"Mr. Charnock, it can't be true, can it?—they only say so out of ignorance—that it was Pettitt's well, I mean?"

In a few words Julius made it clear what the evil had been and how it arose.

She did not dispute it, she merely grew sallower and said:

"God forgive us! We did it for the best. I planned. I never thought of that. Oh!"

"My brother insists that the mischief came of not following the example you set."

"And Cecil!"

"Cecil is too much stupefied to know anything about it."

"You are helping here? Make me all the use you can. Whatever has to be done give it to me."

"Nay, you have your family to consider."

"My boys are at their grandmother's. My husband is gone abroad. Give me work. I have brought some wine. Who needs it most?"

"Wine?" said Herbert. "Here? I was going back for some, but half an hour may make all the difference to the poor lad in here."

Mrs. Duncombe was within the door in a moment.

"There has been an execution in her house," said Herbert, as they went home. "That fellow went off on Saturday, and left her alone to face it."

"I thought she had striven to keep out of debt."

"What can a woman do when a man chooses to borrow? That horse brought them to more unexpected smash. They say that after the ball, where she appeared in all her glory, as if nothing had happened, she made Bob give her a schedule of his debts, packed his portmanteau, sent him off to find some cheap hole abroad, and stayed to pick up the pieces after the wreck."

"She is a brave woman," said Julius.

Therewith they plunged into the abodes of misery, where the only other helper at present was good old Miss Slater, who was going from one to another, trying to show helpless women how to nurse, but able only to contribute infinitesimal grains of aid or comfort at immense cost to herself. Julius insisted on taking home with him his curate, who had been at work from ten o'clock that morning till six, when as Julius resigned the pony's reins to him, he begged that they might go round and inquire at Sirenwood, to which consent was the more willingly given because poor Frank's few gleams of consciousness were spent in sending his indefatigable nurse Anne to ask whether his mother had 'had that letter,' and in his delirium he was always feeling his watch-chain for that unhappy pebble, and moaning when he missed it. Mrs. Poynsett's letter had gone on Friday, and still there was no answer, and this was a vexation, adding to the fear that the poor fellow's rejection had been final. Yet she might have missed the letter by being summoned home. Close to the lodge, they overtook Sir Harry, riding dejectedly homewards, and, glad to be saved going up to the house, they stopped and inquired for Lady Tyrrell.

"Very low and oppressed," he said. "M'Vie does not give us reason to expect a change just yet. Do they tell you the same? Worth attends you, I think?"

"He seems to think it must run on for at least three weeks," said Julius.

"You've been to the meeting, eh? Was it that well of Pettitt's? Really that meddling wife of Duncombe's ought to be prosecuted. I hope she'll catch the fever and be served out."

"She tried to prevent it," said Julius.

"Pshaw! women have no business with such things, they only put their foot in it. Nobody used to trouble themselves about drains, and one never heard of fevers."

Instead of contesting the point, Julius asked whether Miss Vivian were at home.

"No; that's the odd thing. I wrote, for M'Vie has no fear of infection, and poor Camilla is always calling for her, and that French maid has thought proper to fall ill, and we don't know what to do. Upper housemaid cut and run in a panic, cook dead drunk last night, not a servant in the house to be trusted. If it were not for my man Victor I don't know where I should be. Very odd what that child is about. Lady Susan can't be keeping it from her. Unjustifiable!"

"She is with Lady Susan Strangeways?"

"Yes. Went with Bee and Conny. I was glad, for we can't afford to despise a good match, though I was sorry for your brother."

"Do I understand you that she is engaged to Mr. Strangeways?"

"No, no; not yet. One always hears those things before they are true, and you see they are keeping her from us as if she belonged to them already. I call it unfeeling! I have just been to the post to see if there's a letter! Can't be anything wrong in the address,— Revelrig, Cleveland, Yorkshire."

"Why don't you telegraph?"

"I shall, if I don't hear to-morrow morning."

But the morning's telegrams were baffling. None came in answer to Sir Harry, though he had bidden his daughter to telegraph back instantly; and two hospitals replied that they had no nurses to spare! This was the first thing Julius heard when he came to the committee-room. The second was that the only parish nurse had been found asleep under the influence of the port-wine intended for her patients, the third that there were five more deaths, one being Mrs. Gadley, of the 'Three Pigeons,' from diphtheria, and fourteen more cases of fever were reported. Julius had already been with the schoolmistress, who was not expected to live through the day. He had found that Mrs. Duncombe had been up all night with one of the most miserable families, and only when her unpractised hands had cared for a little corpse, had been forced home by good Miss Slater for a little rest. He had also seen poor Mr. Fuller, who was too weak and wretched to say anything more than 'God help us, Charnock: you will do what you can;' and when Julius asked for his sanction to sending for Sisters, he answered, "Anything, anything."

The few members who had come to the committee were reduced to the same despairing consent, and Julius was allowed to despatch a telegram to St. Faith's, which had sent Sisters in the emergency at St. Awdry's. He likewise brought an offer, suggested by Raymond, of a great old tithe barn, his own property, but always rented by Mrs. Poynsett, in a solitary field, where the uninfected children might be placed under good care, and the houses in Water Lane thus relieved. As to a fever hospital, Raymond had sent his advice to use the new town-hall itself. A word from him went a great way just then with the Town Council, and the doctors were delighted with the proposal.

Funds and contributions of bedding, clothing, food and wine were coming in, but hands were the difficulty. The adaptations of the town-hall and the bringing in of beds were done by one strong carpenter and Mrs. Duncombe's man Alexander, whom she had brought with her, and who proved an excellent orderly; and the few who would consent, or did not resist occupying the beds there, were carried in by Herbert Bowater and a strapping young doctor who had come down for this fever pasture. There Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Slater received them. No other volunteer had come to light willing to plunge into this perilous and disgusting abyss of misery; and among the afflicted families the power of nursing was indeed small.

However, the healthy children were carried away without much resistance, and established in the great barn under a trustworthy widow; and before night, two effective-looking Sisters were in charge at the hospital.

Still, however, no telegram, no letter, came from Eleonora Vivian. Mr. M'Vie had found a nurse for Lady Tyrrell, but old Sir Harry rode in to meet every delivery of the post, and was half distracted at finding nothing from her; and Frank's murmurs of her name were most piteous to those who feared that, if he were ever clearly conscious again, it would only be to know how heavy had been the meed of his folly.



CHAPTER XXVIII The Retreat

What dost thou here, frail wanderer from thy task?—Christian Year

Eleonora Vivian was trying to fix her attention on writing out the meditation she had just heard from Dr. Easterby.

It had been a strange time. All externally was a great hush. There was perfect rest from the tumult of society, and from the harassing state of tacit resistance habitual to her. This was the holy quietude for which she had longed, yet where was the power to feel and profit by it? Did not the peace without only make her hear the storm within all the more?

A storm had truly been raging within ever since Conny Strangeways had triumphantly exhibited the prize she had won from Frank Charnock at the races; and Camilla had taken care that full and undeniable evidence should prove that this was not all that the young man had lost upon the Backsworth race-ground.

Lenore might guess, with her peculiarly painful intuition, who had been the tempter, but that did not lessen her severity towards the victim. In her resolution against a betting man, had she not trusted Frank too implicitly even to warn him of her vow? Nay, had she not felt him drifting from her all through the season, unjustly angered, unworthily distrustful, easily led astray? All the misgivings that had fretted her at intervals and then cleared away seemed to gather into one conviction—Frank had failed her!

Eleonora's nature was one to resent before grieving. Her spirit was too high to break down under the first shock, and she carried her head proudly to the ball, betraying by no outward sign the stern despair of her heart, as she listened to the gay chatter of her companions, and with unflinching severity she carried out that judicial reply to Frank which she had already prepared, and then guarded herself among numerous partners against remonstrance or explanation. It had been all one whirl of bewilderment; Lady Tyrrell tired, and making the girls' intended journey on the morrow a plea for early departure; and the Strangeways, though dancing indefatigably, and laughing at fatigue, coming away as soon as they saw she really wished it. All said good night and good-bye together, both to Lady Tyrrell and Sir Harry, and Lenore started at ten o'clock without having seen either. Her sense of heroism lasted till after the glimpse of Frank on the road. Her mood was of bitter disappointment and indignation. Frank was given up, but not less so were her father, her sister, and the world. Sir Harry had made Camilla suffice to him, he did not want her. He had been the means of perverting Frank, and Lenore could not see that she need any longer be bound for his sake to the life she detested. In a few weeks she would be of age, and what would then prevent her from finding a congenial home in the Sisterhood, since such kindred could have no just claim to her allegiance? It was the hasty determination of one who had suffered a tacit persecution for three years, and was now smarting under the cruellest of blows. Her lover perverted, her conditions broken, her pledge gambled away, and all this the work of her father and sister!

Conny and Bee thought her grave and more silent than usual, and when Lady Susan met them in London there was no time for thought. Saturday was spent on a harvest festival at a suburban church, after which the daughters were despatched to their uncle's by a late train. Sunday was spent in the pursuit of remarkable services; and on Monday Lady Susan and Eleonora had gone to St. Faith's and the Retreat began.

Here was to be the longed-for rest, for which she had thirsted all the more through those days of hurry and of religious spectacles, as she felt that, be they what they might to their regular attendants, to her, as an outsider, they could be but sights, into whose spirit her sick and wearied soul could not enter.

Here was no outward disturbance, no claim from the world, no importunate chatter, only religious services in their quietest, most unobtrusive form; and Dr. Easterby's low tender tones, leading his silent listeners to deep heart-searchings, earnest thoughts, and steadfast resolutions.

Ah! so no doubt it was with many; but Lena, with book and pen, was dismayed to find that the one thing she recollected was the question, "Friend, how camest thou in hither?" After that, she had only heard her own thoughts. Her mind had lapsed into one vague apprehension of the effects of having cut off all communication with home, imaginings of Frank's despair, relentings of pity, all broken by dismay at her own involuntary hypocrisy in bringing such thoughts into the Retreat. Had she any right to be there at all? Was not a thing that should have been for her peace become to her an occasion of falling?

It was Thursday evening, and on the morrow there would be the opportunity of private interviews with Dr. Easterby. She longed for the moment, chiefly to free herself from the sense of deception that had all this time seemed to vitiate her religious exercises, deafen her ears, and blow aside her prayers. There was a touch on her shoulder, and one of the Sisters who had received the ladies said, interrogatively, "Miss Vivian? The Mother would be obliged if you would come to her room."

The general hush prevented Lenore from manifesting her extreme agitation, and she moved with as quiet a step as she could command, though trembling from head to foot. In the room to which she came stood the Superior and Dr. Easterby, and a yellow telegram-paper lay on the table.

"My father?" she asked.

"No," said the Superior, kindly, "it is your sister, who is ill. Here is the telegram—"

"Sister Margaret to the Mother Superior, St. Faith's, Dearport. Lady Tyrrell has the fever. Miss Vivian much needed.

"Wils'bro, Sept. 26th, 5.30."

"The fever!" She looked up bewildered, and the Superior added—

"You did not know of a fever at Wil'sbro'? Some of our nursing Sisters were telegraphed for, and went down yesterday. I was sorry to send Sister Margaret away just when her mother and you are here; but she was the only available head, and the need seemed great."

"I have heard nothing since I left home on Friday," said Eleonora, hoarsely. "It is my own fault. They think I am at Revelrig."

"Your family do not know you are here?" said the Superior, gravely.

"It was very wrong," she said. "This is the punishment. I must go. Can I?"

"Surely, as soon as there is a train," said the Superior, beginning to look for a Bradshaw; while Dr. Easterby gave Lenore a chair, and bade her sit down. She looked up at his kind face, and asked whether he had heard of this fever.

"On Sunday evening, some friends who came out from Backsworth to our evening service spoke of an outbreak of fever at Wil'sbro', and said that several of the Charnock family were ill. I have had this card since from young Mr. Bowater:—

"T. F. in severe form. J. C. well, but both his brothers are down in it, and Lady K.'s brother, also Lady T. and the Vicar. No one to do anything; we have taken charge of Wil'sbro'. I have no time to do more than thank you for unspeakable kindness. H. B."

"You knew?" exclaimed Lenore, as she saw her sister's initial.

"I knew Lady Tyrrell was ill, but I do not know who the ladies are whom I address. I did not guess that you were here," said Dr. Easterby, gently.

No one living near Backsworth could fail to know Sir Harry Vivian's reputation, so that the master of Rood House knew far better than the Superior of St. Faith's how much excuse Lenore's evasion might have; but whatever could seem like tampering with young people was most distressing to the Sisters, and the Mother was more grave than pitiful.

There was no train till the mail at night, and there would be two hours to wait in London; but Lenore would listen to no entreaties to wait till morning, and as they saw that she had plenty of health and strength, they did not press her, though the Superior would send a nurse with her, who, if not needed at Sirenwood, might work in Water Lane. It was thought best not to distract Lady Susan, and Lenore was relieved not to have her vehement regret and fussy cares about her; but there were still two hours to be spent before starting, and in these Dr. Easterby was the kindest of comforters.

Had she erred in her concealment? He thought she had, though with much excuse. A Retreat was not like a sacrament, a necessity of a Christian's life; and no merely possible spiritual advantage ought to be weighed against filial obedience. It was a moment of contrition, and of outpouring for the burthened heart, as Lenore was able to speak of her long trial, and all the evil it had caused in hardening and sealing up her better nature. She even told of her unsanctioned but unforbidden engagement, and of its termination; yearning to be told that she had been hasty and hard, and to be bidden to revoke her rejection.

She found that Dr. Easterby would not judge for her, or give her decided direction. He showed her, indeed, that she had given way to pride and temper, and had been unjust in allowing no explanation; but he would not tell her to unsay her decision, nor say that it might not be right, even though the manner had been wrong. While the past was repented, and had its pardon, for the future he would only bid her wait, and pray for guidance and aid through her trial.

"My child," he said, "chastening is the very token of pardon, and therein may you find peace, and see the right course."

"And you will pray for me—that however it may be, He may forgive me?"

"Indeed, I will. We all will pray for you as one in sorrow and anxiety. And remember this: There is a promise that a great mountain shall become a plain; and so it does, but to those who bravely try to climb it in strength not their own, not to those who try to go round or burrow through."

"I see," was all she answered, in the meek submissive tone of a strong nature, bent but not daring to break down. She could not shed tears, deeply as she felt; she must save all her strength and bear that gnawing misery which Herbert Bowater's mention of J. C.'s brothers had inflicted upon her—bear it in utter uncertainty through the night's journey, until the train stopped at Wil'sbro' at eleven o'clock, and her father, to whom she had telegraphed, met her, holding out his arms, and absolutely crying over her for joy.

"My dear, my dear, I knew you would come; I could trust to my little Lena. It was all some confounded mistake."

"It was my fault. How is she?"

"Does nothing but ask for you. Very low—nasty fever at night. What's that woman? M'Vie sent a nurse, who is awfully jealous; can't have her in to Camilla: but there's plenty to do; Anais is laid up—coachman too, and Joe—half the other servants gone off. I told Victor I would pay anything to him if he would stay."

"And—at Compton?" faintly asked Lenore.

"Bad enough, they say. Serves 'em right; Mrs. Raymond was as mischievous as Duncombe's wife, but I've not heard for the last two days; there's been no one to send over, and I've had enough to think about of my own."

"Who have it there?" she managed to say.

"Raymond and his wife, both; and Frank and the young De Lancey, I heard. I met Julius Charnock the other day very anxious about them. He's got his tithe barn stuffed with children from Water Lane, as if he wanted to spread it. All their meddling! But what kept you so long, little one? Where were you hiding?—or did Lady Susan keep it from you? I began to think you had eloped with her son. You are sure you have not?"

"I was wrong, father; I went to a Retreat with Lady Susan."

"A what? Some of Lady Susan's little poperies, eh? I can't scold you, child, now I've got you; only have your letters forwarded another time," said Sir Harry, placable as usual when alone with Lenore.

Fears of infection for her did not occur to him. Mr. M'Vie held the non-contagion theory, and helpless selfishness excluded all thoughts of keeping his daughter at a distance. He clung to her as he used to do in former days, before Camilla had taken possession of him, and could not bear to have her out of reach. In the sick-room she was of disappointingly little use. The nurse was a regular professional, used to despotism, and resenting her having brought home any one with her, and she never permitted Miss Vivian's presence, except when the patient's anxiety made it necessary to bring her in; and when admitted, there was nothing to be done but to sit by Camilla, and now and then answer the weary disjointed talk, and, if it grew a little livelier, the warning that Lady Tyrrell was getting excited was sure to follow.

Outside there was enough to do, in the disorganized state of the sick and panic-stricken household, where nobody was effective but the French valet and one very stupid kitchen-maid. Lena helped the St. Faith's nurse in her charge of the French maid, but almost all her time in the morning was spent in domestic cares for the sick and for her father; and when he was once up, he was half plaintive, half passionate, if she did not at once respond to his calls. She read the papers to him, walked up and down the terrace with him while he smoked, and played bezique with him late into the night, to distract his thoughts. And where were hers, while each day's bulletin from Compton Hall was worse than the last? Little Joe Reynolds had been sent home on being taken ill, and she would fain have gone to see him, but detentions sprang up around her, and sometimes it would have been impossible to go so far from the house, so that days had become weeks, and the month of October was old before she was walking down the little garden of old Betty's house. The door opened, and Julius Charnock came out, startling her by the sight of his worn and haggard looks, as he made a deprecating movement, and shut the door behind him. Then she saw that the blinds were in the act of being drawn down.

"Is it so?" she said.

"Yes," said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his looks. "He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago."

"I suppose I must not go in now. I longed to come before. Poor boy, he was like a toy flung away."

"You need not grieve over him," said Julius. "Far from it. You have done a great deal for him."

"I—I only caused him to be put into temptation."

"Nay. Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him. No one could hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you. There is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you. It is at the Rectory; it was not safe here. And his mother is here. I can't but hope her soul has been reached through him. Yes," as Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, "there is no grief in thinking of him. He had yearnings and conceptions that could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an artist's life would have been more than commonly uphill work—full of trial. I wish you could have heard the murmured words that showed what glorious images floated before him—no doubt now realized."

"I am glad he was really good," were the only words that would come.

The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a little further off were almost necessary to them.

"Take my arm," said Julius, kindly. "Our roads lie together down the lane. How is your sister? Better, I hope, as I see you here."

"She has slept more quietly. Mr. M'Vie thinks her a little better."

"So it is with Terry de Lancey," said Julius; "he is certainly less feverish to-day;" but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in the voice, though he added, "Cecil is going on well too."

"And—" Poor Lenore's heart died within her; she could only press his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.

"Frank's illness has been different in character from the others," he said; "the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is less anxious about him than Raymond."

"Ah! is it true?"

"He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto been the worst symptoms," and here the steady sadness of his voice quivered a little.

Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, "Your mother?"

"She is absorbed in him. Happily, she can be with him constantly. They seem to rest in each other's presence, and not to look forward."

"And Cecil?"

"It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil. She is almost always asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have none of us been allowed to come near her. Her maid, Grindstone, has taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of our telling her how ill Raymond is."

"Oh, I know Grindstone."

"Who looks on us all as enemies. However, Raymond has desired us to write to her father, and he will judge when he comes."

They were almost at the place of parting. Eleonora kept her hand on his arm, longing for another word, nay, feeling that without it her heart would burst. "Who is with Frank?"

"Anne. She hardly ever leaves him. She is our main-stay at the Hall."

"Is he ever sensible?" she faintly asked.

"He has not been really rational for nearly ten days now."

"If—if—oh! you know what I mean. Oh! gain his pardon for me!" and she covered her face with her hand.

"Poor Frank!—it is of your pardon that he talks. Tell me, Eleonora, did you ever receive a letter from my mother?"

"Never. Where was it sent?" she said, starting.

"To Revelrig. It was written the day after the ball."

"I never went to Revelrig. Oh! if I could have spoken to you first I should have been saved from so much that was wrong. No one knew where I was."

"No, not till Sister Margaret told Herbert Bowater that her sisters had been at a ball at the town-hall the week before. Then he saw she was Miss Strangeways, and asked if she knew where you were."

"Ah, yes! disobedience—tacit deception—temper. Oh! they have brought their just punishment. But that letter!"

"I think it was to explain poor Frank's conduct at the races. Perhaps, as the servants at Revelrig had no knowledge of you, it may have been returned, and my mother's letter have been left untouched. I will see."

They knew they must not delay one another, and parted; Julius walking homewards by the Hall, where, alas! there was only one of the family able to move about the house, and she seldom left her patient.

Julius did, however, find her coming down-stairs with Dr. Worth, and little as he gathered that was reassuring in the physician's words, there was a wistful moisture about her eyes, a look altogether of having a bird in her bosom, which made him say, as the doctor hurried off, "Anne, some one must be better."

"Cecil is," she said; and he had nearly answered, "only Cecil," but her eyes brimmed over suddenly, and she said, "I am so thankful!"

"Miles!" he exclaimed.

She handed him a telegram. The Salamanca was at Spithead; Miles telegraphed to her to join him.

"Miles come! Thank God! Does mother know?"

"Hush! no one does," and with a heaving breast she added, "I answered that I could not, and why, and that he must not come."

"No, I suppose he must not till he is free of his ship. My poor Anne!"

"Oh no! I know he is safe. I am glad! But the knowledge would tear your mother to pieces."

"Her soul is in Raymond now, and to be certain of Miles being at hand would be an unspeakable relief to him. Come and tell them."

"No, no, I can't!" she cried, with a sudden gush of emotion sweeping over her features, subdued instantly, but showing what it was to her. "You do it. Only don't let them bring him here."

And Anne flew to her fastness in Frank's attic, while Julius repaired to Raymond's room, and found him as usual lying tranquil, with his mother's chair so near that she could hand him the cool fruit or drink, or ring to summon other help. Their time together seemed to both a rest, and Julius always liked to look at their peaceful faces, after the numerous painful scenes he had to encounter. Raymond, too, was clinging to him, to his ministrations and his talk, as to nothing else save his mother. Raymond had always been upright and conscientious, but his religion had been chiefly duty and obligation, and it was only now that comfort or peace seemed to be growing out of it for him. As he looked up at his brother, he too saw the involuntary brightness that the tidings had produced, and said, "Is any one else better, Julius? I know Terry is; I am so glad for Rose."

"I asked Anne the same question," said Julius. "Mother, you will be more glad than tantalized. The Salamanca is come in."

Raymond made an inarticulate sound of infinite relief. His mother exclaimed, "He must not come here! But Frankie could not spare Anne to him. What will she do?"

"She will stay bravely by Frank," said Julius. "We must all wait till the ship is paid off."

"Of course," said Raymond. "If she can rejoice that he is out of danger, we will; I am content to know him near. It makes all much easier. And, mother, he will find all ready to own what a priceless treasure he sent before him in his wife."

There was the old note of pain in the comparison. Julius's heart was wrung as he thought of Sirenwood, with the sense that the victim was dying, the author of the evil recovering. He could only stifle the thought by turning away, and going to the table in his mother's adjacent room, where letters had accumulated unopened. 'On Her Majesty's Service' bore the post-mark which justified him in opening it, and enclosing the letter it contained to Miss Vivian.

He did so almost mechanically. He had gone through these weeks only by never daring to have a self. The only man of his family who could be effective; the only priest in the two infected parishes; he had steadfastly braced himself for the work. He ventured only to act and pray, never to talk, save for the consolation of others. To Wil'sbro' he daily gave two morning hours, for he never failed to be wanted either for the last rites, or for some case beyond Herbert's experience, as well as to see the Vicar, who was sinking fast, in a devout and resigned frame, which impressed while it perplexed his brother clergyman, in view of the glaring deficiencies so plain to others, but which never seemed to trouble his conscience.

The nursing-staff still consisted of the Sisters, Herbert Bowater, Mrs. Duncombe and her man-servant. Under their care, the virulence of the disease was somewhat abating, and the doctors ventured to say that after the next few days there would be much fewer fatal cases; but Water Lane was now a strangely silent place,—windows open, blinds flapping in the wind, no children playing about, and the 'Three Pigeons' remained the only public-house not shut up. It was like having the red cross on the door.



CHAPTER XXIX A Strange Night

Cold, cold with death, came up the tide In no manner of haste, Up to her knees, and up to her side, And up to her wicked waist; For the hand of the dead, and the heart of the dead, Are strong hasps they to hold.—G. MACDONALD

"Rector," said Herbert Bowater, "are you specially at home?"

"Why?" asked Julius, pausing.

"There's that man Gadley."

"Gadley! Is he down?"

"It seems that he has been ill this fortnight, but in the low, smouldering form; and he and that hostler of his kept it a secret, for fear of loss of gain, and hatred of doctors, parsons, Sisters, and authorities generally, until yesterday, when the hostler made off with all the money and the silver spoons. This morning early, a policeman, seeing the door open, went in, and found the poor wretch in a most frightful state, but quite sensible. I was passing as he came out to look for help, and I have been there mostly ever since. He is dying—M'Vie says there's not a doubt of that, and he has got something on his mind. He says he has been living on Moy's hush- money all this time, for not bringing to light some embezzlement of your mother's money, and letting the blame light on that poor cousin of yours, Douglas."

Herbert was amazed at the lighting up of his Rector's worn, anxious face.

"Douglas! Thank Heaven! Herbert, we must get a magistrate at once to take the deposition!"

"What! Do you want to prosecute Moy?"

"No, but to clear Archie."

"I thought he was drowned?"

"No; that was all a mistake. Miles saw him at Natal. Herbert, this will be life and joy to your sister. What!—you did not know about Jenny and Archie?"

"Not I—Jenny!—poor old Joan! So that's what has stood in her way, and made her the jolliest of old sisters, is it? Poor old Joanie! What! was she engaged to him?"

"Yes, much against your father's liking, though he had consented. I remember he forbade it to be spoken of,—and you were at school."

"And Joan was away nursing old Aunt Joan for two years. So Archie went off with this charge on him, and was thought to be lost! Whew! How did she stand it? I say, does she know he is alive?"

"No, he forbade Miles to speak. No one knows but Miles and I, and our wives. Anne put us on the scent. Now, Herbert, I'll go to the poor man at once, and you had better find a magistrate."

"Whom can I find?" said Herbert. "There's my father away, and Raymond ill, and Lipscombe waved me off—wouldn't so much as speak to me for fear I should be infectious."

"You must get a town magistrate."

"Briggs is frantic since he lost his son, and Truelove thinks he has the fever, though Worth says it is all nonsense. There's nobody but Whitlock. Dear old Jenny! Well, there always was something different from other people in her, and I never guessed what it was. I'd go to the end of the world to make her happy and get that patient look out of her eyes."

Herbert had nearly to fulfil this offer, for Mr. Whitlock was gone to London for the day, and magistrates were indeed scarce; but at last, after walking two miles out of the town, his vehemence and determination actually dragged in the unfortunate, timid justice of the peace who had avoided him in the road, but who could not refuse when told in strong earnest that the justification of an innocent man depended on his doing his duty.

Poor Mr. Lipscombe! The neglected 'Three Pigeons' was just now the worst place in all Water Lane. The little that had hastily been done since the morning seemed to have had no effect on the foetid atmosphere, even to Herbert's well accustomed nostrils; and what must it have been to a stranger, in spite of the open window and all the disinfectants? And, alas! the man had sunk into a sleep. Julius, who still stood by him, had heard all he had to say to relieve his mind, all quite rationally, and had been trying to show him the need of making reparation by repeating all to a magistrate, when the drowsiness had fallen on him; and though the sound of feet roused him, it was to wander into the habitual defiance of authority, merging into terror.

Herbert soothed him better than any one else could do, and he fell asleep again; but Mr. Lipscombe declared it was of no use to remain— nothing but madness; and they could not gainsay him. He left the two clergymen together, feeling himself to have done a very valiant and useless thing in the interests of justice, or at the importunity of a foolishly zealous young curate.

"Look here," said Herbert, "Whitlock may be trusted. Leave a note for him explaining. I'll stay here; I'm the best to do so, any way. If he revives and is sensible, I'll send off at once for Whitlock, or if there is no time, I'll write it down and let him see me sign it."

"And some one else, if possible," said Julius. "The difficulty is that I never had authority given me to use what he said to me in private. Rather the contrary, for old instinctive habits of caution awoke the instant I told him it was his duty to make it known, and that Archie was alive. I don't like leaving you here, Herbert, but Raymond was very weak this morning; besides, there's poor Joe's funeral."

"Oh, never mind. He'll have his sleep out, and be all right when he awakes. Think of righting Jenny's young man! How jolly!"

Julius went across to the town-hall hospital, and told the Sisters, whose darling his curate was, of the charge he had undertaken, and they promised to look after him. After which Julius made the best of his way home, where Rosamond had, as usual, a bright face for him. Her warm heart and tender tact had shown her that obtrusive attempts to take care of him would only be harassing, so she only took care to secure him food and rest in his own house whenever it was possible, and that however low her own hopes might be, she would not add to his burden; and now Terry was so much better that she could well receive him cheerily, and talk of what Terry had that day eaten, so joyously, as almost to conceal that no one was better at the Hall.

"I will come with you," she said; "I might do something for poor Fanny," as the bell began to toll for little Joshua's funeral. Fanny Reynolds, hearing some rumour of her boy's illness, had brought Drake to her home three days before his death. The poor little fellow's utterances, both conscious and unconscious, had strangely impressed the man, and what had they not awakened in the mother? And when the words, so solemn and mysterious, fell on those unaccustomed ears in the churchyard, and Fanny, in her wild overpowering grief, threw herself about in an agony of sorrow and remorse, and sobbed with low screams, it was 'the lady' whom she viewed as an angel of mercy, who held her and hushed her; and when all was over, and she was sinking down, faint and hysterical, it was 'the lady' who—a little to the scandal of the more respectable— helped Drake to carry her to the Rectory, the man obeying like one dazed.

"I must leave the sheep that was lost to you, Rose," said Julius. "You can do more for them than I as yet, and they have sent for me to the Hall."

"You will stay there to-night if they want you; I don't want any one," said Rosamond at the door.

He was wanted indeed at his home. Frank was in a wilder and more raving state than ever, and Raymond so faint and sinking, and with such a look about him, that Julius felt, more than he had ever done before, that though the fever had almost passed away, there was no spirit or strength to rally. He was very passive, and seemed to have no power to wonder, though he was evidently pleased when Julius told him both of Archie Douglas's life and the hopes of clearing his name. "Tell Jenny she was right," he said, and did not seem inclined to pursue the subject.

They wheeled Mrs. Poynsett away at her usual hour, when he was dozing; and as Frank was still tossing and moaning incoherently, and often required to be held, Julius persuaded Anne to let him take her place with him, while she became Raymond's watcher. He dozed about half an hour, and when she next gave him some food, he said, in a very low feeble tone:

"You have heard from Miles?"

"Yes; he says nothing shall stop him the moment they are paid off."

"That's right. No fear of infection—that's clear," said Raymond.

"I think not—under God!" and Anne's two hands unseen clasped over her throbbing, yearning heart.

"Dear old fellow!" said Raymond. "It is such pleasure to leave mother to him. If I don't see him, Anne, tell him how glad I am. I've no charge. I know he will do it all right. And mother will have you," and he held out his hand to her. Presently he said: "Anne. One thing—"

"Yes," she said anxiously.

"You always act on principle, I know; but don't hang back from Miles's friends and pleasures. I know the old fellow, Anne. His nature is sociable, and he wants sympathy in it."

"I know what you mean, Raymond," said Anne; "I do mean to try to do right—"

"I know, I know," said he, getting a little excited, and speaking eagerly; "but don't let right blind you, Anne, if you censure and keep from all he likes—if you will be a recluse and not a woman— he—don't be offended, Anne; but if you leave him to himself, then will every effort be made to turn him from you. You don't believe me."

"My dear Raymond, don't speak so eagerly," as his cheeks flushed.

"I must! I can't see his happiness and yours wrecked like mine. Go with him, Anne. Don't leave him to be poisoned. Mesmerism has its power over whoever has been under the spell. And he has—he has! She will try to turn him against you and mother."

"Hush, Raymond! Indeed I will be on my guard. There's no one there. What are you looking at?"

"Camilla!" he said, with eyes evidently seeing something. "Camilla! Is it not enough to have destroyed one peace?"

"Raymond, indeed there is no one here."

But he had half raised himself. "Yes, Camilla, you have had your revenge. Let it be enough. No—no; I forgive you; but I forbid you to touch her."

He grasped Anne's arm with one hand, and stretched the other out as though to warn some one away. The same moment there was another outburst of the bleeding. Anne rang for help with one hand, and held him as best she could. It lasted long; and when it was over he was manifestly dying. "It is coming," he said; looking up to Julius. "Pray! Only first—my love to Cecil. I hope she is still young enough not to have had all her life spoilt. Is her father coming?"

"To-morrow," said Anne.

"That's well. Poor child! she is better free."

How piteously sad those words of one wedded but a year! How unlike the look that met his mother's woeful yet tender eyes, as she held his hand. She would aid him through that last passage as through all before, only a word of strong and tender love, as he again looked up to Julius and Anne, as if to put her in their keeping, and once more murmured something of "Love to sweet Rose! Now, Julius, pray!"

An ever dutiful man, there was no wandering in look or tone. He breathed 'Amen' once or twice, but never moved again, only his eyes still turned on his mother, and so in its time came the end.

Old Susan saw at first that the long fluttering gasp had no successor, and her touch certified Julius. He rose and went towards his mother. She held out her hands and said. "Take me to my Frank."

"We had better," whispered Anne.

They wheeled her to the foot of the stairs. Julius took her in his arms, Anne held her feet, and thus they carried her up the stairs, and along the passage, hearing Frank's husky rapid babble all the way, and finding him struggling with the fierce strength of delirium against Jenkins, who looked as if he thought them equally senseless, when he saw his helpless mistress carried in.

"Frank, my boy, do lie still," she said, and he took no notice; but when she laid her hand on his, he turned, looked at her with his dull eyes, and muttered, "Mother!"

It was the first recognition for many a day! and, at the smoothing motion of her hand over him, while she still entreated, "Lie still, my dear," the mutterings died away; the childish instinct of obedience stilled the struggles; and there was something more like repose than had been seen all these weary months.

"Mother," said Julius, "you can do for us what no one else can. You will save him."

She looked up to him, and hope took away the blank misery he had dreaded to see. "My poor Frankie," she said dreamily, "he has wanted me, I will not leave him now."

All was soon still; Frank's face had something like rest on it, as he lay with his mother's hand on his brow, and she intent only on him.

"You can leave them to me, I think," said Anne. "I will send if there be need; but if not, you had better not come up till you have been to Wil'sbro'—if you must go."

"I must, I fear; I promised to come to Fuller if he be still here. I will speak to Jenkins first."

Julius was living like a soldier in a campaign, with numbers dropping beside him, and no time to mourn, scarcely to realize the loss, and he went on, almost as if he had been a stranger; while the grief of poor old Jenkins was uncontrollable, both for his lady's sake and for the young master, who had been his pride and glory. His sobs brought out Mrs. Grindstone into the gallery, to insist, with some asperity, that there should be no noise to awaken her mistress, who was in a sweet sleep.

"We will take care," said Julius, sadly. "I suppose she had better hear nothing till Mr. Charnock comes."

"She must be left to me, sir, or I cannot be answerable for the consequences," was the stiff reply, wherewith Mrs. Grindstone retreated into her castle.

Julius left the hushed and veiled house, in the frosty chill of the late autumn just before dawn, shivering between grief and cold, and he walked quickly down the avenue, feeling it strange that the windows in the face of his own house were glittering back the reflection of the setting moon.

Something long and black came from the opposite direction. "Rector," it said, in a low hoarse voice, "I've got leave from him to use what he said to you. Sister Margaret and I signed it. Will that do?"

"I can't tell now, Herbert, I can't think. My brother is just gone," said Julius in his inward voice.

"Raymond! No! Oh, I beg your pardon; I never thought of that; Raymond—"

"Go home and go to bed," said Julius, as the young man wrung his hand. "Rest now—we must think another time."

Did Rosamond know? was perhaps the foremost of his weary thoughts. Ah! did she not! Was she not standing with her crimson shawl round her, and the long black plaits falling on it, to beckon him to the firelit comfort of his own room? Did she not fall on his neck as he came heavily up, and cling around him with her warm arms? "Oh, Julius, what a dear brother he was! What can we do for your mother?"

As he told her how Frank's need did more than any support could do for her, her tears came thicker; but in spite of them, her fond hands put him into the easy-chair by the fire, and drew off his damp boots; and while listening to the low sunken voice that told her of the end, she made ready the cup of cocoa that was waiting, and put the spoon in his hand in a caressing manner, that made her care, comfort, not oppression. Fatigue seconded her, for he took the warm food, faltered and leant back, dozing till the baby's voice awoke him, and as he saw Rosamond hushing her, he exclaimed:

"O, Rose! if poor Raymond had ever known one hour like this!" and he held out his arms for his child.

"You know I don't let you hold her in that coat. Go into your dressing-room, have your bath, and put on your dressing-gown, and if you will lie on the bed, you shall take care of her while I go and feed Terry. You can't do anything for anybody yet, it is only six o'clock."

These precautions, hindering his going jaded and exhausted into infection, were what Rosamond seemed to live for, though she never forced them on him, and he was far too physically tired out not to yield to the soothing effect; so that even two hours on the bed sent him forth renovated to that brief service in the church, where Herbert and he daily met and found their strength for the day. They had not had time to exchange a word after it before there was a knock at the vestry door, and a servant gave the message to Herbert, who had opened it: "Lady Tyrrell is taken worse, sir, and Sir Harry Vivian begged that Mr. Charnock would come immediately."

A carriage had been sent for him, and he could only hurry home to tell Rosamond to send on the pony to Sirenwood, to take him to Wil'sbro', unless he were first wanted at home. She undertook to go up to the Hall and give Anne a little rest, and he threw himself into the carriage, not daring to dwell on the pain it gave him to go from his brother's death bed to confront Camilla.

At the door Eleonora came to meet him. "Thank you," she said. "We knew it was no time to disturb you."

"I can be better spared now," answered Julius.

"You don't mean," she said, with a strange look, which was not quite surprise.

"Yes, my dear brother left us at about three o'clock last night. A change came on at twelve."

"Twelve!" Eleonora laid her hand on his arm, and spoke in a quick agitated manner. "Camilla was much better till last night, when at twelve I heard such a scream that I ran into her room. She was sitting up with her eyes fixed open, like a clairvoyante, and her voice seemed pleading—pleading with him, as if for pardon, and she held out her hands and called him. Then, suddenly, she gave a terrible shriek, and fell back in a kind of fit. Mr. M'Vie can do nothing, and though she is conscious now, she does nothing but ask for you and say that he does not want you now."

Julius grew paler, as he said very low, "Anne said he seemed to be seeing and answering her. Not like delirium, but as if she were really there."

"Don't tell any one," entreated Eleonora, in a breathless whisper, and he signed consent, as both felt how those two spirits must have been entwined, since these long years had never broken that subtle link of sympathy which had once bound them.

Sir Harry's face, dreary, sunken, and terrified, was thrust over the balusters, as he called, "Don't hinder him, Lena, she asks for him every moment;" and as they came on, he caught Julius's hand, saying, "Soothe her, soothe her—'tis the only chance. If she could but sleep!"

There lay Camilla Tyrrell, beautiful still, but more than ever like the weird tragic head with snake-wreathed brows, in the wasted contour of her regular features and the flush on her hollow cheeks, while her eyes burned with a strange fire that almost choked back Julius's salutation of peace, even while he breathed it, for might not the Son of Peace be with some there?

The eager glance seemed to dart at him. "Julius Charnock!" she cried, "come!" and as he would have said some word about her health, she cut him short: "Never mind that; I must speak while my brain serves. After that be the priest. He is dead!"

"My brother? Yes."

"The only one I ever loved! There's no sin nor scandal in saying so now. His wife is better? It will never kill her."

"She does not know."

"No? There was nothing to make her. He could not give her his heart, try as he would. Why did he turn the unchangeable to hate! hate! hate!"

"Lady Tyrrell, you did not send for me to hear what ought not to be said at all?"

"Don't fly off," she said. "I had really something to say. It was not wholly hate, Julius; I really tried to teach his little idiot of a wife to win him at last. I meant it to turn out well, and nothing could, with that mother there."

"I must leave you, Lady Tyrrell, if you will not control yourself."

"Don't be hard on me, Julius," and she looked up with a glance of better days. "You idolize her, like all the rest of you; but she chilled me and repelled me, and turned me to bitterness, when I was young and he might have led me. Her power and his idolatry made me jealous, and what I did in a fit of petulance was so fastened on that I could not draw back. Why did not he wait a little longer to encumber himself with that girl! No—that wasn't what I had to say— it's all over now. It is the other thing. How is Frank?"

"Very ill indeed; but quieter just now."

"Then there shall not be another wreck like ours. Lena, are you here? You saw that Frank had let Constance Strangeways win your pebble. It was because I showed him the one Beatrice bought, and he thought it yours. Yes, I saw nothing else for it. What was to become of the property if you threw yourself away, and on her son?" she added, with the malignant look. "Whether he knew of this little vow of yours, I can't tell, but he had lost his head and did for himself. It was for your good and papa's; but I shall not be here to guide the clue, so you must go your own way and be happy in it, if she will let you. Father, do you hear? Don't think to please me by hindering the course of true love; and you, Julius, tell Frank he was 'a dull Moor.' I liked the boy, I was sorry for him; but he ought to have known his token better;—and there was the estate to be saved."

"Estates weigh little now!"

"Clerical! I suppose now is the time for it? You were all precision at Compton. It would kill me; I can't live with Mrs. Poynsett. No, no, Tom, I can't have old Raymond quizzed; I'll get him out of it when the leading-strings are cut. What right has she— ?"

The delirium had returned. Julius's voice kept her still for a few moments, but she broke out afresh at his first pause, and murmurs fell thick and fast from her tongue, mixing the names of her brother and Raymond with railings at Mrs. Poynsett for slights in the days when the mother was striving to discourage the inclination that resulted in the engagement.

Earnestly did Julius beseech for peace, for repentance for the poor storm-tossed soul; but when the raving grew past control, and the time was coming for his ministrations to the Vicar of Wil'sbro', he was forced to leave her. Poor old Sir Harry would have clung to him as to anything like a support, but Eleonora knew better. "No, dear papa," she said, "he has given us too much of his time already. He must go where he can still help. Poor Camilla cannot attend to him."

"If she came to herself—"

"Then send for me. I would come instantly. Send to the town-hall any time before twelve, after that to Compton. Send without scruples, Lenore, you have truly the right."

They did not send, except that a note met him as he returned home, telling him that suffusion of the brain had set in. Camilla Tyrrell did not survive Raymond Poynsett twelve hours.



CHAPTER XXX Come Back

And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel?—J. THOMPSON

Eleonora Vivian was striving to write her sorrowful announcements in the deepening dusk of that autumn evening, while her father had shut himself up after his vigil to sleep under Victor's care, when a message came that Lady Rosamond Charnock earnestly begged to see her. She stood with a face white and set, looking like a galvanized corpse, as her lips framed the words, "He is dead!"

"No!" almost screamed Rosamond, snatching her hand. "No! But no one can save him but you. Come!"

Without a word, Eleonora stepped into her own room, and came back in cloak, hat, and veil.

"Right," said Rosamond, seizing her arm, and taking her to the pony- carriage at the door, then explaining while driving rapidly: "He has left off raving ever since his mother has been with him, but he lies—not still but weak, not speaking, only moaning now and then. His throat is so dreadful that it is hard to give him anything, and he takes no notice of what one says, only if his mother takes the spoon. He gets weaker, and Dr. Worth says it is only because there is no impulse to revive him—he is just sinking because he can't be roused. When I heard that, I thought I knew who could."

Eleonora's lips once moved, but no sound came from them, and Rosamond urged her little pony to its best speed through the two parks from one veiled house to another, fastened it to the garden- door without calling any one, and led her silent companion up the stairs.

Mrs. Poynsett felt a hand on her shoulder, and Rosamond said, "I have brought our only hope," and Eleonora stood, looking at the ghastly face. The yellow skin, the inflamed purple lips, the cavernous look of cheeks and eyes, were a fearful sight, and only the feeble incessant groping of the skeleton fingers showed life or action.

"Put this into his hand," said Rosamond, and Lenore found the pebble token given to her, and obeyed. At the touch, a quivering trembled over face and form, the eyelids lifted, the eyes met hers, there was a catching of the breath, a shudder and convulsive movement. "He is going," cried his mother, but Anne started forward with drops of strong stimulant, Rosamond rubbed spirit into his forehead, the struggle lessened, the light flickered back into his brown eyes, his fingers closed on hers. "Speak to him," said Mrs. Poynsett. "Do you see her, Frankie dear?"

"Frank! dear Frank, here I am."

The eyes gazed with more meaning, the lips moved, but no sound came till Anne had given another drop of the stimulant, and the terrible pain of the swallowing was lessened. Then he looked up, and the words were heard.

"Is it true?"

"It is, my dear boy. It is Lena."

"Here, Frank," as still the wistful gaze was unsatisfied; she laid her hands on his, and then he almost smiled and tried to raise it to his cheeks, but he was too weak; and she obeyed the feeble gesture, and stroked the wasted face, while a look of content came over it, the eyes closed, and he slept with his face against her hand, his mother watching beside with ineffable gratitude and dawning hope.

Lenore was forgetting everything in this watching, but in another quarter of an hour Anne was forced again to torture him with her spoon; but life was evidently gaining ground, for though he put it from him at first, he submitted at Lena's gesture and word. She felt the increased warmth and power in his grasp, as he whispered, "Lena, you are come back," then felt for the token.

Alas! that she must leave him. They knew she must not stay away from her father; indeed, Rosamond had told no one of her attempt, her forlorn hope. Lena tried to give assurances that she only went because it could not be helped, and the others told him she would return, but still he held her, and murmured, "Stay." She could not tear herself away, she let him keep her hand, and again he dozed and his fingers relaxed. "Go now, my dear," said Mrs. Poynsett, "you have saved him. This stone will show him that you have been here. You will come back to-morrow, I may promise him?"

"Yes, yes. In the morning, or whenever I can be spared," whispered Lena, who was held for a moment to Mrs. Poynsett's breast, ere Rosamond took her away again, and brought her once more down-stairs and to the pony-carriage. There she leant back, weeping quietly but bitterly over the shock of Frank's terribly reduced state, which seemed to take from her all the joy of his revival, weeping too at the cruel need that was taking her away.

"He will do now! I know he will," said Rosamond, happy in her bold venture.

"Oh! if I could stay!"

"Most likely you would be turned out for fear of excitement. The stone will be safer for him."

"Where did that come from?" asked Lenore, struck suddenly with wonder.

"I wrote to Miss Strangeways, when I saw how he was always feeling, feeling, feeling for it, like the Bride of Lammermoor. I told her there was more than she knew connected with that bit of stone, and life or death might hang on it. Then when I'd got it, I hardly knew what to do with it, for if it had soothed the poor boy delirious, the coming to his right mind might have been all the worse."

Rosamond kissed her effusively, and she dreamily muttered, "He must be saved." There was a sort of strange mist round her, as though she knew not what she was doing, and she longed to be alone. She would not let Rosamond drive her beyond the Sirenwood gate, but insisted on walking through the park alone in the darkness, by that very path where Frank had ten months ago exchanged vows with her.

Rosamond turned back to the Hall. It was poor Cecil's pony-carriage that she was driving, and she took it to the stable-yard, where her entreaty had obtained it from the coachman, whom she rewarded by saying, "I was right, Brown, I fetched his best doctor," and the old servant understood, and came as near a smile as any one at Compton could do on such a day.

"Is the carriage gone for Mr. Charnock?"

"Yes, my lady, I sent Alfred with it; I did not seem as if I could go driving into Wil'sbro' on such a day."

Rosamond bade a kind farewell to the poor old coachman, and was walking homewards, when she saw a figure advancing towards her, strangely familiar, and yet hat and coat forbade her to believe it her husband, even in the dusk. She could not help exclaiming, "Miles!"

"Yes!" he said, coming to a standstill. "Are you Rosamond?"

"I am;—Anne is quite well and Frank better. Oh! this will do them good! You know—"

"Yes—yes, I know," he said hastily, as if he could not bear to let himself out to one as yet a stranger. "My mother?"

"Absorbed in Frank too much to feel it yet fully; Anne watches them both. Oh! Miles, what she has been!" and she clasped his hand again. "Let me call her."

And Rosamond opened the hall door just as some instinct, for it could hardly have been sense of hearing, had brought Anne upon the stairs, where, as Miles would have hurried up to her, she seemed, in the light gray dress she still wore, to hover like some spirit eluding his grasp like the fabled shades.

"Oh no! you ought not. Infection—I am steeped in it."

"Nonsense," and she was gathered into the strong grasp that was home and rest to her, while Miles was weeping uncontrollably as he held her in his arms. "O, Nannie, Nannie! I did not think it would be like this. Why did they keep me till he was gone? No, I did not get the telegram, I only heard at the station. They let me go this morning, and I did think I should have been in time." He loosed himself from her, and hung over the balustrade, struggling with a strong man's anguish, then said in a low voice, "Did he want me?"

"He knew it was your duty," said Anne. "We all were thankful you were kept from infection, and he said many little things, but the chief was that he trusted you too much to leave any special messages. Hark! that must be Mr. Charnock, Cecil's father! I must go and receive him. Stay back, Miles, you can't now—you know my room—"

He signed acquiescence, but lingered in the dark to look down and see how, though Rosamond had waited to spare them this reception, his wife's tall graceful figure came forward, and her kindly comforting gestures, as the two sisters-in-law took the newcomer into the drawing-room, and in another minute Anne flitted up to him again. "That good Rosamond is seeing to Mr. Charnock," she said; "will you come, Miles? I think it will do your mother good; only quietly, for Frank knows nothing."

Mrs. Poynsett still sat by Frank. To Miles's eyes he was a fearful spectacle, but to Anne there was hourly progress; the sunken dejected look was gone, and though there was exhaustion, there was rest; but he was neither sleeping nor waking, and showed no heed when his brother dropped on one knee by his mother's side, put an arm round her waist, and after one fervent kiss laid his black head on her lap, hiding his face there while she fondled his hair, and said, "Frank, Frankie dear, here's Miles come home." He did not seem to hear, only his lips murmured something like 'Anne,' and the tender hand and ready touch of his unwearied nurse at once fulfilled his need, while his mother whispered, "Miles, she is our blessing!"

Poor Miles! Never had sailor a stranger, though some may have had an even sadder, return. He had indeed found his wife, but hers was the only hand that could make Frank swallow the sustenance that he needed every half-hour, or who knew how to relieve him. Indeed, even the being together in the sick-room was not long possible, for Anne was called to the door. Mr. Charnock was asking to see Mrs. Poynsett. Would Mrs. Miles come and speak to him?

Mr. Charnock was a small and restless man with white hair, little black eyes, looking keener than they were, and a face which had evidently been the mould of Cecil's. He was very kind, with a full persuasion that the consolations of his august self must be infallible; but this was coupled with an inclination to reprove everybody for the fate that had left his cherished darling a childless widow at two-and-twenty. To take him to Frank's room was impossible, and he had to be roundly told so. Neither had he seen his daughter. She was very weak, but recovering, and Grindstone, whom he had seen and talked with, was as strenuous in deprecating any excitement as he was nervous about it. So he could only be disposed of in his room till dinner-time, when he came down prepared to comfort the family, but fulfilled his mission rather by doing such good as a blister, which lessens the force of the malady by counter-irritation.

Julius came up to be with Miles, and to help them through the dinner, the first which had been laid for many a long day. His enquiry for Cecil was answered: "She is progressing as favourably as there can be reason to expect, but I have not seen her. I follow the judgment of her faithful Grindstone."

"Then she still knows nothing—"

"Of her bereavement? No. Her state does not yet warrant it. In fact, I almost wish I had obeyed my original impulse, and brought down Venn to make the melancholy communication."

To every one's surprise Anne bristled up, saying, "Why, here is Julius, Mr. Charnock!"

Mr. Charnock bowed: "I understand that my Cousin Julius has been engrossed by his wife's family and by the adjoining parish, the care of which he has assumed."

Anne fairly coloured up, and exclaimed, "Julius has been our main- stay and help in everything—I can't think how he has done it. He has been here whenever we needed him, as well as at Wil'sbro', where people have been dying everywhere, the poor Vicar and all—"

"Far be it from me to discourage philanthropy," said Mr. Charnock, "only I would have it within due bounds. I am an old-fashioned squire, of a school, it may be, antiquated, an advocate of the parochial system; and I cannot help thinking that if this had been closely adhered to by hot-headed young clergymen, my poor child might not have been a childless widow at two-and-twenty."

Julius was too much tired and too sad-hearted to heed greatly what Mr. Charnock said. It was so strange to have Miles in sight, yet to feel so unable to be glad, that he scarcely heard anything. But Anne again took up the cudgels: "Mr. Charnock, you don't suppose that it was anything Julius did that brought this fever here. It was going to the town-hall among the drains."

"My dear Mrs. Miles Charnock, I am sure your husband will agree with me that sanitary arrangements and all connected with them are beyond the range of ladies, who are happily exempted from all knowledge of the subject."

Anne could not say aloud that she wished Cecil had held this opinion, but she subsided, while Mr. Charnock prosed on, asking questions about the arrangements, and seeming shocked to hear that the funeral must be early the next day, this being one of the prime injunctions of the doctors, and that the one had been asked to attend it. It made him sigh again for his poor daughter, as he handed Anne in to dinner. She did not stay half through it, for it was again the time for feeding Frank. Miles went half way up-stairs with her and returned, looking very wistful. Julius smiled at him, "Your wife is too valuable, Miles; she is every one's property."

"It must be very gratifying to you," added Mr. Charnock, "to find how example and superior society have developed the native qualities your discernment detected in the charming young lady who has just quitted us. It was a most commendable arrangement to send her to enjoy the advantages of this place."

"I sent her to be a comfort to my mother," said Miles, bluntly.

"And so she has been," said Julius, fervently, but sotto voce.

"I understand," said Mr. Charnock; "and as I was saying, my dear Cecil expressed from the first her desire to assist in forming her stranger sister-in-law, and I am happy to see the excellent effect. I should scarcely have guessed that she came from a colony."

"Indeed," Miles answered dryly.

Mr. Charnock might have it his own way, if he liked to think Anne had been a Hottentot till Cecil reclaimed her.

The two brothers did feel something like joy when a message at last informed Mr. Charnock that his daughter was awake and he might see her. They drew nearer together, and leant against one another, with absolute joy in the contact. They were singularly alike in outline, voice, and manner, in everything but colouring, and had always been one in spirit, except for the strong passion for adventure which had taken Miles to sea, to find he had chosen his profession too young to count the cost, and he held to it rather by duty than taste. Slight as had been his seniority, poor Raymond had always been on a sort of paternal pinnacle, sharing the administration with his mother, while Miles and Julius had paired on an equality.

"Poor mother!" sighed Miles. "How is she to live without him? Julius, did he leave any word for me with you?"

"Above all, that Anne is the daughter for my mother, and so she is."

"What, when this poor wife of Raymond's was said to be the superior creature?"

"You see her adoring father," said Julius. "My Rose has necessarily her own cares, but Anne has been my mother's silent aid and stay for months, and what she has been in the present need no words can say. My mother has had no power to take the direction of anything, her whole being has been absorbed, first in Raymond, now in Frank; and not only has Anne been Frank's constant nurse through these five weeks of the most frightful fever and delirium I have seen at all here, but she has had thought for all, and managed all the house and servants. We could do comparatively little, with Rose's brother ill at home, and the baby so young; besides, there have been eleven cases in the parish; and there was Wil'sbro'—but Anne has been the angel in the house."

"I knew—I knew she would be everything when once the first strangeness was over; but, poor girl, her heart is in Africa, and it has been all exile here; I could see it in every letter, though she tried to make the best of it. If there had but been a child here!"

"I think you will find sufficient attachment to mother to weigh a good deal with her. Poor Anne, she did think us all very wicked at first, and perhaps she does still, but at least this has drawn us all nearer together."

And then the brothers lowered their voices, and Miles heard the full history of Raymond's last illness, with all the details that Julius could have spoken of to none else, while the sailor's tears slowly dropped through the hands that veiled his face. It was a great deprivation to him that he might not look on Raymond's face again, but the medical edict had been decisive, and he had come home to be of use and not a burthen. As Julius told Rosamond, he only thoroughly felt the blessing of Miles's return when he bade good night and left the Hall, in peace and security that it had a sufficient aid and stay, and that he was not deserting it.

Miles had proposed to send his wife to bed and take the night watch, and he so far prevailed that she lay down in the adjoining room in her dressing gown while he sat by Frank's side. She lay where she could feast her eyes upon him, as the lamplight fell on his ruddy brown cheek, black hair, and steady dark eye, so sad indeed, but so full of quiet strength and of heedful alacrity even in stillness—a look that poor Raymond, with all his grave dignity, had never worn. That sight was all Anne wanted. She did not speak, she did not sleep; it was enough, more than enough, to have him there. She was too much tired, body and mind, after five weeks of strain, for more than the sense that God had given her back what she loved, and this was 'more than peace and more than rest.'



CHAPTER XXXI Breaking Down

Funerals were little attended in these sad days. The living had to be regarded more than the dead, and Raymond Poynsett was only followed to the grave by his two brothers, his father-in-law, and some of the servants. Rosamond, however, weeping her soft profuse tears, could hear everything from behind the blind at Terry's open window, on that moist warm autumn day; everything, for no exception was made to the rule that coffins might not be taken into the church during this deadly sickness. She did hear a faltering and a blundering, which caused her to look anxiously at the tall white figure standing at the head of the grave, and, as she now saw, once or twice catching at the iron railing that fenced in the Poynsett tombs. Neither her husband nor his brother seemed to notice what she observed. Absorbed in the sorrow and in one another, they turned away after the service was ended and walked towards the Hall. Rosamond did not speak for a minute or two, then she turned round to Terry, who was sitting up in bed, with an awe-struck face, listening as well as he could to the low sounds, and watching her.

"Terry, dear, shall you mind my going to see after Herbert Bowater? I am sure they have let him overwork himself. If he is not fit to take Lady Tyrrell's funeral this afternoon, I shall send to Duddingstone on my own responsibility. I will not have Julius doing that!"

"Do you think he is ill—Bowater, I mean?" asked Terry.

"I don't like it. He seemed to totter as he went across the churchyard, and he blundered. I shall go and see."

"Oh yes, go," said Terry; "I don't want anybody. Don't hurry."

Rosamond put on her hat and sped away to Mrs. Hornblower's. As usual, the front door leading to the staircase was open, and, going up, she knocked at the sitting-room door; but the only response was such a whining and scratching that she supposed the dogs had been left prisoners there and forgotten, and so she turned the lock—but there was an obstruction; so that though Mungo and Tartar darted out and snuffed round her, only Rollo's paw and head appeared, and there was a beseeching earnestness in his looks and little moans, as if entreating her to come in. Another push, vigorously seconded by Rollo within, showed her that it was Herbert's shoulder that hindered her, and that he was lying outstretched on the floor, apparently just recalled to consciousness by the push; for as Rollo proceeded to his one remedy of licking, there was a faint murmur of "Who—what—"

"It is I! What is the matter?"

"Lady Rose! I'll—I'll try to move—oh!" His voice died away, and Rosamond thrust in her salts, and called to Mrs. Hornblower for water, but in vain. However, Herbert managed to move a little to one side. She squeezed into the doorway, hastily brought water from his bedroom within, and, kneeling down by him, bathed his face, so that he revived to say, in the same faint voice, "I'm so sorry I made such mulls. I couldn't see. I thought I knew it by heart."

"Never mind, never mind, dear Herbert! You are better. Couldn't you let me help you to the sofa?"

"Oh, presently;" and as she took his head on her lap, "Thank you; I did mean to hold out till after this day's work; but it is all right now Bindon is come."

"Come!—is he?" she joyfully exclaimed.

"Yes, I saw him from the window. I was getting up to hail him when the room turned upside down with me."

"There's his step!" now exclaimed Rosamond. "Squeeze in, Mr. Bindon; you are a very welcome sight."

Mr. Bindon did make his way in, and stood dismayed at the black mass on the floor. Rosamond and Rollo, one on each side of Herbert's great figure, in his cassock, and the rosy face deadly white, while Mungo and Tartar, who hated Mr. Bindon, both began to bark, and thus did the most for their master, whose call of 'Quiet! you brutes,' seemed to give him sudden strength. He took a grip of Rollo's curly back, and, supported by Mr. Bindon, dragged himself to the sofa and fell heavily back on it.

"Give him some brandy," said Mr. Bindon, hastily.

"There's not a drop of anything," muttered Herbert; "it's all gone— "

"To Wil'sbro'," explained Rosamond; then seeing the scared face of Dilemma at the door, she hastily gave a message, and sent her flying to the Rectory, while Mr. Bindon was explaining.

"I wish I had known. I never will go out of the reach of letters again. I saw in the Times, at Innspruck, a mention of typhoid fever here, and I came back as fast as trains would bring me; but too late, I fear."

"You are welcome, indeed," repeated Rosamond. "Herbert has broken down at last, after doing more than man could do, and I am most thankful that my husband should be saved the funerals at Wil'sbro'."

Mr. Bindon, whose face showed how shocked he was, made a few inquiries. He had learnt the main facts on his way, but had been seeking his junior to hear the details, and he looked, like the warrior who had missed Thermopylae, ashamed and grieved at his holiday.

The bottle Rosamond had sent for arrived, and there was enough vigour restored to make her say, "Here's a first service, Mr. Bindon, to help this poor fellow into bed."

"No, no!" exclaimed Herbert.

"You are not going to say there's nothing the matter with you?" said Rosamond, as a flush passed over the pale face.

"No," he said; "but I want to go home. I should have taken a fly at Wil'sbro'. Cranky will see to me without bothering anybody else. If you would send for one—"

"I don't think I can till I know whether you are fit to move," said Rosamond. "I desired Dilemma to tell them to send Dr. Worth here when he comes to Terry. Besides, is it quite right to carry this into another place?"

"I never thought of that," said Herbert. "But they would shut me up; nobody come near me but Cranky." But there a shivering fit caught him, so that the sofa shook with him, and Rosamond covered him with rugs, and again told him bed was the only place for him, and he consented at last, holding his head as he rose, dizzy with the ache.

"Look here, Lady Rose," he said, falling back into a sitting posture at the first attempt, "where's my writing-case? If I go off my head, will you give this to the Rector, and ask him if it will be any good in the matter he knows of?" and he handed her an envelope. "And this keep," he added, giving her one addressed to his father. "Don't let him have it till it's all over. You know." Then he took up a pen and a sheet of paper, and got as far, with a shaking hand, as 'Dear Crank—' but there he broke down, and laid his head on the table, groaning.

"I'll do it. What shall I say, dear Herbert?"

"Only tell her to come to me," he gasped. "Cranstoun—our old nurse. Then I'll be no trouble."

While Mr. Bindon helped Herbert into his room, Rosamond sped home to send for Mrs. Cranstoun, arrange for the care of the new patient in the intervening hours, and fetch some of those alleviations of which experience had taught the use. Mr. Bindon came to meet her on her return, carefully shutting the door, and saying, "Lady Rosamond, can he be delirious already? He is talking of being plucked for his Ordination."

"Too true," said Rosamond. "I thought it a great shame to be so hard on a man with that in him; but I believe you expected it?"

"No; I may have said he would fail, but I never expected it."

"Fail, indeed! Fancy a man being turned back who has worked night and day—night and day—doing all the very hardest services—never resting! Very likely killing himself!" cried Rosamond hotly. "May I come back to him? Terry can spare me, and if you will go to Wil'sbro' I'll stay till my husband comes, or the doctor. The Sisters will tell you what to do."

Herbert was, however, so much more comfortable for being in bed, that he was able to give Mr. Bindon directions as to the immediate cares at Wil'sbro'; but he was distressed at occupying Lady Rose, his great object being to be no trouble to anybody, though he had seen so much of the disease as to have been fully aware that it had been setting in for the last two days, yet his resolution to spare his Rector had kept him afoot till he had seen other help arrive. He declared that he wanted nobody but Rollo, who could fetch and carry, and call any one, if only the doors were open, and really the creature's wistful eyes and gentle movements justified the commendation.

"Only," said Herbert anxiously, "I suppose this is not catching for dogs. You'll make a home for him Lady Rose?" he added. "I should like you to have him, and he'll be happier with you than with any one else."

"Herbert, I can't have you talk of that."

"Very well," he said, quietly. "Only you will keep my dear old fellow—I've had him from a puppy—and he is but three years old now."

Rosamond gave all promises, from her full heart, as she fondled the soft, wise black head.

Herbert was unhappy too about Mrs. Hornblower's trouble. Harry had been one of the slighter cases, and was still in his room, a good deal subdued by the illness, and by the attention the lodger had shown him; for Herbert had spent many hours, when he had been supposed to be resting, in relieving Mrs. Hornblower, and she was now in a flood of gratitude, only longing to do everything for him herself. Had he not, as she declared, saved her son, body and soul?

The most welcome sight was Julius, who came down in dismay as soon as he could leave the Hall. "I am so glad," said the patient; "I want to talk things over while my head is clearer than it ever may be again."

"Don't begin by desponding. These fevers are much less severe now than six weeks ago."

"Yes; but they always go the hardest with the great big strong young fellows. I've buried twelve young men out of the whole forty-five."

"Poor lads, I doubt if their life had been such a preparation as yours."

"Don't talk of my life. A stewardship I never set myself to contemplate, and so utterly failed in. I've got nothing to carry to my God but broken vows and a wasted year."

"Nothing can be brought but repentance."

"Yes, but look at others who have tried, felt their duties, and cared for souls; while I thought only of my vows as a restraint, and tried how much pleasure I could get in spite of them. A pretty story of all the ministry I shall ever have."

"These last weeks!"

"Common humanity—nonsense! I should always have done as much; besides, I was crippled everywhere, not merely by want of power as a priest, but by having made myself such a shallow, thoughtless ass. But that was not what I wanted to say. It was about Gadley and his confession."

"O, Herbert! I am afraid I was very unkind that night. I did not think of anything but our own trouble, nor see how much it had cost you."

"Of course not—nonsense. You had enough to think of yourself, and I was only ashamed of having bored you."

"And when I think of the state of that room, I am afraid it was then you took in the poison."

"Don't say afraid. If it was for Jenny, I shall have done some good in the world. But the thing is—is it good? Will it clear Douglas? I suppose what he said to you was under seal of confession?"

"Scarcely so, technically; but when a man unburthens himself on his death-bed, and then, so far from consenting, shows terror and dismay at the notion of his words being taken down as evidence, it seems to me hardly right or honourable to make use of them—though it would right a great wrong. But what did you get from him?"

"I gave Lady Rose the paper. He raved most horribly for an hour or two, as if all the foul talk of his pot-house had got into his brain," said Herbert, with a shudder. "Rector, Rector, pray for me, that I mayn't come out with that at any rate. It has haunted me ever since. Well, at last he slept, and woke up sinking but conscious, knew me, and began to ask if this was death, and was frightened, clutching at me, and asking to be held, and what he could do. I told him at least he could undo a wrong, if he would only authorize us to use what he said to clear Douglas; and then, as Sister Margaret had come across, I wrote as well as I could: "George Gadley authorizes what he said to the Rev. Julius Charnock to be used as evidence;" and I suppose he saw us sign it, if he could see at all, for his sight was nearly gone."

Julius drew a long breath.

"And now, what was it?" said Herbert.

"Well, the trio—Moy, young Proudfoot, and Tom Vivian—detained a letter of my mother's, with a cheque in it, and threw the blame of it on Archie Douglas. They thought no one was in the office but themselves; but Gadley was a clerk there, and was in the outer room, where he heard all. He came to Moy afterwards, and has been preying on him for hush-money ever since."

"And this will set things straight?"

"Yes. How to set about the public justification I do not yet see; but with your father, and all the rest, Archie's innocence will be as plain as it always has been to us."

"Where is he?"

"On an ostrich farm at Natal."

"Whew!—we must have him home. Jenny can't be spared. Poor Jenny, when she hears that, it will make all other things light to her."

"What is their address?"

"No, don't write. Mamma has had a fresh cold, and neither my father nor Jenny could leave her. Let them have a little peace till it gets worse. There will be plenty of time, if it is to be a twenty- eight days business like the others. Poor mamma!" and he rolled his head away; then, after some minutes of tossing and shivering, he asked for a prayer out of the little book in his pocket. "I should know it, but my memory is muddled, I think."

The book—a manual for sick-rooms—was one which Julius had given him new five weeks back. It showed wear already, having been used as often in that time as in six ordinary years of parish work. By the time the hard-pressed doctor came, it was plain that the fever was setting in severely, aggravated no doubt by the dreadful night at the 'Three Pigeons,' and the unrelaxed exertions ever since; for he was made to allow that he had come home in the chill morning air, cold, sickened, and exhausted; had not chosen to disturb anybody, and had found no refreshment but a raw apple—the last drop of wine having been bestowed on the sick; had lain down for a short sleep worse than waking, and had neither eaten nor slept since, but worked on by sheer strength of will and muscle. When Julius thought of the cherishing care that he had received himself, he shuddered, with a sort of self-reproach for his neglect; and the doctor, though good- humouredly telling Herbert not to think he knew anything about his own symptoms, did not conceal from Julius that enough harm had been done in these few days to give the fine Bowater constitution a hard struggle.

"Grown careless," he said. "Regular throwing away of his life."

Careless Herbert might have been, but Julius wondered whether this might not be losing of the life to find it.

Cranstoun or Cranky arrived, a charming old nurse, much gratified in the midst of her grief, and inclination to scold. She summarily sent off Mungo and Tartar by the conveyance that brought her, and would have sent Rollo away, but that Herbert protested against it, and no power short of an order from him would have taken the dog from his bedside.

And Mr. Bindon returned from Wil'sbro' in unspeakable surprise. "The heroes of the occasion," he said, "were Bowater and Mrs. Duncombe! Every sick person I visited, and there were fourteen in all stages, had something to say of one or other. Poor things, how their faces fell when they saw me instead of his bright, honest face! 'Cheering the very heart of one!' as a poor woman said; 'That's what I calls a true shepherd,' said an old man. You don't really mean he was rejected at the Ordination?'"

"Yes, and it will make him the still truer shepherd, if he is only spared!"

"The Sisters can't say enough of him. They thought him very ill yesterday, and implored him to take care of himself; but he declared he could not leave these two funerals to you. But, after all, he is less amazing to me than Mrs. Duncombe. She has actually been living at the hospital with the Sisters. I should not have known her."

"Great revolutions have happened in your absence. Much that has drawn out her sterling worth, poor woman."

"I shall never speak harshly again, I hope. It seems to be a judgment on me that I should have been idling on the mountains, while those two were thus devoting themselves to my Master in His poor."

"We are thankful enough to have you coming in fresh, instead of breaking down now. Have you a sermon? You will have to take Wil'sbro' to-morrow. Driver won't come. He wrote to the churchwardens that he had a cold, and that his agreement was with poor Fuller."

"And you undertook the Sunday?"

"Yes. They would naturally have no Celebration, and I thought Herbert's preaching in the midst of his work would be good for them. You never heard such an apology and confession as the boy made to our people the first Sunday here, begging them to bear with him."

"Then I can't spare you anything here?"

"Yes, much care and anxiety. The visitation has done its worst in our house. We have got into the lull after the storm, and you need not be anxious about me. There is peace in what I have to do now. It is gathering the salvage after the wreck."

Then Julius went into his own house, where he found Terry alone, and, as usual, ravenously hungry.

"Is Bowater really ill?" he asked.

"I am afraid there is no believing otherwise, Terry," said Julius. "You will have to spare Rose to him sometimes, till some one comes to nurse him."

"I would spare anything to him," said Terry, fervently. "Julius, it is finer than going into battle!"

"I thought you did not care much for battles, Terry."

"If it was battles, I should not mind," said the boy; "it is peaceful soldiering that I have seen too much of. But don't you bother my father, Julius, I won't grumble any more; I made up my mind to that."

"I know you did, my boy; but you did so much futile arithmetic, and so often told us that a+b-c equalled Peter the Great, that Dr. Worth said you must not be put to mathematics for months to come, and I have told your father that if he cannot send you to Oxford, we will manage it."

A flush of joy lighted up the boy's face. "Julius, you are a brick of a brother!" he said. "I'll do my best to get a scholarship."

"And the best towards that you can do now is to get well as soon as possible."

"Yes. And you lie down on the sofa there, Julius, and sleep—Rose would say you must. Only I want to say one thing more, please. If I do get to Oxford, and you are so good, I've made up my mind to one thing. It's not only for the learning that I'll go; but I'll try to be a soldier in your army and Bowater's. That's all that seems to me worth the doing now."

So Julius dropped asleep, with a thankworthy augury in his ears. It is not triumph, but danger and death that lead generous spirits each to step where his comrade stood!



CHAPTER XXXII The Salvage

Frank was certainly better. Ever since that sight of Eleonora he had been mending. If he muttered her name, or looked distressed, it was enough to guide his hand to her token, he smiled and slept again; and on the Sunday morning his throat and mouth were so much better, that he could both speak and swallow without nearly so much pain; but one of his earliest sayings was, "Louder, please, I can't hear. When does she come?"

Mrs. Poynsett raised her voice, Anne tried; but he frowned and sighed, and only when Miles uttered a sea-captain's call close to his ear, did he smile comprehension, adding, "Were you shouting?" a fact only too evident to those around.

"Then I'm deaf," he said. And Anne wrote and set before him, "We hope it will pass as you get better." He looked grateful, but there was little more communication, for his eyes and head were still weak, and signs and looks were the chief currency; however, Julius met Eleonora after morning service, to beg her to renew her visit, after having first prepared her for what she would find. Eleonora was much distressed; then paused a minute, and said, "It does him good to see me?"

"It seems to be the one thing that keeps him up," said Julius, surprised at the question.

"O, yes! I can't—I could not stay away," she said. "It is all so wrong together; yet this last time cannot hurt!"

"Last time?"

"Yes; did you not know that papa has set his heart on going to London to-morrow? Yes, early to-morrow. And it will be for ever. We shall never see Sirenwood again."

She stood still, almost bent with the agony of suppressed grief.

"I am very sorry; but I do not wonder he wishes for change."

"He has been in an agony to go these three days. It was all I could do to get him to stay to-day. You don't think it will do Frank harm? Then I would stay, if I took lodgings in the village; but otherwise—poor papa—I think it is my duty—and he can't do without me."

"I think Frank is quite capable of understanding that you are forced to go, and that he need not be the worse for it."

"And then," she lowered her voice, "it does a little reconcile me that I don't think we ought to go further into it till we can understand. I did make that dreadful vow. I know I ought not now; but still I did, in so many words."

"You mean against a gambler?"

"If it had only been against a gambler; but I was stung, and wanted to guard myself, and made it against any one who had ever betted! If I go on, I must break it, you see, and if I do might it not bring mischief on him? I don't even feel as if it were true to have come to him on Friday, and now—yet they said it was the only chance for his life."

"Yes, I think it saved him then, and to disappoint him now might quite possibly bring a relapse," said Julius. "It seems to me that you can only act as seems right at the moment. When he is his own man again, you will better have the power of judging about this vow, and if it ought to bind you. And so, it may really be well you do not see more of him, and that his weakness does not lead you further than you mean."

A tottering step, and an almost agonized, though very short sob under the crape veil, proved to Julius that his counsel, though chiming in with her stronger, sterner judgment, was terrible to her, nor would he have given it, if he had not had reason to fear that while she had grown up, Frank had grown down; and that, after this illness, it would have to be proved whether he were indeed worthy of the high-minded girl whom he had himself almost thrown over in a passion.

But there was no room for such misgivings when the electric shock of actual presence was felt—the thin hollow-cheeked face shone with welcome, the liquid brown eyes smiled with thankful sweetness, the fingers, fleshless, but cool and gentle, were held out; and the faint voice said, "My darling! Once try to make me hear."

And when, with all her efforts, she could only make him give a sort of smile of disappointment, she would have been stonyhearted indeed if she had not let him fondle her hand as he would, while she listened to his mother's report of his improvement. With those eyes fixed in such content on her face, it seemed absolutely barbarous to falter forth that she could come no more, for her father was taking her away.

"My dear, you must be left with us," cried Mrs. Poynsett. "He cannot spare you."

"Ah! but my poor father. He is lost without me. And I came of age on Tuesday, and there are papers to sign."

"What is it?" murmured Frank, watching their faces.

Mrs. Poynsett gave her the pen, saying, "You must tell him, if it is to be."

She wrote: "My father takes me to London to-morrow, to meet the lawyers."

His face fell; but he asked, "Coming back—when?"

She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, as she wrote: "Sirenwood is to be put up to auction."

"Your sister?" began Frank, and then his eye fell on her crape trimmings. He touched her sleeve, and made a low wail. "Oh! is every one dead?"

It was the first perception he had shown of any death, though mourning had been worn in his room. His mother leant down to kiss him, bidding Lena tell him the truth; and she wrote:

"I am left alone with poor papa. Let me go—now you can do without me."

"Can I?" he asked, again grasping her hand.

She pointed to his mother and Anne; but he repeated, "You—you!"

"When you are better we will see how it is to be," she wrote.

He looked sadly wistful. "No, I can't now. Something was very wrong; but it won't come back. By and by. If you wouldn't go—"

But his voice was now more weak and weary, tired by the effort, and a little kneeling by him, allowing his tender touch, soothed him, enough to say submissively, "Good-bye, then—I'll come for you"— wherewith he faltered into slumber.

Rosamond had just seen her off in the pony carriage, and was on the way up-stairs, when she stumbled on a little council, consisting of Dr. Worth, Mr. Charnock, and Grindstone, all in the gallery. "A widow in her twenty-second year. Good heavens!" was the echo she heard; and Grindstone was crying and saying, "She did it for the best, and she could not do it, poor lamb, not if you killed her for it;" and Dr. Worth said, "Perhaps Lady Rosamond can. You see, Lady Rosamond, Mrs. Grindstone, whose care I must say has been devoted, has hitherto staved off the sad question from poor young Mrs. Poynsett, until now it is no longer possible, and she is becoming so excited, that—"