'A whisper to you, Miss Merrifield—they are going back with me, to be prepared for governesses at Arthurine's expense. It is the only thing for them in the crash that young man has brought on the family.'

'Dear, good Arthurine! She only needed to learn how to carry her cup.'



MRS. BATSEYES



I. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

SCENE.—THE DRAWING-ROOM OF DARKGLADE VICARAGE. MR. AVELAND, AN ELDERLY CLERGYMAN. MRS. MOLDWARP, WIDOW ON THE VERGE OF MIDDLE AGE.

MR. A. So, my dear good child, you will come back to me, and do what you can for the lonely old man!

MRS. M. I know nothing can really make up—

MR. A. Ah! my dear, you know only too well by your own experience, but if any one could, it would be you. And at least you will let nothing drop in the parish work. You and Cicely together will be able to take that up when Euphrasia is gone too.

MRS. M. It will be delightful to me to come back to it! You know I was to the manner born. Nothing seems to be so natural!

MR. A. I am only afraid you are giving up a great deal. I don't know that I could accept it—except for the parish and these poor children.

MRS. M. Now, dear father, you are not to talk so! Is not this my home, my first home, and though it has lost its very dearest centre, what can be so dear to me when my own has long been broken?

MR. A. But the young folks—young Londoners are apt to feel such a change a great sacrifice.

MRS. M. Lucius always longs to be here whenever he is on shore, and Cicely. Oh! it will be so good for Cicely to be with you, dear father. I know some day you will be able to enjoy her. And I do look forward to having her to myself, as I have never had before since she was a little creature in the nursery. It is so fortunate that I had not closed the treaty for the house at Brompton, so that I can come whenever Phrasie decides on leaving you.

MR. A. And she must not be long delayed. She and Holland have waited for each other quite long enough. Your dear mother begged that there should be no delay; and neither you nor I, Mary, could bear to shorten the time of happiness together that may be granted them. She will have no scruple about leaving George's children now you and Cicely will see to them—poor little things!

MRS. M. Cicely has always longed for a sphere, and between the children and the parish she will be quite happy. You need have no fears for her, father!

II. BROTHER AND SISTER

SCENE—THE BROAD WALK UNDER THE VICARAGE GARDEN WALL, LUCIUS MOLDWARP, A LIEUTENANT IN THE NAVY. CICELY MOLDWARP.

C. Isn't it disgusting, Lucius?

L. What is?

C. This proceeding of the mother's.

L. Do you mean coming down here to live?

C. Of course I do! Without so much as consulting me.

L. The captain does not ordinarily consult the crew.

C. Bosh, Lucius. That habit of discipline makes you quite stupid. Now, haven't I the right to be consulted?

L. (A WHISTLE)

C. (A STAMP)

L. Pray, what would your sagacity have proposed for grandpapa and the small children?

C. (HESITATION.)

L. (A SLIGHT LAUGH.)

C. I do think it is quite shocking of Aunt Phrasie to be in such haste to marry!

L. After eleven years—eh? or twelve, is it?

C. I mean of course so soon after her mother's death.

L. You know dear granny herself begged that the wedding might not be put off on that account.

C. Mr. Holland might come and live here.

L. Perhaps he thinks he has a right to be consulted.

C. Then she might take those children away with her.

L. Leaving grandpapa alone.

C. The Curate might live in the house.

L. Lively and satisfactory to mother. Come now, Cis, why are you so dead set against this plan? It is only because your august consent has not been asked?

C. I should have minded less if the pros and cons had been set before me, instead of being treated like a chattel; but I do not think my education should be sacrificed.

L. Not educated! At twenty!

C. Don't be so silly, Lucius. This is the time when the most important brain work is to be done. There are the art classes at the Slade, and the lectures I am down for, and the Senior Cambridge and cookery and nursing. Yes, I see you make faces! You sailors think women are only meant for you to play with when you are on shore; but I must work.

L. Work enough here!

C. Goody-goody! Babies, school-children, and old women! I'm meant for something beyond that, or what are intellect and artistic faculty given for?

L. You could read for Cambridge exam. all the same. Here are tons of books, and grandpapa would help you. Why not? He is not a bit of a dull man. He is up to everything.

C. So far as YOU know. Oh no, he is not naturally dense. He is a dear old man; but you know clerics of his date, especially when they have vegetated in the country, never know anything but the Fathers and church architecture.

L. Hum! I should have said the old gentleman had a pretty good intelligence of his own. I know he set me on my legs for my exam. as none of the masters at old Coade's ever did. What has made you take such a mortal aversion to the place? We used to think it next door to Paradise when we were small children.

C. Of course, when country freedom was everything, and we knew nothing of rational intercourse; but when all the most intellectual houses are open to me, it is intolerable to be buried alive here with nothing to talk of but clerical shop, and nothing to do but read to old women, and cram the unfortunate children with the catechism. And mother and Aunt Phrasie expect me to be in raptures!

L. Whereas you seem to be meditating a demonstration.

C. I shall tell mother that if she must needs come down to wallow in her native goodiness, it is due to let me board in Kensington till my courses are completed.

L. Since she won't be an unnatural daughter, she is to leave the part to you. Well, I suppose it will be for the general peace.

C. Now, Lucius, you speak out of the remains of the old tyrannical barbarism, when the daughters were nothing but goods and chattels.

L. Goods, yes, indeed, and betters.

C. No doubt the men liked it! But won't you stand by me, Lucius? You say it would be for the general peace.

L. I only said you would be better away than making yourself obnoxious. I can't think how you can have the heart, Cis, such a pet as you always were.

C. I would not hurt their feelings for the world, only my improvement is too important to be sacrificed, and if no one else will stand up for me, I must stand up for myself.

III. BRIDE-ELECT AND FATHER

SCENE.—THREE WEEKS LATER. BREAKFAST TABLE AT DARKGLADE VICARAGE, MR. AVELAND AND EUPHRASIA READING THEIR LETTERS. THREE LITTLE CHILDREN EATING BREAD AND MILK.

E. There! Mary has got the house at Brompton off her hands and can come for good on the 11th. That is the greatest possible comfort. She wants to bring her piano; it has a better tone than ours.

MR. A. Certainly! Little Miss Hilda there will soon be strumming her scales on the old one, and Mary and Cis will send me to sleep in the evening with hers.

E. Oh!

MR. A. Why, Phrasie, what's the matter?

E. This is a blow! Cicely is only coming to be bridesmaid, and then going back to board at Kensington and go on with her studies.

MR. A. To board? All alone?

E. Oh! that's the way with young ladies!

MR. A. Mary cannot have consented.

E. Have you done, little folks? Then say grace, Hilda, and run out till the lesson bell rings. Yes, poor Mary, I am afraid she thinks all that Cecilia decrees is right; or if she does not naturally believe so, she is made to.

MR. A. Come, come, Phrasie, I always thought Mary a model mother.

E. So did I, and so she was while the children were small, except that they were more free and easy with her than was the way in our time. And I think she is all that is to be desired to her son; but when last I was in London, I cannot say I was satisfied, I thought Cissy had got beyond her.

MR. A. For want of a father?

E. Not entirely. You know I could not think Charles Moldwarp quite worthy of Mary, though she never saw it.

MR. A. Latterly we saw so little of him! He liked to spend his holiday in mountain climbing, and Mary made her visits here alone.

E. Exactly so. Sympathy faded out between them, though she, poor dear, never betrayed it, if she realised it, which I doubt. And as Cissy took after her father, this may have weakened her allegiance to her mother. At any rate, as soon as she was thought to have outgrown her mother's teaching, those greater things, mother's influence and culture, were not thought of, and she went to school and had her companions and interests apart; while Mary, good soul, filled up the vacancy with good works, and if once you get into the swing of that sort of thing in town, there's no end to the demands upon your time. I don't think she ever let them bore her husband. He was out all day, and didn't want her; but I am afraid they do bore her daughter, and absorb attention and time, so as to hinder full companionship, till Cissy has grown up an extraneous creature, not formed by her. Mary thinks, in her humility, dear old thing, that it is a much superior creature; but I don't like it as well as the old sort.

MR. A. The old barndoor hen hatched her eggs and bred up her chicks better than the fine prize fowl. Eh?

E. So that incubator-hatched chicks, with a hot-bed instead of a hovering wing and tender cluck-cluck, are the fashion! I was in hopes that coming down to the old coop, with no professors to run after, and you to lead them both, all would right itself, but it seems my young lady wants more improving.

MR. A. Well, my dear, it must be mortifying to a clever girl to have her studies cut short.

E. Certainly; but in my time we held that studies were subordinate to duties; and that there were other kinds of improvement than in model-drawing and all the rest of it.

MR. A. It will not be for long, and Cissy will find the people, or has found them, and Mary will accept them.

E. If her native instinct objects, she will be cajoled or bullied into seeing with Cissy's eyes.

MR. A. Well, Euphrasia, my dear, let us trust that people are the best judges of their own affairs, and remember that the world has got beyond us. Mary was always a sensible, right-minded girl, and I cannot believe her as blind as you would make out.

E. At any rate, dear papa, you never have to say to her as to me, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.'

IV. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

SCENE.—DARKGLADE VICARAGE DRAWING-ROOM.

MRS. M. So, my dear, you think it impossible to be happy here?

C. Little Mamsey, why WILL you never understand? It is not a question of happiness, but of duty to myself.

MRS. M. And that is—

C. Not to throw away all my chances of self-improvement by burrowing into this hole.

MRS. M. Oh, my dear, I don't like to hear you call it so.

C. Yes, I know you care for it. You were bred up here, and know nothing better, poor old Mamsey, and pottering suits you exactly; but it is too much to ask me to sacrifice my wider fields of culture and usefulness.

MRS. M. Grandpapa would enjoy nothing so much as reading with you. He said so.

C. Oxford half a century old and wearing off ever since. No, I thank you! Besides, it is not only physical science, but art.

MRS. M. There's the School of Art at Holbrook.

C. My dear mother, I am far past country schools of art!

MRS. M. It is not as if you intended to take up art as a profession.

C. Mother! will nothing ever make you understand? Nothing ought to be half-studied, merely to pass away the time as an ACCOMPLISHMENT (UTTERED WITH INFINITE SCORN, ACCENTUATED ON THE SECOND SYLLABLE), just to do things to sell at bazaars. No! Art with me means work worthy of exhibition, with a market-price, and founded on a thorough knowledge of the secrets of the human frame.

MRS. M. Those classes! I don't like all I hear of them, or their attendants.

C. If you WILL listen to all the gossip of all the old women of both sexes, I can't help it! Can't you trust to innocence and earnestness?

MRS. M. I wish it was the Art College at Wimbledon. Then I should be quite comfortable about you.

C. Have not we gone into all that already? You know I must go to the fountain-head, and not be put off with mere feminine, lady-like studies! Pah! Besides, in lodgings I can be useful. I shall give two evenings in the week to the East End, to the Society for the Diversion and Civilisation of the Poor.

MRS. M. Surely there is room for usefulness here! Think of the children! And for diversion and civilisation, how glad we should be of your fresh life and brightness among poor people!

C. Such poor! Why, even if grandpapa would let me give a lecture on geology, or a reading from Dickens, old Prudence Blake would go about saying it hadn't done nothing for her poor soul.

MRS. M. Grandpapa wanted last winter to have penny readings, only there was nobody to do it. He would give you full scope for that, or for lectures.

C. Yes; about vaccination and fresh air! or a reading of John Gilpin or the Pied Piper. Mamsey, you know a model parish stifles me. I can't stand your prim school-children, drilled in the Catechism, and your old women who get out the Bible and the clean apron when they see you a quarter of a mile off. Free air and open minds for me! No, I won't have you sighing, mother. You have returned to your native element, and you must let me return to mine.

MRS. M. Very well, my dear. Perhaps a year or two of study in town may be due to you, though this is a great disappointment to grandpapa and me. I know Mrs. Payne will make a pleasant and safe home for you, if you must be boarded.

C. Too late for that. I always meant to be with Betty Thurston at Mrs. Kaye's. In fact, I have written to engage my room. So there's an end of it. Come, come, don't look vexed. It is better to make an end of it at once. There are things that one must decide for oneself.

V. TWO FRIENDS

SCENE—OVER THE FIRE IN MRS. KAYE'S BOARDING-HOUSE. CECILIA MOLDWARP AND BETTY THURSTON.

C. So I settled the matter at once.

B. Quite right, too, Cis.

C. The dear woman was torn every way. Grandpapa and Aunt Phrasie wanted her to pin me down into the native stodge; and Lucius, like a true man, went in for subjection: so there was nothing for it but to put my foot down. And though little mother might moan a little to me, I knew she would stand up stoutly for me to all the rest, and vindicate my liberty.

B. To keep you down there. Such a place is very well to breathe in occasionally, like a whale; but as to living in them—

C. Just hear how they spend the day. First, 7.30, prayers in church. The dear old man has hammered on at them these forty years, with a congregation averaging 4 to 2.5.

B. You are surely not expected to attend at that primitive Christian hour! Cruelty to animals!

C. If I don't, the absence of such an important unit hurts folks' feelings, and I am driven to the fabrication of excuses. After breakfast, whatever is available trots off to din the Catechism and Genesis into the school-children's heads—the only things my respected forefather cares about teaching them. Of course back again to the children's lessons.

B. What children?

C. Didn't I explain? Three Indian orphans of my uncle's, turned upon my grandfather—jolly little kids enough, as long as one hasn't to teach them.

B. Are governesses unknown in those parts?

C. Too costly; and besides, my mother was designed by nature for a nursery-governess. She has taught the two elder ones to be wonderfully good when she is called off. 'The butcher, ma'am'; or, 'Mrs. Tyler wants to speak to you, ma'am'; or, 'Jane Cox is come for a hospital paper, ma'am.' Then early dinner, of all things detestable, succeeded by school needlework, mothers' meeting, and children's walk, combined with district visiting, or reading to old women. Church again, high tea, and evenings again pleasingly varied by choir practices, night schools, or silence, while grandpapa concocts his sermon.

B. Is this the easy life to which Mrs. Moldwarp has retired?

C. It is her native element. People of her generation think it their vocation to be ladies-of-all-work to the parish of Stickinthemud cum-Humdrum.

B. All-work indeed!

C. I did not include Sundays, which are one rush of meals, schools, and services, including harmonium.

B. No society or rational conversation, of course?

C. Adjacent clergy and clergy woman rather less capable of aught but shop than the natives themselves! You see, even if I did offer myself as a victim, I couldn't do the thing! Fancy my going on about the six Mosaic days, and Jonah's whale, and Jael's nail, and doing their duty in that state of life where it HAS pleased Heaven to place them.

B. Impossible, my dear! Those things can't be taught—if they are to be taught—except by those who accept them as entirely as ever; and it is absurd to think of keeping you where you would be totally devoid of all intellectual food!

SCENE.—ART STUDENT AND DISTINGUISHED PROFESSOR A YEAR LATER. SOIREE IN A LONDON DRAWING-ROOM. PROFESSOR DUNLOP AND CECILIA.

PROF. D. Miss Moldwarp? Is your mother here?

C. No; she is not in town.

PROF. D. Not living there?

C. She lives with my grandfather at Darkglade.

PROF. D. Indeed! I hope Mr. and Mrs. Aveland are well?

C. Thank you, HE is well; but my grandmother is dead.

PROF. D. Oh, I am sorry! I had not heard of his loss. How long ago did it happen?

C. Last January twelvemonth. My aunt is married, and my mother has taken her place at home.

PROF. D. Then you are here on a visit. Where are you staying?

C. No, I live here. I am studying in the Slade schools.

PROF. D. This must have greatly changed my dear old friend's life!

C. I did not know that you were acquainted with my grandfather.

PROF. D. I was one of his pupils. I may say that I owe everything to him. It is long since I have been at Darkglade, but it always seemed to me an ideal place.

C. Rather out of the world.

PROF. D. Of one sort of world perhaps; but what a beautiful combination is to be seen there of the highest powers with the lowliest work! So entirely has he dedicated himself that he really feels the guidance of a ploughman's soul a higher task than the grandest achievement in science or literature. By the bye, I hope he will take up his pen again. It is really wanted. Will you give him a message from me?

C. How strange! I never knew that he was an author.

PROF. D. Ah! you are a young thing, and these are abstruse subjects.

C. Oh! the Fathers and Ritual, I suppose?

PROF. D. No doubt he is a great authority there, as a man of his ability must be; but I was thinking of a course of scientific papers he put forth ten years ago, taking up the arguments against materialism as no one could do who is not as thoroughly at home as he is in the latest discoveries and hypotheses. He ought to answer that paper in the CRITICAL WORLD.

C. I was so much interested in that paper.

PROF. D. It has just the speciousness that runs away with young people. I should like to talk it over with him. Do you think I should be in the way if I ran down?

C. I should think a visit from you would be an immense pleasure to him; and I am sure it would be good for the place to be stirred up.

PROF. D. You have not learnt to prize that atmosphere in which things always seem to assume their true proportion, and to prompt the cry of St. Bernard's brother—'All earth for me, all heaven for you.'

C. That was surely an outcome of the time when people used to sacrifice certainties to uncertainties, and spoil life for the sake of they knew not what.

PROF. D. For eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.

STRANGER. Mr. Dunlop! This is an unexpected pleasure!

C. (ALONE). Well, wonders will never cease. The great Professor Dunlop talking to me quite preachy and goody; and of all people in the world, the old man at Darkglade turning out to be a great physiologist!

VII. TWO OLD FRIENDS

SCENE.—DARKGLADE VICARAGE STUDY. MR. AVELAND AND PROFESSOR DUNLOP.

PROF. D. Thank you, sir. It has been a great pleasure to talk over these matters with you; I hope a great benefit.

MR. A. I am sure it is a great benefit to us to have a breath from the outer world. I hope you will never let so long a time go by without our meeting. Remember, as iron sharpeneth iron, so doth a man's countenance that of his friend.

PROF. D. I shall be only too thankful. I rejoice in the having met your grand-daughter, who encouraged me to offer myself. Is she permanently in town?

MR. A. She shows no inclination to return. I hoped she would do so after the last competition; but there is always another stage to be mounted. I wish she would come back, for her mother ought not to be left single-handed; but young people seem to require so much external education in these days, instead of being content to work on at home, that I sometimes question which is more effectual, learning or being taught.

PROF. D. Being poured-upon versus imbibing?

MR. A. It may depend on what amount there is to imbibe; and I imagine that the child views this region as an arid waste; as of course we are considerably out of date.

PROF. D. The supply would be a good deal fresher and purer!

MR. A. Do you know anything of her present surroundings?

PROF. D. I confess that I was surprised to meet her with Mrs. Eyeless, a lady who is active in disseminating Positivism, and all tending that way. She rather startled me by some of her remarks; but probably it was only jargon and desire to show off. Have you seen her lately?

MR. A. At Christmas, but only for a short time, when it struck me that she treated us with the patronage of precocious youth; and I thought she made the most of a cold when church or parish was concerned. I hinted as much; but her mother seemed quite satisfied. Poor girl! Have I been blind? I did not like her going to live at one of those boarding-houses for lady students. Do you know anything of them?

PROF. D. Of course all depends on the individual lady at the head, and the responsibility she undertakes, as well as on the tone of the inmates. With some, it would be only staying in a safe and guarded home. In others, there is a great amount of liberty, the girls going out without inquiry whether, with whom, or when they return.

MR. A. American fashion! Well, they say young women are equal to taking care of themselves. I wonder whether my daughter understands this, or whether it is so at Cecilia's abode. Do you know?

PROF. D. I am afraid I do. The niece of a friend of mine was there, and left it, much distressed and confused by the agnostic opinions that were freely broached there. How did your grand- daughter come to choose it?

MR. A. For the sake of being with a friend. I think Thurston is the name.

PROF. D. I know something of that family; clever people, but bred up—on principle, if it can be so called, with their minds a blank as to religion. I remember seeing one of the daughters at the party where I met Miss Moldwarp.

MR. A. So this is the society into which we have allowed our poor child to run! I blame myself exceedingly for not having made more inquiries. Grief made me selfishly passive, or I should have opened my eyes and theirs to the danger. My poor Mary, what a shock it will be to her!

PROF. D. Was not she on the spot?

MR. A. True; but, poor dear, she is of a gentle nature, easily led, and seeing only what her affection lets her perceive. And now, she is not strong.

PROF. D. She is not looking well.

MR. A. You think so! I wonder whether I have been blind, and let her undertake too much.

PROF. D. Suppose you were to bring her to town for a few days. We should be delighted to have you, and she could see the doctor to whom she is accustomed. Then you can judge for yourself about her daughter.

MR. A. Thank you, Dunlop! It will be a great comfort if it can be managed.

VIII. AUNT AND NIECE

SCENE.—IN A HANSOM CAB. MRS. HOLLAND AND CECILIA.

MRS. H. I wanted to speak to you, Cissy.

C. I thought so!

MRS. H. What do you think of your mother?

C. Poor old darling. They have been worrying her till she has got hipped and nervous about herself.

MRS. H. Do you know what spasms she has been having?

C. Oh! mother has had spasms as long as I can remember; and the more she thinks of them the worse they are. I have often heard her say so.

MRS. H. Yes; she has gone on much too long overworking herself, and not letting your grandfather suspect anything amiss.

C. Nerves. That is what it always is.

MRS. H. Dr. Brownlow says there is failure of heart, not dangerous or advanced at present, but that there is an overstrain of all the powers, and that unless she keeps fairly quiet, and free from hurry and worry, there may be very serious, if not fatal attacks.

C. I never did think much of Dr. Brownlow. He told me my palpitations were nothing but indigestion, and I am sure they were not!

MRS. H. Well, Cissy, something must be done to relieve your mother of some of her burthens.

C. I see what you are driving at, Aunt Phrasie; but I cannot go back till I have finished these courses. There's my picture, there's the cookery school, the ambulance lectures, and our sketching tour in August. Ever so many engagements. I shall be free in the autumn, and then I will go down and see about it. I told mother so.

MRS. H. All the hot trying months of summer without help!

C. I never can understand why they don't have a governess.

MRS. H. Can't you? Is there not a considerable outgoing on your behalf?

C. That is my own. I am not bound to educate my uncle's children at my expense.

MRS. H. No; but if you contributed your share to the housekeeping, you would make a difference, and surely you cannot leave your mother to break down her health by overworking herself in this manner.

C. Why does grandpapa let her do so?

MRS. H. Partly he does not see, partly he cannot help it. He has been so entirely accustomed to have all those family and parish details taken off his hands, and borne easily as they were when your dear grandmamma and I were both there at home, that he cannot understand that they can be over much—especially as they are so small in themselves. Besides, he is not so young as he was, and your dear mother cannot bear to trouble him.

C. Well, I shall go there in September and see about it. It is impossible before.

MRS. H. In the hopping holidays, when the stress of work is over! Cannot you see with your own eyes how fagged and ill your mother looks, and how much she wants help?

C. Oh! she will be all right again after this rest. I tell you, Aunt Phrasie, it is IMPOSSIBLE at present—(CAB STOPS).

IX. THE TWO SISTERS

SCENE.—A ROOM IN PROFESSOR DUNLOP'S HOUSE. MRS. MOLDWARP AND MRS. HOLLAND.

MRS. H. I have done my best, but I can't move her an inch.

MRS. M. Poor dear girl! Yet it seems hardly fair to make my health the lever, when really there is nothing serious the matter.

MRS. H. I can't understand the infatuation. Can there be any love affair?

MRS. M. Oh no, Phrasie; it is worse!

MRS. H. Worse! Mary, what can you mean?

MRS. M. Yes, it IS worse. I got at the whole truth yesterday. My poor child's faith has gone! Oh, how could I let her go and let her mingle among all those people, all unguarded!

MRS. H. Do you mean that this is the real reason that she will not come home?

MRS. M. Yes; she told me plainly at last that she could not stand our round of services. They seem empty and obsolete to her, and she could not feign to attend them or vex us, and cause remarks by staying away, and of course she neither could nor would teach anything but secular matters. 'My coming would be nothing but pain to everybody,' she said.

MRS H. You did not tell me this before my drive with her.

MRS. M. No, I never saw you alone; besides, I thought you would speak more freely without the knowledge. And, to tell the truth, I did think it possible that consideration for me might bring my poor Cissy down to us, and that when once under my father's influence, all these mists might clear away. But I do not deserve it. I have been an unfaithful parent, shutting my eyes in feeble indulgence, and letting her drift into these quicksands.

MRS. H. Fashion and imitation, my dear Mary; it will pass away. Now, you are not to talk any more.

MRS. M. I can't— (A SPASM COMES ON.)

X. AUNT AND NEPHEW

SCENE.—SIX MONTHS LATER, DARKGLADE VICARAGE, A DARKENED ROOM. MRS. HOLLAND AND LUCIUS.

MRS. H. Yes, Lucius, we have all much to reproach ourselves with; even poor grandpapa is heart-broken at having been too much absorbed to perceive how your dear mother was overtasked.

L. You did all you could, aunt; you took home one child, and caused the other to be sent to school.

MRS. H. Yes, too late to be of any use.

L. And after all, I don't think it was overwork that broke the poor dear one down, so much as grief at that wretched sister of mine.

MRS. H. Don't speak of her in that way, Lucius.

L. How can I help it? I could say worse!

MRS. H. She is broken-hearted, poor thing.

L. Well she may be.

MRS. H. Ah, the special point of sorrow to your dear mother was that she blamed herself, for—

L. How could she? How can you say so, aunt?

MRS. H. Wait a moment, Lucius. What grieved her was the giving in to Cissy's determination, seeing with her eyes, and not allowing herself to perceive that what she wished might not be good for her.

L. Cissy always did domineer over mother.

MRS. H. Yes; and your mother was so used to thinking Cissy's judgment right that she never could or would see when it was time to make a stand, and prevent her own first impressions from being talked down as old-fashioned,—letting her eyes be bandaged, in fact.

L. So she vexed herself over Cissy's fault; but did not you try to make Cissy see what she was about?

MRS. H. True; but if love had blinded my dear sister, Cissy was doubly blinded—

L. By conceit and self-will.

MRS. H. Poor girl, I am too sorry for her now to use those hard words, but I am afraid it is true. First she could or would not see either that her companions might be undesirable guides, or that her duty lay here, and then nothing would show her that her mother's health was failing. Indeed, by that time the sort of blindness had come upon her which really broke your mother's heart.

L. You mean her unbelief, agnosticism, or whatever she chooses to call it. I thought at least women were safe from that style of thing. It is all fashion and bad company, I suppose?

MRS. H. I hope and pray that it may be so; but I am afraid that it goes deeper than you imagine. Still, I see hope in her extreme unhappiness, and in the remembrance of your dear mother's last words and prayers.

XI. GRANDFATHER AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

A MONTH LATER. MR. AVELAND AND CECILIA.

MR. A. My dear child, I wish I could do anything for you.

C. You had better let me go back to London, grandpapa.

MR. A. Do you really wish it?

C. I don't know. I hate it all; but if I were in the midst of everything again, it might stifle the pain a little.

MR. A. I am afraid that is not the right way of curing it.

C. Oh, I suppose it will wear down in time.

MR. A. Is that well?

C. I don't know. It is only unbearable as it is; and yet when I think of my life in town, the din and the chatter and the bustle, and the nobody caring, seem doubly intolerable; but I shall work off that. You had better let me go, grandpapa. The sight of me can be nothing but a grief and pain to you.

MR. A. No; it gives me hope.

C. Hope of what?

MR. A. That away from the whirl you will find your way to peace.

C. I don't see how. Quiet only makes me more miserable.

MR. A. My poor child, if you can speak out and tell me exactly how it is with you, I think it might be comfortable to you. If it is the missing your mother, and blaming yourself for having allowed her to overdo herself, I may well share with you in that. I feel most grievously that I never perceived how much she was undertaking, nor how she flagged under it. Unselfish people want others to think for them, and I did not.

C. Dear grandpapa, it would not have been too much if I had come and helped. I know that; but it is not the worst. You can't feel as I do—that if my desertion led to her overworking herself, Aunt Phrasie and Lucius say that what really broke her down was the opinions I cannot help having. Say it was not, grandpapa.

MR. A. I wish I could, my dear; but I cannot conceal that unhappiness about you, and regret for having let you expose yourself to those unfortunate arguments, broke her spirits so that her energies were unequal to the strain that I allowed to be laid on her.

C. Poor dear mother! And you and she can feel in that way about the importance of what to me seems—pardon me, grandpapa—utterly unproved.

MR. A. You hold everything unproved that you cannot work out like a mathematical demonstration.

C. I can't help it, grandpapa. I read and read, till all the premises become lost in the cloud of myths that belong to all nations. I don't want to think such things. I saw dear mother rest on her belief, and grow peaceful. They were perfect realities to her; but I cannot unthink. I would give anything to think that she is in perfect happiness now, and that we shall meet again; but nothing seems certain to me. All is extinguished.

MR. A. How do you mean?

C. They—Betty and her set, I mean—laughed at and argued one thing after another, till they showed me that there were no positive grounds to go on.

MR. A. No material grounds.

C. And what else is certain?

MR. A. Do you think your mother was not certain?

C. I saw she was; I see you are certain. But what am I to do? I cannot unthink.

MR. A. Poor child, they have loosed you from the shore, because you could not see it, and left you to flounder in the waves.

C. Well, so I feel it sometimes; but if I could only feel that there was a shore, I would try to get my foothold. Oh, with all my heart!

MR. A. Will you take my word, dear child—the word of one who can dare humbly to say he has proved it, so as to be as sure as of the floor we are standing on, that that Rock exists; and God grant that you may, in prayer and patience, be brought to rest on it once more.

C. Once more! I don't think I ever did so really. I only did not think, and kept away from what was dull and tiresome. Didn't you read something about 'If thou hadst known—'

MR. A. 'If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things that belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes.' But oh, my dear girl, it is my hope and prayer, not for ever. If you will endure to walk in darkness for a while, till the light be again revealed to you.

C. At any rate, dear grandfather, I will do what mother entreated, and not leave you alone.

XII.

TWO YEARS LATER. ST. THOMAS'S DAY.

C. Grandpapa, may I come with you on Christmas morning?

MR. A. You make me a truly happy Christmas, dear child.

C. I think I feel somewhat as St. Thomas did, in to-day's Gospel. It went home to my heart

MR. A. Ah, child, to us that 'Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed,' must mean those who are ready to know by faith instead of material tangible proof.



CHOPS



You ask me why I call that old great-grandmother black cat Chops? Well, thereby hangs a tale. I don't mean the black tail which is standing upright and quivering at your caresses, but a story that there will be time to tell you before Charlie gets home from market.

Seven years ago, Charlie had just finished his training both at an agricultural college and under a farmer, and was thinking of going out to Texas or to Canada, and sending for me when he should have been able to make a new home for me, when his godfather, Mr. Newton, offered to let him come down and look after the draining and otherwise reclaiming of this great piece of waste land. It had come to Mr. Newton through some mortgages, I believe, and he thought something might be made of it by an active agent. It was the first time Mr. Newton had shown the least interest in us, though he was a cousin of our poor mother's; and Charlie was very much gratified, more especially as when he had 150 pounds a year and a house, he thought I might leave the school where I was working as a teacher, and make a home with him.

Yes, this is the house; but it has grown a good deal since we settled down, and will grow more before you come to it for good. Then it was only meant for a superior sort of gamekeeper, and had only six rooms in it—parlour, kitchen, and back kitchen, and three bedrooms above them; but this we agreed would be ample for ourselves and Betsey, an old servant of our mother's, who could turn her hand to anything, and on the break-up of our home had begged to join us again whenever or wherever we should have a house of our own once more.

We have half a dozen cottages near us now; but then it seemed to us like a lodge in a vast wilderness—three miles away from everything, shop, house, or church. Betsey fairly sat down and cried when she heard how far away was the butcher, and it really seemed as if we were to have the inconveniences of colonisation without the honour of it. However, contrivances made us merry; we made our rooms pretty and pleasant, and as a pony and trap were essential to Charlie in his work, we were able to fetch and carry easily. Moreover, we had already a fair kitchen garden laid out, and there were outhouses for pigs and poultry, so that even while draining and fencing were going on, we raised a good proportion of our own provisions, and very proud of them we were; our own mustard and cress, which we sowed in our initials, tasted doubly sweet when we reaped them as our earliest crop.

Mr. Newton had always said that some day he should drop down and see how Charles was getting on, but as he hardly ever stirred from his office in London, and only answered letters in the briefest and most business-like way, we had pretty well left off expecting him.

We had been here about six months, and had killed our first pig—'a pretty little porker as ever was seen,' as Betsey said. It was hard to understand, after all the petting, admiration, and back- scratching Betsey had bestowed on him, how ready she was to sentence him, and triumph in his death; while I, feeble-minded creature, delayed rising in the morning that I might cower under the bedclothes and stop my ears against his dying squeals. However, when he was no more, the housekeeping spirit triumphed in our independence of the butcher, while his fry and other delicacies lasted, and Betsey was supremely happy over the saltings of the legs, etc., with a view to the more distant future.

It was a cold day of early spring. I had been down the lanes and brought in five tiny starved primroses with short stems, for which Betsey scolded me soundly, telling me that the first brood of chickens was always the same in number as the first primroses brought into the house. I eked them out with moss in a saucer, and then, how well I remember the foolish, weary feeling that I wished something would happen to break the quiet. We were out of the reach of new books, and the two magazines we took in would not be due for ten long days. I did not feel sensible or energetic enough to turn to one of the standard well-bound volumes that had been Charlie's school prizes, and at the moment I hated my needlework, both steady sewing and fancy work. It was the same with my piano. I had no new fashionable music, and I was in a mood to disdain what was good and classical. So, as the twilight came on, I sat drearily by the fire, fondling the cat—yes, this same black cat—and thinking that my life at the ladies' college had been a good deal livelier, and that if I had given it up for the sake of my brother's society, I had very little of that.

The hunt had gone by last week—what a treat it would be if some one would meet with a little accident and be carried in here!

Behold, I heard a step at the back door, and the loud call of 'Kitty! Kitty!' There stood Charlie, as usual covered with clay nearly up to the top of his gaiters—clay either pale yellow, or horrid light blue, according to the direction of his walk. He was beginning frantically to unbutton them, and as he beheld me he cried out, 'Kitty! he's coming!' and before I could say, 'Who?' he went on, 'Old Newton. His fly is working through the mud in Draggletail Lane. The driver hailed me to ask the way, and when I saw who it was, I cut across to give you notice. He'll stay the night to a dead certainty.'

What was to be done? A wild hope seized me that, at sight of the place, he would retain his fly and go off elsewhere for better accommodation.

Only, where would he find it? The nearest town, where the only railway station then was, was eight miles off, and he was not likely to plod back thither again, and the village inn, five miles away, was little more than a pot-house.

No, we must rise to the occasion, Betsey and I, while Charlie was making himself respectable to receive the guest. Where was he to sleep? What was he to eat? A daintily fed, rather hypochrondriacal old bachelor, who seldom stirred out of his comfortable house in London. What a guest for us!

The council was held while the gaiters were being unbuttoned. He must have my room, and I would sleep with Betsey. As to food, it was impossible to send to the butcher; and even if I could have sacrificed my precious Dorking fowls, there would have been scant time to prepare them.

There was nothing for it but to give him the pork chops, intended for our to-morrow's dinner, and if he did not like them, he might fall back upon poached eggs and rashers.

'Mind,' called Charlie, as I dashed into my room to remove my properties and light the fire, so that it might get over its first smoking fit,—'mind you lock up the cat. He hates them like poison.'

It was so long before the carriage appeared, that I began half to hope, half to fear, it was a false alarm; but at last, just as it was perfectly dark, we heard it stop at the garden gate, and Charlie dashed out to open the fly door, and bring in the guest, who was panting, nervous—almost terrified, at a wild drive, so contrary to all his experiences. When the flyman's demands had been appeased, and we had got the poor old gentleman out of his wraps, he turned out to be a neat, little, prim-looking London lawyer, clean-shaved, and with an indoor complexion. I daresay Charlie, with his big frame, sunburnt face, curly beard, and loud hearty voice, seemed to him like a kind of savage, and he thought he had got among the Aborigines.

After all, he had written to announce his coming. But he had not calculated on our never getting our letters unless we sent for them. He was the very pink of politeness to me, and mourned so much over putting me to inconvenience that we could only profess our delight and desire to make him comfortable.

On the whole, it went off very well. I gave him a cup of tea to warm and occupy him while the upstairs' chimney was coming to its senses; and then Charles took him upstairs. He reappeared in precise evening dress, putting us to shame; for Charles had not a dress-coat big enough for him to get into, and I had forgotten to secure my black silk before abandoning my room. We could not ask him to eat in the best kitchen, as was our practice, and he showed himself rather dismayed at our having only one sitting-room, saying he had not thought the cottage such a dog-hole, or known that it would be inhabited by a lady; and then he paid some pretty compliment on the feminine hand evident in the room. We had laid the table before he came down, but the waiting was managed by ourselves, or rather, by Charles, for Mr. Newton's politeness made him jump up whenever I moved; so that I had to sit still and do the lady hostess, while my brother changed plates and brought in relays of the chops from the kitchen. They were a great success. Mr. Newton eyed them for a moment distrustfully, but Betsey had turned them out beautifully—all fair and delicate with transparent fat, and a brown stripe telling of the gridiron. He refused the egg alternative, and greatly enjoyed them and our Brussels sprouts, speaking highly of the pleasure of country fare, and apologising about the good appetising effects of a journey, when Charlie tempted him with a third chop, the hottest and most perfect of all.

I think we also produced a rhubarb tart, and I know he commended our prudence in having no wine, and though he refused my brother's ale, seemed highly satisfied with a tumbler of brandy and water, when I quitted the gentlemen to see to the coffee, while they talked over the scheme for farm-buildings, which Charlie had sent up to him.

When I bade him good-night, a couple of hours later, he was evidently in a serene state of mind, regarding us as very superior young people.

In the middle of the night, Betsey and I were appalled by a tremendous knocking on the wall. I threw on a dressing-gown and made for the door, while Betsey felt for the matches. As I opened a crack of the door, Charlie's voice was to be heard, 'Yes, yes; I'll get you some, sir. You'll be better presently,' interspersed with heavy groans; then, seeing me wide awake, he begged that Betsey would go down and get some hot water—'and mustard,' called out a suffering voice. 'Oh, those chops!'

Poor Mr. Newton had, it appeared, wakened with a horrible oppression on his chest, and at once attributing it to his unwonted meal of pork chops, he had begun, in the dark, knocking and calling with great energy. Charlie had stumbled in in the dark, not waiting to light a candle, and indeed ours were chiefly lamps, which took time to light. Betsey had hers, however, and had bustled into some clothes, tumbling downstairs to see whether any water were still hot in the copper, Charlie running down to help her, while I fumbled about for a lamp and listened with awe to the groans from within, wondering which of us would have to go for the doctor.

Up came Charlie, in his shirt sleeves, with a steaming jug in one hand and a lamp in the other. Up came Betsey, in a scarlet petticoat and plaid shawl, her gray locks in curl-papers, and a tallow-candle in hand. The door was thrown open, Charlie observing,

'Now, sir,' then breaking out into 'Thunder and turf' (his favourite Hibernian ejaculation); 'Ssssssss!' and therewith, her green eyes all one glare, out burst this cat! She was the nightmare! She had been sitting on the unfortunate man's chest, and all her weight had been laid to the score of the chops!

No doubt she had been attracted by the fire, stolen up in the confusion of the house, remained hidden whilst Mr. Newton was going to bed, and when the fire went out, settled herself on his chest, as it seems he slept on his back, and it was a warm position.

Probably his knockings on the wall dislodged her; but if so, imagination carried on the sense of oppression, and with feline pertinacity she had returned as soon as he was still again.

Poor old gentleman! I am afraid he heard some irrepressible laughter, and it was very sore to him to be ridiculous. His grave dignity and politeness when he came down very late the next morning were something awful, and it must have been very dreadful to him that he could not get away till half the day was over.

So dry and short was he over matters of business that Charles actually thought we might begin to pack up and make our arrangements for emigrating. Grave, dry, and civil as ever, he departed, and I never saw him more, nor do I think he ever entirely forgave me. There did not, however, come any dismissal, and when Charlie had occasion to go up to his office and see him, he was just the same as ever, and acceded to the various arrangements which have made this a civilised, though still rather remote place.

And when he died, a year ago, to our surprise we found that this same reclaimed property was left to my brother. The consequence whereof you well know, my dear little sister that is to be. Poor old Chops! you had nearly marred our fortunes; and now, will you go with me to my home at the Rectory, or do you prefer your old abode to your old mistress?



Footnotes:

{127} [In the book this genealogy is a diagram. It is rendered as text here.—DP] John Fulford: sons: John Fulford {127a} (married Margaret Lacy) and Henry {127b}.

{127a} John Fulford and Margaret Lacy: Sir Edward Fulford (married Avice Lee—died after two years), Arthur, Q.C. (married Edith Ganler) {127c}, Martyn (Professor, married Mary Alwyn) {127d}, Charlotte, Emily, Margaret (married Rev. H. Druce) {127e}.

{127b} Henry had a son called Henry—whose son was also Henry— whose daughter was Isabel.

{127c} Arthur, Q.C. and Edith Ganler: Margaret called Metelill, Charlotte called Charley, Sons not at New Cove.

{127d} Martyn (Professor) and Mary Alwyn: Margaret called Pica, Avice and Uchtred.

{127e} Margaret and Rev. H. Druce: Jane and large family.

THE END