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 GERALD'S ORDEAL. 
 
 [The Copyright is reserved.]
 
 GERALD'S ORDEAL / ^ 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 B1 
 
 RHAYNEL MURRAY. 
 
 Magna est Yeritaa->et prssralebit. 
 
 m THEEE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I, 
 
 LONDON: 
 THOMAS RICHARDSON AND SON; 
 
 DUBLIN, AND DERBY. 
 
 HEW TOBK: HENRY H. KICHAED80K AND CO. 
 
 MDCCCLXIII.
 
 C3 
 
 o 
 
 COj 
 
 CO 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ^ DEDICATED, 
 
 BY PEBMISSION, 
 TO 
 
 THE MOST HONOUKABLE 
 
 CECIL, 
 
 MAECHIONESS OF LOTHIAN
 
 PEEPACE 
 
 Many persons object, upon principle, 
 to what they term, *' Keligious Novels," 
 deeming (and with reason as a general 
 rule) so grave a subject as that of reli- 
 gion, out of place in a work of fiction, 
 and preferring (at least, so they say) to 
 read serious books when they are in a 
 serious mood. 
 
 But these persons forget, that there 
 are many who never open a serious 
 book at all, and yet, when serious sub- 
 jects are brought forward in a work 
 of light reading, they peruse such pas-
 
 Vlll PBETACE. 
 
 sages with interest and pleasure. Can 
 we not imagine such an one thinking, 
 '' If what this book says be true, I 
 must look deeper into it." And thus 
 real and lasting good may be effected, 
 when otherwise there would have been 
 no chance, humanly speaking, of bring- 
 ing such subjects before their notice. 
 
 If my book induces any such 
 thoughts, I shall be more than satis- 
 fied. 
 
 R. M. 
 
 April, 1872.
 
 GERALD'S ORDEAL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Drawing-room of Wentmore Rectory was 
 lighted by three windows, opening on to a rose- 
 covered verandah, beyond which stretched a lawn 
 and^flower-garden. 
 
 Some morning visitors had called, and Lady 
 Frances Lennox, the Rector's wife, was listening 
 to a long account of the Archery meeting which 
 had just taken place in the neighbourhood, and 
 about which her neighbour, Mrs. Fraser Smith, 
 had a great deal to say. 
 
 They were the sole occupants of the room ; the 
 younger members of the party having strolled into 
 the garden, and the conversation of the two ladies 
 was now and again broken in upon, by the cheer- 
 ful voices which sounded through the open win- 
 dow. An involuntary smile played upon the 
 mother's face, as she distinguished her darling 
 
 Blanche's tones above the others. The sound of 
 * 1
 
 2 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 that voice was ever as music in her ears, and her 
 laugh (there is so much difference in laughs) she 
 could not mistake. 
 
 It was so full of merriment, one smiled from 
 very sympathy on hearing it. 
 
 " Sa voix argentine, 
 Echo limpide et pur de son ame enfantine, 
 Musique de cette ame ou tout semblait chanter 
 Egayait jusqu'a Tair qui I'entendait monter !" 
 
 " We stayed late as we always do," Mrs. Smith 
 was saying. ** My dear girls are always engaged 
 for every dance hefore the evening begins. I am 
 a capital chaperone as you know, and never hurry 
 them away till they are ready to go. I don't 
 think it is fair. We were young once ourselves, 
 dear Lady Frances, and ought to make allowances. 
 Don't you think so ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," answered Lady Frances, "and 
 your girls dance so well, I do not wonder at their 
 being sought after !" 
 
 " But I assure you," and Mrs. Smith's voice 
 sank into a low confidential tone, " it is not every, 
 one I allow them to dance with. Mr. -Fraser 
 Smith is so very particular, and one is obliged to . 
 draw the line somewhere. I am afraid I often, 
 give offence, because I will not ask people to our 
 bouse, with whom I do not wish them to be in- 
 timate. One must be so careful you know." 
 
 Now as Lady Frances perfectly well knew, that
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 3 
 
 Mrs. Smith's goodnature made her scatter invita- 
 tions very plentifully in all directions, when an 
 entertainment was to be given at " The Oaks,'* 
 and that no one was ever refused a card who asked 
 for one, this assurance rather amused her than 
 otherwise, but she did not allow Mrs. Smith to 
 perceive that such was the case. 
 
 " People are so absurd," continued that lady, 
 earnestly. "Mrs. Gregory and Lady Attleborough 
 both came up to me last night, to ask if they were 
 to congratulate me on Minnie's engagement to 
 Captain Lucas. Why, the poor child had only 
 met him once before, and they say he hasn't a 
 sixpence, so it is so very ridiculous." 
 
 " I do think it very ill-natured," said Lady 
 Frances, *' of anyone to insinuate, because two 
 people are seen dancing together, or speaking 
 to one another a little oftener than usual, that 
 therefore there must be something between them. 
 But perhaps Captain Lucas was rather marked in 
 his attentions to your Minnie, and if so — " 
 
 " Oh ! but dear Lady Frances," interrupted 
 Mrs. Smith, "I do beg that you will contradict 
 the assertion wherever you hear it. It is not 
 true, there is nothing in it, and I am not going 
 to part with any of my children yet, although 
 everyone icill have it that Minnie is engaged to be 
 married." 
 
 Lady Frances was not interested in disputing 
 the question, and as far as the said Captain Lucas
 
 4 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 was concerned, she thought it very probable that 
 there was indeed *' nothing in it," since according 
 to Mrs. Smith's own showing he was not over- 
 burdened with this world's goods, and she was 
 well aware that no empty-handed suitor, would 
 ever be favourably regarded at the Oaks. She 
 therefore quietly remarked, *' When you tell me 
 that one of your daughters is going to be married, 
 I will believe it, but not before. Now it is a long 
 walk for you home again, and we are soon going to 
 have luncheon, so will you not all stay ? Blanche 
 has been having the croquet-ground mown, and 
 they will be arranging a game I daresay. They 
 seem very merry out there." 
 
 "Dear Blanche seems very well, and in high 
 spirits. I was afraid from not seeing any of you 
 yesterday, that one of you might have been ill. I 
 will go and tell the dear girls you are kind enough 
 to wish us to stay to luncheon. They will be 
 delighted I am sure, only we are so very large a 
 party !" answered Mrs. Smith. 
 
 " Not at all," said Lady Frances, rising and 
 ringing the bell, " Mr. Lennox is not at home. 
 He is staying with the Bishop for a few days, and 
 it was for that reason that we did not go to the 
 Archery-meeting yesterday. The girls do not like 
 going without a gentleman, and as it is getting 
 late now for out-door amusements, I was not sorry 
 to get off it myself." 
 
 Having given the necessary directions to the
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 5 
 
 servant wlio entered, for tlie addition of so many 
 places at the luncheon table, Lady Frances fol- 
 lowed Mrs. Smith into the garden, that lady hav- 
 ing already found her way there. On seeing Lady 
 Frances, the eldest Miss Smith disengaged herself 
 fi-om the group assembled on the lawn, and run- 
 ning up to her, exclaimed, " Oh, dear Lady 
 Frances, it is so good of you to ask us to stay. 
 Blanche has been getting her croquet-ground into 
 such beautiful order, and we are to have no end of 
 a game after luncheon !" 
 
 Smiling at the young lady's empressement, 
 Lady Frances assured her it gave her great plea- 
 sure to see them all there. " And you are right,'* 
 she added, " to make the most of the fine days 
 now, as when once in the * hers* we don't know 
 how many may still be left to us." 
 
 It was one of those brilliant days early in the 
 month of September, which one seems to prize 
 doubly, under the consciousness that summer is 
 rapidly changing into autumn, and winter is not 
 far off. The party on the lawn, seemed to be 
 quite of Lady Frances' opinion that they could 
 not make too much of the day, and were eagerly 
 arranging " sides" and other preliminaries for 
 their afternoon's amusement. There were four 
 Miss Smiths, or rather. Miss Fraser Smiths, as 
 their mamma was particular about calling them, 
 and they had come over on this occasion in full 
 force, to tell '* dear Blanche Lennox" all about the
 
 6 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 delightful meeting and ball, they had had the day 
 before, and were escorted by a couple of officers 
 from the depot in the neighbouring garrison town, 
 "who were staying with them for a few days. Mr. 
 Fraser Smith was away from home on business, 
 and in his absence the young ladies managed their 
 mamma pretty much as they pleased. 
 
 *' So fortunate Captain Lucas and Mr. Montague 
 "were able to get leave, wasn't it ?" whispered the 
 second Miss Smith to Blanche Lennox. " Papa 
 being away just now, you know he so much dis- 
 likes any of the officers coming over.** 
 
 Blanche was saved the necessity of making any 
 rejoinder to this questionable confidence, by her 
 mother coming up to her, and saying, 
 
 *' Where is Bibi, Blanche dear ? I thought she 
 was with you." Then in a lower tone, she added, 
 '* Come with me for a moment, I want to speak to 
 you love.'* And placing her hand on her daugh- 
 ter's arm, she withdrew her a short distance from 
 the others, to give her some directions for the 
 housekeeper, with regard to the unexpected in- 
 crease to their luncheon party, which she begged 
 her to convey at once, " as poor Statham will be 
 puzzled at so short a notice ; and tell her to make 
 haste," she concluded. 
 
 Blanche kissed Lady Frances on the forehead, 
 said " Yes, darling," and flew off to execute her 
 bidding. Her mother gazed after her for a moment 
 with fond admiration ere she turned to her guests,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. ^ 
 
 and made some enquiry of the youngest Misa 
 Smith, as to who had won the Archery prizes the 
 day before. And before she comes back, I will 
 endeavour to describe for your benefit, gentle 
 reader, what Blanche Lennox was like. 
 
 Picture to yourself, then, a young girl of eigh- 
 teen, very * winsome,' to use a Scotch expression 
 which exactly applied to her, and very fair. Her 
 features were not one of them regular, but each 
 and all were charming. Laughing blue eyes, a 
 pretty nose, (I do not know how else to charac- 
 terize it, it was neither Roman, nor retrousse, nor 
 too big, nor too small, but) just the nose for the 
 little coaxing face with its rosy lips, showing the 
 pearly teeth peeping out roguishly from between 
 them, and its dimpled chin, and the softly-tinted 
 cheeks to which it belonged. Her hair was of 
 that Hght golden brownish shade which seems one 
 colour in one light, and another in another. She 
 wore it gathered off her face in front, and plaited 
 in a coronal which did not come too forward on 
 the top of her head. On the morning in question, 
 she was attired in a striped muslin dress, gathered 
 high at the throat, and daintily trimmed with lace. 
 Like all people who are not very tall, she wag 
 fond of long dresses, and carried a tolerable train 
 after her wherever she went. A coquettish little 
 apron of light blue silk : the pockets of which 
 were also ornamented with narrow white lace, a 
 long sash of blue silk streaming from her waist,
 
 8 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 and a small turban liat with a blue wing in it, 
 which she carried in her hand, completed her cos- 
 tume. She was in one word, the most fascinating 
 little creature, reader, you can imagine, and to 
 look upon her was to love her — you could not do 
 otherwise. 
 
 That is what Blanche Lennox was like, and yet 
 when I think of the dazzling vision which rises 
 before me as I call to mind what she was at that 
 time, I feel as if I had very far from succeeded in 
 depicting her as I would. 
 
 What she ivas I will not tell you now, reader, 
 but you shall find out from my story yourself. 
 
 Blanche was not long gone, and when she re- 
 turned, it was with a serio-comic look and a shak- 
 ing head that she approached the others, " We 
 shall not be a full eight after all," she exclaimed 
 " Bibi is gone out for the day, I find, and so now 
 we shall be an odd number, unless one will take 
 two balls." 
 
 '* Where is Bibi gone ?" asked Lady Frances, 
 looking somewhat surprised. 
 
 " To Mrs. Gregory's, Statham says, and she 
 did not expect to be back till dinner time. Mrs. 
 Gregory sent a note it seems after breakfast," 
 added Blanche in a low voice to her mother, " and 
 wanted her to go at once, so she left word with 
 Statham and went." 
 
 " Don't you think it would be better to have six 
 then ?" asked the youngest Miss Smith, address-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 9 
 
 ing the company in general. *' I do not care 
 about playing, and would just as soon look 
 on." 
 
 "Nonsense, Minnie," and ''Now, Miss Minnie, 
 that is too bad," were the several rejoinders her 
 remark elicited, from her sisters and the gentle- 
 men respectively. 
 
 " No, Minnie dear," said Blanche decisively, 
 ''that wont do. Bat as you play delightfully 
 badly, you shall be on the strong side and I will 
 have two balls on the other, which will give us 
 some chance." 
 
 " Miss Minnie has not recovered the fatigues of 
 last night's ball, I suspect," said Lady Frances, 
 smilingly. 
 
 " Dancing every dance is no joke, you know," 
 observed Mr. Montague, a hero in his teens, strok- 
 ing an imaginary moustache with one hand as he 
 spoke, and kicking about the painted croquet-balls 
 with his right foot, in a careless manner. 
 
 At this moment, a servant appeared, with the 
 announcement that luncheon was ready, and the 
 whole party adjourned to the house. 
 
 " What a stunning Rectory this is," remarked 
 Captain Lucas to the eldest Miss Smith, as they 
 entered the dining-room together. Captain Lucas 
 was a dark man, with a hlase appearance, whose 
 father was the incumbent of a small living in one 
 of the Northern Counties. 
 
 " Yes," returned the young lady, " Mr. Lennox
 
 10 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 was a great friend of the late bishop, and he gave 
 him the living which is the best in the diocese. 
 The Lennoxes are very rich, I believe." This 
 was said in a low confidential tone. 
 
 ** Indeed," rejoined the captain meditatively. 
 
 Having deposited his fair companion on the 
 first vacant chair, he hurried up to Blanche's side 
 begging that he might be of use. 
 
 ** Montague couldn't carve a chicken to save his 
 life, Miss Lennox," he said, " but if you will 
 allow me to try my hand on that for you, I shall 
 be proud." 
 
 ** Thank you," said Blanche quietly, ** I think 
 I can manage this myself, if you will kindly help 
 mamma. But I see Mrs. Smith is doing that, so 
 you must just attend to the young ladies, and 
 then take care of yourself, Captain Lucas." 
 
 Mr. Montague's **Ha! ha!" and a smile from the 
 eldest Miss Smith at his discomfiture, did not make 
 the gallant captain feel amiably disposed, as he re- 
 treated to an empty place between that young lady 
 and her sister Minnie, and in spite of the endea- 
 vours of both to draw him into conversation, they 
 could get nothing more out of him than Yes and 
 No, for some time. 
 
 As Mr. Lennox, of whom Mrs. Fraser Smith 
 was always rather afraid, was absent, that lady 
 was perfectly in her element, assisting gentle Lady 
 Frances in doing the honours of the table. *' Do 
 Lave some of this, Minnie love? Pass me the
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 11 
 
 potatoes will you, Montague ! Remember, dears, 
 you have a long walk before you," and such like 
 speeches she gave utterance to from time to time, 
 not forgetting to press upon Lady Frances every- 
 thing she partook of herself, and rallying Blanche 
 on her want of appetite. 
 
 *' Too much parish work, Blanche love, I am 
 Bure you are working yourself to death. You 
 must come over and spend a nice long day with 
 us, and have a return match on our ground. We 
 have an attraction now to offer you, you see," 
 and Mrs. Smith glanced significantly in the direc- 
 tion of the gloomy captain and his military com- 
 panion. 
 
 But Blanche was helping her chicken busily, 
 and only smiled and said, ** Thanks, I should like 
 it very much," in a very ordinary unimpressed 
 sort of way. 
 
 " Don't you think Blanche Lennox is very nice- 
 looking?" asked Miss Smith, giving up the captain 
 in despair, and addressing Mr. Montague who sat 
 on the other side of her, " there is such a buzz 
 going on that you may safely tell me." And she 
 accompanied the request with a look which plainly 
 Baid, " You had better be careful." 
 
 Mr. Montague was not a gentleman of many 
 ideas, and just now such as he had were chiefly 
 engrossed by the study of what was before him. 
 Not catching exactly the purport of the question, 
 he answered,
 
 12 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 "Very good indeed, excellent," and returned t6 
 the consideration of his luncheon. 
 
 " No, I don't mean that," said the young lady, 
 who thought he alluded to Blanche's goodness of 
 expression, " but do you think she is pretty ? 
 Some people admire her ve.ry much.'* 
 
 " Oh ! ah !" exclaimed the youth, thinking that 
 he knew what she was " driving at." " Do I 
 think Miss Lennox pretty, do you mean ? Well ! 
 you know," and here he glanced first at Blanche's 
 pure sweet face which was lighted up with anima- 
 tion at the moment, as she discussed with Minnie 
 Smith some expedition to a neighbouring show- 
 place they were planning together, and then looked 
 at the eager and by no means unprepossessing 
 countenance which was turned towards him, 
 " there are many people I daresay who would 
 think so, but I admire — " and he gazed straight 
 into the eyes of his interrogator, with an ex- 
 pression which left no doubt as to his mean- 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh ! don't be silly, Mr. Montague," said Miss 
 Smith, and then as he had expressed himself 
 exactly as she intended him to do, she changed 
 the subject and called across the table to her 
 mother, " We mustn't be too late going home, 
 mamma, you know, as the Lethbridges dine with 
 us this evening." 
 
 "Ah! so they do," observed Mrs. Smith, and 
 turning to Lady Frances, she added, " Quite a
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 13 
 
 small affair, only ourselves and the Colonel and 
 Mrs. Letlibridge. They are coming in a friendly 
 way as we could not have any party in Mr. Fraser 
 Smith's absence you know." 
 
 "Exactly," said Lady Frances, '* and in that 
 case, young ladies, I think the sooner you begin 
 your game the better." 
 
 A general rise from the table then took place, 
 and in a very few minutes they were all again on 
 the lawn, where the hoops being placed, the busi- 
 ness of croquet commenced in earnest. Captain 
 Lucas and the three younger Miss Smiths on one 
 side, and Mr. Montague, Miss Smith and Blanche 
 with two balls on the other. Lady Frances and 
 Mrs. Fraser Smith seated themselves at a little 
 distance from the players, and a servant placed a 
 small table near his mistress, on which stood her 
 basket and working materials. ** I always provide 
 myself with occupation on these occasions," said 
 Lady Frances, " I can work and talk at the same 
 time, and then I don't feel as if I was an utterly 
 useless member of society." 
 
 When Captain Lucas described the impression 
 which Wentmore Piectory made upon him, as 
 " stunning," he expressed briefly and characteris- 
 tically, what most persons felt on visiting that 
 abode for the first time. It was not only the 
 exterior fashion of the building, which in size 
 resembled more a gentleman's country mansion 
 than an ordinary Parsonage house, that struck the
 
 14 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 beholder, but the arrangement of the interior wag' 
 as remarkable as the outside was imposing. That 
 the rooms were capacious and well built, was to 
 the credit of the architect originally employed 
 upon them, but the perfect taste exhibited in their 
 fittings and adornment was due to Lady Frances 
 Lennox, who carried with her into her husband's 
 home, the notions of elegance and comfort which 
 she had imbibed in her father's princely abode, 
 and which gave so distingue an air to all that sur- 
 rounded her. You felt on entering Wentmore 
 Rectory, that you were in a thorough " Gentle-^ 
 man's house." There was nothing pretentious or 
 fine or unbecoming the residence of a clergyman 
 about it, but wherever the eye rested, the limpres- 
 sion conveyed to the mind was that the right 
 thing was in the right place, and an air of refine- 
 ment pervaded the whole. 
 
 From where Mrs. Fraser Smith sat, she could' 
 obtain between the curtains lined with pink which 
 fell on each side of the drawing-room windows, 
 glimpses of an apartment so elegantly and charm- 
 ingly fitted up, that many persons coming from 
 houses of their own, where everything that was 
 costly and elegant surrounded them, would ex- 
 claim, ** Lady Frances Lennox's is the prettiest 
 room I have ever seen !" Mrs. Smith acknow- 
 ledged this' herself, though she would have been 
 puzzled to say what constituted the charm about
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 15 
 
 the Wentmore drawing-room. Her own house 
 was well furnished. Mr. Smith was a well-to-do 
 man, and liked to have " good" things about him 
 as he often declared. *' None of your rubbish and 
 fandanglery. I like substance and comfort." And 
 substance and comfort accordingly he had ; but 
 still something was wanting as his wife felt, feel- 
 ing also, alas, that she was unable to supply it 
 herself, or even positively to say what it was. 
 Now this *' something" everything about Lady 
 Frances had, and as Mrs. Smith turned her eyes 
 from the house and its surroundings, to the mis- 
 tress of the Rectorial domain, seated in her low 
 garden chair, whilst her delicate high-bred look- 
 ing fingers diligently plied the long ivory needles 
 with which she was manufacturing a large soft- 
 looking and many coloured couvrepied, the only 
 kind of work, to use her own expression, she was 
 now *' fit for," she owned to herself that the air 
 of calm dignity and repose, which pervaded Lady 
 Frances, was thoroughly in keeping with all about 
 her. 
 
 ** How lovely your verandah is looking now, 
 Lady Frances, and what numbers of roses you 
 have," observed Mrs. Smith, "I am so fond of 
 flowers, but somehow our garden never looks as 
 well as yours." 
 
 " Mr. Lennox takes great pleasure and pride in 
 his garden," was the reply, ''and Blanche and I
 
 16 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 keep tlie old gardener up to the mark in his 
 absence, as we like to have plenty of flowers in the 
 house always. I think they make any room look 
 nice, and I wonder so much when I see persons 
 who have gardens and conservatories not caring to 
 have the produce of either in their houses." 
 
 ''Your rooms always look so nice, and the 
 flowers are always beautifully arranged. I sup- 
 pose that is Blanche's taste ?" said Mrs. Smith. 
 
 ^' Yes, dear Mrs. Smith, that is Blanche's taste, 
 and I am glad you appreciate it," exclaimed 
 Blanche, who happened to be standing near and 
 overheard the last remark. 
 
 ** Blanche! Blanche! it is your turn," re- 
 sounded from her " side," and the young girl was 
 soon following her ball far across the croquet- 
 ground. 
 
 "I suppose you will be expecting your sons 
 again before long ?" resumed Mrs. Smith, as she 
 watched Blanche's form receding in the distance. 
 *' My girls were saying the other day how long it 
 seemed since we had seen anything of them. It 
 was rather too bad of Ferdinand to spend his long 
 vacation in Switzerland this time, having given us 
 so little of his society at Christmas." 
 
 Mrs. Fraser Smith and her family, having lived 
 in Mr. Lennox's parish for many years, and 
 known the young Lennoxes from their childhood, 
 always spoke of them by their Christian names.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 17 
 
 Lady Frances would have resented this, if she 
 had not considered it justified, by the intimacy 
 which had existed for so long between the fami- 
 lies. 
 
 " Ferdinand will spend a week or two with us, 
 before he goes back to Oxford," she replied. *'He 
 has enjoyed his foreign trip immensely. He re- 
 turned to England some days ago, and would have 
 been with us before this, but his friend. Sir George 
 Hamilton, with whom he was travelling, insisted 
 on carrying him off to his place in ^Yarwick- 
 shire first, "^"e expect him however very soon 
 now." 
 
 "I never know which is dear Blanche's favourite 
 brother," remarked Mrs. Smith. *'You are very 
 happy. Lady Frances, in seeing them all so much 
 attached to each other.'* 
 
 *' Yes, thank God," said Lady Frances, with 
 something like a sigh. ''I don't think Blanche 
 loves one more than the other. She and Ferdi- 
 nand are more of an age, and have naturally been 
 thrown most together ; but in disposition I think 
 she resembles Gerald most, and certainly no two 
 brothers could be more devoted to a sister than 
 they both are to her," and again the speaker gave 
 a little sigh. 
 
 " I heard that Gerald was not looking well 
 when he was down here last, was that so ?" en- 
 quired Mrs. Smith. 
 
 ''His visit was a very hurried one," answered 
 #2
 
 18 gee-ald's oedeal. 
 
 Lady Frances, " and he liad not been well in 
 London before he came. I was uneasy about his 
 looks, and told him so, but he assured me nothing 
 was the matter, and I have not heard of his being 
 unwell since ; but he never mentions his health 
 when he writes, and indeed, although he used to 
 be such a good correspondent, he has not kept up 
 his character as one of late." 
 
 At this juncture. Lady Frances's work happened 
 to get into confusion, and it took her some time 
 to arrange it again. When she had done so, she 
 resumed the conversation on a different topic, and 
 so the afternoon wore on, until Mrs. Smith rising 
 from her seat, exclaimed, " These long games 
 never will finish, and I must get them to put an 
 end to this one or we shall not be home in time. 
 Laura! Minnie!" she cried, ''are you winning, 
 my dears ?" 
 
 " No, mamma," answered Laura Smith, the 
 second daughter, running up. '' Minnie has been 
 playing so abominably, we have not had a chance. 
 It will be a drawn game as both Captain Lucas 
 and Blanche are rovers, and the others are ever so 
 far behind." 
 
 ** I think," said Lady Frances smiling, and 
 rising from her chair, " that that is the best way 
 of ending these severe contests, and then no one 
 can feel especially aggrieved. You are very fond 
 of croquet, Laura, are you not ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" replied Laura, '* but I have always
 
 geeald's oedeal, 19 
 
 to be helping Minnie wlien she is on my side, and 
 so I cannot get on a bit." 
 
 " Minnie would play very well," interposed Mrs. 
 Fraser Smith, who was arranging her shawl and 
 looking for her gloves, and making other prepara- 
 tions for departure, *'but she does not practise 
 enough. Isn't that it, Minnie love ?" 
 
 " Oh, I can't make myself a slave to anything 
 as Laura and Bella do," answered Miss Minnie, 
 who was swinging her mallet about very much to 
 her own satisfaction, but to the imminent peril of 
 anyone near. ** They practise from morning till 
 night. I don't care about playing imless there iS 
 some one to play with !" 
 
 ** Oh, fie, fie !" said Mrs. Smith, laughing, 
 ** that means unless there are some gentlemen of 
 the party, you naughty puss ! But now my dears, 
 make haste, and say good-bye, we must be going;" 
 and turning to Lady Frances, she began her adieux 
 and thanks for their pleasant afternoon. " So 
 kind of you, dear Lady Frances, and we have 
 enjoyed it so much." 
 
 *'I will walk with you to the gate," cried 
 Blanche, and putting her arm through Minnie's 
 she led the way down the drive. "Do you like 
 that Captain Lucas, Minnie?' she said, as they 
 found themselves some way ahead of the rest of 
 the party. "I saw you talking to him a great 
 deal, but there is something I don't like, and I 
 am sure I never should like about him."
 
 20 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 "I think I know what you mean," answered 
 Minnie, laughing, *' I don't care for him really an 
 atom. Why, I only met him once before last 
 night, when he was at the Archery Ball, and 
 mamma asked him to come over to-day with Mr. 
 Montague. He does very well when there is no 
 one else, but that is all." 
 
 Blanche looked at the speaker for a moment, 
 and then apparently satisfied with her assertion, 
 stood still and allowed the others to come up, 
 when she took leave of them all, and returned 
 slowly to the croquet ground, her eyes cast down 
 and evidently lost in thought. Lady Frances saw 
 her approaching, and exclaimed, " Well, are they 
 gone, darling? I hope you are not tired, my pet? 
 I saw you had two balls which I know is tiring 
 work." 
 
 " Oh, no ! mamma, darling," answered the 
 young girl gaily, "we had a capital game, and 
 I am not in the least tired. Now dear," she con- 
 tinued, going up to her mother and kissing her, 
 "you go in and lie down, I am sure Mrs. Smith 
 has tired \jou, and I will have these things taken 
 in." 
 
 Lady Frances smiled, and taking up her work, 
 slowly entered the house. Blanche then seized 
 her mallet, and knocking the balls together, placed 
 them in the open box which stood on one side of 
 the ground. "My beloved blue ball!" she mur- 
 mured, as she did so. " How well you behaved !
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 2l 
 
 and tliat horrid liglit yellow" — (Captain Lucas 
 had played with a ball of that colour) — '' gave you 
 a great deal of trouble, but you never will be 
 beaten, will you?" and she placed the ball care- 
 fully in the box, the lid of which she closed, then 
 passing through the verandah into the drawing- 
 room, she rang the bell and desired the footman 
 who appeared to bring it in. 
 
 " Miss Barbara w^as asking for you, Miss, just 
 now," said the man, " I told her the ladies and 
 gentlemen were just gone, and she said she would 
 go to your room and wait for you." 
 
 "Is Miss Barbara in, then ?" exclaimed Blanche, 
 " when did she return ?" 
 
 " A quarter of an hour ago, Miss," was the 
 answer. 
 
 Blanche immediately left the room, and hurry- 
 ing up the broad staircase which led from the 
 entrance hall to the upper story of the house, she 
 passed down a long passage, and opening the 
 door of her own apartment, she entered it and 
 looked round expectantly. 
 
 " Bibi ! are you here ?" she cried. But she 
 could see no one as she glanced round the room, 
 w^hich half boudoir and half sleeping-chamber, 
 seemed a fitting abode for so bright a little fairy 
 as herself. 
 
 There was no answer, and she was about to 
 leave the room again when a form advanced from 
 the window, the chintz curtains of which had con-
 
 22 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 cealed it from view, and in another instant she 
 was clasped in the arms of a young girl, some two 
 or three years older than herself, taller and darker, 
 whose large black eyes were filled with tears, and 
 who drew her towards the open window of the 
 room, and kissed her again and again without 
 speaking. 
 
 *'Bibi, dear! is anything the matter? You 
 frighten me," exclaimed Blanche, disengaging her- 
 self from the other's embrace, and looking up in 
 her face. " What is it ? — nothing about the 
 boys r 
 
 By the *'boys," Blanche meant her brothers, 
 both of whom were a good deal older than herself, 
 but whom she always spoke of as if they were still 
 the boy-brothers of some years back. 
 
 " Gerald," was the answer, " he is not ill — but 
 read that," and Barbara Lennox placed a letter 
 in the other's hand as she spoke. 
 
 " What is it — tell me!" faltered Blanche, sink- 
 ing into a chair. " I can't read — tell me," and 
 with trembling hands she tried to open the letter. 
 
 "He has become a Koman Catholic," said 
 Barbara. *' I knew he would ! Oh ! Blanche, 
 darling, don't !" 
 
 And she threw herself on her knees beside the 
 chair, as Blanche covered her face with her hands, 
 and burst into tears.
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FEW hours later. 
 
 The clock of the Parish Church of "^'entmore 
 had struck ten, and all was hushed in the village 
 street below. The only building which gave signs 
 of life was the Bull Inn, from the tap-room of 
 which occasional sounds of merriment burst forth 
 and echoed down the silent thoroughfare which 
 was dignified by the name of the High Street. 
 This highly respectable *' House of Entertainment 
 for man and beast," had, like most of its com- 
 peers, known better days in the good old coaching 
 era. It was a picturesque looking place enough, 
 and stood at one end of the village, just below the 
 church, and opposite the entrance of an old Eliza- 
 bethan mansion surrounded by a spacious garden 
 and fronted by a court-yard in which dwelt a 
 widow lady, Mrs. Gregory, and her niece, Miss 
 Seymour, whom Lady Frances Lennox always 
 spoke of as the '* Good Angel" of the Parish, but 
 our business is not with them at present. Past
 
 2ii GERALD S OHDEAL. 
 
 Ilie inn beyond the main street, and bordering the 
 turnpike road which led towards the county town 
 some ten miles off, stood a row of small cottages, 
 very humble tenements, and occupied solely by 
 labourers and their families, the poorest of the 
 poor inhabitants of this agricultural spot. From 
 the upper window of one of these, a light reflected 
 upon the road below, and if you listened attentively 
 you might distinguish through the partially open 
 casement, the sound of a man's voice evidently in 
 prayer, that rising and falling sound which it is 
 impossible to mistake. It is into this cottage and 
 into the small confined room from which this 
 sound proceeded, that I must conduct my reader. 
 
 It was a miserable place. Signs of dire poverty 
 and want were observable on all sides. A small 
 ricketty table on which was placed a flaring tallow 
 candle stuck in the neck of an empty bottle, stood 
 in front of the window. On one side of this was 
 a chair piled with sundry odds and ends which 
 had evidently been swept from the table, their 
 ordinary resting-place, and deposited there as the 
 only place for them excepting the floor. On the 
 other was a low box on which was seated an old 
 woman, who with her arms folded on her breast, 
 rocked herself to and fro as an accompaniment to 
 the prayers which a clergyman was saying who 
 knelt by the side of a bed which formed the prin- 
 cipal and only remaining article of furniture in 
 the room.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 25 
 
 On this bed lay one who was evidently dying. 
 Kose Upton was still young, hut that fell disease, 
 consumption, had done its work upon her, and the 
 end was drawing near. The heavy laboured 
 breathing, the deadly pallor of the face, the rest- 
 less movement of the hands told their own tale. 
 She was conscious, and every now and then would 
 make a painful effort to say something, but each 
 time she did so it was more difficult to catch the 
 meaning of her words than before. The Curate 
 of the Parish whose voice as I have said might be 
 heard by any passer-by in the road below, repeated 
 the prayers for the dying, and half kneeling, half 
 standing as she supported the poor girl's head 
 with her left arm, whilst from time to time she 
 moistened her parched lips with some cooling 
 drink, was the Rector's daughter, Blanche Lennox. 
 
 Presently the clergj'man arose, and taking one of 
 the sufferer's wasted hands in his, held it a moment 
 without speaking. Blanche looked at him and 
 then at the dying girl. " I think she will sleep 
 now, Mr. Woods," she said in a low tone. 
 
 But low as it was, Rose caught the words, and 
 she seized hold of Blanche's arm as the latter had 
 disengaged it gently from beneath her head, and 
 gasped out, " You are not going, Miss ?" 
 
 " I must go now. Rose," answered Blanche, 
 bending over her, " but I will come again in the 
 morning, and you must try and get a good sleep."
 
 26 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 And she smiled sweetly, though her eyes were full 
 of tears as she spoke. 
 
 "But, Miss, you will promise me — about Jenny. 
 You know what I said — you'll look after her, 
 wont you? And ask Mr, Ferdinand — he is so 
 good. Don't, don't let her do as I have done ! 
 Poor Jenny, she's there now, I know.'* 
 
 A burst of loud violent weeping, which pro- 
 ceeded from some one close outside the door of 
 the room was heard as the girl ceased speaking. 
 Blanche felt sure it was Jane Upton, Kose's 
 younger sister, and for whom she was thus appeal- 
 ing to her sympathies. And she was right. 
 Crouched at the head of the stairs, her head 
 buried in her hands, and in a perfect agony of 
 grief, was poor Jane listening to all that passed 
 in that room where her sister lay dying, but 
 which she had been sternly forbidden by her 
 mother to enter, whilst the " Parson and Miss 
 Blanche was there." 
 
 *' Yes, 3^es, I will remember, and I will speak 
 to Mr. Ferdinand about her," said Blanche, sooth- 
 ingly. " We expect him very soon, and I know 
 he will do all he can for her." 
 
 "God bless you — keep her from it — keep her 
 from it." 
 
 Rose's voice grew very faint, and she lay back 
 exhausted on the pillows. 
 
 "She's going! she's going!" cried the old
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 27 
 
 woman, rushing up to the bed, and beginning 
 to sob loudly. Then turning towards the door 
 she half opened it, and said angrily, " What are 
 you making that noise for, when the gentleman 
 and Miss Blanche is here? be quiet, do." Push- 
 ing it to again, she then half flung herself upon 
 the bed, and burst afresh into violent sobs and 
 exclamations of despair. 
 
 " Do not distress yourself so, Mrs. Upton," 
 said Mr. Woods, quietly, ** she is not any worse 
 just now, and might get some sleep if she is kept 
 quiet. When do you expect Mr. Findlay again ?" 
 
 *' He said he should look in tomorrow morning, 
 sir. But she'll never hold out till then." 
 
 Mr. Woods did not think she would, but he 
 turned cheerfully towards the dying girl, and said, 
 **I will call in early, Eose, to see how you are, 
 and if you want me, your mother will send at any 
 hour. Good night." 
 
 The young woman looked up at him wistfully, 
 and touched his hand as slie said, *' Good night 
 and thank you sir." 
 
 Mr. Woods turned to leave the room, and 
 Blanche prepared to follow him. Ere doing so, 
 however, she again bent over the poor girl, and 
 said, " You feel comfortable, don't you, Rose?" 
 
 Rose smiled, but did not speak. 
 
 '*You have got your little cross?" continued 
 Blanche gently. " Yes, I see," she added, as the 
 other drew a small black wooden cross from
 
 28 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 beneath the sheet and shewed it her. " You can 
 kiss that when you feel too tired to pray, and 
 repeat the Name of Jesus as often as you can. 
 Think of Him and how He loves you. I will pray 
 for you. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, Miss," whispered Rose. Then 
 as Blanche moved from her side, she suddenly 
 raised herself in the bed, and caught hold of her, 
 crying, " Heaven bless you, dear Miss Blanche, 
 heaven bless you for what you have been to me !" 
 
 Blanche did not answer. She could not have 
 steadied her voice sufficiently to do so, but she 
 re- arranged the pillows as Rose fell back upon 
 them, and pressing a soft kiss upon the pale damp 
 forehead of the dying girl, she hastily left the 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Woods, the Curate, was waiting in the 
 room below for her, and as she descended the 
 winding uneven stair, he held a candle to light 
 her, saying, " Take care. Miss Lennox, you must 
 be careful how you come." Then as she landed 
 safely at the bottom, he added, *'I have been 
 talking to Jane here, and she will send for me if 
 Rose wishes it during the night. I don't think 
 myself she will last till the morning." 
 
 " Oh ! sir ! don't say that," cried a voice from 
 the corner of the room. " Oh ! Rosey, Rosey, oh 
 dear, oh dear !" and a violent burst of weeping 
 succeeded. 
 
 Blanche turned, and in the dim light which the
 
 geeald's oedeal. 29 
 
 solitaiy candle shed over the poYerty-stricken 
 place, she discerned the figure of a girl about her 
 own age who stood shaking and crjing in one 
 corner. 
 
 "Is that YOU, Jane?" she said. "Don't cry 
 so, my poor girl, that will only vex your mother 
 and do poor Rose no good. You must pray for 
 her and for yourself too, that you may be able to 
 bear the parting when it comes." 
 
 And as she spoke she laid her hand on the 
 girl's shoulder. The simple white muslin dress 
 she wore, covered by her dark waterproof cloak 
 forming a striking contrast to the slatternly and 
 neglected appearance of the other whose hair hung 
 in disorder over her shoulders. 
 
 " Oh, Miss, I can't pray, I don't know how," 
 sobbed the girl. " Oh dear ! oh dear !" 
 
 At that moment a tap was heard at the cottage 
 door, and it opened gently to admit two female 
 figures, who advanced a few steps into the room, 
 and in the foremost of whom Blanche recognised 
 her cousin, Barbara Lennox. " Is that you, 
 Bibi ?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, dear," answered the other, "we were 
 getting uneasy about 3'ou, and I have come to take 
 you home. Is poor Eose any better?" 
 
 Blanche shook her head. " I will come di- 
 rectly," she said. "Good night Jane. Good 
 night Mr. Woods," and she held out her hand 
 to the young clergyman as she sio^e.
 
 30 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 He kept it for a moment and looked in her face. 
 
 " Miss Lennox, take care of yourself, — ^you will 
 be knocked up," he said anxiously. Then colour- 
 ing and letting her hand fall, he added, " I will 
 stay a minute to talk to poor Jane. Good night." 
 
 Turning to Barbara and her companion, he 
 shook hands with them and held the door open 
 for them to pass out. 
 
 ** Hester has brought her lantern," said Bar- 
 bara, as they emerged from the cottage, '* and she 
 will let us have it to go home with when we have 
 deposited her at her own door. Blanche, darling, 
 I wish you had not come," she continued, in a low 
 tone, as she put her arm through her cousin*s, 
 "you ought not to have gone out this evening, 
 but it was of no use my saying anything to you," 
 
 " It has done me good," was- the answer. 
 *' Dear Hester, poor Rose will not want any more 
 grapes from you I am afraid," and Blanche 
 turned towards the silent figure who walked on her 
 other side. 
 
 "Ah! poor girl, I thought she would not last 
 much longer," was the response, in a low sweet 
 tone. And the three walked on in silence. 
 
 At the entrance of the court-yard which fronted 
 the Elizabethan mansion already alluded to. Miss 
 Seymour took leave of the cousins and armed with 
 her lantern, they proceeded on their way to the 
 Eectory. In less than ten minutes they were 
 within its gates, and then as ' they slowly ap-
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 31 
 
 proaclied the house, Blanche said, *'Is mamma 
 gone to bed ? I hope so ?" 
 
 ** Yes," replied Barbara, *' she went np stairs 
 when Hester said good night, and I put on my 
 bonnet to go with her, promising to bring you 
 back." 
 
 " Poor mamma ! darling mamma !" murmured 
 Blanche, as though to herself. " She will feel it 
 so dreadfully, worse even than papa, I think." 
 
 *'And Ferdinand," said Barbara. 
 
 ** Go to my room will you, Bibi," said Blanche, 
 "and wait there till I come. I must just say 
 good night, and will be with you directly." 
 
 ** She would not trust herself to speak of Ferdi- 
 nand," thought Barbara, as she walked towards 
 Blanche's room. *' Poor fellow ! what a terrible 
 blow for him ! How could Gerald be so wicked, 
 so cruel!" As if angered by the thought, she 
 impatiently threw off her bonnet and shawl as she 
 entered her cousin's apartment, and flung herself 
 on a low couch to await Blanche's return. 
 
 In a few minutes she heard her footstej)S in the 
 passage, and Blanche entered the room. *' I have 
 told Elizabeth I shall not want her, and I am not 
 going to keep you up, Bibi dear," she said, as she 
 walked up to the chimney-piece and stood leaning 
 her arm against it, '' but I wanted to ask you if 
 you had said anything at Mrs. Gregory's ?" 
 
 ** No," answered Barbara, " I did not. I was 
 afraid Hester might say something before Aunt
 
 32 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 Lennox, and I thought it better not. I was with 
 them when the letters came this afternoon, and 
 Mrs. Gregory luckily was so occupied with her 
 own, that she did not see how much upset I was 
 by mine from Gerald. I said I must go home 
 immediately, as I might have to write before the 
 post went out, after seeing you, and then came 
 away." 
 
 " Was it addressed to you ? I thought I saw 
 Ferdinand's name on the envelope," said Blanche, 
 as she stretched out her hand and took from a 
 book on the table, a letter which lay between the 
 leaves. 
 
 " It is to him, and in his absence to be opened 
 by Miss Barbara Lennox, if you notice," was the 
 answer. 
 
 *' Ah ! that was because he wished to spare 
 me the shock," said Blanche, musingly, **poor 
 fellow !" 
 
 " I am too angry with him to pity him," cried 
 Barbara, impetuously. " After all his protesta- 
 tions and declarations, and ' everyone might turn 
 Roman Catholic, but he never would,' and all that 
 sort of thing. But I always thought it would 
 end so with him." 
 
 " I thought it lately, but only very lately," said 
 Blanche. " Something he said the last time he 
 was here, startled me. Something about its being 
 the last time he should hear some chant the boys 
 were going to sing in church. I don't remember
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 33 
 
 exactly what it was now, but I know I remarked it 
 at the time." 
 
 *' Good night, darling," said Barbara, stai-ting 
 up. *' I shall come and see you directly I am up. 
 Sleep well, and don't stay up late." Then kiss- 
 ing her cousin affectionately, she left the room. 
 
 Blanche took off her dress, threw a loose X'^^CI' 
 no'ir over her shoulders, and then cast herself 
 on her knees before a low prie dieu which stood 
 near the bed. Long and earnestly she prayed for 
 her parents, that they might have strength to 
 support the trial which awaited them, for herself 
 and all dear to her, especially the two brothers, 
 for each of whom she felt so much in a different 
 way, and for the poor dying girl from whom she 
 had that evening parted, as she felt probably for 
 the last time. It was late in spite of her cousin's 
 warning when she sought her couch, and then it 
 was some time before sleep visited her eyes. 
 They were wet with tears when they closed, and 
 even in her sleep she murmured occasionally the 
 names of " Gerald" and " Ferdinand." For some 
 hours her rest was broken and uneasy, until 
 towards morning she sank into a heavy slumber, 
 from which she did not awake until her maid had 
 entered her room for the third time to warn her 
 how late it was j^jetting. 
 
 Lady Frances was in the habit of breakfasting 
 in her own room, and when Mr. Lennox was 
 absent, Blanche usually read prayers, unless one of 
 
 3
 
 S4i geeald's ordeal. 
 
 her brothers was at home. When she descended 
 this morning however, she found that Barbara had 
 ordered the tea urn to be brought in, and was 
 pouring out the tea as she entered the room. 
 " You were so dreadfully late, Blanche, darling," 
 cried she, on seeing her cousin, " that I thought 
 it was better not to wait any longer. I came twice 
 to your room, but you were so fast asleep I did 
 not like to disturb you." 
 
 Blanche kissed the speaker and made a show of 
 eating some breakfast. She looked pale, and said 
 but little in response to the comments and conver- 
 sation which Barbara thought it necessary to keep 
 up, and as soon as she could do so, left the room 
 and went up stairs to see her mother ; pausing a 
 moment, ere she turned the handle of Lady 
 Frances's door to assume with an effort her ordi- 
 nary cheerful and unoccupied manner. 
 
 Left alone, Barbara passed through the hall 
 into the garden from the front of the house, and 
 seating herself on a rustic bench beneath some 
 large elms which stood on the lawn, she opened a 
 book and prepared to read ; but her eyes wandered 
 from the page, and for many minutes she re- 
 mained lost in thought. It was a lovely morning, 
 the birds sang merrily overhead, and the distant 
 sounds of country life came pleasantly over the 
 meadows which, divided from the flower-garden by 
 a light iron railing, stretched far away in the dis- 
 tance, and gave a park-like appearance to the
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 35 
 
 grounds. Sitting where she did, Barbara Lennox 
 formed the centre of a very pretty picture. The 
 brilliant hues of the flowers fancifully arranged in 
 beds and borders which lined the turf, the soft 
 green of the lawn, the shade cast by the over- 
 hanging trees, the well-gravelled paths which led 
 to shrubberies and kitchen-gardens beyond, all 
 combined to render the mise en sgene as perfect as 
 it could be. And Barbara, as she sat in her cool- 
 looking, well made summer dress, with an air of 
 deep and anxious thought upon her brow, was one 
 who would have arrested the attention of the be- 
 holder under any circumstances. 
 
 Barbara Lennox was an orphan. She scarcely 
 remembered her mother, and had no recollection 
 v/hatever of her father. She had gi-own up from a 
 child under the care of a gi-andmother, who some 
 two years before our story begins had died, leaving 
 her a small independent fortune, and since that 
 time she had resided with her uncle, Mr. Lennox, 
 at "Wentmore. Her acquaintance with her aunt 
 and cousins until then had been but slight. Her 
 uncle, who was her father's elder and only brother, 
 she had occasionally seen when old Mrs. Harvey 
 had taken her to London for a few weeks, which 
 she had done latterly once a year, in order that her 
 gi*anddaughter might have the benefit of masters 
 and obtain advantages which she could not hope 
 for in the country, and Mr. Lennox had made a 
 point of calling whenever business obliged him to
 
 36 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 visit the metropolis during the old lady's stay. 
 Barbara looked forward to these visits eagerly. 
 Her uncle was always most kind and fatherly in 
 his manner to her. She reminded him greatly of 
 his lost brother, the pride and the pet of his 
 father's house, and for his sake he made it an 
 understood thing that if ever his niece should want 
 another home, she was to find it with him. On 
 Mrs. Harvey's death, therefore, he gladly wel- 
 comed her as an inmate of the Rectory, and a 
 companion for his own darling Blanche. 
 
 But a greater contrast than the two girls pre- 
 sented, can scarcely be imagined. 
 
 Barbara was some three years older, as we have 
 already stated, than her cousin. She had seen 
 much more of the world, and had a considerable 
 opinion of her own powers and of what was due to 
 herself and others. Blanche, on the contrar}^ 
 was as unsophisticated and unassuming a little 
 thing as could be met with anywhere. Barbara 
 had always been accustomed to have very much 
 her own way about everything, and in- her grand- 
 mother's house her will had been law. Lady 
 Frances Lennox, although gentleness and hospi- 
 tality itself, was the last person to allow anyone 
 but herself to direct matters in her own house, 
 and Blanche consistently upheld her mother's 
 authority. Under this restraint Barbara chafed, 
 and although she did not dare openly to rebel in 
 Lady Frances's presence, she freely vented her
 
 geeald's oedeal. 37 
 
 displeasure at other tiraes. Her own mother had 
 not been of a ''good" family in the ordinary 
 acceptation of the term. Captain Lennox had met 
 her at a county ball, in the town where he chanced 
 to be quartered with his regiment, and had fallen 
 in love with her pretty face and engaging manner 
 at first sight. Annie Harvey was not hard to win, 
 and her father, a wealthy retired merchant, was 
 only too glad to form an alliance with one of the 
 *'real old families," with whom he found it hard 
 to establish a footing of intimacy. Old Mr. Len- 
 nox did not like the man-iage, and for some time 
 refused to see his son or his young wife; but the 
 untiring efforts of the elder brother, who never had 
 rested until he had attained his object, at length 
 effected a reconciliation between the father and his 
 favourite child. Eeginald Lennox himself had 
 married not long before, the eldest daughter of the 
 Earl of Norwood, and his having done so, added 
 doubtless to his influence over his father at the 
 time. The old gentleman was proud of the con- 
 nexion, and liked to shew his friends and neigh- 
 bours the place in the family pedigree where the 
 houses of Stewart and Lennox had been united 
 some generations before. 
 
 "Just after the Eestoration," he would •say, 
 "my ancestor married an aunt (with several 
 'gi-eats' prefixed to her name) of Norwood's, and 
 we have kept up the family connexion ever since. 
 So Reginald and Lady Frances are cousins you
 
 38 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 see." When Mr. Harvey died, he left the largest 
 portion of his wealth to a nephew whom he had 
 never seen, nor cared for, hut who *' would 
 not be ashamed of his old uncle," he said, and 
 this was a hit at the pride of the Lennox family, 
 which had offended him greatly. He left his 
 daughter a very fair share, however, and although 
 before Geoffrey Lennox died, he had dissipated a 
 considerable portion of this, his widow was 
 looked upon as a ''catch," by several speculating 
 bachelors, who had formed the acquaintance 
 of the gay young cavalry officer and his pretty 
 wife. She however remained faithful to her hus- 
 band's memory, for the short period during which 
 she survived him. Barbara was not six years old 
 when Mrs. Lennox succumbed to a fever she 
 caught whilst tending the sick bed of a poor per- 
 son, and deprived at that early age of a mother's 
 vigilant care and watchfulness, she had soon dis- 
 covered the way to manage * grandmamma,' and 
 grew up entirely her own mistress as we have 
 stated ; her naturally good disposition making 
 her generally liked amongst her acquaintance and 
 friends, and the faults to which her doting grand- 
 mother was blind, remaining unchecked, and 
 taking root to bring forth bitter fruit hereafter. 
 
 Barbara's thoughts, as we have said, had wan- 
 dered far away from the scene before her, and she 
 had sat for some time in the same attitude, un- 
 disturbed by the approach of anything more dis-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 39 
 
 tracting than an occasional bee or butterfly, when 
 the sound of wheels on the carriage-drive before 
 the house caused her hastily to look up, and as 
 the house bell rang loudly, she ran through the 
 verandah into the drawing-room, and peeped 
 through the half-open door which led into the 
 hall to see who or what the arrival might be. It 
 was a fly from the neighbouring railway station 
 with luggage on the roof ; and hardly had it stop- 
 ped at the door, when she heard and recognised a 
 voice which brought the colour to her cheeks and 
 caused her to take a hasty glance at the long glass 
 near which she stood. She was just rushing for- 
 ward with the exclamation of " Ferdinand!" on her 
 lips, when she suddenly stopped, and with the 
 recollection of the news which awaited her cousin, 
 remained hesitating near the drawing-room door, 
 as a young man in a travelling cap and light In- 
 verness cape which he threw ofl' on entering the 
 hall, advanced towards her. 
 
 Ferdinand Lennox was a fresh- coloured, sunny- 
 looking youth, whose strong likeness to his sister 
 Blanche would at once have established their rela- 
 tionship in the mind of any beholder. His plea- 
 sant manner and genial nature made him a 
 great favourite with all who knew him. His 
 thorough good-heartedness and open fearless dis- 
 position won for him the regard and friendship of 
 his fellow- students and equals in age, whilst hi& 
 deep unafiected piety and undeviatingly right con-
 
 40 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 duct procured for him the good opinion of his 
 elders. With ladies of all ages he was popular, 
 he seemed to have inherited his father's polished 
 manners, with his mother's tact and power of 
 pleasing all who came within his sphere. Old 
 ladies declared he was more attentive and thought- 
 ful than the young men of the present day as a 
 rule. Fast young ladies liked him because he 
 was always perfectly at his ease with them, witty 
 and agreeable, and though he was pronounced 
 ''awfully good," they never felt afraid of him, and 
 would leave the most slangy fellow of their ac- 
 quaintance at any time to have half-an-hour's chat 
 with Ferdinand Lennox. The quiet young ladies 
 liked him because he was always ready to enter 
 into all their little interests and excitements about 
 the parish, the poor, and the schools, et cetera. 
 His parents considered him perfect. His brother 
 and sister thought there was no one like him in 
 the world, " Excepting Gerald," Blanche would 
 say, '' and I never compare them for they are both 
 of them nicest and best, only perhaps Ferdinand 
 has the most common sense of the two." In 
 Gerald's opinion his young brother certainly stood 
 alone. His cousin Barbara thought him — No, 
 I won't say what she thought about him, but 
 will leave the reader to find that out for himself. 
 
 *' Is that you, Bibi ?" exclaimed the young man 
 in a loud cheerful tone. " You didn't expect me 
 did you ? Where is everybody else ?" and he
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 41 
 
 bestowed a hearty kiss upon lier forehead as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Blanche is upstairs, Uncle Lennox has not 
 come back yet, and my aunt is still in her room," 
 answered Barbara, whilst the colour again flew to 
 her face, and she drew back a little from her 
 cousin's embrace. 
 
 *' I didn't write to say when I should be here," 
 said Ferdinand, looking smilingly at her as he 
 spoke, " as I only knew yesterday myself, and I 
 thought I should arrive before my letter. But 
 now for the Lady Mother." Then rushing up the 
 stairs two at a time, calling, "Blanche ! Blanche ! 
 where are you ?" he nearly tumbled over a stately 
 dame in a dark silk dress who was coming out of 
 a door at the head of the stau-case, and who had 
 barely time to exclaim with astonishment, "Master 
 Ferdinand ! is that you ?" when he seized her in 
 his arms and smothered her with kisses. " Yes, 
 it is I !" he cried, " and how are you, you dear 
 old thing ?" But without waiting for any answer, 
 he pushed on into his mother's room. 
 
 " Well ! who would have thought it ! Coming 
 unexpected like that !" exclaimed Mrs. Statham, 
 who had lived first as nurse and then as house- 
 keeper in the Lennox family before " Master 
 Ferdinand" was born, and looking round with a 
 somewhat bewildered though satisfied smile, she 
 arranged her cap and ribbons which had been 
 slightly tumbled by the young Oxonian's uncere-
 
 42 GERALD S OEDEAL. 
 
 monious greeting, then catching sight of Barbara 
 below, she called out, ''Did you know he was 
 come. Miss Barbara ? I never heard anything 
 drive up to the door !" 
 
 "Yes," replied Barbara, "I was in the garden 
 and heard the fly coming up the drive. Is 
 Miss Blanche with Aunt Lennox, Statham ?" 
 
 " No, Miss. She went to her own room some 
 minutes ago. I will go and tell her her brother is 
 come, and see about his room being got ready for 
 him. And John," cried Mrs. Statham over the 
 balusters to the footman, who was collecting the 
 luggage in the entrance hall, "bring Mr. Ferdi- 
 nand's things upstairs, and — stay a minute, 
 perhaps he will want some breakfast. I must 
 ask him." So saying, she returned into her mis- 
 tress's room. 
 
 Ferdinand was asking and answering questions 
 in a breath, telling his mother she was looking 
 " younger and prettier than ever," and that he 
 " was ' so mad' at Gerakl's not being able to get 
 away from London just now, but he must and 
 would have him down in a day or two," and Lady 
 Frances was stroking his hair as he knelt by her 
 side, and saying how glad and thankful she was 
 to have him again. 
 
 "Breakfast!" he cried, as Mrs. Statham ex- 
 plained the reason of her return. " I've break- 
 fasted hours ago ! No, I shan't want anything 
 till lunch time, though you may tell John to bring
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 43 
 
 me a glass of beer. But I must go and see my 
 beauty B.," be added, turning to bis motber, 
 ** and tben I will come back again, dearest T' 
 Kissing ber again and in tbe exuberance of bis 
 spirits, giving deligbted old Mrs. Statbam anotber 
 bug, be darted out of tbe room, tore down tbe 
 stairs, and found bimself in tbe drawing-room 
 directly. It was empty ; and witb an exclamation 
 of impatience be was turning to leave it, wben 
 Barbara and Blancbe entered togetber. " Here 
 you are ! you good-for-notbing pet, I bave been 
 looking for you ever since I came !" and bis arms 
 were round bis sister's neck, and sbe was pressed 
 fondly to bis beart again and again. 
 
 " But Blancbe, bow is tbis ? Sometbing is tbe 
 matter ?" Ferdinand exclaimed presently, as al- 
 tbougb returning bis embrace witb interest, 
 Blancbe did not speak, and tbe tears involuntarily 
 stood in ber eyes. 
 
 " Yes, dearest, tbere is sometbing tbe matter," 
 answered Blancbe, leading bim to an ottoman and 
 putting ber arm round bis neck as sbe spoke. "I 
 dtm't know bow to tell you," and sbe turned away 
 ber face wbilst tbe tears cboked ber furtber utter- 
 ance. 
 
 "Blancbe! Barbara! wbat is it?" cried tbe 
 young man, turning from one to tbe otber. 
 
 But Barbara too, turned away ber bead, and 
 neitber of tbem spoke until Blancbe, bolding out
 
 44 Gerald's oe-deal. 
 
 a letter with her face still averted, said, **Kead 
 that. It is from Gerald. It will tell you all." 
 
 Ferdinand took the letter, and cast his eye 
 hastily over it. No sooner had he read the first 
 few lines, however, than he started up, rushed 
 through a door which led into an adjoining room, 
 and closed it violently behind him. 
 
 The girls remained motionless, looking at each 
 other. Presently, Blanche said, " Poor fellow ! 
 I knew how much he would feel it — oh Barbara ! 
 what is to be done?" and she began to weep 
 bitterly. 
 
 Barbara was perfectly calm. Seating herself by 
 Blanche's side, she drew her gently towards her, 
 and soothed her with loving words and caresses. 
 She could hear Ferdinand pacing up and down in 
 the next room as she did so. 
 
 *' Blanche, darling," she said, " if you give way 
 like this, how will you be able to comfort poor 
 Ferdinand ? And Aunt Lennox, think of her !" 
 
 Blanche looked up and smiled through her 
 tears. " Yes, Bibi dear, I will not be foolish, but 
 it is very terrible for me ! We were all so happy 
 together, and those two were so bound up in each 
 other. I am sure Gerald must be wretched him- 
 self. Oh, if it could only have been prevented !" 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Blanche 
 turned away to conceal her face from observation. 
 
 " Miss Seymour wishes to see you, if you please. 
 Miss," said the footman, who appeared in the
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 45 
 
 door- way, " she says she will not come in if you 
 will speak to her one moment." 
 
 " Go, Bibi, I can't," said Blanche, hastily, and 
 Barbara ran out into the hall. 
 
 Miss Seymour was standing outside the front 
 door which usually stood open at Wentmore Rec- 
 tory in fine weather, all day. 
 
 *' I only came up to tell you poor Rose Upton 
 was gone," she said, as Barbara advanced towards 
 her. ** Mr. Woods saw her early this morning, 
 but she was unconscious, and died about eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Thank you, dear," said Barbara, *'for letting 
 us know. Blanche is not very well. She was 
 rather knocked up by her exertions yesterday. 
 She ought not to have gone out last night, but I 
 could not keep her from going to Rose. I will 
 tell her. Did jou know Ferdinand was come ?" 
 
 Miss Seymour had not heard it. "1 will not 
 keep you, then, as I know you always have a great 
 deal to say to each other. My aunt would be very 
 glad to see you, if you can look in after lunch. 
 She is not quite certain about the new stitch you 
 were teaching her yesterday. Goodbye." And 
 the young lady waved her hand and walked away. 
 
 Barbara gazed after her. Miss Seymour had 
 included Blanche as well as Barbara in her own 
 mind, when she spoke about the " great deal they 
 would have to say to each other," but her listener 
 thought she alluded to something personal. She
 
 46 Gerald's okdeal. 
 
 coloured with a feeling partly of surprise and 
 partly of satisfaction. " Can Ferdinand ever have 
 said anything to her about me ?" she thought, as 
 she returned slowly to the drawing-room, which 
 she found deserted. Hearing voices in the room 
 beyond, which was the Kector's library, she en- 
 tered it, and found the brother and sister together. 
 They were standing in the window holding each 
 other's hands, and looking out — at nothing. 
 
 Ferdinand turned on hearing Barbara approach. 
 He was very pale, and his countenance shewed 
 signs of suppressed emotion. 
 
 " My father comes back to-morrow," he said, 
 ** and we have agreed to say nothing to my mother 
 until I have told him. But I must write to Gerald 
 directly." And he threw himself into a chair with 
 a kind of groan as he spoke. 
 
 *' Let me write too," said Blanche. " Poor, 
 poor Gerald, I am sure he is the most to be 
 pitied. Yet, he little knows how wretched he has 
 made us !" 
 
 "Yes, darling, you shall write, but go now, 
 both of you, and leave me," said her brother. " I 
 must be alone, and will find you upstairs when I 
 have finished." 
 
 Blanche bent over him and kissed him, and 
 Barbara pressed his hand as she passed him. 
 Then putting her arm through Blanche's, she led 
 her from the room, and told her of Kose Upton's 
 death.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 47 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 Lethbridge Park was one of those pleasant 
 country seats which scattered over England, make 
 our island the wonder of the foreigner and the 
 boast of every native John Bull ; beautifying the 
 landscape which meets the traveller's eye, as he is 
 whirled past village and homestead, over hill and 
 dale in the course of his day's journey. It was 
 not what you would call a " fine place," for the 
 house had been built and added to from time to 
 time, more with a view to comfort than appear- 
 ance, and with an indifference to rule which would 
 have sent an architect of the present day, crazy. 
 It was surrounded by a prettily wooded park of no 
 great extent, but which the rustic population 
 around, believed to be the gi-andest and largest in 
 Queen Victoria's dominions. 
 
 Colonel Lethbridge, the proprietor of the estate, 
 was a popular landlord, a conscientious magistrate, 
 a hospitable neighbour, and as good a specimen of 
 the ''country squii-e" as you would find far or
 
 48 GERALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 near. His wife was, like himself, a member of one 
 of the long-established county families, and was 
 considered the " dearest old lady" by all who knew 
 her ; she was so gentle and kind and pleasant in 
 her ways to both high and low. They had one 
 son and one daughter. Charles Lethbridge, the 
 son, had just entered the *' Guards," and was an 
 especial source of interest not unmixed with 
 anxiety to all the mammas with marriageable 
 daughters in the district. The daughter was an 
 universal favourite. The mammas who took so 
 lively an interest in her brother, were never tired 
 of extolling Cissy Lethbridge's accomplishments, 
 and enlarging upon her other excellencies, always 
 adding in an aside to their female offspring, *'And 
 you need never be afraid of her interfering with 
 you, my dears, for she is so very plain." And 
 herein lay the secret of Cissy's popularity. She 
 was plain, but like many other persons who cannot 
 be described as '' good-looking," she had so sweet 
 an expression, and there was something so attrac- 
 tive about her manner and speech that it never 
 occurred to you until you had left her, that she 
 had really no pretensions whatever to beauty. 
 This fact was at times the occasion of a pang to 
 her fond mother, and a passing vexation to her 
 brother ; but to Cissy herself it was a matter of 
 no moment, and her father always declared he 
 would not exchange his little pet for '^ the pretti- 
 est pink and white doll-faced Miss amongst them.**
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 49 
 
 He doted upon his daughter, and she returned 
 his love with interest. 
 
 1 have mentioned that hospitality was one of 
 the Colonel's attributes, and there were few months 
 in the 3'ear which did not find his house plenti- 
 fully supplied with guests. In the shooting sea- 
 son there was always sure to be a pleasant party. 
 Everyone liked staying with the Lethbridges, and 
 invitations were sought by their London acquaint- 
 ance with avidity. Towards the end of the season 
 it was quite a common thing to hear, '* Are you 
 going to Lethbridge this autumn ?" and Charles's 
 brother officers were in the habit of reminding 
 each other that it was *' their turn now." During 
 the September in question, when first we intro- 
 duce the Colonel, his family and his mansion to 
 our readers' notice, the usual party had not assem- 
 bled however, for Mrs. Lethbridge and Cissy had 
 bargained for a " little bit of Charley all to them- 
 selves ;" and both the Colonel and his son were of 
 opinion that the pheasant shooting a little later 
 " would be better worth asking fellows for," and 
 that they could do very well by themselves for the 
 present. Consequently the only visitors in the 
 house were a young married lady, who was a con- 
 nection of the Lethbridges, and — as Cissy declared 
 ** they must have a gentleman for Madeline" — a 
 Sir Edward Bateson, who was considered a sort 
 of tame cat about the house, and who did as a 
 'gentleman for Mrs. Vernon' very well indeed. 
 
 4
 
 50 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Mrs. Vernon had her son with her, a boy of ten 
 years old, and although he did not count as any- 
 one, he was a very principal person in his own 
 estimation. His mamma looked upon him as a 
 sort of ''chaperon." 
 
 " I can go anywhere with Cecil, you know,'* 
 she was wont to say, and being satisfied as to his 
 existence and well-doing, she did not trouble her- 
 self much more about him. With everyone else 
 he was a great favourite. Cissy worshipped him. 
 " There never w^as such a boy as Cecil," she de- 
 clared, "never." Mrs. Lethbridge quite agreed 
 with her, and the old Colonel never saw him with- 
 out shaking his head solemnly, and assuring who- 
 ever was by, that " Vernon might be proud of that 
 chap indeed !" Mrs. Vernon was often supposed 
 by strangers to be a widow, but they generally dis- 
 covered that she had a husband before they had 
 been long in her society. The said husband hap- 
 pened to be in India. " Mamma would not hear 
 of my going there," she was in the habit of saying, 
 " and although it is wretched for me being all 
 alone in England, Captain Vernon insisted upon 
 my remaining behind, and I am obliged to make 
 the best of it." She did make the "best of it," 
 certainly, and managed to enjoy herself very 
 tolerably in the absence of her lord and master. 
 
 Madeline Vernon was a little creature, but she 
 sqj^ehow contrived to give herself an appearance 
 of greater height than she possessed. She was
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 51 
 
 very mucli admired by men, and although ladies 
 as a rule contended that "they could not see what 
 there was so wonderful about her," there was no 
 one whose di-ess and style they more eagerly copied 
 than hers. She was always perfectly dressed. 
 Wherever she went, " Mad Vernon," as Charley 
 Lethbridge called her, was safe to be the best 
 dressed person there. Her hair was veiy remark- 
 able. She always wore it in the extremest 
 fashion, and its golden shade was so striking that 
 ill-natured people insinuated it was not its natural 
 shade at all. Her eyes were large, dai-k, and well 
 shaped, and her eyebrows, contrasting so forcibly 
 as they did with the colour of her hair, attracted 
 attention the moment you looked at her. Her 
 nose was slightly retrousse, her complexion pale, 
 and clear. Altogether Mrs. Vernon w^as a person 
 who obtained notice, and made a sensation in 
 whatever circle she appeared. 
 
 The luncheon hour at Lethbridge Park was two 
 o'clock ; and the ladies had obeyed the summons 
 of the loud sounding gong, which penetrated to all 
 parts of the house, with alacrity. Sir Edward 
 Bateson was nursing a sprained ancle, and had not 
 accompanied the sportsmen who had taken their 
 departure after breakfast, (the Colonel and Charles 
 being joined by the Vicar's son,) he therefore fol- 
 lowed the *' rustling group" with the aid of a 
 stick, and declared he was as hungry as a hawk, 
 having done nothing for the last hour but ya^n 
 
 UBRARy 
 "NIVERSmrOFiLUWOR.
 
 52 geeald's oedeal. 
 
 and stretch his legs on a sofa in the libraiy. 
 
 " Mrs. Vernon was so very unkind to me," he 
 complained to Cissy, as he handed her some vege- 
 tables, " she beat me at billiards, and then would 
 keep the book she knew I was reading, although 
 I'm certain she finished it last night, and in short, 
 I have had a wretched time of it I assure you." 
 
 " Poor man," said Cissy, smiling somewhat mis- 
 chievously. "Is that true, Madeline? I shall not 
 be able to leave you two alone together another 
 day so confidingly as I did this morning, whilst I 
 was teaching my little school girls and thinking 
 you were entertaining each other so nicely." 
 
 *'You never said you wanted the book. Sir 
 Edward," observed Mrs. Vernon, '' or I would not 
 have taken it to my room, as I have not been 
 reading at all, having had some letters I was 
 obliged to write." 
 
 *' That makes it still harder on poor Sir Ed- 
 ward," said Mrs. Lethbridge. " By the bye, 
 Cissy," she added, turning to her daughter, 
 " didn't Charley promise to be in for luncheon ? 
 I heard you speaking about it." 
 
 "Yes, mamma," answered Cissy, "I want him 
 to ride with me to Wentmore this afternoon, and 
 he said he would not forget." 
 
 *'I am going to take you to see Lady Frances 
 Lennox," continued Mrs. Lethbridge, addressing 
 Madeline Vernon. "They were not at home when 
 you were here last, and they are great friends of
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 63 
 
 ours. Lady Frances is one of the most charming 
 people I know." 
 
 " And I am sure Blanche is one of the dearest 
 girls," exclaimed Cissy. " I think she is perfect. 
 She is so pretty and nice I always prescribe for 
 myself a visit to Wentmore whenever I feel par- 
 ticularly cross or out of sorts, and the first sight of 
 Blanche Lennox's face makes me all right again." 
 
 " I can't bear perfect people," remarked Mrs. 
 Vernon. ''I wonder if these Lennoxes are related 
 to a Mr. Gerald Lennox I see in London some- 
 times. I remember his saying his belongings lived 
 somewhere in this part of the world." 
 
 " The eldest son's name is Gerald," said Mrs. 
 Lethbridge, " and he is a good deal in town I 
 know. The young ladies look upon him as rather 
 a jyarti I believe, as he has some independent 
 property of his own, left him by an eccentric old 
 godfather." 
 
 " Then it is the same I daresay," said Mrs. 
 Vernon. ** Is he likely to be down here, I won- 
 der ? I rather like meeting people I know in 
 London, when I am in the country, one has some- 
 thing to talk about then, and really very often I 
 don't know what to say to people who only care 
 for the gossip of their own neighbourhood, and 
 know as much about London as if they lived at 
 the North Pole." 
 
 "I've met the Lennox you mean, once or 
 twice," said Sir Edward, rather sulkily. '* He
 
 54 Gerald's oudeal. 
 
 goes to balls and parties and all tliat sort of thing, 
 in a regular steady set. I don't think much of 
 him, the little I've seen of him." 
 
 " Then I don't think it can be the same," ob- 
 served Cissy Lethbridge, quietly, *' for everyone 
 likes Gerald Lennox. At- least, everyone whose 
 liking is worth having," she added, sotto voce, 
 
 Mrs. Vernon smiled to herself. She was quite 
 aware why poor Gerald was an object of dislike to 
 Sir Edward, and she would have been disappointed 
 if he had not shewn some impatience at her ex- 
 pressing any wish to see him again. 
 
 " Here comes Charley," exclaimed Cissy, as 
 the door opened, and her brother appeared in his 
 shooting attire accompanied by Master Cecil, who 
 rushed up to Cissy's side the moment he entered 
 the room. 
 
 *' I met that young man in the hall," said 
 Charles Lethbridge, as he approached the table, 
 *' and it seemed we were both bound in the same 
 direction, though we are rather late in the field I 
 expect. How d'ye do, Maddie ?" he continued, 
 sitting down by Mrs. Vernon's side, " this is our 
 first meeting to-day, isn't it ? What are you all 
 going to do ? Ciss carries me off to Wentmore 
 this afternoon I believe. Pass me that dish will 
 you, Bateson ?" And he applied himself to his 
 luncheon in earnest. 
 
 " We are all going to AVentmore," said Mrs, 
 Lethbridge. ** I am going to take Madeline and
 
 Gerald's oPwDeal. 55 
 
 Sir Edward in the carriage. Where did you leave 
 your father, Charley ? I hope he will not he late 
 coming home ?" 
 
 **He was going to lunch with old Stephens," 
 answered her son. " They had some farming 
 business to talk over, and young Lawrence and he 
 were going in there when I came away. He won't 
 be late to-day I know." 
 
 " Don't eat too much, Cecil," said Mrs. Vernon, 
 rising from the table and bestowing a careless 
 glance on her son and heir, who was doing ample 
 justice to something good before him. Then 
 turning to her hostess, she added, "I shall go 
 and get ready, Mrs. Lethbridge ; the carriage is 
 ordered at three, I think you said ?" And she 
 moved towards the door, which Sir Edward has- 
 tened, as well as his lameness would allow, to hold 
 open for her as she passed out. 
 
 " Do you know Gerald Lennox, Bateson ?" 
 asked young Lethbridge, as the Baronet returned 
 to the table, and helped himself to another glass 
 of wine. 
 
 " Oh ! I just know him, that's all ;" was the 
 answer. " He isn't in my set at all. A Catholic 
 or something of that sort isn't he ?" 
 
 Cissy Lethbridge looked up quickly, as her 
 mother was about to put in an indignant denial. 
 "We are all Catholics, Sir Edward," said she, 
 colouring and speaking veiy fast, " and I am sure
 
 56 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Gerald is not more likely to be a Roman Catholic 
 than I am !" 
 
 Sir Edward stared, and Charles Lethbridge 
 laughed. " Well done, Cissy," he cried, as he 
 rose from the table. "Everyone knows you are 
 an old Papist in disguise, so that isn't saying 
 much for your friend, eh ?'* 
 
 " Charley, Charley, don't talk nonsense !" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Lethbridge. " The Lennoxes are 
 all very High Church, and perhaps the young 
 ones go a little further than is desirable, but you 
 should not joke about such a serious thing as any- 
 one becoming a Papist. I believe a great deal 
 we used to think very shocking in my young days, 
 is found out to be quite right now, and the real 
 doctrine of the Church of England ; but however 
 that may be, (and I'm sure I don't pretend to 
 judge,) we know the Pope must be wrong, and 
 therefore having anything to do with him is quite 
 out of the question." 
 
 "Well, for my part, I stick up for the Pope," 
 answered her son, kissing her as he spoke, " and 
 the first time I have the chance, I intend to pay 
 him my respects in the Eternal City itself. He's 
 a rare good old fellow I believe. Lots of our 
 men have been to Kome and say it's an awfully 
 jolly place." 
 
 "You're a naughty, foolish, good-for-nothing 
 boy," said Mrs. Lethbridge, smiling, and shaking 
 her head at him. "It is of no use talking to
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 57 
 
 Tou, and if you are going to ride with your sister 
 you had better go and make yourself presentable, 
 as the horses will be round punctually at the 
 hour." 
 
 The luncheon party then dispersed, and Charles 
 Lethbridge, following his mother's advice, pro- 
 ceeded to equip himself for his ride. The horses 
 had just been brought round when he descended 
 into the hall some quarter of an hour later, and 
 the carriage was coming up from the stables. It 
 was a bright afternoon, everything seemed gay 
 and smiling, the young man felt in high spirits, 
 and fully disposed to enjoy his ride. Seldom 
 could one meet with a better-looking or more en- 
 gaging youth than was the heir of Lethbridge 
 Park. He was not yet of age, although rapidly 
 approaching that eventful epoch in his existence. 
 Contact with his fellow men had not yet entirely 
 rubbed off the freshness and ardour of boyhood, 
 and he had none of the viauvaise honte which 
 leads young men of his age so often to appear 
 older than they are. His natural disposition was 
 so good, that it was with no effort on his part that 
 he won golden opinions on every side. Those of 
 either sex to whom the only son of a wealthy 
 landed proprietor was sufficiently endowed with 
 attractions from that fact alone to render him an 
 object of admiration and regard, were of course 
 loud in his praise, and they were not the only 
 ones who maintained that " Charley Lethbridge
 
 58 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 was the best fellow in the world." With those 
 amongst his acquaintance, whose good opinion 
 was worth having, he was a favourite also. And 
 he deserved to he so. A more warm-hearted, 
 good-tempered yonng fellow it was not possible 
 to meet with, and perhaps it was no detriment in 
 the eyes of the fair sex that he was as handsome 
 in appearance as he was agreeable and prepossess- 
 ing in manners. 
 
 He was tall and well built. Fair curly locks 
 clustered over his open forehead, and a soft mous- 
 tache on his upper lip lent an air of manliness to 
 his otherwise boyish face. His eyes were blue 
 and laughing, his voice and his laugh had that 
 unmistakable ring in them which springs only 
 from a true and honest heart. If he looked well 
 in his careless shooting dress, he appeared to still 
 greater advantage in his present costume, and as 
 he helped his sister to mount she thought that 
 she might well be proud of her cavalier. 
 
 The equestrians preceded the carriage down the 
 drive from the house to the pretty rustic lodge 
 which stood by the gates, opening on to the Went- 
 more road, and then leaving it to follow at a more 
 sober pace, they rode on in advance. 
 
 As the Lethbridge carriage drew up in front of 
 Wentmore Eectory, its occupants noticed that the 
 riders had not dismounted but were talking to 
 Ferdinand Lennox who stood in the door way,
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 59 
 
 and advanced towards Mrs. Lethbridge as the 
 carnage stopped. 
 
 " I have just been sapng," be began, after the 
 usual salutations had been exchanged and he had 
 been introduced to Mrs. Vernon and Sir Edward, 
 *' that my mother is very poorly, and I am afraid 
 cannot see anyone to-day. She will be very sorry 
 I know when she hears you have called. "We are 
 expecting my father home this evening. He has 
 been staying with the Bishop. Blanche is out I 
 think, but won*t you come in for a few minutes 
 and sit down ?" 
 
 The young man spoke hurriedly and with an 
 evident embarrassment in his manner. Mrs. Leth- 
 bridge remarked it, and was wondering as to its 
 cause, when Cissy riding round to the other side 
 of the cari'iage, exclaimed, '' I'm sure Madeline 
 would like to see the church, mamma ! Had we 
 not better dismount and walk there, and then the 
 horses and carriage can wait for us in the village ? 
 Can we have the kevs ?'* she added, addressinef 
 Ferdinand across the carriage. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," he answered. " I will get 
 them and follow you directly if you will go do\Mi 
 to the church." 
 
 Then desiring a servant to attend to the horses, 
 he returned into the house. Cissy and her 
 brother dismounted, and the latter opened the 
 carriage door, and assisted Mrs. Vernon to alight 
 saying as he did so in a low tone to his mother,
 
 60 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 "They have had some bad news. Something 
 about Gerald. I will tell you presently, and poor 
 Lady Frances is dreadfully knocked up by it." 
 
 *' Cissy seems so bent upon our seeing the 
 church, I suppose it is something wonderful," 
 said Mrs. Vernon, shaking out the folds of her 
 dress as she stood in the carriage drive, and look- 
 ing rather disappointed at the result of their ex- 
 pedition, as she had been rather curious to see 
 Lady Frances and her daughter of whom she had 
 heard so much. Then as the carriage slowly re- 
 turned into the village. Cissy, Mrs. Vernon, Sir 
 Edward, and Charles Lethbridge walked towards 
 the church, and entered the churchyard by a 
 little side gate which opened from the Eectory 
 grounds. 
 
 " Isn't this pretty, Madeline?" exclaimed Cissy. 
 *' Did you ever see anything so well kept, or so 
 nice as those baskets of flowers and the neatness of 
 the graves ? I always wish our churchyard was half 
 as well attended to, but I despair of Mr. Lawrence 
 ever doing anything." 
 
 " Yes, it is very nice," said Mrs. Vernon, with 
 an air of indifference. " One does not often see 
 so many flowers in a churchyard. I don't know 
 that I quite like them, it makes it look too much 
 like a garden. Is that the organ?" she added, as 
 they drew nearer the building, from which pro- 
 ceeded the sounds of a richly toned instrument 
 evidently touched by an experienced hand. *'Who
 
 geeald's oedeal. 61 
 
 can be playing ? There is no seryice I lioj^e ? " 
 
 And she stopped rather in dismay. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," said Cissy, *' it is only 
 some one practising. Blanche Lennox plays the 
 organ, I. hope it is she." 
 
 As she spoke she entered the fine old edifice, 
 which built many centuries before, had been re- 
 cently restored by Mr. Lennox, and was a fine 
 specimen of Early EngHsh. The noise made by 
 their pushing open the side door which stood 
 ajar, was not sufficient to disturb the player at the 
 organ, who was concealed from sight by a curtain 
 which hung in front of the seat, and the full tones 
 of the instrument continued to peal through the 
 building. The organ was placed at one end of 
 the north aisle, and as the party of new comers 
 advanced towards it, the little village boy who was 
 acting as pumper, alarmed at the sight of so many 
 strange faces, lost his presence of mind, and leav- 
 ing his post, ran round in front to say, "Eer's 
 some ladies coming. Miss," and before he could 
 regain his comer, the sound had evaporated in a 
 dismal groan which caused the performer to utter 
 an exclamation of annoyance, and Cissy Leth- 
 bridge then perceived that it was not Blanche 
 but Barbara Lennox who was practising at that 
 hour, as was her wont. 
 
 Barbara instantly rose and came towards the 
 visitors, saying, *' I did not know anyone was in
 
 62 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 the church ! How long have you been here, Miss 
 Lethbridge ?" 
 
 " Is that Miss Lennox ?'* whispered Madeline 
 Yernon to Charles Lethbridge, as they stood a 
 little apart whilst Cissy and Barbara spoke to 
 each other, and Sir Edward stared vacantly round 
 the edifice. 
 
 " No, she is a cousin," answered Charles in the 
 same tone. " She is a very nice girl, but not like 
 the other. Here comes Ferdinand," he added, 
 turning towards his sister, " with the keys, which 
 were not wanted after all." 
 
 *' I did not know you were practising, Barbara," 
 said Ferdinand Lennox, as he approached, holding 
 the ponderous keys of the church in his hand. 
 "Is it not a nice organ, Mrs. Vernon ? Do you 
 play at all yourself ?" 
 
 '* No, I never attempted the organ," replied 
 Mrs. Vernon. " Miss Lennox plays most beauti- 
 fully. I am sure it must be very difficult." 
 
 Cissy Lethbridge then proposed that they should 
 go round the church, and examine the different 
 points of interest and beauty it contained. Some 
 of the stained glass in the windows was very fine, 
 and Mrs. Vernon admired all she saw extremely. 
 " But it is very like a Catholic ^church, dear," 
 she said to Cissy, as they were standing a 
 little apart from the others. " Those candlesticks 
 on the altar give it quite that sort of look." 
 
 *' It is a Catholic church, of course," returned
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 63 
 
 Cissy. " I suppose yon mean it looks like a 
 Roman Catholic one ; and if so, I don't agree with 
 you, for I don't see anything which is inconsistent 
 with an Anglican church about it." 
 
 " Oh ! I never understand you, you laiow, 
 Cissy," was the hasty rejoinder. " Catholic or 
 Roman Catholic seems to me the same thing. 
 All I can say is, this does not look like a Pro- 
 testant church, at least, not like those one is 
 accustomed to." 
 
 *' And it is not one," asserted Cissy, confi- 
 dently. " So that is quite right. You are such 
 a dreadful heretic, Madeline. Just ask Miss 
 Seymour if she calls herself a Protestant!" 
 
 Further conversation was just then put a stop 
 to by the approach of Sir Edward, who informed 
 them that Mrs. Lethb ridge was waiting and would 
 be glad if they would come. Taking a final glance 
 round the building which she had quite taste 
 enough to appreciate and admire, Mrs. Yernon 
 then accompanied Cissy and the Baronet down the 
 steps which led from the entrance of the church 
 to where the carriage stood. Mrs. Lethbridge 
 who had remained in it waiting for them, as she 
 had often seen Wentmore Church, was talk- 
 ing to Barbara and Ferdinand Lennox who 
 stood by the carriage door. She looked up as 
 they appeared, and said, " Now Madeline, dear, I 
 am sorry to hurry you away, but I wish to call at
 
 64 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 the Oaks on our way home. What do you think 
 of the Church ? Is it not beautiful ?" 
 
 " Very nice indeed," was Mrs. Vernon's safe 
 remark, as she took leave of the Lennoxes and 
 seated herself by Mrs. Lethbridge's side. 
 
 " I have been so dreadfully shocked," said Mrs. 
 Lethbridge, turning to her as they drove off, " by 
 hearing that Mr. Gerald Lennox, the eldest son 
 whom you said you knew, has really become a 
 Roman Catholic. His poor brother seems very 
 much cut up about it, and it must be a terrible 
 blow to them all. Such an attached family as 
 they are. I don't wonder at poor Lady Frances 
 being quite ill." 
 
 Mrs. Vernon received the information very com- 
 posedly, and Sir Edward remarked, " I thought 
 he was one ever so long ago. I know he went to 
 church every day and all that sort of thing, and 
 when a man takes to that, I set it down he is 
 going mad or over to Rome, one or the other. 
 Just as if once a week wasn't enough for anybody. 
 And too much too," he added, under his breath 
 as he concluded. 
 
 But good Mrs. Lethbridge was very much dis- 
 composed, and could talk of nothing else but of 
 those "Poor Lennoxes," ejaculating at intervals, 
 *' What will they do !" and " How very sad, — such 
 a fine young man !" etc., etc., as they went along. 
 Arrived at the Oaks, which was a large well- 
 built house, approached by a winding drive through
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 65 
 
 shrubberies, they were admitted into the presence 
 of Mrs. Fraser Smith, who was seated in her 
 drawing-room with her three elder daughters. 
 Mrs. Lethbridge was too much occupied with what 
 she had heard at Wentmore to keep it long to her- 
 self, and as she and Mrs. Smith placed themselves 
 on a sofa a little apart from the others, she asked 
 that lady in an anxious tone if she had seen any- 
 thing of the Lennoxes lately. " They are in sad 
 distress, poor things," she added, " but perhaps 
 you have not heard ?" 
 
 "We were there the day before yesterday," 
 answered Mrs. Smith, " and I am sure nothing 
 was the matter then. My daughters had a game 
 of croquet with Blanche Lennox and two gentle- 
 men we took over with us, and I thought Lady 
 Frances and Blanche seemed both in very good 
 spirits. It must be something very sudden, 
 surely ?" 
 
 " I am not sure that I ought to say anj^hing 
 about it," returned Mrs. Lethbridge, with some 
 hesitation. " Poor Mr. Lennox himself doesn't 
 know yet, as he is away from home. I could not 
 have believed it, unless Ferdinand had told me 
 himself." 
 
 *• But what is it ?" asked Mrs. Smith, her curi- 
 osity greatly aroused. " Nothing about the girls 
 is it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbridge proceeded to reassure her on 
 that point, and then with many injunctions as to 
 
 5
 
 66 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 secrecy *' until they tell you themselves, you 
 know," informed her of Gerald's " sad fall," for 
 so the good lady designated the step he had taken, 
 and indeed in her innermost heart, she helieved 
 he could not have done much worse. 
 
 At the other end of the room, the eldest Miss 
 Smith was conversing with Mrs. Vernon and 
 Cissy on the subject of the late Archery Meeting 
 and other deeply interesting matters, neither Cissy 
 nor Madeline making any mention of what had 
 transpired at Wentmore, the latter from sheer 
 indifference on the subject, and the former be- 
 cause she felt too much for her friends at the 
 Kectory, and was too much upset herself by what 
 she had heard, to care to discuss the subject with 
 Clara Smith. Bella Smith, the third daughter, 
 and Charles Lethbridge, were looking over some 
 drawings lately done by the young lady, and which 
 he was expected duly to admire, whilst Laura 
 monopolised Sir Edward in a window recess, and 
 improved the acquaintance she had formed with 
 him a few evenings before at the Archery ball. 
 
 The Smiths were all what is termed ' taking* 
 girls, and Sir Edward thought he had often met 
 with a less agreeable companion than the young 
 lady who evidently wished to produce a pleasing 
 impression upon him. The Baronet had a fair 
 share of good looks, and when he chose to exert 
 himself, could converse sensibly and fluently 
 enough on most subjects, so that he appeared
 
 gekald's ordeal. 67 
 
 to no little aclvantage in Miss Laura's eyes with 
 whom his social status alone was sufficient to 
 render him an object of interest and attention. 
 Laura was a clever girl, and took advantage of the 
 opportunity afforded her of drawing out Su' Ed- 
 ward, and making him appear to advantage in his 
 own eyes. She soon found out which were his 
 strong points and which were not, and by dint of 
 enlarging on some topics and avoiding others, she 
 contrived in a very short space of time, to con- 
 vince Sir Edward that he was a much sharper 
 fellow than he had been aware of himself, and 
 that she, Laura Smith, was * no end' of a fine girl, 
 and the pleasantest he had met with for a long 
 time. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Vernon divined something of 
 what was passing in his mind, and considered it 
 time to interfere, or whether she was weary of 
 remarking on the shapes of peoples' bonnets, and 
 listening to comments upon persons Clara and 
 Cissy were acquainted with, but of whom, she, 
 Madeline Vernon, knew nothing and cared less, 
 certain it is that Sir Edward and Laura were 
 interrupted in a most interesting discussion with 
 regard to the respective merits of London and 
 the country as places of residence, by her seizing a 
 book of photographs from a table, and appealiug 
 to Laura to tell her who the people were whose 
 likenesses it contained, and the tete a tete was 
 effectually broken up in consequence.
 
 68 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 Katlier ungraciously at first, although she soon 
 recovered her usual composure, Laura proceeded 
 to enumerate "Mr. This" and "Miss That" in the 
 usual style, with the prefix, "I don't suppose you 
 would know her," or "Perhaps you have met him 
 in society?" when a voice interrupted her with — 
 
 " Oh ! don't show that hook, Laura, there is 
 such a horrid thing- of me in it !" 
 Laura turned hastily round, exclaiming, 
 " Minnie ! When did you come in ?" 
 " I was in the garden and did not know there 
 were visitors, and you were all so busy talking 
 when I opened the door, you did not hear me," 
 answered Minnie, with a merry laugh. Then, 
 having shaken hands with the others, she crossed 
 over the room towards Mrs. Lethbridge, and waited 
 until an opportunity offered for speaking to her, 
 seating herself, meanwhile, on a low couch near 
 that lady and her mother, who were still dis- 
 cussing the event which had taken place in the 
 Lennox family. 
 
 It was now getting late, and Charles Lethbridge 
 told Cissy they must Le going, and he thought as 
 his mother did not seem inclined to move, that 
 they had better start off first. Mrs. Lethbridge 
 hearing this, said goodbye to Mrs. Smiih, begging 
 her most earnestly not to " repeat for the present" 
 what she had told her. Then rising ij-om her 
 seat, she rttercd nn exclamation of alarm which 
 drew the attention of all present.
 
 Gerald's orcDEAL. 69 
 
 *' Why ! what is this ?" she cried. " Someone 
 is ill ! Who is it ? What can it be ?" For in 
 turninj:,' round to gather up her shawl, she had 
 caught sight of some one apparently insensible 
 lying on the ground near the sofa on which she 
 bad been seated. 
 
 " It is Minnie !" exclaimed half-a-dozen voices 
 at once. 
 
 In another moment the inanimate form of the 
 young girl was raised, and Charles Lethbridge's 
 strong arm had conveyed her to an open window, 
 near which he supported her, whilst the others 
 supplied restoratives and gi-adually brought the 
 colour back to her cheeks. Then she slowly 
 opened her eyes and looked up at her mother, 
 who was bending over her in the greatest conster- 
 nation. 
 
 *' Minnie ! my dearest, what is it ?" cried she, 
 as she met her daughter's anxious wandering 
 gaze. 
 
 "Send them away, mamma," murmured Minnie. 
 " It is nothing, I shall be well directly !" 
 
 No one caught the words but Mrs. Smith, who, 
 turning towards her visitors, begged they would 
 no longer distress themselves on her daughter's 
 account. " She will be quite well directly. A 
 little over-tired, that is all." And with many 
 expressions of regret and sympathy the Leth- 
 bridge party took their leave. 
 
 *' Could she have heard anything I was sayinc^
 
 70 GERALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 to her mother?" thought Mrs. Lethbridge, as she 
 leaned back in the carriage, and meditated on her 
 way home. " And yet, if so, why should that 
 have affected her so deeply? unless — " but here 
 her cogitations were interrupted by Mrs. Yernon, 
 who made some remark which led into a conversa- 
 tion which continued until they arrived at Leth- 
 bridge.
 
 geeald's oedeal. 71 
 
 CHAPTEE ir. 
 
 Minnie Smith was a fair-Laired girl, with soft 
 liazel eyes and a pretty pouting mouth which 
 looked as if made to be kissed. She was 
 generally considered a " nice good-natured little 
 thing," spoiled by her mother, and petted by 
 her sisters. By her young lady friends in the 
 neighbourhood, she had been pronounced *' rather 
 a flirt," since she had come out, that is to say, 
 since she had been in the habit of going to Balls 
 and parties with the rest of the family, but as she 
 was the youngest and " hardly grown up yet," (as 
 her eldest sister took occasional opportunities of 
 hinting,) this had not been for very long. 
 
 Minnie was not what is called '^sentimental," 
 nor was she, as a rule, given to fainting or exhibi- 
 tions of that kind under slight provocation. She 
 enjoyed life as much as anyone, and took things 
 very much as she found them. She was not in ill 
 health, neither was she more than usually foolish 
 or affected. What then was the cause of her sud-
 
 72 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 den indisposition on the occasion of Mrs. Leth- 
 bridge's visit to the Oaks as mentioned in our 
 last chapter ? 
 
 It was this. 
 
 Minnie had a heart, and that heart had been 
 given wholly, entirely, and (as she believed,) 
 irrevocably, to a young gentleman of her acquaint- 
 ance, whose name was Gerald Lennox, although 
 in justice to him it must be stated that he had no 
 suspicion of anything of the sort. Catching his 
 name as she sat near her mother and Mrs. Leth- 
 bridge, she naturally gave more attention to their 
 half- whispered conversation than she would other- 
 wise have done, and in a very few moments she 
 had heard enough to make her pulsation cease, 
 and the room swim round her. She knew that 
 he, Gerald Lennox, had become a Roman Catholic, 
 and knowing that, felt that for her there was, (at 
 least, so it seemed for the moment,) no more joy 
 or peace or satisfaction in life. All seemed con- 
 fused around her, and she fell forward from her 
 seat in a swoon, as we have described. 
 
 Was Minnie then so stern a Protestant, that 
 the discovery of Gerald's having become a Papist 
 was too much for her, and could in itself produce 
 so strange an effect upon her nerves ? Nothing of 
 the sort. Minnie had been too much under the in- 
 fluence, latterly, of Cissy Lethbridge and Blanche 
 Lennox to have any feeling of that kind, indeed, 
 she scorned and repudiated the name of Protes-
 
 geeald's oedeal. 73 
 
 tant, and belieyed as devoutly in Seven Sacra- 
 ments, the Real Presence and Priestly Absolution 
 as the Pope himself — what could it he then ? 
 
 We \Yill explain. 
 
 Minnie and her sisters had all been brought up 
 to consider that matrimony was the grand aim 
 and object of existence, and that a *' good catch" 
 was the one tiling to be desired and sought for. 
 Mrs. Fraser Smith was ambitious, and instilled 
 into her daughters as much as possible the duty 
 of rising in the world, by means of some noble or 
 wealthy alliance. Mr. Fraser Smith was, how- 
 ever, less aspiring in his views, and always told 
 his children they might please themselves as to 
 whom they should marry, provided " the fellow 
 was of the right sort, you know, and no humbug 
 about him," and all, he, Mr. Fraser Smith, could 
 say, was, that if they were content to live on small 
 incomes, he should never object, fixing however, 
 the sum of six hundred per annum as the lowest on 
 which any decent couple could live. " And that 
 need not frighten you, girls," he would add, "be- 
 cause, if you choose to marry a man with only 
 three hundred a year of his own, and there is 
 nothing else to be said against him, I will give 
 him another three, and so make up the requisite 
 figure, and whatever any fellow has, who comes to 
 ask me for one of you, always supposing it is 
 three hundred a j-ear or upwards, I will double it ; 
 so now you know. And if you want five thousand
 
 74 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 a year, you must look out for someone with 
 twenty- five hundred. But seriously, if you take 
 my advice, you won't think of settling down under 
 one thousand a year, as that is the minimum in 
 my opinion, required for respectability and com- 
 fort." 
 
 Alas, for the many, then, who in Mr. Fraser 
 Smith's estimation were neither comfortable nor 
 respectable ! 
 
 Now, Gerald Lennox had a thousand a year of his 
 own, and nothing doubting in her own mind that 
 he would sooner or later change the * brother and 
 sister' style of familiarity which existed between 
 the younger members of the two families for some 
 feeling of a warmer nature, as regarded herself, 
 Minnie had secretly contemplated with much satis- 
 faction, the certainty of there being no opposition 
 on her father's part to any matrimonial engage- 
 ment between them. Of course, the connection in 
 itself would be an object with both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Smith, for no family in the county was more 
 highly thought of than the Lennoxes, it being 
 well known that the Eector of Wentmore was 
 a member of one of the oldest families in Eng- 
 land, although properly belonging to another 
 county than that in which his friendship with the 
 Bishop of had placed him, and the fact more- 
 over, that Gerald Lennox was the nephew of a 
 Peer, did not in any way injure him in the estima- 
 tion of his acquaintance in general. Up to this
 
 GEPwALD's oedeal. 
 
 fatal moment, then, in wliicli poor Minnie lia. 
 heard of his secession from the Chm-ch of Eng- 
 land, she had been living on hope, and the 
 buoyancy of her nature had made all seem 
 bright and cheerful before her. Xor would, 
 under ordinary circumstances, the fact of Ger- 
 ald's haying become a Eoman Catholic have 
 made any real difference to her in any way ; but 
 in a moment of brotherly confidence, he had him- 
 self told her that this property which had been 
 left him by his godfather, old Sir Gerald New- 
 come, was his, only so long as he remained a 
 Protestant, " which means, as long as I am a 
 member of the Church of England," he explained, 
 repudiating, as he did most entu-ely, the idea of his 
 being a Protestant in any sense whatever, and, of 
 course, if the Established Church of England is 
 not, and never was, Protestant, he was right, but 
 on that point persons have, and always will have, 
 their own opinion. 
 
 He must, then, by this rash act of his, have 
 become penniless, or at least entu-ely dependent 
 on his father, and in the ruin which spread itseK 
 before her mind's eye, Minnie's own prospects 
 of future happiness seemed too surely wrecked 
 as well. That was the reason of her being so 
 utterly overcome by the intelligence, and her only 
 consolation was, that no one for a moment sus- 
 pected the cause of her emotion, and she therefore 
 escaped expressions of pity and condolence which
 
 76 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 would have been harder to bear than anything 
 else. 
 
 All that evening, Minnie remained on a sofa in 
 a dark corner of the room, silent and unhappy, 
 pleading a bad headache as an excuse for not 
 coming forward and taking her usual place in the 
 family circle. Her sisters had been much sur- 
 prised at the sudden attack which thus silenced 
 and subdued the usually merry and talkative pet 
 of the family, but in compliance with her own 
 earnest entreaty, they left her to herself, and she 
 thankfully profited by their indulgence to nurse 
 her grief in silence. During the night she lay 
 restless and wakeful, and the next morning was 
 so far from well, that she could not go down to 
 breakfast, although she got up and dressed, but 
 preferred remaining on the sofa in her own little 
 room, where her mother and sisters visited her in 
 turn. 
 
 " I shall send for Mr. Findlay, dear," said Mrs. 
 Smith, determinedly, *'if you are not much better 
 this afternoon. Your hands are feverish and hot, 
 and I am sure he ought to see you. Don't talk 
 too much, and keep quiet. You have some nice 
 books I see. That croquet playing after the ball 
 was too much for you I know." 
 
 To be left quiet was all poor Minnie wanted, 
 and she begged earnestly that the doctor might 
 not be summoned. " I will go and sit out in the 
 garden this afternoon," she said, " and the air
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 77 
 
 will do me good, there is notliing the matter 
 really." 
 
 lu the afternoon accordingly, she had a seat 
 placed for her in a shady part of the garden, which 
 commanded the approach to the house. Her 
 mother and sisters set off on an expedition to the 
 neighhouring town, and she was left in undis- 
 tui'bed possession of the place. If anyone had 
 come upon this young creature suddenly, as she 
 sat there, they must have been struck by the pale- 
 ness of her cheek, and the air of depression and 
 sadness which pervaded her. And some one who 
 drew near the house by the di-ive from the gate 
 opening on to the road, did notice her, and was 
 struck in this way by her appearance. 
 
 *'Miss Minnie, is that you?" exclaimed a voice, 
 which caused Minnie to look up hastily, and utter 
 an exclamation of surprise, "and all alone? Dear 
 me ! I was afraid you would all be out this nice 
 day, and am glad to find you at home, but my 
 dear, you do not look well, is anything the mat- 
 ter ? And your mamma and sisters ? Gone out 
 are they ? and you are all alone ! dear, dear." 
 
 The speaker was a female- of uncertain age, and 
 of somewhat eccentric appearance. A feeling of 
 annoyance came over Minnie Smith, as she recog- 
 nised her on her approach, but ere she had finished 
 speaking, a smile came across her face, and she 
 begged Miss Jones to fetch herself a chair fi-om 
 inside the house and sit down by her, as everyone
 
 78 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 else was out, and slie should be glad of a little 
 company. "My head has been very bad all the 
 morning," she added, '' but the air does it good, 
 and so I am sure you will excuse my coming in 
 with you." 
 
 " Certainly, my dear, certainly. I shall be 
 delighted to sit with you, if you will let me. I 
 am rather tired with my walk, and it is a long 
 time since I have had a chat with you, dear, 
 dear!" was the answer, and Miss Jones dis- 
 appeared into the house, quickly returning with 
 a chair which she placed beside Minnie's, and 
 then having seated herself she turned round and 
 surveyed the young lady scrutinisingly, shaking 
 her head when she had finished her inspection, 
 and telling her *' she did look bad, dear, dear !" 
 
 Miss Jones, as we have hinted, was not an 
 ordinary looking person by any means. Her age 
 might have been anything between forty and sixty. 
 The style of her dress was bordering on the 
 juvenile, but her features did not carry out the 
 impression of youth, which at first sight was con- 
 veyed by her appearance to the beholder. She 
 wore a small hat on the top of her head, serving 
 to display a great deal of rich black hair, which 
 fell in ringlets over her shoulders, and gave 
 her a school-girlish look at first glance. A white 
 veil of figured net partially concealed her features 
 from view, but the colour on her cheeks was very 
 diFcernible, and seemed almost too bright to be
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 79 
 
 natural. Her eyes were dark and piercing, her 
 nose was long, lier features sharp. Her figure 
 was very slim, and she moved as actively as a girl 
 of sixteen. Her voice was thin and pitched in a 
 high key, and almost eveiy time she spoke she 
 ended her remarks with the exclamation, " dear, 
 dear !" which made people think she was a little 
 cracky. 
 
 She was a maiden lady, of small hut indepen- 
 dent means. She lived in a cottage near Went- 
 more. She knew everyone, but only a few knew 
 much about her. With the neighbouring families 
 she was friendly and sociable, and as far as her 
 means would allow, she was charitable to the poor, 
 and was looked upon by them with gi-ateful feel- 
 ings in return. Her father, it was understood, 
 had been a naval officer, and she was generally 
 supposed to have been, at one time, ' very well 
 off,' as the saying is. But times had changed with 
 her in more ways than one, and in spite of her 
 efforts to conceal the fact, she was, alas, no longer 
 so young as she had been. It was not often that 
 she visited the Oaks, the elder daughters and 
 then- mamma not understanding or making much 
 allowance for her odd ways, and she felt rather 
 shy of them, but Minnie was a favourite, and she 
 was particularly glad to find her alone on this 
 occasion. 
 
 " You have been doing too much lately, my 
 dear," said Miss Jones. " I heard of you all at
 
 80 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 the Archery meeting, and you have been having 
 company since, have you not ? Miss Barbara 
 Lennox told me you had been over to the Eectory 
 quite a large party the other day. But you are 
 not strong, my dear, and must be careful. I am 
 older than you, my dear," and Miss Jones's voice 
 became impressive as if she felt that Minnie might 
 naturally question the fact, " and you must let me 
 give you a little of my own experience, dear, dear!" 
 
 " Have you been at the Eectory lately? Have 
 you seen Blanche Lennox the last day or two, 
 Miss Jones?" enquired Minnie. *' Mrs. Leth- 
 bridge was here yesterday, and I fancied from 
 what she said ihat they had had some bad news 
 or something of the kind, but am not sure." 
 
 Minnie tried to steady her voice as she asked 
 the question, but did not quite succeed, and Miss 
 Jones looked at her rather fixedly as she replied, 
 *'I am afraid there is something wrong, my dear, at 
 least something distressing has happened, for I saw 
 Mr. Ferdinand for a few minutes yesterday, and 
 he said as much." 
 
 '' Something about — about Gerald do you 
 mean ?" said Minnie, looking up into the other's 
 face as she bent over her. 
 
 To her surprise. Miss Jones stooped forward 
 and kissed her forehead without speaking. 
 
 The colour flew to Minnie's face, and her eyes 
 fell as she said, nervously, 
 
 *' I mean, do you think he is ill ? Is there
 
 Gerald's oedeal, 81 
 
 anything — " and she stopped confusedly, for Miss 
 Jones continued to regard her with penetrating 
 eyes. 
 
 Miss Jones did not answer, nor did she remove 
 her gaze for a few moments. Then suddenly she 
 started back, and put her handkerchief to her face 
 whilst what sounded hke half a cough and half 
 a sob escaped her. 
 
 *' He is quite well," she said presently, and 
 Minnie who had been gazing at her with astonish- 
 ment, thought her voice sounded harsh and strange, 
 " but he is not Hkely to be at home just yet. I 
 think, — I am afraid he is in some trouble." 
 
 " Miss Jones, tell me. Is it true he has become 
 a Koman Catholic?" cried Minnie, leaning for- 
 ward and seizing the other's hand. "I am sure 
 you know. Is it — is it true ?" 
 
 *'I believe it is," replied Miss Jones, and she 
 laid her hand on the young girl's outstretched 
 arm as she spoke. " I believe it is, and I need 
 not tell you what that involves in his case." 
 
 Minnie turned away her head with a sort of 
 stifled groan. " I know, I know," she murmured 
 faintly. " Poor Lady Frances, and poor Blanche! 
 how much they will feel it !" 
 
 *' Noble ! fine-hearted fellow ! I shall never for- 
 give his father if he turns away from him now. 
 But it must be very sad for them all, dear, dear I" 
 And Miss Jones relapsed into her usual nervous 
 manner, and suddenly discovering that her parasol
 
 :82 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 had become unfastened, busied herself in rolling 
 it tightly up and fastening the button again. 
 
 ** Miss Jones, will you take a note for me to 
 Wentmore ?" said Minnie, starting up. "It will 
 be very kind of you, and I shall not be a moment 
 writing it." 
 
 ** Certainly, certainly, my dear," answered Miss 
 Jones. *' But you must not go into the house. 
 Cannot I bring you your writing things out here ? 
 Ah ! young people will be young people ! dear, 
 dear !" And Miss Jones forgot that she was so 
 very little older than Minnie, as she watched her 
 flitting rapidly across the lawn and disappearing 
 into the house beyond. Then taking up the book 
 which Minjiie had let fall, she seated herself again 
 on the chair from which she had risen and amused 
 herself with turning over its pages until the young 
 lady returned with a little note which she put into 
 Miss Jones's hand, saying, 
 
 *' You will give this to Hester Seymour for me?" 
 
 **I will;" was the answer. "I declare the 
 colour has quite come back into your cheeks, dear 
 Miss Minnie ! But I am sure your mamma will 
 scold very much if she finds you have not been 
 sitting here quietly during her absence, and I am 
 afraid she will think it is my fault, dear, dear !" 
 
 Minnie shook her head and smiled, and shortly 
 after Miss Jones took leave, and she and the note 
 were on their way to Wentmore. 
 
 The following evening when the servant was
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 83 
 
 closing the shutters in Mrs. Gregory's drawing- 
 room, and the tea urn was hissing on the table, as 
 that lady and her niece usually dined early, and 
 when they were alone did not move into the 
 dining-room for their six o'clock repast, a ring 
 was heard at the door bell. Having left the room, 
 the footman returned in a few minutes, and 
 announced, " Miss Smith," throwing open the 
 door and admitting Minnie at the same time, 
 who advanced smilingly as the two ladies rose to 
 receive her. 
 
 " It is so good of you to have me, dear Mrs. 
 Gregory," she said, embracing the aunt, and then 
 turning to bestow a sisterly kiss upon the niece, 
 she added, " It was all I could do to get them to 
 let me come, but Mr. Findlay was an old dear, 
 and said it would do me good, and so, after that, 
 mamma couldn't help herself, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Gregory was very fond of young people, 
 and Minnie's cheerful ways and manner made her 
 a favourite with the old lady. Her own niece, 
 ** Although the best and dearest girl in the world," 
 she always said, was just a little too quiet perhaps, 
 and any addition to their small circle was always 
 most eagerly and gladly welcomed by her. 
 
 " I have asked Mr. Woods to look in bye-ahd- 
 bye," said Mrs. Gregory, smiling, as they seated 
 themselves round the tea table, ** and I have no 
 doubt he will do so, if he has finished preparing 
 his sermon for to-morrow. I told him a young
 
 84i Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 lady was coming, and that I must have a nice 
 young gentleman to meet her, and he is a nice 
 young man is he nbt, my dear f 
 
 But Minnie's face clouded over slightly at this 
 intelligence, and without noticing the query, she 
 turned to Hester, saying, ** I was in hopes I 
 should haV6 had you all to myself, I have so many 
 things I wanted to speak to you ahout. But I 
 daresay we shall have time for that," she added, 
 ohsefving Hester's look of perplexity, as she 
 glanced towards her aunt, that lady never suppos- 
 ing that any other arrangement could be more 
 agreeable to her guests than such as she at any 
 time propos'ed. 
 
 During the course of the meal, when Mrs. 
 Gregory's attention was occupied by re-filling the 
 cups, Minnie whispered to Hester, " I want to 
 speak to you about the Lennoxes. Have you seen 
 them to-day ?" 
 
 Hester whispered back, *'Yes. Mr. Lennox 
 has come home." And then had to receive her 
 tea from her aunt, and pass some cake in return. 
 
 The cloth was being removed, when a ring was 
 heard at the bell. " There is Mr. Woods," said 
 Mrs. Gregory, " although I hardly expected him 
 so soon." 
 
 But two minutes after, when the door opened, 
 it was Ferdinand Lennox who entered. 
 
 ''Forgive me for intruding, dear Mrs. Gregory," 
 he said, advancing towards her. '*I see I am
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 85 
 
 just too late for tea, and you liave company too. 
 How do you do, Miss Minnie ?" and having 
 shaken hands with the old lady, he turned first 
 to one young lady and then to the other. 
 
 "Do have a cup of tea, Mr. Ferdinand," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Gregory, on hospitable thoughts 
 intent. " You dine late I know, hut we have 
 only just done, and it can be brought back di- 
 rectly." 
 
 " No, indeed, thanks," answered Ferdinand, 
 seating himself by Hester Seymour. " I only 
 came in for a moment with a message from 
 Blanche, and I rather thought I should see Woods 
 here, as he told me you had asked him this even- 
 ing. But he was going to dine with Mr. Hatchard, 
 I know, and I suppose he has not been able to get 
 away as yet." 
 
 " Mr. Lennox has returned, has he not ?" en- 
 quu-ed Mrs. Gregory. " I hope he is well, and 
 Lady Frances better this evening ? I was truly 
 grieved to hear so poor an account of her, yester- 
 day." 
 
 " My mother is a little better, thank you," 
 answered Ferdinand, rather shortly. "My father 
 came back yesterday, a day later than we had 
 expected, but there was a great gathering of Kural 
 Deans at the Palace, and he could not get away 
 sooner. Blanche would be very glad if you could 
 come up to-morrow, after service," he continued, 
 turning to Hester, " as she wishes to arrange
 
 86 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 something with you ahout that girl, Upton, I 
 believe. The sister is to be buried on Monday.'* 
 
 ** Give her my love, and say, I will come with 
 pleasure," returned Hester. ** How is Blanche 
 this evening ?" she added in a low tone. 
 
 ** Better, but very sad, poor child. She wanta 
 you to comfort her. Bibi is so bitter on the sub- 
 ject, I cannot understand her, and Blanche is not 
 able to discuss the question of right and wrong 
 yet. We both feel so very much for him, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 Ferdinand Lennox did not speak loud enough 
 for any but Hester to hear what he said. She 
 pressed his hand silently in answer. 
 
 Then rising, he took leave of Mrs. Gregory, 
 and saying to Hester, " I shall tell Blanche you 
 will come," he shook hands with her and Minnie, 
 and departed. 
 
 In the hall he encountejred Mr. Woods, who had 
 just been admitted by the servant. 
 
 " I was wishing to see you," Ferdinand ex- 
 claimed, " but will not detain you now, if I may 
 come down to-morrow afternoon. Shall you be at 
 home at three o'clock?" 
 
 The curate assured him he should be at home 
 at that hour, and Ferdinand then hurried away, 
 whilst Mr. Woods passed on into the presence of 
 the ladies. 
 
 " I knew you were dining with the old doctor," 
 said Mrs. Gregory, when the mutual greetings
 
 geeald's ordeal. 87 
 
 were oyer, *' and was afraid he would have kept 
 you till later. You did not sit Tery long over your 
 wine ?" 
 
 "No. The doctor was called away by a note from 
 Mr. Findlay, asking him to attend a case he was 
 unable to look after himself, at some little dis- 
 tance, and he was obliged to hurry off." 
 
 The curate and Mrs. Gregory then began a long 
 discussion about the Clothing Club and other 
 parish matters, in which the old lady was in- 
 terested, and Minnie took advantage of the oppor- 
 tunity to carry off Hester into a comer of the 
 room, and beg her to tell her all she knew or had 
 heard about Gerald Lennox and how Lady Frances 
 was, — what Mr. Lennox said, etc. 
 
 " I know very little more than the fact," said 
 Hester, in reply to her numerous questions. 
 " I haven't seen dear Blanche since the evening I 
 met her in one of the poor cottages here, where 
 she was visiting a young person who was very ill. 
 I believe it was the very evening they heard the 
 news. Indeed, Barbara told me afterwards that it 
 was that day when she was with us for a short 
 time, that she got the letter addressed to Ferdi- 
 nand, but to be opened by her in case of his 
 absence. He came^ back the next day, and they 
 had determined not to tell Lady Frances any- 
 thing till Mr. Lennox returned home, but she 
 found out by their manner that something was 
 wrong, and insisted upon knowing what it was."
 
 88 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 '^ Mrs. Letlibridge said she was very poorly 
 wlien she called at our house. Poor Lady Frances ! 
 But Hester, do you know anything about Gerald 
 himself? Have they said anything about his 
 losing his property ? Because, you know, at least 
 I always understood that if he left the Church of 
 England — " and here Minnie stopped speaking, 
 but her eyes looking into Hester's finished the 
 sentence for her. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," answered Hester, "that 
 is to say, he might have left the Church of Eng- 
 land twenty times over if he had liked, and be- 
 come a Presbyterian, a Wesleyan or an Anabap- 
 tist ; but if he joined the Church of Rome, then 
 old Sir Gerald willed that he should forfeit every- 
 thing. I remember hearing all about it at the 
 time. Gerald made no secret of it himself, but he 
 always laughed and told Ferdinand he would never 
 get it if it depended on his (Gerald's) turning 
 Schismatic, as he intended to live and die a 
 Catholic, and if he left the only Church which 
 IV as Catholic in this country, why, he should 
 cease to be one, so it was not likely he should do 
 that !" 
 
 ^' And now he has done it !" And Minnie 
 heaved a quiet sigh as she spoke. 
 
 "You two young ladies seem to have a great 
 deal to say to each other," cried Mrs. Gregory, 
 from the other end of the room. " Mr. Woods 
 and i have finished our discussions, and now we
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 89 
 
 should like a little music. Hester, my clear, 
 open the piano." And as Hester moved off 
 towards the instrument, in compliance with her 
 aunt's request, Mr. Woods came up to Minnie. 
 and began the regulation enquiries concerning Mr. 
 and Mrs. Smith and all the family, so there was 
 no chance of any more private conversation be- 
 tween the young friends that evening. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, the " carriage for Miss 
 Smith" was announced, and Minnie took leave, 
 thanking Mrs. Gregory for a very pleasant evening, 
 and telling Hester as she stood with her for a 
 moment in the hall, that she should probably see 
 her on Monday morning, as she was coming over 
 to ask for a lesson on the organ from Barbara 
 Lennox. Then she threw herself back in her 
 father's carriage, and shutting her eyes, gave her- 
 self up to be entirely and delightfully wretched as 
 it rolled home to the Oaks. 
 
 On the Monday morning, as Barbara Lennox 
 was entering the Rectoiy gate on her return from 
 a shopping expedition into the village, she heard 
 some one calling after her, " Miss Barbara, I beg 
 your pardon, dear, dear !" and looking back, she 
 pjerceived Miss Jones hastening towai-ds her from 
 the direction of tjaje church -yard. 
 
 " One moment, pray," continued that lady in 
 rather a breathless condition. '^ Two of the Miss 
 Spiiths are in the chm*ch, wishing to speak to you. 
 Miss Minnie has come over to practise, I think
 
 90 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 she said, although I am sure she ought not to 
 have walked so far, not being very strong, dear, 
 dear!" 
 
 *' Oh !" said Barbara, stopping, and not looking 
 very much pleased. *'In the church are they? 
 Will you tell them I will come directly, only I 
 must go in for a moment first." 
 
 ** I will," answered Miss Jones, and she re- 
 traced her steps towards the church, wondering as 
 she did so what it was about Barbara Lennox that 
 made her always feel shy when she spoke to her, 
 and a sort of relief when they had parted. She 
 found Clara and Minnie Smith loitering about 
 in the church-yard. Minnie had intended going 
 straight to the Rectory, but this her elder sister 
 had prevented. Miss Jones had met them on 
 their way from the Oaks, and having seen Barbara 
 in the village, she knew she was not at home. 
 *' There is no use in going to the house to ask for 
 her," Clara had maintained, " we can go into the 
 church and send for the key of the organ, and if 
 she hears you playing, she will most likely come 
 in." 
 
 But as Minnie's chief object in coming over was 
 to see one of the Lennox party, this did not suit 
 her views, and she probably would have carried 
 her point when Miss Jones espied Barbara again 
 in the distance, and volunteered to catch her ere 
 she should have reached home, which accordingly 
 she did as we have seen.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 91 
 
 Barbara did not keep them long waiting, and 
 they were soon grouped round the organ, listening 
 to one of Mozart's Glorias, which she played at 
 their express desire. This over, Clara Smith re- 
 membered a visit she had to pay in the village, 
 and departed with Miss Jones, promising to return 
 for Minnie in half an hour. 
 
 No sooner were they gone than Minnie begged 
 she might go for a moment into the vestry to 
 examine a stole, the embroidery of which she 
 wanted to copy for one she was making Mr. 
 Lawrence of Lethbridge, "Although he will never 
 wear it I believe," she said, as Barbara led the 
 way, and she followed into the small chamber on 
 the north side of the chancel, sacred to. clerical 
 vestments and register chests. But once there, 
 and beyond the hearing of the juvenile " pumper" 
 at the organ, she seized Barbara by the hand, 
 saying, "Do tell me how dear Blanche is this 
 morning ? Oh ! I can't say how I have felt for 
 you all — and for him." 
 
 "For Gerald, do you mean?" asked Barbara, 
 somewhat coldly. " Oh ! I don't think he needs 
 much pity. Blanche is Very unhappy, as we all 
 are." 
 
 ** But," continued Minnie, " one can't help, you 
 know, admiring him for giving up everything for 
 what he thinks right, even if we do not agi-ee 
 with him : and of course now it all goes to Ferdi- 
 nand?"
 
 92 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 " It — wliat ?" asked Barbara, in a, tone of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ** Why, tlie property left him by his godfather, 
 on the sole condition of his remaining a Protes- 
 tant," answered Minnie. 
 
 '' Ah !" cried Barbara, starting, "I forgot ! and., 
 that all goes to Ferdinand now, — so it does. This, 
 is the stole you wished to. look at, is it not ?"■ she 
 added, with her wonted composure, and notwith^ 
 standing various efforts on her part, Minnie could 
 not get Barbara to enter again upon the questioi^. 
 which alone had any re^l interest iox her just then.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 9S 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ** Duke Street, St. James's, I forget the num- 
 ber, but will stop you." 
 
 The speaker was a joung man who was getting 
 into a Hansom cab at the Fleet street end of 
 Chancery Lane, and the person he addressed was 
 the driver of the said cab, who having ascertained 
 through his window of observation in the roof that 
 his " fare" was seated, whipped up his horse, and 
 drove off in the direction indicated. 
 
 Arrived at the corner of the street, the cab was 
 stopped by its occupant, who, jumping out, dis- 
 missed it, and making straight for a small tailor's 
 shop on one side of the way, rang at the private 
 door* 
 
 " Mr. Lennox is at home ?" he enquired, as it 
 opened, and hardly waiting for the servant's 
 answer, he brushed by her, ran up the stairs two 
 steps at a time, and opened the door of a sitting- 
 room on the first floor, exclaiming, " All right ! 
 I just managed to catch him, and he says he will
 
 94 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 do as you wish, but is quite sure they won't suffer 
 it, and I agree with him." 
 
 The apartment into which he thus unceremoni- 
 ously introduced himself, was of the ordinary 
 lodging-house description. The half- shabby fur- 
 niture, the muslin window curtains which looked 
 as if it was some time since they had been washed, 
 the engravings on the walls, the one easy chair 
 and the half dozen uneasy ones, the round table in 
 the middle of the room, and the inevitable glass 
 chiffonier at one end, forming the exact counter- 
 part of every other " First floor front" in the 
 neighbourhood which abounds in Furnished Apart- 
 ments for Single Gentlemen, as announced by the 
 neatly printed cards in the lower windows of the 
 various houses. But, although the general air of 
 the room was familiar enough to the habitue of 
 London lodgings, there were some features in it 
 which made it unlike the usual bachelor's den in 
 many respects. There was all the appearance of 
 its occupant having only recently entered into 
 possession. A large number of books lay on the 
 table, and were piled in heaps on the floor. 
 Through the open door which led into the sleep- 
 ing room beyond, various portmanteaus and pack- 
 ing cases could be seen, only partly relieved of 
 their contents. On the table, writing materials of 
 handsome and massive description were placed, 
 and on the chimney-piece, amidst the china vases 
 and other lodging-house ornaments, stood con-
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 95 
 
 spicuous, a large and beautifully caiTed crucifix. 
 
 The sole occupant of the room was a young 
 man of about five-and-twenty years of age, who 
 was seated at the table, engaged in writing as 
 the door opened. He looked up as the new 
 comer entered, and on hearing his announce- 
 ment, cried, *' A thousand thanks, my dear fellow, 
 I am so much obliged to you. Sit down one 
 moment whilst I finish this," and again resumed 
 the pen which he had laid down. The other 
 threw himself into the arm chair, and took up a 
 book to amuse himself, but his attention wandered 
 considerably from its pages, and he glanced from 
 time to time at the writer near him, and at the 
 various objects the room contained, as if his 
 thoughts were occupied otherwise than by the 
 work which he held in his hands. 
 
 And who were these two young men ? The ono 
 was Gerald Lennox, of whom the reader has 
 already heard, and the other was his cousin, 
 Sidney Graham. The former, as we know, had 
 recently become a Eoman Catholic, and by so 
 doing, had forfeited his title to a property which 
 had rendered him since his majority, indepen- 
 dent of his father, and free to follow the bent 
 of his own devices. He had gone to Oxford 
 with the idea of taking Anglican Orders, but when 
 the living which had been promised him by his 
 uncle, Lord Norwood, had no longer become the 
 f asideratum, it had at first appeared, by reason
 
 96 gehald's oedeal. 
 
 of Sir Gerald Newcome's bequest, he deferred 
 his intention of becoming a clergyman for a time, 
 and the attractions and amusements of a London 
 life upon which he at once entered, gradually in- 
 duced him to abandon the idea altogether. 
 
 Having imbibed very High Church notions, 
 whilst at a private tutor's, before going to the 
 University, he there became mixed up with a very 
 ** advanced" set, and the friendships then formed, 
 together vv^ith the strong religious bias which his 
 home education had given him, preserved him 
 from many of the snares and temptations to which 
 a young man with a little money of his own, 
 highly connected, of prepossessing appearance, and 
 liked by all who knew him would have been other- 
 wise exposed. Nevertheless Gerald Lennox was of 
 too impulsive a nature, and too ready to believe in 
 the trustworthiness of others, not to get into many 
 scrapes Avhich one of a less generous and more 
 cautious disposition would have avoided. Neither 
 selfish nor extravagant in his own person, he was 
 so constantly giving to and helping others, that 
 very often his father and his uncle had to come 
 forward and help him out of the difficulties in 
 which his thoughtlessness had involved him. 
 With his godfather. Sir Gerald, he had always 
 been a great favourite, and the old gentleman's 
 one anxiety respecting him was the strong bias 
 towards "Puseyism," and all that '^ torn fooler}^" 
 as the worthy Baronet phrased it, which of late
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 97 
 
 years young Lennox had manifested. ** As long 
 as he remains a Protestant and sticks to the 
 Church of England, I don't mind," he would say, 
 " but if ever he becomes a Papist, and I can't see 
 that he is much short of one even now — then, 
 every penny I leave him shall go to his brother 
 Ferdinand, for I'm determined those priests shan't 
 get hold of any of my money." In vain Gerald 
 would assure the old man that he was not a ''Pro- 
 testant," and that the best reason for his not join- 
 ing the Church of Rome was, that he belonged to 
 the only Catholic Church in the kingdom ; viz., 
 the Church of England. He turned a deaf ear to 
 all such reasonings and explanations. *' I don't 
 care what you call yourself," he would say. " If 
 you belong to the Established Church, which in 
 my opinion is the only Church for any respectable 
 man to belong to, you are a Protestant, my boy, 
 and all this nonsense about calling yourself a 
 Catholic and behaving as much like one as possi- 
 ble, you will grow out of in time, and if not — why 
 — ^you know the consequences." 
 
 And knowing the consequences, Gerald Lennox 
 had deliberately left the communion of the Estab- 
 lished Chm-ch, and submitted himself to the 
 Church of Rome. Whilst still finishing the letter 
 upon which he was engaged when Sidney Graham 
 entered the room, we will describe Gerald's per- 
 sonal appearance for the benefit of the reader. 
 
 The eldest son of the Rector of Wentmore was
 
 98 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 one of tliose men who once seen was not easily 
 forgotten. When he appeared in a London 
 drawing-room, ladies who did not know him 
 would ask each other " who that distinguished 
 looking creature was ?" and the men, whether of 
 his own " set" or not, invariably shook hands and 
 **how d'ye do'd" him when other acquaintances 
 would hardly obtain from them a nod. He was 
 tall, and well but slightly made. He had deep 
 blue eyes and dark brown hair. The habitual 
 expression of his countenance was a thoughtful 
 gravity which at times approached to melancholy, 
 but this was only in private or with one or two 
 companions at the most. In general society he 
 was lively and gay, and few men could converse 
 more readily and pleasantly on all subjects than 
 he could. He was not what is popularly termed a 
 ** lady's man" by any means. He neither sang 
 nor played, nor was he given to five o'clock teas or 
 such like weaknesses, so much favoured by the 
 fairer sex. He had the entree to all the best 
 London houses, and being an excellent dancer, 
 there were but few balls in the season for which 
 he did not receive a card. But of late, Gerald 
 had not been seen so frequently at these gay 
 assemblies as of old, and many were the specula- 
 tions and surmises as to the cause of his absence. 
 *'He is going to be married," said one. ''No, 
 he is going to become a Catholic and turn monk," 
 paid another. "As for that," a third would ex-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 99 
 
 claim, " he has been * all but* one so long, that I 
 can't see why that should make any difference to 
 him." Some few amongst his more intimate 
 associates knew that he was a good deal out of 
 town, it was supposed either visiting his father or 
 at Brighton, where he often remained for a fort- 
 night or so at a time, to get himself ** put to 
 rights" as he phrased it, when at all out of sorts 
 either in mind or body. But the one who knew 
 most about him and his movements was his cousin, 
 Sidney Graham, and of him we will now say a few 
 words. 
 
 Mr. Lennox of Wentmore had had an only sis- 
 ter who married young and not very happily. 
 Her husband, who had retired from the East India 
 Company's Civil Service, was of good family, pos- 
 sessed a considerable estate, and had a certain 
 standing in his county, but his temper was said 
 not to be of the best, and Alice Graham, it was 
 imagined after marriage, often wished herself Alice 
 Lennox again. Whether this were so or not, certain 
 it is that the young wife's health and spuits gradu- 
 ally failed, and before the age of thirty she left her 
 husband a widower with an only child, a son. 
 Young Sidney, after passing from Eton to the 
 University, had chosen the Bar as his profession, 
 and being established in London had naturally 
 come often in contact with his cousin, Gerald 
 Lennox. Not that he had sought the latter out 
 of his own accord, but Gerald's natural warmth of
 
 iOO Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 disposition and kindliness of heart had made it 
 impossihle for him to know that so near a relative 
 was within reach, without endeavouring to cul- 
 tivate his acquaintance as much as possible. No 
 two men could differ more completely both as to 
 character and ideas, but young Graham had 
 been an old man almost before he was a young 
 one, and was not at all the person to let go an 
 advantage of any sort, which might be thrown 
 in his way. And to him it was an advantage to 
 be seen on an intimate and brotherly footing with 
 the elegant and popular Gerald Lennox, whose 
 nod or passing recognition was thought much of 
 by many, for his cousin moved in a circle, which 
 but for his friendship with him, Sidney Graham 
 would have found it difficult to enter. Cold- 
 hearted and calculating, had his kinsman been 
 differently circumstanced and in need of his coun- 
 tenance in any way, Graham would probably have 
 taken no notice of him whatever, but as it was, he 
 gradually became more and more Gerald's friend 
 and confidant, and Gerald believed him to be the 
 *best fellow in the world,' and at length could do 
 nothing without him. 
 
 It is strange how blind we often are, how rash, 
 and how wanting in prudence and forethought in 
 our own concerns. If any friend of his, had she"\vn 
 himself disposed to lean unreservedly upon a man 
 of Graham's stamp, Gerald would have been the 
 first to dissuade, and warn him of the folly of so
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 101 
 
 doing. But, in his o^ti case, lie was so utterly 
 without prevision or hesitation, that if anyone had 
 endeavoured (which no otie did) to reason with 
 him on the subject, he would have answered, "My 
 good friend, you forget he is my cousin, and in- 
 deed the same as a brother to me, so of course in 
 my case, your arguments do not apply." In 
 short, Gerald judged, as such natures are apt to 
 do, of others, by themselves. In age, Sidney was 
 his cousin's senior by two years. He was rather 
 short, his features were irregular, and he had dark, 
 crisp, curly hair and whiskers. He had a habit of 
 looking scrutinizingly at anyone when first intro- 
 duced to them, without speaking, which was ex- 
 tremely annoying to many, and unless he chose to 
 be intimate with you, he made you feel, however 
 often you might meet or converse with him, that 
 you did not Imow him a bit better than whan you 
 first saw him. 
 
 Such was the man who sat in Gerald's room in 
 Duke Street, waiting rather impatiently for him to 
 finish his letter on the day on which we have first 
 introduced them to the reader. 
 
 Gerald Lennox, as we are already aware, had 
 forfeited his income when he joined the Catholic 
 Church, and that morning he had begged his cousin 
 Sidney to see his men of business, and explain to 
 them that no consideration would induce him to 
 benefit by his Godfather's bequest, a day longer 
 than was necessary. The firm were to have an
 
 102 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 interview with his uncle, Lord Norwood, that very 
 day on the subject, and Sidney had informed the 
 principal partner of Gerald's decision in compli- 
 ance with his wishes. The solicitor was of 
 opinion that this was a Quixotic determination on 
 the part of his client, and it was with reference 
 to their interview that Sidney had spoken on 
 entering his cousin's room. 
 
 " Now, my dear boy, will you walk with me as 
 far as Grosvenor Square ?" said Gerald, as he 
 folded up his note and put it in an envelope. 
 " We can talk as we go along, and I want to see 
 my uncle before he starts for the country this 
 afternoon." 
 
 ** Je suis a voire disposition, mon ami/* was the 
 reply. Sidney Graham took up his hat, and 
 brushed it with his coat sleeve. Then he stood 
 before the glass to arrange his scarf, and inspect 
 himself generally. As he did so, he glanced at 
 the crucifix on the chimney-piece, and said, 
 
 " When I first saw that crucifix in your rooms, 
 I thought you would become a Roman Catholic, 
 Gerald, only I fancied you would not have been so 
 long about it." 
 
 ** Oh, I have had that a long time," returned 
 Lennox, rising, and putting an arm over the 
 other's shoulder, as he gazed on the sacred sym- 
 bol. " So many people have them now, I wonder 
 you thought anything of that." 
 
 *' It is one of the signs, my dear fellow. I
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 103 
 
 always notice that as long as people confine their 
 admiration to the Cross, minus the Christ, they 
 are pretty safe. But, once that prejudice against 
 the figure overcome — their fate is fixed in my 
 opinion." 
 
 ** Then you confess it to he a prejudice, to ohject 
 to the figure, without vihich the Cross itself loses 
 half its significance ?" 
 
 ** The stupidest, most intolerahle prejudice, 
 viewed in the light of common sense. But a very 
 allowahle and natural one, when we consider how 
 many persons look upon all that approaches to, or 
 tends towards Popery, as the gi*eatest evil which 
 can hefall humanity !" 
 
 " Sidney, why will you not allow your strong 
 common sense to prevail with you ? You confess 
 that it would lead you in our direction," said 
 Gerald Lennox, earnestly, trying to look in his 
 cousin's face as he spoke. 
 
 ** Nonsense," replied the other, turning away 
 from him. "I don't go in for religion, and that 
 sort of thing, as you know, and if I did, I douht if 
 I should ever incline towards Catholicism. It 
 requires too much of one, and is not so easy going 
 a system, as plain unpretending Protestantism, 
 and so that would suit me hetter, I take it." 
 
 " Sidney !" exclaimed Gerald, as though ahout 
 to make some hasty rejoinder. Then stopping 
 short, he took up his hat and p^loves, and saying, 
 " Come along, are you ready?" led the way from
 
 104 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 the room, down the stairs and out into the street. 
 
 For some little way the cousins walked on in 
 silence. Then having crossed Piccadilly into 
 Berkeley Street, Gerald said, 
 
 " Father Clifford has written to the Abhe Beau- 
 fort in Brussels, to know if there is an opening 
 for an English Professor at any of the Colleges 
 there. I am determined to earn my living some- 
 how, and the Church can do nothing for one in 
 this country. I have no vocation for the Priest- 
 hood, and no turn for any of the * Professions.' 
 How much I now regret that my father did not 
 insist on my doing something, even though Sir 
 Gerald had left me twenty thousand a year. If a 
 man has no landed property to look after, a large 
 fortune is a curse to him rather than a blessing, 
 unless he chance to be a saint, and I am not 
 one yet, at any rate. My little independence 
 has kept me happily employed in doing nothing 
 till now, and I was foolishly allowed to do 
 nothing by those who ought to have bullied me 
 into a more useful line of life. Even a married 
 man is better off, but I don't think I shall ever 
 marry." And Gerald sighed and flourished his 
 stick in the air to the consternation of the passers- 
 by as he spoke. 
 
 " Take care what you are about with that 
 stick," rejoined his cousin, " and don't talk non- 
 sense. I daresay you will marry, and as to your 
 having led a useless life hitherto, I know few men
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 105 
 
 who have done so much with their money as you 
 have. I'll be bound you will feel your loss of the 
 'ready,' much less than the poor people and others 
 who have benefited by your liberality hitherto. 
 But seriously, my dear fellow, you must not talk 
 in that way about earning your living, and taking 
 up with a Professorship abroad. Just as if Lord 
 Norwood would allow of such a thing, and Uncle 
 Lennox would not fancy it much either, I should 
 gay." 
 
 " I don't see what my uncle would have to do 
 with it, and if my father objected, why of course I 
 should ask him to propose some other plan, equally 
 feasible. But as far as that goes I don't think he 
 will interfere in the matter." 
 
 *' You have not heard from him yet, have you?" 
 asked Sidney. 
 
 *' No, only from Blanche and Ferdinand, and 
 one line from my poor mother," was the reply. 
 *' Their letters nearly broke my heart, and I can 
 quite afford to wait for my father's, which will be 
 the least agreeable of the lot, I suspect." 
 
 *' Gerald, I told you you were not counting the 
 cost, before you took the step. You thought they 
 would all take it so easily, that they would all be 
 prepared for it, and you see you were wrong. I 
 was quite certain that it would fall upon them at 
 Wentmore like a thunder-clap." 
 
 "Ferdinand's surprise is what confounds me 
 so," said Gerald, more as if speaking to himself
 
 108 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 than to his cousin. *'I thought he must have 
 known what was coming, and it seems he had not 
 a suspicion. Oh, Sidney, I can hardly hear it 
 when I think of him," and he grasped the other's 
 arm with a violence that caused Graham to wince. 
 Smiling, he turned towards Gerald, exclaiming, 
 
 *' It will all come right, old fellow, in time. 
 Here we are at the corner of the square. Now I 
 shall say goodbye, and we meet again to-morrow 
 at the club. I shall be there at five. Au rcvoir,'* 
 
 Grasping each others' hands they stood for a 
 moment on the pavement. Then Sidney turned 
 away, and Gerald hastened on towards his uncle 
 Lord Norwood's house, which was one of the larg- 
 est in Grosvenor Square. 
 
 *' Is Lady Margaret at home ?" he asked the 
 servant who opened the door wide immediately on 
 seeing him. 
 
 *' Yes sir," was the answer. And he ran up the 
 large handsome staircase and opened the door of a 
 lovely little boudoir which communicated with the 
 landing above. In it was seated a young lady 
 of — but why persist in that odious habit of par- 
 ticularizing young ladies ages ? She was more 
 than nineteen, and that is enough ; we will even 
 go further and surmise that five-and-twenty sum- 
 mers had passed over her head, and after that the 
 most curious on the subject must needs be satis- 
 fied. Lady Margaret was not ridiculously young, 
 nor was she wonderfully beautiful. She was short-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 107 
 
 sighted, and wore a glass dangling by her side, 
 which constantly found its way to her left eye. 
 Sometimes, (though low be it spoken,) when Lady 
 Margaret found occasion, a pair of spectacles were 
 substituted for the eye-glass ; but she was not 
 ashamed of this, whatever her bosom friend, if she 
 had one, may have been. Lady Mai-gai-et had not 
 many very dear friends ; as a rule, she was not 
 liked much by those of her own sex. With gentle- 
 men she was popular, but she was very particular 
 as to whom she admitted to her friendship, and it 
 did not at all follow because you received a 
 card for Lord Norwood's ball, that therefore you 
 were to be let in when you called and asked if 
 Lady Margaret Stewart was at home a few days 
 afterwards. But those who really knew her, 
 whether men or women, thought well of her, and 
 spoke well of her, and by none was she more 
 highly esteemed than by her cousin, Gerald Len- 
 nox, who looked upon her as a " Pearl," whose 
 worth was indeed great. 
 
 "My uncle is going to-day?" he said, as he 
 took Lady Margaret's hand and imprinted a kiss 
 upon it. *'I knew he would not be in now, of 
 course, but wished to catch him before he went." 
 
 "Yes, he is going this afternoon," was the 
 reply. And Lady Margaret went on with the work 
 she had in hand when her cousin entered. " He 
 wanted very much to see you," she added, " I 
 think he will go to Wentmore before he comes
 
 108 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 back, he is so very anxious to see your father and 
 mother. Have you heard from them yet ?" 
 
 " Not from my father," answered Gerald, taking 
 a seat by her side, ** and I did not much expect he 
 would write yet. He was away from home, stay- 
 ing with the Bishop when Ferdinand got my let- 
 ter. I have heard from him and Blanche, as I told 
 
 you." 
 
 *'And from Aunt Frances?" said Lady Mar- 
 garet, looking up at him enquiringly. 
 
 " Just one line. Poor darling mother!" And 
 Gerald covered his face with his hand, and half 
 strangled a sob as he spoke. 
 
 " Gerald !" exclaimed Xiady Margaret, flinging 
 down her work and laying her hand on his arm as 
 she spoke. " How could you ! oh, how could you 
 do it ? knowing what a grief, what a blow it would 
 be to them all ?" 
 
 "Margaret, I did not expect that you would 
 speak like that," returned Gerald, starting up and 
 pacing up and down the room. " What is the 
 use of tormenting me with such a question as 
 that? as if every pang they endure, I did not 
 suffer twice over, and as if any consideration of 
 the kind could or ought to weigh with me for one 
 moment !" 
 
 *' No, of course you think that, but I could 
 never bring myself to do such a thing. If it was 
 a question with me of following out a theoretical 
 notion of right, or saving those I love and am
 
 Gerald's okdeal. 109 
 
 bound to consider, pain and suffering, I sliould 
 save them and risk it myself !" 
 
 " No, you wouldn't Margaret," said Gerald, 
 stopping and looking her full in the face. " There 
 is no one who would do what is right at all costs 
 more determinedly than you would. Don't malign 
 yourself." 
 
 " But how you could think it right !" exclaimed 
 Lady Margaret, with an impatient toss of her 
 hand. " How you could bring yourself to think 
 it necessary to make your father, mother, brother, 
 sister, everyone dear to you in the world, miser- 
 able, for the sake of beheving in things I don't 
 believe you can believe in, and joining a Church 
 which teaches such extraordinary doctrines, and 
 permits such abuses as you know the Church of 
 Rome does, I cannot imagine. Gerald, it is not 
 yet too late ! Come back — don't let these wretched 
 priests, or whoever they are, keep you in their 
 meshes. Give them up and all will be right 
 again. Do!" 
 
 Gerald was about to reply with heightened 
 colour and excited mien, when the door opened, 
 and a man of between fifty and sixty years of age 
 entered the room, who hastily approached, and 
 took him by the arm, saying, " I heard you were 
 here, my boy, and must have a few words with 
 you before I go. Come down to my room, and 
 you and Margaret can finish your chat after- 
 wards."
 
 110 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 Lord Norwood (for he it was) was a remarkable 
 looking man. His tall commanding figure and 
 dignified bearing, gave him an appearance of being 
 younger than he was. His hair and whiskers 
 were grey, his forehead somewhat bald, his nose 
 high and prominent, his eyes dark and penetrating. 
 His manner was that of one accustomed to respect 
 and attention. His courtesy and gentleness were 
 those of the most refined high breeding. His 
 affection for all his family was great, and this 
 step which his nephew had taken, knowing as he 
 did how much it would aiFect and distress his 
 parents, excited and moved him exceedingly. 
 
 " Come back here, afterwards," cried Lady Mar- 
 garet, as her father carried Gerald off with him, 
 and her cousin nodded in acquiescence. 
 
 When they were gone and the door had closed, 
 Lady Margaret leaned back in her chair. Sho 
 covered her face with her hands, and the tears 
 trickled slowly through her fingers. She was very 
 unhappy. Her cousin Gerald had always been so 
 perfect in her estimation, the romance and enthu- 
 siasm of his character had only lent it additional 
 charms in her eyes. But that he should have 
 done such a thing as this, set the world and its 
 opinion at defiance, and joined a Church of which 
 she held so very low an opinion as she did of that 
 of Rome, was a puzzle and a mortification to her, 
 and she could not quite forgive him for it, try as 
 hard as she might. She did not remain thus long
 
 Gerald's oedeal. Ill 
 
 however, but after heaving two or three profound 
 sighs, she wiped her eyes and resumed her work, 
 saving to herself, " Ah, well ! we all of us have 
 our faults, and perhaps his are the more hard to 
 excuse because he has so few." And then she 
 worked on silently at her frame until the door 
 again opened, and Gerald Lennox appeared. 
 
 He looked pale and wearied. "I cannot stay 
 now, Margaret," he said, as she rose from her 
 seat and came towards him. *' Your father I am 
 afraid is annoyed because I will not consent to his 
 asking anything for me from the Newcome Trus- 
 tees, whose help he thinks I ought not to refuse till 
 I can look about me. But I have a little, just a 
 very little of my own, and that must do until I 
 can earn something for myself, unless, of course, 
 my father gives me assistance which I do not expect, 
 but should not refuse if he offered it. I could not 
 reconcile it to my conscience to take one penny of 
 Sir Gerald's money after having openly become a 
 Catholic, and indeed from the time I made up my 
 mind, I ceased to draw upon my bankers, and 
 now it would be impossible for me to do so." 
 
 Lady Margaret held his hand in her's for a mo- 
 ment without spealdng. Then she said, " I can- 
 not argue with you about this, and I feel that you 
 
 are acting rightly and nobly, but I wish " 
 
 and she paused and looked wistfully in his face, 
 
 *' You wish I could put my conscience in my 
 pocket, eh ?" said Gerald, smiling. " No, I can't
 
 112 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 quite do that, and so goodbye for the present. I 
 shall see you again in a day or two, I daresay." 
 
 As Gerald left the house, a carriage drove up to 
 the door, and some luggage which stood in the 
 hall was brought out and placed in it. *' Which 
 train do you catch?" he asked of the coachman, 
 who touched his hat to him as he spoke. 
 
 "The 4.30 sir," answered the man. "My 
 lord always likes to be in good time." 
 
 Before returning to his lodgings, Gerald visited 
 the Church in Farm Street, where he had been 
 received into Catholic communion shortly before, 
 and knelt for a few minutes before the Blessed 
 Sacrament in earnest prayer. He then passed up 
 South Street into the park, and walked slowly 
 towards Hyde Park Corner, thinking of many 
 things as he went along, and giving the " cut 
 direct" though quite unintentionally, to more than 
 one of his acquaintance who met him on the way. 
 
 It was a quarter to five when he reached his 
 bachelor quarters in Duke Street. He let himself 
 in with his latch-key, and was passing upstairs, 
 when the servant of the house emerging from some 
 mysterious region in the back of the premises, 
 exclaimed, " There is a gentleman upstairs sir. 
 I told him you was out, but he said he would 
 wait." 
 
 ** Did he give you his name ?" asked Gerald, 
 pausing on the stairs. 
 
 " No sir. He's a young gentleman and is mak-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 113 
 
 ing hisself quite at home sir," responded the 
 maiden, in rather an aggrieved tone of voice. 
 
 " Making himself at home ! ^Tio can it be I 
 wonder," muttered Gerald as he mounted the 
 remaining stairs and opened the door of his 
 sitting-room. 
 
 *' I'm sure I don't know who it could be or 
 what was a going on," reported the servant maid, 
 who had followed him upstairs gently, and re- 
 mained a listener outside the door for a few minutes 
 after it had closed. *' The other jumped up, I 
 saw that, but the door banged-to so that I couldn't 
 see nothing more. They neither of them never 
 said a word, or I must have heard it. Not one 
 word. It beats me, it does." 
 
 The mistress of the house to whom this com- 
 munication was addressed, pondered over it a few 
 minutes, and then as she could make nothing out 
 of it, scolded the maid for listening, and deter- 
 mined to make an excuse for going into the gen- 
 tleman's room herself in the course of a few 
 minutes, for the purpose of reconnoitring on her 
 own account. 
 
 The "young gentleman who was making his- 
 self so much at home," Gerald recognized im- 
 mediately on opening the door of his room, as hig 
 brother Ferdinand. It was a great and unexpected 
 pleasure to see his brother at this moment, 
 but for the first time in his life a painful 
 feeling mingled with the pleasure. He felt that
 
 114 GERiLLD's OHDEAL. 
 
 lie had been the cause of bringing sorrow on that 
 brother who was so unutterably dear to him, sor- 
 row of the bitterest, because for a time anyhow, of 
 the most hopeless kind. Ever since the young 
 Lennoxes had been big boy and little boy together, 
 they had been united in no ordinary love and affec- 
 tion for each other. Gerald had felt proud of his 
 office of protector and counsellor in their youthful 
 days, and Ferdinand had looked up to him grate- 
 fully and lovingly as his model of all that was 
 manly and good. As years had gone by, and the 
 boys had grown into men, the feeling of mutual 
 dependence and regard had increased upon both. 
 Often the more sombre temperament of the elder 
 brother had been brightened and cheered by the 
 laughter-loving younger one. Often would the 
 thoughtlessness of the younger have led him into 
 difficulties had it not been for the watchful love of 
 the elder. In everything they had agreed. On no 
 two subjects, unless it was something very trifling, 
 had their opinions been divided. Above all, 
 they had been united in that deepest, closest bond 
 of unity. Religious Sympathy. An earnest feehng 
 of devotion to, and love for what they considered the 
 ''Church of their Baptism," had distinguished both 
 — for young as Ferdinand was, he had been thrown 
 by constant companionship with his brother, nto 
 the society of the best and most earnest-minded 
 men the High Church party could boast, and
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 115 
 
 instinctiyely had imbibed their principles and 
 feelings. 
 
 But Gerald's residence in London whilst 
 Ferdinand was either pursuing his studies at the 
 University or with a private tutor, and latterly his 
 absence on a continental tour, had rendered it 
 more difficult for the younger brother to follow the 
 elder in the bent of religious thought and study, 
 to which Gerald had lent himself. Gradually a 
 feeling of uncertainty had arisen in Ferdinand's 
 mind, (chiefly from the fact that in his letters 
 Gerald very seldom or veiy slightly touched upon 
 the question,) as to whether they were indeed so 
 perfectly in accord on this all-important point as 
 they used to be. It was one of the subjects he had 
 determined to enter upon as soon as they met. 
 This meeting had been delayed by one unforeseen 
 circumstance after another, longer than either had 
 anticipated, and before it took place, Gerald had 
 been received into the communion of the Roman 
 Catholic Church, and his brother had been made 
 acquainted with the fact by the letter which his 
 sister had put into his hands at Wentmore, as we 
 have seen. 
 
 And so a gulf had spread itself between 
 them, a gulf which there was no passing, Ferdinand 
 felt, save in one way, viz. by his following 
 his brother's example, for such a step once taken, 
 he knew Gerald too well to believe there was any 
 likelihood of its being retraced by him. And deep
 
 116 Gerald's obdeal. 
 
 $,s was his love for his brother, he was too con- 
 scientiously and sincerely attached to what he 
 believed to be the ' Catholic and Apostolic' Church 
 of England to desert her communion from any 
 jxxotive whatever, short of absolute conviction of 
 either her want of orders, or lack of what he con- 
 .eidered necessary to the existence and being of a 
 true Church. It might, and he felt it would, well- 
 nigh break his heart to be separated from his bro- 
 •ther in all that they had hitherto held most sacred 
 Jn common, but not for a thousand brothers, or from 
 ^ny motive of personal affection whatever, would 
 Ferdinand Lennox give up what he had hitherto 
 j(and still) considered to be, his unassailable posi- 
 tion in the English Church. At first he had been 
 so stunned and overpowered by the announcement 
 of Gerald's conversion, that he had scarcely real- 
 ized all the consequences such a step involved^ 
 but whatever of pain and suffering it might entail 
 upon himself, Ferdinand's principal feeling had 
 been one of keenest sympathy for his brother. 
 Knowing Gerald as he did, he comprehended 
 without any telling, all the effort amounting to 
 agony, which it must have cost him to place such 
 a barrier between himself, his family, and home, 
 all that he held nearest and dearest in the world, 
 and knew that Gerald would suffer far more in 
 inflicting such a blow, than they would in receiv- 
 ing it. 
 
 Having said and done all he could to comfort
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 117 
 
 his mother and Blanche, and having waited to 
 discuss the subject in all its bearings with his 
 father and to meet the brunt of his displeasure 
 and sorrow, Ferdinand hastened to seek his 
 brother, to throw himself into his arms, and 
 gather from his own obserration the assurance as 
 to whether or not he was to look upon himself in 
 future, as the chief sufferer from this event.
 
 118 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 As Gerald opened the door of his sitting-room, 
 Ferdinand started up and advanced with heightened 
 colour and open arms towards him. Gerald he- 
 came very pale, hut hastily closing the door, (much 
 to the disgust of the damsel outside, as we know,) 
 he turned to meet his brother, and without speak- 
 ing a word, folded him to his breast. For some 
 time, both were too much moved by the feelings 
 of the moment to do more than look at each other, 
 trying to smile and to subdue the strong emotion 
 they felt. Then leading Ferdinand to a chair, 
 Gerald found voice to say, " Can you, — can you 
 forgive me ?" 
 
 "As if there was anything to forgive," answered 
 the other, forgetful at once as he looked on his 
 brother's countenance of all he had himself gone 
 through. " You have done what you thought 
 right at great cost to yourself, I am sure of that. 
 May God bless you, brother, and if you are happy 
 I shall never regret the step you have taken."
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 119 
 
 Gerald tried several times to answer, but could 
 not. At last with an effort, lie exclaimed, " And 
 my mother and Blanche. How did you leave 
 them ?" 
 
 " Pretty well. You know what their love for 
 you is. Of course they have felt it deeply, but 
 they think most of you, and I shall be severely 
 cross-questioned on my return, as to how you 
 were looking et cetera " 
 
 Gerald squeezed his brother's hand. ** I will 
 give 3'ou a few lines to take back," he said. "And 
 my father ? I have been expecting to hear from 
 him by each post. Did you give him my letter ?" 
 
 " I did. Of coui'se, I mean — it was only natu- 
 ral," said Ferdinand, with some hesitation, " that 
 he should have been very much upset. We were 
 all taken by surprise, but he was more unprepared 
 I suppose, than any of us. You won't like his 
 letter, I'm afi-aid, but it will be all right by-and- 
 by." 
 
 Gerald tore open the epistle which his brother 
 held out to him as he spoke, and read it in silence. 
 Once during its perusal, he uttered an exclama- 
 tion, but instantly checked himself. He read it 
 twice over, and then starting from his seat, rushed 
 into the inner room, and closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 Ferdinand had seen the letter, and knew what 
 the other must be suffering. He, too, sprang 
 from his chair, but did not attempt to follow
 
 120 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Gerald, feeling that at such a moment his brother 
 was best left alone. He paced the small apart- 
 ment with agitated strides, but never approached 
 the door which communicated with the other room. 
 After some time had elapsed, it opened, and Gerald 
 appeared, but so ghastly pale was his look, and 
 such suffering seemed stamped on every feature, 
 that Ferdinand started and exclaimed, 
 
 '* My God ! Gerald, old fellow, I had no idea 
 you would feel it thus ! — surely — '* 
 
 " Don't speak to me, my dear boy, yet,** inter- 
 rupted the other. " Feel it ? of course I must 
 feel it ! Do you know what he says about my 
 mother and Blanche ? that I must not see them — 
 must not go to Wentmore without his permission ? 
 and that he would not have allowed you even to 
 come to me, if he had not been so sure of your 
 steadfastness and regard for his opinion and 
 wishes as to be able to trust you, telling me that 
 I have broken his heart and my mother's. I, — who 
 have made their every wish my law ever since I 
 can remember, and in doing what I have now 
 done, have only followed their own injunction of 
 putting God first in everything, and most cer- 
 tainly, therefore, in such a question as religion, 
 — upbraiding me too, so bitterly. Ferdinand, it is 
 too much. I cannot bear it !" and Gerald sank 
 into a chair, and covered his face with his hands 
 as he spoke-. 
 
 Ferdinand, whose great love for his brother
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 121 
 
 made him feel deeply for this sorrow which he was 
 powerless to alleviate, knew at the same time how 
 great a shock the " perversion" of that brother 
 had been to his father, and he was thankful as he 
 witnessed the pain which the letter had inflicted, 
 that he had obtained the alteration of several sen- 
 tences and expressions which had stood much 
 more strongly in the original. For a few mo- 
 ments he was silent, then leaning one arm on the 
 chimney-piece, and looking first at Gerald and 
 then at the Crucifix, he said in a low tone, 
 "It will be easier to bear after a time, and you 
 have the comfort of feeling that what you have 
 done was done from a sense of right. By-and- 
 by, my father will see that too, and be ready to 
 acknowledge it, and honour you for it. Till then, 
 you must feel that your cross, however heavy, 
 is a blessed one, and you will learn endurance 
 fi-om this Great Example," and he laid his hand 
 on the sacred symbol as he spoke. 
 
 ** You are right, dearest fellow," cried Gerald, 
 looking up. '* It was a hard struggle, but is over 
 now, and you have helped me through it. If ever 
 such a time comes for you, may you be spared 
 even half of what it has cost me !" 
 
 "Nay, nay;" returned Ferdinand, hastily. 
 " We will not speak of that, that is not likely, 
 and — when do you dine?" he added, looking at 
 his watch, and anxious to change the subject. 
 " Uncle Norwood is out of town, or I should have
 
 122 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 proposed going there. I saw him for a moment 
 at the station when I arrived. He called out to 
 me as I was getting into a cab, and said he was 
 waiting for his train to go to Ashenhurst. Is 
 Margaret at home, do you know?" 
 
 *' Yes, she is," answered Gerald ; ** but this 
 evening she is going out, I believe. We had bet- 
 ter go down to the club. We shall find Sidney 
 there, he will like to see you, and we can dine 
 together. That will be the best way." 
 
 *' Sidney ! I haven't seen him for ages. To be 
 sure, let us go. He will be surprised to see me 
 I daresay. Is he altered at all since — oh, it's two 
 years nearly since we met. Do you see much of 
 him, Gerald?" 
 
 " Yes, a great deal," was the answer. "I don't 
 know what I should have done of late without 
 him, he has been everything to me." 
 
 Ferdinand did not make any remark, but as he 
 took Gerald's arm and walked down the streets in 
 which the lamps were now lighted, towards the 
 club, he thought a good deal of this intimacy be- 
 tween his brother and cousin, and wondered at it 
 not a little. 
 
 There was no railway station at Wentmore, the 
 nearest was more than four miles off, and an 
 omnibus ran to and fro, conveying passengers, (if 
 ^ny there were to convey,) in the morning, and 
 returning in the evening after the arrival of the 
 seven o'clock train from London. On the day
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 123 
 
 following that on which Ferdinand Lennox ap- 
 peared in Duke Street, two young men got 
 into the "Blunderbuss," (as that young gentle- 
 man disrespectfully termed the said conveyance,) 
 as it was about to depart on its return journey 
 from the station to Wentmore. The porter civilly 
 touched his cap as he acquainted them that their 
 luggage was safely deposited on the roof, and hav- 
 ing ascertained by a survey of the interior that 
 their only travelling companion was a farmer's 
 wife, who had already composed herself to sleep in 
 a corner of the vehicle, they made themselves as 
 comfortable as circumstances would permit, ex- 
 changed their * tiles' for caps, put up their legs on 
 the opposite seat, and commenced an earnest con- 
 versation, as with a jerk and a crack of the driver's 
 whip the omnibus started on its way. Ferdinand 
 Lennox and Sidney Graham had just come down 
 by the train from town, and were on their way to 
 Wentmore Eectory. 
 
 ** I was surprised yesterday," Graham began, 
 ''when I looked up and saw you and Gerald come 
 into the room at the club. I guessed at once 
 from his being with you who it was, or else you 
 
 are so altered that I should not have known 
 you." 
 
 '' It was very good of you to come down with 
 
 me now," said Ferdinand, without noticing the 
 
 latter part of his cousin's speech. "My father 
 
 gets very much excited, and I feel too much for
 
 i24i Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Gerald not to take his part often, and then it only 
 makes my mother and Blanche more unhappy if 
 they see us at variance, so altogether a fresh 
 arrival will he of great use amongst us just now.'* 
 
 ** What we must all try and do is, to put the 
 idea of going abroad out of Gerald's head," re- 
 joined Sidney, after a moment's pause. " He is 
 so proud that he will not live at home upon your 
 father after what has happened, and he won't 
 accept a farthing from the Newcome Trus- 
 tees, even if they are disposed to offer anything.'* 
 
 " That is what makes me so mad !" exclaimed 
 Ferdinand, vehemently. " I feel a perfect beast 
 for taking that income away from him, poor dear 
 fellow, when of course I should not otherwise have 
 had a penny of it. Old Sir Gerald ought to have 
 been ashamed of himself for making such a will. 
 I am determined that something shall be tried to 
 make Gerald have part of it, but it was of no use 
 my saying anything to him. We nearly quarrelled 
 about it as it was." 
 
 ** Will Uncle Lennox make him any allowance 
 do you think ?" asked Sidney. 
 
 " Not enough for him to live upon. He is so 
 very angry, that he rather likes to think of Gerald's 
 being in difficulty, as helping to show him how 
 foolishly he has behaved. And as far as this 
 world goes, he has been foolish certainly." 
 
 *' Yes, there are not many men who would give
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 125 
 
 up a thousand-a-year for conscience sake," said 
 Sidney. 
 
 The omnibus coming to a sudden stand in 
 order to set down an outside passenger, and the 
 farmer's wife waking up to ask a number of ques- 
 tions as to how far they had got, what was the 
 matter, and when she would reach her own desti- 
 nation, etc., the conversation between the cousins 
 was interrupted, and the remainder of the journey 
 was passed in silence, broken only by observations 
 as to the time, the discomfort of the vehicle, or 
 other casual remarks. 
 
 *' Here we are," cried Ferdinand, as the con- 
 veyance turned a corner in the road, and began 
 descending a hill at the foot of which the trees 
 surrounding Wentmore Rectory could be seen in 
 their richly variegated foliage. " There is John 
 at the gate. I told them I should most likely be 
 down again this evening." 
 
 At the entrance of the Rectory grounds the 
 omnibus drew up and the young men alighted. 
 Having paid their fare, and handed over their 
 luggage to the footman, they walked in silence up 
 the drive towards the house. The hall door was 
 half open, and although not yet dark without, a 
 bright light dispelled the dusk within. " It is 
 some time since you have been down here, Sidney, 
 isn't it?" said Ferdinand, as they entered the 
 house. " They will have done dinner, I daresay, 
 and we shall have a big tea prepared for us, or
 
 128 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 something of that sort. Come in here. "We are 
 sure to find some one." And without waiting to 
 disembarrass himself of his travelling gear, the 
 young man threw open the dining-room door, and 
 entered the room followed by his cousin. 
 
 Mr. Lennox and Lady Frances were sitting near 
 the fire-place. Dinner was over, as Ferdinand 
 had anticipated. Dessert was on the table, the 
 young ladies had withdrawn, and the husband and 
 wife had placed themselves in easy chairs on either 
 side of the rug. Lady Frances leaned back in 
 her's. She looked pale and worn, but a smile 
 lighted up her face as she turned round at the 
 sound of the opening door, and caught sight of 
 her son. Mr. Lennox put down the newspaper he 
 was reading, and holding out his hand, said, 
 
 " Come back, my boy? We have only just done 
 dinner, but did not wait as we were not certain of 
 you. I did not think you would come to-night, 
 but your mother did, and has ordered a separate 
 repast for you, I believe. And who is this you 
 have with you ?" 
 
 " Sidney Graham," answered Ferdinand, kiss- 
 ing his mother. Then turning to his father, he 
 added, " He was going to write and offer a visit, 
 and as I knew there was plenty of room, I told 
 him he had better come back with me, and save 
 himself the trouble." 
 
 " Quite right, and very glad I am to see you, 
 Sid," said Mr. Lennox, grasping his nephew's
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 127 
 
 proffered hand. *' It is some time since you were 
 here last, and a breath of fresh air will do you 
 good. Have you seen the girls ? Do they know 
 you've come ?" 
 
 Sidney Graham, who was a perfect man of the 
 world, and always did the right thing under any 
 circumstances, was busy paying his respects to 
 Lady Frances of whom he stood rather in awe, 
 and whose welcome was not quite so cordial 
 as her husband's, but who neyertheless assured 
 him she was very glad to see him again at Went- 
 more. Ferdinand answered his father's query by 
 saying they had come straight into the dining- 
 room and had seen no one. "But I will soon 
 find them," he exclaimed. . " I hear the piano in 
 the library, I think." And leaving the room, he 
 went in quest of his sister and Barbara. 
 
 Guided by the sound of music, he entered 
 the spacious and handsomely-furnished apart- 
 ment on the further side of the hall, which 
 contained the Eector's large and valuable collec- 
 tion of books, and which from its cheerful look-out 
 in the morning and comfortable aspect in the even- 
 ing, was at all times a favourite resort with the 
 family. Blanche and Barbara Lennox were begin- 
 ning to practise a vocal duet as the door w^as flung 
 open and Ferdinand appeared. They both sprang 
 forward with exclamations of surprise. 
 
 " Mamma and I said you would come back to- 
 night," cried Blanche, as he kissed first her and
 
 128 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 then his cousin in that off-hand brotherly way 
 which often annoyed Barbara, but which she did 
 not know how to resent, " and papa and Bibi 
 thought you wouldn't. And how is Gerald ?" 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and her sweet face 
 looked inexpressibly sad as she spoke, holding 
 both her brother's hands in her's, and gazing up 
 at him inquiringly. 
 
 "He is pretty well, I will tell you all about him 
 presently. I have brought Sidney Graham down 
 with me. How are you, darling ?" And he kissed 
 his sister again tenderly as he spoke. 
 
 " We are all behaving better now," was the 
 answer. "But Ferdinand, it has been terrible 
 whilst you were away.'* 
 
 " Go into the dining-room, please Bibi, and tell 
 them to send out and let me know as soon as the 
 tea is ready, we shall be on the lawn under the 
 trees. Come with me, darling,'* continued Fer- 
 dinand, putting his arm round Blanche's neck, 
 and leading her into the hall, " we can walk up 
 and down, and you will tell me exactly how things 
 are going on. Is my father very angry still ? Or 
 does he take it a little quieter ?" 
 
 Blanche snatched up a shawl and gathered it 
 round her. Then as they passed out at the hall 
 door, and approached the trees to which her bro- 
 ther had alluded, she turned to him and said, 
 "Papa is, I am afraid, very angry and hurt at 
 what he considers Gerald's setting up his opinion
 
 Gerald's ordeax. 129 
 
 against his, and Bibi takes very mucli tlie same 
 tone which does not make it any better. Poor 
 mamma is miserable. You know how she loves 
 Gerald, and she is indignant at his being forbid- 
 den to come home, but I think it is much better 
 for his sake that he should not see papa just at 
 present. He used not to have the best of tempers, 
 and unless he is very much altered I am sure 
 there would be a quarrel, because, of course, if he 
 is acting from conviction, (and you and I know 
 him too well to doubt that,) he would not give way 
 in the least, and that would irritate papa beyond 
 everything. But how is he, Ferdinand ? And do 
 you think he is really happy '?" 
 
 " I am sure of it," answered Ferdinand, gravely. 
 " As far as he is concerned, intensely as he feels 
 all the sorrow and pain he is giving us, you need 
 have no anxiety. He seems so thoroughly satis- 
 fied that what he has done, was the only thing 
 to be done. I was very much struck by the utter 
 absence of all care, save for us, which he evinced. 
 About himself or his own future he would say but 
 little. As to religious matters, controversy, doubts, 
 everything of that sort appeared with him to be at 
 an end. He seemed completely at rest." 
 
 *' At rest," repeated Blanche, thoughtfully. 
 " Then he must indeed be happy. Dear, dear 
 Gerald ! — I do not mind telling you, Ferdinand," 
 she added, after a moment's pause, ** that it has 
 puzzled me dreadfully, the last day or two when
 
 130 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 thinking over everything, to find out why it is, 
 when there is so little difference in what we be- 
 lieve really, that we are so very much distressed 
 at his having become a Roman Catholic. I mean," 
 she continued hastily, as Ferdinand seemed about 
 to interrupt her, " apart from family and personal 
 feelings altogether. Putting affection and separa- 
 tion amongst ourselves and all that sort of thing 
 aside, what is there so very bad in anyone's leav- 
 ing one part of the Church for another ? For we 
 recognise the Church of Rome as a part of tho 
 True Church of course ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; the Latin branch of the Catholic 
 Church is a branch of the one True Church," 
 answered Ferdinand, " but she is a corrupt and 
 erring branch, and for that reason we separated 
 from her at the Reformation." 
 
 " But, my dear Ferdinand," rejoined Blanche, 
 eagerly, "I have often heard you agree with Gerald 
 that the Reformation was anything but a blessing 
 to the Church of England. I even remember 
 your going so far as to say that nothing could 
 justify it." 
 
 " As to that," answered Ferdinand, hastily, "I 
 may have expressed myself stronger than I in- 
 tended. On the whole I do consider the Reforma- 
 tion (as it is called) to have been a misfortune 
 rather than a blessing for the English Church. 
 But there is no doubt that in some things, the 
 lives of the clergy for instance, there was great
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 131 
 
 need of improvement, and tlie Cliurcli had got 
 into a wretched state altogether." 
 
 *' As to the lives of any individual memhers of 
 the Church, however had they may he, I do not 
 see that they can affect the truth of her doctrines, 
 or that, if they disobey her rules, she is in any 
 way responsible for their conduct. And besides, 
 the very things which the Reformers were so de- 
 termined to get rid of, you and I believe to be 
 necessary to the very existence of a Church. If it 
 is essential to deny the Pope's Supremacy, we may 
 regard theu- work with some sort of satisfaction, 
 but on every other account I see nothing but cause 
 for regret in what they did." 
 
 Ferdinand Lennox did not immediately reply to 
 this speech of his sister's, but walked up and 
 down for a minute or two in silence. Then stop- 
 ping suddenly, he laid a hand on each of her 
 shoulders, and looking earnestly in her face, said, 
 
 " My dear Blanche, there are many things 
 which puzzle us in the history of the Church, and 
 especially in the history of the so-called Reforma- 
 tion. There is no doubt that it was either the 
 work of God, or the work of the Evil One. If the 
 latter, then tl^e sooner we abjure it and all connec- 
 tion with it, the better ; but you and I know how 
 many good things we owe it. Witness our beau- 
 tiful and heart- stirring services. You have been 
 in churches abroad, and you know how puzzHng 
 and confused the service often seems, the very fact
 
 132 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 of the prayers and psalms being for the most part in 
 Latin, makes it impossible for an unlettered con- 
 gregation to join readily and heartily in what is 
 going on. You know how different it is with us. 
 Can anything be more beautiful and in accordance 
 with one's feeling of what a Catholic service ought 
 to be than that of All Saints, Margaret Street, for 
 instance, where everyone understands what is going 
 on, and all join together with heart and voice as 
 one man? And there are higher blessings still 
 than these, which the Eeformation has purchased 
 for us. We have free access to the Bible, the 
 Word of God, and lue have an unmutilated Sacra- 
 ment, for we receive the Holy Compaunion in both 
 kinds, which you know Komanists are not allowed 
 to do. And is not that in itself worth every- 
 thing?" 
 
 He still held her at arm's length, and with an 
 anxious, earnest gaze, awaited her response. 
 Blanche looked up at him and smiled, and then 
 pushing his arm away, threw her's round his neck, 
 and kissing him fondly, cried, 
 
 ** I daresay you are right, and I am foolish to 
 torment myself about these things, but you know 
 one cannot help it sometimes. Now let us go in, 
 for I am sure your tea must be ready by this 
 time." 
 
 ** Come to the study presently, I want to speak 
 to you ;" whispered Ferdinand to his cousin Bar-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 133 
 
 bara, as tlie ladies were leaying the drawing-room 
 that night. 
 
 She smiled and nodded, and having said good 
 night to her aunt at the top of the stairs, and pro- 
 mised Blanche to come and see her in her room 
 in half an hour's time, Barbara hastened along 
 a corridor which led to the further end of the 
 house, and descending a stah, entered the room 
 which at Wentmore Rectory was known as ''the 
 Study." It was a snug little apartment, and the 
 favourite resort of the sons of the family when 
 they were at home, being so completely *' out of 
 the way" as they said; and attentive Mrs. Statham, 
 it being rather a chilly evening, had ordered a fire 
 to be lighted and the curtains drawn, and the 
 room otherwise set in order, in case Mr. Ferdi- 
 nand should wish to spend an hour or so there 
 before going to bed. Barbara lighted a couple of 
 wax candles which stood on the table, and drawing 
 an arm-chair near the fire, sat down upon it, with 
 her feet on the fender, and waited Ferdinand's 
 approach. '' What does he want to speak to me 
 about?" she wondered. She had not to wonder 
 long, for presently footsteps were heard along the 
 passage, and in another minute her cousin entered 
 the room. 
 
 " Oh ! you are here ; that's right," he exclaimed 
 on seeing her. Then placing himself with* his 
 back to the fire, in the attitude most favoured by 
 the Englishman at home, he looked round the
 
 lS4i Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 room, and said, " How nice it is to be here again. 
 This dear old room in which we have all spent so 
 many happy hours. I never feel that I am really 
 at home till I am down here with the old pictures 
 and things about me, and talking to one of you 
 girls or dear old Gerald. Ah ! I wonder when he 
 will be here again !" And turning round, he 
 leaned against the chimney-piece with one foot 
 on the fender, in an attitude of deep thought. 
 
 Barbara did not speak, but sat with her eyes 
 steadily fixed on the fire. She knew what was 
 passing in his mind, and did not venture to in- 
 trude any remark of her own. 
 
 The fire did not want stirring, but Ferdinand 
 stirred it nevertheless. Then putting the poker 
 down with a bang, he turned to his cousin, and 
 said, 
 
 " Barbara, I want to speak to you about Gerald 
 and about Blanche. I can speak to you better 
 than to anyone else. You will understand me 
 and w4iat I feel in a way neither my father nor 
 mother can do, and I cannot of course say to them 
 what I can to you. You know how miserable I 
 must be about this step he has taken." He paused 
 a moment, cleared his voice, and then resumed. 
 " We had gone together hand in hand so long. I 
 had made so many happy plans for the future, 
 when I should have a parish and church of my 
 own, and everything I did and cared about would 
 be a matter of interest to him as well. I know he
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 135 
 
 will always care about what I do still. He is the 
 same clear, warm-hearted, affectionate fellow that 
 he ever was, but all that is different, it can't be 
 the same thing, and I feel as if I had lost my 
 interest in the future altogether. But I don't 
 want to talk about myself, but about him and his 
 concerns. You know that I am suddenly a rich 
 man, or at least shall be when I am of age, in 
 consequence of his haying left the Church of Eng- 
 land, and that he has, you may say, not a penny 
 in the world ?" 
 
 He waited as if for some remark from his cousin 
 after saying this. He had again turned towards 
 the fire and was not looking at her. 
 
 Suddenly she rose from her seat and stood be- 
 side him, leaning her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Ferdinand, my dear brother, I cannot say how 
 much I feel for you, I cannot;" and she broke 
 down with a half sob as she spoke. 
 
 Ferdinand looked round in astonishment. He 
 had expected sympathy but not emotion from his 
 usually placid cousin. Bending down, he kissed 
 her forehead, and said, " Dearest Bibi, as long as 
 I have you and Blanche left to me I ought to be 
 contented. There are very few who have two such 
 sisters," and he kissed her again. 
 
 Barbara did not return his kiss, but she squeezed 
 his hand and sat down again. And a slight shade 
 of annoyance passed over her face as she did so. 
 
 Now this was unreasonable of Barbara. If she
 
 136 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 called Ferdinand her brother, why should she be 
 offended at his calling her his sister ? 
 
 *' Now I am determined that he shall not suffer 
 in this way, if I can possibly help it," resumed 
 Ferdinand. *' But the difficulty is, to make him 
 take a penny in consequence of old Sir Gerald's 
 will, after what he has done. I have said all I 
 can to him on the subject, and it is of no use." 
 
 " As far as that goes, Ferdinand, although I 
 quite understand the generous affection which 
 makes you feel as you do about it, I think he 
 ought to suffer, and I don't pity him one bit." 
 
 ''Barbara!" cried Ferdinand, . turning round 
 and staring at her, "I don't understand you." 
 
 *' My dear boy," said Barbara, "you know how 
 I love you and Blanche." There was the least 
 possible stress on the word you as she spoke, " and 
 when I see you both made miserable by what 
 Gerald has done, you cannot wonder if it makes 
 me indignant and angry. "What right had he 
 
 *'But, Barbara," interrupted Ferdinand, hastily, 
 ''you do not consider that if he was convinced, as 
 I am sure he was, that it was necessary to become 
 a Roman Catholic, he had no choice in the matter, 
 and that it must have cost him more to take such 
 a step even than it has cost us to lose him." 
 
 " Nonsense, Ferdinand," answered Barbara, " I 
 don't believe a word of it. He wished to be a
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 137 
 
 Koman Catholic and he is one. He has got his 
 wish, and others may be miserable if they please." 
 
 Ferdinand turned away from her and leaned 
 again upon the chimney-piece. " If you will not 
 understand," he said, " I can't make you. Let us 
 talk about something else. Tell me what you 
 think of Blanche. She seems to me very excited 
 and not at all well, I am quite uneasy about 
 her." 
 
 " I shall not speak about Blanche. We were 
 speaking about Gerald, and you are angry with me 
 because I cannot see everything he does in the 
 favourable light you do. I do not pretend to feel 
 about him as you and Blanche do, I never did, 
 but I am sorry if I said anything to vex you. 
 God knows I would not do that if I could help 
 it." And Barbara covered her face with her hand- 
 kerchief as she spoke. 
 
 " My dearest girl, forgive me. I know I was 
 cross," exclaimed Ferdinand, seating himself on a 
 stool by his cousin's side, and taking her hand in 
 his. " All this has upset me, and I daresay I am 
 unreasonable. Your sympathy and affection I 
 feel deeply. Dearest Bibi, indeed I do." And 
 raising the little hand which was not withheld, he 
 pressed it to his lips. 
 
 Barbara looked up and smiled, and she looked 
 very pretty smiling through her tears, Ferdinand 
 thought. Perhaps his gaze expressed as much,
 
 138 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 for slie coloured up with pleasure as their eyes 
 met, and she said, 
 
 " I suppose Gerald is not very fond of me, as I 
 generally find that one cares instinctively most 
 for those who care for one. Were you struck by 
 anything particular about darling Blanche's looks?'* 
 she continued, anxiously. " You do not know all 
 she has gone through whilst you were away, in- 
 deed ever since this news came." 
 
 *' She does not look well, but that is not what I 
 mean," answered Ferdinand. " I daresay it is all 
 my imagination, but I cannot help thinking that 
 this step of Gerald's is having some effect upon 
 her, and may tend to unsettle her about the 
 Church of England. When talking to her, has 
 anything ever occurred to you of the same 
 sort?" 
 
 " We have not touched very much on the con- 
 troversial part of the subject," said Barbara. 
 *' She is so fond of Gerald that she naturally finds 
 every excuse she can for him, but I do not think 
 you need be uneasy on that score. I am sure she 
 is too devoted to our own Church, and too sensible 
 to think of following his example for a moment." 
 
 *' God grant it," murmured Ferdinand. 
 
 Barbara looked at him, and the tears rose in 
 her eyes as she did so. She was really fond of 
 this cousin, and saw that he was suffering. She 
 longed to say something that might comfort him, 
 but did not know how.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 139 
 
 Just then, someone was heard descending the 
 stairs from the passage above, and she jumped up, 
 exclaiming, *' There, we are going to be inter- 
 rupted, and so I shall retire. It is Sidney, I 
 think, and he won't want me here. Good night, 
 dear." 
 
 Sidney Graham entered the room as she spoke, 
 and looked somewhat dismayed at seeing her. 
 Lighting a bed-room candle which stood on the 
 chimney-piece, Barbara patted her cousin Ferdi- 
 nand on the shoulder, and nodding to the other 
 said, " Don't be afraid, Sid, I am going away, and 
 you may have Ferdinand all to yourself. Only 
 don't you two be sitting up all hours of the night, 
 and remember we have prayers punctually at nine 
 o'clock." 
 
 She then took herself off, determining in her 
 own mind as she went upstairs and along the 
 passage towards Blanche's room, that whether she 
 regarded one of the cousins she had just left with 
 more than a cousinly feeling or not, she certainly 
 did not like the other and never should, though 
 ^vhy, she did not exactly know. 
 
 The next morning when the plans for the day 
 were discussed after breakfast, it was decided 
 that as it was a lovely morning for a walk, 
 the two young ladies should take Sidney Graham 
 to call at the Oaks. ^' And you need not expect 
 us back to luncheon," said Blanche, " if we do go.
 
 140 geuald's ordeal. 
 
 for tliey are sure to keep us, but I shall be home 
 m time to go out in the carriage with mamma." 
 
 Ferdinancl and his father had various business 
 matters to discuss, and retired for that purpose to 
 the library. Blanche looked in upon them before 
 starting. " Have you any message for Mrs. 
 Gregory, papa ? we shall go there on our way." 
 
 *'Kemind Miss Hester that it is her day for 
 visiting the schools," answered the Rector, *' the 
 schoolmistress complained to me about the irregu- 
 larity of some of the young ladies' visits, and tell 
 Mrs. Gregory we shall hope to find her at home 
 this afternoon, on our return from Westling." 
 
 Westling was a small market town about five 
 miles from Wentmore, and as it boasted one or 
 two shops rather above the country average, it 
 formed an object for a drive for Lady Frances 
 when she had no inducement to go elsewhere. 
 Mr. Lennox always spoke of it jestingly as the 
 *' Metropohs." 
 
 On leaving Mrs. Gregory's, the walking party 
 encountered Mr. Woods who emerged from Widow 
 Upton's cottage as they were passing, 
 
 "Good morning, young ladies," said he. *^I 
 was just going up to the Rectory, and you can 
 tell me if I am likely to find Mr. Lennox dis- 
 engaged ?" 
 
 *' We left him at home, closeted with Ferdi- 
 nand," answered Blanche, " so you will certainly 
 find him. Tell me, Mr. Woods," she continued,
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 141 
 
 as Sidney Graham walked on witli Barbara, " has 
 Jane Upton any chance of that place you were 
 trying to get for her ? I shall be so glad when 
 she is away from that mother, poor girl." 
 
 **I have not yet heard from my sister," replied 
 the curate, *' but I expect to do so every day. It 
 will be a great thing to get her away from home. 
 One can do very little for her here." 
 
 " Do you give the Holy Communion to-morrow 
 to John Haywood?" continued Blanche. "Fer- 
 dinand and I both wish to be there when you do. 
 I was with him yesterday for half an hour, and 
 read to him. He seemed very anxious about it. 
 What a blessing it is to see him so prepared, poor 
 fellow. I never leave him without feeling hum- 
 bled by the sight of his faith and patience." 
 
 '* Ah ! I wish more were like him," answered 
 Mr. Woods. " I have arranged to be there at 
 nine o'clock to-morrow morning, and intended to 
 let you know." 
 
 Walking by Blanche's side, and passing from 
 one topic of mutual interest to another, Mr. Woods 
 forgot that he was bound in a contrary direction 
 until a turning in the road brought them within 
 sight of two ladies, who advanced towards them 
 from the direction of the Oaks. 
 
 *' Why, there is Clara Smith,'* cried Blanche, 
 " and Miss Jones. We must tell Clara we are all 
 going there." 
 
 A general stoppage and mutual greetings en-
 
 142 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 sued. Miss Smith was on lier way to tlie village 
 under Miss Jones's escort whom she had overtaken 
 on the road. She was delighted to hear of the 
 intended descent upon the Oaks, and begged them 
 to go on. *' I must go to Weutmore," she ex- 
 plained, *^ but shall be back before luncheon, and 
 the others will be so glad to see you." 
 
 Mr. Woods then remembered that he must turn 
 back, and did so with Miss Clara and her com- 
 panion, the others pursuing their way towards the 
 Oaks. For a minute or two the curate walked by 
 the side of the two ladies in silence. Then turn- 
 ing to Miss Smith, he said, 
 
 *' That gentleman is a cousin of the Miss Len- 
 noxes, is he not ? I think I have seen him down 
 here before, but am not sure." 
 
 " Yes," answered Clara, ** that is Mr. Graham ; 
 Mr. Lennox's nephew. I wonder which of his 
 cousins he admires the most." 
 
 Mr. Woods quite started. 
 
 " There can be little question as to which is the 
 best looking, I should think," said he. "Miss 
 Barbara is very handsome no doubt, but one can 
 scarcely compare her to her cousin." 
 
 *' Oh, I don't know about that," rejoined Clara, 
 laughing. " Tastes differ, you know. Some 
 people prefer dark beauties to fair." As she 
 spoke, she turned and looked back at the cousins 
 who were now nearly out of sight. 
 
 *' There can be little question as to which Mr.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 143 
 
 Woods prefers," thought Miss Jones, "and I quite 
 agree with him, dear, dear !" 
 
 He too was watching the receding figures, ap- 
 parently forgetful of observation. As they finally 
 disappeared in the distance, he turned round, and 
 said, 
 
 *' They always seem to me to express the dif- 
 ference between Earth and Heayen."
 
 144 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Lady Margaret Stewart sat alone in her bou- 
 doir. The London season was long over, and the 
 spacious mansions in Grosvenor Square were for 
 the most part hermetically closed for the winter, 
 so that the air of life about the Earl of Norwood's 
 residence attracted attention from the passer-by. 
 The earl himself was out of town, having matters 
 to attend to at his country seat in Southshire. 
 He purposed spending a few days with his sister 
 at Wentmore before his return, after which Lady 
 Margaret was to accompany him on a series of 
 visits which were to terminate at Christmas time 
 with a family gathering at his son Lord Dereham's 
 place in Norfolk. 
 
 Lady Margaret was writing. The afternoon was 
 damp, and the low davenport at which she sat 
 was drawn near the fire. Whatever was the nature 
 of her correspondence, it seemed entirely to absorb 
 her, the pen flew over the paper rapidly, sheet 
 after sheet was filled and thrown aside, and still
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 145 
 
 slie wrote on. At length she paused, and taking 
 up a letter which had been finished and enclosed 
 in its envelope, she unfolded it and ran her eye 
 over its contents once more. Then, with it still 
 open in her hand, she leaned back in her chair, 
 and looked round the room. Her eyes fixed them- 
 selves upon a small cabinet which stood at one 
 end of the luxuriously fitted little apartment, but 
 her thoughts were evidently far away. She saw, 
 as it were, without seeing. Presently she roused 
 herself, however, and reading the letter in her 
 hand again attentively through, she replaced it 
 in its cover, lighted a taper, sealed it, and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 *' Put this in the post immediately, will you," 
 she said, as a footman appeared in answer to the 
 summons. 
 
 The door was no sooner closed than she again 
 seized her pen, and continued writing uninter- 
 ruptedly for half an hour. At the end of that 
 time a knock came at the door. 
 
 *' Come in," she said, without looking up, and 
 her cousin Gerald Lennox entered. 
 
 "Am I interrupting you?" he asked, pausing 
 at the sight of her epistolary labours. 
 
 *' My dear Gerald ! of course not. How are 
 you ?" answered Lady Margaret, holding out her 
 hand. " I did not expect you this afternoon, but 
 am delighted to see you all the same. I must put 
 away my writing things, and then we will have 
 
 10
 
 146 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 some tea and a comfortable chat. You will won- 
 der to whom I am writing," she continued, busily 
 collecting her sheets of paper and arranging them 
 together, " but I shan't gratify your curiosity. It 
 is a long letter and has taken me an enormous 
 time, but it is to no young lady friend, and sd 
 you need not suppose it is." 
 
 '* If you did not wish your correspondent td 
 be known, you should not leave that suspicious 
 looking article, so conspicuously prominent," re- 
 joined Gerald laughingly, pointing to a large 
 envelope which was placed against the clock on 
 the chimney-piece, addressed to a well-known 
 leader of the Broad Church school, to which 
 school Lady Margaret was notoriously attached. 
 **It looks to me exactly calculated to contain 
 those fifty and odd closely written sheets which 
 you have been so busily inditing. Am I not 
 right r 
 
 *' How stupid of me to leave it there !" ex- 
 claimed his cousin. ** The truth is," she added, 
 thrusting the envelope and the other papers which 
 she had collected together into a table drawer, " I 
 
 have been writing to Mr. M about certain 
 
 subjects on which I desired to have his views and 
 opinion, and have given him mine rather at length. 
 I am sure you, at any rate, cannot find fault with 
 me for seeking ghostly counsel and advice, if I 
 feel that I require them ?" 
 
 ** Far be it from me to do so," replied Gerald,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 147 
 
 gravely, as he seated liimself in a low chair before 
 the fire. "I only wish you wonld consult those 
 who are best able to give it you. But I am not 
 come to talk controversy or about your affairs at 
 all just now. Mine is a purely selfish errand, as 
 it is to say that I am going off to-night by the 
 mail train, and I don't know when I shall see you 
 again." 
 
 " And where are you off to ?" Lady Margaret's 
 hand was on the bell, as she was about to order 
 tea, but she waited to hear his answer before pull- 
 ing it. 
 
 " To Calais, and thence, heaven knows where. 
 I scarcely know myself yet." 
 
 The bell was rung sharply. 
 
 ** And for how long are you going to abseni 
 yourself?" inquired Lady Margaret. 
 
 ** That depends on cu-cumstances. Perhaps for 
 years. At any rate, until I see my way a little 
 clearer into the future than I do at present. I 
 must go abroad, I feel it is the only thing for me 
 to do. I long to breathe air which is really and 
 truly Catholic. I am stifling in this Protestant 
 London, and since I may not see my mother and 
 sister, the sooner I am gone, the better. No one 
 will miss me but you and Ferdinand. I have 
 seen him, and if he can manage it, he talks of 
 coming over for a week or so, to Germany or Bel- 
 gium (whichever I may go to) himself, so that we 
 may meet again before long."
 
 148 Gerald's oe-deal. 
 
 *' And me ? You do not consider my regret. 
 I suppose no one is to be thought of excepting 
 Ferdinand," said Lady Margaret, turning away 
 her head. 
 
 *' Margaret, I know how much you feel for me," 
 cried Gerald, starting up, and taking her hand, 
 *' but you cannot help me now, and if we were 
 to meet often, just at present, we should only 
 quarrel, so that in every way it is better that I 
 should go. • I am not fit company for my friends, 
 in their opinion at least, and I do not choose to 
 inflict myself upon them." 
 
 ** Gerald, it is unkind of you to say that," re- 
 plied Lady Margaret. Then', as the footman en- 
 tered with a tea-tray and placed it on a small 
 table by her side, she paused. When they were 
 again alone, she added, 
 
 ** Your Protestant friends are very naturally 
 grieved at your having left their Church. If they 
 had not valued you as a member of it, so truly, 
 they would not care so much about it. Their 
 shewing how deeply they feel the step you have 
 taken, is a proof of their regard for you per- 
 sonally." 
 
 " You judge of others by yourself, my dear 
 Margaret," said Gerald. "Feel deeply the step I 
 have taken !" he added, bitterly, *' why, is not 
 'liberty of conscience' the boast of Englishmen'? 
 but when I exercise my liberty of conscience, and 
 choose to leave the paths of heresy and schism for
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 149 
 
 tlie communion of the One True Churcli, I am to 
 be tabooed and shunned and treated as if I were a 
 lunatic or worse ! I might have become a Pres- 
 byterian, a Weslejan, a Baptist, or anything of 
 that sort I pleased, and the ' Keligious' world 
 would have rather approved of me than otherwise, 
 whilst the rest of the Community would not have 
 troubled their heads about it, one way or another. 
 But if a man dare to throw off the prejudices and 
 not-to-be-questioned traditions of his childhood, if 
 he venture to do what his teachers are always 
 telling him is his bounden duty (alas ! that so few 
 of them practise what they preach) and enquire for 
 himself, then there is such an outcry as never was ! 
 Be sure of this, Margaret, Falsehood and Error 
 shrink from true, honest, searching inquiry. 
 Truth, Divine and Unchangeable alone courts it. 
 * Don't go to Eoman Catholic churches, don't read 
 Roman Catholic books, above all, don't consult a 
 Boman Catholic Priest.' That was what all my 
 Anglican friends said to me, whether High, or 
 Low, or Broad. They knew much better what 
 the ' Roman' Church taught and believed than the 
 teachers of that Church knew themselves, and as I 
 valued my salvation, (many of my Highest Church 
 advisers put it to me in this light, quite as strongly 
 as the most Evangelical ones would have done,) I 
 must not judge for myself in the matter, but lean 
 only upon their dictum and conclusion on the 
 subject."
 
 150 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 ** As far as that goes, you know, I look upon 
 botli the very High and the very Low as mistaken 
 in many ways," returned Lady Margaret. "People 
 who go to extremes are always bigoted and narrow- 
 minded. It is not that I would not have you 
 search and inquire and judge for yourself. All I 
 would urge is, that you do so fairly and without 
 prejudice and certainly without putting yourself 
 into the hands of such one-sided partisans, for 
 instance, as the Jesuits (whom I know you con- 
 sulted) were sure to be." 
 
 ** That is what they all say. Search and in- 
 quire in the right direction — which means in any 
 direction but the right one. No, Margaret, that 
 is all nonsense. If I wanted to ascertain some geo- 
 graphical information about the South of France, 
 you would not refer me to a map of England, and 
 when I want to know what Rome teaches, I go to 
 Home herself to find out, and not to her enemies 
 and traducers. But now, my dear cousin, I must 
 say goodbye. Sidney Graham is coming up from 
 Wentmore to-day. He meets me at the station 
 and goes with me to Calais. He is, and has been, 
 a true friend to me indeed." 
 
 Now Sidney Graham was one of Lady Mar- 
 garet's pet aversions. She knew him, of course, 
 and for Gerald's sake, who was so fond of him, she 
 had tried to like him, but had not succeeded in 
 doing so. Sidney always received cards for the 
 balls at Norwood House, and once or twice during
 
 Gerald's ordeal, 151 
 
 the season when other family connections were 
 asked to dine, he was asked to dine also, but 
 otherwise he and Lady Margaret seldom or never 
 met. She took no notice now of Gerald's mention 
 of him, but rising from her chair, said, 
 
 *' You will take a cup of tea before you go. 
 Promise, Gerald, to write to me ?" 
 
 Gerald refused the cup of tea, but gave the 
 required promise. Then taking both his cousin's 
 hands in his, he pressed his lips upon her fore- 
 head, murmured, *' God bless you, Margaret," and 
 was gone. 
 
 Two hours after, he was at the Victoria Station, 
 amid all the bustle of the departure of the mail 
 train for Dover. The first person he encountered 
 on the platform was his cousin Sidney. The 
 mutual greetings were hurried, "How are jon? 
 All right old fellow ?" and " How are they at 
 Wentmore? We shall have plenty of time to- 
 talk in the train. I must see after this botherin^r 
 luggage now,'* was all that passed between them 
 for the first ten minutes. Then having ensconced 
 themselves in a first class carriage, with their 
 wraps and other paraphemaHa arranged about 
 them, Gerald exclaimed, 
 
 " Thank goodness, we are off at last ! and 
 what a dear good fellow you are to come with 
 me !" 
 
 ** I would go with you to the other end of the 
 world if you wished it, you know that," responded
 
 152 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 the otlier, and lie stretched out his legs and set- 
 tled his travelling cap more comfortably on his 
 head as he spoke. 
 
 " Thanks," said Gerald, laughing. " If ever I 
 contemplate so extended a trip, I will remind you 
 of your offer. Meanwhile, I am grateful to you 
 for seeing me so far as Calais on my way. You 
 go on then to Paris, do you not ? and when shall 
 you be back ?" 
 
 *' Cela depend,'' was the reply. " I am going 
 to meet Lucas of the — th, at the Hotel Bristol, 
 and shall stay there as long as he does most likely. 
 In about a fortnight's time I suppose I shall be in 
 London again." 
 
 *' Now, Sid, tell me about Wentmore. How is 
 my mother ? How is Blanche ? How are they 
 all going on ? and what do they say about me ?" 
 
 *' Well, on the whole, as I told you in my last 
 letter, I found things much better than I expected. 
 Your mother looks very pale and sad, and 1 fancy 
 has a great deal to go through with Uncle Lennox. 
 Blanche, of course, behaves like an angel, Ferdi- 
 nand fights your battles like a brick. The one 
 who does not seem very kindly inclined towards 
 you, is our charming cousin. Miss Bibi." 
 
 *' Bibi !" exclaimed Gerald, " I am surprised at 
 that. She and I were always such great friends." 
 
 " Well, all I know is," returned Sidney, " that 
 once or twice when I was speaking to her about 
 you, she expressed herself in pretty strong terms
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 153 
 
 wliicli were not exactly — what shall we say ? — flat- 
 tering." 
 
 " Why, how do you mean ? What did she 
 say ?" laughed Gerald. 
 
 ** She was suggesting the probabiHty of your 
 changing your mind again some day, when you 
 had become * tired of all the mummeries and ab- 
 surdities of Eome,' as she expressed it, and when 
 I observed that I was morally certain you never 
 would change, and that I had never seen anyone 
 more positively convinced that he had done right 
 than you were, her rejoinder was, * Just like his 
 obstinacy and conceit.' " 
 
 Gerald did not make any reply to this, and after 
 a minute's silence, Sidney looked round at him, 
 and was surprised at the change which had come 
 over his countenance. The smile which was habi- 
 tually there, and which, when he spoke, lent such 
 a charm to Gerald's face, had died away, and a 
 severely grave expression had settled upon his 
 features. 
 
 " Miss Barbara has a bit of a temper, and some- 
 thing had upset her, I suppose," said Sidney. *'I 
 should not think anything about it if I were you. 
 What does it signify what she says ?" 
 
 " I have always looked upon her of late, as my 
 own sister," returned Gerald, sternly, as it was 
 his wont to speak, when stirred by emotion, " and 
 I am Sony that she should so think and so speak 
 of me. Ah ! Isn't that Milsom Station ?" he
 
 154i Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 added, as the train dashed past a platform with 
 lights, and he let down the window and leaned out 
 into the air for a minute. 
 
 *' Yes, I think so. Yes, it must have been,'* 
 said the other. '* Why? what is the matter ?" 
 
 *' Nothing," answered Gerald, putting up the 
 window, and sitting down again. 
 
 Milsom was the station for Wentmore. It was 
 the first time he had been so near his home, that 
 home which was so inexpressibly dear to him, 
 since he had brought the sorrow upon its beloved 
 inmates which he would so gladly have averted 
 from them had it been possible. But he knew, 
 and herein was his consolation under that other- 
 wise insupportable thought, that it was impossible 
 for him to have prevented the suffering which they 
 must endure in proportion to their love for him, 
 and the sincerity of their own attachment to the 
 Anglican Church. When conversing with the 
 Jesuit Father who had instructed him, and even- 
 tually received him into the Catholic Church, 
 Gerald had confessed that it was the thought of 
 his family and their distress which chiefly weighed 
 with him and made him hesitate as to taking the 
 final step. **I perfectly understand your feeling,'* 
 Father Clifford had said in reply, *' it is a most 
 natural, but at the same time, a most dangerous 
 one to entertain. The devil is tempting you 
 through your affections. ' Anything for a delay^* 
 that is what he feels, and remember that on your
 
 GEEALD S OEDEAL, 155 
 
 decision now, may depend the eternal welfare of 
 those you love so fondly. They are quite as much 
 interested, if they only knew it, in the step you 
 contemplate, as you are yourself. I repeat, upon 
 you and your determination now, their eternal 
 future may depend. If you hesitate and fall hack 
 now through any mistaken feeling of love or com- 
 passion for them and their momentary sorrow, 
 they may have to reproach you hereafter for their 
 own destruction as well as yours. Let the thought 
 of them and their interests spur you on rather 
 than dissuade you. Your conversion may he, and 
 prohahly will be, the one chance for each one of 
 them. And do not make so sure of their suffering 
 so much on your account now. Leave them in 
 God's Hands, that is His affair, not yours. He 
 has done much for you in drawing you so near to 
 His Church, and shewing you so plainly His Will. 
 Can you not be a little generous with Him in 
 return ? Believe me, my son, the day will come 
 when those you love so deeply, and are thinking of 
 so painfully now, will bless you for your courage 
 in not letting your fear of causing them a passing 
 pain, however sharp for the moment, interfere 
 with your resolve to do your Master's bidding at 
 all costs." Thus had the Priest of God argued, 
 and Gerald had felt the truth of his reasoning. 
 The remembrance of his words came back upon 
 him as the train rushed on and bore him further 
 and further from the spot where for a few minutes
 
 156 GEHALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 he had again breathed, as it were, the same air as 
 those dear ones of whom his thoughts were always 
 so full, and he took comfort to himself by the 
 reflection. " Some day they will thank me for it. 
 Some day they will bless me for what seems my 
 cruelty now." 
 
 Sidney, observing that his cousin was disinclined 
 for further conversation, disposed himself for sleep 
 during the remainder of the journey, and Gerald 
 was therefore able to pursue his meditations un- 
 disturbed. 
 
 The process of collecting tickets at Dover, at 
 length aroused them both effectually, and shortly 
 after, they found themselves steaming out of the 
 harbour, on board the Calais boat. Sidney retired 
 below, and deposited himself on the cabin sofa, 
 "prepared for the worst," as he said, but Gerald 
 preferred remaining on deck. 
 
 Although the night was fine, a fresh breeze was 
 blowing, and it seemed likely that they would have 
 a roughish passage, but Gerald was a good sailor, 
 and did not mind that. There were not many 
 other passengers on deck, most of them having 
 gone below. Among the few who were to be seen, 
 however, Gerald noticed one young fellow, who 
 was smoking a cigar, and stopped occasionally 
 as he marched up and down, to say a word or two 
 to one of the sailors as he passed. Something 
 pleasant in the tone of his voice first attracted
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 157 
 
 Gerald's attention, and he turned round involun- 
 tarily to glance at the face of the speaker. 
 
 It was a bright young face, and there was an 
 undefinable something about it, and the voice as 
 well, which betokened that both belonged to a 
 gentleman. Gerald took a liking for him im- 
 mediately. He had rather a habit of taking sud- 
 den likes and dislikes for people whom he knew 
 nothing about. A bad habit of which he was fully 
 aware, but could not help. 
 
 After a time, when his cigar had come to an 
 end, the youth seemed to tire of his walk, and 
 suddenly seated himself at the end of the bench 
 on which Gerald had stretched his legs, which 
 were muffled up in some mysterious way, and 
 which the other, therefore, had not observed. The 
 natural ejaculations from both parties, resulted in 
 a laughing apology from the stranger, and an in- 
 stant change of posture on Gerald's part, who 
 begged the young man to remain, as he would not 
 in the least disturb him by doing so. One ex- 
 change of courtesies led to another, and in a short 
 time, the two were chatting pleasantly together. 
 
 Gerald's new acquaintance appeared to have 
 travelled a good deal, and was now on his way to 
 the South of France. ^' My people are at Cannes," 
 he said, '^ and I am going there to join them. Do 
 you know that part of the world ?" 
 
 *' Yes ;" answered Gerald. " I was there three 
 years ago for a short time. I thought Cannes
 
 158 Gerald's ordeaL* 
 
 rather dull. Nice is a charming place. Shall 
 you go there at all ?'* 
 
 ** I don't know. The sort of rivalry which ex- 
 ists between Cannes, Nice and Mentone is most 
 amusing. Each place has its own especial ad- 
 mirers and frequenters, who will not allow that 
 the other two are to be compared with the one 
 they themselves prefer." 
 
 Gerald laughed. " Quite true ;" he said. 
 
 His new friend went on to speak of Rome and 
 Naples, and Gerald listened eagerly. He had 
 never been to either of those places, and longed 
 now, more than ever, to visit them. ** Every 
 Christian should go to Rome, at least once in his 
 lifetime," he had been wont to say in his Anglican 
 days; and as a Catholic, he felt it an absolute 
 duty, as soon as circumstances would permit, to 
 betake himself to the capital of the Catholic world. 
 So interested was he in the conversation, that 
 when the lights of Calais harbour appeared in 
 sight, he felt quite surprised; the passage had 
 seemed so unusually short, 
 
 Sidney came tumbling up the cabin stairs. 
 
 *' How have you been ?" he asked. '* It has 
 been bad enough down there." 
 
 *' I have been particularly happy," answered 
 Gerald. *' This gentleman and I have been chat- 
 ting so pleasantly that the time has slipped away 
 Surprisingly." 
 
 The *' gentleman" referred to, laughed, and
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 159 
 
 said, the passage had certainly appeared a very 
 short one. Then, as the steamer drew up by the 
 side of the quay, they proceeded to collect their 
 various wraps and et ceteras, and to fight their 
 way up the narrow gangway leading to the steps 
 above. Of course, they were stopped at the usual 
 point by the inevitable custom-house officer, and 
 had to shew their " hagages" and assure the offi- 
 cials they had nothing to "declare," and, of course, 
 they were beset as soon as they appeared on the 
 landing-place, by a crowd of porters and omnibus 
 conductors, eager to convey them and their lug- 
 gage in any and every direction but the one in 
 which they wanted to go. 
 
 "Which hotel do you patronize?" enquii-ed his 
 young compagnon de voyage, of Gerald, as they 
 stood for a moment hesitating in the midst of the 
 hubbub and confusion around. 
 
 "Dessin's, I think," answered he. "That is 
 the one I have usually slept at when I have stayed 
 here for the night.'* 
 
 " Then we may as well walk, if you do not 
 mind, and I will tell the porter to bring the lug- 
 gage up after us." 
 
 The young man turned round, and in a few 
 words gave the necessary directions to the hotel 
 employe, who took possession of their keys, and 
 promised that the things should be up there, 
 almost as soon as they were themselves. Gerald's 
 quick ear apprised him of the fact that his new ac-
 
 160 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 quaintance spoke French almost as well as Englisli. 
 
 " I wonder whom he can be," he said to Sidney, 
 as they walked on a little way together. *'He 
 seems such a nice fellow. I should very much 
 like to know." 
 
 "Oh, I daresay he's all right," answered Sidney. 
 '* We shall hear at the hotel what his name is. 
 At any rate I am glad he is going on to Paris, as 
 I shall have some one to talk to on the way. I 
 hate travelling by myself, and not knowing a soul." 
 
 ** I beg your pardon," said the object of their 
 remarks, addressing them both as he overtook 
 them, "but I noticed the name of Lennox on 
 some of your things as they stood together. I 
 have a great friend of that name, I wonder if he is 
 any relation of yours ?" 
 
 " What is his Christian name ?" enquired Gerald. 
 " I am Mr. Lennox, and can soon tell you if he is 
 one of my belongings." 
 
 "His name is Ferdinand. His father is the 
 Kector of Wentmore in Southshire. We were at 
 the same College, and have been travelling about 
 together this last summer. In short, we are im- 
 mense allies," was the answer. 
 
 Gerald laughed. " That is my brother," he 
 said, " and I think I must have the pleasure of 
 speaking to Sir George Hamilton, of whom I have 
 very often heard from Ferdinand. Let me intro- 
 duce my cousin Mr. Graham." 
 
 " Well, this is very curious !" exclaimed the
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 161 
 
 other. " Yes, I am Sir George Hamilton, and I 
 have heard so much of you from your brother, that 
 I feel as if we were old friends. How singular 
 that we should meet in this way ! I had a letter 
 from Ferd only yesterday, in which he tells me 
 that you were going abroad. I must wi-ite and 
 tell him of this rencontre directly. I fancied there 
 was something familiar to me in your voice when 
 you were speaking on board the steamer. Well, 
 this is lucky, I declare !" 
 
 *' My cousin was just saying how glad he was 
 to think you would be going on to Paris, as you 
 will be able to travel together. Do you make any 
 stay there ?" asked Gerald. 
 
 * ^ I shall only remain a day or so, on my way 
 through," replied Sir George. " You do not then 
 accompany your cousin ?" 
 
 *'No ;" said Gerald. " My plans are very un- 
 certain. I shall remain here a day or two, I 
 think, and then go to Brussels for a short time. 
 There goes the Paris train," he added, as they 
 passed under the old archway, leading from the 
 quay into the town, and a shrill whistle was heard 
 from the direction of the railway station. 
 
 Sir George Hamilton turned to Sidney Graham, 
 and began discussing Paris and its attractions 
 with him, and Gerald walked by their side in 
 silence, glad to be left to his own thoughts. 
 
 The narrow dimly-lighted streets, the quaint old- 
 fashioned appearance of the houses, and the unmis-
 
 162 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 takeably French look about everything which met 
 the eye, impressed upon him the fact that he was 
 now for the first time, treading as a Catholic upon 
 Catholic soil. As they crossed the Grande Place, 
 a neighbouring church clock struck one, and the 
 thought occurred to him, that a few hours later, he 
 might enter that church if he chose, and feel that 
 he had a right to be there. Involuntarily, how- 
 ever, he heaved a sigh, as he remembered that the 
 very act which had made him at one with his 
 Catholic brethren all over the world, had cut him 
 off from communion with those who were nearest 
 and dearest to him on earth, and most earnestly 
 he resolved that no efforts should be wanting on 
 his part, to bring them to a knowledge of the One 
 True Faith. 
 
 On reaching the hotel, a light supper was 
 ordered, to which the three young men sat down 
 in the salle a manger, and Gerald felt glad as soon 
 as it was over to get to his own room. He shook 
 hands warmly with Sir George on saying good 
 night, and they arranged to breakfast together the 
 next morning. 
 
 Before he was fairly awake on the following 
 morning, Gerald was roused by a shouting at his 
 door, and recognizing his cousin's voice, he hastily 
 jumped out of bed and opened it. 
 
 *'I say, Gerald,'* cried Sidney, bursting into" 
 the room in a state of excitement, ''here's a pretty 
 go ! I've just receiT^d a telegram from Robertson^
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 163 
 
 and Finch, the family lawyers, calling me hack to 
 London on important business, and urging me 
 not to lose a moment in my return. What on 
 earth am I to do ? What a bore to he sure ! Did 
 you ever know anything so disgusting ? I sup- 
 pose I shall have to go hack hy the early boat 
 to-day. D — the lawyers, what a nuisance they 
 always are !" 
 
 " My dear boy, that is a bore," said Gerald, 
 who began hastily to dress. *' Let us look at the 
 message. What does it say ?" 
 
 *' Here it is," answered Sidney, taking the for- 
 mal looking missive out of its large blue envelope, 
 and holding it towards him. 
 
 It ran thus : 
 
 "Messrs. Robeetson and Finch, 
 
 Craven St., Strand, 
 
 to 
 
 Sidney Geaham, Esq., 
 
 Hotel Dessin. Calais. 
 " Please return to London at once. It is im- 
 portant that we should see you as soon as possible. 
 Lose no time^ 
 
 "It certainly looks as if you must go at once," 
 remarked Gerald, as he laid it down. " I am 
 Tery sorry, but it can't be helped. How did they 
 know where to find you ?" 
 
 ** Oh, I left word at my lodgings, that they 
 were to forward my letters to this house for a day
 
 164 GERALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 or two, as I thought you were going to be here. 
 Confound that Robertson, I wonder what the deuce 
 it's about !" And Mr. Graham flung himself out 
 of the room in no very amiable frame of mind. 
 
 There was no help for it, however. Sidney vowed 
 that he would not stay one hour in London when 
 he did get there, but would return directly. 
 
 *' And I shall find you here still, shan't I ?'* he 
 said to Gerald, as they walked towards the place 
 of embarkation, a little later in the day. They 
 had just seen Sir George Hamilton off in the 
 train for Paris, and it had added to Sidney's wrath 
 that the young baronet should be going on with- 
 out him. 
 
 Gerald assured him that he would remain a^ 
 Calais till his return. The two cousins went on 
 board together, Sidney carrying a small carpet bag 
 in his hand. 
 
 *' If I don't come back to-night, I shall to- 
 morrow," he cried, as some ten minutes after- 
 wards the steamer moved slowly from its moor- 
 ings. 
 
 Gerald waved his hand, and remained watching 
 the boat till it was lost to sight. Then with a 
 deep drawn sigh he turned away, and bent his 
 steps in the direction of the ancient Parish Church.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 165 
 
 CHAPTER Till. 
 
 It was the Feast of All Saints. High Mass 
 was over, an'd the good folk of Calais were stream- 
 ing out of their Parish Church. Amongst them 
 came Gerald, who having wandered all over the 
 town and its environs, and seen the little there 
 was to be seen, had arrived at the conclusion, that 
 the only thing he cared about in the place was 
 this fine old church and its services. He had 
 therefore risen early to attend a Low Mass before 
 breakfast, and had again repaired to the sacred 
 edifice, for the purpose of assisting at the more 
 solemn function later in the day. The morning 
 was fine, but cold, and Gerald walked briskly back 
 towards his hotel, debating in his own mind what 
 he should do with himself during the rest of the 
 day. 
 
 Turning to the right as he entered the hotel, he 
 was about to ascend the stairs leading to his room, 
 when a waiter rushed towards him. 
 
 " Un depeche, Monsieur,'' said he, placing a 
 telegraphic message in Gerald's hand. 
 
 It was from Sidney, to say that he was not
 
 166 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 coming back, and would write by post. That was 
 all. Gerald went on to his room, threw himself 
 into a chair, and ruminated. 
 
 Should he remain where he was any longer? 
 If not, whither should he go ? 
 
 First of all, it behoved him to consider the 
 state of his finances, and for that purpose he rose 
 up and felt in his travelling bag for the pocket- 
 book which he had carefully put in one corner of it, 
 before starting from town. It contained the greater 
 part of the sum that remained to him, as also 
 letters of introduction and memoranda with regard 
 to his projected movements which he thought it 
 would be as well to consult. But the pocket-book 
 was not there. He looked round the room, on the 
 tables, everywhere for it. He must have removed 
 it from the bag, and put it somewhere else, 
 although he did not remember having done so. 
 
 Suddenly, it flashed across him, that he had 
 left it behind in London, in his room at Duke 
 Street. He was certain of it, and did not exactly 
 bless himself for his stupidity. He recollected 
 now, perfectly, taking it from the bag just before 
 starting on the evening he left, and giving his 
 landlady a five pound note out of it. Something 
 had called him out of the room immediately after, 
 and he had thrown the pocket-book into an open 
 drawer which stood close at hand. He must have 
 forgotten to take it out again, and had come away
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 167 
 
 without it, tliinking all the time that it was safe 
 in his bag. 
 
 Well, one thing was quite clear. He could go 
 nowhere without money. He must get hold of 
 the pocket-book again at once, and for that pur- 
 pose he would return to England by the very next 
 boat. 
 
 Having come to this conclusion, he jumped up, 
 crammed a few things into a small portmanteau, 
 rang the bell, and gave orders for it to be carried 
 down to the pier. 
 
 " I am going to England by the mid-day boat," 
 he said to the astonished waiter, " but I shall 
 take nothing else with me. My other things will 
 remain here, I shall probably return to-morrow." 
 
 Sending for his bill, he paid it, requested them 
 to keep his room for him uutil his return, and 
 then followed by a porter carrying his portman- 
 teau, he hurried down to the steamer. 
 
 The train from Paris had not yet come in, but 
 passengers from Brussels and elsewhere were has- 
 tening from the station to the boat. Gerald pro- 
 ceeded to establish himself comfortably on deck, 
 and found amusement during the next half hour 
 in watching the people about him. At length the 
 sudden rush from the Railway Terminus which 
 always announces the arrival of the Paris Express, 
 took place, and soon after they moved out of the 
 harbour. 
 
 Gerald thought how astonished his cousin Mar-
 
 168 Gerald's ordeal, 
 
 garet and his brother Ferdinand would be, to say 
 nothing of Sidney Graham who had left him only 
 the day before, on the other side of the channel, 
 if they knew that he was at that moment steaming 
 across it again, in the direction of England. But 
 he could not regret the oversight, provoking as it 
 was, which thus compelled him to retrace his 
 steps in a homeward direction. 
 
 The weather was lovely, and his spirits rose in 
 proportion as they neared the opposite coast. He 
 intended to return abroad again the moment he 
 had repossessed himself of the missing pocket- 
 book, but it was pleasant to tread English ground 
 once more, even for so short a time. 
 
 When they got to Dover, most of the passengers 
 made a rush for the express train, which was on 
 the point of starting for town, but Gerald walked 
 slowly to the station, knowing that he should have 
 some time to wait there. 
 
 Before leaving Calais he had determined to stop 
 at Hillsborough on his way, and either sleep there 
 or go on to London later the same evening. 
 Hillsborough was about ten miles from Went- 
 more, and as it was not much out of his way, he 
 thought he might indulge himself with a visit to 
 a place he knew so well, and which would bring 
 him within a certain distance of the dear ones at 
 Lome. 
 
 Gerald's feeling about his mother, and sister, 
 and his home altogether, was a peculiar one. He
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 169 
 
 loYed his fond and tender mother, with a love 
 approaching to adoration, and his affection for 
 Blanche was equally strong in its way. Upon 
 those two dear ones, to say nothing of his father 
 and Ferdinand, he had, hy his own dehberate act 
 and deed, brought sorrow and suffering, and the 
 thought made him wretched. He longed to be 
 with them, to comfort and soothe them, to assure 
 them again and again how utterly unchanged was 
 his love, how even greater, if possible, it was than 
 before. There was nothing he would not do to 
 console them, save abandoning that faith, the 
 acquisition of which had cost him so dear. 
 
 And he was not able to see them, — to say one 
 word, or give one proof of his unchangeable devo- 
 tion. 
 
 The waiting room of the South Eastern Termi- 
 nus at Dover, is not the most cheerful place in 
 the world in which to pass one's time, but Gerald 
 stretched himself on a sofa, with a couple of news- 
 papers he had bought at the book stall, and made 
 the best of it under the circumstances. Having 
 scanned the *' Times," and made himself ac- 
 quainted with the London news, such as it was, 
 he took up the other paper, which happened to be 
 a local one, and ran his eye over it. He was just 
 about to fling it down, as destitute of interest, 
 when he caught sight of the following paragi-aph : 
 
 *' We understand that Mr. Gerald Stewart Len- 
 nox, the eldest son of the Eector of Wentmore,
 
 170 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 and Lady Frances Lennox, lias lately been re- 
 ceived into the Church of Rome. This young 
 gentleman, it will be remembered, became pos- 
 sessed of a considerable property on the death of 
 his godfather, the late Sir Gerald Newcome, not 
 long since. The priests have therefore secured a 
 prize, which is the more to be regretted, as the 
 generous hberality of their convert is well known, 
 and we lament that they should obtain the hand- 
 ling of another large fortune." 
 
 With an exclamation of anger, Gerald started 
 from his seat, and threw the offending paper from 
 him. '' What vile trash ! what abominable false- 
 hoods ! who on earth can have taken the trouble 
 to invent such lies ?" he cried, with such vehe- 
 mence, that a little girl who was the only other 
 occupant of the waiting room, and who had been 
 gazing at him from a respectful distance, uttered 
 an exclamation of alarm. Gerald turned round 
 and laughed, and the little girl laughed too. 
 
 " Did I frighten you ?" asked Gerald, apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 *' Yes sir, you did for a minute," said the little 
 girl, *' but I'm not frightened now;" and she 
 laughed again. 
 
 Gerald said he hoped not; and gathering up 
 his papers and other things, he went into the 
 Booking Office to get his ticket. The violent 
 utterance of his indignation had relieved him, and 
 the laugh in which he had joined with the little
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 171 
 
 girl, liad restored his good humour. He still felt 
 annoyed at the publicity given to his conversion 
 by this abominable local print. *' But I am not 
 likely to meet anyone I know, so that it does not 
 much signify," he thought, as he took his seat in 
 the train a few minutes later, " and if I do, it 
 does not follow that they will have seen this stupid 
 paper." 
 
 "Lennox, is that you?" said a voice from the 
 other end of the carriage. " This is an un- 
 expected pleasure. How are you, my dear fel- 
 low ?" 
 
 Gerald looked up in dismay, and recognized the 
 curate of a neighbouring parish to Wentmore, with 
 whom at one time he had cultivated an intimacy, 
 but of whom he had seen very little of late. He 
 was not exactly overjoyed at meeting him again 
 now, but concealing that fact as well as he could, 
 he grasped the hand which was extended towards 
 him, and enquired how the other had been "get- 
 ting on," ever since they had last met. The work 
 of Church Eestoration was proceeding in Mr. 
 Hayward's parish, and the description of all the 
 improvements actual and projected, occupied some 
 time, during which Gerald played the part of an 
 apparently interested listener. Presently, Mr. 
 Hay ward interrupted himself to enquire, " Have 
 you been staying down here at all ? Have you 
 seen anything of my friend Stonegate, who has
 
 172 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 been doing liis cliurcli most splendidly at that 
 place of his in Sussex?" 
 
 '*No. I have not been staying at Dover," 
 answered Gerald, " I have just come over from 
 Calais this afternoon by the boat." 
 
 *' Oh ! indeed. You've been abroad then ?" 
 
 " Yes, for a short time," was the hasty reply. 
 Gerald did not think it necessary to specify for 
 how short a time, and immediately returned to 
 the subject of Mr. Hay ward's church. 
 
 ** Are there any stained glass windows put in 
 yet ?" he asked. 
 
 ** Two very fine ones," answered Mr. Hay ward, 
 eagerly. *' I should like you and your brother to 
 see them. We are to have a grand opening soon, 
 and I hope you will both be able to come over. 
 We shall have choral service, and a procession and 
 coloured stoles, and everything firstrate, — quite in 
 your style, you know, so you really must come !" 
 
 Gerald coloured up and looked embarrassed for 
 a moment. Then with a little hesitation, he said, 
 
 *'I daresay my brother will be very happy to 
 come over, if he is at Wentmore, but as regards 
 myself, I fear that your ceremonial will scarcely 
 be in my style after all ! You are not aware, 
 perhaps, that I have become a Catholic ?" 
 
 *'A Catholic! a Roman Catholic you mean? 
 You don't say so. I beg your pardon, but I am 
 very much astonished." 
 
 Gerald however assured him that such was the
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 173 
 
 case. ** I almost wonder that you have not lieard 
 it before," lie said, "especially as the county 
 paper has got hold of it, and a nice story they 
 have concocted on the subject." Then taking the 
 paper out of his pocket, he gave it to Mr. Hay- 
 ward, pointing out the paragraph which had so 
 greatly excited his indignation as he did so. 
 
 *' I am glad to have this opportunity of assuring 
 you how utterly false all that statement is about 
 the Newcome property," he added, " I became 
 possessed of it only on the distinct understanding 
 that if I ' became a Catholic' I was to lose every 
 penny of it, and it has, in fact, all gone to my 
 brother Ferdinand, who will no doubt make a 
 much better use of it than I have done." 
 
 Mr. Hayward read the announcement in the 
 paper, and still seemed as if he could scarcely 
 believe it. 
 
 " Thank you for telling me that," he said, 
 handing back the paper, " as now I can contradict 
 the statement if I hear it repeated, — but I really 
 am so astonished. You must forgive me, but if 
 anyone had asked me, I should have said from 
 what I knew of you, that you were the last man 
 likely to become a Romanist." 
 
 *' I think myself, if anyone had asked me some 
 months ago, if I was going to submit to the 
 Roman Catholic Church, I should have indig- 
 nantly denied the possibility of such a thing," 
 answered Gerald with a smile. " It only shews,"
 
 n4i Gerald's ordi vl. 
 
 he added gravely, *' that there is hope for all, since 
 the grace of conversion has heen accorded to one 
 so unworthy as myself." 
 
 Mr. Hayward murmured something about Ger- 
 ald's well-known excellence which was rather con- 
 fused, and the stoppage of the train at a station 
 helped to change the subject. Soon after, Gerald 
 got out himself at the Junction for Hillsborough. 
 Taking a cordial leave of his companion, he ex- 
 pressed a hope that they might meet again before 
 long. 
 
 " I am not going back to Frodsham for a week 
 or two," said Mr. Hayward, " as my vicar has 
 given me leave of absence, but I shall certainly 
 come over to Wentmore when I do." 
 
 For the next half hour, Gerald had to wait at 
 the Junction Station. It was getting dark, it was 
 cold, and the fire in the unluxurious waiting room 
 refused to burn, of course. Some half dozen other 
 people also bound for Hillsborough, were loitering 
 about. One of these, a homely looking farmer, 
 tumbled across Gerald's portmanteau which was 
 standing near him, begged his pardon very earn- 
 estly, and took advantage of the circumstance to 
 enter into conversation. He soon ascertained that 
 Gerald was acquainted with the neighbourhood, 
 and put one or two leading questions, with a view 
 to finding out who he was. This, however, he* 
 did riot succeed in doing, although Gerald could 
 jibi help smiling at his attempts. The state oP
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 175 
 
 the hops that year, the way in which some had 
 answered and others had failed, was a safe and 
 interesting topic, and to this Gerald mainly con- 
 fined his remarks. When the train for Hills- 
 borough started, he got into the same can-iage 
 with his friend, but the latter was now accom- 
 panied by two daughters, neither of whom were 
 very young, or very fair, and who had hitherto 
 maintained a jealous guard over the bad fire in 
 the waiting room. The worthy farmer, however, 
 evidently considered that Gerald's acquaintance 
 was not one to be encouraged under these circum- 
 stances. It was all very well for him to talk to 
 young gentlemen with regular features, curling 
 moustaches, and dissolute habits (for, of course, 
 the three attributes naturally went together) when 
 alone, but when he was in charge of his gentle 
 and timid ofispring, it was another thing alto- 
 gether. This he took care that Gerald should 
 understand, and accordingly, having been snubbed 
 once or twice after venturing to make some remark 
 to the old gentleman, Gerald relapsed into silence. 
 Leaning back in his own comer, he began to 
 ask himself what he should do when he got to 
 Hillsborough. There was no one there he wanted 
 to see, nowhere he wanted to go. What clearly lay 
 before him, was to go on to London and back to 
 Calais again as soon as possible. He was at that 
 moment as near to Wentmore as he could be with- 
 out leaving the line of rail, and this he was
 
 176 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 resolved not to do. The result of his cogitations 
 was, that he determined to go on to London that 
 same night by a later train, and having secured 
 the missing pocket-book, he would take the mail 
 express to Dover in the morning, and return to 
 Calais. 
 
 He had scarcely come to this conclusion, when 
 half-a-dozen loud-voiced porters announced the 
 arrival of the train at Hillsborough. 
 
 Gerald alighted on the platform, and began to 
 think he had done a foolish thing in coming there 
 at all. He found that another train left for Lon- 
 don in an hour's time, but in the meanwhile what 
 should he do with himself ? It was dreary work 
 waiting at the station, so leaving his portmanteau 
 in the cloak room, he strolled out of the station, 
 and took the turning beyond it which led in the 
 direction of the Wentmore road. It was quite 
 dark, but for some way the path was lighted by 
 lamps placed at intervals, for the benefit of the 
 dwellers in the suburban villas scattered on either 
 side of the way. The cold air which blew against 
 his cheek was delightful, for it blew straight, he 
 felt, from Wentmore. He was now walking quietly 
 and leisurely along, where that very day the home 
 party might have been, for all he knew to the con- 
 trary, as they often drove as far as Hillsborough 
 to shop. On and on he walked, telling himself 
 that each step brought him nearer and nearer to 
 those dear ones. It was something to feel that he,
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 177 
 
 could be with them that veiy evening if he chose. 
 ** How astonished Mrs. Gregory would be if I was 
 to walk in upon them, just as they were having 
 Bupper," he thought, smiling to himself. Taking 
 out his watch, he found that it was time for him 
 to return to the station. He had ten minutes 
 to spare when he reached it, and after getting hig 
 ticket, he walked up and down the platform to 
 beguile the time. 
 
 As he did so, he noticed that each time he 
 passed a bench placed against the wall, on which 
 some intending travellers were seated, a man 
 looked up and seemed to watch him as he walked 
 by. Presently, he stopped short at the book stall, 
 and took up a book which attracted his attention. 
 
 " What is the price of this ?" he asked of the 
 boy in charge. 
 
 The lad looked at the book before answering. 
 
 Just then, Gerald perceived that the man he 
 had observed sitting on the bench, was standing 
 beside him. He looked round at him, and felt 
 Bure that he had seen his face before, although it 
 had been too dark in the corner where the bench 
 stood, for him to have distinguished his features 
 when he sat there. 
 
 **I beg your pardon, Mr. Gerald," said the 
 man, smiling, and touching his hat, "but I was 
 , certain it was you, sir. I hope you are quite well, 
 sir ? and all the family ?" 
 
 Gerald instantly recognized the voice as that ol 
 
 12
 
 178 GERALD S OEDEAL. 
 
 an old servant of his father's, who had lived at 
 Wentmore as coachman, and having married one 
 of the housemaids, had gone to settle down at 
 Hillsborough in some small line of business, 
 
 **Is that you, Rogers ?" he cried, shaking him 
 by the hand. *' I thought I knew your voice. 
 How are you ? and how is Mrs. Rogers ? I did 
 not expect to see you here." 
 
 " Quite well, thank you, sir," answered the 
 man, grinning with delight. " She is here, sir, 
 but did not like to make so bold as to come for- 
 ward, but I said if it was you, I knew you would 
 be glad to see us, and that I should take the 
 liberty of speaking if she didn't. I will go and 
 fetch her, sir.'* 
 
 " Do so," said Gerald ; '^ and make haste as we 
 haven't much time to spare." 
 
 Then paying the boy for the book, he put it in 
 his pocket, and walked towards the carriage in 
 which he had already placed his wraps. Mr. 
 Rogers and his wife came bustling up as he stood 
 waiting for them by the door, and during the 
 minute or two that elapsed before the final signal 
 for starting was given, he had to give repeated 
 assurances of the well doing of all at the Rectory, 
 and in return was informed that they were " That 
 pleased they had chanced to be at the station 
 that night, having come to see a friend off who 
 was going by the same train. And if Mr. Gerald 
 was going to Wentmore, would he be so good as
 
 GERALD S OHDEAL. 179 
 
 to give tlieir duty and respects, and remember 
 them to Mrs. Statliam, and — " 
 
 The guard cut short the number of messages 
 Mr. Gerald was to take to all their Wentmore 
 friends from the worthy pair, and that young gen- 
 tleman had to jump into his carriage hurriedly, 
 the train being almost on the move as he did so. 
 Leaning out of the window, he waved his hand to 
 his humble friends who stood bowing and smiling 
 on the platform, and then as the train passed be- 
 neath an archway, and hid them from sight, he 
 threw himself back on the seat, and reflected 
 rather bitterly on the length of time that was 
 likely to elapse before he took any messages him- 
 self to Wentmore. "How little they know," he 
 thought, " how amazed and petrified they would 
 be if anyone told them that Mr. Gerald had turned 
 * Koman,' and no longer went to the dear old 
 church with the rest of the family, and at that 
 moment was not even allowed to go near them at 
 all ! Ha, well, they will know it, and so will 
 everyone else in time, and it does not much signify 
 what they think, poor things." 
 
 Whether something had gone wi'ong, or had 
 been forgotten, or what it was, he did not know ; 
 but just then the train slackened its pace, finally 
 stopped, and then pushed back into the station 
 from which it had so lately emerged. They were 
 not delayed there more than two minutes, and 
 then started again, but Gerald had time to observe
 
 180 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Eogers were still standing 
 where he had left them, and that they had heen 
 joined by a third person, a tradesman, Gerald 
 imagined by his appearance, who held a newspaper 
 in his hand, and was gesticulating vehemently, 
 pointing to the carriage where he sat, and strik- 
 ing the paper he held with his other hand as 
 he did so. Gerald caught sight of the scared look 
 on the faces of the honest couple, and it flashed 
 across him in a moment, that by means of that 
 newspaper they had become acquainted with his 
 conversion. Doubtless, in talking to this other 
 man, whoever he was, (probably some neighbour 
 or acquaintance in the town who had joined thena 
 after the departure of the train,) Eogers had men- 
 tioned their late encounter with himself, and the 
 other hearing his name, had naturally alluded to 
 the paragraph in that abominable paper, and called 
 their attention to it. 
 
 He understood it all ; the virtuous indignation of 
 the Protestant tradesman, the stupefaction and dis- 
 may of the warm-hearted Eogers and his wife. He 
 could almost imagine he heard their astonished 
 remonstrances and suggestions as to there being 
 some mistake, as to the possibility of its being 
 some other Mr. Lennox, whom the newspaper 
 people had confounded with the Wentmore family, 
 and he comprehended perfectly the gesture of their 
 informant as he pointed to the train, and assured 
 them it was certainly himself.
 
 geuald's ordeal. 181 
 
 But tliey were again speeding on their way, and 
 as the lights faded in the distance, other thoughts 
 took possession of him, and he ceased to trouble 
 himself about the newspaper paragraph, and whe- 
 ther people believed it or whether they did not. 
 Each station they passed served to call some 
 familiar spot to mind. Each one was more or 
 less within reach of Wentmore, and when the 
 train moved on after waiting a few minutes at one 
 of the nearest, he got up, and leaning out of the 
 window into the darkness, said, " Goodbye, good- 
 bye," as though they could hear him ten miles off, 
 and as if he had been taking leave of his old life, 
 its scenes and all connected with it for ever. Then 
 he threw himself on the seat again, closed his eyes 
 and tried to sleep. But it was of no use. He 
 could do nothing but think. 
 
 It suddenly occurred to him that the next day 
 "w-as All Souls' ; his first All Souls' Day as a 
 Catholic, and the solemn Office for the Dead had 
 been sung in all the churches that very night, 
 succeeding the jubilant Vespers of All Saints, ere 
 the sound of the latter had ceased to fall upon the 
 ear. And he was passing the hours on the rail- 
 way, instead of joining in the services of the 
 Church ! 
 
 Nevertheless, if he was not with his co-religion- 
 ists in body, he could unite with them in spirit, 
 and he felt in his pocket for a small prayer-book 
 he carried about with him, and which contained
 
 182 GiJRALD's ORDEAL. 
 
 sundry prayers for the dead. He thought it was 
 in the pocket of the coat he had on, but he could 
 not find it. Then, taking up an overcoat which 
 he had brought with him, but which he seldom 
 wore, he examined it to see if by any chance he 
 had slipped the book in there instead. Yes, he 
 felt something about that size low down in the 
 breast-pocket of this overcoat. He pulled it out, 
 held it up towards the lamp which lighted the 
 carriage, and uttered an exclamation of surprise ! 
 It was not his prayer-book, (which he saw the 
 next moment lying on the seat beside him,) but 
 it teas his lost pocket-hook. The very one in 
 search of which he had come all the way from 
 Calais, and was now speeding up to London ! 
 
 He saw it all in a moment. That was the coat 
 he had on when he started from town two days 
 before, he had never worn it since, and had never 
 thought of searching in it for the missing article. 
 No doubt he had taken the pocket-book out of the 
 drawer into which he had thrown it just before 
 his departure, and then dropped it into this pocket, 
 where it had been ever since. If he had only 
 examined this coat a little sooner, he might have 
 spared himself all the extra expense and trouble 
 of this journey, but after all, he did not much 
 regret it, for he had enjoyed it on the whole, and 
 if it had not been for the lost pocket-book, he 
 would not have had an excuse for making it. So, 
 glancing over its contents to see that all was as it
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 183 
 
 sliould be, lie placed it safely under lock and key 
 in his travelling bag, and rather congratulated 
 himself on not having found it sooner. Of course 
 there was now no occasion for his going to his 
 lodgings at the West End. He would get a bed 
 at the nearest hotel on his arrival at London 
 Bridge, and return to Dover as he had already 
 determined, by the mail train in the morning. 
 
 It seemed almost impossible to believe, when 
 the noise and bustle and glare of the London 
 Bridge Station announced their arrival, that he 
 had only left that same London two days before. 
 He felt as if he had been travelling about for ages, 
 and as if he was scarcely the same Gerald Lennox 
 who had started from the West End on the Tues- 
 day evening before (this was Thursday) by the 
 mail train for Dover, with no idea of re-visiting 
 the smoky English capital for at least some 
 months to come. As he was to depart so early 
 in the morning again, he told a porter to follow 
 him with his portmanteau to the Terminus Hotel 
 close by, and proceeded at once to engage a room 
 there, and to get something to eat. He was tired, 
 and did not care to go further than was necessary 
 in search of such accommodation as he needed, 
 and as he had often heard the hotel well spoken 
 of, he thought this was a good opportunity for 
 testing its qualifications. 
 
 . The young lady who " kept the books" and pre- 
 sided at the mysterious looking window, just inside
 
 184 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 the principal entrance, desired a waiter to carry 
 the gentleman's luggage to No. 67, and Gerald 
 proceeded to follow it upstairs. 
 
 He had not gone many yards, however, when 
 the young lady called him back. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but what name shall I 
 say?" 
 
 He stopped and hesitated a moment. Some- 
 thing possessed him not to give his real name. 
 
 *' Stewart," he said, "Mr. Stewart;" and went 
 on up the stairs to his room. 
 
 After all, Stewart was his name, at least, it was 
 one of his names, and what did it signify what 
 name she stuck down in her book ? 
 
 How much it signified he little knew ; or what 
 important results were to flow in the future, from 
 this little fancy of his ! 
 
 The young lady did not catch the name. She 
 again repeated her query. 
 
 " Steivart;^^ shouted the waiter, who was carry- 
 ing the portmanteau, answering on Gerald's behalf. 
 
 Gerald coloured up involuntarily, and smiled to 
 himself as he went forward to take possession of 
 number Sixty- Seven. 
 
 Presently, he descended to the coffee-room, but 
 did not linger long over his repast there, and feel- 
 ing very tired, was glad to get to bed. His room 
 was on the side furthest from the station, and he 
 was less disturbed by noise than he would other- 
 wise have been.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 185 
 
 It seemed still tlie middle of the night, Tvlien 
 tlie waiter, thundering at his door, woke him, and 
 told him it was six o'clock, the time he had desired 
 to he called. 
 
 An hour or so later, the train was bearing him 
 at express speed once more towards the channel. 
 When they were fairly among the fields and hedge- 
 rows again, Gerald let down the window, and as 
 he looked out over the bright smiling prospect, he 
 could not help thinking with a sigh, of how long 
 it might be before he should see that fair English 
 landscape again ! 
 
 Immediately on landing at Calais, he hurried 
 to Dessin's. In answer to his enquiries, he was 
 told that there was a letter for him, which a waiter 
 hastened to produce. 
 
 It was in Sidney's hand- writing. He tore it 
 open. 
 
 '* I am off to Scotland, the old General is ill," 
 Sidney wrote, *' and the governor will have it that 
 I go down to him. R. and F. knew I shouldn't 
 come if they told me for what I was wanted, so 
 they got me over in the rascally way they did. 
 Send my traps back to Jermyn Street, and tell me 
 where to write to you. Yours ever, Sid." 
 
 The *'old General" was a cousin of Sidney's 
 father, and the head of their family. Gerald 
 knew that his uncle entertained expectations in 
 that quarter, and understood his anxiety that his 
 eon should be with the old man if he was ill and
 
 186 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 wished for him, and he thought Messrs. Eohertson 
 and Finch had shewn their discretion in sending 
 for the young gentleman as they had done. 
 
 Ringing the bell, Gerald announced his own 
 intention of leaving that night by the train for 
 Brussels, and gave the necessary directions for 
 forwarding Sidney's luggage. Then lighting a 
 cigar, he strolled out into the town, and spent the 
 rest of the day in wandering about by the water 
 side, and visiting the old parish church. " C'est 
 %in Monsieur Anglais, qui est si devot,'^ the old 
 women said to each other with wondering admira- 
 tion, as they followed him with their eyes when 
 he left his chair and walked towards the church 
 door after the evening Salut was over, and their 
 admiration increased on hearing him drop a liberal 
 alms into the poor-box as he passed out of the 
 porch. " Prions nous le hon Dieu pour luiy 
 
 That was the last they saw of Gerald. He 
 spent the rest of the evening reading over the fire 
 in his room, and soon after midnight started by 
 train for Brussels.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 187 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 Gerald's reminiscences of the Belgian capital 
 were vague. He had been there once before with 
 his father and mother, when he was ten years old, 
 and still retained a dim recollection of the long 
 narrow street leading into the old town from the 
 Place Royale, as also of one or two ancient gothic 
 churches, which at the time had been decorated 
 with evergreens and flowers for some religious 
 Fete, and had therefore impressed themselves 
 upon his childish memory. But now, when he 
 looked out of the window, as he was slowly drag- 
 ged up the hill from the Station du Nord towards 
 the Boulevards, in a one horse viy'dante, the 
 aspect of the place in the cold gi*ey of a November 
 morning, did not strike him as inviting. As far 
 as he could be said to have formed any plans at 
 all, he had decided upon remaining at Brussels 
 during the cold weather. He wished to live as 
 economically as possible, and was still resolute in
 
 188 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 his purpose of seeking employment at one of the 
 colleges if he could hear of an opening, which was 
 likely to suit him. Father Clifford had given him 
 an introduction to the Abbe Beaufort, a friend of 
 liis, who lived in the Quartier Louise, and also a 
 letter to the Superior of the Jesuits in the Rue 
 Royale. He knew there were one or two English 
 families whose acquaintance he could easily make 
 if he chose, but he did not care much about Eng- 
 lish society abroad ; he wanted to know a few good 
 Belgian Catholics, and he hoped to get introduced 
 to some of these through his clerical friends. But 
 the grand attractions of Brussels were the churches 
 and the services, above all, that glorious St. 
 Grudule, of which he had heard so much and so 
 often. He longed to find himself worshipping 
 within its walls, and he determined as soon as he 
 had settled himself and had some breakfast, that 
 he would sally forth and have a good exploring 
 ramble about the town. He intended to engage 
 lodgings, if he could find any cheap ones, in a 
 good situation, and meanwhile had desired the 
 driver to take him to a private English Hotel, to 
 which he had been recommended in the Kue de 
 Trone. 
 
 The day proved itself clear and fine, and Gerald 
 set off on his reconnoitering expedition some two 
 hours after his arrival, with a lighter feeling at his 
 heart than he had experienced for some time. 
 Before leaving his room at the private hotel, where
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 189 
 
 he had established himself for the moment very 
 comfortably, he had written three letters for the 
 English post, one to Ferdinand, one to his cousin 
 Lady Margaret, and one to his cousin Sidney. 
 He placed these in his pocket, deciding to put 
 them himself into the box at the Principal Post 
 Office. 
 
 Passing from the Piue de Trone into the Boule- 
 vards, he crossed over into the Kue de Namur, 
 and so descended into the Place Pioyale. This 
 was the only part of the town he entertained any 
 remembrance of, and that was but of a shadowy 
 kind. The steep and narrow Montague de la 
 Cour he recollected di-iving down with Lady 
 Frances in an open carriage, on the occasion of 
 that former visit, to which we have referred, an^i 
 the general aspect of the place appeared to him 
 more or less familiar as he looked about. 
 
 Stopping at the corner of the Place, he turned 
 round to admire the equestrian statue of Godfroi 
 de Bouillon, and the noble facade of the Eghse 
 St. Jacques, to the interior of which he promised 
 himself a visit another time, and then sauntered 
 slowly down the street, pausing to look in at the 
 shop windows from time to time, and noting with 
 a smile what a contrast everything afforded to the 
 turmoil and confusion of the streets of London. 
 There were as many persons walking in the road- 
 way as on the pavement, the entire absence of 
 omnibuses and the comparatively small number of
 
 190 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 vehicles of any description, rendering it quite easy 
 for them to do so. The numbers of well-dressed 
 English people he passed, astonished him at first, 
 but he soon got accustomed to the sight of his 
 compatrlotes, and only wondered if he should meet 
 anyone he knew. The door of the little church of 
 the Madeleine was open as he passed, and he went 
 in to look at it. There was not much to see, but 
 the figure of the Magdalen at the foot of the cross, 
 and the devotional aspect of the place altogether 
 struck him forcibly. After kneeling a few mo- 
 ments before the altar, he walked quietly round 
 the building, and then resumed his ramble. Turn- 
 ing to the left, he presently found himself in the 
 Grande Place, with its mediaeval-looking houses 
 and its magnificent Hotel de Ville which was then 
 undergoing repair. There was the spot where 
 Egmont and Home had been executed, — there was 
 the house in which Margaret of Austria had lived. 
 The place seemed crowded with historical re- 
 miniscences, and Gerald felt an admiration akin 
 to awe as he walked slowly round it. Continuing 
 his way down the Eue de la Montague towards 
 the Post Office, he at last arrived in front of St. 
 Gudule, and then standing in the outer vestibule 
 of a house, exactly opposite the grand western 
 entrance, he remained with his arms folded, lite- 
 rally lost in amazement and delight. The midday 
 Angelus had already rung out, and so for some 
 little time the church was closed, but he was in-
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 191 
 
 formed by a civil shopwoman on whose domain lie 
 was trespassing, tliat there was Benediction at 
 five o'clock, and he determined to attend the ser- 
 vice when he would hear the singing and see the 
 interior, both of which he was irnpatient to do, at 
 the same time. 
 
 The Post Office was close by, and having de- 
 posited his letters, he found his way to the Park, 
 and walked up and down its broad avenues for 
 some time, regretting that he had not seen them 
 in all the luxuriance of their summer foliage. 
 Then feeling hungry, he turned into a restaurant 
 and got some luncheon, after which he bethought 
 himself of his note of introduction to M. I'Abbe 
 Beaufort, and set off to deliver it; 
 
 The Boulevard de Waterloo (which was the 
 address on the note,) he had no difficulty in find- 
 ing, and upon enquiry at the number indicated, 
 he was informed that M. I'Abbe was not at home, 
 but was expected in shortly, by the damsel who 
 opened the door. Gerald left the note and said, 
 he would call again presently. Meanwhile, he 
 proceeded to take a turn up and down the Boule- 
 vard. 
 
 Nearly opposite the Abbe's house was a large 
 and imposing-looking structure, which a passer- 
 by informed him was the Church of the Carmehte 
 Fathers, who had a monastery close by. As 
 usual in Catholic countries, the door of the sacred 
 building was open, and Gerald ascending the
 
 192 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 steps which led to it, passed in at the side en- 
 trance. 
 
 It was a large, and as regarded detail, un- 
 finished-looking edifice, but he observed in this, 
 as in other churches connected with the Koligious 
 Orders, wherever he met with them, a nicety and 
 seemliness about all the arrangements, the absence 
 . of which often struck him painfully, in what might 
 be called the " secular" churches. There were 
 only three altars, and these of the simplest kind. 
 The high altar was ornamented by six massive 
 brass candlesticks, and a large crucifix surmounted 
 the tabernacle in the centre. The two side altaifs 
 were in honour of our Lady of Mount Carmel, and 
 of the Sacred Heart respectively. A handsome 
 image of St. Joseph was placed on one side of the 
 sanctuary, and others of St. Teresa, St. Anne, and 
 St. John of the Cross, stood in various parts of 
 the building. The pulpit was a small and evi- 
 dently temporary wooden one, the confessionals 
 were also of wood and of the plainest kind. 
 
 Gerald took in .all these features of a spot which 
 was afterwards to become equally familiar and 
 dear to him, at a glance. A small notice board 
 affixed to the north wall, presently attracted his 
 attention. It was close to a bell, and notified how 
 many times persons needing a confessor should 
 pull the same to signify which of the fathers was 
 wanted. It appeared that some heard confession s 
 in French and German, others in Flemish only.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 193 
 
 others in all three languages. But what instantly 
 caught Gerald's eye, was the information in Eng- 
 lish, that anyone requiring an English confessor 
 •was to pull the bell three times, which would sum- 
 mon the Rev. Father Anselm who received confes- 
 sions in that tongue. He was reading this with 
 interest, and was about to pull the bell accordingly, 
 when some one close by, said to him in a low 
 voice, "You are English ?" and turning, he be- 
 held one of the Fathers standing beside him, and 
 watching him with a kindly smile. 
 
 "I am;" answered Gerald, in the same low 
 tone, " and you are Father Anselm ?" 
 
 The monk bowed in acquiescence. 
 
 " Will you hear my confession, father ?" 
 
 " My confessional is on the other side of the 
 church. Monsieur. If you will place yourself 
 there, I will be with you directly." 
 
 Then bowing once more gi*avely, and folding his 
 arms below his brown scapular, the father passed 
 on through the gate of the low sanctuary rail, and 
 through a door beyond which led into the sacristy. 
 
 Gerald had not to wait long in the confessional, 
 which he soon found on the south side of the 
 church, and when his confession was over, he 
 asked what time Father Anselm was most at 
 liberty, and could best see him if he called at 
 the monastery. 
 
 " Between twelve and one, my son," answered 
 the monk, " but I shall be most happy to sto 
 
 13
 
 194 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 you at any time. Do you remain long in Brus- 
 sels?" 
 
 ''I am uncertain at present, father," said Ger- 
 ald, ''but shall most likely do so until the spring." 
 Then desiring his prayers and again thanking him, 
 Gerald rose and left the church. 
 
 As he walked back towards the Abbe Beaufort's, 
 he felt as if he knew for the first time what it was 
 to be a Catholic. Here he was in a foreign city, 
 a perfect stranger, only just arrived, and he had 
 found a friend and father already, in this church 
 which he had entered by mere accident, owing 
 simply to the fact of his being at one with the 
 Catholic Church throughout the world, and en- 
 titled to a share in all its privileges and blessings. 
 *' Oh !" he thought, " who would not be a Catho- 
 lic, if they only knew how incalculable was tho 
 gain !" 
 
 This time the Abbe Beaufort was at home, 
 and Gerald was shewn into a parlour on the 
 ground floor where two gentlemen were sitting, 
 one of whom a little man, who by his ecclesiastical 
 attire, Gerald perceived was the Abbe, rose imme- 
 diately on his entrance, and advanced towards 
 him. 
 
 " Meester Lennox, I am vera glad to see you," 
 he said, holding out his hand. " I hope, sare, 
 you arre quite well. Let me introduce you to our 
 good friend, Meester Fitzroy, who was just doing 
 me the pleasure of a veesit.'*
 
 Gerald's ohdeal. 195 
 
 The other gentleman arose and bowed, and 
 Gerald soon found himself engaged in pleasant 
 conversation with the two, Mr. Fitzroy was a 
 tall, fine-looking Englishman, about fifly-five or 
 fifty-six years of age. He was delighted to make 
 Gerald's acquaintance ; he knew his name very 
 •well, and had been in the same regiment with his 
 uncle. Captain Lennox, in former years. He was 
 himself a resident in Brussels, and if Gerald 
 needed a cicerone, he should be only too happy 
 to shew him anything there was to be seen, etc., 
 etc. 
 
 Gerald was extremely obliged, and assured him 
 he would with pleasure accept his kind ofi'er, but 
 what he wanted particularly to know, he said, was 
 about the churches and services, which were the 
 best worth seeing and attending, and this he had 
 no doubt M. I'Abbe would be good enough to put 
 him up to. 
 
 *' Ste. Gudule, of course, he had seen ?" the 
 Abbe hastened to enquire with empressement, 
 " No ? that, then, was the firrst thing ! And the 
 singing — you will be deelighted, mon cherf Thees 
 is Saturday. There is Salut at five o'clock. Ah ! 
 you know that ? You should on no account mees 
 it. Some of the old churches -were vera fine, but 
 the Revolution, ah ! la Revolution ! that destroyed 
 so much ! Notre Dame de Sablon, was one of 
 the oldest, and they were restoring it vera nicely. 
 Did he know M. le Cure ? M. le Cure spoke
 
 196 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 Engleesli, vera good man. Notre Dame de la 
 Chapelle, also vera nice church. The Carmelites 
 opposite. Ah, he had already seen that ? would 
 be nice church, but was nothing at present, only 
 lately built, Fathers were vera poor, but ah good ! 
 BO good ! The Eglise St. Jacques and the Eglise 
 Ste. Marie at each end of the Kue Eoyale, they 
 were worth visiting. The latter was a memorial 
 to the late Queen Louise, a good Catholique, and 
 vera lamented. St. Joseph and St. Boniface in 
 the new part of the town, Meester Lennox must 
 see them, and the new church the Jesuit Fathers 
 were about to open in the Rue Royale near the 
 Jardin Botanique, and the Chapelle Expiatoire in 
 the Rue des Sols, where there was Exposition 
 chaqiiejoursr' 
 
 In this way the good Abbe rattled on, his broken 
 English lending an emphasis to his words, which 
 together with his energetic manner, amused Ger- 
 ald excessively. He thanked him very much, 
 especially for a list of the hours of evening Salut 
 at the different churches where it was sung daily, 
 which the Abbe gave him. Then as Mr. Fitzroy 
 was going the same way, they rose and took leave 
 together. 
 
 As they walked slowly down the Boulevard 
 towards the Rue de Trone, Mr. Fitzroy touched 
 upon the subject of Gerald's conversion, which 
 interested him greatly. It was so astonishing, he 
 said, to think of a Lennox as a Catholic. He
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 197 
 
 remembered once wlien staying witli his uncle 
 Geoffrey, seeing old Mr. Lennox, Gerald's gi-and- 
 fatlier, who was a Tory of tlie old school, and 
 looked upon the Pope as a far more objectionable 
 member of society than a cut-throat or pick-pocket 
 would be. 
 
 " But," added Mr. Fitzroy, as they arrived at 
 the door of Gerald's hotel, " one hears of so many 
 conversions now, in the most unexpected quarters, 
 hat nothing ought to astonish one." Then giv- 
 ng Gerald his address, and expressing a hope 
 that they might see a good deal of each other, he 
 shook hands with him and walked away. 
 
 That evening, as Gerald left St. Gudule, when 
 the Salut was over, and took his way slowly home- 
 wards, he felt quite happy. The solemn service 
 in which he had been engaged, the sweet sound of 
 the music which still vibrated in his ears, the 
 beautiful singing which seemed like angels' voices, 
 dying away through the vaulted arches and aisles 
 of the grand old church, elevated and soothed his 
 spirit at the same time, and now that he had 
 formed two or three acquaintances, he no longer 
 felt such a stranger in the place. " If I could 
 only have Ferdinand with me for a little while, I 
 should be perfectly satisfied," he said to him- 
 self. 
 
 But when he sat over his fire that night, before 
 going to bed, having informed the landlord of his 
 intention of departing on the Monday, in order to
 
 198 Gerald's okdeal. 
 
 take possession of some lodgings lie had seen and 
 engaged that afternoon, he remembered the un- 
 satisfactory state of his finances, and a feeHng of 
 melancholy and gloom stole over him. The sum 
 of ready money in his possession, although suffi- 
 cient for his present wants, was sensibly diminish- 
 ing. His late excursion from Calais to London 
 and back, had helped considerably to reduce the 
 amount he had started with, and his prospects alto- 
 gether, at that moment, were not exactly brilliant. 
 
 The Abbe Beaufort had touched upon the sub- 
 ject of the professorship, as they stood at the door 
 for a minute when Gerald was leaving his house, 
 and had given it as his opinion that there was 
 little chance of his being able to meet with any- 
 thing of the kind just at present, but he had pro- 
 mised to enquire and let him know if he heard of 
 anything. His determination not to touch another 
 farthing of Sir Gerald's money, was as firm as 
 ever, but he could not help feeling that this deter- 
 mination was likely to cost him dear, and come 
 what would, he was equally resolved not to ask his 
 father, or Lord Norwood for help, if they did not- 
 volunteer it themselves. Altogether, Gerald Len- 
 nox felt weary and out of spirits, when he laid his 
 head on his pillow at the end of this his first day 
 in Brussels, and very different from what he had 
 done a few hours before, when coming out of St. 
 Gudule. 
 
 But so it had ever been with him. One while.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 199 
 
 buoyed up with hope and gladness, feeling as if 
 his walk through life was to be one of perpetual 
 sunshine, and another, cast down and low, be- 
 cause all had not gone as smoothly with him as 
 he expected. This variableness is the bane of 
 excitable natures ; it may render them more in- 
 teresting in the eyes of others, but it is a veritable 
 misfortune to the sufferers themselves. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and Gerald rose 
 early to attend a Low Mass at the Eedemptorists* 
 Church, which was not far from his hotel. After 
 breakfast, he walked down to St. Jacques for the 
 High Mass which began at ten o'clock ; the sing- 
 ing was good, and he enjoyed the sermon in French 
 by a Capuchin Father, whose name he had heard 
 mentioned as a good preacher. 
 
 In the afternoon, he called upon Mr. Fitzroy, 
 and went with him to St. Gudule for the five 
 o'clock service. Mr. Fitzroy had an engagement 
 which obliged him to take leave of Gerald when, 
 they left the church, and the evening being fine, 
 the latter wandered about the streets for some 
 time before returning home. The numbers of 
 people about, and the utterly un-English look of 
 everything on a Sunday, although he had often 
 been abroad, and noticed the same thing before, 
 served to amuse him and divert his thoughts for 
 a while from the future, the contemplation of 
 which now filled him with melancholy. At eight 
 o'clock he returned home to dinner, after which
 
 200 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 he took up a book and read himself to sleep over 
 the fire. 
 
 Two letters, addressed Posts Restante, were 
 handed to him the next day, when he inquired if 
 there were any for him at the Principal Office. 
 He glanced at the writing. One was from Sidney 
 with a black-edged border. " To announce the 
 old General's death," he said to himself, as he 
 placed it in his pocket, intending to open it more 
 at his leisure. The other was a business one 
 from the look of it. He knew the hand as that 
 of his banker's clerk. " To tell me of some late 
 payment to my account. They might have spared 
 themselves the trouble, or had better have written 
 to Ferdinand. I shall certainly not open that at 
 present," he thought, and slipped it after the other 
 into his breast pocket. 
 
 It was a dull, cold morning, and he had walked . 
 briskly down from the lodgings into which he had . 
 removed immediately after breakfast. His walk, 
 and the excitement of moving into his new quar- 
 ters, had raised his spirits again, and he felt less 
 despondent about the future. For the next hour 
 or so, he perambulated the streets, rendering him- 
 self familiar with the geography of the place, and 
 stopping every now and then before some window 
 •where religious statuary and other ecclesiastical 
 objects were exposed to view, to admire or criticize 
 
 as the case might be. 
 
 : The pictures in the Montagne de la Cour riveted
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 201 
 
 liis attention for a long time, and lie was tempted 
 in to ask the price of several choice engravings, one 
 or two of which he could not resist purchasing. 
 Gerald had always cherished a deep attachment for 
 the memory of Marie Antoinette, and anything 
 connected with her, possessed an in*esistible charm 
 for him. All prudential considerations therefore 
 vanished straightway when the shopman produced 
 from a portfolio, a magnificent full length portrait 
 of the unfortunate Queen, and held it up invitingly 
 before him. He was just turning to leave the 
 shop, but this was sufficient to chain him for at 
 least another ten minutes to the spot. The man 
 urged the merits of the engraving, and the desira- 
 bility of Monsieur, who evidently had a refined 
 taste, securing it at once. They were in such 
 excessive demand that the one or two copies they 
 had left would certainly be gone, if Monsieur did 
 not possess himself of this one at once. Gerald 
 hesitated. 
 
 *' ^Vhat was the price ?" 
 
 " Sixty francs. It was through purely accidental 
 and fortuitous circumstances that they were able 
 to offer them at such a low figure." 
 
 Sixty francs ! Gerald did not like to think 
 what a hole that would make in his purse, but the 
 bait was too tempting. *'Well, I will have it," 
 he said hastily, and the man bowing and smiling, 
 proceeded to place the Marie Antoinette with the 
 other purchases Monsieur had made.
 
 202 geuald's oedeal. 
 
 Gerald then hastily left the shop, having 
 desired the parcel to he sent to his lodgings as 
 soon as possihle. He walked with rapid strides 
 across the Place Koyale, trying to convince him- 
 self that he had not heen dreadfully extravagant, 
 in which endeavour, however, he was not wholly 
 successful. Just as he gained the centre of the 
 Place, his progress was arrested hy a small con- 
 course of persons who were standing, the men 
 with their heads uncovered, and the women in 
 attitudes of devotion, facing the church of St. 
 Jacques. At the same moment, the sound of a 
 tinkling hell met his ear, and down the steps of 
 the sacred edifice he saw a priest descending with 
 the Blessed Sacrament, borne under a canoj^y, 
 and preceded by two boys carrying lighted tapers, 
 whilst a third rang a bell continuously as they 
 advanced. 
 
 It was the Viaticum being carried to some sick 
 person. 
 
 Gerald instantly took off his hat, and then as 
 the Sacred Host approached, reverently bent his 
 knee and remained in a posture of adoration until 
 It had passed. He did not notice whether others 
 did the same, or whether he was rendering him- 
 self in any way conspicuous by the act. Several 
 old men and women of the poorer sort were kneel- 
 ing beside him, and the better dressed part of the 
 community who chanced to be near, stood with 
 their hats removed whilst the little procession
 
 gehald's ordeal. 203 
 
 passed, but some of these as they did so, glanced 
 with surprise at the English-looking gentleman 
 "who was so reverent and devout. 
 
 As Gerald rose and replaced his hat on his 
 Lead, he drew back to allow some ladies who were 
 standing behind him, to pass in a contrary direc- 
 tion to that in which he was going himself. As 
 he did so, he was surprised and annoyed at the 
 gaze of wonder and curiosity they bestowed upon 
 him, as if they considered him something very 
 out-of-the-way and extraordinary indeed. They 
 were unmistakably English, but if he had enter- 
 tained any doubt on the subject, it was removed 
 by hearing one observe to another, before he had 
 time to take more than a step out of their way, 
 *'I am sure he is English, and a Catholic." 
 
 ^\Tiat more was added he did not know, but the 
 colour flew to his foce, and he thought somewhat 
 bitterly to himself, " They are surprised at seeing 
 one of their fellow-countrymen behave like a Chris- 
 tian in a Christian country, I daresay." In another 
 minute he was overtaken by an old beggar-woman, 
 who had had her eye upon him for some time, 
 and evidently considered him a lawful prey. Ger- 
 ald looked at her savagely without stopping, and 
 shook his head. Then, as she said something in 
 an imploring tone, he relented and felt in his 
 pocket for a couple of sous, which he put into her 
 hand, muttering, ^^ Pour Vamour clu Saint Sacre-
 
 20ii Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 merit, *' and then liurried on without waiting for 
 her thanks and benison. 
 
 When he got home, he threw himself into a 
 chair, and his letters upon the table. Then tak- 
 ing up the one from Sidney, he tore it open and 
 read as follows : 
 
 *' St. Andrew's Crescent, 
 
 ''Edinburgh, November 3, 186- 
 
 " My dear Gerald, 
 
 *'I was too late to see the old General 
 alive. "When I got to Stone House, he had been 
 dead some hours. This upset me very much as 
 you may suppose. The old man was always 
 kind to me, although he and my father did not get 
 on very well together. But I have worse news to 
 tell you than this. I had scarcely been there 
 an hour when a messenger arrived from the 
 housekeeper here, to say my father was very ill, 
 and begged me to come to him immediately. 
 They knew I should be at the General's, Robert- 
 son and Finch having sent them word that I had 
 started from London for his place. As there was 
 nothing to detain me there, I left the servants, 
 who were old and attached, in charge, and came 
 here at once. I am sorry to say I found my father 
 very ill, so ill that the doctors give me but little 
 hope of his recovery. He knew me, and seemed 
 pleased to think I had done as he wished, and
 
 gekalb's ordeal. 205 
 
 gone to tlie General's. It appears that tlie old 
 fellow wrote to liira a sort of * make-up' letter 
 when he was first taken ill, and expressed a wish 
 to let hyegones be byegones, and if he could not 
 come to him himself, he hoped the governor would 
 Bend me. My father was not well enough to go 
 himself, and so they telegraphed for me as you 
 know. I am glad I came, as the governor is really 
 very ill, and it would have vexed me to have been 
 in Paris or away from him just now. I can't do 
 much, but he likes me to go and sit with him every 
 now and then, and I take auy little bit of news I 
 am able to pick up in the town to amuse him. 
 How are you, and how are you getting on ? I 
 send this to Poste Restante, Brussels, as the most 
 likely address to find you. Write soon. Your 
 afi'ectionate cousin, 
 
 Sid." 
 
 And then followed a P.S., wi-itten evidently in 
 haste and agitation. 
 
 *' Dear G., I am in gi-eat trouble, my father is 
 dying. Let them know at Wentmore. I am very 
 unhappy. Yours, S." 
 
 Gerald jumped up and paced the room with 
 agitated strides. " Poor fellow ! poor Sid ! How 
 very sad for him !" he exclaimed, and then read 
 the postscript of the letter over again. Leaning 
 against the chimney-piece and gazing into the fire,
 
 206 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 lie repeated to himself, " Poor, poor fellow ! I 
 must write to him directly." 
 
 His eye just then fell on the other letter, which 
 lay on the tahle, and seizing it hastily, he tore off 
 the cover which he threw into the fire, and unfolded 
 the square husiness-like epistle. It was from his 
 London Bankers. He saw that at a glance, and 
 read one or two lines without taking in their 
 meaning, for his thoughts were elsewhere, and he 
 was dwelling mournfully upon his cousin's trouble 
 in Scotland. Suddenly, however, a sentence at 
 which he was gazing in a kind of vacant way, fixed 
 his attention, and he read it a second time with a 
 start. Then beginning the letter again, he perused 
 it attentively through, pausing over some portions 
 of it in order to understand them thoroughly. 
 Then sinking slowly back into his chair, whilst the 
 colour mounted to his brow, he held the letter 
 from him at arm's length, and exclaimed, "What 
 can this mean ?" 
 
 It was indeed a startling communication. He 
 had, only a few hours before, been meditating sor- 
 rowfully upon his pecuniary prospects, and here 
 was a letter from the firm with which during his 
 enjoyment of the Newcome property he had been 
 accustomed to bank, informing him, " That a sum 
 of five thousand pounds had been placed to his 
 account, and that he was at liberty to draw upon 
 them for that amount whenever he pleased, and 
 they were requested to state that this payment
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 207 
 
 had nothing 'whatever to do with the monies 
 hitherto received by them on his behalf from the 
 trustees and executors of the late Sir Gerald New- 
 come. They were instructed by Mr. Ferdinand 
 Lennox to honour any draft he (Mr. Gerald Len- 
 nox) might think fit to present upon that same 
 annual payment of one thousand pounds as hereto- 
 fore, but this lodgment of ^65000 was altogether a 
 separate matter, and in no way connected with the 
 other. The party making the payment wished the 
 donor's name not to appear. Mr. Gerald Lennox 
 must understand that the money was entirely at 
 his disposal, and would remain so, whether he 
 chose to make immediate use of it or not. And 
 they begged to remain, etc., etc., etc." 
 
 Surprise and pleasure were the dominant senti- 
 ments which possessed him as he read and re-read 
 the letter, but another kind of feeling soon stole 
 over him. It was one of pride and dishke at the 
 thought of being placed under such an obhgation 
 by any person unknown to himself. Unless he 
 might be told to whom he was indebted for this 
 timely and generous assistance, he would not avail 
 himself of it, at any rate he would only take what 
 was absolutely necessary and no more. The first 
 thing, of course, was to acknowledge the receipt of 
 the epistle, and after that he would consider what 
 next was to be done. 
 
 Accordingly, he wrote a letter to the Bankers, 
 thanking them for the communication which had
 
 208 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 astonished liim so mucli, begging them, if possi- 
 ble, to give him an idea as to the quarter from 
 whence so unexpected a donation had come, and 
 expressing his reluctance to avail himself of it 
 whilst he remained in ignorance on that point. 
 He then penned a few lines of affectionate sym- 
 pathy to Sidney Graham, and hurried off to the 
 General Post Of&ce in order that he might be in 
 time for the afternoon mail to England. 
 
 That same evening, he wrote to Ferdinand, 
 (from whom the bankers had doubtless obtained 
 a clue as to his whereabouts,) apprising him of 
 the news contained in both the letters he had re- 
 ceived that morning. In due course, answers 
 were returned both from Oxford and London. 
 His brother could not solve the mystery of the 
 payment at the bank, but he expressed his delight 
 at Gerald's good fortune, and hoped that he would 
 not be so foolish as to allow any mistaken delicacy 
 or scruples to interfere with his taking advantage 
 of so opportune a windfall. He had written to 
 Sidney, he said, but feared from Gerald's account 
 that there could be but little hope of their uncle's 
 life. The banker's letter was a very civil one, but 
 they were unable, without permission, to reveal 
 the name of the party by whom the payment of 
 which they had informed Mr. Lennox, had been 
 made. So for the present the matter ended, and 
 Gerald felt after his late anticipations of poverty,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 209 
 
 as if lie had suddenly become a millionaire in 
 spite of himself. 
 
 Letters also came to him from "Wentmore in 
 answer to a few lines he had written to his father, 
 announcing his arrival at Brussels, and telling 
 him, as Sidney had requested, of Mr. Graham's 
 serious illness. Lady Frances and Blanche wrote 
 long affectionate letters, full of anxiety to know 
 how he was, and whether he was perfectly happy. 
 His mother sent him a note of introduction to the 
 Enghsh Ambassadress who had been a friend of 
 hers in early youth. *' She will not remember me 
 I daresay," Lady Frances wrote, " but she will 
 not have forgotten my father and mother who 
 were very fond of her, and often had her at their 
 house after her own mother died. You should 
 also know Lady Sophia Pwoberts, who is living at 
 Brussels with her son and daughters. They are 
 Roman Catholics and you would get on with them. 
 The son must be about your own age," etc. 
 
 Gerald had heard Mr. Fitzroy mention the 
 Bobertses as being an English CathoHc family 
 residing in his neighbourhood, and he resolved 
 to make their acquaintance at the earliest oppor- 
 tunity. He felt very much in want of a com- 
 panion of his own age, and a Catholic one would 
 he doubly agreeable. At present, Mr. Fitzroy was 
 the only Englishman he knew in Brussels, and 
 although he liked him very much, and they got 
 on very well together, still there was a dispaiity 
 
 14
 
 210 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 in years, and Mr. Fitzroy as a resident of some 
 standing in the town, had his fixed hours and 
 occupations, which prevented him from being at 
 Gerald's disposal as often as the latter could have 
 wished. He had introduced Gerald to the English 
 club and reading-room on the Boulevard, where, 
 all the English and local papers were to be seen, 
 and Gerald's name had been put down as an 
 honorary member for a certain length of time. 
 
 One afternoon, about ten days after his arrival, 
 during which time he had not heard again from 
 Sidney, he strolled into the club, and took up the 
 Times which had just arrived, and was not in 
 immediate demand, the only other person in the 
 room being a Belgian gentleman, who was looking 
 at the Independance. Gerald glanced down the 
 list of Deaths, and read the following announce- 
 ment. 
 
 "On the 4th inst., at his residence, No. 6, 
 St. Andrew's Crescent, Edinburgh, Francis Gra- 
 ham Esq., late of the Hon. E. I. C. Civil Service, 
 in the 69th year of his age." 
 
 Sidney's letter had been dated, the 3rd. His 
 father, then, had died the next day. Gerald threw 
 down the paper, and hurried home at once, to 
 write a line of condolence to his cousin. 
 
 " How sad it must be for him ! How lonely he 
 must feel now, poor fellow !" he said to himself as 
 he walked along. 
 
 A vigilante was drawn up in front of his lodg-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 211 
 
 ings, and luggage was being removed from it into 
 the house. Someone had apparently just arrived. 
 The door was open, and a gentleman was standing 
 in the passage with the landlady and the driver. 
 
 **Ahf Voila Monsieur!'* cried the landlady, 
 as she caught sight of Gerald's form in the door- 
 way. 
 
 The gentleman turned round. 
 
 "That's all right, then," he said. It was 
 Sidney Graham.
 
 212 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 There was a tea-figlit at Mrs. Gregory's. 
 Christmas was at hand, and the old lady liked to 
 surround herself during the long winter evenings 
 with young and happy faces. The party on this 
 occasion included the two young ladies from the 
 Eectory, Clara and Minnie Smith, Mr. Woods, and 
 Mr. Hayward, the curate of Frodsham. Mrs. 
 Gregory was fond of young clergymen. She con- 
 sidered her niece, Hester, particularly suited for 
 a clergyman's wife, and was always glad to see the 
 young curates of the neighbourhood at her house. 
 It was *' worth" she wanted for Hester, not 
 ** money.'* Hester would have plenty of that 
 for both, and this being generally understood, 
 Mrs. Gregory's invitations to the black-coated 
 fraternity, as may be supposed, were readily re- 
 sponded to. 
 
 Mr. Hayward was not so young as the unbeni- 
 ficed clergy of the Church of England generally 
 are, but there was a family living, which, in course
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 213 
 
 of time would become his, and he therefore worked 
 on quite contentedly as a curate, and was none the 
 less considered in the neighbourhood, because of 
 his advantageous prospects. It was generally sup- 
 posed that he admired the eldest Miss Smith, and 
 Mrs. Gregory, who was goodnature itself, thought 
 it only right to ask that young lady to meet him. 
 Clara was older than Hester, and if there was 
 * something between them,' she (Mrs. Gregory) felt 
 a pleasure in giving them a helping hand. "How 
 are young people ever to know anything of each 
 other, if they never meet?" she would ask. "I 
 am all for letting them see plenty of one another 
 beforehand, and then if there is anything un- 
 desirable on either side, tbey can find it out before 
 it is too late. Besides, young ladies cannot ask 
 young gentlemen to come and look at them, and 
 the young men cannot become acquainted with the 
 young ladies without seeing them, and so what is 
 the use of us old people if we don't bring them 
 together, poor things, and help to make them 
 happy if we can ?" 
 
 The good lady had asked Miss Smith to come, 
 and bring one of her sisters with her, but she was 
 somewhat disconcerted at seeing Miss Minnie walk 
 into the room when " the Miss Smiths" were an- 
 nounced, Clara being detained for a moment in 
 the hall by a little disarrangement of her dress 
 which Miss Seymour's maid was adjusting for her. 
 Mrs. Gregory had expected the second sister,
 
 214 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Laura, and her reception of Miss Minnie was not 
 so cordial consequently as usual. The two eldest 
 Miss Smiths generally went out together, and 
 Mrs. Gregory had her own reasons for wishing 
 that the usual arrangement on this occasion had 
 not been departed from. She had taken it into 
 her head that Minnie entertained some designs 
 upon Mr. Woods, whom she considered her own, 
 or ratlier her Hester's peculiar proper4}y. 
 
 Poor little Minnie's perfect innocence on the 
 subject, rendered her oblivious of any embarrass- 
 ment in her worthy hostess's manner, and she un- 
 consciously lent confirmation to the old lady's 
 suspicion, by immediately turning to Mr. Woods 
 when her salutations to the rest of the party were 
 over, and taking him to task for not having 
 brought her some book which he had promised 
 to lend her. 
 
 Mr. Woods had been talking to Blanche Len- 
 nox, and was standing near her and Hester Sey- 
 mour in a corner of the room to which they had 
 withdrawn themselves. There was a vacant chair 
 on the other side of Blanche, and Minnie at once 
 took possession of it, thereby terminating a debate 
 in the curate's own mind, as to whether he might 
 venture to occupy it himself or not. He did not 
 feel over amiably disposed towards the young lady 
 in consequence, and Mrs. Gregory might have 
 been perfectly at ease about them both, if she had
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 215 
 
 only known wliat was passing in their minds at 
 the moment. 
 
 In a minute or two Minnie completed his dis- 
 comfiture by saying, " Now, Mr. Woods, do go 
 and speak to Miss Barbara Lennox. She has 
 looked at that album, which she is pretending to 
 admire, a hundred times already, and will be 
 thankful to have an excuse for putting it down. 
 I want to have Blanche to myself for a few 
 minutes, and after tea we shall have to sing and 
 play, so now is my only chance. You are dread- 
 fully in our way here." 
 
 Mr. Woods covered his confusion with a laugh, 
 and walked towards the table where Barbara was 
 seated, inwardly maledicting Miss Minnie as he 
 went. 
 
 " How rude you are, Minnie," said Blanche, 
 with a smile, as Minnie seized her with both 
 hands the instant the curate had turned his back. 
 *^ Poor Mr. Woods was making himself veiy agree- 
 able, and you ought not to have sent him away 
 like that." 
 
 ** Oh, he is all yery well in his way," was the 
 answer, "but I want to talk to you and Hester, 
 and I could not say a word with him standing 
 there." And forthwith began one of those mys- 
 terious, confidential, and deeply interesting con- 
 versations which young ladies find it so necessary 
 to indulge in on all possible occasions, though
 
 216 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 what it was all about they might themselves be 
 afterwards sorely puzzled to declare. 
 
 After tea, Hester played whilst the two Miss 
 Smiths and Mr. Woods sang. Barbara had to 
 listen to some household troubles which were just 
 then weighing upon Mrs. Gregory's mind, and 
 Blanche found herself on a sofa with Mr. Hay- 
 ward, who did not sing, and was very much in- 
 clined to talk during the performance at the piano, 
 instead of listening to it in respectful silence as he 
 ought to have done. Several times Blanche had 
 to remind him gently that " they must not speak 
 too loud," but he invariably forgot in another 
 minute or so, and was as loud again as ever. 
 
 *' Are you expecting your eldest brother, Miss 
 Lennox ?" he asked, after a slight pause in the 
 conversation, caused by the necessity of applaud- 
 ing the last song, and begging for another, which 
 Clara Smith immediately began, whilst Minnie 
 and Mr. Woods retired to a little distance, and 
 were detected by the vigilant eyes of Mrs. Gregory 
 in what she deemed a flirtation which she was 
 bound to interrupt. '*Ah! I suppose he would 
 hardly come down before Christmas though," 
 added Mr. Hayward, with some hesitation in his 
 manner. 
 
 "No," answered Blanche, quietly. " My eldest 
 brother is abroad just now. We hope to see him 
 in the spring, but I don't suppose he will return
 
 geeald's oedeal. 217 
 
 to England sooner than that. You know that he 
 has become a Roman Catholic, do you not ?" 
 
 *'Yes," replied Mr. Hayrvard. "I met him 
 when I was travelling some weeks ago, and he 
 told me so himself. I was truly grieved, for I was 
 Bure it must be a great sorrow for you ail, and we 
 can ill afford to lose good men from our ranks just 
 now. He went abroad again then ? I remember, 
 he was just returning from the continent when I 
 Baw him. He got into the same railway carriage 
 with me at Dover, and told me that he had come 
 over that afternoon by the boat.'* 
 
 " When do you say that was?" enquired Blanche. 
 " Not returning wa.8 he ? It was the end of Octo- 
 ber when he left England with a cousin of ours, 
 and he had not been abroad before that for a very 
 long time.'* 
 
 Mr. Hayward seemed puzzled. " I am quite 
 Bure he told me that he had been abroad, and had 
 only crossed over to England the day I met him. 
 How very singular !" 
 
 Now it was Blanche's turn to look perplexed. 
 
 **I think you must be mistaken, Mr. Hayward," 
 she said. ** Do you remember the exact date? 
 Was he alone when you saw him ?" 
 
 "Yes, he was quite alone, and I will tell you 
 the exact date in a minute. Let me see. I had 
 been staying with my sister for a few days, and 
 was on my way back to Croydon. I was due there 
 on the second of November, which is my uncle's
 
 218 herald's oedeal. 
 
 birthda}^, and I had promised to be there the night 
 before. Of course, — I remember now, — it was All 
 Saints Day, the first of last month ; and I had 
 been to such a wretched service at a Dover church 
 in the morning. I recollect now perfectly." 
 
 *' How very odd," said Blanche, with an air of 
 astonishment. " He left England the end of 
 October, I am certain, and our cousin Mr. Graham 
 was with him, although he had to return almost 
 immediately, owing to his father's illness. But 
 on the first of November, Gerald must have been 
 abroad, at any rate he could not have been coming 
 back to England, as he has not been back since. 
 I really think Mr. Hayward yo>u must be mis* 
 taken," she repeated with emphasis. 
 
 *' No, Miss Lennox. What you say puzzles m&, 
 I confess, but there is no doubt about my having 
 seen your brother on the day I mentioned. What 
 makes me feel still more positive on the subject is, 
 that he shewed me a paper containing that abomi- 
 nable paragraph about h^s conversion. I got a 
 copy of it myself afterwards, and kept it. The 
 date of the paper was the first of November, and 
 your brother pulled it out of his pocket, having 
 just bought it at the station." 
 
 "Well, I cannot make it out," said Blanche. 
 *' I will write to Gerald to-morrow, and ask him 
 to explain the mystery. He is at Brussels now. 
 Were you ever there, Mr. Hayward ?" 
 
 The conversation then turned upon foreign
 
 gekald's oedeal. 219 
 
 tours in general, and Belgian ones in particular. 
 Mr. Hayward had travelled a good deal, and had 
 the rare power of being able to describe well and 
 viyidly what he had seen. Blanche listened with 
 an interest which was not feigned, but her thoughts 
 wandered in spite of herself to the meeting which 
 Mr. Hayward had described between himself and 
 Gerald, when she felt convinced in her own mind 
 such a meeting must have been impossible, and 
 fihe wondered whether the worthy curate could 
 possibly be a little mad, or if she could by any 
 chance have mistaken the date of her brother's 
 departure from England. He might have been at 
 Dover just before he started, on some business or 
 other, there was nothing unhkely in that, but 
 that Mr. Hayward should have met him coming 
 hack from abroad just at that time! There must 
 be some wonderful mistake on his part. She 
 could not make it out at all. 
 
 Mr. Woods was a very conscientious, hard-work- 
 ing young man. He came to Wentmore after a 
 twelvemonth's experience in a Low Church parish 
 in the west of England, and the different atmos- 
 phere both social and ecclesiastical in which he at 
 once found himself, affected him considerably. He 
 had never before been brought in such close con- 
 tact with persons of high birth and breeding. 
 Lady Frances Lennox and her daughter were like 
 beings -of another world to him, a world he had 
 read and heard of, but never till then had mixed
 
 220 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 with. Mr. Lennox was a man of enlarged mind 
 and gracious manners. The shy young curate 
 Boon found to his own surprise that his Eector 
 thought it no condescension to discuss questions 
 of either religious or political interest with him, 
 and he was never recalled to a sense of his own 
 inferiority, either in learning or position, when 
 conversing with Mr. Lennox, as had often been 
 the case, when he had come across men of his 
 calibre before. Gerald and Ferdinand Lennox 
 had with their decided views on all church ques- 
 tions and their real unaffected goodness, helped 
 greatly towards changing his own opinions on 
 religious subjects, but above all, the society of 
 their sister and her cousin Barbara, had become a 
 source of gratification and delight to him, which 
 had rendered his life at Wentmore hitherto one of 
 more than ordinary happiness. 
 
 If Mr. Woods had been asked three months 
 after his arrival at Wentmore, which of the Miss 
 Lennoxes he preferred, he would have been puz- 
 zled to say, for the simple reason, that up to that 
 time he had been so accustomed to think of them 
 together, as to be scarcely conscious himself of 
 any decided preference between them. He had 
 now been Mr. Lennox's curate for nearly a twelve- 
 month, and there was no longer any possibility of 
 concealing the real state of his feelings from him- 
 self, and one or two others had some suspicion of 
 the state of the case as well.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 221 
 
 Barbara Lennox had been away from Wentmore 
 on a visit to some friends in the West of England, 
 and during her absence, Blanche had visited the 
 schools and the poor, played the organ in church, 
 and been thrown so constantly in the way of meet- 
 ing her father's curate, that he first became aware 
 how deeply his own affections were involved by find- 
 ing how completely out of his usual course he was 
 thi-own, if by any accident or chance she was pre- 
 vented from coming to the school or pursuing any 
 of her charitable avocations when he had made sure 
 of seeing or meeting her. During the lesson hours 
 at the school, he would find his attention wander- 
 ing from Johnny Seel's spelling, if she was a little 
 later than usual and he would be recalled to a 
 sense of his delinquency by a laugh from some of 
 the other scholars at the mistakes Johnny was 
 making with impunity, whilst he had been listen- 
 ing for the well-known footstep on the gravel path 
 outside. He would then resume his instructions 
 with sudden energy, and the colour would mount 
 to his forehead as he shyly glanced round the 
 group of young urchins to notice if any of them 
 had observed his abstraction. Day after day, 
 week after week, passed on, and it only became a 
 more hopeless case with the young curate. 
 
 Miss Barbara returned from her visit, but it 
 was no longer a question in his own mind as to 
 which of the young ladies he now thought most 
 of. Barbara might spend whole mornings at the
 
 222 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 scliools, and meet him besides at a dozen different 
 places in the course of the day, and he would 
 scarcely remember that she had done so. But if 
 Blanche's slight figure was seen in the distance, or 
 her voice was heard inside a cottage as he passed 
 by, Mr. Woods would find some excuse for going 
 towards her, or visiting that cottage, and feel 
 happy for the rest of the day, if by so doing he 
 gained five minutes conversation with his Kector's 
 daughter. 
 
 But of late, a change had come over Arthur 
 Woods. He had been up to London for a few 
 days, to visit some of his relations, and since his 
 return, he had scarcely seemed like the same per- 
 son. He went through his parochial duties as 
 regularly as before, he took the same pains with 
 his sermons, he was as attentive to the poor, and 
 as frequently at the schools, but the old house- 
 keeper who looked after him in his bachelor lodg- 
 ings, remarked that he was "not himself at all." 
 He came home late and tired at night, and would 
 sit for an hour, reading or writing, without taking 
 off his dirty boots or wet things. The little din- 
 ners she sent in to him, came out almost un- 
 tasted. He was silent and moody, and she de- 
 clared she was "afeared something was going 
 wrong with him, she was !" 
 
 Others noticed the change as well. But when 
 questioned by the Kector or Lady Frances as to 
 his health, he assured them there was nothing the
 
 Gerald's orbeai,. 223 
 
 matter, and to all Mrs. Gregory's insinuations 
 that he was ' over- working himself, and really 
 should he more careful, "^ he turned a deaf ear, 
 or declared that no amount of work would ever 
 hurt him. 
 
 Blanche had a high opinion of the curate's judg- 
 ment. She often carried her puzzles about thd 
 poor, and the best way of relieving their wants, to 
 him, rather than to her father, as she felt that 
 Mr. Woods was more amongst them, and knew 
 more about their daily way of life, and the real 
 state of their homes, than the Kector, who went 
 to any cottage or house where a wish was expressed 
 for his presence, but otherwise left the practical 
 working of the parish very much in his curate's 
 hands. If it had not been for Blanche's invalu- 
 able help, Arthur Woods often felt he should not 
 have been able to get on as well as he did. 
 
 The morning after Mrs. Gregory's tea party, 
 Blanche Lennox called for Hester Seymour at 
 eleven o'clock, having arranged to do so the evening 
 before, and the two set off for a walk across the 
 fields. The weather was clear and frosty, and just 
 the right thing, they both declared, for an expedi- 
 tion to Long Pond which was the name of an outly- 
 ing hamlet of Wentmore parish, though why it was 
 so called it was difficult to make out. There was 
 no appearance of a pond, either long or short at the 
 place, and the oldest inhabitant could not remem- 
 ber anything of the sort. Nevertheless, Long
 
 224 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Pond it was called, and Blanche made periodical 
 descents upon the group of cottages which were 
 approached from the high road by a green lane 
 some mile and a half long. There was a path 
 across the fields which in spite of the stiles was 
 preferred by the young ladies, and they hurried 
 along, chatting merrily as they went, their voices 
 Bounding pleasantly through the air. 
 
 They were a pleasant sight to look upon, those 
 two. Hester Seymour's fair regular features, and 
 Blanche's mignonne face, both so expressive of 
 warmth and innocence of heart. Hester's was the 
 staidest step of the two, Blanche was so full of life 
 and spirits. She had received letters from both 
 her brothers by the post. Gerald's was dated 
 Brussels. Sidney Graham was with him still. He 
 had gone over to join him there immediately after 
 his father's death, and had remained ever since. 
 Ferdinand announced his intention of returning to 
 Wentmore on Christmas Eve. Both letters had 
 to be fully discussed with Hester, indeed Blanche 
 felt more at her ease when talking to her about 
 them than she did even with Barbara. Barbara's 
 want of sympathy about Gerald always threw her 
 back when his name was brought up between 
 them, and there was a restraint in her manner 
 when Ferdinand was mentioned, although thera 
 was no lack of interest, which puzzled Blanche, 
 and made her prefer the honest and hearty readir
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 225 
 
 ness which Hester always manifested, to hear all 
 and everything about either of them. 
 
 Blanche had some clothing-club tickets to 
 distribute at one or two of the cottages at Long 
 Pond> and as they came within sight of them, she 
 asked Hester to go on to Widow Seel's and give 
 her those she had promised for her children, 
 whilst she went in to see a poor girl who was very 
 ill on the other side of the way. Hester accord- 
 ingly departed with the tickets, and Blanche stop- 
 ped at the cottage where the sick girl lived. 
 
 She was just about to enter, when her attention 
 was atkacted by a violent noise and commotion in 
 the house adjoining. The sound of a woman's voice 
 raised in angry altercation and the crying of a 
 child made her pause, and instead of entering the 
 cottage she had intended to visit, she turned to 
 the other and knocked at the door. 
 
 Her knock was apparently not heard, for the 
 noise and tumult continued the same as ever, and 
 after a slight hesitation, Blanche opened the door 
 and went in. She knew the people perfectly well. 
 The man was a farm-labourer, and the wife a 
 hard-working respectable woman enough, but she 
 had a violent temper, and Blanche knew that her 
 children often came badly off in consequence. 
 One of these, as she had suspected, was in dis- 
 grace at the present moment. Little " Saireyann** 
 had not done something she was told to do, or 
 had done it badly, anyhow, her mother was exceed- 
 
 15
 
 226 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 ingly irate, and Blanche suspected from lier atti- 
 tude and the shrinking manner of the child who 
 was sobbing and crying, that she had been ad- 
 ministering bodily chastisement. 
 
 If there was one thing more than another which 
 Blanche could not endure, it was to see a child 
 beaten. It might richly deserve its punishment, 
 — that had nothing to do with it, — the moment a 
 great strong arm was lifted against a small sinner, 
 all her sympathy was with the latter, and whatever 
 its offence, she was ready to take its part and do 
 battle for it to the utmost. On this occasion, she 
 felt especially inclined to be on the weaker side, 
 as the woman's temper was well known, and little 
 Sarah Anne was rather a pet of hers, being a 
 delicate quiet child, and more teachable than 
 others of her age in the school. 
 
 Hearing the door open, the woman turned 
 round, and the change produced in her manner 
 by Blanche's unexpected appearance, was most 
 striking. Applying her apron to her eyes, and 
 sinking into a chair, she began sobbing violently, 
 and in reply to Blanche's enquiry, which was 
 rather sternly put, as to " what was the matter?" 
 she only murmured something unintelligible about 
 her '' trials and troubles," and hid her face in her 
 apron. 
 
 Unable to obtain an explanation from the 
 mother, Blanche turned to the little girl who was 
 looking at her appealingly, and asked what she
 
 geeald's oedeal. 227 
 
 had been doing, and why her mother was so 
 angry. 
 
 "If you please, Miss," answered the child, 
 hesitatingly, looking first at her mother and then 
 at Blanche, " I was washing out the dish to get 
 ready for father's dinner, when mother gave my 
 elbow a jog, without meaning it, and I let it fall. 
 I am very sorry, but it was not my fault," and 
 then she began crying again. 
 
 "You little story ! You bad girl to say J jogged 
 your elbow !" cried the woman, starting up, and 
 advancing towards the child, who shrank back as 
 she did so. " She let it fall herself, Miss, the 
 careless brat, and pretends it was me that pushed 
 her. I'll give it her for telling hes, I will !" 
 
 *' Oh ! Miss, indeed it wasn't my fault," sobbed 
 the child, in her energy, seizing Blanche by her 
 dress. 
 
 " Anyhow, I am quite sure you are sorry," said 
 Blanche, " and now run into the garden for a 
 minute. I want to speak to your mother." 
 
 Blanche's word in every Wentmore cottage wa3 
 law. Sarah Anne was out of the door in an 
 instant, and the mother did not offer to stop her. 
 
 " I know I was a bit too angry with her, Miss," 
 she began, " but that child is that aggravating in 
 her ways, that I am forced to speak out to her, I 
 am!" 
 
 " Xow, Lucy,'* said Blanche, sitting down, and 
 Bpeaking with a serious gravity which well became
 
 228 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 her fair young face, " I daresay you are sorry 
 as you always are when you have been in a pas- 
 sion, but you know quite well you have not only 
 been speaking to little Sarah Anne, I am afraid 
 you have been beating her as well. And if it was 
 by an accident, for which she was not to blame, 
 that the dish was broken, that was very hard upon 
 the poor child. Now that you are a little cooler, 
 you will allow that yourself, won't you ?" 
 
 The woman did not answer, but stood with her 
 face averted, twitching about the apron in her 
 hands, and applying it at intervals to the corners 
 of her eyes. 
 
 " What is the use of your telling me so often 
 that you will try and curb your temper, Lucy ?'* 
 continued Blanche, her tone softening as she went 
 on, "if on the slightest provocation you get so 
 very angry with the children or anyone else who 
 offends you? You know how many enemies you 
 have made amongst your neighbours, by saying in 
 the heat of the moment what you are sorry for 
 afterwards. I have enough to do sometimes in 
 trying to defend you when people complain to me 
 of what you have said or done, and Lucy, you 
 know it grieves me when you give way like this.'* 
 
 " What business have they to talk about me ? 
 Let them look at home," began the woman. Then 
 turning towards Blanche, who was looking at her 
 sorrowfully, she suddenly burst into tears, and 
 exclaimed, '* Oh I Miss, I am very bad, I know I
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 229 
 
 am, but I do try, I do indeed. I am afraid yon 
 will not believe me, but if you knew. Miss Blanche, 
 what a work I have with my temper, you would 
 not wonder at my getting in a pet at times. I 
 don't want you to think me better than I am. 
 Miss, I am bad enough, I know. But oh ! Miss, 
 don't give me up. You are the best friend I have 
 in the world, and if you was to give me up I 
 should be done for entirely." 
 
 "I shall not give you up, Lucy. Do not be 
 afraid of that, but if you wish to please me you 
 must try not to give vent to your temper the 
 moment you are provoked, in the way you do. 
 You know, Lucy, without my telling you, how 
 wrong it is, and if it gi-ieves me when you do so, 
 how much more must it grieve our Lord, who is 
 always watching to see whether you improve or 
 not, and I know you love Him really, and would 
 not offend Him wilfully. Will you promise me to 
 remember this ?" 
 
 Blanche's manner was very grave, but so sweet, 
 that the woman sobbed with true emotion as she 
 replied, 
 
 *' Miss, you are an angel. I always said you 
 was. I will not be so hasty again, I promise you, 
 and as for the blessed childring, the Lord knows I 
 wouldn't hurt a hair of their heads ; really I 
 wouldn't. Bless 'em. He knows that.'* 
 
 Blanche could not help smiling. 
 
 " Good-bye, Lucy," she said, rising from her
 
 230 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 chair, " I shall tell Sarah Anne she may come in 
 and give you a kiss, and that you are not angry 
 with her any longer. Shall you be able to send 
 her to school next week ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss, please God, I hope so. William, 
 he is very angry at my keeping the child so much 
 at home, I can tell you, Miss, but I am that put 
 to, sometimes, to know how to get along, that now 
 the others are out at service, and I not so strong 
 as I was, I don't know what I should do if it warn't 
 for Saireyann." 
 
 Blanche opened the door of the cottage, and 
 called to the little girl who was playing with a 
 kitten outside, and had quite forgotten her late 
 trouble. She told her her mother wanted her, 
 and that she need not be afraid, as she would not 
 say anything more to her about the broken dish. 
 Little Sarah Anne looked half-doubtingly up in 
 her face, but its expression reassured her, she 
 dropped a curtsey and ran into the cottage. 
 
 Blanche looked back, and saw her caught up 
 into her mother's arms and covered with kisses. 
 She had restored the sunshine in that abode, any- 
 how. Calling out " good-bye" again to them, she 
 was about to enter the cottage next door, when 
 she perceived Hester Seymour and Mr. Woods 
 advancing towards her from a distance. 
 
 Blanche wanted to ask the curate a question, 
 and waited for them to come up, but just before 
 they came within speaking distance, the others
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 231 
 
 stopped. Mr. Woods shook hands with Mis3 
 Seymour, took off his hat to Blanche, and without 
 heeding the hand she held up as if to stop him, 
 hurried off in the direction from which he had 
 come. In another moment he had turned a corner 
 and was out of sight. 
 
 " How stupid of Mr. "Woods not to see that I 
 wanted to speak to him," said Blanche, as Hes- 
 ter came up to her. " He must have been in a 
 great hurry. I suppose you met him at Widow 
 Seel's cottage ?" 
 
 *' Yes," answered Hester, ''he was there when 
 I went in. He promised her another clothing 
 club ticket for the youngest child, which was yeiy 
 good of him, considering how many he gives away 
 already ; I think he must have remembered some- 
 thing suddenly, which obliged him to hurry off. 
 He asked me if I had walked over alone, and I 
 was just telling him that you were in one of these 
 cottages, when we looked up and saw you. I did 
 not notice that you were beckoning till he had 
 started, and though I called after him, he did not 
 seem to hear." 
 
 " It does not signify," said Blanche, " he must 
 have been in a hurry about something as you say. 
 Now, Hester dear, I must go in here for a few 
 minutes, but I won't keep you long. I have been 
 lecturing Lucy on her temper, and must see poor 
 Ellen, as she is expecting me to-day." 
 
 Blanche then went up to the sick girl's room,
 
 232 gehald's okdeal. 
 
 and remained witli her some time, cheering her 
 with sympathy and kind words. She had brought 
 her some oranges, and as she placed them by her 
 side when she was going away, the poor girl 
 looked up in her face with a grateful smile, and 
 said, 
 
 " You will come again soon. Miss ? I feel 
 very lonely all day, for mother she has her work 
 to attend to, and cannot be with me always. I 
 expected a visit from Mr. "Woods to-day. He told 
 me he should call, but I suppose he hasn't been 
 able to come this way. It does me good to see 
 him or you. Miss. I sleep the better after it. 
 Goodbye, and thank you kindly. Miss." 
 
 Blanche wondered as she walked home across 
 the fields by Hester's side, at Mr. Woods' for- 
 getfulness of his promise to visit poor Ellen Fos- 
 ter. She had not told her that the curate had 
 been close by that afternoon, as she thought it 
 would sound unkind of him to have forgotten his 
 promise of calling to see her, and it was so unlike 
 his usual thoughtfulness, that she could not under- 
 stand it. However, she concluded in her own 
 mind, that he had been on his way to the cottage, 
 when, as Hester supposed, some other important 
 engagement had occurred to him, and he had been 
 obliged to hasten elsewhere, very possibly intend- 
 ing to see Ellen later in the day. Dismissing the 
 subject from her mind, she turned to Hester 
 and began discussing the Christmas entertain-
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 233 
 
 ment wliich was to be given to tlie school children 
 the following week, and that fully engrossed them 
 until they arrived at Mrs. Gregory's gate. 
 
 The church decorations for Christmas were in 
 full progress at Wentmore, both at the Eectory 
 and at Mrs. Gregory's. Hester was very busy 
 that afternoon with a wreath and cross of ever- 
 lastings, she was preparing for the Founder's 
 Tomb. One of the maid servants was assisting 
 her, and so occupied were they with their work, 
 that neither of them heard a tap at the window of 
 the room in which they were sitting. It was get- 
 ting dusk, and the maid looking up suddenly, 
 gave a little cry of alarm as she caught sight of a 
 figure outside. 
 
 " ^\Tiat is the matter, Charlotte ?" asked Miss 
 Seymour, pausing in the adjustment of a bunch of 
 red and yellow flowers, which she was fastening on 
 the wreath. 
 
 *' I beg your pardon, Miss," answered Char- 
 lotte, " I saw someone as I thought at the win- 
 dow. But whoever it was, he is gone now. I 
 daresay it was the gardener, but it startled me for 
 the moment," 
 
 Soon after, Hester put on her hat and cloak, 
 and set off to the Rectory to consult with Blanche 
 and Barbara about the adornment of the Font, 
 which was always a grand feature in the floral 
 decorations at Wentmore. As she passed through 
 the little gate which opened from her aunt's
 
 234 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 grounds into the village, she met Mr. Woods who 
 was hurrying past. 
 
 *' Oh ! Mr. Woods," she cried, '* do come up 
 with me to the Kectory for a few minutes if you 
 can. We are going to arrange ahout the Font, 
 and I know Blanche wants to speak to you about 
 something." 
 
 "I am very sorry. Miss Seymour," replied the 
 curate, " but I am going again to Long Pond as 
 fast as I can. I promised to visit Ellen Foster 
 to-day, and forgot to do so this morning when I 
 was there. I shall be at the church this evening, 
 and then I shall see Miss Lennox, I daresay." 
 
 Before Hester could reply, he was gone. She 
 could not help thinking as she pursued her way to 
 the Rectory, that it was odd Mr. Woods should 
 have forgotten Ellen Foster in the morning, when 
 he was close to her cottage, and it must have been 
 a matter of consequence as he was going all that 
 way again when it was getting so late. 
 
 *' But he is so good," she said to herself, " and 
 would rather go through any trouble or fatigue 
 than disappoint anyone." 
 
 Hester was not the least 'in love* with Mr. 
 Woods, but she admired him for his goodness and 
 devotion to his duties, and thought it was not 
 everyone who would take a long walk twice in one 
 day for the sake of keeping his word to a poor 
 girl, when his time was so fully occupied, and he 
 might so easily have put it off till the morrow.
 
 gehald's ordeal. 285 
 
 Arthur "Woods hurried on over the fields towards 
 the Fosters' cottage, blaming himself considerably 
 for his forge tfulness in the morning as he did so. 
 The high road crossed his path at one point, and 
 just as he reached it, two men passed by, one of 
 whom, the nearest to him, was saying to the other, 
 
 *' I thought it would not do, and was sorry I 
 had startled them." 
 
 The voice struck the curate as familiar. The 
 men had walked on, but he stood for a moment to 
 look after them. *' How very odd," he thought, 
 " and the height and figure too, so like his. It is 
 curious if I should be for a second time mis- 
 taken." 
 
 But he could not tarry. A class of young people 
 preparing for their first communion was awaiting 
 him as soon as he returned home, and he had 
 no time to lose. 
 
 An hour later, as Miss Seymour was moving 
 cautiously along a path which led from the Eec- 
 tory grounds into the village, the high shrubs on 
 either side making it difficult for her to see her 
 way, she thought she saw two figures standing on 
 one side, a little in advance of her. She was 
 so accustomed to traverse the short distance be- 
 tween the Rectory and her aunt's house alone, and 
 knew every inch of the way so well, that she had 
 refused the offer of a companion or a lantern, 
 although it was so dark. It might be her imagin- 
 ation, but she could not help feeling a Httle fright-
 
 236 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 ened. It was quite a private way, and it was 
 seldom any of the tradespeople or others from the 
 village came that way after nightfall, besides, 
 whoever it was, they did not advance, but re- 
 mained stationary. Summoning her resolution, 
 she went boldly on, her heart beating a little 
 faster the while. As she neared the spot where 
 she had fancied the figures were standing, it 
 seemed as if they had disappeared. At any rate 
 she could see nothing of them. Hurrying on, in 
 a few minutes more she reached her own door, 
 and running upstairs to her room, she rang the 
 bell for her maid. 
 
 " I think you must have made me nervous, 
 Charlotte," she said, as the latter appeared. "I 
 thought I saw two men in the Kectory path just 
 now, as I was coming along by myself, but when 
 I came up to the place, they had vanished." 
 
 "Dear! Miss," answered Charlotte. "Well, 
 I'm sure that there was someone at that window 
 this afternoon, although I made light of it at the 
 time for fear of frightening you. But do you know. 
 Miss, it is getting quite late, and Thomas was- 
 taking in the tea things as I came upstairs."
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 237 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A LOUD peal at the front door bell, startled the 
 ladies at Wentmore Rectory, as they stood before 
 the drawing-room fire, the dressing bell having 
 just rung, and Miss Seymour having left them 
 some ten minutes or more. 
 
 "Who can that be, I -wonder?" exclaimed 
 Blanche. 
 
 *'No one calling at this hour?" said Lady 
 Frances, looking askance, as she spoke, at her 
 daughter and niece. 
 
 "Listen;" said Barbara. "That is a gentle- 
 man's voice, and he is coming in." 
 
 The next moment the drawing-room door was 
 flung open, and " Mr. Graham" was announced. 
 
 " Sidney !" cried the three ladies at once. 
 
 Lady Frances and Blanche turned round with 
 surprise, not unmingled with anxiety, to meet him. 
 
 "When did you come over?" asked Lady 
 Frances, as he advanced towards her. " We 
 thought you were in Brussels with Gerald. There
 
 238 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 is nothing the matter is there ?" and the mother's 
 voice trembled as she spoke. 
 
 " Do not alarm yourselves," was the answer, as 
 Sidney shook hands with her and his cousins, 
 " Gerald is perfectly well. I am not the bearer of 
 ill tidings, quite the reverse. I was afraid I should 
 startle you all by my sudden appearance, but I 
 have some business matters to transact with Uncle 
 Lennox, and came off without writing as I felt 
 sure of finding him at home just now. How is 
 he ? and how are you all ?" 
 
 Having satisfied herself that nothing was wrong 
 with Gerald, Lady Frances went into the library 
 to acquaint her husband with his nephew's arrival, 
 and Blanche departed in quest of Mrs. Statham to 
 get a room prepared for him. 
 
 Sidney turned to Barbara as soon as they were 
 alone. 
 
 " Bibi, can I trust you with a secret ?'* 
 
 She looked up half frightened, in his face. 
 
 " Yes. What is it ?" 
 
 '* Gerald is here ; in the village ; walking up 
 and down outside, in fact, and I have come to 
 prepare his father and mother for seeing him." 
 
 " Gerald here !" cried Barbara. Then lowering 
 her voice as Sidney made a jesture of warning, 
 she added, "But my uncle will be so angry! 
 How could he come without leave? It is very 
 wrong of him." 
 
 **Now, Barbara, listen to me. I should not
 
 GERALD'S Or.DEAL. 239 
 
 have said a word to you, had I not believed you 
 "were to be trusted. I shall tell my uncle, and if 
 he consents to see Gerald, which I am sure he will 
 do, then he will himself tell Aunt Lennox and 
 Blanche. If, by any chance, he refuses, you must 
 not say a word to either of them, and I will get 
 him away at once." 
 
 At that moment, Lady Frances re-entered the 
 room. Barbara looked at Sidney, and bowed her 
 head slightly in token of acquiescence. She did 
 not venture to speak. 
 
 ** Now, go and dress, both of you ;" exclaimed 
 their aunt. " We shall be late for dinner, and 
 your uncle does not like to be kept waiting. Did 
 Gerald get our last letter before you came away ?'* 
 she asked, as she followed Sidney into the hall. 
 
 Sidney answered in the affirmative, although he 
 did not know whether Gerald had or not, and he 
 was glad to hurry off to his room, which a foot- 
 man was waiting to show him, to avoid further 
 questioning. 
 
 During dinner, the conversation flowed easily 
 enough. Mr. Lennox had often been to Brussels, 
 and it amused him to talk over his reminiscences 
 of the Belgian capital. 
 
 ** I suppose there is the same Chaplain there 
 still ?" he asked, as the dessert was being placed 
 upon the table. 
 
 "I believe so,'* answered Sidney. "But I 
 really don't know for certain, as I generally went
 
 240 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 with G-erald to church, and we did not know many 
 of the English. The best set amongst the Bel- 
 gians are rather bigoted, and look shyly upon the 
 English Protestants, but Gerald knew several of 
 the really good families, and, of course, got on 
 with them very well." 
 
 A sudden silence fell upon the party. Sidney 
 had not been looking at his uncle as he spoke. 
 His dinner napkin had fallen on the ground, and 
 he had stooped to pick it up. Now he looked 
 round and saw at once the mistake he had made. 
 He hastened to rectify it. 
 
 " I met Mr. D — , the King's Chaplain, at din- 
 ner once," he said, speaking fast, and addressing 
 his uncle, who was passing the wine with a certain 
 compressed movement of the mouth which was a 
 sure sign that his equanimity was disturbed, " and 
 a very nice old fellow he is. Did you know him 
 at all ? The Duke is very fond of him, and he is 
 constantly at the Palace. Everyone likes him im- 
 mensely." 
 
 Mr. Lennox's countenance relaxed. 
 
 ** Oh, yes, he is a very old friend of mine. We 
 were at College together." And then began a 
 long story about his College days and quondam 
 allies, many of whom he had since lost sight of, 
 which apparently drove Gerald and any unpleasant 
 reflections connected with his name from the Eec- 
 tor's mind. Lady Frances and the girls soon 
 after, got up and left the room.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 241 
 
 "Which wine are you drinking, Sid?" asked 
 Mr. Lennox, di'awing liis chair near the fire, and 
 passing the bottles towards his nephew. " Help 
 yourself, and tell me how you left that Popish son 
 of mine, on the other side of the water." 
 
 Sidney had been cogitating in his own mind, the 
 best way of introducing Gerald's name, when the 
 ladies should have withdrawn, and his uncle's 
 question relieved him gi-eatly. At the same time, 
 he could not help feeling slightly embarrassed as 
 he answered, 
 
 " Gerald is very well, uncle, he looks stronger 
 than he did in London, but I don't think, poor 
 fellow, he is quite happy. He often — ^ — '* 
 
 "Not quite happy!" interrupted Mr. Lennox, 
 hastily. " I daresay not. "WTiat can a fellow 
 expect who goes bhndfold into such a system as-, 
 that, but to meet with disappointment, and what 
 does he deserve after treating his parents a«d^ all 
 belonging to him in the way be has donf^' but to 
 be unhappy ?" 
 
 Sidney felt taken aback. 
 
 "I don't think he is unhappy^ abotit Ms religion- 
 at all," he explained, " but I am sure it is a great 
 trial to him not being able to- come here and see 
 you all. He feels that you have not really for- 
 given him, as long as he is not allowed to do that. 
 I have told him that I am sure in time it will be 
 all right, but he does not care for any such assur- 
 ance on my part. He has always been so much 
 
 16
 
 242 GERALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 at home, — -he cannot bear the idea of being cut off 
 from you all, as he is at present." 
 
 ** Well, it's his own fault, his own fault," re- 
 turned the Kector. " So far as I am concerned, 
 he might return to-morrow. It is no pleasure to 
 me to be separated from any of my children, but I 
 will not have him tampering with his brother and 
 sister, and contaminating them as well. He has 
 made a fool of himself and must take the conse- 
 quences. One in the family is quite enough, for 
 those priests to get hold of." 
 
 " I am quite sure he would not attempt to 
 influence Ferdinand or Blanche, if he saw them," 
 said Sidney, thinking that he noticed signs of 
 relenting as his uncle spoke. *'He did meet 
 Ferdinand in London as you know, and he cer- 
 tainly did not try anything of the kind with him." 
 
 ** Your aunt told me that you had some busi- 
 ness matters to consult me about," said Mr. Len- 
 nox, in a tone which implied * We have talked 
 enough about that, and will now turn the subject.* 
 "What is it ? Something about your poor father's 
 will, I suppose ? He and his cousin, the old 
 General, were quite reconciled before he died, were 
 they not ? It was singular that the one should 
 outlive the other so short a time." 
 
 But Sidney thought of an anxious waiter out- 
 
 Bide. He could almost fancy he heard occasional 
 
 - footsteps approach the window of the dining-room.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 243 
 
 and lie was determined to bring matters to an 
 issue. 
 
 " Uncle, to tell you tlie truth," he began, "it 
 was no business of my own which brought me 
 over to see you at this moment. It is on Gerald's 
 account, and his only, that I have come. I pro- 
 mised him that I would get your leave for him to 
 return and see you all at once. If you had not 
 always been so good and kind to me, I should not 
 have ventured to do this, but I promised, and I 
 must keep my word." 
 
 He rose and stood over his uncle, placing his 
 hand on the Rector's shoulder as he spoke. 
 
 Mr. Lennox turned away his head. 
 
 "It is all very well for you, Sid, to take his 
 part. As I said, I should like to see the poor lad 
 very weU myself, but " 
 
 " May he come at once ? If he was here, now, 
 would you see him ?" 
 
 Mr. Lennox started up. 
 
 " Here — at once — what do you mean ?" 
 
 He was so utterly unprepared for what he saw 
 was his nephew's meaning, that he could not con- 
 ceal his emotion. He could not disguise the joy 
 lie felt at the thought of meeting Gerald again, 
 whose defection he had so deeply and sorely 
 lamented, but whom he loved so truly, and from 
 whom he had separated himself only through a 
 «tern sense of duty and obligation, to the other 
 dear ones around him.
 
 244 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 It was enougli for Sidney. He did not hesitate 
 another moment, but walked straight out of the 
 dining-room into the hall and opened the front 
 door. 
 
 '' Gerald," he called, '' are you there ?" 
 
 A figure advanced through the darkness. 
 
 '* Well ?" Gerald's voice responded eagerly. 
 
 " Come in." Sidney took his cousin by the 
 arm and led him into the house. The dining- 
 room door was open as he had left it. He pushed 
 Gerald forward, then pulled the door to, and left 
 the father and son together. 
 
 As he turned round, he saw Barbara coming 
 out of the drawing-room on the other side of the 
 hall. 
 
 ''It is all right," he said, advancing towards 
 her. " Let us go to Aunt Lennox and Blanche 
 and tell them." 
 
 She turned back with him directly. 
 
 On seeing Barbara come back into the room 
 with Sidney, Blanche, who was sitting on a 
 sofa by her mother's side, looked up. " Who is 
 in the dining-room with papa ?" she asked. " I 
 hear voices. The schoolmaster, I suppose ?" 
 
 *' No, it is not the schoolmaster," answered 
 Sidney, and he went up to his aunt and knelt 
 down on one knee by her side. 
 
 Barbara beckoned Blanche to the other end of 
 the room. "Come here, darling," she said, "I 
 have some good news for you."
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 245 
 
 Lady Frances was surprised at Sidney's attitude 
 of devotion. It was unlike liim, especially with 
 her, and she thought he must he looking for 
 something. 
 
 "Have I dropped anything?" she said, and 
 drew back her dress to aid him in his imaginary 
 Bearch. 
 
 *' Can you guess who is in the next room with 
 Uncle Lennox ?" asked Sidney, smiling, and still 
 remaining on one knee. 
 
 She looked at him attentively. Then turned 
 very pale. 
 
 *' Not Gerald?" 
 
 Sidney rose, placed himself by her side, and 
 took her hand in his. 
 
 " Blanche! Barbara! come here," he cried. ''I 
 have told Aunt Lennox, or rather she has guessed 
 what I had to tell her." 
 
 But Blanche was already in the next room, with 
 her arms round Gerald's neck. 
 
 The next hour at Wentmore Rectory was a very 
 happy one. Gerald sat by his mother on her 
 little sofa, with Blanche on a low stool at his feet. 
 Mr. Lennox was playing at chess with Barbara, 
 but his glance continually wandered from the 
 board to the couple on the sofa, and a smile 
 hovered on his lips, whilst occasionally he joined 
 by a word or two in their conversation. Sidney 
 leaned over the back of Barbara's chair, apparently 
 watching the game, but he too was quite as much
 
 246 geuald's ordeal. 
 
 taken up with the group in Lady Frances's corner. 
 It was certainly pleasant to see from time to time 
 the gentle pressure of her son's arm by the loving 
 mother, who in the joy of beholding him once more 
 by her side, forgot any sorrow she might have 
 experienced on his account since they last had 
 met. Gerald's look of perfect contentment, as he 
 answered in a low tender voice her many ques- 
 tions, whilst he squeezed his sister's hand which 
 he held in his own, was expressive of the happi- 
 ness which filled his heart, and Sidney thought 
 with considerable self-complacency that a good 
 deal of that happiness just now, was owing to him 
 and his intervention with the head of the family. 
 It was rather a novel sensation with him, that of 
 having contributed towards the happiness of others, 
 and he enjoyed it, with a sort of animal enjoyment. 
 But what made him feel more satisfied with him- 
 self than anything, was the sight of his cousin 
 Blanche's sweet and smiling countenance, as she 
 looked up in her brother*s face, and every now and 
 then turned round to the chess-players, with a 
 laughing remark in which he himself was included, 
 as if to make them air join in the gladness which 
 filled her heart and sparkled in her eyes. How 
 bright and beautiful she looked, and how strangely 
 Sidney's heart beat as he gazed upon her, and 
 thought again with renewed complacency of the 
 part he had played, (which certainly had been a 
 much easier one than he had expected), in the
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 247 
 
 little domestic drama which was enacting before 
 him. 
 
 He lighted the candles for his armt and cousins, 
 in the hall, when they were going up to bed some 
 two hours afterwards. Before giving Blanche 
 her's, he held out his hand to say good-night. She 
 took it in her's, and looking up into his face, said, 
 
 " Oh ! Sidney, how can we ever thank you for 
 this ? Gerald tells me it is all owing to you. 
 We shall none of us ever forget it." 
 
 Sidney murmured something about "nonsense," 
 but coloured up with satisfaction, and looked 
 ** quite handsome" as Barbara declared when they 
 were going upstairs. He walked back into the 
 drawing-room where Mr. Lennox was standing on 
 the rug with his arm round Gerald's neck. 
 
 " Now you two foreigners must be tired with 
 your long journey," he said, as Sidney re-entered 
 the room. " I have some writing to do before I 
 go to bed, but if you take my advice you will be 
 off soon." 
 
 " I don't know how you feel, Gerald," said 
 Sidney, throwing himself into a chair, and stretch- 
 ing out his legs, " I think Uncle Lennox is about 
 right." 
 
 " It would be of no use my going to bed," 
 returned Gerald, "I am too much excited to 
 sleep." 
 
 "Well, don't keep the servants up," said his 
 father, patting him on the shoulder. " So ring
 
 248 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 the bell for what you want, and then you can do 
 as you like." 
 
 Gerald followed Mr. Lennox into the library, 
 where a writing table was placed near the fire with 
 two lighted candles upon it. 
 
 " Good- night, father," he said, and threw his 
 arms round his father's neck. 
 
 " God bless you, my boy." 
 
 The Eector's voice trembled as he spoke. 
 Gerald hurried from the room to conceal his own 
 emotion. Mr. Lennox leaned with his arm on the 
 chimney-piece, his face concealed by his hand. 
 As the door closed, Gerald fancied he heard the 
 sound of a sob. 
 
 *' God !" he cried, striking his forehead. 
 " Give me strength. I never felt it hard to do 
 Thy Will— till now !" 
 
 He rushed straight up to his room, and did not 
 go down again that night. 
 
 When Sidney Graham had followed his father's 
 remains to the grave, he paid and dismissed the 
 servants, shut up the house in Edinburgh, which 
 he left in charge of an agent, threw himself into 
 the train, and never stopped until he arrived at 
 the door of his cousin Gerald's lodgings in Brus- 
 sels. That he was not expected by Gerald we 
 know, but Sidney needed sympathy, and that of a 
 kind, which should not call for any great exhibition 
 of feeling, on his own part. This he knew he should 
 meet with in Gerald, and Gerald was flattered and
 
 geeald's oedeal. 249 
 
 pleased at his turning to him so naturally in his 
 sorrow. For six weeks the two cousins remained 
 very happily together, each going his own way, 
 and neither interfering with the other. Sidney 
 was quiet and subdued, Gerald happy in feeling 
 that he was of use and a comfort to him. As 
 Christmas approached, Sidney noticed a change 
 come over his cousin; he became silent and melan- 
 choly, and Sidney who was beginning to recover 
 Ms spirits, felt rather bored in consequence. 
 
 " What on earth is the matter with you ?" he 
 asked, one day, as they were pacing up and down 
 the Boulevard, and Gerald had for the last half 
 hour, replied only in monosyllables to his remarks, 
 whilst his thoughts were evidently wandering. 
 
 " Shall I tell you ?" said Gerald, turning round 
 and looking at him fixedly. " I am home sick. 
 This will be the first Christmas in my life, that I 
 have passed away from my people, and I cannot 
 help feeling it. Now don't laugh at me, and I 
 will tell you something." 
 
 Then he told Sidney the story of his expedition 
 of a day and a half from Calais to London and 
 back, and of his visiting Hillsborough on his way. 
 Sidney did not laugh. He saw at once that this 
 was no ordinary matter. Sidney's regard for his 
 cousin Gerald was sincere, it was not unselfish, 
 but for that very reason it was in him the more 
 sincere. Gerald was necessary to him, and Gerald 
 out of spirits was not the sort of companion he
 
 250 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 enjoyed. When he was low and dejected himself, 
 he liked to have the affectionate and cheering 
 sympathy, his cousin was ever ready to give, but 
 it was not at all the same thing, to have to cheer 
 and encourage him. Sidney listened attentively 
 to Gerald's story, and then said, 
 
 '*I tell you what it is, my boy. Like a greats 
 many other very good people, you are a bit of a 
 — — well, I won't say what, because it would be 
 uncomplimentary. But if you take my advice you- 
 will just go home. Put up your things, and start 
 with me this very day for England. We can cross 
 over by the night boat, and to-morrow you will be 
 at Wentmore, and take my word for it they will- 
 be as pleased to see you, as ydu will be to see 
 them." 
 
 " But you forget my father's injunction, that I 
 should not come near theim till he gaive' me leave. 
 How can I go?" said Geirald, rather impatiently. 
 
 ** Leave that to me. I will nisinage the gov- 
 ernor. Now, will you go ? Yes Or no ?" 
 
 Gerald was only iob willing to he persuaded 
 that it would be the best thiilg for him to do. 
 After a little more hesitation, he returned with 
 his cousin to their lodgings, and the two set off from 
 Brussels that afternoon by the mail train, as Sid- 
 ney had proposed; 
 
 When they drew liear the end of their journey 
 cfn the following day, Sidney felt some of Gerald's 
 misgivings steal over him. What if his uncle
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 251 
 
 should prove restive, and refuse to see the recu- 
 Bant son after all ? It would not be exactly plea- 
 sant for him to find that he had made matters 
 worse than they were. It was therefore agreed 
 that they should not enter the village till night- 
 fall, and that Sidney should then proceed alone to 
 the Eectory, and pave the way for Gerald's appear- 
 ance. But if Sidney did not feel sure in his own 
 mind of success, Gerald was still less sanguine. 
 His anxiety made him exaggerate the extent of 
 his father's anger, and the nearer they approached 
 to Wentmore, the more his courage failed him. 
 At a village some two miles and a half from 
 "Wentmore, they stopped and dismissed the fly 
 which had brought them from the railway station, 
 leaving their portmanteaus at the inn, and walked 
 on the rest of the way. Gerald did not wish to 
 show himself in the village street, and when Sidney, 
 who was not so well known, entered the Bull Inn, 
 in order to get a tumbler of hot brandy and water, 
 "just to warm himself up," as he said, the former 
 stole in by a side gate to Mrs. Gregory's grounds, 
 with the half intention of discovering himself to 
 the old lady or her niece, should he see anything 
 of them. They were very old friends, and he was 
 quite sure of what their reception of him would be. 
 It was then that he startled Miss Seymour's maid, 
 by looking in upon her and her mistress, as they 
 sat in the little room at the back of the house, at 
 work upon the decorations. He had intended to
 
 252 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 discover himself on first seeing tliem, and tapped 
 gently at the window for that purpose ; but as 
 they did not seem to hear him, he changed his 
 mind, and was moving away, feeling glad that 
 he was able to do so unobserved, when the maid 
 looked up and saw him, as we described in the last 
 chapter. Meeting Sidney outside the inn, they 
 again returned to the high-way, and walked about 
 till it was dark, when they turned their steps 
 towards the Kectory, and it was just when Gerald 
 was recounting his expedition into Mrs. Gregory's 
 garden, that Mr. Woods passed them, on his way 
 to Long Pond. 
 
 Gerald's impatience prevented his remaining far 
 from the house when Sidi;iey entered. IJe wan- 
 dered about on the lawn, looking up at the win- 
 dows and watching the lights where the shutters 
 were not closed. Once he fancied he caught sight 
 of Blanche'^ form at one of them,. At another 
 time he felt sure that he heard Mrs. Statham's 
 voice, scolding some delinquent housemaid, for 
 leaving a window open, which ought to have been 
 shut. ''Bear old thing," he said to himself, *' how 
 little she thinks that I am out here." Once he ven- 
 tured quite close to the dining-room window, and 
 fancied he could distinguish his father's and Sid- 
 ney's voices in conversation, but the shutters were 
 closed, and he could see nothing but a ray of light 
 through the chinks. 
 
 The sound of Sidney's voice when he at length
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 253 
 
 called him to come in, reassured liim completely, 
 and his heart beat with joy as he crossed the hall, 
 and in another moment found himself in his 
 father's arms. 
 
 When the family assembled the next morning 
 at the breakfast table, Mr. Lennox's manner had 
 resumed somewhat of its sternness. He had 
 talked over the matter of Gerald's return, with his 
 wife, and he was startled by the way in which she 
 took it for granted, that he was to remain with 
 them now for some time, as a matter of course. 
 All his fears and misgivings, as to the prudence of 
 allowing his misguided son to associate with his 
 brother and sister, in all the freedom of their for- 
 mer unrestrained intercourse, returned upon him, 
 and imparted a restraint to his manner, which 
 Gerald was not slow to perceive. 
 
 Blanche was in an ecstasy of delight, and seemed 
 as if she did not know which to smile upon most, 
 the darling brother, or the cousin who had brought 
 him back to them so unexpectedly. Sidney was 
 quite satisfied with this state of things, and felt 
 every hour more pleased with himself, for what he 
 had done. 
 
 As if by a tacit understanding, both Gerald and 
 his father avoided the subject of the future. The 
 former was too glad to find himself once more in 
 the dear home of his youth, from which it seemed 
 to him (so much had happened since he was last 
 among them,) that he had been absent years in-
 
 25^ Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 stead of a few months only, and the Kector after 
 a while, put aside his doubts as to the harm this 
 , son's Papistical notions might do his other chil- 
 dren, and allowed himself to enjoy his company 
 without restraint. 
 
 When Ferdinand heard of his brother's unex- 
 pected return, he wrote immediately to express 
 his satisfaction and delight, and only regretted 
 .that he could not arrange to be at home before 
 Christmas Eve, when however, they might expect 
 him without fail. 
 
 Blanche, Barbara, and Hester Seymour en- 
 listed the new comers at once in the preparations 
 which they were making for the church decora- 
 tions, and their assistance was the more requisite 
 as Mr. Woods had been summoned away, in conse- 
 quence of his mother's illness, on the morning 
 after Gerald's return, and he too was not expected 
 back until the last thing on Christmas Eve. 
 
 One morning, after breakfast, Gerald drew Sid- 
 ney on one side. 
 
 ^' Come into the study, Sid, for a minute," he 
 said, taking his cousin by the arm. Then as they 
 went along the passage together, he added, 
 *' I can't stay here for to-morrow you know. I 
 must go away to-day." 
 
 ** My dear fellow, what is that for ?" enquired 
 .Sidney. 
 
 ** This is Christmas Eve. I must hear Mass 
 to-morrow. At any rate, I could not be he;:e. It
 
 Gerald's oedeal, 255 
 
 would be too trying for all of us. I am sure you 
 must see that." 
 
 Sidney did not attempt to argue the question. 
 It was one he could not enter into. If Gerald's 
 religion required him to absent himself from his 
 family on the morrow, that was his affair. 
 
 " You will come back again, I suppose ?" he 
 said. "I shall remain here, as I am here." 
 
 *' Oh, of course," answered Gerald. "As to 
 when I shall return, that will depend on circum- 
 stances." 
 
 He was evidently in low spirits. Sidney lit a 
 cigar, and strolled off in the direction of the 
 Btables. 
 
 ** Tell Blanche I am at her serrice when she 
 wants me," he said, as he left the room. 
 
 Blanche had informed Gerald and Sidney at 
 breakfast, that she should require their services in 
 an hour's time for some mysterious purpose, and 
 begged they would not take themselves out of the 
 way. 
 
 She came into the study soon after Sidney had 
 left, with her hat on, in search of them. Gerald 
 was standing at the window. He turned round, 
 and a smile lighted up his face, which had been 
 grave enough a moment before, when he saw who 
 it was. 
 
 ** Now then, I am come to carry you off," she 
 said. " Where is Sidney ?" 
 
 ** He is quite ready," answered Gerald, taking
 
 256 gera^ld's ordeal, 
 
 her head between his two hands, and kissing her. 
 fair open brow. " I will go and call him." 
 
 "You will find me in the hall, then," said 
 Blanche. " I must just speak to mamma, for one 
 minute before I go." 
 
 When Gerald walked up to the front door with 
 Sidney soon after, he found his sister standing on 
 the steps of the portico waiting for them. 
 
 ** Now then," she cried, " there is no time to 
 lose. Hester will wonder what has become of 
 us. I daresay she has been hard at work for the 
 last hour. It is a good thing we have you two 
 creatures to help us, as Mr. Woods doesn't come 
 back till quite late, and Ferdinand won't be here 
 till nearly dinner time, I suppose." 
 
 Lady Frances and Barbara were standing by the 
 hall fire. 
 
 *' How pleasant it is to hear her laugh again 
 like that," said the former, as her eye followed 
 Blanche and her companions down the drive. 
 
 " Yes," answered Barbara. ** Blanche's spirits 
 have risen wonderfully of late. I think cousin 
 Sid's visit must have something to do with it. It 
 looks decidedly suspicious." 
 
 " My dear girl, don't talk such nonsense," said 
 Lady Frances, gravely. " How dehghtful it will 
 be to see Gerald and Ferdinand together once 
 more," she continued, " it will seem quite like 
 old times." And the mother sighed and smiled, 
 and pressed a kiss on her niece's forehead, feeling
 
 Gerald's oedeal, 257 
 
 in the soft gladness of heart, to which she had 
 been a stranger of late, a necessity for kissing 
 some one. Barbara allowed herself to be kissed, 
 although she did not return the caress in any 
 way, and then hurried off, to practise a song her 
 cousin Ferdinand was fond of, whilst Lady Frances 
 went about her household duties. 
 
 Blanche was very busy that morning. She took 
 Gerald and Sidney into the church, and made 
 them help her and Miss Seymour to arrange the 
 wreaths and flowers, which they had been preparing 
 for some time past, against the festival. Only 
 once did a cloud overshadow the brightness of her 
 mood, and that was when the woman, whose time- 
 honoured office it was to throw the church into 
 disorder every Saturday morning, and set it to 
 rights again on Saturday afternoon, and who was 
 always there to lend a helping hand at " dressing" 
 times, came up to her, and whispered, "Well, 
 Miss, I am just pleased to see Mr. Gerald amongst 
 us once again. I always said he would come back, 
 although there was others as held out that he 
 wouldn't. Just as if it was likely he would ever 
 desert the Rector and all of us like that !" 
 
 " Give me that wi*eath of ivy, please," answered 
 Blanche. Her voice shook, and it was all she 
 could do for the moment to restrain her tears. 
 She looked round and saw Gerald bending over 
 the font with Hester Seymour. They were 
 placing moss on the steps, as a ground work for 
 
 17
 
 258 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 the camellias and other choice flowers, which were 
 to adorn it a little later. Gerald turned round 
 suddenly, and caught Blanche's eye. *' Come 
 here, darling," he cried, " and give us the henefit 
 of your advice. Miss Seymour does not know 
 whether to fill in the space between the little 
 pillars or not." 
 
 Blanche hurried up to them, and in the discus- 
 sion which ensued, speedily forgot the pang which 
 the poor woman's observation had caused her. 
 
 When luncheon was over, Gerald followed his 
 sister into the drawing-room, and told her that he 
 was going up to London, by the evening train from 
 Milsom. 
 
 *' I shall not say anything to my father. The 
 carriage will take me when it goes to fetch Ferdi- 
 nand. Sidney will explain to him, when I am 
 gone, the reason of my disappearance. I am sure 
 it will be best. I could not bear, Blanche, dar- 
 ling, to be here to-morrow, and not go to church 
 with you all. You will understand that, I am 
 sure." 
 
 *' Yes, yes, I see," answered poor Blanche. 
 She had not thought of it, and all the bright- 
 ness of the last few hours seemed to fade away at 
 once. 
 
 When Lady Frances was toldj her eyes filled 
 with tears, and she did not speak for a few mo- 
 ments. Then she asked Gerald, who was bending
 
 GERALD S ORDEiJi. 259 
 
 over her, " When do you return ? When shall 
 we see you again ?" 
 
 ** Oh, very soon, I promise yon it shall be very 
 soon, dearest,'* he said. " I shall see Ferdinand 
 for a minute at the station. God knows what 
 even this peep of you all, has been to me." 
 
 Sidney accompanied him to the station. The 
 servants wondered at Mr. Gerald's luggage being 
 placed in the carriage. They had thought he was 
 only going to meet his brother. Mr. Lennox was 
 not at home when they started, and no other 
 observations were made. Barbara was in the 
 village, and Lady Frances and Blanche took leave 
 of him upstairs. 
 
 "When they arrived at the station, th^ train from 
 London was due, and Gerald had to wait ten 
 minutes for his. 
 
 " Here it comes," said Sidney, who was stand- 
 ing on the edge of the platform and looking down 
 the rail. Li another minute, the engine, with its 
 long line of carriages, came puffing up, and stop- 
 ped on the opposite side. 
 
 Before it had moved off again, the beU rang for 
 the up train. 
 
 "There!" exclaimed Sidney, "you won't see 
 him after all !'* 
 
 The train which had brought down Ferdinand 
 Lennox, went slowly off as the other arrived, and 
 Gerald had to get in : feeling rather disgusted 
 than otherwise. He at once crossed over to the
 
 260 geealb's ordeal. 
 
 further end of the carriage, and let down the win- 
 dow. His brother was standing on the opposite 
 platform with a hat-box in his hand : Mr. Woods 
 was by his side. They could not cross until the 
 lip train had started, 
 
 ** Ferdinand !" cried Gerald, from his window. 
 Ferdinand started at the well-known voice, and 
 looked in the direction from whence it came. 
 
 At that instant the train began to move. The 
 brothers could only wave their hands at each other. 
 Ferdinand could not make out what this departure 
 of Gerald's meant, and was dreadfully disap- 
 pointed. The fii«t person he saw when Gerald's 
 train was gone, and he had crossed over the line, 
 was Sidney, 
 
 ** What does this mean ? and where is Gerald 
 gone ?" he asked. 
 
 " I will tell you all about it on our way home," 
 answered Sidney. " Come along. We must not 
 keep the horses waiting." 
 
 Then he shook hands with Mr. Woods, and 
 told him they would be very glad to see him at 
 Wentmore. " Where," he added, " Miss Blanche 
 has been making us work hard all the morning, 
 and I don't know when they will be done to- 
 night." 
 
 Gerald drove straight to his club on arriving in 
 town. As his cab stopped at the door, another 
 was just starting from it, and the occupant was 
 giving his directions to the driver. Gerald thought
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 261 
 
 he knew the voice. He looked out. It was liis 
 cousin, Lord Dereham. 
 
 ** Holloa ! Gerald, is that you ?' ' exclaimed the 
 young lord, catching sight of him. "Where do 
 you spring from ? How are you, old fellow ?'^ 
 
 Gerald sprang out and grasped his cousin's 
 hand. In a few words he explained that he had 
 come up from Wentmore, and why he had done 
 so. 
 
 **Ah, yes, I understand," said Lord Dereham, 
 pulling a grave face. " And where are you going? 
 You have given up ' your old lodgings, I sup- 
 pose ?" 
 
 *' Yes ;" said Gerald. " I shall put up at an 
 hotel somewhere. It is not worth while to take 
 rooms for the shoi-t time I shall stay.'* 
 
 *' Oh, nonsense, don't go to an hotel," cried the 
 other, who knew enough to helieve that his 
 cousin's purse, just then, could not be a heavy 
 one. " There's no one in Grosvenor Square. 
 Old Mother Hastings will make you comfortable 
 there, as long as you like to stay. Tell her to give 
 you my room, which is all ready. I am very glad 
 I met you. The idea of your going anywhere 
 else!" 
 
 He then explained that he was returning to his 
 place in Norfolk, where his father and sister had 
 joined their party. *' I shall be up again soon, I 
 daresay," he said, " and if you have nothing better 
 to do, shall carry you off with me, when your
 
 262 gebLald's ordeal. 
 
 churcli-going days are over. I don't suppose you 
 would care to be down there just now !" Then 
 laughingly shaking hands with his cousin, he drove 
 off. 
 
 Gerald ran into the club, asked if there were 
 any letters for him, and spoke to one or two ac- 
 quaintances who expressed themselves delighted 
 at his return, and wondered at the same time at 
 seeing him in town just then. He did not stay to 
 enlighten them, when they supposed he was going 
 down to his father's, or somewhere in the country 
 for '* to-morrow," but getting into his cab again, 
 he told the driver, to take him to Grosvenor 
 Square.
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Family gatherings at Christmas time, are plea- 
 sant things, but as years pass on and changes 
 come, we look round, and miss, first one dear 
 familiar face, and then another from the fireside, 
 one is tempted to regret a custom, which induces 
 so many heart-aches in the end. And the longer 
 such meetings continue undisturbed, the more 
 sadly is their discontinuance felt when they cease. 
 
 Christmas at Wentmore hitherto, had always 
 seen the Rector's family assembled together. Now, 
 it could do so no more. But if his absence caused a 
 void at Wentmore, Gerald felt the separation from 
 those most dear to him no less painfully, as he knelt 
 that day, among strangers, in a strange church, to 
 receive the Bread of Life. Nevertheless, there was 
 a sweetness about his first Catholic Christmas 
 which was all its own. He had been present at 
 the Midnight Mass at Farm Street once before, 
 but that was not the same thing. He had felt 
 more or less an intruder then. Now, he had a
 
 264 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 right to be there, and the " Gloria in Excelsis'* 
 which heralded in the season of gladness, had 
 for him a meaning, it had never had before. 
 
 As soon as Ferdinand understood the reason of 
 his brother's departure, he blamed himself for not 
 having foreseen it sooner. " Of course," he said, 
 addressing Sidney, and Mr. "Woods as they drove 
 towards Wentmore, *' I know what he must feel 
 about it, and I was a fool for not thinking of it 
 before. I daresay he will be down again in a day 
 or two." 
 
 *' I did not know your brother had returned," 
 said Mr. Woods. ** But now I think of it, I am 
 sure, it must have been he whom I saw, walking 
 with you, the night before I left Wentmore," he 
 added, turning to Sidney Graham. *' I was cross- 
 ing the road near the village, when I passed two 
 persons who were going towards it, and the voice 
 of one of them, struck me as being like that of Mr. 
 Gerald Lennox." 
 
 "No doubt it was his," answered Sidney, laugh- 
 ing. ** We haunted the environs of Wentmore till 
 nightfall, and then Gerald did not show himself 
 until I had paved the way for his appearance, by 
 the most consummate acts of diplomacy." 
 
 He then recounted the story of their arrival at 
 Wentmore on the night in question. 
 
 *' When did your brother go abroad ?" asked 
 Mr. Woods of Ferdinand, when Sidney had fin-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 265 
 
 ished. ** Could he by any chance, have been in 
 London on the first of last month ?'* 
 
 ** I don't think so," replied Ferdinand, ''why ?" 
 
 ** Because I fancied, that I saw him that night 
 near the London Bridge Station," said the curate. 
 ** I had been seeing a friend off by the train, and 
 was passing near the entrance of the Terminus 
 Hotel, when I noticed some one I thought must be 
 your brother, going into it. I had just been en- 
 trusted with a parcel for him, and thinking I 
 might be able to deliver it at once, although I was 
 rather surprised at seeing him there, I hurried 
 after him. I explained to the people of the hotel 
 that I wished to speak to the gentleman who had 
 just entered, and whom I thought was a Mr. Len- 
 nox, but they assured me that he was a Mr. 
 Stewart ; and I took it for gi-anted, therefore, that 
 I was mistaken." 
 
 "Curiously enough," said Ferdinand, " Stewart 
 is one of Gerald's names. It was my mother's 
 family name. But it could not have been he 
 you saw, as he certainly was not in England 
 then." 
 
 "I think I know a little more about that than 
 you do," said Sidney, who had been listening to 
 Mr. Woods' narrative with a smile. '' As it hap- 
 pens, Gerald was in London, and at that very 
 hotel on the night in question, though whether 
 it was really he that Mr. Woods saw, I cannot 
 say." And then he proceeded to recount the his-
 
 266 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 tory of Gerald's expedition from Calais and back, 
 to whicli the others listened with interest. 
 
 " By Jove!" exclaimed Ferdinand. " Then you 
 were no doubt right, Woods, after all !" 
 
 " It must have been he, and the hotel people 
 made some mistake," said Arthur Woods, 
 thoughtfully. " But taking it for granted at the 
 time, that I had been deceived myself, I thought 
 no more of it until the other night, when equally 
 to my astonishment, as I imagined him still 
 abroad, I fancied I saw him again, and thought 
 it would be strange if I were mistaken a second 
 time." 
 
 Blanche had mentioned to Gerald her conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Hay ward, on the night of Mrs. 
 Gregory's tea-party, and he had explained the 
 puzzle of his appearance in the Dover train, at a 
 time when he was supposed to be on the other 
 side of the water. 
 
 Blanche's eyes filled with tears as he told her in 
 a few words, of his longing to be near them again 
 once more, even without their knowledge, but she 
 smiled at the same time. Her comment upon the 
 story, was a short but expressive one. She stop- 
 ped, (they were walking together,) made her bro- 
 ther stoop down, kissed him on his forehead, and 
 said, " You darling !" And then began to talk of 
 something else. 
 
 As Gerald had not named the day on which, 
 they might expect him back at Wentmore^ Ferdi--
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 267 
 
 nand thought at the end of a week, that it was high 
 time he should go up to town, and see what he 
 was ahout. Accordingly, telling Lady Frances 
 and Blanche that they might expect them hoth 
 back in the evening, he drove off in the pony 
 carriage to Milsom Station, and in a couple of 
 hours time arrived at his uncle's door in Grosvenor 
 Square. 
 
 As he stood under the porch after ringing at 
 the bell, he heard a tap at the dining-room win- 
 dow, which looked out upon the Square. He 
 turned round and saw his brother's face. The 
 next moment, Gerald himself opened the door. 
 
 *' I was half expecting you," he said. "Dere- 
 ham has just come, and wants to take me down 
 into Norfolk with him. Come and hear what he 
 says." 
 
 "Oh! that won't do at all," exclaimed Ferdi- 
 nand, as he followed his brother into the dininff- 
 room. "I told them I should bring you back 
 with me to Wentmore to-night." 
 
 Lord Dereham was sitting at the table, discuss-- 
 ing an impromptu lunch, which the old house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Hastings, had furnished as well as 
 she could at a short notice. 
 
 ** How are you, my dear boy ?" he said, his 
 mouth full of bread and cheese, as he held out .a 
 hand to Ferdinand as he entered. " "VMiat is that 
 you say ? Take Gerald back to Wentmore with
 
 268 geuald's ordeal. 
 
 you ? Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, we 
 shall insist upon carrying you off with us !" 
 
 He then proceeded to explain, that having dis- 
 covered the existence of a Roman Catholic chapel 
 in his neighbourhood, or rather, that there was 
 Mass said weekly at the house of a Roman Catho- 
 lic gentleman, who had not long been in their part 
 of the world, and who was " a very nice fellow, I 
 can tell you, with a deucedly good-looking little 
 wife too," he had come up to London expressly to 
 take Gerald back with him that very day. 
 
 ** He has no longer a shadow of excuse, for 
 moping by himself, up here," continued the good- 
 natured young lord, " and my father and Margaret 
 will never forgive me, if I go back without him. 
 If you are pledged to return in his company to 
 Wentmore, my dear Ferd, all I can say is, that 
 you must just come down with us now, stay as 
 long as he does, and then you can take him with 
 you when you go, if you like !" 
 
 Lord Dereham was a distinguished looking 
 young fellow. Both his cousins were very fond 
 of him, and there was a winning gracefulness 
 about his manner which it was difficult to resist. 
 
 "What does Gerald say himself?" asked Ferdi- 
 nand. 
 
 Gerald explained that there was yet another Day 
 of Obligation at hand, and he did not like putting 
 himself out of the way of being able to go to 
 church. His objection to leaving town on this
 
 GERALD S ORDEAL. 269 
 
 score, had been oyerruled by Dereham, and he felt 
 incHned to accede to his proposal. " If you will 
 come too," he added, " we can then go back to 
 Wentmore together, as I shall certainly see them 
 all again before I return to Brussels." 
 
 The mention of Brussels, made Ferdinand and 
 Lord Dereham look at each other, as they were 
 both desirous of keeping Gerald in England if 
 possible, but they offered no remark at the time, 
 and it was agreed that Ferdinand should telegraph 
 to Wentmore to acquaint them with his change of 
 purpose, on their way to the Eastern Counties 
 station, from which they started for Norfolk by 
 the five o'clock train. 
 
 Considerable disappointment was felt at the 
 Kectory, on the arrival of the despatch. Lady 
 Frances did not say much about it, but Blanche 
 knew that she needed cheering, and exerted her- 
 self more than usual that evening, to be lively and 
 agreeable. Sidney's presence was a great help. 
 He sang, and Barbara played. Mr. Lennox sat in 
 his easy chair apparently engrossed by a new book 
 he was reading, but Blanche noticed that the leaves 
 were not turned over frequently, and she strongly 
 suspected that her father's thoughts were dwelling 
 upon the absentees. Her surmise was confirmed 
 by his starting up, when Barbara closed the piano, 
 and saying as he stood on the rug for a minute, 
 
 ** I suppose Gerald's taste of foreign life, has 
 made him find Wentmore extra dull, or else those
 
 270 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Jesuit fellows are afraid of trusting such a raw 
 recruit too much with his own family. As for 
 Ferdinand, I take it the shooting at Dereham's 
 has heen too great a temptation for him to resist, 
 and so you need not expect to se§ either of them 
 again for some time." 
 
 This was addressed to his wife, and having thus 
 given vent to his feelings, the Rector walked off 
 into his library and shut himself up for the rest of 
 the evening. 
 
 Blanche was pained for her father, for she felt 
 that he was annoyed. She tried to persuade her- 
 self that Gerald's new opinions had weaned him 
 in some degree from them all, and she knew that 
 she was deceiving herself when she did so. But 
 she resolved to write to both her brothers the next 
 day, and beg them not to remain away longer than 
 they could Tielp. 
 
 The New Year had opened with considerable 
 severity. There was a heavy fall of snow, and the 
 ladies were almost entirely confined to the house. 
 Sidney made himself completely at home amongst 
 them, and declared that for his part, he did not 
 care how long the roads were blocked up. 
 
 One morning, they were sitting round the fire 
 in the library. Lady Frances and the girls were 
 working, Sidney had established himself with a 
 novel in a very comfortable chair. The Rector, 
 who was never kept at home by weather at any 
 time, was out in the parish.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 271 
 
 " You might as well read aloud to us, Master 
 Sidney," said Blanche, putting down her work, 
 and looking up at her cousin. "Is it anything 
 very interesting you have got hold of?'* 
 
 Sidney was not fond of reading aloud. 
 
 "I don't think you would care about it," he 
 said, without taking his eyes off his book. " It 
 is one of Grant's books I picked up at Woods's the 
 other day." 
 
 " That reminds me that I have not seen Mr. 
 Woods, excepting in church, since Christmas 
 Day," remarked Lady Frances. 
 
 " I suppose he has been very busy lately," said 
 Barbara. *' I know there is a good deal of sick- 
 ness among the poor." 
 
 " He is a queer fellow," said Sidney, "I can't 
 make him out at all." 
 
 Blanche got up and walked to the window. 
 
 " There is papa coming up the drive," she said, 
 " he has no umbrella, and is quite white with the 
 snow which the wind is blowing about in all dii-ec- 
 tions." 
 
 Presently, the Rector was heard stamping- his 
 feet, and shaking himself in the hall. Blanche 
 went out to help him off with his great coat. "Is 
 mamma in there ?" he asked, nodding towards the 
 library. 
 
 "Yes, we have been busy working all the morn- 
 ing, and I was trying to get that lazy fellow, Sid- 
 ney, to read to us, but he pretends his book is not
 
 272 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 an interesting one," answered Blanche, as she 
 followed her father into the room. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I have some news for you, and 
 not very good news either," Mr. Lennox said, 
 walking up to the fire, and stooping to warm his 
 hands. 
 
 "What is it?" enquired his wife, and the others 
 all looked up anxiously. 
 
 "My curate has resigned," returned the Rector, 
 " and is going away as soon as I can find a suc- 
 cessor." 
 
 " Mr. Woods going away !" exclaimed all the 
 ladies at once. And Lady Frances added, " Is 
 his mother worse ? or what is the reason ?" 
 
 " He did not very clearly explain himself," 
 answered Mr. Lennox, " but said something about 
 wishing to work in a town. I suppose he thinks 
 himself thrown away here. I told him I was 
 sorry to lose him, and so I am. A good curate is 
 the most difficult thing to find, and I thought I 
 was provided with one for some time. Now I 
 shall have all the bother of looking for another, 
 answering advertisements, and having fellows on 
 trial, not one of whom will probably do, for Heaven 
 knows how long. I wish to goodness the man 
 would change his mind, but I don't think there 
 is any chance of that, unless you can persuade 
 him." 
 
 " Luncheon is on the table, my lady," said a 
 footman, opening the door.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 273 
 
 During luncheon Mr. Woods' resignation formed 
 the topic of conyersation. 
 
 " I wonder if Mrs. Gregory knows about it," 
 said Blanche. " She will be in despair, as Mr. 
 Woods is a great favourite in that quarter. Sid- 
 ney and I, promised to call for Hester this after- 
 noon, if it cleared up sufficiently to take a walk, 
 so we shall soon hear. It is of no use our asking 
 you to go with us I know, Bibi ?" 
 
 "No, thank you," said Barbara, with a shiver, 
 ** I prefer staying at home such weather as this. 
 I have some letters to write which I have put off 
 for a long time, and shall get through them when 
 you are gone, if I can." 
 
 When Blanche and Sidney were shewn into 
 Mrs. Gregory's drawing-room an hour or so later, 
 they found the object of their late discussion sit- 
 ting with the old lady, and her fii-st words proved 
 that she was as full of the subject of his departure 
 as they had been. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, I am so glad you have come!" 
 she exclaimed, as Blanche pressed a kiss upon her 
 cheek. " If anyone is likely to prevail upon this 
 naughty man to change his mind, it is you, for 
 everyone knows you have more influence with him 
 than anyone else. I have said all I can, but it is 
 of no use." 
 
 During this speech, the curate who looked some- 
 what confused, had been shaking hands with the 
 
 new comers. Sidney eyed him curiously, and with 
 18
 
 274 geuald's ordeal. 
 
 an attention he had not hitherto bestowed upon 
 him. The mention of Blanche's supposed in- 
 fluence over the young man, in some way dis- 
 pleased him, and he replied coldly to Arthur's 
 inquiries after his health and well-being. 
 
 Blanche said how surprised and sorry, they all 
 were to hear that Mr. Woods was thinking of 
 leaving them, and looked as if she meant what 
 she said. Sidney noticed the look, as well as the 
 accent, and felt more disturbed still. 
 
 What was it that made this young man so sen- 
 sitive about any preference, real or imaginary, which 
 might be entertained for his cousin Blanche by 
 another, or which she might evince for some one 
 else ? Could it be that he was jealous ? 
 
 Blanche inquired for Hester. She had just 
 gone into the village, her aunt said, but 
 would be back directly, and was expecting them 
 she knew, so begged they would wait. " I want 
 to shew you my china plates in the hall, Mr. 
 Graham," she added, "I know you are a judge of 
 such things, and have been wishing for your 
 opinion. If you will come with me we will have 
 a look at them, and leave Blanche to bring Mr. 
 Woods to his senses, during our absence." 
 
 Sidney looked as if he wished Mrs. Gregory — 
 somewhere else. Arthur Woods muttered some- 
 thing about being obliged to take leave as the days 
 were so short, and Blanche begged to be allowed 
 to come and look at the china plates too, but Mrs.
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 275 
 
 Gregoi7 was peremptory, and carried oflf Sidney 
 into the hall, leaving Blanche and the curate 
 alone together. 
 
 For a few moments neither of them spoke. 
 Then Blanche taking up a book from the table 
 and pretending to examine it, said, '' I hope, Mr. 
 Woods, that you have heard no bad news which 
 obliges you to leave us ? I can't tell you how 
 sorry we are to think you are going." 
 
 Arthur Woods did not answer, and Blanche, 
 looking up, was surprised to see his eyes fixed 
 upon her, with an expression she had never noticed 
 in them before. He had advanced to the table 
 near which she was sitting, and stood leaning 
 upon it, and looking across at her with a gaze 
 which was almost fierce in its intensity. Pre- 
 Bently, in a voice that sounded strangely moved, 
 he said, 
 
 *' Are you sorry I am going. Miss Lennox ? 
 Are you sorry?" 
 
 Those words, that look, revealed all. Blanche 
 Lennox saw what was before her. She knew that 
 this man loved her, and that she must nerve her- 
 self for the hardest task a woman with a woman's 
 heart, can ever have to perform. She could not 
 prevent what was coming, though she would have 
 given anything to have been able to do so. She 
 felt that it remained with her to make or mar the 
 happiness of another's life, and she could give him 
 no hope, — none whatever.
 
 276 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 *' Mr. Woods," she said, and her voice slightly 
 trembled, and her cheek turned pale as she spoke, 
 ** you have so often and so kindly let me feel that 
 I was a help to you in the parish, and we have 
 always worked so pleasantly together amongst the 
 poor people, that I must necessarily miss you, and 
 regret your absence when you are gone. There is 
 no one in the place I am sure, who will not grieve 
 over your departure.'* 
 
 He came round to where she sat, and stood 
 close beside her. 
 
 " Shall I tell you. Miss Lennox ? Shall I tell 
 you, Blanche, tvhy I am going ?" 
 
 He had never called her by her Christian name 
 before. Five minutes sooner Blanche would have 
 been amazed at his doing so, now, she scarcely 
 observed it. 
 
 " I hope it is not on Mrs. Woods' account ?" 
 she faltered. She knew it was not, but she 
 scarcely knew what to say. 
 
 "It is on your account," answered Arthur, 
 folding his arms, and drawing himself up to his 
 full height. " On your account, because I dare 
 not trust myself near you any longer, because I 
 am such a poor weak wretch that I must tear 
 myself away from the only spot on earth which 
 has any attraction for me, lest I should go mad. 
 Because I can no longer look upon you, listen to 
 you, or be in your presence without feeling des-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 277 
 
 perate and distracted. Because, — because I love 
 you." 
 
 Every vestige of colour had faded from his 
 features, and the effort with which he spoke was 
 painfully evident. 
 
 Blanche rose up. She was perfectly calm now. 
 She did not hesitate about what must be done, 
 but her heart was full of pity for the pain which 
 she was obliged to inflict. 
 
 ** I am very very sorry for this, Mr. "Woods," 
 she said, and at once he saw there was no hope. 
 ** I cannot tell you what I would give for it not to 
 have been so. I feel deeply, as any woman must 
 do, the preference you have shewn me, but I much 
 regret that you should have wasted a thought 
 upon me in that way. Will you shake hands with 
 me, and let me hope that I may keep you always 
 as a friend ?" 
 
 He seized her hand and pressed it passionately 
 to his lips. 
 
 " I knew, I knew that it must be so," he cried. 
 " I did not even dream for a moment that it could 
 be otherwise, and I had not intended to say a 
 word to you ever on the subject, but I could not 
 help it. You asked me the reason for my going, 
 and I have told you. Will you, — can you forgive 
 me?" 
 
 Blanche held out her hand, and he again seized 
 and pressed it fervently. 
 
 '* God bless you, God bless you," he said.
 
 278 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 " and think of me sometimes if you can, with 
 pity." 
 
 She had sunk back into a chair, and turned 
 away her head to conceal the tears which in spite 
 of herself would come into her eyes. When she 
 looked up again, he was gone. 
 
 A low old-fashioned door in the vestibule be- 
 tween the drawing-room and hall, led out into the 
 garden. Through this the curate passed, and so 
 left the house without Mrs. Gregory or Sidney's 
 becoming aware of his departure. 
 
 Blanche got up and walked to the window. She 
 saw him hurrying away in the distance, and a 
 feeling of great tenderness towards him swelled up 
 in her heart as she watched his retreating form. 
 Not that she regretted what she had done, or the 
 tone she had taken, but no woman can listen to a 
 declaration of love, and especially for the first time, 
 on the part of any man without being greatly 
 moved. She blamed herself for having perhaps 
 unconsciously encouraged this feeling which she 
 was utterly powerless to return, but she could 
 not remember when or in what way she had done 
 so. So much that had puzzled her in the curate's 
 conduct was now fully explained. His avoidance 
 of her of late, his changed manner when they 
 did meet, so different to what it had been. She 
 understood it all, and she wondered in the sim^ 
 plicity of her heart, what there could have been 
 about her that Arthur Woods had seen to love !
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 279 
 
 When Mrs. Gregory and Sidney entered the 
 drawing-room, they were accompanied by Hester 
 who had returned from the village. 
 
 "Is Mr. Woods gone?" exclaimed Mrs. Gre- 
 gory, perceiving that Blanche was alone^ " or what 
 has become of him ?" And she looked round the 
 room as if she half suspected he was concealed 
 under one of the chairs or sofas. 
 
 Blanche felt hysterical and gave a little laugh. 
 Hester hurried up to her ; with a woman's in- 
 stinct she guessed what had happened. 
 
 ** Do come upstairs with me for one minute, 
 darling," she said, in a low tone, as Blanche looked 
 at her, evidently unable to speak. Then as she 
 hurried her from the room, she added, to her aunt, 
 " Mr. Woods must have gone out by the garden. 
 He often goes that way, and does not stand on 
 ceremony as you know." 
 
 The old lady looked puzzled. She saw some- 
 thing was the matter, but could not make out 
 what. 
 
 ** If you are going for a walk you ought to start 
 soon, my dears," she said. And then tm-ning to 
 Sidney, she began a long dissertation upon the rela- 
 tive merits of some china cups which Lady Frances 
 had, and those which she had been showing him 
 in a cabinet in the hall. Sidney did not care an 
 atom about the china cups, but was impatient to 
 depart, and wondered at the agitation which he
 
 280 GERALD S ORDEAL. 
 
 had noticed on Blanche's countenance, with a 
 shrewd suspicion of the cause. 
 
 " Anyhow, it has come to nothing," he thought, 
 " or the fellow would not have gone off in the 
 way he has," and his spirits rose with the reflec- 
 tion. 
 
 When she went to her room that night, Blanche 
 found a parcel and a note lying on her table. She 
 opened the note and read as follows : 
 
 " When I think over what took place this after- 
 noon, I reproach myself bitterly. It was such 
 utter madness and presumption on my part to lift 
 my eyes to you, and yet I cannot help feeling glad 
 that you should know that I love you, — and what 
 is more, shall love you and you only, as long as I 
 live. All I ask is, that you wall not forget me 
 entirely, above all, that you will remember me in 
 your prayers. During the short time that must 
 elapse before I leave Wentmore, I shall not trust 
 myself to see you again, or at any rate, if we meet 
 it will be in the presence of others. I send you 
 therefore now, a small parcel of books which was 
 entrusted to me by a friend, for your brother Mr. 
 Gerald Lennox. When I was in town in October 
 last, he asked me as I was returning to Wentmore 
 soon, if I would take charge of them, and deliver 
 them to your brother in person. He explained to 
 me that the books were not from himself but from 
 Father Clifford, the Jesuit priest, who had received 
 your brother into the Roman Church. My friend,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 281 
 
 Storey, is liimself a Roman Catholic, and often with 
 Father Clifford, and when he heard him say that 
 he wished to send the parcel to your brother by 
 some safe means he offered to take charge of it 
 as he knew I was in town, and should be return- 
 ing to Wentmore almost immediately. I met him 
 at the London Bridge Station that same night, 
 and he gave me the parcel. He was going into 
 the country by a late train, and I had just seen 
 him off, and was leaving the station with the parcel 
 under my arm, when I saw some one I thought 
 must be your brother, enter the Terminus Hotel 
 close by. Although much astonished at the coin- 
 cidence, I ran after him thinking to execute my 
 commission on the spot. I believe it really was 
 he I saw, but owing to some mistake, the people 
 at the hotel declared that the gentleman who had 
 just gone in was a Mr. Stewart, and concluding I 
 must have been misled by an accidental likeness 
 I went away. When I returned here the next 
 day, I found that your brother was gone abroad, 
 and was not expected soon to return, so I put the 
 parcel on one side intending to ask Lady Frances 
 or yourself to take charge of it, and keep it or 
 send it to him as you thought proper. In some 
 way it slipped my memory however, and it was 
 only when I heard of his late visit at the Rectory 
 that I thought of it again. I send it therefore 
 now to you, and I should wish to have the cir- 
 cumstances which led to my keeping it so long,
 
 2S2 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 explained to him. I do not know why I have 
 troubled you with this long story, bat it is some- 
 thing to feel that I am writing to you, — that you 
 will hold this paper in your hand — that you will 
 read what I am writing, and I dare not write to 
 you, save on indifferent subjects. I have no right 
 to address you even upon those, but I wished you 
 to know the history of the parcel, and I shall 
 have no opportunity of telling it you otherwise. 
 Oh ! Blanche — for the last time, let me call 
 you so, forgive me. God bless you always and 
 for ever. 
 
 Blanche read the letter, not without emotion, 
 more than once. It was so unlike a love letter, 
 and yet a deep despairing love breathed in every 
 line. It was all about a parcel of books intended 
 for her brother, and which, by accident, the writer 
 had kept in his possession longer than he had 
 intended, and still it touched her as a letter diffe- 
 rently worded would not have done. It seemed to 
 say in every word, " Let me write on. I am 
 happy. I am writing to you. I will not offend 
 you by saying a word more about myself than I 
 can help, but whilst I write I can still feel that 
 there is something passing between us. When I 
 have done, it will all be over." 
 
 She opened the parcel and examined the books.
 
 geeald's ordeal. 283 
 
 They were controversial ones. On the Roman 
 Catholic side, of course. She thought she would 
 look at them again another time, and laid them 
 aside for the present. That night she knelt long 
 at her Prie-Dieu, and the name of Arthur Woods 
 was not forgotten in her prayers.
 
 284 gera^ld's ordeal. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Abthur Woods did not remain at Wentmore 
 many days after that interview with Blanche at 
 Mrs. Gregory's. He pleaded his mother's increas- 
 ing ill health, as a reason for hastening his depar- 
 ture, and persuaded Mr. Lennox to let him put in 
 a substitute, until his permanent successor was 
 appointed. Blanche had confided to her mother 
 all that had passed between Arthur and herself, 
 and Lady Frances had given her husband a hint 
 upon the subject. Mr. Lennox did not know, 
 however, that his curate had actually " spoken" to 
 his daughter, and considered that the young man 
 was behaving exceedingly well, in going away 
 under the circumstances. He had shewn his good 
 taste by falling in love with a girl in every way so 
 charming as Blanche, and his good sense in going 
 away, as soon as he had done so. Mr. Lennox 
 was immensely proud of his family, and anything 
 like a mesalliance was especially distasteful to him. 
 He had inherited this feeling from his father,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 285 
 
 althougli in his brother's case lie had successfully 
 combated the old man's prejudice on the subject. 
 He would have considered it as the height of pre- 
 sumption on his curate's part, if he had seriously 
 thought of aspiring to the hand of a Lennox, but 
 Arthur "Woods, a person of no family himself, 
 knew his place, as the Kector mentally phrased it, 
 too well to dream of anything of the sort, and had 
 done quite the right thing in giving up his curacy, 
 and placing himself beyond the reach of tempta- 
 tion as soon as possible. As to Blanche's feelings, 
 Mr. Lennox did not entertain a moment's doubt. 
 She had not encouraged the young man in any 
 way, he was certain, and she had been too well 
 brought up to think of marrying anyone out of 
 her own *'set." Besides, she was much too young 
 to think about marrying at all, and with that 
 reflection, her father dismissed any further con- 
 sideration of her share in the question. 
 
 When it came to the parting, the Rector took 
 leave of his young coadjutor with sincere regret. 
 Lady Frances wrote him a kind note of farewell, 
 the night before he left, and Hester Seymour 
 and Barbara both gave him little remembrances of 
 themselves and Wentmore to take away with him. 
 Blanche acknowledged the receipt of his note, and 
 the parcel for Gerald, but she did not send him 
 any souvenir, and he understood her not doing so. 
 Hester Seymour knew all about him and Blanche, 
 and was exceedingly kind in her manner to him in
 
 286 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 consequence, whenever they met during the few 
 remaining days of his stay. She thought he had 
 shewn his discrimination in preferring Blanche to 
 herself, and was not in the least jealous. Whether 
 Mrs. Gregory would have been equally magnani- 
 mous if she had known the truth, is doubtful, but 
 she never guessed how matters really stood, and 
 no one took the trouble to enlighten her. She 
 carefully ascertained her favourite's future address, 
 and resolved, since he must go, not to lose sight 
 of him, let him go where he would. 
 
 So Arthur Woods left Wentmore, followed by 
 the lamentations of the poor amongst whom he 
 had laboured, and by the good wishes of all. He 
 carried a heavy heart with him, and when he 
 arrived at his mother's house in Dorset Square, 
 his young unmarried sister, the only one left at 
 home with the invalided widow, declared that he 
 looked ten years older than when he was there 
 last. He answered her observations with a melan- 
 choly smile, and said, he believed he had been 
 overworking himself lately, and wanted rest. The 
 next day he was so unlike himself, and seemed so 
 low at one time and excited at another, that Miss 
 Woods begged the medical man who was attending 
 her mother to see him. The doctor no sooner 
 took the young clergyman's hand in his, than he 
 looked very grave, and ordered him at once to 
 his bed. 
 
 ** My dear young lady," he said, *' I am afraid
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 287 
 
 yon will have two patients now upon your hands 
 instead of one." 
 
 And so it proved. For days and weeks Arthur 
 Woods lay dangerously ill. The doctor shook his 
 head, and the sister found her hands indeed full. 
 But she was a hrave little soul, and knew Where 
 to look for support and strength under such trials. 
 It was a weary and an anxious time, but at length, 
 by slow degrees, he recovered. When once more 
 allowed to leave his room and sit by his mother's 
 side, whilst their tender little nurse hovered smil- 
 ing round them both, he looked indeed the shadow 
 of his former self. 
 
 Tidings of his illness reached Wentmore, and 
 Mr. Lennox hastened up to town to assure Miss 
 Woods of his sympathy. He had an interview 
 with the doctor before he left, and gave that gen- 
 tleman to understand that his bill for medical 
 attendance was to be his affair entirely, and that 
 Mrs. Woods, whose income he knew to be a 
 limited one, was not to be held responsible for the 
 same. Before leaving town he went to Grosvenor 
 Square, and had a private conference with Mrs. 
 Hastings, who was a great friend of his, and that 
 good lady was careful to see that sundry delicacies 
 of fruit and game found their way to Dorset Square 
 at frequent intervals which were always left "By 
 order," and the recipients (although the young 
 lady had a guess upon the subject,) never knew 
 exactly from whom their benefactions came.
 
 288 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 When Lady Margaret Stewart returned to town 
 early in February, she went constantly by her 
 aunt's request to make enquiries at Mrs. "Woods' 
 door, and always reported the accounts to Went- 
 more afterwards. When these reports assumed a 
 favourable tone, Blanche looked brighter than she 
 had done since the news of Arthur's seizure first 
 arrived. She had been miserable, thinking he 
 might die, and then she should feel that she had 
 been the cause of his death. She did not love, 
 but she had always liked, the good, simple-hearted, 
 hard-working young curate, and she could not 
 bear to feel that she had however unwittingly and 
 innocently brought all this trouble upon him. 
 And so she was both glad and thankful when the 
 accounts of his progress were confirmed, and she 
 could put away the fear of any fatal issue to this 
 unfortunate business from her mind. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Gerald and Ferdinand had 
 spent a fortnight very pleasantly with their cousins 
 in Norfolk, where a large party had assembled. 
 Gerald had been able to form some pleasant 
 Catholic acquaintances. Lord Dereham's Papisti- 
 cal neighbour having also a house-full during the 
 Christmas season, and a good deal of intercourse 
 being kept up between them. At the end of that 
 time. Lord Norwood returned to town in order to 
 concert certain important political measures, with 
 his friends in the Upper House, before the meeting 
 of Parliament, and the two brothers accompanied
 
 geraxd's ordeal. 289 
 
 him. Lord Norwood had more than once, en- 
 deavoured to elicit from Gerald some clue as to 
 his future proceedings, but his nephew had been 
 very reserved on that point, and only intimated 
 his intention of returning to the continent for the 
 present. " Going abroad for a time is all very 
 well," the old lord observed to Ferdinand, after 
 one of these unsatisfactory colloquies with his 
 elder nephew, " especially as you tell me he has 
 had this unexpected help from an unknown quar- 
 ter. I wonder, by the way, who it can be? I 
 know, I never had any such mysterious and timely 
 windfalls when I was a youngster, and I wanted 
 them badly enough at one time. But life on the 
 continent is a desultory kind of thing if a fellow 
 has nothing to do, and any infra, dig. employment 
 would be worse than nothing. "Wliat I would do, 
 if he would let me, is to arrange with his father 
 that he should be started in some way in London, 
 where he is known, and could get on, though 
 goodness knows it is hard enough to get anything 
 for anybody to do now-a-days, and there is his 
 confounded religion in the way. Not but that I 
 have influence enough I think, to help him over 
 that difficulty, but somehow people are shy of 
 Papists, and there is no denying it. Now Gerald 
 is just the kind of fellow that would always be 
 trying to make converts, I am afi-aid. Don't you 
 think so ? And people won't stand that you 
 know." 
 
 19
 
 290 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Ferdinand assured liis uncle that Gerald had 
 not attempted anything of the sort with him, and 
 that was all he could say upon the subject. Lord 
 Norwood professed to be satisfied for the moment, 
 but the next time he found himself alone with his 
 daughter, he renewed his comments and misgiv- 
 ings as to Gerald's future well-doing. He liked 
 to be told that he was distressing himself need- 
 lessly on that score, and from Lady Margaret he 
 was sure to hear that. 
 
 The Lennoxes parted from their uncle at the 
 Shoreditch terminus. " Give my love to them 
 all," he said, as he stepped into the brougham 
 which was awaiting his arrival, "and tell your 
 mother I shall come down and see her before the 
 Session begins, if I can get away for a day or 
 two." 
 
 The evening of their return to Wentmore, 
 Blanche established herself in a corner of the 
 drawing-room with Gerald, and told him about 
 the parcel Mr. Woods had entrusted to her for 
 him, and how it had come into his possession. 
 ** I suppose it could not have been you he saw 
 that night in London?" she said, as she finished 
 her narrative. 
 
 *' It was I, though, there is no doubt about 
 that," answered Gerald. ** Something possessed 
 me not to give my real name when I went into the 
 hotel, and that was how the mistake occurred. 
 Btit now you may as well let me have my books.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 291 
 
 They are some Father Clifford was anxious I 
 should read, and as he promised me them a long 
 time ago, I have been wondering why he did not 
 send them. "Woods expected to find me here, of 
 course, or thought I should soon be coming down, 
 I daresay, otherwise he would not have under- 
 taken to deliver the parcel. Poor fellow, I was 
 very sorry to hear of his having been so unwell. 
 I suppose he overworked himself when here, 
 though I should have hardly thought this place 
 would have been too much for him." 
 
 Blanche coloured, and cast down her eyes, as 
 she replied, " He was always so very unsparing 
 of himself, and so devoted to the poor. I don't 
 suppose he was as strong as he appeared." Then, 
 looking up, she added, playfully, ''But as to the 
 books, I am not going to let you have them just 
 yet. I am beginning to read them myself, and as 
 you have waited for them so long, you must just 
 be content to wait a little longer. "WTien I have 
 done with them you shall have them." 
 
 She got up to give Lady Frances another cup of 
 tea, as she spoke, and she did not see the look of 
 love and hope combined which her brother cast 
 upon her, as he thought of what might be the 
 possible results of this study of Catholic writings 
 on her part. 
 
 "Here is a note from Cissy Lethbridge," said 
 Lady Frances, coming into the study, where the 
 young people were assembled one day, after
 
 292 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 luncheon. " She says she is coming over with 
 her brother this afternoon, and wants to take 
 Blanche and Bibi back with her, for a rehearsal 
 of the charade this evening, and I suppose they 
 will want some of you young men as well. When 
 is it to be, darling ?'* 
 
 ** The Wednesday of next week, I think, 
 mamma," answered Blanche, to whom the query 
 was addressed. " She told me there was to be a 
 rehearsal to-night, but I forgot all about it. Of 
 course, we shall want some men, and these crea- 
 tures must all act. It was very sensible of Cissy 
 to write and secure our being at home, for I was 
 just going off to the Oaks with Gerald, and she 
 would have been in despair if she had come and 
 found us out. We put it off on purpose, till these 
 two boys had come back, and Sidney's being here, 
 too, is very fortunate. I remember his acting 
 splendidly in a charade we had once." 
 
 Sidney protested that he could remember no- 
 thing of the sort, but Blanche refused to accept 
 any excuses. Ferdinand declared he was ready to 
 undertake any part at the shortest notice, and' 
 Gerald said something about his doubting if he 
 Bhould still be at Wentmore when the performance 
 took place. Blanche begged them not to go out 
 until the Lethbridges had been, and then departed 
 with Lady Frances and Barbara, to arrange about 
 various important matters in the wardrobe depart- 
 ment.
 
 GEHALD S ORDEAL. 293 
 
 As soon as tliey -^ere gone, Sidney proposed 
 cigars and a stroll, remarking, that as lie did not 
 know the Lethbridges, he did not care about wait- 
 ing in for them, but the brothers preferred seeing 
 their friends, and assured him that Charles Leth- 
 bridge was a capital fellow, whom he was certain 
 to like, and that his sister was, *' though not what 
 you would call exactly good-looking," one of the 
 nicest girls in the world, but they could not pre- 
 vail upon him to remain, and so having * lighted 
 up,' he departed for a soHtary ramble. 
 
 Gerald had not seen the Lethbridges for some 
 time, but they were gi-eat friends of his, and in 
 the pleasure of meeting again, both he and they 
 lost sight of the emban-assment they had expected 
 to feel on the occasion of their first rencontre after 
 his change of communion had been made known. 
 Cissy and Blanche were immense allies, and the 
 former had mingled her tears with those of 
 Gerald's sister, when talking of the sorrow which 
 had come upon them all in consequence of the 
 Btep he had taken, but she did not think of this 
 when Gerald advanced with his bright friendly 
 Bmile to meet her, as she and her brother were 
 shown into the room. Charles had declared when 
 he first heard of Gerald's having become a Roman 
 Catholic, that it did not signify to him what he 
 was. They had been friends as long as he could 
 remember, had gone to the same school, and been 
 together during their hoHdays, and although Gerald
 
 294 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 was older tlian Charles, and during their boyish 
 days the difference in age was more strongly 
 marked than a few years later, young Lethbridge 
 had always entertained that half- admiring, half- 
 respectful regard for the ^* bigger" boy, which 
 young lads feel when attached to those who are a 
 little older than themselves. They had much to 
 talk about now, it being some time since they had 
 met, and anyone who had seen the merry group 
 conversing together, would scarcely have guessed 
 that Cissy Lethbridge, whose laugh was one of 
 the loudest, whilst her good-natured face was 
 lighted up with pleasure, as she discussed the 
 coming theatrical performance with Blanche an* I 
 Barbara, was thinking all the time, ** And he is 
 really a Koman Catholic ! really a Koman Catho- 
 lic !" which, however, was the case. As for 
 Charles, he did not once remember anything about 
 it, and if he had, it would not have made the 
 slightest difference to him, or taken one atom 
 from the pleasure he felt at meeting his old friend 
 again. 
 
 Ferdinand sat on a couch in the centre of the 
 room, with the young ladies in a semi-circle before 
 him, discussing the charade and ever^^thing con- 
 nected with it con amove. He was a firstrate 
 actor, and enjoyed anything of the kind amazingly. 
 The other two young men had withdrawn a little 
 to one side, and Gerald was inquiring after some
 
 gehald's ordeal. 295 
 
 of his quondam London acquaintances, whom he 
 had lost sight of lately. 
 
 They were all laughing and talking husily when 
 the door was opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Fraser 
 Smith and the Miss Fraser Smiths were an- 
 nounced. Blanche rose to receive the new comers, 
 whilst Cissy exclaimed, " This is very good ! we 
 fihall have all our corjjs dramatique presently." 
 
 Bella and Minnie were the two who had occu- 
 pied the front seat in the barouche that afternoon, 
 and as they were to take some trifling part in the 
 Lethbridge performances, they were received with 
 open arms. Blanche left the room, saying, " I 
 will tell mamma that you are here," to Mrs. 
 Smith, as she passed. Gerald came forward to 
 do the honours to Mr. Smith, and Charles helped 
 Ferdinand to entertain the young ladies. 
 
 The Smith party were all loud in their expres- 
 sions of delight at seeing Gerald again. During 
 his fortnight's stay at Wentmore before Christmas, 
 he had not called upon any of his old friends in 
 the neighbourhood, and it was only after his 
 departure that his return to England had become 
 generally known. His conversion and the diffe- 
 rent reports current as to his loss of fortune or 
 otherwise, had made him the general talk of that 
 part of the world for some time, so that he was 
 quite a lion now that he had re-appeared amongst 
 them. Mrs. Fraser Smith's greeting was motherly 
 in its warmth. Her husband's manner, always
 
 296 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 rather pompous towards young people, lost some- 
 thing of its usual stiffness as he shook hands with 
 this "wrong-headed and deluded" young fellow, 
 as he had termed him, when speaking to others of 
 Gerald's secession from the Established Church, 
 The sisters were truly pleased to see him again, 
 and showed that they were so, and if a little deeper 
 flush tinged Miss Minnie's cheek than was per- 
 ceptible on Bella's when they assured him how 
 glad they were to have him once more amongst 
 them, it passed unnoticed, or at most was only 
 attributed to the warmth of the room after coming 
 out of the cold air. 
 
 Lady Frances came down stairs with Blanche, 
 as soon as she heard of the descent from the Oaks, 
 and Mrs. Smith immediately established herself 
 by her side on the little sofa which was particu- 
 larly her own, on the left of the fireplace, con- 
 gratulating her on having all her children around 
 her once more, and assuring her in a low confi- 
 dential tone, that she quite understood and felt 
 for her and Mr. Lennox, at the same time, under 
 the trial it must be to them both, of feeling that 
 dear Gerald was no longer the same way of think- 
 ing with themselves on the most important of all 
 subjects, "which, now that he is with you, must, 
 of course, be brought more home to you," she 
 added. 
 
 " It never rains but it pours," observed Barbara 
 to her cousin Ferdinand in a low tone, as she
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 297 
 
 heard the front door bell again ring. *' There is 
 some one else calling now !" 
 
 ** Is Mr. Graham still with you, Blanche ?** 
 enquired Bella Smith, during a momentary lull 
 in the conversation. 
 
 " Yes," answered Blanche, ** and I have been 
 telling him he must take part in the charade at 
 Lethbridge, as I know he can act very well if he 
 chooses. He is out somewhere, and will be sorry 
 not to have seen you, I am sure." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't suppose he will care about not 
 having seen us,'' returned Bella, pointedly. *' We 
 all say he has no e^'es for anyone beyond the 
 Rectory !" 
 
 Blanche felt that she coloured, and was annoyed 
 with herself for doing so. Before she could make 
 any rejoinder, the door was thrown open, and a 
 party of ladies entered. Mrs. Gregory, Miss 
 Seymour, and Miss Jones. 
 
 Lady Frances did not hear the names as they 
 were announced, and looked up rather bewildered. 
 Mrs. Gregory, on seeing the room so full of 
 people, paused, and looked as if she would like 
 to have beaten a retreat, had it been possible to 
 do so. Blanche got up and said, " Mrs. Gregory, 
 darling," to Lady Frances, as she went forward to 
 meet the old lady who then advanced, and Mrs. 
 Smith, on seeing her, rose to make room on the 
 sofa for her beside Lady Frances. 
 
 *' I consider that we are quite in luck," said
 
 298 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, approaching the merry group at the 
 further end of the room, where Hester Seymour 
 had ah-eady been pulled down on a seat beside 
 Miss Minnie. " I think I heard you say, dear 
 Blanche, that your cousin was still with you, and 
 if so, you will be able to bring us three young 
 men for our party on the twenty-fourth. I put it 
 off a day or two on purpose not to interfere with 
 Mrs. Lethbridge. And how long are you going to 
 Btay, Gerald ?" she continued, placing herself on 
 a low chair by his side, and thereby interrupting a 
 long speech of her husband's, who was favouring 
 Gerald with his opinion as to the duty of the 
 ministry during the coming session. 
 
 *' I don't know exactly," he said, in reply to 
 Mrs. Smith's interrogation, *' but I don't suppose 
 I shall be here for your party. You will have 
 quite enough young men without me." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, now Gerald, you know quite 
 well you can stay if you choose, and no one under- 
 stands their own value in a ball room better than 
 you do. We can't let you off, and there is an end 
 of it. If you can stay for the party at Leth- 
 bridge, you can remain for ours." 
 
 Gerald did not argue the point, but inwardly 
 resolved that he would suit himself about staying 
 or not. At that moment he rather thought he 
 should do so. He enjoyed a party where he knew 
 everyone in the room, and he had not been to
 
 GEKALD S OEDEAL. 299 
 
 anything of the sort in the neighbourhood of 
 Wentmore for a long time. 
 
 Presently, Mrs. Fraser Smith rose to take leave. 
 
 " We dine at the General's to-night. Are you 
 going ?" she said to Lady Frances, as she shook 
 hands. 
 
 General Ravenscliff was an old officer, who 
 lived at the further end of Wentmore parish. 
 His wife, latterly a great invalid, was an old friend 
 of Lady Frances Lennox's, who remembered her a 
 bright, high-spirited girl, and the belle of the 
 county in which she was born. Mrs. Raven scliff 
 was the reverse of all this now. She had lost hex 
 only child when he was a boy at school, and she 
 had never recovered the grief and shock which her 
 maternal heart then sustained. The General's 
 health, too, had failed considerably of late years, 
 and Mrs. Ravenscliff was often called upon to 
 nurse him, when she required nursing herself. 
 However, she was gentleness and meekness itself, 
 and never complained. 
 
 Lady Frances, who knew more than most people 
 what were the trials of her hidden life, had never 
 heard a murmur or word of repining fall from her 
 lips. Mrs. Ravenscliff often said that the hap- 
 piest day she had known for years, was when she 
 heard that Mr. Lennox was coming to Wentmore 
 Rectory, and her greatest earthly solace since then 
 had been the companionship and sympathy of her 
 old friend.
 
 300 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 *' Yes, we are going," answered Lady Frances, 
 ** tliough Mr. Lennox does not mucli like taking 
 tlie horses out at night, such weather as this. Do 
 you suppose it will be a large party ?'* 
 
 *' I don't know, I daresay it will he. The 
 General keeps a good table, and people like being 
 asked to his dinners." Then, in a low voice, 
 Mrs. Smith added, " But I advise you not to take 
 Gerald. He has the greatest horror of Roman- 
 ists, and made Mrs. Ravenscliff take Gerald's 
 photograph out of her book, when he heard that 
 he had become one !" 
 
 Lady Frances smiled, but said nothing. She 
 did not deem it necessary to assure Mrs. Smith 
 that Gerald was not likely to go anywhere where 
 he would not be welcome. 
 
 As Minnie Smith passed the chair on which 
 Miss Jones was seated, the latter reminded her of 
 her promise to spend the evening at Rose Cottage, 
 (which was the name of Miss Jones's residence,) 
 as her papa and mamma and sisters were going 
 out to dinner. Minnie assured her that she had 
 not forgotten, and would be with her in good 
 time. 
 
 '* The carriage will take me to you, as soon as 
 it has come back from the General's," she said. 
 
 They were very happy and comfortable, those 
 two at Rose Cottage that evening. Happy, that 
 is, in a melancholy sort of way ; but with very 
 young ladies, to be a little sad and out of spirits
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 301 
 
 at times is no sign of unhappiness; quite the 
 reverse. Life, to them, would be deprived of half 
 its charms, if it were not for the clouds which 
 often dwell on their horizon and necessitate an 
 unburdening of the gentle sorrow which for the 
 moment is uppermost to some sympathetic and 
 chosen friend. Now, Minnie Smith's sorrow, with 
 the nature of which the reader is already ac- 
 quainted, was of no imaginary kind, and the 
 meeting with Gerald which had taken place that 
 day, had revived its memory in full force. Her 
 one confidante was Arabella Jones. This good 
 Boul had penetrated the young girl's secret even 
 before she had told her with many sighs and tears 
 and blushes, together with earnest injunctions to 
 secrecy, how the matter stood with her, and "Do 
 you think he cares for me at all, dear Miss Jones ? 
 just the very least bit ? and do you think if he did, 
 that papa would ever let us marry on a small 
 income ? I should not care how small it was,'* 
 were questions with which poor Minnie was for 
 ever plying her faithful friend. 
 
 But Miss Jones could not give her any hope on 
 either of these points. " I don't think Mr. Gerald 
 Lennox, at present, thinks about marrying any- 
 one, and I have never seen any symptoms in his 
 manner of a more tender feeling than friendship 
 and regard for you, my darling," she would say, 
 ** and it would be wrong of me not to tell you so. 
 As to Mr. Eraser Smith, I am quite sure he would
 
 302 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 not hear of your engagement to a poor man, even 
 if Mr. Gerald were to propose ; and much as he 
 would like such a connection, you know his horror 
 of Koman Catholics, and that alone would he suffi- 
 cient to make him oppose the idea of any of his 
 children marrying one." 
 
 But Minnie was not satisfied with these reason^ 
 ings, and always endeavoured to bring Miss Jones 
 round to her way of looking at the subject. 
 
 On this occasion the usual little plaints were 
 uttered by Minnie, and the same arguments re- 
 peated by Miss Jones. It comforted Minnie to 
 pour forth all her hopes and fears and misgivings 
 into her friend's sympathetic ear, and when eleven 
 o'clock struck, and the carriage came for her, she 
 kissed and thanked her as if she had been able 
 to give her all the hope and encouragement sho 
 wished. 
 
 And when Minnie was gone, and Arabella Jones 
 had returned to her little sitting-room, having 
 closed and fastened the front door of her cottage, 
 her one little maid of all work having been dis- 
 missed an hour ago to bed, she fell on her knees, 
 and hid her face in her hands, and sobbed as 
 if her heart was breaking with a hopeless love, 
 instead of that of the young girl who had just 
 left her. Indeed Minnie's heart was, although 
 truly and sadly troubled at times, not at all in a 
 breaking condition, but in seeking sympathy and 
 counsel from this lone and maiden soul, she had
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 803 
 
 come to one "u-lio was able most fully to bestow 
 the first at any rate. Long she knelt and wept, 
 and every now and then burst out into moans and 
 lamentations which were piteous in their nature. 
 
 *' Another! and she so young, poor thing! to 
 be tried in the same way ! and to end the same 
 egain ! Oh ! who should feel for her if I do not !" 
 And then she pulled forth from its hiding place 
 within the bosom of her dress, a locket, within 
 which was enclosed a lock of hair, and it was press- 
 ed fondly again and again to her lips, **And that 
 it should be one of his family, and so like him, 
 too, how strange ! how strange ! Poor Minnie, 
 may God help her, poor child !" she murmured, as 
 she replaced the locket within her dress. And 
 then Arabella Jones arose and dried her tears, and 
 walked with a stern and composed look into her 
 bed-room, and knelt in long and earnest prayer 
 before she sought her pillow that night. 
 
 Gerald did not form one of the party to the 
 General's. Blanche and Ferdinand accompanied 
 their father and mother, and he remained at home 
 with Barbara and Sidney. When Barbara had 
 retired, and the two young men were sitting over 
 their wine after dinner, Gerald observed, " I shall 
 stay here for the Lethbridge's party, Sid, and as 
 soon as that is over, I shall start for Brussels. I 
 have told my father that I intend to remain there 
 until I find something to do, and he said he 
 thought I was the best judge of what course I
 
 304 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 qught to pursue. I had destroyed my own life, aa 
 it were, and must carve out a new path for myself, 
 the hest way I could. I told him of the money 
 which had so unexpectedly heen placed at my dis- 
 posal, and that he need have no anxiety ahout me 
 on that score. What are you thinking of doing 
 yourself ?" 
 
 Sidney coloured up, and hesitated a moment. 
 Then filling up his glass, he answered, ** Well, I 
 have heen so jolly and comfortahle here, that I 
 shall he very sorry to leave Wentmore, hut, of 
 course, I must he going soon, and I shall come to 
 Brussels and look after j^ou, old fellow, when I do. 
 I suspect you will have had enough of the Bel- 
 gians after a time, and then you will he glad 
 to return to London with me. Between us we 
 shall find something for you to do there, you may 
 depend upon it." 
 
 Gerald shook his head and changed the suhject 
 by telling Sidney he would certainly have to act in 
 the forthcoming charade at Lethhridge. Sidney 
 declared that nothing should induce him to do so, 
 and after a lively discussion on the suhject, as. 
 neither of them were drinking any more wine, 
 Gerald proposed that they should rejoin Bibi in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 However, Sidney did act, and he and Ferdinand 
 were pronounced admirable performers by an ad- 
 miring audience, when the Lethhridge entertain-i 
 ment came off a few days later. Gerald stayed for
 
 gekald's ordeal. 305 
 
 it, as he said lie should, but did not take any part 
 in the performance, although he willingly lent his 
 aid as prompter and helper in general, behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 The next day he left Wentmore, and his mother 
 and Blanche watched his departure with streaming 
 eyes. Ferdinand accompanied him to London, 
 where he was to remain a few days before gjoino: 
 
 «. DO 
 
 on to Brussels. The brothers took up their quar- 
 ters in Grosvenor Square, as Lord Norwood in- 
 sisted upon their being his guests during their 
 stay in town. Ferdinand returned to Oxford the 
 day before Gerald was to cross over, and tke latter 
 having made all his preparations for departure, 
 was sitting alone in his uncle's library, an hour 
 or so after his brother had left, when a carriage 
 drove up to the door, and a servant entered to 
 say, " A lady wished to speak to Mr. Gerald Len- 
 nox, if he would be good enough to step out for 
 one minute." 
 
 It was getting dark, and Gerald supposed it 
 must be some friend of his cousin Margaret's on 
 her way home, who had called to leave some mes- 
 sage for her, and asked to see him as one of the 
 family on hearing that he was within. 
 
 " Don't you know who it is ?" he asked of the 
 servant, as he went out into the hall. 
 
 ** No sir. The lady did not give any name. 
 She asked if Mr. Gerald Lennox was at home, and 
 
 20
 
 306 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 Raid she wished to speak to him if he would be 
 kind enough to come out." 
 
 Gerald was astonished. He was not aware that 
 any of his lady friends knew of his being in town 
 at all. He had only seen a few men at his club 
 since he had been up. In another minute, having 
 snatched up his hat, he was standing by the car- 
 riage door, and speaking to — Mrs. Fraser Smith. 
 
 " Are you alone? Is anyone else at home?" 
 asked that lady, after the first salutations and 
 expressions of surprise on Gerald's part at seeing 
 her were over. 
 
 " Ferdinand is gone, and my uncle is out,'* 
 answered Gerald. " Won't you come in ?" 
 
 Mrs. Smith said she was in a great hurry, but 
 would come in for one minute, as she wished to 
 speak to him, and Gerald led the way into his 
 uncle's dining-room. 
 
 She explained when the door was shut, and 
 Gerald had established her in an arm chair by the 
 fire, that she was in town for a day's shopping, 
 getting things for their party which were wanted 
 at the last moment, and was going back again by 
 the late train that night. She was vehement in 
 her entreaties to Gerald, to come down for her 
 ball, but he assured her that it would be quite 
 impossible for him to do so. Her manner, at 
 first, was most affectionate, but when she found 
 that he was immovable on that point, she began 
 discussing his religious change, and said one or
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 307 
 
 two things of so sharp and reprehensive a nature, 
 that Gerald told her, if she had not been so old a 
 friend, he could not have allowed her to speak to 
 him in such a way. Then suddenly changing her 
 tone once more, Mrs. Smith called him her " dear 
 boy !" her *'poor Gerald," and getting up to take 
 leave, said that she should still hope to see him 
 at her party. Gerald escorted her to her carriage, 
 and told her to give all sorts of kind messages 
 from him to all at home. ** Ah ! you and my dear 
 girls were always such great friends," were her 
 
 last words. "Well! I had hoped " But 
 
 here she stopped suddenly, and holding out her 
 hand, squeezed Gerald's expressively. Then, 
 having given the necessary direction to the coach- 
 man, she drove off, leaving Gerald to ruminate 
 on her last words at his leisure.
 
 308 Gerald's ordeal, 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 Gerald watched the carriage turn the corner of 
 the Square, and then walked back into the dining- 
 room. Closing the door, and drawing a chair 
 towards the fire, he sat down with a thoughtful and 
 troubled expression of countenance. But he did 
 not remain seated long. Starting up, he began 
 pacing the room to and fro, with folded arms, and 
 rapid strides, every now and then stopping and 
 muttering to himself, and then resuming his tread 
 up and down the apartment. It was not only the 
 parting words of Mrs. Eraser Smith which dis- 
 turbed him, but something she had said during 
 her visit, and which, taken in connection with 
 that half- spoken sentence of her's, as she drove 
 off, came back to him with a meaning which at 
 the time he had not attached to it. 
 
 She had questioned him about his pecuniary 
 affairs, and excused herself for doing so by re- 
 minding him of how very old a friend she was, 
 and how naturally and truly interested she was in
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 309 
 
 all that concerned him. He had responded briefly, 
 merely assuring her that for the present he had no 
 anxiety on that score, although he had entirely 
 forfeited the Newcome property, and no longer 
 derived any benefit from that whatever. 
 
 It was her rejoinder to this statement on his 
 part which now recurred to him, and made him 
 clench his hands with vehemence, whilst the blood 
 mounted up into his brow. With what he now 
 fancied had been a peculiar meaning, she had said, 
 " Perhaps I know a little more about some things 
 than you imagine. It is not everyone who is 
 assisted when they are in need, as you have been ! 
 You are a lucky fellow, but you deserve whatever 
 good fortune may befaU you, Gerald. Your friends 
 are true ones, and you have not one who takes a 
 deeper interest in you than myself." He hardly 
 noticed the words at the moment, and they would 
 probably have escaped his memory entirely, had it 
 not been for that parting insinuation which had so 
 taken him by surprise, but which clearly shewed 
 him that Mrs. Fraser Smith would not have ob- 
 jected to him as a son-in-law at one time^ even if 
 she considered him as no longer eligible at the 
 present moment. 
 
 The more he thought of it, the more convinced 
 he became, that these words of her's bore some 
 allusion to that mysterious godsend which he had 
 experienced some weeks before, in Brussels. He 
 wondered that it had not struck him at the time ;
 
 310 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 it seemed so evident when he came to think about 
 it, and yet how could she possibly have become 
 acquainted with what was known to so few besides 
 himself? He was quite sure that none of his 
 family would have mentioned it, and from what 
 other quarter could she have gained her informa- 
 tion ? It was at this point of his reflections that 
 the idea flashed across him that she might herself 
 be in some way concerned with the donation. She 
 had money of her own, he knew, although he did 
 not imagine, or at any rate, never had imagined, 
 that she had the uncontrolled disposal of it or of 
 any part of it. He would never have supposed such 
 a thing for a moment, had it not been for that half- 
 spoken hint about one of her daughters, but if she 
 had wished, or did wish to secure him for one of 
 them, then, how better could she effect her object 
 than by placing him under such a debt of gratitude 
 to her personally, — and the thought was unendur- 
 able. 
 
 But no, it was impossible. She must have 
 alluded to something else, or he must have mis- 
 taken her words. At any rate, he would write 
 again that very night to the bankers, and en- 
 deavour once more to elicit from them the name 
 of his unknown benefactor. Upon one thing he 
 was quite resolved. No earthly consideration 
 should induce him to touch another farthing of 
 the money, until he did know from whence it 
 came. And if it was from the quarter he sus-
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 311 
 
 pected, it should be returned in full, of that he was 
 quite determined. For one minute he thought of 
 writing to Mrs. Fraser Smith, and asking her 
 point blank if his suspicions were correct, but he 
 saw at once that that would not do. It would be 
 the greatest mistake on his part to allow her to 
 think he could have supposed such a thing possi- 
 ble. Sitting down, therefore, without further 
 hesitation, he wrote a hasty line to his bankers, 
 begging them to reconsider their determination of 
 leaving him in ignorance as to whence the sum 
 proceeded about which they had written to him at 
 Brussels, urging them in the strongest terms to 
 obtain leave to acquaint him with the name of the 
 donor, and requesting that they would direct their 
 reply to Brussels, 
 
 The day after his return to his old quarters in 
 the Belgian capital, the answer arrived. Messrs. 
 D. and Co. quite understood Mr. Gerald Lennox's 
 anxiety to ascertain to whom he was indebted for 
 the sum to which he referred, and which they had 
 Lad the honoui- of placing to his account, but they 
 regi'etted their inability to comply with his re- 
 quest. The information he required was not 
 theirs to impart, and therefore, however reluc- 
 tantly, they were compelled to withhold it. 
 
 Aft^r the receipt of this communication, Gerald 
 took one day to consider his plans for the future, 
 and then proceeded to carry them out. When 
 Sidney Graham, (having torn himself most reluc-
 
 312 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 tantly from the cliarms of Wentmore, where, how- 
 ever, he felt that he had remained an unconscion- 
 able time,) arrived at the door of Gerald's former 
 lodginp^s in the Eue d'Edimbourg, he was in- 
 formed that *' Monsieur" had left some days be- 
 fore, and had gone to the Rue d'Idalie, in the 
 Quartier Leopold. He remembered that Blanche 
 had told him something about Gerald's change of 
 address, but it had slipped his memory, and won- 
 dering why his cousin had given up the pleasant 
 little apartment, where he had found himself so 
 comfortable heretofore, he desired the driver to 
 take him to the street in which Gerald's new abode 
 was situated. 
 
 The Rue d'Idalie is a small street near the 
 Luxembourg Station, and at the door of one of the 
 smallest houses in it, Sidney's cab stopped. At 
 first, he thought he must have mistaken the 
 number, but upon inquiry, he was informed that 
 a ** Monsieur Lennocks" resided there, and he was 
 shewn into a back room on the ground floor. 
 There he found Gerald seated at a table covered 
 with books and papers, and straining his eyes in 
 the endeavour to read small print by the fast dis- 
 appearing light at the window. 
 
 In answer to Sidney's interrogations and ex- 
 clamations of surprise, Gerald told him to dismiss 
 his vigilante for the present, and to sit down whilst 
 he explained to him the state of affairs. A very 
 few words sufficed for this. Having made up his
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 313 
 
 mind not to toucli another penny of that money, 
 about which Sidney knew, and which was all he had 
 in the world to call his own, he found himself lite- 
 rally penniless, and dependent on his own exer- 
 tions for his daily bread. He had therefore given 
 up his lodgings in the Eue d'Edimbourg, and come 
 to this cheaper and more secluded abode, where he 
 had a couple of rooms, and the good people of the 
 house boarded him for a moderate sum per week. 
 The vicinity of his friend, Mr. Fitzroy, who lived 
 close by, was an inducement to him to seek that 
 especial locale, and through the kind exertions of 
 the Abbe Beaufort, ^he had been fortunate enough 
 to obtain a place in one of the colleges as English 
 and classical master, which gave him several hours 
 of occupation during the day. *' And I have also 
 been entrusted with the translation of some French 
 and German theological works into English, by 
 one of the principal publishers in the place, on 
 behalf of his London correspondent," he added, "so 
 my dear Sid, you see that I am fully employed, 
 and am getting on famously. I am entirely in- 
 dependent, which is the great thing, and as long 
 as I can earn enough to support myself decently, 
 that is all I care about. If you are going to stay 
 here, you must find lodgings for yourself some- 
 where else, but, whenever you feel inclined to 
 look me up, I shall be delighted to see you. You 
 will always find me here, for I know no one, I 
 may say, and go nowhere. I have neither the
 
 314 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 means nor the time for amusements, and my one 
 piece of dissipation is a stroll in tlie Zoological 
 Gardens when the weather is fine, and I have half 
 an hour to spare. Stand out of my light, now, 
 there's a good fellow, for I can't afi'ord much 
 candle, and am ohliged to make the daylight last 
 as long as it will." 
 
 In vain Sidney stormed and urged. In vain he 
 remonstrated and ridiculed. Gerald was firm, and 
 his cousin departed to seek accommodation for 
 himself elsewhere, declaring that he should send 
 word by that very night's post to England, of 
 what Gerald was about, and he knew that neither 
 Mr. Lennox nor Ferdinand would let him go on 
 in that way. At this threat, Gerald smiled, but 
 offered no reply. 
 
 When the Rector of Wentmore and the young 
 .Oxonian had been given to understand that Gerald 
 was really working hard for his living in a foreign 
 city, they were much startled by the intelligence. 
 Mr. Lennox was indignant at his son's folly, and 
 considered this disregard of the money, which had 
 been, as he thought, so providentially sent him as 
 only on a par with the rest of the conduct which 
 had vexed him so greatly. Ferdinand wrote let- 
 ters of strong remonstrance on the subject, and as 
 soon as he could do so, came over personally to 
 ascertain how matters stood. He joined his en- 
 treaties with those of Sidney, to induce his brother 
 to avail himself of at least some small portion of
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 315 
 
 the money at his bankers, but bis efforts "were 
 unavailing. Before be left Brussels, be came to a 
 private understanding with the people of the house 
 in the Rue d'Idalie, which resulted in Gerald's 
 table being rather better supplied than it would 
 otherwise have been at the low rate of payment 
 Gerald could afford ; and he departed again for 
 England with feelings divided between regi-et for 
 the privations to which one brought up as Gerald 
 had been, was exposed, and admiration for the 
 independent spirit which prompted his brother to 
 act as he was doing. 
 
 Lady Frances and Blanche wrote imploringly to 
 Gerald on the subject of his new mode of life, but 
 he only returned laughing replies, assuring them 
 that he was as jolly as possible, and wanted for 
 nothing. His father informed him that one hun- 
 dred a year would be placed to his account at his 
 (Mr. Lennox's) bankers, and he was at liberty to 
 draw upon it if he chose, but although Gerald 
 expressed his sense of his father's consideration, 
 he left the money untouched in the same way as 
 be had done the larger sum. And so the time 
 passed on. Gerald remained at Brussels happy 
 and contented, with his time fully occupied, and 
 the consciousness, which to him was so sweet, of 
 being indebted entirely to his own exertions for 
 support. Ferdinand paid him another visit at 
 Easter, and could not but allow that he seemed to 
 thrive and prosper in the path he had marked out
 
 816 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 for himself. *' He lias religious advantages of all 
 kinds," wrote the younger brother of the elder to 
 Blanche, ^' and on that score is very much to be 
 envied. He is as cheerful as possible, and al- 
 though not so smart in his attire as of old, is, 
 as I am sure you will believe, the same perfect 
 gentleman in appearance in the class-room, as he 
 was in the first salons of London in his pros- 
 perous days." 
 
 Sidney Graham returned with Ferdinand to 
 England, after this second visit of his to his 
 brother. Brussels was getting dull, and he was 
 tired of it altogether. The idle sort of life and 
 the pleasant acquaintances he had picked up, both 
 amongst his own country-people and the natives, 
 had made it enjoyable for a time, but of Gerald's 
 society, which had been his first inducement in 
 coming over to Brussels, he had had but little 
 latterly, so he announced his intention of ac- 
 companying Ferdinand when the latter departed 
 upon his return journey, and they travelled back 
 together. 
 
 Summer came, and found Sidney Graham once 
 more domesticated at Wentmore Rectory. Ferdi- 
 nand was at home for a short time, but had 
 arranged to pass the greater part of this his last 
 long vacation with a cramming tutor at the lakes. 
 He therefore advised his mother and the young 
 ladies to make the most of him whilst he was with 
 them. It was partly on account of his expected
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 317 
 
 absence that Lady Frances had asked Sidney back 
 to Wentmore so soon, as she had been very 
 anxious of late about Blanche, and wished her to 
 have as much cheerful companionship as possible. 
 Ferdinand's loss was a serious one, and Sidney 
 had made himself so agreeable during his stay at 
 Christmas, that it was unanimously voted that he 
 should be asked again. If Lady Frances had been 
 questioned, she would have found it difficult to 
 say what made her uneasy about her darling. 
 
 Blanche did not complain, nor apparently was 
 there anything about her to cause uneasiness to 
 a casual observer, but the mother's vigilant eye 
 and watchful scrutiny discovered what with another 
 might have passed unobserved. She had noticed 
 that her child's spirits were at times unusually 
 depressed, and again that she would become quite 
 excited about a trifle which seemed to call for no 
 particular interest. Often she would appear lost 
 in thought, and had to be spoken to more than 
 once, before she seemed to hear what was said, 
 and this, with Blanche, was something quite 
 new. Once or twice. Lady Frances had sur- 
 prised her iu tears, and when questioned anx- 
 iously as to the cause, she had returned evasive 
 answers or else laughed it off. Mr. Lennox would 
 ask his wife, at times, what was the reason of 
 Miss Blanche's high spirits, he thought from her 
 manner that she must have heard something ex- 
 Mlarating, but it never appeared that such was
 
 318 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 the case, and an hour or so after, some one else 
 would observe that "They hoped the post had 
 brought no bad news that morning, but Blanche 
 seemed very much depressed." 
 
 At first, the mother treated the matter lightly, 
 and thought nothing of it. Then she began to 
 fancy that her child might be entertaining soma 
 feeling of regret about Arthur Woods, and the 
 thought troubled her a good deal. However, a 
 conversation she had with Barbara on the subject, 
 completely reassured her on that point, and for a 
 time she succeeded in persuading herself that she 
 had been anxious without a cause. But as time 
 passed on, her misgivings returned. She con- 
 sulted Mr. Findlay, the family doctor, who had 
 known Blanche almost since her infancy, about 
 her, and he recommended plenty of cheerful 
 society and change of scene. It was therefore ar- 
 ranged that Lady Frances should accept her bro- 
 ther's repeated invitation, and take her daughter up 
 to town for the remainder of the season, which was 
 then at its height. 
 
 In the meanwhile, such diversions as could be 
 contrived, and were within reach at Wentmore, 
 were eagerly sought for, on account of her child, 
 by the anxious mother. Croquet parties and 
 meetings for the practice of archery at the diffe- 
 rent houses in the neighbourhood were the order 
 of the day. People were asked to stay in the 
 bouse, and poor Blanche was allowed little peace.
 
 GERALD S OEDEAL. 319 
 
 night or morning. All protestation and assurance 
 on her part that she infinitely preferred being left 
 quiet and alone was disregarded. She was told 
 that she did not know what was good for her, and 
 must submit, like a dutiful child, to be guided by 
 others. Barbara enjoyed this change in the 
 usually monotonous life at Wentmore, and en- 
 couraged the idea of its being necessary on 
 Blanche's account. She was not going to London 
 herself, but had accepted an invitation to spend a 
 few weeks with some "friends in Warwickshire. 
 Mr. Lennox was to accompany his wife and daugh- 
 ter to town, returning every Saturday to Went- 
 more for the duty on Sunday, and leaving the 
 curate, who had succeeded Arthur Woods, in 
 charge of the parish during the week. 
 
 Sidney Graham had not been long at Went- 
 more before he remarked, in common with others, 
 the change that had come over his cousin Blanche. 
 She was even more charming, he thought, if that 
 were possible, than before, but something evidently 
 was on her mind, and he, too, could not help tor- 
 menting himself with the idea that the ci-devant 
 curate had to do with it. Yes, it had come to 
 that with him, now. It was absolute torment to 
 him to think that she could care for anyone else, 
 sufficiently to make herself unhappy on their 
 account, (and he had heard of Arthur Woods's 
 dangerous illness in town,) for he looked upon
 
 320 geua^ld's ohdeal. 
 
 such concern as indicative of a tenderer feelinsr 
 still. 
 
 During his stay at Wentmore in the winter, he 
 had become more and more struck by the winning 
 beauty of this young creature, and the cousinly 
 footing they were on, made it all the more im- 
 possible for him to resist the sweet influence of 
 her manner and charms. The time which had 
 elapsed since then, bad in no wise diminished the 
 effect which her attractions had had upon him, 
 and he only wondered on his return that he could 
 have endured to be absent from her so long. It 
 was not to be supposed that his evident admira- 
 tion for his fair young cousin would pass un- 
 observed, and the subject was canvassed very 
 freely in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Lethbridge 
 w^as asked if it was true that Miss Lennox was 
 engaged to her cousin, Mr. Graham, and it was 
 only upon the strength of her positive assertion 
 that she knew such was not the case, that the 
 report was discredited. 
 
 The only people who seemed unaware of the 
 state of Sidney's feelings, were, as is often the 
 case, those most concerned themselves. Lady 
 Frances Lennox was so accustomed to the admira- 
 tion which her child excited in everyone who came 
 near her, that no expression of the kind on Sid- 
 ney's part, however enthusiastic, would ever have 
 seemed extraordinary to her. In the same way, 
 Mr. Lennox would not have thought it remarkable
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 321 
 
 if his nephew had chanted his daughter's praises 
 from morning till night. He considered her per- 
 fect himself, and took it for granted that everyone 
 else thought the same. Ferdinand noticed that 
 Sidney was never so happy as when hy Blanche's 
 side, but only set it down in his own mind to 
 their being very " thick" together, as he would 
 have expressed it; and as it usually fell to his 
 lot to act as Barbara's cavalier when the quar- 
 tette went anywhere together, he thought it 
 quite natural that Sid should offer like at- 
 tentions to Blanche. Barbara, who as the only 
 other young lady in the house, would natu- 
 rally have been supposed to be more wide awake 
 than other people on the subject of anyone's atten- 
 tions to Blanche, was too much occupied with her 
 own affairs to pay much attention to those of her 
 cousin. When Ferdinand was at the Rectory, 
 she seemed quite to agree with him that Sidney 
 ought to attend to Blanche, in the same way that 
 she expected him to look after her. 
 
 One afternoon, when Sidney found himself in 
 the drawing-room alone with Barbara for a few 
 minutes, he asked her whether there was anything 
 going on between Blanche and ''that fellow, 
 AYoods," who had been his uncle's curate the last 
 time he was down there. She laughingly inquired 
 what could have put such an idea into his head, 
 and told him that although she believed poor Mr. 
 Woods had been very much * smitten' by Blanche, 
 
 21
 
 322 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 there was certainly no feeling on her side beyond 
 kindliness and friendship for him. ''Aunt Len- 
 nox has been cross-questioning me on the same 
 subject," she added. "1 suppose it is Blanche's 
 pale face which has put it into your heads that 
 she is pining in secret after some one. I don't 
 know if it is so or not, but I am sure she is not 
 breaking her heart about Mr. Woods." 
 
 Sidney was quite satisfied, and did not object to 
 the idea of Blanche's being pensive about some 
 one, as that someone might possibly be himself ! 
 
 Lady Frances had a little sanctum of her own, 
 which communicated with the library by means of 
 a blind door in the book-case ; it was a favourite 
 retreat of both her's and Blanche's, and the latter 
 was accustomed to spend a good part of the morn- 
 ing in this room, drawing, or practising on the 
 cottage piano which stood at one end of it. She 
 had been complaining of a little headache on the 
 morning after the conversation between her two 
 cousins which we have mentioned, and announced 
 her intention after luncheon of remaining at home 
 to nurse herself for the evening, when a few people 
 were coming to dinner, instead of going out with 
 Lady Frances in the carriage, as she usually did. 
 
 As the day was fine, Ferdinand and Barbara 
 had arranged an expedition on horseback, which 
 they invited Sidney to join, but he was suddenly 
 seized with a conviction that he ought to write 
 some business letters to his lawyers in London
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 323 
 
 and his agent in ScotlanJ, which it would be im- 
 possible for him to put off, and said he should 
 remain at home for that purpose, and take a slroll 
 by himself later in the day. Mr. Lennox accom- 
 panied his wife in the carriage to Westling, as he 
 wished to consult the vicar about some clerical 
 meeting which was soon to be held in the Deanery, 
 and the equestrians followed the carriage to 
 the gate, Mr. Lennox warning them that they 
 might expect to be caught in the rain if they went 
 very far. Barbara laughed, declared it would 
 hold fine, and kissed her hand to her uncle and 
 aunt, as she and her companion cantered off in 
 an opposite direction, to that in which the car- 
 riage was going. 
 
 Sidney went upstairs to wiite, and Blanche 
 established herself in the little morning room to 
 which we have referred. She had thrown herself 
 on a sofa, and after making her head worse by 
 trying to read, lay with half-closed eyes and her 
 head upon the cushion, enjoying the breeze wbich 
 gently played upon her cheek from the open win- 
 dow. Suddenly she was startled from her repose 
 by hearing the door opened, and looking up, she 
 saw her cousin Sidney standing in the doorway, 
 and exclaimed — 
 
 *' Is that you ? I thought you had gone out. 
 You won't disturb me, so pray come in, only you 
 must forgive my being stupid and not talking 
 much, as my head is still rather bad."
 
 824 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 Sidney did not wait for a second invitation, but 
 muttering something about having got through 
 his letters and not caring to go out just yet, he 
 drew a chair near her sofa and sat down. Blanche- 
 thought that he had taken up a book, and once 
 more closing her eyes, attempted to sleep, but a 
 movement on her cousin's part presently caused 
 her to look up, and she noticed that he was not 
 reading, but sitting back in his chair with folded 
 arms, and his eyes fixed upon her. 
 
 "You idle boy," she said, smiling, "why don't 
 you read or do something ? I wish you would 
 not stare at me like that. I know my hair is 
 tumbled and must look very untidy, but I can't 
 help it ; I prefer comfort to appearances." And 
 she nestled her head down again on her cushion 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Blanche," said Sidney, without changing his 
 attitude in the slightest degree, ' ' are you one of 
 those women who pretend that they do not know 
 they are beautiful ?" 
 
 " Oh dear no," answered Blanche rather snap- 
 pishly, for she did not like being disturbed. " I 
 was always very conceited, and inclined to admire 
 myself rather than otherwise. But pray don't 
 talk of me as a ' woman,' it sounds so big, and 
 not the least like me." 
 
 " As to that," rejoined her cousin, " I am very 
 much of the same opinion. You are much more 
 like an angel than a woman."
 
 Gerald's okdeal. 325 
 
 There was something in the tone of his voice as 
 he said these words, an undefinable something 
 which caused Blanche to open her eyes and look 
 at him. 
 
 " Give me the Eau de Cologne please, and 
 don't be silly," she replied. 
 
 Sidney got up, took the scent bottle from the 
 table, and held it out to her. She looked at him 
 gravely as she took it from him, poured some of 
 its contents over her handkerchief, and then re- 
 turning it, said, " Thank you." 
 
 He replaced the bottle on the table and sat 
 down again. 
 
 ** Are you not going out for a walk ?" she asked 
 presently, as Sidney continued gazing at her as 
 before, and she began to feel uncomfortable under 
 the process. " It is a shame to waste all this 
 fine afternoon indoors," 
 
 " I am going out presently," returned Sidney. 
 " Just now, I prefer sitting here with you. You 
 do not know what a happiness it is to me to be 
 near you, Blanche. I should like to be so 
 always." 
 
 She did not feel inclined to go to sleep now. 
 She did not like the turn the conversation was 
 taking, and wished Sidney had gone out riding 
 with the others. But if he was inclined to be 
 serious she was not. 
 
 " You would get dreadfully tired of me, my 
 dear Sid," she said, shaking her head, "and if
 
 326 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 you did not, I am sure I should of you. I never 
 like being with the same person too much at any 
 time." 
 
 " Don't say that." 
 
 ** But I do say it, and I mean it ; and if you 
 can possibly take a hint, I think you might under- 
 stand such a broad one as that, sir." 
 
 " Blanche, listen to me. I am not joking " 
 
 ** My dear cousin, I cannot listen to anything. 
 I told you I was not in a talkative mood, and if I 
 do not have a little sleep I shall not get rid of my 
 headache. If you wish me to be decently civil or 
 agreeable to anyone this evening, you will go away 
 now like a good boy and leave me to myself." 
 
 " I will go away presently, when I have said 
 what I have to say. I have been thinking a good 
 deal about it lately, Blanche," — here he took, 
 up an ivory pen-knife from the table, and began 
 playing with it rather nervously, " and I believe 
 that we might be very happy together, if you 
 would — would be my wife." 
 
 The last words came out with a sort of jerk. 
 He then laid down the paper knife, and got up 
 and stood before her with a smile of expectation 
 upon his lips. 
 
 Blanche smiled too, as she raised her eyes to 
 his. 
 
 *^ I am sorry your thoughts should have taken 
 so foolish a turn of late, my dear Sidney," she 
 said. ''I hope that you and your wife, whoever she
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 327 
 
 may be, will be very happy together some day, but 
 I shall always be able to cast a little damp over 
 her spirits when they become uproarious, by tell- 
 ing her that you seriously thought of asking me to 
 occupy that position once," and she broke into a 
 merry laugh as she spoke. 
 
 Sidney seized her hand and held it within his 
 own. In one moment his manner changed, as 
 he saw that she did not believe him to be in 
 earnest. 
 
 '* Blanche, my angel, my love, I mean what I 
 say. Do not trifle with me, but tell me. May I 
 — dare I hope that you will be mine ?'* 
 
 The colour which had mantled richly in 
 Blanche's cheek the moment before, fled from 
 it. She trembled, and her heart beat violently. 
 Then raising herself up, she answered, 
 
 *' Do not speak to me like that, Sidney, you 
 distress me very much. I thought you loved me 
 as a cousin — a sister — nothing more, and — " But 
 here her voice failed her, and turning from him 
 she burst into tears. 
 
 *' Blanche, my darling," cried Sidney, covering 
 her hand with kisses, " forgive me, if I have been 
 too abrupt in what I have said. Do not turn 
 away from me," he continued, as she withdrew 
 her hand gently but decidedly from his grasp. 
 *' Let me have one word, just one word of hope ?" 
 
 Blanche rose up. Commanding her voice with 
 an effort, she said,
 
 328 Gerald's oudeal. 
 
 *' No, Sidney, I do not, I never can love you in 
 that way. If I have ever led you to suppose such 
 a thing possible, I am truly sorry. Leave me 
 now, I beg of you, and never never speak to me 
 like that again." 
 
 There was a quiet dignity in her manner, and a 
 firmness of purpose in her words, which made 
 Sidney Graham turn sick at heart. This man 
 felt the happiness of his life was vanishing before 
 him, and he grew desperate. 
 
 ** Blanche," he cried, seizing her by the wrist 
 as she moved towards the window, *'you must 
 not, shall not, answer me so. If you do not give 
 me some hope, I shall curse the day I was born, I 
 shall curse the hour I first saw you. Blanche," 
 and his voice became low and entreating, "you 
 cannot be so cruel. You are good, — you wish to 
 see otheis good and happy about you. I have 
 often heard you say that without goodness and the 
 love of God, there could be no true happiness. I 
 tsll you, Blanche, that if you will only listen to 
 me, and let me try to win your love, you 
 may do anything with me, you can make me 
 what you please. For your sake I will think 
 about religion, I will try to serve God in a way 
 I have never done before. For your sake there is 
 nothing I will not do. But, if you spurn me 
 from you now, if you will not give me some hope, 
 I swear that I will never believe in goodness or in
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 329 
 
 God again ! You have the salvation of my soul 
 in your hands. Blanche, answer me !" 
 
 He knelt down. He crouched at her feet. He 
 grasped her hand wath the strength of a vice. 
 He seemed beside himself with passion and 
 despair. 
 
 And Blanche, who leaned with one hand on the 
 back of a chair for support, endeavoured vainly to 
 release the other from his hold. She was pale as 
 death, and trembled from head to foot. Once or 
 twice she tried to speak, but was unable to do so. 
 His violence for the moment had terrified her. 
 Presently recovering herself, she said, 
 
 *' It is wicked of you to say such things. It 
 would be wicked of me were I to deceive you for 
 one instant, into thinking I could ever love you as 
 a husband. If you have one spark of manly feel- 
 ing in you, you will be satisfied with that answer 
 and leave me. I will pray for you. I can say no 
 more." 
 
 He sprang to his feet with a cry. He struck 
 his forehead with his hand. He stepped back and 
 looked at her in a way which made her shudder. 
 It was a look of such bitter anger and hate. Then 
 slowly he spoke, or rather hissed out these-words 
 from between his clenched teeth : — 
 
 "It is well. You have decided, and to that 
 God in Whom you profess to believe, you will 
 answer for this day's work. One word more, 
 Blanche Lennox, and you may believe me when I
 
 330 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 say it. If ever you love another, may you never 
 be his ! and I swear — do you hear me ?" and he 
 took a step or two nearer to where she stood, " I 
 swear you never shall be,'' 
 
 He remained gazing at her for another minute, 
 then turned on his heel and left the room. 
 
 Blanche neither spoke nor moved. She never 
 took her eyes off him. She seemed fascinated by 
 terror. When he was gone and she was alone, 
 she still remained standing for some time in the 
 same attitude. Then slowly sinking back on the 
 sofa, her eyes closed, and she fainted away. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Ferdinand and Barbara were 
 enjoying their ride and commenting on the beauty 
 of the weather as they went along. Ferdinand 
 wanted to look at Frodsham Church, and they 
 stopped at Mr. Hayward's house in the village to 
 inquire if he was at home and could take them to 
 see it. Mr. Hayward was somewhere in the 
 parish, the servant said, but she would send and 
 find him if the lady and gentleman wished it. Fer- 
 dinand, however, assured her that if they could 
 have the keys of the church it would not be neces- 
 sary for her to do that, and having procured them, 
 they rode on to the church-yard, followed by a lad 
 who volunteered to hold their horses when they 
 went in. 
 
 Ferdinand had not been to Frodsham since the 
 works had been completed, and he was much 
 pleased and interested by all he saw. Barbara
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 331 
 
 entered fully into his feeling, and re-echoed all his 
 expressions of admiration and delight. She was 
 in particularly high spirits, and in one of hor most 
 amiable moods. Riding always excited and ani- 
 mated her, and although neither she nor her com- 
 panion spoke in other than subdued tones whilst 
 in the church, it was easy to see from the quick- 
 ness of her remarks and the sparkling of her 
 eyes, how lightsome and joyous was the spirit 
 within. 
 
 " I think we ought to be going," said Ferdinand 
 at length, *' you know what my father said about 
 the rain, and it looks as if it was clouding over 
 already." 
 
 Barbara agreed that it would be as well to be 
 starting homewards, and accordingly, after giving 
 the boy a trifle for holding their horses, and hand- 
 ing over the keys to his custody, they again 
 mounted and took the road towards Wentmore. 
 
 After a few remarks about the satisfactory man- 
 ner in which Frodsham Church had been restored, 
 the two cousins proceeded for some way in silence. 
 Ferdinand seemed lost in thought, and Barbara 
 amused herself by caressing the animal on which 
 she rode, and addressing it fi'om time to time with 
 words of endearment. Presently, Ferdinand looked 
 round, and checking his horse's pace into a walk, 
 he said, " Bibi, I want to speak to you." 
 
 Barbara reined in her horse and turned towards
 
 332 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 him with a smile, whilst the colour mounted to her 
 cheek. 
 
 *' Well, speak away then.'* 
 
 But Ferdinand seemed to find some difficulty in 
 *' speaking away." He hesitated and stammered 
 and repeated, *'I want to know" and *' I mean, I 
 should like to ask," and a few other disjointed 
 and unsatisfactory sentences of the same kind so 
 often, that Barbara at length burst out laughing, 
 and said, 
 
 ** My dear Ferdinand, don't go on like that, but 
 tell me what it is you want to say. I hate being 
 kept in suspense." 
 
 ** Well then, Bibi, I want to know what you 
 think about long engagements. Do you think 
 they are desirable or not ?" 
 
 If anyone had seen the expression of triumph 
 and delight which flashed over Barbara Lennox's 
 countenance as she bent forward for a moment to 
 pat her horse's neck as Ferdinand spoke, they 
 would have guessed her secret and known what 
 she thought was coming. 
 
 ** That depends on circumstances, Mr. Ferdi- 
 nand," was her answer, as she raised her head 
 and gave a little nervous laugh. 
 
 *' Of course, I know that. But when people are 
 both very young, when a fellow is not quite of age, 
 for instance, and knows that he can't marry im- 
 mediately, do you think that he ought to ask a 
 girl to engage herself to him or not ?"
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 333 
 
 *' Well now, that is a question which demands 
 a little consideration," returned Barbara, after a 
 moment's pause. " I think a gentleman should 
 feel very sure of a young lady's preference, before 
 he asks her to bind herself to him by an engage- 
 ment, for any length of time." 
 
 *' But, supposing he does feel quite sure, or at 
 least pretty sure," continued Ferdinand, colouring 
 and smiling, ** what should you say then ?" 
 
 " I do not think there can be any harm in his 
 finding out, and making himself certain about it 
 at any rate." 
 
 " Thank you, for saying that much," rejoined 
 her cousin, warmly. *' And now, Barbara, I must 
 tell you something else." He drew nearer to her 
 side as he spoke, and Barbara in vain endeavoured 
 to appear at her ease and unconcerned. *' I am 
 in love — don't laugh at me — very much in love, 
 and I think, I am almost sure, that I might 
 venture — I think that if I was to propose, I should 
 not be rejected." 
 
 Barbara did not feel in the least disposed to 
 laugh. She was much more inclined to cry. She 
 felt so sure of what was coming, and it made her 
 so happy, that tears of joy sprang into her eyes, 
 whether she would or not. 
 
 ** Bibi, you and I have always been gi-eat 
 friends ?" continued Ferdinand. 
 
 "Yes," she replied softly, whilst she glanced
 
 334 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 up into his face, and tlie beating of her heart 
 almost made itself heard. " Great friends." 
 
 ** I have never said a word to you before about 
 this, but one cannot keep things for ever to one- 
 self. I do not think Blanche or anyone has 
 guessed my secret, and I would rather for the 
 present that it remained one. Do you under- 
 stand, dear ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Barbara, and her heart beat 
 even faster than before. 
 
 *'You know me so well, Bibi, and you may 
 think I am presumptuous," continued Ferdinand. 
 " I know I am not worthy of " 
 
 " Oh ! Ferdinand, do not say that !" exclaimed 
 Barbara, eagerly. "As if you were not better 
 than anyone in the world !" And then she cast 
 down her eyes and blushed deeply. 
 
 " Dear Bibi, it is very good of you to say so, 
 but I know that I am not worthy of anyone so 
 good, and so perfect in every way as she." 
 
 Barbara did not attempt any further remon- 
 strance. She wondered at his making use of the 
 third person, but that did not signify. 
 
 "My mother and Blanche would be so pleased, 
 they have known and liked her for so long," con- 
 tinued Ferdinand, " and as to her being thought 
 plain, she has always been beautiful in my eyes, 
 and I don't care what she is in other peoples'." 
 
 Barbara felt taken aback. She had, without 
 being particularly vain, always considered herself,
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 335 
 
 and been (at least so she tlionglit) considered by 
 others, as good-looking rather than otherwise. 
 Besides, why would he go on speaking to her of 
 herself as *'she?" It was awkward to say the 
 least of it. 
 
 " After the encouragement you have given me, 
 I shall ride over to-morrow and decide my fate at 
 once," Ferdinand went on. " As soon as I have 
 her answer I shall speak to my father and mother. 
 I only hope no difficulty will be raised by hers." 
 
 *' By hers ? — ride over to-morrow?" stammered 
 Barbara, pulling up her horse short in her aston- 
 ishment. " About whom — of what are you talk- 
 ing?" 
 
 "About Cissy Lethbridge, of course," answered 
 Ferdinand, looking as much surprised as herself. 
 " Of whom did you suppose I could be speaking?" 
 
 " About Cissy Lethbridge /" cried Barbara, and 
 there was a world of anguish and of wonder in her 
 tone. She could say no more ; she felt sick and 
 giddy, and as if she should fall from her horse. 
 
 *' My dear Bibi ! What is the matter ?" ex- 
 claimed Ferdinand in alarm, as he saw her clutch 
 the pommel of her saddle for support. 
 
 "Nothing," she murmured. Then recovering 
 herself with an immense effort, she struck her 
 horse violently with her whip ; it reared, bounded 
 forward, and in a moment was out of sight. 
 
 Ferdinand Lennox was amazed. He had no 
 Buspicion of the truth, poor love-blind fellow, with
 
 836 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 no eyes and no thoughts, save of a hrotherly kind, 
 for other than the gentle girl whom he had known 
 from childhood, and for whom his love had grown 
 with his years, though all unknown and unsus- 
 pected by those around him, how was it likely he 
 should have? He had scarcely looked at or 
 noticed his cousin whilst speaking to her, she had 
 always been to him so exactly like a sister, and in 
 choosing her for a confidante, he had done so be- 
 lieving that she felt towards him as a sister, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 His first idea on seeing her start off at such a 
 tremendous rate was, that her horse had taken 
 fright and was running away, and he hesitated 
 about following her, lest he should alarm it the 
 more. But just as he was making up his mind to 
 do so at all hazards, and had struck the spurs into 
 his own horse for that purpose, he saw her to his 
 relief and also somewhat to his surprise, coming 
 back towards him at a sober trot. 
 
 " Sultana was startled," she said, as he rode up 
 to her, and eagerly inquired the meaning of her 
 sudden disappearance. "I suppose you thought 
 she had run away with me, but I soon got her in 
 hand again. As it is getting late, I think we had 
 better hurry on." 
 
 She spoke in her usual tone, and with a manner 
 which, if a little constrained, was still perfectly 
 composed. 
 
 Ferdinand laughed, and assured her that it was
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 337 
 
 a comfort to him to see her safe and sound. He 
 did not know Sultana was given to such tricks, 
 but agreed with her that they had better hasten 
 home, as the clouds looked more threatening every 
 moment, and it was getting late as well. 
 
 They neither of them spoke much again until 
 arrived at the Kectory gate. Then turning to 
 Ferdinand, Barbara proposed that they should 
 dismount at the stables, without going up to the 
 house. 
 
 "I have a little headache," she said, "and 
 must try and walk it off before dinner. I shall 
 just run round the shrubbery, but do you go in 
 and say we have come back, or they will wonder 
 what has become of us." 
 
 Ferdinand assented, and having dismounted 
 himself, hastened to offer her his assistance, but 
 ere he could reach her side she had sprung to the 
 ground. 
 
 Gathering up her habit, she nodded to him 
 and ran off towards the shrubbery, which skirted 
 the Kectory grounds, and was of considerable 
 extent. 
 
 No sooner was she alone, than her self-command, 
 gave way. She turned ashy pale, and shivered 
 from head to foot. Turning round to see if she 
 was quite alone and hidden from sight, she satis- 
 fied herself that a turn in the path had taken her 
 beyond the reach of observation. Then, clenching 
 her fist and stamping on the ground, the unhappy 
 
 22
 
 338 Gerald's ohdeal. 
 
 girl cried in a low tone of unutterable anguish, 
 " Oh, fool, fool, fool that I was, to think that he 
 loved me ! Oh, that I could die ! oh, that I 
 might die!'* 
 
 At that instant, the storm which had long been 
 threatening, broke overhead, and great heavy drops 
 fell upon her as she stood. Cold as she had been 
 a moment before, she felt now as if seized with a 
 burning heat, and baring her forehead to the 
 heavens, she held up her face as though courting 
 the rain as it descended. But presently, seeing 
 that she should be drenched through if she re- 
 mained where she was, and not feeling inclined to 
 return towards the house, she ran forward in the 
 direction of a summer-house which stood at some 
 little distance, and which she knew would afford 
 her shelter. It was nearly dark, and she did not 
 perceive on entering it that her place of refuge was 
 already occupied. A movement at the further end 
 caused her to bend forward with a feeling of 
 alarm. The figure of a man lay stretched at full 
 length on a bench in one corner. He raised him- 
 self up and came forward. 
 
 " Barbara ! Is that you ?" exclaimed a harsh, 
 discordant voice, which she had some difficulty in 
 recognizing as that of her cousin Sidney. 
 
 *' Yes," she answered. *' How you startled me ! 
 I am seeking shelter from the storm. We have 
 only just come back from our ride and I wanted a
 
 geeald's oedeal. 339 
 
 little run before diuner. But I did not expect to 
 find anyone here !" 
 
 " Is it raining ?" asked Sidney. As he spoke, 
 he advanced towards the entrance of the summer 
 house, and Barbara started to see by the dim light 
 which fell upon his features, how pale and haggard 
 they were.
 
 340 Gerald's ordeal, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 If it had not been raining so heavily, Barbara 
 would have rushed out of the summer-house 
 again, for she was in no mood for conversation, 
 and was vexed at having encountered Sidney in 
 this way. As it was, she was obliged to remain 
 under cover, and to content herself with standing 
 with her back to him, looking out into the rapidly 
 darkening shrubbery, and wondering what ill-luck 
 could have brought him there just then. Sidney 
 did not seem more disposed to speak than she 
 was, and having satisfied himself as to the fact of 
 its being an unmistakable *pour down,' he retreated 
 without further remark to his seat again. 
 
 Barbara was the first to speak. In a tone of 
 impatient annoyance, she exclaimed, *'It will 
 never leave off! It is of no use staying here, 
 and the dressing bell will have rung before we 
 can get back." 
 
 Her companion made no response. She could 
 not see him where he sat, and his silence irritated 
 her.
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 341 
 
 "Did you know there was a dinnerparty this 
 evening ?" she asked, rather sharply, turning her 
 head for one moment. 
 
 *' Yes. I suppose we must go in." 
 
 He got up, and again approached the entrance. 
 
 ** It is a disgusting nuisance. I wish the 
 stupid people were not coming," muttered Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 ** Indeed ! I thought you liked the people 
 about here." 
 
 " I hate them. A pack of idiots. But what 
 else could you expect in such a place ?" Barbara 
 said with bitter emphasis. 
 
 *' I fancied that everything at Wentmore must 
 approve itself to you," said Sidney. *' I am as- 
 tonished to hear you speak of it like that." 
 
 " Wentmore !" cried Barbara, vehemently. " I 
 think the place and the people in it are alike. 
 Detestable." 
 
 ** And yet, it was only yesterday that I heard 
 you saying how sorry you were that you were all 
 going away, and how much you should have liked 
 to remain here the whole summer !" 
 
 " There is such a thing as changing one's mind, 
 I suppose," returned Barbara. " I am very glad 
 I am going away, and only wish I was never com- 
 ing back again at all." 
 
 Now if Sidney could have had his own way at 
 that moment, he would have committed the whole 
 of the Wentmore family to the uttermost depths
 
 342 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 of the Eed Sea. He simply abominated them, 
 but he was surprised at discovering a like feeling 
 in so unexpected a quarter. 
 
 "But it is absurd our remaining here," con- 
 tinued Barbara, ^' I shall make a run for it, and 
 you can do as you like." 
 
 " Stay a moment, Barbara. It is raining too 
 heavily to last, and will leave off in a little while. 
 If you so dislike the idea of returning to Went- 
 more again, why should you do so ?" 
 
 Barbara turned round and stared at the speaker 
 through the darkness. She could see his form 
 where he stood, but it was impossible to discern 
 his features. 
 
 " Where else could I go ? This is my home. 
 I have no other, though God knows I would 
 rather stay anywhere, than be obliged to come 
 back to it." 
 
 " There is always one way open to you of leav- 
 ing it for ever if you choose," said Sidney, taking 
 a step nearer to her, and speaking in a low earnest 
 tone. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Barbara. " I 
 don't understand you." 
 
 She was startled by his manner, it perplexed 
 her. 
 
 <* Why don't you marry ? You need not come 
 back then." 
 
 *' Why don't I marry?" laughed Barbara, (and 
 it was not a pleasant laugh to hear.) " I would
 
 geeald's oedeal. 843 
 
 marry anyone to get away from this place. I 
 should not care -who." 
 
 " You really mean that, Barbara ?" 
 
 " I really mean it." 
 
 Her cousin came up to her and laid his hand 
 on her shoulder. They could neither of them see 
 the other's face. Slowly and emphatically he said 
 these words : 
 
 *•' Then — Barbara — marry me." 
 
 Barbara did not start or exclaim, or show any 
 sign of surprise whatever. She stood perfectly 
 still with his hand on her shoulder, looking out 
 into the darkness, and in a voice so hard, so 
 strange, so unlike her own, that he could not help 
 being struck by it, she answered, 
 
 '* Sidney Graham— I will." 
 
 He did not love her. She did not love him. 
 When first she had broken in upon his solitude, 
 he had felt considerably annoyed at being dis- 
 turbed ; but he soon <liscovered that she was in no 
 ordinary frame of mind, and as he listened to her 
 expressions of dislike towards Wentmore, and all 
 connected with it, a kind of sympathy drew him 
 towards her. "I hate them, too," he thought, 
 '* and I should like to show that I am not pining 
 for her, at any rate ! I will marry some one at 
 once, and if Barbara will have me, I will marry 
 her." Kevenge upon Blanche, — to wound her, if 
 possible, by this speedy transfer of his afi'ections to 
 another, was his object, and Barbara, at that
 
 344 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 moment, would have accepted anyone who asked 
 her, in order to prove to Ferdinand, that she had 
 never thought of him. 
 
 She held out her hand to Sidney, and he took 
 it. He did not offer to kiss her, and she would 
 have turned away from him, if he had. Nothing 
 more was said, and as the rain had in some 
 measure subsided, they quitted their place of 
 shelter, and walked back, side by side, to the 
 house. And the angels who watched them, must 
 have shuddered, as they gazed on this disappointed 
 man, and this disappointed woman, who had thus 
 pledged themselves to each other, and were enter- 
 ing upon a future, fraught with certain misery for 
 both ! 
 
 ** Do not say a word of this to-night !" Sidney 
 whispered, as they emerged from the shrubbery, 
 upon the drive. She bowed her head in ac- 
 quiescence, without speaking. In another moment, 
 they were standing within the entrance-hall. 
 Barbara at once, ran up to her room, locked the 
 door, and threw herself on her knees by the bed- 
 side, covering her face with her hands. If ever 
 any one felt utterly wretched, Barbara Lennox did 
 at that moment. 
 
 When Lady Frances had returned from her drive 
 that afternoon, she encountered Mrs. Statham on 
 the stairs, as she was going up to her room, 
 having looked in vain for Blanche below : and was 
 informed, that "Miss Lennox was not feeling well,
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 345 
 
 and she, (Mrs. Statham,) had sent for Mr. Findlav, 
 as she had been rather frightened about her. She 
 was upstairs, in her Ladyship's dressing-room.'* 
 
 Lady Frances hurried on and found Blanche 
 lying on a sofa, looking very pale, and complaining 
 of severe pain in her head. " Statham thought she 
 had better send for Mr. Findlay, mamma," said 
 Blanche, forcing a smile as she saw her mother's 
 anxious look, "and I was not able to prevent her. 
 But I am sure I shall be quite well, after a night's 
 rest," and she held up a warning finger to the 
 •good housekeeper as she spoke, which Lady 
 Frances did not observe. 
 
 Mrs. Statham had found her young mistress in a 
 half unconscious state, in the little morning room 
 down stairs, an hour or so before. She had seen 
 Mr. Graham go out, and knowing that Blanche 
 would be alone, had carried her a cup of tea 
 from her own room. Her alarm had been 
 great, on perceiving Blanche's condition, but 
 with the aid of restoratives, and of Blanche's 
 maid, whose assistance she hastily summoned, she 
 soon had the satisfaction of seeing her young lady 
 look more like herself again. In reply to all Mrs. 
 Statham's ejaculations and enquiries, Blanche 
 only said that she had felt suddenly faint, and did 
 not know how long she had been in that state,' 
 until just before the housekeeper's entrance, when 
 she had opened her eyes, and partly regained her 
 consciousness. Mrs. Statham and the maid sup-
 
 346 gehald's ordeal. 
 
 ported her upstairs, and she could not prevent the 
 former from despatching a messenger for the 
 doctor. *' But promise not to say a word to 
 mamma, ahout my having fainted," she said, as 
 they placed her on the sofa, in Lady Frances's 
 dressing-room, " it will only frighten her, and do 
 no good." 
 
 Mrs. Statham gave the required promise, but 
 inwardly resolved to acquaint her mistress with 
 the truth as soon as possible. 
 
 When Ferdinand entered the house, some half- 
 hour afterwards, and ran upstairs in search of his 
 mother and sister, he was surprised at seeing the 
 latter looking so pale and ill. Mr. Findlay 
 arrived almost at the same time, and was im- 
 mediately taken upstairs by Mrs. Statham. 
 
 ** I saw you and your cousin riding through the 
 village," he said to Ferdinand, " and thought you 
 were fortunate in escaping the rain. It is 
 coming down now, and no mistake !" 
 
 *' Bibi will be caught in it !" exclaimed 
 Ferdinand. " She insisted on going round the 
 shrubbery, before coming in. I thought it was 
 very venturesome of her, and only hope she turned 
 back in time." 
 
 ^' And what is the matter with this young lady?" 
 'enquired Mr. Findlay, taking Blanche by the 
 hand, who looked smilingly up into his face. 
 
 A few words sufficed to explain that she had not 
 been feeling well all day, and Mrs. Statham had
 
 geeald's oedeal. 347 
 
 tliouglit it best to send for him, in the absence of 
 her master and mistress. He felt her pulse, and 
 asked some questions, and after a short consulta- 
 tion with Lady Frances, it was determined that 
 Blanche was not to appear at dinner that evening, 
 *' Though she may go down stairs, for half an 
 hour or so afterwards, if she likes," concluded the 
 doctor. 
 
 He had been privately informed by Mrs. Sta- 
 tham on entering the house, of the state in which 
 she had found her young lady an hour before, and 
 he saw from Blanche's manner that she was still 
 very nervous and agitated. Recommending per- 
 fect quiet for the next hour or so, and saying he 
 should call and see her again the next day, Mr. 
 Findlay then departed. 
 
 Blanche did not come down at all that night, 
 and Barbara had to do duty for both herself and 
 her absent cousin, and no one, seeing her bright 
 and animated smile as she conversed with the 
 assembled guests, could have guessed what an 
 aching heart she carried beneath her bosom. 
 
 She and Ferdinand went upstairs together after 
 the gentlemen had come in from the dining-room, 
 to visit Blanche in her own room, but his sister 
 soon sent Ferdinand down again to " attend to 
 the young ladies" as she said. The two girls 
 were then left alone, and Barbara placed herself 
 on a low stool at Blanche's feet, and taking one of 
 her hands in her's, she stroked it and kissed it,
 
 348 Gerald's oedeal. 
 
 and asked her " What she meant by being so 
 naughty ?" 
 
 Blanche threw herself back in her chair, and 
 with half-closed eyes and a tremulous voice, told 
 what had passed between her and Sidney that 
 afternoon. 
 
 Barbara listened in silence. Her head was 
 leaning against the side of the chair, so that 
 Blanche could not see her face, and she remained 
 perfectly motionless from the time Sidney's name 
 was first mentioned, until her cousin ceased speak- 
 ing. 
 
 **How cold your hand is, Bibi dear," said 
 Blanche, as she ended her recital. " I heard 
 Ferdinand say something about your having been 
 out in the rain. I am afraid you must have got a 
 chill." 
 
 *' I think I have," replied Barbara, averting her 
 head, as she slowly rose and stood by her cousin's 
 side. " Now I shall leave you, dear, and the 
 sooner you are in bed the better. I am not the 
 least surprised at what you have told me, and, of 
 course, I shall say nothing about it." Then press- 
 ing a kiss upon Blanche's forehead, she hurried 
 from the room. 
 
 Blanche thought her manner was abrupt, and 
 rather wondered at her not having made some 
 further remark on the subject of her scene with 
 Sidney. When Mrs. Statham came in, a few
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 349 
 
 minutes after, she told her that she was sure Miss 
 Barbara had caught cold. 
 
 ** I don't think there is much the matter with 
 her," remarked the old lady. ** She is singing 
 with Mr. Ferdinand in the drawing-room, I could 
 hear them as I came upstairs. She is not hoarse 
 at all events." 
 
 Sidney Graham was unusually silent all that 
 evening. " Out of spirits," Mrs. Fraser Smith 
 remarked in an aside to Barbara. *' It is quite 
 touching to see how devoted he is to dear Blanche, 
 he cannot even smile when she is not here !" 
 
 When the guests had departed and they were 
 separating for the night, Sidney told his uncle it 
 was necessary that he should be in Scotland 
 shortly, and that he should be obliged to leave 
 them early the following morning, as he TN^ished to 
 be in town for a few days before going North. 
 Mr. Lennox remonstrated, and thought there could 
 be no need for so sudden a departure, but Sidney 
 shook his head and said he certainly must go, 
 although he was very sorry to leave them all so 
 soon. Lady Frances expressed a hope that they 
 might meet in town again before long, and assured 
 him that Blanche would be very sorry to hear he 
 was going, after so short a stay too. Ferdinand 
 laughed at the idea of Sid's becoming such a man 
 of business all of a sudden, and prophesied that it 
 would not be long before he was South again. 
 
 ** I shall suspect there is some attraction in
 
 350 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 that quarter that we don't know of," he called 
 after Sidney, as the latter went to his own room, 
 *'if you don't come back soon. I don't believe a 
 word about the lawyers !" 
 
 Sidney breakfasted alone the next morning, and 
 set off before any of the family had made their 
 appearance. 
 
 ** Give that note to Miss Barbara, please," he 
 said to Mrs. Statham, who was lying in wait for 
 him with a small packet of sandwiches in one 
 hand, and of biscuits in the other, without which 
 she did not consider that anyone should start 
 from the Kectory, on however short a journey. 
 ** It contains a direction which I promised her, 
 and give her my love." 
 
 '* I think he might have asked after Miss 
 Blanche," the housekeeper said to herself, as the 
 carriage drove off. ''I believe it was half his 
 fault that she was ill yesterday, going bothering 
 into that room when she was alone and wanted to 
 be quiet." She little thought, good soul, how 
 much it was his fault ! 
 
 When Barbara opened the note which was 
 brought to her by her maid, an hour after Sidney's 
 departure, she read the following lines : 
 
 " I shall be at Leamington in a fortnight's 
 time, when I shall see you again. In the mean- 
 while we can keep our own counsel. 
 
 " Your's ever, 
 
 .. S."
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 351 
 
 She crushed it in her hand, and kept it there 
 until the servant had left the room again. Then 
 striking a match, she lit a taper, and held the 
 note in the flame till it was consumed, and fell in 
 ashes into the gi-ate. She looked at the blackened 
 fragments for a moment, and then turned away 
 with a scornful little laugh. Her long dark hair 
 was hanging in rich masses over her shoulders. 
 She took up a brush and began brushing it vigor- 
 ously, then throwing it back with both hands, she 
 went up to a long cheval glass which stood on one 
 side of the room, and surveyed herself from head 
 to foot with an expression of unutterable disdain. 
 
 " Mrs. — Sidney — Graham." She repeated 
 slowly, as she gazed at herself in the glass. 
 '* Mrs. Sidney— Graham !" 
 
 When she appeared at the breakfast table, and 
 the others were remarking upon Sidney's abrupt 
 departure, she merely observed, " He was quite 
 right to go, if he had business to attend to, and 
 we can get on very well without him during the 
 short time we shall still be here." 
 
 Blanche had been askep when Barbara looked 
 in upon her before going to bed the night before, 
 and when she had dismissed her maid and locked 
 her door, she flung herself into a chair and re- 
 mained for long in an attitude of bitter meditation. 
 "I am mad. I must be!" she said to herself 
 several times. " I am either mad or very wicked* 
 ,Ee does not love me. If he carea for anyone it
 
 352 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 is for Blanche, and only this very day, — this very 
 day he asked her to marry him ! The knowledge 
 of that alone would quite justify me in throwing 
 him off, if I chose to do so. I certainly do not love 
 himr And here the wretched girl hroke down 
 altogether. She thought of him she did love, and 
 of the happiness which was to be another's, — which 
 she could never hope for now, — and with agonized 
 sobs she threw herself on the bed, and at length 
 wept herself to sleep. In the morning, she awolce 
 to a remembrance of what had passed the day 
 before. She thought of her conversation with 
 Ferdinand, and of her engagement to Sidney, and 
 she resolved to persevere in the last to the end. 
 She could not stay there. She could not bear to 
 see him devoted to another. She would go away 
 and never come back, and there was only one way 
 in which she could do that ! 
 
 The w^eek following saw Wentmore Eectory en- 
 tirely deserted. Mr. Lennox, Lady Frances and 
 Blanche had left for London. Ferdinand and 
 Barbara accompanied them on their journey, and 
 took leave of them as they drove off from the 
 station to Grosvenor Square. Ferdinand then 
 proceeded to Paddington with his cousin and her 
 maid, and saw them safely off on their way to 
 Warwickshire, after which he betook himself to 
 Euston Square, and started for the Lakes. Bar- 
 bara looked at him as he stood on the platform of 
 the Great Western Station, when her train moved
 
 geeald's ordeal. 353 
 
 off, nntil the tears blinded her, and she could see 
 no more. Then, as there was no one else in the 
 carriage but her maid, she leaned back in her 
 corner and cried silently to herself. The maid 
 thought how much she felt parting from her rela- 
 tions, and made up a little romance in her own 
 mind about her young lady and Mr. Ferdinand, 
 which was to end in their marrying some day, and 
 being happy for ever after. Alas ! for poor Bar- 
 bara, that the maid's romance was so little likely 
 to come true. 
 
 Before leaving Wentmore, Ferdinand had asked 
 and obtained Colonel Lethbridge's consent to 
 ** speak to Cissy," but it was on the understanding 
 that no positive engagement was to take place 
 between them for a time. " You are both so 
 young, and my girl has seen so little of the world 
 at present, that I must insist upon her not making 
 any formal promise for a while, at least. But there 
 is no one, my dear fellow," he added, shaking 
 Ferdinand warmly by the hand, **that I would 
 rather give her to than yourself. If all goes well, 
 we shall see what can be done about it bye and 
 bye." 
 
 This was as much as Ferdinand had dared to 
 hope for, and meanwhile, he and Cissy were very 
 happy, Mr. Lennox and Lady Frances were quite 
 satisfied, and Blanche looked brighter when she 
 was told of what had taken place between her
 
 354 GER'ALD S Or.DEAL. 
 
 brother and her friend, than she had done for a 
 long time past. 
 
 The change from the quiet and regular routine 
 of life at Wentmore, to the whirl and gaiety of a 
 London Season, was as great as it was sudden. 
 The Lennoxes had not been many days in town 
 before invitations for Lady Frances and Blanche 
 began to pour in thickly. The Eector did not go 
 to balls, but even he could not escape under three 
 dinner parties a week at the least, and he declared 
 that he should "soon knock up at that rate." As 
 for his wife and daughter they could do as they 
 pleased, so long as he was not asked to accompany 
 them from one scene of dissipation to another. 
 For Blanche's sake. Lady Frances exerted herself 
 to the utmost, and for a while her efforts seemed 
 to meet with success. The novelty and excite- 
 ment of the scenes in which she now mixed for 
 the first time, had a charm for Blanche which led 
 her to enter into them with pleasure and avidity. 
 She had been presented at Court by her mother 
 the year before, but her peep of London Life then 
 had been a very circumscribed one, and she had 
 returned to Wentmore after a week's stay in town, 
 with a firm conviction that the pleasures and occu- 
 pations of her country home, were much more 
 suited to her taste than the bustle and turmoil of 
 the gajr world. But now, when so many people, 
 with whose names she was familiar, but with 
 whom she had never been brought in contact be-
 
 Gerald's ohdeal. 355 
 
 fore, surrounded her witli smiles and attention, 
 (for as .Lord Norwood's niece she was sure of 
 being well received in a certain set, and it was 
 already rumoured that her father was a rich man, 
 and she an only daughter, which many inter- 
 preted to mean " only child,") she persuaded 
 herself that she had been mistaken in the estimate 
 she had formed of these people hitherto, and that 
 *the fashionable world,' as it is called, was a very 
 pleasant goodnatured world after all. 
 
 But after a time. Lady Frances began to notice 
 that Blanche did not seem to care for her balls 
 and parties so much as she had done at first. 
 Instead of returning eagerly from their drive in 
 the park, to dress for the opera, and after that, 
 going with alacrity from one ball to another, which 
 had been the programme of successive evenings on 
 their first arrival, Blanche seemed to think that 
 one engagement for an evening was quite suffi- 
 cient, and if she did accompany her mother and 
 cousin to any of the large reunions which were 
 going on, after they had been dining out or had 
 gone to the opera, she was contented to walk 
 through the rooms and then *' unless Margaret 
 wished to stay," go home as soon as possible. 
 Lady Margaret seldom cared to remain late any- 
 where, as she did not dance much herself, and went 
 to balls and ''crushes" night after night, more to 
 please her father than herself. Lord Norwood 
 was glad that his daugher should appear under his
 
 356 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 sister^s chaperonagef it was pleasanter than always 
 to be asking one or other of their friends to let 
 her go with them, or else to have to accompany 
 her himself, which was a thing he seldom or never 
 did if he conld help it. He liked his daughter to 
 go out, and keep up her position in society, but 
 beyond entertaining at home, and looking in for 
 half an hour at such houses as ho felt he must 
 show himself at, he had as little to do with the 
 "night work" of the season, as he expressed it, as 
 possible* Lady Dereham had, the year before, 
 been too happy to go with her sister-in-law any- 
 where, but this summer she was not in town, an 
 heir to the noble House of Stewart being shortly 
 expected. When she was first married. Lord 
 Norwood had warned her that one of her duties 
 would be "to take Margaret about in the season, 
 regularly every year, as she seemed determined to 
 remain on his hands, and he began to despair of 
 ever getting rid of her.'* "As if you ever wished 
 to do so, you naughty ungrateful papa," his 
 daughter would say, when she heard him. "And 
 if I did marry it would make no difference, as I 
 should have to live with you and look after you 
 then !" The Earl always laughed and shook his 
 head at this, and declared that " once his own 
 master again, he should take care to remain so,'* 
 and then he would kiss his daughter fondly on 
 her brow, and wonder "what he should do with- 
 out her."
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 357 
 
 Lady Dereliam, wlio was a merrr, liglit-liearted 
 young creature, engaged readily to "look after 
 Margaret/' she being at least ten years the younger 
 of the two, but this year she was not able, as we 
 have said, to do so, and Lady Frances' advent was 
 therefore doubly welcome in Grosyenor Square. 
 
 *' I think that child looks pale and fagged, and 
 as if she had been doing too much,'* remarked 
 Lady Frances to her niece, one night, after they 
 
 had returned from a dance at House, and 
 
 Blanche had hm-ried off to bed immediately upon 
 reaching home, declining the tea which Lord Nor- 
 wood had ready for them in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Yes, dear aunt, I agree with you," said Lady 
 Margaret, " I think she does too much. She has 
 often seemed tired of late. I can't think how she 
 can get up every morning, as I know she does, to 
 go to church, when she is so seldom in bed till 
 late. But she is such a good little darling, she 
 will never allow anything to interfere with that. 
 I only know I could no more do it than fly !" 
 
 Lady Frances's eyes filled with tears. Her 
 child's goodness was something too sacred in her 
 eyes to touch upon lightly. None knew so well 
 as she did, what Blanche was. Often and often 
 she would say to herself as she looked at her, 
 ** She is too good to live !" and the feeling 
 brought a pain with it, which mingled largely with 
 its sweetness. 
 
 She thought a moment, and then said,
 
 358 (Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 ** 1 did not know there was any cliurch very 
 near here, where there was daily morning service ? 
 Surely she does not go at that hour so far as 
 Margaret Street, if she does, it is enough to kill 
 her,— before breakfast too ! I must speak to her 
 about it." 
 
 " 1 don^t know," answered Lady Margaret, *' 1 
 really never askecl her where she went, I only 
 know she does go somewhere. But now, my 
 dearest, you must go to bed, for I am sure you 
 are very tired too." 
 
 Blanche went every morning to the early Mass 
 at Farm Street, which was only a few minutes 
 walk from her uncle's house, but she had never 
 told anyone she did so, and neither her mother nor 
 cousin for a moment suspected that such was 
 the case. 
 
 Her chief delight on the occasion of former 
 visits to town, when for the sake of masters or 
 some other reason, her parents had brought her up 
 to London for a short time, had been the daily 
 services at All Saints or S. Barnabas, whichever 
 church they happened to be nearest to. But now, 
 she felt happier when kneeling alone before the 
 altar in a Eoman Catholic Church, than she did 
 when joining in the most ornate service the Angli- 
 can churches could offer ber. And how was this ? 
 
 The books which Arthur Woods had entrusted 
 to her keeping for her brother Gerald, and which 
 she had perused with earnest attention, had opened
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 359 
 
 her eyes to many truths concerning the Faith they 
 advocated, which had been previously unknown to 
 her. The fact that her own brother, whom she 
 loved so dearly, and had always thought of so 
 highly, had joined the much abused (and hitherto 
 in her mind, more or less con-upt and fallen) 
 Church of Eome, when he too had so well known 
 what were the privileges and advantages the 
 Church of England had to offer to her people, 
 would in itself have made the study of the real 
 doctrines and precepts of that communion, a mat- 
 ter of deep interest to her. And the more she 
 read, the more she pondered, the more she weighed 
 one assertion with another and compared the 
 claims of the two Churches upon her allegiance, 
 the more perplexed and uneasy she became in her 
 mind ; and the less she felt inclined to take for 
 granted all that she had hitherto beheved, respect- 
 ing the Roman Catholic Church. At one time 
 her doubts had risen to such a height, that she 
 almost resolved to speak to her father on the sub- 
 ject, and hear what he had to say in reply to what 
 appeared to her such unanswerable arguments. 
 But she dreaded awaking his displeasure, even in- 
 directly, against Gerald, whom she felt sure would 
 have the credit, whether it was so or not, of hav- 
 ing put such fancies into her head, and of causing 
 him pain as well, and so she kept her uneasiness 
 and her misgivings to herself, and said not a word 
 about either to a living soul.
 
 360 gterald's ordeal. 
 
 But the inward struggle told upon her, and her 
 health and spmts gave way as we have seen. 
 What, if she should be convinced of the necessity 
 of leaving the English Church ? What, if it be- 
 came a question of taking up her cross and doing 
 her Master's Will at all costs, — or of allowing her 
 natural love for her parents to prevail, and remain- 
 ing outside what she would in her inmost soul 
 have to acknowledge, was the Only True Church, — 
 the One Ark of Salvation ? Should she have the 
 courage and strength to follow the dictates of con- 
 science or not ? And then came to her mind 
 those words of awful meaning : 
 
 Tie that loveth father or mother more than Me, 
 is not ivortliy of Me. 
 
 Upon first coming up to London, the distrac- 
 tion afforded by the scenes of gaiety and dissipa- 
 tion upon which she had entered, had been wel- 
 come to her. She had tried to forget, — to fill her 
 mind with other thoughts, and for a time she had 
 partly succeeded. But then came a reaction, and 
 she reproached herself with cowardice in shrinking 
 from a question which every day became for her, 
 one of graver and deeper import. 
 
 Lady Margaret Stewart, like many other Lon- 
 don ladies, had one afternoon in the week on 
 which she was known to be " at home" if her 
 friends called and wished to see her. Thursday 
 was her day, and every Thursday her drawing- 
 room was filled by a number of visitors who looked
 
 Gerald's ordeal. 861 
 
 in to shake hands, talk about where they had been, 
 where they were going, have a cup of tea and 
 depart again. 
 
 On one of these occasions, Mrs. Yernon, who 
 always made a point of visiting a relation of 
 her's in Eaton Square, during the season, and 
 who knew Lady Margaret slightly, happened to be 
 sitting near Blanche who was helping her cousin 
 to distribute the tea and bread and butter which 
 were placed on a table at one end of the room. 
 Having no one in particular to talk to at the mo- 
 ment, and not caring to sit silent long, she called 
 out to Blanche, 
 
 *' By the way. Miss Lennox, I hope you will be 
 ready when I call for you on Sunday to take you 
 to the Oratory ? We must be in good time if we 
 hope to get decent places. There is to be a 
 famous preacher, and the music attracts so many 
 that it is of no use going, if ono is not there some 
 time before the service begins." 
 
 " Are you going to the Oratory on Sunday, 
 Blanche?" asked Lady Margaret in a low tone. 
 " I think papa would be rather shocked if he knew 
 that, and I don't know what Uncle Lennox would 
 say !" 
 
 Blanche replied that she had thought of going, 
 as Mrs. Yernon had been kind enough to say she 
 would take her, and turning to Mrs. Yernon she 
 told her she would certainly be in time. 
 
 " What a number of people have become Roman
 
 362 Gerald's ordeal. 
 
 Catholics lately," observed an old lady who was 
 seated near Lady Frances, and who had heard 
 something indistinctly about the ' Oratory.' " It 
 is really quite sad. Poor Mrs. Herbert, — ^you re- 
 member her ? Her only child was received last 
 week by the Oratorians. They say she is broken- 
 hearted." 
 
 Lady Frances sighed as she answered, 
 
 *' Poor thing! If anyone can sympathize with 
 her, I can !" 
 
 And Blanche, who was passing by at the mo- 
 ment, laid her hand on her heart as if with a 
 sudden pang. 
 
 There was a large dinner and evening party that 
 night at Norwood House, and Blanche, who seemed 
 to have recovered her high spirits, laughed and 
 talked and helped to entertain the guests so effectu- 
 ally, that Lady Margaret whispered to her auntj 
 ''What should we do without her!" Lord Nor- 
 wood, who doted upon her and called her hia 
 "little fairy," said to his sister, ''What a bright 
 little creature it is ! I think she is more fascinat- 
 ing than ever, tonight. How desperately in love I 
 should be with her, if I was a young fellow ! You 
 ought to be very proud of her, Fanny." 
 
 Lady Frances was very proud of her. She 
 watched her with eyes of fond admiration as she 
 passed from one group to another, in the lofty and 
 brilliantly-lighted suite of rooms. When all were 
 gone, and Blanche came up to her to kiss her and
 
 Gerald's oedeal. 363 
 
 «aY good night, she took one of her child's hands 
 in her's, and exclaimed, "My darling ! Your hand 
 is burning ! You have been doing too much. 
 Go to bed directly. Bo not think of coming to 
 my room, but I shall come and look at you pre- 
 sently." , 
 
 Blanche confessed that her head was aching, 
 cmd that she was tired, and should be only too 
 glad to do as her mother desired. 
 
 ** That child was quite feverish," thought Lady 
 Frances, as she went along the passage towards 
 Blanche's room, before retiring to rest herself. 
 She opened the door softly, and went in, shading 
 the Hght which she carried in one hand with the 
 other. Blanchei was in bed and fast asleep. Her 
 mother approached gently, and gazed at her fondly 
 and wistfully. 
 
 Her long eyelashes were wet as if with recent 
 tears, and the cheek which had burned with so 
 bright a colour all the evening, now rivalled the 
 snowy pillows on which her head reposed, in 
 whiteness. There was a look of suffering too, on 
 the face, which went to the mother's heart. Lady 
 Frances placed the light on a table, and stood 
 silently watching her darling for many minutes, 
 whilst from time to time a deep drawn sigh escaped 
 her. She was conscious that some secret gritf 
 preyed upon Blanche's mind, which she was un- 
 able to penetrate, and as she stood, she lifted her 
 heart in prayer to God for her child and herself.
 
 S64 geeald's ordeal. 
 
 On a table near the bed stood a small, exqui- 
 sitely carved, ivory crucifix. Lady Frances glanced 
 at it for a moment, but was not struck by the cir- 
 cumstance, as she had long been accustomed to 
 the sight of such devotional adjuncts, in the rooms 
 of her children. Both Gerald and Ferdinand, and 
 Blanche also, had used them for years. 
 
 A Prayer-book lay open before it, and this Lady 
 Frances took up to examine. It was evidently 
 what Blanche had been using that night. Her 
 eyes fell upon a Litany, the commencement of 
 which seemed familiar to her, but as she read on, 
 she started, and turned to look at the title of the 
 book. It was the " Golden Manual,*' a Koman 
 Catholic book of devotions, and the Litany was 
 that of the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 For a moment Lady Frances was puzzled ; she 
 did not understand what it meant. Then a dread, 
 a suspicion of the truth flashed across her. 
 
 "^'0, my God !" she ejaculated, '* spare me this 
 sorrow !" 
 
 *' Is that you, mamma ?" said Blanche's voice. 
 
 Her mother's exclamation and movements had 
 awakened her. 
 
 "Yes, my darling. I am afraid I have dis- 
 turbed you ? Go to sleep again." 
 
 She bent over her and kissed her. Blanche 
 smiled, and closed her eyes again, murmuring, 
 *' Good night, dearest mamma.'* 
 
 Lady Frances remained gazing at her for a few
 
 GEEALD S OEDEAL. 865 
 
 moments, and then stole quietly from the room, 
 resolving that on the morrow she ttouIcI speak to 
 her child seriously, on the subject of her Popish 
 tendencies. 
 
 But the next day there was a Morning Concert 
 to which they all went, and Lady Frances was too 
 tired after it, to go out with her niece and daugh- 
 ter for their usual afternoon drive. She had a 
 dinner party and a hall before her, and she was 
 obliged to rest herself in preparation for these, so 
 that she could find no time for any quiet conversa- 
 tion with Blanche. The next day and the day 
 after, were also entirely taken up by various en- 
 gagements, and although quite determined to 
 speak to her child, and warn her of the dan- 
 ger of accustoming herself to the use of Roman 
 Catholic devotions, as tending to produce an erro- 
 neous train of thought in the mind, Lady Frances 
 put off doing so for the present, and Blanche 
 remained in ignorance of her mother's momentary 
 uneasiness on her account. 
 
 One afternoon towards the end of July, Blanche 
 having remained at home to wi-ite to her brothers 
 and Barbara, which she had no time to do earlier in 
 the day. Lady Frances and her niece were alone in 
 the carriage, as it drove slowly round the Park. 
 The conversation turned upon religious subjects, 
 and the progress which the Roman Cathohc Church 
 was making in England. 
 
 "Blanche tells me," said Lady Margaret, *Uhat
 
 366 ©euald's ordeal. 
 
 Gerald seems very happy in Brussels, but I w"on> 
 der at his being contented to remain so long away 
 from you all." 
 
 *' No one knows," answered Lady Frances^ 
 *^ what his loss is to me, but I believe he is really 
 and truly happy where he is, and that is a great 
 comfort. There is no doubt, that Eomanists have' 
 a great many external aids in their religion, w4iich 
 one is inclined to envy them. Their ever open 
 churches and beautiful services, for instance, 
 Gerald, of course, has everything of that sort 
 about him, which he can possibly desire. I miss 
 him in a thousand ways, more than I can say, and 
 so does Blanche, poor darling, I know, although 
 she says little about it. I>o you know, Margaret, 
 that I have sometimes feared of late that she is 
 inclined that way herself." 
 
 And then Lady Frances related the incident 
 of her visit to Blanche's room when she was 
 asleep, and her discovery of the Koman Ca- 
 tholic prayer-book on her table. Lady Margaret 
 shook her head, and said, Blanche was a 
 naughty little thing, and ought to know better 
 than to play with edged tools, but as to Koman 
 Catholic books, she assured her aunt that there 
 was a great deal that was very beautiful in some 
 of them, and that she often used them herself. 
 *' And you know," she added, ''your own favourite 
 Thomas a Kempis was a Koman Catholic monk,
 
 Gerald's ohdeal. 367 
 
 and I have often heard you and Uncle Lennox 
 too, say what a heautiful book that of his, is." 
 
 Lady Frances confessed that such was the case, 
 and began to think she had distressed herself un- 
 necessarily on the subject. 
 
 On their return home, Lady Margaret went 
 upstairs to her own room, and her aunt entered 
 the drawing-room where Blanche, having finished 
 her letters, was sitting with a book. Lady Frances 
 Bank into a chair, and said, she was glad that they 
 were going to remain quietly at home tbat even- 
 ing, as she felt tired, ** And I am glad for your 
 sake, my darling," she said, as Blanche came and 
 knelt down by her side, **for I am sure you need 
 a rest as well." 
 
 " I am not sorry, dearest," answered Blanche, 
 taking her mother's hand and caressing it fondly. 
 ** And now tell me where you have been, and 
 whom you have seen." 
 
 Lady Frances enumerated various houses at 
 which they had left cards, and mentioned the 
 names of the friends and acquaintances they had 
 seen near or at a distance. 
 
 *' Mrs. Vernon, dressed * a Voutrance,^ as usual, 
 was in a very pretty carriage with a lady, her 
 cousin I suppose. They had taken up their 
 position at the end of the Row, and I noticed Sir 
 Edward Bateson and a number of people about 
 her," she concluded. *'In short, we saw all the 
 fashion and beauty of London, and very charming
 
 368 Gerald's ordeal, 
 
 some of the beauties are, but I never see anyone 
 I think half so lovely as you, my darling, go where 
 I will !" And Lady Frances laid her hand lov- 
 ingly on Blanche's head as she spoke. 
 
 '* That is because you are infatuated, dearest," 
 said Blanche, laughing, and covering her mother's 
 hand with kisses. 
 
 " And I am sure others must think the same 
 when they see you," added Lady Frances, smiling. 
 
 " Others are not so silly, darling," answered 
 Blanche. 
 
 Then, looking into her mother's face, whilst the 
 tears gathered in her eyes, she said, 
 
 *'PIow much you love me, dearest mamma !" 
 
 " God only knows how much, my darling !" 
 
 *^ And would you love me always, — through 
 everything — and whatever might happen ?" con- 
 tinued Blanche, laying her head on her mother's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Yes. Always — always." Lady Frances re- 
 plied, a strange misgiving taking possession of 
 her as she did so. 
 
 Blanche's voice almost sank into a whisper as 
 she said, 
 
 " Even — even if I were to become a Catholic ?" 
 
 And then the mother knew her child's secret. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 PRINTED ET KICHAEDSON AND SON, DERBY.