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 LI E) R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823
 
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 Ijis,- '^^ 
 
 MARJORY:
 
 MAEJOEY 
 
 A STUDY. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "JAMES GORDON'S WIFE." 
 
 — Do not fear to hope ! Can poet's braiu 
 More than the father's heart rich good invent ? 
 ****** 
 
 Be bounteous in thy faith, for not misspent 
 Is confidence unto the Father lent. 
 
 Geoege Macdonald. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 WYMAN «& SONS, 74-75, GREAT QUEEN STREET, 
 lincoln's-inn fields. 
 
 1880. 
 
 ALL EIGHTS EESEEVED.
 
 ■WTTUAN AXD SOITS, PSI^^TEES, 
 
 GREAT QUEEX STEEET, LINCOLN'S IXS FIELDS, 
 
 LONDO>'. W.C.
 
 
 MARJOET. 
 
 CHAPTEH I. 
 
 " Wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
 All earth and air seem only burning fire." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 There liad been no rain for many weeks. 
 Day after day the sky lay in tlie same blue 
 calm — deep blue far above, blue haze near 
 tlie horizon. Would it ever rain again, one 
 might wonder ? Would ever again come a 
 day or night when soft showers might be 
 heard soaking down, refreshing the parched 
 ground, the dusty trees, the flowers, now dry 
 and drooping ? Still less conceivable, would 
 wintry tempests ever revisit the earth — the 
 drenching rains, when all the heavens are 
 black, when the sun seems angry, — cold rains, 
 rains pelting against the windows, flooding 
 the rivers, universalising mud and discom- 
 fort? Would there ever again be anything 
 but aridness and scorching summer ? 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 Marjory, 
 
 Even in tlie country, among woods and 
 lanes, existence was burdensome. The cows 
 stood motionless for hours in the ponds ; the 
 roads were ankle-deep in dust, dust lay thick 
 on the hedges, making the honeysuckle dingy, 
 powdering the wild roses. Even there dogs 
 panted, and lay about with hanging tongues ; 
 flies were a weariness to man and beast ; 
 birds, from sunrise to sunset, ceased to 
 sing ; the sun embrowned the grass, and 
 dried the brooks, and reigned with steady 
 power. 
 
 But in towns, far from greenness and fresh- 
 ness, the heat amounted to suffering. Doors 
 and windows, open to their utmost extent, 
 admitted no breath of air ; the sun beat on 
 the white pavements, on the roofs ; even the 
 shady side of the street was hardly bearable. 
 And still above all, above the chimneys, the 
 smoke, the wearied and oppressed men and 
 women,the calm sky stretched and smiled, like 
 some vast existence of strength and beauty, 
 which cannot sympathise with pain, because to 
 it pain is unknown. There was no relief, no 
 escaping from the eternal glare. One felt 
 this especially in the outskirts at the new end 
 of the town, among roads no less dusty than 
 the country roads, but bordered by red brick
 
 Marjory. 3 
 
 instead of trees. Here no shelter of any kind 
 was possible, unless one's own umbrella. 
 
 E^ed-brick: rows of small houses, cottages 
 rather — only nothing in their appearance sug- 
 gested that picturesque name. Row after 
 row, facing, at right angles, back to back ; 
 little shops, hucksters, small grocers' and the 
 like ; public-houses ; a Baptist chapel with a 
 bare-faced gable, containing one plain window 
 like a great inquisitive eye ; " Laburnum," 
 " Arbutus," and other " Villas," standing in 
 little gardens, each with a straight path lead- 
 ing to an uninteresting green door ; genteel 
 Academies for young ladies, an Educational 
 Establishment for young gentlemen — all of 
 red brick, without embellishment or disguise, 
 staring, glaring, baking in the sun ; a stunted 
 lilac or laburnum tree here and there ; a 
 pillar-post; rows of windows, wherein crochet 
 antimacassars drooped elegantly from the 
 backs of looking-glasses ; a church innocent 
 of architecture, with a large round clock 
 gazing from a triangular edifice, founded on 
 the idea of a steeple. Branksome, this grow- 
 ing offshoot of the cathedral city of Alton, 
 formed as strange a contrast to the opposite 
 end of the town as existed between the clock- 
 faced church and the glorious cathedral itself.
 
 4 Marjory, 
 
 One might almost wonder that the clock 
 
 in question, presenting so unsheltered a front 
 
 to the sun, should have strength to remain 
 
 at its post, still less, with a harsh voice, to 
 
 send forth twelve strokes into the broiling 
 
 atmosphere. This, however, it had just 
 
 done ; and as the last stroke died away in 
 
 clanging vibration, an open fly, driven by a 
 
 red-faced man, apparently on the point of 
 
 solution, went at a foot's pace past the church, 
 
 and turned into one of the new streets in 
 
 front of a little house, standing in a little 
 
 garden. The red-faced man climbed slowly 
 
 from his box, walked slowly up the short 
 
 pathway, and rang the bell. The door was 
 
 open ; and as he waited, mopping his red 
 
 face with a yellow handkerchief, he could see 
 
 a tiny hall floored with oilcloth, and a steep 
 
 little staircase, similarly covered, mounting 
 
 to the upper story. Presently footsteps and 
 
 a bumping were heard, and a female voice 
 
 shrieked, " Here, young man ! lend a hand 
 
 to this, if you please." At the same moment, 
 
 a travelling-box, neatly corded, appeared 
 
 with a sudden thump on the topmost stair — 
 
 held back from precipitate descent by the 
 
 brawny hands of an elderly woman in a black 
 
 cap trimmed with corn-flowers.
 
 Marjory, 5 
 
 The driver deposited his handkerchief in 
 the crown of his hat, and went to her assist- 
 ance. As he did so, he saw in the back- 
 ground a little girl, carrying — flushed and 
 panting with the effort — a heavy carpet-bag. 
 There must have been something in her face 
 — certainly there was nothing in her dress — 
 which caused the red-faced man to touch 
 his hat to this child ; and, the box deposited 
 in the fly, he hurried back, despite that pro- 
 cess of solution, to relieve her. She had just 
 laboriously reached the foot of the stairs ; 
 when the man, touching his hat again, pro- 
 ceeded to shoulder the bag, the child thanked 
 him by a smile which made her whole face 
 shine — then turned and ran upstairs again, 
 as quickly as if it were N"ovember instead 
 of July, and the little house heated through 
 and through. 
 
 The driver returned to the gate, passing 
 the black-capped woman. During her absence 
 a baby had been screaming in some obscure 
 background ; the woman hurried in, and the 
 screams ceased ; all was silence. The man 
 sat down upon the floor of his vehicle, his 
 feet on the step, and waited. The patient 
 horse stood spiritless, while the flies buzzed 
 round his downcast head. A man with a
 
 6 Marjory. 
 
 barrel-organ carae round the corner, and 
 paused in the road beside the flj, and played 
 a droning air ; a baker's boy, with an empty 
 basket on his shoulder, stopped to listen ; 
 the blue vault rose above — the road baked 
 visibly — the red-brick houses with their open 
 windows stood and stared; the driver was 
 on the point of a doze, and started when 
 some one spoke to him. 
 
 It was the little girl, an old straw hat 
 upon her head, her arms full of wraps and 
 loose luggage. 
 
 "Please, driver," she said in an old- 
 fashioned manner, '' can you put up the hood 
 of your carriage ? Aunt Lucy has been very 
 ill, and the sun might be too much for her. 
 And you'd better do it at once, please, 
 because they are late, and I'm afraid of their 
 missing the train." 
 
 The driver rose forthwith ; the child's 
 energy was infectious. While he put up the 
 hood, she mounted into the fly, and arranged 
 her load — a light shawl, a cushion, a travel- 
 ling-bag, a book, a parcel. Then, jumping 
 down with an evident pleasure in the action, 
 which proved her still a child, despite her 
 thoughtful ways, she ran back to the house, 
 crying, '' Uncle John ! Uncle John ! come, 
 or you'll miss the train ! "
 
 Marjory, 7 
 
 A minute later a gentleman and lady came 
 slowly down the path. The gentleman was 
 about forty years of age, thin, and of an 
 anxious countenance, his hair sprinkled with 
 gray. The best days of his clerical black 
 were evidently long over, yet no one could 
 doubt him to be a gentleman in reality as in 
 name. And the lady, leaning on his arm, 
 looked "every inch" a lady, although her 
 garments also were well worn and not of the 
 newest fashion. She was some years younger 
 than her husband, and had the remains of 
 great beauty, but sickness and anxiety had 
 stamped their traces on cheek and brow — 
 the one was too thin, the other had lost its 
 smoothness. Nevertheless, she was lovely 
 still, and the tender care with which her 
 husband assisted her to the humble vehicle 
 at the gate had in it something of masculine 
 homage to beauty, as well as of unselfish 
 devotion to a sick wife. She seemed to 
 depend upon him as a child upon a parent ; 
 she was a little helpless, accustomed to be 
 waited on, shielded, cherished. Her hus- 
 band half lifted her into the fly, holding a 
 large umbrella over her head the while ; and 
 the little girl sprang after to make her com- 
 fortable, to cover her muslin dress with
 
 8 Marjory, 
 
 the shawl, and adjust the cushion at her 
 back. 
 
 " Good-bye, darling, I hope you will not 
 feel lonely," said the invalid, drawing the 
 child's face down to hers, and kissing it 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Aunt Lucy, may I go some nice long 
 walks ? " whispered the little girl, winking 
 hard to keep back two troublesome tears. 
 
 " My darling, I don't see — Mrs. Hammond 
 couldn't spare time to take you," said Aunt 
 Lucy, irresolute and perplexed, glancing 
 questioningly at her husband. 
 
 " What's that ? Marjory pining for walks ? 
 in this weather ? " said the clergyman. 
 
 *'It's cooler sometimes. Please let me. 
 By myself, I mean ; I won't do anything 
 naughty. There's such a nice road past the 
 church, leading into the country. Do let 
 me ! I'll be so good, indeed." 
 
 " Well, I know we can trust you ; I see 
 no objection to some country walks, now and 
 then. Not in the town, mind ; I can't have 
 you go alone into the town." 
 
 " Oh, no. Uncle John, I'm tired of the 
 town, I want the country. Thank you. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 She raised her face for a final kiss, and
 
 Marjory, 9 
 
 sprang out once more ; the driver mounted 
 to his box, and away rolled the fly. Marjory 
 stood on the pathway, watching, till it had 
 disappeared. Then she walked slowly back 
 into the little house, and turned into a small 
 sitting-room on the ground-floor, the door of 
 which stood open. 
 
 She was winking harder than before ; the 
 tears were coming back, and she must not 
 give way to them. At any minute Mrs. 
 Hammond, the black- capped landlady, might 
 enter, and she would not for the world be 
 seen crying. She went to the window, facing 
 the road, and stood there, looking out. The 
 little sitting-room was furnished with sordid 
 plainness. It had a horsehair sofa, an arm- 
 chair of American leather, a portrait of the 
 Queen in a black frame, a square centre- 
 table adorned by a pink cotton cloth, bearing 
 just now the remains of an early luncheon — 
 a tray, with remnants of cold beef which had 
 formed the clergyman's repast, and a bone, 
 sole relic of a mutton chop, cooked for the 
 invalid. A penny ink-bottle also stood on 
 the table, with a steel pen and a piece of well- 
 used blotting-paper, hastily brought by Mrs. 
 Hammond from her private parlour for the 
 receipt of her week's account. The child in
 
 10 Marjory. 
 
 the window felt a sudden impatience, child 
 ttougli she was, of the surroundings of her 
 life ; she would have had them so different, 
 could she have chosen ; were they always to 
 be such as this ? 
 
 The barrel-organ was still droning its 
 melancholy air ; there was a certain sweet- 
 ness in it too ; it seemed somehow to have 
 caught a notion of the sadness yet the beauty 
 of life, and to be trying, falteringly, to tell 
 them to the world. As Marjory listened, 
 feehng lonely and deserted, she longed to fly 
 away, to escape from this stifling little house, 
 the staring road, the endless red brick. She 
 was a country-bred child; until within the 
 last six months her home had been in a 
 retired village, where Mr. Stanhope, her uncle 
 and guardian, had a curacy, a sole charge. 
 Now, as the barrel-organ played, she was 
 thinking of fields and lanes, of peaceful 
 brooks rippling among them, of green woods 
 thick and cool. If only she could turn into 
 a water-baby like the water-babies in the 
 story, and lie down in one of those brooks, 
 under the shadow of one of those great trees, 
 she would be perfectly happy ! She shut her 
 eyes, and tried to fancy that so she was. 
 lying now, but the bare imagination made
 
 Marjory, 1 1 
 
 tlie reality of closeness, and town, and shade- 
 less heat, seem almost maddening. 
 
 Ai this moment the babj in the back- 
 ground burst into fresh screams, and Mrs. 
 Hammond appeared, with a worried face, 
 to remove the luncheon tray. 
 
 '' These schools ! " she said — " schools ! 
 schools ! schools ! what's the good of 'em ? 
 What do children want with so much educa- 
 tion ? We never had it in our time, and 
 we're as much use in the world as ever 
 they'll be ! And there was parson, always 
 a-teasing about my Martha being at home, 
 and setting 'Ammond on the same — and that 
 was worse : so there is she gone off this 
 blessed Monday morning, and here am I 
 with not a soul to nurse the baby, and he 
 a-screaming fit to craze one, if I do but turn 
 my back." 
 
 " I'll nurse him, if you like," said Marjory, 
 in her old-fashioned voice. 
 
 '' No, thank you, miss, he's too much for 
 you ; you're tired out, and no wonder — 
 waiting on your poor aunt as you've been, 
 week after week. ISTo, let him scream a bit 
 — it'll do him good — exercise the lungs of 
 him ; and the children will be home directly 
 — ought to, however ! and if Martha dawdles.
 
 12 Marjory. 
 
 she shall catcli it — leaving me to slave while 
 she's at her books like a lady ! What will 
 you please to have for your dinner, my 
 dear ? " said Mrs. Hammond, with a sudden 
 change of tone. She felt a mother's com- 
 passion for the solitary child. 
 
 "I don't want any dinner, thank you — I'm 
 too hot. I wish I could have some straw- 
 berries — or ginger-beer ! " 
 
 " Ginger-beer, my dear, you could have if 
 there was anybody to fetch it. Mrs. Pudge, 
 she sell it uncommon good at twopence the 
 bottle." 
 
 " But I haven't got twopence," said the 
 child, old-fashioned no longer. 
 
 '' Oh, as to that, miss, I'd advance the 
 money out of my own pocket." 
 
 ^'No, I mustn't cause extra expense to 
 Uncle John," said Marjory, relapsing into 
 womanhood. 
 
 " Well, then, my dear, still less could you 
 have strawberries," said Mrs. Hammond; 
 '* They're a shilling a quart in the market; 
 and, when you have 'em, where' s the pleasure? 
 gone in a moment — no substance in 'em 
 whatever. Give me a good beefsteak, say I ! " 
 
 *' Please, I'd like a glass of water," said 
 Marjory ; " I'll come to the kitchen and
 
 Marjory. 13 
 
 fetch it ; and then I am going for a 
 walk." 
 
 "A walk in this heat, my dear! and no 
 dinner ! Couldn't you fancy a morsel of 
 tripe ? There's some, beautiful, cooking this 
 minute for 'Ammond, and you're welcome to 
 a plateful, I'm sure, if you'll only say the 
 word." 
 
 " Thank you, I'm not hungry — only 
 thirsty," said Marjory, repressing her shud- 
 der from regard to Mrs. Hammond's feel- 
 ings ; '^ I'll go and try to find a cool place." 
 
 "You'll have to go to another world then, 
 I fear," said Mrs. Hammond, lifting the tray ; 
 " such weather I never saw since the summer 
 before 'Ammond and me was married, when 
 he used to come courting to Thorne, and 
 Mrs. Bell'us — that was my lady's own maid 
 —used to say : ' Well, Martha, you can never 
 deny that he's risked his life for you ; for, if 
 he hasn't a fit before you've done with him, it's 
 not the sun's fault, nor his.' For 'Ammond 
 he was out of work just then, so he'd come 
 all hours of the day — too often, however," 
 said Mrs. Hammond, disappearing tray fore- 
 most. 
 
 Marjory followed her to the little oven of 
 a kitchen, where the baby, tied in his chair.
 
 14 Marjory, 
 
 was still screaming, and the dish of tripe was 
 simmering with savoury odours. The child 
 turned her back to it, and drank her glass of 
 water ; she would then have endeavoured to 
 comfort the afflicted baby, but at this mo- 
 ment the other little Hammonds returned in 
 a flock from school, and Martha was at once 
 summoned to her post. There was now no 
 room for Marjory in the little kitchen ; and, 
 full of her craving for the country, she was 
 glad to sHp away, only pausing to tell Mrs. 
 Hammond that she should not be at home 
 before tea-time. 
 
 " Don't you go and get into any mischief, 
 my dear," said the landlady, anxiously. " I 
 wish you could a-made yourself happy here ! 
 Tommy and Grace should keep you company 
 in the parlour." 
 
 ''I want to get into the fields," said the 
 little one, plaintively; ''I'm so hot, I can't 
 bear it any longer." 
 
 Mrs. Hammond was too busy, and too much 
 absorbed in the tripe, to expostulate further ; 
 and Marjory was a mile or more away before 
 the good woman thought again of her.
 
 ( 15 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 " A burning sky is o'er me, 
 
 The sands beneath me glovr, 
 As onward, onward, wearily, 
 In the sultry morn I go. 
 
 " From the dusty path there opens, 
 Eastward, an unknown way ; 
 Above its windings, pleasantly, 
 
 The woodland branches play." — Bryant. 
 
 In her shabby brown hat and holland jacket, 
 with cotton gloves, extensively darned, on her 
 shapely little hands, Marjory passed through 
 the iron wicket, and turned into the road 
 towards the church. The sun beat down 
 upon her; walking was hard work, in such 
 weather, to such weary young limbs ; but she 
 was dreaming of green fields, and lanes where 
 trees met overhead, and the vision lured her 
 on. 
 
 There was pleasure, too, and excitement, 
 in the mere fact of this solitary adventure. 
 After living the unfettered life of a wild bird 
 until she was ten years old, the last six 
 months had been sadly burdensome to her,
 
 16 Marjory. 
 
 shut up in tlie narrow little house; and of 
 late her aunt's illness had increased her im- 
 prisonment, confining her in a close bed-room 
 for long hours of the burning summer days. 
 She was a most innocent and childlike child ; 
 yet cares naturally antipodal to childhood, 
 were to her strangely familiar. That poverty 
 of all kinds most suffering — that of gentle. 
 life — had formed the atmosphere of her home. 
 Calculations as to how sixpence might do the 
 work of sevenpence-halfpenny ; altercations 
 with servants concerning cinders and candle- 
 ends ; care-worn faces when letters in blue 
 envelopes arrived, were matters of overy day 
 to her. She knew what it is to see a be- 
 loved one pining for something which a little, 
 only a little money could supply, and not to 
 have that little. She knew what it is to feel 
 rich in all generous impulses, to be ready and 
 longing to give, and yet to lack the power ; 
 further, for that lack to be called '^ mean " by 
 some apparently poorer than one's self — 
 thought hard or even heartless by others for 
 whom one's sympathies are painfully alive. 
 She knew how the dread of bankruptcy, of 
 disgrace worse than death, can shadow all life 
 like a cloud, day by day, night by night, yet 
 of necessity be kept secret, hidden from the
 
 Marjory, 17 
 
 world. All these things she had been long 
 accustomed to see daily in her home ; and the 
 sight had grafted upon her childishness a 
 certain old-fashioned gravity which, could 
 she be heard and not seen, might well imply 
 her to be at least a hundred years of age. 
 
 In the country, when she was spending 
 most of every day in the open air, finding 
 among flowers, birds, and insects, friends to 
 whom care was unknown, the burden of this 
 did not weigh upon her to any hurtful ex- 
 tent. But of late, when to anxiety within 
 was added a world of red brick without, that 
 burden had been altogether too heavy for 
 the child, undermining her healthy young 
 life. Mr. Stanhope, absorbed in other things, 
 observed no change in her. His wife was 
 less blind ; but she felt too much oppressed 
 by poverty and ill health, to imagine the pos- 
 sibility of relief for Marjory, more than for 
 herself. Sometimes, indeed, when she was 
 alone, crying quietly over their difficulties, 
 a few extra tears would roll down her faded 
 cheek, as she thought of the child brought 
 face to face, thus early, with all the weari- 
 ness of life; but she mentioned this to no 
 one upon earth — where were the use, she 
 thought ? 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 Marjory, 
 
 Had eitlier slie or her husband, however, 
 imagined the little one's danger of that catas- 
 trophe commonly called " breaking down,'* 
 they would have been of one mind, that, 
 come what might of the extravagance, Mar- 
 jory must share in the sea-side week pro- 
 tiounced by the doctor to be positively, vitally, 
 necessary for Mrs. Stanhope herself. As it 
 was, every penny, nay, every farthing, being 
 of terrible importance to the poor clergyman, 
 Marjory, albeit with great reluctance on their 
 part, had been left in the suburban lodging, 
 under charge of Mrs. Hammond — alone for 
 the first time in her short life. 
 
 It was not, however, the first, by many a 
 time, that she had gone on a solitary walk. 
 In their country home, when her short lessons 
 were over, she had been free to wander as 
 she would. Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope were so 
 enth'ely absorbed in one another, that a third 
 person, even of Marjory's minute proportions, 
 was sure to be at times in the way. Of this 
 fact Marjory herself was childishly uncon- 
 scious ; but it made them the more indulgent 
 to her in point of liberty ; moreover, her 
 pedestrian powers far exceeded those of her 
 delicate aunt. To-day — only that she was 
 so strangely tired — she felt as if old times
 
 Marjory. 19 
 
 were come again. Away from all red brick ; 
 this was her first object, as with dogged 
 patience she threaded her way through the 
 suburban streets. 
 
 At length the semi-detached villas began 
 to give place to stray houses, here and there, 
 very new — one or two still in the hands of 
 much-enduring masons, whose escape from 
 sunstroke seemed a miracle. A little later, 
 she came to a hedge, a real hedge, rich in 
 wild roses. Wild roses were among the things 
 for which she was hungering ; she scrambled 
 up the bank, resolved to fill her hands while 
 she could. Some were too fully blown, too 
 much injured by the dust, to repay the en- 
 counter with their thorns; but others bloomed 
 beyond, and, regardless of time or of dis- 
 tance, she strayed along, seeking the best. 
 She took no account of the road or its nu- 
 merous turnings. Her eyes fixed constantly 
 upon the hedges, — crossing from one to the 
 other, as attractions varied, — she wandered 
 on until checked by sheer exhaustion. 
 
 The sun was still high in the heavens ; it 
 was about the meridian of the burning after- 
 noon. A sycamore tree rose from the hedge- 
 row ; beneath lay a patch of shade. Marjory 
 sat down in its midst, and arranged her 
 c 2
 
 20 Marjory. 
 
 glorious nosegay. Carefully her little hands 
 blended, in harmonious conjunction, pink, 
 white, and delicate green, binding the whole 
 together with blades of grass to make her 
 treasure secure. Then she rested her head 
 against the tree ; and looked about her. 
 
 She seemed to have got verily into the 
 heart of the country ; not a human creature 
 was to be seen, not a human sound to be 
 heard. The quiet road stretched before her ; 
 fields lay around, some with grazing flocks, 
 some with the young wheat springing, — begun 
 already, in places, to be a little golden ; some 
 with hay spread, newly mown, or in cocks 
 ready to be carried. The scent of the hay 
 came to her, borne on no breeze — for breeze 
 there was none — but as it were a part of the 
 atmosphere, mingled with the sweetness of 
 the sycamore flowers — among which a multi- 
 tude of bees stirred with continual murmur, 
 Marjory listened and looked, and enjoyed the 
 rest, and the sweet odours, and the dreamy 
 hum. Branksome, with its ugliness and new- 
 ness and glare, seemed a hundred miles away. 
 Here was altogether another existence ; here, 
 if the blazing heat still made life more or 
 less oppressive, yet all was free and fresh — 
 Nature seemed bountiful, and God seemed
 
 Marjory. 21 
 
 good. The cliild felt this, although she could 
 not have expressed the feeling ; she sat on, 
 not thinking of return, conscious merely of 
 the relief of her escape. No oflScious clock 
 was here to remind her of the time ; only 
 the sycamore shadow lengthened a very little, 
 as the silent minutes went by. 
 
 Presently she began to grow thirsty again ; 
 and the rippling brook for which she had 
 craved recurred to her fancy. The desire to 
 find such a brook became as keen as her 
 previous desire for the flowers. Slowly she 
 rose, and dragged her little feet to the highest 
 point of the bank. Far away — or so it 
 seemed to her — she saw the low gray tower 
 of a church — a village tower, just visible 
 above a clump of trees. Then, as her eyes 
 gained strength in scanning the radiant at- 
 mosphere, she discerned a cottage roof or 
 two, gleaming in the sun ; last of all, a mass 
 of chimneys, as of some large house, and 
 even a part of the house itself, standing out 
 against the background of foliage. Some- 
 how that house attracted her ; why, she did 
 not know — unless for a vague fancy that 
 near it she should find the brook ; its music 
 seemed already in her ears, calling her to 
 come.
 
 22 Marjory, 
 
 She took up her bunch of roses, and 
 crossed the road to a stile leading to a foot- 
 path which wound away through the meadows. 
 The stile was high and clumsy ; Marjory had 
 to creep under the lowest bar, and emerged 
 covered with dust. She brushed it off, how- 
 ever, thinking that ere long she would bathe 
 her face in the cool, clear brook. Her land- 
 marks were the gray church-tower, and the 
 gleam of house-front ; the ground soon rose, 
 and hid them from her sight ; but, her face 
 turned steadily in their direction, she jour- 
 neyed on. There were cows in the meadow ; 
 but Marjory was not afraid of cows; she 
 had had dear friends among them in her 
 country life. When one or two stopped 
 grazing, and eyed her with some mistrust, 
 she said " Coop, Coop," and stretched out 
 her hand in token of amity, and went on, 
 fearing nothing. A locked gate, five-barred, 
 divided this meadow from the next. Marjory 
 clambered over it, regardless of consequences, 
 and was calmly making her way through the 
 long grass, when she was startled by a red 
 face, rising like Jack in the box from behind 
 a neighbouring hedge. 
 
 '* Hullo!" said a rough voice, " what are you 
 doing there? You go back this minute, or "
 
 Marjory!. 23 
 
 The threat, whatever it might be, was 
 suddenly suspended, cut short by the 
 startled expression of the great blue eyes 
 turned in w^onder upon the speaker. The 
 little slight figure in its shabby cotton frock, 
 yet dominated by that inherent look of " lady- 
 hood " — the tired child, with that strange 
 expression of premature anxiety, plodding 
 so patiently through the long, thick grass — 
 the sight of her seemed to touch the man ; 
 perhaps he had a little girl of his own. 
 
 '' Beg pardon, miss," he said, touching his 
 hat, " I thought it was one of them school 
 children. This field's put up for hay — no 
 thoroughfare at present. Where did you 
 please to be going ? " 
 
 '^ The church and the great house," said 
 Marjory, pointing in the desired direction ; 
 " I want to go there." 
 
 " Is it Thorne you mean, miss ?" said the 
 man. 
 
 '' I don't know ; but I want to go there," 
 repeated Marjory. 
 
 The man looked dubious for an instant, 
 then made up his mind. 
 
 '' You just please to turn, miss, and go 
 back into the meadow where the cows be. 
 It's all for the best, for there's no way
 
 24 Marjory. 
 
 througli these 'ere fields to Thorne, and 
 you'd a-come to a good stiff hedge before 
 long ; thougli I'm sorry if I scared you. 
 You keep along the hedge to the left, till 
 you comes to the turnstile ; and then follow 
 the footpath, and it '11 lead you to Thorne, 
 straight as the crow flies. It be precious 
 hot, however, and you're but a little 'un to 
 be travelling on a day like this." 
 
 " Thank you," said Marjory, " I can rest 
 when I get there. I'm sorry I came through 
 the grass. I'll go back as fast as I can." 
 
 Then the patient little thing turned with- 
 out a murmur, and plodded her way back to 
 the great gate. The man surveyed her, 
 half pitying, half amused, until she was out 
 of sight : after which, with a chuckle of 
 ''Her's a rum 'un," he refreshed his spirits 
 from a minute barrel of cider, and resumed 
 his occupation of cutting thistles.
 
 ( 25 ) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 *^ When all the world is young, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are green, 
 And every goose a swan, lad, 
 
 And every lass a queen : 
 Then hey for boot and horse, lad ! 
 
 And round the world away ! 
 Young blood must have its course, lad, 
 
 And every dog his day." — Charles Kingsley. 
 
 Meanwhile Marjory, althougli her legs were 
 fast becoming rebellious, exerted all her per- 
 tinacity to attain her object before giving 
 way. Through the turnstile to another wide 
 meadow, the great blue sky beaming unshaded 
 upon the foot-path ; through a wicket gate, 
 across a turnip -field, under a second stile, 
 across a bean-field ; through a turnstile once 
 more, along a meadow where hay was being 
 carried, and some slight dread of the hay- 
 makers lent impetus to her speed ; through 
 another five-barred gate, open in this case ; 
 out into a shady lane. 
 
 Here she paused. On one side the lane 
 was bordered by young plantations, shut off 
 by low iron palings ; on the other by a hedge
 
 20 Marjory, 
 
 at the summit of a high bank, where elm- 
 trees, growing at regular intervals, cast a 
 continuous shade. Should she turn to the 
 left or to the right ? Each way seemed the 
 same to little Marjory, as she stood irresolute, 
 weary and puzzled. Her goal was no longer 
 in view ; the dilemma was strong upon her : 
 when she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs 
 coming slowly up the lane from the left. 
 She turned, half curious, half timid ; but 
 neither horse nor man was to be seen. The 
 clear atmosphere rendered every sound doubly 
 manifest to-day ; that treading of invisible 
 hoofs coming nearer, nearer, seemed to the 
 child almost supernaturally tardy. 
 
 She thought of a wild tale which she had 
 read, of a phantom horseman. This lonely 
 lane, with the thick plantations stretching 
 out as far as she could see, was just the place 
 for such a being, if such there were, to haunt. 
 The hay-field, to be sure, was behind her, and 
 she could hear the voices of the haymakers ; 
 but her nerves were overstrained, her physical 
 powers almost exhausted, and she could not 
 control a tremor as the sound still steadily 
 advanced. What if it should come close up 
 to her and pass, like that phantom of the 
 story, invisible all the while ? As she stood
 
 Marjory, 27 
 
 spell-bound yet fascinated by tbe fancy, a 
 sudden rustle in the plantation made her 
 start ; she looked fearfully in that direction, 
 and saw, not a spectre, but a young girl, 
 who, emerging from behind a cluster of shrubs, 
 knelt down on the mossy ground. She had 
 a rustic basket on her arm, a trowel in her 
 hand ; and, after peering for a second or so 
 among the plants with which the ground was 
 thickly covered, she proceeded, singing all the 
 while to herself, to dig vigorously at certain 
 of their roots. 
 
 She was a very pretty girl, fair and delicate- 
 looking, with a brilhant complexion of red 
 and white, and a profusion of auburn hair. 
 Every movement of her figure, as she worked 
 the trowel, was graceful ; and her clear young 
 voice, not silenced, like the birds, by the heat, 
 rang like a silver bell across the road. 
 
 " He will return," it sang ; " 1 know he will ; 
 He will not leave me here to die. 
 He will not — will not — leave me here to " 
 
 Only, as it appeared, at this instant, she 
 became aware of the approaching hoofs. Her 
 song broke off suddenly ; she glanced quickly 
 from behind a bush at the horseman, who 
 now at length was turning the corner of the
 
 28 Marjory. 
 
 lane. In tKe same moment, as if instinctively, 
 she dropped the trowel, smoothed her hair 
 rapidly with one hand, and with the other 
 twitched into prominence a blue ribbon hither- 
 to almost hidden by the collar of her jacket. 
 
 It was a neat little jacket of plain black ; 
 her dress too was merely a clean print with 
 an innocent blue sprig ; and her hat was of 
 brown straw, like Marjory's own, shady, 
 featherless, with a plain ribbon quilling. Yet 
 in all these sternly simple things lurked some- 
 how an element the reverse of simple. What 
 was it — something in her face, or in her 
 general manner, which gave her more the 
 air of an all-fascinating princess of fashion, 
 than of the unsophisticated village maiden 
 implied by her dress ? 
 
 The above minute arrangements instantane- 
 ously completed, she snatched up her trowel 
 again, and resumed her work, with a dili- 
 gence which even Marjory's childish eyes 
 perceived to be now a little studied. Mean- 
 while, though still very slowly, the hoofs were 
 advancing close upon them. Marjory turned 
 from the plantation to inspect the new comers, 
 heralded so long. 
 
 The horse, a beautiful chestnut, thorough- 
 bred, with bright eye, sensitive nostrils, ears
 
 Marjory. 29 
 
 ever alert, was groomed to perfection, his 
 coat shining, his tail of strictly orthodox 
 proportions, — the bits, stirrup-irons, and all 
 other appointments, in character. His rider 
 was quite a young man — perhaps some 
 months over twenty ; about five foot ten in 
 height, lightly but strongly built, of soldier- 
 like deportment ; dark-haired, dark-eyed, his 
 brown skin made browner by sunburn — his 
 features somewhat strongly defined, but 
 marked by a certain carelessness, not to say 
 recklessness, of expression. He came slowly 
 on, whistling a merry tune, — a bright, light- 
 hearted young fellow as ever the world saw ; 
 looking as if he had been born in the saddle, 
 holding in the spirited chestnut with a light 
 yet masterly hand, thinking of anything and 
 nothing, as he rode through the quiet lane. 
 He wore a light straw hat, and a suit of 
 summer tweed — common enough, yet of an 
 unmistakable cut, such as Mr. Hammond, 
 Marjory's landlord, who was considered a 
 very fair tailor, would have given half that 
 he possessed to acquire ! But Mr. Hammond, 
 fortunately perhaps for his own peace of 
 mind, was not present ; — only Marjory, look- 
 ing not with tailors' eyes, gazed admiringly, 
 as at a pleasant spectacle, thinking how much
 
 30 Marjory. 
 
 " nicer " this young horseman looked — she 
 could not have told why— than any of the 
 young men whom she was accustomed to 
 see in the half streets, half roads of Brank- 
 some. 
 
 He was passing the plantation with the 
 careless glance which seemed habitual to him, 
 and which had lighted for a moment upon 
 Marjory, lighting off again as quickly, when 
 a cough from the young horticulturist 
 attracted his attention. He looked again — 
 stopped with sudden animation, — and reined 
 in his horse. 
 
 " Hollo, Jessie ! " he said, laughing, 
 " What are you about ? I'm always finding 
 you in unexpected places ! " 
 
 " I might say the same of you, Mr. Hugh, 
 I think," said the girl, with a quick upward 
 glance : "I'm sure I was never in my life 
 so startled as I have been lately by you ! " 
 
 " Did I startle you just now ? " asked the 
 young man, laughing again, and looking full 
 at her all the while, with a mixture of admir- 
 ation and amusement ; "I don't believe it." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Hugh ; you needn't, 
 unless you like. If you won't believe me, I 
 can find a plenty that will," returned the girl, 
 tossing her head.
 
 Marjory. 31 
 
 " You could make any man believe that 
 black was white," said Mr. Hugh, the ad- 
 miration increasing in his dark eyes as he 
 watched her graceful manipulations with the 
 trowel. '' And I'll believe you now : to prove 
 it, I apologise for the startling." 
 
 '' Thank you, sir. I think you'd better be 
 moving on ; your horse is impatient, and you 
 hinder me." 
 
 " Let me come and help you. What are 
 you about?" 
 
 '' Getting burdock roots for her ladyship, 
 sir ; but I want none of your help, I'm much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 '' I tell you what, Jessie — you inspire me 
 to alter the old fairy-tale. Toads and vipers 
 come from your mouth — for me, at least — 
 when you speak ; but the mouth transforms 
 them into pearls and diamonds on the way, 
 and so they do me no harm." 
 
 '' What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Hugh, 
 to be sure ! Mr. Brown, he declares that he 
 never saw what a favourite you seem with 
 the young ladies when he's waiting at table ; 
 but, if that's true, I can only say I wonder 
 at their taste. Or, perhaps, as I'm not a 
 young lady, you think any rubbish will do 
 for me."
 
 32 Marjory. 
 
 " By George, you're fifty thousand times 
 more of a lady than half the girls I meet ! 
 The prettiest I know would give half she 
 had for the shadow of such a face as yours." 
 
 '' I should like to hear you tell her so. 
 You needn't think to take me in, Mr. Hugh; 
 I know your ways. Please go on ; I can't 
 work while you sit there staring ; and in 
 half an hour I have to meet her ladyship at 
 the lodge." 
 
 " You'll never do that, Jessie, unless I 
 come and help you. Only say the word, and 
 I'll be with you in one instant." 
 
 "I dare say; and a fine lecture I should 
 get from mother. She'd be sure to find it 
 out, and perhaps tell her ladyship. If you 
 mean half you say to me, sir, you'll leave me 
 to work in peace." 
 
 " What is to be done with those burdocks, 
 Jessie ? If the dear old lady is meditating 
 a sanitary soup, pray tell me; forewarned 
 is forearmed." 
 
 " Indeed, I wouldn't tell you ! 'No such 
 thing. You gentlemen think so much of 
 your dinners ! But, unfortunately, they're 
 not for soup; they're for medicine — for Mary 
 at the lodge." 
 
 " Take care you don't poison her ! If one
 
 Marjory, 33 
 
 root is hard to get up, I wouldn't warrant 
 you not to take the next at hand, whether 
 burdock or hemlock." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Hugh ; after that, it's 
 time I left you, since you won't leave me," 
 said Jessie, springing to her feet. 
 
 *'I do like to take a rise out of you, 
 Jessie," laughed the young man. '' You look 
 so bewitching when you're angry." 
 
 '' Good afternoon, sir. If I'm late for my 
 lady, I must tell her how it is," said the girl, 
 sweeping her chattels together, and flitting 
 away through the trees. 
 
 The young man remained stationary, look- 
 ing after her until the last flutter of her light 
 dress had vanished ; then he allowed his 
 horse, which had long been pawing and 
 fidgeting, to have its way, and rode on 
 down the lane at a quick pace. Marjory 
 looked after him, as he had looked after the 
 girl, until he was out of sight. Her indecision 
 as to her route was at an end ; a vague im- 
 pulse prompted that she should follow where 
 the rider had disappeared. 
 
 And still without break the plantations 
 went on, and the lane, hot though shady, 
 went on, and little patient, toiling Marjory 
 went on, for full ten minutes longer. 
 
 VOL. I, D
 
 ( 34 ) 
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 " With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 " I chatter, chatter as I flow, 
 To join the brimming river, 
 Eor men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on for ever." — Tennyson. 
 
 At last a cliange came. The plantation 
 ceased to border tlie lane ; in its stead, still 
 shut off by iron palings, stretched the undu- 
 lating swards of a park. Marjory crossed 
 the road to a low white gate by which the 
 paling was presently divided. I*^o house was 
 visible, but the ground was evidently well 
 cared for. Alderney cows, black and white, 
 and sheep of some strange foreign breed, 
 were feeding here and there on grass like the 
 rich turf of a garden ; around them rose 
 massive cedars, dark in shade, ancient elms, 
 more ancient oaks, interspersed by a choice 
 variety of young trees, each with its wooden 
 fencing. Half a mile or so beyond the gate,
 
 Marjory, 35 
 
 the view was bounded by a rookery. Marjory 
 could liear the cawing, softened by distance, 
 and see the dark nests like blots in the 
 heights of the trees, and the black-birds 
 wheeling to and fro against the hot blue 
 sky. But in another direction, somewhere 
 to the right, she heard a different sound, 
 which stirred her tired little frame with a 
 new impulse of life and energy. That sound, 
 not very far away among the slopes of the 
 park, was the ripple of a brook. 
 
 The low white gate opened at a touch ; 
 the child entered, timidly at first, glancing at 
 every tree as if some one might be expected 
 to break from ambush and rebuke her in- 
 trusion. But penetrating further among the 
 grassy slopes, now up a height, now down 
 into a hollow, she soon lost all sense of fear. 
 Eippling and singing, nearer every minute, 
 rang the music that lured her on. Presently, 
 on the summit of a slight elevation, appeared 
 a simple bridge, a couple of hand-rails, and a 
 plank. Marjory walked faster, and was soon 
 looking down upon the desired object. 
 
 The majority of brooks had long been 
 
 dry, but this particular stream must have its 
 
 rise in some fountain not easily exhausted. 
 
 It was very low, however ; only enough re- 
 
 D 2
 
 36 Marjory. 
 
 mained to ripple over the stones, and bear 
 testimony, as it were, of the brook as it had 
 been and would be yet again. The shallow 
 water was transparent as glass. Marjory, 
 looking over the hand-rail, could see every 
 indentation in the brown soil at the bottom, 
 every little pebble ; she saw water-cress also, 
 and other green plants, and little long-tailed 
 tadpoles darting about as if possessed by 
 some spirit of quicksilver. She wished that 
 she were small enough to float like them on 
 the water, that the brook were a river, and 
 she could lie down in it and sleep. It was 
 very hot, even here ; the hand-rail burnt her 
 arms. On the opposite bank a great lime- 
 tree spread its boughs, as if offering protec- 
 tion to all weak and helpless creatures. 
 Marjory crossed the plank, and at the foot of 
 the friendly tree stretched her weary little 
 frame full length upon a bed of moss. 
 
 Only now, for the first time, did she dis- 
 cover the full extent of her fatigue. She had 
 never in her life felt so tired ; the aching was 
 almost pain. She could no longer see the 
 brook at the foot of its steep banks, but its 
 music blended dreamily with the hum of 
 insects and the far-away cawing of the rooks. 
 Little yellow-eyed daisies were looking up
 
 Marjory. 37 
 
 from the soft grass ; golden trefoil, purple 
 orchis blossoms, tiny speedwells, clustered 
 about the roots of the tree. All around was 
 a manifold luxuriance of ferns, of grasses, of 
 leafy plants, sorrel, white clover, dandelion 
 clocks, which there was no breeze to scatter. 
 It was a silent, solitary world, far more con- 
 genial to Marjory than that in which she had 
 lived of late. 
 
 But presently the thought of her long home- 
 ward walk came with sudden recollection upon 
 her. Slowly rousing herself, she rose to her 
 feet, but was driven back by a strange numb 
 faintness ; her head swam, a mist came before 
 her eyes, a singing in her ears. A second trial, 
 after a little more rest, was followed by a 
 like result. There was nothing for it but to 
 resign herself, and lie still as before. But 
 what would happen at Branksome if she could 
 not return ? Hammond would certainly write 
 — perhaps telegraph — to her uncle. What a 
 disappointment for him, when he was count- 
 ing upon a quiet week of rest ! And the 
 anxiety would make her aunt ill again. '' It 
 would be dreadful — I couldn't bear to vex 
 them so," thought Marjory. 
 
 A sense of desolation swelled her childish 
 heart until it felt ready to break. She thought
 
 38 Marjory. 
 
 of lier fatlier and mother, long in Paradise, 
 and wondered if they coald see her, and if 
 they pitied their little girl, so tired and so 
 helpless. She thought of the angels, of their 
 flights from heaven to earth to minister to 
 man ; oh, that an angel would come to her, 
 and give her strength to go home ! She 
 thouDfht of stories she had heard of children 
 found dead in lonely places, and wondered 
 whether she also would be found dead when 
 morning came. The notion terrified her ; as 
 she thought of it, tears fell thick and fast, 
 and her little cliest was shaken by convulsive 
 sobs. Then she felt the need of a living 
 presence in nature. The tree stretched its 
 protecting shade above her as before, the 
 bees hummed on, the brook sang, but nothing 
 spoke ; there was no voice, nor any that an- 
 swered, nor any that regarded. For the first 
 time little Marjory learned the meaning of 
 the word loneliness, learned it in such a 
 manner as she could never forget. 
 
 At length, when her tears were spent, she 
 sank into an exhausted sleep. How long 
 that sleep lasted she could not tell, nor how 
 it was finally broken. Suddenly she opened 
 her great blue eyes, and looked up — not now 
 into the silent boughs, but into a human face.
 
 Marjory, 39 
 
 It was tlie face of an old lady, who was 
 bending over her, scrutinising her through a 
 gold eyeglass in a short-sighted way, and 
 poking her gently the while with the point of 
 an open umbrella — a little old lady, thin 
 and slight, with a trim waist like that of a 
 girl, dressed very plainly, in mourning, a large 
 black mushroom hat tied with broad ribbons 
 under her chin. Her hair was iron-gray, 
 intermixed with threads of silver, parted 
 simply across her forehead, which was marked 
 by many a furrow of bygone care ; she had 
 gray eyes, a little dim, but still full of mental 
 activity, a large hooked nose, a mouth kind 
 but grave, plenty of good white teeth, and a 
 decided chin. All these things Marjory noted, 
 continuing her upward gaze. 
 
 '^ Is this a little girl ? " asked the old lady, 
 peering a trifle more closely. 
 
 '' Yes, please," said Marjory, trembling. 
 Despite the old lady's small stature and the 
 plainness of her dress, she had a dignity of 
 deportment which awed the child, who was, 
 moreover, in secret fear of some mysterious 
 punishment for her trespass. 
 
 " And why do you not get up when I speak 
 to you ? " inquired the old lady. 
 
 " Please, I can't," said Marjory, humbly ;
 
 40 Marjory, 
 
 '* At least, I can't stay up. I tried 
 twice." 
 
 *' What is your name ? " was the next ques- 
 tion, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " Marjory Stanhope." 
 
 " Stanhope— Stanhope ! " The old lady 
 stooped yet lower, and contemplated the 
 child with more attention. A little further 
 questioning elicited other particulars : after 
 which a new light appeared to break upon 
 the old lady's mind. 
 
 " I have heard of your uncle through Mrs. 
 Hammond, the clerk's wife. And are you 
 there in those lodgings alone ? " 
 
 '' They couldn't help it — they couldn't take 
 me ; it was the expense," said the little one, 
 eager to guard her uncle from any suspicion 
 of neglect. 
 
 " I understand," said the little old lady ; 
 and suddenly Marjory perceived the depth of 
 kindness veiled by the cold gravity of manner. 
 " And you have walked all the way from 
 Branksome in this heat ! Now, how are you 
 to go back ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I shall soon be better," said 
 Marjory, sighing helplessly. 
 
 '' There is little doubt of that, but not 
 to-night. You are over-done ; you could not
 
 Marjory. 41 
 
 walk ; and, if I sent you in the pony-carriage, 
 what comfort would you find when you got 
 there ? " 
 
 The child made no reply at first ; but, find- 
 ing that the old lady expected one, she said 
 " I don't know " again, and sighed as before. 
 
 '' Would there be any one to put you to 
 bed, to take care of you a little ? " 
 
 " There's only Mrs. Hammond. I don't 
 think she'd have time to put me to 
 bed." 
 
 The old lady meditated. 
 
 '* Would your uncle, Mr. Stanhope, be 
 ofiended if I took a great liberty ? " 
 
 Marjory stared in languid wonder. 
 
 " I know Mrs. Hammond well, and I know 
 her menage. That would be my excuse — 
 that, and you being really unfit to go back 
 to-night. It would hardly assist Mrs. Stan- 
 hope's recovery to hear that you were ill, 
 alone in those lodgings ? " 
 
 " She would want to come back — she ivould 
 come back," said Marjory, hopelessly ; '' and 
 then she would die ! The doctor said that 
 a very little might kill her." 
 
 " Then, perhaps, under all these circum- 
 stances, Mr. Stanhope would pardon me if I 
 were to carry you home ? "
 
 42 Marjory. 
 
 " To Branksome ? " 
 
 " No, to my own house, close by. You 
 know liim best ; tell me, would lie be greatly 
 affronted by my taking the law into my own 
 bands concerning you ? " 
 
 '* Oh, I'm sure be would only think you so 
 very, very kind ! " cried the child, wondering, 
 in her youthful heart, what this strange old 
 lady could mean by anticipating anything 
 but gratitude from the bestowal of a 
 favour ! 
 
 ''I will send at once to Branksome for 
 your things, and to tell Martha Hammond 
 where you are. She must be wondering at 
 your long absence. You are not afraid, then, 
 to trust yourself to me ? " 
 
 Marjory shook her head with a smile. It 
 was rest, greater than she could have told in 
 words, to be cared for in this way. And it 
 was also an adventure ; she enjoyed it, like 
 reading a new story ! She would rather 
 have known the name of her benefactress ; 
 but she was too shy to ask. 
 
 " Very well ; I must leave you alone a 
 little longer, while I see about the pony- 
 carriage ; and then I will come and fetch 
 you." 
 
 " Perhaps I could walk now. I'll try,"
 
 Marjoru. 43 
 
 said Marjory, loth to give trouble. But 
 the little old lady said, " No ; lie still ! " in 
 a commanding tone, and, turning, walked 
 away over the grass under her black 
 umbrella.
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 . . . " She lay there . « half tranced, 
 And wished, at intervals of growing sense. 
 She might be sicker yet, if sickness made 
 The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed, 
 And all her wake- time quiet as a sleep." 
 
 — E. B. Browning. 
 
 Maejory was too thoroughly spent to feel 
 more than a languid excitement in the pros- 
 pect before her. Nevertheless, her little 
 heart did considerably quicken its beating 
 when she heard wheels approaching with 
 light swiftness from the direction in which 
 the old lady had disappeared, and saw a low 
 basket pony-carriage, drawn by a small white 
 pony, and driven by the old lady herself, a 
 trim page in dark livery seated on a minute 
 perch behind. With great effort, the child 
 rose to her feet ; she staggered, but the 
 page's arm was held before her, the old lady's 
 hand was stretched out from the low carriage; 
 and with one step Marjory was safe in the 
 comfortable wide seat, her head supported by 
 a cushion, which the little old lady, with deft 
 fingers, had put just in the right place.
 
 Marjory. 45 
 
 The pony trotted along, highly appreciating 
 the springy softness of the turf; a large 
 umbrella, screwed into the back of the car- 
 riage, afforded ample shade, beneath which 
 Marjory rested, shy but happy — observing, 
 wondering, conjecturing. It was like a fairy 
 tale; the old lady was a fairy godmother, 
 taking her away from sordidness and dis- 
 comfort to some fairy palace. On they went, 
 over the grass, passing now and then one of 
 those strange, long-haired sheep, which some- 
 times looked up and calmly eyed them, some- 
 times, indifferent, continued to browse. The 
 great trees cast long shadows upon the 
 green ; the gnats danced before the carriage ; 
 the rooks cawed ; the pony tossed his head, 
 and shook his mane, in high spirits, despite 
 the heat. Presently another low, white gate 
 appeared ; it might have been the same by 
 which Marjory had entered the park, except- 
 ing that beside it stood a picturesque lodge 
 — low, with a deeply thatched roof, the walls 
 hidden in honeysuckle and roses. Here the 
 carriage exchanged the turf for a broad road, 
 which wound its way among the slopes of 
 the park, and the pony quickened his pace 
 a little, as if he scented his stable. Beyond 
 the trees on her right hand, Marjory saw the
 
 46 Marjory. 
 
 summit of tlie gray cliurcli-tower, espied 
 from far away. It was quite near now ; the 
 house in its neighbourhood was the house to 
 which she was bound. The road turned at 
 right angles into an avenue. At the end of 
 the long vista of massive oaks rose a square 
 old mansion of gray stone, before which the 
 pony, performing a noble sweep, came of his 
 own accord to a standstill. 
 
 Either the drive, or the excitement, or 
 both, had dispelled Marjory's faintness. She 
 found herself, with some assistance from the 
 old lady's arm, able to walk into the house. 
 They entered first a great hall, oak-paneled, 
 dark and cool. Upon the walls were ranged 
 stuffed birds, heads and skins of beasts, old 
 oil-paintings of men in armour, with flowing 
 locks — pieces, perhaps, of that very armour, 
 shinicg helmets, huge mail-gloves, a battle- 
 axe, rapiers of curious make : then again 
 objects more peaceful — as regards human 
 peace — stags' antlers, foxes' brushes, fishing- 
 rods, bows, a large and well-worn target. 
 A polished oak table stood in the centre 
 of the hall, and high-backed oaken chair?: 
 around it ; on each was a coat of arms, 
 and a crest of a mailed hand raised to 
 strike.
 
 Marjory. 47 
 
 " Can you walk upstairs ? " said the little 
 old lady. 
 
 '' Yes — I think," said Marjory, timidly. 
 There was in this old hall a grandeur which 
 impressed her childish mind with indefinable 
 awe. 
 
 " We will take our time ; there is no 
 hurry," said the little old lady. The stair- 
 case and balustrade were all of massive oak, 
 the steps wide and very shallow, with roomy 
 landing-places, where large china jars emitted 
 faint but delicious fragrance. On every 
 landing the old lady paused, that Marjory 
 might rest. At the top a carpeted pas- 
 sage, oak-paneled, like the hall, and hung 
 with ancient portraits of people long dead, 
 stretched on either side of the staircase. 
 The old lady led Marjory some way to the 
 right, past several doors : one of which at 
 length she opened. 
 
 Within was a large room, with windows 
 wide open, looking out over an old-fashioned 
 flower-garden, divided by a sunk fence from 
 the park. The paper of the room, old- 
 fashioned also, was the first thing noticed by 
 Marjory, who thought it beautiful beyond 
 words. The pattern was of roses, full 
 blossomed and straggling, with plenty of
 
 48 Marjonj. 
 
 green leaves and mossy buds, and brightly- 
 coloured birds scattered among them. Much 
 the same pattern, in chintz, adorned the 
 curtains, valances, and high-backed arm- 
 chair, also the fittings of a little tent bed 
 which stood behind the door, facing the 
 windows. The windows had deep seats ; on 
 one of these stood a large work-basket, piled 
 with calico and holland, and beside it, in the 
 chintz arm-chair, sat an elderly woman, sew- 
 ing. She was dressed, like the old lady, in 
 mourning, with a white cap, of plain but 
 delicate texture, tied beneath her chin ; an 
 inexpressible look of neatness and cleanliness 
 characterized her appearance; her complexion 
 was pale, but healthy — for she seemed strong 
 and active. Her brown hair was as yet 
 untinged by gray, her clear brown eyes were 
 bright and observant; and her face had 
 an honest truthfulness which more than 
 redeemed the homeliness of its features. 
 She rose respectfully as the old lady entered, 
 and, work in hand, looked with some surprise 
 at Marjory. 
 
 '' Bellhouse, will you give up your chair to 
 this young lady for a few minutes ? I wish 
 to speak to you in the next room." 
 
 " Certainly, my lady," said Bellhouse,
 
 Marjory, 49 
 
 quickly placing lier work in the basket, and 
 straightening the cushion of the arm-chair. 
 Marjory sat down in it as desired, resting 
 her weary head against the brightly hued 
 back. The little old lady and the elderly 
 woman left the room together; when they 
 returned, the woman's expression was full of 
 motherly interest. 
 
 " Marjory," said the old lady, " this is 
 my maid, Mrs. Bellhouse. Bellhouse, this is 
 Miss Marjory Stanhope; you will be good 
 enough to make her comfortable in every 
 way." 
 
 '^ Certainly, my lady," repeated Bellhouse. 
 Then the little old lady stroked Marjory's 
 cheek, with the backs of two fingers upwards ; 
 and having glanced round the room, specially 
 at the little tent-bed, and again with gentle 
 gravity at Marjory, she went away. 
 
 "You do look sadly tired, my dear," said 
 Bellhouse, kneeling down to unbutton the 
 child's boots. " Just about worn out, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 " I'm very hot too," said Marjory ; '' and I 
 ache all over." 
 
 " How long is it since you had any 
 food?" 
 
 " I had some breakfast, only not much — 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 Marjory. 
 
 because tlie bread was sour. I couldn't eat 
 any dinner." 
 
 '' And youVe been walking all day in tbe 
 broiling sun, with nothing inside you ! No 
 wonder you were faint ! We'll mend that 
 as soon as possible ; but I'll get you into bed 
 first, for you don't look fit to be sitting up 
 — no, indeed. Her ladyship's as good as a 
 doctor, any day ; and she says she can see 
 what ails you. You've been helping to nurse 
 your sick aunt, I understand, my dear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Hammond is always busy, and 
 Uncle John was often out ; so the nursing 
 fell a great deal upon me," said Marjory, in 
 her quaint manner. 
 
 " Poor thing ! and you but a baby your- 
 self! Well, it's been too much for you, 
 that's plain. But, now, how thoughtful of 
 the Almighty to send you across her lady- 
 ship ! Why, there's not such another lady 
 anywhere in the land. She won't let you go 
 till you're well again ; we may be sure 
 of that." 
 
 All this time Bellhouse was busily un- 
 dressing the child, with quick but gentle 
 fingers. She now rose, and from a high 
 chest of drawers, old-fashioned like the rest, 
 took a small night-gown of fine linen.
 
 Marjory. 51 
 
 " This will fit you nicely, missy ; and I'll 
 make the bed in a trice. But, first, a bath 
 might refresh you. Should you like it, my 
 dear? See!" 
 
 She opened a door in the wall, and re- 
 vealed a little bath-room, with taps of hot 
 and cold water, and every convenience for 
 their use. 
 
 '' Oh, I should so enjoy it ! It would cool 
 me so ! " cried Marjory. 
 
 " But you must have it rather warm, or 
 it wouldn't be healthy, and you so thoroughly 
 heated. I'll turn on the right temperature. 
 There ! You'd best leave the door ajar ; 
 then, if you're taken faint and call, I shall 
 hear you directly." 
 
 So Marjory, who, while accustomed from 
 babyhood to ''rough it," had been brought 
 up like any princess in the matter of cleanli- 
 ness, bathed in the pleasant water, greatly 
 to her comfort, and came back in the snowy 
 little night-gown, much refreshed. 
 
 '' Here's the bed all ready, my dear ! let 
 me lift you in. There now, lie down, and 
 rest to your heart's content. And now I'll 
 get you some food. Is there anything you 
 can fancy?" 
 
 *' Only — " began Marjory ; and paused,
 
 52 Marjory, 
 
 remembering Mrs. Hammond had said that 
 strawberries were a shilling the quart. 
 
 " Only what, my dear ? Please to say. If 
 it's anything whatever in the house, her 
 ladyship would be too happy." 
 
 " If there were one or two strawberries to 
 spare," said Marjory, hesitatingly. "If not, 
 never mind ; but, if there were " 
 
 " One or two ! When you get well, missy, 
 I'll take you to see the gardens. Why, 
 we're noted for our strawberries ! Her lady- 
 ship gives baskets and baskets away, and 
 bushels go to market besides. Yes, you shall 
 have some strawberries, my dear, and wel- 
 come ; but first I must get you something 
 more solid, after such a day." 
 
 So saying, Bellhouse quitted the room, 
 leaving Marjory alone. Oh, the unutterable 
 sense of peace which stole over her, as she 
 stretched her weary little limbs ! How cool, 
 how restful, how fragrant, was this little 
 bed ! How kind her ladyship and Bellhouse 
 were ! How beautiful, through the open 
 window, the green trees of the park ! She 
 felt as though she should never again care 
 to rise — she was so tired, and it was so 
 dehghtf ul to be nursed ! How soft the 
 pillow felt beneath her head ; and the mat-
 
 Marjory, 53 
 
 tress had no hard lumps, like that at Mrs. 
 Hammond's. She had been trained to think 
 lightly of bodily discomfort ; but much that 
 strength may make a joke of, becomes a trial 
 in weakness. Marjory was a healthy child 
 enough ; but a burden greater than she could 
 bear had of late been laid upon her ; beneath 
 it health and nerves alike might have failed ; 
 help had come when most it was needed. 
 
 Bellhouse returned with a damask-covered 
 tray, upon which was a little chicken, deli- 
 cately minced, and a glass of wine and water, 
 Marjory had thought eating, strawberries ex- 
 cepted, impossible a few minutes before ; 
 but when she saw the dainty chicken, with 
 its faultless accompaniments — brilliant silver, 
 shining glass, a little roll, a snowy napkin — 
 the repulsion passed away. Bellhouse stood 
 beside her pillow, and fed her in tempting 
 morsels. Before long both meat and drink 
 had disappeared, and Marjory felt all the 
 better. 
 
 "And now, Miss Stanhope, my dear, youVe 
 been a good young lady, and you shall have 
 your strawberries." 
 
 Opening the door, she brought in a little 
 table, left outside until the more solid viands 
 had been disposed of. Here, heaped upon
 
 54 Marjory, 
 
 a dish of rare old cliina, was a perfect 
 pyramid of strawberries, such strawberries 
 as Marjory had never dreamed of — almost as 
 large as a greengage, many of them, beau- 
 tiful in hues of red and white. There was 
 a cream-jug too, of the same china, full of 
 rich cream, and a little basin to match, with 
 powdered sugar. The child's blue eyes 
 shone with delight as she looked first at this 
 tempting spectacle, then at Bellhouse. 
 
 *' There, my dear, eat as many as ever you 
 like. I'll move the table close to the bed ; 
 you shall help yourself. Her ladyship has a 
 great opinion of strawberries ; she says that 
 they have saved lives. And her ladyship's 
 very learned in all the Almighty sends — 
 fruits of the earth, herbs, and suchlike. She 
 doctors many a one, and cures them too, with 
 nothing else." 
 
 *'Mrs. Bellhouse!" said Marjory, as the 
 woman moved to and fro, folding the child's 
 clothes, and putting the room in perfect 
 order. '' Mrs. Bellhouse ! " 
 
 " I should be glad, Miss Stanhope, if you 
 would please to call me Bellhouse. It would 
 put me in mind of some that are gone ; and 
 I should much prefer it, my dear." 
 
 ''Very well, I will," said the child; '' 1
 
 Marjory, 55 
 
 was going to ask you — what is her ladyship's 
 name ?" 
 
 '' Her name is Lady Thome, my dear. 
 To think that you did not know it I" 
 
 *' I knew the place was called Thorne ; 
 but she did not tell me her own name." 
 
 '' Yery likely she thought there was no 
 need, — her ladyship is so widely known. Her 
 husband was Sir Archibald Thorne ; and this 
 is Thorne Court. Thorne of Thorne the 
 family have been for generations on genera- 
 tions ; but that's at an end now, after the 
 manner of this world's glory, my dear." 
 
 '' How do you mean ? " inquired Marjory. 
 
 " They're all gone, missy — every one ; not 
 one left so much as to inherit the name. Sir 
 Archibald, he has been dead ten years ; and 
 the baronetcy died with him. Her ladyship 
 has a distant cousin of her own, but Sir 
 Archibald was the last of his stock. There 
 were some fine children," said Bellhouse, 
 lowering her voice, with altered tone. '' But 
 the Almighty took them, my dear. Ah, yes ! 
 her ladyship has known trouble." 
 
 She paused in the act of folding Marjory's 
 frock, and looked out, up at the sky, through 
 the open window. Marjory heard her sigh, 
 and saw her lips move slightly ; she seemed
 
 56 Marjory. 
 
 for a moment to be speaking to some one far 
 in those heights of blue. As she resumed 
 her occupation, her lips were compressed, 
 her face was very grave. Marjory did not 
 like to say any more to her just now, and 
 lay back in silence, watching, as, her task 
 completed, she returned to her seat in 
 the chintz arm-chair, and went on with her 
 sewing. 
 
 Presently some clock struck a half -hour ; 
 and immediately afterwards a great bell rang 
 loud and long. Five minutes later, the door 
 opened, and a young girl entered, walking 
 noiselessly, as one who had been so trained 
 — the only sound being the light sweep of her 
 draperies, as she crossed the room to one of 
 the deep windows. Here she sat down, rest- 
 ing her elbow upon the sill, her chin upon 
 her hand ; and gazed out over the park. 
 Marjory looked at her with interest, mingled 
 with wonder, recognising at once the girl 
 whom she had seen in the plantation. She 
 looked at the girl, and the girl by-and-by 
 looked at her — curiously at first, then 
 intently. Then, on a sudden she turned away, 
 gazing towards the park, as before. 
 
 "Well, Jessie!'' said Bellhouse, who had 
 looked up as she entered, following her
 
 Marjory, 67 
 
 movements with her eye, '' I hope you took 
 pains with her ladyship ? " 
 
 " Dear me, mother ! " said Jessie, tossing 
 her head, '^ you speak as if dressing her 
 ladyship were a work of art ! I don't know 
 what room there can be for pains in a plain 
 black dress, a chemisette, and a cap ! " 
 
 '' As to works of art, Jessie, I don't rightly 
 understand you," said Bellhouse. '' But 
 there's nothing to be trifled with, neither, 
 in caps of real lace and dresses of black 
 satin." 
 
 " I never said there was, mother ! Only it 
 does provoke me that you think I can't do that 
 much by myself. I should just like to show 
 you what I could do, if I had the chance ! If 
 I could dress Lady Rose Fairlegh, now, for 
 her next ball. You don't half know what 
 I've got in me, mother ! How I do envy that 
 Davies of hers ; and she has no notion of her 
 advantages. When Lady Rose went to the 
 hunt ball from here, I longed — more than I 
 can tell you, mother — to take off that jessa- 
 mine wreath Davies was so proud of, and put 
 it on again my own way. And her hair too ! 
 They said she was one of the belles ; but, if 
 I'd had the dressing of her, she'd have been 
 the belle, and no question about it. She's a
 
 58 Marjory, 
 
 very fine girl. Lady Eose; but a good bit 
 depends on her dress. She'd make twice the 
 sensation, I know, if she parted with Davies." 
 
 ''Jessie! I am astonished at you," said 
 Bellhouse, severely ; '' To speak like that of 
 high-born ladies ! ' A very fine girl,' indeed. 
 I'll tell you what, Jessie, I cannot counten- 
 ance such disrespect. If her ladyship heard 
 you, she would be more shocked than I can 
 bear to think of." 
 
 '' Well, but if you come to think of it, Lady 
 Eose is a girl, as much as I am one. Of 
 course, I shouldn't call her so in public ; any 
 more than I should call my lady a woman. 
 Nevertheless, facts are facts, whether we speak 
 of them or not." 
 
 " Just so ; and it is a fact that we owe 
 respect to our superiors. How you come to 
 be my daughter, Jessie, I can't think ; disre- 
 spect I never could abide, let deal in it who 
 would. But I doubt you've been made too 
 much of, my dear, and your silly head is 
 turned. It vexes me a good bit, Jessie, to 
 hear you talk in this way." 
 
 '' Well, mother, I won't, then. I'm sure I 
 don't want to vex you," said Jessie, putting 
 out her pretty hand to stroke Eellhouse's 
 shoulder. '' By-the-by, mother, what non-
 
 Marjory. 59 
 
 sense folks are talking about Lady Rose ! Mr. 
 Brown says tliat lie hears, everywhere, there's 
 to be a match between her and Mr. Hugh. I 
 don't believe a word of it." 
 
 " Well, my dear, it don't do to believe all 
 the gossip one hears, or half ; but still that 
 seems a likely match enough, and a nice one. 
 Lady Eose is a very good young lady, and 
 would make him a good wife, and she's beau- 
 tiful too ; and, unless I mistake, Mr. Hugh 
 is one who will look for beauty in his wife. 
 If he gets goodness with it, so much the 
 better." 
 
 '' I don't believe, all the same, that he'd 
 care to marry Lady Rose ; she's not his style. 
 Mr. Hugh admires fair people." 
 
 " What have you to do with Mr. Hugh's 
 admirings ? " said Bellhouse, looking up from 
 her work to fix her clear eyes upon Jessie's 
 face. '' Those things are quite out of your 
 province, Jessie. Mr. Hugh is nothing to 
 you." 
 
 '' I suppose there's no harm in saying that 
 he likes a fair style," said Jessie, colouring 
 slightly, as she leant out of the window. 
 " Mother, how sweet that syringa is ! I can 
 smell it all the way up here, just like orange 
 flowers."
 
 60 Marjory. 
 
 '' Yes, it has a delicious scent," said Bell- 
 house. "I often think how good the Almighty 
 has been to us, in giving us so many scents, 
 each perfect its own way. Our life would be 
 very different without them ; there's a deal 
 in the smell of a flower. I've read somewhere 
 of their bringing back old days better than 
 anything, and I've found it true. There's 
 many and many a time crowds back on me, 
 without my seeking, as I sit sewing in this 
 window, and the different scents come up, 
 some one day and some another, just as the 
 wind comes." 
 
 " Well, for me, I've no old times to crowd 
 back," said Jessie, lightly. " New times are 
 what I want ! I'm tired of the old." 
 
 Then she leant from the window again to 
 inhale the syringa's fragrance, and to listen 
 to the wood-pigeons cooing dreamily among 
 the trees in the park. 
 
 " I wish I was a lady, mother ! " she said 
 suddenly, drawing in her head. 
 
 " Oh, my child ! you shouldn't wish such 
 things as that," said Bellhouse, sighing. 
 
 She looked again at Jessie, with a look 
 which had something of real pathos ; though 
 she was biting off a thread the while, in a 
 matter-of-fact way enough. But matter
 
 Marjory. 61 
 
 of fact and pathos lie sometimes in mournful 
 proximity. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" cried Jessie. 
 " Where can be the harm ? What a strait- 
 laced thing you would make of me ! Not 
 only mustn't I do this or say that ; I mustn't 
 even wish." 
 
 '' The Almighty knows what's best, my 
 dear, and we ought not to go against His will." 
 
 '' Oh, dear, mother ! you do take life 
 so seriously, 'tis quite awful. Why should 
 you bring religion into everything ? I know 
 nothing about all that, I'm sure ; but this I 
 do know, there can be no harm in wishing 
 to be a lady. 'No, and I may be one yet ; 
 and that '11 be no harm, either." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Jessie," said 
 Bellhouse, looking really uneasy — uneasiness 
 which Marjory's childish mind could not 
 fathom. " To be sure," she added by an 
 after- thought, " we may all be ladies in 
 actions, if we try. But a lady in station you 
 can never be ; so don't you pine after it, my 
 child," said Bellhouse, pleadingly. 
 
 *'Ah, you've not heard of Lady Burleigh, 
 mother, that's plain," said Jessie, laughing. 
 
 " Lady Burleigh ! there's no such lady in 
 these parts," said Bellhouse, puzzled.
 
 62 Marjory, 
 
 " No, she's in a poem ; but it is true ; I 
 read it tlie other day. She was born plain 
 Sarah Hodges, a cottage girl ; but Lord 
 Burleigh married her. To be sure, she died 
 young, from the burden of her honours, the 
 poem says ; but I think that was very silly 
 of her. As for me, I'm more likely to die 
 young from longing for honours I haven't 
 got. I wish I could have her chances ; I 
 wouldn't die young, I know ! " 
 
 " Hush! " said Bellhouse, glancing towards 
 the bed ; then, lowering her voice. " You're 
 talking quite wickedly, Jessie ; hold your 
 tongue. No Lady Burleighs for me ! " 
 
 "Ah, wait till the Lord Burleigh comes ! " 
 said Jessie, laughing again. '' Such things 
 have been, mother, so you needn't stare in 
 that shocked way. Of course, I don't really 
 expect any such good fortune," she added, 
 as her mother still looked at her as if petri- 
 fied. 
 
 " Such ill fortune, you mean," said Bell- 
 house. " What would you do as a lady, I'd 
 like to know ? and your mother a poor 
 servant. I tell you what, Jessie, you make 
 me feel very uneasy ; I don't know what's 
 come to you." 
 
 " Nonsense, I was only trying to shock
 
 Marjory. 63 
 
 you," said Jessie, with another laugh ; " I've 
 no business, either, to sit idUng ; my vases 
 must be filled before dark." 
 
 She rose, glancing lightly at her mother ; 
 and, seeing that the troubled look continued, 
 bent to kiss her, crying, '' Why, mother, can't 
 you understand a joke ? " 
 
 " Some jokes are edged tools, my dear," 
 said the mother, not satisfied — though evi- 
 dently pleased by the kiss. 
 
 At this moment some one knocked at the 
 door, asking to speak with Mrs. Bellhouse. 
 Bellhouse obeyed the summons; her daughter, 
 lingering behind, stole noiselessly to Mar- 
 jory's bed. Her fair cheek was tinged by 
 crimson, delicate yet rich, like that of some 
 hot-house flower ; her eyes were bright, as 
 from some inward excitement. 
 
 '' You'll excuse my chattering so, Miss 
 Stanhope ? I hope I've not disturbed 
 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, no," cried Marjory, gazing in undis- 
 guised admiration. 
 
 But Jessie still lingered, straightening the 
 coverlet, smoothing the pillow. As a step 
 sounded in the passage, she suddenly stooped, 
 and said, in a hurried tone : 
 
 " I'll be so much obliged, missy, if you
 
 G4 Marjory. 
 
 won't mention to mother that you saw me in 
 the plantation? " 
 
 "No, I won't," Marjory innocently re- 
 plied. 
 
 Years later she remembered that pro- 
 mise.
 
 ( 65 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " The old house by the lindens 
 Stood silent in the shade, 
 And on the gravelled pathway 
 The light and shadow played. 
 
 " I saw the nursery windows 
 Wide open to the air ; 
 But the faces of the children, 
 They were no longer there. 
 
 " The birds sang in the branches 
 With sweet, familiar tone ; 
 But the voices of the children 
 Will be heard in dreams alone !" 
 
 — Longfellow. 
 
 When Bellliouse returned, she carried with 
 her a shabby little trunk, which looked 
 strangely out of keeping with all else in that 
 room, but which Marjory at once recognised. 
 It contained the child's modest wardrobe, 
 already brought from Branksome by the ser- 
 vant whom Lady Thorne had despatched to 
 ease Mrs. Hammond's mind. Mrs. Hammond 
 had also sent a message to the effect that, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 Marjory. 
 
 thougli grieved to hear of Marjory's illness, 
 she could not but rejoice at any chance which 
 had placed her in the hands of ''her ladyship.'* 
 
 Thus all was peacefully settled ; and the 
 sense of repose deepened on the weary child, 
 as she lay watching Bellhouse unpack her 
 clothes and put them neatly by. The long 
 day was drawing to its close ; the sky was 
 luminous with the soft glory of the sunset ; 
 a wonderful rest was enfolding woods and 
 fields, and the living creatures that dwelt 
 among them. The intense heat was lessened 
 for the time; the western crimson foretold 
 its return to-morrow ; but meanwhile there 
 was a respite and a calm. Soft voices sounded 
 below in the old-fashioned flower-garden ; the 
 ladies had just left the dining-room, Bellhouse 
 said, and had come out to breathe the even- 
 ing air ; the wood-pigeons were cooing with 
 gentle melancholy ; Jessie had disappeared ; 
 Bellhouse sat sewing in her chair ; a peaceful 
 drowsiness stole over Marjory,— the outer 
 world faded from her sight. 
 
 When she awoke, the sun had quite gone 
 down. The windows were still open ; she 
 could see Bellhouse in the dim light sitting 
 in one of them, her work laid by, looking out. 
 The sky was overspread by a soft blue, blend-
 
 Marjory, 67 
 
 ing into delicate green ; one star, of silver 
 covered by transparent gold, was shining in 
 the west. Bellhouse was resting lier clieek 
 upon her hand ; her profile showed against 
 the background of sky : a homely profile, 
 thickly cut, but good and true, with a certain 
 sad anxiety of expression, and yet, underly- 
 ing this, a calm. Marjory watched it for a long 
 time in a kind of dream ; faint perfume from 
 the syringa was floating in at the window ; 
 all was very silent. Bellhouse herself looked 
 like a statue, sitting motionless. Long after- 
 wards the scent of syringa would bring that 
 whole scene and its feelings back in a flood 
 to Marjory. 
 
 And there was another, a more prosaic 
 scent, which brought it back, — that of a cigar. 
 This also stole in after awhile, and with it 
 the sound of a footstep below the window 
 — a man's footstep, slow and somewhat saun- 
 tering, pausing now and then, as if its owner 
 were enjoying the beauty of the night. Pre- 
 sently, from a neighbouring grove, came a 
 silver-like note, risingin to the stillness ; as 
 of some heavenly bird which had strayed and 
 lost its way, and was calling to a com- 
 panion in the heights. The footstep stopped 
 on a sudden ; a young man's voice — the same 
 F 2
 
 68 Marjory, 
 
 wliicli Marjory had heard in the lane — ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Mrs. Bellhouse ! I took you for a ghost ! 
 Is that a nightingale ? " 
 
 " No, sir, a thrush," replied Bellhouse in 
 a cold tone, turning her face outwards. 
 
 "I suppose your Thorne thrushes are 
 better than other people's ? We have no 
 such notes at Copelands ! He came to sere- 
 nade Jessie, perhaps. Tell her so." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir. I do not under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " Is Jessie there, Mrs. Bellhouse ? Ask 
 her to come to the window. I'll tell her my- 
 self and save you the trouble." 
 
 '' Thank you, sir, Jessie is gone to bed. 
 I will wish you good night, if you please, 
 Mr. Hugh. I am afraid of disturbing the 
 young lady." 
 
 " Oh, by-the-by, how is the poor little 
 kid?" said the young man, with careless 
 good nature. 
 
 " She will be better, I thank youj sir, 
 when she is rested. I wish you good night, 
 sir." 
 
 " You're uncommonly stiff to-night,' Bell- 
 house. I've offended you in some way; I 
 must know how, to-morrow. Good night,"
 
 Marjory, 69 
 
 said tlie light-liearted young voice. The easy 
 footsteps strolled on out of hearing, the 
 cigar-perfume passed gradually away. 
 
 *' Mrs. Bellhouse ! — Bellhouse, I mean," 
 said the child— ''Who is Mr. Hugh ? " 
 
 " Miss Stanhope ! are you awake, my 
 dear ? " cried Bellhouse, instantly alert. Her 
 tone, full of warmth and heartiness, was dif- 
 ferent indeed from that of two minutes before. 
 "And how do you feel, missy, after your 
 nice long sleep ? I thought I would not dis- 
 turb you till you woke of yourself; so I 
 lighted no candle." 
 
 " I feel much better, thank you," said 
 Marjory. 
 
 "I'm so glad of it, my dear ; I thought 
 you would. Rest is what you want, and 
 care, and both of those you shall have. Now 
 here's some nice jelly, ready and waiting ; 
 and then you shall sleep again till morning." 
 
 " Who is Mr. Hugh ?" repeated Marjory, 
 as she passively accepted the jelly. 
 
 " Why, did you hear me talking, missy ? 
 I'm afraid we disturbed you." 
 
 " Oh, no , I was awake ; but I saw him 
 before. As I was coming here, he passed 
 me " She paused, blushing scarlet, re- 
 membering her promise to Jessie, and won-
 
 70 Marjory, 
 
 dering whether Bellhouse would inquire how 
 she could know that the young man whom 
 she had seen in the lane was the same whom 
 she had heard beneath the window. But 
 Bellhouse was occupied, unfolding the chair- 
 bed in which she was to sleep, and no such 
 question occurred to her. 
 
 '' Mr. Hugh Vivian he is by rights, my 
 dear ; only we always call him Mr. Hugh, by 
 reason of his father. Mr. Yivian is the 
 largest squire anywhere about, and a part of 
 his estate touches her ladyship's. He is 
 much respected everywhere, is Mr. Yivian. 
 Mr. Hugh is in the army — a cornet, I think, 
 they call him. His mother is a particular 
 friend of her ladyship, and we have known 
 Mr. Hugh from a baby ; he comes and goes 
 as he likes, and makes himself at home. He 
 and Mrs. Yivian are spending a week here 
 now; Mr. Yivian couldn't leave home, so 
 Mr. Hugh is escorting his mother. Her 
 ladyship is very fond of him ; and, as to that, 
 he's a nice young gentleman enough — in his 
 own place. Miss Stanhope, my dear." 
 
 Marjory did not at all understand what 
 this latter remark might imply. She was 
 silent a little while ; then, pursuing her own 
 train of thought :
 
 Marjory. 71 
 
 *' Does Jessie always live liere ?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 " Jessie has lived here seventeen years, 
 my dear — ever since she was two years old. 
 I have been in her ladyship's service almost 
 all my life : first as nursery maid, then head 
 nurse, then lady's maid. It was here that I 
 married Bellhouse ; he was Sir Archibald's 
 valet, missy. Three years we lived together 
 in a home of our own, in Thorne village, and 
 there Jessie was born : and then my husband 
 died and I came back here, and Jessie with 
 me ; and here I shall stay to the end of her 
 ladyship's life or mine." 
 
 " But Jessie would like to go away, 
 wouldn't she ? I thought so from the way 
 she talked." 
 
 " You mustn't pay any attention. Miss 
 Stanhope, my dear, to the way Jessie talks. 
 She doesn't mean half she says. You see, 
 Jessie's been a bit spoilt: that's how it is," 
 said the mother, apologetically. ''When first 
 she came here, every one was so glad to see 
 a child about the place again : and then, as 
 she grew older, her ladyship would encourage 
 her to read history and the like, besides all 
 the good teaching she got in her ladyship's 
 schools ; and what with her being pretty and
 
 72 Marjory. 
 
 that, and sliarp, and having more education 
 than some, she was always made much of 
 by visitors. One young lady actually taught 
 her to play on the piano ! T sometimes think 
 she's never been the same girl since," said 
 Bellhouse, sighing : " I take a good bit of 
 blame to myself too, my dear ; for, being 
 left a widow, and Jessie all I had, perhaps 
 I have been too proud of her ; and I only 
 pray that, if I was, the Almighty may not 
 humble me in a way that I could not bear," 
 she added in an under-tone. 
 
 " I think Jessie is very pretty, Mrs. Bell- 
 house — Bellhouse, I mean." 
 
 ''Yes, say 'Bellhouse' — do, my dear; it 
 sounds so natural. My husband, being my 
 cousin, was the same name as myself; so 
 Bellhouse I've always been, and Bellhouse 
 I always shall be. And there were some that 
 lisped the name so pretty ! Your voice is a 
 little like Miss Bvie's, my dear. Yes, Jessie 
 is pretty, there's no doubt. But I don't 
 know — I don't know," said Bellhouse. "Per- 
 haps she'd better be ugly. It's not the out- 
 side the Almighty looks at ; it's the heart." 
 
 " But I always think that pretty people 
 must have pretty souls," said Marjory, inno- 
 cently ; " and Jessie looks very nice too."
 
 Marjory, 73 
 
 "Well, missy, she's a very kind girl — yes, 
 say it though I should not — and something 
 very sweet in her disposition ; but she's 
 proud, my dear. I'm sorry to say it of my 
 own child, but — I beg pardon. Miss Stan- 
 hope, and I hope you'll excuse me — you, 
 being young, might think it fine and take 
 pattern by it, if I didn't warn you. Her 
 pride is this, my dear — I tell you, that you 
 mayn't be led astray by her talk — she can't 
 abide to be put in a low place ; no, that's 
 gall and wormwood to her, missy. And she 
 won't submit to be looked down upon ; I 
 believe she'd sooner die than be slighted. 
 It's a sad failing, and will have to be humbled, 
 I doubt," said Bellhouse, sighing. 
 
 " Bellhouse, I thought Lady Thorne looked 
 at this little bed so sadly ! — as if some one 
 who once slept in it were dead." 
 
 " It was Miss Evie's bed, my dear —the 
 last who was taken, and the eldest of them 
 all. She died when she was twelve years 
 old ; she would have been thirty-five now ; 
 a married lady, perhaps, with children of her 
 own. Sir Archibald and her ladyship had 
 been married years before she was born ; so 
 they set all the greater store by her. I came 
 as nurserymaid soon after ; her ladyship was
 
 74 Marjory, 
 
 then as happy as heart could wish, — with a 
 good husband, and a sweet baby, and all that 
 this world's v/ealth could give. Her ladyship 
 lived in her affections, for all she is so quiet 
 and grave in her way — and cold-like, some 
 have called her. But there's no coldness in 
 her heart ! I tell you what, Miss Stanhope, 
 my dear, if anyone had told me in those 
 days that her ladyship could lose all she has 
 lost, and yet live on, I could not have believed 
 it ! But there's some of the most faithful 
 hearts that do live in spite of all, like ivy 
 clinging to the stones after the wall's fallen," 
 '' Which of the children died first ? " 
 "Miss Jane was the first, missy. She 
 was but a baby — a pretty baby, as ever any- 
 one saw. Ah, her ladyship grieved sore over 
 that ! but she didn't know what was coming. 
 Then, two or three years after. Master Archy 
 was killed by a fall ; and, last of all, Miss 
 Evie went, of something on the brain. She 
 slept herself away so peaceful, pretty dear ! 
 Ah, I did love her. Miss Stanhope — she was 
 like my own child, having known her from 
 the first. I can see it all now, when I look 
 back : that first evening, — me shy, and a bit 
 homesick — I was but fifteen — and the nurse 
 sitting by the fire, and the baby in the basi-
 
 Marjory. 75 
 
 net ; and I thought it such a lovely darling ; 
 and her ladyship coming in, and saying, 
 '' Well, Anne ! how are you ? *' — so quiet, but 
 kind through all, as I felt directly. It was 
 in this very room, Miss Stanhope, my dear. 
 This was the nursery." 
 
 " This very room ! " repeated Marjory, 
 under her breath. The spirits of those chil- 
 dren so long dead seemed near, as she looked 
 round at the bright paper which they had 
 doubtless admired, at the furniture among 
 which they had played. 
 
 " Yes, for eight years it was the nursery ; 
 and then Miss Evie's room. Her ladyship 
 thought of Miss Evie, I could see, when she 
 looked at you, my dear. Miss Evie was just 
 about your size, for she was small of her age, 
 and slight — with blue eyes likeyours. Twenty- 
 three years, yesterday, it was since that darling 
 died ! " 
 
 " And was this her night-gown ? " said 
 Marjory, touching the delicate frill that 
 edged her wrist. 
 
 *' One of the last set I made ; there are 
 children's things of all sizes in those drawers. 
 I have orders to keep them aired in case they 
 are wanted ; it's not often an occasion comes, 
 but her ladyship likes to be prepared. They
 
 76 Marjory. 
 
 are old, but I've kept them free from mofhs ; 
 and they were beautiful linen to begin with. 
 And they bring the dear children back — 
 quite wonderful. Miss Stanhope, my dear ! " 
 
 " But how dreadful for all the children to 
 die ! I wish they hadn't died," said little 
 Marjory, with an aching heart. 
 
 *' Yes, it was dreadful at first, my dear. 
 There was no doubt of that. But now the 
 worst has long been over. Ah, they're 
 better, safe in Heaven." 
 
 The yearning tone of this last sentence 
 struck even Marjory's childish ear with a 
 sense of pain. She asked no more questions, 
 but lay back, wondering what it could be 
 that, at times, sent such a pang through this 
 quiet woman ; thinking also that it would 
 be better, no doubt, if she, and such as she — 
 children who had to live pent up in httle 
 lodging-houses, among relations worn down 
 by poverty — were safe in Heaven ; but that 
 it seemed strange, and a pity, for those other 
 children, surrounded by every comfort, with 
 such a pleasant nursery, such a happy home, 
 to have been taken from those who loved them, 
 thus early. 
 
 Yague questionings about the problems of 
 life floated through Marjory's brain. Why
 
 Marjory. 77 
 
 was Lady Thorne left alone, a widow and 
 childless, with so much money — so much 
 more than she could possibly want ; while 
 her own uncle and aunt were so miserably in 
 need of money — obliged to keep Marjory, 
 moreover, when they had barely enough for 
 themselves ? Why had not she been taken 
 instead of Miss Evie ? It was only wonder 
 — not complaint — speculative, dreamy won- 
 der. Why ? What was the reason ? what 
 was to come of it in the far future of which 
 her uncle had taught her ? She lay ponder- 
 ing all these things, and watching Bellhouse, 
 who was kneeling now, with hidden face, to 
 say her evening prayer, — until her blue eyes 
 closed from sheer heaviness, and sleep over- 
 came her once more.
 
 ( 78 ) 
 
 y 
 
 CHAPTER Vir. 
 
 " I aj0&rm that, since I lost it, 
 
 Never bower has seemed so fair ; 
 
 Never garden-creeper crossed it 
 With so deft and brave an air. 
 
 Never bird sung in the summer 
 As I saw and heard them there. 
 
 "As Aladdin sought the basements 
 His fair palace rose upon, 
 And the four-and-twenty casements 
 Which gave answers to the sun ; 
 So in wilderment of gazing, 
 
 I looked up and I looked down." 
 
 — Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 Nevee, throughout her future life, did Mar- 
 jory forget the sensation of opening her eyes 
 next morning in that nest of a bed, in the 
 bright, old-fashioned room, with its curious 
 paper. Only half awake from a dream about 
 Mrs. Hammond, and forgetting, at first, that 
 she was not in her own close little chamber, 
 she gazed towards the window, instinctively 
 expecting a vision of red-brick backs and 
 hideous chimney-pots. Instead she saw a
 
 Marjory, 79 
 
 calm expanse of skj, veiled in the soft haze 
 of early morning, thick masses of foliage 
 stretching beneath it, heights of great shady 
 trees which to look upon was rest. The 
 thrush of the previous night was singing 
 again, making the most of his time ere the 
 sun should overpower him. A hush reigned 
 over nature ; the house was silent ; the roses 
 on the paper made radiance in the room ; the 
 bright birds seemed to revel in the joy of the 
 morning. 
 
 Marjory felt perhaps, in infinitesimal degree, 
 w4iat Eve might have felt when she awoke 
 from her first sleep in Paradise. This place 
 seemed verily a paradise to the tired child, 
 whose town life had been such dire imprison- 
 ment. She was an imaginative child too, 
 with a keen sense of beauty, and a strange 
 susceptibility to outward impressions of 
 every kind. Just as yesterday she had felt 
 overwhelming oppression from the universal 
 presence of red bricks, so now the green 
 world around her seemed to have become a 
 part of her very being. 
 
 She desired nothing but to be still ; and 
 this, to her joy, the old lady decreed for her. 
 For she came, the little old lady, later, though 
 still early, and stood over Marjory's pillow,
 
 80 Marjory. 
 
 and gazed at her, gravely and gently, re- 
 calling to tlie child what Bellliouse had said 
 of her having a look of Miss Evie. Before 
 leaving the room, she inquired whether 
 Marjory were fond of reading ; and, receiving 
 an emphatic affirmative, a whole pile of books 
 was shortly placed upon a table beside the 
 bed. And now was Marjory more than ever 
 in Paradise. Like many solitary children 
 growing up among people of literary tastes, 
 she had read a great deal in the course of 
 her short life. Her uncle, despite his poverty, 
 had gradually collected a small library of 
 standard works, — second-hand, or in the 
 cheapest editions ; but Mr. Stanhope was 
 wont to remark that he had never found the 
 contents at all affected by their covering ; 
 and they served equally well as the same in 
 morocco or Russian leather, to educate Mar- 
 jory's youthful mind. They made but a 
 shabby figure, to look at, upon their humble 
 shelves of stained deal; but none the less 
 had they power to stir the souls of men. 
 Many of them Marjory had read again and 
 again, unconsciously influenced, though only 
 half understanding. Few, if any, bond fide 
 children's books were comprised in this 
 collection ; only Aunt Lucy possessed some
 
 Marjory, 81 
 
 volumes of old fairy tales, which Marjory 
 knew almost by heart. 
 
 A famine of books had been one of her 
 Branksome trials. One box alone of these 
 treasures could be unpacked in the crowded 
 lodgings ; and they were chiefly theological 
 works, for Mr. Stanhope's private use. Aunt 
 Lucy had novels now and then from a circu- 
 lating library ; but novels were forbidden to 
 Marjory. Hence all the more delightful was 
 the feast now spread in abundance before her. 
 
 " Evelyn Thorne, from her mother." '' To 
 Evie, on her birthday." " Evie, with her 
 father's love." This name, in varying forms, 
 was inscribed on almost every opening fly- 
 leaf. The books had evidently been read 
 again and again ; they had been favourite 
 books of Miss Evie's. Marjory handled them 
 with a half reverent, half melancholy feeling, 
 and wondered whether their owner had been 
 sorry to leave them behind — and whether she 
 ever thought in Paradise of these old stories 
 which had pleased her so much on earth. 
 
 All the day through the childlaythus,reading, 
 resting, dreaming. Only once she sighed, and 
 said plaintively, turning her face to the wall ; 
 " I wish Gerald were here, Mrs. Bellhouse ! " 
 
 *' So do I, missy if you wish it," replied 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Marjory. 
 
 that good woman. " But who is Gerald, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " My brother," answered the child, in 
 the same plaintive tone. '' He lives with 
 Grandmamma "Wilton, in Northumberland — 
 too far for me ever to go. Uncle 
 John has never any money to spare for 
 the journey; and grandmamma is very poor 
 too ; we are all poor : why doesn't God give 
 us some more money, Bellhouse, I wonder?" 
 " That's best known to the Almighty 
 himself, my dear. He does know best about 
 all things, we may be sure — quite sure. 
 Miss Stanhope, my dear," said Bellhouse 
 firmly. " Yes," she added, as much to herself 
 as to Marjory, '' if I didn't feel quite sure 
 and certain of that, I should have given up 
 hope, many's the time. But then I do, 
 thank God ! You and your brother were 
 left orphans, I suppose, my dear ? " 
 
 " Yes ; when I was a baby. I can't 
 remember my father and mother one bit. 
 Gerald can — he says so, at least ; Aunt Lucy 
 thinks it must be fancy. He was only a 
 little past five when they died ; and I have 
 never seen him since then. But we write to 
 each other very often; and when we are grown 
 up, we mean to live together all our lives."
 
 Marjory, 83 
 
 " That will be something for you to look 
 forward to, my dear — to grow up a nice, 
 good young lady, such as your brother can 
 take a pride in, and that will keep his house 
 for him pretty, and make him comfortable. 
 You must keep aiming on to it, Miss Stan- 
 hope, my dear ; and the thought will bear 
 you through your troubles," said Bellhouse, 
 compassionately. Bellhouse had never before 
 come across such an anomaly as a poor young- 
 lady. It appeared to her one which could 
 not be sufficiently pitied. 
 
 " I don't mean ever to marry, Bellhouse; 
 I shall live all my life with Gerald. He often 
 writes about it in his letters. Gerald is so 
 clever ! He goes to school — it is a grammar- 
 school, in the town near grandmamma's house; 
 and he has got a number of prizes. But 
 what he cares most about is drawing and 
 painting ; he wants to be an artist. Grand- 
 mamma says that he mustn't think of any 
 such nonsense ; but it isn't nonsense, is it, 
 Bellhouse ? " 
 
 ' ' I should have thought, my dear, that it 
 wasn't quite the trade for a young gentleman. 
 I don't know, though ; when they're so 
 poor, I suppose they're obliged to earn their 
 living as they can, like us humbler folk. Did 
 G 2
 
 84 Marjory. 
 
 you mean an artist to paint signs for doors, 
 or take photographs, missy ? " 
 
 '' Oh, no — not that ! I mean an artist like 
 Michael Angelo, or Raphael, or Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds," cried simple Marjory. " Such 
 wonderful pictures they painted — such faces, 
 and such colours ! You would feel as if you 
 were in heaven, Bellhouse, if you saw them! 
 I have only seen prints of some of them ; 
 but I have read about them, and the prints 
 gave me an idea ; and I have thought 
 a great deal about them, because of 
 Gerald." 
 
 '* I understand you now, missy. There 
 are many very fine pictures here ; her lady- 
 ship sets great store by them. But I thought 
 it was some kind of trade to make them, like 
 any other trade, such as cabinet-making or 
 tailoring. It never entered my head that 
 they had been made by gentry." 
 
 "Some were gentlemen by birth, and some 
 not," said Marjory, in her old-fashioned 
 mood. '' It could not much have mattered; 
 those great painters must all have been 
 gentlemen inside, even when their outside 
 did not seem so. Such grand thoughts they 
 must have had ! I have read that, however 
 beautiful their pictures were, the thought of
 
 Marjory, 85 
 
 the picture — in their own minds — was more 
 beautiful still." 
 
 '' That's a thing I can quite believe," said 
 Bellhouse ; "I remember, many's the time, 
 in my younger days, when I was making a 
 bonnet for her ladyship, I'd such a vision in 
 my mind of what it should be ! I'd seem to 
 see it before me, so to speak, like dancing 
 in the air, with trimmings all so genteel ! 
 but, somehow, I never could make the real 
 thing turn out like my fancy. Something 
 seemed always wanting. Jessie, now — she's 
 always satisfied with her work. But, then, 
 she's cleverer than I am, a vast deal. Miss 
 Stanhope, my dear." 
 
 '' I should like Gerald to see Jessie. He 
 would draw her, I know ; and you should 
 have the picture, Bellhouse. This place 
 would so delight him; it is so old and so 
 beautiful. I wish it was really a fairy place, 
 as it seems to me ; because then I could put 
 an enchanted ring on my table, and the next 
 day he would be here. But I shall tell him 
 all about it in my letters. He says my 
 letters are like stories. I save up all the 
 bits of paper I can find for them. Uncle 
 John calls them scribbles." 
 
 '' You ought to take pains with your
 
 86 Marjory, 
 
 writing, tliongli, Missy. Miss Evie's hand, 
 at your age, was beautiful. I'll show you 
 her copy-books some day." 
 
 " But Miss Evie had no brother a long 
 way off," said Marjory, wistfully. '' If she 
 had, I do think she would have been obliged 
 to scribble sometimes. There seem such a 
 number of things to say. Do you know, 
 Bellhouse, I mean, some day, to write a 
 book. IVe got such a plan ! — only it is a 
 secret ; and no one knows it but I myself, 
 and Gerald." 
 
 With this she subsided into silence, her 
 face resting upon her hand on the pillow, 
 and her eyes gazing through the open window 
 towards the grand, still trees. Bellhouse 
 wondered, looking up now and then from 
 her work, what thoughts were making that 
 childish brain so busy ; but she asked no 
 questions, and Marjory said nothing more. 
 
 As evening approached, she began to wish 
 to get up and visit the fairy region below. 
 This desire being reported to Lady Thorne, 
 permission was given that she should rise 
 when the bell rang for dinner. Accordingly, 
 towards eight o'clock, Bellhouse escorted her 
 to the drawing-room. She was dressed in a 
 white frock of spotted muslin, taken from the
 
 Marjory. 87 
 
 contents of the shabby little trunk — a frock 
 scrupulously plain, and bearing traces, to a 
 practised eye, of having been twice at least 
 'Met down" since its original construction. 
 Still it suited the childish form well enough, 
 and was altogether of secondary importance 
 to the wavy yellow hair, the blue eyes, bright 
 but deep, with dark eyebrows and lashes, the 
 square forehead, childish yet nnchildish, 
 thoughtful beyond its years. The whole face 
 was the face of a child, but a child who had 
 experienced much that belongs usually to a 
 later growth ; who had already, in a practical 
 manner, learned the necessity of fortitude, of 
 endurance, of courageous combat with cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Left alone on the threshold of the drawing- 
 room, she stood still at first, then entered on 
 tiptoe, with a look half of awe, half expecta- 
 tion, as if exploring some enchanted chamber 
 in the palace of the White Cat or Beauty's 
 Beast. The room was empty ; a large room, 
 thoroughly comfortable, with an abundance of 
 ottomans, settees, quaintly-shaped chairs, and 
 footstools. The walls were wainscoted half 
 way to the ceiling with oak panels, richly 
 carved — faces, flowers, leaves, and fruit in 
 curious combination ; each panel was sepa-
 
 88 Marjory, 
 
 ratelj a study. Above tlie wainscot a light 
 paper, bright though dehcate, extended to 
 the ceiling, which was also of oak, carved 
 and intercarved like the rest. In the papered 
 space were many pictures — pictures of all 
 kinds ; some in oil painting, some in water- 
 colour, some portraits, ancient or modern. 
 They had been hung at various times, with 
 small attempt at special arrangement ; but 
 the whole formed an exquisite contrast to 
 the solid grandeur of the oak. A row of 
 latticed windows, with cushioned recesses, 
 ran along the whole length of the wall facing 
 the door. They overlooked a broad terrace 
 walk, descending by a step to a smooth lawn 
 intersected by beds of many patterns, and 
 gay with geraniums, calceolarias, and lobelias, 
 an old sun-dial in the midst of all. Beyond, 
 standard rose-trees bordered another broad 
 walk ; and again beyond lay the park, the 
 gray church-tower rising above the trees. 
 
 The row of windows was divided by a 
 glass door, similarly recessed ; both this and 
 the lattices were thrown open, admitting per- 
 fumed air from the pleasant garden. Perfume 
 rose likewise from the depths of the china 
 jars, for which it was Jessie's glory, every 
 summer, to prepare a delightful concoction
 
 Marjory, 89 
 
 of damask rose-leaves and other such ingre- 
 dients. Marjory thought of the tripe and 
 onions with which Mrs. Hammond's lodgings 
 were scented, and revelled in the change. 
 She sat quietly down on one of the low foot- 
 stools, under a window, her yellow head 
 resting against the oak; and looked about her. 
 
 All was very still, except that bees were 
 humming drowsily among the jessamine which 
 clustered round the windows — jessamine which 
 for many a year had clustered there, which 
 the children long dead had looked upon. 
 Marjory sat with folded hands, and watched 
 the bees floating in and out, in and out, of 
 the old walls, where they had built their 
 nests for generations. Behind the jessamine 
 stems were many holes, portals to those nests ; 
 abundant honey was, doubtless, laid up with- 
 in them. It might be that they were rejoicing 
 over their store ; their hum had a kind of 
 music. Marjory, listening, felt soothed and 
 happy, although the heat was still intense, 
 and, to anyone not fresh from Branksome, 
 might have seemed hardly bearable. 
 
 Presently in the hall a door opened ; voices 
 approached, and soft skirts swept lightly over 
 the floor. Marjory turned from the bees to 
 listen to this new souad, as if she had turned
 
 90 Marjory. 
 
 anottier leaf in the fairy tale. Lady Thorne, 
 and another J whom she divined to be Mrs. 
 Vivian, entered the drawing-room. The 
 little old lady looked smaller and slighter 
 than ever, beside her companion, who was 
 tall and of grand proportions. But no less 
 stately or dignified did that little old lady 
 appear, T\'ith her erect carriage and the grave 
 yet calm expression which characterized her 
 well-defined features. Marjory remembered 
 Jessie's speech, as she noticed the dress of 
 rich black satin, with the soft chemisette, and 
 the snowy cap upon the smooth gray hair. 
 A gold watch-chain, long and thin, and a 
 pearl brooch of delicate workmanship, were 
 her only ornaments ; but Marjory gazed upon 
 her with eyes brimful of admiration, with that 
 instinctive homage which '' serene old age," 
 such age as Lady Thome's, unconsciously 
 inspires. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian was much younger than her 
 hostess, remarkably handsome, with a com- 
 plexion of clear white, a Grecian nose, and 
 heavy eyelids, which, uplifted, revealed dark 
 eyes like her boy's. Her hair, just beginning 
 to be streaked with gray, was fashionably 
 arranged beneath a slight fabric of lace and 
 ribbon ; a white lace shawl feU gracefully
 
 Marjorij. 91 
 
 over lier shoulders, shading without conceal- 
 ing their beautiful proportions ; she wore a 
 rich dress of purple moire, with a long train 
 — long enough to have been carried, Marjory 
 thought, like a queen's, by waiting-maids 
 behind her. Her ornaments were in the 
 same grand style — cameos set in gold, ear- 
 rings, necklet, brooch and bracelets, all to 
 match ; and in her hand she carried an ex- 
 quisite fan of white feathers. A fine and 
 well-dressed specimen of a highly-bred 
 woman she appeared, as she came slowly up 
 the long room. Marjory rose at the approach 
 of the ladies ; and her hostess nodded kindly, 
 saying, " Well, little girl, so you have found 
 your way downstairs ! " 
 
 " Is that the little girl ? " said Mrs. Vivian, 
 with a languid glance, as she sank into a 
 low chair. " My dear child, do you know 
 that I regard you as a prodigy ? How you 
 could walk from Alton in such weather, and 
 get here alive, is nothing less than a marvel 
 to me ! " 
 
 " She was only just alive, I think," said 
 the little old lady. '^ Don't stand, my dear; go 
 back to your footstool, and I will find some- 
 thing to amuse you." 
 
 ''I wonder you did not melt," observed
 
 92 Marjory, 
 
 Mrs. Vivian, still languidly surveying Marjory : 
 who shuffled uneasily beneath her gaze, and 
 coloured, half ashamed of such unwarrant- 
 able stability of constitution ! '' How did 
 you contrive to avoid melting ? " 
 
 Thus questioned, and finding reply ex* 
 pected, the child shuffled again, and said : 
 
 " It was the country — I felt suffocated — I 
 wanted to get away. This place is cool, 
 compared to Branksome." 
 
 " Then Branksome must be a fiery fur- 
 nace," said Mrs. Vivian, slowly fanning 
 herself. '' And I should think the end of it 
 will be that they will all turn into sala- 
 manders." 
 
 Whom "they" might signify was not 
 clear, neither could Marjory recall the defi- 
 nition of a salamander. Here was a field 
 for recollection, into which she instantly 
 plunged, sitting with hands folded in her 
 lap once more, and blue eyes fixed on Mrs. 
 Vivian. That lady's own eyes were now 
 closed ; her head rested upon the back of 
 her chair; she was still fanning herself 
 slowly. As she sat thus, the evening light, 
 falling upon her face, showed lines of anxious 
 care on brow and lip ; she looked restless, 
 weary, sad. The peace of Lady Thome's
 
 Marjory, 93 
 
 countenance — that peace all the deeper be- 
 cause it had followed upon tears — had here 
 no reflection. Marjory, who could no more 
 help observing than breathing, forgot her 
 yjuzzle, in the involuntary contemplation of 
 the sudden change upon those handsome 
 features — the change from seeming repose, 
 indifferent, a little haughty, to the painful 
 anxiety habitual to Marjory's Aunt Lucy. 
 But Aunt Lucy had so'many cares ! and Lady 
 Thorne, too, had lost all whom she loved. 
 What cares could this beautiful, rich lady 
 know, that she should resemble the one, and 
 seem so much less happy than the other ? 
 
 '' How terrible it would be — have you ever 
 thought of it. Lady Thorne ! — how very ter- 
 rible, to live in a provincial town ! " she said, 
 still with head thrown back and closed eyes, 
 still gently fanning. " I should feel, as that 
 child says, suffocated ; I could not endure it. 
 It would kill me," she added, after a pause. 
 *' But that might be as well, perhaps, in such 
 circumstances." 
 
 *' It is not the place that matters so much, 
 I think," said the little old lady, gently. 
 "Anywhere almost, with one's own family, 
 one might make a home. And you know it 
 is not always hot."
 
 94 Marjory. 
 
 '' No ; but one would always feel shut up. 
 To miss tlie country freedom, to be cramped 
 for space — it would be insufferable ! London 
 one might endure ; but a provincial town ! — 
 like that Branksome end of Alton, for in- 
 stance. Life would not be worth having." 
 
 She shuddered gently; and Marjory felt 
 an inward rush of sympathy, despite the 
 immeasurable distance from which those 
 languid eyes had appeared to regard this 
 insignificant belonging — daughter, or niece, 
 or what not — no matter ! — of the poor curate 
 in charge of unfashionable St. Philip's. 
 
 But now Lady Thorne had brought out a 
 portfolio of priceless treasures of beautiful 
 engravings, the first glimpse of which caused 
 Marjory's face to glow and her heart to dance. 
 Bellhouse, in attending upon her mistress, 
 had repeated some of Marjory's chatter — 
 which had seemed to the simple woman vastly 
 clever — of pictures and artists ; and this the 
 little old lady had not forgotten. The pic- 
 tures spread, one by one, upon a chair before 
 her, the child was soon completely engrossed, 
 studying their details in anticipation of letters 
 to Gerald, and dehghted to recognise here 
 and there descriptions over which she had 
 pored in some old book. Thus occupied, she
 
 Marjory. 95 
 
 heard only as a meaningless undercurrent 
 tlie murmur of voices, as the ladies chatted 
 at some distance ; Lady Thorne netting dili- 
 gently the while at a shawl for some old 
 woman ; Mrs. Vivian also, now and then, 
 a gold thimble on her finger, adding a 
 few stitches to a roll of delicate lacework, — 
 but more often pausing to fan herself, as if 
 overcome by the heat. 
 
 In this manner half an hour had passed, 
 when some sudden sound in the hall broke 
 Marjory's trance. She awoke once more to 
 the outer world, and looked up from her 
 pictures. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian was talking in a low voice, 
 tone and manner alike listless ; there was in 
 them something that bordered on the still- 
 ness of despair. When she ceased, she sat 
 motionless, looking out ; the bees were still 
 humming over the jessamine ; a rook cawed 
 far away ; a warm breath, not strong enough 
 for a breeze, heavy with fragrance, floated 
 from the garden. Somehow they all seemed 
 to speak of relentless Fate, of the years roll- 
 ing, rolling by, bringing each its own events 
 in its own time, unmoved by the passions of 
 mortals. 
 
 " There is no use in fretting," said Mrs.
 
 96 Marjory. 
 
 Vivian ; this time her languid voice reached 
 Marjory. " What nrnst be must." 
 
 "Would it not be better to warn him?" 
 said Lady Thorne, in the tone of one who 
 feels her suggestion to be painful, and pities 
 the pain, but speaks from a sense of duty. 
 
 " I cannot shadow his bright youthful- 
 ness," said Mrs. Vivian. " You could not, if 
 he were your son. No ; let him have what 
 respite he may ! " 
 
 " But will it not be all the worse for him 
 when the respite is over ?" said Lady Thorne. 
 
 " I am like Mr. Micawber, always hoping 
 that something may turn up," said Mrs. 
 Vivian, with a faint smile. " At all events, 
 he will bear it better when he is older. He 
 has never yet known what it is to be crossed 
 in any way." 
 
 " I would tell him ! I would at least pre- 
 pare his mind," said the little old lady, gently. 
 But Mrs. Vivian only shook her head, moving 
 restlessly on her chair ; and murmured with 
 a sigh from the depths of a sick heart, " Oh, 
 my bright boy ! "
 
 ( 97 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 *' So, young muser, I sate listening 
 To my fancy's wildest word : 
 On a sudden, through the glistening 
 
 Leaves around, a little stirred. 
 Came a sound, a sense of music which was rather 
 felt than heard. 
 
 " Softly, finely, it inwound me ; 
 
 From the world it shut me in, — 
 Like a fountain, falling round me, 
 
 Wliich with silver waters thin 
 Clips a little water Naiad sitting smilingly within." 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 " Well, motlier !" said a gay young voice at 
 one of tlie windows, with a suddenness which 
 made Mrs. Vivian start, " There you are, 
 enjoying the endless charms of conversation, 
 as usual ! What can ladies find to say so 
 much about, I wonder ? " 
 
 Marjory looked up, and saw Mr. Hugh, in 
 evening dress, leaning with both arms upon 
 the window-sill. The light air of careless 
 grace by which her first view of him had 
 been characterized, was equally conspicuous 
 now ; as — half saucy, half affectionate — his 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 Marjory, 
 
 bright dark eyes looked in upon his 
 mother. 
 
 '' You are smoking, you disgusting boy ! 
 Do go away. What will Lady Thorne say to 
 you ? — coming to her drawing-room windows 
 with a cigar in your hand ! " 
 
 '' Lady Thorne is well aware of my iniqui- 
 ties, and knows that I can't help them," said 
 Hugh, turning his bright glance upon the 
 little old lady. '^ Besides, she is very fond 
 of cigars, and would like to smoke herself. 
 Now, confess to me, wouldn't you, please 
 your ladyship ? " 
 
 '' I do not object to the smell," said Lady 
 Thorne, with her gravely gentle smile ; " But 
 as to smoking myself, that is another matter!" 
 
 " Yes, Bellhouse might copy the practice, 
 and that would be awkward ; cost you a mint 
 of money too — especially if «Tessie followed 
 in train ! By-the-by, Lady Thorne, how 
 pretty Jessie is growing ! " 
 
 " Rather too pretty, I fear," said the little 
 old lady. 
 
 ** Too pretty ! Come, that is rather too 
 bad," said Hugh, laughing. '^ There are 
 plenty of young women too ugly, as I know 
 to my cost ! but too pretty — c'est une chose 
 imjpossihle ! ^^
 
 Marjory, 99 
 
 " From a young man's point of view, 
 perhaps," said Lady Thorne, intent on her 
 netting. 
 
 '* From anyone's, I should think," cried 
 Hugh, beginning to take the matter in earn- 
 est. " I could understand such a speech 
 from certain parties — your estimable Bell- 
 house, for instance. But you. Lady Thorne 
 — if you will excuse me — who were so pretty 
 yourself, I should have thought you would 
 be superior to those prejudices of envious 
 plainness." 
 
 " You are unjust, Hugh," said his mother, 
 languidly; *' Men always are. I never read 
 a man's novel in which women are not 
 represented as blind to each other's beauty. 
 In reality, they appreciate it quite as keenly 
 as men, and have often no less pleasure in 
 looking at it. But you know, in that class 
 of life, it does not do to be too pretty." 
 
 "That class of life! Prejudice again," 
 said Hugh. ''I hope, mother, that in your 
 devotions you represent your views to the 
 Creator of those too pretty women. Your 
 prayers might be useful in averting the 
 transmission of the calamity." 
 
 '' Don't be profane, Hugh," said Mrs. 
 Vivian. " As to this special young woman, 
 H 2
 
 100 Marjory » 
 
 this Jessie, I really have never noticed her 
 looks, one way or the other. I could not 
 have said, to tell you the truth, whether she 
 were pretty or ugly ; neither can I see why 
 you should think it necessary to act as her 
 champion." 
 
 " I do nothing of the sort," said Hugh, 
 with a slight deepening of colour ; " It is 
 only my British fancy for fair play. And 
 you would really oblige me. Lady Thorne, by 
 mentioning your reason for thinking Jessie 
 too pretty." 
 
 '' My reason is very simple," said Lady 
 Thorne, ^'andnot worth so much discussion: — 
 merely, that she is in danger of being spoiled ! 
 She attracts a great deal of admiration, and 
 I fear that she is too sharp to be unaware of it." 
 
 '' You are right there, I suspect," said 
 Hugh, laughing ; '^ Jessie is about as sharp 
 as fifty ordinary needles. Why, it is one of 
 her chief beauties ! that sharpness is quite 
 bewitching. Now, don't you see, Lady 
 Thorne, looking candidly at the matter, what 
 a mercy it is that the cautious prejudice of 
 the British matron is not allowed full scope ? 
 If that same prejudice had its way, it would 
 turn up Jessie's nose, freckle her forehead, 
 imprint a wart upon the most chiselled
 
 Marjory, 101 
 
 portion of her cliin, and, in short, demolish a 
 very lovely work of Providence." 
 
 " This is not at all an interesting subject, 
 Hugh," said Mrs. Vivian; ''I am tired of 
 it." 
 
 "Throw away that end of your cigar — which 
 has gone out, I see," said Lady Thorne; 
 " And let us have a little music. I want to 
 hear those duets again." 
 
 *^A11 right," said Hugh. "And, by-the- 
 by, where is the kid ? You told me she was 
 coming down. Have you sent her upstairs 
 again, because — as you yourself confessed to 
 me — her eyes happen to be blue ? " 
 
 Lady Thorne pointed with a reproving 
 gesture towards Marjory ; whereupon Hugh 
 shugged his shoulders, observing : " ' I sez' to 
 Mariar, Mariar, sez' I — praise to the face 
 is open disgrace: ' " — and stepped through the 
 glass door into the drawing-room. 
 
 Mrs. Vivian possessed a soprano voice of 
 singular excellence ; and her son had inherited 
 its rich sweetness, embodied in a masculine 
 tenor. Exquisite harmony these voices 
 together made, as they united in that most 
 lovely and touching of melodies — " I saw thy 
 form in youthful prime." Marjory, on her 
 footstool, listened entranced, and wished that
 
 102 Marjory, 
 
 it could go on for ever. Mrs. Vivian played 
 the accompaniment ; Mr. Hugh stood behind 
 her, his hand upon her shoulder. There was an 
 air about these two, of entire mutual devotion; 
 the haughty woman was not haughty to her 
 boy : — every tone of her voice, as she spoke to 
 him, every motion of her eye, as she looked 
 at him, betrayed the most passionate 
 motherly love, blended with infinite pride. 
 Whatever playful affectation to the contrary 
 she might sometimes assume, he was evidently 
 in her opinion perfect. Upon this only child 
 both parents had lavished all the wealth of 
 affection which, in different circumstances, is 
 shared among many ; and, in his intercourse 
 with his mother, he had not yet relinquished 
 the confiding air of a petted boy. Although 
 otherwise a manly young fellow enough, he 
 was still with her a " Mammy's darling," 
 caressing and caressed, — and fully proving the 
 truth of her assertion, that he knew not what 
 it was to be thwarted. 
 
 Lady Thome, sitting quietly in the back- 
 ground, let her netting lie idle in her lap. 
 They were together, and she was alone ; yet 
 pity, not for herself, but for them, saddened 
 her grave and gentle eyes. Some painful 
 thought, aroused by her conversation with
 
 Marjory. 103 
 
 Mrs. Vivian, lingered visibly in her mind ; 
 she sighed softly, once or twice, as she 
 watched and listened. Presently, remember- 
 ing Marjory, she glanced towards her ; and 
 smiled to herself at the child's intense absorp- 
 tion. And then a memory of other days 
 floated back ; there was a dimness, like the 
 shadow of a tear, in her eyes, as the song 
 ended: 
 
 " To live with them is not so sweet, 
 As to remember thee, Mary." 
 
 '' Thank you. That was very nice," she 
 said ; ''I am always so fond of Moore's 
 Melodies. But do not stop yet ; we must 
 have another — two such voices are a treat." 
 
 " But I want you to hear my mother's 
 last achievement," said Hugh ; " I took the 
 liberty of tuning your harp to-day with that 
 intent. She has made the most delightful 
 conglomeration of old Scotch airs, running 
 one into the other — just the thing you will 
 revel in. Lady Thorne. Now, mother, don't 
 be unkind — when I tuned the harp on pur- 
 pose, in all the heat ! " 
 
 '' Your description is certainly tempting!" 
 said Mrs. Vivian ; " A conglomeration of airs 
 running one into the other ! Lady Thorne 
 would rather be excused."
 
 104 Marjory, 
 
 '^ Nonsense — Lady Tliorne is not so foolish. 
 Now, mother, there's a darling ! " 
 
 Marjory had never heard a harp before, 
 and had seldom thought of one but in con- 
 nexion with the Revelation. Now, as the 
 music of the voices was exchanged for its 
 silvery notes, she seemed to pass from one 
 enraptured dream into another. What is it 
 in those old Scotch airs that goes straight to 
 the heart ? Why do they possess so power- 
 ful a fascination for every variety of man- 
 kind — from the vagabond who pauses in the 
 street when '' Auld Lang Syne" drones forth 
 on a barrel-organ, to the cultivated critic 
 who pays a high price to hear the same per- 
 formed, with every refinement of taste, by a 
 London orchestra. Some touch of nature 
 there must be in them, to make the whole 
 world so akin ; and the charm worked 
 strongly on little Marjory, as she listened to 
 Mrs. Yivian. Grand to the last degree, in 
 Marjory's eyes, did Mrs. Vivian look, her 
 rich dress falling in majestic folds, her white 
 fingers moving with easy power over the 
 harp-strings. An accomplished musician, 
 she knew well how to lead each fine old air, 
 through exquisite modulations, into the next; 
 knew also how, with bell- like clearness, to
 
 Marjory. 105 
 
 ring it out above the underflow of accom- 
 paniment : which sometimes rose and fell like 
 the ripple of a cascade, sometimes swept 
 hither and thither, as the wind through 
 summer trees, bearing the air upon its gusts. 
 
 " Do you like it ? " said a low voice, close 
 to Marjory. The child started from her 
 trance, and looked up. Mr. Hugh was 
 leaning against the open shutter of the win- 
 dow in which she sat ; she had not observed 
 his approach, and this was the first time he 
 had spoken to her ; but her raised eyes met 
 in his gay young face such kindness of 
 expression, that her shyness melted in a 
 moment. 
 
 '' I keep fancying that it is a fairy tale," 
 she said ; " Not only the music, but every- 
 thing. It all seems too good to be true." 
 
 ''Too good to be true ! that phrase is mere 
 bosh, little Miss Geranium, or Myrtle, or 
 whatever your name maybe," said the young 
 man, sitting down and bending towards her 
 as she gazed from her footstool. ''' Who has 
 been putting such philosophy into your head? 
 it is a form of speech, invented by certain 
 parties who are never happy unless they are 
 miserable. Don't you believe in it ! There 
 isn't anything too good to be true 1"
 
 106 Marjory, 
 
 " Isn't there ? " said the child, a little 
 drearily. " Not for you, perhaps," she added, 
 as an afterthought; ''there are plenty of 
 things too good to be true for Uncle John, 
 and Aunt Lucy, and me." 
 
 " I don't beheve a word of it," said Mr. 
 Hugh, shaking his head with his light smile. 
 " That they may not be true just at present, I 
 will not deny ; but who knows how soon they 
 may come ! Don't you go and found your 
 views of life on the sentiments of codgers, 
 Miss Myrtle ! According to my experience, 
 life is very much what one makes it; the 
 world's a very jolly place to me, and will 
 be so to you, if you will look at it with your 
 own eyes : — I'm certain of that, from their 
 colour." 
 
 " Why do you call me Miss Myrtle ? " said 
 Marjory, laughing. 
 
 " Let's see ! What is your name ? Oh, 
 to be sure — 'tis the association of ideas : 
 
 " * She was my myrtle, my geranium, 
 
 My daffodil, my daisy, my sweet marjoram.' 
 
 Sweet Marjoram, that's it, eh ? I've seen 
 you before ; where, I wonder ? " 
 
 " In the lane by the plantation," said 
 Marjory, under her breath ; " I saw you too, 
 as you rode by."
 
 Marjory. 107 
 
 "Oh, all, yes — I recollect; you are the 
 child who was standing by the gate. Poor 
 little kid ! you must have felt tired to death. 
 Why didn't you ask me to take you up on 
 my horse ? And so you came all that way 
 because you were sick of the town ? I don't 
 wonder; I get awfully sick of it myself." 
 
 " Why, do you live in a town, Mr. Hugh ? " 
 
 " How pat the little thing has got my 
 name ! My regiment is quartered in one ; 
 I'm a soldier, Marjoram ; I'm a man of blood ; 
 I could shoot you, if I chose, scientifically. 
 I am at home for a holiday — that's all ; I 
 only hope this heat will be over before I go 
 back." 
 
 «« Why don't you stay and live at home, 
 instead of being a soldier ? " 
 
 " One must do something, you know ; 
 so saith popular prejudice ; and soldiering 
 is rather less of a nuisance than anything 
 else. It's a very jolly life, on the whole ; 
 and when the town bores me — I'm country- 
 bred, you see. Marjoram, and I share your 
 partiality for green fields — I jump on my 
 horse and get out of it. There's nothing like 
 a good gallop among the lanes to make one 
 ready for mess. I don't know, though, 
 whether my fancy for the country would
 
 108 Marjory, 
 
 carry me to the extent of walking myself to 
 death." 
 
 *' Mr. Hugh, have you ever killed anyone?" 
 
 " What a terrible question ! Oh, you 
 mean in my capacity of man of blood !' No, 
 never. I am a fireside soldier, so far, and 
 have only tasted the fun of it. It's a fine 
 thing to belong to the military — nothing too 
 good to be true, in a double sense, for them. 
 We're feted and danced with, and admired 
 right and left. But then, you know, we may 
 half of us be slashed to death, some day ; and 
 that's why they think us such fine fellows !" 
 
 *' Hugh, what nonsense are you talking ^ " 
 cried his mother, who, in a piano passage 
 of her music, had overheard these words. 
 " Now mind ! I shall keep firm to what I 
 have always told you : if your regiment is 
 ordered abroad, you sell out at once." 
 
 '' Lady Thorne, did you ever hear such an 
 unpatriotic person ? " laughed the young 
 man. " Mother, ' you fair shame me,* as old 
 nurse says. It won't be ordered abroad to- 
 night, at any rate ; so pray go on with your 
 music." 
 
 '' And meanwhile it is time for all tired 
 little people to be in bed," said Lady Thorne, 
 nodding kindly at Marjory.
 
 Marjory, 109 
 
 So this strange, Happy evening came to an 
 end, and the picture faded from before Mar- 
 jory's eyes : — the picture of that fine old 
 drawing-room, and the grave, gentle old 
 lady, and the light-hearted young soldier, — 
 and the fond, haughty, handsome mother 
 playing the Scotch airs upon the harp. Often 
 in after-years it rose again in her recollection ; 
 hardly less vividly than now when, in her 
 little bed, she pondered her experiences, 
 while downstairs the music still continued, 
 presently mingling with her dreams.
 
 ( 110 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Principles in Edmund's mind 
 Were baseless, vague, and undefined. 
 His soul, like bark with rudder lost, 
 On passion's changeful tide was tossed ; 
 Nor vice nor virtue had the power 
 Beyond the impression of the hour." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Next day the cMldisli mind received a shock. 
 Strictly trained in her uncle's clerical house- 
 hold, Marjory's ideas of morality were rigid in 
 the extreme. She was firmly of opinion that no 
 one who was " naughty " could be ''nice," 
 and vice versa. Not that the child — like 
 many small persons of her years, in religious 
 families — was of a priggish tendency, or in- 
 clined to measure the world by a Shibboleth. 
 But she did imagine that the world consisted 
 of but two classes — one altogether good, the 
 other altogether bad ; and she had never 
 realised the possibility of feeling any strong 
 interest in a person belonging to the latter. 
 She had heard her uncle, in his parochial ex- 
 periences, condemn some one or another 
 reprobate for swearing, drinking, or the
 
 Marjory. Ill 
 
 like ; and tliat there could at the same time 
 be anything lovable or attractive in such 
 persons, was a notion of which her philosophy 
 had never dreamed. She thought of all 
 alike as wicked people ; and wicked people 
 must be odious people too ! 
 
 After a night of pleasant dreams, she had 
 awakened so much refreshed that, her break- 
 fast over, she begged to go out. A part of 
 wise old Lady Thome's plan for the recovery 
 of this child, overweighted by a burden 
 beyond her years, was entire liberty — to rest, 
 or read, or wander, at her will. 
 
 " She shall do exactly as she likes, Bell- 
 house," said that little old lady ; '' she is not 
 a child to take advantage, I can see, of such 
 a permission. She shall be perfectly free." 
 
 So Bellhouse adjusted the child's straw 
 hat, and brought her darned cotton gloves 
 from a drawer ; and, only warning her not to 
 tire herself, bade her go whither she would. 
 
 Yet another page in this most charming of 
 fairy tales ! Marjory tripped downstairs, eyes 
 and heart dancing in concert. It was a 
 glorious summer's day, hot as ever ; but 
 children can bear a vast amount of heat in 
 the country. The woods lay dim in haze ; 
 the Alderney cows browsed languidly, or
 
 112 Marjory, 
 
 stood motionless, under the heavy trees ; the 
 long slopes of park stretched away, away, 
 beneath the blue expanse of sky ; the gray 
 church-tower seemed half asleep, as it rose 
 above the elms. Innumerable gnats were 
 dancing their everlasting measures — up and 
 down, down and up, together and apart — 
 over and over and over again. All manner 
 of butterflies floated above the scented flower- 
 beds ; a long-limbed dragon-fly flourished 
 his splendid hues, and whirred drowsily — 
 flitting before Marjory ; a brown spaniel rose 
 lazily from fitful dozes on the threshold of 
 the glass door, stretched himself, and fol- 
 lowed her, wagging his feathery tail. A 
 story-book of Miss Evie's under her arm, 
 she roamed along, exploring, as two days 
 before she had explored the hot white roads 
 between Thorne and Alton. The flower- 
 garden led ofi* into shady paths, winding 
 among green lawns, with seats placed here 
 and there, in some favourable spot for a view. 
 Marjory rested sometimes, and then went on 
 in renewed enjoyment. 
 
 Presently great walls rose before her ; an 
 open doorway revealed within wide plots of 
 highly cultivated vegetables, diversified by 
 frames and greenhouses, and fruit-trees, care-
 
 Marjory, 113 
 
 fully netted, on the walls — where bright red 
 cherries gleamed, while, rich in promise, 
 plums, apricots, and nectarines ripened in 
 the sun. Beyond, another open door revealed 
 a wondrous vista of strawberry-beds and 
 raspberry-bushes, whereat the child gazed 
 with longing eyes, wishing that she could fill 
 a giant hamper, to be sent by special train to 
 Aunt Lucy. But an elderly gardener, of 
 peevish countenance, issued from a green- 
 house, and looked askance, as if preparing to 
 inquire, '' Who be you ? " Marjory circum- 
 vented this intention by speedy retirement, 
 still followed by the spaniel — which had re- 
 mained at her side in the doorway, evidently 
 aware that further he must not go. 
 
 Eleven strokes resounded in a deep and 
 musical tone. Looking round in search of 
 its origin, she saw a gable-ended turret con- 
 taining a large clock, rising somewhere in 
 the rear of the gardens. Away in this 
 direction she started, spurred on by her 
 childish fancy that all alike was enchanted 
 ground, with new wonders round every cor- 
 ner. The spaniel quickened his pace, and 
 ran along snuffing the earth, as if he had 
 found some track which for him also had 
 allurements. The end of the long walls was 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Marjory, 
 
 reached ; Marjory turned tlie angle ; and saw 
 another stretch of wall, divided by two great 
 gates, enclosing a paved court, with a pump 
 in the midst, and a row of kennels — beyond 
 which appeared an array of ancient stables 
 and coach-houses, all of gray stone, gable- 
 ended, the central gable bearing the clock. 
 The spaniel now, still vigorously snuffing, 
 set off" at a rapid trot, and disappeared within 
 the gates ; turning, as he entered, to a quarter 
 of the court not discernible from Marjory's 
 point of vision. 
 
 For Marjory had stopped short, arrested 
 by sounds in the same direction. Some one 
 was very angry, — in fact, beside himself with 
 passion. The child listened half scared, her 
 cheek turning pale ; ought she to run back 
 and tell Bellhouse ? Only once before, in her 
 short life, had she heard such sounds ; and 
 those had come from a public-house, when 
 she was walking with her uncle. A woman 
 had cried from a window that a fight was 
 going on, and had begged him to step in and 
 make peace ; Marjory had been sent on alone, 
 and presently, looking back, had seen a man 
 covered with blood come out, and stagger 
 across the road. Such then had been her 
 terror, that she had set off to run, and had
 
 Marjory. 115 
 
 not stopped till she burst breathless into 
 Aunt Lucy's room, — terrifying Aunt Lucy 
 equally. This scene she had never forgotten. 
 And, now, was such another fight about to 
 take place ? Her weak little legs trembled ; 
 she was on the point of starting to find Bell- 
 house — she might even have implored the 
 interference of the peevish gardener — when 
 suddenly she recognised the voice. That 
 loud, passionate, ungoverned voice — it was 
 Mr. Hugh's ! 
 
 The idea of calling assistance vanished 
 in a second ; some undefined instinct with- 
 held her from exposing his shame. She 
 paused, spellbound, her cheeks crimson as 
 before they had been pale. It appeared that 
 this burst of fury was expended on a servant ; 
 once or twice a deprecating murmur, plenti- 
 fully interspersed with pitiful " sirs," replied. 
 The child's generous spirit rose up with all 
 its might. She felt, as she listened, as though 
 she hated Mr. Hugh, and would willingly 
 have engaged with him in single-handed com- 
 bat in that poor servant's defence. The 
 murmur heightened his rage. 
 
 " And you call yourself a groom ? Con- 
 found your impudence ! " was thundered out 
 into the still air. " Why, look here, you 
 I 2
 
 116 Marjory. 
 
 scoundrel ! what do you call this ? and this ? 
 and this ? " 
 
 At each query came a clash upon the 
 paving, as of some metal article flung down 
 with all the strength of the speaker; and then 
 followed a storm of oaths, shuddered at by 
 Marjory, not merely on their own account, 
 but from the awful condemnation which she 
 had heard foretold for those who uttered them. 
 Moreover, she had never, until this instant, 
 conceived it possible that such words could 
 proceed from a gentleman — let alone a ''nice" 
 gentleman ! She trembled from head to 
 foot, and stood rooted to the ground in her 
 horror. And, as she stood, out strode Mr. 
 Hugh, passing her, but not seeing her, blinded 
 by his passion— his face and the back of his 
 neck as red as fire, and his usual careless 
 lightness exchanged for an expression one 
 rapid glimpse of which made Marjory shrink 
 and cower. Behind him slunk the spaniel, 
 his tail between his legs, his whole attitude 
 indicative of extreme abjectness — although, 
 by the way, his master did not appear to be 
 conscious of so much as his existence. They 
 were gone in a moment, and out of Marjory's 
 sight ; but she remained gazing blankly in 
 the direction in which they had disappeared.
 
 Marjory, 117 
 
 Her meditations were interrupted by more 
 voices. A young groom in working dress, 
 bare-headed, bare-armed, and bare-necked, 
 issued, laughing, from a stable, apparently 
 in full enjoyment of some excellent joke. As 
 lie proceeded to wash his hands at the pump, 
 another groom, similarly attired, came from 
 the unseen quarter in which the outburst 
 overheard by Marjory had taken place. To 
 Marjory's surprise, he also, the evident 
 victim, was laughing no less heartily than 
 the other. He approached the pump, ex- 
 tending some object upon his outspread 
 palm. 
 
 '' Well, he gave yer one for yerself, Jack ! " 
 said the first. '' I was on the watch, ready 
 to pick up yer 'ead. I thought I should see 
 it come a-rolling." 
 
 ''It's these spurs as has caught it instead," 
 said Jack ; '' See how he's served 'em. Why, 
 this un's broke clean through ! " 
 
 "So it be," said the other, examining. 
 '' Well, to be sure ! and they wasn't polished 
 to his mind, then ? " 
 
 " Them and the snaffle," observed Jack, 
 contemplating the contents of his palm with 
 ruminative interest. " Not his face to be 
 seen in 'em with that distinctness as the
 
 118 Marjory. 
 
 Grand Sultan of Eooshia might desire. 
 There's the long and short as that whole 
 amount of swearing was about, Bill ! And, 
 talking of 'eads, it's uncommon fortunate as 
 we don't live in them days when young 
 gents could out with their swords and slash 
 'em off, when they'd a fancy, without ' By 
 yer leave,' or ' With yer leave.' Mine would 
 a-gone this long while," he added, rubbing 
 the article in question. 
 
 "Does he often carry on that fashion?" 
 inquired Bill. 
 
 '' I don't know as to oftens ; but, bless 
 yer, whenever he's a mind, he's not particular. 
 I'd back him against any in the troop for 
 swearing like a Tartar. Bless yer, Mrs. 
 Yivian — many's the time I've laughed on the 
 sly when I've seen him with her, as meek 
 and mild as any lamb, and as innocent as a 
 babby. She'd go stark staring, that there 
 lady would, if she was to see him as I sees 
 him ! He's a wild young dog. Bill," said 
 Jack, shaking his head. 
 
 '' Here's my lady wants another groom," 
 observed Bill ; "as peaceable a place as you 
 could desire. If I was you, I'd try for it. 
 Just get Mrs. Bellus to speak for you, and 
 'twill be all right."
 
 Marjory, 119 
 
 " Ah, but I sees tlie world where I be 
 now," said Jack, with dignity ; ''A quiet Hfe 
 like this wouldn't suit me. I sees the world; 
 and, after all, he ain't half bad. I don't alto- 
 gether lose by them tantrums," he added, 
 with a wink; "He's uncommon free-handed — 
 thinks no more of his money than his words, 
 and his friends is the same. Then he's a 
 good master enough when nothing puts him 
 out — a bit high and mighty, but as good- 
 'arted as anybody. All as I've got to do, 
 when them moods is on him, is to hold my 
 tongue, and mind that nothing but humility 
 don't slip out of my mouth. He's for all 
 the world as the fancy turns him. One 
 day it's a good fancy, and another day 
 it's a queer 'un ; but as the fancy, so's he, 
 and I've just got to take him as I finds 
 him." 
 
 Here Marjory awoke to the conviction that 
 she was acting the part of an eavesdropper ; 
 and, turning her back on the stables, she 
 walked away, unseen as she had come. 
 
 In that pleasant territory of lawns and 
 trees, adjoining the flower-garden, she found 
 a leafy cage beneath the boughs of a weeping 
 ash, and crept into it, opening her book. 
 The grass was very soft, and the murmur
 
 120 Marjory. 
 
 of insects made a musical accompaniment to 
 the story ; but it was long before their charm 
 could beguile her mind from all that she had 
 heard, and from her own thoughts concern- 
 ing it.
 
 ( 121 ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Kind hearts are here, yet would the tenderest one 
 Have limits to its mercy. God has none." 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 The popular prediction of " Three fine days 
 and a thunderstorm " had long proved itself, 
 for this summer at least, a fallacy ; but little 
 wisdom was needed to foretell that the storm, 
 when it did come, would make up in force 
 whatever it might lack in punctuality. Mar- 
 jory, as she left the stables, had seen in the 
 far distance a gathering pile of clouds, of 
 snowy whiteness, not angry yet — only here 
 and there were their edges fringed with 
 faintest amber. When the luncheon-bell 
 summoned her to the house, she found that 
 pile magnified and thickened. It now re- 
 sembled a range of snow-clad mountains ; 
 and the amber had acquired a lurid bright- 
 ness, as of a fire kindled behind the snow. 
 The rest of the sky was yet blue; but the 
 atmosphere was strangely heavy ; the trees, 
 the shrubs, the flowers, stood all in photo- 
 graphic stillness. The spirit of electricity
 
 122 Marjory, 
 
 was in his chamber, making ready his weapons 
 of war; and meanwhile the earth was hushed, 
 waiting for his coming. 
 
 Throughout the afternoon the mighty 
 forces were silently assembling ; the sultry 
 heat seemed well-nigh insupportable. To- 
 wards evening a black twilight gathered, en- 
 folding all the earth as in a shroud. When 
 Marjory had been dressed in her white 
 frock, and had come again to her footstool 
 in the drawing-room, she was obliged to 
 move it close to the glass door, or she would 
 not have been able to read. 
 
 She had reached the end of her story ; 
 she laid down the book, and looked out. 
 Where was the brilliant blue, a week before 
 so hard, so changeless ? Oh, let earthly 
 things seem as changeless as they may, it is 
 only seeming ! A canopy of angry blackness 
 had overspread that smiling sky ; the clouds 
 which she had seen in the morning, snowy- 
 white, stood out against it, copper-coloured 
 now, fierce, grand, terrible. The trees, with 
 their massive foliage, stood out also against 
 a lurid background. It was as if nothing in 
 nature had power, if anything had courage, to 
 stir. When the door opened, Marjory started, 
 and looked round in groundless apprehension.
 
 Marjory. 123 
 
 Lady Tliorne and Mrs. Vivian entered 
 silently, approaching the open windows. 
 The little old lady patted Marjory's head, 
 and smiled with her usual quiet kindness ; 
 but Mrs. Vivian sank at once, without 
 observing her, into the chair which she had 
 occupied on the previous evening. 
 
 " What a fearful storm we are going to 
 have !" she said nervously, as she gazed into 
 tlie gathering darkness. 
 
 *' It will clear the air," said Lady Thome's 
 serene voice ; " We shall reap the benefit to- 
 morrow." 
 
 '' I would rather bear twice the heat than 
 face it," murmured Mrs. Vivian. As she 
 spoke, she was fanning herself languidly, 
 as if her life were a burden; but her 
 heavy eyes were fixed upon the sky, as by 
 some fearful fascination. 
 
 '' Hark ! " she said suddenly. 
 
 A distant thunder-peal rolled over the 
 heavens, echoing from side to side, then 
 sinking into angry rumbles. Silence followed 
 — utter silence ; and the darkness deepened. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, mother !" said Hugh's 
 bright young voice at the door ; *' Only 
 think how jolly it will be to have a little cool 
 weather ! "
 
 124 Marjory » 
 
 " We shall have to pay a terrible price for 
 it/' said Mrs. Vivian, shuddering. 
 
 " Not at all/' said Hugh, cheerfully, seat- 
 ing himself on the window-sill at her sid,e. 
 " Suppose you lived in the tropics ! An 
 English thunder-storm would seem a mere 
 nothing ! " 
 
 ''But we don't live in the tropics; and 
 I am confident that I could never survive a 
 tropical storm. I cannot imagine how it is 
 possible for anyone whose nerves are not of 
 iron." 
 
 Marjory meanwhile was looking at Mr. 
 Hugh, and wondering that he should appear 
 so light-hearted after his conduct of the 
 morning. In his place, she thought, the 
 prospect of the lightning would have filled 
 her with terror — lest, as a fitting punishment, 
 it should be permitted to strike her dead. 
 What awful words she had heard from this 
 young fellow, who sat here so unconcerned, 
 looking carelessly at the thunder-clouds, and 
 whistling a merry tune ! Not wonder alone, 
 but horror, moved her, not untinged by re- 
 pugnance. He must be very wicked, she 
 thought. Yes, in spite of his bright face, 
 and his handsome eyes, and his look of 
 youth and gaiety, he must be very wicked !
 
 Marjory, 125 
 
 She was not much afraid of the storm 
 herself; Lady Thome's presence seemed pro- 
 tection. Serene, and gentle, and unmoved 
 as ever was that little old lady, netting away 
 at her old woman's shawl ; drawing up her 
 stitches with as much interest as if no awful 
 forces were at work above her dwelling, 
 ready, perhaps, to hurl on it destruction. 
 Marjory shuffled her footstool a little nearer 
 to the black satin gown, and, surreptitiously 
 stretching forth her little hand, took fast 
 hold of one of its soft folds. After this she felt 
 quite safe and quite happy, come what would. 
 
 " Oh, what a flash ! " cried Mrs. Vivian, 
 raising her fan to her eyes. A minute later 
 came another peal, reverberating long ; and 
 almost simultaneously a piercing shriek rang 
 from overhead. The little old lady looked 
 annoyed, continuing her netting ; but Hugh 
 sprang to his feet. 
 
 '' Did you hear ? " he cried. " Some one 
 must be hurt ! I'll go and see." 
 
 He was out of the room before Lady 
 Thorne could speak ; and there was a slight 
 increase of the annoyance upon her face, as 
 she observed : 
 
 '' Jessie, I suppose. She is generally 
 hysterical in a thunderstorm."
 
 126 Marjory, 
 
 "That boy is absurdly tender-hearted," 
 said Mrs. Vivian, with her usual languor. 
 " Who else would trouble himself about a 
 servant's panics ? Lady Thorne, do you 
 think that there is any hope of the storm's 
 passing over ? " 
 
 *' Hardly, I fear," said the little old lady, 
 raising her eyeglass. '' The sky is very black 
 over Alton ; and, if there be any wind, it is in 
 this direction." 
 
 " It is said, though, that a thunderstorm 
 crosses the wind," returned Mrs. Yivian, as 
 if feeling for a straw of deliverance. Her 
 speech was cut short by a flash of fearful 
 vividness, illuminating the whole room, and 
 seeming to play around it — followed on the 
 instant by a crash ,of stupendous thunder. 
 Mrs. Vivian started from her chair. 
 
 ''Where is Hugh?" she cried wildly; 
 «« Why does he not come back ? " 
 
 She hurried towards the door, stretching 
 out her hands. 
 
 '' My dear Mrs. Vivian, do not distress 
 yourself," said the little old lady, rising. 
 «' Pray sit down ; we will have the blinds 
 drawn and the shutters closed." 
 
 *' Where is Hugh ? where is Hugh ? " re- 
 peated Mrs. Vivian, quite losing her self-
 
 Marjory. 127 
 
 control. Apparently he had heard, for he 
 met her at the door, entering hurriedly, his 
 colour sHghtly raised. She flew towards him 
 and threw herself into his arms. 
 
 " Oh, Hugh, my dearest boy ! let us at 
 least die together," Marjory heard her cry. 
 
 '' Die ! I don't mean to die yet, I can tell 
 you," said the light voice. " Nor you either ! 
 Come back to your chair ! Lady Thorne, 
 might I ring the bell ? If the lightning could 
 be shut out " 
 
 '* I have rung," said the little old lady, re- 
 turning to her place. Marjory's small hand 
 closed once more upon the soft black satin ; 
 and the flash and the peal came again before 
 the bell could be answered. 
 
 " It is the glorious God that maketh the 
 thunder," said the little old lady's serene 
 voice, as if the words rose involuntarily to 
 her lips. Marjory thought of the children in 
 heaven ; and understood the secret of that 
 entire calmness. But Mrs. Vivian shuddered 
 all over ; and her son, sitting upon the arm of 
 her chair, passed his arm round her, while 
 she buried her face in his breast. 
 
 He had no personal comprehension of her 
 weakness : yet how tenderly he treated it ! 
 
 '* What a pity he is so wicked ! " whispered
 
 128 Marjory » 
 
 the child's busy little mind — " So wicked— 
 and yet so kind ! I never liked a wicked per- 
 son before, but I can't help liking him. He 
 cannot be all wicked, can he ? it must be 
 good to be like that to his mother. Biit 
 Uncle John would say that no one who swore 
 so terribly could get to heaven. Oh, what a 
 pity it would be if he were shut out from 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 Her childish heart ached with a yearning 
 pity as she looked at the kind, bright young 
 face, and the strong young arm supporting his 
 mother, and remembered those awful words 
 which she had heard him speak. Somehow 
 those words seemed burned into her mind ; 
 she cou]d not forget them. 
 
 " How cruel of you to go away, Hugh " — 
 said Mrs. Yivian, without raising her head — 
 '• and stay out of the room all that time, when 
 you know what a thunderstorm is to me ! " 
 
 " Why, mother, I was only gone two or 
 three minutes. How could we tell that anv- 
 one was not hurt ? " 
 
 He spoke laughingly, but with a little em- 
 barrassment : which the old lady, looking up 
 from her netting, seemed to discern. 
 
 " It was Jessie who screamed, was it not ? " 
 she said.
 
 Marjory, 129 
 
 "Yes; Jessie, half beside herself with 
 fright. She was alone in the passage, upstairs, 
 crouched down under that long window. 
 She's a nervous little girl." 
 
 "Affected creature!" said Mrs. Vivian. 
 " What extraordinary impertinence to scream 
 in that way I I'm afraid, Lady Thorne, you 
 spoil her." 
 
 " Now, mother, that's a downright shame. 
 I should have thought that you could not 
 help pitying her, when you are frightened 
 to death yourself! " 
 
 «« Why am I frightened ? Simply because 
 I realise the danger in a manner impossible 
 to the blunt organisation of a servant ? You 
 speak of servants as if they had feelings like 
 ourselves. They are creatures of a different 
 order, and ought so to be treated." 
 
 " Did you see the form of that flash, Hugh?' ' 
 said Lady Thorne. '' It was a complete 
 zigzag." 
 
 " How can you look at it ? " cried Mrs. 
 Vivian, clinging more tightly to her son. She 
 did not raise her head until the curtains were 
 closely drawn, and the cheerful light of candles 
 had replaced the depressing gloom. The 
 storm still raged with unwearied vehemence ; 
 after a while the wind began to rise, and then 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 Marjory. 
 
 came rain, heavy, fast-falling, beating passion- 
 ately against the windows. In the midst of 
 this appeared Bellhouse, composed like her 
 mistress, and full of thoughtful consideration 
 for the child, to summon her to bed. 
 
 " Don't you be alarmed, missy," said she, 
 as they mounted the wide staircase, and a 
 sudden gleam illuminated the skylight : 
 ** Thorne was never struck yet, so we may 
 hope it never will be ; it must have weathered 
 a vast of storms before now. We're all in 
 the hands of the Almighty, and in some ways 
 sudden death would be a mercy — many 's the 
 time I've thought that." 
 
 "Is Jessie still frightened?" said Mar- 
 jory. 
 
 " Ah, you heard her scream, I doubt ! I 
 fear her ladyship is sadly annoyed. Well ! 
 we all have our trials. Miss Stanhope." 
 
 With these words, of which Marjory did 
 not perceive the point, they entered the large 
 old bedroom. Here also candles were lighted, 
 and curtains drawn ; and Jessie, with an 
 offended countenance, was sewing at a little 
 table. Her colour was less radiant than 
 usual ; her eyes were tear-stained ; and she 
 held her head with the majestic air of an 
 insulted princess. As her mother advanced,
 
 Marjory. 131 
 
 she rose, collected the fragments of ribbon 
 and lace on which she was occupied, and, 
 closing her work-box with a snap, swept 
 towards the door. 
 
 "Where are you going, Jessie?*' said 
 Bellhouse, in a deprecating tone. 
 
 " I am going to sit in the housekeeper's 
 room," quoth Jessie, with dignity ; and 
 departed without looking back. 
 
 " Ah, I know what it will end in ! " said 
 Bellhouse ; " Her ladyship will have to part 
 with her." 
 
 She sighed heavily as she spoke, and 
 shook her head : while Marjory gazed at her, 
 half pitying, half perplexed. The child did not 
 understand, and did not like to ask ques- 
 tions ; she undressed in silence, Bellhouse 
 attending on her in equal silence, and more 
 than usually grave. Marjory was soon in bed, 
 but her mind was too busy for sleep ; her 
 heart was very full, with an aching pain in 
 it, thinking of Mr. Hugh. She was a child 
 to whom, by nature as by training, unseen 
 things were very real ; and now the thunder 
 rolling round the house, the awful gleams 
 which pierced their way among the folds of 
 the curtains, and glanced upon the wall, and 
 then were gone, made those things seem 
 K 2
 
 132 Marjory, 
 
 more than ever vivid. What would become 
 of Mr. Hugh, if he went on being wicked ? 
 What would be the end of all that lightness 
 and brightness ? 
 
 And yet he might, if he would, be so 
 different ! If there were wickedness in him,' 
 there was also goodness ; no one could doubt 
 it, who saw him with his mother. The child- 
 ish breast heaved, the blue eyes filled with 
 anxious tears, as she pondered. 
 
 At length the storm was dying away ; the 
 rain was falling more gently ; the thunder 
 was rolling into far distance, lagging behind 
 the flashes. But Marjory still turned rest- 
 lessly from side to side. That heart-ache 
 would give her no rest. 
 
 '' Bellhouse," she said, suddenly. 
 
 " Why, I thought you were asleep, Miss 
 Stanhope, my dear!" 
 
 " It's near eleven o'clock ?" 
 
 *' Yes, my dear," said Bellhouse. 
 
 " What do you do when you are worried 
 about Jessie, and feel that you care so much 
 for her, and yet you cannot help her, or make 
 her good ?" 
 
 " What strange things you say, to be sure, 
 for a child, missy!" said Bellhouse. Then 
 she paused a moment, her needle in her
 
 Marjory, 133 
 
 hand, and looked straight before her : as 
 though her homely eyes saw something far 
 away. " I pray to the Almighty, my dear," 
 she replied, very solemnly and slowly. 
 
 '' Almighty ! " It seemed to Marjory as 
 if only now, for the first time, she understood 
 that word. 
 
 She buried her face in the pillow, and whis- 
 pered a little prayer : 
 
 " Almighty God ! bless Mr. Hugh, and 
 make him good ! " 
 
 Then, in her childish heart, she registered 
 a vow that she would pray the same every 
 night, so long as she should live.
 
 ( 134 ) 
 
 CHAPTEH XI. 
 
 ** Heaven is about us in our infancy ; 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy !" — Wordsworth. 
 
 A DAT of gentle summer rain followed the 
 storm, again succeeded bj radiant weatlier. 
 Sad histories of disasters caused by the 
 lightning appeared in the papers ; hay-ricks 
 had been fired, houses struck, men and 
 beasts injured or killed. So every revolution 
 in human affairs brings its share of suffering ; 
 but it is the few who suffer, the many who 
 profit ; and, the tempest over, then come 
 calm and peace. The scorching heat had 
 vanished, the oppression was gone ; the sky 
 was once more serene, but soft clouds 
 tempered the brilliance of the blue ; the coat- 
 ing of white dust had been washed from the 
 hedgerows, from the flowers ; green leaves 
 had risen refreshed from their shower-bath, 
 new buds on the wild rose-bushes replaced 
 those scattered bv the storm. The universal
 
 Marjory. 135 
 
 thirst was satisfied ; wild banks and garden- 
 beds alike breatlied fresh perfume; the 
 birds once more sang in the trees ; a new 
 vigour stirred the world. 
 
 Marjory was out of doors all day, sitting 
 or lying upon the grass with her book, — roam- 
 ing in the park and plantations, picking 
 flowers, watching the birds and insects, and 
 singing to herself, — or occasionally driving 
 with Lady Thorne in her low pony-carriage. 
 A certain time every morning was spent in 
 the old lady's private sitting-room, in reading 
 the Psalms and lessons for the day, and re- 
 peating a portion of the Church catechism. 
 In these observances the little old lady was 
 exceedingly exact; but afterwards Marjory 
 was free to drink in healing influences, in 
 preparation for her return to privation and 
 poverty among the red brick of Branksome. 
 
 The child could not bear the thought of 
 such return ; when it occurred to her, she 
 put it quickly out of her head. Her uncle, 
 Mr. Stanhope, had written full of gratitude 
 to Lady Thorne, greatly relieved to hear 
 of such safe provision for his young niece. 
 His wife had had a slight relapse, and was 
 forbidden to move at present. In a private 
 note to Marjory, he added that a friend of
 
 136 Marjory. 
 
 Aunt Lucy's liad sent an opportune present 
 of twenty pounds, to prolong her stay at the 
 sea. This good news increased Marjory's 
 happiness ; and the happiness benefited her 
 health. She began to grow rosy, to feel 
 strong and full of life, as in the days before 
 she came to Branksome — to run, jump, 
 dance, instead of slowly walking, in her 
 rambles through the park ; to play at battle- 
 dore and shuttlecock, and skip with an old 
 rope which Bellhouse had hunted out ; to race 
 with the brown spaniel, Brush by name, who 
 had conceived an obsequious affection for 
 her. Brush's master was still at Thome ; 
 the sudden illness of a relation had sum- 
 moned his parents to a distance ; and Mrs. 
 Vivian had proposed that meanwhile he 
 should make himself useful to Lady Thorne, 
 who was entertaining a succession of visitors. 
 These visitors were a source of great 
 amusement to Marjory, who watched them 
 from afar. They were denizens of a world 
 of which as yet she had had no experience — 
 people of fashion, taking Lady Thorne in their 
 way from London after the season — rich people, 
 well dressed people, luxurious people, people 
 who had never known the want of any thing 
 that money could provide, who had lived all
 
 Marjory, 137 
 
 their lives in high and smooth places, to 
 whom such words as poverty, toil, pecuniary 
 care, were empty sounds. 
 
 Marjory felt all the fascination of novelty, 
 as she gazed into their lot — so different a lot 
 from her own ; so rich in new ideas, in un- 
 imagined delights. It did not occur to her 
 to desire any share in that lot for herself; 
 such a notion was too utterly wild to be 
 entertained for a moment. But these glimpses 
 of it had for her the marvellous charm of a 
 pantomime. She gazed, and listened, and 
 admired, and wove all manner of imagina- 
 tions concerning these fine people, who had 
 no idea of the impression they were produc- 
 ing upon the blue-eyed child, whom they 
 met now and then upon the staircase, or 
 happened to espy sitting alone in some obscure 
 corner. 
 
 There was among them one old gentle- 
 man who took particular notice of her ; but 
 his stay was short — too short in her opinion, 
 for she thought him a very nice old gentle- 
 man indeed. Mr. Hugh greatly puzzled her 
 by remarking that the second '' 1 '' in his 
 name — his name was Bulkley — must have 
 crept in by mistake. She supposed that 
 Mr. Hugh had some genealogical grounds for
 
 138 Marjory, 
 
 the statement. Mr. Bulkley was a very large 
 old gentleman, tall, and broad, and stout, — 
 with an enormous nose, especially noticed 
 by the child, and kind, twinkling eyes — the 
 only small things about him. Marjory 
 watched him drive away, with his two 
 servants ; and thought how very rich he must 
 be to travel so accompanied : she wondered 
 whether it were because stoutness prevented 
 his doing anything for himself. She missed 
 him when he was gone, and thought of him 
 for long afterwards ; for she was a grateful 
 little child, and he had been kind to 
 her. 
 
 Hugh Vivian was of untold service in en- 
 tertaining the visitors. Many he already 
 knew, and with the rest he was speedily at 
 home. The young soldier well understood 
 the art of fitting wings to an idle hour. The 
 majority were a party of butterflies, and he 
 was the chief butterfly among them ; but in 
 all his busy idleness he found time to be 
 exceedingly kind to Marjory. One day he 
 rode several miles to bring from his home a 
 number of his own childish story-books for 
 her amusement ; another day he returned 
 from Alton with a variety of toys — of much 
 too juvenile a description, as the child, though
 
 MarjoTij, 139 
 
 wifh grateful compunction, felt. Once He 
 took her for a drive in his dog-cart ; and it 
 was well that Marjory was too ignorant to 
 fear the capers of his steed, which, indeed, 
 was onlj half broken. She never discovered 
 her narrow escape of a broken neck — only 
 regretting that Lady Thorne, hearing of the 
 exploit, forbade its repetition. Often after- 
 wards she came across Hugh in the course 
 of her solitary rambles ; and sometimes he 
 would turn and walk with her, or sit down 
 by her on the grass, amusing her with a 
 story and himself with the spectacle of her 
 old-fashioned simplicity. 
 
 One serene afternoon she found herself in 
 a quarter of the park which she had never 
 before visited. A shady row of elm-trees 
 bordered a low green paling ; and Marjory 
 saw that on the other side lay the church- 
 yard, the eastern end of the gray old church 
 rising before her like a guardian of the graves. 
 She had gone to the Cliurch services regu- 
 larly, with the little old lady ; but they had 
 driven by way of the road, mounting, finally, 
 a flight of wooden steps which led to the 
 west door — the principal entrance. Thus 
 she had not known how far this old church- 
 yard straggled away on the other side, ad-
 
 140 Marjory, 
 
 joining the park : from whicli, indeed, it had 
 originally been taken. 
 
 The child soon clambered over the paling, 
 and stood among the quiet graves. Long 
 shadows from the elms slanted across them ; 
 grass, newly mown and fragrant, was strewn 
 over the mounds. Southward the ground 
 sloped gradually to meet a brook — the same 
 which, a little while before, she had been so 
 glad to discover. Here it was broad, though 
 shallow, rippling peacefully over pebbles and 
 watercress with gentle music, as if to lull the 
 slumber of the dead. Marjory sat on a little 
 heap of grass upon the bank, and rested. 
 Summer insects hummed around her ; now 
 and then a sparrow or a tomtit hopped over 
 the graves, and eyed her curiously, its head 
 on one side. The rustic chancel stood still 
 and gray in the shade ; beyond the brook 
 once more the park swards stretched beneath 
 the ancient trees ; and on the far horizon 
 rose a vision of dim hills. Sometimes a soft 
 rustle stirred in the heights of the elms ; but 
 for long no human sound broke the stillness. 
 
 At length heavy steps advanced from the 
 gate of entrance. A woman, in a black gown 
 and the cotton hood worn by all the country 
 people, carrying in her arms a rosy-cheeked
 
 Marjory, 141 
 
 baby of some eighteen montlis, came slowly 
 round the church. She went straight, without 
 observing Marjory, to a freshly-turfed grave, 
 and, setting the child upon his feet, remained 
 for many minutes in silence. Her back was 
 turned ; but Marjory, half awed, half pitying, 
 saw that she was continually wiping her eyes, 
 as she stood looking down upon the grave. 
 The babe, meanwhile, was at play, highly 
 pleased with the fragrant grass : which he 
 gathered together by handfuls, and tossed 
 into the air, laughing aloud. Presently he 
 stumbled, and, falling, began to whimper. 
 The woman turned to pick him up, and, seeing 
 Marjory, dropped a curtsey. 
 
 She was quite a young woman ; but her 
 cheeks were worn, and her eyes dim, with 
 crying ; and Marjory, in her pity, began in- 
 stantly to feel for a little purse, containing a 
 florin which her uncle had sent to her from 
 the twenty pounds. 
 
 '' Is that your baby ? " she asked, the 
 money hidden in her hand. 
 
 '* No, miss ; not mine. I've brought him 
 to see his father's grave." 
 
 Then she turned her back again, and 
 again followed that silent wiping of the eyes. 
 The baby struggled in her arms, stretching
 
 142 Marjory, 
 
 his hands towards the grass, and crying, 
 *' Daddy ! Daddy ! " Setting him down, 
 the woman caught sight of little Marjory's 
 compassionate face, and said : 
 
 " He always calls ' Daddy,' miss, when- 
 ever he wants anything. His mother, her 
 died when he was born ; and his father 
 brought him up and did for him all his life, 
 till a fortnight agorie ; and then he was 
 always for having the baby on his bed, till 
 eight days agone yesterday, when he died." 
 
 *' He was not ill long, then ?" said Marjory. 
 
 '* Oh, yes, miss, he'd been ailing a twelve- 
 month or more ; only he would not give up 
 till he was forced. It was a decline, if only 
 we had known it ; but he was always hopeful 
 — and I'm sure I never thought but what he 
 would get well when the hot weather was 
 over. We was twins, miss, he and I ; and 
 he was my only brother." 
 
 She turned her back once more, and wept 
 again in silence ; and what could Marjory do 
 but sit in silence also ? Presently the baby 
 said '' Daddy ! Daddy ! " as before, and 
 pulled the woman's dress. 
 
 " You wants your tea," she said, lifting 
 him. " Poor little chap ! — you knows 
 nothing. If we could all forget like you, we
 
 Marjory, 143 
 
 should be a deal happier ! Now say ' Niglit, 
 night, poor Daddy ! '" 
 
 The child raised his head, and looked 
 round with an expectant smile ; evidently 
 thinking, from these accustomed words, that 
 his father was near. But the next moment 
 a gay butterfly flitted past his eyes ; and he 
 jumped in the woman's arms, and crowed, 
 and thought of his father no more. 
 
 " Good evening, miss," said the woman. 
 
 '' Please buy something for the baby with 
 this," said Marjory, rising in some embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 She hardly dared to offer her gift, fearing 
 that even this mighty sum might be regarded 
 vnth scorn, in the face of such a sorrow I 
 But the woman took the coin greedily, 
 dropping a lower curtsey; and saying, 
 '' Thank you, miss, I'm sure," with fervour. 
 Then she went away down the mossy path ; 
 and Marjory was once more alone. 
 
 How still the new-made grave lay in the 
 shadow ! The woman's only brother ! And 
 he would never come out into the sun again, 
 until the Judgment Day. A nameless appre- 
 hension stirred Marjory's heart ; but it was 
 gone in a moment. 
 
 *' God would never take my Gerald from
 
 144 Marjory. 
 
 me," she said to herself; "I am sure that 
 He would not. He is too good ! " 
 
 But she rose from her seat as she spoke, 
 and wandered round the church — pausing 
 here and there to read the rustic inscriptions 
 on the tombstones : some of which were 
 curiosities of quaintness, and many mis-spelt. 
 Steps of a very different order from those of 
 the woman, quick and light, and accompanied 
 by a whistle, came up the wooden flight from 
 the road. Mr. Hugh, followed as usual by 
 Brush, stopped short with a laugh at sight of 
 Marjory. 
 
 "You everlasting little party ! " he cried ; 
 " Here you are again ! Why, I meet you 
 every day in some queer place or another. 
 Are you meditating an edition of village 
 epitaphs ? " 
 
 *' I came here by accident," said Marjory ; 
 " I did not know that the churchyard joined 
 the park. I should like to see where Lady 
 Thome's children are buried ; but I cannot 
 find their names." 
 
 '' Not here. Did you not notice their 
 monuments on Sunday ? The family vault 
 is under the chancel." 
 
 '* The family vault ! " echoed Marjory, in 
 an awestruck tone. " Were they there ? —
 
 Marjory, 145 
 
 Bellhouse's Miss Evie, and Master Arcliy, 
 and that *' beautiful baby," Miss Jane ! She 
 thought of the birds and flowers upon the 
 nursery- walls, the littk .'^oft bed, the charm- 
 ing story-books ; and .n of the contrast. 
 
 " Oh, why were t ^ put into that cold, 
 dark place ? " she cried ; " I cannot bear to 
 think of it." 
 
 " ' Noblesse oblige,^ you see," said Mr. 
 Hugh, with a half smile. 
 
 '* Nobleness obliges — what does that 
 mean ?" said Marjory. — '* It is so dehghtful 
 out here, with the green grass and the brook, 
 and the blue sky, and the fresh air ; I 
 shouldn't mind it here," she added to herself. 
 
 *' Yes, if one must be buried, I don't know 
 a pleasanter spot for the unpleasant neces- 
 sity," said Hugh : ''But come ! it is bad 
 enough anywhere. Never mind! I have been 
 to see the old parson, who was once my 
 tutor ; and I am going back across the park. 
 You come with me, and I'll tell you a fairy 
 tale. One should never think of disagree- 
 able things before the time. That's my 
 maxim ; and you'd better make it yours." 
 
 " But this need not be disagreeable," said 
 little Marjory ; " I was forgetting ! They are 
 not in the vault ; and they would not have 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Marjory. 
 
 been here. And it is always summer weather 
 in Paradise." 
 
 Then the child turned contentedly, smiling 
 to herself as she followed Mr. Hugh along 
 the shadow-bathed grass.
 
 ( 147 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XTT. 
 
 " The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
 A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
 Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, 
 And win all eyes with all accomplishment." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 It was late when they reached the house, 
 and Mr. Hugh ran quickly up the shallow 
 stairs, three at a time, to dress for dinner. 
 Marjory, who was tired, followed more slowly, 
 and was glad to find her tea prepared upon 
 the round, old-fashioned table devoted of 
 late to her use. Bellhouse was not in the 
 room, although her work-basket stood in its 
 usual place, and her chair was pushed slightly 
 on one side as if only recently vacated. The 
 child had finished her meal, and was curled 
 up in the window-seat with a book, before 
 her solitude was invaded ; and then it was 
 Jessie who entered — Jessie excited and 
 flushed, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 *' Come and cool yourself," said Marjory, 
 making room in the window. " There's such 
 a nice, soft little breeze ! it comes on my 
 cheek like a fan." 
 
 L 2
 
 148 Marjory. 
 
 " Thank you, missy, but I feel too restless 
 to sit still. I've heard such news ! What 
 do you think, Miss Stanhope ? I'm going 
 away." 
 
 *' Going away ! " repeated Marjory, in a 
 pitying tone : '' Oh, Jessie, how sorry I 
 am ! " 
 
 "You needn't be sorry, missy, — not for 
 me. Poor mother will fret a bit, I dare say ; 
 but she'll soon get used to it, and I'll write 
 to her regularly. I feel as if I could jump 
 over the moon when I think of it ! To get 
 away from this stupid old hole — off ' on my 
 own hook,' as the saying is — excuse me, 
 miss, for being so vulgar ! I shall hardly 
 know myself ! " 
 
 "Why, Jessie!" said Marjory, reproach- 
 fully : "I should have thought it would break 
 your heart. This dear, beautiful place ! 
 How can you call it stupid ? " 
 
 " To my mind, missy, it is beyond stupid ; 
 the very essence of dullness. And I've lived 
 here all my life — never seen but this one 
 corner of the world. To think of that, at 
 my age I Nineteen ! Why, lots are married 
 at nineteen ; and here am I, shut up here. 
 Miss Stanhope, it is beyond my utmost hopes. 
 Just now, when her ladyship told me, I felt
 
 Marjory. 149 
 
 as if I could fall on my knees to tliank her. 
 As to looking sorry, or crying — tliat would 
 have been slieer hypocrisy. Poor mother 
 cried, and I'm sorry for her : I dare say, when 
 I've a child of my own, I shall feel it hard 
 when she wants to go off and leave me. But 
 it's the way of the world," said Jessie, who 
 was versed in modern fiction. 
 
 "Why are you going?" inquired the 
 child : " Is Lady Thorne sending you 
 away ? " 
 
 Jessie bridled ; this plain speaking touched 
 her pride. 
 
 '' Lady Thorne thinks it better, for my 
 own good, Miss Stanhope. It was Mr. 
 Hugh's doing. Yes, I owe eternal gratitude 
 to Mr. Hugh ! " 
 
 ''What do you mean?" asked curious 
 Marjory. Jessie was in a talkative mood, 
 and rattled on, regardless of consequences. 
 
 "You remember the night of the storm, 
 missy? I was frightened, and I screamed. 
 I suppose it is no sin to scream ; at least it's 
 not brought home to my conscience ! If 
 Mr. Hugh chose to be officious, and come 
 upstairs, how could I help it ? Neither could 
 I help his taking it upon him to cheer me 
 up. I didn't ask it, and I didn't desire it ;
 
 150 Marjory. 
 
 and I didn't care whether or no mother 
 heard what he said. None of it was of any 
 consequence to me ; though, all the same, I do 
 not approve of mother repeating it to her 
 ladyship. But it's an ill wind that blows 
 nobody any good ; and I shall have cause all 
 my life to bless that storm." 
 
 " But Lady Thorne is so very kind ! I 
 should have thought that she would be glad 
 for Mr. Hugh to comfort you." 
 
 *' Yes, so you would, wouldn't you ? " said 
 Jessie, laughing. " But no, she regarded 
 my fright as forwardness ! and the best cure 
 for this, she considers, is to send me away 
 from this place, where I am so spoiled, and 
 made to forget my humble station, missy." 
 
 " And where are you going ? " 
 
 " To Miss Bulkley, Mr. Bulkley's sister, — 
 a very rich lady in Hampshire. I'm to be 
 half maid and half companion, read to her, 
 attend to her birds and flowers, and go every- 
 where with her; she travels a great deal. 
 Think of all I shall see ! and this is the best 
 of it, — when I'm once launched, started on 
 my adventures, like Whittington, I can please 
 myself about staying with Miss Bulkley. If 
 I don't like that situation, I shall easily find 
 another to suit me better. The world will
 
 Marjory, 151 
 
 be before me, to pick and choose, wlien once 
 I am oflF, Miss Stanhope." 
 
 The girl was looking into the glass as she 
 uttered these words — an old-fashioned oval 
 glass framed in oak, wherein her graceful 
 head, with its crown of chestnut hair, and her 
 fair young face, appeared like some exquisite 
 picture. Joy and exultation danced in her 
 eyes as she noted — -who that saw could help 
 noting? — how bright and clear they were, 
 how lovely was the roseate tinting of the 
 cheeks, how daintily chiselled every feature. 
 Beneath that picture might well have been 
 inscribed the motto, '' My face is my for- 
 tune." That such was actually the case, she 
 evidently felt : the words of the old song 
 seemed hovering on her lips as she stood 
 there in her glowing youth and beauty. Mar- 
 jory gazed at her in innocent admiration, — 
 mingled with a no less innocent wonder, as 
 she saw that no touch of doubt or regret 
 shaded that brilliant gladness. 
 
 " Shan't you be homesick, Jessie ? " she 
 said, after a meditative pause. 
 
 " Homesick ! " repeated Jessie, with a 
 quiet chuckle, as if the notion amused her : 
 " I think I see myself homesick, after getting 
 the first step of all I've wished for so long ! "
 
 152 Marjory, 
 
 ''But, Jessie, suppose you could not help it?*' 
 
 " In that case I must put up with it," said 
 Jessie, laughing : " But I cannot suppose 
 anything so foolish, missy." 
 
 At this moment the door was slowly 
 opened, and Bellhouse came in, paler than 
 Marjory had ever seen her. She sat down 
 with forced composure, and drew her work- 
 basket nearer to her chair; but, meeting 
 from Jessie a glance half pitying, half ap- 
 prehensive of an outburst, all self-restraint 
 seemed suddenly to forsake her. Burying 
 her face in her hands, she broke into pas- 
 sionate weeping. 
 
 While Marjory looked in alarm from 
 mother to daughter, her colour rising, her 
 blue eyes filling with responsive tears, Jessie 
 for an instant stood irresolute, then knelt 
 beside the chair. 
 
 '' Now come, mother, don't take on so ! 
 don't, mother dear," she said, as soothingly 
 as in her lay. " Why, mother, you've often 
 said that all you cared for was my good ; and 
 only think how much for my good this will 
 be. Why, I'm going to make my fortune, 
 mother. Perhaps, when you see me again, 
 I shall be a lady, and you'll feel so proud of 
 me ! Dear mother, do stop fretting."
 
 Marjory, 153 
 
 " Oh, Jessie ! oh, my Jessie ! " sobbed 
 Bellhouse, '' Oh, that it should come to this ! 
 And I had hoped you would have gone on to 
 take my place here, and be an honoured ser- 
 vant, loved and respected, — like your father 
 and me, thank God. Oh, what a disappoint- 
 ment ! And now I must part from you — 
 you that I've never had out of my sight for 
 a day since you were born ! and that's nine- 
 teen years ago, my Jessie." 
 
 '' Bellhouse, Jessie will try to be good ; 
 she will, indeed," said little Marjory, from 
 the window. 
 
 " Yes, mother ; you won't have any cause 
 to be ashamed of me," said Jessie, proudly. 
 " Even from your own way of looking at it, 
 the change will be for my good : because, as 
 her ladyship says, I've been made too much 
 of; and where I'm going I shall be kept in 
 my own place. So you can comfort yourself 
 with that ; and I'll comfort mvself bv look- 
 ing forward to the future, when I shall come 
 back to you as a lady, and take you to live 
 with me ; and then you shall have everything 
 you could wish for, and you'll be glad I left 
 Thorne ; you see if that doesn't come true." 
 
 Bellhouse lifted her tear-stained face, and 
 looked solemnly into the radiant eyes.
 
 154 Marjory, 
 
 "Jessie," she said, '* don't you buoy yourself 
 up with any such a thought. You strive to 
 do your duty in that state of life in which 
 the Almighty has set you, and put all them 
 foolish fancies out of your head : — however 
 they got in there, I can't imagine ! Yes, 
 her ladyship is right : you've been the 
 spoiled child of this house ; where you're 
 going you'll be treated as what you are — a 
 hired servant; and that will be the best 
 sobering you can have. But, oh that it 
 wasn't needed, my Jessie ! oh, how I shall 
 miss you ! " 
 
 Once more the woman, usually so calm, 
 hid her face in uncontrolled wretchedness. 
 
 " Mother, you'll soon get used to it ; it 
 will be only at first. I shall be so happy ! 
 and I'll write every week. Dear mother, 
 indeed — you'll soon get used to being with- 
 out me." 
 
 " I shall never get used to it," said Bell- 
 house, suddenly drying her eyes with resolute 
 self-mastery ; "But I must look to the 
 Almighty to strengthen me ; as He strength- 
 ened her ladyship." 
 
 After this, although circumstances con- 
 nected with Jessie's approaching departure 
 were often discussed, Bellhouse displayed
 
 Marjory, 155 
 
 no emotion ; and, but for the above inci- 
 dent, that departure might have seemed a 
 matter of indifference to Jessie's mother. 
 Only, now and then, Marjory, awaking in the 
 night, saw in the half-obscurity of the lamp- 
 light a quiet figure kneeling at the great 
 armchair ; and wondered, as she turned 
 sleepily to her rest again, at the length of 
 Bellhouse's prayers. 
 
 Meanwhile the child's happy visit had been 
 extended to a month, and the harvest was 
 growing golden in the fields around Thorne. 
 She had begun to think with regret that she 
 must soon be banished from this Eden 
 Her aunt and uncle were coming back ; and 
 Mr. Stanhope had written to fix the day on 
 which Marjory should rejoin them.
 
 ( 156 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " The stately homes of England, 
 
 How beautiful they stand 
 Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 
 
 O'er all the pleasant land ! 
 The deer across their greensward bound 
 
 Through shade and sunny gleam, 
 And the swan glides past them with the sound 
 
 Of some rejoicing stream." — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 " You look altogether a difiPerent cliild, missy, 
 since you came to us. Your aunt will be 
 quite pleased when she sees what a pretty 
 colour you bring back on your cheeks," said 
 Bellhouse. 
 
 Marjory smiled — a somewhat doubtful 
 smile ; and sighed in the same breath. 
 
 At this moment came a message to sum- 
 mon her to Lady Thome's private room. 
 The little old lady sat at her writing-table, 
 an open letter before her. 
 
 " Marjory," she said, '* I have lately had 
 some correspondence with your uncle, which 
 I have purposely postponed mentioning to 
 you until the matter was settled. How
 
 Marjory, 157 
 
 should you like to return to a home in the 
 country ? " 
 
 There was no doubt about Marjory's 
 answer to this inquiry. It« cause was 
 quickly made plain. A small benefice in 
 the patronage of a friend of Lady Thorne, 
 had lately fallen vacant; and the patron, 
 being abroad at the time, and having a high 
 opinion of the old lady's judgment, had 
 invited her to recommend a fitting candi- 
 date for the ofl&ce. Lady Thorne had gladly 
 availed herself of the opportunity to assist 
 Marjory's uncle ; and, due inquiries having 
 proved his character and parochial abilities 
 to be alike beyond praise, she had received 
 from her friend authority to ofier to him the 
 living. It need hardly be said that this off*er, — 
 with such thankfulness as a conventional note 
 could ill convey — had been accepted. 
 
 And now the child, in gladness too great 
 for speech, listened to such particulars as 
 Lady Thorne could give concerning her 
 future home. It was not '' a good living ; " 
 they would still be poor : though almost rich 
 in comparison with the past. But it com- 
 prised a comfortable house, a garden and an 
 orchard : which in themselves seemed wealth 
 enough to Marjory after all that had gone
 
 158 Marjory. 
 
 before. Then the parish was agricultural, 
 in a beautiful country, the air healthy, the 
 church close to the house. There would be 
 fields and lanes in which she might roam to 
 her heart's content ; the books would be 
 unpacked; there would be no more red 
 brick : it would be home — a real home. 
 
 "Oh, how delightful! how delightful!'' 
 cried Marjory, finding words at length. The 
 mere sight of that happy little face was more 
 than recompense to the old lady, looking on 
 with her grave smile. 
 
 Then away, with a hop, skip, and jump, 
 darted the child, to pour out her heart to 
 Bellhouse, and after Bellhouse to Mr. Hugh, 
 for whom she searched high and low until 
 she found him. Afterwards, in her favourite 
 hiding-place under the weeping ash, she 
 scribbled, with a lead pencil and three sheets 
 of straw paper, an exuberant letter to Gerald. 
 She would hardly have been known for the 
 same child as the worn and weary little 
 Marjory who had stolen in through that 
 white park-gate, and laid herself down beside 
 the brook. Her last week at Thorne was 
 the happiest of all that happy time ; for with 
 present enjoyment were blended a whole 
 multitude of plans and prospects for the future.
 
 Marjory, 159 
 
 Towards ttie end of this week Mr. Hugh 
 returned to his home; and Lady Thorne, 
 with little Marjory, accompanied him, to 
 spend a long day at Copelands. They started 
 soon after breakfast, in the open carriage, 
 the staid old coachman and butler upon the 
 box, Hugh Vivian on his beautiful chestnut 
 riding by their side. It was one of those 
 halcyon days in late summer, when the earth 
 seems overladen with bounty; when the 
 orchards are full of ripening fruit, the fields 
 of goldening corn, the hedges rich in pro- 
 mise of nuts and blackberries, the woods 
 heavy with foliage at its prime, its early 
 freshness replaced by luxuriance of colour. 
 As Marjory looked around her, her young 
 heart bounded with joy in the beauty and 
 the glory; she sat silent, but the light in 
 her blue eyes was more eloquent than words. 
 
 The road wound with the windings of the 
 river, among orchards and hopyards, with a 
 background of hill and wood. From the 
 remarks which at times passed between Lady 
 Thorne and the attendant horseman, Marjory 
 gathered that this fruitful landscape was a 
 part of Mr. Vivian's territory — one day to be- 
 come his son's. The child, nurtured in poverty, 
 looked at Mr. Hugh, riding along with his
 
 160 Marjory. 
 
 usual careless grace; and thought how strange 
 it must be to feel oneself the lord, or at least 
 the future lord, of such an expanse. Mr. 
 Hugh himself seemed to have no particular 
 feeling on the subject ! He rode on, taking 
 life as he found it, his look and manner those 
 of one who has begun with existence to com- 
 mand, to find circumstances and people bow 
 before him, and form to his wishes : to whom 
 this condition is too much, of course, to give 
 occasion for pride, — his natural inheritance, 
 which neither himself nor any other had 
 imagined it possible to be otherwise. 
 
 '' Lady Thorne, there's one thing I wish 
 you would scold my father about ! He will 
 wage war on the timber. Why, my own 
 peculiar oak in the south shrubbery, the first 
 and the last I ever climbed, — even that, when 
 I came home this time, was gone. It is quite 
 a mania with him. Do tell him of it." 
 
 ''My dear Hugh! how can you, suggest 
 such an impertinence ? What right have I to 
 tell him of anything of the kind ? " 
 
 '' Oh, he is always crying up your wisdom. 
 And I should have thought this was a point 
 to interest you ; you take such religious care 
 of your own trees." 
 
 '' Yes, they seem to me like old friends,"
 
 Marjory. 161 
 
 said the little old lady. " But your father 
 and I are two I Besides, lie has enough and 
 to spare." 
 
 " He will not, soon, if the present havoc 
 goes on. I mean to beg him, as a particular 
 favour, before I go back, to curb his pruning 
 propensities. That fellow of ours, that bailiff, 
 is such a slasher ! Perhaps he has some 
 relation in the timber trade who gets our 
 wood cheap ; I'll give my father a hint of it," 
 said Hugh, with his careless laugh, — "There ! 
 I always think that this is the finest view of 
 the house." 
 
 They had rounded a sweep, and at some 
 distance, flanked by extensive shrubberies, 
 rose on the summit of a series of terraces, 
 descending by steps to the river, the battle- 
 mented front of a grand old mansion — which 
 no one driving along this part of the road 
 could fail to observe, or, observing, admire, 
 as one of England's most '' stately homes." 
 Hugh looked pardonably proud of it, as, 
 sitting lightly on his saddle, he drank in the 
 prospect. 
 
 '' It's a jolly old place, isn't it ? " he said, 
 laughing again from mere gaiety of heart. " I 
 think I may say in a double sense, ' There's 
 no place like home.' You forgive me. Lady 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 Marjory. 
 
 Thorne ? If Thorne were mj home, I should 
 feel the same for that." 
 
 " They are both goodly heritages," said the 
 little old lady, with her grave smile. Then 
 she was silent, — thinking perhaps that to her 
 therewas*'no place like" another Home, where 
 her husband and her children were waiting. 
 Meanwhile Hugh's chestnut was growing im- 
 patient, in anticipation of his own stable ; 
 his master, raising his hat in adieu to the 
 carriage, gave him his way, and was quickly 
 out of sight. The sober old equipage followed 
 at a pace more suitable to its appearance ; 
 and Hugh was standing with his mother on 
 the upper terrace, when it rolled at length to 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Yivian looked as handsome and as 
 haughty as ever, but in better spirits than at 
 Thorne. She was rejoiced to have her son 
 with her once more ; and, in her gladness of 
 heart, gave for the first time her whole hand, 
 instead of two fingers, to Marjory, as the 
 child followed Lady Thorne. Otherwise, she 
 as usual ignored the existence of this protegSe 
 of Lady Thorne — who had a hobby for takiug 
 up nameless individuals. Marjory, not having 
 yet arrived at the comprehension of slights, 
 enjoyed herself none- the less ; and wandered
 
 Marjory, 163 
 
 about as at Thorne, exploring, imagining, 
 living her own life, and making mental notes 
 on all that she saw. She was not ignored by 
 her friend Mr. Hugh, whom she accompanied 
 on the round of his accustomed haunts ; to 
 the stables, which, with the horses, he sharply 
 inspected; the kennels, where, with the eye of a 
 connoisseur, he criticised a litter of pups ; the 
 head keeper's cottage, where she saw a nursery 
 of young pheasants ; finally to the river, the 
 condition of which he examined with a view 
 to fishing. Everywhere he had the aspect, 
 the eye and tone, of a master ; a master good- 
 natured, but imperious, whose birthright it 
 was to rule, possess, enjoy. Everywhere the 
 various orders of that quick, bright young 
 voice were received with deferential homage ; 
 everywhere he seemed to Marjory as a prince, 
 admired and adored. 
 
 The elder Mr. Vivian did not appear until 
 the party were assembled at luncheon, when 
 he entered the room by a side-door, shaking 
 hands hurriedly with Lady Thorne, and ex- 
 cusing his lateness on the plea of important 
 letters. He was a small, spare man, of 
 middle height, shortened by an habitual 
 stoop. Marjory gazed in wonder at the 
 wrinkles that furrowed his brow, which was 
 M 2
 
 164 Marjory. 
 
 scantily shaded by thin brown hair sprinkled 
 with gray. He looked ill and full of care, 
 and, to the child's eyes, peevish. Still, even 
 his face brightened as it turned towards his 
 son ; his voice, somewhat harsh and dry in 
 general, seemed to soften when he spoke to 
 Hugh, — who, in his turn, treated his father 
 with a respectful deference pleasant to be- 
 hold. All that was best and worthiest in 
 him rose to the surface in his intercourse 
 with his parents. If he were spoiled, they 
 did not suffer by it. To them he was always 
 unselfish and considerate; and no one who 
 obsei'ved him now could wonder that in their 
 eyes he was a paragon among sons. 
 
 After luncheon, Marjory stole out of doors 
 again, escorted by Brush, who, on finding 
 himself once more in his own domains, had 
 assumed an air of lordly importance. When 
 she was tired, she sat by the river- side, and 
 revelled in a fresh heap of books : with which 
 Mr. Hugh, on her departure, presented 
 her, to her intense delio^ht. Altoo^ether this 
 was a day to which Marjory long looked 
 back as a bright spot in her childhood. For 
 the first time in her life she was present at 
 the late dinner, all eyes and ears. Soon 
 afterwards, the carriage rolled again to the
 
 Marjory, 165 
 
 door; and she set forth alone with Lady 
 Thorne. 
 
 She felt very sorry to say good-bye to the 
 kind young soldier, so often her companion 
 of late ; but she was too happy, too full of 
 pleasure in the gift of books, for any poignant 
 sadness. As the carriage drove away, she 
 looked back upon a picture which she carried 
 away in her mind. The old mansion, all its 
 windows shining in the light of the setting 
 sun ; the same light slanting peacefully upon 
 the group gathered on the terrace — Mr. 
 Vivian, standing motionless, very small and 
 shrunken in his black evening dress ; Mrs. 
 Vivian, waving her fine white hand with 
 languid grace; Brush, wagging a deprecating 
 tail, as to apologise for remaining ; and, in 
 the midst of this circle, Mr. Hugh, as usual 
 brimful of life— light-hearted, easy-goinglife — 
 making some laughing remark to his mother, 
 and nodding a gay farewell to the child, as 
 her blue eyes gazed back at him. So the 
 carriage rolled down the slope, and away; 
 and Copelands and its inhabitants passed from 
 Marjory's sight. The air was full o£ sweet 
 scents, and the sky of crimson glories; when 
 these faded, a golden harvest moon arose, and 
 lighted the travellers home.
 
 166 Marjory. 
 
 Two days later, Marjory returned to Brank- 
 some. Her little heart ached sorely when it 
 was time to say good-bye ; she looked all 
 round the dear old-fashioned room where she 
 had found such sweet rest, then clasped her 
 arms tightly about Bellhouse's neck, and 
 cried upon her shoulder. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dear — good-bye, my little 
 missy. May the Almighty bless you wherever 
 you go ! " said Bellhouse, kissing her tenderly. 
 
 Marjory could find no reply but a sob; 
 and the carriage was waiting. 
 
 Downstairs she tried to thank Lady Thorne 
 for her great kindness ; but, with the effort, 
 forth afresh welled choking tears. The little 
 old lady patted her on the shoulder, saying 
 gently, " Never mind, my child ; I know." 
 And Marjory's last look met her serene eyes 
 watching from the window in kindly regret. 
 Then the child opened a little envelope which 
 the old lady had left in her hand, and found 
 within a five-pound note — riches too wonderful 
 to be realised at present. 
 
 Leaning back among those luxurious 
 cushions, Marjory retraced the way which, 
 five weeks before, she had travelled slowly 
 and painfully through the burning sun upon 
 her own little feet. She noticed every turn
 
 Marjory, 167 
 
 in the road; the sjcamore beneath which she 
 had sat — the last glimpse of Thorne, which 
 had been her first, a gleam among distant 
 trees. Thenceforth the way seemed sadly 
 short until red brick began to reappear : the 
 same houses in process of erection, the same 
 suburban villas. Behold the Baptist chapel — 
 still staring ! and the clock-faced church ; 
 finally, the slated roof of Mrs. Hammond's 
 lodgings. A moment later, the two fat horses 
 had paused before the little gate ; in several 
 adjacent windows surprised spectators admired 
 the unwonted vicinity of a carriage and pair. 
 The footman opened the door for Marjory, 
 and carried her little box up the narrow path. 
 
 " So here you are at last. Miss Marjory !" 
 said Mrs. Hammond's well-known voice. 
 Aunt Lucy's delicate face appeared in the 
 background, lighted by a greeting smile. 
 "Is she come?" said Uncle John from an 
 upper room. 
 
 The child's conscience smote her for her 
 sadness ; she ran to meet them. 
 
 Meanwhile the footman had already re- 
 sumed his station on the box ; the coachman 
 turned with ponderous care ; the carriage 
 rolled away : and this episode in Marjory's 
 life was over.
 
 ( 168 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 " He had felt the power 
 Of Nature, and already was prepared, 
 By his intense conceptions, to receive 
 Deeply the lesson deep of love which he 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 To feel intensely, cannot but receive." — Wordsworth. 
 
 Afteenoon lessons were over in Miss Somer- 
 ville's school; and tlie flock of girls, of all 
 ages and sizes, were turned loose to disport 
 themselves in the playground. Hither and 
 thither over the grass-plats, up and down the 
 gravel paths, they ran, racing, — skipping, sing- 
 ing, enjoying to the utmost their freedom. 
 
 " Lina, Lina, demandez si nous pouvons 
 parler Anglais ! " cried one of the merry 
 creatures, all arms and legs, in the early stage 
 of teens : " Nous ne pouvons pas enjouir 
 votre compagnie dans cet horrible Frangais ! 
 Demandez vite ! Miss Somerville ne pent pas 
 vous refuser ! " 
 
 '' She would certainly prefer English to 
 such French as that," said the person
 
 Marjory* 169 
 
 addressed, smiling with a toucli of conscious 
 superiority. 
 
 " Yous lui demanderez, n'est-ce pas ? vous 
 chere, tres-chere Lina ! " cried the female 
 hobbledehoy, clinging round her friend. The 
 young lady gently disengaged herself, with 
 the same quiet smile, and proceeded to grant 
 the request ; returning shortly with a favour- 
 able answer. 
 
 " Oh, be joyful ! friends and compatriots, 
 listen ! English ! English ! our blessed mother- 
 tongue!" cried the girl, running wild: ''Come, 
 every one, and thank Lina. We may talk 
 English for a whole hour ! come, every one 
 of you!" 
 
 The girls collected in a flock, installing the 
 visitor upon a garden-seat beneath a sunny 
 wall. Five crowded with her into the seat ; 
 the rest sat about, some on the grass, some 
 on a wheelbarrow left by accident in the 
 path : while all, with greater or less admira- 
 tion, gazed upon Lina, their centre. 
 
 " You are not to speak, miss ! not even to 
 come near her," shouted the wild girl to a 
 schoolfellow who had been detained in the 
 house, and who now approached, running 
 eagerly over the turf: " You are going to 
 take her away, and keep her all to yourself
 
 170 Marjory. 
 
 for hours ; but you shall not rob us of this 
 brief interlude of bliss." 
 
 " Yery well, I'll sit here, and say not a 
 word ; only I suppose I may listen," said the 
 new comer, laughing, as she paused in the 
 background of the group. 
 
 '' You may listen if you keep your con- 
 dition, — not one word, mind ! " cried the girl, 
 shaking her finger. *' Now, Lina, begin ! 
 tell us everything you can think of, about all 
 that you have done and seen, since we saw 
 you last." 
 
 A tumult of chatter followed ; the young 
 lady, indeed, always self-possessed, quiet, 
 and dignified, but her quondam schoolfellows 
 vying with one another in ejaculations, com- 
 ments, and questions. These last the visitor 
 would have found too numerous for reply, 
 had she not evidently resolved to notice only 
 such as she deemed sensible enough to de- 
 serve it. 
 
 Meanwhile, the girl in the background 
 faithfully fulfilled her promise ; sitting ab- 
 sorbed and meditative, her eyes fixed upon 
 the principal figure of the group, as if com- 
 paring it with preconceived notions. No 
 one who had watched the ways of little 
 Marjory could fail to recognise, in this
 
 Marjory, 171 
 
 seventeen-year-old schoolgirl, the observant 
 interest, the absorption in things without 
 herself, which had characterised that child 
 of the past. Yes, it was the same face, not 
 very much older, and hardly less simple, than 
 of yore; and the thoughtfulness which had 
 sat strangely on the brow of the child, seemed 
 only a foreshadowing charm of womanhood 
 in the maiden. The thought had deepened 
 with the years ; the steadfastness had intensi- 
 fied. Something there was in that young 
 face of well-nigh inspiration, which stirred, 
 or might stir, those who looked upon it ; 
 something which spoke, though silent, of 
 work, of life, of power. But it was uncon- 
 scious power, free from any taint of egotism 
 or conceit. Childlike as of old, the blue eyes 
 gazed upon Lina, much as they had gazed 
 on Mr. Hugh, on Jessie, on the visitors at 
 Thorne. The square brow was still clear 
 and open, the bright hair shone in certain 
 lights with the old yellow gleam. Was it a 
 pretty face ? — one could hardly tell ; but it 
 was beautiful with the highest order of 
 beauty — such as could never spring from 
 physical charms alone. 
 
 For the rest, Marjory was still '' a growing 
 girl," somewhat thin, though perfectly
 
 172 Marjory. 
 
 healthy, — long in limb, slight and supple in 
 figure. Her dress was but slightly altered 
 from the cotton frocks of old ; in fact, she 
 wore a cotton frock at this moment, differ- 
 ing only in its long skirts from that in which 
 little Marjory had travelled from Alton to 
 Thorne. Moreover, she had still a holland 
 jacket and an old straw hat ; and still looked 
 as thorough-bred a lady, despite the plain 
 attire, as she had looked at ten years old, 
 when the cabman had touched his hat to her. 
 The girl who formed the centre of the ad- 
 miring crowd, was two years older than 
 Marjory. She had left Miss Somerville's 
 school a year ago, and was now only here for 
 a flying visit en route to some further desti- 
 nation. The blue eyes fixed upon her be- 
 held a face and form worthy of a princess ; a 
 Spanish princess she might have been, only 
 that her hazel eyes lacked the fire usually 
 attributed to southern beauty. They were 
 undoubtedly fine eyes, but steady and calm, 
 according well with the dispassionate cast of 
 features : which, but for their glowing olive, 
 might have been carved in marble, — so still 
 they were, so unvarying in expression. It 
 was a classical face, in some degree a noble 
 face, only the forehead was a little too narrow,
 
 Marjory. 173 
 
 and the smile, when it came, too cold ; but 
 these deficiencies were seldom noticed in the 
 admiration excited by the rare beauty and 
 dignified grace. 
 
 In figure, Lina was finely developed, erect, 
 and of faultless proportions ; her dress also 
 was perfect, fashionable without showiness, 
 the colours well assorted, the materials good. 
 The young schoolgirls evidently regarded her 
 with lavish admiration. Always an oracle, 
 she had now returned to them rich in ex- 
 periences from the great outer world; and 
 found herself on a higher pinnacle than 
 before. It was clear that she accepted this 
 position as a matter of course, using it to 
 exert a salutary influence over her youthful 
 friends. Her conversation was like her face, — 
 calm, superior, all that it ought to be. How 
 good she was ! what a pattern ! an angel 
 almost, thought the schoolgirl mind. 
 
 Meanwhile, Marjory was still deep in 
 observation. Time was when she also had 
 thought thus of Lina ; when Lina had been 
 to her a standard of excellence, her actions 
 perfect, her opinions infallible. Ever since 
 leaving Branksome, nearly seven years ago, 
 Marjory had lived with her uncle and aunt in 
 their rural parsonage. Eight miles from the
 
 1 74 Marjory » 
 
 nearest town, three from the nearest station 
 — no squire, no society — a population of 
 agricultural labourers, with three or four 
 middle-class farmers : such was the nature 
 of the parish, Rockswold by name. The 
 beauty of hill and dale, of wood and sky, 
 compassed the place about. Day and night, 
 spring and summer, autumn and winter, in 
 their accustomed round, made each fresh 
 loveliness. Surely the earth is beautiful no 
 less for God than for man ! At this moment 
 still places lie in multitudes, unnumbered and 
 unknown, — on Alpine heights, in tropical 
 wilds, in ocean depths, — exquisite beyond 
 man's conception ; and year by year, though 
 man knows nought of them, they are renewed 
 with the renewing of the spring. 
 
 Rockswold itself, for any human apprecia- 
 tion, might almost have been one of these 
 spots. To the farmers the sky was but a 
 vehicle to weather, and the land to crops 
 and cattle. The labourers plodded year by 
 year through their accustomed routine, their 
 minds apparently only one degree less dense 
 than the clay in which they toiled. The 
 mistress of the village shop dispensed her 
 goods at usurious prices, and gossiped with 
 the rustic women who came to buy. The
 
 Marjory, 175 
 
 blacksmith, her neighbour, gossiped likewise 
 — and that of the most vulgar and petty con- 
 cerns, despite the poetic rhythm of his anvil. 
 Meanwhile, around them, the sun rose and 
 set in glory unutterable ; the woods stretched 
 along the sides of the hills in ever-chano^ing 
 beauty ; daily these people beheld scenes 
 which, by faithful copying alone, might im- 
 mortalise an artist ; but their eyes were closed 
 that they could not see, and their perceptions 
 that they could not comprehend. So at least 
 it appeared — one cannot say more ; — a painful 
 mystery to Marjory. 
 
 For to Marjory the things of nature were 
 a mighty influence. She had grown up 
 among them as their pupil, learning per- 
 petually, catching yearly a more vivid 
 reflection of their simplicity, their freedom, 
 their freshness. She had watched the 
 changes in earth and sky until she had be- 
 come as '' weather-wise " as any farmer ; she 
 could tell each wild bird's note and nest, 
 each flower's favourite haunt; the ways of 
 the wild bees and ants ; the special charac- 
 teristics of countless insects, whose names 
 in science were unknown to her. Her solitude, 
 and her limited range of books, had left her 
 thoughts free, — original at least, so far as that
 
 176 Marjory. 
 
 they were her own thoughts, many of which 
 had come to her when alone in the woods or 
 fields, and not second-hand from others. But 
 therewith her respect for her uncle's teaching 
 kept her safe " in the old paths." So far, 
 young Marjory had been shielded from any 
 knowledge of those doubts with which the 
 minds who live in a cluster are in these days 
 so busy. Her simple faith in the Almighty 
 Father and his Son, " by Whom He made 
 the worlds " — made all this beauty amid 
 which she lived — had never been tried or 
 shaken. There was not even any dissent in 
 the place ; the church, with its ivy-covered 
 tower, and its bells, of which the parish was 
 proud, stood like a friend beside her home ; 
 and she could have sooner imagined, or, if 
 put to the test, desired, that home altogether 
 closed to her than her, affections to that old 
 church and the forms of its worship. Her 
 reverence for these things had become a 
 part of her life — unspoken, but deep beyond 
 speech. 
 
 Of romance, commonly so called, the child 
 knew nothinof. She had mixed little with 
 other girls ; and, until she was sixteen, not at 
 all. She had her own thoughts, now and 
 then, — very rarely, — upon the subject of love.
 
 Marjory, 177 
 
 She regarded it much in the same light as 
 some beautiful but mysterious poem, some 
 strain of music, intricate, but solemn and 
 sweet : much, in fact, as she regarded the 
 stars in her beloved sky — those shining 
 worlds, so far, so full of wonder. As con- 
 cerned herself personally, she had never 
 dreamed of the possibility of marrying ; or of 
 spending her life in any way but as a com- 
 panion to Gerald. Life with Gerald, and 
 for Gerald — keeping his house, soothing his 
 cares, sharing his pursuits, working for him 
 and for them — this was her dream. 
 
 Her uncle had taught her all that she knew 
 of solid subjects, supplemented by French and 
 music from her aunt, until, about eighteen 
 months before the present date, she became 
 a day-boarder at Miss Somerville's school : 
 which fever and deficient drainage in the 
 county town had driven to take refuge, with 
 all its staff, in this fresh and healthy spot. 
 For some time before joining their lists, Mar- 
 jory had felt keen interest in the colony thus 
 imported. Girls — creatures like herself! — 
 when she could not see them, she thought of 
 them, weaving stories and building castles 
 concerning them, in her active brain. When 
 she met them in their daily promenade, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 Marjory, 
 
 two and two, along the lanes, she would 
 stand aside to watch them pass, taking note 
 of every face, and forming her own ideas of 
 its character. But it was the face of their 
 leader which specially bewitched her, work- 
 ing as a charm upon her beauty-loving ima- 
 gination. 
 
 By degrees an ideal halo transformed that 
 image into " a vision bright with something of 
 an angel hght." Una in the " Faery Queene," 
 Verena in " Sintram," every pure and sweet 
 and lovely female character of which she had 
 read, was by turns personified for Marjory in 
 this maiden, to whom as yet she had never 
 spoken. She dreamed of her by night, and 
 moved by day in an inspired atmosphere 
 created by her vicinity. All the capacity 
 for romance which in many girls is less in- 
 nocently expended, was thus devoted by 
 Marjory. At church the school occupied a 
 small transept opposite Marjory's seat ; and, 
 as her blue eyes rested upon that calm and 
 finely chiselled face, it seemed to her that 
 her spirit of devotion was deepened, her 
 power to praise and to pray intensified by its 
 presence. 
 
 It was with trembling delight that Marjory 
 entered upon a closer acquaintance with this
 
 Marjory. 179 
 
 object of adoration. She found that the 
 young lady's name was Caroline, otherwise 
 Lina, Peele ; and that governesses and girls 
 alike regarded her as a mysteriously perfect 
 character. A few confided to Marjory, who 
 was soon at home among all, an opinion that 
 she was indeed too perfect ! but the majority 
 viewed her with unquestioning esteem. She 
 was not slow to discover Marjory's feelings ; 
 and regarded them with favour. Few of the 
 girls were high in social status ; and, although 
 well educated, they lacked that air of breed- 
 ing which prominently distinguished Marjory. 
 Lina, though merely the daughter of a pro- 
 vincial bank-manager, was herself of fas- 
 tidious refinement ; and found Marjory's 
 society more congenial than any other in her 
 school-life. A close intimacy was quickly 
 established. Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope were 
 glad to find so excellent a friend for their 
 niece ; and it became a weekly institution for 
 Lina to spend the Wednesday's half holiday 
 at the vicarage. 
 
 The two girls walked backwards and for- 
 wards through the quiet field-paths, discuss- 
 ing many subjects which to Marjory had 
 hitherto been only food for solitary cogita- 
 tion. The younger girl heard with enthusi- 
 N 2
 
 180 Marjory. 
 
 asm Lina's views, receiving them as gospel ; 
 read with avidity Lina's favourite books ; 
 and sought upon every doubtful matter 
 Lina's advice. This advice was always prompt, 
 always decided : that it could err was as yet 
 undreamt of by Marjory. She unfolded to 
 this acquaintance of a month or two her 
 secret visions concerning Gerald ; and much 
 else never before breathed to any human 
 being. Whether her own enthusiasm were 
 equally shared by Lina, she never questioned ; 
 or, rather, she took the fact for granted : and 
 thus the first half-year of her schooling 
 passed away. Lina did not return after the 
 holidays ; her education was said by Miss 
 Somerville to be satisfactorily completed. 
 She had gone forth, to be to the school a 
 lasting credit. 
 
 Marjory mourned her sorely, and could 
 hardly realise that it was not a year since her 
 first vision of that idealised face, not five 
 months since their first personal acquaint- 
 ance. No one among her schoolfellows 
 could supply to her Lina's place; she soon 
 resumed that independent life which had 
 been of late suspended. She had seen with 
 Lina's eyes, and heard with Lina's ears, 
 during that infatuated dream of friendship :
 
 Marjory. 181 
 
 now, by degrees, she found herself question- 
 ing whether, on all points, she agreed with 
 Lina so utterly as she had supposed. Thence 
 arose varied perplexities, to satisfy which she 
 searched right hand and left ; and began for 
 the first time to perceive how wide is the 
 world, how many phases life contains, how 
 many sides exist to every subject. After a 
 while she began, moreover, to wonder that 
 Lina's opinions should be so decided, on 
 points so numerous and weighty — points on 
 which older and greater minds could only 
 plead their craving for enlightenment. It 
 was less than a year since she and Lina had 
 parted, but during this time Marjory had 
 gained far more than an ordinary year in 
 thought and feeling. 
 
 And now '' the merry month of May " 
 had come again ; another month would bring 
 the midsummer holidays : and then Marjory 
 herself was to leave school. She had climbed 
 to the head, and knew all that Miss Somer- 
 ville could teach ; but Marjory did not feel 
 her education to be finished : far, very far, 
 from that ! It seemed to her she had but 
 just found out how much she had to learn. 
 She would only exchange one school for 
 another : that of daily life and of the world.
 
 ( 182 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 *' The Past and Present here unite 
 Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
 Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
 
 But seen on either side." — Longfellow. 
 
 Ltna had come, as we have said, on a flying 
 visit to her former governess : whom Mar- 
 jory had begged to spare her for the evening, 
 as in old times, to the vicarage. And now, 
 while the soft spring day declined, and amber 
 lights began to gather in the west, Marjory, 
 waiting, gazed intently upon her quondam 
 idol — comparing the present with the past, 
 and, in fact, studying Lina. She was aware 
 of having previously seen her through an 
 imaginary medium ; now she desired to see 
 her as she was — to know how much or how 
 little the true Lina resembled the Lina of 
 those dreams. Somehow the enchantment 
 had faded. Here was the same face, — only 
 a little older, a little more dignified, and 
 immovable in expression ; but these were 
 not the same eyes that looked upon it. 
 Marjory blamed her own fickleness, as she
 
 Marjory, 183 
 
 acknowledged the cliange ; yet slie was forced 
 to acknowledge it. 
 
 " Are you ready, Marjory ? I tliink we 
 ought to start," said Lina, looking at her 
 watch. Marjory coloured to and above her 
 blue eyes, as if Lina could divine her thoughts; 
 and started from the grass. The other girls 
 endeavoured to detain their friend ; but she 
 was firm ; and, as she withdrew her hand 
 from the last imploring clasp, the bell rang 
 loudly in the doorway. 
 
 *' Bother the bell," cried the wild girl, 
 stamping on the ground : " Now for washy 
 tea and bread-and-scrape and that wicked 
 French ! while Marjory goes off and enjoys 
 herself Mind you send Lina back in proper 
 time, Marjory, or I'll — I'll — I don't know 
 what, to you ! " 
 
 Marjory returned a laughing reply over 
 her shoulder, as she walked to the entrance- 
 gate by Lina's side ; but Lina observed : 
 
 " How boisterous that Mary Carr has 
 grown ! she is really quite unladylike." 
 
 *' Not in her mind," said Marjory ; *' only a 
 little in her manners ; and she is so much 
 devoted to you, that your coming turns her 
 head. She has counted the days to this 
 visit."
 
 184 Marjory. 
 
 "It is fortunate that I shall not be here 
 long ; I might fall in her favour ! I could 
 not long resist telling her my opinion. Well, 
 Marjory ! how have you been getting on ? 
 Your letters have been hurried lately." 
 
 " I have been very busy ; and I knew that 
 I should see you soon. There is so much I 
 have been storing up to say when we met, — 
 and now we shall have so little time ! I wish 
 you could stay a little longer." 
 
 '' It is impossible. I am due at Dover, at 
 my sister's, the day after to-morrow ; and 
 even there my visit will be limited. I must 
 be at home to help mamma in the moving." 
 
 " You are going to move ? " exclaimed 
 Marjory : "You never told me that ! " 
 
 " It was not finally decided until last week. 
 Yes, ever since my father's death, we have 
 disliked Ballingham ; but circumstances made 
 it desirable to remain there for a time. Now 
 this seems no longer necessary ; and mamma 
 thinks that she may as well live in, as let, the 
 house which has been left to her." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! you told me of that house ; but 
 you did not mention the place, Lina. Where 
 is it?" 
 
 " It is at Alton ; in a pretty square, at the 
 opposite end, I regret to say, to the cathe-
 
 Marjory, 185 
 
 dral, — but near a very nice cliurcli. I went 
 with mamma to see the place. I said nothing 
 to you, because our plans were then so un- 
 settled." 
 
 " And the house is at Alton ! " 
 
 Back seven years into the past was Mar- 
 jory in a moment. She saw again the red- 
 brick suburb, the clock-faced church, Mrs. 
 Hammond's hot little rooms : a white road 
 stretched before her, the sky was blue, there 
 was a scent of wild roses and sycamore 
 flowers ; she was a child again, travelling 
 wearily along the road to Thorne. 
 
 " Well, Marjory, what have I said to drive 
 you into an absent fit ? " 
 
 *' Alton ! It was the thought of Alton. 
 Oh, Lina, don't you remember all that I told 
 you about our time there, and my adventure, 
 and Thorne ? " 
 
 " Yes, by-the-by, I do remember some- 
 thing ; but not distinctly. I did not realise 
 that you were at Alton itself. You called 
 the place Branksome." 
 
 '' Branksome was the suburb where we 
 lodged. It joined Alton ; but in some ways 
 it was like a separate place. The cathedral 
 seemed miles away to me ; it was really a 
 mile and a half, and Uncle John had only
 
 186 Marjory. 
 
 once time to take me there ; lie would not let 
 me walk alone in the town." 
 
 '' Stay a moment," said Lina : " Let me 
 recollect ! Yes, I am sure of it ; our square 
 must be close to that Branksome. The 
 woman in charge of our house spoke of 
 Branksome Church ; I did not know why, — 
 for its real name is St. Philip's." 
 
 '' St. Philip's ! That was the very church 
 where Uncle John did duty ! Oh, Lina, how 
 curious ; how it all comes back ! To think 
 that you are going to live there. Only, you 
 said it was a nice church. Now I am sure 
 you would not call St. Philip's nice." 
 
 " It was hideous outside " 
 
 " A great clock stuck in the face ? " 
 
 *' Yes, a most ugly clock." 
 
 " Oh, then, it is our very own St. Philip's ! " 
 cried Marjory, clapping her hands : " How 
 wonderfully things come round." 
 
 " I cannot say that I see anything won- 
 derful in this. It is merely a coincidence. 
 As to the church, it has been restored, — 
 inside, at least. The old vicar died three 
 years ago, and the new one has changed 
 everything. The seats are all free ; there 
 are all the proper services, a staff of priests, 
 who live in a clergy-house — a sisterhood, and
 
 Marjory, 187 
 
 everything correct. That is one of the chief 
 attractions to me. I would far rather be 
 near a church of that kind than the 
 cathedraL" 
 
 "It must be changed, indeed," said Marjory, 
 dreamily. " There were pews with doors, I 
 remember, in those old days. And service 
 only on Sundays, and Thursday evenings. 
 Uncle John did wish that he could have one 
 on Saints' days ; but he was told that it 
 would not do." 
 
 " The present vicar, Mr. Throckmorton, 
 is not one who considers whether a thing 
 will or will not ' do,' " said Lina : " He has 
 what is right, without consulting anybody's 
 opinion." 
 
 "Uncle John was only a locum tenens, you 
 see. He could not manage things as if he 
 been the vicar." 
 
 ** I feel sure that Mr. Throckmorton would 
 not accept a locum tenency where he could 
 not obey his conscience," said Lina, decidedly. 
 At another time Marjory might have fired 
 in her uncle's defence ; but now, full of her 
 own reminiscences, she did not observe the 
 comparison. 
 
 " Perhaps you will see Lady Thorne, Lina? 
 If you should, I hope you will tell me. I
 
 188 Marjory. 
 
 have so often longed to hear of her. Her 
 friend, the old patron of this living, died the 
 year after we came here ; so I have had no 
 opportunity of asking about her, or Bellhouse, 
 or any of them. Oh, I do wonder how they 
 all are — Lady Thorne, Bellhouse, Jessie, Mr. 
 Hugh ! Perhaps you will see Mr. Hugh too. 
 He told me that he was often in Alton. I 
 suppose he is a grand country gentleman 
 now, — married to Lady Rose Fairlegh, very 
 likely." 
 
 As these last words were spoken, a slight 
 change of expression — a shadow, touched by 
 repugnance — flitted over Lina's face. It 
 passed instantly, replaced by the usual calm; 
 but Marjory remembered to have seen it 
 before. Her curiosity was awakened. 
 
 '' Lina, why do you dislike my speaking of 
 Mr. Hugh ? " 
 
 " How can you tell that I dislike it ? " 
 asked Lina, quickly. 
 
 " I saw it in your face — not only now ; the 
 very first time I mentioned him, long ago at 
 school, you had that same look, as if his 
 name were hateful to you." 
 
 " I must command my face better," said 
 Lina, smiling : ''But you are right, Marjory. 
 His name is hateful to me — only his name,
 
 Marjory. 189 
 
 of course. It reminds me of another Hugh 
 Vivian, who once did us a great wrong — a 
 wrong I can never forget." 
 
 " And he had the same name ! I wonder 
 if they were related." 
 
 " Oh, no, impossible ! The person whom 
 I mean was in a very different position. He 
 was a clerk in the bank at Bullingham." 
 
 " And BuUingham is in Hampshire, too — 
 far away from Alton. I am sorry the name 
 is so disagreeable to you, though. If you 
 get to know my Mr. Hugh, perhaps he will 
 make you like it." 
 
 '' I think not," said Lina, quietly; '' I could 
 never like it. Besides, there is no proba- 
 bility of my knowing him ; we shall not 
 expect to be in the county society." 
 
 *' Is the Hugh Vivian who did the wrong 
 still at BuUingham ? " said Marjory, 
 
 *' 'No, he disappeared, no one knew where ^ 
 he was altogether * a black sheep.' I spoke 
 incorrectly just now, Marjory, when I said 
 that I could never forget that wrong; I 
 meant, the fact of his having committed it. 
 The particulars of it, I never knew : only 
 their consequences." 
 
 " Poor Lina ! I am so sorry," said Marjory, 
 in vague pity. As she spoke, with a caress-
 
 190 Marjory, 
 
 ing movement, slie passed her arm tbrougli 
 her friend's ; for a look of real pain had fallen 
 upon Lina's beautiful face. 
 
 " Never mind," replied Lina, ignoring the 
 movement : " There is no use in recalling the 
 past. I will only say that it was something 
 connected with my brother." 
 
 Marjory ventured no further questioning. 
 Lina, like herself, had had one beloved 
 brother: whose relations with her — so Marjory 
 fancied — had resembled her own with Gerald. 
 Lina had occasionally spoken of him, as of 
 one whom she unutterably revered, but who 
 had been involved in some unfortunate 
 mystery ; he had suffered in some way, sadly 
 — not through his own fault. This was all 
 that Marjory had gathered concerning him : 
 excepting that he was dead. 
 
 *' I won't mention Mr. Hugh again, 
 Lina." 
 
 " Impetuous as ever, Marjory," said Lina, 
 smiling. '' Pray mention him as much as 
 you please ; it can make no difference to me. 
 My feeling about the name is a mere weakness, 
 which I do not wish to indulge." 
 
 But Marjory hastened to change the sub- 
 ject, dreading to pain her friend, from what- 
 ever cause that pain might proceed ; and the
 
 Marjory i' 191 
 
 conversation had soon wandered far from 
 Thorne or Alton. Soon, also, the two com- 
 panions, climbing the last stile, found them- 
 selves in the orchard, now gay with blossom, 
 which adjoined the shady garden of the 
 vicarage.
 
 ( 192 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Viewless things his eyes can view, 
 Driftings of his dream do light 
 All the skies by day and night, 
 And the seas that deepest roll 
 Carry murmurs of his soul." 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 While tlie quiet days rolled by in tlie old 
 country vicarage, and Marjory grew with 
 steady growth, reading, observing, thinking, 
 her brother Gerald had already taken his 
 post in life's great battle. 
 
 His childish dream of becoming an artist, 
 had intensified until it consumed him as a 
 fire. Visions of ideal beauty constantly 
 haunted him, craving painfully for develop- 
 ment. Often at night, when the house was 
 still, he would sit long at his window, looking 
 out towards the heights of space and the 
 sleeping world below, and feeling within him 
 something that throbbed and struggled to- 
 wards the Infinite, whence it came. At such 
 times, in his earlier boyhood, t-^ars would roll 
 unconsciously down his cheeks ; he could 
 not have told why. As years went on, the
 
 Marjory. 193 
 
 tears ceased ; he grew too manly for such 
 relief; but none the less powerful was that bj 
 which they had been excited. Bereft of even 
 such outlet, it became restless and passionate 
 with the force of a pent-up existence. 
 
 His small stock of pocket-money was jea- 
 lously hoarded for drawing-paper, paints, and 
 pencils ; his spare minutes, sadly limited, 
 were all devoted to their use. He copied 
 again and again, with unwearied patience, 
 every picture that he could find worth the 
 pains ; sketched again and again, at different 
 seasons and in different lights, the same views 
 around his home ; he made also many original 
 efforts, but he was never satisfied with any- 
 thing that he did. He saw with almost too 
 keen an eye his faults of drawing and colour- 
 ing : he had no such eye for their virtues. 
 Something of hope he did indeed feel, when 
 he found his progress, such as it was, 
 unquestionable. But his discouragements 
 far exceeded his comforts. How could he do 
 anything great without a teacher ? Had 
 such a case ever been ? Had not every 
 famous artist studied his art with some great 
 master of his age ? What hope was there 
 for him, working in the dark, without a 
 master, without even a friend ? 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 Marjory. 
 
 Meanwhile, to the outer world, he appeared 
 a strange, silent, dreamy boy — moody and 
 irritable at times — and sadly discontented, 
 his grandmother thought. His grandmother, 
 an old lady of "the old school," who prided 
 herself upon her common sense, had reso- 
 lutely set her face against any such '' non- 
 sense " as that desired by Gerald. Drawing 
 pictures was fairly well, she opined, as an 
 innocent recreation ; but to make it more 
 than recreation was, if not positive sin, a sign 
 of despicable frivolity. This old lady had no 
 conception of any world beyond that apparent 
 to her senses. But for her religious faith, 
 her nature would have seemed, to all intents 
 and purposes, devoid of spiritual element. 
 As it was, that faith, in its way exceedingly 
 devout, increased her firmness in opposing 
 what she regarded as a waste of time and 
 talents. Nevertheless, Gerald for years al- 
 lowed himself to hope that in time she would 
 yield to his wishes ; that her eyes would be 
 opened when she found that nothing quenched 
 the flame which burned within him. In 
 short, he cherished a secret fancy that, when 
 he left school, she would allow him to go to 
 London — perhaps even to E-ome — and study 
 according to his wishes.
 
 Marjory, 195 
 
 He was penniless ; this poor boy, like his 
 sister, was entirely dependent upon the grand- 
 mother, Mrs. Wilton. He was a little delicate 
 also in health, had grown too quickly ; and 
 his active brain absorbed much life and 
 strength which would otherwise nourish his 
 body. Her aid and consent were necessary 
 to him ; he could not go anywhere without 
 them, and would not, if he could. For 
 Gerald's moral faculties were at least as 
 keen as those of his intellect ; his conscien- 
 tiousness in the matter of filial duty was 
 almost morbidly extreme. His grandmother 
 had clothed, fed, educated him ; he owed to 
 her a debt of lifelong gratitude. Her con- 
 duct, as regarded the desire of his heart, 
 seemed to him little short of cruelty ; yet, 
 with feverish self-command, he restrained any 
 undutiful word or feeling. Thus his boy- 
 hood went by ; and at eighteen came a time 
 to which he had long looked forward as 
 decisive. 
 
 Despite his inward difficulties, he had risen 
 to the head of the old-established grammar- 
 school near his home. His masters were 
 high in praise of his steadiness and applica- 
 tion ; all that he needed, they said, was a 
 greater love of study for its own sake. This 
 2
 
 196 Marjory, 
 
 report confirmed his grandmotlier's opinion 
 that the idle life of a painter would be his 
 ruin. He must now leave school ; she could 
 not afford, had she thought it desirable, to 
 send him to the university : she resolved that 
 he should at once begin the laudable task of 
 earning his own bread. Her life was yearly 
 more uncertain ; her income would die with 
 her; she told Gerald, with the intent to 
 rouse his pride, that it was time he ceased to 
 depend on her scanty means. She wished, 
 however, still to keep him under her own 
 eye ; and at this juncture a situation fell 
 vacant in a private bank in the town. For 
 that situation Mrs. Wilton, without Gerald's 
 knowledge, applied in his behalf; and suc- 
 ceeded. The salary was a mere pittance, 
 the work laborious : but this, she believed, 
 was just the training that he required. To 
 sober him, to bring down his unfounded as- 
 pirations, and convert him into a practical 
 man of business : such was her aim. 
 
 The boy had gathered all his forces for 
 one final appeal ; from which he had hoped 
 more than he was aware of. He opened his 
 heart to his grandmother as he had never 
 done before ; he promised, if she would help 
 him forward in his desired path, that she
 
 Marjory. 197 
 
 should never repent it ; that in a little while 
 he would repay all she had ever spent on him 
 — he should call nothing his own until that 
 debt was discharged. She should hear of 
 him soon as a great painter — he felt the 
 power within him ! He could not work, he 
 could not breathe, he said, shut up in a 
 bank : it would crush out all that made his 
 life worth the having. 
 
 "For 'Could not,' Gerald, say 'Would 
 not,'" Mrs. Wilton rejoined : " Duty is always 
 possible." 
 
 Then, when he argued that his duty was 
 not necessarily represented by the calling of 
 a bank-clerk, she informed him that the die 
 was cast, that she had arranged all pre- 
 liminaries, and that his work was to com- 
 mence on the following Monday. 
 
 Now at length burst from Gerald a passion 
 of fury and despair which caused Mrs. Wilton, 
 highly displeased, to order him away. Out 
 of the room, and the house, he rushed, as if 
 possessed by a fiend ; and was absent for 
 many hours. Late at night, just as the old 
 lady had begun to feel a little anxious, he 
 came back ; and coldly, as if going through a 
 form, begged her pardon : then walked upstairs 
 in the dark to his bed, without another word.
 
 198 Marjory, 
 
 The subject was not again mentioned be- 
 tween them. When Monday came, Gerald 
 went in silence to bis desk at the bank. 
 
 But anyone who possessed penetration — a 
 quality denied to Mrs. Wilton — might have 
 seen that the iron had entered into his soul. 
 His face had acquired a rigidity, his manner, 
 a distant coldness, as of one who desires 
 sympathy as little as he expects it. In truth 
 it seemed to him that his mind and heart 
 were actually turned into iron — into a cold 
 and heavy weight which he had to bear with 
 him wherever he went. Heaven and earth 
 alike, he thought, were bent on opposing 
 him in his struggle after the only thing he 
 cared for — cared for with such intensity of 
 craving ! He wondered, with dull pain be- 
 neath the wonder, why that craving should 
 be implanted within him, so that he could 
 not, if he would, put it away ! An endless 
 why seemed re-echoing through the world. 
 
 But youth was strong in him ; the buoy- 
 ancy of his years fought for him, and won 
 the battle. After a time hope revived, 
 courage rose up afresh ; he resolved that he 
 would despair no longer. A dogged patience 
 took the place of bitterness : a determination 
 to endure, to toil, to wait. Day after day he
 
 Marjory, 199 
 
 plodded through the appointed hours : but 
 when evening came — in summer, out of 
 doors — in the winter, in his room, wrapped in 
 his great- coat, Hghted by a tallow candle, — 
 he returned to the work that he loved; 
 drew, painted, carved, struggling towards 
 that fleeting ideal, so fair yet so capricious, 
 which lured him ever onward. 
 
 Thus four years rolled away in a mono- 
 tonous round. Gerald was now twenty-two — ■ 
 a man, and, in formation of character, far 
 older than his age. Those forty-eight months 
 of resolute labour at an uncongenial occupa- 
 tion, had borne their fruit of self-mastery, of 
 fortitude, of dauntless will. The visions 
 which came to him now were higher, more 
 glorious, than in the days of impatient ex- 
 pectation. He had learned that there is 
 something grander than the fulfilment of an 
 artistic mission ; something better than a 
 gratified desire, however pure. 
 
 Meanwhile, the infirmities of age were in- 
 creasing upon Mrs. Wilton ; she had failed 
 perceptibly of late, had grown feeble and 
 peevish ; and when, shortly after Gerald's 
 twenty-second birthday, the bank, in which 
 he was steadily rising, stopped payment, the 
 sudden blow was too heavy for her strength.
 
 200 Marjory, 
 
 She lamented, full of gloomy prophecies, 
 for a day; and then was struck down by 
 paralysis. 
 
 But the active habits of a long life were 
 not easily banished. At the end of a week, 
 she rose and came downstairs, altered in 
 speech and in countenance, but able to move 
 slowly to and fro about her usual occupations. 
 Gerald was at home, forcibly idle, and, had 
 his grandmother been well, he would certainly 
 have repeated his appeal of four years ago. 
 But now the grasshopper was a burden to 
 her; every small household Gontre-temps 
 worried her as if double its importance ; the 
 subject of the bank was seldom absent from 
 her thoughts or from her lips ; she began to 
 fret about her own expenses, and to declare 
 that she, too, was in the road to ruin. Gerald, 
 she said, must help her; she had done enough 
 for him, — and, if he had any atom of a dutiful 
 spirit, he would now make due return. He 
 must obtain another situation immediately — 
 he must advertise, inquire; in fact, what must 
 he not ? 
 
 This was no time to urge his own claims. 
 He began at once, as she desired, to "look 
 out ; " but who does not know what such 
 "looking out" is, in this our over-stocked
 
 Marjory. 201 
 
 England ? Every clerksliip of every kind 
 "was already occupied in the county town ; 
 and tlie failure of tlie bank had thrown many 
 others into the same position as himself. 
 Mrs. Wilton declared that she would give up 
 her house, and accompany him elsewhere. 
 She had been exacting and tyrannical to this 
 boy ; yet she loved him, as much as it was 
 in her nature to love any one ; and of late 
 had grown to lean upon him, with a closer 
 dependence than she knew. Gerald answered 
 many and various advertisements; but it was 
 by other means that help came at last. 
 
 It came, unexpectedly enough, through 
 Marjory's friend Lina. The Peeles had now 
 for several months been settled at Alton; and 
 when a superior clerkship promised to be 
 vacant in an old-established bank of that 
 city, Lina, informed by Marjory of the state 
 of affairs, found means to secure influential 
 interest in behalf of an application from 
 Gerald. A few weeks later the affair was 
 settled ; Gerald was appointed to the clerk- 
 ship, far better than that which he had lost ; 
 and Lina now again offered her services to 
 find either a house or suitable lodgings for 
 Mrs. Wilton. 
 
 In anticipation of the move, the old lady's
 
 202 Marjory, 
 
 strength appeared to revive. She declared, 
 with evident pleasure in the thought, that 
 there was no time to be lost, and for a day 
 or two worked, with feverish haste, at all 
 manner of miscellaneous preparations. But 
 on the third day she sat peacefully down in 
 her arm-chair, and said that she was tired, 
 and must rest. The morning lengthened 
 into afternoon, the early dinner-hour came 
 and passed, and still the restless old woman, 
 yesterday so full of occupations, slept on — 
 awakened once or twice by Gerald, but only 
 to repeat drowsily, that she was tired, and 
 would sleep a little longer. At length it 
 became impossible to rouse her at all ; the 
 doctor was summoned, and it was found that 
 she had had a second stroke. 
 
 Twenty- four hours later she had slept her- 
 self away, not even awaking for so much as 
 a last farewell. 
 
 The greater part of her income, being the 
 pension of a naval captain's widow, together 
 with a trifling life-annuity, ceased at her 
 death. A small capital, equivalent to about 
 fifty pounds per annum, was all that re- 
 mained ; and this she was found to have 
 settled unreservedly upon Marjory. 
 
 " I beg my grandson Gerald to believe,"
 
 Marjory. 203 
 
 said the will, " that by this settlement I do 
 him uo injustice, but rather promote his 
 true happiness in easting him solely upon 
 independent exertion." 
 
 She had known well in what manner 
 Gerald would have employed that small 
 capital, if placed at his disposal. Left penni- 
 less, he would, at least for a few years, be 
 compelled to work at something useful ; and 
 gradually, it might be hoped, he would forget 
 the dream of a foolish youth. The better to 
 ensure this object, she had added a codicil, 
 forbidding Marjory to give or lend any por- 
 tion of the sum, or its yearly interest, to 
 Gerald, or any other in his behalf, on penalty 
 of instant forfeiture : in which case the legacy 
 was to be transferred to an Asylum for the 
 Orphans of British Seamen. 
 
 Marjory was full of indignation when this 
 news arrived — conveyed in a letter from her 
 uncle, who had gone to attend Mrs. Wilton's 
 funeral. He was to bring Gerald back with 
 him to Rockswold. For the first time since 
 early childhood, — Gerald would see his sister, 
 — that blue-eyed , white-robed baby whom he 
 remembered kissing in its nurse's arms when 
 he was taken from his home, after their 
 father had been laid in their mother's grave.
 
 204 Marjory. 
 
 He had kept all that baby's letters, from the 
 very first, in large round hand between 
 double lines, to the last, of caligraphy just 
 emerged from schoolgirl angles, expatiating 
 on the joyous prospect of their meeting. 
 His own letters in return, though regular, 
 had been short : there had been in them all 
 the difference between a boy's letters and 
 those of a girl. But Marjory's ardent faith 
 in him had supplied the deficiency, and had 
 kept her happy and devoted, through all 
 imperfections of response. Only now, when 
 they were actually to meet, she became aware 
 that she knew far less of him than he must 
 know of her. His notes had only supplied 
 some slight fabric for her imagination to work 
 upon. She had been disappointed in Lina ; 
 she trembled a little now, as she waited, 
 counting the days and hours, in the little 
 vicarage. 
 
 She trembled, and repressed her trembling 
 by constant occupation : reading to Aunt 
 Lucy, and consoling her for Uncle John's 
 short absence, practising her music, espe- 
 cially such as she expected Gerald to admire, 
 tending sick people whom her uncle had left 
 to her charge, teaching in the school — above 
 all, preparing with eagerness a little room ;
 
 Marjory. 205 
 
 collecting pictures, and books, and trifling 
 ornaments, to make it pretty and attractive ; 
 day by day visiting it and adding something 
 to it — something for Gerald : until the fourth 
 of her uncle's absence dawned. Then no 
 occupation had power to still the fluttering 
 of mingled joy and fear, hope and anxiety, 
 in Marjory's breast ; for on this day Gerald 
 was expected.
 
 ( 206 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " through life's fret and turmoil, 
 
 The passion and fire of art 
 
 In him was soothed and quickened 
 By her true sister heart. 
 
 Her heart, her life, her future, 
 
 Her genius, only meant 
 Another thing to give him, 
 
 And be therewith content." 
 
 Adelaide A. Procter, 
 
 Fair hair — a little wavy, like Marjory's own — 
 shading a square brow, with temples slightly 
 hollowed ; a fair but sunburnt skin ; straight 
 eyebrows, many shades darker than the hair ; 
 gray eyes, of a strange, melancholy beauty, so 
 clear that they seemed transparent, showing 
 the soul behind them; a straight nose, some- 
 what delicately defined ; a sensitive mouth, 
 changing with every expression, yet not 
 without firmness, the lips more often slightly 
 parted than closed, but in no degree loose 
 or heavy ; a square chin, clearly cut ; a 
 figure close upon six feet in height, broadly
 
 Marjory, 207 
 
 built, yet somewhat thin, with an air at times 
 as though it were an effort not to stoop; 
 thin, brown, nervous hands, with a strange 
 look of sentient life in them, constantly 
 moving, as from a restless sense of power : — 
 altogether, a person whom one would turn 
 to look after, passing him in the street, 
 whose face would haunt one with a vague 
 impression like that produced by bells —a 
 touch of melancholy, mingled with a magical 
 sweetness, a glimpse of something indefinable, 
 not wholly of this world. This was Gerald : 
 as Marjory saw him on that summer evening 
 when they met, it might be said, for the first 
 time. 
 
 This was Gerald. This time her dreams 
 were not disappointed. Here was something 
 beyond dreams, something which she had 
 never found before in any human being. She 
 thought that it would be an object worthy of 
 life or death to minister to that imprisoned 
 power which shone with deathless fire in 
 Gerald's eyes; to help in freeing that power, 
 that it might do its work — its glorious, its 
 divine work. All the dormant enthusiasm 
 in her nature burst into a flame, as she sat 
 thinking thus, and gazing at her brother. 
 
 The travellers had arrived in the June
 
 208 Marjory. 
 
 twilight, just as one silver star had begun to 
 sparkle in the calm succeeding to the sunset. 
 Rest and food were their first necessities ; 
 but when the long meal in the little dining- 
 room was over, Marjory watched her oppor- 
 tunity, and, slipping her arm into Gerald's, 
 said in an eager whisper : 
 
 " Gerald, come with me — out of doors. 
 They won't miss us ; they delight in being 
 alone together; and it is such a lovely 
 night ! " 
 
 A moment later they were out in the 
 summer air. The sky above was cloudless, 
 of a deep, dark blue ; the moon nearly at its 
 full had risen, clear and calm. The grass 
 of the old-fashioned garden stretched before 
 them, in patches of light and shade — shade 
 cast by ancient apple-trees and pear-trees 
 standing in close proximity to the flower- 
 beds, dark and motionless like watchers. 
 From those flower-beds a mingling of odours 
 — lavender, wallflowers, carnations — floated 
 into the silence. The landscape, all in 
 shadow, sloped away beyond the mossy 
 wall; here and there a cottage-roof rose 
 black from sleeping fields : there was no 
 sound, no stir of any kind. 
 
 ''Gerald," said Marjory, ''I wish you
 
 Marjory, 209 
 
 would paint a picture of a night like this, 
 and call it 'Waiting.' Just such a night, 
 only later on, so that one morning streak 
 might show behind distant hills, as a glimpse 
 of promise." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew him on, through 
 a low wicket, to the churchyard : where a 
 quiet path, shaded midway by a great yew- 
 tree, divided the graves. The deep black 
 plot beneath the sombre branches cast into 
 stronger relief the cold light streaming from 
 the moon upon the grassy mounds, and 
 sharply defining the outline of the tomb- 
 stones. Here and there, so clear a gleam 
 kindled an inscription, that it became almost 
 as legible as by day. A rustic bench en- 
 circled the ancient trunk ; here the brother 
 and sister sat down. 
 
 "You must give up all notion of my ever 
 painting anything worth speaking of," said 
 Gerald, suddenly : "I am doing my best to 
 give it up myself." 
 
 '' Gerald, what do you mean ? " cried the 
 girl, her blue eyes wide in consternation. 
 
 *' I mean that I have been a fool to dream 
 of it so long. I might have seen, years ago, 
 that all the circumstances of my life were 
 against it." 
 
 VOL. 1. P
 
 210 Marjory, 
 
 "But, Gerald, is it not the glory of the 
 greatest men to be great in spite of circum- 
 stances ? " cried ardent Marjory. "And 
 now, especially, when there is no one to 
 oppose you ! You are your own master 
 now. Why not throw up the Alton appoint- 
 ment, go straight to London, and study at 
 the Academy? You will soon make your 
 way. I will go with you, if you will have 
 me. I can live on my fifty pounds, can't I ? 
 and I will help you in every way. You shall 
 have no hindrances — not one." 
 
 " Only, unfortunately, I shall need a little 
 bread and cheese, and house-room too, I 
 fear ; and how should I get them if I were 
 doing nothing but study at the Aca- 
 demy?" 
 
 "Oh, dear! what dreadful power money has! 
 and I cannot give you any of mine ! But, 
 Gerald, listen ! Go to Alton for a year, or 
 longer if necessary, and live as sparingly as 
 you can ; and, when you have saved enough 
 to keep you for a year in London lodgings, 
 give up Alton, and go there. At the end of 
 that year you will be able to make more 
 than enough — by pictures, or by taking 
 pupils, or both — to give yourself up entirely 
 to art. And you will rise, Gerald. Have
 
 Marjory, 211 
 
 you forgotten all your ambitions ? Oh, no ; 
 I can see them in your face ! You talked 
 so only to tease me/' 
 
 " No, Marjory ; I did not. Three or four 
 days ago I had this very plan in my mind. 
 I was fall of hope, happier than I have been 
 for years. I thought that it was now only a 
 question of months, of economy. I calculated 
 on how much — I mean how little — I could 
 contrive to live. I fancied it had been a 
 good thing, after all, that I had had to wait; 
 that my pictures might be all the better. 
 Yes ; I was up in the seventh heaven for a 
 little while ! I thought I must be terribly 
 hard-hearted to feel so, when my poor grand- 
 mother was only just dead ; but I could not 
 help it. And then, all of a sudden, I found 
 this letter.'' 
 
 He put an open envelope into Marjory's 
 lap, and sat still, looking out over the graves. 
 Marjory stepped beyond the shadow of the 
 yew, that the moonlight might fall upon the 
 letter. It was written in a quavering hand, 
 yet one which had once been bold and firm ; 
 every word was clearly legible. 
 
 "Dear Gerald, — 
 
 " Many years ago your grandfather, my 
 p 2
 
 212 Marjory, 
 
 late husband, contracted a heavy debt, of 
 ■which the interest only, during his lifetime, 
 was paid. At his death this circumstance 
 came, for the first time, to my knowledge. I 
 at once began to pay off the principal in 
 annual instalments, which, chiefly owing to 
 the expenses of your support and education, 
 were not so large as I could wish ; and yet, 
 together with the interest, made a heavy 
 drain on my income. I hoped, however, 
 that I might live to see the debt entirely 
 cleared ; and this may still be the case. But, 
 since my health is now precarious, I think it 
 best to write this letter, which I shall leave 
 in my desk. Two hundred pounds of the 
 debt remains to be paid. This house, as you 
 know, I hire furnished ; my own possessions 
 are few and worthless — you could not raise 
 anything on them. I have written to my 
 husband's excellent friends, Messrs. Grove 
 & Carter, solicitors, and I have told them 
 that, in the event of my death, you will con- 
 tinue to pay the instalments, together with 
 the interest, until the obligation ceases. This 
 the Alton clerkship will enable you, with 
 proper economy, to do. You may think it 
 unfair that I should leave such a burden on 
 your shoulders ; but consider, Gerald, how
 
 Marjory. 213 
 
 much I have spent upon you — not in money 
 only, but in care and thought. Moreover, 
 to this arrangement I look to guard you from 
 the foolish career which you had marked out 
 for yourself, and into which you would other- 
 wise, at my death, doubtless plunge. I have 
 too much confidence in your sense of honour 
 to feel any fear that, with this obligation 
 upon you, you would wantonly throw up the 
 certain subsistence through which alone you 
 can fulfil it. You will see the wisdom, and, 
 indeed, the duty, of remaining in some steady 
 business until every farthing of the two hun- 
 dred pounds is paid. By that time you will 
 be no longer a boy ; and it is my hope that 
 advancing years will bring you a higher 
 aim than to fritter away your life as an 
 idle painter. God bless you, my dear 
 Gerald ! 
 
 " I remain, 
 
 " Your affectionate grandmother, 
 " Deborah Wilton." 
 
 " And I cannot help you ? I cannot pay 
 the debt from my legacy?" cried Marjory, 
 Btill standing in the path, while the moonlight 
 streamed on the relentless letter. 
 
 " You forfeit it all if you attempt to pay
 
 214 Marjory. 
 
 one farthing either of debt or interest. There 
 is a second codicil to that effect." 
 
 Marjory returned to her seat in silence. 
 A sudden blank had fallen upon her eager 
 young face. 
 
 '' It will be seven years, so far as I see, or 
 five at least, before I can get clear," said 
 Gerald. " I have signed an agreement with 
 Grove & Carter ; they were very kind ; there 
 will be no undue pressure. But think, Mar- 
 prj ! I am twenty-two already. I tell you, 
 I hate my work — I loathe it — and yet I have 
 been grinding at it now for more than four 
 years ! By the end of seven years more I 
 shall be fit for nothing else. There's no 
 remedy, you see. I have no friends able to 
 help me ; T have no money. The only pos- 
 sibility of my paying this debt is to keep on 
 at the same old tread-mill. Why, I am not 
 even certain that I have any real stuff in me 
 as to art ; it may be all smoke, for aught I 
 know ! There have always been plenty of 
 fools in the world who imagined themselves 
 geniuses. My best plan would be to uproot 
 those fancies. I need not give up ambition 
 altogether ; I might some day rise to be the 
 manager of a bank," said the young fellow, 
 bitterly.
 
 Marjory. 215 
 
 ** You never can uproot those fancies, 
 Gerald ; they are part of you ; they are not 
 fancies," cried Marjory. " I will find a 
 way to help you ; just wait a little ; let me 
 think." 
 
 She raised her hand as she spoke, and 
 Gerald was silent, waiting patiently, and, 
 despite his sadness, with some amusement, 
 while Marjory plunged into reverie. He 
 watched those earnest blue eyes of hers fire 
 in some inward absorption, and felt a sudden 
 glow of pleasure as he realised that here was 
 a spirit cast in the same mould as his own ; 
 truly, in a double sense, a kindred spirit, in 
 intercourse with whom he experienced the 
 new enjoyment of fellowship. He should 
 never have been so utterly wretched, he 
 thought, had she been with him always. 
 
 ''I have thought!" she cried suddenly, 
 her eyes shining and her cheeks burning : 
 *' I have had a plan all my life, and now it 
 will be better than I fancied. I will get the 
 money to pay off your debt I " 
 
 '' But how can you get money ? " asked 
 Gerald, watching her curiously. 
 
 *' By writing. Ever since I was a child 
 my dream has been to write books, and get 
 money by them, for you, to help you to be
 
 216 Marjory. 
 
 an artist. I did not know then, exactly, how 
 money could help ; but now it is plain enough ! 
 I have such a story in my head ! I have 
 begun it more than once ; only I have never 
 yet been able to satisfy myself ; — but now the 
 bare idea of freeing you from this burden 
 seems to set me all on fire. I can do it, 
 Gerald ! I feel it — I am sure. And perhaps 
 very soon. You will see." 
 
 " But I shall not like to take your money, 
 Marjory," said Gerald, smiling at her ardour. 
 
 " You could not be so unkind as to refuse? 
 You would have to bend your pride ! Yes, 
 you mustn't be unhappy any more, or even 
 think of giving up your hopes. It will be 
 only a little more waiting ; and then you will 
 be free. I will work so hard, Gerald ! and 
 now I have something more to propose to 
 
 you." 
 
 "Wait one moment," said Gerald : " I don't 
 want to damp you ; but it is very hard, Mar- 
 jory, to make a beginning in authorship. I 
 have heard and read a great deal of the diffi- 
 culties. Unless you can get an introduction, 
 or have really a great talent " 
 
 " Yes, I know : I know it is hard ; but I 
 mustn't think of that, and you mustn't talk 
 of it, for fear I should be discouraged. I
 
 Mar j or If, 217 
 
 can but do my best ; and I feel a confidence, 
 stronger than I could tell you, that I shall 
 succeed. Don't think me conceited; it isn't 
 that : but I — I shall pray every day that God 
 may help me ; and I feel quite sure He will." 
 
 An involuntary gleam of sunshine broke 
 out on Gerald's face; her simple faith in her 
 mission was confirmed. 
 
 " My life will be devoted to you, Gerald," 
 she said : "I shall never marry, but remain 
 free to work for you. There is such power 
 in work ! If we do our utmost, we are certain 
 to be helped and bless' d." 
 
 " You are very good, Marjory," said Gerald, 
 humbly. 
 
 *' No, I am not ; I am only hopeful. But 
 now I must tell you of my other plan ; — we 
 shall have to go in directly. Gerald, I want 
 to go with you to Alton." 
 
 '' I should be only too glad to have you," 
 said Gerald : " But where is the money to 
 come from ? " 
 
 " Money, money, money ! you have money 
 on the brain ! " cried Marjory, laughing like 
 a child : " Have I not fifty pounds a year of 
 my own ? and will not that keep me in food 
 and clothes ? It shall, I tell you." 
 
 " But your lodging "
 
 218 Marjory, 
 
 '* I was coming to that. Before poor 
 grandmamma died, Lina Peele told me of 
 some tempting rooms, close to the cathe- 
 dral, belonging to a real lady, who also keeps 
 a school " 
 
 "A young ladies' school?" said Gerald, 
 making a queer face. 
 
 " A preparatory school for little boys. She 
 is a clergyman's widow, with one sister ; and 
 they have more room than they want. Their 
 last lodgers were a poor curate and his 
 daughter ; the daughter helped in the school, 
 and so got her lodging free. Now I have 
 been thinking that Mrs. Myers — that is the 
 lady — might take me on the same terms." 
 
 " But how would you bear the drudgery 
 of teaching ? " 
 
 " It would be no drudgery to me ! I delight 
 in little boys ; and Lina says that the curate's 
 daughter gave only three hours — from nine 
 to twelve. For the rest of the day I should 
 be my own mistress, and have plenty of time 
 to write." 
 
 " And all for me ! No, Marjory, I ought 
 not to accept it; it is too much !" cried 
 Gerald, starting up. Marjory followed him, 
 clinging to his arm. 
 
 '' Nonsense, Gerald, don't be tiresome !
 
 Marjory, 219 
 
 It would be nothing but pleasure. And I 
 could write better in a town. I love the 
 country more than I can express ; but I want 
 to see more of life — human life — at least for 
 a time. Lately I have felt such a restless 
 longing to get among my fellow- creatures, 
 to know something of the stir of the world. 
 Perhaps presently I shall want to come back ; 
 but I would like to go for a little while. And 
 I shall be with you; we shall explore life 
 together ! " 
 
 *' How jolly it would be ! " exclaimed 
 Gerald, his youth asserting itself at last : 
 " Only what will my uncle say ? '' 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he will consent. "When 
 grandmamma died, both he and Aunt Lucy 
 seemed so sorry that you must go alone to 
 Alton, and said it was so bad for a young 
 man to live in lodgings alone. Then I shall 
 no longer be an expense to them ; they often 
 find it hard to make both ends meet. Of 
 course, I should in any case now pay for my 
 board; but Uncle John would not like it." 
 
 " I'm afraid they will miss you very much," 
 said Gerald, looking at her bright face with 
 brotherly pride. 
 
 " A little, at first, perhaps ; but I shall 
 tell them that they must send for me when-
 
 220 Marjory, 
 
 ever they want me. And I have always 
 spent a great deal of time apart from them ; 
 they are so perfectly wrapped up in one 
 another. I have helped in the schools and 
 cottages ; but I am not really wanted in this 
 small parish. I shall feel quite conscience- 
 clear in going to be with you." 
 
 *' Then we'll write to this Mrs. Myers to- 
 morrow," said Gerald. It was as though a 
 cloud had passed from his brow, his voice, 
 his manner. And Marjory observing him 
 thought ; 
 
 " My mission has begun. I shall succeed ! 
 yes, I know that I shall succeed."
 
 ( 221 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " Dreams of the future allured me, 
 
 Such dreams as young hearts only know, 
 When the skies are all sunshine and glory, 
 And this earth seems a heaven below." 
 
 Musical Bouquet. 
 
 It was towards six o'clock on a broiling 
 afternoon in early August, that Marjory's 
 eager blue eyes looked from the windows of 
 a second-class railway-carriage, and saw, 
 wide- spreading on either side, the roofs and 
 spires of Alton, the cathedral tower rising 
 like a beacon in their midst. Beneath the 
 cathedral flowed the river, winding on through 
 a fair expanse of fruitful meadows and 
 orchards. Marjory had forgotten how much 
 beauty lay close around the old city ; she 
 looked at it now with new eyes, a child no 
 longer, striving, unsuccessfully as yet, to 
 trace her childish memories. The train 
 steamed slowly into the large and busy 
 station. An excursion train had entered 
 just before ; the platforms were crowded ; 
 there were loud voices, scuflSing, and pushing.
 
 222 Marjory. 
 
 Tlie country maiden felt bewildered, and 
 even a little alarmed ; it was a relief to see 
 Gerald's now familiar face looking from the 
 throng. 
 
 " Gerald, Gerald, here I am ! my luggage 
 is in that van," she cried, holding fast to 
 his arm : " Oh, I am so glad to be here ! 
 but I hope my luggage is safe." 
 
 " Come along, and we'll see for it ; I have 
 a friend among the porters," said Gerald, 
 piloting her through the crowd. He had 
 been at Alton upwards of a month, and 
 Marjory had performed the long jour- 
 ney alone, under the guard's supervision. 
 " There's a cab all ready outside," said Gerald, 
 when the luggage was ascertained to be safe : 
 " I am very glad too, Marjory ! I'm tired 
 already of living alone. It will all be different 
 now." 
 
 " It will be perfectly delightful," cried 
 Marjory : '' Is this the cab ? I hope no 
 one will steal my boxes. What numbers of 
 people ! " 
 
 '* Almost the amount of the Rockswold 
 population ! " said Gerald, laughing : '' What 
 would you say to London, I wonder ! 
 and, for the matter of that, what should 
 I?"
 
 Marjory. 223 
 
 " Oh, this is quite enough, to begin ! 
 London would be altogether too much. Now 
 we are off. Gerald, surely he is driving too 
 fast ! Shan't we be upset ? " 
 
 Gerald laughed again, soon joined by 
 Marjory. Both were full of spirits. Gerald 
 indeed could not remember a time when he 
 had been so happy, so hopeful. 
 
 *' You are Whittington, and I am your 
 cat," said Marjory : '' We are setting forth 
 on our adventures. I am quite brimful of 
 excitement, Gerald ! I don't believe I can 
 ever feel quiet again. When shall we get 
 out of these back-streets ? " 
 
 " Before long. There are fine old bits, 
 though, in some of these streets ; such quaint 
 houses ! I have lighted upon three or four 
 in the very worst places, black and white, 
 with splendid old oak carving, and over- 
 hanging upper stories." 
 
 "And there is an old church ! The stone 
 is almost black with age ; and has it not a 
 glorious stained window ? Gerald, we must 
 go on exploring expeditions. I seem to be 
 suddenly let loose into ' the wide, wide 
 world.' " 
 
 '' It is a wider world than Rocks wold, at 
 all events ! This part is called The Cross ;
 
 224 Marjory. 
 
 I suppose the old town cross was here. And 
 this is High Street. Now we shall soon be 
 at home." 
 
 " I see some charming shops, Gerald ; I 
 must not go too often into the town ! Oh, 
 the cathedral ! " 
 
 They had turned a corner, and suddenly 
 the stir was gone. Here was an old-world 
 place, with quiet houses overlooking a railed- 
 in oblong of smooth turf, and, between turf 
 and houses, a road leading to the north door 
 of the cathedral. 
 
 What is there in the aspect of an ancient 
 cathedral which lifts one instantaneously into 
 another atmosphere than that of work-a-day 
 life, with its common talk and traffic ? One 
 looks up at the grand heights, at the massive 
 walls ; and the present is gone like a dissolv- 
 ing view ; centuries long dead arise in hoary 
 greatness. The spiritual world — how near, 
 how vivid, it appears, as one stands gazing 
 thus ! Those altitudes are material ; yet 
 they bring the ethereal very nigh. The un- 
 seen universe which surrounds us, often for- 
 gotten in the hurry of the scene, — here, 
 beside that embodied dream of glorious old 
 masters, its presence is not believed in merely, 
 but felt. It is as though that dream had
 
 Marjory. 225 
 
 been an inspiration, leaving behind it tbe 
 power of inspiration for ever. 
 
 '' The mere fact of living always within 
 sight of this, should make one great," thought 
 Marjory, as she stepped from the carriage. 
 The whole north side of the cathedral stood, 
 many-windowed, before her, the pinnacled 
 and richly decorated tower rising midway. 
 The north door, deep within a fine perpen- 
 dicular porch, was partly open, giving a 
 glimpse of the nave. An old verger, in a 
 long black gown, stood in ,the portal, in- 
 haling a breath of outer air ; a meditative 
 canon was walking leisurely along the raised 
 pavement to his home. The rooks were 
 cawing to one another from carved nooks 
 where for generations they had sheltered ; 
 the calm sky stretched above, the fretted 
 pinnacles defined in clear outKne against the 
 blue. 
 
 Marjory stood still, and breathed the spirit 
 of the place : while Gerald rang at one of the 
 row of houses. 
 
 "Mrs. Myers has two houses," he said. 
 " Ours is No. 14; she and Miss Pilkington 
 live at No. 13 with the boys. There is a 
 door of communication inside." 
 
 " Will you please to walk in, miss ? " said 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Marjory, 
 
 a good-tempered voice, with a high-roofed 
 twang which carried Marjory back to B rank- 
 some and Mrs. Hammond. A rosy little 
 maid, with a snowy apron, stood smiling in 
 the doorway. Marjory smiled in return, and 
 entered the house, while Gerald saw to the 
 luggage. The httle maid led the way up one 
 flight of shallow stairs, lighted by a large 
 window, gay with geraniums in china pots. 
 At the top of this flight, three doors opened 
 upon a small landing. 
 
 " These are yours, if you please, miss. 
 Mrs. Myers' compliments, and she will be in 
 directly." 
 
 '' What a dear little room ! " cried happy 
 Marjory, as the maid opened one of the doors. 
 It was the sitting-room, with two low windows 
 looking out upon the road — the College Yard, 
 as this side of the cathedral precincts was 
 desiofnated. The room was clean, and 
 fresh, and bright to the last degree, simply 
 furnished, but with refinement, betokening 
 the hostess ; and now it looked at its best, 
 the round table spread with a snowy 
 cloth, a vase of roses in the middle, and 
 tea ready laid — with radishes, and water- 
 cress, and golden butter, and pretty china 
 brightening the effect. A cottage piano was
 
 Marjory. 227 
 
 among tlie furniture ; a little writing-table 
 stood in one window, a flower-stand in tlie 
 other; Gerald's books and pictures were 
 strewn about, and made tlie place homelike ; 
 and at home Marjory felt herself forthwith. 
 
 "Now may I see the bedrooms?" she 
 said; and the little maid opened the other 
 doors. Her room and Gerald's were close 
 together, furnished alike, and with the same 
 western aspect. The spotless cleanliness of 
 the parlour was even more striking here. 
 Beds and toilet-tables seemed bleached to the 
 utmost possibility of purity; the crockery, 
 white with a pink rim, shone in quite a 
 dazzling manner. But Marjory ran straight 
 to the open window, facing her bed. Imme- 
 diately below, a strip of garden, with a grass- 
 plat and one ancient apple-tree, was bounded 
 by an old wall of russet brown ; and beyond 
 this wall flowed the wide river, mighty yet 
 peaceful, green meadows on its opposite 
 bank, and cows feeding there, as in rustic 
 Rockswold. A range of hills — the Shelburn 
 Hills, as Marjory remembered — bounded the 
 horizon. Sometimes those hills were well- 
 nigh effaced by mist or rain, sometimes start- 
 ling in their clearness ; now they were bathed 
 in a soft haze of mingled light and shadow. 
 Q 2
 
 228 Marjory. 
 
 Thus far, Marjory might have imagined 
 herself still in the country ; but plenty on 
 either side remained to remind her of the 
 contrary. Some way to the right, the river 
 was spanned by a massive stone bridge of 
 three arches — a boat-house hard by, where 
 Marjory saw a crowd of boats awaiting cus- 
 tomers. Beyond this bridge, the houses 
 clustered thickly on either bank ; here and 
 there a spire, or the chimney of a factory, 
 rose above the roofs. In the distance the 
 Grand Stand was visible, close to the river, — 
 the race-course extending beyond the range 
 of Marjory's vision. All this on the right : 
 on the left, an old house, a canonical resi- 
 dence, seemed to spring out of the water; 
 the deanery gardens stretched away in a line 
 with the window, a line continued by other 
 buildings connected with the chapter, all 
 more or less gray and venerable ; among 
 them, immeasurably grander than the rest, 
 rose the western front of the cathedral itself. 
 Past all flowed the broad river, — the murmur 
 of the town minghng with its ripple, and tell- 
 ing of the corresponding flow of human life, 
 no less unceasing. 
 
 Marjory could have lingered in that window 
 for hours ; but a tap at the door recalled her
 
 Marjory. 229 
 
 to herself. Looking round, slie saw a small 
 elderly lady, with drab hair, partly hidden by 
 a blonde cap, a drab dress, and drab boots. 
 Indeed, she had much the appearance of a 
 drab mouse, enlarged to the minimum of 
 female humanity. As Marjory turned, she 
 performed a low bend, between a bow and an 
 antediluvian courtesy, and then held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " Miss Stanhope, I presume. I am Mrs. 
 Myers. My sister. Miss Pilkington, hopes 
 to wait upon you later. I trust I see you 
 well ? " 
 
 Marjory thanked her, praising the 
 rooms. 
 
 " I am gratified to hear that they please 
 you. Cleanliness at least we can rely upon ; 
 soap and soda are not costly articles." 
 
 " And yet worth their weight in gold ! " 
 cried Marjory. " I am so much obliged to 
 you for letting me come in this way. I do 
 hope that my teaching will satisfy you ; if 
 not, you must send me back." 
 
 "There will be little fear," said Mrs. 
 Myers, graciously, " your duties will be very 
 simple. The first thing will be to make 
 yourself at home ; our charges do not return 
 for another week."
 
 230 Marjory. 
 
 " I tliouglit I saw two little boys looking 
 out of a window." 
 
 " Those were my own sons, Benjamin and 
 Ambrose. My sister, Miss Pilkington, is the 
 master-mind of the establishment. I am the 
 nominal mistress ; but she is my right hand. 
 The understanding is that I superintend the 
 wardrobes and domestic matters ; and she 
 the outdoor exercise and castigation. Judi- 
 cious punishment is a strong point with her. 
 Not that she is at all hard. Miss Stanhope ! " 
 
 " I suppose the little boys are very naughty 
 sometimes," said Marjory, smiling. 
 
 "Exceedingly so," said Mrs. Myers, "and 
 only, in her opinion, to be repressed by 
 chastisement of a practical kind." 
 
 '' Now, Mrs. Myers, you know how often 
 I have told you to send for me when that is 
 to be administered," said Gerald, coming up- 
 stairs : *' I am quite willing to take the office 
 of whipper-in -chief, if you will permit it." 
 
 Mrs. Myers laughed below her breath in a 
 mumbling manner, and observed : 
 
 " You must not think that we have any 
 pleasure in chastisement, Miss Stanhope. I 
 merely mentioned the subject in anticipation 
 of Miss Pilkington's doing so, being anxious 
 lest you should deem her severe. We do all
 
 Marjory. 231 
 
 in our power to make tlie little boys liappy ; 
 indeed, I only hope that their noise will not 
 annoy you. They would quite get the better 
 of me," said the mouse ; " But Miss Pilking- 
 ton is a master-mind. Are you ready for 
 the urn ?" 
 
 Marjory thankfully replied in the affirm- 
 ative ; and Mrs. Myers, with another bend, 
 retired, pausing to look back and say — her 
 hands falling lightly over each other, exactly 
 as the forepaws of a mouse might fall, were 
 it placed on its hind legs : '' We reside in the 
 adjoining house ; but the kitchens and the 
 servants are in this one ; so you will be pro- 
 perly attended, I hope. At any time that 
 you wish to speak to me or Miss Pilkington, 
 this door is entirely at your disposal." 
 
 So saying, she denoted a door in the wall, 
 opening in a somewhat breakneck fashion upon 
 the staircase : and by its means disappeared. 
 
 '' There is another door downstairs in the 
 kitchen," said Gerald, " through which the 
 No. 13 meals are carried, and the servants 
 go in and out. The bell-wires communicate, 
 and Priscilla, the little maid, runs backwards 
 and forwards. It was Miss Pilkington's 
 arrangement. You know she is a master- 
 mind."
 
 232 Marjory, 
 
 " It is a very good arrangement," said 
 Marjory, laughing ; '* You and I will be 
 delightfully private ! I should not at all like 
 to live in the next room to that awful Miss 
 Pilkington." 
 
 " Miss Pilkington is not awful — not a bit 
 of it ; she's only a good joke," said Gerald, 
 with his quiet smile. '' By-the-by, I have 
 found no less than nineteen caricatures of 
 her, all, unless I am mistaken, the perform- 
 ance of one hand. Most of them have ' Sweet 
 Sally,' or * Lovely Sally,' scribbled under- 
 neath ; and one, ' The Sally Pill, cure for 
 all ill.' I have got them, every one." 
 
 '' Where did you find them ? " 
 
 " She invited me to look round the school- 
 rooms, and examine the books and maps ; 
 and there I came upon them. The artist 
 may think himself lucky that it was I, and 
 not she ! " 
 
 " Shall you show them to him, when he 
 comes back ? " 
 
 "Ay, and frighten him well, the little 
 beggar. I shouldn't have thought twice 
 about them, only they have a dash of talent, 
 which struck me. He is aware of it himself, 
 perhaps ; for he has had the audacity to sign 
 his name on several — ' Lewis Harding ! '
 
 Marjory. 233 
 
 I wonder if he is related to Harding, the 
 famous painter." 
 
 '' Couldn't you ask Mrs. Myers ? " 
 
 " I did — not saying why, of course, only 
 that I had come across the name. But she 
 could tell me nothing except that he was the 
 pickle of the school. There was one very 
 mild portrait of herself, inscribed ' Our 
 Ally.' " 
 
 " Her name is Alice ; I remember the 
 signature," said Marjory, laughing : '' Oh, I 
 am so glad that this is a boys', instead of a 
 girls' school ! " 
 
 " I am not, at all. I might have got some 
 good studies out of girls, — models for my 
 angels." 
 
 '' I dare say ! You wouldn't have been 
 allowed to go near them. In that case, Mrs. 
 Myers wouldn't have taken us. Oh, Gerald ! 
 there comes the urn, and I am not ready. I 
 must just wash my hands." 
 
 ''I'll make the tea, — I'm used to it. Don't 
 hurry," said Gerald. But Marjory was too 
 much excited not to hurry. In three minutes 
 she was again with Gerald, turning over his 
 books, while the tea was brewing; and talking 
 all the while. 
 
 "The best of lodging with a real lady,
 
 234 Marjory. 
 
 Gerald, is, that one will never be stinted in 
 water. Such a delightful quantity in my 
 room, and a great bath ! — and you have one 
 too, I saw. I remember what a triumph of 
 resolution cleanliness was in Mrs. Hammond's 
 lodgings." 
 
 " When the lower orders learn to appre- 
 ciate water, we shall have made a great step 
 in civilisation," said Gerald, philosophically : 
 " One hears of free libraries. I wish free 
 baths could be established in every town 1 " 
 
 " Yes, it seems such a pity," said Marjory, 
 quite mournfully, " that so many millions 
 should never know the delight of plunging 
 into fresh water, and coming out clean." 
 
 ''By-the-by, Marjory, I went to Brank- 
 some the other day, and tried to hunt out 
 Mrs. Hammond's house. I found one at last 
 which answered to your description ; but that 
 is all I can say, for names and numbers are 
 altered, and the whole quarter has spread 
 a mile into what was country in your 
 time." 
 
 '' Nevertheless, I could find the house 
 directly," cried Marjory, with eagerness. 
 
 " Well, you shall see if I was right. I took 
 the bold step of knocking at the door ; but 
 nothing was known of the Hammonds. I
 
 Marjory, 235 
 
 asked elsewhere, but with the same result. 
 The name seems to have vanished." 
 
 Marjory looked a little blank. 
 
 " That is tiresome/' she said ; " I hoped 
 that Mrs. Hammond might have told me 
 about Thome. Her mother kept one of the 
 lodges there ; and she knew Bellhouse, and 
 all of them." 
 
 " Well, we will have another hunt. I did 
 not take so much pains as I might. Perhaps 
 they have only emigrated to another part of 
 the town." 
 
 " I shall enjoy the search," cried Marjory, 
 in a glow again. " I am looking forward, 
 more than I can say, to exploring all the old 
 places. Have you — I am almost afraid to 
 ask — buthaveyouheard anything of Thorne? " 
 
 Her heart quickened its beating, as she 
 listened for his answer. She felt as though she 
 couldnot bear to face the transformation which 
 eight years of " the changes and chances of 
 this mortal life" might have brought upon 
 that fairy land of her memory. 
 
 But Gerald had heard nothing. 
 
 " I asked Mrs. Myers about it, one day," 
 he said ; " But she has only lived at Alton 
 two years, and has no country acquaintances ; 
 she did not even know the name. We'll
 
 236 Marjory, 
 
 commit the extravagance of a cab, some day, 
 and drive out there, after bank-hours. We 
 can walk back, if you are able, in the cool of 
 the evening." 
 
 '' Able ! I should think so ! Oh, Gerald ! 
 it will be like a dream come true. Only — I 
 am half afraid." 
 
 After this, she stood silent for a while ; 
 looking out to where the cathedral, in its 
 massive grandeur, seemed to say, "I at 
 least am changeless." The rooks recalled 
 those others in the rookery at Thorne ; the 
 sky rose in a blue vault, above tower and 
 houses, just as Marjory had seen it long ago. 
 She started a little when Gerald's voice 
 brought back the present. 
 
 '' I've inspected the tea, Marjory, and I 
 think he'll do, — ^as the people about here say. 
 Nothing is neuter here, everything has a 
 masculine personality; and yet, I should 
 think, there was never in any county a less 
 imaginative race. But the washerwoman 
 sent me this message on Saturday, anent a 
 missing shirt : She 'oped I'd please to excuse 
 him for a day or so, as he'd met with a acci- 
 dent, through er being bad, and obliged to 
 leave him to er daughter." 
 
 " I remember the same in Mrs. Hammond.
 
 Marjory. 237 
 
 It used to puzzle me painfully, in those days. 
 —Where shall I sit, Gerald ? " 
 
 '' Here, of course," said Gerald, placing a 
 chair behind the urn ; ''You are the mistress, 
 you know. How jolly it is ! " he said, smiling, 
 as he sat down at the opposite end. " When 
 I think that you will be always here, it seems 
 too good to be true; the next best thing 
 to " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "To what?" asked Marjory. 
 
 " To the pleasures of ham," said Gerald, 
 carving very carefully. *' I hope you will 
 like this ham ; It came from the country, 
 through Mrs. Myers' butter- woman. Hence- 
 forth I turn our eating and drinking over to 
 you, with the greatest relief." 
 
 *' I hope I shall manage well : I mean to 
 try very hard. I dare say Mrs. Myers will 
 advise me, or Miss Pilkington's master- 
 mind." 
 
 Her momentary curiosity had been diverted 
 by the teapot — which she was nervously pro- 
 pitiating with a view to Gerald's second, or 
 even third, cup of tea. She had no suspicion 
 of the secret relief with which he saw his 
 abrupt pause forgotten. How could he be 
 so ungracious as to say to this young sister,
 
 238 Marjory. 
 
 who had evidently no thought but for him, 
 the words which had risen spontaneously to 
 his lips — " The next best thing to a wife !" 
 How could he betray to her that her de- 
 votion, so entire, so unselfish, stood only 
 second in the light of that ideal devotion — 
 as yet only an ideal to Gerald. He had never 
 been " in love " with any being of flesh and 
 blood ; for he had never yet found any such 
 to embody the dream of his artist nature. 
 Moreover, he felt, with a galling sense of the 
 yoke, that his poverty precluded such em- 
 bodiment. Nevertheless, the dream lingered 
 in that nature of his, hidden and wrapt up 
 in it; and poverty could not at least ob- 
 literate his own private views of the highest 
 earthly happiness. But private they had 
 always remained, so far. 
 
 " By-the-by, Gerald, I forgot to ask — 
 have you seen anything of the Peeles ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; except their house. They are 
 all away at Dover, I believe, Mrs. Myers said." 
 
 '' I knew that Lina was at Dover ; she 
 has a married sister there : but I fancied 
 the others were at home." 
 
 " By-the-by," said Gerald, feeling in his 
 pockets, " Here is a letter in your friend's 
 hand, which came for you this morning."
 
 Marjory, 
 
 " Only an Alton post-mark ! Si 
 be at home again," cried Marjory. — "^ 
 see ! she has sent three tickets for a 
 harmonic concert in the music hall 
 morrow night, — one for you, one for 
 and one for Mrs. Myers." 
 
 " She is at home, then ?" 
 
 " No ; she has left Dover, but she \i 
 spending a week with some friends a few^ 
 miles from here, and they will drive in to 
 the concert. She will not be at home before 
 the end of the week, when Mrs. Peele will 
 join her. Gerald, do you know that I have 
 actually never been at a concert ? What is 
 the Philharmonic Society?" 
 
 " A set of musical amateurs of this town 
 and county. They have a concert once a 
 quarter, and some professional swell comes 
 down from London to conduct. I believe 
 the society is considered unusually good for 
 the provinces, and the concerts are crowded. 
 I have heard a good deal about this one, 
 from our fellows at the bank." 
 
 "Gerald, is that a man coming upstairs?" 
 
 " It is Miss Pilkington," said Gerald, 
 rising, and opening the door, just as a de- 
 cided hand began — not a tap, but a genuine 
 knock, on its outer panels. Marjory rose
 
 i40 Marjory, 
 
 likewise, in some trepidation ; and belield a 
 lady above middle height, with two fat curls 
 of gray hair, confined by combs, on either 
 temple, and eyes of a startling prominence. 
 She bestowed on Gerald a passing nod : 
 and marched, as with a purpose, towards 
 Marjory. 
 
 '' How do you do, Miss Stanhope ?" said 
 a contralto voice : ''I am sorry that I was 
 engaged when you arrived. I hope you find 
 the rooms comfortable." 
 
 She nodded once or twice as she spoke, 
 and stared from beneath a frowning upper 
 brow. 
 
 " Thank you, I only hope you may be 
 half as well satisfied with me and my teach- 
 ing," said Marjory, nervously. 
 
 ''We are not at all hard to satisfy," replied 
 the lady, nodding again. ''My system I 
 will explain at your leisure. The difficulties 
 I reserve in my own hands ; Mrs. Myers 
 takes the motherly part ; and your share 
 will be chiefly mechanical." 
 
 " I will do my best to fulfil it," said Mar- 
 jory. 
 
 "I am sure you will," said Miss Pilkington. 
 She paused an instant, silently surveying 
 Marjory ; then repeated, " I am sure you
 
 Marjory, 241 
 
 will," witli another frowning nod; and turned 
 abruptly to Gerald. 
 
 " You look as if you wished to speak to 
 me, Mr. Stanhope." 
 
 '' What an awful thing it is to be in your 
 presence, Miss Pilkington ! Your penetration 
 is superhuman. I was merely going to ask 
 if you or Mrs. Myers would honour us with 
 your company to-morrow evening. Miss 
 Peelehas sent three tickets for the concert?" 
 
 " Mrs. Myers will enjoy it, no doubt. I 
 will tell her. As for myself, I do not appre- 
 ciate music." 
 
 '' And yet * music hath charms to soothe 
 
 the ' you know what. Miss Pilkington 
 
 — which the little boys are of opinion that 
 you possess." 
 
 '' If I am savage, they would soon be 
 savages, without a tight rein, Mr. Stanhope. 
 I make it a point of duty, during school- 
 hours, to imagine myself a man. Was it not 
 one sage satirist, Thackeray, who was re- 
 peatedly saying, ' Discipline must be main- 
 tained ? ' " 
 
 '' Miss Pilkington, you shock me ! What 
 would become of you if a Government in- 
 spector were sent down to examine you in 
 light literature ? Thackeray may have made 
 
 VOL. I. li
 
 242 Marjory. 
 
 tlie statement in tlie course of his life ; for 
 that I will not answer. But the person who 
 was repeatedly saying it, proceeded from the 
 brain of Dickens." 
 
 " Indeed ! You surprise me. But I have 
 neither time nor taste for modern fiction. If 
 you will produce the passage in Dickens's 
 works, I will own myself mistaken. At all 
 events, it is a maxim to which — under the 
 impression, I know not why, that it came 
 from Thackeray — I am deeply indebted. I 
 have a heart, Mr. Stanhope, though some 
 might doubt it ; and the female heart, as we 
 all know, is weak. It does not do to go by 
 it on all occasions. Miss Stanhope, with re- 
 spect to little boys. And for many years, 
 when I have wished to silence its dictates, 
 my habit has been to whisper inwardly, ' Dis- 
 cipline must be maintained.' I have found 
 these words an unfailing guide." 
 
 ''Meanwhile, won't you have a cup of tea, 
 Miss Pilkington ? " said Gerald. 
 
 *' I ? No, indeed. I must be oflP," she re- 
 plied, at once in a violent hurry, and stumped 
 away. 
 
 " She's not so very awful, after all, Gerald ! " 
 
 " No ; only an oddity, and a very kind 
 one. Well, Marjory, now you have seen them
 
 Marjory, 243 
 
 both, and you can form a fair idea of what 
 your life here will be. They are always 
 the same — and always pleasant and good- 
 tempered ; they will not interfere with us in 
 any way. I don't see how we could be more 
 comfortable if we were a duke and duchess." 
 
 " We should be far less comfortable in that 
 case, because we should be less free ! I feel 
 all primed for work, Gerald, and longing to 
 begin ; and this happy opening seems a good 
 omen. Oh, Gerald ! if only the end is as 
 happy as the beginning " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. Why at this mo- 
 ment should a shadow cross her mind ? 
 The evening light was falling on Gerald's 
 face ; he looked more hopeful than she had 
 ever seen him. 
 
 "Never mind the end," he said; ''We 
 can leave that for the present. At any rate, 
 we have set forth with flying colours." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," cried Marjory, joyously, 
 cheered by his smile. Her spirits flew quickly 
 back to their previous exaltation. 
 
 R 2
 
 ( 244 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Thou with strong prayer and very much entreating 
 wiliest be asked, and Thou shalt answer then, 
 Show the hid heart beneath creation beating, 
 smile with kind eyes, and be a man with men." 
 
 Frederic W. H. Myers. 
 
 When Marjory had unpacked the few things 
 required for the night, she begged Gerald to 
 take her out. She felt too restless to sit 
 still ; the heat of the day was past, and '' the 
 sun was approaching his going down ;" the 
 evening calm would soothe her excitement. 
 Gerald was nothing loth, and she was quickly 
 ready to start ; but he asked her first to 
 come upstairs for a moment, saying that he 
 had something to show her. 
 
 *' I thought we had no upstairs," said 
 Marjory. " Are not all our rooms on this 
 floor?" 
 
 " Miss Pilkington will not prosecute you 
 for trespass, if that is what you fear ; and 
 I have something to show you," repeated 
 Gerald. 
 
 So Marjory followed him to the landing on
 
 Marjory. 1145 
 
 which the servants' bedrooms opened, and 
 thence, up another short flight, to an attic 
 in the roof. 
 
 The low doorway could not be entered 
 without a stoop ; but, once inside, there was 
 abundance of room — the roof rising high, and 
 leaving on either side a wide slant, occupied 
 by boxes and other lumber. Through a 
 gabled window, looking westward, a flood of 
 red light was streaming as Marjory entered. 
 She saw the river far below, with that same 
 light upon it, and, beyond, the Carltoa Hills 
 in golden haze. Bat the chief attraction for 
 her eyes was an impromptu easel, which 
 Gerald had erected by means of a wooden 
 box-lid raised upon a packing-case, and kept 
 in its proper position by a pile of old books. 
 On this rough easel, covered by an oblong 
 canvas, the outlines of a picture had been 
 sketched. 
 
 It was the picture of a massive bridge like 
 that of Alton ; but the waters beneath it were 
 more turbid than those of the Alton river, 
 dashing against the arches in troubled waves. 
 They were wider also : one bank was close at 
 hand and clear, but the other, with the end 
 of the bridge, loomed dimly through clouds 
 of mist. Towards that misty shore a long
 
 246 Marjory, 
 
 procession of figures was passing. Some 
 were old and stooping; some young and 
 strong ; some walked in groups, some singly. 
 One or two had paused to lean over the pa- 
 rapet, and watch the tide below. The faces 
 were imperfectly filled in, as yet ; but the 
 touch of a master had been there, making 
 the vague lines eloquent. The moon was 
 figured in the sky, half hidden by clouds, 
 casting strange gleams on the dark waters. 
 At the foot of the canvas were scribbled 
 Longfellow's lines : 
 
 " I thought how many thousands 
 Of care-encumbered men, 
 Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
 Had cross'd the bridge since then. 
 
 "I saw the long procession 
 Still passing to and fro, 
 The young hearts hot and restless, 
 The old subdued and slow." 
 
 " Are they crossing to the other world ? " 
 said Marjory. 
 
 " You can take it whichever way you like. 
 Either to the other world, or some uncertain 
 future in this. I have only a half-fledged 
 idea of their destination, myself: what chiefly 
 filled my fancy was the thought of the pro- 
 cession, passing on and on, like the feet in
 
 Marjory, 247 
 
 Dickens's 'Two Cities.' I seemed to hear 
 those feet," said Gerald, dreamily, " all the 
 while, as I sketched out the figures." 
 
 " You have begun this since you came 
 here ? " 
 
 '' Yes : I thought of it first a fortnight 
 ago, as I was standing on the bridge down 
 yonder. This is only the rough idea, as you 
 see ; the faces will take a long time. I see a 
 fresh one whenever I go into the town." 
 
 '' And this, Gerald ? this will be beau- 
 tiful ! " cried Marjory, bringing to the light 
 a picture of considerable size, which had been 
 turned with its face to the wall. Here a 
 young sculptor was just awaking from a sleep 
 into which it seemed that he had fallen from 
 sheer discouragement of spirit. So at least 
 his attitude and surroundings implied. He 
 sat in a humble room, upon a rush-bottomed 
 chair, his arms folded on a rough deal table ; 
 near him stood a half-finished statue, and, on 
 the floor beside it, a chisel, as if thrown from 
 him in discontent. But the workman was 
 awaking, his head slightly raised from his 
 arms — a new light dawning in his eyes, 
 ready, so it seemed, to disperse the cloud 
 which still shadowed the lower part of the 
 thin and careworn face. For he was looking,
 
 248 Marjory. 
 
 as in answer to a call, to a distant corner 
 of the poor room, where a winged figure 
 hovered in mid- air, in a surrounding flood of 
 glory. One hand of that figure pointed to 
 the unfinished statue, and the chisel lying 
 idle on the floor ; the other held on high a 
 laurel-wreath. The head was turned towards 
 the sculptor ; the bright hair shone, but the 
 face was blank — the incomplete portion of 
 the picture. 
 
 Marjory, her eyes full of intense appecia- 
 tion, looked inquiringly at Gerald ; but his 
 own were fixed upon the picture, in anxious 
 abstraction : the sculptor's trouble seemed 
 reflected in himself. 
 
 *' It is of no use," he said, after a long 
 silence : ''I cannot catch it ! Marjory, turn 
 it back." 
 
 *' What do you mean, Gerald ? " 
 
 " Turn the picture back, as it was beford ; 
 the sight of it vexes me, I have vague fan- 
 cies for that spirit's face, but they will not 
 come clearly. I cannot get the look I want. 
 Sometimes I think 1 have it, but directly I 
 try to put it on paper it fades. For a whole 
 year I have been striving after it." 
 
 Marjory turned the picture back without 
 another word. Her sympathy was too in-
 
 Marjory, 2-±9 
 
 tense for speecli. She understood the sub- 
 ject : the spmt form was the Ideal made 
 manifest. What wonder that a fitting shrine 
 for such manifestation should be difficult to 
 find ? She and Gerald both stood silent for 
 a while, looking towards the window. 
 
 " How did you find out this room ? " she 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 '' Miss Pilkington offered me the use of it : 
 partly, I think, from dread of damage — she 
 had seen my paints lying about — and partly 
 from real kindness. It is only a lumber- 
 room, as you perceive ; and yet a far better 
 workshop for me than the proper little par- 
 lour downstairs." 
 
 '' It is so quiet," said Marjory. " And so 
 high ! one feels raised above the world. May 
 I come here whenever I like, Gerald ? " 
 
 '' I should not have thought you would 
 imagine that necessary to ask," said Gerald, 
 smiling. 
 
 ''And I may look at those ? " asked Mar- 
 jory, pointing to a large box, minus a Hd : 
 which was piled to overflowing with draw- 
 ings — coloured and uncoloured — sketches, 
 copies, original fancies, accumulated through 
 Gerald's years of waiting. 
 
 *' Oh, yes, look at what you choose ; only
 
 250 Marjory, 
 
 don't talk of them afterwards ! I am dis- 
 gusted with two-tliirds of them ; and the 
 rest will never come to anything. I hardly 
 know why I brought them here ; but egotism 
 is deep in human nature. I hadn't resolution 
 to burn them." 
 
 " I should hope not ! you don't know what 
 pleasure it will be to me to shut myself up 
 with them to-morrow ! " 
 
 Gerald slightly shrugged his shoulders, 
 without reply ; and turned towards the 
 door. 
 
 '' We had better go out now," he said ; 
 and, Marjory casting behind a lingering 
 glance, they returned downstairs. The neat 
 little maid was crossing the small entrance- 
 hall, and paused, with a smiling curtsey, to 
 open the outer door. As they stepped out 
 upon the pavement, the cathedral once again 
 impressing Marjory with its solemn grandeur, 
 a peal of bells broke forth from some church 
 in the town. 
 
 '' Those are St. Crispin's bells," said 
 Gerald, — 'Hhat very old church which yousaw, 
 as we drove from the station. They often 
 ring in the evening." 
 
 There could be no doubt that the peal was 
 old ! Such bells are not often moulded in
 
 Marjory. 251 
 
 these days, for churches of small account. 
 Eich, mellow, sweet, with a strange, unutter- 
 able melancholy, they gave their own tone to 
 Marjory's musings, as she looked out on the 
 surroundings of her new home. 
 
 Eight bells : each a distinct voice of the 
 past. Marjory fancied that she could see the 
 Alton people of the times when those bells 
 were young, walking to and fro in the streets, 
 in their quaint costumes — to them, the latest 
 fashion ; that she could hear them talking in 
 the strange language of those old English 
 days, discussing public matters, so much as 
 they knew of them, wars, marriages, and 
 royal doings — matters of history now, and no 
 longer of general interest, for they happened 
 hundreds of years ago. Thence her fancy 
 travelled to the flat stones, black with age, 
 that paved the aisles of the old churches, 
 covering those quaintly-clad forms which then 
 were so busy. Beneath those stones lay 
 some hearts worn with aching, and others 
 which had scarcely known what aching meant, 
 throbbing high with hope and joy as the 
 bells rang out. Both ahke were forgotten 
 now ; and still the same bells were ringing. 
 Had they only been conscious beings, how 
 philosophical, ere now, must they have grown !
 
 252 Marjory, 
 
 " Wo will have one look into tlie cathe- 
 dral," said Gerald ; " You must see it 
 thoroughly another day." 
 
 The low north door was still ajar; they 
 entered, and stood within the nave. Speech- 
 less with awe, Marjory gazed into the vast- 
 ness, into the heights of the groined roof, 
 the intricacies of moulding and carving ; 
 found face after face, of angel, apostle, saint, 
 look down to meet her upturned eyes. Pure 
 and calm as the stone which formed them, as 
 she gazed they seemed to multiply; and, 
 one after another, to glance afresh from un- 
 expected places. 
 
 *' We want to lock up, sir, if you please," 
 said the black- robed verger. 
 
 " The doors are always open in the day, 
 Marjory ; you will be able to come in when- 
 ever you like," said Gerald, as she lingered. 
 
 " I shall come for inspiration in my wrin- 
 ing — my writing which is to be for you," 
 whispered Marjory. Then they went out, the 
 old verger following, and locking the door. 
 
 " Now," said Gerald, '' you must turn 
 yourself over to me ; I shall take you where 
 I choose to-night. After this, you can ex- 
 plore for yourself, or with your friend. Miss 
 Peele."
 
 Marjory, 253 
 
 " I hope you and Lina will get on well 
 together, Gerald. I have often talked to her 
 about you." 
 
 " I shan't see much of her," said Gerald ; 
 '* I must spend my spare time in work, or in 
 study for it, to be prepared in case your plan 
 should succeed." 
 
 '' Don't say ' in case ! ' It will succeed. I 
 don't mind telHng you why I feel so sure : 
 because you will understand, and not call it 
 cant. I am praying night and day for suc- 
 cess : and that is why, Gerald." 
 
 " But prayer for temporal things is not 
 always answered," said Gerald, wistfully. 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal about 
 that, and I will tell you what I have thought. 
 I want you to follow me, step by step. You 
 believe that Jesus Christ did live on earth, 
 Gerald — and in His Divinity, and His 
 Word?" 
 
 Gerald bowed his head. 
 
 '' Of course, if one do not believe in those 
 foundations, the whole case is altered. 
 But you and I have no doubt that He did 
 really say : ' If ye shall ask anything in My 
 Name, I will do it.' " 
 
 '' But " said Gerald. 
 
 '* Wait one minute ! St. John says :
 
 254 Marjory, 
 
 * If we ask anytliing according to His Will, 
 He heareth us.' That limits the matter, and 
 shows, I suppose, why many temporal prayers 
 are not answered. But it is my belief that 
 many and many more might and would be 
 answered, if people had more faith. You 
 know we are told again that we must 
 
 * believe,' and ' not doubt in our heart ' that 
 the prayer will be granted. At least we 
 should have no doubt but that it must be 
 granted, ' if it be according to His Will ! ' 
 You agree to that, Gerald ? " 
 
 '' I suppose so." 
 
 '' But you mustn't only suppose it ; you 
 must beheve it, and feel sure of it — only 
 with that limitation. And now, about this 
 particular prayer of mine : I do feel quite 
 sure, and I do mean to feel quite sure, that 
 it must be granted. Because it must be 
 according to God's Will, Gerald, that the 
 power which He gave you should be -made 
 use of. He did give it to you ; for it 
 was born in you : it is not a fancy, an 
 imitation, but a real power. Gerald, it must 
 be His Will that it should be used, not 
 buried." 
 
 " I suppose so," repeated Gerald : " It 
 seems probable. I don't know that I ever
 
 Marjory. 255 
 
 put the fact to myself in that decided way, 
 before." 
 
 '' Well, but, if you think it well over, you 
 will see that it is a fact. Could any one 
 believe that our Maker would design and 
 create, and place in an immortal soul, such 
 an artistic talent and such a craving to give 
 it vent, for nothing, Gerald ? Surely there 
 must be a purpose in it, for Him and for the 
 world. That seems to me self-evident, and 
 therefore I say that it must be according to 
 His Will to remove the hindrances which 
 have kept that talent pent up, without outlet, 
 and to set it free for its work. This is 
 why I feel confident, even certain — I say 
 it reverently, Gerald — that my prayer for 
 you to be an artist — which God created you 
 — will be granted." 
 
 She spoke with ardour which could not 
 fail to impress. There was a strength and 
 brightness in her face, as of some young 
 radiant spirit sent from the city of the gods 
 to cheer the souls of men, and breathe into 
 them life from his own sunlit nature, to 
 lighten the toils of earth. 
 
 '^ But, Marjory, to confess the truth, I 
 have often, on the other hand, thought it was 
 not God's Will that I should be an artist.
 
 25 G Marjory, 
 
 Circumstances have been so against it all my 
 life ; my desires have always pulled one way, 
 and my necessities another." 
 
 '' Yes, but circumstances are not always 
 a mark of Providence. Because it is often 
 through conflict with circumstances that lives 
 are made grand. Just think of all the heroes 
 who had difficulties, and even failures, at 
 first ! Now — to go on — you know that I 
 have been scribbling all my life, more or less ; 
 and I have taken such pains, Gerald, and 
 done my utmost, to learn the art of writing. 
 A short time ago, when I sent a little story 
 to a magazine, the editor, though he declined 
 it, wrote that he was struck by the evidences 
 of power in thought and style, and that, 
 with practice, I might hope to become a 
 successful author. Those were his very 
 words, Gerald ! " 
 
 " Well done, Marjory ! Ah, I dare say the 
 highest renown I shall ever achieve -will be 
 as the brother of the celebrated Miss Stan- 
 hope ! " 
 
 " Oh, you unkind boy ! when you know 
 that all I care for in the matter is to help 
 you. I should write in any case, from the 
 love of it ; indeed, it was that which first put 
 this idea into my mind But, only for you,
 
 Marjory, 257 
 
 I should never dream of trying to publisli : 
 I would far rather leave that alone, only it 
 will be such joy to help you, Gerald ! " 
 
 '' Thank you, Marjory ; I cannot help 
 catching a little of your hopefulness," said 
 Gerald, with his dreamy smile. 
 
 " And don't you see," went on Marjory, 
 fast and eagerly, as though words were not 
 rapid enough for the thoughts which flowed 
 iiito her brain — '' don't you see it is not as 
 if I had prayed for a power not given to me 
 by nature ? That would be presumption. 
 But since I can write a little, and feel that 
 I have it in me to write more, surely there 
 is no presumption in believing that I am 
 meant by this means to help you ! I do 
 believe it — I do, Gerald," cried the girl, her 
 whole face glowing. *' And, believing this, I 
 believe also the promise that my prayer will 
 be heard." 
 
 " Oh, if it should ! " said Gerald. 
 
 Their eyes met. Marjory was struck, 
 silenced by the expression in his. It was 
 that of one who sees within sudden reach a 
 prise which his very soul has yearned to 
 gain, but has long given up in despair. 
 With all her sympathy, Marjory had hardly 
 realised the intensity of that yearning, until 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 Marjory. 
 
 this moment when she saw it in those gray, 
 transparent eyes, through the flash of hope 
 revived 
 
 '' Oh, if it should ! " She laid up those 
 words in her heart. 
 
 In her absorption, she had hardly noticed 
 that, during this conversation, they had been 
 slowly walking away from the college-yard, 
 and round to the west end of the cathedral. 
 Below that western end she now awoke to 
 find herself standing, behind a line of iron 
 rails, overlooking the river with the meadows 
 beyond, and the range of Shelburn hills. 
 The house which Marjory had observed from 
 her window, standing out over the water, 
 was close below : an old canonical residence 
 of time-worn brick, blackened by age. 
 Under the wall at its rear, a few steps led 
 downwards to a gateway, beneath which 
 Gerald and Marjory passed into the enclosure 
 known as the College Green. 
 
 They were still under the shadow of the 
 cathedral, but now on its southern side; 
 between this and the green arose the ancient 
 walls of the college school, from whose 
 Foundation scholars the staff of choristers 
 was mainly supplied. The green consisted 
 of a large quadrangle of grass, fenced iu by
 
 Marjory, 259 
 
 iron palings, and shaded by magnificent elm- 
 trees, planted at intervals along ttie boun- 
 dary walk of smoothly-rolled gravel. Beneath 
 these trees a few ladies, of the elite who 
 possessed private keys of admittance, were 
 enjoying the evening air, and watching a 
 party of children engaged in croquet at one 
 end of the velvet- Hke turf. 
 
 The children's laughter rang pleasantly 
 across the quadrangle, wakening cheerful 
 echoes from the gray buildings around, as if 
 to show that life and youth were still active, 
 even here. These were the young genera- 
 tion, who some day might learn to smile 
 with superior wisdom at the old institutions 
 among which they had been nurtured, — per- 
 haps some of them to vote for total abolition 
 of the cathedral system. At present, little 
 dreaming of any such future, they sent the 
 painted balls flying over the ground which 
 ancient monks had paced in hallowed medi- 
 tation ; and Marjory through the palings 
 watched them with a fellow-feeling of enjoy- 
 ment, her young mind beneficially lightened 
 of its strain. Beyond the quadrangle lay 
 a gravelled space, bounded by venerable 
 houses, which were occupied, almost without 
 exception, by members of the cathedral or 
 s 2
 
 260 Marjory, 
 
 scholastic staff, or relicts of the same. Here 
 a canon's residence ; next door, that of the 
 head master, with his large family of chil- 
 dren and boarders ; then a narrow slip of a 
 house, rented by a minor canon, then the 
 quiet home of a former bishop's elderly 
 daughters, then the late archdeacon's widow ; 
 and so forth. 
 
 In this still corner the great world was 
 banished, and a little world formed in its 
 stead; with its own ways, its own society, 
 its own forms and topics of speech. A dig- 
 nified, orderly little world, respectable to a 
 degree, and critical of all that diflered from 
 it in opinion or in manners ; mixing only, 
 beyond its own circle, with members of " the 
 county" — ignoring the upper classes of ''the 
 town," as a sphere beneath its notice. 
 Excellent people, nevertheless, within their 
 own boundaries were its denizens — kind and 
 amiable, despite their narrowness, and doing 
 much quiet good according to their lights. 
 Doubtless there will be many to miss them 
 if, as our children grow, and the scope of 
 their ideas widens, such small societies are 
 swept away altogether in time's " ever-rolling 
 stream ! " 
 
 The way by which Gerald and Marjory had
 
 Marjory, 26 1 
 
 entered these secluded precincts, was acces- 
 sible only to pedestrians ; but at the other 
 end of the quadrangle was a massive gateway, 
 known as Chad's Tower, surmounted by a 
 turret, the habitation of an ancient porter, 
 whose duty it was to close the great gates at 
 ten o'clock each night, and open them at six 
 each morning. They were open now, 
 revealing a paved passage beyond — whither, 
 when Marjory's eager eyes were satisfied, 
 Gerald conducted her. Once through this 
 passage, just wide enough for two carriages, 
 and under a gray old archwaj, some hundred 
 yards on, they were again at the entrance of 
 the College Yard, having made a complete 
 round.
 
 ( 262 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " I dwell amid the city ever, 
 The great humanity which beats 
 Its life along the stony streets, 
 Like a strong and unsunned river 
 In a self-made course, 
 I sit and hearken while it rolls." 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 " Now you have seen the oligarchic end of 
 Alton," said Gerald, smiling ; "If jou are 
 not tired, we'll go on and have a look at the 
 people." 
 
 " I am not at all tired, and it would be a 
 shame to go in yet. How delightful the 
 evening air is, after so much heat ! and the 
 sky has such soft tints in it. And I do so 
 enjoy the bells." 
 
 " Yes, they seem to put a poetry into 
 everything. I wonder what it is in them 
 that influences one so ? I want to take you 
 to Heathcroft, Marjory, — the ground lying 
 about the race-course. It is open to the 
 public ; and on these warm evenings all 
 Alton seems to be turned out there. We can
 
 Marjorij, 263 
 
 go by tlie river-side, if you like, and come 
 back through the town." 
 
 So they passed their own house again, and 
 went down by steps to the towing-path. 
 Broad and calm beneath them flowed the 
 river in the evening light, with a gentle 
 splash as it swept along the stonework that 
 hemmed it in. Gerald and Marjory walked 
 in silence for some way, under the line of 
 garden- wails, which ended presently, suc- 
 ceeded by warehouses, offices, and workshops, 
 soon dispelling the old-world hush of the 
 cathedral atmosphere. Below the bridge, 
 they seemed to have entered another state of 
 being. Here was an old barge, gaily painted, 
 moored close to a little wharf, with all 
 manner of boats, from a river schooner to 
 outriggers, congregated round it. A party 
 of young people were just embarking for an 
 hour's row. Unsophisticated Marjory stopped 
 at some distance to watch the process : — two 
 girls and two young men took each an oar, 
 — another girl steered. They were all very 
 merry, if not very refined, and pushed off 
 amid chaffing and laughter. Marjory looked 
 and listened with intense interest; while 
 Gerard smiled, amused at her freshness. 
 
 The commonest matters were all new to
 
 264 Marjory, 
 
 her ; slie observed everything, enjoyed every- 
 thing. Every person whom she met was an 
 object of individual interest ; and, as they pro- 
 ceeded on their way towards the race- course, 
 her attention was increasingly occupied. 
 Many more boats met or passed them, — some, 
 like the first, freighted with merry parties, 
 some manned by youths in costume, practising 
 for an approaching regatta; sometimes an 
 outrigger, long and narrow, shot past, sculled 
 by a single oarsman ; and now, for the first 
 time, Marjory beheld a canoe, — a wondrous 
 experience ! 
 
 Pedestrians also multiplied. Presently 
 the lines of building, only varied by occa- 
 sional entries to narrow streets or courts, 
 where dirty children were playing, and dirty 
 women gossiping at closely crowded doors, 
 came to an end ; and a small gate opened 
 upon the series of fields known by the name 
 of Heathcroft. These fields filled an exten- 
 sive space between the town and the river. 
 Here the grand stand rose, ugly and con- 
 spicuous ; here also was a cricket-ground ; 
 here the annual regatta, and athletic sports, 
 took place. And here, on these summer 
 evenings, the Alton citizens came to breathe 
 the fresh air from the river. Numbers were
 
 Marjory, 265 
 
 pacing leisurely to and fro, some in family 
 parties — father and mother, and children 
 running before ; some in couples of love or 
 friendship, some solitary, but all at ease, all 
 seemingly happy and refreshed. The whole 
 was a pleasant sight, thought Marjory, as 
 she and Gerald mingled with the rest. Many 
 were chatting with friends on the river, — 
 numerous boats paddling backwards and 
 forwards near the shore, within reach of the 
 sweets of society. At a little distance boys 
 and young men were playing at cricket ; the 
 tap of the bat upon the ball resounded 
 through the still air. The grass was very 
 dry, and various groups were seated upon it, 
 some of them with books or work. The 
 opposite bank was lined with villa-like houses, 
 and gardens sloping to the river ; lower 
 down were trees, and meadows stretching 
 away into the country. The sun was setting 
 peacefully in crimson glory; the music of the 
 bells came softened, from the old church in 
 the town. 
 
 '' You might make a good picture out of 
 this : ' Heather oft, Alton, in the summer- 
 time,' " observed Marjory. 
 
 " Yes, and there are single studies without 
 end ; every variety of face and character, if
 
 266 Marjory, 
 
 one watches from a little distance. Tlie 
 cathedral people do not know what they lose 
 by their exclusiveness. If they would come 
 here sometimes, or to places like it^ they 
 might learn a thing or two more than they 
 guess, about human nature." 
 
 " Human nature is not their study, I sup- 
 pose," said Marjory; ''or they are content 
 with what they see of it among themselves. 
 I can understand that one might grow to 
 feel very comfortable, shut up in a refined 
 circle of one's own." 
 
 '' But then it would be one's own- — not the 
 great world," said Gerald, in his dreamy 
 way : " ' It takes all sorts to make a world,' 
 you know. It's better to live in a world, in 
 spite of all the passion and coarseness and 
 wear and tear, than in a nutshell." 
 
 They had been resting upon the pleasant 
 grass ; now rising, Gerald suggested tliat 
 they should return home through Albion 
 Square. The river was soon left behind, and 
 Heathcroft traversed in the direction o£ the 
 town. Passing the militia drilling-ground, 
 and other enclosures, they entered by a turn- 
 stile, upon a flat path, which ran parallel, 
 for half a mile, or more, with Heathcroft. 
 Here for some minutes they paused, beside
 
 Marjonj, 267 
 
 the low white paling, to look back at the 
 scene which they had left. It was gay and 
 pretty, the numerous figures dotted in all 
 directions over the green, the river flowing 
 below, cows and horses grazing in adjacent 
 meadows, and the peaceful bank opposite, 
 richly clothed with trees, bathed in the amber 
 of the sunset. 
 
 " There is a great deal of happiness in this 
 world ; it is not right to call it a vale of 
 tears," said Marjory, as they turned away. 
 
 Gerald made no answer ; he only smiled 
 a little, as he walked silently by her side. 
 Marjory fancied that beneath the smile she 
 heard a half- smothered sig^h. In another 
 secood, however, he looked up, and went on 
 pointing out names and places. They had 
 quitted the path, and were threading a laby- 
 rinth of new houses, some gaily stuccoed, in 
 gardens, neat shrubs before the doors — others 
 small and bare, recalling the old feelings of 
 Branksome. Presently a turn in the road 
 brought them into a more pretentious quarter, 
 where the houses were all alike stuccoed, and 
 differed only in size, varying from a respect- 
 able family block to an elegant slip, tall and 
 narrow. Looking about her, Marjory found 
 that they were ranged in the form of a
 
 268 Marjory. 
 
 square, bounding an enclosure of considerable 
 size, with a croquet-ground, seats and paths. 
 
 " Now I will show you your friend's house," 
 said Gerald. 
 
 They paced slowly round the square, a 
 pleasant place, and ''truly genteel" in its 
 appointments ! every house and every garden 
 neat even to primness, and the central enclo- 
 sure surrounded on the outer side by acacia- 
 trees, chestnuts, and limes, casting upon the 
 road a comfortable shade, in which birds 
 made sweet music. Presently Gerald paused 
 before a one-storied house, its garden gay 
 with standard roses, and a great urn, full 
 of crimson geraniums, on either side the 
 door. 
 
 '' This is Mrs. Peele's," he said. 
 
 The blinds were all drawn, and the shut- 
 ters closed. Nevertheless, Marjory paused 
 for several minutes, and gazed with a curious 
 fascination. What would she not have given 
 once, she thought, to see Lina's home — the 
 home of her ideal ? It would then have seemed 
 to her a sacred place, with a peculiar, an 
 ineffable charm. Now it was just a house — 
 No. 25, Albion Square. She was sorry that 
 the halo had so completely faded. She was not 
 yet sure if it were not by some fault of her own.
 
 Marjory. 269 
 
 '' What are you thinking about, Marjory ? " 
 asked Gerald. 
 
 '' Nothing of any consequence," said Mar- 
 jory, blushing. That experience concerning 
 Lina was buried as yet in the recesses of 
 her girlish heart ; she had spoken of it to 
 no one. 
 
 They walked on, talking of other things, 
 until the circuit of the square was accom- 
 plished. 
 
 " Now, Marjory, if you are really not too 
 tired, and would like to have one look at 
 Branksome ' ' 
 
 " I am only a little tired, and I could not 
 pass so near without just seeing it," cried 
 Marjory. 
 
 They went on, and, turning another corner, 
 found themselves once more in the town, in 
 the old street called The Friars, a name 
 which Marjory well remembered. Before 
 them rose an ancient hospital for decayed 
 men and women, with a little chapel where, 
 morning and evening, a cracked bell ting- 
 tanged for prayers. This also Marjory re- 
 membered ; and now it was she who led the 
 way, turning out of The Friars, between two 
 iron posts, at the head of a long, narrow lane, 
 which led below the hospital- walls into the
 
 270 Marjory. 
 
 region of Branksome. In a little while they 
 had plunged into the thick of the red brick. 
 There it all was, as of old ; only the colours 
 were somewhat softened and less staring, 
 after the eight years of sun and rain ; the 
 shrubs were not quite so stunted ; and there 
 were trees which had been saplings in those 
 past times. But the little shops, the Baptist 
 chapel, the academies, the uninteresting doors 
 and pebble walks, were all exactly the same ; 
 and Marjory felt like a little child again 
 among them. It was as though she were 
 coming home from her walk in the summer's 
 evening, to go to bed in the fusty little room, 
 overlooking roofs and chimney-pots, at Mrs. 
 Hammond's. The fancy quite oppressed her, 
 until she looked at Gerald, and satisfied her- 
 self that these eight years had not been a 
 long dream. 
 
 Ere long, behold the clock-faced church ! 
 but here was a change indeed. The doors 
 stood open ; Marjory looked in, saw stained 
 windows, a '' dim religious light," low open 
 seats of polished maple, a super-altar, with 
 candles and flowers, choir-stalls, a new organ. 
 The girl from quiet Rockswold had never 
 before seen such a church : the transforma- 
 tion seemed a work of magic.
 
 Marjory, 271 
 
 " That gable-ended place beyond, which 
 used to be the school, is now a Sisterhood and 
 Orphanage," said Gerald : " And this is the 
 Clergy House," he added, indicating a build- 
 ing of the prevailing red brick, which Mar- 
 jory remembered as containing two semi- 
 detached abodes. Now it was one house — 
 small enough still, but distinguished by a 
 painted window. A clergyman in a cassock 
 was crossing the little garden. 
 
 " How strange it all is ! " was Marjory's 
 only remark. She stood still for a little 
 while, then went on in silence. 
 
 '' JSTow, here is the house which I thought 
 must have been Mrs. Hammond's ; but I 
 had little beyond guesswork to go upon." 
 
 " Your guesswork was quite correct, 
 though. Yes, that is Mrs. Hammond's : there 
 is the window of our little parlour, and Aunt 
 Lucy's bedroom above. How natural it all 
 looks ! Oh, how it all comes back to me !" 
 cried Marjory, standing at the iron gate, and 
 looking up the path. 
 
 Could it really be eight years since the day 
 she had come down that path, so hot and 
 tired, a little child going in search of the 
 country ? — since that other day when Lady 
 Thome's sleek horses had drawn up here in
 
 272 Marjory, 
 
 the road, and she had gone back along the 
 same path — a strange aching in her heart as 
 she thought that her happj visit was over ? 
 Eight years ago ! And she had never through- 
 out them heard a word of Thorne ! "Was it 
 ■unchanged, Hke this httle lodging-house, or 
 metamorphosed like the clock-faced church ? 
 
 " Gerald, I must go in — I must ask about 
 Mrs. Hammond." 
 
 '' Well, I did my best, as I told you ; but 
 you can try again if you like. I'll wait for 
 you here." 
 
 So Marjory went once more through the 
 familiar little garden, and knocked at the 
 well-known door. It seemed strange not to 
 turn the handle and walk in. 
 . A stout woman, in a black print dress 
 studded with white spots like peppermint 
 drops, answered the knock- She was evi- 
 dently the mistress of the house. 
 
 " Can you tell me anything about a Mrs. 
 Hammond who once lived here?" asked 
 Marjory. 
 
 "No. Been asked before. Never knew 
 no such a party." 
 
 " Then who had this house before you ? " 
 
 " The parties before us were folks in the 
 name of Dawkins ; and Harris's was here
 
 Marjory. 273 
 
 afore them. That was five year ago and 
 more. Yes/' said the stout person, count- 
 ing on her fingers : " We have been here three 
 years an' a half, ourselves." 
 
 " Gerald," said Marjory, as she rejoined 
 him, " How soon can we go to Thorne ? " 
 
 " As to that, I suppose we could go the 
 day after the concert." 
 
 " The day after to-morrow. Oh, Gerald, 
 if you could give up that one more evening ! 
 I have such a longing to find out about them 
 all ! Even Mrs. Hammond gone, and swal- 
 lowed up in the years ! I could have 
 
 heard something from her." 
 
 " Well, we'll go then ; and you shall find 
 out all you can," said Gerald, kindly. Mar- 
 jory earnestly thanked him, as they turned on 
 their homeward way. 
 
 Through the heart of the town they went ; 
 all down the Friars and the Cross and High 
 Street ; the shops for the most part closed, 
 the sunset radiance replaced by dusk, but 
 the streets bright with gas, and still lively 
 with numerous pedestrians returning from 
 Heathcroft, or places more countrified, to 
 which the summer evening had tempted 
 them. And the bells were still ringing : their 
 sweet strong voices echoing from the world 
 
 VOL. I, T
 
 274 Marjory, 
 
 long gone by. Marjory, now thorouglily 
 tired, was glad to re-enter tlie quiet college- 
 yard; still more glad when, an hour later, 
 she lay down in her white little bed, her 
 blind drawn up, and a silvery star gleaming 
 on her from above the peaceful river.
 
 ( 275 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 " World ! O Life ! O Time ! 
 
 * * # # 
 
 When will return the glory of your prime 1 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 
 A joy has taken flight." — Shelley. 
 
 The music-hall, brilliantly lighted, was filling 
 rapidly when Mrs. Myers, Gerald, and Mar- 
 jory entered it on the evening of the concert. 
 The stewards, distinguished by satin rosettes, 
 were active in escorting the holders of re- 
 served tickets to their seats ; and Marjory 
 presently found herself comfortably ensconced 
 about half-way down the middle phalanx of 
 chairs, in a position equally excellent for see- 
 ing and for hearing. This latter fact was 
 but a natural inference from the circumstance 
 that the tickets had been chosen by Lina — 
 Lina, who was always right, and knew 
 the correct thing in every department of 
 social science. Marjory, as she took her 
 place, wondered again at that fading of the 
 halo ! 
 
 But this was not a time for metaphysical 
 T 2
 
 276 Marjory. 
 
 musings ; tlie world without was all new and 
 wonderful, and demanded entire attention. 
 How the people came thronging in ! Mar- 
 jory gazed, entranced, at the pretty girls, the 
 family parties, the friends who entered to- 
 gether. She admired the fashionable dresses, 
 the flowers, the coronas of starlike lights, 
 the panelled pictures of Saint Cecilia, of 
 Handel, of Dr. Burney. A provincial con- 
 cert, passably arranged, to Lady Fairlegh 
 in the front row; — a confused blaze of 
 fascination to Marjory ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Myers, in a blonde head- 
 dress and a dove-coloured silk which had seen 
 better days, sat in mouselike propriety at 
 her left hand. On her right sat Gerald, 
 looking dreamily at all around him, but ab- 
 sorbed in visions of his own the while — far 
 more real to him than these outer objects. 
 Marjory, between them, formed a picture of 
 radiant youth and freshness, ^ at which many 
 turned to glance — her blue eyes were so 
 bright, her hair was so sunny, her whole 
 countenance so illuminated by eager interest. 
 
 As to her dress. Aunt Lucy, with infinite 
 pains, had ascertained from a London cor- 
 respondent all proprieties ; in accordance with 
 which, within the bounds of strict economy.
 
 Marjory. 277 
 
 Marjory's Alton outfit had been chosen. 
 And economy, with taste and contrivance, 
 had proved itself surprisingly elastic ! At 
 Rockswold Marjory had feared that her new 
 dresses were too grand for every-day wear ; 
 but her twenty- seven hours at Alton had 
 already dispelled this impression, making her 
 instead thankful for Aunt Lucy's happy 
 thought of writing to the London friend. 
 Thus to-night she was prettily and fashion- 
 ably attired ; and the simplicity of the mate- 
 rials seemed only in accordance with her 
 youth. Gerald noted with pride and pleasure 
 the admiring glances cast, from time to time, 
 in her direction ; but Marjory herself, after 
 her old childish fashion, was far too full of 
 her surroundings to think of herself. 
 
 Meanwhile, sounds of tuning had begun in 
 the raised semicircle ; the performers were 
 coming to their places. Her eyes seemed larger 
 and bluer as she gazed into the intricacies of 
 the orchestra ; at the variety of instruments, 
 and the confusing throng of black-coated and 
 white-robed vocalists, — who were whispering 
 and laughing among themselves, and looking 
 at the audience, as the audience were looking 
 at them. Presently the London conductor 
 assumed his wand; and silence followed.
 
 278 Marjory, 
 
 Then the performance was opened by a grand 
 overture, in which all the instruments joined. 
 
 Marjory's observations were in no degree 
 hindered by her enjoyment of the music, 
 which seemed indeed to add a romantic 
 charm to groups and faces otherwise dull 
 and uninteresting. A spell of enchantment 
 on her ears, her eyes wandered among her 
 neighbours ; she invented stories concerning 
 them, as she had been wont to do about the 
 young ladies of Miss Somerville's school ; 
 new scenes, and even characters for her book, 
 flashed suddenly upon her fancy, as she gazed 
 from row to row of the various faces and 
 families, which had been living each its own 
 life, for years and years, while she, unaware 
 of them, lived hers. The fulness and the 
 diversity of the world of human beings seemed 
 to strike her as a new thought ; she realised 
 it with an intensity impossible in quiet E-ocks- 
 wold. Her eyes shone with a strange excite- 
 ment ; she felt herself in a region, not of 
 music alone, but also of poetry — the music 
 and poetry of humanity, manifest to her now 
 as never before. 
 
 So popular were these concerts, that almost 
 every place in the large hall was filled ; but 
 one chair, the last of a side row, somewhat
 
 Marjory. 279 
 
 in advance of tlie middle row where Marjory 
 and her party sat, had hitherto remained 
 vacant. She had observed it with regret, as 
 a blank spot among the throng, and then, 
 looking elsewhere, had missed the moment 
 when it became occupied. Suddenly, glancing 
 once more in its direction, she saw that it 
 was empty no longer. A young man was 
 seated there — sl man whose dark hair was cut 
 and brushed in a manner which, together 
 with the carriage of the straight shoulders 
 below, suggested the idea of a soldier. Mar- 
 jory looked at him a little curiously, fancying 
 that his figure was somehow familiar to her. 
 His figure was all that she could see ; his back 
 was towards her ; he was looking straight 
 before him, with folded arms. For a second 
 or two she watched him ; then, her attention 
 being otherwise attracted, she thought no 
 more at present of the new-comer. 
 
 The overture had been followed bya chorus; 
 and now came a vocal trio ; one of the three 
 names was " Miss Peele." Marjory glanced 
 from programme to orchestra ; there stood 
 Lina, calm and beautiful, in a white robe, of 
 soft flowing tulle, one spray of starlike jessa- 
 mine in her hair. She looked the more lovely 
 in contrast to her companions, — a stout
 
 280 Marjory, 
 
 matron in blue silk, with a profusion of flaxen 
 curls, and a prim little clergyman. The 
 matron sang soprano, the clergyman bass ; 
 and Lina, between them, took the second part. 
 The song was an old madrigal, with words 
 of no particular meaning, all about shepherds 
 and leas and purling streams ; but Marjory 
 had an instinct that such serene subjects were 
 more suitable to Lina than ary of passion or 
 of power. She had a mezzo-contralto voice, 
 with a plentiful range of high notes, but 
 richer and fuller in the low ones ; her singing 
 was strictly in accordance with its excellent 
 training; her manner, too, was perfect, en- 
 tirely composed, no flutter, no shyness, no 
 awkwardness. A couple of years ago, it 
 would have seemed to Marjory that an angel 
 stood there in those white robes, white stars 
 about its head. Some indefinable instinct 
 prompted a glance towards the soldierly young 
 man in the side row ; but his attitude was 
 unchano:ed. Still looking^ straio^ht before him, 
 with folded arms, his head erect — if he ad- 
 mired, he showed no outward sign thereof. 
 
 As Marjory's eyes returned to the orches- 
 tra, she heard a low voice in her ear. 
 
 " Who is that beautiful girl, Marjory? Give 
 me the programme."
 
 Marjory. 281 
 
 '* That is Lina," cried Marjory, delighted 
 at the impression produced by her friend. 
 
 '' Miss Peele ! " 
 
 '' Why not ? " said Marjory, laughing. 
 
 " I had no idea that she was so beautiful," 
 said Gerald. 
 
 He leaned forward, as he spoke, his elbow 
 on the back of the chair before him, his eyes 
 fixed with strange intensity upon Lina. 
 Marjory felt no surprise that his artistic in- 
 stinct should be quick to recognise perfection 
 so unquestionable. The trio over, she looked 
 towards him, expecting some further re- 
 mark; but he had relapsed into dreamy 
 silence. 
 
 In the course of a bright glee which 
 followed the trio, Marjory glanced again 
 towards the side rows. The person who 
 there attracted her had turned slightly in his 
 chair, so as to face the centre of the orchestra. 
 His arms were folded as before ; one foot 
 was crossed upon the opposite knee, with an 
 easy coolness of attitude, which recalled to 
 
 Marjory What? She had now a fuller 
 
 view of him ; he might be eight or nine-and- 
 twenty, scarcely handsome, yet narrowly 
 escaping it, and with the unmistakable air of 
 high breeding ; an air which he carried with
 
 282 Marjory, 
 
 a careless grace that seemed a second 
 nature. 
 
 His profile was partly visible. Marjory 
 was struck by its expression — unhappy, bit- 
 ter, proud, with a touch of defiance, — a little 
 cynical, a little weary, as if the world had 
 served him ill, and he were sick of it. The 
 impression that she had seen him before, 
 deepened upon Marjory. Again and again, 
 as by a secret fascination, she found her eyes 
 returning to that chair ; but, for some time, 
 she told herself that she must be mistaken, 
 that it was only a strong likeness which 
 attracted her. 
 
 But now began a piece to which Marjory 
 had all the while looked forward : an assort- 
 ment of Scotch airs, woven together with 
 exquisite taste and feeling, the treatment of 
 which, for amateur musicians, was of unusual 
 excellence. The old airs went straight to 
 Marjory's heart ; as in the dayp when she was 
 a little girl in the drawing-room at Thorne, 
 watching Mrs. Vivian's shapely fingers, as 
 they drew magic from the strings of her 
 harp. '' John Anderson, my Jo, John," 
 melted into " Auld Lang Syne," — one of 
 the identical airs to which the child on 
 that summer-evening had listened. She
 
 Marjory. 283 
 
 saw the whole scene again : the little old 
 lady, with her grave serenity, — the stately 
 harpiste, cold and proud — the young soldier, 
 with his kind, bright face, on which as yet no 
 shadow of care had fallen. Then, involun- 
 tarily, she turned once more to that bitter, 
 unhappy countenance in the side-row. She 
 could see it no longer ; he had changed his 
 position again, and was leaning forward, his 
 brow shaded by his hand. Thus shaded it 
 remained, till those Scotch airs were over. 
 Then suddenly he rose, and left the room. 
 He went so quickly that Marjory did not see 
 his face; he passed her in a moment, and 
 was gone. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, the first part termi- 
 nated; people began to get up, to stretch 
 their limbs, and chat. Marjory's attention 
 was absorbed in wonder as to whether that 
 man in the side-row would come back ; and 
 in watching his empty chair. She longed 
 to get a full view of him ; her mind was busy 
 with speculations. She did not observe that 
 Gerald had risen, looking earnestly towards 
 the platform; until presently, stooping to- 
 wards her, he said : 
 
 ''Marjory, Miss Peele has left the orchestra. 
 I can take you to speak to her, if you like."
 
 284 Marjory, 
 
 ^' Oh no, thank you — do not trouble," 
 replied Marjory gratefully ; "I'd rather wait 
 till the concert is over." 
 
 Gerald said no more. 
 
 The ten minutes' grace was quickly past ; 
 the audience resumed their places ; voices 
 were hushed; the conductor resumed his 
 wand. At this instant the owner of the vacant 
 chair came up the side-row, close to Marjory. 
 One or two people were before him ; he 
 paused ; and, in pausing, happened to glance 
 in Marjory's direction. Her eyes met his; 
 she knew him ; he was Mr. Hugh. 
 
 Suspicion was certainty now. There could 
 be no mistaking those dark, bright eyes, 
 when fully visible — however changed their 
 expression. They were the same eyes ; it 
 was the same face, though bereft of the old 
 sunshine. The blood rushed in a flame to 
 her cheeks ; her heart beat rapidly ; she had 
 a confused sense that the music had begun, 
 that Mrs. Myers whispered '' How fine ! " 
 but she heard all as hearing not. For the 
 moment she could think only of that face, so 
 strangely, so sadly altered. What had hap- 
 pened in these silent years to alter it so ? 
 
 He had gone back to his place; he was 
 sitting as before. He had not recognised
 
 Marjory, 285 
 
 her, of course — liow could slie expect it? 
 She had been a Httle child when they parted ; 
 and now she was almost a woman. But the 
 change in him was not of natural growth. 
 That peculiar air of lightness and brightness, 
 that reckless gaiety, which had characterized 
 the young soldier — what had chilled and 
 quenched them ? As Marjory gazed, the 
 transformation grew upon her. This man 
 with the hard, bitter face — he was like a 
 dark shadow of the Mr. Hugh of old. He 
 looked so restless, too — such deep dis- 
 satisfaction .was mingled with the air of 
 scorn. And withal there was something 
 which went to Marjory's heart, and moved 
 it as it could never have been moved by the 
 careless gladness which she remembered. 
 The stamp of a broken heart was upon that 
 brow, once so sunny ; the trace of pain — pain 
 aching and wearing, which had eaten deep 
 into the very lite of that proud, glad young 
 spirit. She felt as though she were gazing 
 upon a wreck — a wreck cast nearer hell than 
 Heaven. 
 
 And, gazing, the memories thickened in 
 her mind : she saw the past as though re- 
 hearsed before her. She heard again the 
 merry voice saying: "Don't found your
 
 286 Marjory, 
 
 views of life on the sentiments of codgers 
 . . . the world's a very jolly place . . . 
 there's nothing too good to be true." She 
 fancied how contemptuously would this dark 
 countenance smile scorn upon such words 
 uttered now by any youth like that youth of 
 the past ! Then came the recollection of 
 Mrs. Vivian's devotion, of the petted boy 
 who had "never known what it was to be 
 crossed," whose maxim it had been '' never 
 to think of disagreeable things before the 
 time." What terrible time had come to him 
 since then ? what storm, with death in its 
 blast, had swept over him ? 
 
 Was he married, and had Lady Eose 
 Fairlegh been an unloving wife ? Somehow 
 he did not look as if he were married : but 
 rather as if he had no home, as if no one 
 belonged to him and he to no one — utterly 
 lonely, a waif, and desolate. 
 
 Then awoke in Marjory's heart a pas- 
 sionate pity, akin to that which she had felt 
 eight years before, when, on the night of the 
 thunderstorm, she lay awake in Miss Evie's 
 little bed, thinking of him — wondering how 
 it was that he could be at once so kind and 
 so wicked — and trembling, child though she 
 were, about his future. The same pity,
 
 Marjory, 287 
 
 intensified, took possession now of all her 
 heart and mind ; burning like an ardent 
 flame in her enthusiastic and unegotistical 
 nature. She longed to speak to him, to ask 
 what blight had wrought so sad a change ; 
 she desired to penetrate to the root of that 
 hard bitterness. 
 
 Yet withal she was conscious of a fear of 
 him — a fear altogether new : he looked so 
 cold and sarcastic, such a thorough man of 
 the world, in its worst and hardest sense. 
 His face, too, had a pride, a haughtiness, 
 which she had seen in Mrs. Vivian's, but 
 never before in his. But of the cause she 
 could know nothing : at least for the present. 
 She could only watch, wonder, think — until 
 her heart felt ready to burst. She had not 
 hitherto reahsed how closely the tendrils of 
 her childish affections had twined themselves, 
 not only around all at Thorne, but specially 
 the young soldier who had been kind to her. 
 
 For several minutes she had looked away, 
 though still absorbed, towards the orchestra. 
 Some one was singing "You and I;" as 
 from far away came to her the words — " In 
 the sweet summer-time, long ago.^^ Her 
 blue eyes, the eyes of her childhood, went 
 back to that face of which those words
 
 288 Marjory, 
 
 seemed to speak. Then slie saw that he had 
 turned, his arm upon the back of his chair ; 
 that he was looking full at her with a strange 
 surprise. Meeting her glance, he looked 
 away at once ; but she fancied that she had 
 caught a gleam of recognition. It might 
 have been fancy only. 
 
 The last chorus was over, every one had 
 risen to join in the National Anthem. People 
 had already begun to go out, impatient to 
 escape before the final crush. Among the 
 rest, he went — alone as he had come. Mar- 
 jory was conscious that he paused for one 
 second, less than a second, and looked once 
 more in her direction. An instinct which 
 she had never previously experienced, with- 
 held her from looking in return, and kept her 
 eyes fixed upon the extensive shoulders of 
 an elderly lady in a low dress, in the row 
 before her. The ordeal was quickly over ; he 
 passed on ; and now Marjory's head was 
 slightly turned to glance after him : but he 
 had already disappeared.
 
 ( 289 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXTI. 
 
 *' When I see her earnest eyes, 
 In them a heaven of beauty lies ! 
 So pure are they * that from their ray 
 Dark Yice would turn abashed away.' 
 I almost thought to-day to trace 
 A sort of young Madonna face." 
 
 John Jerninghams Journal. 
 
 The performers were bearing off their instru- 
 ments ; there was a hum of voices, a creaking 
 of seats, as people pushed them aside to 
 make a passage. 
 
 '' Shall we wait till the crush is over ? " 
 said mouse- hke Mrs. Myers. 
 
 Marjory assented, sitting down ; but sud- 
 denly started up again. 
 
 '' Lina ! I had forgotten her ! Mrs. Myers, 
 will you excuse us one moment ? Gerald, I 
 must speak to Lina." 
 
 '' This way," said Gerald eagerly, as she 
 seized his arm. 
 
 " But is she not gone to the door ? " 
 
 "No, she is there, under that window. 
 She seems in no hurry ; most likely she 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 Marjory, 
 
 is waiting for a carriage. Make haste," 
 said Gerald J making his way through the 
 crowd. 
 
 Marjory clung to his arm, and was presently 
 on the opposite side of the hall. There, 
 under a window, as he had told her, stood 
 Lina, among a little knot of acquaintances. 
 Marjory felt suddenly shy : the more so, 
 since Gerald, having brought her to within a 
 yard of her friend, stopped short, and re- 
 mained in the background. But Lina had 
 perceived her, and advanced, with her usual 
 graceful dignity. 
 
 " Well, Marjory, here you are ! Welcome 
 to Alton ! I hope you have enjoyed our 
 concert? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Thank you so much for the 
 tickets. Lina, this is Gerald." 
 
 She looked eagerly round for her brother, 
 the brother concerning whom so many hopes 
 had so often been poured out to her friend. 
 She had seen the impression produced by 
 Lina upon him ; now she watched anxiously 
 the impression produced on Lina. It was 
 favourable : this a glance revealed — not so 
 much by any decided expression in Lina's 
 face to that effect, as by the absence of ex- 
 pression to the contrary. Marjory was well
 
 Marjory. 291 
 
 acquainted with the rigidity, the stiff cold- 
 ness, which, on occasion, Lina's classical 
 features could assume. But she had never 
 looked more gracious than in acknowledgmg 
 Gerald's bow. 
 
 '' How do you do, Mr. Stanhope ? " she 
 said, extending her hand : ''I have heard so 
 much about you, that it does not seem right 
 we should meet as strangers." 
 
 Marjory, well pleased, glanced at her 
 brother. He was flushing to the roots of 
 his fair hair; those deep transparent eyes of 
 his were fixed upon Lina. Some sudden 
 light transformed his whole countenance. 
 He smiled a little, but said nothing: his 
 whole being seemed absorbed in that gaze. 
 
 His evident admiration, respectful as evi- 
 dent, seemed by no means displeasing to 
 Lina. Her graciousness increased as she 
 expressed to Marjory her hope of calling 
 in the College Yard immediately upon her 
 return. 
 
 '' We go home on Friday, and, if Saturday 
 be fine, I shall hope to come then, with 
 mamma ! " 
 
 " You shall see Gerald's drawings," whis- 
 pered Marjory. 
 
 Lina inclined her head with a smile. She 
 u 2
 
 292 Marjory. 
 
 tliouglit Marjory, as usual, '' gushing," but 
 received tlie gush amiably, as, in this in- 
 stance, a pleasing proof of sisterly pride. 
 A summons from the party in the background 
 closed the interview, — Lina being conducted 
 on an elderly gentleman's arm to the carriage, 
 and Gerald escorting Marjory back among 
 empty seats to Mrs. Myers, and thence to 
 the cloak-room, where they had left what 
 wraps were needed in the warm summer 
 night. 
 
 Afterwards, through the gas-lit streets, 
 they walked home to the quiet college 
 yard. 
 
 " I have seen Mr. Hugh, Gerald ! " were 
 Marjory's first words, when she and her 
 brother were alone. 
 
 " You are certain ? He must be altered." 
 '' Quite certain. The same face and the 
 same eyes — but yes, he is altered ! The 
 brightness is exchanged for bitterness." 
 
 " I suppose the world has gone hard with 
 him in some way. It is a hard world, you 
 know." 
 
 At but a year or two behind Gerald's pre- 
 sent age, that young soldier of the past had 
 said something very different about the world! 
 Marjory recalled his words for the second time
 
 Marjory, 293 
 
 tliat evening; and tliouglit, as many before her 
 have thought, that, after all, human lots are 
 less unequally distributed than appears. The 
 same lesson must be learned universally; 
 only some learn it earlier than others. 
 
 '^ Perhaps it is only that he is sick of 
 having his own way," added Gerald, with 
 a touch of bitterness in his turn. " One 
 o£ Fortune's spoiled children. There are 
 plenty." 
 
 " He was one, I know; but now he 
 
 looks as if Fortune had only deluded him 
 in the old days, and afterwards cast him 
 out." 
 
 " Did you see his mother ? " 
 
 " No ; he was quite alone. No one took 
 any notice of him. And he used to be so 
 sociable, and so much liked ! Well, I sup- 
 pose we shall hear how it is, some time." 
 
 " Perhaps at Thorne, to-morrow," said 
 Gerald. 
 
 Marjory sighed. 
 
 '' I am half afraid to go to Thorne ! It 
 has been like an earthly Paradise in my mind 
 all these years, and now — what changes shall 
 I find ! " 
 
 " I question whether there be any such 
 thing as an earthly Paradise," said Gerald,
 
 294 Marjory, 
 
 with liis dreamy smile. "As to clianges, 
 there is nothing for it but to face them, 
 making up one's mind to the worst." 
 '' That is a gloomy doctrine, Gerald." 
 *'Xo, not necessarily. There are worse 
 things than change ! Men and women can 
 bear a great deal if they resolve not to give 
 way." 
 
 The entrance of the little maid with supper, 
 disturbed the colloquy. Marjory raised a 
 corner of the blind, and looked out, cooling 
 her burning cheek against the pane. It was 
 a still night ; not dark even yet ; the cathe- 
 dral, with its fretted tower, rose gray against 
 the cloudless sky. Beyond, one large star 
 shone serenely with steady light. It recalled 
 to her the star which she had seen from her 
 little bed at Thome, on that first evening 
 when she had awakened to see Bellhouse 
 sitting: in the window. The scent of the 
 cigar stole back to her, the song of the 
 thrush, the bright young voice coming up 
 from the path below. Then she remembered 
 how, later, she had watched Bellhouse kneel- 
 ing by the chintz arm-chair; how from 
 Bellhouse's prayers had sprung her own 
 resolution to pray for Mr. Hugh. That 
 resolution had been faithfully kept ; though.
 
 Marjory, 295 
 
 for many years now, meclianically. " 
 Almighty God, bless Mr. Hugh, and make 
 him good ! " She had never forgotten or 
 altered the childish petition ; still, as a 
 fixed habit, she repeated it every night 
 before she lay down in her bed — every night 
 for eight years ! and yet, was the face that 
 she had seen to-night the face of one whom 
 God had blessed ? Was it the face of one 
 whom God had made good ? Could it be 
 that God had overlooked the little prayer, or 
 had refused to hear it ? 
 
 " Do you please to want anything more, 
 miss ? " said Priscilla's voice. 
 
 The little maid was surveying the table, 
 anxious to know if any requisite tor the 
 simple supper were forgotten. Marjory satis- 
 fied her mind upon this point, and then took 
 her place opposite Gerald. 
 
 Gerald was unusually agreeable to-night. 
 The music, or something else, had excited 
 him, and made him more lively and less 
 silent. Marjory found him so entertaining a 
 companion, that she was soon, despite her- 
 self, restored to her usual spirits. They dis- 
 cussed the concert, the music, the people ; 
 all but Lina. Gerald did not seem inclined 
 to talk about Lina. This Marjory observed
 
 2 96 Marjory, 
 
 witli some surprise ; but she supposed that 
 his admiration had been simply an artist's 
 instinctive homage to beauty ; the face had 
 charmed him, but, without further knowledge, 
 he felt no particular interest in the person.
 
 ( 297 ) 
 
 CHAPTEH XXIII. 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light, 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 ' Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just ! 
 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark ; 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 
 
 Could man outlook that mark 1 
 
 " If a star were confined into a tomb. 
 
 Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 
 But, when the hand that locked her up gives room, 
 She'll shine through all the sphere." 
 
 Henry Vaughan. 
 
 The afternoon sun was slanting upon the 
 many-tinted beds below the windows of the 
 old nursery at Thorne. Sweet perfumes, 
 curiously blended, floated upward, as of yore, 
 into the room where little Marjory had 
 rested. Flowers of by-gone times — clove- 
 carnations, wall-flowers, and jonquils, lent 
 their odours to the harmonious compound.
 
 298 Marjory. 
 
 The best days of tlie sjringa were over ; but 
 sweetness came from it still; — and very sweet 
 also was tlie jessamine, which clustered round 
 the windows. The roses were in fullest 
 bloom, a galaxy of beauty — from the noisettes 
 upon the walls, to the ancient standards 
 bordering the paths. Among the blossoms 
 bees hummed drowsily, returning with plen- 
 teous store to their old holes ; wood -pigeons 
 in the shrubbery were cooing, cooing, with 
 the soft melancholy of yore ; a great white 
 cat stretched herself on the grass, lazily 
 basking in the sunshine ; beyond, the slopes 
 of the park lay in alternate light and shadow 
 beneath the grand trees which Marjory 
 remembered. The same atmosphere of peace, 
 of radiant calm, which had characterized 
 Thorne in other days, pervaded it still. The 
 old flower-garden looked just as Marjory had 
 seen it on many and many an afternoon of 
 that pleasant month which lived in her 
 memory as a month in Eden. 
 
 An elderly woman was going to and fro 
 among the flowers, inspecting with careful 
 tenderness one after another of the old 
 favourites, stooping now and then to remove 
 a withered spray, or to collecfc the fallen rose- 
 leaves, with which she was filling the basket
 
 Marjory, 299 
 
 on her arm. Her face was pale and grave, 
 with a chastened expression, teUing of a time 
 when deep furrows had been ploughed upon 
 the quiet brow. Of the same time also told 
 her hair, beneath her plain white cap, plenti- 
 fully mixed with gray; there had been no 
 gray at all in it when Marjory was at 
 Thorne. But her eyes were still bright and 
 keen; as yet no dimness shadowed them, 
 despite their many tears. She was bending 
 to gather a fragrant blossom from Lady 
 Thome's favourite root of jonquils, when 
 through the open glass-door behind her came 
 a rubicund damsel, with a good-natured face, 
 strong arms, and chestnut hair, — a coarse 
 copy of the wavy locks which, eight years 
 before, had crowned Jessie's graceful head. 
 
 '' Aunt," said this damsel, "here's a young 
 lady, asking for you. Where be I to 
 show her? " 
 
 " Where am. I to show her, my dear. You 
 mind your grammar, Kitty ! specially when 
 you open the door to ladies. Did the young 
 lady give a name, my dear ? " 
 
 " Lor, aunt ! here she be a-coming ! " 
 ejaculated Kitty, forgetting her grammar a 
 second time in her surprise at the spectacle 
 of Marjory coming straight on, as though
 
 300 Marjory, 
 
 she knew the place, througli the darkened 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ! The doors were 
 open, and I couldn't help coming. I knew 
 that there was no one here but you," cried 
 Marjory, as Bellhouse, basket on arm, turned 
 inquiringly from the jonquils. 
 
 " You must please excuse me, ma'am," 
 said she, with an old-fashioned reverence; 
 '' I have some recollection of your face ; but 
 I do not know your name." 
 
 ''I am Marjory, — Marjory Stanhope. I 
 was here eight years ago : don't you 
 remember ? Lady Thorne found me in the 
 park, and brought me home, and I slept in 
 the old nursery, in Miss Bvie's bed." 
 
 " Yes, sure, so you did ! I beg your 
 pardon, ma'am, for not knowing you. Little 
 Miss Stanhope ! a little dear she was, too ! — 
 Remember? of course I do. You're heartily 
 welcome, ma'am ; and, now I look at you, I 
 can see exactly the same face — blue eyes and 
 all. Ah, Miss Stanhope ! times are changed 
 since you were here ! " 
 
 At the first glimpse of recognition, eager 
 Marjory had seized the old woman's hand ; 
 and now she could not refrain from kissing the 
 grave, pale face — graver and paler than of yore.
 
 Marjory, 301 
 
 " Dear Bellhouse, I am so longing to hear 
 all about it, if you would not feel it too 
 painful. May I stay and have a little talk 
 with you ? " 
 
 '' May you ! I should be vexed indeed, 
 ma'am, if you hurried away just as you had 
 come. I hope you'll stay as long as ever it 
 is convenient. I have liberty to receive my 
 friends — excuse me, ma'am, for applying such 
 a name to you — and it will be real comfort 
 to have a talk with you. For you knew her 
 ladyship — and loved her — yes, that I'm sure 
 of, child as you were." 
 
 '' Indeed, I did," said Marjory, her eyes 
 filling : '' She has been a sacred memory to 
 me all these eight years. May we sit down 
 on this green seat, Bellhouse ? I remember 
 it so well. I spent such happy hours here, 
 and the flowers and their scents seem like old 
 friends." 
 
 '' You've a faithful heart, ma'am ; I always 
 thought it of you, and now I see it. Yes, 
 please to sit down ; and, if you'll condescend 
 to allow it, I'll sit by you. But you've never 
 come alone, ma'am ? — you have not a friend, 
 I hope, waiting all this time outside ? " 
 
 " No, my brother, who brought me from 
 Alton, is gone to sketch in the park; and he
 
 302 Marjory. 
 
 will not care liow long lie is left alone. I 
 was to join him if I could not see you ; but, 
 as it is, lie will call for me here." 
 
 " I remember how you talked of your 
 brother, ma'am — and the letters you used to 
 write to him. I can see you now — a funny, 
 old-fashioned little thing ! scribbling away as 
 fast as ever the pen would go. I used to tell 
 you you would spoil your hand, I remember. 
 But, ma'am, if I may ask, how is it that you 
 are here ? " 
 
 Marjory briefly explained her residence at 
 Alton, and related how her first anxiety had 
 been for tidings of Thorne. 
 
 " We drove out in an open fly, and I made 
 the driver put us down in the lane, almost in 
 the very place where I stood on that burning 
 day, and watched Jessie in the plantation." 
 
 '' You watched Jessie, my dear ? " 
 
 Marjory started and coloured. What 
 promise had she made to Jessie, eight years 
 ago ? When she looked back in the light of 
 maturer experience, she saw in that promise 
 something which had escaped the little 
 child. 
 
 " Jessie used to gather burdocks there for 
 Lady Thorne. I hunted out all the old places, 
 Bellhouse, so far as I could. We went
 
 Marjory, 303 
 
 throngli the white gate to the brook, and 
 over the little bridge, and then to the lodge 
 to ask a few questions before I dared to come 
 up to the house." 
 
 *' And they told you at the lodge, ma'am, 
 how it was ? " 
 
 *' They told me that — that dear Lady 
 Thorne was dead, and that you were here 
 alone, with one or two servants. I had feared 
 that there might be some changes ; but it 
 was a shock to hear of this. I dared not 
 ask anything more. I thought I would 
 rather hear all from you, if you would tell me." 
 
 " It is a real pleasure to me to see you, 
 Miss Stanhope ! To be sure, the sight brings 
 back old times ; but so does many another 
 thing ; I am used to the pain of that. Well, 
 my dear ! it is four years now I have lived 
 here alone. I am very contented and com- 
 fortable; and Kitty, my niece, who is the 
 only maid-servant besides, is a very good girl, 
 — though rough, from her mother, my sister, 
 having married beneath her, and, dying 
 young, the children were brought up by their 
 father's sister, whose ways and manners were 
 not quite what I have been accustomed to. 
 But Kitty improves ; and she is good-tem- 
 pered, and don't mind being told; and I
 
 304 Marjory, 
 
 don't despair of her in time. And then, 
 ma'am, the gardener and his wife, they live 
 too in the house ; and they are very comfort- 
 able with me, and don't interfere in any way. 
 So I have as much comfort as I can expect — 
 far more than I could ever have believed in, 
 if I had known what was coming upon me. 
 But the Almighty settles things for us in a 
 way we don't expect, — and far better than one 
 fears, my dear ! as, no doubt, you've found 
 before now." 
 
 ''And Lady Thorne has been dead four 
 years ? ' ' 
 
 " Four years last month, ma'am, it is since 
 my dear lady went home. That's what she 
 called it. ' Bellhouse,' she said, on the last 
 morning : — she was not altogether herself, but 
 very calm, with the old gentle look on her : — 
 ' Bellhouse,' she says, ' I'm going home to 
 Sir Archibald and the children, and you'll 
 follow when you ve arranged matters here.' 
 She was partly wandering, ma'am, and 
 thought, maybe, that she and I had been 
 left in some strange place where there was 
 business to be seen to. But I knew that it 
 came quite natural to her to speak so of her 
 death ; for that was how she had long thought 
 of it."
 
 Marjory. 305 
 
 " It was a good bit later in the day, ma' am — 
 just such an afternoon as that when she first 
 brought you up to me in the old nursery — 
 broiling hot, and we had all the windows 
 open for air, and the jessamine smelled so 
 sweet : I was sitting by her bed — she had 
 been dozing a long while, when suddenly she 
 opened her eyes, and said : — ' Bellhouse,' 
 she said, ' I have suffered a great deal. But 
 it is over now.' Those were her last words, 
 my dear." 
 
 "And, then, what happened?" 
 
 " She took hold of my hand, and clasped 
 it, and turned on her side, and went off to 
 sleep again, as peaceful as if she had been a 
 child. And I sat and watched her for an 
 hour or more, and never knew the moment 
 when she died." 
 
 " How lonely you must have felt ! " 
 
 '* Afterwards, my dear, afterwards. Just 
 at that time. Miss Stanhope, I felt only 
 that I had learned a lesson." 
 
 " Please go on, it interests me so." 
 
 "I felt, ma'am, as never before, that our 
 troubles are only for a time. It's a truth 
 we're often hearing ; I've read it in good 
 books, I was taught it when I was a child, 
 and I've heard it in sermons. And yet, if 
 
 VOL. L X
 
 306 Marjory. 
 
 you'll believe me, I never saw it right till 
 then, as I sat by my lady's side. I'd been 
 with her in all her griefs, ma'am ; when she 
 lost that beautiful baby, Miss Jane, and 
 Master Archy, and Miss Evie, — and then Sir 
 Archibald. I had seen her heart ready to 
 break. And I had known how long life 
 seemed to her then, and how hard she felt it 
 to have to go on alone. Her dear heart 
 sank, I knew, many a time, when she looked 
 forward. ' Life's long day,' ma'am, as the 
 hymn says ! But now, there she lay, and 
 what \^as it all ? No more than a dream : 
 past and gone and done with. ' I have 
 suffered a great deal,' she said ; ' but it is 
 over now.' And of a sudden I saw clear, 
 ma'am, that some day it will be over for us 
 all, and then what will it matter ? 
 
 " ' When the shore is won at last, 
 Who will count the billows past?'" 
 
 murmured Marjory. 
 
 "It's how we have borne it, ma'am, will 
 matter then, I take it. And I thought how 
 my dear lady had borne it, how patient and 
 quiet-like ; trying to do the best she could, 
 all the while, for other people. And it 
 seemed to me that, now she had got through.
 
 Marjory. 307 
 
 the Almiglity would feel a pleasure in making 
 up for all He had seen fit to lay on her ! Ah, 
 it is wonderful, ma'am, how all of a sudden, 
 upon times, things come to us that we 
 thought we had known for years ! The 
 Almighty opens a window, as it were ; and 
 the view comes unexpected." 
 
 Peace was in the woman's homely face as 
 she spoke, triumphing over all pain of out- 
 ward circumstance. Marjory saw it and 
 marvelled, and meanwhile a voice within was 
 saying : 
 
 " I could not bear a life like hers, or Lady 
 Thome's ; I could not — I could not." 
 
 Then came an inward tremor as she re- 
 membered that she might yet be forced to 
 bear one ! 
 
 '' Bellhouse," she said suddenly, " You 
 have not mentioned Jessie." 
 
 Bellhouse paused before replying. Some- 
 thing rising in her throat seemed half to 
 choke her for a moment. 
 
 '' Then they said nothing of her, ma'am, 
 at the lodge ? " 
 
 " I did not ask," said Marjory, blaming 
 her own impulsiveness. She feared, from 
 the look in the mother's face, that Jessie too 
 was dead. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 Marjory, 
 
 " Jessie, ma'am — I have little to tell jou 
 of Jessie. She married. That is all I know." 
 
 Marjory looked her answer; she dared 
 not speak ; there was that in Bellhouse's 
 manner which checked inquiry. But sud- 
 denly the unnatural calm broke down ; tears 
 welled from the patient eyes. 
 
 ''V\\ tell you, my dear— I'll tell you. 
 You've a kind heart ; you won't take advan- 
 tage. There's them that are always on the 
 watch for scandal, and in general I keep my 
 own counsel. But you knew her before, and 
 you were fond of her. She stayed on, 
 ma'am, at the place where she went, with 
 Miss Bulkley, at Ripley, near Bullingham." 
 
 " Bullingham ! " repeated Marjory. 
 
 '' A town in Hampshire, ma'am. Do you 
 know the name ? " 
 
 " A friend of mine, a Miss Peele, lived 
 there." 
 
 *' Did she indeed ? But Ripley is seven 
 miles out of the town, a country place like 
 this. Miss Bulkley was an elderly lady, very 
 kind ; she lived with her brother." 
 
 " Mr. Bulkley ! I remember him quite well. 
 He came to Thorne. A very stout old gentle- 
 man, who travelled with two servants. He 
 was very good to me."
 
 Marjory, 309 
 
 '* He was especial fond of children. When 
 he visited here, quite as a young man, he 
 made so much of the little dears in the 
 nursery ! His sister was just as kind, and a 
 mighty friend of her ladyship's. She treated 
 Jessie as a pet — too much, I fear, my dear I 
 it was her beauty, you see, that bewitched 
 every one; and she had a deal of liberty. 
 But I knew that she would not do to be kept 
 too straight ; and the accounts of her were 
 very good. By degrees I had got almost 
 used to being without her ; and I hoped she 
 was settlinof down into a faithful and 
 honoured servant — which was what I always 
 desired. She came here once, with Miss 
 Bulkley, on a visit ; and I was very much 
 pleased by all I saw of them together. And 
 so things went on, — all right, as I thought, 
 for more than two years and a half. Then, 
 all of a sudden, one morning, came a blow." 
 
 Marjory's face grew pale, in sympathy with 
 that of her companion. Bellhouse paused to 
 glance half nervously over her shoulder ; and 
 went on with lowered voice : 
 
 " It was a letter, ma'am, from Miss Bulkley 
 to her ladyship, to say that Jessie was gone, 
 — no one knew where. She had disappeared 
 either in the night, or very early, and they
 
 310 Marjory. 
 
 could find no trace of lier. All possible 
 inquiries were being made, Miss Bulkley told 
 us, and we should hear again when they 
 knew more. That was all." 
 
 '' Oh, Bellhouse ! What did you do ? " 
 
 " I took to my bed, ma'am. Her ladyship 
 broke the news to me, as gentle and as 
 tender ! but it drove me well-nigh beside 
 myself. ' Bellhouse,' says my lady, ' we 
 must keep this quiet ; we must say no word 
 to any one till we hear again.' I saw the 
 wisdom of that, ma'am ; but contain myself 
 I couldn't. All the strength fled out of me, 
 as it were, in a minute. I went to my bed, 
 and there I lay." 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am that it was not after 
 Lady Thome's death ! " 
 
 " Oh, ma'am ! if it had been, it must have 
 killed me, or drove me mad ! Words can't 
 say, ma'am, what she was to me. She would 
 come to my bed like an angel straight from 
 the Almighty. He sent His comfort by her ; 
 and I lived on that, and nothing else, for two 
 whole days and nights. The servants 
 thought it was just illness, and her ladyship 
 gave orders that no one was to disturb me 
 more than needful. Well, ma'am, the third 
 morning I had a letter. Oh, that letter ! I
 
 Marjory, 311 
 
 seemed to go mad with joy, just as I had 
 done with sorrow. I jumped up, put on my 
 clothes, and ran with it straight to her 
 ladyship." 
 
 " Was it from Jessie ? " 
 
 " Yes, from Jessie herself : only a note, 
 but written in such spirits ! It said that 
 she was happily married ; that she could tell 
 me no more at present, because his friends 
 would be angry if they knew of the marriage, 
 — for he was a real gentleman. They were 
 going abroad for a bit ; and she would write 
 again as soon as things were more settled. 
 She begged me to get her ladyship to ask 
 Miss Bulkley's forgiveness, and say that she 
 would some day explain all. As for me, she 
 said, she would more than make up for all I 
 had ever suffered on her account. Just at 
 the end came these words : ' Dear mother, 
 — you see I told you true. I am a lady 
 at last ! ' 
 
 " That was the letter, ma'am, signed 
 * Jessie Russell,' and enclosing a packet of 
 photographs of herself in her wedding-dress. 
 At first, as you'll understand, all I seemed 
 able to think of was the knowledge that she 
 was safe, and married respectable. There 
 was the photograph, with my Jessie looking
 
 312 Marjory. 
 
 so well and tappy ! and her wedding-ring 
 quite plain. After all I had feared and 
 fancied, it seemed too much joy ! " 
 
 " And how glad Lady Thorne must have 
 been too ! " 
 
 "Well, ma'am, she was glad in a way; 
 but yet she looked grave : and, as soon as 
 the first surprise was over, I saw plenty of 
 reason. First of all, the letter was so giddy 
 and thoughtless — and the whole thing had 
 been done in such a way, so underhand all 
 through, and so ungrateful to Miss Bulkley. 
 Oh, my dear, I shed many a tear of shame 
 before the day was done ! And then, ma'am, 
 I felt uneasy again. I began to think that 
 her husband must be a queer sort of man to 
 manage things so ! The more I thought, 
 the worse it seemed ; at last I had it all out 
 with her ladyship. Then she told me 
 that she had been uneasy from the 
 first ; only she did not like to damp my 
 relief." 
 
 " And Jessie had never given any hint of 
 her being engaged ? " 
 
 " Never a word, ma'am ; neither to me 
 nor to Miss Bulkley. No one at Eipley had 
 any notion of it : except that she used to go 
 out for long walks alone, upon times, and
 
 Marjory, 313 
 
 particular in the three months before she 
 disappeared. But never a word was breathed 
 to blemish her character ; indeed, thank God, 
 ma'am, I had a confidence that Jessie was 
 too proud, if nothing else, for that ! Her 
 ladyship eased the way for me there, by her- 
 self giving out that Jessie was married, and 
 gone abroad ; and many a one came wishing 
 me joy, and asking all manner of questions 
 that I could not tell how to answer. And 
 all the while my heart was aching, and pining 
 for my Jessie, and wanting to know more 
 about her, and what sort of person was her 
 husband. And I could not help thinking, 
 ma'am, how different all would have been if 
 she had come to be married at Thorne, and 
 how proud I should have felt of her ! It was 
 a sin in me, my dear, and the Almighty has 
 punished it — but I had always a pride in 
 Jessie. And I kept fancying how pretty 
 she would have looked at her wedding in 
 Thorne Church, and how kind my lady would 
 have been, and what presents she would have 
 had, and what a cake at the breakfast ! and 
 what a joyful day altogether — only I should 
 have sorrowed, very like, to part with her — 
 but still I should have felt myself selfish to 
 begrudge her a home of her own. But now
 
 314 Marjory, 
 
 I couldn't feel sure what her home would be; 
 for what could one expect from a stolen 
 marriage, and the husband too much of a 
 coward to tell his friends, and all ? However, 
 I kept on hoping that things would turn out 
 better when I knew more ; and day after day 
 I watched the post for another letter. — But, 
 my dear, I never heard from Jessie again." 
 
 " Never again ! " 
 
 " Never one word, ma'am." 
 
 She paused, looking up to the sky in the 
 way that Marjory remembered. 
 
 " The Almighty knows where she is ; that's 
 my comfort. He made her ; and He loved 
 her better than I could ; and very like, at 
 this minute, she's safe with Him." 
 
 Then, more freely than before, the tears 
 streamed, and for some minutes there was 
 silence. 
 
 '' How you have suffered ! " breathed Mar- 
 jory, softly, at last. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, yes. But Well, there's 
 
 no use to talk of it ! You may fancy how it 
 all was. Sometimes I feared my Jessie was 
 ill, and felt half mad, thinking she might 
 be wanting me to nurse her. Sometimes I 
 thought she had grown ashamed of her old 
 mother, and that her husband might even
 
 Marjory, 315 
 
 have insisted on lier giving me up. And yet 
 I could not find in my heart to believe, with 
 all her vanity, my Jessie would ever do that ! 
 And sometimes I thought she might be dead. 
 That is what I am getting to feel well-nigh 
 certain of, now." 
 
 " I wonder the suspense has not killed 
 you." 
 
 '' I kept a firm hold to the thought, ' The 
 Almighty loves my Jessie better than I do.' 
 I might have died, or worse, but for that." 
 
 " I suppose you do not expect much now ?" 
 said Marjory, under her breath. 
 
 '' No, I made up my mind years ago, 
 ma'am, to expect no more. Expecting only 
 made me wretched. If my Jessie had been 
 alive, and in her right mind, would she have 
 stayed all these years from her mother? 
 Wouldn't she have written, if only a few 
 words, to ease my mind, if no more ? I 
 never can believe to the contrary ; Jessie was 
 never cruel. She was proud beyond every- 
 thing, and foolish, and a bit selfish ; but 
 cruel she never was. Sometimes, indeed, 
 ma'am," said Bellhouse, sighing heavily, 
 while a painful anxiety came over her face 
 like a cloud — " sometimes my mind misgives 
 me lest perhaps — if she found she had a bad
 
 316 Marjory. 
 
 husband — slie miglit liave been too proud to 
 let me know, and so kept silence, and hidden 
 herself. She might — she might ; I could 
 not answer for it ! But I try to put the 
 thought away ; it hurts me too much : — I'd 
 rather think she's safe with the Almighty. 
 
 *' Wasn't it King Hezekiah, ma'am, that 
 said ' Lord, I am oppressed ! undertake for 
 me ! ' That is my feeling, so strong ! and I 
 feel quite sure that He does undertake, as if 
 I saw it with my eyes. And T know there 
 will come a day when I shall see my Jessie 
 again, and be with her and my dear lady for 
 ever. I have prayed so much for her all my 
 life ; the Almighty would never forget those 
 prayers : — no, it can only be that the right 
 time is not come. When I see her, she'll tell 
 me all about it ; so I must just be patient, 
 and wait as my lady waited." 
 
 Then Bellhouse was silent, and Marjory 
 felt that she had herself no fitting words to 
 say. But in place of the . tears had come a 
 hush and a peace, which imparted to the 
 homely face a touch of the divine.
 
 ( 317 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 " The voices are gone, buf: I linger, 
 And silence is over all ; 
 "Where once there was music and laughter 
 Stands Death in the empty hall. 
 
 " There is only a dead rose lying, 
 
 Faded and crushed on the floor ; 
 And a harp whose strings are broken, 
 
 That love will play no more." 
 W. W. S. {Blackwood s Magazine^ July, 1879). 
 
 " And now," said Marjory, when Bellhouse liad 
 settled down into her first composure, '' I 
 want to ask you about Mr. Hugh Vivian." 
 
 " You don't mean to say, ma'am, that 
 you've heard nothing all this time about the 
 changes at Copelands ? " 
 
 " What changes do you mean ? " cried 
 Marjory, flushing between mingled curiosity 
 and dread. 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! you were but a child, 
 certainly, at the time ; but it was the talk 
 of the whole county, and I made sure that 
 it would be in all the papers." 
 
 " But what was it ? what happened ? " 
 r peated Marjory, breathless and still flushed.
 
 318 Marjory. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, about a year after you left 
 us — let me see," said Bellhouse, pausing to 
 make inward calculations : " Yes, you left us 
 eight years ago, and it is seven years since 
 Mr. Vivian's death. Mr. Vivian died, ma'am, 
 struck down in a moment, of heart- complaint; 
 no one knew, before, that he had it. They 
 telegi^aphed for Mr. Hugh, to Scotland, to 
 his regiment ; and of course we all thought 
 that he would be master now. Poor fellow, 
 he thought so himself, and never expected 
 any blow worse than his sudden loss. 
 
 " And then, ma'am, it came upon us like 
 a thunderbolt, that the family were ruined ! 
 The estate had been heavily — moggidged, I 
 think they call it, for years and years, and 
 would have to go clean away ; and, besides 
 that, were heavy debts, thousands and thou- 
 sands of pounds. All the beautiful things 
 had to be sold, ma'am : it would have broken 
 your heart to see it, — for Copelands was quite 
 a picture, I'm sure, inside and out. All the 
 statues and the pictures and the plate ; Mr. 
 Brown, — our butler, he cried, ma'am, to think 
 of the plate ! and the beautiful furniture, old 
 and new, and even the family jewels : and 
 the carriages, and the horses, Mr. Hugh's 
 chestnut, and all — every one had to go.
 
 Marjory, 319 
 
 Her ladyship bouglit some of the plate, and 
 a few favourite pictures, and gave tliem as a 
 present to Mrs. Vivian. But she wouldn't 
 take them, nor let Mr. Hugh ; she said it 
 was too painful. So then her ladyship left 
 them to Mr. Hugh in her will ; but they are 
 still here : he is living in lodgings, poor young 
 gentleman, and has no room for them." 
 
 " But, Bellhouse, how was it ? The Vivians 
 seemed so rich ! " 
 
 " They did seem so, ma'am ; but it turned 
 out to be only seeming. I don't understand 
 much about such things, but I have heard it 
 was in this way. Mr. Vivian's grandfather 
 and father were both very wild and extrava- 
 gant, and lived very fast, far beyond what 
 they could afford ; and the grandfather mar- 
 ried a great lady, and had to make a heavy 
 settlement on her ; and, at her death, what 
 should she do but leave it away from the 
 family ? What with it all, the estate was 
 moggidged long before our Mr. Vivian's time ; 
 and both he and Mrs. Vivian had been 
 brought up very high, and to a fine way of 
 living ; and they were too proud, if nothing 
 else, not to keep it up. And so things went 
 on till they got past mending, and I have 
 heiird say that their only hope was for Mr.
 
 320 Marjory. 
 
 Hugli to make a grand marriage, and bring 
 back the family fortunes. But you see, 
 ma'am, as it turned out, poor Mr. Vivian 
 died when Mr. Hugh was not much more 
 than one-and-twenty ; and then it was all 
 over." 
 
 " All over," repeated Marjory ; " For this 
 world, at any rate." 
 
 She sat with her hands clasped, her eyes 
 fixed, gazing into vacancy — upon Copelands as 
 she had seen it in that summer- day's drive, 
 eight years ago : the stately mansion, with 
 its terraces and gardens ; the young soldier, 
 reining in his horse, with that air of careless 
 grace, and saying, with peculiar meaning, 
 overlooking that fair vision — '' There's no 
 place like home ! " 
 
 '' And for the next world, oh, my dear ! " 
 said Bellhouse, answering Marjory's dreamy 
 words : " If only that noble lady, Mrs. Vivian, 
 had been like her ladyship ! Her ladyship's 
 heart seemed of late years to be as much in 
 Heaven as here ; but Mrs. Vivian was other- 
 wise. She had always been one of the great 
 ones of this world ; and when that went, all 
 went. All but Mr. Hugh : and the sight of 
 him broke her heart." 
 
 " How did he bear it ? "
 
 Marjory. 321 
 
 " Ma'am," said Bellhouse, " we must speak 
 always tenderly of the dead; and yet — I do 
 blame his parents. Yes ; I've thought, many 
 and many a time, how cruel it seemed to 
 bring up that poor young fellow so, with 
 every luxury, every one bowing before him : 
 why, ma'am, he was for all the world like a 
 young prince at Copelands ! It does seem 
 downright cruel to have reared him in that 
 manner, and not so much as had him taught 
 any honest way of earning his bread, when 
 ruin was staring them in the face, — and as for 
 him, certain sure to come upon him ! — unless 
 so be that he had died, or made, as I said, a 
 great marriage. And that was but a chance, 
 ma'am, as all might know; and Mr. Hugh 
 was not one to be forced in marriage, neither. 
 He was a spoiled boy as ever lived, poor 
 fellow ! I don't believe it had ever entered 
 into his head, till his father died, that any- 
 thing could thwart him ! And then — why, 
 then, everything came upon him all at 
 
 once." 
 
 " Did you see him at the time ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Vivian sent for her ladyship, and I 
 
 went with her ; we were there the first part 
 
 of the sale. Mrs. Vivian had hoped to leave 
 
 Cop 3lands sooner ; but she was too iU ; and 
 
 V( L. I. Y
 
 322 Marjory. 
 
 the sale could not be put off. It had begun 
 two days before she could get away. She, 
 poor lady ! kept herself close, as far as pos- 
 sible from the noise and confusion ; but 
 poor Mr. Hugh could not hide himself so. 
 He had to be in the thick of all." 
 
 " How terrible it must have been to him !" 
 " My heart bled for him, ma'am, indeed. 
 There he was — obhged to see all the folk that 
 came crowding up the terraces, — some only to 
 stare and gossip, and abuse the family's ex- 
 travagance ; for you know, ma'am, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Vivian were always too high to be much 
 of favourites in the neighbourhood. And 
 others came just to haggle and bargain, and 
 get more than their money's worth — brokers, 
 tradespeople, and such like. And there they 
 all were, examining and chaffering, and 
 making their coarse remarks about the beau- 
 tiful old things — them that he loved most, 
 poor young gentleman, as well as the rest. 
 Those were the vulgar sort ; but there were 
 others ; perhaps harder for him to see. The 
 gentry, ma'am, came flocking : the Earl from 
 Fairlegh, and Sir Thomas Bohun, and Lord 
 Colquhoun, one or more from well-nigh all 
 the great families round about : for there 
 were pictures, and old china, and valuable
 
 Marjory. 323 
 
 things of every description to tempt them. 
 And besides those came many that Mrs. 
 Vivian had looked down on, and sUghted, 
 because they were not quite in her set, or 
 from no better reason ; people that Mr. Hugh 
 had been brought up to despise and make 
 quiet fun of at home : you see, ma'am, I 
 knew all the ins and outs, from being so 
 long at Thorne. And some of them had 
 always been glad to pick up any story 
 against the family ; and some had been 
 accustomed to toady them, and would have 
 done anything in the world to get an invita- 
 tion from Mrs. Yivian ; or even, I do believe, 
 one of them grand bows of hers ! And Mr. 
 Hugh, he knew all about it ; and yet there 
 he had to be and see them now, coming to 
 gaze and finger and traffic with the rest. I 
 stood behind a pillar, ma'am, in the great 
 hall, and watched him as long as I could 
 bear it. You remember Mr. Hugh, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 '' Oh, yes ! " 
 
 '^ Then you know what a bright look he 
 had in his face, and how he seemed always 
 ready to make fun, and throw out a laugh- 
 ing word, no matter to whom ; and yet he 
 was high too, in his way, and always the 
 I Y 2
 
 324 Marjory. 
 
 master : — more of a king than a master, in- 
 deed, with the people about the place. Well, 
 my dear, the very last time that I had seen 
 him, he had that look and that manner; 
 when I saw him now, a little backward from 
 the crowd, the change seemed to strike me 
 through ! He stood very straight, ma'am, 
 like a young soldier born ; and his head a 
 bit higher than usual, very still, and very 
 proud. But the colour was all gone out of 
 his face ; he was as pale as, with that brown 
 skin of his, he could be ; and his mouth was 
 set in a way which I had never seen before 
 — stern and resolute, as it were, as if he had 
 made up his mind to battle through without 
 showing an inch of what he felt. But his 
 eyes — you'll remember he had fine dark eyes 
 — they were brimful of agony. I shall never 
 forget that look, ma'am ! As I turned away 
 — for I could not bear it long — I thought : 
 * But for his mother, he would shoot him- 
 self Yes, and often I .have thought since, 
 that so it would have been — in that first 
 freshness of his troubles — but for her." 
 " I recollect how fond he was of her." 
 " More than fond, ma'am ; he was wrapped 
 up in her : and good to her past everything ! 
 As soon as she could be moved, she came to
 
 Marjory, 325 
 
 Tliorne ; and lie rode over every night from 
 Copelands : and I never saw son more de- 
 voted. When he was with her, his only 
 thought seemed to be how he could shield 
 and comfort her ; and she got to lean on him 
 as if she had been a child. She might have 
 stayed at Thorne, poor lady, as long as ever 
 she had a mind ; but all her cry was to get 
 away, away to some strange place. Ah, she 
 was proud, ma'am, Mrs. Vivian ! She could 
 not bear the pity and the gossip, and the 
 tongues so busy with her name ; and she 
 would rather die than live on charity — even 
 my lady's. She was set from the first on 
 hiding herself, where no one knew her. But 
 the difficulty was, where to go ; for they had 
 no money, except a little that was over from 
 the sale o£ poor Mr. Hugh's place in the 
 army. I don't rightly understand these 
 things, ma'am; but no doubt you can tell 
 my meaning." 
 
 " The sale of his commission, you must 
 mean. But how could he live if he left the 
 army? " 
 
 " He could not have lived in it, ma'am ; 
 his habits had been too expensive : it would 
 have been very hard to alter them, and break 
 off all his old connections. Then he wanted
 
 326 Marjory, 
 
 to make a home for liis mother ; and, above 
 all, the money was downright necessary. 
 Some even of that had to go towards the 
 debts." 
 
 '' And what did they do ? " 
 
 " It was a hard case, ma'am, and puzzling. 
 My dear lady did her best in every way, and 
 applied to friends for advice ; and at last 
 help came through Mr. Bulkley — Mr. Bulk- 
 ley of Eipley, my poor Jessie's master, my 
 dear. He was always a gentleman for help- 
 ing all that needed it ; and, as it happened, 
 he was a large shareholder in a bank at 
 Bullingham, and so was able to get a clerk- 
 ship there for Mr. Hugh." 
 
 '' But what a change ! " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, indeed. No one I heard 
 speak of it but said. What a pity ! And yet 
 it was the only thing at the time ; for, you 
 see, there had been a sad fault in his edu- 
 cation. His father and mother, they had 
 built upon chance, so to speak : — may the 
 Almighty forgive me, if I judge them ! They 
 were that proud of Mr. Hugh, they would not 
 have wondered if he had married a princess ! 
 and he, poor young gentleman, had been 
 allowed to do pretty much as he liked, and 
 learn or not learn, as the fancy took him.
 
 Marjory, 327 
 
 Else, if only lie could liave passed a hard ex- 
 amination, there was many a post to be got 
 for him : so I understood. But that he 
 never could, without a deal of study — for 
 which there was no time, nor money ; so he 
 had just to take what he could get. Poor 
 fellow, he accepted the clerkship ; and they 
 went off to Bullingham." 
 
 Here Bellhouse relapsed into a reverie, 
 and Marjory sat intent upon a thought which 
 had suddenly struck her. She was recalling 
 a conversation with Lina, more than a year 
 before, — Lina's mention of a clerk in her 
 father's bank — " a black sheep," whose name 
 was Hugh Vivian. That name had seemed 
 a mere coincidence, then, both to Marjory 
 and her friend ; but now it had a new sig- 
 nificance. . . . What had he done to cause 
 that look which she remembered, on Lina's 
 classical face ? 
 
 '^ You heard of him sometimes, I suppose?" 
 "Now and then, my dear, — only very rarely. 
 Mrs. Vivian, she was too broken-hearted, I 
 take it, for writing. Any way, there came 
 only two or three short notes from her to 
 my lady ; and Mr. Hugh — well, he wrote 
 once or twice, but only that. Miss Bulkley, 
 she would mention them sometimes ; but she
 
 328 Marjory. 
 
 knew little of them. Slie would have been 
 glad, slie said, to have them often at Ripley ; 
 but they would not come. That was Mrs. 
 Vivian's doing, ma'am, you may be sure. I 
 take it she could not bear to visit, in her 
 altered position : — she that had always been 
 the first, or made much of with the first, in 
 all companies hitherto. It would have been 
 gall to her to think that Miss Bulkley invited 
 her from pity, as it were ; and, as for poor 
 young Mr. Hugh, all his wish was just to 
 pleasure her ! So we heard scarce anything 
 about them, and in a while their name seemed 
 to have faded out of the county : but yet the 
 news did come like a shock, when Mrs. 
 Vivian died." 
 
 '' She died too, then ! How long ago ? " 
 
 '' Oh, a long time, ma'am — two or three 
 months before my Jessie was married. Some 
 inward disease had worked in her many years ; 
 and her trouble and poverty quickened it, 
 and brought it to light. The doctors could 
 do nothing, — such doctors as she could afford, 
 at least, poor lady. She just languished 
 away, and died in their lodgings at BuUing- 
 ham." 
 
 " And he was left alone ? " 
 
 " Yes, poor young gentleman. Oh, he has
 
 Marjory, 329 
 
 suffered enough to break his heart twice over, 
 ma'am ! After his ma was dead, he threw 
 up his situation, and went away — no one 
 knew where. It was just after that, my 
 trouble began about Jessie; and I had no 
 anxiety to spare for him, or for anything 
 outside my daily duties. All I know is, that 
 he was travelling for many a long day ; but, 
 poor fellow, he has come back now, into our 
 country. Very like, ma'am, you will see him 
 before long ; for he lives at Alton." 
 
 ''I believe I did see him — last night," 
 was all that Marjory answered. Many 
 thoughts were busy in her mind. 
 
 '' Did you indeed, ma'am ? I wonder you 
 recognised him ; for he is changed. His 
 troubles have set their mark on him ; and I 
 fear he takes them hard. He comes, upon 
 times, to see me ; he doesn't say much, but 
 he is always kind, and thoughtful of my 
 comfort. He remembers my old tastes, 
 ma'am, and brings me a little present to suit 
 them, now and again. But there's something 
 about him vexes me a good bit," said Bell- 
 house, shaking her head. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " I can't rightly explain, ma'am : a kind 
 of scornfulness, and a look on his coun-
 
 330 Marjory, 
 
 tenance, if I speak of the Almiglity or of 
 Heaven ; and tliem being all I have to hope 
 for now, are so much in mj heart that, like 
 enough, they're more on my lips than I know 
 of. Well ! I trust he'll be brought round, 
 if he's going wrong, and shown the silver 
 lining to his troubles. I pray it, and that's 
 all I can do for him, poor fellow," said Bell- 
 house, sighing. 
 
 '' How does he live now ? Is he in a 
 bank again ? " 
 
 '' Ko, ma'am, he's quartermaster, I think 
 they call it, to the militia ; and I've heard 
 that he gets something besides, by writing 
 for magazines and newspapers : but he has 
 to pinch and contrive, I take it, compared 
 to the past, to live even in the way he does. 
 He has a lodging, ma'am, he tells me, in 
 High Street, — two little rooms." 
 
 " And who lives at Copelands, now ? " 
 
 '' Oh, my dear, 'tis piteous to see Cope- 
 lands ! As for me, I don't desire ever to set 
 eyes on it again. That gentleman the poor 
 squire had moggidged it to, was one who sets 
 no store by old places. He'd never had any 
 of his own, I suppose, and so knew nothing 
 of that kind of feeling. Why, I heard him, 
 myself, say at the sale, looking round about
 
 Marjory. 331 
 
 him : 'The sooner every one of these useless 
 old houses is swept away, the better for Eng- 
 land ! ' What could you expect, ma'am, 
 from such a sentiment ? He sold it to some 
 carpet-weaving company, who fancied it from 
 its nearness to the river ; and now the house 
 is turned into a factory. 
 
 ''Many say they would not have known 
 the place ; and I don't wonder ; for there's a 
 great tall chimney put up, that disfigures it 
 sadly ; we can see it, ma'am, from one part 
 of our park. Then most of the gardens are 
 done away with, and the terraces are levelled ; 
 and there's a great yard all round : and the 
 stables are turned into out-houses for the 
 factory. Inside, great numbers of rooms 
 are pulled down, and thrown into one ; and 
 the whole place is full of machinery. They 
 say, too, that the parish of Copelands is 
 downright ruined by the quantity of bad 
 characters who have come there to work. 
 For my part, ma'am, I wish they'd alter the 
 name ; for the place is a different place 
 altogether." 
 
 *' But the beautiful old park ! They could 
 not alter that ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes, ma'am ! In the parts near 
 the house, there's a number of cottages;
 
 332 Marjory. 
 
 ugly, upstart-looking places they are too, 
 mostly of red brick ; they have been put up 
 for the hands — one now, one then, as they 
 were wanted. And the rest is all sold, or 
 let, to different parties. The trees are well- 
 nigh all cut down and gone, and the land is 
 parcelled off into fields. The new branch 
 railway cuts right across, and now they're 
 building a station. Poor Mr. Hugh — or Mr. 
 Yivian, for so we call him now, he's been 
 over there once, he told me. Once was 
 enough, I should think, poor fellow ! " 
 
 ''It is too painful to dwell upon," said 
 Marjory. 
 
 She did not wonder now that Mr. Hugh 
 was changed. Her heart ached for him, and 
 with him.
 
 ( 333 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " All are scattered now and fled, 
 Some are married, some are dead ; 
 And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
 
 ' Ah ! when shall they all meet again 
 As in the days long since gone by, 
 The ancient time-piece makes reply, — 
 
 * For ever — never ! 
 Never — for ever ! ' 
 
 " Never here, for ever there, 
 Where all parting, pain, and care, 
 And death, and time shall disappear, — 
 For ever there, but never here ! 
 The horologe of Eternity 
 Sayeth this incessantly, — 
 
 * For ever — never ! 
 
 Never — for ever !' " — Longfellow. 
 
 " I HAVE never asked you how Thorne was 
 left," said Marjory, suddenly ; " How is it 
 that no one lives here ? " 
 
 '' Perhaps I have told you, ma'am, in old 
 times, that Sir Archibald was the last of his 
 family. They were an old Saxon family, as 
 I've always been informed ; and so no wonder 
 they have died out at last. But Sir Archi- 
 bald put it in his will, that at my lady's 
 death all should go to a little Master Craw-
 
 334 Marjory. 
 
 ford, whose grandfather had been his bosom- 
 friend. Master Crawford is grown up now, 
 and in Parliament, and very clever, with no 
 taste for country life. However, he's not 
 like that person who got Copelands ; he has 
 a reverence for old days and old houses. He 
 keeps on the old steward, and we two or 
 three servants, to take care of the place. 
 What his future plans may be, I don't know ; 
 he is quite young as yet, and upon times I 
 fancy that some day he'll be marrying, and 
 bringing down a young wife. Bat that I 
 leave." 
 
 ''And perhaps, after all, you might find 
 her a comfort ? " 
 
 '' I don't know, ma'am — I can't say. It 
 would seem strange to see any one in my 
 dear lady's place. Though, as to that, I 
 should not be bound to stay ; for her lady- 
 ship left me a small independence : with care, 
 I could manage, if needs were. So far I've 
 been laying it by regular;, against a rainy 
 day. Except a few little legacies like that, 
 all her ladyship's money went to a distant 
 cousin of her own, who was poor. She was 
 very just, and had strong feelings of kith and 
 kin ; else poor young Mr. Vivian might be 
 the better."
 
 Marjory. 335 
 
 " And now there is only one thing I have to 
 ask : What has become of the Hammonds ? " 
 
 " Martha Hammond, my dear, that you 
 and your poor aunt and uncle lodged with ? 
 Well, her mother at the south lodge died 
 six years ago, and after that she had no tie 
 to these parts ; and Hammond had a good 
 offer in the tailoring line from a friend who 
 had emigrated ; so off they all went to 
 Australia ; and I understand they are doing 
 very well." 
 
 Marjory's curiosity was now satisfied, so 
 far as lay in Bellhouse's power. She sat 
 still, in a kind of maze, thinking everything 
 over, comparing the Thorne of her childhood 
 with that of the present. Once it had been 
 the little old lady's lot to see all the same, 
 yet different ; now her own turn had come. 
 A strange melancholy stole over her; the 
 glow which had transfigured all life since her 
 arrival at Alton, faded into twilight. She 
 saw Time as a relentless figure, the future 
 like a scroll in his hand, unfolding ever more 
 and more — dark places no less than bright 
 ones. He could never pause, nor allow his 
 subjects to pause, in that ever-changing 
 monotony — a monotony which made the past 
 prophetic of the present.
 
 336 Marjory, 
 
 " There's sometliing very strange in life, 
 Bellhouse !" she said ; " But some people are 
 happy in spite of all ? Though there are so 
 many changes and chances, we are helped 
 through, if we trust ? " 
 
 Bellhouse turned her grave pale face, and 
 looked gently at the eager girl, so young, so 
 inexperienced, taking life, as it were, by 
 hearsay. The blue eyes met her older ones 
 with a questioning glance that trembled on 
 the edge of tears. What was in the girl's 
 mind, she wondered? She paused, and 
 pondered before answering. 
 
 '' Yes, my dear," she said tenderly, at last 
 — '' yes, we are helped ; and the help of the 
 Almighty is wonderful. But it must come in 
 His own way." 
 
 Marjory was satisfied. Here was the evi- 
 dence of one who had passed through some 
 of earth's fiercest storms; but the closing 
 sentence escaped her. She had not yet 
 realised — who has, at eighteen ? — how vast 
 a difference may lie between God's way and 
 man's way. 
 
 '' I'm so glad you came, ma'am," said 
 Bellhouse, after a pause. *' It has done me 
 a power of good ! The more I look at you, 
 the better I remember you; you seem just
 
 Marjory. 337 
 
 the same to me now as wlien jou were a 
 little girl, playing about here. Poor Mr. 
 Yivian — Mr. Hugh that was — I remember 
 his saying : ' If that child grows up as blue 
 as her eyes, Bellhouse, she'll be a noted 
 character ! ' Poor young gentleman ! he 
 was always fond of his joke." 
 
 '^ He was very kind to me, I remember. I 
 wish I could help him ! Well, Gerald will 
 be coming for me soon ; but, first, may I 
 have one look at the dear old room, and Miss 
 Evie's little bed ? " 
 
 '' To be sure, ma'am ! of course you may. 
 Come along in with me, and you shall go all 
 over the house, if you like. I take a pride, 
 my dear, in keeping it just as it used to be, 
 and such as will satisfy her ladyship, if she 
 can see it still. How pleased she would 
 have been to-day ! she had such a fancy for 
 you, my dear. You mustn't go yet awhile ; 
 you must have some tea to refresh you be- 
 fore your walk — and your brother too, ma'am, 
 if he will excuse the liberty." 
 
 As Bellhouse spoke, they were passing 
 throuo^h the darkened drawino^-room. There 
 was the piano ; the harp upon which Mrs. 
 Vivian had played ; the portfolio of engrav- 
 ings which Lady Thorn e had opened for 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 338 Marjory, 
 
 Marjory ; the chair in which the little old 
 lady had sat, netting serenely at the shawl 
 for her old woman. The old scent of rose- 
 leaves pervaded the room ; the furniture was 
 swathed in holland covers, — otherwise it 
 might have been but yesterday that the 
 scenes in Marjory's memory had passed. 
 Silently the girl followed across the hall, up 
 the oak staircase, and along the passages, in 
 a pilgrimage through the house. The chintz 
 arm-chair was still standing in the deep- 
 seated window of the old nursery ; the paper 
 was bright as of yore, with the wondrous 
 birds and roses, so greatly admired by the 
 child. Figures long vanished flitted before 
 Marjory's eyes, as she trod the familiar floors. 
 She heard voices speaking once again, each 
 in its own tone. The charm which Thorne 
 had ever possessed for her was magically 
 strengthened ; she felt an unaccountable love 
 for the place, a clinging to it as though it 
 were her home. 
 
 *'I hope you will never leave Thorne, 
 Bellhouse. It would almost break your 
 heart ! " 
 
 " I can't answer for that, ma'am. If the 
 Almighty had meant my heart to break, it 
 would have broken years ago. But it would
 
 Marjory. 339 
 
 be a sore wrench, my dear, certainly. I 
 can't fancy living, to be called life, any- 
 where else ! " 
 
 '' It will never be, I feel sure ; forgive me 
 for thinking of it ! " cried Marjory in her im- 
 pulsive way. Then they returned downstairs, 
 and reached the hall just as Gerald was ring- 
 ing at the door. 
 
 Now Marjory, in pride and pleasure, had 
 to introduce Bellhouse to Gerald, and Gerald 
 to the land of her dreams. 
 
 *' I have heard a great deal about you, 
 and about this place," he said to the old 
 servant : "I feel as though I had come into 
 the middle of a story-book ! " 
 
 '' And I am sure it is a great honour, sir, 
 to see you here," said Bellhouse, with her 
 old-fashioned reverence ; '' and her ladyship 
 would be glad to welcome you, if she were 
 here at this moment." 
 
 With these mutual civilities, Bellhouse 
 and the young man were speedily excellent 
 friends-; and Bellhouse, as Marjory perceived, 
 was deeply impressed by his sketch from a 
 knoll in the park. 
 
 Here, as a background, rose the west end 
 of the church, and a few of the rustic grave- 
 stones ; while in the foreground was one of 
 z 2
 
 340 Marjory, 
 
 tlie grand old trees, encompassed by divers 
 forms of life. Among the boughs sat a 
 squirrel, discussing an imaginary acorn ; a 
 thrush, straining his throat in song, was 
 perched high in leafy solitude ; the bright 
 eyes of a field-mouse peeped from the moss 
 which clothed the foot of the trunk. Here 
 also, in the chequered shade, clustered grasses 
 and wild flowers ; the tiny pimpernel, with 
 its upturned face, buttercups, and a root of 
 sturdy foxglove ; large ferns, spreading wide 
 and feathery, dandelion clocks and clover, 
 growing all together in a colony, as every 
 countryman and woman has seen them many 
 a time, in just such another place. 
 
 Bellhouse, country born and bred, marked 
 the fidelity of each detail ; and at the same 
 time instinctively felt the power of the atmo- 
 sphere of ideality which Marjory had learned 
 to recognise as a characteristic of Gerald's 
 work. Half unconsciously to himself, that 
 atmosphere glowed and widened; emblems 
 flowed naturally from his pencil, lurking ready 
 to be searched out and studied. Even here, 
 in this faithful copy of facts, that emblematic 
 spirit was present. Life and material nature 
 in the foreground ; in the background the 
 old end of the church, and the silent graves.
 
 Marjroy. 341 
 
 Above the graves a bird was soaring, away — 
 whither ? " Whither ? " was the thoug^ht 
 suggested by the mere sight of that soaring 
 bird. 
 
 ''It's a most beautiful picture, sir," said 
 Bellhouse. 
 
 " If every one were as easily satisfied, I 
 should soon win my fortune, shouldn't I ? " 
 said Gerald, with that melancholy smile which 
 Marjory longed to brighten. But Bellhouse 
 did not understand ; she only looked at him, 
 with pleased wonder in her homely eyes. 
 
 " I'll go and see about some tea now, sir," 
 she said, '' if Miss Stanhope will please to 
 take you round the flower-garden. I dare 
 say she will like to show you the old 
 places." 
 
 So — Marjory with the feeling of a dream 
 fulfilled — the brother and sister went off 
 together ; while Bellhouse, glad, and even 
 excited, summoned Kitty to spread a snowy 
 cloth on a small table in the old library. 
 Afterwards she waited upon them, while they 
 regaled themselves with Thorne cream, bread 
 and butter, and great white raspberries lying 
 on cool green leaves. The sky was already 
 tinged with crimson when they started on 
 their homeward walk ; Marjory begging Bell-
 
 342 Marjory, 
 
 house to visit her sometimes in their Alton 
 lodgings. 
 
 '' Thank you, ma'am, it's but seldom I 
 go into the town," replied Bellhouse in an 
 under-tone ; " I get troubled — the streets are 
 so full of unknown faces, and thoughts come 
 to me of my Jessie dying among strangers." 
 
 As the brother and sister walked away 
 over the smooth park slopes, Marjory, look- 
 ing back, found her view impeded by a mist 
 of tears. They passed through the church- 
 yard — that fair and peaceful place, which 
 had taken the little child's fancy, years ago. 
 Marjory looked for the grave, new made no 
 longer, which she remembered; but it was 
 lost among a host of others, which had 
 sprung up about it. They went down the 
 wooden steps into the road, and so — gazed 
 after from quiet cottages, by rustic eyes, as 
 a curious novelty — into the shady lane of 
 old. 
 
 Marjory said little all the way. They 
 walked quietly home, entering the college- 
 yard as the summer moon was rising above 
 the tower of the cathedral. 
 
 As they crossed the little entrance hall 
 the smiling maid came tripping to say that a 
 gentleman had called during; their absence.
 
 Marjory, 343 
 
 " What was his name ? " asked Marjory, 
 listlessly. 
 
 " I don't know, miss. His card's in the 
 parlour, however. He asked for Mr. Stan- 
 hope ; but he inquired very particular, miss, 
 about you — whether you had come for any 
 length of time ? — and when I told him you 
 was come to live, he said, ' Oh, indeed ! ' 
 surprised like." 
 
 Listless no longer, Marjory ran upstairs. 
 The card lay on the table. She hurried to 
 the moonlit panes, and read : 
 '' Mr. Vivian."
 
 ( 344 ) 
 
 CHAPTEE XXYI. 
 
 " Pray that He may prosper ever 
 Each endeavour, 
 When thine aim is good and true !" 
 
 Baron von Canitz. 
 
 Marjory sat long in her window that night, 
 too restless to sleep. She had put out her 
 candle, but moon and stars were shining; 
 there was no darkness, though the deep 
 voice from the cathedral had proclaimed 
 twelve strokes above the silent town. Below, 
 she could hear the river flowing on, the same 
 bj night as by day : the moonbeams lightened 
 it with a stream of molten silver, tremulous 
 in the tide. The drowsy cows on the oppo- 
 site bank, one here, one there, rose like 
 shadowy carvings from the grass. The 
 chimneys and angles of the old house above 
 the water showed in sharp outhne against 
 the sky. There was no breeze ; and the city 
 slumbered. 
 
 But Marjory's brain was busy. The sense 
 of Life's mystery forced itself upon her to- 
 night, as never before. She looked at the
 
 Marjory. 345 
 
 stars, remembered that eacli was a world. 
 Was Lady Tliorne in one of them ? was Mrs. 
 Vivian, was Jessie, there ? They had but 
 changed their place in the universe, gone 
 from one quarter to another. When would 
 this separation, this silence, end ? What was 
 the meaning of all this change and dis- 
 appointment ? Vague, confused, rushing 
 one upon another, eager questions coursed 
 through the girlish mind. 
 
 And among them, constantly prominent, 
 came the thought of Hugh Vivian. He had 
 asked about her. He must have recognised 
 her. She would meet him soon. But the 
 conventionalities of life would come between 
 them ; she would not be able to speak out 
 what was in her mind. Outside, cards, ci- 
 vilities, remarks on weather, calm voices, 
 polished manners, polite smiles. Inside, the 
 heart of humanity, passionate, suffering, 
 sinful, striving — yet ever seeking conceal- 
 ment, except when now and then a poet, or 
 an artist, or a mighty preacher, cries witness 
 to the truth. Is not this also mystery ? 
 
 So, in a medley, flowed her musings. 
 Presently, from their midst, rose a defined 
 imagination — an inspiration, it seemed to 
 her. She had planned a story which she
 
 346 Marjory, 
 
 would wi'ite ; but here her plan appeared 
 transfigured : the varied emotions which had 
 possessed her during the day embodied them- 
 selves within it. Here would be an outlet 
 for the multitude of thoughts which had 
 arisen as a new world within her, since she 
 arrived at Alton. She longed for morning, 
 to begin at once ; meanwhile, as at length 
 she lay down in her bed, she thought of 
 what this sudden conception might bring to 
 Gerald. Had it been granted to her on pur- 
 pose for him, she wondered ? This was her 
 last conscious question as her blue eyes 
 closed. 
 
 When morning came, her faith in the 
 answer was less confident ! She remembered 
 that she was only a young girl, immature, 
 inexperienced : her heart misgave her when 
 she thought of the great literary world. But, 
 following at a humble distance great masters 
 of old, she had resolved that, before she 
 began her work, she would seek a blessing 
 on it in the cathedral. 
 
 It was the twenty- eighth morning of the 
 month; the , first Psalm was — ''Lord, re- 
 member David." The voices of the cho- 
 risters rose clear and sweet into the heights ; 
 Marjory's heart rose with them.
 
 Marjory. 347 
 
 " Lord, remember David, and all liis 
 trouble. How lie sware unto the Lord, and 
 vowed a vow unto the Almighty God of 
 Jacob." 
 
 She thought of past ages, of the old Bible 
 men and women ; how unquestioningiy they 
 trusted in a supernatural Power, and were 
 not disappointed. They had no idea of a 
 stony First Cause, of immutable '' laws of 
 nature." Their faith was in a living God, a 
 personal Being, Who knew each one of them 
 by name, and ordered all their concerns. 
 
 The memory of their history rose freshly 
 to her mind, as she looked up to where the 
 calm fio;ures sat enthroned. The sacred 
 words echoed round them, borne by the 
 music ; the ineffable repose of their faces 
 seemed to bear majestic witness to the truth 
 of those words. 
 
 " There the Lord promised his blessing," 
 chanted the choir. " The Lord that made 
 heaven and earth, give thee blessing out of 
 Sion." 
 
 All Marjory's self-depreciating feelings 
 banished like a mist. It seemed to her that 
 a promi^^ nad come direct from above ; that 
 already she was giving thanks for the fulfil- 
 ment of her mission !
 
 348 Marjory, 
 
 As slie went swiftly away to the lodgings, 
 to begin lier work forthwith, many noticed 
 the ardent girl, with the glow in her blue 
 eyes, and the purpose in her step, and won- 
 dered of what she was thinking ! But she 
 herself was too much absorbed to notice any 
 outward thing. 
 
 Gerald looked pleased, when he came 
 home to their early dinner, to hear that the 
 start was made. They chatted over the 
 future, making plans ; and Marjory, at least, 
 forgot that her book was not already pub- 
 lished, and on its way towards a second 
 edition ! 
 
 In the afternoon, as she was reading in 
 the sitting-room, and at the same time 
 knitting socks for Gerald, a double knock 
 suddenly resounded upon the door below. 
 Involuntarily she started and coloured, with 
 an instinctive thought of Hugh Vivian ; but 
 a minute later she could have laughed at her 
 own foolishness, as Priscilla's high-pitched 
 tone announced, '' Mrs. Carberry," — and an 
 elderly lady entered. 
 
 A most good-natured looking lady was she, 
 with a kind, freckled face, and benevolent 
 little eyes, — smartly attired, in a lace shawl 
 and purple silk dress, with flowers in her
 
 Marjory. 349 
 
 bonnet. Before Marjory's heightened colour 
 had subsided, she was half-way in a long 
 sentence of explanations, in which the name 
 of Lina Peele conspicuously occurred. By 
 degrees, Marjory comprehended that to Lina's 
 acquaintance with her visitor the present 
 attention was owing. 
 
 " I want to know if you will excuse cere- 
 mony, and come on Monday to a little croquet 
 party at my house ? I shall be so glad if you 
 will ! Just a few young friends to five 
 o'clock tea. I have no young people of my 
 own ; but I am so very fond of them ! I 
 cannot feel happy unless they are frequently 
 about me. Will your brother excuse cere- 
 mony, and come also ? I have brought Mr. 
 Carberry's card. He was too much engaged 
 to accompany me, and he knew that he 
 would not be likely to find your brother at 
 this hour." 
 
 " Thank you, I'll tell Gerald. I shall hope 
 to come, if he is able to take me," said 
 Marjory, her eyes brightening at the 
 notion. 
 
 '' Oh, he will be able, — he must. I want to 
 introduce you both to other pleasant young 
 people. And you will meet your friend, Miss 
 Peele. A sweet girl, is she not ? A treasure
 
 350 Marjory. 
 
 I consider her. The belle of Alton, and 
 the flower of Alton. Quite. Is she 
 not?" 
 
 '^ I can well believe it," said Marjory ; " I 
 know she was both at our school." Again 
 came that prick of conscience at her own 
 fickleness. 
 
 " School friendships are very interesting," 
 proceeded Mrs. Carberry : '' I had several of 
 my own, and this gives me a pleasure in 
 those of the young people. I assure you, you 
 will find your friend fully appreciated in our 
 circles. Every one looks up to her, and ad- 
 mires her. She is exceedingly useful also to 
 dear Mr. Throckmorton. Beautiful services 
 Mr. Throckmorton has. Miss Stanhope 1 It 
 is wonderful how St. Philip's is improved. 
 I attend it, although we live at a considerable 
 distance, and Mr. Carberry remains firm to 
 our parish church. But I feel the services 
 of St. Philip's a spiritual treat. I cannot 
 resist them." 
 
 "St. Philip's is certainly much altered. 
 I knew it eight years ago." 
 
 '' You must find changes indeed, then, if 
 you recollect ; but you do not look old 
 enougli to have many such long recollec- 
 tions."
 
 Marjory, 351 
 
 " Oil, but I have ! " cried Marjory ; '' Many 
 and many." 
 
 " I should hardly have thought it," said 
 Mrs. Carberry, with a good-natured smile. 
 " Speaking of changes, I see Mr. Vivian's 
 card. May I ask if he has called on your 
 brother ? " 
 
 " He called yesterday, while we were out." 
 
 '' I am surprised indeed ! He is generally 
 so sadly unsociable 1 ' Mr. Vivian,' I say to 
 him — on the rare occasions when we meet — 
 ' Mr. Vivian, I greatly wish that we could 
 sometimes have the pleasure of welcoming 
 you beneath our roof. We have a large circle 
 of pleasing young friends, who would be 
 charmed to make your acquaintance.' But 
 no ! he shuts himself up. Poor fellow ! He 
 has had sad troubles. That was why I 
 alluded to him just now in connexion with 
 change." 
 
 " Yes," said Marjory. She shrank instinct- 
 ively from mentioning to Mrs. Carberry her 
 former knowledge of Hugh. 
 
 '' He comes of a very fine old county 
 family. He was heir to a large property," 
 said Mrs. Carberry, shaking her head, and 
 speaking in an important under-tone : '' His 
 present position is much to be deplored. To
 
 352 Marjory. 
 
 be sure, there is nothing disreputable in the 
 duties of a quartermaster ; but I regret that 
 he did not choose a higher vocation. How- 
 ever, I make a point of mentioning his reverses 
 to every stranger, that it may be known who 
 and what he is. I have a great respect, Miss 
 Stanhope, for old families, although I am not 
 of one myself. You are^ I understand ? " 
 
 " I believe so," said Marjory, smiling, in- 
 wardly surprised that Lina should have 
 thought it necessary to mention this cir- 
 cumstance ! 
 
 '^ Yes, our dear young mutual friend told 
 me that, as regarded ancient descent, there 
 was no better blood than yours in the king- 
 dom. You must excuse my familiarity. Miss 
 Stanhope ; but I have a real pleasure in good 
 blood. I felt an affection for you, if you will 
 permit me to say so, directly I saw your 
 former pedigree in an old edition of Burke's 
 'Landed Gentry.' Poor Mr. Vivian — he is left 
 out of the new editions ! I am so truly glad, 
 Miss Stanhope, to think 'that he has called 
 on your brother. It is like turning over a 
 new leaf; for I never knew him to do such a 
 thing before. Your brother's looks must 
 have caught his fancy ; now I think of it, he 
 stopped Mr. Carberry yesterday morning in
 
 Marjory, 353 
 
 the street to ask the name of the new clerk 
 in the bank ; and he called, it seems, in the 
 afternoon." 
 
 " But why should Mr. Carberry be able to 
 tell him ? " said Marjory, smihng again. 
 
 '^ Mr. Carberry, my dear Miss Stanhope ! 
 Why, he knows every name in Alton. No 
 stranger enters the town, but Mr. Carberry at 
 once knows all about him. I can't say how 
 it is, for he is not a prying man : but these 
 lawyers are omniscient. My husband is the 
 head of an old firm of solicitors, and that is 
 how our acquaintance began with Mr. Vivian; 
 they were the family lawyers, and, at the 
 time of the troubles, Mr. Carberry saw a 
 good deal of this poor young man. I am 
 sure we should think it an honour to have 
 him constantly with us, if he would only 
 accept our invitations." 
 
 " He knows the Peeles, I suppose ? " said 
 Marjory, inquiringly. 
 
 '' Ah, you naughty, wicked girl ! I know 
 what you are thinking of ! " cried Mrs. Car- 
 berry, in a sudden burst, to Marjory's great 
 surprise. She shook her finger at Marjory 
 several times, with wonderful rapidity, as she 
 spoke: ''You are thinking how nice it would 
 be if our dear young friend could console 
 
 VOL. I. 2 A
 
 354 Marjory, 
 
 him ! Just tlie very idea whicli has repeatedly 
 entered my own head ! We must try to 
 arrange it : now that you are come, I shall 
 have an assistant in the matter. Your brother, 
 too, will have some influence, since Mr. Yivian 
 has taken a fancy to him. What a sweet 
 wife she would make — charm away all his 
 troubles ! You naughty, match-making little 
 girl!" 
 
 "Indeed, I never thought of such a thing," 
 said Marjory, when she could get in a word. 
 The idea was repulsive to her: she knew 
 not why. 
 
 " Ah, well ; never mind. Then you'll 
 come on Monday? You and your brother: — 
 as soon after five as possible. He will be 
 disengaged then, I know. It is always a 
 pleasure to me to enlarge the circle of my 
 young friends. Good-bye." 
 
 She bowed and smiled, smiled and bowed, 
 herself from the room ; and Marjory was left 
 to ponder. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.