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Title: The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories

Author: Florence Marryat

Release date: September 29, 2025 [eBook #76950]

Language: English

Original publication: Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1883

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76950

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GHOST OF
CHARLOTTE CRAY, AND OTHER STORIES ***

THE GHOST
OF

CHARLOTTE CRAY
AND OTHER STORIES.

BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT
(MRS. FRANCIS LEAN),
AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” “FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,”
ETC., ETC.

COPYRIGHT EDITION.

LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1883.
The Right of Translation is reserved.

CONTENTS.
THE GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY
THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE
AMY’S LOVER
LITTLE WHITE SOULS
STILL WATERS
CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA
THE SECRET OF ECONOMY
“MOTHER”
IN THE HEART OF THE ARDENNES
A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE

THE
GHOST OF CHARLOTTE CRAY.
Mr. Sigismund Braggett was sitting in the little room he called his study,
wrapped in a profound—not to say a mournful—reverie. Now, there was
nothing in the present life nor surroundings of Mr. Braggett to account for
such a demonstration. He was a publisher and bookseller; a man well to do,
with a thriving business in the city, and the prettiest of all pretty villas at
Streatham. And he was only just turned forty; had not a grey hair in his
head nor a false tooth in his mouth; and had been married but three short
months to one of the fairest and most affectionate specimens of English
womanhood that ever transformed a bachelor’s quarters into Paradise.
What more could Mr. Sigismund Braggett possibly want? Nothing! His
trouble lay in the fact that he had got rather more than he wanted. Most of
us have our little peccadilloes in this world—awkward reminiscences that
we would like to bury five fathoms deep, and never hear mentioned again,
but that have an uncomfortable habit of cropping up at the most
inconvenient moments; and no mortal is more likely to be troubled with
them than a middle-aged bachelor who has taken to matrimony.
Mr. Sigismund Braggett had no idea what he was going in for when he
led the blushing Emily Primrose up to the altar, and swore to be hers, and
hers only, until death should them part. He had no conception a woman’s
curiosity could be so keen, her tongue so long, and her inventive faculties
so correct. He had spent whole days before the fatal moment of marriage in
burning letters, erasing initials, destroying locks of hair, and making
offerings of affection look as if he had purchased them with his own money.
But it had been of little avail. Mrs. Braggett had swooped down upon him
like a beautiful bird of prey, and wheedled, coaxed, or kissed him out of
half his secrets before he knew what he was about. But he had never told

her about Charlotte Cray. And now he almost wished that he had done so,
for Charlotte Cray was the cause of his present dejected mood.
Now, there are ladies and ladies in this world. Some are very shy, and
will only permit themselves to be wooed by stealth. Others, again, are the
pursuers rather than the pursued, and chase the wounded or the flying even
to the very doors of their stronghold, or lie in wait for them like an octopus,
stretching out their tentacles on every side in search of victims.
And to the latter class Miss Charlotte Cray decidedly belonged. Not a
person worth mourning over, you will naturally say. But, then, Mr.
Sigismund Braggett had not behaved well to her. She was one of the
“peccadilloes.” She was an authoress—not an author, mind you, which term
smacks more of the profession than the sex—but an “authoress,” with lots
of the “ladylike” about the plots of her stories and metre of her rhymes.
They had come together in the sweet connection of publisher and writer—
had met first in a dingy, dusty little office at the back of his house of
business, and laid the foundation of their friendship with the average
amount of chaffering and prevarication that usually attend such
proceedings.
Mr. Braggett ran a risk in publishing Miss Cray’s tales or verses, but he
found her useful in so many other ways that he used occasionally to hold
forth a sop to Cerberus in the shape of publicity for the sake of keeping her
in his employ. For Miss Charlotte Cray—who was as old as himself, and
had arrived at the period of life when women are said to pray “Any, good
Lord, any!”—was really a clever woman, and could turn her hand to most
things required of her, or upon which she had set her mind; and she had
most decidedly set her mind upon marrying Mr. Braggett, and he—to serve
his own purposes—had permitted her to cherish the idea, and this was the
Nemesis that was weighing him down in the study at the present moment.
He had complimented Miss Cray, and given her presents, and taken her out
a-pleasuring, all because she was useful to him, and did odd jobs that no
one else would undertake, and for less than any one else would have
accepted; and he had known the while that she was in love with him, and
that she believed he was in love with her.
He had not thought much of it at the time. He had not then made up his
mind to marry Emily Primrose, and considered that what pleased Miss
Cray, and harmed no one else, was fair play for all sides. But he had come
to see things differently now. He had been married three months, and the

first two weeks had been very bitter ones to him. Miss Cray had written him
torrents of reproaches during that unhappy period, besides calling day after
day at his office to deliver them in person. This and her threats had
frightened him out of his life. He had lived in hourly terror lest the clerks
should overhear what passed at their interviews, or that his wife should be
made acquainted with them.
He had implored Miss Cray, both by word of mouth and letter, to cease
her persecution of him; but all the reply he received was that he was a base
and perjured man, and that she should continue to call at his office, and
write to him through the penny post, until he had introduced her to his wife.
For therein lay the height and depth of his offending. He had been afraid to
bring Emily and Miss Cray together, and the latter resented the omission as
an insult. It was bad enough to find that Sigismund Braggett, whose hair she
wore next her heart, and whose photograph stood as in a shrine upon her
bedroom mantelpiece, had married another woman, without giving her even
the chance of a refusal, but it was worse still to come to the conclusion that
he did not intend her to have a glimpse into the garden of Eden he had
created for himself.
Miss Cray was a lady of vivid imagination and strong aspirations. All
was not lost in her ideas, although Mr. Braggett had proved false to the
hopes he had raised. Wives did not live for ever; and the chances and
changes of this life were so numerous, that stranger things had happened
than that Mr. Braggett might think fit to make better use of the second
opportunity afforded him than he had done of the first. But if she were not
to continue even his friend, it was too hard. But the perjured publisher had
continued resolute, notwithstanding all Miss Cray’s persecution, and now
he had neither seen nor heard from her for a month; and, manlike, he was
beginning to wonder what had become of her, and whether she had found
anybody to console her for his untruth. Mr. Braggett did not wish to comfort
Miss Cray himself; but he did not quite like the notion of her being
comforted.
After all—so he soliloquised—he had been very cruel to her; for the poor
thing was devoted to him. How her eyes used to sparkle and her cheek to
flush when she entered his office, and how eagerly she would undertake any
work for him, however disagreeable to perform! He knew well that she had
expected to be Mrs. Braggett, and it must have been a terrible
disappointment to her when he married Emily Primrose.

Why had he not asked her out to Violet Villa since? What harm could she
do as a visitor there? particularly if he cautioned her first as to the
peculiarity of Mrs. Braggett’s disposition, and the quickness with which her
jealousy was excited. It was close upon Christmas-time, the period when all
old friends meet together and patch up, if they cannot entirely forget,
everything that has annoyed them in the past. Mr. Braggett pictured to
himself the poor old maid sitting solitary in her small rooms at
Hammersmith, no longer able to live in the expectation of seeing his manly
form at the wicket-gate, about to enter and cheer her solitude. The thought
smote him as a two-edged sword, and he sat down at once and penned Miss
Charlotte a note, in which he inquired after her health, and hoped that they
should soon see her at Violet Villa.
He felt much better after this note was written and despatched. He came
out of the little study and entered the cheerful drawing-room, and sat with
his pretty wife by the light of the fire, telling her of the lonely lady to whom
he had just proposed to introduce her.
“An old friend of mine, Emily. A clever, agreeable woman, though rather
eccentric. You will be polite to her, I know, for my sake.”
“An old woman, is she?” said Mrs. Braggett, elevating her eyebrows.
“And what do you call ‘old,’ Siggy, I should like to know?”
“Twice as old as yourself, my dear—five-and-forty at the very least, and
not personable-looking, even for that age. Yet I think you will find her a
pleasant companion, and I am sure she will be enchanted with you.”
“I don’t know that: clever women don’t like me, as a rule, though I don’t
know why.”
“They are jealous of your beauty, my darling; but Miss Cray is above
such meanness, and will value you for your own sake.”
“She’d better not let me catch her valuing me for yours,” responded Mrs.
Braggett, with a flash of the eye that made her husband ready to regret the
dangerous experiment he was about to make of bringing together two
women who had each, in her own way, a claim upon him, and each the will
to maintain it.
So he dropped the subject of Miss Charlotte Cray, and took to admiring
his wife’s complexion instead, so that the evening passed harmoniously, and
both parties were satisfied.
For two days Mr. Braggett received no answer from Miss Cray, which
rather surprised him. He had quite expected that on the reception of his

invitation she would rush down to his office and into his arms, behind the
shelter of the ground-glass door that enclosed his chair of authority. For
Miss Charlotte had been used on occasions to indulge in rapturous
demonstrations of the sort, and the remembrance of Mrs. Braggett located
in Violet Villa would have been no obstacle whatever to her. She believed
she had a prior claim to Mr. Braggett. However, nothing of the kind
happened, and the perjured publisher was becoming strongly imbued with
the idea that he must go out to Hammersmith and see if he could not make
his peace with her in person, particularly as he had several odd jobs for
Christmastide, which no one could undertake so well as herself, when a
letter with a black-edged border was put into his hand. He opened it
mechanically, not knowing the writing; but its contents shocked him beyond
measure.

“Honoured Sir,—I am sorry to tell you that Miss Cray died at
my house a week ago, and was buried yesterday. She spoke of
you several times during her last illness, and if you would like to
hear any further particulars, and will call on me at the old address,
I shall be most happy to furnish you with them.—Yours
respectfully,
“Mary Thompson.”

When Mr. Braggett read this news, you might have knocked him over
with a feather. It is not always true that a living dog is better than a dead
lion. Some people gain considerably in the estimation of their friends by
leaving this world, and Miss Charlotte Cray was one of them. Her
persecution had ceased for ever, and her amiable weaknesses were alone
held in remembrance. Mr. Braggett felt a positive relief in the knowledge
that his dead friend and his wife would never now be brought in contact
with each other; but at the same time he blamed himself more than was
needful, perhaps, for not having seen nor communicated with Miss Cray for
so long before her death. He came down to breakfast with a portentously
grave face that morning, and imparted the sad intelligence to Mrs. Braggett
with the air of an undertaker. Emily wondered, pitied, and sympathised, but
the dead lady was no more to her than any other stranger; and she was
surprised her husband looked so solemn over it all. Mr. Braggett, however,
could not dismiss the subject easily from his mind. It haunted him during

the business hours of the morning, and as soon as he could conveniently
leave his office, he posted away to Hammersmith. The little house in which
Miss Cray used to live looked just the same, both inside and outside: how
strange it seemed that she should have flown away from it for ever! And
here was her landlady, Mrs. Thompson, bobbing and curtseying to him in
the same old black net cap with artificial flowers in it, and the same stuff
gown she had worn since he first saw her, with her apron in her hand, it is
true, ready to go to her eyes as soon as a reasonable opportunity occurred,
but otherwise the same Mrs. Thompson as before. And yet she would never
wait upon her again:
“It was all so sudden, sir,” she said, in answer to Mr. Braggett’s inquiries,
“that there was no time to send for nobody.”
“But Miss Cray had my address.”
“Ah! perhaps so; but she was off her head, poor dear, and couldn’t think
of nothing. But she remembered you, sir, to the last; for the very morning
she died, she sprung up in bed and called out, ‘Sigismund! Sigismund!’ as
loud as ever she could, and she never spoke to anybody afterwards, not one
word.”
“She left no message for me?”
“None, sir. I asked her the day before she went if I was to say nothing to
you for her (knowing you was such friends), and all her answer was, ‘I
wrote to him. He’s got my letter.’ So I thought, perhaps, you had heard, sir.”
“Not for some time past. It seems terribly sudden to me, not having heard
even of her illness. Where is she buried?”
“Close by in the churchyard, sir. My little girl will go with you and show
you the place, if you’d like to see it.”
Mr. Braggett accepted her offer and left.
When he was standing by a heap of clods they called a grave, and had
dismissed the child, he drew out Miss Cray’s last letter, which he carried in
his pocket, and read it over.

“You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on
business” (so it ran), “nor to send letters to your private address,
lest it should come to the knowledge of your wife, and create
unpleasantness between you; but I shall call, and I shall write,
until I have seen Mrs. Braggett, and, if you don’t take care, I will

introduce myself to her and tell her the reason you have been
afraid to do so.”

This letter had made Mr. Braggett terribly angry at the time of reception.
He had puffed and fumed, and cursed Miss Charlotte by all his gods for
daring to threaten him. But he read it with different feelings now Miss
Charlotte was down there, six feet beneath the ground he stood on, and he
could feel only compassion for her frenzy, and resentment against himself
for having excited it. As he travelled home from Hammersmith to
Streatham, he was a very dejected publisher indeed.
He did not tell Mrs. Braggett the reason of his melancholy, but it affected
him to that degree that he could not go to office on the following day, but
stayed at home instead, to be petted and waited upon by his pretty wife,
which treatment resulted in a complete cure. The next morning, therefore,
he started for London as briskly as ever, and arrived at office before his
usual time. A clerk, deputed to receive all messages for his master, followed
him behind the ground-glass doors, with a packet of letters.
“Mr. Van Ower was here yesterday, sir. He will let you have the copy
before the end of the week, and Messrs. Hanley’s foreman called on
particular business, and will look in to-day at eleven. And Mr. Ellis came to
ask if there was any answer to his letter yet; and Miss Cray called, sir; and
that’s all.”
“Who did you say?” cried Braggett.
“Miss Cray, sir. She waited for you above an hour, but I told her I thought
you couldn’t mean to come into town at all, so she went.”
“Do you know what you’re talking about, Hewetson? You said Miss
Cray!”
“And I meant it, sir—Miss Charlotte Cray. Burns spoke to her as well as
I.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, turning as white as a sheet.
“Go at once and send Burns to me.” Burns came.
“Burns, who was the lady that called to see me yesterday?”
“Miss Cray, sir. She had a very thick veil on, and she looked so pale that I
asked her if she had been ill, and she said ‘Yes.’ She sat in the office for
over an hour, hoping you’d come in, but as you didn’t, she went away
again.”
“Did she lift her veil?”

“Not whilst I spoke to her, sir.”
“How do you know it was Miss Cray, then?”
The clerk stared. “Well, sir, we all know her pretty well by this time.”
“Did you ask her name?”
“No, sir; there was no need to do it.”
“You’re mistaken, that’s all, both you and Hewetson. It couldn’t have
been Miss Cray! I know for certain that she is—is—is—not in London at
present. It must have been a stranger.”
“It was not, indeed, sir, begging your pardon. I could tell Miss Cray
anywhere, by her figure and her voice, without seeing her face. But I did
see her face, and remarked how awfully pale she was—just like death, sir!”
“There! there! that will do! It’s of no consequence, and you can go back
to your work.”
But any one who had seen Mr. Braggett, when left alone in his office,
would not have said he thought the matter of no consequence. The
perspiration broke out upon his forehead, although it was December, and he
rocked himself backward and forward in his chair with agitation.
At last he rose hurriedly, upset his throne, and dashed through the outer
premises in the face of twenty people waiting to speak to him. As soon as
he could find his voice, he hailed a hansom, and drove to Hammersmith.
Good Mrs. Thompson opening the door to him, thought he looked as if he
had just come out of a fever.
“Lor’ bless me, sir! whatever’s the matter?”
“Mrs. Thompson, have you told me the truth about Miss Cray? Is she
really dead?”
“Really dead, sir! Why, I closed her eyes, and put her in the coffin with
my own hands! If she ain’t dead, I don’t know who is! But if you doubt my
word, you’d better ask the doctor that gave the certificate for her.”
“What is the doctor’s name?”
“Dodson; he lives opposite.”
“You must forgive my strange questions, Mrs. Thompson, but I have had
a terrible dream about my poor friend, and I think I should like to talk to the
doctor about her.”
“Oh, very good, sir,” cried the landlady, much offended. “I’m not afraid
of what the doctor will tell you. She had excellent nursing and everything as
she could desire, and there’s nothing on my conscience on that score, so I’ll

wish you good morning.” And with that Mrs. Thompson slammed the door
in Mr. Braggett’s face.
He found Dr. Dodson at home.
“If I understand you rightly,” said the practitioner, looking rather
steadfastly in the scared face of his visitor, “you wish, as a friend of the late
Miss Cray’s, to see a copy of the certificate of her death? Very good, sir;
here it is. She died, as you will perceive, on the twenty-fifth of November,
of peritonitis. She had, I can assure you, every attention and care, but
nothing could have saved her.”
“You are quite sure, then, she is dead?” demanded Mr. Braggett, in a
vague manner.
The doctor looked at him as if he were not quite sure if he were sane.
“If seeing a patient die, and her corpse coffined and buried, is being sure
she is dead, I am in no doubt whatever about Miss Cray.”
“It is very strange—most strange and unaccountable,” murmured poor
Mr. Braggett, in reply, as he shuffled out of the doctor’s passage, and took
his way back to the office.
Here, however, after an interval of rest and a strong brandy and soda, he
managed to pull himself together, and to come to the conclusion that the
doctor and Mrs. Thompson could not be mistaken, and that, consequently,
the clerks must. He did not mention the subject again to them, however; and
as the days went on, and nothing more was heard of the mysterious
stranger’s visit, Mr. Braggett put it altogether out of his mind.
At the end of a fortnight, however, when he was thinking of something
totally different, young Hewetson remarked to him, carelessly,—
“Miss Cray was here again yesterday, sir. She walked in just as your cab
had left the door.”
All the horror of his first suspicions returned with double force upon the
unhappy man’s mind.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” he gasped, angrily, as soon as he could speak.
“Don’t attempt to play any of your tricks on me, young man, or it will be
the worse for you, I can tell you.”
“Tricks, sir!” stammered the clerk. “I don’t know what you are alluding
to. I am only telling you the truth. You have always desired me to be most
particular in letting you know the names of the people who call in your
absence, and I thought I was only doing my duty in making a point of
ascertaining them——”

“Yes, yes! Hewetson, of course,” replied Mr. Braggett, passing his
handkerchief over his brow, “and you are quite right in following my
directions as closely as possible; only—in this case you are completely
mistaken, and it is the second time you have committed the error.”
“Mistaken!”
“Yes!—as mistaken as it is possible for a man to be! Miss Cray could not
have called at this office yesterday.”
“But she did, sir.”
“Am I labouring under some horrible nightmare?” exclaimed the
publisher, “or are we playing at cross purposes? Can you mean the Miss
Cray I mean?”
“I am speaking of Miss Charlotte Cray, sir, the author of ‘Sweet
Gwendoline,’—the lady who has undertaken so much of our compilation
the last two years, and who has a long nose, and wears her hair in curls. I
never knew there was another Miss Cray; but if there are two, that is the
one I mean.”
“Still I cannot believe it, Hewetson, for the Miss Cray who has been
associated with our firm died on the twenty-fifth of last month.”
“Died, sir! Is Miss Cray dead? Oh, it can’t be! It’s some humbugging
trick that’s been played upon you, for I’d swear she was in this room
yesterday afternoon, as full of life as she’s ever been since I knew her. She
didn’t talk much, it’s true, for she seemed in a hurry to be off again, but she
had got on the same dress and bonnet she was in here last, and she made
herself as much at home in the office as she ever did. Besides,” continued
Hewetson, as though suddenly remembering something, “she left a note for
you, sir.”
“A note! Why did you not say so before?”
“It slipped my memory when you began to doubt my word in that way,
sir. But you’ll find it in the bronze vase. She told me to tell you she had
placed it there.”
Mr. Braggett made a dash at the vase, and found the three-cornered note
as he had been told. Yes! it was Charlotte’s handwriting, or the facsimile of
it, there was no doubt of that; and his hands shook so he could hardly open
the paper. It contained these words:

“You tell me that I am not to call at your office again, except on
business, nor to send letters to your private address, lest it should

come to the knowledge of your wife, and create unpleasantness
between you; but I shall call, and I shall write until I have seen
Mrs. Braggett, and if you don’t take care I will introduce myself
to her, and tell her the reason you have been afraid to do so.”

Precisely the same words, in the same writing of the letter he still carried
in his breast pocket, and which no mortal eyes but his and hers had ever
seen. As the unhappy man sat gazing at the opened note, his whole body
shook as if he were attacked by ague.
“It is Miss Cray’s handwriting, isn’t it, sir?”
“It looks like it, Hewetson, but it cannot be. I tell you it is an
impossibility! Miss Cray died last month, and I have seen not only her
grave, but the doctor and nurse who attended her in her last illness. It is
folly, then, to suppose either that she called here or wrote that letter.”
“Then who could it have been, sir?” said Hewetson, attacked with a
sudden terror in his turn.
“That is impossible for me to say; but should the lady call again, you had
better ask her boldly for her name and address.”
“I’d rather you’d depute the office to anybody but me, sir,” replied the
clerk, as he hastily backed out of the room.
Mr. Braggett, dying with suspense and conjecture, went through his
business as best he could, and hurried home to Violet Villa.
There he found that his wife had been spending the day with a friend, and
only entered the house a few minutes before himself.
“Siggy, dear!” she commenced, as soon as he joined her in the drawing-
room after dinner; “I really think we should have the fastenings and bolts of
this house looked to. Such a funny thing happened whilst I was out this
afternoon. Ellen has just been telling me about it.”
“What sort of a thing, dear?”
“Well, I left home as early as twelve, you know, and told the servants I
shouldn’t be back until dinner-time; so they were all enjoying themselves in
the kitchen, I suppose, when cook told Ellen she heard a footstep in the
drawing-room. Ellen thought at first it must be cook’s fancy, because she
was sure the front door was fastened; but when they listened, they all heard
the noise together, so she ran upstairs, and what on earth do you think she
saw?”
“How can I guess, my dear?”

“Why, a lady, seated in this very room, as if she was waiting for
somebody. She was oldish, Ellen says, and had a very white face, with long
curls hanging down each side of it; and she wore a blue bonnet with white
feathers, and a long black cloak, and—”
“Emily, Emily! Stop! You don’t know what you’re talking about. That
girl is a fool: you must send her away. That is, how could the lady have got
in if the door was closed? Good heavens! you’ll all drive me mad between
you with your folly!” exclaimed Mr. Braggett, as he threw himself back in
his chair, with an exclamation that sounded very like a groan.
Pretty Mrs. Braggett was offended. What had she said or done that her
husband should doubt her word? She tossed her head in indignation, and
remained silent. If Mr. Braggett wanted any further information, he would
have to apologise.
“Forgive me, darling,” he said, after a long pause. “I don’t think I’m very
well this evening, but your story seemed to upset me.”
“I don’t see why it should upset you,” returned Mrs. Braggett. “If
strangers are allowed to come prowling about the house in this way, we
shall be robbed some day, and then you’ll say I should have told you of it.”
“Wouldn’t she—this person—give her name?”
“Oh! I’d rather say no more about it. You had better ask Ellen.”
“No, Emily! I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Well, don’t interrupt me again, then. When Ellen saw the woman seated
here, she asked her her name and business at once, but she gave no answer,
and only sat and stared at her. And so Ellen, feeling very uncomfortable,
had just turned round to call up cook, when the woman got up, and dashed
past her like a flash of lightning, and they saw nothing more of her!”
“Which way did she leave the house?”
“Nobody knows any more than how she came in. The servants declare
the hall door was neither opened nor shut—but, of course, it must have
been. She was a tall gaunt woman, Ellen says, about fifty, and she’s sure her
hair was dyed. She must have come to steal something, and that’s why I say
we ought to have the house made more secure. Why, Siggy! Siggy! what’s
the matter? Here, Ellen! Jane! come, quick, some of you! Your master’s
fainted!”
And, sure enough, the repeated shocks and horrors of the day had had
such an effect upon poor Mr. Braggett, that for a moment he did lose all
consciousness of what surrounded him. He was thankful to take advantage

of the Christmas holidays, to run over to Paris with his wife, and try to
forget, in the many marvels of that city, the awful fear that fastened upon
him at the mention of anything connected with home. He might be enjoying
himself to the top of his bent; but directly the remembrance of Charlotte
Cray crossed his mind, all sense of enjoyment vanished, and he trembled at
the mere thought of returning to his business, as a child does when sent to
bed in the dark.
He tried to hide the state of his feelings from Mrs. Braggett, but she was
too sharp for him. The simple, blushing Emily Primrose had developed,
under the influence of the matrimonial forcing-frame, into a good watch-
dog, and nothing escaped her notice.
Left to her own conjecture, she attributed his frequent moods of dejection
to the existence of some other woman, and became jealous accordingly. If
Siggy did not love her, why had he married her? She felt certain there was
some other horrid creature who had engaged his affections and would not
leave him alone, even now that he was her own lawful property. And to find
out who the “horrid creature” was became Mrs. Emily’s constant idea.
When she had found out, she meant to give her a piece of her mind, never
fear! Meanwhile Mr. Braggett’s evident distaste to returning to business
only served to increase his wife’s suspicions. A clear conscience, she
argued, would know no fear. So they were not a happy couple, as they set
their faces once more towards England. Mr. Braggett’s dread of re-entering
his office amounted almost to terror, and Mrs. Braggett, putting this and that
together, resolved that she would fathom the mystery, if it lay in feminine
finesse to do so. She did not whisper a word of her intentions to dear Siggy,
you may be sure of that! She worked after the manner of her amiable sex,
like a cat in the dark, or a worm boring through the earth, and appearing on
the surface when least expected.
So poor Mr. Braggett brought her home again, heavy at heart indeed, but
quite ignorant that any designs were being made against him. I think he
would have given a thousand pounds to be spared the duty of attending
office the day after his arrival. But it was necessary, and he went, like a
publisher and a Briton. But Mrs. Emily had noted his trepidation and his
fears, and laid her plans accordingly. She had never been asked to enter
those mysterious precincts, the house of business. Mr. Braggett had not
thought it necessary that her blooming loveliness should be made
acquainted with its dingy, dusty accessories, but she meant to see them for

herself to-day. So she waited till he had left Violet Villa ten minutes, and
then she dressed and followed him by the next train to London.
Mr. Sigismund Braggett meanwhile had gone on his way, as people go to
a dentist, determined to do what was right, but with an indefinite sort of
idea that he might never come out of it alive. He dreaded to hear what
might have happened in his absence, and he delayed his arrival at the office
for half-an-hour, by walking there instead of taking a cab as usual, in order
to put off the evil moment. As he entered the place, however, he saw at a
glance that his efforts were vain, and that something had occurred. The
customary formality and precision of the office were upset, and the clerks,
instead of bending over their ledgers, or attending to the demands of
business, were all huddled together at one end whispering and gesticulating
to each other. But as soon as the publisher appeared, a dead silence fell
upon the group, and they only stared at him with an air of horrid mystery.
“What is the matter now?” he demanded, angrily, for like most men when
in a fright which they are ashamed to exhibit, Mr. Sigismund Braggett tried
to cover his want of courage by bounce.
The young man called Hewetson advanced towards him, with a face the
colour of ashes, and pointed towards the ground-glass doors dumbly.
“What do you mean? Can’t you speak? What’s come to the lot of you,
that you are neglecting my business in this fashion to make fools of
yourselves?”
“If you please, sir, she’s in there.”
Mr. Braggett started back as if he’d been shot. But still he tried to have it
out.
“She! Who’s she?”
“Miss Cray, sir.”
“Haven’t I told you already that’s a lie.”
“Will you judge for yourself, Mr. Braggett?” said a grey-haired man,
stepping forward. “I was on the stairs myself just now when Miss Cray
passed me, and I have no doubt whatever but that you will find her in your
private room, however much the reports that have lately reached you may
seem against the probability of such a thing.”
Mr. Braggett’s teeth chattered in his head as he advanced to the ground-
glass doors, through the panes of one of which there was a little peephole to
ascertain if the room were occupied or not. He stooped and looked in. At
the table, with her back towards him, was seated the well-known figure of

Charlotte Cray. He recognised at once the long black mantle in which she
was wont to drape her gaunt figure—the blue bonnet, with its dejected-
looking, uncurled feather—the lank curls which rested on her shoulders—
and the black-leather bag, with a steel clasp, which she always carried in
her hand. It was the embodiment of Charlotte Cray, he had no doubt of that;
but how could he reconcile the fact of her being there with the damp clods
he had seen piled upon her grave, with the certificate of death, and the
doctor’s and landlady’s assertion that they had watched her last moments?
At last he prepared, with desperate energy, to turn the handle of the door.
At that moment the attention of the more frivolous of the clerks was
directed from his actions by the entrance of an uncommonly pretty woman
at the other end of the outer office. Such a lovely creature as this seldom
brightened the gloom of their dusty abiding-place. Lilies, roses, and
carnations vied with each other in her complexion, whilst the sunniest of
locks, and the brightest of blue eyes, lent her face a girlish charm not easily
described. What could this fashionably-attired Venus want in their house of
business?
“Is Mr. Braggett here? I am Mrs. Braggett. Please show me in to him
immediately.”
They glanced at the ground-glass doors of the inner office. They had
already closed behind the manly form of their employer.
“This way, madam,” one said, deferentially, as he escorted her to the
presence of Mr. Braggett.
Meanwhile, Sigismund had opened the portals of the Temple of Mystery,
and with trembling knees entered it. The figure in the chair did not stir at his
approach. He stood at the door irresolute. What should he do or say?
“Charlotte,” he whispered.
Still she did not move.
At that moment his wife entered.
“Oh, Sigismund!” cried Mrs. Emily, reproachfully, “I knew you were
keeping something from me, and now I’ve caught you in the very act. Who
is this lady, and what is her name? I shall refuse to leave the room until I
know it.”
At the sound of her rival’s voice, the woman in the chair rose quickly to
her feet and confronted them. Yes! there was Charlotte Cray, precisely
similar to what she had appeared in life, only with an uncertainty and
vagueness about the lines of the familiar features that made them ghastly.

She stood there, looking Mrs. Emily full in the face, but only for a
moment, for, even as she gazed, the lineaments grew less and less distinct,
with the shape of the figure that supported them, until, with a crash, the
apparition seemed to fall in and disappear, and the place that had known her
was filled with empty air.
“Where is she gone?” exclaimed Mrs. Braggett, in a tone of utter
amazement.
“Where is who gone?” repeated Mr. Braggett, hardly able to articulate
from fear.
“The lady in the chair!”
“There was no one there except in your own imagination. It was my
great-coat that you mistook for a figure,” returned her husband hastily, as he
threw the article in question over the back of the arm-chair.
“But how could that have been?” said his pretty wife, rubbing her eyes.
“How could I think a coat had eyes, and hair, and features? I am sure I saw
a woman seated there, and that she rose and stared at me. Siggy! tell me it
was true. It seems so incomprehensible that I should have been mistaken.”
“You must question your own sense. You see that the room is empty now,
except for ourselves, and you know that no one has left it. If you like to
search under the table, you can.”
“Ah! now, Siggy, you are laughing at me, because you know that would
be folly. But there was certainly some one here—only, where can she have
disappeared to?”
“Suppose we discuss the matter at a more convenient season,” replied
Mr. Braggett, as he drew his wife’s arm through his arm. “Hewetson! you
will be able to tell Mr. Hume that he was mistaken. Say, also, that I shall not
be back in the office to-day. I am not so strong as I thought I was, and feel
quite unequal to business. Tell him to come out to Streatham this evening
with my letters, and I will talk with him there.”
What passed at that interview was never disclosed; but pretty Mrs.
Braggett was much rejoiced, a short time afterwards, by her husband telling
her that he had resolved to resign his active share of the business, and
devote the rest of his life to her and Violet Villa. He would have no more
occasion, therefore, to visit the office, and be exposed to the temptation of
spending four or five hours out of every twelve away from her side. For,
though Mrs. Emily had arrived at the conclusion that the momentary
glimpse she caught of a lady in Siggy’s office must have been a delusion,

she was not quite satisfied by his assertions that she would never have
found a more tangible cause for her jealousy.
But Sigismund Braggett knew more than he chose to tell Mrs. Emily. He
knew that what she had witnessed was no delusion, but a reality; and that
Charlotte Cray had carried out her dying determination to call at his office
and his private residence, until she had seen his wife!

THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF
RUSHMERE.
“On the banks of the Wye, Monmouthshire.—To be Let,
furnished, a commodious Family Mansion, surrounded with park-
like grounds. Stabling and every convenience. Only two and a-
half miles from station, church, and post-office. Excellent fishing
to be procured in the neighbourhood. Rent nominal to a
responsible tenant.”

Such, with a few trifling additions, was the advertisement that caught my
eye in the spring of 18—.
“My dear Jane,” I said, as I handed the paper over to my wife, “this, I
think, is the very thing we want.”
I was a London practitioner, with a numerous family and a large circle of
patients; but the two facts, though blessings in themselves, were not without
their disadvantages.
The hostages which I had given to fortune had made that strenuous action
which attention to my numerous patients supplied incumbent on me; but the
consequent anxiety and want of rest had drawn so largely on my mental and
physical resources, that there was no need for my professional brethren to
warn me of the necessity of change and country air. I felt myself that I was
breaking down, and had already made arrangements with a friend to take
my practice for a few months, and set me at liberty to attend to my own
health. And being passionately fond of fishing, and all country pleasures
and pursuits, and looking forward with zest to a period of complete quiet,
the residence alluded to (if it fulfilled the promise of its advertisement)
appeared to be all that I could desire.
“Park-like grounds!” exclaimed my wife, with animation. “How the dear
children will enjoy themselves.”

“And two and a-half miles from church or station,” I responded eagerly.
“No neighbours, excellent fishing, and at a nominal rent. It sounds too good
to be true.”
“Oh, Arthur! you must write, and obtain all the particulars this very day.
If you put it off, some one will be sure to take the house before we have
time to do so.”
“I shall go and see the city agents at once,” I replied, resolutely. “It is too
rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your hopes too high, my
dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.”
But when I had seen Messrs. Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really
seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the house
in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an old
gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking the
situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for letting. The
owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had authorised the agents
to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it was really a bargain to
anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted that the loneliness of the
position of Rushmere was the reason of its cheapness; but when I heard the
rent at which they offered to let me take it, if approved of, for three months,
I was quite ready to agree with Messrs. Quibble & Lye in their idea of a
bargain, and that, for those who liked solitude, Rushmere offered
extraordinary advantages.
Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into
Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when I
saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the opportunity
afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude with which I
had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country house, comfortably
furnished, and, to all appearance, well built, standing in enclosed grounds,
and on a healthy elevation; but, notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was
too much a man of the world to believe, under the circumstances, that its
greatest disadvantage lay in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about
for damp walls, covered cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering foundations,
but I could find none.
“The chimneys smoke, I suppose?” I remarked, in a would-be careless
tone, to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who crept
after me wherever I went.
“Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.”

“The roof leaks, perhaps?”
“Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.”
“Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?”
“A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The last
tenants left at Christmas.”
“Empty for six months!” I exclaimed. “How long is it, then, since the
gentleman who built it died?”
“Old Mr. Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or more.”
“Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of letting
it stand vacant?” thought I to myself.
But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face, as
though anxious to learn what my decision would be.
“No vermin, I hope?” I suggested, as a last resource. “You are not
troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?”
“Oh, I don’t sleep here at night, sir, thank heaven!” she answered in a
manner which appeared to me unnecessarily energetic. “I am only
employed by day to air the house, and show it to strangers. I go home to my
own people at night.”
“And where do your people live?”
“Better than half a mile from here, sir, and ours is the nearest cottage to
Rushmere.”
And then—apprehensive, perhaps, that her information might prove a
drawback to the letting of the property—she added, quickly,—
“Not but what it’s a nice place to live in, is Rushmere, and very
convenient, though a bit lonesome.”
I perfectly agreed with her, the “lonesomeness” of the situation proving
no detraction in my eyes.
On my return to London I gave my wife so glowing a description of the
house and its surroundings, that she urged me to conclude the bargain at
once; and, in the course of a few weeks, I and my family were transplanted
from the purlieus of Bayswater to the banks of the Wye. It was the middle
of May when we took possession, and the country wore its most attractive
garb. The children were wild with delight at being let loose in the flower-
bespangled fields, and, as I watched the tributaries of the river, and
perceived the excellent sport they promised me, I felt scarcely less excited
than the children. Only my wife, I thought, became inoculated with some of
the absurd fears of the domestics we had brought with us from town, and

seemed to consider the locality more lonely and unprotected than she had
expected to find it.
“It’s a charming place, Arthur,” she acknowledged, “and marvellously
cheap; but it is certainly a long way from other houses. I find we shall have
to send for everything to the town. Not even the country carts, with butter
and poultry, seem to call at Rushmere.”
“My dear Jane, I told you distinctly that it was two and a-half miles from
church or station, and you read it for yourself in the paper. But I thought we
looked out for a retreat where we should run no risk of being intruded on by
strangers.”
“Oh yes, of course; only there are not even any farmhouses or cottages
near Rushmere, you see; and it would be so very easy for anyone to break
in at night, and rob us.”
“Pooh, nonsense! What will you be afraid of next? The locks and bolts
are perfectly secure, and both Dawson and I have firearms, and are ready to
use them. Your fears are childish, Janie.”
But all my arguments were unavailing, and each day my wife grew more
nervous, and less willing to be left alone. So much so, indeed, that I made a
practice of seeing that the house fastenings were properly secured each
night myself, and of keeping a loaded revolver close to my hand, in case of
need. But it damped my pleasure, to find that Jane was not enjoying herself;
and the country looked less beautiful to me than it had done at first. One
night I suddenly awoke, to find that she was sitting up in bed, and in an
attitude of expectation.
“My dear, what is the matter with you?”
“Oh, hush! I am sure that I hear footsteps on the stairs—footsteps
creeping up and down.”
I listened with her, but could detect no sound whatever.
“Lie down again, Jane—it is only your imagination. Every one is fast
asleep in bed.”
“I assure you, Arthur, I am not mistaken. Once they came quite near the
door.”
“If so, it can only be one of the servants. You don’t wish me to get up and
encounter Mary or Susan in her night-dress, do you? Consider my morals!”
“Oh no, of course not,” she replied with a faint smile; yet it was some
time before she fell to sleep again.

It was not many nights before my wife roused me again with the same
complaint.
“Arthur, don’t call me silly, but I am certain I heard something.”
To appease her fears, I shook off my drowsiness, and, with a lighted
candle, made a tour of the house; but all was as I had left it.
Once, indeed, I imagined that I heard at my side the sound of a quick
breathing; but that I knew must be sheer fancy, since I was alone.
The only circumstance that startled me was finding Dawson, the man
servant, who slept on the ground floor, also awake, and listening at his door.
“What roused you, Dawson?”
“Well, sir, I can hardly say; but I fancied I heard some one going up the
stairs a little while ago.”
“You heard me coming down, you mean.”
“No, sir, begging your pardon, it was footsteps going up—lighter than
yours, sir. More like those of a woman.”
Yet, though I privately interrogated the female servants on the following
day, I could not discover that any of them had been out of their beds; and I
forbore to tell my wife what Dawson had said in corroboration of her
statement.
Only I was as much annoyed as astonished when, as I finished my
catechism of Mary, our head nurse, she informed me that she had made up
her mind to leave our service. Mary—my wife’s right hand—who had been
with us ever since the birth of our first child! The announcement took me
completely aback.
“What on earth is your reason for leaving us?” I demanded angrily; for I
knew what a blow her decision would be to Jane. “What have you to find
fault with?”
“Nothing with you or the mistress, sir; but I can’t remain in this house. I
wouldn’t stay in it a night longer, if it were possible to get away; and I do
hope you and Mrs. Delamere will let me go as soon as ever you can, sir, as
it will be the death of me.”
“What will be the death of you?”
“The footsteps, sir, and the voices,” she answered, crying. “I can hear
them about the nurseries all night long, and it’s more than any mortal can
stand—it is, indeed.”
“Are you infected with the same folly?” I exclaimed. “I see what it is,
Dawson has been talking to you. I didn’t know I had such a couple of fools

in my establishment.”
“Mr. Dawson has said nothing to me about nothing, sir,” she answered. “I
hear what I hear with my own ears; and I wouldn’t stay a week longer in
this ’aunted place, not if you was to strew the floor with golden guineas for
me.”
Not possessing either the capability or the inclination to test Mary’s
fidelity by the means she alluded to, and finding her determination
unalterable, I gave her the desired permission to depart; only making it a
stipulation that she should not tell her mistress the real reason for her
leaving us, but ascribe it to bad news from home, or any other cause.
But though I could not but believe that the woman’s idiotic terrors had
blinded her judgment, I was extremely surprised to find she should have
been so led astray, as I had always considered Mary to possess a remarkably
clear head and good moral sense. The wailing and lamentation, from both
mother and children, at the announcement of her departure made me still
more angry with her obstinacy and folly. But she continued resolute; and we
were driven to try and secure some one to fulfil her duties from the
neighbouring town. But here a strange difficulty met us. We saw several
fresh, rosy-cheeked maidens, who appeared quite willing to undertake our
service, until they heard where we resided, when by an extraordinary
coincidence, one and all discovered that some insurmountable obstacle
prevented their coming at all. When the same thing had occurred several
times in succession, and Jane appeared worn out with disappointment and
fatigue, the landlord of the inn where we had put up for the day appeared at
the door, and beckoned me out.
“May I make bold enough to ask if you want a servant to go to
Rushmere?” he inquired of me in a whisper.
“Certainly, we do. Our nurse has been obliged to leave us suddenly, and
we want some one to supply her place.”
“Then you may give it up as a bad job, sir; for you’ll never get one of the
country people here about to set a foot in Rushmere—not if you were to
live there till the day of your death.”
“And why not?” I demanded, with affected ignorance.
“What, haven’t you heard nothing since you’ve been there, sir?”
“Heard? What should I have heard, except the ordinary noises of the
household?”

“Well, you’re lucky if you’ve escaped so far,” returned the landlord,
mysteriously; “but it ain’t for long. No one who lives in Rushmere lives
there alone. I can tell you the whole story if you like?”
“I have no desire to listen to any such folly,” I replied, testily. “I am not
superstitious, and do not believe in supernatural sights or sounds. If the
people round about here are foolish enough to do so, I cannot help it; but I
will not have the minds of my wife or family imbued with their nonsense.”
“Very good, sir; I hope you may be able to say as much two months
hence,” said the man, civilly.
And so we parted.
I returned to Janie, and persuaded her he had told me that all the girls of
that town had a strong objection to leave it, which was the reason they
refused to take service in the country. I reminded her that Susan was quite
competent to take charge of the whole flock until we returned to London;
and it would be better after all to put up with a little inconvenience than to
introduce a stranger to the nursery. So my wife, who was disappointed with
the failure of her enterprise, fell in with my ideas, and we returned to
Rushmere, determined to do as best we could with Susan only.
But I could not forget the landlord’s earnestness, and, notwithstanding
my incredulity, began to wish we were well out of Rushmere.
For a few days after Mary’s departure we slept in peace; but then the
question of the mysterious footsteps assumed a graver aspect, for my wife
and I were roused from deep slumber one night by a loud knock upon the
bedroom door, and springing up to answer it, I encountered, on the
threshold, Dawson, pale with fright, and trembling in every limb.
“What do you mean by alarming your mistress in this way?” I inquired,
angrily.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he replied, with chattering teeth, “but I thought it
my duty to let you know. There’s some one in the house to-night, sir. I can
hear them whispering together at this moment; and so can you, if you will
but listen.”
I advanced at once to the banisters, and certainly heard what seemed to
be the sound of distant voices engaged in altercation; and, light in hand,
followed by Dawson, I dashed down the staircase without further ceremony,
in hopes of trapping the intruders.
But all in vain. Though we entered every room in turn, not a soul was
visible.

I came to the conclusion that the whole alarm was due to Dawson’s
cowardice.
“You contemptible fool, you are as chicken-hearted as a woman!” I said,
contemptuously. “You hear the frogs croaking in the mere, or the wind
blowing through the rushes, and you immediately conclude the house is full
of thieves.”
“I didn’t say it was thieves,” the man interposed, sullenly; but I took no
notice of the muttered remark.
“If you are afraid to sleep downstairs by yourself,” I continued, “say so;
but don’t come alarming your mistress again, in the middle of the night, for
I won’t allow it.”
The man slunk back into his room, with a reiteration that he had not been
mistaken; and I returned to bed, full of complaints at having been so
unnecessarily roused.
“If this kind of thing goes on,” I remarked to my wife,” I shall regret ever
having set eyes on Rushmere. That a pack of silly maid-servants should see
a robber in every bush is only to be expected; but how a sensible man like
Dawson, and a woman of education like yourself, can permit your
imagination to betray you into such foolish fears, is quite past my
comprehension.”
Yet, notwithstanding my dose of philosophy, poor Jane looked so pale
upon the following morning, that I was fain to devise and carry into
execution a little excursion into the neighbouring country before she
regained her usual composure.
Some time passed without any further disturbance, and though upon
several occasions I blamed myself for having brought a family, used to a
populous city like London, to vegetate in so isolated a spot as Rushmere, I
had almost forgotten the circumstances that had so much annoyed me.
We had now spent a month in our temporary home. The fields and
hedgerows were bright with summer flowers, and the children passed most
of their time tumbling amongst the new-mown hay. Janie had once more
regained courage to sit by herself in the dusk, and to rest with tolerable
security when she went to bed. I was rejoicing in the idea that all the folly
that had marred the pleasure of our arrival at Rushmere had died a natural
death, when it was vividly and painfully recalled to my mind by its actual
recurrence.

Our second girl, a delicate little creature of about six years old, who,
since the departure of her nurse, had slept in a cot in the same room as
ourselves, woke me up in the middle of the night by exclaiming, in a
frightened, plaintive voice, close to my ear,—
“Papa! papa! do you hear the footsteps? Some one is coming up the
stairs!”
The tone was one of terror, and it roused my wife and myself instantly.
The child was cold, and shaking all over with alarm, and I placed her by her
mother’s side before I left the room to ascertain if there was any truth in her
assertion.
“Arthur, Arthur! I hear them as plainly as can be,” exclaimed my wife,
who was as terrified as the child. “They are on the second landing, There is
no mistake about it this time.”
I listened at the half-opened door, and was compelled to agree with her.
From whatever cause they arose, footsteps were to be distinctly heard upon
the staircase—sometimes advancing, and then retreating, as though afraid to
venture farther; but, still, not to be mistaken for anything but the sound of
feet.
With a muttered exclamation, I seized my revolver.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said, hurriedly; “there is not the slightest occasion
for it. And, whatever happens, do not venture on the landing. I shall be quite
safe.”
And without further preamble, only desirous to settle the business once
for all, and give the intruders on my domains a sharp lesson on the laws of
meum and tuum, I sprang down the staircase. I had not stayed to strike a
light; but the moon was shining blandly in at the uncurtained passage
window, and the landing was as bright as day. Yet I saw no one there. The
thief (if thief it were) must have already taken the alarm, and descended to
the lowest regions. I fancied I could detect the same footsteps, but more
distinctly marked, walk by me with a hurried, frightened movement,
accompanied by a quick, sobbing breath; and, as I paused to consider what
such a mystery could indicate, a pair of heavily-shod feet rushed past me, or
seemed to rush, upon the stairs. I heard an angry shout commingle with a
faint cry of terror below the landing whereon I stood; then, the discharge of
a firearm, followed by a low groan of pain—and all was still.
Dark and mysterious though it appeared to be, I did not dream of
ascribing the circumstance to any but a natural cause. But there was

evidently no time for hesitation, and in another moment I had flown down
the stairs, and stood in the moonlighted hall. It was empty! Chairs, table,
hatstand, stood in their accustomed places; the children’s garden hats and
my fishing tackle were strewn about; but of animated nature there was not a
sign, of the recent scuffle not a trace!
All was quiet, calm, and undisturbed, and, as I gazed around in mute
bewilderment, the perspiration stood in thick drops upon my brow and chin.
My first collected thought was for my wife and the best means by which
to prevent her sharing the mystification and dread which I have no
hesitation in confessing that I now experienced; but as I turned to remount
the staircase, I caught sight of some dark mass lying at the further end of
the passage, and going up to it, found to my surprise the body of Dawson,
cold and insensible.
The explanation of the mystery was before me—so I immediately
determined. The man, whom I knew to be replete with superstitious terror,
imagining he heard the unaccountable noise of footsteps, had evidently
supplied that which had reached my ear, and in his alarm at my approach
had discharged his firearm at the supposed marauder. Pleasant for me if he
had taken a better aim: So I thought as I dragged his unconscious body into
his bedroom, and busied myself by restoring it to sensation.
As soon as he opened his eyes, and was sufficiently recovered to answer
me, I asked,—
“What on earth made you discharge your gun, Dawson? I must take it out
of your keeping, if you are so careless about using it.”
“I didn’t fire, sir.”
“Nonsense! you don’t know what you are talking about. I heard the shot
distinctly as I came downstairs.”
“I am only telling you the truth, sir. There is the fowling-piece in that
corner. I have not drawn the trigger since you last loaded it.”
I went up and examined the weapon. What Dawson had said was correct.
It had not been used.
“Then who did fire?” I said, impatiently. “I could swear to having heard
the report.”
“And so could I, sir. It was that that knocked me over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, sir, pray take the mistress and the children away from this place as
soon as possible. It’s no robbers that go up and down these stairs of nights,

sir. It’s something much worse than that.”
“Dawson, if you begin to talk such folly to me, I’ll discharge you on the
spot. I believe the whole lot of you have gone mad.”
“But listen to my story, sir. I had gone to bed last night, as tired as
possible, and thinking of nothing but getting a good long sleep. The first
thing that roused me was some one trying the handle of my door. I lay and
listened to it for some time before I was fully awake, and then I thought
maybe you wanted something out of my room, and was trying not to wake
me; so I got out of bed and opened the door. But there was nobody there,
though I fancied I heard some one breathing hard a few yards off from me.
Well, I thought to myself, sir, this is all nonsense; so I came back to bed
again, and lay down. But I couldn’t sleep; for directly the door was closed, I
heard the footsteps again, creep, creeping along the passage and the wall, as
though some one was crouching and feeling his way as he went. Then the
handle of the door began to creak and turn again—I see it turn, sir, with my
own eyes, backwards and forwards, a dozen times in the moonlight; and
then I heard a heavier step come stumbling downstairs, and there seemed to
be a kind of scuffle. I couldn’t stand it no longer, so I opened the door
again; and then, as I’m a living Christian, sir, I heard a woman’s voice say
‘Father!’ with a kind of sob, and as the sound was uttered there came a
report from the first landing, and the sound of a fall, and a deep groan in the
passage below. And it seemed to go right through me, and curdle my blood,
and I fell all of a heap where you found me. And it’s nothing natural, sir,
you may take my word for it; and harm will come of your stopping in this
house.”
So saying, poor Dawson, who seemed in real earnest, fell back on his
pillow with a heavy sigh.
“Dawson,” I said, critically, “what did you eat for supper last night?”
“You’re never going to put down what I’ve told you, sir, to supper. I took
nothing but a little cold meat, upon my word. And I was as sensible, till that
shot knocked me over, as you are this moment.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you seriously believe the report of a firearm
could have reached your ears without one having been discharged?”
“But didn’t you say you heard it yourself, sir?”
This knocked me over, and I did not know what to answer him. In the
attempt to allay what I considered his unreasonable fear, I had forgotten my
own experience in the matter. And I knew that I had heard, or imagined I

heard, a shot fired, and it would be very difficult for any one to persuade me
I was mistaken. Still, though I held no belief in supernatural agencies, I was
an earnest student of the philosophical and metaphysical school of
Germany, and acquainted with all the revealed wonders of magnetism and
animal electricity. It was impossible to say whether some such effect as I
have described might not have been produced upon my brain by the
reflection of the fear or fancy on that of my servant; and that as he had
imagined the concussion of firearms, so I might have instantaneously
received the impression of his mind. It was a nice question for argument,
and not one to be thought over at that moment. All my present business lay
in the effort to disabuse Dawson’s mind of the reality of the shock it had
received.
“I said I fancied I heard something like the report of a firearm; but as
none had been fired, of course I must have been mistaken. Come, Dawson, I
must go back, or Mrs. Delamere will wonder what has become of me. I
conclude you are not such a coward as to be afraid to be left by yourself?”
“I never feared a man in my life, sir; but the strongest heart can’t stand up
against spirits.”
“Spirits!” I exclaimed, angrily. “I wonder what on earth you will talk to
me about next? Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Dawson—if I hear anything
more of this, or am disturbed again at night by your folly, I’ll pack you back
to London without a character. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you, sir,” the man answered, humbly; and thereupon I left
him to himself.
But, as I reascended the staircase, I was not satisfied either with my own
half-formed solution of the mystery, or my servant’s reception of my
rebuke. He evidently would prefer dismissal to passing such another night. I
could read the resolution in his face, although he had not expressed it in so
many words. When I reached my wife’s room, I was still more surprised.
Janie and the child lay in a profound slumber. I had expected to find both of
them in a state of anxious terror to learn the meaning of the noise that was
going on below; but they had evidently heard nothing. This welcome fact,
however, only tended to confirm me in the belief I had commenced to
entertain, of the whole circumstance being due to some, perhaps yet
undiscovered, phase of brain reading, and I fell to sleep, resolved to make a
deeper study of the marvels propounded by Mesmer and Kant. When I
awoke, with the bright June sun streaming in at the windows, I had

naturally parted with much of the impression of the night before. It is hard
to associate any gloomy or unnatural thoughts with the unlimited glory of
the summer’s sunshine, that streams into every nook and cranny, and leaves
no shadows anywhere. On this particular morning it seemed to have cleared
the cobwebs off all our brains. The child had forgotten all about the
occurrence of the night. I was, as usual, ready to laugh away all ghostly
fears and fancies; and even Janie seemed to regard the matter as one of little
moment.
“What was the matter last night, Arthur, dear?” she asked, when the
subject recurred to her memory. “I was so sleepy I couldn’t keep awake till
you came up again.”
“Didn’t you hear the fearful battle I held with the goblins in the hall?” I
demanded, gaily, though I put the question with a purpose—“the shots that
were exchanged between us, and the groans of the defeated, as they slunk
away into their haunted coal-cellars and cupboards?”
“Arthur, what nonsense! Was there any noise?”
“Well, I frightened Dawson, and Dawson frightened me; and we
squabbled over it for the best part of an hour. I thought our talking might
have disturbed you.”
“Indeed, it didn’t, then. But don’t mention it before Cissy, Arthur, even in
fun, for she declares she heard some one walking about the room, and I
want her to forget it.”
I dropped the subject; but meeting Dawson as I was smoking my pipe in
the garden that afternoon, I ventured to rally him on his fright of the night
before, and to ask if he hadn’t got over it by that time.
“No, sir; and I never shall,” he replied, with a sort of shiver. “And I only
hope you may come to be convinced of the truth of it before it’s too late to
prevent harm you may never cease to repent of.”
There was so much respectful earnestness in the man’s manner, that I
could not resent his words nor laugh at them, as I had done before; and I
passed by him in thoughtful silence.
What if there were more in all this than I had ever permitted myself to
imagine? What if the assertions of my man-servant, the unaffected terror of
my wife and child, the fears of my nurse, the evident shrinking of the old
woman who had charge of the house, the opposition from the servants of
the neighbouring town, combined with what I had heard myself, were not
simple chimeras of the brain—fancies engendered by superstition or

timidity or ignorance; but indications of a power beyond our control, the
beginning and the end of which may alike remain unknown until all things
are revealed? I had, with the majority of educated men, manfully resisted all
temptation to believe in the possibility of spirits, of whatever grade, making
themselves either seen or heard by mortal senses. I use the word
“manfully,” although I now believe it to be the height of manliness to refuse
to discredit that which we cannot disprove, and to have sufficient humility
to accept the belief that there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in our philosophy. But at that juncture I should have considered
such a concession both childish and cowardly. Yet, there was sufficient
doubt in my mind, notwithstanding the glorious June sun, respecting my
adventure of the night before, that I resolved, whatever happened, that I
would satisfy myself as to the value of the fears of those about me.
I could not keep my wife and children in a house where they might be
liable at any moment to be frightened out of their seven senses, from
whatever cause, without ascertaining the reason of it. Some reason there
must be, either natural or otherwise; and I determined, if possible, to learn it
that very night. I would not tell Dawson or anyone of my intention; but I
would keep watch and ward in the old parlour on the ground floor, so as to
be ready to rush out at a moment’s notice, and seize any intruder who might
attempt to disturb us. I still believed—I could not but believe—that the
footsteps which so many of us had heard were due to some trickster, who
wished to play upon our nerves in that lonely old house. I had heard of such
things being done, purposely to keep visitors away; and I determined,
whosoever it might be, whether our own servants or strangers, that they
must take their chance of being shot down like any other robber.
According to my resolution, I said nothing to Janie, but tried to render the
evening as cheerful and merry a one as possible.
I ordered strawberries and cream into the hayfield, and played with my
troop of little ones there, until they were so tired they could hardly walk for
the short distance that lay between them and their beds. As soon as they
were dismissed, and we had returned to the house, I laid aside the
newspapers that had arrived by that morning’s post, and which I usually
reserved for the evening’s delectation, and taking my wife upon my knee, as
in the dear old courting days, talked to her until she had forgotten
everything but the topics on which we conversed, and had no time to brood
upon the coming night, and the fears it usually engendered. Then, as a last

duty, I carried to Dawson with my own hands a strong decoction of brandy
and water, with which I had mixed something that I knew, under ordinary
circumstances, must make him sleep till daylight.
“Drink this,” I said to him. “From whatever cause, our nerves were both
shaken last night, and a little stimulant will do neither of us harm.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, as he finished the tumbler at a draught; “I
don’t deny I’m glad to have it. I dread the thoughts of the night before us.”
“Lock your door on the inside,” I added as I left him, “and don’t get up
whether the handle moves or not. Then, at all events, you will feel secure
till the morrow.”
“Keys won’t keep them out,” muttered Dawson, as he entered his
sleeping apartment.
But I would not notice the allusion, though I understood it.
I went up to bed with my wife as usual; and it was not until I saw she was
sound asleep that, habited in my dressing-gown and slippers, I ventured to
creep softly out of the room and take my way downstairs again.
It was then about twelve o’clock. The moonlight was as bright as it had
been the night before, and made every object distinctly visible. From the
loud snoring which proceeded from Dawson’s room, I concluded that my
opiate had taken due effect, and that I should be permitted to hold my vigil
undisturbed. In one hand I grasped a loaded revolver, and in the other a
huge knotted stick, so determined was I not to be taken by my tormentors at
a disadvantage. I turned into the general sitting-room, which opened on the
hall. All was as we had left it; and I ensconced myself on one of the large
old-fashioned sofas, trusting to my curiosity to keep me awake.
It was weary waiting. I heard one and then two sound from the big clock
in the hall; still there was no other noise to break the silence. I began to
relapse into my first belief that the whole business was due to imagination.
From this I passed to self-satisfaction; self-satisfaction induced inertion,
and inertion brought on heavy sleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I
had reason afterwards to think, not more than half-an-hour.
However, that point is immaterial. But what waked me—waked me so
completely that in a moment all my faculties were as clear as daylight—was
the sound of a hoarse breathing. I sat up on the sofa and rubbed my eyes.
The room was fully lighted by the moon. I could see into each corner.
Nothing was visible. The sound I had heard must then have proceeded from
outside the door, which was open; and I turned towards it, fully expecting to

see Dawson enter in a somnambulistic condition, brought on by his dreams
and my soporific.
But he did not appear. I rose and looked into the hall. It was empty, as
before. Still the breathing continued, and (as I, with now fully-awakened
faculties, discovered) proceeded from a corner of the parlour where stood
an old-fashioned secretary and a chair. Not daring to believe my senses, I
advanced to the spot and listened attentively. The sound continued, and was
unmistakably palpable. The breathing was hoarse and laboured, like that of
an old man who was suffering from bronchitis or asthma. Every now and
then it was interrupted by a short, roupy cough. What I suffered under this
mysterious influence I can hardly tell. Interest and curiosity got the better of
my natural horror; but even then I could not but feel that there was
something very awful in this strange contact of sound without sight.
Presently my eyes were attracted by the chair, which was pushed, without
any visible agency, towards the wall. Something rose—I could hear the
action of the feet. Something moved—I could hear it approaching the spot
where I stood motionless. Something brushed past me, almost roughly—I
could feel the contact of a cloth garment against my dressing-gown, and
heard the sound of coarsely shod feet leaving the room. My hair was almost
standing on end with terror; but I was determined to follow the mystery to
its utmost limits, whether my curiosity were satisfied by the attempt or not.
I rushed after the clumping feet into the hall; and I heard them slowly and
painfully, and yet most distinctly, commence to toil up the staircase. But
before they had reached the first landing, and just as I was about to follow
in their wake, my attention was distracted by another sound, which
appeared to be close at my elbow—the sound of which Dawson had
complained the night before—that of a creeping step, and a stifled sobbing,
as though a woman were feeling her way along the passage in the dark. I
could discern the feeble touch as it felt along the wall, and then placed an
uncertain hold upon the banisters—could hear the catching breath, which
dared not rise into a cry, and detect the fear which caused the feet to
advance and retreat, and advance a little way again, and then stop, as
though dread of some unknown calamity overpowered every other feeling.
Meanwhile, the clumping steps, that had died away in the distance, turned,
and appeared to be coming downstairs again. The moon streamed brightly
in at the landing window. Had a form been visible, it would have been as
distinctly seen as by day. I experienced a sense of coming horror, and drew

back in the shadow of the wall. As the heavy footsteps gained the lower
landing, I heard a start—a scuffle—a faint cry of “Father!” and then a curse
—the flash of a firearm—a groan—and I remember nothing more.
When I recovered my consciousness, I was lying on the flat of my back
in the passage, as I had found poor Dawson the night before, and the
morning sun was shining full upon my face. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and
tried to remember how I had come there. Surely the moon had looked in at
that window when I saw it last. Then in a moment came back upon my
mind all that I had heard whilst holding my vigil during the past night; and I
sprang to my feet, to see if I could discover any traces of the tragedy which
seemed to have been enacted in my very presence.
But it was in vain I searched the parlour, the passage, and the stairs.
Everything remained in its usual place. Even the chair, which I could swear
I saw pushed against the wall, was now standing primly before the
secretary, and the door of the room was closed, as it usually was when we
retired for the night. I slunk up to my dressing-room, anxious that my wife
should not discover that I had never retired to rest; and having plunged my
head and face into cold water, took my way across the sunlighted fields, to
see if the fresh morning air might not be successful in clearing away the
confusion with which my brain was oppressed. But I had made up my mind
on one point, and that was that we would move out of Rushmere as soon as
it was possible to do so. After a stroll of a couple of hours, I re-approached
the house. The first person I encountered was the under nurse, Susan, who
ran to meet me with a perturbed countenance.
“Oh, sir, I’m so thankful you’ve come back! Dawson has been looking
for you for the last hour, for poor missus is so ill, and we don’t know what
on earth to do with her.”
“Ill! In what way?” I demanded quickly.
“That’s what we can’t make out, sir. Miss Cissy came up crying to the
nursery, the first thing this morning, to tell me that her mamma had tumbled
out of bed, and wouldn’t speak to her; and she couldn’t find her papa. So I
ran downstairs directly, sir; and there I found my mistress on the ground,
quite insensible, and she hasn’t moved a limb since.”
“Good heavens!” I inwardly exclaimed, as I ran towards the house, “is it
possible she can have been affected by the same cause?”
I found Janie, as the nurse had said, unconscious; and it was some time
before my remedies had any effect on her. When she opened her eyes, and

understood the condition she had been in, she was seized with such a fit of
nervous terror that she could do nothing but cling to me, and entreat me to
take her away from Rushmere.
Remembering my own experience, I readily promised her that she should
not sleep another night in the house if she did not desire it. Soothed by my
words, she gradually calmed down, and was at last able to relate the
circumstance which had so terrified her.
“Did you sleep in my room last night, dear Arthur?” she asked, curiously.
“I did not. But since you awoke, you surely must have been aware of my
absence.”
“I know nothing, and remember nothing, except the awful horror that
overpowered me. I had gone to sleep very happy last night, and none of my
silly fears, as you have called them, ever entered my head. Indeed, I think I
was in the midst of some pleasant dream, when I was awakened by the
sound of a low sobbing by the bedside. Oh, such a strange, unearthly
sobbing” (with a shudder). “I thought at first it must be poor little Cissy,
who had been frightened again, and I put out my hand to her, saying,—
“ ‘Don’t be afraid, dear. I am here.’
“Directly, a hand was placed in mine—a cold, damp hand, with a
deathlike, clayey feel about it that made me tremble. I knew at once it was
not the child’s hand, and I started up in bed, exclaiming,—
“ ‘Who are you?’
“The room was quite dark, for I had pinned my shawl across the blind to
keep the moon out of my eyes before I went to bed, and I could distinguish
nothing. Yet still the cold, damp hand clung to mine, and seemed to strike
the chill of death into my very bones. When I said, ‘Who are you?’
something replied to me. I cannot say it was a voice. It was more like some
one hissing at me through closed teeth, but I could distinguish the name
‘Emily.’
“I was so frightened, Arthur, I did not know what to do. I wrenched my
hand away from the dead hand. You were not there, and I called out loudly.
I would have leaped out of bed, but that I heard the creeping footsteps,
accompanied by the sobbing breath, go round the room, crying, ‘Father,
father!’
“My blood seemed to curdle in my veins. I could not stir until it was
gone. I heard it leave the room distinctly, although the door was never
opened, and walk upon the landing as though to go downstairs. I was still

sitting up in bed listening—listening—only waiting till the dreadful thing
had quite gone away, to seek your presence, when I heard a heavy step
clumping downstairs, then the report of a gun. I don’t know what I thought.
I remember nothing that followed; but I suppose I jumped out of bed with
the intention of finding you, and fainted before I could reach the dressing-
room. Oh, Arthur! what was it? What is it that haunts this house, and makes
even the sunshine look as gloomy as night? Oh, take us away from it, or I
am sure that something terrible will happen!”
“I will take you away from it, my dear. We will none of us sleep another
night beneath its roof. What curse hangs over it, I cannot tell; but whether
the strange sounds we have heard proceed from natural or supernatural
causes, they alike render Rushmere no home for us. We will go to the hotel
at —— this very day, Janie, and deliver up the keys of Rushmere again to
Messrs. Quibble & Lye.”
I then related to her my own experience, and that of Dawson; and though
she trembled a little whilst listening to me, the idea of leaving the place
before nightfall rendered the heavy fear less alarming than it would
otherwise have been.
The servants, upon learning the resolution we had arrived at, were only
too ready to help us to carry it out. Our personal possessions were packed in
an incredibly short time, and we sat down that evening to a comfortable
family dinner in the good old-fashioned inn at ——. As soon as the meal
was concluded, and the children sent to bed, I said to my wife,—
“Janie, I am going to ring for the landlord, to see if he can throw any
light on the cause of our experiences. I never told you that, when we came
to this inn to try for a nurse to supply Mary’s place, he informed me that
nobody from his country-side would live at Rushmere; and asked me, in a
manner which assured me he could have said more if he had chosen, if we
had not heard anything whilst there. I laughed at the question then, but I do
not feel so disposed to laugh at it now; and I am going to beg him to tell me
all he may know. If nothing more, his story may form the stratum of a
curious psychological study. Would you like to be present at our
interview?”
“Oh yes, Arthur; I have quite recovered my nerves since I’ve lost sight of
Rushmere, and I feel even curious to learn all I can upon the subject. That
poor, sobbing voice that whispered ‘Emily’—I shall not forget its sound to
my dying day.”

“Ring the bell, dear, and let us ask if the landlord is at leisure. To my
mind, your experience of the details of this little tragedy appears the most
interesting of all.”
The landlord, a Mr. Browser, entered at once; and as soon as he heard my
request, made himself completely at home with us.
“After the little rebuff you gave me t’other day, I shouldn’t have ventured
to say nothing, sir; but when I see your family getting out of the fly this
afternoon, I says to Mrs. Browser, ‘If that don’t mean that they can’t stand
Rushmere another night, I’m a pumpkin.’ And I suppose, now, it did mean
it, sir?”
“You are quite right, Mr. Browser. The noises and voices about the house
have become so intolerable, that it is quite impossible I can keep my family
there. Still, I must tell you that, though I have been unable to account for
the disturbances, I do not necessarily believe they are attributable to spirits.
It is because I do not believe so that I wish to hear all you may be able to
tell us, in order, if possible, to find a reason for what appears at present to
be unreasonable.”
“Well, sir, you shall hear, as you say, all we have to tell you, and then you
can believe what you like. But it ain’t I as can relate the story, sir. Mrs.
Browser knows a deal more than I do; and with your leave, and that of this
good lady here, I’ll call her to give you the history of Rushmere.”
At this information, we displayed an amount of interest that resulted in a
hasty summons for Mrs. Browser. She was a fat, fair woman, of middle age,
with ruddy cheeks, and a clear blue eye—not at all like a creature haunted
by her own weak imagination, or who would be likely to mistake a shadow
for a substance. Her appearance inspired me with confidence. I trusted that
her relation might furnish me with some clue to the solution of the
occurrences that had so confounded us. Safe out of the precincts of
Rushmere, and with the lapse of twelve hours since the unaccountable
swoon I had been seized with, my practical virtues were once more in the
ascendant, and I was inclined to attribute our fright to anything but
association with the marvellous.
“Be I to tell the story from the beginning, Browser?” was the first
sentence that dropped from Mrs. Browser’s lips.
Her lord and master nodded an affirmative, whereupon she began:—
“When the gentleman as built Rushmere for his own gratification, sir,
died, the house let well enough. But the place proved lonely, and there was

more than one attempt at robbery, and people grew tired of taking it. And
above all, the girls of the village began to refuse to go to service there. Well,
it had been standing empty for some months, when a gentleman and his
wife came to look after it. Browser and I—we didn’t own this inn at that
time, you will understand, sir, but kept a general shop in the village, and
were but poorly off altogether, although we had the post-office at our place,
and did the best business thereabouts. The key of Rushmere used always to
be left in our keeping, too, and our boy would go up to show folks over the
house. Well, one damp autumn day—I mind the day as if ’twere yesterday,
for Browser had been ailing sadly with the rheumatics for weeks past, and
not able to lift his hand to his head—this gentleman and lady, who went by
the name of Greenslade, came for the keys of Rushmere. I remember
thinking Mr. Greenslade had a nasty, curious look about his eyes, and that
his wife seemed a poor, brow-beaten creature; but that was no business of
mine, and I sent Bill up with them to show the house. They took it, and
entered on possession at once; and then came the difficulty about the
servants. Not a soul would enter the place at first. Then a girl or two tried it,
and came away when their month was up, saying the house was so
lonesome, they couldn’t sleep at nights, and the master was so queer-spoken
and mannered, they were afraid of him.”
“Don’t forget to say what he was used to do at nights,” here put in the
landlord.
“La, Browser, I’m a-coming to it. Everything in its time. Well, sir, at last
it came to this, that Mrs. Greenslade hadn’t a creature to help her in
anythink, and down she came to ask if I would go to them for a few days. I
stared; for there was the shop to be tended, and the post-office looked after,
and I hadn’t been used to odd jobs like that. But my husband said that he
could do all that was wanted in the business; and we were very hard drove
just then, and the lady offered such liberal pay, he over-persuaded me to go,
if only on trial. So I put my pride in my pocket, and went out charing. I
hadn’t been at Rushmere many days, sir, before I found something was very
wrong there. Mr. Greenslade hardly ever spoke a word, but shut himself up
in a room all day, or went mooning about the fields and common, where he
couldn’t meet a soul; and as for the poor lady, la! my heart bled for her, she
seemed so wretched and broken-down and hopeless. I used often to say to
her—

“ ‘Now, ma’am, do let me cook you a bit of something nice, for you’ve
eaten nothing since yesterday, and you’ll bring yourself down to death’s
door at this rate.’
“And she’d answer,—
“ ‘No, thank you, Mrs. Browser: I couldn’t touch it. I feel sometimes as if
I’d never care to eat or drink again.’
“And Mr. Greenslade, he was just as bad. They didn’t eat enough to keep
a well-grown child between the two of them.”
“What-aged people were they?” I asked.
“Well, sir, I can hardly say; they weren’t young nor yet old. Mr.
Greenslade, he may have been about fifty, and his lady a year or two
younger; but I never took much count of that. But the gentleman looked
much the oldest of the two, by reason of a stoop in his shoulders and a
constant cough that seemed to tear his chest to pieces. I’ve known him shut
himself up in the parlour the whole night long, coughing away fit to keep
the whole house awake. And his breathing, sir—you could hear it half a
mile off.”
“He was assmatical, poor man! that’s where it was,” interposed Mr.
Browser.
“Well, I don’t know what his complaint was called, Browser; but he
made noise enough over it to wake the dead. But don’t you go interrupting
me no more after that fashion, or the gentleman and lady will never
understand the half of my story, and I’m just coming to the cream of it.”
“I assure you we are deeply interested in what you are telling us,” I said,
politely.
“It’s very good of you to compliment me, sir, but I expect it will make
matters clearer to you by-and-by. You’re not the first tenants of Rushmere
I’ve had to tell this tale to, I can tell you, and you won’t be the last, either.
One night, when I couldn’t sleep for his nasty cough, and lay awake,
wishing to goodness he’d go to bed like a Christian, I made sure I heard
footsteps in the hall, a-creeping and a-creeping about like, as though some
one was feeling their way round the house. ‘It can’t be the mistress,’ I
thought, ‘and maybe it’s robbers, as have little idea the master’s shut up in
the study.’ So I opened the door quickly, but I could see nothing.”
“Exactly my own experience,” I exclaimed.
“Ah, sir, maybe; but they weren’t the same footsteps, poor dear. I wish
they had been, and she had the same power to tread now she had then. The

hall was empty; but at the same time I heard the master groaning and
cursing most awful in the parlour, and I went into my own room again, that
I mightn’t listen to his wicked oaths and words. I always hated and
distrusted that man from the beginning. The next day I mentioned I had
heard footsteps, before ’em both, and the rage Mr. Greenslade put himself
into was terrible. He said no robbers had better break into his house, or he’d
shoot them dead as dogs. Afterwards his wife came to me and asked me
what sort of footsteps they seemed; and when I told her, she cried upon my
neck, and begged me if I ever heard a woman’s step to say nothing of it to
her husband.
“ ‘A woman’s step, ma’am,’ I replied; ‘why, what woman would dare
break into a house?’
“But she only cried the more, and held her tongue.
“But that evening I heard their voices loud in the parlour, and there was a
regular dispute between them.
“ ‘If ever she could come, Henry,’ Mrs. Greenslade said, ‘promise me you
won’t speak to her unless you can say words of pity or of comfort.’
“ ‘Pity!’ he yelled, ‘what pity has she had for me? If ever she or any
emissary of hers should dare to set foot upon these premises, I shall treat
them as house-breakers, and shoot them down like dogs.’
“ ‘Oh no! Henry, no!’ screamed the poor woman; ‘think who she is. Think
of her youth, her temptation, and forgive her.’
“ ‘I’ll never forgive her—I’ll never own her,’ the wretch answered loudly;
‘but I’ll treat her, or any of the cursed crew she associates with, as I would
treat strangers who forced their way in to rob me by night. ’Twill be an evil
day for them when they attempt to set foot in my house.’
“Well, sir, I must cut this long story short, or you and your good lady will
never get to bed to-night.
“The conversation I had overheard made me feel very uncomfortable,
and I was certain some great misfortune or disgrace had happened to the
parties I was serving; but I didn’t let it rest upon my mind, till a few nights
after, when I was wakened up by the same sound of creeping footsteps
along the passage. As I sat up in bed and listened to them, I heard the
master leave the parlour and go upstairs. At the same moment something
crouched beside my door, and tried to turn the handle; but it was locked,
and wouldn’t open. I felt very uneasy. I knew my door stood in the shadow,
and that whoever crouched there must have been hidden from Mr.

Greenslade as he walked across the hall. Presently I heard his footsteps
coming downstairs again, as though he had forgotten something. He used to
wear such thick boots, sir, you might hear his step all over the house. His
loaded gun always stood on the first landing; when he reached there he
stopped, I suppose it was his bad angel made him stop. Anyway, there was a
low cry of ‘Father, father!’—a rush, the report of the gun, a low groan, and
then all was still.
“La! sir, I trembled so in my bed, you might have seen it shake under
me.”
“I’ve seen it shake under you many a time,” said Browser.
“Perhaps you would like to tell the lady and gentleman my exact weight,
though I don’t see what that’s got to do with the story,” replied his better
half, majestically.
“I don’t think I should ever have had the courage to leave my room, sir,
unless I had heard my poor mistress fly down the staircase, with a loud
scream. Then I got up, and joined her. Oh, it was an awful sight! There,
stretched on the floorcloth, lay the dead body of a young girl; and my
mistress had fainted dead away across her, and was covered with the blood
that was pouring from a great hole in her forehead. On the landing stood my
master, white as a sheet, and shaking like an aspen leaf.
“ ‘So, this is your doing!’ I cried, angrily. ‘You’re a nice man to have
charge of a gun. Do you see what you’ve done? Killed a poor girl in
mistake for a robber, and nearly killed your wife into the bargain. Who is
this poor murdered young creature? Do you know her?’
“ ‘Know her!’ he repeated, with a groan. ‘Woman, don’t torture me with
your questions. She is my own daughter!’
“He rushed upstairs as he spoke, and I was in a nice quandry, left alone
with the two unconscious women. When my poor mistress woke up again,
she wanted me to fetch a doctor; but it would have been of no use. She was
past all human help.
“We carried the corpse upstairs between us, and laid it gently on the bed.
I’ve often wondered since where the poor mother’s strength came from, but
it was lent her for the need. Then, sitting close to me for the remainder of
the night, she told me her story—how the poor girl had led such an unhappy
life with her harsh, ill-tempered father, that she had been tempted into a
foolish marriage by the first lover that offered her affection and a peaceful
home.

“ ‘I always hoped she would come back to us,’ said Mrs. Greenslade, ‘for
her husband had deserted her, leaving her destitute; and yet, although she
knew how to enter the house unobserved, I dreaded her doing so, because of
her father’s bitter enmity. Only last night, Mrs. Browser, I awoke from
sleep, and fancied I heard a sobbing in my room. I whispered, “Who is
there?” And a voice replied “Emily!” But I thought it was a dream. If I had
known—if I had but known!’
“She lay so quiet and uncomplaining on my knee, only moving now and
then, that she frightened me; and when the morning broke, I tried to shift
her, and said,—
“ ‘Hadn’t I better go and see after the master, ma’am?’
“As I mentioned his name, I could see the shudder that ran through her
frame, but she motioned me away with her hand.
“I went upstairs to a room Mr. Greenslade called his dressing-room, and
where I guessed he’d gone; and you’ll never believe, sir, the awful sight as
met my eyes. I didn’t get over it for a month—did I, Browser?”
“You haven’t got over it to this day, I’m sometimes thinking, missus.”
“That means I’m off my head; but if it wasn’t for my head, I wonder
where the business would go to. No, sir—if you’ll believe me, when I
entered the room, there was the old man dead as mutton, hanging from a
beam in the ceiling. I gave one shriek, and down I fell.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” cried Janie.
“Well, ma’am, when I came to again, all was confusion and misery. We
had the perlice in, and the crowner’s inquest, and there was such a fuss, you
never see. Some of Mrs. Greenslade’s friends came and fetched her away;
but I heard she didn’t live many months afterwards. As for myself, I was
only too glad to get back to the shop and my old man, and the first words I
said to him was,—
“ ‘No more charing for me.’
“And now, sir, if I may make so bold, what do you think of the story?”
demanded the landlord. “Can you put this and that together now?”
“It is marvellous,” I replied. “Your wife has simply repeated the scene
which we have heard enacted a dozen times in Rushmere. The footsteps
were a nightly occurrence.”
“I heard the voice!” exclaimed Janie, “and it whispered ‘Emily.’ ”
“The handle of my servant’s door was turned. The report of the gun was
as distinct as possible.”

“That is what everybody says as goes to Rushmere, sir. No one can abide
the place since that awful murder was committed there,” said Mrs. Browser.
“And can you account for it in any way, sir?” demanded her husband,
slyly. “Do you think, now that you’ve heard the story, that the noises are
mortal, or that it’s the spirits of the dead that causes them?”
“I don’t know what to think, Browser. There is a theory that no uttered
sound is ever lost, but drifts as an eddying circle into space, until in course
of time it must be heard again. Thus our evil words, too often accompanied
by evil deeds, live for ever, to testify against us in eternity. It may be that
the Universal Father ordains that some of His guilty children shall
expurgate their crimes by reacting them until they become sensible of their
enormity; but this can be but a matter for speculation. This story leaves us,
as such stories usually do, as perplexed as we were before. We cannot tell—
we probably never shall tell—what irrefragable laws of the universe these
mysterious circumstances fulfil; but we know that spirit and matter alike are
in higher hands than ours; and, whilst nature cannot help trembling when
brought in contact with the supernatural, we have no need to fear that it will
ever be permitted to work us harm.”
This little analysis was evidently too much for Mr. and Mrs. Browser,
who, with a look of complete mystification on their countenances, rose
from their seats, and wished us respectfully good-night; leaving Janie and
me to evolve what theories we chose from the true story of the Invisible
Tenants of Rushmere.

AMY’S LOVER.
It was five o’clock—five o’clock on a dull November afternoon—as I,
Elizabeth Lacy, the wretched companion of Lady Cunningham, of
Northampton Lodge, in the town of Rockledge, stood gazing from the
dining-room windows at the grey curtain of fog which was slowly but
surely rising between my vision and all outward things, and thinking how
like it was in colour and feeling and appearance to my own sad life. I have
said that I was the “wretched” companion of Lady Cunningham: is it very
ungrateful of me to have written down that word? I think not; for if a
wearisome seclusion and continual servitude have power to make a young
life miserable, mine had fairly earned its title to be called so. I had withered
in the cold and dispiriting atmosphere of Northampton Lodge for four years
past, and had only been prevented rupturing my chains by the knowledge
that I had no alternative but to rush from one state of bondage to another. To
attend upon old ladies like an upper servant—to write their letters, carry
their shawls, and wait upon them as they moved from room to room—this
was to be my lot through life; and if I ever dreamed that a brighter one
might intervene, the vision was too faint and idealistic to gild the stern
realities which were no dreams.
I daresay there are plenty of people in this world more miserable than I:
indeed, I knew it for a fact even at the time of which I speak; and the few
friends I possessed were never tired of telling me that I was better off than
many, and that I should strive to look on the bright side of things, and to
thank heaven who had provided me with a safe and respectable home, when
I might have been upon the parish. Did not Job have friends to console him
in his trouble? Do not we all find in the day of our distress that, whatever
else fails, good advice is always forthcoming? Well! perhaps I was
ungrateful: at all events, I was young and headstrong, and good advice
irritated and worried, instead of making me any better. I knew that I was

warmly clothed, whilst beggars stood shivering at the corner of the streets,
and that beneath the care of Lady Cunningham no harm could happen to
me, whilst women younger than myself broke God’s holy laws to put bread
in their mouths. And yet, and yet, so perverse is human nature, and so
perverse was mine above all others, that, engaged on my monotonous round
of duty, I often envied the beggars their liberty and their rags; and even
sometimes wished that I had not been reared so honestly, and had the
courage to be less respectable and more free. Perhaps one reason why my
life chafed me so fearfully, was because I had not been brought up to it.
Five years before, I had been the child of parents in good circumstances,
and loved and made much of, as only daughters generally are. My father,
who held the comfortable living of Fairmead in Dorsetshire, had always
managed to keep up the household of a gentleman, and my poor delicate
mother and myself had enjoyed every luxury consistent with our station in
life. She had had her flower-garden and her poultry and her pony-chair, and
I my pets and my piano and—my lover. Ah! as I stood at the wire-blinded
windows of Lady Cunningham’s dining-room that sad November afternoon,
and recalled these things, I knew by the pang which assailed me at the
thought of Bruce Armytage, which loss of them all had affected me most.
My father and mother, who from my youth up had so tenderly loved and
guarded me, were in their graves, and with them had vanished all the
luxuries and possessions of my early days. But though I stood there a
penniless orphan, with no joy in my present and very little hope in my
future, the tears had not rushed to my eyes until my memory had rested on
Bruce Armytage; and then they fell so thickly that they nearly blinded me;
for mingled with his memory came shame as well as regret, and to a woman
perhaps shame is the harder feeling of the two. His conduct had been so
very strange, so marvellously strange and unaccountable to me, that to that
day I had found no clue to it. When he first came down and took lodgings in
Fairmead—for the purpose of studying to pass his examination for the law,
he said—he had seemed so very, very fond of me that our engagement
followed on the avowal of his love as a matter of course. But then his
family interfered; they thought, perhaps, that he ought to marry some one
higher than myself, though my father was a gentleman, and no man can be
more; at any rate, his father wrote to say that Bruce was far too young (his
age was then just twenty) to fix upon his choice for life, and that no regular
engagement must be made between us until he returned from the two years’

foreign tour he was about to make. My father and mother said that old Mr.
Armytage was right, and that in two years’ time, both I and my lover would
be better able to form an opinion on so serious a matter. Bruce and I
declared it was all nonsense, that fifty years of separation could make no
difference to us, and that what we felt then, we should feel to our lives’ end.
And they smiled, the old people, whilst our young hearts were being
tortured, and talked about the evanescence of youthful feelings, whilst we
drank our first draught of this world’s bitterness. How seldom can old
people sympathise with the young! How soon they become accustomed to
the cold neutral tints of middle age, and forget even the appearance of the
warm fires of youth at which they lighted those passions which time has
reduced to ashes! It was so with my parents: they were not unkind, but they
were unsympathetic; they rather hoped, upon the whole, that I should forget
Bruce Armytage; and, in order to accomplish their end, they pretended to
believe it. But he went, with the most passionate protestations upon his lips,
that as soon as he returned to England, no earthly power should keep us
separate; and he never came back to me again! My father and mother had
died rather suddenly, and within a few months of each other; our home had
been broken up, and at the age of nineteen I had been sent forth upon the
world to earn my own living; and, at the age of three-and-twenty, I was at
the same trade, neither richer nor poorer than at first, but with all my faith
in the constancy and honour of mankind broken and destroyed; for Bruce
Armytage had never found me out, or, as far as I knew, inquired after me.
His family had permitted me to leave Fairmead and enter on my solitary
career without a word of remonstrance or regret; since which time I had had
no communication with them, though at that period my pride would not
have forbidden my sending an account of my trouble to Bruce, believing
that he cared for me. Correspondence between us during his foreign tour
had been strictly prohibited, and I had no means of ascertaining his address.
For a while I had expected he would write or come to me; but that hope had
long died out, and the only feeling I had left for him was contempt—
contempt for his fickleness and vacillation, or the pusillanimity which could
permit him to give up the woman he had sworn to marry because his father
ordered him to do so. No! filial obedience carries very little weight with the
heart that is pitted against it; and as I thought of it and him, I bit my lip,
dashed my hand across my eyes, and hoped the day might yet come when I
should be able to show Bruce Armytage how greatly I despised him.

At this juncture the housemaid came bustling into the room with a little
note for me—a dear little cocked-hat note—which seemed to speak of
something pleasant, and at the writer of which I had no need to guess, for I
had but one friend in Rockledge who ever sent such notes to me.
“Waiting for an answer,” said the bearer curtly; and I tore it open and
devoured its contents.

“Dear Lizzie,—I think you will be very much surprised to hear
that your little friend Amy is engaged to be married! However, it
is quite true, although the business was only settled this morning;
and the young gentleman has promised to spend the evening with
us, and to bring a cousin whom he is anxious to introduce. Will
you come and take tea with us also? The doctor has only just told
me that Lady Cunningham dines out to-night, or I should have
sent before. Do come, Lizzie. Amy is crazy to see you and tell
you all her secrets, and you know that you are always sure of a
welcome from your affectionate friend,
“Mary Rodwell.”

The perusal of this little epistle threw me into a perfect whirl of
excitement and delight, which would have appeared extraordinary to any
one who had not been acquainted with the maddening monotony of my
daily existence. These Rodwells, the family of the good old doctor who
attended Lady Cunningham, were my only friends in Rockledge, the only
people with whom I ever caught a glimpse of a happy domestic life, such as
had been once my own. To spend the evening at their large, old-fashioned
house, which rang from basement to attic with the sound of happy voices,
was the only dissipation by which my days were ever varied, and a
relaxation all the more precious because, on account of Lady Cunningham’s
requirements, it came so rarely to me. And on the afternoon in question,
when I had allowed myself to become absorbed by fanciful thought, the
cordial and unexpected invitation warmed my chilled spirits like a draught
of generous wine. All things seemed changed for me: I no longer saw the
grey fog nor remembered my mournful past, but in their stead pictured to
myself the brightly-lighted, crimson-curtained room at Dr. Rodwell’s house,
and heard the ringing laughter and merry jests of his many boys and girls.

In a moment I had shaken off my despondency—my eyes sparkled, my
heart beat: I was in a flutter of anticipation at the pleasure in store for me.
“Is there any answer, miss?” demanded the housemaid, who had been
waiting whilst I read my note.
“Yes, yes; I will go, of course. Say I will be there in half-an-hour,” I
replied, for my evening, in consequence of Lady Cunningham’s absence,
was at my own disposal. “And, Mary, please bring me up a jug of hot water;
I am going to take tea with Mrs. Rodwell.”
“Well, I’m very glad of it, miss; it’s a shame you shouldn’t have a
holiday oftener than you do,” returned my sympathising hearer as she
departed with my answer.
I must say that, during my years of servitude, I had nothing to complain
of respecting the treatment I received from the hands of servants. I have
read of needy companions and governesses being cruelly insulted and
trampled on by their inferiors; I never was. From the first they saw I was a
gentlewoman, and to the last they treated me as such.
With a hasty vote of thanks to Mary for her kind speech, I ran upstairs to
my own bedroom to make the few preparations needful for my visit. I knew
that Mrs. Rodwell would not desire me to dress; but to arrange my hair
anew with a blue ribbon woven in it, and to change my dark merino body
for a clear muslin Garibaldi, made me look fresh and smart, without taking
up too much of the precious time I had to spend at her house. Besides, were
there not to be some gentlemen present? At that thought my mind reverted
to the wonderful news of Amy’s engagement, and I could scarcely proceed
with my toilet for thinking of it. Little Amy! younger by five years than
myself, who had always appeared so shy and modest and retiring—was it
possible she could have had a lover without my knowing it? And now to be
actually engaged! going to be married at her age! It almost seemed
incredible, until I remembered with a sudden sigh that I had been no older
myself when Bruce Armytage proposed to me, and had been able to keep
my secret very well until the necessity for doing so was over.
But I would not let such thoughts engross me now, for I had no wish to
carry a long face to Mrs. Rodwell’s house; and so I hurried on the
remainder of my things, and wrapping myself up warmly in a dark cloak,
hurried bravely out into the evening air. It was then six o’clock, and the fog
was denser than before; but what cared I for outer dullness any longer? My
imagination ran on before me, vividly picturing the cheerful scene in which

I should so soon mingle, and my feet tripped after it joyous as my heart. I
had not far to go, and my eagerness shortened the way; so that in a few
minutes, I was rapping at Dr. Rodwell’s hall door and scraping my feet
upon his scraper. How quickly it was opened by little Amy herself! And
what a mixture of bashfulness, pleasure, and self-importance was in her
blushing face as I threw my arms around her neck and warmly
congratulated her.
“Come upstairs, Lizzie,” she entreated in a whisper; “come up and take
off your things, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
We were soon in her own room—that cozy room in which she and her
younger sister Mattie slept, and which bore so many evidences of their
mother’s tender care and thought for them.
“And so you are really engaged to be married, Amy?” I exclaimed as the
door closed behind us. “That was a very astounding piece of intelligence to
me, who had never heard the faintest whisper of such a thing before.”
“You forget you have not been near us for a month,” she answered,
laughing; “but the truth is, Lizzie, it was all so uncertain till this morning
that mamma said it would be very unwise to mention it to anybody; so that
you were the first recipient of the news, after all.”
“Well, I suppose I must be satisfied with that; and when did you meet
him, Amy?”
“Last month, up in London, while I was staying with my Aunt
Charlesworth.”
“And is it a settled thing, then?”
“Oh yes! His parents have consented, and are coming to Rockledge on
purpose to call on us. And—and—he came down this morning to tell papa;
and I believe we are to be married in the spring.”
“So soon?” I ejaculated, thinking how easily some people’s courtships
ran.
“Yes,” replied Amy, blushing; “and he is here this evening, you know,
with his cousin, who is staying at Rockledge with him. He talked so much
about this cousin, but oh! he is not half so nice-looking as himself; and—
and—I hope you will like him, Lizzie dear,” kissing me affectionately as
she spoke, “for I have told him so much about you.”
“I am sure I shall, Amy,” I replied as I returned her caress; we were on
the staircase at the time, descending to the dining-room. “I assure you I am
quite impatient to see your hero. By-the-bye, dear, what is his name?”

“Armytage.” And then, seeing my blank look of amazement, she repeated
it—“Armytage. Have you never heard the name before? I think it’s such a
pretty one. Amy Armytage,” she whispered finally in my ear, as, laughing
merrily, she pushed me before her into the dining-room.
It was all done so suddenly that I had no time to think about it, for before
the echo of her words had died away, I was in the midst of the family group,
being warmly kissed by Mrs. Rodwell, and Mattie, and Nelly, and Lotty,
and shaken hands with by the dear, kind old doctor, and his rough school-
boys.
“Well, Lizzie dear,” exclaimed my motherly hostess, as she claimed me
for a second embrace, “this is quite an unexpected treat, to have you here
to-night; I thought we were never going to see you again. But you look
pale, my child; I am afraid you are kept too much in the house. Doctor,
what have you been about, not to take better care of Lizzie? You should
give her a tonic, or speak to Lady Cunningham on the subject.”
But the good old doctor stuck both his fingers into his ears.
“Now, I’m not going to have any talk about pale looks or physic bottles
to-night,” he said; “the time for doctoring to-day is over. Miss Lizzie, you
just come and sit between Tom and me, and we’ll give you something that
will beat all the tonics that were ever invented. Here, Mattie, pass the
scones and oatcakes down this way, will you? If you children think you are
going to keep all the good things up at your end of the table, you are very
much mistaken,” and with no gentle touch my hospitable friend nearly
pulled me down into his own lap.
“Now, doctor!” exclaimed Mrs. Rodwell, with an affectation of
annoyance, “I will not have you treat my guests in this way. Lizzie has
come to see me, not you, and she sits by no side but mine. Besides, you
have not even given me time to introduce the gentlemen to her. Lizzie, my
dear, we must all be friends here this evening. Mr. Bruce Armytage, Mr.
Frederick Armytage—Miss Lacy. And now, doctor, we’ll go to tea as soon
as you please.”
I had known from the moment of my entering the room that there were
strangers in it, but I had not dared to glance their way. Amy’s announcement
of her lover’s name had come too unexpectedly to permit me to form any
fixed idea upon the subject, excepting that it was the same as mine had
borne, and yet, when Mrs. Rodwell repeated it with the familiar prefix,

strange to say, I seemed to hear it with no second shock, but to have known
the bitter truth all along.
Not so, however, Bruce Armytage; for Mrs. Rodwell’s introduction was
scarcely concluded before I heard his voice (unforgotten through the lapse
of years) exclaim, “Miss Lacy!” in a tone of surprise, which could not but
be patent to all.
Cold and pulseless as I had felt before, the mere tones of his voice sent
the blood rushing from my heart to my head, till the room and the tea-table
and the group of living figures swam before my dazzled eyes. I felt my
weakness, but I determined all the more that no one else should guess at it,
and mentally stamped upon my heart to make it steady against the moment
when its energies should be required.
“You have met Mr. Armytage before, Lizzie?” said Mrs. Rodwell, with a
pleasant astonishment.
Then I lifted my eyes and looked at him. Good God! What is the vital
force of this feeling, called love, which Thou hast given to us, far oftener to
prove a curse than a blessing, that after years of separation, coldness, and
neglect, it has the strength to spring up again, warm and passionate as ever,
at the sight of a face, the tone of a voice, or the touch of a hand? Has
nothing the power to trample life out of it? Will it always revive when we
think it most dead, and turn its pale mutilated features up to the glare of
day? Shall our mortal dust, even when confined in the mould, stir and groan
and vainly strive to make itself heard, as the step of one whom we have
loved passes sorrowfully over the fresh grass beneath which we lie?
I lifted up my eyes, and looked upon Bruce Armytage, to be able to say
truly if I had met him before. Yes, it was he, but little altered during our five
years of separation, excepting that he had passed from a boy to a man. He
coloured vividly beneath my steady gaze; for a moment I thought he was
about to seize my hand, but my eyes forbade him, and he shrank backward.
“Mr. Armytage and I have met before,” I said, with a marvellous
quietness, in answer to Mrs. Rodwell’s previous question—“when I was
living in my old home at Fairmead; but that is so many years ago that we
are nothing but strangers to each other now.”
At these words any purpose which he might have entertained of claiming
me as an old acquaintance evidently died out of Bruce Armytage’s mind;
for, retreating a few paces, he bowed coldly to me, and took a seat, where
his proper place now was, by Amy’s side.

“Oh, not strangers, my dear—oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Rodwell, who had
taken my answer in its literal sense. “You must all be friends together here,
you know, if it is only for Amy’s sake. Mr. Frederick Armytage, will you be
so kind as to pass the muffins up this way? Thank you! Now, Lizzie, my
dear, you must make a good tea.”
I sat down between my host and hostess, triumphant on the subject of the
manner in which I had acquitted myself, and feeling strong enough for any
future trial; but before many minutes had elapsed I was overtaken by a
sickly and oppressive sensation for which I was quite unable to account.
The hot flush which had risen to my face whilst speaking to Bruce
Armytage died away, leaving a cold, leaden weight upon my breast instead;
my pulses ceased their quick leap and took to trembling; the rich dainties
which the doctor and his wife heaped upon my plate nauseated me even to
contemplate; and a whirring confusion commenced in my head, which
obliged me to rally all my forces before I could answer a simple question.
The noise and laughter of the tea-table seemed to increase every minute;
and if one might judge from the incessant giggling of Amy, Mattie, Nelly,
and Lotty, the two gentlemen at the other end were making themselves very
agreeable. I tried to eat; I tried to force the buttered toast and plum cake and
rich preserves down my throat, but there was something there which utterly
prevented my swallowing them.
“Lizzie, my dear, are you not well?” inquired Mrs. Rodwell, presently.
The friendly interrogation saved me. I had just been relapsing into a state of
weakness which might have resulted in hysteria: her words recalled me to
myself. Should all the table know that I was grieving? Or rather should he
—he who had deserted me, and had forsworn himself, who now sat by the
side of his newly betrothed—guess that his presence had the slightest power
to affect me? Good heavens! where was my pride? where the contempt
which I had hoped to have an opportunity of showing for him? I almost
sprang from my chair at the thought.
“Not well, dear Mrs. Rodwell!” I exclaimed, speaking as fast and as
shrilly as people generally do under the circumstances; “why, what can
make you think so? I never felt better in my life. But, really, you do so
oppress me with good things that it is quite impossible I can do justice to
them all, and talk at the same time. No, doctor, not another piece of cake. I
couldn’t, really; thank you all the same. You know there is a limit of all
things, though you never seem to think so where I am concerned.”

Whilst my voice thus rang out, harshly and unnaturally, across the table, I
felt the dark eyes of Bruce Armytage were regarding me from the other end,
and I wished I had the courage to stare him down, but I had not. By-and-by,
however, when he was again engaged in conversation, I tried to let my eyes
rove in his direction, as though I were an uninterested hearer, but the
moment that they reached him, he raised his own as if by intuition, and my
lids dropped again. I hated myself for this indecision, though I felt it was
but nervousness, and that were we alone together but for five minutes I
should have strength of mind to look him in the face, and tell him what I
thought of his behaviour. As it was, however, it was a great relief to me
when the doctor gave the order to march, and the whole party adjourned to
the drawing-room. As soon as we had entered it, Amy left her lover’s side
and flew to mine.
“Oh, Lizzie,” she whispered as we sat in a corner together, “do tell me
what you think of him! I am dying to hear. Is he not very handsome?”
“Very handsome,” I answered with closed lips.
“Much better looking than his cousin?”
“Yes, certainly; there is no comparison between them,” which was true,
inasmuch as Frederick Armytage, with his fair hair and blue eyes, was a
washed-out, sickly-looking creature by the side of his dark, stalwart cousin
Bruce.
“I knew you would say so, Lizzie; I was sure you would agree with me.
But just fancy your having met Bruce before! Where was it, and when? I
couldn’t ask you a lot of questions at tea-time, but you made me so
curious.”
“Amy,” I said suddenly, for I felt this was a subject on which she must
not be inquisitive, “when I knew Mr. Bruce Armytage, I was living at home
with my dear father and mother at Fairmead, and you must be aware that an
allusion to those days cannot be a pleasant allusion to me. So, please, like a
dear girl, don’t ask me any more questions about it, or let me remember that
I ever saw your friend before I met him here to-night.”
“I won’t,” said Amy, submissively. “Poor, dear Lizzie!” and she stroked
my hand with her soft little palm.
“And do not mention me to him, either. Our acquaintance was but a brief
one: he can have no interest left in the matter.”
“Oh, but he has though, Lizzie,” with a shy upward glance. “He was
talking about you all tea-time; his cousin and I thought he would never stop.

He asked where you were, and what you were doing, and seemed so sorry
when I told him of Lady Cunningham, and what a cross old thing she is,
and said several times that he could not get over the surprise of having met
you here to-night.”
“Indeed! He has a more retentive memory than I have; you can tell him
so next time he speaks of me.” I answered so haughtily that little Amy
looked timidly up in my face, and I remembered suddenly that I was
speaking of her lover. “There is your mamma beckoning to you, Amy; and
Mattie and Tom are clearing away the chairs and tables. I suppose they want
a dance. Tell them I shall be charmed to play for them;” and then, seeing
that Bruce Armytage was crossing the room with a view to seeking Amy, I
quickly left my seat, and taking possession of the music-stool, commenced
to rattle off a polka. Soon they were all busily engaged in dancing, and the
noise occasioned by their feet and voices almost prevented my hearing the
conversation which Mrs. Rodwell, who had taken up a station with her
knitting close to the piano, addressed to me.
“You were very much surprised to hear our news, Lizzie, I’m sure,” she
began, as she bent toward my ear.
“Very much surprised, Mrs. Rodwell—never more so.”
“Ah!” with a sigh, “dear Amy is full young—only eighteen last October,
you know, Lizzie; but I think she’ll be happy. I’m sure I trust so. He is a
very steady young man, and they are to live in Rockledge, which is a great
comfort to me.”
“In Rockledge!” Was I to undergo the pain of continual intercourse with
him, or the alternative of quitting my present situation? “Did I hear you
rightly, Mrs. Rodwell?”
“Yes, my dear. His papa, who appears to be a very pleasant old
gentleman, has decided to set him up in an office here, that Amy may not be
separated from her family. So thoughtful of him, Lizzie, is it not?”
“Very!” I remembered the pleasant old gentleman’s conduct on a similar
occasion more immediately concerning myself, and could scarcely trust my
voice to answer her.
“You have heard that Mr. Armytage is in the law, have you not?” I
nodded my head; I had heard it. “A nice profession—so gentlemanly; and
he is a fine-looking young man too; don’t you think so? I have heard that
some people prefer his cousin’s looks to his; but beauty is such a matter of
taste, and Amy is quite satisfied on the subject. You may stop playing now,

my dear, for they have all done dancing. Nelly, child, how hot you are!
Come away at once from the draught of the door.”
“A waltz, a waltz, Lizzie!” they all shouted as they surrounded the piano.
“Perhaps Miss Lacy is tired,” suggested the deep voice of Bruce
Armytage. I had been going to plead for a brief respite, but at that sound the
desire for repose fled, and without a look in his direction I returned to the
instrument and began to play the dance they had asked for. But I had not
been so occupied long before I became aware that some one amongst them
continued to hover about the piano, and felt by intuition that it was Bruce
Armytage. At that discovery my fingers flew faster and more gaily, and I
regarded the notes before me with a fixed smile, whilst, in order to keep up
my courage, I kept repeating to myself: “He deserted me: he left me for no
fault of mine. My father and mother died, and he never came near me in my
sorrow. He is fickle, base, dishonourable—unworthy of regard.” I tried to
set the notes of the waltz that I was playing to the words, “Fickle, base,
dishonourable!” but they refused to be so matched, and only seemed to
repeat instead, “I loved him, I loved him, I loved him!” and then a blurred
mist came before my eyes, and I had to play from memory; for Bruce
Armytage had taken up his station at the back of the piano and was looking
me full in the face.
“It is a long time since we met, Miss Lacy,” he remarked presently, but in
so low a voice that had my hearing not been sharpened by anger at his
daring to address me, I do not think I should have caught the words.
“Do you think so?” I answered carelessly, for I felt that I must say
something.
“How can you ask? Have the last five years passed so pleasantly as to
leave no evidence of the flight of time?”
“Considering,” I replied, panting with indignation at what appeared to me
such thorough indifference to my feelings, “considering, Mr. Armytage, that
during the years you speak of, I have lost both my dear parents, I should
think you might have spared me the allusion.”
“Forgive me. I do not mean to wound you. But if the loss of your parents
is the only loss you have to regret during those five years, you are happier
than some, Miss Lacy. Death is natural, but there are griefs (the loss of love
and hope, for instance) almost too unnatural to be borne.”
How dared he, how dared he—he who had treated me in so cruel and
unnatural a manner himself, who had but just plighted his faith afresh to my

friend—quietly stand there, looking me in the face with his dark, searching
eyes, and taunt me with the barrenness of the life which he had made
sterile? Much as I had loved him—much as I feared I loved him still—I
could have stood up at that moment and denounced him to them all as a
traitor and a coward. But I thought of Amy, dear little innocent, confiding
Amy, and I was silent.
“I have not lost them,” I answered him, quietly. “Therefore I cannot
sympathise with your allusion. The death of my dear parents was more than
sufficient trouble for me; all else of solace that this world can give me is
mine.”
“Do you mean to tell me—” he commenced quickly.
“I mean to tell nothing,” I replied in the same cold tones. “I am not in the
habit of discussing my private affairs with strangers. Had you not better go
to Amy? I see that she is sitting out this dance.”
Upon which he gravely inclined his head in acquiescence, and left me to
myself.
“Lizzie, Lizzie, how fast you have been playing! We are all out of
breath,” exclaimed Mattie, as she and Tom danced up to my side. “Get up,
there’s a good girl, and let me take your place; we are going to have a game
of ‘Magical Music.’ Tom, will you go out first? That’s right; now, girls,
what shall we hide? Oh, papa’s keys; they will do, and then, if he wants
them, he will take quite an interest in coming and joining in the game
himself.”
I resigned my seat, and stole a hasty glance at the other end of the room.
Mrs. Rodwell was busily engaged upon her knitting, and Bruce was sitting
on an ottoman close by Amy’s side; so, gasping for fresh air and one
moment’s solitude, and unperceived by the laughing group of children, I left
the apartment and ran hastily up to the bedroom which I had first entered.
The gas was lighted there, and the fire burned warmly on the hearth, but in
my present state of feeling neither warmth nor light was what I most
desired. I felt as though I were choking—as though, if no relief were at
hand, I must scream aloud, or dash my head against the wall, for my nerves
were overstrung, and the demon of hysteria was gaining strength with every
minute, and I almost feared would win the victory. But pride came to my
assistance—that mighty supporter of human weakness—and flying to the
window, I raised the sash and leaned my head out of it, drinking in deep
draughts of the foggy night air. And as I did so, watching the bustle in the

street below, and the calm stars in the sky above, I felt strength return to
me,—strength, not to avoid suffering, but to suffer in patience. The tears
rose to my eyes and fell quietly over my cheeks, and as they fell they
seemed to dissolve the hard, dry lump which had settled in my throat and
threatened to deprive me of breath. I thought of Bruce Armytage as I had
known him in the past, and my tears fell fast for the loss I had sustained in
him; but I thought of him also as I saw him in the present, and pride and
jealousy made me dash them from my eyes, and resolve that if I died—yes,
if I died of grief and love and longing combined—he should never have the
gratification of knowing that I had retained one particle of my old affection
for him. With which intent I hurried on my walking things, determined not
to expose myself any longer to the danger of betrayal; but before I had
finished doing so, Mrs. Rodwell was in the room, all anxiety to know what
had occasioned my sudden absence.
“What is the matter, Lizzie? Did you feel the heat of the room? Why, my
dear child, you are never going! It is only just nine o’clock.”
“Yes, dear Mrs. Rodwell, I think I had better do so. Lady Cunningham
will not be late to-night, and you know how particular she is about my
being home before her. Please let me go.”
“Well, dear, it must not be so long again before we see you. We must try
and get up a few parties this winter, as it will be Amy’s last in the home
circle. And mind, Lizzie, you are to be one of her bridesmaids; she insists
upon it.”
“Ah! She is very kind, as you all are, but we will talk of that when the
time comes. Good-night, dear Mrs. Rodwell. Kiss the girls for me. I won’t
go into the drawing-room, such a figure as I am.”
But Mrs. Rodwell accompanied me down the stairs, conversing as she
went.
“I am sorry the doctor is from home, my dear; he would have seen you
round to Northampton Lodge; but he is never to be depended on from one
hour to another, you know.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence, Mrs. Rodwell; I am used to going alone.”
“But I don’t half like your doing it, Lizzie: the night is so very dark, and
—”
“Allow me to have the pleasure of accompanying Miss Lacy, Mrs.
Rodwell,” said the voice of Bruce Armytage. We had reached the drawing-
room floor by that time, and he stood on the threshold of the open door.

“No, no!” I exclaimed, as I shrank backward; “I do not desire it—I would
rather go alone;” and with a hasty kiss on Mrs. Rodwell’s cheek, I ran down
the remaining stairs and out at the hall door. The wind was blowing fresh
and cold as I turned into the open air, and the night was very dark, but I
thought of nothing but his offer to accompany me, and I hurried onward.
Did he wish to add insult to injury?
But I had not gone far when I heard the sound of footsteps running after
me; and I had hardly realised it was indeed himself before he was by my
side, apologising for his presence by the excuse that Mrs. Rodwell had
desired him to overtake me and see me home. Would I forgive what might
otherwise seem an intrusion to me? I was too indignant to vouchsafe him
any answer.
We walked on in silence side by side for several minutes, I with my head
bent down and holding my thick cloak around me, and he vainly
endeavouring to look me in the face. At last, as though making a great
effort, he cleared his throat, and said,
“I suppose, after the manner in which you spoke to me at the piano this
evening, my pride ought to forbid my attempting any further explanation
with you, but in this case I have one feeling more powerful than pride, Miss
Lacy, and I must ask you what you meant by saying that all that this world
could give of solace was yours?”
“I meant what I said,” I answered abruptly, “or rather, that I require no
pity from you or any other stranger. Our paths in life are widely enough
divided now: let each walk in his own track, without interfering with the
other.”
“That is easier said than done, perhaps,” he replied; “it is difficult in this
world for people to forget what they have been.”
“It does not appear so to me.”
“Ah, perhaps you are differently, more happily, constituted than most.
They told me so long ago, though I did not believe them. Will you consider
an old friend impertinent for asking if that from which you derive your
solace now is the same from which you derived it then? and if so, why I still
find you unsettled in life?”
“You are speaking in riddles,” I replied. “I do not understand you.”
“Your present engagement—is it the same which separated us? Do not be
afraid to tell me the truth, Lizzie. I have borne a good deal in my lifetime,
and am proof against suffering.”

His voice was so tender and kind, so much like the voice which I
remembered in the old days of our love, that it won me to listen to him
quietly.
“My engagement!” I echoed in surprise. “What are you talking of? I have
never been engaged—never since”—and then I halted, fearing what my
revelation might suggest to him.
“What do you tell me?” he exclaimed. “What object have you in
deceiving me? Were you not engaged, even before your parents’ death, to
young Hassell, of Fairmead, and was it not by his father’s means that your
present situation was procured for you? I little thought to meet you here,”
he added bitterly. “I imagined you were married long ago, or I should have
been more careful of my own feelings. And now you are engaged for the
third time! How easily life runs for some people!”
“Who could have told you such a falsehood?” I said, turning to him. “It is
true that old Mr. Hassell stood my friend when I had not one in the world,
and that he found my present situation for me; but as to being engaged to
his son, why, he is a married man—he married my own cousin.”
“Could the mistake have arisen so?” said Bruce Armytage, as he seized
my hand. “Oh, Lizzie, do not be angry; think what I have gone through!
When I returned home from that wretched foreign tour, during which I was
not allowed to correspond with you, the first news which I heard from my
own family was, that your father and mother had died some eighteen
months before, and that you were engaged to Robert Hassell, and living
with some old lady (no one could tell me where) until the time for your
marriage arrived. I would not believe them; I rushed down to Fairmead
myself to make inquiries, and reached there on the very day of young
Hassell’s wedding with Miss Lacy. Do you think I was a coward not to stop
and see the bride, believing her to be yourself? Perhaps I was; but I flew
from the spot as though I had been haunted; and I suffered—ah, Lizzie, I
cannot tell how much! It is so fearful, so awful a thing to teach one’s self to
believe the heart in which we have trusted to be faithless and unworthy.”
“I know it,” I said in a low voice, which was nearly choked by my tears.
“How I have lived since that time I can hardly tell you,” he continued as
he pressed my hand. (I knew it ought not to remain in his, but it was so
sweet to feel it there.) “I have had very little hope, or peace, or happiness,
though I have struggled on through it all, and made myself a name in my
profession. And then to meet you again to-night so unexpectedly, still free,

but promised to another, myself and my love so evidently forgotten, and to
feel that it has been but a chance that separated us! Oh, Lizzie, it is almost
harder than it was at first.”
“I am not engaged,” I answered, sobbing; “you choose to take my words
at the piano as meaning so, but it was your mistake, not mine. I have lived
much in the manner you describe yourself to have done—not very happily,
perhaps, and finding my best relief in work. But I am glad to have met you,
Bruce—glad to have heard from your own lips what parted us; and I thank
you for this explanation, though it comes too late.”
“But why too late, my dearest?” he exclaimed joyfully. “Why, if you are
free to accept my hand, and can forgive all that has made us so unhappy in
the past, should we not bury our mutual trouble in mutual love? Oh, Lizzie,
say that you’ll be mine—say that you’ll be my own wife, and help me to
wipe out the remembrance of this miserable mistake!”
I thought of Amy. I looked at him with astonishment; I recoiled from him
almost with disgust. Was I to accept happiness at the expense of that of my
dear friends, of the only creatures who had shown me any affection during
my long years of exile from him? Oh no. I would rather perish in my
solitude. The very fact that he could propose it to me made him sink lower
in my estimation.
“Bruce!” I exclaimed, “you must be mad, or I am mad so to tempt you
from your duty. Think of all your offer involves—of the distress, the
disappointment, the shame it would entail on those who have been more
than friends to me; and consider if it is likely I could be so dishonourable to
them as to take advantage of it.”
“I don’t understand you, my darling,” he said, with a puzzled look.
“Not understand?” I reiterated, in surprise, “when your engagement to
Amy Rodwell was only settled this morning, and the preliminaries for your
marriage are already being talked of! Would you break her heart in the
attempt to heal mine? Bruce, we must never see each other again after this
evening.”
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!” he said, shaking his head, “we are playing at
dreadful cross-purposes. Did it never enter into your wise little pate to
inquire which Mr. Armytage was going to marry Amy Rodwell? I can
assure you I have no desire or intention to risk getting a pistol-shot through
my heart for stepping into my cousin Frederick’s shoes.”

“And is it really—is it really, then, Frederick whom she is going to
marry?” I exclaimed, breathless with the shock of this new intelligence.
“Oh, how can she?”
“It is indeed,” he answered, laughing. “Lizzie, did you seriously think
that it was I? Why, what a taste you must give me credit for, to choose that
pretty little piece of white-and-pink china, after having had the chance of
such a woman as yourself! And now, what is my answer?”
What it was I leave for my readers to guess. Let those who have thirsted
until life’s blood lay as dry dust in their veins, thrust the chalice of sparkling
wine from their parched lips if they will: I am not made of such stern stuff
as that.

LITTLE WHITE SOULS.
I am going to tell you a story which is as improbable an one as you have
ever heard. I do not expect anybody to believe it; yet it is perfectly true. The
ignorant and bigoted will read it to the end perhaps, and then fling it down
with the assertion that it is all nonsense, and there is not one word of truth
in it. The wiser and more experienced may say it is very wonderful and
incredible, but still they know there are more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamt of in their philosophy. But no one will credit it with a
hearty, uncompromising belief. And yet neither ridicule nor incredulity can
alter the fact that this is a true history of circumstances that occurred but a
few years since, and to persons who are living at the present time.
The scene is laid in India, and to India, therefore, I must transplant you in
order that you may be introduced to the actors in this veracious drama,
premising that the names I give, not only of people but of places, are all
fictitious.
It is Christmas time in a single station on the frontiers of Bengal, and a
very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal Muftis find it in
consequence. For to be quartered in a single station means to be compelled
to associate with the same people day after day and month after month and
year after year; and to carry on that old quarrel with Jones, or to listen to the
cackle of Mrs. Robinson, or be bored with the twaddle of Major Smith,
without any hope of respite or escape, and leaving the gentlemen out of the
question, the ladies of the 145th Bengal Muftis are not in the best frame of
mind at the time my story opens to spend the day of peace and goodwill
towards men together. Regimental ladies seldom are. They are quarrelsome
and interfering, and back-biting enough towards each other in an English
garrison town, but that is a trifle compared to the way in which they carry
on in our outlying stations in India. And yet, the ladies of the 145th Bengal
Muftis are not bad specimens of the sex, taken individually. It is only when

they come in contact that their Christian love and charity make themselves
conspicuous. Mrs. Dunstan, the wife of the Colonel, is the most important
of them all, and the most important personage, too, in this little story of a
misfortune that involved herself, therefore let Mrs. Dunstan be the first to
advance for inspection.
As we meet her, she is seated in a lounging chair in her own drawing-
room, at Mudlianah, with a decided look of discontent or unhappiness upon
her countenance. The scene around her would seem fair enough in the eyes
of those who were not condemned to live in it. Her room is surrounded by a
broad verandah, which is so covered by creepers as to be a bower of
greenery. Huge trumpet-shaped blossoms of the most gorgeous hues of
purple, scarlet and orange, hang in graceful festoons about the windows and
open doorways, whilst the starry jessamine and Cape honeysuckle fill the
air with sweetness. Beyond the garden, which is laid out with much taste,
though rather in a wild and tangled style, owing to the luxuriance of the
vegetation, lie a range of snowy hills which appear quite close in the
transparent atmosphere, although in reality they are many miles away.
Mrs. Dunstan’s room is furnished, too, with every luxury as befits the
room of a colonel’s wife, even in an up country station. The chairs and sofas
are of carved ebony wood, and cane work from Benares; the table is
covered with flowers, books and fancy work; a handsome piano stands in
one corner; the floor is covered with coloured matting, and in the verandah
are scattered toys from various countries, a token that this comfortable
home does not lack the chief of married joys, a child-angel in the house.
The mistress, too, is still young and still handsome, not wanting the
capacity for intellectual nor the health for physical enjoyment, there must
be some deeper reason than outward discomfort therefore for that sad far-
away look in her eyes and the pain which has knitted her brow. Yes, “Mees
Margie MacQueerk” (as she would style herself), has been giving Mrs.
Dunstan an hour of her company that morning, and as usual left her trail
behind her.
“Mees Margie” is a tall quaint, ill-favoured Scotchwoman on the wrong
side of fifty, who has come out to India to keep the house of her brother, the
doctor of the 145th. She is a rigid Presbyterian, with a brogue as
uncompromising as her doctrine and a judgment as hard as nails. Never
having been tempted to do anything wrong, she is excessively virtuous, and
has an eye like a hawk for the misdoings of others; indeed she is so

excellent a detective that she discovers the sins before the sinners have
quite made up their minds to commit them. She is the detestation of the
regiment, and the Colonel’s wife has been compelled in consequence to
show Miss MacQuirk more attention than she would otherwise have done to
make up for the neglect of the others. For never does Miss Maggie pass
half-an-hour without hinting at a fresh peccadillo on the part of somebody
else. She has a rooted conviction that all soldiers are libertines, not fit to be
trusted out of sight of their wives or sisters, and if she has no new
misdemeanour to relate on the part of the masters, the servants are sure to
come in for their share of abuse, and so Miss Maggie MacQuirk manages to
find food for scandal all the year round. Ethel Dunstan ought to know her
foibles well enough to mistrust her by this time, and had the doctor’s sister
come in with some new story of young Freshfield’s flirting, on Mr.
Masterman’s card playing, she would have been as ready as ever to laugh at
the old Scotchwoman’s mountainous molehills, and to assure her she was
utterly mistaken. But Miss MacQuirk’s discourse this morning had taken a
different turn. She had talked exclusively of the latest arrival in Mudlianah:
lovely Mrs. Lawless, who has just returned with her husband, Jack Lawless,
from staff duty in the northwest provinces, and how her beauty seemed to
have addled the heads of all the men of the 145th Bengal Muftis. And there
was a great deal of truth in Miss MacQuirk’s assertions, and that is what has
made them go home to the heart of Ethel Dunstan. We are all so ready to
believe anything that affects our own happiness.
“Deed, and it’s jeest freetful,” said Miss Margie, in her provincial twang,
“to see a set of dunderheeds tairned the wrang way for the sake of a wee bit
of a pasty face wi’ two beeg eyes in the meedle of it. It’s eno’ to mak’ a
God-fearing woman praise the Laird that has kept her in the straight path.
For I’ll no affairm that it’s by mee ain doin’ that I can haud up my heed the
day with the Queen o’ England herself if need be.”
“But Mrs. Lawless is very, very lovely—there cannot be two opinions on
that subject,” cried generous-hearted Mrs. Dunstan. “For my own part I
never saw a more beautiful face than hers, and my husband says just the
same thing.”
“Eh! I nae doot it! The Cairnal’s heed is tairned like all the rest o’ them.
But he cannot ca’ it reet that men should rin after a leddy that has a lawfu’
meeried husband of her ain.”

“But you have such strange notions, Miss MacQuirk. If a gentleman
shows a lady the least attention you call it ‘running after her.’ We are like
one family shut up in this little station by ourselves. If we are not to be on
friendly terms with each other, we are indeed to be pitied.”
“Friendly tairms,” exclaimed Miss Margie. “Do you call it ‘friendly
tairms’ to be walking in the dairk with anither mon’s wife? An’ that’s jeest
what my gude brother saw yester e’en as he was comin’ hame fra’ mess.”
“What man! whose wife?” asked Ethel Dunstan, for once interested in
Miss MacQuirk’s scandal.
“Aye! I dinna ken the mon, but the leddy was Mrs. Lawless hersel’. And
her husband was at the mess the while, for Andrew left him at the table, and
he was comin’ home in the dark and he saw Mrs. Lawless in her garden at
the dead o’ neet walkin’ with a strange mon—a tall mon, and stout, and not
unlike the Cairnal, Andrew says.”
“What nonsense, Charlie was back from mess by eleven o’clock,” said
Mrs. Dunstan, with an air of annoyance. “When you repeat such stories,
Miss MacQuirk, be good enough to keep my husband’s name out of them,
or you may get into trouble.”
“Ah, well, Mrs. Dunstan, I only mentioned that it was like the Cairnal.
Doubtless he was at mess or at home the while. It was half-past ten when
Andrew retairned. But it is hairdly reet that Mrs. Lawless should be walking
in her gairden at that hour o’ neet and with anither mon than her husband. I
doot but one should infairm Mr. Lawless of the caircumstance.”
“Well, I advise you not to be the one,” replied Ethel Dunstan, tartly.
“Jack Lawless is considered a fire-eater amongst men, and I don’t think he
would spare the woman even who tried to take away his wife’s character.”
“Eh, Mrs. Doonstan, who talks of takin’ awa’ her character? I doot it’s
but little she’s got, puir thing, and it ’twould be a sin to rob her of it. But it’s
a terrible thing to see how gude luiks air rated abuve guid deeds, and
enough to mak’ all honest men thank the Laird who has presairved them fra
the wiles of the enemy. And now I’ll wish you the gude mairnin’, Mrs.
Doonstan, for I have several other calls to pay before tiffin.”
And so the old scandal-monger had left the colonel’s wife in the
condition in which we found her.
Of course if there had been no more truth in it than in the generality of
Miss MacQuirk’s stories Ethel Dunstan would have laughed at and

forgotten it. But there is just sufficient probability of its being a fact to give
a colouring to the matter.
For Mrs. Lawless is not a woman that the most faithful husband in
creation could look at without some degree of interest, and Colonel Dunstan
being guileless of harm, has expressed his admiration of her in the most
open manner. She is a graceful, fairy-like creature, of two or three-and-
twenty, in the flush of youth and beauty, and yet with sufficient knowledge
of the world to render her the most charming companion. She has a
complexion like a rose leaf, a skin as white as milk, large limpid hazel eyes,
a pert nose, a coaxing mouth, and hair of a sunny brown. Fancy such a
woman alighting suddenly in an out-of-the-way, dull, dried up little hole of
a station like Mudlianah, and in the midst of some twenty inflammable
British officers. You might as well have sent a mitrailleuse amongst them
for the amount of damage she did. They were all alight at the first view of
her, and hopelessly burned up before the week was over. She is devoted to
her Jack, and has in reality no eyes nor thoughts except for him; but he has
become a little used to her charms, after the manner of husbands, and so she
flirts with the rest of the regiment indiscriminately, and sheds the light of
her countenance on all alike, from the Colonel downwards. The wives of
the 145th Bengal Muftis have received Mrs. Lawless but coldly. How can
they look into her heart and see how entirely it is devoted to her husband?
All they see is her lovely, smiling face, and contrasting it with their own
less beautiful and somewhat faded countenances, they imagine that no man
can be proof against her fascinations, and jealousy reigns supreme in the
145th with regard to Cissy Lawless.
Ethel Dunstan has no need to fear a rival in her Colonel’s heart, because
she possesses every atom of his affection, and he has proved it by years of
devotion and fidelity, but when a woman is once jealous of another, she
forgets everything except the fear of present loss. Colonel Dunstan is vexed
when he comes in that morning from regimental duty to find his wife pale
and dispirited, still more so to hear the tart replies she makes to all his
tender questioning.
“Are you not well, my darling?” he asks.
“Quite well, thank you; at least as well as one can be in a hole like
Mudlianah. Charlie! where have you been this morning?”
“Been, dear! Why, to mess and barracks, to be sure! Where else should I
have been?”

“There are plenty of houses to call at, I suppose. What is the use of
pretending to be so dull? You made a call late last night, if I am not much
mistaken!”
“Last night! What, after mess? I only went home with Jack Lawless for a
minute or two.”
“Did you go home with Mr. Lawless?”
“Yes; at least—he didn’t walk home with me exactly; but he came in
soon afterwards.”
“Of course she was in bed?”
“Oh no, she wasn’t. She was as brisk as a bee. We talked together for a
long time.”
“So I have heard! In the garden,” remarks Mrs. Dunstan pointedly.
“Yes! Was there any harm in that?” replies her husband. “Our talk was
solely on business. Is anything the matter, Ethel, darling? You are not at all
like yourself this morning.”
But the only answer Mr. Dunstan gives him is indicated by her suddenly
rising and leaving the room. She is not the sort of woman to tell her
husband frankly what she feels. She thinks—and perhaps she is right—that
to openly touch so delicate a matter as a dereliction from the path of marital
duty, is to add fuel to the flame. But she suffers terribly, and in her excited
condition Colonel Dunstan’s open avowal appears an aggravation of his
offence.
“ ‘He is too noble to deceive me,’ she thinks, ‘and so he will take refuge
in apparent frankness. He confesses he admires her, and he will tell me
every time he goes there, and then he will say,—“How can you suspect me
of any wrong intention when I am so open with you?” ’
“Business indeed! As if he could have any business with a doll like Mrs.
Lawless. It is shameful of her to flirt with married men in this disgraceful
way.”
Yet Mrs. Dunstan and Mrs. Lawless meet at the band that evening, and
smile and bow to and talk with one another as if they were the best friends
in the world; but the Colonel is prevented by duty from doing more than
arrive in time to take his wife home to dinner, and so Ethel’s heart is for the
while at rest. But during dinner a dreadful blow falls upon her. A note is
brought to the Colonel, which he reads in silence and puts into the pocket of
his white drill waistcoat.
“From Mr. Hazlewood, dear?” says Ethel interrogatively.

“No, my love, purely on business,” replies the Colonel, as he helps
himself to wine. But when the meal is concluded he walks into his dressing-
room, and re-appears in his mess uniform.
“Going to mess, Charlie?” exclaims his wife, in a tone of disappointment.
“No, my darling—business! I may be late. Good-night!” and he kisses
her and walks out of the house.
“Business,” repeats Mrs. Dunstan emphatically; and as soon as his back
is turned, she is searching his suit of drill. Colonel Dunstan has not been
careful to conceal or destroy the note he received at dinner. It is still in his
waistcoat pocket. His wife tears it open and reads:—

“Dear Colonel,—Do come over this evening if possible. I
have had another letter, which you must see. I depend upon you
for everything. You are the only friend I have in the world. Pray
don’t fail me.—Ever yours gratefully,
“Cissy Lawless.”

“Cat!” cries Mrs. Dunstan indignantly, “deceitful, fawning, hypocritical
cat! This is the way she gets over the men—pretending to each one that he
is the only friend she has in the world—a married woman, too! It’s
disgusting! Miss MacQuirk is quite right, and some one ought to tell poor
Jack Lawless of the way she is carrying on. And Charlie is as bad as she is!
It was only to-day he told me as bold as brass that that creature’s eyes are so
innocent and guileless-looking they reminded him of little Katie’s—and not
ten minutes afterwards, he said my new bonnet from England was a fright,
and made me look as yellow as a guinea. Oh! what is this world coming to,
and where will such wickedness end? I wish that I was dead and buried
with poor mamma.” And so Mrs. Dunstan cries herself to sleep, and when
her husband comes home and kisses her fondly as she lies upon the pillow,
he decides that she is feverish, and has not been looking well lately and
must require change, and remains awake for some time thinking how he can
best arrange to let her have it.
In the middle of that night, however, something occurs to occupy the
minds of both father and mother to the exclusion of everything else. Little
Katie, their only child, a beautiful little girl of three years old, is taken
suddenly and dangerously ill with one of those violent disorders that
annually decimate our British possessions in the east. The whole household

is roused—Dr. MacQuirk summoned from his bed—and for some hours the
parents hang in mental terror over the baby’s cot, fearing every minute lest
their treasure should be taken from them. But the crisis passes. Little Katie
is weak but out of danger, and then the consideration arises what is the best
thing to facilitate her recovery. Dr. MacQuirk lets a day or two pass to allow
the child to gain a little strength, and then he tells the Colonel emphatically
that she must be sent away at once—to England if possible—or he will not
answer for her life. This announcement is a sad blow to Colonel Dunstan,
but he knows it is imperative, and prepares to break the news to his wife.
“Ethel, my dear, I am sorry to tell you that MacQuirk considers it quite
necessary that Katie should leave Mudlianah for change of air, and he
wishes her, if possible, to go to England at once.”
“But it is not possible, Charlie. We could never consent to send the child
home alone, and you cannot get leave again so soon. Surely it is not
absolutely necessary she should go to England.”
“Not absolutely necessary, perhaps, but very advisable, not only for
Katie, but for yourself. You are not looking at all well, Ethel. Your dispirited
appearance worries me sadly, and in your condition you should take every
care of yourself. I hardly like to make the proposal to you, but if you would
consent to take Katie home to your sister’s, say for a twelvemonth, I think it
would do your own health a great deal of good.”
But Colonel Dunstan’s allusion to her want of spirits has recalled all her
jealousy of Mrs. Lawless to Ethel’s mind, and the journey to England finds
no favour in her eyes.
“You want me to go away for a twelvemonth,” she says sharply, “and
pray what is to become of you meanwhile?”
“I must stay here. You know I cannot leave India.”
“You will stay with Mrs. ——, I mean with the regiment, whilst I go
home with the child.”
“Yes. What else can I do?”
“Then I shall not go. I refuse to leave you.”
“Not even for Katie’s sake?”
“We will take her somewhere else. There are plenty of places in India
where we can go for change of air; and if you cared for me, Charlie, you
would never contemplate such a thing as a whole year’s separation.”
“Do you think I like the idea, Ethel? What should I do left here all by
myself? I only proposed it for your sake and the child’s.”

“I will not go,” repeats Mrs. Dunstan, firmly, and she sends for Dr.
MacQuirk and has a long talk with him.
“Dr. MacQuirk, is it an absolute necessity that Katie should go to
England?”
“Not an absolute necessity, my dear leddy, but, from a mee-dical point of
view, advisable. And your own hee-alth also—”
“Bother my health!” she cries irreverently. “What is the nearest place to
which I could take the child for change?”
“You might take her to the Heels, Mrs. Doonstan—to the heels of
Mandalinati, which are very salubrious at this time of the year.”
“And how far off are they?”
“A matter of a coople of hundred miles. Ye canna get houses there, but
there is a cairs-tle on the broo’ o’ the Heel that ye may have for the
airsking.”
“A castle, that sounds most romantic? And whom must we ask, doctor?”
“The cairs-tle is the property of Rajah Mati Singh, and he bee-lt it for his
ain plee-sure, but he doesna’ ceer to leeve there, and so he will lend it to any
Europeans who weesh for a change to the Heels of Mandalinati.”
“Rajah Mati Singh! That horrid man! There will be no chance of seeing
him, will there?”
“No, no, Mrs. Doonstan! the Rajah will not trouble ye! He never goes
near the cairs-tle noo, and ye will have the whoole place to yersel’ in peace
and quietude.”
“I will speak to the colonel about it directly he comes in. Thank you for
your information, Dr. MacQuirk. If we must leave Mudlianah, I shall be
delighted to stay for a while at this romantic castle on the brow of the hill.
“Yes,” she says to herself, when the doctor is gone, “we shall be alone
there, I and my Charlie, and it will seem like the dear old honeymoon time,
before we came to live amongst these horrid flirting cats of women, and
perhaps some of the old memories will come back to him, and we shall be
happy, foolish lovers again as we used to be long ago before I was so
miserable.”
But when Colonel Dunstan hears of the proposed visit to the Mandalinati
Hills, he does not seem to approve of it half so much as he did of the
voyage to England.
“I am not at all sure if the climate will suit you or the child,” he says, “it
is sometimes very raw and misty up on those hills. And then it is very wild

and lonely. I know the castle MacQuirk means—a great straggling building
standing quite by itself, and in a most exposed position. I really think you
will be much wiser to go to England, Ethel.”
“Oh, Charlie! how unkind of you, and when you know the separation will
kill me!”
“It would be harder, just at first, but I should feel our trouble would be
repaid. But I shall always be in a fidget about you at Mandalinati.”
“But, Charlie, what harm can happen when you are with us?”
“My dear girl, I can’t go with you to the castle.”
“Why not?”
“Because business will detain me here. How do you suppose I can leave
the regiment?”
“But you will come up very often to see us—every week at least; won’t
you, Charlie?”
“On a four days’ journey! Ethel, my dear, be reasonable. If you go to
Mandalinati, the most I can promise is to get a fortnight’s leave after a time,
and run up to see how you and the dear child are getting on. But I don’t like
your going, and I tell you so plainly. Suppose you are taken ill before your
time, or Katie has another attack, how are you to get assistance up on those
beastly hills? Think better of it, Ethel, and decide on England. If you go,
Captain Lewis says he will send his wife at the same time, and you would
be nice company for each other on the way home.”
“Mrs. Lewis, indeed! an empty-headed noodle! Why, she would drive me
crazy before we were half-way there. No, Charlie; I am quite decided. If
you cannot accompany me to England, I refuse to go. I shall get the loan of
the castle, and try what four weeks there will do for the child.”
And thus it came to pass that Mrs. Dunstan’s absurd jealousy of Mrs.
Lawless drives her to spend that fatal month at the lonely castle on the
Mandalinati Hills, instead of going in peace and safety to her native land.
For a brief space Hope leads her to believe that she may induce Mrs.
Lawless to pass the time of exile with her. If her woman’s wit can only
induce the fatal beauty to become her guest, she will bear the loss of
Charlie’s society with equanimity. But though Cissy Lawless seems for a
moment almost to yield, she suddenly draws back, to Mrs. Dunstan’s
intense annoyance.
“The old castle on the hills!” she exclaimed. “Are you and Colonel
Dunstan really going there? How delightfully romantic! I believe no end of

murders have been committed there, and every room is haunted. Oh, I
should like to go, too, of all things in the world! I long to see a real ghost,
only you must promise never to leave us alone, Colonel, for I should die of
fright if I were left by myself.”
“But I shall not be there, I am sorry to say,” replies the colonel. “My wife
and Katie are going for change of air, but I must simmer meanwhile at
Mudlianah.”
Pretty Cissy Lawless looks decidedly dumfoundered, and begins to back
out of her consent immediately. “I pity you,” she answers, “and I pity
myself too, for I expect we shall have to simmer together. I should like it of
all things, as I said before, but Jack would never let me leave him. He is
such a dear, useless body without me. Besides, as you know, colonel, I have
business to keep me in Mudlianah.”
Business again! Ethel turns away in disgust; but it is with difficulty she
can keep the tears from rushing to her eyes. However, there is no help for it,
and she must go. Her child is very dear to her, and at all risks it requires
mountain air. She must leave her colonel to take his chance in the plains
below—only as he puts her and the child into the transit that is to convey
them to the hills, and bids her farewell with a very honest falter in his voice
he feels her hot tears upon his cheek.
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, be true to me! Think how I have loved you. I am
so very miserable.”
“Miserable, my love, and for this short parting? Come, Ethel, you must
be braver than this. It will not be long before we meet again, remember.”
“And, till then, you will be careful, won’t you, Charlie, for my sake, and
think of me, and don’t go too much from home? and remember how
treacherous women are; and I am not beautiful, I know, my darling; I never
was, you know,” with a deep sob, “like—like Mrs. Lawless and others. But
I love you, Charlie, I love you with all my heart, and I have always been
faithful to you in thought as well as deed.” And so, sobbing and incoherent,
Ethel Dunstan drives away to the Mandalinati Hills, whilst the good colonel
stands where she left him, with a puzzled look upon his honest sunburnt
face.
“What does she mean?” he ponders, “by saying she is not beautiful like
Cissy Lawless, and telling me to remember how treacherous women are, as
if I didn’t know the jades. Is it possible Ethel can be jealous—jealous of
that poor, pretty little creature who is breaking her heart about her Jack?

No! that would be too ridiculous, and too alarming into the bargain; for
even if I can get the boy out of the scrape, it is hardly a matter to trust to a
woman’s discretion. Well, well, I must do the best I can, and leave the rest
to chance. Ethel to be jealous! the woman I have devoted my life to! It
would be too absurd if anything the creatures do can possibly be called so.”
And then he walks off to breakfast with the Lawlesses, though his heart is
rather heavy, and his spirits are rather dull for several days after his wife
starts for the castle on the hill. Ethel, on the other hand, gets on still worse
than her husband. As she lies in her transit, swaying about from side to side
over the rough country roads, she is haunted by the vision of Charlie
walking about the garden till the small hours of the morning, hand in hand
with Cissy Lawless, with a mind entirely oblivious of his poor wife and
child, or indeed of anything except his beautiful companion. Twenty times
would she have decided that she could bear the strain no longer, and given
the order to return to Mudlianah, had it not been for the warning conveyed
in the fretful wailing of her sickly child—his child—the blossom of their
mutual love. So, for Katie’s sake, poor Ethel keeps steadfastly to her
purpose, and soon real troubles take the place of imaginary ones, and nearly
efface their remembrance. She is well protected by a retinue of native
servants, and the country through which she travels is a perfectly safe one;
yet, as they reach the foot of the hills up which they must climb to reach the
celebrated castle, she is surprised to hear that her nurse (or Dye), who has
been with her since Katie’s birth, refuses to proceed any further, and sends
in her resignation.
“What do you mean, Dye?” demands her mistress with a natural
vexation, “you are going to leave Katie and me just as we require your
services most. What can you be thinking of? You, who have always
professed to be so fond of us both. Are you ill?”
“No, missus, I not ill, but I cannot go up the hill. That castle very bad
place, very cold and big, and bad people live there and many noises come,
and I want to go back to Mudlianah to my husband and little children.”
“What nonsense, Dye! I didn’t think you were so foolish. Who has been
putting such nonsense into your head? The castle is a beautiful place, and
you will not feel at all cold with the warm clothes I have given you, and we
have come here to make Miss Katie well, you know, and you will surely
never leave her until she is quite strong again.”

But the native woman obstinately declares that she will not go on to the
Mandalinati hills, and it is only upon a promise of receiving double pay that
she at last complainingly consents to accompany her mistress to the castle.
Ethel has to suffer, however, for descending to bribery, as before the ascent
commences every servant in her employ has bargained for higher wages,
and unless she wishes to remain in the plains she is compelled to comply
with their demands. But she determines to write and tell Charlie of their
extortion by the first opportunity, and hopes that the intelligence may bring
him up, brimming with indignation, to set her household in order. Her first
view of the castle, however, repays her for the trouble she has had in getting
there. She thinks she has seldom seen a building that strikes her with such a
sense of importance. It is formed of a species of white stone that glistens
like marble in the sunshine, and it is situated on the brow of a jutting hill
that renders it visible for many miles round. The approach to it is composed
of three terraces of stone, each one surrounded by mountainous shrubs and
hill-bearing flowers, and Ethel wonders why the Rajah Mati Singh, having
built himself such a beautiful residence, should ever leave it for the use of
strangers. She understands very little of the native language, but from a few
words dropt here and there she gathers that the castle was originally
intended for a harem, and supposes the rajah’s wives found the climate too
cold for susceptible natures. If they disliked the temperature as much as her
native servants appear to do, it is no wonder that they deserted the castle,
for their groans and moans and shakings of the head quite infect their
mistress, and make her feel more lonely and nervous than she would
otherwise have done, although she finds the house is so large that she can
only occupy a small portion of it. The dining hall, which is some forty feet
square, is approached by eight doors below, two on each side, whilst a
gallery runs round the top of it, supported by a stone balustrade, and
containing eight more doors to correspond with those on the ground floor.
These upper doors open into the sleeping chambers, which all look out
again upon open-air verandahs commanding an extensive view over the
hills and plains below. Mrs. Dunstan feels very dismal and isolated as she
sits down to her first meal in this splendid dining hall, but after a few days
she gets reconciled to the loneliness and sits with Katie on the terraces and
amongst the flowers all day long, praying that the fresh breeze and
mountain air may restore the roses to her darling’s cheeks. One thing,
however, she cannot make up her mind to, and that is to sleep upstairs. All

the chambers are furnished, for the Rajah Mati Singh is a great ally of the
British throne, and keeps up this castle on purpose to ingratiate himself with
the English by lending it for their use; but Ethel has her bed brought
downstairs, and occupies two rooms that look out upon the moonlit terraces.
She cannot imagine why the natives are so averse to this proceeding on her
part. They gesticulate and chatter—all in Double Dutch, as far as she is
concerned—but she will have her own way, for she feels less lonely when
her apartments are all together. Her Dye goes on her knees to entreat her
mistress to sleep upstairs instead of down; but Ethel is growing tired of all
this demonstration about what she knows nothing, and sharply bids her do
as she is told. Yet, as the days go on, there is something unsatisfactory—she
cannot tell what—about the whole affair. The servants are gloomy and
discontented, and huddle together in groups, whispering to one another. The
Dye is always crying and hugging the child, while she drops mysterious
hints about their never seeing Mudlianah again, which make Ethel’s heart
almost stop beating, as she thinks of native insurrections and rebellions, and
wonders if the servants mean to murder her and Katie in revenge for having
been forced to accompany them to Mandalinati.
Meanwhile, some mysterious circumstances occur for which Mrs.
Dunstan cannot account. One day, as she is sitting at her solitary dinner
with two natives standing behind her chairs, she is startled by hearing a
sudden rushing wind, and, looking up, sees the eight doors in the gallery
open and slam again, apparently of their own accord, whilst simultaneously
the eight doors on the ground floor which were standing open shut with a
loud noise. Ethel looks round; the two natives are green with fright; but she
believes that it is only the wind, though the evening is as calm as can be.
She orders them to open the lower doors again, and having done so, they
have hardly returned to their station behind her chair before the sixteen
doors open and shut as before. Mrs. Dunstan is now very angry; she
believes the servants are playing tricks upon her, and she is not the woman
to permit such an impertinence with impunity. She rises from table
majestically and leaves the room, but reflection shows her that the only
thing she can do is to write to her husband on the subject, for she is in the
power of her servants so long as she remains at the castle, where they
cannot be replaced.
She stays in the garden that evening, thinking over this occurrence and its
remedy, till long after her child has been put to bed—and as she re-enters

the castle she visits Katie’s room before she retires to her own, and detects
the Dye in the act of hanging up a large black shawl across the window that
looks out upon the terrace.
“What are you doing that for?” cries Ethel impetuously, her suspicions
ready to be aroused by anything, however trivial.
The woman stammers and stutters, and finally declares she cannot sleep
without a screen drawn before the window.
“Bad people’s coming and going at night here!” she says in explanation,
“and looking in at the window upon the child; and if they touch missy she
will die. Missus had better let me put up curtain to keep them out. They
can’t do me any harm. It is the child they come for.”
“Bad people coming at night! What on earth do you mean, Dye? What
people come here but our own servants? If you go on talking such nonsense
to me I shall begin to think you drink too much arrack.”
“Missus, please!” replies the native with a deprecatory shrug of the
shoulders; “but Dye speaks the truth! A white woman walks on this terrace
every night looking for her child, and if she sees little missy, she will take
her away, and then you will blame poor Dye for losing her. Better let me put
up the curtain so that she can’t look in at window.”
Ethel calls the woman some opprobrious epithet, but walks away
nevertheless, and lets her do as she will; only the next day she writes a full
account to Charlie of what she has gone through, and tells him she thinks all
the servants are going mad. In which opinion he entirely agrees with her.

“For ‘mad’ read ‘bad,’ ” he writes back again, “and I’m with
you. There is no doubt upon the matter, my dear girl. The brutes
don’t like the cold, and are playing tricks upon you to try and
force you to return to the plains. It is a common thing in this
country. Don’t give way to them, but tell them I’ll stop their pay
all round if anything unpleasant happens again. I think now you
must confess it would have been better to take my advice and try
a trip home instead. However, as you are at Mandalinati, don’t
come back until your object in going there is accomplished. I
wish I could join you, but it is impossible just yet. Jack Lawless is
obliged to go north on business, and I have promised to
accompany him. Keep up a good heart, dearest, and don’t let
those brutes think they have any power to annoy or frighten you.”

“Going north on business!” exclaims Ethel bitterly; “and she is going too,
I suppose; and Charlie can find time to go with them, though he cannot
come to me. Oh, it is too hard. It is more than any woman can be expected
to bear! I’m sure I wish I had gone to England instead. Then I should at
least have had my dear sister to tell my troubles to, and he—he would have
been free to flirt with that wretched woman as much as ever he chose.”
And the poor wife lies in her bed that night too unhappy to sleep, while
she pictures her husband doing all sorts of dishonourable things, instead of
snoring as he really is in his own deserted couch. Her room adjoins that in
which the Dye is sleeping with her little girl, and the door between them
stands wide open. From where she lies, Ethel can see part of the floor of
Katie’s bedroom, from which the moonlight is excluded in consequence of
the great black shawl which the nurse continues to pin nightly across the
window-pane. Suddenly, as she watches the shaded floor without thinking
of it, a streak of moonshine darts right athwart it, as if a corner of the
curtain had been raised. Always full of fears for her child, Ethel slips off her
own bed, and with noiseless, unslippered feet runs into the next room, only
in time to see part of a white dress upon the terrace as some unseen hand
hastily drops the shawl again. She crosses the floor, and opening the
window, looks out. Nobody is in sight. From end to end of the broad
terraces the moonlight lies undisturbed by any shadow, though she fancies
her ear can discern the rustling of a garment sweeping the stone foundation.
As she turns to the darkened chamber again, she finds the Dye is sitting up,
awake and trembling.
“Who raised that shawl just now, Dye? Tell me—I will know!” says Mrs.
Dunstan.
“Oh, mam! How can poor Dye tell? Perhaps it was the English lady come
to take my little missy! Oh! when shall we go back to Mudlianah and be
safe again?”
“English fiddlesticks! Don’t talk such rubbish to me. I am up to all your
tricks, but you won’t frighten me, and so you may tell the others. And I
shall not go back to Mudlianah one day sooner for anything you may say or
do—”
Yet Mrs. Ethel does not feel quite comfortable, even though her words
are so brave. But shortly afterwards her thoughts are turned into another
direction, whether agreeably or otherwise, we shall see. As she is sitting at
breakfast the next morning, a shouting of natives and a commotion in the

courtyard warns her of a new arrival. She imagines it is her husband, and
rushes to meet him. But, to her surprise and chagrin, the figure that emerges
from the transit is that of Mrs. Lawless looking as lovely in her travelling
dress and rumpled hair as ever she did in the most extravagant costume de
bal.
“Are you surprised to see me?” she cried, as she jumps to the ground.
“Well, my dear, you can hardly be more surprised than I am to find myself
here. But the fact is, Jack and the Colonel are off to Hoolabad on business,
so I thought I would take advantage of their absence to pay you a visit. And
I hope you are glad to see me?”
Of course Mrs. Dunstan says she is glad, and in a measure her words are
true. She is glad to keep this fascinating wicked flirt under her eye, where it
is impossible she can tamper with the affections of her beloved Charlie, and
she is glad of her company and conversation, which is as sociable and
bright as a clever little woman can make it. Mrs. Lawless is full of
sympathy, too, with Mrs. Dunstan’s fears and the bad behaviour of her
servants, and being a very good linguist, she promises to obtain all the
information she can from them, and make them fully understand their
mistress’s intentions in return.
“It’s lucky I came, my dear,” she says brightly, “or they might have made
themselves still more offensive to you. But you have the dear Colonel and
Jack to thank for that, for I shouldn’t have left home if they had not done
so.”
“Ah, just as I imagined,” thinks Ethel, “she would not have left him
unless she had been obliged, and she has the impudence to tell me so to my
very face. However, she is here, and I must make the best of it, and be
thankful it has happened so.” And so she lays herself out to please her guest
in order to keep her by her as long as she possibly can.
But a few days after Cissy’s arrival she receives a letter that evidently
discomposes her. She keeps on exclaiming, “How provoking,” and “How
annoying,” as she peruses it, and folds it up with an unmistakable frown on
her brow.
“What is the matter?” demands Ethel. “I hope it is not bad news.”
“Yes, it is very bad news. They have never gone after all, Mrs. Dunstan,
and Jack is so vexed I should have left Mudlianah before he started.”
“But now you are here, you will not think of returning directly, I hope,”
says Ethel, in an anxious voice.

“Oh no, I suppose not—it would be so childish—that is, unless Jack
wishes me to do so. But I have hardly recovered from the effects of the
journey yet; those transits shake so abominably. No, I shall certainly stay
here for a few weeks, unless my husband orders me to return.”
Yet Mrs. Lawless appears undecided and restless from that moment,
which Mrs. Dunstan ascribes entirely to her wish to return to Mudlianah,
and her flirtation with the Colonel, and the suspicion makes her receive any
allusions to such a contingency with marked coolness. Cissy Lawless busies
herself going amongst the natives and talking with them about the late
disturbances at the castle, and her report is not satisfactory.
“Are you easily frightened, Mrs. Dunstan?” she asks her one day
suddenly.
“No, I think not. Why?”
“Because you must think me a fool if you like, but I am; and the stories
your servants have told me have made me quite nervous of remaining at the
castle.”
“A good excuse to leave me and go back to Mudlianah,” thinks Mrs.
Dunstan; and then she draws herself up stiffly, and says, “Indeed! You must
be very credulous if you believe what natives say. What may these dreadful
stories consist of?”
“Oh! I daresay you will turn them into ridicule, because, perhaps, you
don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Ghosts! I should think not, indeed. Who does?”
“I do, Mrs. Dunstan, and for the good reason that I have seen more than
one.”
“You have seen a spirit? What will you tell me next?”
“That I hope you never may, for it is not a pleasant sight. But that has
nothing to do with the present rumours. I find that your servants are really
frightened of remaining at the castle. They say there is not a native in the
villages round about who would enter it for love or money, and that the
reason the Rajah Mati Singh has deserted it is on account of its reputation
for being haunted.”
“Every one has heard of that,” replies Ethel, with a heightened colour,
“but no one believes it. Who should it be haunted by?”
“You know what a bad character the Rajah bears for cruelty and
oppression. They say he built this castle for a harem, and kidnapped a
beautiful English woman, a soldier’s daughter, and confined her here for

some years. But, finding one day that she had been attempting to
communicate with her own people, he had her most barbarously put to
death, with her child and the servants he suspected of conniving with her.
Then he established a native harem here, but was obliged to remove it, for
no infant born in the house ever lived. They say that as soon as a child is
born under this roof, the spirit of the white woman appears to carry it away
in place of her own. But the natives declare that she is not satisfied with the
souls of black children, and that she will continue to appear until she has
secured a white child like the one that was murdered before her eyes. And
your servants assure me that she has been seen by several of them since
coming here, and they feel certain that she is waiting for your baby to be
born that she may carry it away.”
“What folly!” cries Mrs. Dunstan, whose cheeks have nevertheless grown
very red. “It’s all a ruse in order to make me go home again. In the first
place, I should be ashamed to believe in such nonsense, and in the second, I
do not expect my baby to be born until I am back in Mudlianah.”
“But accidents happen some times, you know, dear Mrs. Dunstan, and it
would be a terrible thing if you were taken ill up here. Don’t you think, all
things considered, it would be more prudent for you to go home again?”
“No, I do not,” replied Mrs. Dunstan, decidedly. “I came here for my
child’s health, and I shall stay until it is re-established.”
“But you must feel so lonely by yourself.”
“I have plenty to do and to think of,” says Ethel, “and I never want
company whilst I am with my little Katie.”
She is determined to take neither pity nor advice from the woman who is
so anxious to join the Colonel again.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Mrs. Lawless, somewhat timidly,
“because it makes it easier for me to tell you that I am afraid I must leave
you. I daresay you will think me very foolish, but I am too nervous to
remain any longer at Mandalinati. I have not slept a wink for the last three
nights. I must go back to Jack.”
“Oh! you must go back to Jack!” repeats Mrs. Dunstan, with a sneer at
Mrs. Lawless. “I hate duplicity! Why can’t you tell the truth at once?”
“Mrs. Dunstan! What do you mean?”
“I mean that I know why you are going back to Mudlianah as well as you
do yourself. It’s all very well to lay it upon ‘Jack,’ or this ridiculous ghost;
but you don’t deceive me. I have known your treachery for a long time past.

It is not ‘Jack’ you go back to cantonment for—but my husband, and you
are a bad, wicked woman.”
“For your husband!” cried Cissy Lawless, jumping to her feet. “How dare
you insult me in this manner! What have I ever done to make you credit
such an absurdity?”
“You may call it an absurdity, madam, if you choose, but I call it a
diabolical wickedness. Haven’t you made appointments with him, and
walked at night in the garden with him, and done all you could to make him
faithless to his poor, trusting wife? And you a married woman, too. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“Mrs. Dunstan, I will not stand this language any longer. I, flirt with your
husband—a man old enough to be my father! You must be out of your
senses! Why, he must be fifty if he’s a day!”
“He’s not fifty,” screams Ethel, in her rage. “He was only forty-two last
birth-day.”
“I don’t believe it. His hair is as grey as a badger. Flirt with the Colonel,
indeed. When I want to flirt I shall look for a younger and a handsomer man
than your husband, I can tell you.”
“You’d flirt with him if he were eighty, you bold, forward girl, and I shall
take good care to inform Mr. Lawless of the way you have been carrying on
with him.”
“I shall go down at once, and tell him myself. You don’t suppose I would
remain your guest after what has happened for an hour longer than is
absolutely necessary. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Dunstan, and a civil
tongue for the future.”
“Oh, of course, you’ll go to Mudlianah. I was quite prepared for that, and
an excellent excuse you have found to get back again. Good day, madam,
and the less we meet before you start the better. Grey haired, indeed! Why,
many men are grey at thirty, and I’ve often been told that he used to be
called ‘Handsome Charlie’ when he first joined the service.”
But the wife’s indignant protests do not reach the ears of Cissy Lawless,
who retires to her own apartments and does not leave them until she gets
into the transit again and is rattled back to Mudlianah. When she is fairly
off there is no denying that Ethel feels very lonely and very miserable. She
is not so brave as she pretends to be, and she is conscious that she has
betrayed her jealous feelings in a most unladylike manner, which will make
Charlie very angry with her when he comes to hear of it. So what between

her rage and her despair, she passes the afternoon and evening in a very
hysterical condition of weeping and moaning, and the excitement and
fatigue, added to terror at the stories she has heard, bring on the very
calamity against which Mrs. Lawless warned her. In the middle of the night
she is compelled by illness to summon her Dye to her assistance, and two
frightened women do their best to alarm each other still more, until with the
morning’s light a poor little baby is born into the world, who had no
business, strictly speaking, to have entered it till two months later, and the
preparations for whose advent are all down at Mudlianah. Poor Ethel has
only strength after the event to write a few faint lines in pencil to Colonel
Dunstan, telling him she is dying, and begging him to come to her at once,
and then to lie down in a state of utter despair, which would assail most
women under the circumstances. She has not sufficient energy even to
reprove the Dye, who laments over the poor baby as if it were a doomed
creature, and keeps starting nervously, as night draws on again, at every
shadow, as though she expected to see the old gentleman at her elbow.
She wears out Ethel’s patience at last, for the young mother is depressed
and feeble and longs for sleep. So she orders the nurse to lay her little infant
on her arm, and to go into the next room as usual and lie down beside
Katie’s cot; and after some expostulation, and many shakings of her head,
the Dye complies with her mistress’s request. For some time after she is left
alone, Ethel lies awake, too exhausted even to sleep, and as she does so, her
mind is filled with the stories she has heard, and she clasps her little fragile
infant closer to her bosom as she recalls the history of the poor murdered
mother, whose child was barbarously slaughtered before her eyes. But she
has too much faith in the teaching of her childhood quite to credit such a
marvellous story, and she composes herself by prayer and holy thoughts
until she sinks into a calm and dreamless slumber. When she wakes some
hours after, it is not suddenly, but as though some one were pulling her back
to consciousness. Slowly she realises her situation, and feels that somebody,
the Dye she supposes, is trying to take the baby from her arms without
disturbing her.
“Don’t take him from me, Dye,” she murmurs, sleepily; “he is so good—
he has not moved all night.”
But the gentle pressure still continues, and then Ethel opens her eyes and
sees not the Dye but a woman, tall and finely formed, and fair as the day,
with golden hair floating over her shoulders, and a wild, mad look in her

large blue eyes, who is quietly but forcibly taking the baby from her.
Already she has one bare arm under the child, and the other over him—and
her figure is bent forward, so that her beautiful face is almost on a level
with that of Mrs. Dunstan’s.
“Who are you? What are you doing?” exclaims Ethel in a voice of
breathless alarm, although she does not at once comprehend why she should
experience it. The woman makes no answer, but with her eyes fixed on the
child with a sort of wild triumph draws it steadily towards her.
“Leave my baby alone! How dare you touch him?” cries Ethel, and then
she calls aloud, “Dye! Dye! come to me!”
But at the sound of her voice the woman draws the child hastily away,
and Ethel sees it reposing on her arm, whilst she slowly folds her white
robes about the little form, and hides it from view.
“Dye, Dye,” again screams the mother, and as the nurse rushes to her
assistance the spirit woman slowly fades away, with a smile of success upon
her lips.
“Bring a light. Quick,” cries Ethel. “The woman has been here; she has
stolen my baby. Oh, Dye, make haste; help me to get out of bed. I will get it
back again if I die in the attempt.”
The Dye runs for a lamp, and brings it to the bedside as Mrs. Dunstan is
attempting to leave it.
“Missus dreaming!” she exclaims quickly, as the light falls on the pillow.
“The baby is there—safe asleep. Missus get into bed again, and cover up
well, or she will catch cold!”
“Ah! my baby,” cries Ethel, hysterically, as she seizes the tiny creature in
her arms, “is he really there? Thank God! It was only a dream. But, Dye,
what is the matter with him, and why is he so stiff and cold? He cannot—he
cannot be—dead!”
Yes, it was true! It was not a dream after all. The white woman has
carried the soul of the white child away with her, and left nothing but the
senseless little body behind. As Ethel realises the extent of her misfortune,
and the means by which it has been perpetrated, she sinks back upon her
pillow in a state of utter unconsciousness.
******
When she once more becomes aware of all that is passing around her, she
finds her husband by her bedside, and Cissy Lawless acting the part of the

most devoted of nurses.
“It was so wrong of me to leave you, dear, in that hurried manner,” she
whispers one day when Mrs. Dunstan is convalescent, “but I was so angry
to think you could suspect me of flirting with your dear old husband. I
ought to have told you from the first what all those meetings and letters
meant, and I should have done so only they involved the character of my
darling Jack. The fact is, dear, my boy got into a terrible scrape up country
—and the Colonel says the less we talk of it the better—however, it had
something to do with that horrid gambling that men will indulge in, and it
very nearly lost Jack his commission, and would have done so if it hadn’t
been for the dear Colonel. But he and I plotted and worked together till we
got Jack out of his scrape, and now we’re as happy as two kings; and you
will be so too, won’t you, dear Mrs. Dunstan, now that you are well again,
and know that your Charlie has flirted no more than yourself?”
“I have been terribly to blame,” replies poor Ethel. “I see that now, and I
have suffered for it too, bitterly.”
“We have all suffered, my darling,” says the Colonel, tenderly; “but it
may teach us a valuable lesson, never to believe that which we have not
proved.”
“And never to disbelieve that which we have not disproved,” retorts
Ethel. “If I had only been a little more credulous and a little less boastful of
my own courage, I might not have lived to see my child torn from my arms
by the spirit of the white woman.”
And whatever Ethel Dunstan believed or not, I have only, in concluding
her story, to reiterate my assertion that the circumstances of it are strictly
true.

STILL WATERS.
I often wonder if when, as the Bible tells us, “the secrets of all hearts
shall be revealed,” they will be revealed to our fellow-creatures as well as
to the Almighty Judge of men.
I am not usually given to philosophise, but the above remark was drawn
from me by the receipt of a letter this morning from my niece, Justina
Trevor, announcing the death of her “dear friend,” Mrs. Benson, which
recalled the remembrance of an incident that took place a few months since,
whilst I was staying at Durham Hall, in Derbyshire, the estate of her late
husband, Sir Harry Trevor. I am an old bachelor, though not so old as I
look; yet when I confess that I write “General” before my name, and have
served most of my time in hot climates, it will readily be believed that no
one would take me for a chicken. It was after an absence of fourteen years
that, last November, I arrived in England, and put up at an hotel near
Covent Garden, which had been a favourite resort of mine during my last
stay in London. But I soon found that I had made a great mistake, for the
town was dark, damp, dirty, deserted, detestable; in fact, no adjective,
however long and however strong, could convey an adequate idea of the
impression made upon me by a review of the great metropolis; and it was
with a feeling of intense relief that I perused a letter from my niece Justina,
to whom I had duly announced my advent, in which she insisted that her
“dear uncle” must spend his first Christmas in England nowhere but at
Durham Hall, with Sir Harry and herself. Now Justina, if not my only, is
certainly my nearest relative, and I knew that she knew that I was an old
fellow on the shady side of sixty-five, with a couple of pounds or so laid by
in the Oriental Bank, and with no one to leave them to but herself or her
children; but I was not going to let that fact interfere with my prospects of
present comfort; and so, ordering my servant to repack my travelling cases,
the next day but one saw us en route for Derbyshire.

It was evening when I arrived at Durham Hall, but even on a first view I
could not help being struck with the munificent manner in which all the
arrangements of the household seemed to be conducted, and reflected with
shame on the unworthy suspicion I had entertained respecting those two
pounds of mine in the Oriental Bank, which I now felt would be but as a
drop in the ocean to the display of wealth which surrounded me. The hall
was full of guests, assembled to enjoy the hunting and shooting season, and
to spend the coming Christmas, and amongst them I heard several persons
of title mentioned; but my host and hostess paid as much attention to me as
though I had been the noblest there, and I felt gratified by the reception
awarded me.
I found my niece but little altered, considering the number of years which
had elapsed since I had last seen her; her children were a fine, blooming set
of boys and girls, whilst her husband, both in appearance and manners, far
exceeded my expectations. For it so happened that I had not seen Sir Harry
Trevor before, my niece’s marriage having taken place during my absence
from England; but Justina had never ceased to correspond with me, and
from her letters I knew that the union had been as happy as it was
prosperous. But now that I met him I was more than pleased, and voted his
wife a most fortunate woman. Of unusual height and muscular build, Sir
Harry Trevor possessed one of those fair, frank Saxon faces which look as if
their owners had never known trouble. His bright blue eyes shone with
careless mirth and his yellow beard curled about a mouth ever ready to
smile in unison with the outstretching of his friendly hand.
He was a specimen of a free, manly, and contented Englishman, who had
everything he could desire in this world, and was thankful for it. As for
Justina, she seemed perfectly to adore him; her eyes followed his figure
wherever it moved; she hung upon his words, and refused to stir from
home, even to take a drive or walk, unless he were by her side.
“I must congratulate you upon your husband,” I said to her, as we sat
together on the second day of my visit. “I think he is one of the finest
fellows I ever came across, and seems as good as he is handsome.”
“Ah, he is, indeed!” she replied, with ready enthusiasm; “and you have
seen the least part of him, uncle. It would be impossible for me to tell you
how good he is in all things. We have been married now for more than ten
years, and during that time I have never had an unkind word from him, nor
do I believe he has ever kept a thought from me. He is as open as the day,

and could not keep a secret if he tried. Dear fellow!” and something very
like a tear twinkled in the wife’s eyes.
“Ay, ay,” I replied, “that’s right. I don’t know much about matrimony, my
dear, but if man and wife never have a secret from one another they can’t go
far wrong. And now perhaps you will enlighten me a little about these
guests of yours, for there is such a number of them that I feel quite
confused.”
Justina passed her hand across her eyes and laughed.
“Yes, that is dear Harry’s whim. He will fill the house at Christmas from
top to basement, and I let him have his way, though all my visitors are not
of my own choosing. With whom shall I commence, uncle?”
We were sitting on a sofa together during the half hour before dinner, and
one by one the guests, amounting perhaps to fifteen or twenty, came
lounging into the drawing-room.
“Who, then, is that very handsome woman with the scarlet flower in her
hair?”
“Oh, do you call her handsome?” (I could tell at once from the tone of
Justina’s voice that the owner of the scarlet flower was no favourite of
hers.) “That is Lady Amabel Scott, a cousin of Harry’s: indeed, if she were
not, she should never come into my house. Now, there’s a woman, uncle,
whom I can’t bear—a forward, presuming, flirting creature, with no desire
on earth but to attract admiration. Look how she’s dressed this evening—
absurd, for a home party. I wonder that her husband, Mr. Warden Scott (that
is he looking over the photograph book), can allow her to go on so! It is
quite disgraceful. I consider a flirting married woman one of the most
dangerous members of society.”
“But you can have no reason to fear her attacks,” I said, confidently.
The colour mounted to her face. My niece is not a pretty woman—
indeed, I had already wondered several times what made Trevor fall in love
with her—but this little touch of indignation improved her.
“Of course not! But Lady Amabel spares no one, and dear Harry is so
good-natured that he refuses to see how conspicuous she makes both him
and herself. I have tried to convince him of it several times, but he is too
kind to think evil of any one, and so I must be as patient as I can till she
goes. Thank Heaven, she does not spend her Christmas with us! For my
part, I can’t understand how one can see any beauty in a woman with a
turned-up nose.”

“Ho, ho!” I thought to myself; “this is where the shoe pinches, is it? And
if a lady will secure an uncommonly good-looking and agreeable man all to
herself, she must expect to see others attempt to share the prize with her.”
Poor Justina! With as many blessings as one would think heart could
desire, she was not above poisoning her life’s happiness by a touch of
jealousy; and so I pitied her. It is a terrible foe with which to contend.
“But this is but one off the list,” I continued, wishing to divert her mind
from the contemplation of Sir Harry’s cousin. “Who are those two dark girls
standing together at the side table? and who is that quiet-looking little lady
who has just entered with the tall man in spectacles?”
“Oh, those—the girls—are the Misses Rushton; they are pretty, are they
not?—were considered quite the belles of last season—and the old lady on
the opposite side of the fireplace is their mother: their father died some
years since.”
“But the gentleman in spectacles? He looks quite a character.”
“Yes, and is considered so, but he is very good and awfully clever. That is
Professor Benson: you must know him and his wife too, the ‘quiet-looking
little lady,’ as you called her just now. They are the greatest friends I have in
the world, and it was at their house that I first met Harry. I am sure you
would like Mary Benson, uncle; she is shy, but has an immense deal in her,
and is the kindest creature I ever knew. You would get on capitally together.
I must introduce you to each other after dinner. And the professor and she
are so attached—quite a model couple, I can assure you.”
“Indeed! But whom have we here?” as the door was thrown open to
admit five gentlemen and two ladies.
“Lord and Lady Mowbray; Colonel Green and his son and daughter;
Captain Mackay and Mr. Cecil St. John,” whispered Lady Trevor, and as
she concluded dinner was announced, and our dialogue ended.
As the only persons in whom my niece had expressed much interest were
Lady Amabel Scott and Mrs. Benson, I took care to observe these two
ladies very narrowly during my leisure moments at the dinner-table, and
came to the conclusion that, so far as I could judge, her estimate was not far
wrong of either of them. Lady Amabel was a decided beauty,
notwithstanding the “turned-up nose” of which her hostess had spoken so
contemptuously: it was also pretty evident that she was a decided flirt.
During my lengthened career of five-and-sixty years, I had always been
credited with having a keen eye for the good points of a woman or a horse;

but seldom had I met with such vivid colouring, such flashing eyes, and
such bright speaking looks as now shone upon me across the table from the
cousin of Sir Harry Trevor. She was a lovely blonde, in the heyday of her
youth and beauty, and she used her power unsparingly and without reserve.
My observation quickened by what Justina’s flash of jealousy had revealed,
I now perceived, or thought I perceived, that our host was by no means
insensible to the attractions of his fair guest, for, after conducting her in to
dinner and placing her by his side, he devoted every second not demanded
by the rights of hospitality to her amusement. Yet, Lady Amabel seemed
anything but desirous of engrossing his attention; on the contrary, her
arrows of wit flew far and wide, and her bright glances flashed much in the
same manner, some of their beams descending even upon me, spite of my
grey hairs and lack of acquaintanceship. One could easily perceive that she
was a universal favourite; but as Mr. Warden Scott seemed quite satisfied
with the state of affairs, and calmly enjoyed his dinner, whilst his wife’s
admirers, in their fervent admiration, neglected to eat theirs, I could not see
that any one had a right to complain, and came to the conclusion that my
niece, like many another of her sex, had permitted jealousy to blind her
judgment.
I felt still more convinced of this when I turned to the contemplation of
the other lady to whom she had directed my attention—the professor’s wife,
who was her dearest friend, and through whose means she had first met Sir
Harry Trevor. There was certainly nothing to excite the evil passions of
either man or woman in Mrs. Benson. Small and insignificant in figure, she
was not even pleasing in countenance; indeed, I voted her altogether
uninteresting, until she suddenly raised two large brown eyes, soft as a
spaniel’s and shy as a deer’s, and regarded me. She dropped them again
instantly, but as she did so I observed that her lashes were long and dark,
and looked the longer and darker for resting on perfectly pallid cheeks. Au
reste, Mrs. Benson had not a feature that would repay the trouble of looking
at twice, and the plain, dark dress she wore still farther detracted from her
appearance. But she looked a good, quiet, harmless little thing, who, if she
really possessed the sense Lady Trevor attributed to her, might prove a very
valuable and worthy friend. But she was certainly not the style of woman to
cause any one a heartache, or to make a wife rue the day she met her.
And indeed, when, dinner being over, we joined the ladies in the
drawing-room, and I saw her surrounded by my grand-nephews and nieces,

who seemed by one accord to have singled her out for persecution, I
thought she looked much more like a governess or some one in a dependent
situation than the most welcome guest at Durham Hall. Sir Harry seemed
pleased with her notice of his children, for he took a seat by her side and
entered into conversation with her, the first time that I had seen him pay his
wife’s friend so open a compliment. Now I watched eagerly for the “great
deal” that by Justina’s account was “in her;” but I was disappointed, for she
seemed disinclined for a tête-à-tête, and after a few futile attempts to draw
her out, I was not surprised to see her host quit his position and wander
after Lady Amabel Scott into the back drawing-room, whither my niece’s
eyes followed him in a restless and uneasy manner.
“I promised to introduce you to Mrs. Benson, uncle,” she exclaimed, as
she perceived that I was watching her, and willy-nilly, I was taken forcible
possession of, and soon found myself occupying the chair left vacant by Sir
Harry.
“We can so very seldom persuade Mary to stay with us; and when she
does come, her visits are so brief that we are obliged to make a great deal of
them whilst they last,” was part of Justina’s introduction speech; and on that
hint I commenced to speak of the charms of the country and my wonder
that Mrs. Benson did not oftener take occasion to enjoy them. But barely an
answer, far less an idea, could I extract from my niece’s valued friend. Mrs.
Benson’s brown eyes were not once raised to meet mine, and the replies
which I forced from her lips came in monosyllables. I tried another theme,
but with no better success; and had just decided that she was as stupid as
she looked, when, to my great relief, the professor arrived with a message
from Lady Trevor, and bore his wife off into another room.
Several days passed without bringing forth much incident. The gentlemen
spent most of their time in the shooting-covers or hunting-field, and did not
meet the ladies until evening re-assembled them in the drawing-room; on
which occasions I used to get as far as I could from Lady Trevor and the
professor’s wife, and in consequence generally found myself in the vicinity
of Sir Harry and Lady Amabel. Yet, free and intimate as seemed their
intercourse with one another, and narrowly as, in Justina’s interest, I
watched them, I could perceive nothing in their conduct which was not
justified by their relationship, and treated it as a matter of the smallest
consequence, until one afternoon about a fortnight after my arrival at
Durham Hall.

With the exception of Sir Harry himself, who had business to transact
with his bailiff, we had all been out shooting, and as, after a hard day’s
work, I was toiling up to my bedroom to dress for dinner, I had occasion to
pass the study appropriated to the master of the house, and with a sudden
desire to give him an account of our sport, incontinently turned the handle
of the door. As I did so I heard an exclamation and the rustle of a woman’s
dress, which were sufficient to make me halt upon the threshold of the half-
opened door, and ask if I might enter.
“Come in, by all means,” exclaimed Sir Harry. He was lying back
indolently in his arm-chair beside a table strewn with books and papers,—a
little flushed, perhaps, but otherwise himself, and, to my astonishment,
quite alone. Yet I was positive that I had heard the unmistakable sound of a
woman’s dress sweeping the carpet. Involuntarily I glanced around the
room; but there was no egress.
Sir Harry caught my look of inquiry, and seemed annoyed. “What are
you staring at, Wilmer?” he demanded, in the curtest tone I had yet heard
from him.
“May I not glance round your den?” I replied courteously. “I have not
had the honour of seeing it before.”
Then I entered into a few details with him concerning the day’s sport we
had enjoyed; but I took care to be brief, for I saw that my presence there
displeased him, and I could not get the rustle of that dress out of my mind.
As I concluded, and with some remark upon the lateness of the hour, turned
to leave the room, a cough sounded from behind a large Indian screen
which stood in one corner. It was the faintest, most subdued of coughs, but
sufficiently tangible to be sworn to; and as it fell upon my ear I could not
help a change of countenance.
“All right!” said my host, with affected nonchalance, as he rose and
almost backed me to the door. “We’ll have a talk over all this after dinner,
Wilmer; sorry I wasn’t with you; but, as you say, it’s late. Au revoir!” and
simultaneously the study door closed upon me.
I was very much startled and very much shocked. I had not a doubt that I
was correct in my surmise that Sir Harry had some visitor in his room
whom he had thought it necessary to conceal from me; and though Hope
suggested that it might have been his wife, Common Sense rose up to refute
so absurd an idea. Added to which, I had not traversed twenty yards after

leaving him before I met Justina attired in her walking things, and just
returning from a stroll round the garden.
“Is it very late, uncle?” she demanded, with a smile, as we encountered
one another. “I have been out with the children. Have you seen Mary or
Lady Amabel? I am afraid they will think I have neglected them shamefully
this afternoon.”
I answered her questions indifferently, thinking the while that she had no
occasion to blame herself for not having paid sufficient attention to Lady
Amabel Scott, for that it was she whom I had surprised tête-à-tête with Sir
Harry Trevor, I had not a shadow of doubt.
Well, I was not the one to judge them, nor to bring them to judgment; but
I thought very hard things of Sir Harry’s cousin during the dressing hour,
and pitied my poor niece, who must some day inevitably learn that it was a
true instinct which had made her shrink from her beautiful guest. And
during the evening which followed my discovery, I turned with disgust
from the lightning glances which darted from Lady Amabel’s blue eyes, and
the arch smile which helped to make them so seductive. I could no longer
think her beauty harmless: the red curves of her mouth were cruel serpents
in my mind; poisoned arrows flew from her lips; there was no innocence
left in look, or word, or action; and I found myself turning with a sensation
of relief to gaze at the Quakerlike attire, the downcast eyes, and modest
appearance of the professor’s wife, whilst I inwardly blamed myself for
having ever been so foolish as to be gulled into believing that the flaunting
beauty of Lady Amabel Scott was superior to Mrs. Benson’s quiet graces.
I did not have much to say to Sir Harry Trevor during that evening:
indignation for his deception towards Justina made me disinclined to speak
to him, whilst he, for his part, seemed anxious to avoid me. For a few days
more all went on as usual: my host’s affability soon returned, and every
one, my niece included, appeared so smiling and contented, that I almost
began to think I must have been mistaken, and that there could have been
no real motive for concealing Lady Amabel in Sir Harry’s room, except
perhaps her own girlish love of fun. I tried to think the best I could of both
of them; and a day came but too soon when I was thankful that I had so
tried.
It was about a week after the little incident related above that Sir Harry
Trevor was shooting over his preserves, accompanied by his guests. We had
had a capital day’s sport and an excellent luncheon—at which latter some of

the ladies had condescended to join us—and were beating the last cover
preparatory to a return to Durham Hall, when the report of a fire-arm was
quickly followed by the news that Sir Harry Trevor had been wounded.
I was separated from him by a couple of fields when I first heard of the
accident, but it did not take me long to reach his side, when I perceived, to
my horror, that he was fast bleeding to death, having been shot through the
lungs by the discharge of his own gun whilst getting through the hedge. I
had seen men die from gunshot wounds received under various
circumstances, and I felt sure that Sir Harry’s hours were numbered; yet, of
course, all that was possible was done at once, and five minutes had not
elapsed before messengers were flying in all directions—one for the doctor,
another for the carriage, a third for cordials to support the sinking man;
whilst I entreated Mr. Warden Scott and several others to walk back to the
Hall as though nothing particular had happened, and try to prevent the
immediate circulation of the full extent of the bad news. Meanwhile, I
remained by the wounded man, who evidently suspected, by the sinking
within him, that he was dying.
“Wilmer!” he gasped, “old fellow, have I settled my hash?”
“I trust not, Sir Harry,” I commenced; but I suppose that my eyes
contradicted my words.
“Don’t say any more,” he replied, with difficulty. “My head a little higher
—thanks. I feel it will soon be over.”
And so he lay for a few moments, supported on my knee, with his fast
glazing eyes turned upward to the December sky, and his breath coming in
short, quick jerks.
The men who had remained with me seemed as though they could not
endure the sight of his sufferings; one or two gazed at him speechless and
almost as pale as himself; but the majority had turned away to hide their
feelings.
“Wilmer,” he whispered presently, but in a much fainter voice than
before, “it’s coming fast now;” and then, to my surprise, just as I thought he
was about to draw his last breath, he suddenly broke into speech that was
almost a sob—“Oh, if I could only have seen her again! I wouldn’t mind it
half so much if I could but have seen Pet again! Call her, Wilmer; in God’s
name, call her!—call Pet to me—only once again—only once! Pet! Pet!
Pet!” And with that name upon his lips, each time uttered in a shorter and

fainter voice, and with a wild look of entreaty in his eyes, Sir Harry Trevor
let his head drop back heavily upon my knees and died.
When the doctor and the carriage arrived, the only thing left for us to do
was to convey the corpse of its master back to Durham Hall.
For the first few hours I was too much shocked by the suddenness of the
blow which had descended on us to have leisure to think of anything else.
In one moment the house of feasting had been turned into the house of
mourning; and frightened guests were looking into each other’s faces, and
wondering what would be the correct thing for them to do. Of my poor
niece I saw nothing. The medical man had undertaken to break the news of
her bereavement to her, and I confess that I was sufficiently cowardly to
shrink from encountering the sorrow which I could do nothing to mitigate.
As I passed along the silent corridors (lately so full of mirth and revelry)
that evening, I met servants and travelling-cases at every turn, by which I
concluded, and rightly, that the Christmas guests were about at once to take
their departure; and on rising in the morning, I found that, with the
exception of Lady Amabel and Mr. Warden Scott, who, as relatives of the
deceased, intended to remain until after the funeral, and the professor and
Mrs. Benson, on whose delicate frame the shock of Sir Harry’s death was
said to have had such an effect as to render her unfit for travelling, Durham
Hall was clear.
Lady Amabel had wept herself almost dry: her eyes were swollen, her
features disfigured, her whole appearance changed from the violence of her
grief, and every ten minutes she was ready to burst out afresh.
We had not been together half-an-hour on the following morning before
she was sobbing by my side, entreating me to give her every particular of
“poor dear Harry’s” death, and to say if there was anything she could do for
Justina or the children; and notwithstanding the repugnance with which her
conduct had inspired me, I could not repulse her then. However she had
sinned, the crime and its occasion were both past—Sir Harry was laid out
ready for his burial, and she was grieving for him.
I am an old man, long past such follies myself, and I hope I am a virtuous
man; but all my virtue could not prevent my pitying Lady Amabel in her
distress, and affording her such comfort as was possible. And so (a little
curiosity still mingling with my compassion) I related to her in detail, whilst
I narrowly watched her features, the last words which had been spoken by

her cousin. But if she guessed for whom that dying entreaty had been urged,
she did not betray herself.
“Poor fellow!” was her only remark as she wiped her streaming eyes
—“poor dear Harry! Used he to call Justina ‘Pet?’ I never heard him do so.”
Whereupon I decided that Lady Amabel was too politic to be very
miserable, and that my pity had been wasted on her.
Of Mrs. Benson I saw nothing, but the professor talked about attending
the funeral, and therefore I concluded that my niece had invited them, being
such intimate friends, to remain for that ceremony.
On the afternoon of the same day I was told that Justina desired to speak
to me. I sought the room where she was sitting, with folded hands and
darkened windows, with nervous reluctance; but I need not have dreaded a
scene, for her grief was too great for outward show, and I found her in a
state which appeared to me unnaturally calm.
“Uncle,” she said, after a moment’s pause, during which we had silently
shaken hands, “will you take these keys and go down into—into—his study
for me, and bring up the desks and papers which you will find in the
escritoire? I do not like to send a servant.”
I took the keys which she extended to me, and, not able to trust myself to
answer, kissed her forehead and left the room again. As I turned the handle
of the study door I shuddered, the action so vividly recalled to me the first
and last occasion upon which I had done so. The afternoon was now far
advanced, and dusk was approaching: the blinds of the study windows also
were pulled down, which caused the room to appear almost in darkness. As
I groped my way toward the escritoire I stumbled over some article lying
across my path, something which lay extended on the hearth-rug, and which
even by that feeble light I could discern was a prostrated body.
With my mind full of murderous accidents, I rushed to the window and
drew up the blind, when to my astonishment I found that the person over
whom I had nearly fallen was no other than poor little Mrs. Benson, who
was lying in a dead faint before the arm-chair. Fainting women not being
half so much in my line as wounded men, I felt quite uncertain in this case
how to act, and without considering how the professor’s wife had come to
be in the study or for what reason, my first impulse was to ring for
assistance. But a second thought, which came I know not how or whence,
made me lift the fragile, senseless body in my arms and carry it outside the
study door into the passage before I called for help, which then I did lustily,

and female servants came and bore the poor “quiet-looking little lady” away
to her own apartments and the care of her husband, leaving me free to
execute the errand upon which I had been sent. Still, as I collected the desk
and papers required by my niece, I could not help reflecting on the
circumstance I have related as being a strange one, and could only account
for it in my own mind by the probable fact that Mrs. Benson had required
some book from the late Sir Harry’s shelves, and, miscalculating her
strength, had left her bedroom with the design of fetching it, and failed
before she could accomplish her purpose. I heard several comments made
on the occurrence, during the melancholy meal which we now called
“dinner,” by her husband and Lady Amabel Scott, and they both agreed
with me as to the probable reason of it; and as soon as the cloth was
removed the professor left us to spend the evening with his wife, who was
considered sufficiently ill to require medical attendance.
We were a rather silent trio in the drawing-room—Lady Amabel, Mr.
Scott, and I—for ordinary occupations seemed forbidden, and every topic
harped back to the miserable accident which had left the hall without a
master. The servants with lengthened faces, as though attending a funeral,
had dumbly proffered us tea and coffee, and we had drunk them without
considering whether we required them, so welcome seemed anything to do;
and I was seriously considering whether it would appear discourteous in me
to leave the hall and return on the day of the funeral, when a circumstance
occurred which proved more than sufficiently exciting for all of us.
I had taken the desk, papers, and keys, and delivered them into my
niece’s hands, and I had ventured at the same time to ask whether it would
not be a comfort to her to see Mrs. Benson or some other friend, instead of
sitting in utter loneliness and gloom. But Justina had visibly shrunk from
the proposal; more than that, she had begged me not to renew it. “I sent for
you, uncle,” she said, “because I needed help, but don’t let any one make it
a precedent for trying to see me. I couldn’t speak to any one: it would drive
me mad. Leave me alone: my only relief is in solitude and prayer.”
And so I had left her, feeling that doubtless she was right, and
communicating her wishes on the subject to Lady Amabel Scott, who had
several times expressed a desire to gain admittance to her widowed cousin.
Judge, then, of our surprise, equal and unmitigated, when, as we sat in
the drawing-room that evening, the door silently opened and Justina stood

before us! If she had been the ghost of Sir Harry himself risen from the
dead, she could hardly have given us a greater start.
“Justina!” I exclaimed, but as she advanced toward us with her eyes
riveted on Lady Amabel, I saw that something more than usual was the
matter, and drew backward. Justina’s countenance was deadly pale; her dark
hair, unbound from the night before, flowed over the white dressing-gown
which she had worn all day; and stern and rigid she walked into the midst of
our little circle, holding a packet of letters in her hand.
“Amabel Scott,” she hissed rather than said as she fixed a look of perfect
hatred on the beautiful face of her dead husband’s cousin, “I have detected
you. You made me miserable whilst he was alive—you know it—with your
bold looks and your forward manners and your shameless, open attentions;
but it is my turn now, and before your husband I will tell you that—”
“Hush, hush, Justina!” I exclaimed, fearful what revelation might not be
coming next. “You are forgetting yourself; this is no time for such
explanations. Remember what lies upstairs.”
“Let her go on,” interposed Lady Amabel Scott, with wide-open,
astonished eyes; “I am not afraid. I wish to hear of what she accuses me.”
She had risen from her seat as soon as she understood the purport of the
widow’s speech, and crossed over to her husband’s side; and knowing what
I did of her, I was yet glad to see that Warden Scott threw his arm about her
for encouragement and support. She may have been thoughtless and faulty,
but she was so young, and he was gone. Besides, no man can stand by
calmly and see one woman pitted against another.
“Of what do you accuse me?” demanded Lady Amabel, with heightened
colour.
“Of what do I accuse you?” almost screamed Justina. “Of perfidy, of
treachery, toward him,” pointing to Mr. Warden Scott, “and toward me. I
accuse you of attempting to win my dear husband’s affections from me—
which you never did, thank God!—and of rendering this home as desolate
as it was happy. But you failed—you failed!”
“Where are your proofs?” said the other woman, quietly.
“There!” exclaimed my niece, as she threw some four or five letters
down upon the table—“there! I brought them for your husband to peruse.
He kept them; generous and good as he was, he would have spared you an
open exposure, but I have no such feelings in the matter. Are you to go from

this house into another to pursue the same course of action, and perhaps
with better success? No, not if I can prevent it!”
Her jealousy, rage, and grief seemed to have overpowered her; Justina
was almost beside herself. I entreated her to retire, but it was of no avail.
“Not till Warden Scott tells me what he thinks of his wife writing those
letters with a view to seducing the affections of a married man,” she
persisted.
Mr. Scott turned the letters over carelessly.
“They are not from my wife,” he quietly replied.
“Do you dare to say so?” exclaimed Justina to Lady Amabel.
“Certainly. I never wrote one of them. I have never written a letter to
Harry since he was married. I have never had any occasion to do so.”
The widow turned towards me with an ashen-grey face, which it was
pitiful to behold.
“Whose are they, then?” she whispered, hoarsely.
“I do not know, my dear,” I replied; “surely it matters little now. You will
be ill if you excite yourself in this manner. Let me conduct you back to your
room;” but before I could do so she had fallen in a fit at my feet. Of course,
all then was hurry and confusion, and when I returned to the drawing-room
I found Lady Amabel crying in her husband’s arms.
“Oh, Warden dear,” she was saying, “I shall never forgive myself. This
all comes of my wretched flirting. It’s no good your shaking your head; you
know I flirt, and so does every one else; but I never meant anything by it,
darling, and I thought all the world knew how much I loved you.”
“Don’t be a goose!” replied her husband, as he put her gently away from
him; “but if you think I’m going to let you remain in this house after what
that d——’d woman—— Oh, here is General Wilmer! Well, General, after
the very unpleasant manner in which your niece has been entertaining us,
you will not be surprised to hear that I shall take my wife away from
Durham Hall to-night. When Lady Trevor comes to her senses you will
perhaps kindly explain to her the reason of our departure, for nothing under
such an insult should have prevented my paying my last respects to the
memory of a man who never behaved otherwise than as a gentleman to
either of us.”
I apologised for Justina as best I was able, represented that her mind must
really have become unhinged by her late trouble, and that she would
probably be very sorry for what she had said by-and-by; but I was not

surprised that my arguments had no avail in inducing Mr. Scott to permit his
wife to remain at Durham Hall, and in a few hours they had left the house.
When they were gone I took up the letters, which still lay upon the table,
and examined them. They were addressed to Sir Harry, written evidently in
a woman’s hand, and teemed with expressions of the warmest affection. I
was not surprised that the perusal of them had excited poor Justina’s
wrathful jealousy. Turning to the signatures, I found that they all concluded
with the same words, “Your loving and faithful Pet.” In a moment my mind
had flown back to the dying speech of poor Sir Harry, and had absolved
Lady Amabel Scott from all my former suspicions. She was not the woman
who had penned these letters; she had not been in the last thoughts of her
cousin. Who, then, had been? That was a mystery on which Death had set
his seal, perhaps for ever. Before I retired to rest that night I inquired for my
poor niece, and heard that she had Mrs. Benson with her. I was glad of that:
the women were fond of one another, and Justina, I felt, would pour all her
griefs into the sympathising ear of the professor’s wife, and derive comfort
from weeping over them afresh with her. But after I had got into bed I
remembered that I had left the letters lying on the drawing-room table,
where they would be liable to be inspected by the servants, and blow the
breath of the family scandal far and wide. It was much past midnight, for I
had sat up late, and all the household, if not asleep, had retired to their own
apartments; and so, wrapping a dressing-gown about me, and thrusting my
feet into slippers, I lighted my candle, and descended noiselessly to the
lower apartments. But when I reached the drawing-room the letters were
gone: neither on the table nor the ottoman nor the floor were they to be
seen; and so, vexed at my own carelessness, but concluding that the
servants, when extinguishing the lights, had perceived and put the papers
away in some place of safety, I prepared to return to my own room.
The bedrooms at Durham Hall were situated on either side of a corridor,
and fearful of rousing the family or being caught in deshabille, I trod on
tiptoe, shading my candle with my hand. It was owing to this circumstance,
I suppose, that I had reached the centre of the corridor without causing the
least suspicion of my presence; but as I passed by the apartment where the
remains of my unfortunate host lay ready for burial, the door suddenly
opened and a light appeared upon the threshold. I halted, expecting to see
emerge the figure of my widowed niece, but lifting my eyes, to my
astonishment I encountered the shrinking, almost terrified, gaze of the

professor’s wife. Robed in her night-dress, pallid as the corpse which lay
within, her large frightened eyes apparently the only living things about her,
she stood staring at me as though she had been entranced. Her brown hair
floated over her shoulders, her feet were bare; one hand held a lighted
candle, the other grasped the packet of letters of which I had been in search.
So we stood for a moment regarding one another—I taking in these small
but important details; she looking as though she implored my mercy and
forbearance. And then I drew back with the gesture of respect due to her
sex, and, clad in her white dress, she swept past me like a startled spirit and
disappeared.
I gained my own room, but it was not to sleep. A thousand incidents,
insignificant in themselves, but powerful when welded into one, sprang up
in my mind to convince me that Justina and I and everybody had been on a
wrong tack, and that in the professor’s wife, the “quiet-looking little lady”
with her Quaker-like robes, downcast eyes and modest appearance, in the
“best friend” that my niece had ever possessed, I had discovered the writer
of those letters, the concealed visitor in Sir Harry’s room, the “Pet” whose
name had been the last sound heard to issue from his dying lips. For many
hours I lay awake pondering over the best course for me to pursue. I could
not bear the thought of undeceiving my poor niece, whose heart had already
suffered so much; besides, it seemed like sacrilege to drag to light the
secrets of the dead. At the same time I felt that Mrs. Benson should receive
some hint that her presence in Durham Hall, at that juncture, if desired, was
no longer desirable. And the next day, finding she was not likely to accord
me an interview, I made the reception of the missing letters a pretext for
demanding one. She came to her room door holding them in her hand, and
the marks of trouble were so distinct in her face that I had to summon all
my courage to go through the task which I considered my duty.
“You found these in the drawing-room last night?” I said, as I received
them from her.
“I did,” she answered, but her voice trembled and her lips were very
white. She seemed to know by instinct what was coming.
“And you went to find them because they are your own?” She made no
answer. “Mrs. Benson, I know your secret, but I will respect it on one
condition—that you leave the Hall as soon as possible. You must be aware
that this is no place for you.”
“I never wished to come,” she answered, weeping.

“I can believe it, but for the sake of your friend, of your husband, of
yourself, quit it as soon as possible. Here are your letters—you had better
burn them. I only wished to ascertain that they were yours.”
“General Wilmer”—she commenced gaspingly, and then she turned away
and could say no more.
“Do you wish to speak to me?” I asked her gently.
“No—nothing; it is useless,” she answered with a tearless, despairing
grief which was far more shocking to behold than either Justina’s or Lady
Amabel’s. “He is gone, and there is nothing left; but thank you for your
forbearance, and good-bye.”
So we parted, and to this day, excepting that she is released from all that
could annoy or worry her, I have learned nothing more. How long they
loved, how much or in what degree of guilt or innocence, I neither know
nor have cared to guess at; it is sufficient for me that it was so, and that
while Justina was accusing the beautiful Lady Amabel Scott of attempting
to win her husband’s heart from her, it had been given away long before to
the woman whom she termed her dearest friend—to the woman who had
apparently no beauty, or wit, or accomplishments with which to steal away
a man’s love from its rightful owner, but who nevertheless was his “loving
and faithful Pet,” and the last thought upon his dying lips.
Professor and Mrs. Benson never returned to Durham Hall. It was not
long afterwards that I heard from my niece that his wife’s failing health had
compelled the professor to go abroad; and to-day she writes me news from
Nice that Mrs. Benson is dead. Poor Pet! I wonder if those scared brown
eyes have lost their frightened look in heaven?
I believe that Justina has made an ample apology for her rudeness to
Lady Amabel and Mr. Warden Scott. I know I represented that it was her
duty to do so, and that she promised it should be done. As for herself, she is
gradually recovering from the effects of her bereavement, and finding
comfort in the society of her sons and daughters; and perhaps, amongst the
surprises which I have already spoken of as likely to await us in another
sphere, they will not be least which prove how very soon we have been
forgotten by those we left in the world behind us.

CHIT-CHAT FROM ANDALUSIA.
A couple of springs ago, business compelling some friends of mine to
cross over into Spain, I gladly accepted the cordial invitation they extended
to me to visit with them that “splendid realm of old romance.”
Our destination was Utrera, a small town situated between Seville and
Xeres, and lying in the midst of those vast plains so often mentioned in the
Conquest of Granada.
I confess that I was rather disappointed to find how hurriedly we passed
through Madrid and Seville, and I longed to be permitted to linger for a
little space within their walls; but ours was not entirely a party of pleasure,
and a diversion was soon created in my thoughts by our arrival at Utrera,
which, from a distance, presented a most Oriental appearance. The houses,
many of which are built in the Moorish fashion and dazzlingly white, stand
out clearly defined against the deep blue southern sky; the tall tower of
Santiago, with little perhaps but its unusual height to recommend it to a
stranger’s notice, has, nevertheless, an imposing appearance; and even a
palm tree, which, solitary and alone, rears its stately head in the centre of
the town, puts in its claim for adding in no small degree to the effect of the
whole picture. Notwithstanding, with all the combined advantages of white
houses, tall towers, solitary palm trees and romantic situations, I would
advise no one who is not a traveller at heart or intent upon his worldly profit
to fix his residence in this primitive little Andalusian town.
We first took up our quarters at the posada, with the intention of
remaining there during our stay, but were soon obliged to abandon the idea,
for, though the best inn in Utrera, it was most uncomfortable, and noisy
beyond description.
We began to look about us, therefore, and were soon installed in a small
but beautifully clean and cool-looking house in a street leading out of the
plaza, and found no reason to be discontented with our abode. It boasted of

a pleasant patio (or inner courtyard) and a wide verandah or gallery, into
which our rooms opened. As the days grew warmer (and very warm indeed
they grew after a while) this patio was our greatest comfort; for, following
the example of our neighbours, we had it covered with an awning, and spent
the greater part of the day, seated with our books or work, beside its mimic
fountain. But if we gained in material comfort by exchanging the noisy and
dirty posada for apartments of our own, we had also drawn down upon
ourselves the burden of housekeeping, which we found in Spain to be no
sinecure. Some friends who had resided a few months in the town, and
acquired a fair knowledge of the language, manners, and customs of the
natives of Utrera, volunteered to send us a maid, warranted honest and a
tolerable proficient in the art of cookery. But she proved a care-full
blessing. To give her her due, she possessed one good quality, and we found
by experience that it was about the only one she or her sisterhood could
boast of: she was very fond of water. The floors of our new house were
formed of stone, partially covered by strips of matting which were easily
removed; and we soon lived in a perpetual swamp. Antonia was always
both ready and willing to “clean up,” and never seemed happier than when
dashing water in all directions, or brushing away vigorously at the matting
with her little short-handled broom.
By the way, I wonder why Spanish women prefer to bend double over
their sweeping, instead of adopting our easier method of performing the
same operation? In vain did I strive to convince Antonia of the advantages
attendant on the use of a broom with a long handle: she only smiled, shook
her head, and went obstinately on her weary way.
The water for our own consumption was drawn daily from the Moorish
aqueduct just outside the town, and brought to us by the aguador, an old
fellow who wore a rusty black velvet turban hat stuck full of cigarettes,
besides having one always in his mouth. He would pour the water from his
wooden barrels into a large butt which stood in the kitchen; but as we
discovered that he (together with all who felt so inclined) dipped his glass,
with the fingers that held it, into the reservoir whenever he wished to
quench his thirst, we speedily invested in a filter.
We soon found that it was utterly impossible to infuse any ideas of
cookery or housework into the head of the fair Antonia. If we showed her
how to lay the tablecloth and place the dishes, she eyed us with surprise,
bordering on contempt, that ladies should perform such menial offices; and

the next day all our instructions were as though they had never been. It was
the same with everything, until we decided that it was far less trouble to
wait on ourselves, and our life at Utrera resolved itself into a picnic without
an end.
Nevertheless, when we arose one morning to find that Antonia (wearied
perhaps of English suggestions) had quietly walked off and left us to shift
entirely for ourselves, we felt inclined to think that we had undervalued her.
But she had received her wages on the day before, and we learned afterward
that under those circumstances it is a common thing for Spanish servants to
quit their places without any warning, and return home for a while to live at
their ease on the produce of their labour.
Our next attendant was Pepa, a bright, dark-eyed girl, who always looked
so picturesque, with a spray of starry jessamine or scarlet verbena
coquettishly placed in her black hair, that it was impossible not to overlook
her misdemeanours. She had such an arch way of tossing her head and
shaking her long gold earrings that there was no resisting her; and indeed
Pepa was but too well aware of the fact herself, and made the best use of
her knowledge.
But the dinners were still our bêtes noires, and in these, notwithstanding
all her prettiness, she could help us little better than her predecessor. The
meat which we procured was simply uneatable, but happily animal food is
little needed in those southern climes, and we had plenty of game. Hares,
partridges, and wild ducks were most abundant; and a woman used
constantly to call on us with live quails for sale, which she would despatch
by sticking one of their own feathers into their brains.
Of course, everything was more or less spoiled which we entrusted to the
tender mercies of our handmaid; but fortunately there were no epicures
amongst us, and we generally received the goods the gods provided with
contentment if not gratitude, and had many resources to turn to in order to
eke out a distasteful meal. The bread was excellent, and we always had an
abundance of oranges, chestnuts, melons, and pomegranates; so that, under
the circumstances, we were not to be pitied.
But one day Pepa, disheartened by her repeated failures, begged to be
allowed to serve us a Spanish dinner, after tasting which, she affirmed, we
should never desire to eat any other; and having received the permission of
her mistress, she set to work, and at the usual hour triumphantly placed the
national dish of “puchero” upon the table. We gathered round it rather

doubtfully, but after the first timid trial pronounced it, “not so bad, though
rather rich.” It seemed to contain a little of everything—beef, lard, garlic,
garbanzos (or small, hard beans), lettuce, pepper, potatoes, and I know not
what besides; and the mixture had been kept simmering in an earthenware
pot for hours. The next dish served by Pepa was “gaspacho,” or a Spanish
salad, which is mixed quite differently from an English one, and to most
tastes not so palatable. And then she placed before us a large dish of rice,
profusely sprinkled with cinnamon, and various small cakes fried in oil; and
Pepa’s Spanish dinner (which, by the way, was only a sample, I suppose, of
the most ordinary national fare), was concluded.
We were thankful that it had been sufficiently good to enable us to praise
it enough to give her satisfaction, though we were compelled to adopt more
than one ruse in order, without hurting her feelings, to escape having the
same feast repeated every day.
There are not many “lions” in Utrera, but, such as they are, of course we
visited them. The principal one perhaps is in the vaults beneath the church
of Santiago, but we were scarcely prepared for the ghastly spectacle which
met our gaze there. It appears that, many years ago, while digging for some
purpose round the church, the workmen found several bodies, which, owing
to some peculiar quality of the soil in which they had been buried, were in a
wonderful state of preservation; and, by order of the authorities, they were
placed in upright positions against the walls of the church vaults. The old
sacristan, who acted as our cicerone, pointed out the bodies to us with his
lighted torch, and directed our attention especially to one, evidently that of
a very stout woman, which had still a jacket and skirt clinging to it. Strange
to say, the bodies were all clothed, although in most cases it had become
difficult to distinguish the garments from the remains, for all seemed to
partake of the same hue and texture. It is a humbling sight to look upon the
dead after they have turned again to their dust, and with but a semblance of
the human frame left clinging to them, as though in mockery of our
mortality. We could not bear to see the idlers who had followed our party
down into the vaults jeering at the appearance of these poor carcases, and
touching them in a careless and irreverent manner. Had we had our way,
they should all have been tenderly consigned again to the bosom of their
mother earth, and we experienced a strange sensation of relief as we turned
our backs upon them and emerged once more into the open air.

The principal object of a stroll in Utrera is a visit to the Church of
Consolation, which stands on the outskirts of the town, at the end of a long
walk bordered with lines of olive trees. At intervals along the way benches
are placed, and here on Sundays and feast-days the inhabitants congregate
as they come to and from the church. The latter is an interesting edifice,
though its architecture is unpretending enough.
Its nave is lofty, and on the white-washed walls hang hundreds of little
waxen and silver limbs, and effigies, with articles of children’s clothing and
an endless assortment of plaited tails of hair. These are all offerings made to
“Our Lady of Consolation,” in fulfilment of vows or as tokens of
thanksgiving for recovery from sickness; and there is something very
touching in the idea of these women giving up their most cherished
possessions (for every one knows how justly proud the Spanish are of their
magnificent hair) as tributes of gratitude to her from whom they have
received the favours.
The walls near the western door of the Church of Consolation are hung
with innumerable pictures, each bearing so strong a resemblance to the
other, both in style and subject, that they might have been drawn by the
same hand. As works of art they are valueless, for even the rules of
perspective are ignored in a most comical manner, and with slight variations
they all represent the same subject. On one hand is an invalid man, woman
or child, as the case may be, and on the other a kneeling figure imploring
aid for them of the “Virgin of Consolation,” who is also portrayed
appearing to the suppliant, and encircled by a golden halo. Beneath the
painting is inscribed the name of the patient, the nature of his disease, and
the date of his recovery.
At the back of the church is a large garden belonging to one of the richest
proprietors in the neighbourhood of Utrera, and as the midday heat became
more oppressive it was a favourite haunt of ours during the cool of the
evening, when the air was laden with the perfume of orange blossoms and
other sweet-smelling flowers. The owners of the garden permitted it to grow
wild, but that circumstance only enhanced its beauty. The orange trees were
laden with golden fruit, of which we were courteously invited to gather as
much as we pleased. But our visits to this charming retreat were necessarily
short, for, as in most southern latitudes, there was scarcely any twilight in
Utrera, and it always seemed as though the ringing of the Angelus were a
signal for the nights immediately to set in. But what glorious nights they

were! The dingy oil-lamps in the streets (for gas is an innovation which had
not yet found its way there) were little needed, as the sky always seemed to
be one bright blaze of beautiful stars.
The cemetery at Utrera is a quiet spot, surrounded by a high white wall
and thickly planted with cypress trees, which give it a most solemn and
melancholy appearance. They have the custom there (I am not sure it is not
prevalent in other parts of Spain) of burying the dead in recesses in the
walls, which are built expressly of an immense thickness; the coffins are
shoved into these large pigeon-holes, and the opening is closed with a
marble slab, which bears the inscription usual in such cases, somewhat after
the fashion of open-air catacombs. But little respect seemed to be shown to
the dead.
One day I met some children bearing a bier, upon which was stretched
the corpse of a little girl clothed in white garments and with a wreath of
flowers placed upon the placid brow. The children, apparently quite
unaware of the reverence due to their sacred burden, carelessly laughed and
chatted as they bore it along the highway, sometimes sitting down to rest,
and then hurrying forward with unseemly haste, as though to make up for
lost time. A tall man, wrapped in a huge cloak, and who evidently belonged
to the little cortège, followed at a distance, but he too performed the duty at
his leisure, and seemed to find nothing extraordinary or out of the way in
the children’s want of decorum.
With the exception of periodical visits to the Church of Consolation
before mentioned, the people of Utrera rarely seemed to leave their houses.
To walk for the sake of walking is an idea which finds little favour with a
Spanish lady, and my friends and myself were looked upon as very strange
beings for taking so much exercise and caring to explore the surrounding
country.
But to our English taste it was pleasant to stroll up the Cadiz road until
we reached a small mound situated thereon, which was belted with shady
trees and amply provided with stone seats. This elevation commanded the
view of a vast extent of country, with the grand frowning hills of the Sierra
Nevada in the far distance, which the gorgeous sunsets always invested with
a strange, unearthly beauty. The intense solitude of the scene, too, was not
without its own peculiar charm. At intervals the silence would be broken by
the approach of a picturesque-looking peasant bestriding a mule, the silvery
jangle of whose bells had been heard in the calm atmosphere for some time

before he made his personal appearance. These muleteers never failed to
interrupt the monotonous chants they are so fond of singing, to wish us a
friendly “Buenas tardes” (“Good evening”) while proceeding on their way,
and then we would listen to the sound of the mule’s bells and the low rich
voice of his master until both died away in the distance, and the scene
resumed its normal condition of undisturbed tranquillity.
We made an expedition once, by the new railroad, to Moron, a very old
town perched on an almost perpendicular rock and visible for miles distant.
The heat was intense, but we toiled manfully up the steep and execrably-
paved street from the station, and, weary and footsore, were thankful to find
ourselves within the cool walls of the fine old church. It possesses some
valuable Murillos—one of which, representing the head of our Blessed
Lord, is especially beautiful. The altar-rails, screen and reredos are all richly
gilt, and the sacristan, taking us into the vestry, unlocked several massively
carved chests, which disclosed some valuable plate and precious stones;
referring to which, he boasted, with pardonable pride, that Utrera could not
produce anything half so handsome. And indeed the inhabitants of Moron
may well congratulate themselves on these treasures having escaped the
grasp of the French during the war, for the sacristan related to us how
everything had been hidden away and miraculously preserved from the
hands of the spoiler.
But my chit-chat is drawing to a close. It was not without a certain regret
that we bade farewell to Utrera, for during the whole of our stay there we
had experienced nothing but kindness from all with whom we had come in
contact, and the memory of our sojourn in that little, out-of-the-way
Andalusian town, if not fraught with brilliant recollections, will, at all
events, take its rank with that portion of the past which has been too
peaceful to rise up again to trouble us. And it were well if we could say the
same for every part of our storm-ridden lives.

THE SECRET OF ECONOMY.
Apparently, there has been much to say and write lately upon domestic
economy. From the time, indeed, that the question of the possibility of
marriage upon three hundred a-year was mooted, the subject has never
fairly been dropped.
Men, with incomes of less than three hundred a-year, do not seem to like
the idea that they are bound in consequence to renounce all thoughts of
matrimony, and inquiries respecting the matter from aggrieved bachelors
are constantly cropping up in those corners of the weekly papers devoted to
correspondence. They have even gone so far lately as to suggest, since it
seems impossible in this century of riots and rinderpest to curtail one’s
expenses, whether it may not be both lawful and feasible to curtail one’s
family.
The question of, on how much, or on how little, a certain number of
persons can exist, is certainly one which affects the mass, but which, to be
answered with fairness, must be put individually. There are women and
women. What one housekeeper can accomplish on three hundred a-year,
another cannot effect on three thousand, for it is not incompatible with
many luxuries to possess very little comfort; and comfort is, after all, the
essence of domestic felicity.
Yet, it is not fair to lay the whole blame of the impossibility of marriage
in these days upon a moderate income, on the extravagance of women, for
the difficulty is just as often attributable to the disinclination of men to
resign the luxuries to which they have been accustomed. For every really
extravagantly disposed female mind there may be found two thriftily
disposed ones; and had such minds but been endued with the proper
knowledge to carry out their efforts to do well, existence might not be found
so difficult a matter as it appears to be at present.

It is true that the “girl of the period” (not the Saturday Reviewer’s “girl”
by any manner of means), is, generally, better dressed and more accustomed
to luxury than her mother was before her. But it must be remembered that
the expenses of a girl before marriage are regulated by the wishes of her
parents, and because they like to see her sail about in the last Parisian
fashion, it by no means follows that she will always expect to be dressed the
same, or that she will not cheerfully resign some of the luxuries she has
been accustomed to, to meet the means of the man who has taken it upon
himself to support her.
Apropos of which I have far oftener been called upon to remonstrate with
newly-married female friends on their folly in stripping the trousseaux,
which had been prepared for them with such care, of all their pretty
trimmings of lace and ribbon and embroidery, in order to adorn the little
frocks and caps which are scarcely ever noticed but by the mother herself,
than to blame them for out-running their husbands’ means in order to
procure such vanities.
Various reasons may combine to make the parent, who can afford it, take
pleasure in seeing her daughter well dressed. A true mother is naturally
proud of a girl’s good looks; and anxious to show them off to the best
advantage; or the feeling that her child may not long be with her may make
her desirous to please her to the utmost whilst she remains. Of course, the
indulgence may arise from lower and more mercenary motives, such as
have been attributed for many a long year to the stereotyped “Belgravian
mother”; but even in such a case it does not follow that the girl will never
be able contentedly to accommodate herself to a lower range of comfort. It
is not to be expected that, single-handed, she should put away from her the
luxuries which her parents’ income can command; but it remains to be
proved whether she will not willingly exchange them to become the
mistress of a house of her own, even though it may be smaller than the one
to which she has been accustomed. Naturally parents wish to see the
children, for whom perhaps they have worked and slaved, comfortably
settled in life; and it is folly for men with barely sufficient money to keep
themselves to rave against fathers who refuse to sanction their daughters’
starving with them.
But the idea as to what constitutes starvation has risen with the times. A
little while ago, it used to be the clergyman with a large family on eighty
pounds a-year: a twelvemonth back it rose to the celebrated “three

hundred;” and but a few weeks since I heard a lady gravely affirm that any
one who contemplated marriage now-a-days with an income of less than
two thousand, must be either a madman or a fool.
Knowing my incompetence for the task, I have no intention in this paper
of trying to decide on how small a sum it is possible to maintain a family in
this luxurious age. I only wish to say a few words upon what I consider to
be the secret of the economy which has need to be exercised in these days
in the largest household as well as in the smallest.
The order of her household is a true woman’s battle-field, and the better
she can manage it, the more comforts she can command, and the more
regularity she can enforce upon a small income and with few servants, the
greater is the triumph of her victory. If means are unlimited the triumph is
lost; and the woman who has a thousand a-year for her housekeeping, and is
content to let her husband enjoy no more luxury upon it than his friend who
spends five hundred, allowing the surplus to be wasted for want of a little
thought or supervision, is not a true woman or a good one. For if prodigality
is not a sin in itself, it arises from the indulgence of a combination of sins,
amongst which selfishness holds chief rank.
Take the care of her household out of a woman’s hands and what remains
for her to do? As a generality she would sit in idleness, for these are not the
days when mothers nurse and look after their own children, and, thanks to
the sewing machine, the toil of needlework is over, even in the poorest
families.
She would probably take up a novel the first thing in the morning,
thereby unfitting herself for any solid work for the remainder of the day; or
she would waste her time on fancy-work, or unnecessary letter-writing, or
on anything but what sensible people who know they will be called to
account hereafter for the use they have made of the brains God has given
them would do.
And, as a rule, I believe few women would like to be lightened of their
trouble in this respect. The sex is uncommonly fond of a “little brief
authority,” and even those who have every aid at their command, generally
choose to dabble in their housekeeping affairs. And it is just this “dabbling”
which does harm, which often increases the expenses instead of lessening
them.
I am not a second Mrs. Warren; I have no ambition to try and teach my
sex how to manage their husbands, houses and children on two hundred a-

year, by wiping out the bread-pan every morning with a clean cloth; and
making one stick of wood do the duty of two by placing it in the oven to dry
the night before.
Mrs. Warren’s plan of economy is the general one; or rather, she follows
the general idea of what economy consists of, namely, in exercising a
constant supervision over servants, and straining every nerve to make the
leg of mutton last a day longer than it does with other people. And I for my
part believe that the women of England will never know the secret of true
economy until they have dropped all such petty interference with the
kitchen, and learned to guard their husbands’ interests with their heads
instead of their eyes. There is no doubt that in order to be thrifty it is
necessary in a great measure to limit one’s expenses, and it is a good plan
habitually to ask oneself before completing a purchase “Can I do without
it?”
In nine cases out of ten debts and difficulties are incurred unnecessarily,
for articles which added neither to our respectability nor our comfort, and
which, if seriously asked, we should have acknowledged we could have
done just as well without. Take the generality of English families, cut off all
the superfluities in which they indulge, all the things which are necessary
neither to their existence nor their position as gentle-people, and, as a rule,
it will be found that such absorb a third at least of their income.
It is not only men who have interested themselves in the questions which
have lately sprung up respecting the general rise in prices, and the
increasing difficulties which assail the householder. Women are constantly
comparing notes with each other; wondering “where on earth” the money
can go to, and lamenting the exorbitant weekly bills they are called upon to
pay.
Some have tried to meet their increased expenses by diminishing their
number of servants; others by curtailing the kitchen fare (the worst and
most unprofitable species of domestic economy); a few have gone another
way to work, and simply tried with how many superfluities they could
dispense; and I think these few have succeeded the best.
It was much the fashion a short time back for women to write to the
papers complaining of the worthlessness of their servants, and it was not
until more than one impertinent letter reflecting on their mistresses had
been published from the pens (or the supposed pens) of servants
themselves, that the correspondence was perceived to be infra dig., and

dropped. We all know that we are very much in the power of our servants,
both as regards comfort and economy; and to regulate their actions, we
must sway themselves.
As a class, they are much what they have ever been; their characters
varying with the authority placed over them. If ignorant, they are bigoted; if
educated, presumptuous; they regard their superiors as their natural
enemies, and not one in fifty of them is to be entirely trusted. They no
longer look upon the house they enter as their home; they think of it more
as a boarding house which they can vacate at their convenience, and
themselves as birds of passage, here to-day and gone to-morrow.
To deal with and to control such minds effectually, it needs to show them
that ours is infinitely the superior. If we let them perceive that we have no
means of keeping watch over them except we do it personally, we lower
ourselves to their level, and fail to gain their respect.
Make your servants admire you; make them wonder at the clearness of
your perception, the quickness of your calculations, and the retentiveness of
your memory, and inwardly they will acknowledge themselves the inferior,
and be afraid to disobey.
You will always hear servants speak with admiration of a mistress who
has (to quote their own phraseology) “eyes in her back;” the fact being that
it requires a mind not only educated in the popular sense of the word, but
sharpened by friction with the world, to enable one to perceive without
seeing; and that is a state to which the lumpish minds of the mass never
attain, and which consequently commands their wonder and respect.
The “excellent housekeeper” who trots round her kitchen every morning
as a rule, opening each dresser-drawer, and uncovering the soup-tureen and
vegetable-dishes, to see that no “perquisites” are concealed therein, may
occasionally light on a piece of unhallowed fat, but she loses a hundredfold
what she gains. While she imagines she has made a great discovery, her
servants are laughing in their sleeves at her simplicity; for they have a
hundred opportunities of concealing to her one of finding, and are doubtless
as cunning as herself. And for such a mistress—for one who is for ever
prying and trying to find out something—the lower classes have the greatest
contempt; they will neither obey nor save for her; they will even go the
length of wasting in order to annoy.
But, by this, I have not the least notion of maintaining that the members
of that community, of whom I said, but a page before, that not one in fifty is

to be trusted, are to be left to do the housekeeping by themselves.
A lady of my acquaintance, married to an extremely obstinate man, was
asked how she managed to influence him as she did. “Because I never let
him know I do it,” was the reply. “I always have my own way, but I make
him think my way is his.”
Something of the same sort of management is necessary with servants.
Have your own way, but make them imagine that your way is theirs. They
are truly but “children of a larger growth.”
But, in order to do this, you must prove yourself cleverer than they are.
Let no one grumble at the stir which has been made lately regarding the
improved education of women, nor that public schools and colleges are
being organised for their benefit. If the knowledge thus acquired is never
needed for the female doctors, and lawyers, and members of Parliament,
which, as fixed institutions, England may never see, it will be only too
welcome in domestic life; for the usual style of conducting a woman’s
education is sadly detrimental to her interests in housekeeping.
What is the use of their being able to play and sing and imperfectly
splutter German and Italian, when they are puzzled by the simplest
bookkeeping? Hardly a woman of modern times thoroughly understands
arithmetic, either mental or otherwise; and many have forgotten, or never
properly acquired, even the commonest rules of addition, subtraction, and
division. How is it to be expected then that they are fit to be trusted with
money, or having it in their hands to lay it out to the best advantage.
But to return to “head-economy,” as it should be exercised with regard to
servants.
We will suppose that a mistress, desirous of keeping within her allowance
without curtailing the real comfort of her husband and children, has asked
herself that simple question—“Can we do without it?” on more than one
occasion, and found it answer, in so far that, though several superfluities,
such as dessert after dinner, and preserves and cakes for tea have
disappeared, all the solid necessaries remain, and the weekly bills are no
longer higher than they ought to be. How should she act in order to keep
down her expenditure to a settled sum; to be sure that as much, but no more
than is needful, is used in the kitchen, the dining-room, and the nursery; and
yet to prevent her servants resenting her interference, or exclaiming at her
meanness?

It is really very easy, far easier than the other plan, if women would only
believe it to be so. It needs no store-room full of hoarded goods, with the
key of which the servants are more familiar than yourself; no stated times
for measuring out half-pounds of sugar and dispensing tea by ounces; no
running down to the lower regions a dozen times a day to give out what
may have been forgotten; or to satisfy oneself whether they really do cut
joint at the kitchen supper, or revel in fresh butter when they should be
eating salt.
But it does require the knowledge necessary to keep the housekeeping
books properly. A thorough acquaintance with the prices of articles, and the
different quantities which a household should consume; and above all, to
have what is commonly called “one’s wits about one.”
If every tradesman with whom you deal has a running account with you;
if nothing in his book is paid for but what you have written down yourself;
if your cook has orders to receive no meat without a check; has proper
scales for weighing the joints as they come in, and makes a note of any
deficiency (the checks being afterwards compared with the butcher’s book);
it is impossible that the tradespeople can cheat you, and if your money is
wasted, you must waste it yourself.
It is an old-fashioned plan to pay one’s bills at the end of each week; but
it is a very good one. Little things which should be noticed may slip the
memory at a longer period. Besides, it is a useful reminder; it shows how
the money is going, and if the tradesmen find you are careful, it makes them
so.
Following this plan, a quarter of an hour every morning sees the
housekeeping affairs settled for the day, leaving the mistress at leisure to
pursue her own avocations, and the cook to do her business in the kitchen.
It is simply a glance at the larder, and then to write down all that will be
required until that time on the morrow; the dinner and breakfast orders on a
slate, and the other articles in the books appropriated to them. After a little
while it will be found that the labour is purely mechanical; in a quiet family
the consumption is so regular that the weekly bills will scarcely vary, and
the mistress’s eye will detect the least increase, and find out for what it has
been incurred.
At the close of each month the debit and credit accounts should be
balanced, and then, if the allowance is at any time exceeded, it will
generally be proved that it has gone on the superfluities before mentioned,

and not on the actual expense of maintaining the household. When people
talk of the difficulties of “living”, the thoughts of their listeners invariably
fly to the cost of bread and meat, and they unite in abusing the tradespeople,
who send their children to fashionable schools on the profits which they
extort from us. But there are various ways in which men and women can
save, besides dispensing with unnecessary eatables.
What woman, for instance, in these days, buying a dress, does not pay
twice as much for its being made and trimmed ready for her use as she did
for the original material? And who that has feet and fingers, and a sewing
machine, could not sit down and make it in a few hours for herself?
But she will tell you, most likely, that she cannot cut out properly, that
she has not the slightest taste for trimming, and that she was not brought up
to dressmaking like a dressmaker. Ah, my dear sisters! are not these the
days when we should all learn? Men may go through life with the
knowledge but of one thing—for if they are acquainted with the duties of
their profession, they succeed—but women need to know everything, from
putting on a poultice to playing the piano; and from being able to hold a
conversation with the Lord Chancellor, to clear-starching their husbands’
neckties.
I don’t say we must do it, but I maintain that we should know how.
Men are really needed but in one place, and that is, public life; but we are
wanted everywhere. In public and in private, upstairs and downstairs, in the
nursery and the drawing-room,—nothing can go on properly without us;
and if it does, if our husbands and our servants and our children don’t need
us, we cannot be doing our duty.
Above all, we have the training of the mistresses of future households,
and the mothers of a coming generation—the bringing up, in fact, of the
“girls of the next period.”
If we cannot amend the faults we see in ourselves (an assertion which
should be paradoxical to anyone gifted with the least energy), if we think it
is too late to sit down in our middle age, and learn to rub the rust off our
brains, and to work our heads with our fingers, we can rear them in a
different fashion.
If we are wasteful and extravagant and useless—deserving of all the hard
things which have been said of us lately, let us at least take heed that our
daughters are not the same.

“MOTHER.”
It was close upon Easter. The long, dark days of Lent, with their
melancholy ceremonials, were nearly over, and, as if in recognition of the
event, the sun was shining brightly in the heavens. The hawthorn bushes
had broken into bloom, and the wild birds were bursting their little throats
in gratitude. The boys were almost as wild and joyous as the birds, as they
rushed about the playground, knocking each other over in the exuberance of
their glee, and forgetting to be angry in the remembrance that the next day
would be Holy Thursday, when they should all go home to their fathers and
mothers to spend the Easter holidays. I alone of the merry throng sat apart
under the quick-set hedge, joining in neither game nor gaiety, as I
wondered, with the dull, unreasoning perception of childhood, why I had
been the one selected, out of all that crowd of boys, to have no part in their
anticipation or their joy. Even poor, lame Jemmy, who had no remembrance
of his father or his mother, and who had been, in a way, adopted by our
schoolmaster, and lived all the year round, from January to December, in
the same dull house and rooms, looked more cheerful than I did. He was
incapacitated by his infirmity from taking part in any one of the noisy
games that were going on around us, yet he smiled pleasantly as he came
limping up towards me on his crutches, and told me that Mrs. Murray (who
bestowed on him all the mother’s care he would ever know) had promised,
if he were good, to give him a donkey ride during Easter week, and some
seeds to plant in his strip of garden.
“What’s the matter with you, Charlie?” he asked presently; “aren’t you
glad to be going home?”
“Oh! I don’t care,” I answered, listlessly.
“Don’t care about seeing your father and mother again?”
“I haven’t got a mother,” I rejoined, quickly.

“Is your mother dead, like mine? Oh, I am sorry! But your father loves
you for them both, perhaps.”
“No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t care a bit about me. He never asks to see me
when I do go home; and he frightens me. I wish I might stay all the holidays
with Mrs. Murray, like you do.”
“That is bad,” quoth the lame child. “Well, maybe they’ll forget to send
for you, Charlie, and then we’ll have fine times together, you and I.”
I had not the same hope, however. I knew that if by any oversight my
father forgot to send the servant for me, that my schoolmaster would take
the initiative and despatch me home himself.
How I dreaded it. The gloomy, half-closed house, the garden paths, green
with damp and thick with weeds, the servants acting entirely upon their own
authority, and the master querulous, impatient, and unjust, either shut up in
his own room brooding over the past and present, or freely distributing
oaths, complaints, and sometimes even blows, amongst the unfortunate
inmates of his household. As for myself, I seldom came within the range of
his arm without being terrified away, and it had been a great relief to me
when I returned home for the previous Christmas holidays to find that he
was absent, and the term of my penance passed peacefully, if nothing else.
But now he was at home again, so my master informed me, my father had
never dreamt of writing to me, and I looked forward to the coming visit
with dread. A strange, unnatural state of things for a child of eight years old,
who had never known a mother’s love nor care, had never even heard her
name mentioned by any one with whom he was connected.
“What was your mother like?” continued Jemmy, after a few minutes’
pause, during which we two unfortunates had been ruminating upon our lot.
“Had she light-coloured hair, like Mrs. Murray, or dark, like the cook?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, sadly. “I never saw her, that I remember.”
“Haven’t you got a likeness of her at home?” he demanded with surprise.
“Wait till I show you mine.”
He fumbled about in his waistcoat, and produced a much faded
daguerreotype of an ordinary-looking young woman in old-fashioned
habiliments.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he exclaimed, with weak enthusiasm as he pressed
the miniature to his lips.
“Oh, how I wish she hadn’t died! I know I should have loved her so
much!”

I made no reply. Poor Jemmy’s imagination did not run so fast as mine. If
my mother had lived to side with my father, where should I have been
between them? I turned my face away, and sighed.
It was strange that I had no idea of what my mother had been like. I have
never even formed one, neither had I any relation to whose memory I might
have appealed on the subject. My father lived a solitary, aimless life in the
old neglected house I have alluded to, seldom leaving his own apartments,
except at meal times, and certainly never asking any friend to enter them to
bear him company. The servants had their parents, or lovers, or brothers, to
visit them by stealth in the kitchen, but the master sat by himself, gloomy
and preoccupied, and irritable almost to frenzy when provoked. No wonder
I wished that I could have spent the Easter holidays with Mrs. Murray. But
a great surprise was in store for me. The boys had hardly concluded the
game of football they had been carrying on during my colloquy with
Jemmy, when Mrs. Murray came smiling down the playground in search of
me.
“I’ve a piece of news for you, Master Vere,” she exclaimed. “Some one is
waiting to see you in the parlour.”
“Not papa!” I said, quickly.
“No; not your papa,” replied Mrs. Murray, laying her hand
compassionately on my shoulder, “but a new friend—a lady whom you will
like very much indeed.”
“A lady!” I repeated, in utter bewilderment, whilst my schoolmates
crowded round Mrs. Murray, with the question, “Is she come to take Vere
home?”
“Perhaps! most probably,” was her answer, whilst exclamations of, “Oh, I
say, that’s a jolly shame. It isn’t fair. School doesn’t break up till to-morrow.
We sha’n’t get off to-day, try as hard as we may,” greeted her supposition
from every side, and I, trembling like a culprit, affirmed that I would much
rather not be introduced to the pleasures of home one hour earlier than was
needful.
“Come into the parlour, dear, and see the lady,” Mrs. Murray replied,
“and we will decide what to do afterwards.”
So my face and hair were hurriedly washed and arranged, and I
sheepishly followed my master’s wife to the formal little apartment
dedicated to the reception of visitors, where we found the lady she had
alluded to.

Shall I ever forget her face as she rose to greet me, and drew me into her
arms! Such a fair, sweet, fresh face as it was, but with an amount of
sorrowful thought pictured in the serious eyes.
“And so this is Charlie Vere,” she said, as she gazed into my features. “I
should have known you anywhere, my darling, from your likeness to your
father! And now do you guess who I am?”
“No!” I answered, shyly; for Mrs. Murray had slipped away and left me
all alone with the stranger.
“I am your mother, dear; your new mother who means to love you very
dearly, and I have come to take you home!”
Mother and Home! How sweet the dear familiar words sounded in my
ears; familiar, alas! to everyone but me. The hawthorn blossoms in the
playground seemed to smell sweeter than they had done before, as she
pronounced them, and the birds’ chorus rang out harmoniously.
“Will papa be there?” I asked, nervously.
“Papa! of course! What would home be without your father?”
I had found it much pleasanter without him than with him hitherto, but
some instinct made me hold my tongue.
“Don’t you love papa, dear?” the lady went on softly. “Don’t you think
that he loves you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, picking my fingers.
“Poor child! Perhaps you have thought not, but that will all be altered
now. But you have not yet told me if you will like to have me for a
mother!”
“I think I shall like you very much!”
“That’s right, so we will go home together and try to make each other
happy. You want a mother to look after you, dear child, and I want a little
boy to love. We will not part again, Charlie, now I have found you, not for
the present, at all events. You have been too long away from home as it is.
That is why I came to-day. I could not wait till to-morrow, even: I was so
impatient to see you and to take you home.”
How she dwelt and lingered on the word and repeated it, as though it
gave her as much happiness to listen to as it did me.
“Will you be there?” I asked, presently.
“Of course, I shall—always! What would be the use of a mother, Charlie,
if she didn’t live in the house close to you, always ready to heal your
troubles and supply your wants to the utmost of her power?”

“Oh! let us go at once!” I exclaimed, slipping my hand into hers. All
dread of my father seemed to have deserted me. The new mother was a
guardian angel, under whose protection I felt no fear. She was delighted
with my readiness.
“So we will, Charlie! We need not even wait for your box to be packed.
Mrs. Murray can send on everything to-morrow. And papa will be anxious
until he sees us home again!”
My father anxious about me! That was a new thing to be wondered at. I
was too much of a baby still to perceive that his anxiety would be for her—
not for me! I had not yet been able to grasp the idea that she was his wife. I
only regarded her as my new mother.
As we passed out of the house, I asked leave to say good-bye to my
friend Jemmy.
“His mother is dead, like mine,” I said, in explanation. “He will be so
pleased to hear that I have got a new one.”
“Poor boy!” she sighed; “we will ask him to spend the summer holidays
with you, Charlie. A great happiness like ours should make us anxious to
make others happier.”
And when Jemmy came forward on his crutches, and smiled his
congratulations on the wonderful piece of news I had to give him, she
stooped down and kissed his forehead. Then we passed out of the
playground together, I clinging to her hand, and proud already to hear the
flattering comments passed upon her appearance by the other boys, and to
remember that from that time forward she was to be called my mother.
*********
Lilyfields, as my father’s house was designated, was not more than ten or
twelve miles from the school; but we had to make a little railway journey to
reach it, and I thought I had never travelled so pleasantly before. My new
mother laughed so often and chatted so continuously to me, that I caught
the infection of her mirthful loquacity, and, long before we got home, had
revealed so much of my past life and feelings, that more than once I brought
a shadow over her sunny face, and closed her smiling lips with a sigh. But
as we left the train and commenced to walk towards Lilyfields, my old fears
showed symptoms of returning, and my sudden silence, with the tightening
clasp of my hand, did not pass unobserved by my companion.
“What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?”

“Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays
begin?” I whispered.
Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.
“If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you
home, Charlie.”
“And you are not afraid of him?”
“Afraid!” The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she ejaculated
the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea, when they
caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a thousand little
joys instead.
“There he is!” she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me
with her.
He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within sight of
us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by, open-mouthed with
astonishment.
“My angel,” he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close to
his; “life has been insupportable without you.”
“Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to get
back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to welcome
him home.”
She lifted me up in her arms—big boy as I was—and held me towards
him for a kiss. How strange it was to feel my father kiss me; but he did so,
though I think his eyes never left her face the while. Then he took her hand,
and held it close against his heart, and they walked through the silent,
balmy-breathed fields together. As I entered the house I could hardly help
exclaiming aloud at the marvellous changes that had taken place there. Not
an article of furniture had been changed, not a picture moved from its place,
yet everything looked bright as the glorious spring. The rooms had been
thoroughly cleaned, and lace curtains, snowy table-cloths, and vases of
flowers, with here and there a bright bit of colour in the shape of a rug, or a
piece of china, had transformed the house—not into a paradise—but into a
home. Even my father was changed like his surroundings. He looked ten
years younger, as with nicely kept hair, and a becoming velveteen lounging
coat, he sunk down into an easy-chair, and deprecated, whilst he viewed
with delight, the alacrity with which my new mother insisted upon
removing his boots and fetching his slippers. It was such a novelty to both
of us to be attended to in any way, that I was as much surprised as he to find

that the next thing she did was to take me upstairs, and tidy me for tea
herself, showering kisses and love words upon me all the while. Oh! the
happy meal that followed. How unlike any we had taken in that house
before! I, sitting up at table, with my plate well provided; my father in his
arm-chair, looking up with loving eyes at each fresh proof of her solicitude
for him, and my new mother seated at the tea-tray, full of smiles and
innocent jests, watching us both with the utmost affection; but apparently
too excited to eat much herself. Once my father noticed her want of appetite
and reproached her with it.
“I am too happy to eat, Harold!” was her reply.
“Too happy,” he repeated in a low voice, “really too happy! No regrets,
my Mary, no fears! Your future does not terrify you. You would not undo
the past if it were in your power!”
“Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a
semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.”
“God bless you!” was all he answered.
If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for before
many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life was an
unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and despondency—the
most unnatural feelings a young child can entertain—had all passed away. I
no longer dreaded my father’s presence; on the contrary, it was my greatest
treat to bear him company as he worked in the garden, or whistled over his
carpentering, or accompanied my mother in strolls about the country.
He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too;
and although his new-born love was for her, and not for me, the glory of it
was reflected in his treatment of me.
So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have
thought my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my father
without a bright face, she was not always so careful in my presence,
thinking me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in her countenance;
and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I marked the same look
steal over her which I had observed on the occasion of our first meeting—
an undercurrent of thoughtful sadness—the look of one who had suffered,
who still suffered, from a pain which she kept to herself.
Once I surprised her in tears—a violent storm of tears, which she was
powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason of
them.

“Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did
Prince bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?”
My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for
any other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly? and
she was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What possible cause
could she have for tears?
My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her
burning face against my cheek.
“Will my little boy love me always?” she asked—“always—always—
whatever happens?”
“Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you
don’t know what it was like before you came here!”
“Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,” said my mother, as
she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts.
But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly before
me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which she would try
to disguise by excessive mirth.
So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister was
born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the greatest
possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to have a
playmate so dependant on me, and yet so entirely my own. I positively
worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the signal for my being
sent back to school, but this time only as a weekly boarder.
Hitherto my mother had taught me herself, and very sorry I was to give
up those delightful lessons, which were rendered so easy by the trouble she
took to explain them to me; but her time was too much taken up with her
baby to allow her to devote sufficient to me. Besides, I was now eleven
years old, growing a great lad, and able to take every advantage of the
education afforded me at Mr. Murray’s school.
My old friend, Lame Jemmy, who had spent many a pleasant week at
Lilyfields meanwhile, was still there to welcome me back and make me feel
less of a stranger; and my father took away the last sting of the new
arrangement by buying me a sturdy pony on which to ride backwards and
forwards every week to see my mother and him.
But the greatest pang which I experienced was parting, even for a few
days, with baby Violet. I cried over her so much, indeed, that I made my
mother cry too, as she asked God to bless the boy who had been a true son

to her. I was very glad to think she loved me so much, for I loved her dearly
in return; but as I galloped back to Lilyfields every Saturday afternoon, my
thoughts were all for the dimpled baby sister whom I would carry about in
my arms, or roll with amongst the newly-mown grass, rather than with
those who had proved themselves to be real parents to me,—she from the
commencement of her knowledge of me, and he from the date of his
knowing her. It was my mother alone I had to bless for it all. But I had
grown accustomed to happiness by this time, and took it as my due.
My parents were very proud of their little daughter, who grew into a
lovely child, but she did not seem to afford them as much pleasure as pride.
Sometimes I detected my mother looking at her as we romped together,
with more pain in the expression of her face than anything else. Once she
caught her suddenly to her bosom, and kissed her golden curls with passion,
exclaiming,—
“Oh, my heart, if I were to go, what would become of you?—what would
become of you?”
I was still too young to grasp the full meaning of her words, but I knew
my mother meant that if she died, no one would take such good care of
Violet as she had done. So I marched up to her confidently, with the
assurance that I would take that responsibility upon my own shoulders.
“Don’t be afraid, mamma! As soon as I am a man, I mean to get a house
all to myself, and the best rooms in it shall be for Violet.”
She looked at me with her sweet, earnest, searching gaze for a moment,
and then folded me in one embrace with her own child.
“Father’s boy!” she murmured, caressingly over me—“father’s brave,
loving boy! No, Charlie, I will not be afraid! If it be God’s will that I should
go, I will trust Violet to father and to you.”
*******
Meanwhile my father was a very contented man. He had undergone much
the same change as myself, and forgotten, in the sunshine that now
surrounded him, all the miserable years he had spent in that once desolate
mansion.
I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We were

like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour, never
giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the bar.
Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter, but
always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as though
he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my mother warded
off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he were a sick child,
that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her quiet way through the
kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet clinging to her gown, regulating the
household machinery by her own supervision, that no accident might occur
to ruffle her husband’s temper.
I believed her in those days—I believe her still to be the noblest woman
ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me—or rather, I should say, seemed
strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of puzzlement—and
that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields. True, my father had made
himself so unsociable in the old days that strangers might well have been
shy of intruding themselves upon him now; but my mother was so sweet
and gentle, I felt it must be their loss rather than hers, that so few people
knew her. When, as a lad of fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance to her,
she put it aside as a matter of course.
“When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to render
the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly aware that I should
have to depend for companionship upon him alone. We have each other, and
we have you and Violet. We want no other society but yours.”
Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come
to see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should have liked
an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts up at the Hall.
But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes came in for a chat
with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a meal at Lilyfields.
As I grew still older, and others remarked on the circumstance in my
hearing, I came to the conclusion that my father must have offended his
own friends by marrying my mother, whose connections might be inferior
to his own. This idea was confirmed in my mind by observing that she
occasionally received letters she was anxious to conceal, which, knowing
the frankness of her disposition, and her great love for him, appeared very
strange to me. One day, indeed, my suspicions became certainties. It so
happened that my mother had appeared very fidgety and unlike herself at

the breakfast-table, and more than once had spoken to Violet and me in a
voice hardly to be recognised as her own. We felt instinctively that
something was the matter, and were silent, but my father, who was not well,
seemed irritated by the unusual annoyance. He wished to remain quietly at
home that morning, but my mother found a dozen reasons why he should
ride to the neighbouring town and take me with him. He combatted her
wish for some time, till, finding that her arguments were revolving
themselves into entreaty, his affection conquered his irresolution, and we set
off together. It was not a genial day for a ride, and the trifling commissions
my mother had given us to execute were not of sufficient consequence to
turn the duty into a pleasure. I was rather pleased than otherwise, therefore,
when we had left Lilyfields some miles behind us, to find that my pony had
cast a shoe, and to be able, according to my father’s direction, to turn back
and walk it gently home again, whilst he went forward to do my mother’s
bidding.
When I reached Lilyfields I left the animal in the stables, and, walking up
to the house, gained the hall before anyone was sensible of my approach.
What was my surprise to hear a loud altercation going on within the parlour.
My first impulse was to open the door; but as my mother turned and saw me
standing on the threshold, she came forward and pushed me back into the
hall.
“Go away!” she whispered hurriedly; “go upstairs; hide yourself
somewhere, and do not come down until I call you!”
Her eyes were bright as though with fever, and a scarlet spot burned on
either cheek. I saw she was labouring under the influence of some strong
excitement, and I became intensely curious to learn the reason.
“Whom have you in there?” I demanded, for I had caught sight of
another figure in the drawing-room.
“Oh! you wish to know who I am, young man, do you?” exclaimed a
coarse, uncertain voice from the other side the half-opened door. “Well, I’m
not ashamed of myself, as some people ought to be, and you’re quite
welcome to a sight of me if it’ll give you any pleasure.”
The door was simultaneously pulled open, and a woman stood before me.
How shall I describe her.
She may have been beautiful, perhaps, in the days long past, but all trace
of beauty was lost in the red, blotchy, inflamed countenance she presented
to my gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot; her hair dishevelled; her dress tawdry

and untidy, and if she had even been a gentlewoman, which I doubted, she
had parted with every sign of her breeding. As she pushed her way up
behind my mother—looking so sad and sweet and ladylike beside her—she
inspired me with nothing but abhorrence.
“Who is this person?” I repeated, with an intimation of disgust that
apparently offended the stranger, for in a shrill voice she commenced some
explanation which my mother was evidently most anxious I should not hear.
“Oh, Charlie! do you love me?” she whispered.
“Mother! yes!”
“Then go up to your room, now, at once, and wait there till I come to
you! I will speak to you afterwards—I will tell you all—only go now!”
She spoke so earnestly that I could not refuse her request, but did as she
desired me at once, the woman I had seen, screaming some unintelligible
sentence after me as I ascended the stairs. But when I found myself alone,
the scene I had witnessed recurred rather unpleasantly to my memory. It
was an extraordinary circumstance to see a stranger at all within our walls;
still more so a woman, and one who dared to address my mother in loud
and reproachful tones. And I was now sixteen, able and willing to defend
her against insult, why, therefore, had she not claimed my services to turn
this woman from the house, instead of sending me upstairs, as she might
have done little Violet, until she had settled the matter for herself? But then
I remembered the trouble my mother had taken to get my father and me
away from Lilyfields that morning, and could not believe but that she had
foreseen this visitation and prepared against it. It was then as I had often
supposed. She had relations of whom she was ashamed, with whom she did
not wish my father to come in contact. Poor mother! If this was one of
them, I pitied her! I believed the story I had created myself so much, that I
accepted it without further proof, and when my mother entered the room,
and laying her head against my shoulder, sobbed as if her heart would
break, I soothed her as well as I was able, without another inquiry as to the
identity of the person with whom I had found her.
“Don’t tell your father, Charlie!” she said, in parting. “Don’t mention a
word to anyone of what you have seen to-day. Promise me, darling! I shall
not be happy till I have your word for it!”
And I gave her my word, and thought none the less of her for the secrecy,
although I regretted it need be.

Not long after this my father articled me, at my own request, to an
architect in London, and my visits to the happy home at Lilyfields became
few and far between. But I had the consolation of knowing that all went
well there, and that I was taking my place in the world as a man should do.
I had worked steadily at my profession for two years, and was just
considering whether I had not earned the right to take a real good long
holiday at Lilyfields (where Violet, now a fine girl of seven years old, was
still my favourite plaything), when I received a letter from the doctor of the
village—desiring me to come home at once as my father was ill, beyond
hope of recovery. I knew what that meant—that he was already gone; and
when I arrived at Lilyfields I found it to be true; he had died of an attack of
the heart after a couple of hours’ illness. The shock to me was very great. I
had never loved my father as I did my mother; the old childish recollections
had been too strong for that, but the last few years he had permitted me to
be very happy, and I knew that to her his loss must be irreparable. Not that
she exhibited any violent demonstration of grief. When I first saw her, I was
surprised at her calmness. She sat beside my father’s body, day and night,
without shedding a tear; and she spoke of his departure as quietly as though
he had only gone on a journey from which she fully expected him to return.
But though her eyes were dry, they never closed in sleep, and every morsel
of colour seemed to have been blanched out of her face and hands. So the
first day passed, and when the second dawned, I, having attained the dignity
of eighteen years, thought it behoved me to speak of my late father’s affairs
and my mother’s future.
“Where is father’s will, mother?”
“He never made one, dear!”
“Never made a will! That was awfully careless.”
“Hush, Charlie!”
She would not brook the slightest censure cast on her dead love.
“But there must be a will, mother.”
“Darling, there is none! It was the one thought that disturbed his last
moments. But I am content to let things be settled as they may.”
“Lilyfields will be yours of course, and everything in it,” I answered
decidedly. “No one has a better right to them than you have. And you and
Violet will live here to your lives’ end, won’t you?”
“Don’t ask me, dear Charlie, don’t think of it—not just yet at least! Let
us wait until—until—it is all over, and then decide what is best to be done!”

Before it was all over; matters were decided for us.
It was the day before the funeral. I had just gone through the mournful
ceremony of seeing my father’s coffin soldered down, and, sad and
dispirited, had retired to my own room for a little rest, when I heard the
sound of carriage wheels up on the gravel drive. I peered over the window
blind curiously, for I had never heard of my father’s relations, and had been
unable in consequence to communicate with any of them. A lumbering
hired fly, laden with luggage, stopped before the door, and from it
descended, to my astonishment, the same woman with the fiery red face
whom I had discovered in my mother’s company two years before. I
decided at once that, whatever the claims of this stranger might be, she
could not be suffered to disturb the widow in the first agony of her crushing
grief, and, quick, as thought, I ran down into the hall and confronted her
before she had entered the house.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” I commenced, “but Mrs. Vere is unable to
see anyone at present. There has been a great calamity in the family, and—”
“I know all about your calamity,” she interrupted me rudely, “if it were
not for that I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you cannot see Mrs. Vere!” I repeated.
“And pray who is Mrs. Vere?” said the woman.
“My mother,” I replied proudly, “and I will not allow her to be annoyed
or disturbed.”
“Oh! indeed, young man. It strikes me you take a great deal of authority
upon yourself; but as I mean to be mistress in my own house, the sooner
you stop that sort of thing the better! Here! some of you women!” she
continued, addressing the servants who had come up from the kitchen to
learn the cause of the unusual disturbance. “Just help the flyman up with
my boxes, will you—and look sharp about it.”
I was thunderstruck at her audacity.
For a moment I did not know what to answer. But when this atrocious
woman walked past me into the parlour, and threw herself into my dead
father’s chair, I followed her, and felt compelled to speak.
“I do not understand what you mean by talking in this way,” I said. “Mrs.
Vere is the only mistress in this house, and—”
“Well, young man, and suppose I am Mrs. Vere!”
“I can suppose no such thing. You cannot know what you are talking
about. My mother—”

“Your mother! And pray, what may your name be and your age?”
“Charles Vere; and I was eighteen last birthday,” I said, feeling
compelled, I knew not by what secret agency, to reply.
“Just so! I thought as much! Well, I am Mrs. Vere, and I am your
mother!”
“My mother! You must be mad, or drunk! How dare you insult the dead
man in his coffin upstairs. My mother! Why, she died years ago, before I
can remember.”
“Did she? That’s the fine tale madam, who’s been taking my place here
all this time has told you, I suppose. But I’ll be even with her yet. I’m your
father’s widow, and all he’s left behind him belongs to me, and she’ll be out
of this house before another hour’s over her head, or my name’s not Jane
Vere!”
“You lie!” I exclaimed passionately. This tipsy, dissipated, coarse-looking
creature, the woman who bore me, and whom I had believed to be lying in
her grave for sixteen years and more. Was it wonderful that at the first blush
my mind utterly refused to credit it? The angry accusation I have recorded
had barely left my lips, when I looked up and saw my mother—the woman
who had come as an angel of light into my father’s darkened home, and
watched over me with the tenderest affection since—standing on the
threshold, pale and peaceful in her mourning garb, as the Spirit of Death
itself.
“Mother! say it is not true,” I cried as I turned towards her.
“Oh, Charlie, my darling boy! my brave, good son! Be quiet! bear it like
a man; but it is true!”
“This—this woman was my father’s wife!”
“She was!”
“And you, mother!” I exclaimed in agony.
“I was only the woman that he loved, Charlie,” she answered, with
downcast eyes. “You must think no higher of me than that!”
“I think the very highest of you that I can. You were my father’s loving
companion and friend for years: you saved his life and his reason! You were
his true, true wife, and my mother. I shall never think of you in any lower
light.”
My emotion had found vent in tears by that time. It was all so new and so
horrible to believe, and my mother’s hand rested fondly on my bowed head.

Then that other woman, whose existence I can never recall without a
shudder, seized her hateful opportunity, and levelled the most virulent abuse
at my poor martyr mother’s head. Words, such as I had never heard from a
female before, rained thickly from her lips, until I lost sight of my own grief
in my indignation at the shower of inuendoes which were being hurled at
the person dearest to me of all the world.
“Be silent,” I said in a loud authoritative voice. “Were you twenty times
my mother I would not permit you to speak as you are speaking now. If it is
true that you were my father’s wife, why were you not in your proper place,
instead of leaving your lawful duties to another?”
“Oh! madam here can answer that question better than myself. She
knows well enough there was no room left for me where she was.”
“Untrue!” murmured my mother, but without any anger. “I would have
shielded your character from your boy’s censure, as I have done for so long,
but justice to the dead compels me to speak. You left this home desolate for
many miserable years before I entered it. You deserted your child in his
infancy, but your husband had so good and forgiving a heart that, when you
cried to him for pardon, he took you back again and condoned your great
offence, and therefore, when you left him a second time, the law contained
no remedy for his wrong. He was compelled to live on—alone—
dishonoured and comfortless, whilst you—you can best tell your son what
your life has been since.”
“Anyway I am Mrs. Vere,” retorted the other, “and my husband has died
intestate, and his property belongs to me, so I’ll thank you to take your brat,
and clear out of my house before the sun goes down.”
“Oh! mother, this is infamous! It can never be!”
“It must be, Charlie! It is the law. I knew all this when I consented to
come here as your father’s wife. He never deceived me for a single
moment; and if I have any regret that he put off providing against this
contingency until it was too late, it is only for fear lest he should be
regretting it also. But, my dear, dear love!” she added in a lower tone, “I
acquit you of this as of all things. I know your great love for me never
failed, and I am content!”
“I will not believe it without further proof!” I exclaimed. “I will send
Ellen at once for the solicitor. I cannot leave you alone with this horrid
woman!”
“Hush, Charlie! she is your mother.”

“I will not acknowledge it. You are the only mother I have ever had—the
only mother I ever will have to my life’s end.”
Mr. Chorberry, the solicitor, came without delay, but he could give me no
comfort. My poor father, by that strange indifference which has been the
curse of so many, had put off making his will until it was too late, by reason
of which he had left the one to whom he owed most in the world, the
woman who had sacrificed friends and reputation to spend her life in a dull
country home, administering to his pleasures, entirely dependant on her
own resources for support—whilst the faithless, drunken creature he had the
misfortune to be still chained to, walked in as the lawful wife, and claimed
her share of the property. There was only one drop of balm in his decision.
I, as my father’s son, shared what he had left behind him, but my angel
mother and dear baby-sister were cast upon the world to shift for
themselves.
And this was the law.
Oh, father! did your spirit look down from whichever sphere it had been
translated to, and witness this?
“But, surely,” I said to Chorberry, “there can be no necessity for my
mother leaving Lilyfields before the funeral?”
“Of course there is no necessity; but do you think it advisable, under the
circumstances, that she should remain? Mrs. Vere has the legal power to
enforce her departure, and I am afraid will not be slow to use it.”
My mother evidently was of one mind with him, for in an incredibly
short space of time she had packed her belongings. Mrs. Vere, standing over
her meanwhile to see she did not purloin anything from the house, and was
waiting in the hall with little Violet, ready to go to the house of the
clergyman’s wife, who, to her honour, having heard how matters stood at
Lilyfields, had promptly sent my mother an invitation to the vicarage for the
night.
“Are you ready, dear mother?” I said sadly, as I joined her in the hall, and
drew her arm within my own.
“Well, Mr. Charles, I suppose I shall see you back again here before
long?” screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Vere down the staircase.
I started.
See me back! Was it possible that this woman believed I intended to make
friends with her?

“We’ve been parted long enough, it strikes me,” she continued; “and now
your father’s gone, and left no one behind him but yourself I suppose you’ll
be looking out for my share of the property at my death, so we may as well
let bye-gones be bye-gones, eh?”
“I wish for none of your property, madam,” I answered haughtily, “since
the law gives it to you you are welcome to keep it.”
“Charlie, dear, think what you may be resigning,” urged my mother in
my ear.
“I think of nothing but you, mother!”
“Hoity, toity! here’s manners,” cried the other woman. “You seem to
forget, Master Charlie, that I’m your mother!”
Still holding my mother’s hand, I turned and confronted her.
“I forget nothing, madam! I wish I could; but I remember that here stands
the woman who laboured where you refused to work; who loved, where you
had insulted and betrayed; who was faithful where you were faithless and
undeserving; and, I say, that here stands my dead father’s true wife; and
here stands, in God’s sight, my mother! The blessing of man may not have
sanctified her union, but the blessing of heaven shall be upon it and upon
her—upon the creatures she rescued from a living death and upon the
gracious hand with which she did it, until time itself shall be no more.”
So saying, I passed with my mother beyond the gates of Lilyfields, to
make a new life for her in some quiet spot where she might outlive her
grief, and to repay, if possible, by the protection and support of my
manhood, the love she had given me as a little child.

IN THE HEART OF THE
ARDENNES.
Fever is raging in Brussels, and we are advised to quit the town as soon
as possible. The question is, where to go. I suggest Rochefort in the
Ardennes, having ascertained previously that the place is healthy; but my
friends laugh at me. “Rochefort in February! We shall all be frozen to
death.” “At least,” I argue, “there is pure air to breathe.” “But you can have
no idea of the dulness,” is all the reply I receive; “Rochefort, with its one
street and its one resident is bad enough in the summer, but at this season it
will be unendurable.” Yet I am not to be turned from my purpose. I consider
it is better to be frozen outwardly than burned inwardly; and that when one
is flying from a pestilence, there is no time to regret the numerous pleasures
left behind, or the few that loom in the future. And so we settle finally that,
notwithstanding its promised disadvantages, we will thankfully accept the
refuge Rochefort can afford us; and having made up our minds to go, we
start twenty-four hours afterwards.
Being pent-up in a railway carriage with half-a-dozen manikins and
womanikins, who suck oranges half the time, and obtrude their little
persons between your view and the window the other half, is not perhaps
the most favourable situation from which to contemplate the beauties of
nature; for which reason, perhaps, it is as well that for the first part of our
journey nature presents no beauties for our contemplation, and thereby our
naturally mild tempers are prevented from boiling over. But when we have
accomplished about fifty miles (Rochefort being distant from Brussels
seventy miles) the country begins to assume a different and far more
engaging aspect. The flat table-land, much of it marshy and undrained,
which has scarcely been varied hitherto, gives place to swelling hills, half
rock, half heather, and charming copses of fir, some of which are very
extensive. The scenery becomes altogether more wooded and naturally

fertile-looking; and houses and farmsteads lose all trace of British
contiguity, and become proportionately interesting to curious English eyes.
The train is an express, and as it dashes past the fragile, roughly-built little
stations with which the road is bordered, it is amusing, or rather I should
say it would be amusing, did it not suggest the idea of accidents, to see the
signal-flags displayed by peasant-women in every variety of attitude and
costume.
Here stands a stolid, solid Belgian girl, of eighteen years of age probably,
and stout enough for forty, with a waist like a tar-barrel, and legs to match,
who nurses her flag as if it were a baby, and gazes at the flying train with a
countenance which could not be more impassive were it carved in wood.
We have hardly finished laughing at her, when the train rushes past another
station, at which appears a withered old crone, her head tied up in a
coloured handkerchief, and her petticoats, cut up to her knees, looking
cruelly short for such a wintry day, and displaying a pair of attenuated legs
and feet for which the huge wooden sabots look miles too large. She waves
about the signal-flag in a nervous, agitated manner, which suggests the idea
that she is not quite sure whether she has caught up the right one or not; but
before we have time to be made uncomfortable by the fact, we are passing
another of these Belgic “shanties,” at the door of which appears for a
moment a middle-aged woman, who waves the signal at us in a menacing
manner, and rushes back immediately to her children or her cooking.
Remembering our own signalmen, and the importance attached to their
capabilities and education for the important office assigned them, it ceases
to be a matter of amusement to see the lives of hundreds daily intrusted to
the direction of such ignorant creatures as these. I suppose that “Monsieur,”
smoking at his ease by the fireside in the little wooden station-house, directs
the actions of his mother, wife, or daughter; but what are the authorities
about not to insist on his performing his duty himself?
Notwithstanding all which, however, our train reaches Jemelle (the
nearest station to Rochefort) in safety, and in the midst of a wind sufficient,
if not to take our heads, to take our hats off, we and our belongings come to
the ground. It takes some minutes to get our nine packages together; and
when we present ourselves at the door of the diligence, it is nearly full. I
look despairingly at the nurse and all the children, and decide that the
younger members of the family must go by diligence, and the elder shall
walk with me to Rochefort. But the Rochefortians are too polite to permit

such a thing. Two of them insist upon getting out and giving up their places
to the children. I protest against such a proceeding, of course, as in duty
bound, but they will hear of no excuse, and start off walking at such a pace
that they are out of sight before the diligence is set in motion. At last the
luggage is all packed away on the top, and we are all packed away inside, in
company with two gentlemen, who open the conversation pleasantly by
asking us where we come from, and telling us that we must not expect to
find Rochefort as large as Brussels, which, to say truth, we had scarcely
anticipated. The talk becomes fragmentary, for the diligence rattles and jolts
over the stony, hilly road, and the bells on the horses’ collars jangle in
unison; and the baby is so enchanted with the noise, that he shouts till no
one can be heard but himself. But twenty minutes’ purgatory brings us into
a long, steep, narrow street, paved with stones, and bordered with grey-and-
white houses; and I have hardly time to ask, “Is this Rochefort?” when the
diligence draws up before a whitewashed house with a sign swinging before
the door, and I am asked if we are for the Hôtel Biron. No, we are for the
Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or; and as no one seems to be for the Hôtel Biron, the
diligence continues to climb the stony street until it reaches the summit, and
halts before the Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or.
Here we all unpack ourselves; and a buxom German landlady, with a
kind, motherly face, comes down the steps to greet us. She has received my
letter; the beds are all ready for us; the dinner will be on the table in half-
an-hour; we are to be pleased to enter, and make ourselves at home. We are
very pleased; for we are dreadfully tired (not cold, for the weather is
unnaturally mild), and have not had anything substantial to eat all the day.
We climb up the steps of the hotel, which looks just like a farmhouse
abutting on the main street, and find ourselves in a sanded room, containing
a long wooden table, with benches either side of it, and bearing evident
reminiscences of smoking and drinking—in fact, “not to put too fine a point
on it,” the public tap-room—but where we are met by the landlady’s two
eldest daughters, Thérèse and Josephine, who are beaming in their
welcome. They usher us into a second room, where the children scream at
the sight of a table laid for dinner, and the four corners of which bear bowls
of whipped cream and custard, and rosy Ardennes apples, and biscuits just
out of the oven. The little people want to begin at once, and cannot be
brought to see the necessity of washing their faces and hands first or
waiting till the meat and potatoes shall be placed upon the table. Would

Madame like to see the chambres à coucher at once? Madame saying yes,
Thérèse catches up the youngest child but one, and, preceded by Josephine,
we enter first a scullery, next a bricked passage, thence mount a most
perilous set of dark narrow stairs, and stumble into a long whitewashed
corridor, which terminates in a glass-door opening on to a garden. Here
three doors successively thrown open introduce us to our bedrooms; and the
trunks having been brought up the breakneck stairs, we take possession at
once. The little white-curtained beds are small, but beautifully clean, and
each one is surmounted by its eider-down quilt in a coloured cotton case.
Two little islands of carpet in a sea of painted boards represent the
coverings of the floors; and the washing-stands are only deal-tables, and
there are no chests of drawers; but we inhale the fresh, vigorous breeze
which is pouring through the windows (open even at that season), and think
of fever-infected Brussels, and are content. But though it is all very nice and
clean, we cannot possibly wash without water, nor dry our hands without
towels.
An imbecile shout from the door for anybody or anything brings a broad-
featured, rosy, grinning German girl to our aid, who, when she is asked her
name, says it is Katrine, but we can call her by any name we please. The
pronunciation of “Katrine” not presenting those difficulties to our foreign
tongues which the owner of it seems to anticipate, we prefer to adhere to
her baptismal cognomen, instead of naming her afresh, and desire Katrine
to bring us some hot water and towels; on which she disappears, still on the
broad grin, and returns with a pail of warm water, which she sets down in
the middle of the room. We manage well enough with that, however, but are
at our wits’ end when, on being asked for more of the same fluid with which
to mix the baby’s bottle, she presents it to us in a washing-basin. But as, a
few minutes after, I encounter her in the corridor carrying a coffee-pot full
to E——’s room, I conclude that in Rochefort it is the fashion to use vessels
indiscriminately, and resolve thenceforth to take the goods the gods
provide, without questioning.
On descending to the dining-room, we find that the gods have been very
munificent in their gifts. After the soup appears roast beef; and as we are
very hungry, we cause it to look foolish, and are just congratulating each
other on having made an excellent dinner, when in trots Thérèse, pops our
dirty knives and forks upon the table-cloth, whips away our plates, with that
which contains the remainder of the beef, and puts down a dish of mutton-

chops in its stead. We look at one another in despair; we feel it to be
perfectly impossible to begin again upon mutton-chops, and I am obliged to
hint the same to Thérèse in the most delicate manner in the world. She
expostulates; but to no purpose, and leaves the room, mutton-chops in hand.
But only to give place to her mother, who enters with a countenance of
dismay to inquire what is wrong with the cooking that we cannot eat.
Nothing is wrong; we have eaten remarkably well. It is our capabilities of
stowage which are at fault. Will we not have the hare, which is just ready to
be served up?
Sorry as we are to do it, we must decline the hare; and as we affirm that
we are ready for the pudding, and nothing else, we feel we have sunk in
Madame’s estimation.
The pudding, a compote of apples and preserves, with the whipped cream
and custard, is delicious; and as soon as we have discussed it, we are very
thankful to stretch ourselves under the eider-down quilts, and know the day
to be over. We have done work enough that day to entitle us to twelve
hours’ repose; yet we are all wide-awake with the first beams of the
morning sun.
We dress ourselves with the pleasurable anticipation of seeing new
things, however simple, and come down-stairs to a breakfast-table, in its
way as plentifully spread as the dinner-table of the night before. We have an
abundance of milk,—so fresh from the cow that it is covered with froth, and
the jug which contains it is quite warm,—eggs, cold meat, home-made
bread in huge brown loaves, good butter, and strong clear coffee. In fact, we
come to the conclusion that our landlady knows how to live, and we no
longer marvel at the rosy cheeks and full forms of Thérèse and Josephine,
nor that Madame herself fills out her dresses in such a magnificent manner.
E—— has been for a stroll before breakfast, and brings back a report of
ruins on the high ground; he has already unpacked his sketch-books and
sharpened his pencils. We, not being walking encyclopædias, seize our
Continental Bradshaw, and find that the ruins are those of a castle in which
Lafayette was made prisoner by the Austrians in 1792.
As soon as breakfast is concluded, we rush off to see the ruined castle,
which stands on an eminence just above the hotel, and which our landlady
(who walks into our sitting-room and takes a chair in the most confiding
manner possible whenever she feels so inclined) informs us, although not
open to the public, belongs to a lady whose house is built on the same

ground, and who will doubtless allow us to look over it. We can see the
remains of the castle before we reach them, and decide that it must have
been uglier and less interesting when whole than now, having been
evidently designed with a view to strength rather than beauty. The little
winding acclivitous path which leads to it, bounded by a low wall fringed
with ferns and mosses, is perhaps the prettiest part of the whole concern;
but just as we have scaled it, and come upon the private dwelling-house, our
poetic meditations are interrupted by the onslaught of half-a-dozen dogs
(one of which is loose, and makes fierce snaps at our unprotected legs),
which rush out of their kennels at chains’ length, and bark so vociferously,
that we feel we have no need to make our presence known by knocking at
the door. A child appears at it; and we inquire politely if we may see the
ruins, at which she shakes her head, and we imagine she doesn’t understand
our Parisian French.
But in another moment we are undeceived, for the shrill, vixenish voice
of a woman (may dogs dance upon her grave!) exclaims sharply from the
open door, “Fermez, fermez; on ne peut pas entrer.” The child obediently
claps it to in our faces, and we retrace our steps, with a conviction that the
lady is like her castle—more strong than beautiful. E—is so disgusted that
he will not even sketch the ruins from the opposite side of the road, up
which another precipitous path leads us to a long walk, which in summer
must be a perfect bower, from the interlacing of the branches of the trees
with which it is bordered; and from which we have a far better view of the
ruins than the utmost politeness of their owner could have afforded us. But
no; judgment has gone out against them; we decide they are heavy and
unpicturesque, and not worth the trouble; and we walk on in hopes of
finding something better: and are rewarded. At the close of the long
overshadowed walk, a quaint little chapel, beside which stands a painted
wooden crucifix nearly the size of life, excites our curiosity, and, walking
round it, we come upon one of the loveliest scenes, even in the month of
February, that Nature ever produced.
A green valley, creeping in sinuous folds between two ranges of high
hills; one rocky and coated with heather, the other clothed with wood.
Beneath the rocky range there winds a road bordered by trees,—along
which we can see the red diligence which brought us from the station taking
its jangling way,—and beside it runs a stream, terminating in a cascade and
a bridge, and the commencement of the lower part of Rochefort. All the

fields are cut upon the sides of hills, and are diversified by clumps of rock
covered with ferns, and usually the groundwork of a well, protected by a
few rough planks, or the fountain-head of a mountain-stream which trickles
down until it joins the river. This is the valley of Jemelle, to see which in
the proper season would alone be worth a journey to Rochefort. We look
and admire, and lament the impossibility of ever transferring such a scene
to canvas as it should be done; and then we turn back whence we came, and
find we are standing at the entrance of an artificial cave, situated at the back
of the crucifix before alluded to, and which forms perhaps as great a
contrast to the natural loveliness we have just looked upon, as could well
be. Apparently it is the tomb of some woman, by the framed requests which
hang on either side that prayers may be offered for the repose of her soul;
but had her friends turned out upon her grave all the maimed and motley
rubbish to be found in a nursery playbox of some years’ standing, they
could scarcely have decorated it in a less seemly manner. At the end of the
cave is a wooden grating, behind which is exhibited one of those tawdry
assemblages of horrors which tend more perhaps than all else to bring
ridicule on the Roman Catholic religion, so utterly opposed are they to our
conceived ideas of what is sacred. Two or three rudely-carved and coarsely-
painted, almost grotesque, wooden groups of the dead Christ, the Holy
Family, and the Crucifixion, form the groundwork of this exhibition: the
interstices being filled up with gold-and-white jars of dirty artificial
flowers; framed prints of saints with lace borders, reminding one of the
worst description of valentines; and composite figures, supposed to
represent the same individuals, and which may have cost fifty centimes
apiece. The collection is such as to make the spectator shudder to see holy
things so unholily treated; and it is difficult to conceive how, in this century,
when art has been carried to such a pitch that even our commonest jugs and
basons have assumed forms consistent with it, anyone, even the lowest, can
be satisfied with such designs and colouring as these things display.
Returning homeward by the lower part of the town, we pass a maison
religieuse dedicated to St. Joseph, and in the garden see the good little
sisters joining their pupils, to the number of forty or fifty, in a merry game
of “Here we go round the mulberry-bush,” and apparently taking as much
pleasure in the exercise as the youngest there. The church and churchyard
stand at this end of Rochefort. There is nothing in the building to attract
one’s notice, except that we agree that it is the ugliest we have ever seen;

but we walk round the little churchyard, the paucity of graves in which
speaks well for the climate of the place. The crosses and railings, made of
the commonest wood and in the most fragile manner, are all rotting as they
stand or lie (several having assumed the recumbent position); and we are
leaving the spot with the conviction that we have wasted five minutes, when
we come against a crucifix fastened by heavy iron clamps against the wall
of the church. A common iron cross, rusty and red from damp and age, with
a figure nailed on it of the most perfect bronze, old and hard, and dark and
bright, and as unchanged by weather and exposure as on the day (perhaps
hundreds of years ago) it was first placed there.
Toiling up the street again, and examining the shops as we go, I say that,
much as I like Rochefort, I do not advise any one to come here in order to
purchase their wedding trousseau, or lay in a stock of winter clothing. We
look in vain for something to buy in remembrance of the place; but can see
nothing out of the way, except it is a yellow teapot, holding at the least four
quarts, and with a curled spout to prevent the tea coming out too fast, which
must be almost necessary with such a load of liquid. The teapot is delicious,
and quite unique; but scarcely worth, we think, the trouble of transportation.
We have but just decided this matter to our satisfaction when we come upon
a “miscellaneous warehouse,” upon whose front is painted “Cartes pour les
grottes de Rochefort,” and remember that we must see the famous grotto,
and turn in to ask the price of admission. Five francs a-head; children half-
price. We think the charge is high; but Monsieur C— (to whom the grotto
belongs) takes us into his house and shows us prints of the different views
of its interior, which fire our imagination to that degree, that we decide at
once to see it the next morning. We look over a book also in which visitors
to the grotto have written down their first impressions; and these
testimonials excite our curiosity still further. A Persian describes himself as
having been suddenly transported into fairyland; and can liken the vast
caverns to nothing but the palace of his great master the Sultan, and the
various forms assumed by the stalactites to those of lovely houris grouped
about him. A French poet, in rapturous verse, compares the grotto to the
enchanted halls of the Arabian Nights, and the stalactites to “frozen tears.”
Every traveller declares the sight to have been more wonderful and
beautiful than anything he has ever seen before, until we become quite sorry
to think we must put off seeing it until the morning; and our expectations
are heightened by the rapid assurance of Monsieur C— (who always keeps

his hands moving, and never stops to consider his commas), that it is
“trèsbeautrèsbeautrèsbeau!” However, we agree to return the next day at
eleven o’clock, when he promises the guides shall be in readiness for us;
and we go home to another excellent dinner, the pleasure of which is only
marred by the fact that Thérèse will make us use the same knives and forks
for every course; and we haven’t the strength of mind to resist.
Yesterday I spoke to madame on the necessity of engaging someone
during the mornings to read French and German with the girls, as we shall
most likely be here for a month; and it is too long a time for them to be idle.
Madame did not think I should find a demoiselle in Rochefort who could
instruct them; but there is a professeur here who has passed all his college
examinations, and who, if he has the time, will doubtless be very glad of the
employment. I asked her to send for the professeur that I might speak to
him on the subject; and here, just as we have done dinner, he arrives; for
madame throws open the door, and with a certain pride in her voice (pride
that Rochefort should possess such an article), announces “Monsieur le
Professeur.” I glance up, thinking of Charlotte Brontë and her professor,
and hoping this one may not prove as dirty and seedy and snuffy, and, to my
amazement, see standing on the threshold a lad of about seventeen or
eighteen, dressed in green trousers and a blue blouse, and holding his cap in
his hand. The two girls immediately choke, and bury their faces in their
books, which renders my task of catechising rather a difficult one; and I
glance at E— for aid, but his countenance is almost level with the table as
he pretends to draw. So I find there is nothing to be done but to beg the
professeur to be seated,—a request which he steadily refuses to comply
with; and as he stands there, twisting his cap in his hands, he looks so like a
butcher-boy, that it is a mercy I do not ask him what meat he has to-day.
But the poor young man is so horribly nervous, as he tells me that,
though qualified for a tutor, he has never taught before, that I have not the
heart to refuse him on account of his youth; besides, is he not the sole
professeur in Rochefort? So I give him leave to come the next morning, and
try, at all events, what he can do with the girls; and he looks very happy for
the permission. And we see him a minute afterwards, striding proudly down
the street, whistling as he goes, and holding his head half an inch higher for
having “got a situation.” Of course the children make merry over him for
the rest of the evening, and cannot recall the appearance of their professeur
without shrieks of laughter; but he comes the next morning, nevertheless, to

commence his duties, and proves to be quite as particular as older teachers,
and much more competent than some, and takes the youngest girl
completely aback by telling her she shall be punished if she is not steady.
At eleven o’clock the next morning we are all ready to view the grottoes,
and E— and I, with the two eldest children, start off on our expedition. The
way to their entrance lies through Monsieur C—’s park, which in summer
must be a very charming resort. He has collected here all the wild animals
indigenous to the Ardennes, and shows them to us as we walk to the mouth
of the grottoes. Close to his house he has a splendid wolf and three foxes—
the golden, silver, and common fox. I should have preferred to keep these
interesting specimens a little further off from my own nose; but there is no
accounting for tastes. In the aviary he has squirrels, guinea-pigs, doves,
pigeons, and the most magnificent pair of horned owls I have ever seen.
These birds, which are as fierce as possible, have eyes of jet and amber, as
big as half-crowns, and when in their rage they spring at passers-by, they
make a noise with their beaks just like castanets.
A little farther up the park we come upon the Ardennes deer, which are
thicker built and less graceful than the English fallow-deer, with which they
are consorting; and a wild boar, with fierce tusks and a savage grunt,
wallowing in a parterre of clay, which, nevertheless, knows his master, and
puts his ugly snout out to be scratched between the palisades of his domain.
Monsieur C— only conducts us as far as the entrance of the grotto, and
there delivers us over to the care of the guides, two in number, who each
carry a couple of petroleum lamps, and have “Grottes de Rochefort” written
on their hatbands. They ask us if we will have costumes to enter the caves
with, and we decline, not knowing the dirt we shall encounter; but we
exchange our own hats for little, grey linen ones, trimmed with a cockade
and bunch of small red feathers in front, made after the pattern of those
adopted by the monkeys on the organs, and in which we appear very
comical to each other’s eyes. Everything is ready, and down we go—down
the first flight of steps, which is steep but easy, and which, Monsieur C—
shouts after us, will be the most difficult descent of all (I wonder if he
impresses that fable on all his visitors) until the ivy and fern-covered
entrance is passed, and we enter the very mouth of the cave, which is yet
light enough to let us see that several such flights have still to be descended.
We have hardly reached the middle of the second, and daylight is not yet
left behind us, when E— calls out that he cannot breathe, and must go up

into the fresh air again. The guides insist that monsieur must be mistaken,
and no one is ever taken ill there. I insist, on the other hand, that monsieur’s
wishes must be complied with, and we must reaccompany him to the top,
which we do. I would rather not go back again then, and make the dark
pilgrimage alone with the children, but E— begs we will, and the girls look
disappointed; so we retrace our steps, leaving him in the park.
I confess that as I go down the second time I feel a little nervous, and my
limbs shake. I don’t like this going down, down, down into the shades of
eternal night, with no companions but two little children.
But at last we stand on level ground again. There is no light anywhere
except from the guides’ lamps, the foremost one (who is always spokesman)
waves his above his head, and introduces la grande salle. I look up and
around me, but all is black as pitch. I feel that I am standing on broken
flints and a great deal of mud; and as the guide’s lamp throws its faint
gleam here and there, I see that the cavern we stand in is very vast and
damp, and uncommonly like a huge cellar; but I can’t say I see anything
more. In another minute the guide has turned, and leads us through a
passage cut in the rock. We are not going up or downstairs now, but picking
our way over slippery stones and between places sometimes so narrow and
sometimes so low, that our shoulders get various bumps and bruises, and
the guide’s warning of “Garde tête!” sounds continuously. Every now and
then we come upon a larger excavation, which is called a salle, and given
some name consequent on the likeness assumed by the stalactites contained
in it. Thus one is called salle de Brahma, because it contains a large
stalactite, somewhat resembling the idol of that name. Another salle du
sacrifice, because its principal attraction is a large flat stone, at the foot of
which is another, shaped sausage-wise, and entitled tombeau de la victime.
We pace after the guides through these cavernous passages for what appears
to me miles, my mind meanwhile being divided between fear that I should
leave my boots behind me in the slushy clay, or that either of my children
should tumble down or knock her head. Every cavern is like the other, and I
look in vain for stalactites which shall remind me of “houris grouped about
the sultan,” or “frozen tears.” The guides occasionally produce a fine effect
by burning a little red fire, or letting-off a rocket, or climbing singly up the
more perilous places, that we may watch the gradual ascent of their
flickering lamps, and judge of the height of the larger salles. But I suppose
the enthusiastic scribblers in the visitors’ book would consider me the

possessor of a very darkened intellect if they heard me affirm that I have
seen better effects on the stage, and climbed greater heights with much
more convenience. Perhaps I have not a sufficiently appreciative soul for
grottoes; but the greater part of the grotto of Rochefort comes up exactly to
my idea of a mine, and nothing more.
The “glittering” stalactites are nowhere. The cave is lined with stalactites,
but (with the exception of a few white ones) they are all of a uniform pale-
brown colour, and have no idea of glittering or being prismatic. The greatest
wonder of the grotto is its vastness, which may be estimated from the fact
that we are two hours going over it, and then have not traversed the whole
on account of fresh works being carried on in parts. We penetrate to its very
depths to see the river and the waterfall, but the mud is so excessive that we
are compelled to stop, and let the guide descend with his lamp and flash it
over the water, which is really very pretty, and, strange to relate, contains
good trout.
Then we plough our way upwards again; up fungus-covered ladders, and
wet, slippery stairs, upon which it is most difficult to keep a footing, until
we arrive at decidedly the finest sight there—the salle du sabbat. Here the
guides send up a spirit-balloon, to show us the height and extent of the vast
cavern, and we are rather awe-struck, particularly as, in order that we may
see the full effect, the other guide plants us on three chairs and takes away
both the lamps, leaving us seated in the darkness, on the edge of a precipice.
The blackness is so thick about us that we can almost feel it; and the silence
is that of death. My youngest girl slips her little hand in mine, and whispers,
“Mamma, supposing he weren’t to come back again!” and I can’t say the
prospect pleases. However, the balloon reaches the top of the cavern, and is
hauled back again; and the guide does come back; and, whilst he is assisting
his fellow to pack it away, I sing a verse of “God save the Queen,” for the
children to hear the echo, which is stupendous.
Then we see the prettiest thing, perhaps, we have seen yet. At the top of
the salle du sabbat there is a kind of breakage in the side, and a large cluster
of stalactites. One guide climbs up to this place and holds his lamp behind
the group, whilst the other calls out “la femme qui repose;” when lo! before
us there appears almost an exact representation of a woman, reclining with
crossed legs, and a child on her bosom. It is so good an imitation, that it
might be a figure carved in stone and placed there, and I think the sight
gave us more pleasure than anything in the grotto. We have come upon

several groups of stalactites already, to which the guides have given names,
such as l’ange de la résurrection, l’oreille de l’éléphant, and le lion Belge;
but though they have, of course, borne some resemblance to the figures
mentioned, the likeness is only admitted for want of a better. This likeness,
however, is excellent, could hardly be more like; and we are proportionately
pleased. With the salle du sabbat and the balloon the exhibition is ended;
and we are thankful to emerge into the fresh air again, and to leave slippery
staircases and the smell of fungi behind us.
We feel very heated when we stand on the breezy hill again, for the
grotto, contrary to our expectation, has proved exceedingly warm, and the
exercise has made us feel more so; and daylight looks so strange that we
can scarcely persuade ourselves we have not been passing the night down
below. We have picked up several little loose bits of stone and stalactite
during our progress, and when we reach home, we spread them out before
us on the table, and try to remember where they came from. Here is a bit of
marble, veined black-and-white; and here is white stone, glistening and
silvery. Here is the stalactite, a veritable piece of “frozen tears” and
couchant houris.
Well, we have been a little disappointed with the grottoes of Rochefort,
perhaps; we have not found the crystallisations quite so purple-and-amber
as we anticipated, or the foundations quite so clean; but, after all, it is what
we must expect in this life. If the grotto is not so brilliant as we expected, it
is at least a very wonderful and uncommon sight; and so in this life, if we
can but forget the purple-and-gold, we may extract a great deal of
amusement from very small things, if we choose to try. With which bit of
philosophy I conclude.

A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE;
OR,

THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE.

I am an author. I am something worse than that—I am a Press writer. I am
worse than that still—I am a Press writer with a large wife and a small
family. And I am an Amateur Detective! I don’t mean, of course, that I
reckon the last item as part of my profession, but my friends always come
to me if they are in any difficulty, and set me to do all kinds of queer jobs,
from restoring and reconciling a truant husband to his wife, to making the
round of the “Homes for Lost Dogs” in order to find Lady Softsawder’s pet
poodle. Even Jones couldn’t complete his great work, “The Cyclopædia of
the Brain,” without asking my assistance (for a consideration, of course)
with his fifth section, “The Origin of Dreams.” Jones is full of fire and
imagination, but he does not care for plodding, and he knew me of old for a
good steady compiler. I agreed with alacrity. “The Origin of Dreams” would
fill those hungry little mouths of mine for three months at the very least.
But how to do it whilst they gaped around me!—how to cover the one table
in my solitary sitting-room with valuable works of reference at the risk of
their being touched by greasy fingers!—how to wade through volume after
volume, placing a mental mark there and a material one here, whilst my
offspring either surreptitiously removed the one or irretrievably obliterated
remembrance of the other, by attracting my attention to the manner in which
they attempted to scalp each other’s heads or gouge out each other’s eyes! I
tried it for a week in vain.
My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which was
to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered tomes
which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried on at home,
and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for reflection, and left me

without energy to labour at night. I was about to resign the task in despair—
to tell Jones to give it to some more capable or more fortunate labourer in
the wide field of speculation—when Fate came to my rescue in the person
of the Hon. Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son.
“My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,” he
remarked to me, in his friendly manner, “and he wants your assistance,
Trueman, if you’ll give it him.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?”
“Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in love
with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person—he, with his
twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor remonstrated
with him—told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and all that sort of
thing, he actually ran away!”
“Left Lord Seaborne’s house?”
“Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want to
make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so he hasn’t
said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out where Cockleboat is
—you’re so clever at that sort of thing—and just bring him home again.”
“An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad has
gone?”
“Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you
wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of
course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear
something of the young scamp for us.”
“What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?”
“Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it into
his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last birthday, and
will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next five years—very lucky
for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not be.”
“True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season.
Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?”
“I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to
Norwich for us or not?”
“I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.”
The offer had come most opportunely; even as Captain Rivers was
speaking it had flashed through my mind that here was the very opportunity
that I desired to carry out my project of writing the fifth section of Jones’

Cyclopædia;—a remote lodging in one of the back streets of the quiet old
city of Norwich, whence I could carry on my inquiries all day, and where I
might sit up and write out my notes all night. And Lord Seaborne’s
generosity in such cases was too well known to permit of any doubt on the
subject whether I should not (by accepting his proposal) be killing two birds
with one stone. So I did accept it, with gratitude, and having obtained all the
information possible respecting the mysterious disappearance of Master
Julian Cockleboat, I packed up the black-lettered tomes, and, embracing my
smiling wife and children, who appeared rather pleased than otherwise at
the prospect of getting rid of me for a few weeks, started for Norwich.
I have a great respect for old county towns: there is a dignified sobriety
and sense of unimpeachable respectability about them that impress me. I
like their old-world institutions and buildings—their butter crosses and
market steps; their dingy bye streets with kerbstones for pavements; their
portentous churches and beadles; their old-fashioned shops and goods and
shopmen. I like the quiet that reigns in their streets, the paucity of gas they
light them up with, the strange conveyances their citizens ply for hire—in
fact, I like everything with which the world in general finds fault. So it was
with a sense of pleasure I found myself wandering about the streets of
Norwich, on the look-out for some place in which to lay my head. I had
rather have been there than at the seaside, although it was bright July
weather, and I knew the waves were frothing and creaming over the golden
sands beneath a canopy of cloudless blue sky. I preferred the shaded,
cloister-like streets of the county town, with its cool flags under my feet,
and its unbroken sense of calm.
I did not turn into the principal thoroughfares, with their gay shops and
gayer passengers, but down the less-frequented bye-ways, where children
playing in the road stopped open-mouthed to watch me pass, and women’s
heads appeared above the window-blinds, as my footfall sounded on the
narrow pavement, as though a stranger were something to be stared at.
Many windows held the announcement of “Rooms to Let,” but they were
too small—too modern, shall I say—too fresh-looking to take my fancy.
I connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as if I
could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled with scarlet
geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon “The Origin of Dreams,”
to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted. Down a narrow street,
into which the sun seemed never to have penetrated, I found some tall,

irregular, dingy-looking buildings—most of which appeared to be occupied
as insurance, wine, or law offices,—and in the lower window of one there
hung a card with the inscription, “Apartments for a Single Gentleman.”
It was just the place from which to watch and wait—in which to ponder,
and compare, and compose,—and I ascended its broken steps, convinced
that the birth-place of “The Origin of Dreams” was found. A middle-aged
woman, with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my summons to the
door. The weekly rent she asked for the occupation of the vacant apartments
sounded to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was due to my experience of
the exorbitant demands of London landladies. But when I explained to her
the reason for which I desired her rooms, namely, that I might sit up at night
and write undisturbed, her countenance visibly fell.
“I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.”
“Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?”
“Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!”
“What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?”
Her face twitched as she answered, “I have no other lodgers, sir.”
“Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?”
“My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are permitted
to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the upper rooms
(which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and in order. But the
clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they wouldn’t interfere with your
night-work.”
“What will, then?”
“I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They will
breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the rats,” I answered, cheerfully. “I’ll catch as many as
I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your only objection,
the rooms are mine. May I see them?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, as she closed the door behind me and led the
way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding doors,
which had once formed the dining saloon of a splendid mansion.
“The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the
basement, and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to lodgers.
They’re not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat and clean.”
She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and the
July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the unmade

bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep indentation in the
mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked amazed.
“Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,” I said,
jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest.
“It must be my good man,” she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the
mattress; “perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot weather
makes the best feel weak, sir.”
“Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you my
first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to fetch my
valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything that is most
handy, for my dinner.”
All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I
suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her roof,
had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt very much in
charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window thinking how
beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and how much good
work I should get through without fear of interruption or distraction. The
office clerks had long gone home, the upper rooms were locked for the
night; only an occasional patter along the wide uncarpeted staircase
reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I remembered the rats, and
“The Origin of Dreams;” and thinking it probable that my honest old couple
retired to bed early, rang the bell to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me
a good supply of candles.
“You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?” she inquired.
“I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be real tired.”
“Not at all, my good Mrs. Bizzey” (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), “I
am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your
friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a light any
way to warn them they had better not come too near me.”
“Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you, sir,” she said, earnestly, as she
withdrew to fetch the candles.
I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How
imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that
night. “The Origin of Dreams” required thought—deep and speculative
thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than
stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at the
dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be allowed to

speak so paradoxically) to the silence?—for there is silence that can be
heard.
When Mrs. Bizzey brought me the candles, she asked me if I required
anything else, as she and Mr. Bizzey were about to retire to the marital
couch, which I afterwards ascertained was erected in the scullery. I
answered in the negative, and wished her good-night, hearing her
afterwards distinctly close the door at the head of the kitchen stairs and
descend step by step to the arms of her lord and master. But Mrs. Bizzey’s
intrusion had murdered my reverie. I could not take up the chain of thought
where she had severed the links. The night air, too, seemed to have grown
suddenly damp and chilly, and I pulled down the window sash with a jerk,
and taking out my note-book and writing-case drew a chair up to the table
and commenced to think, playing idly with my pen the while. Soon the
divine afflatus (the symptoms of which every successful writer knows so
well) came down upon me. I ceased to think—or rather to be aware that I
was thinking. My pen ran over the paper as though some other hand guided
it than my own, and I wrote rapidly, filling page after page with a stream of
ideas that seemed to pour out of my brain involuntarily. Time is of no
account under such circumstances, and I may have been scribbling for one
hour or for three, for aught I knew to the contrary, before I was roused to a
sense of my position by hearing a footfall sound through the silent, deserted
house.
Now, although I have described my condition to be such as to render me
impervious to outer impressions, I am certain of one thing—that no noise,
however slight, had hitherto broken in upon it. It was the complete absence
of sound that had permitted my spirit to have full play irrespective of my
body; and directly the silence was outraged, my physical life re-asserted its
claims, and my senses became all alive to ascertain the cause of it. In
another moment the sound was repeated, and I discovered that it was over
my head—not under my feet. It could not, then, proceed from either of the
old couple, whom I had heard lock themselves up together down below.
Who could it be?
My first idea, emanating from my landlady’s information that the noise
might proceed from rats, I had already dismissed with contempt. It was the
reverberation of a footstep. There could be no doubt about that; and my next
thought naturally flew to burglars, who were making an attempt on the safes
in the offices above. What could I do? I was utterly unarmed, and to go in

pursuit of midnight robbers in so defenceless a condition would be simply
delivering myself into their power. I certainly might have shied a couple of
Jones’ black-lettered books at their heads, for they were ponderous enough
to knock any man down, but I might not take a steady aim, and it is better
not to attempt at all than to attempt and fail.
Meanwhile, the sounds overhead had increased in number and become
continuous, as though some one had commenced to walk up and down the
room. Surely no midnight thief would dare to create so much disturbance as
that! Detection of his crime would be inevitable. Or did he trust to the
sound sleep of the porter and his wife in the kitchen below, not knowing
that I, existent and wakeful, intervened between himself and them? In
another minute I believe that I should have cast all consequences to the
winds, and rushed, not in, but up to the rescue, forgetting I was a husband
and a father, and armed with Jones’ patent self-acting leveller, alone have
ascended to the upper storey to investigate the cause of the midnight
disturbance I heard. Only—I didn’t! For before I had had time to shoulder
my weapons and screw my courage up to the sticking-point, another sound
reached my ears that made the patent levellers drop on the table again with
a thump,—the sound, not of a step, but a groan—a deep, hollow,
unmistakable groan, that chilled the marrow in my bones to such a degree
that it would have been a disgrace to any cook to send them up to table.
I knew then that I must have been mistaken in my first theory, and that
the sounds I overheard, whether they proceeded from mortals or not, had no
connection with the nefarious occupation of housebreakers. But they had
become a thousand times more interesting, and I listened attentively.
The groan was followed by some muttered words that sounded like a
curse, succeeded by louder tones of reproach or anger. Then the footsteps
traversed the floor again, and seemed to be chasing someone or something
round and round the room. At last I heard another groan, followed by a
heavy fall.
I started to my feet. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Bizzey must have been roused
by such an unusual commotion, and would come upstairs to learn the
reason! But no!—they did not stir. All was silent as the grave below, and
above also. The noises had suddenly ceased. I appeared to be alone in the
empty house. It was all so strange that I put my hands up to my head and
asked myself if I were properly awake. I was hardly satisfied on this point
before the sounds recommenced overhead, and precisely in the same order

as before. Again I listened to the pacing feet—the groan—the curse—the
chase—the fall! Each phase of the ghostly tragedy—for such I now felt sure
it must be—was repeated in rotation, not once, but a couple of dozen or
more times; and then at last the disturbance ceased as suddenly and as
unexpectedly as it had commenced.
I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock, and already the early birds on
the look-out for the worm had begun to herald the dawn with a few faint
twitters in the trees in the cloister. I threw off my clothes impatiently, and
lying down in my bed, gave myself up, not to sleep, but reflection on what
was best to be done. I had not the slightest doubt left as to the cause of the
noises I had heard. My landlady might ascribe them to rats, but were she
closely questioned she would probably acknowledge the truth—that she
knew the sounds to proceed from spirits, popularly called ghosts; which
accounted for all her hesitation and change of countenance when speaking
to me about the apartments, also for the low price she asked for her rooms,
and her evident wish to dissuade me from sitting up at night.
Naturally the poor woman was afraid she should never secure a lodger if
the truth were known; but as far as I was concerned, she was altogether
mistaken—I was not afraid of her ghosts. On the contrary, as I lay in bed
and thought on what had just occurred, I congratulated myself that, by a
third strange coincidence, my visit to Norwich promised to turn out all that
I could desire.
I must “lay” these ghosts, of course—i.e., if they interfered with my
graver work; but to have the opportunity of doing so was the very thing my
heart was set upon. Is my reader surprised to hear this? Then I must take
him further into my confidence.
When I confessed I was an author, Press writer, amateur detective, and
father of six children, I did not add the crowning iniquity, and write myself
down a believer in ghosts and spiritualism. Every man acknowledges
himself a spirit, and to have been created by the power of a spirit. Most men
believe that spirits have the capability of free volition and locomotion, and
many that they have exercised these powers by re-appearing to their fellow
spirits in the flesh. But to assert publicly that you believe in all this because
you have proved it to be the truth, is to throw yourself open to the charge of
being a dupe, or a madman, or a liar. Therefore I had preferred until then to
keep my faith a secret. My children’s bread depended in a great measure on
the reputation I kept up as a man of sense, and I had not dared to risk it by

attempting to put my theories into practice. Not that I was entirely ignorant
of the rules pertaining to the science of spiritualism. Under cover of the
darkness that hides all delinquencies, I had attended several circles gathered
for the sole purpose of investigating the mysteries of other worlds; but it
had always been accomplished with the utmost secrecy, as my wife was
hysterically disposed, and the mere mention of a spirit would have upset the
house for days together.
I had never, therefore, had the opportunity of pursuing spiritualism on my
own account; and until the day broke I lay awake, congratulating myself on
the good luck that had thrown me, cheek by jowl, with a party of ready-
made ghosts, whom a very little encouragement would, I trusted, induce to
pay me a visit in my own apartments.
All the next day I wandered through the streets of Norwich and in the
country surrounding them, speculating—not on the whereabouts of Julian
Cockleboat, nor “The Origin of Dreams”—but how I should persuade my
landlady to help me unravel the mysterious occurrence of the night before.
At last I bethought me that “honesty is the best policy” after all, and
decided that I would make a clean breast of my suspicions and desires. If
Mrs. Bizzey were a sensible woman, she would prove only too ready to aid
me in ridding her apartments of visitors that must injure their reputation;
and, at all events, I could but try her. So I opened the subject on the very
first opportunity. The woman was clearing away my tea-things the same
evening, when she remarked that I had not eaten well.
“I am afraid you sit up too much at night, sir, to make a good appetite.”
“Other people seem to sit up in this house at night as well as myself, Mrs.
Bizzey,” I replied, significantly.
“I don’t understand you,” she said, colouring.
“Why, do you mean to say you never hear noises;—that you were not
disturbed last night, for instance, by the sound of groans and voices, and of
some one falling about in the upper rooms?”
“Oh, sir, you don’t mean to tell me as you’ve heard them already!”
exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, clasping her hand and letting a teacup fall in her
agitation. “If you go too, you’ll be the third gentleman that has left within a
fortnight on that account; and if a stop ain’t put to it, the house will get such
a name that nobody will put a foot inside the door for love or money.”
“But I don’t mean to go, Mrs. Bizzey; on the contrary, I should be very
sorry to go; and if you and your husband will consent to help me, I will do

my best to stop the noises altogether,” for the idea of forming a little circle
with these worthy people had suddenly flashed into my mind.
“How can me and my good man help you, sir?”
“Is Mr. Bizzey at home? If so, go downstairs and fetch him up here, and I
will explain what I mean to you both at the same time.”
She left the room at once, and in a few minutes returned with a dapper-
looking little old fellow, in knee-breeches and a red plush waistcoat, who
pulled his forelock to me on entering.
“This is Mr. Bizzey, sir, and I’ve been telling him all you say as we came
up the stairs.”
I leant back in my chair, folded my hands, and looked important.
“I suppose you must have heard the science of spiritualism mentioned?” I
commenced, grandly.
“The science of what, sir?” inquired Mr. Bizzey, with a puzzled air.
“Of spiritualism—i.e., the power of converse or communication with
disembodied spirits.”
“Lor’! you never mean ‘ghosts,’ sir?” said the old woman.
“I do, indeed, Mrs. Bizzey. I suppose you believe that spirits (or ghosts,
as you call them) may re-appear after death?”
“Oh, yes,” interposed the husband; “for I mind the night that my poor
mother lay dying, there was an apparition of a turkey-cock that sat upon the
palings opposite our cottage, and when it fluttered off ’em with a screech,
just for all the world like a real turkey, you know, sir, she turned on her side
suddenly, and give up the ghost. I’ve always believed in apparitions since
then.”
“And when my sister Jane lay in of her last,” chimed in Mrs. Bizzey,
“there was a little clock stood on the mantel-shelf that had always been
wound up regular and gone regular ever since she was married; and we was
moving a lot of things to one side, and we moved that clock and found it
had stopped; and the nurse, she said to me, ‘Mark my words if that’s not a
warning of death;’ and, sure enough, Jane died before the morning, which
makes me so careful of moving a clock since then that I’d rather go three
miles round than touch one if a body lay sick in the house.”
“I see that you both take a most sensible view of the business, and are
fully alive to the importance attached to it,” I answered; “I hope, therefore,
to secure your assistance to find out what these unusual and mysterious

noises in your house portend, and what the authors require us to do for
them.”
Then—whilst the old man scratched his head with bewilderment, and the
old woman looked scared out of her seven senses—I explained to them, as
well as I was able, the nature of a séance, and asked them if they would
come and sit at the table with me that evening and hold one.
“But, lawk a mussy, sir, you never want to speak to them!” cried Mrs.
Bizzey.
“How else are we to ascertain for what reason these spirits disturb your
lodgers and render your rooms uninhabitable by their pranks?”
“I should die of fright before we had been at it five minutes,” was her
comment; but her husband was pluckier, and took a more practical view of
the matter.
“You’ll just do as I bid you, missus, and hold your chatter. There’s no
doubt these noises are a great nuisance—not to say a loss—and if this
gentleman will be good enough to try and stop them, and can’t do without
us, I’ll help him for one, and you will for another.”
Mrs. Bizzey protested, and wept, and was even refractory, but it was all
of no avail, and before we separated it had been agreed we should meet
again at ten o’clock, and hold a séance. There was some whispering
between the old couple after that that I did not quite understand, but as it
ended by Mrs. Bizzey ejaculating, “Nonsense; I tell you the house will be
quiet enough by ten o’clock,” I concluded he was referring to some
expected visitor, and dismissed the subject from my mind. As soon as they
had disappeared I delivered myself up to self-gratulation. I was really going
to hold a séance, under my own direction and the most favourable
circumstances with a large haunted house at my command, and no one to be
any the wiser for my dabbling in the necromantic art. I took out an old
number of the “Spiritualist,” and referred to the directions for forming
circles at home. I prepared the paper, pencils, and speaking tubes, and
symmetrically arranged the table and chairs.
Nothing was wanted when Mr. and Mrs. Bizzey entered my room at the
appointed hour—he looking expectant, and she very much alarmed. I was
prepared for this, however, and insisted upon their both joining me in a
glass of whisky and hot water before commencing the sitting, alleging as a
reason the fact that the presence of spirits invariably chills the atmosphere,
whether in summer or winter. So I mixed three bumping tumblers of toddy,

strong enough to give us the courage we required for the occasion; and after
we had (according to the directions) engaged for some little time in light
and friendly conversation, I induced my friends to approach the table.
It was now, I was glad to see by my watch, about half-past eleven—just
about the time when the mysterious sounds had commenced the night
before; and having lowered the lamp, much to Mrs. Bizzey’s horror, until it
was represented by a mere glimmer of light, I instructed her husband and
herself how to place their hands upon the table, linked with mine, and the
séance began.
I had enjoined perfect silence on my companions, and after we had been
sitting still for about fifteen minutes, during which I had watched in vain for
some symptoms of movement on the part of the table, we all heard
distinctly the sound of a foot creeping cautiously about the upper rooms,
upon which Mrs. Bizzey, too frightened to shriek, began to weep, and her
husband, in order to stop her, pinched her violently in the dark.
“Hush!” I exclaimed, almost as agitated as the woman. “Do not disturb
them for your life, and whatever you may see, don’t scream.”
“La, sir, you never mean to say that they’ll come downstairs!”
“I cannot say what they may do. I think I hear a step descending now. But
remember, Mrs. Bizzey, they will not hurt you, and try and be brave for all
our sakes.”
We were in a state of high nervous excitement for the next five minutes,
during which the same noises I had heard the night before were repeated
overhead, only that the courses were louder and delivered with more
determination, and the falls appeared to succeed each other like hail.
“Oh, sir, what are they a-doing?” exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, paralysed with
terror. “They must be killing each other all round.”
“Hush!” I replied. “Listen, now. Some one is pleading for love or for
mercy. How soft and clear the voice is!”
“It sounds for all the world like my poor sister Jane when she was asking
her husband to forgive her for everything she had done amiss,” said the old
woman.
“Perhaps it is your sister Jane, or some of your relations,” I replied. “She
may want you to do something for her. Would you be afraid if she were
suddenly to open the door and come into the room?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure, sir; but I hope she mayn’t. It makes me
curdle all over only to think of it.”

“They’re quieter now. Let us ask if there is any one present who wishes
to speak to us,” I said; and addressing the table to that effect, I commenced
to spell out the alphabet rather loudly—“A, B, C,” etc.
Whether from my nervousness, or the united strain we laid upon it, I
know not, but the table certainly began to rock at that juncture, though I
could make neither head nor tail of its intentions. Treating it in the orthodox
manner by which Britons invariably attempt to communicate with a
foreigner who does not understand one word of the language spoken, I
began to bawl at the table, and my A, B, C, must have reverberated through
the empty house.
Again the old woman whispered mysteriously to the old man, but he
dismissed her question with an impatient answer; and my attention was too
much attracted in another direction at that moment to give much heed of
what they were doing. My ear had caught the sound of a descending
footstep, and I felt sure the spirits were at last about to visit us in propriæ
personæ. But dreading the effect it might have on Mrs. Bizzey’s nerves, I
purposely held my tongue, and applied myself afresh to a vigorous
repetition of the alphabet, striving to cover the approaching footstep by the
noise of my own voice, although I was trembling with excitement and
delight at the successful issue of my undertaking. At last I plainly heard the
footstep pause outside the door, as though deliberating before it opened it.
The old man was apparently too deaf or too absorbed to notice it, and his
wife was in a state of helpless fright. I alone sufficiently retained my senses
to see the door slowly open, and a white-robed figure—a real, materialised
spirit—stand upon the threshold. The gesture of delight, which I could not
repress, roused my companions from their reverie; and as soon as Mrs.
Bizzey turned and saw the figure, she recognised it.
“It’s Jane!” she screamed. “It’s my own poor sister Jane come back from
the grave to visit me again, with her red hair and blue eyes; I can see ’em as
plain as plain. I’ll die of the shock, I know I shall!”
“Nonsense!” I exclaimed sternly, fearful, lest by her folly she should
scare the newly-born spirit back to the spheres. “If it is your sister, speak to
her as you used to do. Tell her you are glad to see her, and ask if she wants
anything done.”
“Oh, Jane!” said the old woman, half falling upon her knees, “don’t come
a-nigher me, for mercy’s sake! I never kept nothing of yourn back from the
children except the old blue dress, which it wouldn’t have been no use for

them to wear, and the ring, which I had asked you to give me a dozen times
in your life, and you had always refused. I’d give ’em both back now if I
could, Jane, but the gownd have been on the dust-heap these twenty years
past, and the ring I sold the minute my man was laid up with rheumatis.
Forgive me, Jane, forgive me.”
“Why, what on earth are you making such a row about?” replied the
spirit.
I leapt to my feet in a moment.
“This is some shameful hoax!” I exclaimed. “Who are you, and what do
you do here?”
“I should think I might put the same question to you, since I find you
sitting in the dark, at dead of night, with my landlord and landlady.”
“Lor’, Mr. Montmorency, it’s never you, sir!” ejaculated old Bizzey, with
a feeble giggle.
The voice seemed familiar to me. Who on earth was this Mr.
Montmorency, who had intruded upon our séance at the most important
juncture? I turned up the lamp and threw its light full upon his features.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “it’s Julian Cockleboat.”
The young man was equally astonished with myself.
“Did Lord Seaborne send you after me?” he said, guessing the truth at
once. “And how did you find out I was lodging here?”
“Aha, my boy!” I replied, unwilling to deny the kúdos with which he
credited me, “that’s my secret. Do you suppose I have gained the name of
the amateur detective among my friends for nothing? No, no! I am in
Norwich expressly for the purpose of restoring you to your guardian, and as
I knew that to show my hand more openly would be to scare you off to
another hiding place, I devised this little plan for making you reveal
yourself in your true character.”
“Did Robson tell you, then, that I had taken an engagement at the theatre
here?”
“Never you mind, Mr. Cockleboat; it is quite sufficient that I knew it.
This is a proper sort of house to play hide-and-seek in, isn’t it?”
I was dispersing the table and chairs again with angry jerks as I spoke,
fearful lest my attempted investigation of the occult mysteries should be
discovered before I had removed its traces.
“Still I can’t understand how you discovered that Mr. Montmorency was
myself, although naturally my night rehearsals must have disturbed you.

But you told me you had no other lodgers,” continued Julian Cockleboat
reproachfully, to the Bizzeys.
“And you said the same thing to me,” I added, in similar tones.
“Well, sir—well, Mr. Montmorency, I’m very sorry it should have
happened so,” replied the landlord, turning from one to the other, “but it’s
all my old woman’s fault, for I said to her—”
“You did nothing of the sort,” interrupted his better half; “for when I
come to you and told you as a second gentleman wanted rooms here, it was
you as said, ‘Let him have the little room upstairs, and no one will be ever
the wiser if he takes his meals out of a day.’ ”
“But we never thought—begging your pardon, Mr. Montmorency—as
you’d take such a liberty with the upper offices as to make noises in them as
should disturb the whole house.”
“Well, what was I to do?” replied the young man, appealing to me.
“They’ve given me three leading parts to get up at a fortnight’s notice, and
if I don’t study them at night I have no chance of being ready in time.”
“In fact,” I said, oracularly, “you’ve been cheating each other all round.
Mr. Bizzey has cheated his employers by letting apartments to which he has
no right; you have cheated the Bizzeys by using one which you never hired
of them; and I have—” “cheated myself,” I might have added, but I stopped
short and looked wise instead.
“And it was never no ghosts after all!” said Mrs. Bizzey, in accents of
disappointment, as her husband marched her downstairs.
*******
There is nothing more to tell. I reconciled Mr. Julian Cockleboat to his
guardian and his destiny; and I wrote “The Origin of Dreams,” the best part,
by the way (as all the critics affirmed), of “The Cyclopædia of the Brain.” I
made more money by my little trip than six months of ordinary labour
would have brought me; and Lord Seaborne speaks of me to this day,
amongst his acquaintances, as the “very cleverest amateur detective he has
ever known.”
And so I am.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
This book is volume 2179 in the Collection of British Authors, Tauchnitz
Edition series.
Obsolete and inconsistent spellings (e.g. basons, inuendoes, firearm/fire-
arm, man-servant/man servant, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:
Punctuation: correct some quotation mark pairings/nestings.
[The Invisible Tenants of Rushmere]
Change “Though we entered evey room in turn” to every.
[Little White Souls]
“aud a very dull Christmas the members of the 145th Bengal" and.
“love and charity make themselves conspicious” to conspicuous.
“but very advisible, not only for Katie, but for yourself” to advisable.
“supported by a stone ballustrade, and containing eight more” to
balustrade.
“happened for an hour longer than is apsolutely necessary” to absolutely.
[Still Waters]
“flowed over the white-dressing gown which she had worn” to white
dressing-gown.
(“Dont be a goose!” replied her husband, as he put her) to Don’t.
[Chit-Chat from Andalusia]
“who evidently belonged to the little cortége” to cortège.
[“Mother.”]
“You have been too long away from home as it it” to is.

[End of text]

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