Cecil's bell rang sharply.

"I cannot—I cannot! In her twenty-second year!" cried her father, wringing his hands.

Grindstone's face was all tears and contortions; and Rosamond, recollecting her last words with poor Cecil, sprang forward, both men opening a way for her.

Cecil was sitting up in bed, very thin, but with eager eyes and flushed cheeks, as she held out her hands. "Rosamond! Oh! But aren't you afraid?"

"No, indeed, I'm always in it now," said Rosamond, kissing her, and laying her down; "it has been everywhere."

"Ah! then they sent him away—Raymond?" then clutching Rosamond's hand, and looking at her with searching eyes, "Tell me, has his mother any right! Would you bear it if she kept you apart?"

"Ah! Cecil, it was not her doing."

"You don't mean it was his own? Papa is not afraid. You are not afraid. If it had been he, I wouldn't have feared anything. I would have nursed him day and night till—till I made him care for me."

"Hush, dear Cecil," said Rosamond, with great difficulty. "I know you would, and so would he have done for you, only the cruel fever kept you apart."

"The fever! He had it?"

"Yes, he had it."

"But he is better. I am better. Let me be taken to him. His mother is not there now. I heard them say she was in Frank's room. Call papa. He will carry me."

"Oh! poor, poor Cecil. His mother only went to Frank when he did not need her any more." And Rosamond hid her face on the bed, afraid to look.

Cecil lay back so white, that Grindstone approached with some drops, but this made her spring up, crying, "No, no, don't come near me! You never told me! You deceived me!"

"Don't, don't, ma'am—my dear Miss Charnock—now. It was all for the best. You would not have been here now."

"And then I should be with him. Rosamond, send her away, I can't bear her. She sent him away from me that night. I heard her."

"My dear Cecil, this will not do. You are making your father dreadfully unhappy. Dear Raymond stayed with you till he really could not sit up any longer, and then he kissed you."

"Kissed me! Oh, where? Did you see? No, don't ask Grindstone. She made me think he had left me, and fancy—oh, Rosamond! such— such things! And all the time—"

The moaning became an anguish of distress, unable to weep, like terrible pain, as the poor young thing writhed in Rosamond's arms. It was well that this one sister understood what had been in Cecil's heart, and did believe in her love for Raymond. Rosamond, too, had caressing power beyond any other of the family, and thus she could better deal with the sufferer, striving, above all, to bring tears by what she whispered to her as she held her to her bosom. They were a terrible storm at last, but Cecil clung to Rosamond through all, absolutely screaming when Grindstone came near; poor Grindstone who had been so devoted, though mistaken. Weakness, however, after the first violent agitation was soothed, favoured a kind of stunned torpor, and Cecil lay still, except when her maid tried to do anything for her, and then the passion returned. When old Susan Alston came with a message, she was at once recognized and monopolized, and became the only servant whom she would suffer about her.

The inconvenience was great, but relapse was such an imminent danger, that it was needful to give up everything to her; and Mr. Charnock, regarding his daughter's sufferings as the only ones worth consideration, seemed to pursue Rosamond the instant she had sat down by the still feeble, weary, convalescent Terry, imploring her to return to Cecil with the irresistible force of tearful eyes and piteous descriptions; and as Terry had a week's start in recovery, and was not a widow under twenty-two, he had to submit, and lie as contentedly as he could in his solitude.

Susan could be better spared to Cecil's morbid fancy of being waited on by her who had attended her husband, for Miles and Anne were sufficient for Mrs. Poynsett and Frank. The long-sundered husband and wife scarcely saw each other, except over Frank's bed, and Mr. Charnock was on the Captain's hands whenever he came beyond it. On the Wednesday, however, Julius, who had only once spoken to his brother alone, came up to the breakfast-table where he and Mr. Charnock were sitting, and hurt the feelings of the latter by first asking for Frank. "He had slept all night, and only half woke when Miles and Anne changed watch and gave him beef-tea. Cecil, very moaning and restless—more fever about her, poor dear. When would Lady Rosamond come up?—she was asking for her." When she had seen to a few things at home, given her brother his breakfast, and seen to poor Herbert; he had had a dreadful night, and that Cranstoun would shut the window unless some one defended him. Mr. Charnock began to resume his daughter's symptoms, when Julius, at the first pause, said:

"Have you finished, Miles? Could you speak to me in the library a minute? I beg your pardon, Mr. Charnock, but my time is short."

"I hope—I quite understand. Do not let me be in your way." And the brothers repaired to the library, where Julius's first words were, "Miles, you must make up your mind. They are getting up a requisition to you to stand for Wil'sbro'."

"To me?"

"You are the most obvious person, and the feeling for dear Raymond is so strong as to prevent any contest. Whitlock told Bindon yesterday that you should have no trouble."

"I can't. It is absurd. I know nothing about it. My poor mother bred up Raymond for nothing else. Don't you remember how she made him read history, volumes upon volumes, while I was learning nothing but the ropes? I declare, Julius, there he goes."

"Who?"

"Why, that old ass, down to hunt up poor Rosamond; I don't believe he thinks there's any one in the world but his daughter. I declare I'll hail him and stop him."

"No, no, Miles, Rosamond can take care of herself. She won't come till she has seen to her patients down there; and, after all, Cecil's is the saddest case, poor thing. To return. If you don't take to politics in the end, I think you should let them put you in now, if only as a stop-gap, or we shall get some one whom it may not be easy to get rid of."

"There's something in that, but I can't accept without knowing my position, and I would not utter a word to disturb my mother till it occurs to her of herself."

"Now that Frank is better?"

"No. It will all come on her soon enough."

"Would you stand if she made it right for you?"

"I can't tell. There would be no punishment so great to my poor Anne as to be dragged into society, and I don't know how she would bear it, even if she had no scruples. We never thought of anything but settling in Glen Fraser, only I wanted her to know you all. If that poor Cecil only had a child we could be free to go back. Poor Anne!"

"Do you think she is still as homesick as at first?"

"Well, not quite, perhaps; but I never can get to talk to her, and I know it is a terrible sacrifice to her to live here at all, and I won't have her forced into a style of thing against her conscience. If they come to me, I shall tell them to take Mr. Bowater."

"Poor Mr. Bowater! He will have little heart."

"Who else is there? That fellow Moy would like it, I suppose."

"That fellow Moy may have to change his note," said Julius. "I think we have the means of clearing Archie, when we can see how to use them."

Miles gave a sort of leap as he stood by the fire. "Tell me. Archie! I had no heart to write to him, poor fellow."

"Write to him by all means, but say nothing here." And Julius briefly repeated what Gadley had said.

"I don't see that the scoundrel Moy deserves any consideration."

"I don't know whether he does; but he has a good wife, ailing and sickly, and a daughter. He has lived in good report these many years, and I think it is due to him and to old Proudfoot not to spread the report before giving him warning. In fact, I am not sure whether we could proceed against him as things stand."

"It is just what Raymond would have known," said Miles, with a sigh; "but you are right, Julius, one ought to give him fair play. Ah! what's that, Jenkins?—Note from Lord Belfort? Wait for an answer. Can't they give one any peace?"

While Miles was reluctantly answering his note, Julius, resolving to act before he was forbidden, mounted to Frank's room, requested to speak with his mother, and propelled her into the outer room, leaving Anne on guard.

"Now then, my dear," she said, "I have known a talk must soon come. You have all been very good to me to leave it so long."

"I am come now without poor Miles's knowledge or consent," said Julius, "because it is necessary for him to know what to do."

"He will give up the navy," said his mother. "O, Julius! does he require to be told that he—?" and she laid her head on her son's shoulder.

"It is what he cannot bear to be told; but what drives me on is that Whitlock tells me that the Wil'sbro' people want to bring him in at once, as the strongest proof of their feeling for Raymond."

"Yes," she raised her head proudly, "of course he must come forward. He need have no doubt. Send him to me, Julius, I will tell him to open letters, and put matters in train. Perhaps you will write to Graves for me, if he does not like it, poor boy."

She had roused herself into the woman of business, and when Miles, after some indignation at her having been disturbed, obeyed the summons, she held out her arms, and became the consoler.

"Come, my boy," she said, "we must face it sooner or later. You must stand foremost and take up his work for him."

"Oh, mother! mother! you know how little I am able," said Miles, covering his face with his hands.

"You do not bring his burthened heart to the task," she said. "If you had watched and felt with him, as perhaps only his mother could, you would know that I can be content that the long heartache should have ceased, where the weary are at rest. Yes, Miles, I feel as if I had put him to sleep after a long day of pain, as when he was a little child."

They hardened themselves to the discussion, Mrs. Poynsett explaining what she thought the due of her eldest son, only that Cecil's jointure would diminish the amount at her disposal. Indeed, when she was once aroused, she attended the most fully; but when Miles found her apologizing for only affording him the little house in the village, he cried out with consternation.

"My dear," she said, "it is best so; I will not be a burthen on you young ones. I see the mistake."

"I know," stammered Miles, "my poor Anne is not up to your mark—not clever like you or Jenny—but I thought you did like her pretty handy ways."

"I feel them and love them with all my heart; but I cannot have her happiness and yours sacrificed to me. Yes, you boys love the old nest; but even Julius and Rose rejoice in their own, and you must see what she really wishes, not what she thinks her duty. Take her out walking, you both need it badly enough."

They ventured to comply, and eluding Mr. Charnock, went into the park, silvery with the unstanched dews, and the leaves floating down one by one like golden rain. "Not much like the Bush," said Miles.

"No," was all Anne durst say.

"Poor Nan, how dreary it must have looked to you last year!"

"I am afraid I wrote very complaining letters!"

"Not complaining, but a direful little effort at content, showing the more piteously, because involuntarily, what a mistake I had made."

"No, no mistake. Indeed, Miles, it was not. Nothing else would have cured me of the dreadful uncharitableness which was the chief cause of my unhappiness, and if I had not been so forlorn, I should never have seen how good and patient your mother was with me. Yes, I mean it. I read over my old diary and saw how tiresome and presumptuous I was, and how wonderfully she bore with me, and so did Julius and Rosamond, while all the time I fancied them—no Christians."

"Ah! you child! You know I would never have done it if I had known you were to be swamped among brides. At any rate, this poor old place doesn't look so woefully dismal and hateful to you now."

"It could not, where you are, and where I have so many to know and love."

"You can bear the downfall of our Bush schemes?"

"Your duty is here now."

"Are you grieved, little one?"

"I don't know. I should like to have seen mamma; but she does not need me now as your mother does."

"Then you are willing to be her daughter?"

"I have tried hard, and she is very kind; but I am far too dull and ignorant for her. I can only wait upon her; but when she has you and Julius to talk to, my stupidity will not matter."

"Would you be content to devote yourself to her, instead of making a home of our own?"

"She can't be left alone in that great house."

"The question is, can you be happy in it? or do you wish for a house to ourselves?"

"You don't, Miles, it is your own home."

"That's not the question."

"Miles, why do you look at me so?"

"I was told to ascertain your wishes."

"I don't wish anything—now I have you—but to be a comfort to your mother. That is my first earthly wish just now."

"If that be earthly, it has a touch of the heavenly," muttered Miles to himself. "You will make it clear to mother then that you like to go on with her?"

"If she does not mind having me."

"And Julius says it really cheered our dear Raymond to think you would be the one to look after her! But that's not all, Nanny, I've only till to-morrow to decide whether I am to be Member for Wil'sbro'."

"Is that a duty?"

"Not such a duty as to bind me if it were altogether repugnant to you. I was not brought up for it, and may be a mere stop-gap, but it is every man's duty to come to the front when he is called for, and do his utmost for his country in Parliament, I suppose, as much as in action."

"I see; but it would be leaving your mother alone a great deal."

"Not necessarily. You could stay here part of the time, and I go backwards and forwards, as Raymond did before his marriage."

"It would be better than your being at sea."

"But remember," he added, "there is much that can't be shirked. I don't mean currying popularity, but if one is in that position, there's no shutting oneself up. It becomes a duty to keep society going, and give it the sort of tone that a nice woman can do. Do you see?"

"I think I do. Julius said so once."

"So if we are to have such tears and despair as there were about the ball in the Chimaera, then—"

"I was wrong then," said Anne. "I did not behave at all well to you all that time, dear Miles; I have been sorry for it ever since I understood."

"It was not you, little one, it was Mr. Pilgrim."

"No, it was not Mr. Pilgrim who made me cross."

"Yes, it was. He exacted pledges that he had no right to lay on your conscience, and your poor little conscience was in terrible straits, and I was too angry to feel for it. Never mind all that; you have done with the fellow, and understand better now."

"He thought he was right, and that only such abstinence could guard me. And, Miles, a promise is a promise, and I do not think I ought to dance or play at cards. It is not that I think them wrong for others, but I cannot break my word. Except those—I will do whatever is fitting for your wife."

"Spoken like a heroine!"

"I don't think I could ever give a tone. Rosamond could, if she tried, but I have no readiness and no training; but I do see that there is more good in being friendly like Jenny Bowater, than in avoiding everything, and as long as one does it because it is right and loving, it can't be the world or worldliness."

It was not lucidly expressed, but it satisfied the Captain.

"All right, my bonnie Nance, I'll promise on my side never to ask you to go against your real conscience, and if you must have a Pope, I had rather it were Pope Julius than Pope Pilgrim."

"Don't, Miles. Popes are all wrong, and I don't know whether Mr. Pilgrim would give the right hand of fellowship to Julius."

Miles chuckled. "You may think yourself lucky you have not to adjust that question, Madame Nan."

"There's the quarter chiming, Frank will want his beef-tea."

Presently after Miles laid his hand on his mother's shoulder, and said, "Mother, here's a daughter who thinks you want to turn us out because she is too slow and stupid for your home child." And he drew Anne up blushing as if she were his freshly-won bride.

"My dear, are you sure you don't want to go away from the old woman? Should you not be happier with him all to yourself?"

"I could not be happy if you were left," said Anne. "May I go on as we did last winter? I will try to do better now I have him to help me."

"My own dear child!"

That was the way Anne forgot her own people and her father's house.



CHAPTER XXXIII Herbert's Victory

And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore.—KEBLE

"Joan, Jenny, dearest old Joanie!" It was eagerly spoken, though the voice was strangely altered that came from behind the flowered curtain of that big bed, while the fingers drew it back, and Rollo raised his black muzzle near at hand. "Oh, Jenny! have you come to me?"

"My dear, dear, poor boy!"

"No kissing—it's not safe," and he burrowed under the sheet.

"As if I did not mean to do more for you than that! Besides, it is not catching."

"So I said, till it caught me. What a jolly cold hand! You've not come in cold and hungry though?"

"No, indeed, Rosamond forced me to sit down to a whole spread. As if one could eat with a knot in one's throat."

"Mind you do, Jenny—it was what did for me. The Rector ordered me never to go about unfed; but one could not always—and there was something I have to tell you that drove all the rest out—"

"Dear Herbs! Papa can't talk of what you have done without tears. He longed to come, but we could not leave mamma without one of us, and he thought I could do the most for you. I have a note for you."

"Forgiving me?"

"I should think so. It is in my bag—"

"No, not this moment; I like to know it. And mammy—poor mammy—"

"She is as comforted as she can be that you have Cranky and me; and then papa's being proud of you has cheered her—oh! so much."

"I'm glad they can comfort themselves—"

"But, Herbert, dear, you must be much better; I did not expect to see you so well."

"I am not so bad between whiles," said Herbert, wearily. "And, while I can, I've got something to tell you that will make it up to you, and a great deal more."

"Make it up?" said Jenny, looking with bewildered eyes at the dear face.

"Yes, I made Gadley consent. The Rector has it in writing, and it will do quite as well if I die. O, Jenny, woman, think of my never knowing what you had gone through!"

"Is it about Archie?" said Jenny, beginning to tremble.

"Yes. It will clear him."

"I always knew he was clear."

"Yes, but he can come back now all right. Eh! what an ass I am! I've begun at the wrong end. He wasn't drowned—it was all a mistake; Miles saw him in Africa—Cranky, I say, come to her."

"Yes, Master Herbert, you've been talking a great deal too much for your sister just off a journey. You'll get the fever on again. Miss Joanna, you ought to know better than to let him run on; I sha'n't be able to let you do nothing for him if this is the way."

"Was it too sudden, Joan?" said Herbert, wistfully, as she bent to kiss his brow with trembling lips. "I couldn't let any one tell you but myself, while I could; but I don't seem able to go on. Is the Rector there, Cranky?"

"Yes, sir, waiting in the parlour."

"Rector," and Julius hurried in at once, "take her and tell her. I can't do it after all."

"Is he alive?" whispered Jenny, so much overcome that Julius had to hold her up for a moment as he led her into the other room.

"Really! She thinks me delirious," said Herbert, rather amused. "Tell her all, Rector."

"Really, Joan," said Julius, putting her into the great chair, and holding her trembling hand. "Miles has seen him, has had him in his ship."

"And you never told me!"

"He made Miles promise not to tell."

"But he told you!"

"Yes, because it was Anne who gave the clue which led to his discovery; but when he found we all thought him dead, he laid Miles under the strictest charge to say nothing. He is on an ostrich farm in Natal, Jenny, well, and all that he ever was, and more too. He took your photograph from Miles's book."

"And I never knew," moaned Jenny, quite overcome.

"He would not be persuaded that it was not more for your peace not to know of his life, and when Miles was put on honour, what could we do? But now it is all changed. Since Herbert's discovery he need not be a banished man any more." And Julius told Jenny the manner of the discovery. She listened, evidently gathering all in, and then she asked: "And what have you done?"

"Nothing as yet."

"Nothing! while there is this blot on Archie's name, and he is living in exile, and that Moy is revelling in prosperity. Nothing! Why don't you publish it to every one?"

"My dear Jenny, I have only known it a week, and I have not been able to find out where Mr. Moy is."

"What, to have him taken up?"

"Taken up, no; I don't imagine he could be prosecuted after this length of time and on this kind of evidence. No, to give him warning."

"Warning? To flee away, and never clear Archie! What are you about, Julius? He ought to be exposed at once, if he cannot be made to suffer otherwise."

"Nay, Jenny, that would be hard measure."

"Hard measure!" she interrupted; "what has my innocent Archie had?"

"Think of the old man, his wife and daughter, Jenny."

"She's a Proudfoot.—And that girl the scandal of the country! You want to sacrifice Archie to them, Julius?"

"You are tired and shaken, Jenny, or you would see that all I want to do is to act with common consideration and honour."

She interrupted again. "What honour do you mean? You are not making it a secret of the confessional?"

"You are misunderstanding me, Joanna," Julius gently said. "Herbert's vigil spared me from that difficulty, but—"

"Then you would have sacrificed Archie to this imaginary—"

"Hush, Jenny! I fear he is wandering again. Alas! it is the sad old refrain!"

As they came to the door together, Herbert's voice, under that strange change which wandering brings, was heard muttering, "Give an account of thy stewardship, for thou mayest be no longer steward." And Mrs. Cranstoun received them, with her head shaking, and tearful eyes. "It has come on again, sir; I was afraid it would be too much for him."

Herbert's prayer had been granted, inasmuch as the horrible ravings that he feared repeating never passed his lips. If he had gone down to the smoke of Tartarus to restore his sister's lover, none of its blacks were cleaning to him; but whether conscious or wandering, the one thought of his wasted year seemed to be crushing him. It was a curious contrast between poor Mr. Fuller's absence of regret for a quarter of a century's supineness, and this lad's repentance for twelve months' idleness. That his follies had been guileless in themselves might be the very cause that his spirit had such power of repentance. His admiration of Lady Tyrrell had been burnt out, and had been fancy, not heart, and no word of it passed his lips, far less of the mirth with the Strangeways. Habit sometimes brought the phrases of the cricket-field, but these generally ended in a shudder of self-recollection and prayer.

The delirium only came with the accesses of fever, and when sensible, he was very quiet and patient, but always as one weighed down by sense of failure in a trust. He never seemed to entertain a hope of surviving. He had watched too many cases not to be aware that his symptoms were those that had been almost uniformly fatal, and he noted them as a matter of course. Dr. Easterby came to see him, and was greatly touched; Herbert was responsive, but it was not the ordinary form of comfort that he needed, for his sorrow was neither terror nor despair. His heart was too warm and loving not to believe that his heavenly Father forgave him as freely as did his earthly father; but that very hope made him the more grieved and ashamed of his slurred task, nor did he view his six weeks at Wil'sbro' as any atonement, knowing it was no outcome of repentance, but of mere kindliness, and aware, as no one else could be, how his past negligence had hindered his full usefulness, so that he only saw his failures. As to his young life, he viewed it as a mortally wounded soldier does, as a mere casualty of the war, which he was pledged to disregard. He did perhaps like to think that the fatal night with Gadley might bring Archie back, and yet Jenny did not give him the full peace in her happiness which he had promised himself.

Joanna had suffered terribly, far more than any one knew, and her mind did not take the revulsion as might have been expected. Her lighthouse was shining again when she thought it extinguished for ever, but her spirits could not bear the uncertainty of the spark. She could not enter into what Miles and Julius both alike told her, of the impossibility of their mother beginning a prosecution for money embezzled ten years back, when no living witness existed, nothing but the scrap of paper written by Herbert, and signed by him and Margaret Strangeways, authorizing Julius Charnock to use what had been said by the dying, half-delirious man. What would a jury say to such evidence? And when Julius said it only freed himself morally from the secrecy, poor Jenny was bitter against his scruples, even though he had never said more than that he should have been perplexed. The most bitter anti-ritualist could hardly have uttered stronger things than she thought, and sometimes said, against what seemed to her to be keeping Archie in banishment; while the brothers' reluctance to expose Mr. Moy, and blast his reputation and that of his family, was in her present frame of mind an incomprehensible weakness. People must bear the penalty of their misdeeds, families and all, and Mrs. and Miss Moy did not deserve consideration: the pretensions of the mother had always been half scorn, half thorn, to the old county families, and the fast airs of the daughter had been offensive enough to destroy all pity for her. If an action in a Court of Justice were, as Miles and Julius told her, impossible,—and she would not believe it, except on the word of a lawyer,—public exposure was the only alternative for righting Archie, and she could not, or would not, understand that they would have undergone an action for libel rather than not do their best to clear their cousin, but that they thought it due to Mr. Moy to give him the opportunity of doing the thing himself; she thought it folly, and only giving him time and chance for baffling them.

The strange thing was, that not only when she argued with the two brothers, but when she brooded and gave way to these thoughts as she kept her watch, it probably made her less calm—for an access of restlessness and fever never failed to come on—with Herbert. Probably she was less calm externally, and the fret of face and manner communicated itself to him, for the consequences were so invariable that Cranstoun thought they proved additionally what she of course believed, that Miss Joan could not be trusted with her brother. At last Jenny, in her distress and unwillingness to abandon Herbert to Cranky's closed windows, traced cause and effect, and made a strong resolution to banish the all-pervading thought, and indeed his ever-increasing weakness and danger filled her mind so as to make this easier and easier, so that she might no longer have to confess to herself that Rollo was a safer companion, since Herbert, with a hand on that black head, certainly only derived soothing influences from those longing sympathetic eyes. And he could not but like the testimony of strong affection that came to him. The whole parish was in consternation, and inquiries, and very odd gifts, which he was supposed to 'fancy,' came from all over Compton as well as from Strawyers, and were continually showering upon his nurses, so that Mrs. Hornblower and Dilemma spent their lives in mournful replies over the counter, and fifty times a day he was pronounced to be 'as bad as he could be to be alive.' Old servants and keepers made progresses from Strawyers, to see Master Herbert, and were terribly aggrieved because Miss Bowater kept them out of his room, as much for their sake as his; and Mrs. Cranstoun pointed to the open lattice which she believed to be killing him, as surely as it gave aches to her rheumatic shoulder.

Julius thought almost as much as Jenny could do of the means of recalling Archie; but it was necessary to wait until he could communicate with Mr. Moy, and his hands were still over-full, for though much less fatal, the fever smouldered on, both in Wil'sbro' and Compton, and as St. Nicholas was a college living which had hitherto been viewed as a trump card, it might be a long time going the round of the senior fellows.

Julius had just been at poor Mrs. Fuller's, trying to help her to put her complicated affairs in order, so as to be ready for a move as soon as one daughter, who had the fever slightly, could be taken away, and he was driving home again, when he overtook Mrs. Duncombe and offered her a lift, for her step was weary. She was indeed altered, pale, with cheek-bones showing, and all the lustre and sparkle gone out of her, while her hat was as rigidly dowdy as Miss Slater's.

She roused herself to ask feebly after the remaining patients.

"Cecil is really getting better at last," he said. "Her father wants to take her to Portishead next week."

"And young Bowater?"

"No change. His strength seems to be going."

"I wouldn't pity him," sighed Bessie Duncombe; "he has only seen the best end of life, and has laid it down for something worth! I'm sure he and your brother are the enviable ones."

"Nay, Mrs. Duncombe, you have much to work for and love in this life."

"And I must go away from everything just as I had learnt to value it. Bob has taken a house at Monaco, and writes to me to bring the children to join him there!"

"At Monaco?"

"At Monaco! Yes, and I know that it is all my own fault. I might have done anything with him if I had known how. But what could you expect? I never saw my mother; I never knew a home; I was bred up at a French school, where if one was not a Roman Catholic there was not a shred of religion going. I married after my first ball. Nobody taught me anything; but I could not help having brains, so I read and caught the tone of the day, and made my own line, while he went on his."

"And now there is a greater work for you to do, since you have learnt to do it."

"Ah! learnt too late. When habits are confirmed, and home station forfeited—What is there left for him or my poor boys to do?"

"A colony perhaps—"

"Damaged goods," she said, smiling sadly.

"Then are you going?"

"As soon as I have seen this fever out, and can dispose of the things here. I have just been to Moy's office to see about getting rid of the lease."

"Is Mr. Moy come home?"

"Yes. Have you not heard?"

"What?—Not the fever?"

"No. Worse I should say. Gussie has gone off and got married to Harry Simmonds."

"The man at the training stables?"

"Yes. They put up their banns at the Union at Brighton, and were married by the Registrar, then went off to Paris. They say it will kill her mother. The man is a scoundrel, who played Bob false, and won largely by that mare. And the girl has had the cheek to write to me," said Mrs. Duncombe, warming into her old phraseology—"to me!—to thank me for opportunities of meeting, and to tell me she has followed up the teaching of last year."

"What—the rights of women?"

"Ay. This is a civil marriage—not mocking her with antiquated servile vows," she says. "Ah, well, it was my doing, I suppose. Clio Tallboys held forth in private, I believe, to poor Gussie, on theories that were mere talk in her, but which this poor girl has taken in earnest."

"Very sad earnest she may find it, I fear. Can I do anything for you?" as they reached the gate of Aucuba Villa.

"No, thank you, unless to get the house off my hands."

"You are alone. Will you not come and spend the evening with us?"

"That is very kind, but I have too much to do, and besides, Sister Margaret is coming to spend the night with me."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Yes, Mr. Charnock, I trust I have learnt something in this spell of work. I've not been for nothing in such scenes with those Sisters and young Bowater. I'm more ignorant than half the poor things that I've heard talk of their faith and hope; but I see it is not the decorous humbug it once looked like. And now that I would have learnt, here I go to Monaco."

"You will learn. You have a work before you that will teach you."

"My boys are young enough to start with on a different tack," she said. "You will tell me—no—I'll not hinder you now. I shall see you again."

Julius was too anxious to get home to refuse to be released, much as he felt for this brave woman. The day before, Herbert had been frightfully faint and exhausted by the morning's attack of fever, but had been so still ever since that there was a shade of hope that the recurrence might not take place; and this hope grew stronger, when Jenny came into the outer room to say that the usual time for the fever was passing so quietly in a sort of sleep that Dr. Worth seemed to think rally possible, if only there was no fresh access.

They stood over the fire, and Julius asked, "Can't you lie on the sofa, Jenny? I can stay."

"No," said Jenny, restlessly. "No, I can't. I know you have something to tell me."

"Moy has come home, Jenny. He is in terrible trouble. His daughter has eloped with young Simmonds at the training stables."

"The most appropriate end of her bringing up," said Jenny, in the hard tone it was so difficult to answer—it was so unlike herself— and her thought was that weak pity and forbearance would hinder exertions in Archie's cause. "Generous at other folks' expense," said she to herself. "Sparing the guilty and leaving the innocent to exile!"

But a moaning murmur, and Cranstoun's movement at once summoned them both to the bedside.

Alas! here was the attack that the doctor had evidently apprehended as likely to be fatal. Hour after hour did sister, nurse, and friend stand watching, and doing their best, their piteously little best, while consciousness, if there was any, was far out of their reach.

Late into the night it went on, and then followed the collapse, with locked teeth, which could hardly be drawn asunder to put the stimulus hopelessly between them, and thus came the tardy December dawn, when the church-bell made Jenny bid Julius not stay, but only first read the commendatory prayer.

"I thought there was a little more revival just now," he said; "his hands are warmer, and he really did swallow."

The old nurse shook her head. "That's the way before they go," said she. "Don't ye wish him, poor lamb, it makes it the harder for him."

Julius prayed the prayer, and as he tenderly laid his hand on the brow, he wondered whether he should find the half-closed eyes shut for ever on his return.

But as he went, there was a quiver of lip and flicker of eyelid, the lightening, as Cranky called it, was evidently gaining ground. Herbert's faint whisper was heard again—"Jenny!"

"Dearest!"

"The Lord's Prayer!"

She began,—his fingers tightened on hers. "Pray it for old Moy," he said; and as she paused, scarce hearing or understanding, "He—he wants it," gasped Herbert. "No! One can't pray it, without—" another pause. "Help me, Jenny. Say it—O Lord, who savedst us— forgive us. Help us to forgive from our hearts that man his trespasses. Amen."

Jenny said it. Herbert's voice sank in the Amen. He lay breathing in long gasps; but he thus breathed still when Julius came back, and Jenny told him that a few words had passed, adding—

"Julius, I will say nothing bitter again. God help me not to think it."

Did Herbert hear? Was that the reason of the calm which made the white wasted face so beautiful, and the strange soft cool hush throughout the room?



CHAPTER XXXIV Silver Hair

And how should I your true love know From another man?—Friar of Orders Gray

"Please God, I can try again."

Those were the words with which Herbert Bowater looked into his Rector's face on awaking in the evening of that same December day from one of a series of sleeps, each sweeter and longer than the last, and which had borne him over the dreaded hours, without fever, and with strengthening pulse.

Julius had not ventured to leave the sick-room that whole day, and when at last he went home and sank into the chair opposite Terry, for the first time through all these weeks of trouble and tension, he burst into a flood of tears.

He had hardly made the startled lad understand that life, not death, had thus overcome him, when the door flew open, and in rushed Rosamond, crying, "Julius, Julius, come! It is he or his ghost!"

"Who? What?"

"It is your hair! At Mrs. Douglas's grave! He'll be gone! Make haste—make haste!"

He started up, letting her drag him along, but under protest. "My dear, men do come to have hair like mine."

"I tell you it was at our graves—our own—I touched him. I had this wreath for Raymond, and there he was, with his hat off, at the railing close to Mrs. Douglas's. I thought his back was yours, and called your name, and he started, and I saw—he had a white beard, but he was not old. He just bowed, and then went off very fast by the other gate, towards Wil'sbro'. I did call, 'Wait, wait,' but he didn't seem to hear. Oh, go, go, Julius! Make haste!"

Infected by the wild hope, Julius hurried on the road where his wife had turned his face, almost deriding himself for obeying her, when he would probably only overtake some old family retainer; but as, under the arch of trees that overhung the road, he saw a figure in the moonlight, a thrill of recognition came over him as he marked the vigorous tread of the prime of life, and the white hair visible in the moonlight, together with something utterly indescribable, but which made him call out, "Archie! Archie Douglas! wait for me!"

The figure turned. "Julius!" came in response; the two cousins' hands clasped, and there was a sob on either side as they kissed one another as brothers.

"Archie! How could you!—Come back!" was all that Julius could say, leaning breathlessly against him and holding him tight.

"No! Do not know that I have been here. I was sent to London on business. I could not help running home in the dark. No one must know it. I am dead to them."

"No, Archie, you are not. Gadley has confessed and cleared you. Come home!"

"Cleared me!" The two arms were stretched up to the sky, and there was the sound of a mighty sob, as though the whole man, body, soul, and spirit, were relieved from an unspeakable burthen. "Say it again, Julius!"

"Gadley, on his death-bed, has confessed that Moy and Proudfoot took that money, incited by Tom Vivian."

Archie Douglas could not speak, but he turned his face towards Compton again, strode swiftly into the churchyard, and fell on his knees by his mother's grave. When at last he rose, he pointed to the new and as yet unmarked mound, and said, "Your mother's?"

"Oh no! Raymond's! We have had a terrible fever here—almost a pestilence—and we are scarcely breathing after it."

"Ah! some one in the train spoke of sickness at Wil'sbro', but I would ask no questions, for I saw faces I knew, and I would lead to no recognition. I could not stay away from getting one sight of the old place. Miles made it all burn within me; but here's my return- ticket for the mail-train."

"Never mind return-tickets. Come home with me."

"I shall startle your mother."

"I meant my home—the Rectory. It was my wife who saw you in the churchyard, and sent me after you. She is watching for you."

Archie, still bewildered, as if spell-bound by his ticket, muttered, "I thought I should have time to walk over and look at Strawyers."

"Joanna is here."

"Julius! It is too much. You are sure I am awake? This is not the old dream!" cried the exile, grasping his cousin's arm quite gainfully.

"I am a waking man, and I trust you are," said Julius. "Come into the light. No, that is not Jenny on the step. It is my Rose. Yes, here he is!"

And as they came into the stream of light from the porch, Irish Rosamond, forgetting that Archie was not a brother, caught him by both hands, and kissed him in overpowering welcome, exclaiming, "Oh, I am so glad! Come in—come in!"

There he stood, blinking in the lamplight, a tall, powerful, broad- chested figure, but hardly a hero of romance to suit Terry's fancy, after a rapid summary of the history from Rosamond. His hair and beard were as white as Julius's, and the whole face was tanned to uniform red, but no one could mistake the dazed yet intense gladness of the look. He sank into a chair, clasped his hands over his face for a moment, then surveyed them all one by one, and said, "You told me she was here."

"She is with her brother Herbert, at Mrs. Hornblower's lodgings. No, you must wait, Archie; he has barely in the last few hours, by God's great mercy, taken a turn for the better in this fever, and I don't see how she can leave him."

"But she must hear it," cried Rosamond. "I'm going to make her or Cranky get some rest; but you ought to be the one to tell her, Julius, you that have stood by her through all."

"And aren't you burning to do so, Rosey, woman? and I think you had better, rather than that I should startle Herbert by returning; but stay, mind your own rules—eat and drink before you go, and give the same to Archie. I shall send up a note to Miles. How is Cecil?"

"Very silent and broken, poor thing. She is to see your mother to- morrow. How well it was that she kept me so late over her wreath of camellias!"

Archie submitted to wait for food and fuller information,—indeed the lady of the house manifested more impatience than he did, as she flitted about making preparations, and he sat with hands locked together over his knee, gazing fixedly at Julius, scarcely speaking, though eagerly listening; and when the meal was brought in, he could not eat, only eagerly drank off a cup of scalding tea, and watched Rosamond, as if jealous of any delay over her cutlet. She did not abuse his patience.

"Now then?" she said, rising. "You shall hear something of her before long."

"Let me come to her door," entreated Archie.

And as the light shone from the window of the sick-room, Rosamond said, "Stand under that tree in the moonlight, and I will make her look out."

All was intensely quiet; Cranky fast asleep in the arm-chair in the outer-room, and Jenny sitting by the bed, watching the smooth quiet breath.

"You are to lie down on the sofa and sleep," said Rosamond, kissing her, and she shook her head, "You must. People want strength for joy as well as grief. Trust him to me, for there is some one for you to see to-morrow."

"Not papa!" said Jenny, startled. "No, nor Phil! Tell me, Rosamond. There is only one you could look at me like that for!"

"Look out at the window."

Trembling all over, Jenny went and put her face to the lattice. The figure under the tree came nearer. Archie must have been able clearly to see her face in the moonlight. He stretched up his arms to her, then folded them together on his breast, and let himself be led away by Julius, while Jenny slid down on her knees, with her face buried, and the suppressed choking sobs made Herbert look up at Rosamond, and whisper, "It is?"

"It is," repeated Rosamond, who had thought him asleep, or entirely absorbed in the trouble of living.

"Go to her," he added.

Rosamond put her arm round her, and supported her into the next room; for, after the month of hopeless watching, the long sleeplessness and the struggle of this silent day to force her spirit to the forgiveness she had promised, and then the sudden reaction, had overpowered her, and the suppression and silence were beyond endurance. She did not even know that Herbert was awake when Rosamond brought her out into Mrs. Hornblower's room, and said, "Have it out now, my dear, no one will hear. Scream comfortably. It will do you good."

But Jenny could not even scream. She was in the excited agony when the mind is far too much for the body, and joy, unrealized, is like grief. If her brother had that day passed away, and if nothing had been heard of her lover, she would have been all calmness and resignation; but the revulsion had overcome her, and at the moment she was more conscious of strangulation than of anything else. Rosamond tended her for full half an hour, and then she seemed almost asleep, though she resisted the attempt to undress her, with the words, "I must go to Herbert."

"I will take care of Herbert," and Jenny was too much spent not to acquiesce, and fell asleep almost before she was laid down on the bed their landlady had given up to the watchers.

Rosamond's task was a comfortable one, for every hour of sleep, every mouthful of food seemed to do its work of restoration on the sound, healthy frame, and a smile and word of thanks met her whenever she roused her patient with the inevitable spoon.

When he awoke towards morning, he asked what day it was, and when she told him, answered, "So I thought. Then I have not lost count of time."

"No, you have been wonderfully clear-headed."

"I can't see how there can have been time to write," he said. "It is true that he is come, is it not?"

"Quite true; but he came independently on business," and Rosamond told of Julius's chase, bringing a look of amusement on his face.

Jenny came in with the rising sun, pale indeed, but another creature after her rest and in the sight of the restful countenance that greeted her with a smile. The moaning, hoarse voice was gone too, it was a faint shadow of Herbert's own tones that said, "Is not this good, Jenny? I didn't think to have seen it."

"My Herbert, you have given him back! You have given me the heart to be glad!"

"You must go and see him," said Herbert.

Jenny looked wistful and undecided; but Julius entered to say that she must come at once, for Archie must go back to London by the ten o'clock train to an appointment, and could not return for two days.

Herbert smiled her away, for he was still in a state where it was not possible to bear any engrossing of his head-nurse, and the lover's absence was, even to his unselfishness, good news.

Rosamond could not refrain from the pleasure of peeping down the little dark stair as Archie and his Jenny met in the doorway, and she walked demurely in their rear, wondering whether other eyes saw as much as she did in the manner in which Jenny hung on his arm. She left them to their dewy walk in the Rectory garden to the last minute at which breakfast could be swallowed, and told Jenny that she was to drive him in the pony-carriage to Hazlett's Gate; she would take care of Herbert.

"You ought to be asleep, you know," said Jenny.

"My dear, I couldn't sleep! There's a great deal better than sleep! Is not Herbert going to get well? and aren't you jolly again and Archie back again? Sleep!—why I want to have wings and clap them— and more than all, is not Mr. Charnock off and away to-morrow? Sleep indeed!—I should like to see myself so stupid."

"Mr. Charnock?" interrogatively said Archie.

"The head of the family—the original Charnock of Dunstone," said Rosamond, who was in wild spirits, coming on a worn-out body and mind, and therefore perfectly unguarded. "Don't shake your head at me, Jenny, Archie is one of the family, and that makes you so, and I must tell you of his last performance. You know he is absolutely certain that his dear daughter is more infallible than all the Popes, even since the Council, or than anybody but himself, and that whatever goes wrong here is the consequence of Julius's faith in Dr. Easterby. So, when poor Cecil, uneasy in her mind, began asking about the illness at Wil'sbro', he enlivened her with a prose about misjudging, through well-intentioned efforts of clerical philanthropy to interfere with the sanitary condition of the town— so that wells grew tainted, &c., all from ignorant interference. Poor man he heard a little sob, and looked round, and there was Cecil in a dead faint. He set all the bells ringing, and sent an express for me."

"But wasn't he furious with Anne for mentioning drains at all?"

"My dear Joan, don't you know how many old women there are of both sorts, who won't let other people look over the wall at what they gloat on in private? However, he had his punishment, for he really thought that the subject had been too much for her delicacy, and simply upset her nerves."

"When was this?"

"Four or five days ago. She is better, but has said not a word more about it. She is nothing like strong enough, even for so short a journey as to Portishead; but they say change will be the best thing for her, and the coming down into the family would be too sad."

"Poor thing! Yes indeed," said Jenny; and feeling universally benevolent, she added, "give her my love," a thing which so sincere a person could hardly have said a few weeks ago.

Reserve was part of Cecil's nature, and besides, her father was almost always with her; but when she had been for the first time dressed in crape up to her waist, with the tiniest of caps perched toy-like on the top of her passive head, the sight upset him completely, and muttering, "Good heavens!—a widow at twenty-two!" he hid himself from the sight over some business transactions with Mrs. Poynsett and Miles.

Rosamond seized the opportunity of bringing Julius in to pay his farewell visit, and presently Cecil said, "Julius, I should be much obliged if you would tell me the real facts about this illness."

"Do," said Rosamond. "Her half knowledge is most wearing."

He gently told her what science had pronounced.

"Then it was Pettitt's well?" she said.

"They tell us that this was the immediate cause of the outbreak; but there would probably have been quite as much fatal illness the first time any infectious disease came in. The whole place was in a shameful state, and you were the only people who tried to mitigate it."

"And did worse harm, because we would not listen to advice," said Cecil. "Julius, I have a great deal of money; can't I do anything now? My father wants me to give a donation to the church as a memorial of him, but, somehow, I don't feel as if I deserved to do that."

"I see what you mean, Cecil, but the town is being rated to set the drainage to rights, and it will thus be done in the most permanent and effectual way. There are some orphans who might be saved from the Union, about whom I thought of asking you to help."

Cecil asked the details of the orphans, and the consultation over them seemed to be prolonged by her because, even now, she could not resolve to go below the surface. It lasted until her father came to ask whether she were ready to go with him to Mrs. Poynsett's sitting-room. She looked very fragile and childish as she stood up, clinging to his arm to help her wavering, uncertain step, holding out her hand to Julius and saying, "I shall see you again."

He was a little disappointed to see her no older, and no warmer; having gone thus far, it seemed as if she might have gone further and opened more. Perhaps he did not understand how feelings, naturally slow, were rendered slower by the languor of illness, which made them more oppressive than acute. As Mr. Charnock and his daughter knocked, the door was opened by Miles, who merely gave his hand, and went down. Frank, who had been reading in a low easy- chair by the fire, drew it close to his mother for her, and retreated to another seat, and the mother and daughter-in-law exchanged a grave kiss. Cecil attempted some civility about the chair, to which poor Frank replied, "I'm afraid it is of no use to speak to me, Cecil, Miles can only just make me hear."

Regret for his misfortune, and inquiry as to the chance of restoration, were a possible topic. Mr. Charnock gave much advice about aurists, and examples of their success or non-success; and thence he diverged to the invalid-carriage he had secured, and his future plans for expediting his daughter's recovery. Meanwhile Mrs. Poynsett and Cecil sat grave, dry-eyed, and constrained, each feeling that in Mr. Charnock's presence the interview was a nullity, yet neither of them able to get rid of him, nor quite sure that she would have done so if she could.

He, meanwhile, perfectly satisfied with his own considerate tact, talked away the allotted half-hour, and then pronounced his daughter pale and tired. She let him help her to rise, but held Mrs. Poynsett's hand wistfully, as if she wished to say something but could not; and all Mrs. Poynsett could bring out was a hope of hearing how she bore the journey. It was as if they were both frozen up. Yet the next moment Cecil was holding Frank's hand in a convulsive clasp, and fairly pulling him down to exchange a kiss, when he found her tears upon his cheek. Were they to his misfortune, or to his much-increased resemblance to his brother?

Mr. Charnock kept guard over her, so that her other farewells were almost as much restrained as these, and though she hung on Rosamond's neck, and seemed ready to burst forth with some fervent exclamation, he hovered by, saying, "My dear child, don't, don't give way to agitation. It does you honour, but it cannot be permitted at such a moment. Lady Rosamond, I appeal to your unfailing good sense to restrain her emotion."

"I haven't any good sense, and I think it only hurts her to restrain her emotion," said Rosamond, with one of her little stamps, pressing Cecil in her arms. "There, there, my dear, cry,—never mind, if it will comfort your poor heart."

"Lady Rosamond! This is—Cecil, my dear child! Your resolution— your resignation. And the boxes are packed, and we shall be late for the train!"

Mr. Charnock was a little jealous of Lady Rosamond as a comforter preferred to himself, and he spoke in a tone which Cecil had never resisted. She withdrew herself from Rosamond, still tearless, though her chest heaved as if there were a great spasm in it; she gave her hand to Miles, and let him lead her to the carriage; and so Raymond's widowed bride left Compton Poynsett enfolded in that strange silence which some called sullenness and pride; others, more merciful, stunned grief.

Poor Cecil! there was less pity to be spared to her because of the intense relief it was to be free from her father, and to be able to stand in a knot consulting on the steps, without his coming out to find out what they were talking about, and to favour them with some Dunstone counsel.

The consultation was about Mr. Moy. It was determined that since Archie was in England, it would be better not to wait till Herbert was recovered, but that Miles and Julius should go together at once to see what effect they could produce on him.

They drove together to his office. He was a tall man, a few years over forty, and had hitherto been portly and well-preserved, with a certain serene air of complacent prosperity about him, that had always been an irritation to the county families, with whom he tried to assert an equality; but as he rose to greet the brothers, there was a bent and shrunken look about him: the hair on his temples had visibly whitened, his cheeks seemed to have sunk in, and there were deep furrows on them. Altogether he had grown full twenty years older in appearance since he had stood proposing a popular toast at the dinner at the town-hall. There was something nervous and startled in his gray eye, as he saw them enter, though he tried to assume his usual half-bland, half-easy, manner.

"Good morning, Captain Charnock Poynsett. Good morning, Mr. Charnock, I hope I see you well?" the words faltering a little, as neither sailor nor clergyman took notice of his proffered hand; but he continued his inquiries after the convalescents, though neither inquired in return after Mrs. Moy, feeling, perhaps, that they would rather not hear a very sad account of her state just before letting their inevitable Nemesis descend; also, not feeling inclined for reciprocal familiarity, and wanting to discourage the idea that Miles came for political purposes.

"It has been a terrible visitation," said Moy, when he had been reduced to replying to himself.

"It has," said Julius. "Perhaps you have heard that your tenant, Gadley, is dead?"

"Yes, I did hear it. A very melancholy thing—the whole family swept-away," said Mr. Moy, his eye again betraying some uneasiness, which Julius increased by saying—

"We thought it right that you should hear that he made a disclosure on his death-bed."

"Indeed!" Mr. Moy sat erect—the hard, keen, watchful lawyer.

"A disclosure that nearly affects the character of Mr. Archibald Douglas," proceeded Julius.

"May I ask what this may be?"

"Mr. Gadley then informed me that he had been in the outer room, behind his desk, at the time when Mr. Douglas brought in the letter from my mother, containing the missing cheque, and that after Douglas was gone, he heard Mr. Vivian propose to those within to appropriate the amount to their own debts."

"Pardon me, Mr. Charnock, this is a very serious charge to bring on the authority of a man in a raving fever. Was any deposition taken before a magistrate?"

"No," said Julius. "Mr. Lipscombe was fetched, but he was unable to speak at the time. However, on reviving, he spoke as is thus attested," and he showed Herbert Bowater's slip of paper.

"Mr. Charnock," said Mr. Moy, "without the slightest imputation on the intentions of yourself or of young Mr. Bowater, I put it to yourself and Captain Charnock Poynsett, whether you could go before a jury with no fuller attestation than you have in your hand. We know what Mr. Charnock and Mr. Bowater are. To a jury they would simply appear—pardon me—a young clergyman, his still more youthful curate, and a sister of mercy, attaching importance to the words of a delirious man; and juries have become very incredulous in such cases."

"We shall see that," said Miles sharply.

"The more cautious," added Mr. Moy, "when it is the raking up of a matter eleven years old, where the witnesses are mostly dead, and where the characters of two gentlemen, also deceased, would be implicated. Believe me, sir, this firm—I speak as its present head—will be rejoiced to make any compensation to Mrs. Poynsett for what went astray while coming to their hands. It has been our desire to do so from the very first, as letters of which I have copies testify; but our advances were met in a spirit of enmity, which may perhaps be laid aside now."

"No so-called compensation can be accepted, but the clearing of Douglas's character," said Miles.

"It is a generous feeling," said Mr. Moy, speaking apparently most dispassionately, though Julius saw his hands trembling below the table; "but even if the word of this delirious man were sufficient, have you reflected, Captain Charnock Poynsett, on the unequal benefit of justifying—allowing that you could justify—a young man who has been dead and forgotten these eleven years, and has no relation living nearer than yourself, at the expense of those also gone, but who have left relations who could ill bear to suffer from such a revelation?"

"Justice is justice, whether a man be dead or alive," said Miles; "and Douglas is alive to demand his right."

"Alive!" cried Mr. Moy, starting violently. "Alive! Archie Douglas alive!"

"Alive, and in England," said Julius. "He slept in my house the night before last. He never was in the Hippolyta, at all, but has been living in Africa all these years of exile."

Mr. Moy's self-command and readiness were all gone. He sank back in his chair, with his hands over his face. The brothers looked at one another, fearing he might have a stroke; but he revived in a moment, yet with a totally different expression on his countenance. The keen, defensive look was gone, there was only something piteously worn and supplicating in the face, as he said—

"Then, gentlemen, I cannot resent anything you may do. Believe me, but for the assurance of his death, I should have acted very differently long ago. I will assist you in any way you desire in reinstating Mr. Douglas in public opinion, only, if it be possible, let my wife be spared. She has recently had the heaviest possible blow; she can bear no more."

"Mr. Moy, we will do nothing vindictive. We can answer for my mother and Douglas," began Julius; but Miles, more sternly, would not let his brother hold out his hand, and said—

"You allow, then, the truth of Gadley's confession?"

"What has he confessed?" said Moy, still too much the lawyer not to see that his own complicity had never yet been stated.

Julius laid before him his own written record of Gadley's words, not only involving Moy in the original fraud, but showing how he had bribed the only witness to silence ever since. The unhappy man read it over, and said—

"Yes, Mr. Charnock, it is all true. I cannot battle it further. I am at your mercy. I would leave you to proclaim the whole to the world; if it were not for my poor wife and her father, I would be glad to do so. Heaven knows how this has hung upon me for years."

"I can well believe it," said Julius, not to be hindered now from grasping Mr. Moy's hand.

It seemed to be a comfort now to tell the whole story in detail. Moy, the favoured and trusted articled clerk at first, then the partner, the lover and husband of the daughter, had been a model of steadiness and success so early, that when some men's youthful follies are wearing off, he had begun to weary of the monotony of the office, and after beginning as Mentor to his young brother-in- law, George Proudfoot, had gradually been carried along by the fascination of Tom Vivian's society to share in the same perilous pursuits, until both had incurred a debt to him far beyond their powers, while he was likewise so deeply involved, that no bonds of George Proudfoot would avail him.

Then came the temptation of Mrs. Poynsett's cheque, suggested, perhaps in jest, by Vivian, but growing on them as the feasibility of using it became clear. It was so easy to make it appear to Archie Douglas that the letter was simply an inquiry for the lost one. Mr. Proudfoot, the father, was out of reach; Mrs. Poynsett would continue to think the cheque lost in the post; and Tom Vivian undertook to get it presented for payment through persons who would guard against its being tracked. The sum exceeded the debt, but he would return the overplus to them, and they both cherished the hope of returning it with interest. Indeed, it had been but a half consent on the part of either, elicited only by the dire alternative of exposure; the envelope and letter were destroyed, and Vivian carried off the cheque to some of the Jews with whom he had had only too many transactions, and they never met him again.

Moy's part all along had been half cowardice, half ambition. The sense of that act and of its consequences had gnawed at his heart through all his success; but to cast himself down from his position as partner and son-in-law of Mr. Proudfoot, the keen, clever, trusted, confidential agent of half the families around—to let his wife know his shame and that of her brother, and to degrade his daughter into the daughter of a felon—was more than he could bear; and he had gone on trying to drown the sense of that one lapse in the prosperity of his career and his efforts to place his daughter in the first ranks of society. No doubt the having done an injury to the Poynsett family had been the true secret of that enmity, more than political, which he had always shown to Raymond; and after thinking Gadley safer out of that office, and having yielded to his solicitations and set him up at the Three Pigeons, he had been almost compelled to bid for popularity by using his position as a magistrate to protect the blackguardism of the town. He had been meant for better things, and had been dragged on against his conscience and judgment by the exigencies of his unhappy secret; and when the daughter, for whose sake he had sacrificed his better self, had only been led by her position into the follies and extravagances of the worst part of the society into which she had been introduced, and threw herself into the hands of a dissipated gambler, to whom her fortune made her a desirable prey—truly his sin had found him out.

His fight at first had been partly force of habit, but he was so entirely crushed that they could only have pity on him when he put himself so entirely in their hands, only begging for forbearance to his wife and her aged father, and entreating that principal, interest, and compound interest might at once be tendered to Mrs. Poynsett.

The brothers could answer for nothing. Archie must decide for himself what he would accept as restoration of his character, and Mrs. Poynsett could alone answer as to whether she would accept the compensation. But neither of them could be hard on one so stricken and sorrowful, and they did not expect hardness from their mother and cousin, especially so far as old Mr. Proudfoot and his daughter were concerned.

That the confession was made, and that Archie should be cleared, was enough for Julius to carry to Herbert's room, while Miles repaired to his mother. It was known in the sick-room where the brothers had been, and Julius was watched as he crossed the street by Jenny's eager eye, and she met him at the door of the outer room with a face of welcome.

"Come in and tell us all," she said. "I see it is good news." Herbert was quite well enough to bear good news in full detail as he lay, not saying much, but smiling his welcome, and listening with ears almost as eager as his sister's. And as Julius told of the crushed and broken man, Jenny's tears rose to her eyes, and she pressed her brother's hand and whispered, "Thanks, dear boy!"

"Small thanks to me."

"Yes, I can enjoy it now," said Jenny; "thanks to you for forcing the bitterness out of me."

"Can you bear a little more good news, Herbert?" said Julius. "Who do you think is to have St. Nicholas?"

"Not William Easterby? That's too good to be true."

"But so it is. All the Senior Fellows dropped it like a red-hot coal."

"I thought Dwight wanted to marry?"

"Yes, but the lady's friends won't hear of his taking her there; so it has come down to young Easterby. He can't be inducted of course yet; but he has written to say he will come down on Saturday and take matters in hand."

"The services on Sunday? Oh!" said Herbert, with as great a gasp of relief as if he had been responsible for them; and, indeed, Rosamond declared that both her husband and Mr. Bindon looked like new men since Wil'sbro' was off their backs. Archie was coming back that evening. Jenny much longed to show her two treasures to each other, for it was a useless risk for the healthy man, and the sick one was too weak and tired to wish for a new face, or the trouble of speaking; nay, he could not easily bring himself to cheerful acquiescence in even his favourite Lady Rose taking his sister's place to set her free for an evening with Archie at the Hall.

Mrs. Poynsett was in the drawing-room. She had taken courage to encounter the down-stair associations, saying she would make it no sadder for the dear boy than she could help, and so Miles had carried her down to meet one who had been always as one of her own sons.

And thus it was that she gathered him into her embrace, while the great strong man, only then fully realizing all the changes, sobbed uncontrollably beside her.

"My boy, my poor Archie," she said, "you are come at last. Did you not know you still had a mother to trust to?"

"I ought to have known it," said Archie, in a choked voice. "Oh that I had seen Jenny in London!"

For indeed it had become plain that it had been his flight that had given opportunity and substance to the accusation. If he had remained, backed by the confidence of such a family as the Poynsetts, Gadley would have seen that testimony in his favour would be the safer and more profitable speculation; and Moy himself, as he had said, would have testified to the innocence of a living man on the spot, though he had let the blame rest on one whom he thought in the depths of the sea. Archie's want of moral courage had been his ruin. It had led him to the scene of temptation rather than resist his companions, and had thus given colour to the accusation, and in the absence of both Joanna and of his cousins, it had prevented him from facing the danger.

This sense made him the more willing to be forbearing, when, after dinner, the whole council sat round to hear in full the history of the interview with Mr. Moy; Anne taking up her position beside Frank, with whom, between her pencil and the finger-alphabet, she had established such a language as to make her his best interpreter of whatever was passing in the room.

"One could not help being sorry for Moy," said Miles, as he concluded; "he turns out to be but half the villain after all, made so rather by acquiescence than by his own free will."

"But reaping the profit," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"Yes, though in ignorance of the injury he was doing, and thus climbing to a height that makes his fall the worse. I am sorry for old Proudfoot too," added Julius. "I believe they have not ventured to tell him of his granddaughter's marriage."

"I do not think the gain to me would be at all equal to the loss to them," said Archie. "Exposure would be ruin and heartbreak there, and I don't see what it would do for me."

"My dear Archie!" exclaimed both Mrs. Poynsett and Joanna, in amazement.

"So long as you and Mr. Bowater are satisfied, I care for little else," said Archie.

"But your position, my dear," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"We don't care much about a man's antecedents, within a few years, out in the colonies, dear Aunt Julia," said Archie, smiling.

"You aren't going back?"

"That depends," said Archie, his eyes seeking Joanna's; "but I don't see what there is for me to do here. I'm spoilt for a solicitor anyway—"

"We could find an agency, Miles, couldn't we?—or a farm—"

"Thank you, dear aunt," said Archie; "I don't definitely answer, because Mr. Bowater must be consulted; but I have a business out there that I can do, and where I can make a competence that I can fairly offer to Jenny here. If I came home, as I am now, I should only prey on you in some polite form, and I don't think Jenny would wish for that alternative. I must go back any way, as I have told her, and whether to save for her, or to make a home for her there, it must be for her to decide."

They looked at Jenny. She was evidently prepared; for though her colour rose a little, her frank eyes looked at him with a confiding smile.

"But we must have justice done to you, my dear boy, whether you stay with us or not," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"That might have been done if I had not been fool enough to run away," said Archie; "having done so, the mass of people will only remember that there has been something against me, in spite of any justification. It is not worth while to blast Moy's character, and show poor old Proudfoot what a swindler his son was, just for that. The old man was good to me. I should like to let it rest while he lives. If Moy would sign such an exculpation of me as could be shown to Mr. Bowater, and any other whom it might concern, I should be quite willing to have nothing told publicly, at least as long as the old gentleman lives."

"I think Archie is right," said Miles, in the pause, with a great effort.

"Yes, right in the highest sense of the word," said Julius.

"It is Christian," Anne breathed across to her husband.

"I don't like it," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"Let that scoundrel go unhung!" burst from Frank, who had failed to catch the spirit of his interpreter.

"I don't like it in the abstract, mother," said Miles; "but you and Frank have not seen the scoundrel in his beaten down state, and, as Archie says, it is hard to blacken the memory of either poor George Proudfoot or Tom Vivian, who have fathers to feel it for them."

"Poor Tom Vivian's can hardly be made much blacker," said Mrs. Poynsett, "nor are Sir Harry's feelings very acute; but perhaps poor old Proudfoot ought to be spared, and there are considerations as to the Vivian family. Still, I don't see how to consent to Archie going into exile again with this stigma upon him. I am sure Raymond would not, and I do not think Mr. Bowater will."

"Dear Aunt Julia," said Archie, affectionately, coming across to her, "it was indeed exile before, when I was dead to all of you; but can it be so now the communication is open, and when I am making or winning my home?" and his eyes brought Jenny to him by her side.

"Yes, dear Mrs. Poynsett," she said, holding her hand, "I am sure he is right, and that it would spoil all our own happiness to break that poor old father's heart, and bring him and his wife to disgrace and misery. When I think of the change in everything since two days back—dear Herbert wrung a sort of forgiveness out of me—I can't bear to think of anybody being made miserable."

"And what will your papa say, child?"

"I think he will feel a good deal for old Proudfoot," said Jenny. "He rather likes the old man, and has laughed at our hatred of Miss Moy's pretensions."

"Then it is settled," said Archie; "I will write to Moy, for I suppose he had rather not see me, that I will say nothing about it publicly while Mr. Proudfoot lives, and will not show this confession of his, unless it should be absolutely necessary to my character. Nor after old Proudfoot's death, will I take any step without notice to him."

"Much more than he ought to expect," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"I don't know," said Archie. "If he had refused, it would not have been easy to bring him to the point, I suppose I must have surrendered to take my trial, but after so many years, and with so many deaths, it would have been awkward."

"And the money, mother," said Miles, producing a cheque. "Poor Moy, that was a relief to him. He said he had kept it ready for years." Mrs. Poynsett waved it off as if she did not like to touch it.

"I don't want it! Take it, Archie. Set up housekeeping on it," she said. "You are not really going back to that place?"

"Yes, indeed I am; I sail on Tuesday. Dear good Aunt Julia, how comfortable it is to feel any one caring for me again; but I am afraid even this magnificent present, were it ten times as much, could not keep me; I must go back to fulfil my word to my partner out there, even if I returned at once."

"And you let him go, Jenny?"

"I must!" said Jenny. "And only think how different it is now! For the rest, whether he comes back for me at once, or some years hence, must depend on papa and mamma."

She spoke with grave content beaming in her eyes, just like herself. The restoration was still swallowing up everything else.



CHAPTER XXXV Herbert's Christmas

And when the self-abhorring thrill Is past—as pass it must, When tasks of life thy spirit fill, Then be the self-renouncing will The seal of thy calm trust.—Lyra Apostolica

By Christmas Day Archie Douglas was in the Bay of Biscay; but even to Joanna it was not a sorrowful day, for did not Herbert on that day crawl back into his sitting-room, full dressed for the first time, holding tight by her shoulder, and by every piece of furniture on his way to the sofa, Rollo attending in almost pathetic delight, gazing at him from time to time, and thumping the floor with his tail? He had various visitors after his arrival—the first being his Rector, who came on his way back from church to give his congratulations, mention the number of convalescents who had there appeared, and speak of the wedding he had celebrated that morning, that of Fanny Reynolds and her Drake, who were going forth the next day to try whether they could accomplish a hawker's career free from what the man, at least, had only of late learnt to be sins. It was a great risk, but there had been a penitence about both that Julius trusted was genuine. A print of the Guardian Angel, which had been her boy's treasure, had been hung by Fanny in her odd little bedroom, and she had protested with tears that it would seem like her boy calling her back if she were tempted again.

"Not that I trust much to that," said Julius. "Poor Fanny is soft, and likes to produce an effect; but I believe there is sterling stuff in Drake."

"And he never had a chance before," said Herbert.

"No. Which makes a great difference—all indeed between the Publicans, or the Heathens, and the Pharisees. He can't read, and I doubt whether he said the words rightly after me; but I am sure he meant them."

"I suppose all this has done great good?" said Jenny.

"It will be our fault if it do not do permanent good. It ought," said Julius, gravely. "No, no, Herbert, I did not mean to load you with the thought. Getting well is your business for the present— not improving the occasion to others."

To which all that Herbert answered was, "Harry Hornblower!" as if that name spoke volumes of oppression of mind.

That discussion, however, was hindered by Mrs. Hornblower's own arrival with one of her lodger's numerous meals, and Julius went off to luncheon. The next step on the stairs made Herbert start and exclaim, "That's the dragoon! Come in, Phil."

And there did indeed stand the eldest brother, who had obtained a few days' leave, as he told them, and had ridden over from Strawyers after church. He came in with elaborate caution in his great muddy boots, and looked at Herbert like a sort of natural curiosity, exclaiming that he only wanted a black cap and a pair of bands to be exactly like Bishop Bowater, a Caroline divine, with a meek, oval, spiritual face, and a great display of delicate attenuated fingers, the length of which had always been a doubt and marvel to his sturdy descendants.

"Hands and all," quoth Philip; "and what are you doing with them?" as he spied a Greek Testament in the fingers, and something far too ponderous for them within reach. "Jenny, how dare you?" he remonstrated, poising the bigger book as if to heave it at her head. "That's what comes of your encouraging followers, eh?"

"Ah!" said Jenny, pretending to dodge the missile, while Rollo exercised great forbearance in stifling a bark, "Greek is not quite so severe to some folks as dragoon captains think."

"Severe or not he might let it alone," said Phil, looking much disposed to wrest away the little book, which Herbert thrust under his pillow, saying—

"It was only the Lesson."

"Why can't you read the Lesson like a sensible man in its native English? Don't laugh, children, you know what I mean. There's no good in this fellow working his brain. He can't go up again before September, and according to the Bishop's letter to my father, he is safe to pass, if he could not construe a line, after what he did at Wil'sbro'. The Bishop and Co. found they had made considerable donkeys of themselves. Yes, 'tis the ticket for you to be shocked; but it is just like badgering a fellow for his commission by asking him how many facets go to a dragon-fly's eye, instead of how he can stand up to a battery."

"So I thought," said Herbert; "but I know now what it is to be in the teeth of the battery without having done my best to get my weapons about me."

"Come now! Would any of those poor creatures have been the better for your knowing

"How many notes a sackbut has, Or whether shawms have strings,"

or the Greek particles, which I believe were what sacked you?"

"They would have been the better if I had ever learnt to think what men's souls are, or my own either," said Herbert, with a heavy sigh.

"Ah! well, you have had a sharp campaign," said Phil; "but you'll soon get the better of it when you are at Nice with the old folks. Jolly place—lots of nice girls—something always going on. I'll try and get leave to take you out; but you'll cut us all out! Ladies won't look at a fellow when there's an interesting young parson to the fore."

Herbert made an action of negation, and his sister said—

"The doctors say Nice will not do after such an illness as this. Papa asked the doctor there, and he said he could not advise it."

"Indeed! Then I'll tell you what, Herbs, you shall come into lodgings at York, and I'll look after you there. You shall ride Pimento, and dine at the mess."

"Thank you, Phil," said Herbert, to whom a few months ago this proposal would have been most seducing, "but I am going home, and that's all the change I shall want."

"Home! Yes, Ellen is getting ready for you. Not your room—oh, no! but the state bedroom! When will you come? My leave is only till Tuesday."

"Oh! I don't know how to think of the drive," sighed Herbert wearily.

"We must wait for a fine day, when he feels strong enough," said Jenny.

"All right," said Phil; "but ten days or a fortnight there will be quite enough, and then you'll come. There are some friends of yours, that only looked at me, I can tell you, for the sake of your name—eh, Master Herbs?"

Herbert did not rise to the bait; but Jenny said, "The Miss Strangeways?"

"Yes. Wouldn't he be flattered to hear of the stunning excitement when they heard of Captain Bowater, and how the old lady, their mother, talked by the yard about him? You'll get a welcome indeed when you come, old fellow. When shall it be?"

"No, thank you, Phil," said Herbert, gravely. "I shall come back here as soon as I am well enough. But there is one thing I wish you would do for me."

"Well, what? I'll speak about having any horse you please taken up for you to ride; I came over on Brown Ben, but he would shake you too much."

"No, no, it's about a young fellow. If you could take him back to York to enlist—"

"My dear Herbert, I ain't a recruiting-sergeant."

"No, but it might be the saving of him," said Herbert, raising himself and speaking with more animation. "It is Harry Hornblower."

"Why, that's the chap that bagged your athletic prizes! Whew! Rather strong, ain't it, Joan!"

"He did no such thing," said Herbert, rather petulantly; "never dreamt of it. He only was rather a fool in talking of them— vaunting of me, I believe, as not such a bad fellow for a parson; so his friends got out of him where to find them. But they knew better than to take him with them. Tell him, Jenny; he won't believe me."

"It is quite true, Phil," said Jenny, "the poor fellow did get into bad company at the races, but that was all. He did not come home that night, but he was stupefied with drink and the beginning of the fever, and it was proved—perfectly proved—that he was fast asleep at a house at Backsworth when the robbery was committed, and he was as much shocked about it as any one—more, I am sure, than Herbert, who was so relieved on finding him clear of it, that he troubled himself very little about the things. And now he has had the fever— not very badly—and he is quite well now, but he can't get anything to do. Truelove turned him off before the races for hanging about at the Three Pigeons, and nobody will employ him. I do think it is true what they say—his mother, and Julius, and Herbert, and all— that he has had a lesson, and wants to turn over a new leaf, but the people here won't let him. Julius and Herbert want him to enlist, and I believe he would, but his mother—as they all do—thinks that the last degradation; but she might listen if Captain Bowater came and told her about his own regiment—cavalry too—and the style of men in it—and it is the only chance for him."

Philip made a wry face.

"You see I took him up and let him down," said Herbert, sadly and earnestly.

"I really do believe," said Jenny, clenching the matter, "that Herbert would get well much faster if Harry Hornblower were off his mind."

Phil growled, and his younger brother and sister knew that they would do their cause no good by another word. There was an odd shyness about them all. The elder brother had not yet said anything about Jenny's prospects, and only asked after the party at the Hall.

"All nearly well, except Frank's deafness," said Jenny. "In a day or two he is going up to London to consult an aurist, and see whether he can keep his clerkship. Miles is going with him, and Rosamond takes Terry up to see his brother in London, and then, I believe, she is going on to get rooms at Rockpier, while Miles comes home to fetch his mother there."

"Mrs. Poynsett!" with infinite wonder.

"Oh yes, all this has really brought out much more power of activity in her. You know it was said that there was more damage to the nervous system than anything else, and the shock has done her good. Besides, Miles is so much less timid about her than dear Raymond, who always handled her like a cracked teapot, and never having known much of any other woman, did not understand what was good for her."

"Miles has more pith in him than ever poor old Raymond had," said Phil. "Poor old Poynsett, I used to think he wanted to be spoony on you, Joan, if he had only known his own mind. If he had, I suppose he would have been alive now!"

"What a pleasing situation for Jenny!" Herbert could not help muttering.

"Much better than running after ostriches in the wilderness," quoth Philip. "You ride them double, don't you?"

"Two little negro boys at a time," replied Jenny, "according to the nursery-book. Will you come and try, Phil?"

"You don't mean to go out?"

"I don't know," said Jenny; "it depends on how mamma is, and how Edith gets on."

Philip gave a long whistle of dismay. Herbert looked at him wistfully, longing to hear him utter some word of congratulation or sympathy with his sister; but none was forthcoming. Philip had disliked the engagement originally—never had cared for Archie Douglas, and was not melted now that Jenny was more valuable than ever. She knew him too well to expect it of him, and did not want to leave him to vex Herbert by any expression of his opinion on the matter, and on this account, as well as on that of the fatigue she saw on her patient's features, she refused his kind offer of keeping guard while she went in the afternoon to church, adding that Herbert must rest, as Mrs. Duncombe was coming afterwards to take leave of him.

Philip shrugged his shoulders in horror, and declared that he should not return again till that was over; but he should look in again before he went home to settle about Herbert's coming to York.

"York!" said Herbert, with a gasp, as Jenny brought his jelly, and arranged his pillows for a rest, while the dragoon's boots resounded on the stairs. "Please tell him to say no more about it. I want them all to understand that I'm not going in for that sort of thing any more."

"My dear, I think you had better not say things hotly and rashly; you may feel so very differently by and by."

"I know that," said Herbert; "but after all it is only what my ordination vows mean, though I did not see it then. And this year must be a penance year; I had made up my mind to that before I fell ill."

"Only you must get well," said Jenny.

"That takes care of itself when one is sound to begin with," said Herbert. "And now that I have been brought back again, and had my eyes opened, and have got another trial given me, it would be double shame to throw it away."

"I don't think you will do that."

"I only pray that all that seems burnt out of me by what I have seen, and heard, and felt, may not come back with my strength."

"I could hardly pray that for you, Herbert," said Jenny. "Spirits are wanted to bear a clergyman through his work, and though you are quite right not to go in for those things, I should be sorry if you never enjoyed what came in your way."

"If I never was tempted."

"It need not be temptation. It would not be if your mind were full of your work—it would only be refreshment. I don't want my boy to turn stern, and dry, and ungenial. That would not be like your Rector."

"My Rector did not make such a bad start, and can trust himself better," said Herbert. "Come, Jenny, don't look at me in that way. You can't wish me to go to York, and meet those rattling girls again?"

"No, certainly not, though Sister Margaret told Rosamond they had never had such a sobering lesson in their lives as their share in the mischief to you."

"It was not their fault," said Herbert. "It was deeper down than that. And they were good girls after all, if one only had had sense."

"Oh!—"

"Nonsense, Jenny," with a little smile, as he read her face, "I'm not bitten—no—but they, and poor Lady Tyrrell, and all are proof enough that it is easy to turn my head, and that I am one who ought to keep out of that style of thing for the future. So do silence Phil, for you know when he gets a thing into his head how he goes on, and I do not think I can bear it now."

"I am sure you can't," said Jenny, emphatically, "and I'll do my best. Only, Herbie, dear, do one thing for me, don't bind yourself by any regular renunciations of moderate things now your mind is excited, and you are weak. I am sure Julius or Dr. Easterby would say so."

"I'll think," said Herbert. "But if I am forgiven for this year, nothing seems to me too much to give up to the Great Shepherd to show my sorrow. 'Feed My sheep' was the way He bade St. Peter prove his love."

Jenny longed to say it was feeding the sheep rather than self- privation, but she was not sure of her ground, and Herbert's low, quiet, soft voice went to her heart. There were two great tears on his cheeks, he shut his eyes as if to keep back any more, and turned his face inwards on the sofa, his lips still murmuring over 'Feed My sheep.' She looked at him, feeling as if, while her heart had wakened to new glad hopes of earth, her brother, in her fulfilled prayer, had soared beyond her. They were both quite still till Mrs. Duncombe came to the door.

She was at the Rectory, her house being dismantled, and she, having stayed till the last case of fever was convalescent, and the Sisters recalled, was to go the next day to her mother-in-law's. She was almost as much altered as Herbert himself. Her jaunty air had given way to something equally energetic, but she looked wiry and worn, and her gold pheasant's crest had become little more than a sandy wisp, as she came quietly in and took the hand that Herbert held out to her, saying how glad she was to see him on the mend.

He asked after some of the people whom they had attended together, and listened to the details, asking specially after one or two families, where one or both parents had been taken away. "Poor Cecil Poynsett is undertaking them," was the answer in each case. Some had been already sent to orphanages; others were boarded out till places could be found for them; and the Sisters had taken charge of two.

Then one widow was to 'do for' the Vicar, who had taken solitary possession of the Vicarage, but would soon be joined there by one or more curates. He had been inducted into the ruinous chancel of the poor old church, had paid the architect of the Rat-house fifty pounds (a sum just equalling the proceeds of the bazaar) to be rid of his plans; had brought down a first-rate architect; and in the meantime was working the little iron church vigorously.