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 a strong example does to feeble folk wanting a 
 precedent for any effort involving pain." 
 
 " Well, tell me what I ought to do," said Isola. 
 
 " Be free, woman ! be yourself ; live your own 
 life, and do not give in to your husband simply 
 because he is your husband ; do not be wicked 
 because he is weak," said Jane in a deep voice. 
 
 " Ah, cousin Jane, it is so easy to say this, but 
 It is so difficult to act it when you are married \" 
 said Isola. " And remember this, that sometimes 
 the life which looks the poorest, is in reality a life 
 of principle and not of lazy- inclination." She said 
 this very tenderly, with a moved voice and a lip 
 that slightly quivered as she spoke. 
 
 " Then if you are not selfish, but acting on 
 wrong principles, you ought to have them shaken 
 out of you," cried Jane. "I want you to be 
 more independent than it seems you are, and to 
 think and act more for yourself than you do." 
 ■ ■." A married woman cannot be independent if 
 she would keep peace, Jane." 
 
 " Then have war," retorted Jane. " It is only 
 tme form of martyrdom at the worst ; and you
 
 COUSIN JANE. 115 
 
 might as well go through that as through the fire 
 and faggot form." 
 
 Isola shook her head. It was painful to her 
 to have the formless thoughts just stirring in her 
 own heart placed before her in such naked exag- 
 geration. There was a truth in what her cousin 
 said, and yet a falsehood ; and at the moment she 
 was unable to separate the two. She did not 
 understand that what Jane wanted was the in- 
 forming power of Love; that, iconoclast as she 
 was, breaking false idols and letting the light 
 into dark dungeons — which in itself is a good 
 work — he was not able to build up a temple or to 
 fashion out a creed sufficient for any human soul 
 that lives. 
 
 " You say, what are you to do ? Well then, 
 J will tell you something that you can do, and 
 that you ought to do," said Jane after a pause. 
 " You know mamma and I let lodgings ?" 
 
 "Jane, my dear!" cried Mrs. Osborn queru- 
 lously. " Our house is too large for us, and we 
 give up a room or two," she explained to Isola 
 apologetically. 
 
 i 2
 
 ]16 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 u We are very poor, papa left us in debt, the 
 rent is high, and we cannot get rid of the house 
 because we cannot afford to put it into repair, so 
 we let lodgings as an income," said Jane de- 
 cidedly. "And a little while ago we let the 
 second floor back to a young widow just returned 
 from America — a lady, mind ! and I know you 
 care for that, and your husband, I should say, 
 cares more. Well ! a lady who has lost her 
 husband, children, friends, fortune — everything. 
 She is going to have another child ; and there 
 she is, poor soul, without a penny in the world. 
 She had her pocket picked the other day, and she 
 dare not ask her lawyer for another remittance. 
 She is as poor as anything can be that is not an 
 absolute beggar, and we know that she has not 
 enough to eat. Now you know what to do : give 
 this poor soul only a little of your superfluity — 
 show her some human kindness — come to see 
 her ; she is respectable — your own solicitor, Mr. 
 Norton, says she is ; he knows her and was her 
 reference, so you will not stain your hands by 
 touching hers. Help a suffering fellow-creature,
 
 COUSIN JANE. 117 
 
 in all probability quite as good as yourself, and 
 more unfortunate ; and do not ask again what 
 you can do until you have done this piece of duty 
 set before you. I am not a very good beggar by 
 nature, but I can beg for this poor tender thing 
 from one who has such abundance as you have." 
 
 Jane's face was grand as she said this : it was 
 almost the face of an apostle pleading for charity 
 to the saints in trouble of some beautiful pagan 
 in power. As was it not, simply differencing the 
 creed ? 
 
 " I will help your poor lodger," said Isola ear- 
 nestly, " and thank you, Jane, for telling me of 
 her. I have no money of my own" — here she 
 stopped suddenly, feeling the awkwardness of 
 the confession — "but I am sure that St. John 
 will give me some," she exclaimed in an altered 
 voice ; a voice from which the ring had gone, 
 like the colour out of a flower. 
 
 " You have no money of your own, Isola ? 
 Why, who had your poor mamma's portion 
 then ? " cried Mrs. Osborn all amazed. 
 
 " There were no settlements," said Isola, "and 
 my husband keeps the purse."
 
 118 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Jane shrugged her square-cut shoulders. "And 
 what age are you ? " she asked. 
 
 " Two-and-twenty," answered Isola. 
 
 " Two-and-twenty ! well ! " was Jane's empha- 
 tic rejoinder. 
 
 ■" But I am sure he will give me some for her — 
 I will ask him. Oh yes, I am sure he will !" re- 
 peated Isola. 
 
 " And I am not/' said Jane, rubbing her nose. 
 
 " He is very good ! " said Isola earnestly. 
 " You do not know how good he is, Jane ! " 
 
 "No, I don't," said Jane drily. "Good!" 
 she said afterwards, " you might as well call a 
 barber's dummy good \" 
 
 " And if he won't give you anything for her, 
 Isola ?" asked the iconoclast after a pause. 
 
 " Oh ! he will \" the young wife repeated, but 
 with a certain falter and tremor of her voice 
 which Jane was sharp enough to catch. 
 
 " Humph !" she said a little disdainfully : " it's 
 my belief, Isola, you don't know much about that 
 lord and master of yours, beyond the fact that he 
 is your lord and master, and that you dare not
 
 COUSIN JANE. 119 
 
 call your soul your own if he chooses to say it is 
 his." 
 
 " Yes, that is just what I do dare to call my 
 own !" said Isola innocently. " I am not in that 
 state of thraldom, I can assure you, Jane V s 
 
 " Well then," said Jane, turning straight upon 
 her and fronting her with a very determined face, 
 " if you speak the truth, and do call your soul 
 your own, you must surely consider the right of 
 action as your own, else you have no logical faculty, 
 and are just a goose like your neighbours. And 
 if the right of action is your own, is it not then 
 your duty to do as is best — say in such a case as 
 this — independent of your husband altogether? 
 Do you think it will be any excuse for you when 
 you are weighed in the balance and found want- 
 ing, to whine out, ' Please, Lord, my husband 
 wouldn't let me ' ?" 
 
 " Jane ! my dear ! good gracious, did I ever 
 hear anything so profane !" cried Mrs. Osborn in 
 extreme distress. " Why you are worse than your 
 poor dear father, with all his horrid talk of ma- 
 terialism and no hereafter ! Oh dear, what will 
 your cousin think of you !"
 
 120 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 C 'I dcn't care what she thinks of me, mamma, 
 so long as she hears the truth/' said Jane stur- 
 dily. " So mind, Isola, I hold you to your pro- 
 mise to do this act of charity — come what may." 
 
 " Very well/' said Isola earnestly, " I do pro- 
 mise. I will help your poor little friend." 
 
 " Even if your husband will not V* 
 
 Carried away by the excitement of the moment 
 Isola replied, " Even if my husband will not." 
 
 And Jane took credit to herself as she thought, 
 u The first link snapped of the chain round this 
 soul in bondage ! — the first breath of fresh air let 
 into this stifling life of arbitrary rule and blind 
 submission — of the tyrannous domination of will, 
 and the slipshod subserviency of good-nature. It 
 is a leverage — and will work through all the rest 
 in them !" 
 
 As in the previous visit, Mrs. Osborn con- 
 tinued staying on until luncheon was announced, 
 when a very little pressing on the part of Isola 
 induced her to remain, in spite of Jane's em- 
 phatic " No, Isola," and " Come away, mamma, 
 Mr. Ay lot t will be coming home," and "Mamma,
 
 COUSIN JANE. 121 
 
 I cannot stay, I have my work for the f Comet ' to 
 do." It was of no use. Mrs. Osborn was sub- 
 servient to Jane in most things, but when it 
 came to the wearing of the familiar purple she 
 was immoveable. The usages and an opportunity 
 for indulging in them were Mrs. Osborn's strong- 
 holds, and she had never been beleaguered out 
 of them yet. 
 
 So they stayed to luncheon, and Jane revenged 
 herself in her own way by the most disdainful con- 
 demnation of everything she saw. Isola's bedroom 
 she declared to be positively sinful and improper, 
 as well as stifling and detestable. All the orna- 
 ments and semi-boudoir finery about it revolted 
 her ; the large cheval glass was an abomination ; 
 the toilet-table like a bazaar-stall ; what did she 
 want with pen and ink and a writing-table up here V 
 Who but a maniac would sit and write in a bed- 
 room when there were proper living rooms fur- 
 nished and ready? She would bet anything Isola 
 liked there was not a pen that would write, or else 
 there was uot one that had ever been written with, 
 and that the ink had all dried away to black glaze.
 
 122 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 And so it proved when she went to look ; which 
 delighted her grimly enough. At table she posi- 
 tively refused all special delicacies, and took a 
 savage pleasure in being as cynically simple in 
 her tastes as was possible. She would have only 
 plain bread and meat, she said, and asked for 
 beer, repudiating wine disdainfully ; she sniffed 
 and said No, " like a bear," said the butler, when 
 he asked her to have this or that with deferential 
 politeness ; and made Isola feel as if it was posi- 
 tively sinful to drink madeira out of thin- stemmed 
 glasses bell-shaped and highly polished, and as 
 if sweetbread eaten with a silver fork was the 
 most immoral thing in life, next to ratafia bis- 
 cuits in a silver cake-basket. She had that way 
 with her when she chose to be unpleasant ; was 
 she not an iconoclast whose mission was to de- 
 stroy other men's gods ? 
 
 Even when luncheon was over, Mrs. Osborn still 
 stayed entranced ; even when the carriage came 
 to the door she stayed, usages or none; it was like 
 tearing a limpet from its native rock to force the 
 poor soul away from this congenial atmosphere,
 
 COUSIN JANE. 123 
 
 and she clung to the wealth and luxury about 
 with all her strength. At last however it came 
 that they must go, though St.. John had not yet 
 returned; and, yielding to Jane's repeated com- 
 mands, the little woman prepared to leave this 
 pleasant haven and put back into the rougher sea 
 of her daily life once more. 
 
 As they stood in the hall saying their last 
 adieus St. John came in, meeting Jane face to 
 face as he came up the step. He swerved aside 
 when he saw her, as men do swerve when they 
 meet something unpleasant and of which they 
 are not afraid ; and merely bowing coldly and 
 without speaking, passed into the library and 
 shut the door against them. His face was pale 
 and the lines about it tightly drawn, and Isola 
 felt a strange sickness at her heart as she looked 
 at him when he passed ; for there was in it an 
 expression she had never seen before — a fierce- 
 ness, a wildness, a savage hatred that appalled 
 her as he brushed by her hastily. 
 
 When they had gone she hurried to the library, 
 where she found him pacing through the room.
 
 124 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 his head bent gloomily, his attitude one of in- 
 tense dejection, his expression almost maniacal 
 in its wild despair. 
 
 u Dearest St. John," she said, going up to 
 him and putting her arms about his neck, " do 
 not mind so much ; it shall not happen again. I 
 will tell my aunt how much you dislike visitors, 
 and you shall not be annoyed again." 
 
 " I have taken care that it shall not happen 
 again," said St. John gloomily. "We leave 
 London next week." 
 
 Isola started and gave a little shiver. It 
 seemed so like banishment to her at this mo- 
 ment, excited as she was by all that Jane had 
 said, and troubled by the mingled truth and 
 falsehood of her words. 
 
 "That is sudden !" she said a little plaintively. 
 
 "I am hounded away, Isola. I am hunted 
 from my home," he said excitedly, again pacing 
 the room with those restless feverish steps of his. 
 " You are being taken from me, but I will make 
 one last effort to keep you. They shall not take 
 you, Isola, while I have the power to defend you."
 
 COUSIN JANE. 125 
 
 He seized her arms as he spoke, and drew her 
 near to him wildly. 
 
 "No one shall take me," she said soothingly. 
 €t Could any one divide us ?" 
 
 (t I thought not once. I would not have be- 
 lieved that anything could have come in between 
 us. How little 1 thought it would have come so 
 soon and so easily ! Not a week old — an ac- 
 quaintance of a day — and all our love and our 
 home and my happiness and pride in you gone 
 — gone for ever \" He hid his face in his hands, 
 and Isola saw tears glisten through his fingers. 
 
 11 Nothing has come between us, and nothing 
 shall," she said, folding her arms round him — a 
 strange feeling of protection towards him as 
 something weaker and less stable than herself 
 for the first time possessing her. 
 
 " Ah ! you do not care for me now," he said, 
 looking up into her face mournfully. " Our home 
 is broken up — my happiness is gone ; I have lost 
 my Isola !" 
 
 " It will all come right again when we leave 
 London," she said. "Where have you decided
 
 126 EAXSING THE WJND. 
 
 to go ?" she then asked, trying to turn his 
 thoughts away. 
 
 . " Where ? I would rather keep it a secret," St. 
 John answered with n suspicious look. "I do 
 -not want intruders, Isola." 
 
 " And you shall not have them," she returned 
 cheerfully. 
 
 . But she stifled a sigh while she spoke, 
 bending her neck to her chains again, and 
 shutting out the brief sunshine that had broken 
 through her dull twilight. But she could not 
 shut out the perception that her husband was 
 weak and morbid, and that his feeling for her 
 was not so much love for her or care for her 
 good, as his own pleasure in loving. And the one 
 great golden jewel which all women seek — and 
 how few find ! is a man's unselfish love, and the 
 chivalrous consideration of their good before his 
 own pleasure.
 
 127 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 
 
 If Isola forgot cousin Jane's prayer and her own 
 promise while soothing her husband's strauge de- 
 spair,, she remembered both as soon as the pres- 
 sure was gone ; but thinking it best to keep silent 
 for the moment and until he was calmer, she 
 said nothing now about the Osborns or money, in- 
 tending to wait for the next morning, when she 
 would tell St. John the story of the unhappy 
 lady's distress, ask him to give her some money, 
 and further ask his permission to drive to Sey- 
 mour Street for the purpose of telling aunt Juliana 
 that they were going out of town, and that he 
 disliked visitors when they were in it.
 
 128 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 But in her silence her imagination dwelt on 
 the lady's need, till the pain of knowing that 
 here was distress which she might relieve and 
 which was not relieved, became exaggerated 
 and disproportioned. The ruggedness of actual 
 want thus entering her monotonous and orderly- 
 sphere — the near presence of a tragedy, and of 
 such a tragedy ! — gave her a new emotion, pas- 
 sionate, deep, and painful ; and when the morn- 
 ing came she was feverish and excited, feeling as 
 if every moment's delay was a sin and the cause 
 of irreparable disaster. But unlike herself as she 
 was, St. John said nothing out of course. He 
 was a man whose perceptions had to be guided 
 by his own feeling or condition, else he was 
 blind, and a state of mind in another which had 
 no reference to himself always escaped his obser- 
 vation. He was only conscious of his own an- 
 noyance with the late events — and that Isola's 
 face looked grander than usual, for the earnest, 
 moved, and thoughtful look that had come into 
 it was as much a dead secret to him as are co- 
 lours to the blind or harmonies to the deaf.
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 129 
 
 After breakfast she went up to him as he 
 seated himself in his special easy chair near the 
 little table by the window, at right angles with 
 the couch where she always sat at her embroi- 
 dery frame. 
 
 " I want you to do me a kindness ; will you, 
 St. John?" she began, her voice scarcely so 
 firm as usual. 
 
 "I make no blind promises; my compliance will 
 depend on your request," said St. John stiffly, 
 as one keeping the future well in hand. " I do 
 not often deny your requests, I think, Isola." 
 
 He meant that of his own accord he often 
 did what he intended should give her pleasure 
 because it give him the same ; which was ano- 
 ther matter altogether ; though it is a confusion 
 of motives not unknown to husbands as a race. 
 
 " I want you to give me some money," then 
 said Isola. 
 
 " Money ! and what can you want with money 
 Isola ? " His tone was one of half-contemptuous 
 surprise. 
 
 "There is a poor lady at my aunt's," began 
 
 VOL. i. K
 
 130 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Isola, speaking fast. " She is a widow just 
 come home from America. She has no friends, 
 no money, and has had a great deal of sorrow. 
 She has lost all her children, and now her 
 husband on the voyage home ; and she is going 
 to have a little baby, and has nothing ready, 
 and no money to get anything with. And oh, 
 St. John ! she is hungry and has not enough to 
 eat," here Isola' s eyes swelled up with tears ; 
 "and I want to do something for her," she 
 continued. "My cousin Jane told me about 
 her, and I promised that I would help her." 
 
 " I thought you had more judgment and com- 
 mon sense, Isola," said St. John disdainfully. 
 " What do you know about this person ? you 
 know nothing of your relatives even, and yet 
 you will take their word about an utter stranger, 
 and mix yourself up in heaven knows what dis- 
 reputable association. No, I will not give you 
 money for anything so vague and unsatisfactory. 
 If this woman is in need, there are the charities 
 to go to. I subscribe to them, and the mana- 
 gers know better what to do than you or I."
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 1.31 
 
 "But, St. John, she is a lady," urged Isola, 
 the tears gathering bigger as she spoke. 
 
 " Lady ! nonsense ! " was his reply. " Ladies 
 do not come from America in such a state as 
 this. Even if they have no money themselves, 
 they have friends who look after them and pre- 
 vent such a disgrace as begging : for a lady to 
 be reduced to beg is a simple impossibility. 
 Depend upon it, Isola, she is nothing but a 
 swindler who has taken in your aunt and cousin 
 — if indeed they are not all in league together — 
 and who now wants to prey upon you." 
 
 11 She did not beg, it was my cousin who told 
 me of her," said Isola earnestly ; " the poor 
 thing herself had nothing to do with it ; she 
 did not even know that Jane was going to 
 speak to me about her." 
 
 " You must not contradict me, Isola," said St. 
 John with grave displeasure ; " I know the 
 world better than you do, and you must not set 
 up your judgment in opposition to mine." 
 
 ". But granting that she is not a lady, she is 
 a woman — a human being in want," pleaded 
 
 k2
 
 132 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Isola. " Think of her absolutely wanting food, 
 and the little baby coming, and we so rich and 
 happy ! It breaks my heart to think of it ! 
 Dearest St. John, do give me some money for 
 her ! I have never asked you yet for anything — 
 do give it to me this time — do \ n 
 
 She flung herself across his breast, her tears 
 falling fast and heavy. Her imagination pictured 
 the contrast between herself and this unhappy 
 creature so vividly that everything else was swept 
 away in her pity, and she had not enough cool- 
 ness of perception left to read her husband's face, 
 or to be sensitive to its expression. 
 
 " What a silly little child it is to cry for what 
 it knows nothing about ! M said St. John with a 
 kind of ironical playfulness, turning up her 
 face and pinching her under lip; but not lov- 
 ingly, rather disdainfully, and as if she were a 
 child he was trying to divert from its naugh- 
 tiness. Isola took away his hand hurriedly. 
 His smile of levity and contempt jarred on her, 
 warm and full of emotion as she was, and she 
 turned away her head with visible repugnance.
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 133 
 
 This was enough. It was so new to St. 
 John to be repulsed by Isola that for the first 
 moment he was simply amazed, as at any other 
 totally unnatural exhibition; the next, he was 
 deeply wounded; and then the anger which 
 always tinged his pain broke out, and he put 
 her away, saying in a cold voice, "I have given 
 you my decision, Isola ; you shall not mix yourself 
 up in a matter so questionable, so discredit- 
 able." Not that it was discreditable in any way, 
 but the word sounded grandly mysterious and 
 threatening, so St. John used it as a weapon. 
 11 If this person wants charity, let her, as I said, 
 apply to the proper authorities. I forbid your 
 having anything to do with her. Do you hear ? 
 1 forbid it, Isola," with stern distinctness. 
 
 "I must help her, St. John," said Isola pas- 
 sionately, " I shall never be happy again if I do 
 not do something for this poor creature !" 
 
 " Isola ! " said St. John Aylott ; " perhaps you 
 misunderstood me ? I will repeat my words. I 
 forbid you to have anything whatever to do with 
 this woman."
 
 134 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " I cannot help it — I must !" sobbed Isola. 
 
 Her husband said no more. With the air of 
 a man who has taken some deperate resolution 
 he left the room ; and again Isola heard the 
 street door shut as he went out alone to exhale 
 his anger as best he could, leaving her bitterly- 
 distressed at this second estrangement, and yet 
 resolute in what she felt to be her duty. 
 
 While sitting there, her bead-work pomegra- 
 nate scattering its ruby-coloured seeds unre- 
 garded to-day, the servant brought her in a 
 letter — an untidy letter, written in a large bold 
 hand on office-ruled paper — evidently the first 
 thing that came to hand, as part of spoiled 
 " copy " was on the other side — and folded ir- 
 regularly and out of all proportion with the 
 envelope, into which it had been thrust any- 
 how. This was a letter from Jane — an earnest, 
 almost passionate appeal to Isola for the pro- 
 mised help for this poor little woman of theirs. 
 " She was very ill," said Jane, " and mamma 
 had just found out that she had had no food yes- 
 terday. Mamma had gone to Mr. Norton about
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 135 
 
 her as lie was her only friend, but no help could 
 be too much under present circumstances, so 
 would Isola send what she could spare, and re- 
 lieve the present want at all events, for they did 
 not know what help Mr. Norton would give, or if 
 any, and they were too poor themselves to take 
 care of her properly. If they did their utmost 
 they could not get her what was sufficient for her 
 in her present state. The baby might be coming 
 — she did not know — and there was no nurse, no 
 doctor, no provision made for anything. Mamma 
 was, as Isola could see, but a very helpless body ; 
 she, Jane, knew nothing of these things; Mrs. 
 Grant seemed utterly prostrate and without 
 power to direct in any way ; and a life might be 
 sacrificed, to say nothing of the infant's — which 
 perhaps would be a mercy — all for want of a 
 little money. And Isola, with so much ! Could 
 she bear to think of this at her grand dinner to- 
 day ? Would her fine wines and made dishes 
 and expensive fruits taste any the sweeter for 
 knowing that a human being was starving within 
 a mile of her ? She could not plead ignorance,
 
 136 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 and not knowing where to seek for objects of 
 interest and charity, as so many grandee fine 
 ladies did. Her duty was laid before her plain 
 and clear enough, and it would be her own crime 
 and condemnation if she did not do it." With 
 more of the same kind, passionately worded ; 
 ending by an earnest appeal to come and see this 
 poor little woman for herself. 
 
 Stirred to her very heart, Isola stood in utter 
 anguish for a moment. What should she do? 
 She had no money, and she dared not borrow 
 of the servants ; she had no friends to appeal 
 to — no one who could help her. She looked 
 round the luxuriously furnished room, where a 
 fortune lay in pictures, buhl, and Dresden, but all 
 was her husband's ; she had no right, now that 
 the collision of wills had come, to make use of a 
 vase, a flower, an ornament. All was hers by 
 office only, not by individual possession; she 
 was the wife to be well endowed because of her 
 position, not the woman of independent holding. 
 Her own possessions were in the. same category ; 
 chains, rings, bracelets, all this sparkling super-
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 137 
 
 flinty was his, lent to her for his pride and plea- 
 sure in her adornment ; she had no right to deal 
 with it as her own outside that special use. 
 What could she do ? Once she thought of going 
 to Mr. Norton, but that would have been too 
 much like open revolt ; and yet she could not let 
 this poor lady starve while she sat in the midst 
 of such abundance. Suddenly she remembered 
 her mother's diamond ring, one of the few valua- 
 bles really belonging to herself — a ring that had 
 cost fabulous sums when it was bought, which 
 had always been looked on in the family as an 
 " investment/' and which she expected now 
 would realize a small fortune if sold. She had 
 yet to learn the difference between buying and 
 selling, poor child ! That time would come soon 
 enough ; and meanwhile she believed, as do all 
 the inexperienced, that the buying price and the 
 selling would approximate at least slightly. She 
 did not wait to reflect when once this diamond 
 ring was remembered, but, running upstairs, 
 opened her dressing-case and, taking it from its 
 special place, wrapped it into a small parcel ; then
 
 138 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 wrote a few hasty words to the effect that St. 
 John had gone out, therefore she could not send 
 actual money as she had hoped, but she sent 
 this diamond ring, which she trusted would fetch 
 a sufficient sum of money to go on with. She 
 could not come to see her aunt and this poor 
 lady, as she had wished ; St. John did not like 
 her to go to people he did not know — she had 
 already told them they never visited anywhere 
 — but she would do for poor Mrs. Grant what 
 she could, and she trusted that Jane knew she 
 would do all she could. Then she sent off the 
 packet by the commissionaire whom Jane had 
 hired — and a commissionaire's hire, paid out of 
 her own pocket, was something for Jane in those 
 days — and waited until her husband came home ; 
 — as the moments wore away the flush and glow 
 gradually fading and paling, as the certainty of 
 his displeasure grew stronger and came nearer. 
 
 She had never wilfully vexed him before, and 
 the outburst sure to follow the first serious of- 
 fence is an anxious time for a young wife hitherto 
 in unbroken accord with her husband. But her
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 139 
 
 conscience upheld her, for all that she was sorry 
 and in fear; and for such a cause as that in 
 which she had disobeyed, it seemed to her that 
 disobedience was a better thing than submission. 
 
 " I thought he was a tyrant and selfish !" were 
 Jane's first words spoken to herself as she read 
 Isola's note and understood it. " Mamma is so 
 weak and silly, she sees into nothing, but I was 
 sure of his character. Isola is far too good for 
 him, that I can see. He is a poor creature, and 
 she is worth a dozen of him. But then mamma 
 is taken with him because he is polished, she 
 says, and looks like an aristocrat. Polished ! 
 if that is being polished, give me clownishness 
 with a heart and some kind of breadth \" 
 
 Grumbling to herself, as was her way when she 
 was annoyed, she put on her bonnet and went 
 out ; turning in at the nearest pawnbroker's as 
 naturally and as little abashed as if pledging 
 goods was an every- day occurrence with her, in- 
 deed coming rather more easy than buying. She 
 had a struggle about the ring ; but the man 
 standing before her grim pigeon-hole knew her
 
 140 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 well, and knew that there must inevitably be a 
 struggle about everything that she came to pledge. 
 She had been a customer very frequently, and for 
 some years now — young as she was ; and use had 
 familiarized and sharpened her. However, this 
 time she was taken in; not understanding the 
 value of diamonds as accurately as she did that 
 of tablecloths and silver spoons ; and raising about 
 one-third of what she would have got had she 
 known finery as well as she knew necessaries. 
 She got ten pounds only on what had cost a 
 hundred ; but this was better than nothing ; ten 
 pounds being to Jane a very potent barrier against 
 starvation. And after this transaction she went 
 about and got such things as she thought best 
 for the invalid ; all done in less time than many 
 women would have taken to arrange their hair, 
 and all done in the prompt, energetic, but by no 
 means soft or graceful manner peculiar to Jane, 
 full of human kindness as to intent, but rugged, 
 hard, and ungainly as to form. 
 
 Thus, when she went in to the forlorn creature 
 lying like a dead thing on her bed, she shut the
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 141 
 
 door roughly and put down her basket noisily ; 
 but she spoke in a cheery tone, and with an accent 
 of honest sympathy that almost sweetened her 
 harsh, rasping voice ; telling her that a rich cousin 
 had sent these good things for her, and that she 
 must take some wine and soup this very instant, 
 and then she would look better — less like a corpse 
 and more like a living creature than she did now. 
 She did not pet nor caress her, as many women 
 would have done, but she did all manner of 
 thoughtful little kindnesses ; and if for the most 
 part noisily and with a rougher hand than might 
 have been, yet with such a real desire to be of use 
 that even the invalid, weakened as she was by 
 fever and bitter thought and the anguish of the 
 future and the agony of the past, yet even she 
 could not but recognize the kindly heart of this 
 so ungainly nurse, and smiled up her faint acknow- 
 ledgments of the service so frankly rendered. 
 
 Presently Mr. Norton came back with Mrs. 
 Osborn. He had been strangely moved at hear- 
 ing of Mrs. Grant's great need; and though it 
 was his busy time and every hour was worth un-
 
 142 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 counted six-and-eightpences, yet so soon as he 
 knew who it was that wanted him, he shut up his 
 writing desk, put on his hat, and came back with 
 his unprofitable client with all the speed that a 
 broken-down four-wheeler could put forth. He 
 was strangely white too as he went, and the 
 moisture stood on his upper lip in thick beads ; 
 but he was just the same in manner as if nothing 
 was pressing on him with joy or pain, and Mrs. 
 Osborn was far too shallow to read signs so ob- 
 scure as Mr. Richard Norton's. 
 
 He went upstairs at once ; and without waiting 
 to be announced walked straight into the invalid's 
 room, not even knocking at the door. 
 
 "What a strange violation of the usages!" 
 thought Mrs. Osborn, fluttering behind him. 
 
 " Why did you not send to me at once, Har- 
 riet V asked the lawyer in a low voice ; " I 
 would have helped you without the need of all 
 this misery. Child ! you know that ! Indeed I 
 have a little money in hand that belongs to you 
 by right, and had I known of your need I would 
 have sent to you before."
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 143 
 
 " Thank you, dear old friend/ ' said Mrs. Grant, 
 lifting up a pair of shy dark eyes timidly, " but 
 you have been so kind to me already, I did not 
 want to trouble you again. It was such a stupid 
 thing of me to do ; but you know how unused I 
 am to your London ways, and the pickpockets 
 are so clever !" 
 
 " And my little pussy is such a goose V* said 
 Richard Norton looking at her tenderly. " But 
 now tell me — how much do you want ? — five ? ten ? 
 twenty ? what ? Remember, what I give you is 
 your own. I am only advancing for you ; it is 
 only a loan — no gift on my part. Do you under- 
 stand ? What shall it be then ? ten ? what ?" in 
 a rather louder key than before. 
 
 " I got ten pounds for her to-day, so she can 
 go on for a little while," said Jane coming for- 
 ward abruptly. She had heard Richard Norton's 
 question, and considered herself entitled to speak. 
 " Indeed ! Ten pounds is a good serviceable 
 sum, and who sent it, pray V said the lawyer 
 turning to her abruptly. 
 
 "My cousin Isola Aylott, St. John Aylott's 
 wife," said honest Jane.
 
 144 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " St. John Aylott I" exclaimed Mrs. Grant, 
 starting up with a scared look and pushing back 
 the long dark hair that hung about her pinched 
 and pallid face. " St. John Aylott, do you say ? M 
 " Steady ! steady ! calm yourself, pussy ! — do 
 not let a mere name excite you," said Mr. Nor- 
 ton in a quiet, meaning voice. "No one who 
 knows anything about you, remember ! — and no 
 one that you know anything about." He took 
 her hand between both his own and pressed it 
 while he spoke. " Miss Osborn said Isola Ay- 
 lott " slowly, distinctly, every syllable falling 
 plumb and firm — " Isola Aylott — St. John Ay- 
 lott' s wife, and St. John Aylott is the son of the 
 late incumbent of Grey thorp e — people that you 
 do not know and have never heard about before ; 
 so there is nothing in the name to excite you," 
 with another strong and meaning pressure of the 
 wasted hand between her own. 
 
 (t A good name," said Mrs. Osborn striking in, 
 " a very good name — Aylott — but I can't for the 
 life of me help thinking of eyelet-hole whenever 
 I hear it ; surgeon and eyelet-hole ; so silly, you 
 know !" laughing.
 
 THE INVALID LODGEK. 145 
 
 " I cannot bear it \" murmured Harriet Grant, 
 turning her face inward to the pillow and sob- 
 bing bitterly as she spoke. " Help from him ! oh 
 Mr. Norton, dear Mr. Norton, how can I take 
 it?" 
 
 " Take it ? why like a sensible woman to be 
 sure \" said Richard Norton. " It is a kindness 
 done you on Miss Osborn's account, not on yours. 
 Mrs. Aylott is Miss Osborn's cousin, she is not 
 your cousin — don't you understand ? — she knows 
 nothing about you one way or the other, except- 
 ing what Miss Osborn may have told her. So 
 no false pride, Harriet ! Take what comes, bless 
 Providence, and make a good dinner as soon as 
 you can. That is the best advice that I or any 
 friend can give you." 
 
 Still Mrs. Grant sobbed — her face turned in- 
 ward to the pillow ; and then Mr. Norton stooped 
 down and whispered something in her ear. 
 
 " We had better go out of the room if you are 
 going to talk secrets together I" said Jane ab- 
 ruptly, sniffing. 
 
 That was the way in which she did things. 
 
 VOL. i. L
 
 J 46 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 She meant this only for delicacy and care for 
 them, and it looked like offence-taking and 
 brusque annoyance. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I am sure V said Mr. 
 Norton apologetically. " It is long since I have 
 seen Mrs. Grant, and I have certain things to tell 
 her not to be told before a third person, but I did 
 not mean to be rude to you. I am very sorry if 
 I offended you." 
 
 " I did not say you were rude," said Jane 
 opening her eyes, " I only said I would go out of 
 the room if you wanted to talk secrets. I was 
 not huffy and did not mean to find fault ; but I 
 thought that if mamma and I were in the way 
 we had better take ourselves off without further 
 bother." 
 
 " You see, Jane, how you get misunderstood 
 with those odd manners of yours \" cried Mrs. Os- 
 born irritably — Richard Norton had pleased her. 
 
 " Don't be silly, mamma !" retorted Jane. " It 
 is only you who misunderstand me ! Every one 
 else knows what I mean, and takes me as I am." 
 
 " I don't know about that, Jane," said her mo-
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 147 
 
 ther crossly. " Look at Mr. St. John yesterday ! 
 I am sure lie did not understand you as you call 
 it ; though what you mean by understanding you 
 I don't know, unless it is giving in to all your 
 vagaries. And you are full of nothing but va- 
 garies, Jane, more shame for you \" 
 
 " You had better come downstairs, mamma, 
 and blow me up there," said Jane quite tranquilly, 
 suiting the action to the word and going out 
 of the room — slamming the door roughly behind 
 her. 
 
 " Singular person, that Miss Osborn !" said 
 Mr. Norton, looking after her curiously. " Yery 
 clever I understand, full of strength and energy 
 and all that, but extremely odd — don't you think 
 so, pussy V He wanted to make her talk, so 
 that she should not think of mournful things, as 
 she was thinking now. 
 
 " Yes, but she is so really kind V said Mrs. 
 Grant with an effort. " I feel safe with her, I 
 cannot tell you how or why, but I feel as if she 
 would never let any harm come to me. Perhaps 
 it is because she is so strong." 
 
 L 2
 
 148 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Mrs. Norton drily. " Do 
 you know how she became acquainted with the 
 Aylotts ?" he then asked. " You must learn to 
 hear that name without starting, Harriet ! I felt 
 you quiver like a fluttered bird when I said it 
 just now." 
 
 " Can you wonder ?" she said, lifting her eyes. 
 She had glorious eyes, large, dark, rich, tender; 
 but they were not English eyes — they were the 
 eyes of a Spanish gipsy. 
 
 " Perhaps not, my dear, but things which are 
 natural are not therefore wise. It may be na- 
 tural that you should start at this name, but it is 
 not wise and you must not do it. You must re- 
 member that there are other Aylotts in the world 
 beside yours." 
 
 " Mine \" she said mournfully. 
 
 And then the flood-gates opened, and partly 
 because she was weak and suffering she fell into 
 a fit of weeping that soon passed into hysterics, 
 needing other help than Richard Norton's. So 
 the lawyer had to leave with his intended piece 
 of intelligence still unsaid ; and Mrs. Grant was
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 149 
 
 still in ignorance that when her child was born 
 and she was strong again, he meant to set her up 
 in life, provide Jier with the means of making a fair 
 start, and in all probability would not leave her 
 in the lurch if she was fouled in the running". 
 Neither did she tell him what she had meant to 
 tell him, that she had made a friend of one Gilbert 
 Holmes, her fellow-traveller from California, and 
 that he had left her his address, and should she 
 write to him and ask him to come and see her ? 
 
 Neither omission was very important as 
 things turned out ; but the poor little soul would 
 have been spared some hours of sleepless 
 anxiety had she known that her future and the 
 future of the unborn were a little more assured 
 than appeared now ; and if Richard Norton had 
 given up the whole thing — secrets, mysteries and 
 all, to Gilbert, it might have been better for all 
 parties in the end. 
 
 Meanwhile the women got the poor widow 
 through her hysterical attack with such means 
 and wisdom as they possessed among them ; 
 but the remedy which had the best effect was a
 
 150 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 very hearty outbreak of anger on Jane's part, 
 when, seeing that all softer means failed she 
 took to rating the shrieking little creature 
 soundly, and told her she ought to be ashamed 
 of herself — she was only acting a part aud 
 showing abominable affectation. 
 
 And now Isola had to go through her ordeal. 
 Just about luncheon time her husband returned 
 from his gloomy musings in the park, and she 
 must make her confession of what she had done 
 in his absence. She had never had to confess 
 anything to him before, and the sensation was 
 not a pleasant one. Still, it had to be done, for 
 silence would have been deception, and Isola could 
 not have stooped to deceit to save herself from 
 even a worse fate than her husband's displeasure. 
 
 He was very angry when she told him ; more 
 angry than he had ever known him to be, than 
 she had ever supposed it possible that he could 
 have been. It was not that he used any vio- 
 lence of word or gesture — he neither stormed 
 nor raved, nor even raised his voice a note 
 higher; but his handsome Spanish face grew
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 151 
 
 convulsed and livid with the painful passion 
 possessing him ; his eyes seemed literally to 
 flash as he turned them upon Isola while she 
 spoke ; and when she came nearer to him and put 
 her hand on his arm, he shrank from her shudder- 
 ing ; and she heard him say between his clenched 
 teeth, " The snake that I have cherished \" 
 
 " I am sorry that I have vexed you so much, 
 St. John," she said very gently, "1 would not 
 have done it for my own pleasure, you know 
 that ! — I would have given up anything in the 
 world I most longed for, if you had wished me 
 to do so — you know that, do you not V 3 she re- 
 peated ; " but this was stronger than I ! — I could 
 not let that poor creature want, St. John. Even 
 though I knew you would be angry with me for 
 disobeying you, I could not \ 33 
 
 " At least do not make false pretences, Isola," 
 said St. John harshly. "My wishes, my de- 
 sires, like my commands, have evidently no in- 
 fluence over you. So long as you do what you 
 wish to do, you care for nothing else. You are 
 utterly and entirely selfish — you care only to
 
 152 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 please yourself in all things, so why disguise 
 the truth Y 3 
 
 " I did not think I was selfish," said Isola. 
 " Then you know it now," answered her hus- 
 band. " I have long known it." 
 
 She was silent. From a ehild she had always 
 had the greatest horror of bandying words ; 
 and if it should ever come to that between her 
 husband and herself she felt that the charm of 
 her life would be gone, and that her marriage 
 would be only a legal covenant with all the 
 sweetness of home destroyed. But her silence 
 irritated St. John, disposed as he was to be 
 irritated by everything ; and after looking at her 
 for a moment he gave a short sneering laugh, 
 which poor Isola felt rather harder to bear than 
 the most open rebuke would have been. But 
 she still kept silence : indeed she did not well 
 know what to say, and she was afraid of vexing 
 her husband still more than at present if she 
 touched on any unlucky chord, as might so well 
 be in the mood in which he was. 
 
 " Well, Isola," he said after a pause, " are you
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 153 
 
 not going to speak to me ? Am I to be fa- 
 voured by your moroseness as well as by your in- 
 difference to my wishes ? AYhat have I done/' 
 lie continued, his voice pitched in a certain sharp 
 key of pain that went through Isola' s heart — 
 "what have I done that you should treat me 
 as you have done in this matter ? I have lived 
 for you and you only — ever since I married 
 you I have not had a thought or a wish in 
 which you were not associated, of which you 
 were not the object. Has my love tired you, 
 Isola ? Good God ! what is the horrible change 
 that has come over you ? What have I done ! 
 tell me what I have done V 
 
 He flung himself into a chair and buried 
 his face in his hands, groaning, while Isola, 
 distressed and terrified, did her best to soothe 
 him; but with scarcely as much entirety of 
 tenderness as she used to feel for him, rather 
 with a mixture of pity and surprise at his weak- 
 ness, and a dim perception of the selfishness 
 which was the mainspring of his character. 
 But though she won him back to something
 
 154 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 more like his ordinary self than he was at this 
 moment, yet she could not undo the painful 
 impression which her independent action had 
 made. His anger faded away, but left instead 
 the deepest gloom, the blackest melancholy 
 that could well possess a man. He sat for all 
 that day and evening looking moodily on the 
 ground. He would not talk, he would not read, 
 he would not drive, nor stir from where he sat ; 
 but there he remained like a graven statue of 
 sorrow, and Isola tried her loving little arts in 
 vain — something stronger than she held the 
 secret issues of his heart. 
 
 This state of mind continued for many days, 
 and it took all Isola's natural strength and cheer- 
 fulness to bear up under it. It was not that he 
 was ill-tempered, but that he was so intensely 
 sad. He did not scold nor snarl nor sneer, but 
 he gloomed and sorrowed as if he had lost all the 
 joy of life. He never smiled and rarely spoke, 
 and when he did speak it was in the despairing 
 manner of a man who has buried his love. The 
 only thing that seemed to give him any pleasure
 
 THE INVALID LODGER. 155 
 
 was the preparation for their removal to New- 
 field, where he had taken a house, about a mile 
 from the Hall where Mr. Trernouille, the uncle 
 of Gilbert Holmes, lived with his daughter Marcy. 
 It seemed as if St. John was minded to remain 
 there for some long time, for he gave extensive 
 orders to the workmen, and took down many 
 favourite lares and penates, but he did not tell 
 Isola what were his plans. He only said to her 
 very often, "Now you shall be all mine again — 
 my Isola and no other person's — unshared in 
 heart and life as before." 
 
 And once or twice he looked at her with an 
 almost terrifying wildness, and asked her if she 
 loved him as she used to do ? in a voice that had 
 less in it of love than of fiery passion and de- 
 spair. Poor St. John ! he was one of those un- 
 lucky beings whom love makes unlovely unless 
 all is smooth sailing and unruffled happiness; 
 he was one of those who think that a man's 
 love is all a woman can desire, and that no 
 matter whether it be associated with gloom, 
 jealousy, discomfort, social distress, or home an-
 
 156 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 noyance, it is all the same her tap-root of happi- 
 ness and content. Had any one told him now that 
 he was making Isola unhappy by his strange 
 waywardness, he would have denied it with ve- 
 hemence, and have said as conclusive refutation, 
 "But she knows that I love her" — as if there 
 could be no appeal beyond that confession.
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 
 
 Mrs. Grant wrote two letters to-day. One was 
 to Aylott St. John Aylott, the other was to 
 Gilbert Holmes at the Traveller s' Club. It was 
 not easy for her to confess even to herself what 
 object she had in writing at least one of these 
 two letters. Why should she write to St. John 
 Aylott ? Why should she seek to touch his 
 hand once more before she died — to hear his 
 voice, and see his face, and pass away in his arms 
 forgiven and beloved ? As if the deed done 
 once and for ever can be recalled at will ! As if 
 the sin or the folly committed can be wiped out 
 from the records, and hearts and lives once sun- 
 dered can be reunited for the mere desire ! She
 
 158 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 wrote as one standing on the brink of the grave, 
 with whom all artificial distinctions have lost 
 their value, and who sees only the great facts of 
 human love and truth ; she wrote with fervour, 
 passion, sorrow; but she might as well have 
 prayed the grave to give up its dead as to have 
 trusted that St. John Aylott's perception of love 
 and truth would overcome his respect for arti- 
 ficial distinctions. 
 
 He read the letter, at first with a strange kind 
 of angry fear, and then with a passionate disdain 
 which seemed to conquer all the rest. Tearing 
 it into a thousand pieces he enclosed them in an 
 envelope, writing on the fly in a careful, neat 
 hand, "Harriet Aylott is dead; she has been 
 dead for more than ten years, and the person 
 calling herself Harriet Grant is not known to the 
 gentleman to whom she has addressed herself. 
 Further attempts from that quarter will be an- 
 swered by the police." This was his reply to 
 that yearning out-pour of grieving love, and it 
 was a reply on which he prided himself as show- 
 ing decision of character and firmness.
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 159 
 
 Isola, who knew nothing of this letter, sat for 
 some time after dinner with Gibbon's ' Decline 
 and Fall' in her hand, apparently reading, but in 
 reality wondering why St. John had spoken to 
 her so harshly as he had done all through the 
 day, and why he had said to her with a pain- 
 ful smile, more sneer than smile, "It will be 
 strange, Isola, will it not, if in return for all my 
 love for you, and all that I have done for you, my 
 ruin should come through you V 
 
 But he would give her no explanation of his 
 words, and Isola tried to puzzle out their mean- 
 ing in vain. 
 
 The note to Gilbert Holmes was put into his 
 hands just as he was leaving his club. 
 
 " Poor little soul ! I will go and see her this 
 afternoon. I may be of use to her; I wonder if 
 Richard Norton could do anything for her," he 
 said half aloud, as he walked along the crowded 
 streets to Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 It was . natural for Gilbert Holmes to be of 
 help to women, and quite as natural that women 
 should go to him for help, being one of the men
 
 1G0 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 who instinctively inspire them with confidence 
 and the feeling of protection. He was a re- 
 markably handsome man, though by no means of 
 the barber's block kind of beauty, nor indeed 
 of any kind often seen in cities or under an 
 old system of civilization anywhere ; a massively- 
 built man, standing over six feet in height 
 and evidently proportionately strong — a tawny 
 man of the leonine type, with a broad square 
 brow, round which his hair, of the richest 
 lion-brown, fell in loose and heavy flocks ; his 
 spade-shaped beard was tawny too; his eyes 
 were of a dark, clear, liquid hazel ; and he was 
 bronzed and burnt till his skin was very nearly 
 as dark as his hair. He looked as if he had just 
 come from a state of life where a man's test of 
 gentlehood consisted not so much in the purity 
 of his linen and the grace with which he could 
 undertake the " usages," as in courage, power, 
 unselfishness, and honour; he looked as if he 
 had been where realities and not convention- 
 alisms were of most account, and where huma- 
 nity was of more value than social observances.
 
 161 
 
 All his gestures had that broad and vigorous 
 freedom which is the essential characteristic of a 
 man accustomed to rely only on his own strength 
 and not on the protection of law; and his dress 
 was as free as his bearing. 
 
 An instinctive freemason in the squareness of 
 his attitudes, there was no sloping outline about 
 him, no looking from under his eyebrows furtively, 
 or head turned sideways in a shy kind of fear to 
 be too clearly seen; but he bore himself openly 
 and frankly, standing always face to face, with 
 head erect and chest broadside, his shoulders set 
 well forward, and his feet brought up together 
 and straight as an Indian's — not turned outward 
 from the ankle according to the hideous art of 
 the dancing-master. His eyes were quick and 
 steady, and his hands were well shaped and ca- 
 pable — roughened and knocked about now as if 
 they had done hard work quite lately. He had 
 in all things the look of a granitic man, braced 
 and clamped into more than ordinary power ; and 
 yet he was not hard. He could witness death, 
 and order it, and do it with his own hand if the 
 
 VOL. i. M
 
 162 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 need came, without a nerve shaken or the hesita- 
 tion of a moment, but he could nurse the sick aud 
 tend the dying with the gentleness of a woman. 
 His years of stern experience in a country where 
 he had carried his life in his hand, so to speak, 
 had made him fearless, real, and prompt, while 
 leaving in him that grave gentleness of one who 
 knows all the natural tragedies and none of the 
 conventional meannesses of life. He was born 
 to work and to suffer, but also to overcome — to 
 win the love of many and the hatred of some 
 according to individual capacity, but it was im- 
 possible that he should be despised. 
 
 This, then, was Gilbert Holmes lately returned 
 from the wilds of California, the fellow-traveller 
 of Harriet Grant and Massinger's residuary le- 
 gatee, now on his way to Richard Norton's office 
 for the purpose of inquiring into that bequest, 
 and learning, if he could, the extent of his 
 legacy. 
 
 " I am glad to see you in England again ; gad ! 
 how changed ! " said Richard Norton as Gilbert 
 was ushered into his office.
 
 163 
 
 " Yes/' said Gilbert, " seventeen years in a 
 climate like that of California leaves its mark 
 pretty plainly. I scarcely expected you would 
 have known me again. " 
 
 " No more I should if I had met you by chance, 
 bat I have been looking out for you for some 
 time now. I knew that you were in England 
 and have been expecting you to turn up." 
 
 " How did you know this ?" asked Gilbert. 
 
 " From a fellow-passenger of yours, Mrs. H. 
 Grant," answered Mr. Norton indifferently. 
 
 " Ah, poor little soul ! so you know her then ? 
 I was going to speak to you about her to-day. 
 She excited a great deal of sympathy among the 
 passengers when she lost her husband ; not that 
 he was much of a loss to her anyhow, I should 
 say, for he was an ill-conditioned brute enough ; 
 but she was so helpless, so child-like, that every 
 one felt for her. I have just had a note from 
 her, telling me she is very ill and lonely. I told 
 her to write and let me know if at any time she 
 wanted any help." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Mr. Norton with a sickly 
 
 m 2
 
 164 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 smile. " You got to be great friends, then, to- 
 gether ? I saw her myself a short time since, 
 and, I hope, relieved her more pressing needs. 
 By the by, do you know anything of her family? 
 who she is ? what she was before she married ? 
 where she originally came from?" 
 
 " Not the least in the world, do you ? " said 
 Gilbert Holmes. 
 
 "No," answered Mr. Norton. And he spoke 
 quite naturally and distinctly. 
 
 " She was very reserved about herself," then 
 said Gilbert. " Her husband boasted a little of 
 her family, said she was a lady — as one could 
 see — that her father had been a clergyman, and 
 that her grandfather had sat in the House of 
 Lords ; but whether this was bounce or not, no 
 one knew. He was a vile fellow himself — looked 
 and talked more like a groom than anything else ; 
 and if it had not been for the poor little woman 
 I should have said the best thing that could have 
 happened to him was what did happen, and that 
 his death was a gain to every one concerned." 
 
 " So I think too," said Richard Norton drily.
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 165 
 
 Then lie shook off the subject, and taking up 
 another thread said briskly, " You have come 
 to me, I suppose, about that will of Massinger's ? 
 He was your uncle, I think V* 
 
 "Yes, my mother's brother. Do you know the 
 acting executor, Harvey Wyndham ? his name is 
 new to me as one of my uncle's friends." 
 
 " I know him, but not intimately. He is a 
 clever fellow enough — a pushing fellow who 
 knows his business, and who seems to have as 
 many irons in the fire as there are professions to 
 undertake. He is a bit of an artist, a bit of a 
 medical student, he was once a reporter in the 
 House of Commons, now he is sub-editor of a 
 daily paper; he does a little dabbling in the 
 share-market, coaches parliamentary speakers, 
 makes a book, and backs the winner; in fact, 
 anything seems to come easy to him ; a kind of 
 handy man generally, and of omnivorous capa- 
 city. I know him by the outside of things. He was 
 appointed by your uncle quite lately, I see, with 
 you and Mr. Tremouille. But Mr. Tremouille 
 refused to act, and you were out cf England; so
 
 1C6 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 that is how Harvey Wyndhiam took the business 
 in hand. You have not seen him, I suppose V 
 
 " Not yet. I found a letter from him at my 
 agent's when I landed ; but I have had so much 
 to do with other matters, I have not been able to 
 look after my legacy yet. I appointed to meet 
 him here to-day. Being a stranger to me, I 
 thought it best to see him here with you at 
 first," 
 
 " Quite right/' said the lawyer. " You know, 
 I suppose, that there is some little awkwardness 
 about a legacy, which I have not seen into yet F" 
 he said indifferently, taking a slip of paper and 
 writing on it " To see to H. W.'s legacy/' as if 
 it was a quite unimportant matter that he had 
 forgotten, and of which he needed reminding. 
 
 " What legacy F" 
 
 "Five hundred pounds to Honor Wilson or 
 her heirs/' said Richard Norton. " That must 
 be paid first of all, before we can deal with the 
 residue. Have you any idea yourself of what the 
 estate will yield ?" 
 
 " Not the least," said Gilbert,
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 167 
 
 " Can make no calculation as to the amount of 
 the residue ?" 
 
 " No ; but it cannot be much. My uncle was 
 a fairly successful man, I fancy, for an artist, but, 
 like his tribe, not a saving one. A thousand or 
 two at the utmost when this legacy is paid, I 
 should say ; perhaps not so much ; I do not 
 know." 
 
 " Did you know this Honor Wilson V 9 asked 
 Richard Norton. 
 
 " I never even heard her name before. "Who 
 was she V 9 
 
 " Massinger's model," said Mr. Norton drily. 
 " She is dead now, and we have to seek out her 
 heirs." 
 
 "I supposed something of the kind; "but 
 fancy my uncle cherishing a passion like this 
 for thirty years !" said Gilbert. " The will is 
 dated thirty-three years back, when I was a 
 little fellow just turned out to school, and she 
 must have been dead many years now, I should 
 say, else I think we should have known some- 
 thing about her."
 
 108 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Scarcely. You were but young, you .see, 
 when you went abroad." 
 
 ' ' Twenty-one/' interrupted Gilbert, " and older 
 than my years." 
 
 "Just so ; but men like your uncle do not will- 
 ingly confide in their juniors; and he and Mrj 
 Tremouille never pulled well together." 
 
 " No, they did not," said Gilbert. " I remember 
 my uncle Massinger took it as a sore offence that 
 my uncle Tremouille should have married so soon 
 after his wife's death ; and a nigger as he always 
 called the second wife; which made matters 
 worse." 
 
 "The second Mrs. Tremouille was a woman of 
 colour ?" asked Mr. Norton, glancing off the main 
 subject. 
 
 " Yes, a quadroon ; and very lovely. I can re- 
 member her well." 
 
 "You do not know your cousin Marcy, of 
 course ?" 
 
 " No ! of coarse not. She is just eighteen, and 
 I have been seventeen years out of England. I 
 remember her as a little thing, more like a squeal-
 
 MASSINGEli's RESIDUARY LEGATEE. 169 
 
 ing monkey than anything else, awfully ugly, and 
 as black as a crow." 
 
 " She is awfully handsome now," laughed Mr. 
 Norton, " and an heiress." 
 
 "Yes," said Gilbert quietly. "She will be 
 well off I should think. Mr. Tremouille cannot 
 have less than two or three thousand a year, and 
 Marcy is the only child." 
 
 u I hope she will meet with a good husband," 
 said Mr. Norton in his most matter-of-fact man- 
 ner. 
 
 "I hope she will," said Gilbert. 
 
 "You are going to Newfield to see them, of 
 course ?" 
 
 " Of course. They are my only relatives now, 
 and I should like to see the old place again. 
 You know we had the Hermitage and they fche 
 Hall, and at one time divided Newfield pretty 
 much between us ?" 
 
 "Who knows? so you may again," said Ri- 
 chard Norton smiling jocularly and rubbing his 
 hands with Hood's invisible soap. 
 
 " I do not exactly see how it is to be done,"
 
 170 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 laughed Gilbert; " I have not comeback much 
 richer than when I went. I had made my way- 
 pretty well, but the war ruined me. I invested 
 in southern securities, and of course lost every- 
 thing I possessed." 
 
 " Oh ! something will turn up/' said Mr. Nor- 
 ton. 
 
 "But not the Hermitage \" the other answered. 
 
 Lambe Tremouille and Archer Holmes, the 
 uncle and father of Gilbert, had married sisters — 
 the sisters of that Massinger, the artist, who had 
 left Honor Wilson a legacy of five hundred pounds. 
 The two men were great friends at the time and 
 both wealthy, so they agreed to live near each other 
 in the country, and to be true brothers in life as 
 they were in connexion. They therefore bought 
 the two Newfield estates, and lived what is called 
 "jolly lives" with infinite satisfaction to all con- 
 cerned. As time went on things began to change 
 a little j not between them in any way — they were 
 always affectionate and fraternal together — but in 
 certain matters as necessary as even love. They 
 both lived up to the hilt, but Lambe Tremouille
 
 messenger's residuary legatee. 171 
 
 had the longer blade, and Archer Holmes the 
 shallower holding. The latter woke one day to 
 find himself ruined, just at the time when Agnes 
 Tremouille died, and Lainbe's affairs began to be 
 entangled. But the tempers of the men differed 
 widely. Lambe Tremouille busied himself at 
 once to repair his disasters, and for this purpose 
 went out to Jamaica, where some of his entangle- 
 ments were to be found; but Archer Holmes 
 went to the Jews, and in a few years, by natural 
 consequence, to the dogs. Just as Lambe Tre- 
 mouille returned with his new wife and all his 
 assets pulled clean and straight, Archer Holmes 
 died, hopelessly insolvent; and then, the poor 
 wife d} T ing too, Gilbert saw himself left at the 
 age of twenty-one without a shilling he could 
 call his own. He sold the Hermitage, paid the 
 creditors, threw up his college career, and with his 
 outfit and a few pounds in his pocket at the end 
 of his voyage, started off to California, there to 
 seek what fortune he might be able to find buried 
 in the gold-fields. He worked hard and he did 
 well, but, as he told Richard Norton, he invested
 
 172 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 bis earnings in southern securities ; and wlien the 
 collapse of the confederacy came, the collapse of 
 his fortunes came with it. He had come over to 
 England now to see if he could not create some 
 mercantile interest here, and when he arrived he 
 found that he was Massinger's residuary legatee ; 
 which might perhaps set him up in the world 
 again, and redeem all that he had lost. As yet, 
 though he was in the dark as to the value of his 
 legacy, for nothing could be done, said Richard 
 Norton, until Honor Wilson's heirs were found, 
 and though he was on the track, he said — deci- 
 dedly on the track — he could not say for certain 
 that he had found the right clue ; though he might 
 tell Mr. Holmes this much, that perhaps it had 
 some relation to Mrs. H. Grant. 
 
 " Perhaps only — pray be careful of that per- 
 haps," he repeated emphatically. "I am by no 
 means sure, and must look into the whole matter, 
 and obtain proofs before paying the money 
 away." 
 
 " I shall be very glad if it is so," said Gilbert 
 heartily, "she wants it sadly enough, poor crea-
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 173 
 
 ture ! for her husband, vulgar, drunken rowdy ! 
 drank and gambled up to the last moment. He 
 lost his last penny at cut-throat poker not half an 
 hour before he 'went under/ and of course left 
 his widow absolutely penniless. We got up a 
 subscription for her on board and did what we 
 could, but she landed in a helpless state enough. 
 I gave her my card in case she should need assis- 
 tance, and I am going to see her to-day." 
 
 "* Indeed," said Mr. Norton drily. He did not 
 seem to like the idea of Gilbert Holmes and this 
 repeated expression of interest in little Mrs. Grant. 
 
 While he was rubbing his hands softly as a re- 
 fuge from his annoyance, the office-gong sounded 
 and Harvey Wyndham's name was brought in. 
 
 " Show Mr. Wyndham in," said Mr. Norton ; 
 and Harvey, bright, animated, business-like, with 
 quick black eyes, a ready smile, and a sounding 
 laugh, came briskly forward, bristling at all 
 points with business and the importance of time, 
 and the absolute necessity of settling everything 
 out of hand at once, as if his life was a pivot upon 
 which some great national disc was turning.
 
 174 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 The business between the three was not of very 
 long continuance. Harvey had only to hand over 
 to Gilbert the whole active management of his 
 uncle's property, taking a release for all that he 
 had done, which was simply the payment of the 
 funeral expenses and some incontestable bills. 
 As he took no benefit under the will, and as the 
 only two clauses in it were this legacy to Honor- 
 Wilson and the residuary legateeship to Gilbert 
 Holmes, he did not care to spend his time in 
 continuing the active executorship, he said with 
 his jaunty air of business pressure ; and Gilbert 
 said, " Certainly not," quite quietly, and thanked 
 him for the trouble he had taken. 
 
 Then Harvey, turning to Eichard Norton, 
 asked carelessly, " Has this Honor Wilson been 
 found yet ? " 
 
 To which the lawyer made repLv in his cold legal 
 voice, "Not yet; but I think I am on the track." 
 
 " Strange that she should have passed out of 
 all record so entirely ! " said Harvey. 
 
 " Yes, it is," said Richard Norton ; " very 
 strange."
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 175 
 
 " Tke waifs and strays are soon lost in a great 
 city like this," said Gilbert. "The wonder is 
 they are ever fonnd again when once they haye 
 begun to drift." 
 
 " Unless they haye good friends to take them 
 by the hand," said Harvey, with the air of one 
 who was in the habit of taking up waifs and 
 strays from the social slough and placing them 
 upon firm clean pasture land rented at his own 
 cost. He had that way with him — the way of a 
 man who makes capital out of every incident of 
 his life, and who is always on the look-out for 
 occasions of investment. 
 
 While they were standing thus, talking of in- 
 different things — for Mr. Norton was not speci- 
 ally busy to-day, and was, beside, fond of talking 
 — again the office-gong sounded and St. John 
 Aylott's name was brought in. He had taken a 
 house in the country — the Hermitage, Newfield — 
 and he wanted Eichard Norton to tell him some- 
 thing he ought to have known before he had con- 
 cluded the agreement. But it had pleased him at 
 the moment to act with such unwonted promptness
 
 176 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 and self-reliance ; and if lie had burnt his fingers 
 in the process, at least he had had his pleasure 
 out of the flame. 
 
 When his name was brought in, and Mr. Nor- 
 ton, crumpling up the clerk's bit of paper in his 
 fingers, said aloud, u St. John Aylott ! another 
 odd coincidence" — with a curious glance to both 
 the men — Harvey Wyndham called out cheerily, 
 " The husband of the Beauty ? Have him in 
 by all means, Norton ! I should like to see him 
 amazingly ! My father knew something about his 
 father in times gone by, and I have an odd 
 curiosity to see this St. John." 
 
 " Show Mr. Aylott in," said Mr. Norton ; and 
 St. John's tall, slight figure passed through the 
 doorway, and mingled with the small group 
 standing on the hearth-rug. 
 
 What a strangely opposed group it was ! — the 
 meeting of four men as unlike in character as 
 could be found anywhere. Richard Norton, the 
 smooth, bland lawyer of the old Encyclo- 
 paedist school — a man to whom nothing was 
 sacred and nothing forbidden ; pitying men and
 
 177 
 
 women for failure and for pain, but, ignoring 
 both affection and conscience, thinking sorrow 
 weak and remorse degrading — a Voltairean, as 
 Voltaireans are seen in the nineteenth century in 
 England ; by no means bad-hearted — simply with- 
 out a conscience. Harvey Wyndham, frothy, 
 floating, ambitious, elastic ; making use of all 
 things for his own advancement, but with a more 
 fixed force of principle than had the lawyer, inas- 
 much as he was a liberal and stood with his 
 party manfully, even when dark days came upon 
 them and good things went elsewhere ; a man 
 full of surface geniality, seen in the moist lip and 
 the dancing eye; ever ready to serve another, 
 but always with the rapid calculation of how 
 much it would be worth to him either in pocket 
 or reputation ; glad to dispense patronage as the 
 means of power, but with no intention at any 
 time of giving away, even in patronage, what he 
 could make use of for himself. St. John Aylott, 
 the shy, reserved gentleman to whom all men 
 below his own grade were common and unclean ; 
 who scarce credited the poor with human affec- 
 
 VOL. 1. N
 
 178 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 tions, and who placed a positive virtue in the 
 conventional observances; pure as a child, fas- 
 tidious as a woman, but stifling the real heart of 
 him under the artificial trammels of Society; 
 and Gilbert Holmes, practical and strong, brush- 
 ing away all the paltry little cobwebs of pseudo- 
 science and artificial conventions and intellectual 
 sophistry with that great sledge-hammer of com- 
 mon sense which is worth all the theories ever 
 yet set forth — a man who had learned life ex- 
 perimentally and who had not studied it merely 
 at second hand ; whose nature had been mortised 
 and consolidated till all looseness and weakness 
 had been driven out of him ; and who stood as 
 square and firm on his own feet as his com- 
 panions were shifty on the one hand, or needed 
 the shoring up of precedent and extraneous 
 balustrading on the other. Leaving out the 
 exaggeration of vices and crimes, what greater 
 divergence of character could there be between 
 four ordinary Englishmen of middle-class educa- 
 tion and traditions ? 
 - St. John was much anroyed at being thus eu-
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 179 
 
 trapped, as it were, into an unknown society ; 
 but as there was no help for it now, he had to 
 bear his part with the rest — talking in his re- 
 served and cautious manner, pausing a little be- 
 fore he spoke and speaking with downcast eves, 
 or looking above his companion's head or on the 
 third button of his waistcoat, and never frankly 
 into his face — a manner strangely contrasted with 
 Harvey's expansive cheerfulness and Gilbert's 
 fearless frankness, and which gave an impression 
 of self-defence and the endeavour to conceal, not 
 exhilarating. 
 
 Avery few moments were sufficient for Gilbert 
 Holmes. He was too much accustomed to all 
 sorts of men not to be able to gauge a stranger ; 
 and this moral timidity and reticence of St. John 
 Aylott did not please him. He turned then to 
 Mr. Norton and spoke to him a little apart j 
 while Harvey, with the well-worn ease of a club- 
 man, fitted himself in to St. John's peculiarities, 
 and soon forced himself into quite an attitude of 
 intimacy with the dean's proud grandson. Much 
 to St. John's annoyance ; but an annoyance as 
 
 n2
 
 180 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 helpless as it was guarded. He could not quite 
 understand Harvey Wyndham. He did not 
 know why on earth he should be so overwhelm- 
 ingly civil to him; why he should offer him 
 tickets to this thing and to that — good things 
 not open to the public generally and not to be 
 had for money, but to which he, as a press-man, 
 had the entree, with the privilege of taking a 
 friend or friends. What was his, St. John's, 
 pleasure to him ? Why should he wish to gra- 
 tify him by giving him tickets for good things ? 
 Such excessive good nature was not in St. John 
 Aylott's line, and he was sorely troubled, because 
 perplexed with doubts and secret fears, when 
 manifested to him from another. He did not 
 know that all this ploughing the ground for 
 future friendship was because Harvey Wynd- 
 ham was poor and St. John Aylott was rich, and 
 rich friends do sometimes open the mouths of 
 their purses, and let a little golden shower trickle 
 down upon the thirsty palms of their needier 
 brethren. But as yet it was labour in vain. St. 
 John " fought shy " of Harvey's lures, and de-
 
 181 
 
 clined all his baits seriatim. Even when Harvey 
 asked him to dine with him at his club that 
 day fortnight, when a grand dinner was to be 
 given to the great African traveller Fitzwilliam 
 — one of the Cornish Fitzwilliams, said Harvey, 
 parenthetically — even that St. John declined 
 like the rest ; though he said unguardedly, cc A 
 Cornish Fitzwilliam ? I wonder of what branch ! 
 My mother was a Cornish Fitzwilliam." 
 
 u Come to us, and then you can learn all about 
 it. Perhaps you will be able to knock up a rela- 
 tionship between you," said Harvey. 
 
 But St. John answered with his shyest look, 
 retreating a step as he spoke ; — " Thank you, no ; 
 I shall not be in town Thursday fortnight ; I am 
 going into the country." 
 
 " Lucky fellow !" said Harvey Wyndham. " I 
 wish I was going into the country too ! Londo n 
 is getting unbearable. Are you going to the 
 seaside ? 
 
 " No," said St. John; "into the country." 
 
 "Do you know Devonshire ?" asked Harvey. 
 
 " No," said St. John.
 
 182 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " The Lake Country ? or Scotland ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Wales?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Ah ! you should visit all those places !" said 
 Harvey Wyndham gaily, " and I should be 
 deuced glad to meet you there." 
 
 But St. John did not take the hint, and tell 
 where he had decided to go. 
 
 Then laughing a little boisterously, and plant- 
 ing his feet a little wider apart than before, as 
 he thrust his hands into his Avaistband-pockets, 
 Harvey said, "Do you know I was nearly taking 
 the liberty of calling on you the other day ?" 
 
 " Indeed !" said St. John Aylott surprisedly. 
 
 " Yes, I know some connections of yours — the 
 Osborns ; indeed Miss Osborn is a literary pro- 
 tegee of mine ; I may say that I dug her out of 
 her obscurity, and have made her, in fact ; and 
 when I heard they were going to see you, I very 
 nearly accompanied them for sake of the old 
 name. For my father knew yours well in times 
 past, and one always has a liking for old names.
 
 183 
 
 Interesting people, the Osborns, are they not ? 
 The elder lady quite a study in her way, and the 
 younger a creature of consummate force V 
 
 " I scarcely know them/' said St. John 
 haughtily. His face changed in expression as 
 he spoke, and from the mere shyness and reserve 
 of the former moments, became dark and angry. 
 " They are Mrs. Aylott's connections, not mine," 
 he added hastily; and Harvey understood the 
 whole nature of the man who could defend the pu- 
 rity of his own blood at the expense of his wife's. 
 
 "Yes, so I understand; but they are really 
 worth cultivating. The surgeon was a slight 
 mistake, I fancy," laughing. "1 know some 
 fellows who knew him, and they said he was 
 rough enough ; but what of that ? Metropolitan 
 life is too broad and composite to admit of the 
 narrow class-pride still upheld as an article of 
 faith in the country. A person is as he seems to 
 be in the great centres ; and if Jane Osborn 
 becomes, as I suspect she will, a celebrity, the 
 surgeon will be burked ; or rather no one will 
 care whether her father was a costermonger or a
 
 184 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 bishop. Don't you see what I mean ? I have as 
 strong prejudices in favour of blood and breed- 
 ing as any one — taking the matter scientifically 
 and on the principle of selection ; but I cart 1 
 more for brains and character. That is my me- 
 tropolitan education; and you, as a man of the 
 world, go with me, I am sure." 
 
 " Not quite/' said St. John uneasily. " I 
 confess I am not much prepossessed in favour of 
 Mrs. Osborn or her daughter; I think the one 
 extremely weak and the other coarse, and I do 
 not care to cultivate their acquaintance." 
 
 " Then I might not have found their introduc- 
 tion a very safe passport?" laughed Harvey; 
 his light, easy way of taking things was so dif- 
 ferent to St. John's guarded and formal manner ! 
 
 u You might have had one which would have 
 been more certain," he answered with percepti- 
 ble reserve. 
 
 " Richard Norton's, for instance ?" said Harvey. 
 
 "Who is taking my name in vain?" asked 
 the lawyer. 
 
 " Only I. I am saying that your introduction
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 185 
 
 to Mr. Aylott is a better one than what I was on 
 the point of claiming — the OsbornsY' said Har- 
 vey quite cheerily, and as if unconscious that any 
 offence could be behind his words — as if Mr. 
 Aylott was not at all the man to wince under the 
 allusion, and as if introductions to him were 
 every day matters, as pleasant as they were 
 common. 
 
 Mr. Norton laughed. " I think I should be as 
 good a sponsor for you as any one," he said. ci I 
 never yet knew St. John refuse a request of 
 mine. I am a kind of half-father to him, and 
 sometimes exercise the functions of one." 
 
 No one knew how much he had exercised 
 those functions, nor how much he was exercising 
 them now, in deciding for himself between right 
 and law, and what he would communicate to St. 
 John of his own affairs, and what he would mani- 
 pulate for him without his consent or advice, not 
 recognizing the young man's judgment or free 
 will in the matters under his hand. 
 
 " So you may," said St. John uneasily ; " but 
 one grows out of tutelage at last."
 
 ]S6 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " To your family solicitor ? " He shook his 
 head. " That is a guardianship which always 
 remains in full force, even if the guardian is 
 changed." 
 
 " Perhaps less to him than to any other, but 
 even with one's family solicitor one must be 
 master," said St. John a little haughtily. 
 
 And Mr. Norton smiled and said, " Yes, cer- 
 tainly, of course," quite naturally, as if St. John 
 Aylott was the master of his own concerns, and 
 understood the secrets underlying his life as 
 clearly as he, Richard Norton, himself under- 
 stood them. Which at least smoothed the young 
 man's ruffled self-love and pressed the film a little 
 closer over his eyes. 
 
 "Well now, St. John, suppose you back me 
 up in what I have said, and show us that you will 
 do what I ask," said Mr. Norton in his gravely 
 jocular manner — a jocularity so grave that it 
 w r as exceedingly difficult to discover the lighter 
 lines. " Suppose you ask us all to dinner, hey ? 
 it will be a nice break in that monotonous life of 
 yours. You know I am always crying out
 
 187 
 
 against it, as bad for yourself and Mrs. Aylott 
 too. Suppose you break through it for once in 
 your life, and let us see your pictures and your 
 cellar. The dean had the best cellar in London 
 in old times. You have still some of that fa- 
 mous malmsey madeira with the blue label left, 
 have you not ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered St. John : " I do not often 
 drink it, and my grandfather laid down a pipe of 
 it when my father came of age." 
 
 " Fifty-one years ago ? " 
 
 " Yes \ if my father had lived he would have 
 been seventy-two now," said St. John a little 
 more gravely than usual. 
 
 " And you are thirty?" asked Mr. Norton. 
 
 " Thirty," answered St. John. 
 
 There was a slight pause after this. No one 
 seemed to know what to say, for though Mr. 
 Norton might have some reason for being thus 
 exact in his dates, it was really of very little im- 
 portance to Harvey Wyndham or to Gilbert 
 Holmes of what precise age St. John Aylott was 
 at this moment, and how old his father was when 
 he died.
 
 188 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 "But how about this dinner?" then said Mr. 
 Norton, catching up the ball again. 
 
 " I should be very glad I am sure/' said St. 
 John with an uneasy smile ; " but I am going 
 out of town soon. I have taken a house in the 
 country ; and that is why I have called here to- 
 day, Norton/' branching off in the quick manner 
 of a man escaping a disagreeable subject. " I have 
 taken a place called the Hermitage, at Newfield, 
 and I want to know what would vitiate the 
 agreement ? what discomforts or annoyances ?" 
 
 " The Hermitage at Newfield ! what, in God's 
 name, induced you to do that t" cried Richard 
 Norton. 
 
 " Why ?" asked St. John, startled. 
 
 The lawyer turned to Gilbert Holmes. tt I 
 say, Holmes, you know what we were talking 
 of just now — the Hermitage ?" he called out. 
 
 " Yes/' said Gilbert. 
 
 " Mr. Aylott has taken it." 
 
 "Indeed !" said Gilbert, coming forward with 
 a look of interest ; " that was my old home be- 
 fore I left England. We had the estate when I
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 189 
 
 was a lad; but it was obliged to be sold. My 
 uncle Tremouille lives there still ; I mean at 
 Newfield. I am going down as soon as I get my 
 business settled in London." 
 
 " I hope you will come while I am there," 
 said Harvey quite quietly, as if going to the 
 Tremouilles of Newfield was almost a daily oc- 
 currence. 
 
 "Are you going too V asked Gilbert quickly. 
 " Yes, in about a week's time," said Harvey 
 with a pleasant smile. 
 
 And St. John's soul fainted within him. He had 
 gone too far to recede now ; and at all events, in 
 the country he could keep these fellows at a dis- 
 tance, he thought. But what ill luck was upon 
 him, what evil fate pursued him, that he should 
 be thus forced into contact with his kind — he 
 who asked of all men only the grace of isolation ? 
 Here were two links lately forged — Harvey 
 Wyndham's knowledge of the Osborns — with that 
 lodger of theirs, and the letter torn into such 
 passionate fragments haunting his brain like 
 some horrid spectre that would not be laid : and
 
 190 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 now both Gilbert Holmes and Harvey were asso- 
 ciated with the very place taken to secure him 
 against intrusion ! It was a strangely sharp whip 
 that fate was laying on him at this moment, he 
 thought ; and the expression that passed over his 
 face was one literally of despair. But no one 
 seemed to see it, or if to see it, then not to read, 
 and the general conversation continued — Gilbert 
 Holmes merely saying by way of rider, " I hope 
 we shall see you at the Hall, Mr. Aylott ; my 
 uncle is a capital fellow and has first-rate covers." 
 
 But St. John did not speak • he simply bowed 
 in a kind of cold acknowledgment of what had 
 been said, then turned again to Richard Norton, 
 and spoke in an under tone as if of some impor- 
 tant business affair. 
 
 Soon after this Gilbert Holmes and Harvey 
 Wyndham took their leave together, and as they 
 walked, the conversation went back to Newfield 
 and the Hall, and the Tremouilles inhabiting. 
 
 " Do you know the daughter ?" asked Gilbert ; 
 " my cousin Marcy ?" 
 
 " No ; I hear though that she is very beautiful,
 
 MASSINGER S RESIDUARY LEGA1 101 
 
 and an heiress into the bargain," said Harvey 
 lightly. " Do you know her ? 
 
 " Xot at all. I have been away too long. She 
 was a mere infant when I left." 
 
 "I am anxious to see her," said Harvey indif- 
 ferently. u I have an immense admiration for 
 these Creole creatures. I suppose she is right- 
 fully a quadroon, but we call quadroons Creoles 
 in general; I mean we call all the mixed race 
 Creoles. I admire all that tropical warmth and 
 affluence so immensely \" 
 
 " Do you ? I like fair girls best/' said Gilbert. 
 
 "Then we are both out of the usual course, 
 which gives contrasts as the safer law/' laughed 
 Harvey. " I should take the blonde and you the 
 brunette. By the by, talking of women, what 
 an odd thing this is in poor Massinger's will — 
 this legacy to Honor Wilson V 
 
 "Yes; odd, because so long ago. But he was 
 just the man to stick to an affection all his life/' 
 said Gilbert. "A secret, a sorrow, and a love — 
 that was quite his style, poor old fellow I" 
 
 " It will be difficult to find the heirs, I should
 
 192 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 say/' Harvey answered; "they must be adver- 
 tised for." 
 
 " Norton seems to have some idea of who they 
 are/' said Gilbert. " He is a clever fellow and 
 a cool head. I shall leave the matter to him." 
 
 " Can't do better/' said Harvey. " Where are 
 you going to now ?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 " To sixty,, Seymour Street/' Gilbert answered. 
 
 " No ? are you though ? That is just where I 
 am going. The Osborns that I was talking of 
 live there. Do you know Jane Osborn ?" 
 
 " No ; I am going to see a Mrs. Grant, a little 
 fellow-passenger of mine." 
 
 " By Jove, how odd !" cried Harvey. 
 
 " What is odd ?" asked the other. 
 
 " Oh, the whole thing — Aylott's connections, 
 your friends, my protegee — such a queer jumble 
 of relations altogether." 
 
 "I know things more queer than this," laughed 
 Gilbert, his hand on the knocker of Mrs. Osborn's 
 door. 
 
 Perhaps something quite as odd in another 
 way was the cleverness with which Harvey
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 193 
 
 Wyndham had manipulated all this day's circum- 
 stances, and was now manipulating Jane Osborn's 
 power of work and gratitude : his interview end- 
 ing with his own reluctant concession to Jane's 
 blunt and earnest prayer that he would let her 
 do his work for him while he was away, out of 
 pure affection and gratitude. She could not, of 
 course, do his night-work at the office ; but there 
 was much that she could undertake ; and did ; 
 Smith of the ' Comet ' having no prejudice on the 
 score of petticoats, and being not in the least dis- 
 inclined to employ female labour, young or old, if 
 he could save five shillings a week by doing so — 
 and Jane no more caring for the rudeness of the 
 people, the dirtiness of the place, or the anoma- 
 lousness of her position, than she cared for the 
 shouldering of the passers by, or the mud upon 
 the Fleet Street pavement. It caused no kind of 
 discomfort to her that she was called by the of- 
 fice-boys Jack Osborn, and sometimes Johnnie 
 0. for a difference; her work in life, she wisely 
 thought, was newspaper writing done to time 
 and up to the mark, and offence-taking at low 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 impertinence was a folly for wliicli she was far 
 too wise and strong. 
 
 So Jane Osborn was installed Harvey's vice in 
 his absence : and she would sooner have had this 
 work to do for him, gratuitous and hard as it 
 was, than the easiest and best-paid post to be 
 found on the London press anywhere. Wyndham 
 had been the first friend she had, and she was 
 proud to be of use to him — oh, prouder than if 
 she had been made a duchess ! 
 
 " You are a first-rate fellow, Jane," said Har- 
 vey, shaking her hand vigorously ; " I never 
 knew a woman like you before." 
 
 " You need not praise me, Wyndham/ ' she 
 answered ; " where should I have been if it had 
 not been for you, I should like to know ? You 
 have made me." 
 
 " Nonsense, you have made yourself, Jane," he 
 answered, but with the accent of one who dis- 
 claims a true acknowledgment from motives of 
 delicacy and abounding generosity ; " I did not 
 give you your brains." 
 
 " No, but you put me where I could use them," 
 said Jane.
 
 massinger's residuary legatee. 195 
 
 "And Smith?" 
 
 " Oh, Smith is a good fellow enough," she an- 
 swered, "but Smith ain't you, Wyndham," her 
 great grey eyes looking moist and full of feeling 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Don't look like that, Jane ; you look posi- 
 tively handsome," cried Harvey putting his hand 
 over her eyes. 
 
 " Well, of all men living I shouldn't have ex- 
 pected you to have been a fool, Wyndhain," was 
 Jane's grave rejoinder. 
 
 " I wonder who was the fool between us !" 
 laughed Harvey to himself when he thought of 
 that little episode afterwards ; adding, " But, by 
 George, the girl has eyes that would make an- 
 other woman's fortune." 
 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 At the Hermitage, St. John was like a man es- 
 caped from a great danger breathing freely again. 
 The absolute seclusion of the place — for as yet they 
 had seen no one — restored his feeling of security 
 in isolation ; and as the outward ruling of his 
 life was what it had always been — monotonous, 
 orderly, and stately — he had nothing to regret, 
 having lost nothing that he valued. The ( Times' 
 came at one o'clock instead of at nine, and there 
 were green trees to look at and green lanes to 
 drive through in the place of houses and streets — 
 else it was all very much the same as in Hyde 
 Park Square. Isola was as gracefully dressed and
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 197 
 
 as uselessly employed ; lie himself was as much 
 as ever the precise geutlemau with whom conven- 
 tional observances ranked before moral virtues ; 
 and their domestic arrangements were as formal 
 and luxurious as before — dress, appointments, 
 service, all being as rigidly exacted as if a 
 crowd of gentry and nobles were entertained daily 
 at their table. Wherefore he was happy in thus 
 retaining the cherished circumstances of his town 
 life, while withdrawing his wife from further in- 
 tercourse with her objectionable kindred, and 
 securing himself from their degrading contact. 
 
 In his manners to Isola there was truly a cer- 
 tain subtle difference of tone, which kept up the 
 remembrance of his displeasure — a certain cold- 
 ness and formality, as if he had been seriously 
 aggrieved and was not quite sure that he had 
 forgiven. He often hinted regretfully at the 
 painful fact of having been driven from his home, 
 and how, through Isola, had come upon him the 
 greatest humiliation of his life. But she never 
 answered him when he spoke thus, and let him 
 sting her with fretful words without retaliation.
 
 198 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 To herself this country life of theirs was like 
 the return of spring and childhood. The wild 
 flowers in the hedges, the gleam of golden sun- 
 shine across the lawn, the song of the birds in 
 the winding shrubbery to the side, the flies and 
 butterflies, the wooded landscape, the very vil- 
 lages and cottage children had a charm for her 
 which only those know who have been brought up 
 in the country, and who return to it again after 
 years passed in a town. It was in truth a return 
 home. And yet she could not forget the words 
 of that rugged, truthful, unlovely cousin of hers. 
 They seemed to have burnt themselves into her, 
 and to be continually reminding her that she was 
 cowardly in thus consenting to a life which ren- 
 dered her useless to her kind, giving up the best 
 inheritance of humanity — freedom, and its noblest 
 duty — charity, merely that a conventional law 
 might run smoothly ; reminding her too that 
 this sacrifice of every other principle to domestic 
 peace was as base as it was useless. There is no 
 true peace where the conscience is doubtful and 
 the step faltering ; and Isola could not conceal it
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 199 
 
 from herself that her conscience was very doubt- 
 ful and her step very faltering. Let her give up 
 every personal inclination, every pleasure natural 
 to her age, every expression of girlish enthusiasm 
 both by word and deed, to chime in with her 
 husband's temper and to make herself more har- 
 monious with his mood ; all this was sacrifice, 
 rightly so-called ; but ought she to sacrifice prin- 
 ciples that she might meet him at the boundaries 
 of his own shortcomings ? because he was proud 
 and indolent, ought she to be so likewise ? because 
 he placed his salvation in purple and fine linen, 
 ought she to forget that hers lay in truth to 
 human nature and charity to her fellow- creatures ? 
 did the righteousness of wifely submission in- 
 clude unrighteousness to the light within her 
 own soul ? 
 
 Day by day these thoughts grew in her, till at 
 last she resolved to act on them; and, fulfilling the 
 duty that was nearest to her, determined to risk 
 another scene of discord, and ask her husband 
 for money of her own to keep or spend as she 
 chose, and for permission to visit the poor and
 
 200 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 learn their lives and their wants. But she did not 
 do this just yet. She knew her husband too well 
 to risk refusal by over-haste. How often had she 
 not had to learn that lesson of patient waiting ! 
 
 The village of Newfield was one of those beau- 
 tiful English villages nested among trees, which 
 are like lovely sleepy hollows set in a corner 
 apart — a place where the rich pastures are filled 
 with herds of cows standing knee- deep in flowery 
 grass under bordering lines of woodland or clumps 
 of stately trees — where the bright stream, running 
 through the copse, broadens out into a wide pool 
 for the mill, and where the mill- dam is the local 
 Niagara to the village children, filling them with 
 childish awe at the great forces of nature — where 
 the cottages are. all clothed in climbing plants, 
 and the old grey church is overrun with ivy — 
 where the sinithy is the centre of news, and the 
 farmer, riding to cover, is as grand a man as the 
 parson or the doctor — where railroads and great 
 trunk roads, canals and large towns, and all the 
 rest of the carrying power and centralizing force 
 of England are almost unknown — where life is
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 201 
 
 sauntered through in a lazy lotus-eating way that 
 sets all things half asleep — and where the world's 
 tumult and its anguish seem to have been passed 
 by as not pertaining to the humanity sheltered 
 there. 
 
 It was the very place for St. John Aylott ; 
 where he was reverenced and isolated at the same 
 time, looked up to and let alone — as was his ideal 
 of a gentleman's existence ; and he wondered that 
 he had not thought before of living in the country, 
 where he could be the local Dalai Lama at no 
 cost to himself beyond his permission to be wor- 
 shipped. He grew quite animated in planning 
 out his future at Newfield ; and Isola encou- 
 raged the idea, thinking that they should both 
 lead freer, and by so much better, lives in the 
 country than they did in their luxurious isolation 
 in town. So for the next few days there was an 
 active correspondence with Richard Norton and 
 the agent for the owner of the Hermitage ; and 
 the activity did St. John good, and made him 
 feel quite a man of business and of large social 
 importance.
 
 202 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 But he would not give Isola an independent al- 
 lowance, for all his serener humour. He was not 
 angry when she asked him — which was some- 
 thing gained — but he put her off with half- 
 jeering yet not unkindly refusals, and at last 
 said very plainly, No, he was the master and the 
 person to apply to in times of need. He would not 
 share his duties, he said grandly, even with a 
 wife. He did not say that he would go into their 
 miserable hovels, nor come into personal contact 
 with the poor anyhow ; but he would instruct an 
 agent to report on the most deserving cases, 
 when perhaps he would relieve them. 
 
 This was all that Isola could get from him of 
 genial charity for the poor; but it was better 
 than nothing, and she was wise enough to know 
 the full value of that phrase. Meanwhile she or- 
 dered soup and gruel in the kitchen for those 
 who chose to ask ; but because she was not suf- 
 fered to look after the execution of her own 
 orders, not much good was done in that way. 
 Either the cook wasted the material, or the 
 kitchenmaid refused the askers, or the footman
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 203 
 
 took a fancy to the broth, for his luncheon, or 
 some recondite kitchen catastrophe intervened, 
 and the Hermitage was as yet a well of oil not 
 flowing for the good of the poor of Newfield. 
 
 One day St. John and Isola were walking in the 
 lane near the house. St. John had never walked 
 iu London ; but since he had been in the country 
 he had sometimes undertaken an evening stroll as 
 his recognition of natural conditions, and conde- 
 scending willingness of adoption, when he thought 
 he could do so without loss of dignity. He had 
 bought riding horses too, and was going to ride 
 about the country with his wife, who as a girl 
 had been capable of anything that would bear a 
 saddle at all. A profound instinct of jealousy 
 had prevented his riding in London. Isola would 
 have been too much seen there ; her hat would 
 have been too becoming ; her habit would have 
 shown her figure to too great advantage ; she 
 would have been followed perhaps — perhaps she 
 would have seen a face that would have smiled on 
 her as she passed, and she might have caught the 
 smile and have returned it, or remembered. He
 
 204 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 preferred to sucli dangerous chances as these his 
 close, dark-green brougham, where he could sit 
 in the corner with her by his side, and look out 
 unseen on the moving panorama. Here at New- 
 field it was different. There was no one to see 
 her save a few rustics, who ranked as little higher 
 than the beasts they herded in St. John's mind ; 
 and she might ride where she would in the full 
 security of loneliness. She could meet no one 
 among the lanes and cornfields who could either 
 claim her, as had those odious relatives of hers, 
 or who could smile upon her pleasantly, and so 
 haunt her memory with dreams that might warp 
 her allegiance from him. Wherefore he ordered 
 a couple of showy park hacks through his coach- 
 man, and was now waiting their arrival; and 
 meanwhile he walked at times in the cool of the 
 evening for about a mile or so along the lanes. 
 
 They were walking now. It was a warm June 
 evening, fragrant, fresh, abounding with the life 
 of the young summer. The hedges glowed with 
 flowers ; the birds were twittering in the trees ; 
 here and there a blackbird gave out his rich and
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 205 
 
 lusty note, and here and there a thrush sang with 
 a sweeter passion; shy evening moths flitted 
 about ; swifts and swallows skimmed over the 
 pools and along the river ; the western sky was a 
 dappled dome of crumbling gold, and the trees 
 stood all aflame against the light ; but just in the 
 east, blotting out the silver thread of the young 
 moon, hung a heavy purple cloud, threatening 
 and ominous, betokening storm in the future if 
 not now in the immediate present. The lane in 
 which the Aylotts were walking was one which 
 led to the Hall if followed to its end — a kind of 
 by-way or occupation road, where two carts could 
 not pass each other, and where to meet a herd of 
 cows was a rather formidable matter to London- 
 bred nerves. It widened out into a broader sweep 
 at a place called Buckhurst Ground, where was a 
 group of three picturesque cottages belonging 
 to Mr. Tremouille of the Hall ; but save this 
 small clearing it was just a narrow line between 
 two leafy walls starred with wild roses and dra- 
 peried with clematis. 
 
 As they walked on in the evening loveliness,
 
 206 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 Isola in a kind of dreamy heaven, and even St. 
 John quietly content, they came face to face witli 
 two gentlemen and a lady, sauntering as slowly 
 and as silently as they between the scented hedge- 
 rows. Instantly one of the gentlemen came up 
 to St. John ; and, holding out his hand, said in a 
 cordial, hearty manner — quite the manner of an 
 old friend who had the right of familiar greeting — 
 " This is a pleasant chance ! Mr. Tremouille, this 
 is my friend Mr. Aylott, of whom I was speaking 
 only half a minute since. Miss Tremouille, and 
 I presume, Mrs. Aylott V interrogatively. 
 
 It was all done in a moment — done in Harvey's 
 off-hand, dashing, free-and-easy manner that was 
 not conventionally vulgar because so entirely 
 conversant with the rules, but that had not a 
 shade of moral reserve or refinement in it. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," said Mr. Tremouille 
 going up to St. John and offering his hand quite 
 as cordially as Harvey Wyndham had done. " M}~ 
 daughter and I were going to call on you at the 
 Hermitage to introduce ourselves, and this is a 
 fortunate meeting — breaks the ice as one may say. 
 Marcy, my dear !"
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 207 
 
 Marcy Tremouille came forward with a lazy 
 languid grace, and offered her small hand pret- 
 tily to Isola. 
 
 "I am very glad to see yon/' she said in a 
 feoft flute-like voice, with just the daintiest little 
 dash of foreign intonation in it. " We are all 
 so dull here, that your coming is quite a god- 
 send; you must come and see me very often 
 please, and let us be great friends together." 
 
 "Thank you," said Isola smiling; while even 
 St. John looked at the lovely face which had 
 broken into his charmed circle of isolation w r ith 
 admiration and forgiveness, and for sake of it 
 forgave the others. 
 
 And in truth it was a lovely face; the face 
 of a Caucasian generously tinged with dark 
 blood, and with all the beauty of form and 
 colour peculiar to the mixture of the north and 
 south. The sleepy almond-shaped eyes were of 
 the deepest and richest brown, and the thick 
 curled lashes gave them a shy and starry look, 
 at once innocent and enticing ; the eyebrows 
 were a long wide arch, and as finely pencilled
 
 208 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 as if they had been painted with a brush ; the 
 mouth was somewhat too full perhaps, and there 
 was a certain looseness and mobility about it 
 not quite pleasing, but it was richly coloured 
 and beautifully shaped; the figure was supple, 
 slight, and full of swan-neck curves ; the curling 
 hair was dead-black, and broke in rings and 
 ripples over the smooth brow; and the skin 
 was of a low olive- tint, harmonizing perfectly 
 with the depth of the night-black hair and the 
 full carmine of the lips. It was the loveliest 
 thing of the kind to be seen, and would have 
 sent the artists who used to illustrate the ' Books 
 of Beauty ' and ' Forget-me-nots ' wild with de- 
 light at its fitness for that kind of art. But it 
 was beauty only — no more; for though Marcy 
 had a certain kind of intelligence in her face 
 she had no real power of mind, and it was cun- 
 ning rather than intellect that it expressed. But 
 she was the first woman whom St. John had 
 looked on with pleasure since he married, or 
 whom he would care to see again. 
 
 Old Mr. Tremouille too was a pleasant-na-
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 209 
 
 tured man, one of those good -hearted and 
 morally indolent people who let things go their 
 own way, and have no thought of interfering 
 with any one provided no one interferes with 
 him ; a genial, generous, kindly man, with whom 
 hospitality was a principle when people came in 
 his way — though he never sought them out — 
 and to whom therefore any hesitation in ac- 
 cepting what he went out of his way to offer, 
 was an offence : which gave a certain insistance 
 to his manner, that generally overpowered his 
 company and carried his wish, whatever the 
 amount of original reluctance. As now; when 
 St. John Aylott found himself in a manner over- 
 borne by Mr. Trernouille's cordiality, and forced 
 to accept him on his own terms whether he 
 liked them or no. 
 
 The old man had made up his mind to call on 
 the new comers at the Hermitage, whatever they 
 might be \ that was the duty of his position, 
 what he owed to himself as senior grandee of 
 Newfield ; but he had not made up his mind to 
 be cordial, nor to undertake anything like in- 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 210 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 timate relations. Now however, when he saw 
 for himself that St. John was " a man of fashion 
 and breeding " as he called it, and that Isola 
 was " one of the loveliest women he had seen 
 for many a long day," he was resolved that 
 they should all become very well acquainted 
 together, and that there should be no nonsense 
 nor formality between them. So he gave first, 
 a hearty general invitation which meant every- 
 thing and nothing, and then he specified to- 
 morrow for luncheon and looking over the im- 
 provements. 
 
 A country gentleman, heart and soul, he 
 could not understand how any man should 
 not have as profound an interest in stables 
 and pigsties as himself; and when he men- 
 tioned his new racks and his patent man- 
 gers, he so evidently put forth the weightiest 
 attraction he possessed, that St. John, with the 
 quick tact of a gentleman, saw he must not 
 despise the lure, but must accept it as one both 
 dainty and potent. Indeed, he was a little 
 ashamed of himself for his own deficiencies in
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 211 
 
 that direction, and resolved to become a country 
 gentleman forthwith, and to be interested in pig- 
 sties and patent mangers according to his ability. 
 
 Marcy too added to the charm of the lure ; 
 for when her father spoke about the Aylotts* 
 coming to the Hall, she went up to St. John 
 with the sweetest and most caressing air, saying 
 in a soft coaxing voice, " Oh, do come, Mr. 
 Aylott ! Come and see my new lory and all my 
 live things \" as if she had therein offered her 
 weightiest attraction too, and thought it just as 
 impossible that any man should vote lories a bore, 
 and live things generally a nuisance, as Mr. 
 Tremouille thought it impossible that a farm-yard 
 or stock-raising should not be of supremest 
 pleasure and importance. 
 
 To all of which St. John consented with a 
 facility and, for him, warmth of manner that 
 almost startled Isola, it was so unlike anything 
 she had ever seen before. But she was too well 
 pleased to criticize very closely. She did not 
 know how much she hungered after a wider 
 human intercourse until it came in her way ; 
 
 p 2
 
 212 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 when she could somewhat measure her delight ; 
 those two gauges of desire, grief for the lack 
 and joy at the advent, not being necessarily of 
 equal force. 
 
 After a little more talk on indifferent sub- 
 jects, the two parties coalesced — the Aylotts 
 continuing their walk and the Tremouilles turn- 
 ing back with them, and walking as far as they 
 intended to go, the bourne named being Buck- 
 hurst Ground. It was a very pleasant walk to 
 every one. St. John and Mr. Tremouille went 
 on in front talking about crops and hunting : 
 or rather Mr. Tremouille talked and St. John 
 listened: while Marcy and Isola, a little way 
 behind, were attended by Harvey, to whom at 
 this moment fortune seemed more generously 
 minded than of late. The evening was deli- 
 cious — the two women beside him were among 
 the most beautiful of their kind — and if the one 
 was nobler, grander, but also unattainable, the 
 other was beautiful beyond words, and rich, and 
 to be won. So the floating literary handy-man 
 was satisfied and at ease, and talked to his com-
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 213 
 
 panions cheerily — Isola answering for the most 
 part, while Marcy's soft note struck at intervals 
 through the somewhat metallic ring of Harvey 's 
 sounding words and the deeper melody of Isola' s 
 voice, like the tinkling of a silver bell. 
 
 Presently they came to Buckhurst Ground, 
 where Mr. Tremouille called out to a fair-haired, 
 pretty -looking woman standing before the door 
 of the third cottage in the group, " Well, Nancy, 
 and how's father to-night V s 
 
 " Nicely, sir, thank you," said Nancy dropping 
 a curtsey. 
 
 ? Cough better V f 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Doctor been to-day V 
 
 "Not to-day, sir. Father says he needn't 
 mind to come again, he thinks ; he's mending 
 fast, he says." 
 
 " Glad of it, Tell him I called to ask after 
 him ; and come up to the Hall to-morrow, Nancy, 
 do you hear ? We'll have something, mayb^, 
 that will suit his complaint — who knows ?" with 
 a broad and hearty smile.
 
 214 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Thank you, sir/' said Nancy, with another 
 curtsey ; and the walking party passed on. 
 
 "Who is that?" asked St. John, partly for 
 want of something to say. 
 
 "That is Nancy Wilson, old Aaron Wilson's 
 granddaughter," answered Mr. Treniouille, " a 
 thoroughly worthy young woman, and he is a 
 first-rate old fellow. I must tell you his story 
 some day. It is rather painful, but he has borne 
 everything with such uncomplaining resigna- 
 tion, that one cannot help respecting the beauty 
 of character which lies under his rough outside. 
 I am fond of the poor — are you V 7 to St. John. 
 
 " I do not know much of them," St. John an- 
 swered, " and those I have known have not been 
 very favourable specimens ; at least they did not 
 interest me." 
 
 "That is a misfortune. If you want to live 
 weii in the country you must take an interest 
 in your tenants," said Mr. Treniouille. "No 
 good work is done that has not the master's eye 
 over it continually, and the closer the tie between 
 landlord and tenant, the better the work and the 
 more stable the relations."
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 215 
 
 "I suppose so/' said St. John a little stiffly; 
 " but those low fellows want keeping at a dis- 
 tance too." 
 
 " Oh, they always know a real gentleman \" said 
 Mr. Tremouille cheerfully. " It is your half-and- 
 half fellows who are so deuced afraid of their own 
 dignity that the lower orders despise and detect 
 ■ — Lord ! as keen as a hound scents a fox ! Bul 
 with the real thing there is no danger. They 
 can unbend as much as they like, and never get 
 taken advantage of. Oh ! it is a wonderful soli- 
 diner, is that blue blood. There is nothing like 
 it \» 
 
 " Xothing," said St. John Aylott emphatically, 
 feeling thankful beyond the measure of most mo- 
 ments of thankfulness that his blood was all blue — 
 pure to the last drop, and that no muddy stream 
 had ever polluted it within the records of history. 
 
 " What a good face that woman had — but not 
 an English face either," said Isola as they passed. 
 " Who is she, Miss Tremouille ?" 
 
 " Nancy Wilson, I believe ; tenants of papa's," 
 said Marcy languidly.
 
 216 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " For all that she has fair hair, she has quite 
 a Spanish face in contour," said Harvey. 
 
 "Yes, I thought it looked foreign," Isola an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Ah! I see you are a physiognomist, Mrs. 
 Aylott ; so am I ; a most interesting study, don't 
 you think so ?" 
 
 "I do not understand it as a study; I only 
 judge instinctively," was her answer. 
 
 " As we all do more or less," said Harvey. He 
 was famous for putting people on good terms with 
 themselves. "Are you very rapid in your judg- 
 ments, Mrs. Aylott ? very distinct ?" 
 
 " Generally, I think. Do not you know at first 
 sight, Miss Tremouille, whether you like or dis- 
 like a person ?" 
 
 "Who? I? oh! I am so stupid," said Marcy 
 with a slight lisp. " I have been listening to you 
 and Mr. Wyndham with such pleasure ! I like to 
 hear people talk, but I am such a silly child 
 myself, I cannot. Please go on again ! it is so 
 pleasant to hear great clever things like you two 
 talk."
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 217 
 
 "But I am not a great clever thing at all/' 
 said Isola laughing and blushing deeply. 
 
 "Oh yes, you are \" said Marcy. "I can see 
 that you are, and I am such a little goose." 
 
 " Do you never change your first impressions, 
 Mrs. Aylott ?" struck in Harvey, with a peculiar 
 look to Marcy. 
 
 " I do not say that," she answered ; " first im- 
 pressions are strong, of course, but instincts are 
 not before reason." 
 
 "Many women think they are," said Harvey. 
 u Indeed, how many women ever reason ?" 
 
 " And I do not think you like it very much 
 when we try to do so," said Isola ingenuously. 
 
 " Pray do not include me ?" cried Harvey. " I 
 am notorious for my admiration of women with 
 bone and muscle in, them. Ask your cousin 
 Jane Osborn !" 
 
 "You know Jane Osborn then ?" she said with 
 a brightened face. 
 
 He laughed. " I should think so ! Know Jane 
 Osborn ? why she is my literary child — my crea- 
 tion — my discovery — my bit of brute matter on
 
 218 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 which I have carved one word — success. Know 
 Jane Osborn ! why I dug her out and brought 
 her into notice. Yes, I know her very well, I 
 am glad to say, and respect her immensely ! A 
 splendid creature intellectually — so strong and 
 square and capable ! She is a first-rate wo- 
 man \" 
 
 " I am glad you like her so much," said Isola 
 warmly. 
 
 " Which means that you like her V 
 
 " Yes, very much indeed." 
 
 " Then that was a friendship at first sight V 
 Harvey said with a certain indefinite meaning 
 in his voice. 
 
 " Quite," answered Isola innocently. 
 
 " And I do not think you will ever have cause 
 to change," said Harvey. " I think I have 
 gauged my friend Jane completely, and I am 
 sure that she is what the Americans call real 
 grit from head to heel." 
 
 " I am so glad !" repeated Isola. " I am sure 
 she is good ! I never heard any one whose 
 words made such an impression upon me as
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 219 
 
 hers — never knew any one whose whole nature 
 seemed so clear, so bright, so pure!" 
 
 She said this enthusiastically ; and then she 
 blushed deeply. She, who was so little used to tell 
 her thoughts even in the most halting fashion, 
 to be now speaking to this stranger as confi- 
 dently as if she had known him for years, and 
 speaking with such warmth of a woman for 
 whom her husband had taken such a deep dis- 
 like ! And her blush, and the girlish trouble of 
 conscience that came into her face veiling the 
 stronger womanliness, made her more beautiful 
 than before to Harvey, and set him speculating 
 as to the real nature of St. John Aylott's wife, 
 as he was not much given to speculate about 
 the nature of women. For Harvey, like many 
 men of large professions, had in his heart a 
 very profound contempt for women, excepting 
 as beautiful creatures sent into the world for the 
 pleasure and advantage of men — their relations 
 to men the final cause of their being. He had 
 all the talk and manner of one who valued them 
 on higher grounds; but the talk was froth, and
 
 220 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the manner surface, and the half contemptuous 
 and wholly selfish love was the only reality. 
 
 "I am very glad you have left London and 
 come to Newfield," he then said suddenly. 
 
 " So am I/' answered Isola, looking at Marcy 
 with a smile. 
 
 u Yes, it is so nice of you to make such good 
 friends with us all at once/' said Marcy. " You 
 knew Mr. Wyndham before, did you not V 
 
 " No ! I never met him before to-day," said 
 Isola. 
 
 "Indeed!" said Marcy in a tone of surprise, 
 arching her eyebrows. 
 
 Something in the tone of her voice brought 
 the blood again into Isola' s face, and her blush 
 was not lessened by Harvey's turning to her and 
 saying gallantly, " But though we have met only 
 for the first time, Mrs. Aylott, we understand the 
 Elective Affinities, do we not, and intend to ex- 
 emplify the doctrine V 
 
 Before she could speak, with the warmth of 
 the setting sun still further heightening the glow 
 on her face, St. John Avlott and Mr. Tremouille
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 221 
 
 turned round, and St. John caught the blush 
 and the downcast eyes, and the look of pain and 
 embarrassment in Isola's face, as if he had 
 caught the sharp edge of a knife upon his hand. 
 
 " We must go home, Isola, if you please," he 
 said in his cold lordly manner. 
 
 " I am ready," she answered cheerfully, shak- 
 ing hands with Marcy, who said, by way of adieu, 
 
 " And thank you so much for that nice talk with 
 Mr. Wyndham about Elective Affinities ! It was 
 so nice and clever of you to talk as you did \" 
 
 " Remember to-morrow — two o' clock punctu- 
 ally ! You will not forget V said Mr. Tremouille, 
 holding Isola's hand while she spoke; and St. 
 John's sensitive jealousy underwent another pang 
 at the fatherly familiarity. 
 
 " No," she said smiling. " We will not forget ; 
 we will be sure to come, and punctually." 
 
 "That's right," said Mr. Tremouille shaking 
 her hand warmly. " That's honest and straight- 
 forward, and that's what I like. We are the 
 only neighbours in Newfield besides the vicar's 
 people, who don't count for much, so we must be
 
 222 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 good friends, don't you see, and make the best 
 of each other." 
 
 " You are very, very kind," said Isola with a 
 smile. "It is so good of you to be so friendly to 
 us." 
 
 "Do you play croquet?" asked Marcy of St. 
 John. "I hope you do! I love croquet, don't 
 you ? All nice people should play. I hope you 
 do." 
 
 "Not much," answered St. John. He had 
 never handled a mallet, but he never liked to ac- 
 knowledge his ignorance of anything. "But I 
 suppose I can learn in time ?" 
 
 " I will teach you," said Marcy. " Papa and I 
 often play with two balls each ; but it is so much 
 nicer when we have more players — more fun 
 every way. Does Mrs. Aylott play ?" 
 
 "No," said St. John; and he thought of Isola' s 
 pretty feet and her dainty boots, in which he 
 had always taken such immense interest, and 
 then of Harvey Wyndham's eyes. 
 
 " You will let me teach you both ?" she said 
 in a pretty pleading voice. " Or I'll take you,
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 223 
 
 Mr. Aylott, and Mr. Wyndham can teach Mrs. 
 Aylott — shall it be that way V* quite anxiously, 
 as if learning croquet and who were to be the 
 teachers were quite the most important questions 
 of the time. 
 
 "Yes, that will be very pleasant/' said St. 
 John; and he forgot Isola's pretty feet and 
 Harvey Wyndham' s roving glances when Marcy 
 Tremouille looked into his face with her sleepy 
 starry eyes, and said to him caressingly, 
 
 " May I not teach you, Mr. Aylott V 
 
 The glow of this new pleasure faded away as 
 soon as he was alone with Isola again ; and he 
 was cold and silent for the rest of the evening, 
 because Harvey Wyndham had walked with her 
 through the lane, and they had talked of Elective 
 Affinities together. 
 
 He had never yet probed the depth of his 
 jealousy, because he had not had reason to do 
 so ; but, in truth, he was almost insanely jealous, 
 and grudged the merest commonplaces of civi- 
 lity to his wife. He wanted her to be depen- 
 dent upon him only, and felt it as an offence that
 
 224 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 others should even see her beauty or admire 
 it, or that any one but himself should make an 
 hour of hers pass pleasantly. And yet all that 
 he did for her was on his own account, not on 
 hers ; he gave her what he wished her to have, 
 not what she desired ; he was generous by the 
 grace of power, not by the recognition of right ; 
 what he bestowed was a dole and not a due. 
 
 The next day they went to the Hall, and after 
 luncheon they strolled through the grounds. 
 And St. John was shown all the newest im- 
 provements, and instructed in some of the plea- 
 sures and responsibilities of a country gentle- 
 man's condition. And as he thought of settling 
 for good at the Hermitage, buying the estate and 
 becoming a country gentleman himself, he took 
 what was for him quite an animated pleasure 
 in hearing all about the patent manger, and 
 the new racks, and the original system of ven- 
 tilation, and the best form of the loose-box, and 
 all the rest of the stable arrangements. And as 
 Marcy was with him and her father, the lesson 
 was doubly satisfactory. But by this arrange-
 
 AT THE HERMITAGE. 225 
 
 merit Harvey and Isola was thrown together 
 alone, and Harvey made good nse of the oppor- 
 tunity, and talked as — Harvey Wyndham knew 
 how to talk to women. 
 
 His talk was very delightful to Isola. She 
 knew too little of the world to be able to under- 
 stand the true value of clever froth, and for all 
 her strong sense and the instinctive adjustment 
 of a nature at once large and pure, she could 
 not quite rate Harvey Wyndham as he deserved. 
 So she let herself be moved and fascinated 
 by his half poetic, half metaphysical cant, and 
 thought how delightful it would be if St. John 
 would sometimes talk to her in the same way. 
 Intellectual life of any kind was new to her; 
 and to hear herself analyzed and her thoughts 
 and feelings understood even before utterance, 
 was something too strange and fascinating to 
 leave her judgment very clear. Thirsty lips 
 stoop to brackish water, and on the first draught 
 think them sweet. 
 
 " I believe I could make that woman love 
 me!" was Harvey Wyndham' s thought when 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 they parted. He saw the ready colour rise in 
 IsoWs face while lie pressed her hand, not by 
 any means with lover-like secrecy, but in an 
 honest, friendly, hearty manner, and yet as if 
 there was a secret understanding between them 
 somehow. " Gad ! " he continued mentally, " if 
 it were not for this little thing here, I would ask 
 no better occupation than that of wakening up 
 this Isola Aylott. Splendid creature she is, and 
 worth all the bother of making love to ! But I 
 must not spoil my chances of a good settlement 
 for the mere sake of a pretty face and a glory of 
 golden hair. Isola Aylott has a husband, worse 
 luck ! and Marcy Tremouille has a fortune ; and 
 though beauty is very charming, the three per 
 cents, are safer V 3
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 
 
 The croquet lesson could not come off on the day 
 of the Aylotts' first visit to the Hall. There had 
 been a heavy storm during the night — had not 
 that ominous purple cloud foretold it ? — which 
 rendered the ground unfit for play ; so that the 
 initiation into the mysteries of croqueing and 
 roqueing, and the properties of hoop, ball, and 
 mallet had to be deferred : which gave occasion 
 for another invitation to the Hall and an excuse 
 for its acceptance. A day or two after the first 
 visit then, the Tremouilles meanwhile having been 
 to see them at the Hermitage, the young people 
 were once more at the Hall, and Marcv's one 
 active pleasure was soon in fall force. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 It cost St. John a pang to see Isola " coached f$ 
 by Harvey ; but what could he do ? Marcy took 
 possession of him as a matter of course, and 
 Isola' s appropriation by Mr. Wyndham followed 
 as a necessary consequence. Yet pleasant as 
 it was to him to be coaxed and flattered by 
 pretty Marcy, and much as he liked her lessons 
 and the innocent manner of coquetry with which 
 she gave them, he was none the better pleased with 
 Isola' s instruction, and made her understand that 
 he was annoyed ; but at what, neither he nor the 
 peccant wife could have exactly defined. 
 
 Isola herself was not quite at ease. There was 
 something about Harvey Wyndham that attracted 
 while it repelled her ; a certain mixture of fami- 
 liarity and admiration, and the flattery of as- 
 sumed intellectual equality, and the good com- 
 radeship of an artist, which was all too strange 
 to her to be thoroughly well liked ; but she set 
 down her natural shrinking to her own igno- 
 rance of the world, and supposed that this kind 
 of thing was all right and that she was simply 
 prudish and uninstructed. All of which Harvey
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 229 
 
 understood like an open book, and played on, 
 like a master trying the chords of a new organ, 
 to learn the pitch and power of vibration. 
 
 " Now Mr. Aylott, come to me \" cried Marcy' s 
 silvery voice. " Touch me very gently, put me 
 in position, and then croquet Mrs. Aylott. You 
 must send her away as far as you can — to the 
 very boundaries if you can." 
 
 " Oh ! that is very cruel \" laughed Isola. 
 
 The personality of the instructions amused 
 her. She was only a married nun remember, 
 and knew less of social life than many a school 
 girl. And this was her first game of croquet. 
 
 " It is the game," said Marcy gravely. Croquet 
 was a species of religion to her. 
 
 " That is, if I can do as you bid me," said 
 St. John, making his stroke. 
 
 " Oh ! you have missed me \" cried Marcy. 
 " Why did you not do as I told you and come 
 to me !" 
 
 " I tried, but I could not," said St. John just a 
 shade sulkily. " I am only a beginner you must 
 recollect, and I fear a very stupid one," stiffly.
 
 230 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " No ! you are not at all stupid \" she said ; 
 u Papa was much worse than you are when he 
 began, and would spoon oh ! for ever so long ! 
 and never would remember his hoops ! But 
 you should have tried to come to me when I 
 told you." 
 
 " Now then for my pupil !" laughed Harvey ; 
 " take care, Mrs. Aylott, and do not disgrace 
 me, nor compromise a very good game." 
 
 " What am I to do 1" she asked. 
 
 " Croquet your husband," said Harvey. 
 
 " Poor St. John V* she laughed merrily, look- 
 ing at him with a pretty girlish expression of 
 playful deprecation as she struck " black," 
 his colour. 
 
 " Capital !" cried Harvey ; " now send him 
 away very hard, anywhere into space that seems 
 most convenient to you. Mind you do not slip 
 your foot ! Here ! you have not got the balls 
 right — allow me." He knelt down and pressed 
 the balls more firmly together, and at the 
 same time placed Isola's foot in its proper 
 position. All in the way of business and the
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 231 
 
 game, and done in the most simple and matter 
 of fact manner, but St. John blanched with 
 sudden pain ; a pain by no means soothed when 
 Isola made a clean chance-stroke, and sent his 
 ball right across the lawn. 
 
 " Famous play \" cried Harvey, " first-rate ! 
 Now black, you will have to make up for lost 
 ground \" 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, Isola," 
 cried St. John ironically as he passed his wife. 
 
 "It was quite fair!" said Marcy; "I would 
 go and pick you up but you are so far off, 
 and I could do no good. Never mind ! you 
 must come to me and I will put you through 
 your hoop." 
 
 But Isola felt that she had displeased her 
 husband, and began to have a fear of croquet 
 as a diversion. 
 
 "I hope that you are content now you have 
 ruined me," said St. John to her unpleasantly, 
 as he gave his ball a weak stroke, and did 
 not send it a couple of feet onward. 
 
 " I am so sorry !" she said tenderly.
 
 232 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 "But it was the game!" said Marcy; "and 
 if you had come to me, Mr. Aylott, when I told 
 you, it would have been all right; she could 
 not have hurt us ! Now we must do the best 
 we can to make up for lost ground ; but Mr. 
 Wyndham," shaking her head archly, " you are 
 such a naughty man ! you are such a wicked 
 enemy to me always !" 
 
 "But see what I have to protect!" said 
 Harvey pointing to Isola's ball that lay in 
 tempting jeopardy near Marcy's ; " a lamb against 
 a dragon !" 
 
 " But you are a dragon too !" said Marcy, 
 "and a naughty wicked dragon too!" 
 
 " Not to Miss Tremouille !" said Harvey in an 
 under tone; "to her I am — " 
 
 "Now go and flirt with your own partner, 
 Mr. Wyndham !" interrupted Marcy rather 
 shrilly ; " I will not be coaxed over ! I am 
 going to croquet her away, and I will do her 
 and you all the harm I can, and protect my own 
 lamb like a heroine; so don't make soft 
 speeches to me; go and console blue !"
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 233 
 
 And laughing, and shaking' her pretty small 
 head playfully, she went on with the game ; 
 but by some unaccountable chance she made a 
 bad stroke, and Isola's ball rested untouched 
 upon the lawn. 
 
 u How provoking \" said Marcy pettishly. 
 
 "Better luck next time \" sang out Harvey, 
 as he went through a series of brilliant ma- 
 noeuvres that put himself and his partner out 
 of danger. 
 
 As the game went on, Harvey's superiority 
 over Marcy became evident. Isola too played 
 better than did St. John; so that they soon 
 made all their hoops ; and Harvey got to the 
 end first — but did not strike the stick. On 
 the contrary he came down like a fire-ship upon 
 his enemies, and routed the combined forces 
 effectually. As the ball came spinning through 
 the field again, Marcy called out, "Are you a 
 rover, Mr. Wyndham V 
 
 To which he answered, " Yes ! that is my spe- 
 ciality \" 
 
 " I think it is," said Marcy laughing in her
 
 234 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 shrill childlike way. " A rover in all things, 
 Mr. Wyndham ! see how you have roved from 
 me to Mrs. Aylott ! I think I will call you the 
 rover !" as she struck her partner's ball lightly 
 and carried him triumphantly through the 
 hoop. 
 
 A few strokes now finished the game ; and 
 Harvey and Isola were the winners. But poor 
 Isola had to suffer for her vicarious victory, 
 for her husband, who was more annoyed than 
 he cared to confess, would neither speak to nor 
 look at her pleasantly. In a short time he 
 separated himself from her altogether, and went 
 away with Marcy, at the moment when Isola 
 was receiving a lesson from Harvey as to the 
 best mode of holding her mallet, so that she 
 could not accompany them. He did this in- 
 tentionally, being in the mood to give himself 
 pain that he might revenge it on her afterwards. 
 We all do this kind of thing occasionally ; but 
 Aylott St. John Aylott did it often. 
 
 " I don't think your husband liked being- 
 beaten," said Harvey when they had gone.
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 235 
 
 Isola hesitated. She could not say he did 
 not mind it ; she would not confess that he was 
 annoyed ; and she had too little of that ready 
 tact, got only by intercourse with society, to 
 make, off-hand, a glib answer that would turn 
 the conversation aside. So she looked down 
 and said shyly, " I don't think men ever like to 
 be beaten in games by their wives. It seems 
 unnatural to them if they are aloue, and almost 
 traitorous when there are sides and other players." 
 
 "Especially where the games are those of skill," 
 said Harvey. " Personal pride comes in then, 
 as well as that more subtle sentiment of fidelity 
 so beautifully felt and given by you." 
 
 " Oh, but I did not win this game, it was 
 you !" she cried. 
 
 " Well, yes, of course it was, I being the older 
 hand and the more experienced; but you cer- 
 tainly played better than he" — Harvey knew the 
 full value of that familiar allusive ' he' — " and per- 
 haps he did not like your gaining a victory by 
 the help of an c enemy' any more than if you had 
 gained it by your own superior skill."
 
 236 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " I must not play against him again/' said 
 Isola. " There is no good in vexing one's hus- 
 band for such a stupid thing as a game at 
 croquet ! " 
 
 "Has it ever struck you, Mrs. Aylott, how 
 much stronger women are than men ? " asked 
 Harvey in his scientific voice; "how much more 
 self-command, self-sacrifice, and patience they 
 have ? " 
 
 " We have more patience and sacrifice cer- 
 tainly/' said Isola; "but then we are trained 
 to them. Men have the nobler qualities, I think, 
 but we — " 
 
 "The more angelic/' he interrupted. "The 
 ideal of a woman is an angel." 
 
 "But the archangels are men," said Isola 
 simply ; " so that even in heaven you have the 
 highest place." 
 
 " You think we have the highest place here ? 
 I mean by that, the best place, personally and 
 socially considered?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "And you envy us! Now I envy you. I
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 237 
 
 cannot say I should like to be a woman exactly, 
 but still I envy you." 
 
 " I am sure I should not like to be a man ; and 
 I do not envy you," laughed Isola. 
 
 " Not if you think we have the highest place?" 
 
 " No, for I should not care to have your privi- 
 leges," she said. 
 
 And then she coloured. There were certain 
 privileges of freedom and independence denied 
 to her for which she very earnestly wished, and, 
 had she been a man, would have inherited by 
 right. 
 
 " Then you are unlike your sex of the present 
 day — they are all crying out for greater freedom; 
 and I think," said Harvey Wyndham remember- 
 ing his sect, " that they ought to have it. But 
 the truth is, the great difference between men 
 and women lies in the difference between influ- 
 ence and action. You influence and we act — you 
 are the spiritual directors and we the mechanical 
 agents. Is it not so?" 
 
 " Not always," said Isola. u It may be true 
 generally, but not in all individual cases, and
 
 238 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 scarcely in all countries/' she added, thinking 
 of Mormonism and the East, and woman's status 
 there. 
 
 " To come home — always a convincing line of 
 argument — I should say it was so in your case," 
 Harvey said quite naturally, in the quietest tone 
 of voice possible and with the easiest and most 
 matter of fact manner. " Judging of your two 
 characters, I should say that you carried the 
 heaviest metalas we riflemen say — that you had 
 the largest amount of power — and that you were 
 consequently the secret if not the open ruler of 
 your joint lives." 
 
 " Oh, how mistaken you are ! " cried Isola 
 hastily. 
 
 She was surprised into the exclamation, and 
 the next instant she would have given worlds to 
 have recalled it. She had no desire to make 
 Harvey Wyndham her confidant, but he was 
 worming himself into her secret thoughts in a 
 quiet irrepressible manner which she neither 
 understood nor could check. 
 
 " No ? How strangely one may be deceived !
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 239 
 
 Even I, an old, well -used student of life as I am, 
 deroute by a young couple like yourselves, just 
 like the babes in the wood for innocence and 
 simplicity ! And you have not the real influence 
 in your house ? you are not the energizing prin- 
 ciple ? I can scarcely believe it ! and yet I know 
 it must be true if you say so. Then Mr. Aylott 
 is one cf those who hold the Mohammedan notion 
 of the inferiority and natural abasement of wo- 
 men ? Ah well ! " speaking rapidly to prevent 
 her replying, " if I were married, I should or- 
 ganize my life on a very different plan. I should 
 consider my wife my equal in all things, and my 
 superior in many. Had I a wife like you, cap- 
 able, strong, sweet-tempered, devoted, I would 
 not make it a question of mastership ; we should 
 be joint masters, each equally free and equally 
 bound — the perfect harmony of two notes, the 
 perfect adjustment of two spheres. That is my 
 idea of marriage : not mastership on either side, 
 but equality. What do you say, Mrs. Aylott ? 
 Are these your views of the perfect marriage, or 
 are you one of the Griselda school, holding to
 
 240 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the natural inferiority of your sex, and conse- 
 quently to their natural servitude ? 9i 
 
 " The equal marriage seems to me the best if 
 it can be carried out," said Isola reluctantly. 
 
 " And that is just what so few Englishmen are 
 able to accord to their wives ! " cried Harvey 
 again with his scientific voice; "either they make 
 them drawing-room dolls — pet birds in a gilded 
 cage, and nothing more — or they send them into 
 the fields to work for the family. Don't you 
 see what I mean ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 "And both extremes are wrong." 
 
 " I think so," said Isola. " I think if a wo- 
 man is worth anything, she ought to share her 
 husband's life and possess his confidence j but 
 on the other hand, she ought not to be taken out 
 of her sphere, either for work or authority. For 
 after all," earnestly, "the home is the woman's 
 true place !" 
 
 u Precisely what I feel," said Harvey ; " and a 
 home in the country the ideal of its kind. Fond 
 as I am of the great rush and strife of London,
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYXDHAM ? 241 
 
 and liking to be in the front of the battle, fight- 
 ing and toiling with the rest, I must say that I 
 like the country for the home. Had I a wife, I 
 should live in the country. By the by," sud- 
 denly, " has Mr. Ay lot t made up his mind to 
 buy the Hermitage V 
 
 11 1 do not know if he has quite decided, but I 
 believe he has been thinking of it," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " What price do they ask V 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " I thought, if you did, I might be of some 
 little help, for I know something of the value of 
 land." 
 
 He knew nothing of the kind, but he had got 
 what he wanted — an answer which showed him 
 that St. John did not confide in his wife nor tell 
 her of his affairs. 
 
 " Have you any interest in business life ?" he 
 then asked. 
 
 " I know nothing of it," she laughed. 
 
 " Xot of the price of stocks ? don't you under- 
 stand the value of mining shares ?" 
 
 VOL. i. E
 
 242 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " No I" she said good-hum ouredly. 
 
 " Don't you know the dividend days? and the 
 quotations in the share market ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Not when your husband gets a rich divi- 
 dend?" 
 
 " I do not think Mr. Aylott has any shares in 
 anything," she answered. 
 
 " Oh yes, he has ! he has shares in a lot of 
 things. I happen to know this, for I am joint 
 holder as well. Did you never speculate as to 
 the probable investment of his funds ?" 
 
 " No, never ; why should I ?" she answered 
 quickly. 
 
 "Ah well! we are all vastly different; and I 
 should tell my wife everything of the kind," said 
 Harvey with a slight sigh, which made Isola 
 more uncomfortable than all the rest had done. 
 
 Surely, surely, she was not a wife whose ill- 
 treatment by her husband, or her unhappiness 
 resulting, needed the sympathy of others ! Had 
 she been foolish enough to say anything which 
 could lead to such a false conclusion ?
 
 ARE YOU A ROVER, MR. WYNDHAM ? 243 
 
 " But my husband is quite right to keep 
 things secret from me if he thinks best/' she 
 said with a little spirit, her wifely instinct over 
 coming her literal truth. 
 
 And Harvey read that too, and understood it 
 and doubled down the page just in time to pre- 
 vent the vague discomfort from becoming active 
 displeasure. But he knew that he had sown the 
 seeds of future uneasiness all the same. 
 
 By this time Marcy, who had taken St. John 
 to see her aviary, and her new lory, and her pet 
 fire-finches, and her great Australian crow, and 
 all the rest of her favourite creatures, emerged 
 from behind the tulip-tree which concealed the 
 entrance to the winding-way leading through 
 the shrubbery. Mr. Tremouille was with them 
 now, and a group of strangers as well — two 
 ladies and a gentleman, whom she introduced to 
 Isola Aylott as "Mr. and Mrs. Joyce, our clergy- 
 man ; and this is Kosa Varley, my friend." 
 
 R 2
 
 ■2\4 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONTRASTS. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Joyce were people of ordinary ca- 
 libre enough, just such people as one meets in 
 country places, of cleanly souls and natural lives, 
 but of small range of thought and of less origi- 
 nality of mind. He was a tall, dark-h aired, florid 
 man inclined to indolence and obesity, and of 
 very moderate abilities ; she, a soft, fair, weak- 
 eyed, and well-sized woman, of intense power of 
 submission and faculty of worship. She was of 
 the nature of a slave ; a woman whose obedience 
 was instinctive, and to whom a husband was ex 
 officio a divinity. They were well suited in their 
 mutual adoration, and made quite a model
 
 CONTRASTS. 245 
 
 couple; but they need not have been so demonstra- 
 tive as they were, and Mrs. Joyce need not have 
 made her own happiness so entirely the square by 
 which to measure the deficiences of other wives. 
 
 For it was her firm belief that all unhappy 
 marriages dated from the wife only ; and that to 
 the coldness, the independence, and the want of 
 the adoring faculty generally in women, were 
 due the sole causes of matrimonial disagree- 
 ment. She could not understand that fortune 
 had dealt generously by her in giviug her pre- 
 cisely the kind of man for whom she was best 
 suited and who best suited her ; and that the 
 legal plea of " incompatibility of temper " may 
 sometimes be a righteous one, and include no 
 blame to either side ; but she made her portion 
 the gauge of all others ; and because she was 
 rapturously content, maintained that others ought 
 to be rapturous likewise ; and because she and 
 her husband were " twin halves " happily joined, 
 thought that all other couples should be twin 
 halves too, no matter what the difference of co- 
 lour, angle, or material.
 
 246 SOWING THE WJND. 
 
 She was certainly very bitter to unhappy wives. 
 Why were they not happy ? she used to say pet- 
 tishly; she was happy with her Simmy, wLy 
 could not others do as she did? If men were 
 cross, it was the woman's duty to be kind; if 
 they were a little tyrannical, women should sub- 
 mit; she had no patience with this new doc- 
 trine of individuality and freedom, and all such 
 nonsense ; she never did anything her Simmy did 
 not approve of, and why should others ? But she 
 forgot to add that her Simmy never disapproved 
 of anything she proposed; and that if she gave 
 her tale of sugary submission, she received it 
 back in kind, and had no draught of gal] to even 
 qualify its sweetness. 
 
 Marcy did not care much for the turtle doves, 
 as she sometimes called them disdainfully. They 
 were too well satisfied with themselves and with 
 each other to afford any amusement to outsiders ; 
 and Marcy liked amusement; and above all 
 things liked to be the centre of attraction, even 
 with the husbands of other women. But she af- 
 fected Rosa Varley, whom she called her friend
 
 CONTRASTS. 247 
 
 par excellence, and who came often to the Hall to 
 help while away the lagging hours. Rosa was a 
 girl of the same type as her sister — soft, yield- 
 ing, large-eyed, adoring — one of the women who 
 weaken the moral fibre of men by their self- 
 abasement and submission, and who are dedi- 
 cated by nature to Griseldadom and slavery. She 
 was a susceptible girl too, and was always in 
 love. She had fallen desperately in love with old 
 Mr. Tremouille when she first came, for want of 
 something better ; then she pined and cried about 
 a young doctor from the neighbouring town, who 
 had been called in to attend her sister ; and now 
 she had transferred her facile yearning heart to 
 Harvey Wyndham, from London, though she was 
 not so silly as to refuse to see that her chance in 
 that quarter was very poor if Marcy Tremouille 
 chose to smile. Still, she loved ; and cried about 
 the brisk and business4ike man at night; and 
 made her blue eyes of a pale purple by reason of 
 the redness of their lids ; and blushed and sighed 
 and simpered and looked down, and behaved like 
 a goose generally, as she was, and would most
 
 248 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 probably always be. For, being a slave, she bad 
 neither pride nor self-respect, but stood in the 
 matrimonial market with a supplicating air, feel- 
 ing that she could never be sufficiently grateful 
 to the man who might chance to take her. To 
 her way of thinking, she and all her kind were 
 just so many noughts, to which the commandillL;• 
 number alone gave any value. Harvey Wynd- 
 ham, as the commanding number, would give his 
 nought a fabulous value, she thought, raising 
 her soft, prominent eyes to him lovingly, and 
 hating Isola Aylott for her beauty on the one 
 hand, and for the attention paid to her by Mr. 
 Wyndham on the other. 
 
 After a short time spent in common-places, a 
 new game of croquet was arranged, with four 
 players a-side this time ; and to Isola's annoyance 
 and Rosa's intense distress, the Joyces, Harvey 
 Wyndham, and Isola were bracketed together, 
 while Rosa and Mr. Tremouille backed St. John 
 and Marcy. Isola tried to change sides, but 
 unsuccessfully ; so, if she would not make a 
 scene, saw herself forced into opposition to her
 
 CONTRASTS. 249 
 
 husband again. And again her side won, to St. 
 John's unconcealed mortification. 
 
 "You do well, you see, Isola, when you are my 
 enemy/' he said bitterly with a forced laugh. 
 
 " Why would you not let me be on your side V. 
 she asked. 
 
 " I would not spoil your pleasure," he answered 
 with a sneer. 
 
 " I make a point of never playing against my 
 husband/' said Mrs. Joyce emphatically. 
 
 " Ah ! but you see my wife is a strong-minded 
 person, and likes to show her independence/' said 
 St. John, with perfect breeding, but with an un- 
 pleasant expression of face. 
 
 " I had nothing to do with the arrangement of 
 the game. I would willingly have played on the 
 other side," said Isola very much disturbed. 
 
 She felt the tone of rebuke in which Mrs. Joyce 
 spoke as specially unjust, and perhaps she an- 
 swered with just a shade more earnestness than 
 she need have done. 
 
 " I would have insisted, if I had been you," 
 said the clergyman's wife, with a little laugh that
 
 250 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 was meant to disguise the rather bitter spirit in 
 her words. " I do not care what I do to any one 
 so long as I keep with my husband." 
 
 " Oh, but Mrs. Aylott belonged to Mr. Wynd- 
 ham," said Marcy as if making a diversion in 
 Iola's favour. " Mr. Wyndham the rover \" she 
 added with a most peculiar accent. 
 
 "Don't, Miss Tremouille \" said Mrs. Joyce se- 
 verely. " It is not pleasant to hear such things 
 said." 
 
 " My goodness, what have I said \" cried Marcy 
 with prettily-acted surprise. 
 
 " What is always very painful to me to hear 
 — coupled the name of a married woman with 
 that of an unmarried man," said Mrs. Joyce. 
 
 Isola stood with burning cheeks; St. John 
 was of a dull leaden hue. 
 
 " This is rather an unfortunate discussion," he 
 said with a forced smile. " I do not exactly un- 
 derstand how it has arisen." 
 
 " Not fairly," said Isola in a low voice, but dis- 
 tinctly too. 
 
 " It only shows the great need that married
 
 CONTKASTS. 251 
 
 women have of caution," observed Mr. Joyce de- 
 murely. 
 
 " I do not see where I was incautious," said 
 Isola. 
 
 Mrs. Joyce smiled unpleasantly. Marcy had al- 
 ready given her a disagreeble impression of Mrs. 
 Aylott, and having a stronger sense of her duties 
 as a clergyman's wife than she had of those as a 
 gentlewoman, she was resolved to set the new 
 comer at the Hermitage in the straight path, if 
 so be she could first find out wherein she wan- 
 dered. 
 
 "Well, I cannot understand what it is all 
 about!" cried Marcy; "so come, Rosa dear, let 
 us go away together and leave all those funny 
 quarrelsome people to themselves. My goodness, 
 Rosa, what a goose your sister is !" she said as 
 soon as they were out of hearing. " Poor Mrs. 
 Aylott ! she is in for it now ! But I think she 
 deserves it too. I think she is one of your quiet 
 flirts who make men in love with them, and then 
 say they didn't know. And if there is one thing 
 I hate more than another, it is a flirting wife !" 
 said Marcy Tremouille energetically.
 
 252 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " So do I" echoed Rosa, looking hard at 
 Harvey Wyndham, who, under the guise of col- 
 lecting the hoops and balls, had the air of not 
 having heard what had been passing. 
 
 As Marcy went away Isola turned aside too, 
 hoping that St. John would follow her ; but in- 
 stead of that, he joined Rosa Varley and Marcy 
 Tremouille, where they stood apart whispering 
 and laughing together, and soon after saun- 
 tered with them through the shrubbery, while the 
 Joyces went into the arbour under the tulip-tree. 
 Mr. Tremouille had left the ground before the dis- 
 cussion arose. 
 
 Then Harvey went up to Isola, standing alone 
 and apparently absorbed in contemplating an 
 agapanthos, and Mrs. Joyce said to her husband, 
 " Well ! if this is not flirting, Simmy, I should 
 like to know what is ! I am sure I don't wonder 
 at Mr. Aylott being annoyed — such new comers 
 and everything — but what a dreadful creature 
 she must be ! and that bold horrid Mr. Wynd- 
 ham ! He is just one of those bold bad London 
 men who are the very pests of society. I am sure 
 he is!"
 
 CONTRASTS. 253 
 
 And the Reverend Simeon answered, " I do not 
 like the looks of him/' uneasily, unconsciously 
 pressing his wife's hand more closely within his 
 arm, as if she too might be in danger : in which 
 she was not. 
 
 "I am so sorry Mr. Aylott is so much an- 
 noyed \" said Harvey sympathetically. " Croquet 
 shows the temper more than anything else I 
 know of. I can read a whole field after a game 
 or two. Now your husband is jealous and arbi- 
 trary, and likes to be the dominant power, and 
 foremost in all things."" 
 
 " I will not play again," said Isola, uncon- 
 sciously allowing all that Harvey had surmised. 
 
 "Nonsense, Mrs. Aylott ! that is childish. Let 
 me advise you — I have been the witness of a 
 small unpleasantness for a very silly cause — but 
 let me advise you to keep your ground. If you 
 yield up your right of individuality in these little 
 things, you will have to give up others more 
 serious and important. A woman has rights of 
 action, remember, married or single ; and no laws 
 can touch her freedom within the limits of her 
 own sphere."
 
 254 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 So for the second time Isola was taught the 
 doctrine of individuality, and independence of 
 her husband's will. The words burnt a little, 
 and caused a certain vague trouble in her soul ; 
 and yet they did not seem to her as true as when 
 Jane had said them, nor spoken from so high a 
 platform. 
 
 As they walked home together, late in the 
 afternoon, Isola wanted to make friends again, as 
 children say, but St. John was so cool in manner 
 and curt in speech, though also, as always, for- 
 mally polite, that the poor girl could do nothing. 
 She was paralysed and helpless. He kept his 
 head turned resolutely away, save when he spoke, 
 and then he bent it with excessive courtesy — but 
 he spoke with his teeth shut and his lips drawn 
 close to a point ; he answered her with mathe- 
 matical precision, but he only answered her. 
 And yet she could not complain. He was quite 
 blameless in all he said and did, and she had 
 not the faintest opportunity for a remonstrance 
 or a quarrel, nor even for an explanation. It was 
 simply the excessive ceremoniousness which op-
 
 CONTRASTS. 255 
 
 pressed her more than any amount of loud rebuke 
 would have done. But it was St. John's way of 
 showing displeasure, and she had to accept it 
 and make the best of it; and having a sweet 
 temper, she did make the best of it, and let it 
 pass unnoticed. Perhaps St. John would have 
 been better pleased had she burst into tears or 
 blazed up into a fit of anger. The first would 
 have humiliated her, the last would have put her 
 in the wrong ; and either way would have giveD 
 him the higher place, and have afforded him an 
 excuse for a grave and commanding rebuke. So 
 they walked on in an uncomfortable fashion 
 enough, till they came to Buckhurst Ground and 
 the three cottages within the sweep. 
 
 Sitting on a settle by the door where Mr. Tre- 
 mouille had spoken to Nancy Wilson, was an old 
 man, grey, withered, and feeble, basking there in 
 the sun, as if to get back into his shrivelled 
 veins some of the leaping fire and warmth of 
 his lustier years. But withered and old and 
 wan as he was, there was something in his face 
 so beautiful — there was an expression of such
 
 256 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 divine patience — of sorrow which had become 
 sanctification — and of a spiritual life rising higher 
 than the social and physical abasement of this 
 earthly one — that Isola involuntarily stopped, and 
 bent her head with a smiling, friendly greeting, 
 saying " Good day M as she came up. She was 
 astonished at herself for doing so; but the impulse 
 was stronger than habit, and she broke through 
 the usual shy reserve of her life, almost as if she 
 had been bidden to do so. 
 
 " Good day, ma'am ; it's a fine clay," said the 
 old man in a voice singularly sweet for one of the 
 class used to wet, and exposure, and drunken 
 ale-house songs, and hoarse field cries, and all 
 the other things which tarnish the silver of the 
 throat and make it into rusty iron instead. 
 
 " Have you been ill V asked Isola, leaving her 
 husband's side to go nearer to the old man. 
 " You look ill." 
 
 "Yes, what I've been a little bit dashed of 
 late," he answered with a smile. 
 
 " What has been the matter with you V she 
 asked.
 
 CONTRASTS. 257 
 
 " Well, I think it's just old age, ma'am. Pin 
 seventy-four last birthday, and that's a good time 
 of life. Fve nothing particular to speak of. The 
 cough's bad at nights, and I've no great spirit 
 for my meat; but I'm better again now, thank 
 God ; and maybe I'll round the bad end of the 
 year, and see another lambing time." 
 
 " Have you all you ought to have ?" said Isola. 
 " Cannot we send you something from the 
 Hermitage ?" 
 
 " Thank you kindly, ma'am, I'm sure, but I 
 want for nothing. They's very good to me at 
 the Hall, and don't let me want." 
 
 " But we might help too," said Isola. 
 "Well, thank you, there's nothing I've a mind 
 for, but it's kindness in you all the same. You 
 like the Hermitage, sir, I understand ?" he then 
 said, addressing St. John rather suddenly. 
 
 "Yes, very well on the whole," St. John 
 answered haughtily. He was not fond of poor 
 people. 
 
 " I'm glad of that ! — for many's the year I've 
 worked on them grounds," said the old man 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 with a gentle smile ; " I was on them for more 
 nor forty years, man and boy; all through Mrs. 
 Archer Holmes's time and before. But I left 
 when madam died ; and master Gilbert he sold 
 off and went to California, and the place got into 
 new hands. I went up to the Hall then, and 
 they took me on there, and there Fve been 
 eighteen year come Michaelmas — ever since Miss 
 Marcy was born. I mind I went the week be- 
 fore, and never saw the lady at all, for she died 
 with little Miss a-coming." 
 
 " Do you want to hear any more, Isola V asked 
 St. John disdainfully. 
 
 He was standing with his back to the sunlight 
 and his hat pressed over his eyes, as he always 
 wore it, so that his face could not be seen, but 
 Isola knew by his voice and attitude that he was 
 annoyed and wished to get away. Going up to 
 him she said in a low voice, "Dear St. John, 
 give me some money — give me half-a-sovereign 
 for him." 
 
 The old man overheard her. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said eageriy
 
 CONTKASTS. 259 
 
 with a slight flush on his cheek • " you've no 
 call to do it. I want for nothing; our master 
 takes care of that." 
 
 "But I should like to give you something 
 whether you want it or not/' said Isola ingenu- 
 ously. 
 
 " You've no call/' repeated the old man hold- 
 ing out his hand ; and the gesture said that the 
 hand-press of human sympathy and equality was 
 worth all the guineas ever coined. " Fll be main 
 pleased to see you whenever you be passing this 
 way, but you've no occasion to give me nought." 
 
 Isola laid her kind hand in his and clasped her 
 fingers over his broad and shrivelled palm with a 
 frank pressure. 
 
 He lifted his face to hers with a kind of reve- 
 rent admiration. 
 
 " Thank you," he said ; " that does me more 
 good nor money." 
 
 Then he held out his hand to St. John and 
 said, " And I'll be glad to see you too, sir, when 
 you may be passing this way again, and hopiug 
 to see you main soon," very cordially, but more 
 
 s 2
 
 2G0 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 as if giving an invitation to an equal than as if 
 praying for a grace from a superior. 
 
 This seemed to St. John as almost the ultimate 
 degree to which impertinent familiarity could be 
 carried. He had not yet got to the knowledge 
 that the peasantry consider their cottages as 
 houses, and their houses as homes of which they 
 are the masters both to bar and to invite. To 
 him they were all just so many half-brutish serfs, 
 who ought to feel it an overwhelming honour if a 
 superior condescended to recognize their human 
 existence at all. But because he was a gentle- 
 man, and understood that gentlehood has its obli- 
 gations, he went up to the old peasant, and laid 
 his well-fitting gloved hand in the horny hand 
 held out to him. As he came nearer the old man 
 gave a start. 
 
 " Hey, what's this V he said, shading his brow 
 with his hand. 
 
 " Is my husband like any one you know V 
 Isola asked. 
 
 He drew a deep breath. " Like V he repeated 
 as if a little bewildered, " No, no one I know,
 
 CONTRAST*. 261 
 
 nia'am. It was just a daze for a moment. No ! 
 like no one." 
 
 " I should not think it very likely that I could 
 resemble any of your friends !" said St. John 
 very haughtily. Then laying a sovereign on the 
 bench beside him, he said coldly, " There ! that 
 is something more to the purpose — and what you 
 will understand." 
 
 The old man looked pained. " It would be 
 thankless to say no, sir/' he said in a low voice, 
 " and I thank you for your kindness all the 
 same, but Fd rather you'd not have done it. We 
 poor men do not like to be always paid with 
 money-*— a kind word from a gentleman some- 
 times goes further than money V 
 
 " I think you will have to take what gentlemen 
 choose to give I" said St. John Aylott moving away. 
 "Come, Isola, if you are ready — I am waiting." 
 
 " I will come and see you again," said Isola 
 very kindly. With her keener sympathies she 
 had comprehended the whole situation. " And, 
 remember, if we can do anything for you at the 
 Hermitage, you must let us know. By the by," 
 suddenly, " what is your name ?"
 
 262 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " Aaron Wilson, ma'am ; grandfather . to my 
 Nancy as you spoke to t'other evening when you 
 was along with the squire." 
 
 "I have only one favour to beg of you, my 
 dear Isola," said St. John stiffly, before they 
 were well out of hearing. "I do not seek to in- 
 terfere with you, understand, or to direct you 
 against your will, but I beg that you will not 
 force me to join you in what I disapprove. 
 Another time I will publicly refuse you; which 
 will not be pleasant to your feelings, I imagine." 
 
 " What have I done to vex you V asked Isola 
 a little timidly. 
 
 " You have vexed me by many things, Isola — 
 by your familiarity of manner to Mr. Wynd- 
 ham, which, I confess, as much astonished as 
 it vexed me ; by your gross familiarity to this 
 old boor; and by your presuming to ask me 
 for money before him. Am I a child, or your 
 servant, that you should dictate to me what I 
 am to do ? How dare you use such a freedom 
 to me, Isola ? If you ever do it again, I tell 
 you I will refuse you before the whole world."
 
 CONTRASTS. 263 
 
 He spoke vehemently, almost wildly, but with 
 a deepened lowered voice, as if his passion was 
 concentrating rather than effervescing. 
 
 " But what am I to do ?" asked Isola. " I have 
 no money of my own — what can I do when I wish 
 to give anything away ?" 
 
 " It is no business of mine what you are to 
 do," said St. John. " I only know what I will not 
 allow to be done to me." 
 
 u But every one has something of their own," 
 urged Isola, and she was surprised at her own 
 insistance. " Miss Tremouille — my poor mother 
 — every woman I know anything about has 
 money to spend as she likes ! If I may neither 
 have it nor ask you to do what I want, what can 
 I do ?" 
 
 "You have dropped the mask rather soon, 
 Isola !" the husband said with an angry gesture 
 and a bitter sneer. 
 
 " I do not understand you, St. John ! I have 
 not understood you of late at all," she answered 
 warmly. u You treat me as if I had done some- 
 thing really wrong — you say cruel things — you
 
 264 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 are quite changed to mc — always cold, always 
 displeased — and why ? Only tell me what I 
 have done ! Let me know my fault at least ! 
 I cannot mend things if I do not know where 
 I have offended \" 
 
 " You are offending me now," said St. John 
 coldly. " And I think, my dear Isola, if you will 
 moderate your voice a little it will be better — do 
 you want the Newfield peasantry to hear Mr. and 
 Mrs. Aylott disputing like themselyes V 
 
 " St. John, you are unjust \" said Isola in a 
 deep voice. 
 
 He bowed. " I must accept your decision/' 
 he said with an ironical smile. " Perhaps Mr. 
 Wyndham will prove a more equitable judge." 
 
 " For shame \" said Isola with crimson cheeks, 
 and turned away from him angrily. 
 
 That evening' St. John wrote to London for a 
 croquet set, but he did not tell Isola that he had 
 done so ; neither did he consult with her, nor ask 
 her to accompany him when he went into the 
 garden after dinner, and measured out the exact 
 plot of laAvn that was to serve as the ground.
 
 CONTRASTS. 265 
 
 Things had begun to assume the shape of division 
 in his mind, and henceforth his life and hers — 
 his pleasures and hers — was no longer identical 
 as before. He could not understand any separate 
 individual action as consistent with a true mar- 
 riage, and Isola had unwittingly snapped asunder 
 some of the finest threads and broken some of the 
 tenderer links. 
 
 The next morning he drew out his cheque- 
 book, and wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, made 
 payable to Isola's order. 
 
 11 You had a hundred a year, Isola, when you 
 came of age," he said in a hard dry voice. 
 " There were no settlements ; I do not think 
 that any man who respects himself would suffer 
 settlements to be made on his marriage, and no 
 woman who loved or respected her husband 
 would desire them ; but since you have resolved 
 on taking your own way independent of me, 
 here is the first half-year's payment of your al- 
 lowance." 
 
 "Dearest St. John," said Isola with tears in 
 her eyes, " I don't wish this ! I only want to
 
 266 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 have a little money for charities and things of 
 that kind. It seems throwing me oft* to give me 
 my own money independently like this ! as if 
 you were seriously offended with me \" 
 
 " It does not much matter to you whether I 
 am offended or not/' said St. John as coldly as 
 before. " You have your own way, and that is 
 generally enough for most women \" 
 
 " Not enough for me if you are vexed with 
 me," she said. 
 
 "Pshaw!" said St. John Aylott. "I am 
 afraid, Isola, you think me more easily imposed 
 on than I am." 
 
 " Easily imposed on ! do I want to impose on 
 you, St. John f" 
 
 (< My dear child," he answered in the most 
 philosophic manner of assured superiority, a 
 manner which had always grated on Isola and 
 which now was specially hard to bear, "you 
 are a woman, and as such arbitrary and un- 
 just. You demand to have everything your own 
 way. For instance — to prove it to yourself — you 
 want to be independent of me, but only just to
 
 CONTEASTS. 267 
 
 the extent and in the manner you desire; you 
 want to do as you like, without reference to my 
 wishes ; and you are not content with the liberty 
 to do as you like,, but you wish to force me into 
 a line of action distinctly opposed to my own 
 wishes and principles. This is what I call unjust 
 and arbitrary, and what I must positively decline 
 to submit to. And because I will not submit to 
 it, but simply exercise the same amount of free- 
 dom as you demand for yourself, you think your- 
 self ill-used. This is folly, my dear Isola, and 
 shows a worse temper and a more selfish dispo- 
 sition than I once believed it possible for you to 
 show. You must conquer these little failings, 
 my dear child, and you must understand that 
 you cannot have everything; and that if you 
 take your own way, you must be content with 
 this, and not expect to govern me also, nor to 
 have my approbation. Now we will drop the 
 subject. You have your first half-yearly instal- 
 ment in your hands, and you are independent of 
 your husband ; but when the consequences of 
 your own act come, do not blame me for theni."
 
 268 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 And with the same strange glare in his eyes 
 and the same unpleasant smile about his lips 
 that Isola had seen in him once before, he left 
 the room hurriedly, and she saw no more of him 
 till dinner-time. 
 
 When he came back he was flushed and ex- 
 cited, but no more friendly than before; a little 
 loud and boisterous in manner, and a little inso- 
 lent and mocking as well — assuming at every turn 
 that he was nothing now to Isola, and that she had 
 discarded him and all interest in his concerns. 
 
 When she asked him where he had been ? he 
 only answered with a painful laugh, " And how 
 can that possibly interest you, Isola ? What do 
 you care now for me, where I go or what I do ? 
 If you do not care to know for love, I will not be 
 questioned for interference \" he added with a 
 sudden outburst of anger. 
 
 She learnt afterwards from Marcy that he 
 had been at the Hall, playing croquet with the 
 party there; "and so happy, so delightful!" said 
 Marcy enthusiastically and with extreme simpli- 
 city of accent — but she looked at Isola while she
 
 CONTRASTS. 269 
 
 spoke ; " not a bit like what he was the first 
 day r 
 
 " I am glad he was so happy/' said Isola ; and 
 Marcy's sleepy eyes searched her face in vain. 
 She was too large for the sinallness of jealousy, 
 too noble for the degradation of suspicion ; and 
 if she felt hurt that she had been int?ntionally 
 excluded from participation in her husband' s 
 pleasure, she had the courage and the strength 
 to conceal her pain. 
 
 " She is a block I" thought Marcy, " but I'll 
 make her jealous yet I"
 
 270 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 The intimacy between the Hall and the Hermi- 
 tage grew daily, though with a certain unacknow- 
 ledged reserve on Isola's part, a certain feeling 
 of disquiet with Harvey and of constraint with 
 Marcy, that somewhat marred her pleasure in 
 their new friends. Left to herself she would not 
 have been so intimate ; but it was St. John's 
 doing ; and he who had never willingly left his 
 wife for half an hour, nor gone into a friend's 
 house, nor admitted a friend into his, was now 
 never happy but when he was lounging away his 
 days at the Hall, flirting with Marcy Tremouille, 
 and studying " life" at the feet of Harvey Wynd-
 
 SHADOWS. 271 
 
 ham. And he did flirt with Marcy, and Marcy 
 flirted with him. 
 
 This entanglement of married men was Marcy' s 
 grand employment and recreation. Determined 
 on a good marriage, if any, yet nnable to resist 
 the coquettish instincts that seemed to have been 
 given her, just to show how lovely she would 
 have been had she had truth or heart, she was as 
 wary with the unmarried as she was dangerous 
 with the married. She had no desire to be 
 mixed up with unprofitable love affairs that 
 would have necessitated explanations, and per- 
 haps the removal of cherished masks ; but mar- 
 ried men were so safe, she used to say. They 
 could not ask her to run away with them, or to 
 marry them; and she could play off all her pretty 
 tricks without fearing the day of reckoning and 
 retribution. And if she made the wives jealous, 
 that was their fault, not hers, stupid things ! 
 What did she do but talk and laugh and be 
 complaisant and submissive, as a woman should 
 be ? Was a man to be a mere bear because he 
 had a wife, and was he to be afraid of speaking
 
 272 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 to any other woman? If St. John Aylott, for 
 instance, liked to be with her better than with 
 his own wife, who was to blame but Isola her- 
 self? She should natter and .study him as she, 
 Marcy, did, and not leave it to an outsider to 
 make her husband happy in his own way. 
 
 So she said — omitting the reference to herself 
 — when Mrs. Joyce was discussing with her the 
 condition of the " young people ;" and Mrs. Joyce, 
 who, as we know, could not tolerate anything like 
 character in wives, agreed with her warmly, and 
 told the Reverend Simeon afterwards that Marcy 
 had some very proper notions about things, but 
 that she feared this new comer at the Hermitage, 
 this handsome Mrs. Aylott, was not quite as 
 wifely as she should be. Marcy, who saw a good 
 deal of them, said as much, and poor dear Mr. 
 Aylott certainly did not look very happy. 
 
 " Perhaps," concluded Mrs. Joyce with a re- 
 flective air, " Marcy may have a good influence 
 over Mrs. Aylott, and cause her to see her duty 
 better." 
 
 " She should come to you, Bessie, to know
 
 SHADOWS. 273 
 
 what a good wife is/' said Mrs. Joyce pulling a 
 flaxen ringlet with clumsy playfulness. 
 
 " But then I have such a husband \" said Mrs. 
 Joyce fondly. 
 
 And then they expatiated on their mutual per- 
 fections till tea-time came. 
 
 Hitherto this peculiar propensity of Marcy's 
 had escaped much notice. Her father's position 
 and her own wonderful simplicity of manner had 
 preserved her name intact, and kept the current 
 of gossip, always flowing in country places, very 
 low indeed. To be sure, one or two little indis- 
 cretions had been noticed ; but people are chary 
 of saying evil of a young and beautiful girl, 
 motherless, and the daughter of a magnate ; and 
 the wide cloak of charity had been thrown over 
 her, with no stint in the folds. And after all, 
 she reasoned — and the world good-naturedly rea- 
 soned for her — she did nothing that was really 
 wrong, so she ought not to be condemned. She 
 used to be more caressing and familiar with her 
 rare male acquaintances than was wise, truly; but 
 that was all ; and want of wisdom is not want of 
 
 VOL. I. t
 
 274 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 grace. So she flirted with St. John as she had 
 flirted with his predecessor Mr. Sutherland, who 
 had rented the Hermitage before him ; and if 
 Isola did not like it, that was her own affair, said 
 Marcy; she ought to learn to bear what she 
 didn't like, and to do disagreeable things grace- 
 fully — at least Miss Walsh, her governess, had 
 always said so to her ; and what was good for her 
 was good for Isola. 
 
 That she was undermining the young wife's 
 happiness never crossed Marcy' s mind with pity 
 or compunction. That St. John went home irri- 
 tated against her for her mere upright truth- 
 fulness, contrasted with the supple flattery so 
 liberally dealt out to him at the Hall, was to 
 her a matter of supreme indifference. She had 
 had her amusement through the long warm sum- 
 mer day, and it was no business of hers what 
 price others had to pay at the end of it. It was 
 very dull at Newfield, and St. John and Harvey 
 together could not make life inordinately excit- 
 ing to her; and as "bad is the best" thought 
 Marcy, she did not scruple to take that best
 
 SHADOWS. 275 
 
 freely. But Isola remained at home alone, and 
 .wondered ; scarcely able to understand what 
 manner of shadow it was that was slowly gather- 
 ing over her life, and blotting out all the sunshine 
 thereof. 
 
 One day Marcy drove over to the Hermitage, 
 her lovely face radiant with pleasure. 
 
 " Why, what has made you so specially bright 
 to-day V said Isola smiling. 
 
 " I am so delighted ! " cried Marcy. 
 
 " What is it ? Has your cousin come ? the one 
 you have been expecting so long ? Mr. Holmes V 
 •asked Isola. For the girl had confided to her 
 how anxiously she was looking for the arrival of 
 this cousin. 
 
 " No, it is not that," said Marcy shaking her 
 head with her pretty assumption of childishness. 
 tc Cousin Gilbert came yesterday, but that is not 
 what has pleased me so much." 
 
 " And yet you have been wishing him to come 
 so often," said Isola. 
 
 " Oh yes, and so I am very glad that he has 
 come, very glad indeed \" raising her sleepy eyes. 
 
 t 2
 
 276 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 "But it is something much nicer than cousin 
 Gilbert's coming that has made me so happy. 
 Fancy, Isola dear, my darling little lory has 
 laid the sweetest little eggs you can imagine, 
 and wants to sit ! I can't tell you how glad I 
 am ! — a cage full of little darlings, all out of my 
 own eggs ! " 
 
 When she spoke she looked up into Isola' s 
 face with a strange expression — strange at least 
 for her theme. It was the expression of one 
 watching, almost asking. Yet why should she 
 watch ? what should she ask ? 
 
 Isola smiled a little sadly. There was an ac- 
 cent of untruth and pretence in the girl's voice 
 which struck upon her heart, and made her feel 
 uncertain, and, what was so rare for her, sus- 
 picious. 
 
 As Marcy stood there by the table, her face 
 turned smiling to Isola, the lovely curves of her 
 figure well expressed, and the languid grace pe- 
 culiar to her a little more languid and a great deal 
 more graceful than was even usual, she was a 
 picture unmatched for beauty. The sun was
 
 SHADOWS. 277 
 
 streaming into the room, and fell across the girl, 
 bringing out every line and tint with redoubled 
 brilliancy, while leaving Isola in comparative 
 shadow. But how much nobler was the fair face 
 looking into Marcy's sleepy, languid, darker 
 beauty ! The steadfast deep blue eyes, so tender 
 and so frank j the generous lips smiling too, but 
 lightly closed ; the bended forehead full of cha- 
 racter and power; the look of womanly sweet- 
 ness and force so peculiarly Isola' s own — what a 
 far nobler face it was, and what a much more 
 heroic and capable nature it indicated ! Beau- 
 tiful as Marcy was, there was something in Isola 
 that faded and impoverished her — something that 
 showed where the want lay — something that em- 
 bittered Marcy' s very soul with jealousy, and 
 that, all unknown to Isola and scarcely con- 
 fessed to herself, made her the young wife's 
 secret and determined enemy. 
 
 " Have you seen my husband to-day ? " then 
 asked Isola. 
 
 This was the newest phase of St. John's dis- 
 pleasure with his wife ; he regulated his life on
 
 278 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the strictest principles of secrecy, and hid his 
 goings and his comings from her as if he had 
 been a conspirator billeted with a spy. He was 
 one of those extreme souls who never do things 
 by halves. When he was displeased he was at 
 deadly war, and if everything was not entirely 
 sympathetic there was nothing that remained 
 harmonious. 
 
 " Yes, he was at our house when I came 
 away, I think," said Marcy. He had handed 
 her into the carriage. " He and papa and 
 cousin Gilbert were all together, I believe. Oh ! 
 and they said I was to tell you that they were 
 coming here to luncheon. I am to stay till they 
 come, and then we are all to walk home by the 
 lane, and you are to dine with us and spend the 
 evening. I remember it all now, but I was 
 so enchanted about my dear little lory that I 
 forgot." 
 
 u Naughty girl ! " laughed Isola. 
 
 " Yes, am I not ? But you see I don't care 
 for Harvey Wyndhani so much," was Marcy's 
 somewhat inexplicable answer.
 
 SHADOWS. 279 
 
 And Isola stared. She often missed the 
 point of Marcy Tremouille^s sly attacks ; her 
 mind not being much awake to this kind of 
 covert wounding. 
 
 As the two young creatures stood there, a 
 hum of male voices was heard at a little dis- 
 tance. And presently came one nearer and 
 alone, a rich, sonorous, manly voice, saying, 
 " Ah ! there is the dear old place again, not 
 much changed in all these years ! My dear 
 mother's window — my father's room — just the 
 same as ever ! " 
 
 The instant after, the low French window 
 opening on to the lawn was darkened, and St. 
 John Aylott passed through into the drawing- 
 room, followed by Gilbert Holmes, Massinger's 
 residuary legatee and Marcy Tremouille's cousin. 
 Mr. Tremouille and Harvey Wyndham were be- 
 hind, and did not enter quite at the same mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Mr. Holmes, Isola/' said St. John curtly, 
 and Isola went through the prescribed cere- 
 monial of an introduction. But Gilbert Holmes,
 
 280 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 as if not content with the formal bow which 
 merely acknowledged his existence, went straight 
 up to her and shook hands, as one who had the 
 right by long association if not by early know- 
 ledge — looking into her face frankly and plea- 
 santly. 
 
 It was strange how much they were alike in 
 type, and how different to the rest. They might 
 have been brother and sister for likeness of 
 general expression, not coming quite so close as 
 likeness of feature. It was easy for an ethno- 
 logist to see that they both belonged to the 
 fair-haired, strong-limbed Scandinavian race, 
 whereas St. John had as evidently southern 
 blood in him, Mr. Tremouille and Harvey were 
 Celts, and Marcy was the daughter of a qua- 
 droon. And they met more like old friends 
 long parted and as yet only doubtfully recog- 
 nizing each other, or like compatriots in a 
 foreign land, than as utter strangers with no 
 lines of relation woven even in imagination 
 between them. 
 
 Marcy watched that meeting more keenly than
 
 SHADOWS. 281 
 
 did even St. John; she gathered every word 
 and look and fleeting colour into her heart, as 
 a cup gathers slowly poison drop by drop. She 
 had disliked Isola from the first, and from the 
 first had been jealous of her power and beauty, 
 but she had never hated her as she did now, and 
 had never known the strength of jealousy as she 
 knew it now. If she could have struck her blind 
 — disfigured — dead — as she stood there talking 
 to Gilbert Holmes — he smiling down into her face 
 as if he had found something he loved to look 
 at — she would have done so ; but she only lisped 
 a good deal, and caressed her very sweetly, and 
 once turning to St. John, said softly, "How 
 pretty your wife looks when she is animated ! and 
 how animated she is looking now ! I wonder 
 what cousin Gilbert is saying to her — and they 
 say he is such an awful flirt ! " 
 
 Following out the programme as promulgated 
 by Marcy, when luncheon was over they all 
 went out together to walk to the Hall by way of 
 the lane and Buckhurst Ground. It was a 
 soft grey summer day, clouded and sunless, so
 
 282 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 that even Marcy could walk that leafy mile in 
 comfort, and not declare herself ready to die 
 more than half-a-dozen times in the transit. 
 
 At first they all kept well together, but after 
 a time Isola found herself alone with Gilbert, 
 having distanced the rest. They talked of many 
 things, but chiefly of California and the life 
 there ; and Gilbert told some anecdotes of grisly 
 bears and Comanche Indians, of forest fires and 
 river snags, of dangers from the wild cattle of 
 the prairies, and from the Indians lurking un- 
 seen in the sea of grass, or winding snakelike 
 through the low brushwood of the cleared 
 spaces. He told his stories well, without bra- 
 vado or exaggeration, but with force too and 
 always with point ; and Isola listened with rapt 
 interest, as Desdemona once listened to the Moor. 
 
 She had never felt for any one as she felt now 
 for this stranger, this Gilbert Holmes. It was 
 the instinctive reliance of the weaker on some- 
 thing stronger and wiser than itself — the recog- 
 nition of a king of men — of a captain born to direct 
 the feebler brethren — of her superior, and who
 
 SHADOWS. 283 
 
 might be her teacher. Jane Osborn was strong, 
 yet she somehow missed the central truth ; Harvey 
 Wyndham was superficial and untrustworthy ; St. 
 John was narrow and arbitrary ; but Gilbert was 
 broad and generous and strong, yet tender too — 
 he was the brother to the sister, the one sole 
 person she had yet seen whom she instinctively 
 felt would be her friend. He would stand 
 between her and Harvey Wyndham^s insidious 
 questionings, and he would bring back St. John 
 to a more natural and healthy state. " When 
 we know him better, Mr. Holmes will have a 
 good influence over him," thought Isola ; and in 
 that thought gave Gilbert her unspoken confi- 
 dence. 
 
 " Shall I be taking a liberty with you, Mrs. 
 Aylott, if I ask you to let me look up old Aaron 
 "Wilson as we pass ? " asked Gilbert as they 
 walked along the lane. 
 
 " Not the least. I should like to go with you 
 if I may," she answered ; " I often call on him, 
 I like him so much ! he seems to be such a good 
 old man ! "
 
 284 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 " He used to be," said Gilbert ; " and so 
 patient ! — the truest exemplification of the Chris- 
 tian serf I have ever seen. A man bearing 
 his badge of slavery with a kind of proud humi- 
 lity as a burden laid on him to bear, but always 
 patient, always humble, and manly in his very 
 humility." 
 
 " I like that," said Isola in a low voice, just 
 as they got to Aaron Wilson's door. 
 
 " Ah ! but it's good to see you," cried the 
 old man, as Gilbert strode into the cottage ; " I 
 never thought I'd have lived to see you again, 
 master Gilbert, and you so far away and me so 
 up in years. And glad to see you too, ma'am," 
 to Isola, holding out his hand, " it's long since 
 I saw your bonny face, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, Aaron, I'm glad to see you too, though 
 you are not quite the man you used to be, hey ?" 
 said Gilbert pleasantly. 
 
 " Nay, nay ! I'm not quite the same man as 
 I were when you was a young 'un, master 
 Gilbert, and we mastered the bay mare between 
 us and set the traps o' nights. But what ! we
 
 SHADOWS. 285 
 
 must all have our time, and mine has been a 
 long 'un and a good 'un too, while it lasted." 
 
 "You were always cheerful and content, 
 Aaron." 
 
 " What's the vally of aught else, master Gil- 
 bert ? Fve had my share of troubles, but I 
 never misbelieved in God through it all. I 
 knew that He had sent me what was best for 
 me, and if I had trouble to go through it was 
 because I had earned it. We are all tried by 
 fire, master Gilbert, and I reckon you have had 
 a mort of troubles in your time too." 
 
 " Yes, I have had difficulties, but I have fought 
 through them you see," Gilbert answered chee- 
 rily. 
 
 " And it has been a terrible wild life, Fll en- 
 gage ?" 
 
 1 ' Yes ! wild and rough enough, Aaron — what 
 would just have suited you when you were a 
 youngster." 
 
 " Aye ! I've al ways repented that chance," said 
 Aaron with an altered face. " It may have been 
 that it was the finger of Providence showing me
 
 286 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the right road to go, and that what I've had since 
 has been punishment for it. 
 
 " You mean when you had that offer to go to 
 Monte Video ?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " It might have been better for you/' said Gil- 
 bert gravely. 
 
 " Aye ! he sighed/' it might have saved all 
 that corned afterwards. However, it ain't of no 
 use looking back now, master Gilbert. If I've 
 sinned, I've been punished. God '11 not take it 
 out of me both ways. There's justice and there's 
 mercy, else we'd be in a queer boat at the end. 
 Here, Nancy ! Nancy ! " he called, " give a chair 
 to the gentleman. You'll not remember Nancy, 
 master Gilbert ?" 
 
 Nancy came forward and set the chairs for the 
 quality ; and again Isola was struck with some- 
 thing in her face like some one she could not 
 remember seen before. Gilbert too was vaguely 
 reminded of some one, but he thought it was 
 her former self. 
 
 "I think I should have passed Nancy," he
 
 SHADOWS. 287 
 
 said, " and yet I do not know. Her face comes 
 back to me now." 
 
 " Aye, bnt seventeen year makes a vast differ- 
 ence between a young lass and a woman turned 
 of thirty," said Aaron. " Nancy was only fifteen 
 wlien you went away, master Gilbert ; ye're thirty- 
 two now, my girl, arn't ye ¥■ 
 
 " Yes, grandfather," said Nancy. 
 
 " That makes all the odds, ye see, master Gil- 
 bert ? And the little miss ye left as a babe in 
 the cradle ?" 
 
 " Miss Tremouille ? oh, of course she is quite 
 a stranger," laughed Gilbert. 
 
 <e Aye, needs be ; and pretty is she — rare pretty \ 
 but," sinking his voice, " not so pretty as my lass, 
 nor as her mother before her." 
 
 "I don't remember your daughter," said Gil- 
 bert, also in a slightly lowered voice. 
 
 "Nay, not like. She was dead before you 
 could remember. Let me see — you are thirty- 
 eight, master Gilbert, bain't you ?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " I was twenty-one when 
 I left England, and I have been away seventeen 
 years."
 
 288 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 "And my daughter's been dead thirty-two 
 years come the third of December next/' said 
 Aaron. " She died when Nancy here was eight 
 months old, and we took the child and reared it. 
 Yes, my Honor died on the third of December 
 thirty-two years ago, and her mother followed 
 her two months after." 
 
 Honor Wilson ! The name for the first time 
 struck Gilbert's memory — the name of the lega- 
 tee in his uncle Massinger's will, and the mother, 
 as Richard Norton hinted, of Mrs. Harriet Grant. 
 But Mrs. Grant was not over twenty- seven at the 
 most, if so much. She had married early — -ten 
 years ago, at seventeen according to her own 
 account — and she had had a hard and anxious 
 life ; but even with all these unfavourable in- 
 fluences, she did not look over twenty-seven at 
 the outside. How then could she be Honor 
 Wilson's daughter ? that is, if Honor, as old 
 Aaron said, had died eight months after the birth 
 of Nancy ? 
 
 He remembered hearing the story of the beauti- 
 ful cottage-girl often spoken of, how she had sud-
 
 SHADOWS. 289 
 
 denly disappeared, no one knew how or where, but 
 was at last traced to London, where she was found 
 to be living an evil life among artists and the like. 
 So at least said report, but no particulars were 
 ever heard. In due time came a little child to 
 the cottage, and Honor Wilson, the prettiest girl 
 of the village, was reported dead, and by degrees 
 the sad story came to be forgotten. Aaron's 
 wife, a Spanish woman who had been nurse at 
 the old Tremouilles', died soon after, and Aaron 
 brought up the little one with a mother's care. 
 
 Gilbert remembered all this now ; and coupled 
 with his uncle Massinger's bequest it came back 
 to him as a history made suddenly clear in its 
 sinfulness and sorrow. Was, then, that uncle of 
 his the cause of the poor girl's ruin ? was Nancy 
 his cousin by blood ? was she his uncle's child ? 
 And Mrs. Grant — that poor down-trodden crea- 
 ture — was she his cousin too ? Thinking this, 
 he raised his eyes to Nancy, and the secret of her 
 likeness was discovered. It was Mrs. Grant of 
 whom she had so vaguely reminded him; and yet 
 not wholly. There was another point of resem- 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 blance left to the side which did not fit in with 
 the emigrant's widow — he had seen some one 
 else beside Harriet Grant to whom Nancy Wilson 
 bore the ineffaceable stamp of blood-relationship. 
 But at the moment he could not remember who 
 it was, and the vague thought passed away. 
 
 That night he wrote to Eichard Norton, to tell 
 him how he had forgotten all about the Honor 
 Wilson of Newfield when speaking with him 
 about the legacy. He had never known the girl, 
 and the mere likeness of name escaped him, he 
 said. But connecting all things together, he 
 thought it likely that this Nancy was Massinger's 
 child as well as Honor Wilson's. But Mrs. 
 Grant, to whom Mr. Norton had alluded as pro- 
 bably interested in the legacy — was she his 
 uncle's daughter also ? But no ! that could not 
 be. He remembered now, her own account of 
 herself, at least her husband's account of her, 
 was quite different. How could she be Honor 
 Wilson's heir at all ? Her father, old Aaron, 
 said that his daughter had died thirty-two years 
 ago — eight months after the birth of Nancy ; was
 
 SHADOWS. 291 
 
 that a real death, or only one reported ? Had 
 she made herself dead to her parents, or had they 
 buried her in sign of repudiation ? If the last, 
 she might be living now, and in misery. Uncle 
 Massinger used to come down to Newfield in the 
 early days ; he had often heard it spoken of at 
 home, how he suddenly dropped all intercourse 
 with his family, though there had been no dis- 
 agreement among them. Was that remorse or 
 fear ? He sent these hasty thoughts to Mr. Nor- 
 ton for his consideration ; he might find in them 
 a clue for the discovery of the truth. If he 
 thought he could do so, he begged him to spare 
 neither labour nor expense in the search. He 
 should like to do justice to his uncle's memory, 
 said Gilbert, and to repair his wrong, if it was 
 possible. 
 
 Richard Norton smiled when he read that letter, 
 which he docketed and put away. It amused 
 him that Gilbert Holmes should send him " clues " 
 for threading the dark labyrinth wherein lay the 
 secret of Honor Wilson's true fate, and the 
 identification of her children. But he respected
 
 292 SOWING THE WIND. 
 
 the honesty of the intention; which was all that 
 could be expected from a cynical old Voltairean 
 versed in the chicanery of law, and taking huma- 
 nity by averages. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 PKINTED BY J. E. TATLOK kSV CO., 
 LITTLE QXJBEK BTEBBT UHOOW'l I" *«"»•
 
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 3 0112 050827069