A life for a life, by the author of 'John Halifax, gentleman'.

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600068424V

T

A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

BT

THE AUTHOR OF

"JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,"
" A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN,"

&c., &c.

M When the wicked man tnrneth away from his wickedness
that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and
light, he shall sure his soul alive."

" I came not to call the righteous, hut sinners, to repentance."

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1859.
The right of Translation is rtterved.

2^q , ti/ . -^4*.

LOBDOB :

FBXXTED BY B. BOB*, GLOUCESTER STBBBT,

BBGBBT'S PJLBX.

Inscribe

TO

MARGARET AND MARY.

;\ :'

r m

A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

CHAPTER L

HER STORY.

Yes, I hate soldiers.

I can't help writing it — it relieves my mind.
All morning have we been driving about that
horrid region into which our beautiful, desolate
moor has been transmogrified; round and round,
up and down, in at the south camp and out
at the north camp; directed hither and thither
by muddle-headed privates ; stared at by pup-
pyish young officers; choked with chimney-
smoke; jolted over roads laid with ashes — or

VOL. i. B

2 A LIFE FOR A UF£.

«

no roads at all — and pestered everywhere with
the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups, — that eolor
is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore! What
a treat it is to get home and lock myself
in my own room — the tiniest and safest nook
in all Rockmount — and spurt out my wrath
in the blackest of ink with the boldest of
pens. Bless you ! (query, who can I be blessing,
for nobody will ever read this), what does it
matter? And after all, I repeat, it relieves my
mind.

I do hate soldiers. I always did, from my
youth up, till the war in the East startled
everybody like a thunder-clap. What a
time it was — this time two years ago! How
the actual romance of each day, as set down
in the newspapers, made my old romances
read like mere balderdash: how the present,
in its infinite piteousness, its tangible horror,
and the awfulness of what they called its
"glory," cast the tame past altogether into
shade! Who read history then, or novels, or
poetry? Who read anything but that fear-
ful "Times?"

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 3

And now it is all gone by we have peace
again; and this 20th of September, 1856,
I begin with my birthday a new journal —
(capital one, too, with a first-rate lock and
key, saved out of my summer bonnet, which
I didn't buy). Nor need I spoil the day — as once
— by crying over those who, two years since,

" Went up
Red Alma's heights to glory."

Conscience, tender over dead heroes, feels
not the smallest compunction in writing the
angry initiatory line, when she thinks of that
odious camp which has been established near
us, for the education of the military mind, and
the hardening of the military body. Whence
red-coats swarm out over the pretty neighbour-
hood like lady-birds over the hop-gardens, —
harmless, it is true, yet for ever flying in one's face
in the most unpleasant manner, making inroads
through one's parlour windows, and crawling
over one's tea-table. Wretched red insects !
except that the act would be murder, I often
wish I could put half-a-dozen of them, swords,

4 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

epaulets, moustaches, and all, under the heel
of my shoe.

Perhaps this is obstinacy, or the love of con-
tradiction. No wonder. Do I hear of anything
but soldiers from morning till night? At visits
or dinner parties can I speak to a soul — and 'tisn't
much I do speak to anybody — but that she — I use
the pronoun advisedly — is sure to bring in with her
second sentence something about "the camp?"

Tm sick of the camp. Would that my sisters
were ! For Lisabel, young and handsome, there
is some excuse, but Penelope — she ought to know
better.

Papa is determined to go with us to the Gran-
tons' ball to-night. I wish there were no necessity
for it ; and have suggested as strongly as I could
that we should stay at home. But what of that ?
Nobody minds me. Nobody ever did that I ever
remember. So poor papa is to be dragged out
from his cosy arm-chair, jogged and tumbled
across these wintry moors, and stuck up solemn in
a corner of the drawing-room — being kept care-
fully out of the card-room because he happens to
be a clergyman. And all the while he will wear

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 5

Ids politest and most immovable of smiles,
just as if he liked it. Oh, why cannot people say
what they mean and do as they wish I Why must
they hold themselves tied and bound with horrible
chains of etiquette even at the age of seventy !
Why cannot he say, u Girls " — no, of course he
would say u young ladies" — "I had far rather
stay at home — go you and enjoy yourselves ; " or
better still, "go, two of you — but I want
Dora."

No, he never will say that. He never did want
any of us much ; me less than any. I am neither
eldest nor youngest, neither Miss Johnston nor
Miss Lisabel — only Miss Dora — Theodora — "the
gift of God," as my little bit of Greek taught
me. A gift — what for, and to whom ? I declare,
since I was a baby, since I was a little solitary
ugly child, wondering if ever I had a mother
like other children, since even I have been a
woman grown, I never have been able to find out.

Well, I suppose it is no use to try to alter
things. Papa will go his own way, and the girls
theirs. They think the grand climax of exist-
ence is " society ; " he thinks the same — at least

6 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

for young women, properly introduced, escorted
and protected there. So, as the three Misses
Johnston — sweet fluttering doves! — have no other
chaperon, or protector, he makes a martyr of him-
self on the shrine of paternal duty, alias re-
spectability, and goes.

*The girls here called me down to admire them.
Yes, they looked extremely well : — Lisabel, ma-
jestic, slow and fair ; I doubt if anything in this
world would disturb the equanimity of her sleepy
blue eyes and soft-tempered mouth — a large,
mild, beautiful animal, like a white Brahmin cow.
Very much admired is our Lisabel, and no won-
der. That white barege will kill half the officers
in the camp. She was going to put on her pink
one, but I suggested how ill pink would look
against scarlet ; and so, after a series of titters,
Miss Lisa took my advice. She is evidently
bent upon looking her best to-night.

Penelope, also ; but I wish Penelope would not
wear such airy dresses, and such a quantity of
artificial flowers, while her curls are so thin, and

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 7

her cheeks bo sharp. She used to have very
pretty hair, ten years ago. I remember being
exceedingly shocked and fierce about a curl of
hers that I saw stolen in the summer-house, by
Francis Charteris, before we found out that they
were engaged.

She rather expected him to-night, I fancy.
Mrs. Granton was sure to have invited him with
us ; but, of course, he has not come. He never
did come, in my recollection, when he said he
would.

I ought to go and dress ; but I can do it in ten
minutes, and it is not worth while wasting more
time. Those two girls — what a capital foil each
makes to the other! little, dark, lively —
not to say satirical: large, amiable, and fair.
Papa ought to be proud of them; — I suppose
he is.

Heigho! "lis a good thing to be good-look-
ing. And next best, perhaps, is downright ugli-
ness, — nice, interesting, attractive ugliness —
such as I have seen in some women: nay,
I have somewhere read that ugly women have
often been loved best.

8 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

But to be just ordinary ; of ordinary height,
ordinary figure, and, oh me ! let me lift up my
head from the desk to the looking-glass, and take
a good stare at an undeniably ordinary face,
"lis not pleasant. Well; I am as I was made;
let me not undervalue myself, if only out of
reverence for Him who made me.

Surely — Captain Treherne's voice below.
Does that young man expect to be taken to the
ball in our fly? Truly he is making himself one
of the family, already. There is papa calling us.
What will papa say?

Why, he said nothing; and Lisabel, as
she swept slowly down the staircase with a little
silver lamp in her right hand, likewise said
nothing ; but she looked

" Everybody is lovely to somebody/' says the
proverb. Query, if somebody I could name
should live to the age of Methuselah, will she
ever be lovely to anybody ?

What nonsense! Bravo! thou wert in the
right of it, jolly miller of Dee I

" I care for nobody, no, not I ;
And nobody cares for me."

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 9

So, let me lock up my desk, and dress for the

ball.

• * • * * * *

Really, not a bad ball; even now — when
looked at in the light of next day's quiet— with
the leaves stirring lazily in the fir-tree by my
window, and the broad sunshine brightening the
moorlands far away.

Not a bad ball, even to me, who usually am
stoically contemptuous of such senseless amuse-
ments. Doubtless, from the mean motive that I
like dancing, and am rarely asked to dance ; that
I am just five-and-twenty, and get no more atten-
tion than if I were five-and-forty. Of course,
I protest continually that I don't care a pin
for this fact (mem. mean again). For I do care
— at the very bottom of my heart, I do. Many a
time have I leaned my head here — good old
desk, you will tell no tales ! — and cried, actually
cried — with the pain of being neither pretty,
agreeable, nor young.

Moralists say, it is in every woman's power to
be, in measure, all three : that when she is not
liked or admired — by some few at least — it is a

10 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

sign that she is neither likeable nor admirable.
Therefore, I suppose I am neither. Probably
very disagreeable. Penelope often* says so, in
her sharp, and Lisabel in her lazy way. Lis
would apply the same expression to a
gnat on her wrist, or a dagger pointed at her
heart. A " thoroughly amiable woman ! * Now
I never was — never shall be — an amiable wo-
man.

To return to the ball — and really I would not
mind returning to it and having it all over again,
which is more than one can say of many hours
in our lives, especially of those which roll on,
rapidly as hours seem to roll, after five-and-
twenty. It was exceedingly amusing. Large,
well-lit rooms, filled with well-dressed people ; we
do not often make such a goodly show in our
country entertainments; but then the Grantons
know everybody, and invite everybody. Nobody
could do that but dear old Mrs. Granton, and
" my Colin," who, if he has not three pennyworth
of brains, has the kindest heart and the heaviest
purse in the whole neighbourhood.

I am sure Mrs. Granton must have felt proud

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 11

of her handsome suite of rooms, quite a perambu-
latory parterre, boasting all the hues of the rain-
bow, subdued by the proper complement of in-
evitable black. By and by, as the evening ad-
vanced, dot after dot of the adored scarlet made
its appearance round the doors, and circulating
gradually round the room, completed the coloring
of the scene.

They were most effective when viewed at a dis-
tance — these scarlet dots. Some of them were
very young and very small: wore their short
hair — regulation cut — exceedingly straight, and
did not seem quite comfortable in their clothes.

"Militia, of course," I overheard a lady ob-
serve, who apparently knew all about it. " None
of our officers wear uniform when they can
avoid it."

But these young lads seemed uncommonly
proud of theirs, and strutted and sidled about
the door, very valorous and magnificent, until
caught and dragged to their destiny — in the
shape of some fair partner — when they imme-
diately relapsed into shyness and awkwardness.
Nay, I might add — stupidity; but were they

12 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

not the hopeful defenders of their country, and
did not their noble swords lie idle at this mo-
ment on that safest resting-place — Mrs. Gran-
ton's billiard-table t

I watched the scene out of my corner, in
a state of dreamy amusement; mingled with a
vague curiosity as to how long I should be
left to sit solitary there, and whether it would
be very dull, if "with gating fed"— including
a trifle of supper — I thus had to spend the en-
tire evening.

Mrs. Granton came bustling up.

"My dear girl — are you not dancing ?"

"Apparently not," said I, laughing, and try-
ing to catch her, and make room for her. Vain
attempt! Mrs. Granton never will sit down
while there is anything that she thinks can be
done for anybody. In a moment she would
have been buzzing all round the room like an
amiable bee, in search of some unfortunate
youth upon whom to inflict me as a partner-
but not even my desire of dancing would allow
me to sink so low as that.

For safety, I ran after, and attacked the good

A LIFE FOB A LITE. 13

old lady on one of her weak points. Luckily
she caught the bait, and we were soon safely
landed on the great blanket, beef, and anti-beer
distribution question, now shaking our parish to
its very foundations. I am ashamed to say,
though the rector's daughter, it is very little I
know about our parish. And though at first I
rather repented of my ruse, seeing that Mrs.
Granton's deafness made both her remarks and
my answers most unpleasantly public, gradu-
ally I became so interested in what she was
telling me, that we must have kept on talking
nearly twenty minutes, when some one called
the old lady away.

" Sorry to leave you, Miss Dora, but I leave
you in good company," she said, nodding and
smiling to some people behind the sofa, with
whom she probably thought I was acquainted.
But I was not, nor had the slightest ambition
for that honour. Strangers at a ball have rarely
anything to say worth saying or hearing. So I
never turned my head, and let Mrs. Granton
trot away.

My mind and eyes followed her with a half

14 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

sigh; considering whether at sixty I shall have
half the activity, or cheerfulness, or kindliness,
of her dear old self.

No one broke in upon my meditations. Papa's
white head was visible in a distant doorway;
for the girls, they had long since vanished in
the whirligig. I caught at times a glimpse of
Penelope's rose-clouds of tarlatan, her pale
face, and ever-smiling white teeth, that contrast
ill with her restless black eyes — it is always
rather painful to me to watch my eldest sister
at parties. And now and then Miss Lisahel
came floating, moon- like, through the room,
almost obscuring young slender Captain Tre-
herne, who yet appeared quite content in his
occultation. He also seemed to be of my
opinion that scarlet and white were the best
mixture of colours, for I did not see him make
the slightest attempt to dance with any lady
but Lisabel.

Several people, I noticed, looked at them and
smiled. And one lady whispered something
about "poor clergyman's daughter," and "Sir
William Treherne."

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 15

I felt hot to my very temples. Oh, if we were
all in Paradise, or a nunnery, or some place
where there was neither thinking nor making
of marriages!

I determined to catch Lisa when the waltz was
done. She waltzes well, even gracefully, for a
tall woman — but I wished, I wished — My wish
was cut short by a collision which made me start
up with an idea of rushing to the rescue; how-
ever, the next moment Treherne and she had
recovered their balance and were spinning on
again. Of course I sat down immediately.

But my looks must be terrible tell-tales; for
some one behind me said, as plain as if in answer
to my thoughts: —

"Pray be satisfied; the lady could not have
been in the least hurt."

I was surprised; for though the voice was
polite, even kind, people do not, at least in
our country society, address one another with-
out an introduction. I answered civilly, of
course, but it must have been with some stiff-
ness of manner, for the gentleman said : —

"Pardon me; I concluded it was your sister

16 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

who slipped, and that you were uneasy about
her/' bowed, and immediately moved away.

I felt uncomfortable; uncertain whether to
take any more notice of him or not ; wondering
who it was that had used the unwonted liberty of
speaking to me — a stranger — and whether it
would have been committing myself in any way
to venture more than a bow or a " Thank you."

At last common-sense settled the matter.

"Dora Johnston," thought I, "do not be a
simpleton. Do you consider yourself so much
better than your fellow creatures that you hesi-
tate at returning a civil answer to a civil re-
mark — meant kindly, too— because you, forsooth,
like the French gentleman who was entreated
to save another gentleman from drowning—
' should have been most happy, but have never
been introduced.' — What, girl, is this your
scorn of conventionality — your grand habit of
thinking and judging for yourself — your noble
independence of all the follies of society ? Fie I
fie!"

To punish myself for my cowardice, I deter-
mined to turn round and look at the gentle-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE, 17

The punishment was not severe. He had. a
good face, brown and dark : a thin, spare, wiry
figure, an air somewhat formal. His eyes were
grave, yet not without a lurking spirit of
humour, which seemed to have clearly pene-
trated, and been rather amused by, my foolish
embarrassment and ridiculous indecision. This
vexed me for the moment: then ,1 smiled —
we both smiled: and began to talk.

Of course, it would have been different had
he been a young man; but he was not. I
should think he was nearly forty.

At this moment Mrs. Granton came up,
with her usual pleased look when she thinks
other people are pleased with one another, and
said in that friendly manner that makes every-
body else feel friendly together also: —

"A partner, I see. That's right, Miss Dora.
You shall have a quadrille in a minute,
Doctor."

Doctor! I felt relieved. He might have
been worse — perhaps, from his beard, even a
camp officer.

" Our friend takes things too much for

vol. I.

18 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

granted," he said, smiling. "I believe I must
introduce myself. My name is Urquhart."

" Doctor Urquhart ? *

"Yes."

Here the quadrille began to form, and I to
button my gloves not discontentedly. He said : —

" I fear I am assuming a right on false pre-
tences, for I never danced in my life. You do, I
see. I must not detain you from another
partner." And, once again, my unknown friend,
who seemed to have such extreme penetration
into my motives and intentions, moved aside.

Of course I got no partner — I never do.
When the doctor re-appeared, I was unf eignedly
glad to see him. He took no notice whatever of
my humiliating state of solitude, but sat down in
one of the dancers' vacated places, and resumed
the thread of our conversation, as if it had never
been broken.

Often in a crowd, two people not much inte-
rested therein,! fall upon subjects perfectly ex-
traneous, which at once make them feel inte-
rested in these and in each other. Thus, it
seems quite odd this morning to think of the

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 19

multiplicity of heterogeneous topics which Dr.
Urquhart discussed last night. I gained from
him much various information. He must have
been a great traveller, and observer too ; and for
me, I marvel now to recollect how freely I spoke
my mind on many things which I usually keep
to myself, partly from shyness, partly because
nobody here at home cares one straw about
them. Among others, came the universal theme,
— the war.

I said, I thought the three much laughed-at
Quakers, who went to advise peace to the Czar
Nicholas, were much nearer the truth than
many of their mockers. War seemed to me so
utterly opposed to Christianity that I did not
see how any Christian man could ever become a
soldier.

At this, Doctor Urquhart leant his elbow on
the arm of the sofa, and looked me steadily in
the face.

"Do you mean that a Christian man is not
to defend his own life or liberty, or that of
others, under any circumstances? — or is he to
wear a red coat peacefully while peace lasts, and

c2

20 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

at his first battle throw down his musket, shoulder
his Testament, and walk away 1 "

These words, though of a freer tone than I
was used to, were not spoken in any irreverence.
They puzzled me. I felt as if I had been playing
the oracle upon a subject whereon I had not the
least grounds to form an opinion at all. Yet I
would not yield.

" Dr. Urquhart, if you recollect, I said i be-
come a soldier.' How, being already a soldier, a
Christian man should act, I am not wise enough
to judge. But I do think, other professions
being open, for him to choose voluntarily the
profession of arms, and to receive wages for
taking away life, is at best a monstrous anomaly.
Nay, however it may be glossed over and refined
away, surely, in face of the plain command,
i Thou shall not kill,' military glory seems little
better than a picturesque form of murder. ,,

I spoke strongly — more strongly, perhaps, than
a young woman, whose opinions are more
instincts and emotions than matured principles,
ought to speak. If so, Doctor Urquhart gave
me a fitting rebuke by his total silence.

I

A LIFE FOB A LIFE, 21

Nor did he, for some time, even so much as
look at me, but bent his head down till I could
only catch the fore-shortened profile of fore-
head, nose, and curly beard. Certainly, though
a moustache is mean, puppyish, intolerable,
and whiskers not much better, there is some-
thing fine and manly in a regular Oriental
beard.

Doctor Urquhart spoke at last.

" So, as I overheard you say to Mrs. Granton,

<

you ' hate soldiers.' ' Hate ' is a strong word —
for a Christian woman."

My own weapons turned upon me.

"Yes, I hate soldiers because my principles, in-
stincts, observations, confirm me in the justice of
my dislike. In peace, they are idle, useless, ex-
travagant, cumberers of the country — the mere
butterflies of society. In war — you know what
they are."

"Do I ? " with a slight smile.

I grew rather angry.

" In truth, had I ever had a spark of military ar-
dour, it would have been quenched within the last
year. I never see a thing — we '11 not say a man—

22 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

with a red coat on, who does not make himself
thoroughly contempt — "

The word stuck in the middle. For lo ! there
passed slowly by, my sister Lisabel ; leaning on the
arm of Captain Treherne, looking as I never saw
Lisabel look before. It suddenly rushed across me
what might happen — perhaps had happened. Sup-
pose, in thus passionately venting my prejudices,
I should be tacitly condemning my — what an odd
idea! — my brother-in-law? Pride, if no better
feeling, caused me to hesitate.

Doctor Urquhart said, quietly enough, "I
should tell you — indeed I ought to have told you
before— that I am myself in the army."

I am sure I looked — as I felt — like a down-
right fool. This comes, I thought, of speak-
ing one's mind, especially to strangers. Oh!
should I ever learn to hold my tongue, or
gabble pretty harmless nonsense as other girls?
Why should I have talked seriously to this
man at all? I knew nothing of him, and
had no business to be interested in him, or
even to have listened to him — my sister would
say, — until he had been "properly introduced;"

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 23

— until I knew where he lived, and who
were his father and mother, and what was
his profession, and how much income he
had a-year?

Still, I did feel interested, and could not
help it. Something it seemed that I was bound
to say; I wished it to be civil, if possible.

"But you are Doctor TTrquhart. An army-
surgeon is scarcely like a soldier : his business is
to save life rather than to destroy it. Surely you
never could have killed anybody ? "

The moment I had put the question, I saw
how childish and uncalled-for, in fact, how
actually impertinent it was. Covered with con-
fusion, I drew back, and looked another way. It
was the greatest relief imaginable when just
then Lisabel saw me, and came up with Cap-
tain Treherne, all smiles, to say, was it not
the pleasantest party imaginable? and who had
I been dancing with f

" Nobody/*

"Nay, I saw you myself, talking to tome
strange gentleman. Who was he? A rather
odd-looking person, and — "

24 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

" Hush, please. It was a Doctor Urquhart."

"Urquhart of ours ?" cried young Treherne.
"Why, he told me he should not come, or
should not stay ten minutes if he came. Much
too solid for this kind of thing — eh, you see?
Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all
the world. Where is he?"

But the "best fellow in all the world" had
entirely disappeared.

I enjoyed the rest of the evening ex-
tremely, — that is, pretty well. Not altogether,
now I come to think of it, for though I
danced to my heart's content, Captain Tre-
herne seeming eager to bring up his whole re-
giment, successively, for my patronage and
Penelope's (N.B. not LisabeFs), whenever I
caught a distant glimpse of Dr. Urquhart's
brown beard, conscience stung me for my
folly and want of tact. Dear me! What a
thing it is that one can so seldom utter an
honest opinion without offending somebody.

Was he really offended? He must have
seen that I did not mean any harm; nor does
he look like one of those toucKy people who

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 25

»

are always wincing as if they trod on the tails
of imaginary adders. Yet he made no attempt
to come and talk to me again; for which I
was sorry ; partly because I would have Hked
to make him some amends, and partly because
he seemed the only man present worth talking
to.

I do wonder more and more what my sis-
ters can find in the young men they dance
and chatter with. To me they are inane,
conceited, absolutely unendurable. Yet there
may be good in some of them. May? Nay,
there must be good in every human being.
Alas, me ! Well might Dr. Urquhart say last
night that there are no judgments so harsh as
those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the
young.

I ought to add, that when we were wea-
rily waiting for our fly to draw up to the
hall-door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly appeared.
Papa had Penelope on his arm, Lisabel was
whispering with Captain Treherne. Yes, depend
upon it, that young man will be my brother-
in-law. I stood by myself in the doorway,

26 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

looking out on the pitch-dark night, when some
one behind me said: —

"Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies
are never half careful enough of your health.
Allow me."

And with a grave professional air, my medi-
cal friend wrapped me closely up in my
shawl.

"A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There
is nothing for warmth like a good plaid," he
said, with a smile, which, even had it not been
for his name, and a slight strengthening and
broadening of his English, scarcely amounting
to an accent, would have pretty well showed
what part of the kingdom Dr. Urquhart came
from. I was going, in my bluntness, to put
the direct question, but felt as if I had com-
mitted myself quite enough for one night.

Just then was shouted out " Mr. Johnson's,"
— (oh dear, shall we never get the aristocratic t
into our plebeian name!) — " carriage/ ' and I
was hurried into the fly. Not by the Doctor,
though; he stood like a bear on the door-
step, and never attempted to stir.

That's all.

A LIFE FOB A LITE. 27

CHAPTER II.

HIS STOBT.

Hospital Memoranda, Sept. 2Ut. — Private Wil-
liam Carter, set. 24; admitted a week to-day.
Gastric fever — typhoid form — slight delirium —
bad case. Asked me to write to his mother —
did not say where. Mem. to enquire' among
his division if anything is known about his
friends.

Corporal Thomas Hardman, set. 50 — Delirium
tremens— mending. Knew him in the Crimea,
when he was a perfectly sober fellow, with
constitution of iron. "Trench work did it," he
says, " and last winters idleness." Mem. to send
for him after his discharge from hospital, and
see what can be done ; also to see that

28 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

decent body, his wife, after my rounds to-
morrow.

M. TJ. — Max Urquhart. — Max Urquhart,
M.D., M.R.aS.

— -Who keeps scribbling his name up and
down this page like a silly school-boy, just
for want of something to do.

Something to do! Never for these twenty
years and more have I been so totally with-
out occupation.

What a place this camp is! worse than
ours in the Crimea, by far. To-day espe-
cially. Rain pouring, wind howling, mud
ancle-deep ; nothing on earth for me to be,
to do, or to suffer, except — yes ! there is
something to suffer — Treherne's eternal flute.

Faith, I must be very hard up for occu-
pation when I thus continue this journal of
my cases into a personal diary of the
worst patient I have to deal with — the most
thankless, unsatisfactory, and unkindly. Phy-
sician, heal thyself! But how?

I shall tear out this page,— or stay, I'll
keep it as a remarkable literary and psycho-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 29

logical fact — and go on with my article on
Gunshot Wounds.

In the which, two hours after, I find, I
have written exactly ten lines.

These must be the sort of circumstances
under which people commit journals. For some
do — and heartily as I have always contemned
the proceeding, as we are prone to contemn
peculiarities and idiosyncrasies quite foreign to
our own, — I begin to-day dimly to under-
stand the state of mind in which such a
thing might be possible.

" Diary of a Physician " shall I call it ? — did
not some one write a book with that title? I
picked it up on ship-board — a story-book or
some such thing — but I scarcely ever read
what is called "light literature." I have
never had time. Besides, all fictions grow tame,
compared to the realities of daily life, the
horrible episodes of crime, the pitiful bits
of hopeless misery that I meet with in my
profession. Talk of romance! —

30 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Was I ever romantic? Once perhaps. Or
at least I might have been.

My profession, truly there is nothing like
it for me. Therein I find incessant work, in-
terest, hope. Daily do I thank heaven that
1 had courage to seize on it and go through
with it, in order — according to the phrase I
heard used last night — "to save life instead
of destroying it."

Poor little girl — she meant nothing — she had
no idea what she was saying.

Is it that which makes me so unsettled to-
day?

Perhaps it would be wiser never to go into
society. A hospital-ward is far more natural
to me than a ball-room. There, is work to
be done, pain to be alleviated, evil of all
kinds to be met and overcome — here, nothing
but pleasure, nothing to do but to enjoy.

Yet some people can enjoy; and actually
do so; I am sure that girl did. Several
times during the evening she looked quite
happy. I do not often see people looking
happy.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 31

Is suffering then our normal and natural
state f Is to exist synonymous with to endure ?
Can this be the law of a beneficent Provi-
dence? — or are such results allowed — to
happen in certain exceptional cases, utterly
irremediable and irretrievable — like —

What am I writing?- What am I daring

to write?

******

Physician, heal thyself. And surely that is one
of a physician's first duties. A disease struck
inwards — the merest tyro knows how fatal is
treatment which results in that. It may be
I have gone on the wrong track altogether, —
at least since my return to England.

The present only is a man's possession: the
past is gone out of his hand, — wholly, irrevo-
cably. He may suffer from it, learn from it
— in degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to brood
over it is utter madness.

Now, I have had many cases of insanity —
both physical and moral, so to speak; I call
moral insanity that kind of disease which
is super-induced on comparatively healthy

32 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

minds by dwelling incessantly on one idea;
the sort of disease which you find in women
who have fallen into melancholy from love-
disappointments ; or in men for overweening
ambition, hatred, or egotism — which latter,
carried .to a high pitch, invariably becomes a kind
of insanity. All these forms of monomania,
as distinguished from physical mania, disease
of the structure of the brain, I have studied with
considerable interest and corresponding suc-
cess. My secret was simple enough; one
which Nature herself often tries and rarely
fails in — the law of substitution; the slow
eradication of any fixed idea, by supplying
others, under the influence of which the
original idea is, at all events temporarily,
laid to sleep.

Why cannot I try this plan? why not do
for myself what I have so many times pre-
scribed and done for others?

It was with some notion of the kind that
I went to this ball — after getting up a vague
sort of curiosity in Treherne's anonymous
beauty, about whom he has so long been raving

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 33

to me — boy-like. Ay, with all his folly, the
lad is an honest lad. I should not like him
to come to any harm.

The tall one must have been the lady, and
the smaller, the plainer, though the pleasanter
to my mind, was no doubt her sister. And
of course her name too was Johnson.

What a name to startle a man so — to cause
him to stand like a fool at that hall-door, with his
heart dead still, and all hia nerves quivering! To
make him now, in the mere writing of it, pause
and compel himself into common sense by
rational argument — by meeting the thing, be it
chimerical or not, face to face, as a man ought to
do. Yet as cowardly, in as base a paroxysm of
terror, as if likewise face to face, in my hut
corner, stood —

Here I stopped. Shortly afterwards I was
summoned to the hospital, where I have been
ever since. William Carter is dead. He will
not want his mother now. What a small matter
life or death seems when one comes to think of
it. What an easy exchange !

Is it I who am writing thus, and on the same

vol. I. D

34 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

leaf which, closed up in haste when I was fetched
to the hospital, I have just had such an anxious
search for, that it might be instantly burnt.
Yet, I find there is nothing in it that I need have
feared — nothing that could, in any way, have
signified to anybody, unless, perhaps, the writing
of that one name.

Shall I never get over this absurd folly — this
absolute monomania? — when there are hundreds
of the same name to be met with every day —
when, after all, it is not exactly the name ! •

Yet this is what it cost me. Let me write it
down, that the confession in plain English
of such utter insanity may in degree have
the same effect as when I have sat down and
desired a patient to recount to me, one by one,
each and all of his delusions, in order that, in the
mere telling of them, they might perhaps vanish.

I went away from that hall-door at once. Never
asking — nor do I think for my life I could ask,
the simple question that would have set all doubt
at rest. I walked across country, up and down,
along road or woodland, I hardly knew whither,
for miles — following the moon-rise. She seemed to

■^

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 35

rise just as she did nineteen years ago — nine-
teen years, ten months, all but two days — my
arithmetic is correct, no fear ! She lifted herself
like a ghost over those long level waves of moor,
till she sat, blood-red, upon the horizon, with a
stare which there was nothing to break, nothing
to hide from — nothing between her and me, but
the plain and the sky — just as it was that night.

What am I writing? Is the old horror coming
back again. It cannot. It must be kept at
bay.

A knock — ah, I see ; it is the sergeant of poor
Carter's company. I must return to daily work,
and labour is life — to me.

36 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER HI.

HIS STOBY.

Sept 30ih: — Not a case to set down to-day.
This high moorland is jour best sanatorium. My
u occupation's gone."

I have every satisfaction in that fact, or
in the cause of it; which, cynics might say, a
member of my profession would easily manage
to prevent, were he a city physician instead
of a regimental surgeon. Still, idleness is
insupportable to me. I have tried going
about among the few villages hard by, but
their worst disease is one to which this said
regimental surgeon, with nothing but his pay,
can apply but small remedy — poverty.

To-day I have paced the long, straight lines

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 37

of the camp; from the hospital to the bridge,
and back again to the hospital — have tried to
take a vivid interest in the loungers, the
foot-ball players, and the wretched, awkward
squad turned out in never-ending parade.
With each hour of the quiet autumn after-
noon have I watched the sentinel mount the
little stockaded hillock, and startle the camp
with the old familiar boom of the great
Sebastopol bell. Then, I have shut my hut-door,
taken to my books, and studied till my head
warned me to stop.

The evening post — but only business letters. I
rarely have any other. I have no one to write
to me — no one to write to.

Sometimes I have been driven to wish I had ;
some one friend with whom it would be possible to
talk in pen and ink, on other matters than business.
Yet, cui bono f To no friend should I or could I
let out my real self ; the orly thing in the letter
that was truly and absolutely me would be the
great grim signature : " Max Urquhnrt."

Were it otherwise — were there any human
being to whom I could lay open my whole heart,

38 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

trust with my whole history ; — but no, that were
utterly impossible now.

No more of this.

No more, until the end. That end, which
at once solves all difficulties, every year brings
nearer. Nearly forty, and a doctor's life is
usually shorter than most men's. I shall be an
old man soon, even if there come none of those
sudden chances against which I have of course
provided.

The end. How and in what manner it
is to be done, I am not yet clear. But it
shall be done, before my death or after.

"Max Urquhart, M.D."

I go on signing my name mechanically, with
those two business-like letters after it, and think-
ing how odd it would be to sign it in any
Other fashion. How strange, — did any one
care to look at my signature in any way
except thus, with the two professional letters
after it — a common-place signature of busi-
ness. Equally strange, perhaps, that such a
thought as this last should have entered my head,
or that I should have taken the trouble,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 39

and yielded to the weakness of writing it down.
It all springs from idleness — sheer idleness; the
very same cause that makes Treherne, whom
I have known do duty cheerily for twenty-
four hours in the trenches, lounge, smoke,
yawn, and play the flute. There — it has
stopped. I heard the postman rapping at
his hut-door— the young simpleton has got
a letter.

Suppose, just to pass away the time, I, Max
Urquhart, reduced to this lowest ebb of in-
anity by a paternal government, which has
stranded my regiment here, high and dry,
but as dreary as Noah on Ararat — were to
enliven my solitude, drive away blue devils,
by manufacturing} for myself an imaginary
correspondent? So be it.

To begin then at once in the received
epistolary form : —

"My dear—"

My dear — what? "Sir?" — No— not for this
once. I wanted a change. "Madam?"— that
is formal. Shall I invent a name?

When I think of it, how strange it would

40 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

feel to me to be writing "my dear" before
any chratian name. OrpWd early, my only
brother long dead, drifting about from land
to land till I have almost forgotten my own,
which has quite forgotten me — I had not con-
sidered it before, but really I do not believe
there is a human being living, whom I have
a right to call by his or her christian name,
or who would ever think of calling me by
mine. "Max," — I have not heard the sound
of it for years.

Dear, a pleasant adjective— my, a pronoun
of possession, implying that the being spoken
of is one's very own, — one's sole, sacred, per-
sonal property, as with natural selfishness one
would wish to hold the thing most precious.
My dear; — a satisfactory total. I rather ob-
ject to " dearest " as a word implying com-
parison, and therefore never to be used where
comparison should not and could not exist.
Witness, "dearest mother," or "dearest wife,"
as if a man had a plurality of mothers and
wives, out of whom he chose the one he loved
best. And, as a general rule, I dislike all

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 41

ultra expressions of affection set down in ink.
I once knew an honest gentleman — blessed
with one of the tenderest hearts that ever man
had, and which in all his life was only given
to one woman; he, his wife told me, had
never, even in their courtship days, written to
her otherwise than as "My dear Anne," —
ending merely with u Yours faithfully/' or
"yours truly." Faithful — true— what could he
write, or she desire more?

If my pen wanders to lovers and sweethearts,
and moralises over simple sentences in this
maundering way, blame not me, dear imaginary
correspondent, to whom no name shall be given
at all — but blame my friend,— as friends go
in this world, — Captain Augustus Treherne.
Because, happily, that young fellow's life was
saved at Balaclava, does he intend to invest
me with the responsibility of it, with all its
scrapes and follies, now and for evermore f Is
my clean, sober hut to be fumigated with to-
bacco and poisoned with brandy-and-water, that
a lovesick youth may unburden himself of his
sentimental tale? Heaven knows why I listen

42 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

to it! Probably because telling me keeps the
lad out of mischief ; also because he is honest,
though an ass, and I always had a greater
leaning to fools than to knaves. But let me
not pretend reasons which make me out more
generous than I really am, for the fellow and
his love-affair] bore me exceedingly sometimes,
and would be quite unendurable anywhere but
in this dull camp. I do it from a certain ab-
stract pleasure which I have always taken in
dissecting character, constituting myself an
amateur demonatrator of spiritual anatomy.

An amusing study is, not only the swain,
but the goddess. For I found her out, spelled
her over satisfactorily, even in that one even-
ing. Treherne little guessed it — he took care
never to introduce me — he does not even mention
her name, or suspect I know it. Vast pre-
cautions against nothing ! Does he fear lest
Mentor should put in a claim to his Eucharist
You know better, dear Imaginary Correspond-
ent.

Even were I among the list of "marrying
men," this adorable she would never be my

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 43

choice, would never attract me for an instant.
Little as I know about women, I know enough
to feel certain that there is a very small re-
siduum of depth, feeling, or originality, in
that large handsome physique of hers. Yet
she looks good-natured, good-tempered ; al-
most as much so as Treherne himself.

" Speak o 9 the de'il/' there he comes. Far
away down the lines I can catch his eternal
"Donna e* mobile," — how I detest that song!
No doubt he has been taking to the post his
answer to one of those abominably-scented
notes that he always drops out of his waist-
coat by the merest accident, and glances round
to see if I am looking — which I never am.
What a young puppy it is I Yet it hangs
after one kindly, like a puppy; after me too,
who am not the pleasantest. fellow in the
world. And as it is but young, it may mend,
if it falls into no worse company than the pre-
sent.

I have known what it is to be without a
friend when one is very inexperienced, reck-
less, and young.

44 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Evening.
" To what base uses may we come at last.' 1

It seems perfectly ridiculous to see the
use this memorandum-book has come to.
Cases forsooth! The few pages of them may
as well be torn out, in favour of the new spe-
cimens of moral disease which I am driven to
study. For instance : —

No. 1 — Better omit that.

No. 2 — Augustus Treherne, aet. 22, inter-
mittent fever, verging upon yellow fever oc-
casionally, a* to-day. Pulse, very high, tongue,
rather foul, especially in speaking of Mr. Colin
Granton. Countenance, pale, inclining to livid.
A very bad case altogether.

Patient enters, whistling like a steam-engine,
as furious and as shrill, with a corresponding
puff of smoke. I point to the obnoxious vapour.

" Beg pardon, Doctor, I always forget. What
a tyrant you are!"

" Very likely ; but there is one thing I never
will allow ; smoking in my hut. I did not, you
know, even in the Crimea."

The l:.d sat down, sighing like a furnace.

▲ LITE FOB A LIFE. 45

"Heigho, Doctor, I wish I were you"

"Do you t"

"You always seem so uncommonly comfort-
able; never want a cigar or anything to
quiet your nerves and keep you in good
humour. You never get into a scrape of any
sort; have neither a mother to lecture you,
nor an old governor to bully you/ 9

"Stop there."

"I will then; you need not take me up
so sharp. He's a trump, after all. You know
that, so I don't mind a word or two against
him. Just read there."

He threw over one of Sir William's ultra-
prosy moral essays — which no doubt the worthy
old gentleman flatters himself are, in another
line, the very copy of Lord Chesterfield's
letters to his son. I might have smiled at it
had I been alone,— or laughed at it were I
young enough to sympathise with the modern
system of transposing into " the Governor," the
ancient reverend name of " Father."

"You see what an opinion he has of you.
'Pon my life, if I were not the meekest fellow

46 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

imaginable, always ready to be led by a straw
into Virtue's ways, I should have cut your
acquaintance long ago. i Invariably follow the
advice of Dr. Urquhart,' — 'I wish, my dear
son, that your character more resembled that
of your friend, Dr. Urquhart. I should be
more concerned about your many follies, were
you not in the same regiment as Dr. Urqu-
hart. Dr. Urquhart is one of the wisest
men I ever knew/ and so on, and so on. What
say you?"

I said nothing; and I now write down this,
as I shall write anything of the kind which
enters into the plain relation of facts or con-
versations which daily occur. God knows how
yain such words are to me at the best of
times — mere sounding brass and tinkling cymbal
— as the like must be to most men well
acquainted with themselves. At some times,
and under certain states of mind, they become
to my ear the most refined and exquisite
torture that my bitterest enemy could desire
to inflict. There is no need, therefore, to
apologise for them. Apologise to whom, in-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 47

deed? Having resolved to write this, it were
folly to make it an imperfect statement. A
journal should be fresh, complete, and correct
—the man's entire life, or nothing. Since, if
he sets it down at all, it must necessarily
be for his own sole benefit — it would be
the most contemptible form of egotistic
humbug to arrange and modify it as if
it were meant for the eye of any other per-
son.

Dear, unknown, imaginary eye — which never
was and never will be — yet which 1 like to
fancy shining somewhere in the clouds, out
of Jupiter, Venus, or the Georgium Sidus,
upon this solitary me — the foregoing sentence
bears no reference to you.

"Treherne," I said, "whatever good opinion
your father is pleased to hold as to my wisdom,
I certainly do not share in one juvenile folly —
that, being a very well-meaning fellow on the
whole, I take the greatest pains to make myself
out a scamp."

The youth coloured.

"That's me, of course."

48 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

" Wear the cap if it feels comfortable. And
now, will you have some teat "

"Anything — I feel as thirsty as when you
found me dragging myself to the brink of the
Tchernaya. Hey, Doctor, it would have saved
me a deal of bother if you had never found
me at all. Except that it would vex the old
governor to end the name and have the pro-
perty all going to the dogs, — that is, to
Cousin Charteris; who would not care how
soon I was dead and buried."

" Were dead and buried, if you please."

" Confound it, to stop a man about his
grammar when he is in k my state of mind !
Kept from his cigar, too! Doctor, you
never were in love, or you never were a
smoker."

"How do you knowt"

"Because you never could have given up
the one or the other ; a fellow can't ; 'tis an
impossibility."

" Is it ? I once smoked six cigars a day, for
two years."

"Eh, what? And you never let that out

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 49

before? You are so close! Possibly, the
other fact will peep out in time Mrs.
Urquhart and half-a-dozen brats may be
living in some out-of-the-way nook — Cornwall,
or Jersey, or the centre of Salisbury Plain.
Why, what? — nay, I beg your pardon, Doctor."
What a horrible thing it is that by no physical
effort, added to years of mental self-control, can
I so harden my nerves that certain words, names,

■

suggestions, shall not startle me — make me
quiver as if under the knife. Doubtless, Tre-
herne will henceforth retain — so far as his easy
mind can retain anything — the idea that I have a
wife and family hidden somewhere 1 Ludicrous
idea, if it were not connected with other ideas
from which, however, this one will serve to
turn Ms mind.

To explain it away was of course impossible.
I had only power to slip from the subject with a
laugh, and bring him back to the tobacco
question.

" Yes ; I smoked six cigars a-day for at least
two years."

u And gave it up ? Wonderful I *

VOL. I. E

50 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

" Not very, when a man has a will of his own,
and a few strong reasons to back it."

" Out with them — not that they will benefit me
however— Fm quite incorrigible."

"Doubtless. First, I was a poor medical
student, and six cigars per diem cost fourteen
shillings a-week, — thirty-one pounds, eight
shillings, a^year. A good sum to give for an
artificial want — enough to have fed and clothed a
child. 5 *

" You're weak on the point of brats, Urquhart.
Do you remember the little Kuss we picked up
in the cellar at Sebastopol? I do believe you'd
have adopted and brought it home with you if it
had not died."

Should I? But as Treherne said, it died.

"Secondly, thirty-one pounds, eight shillings per
annum was a good deal to give for a purely selfish t
enjoyment, annoying to almost everybody except
the smoker, and at the time of smoking — espe-
cially when to the said smoker it is sure to grow
from a mere accidental enjoyment into an irre-
sistible necessity — a habit to which he becomes
the most utter slave. Now, a man is only half a

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 51

man who allows himself to become the slave of
any habit whatsoever."

"Bravo, Doctor, all this should go into the
Lancet"

"No, for it does not touch the question
on the medical side, but the general and
practical one: namely, that to create an un-
necessary luxury, which is a nuisance to every
body else, and to himself of very doubtful
benefit — is — excuse me — the very silliest thing
a young man can do. A thing, which,
from my own experience, I'll not aid and
abet any young man in doing. There, lecture's
over, and kettle boiled — unless you prefer tobacco
and the open air."

He did not : and we sat down — " four
feet upon a fender " — as the proverb says.

"Heigho! but the proverb doesn't mean
four feet in men's boots," said Treherne,
dolefully. "I wish I was dead and buried."
I suggested that the light moustache he
curled so fondly, the elegant hair, and the
aristocratic outline of phiz, would look ex-
ceedingly well — in a coffin.

•^w^p^^"^^

52 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

"Faugh! how unpleasant 70U are."
And I myself repented the speech: for
it ill becomes a man under any provoca-
tion to make a jest of Death. But that
this young fellow, so full of life, with every
attraction that it can offer — health, wealth,
kindred, friends — should sit croaking there,
with such a used-up, lack-a-daisical air, — truly
it irritated me.

"What's the matter — that you wish to rid
the world of your valuable presence? — Has
the young lady expressed a similar desire t"

"She? — Hang her! I won't think any more
about her," said the lad sullenly. And then,
out poured the grand despair, the unen-
durable climax of mortal woe. "She cantered
through the north camp this afternoon, with
Granton — Colin Granton, and upon Granton's
own brown mare."

"Ha! — horrible vision! And you? — you

' Watched them go : one horse was blind ;
The tails of both hung down behind.
Their shoes were on their feet.' " —

" Doctor ! "

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 53

I stopped — there seemed more reality in his
feelings than I had been aware of; and it is
scarcely right to make a mock of even the fire-
and-smoke, dust-and-ashes passion of a boy.

"I beg yonr pardon; not knowing the affair
had gone so far. Still, it isn't worth being dead
and buried for."

" What business has she to go riding with that
big clod-hopping lout ? And what right has he to
lend her his brown mare?" chafed Treherne, with
a great deal more which I did not much attend
to. At hat, weary of playing Friar Lawrence
to such a very uninteresting Romeo, I hinted, that
if he disapproved of the young lady's behaviour,
he ought to appeal to her own good sense, to her
father, or somebody — or, since women understand
one another best, get Lady Augusta Treherne to
do it.

"My mother! She never even heard of her.
Why, you speak as seriously as if I were actually
intending to marry her!"

Here I could not help rousing myself a trifle.

"Excuse me — it never struck me that a gentle-
man could discuss a young lady among his ao-

54 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

quaintance, make a public show of his admiration
for her, interfere with her proceedings or her
conduct towards any other gentleman, and not
intend to many her. Suppose we choose another
subject of conversation."

Treherne grew hot to the ears, but he took the
hint and spared me his sentimental maunderings.

We had afterwards some interesting conver-
sation about a few cases of mine in the neigh-
bourhood, not on the regular list of regimental
patients which have lately been to me a curious
study. If I were inclined to quit the army — I
believe the branch of my profession which I
should take up would be that of sanitary reform
— the study of health rather than of disease, of
prevention rather than cure. It often seems to
me, that we of the healing art have began at the
wrong end — that the energy we devote to the
alleviation of irremediable disease would be better
spent in the study and practise of means to pre-
serve health.

Thus, I tried to explain to Treherne, who will
have plenty of money and influence, and whom,
therefore, it is worth while taking pains to in-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 55

oculate with a few useful facts and ideas; that
one-half of our mortality in the Crimea was
owing, not to the accidents of war, but to the
results of zymotic diseases, all of which might
have been prevented by common sense and
common knowledge of the laws of health, as
the statistics of our sanitary commission have
abundantly proved.

And, as I told him, it saddens me, almost
as much as doing my duty on a battle-field, or
at Scutari, or Renkioi, to take these amateur
rounds in safe England, among what poets and
politicians call the noble British peasantry, and
see the frightful sacrifice of life — and worse
than life — from causes perfectly remediable.

Take, for instance, these cases, as set down
in my note-book.

Amos Fell, 40, or thereabouts, down with
fever for ten days; wife and five sons; occupy
one room of a cottage on the Moor, which
holds two other families; says, would be glad
to live in a better place, but cannot get it;
landlord will not allow more cottages to be
built. Would build himself a peat hut, but

56 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

doubts if that would be permitted ; so just goes
on as well as he can.

Peck family, fever also, living at the filthiest
end of the village ; themselves about the dirtiest
in it ; with a stream rushing by fresh enough
to wash and cleanse a whole town.

Widow Haynes, rheumatism, from field-work,
and living in a damp room with earthen floor,
half underground; decent woman, gets half-a-
crown a-week from the parish, but will not be
able to earn anything for months; and what is
to become of all the children t

Treherne settled that question, and one or
two more; poor fellow, his purse is as open
as his heart just now; but among his other
luxuries he may as well taste the luxury of
giving. 'Tis good for him; he will be Sir
Augustus one of these days. Is his goddess
aware of that fact, I wonder?

What! is cynicism growing to be one of
my vices f and against a woman toot One
of whom I absolutely know nothing, except
watching her for a few moments at a ball.
She seems to be one of the usual sort of

Pi

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 57

officers' belles in country quarters. Yet there
may be something good in her. There was,
I feel sure, in that large-eyed sister of hers.
But let me not judge — I have never had any
opportunity of understanding women.

This subject was not revived, till, the
tobacco-hunger proving too strong for him,
my friend Romeo began to fidget, and finally
rose.

"I say, Doctor, you won't tell the governor
— it would put him in an awful fume?"

"What do you mean?"

u Oh — about Miss you know. I've been

a great ass, I suppose, but when a girl is
so civil to one — a fine girl, too — you saw her,
did you not, dancing with me? Now isn't she
an uncommonly fine girl?"

I assented.

"And that Granton should get her, con-
found him! a great logger-headed country
clown."

"Who is an honest man, and will make
her a kind husband. Any other honest man
who does not mean to offer himself as her

58 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

husband, had much better avoid her acquaint-
ance."

Treherne coloured again; I saw he under-
stood me, though he turned it off with a
laugh.

"You're preaching matrimony, Doctor, surely.
What an ideal to tie myself up at my age.
I shan't do the ungentlemanly thing either.
So good-night, old fellow."

He lounged out, with that lazy, self-satisfied air
which is misnamed aristocratic. Yet I have seen
many a one of these conceited, effeminate-look-
ing, drawing-room darlings, a curled and
scented modern Alcibiades, fight — like Alci-
biades ; and die — as no Greek ever could die —
like a Briton.

u Ungentlemanly," — what a word it is with
most men, especially in the military profes-
sion. Gentlemanly, — the root and apex of
all honour. Ungentlemanly, — the lowest term
of degradation. Such is our code of morals
in the army; and, more or less, probably
everywhere.

An officer I knew, who, for all I ever

wm^—mmmmmmmmm

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 59

heard or noticed, was himself as true a gen-
tleman as ever breathed; polished, kindly,
manly, and brave, gave me once, in an argu-
ment on duelling, his definition of the word.
"A gentleman — one who never does anything
he is ashamed of, or that would compro-
mise his honour."

Worldly honour, this colonel must have meant,
for he considered it would have been compromised
by a man's refusing to accept a challenge.
That "honour" surely was a little lower thing
than virtue ; a little less pure than the
Christianity which all of us profess, and so few
believe. Yet there was something at once
touching and heroic about it, and in the way
this man of the world upheld it. The best
of our British chivalry — as chivalry goes — is
made up of materials such as these.

But is there not a higher morality — a diviner
honour? And if so, who is he that can find
it?

60 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER IV.

HER STORY.

*Tis over — the weary Jdinner-party. I can
lock myself in here, take off my dress, pull down
my hair, clasp my two bare arms one on' each
shoulder — such a comfortable attitude! — and
stare into the fire.

There is something peculiar about our fires.
Most likely the quantity of fire-wood we use for
this region gives them that curious aromatic
smell. How, I love fir-trees of any sort in any
season of the year! How I used to delight
myself in our pine-woods, strolling in and out
among the boles of the trees so straight, strong,
and unchangeable — grave in summer, and green in
winter ! How I have stood listening to the wind

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 61

in their tops, and looking for the fir-cones,
wonderful treasures ! which they had dropped on
the soft dry mossy ground. What glorious fan
it was to fill my pinafore — or in more dignified
days my black silk apron — \rith fir-cones; to
heap a surreptitious store of them in a corner of
the school-room, and burn them, one by one, on
the top of the fire. How they did blaze !

I think I should almost like to go hunting for
fir-cones now. It would be a great deal more
amusing than dinner-parties.

Why did we give this dinner, which cost so
much time, trouble, and money, and was so very
dull ? At least I thought so. Why should we
always be obliged to have a dinner-party when
Francis is herel As if he could not exist a
week at Eockmount without other people's
company than ours! It used not to be so.
When I was a child, I remember he never
wanted to go anywhere, or have anybody coming
here. After study was over (and papa did not
keep him very close either), he cared for nothing
except to saunter about with Penelope. What a
nuisance those two used to be to us younger

62 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

ones : always sending us out of the room on some
pretence, or taking us long walks and losing us,
and then — cruellest of all, — keeping us waiting
indefinitely for dinner. Always making so much
of one another, and taking no notice of us ;
haying little squabbles with one another, and
then snubbing us. The great bore of our lives
was that love-affair of Francis and Penelope;
and the only consolation we had, Lisabel and I,
was to plan the wedding, she to settle the brides-
maids' dresses, and I thinking how grand it
would be when all is over, and I took the
head of the table, the warm place in the room,
permanently, as Miss Johnston.

Poor Penelope! She is Miss Johnston still,
and likely to be, for all that I can see. I
should not wonder if, after all, it happened
in ours as in many families, that the youngest
is married first.

Lisabel vexed me much to-day; more than
usual. People will surely begin to talk about her,
not that I care a pin for any gossip, but it's
wrong — wrong! A girl can't like two gen-
tlemen so equally that she treats them exactly

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 63

in the same manner — unless it chances to be
the manner of benevolent indifference. But
Lisabel's is not that. Every day I watch
her, and say to myself, "She's surely fond
of that young man." Which always happens to
be the young man nearest to her, whether Captain
Treherne, or "my Colin," as his mother calls
him. What a lot of "beaux" our Lisa has
had ever since she was fourteen, yet not
one "lover" — that I ever heard of; as, of
course, I should, together with her half-dozen
very particular friends. No one can accuse
Lis of being of a secretive disposition.

What, am I growing ill-natured, and to my
own sister? a good tempered, harmless girl,
who makes herself agreeable to everybody,
and whom everybody likes a vast deal better
than they do me.

Sometimes, sitting over this fire, with the
fir-twigs crackling and the turpentine blazing-
it may be an odd taste, but I have a real
pleasure in the smell of turpentine — I take
myself into serious, sad consideration.

Theodora Johnston, aged twenty-five ; medium

mm

64 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

looks, medium talents, medium temper; in
every way the essence of mediocrity. This is
what I have gradually discovered myself to be ;
I did not think so always.

Theodora Johnston, aged fifteen. What a
different creature that was. I can bring it
back now, with its long curls and its short
frocks — by Penelope's orders, preserved as late as
possible; — running wild over the moors, or
hiding itself in the garden with a book,-— or
curling up in a corner of this attic, then
unfurnished, with a pencil and the back of a
letter, writing its silly poetry. Thinking, plan-
ning, dreaming, looking forward to such a
wonderful, impossible life: quite satisfied with
itself and all it was to do therein, since

u The world was all before it where to choose :
Reason its guard, and Providence its guide."

And what has it done? Nothing. What is
it now? The aforesaid Theodora Johnston,
aged twenty-five.

Moralists tell us, self-examination is a great
virtue, an indispensable duty. I don't believe
it. Generally, it is utterly useless, hopeless,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 65

and unprofitable. Much of it springs from the
very egotism it pretends to cure. There are
not more conceited hypocrites on earth than
many of your "miserable sinners."

If I cannot think of something or somebody
better than myself, I will just give up think-
ing altogether: will pass entirely to the upper-
most of my two lives, which I have now made
to tally so successfully that they seem of one
material: like our girls' new cloaks, which
everybody imagines sober grey, till a lifting
of the arms shows the other side of the cloth
to be scarlet.

That reminds me in what a blaze of scarlet
Captain Treherne appeared at our modest
dinner-table. He was engaged to a full-dress
party at the Camp, he said, and must leave
immediately after dinner, — which he didn't.
Was his company much missed, I wonder?
Two here could well have spared it — Colin
Grranton and Francis Charteris.

How odd that until to-night Captain Tre-
herne should have had no notion that his
cousin was engaged to our Penelope, or even

vol. I. F

66 A LITE FOB A LIFE.

visited at Rockmount. Odd too, that other,
people never told him. But it is such an old
affair, and we were not likely to make the
solemn communication ourselves ; besides, we
never knew much about the youth, except that
he was one of Francis's fine relations. Yet to
think that Francis all these years should
never have even hinted to these said fine
relations that he was engaged to our Penelope !

If I were Penelope — but I have no business to
judge other people. I never was in love,
they say.

To see the meeting between these two was
quite dramatic, and as funny as a farce.
Francis sitting on the sofa by Penelope, talking
to Mrs. Granton and her friend Miss Emery,
and doing a little bit of lazy love-making between
whiles. When enters, late and hurried, Cap-
tain Treherne. He walks straight up to
papa, specially attentive ; then bows to
Lisabel, specially distant and unattentive ; (I
thought, though, at sight of her he grew as hot as
if his regimental collar were choking him) ;
then hastens to pay his respects to Miss

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 67

*

Johnston, when lo! he beholds Mr. Francis
Charteris.

"Charteris! what the — what a very unex-
pected pleasure ! "

Francis shook hands in what we call his usual
fascinating manner.

"Miss Johnston!" — in his surprise Captain
Treherne had quite forgotten her — "I really
beg your pardon. I had not the slightest
idea you were acquainted with my cousin."
Nor did the young man seem particularly pleased
with the discovery.

Penelope glanced sharply at Francis, and then
said — how did she manage to say it so carelessly
and composedly ! —

"Oh yes, we have known Mr. Charteris for
a good many years. Can you find room for your
cousin on the sofa, Francis ? "

At the "Francis," Captain Treherne stared,
and made some remarks in an abstract and ab-
stracted manner. At length, when he had placed
himself right between Francis and Penelope, and
was actually going to take Penelope down to
dinner, a light seemed to break upon him. He

68 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

laughed — gave way to his cousin — and con
descended to bestow his scarlet elbow upon me;
saying as we went across the hall : —

"I'm afraid I was near making a blunder
there. — But who would have thought it?"

"I beg your pardon f"

"About those, there. I knew your sister
was engaged to somebody — but Charteris !
Who would have thought of Charteris
going to be married. What a ridiculous
idea."

I said, that the fact had ceased to appear
so to me, having been aware of it for the last
ten years.

" Ten years ! You don't say so ! " And then
his slow perception catching the extreme inci-
vility of this great astonishment — my scarlet
friend offered lame congratulations, fell to his
dinner, and conversed no more.

Perhaps he forgot the matter altogether — for
Lisabel sat opposite, beside Colin Granton ; and
what between love and hate my cavalier's atten-
tion was very much distracted. Truly, Lisabel
and her unfortunate swains reminded me of a

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 69

passage in u Thomson's Seasons/' describing two
young bulls fighting in a meadow: —

" While the fair heifer balmy-breathing near,
Stands kindling up their rage."

I blush to set it down. I blush almost to
have such a thought, and concerning my own
sister; yet it is so, and I have seen the like
often and often. Surely it must be wrong;
such sacred things as women's beauty and
women's love were not made to set men mad
at one another like boite beasts. Surely the
woman could help it if she chose. Men may
be jealous, and cross, and wretched; but they
do not absolutely hate one another on a
woman's account unless she has been in some
degree to blame. While free, and shewing no
preference, no one can well fight about her, for
all have an equal chance ; when she has a pre-
ference, though she might not openly shew it
towards its object, she certainly, would never
think of shewing it towards anybody else. At
least, that is my theory.

However, I am taking the thing too seriously,
and it is no affair of mine. I have given up

70 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

interfering long ago. Lisabel must "gang her
ain gate/' as they say in Scotland. By the
bye^ Captain Treherne asked if we came from
Scotland, or were of the celebrated clan John-
stone ?

Time was, when in spite of the additional
t, we all grumbled at our plebeian name,
hoping earnestly to change it for something
more aristocratic, — and oh, how proud we were
of Charteris ! How fine to put into the village
post, letters addressed, "Francis Charteris,
Esq./' and to speak of our brother-in-law elect
as having u an office under Government ! " We
firmly believed that office under Government
would end in the Premiership and a peer-
age.

It has not, though. Francis still says he
cannot afford to marry. I was asking Pene-
lope yesterday if she knew what papa and
his first wife, not our own mamma, married
upon I Much less income, I believe, than
what Francis has now. But my sister said
I did not understand: "The cases were widely
different." Probably.

wmmm^msmsp?.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 71

She is very fond of Francis. Last week,
preparing for him, she looked quite a different
woman; quite young and rosy again; and
though it did not last, though after he was
really come, she grew sharp and cross often,
— to us, never to him, of course; — she much
enjoys his being here. They do not make so
much fuss over one another as they did ten
years ago, which indeed would be ridiculous
in lovers over thirty. Still, I should hardly
like my lover, at any age, to sit reading a
novel half the evening, and spend the other
half in the sweet company of his cigar. Not
that he need be always hankering after me,
and "paying me attention." I should hate
that. For what is the good of people being
fond of one another, if they can't be content
simply in one another's company, or, without
it even, in one another^ love? letting each
go on their own several ways and do their
several work, in the best manner they can.
Good sooth! I should be the most convenient
and least troublesome sweetheart that ever a
young man was ever blessed with; for I am

72 A LIFE FOE A LIFE.

sure I should sit all evening quite happy —
he at one end of the room, and I at the
other, if only I knew he was happy, and caught
now and then a look and a smile — provided
the look and the smile were my own per-
sonal property, nobody else's.

What nonsense am I writing? And not a
word about the dinner-party. Has it left so
little impression on my mind?

No wonder! It was just the usual thing.
Papa as host, grave, clerical, and slightly weary-
ing of it all. Penelope hostess. Francis play-
ing "friend of the family," as handsome and
well-dressed as ever — what an exquisitely em-
broidered shirt-front, and what an aerial cam-
bric kerchief! which must have taken him half
an hour to tie ! Lisabel — but I have told about
her; and myself. Everybody else looking as
everybody hereabouts always does look at dinner-
parties — ex uno disce omnes — to muster a bit of
the Latin for which, in old times, Francis used
to call me "a juvenile prig."

Was there, in the whole evening, anything
worth remembering? Yes, thanks to his fit of

■■■

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 73

jealousy, I did get a little sensible conversation
out of Captain Treherae. He looked so dull,
so annoyed, that I felt sorry for the youth, and
tried to make him talk ; so, lighting on the first
subject at hand, asked him if he had seen his
friend, Doctor Urquhart, lately?

"Eh — who? I beg your pardon."

His eyes had wandered where Lisabel, with
one of her white elbows on the table, sat
coquetting with a bunch of grapes, listening
with downcast eyes to "my CoKn. ,,

" Doctor Urquhart, whom I met at the Cedars
last week. You said he was a friend of
yours.''

"So he is; the best I ever had," and it
was refreshing to see how the young fellow
brightened up. "He saved my life. But for
him I should assuredly be lying with a cross
over my head, inside that melancholy stone
wall round the top of Cathcart's Hill."

"You mean the cemetery there. — What
sort of a place is it?"

" Just as I said — the bare top of a hill, with
a wall round it, and stones of various sorts,

74 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

crosses, monuments, and so on. All our officers
were buried there."

"And the men?" •

"Oh, anywhere. It didn't matter."

It did not, I thought; but not exactly from
Captain Treherne's point of view. However,
he was scarcely the man with whom to have
started an abstract argument. I might, had he
been Doctor Urquhart.

"Was Doctor Urquhart in the Crimea the
whole time?"

"To be sure. He went through all the
campaign, from Varna to Sebaatopol; at first
unattached, and then was appointed to our
regiment. Well for me that! What a three
months I had after Inkerman ! Shall I ever
forget the day I first crawled out and sat on the
benches in front of the hospital, on Balaklava
Heights, looking down over the Black Sea?"

I had never seen him serious before. My
heart inclined even to Captain Treherne.

"Was he ever hurt — Doctor Urquhart, I
mean?"

"Once or twice, slightly, while looking after

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 75

his wounded on the field. But he made no
fuss about it, and always got well directly.
You see, he is such an extremely temperate
man in all things — such a quiet temper — has
himself in such thorough control — that he has
twice the chance of keeping in health that most
men have — especially our fellows there, who,
he declares, died quite as much of eating, drink-
ing, and smoking, as they did of Russian
bullets."

" Your friend must be a remarkable man."

"He's a — a brick! Excuse the word — in
ladies' society I ought not to use it."

"If you ought to use it at all, you may
do so in ladies' society."

The youth looked puzzled.

"Well, then, Miss Dora, he really is a
downright brick — since you know what that
means. Though an odd sort of fellow
too ; a tough customer to deal with — never
lets go the rein; holds one in as tight as if
he were one's father. I say, Charteris, did
you ever hear the governor speak of Doctor
Urquhart, of ours?"

76 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

If Sir William had named such a person,
Mr. Charteris had, unfortunately, quite forgotten
it. Stay — he fancied he had heard the name
at his club, but it was really impossible to
remember all the names one knew, or the
men.

" You wouldn't have forgotten that man in a
hurry, Miss Dora, I assure you. He's worth
a dozen of but I beg your pardon."

If it was for the look which he cast upon
his cousin, I was not implacable. Francis
always annoys me when he assumes that
languid manner. For some things, I prefer
Captain Treherne's open silliness — nothing
being in his head, nothing can come out of
it — to the lazy superciliousness of Francis
Charteris; who, we know, has a great deal
more in him than he ever condescends to
let out, at least for our benefit. I should
like to see if he behaves any better at his
aforesaid club, or at Lady This's and the
Countess of That's, of whom I heard him
speak to Miss Emery.

I was thinking thus; — vaguely contrasting

^*^^«»**r

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 77

his smooth, handsome face with that sharp
one of Penelope's — how much faster she
grows old than he does, though they are
exactly ' of an age ! — when the ladies rose.

Captain Treherne and Colin rushed to open
the door — Francis did not take that trouble —
and Lisabel, passing, smiled equally on both
her adorers. Colin made some stupid compli-
ment; and the other, silent, looked her full
in the face. If any man so dared to look at
me, I would like to grind him to powder.

Oh ! Tm sick of love and lovers — or the
mockery of them — sick to the core of my
heart!

In the drawing-room I curled myself up in
a corner beside Mrs. Granton, whom it is
always pleasant to talk to. We revived the
great blanket, beef, and anti-beer question, in
which she said she had found an unexpected ally.

"One who argues, even more strongly than
your father and I, my dear — as I was telling
Mr. Johnston to-day at dinner, and wishing
they were acquainted — argues against the
beer."

78 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

This was a question of whether or not our
poor people should have beer with their
Christmas dinner. Papa, who holds strong
opinions against the use of intoxicating drinks,
and never tastes them himself, being, every
year, rather in ill odour on the subject. I
asked who was this valuable ally?

"None of our neighbours, you may be
sure. A gentleman from the camp — you may
have met him at my house — a Doctor
Urquhart."

I could not help smiling, and said it was
curious how I was perpetually hearing of
Doctor Urquhart.

"Even in our quiet neighbourhood, such a
man is sure to be talked about. Not in
society perhaps — it was quite a marvel for
Colin to get him to our ball, but because he
does so many things while we humdrum
folk are only thinking about them."

I asked what sort of things? In his pro-
fession?

"Chiefly, but he makes professional busi-
ness include so much. Imagine his coming

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 79

to Colin as ground-landlord of Bourne ham-
let, to beg him to see to the clearing of
the village pool ? or writing to the lord of
the manor, saying that twenty new cottages
built on the moor would do more moral good
than the new county reformatory? He is one
of the very few men who are not ashamed to
say what they think — and makes people listen
to it too— as they rarely do to those not
long settled in the neighbourhood, and about
whom they know little or nothing."

I asked if nothing were known about Doctor
Urquhart? Had he any relations? Was he
married?

"Oh, no, surely not married. I never en-
quired, but took it for granted. However,
probably my son knows. Shall I find out,
and speak a good word for you, Miss Dora?"

"No, thank you," said I, laughing. "You
know I hate soldiers."

'Tis Mrs. Granton's only fault — her annoy-
ing jests after this fashion. Otherwise, I
would have liked to have asked a few more
questions about Doctor Urquhart. I wonder

80 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

if I shall ever meet him again ? The regi-
ments rarely stay long at the camp, so that
it is not probable.

I went over to where my two sisters and
Miss Emery were sitting over the fire. Miss
Emery was talking very fast, and Penelope
listening with a slightly scornful lip ; she
protests that ladies, middle-aged ladies par-
ticularly, are such very stupid company.
Lisabel wore her good-natured smile, always
the same to everybody.

"I was quite pleased," Miss Emery was
saying, u to notice how cordially Captain
Treherne and Mr. Charteris met : I always
understood there was a sort of a — a coolness,
in short. Very natural. As his nephew, and
next heir, after the Captain, Sir William
might have done more than he did for Mr.
Charteris. So people said, at least. He
has a splendid property, and only that one
son. You have been to Treherne Court, Miss
Johnston ? "

Penelope abruptly answered, " No;" and Lisabel
added amiably, that we seldom went from home —

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 81

papa liked to have us at Kockmount all the
year round.

I said wilfully, wickedly, — may be, lest Mies
Emery's long tongue should carry back to
London what was by implication not true —
that we did not even know where Treherne Court
was, and that we had only met Captain Tre-
herne accidentally among the camp-officers who
visited at the Cedars.

Lis pinched me: Penelope looked annoyed.
Was it a highly virtuous act thus to have
vexed both my sisters? Alack! I feel myself
growing more unamiable every day. "What will
be the end of it?

i€ First come, first served," must have been
Lisabel's motto for the evening, since, Cap-
tain Treherne re-appearing, scarlet beat plain
black clear out of the field. I was again
obliged to follow, as Charity, pouring the oil
and wine of my agreeable conversation into the
wounds made by my sister's bright eyes, and
receiving as gratitude such an amount of in-
formation on turnips, moor-lands, and the
true art of sheep-feeding, as will make me

vol. I. o

82; A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

look with respect and hesitation on every leg
of mutton that comes to our table for the
next six months.

44 O, Colin, dear Colin, my Colin, my dear,
Who wont the wild mountains to trace without fear,
O, where are thy flocks that so swiftly rebound,
And fly o'er the heath without touching the ground."

A remarkable fact in natural history, which
much impressed me in my childhood. What
is the "rest?

44 Where the birch-tree hangs weeping o'er fountain so
clear,
At noon I shall meet him, my Colin, my dear."

What a shame to laugh at Mrs. Grant of
Laggan's nice old song, at the pretty High-
land tune which ere now I have hummed over
the moor for miles. Since, when we were child-
ren, I myself was in love with Colin! a love
which found vent in much petting of his
mother, and in shy presents to himself of
nuts and blackberries: until, stung by indif-
ference, my affection

"Shrunk
Into itself, and was missing ever after."

Do we forget our childish loves? I think

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 83

hot. The objects change, of course, but the
feeling, when it has been true and unselfish,
keeps its character still, and is always pleasant to
remember. It was very silly, no doubt, but
I question if now I could love anybody in
a fonder, humbler, faithfuller way than I
adored that great, merry, good-natured school-
boy. And though I know he has not
an ounce of brains, is the exact opposite of
anybody I could fall in love with now —
still, to this day, I look kindly on the round,
rosy face of "Colin, my dear."

I wonder if he ever will marry our Lisa.
As far as I notice, people do not often marry
their childish companions; they much prefer
strangers. Possibly, from mere novelty and
variety, or else from the fact that as kin
are sometimes " less than kind," so one's familiar
associates are often the furthest from one's
sympathies, interests, or heart.

With this highly moral and amiable sentiment
— a fit conclusion for a social evening, I will
lock my desk.

8£ A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Lucky I did! What if Lisabel had found
me writing at — one in the morning! How
she would have teased me — even under the
circumstances of last night, which seem to have
affected her mighty little, considering.

1 heard her at my door, from without,
grumble at it being bolted. She came in and
sat down by my fire. Quite a picture, in a
blue flannel dressing-gown, with her light
hair dropping down in two wavy streams, and
her eyes as bright as if it were any hour
rather than 1.30 a.m., as I showed her by
my watch.

"Nonsense! I shall not go to bed yet. I
want to talk a bit, Dora; you ought to feel
flattered by my coming to tell you, first of any-
body. Guess now, — what has happened?''

Nothing ill, certainly — for she held her head
up, laughing a little, looking very handsome
and pleased.

"You never will guess, for you never be-
lieved it would come to pass, but it has. Tre-
herne proposed to me to-night."

The news quite took my breath away, and then

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. &5

I questioned its accuracy. "He has only been
giving you a few more of his silly speeches,
he means nothing. Why don't you put a stop
to it all!"

Lisabel was not vexed — she never is — she
only laughed.

"I tell you, Dora, it is perfectly true. You
may believe or not, — I don't care — but he
really did it."

" How, when, and where, pray ? "

"In the conservatory; beside the biggest
orange-tree ; a few minutes before he left."

I said, since she was so very matter-of-fact,
perhaps, she would have no objection to tell me
the precise words in which he "did it."

"Oh, dear, no; not the smallest objection.
We were joking about a bit of orange-
blossom Colin had given me, and Treherne
wanted me to throw away; but I said
'No, I liked the scent, and meant to wear
a wreath of natural orange-flowers when
I was married.' Upon which he grew
quite furious, and said it would drive him
mad if I ever married any man but him.

86 A LITE FOB A LIFE.

Then he got hold of my hand, and — the
usual thing, you know." She blushed a little.
"It ended by my telling him he had better
speak to papa, and he said he should, to-
morrow. That's all."

"All!"

"Well?" said Lisabel, expectantly.

It certainly was a singular way in which to
receive one's sister's announcement of her in-
tended marriage; but, for worlds, I could not
have spoken a syllable. I felt a weight on my
chest — a sense of hot indignation which settled
down into inconceivable melancholy.

Was this indeed all? A silly flirtation — a
young lad's passion — a young girl's cool busi-
ness-like reception of the same — the formal
"speaking to papa/' and the thing was over!
Was that love?

"Haven't you a word to say, Dora? I had
better have told Penelope. But she was tired,
and scolded me out of her room. Besides she
might not exactly like this, for some reasons.
It's rather hard; such an important thing to
happen, and not a soul to congratulate one
upon it."

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 87

I asked, why might Penelope dislike it?

"Can't you see? Captain Treherne roving
about the world, and Captain Treherne married
and settled at home, make a considerable
difference to Francis's prospects. No, I don't
mean anything mean or murderous — you need
not look so shocked — it is merely my practical
way of regarding things. But what harm? If
I did not have Treherne, somebody else would,
and it would be none the better for Francis
and Penelope."

"You are very prudent and far-sighted:
such an idea would never have entered my
mind."

"I daresay not. Just give me that brush,
will you, child I"

She proceeded methodically to damp her
long hair, and plait it up in those countless
tails which gave Miss Lisabel Johnston's locks
such a beautiful wave. Passing the glass, she
looked into it, smiled, sighed.

"Poor fellow. I do believe he is very fond
of me."

" And you !"

86 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

"Oh, I like him — like him excessively. If
I didn't, what should I many him for?"

"What, indeed!"

"There is one objection papa may have;
his being younger than I, I forget how much,
but it is very little. How surprised papa
will be when he gets the letter to-morrow."

"Does Sir William know!"

"Not yet; but that will be soon settled,
he tells me. He can persuade his mother,
and she, his father. Besides, they can have
no possible objection to me."

She looked again in the mirror as she said
this. Yes, that "me" was not a daughter-
in-law likely to be objected to, even at Tre-
herne Court.

"I hope it will not vex Penelope," she con-
tinued. "It may be all the better for her,
since when I am married, I shall have so much
influence. We may make the old gentleman
do something handsome for Francis, and get
a richer living for papa, if he will consent to
leave Kockmount. And I'd find a nice hus-
band for you, eh, Dora?"

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 89

"Thank you, I don't want one. I hate
the very mention of the thing. I wish, instead
of marrying, we could all be dead and buried."

And, whether from weariness, or excitement,
or a sudden, unutterable pang at seeing my
sister, my playfellow, my handsome Lisa,
sitting there, talking as she talked, and acting
as she acted, I could bear up no longer. I
burst out sobbing.

She was very much astonished, and some-
what touched, I suppose, for she cried too, a
little, and we kissed one another several times,
which we are not much in the habit of doing.
— Till, suddenly, I recollected Treherne, the
orange-tree, and "the usual thing." Her lips
seemed to burn me.

" Oh, Lisa, I wish you wouldn't. I do wish
you wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what? Don't you want me to
be engaged and married, child f"

"Not in that way."

" In what way, then 1 "

I could not tell. I did not know.

"After the fashion of Francis and Penelope,

90 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

perhaps? Falling in love like a couple of
babies, before they knew their own minds,
and then being tied together, and keeping the
thing on in a stupid, meaningless, tiresome
way, till she is growing into an elderly woman,
and he — no, thank you, I have seen quite
enough of early loves and long engagements.
I always meant to have somebody whom I
could marry at once, and be done with
it."

There was a half-truth in what she said,
though I could not then find the other half
to fit into it, and prove that her satisfactory
circle of reasoning was partly formed of ab-
solute, untenable falsehood, for false I am sure
it was. Though I cannot argue it, can hardly
understand it, I feel it. There must be a
truth somewhere. Love cannot be all a
lie.

My sister and I talked a few minutes
longer, and then she rose, and said she must
go to bed.

"Will you not wish me happiness? 'Tis
very unkind of you."

A LITE FOB A LIFE. 91

I told her outright that I did not think as
she thought on these matters, but that she
had made her choice, and I hoped it would
be a happy one.

"1 am sure of it. Now go to bed, and
don't cry any more, there's a good girl, for
there really is nothing to cry about. You
shall have the very prettiest bridesmaid's
dress I can afford, and Treherne Court will
be such a nice house for you to visit at.
Good night, Dora."

Strange, altogether strange!

And writing it all down this morning, I feel
it stranger than ever, still.

92 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER V.

HIS STORY.

I will set down, if only to get rid of them,
a few incidents of this day.

Trivial they are — ludicrously so — to any one
but me : yet they have left me sitting with
my head in my hands, stupid and idle,
starting, each hour, at the boom of the bell
we took at Sebastopol— starting and shivering
like a nervous child.

Strange! there, in the Crimea, in the midst
of danger, hardship, and misery of all kinds
I was at peace, even happy: happier than
for many years. I seemed to have lived down,
and nearly obliterated from thought, that one
day, one hour, one moment, — which was but a

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 93

moment. Can it, or ought it, to weigh against
a whole existence? or, as some religionists
would tell us, against an eternity? Yet, what
is time, what is eternity? And, what is man,
measuring himself, his atom of good or ill,
either done or suffered, against God?

These are vain speculations, which I have
gone over and over again, till every link in
the chain of reasoning is painfully familiar. I
had better give it up, and turn to ordinary
things. Dear imaginary correspondent, shall I
tell you the story of my day?

It began peacefully. I always rest on a
Sunday, if I can. I believe, even had heaven
not hallowed one day in the seven — Saturday
or Sunday matters not ; let Jews and Chris-
tians battle it out I — there would still be need-
ful a day of rest; and that day would still
be a blesssed day. Instinct, old habit, and
later conviction always incline me to "keep
the sabbath : "—not, indeed, after the strict
fashion of my forefathers, but as a happy,
cheerful, holy time, a resting-place between
week and week, in which to enjoy specially

94 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

all righteous pleasures and earthly repose, and
to look forward to that rest which, we are
told, "remaineth for the people of God." The
people of God. No other people ever do rest,
even in this world.

Treherne passed my hut soon after breakfast,
and popped his head in, not over welcomely,
I confess, for I was giving myself the rare
treat of a bit of unprofessional reading. I had
not seen him for two or three days,— not since
we appointed to go together to the General's
dinner, and he never appeared all the evening.
"I say, Doctor, will you go to church?"
Now, I do usually attend our airy military
chapel — all doors and windows — open to every
kind of air, except airs from heaven, of which,
I am afraid, our chaplain does not bring with
him a large quantity. He leaves us to fatten
upon Hebrew roots, without throwing us a
crumb of Christianity; prefers Moses and the
prophets to the New Testament; no wonder,
as some few doctrines there, "Do unto others
as ye would they should do unto you," "He
that taketh the sword shall perish by the sword ! "

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 95

would sound particularly odd in a military
chapel, especially with his elucidation of them
for he is the very poorest preacher I ever
heard. Yet a worthy man, a most' sincere
man : did a world of good out in the Crimea ;
used to spend hours daily in teaching our men
to read and write, got personally acquainted
with every fellow in the regiment, knew all
their private histories, wrote their letters home,
sought them out in the battle-field and in the
hospital, read to them, cheered them, com-
forted them, and closed their eyes. There was
not an officer in the regiment more deservedly
beloved than our chaplain* He is an admirable
fellow — everywhere but in the pulpit.

Nevertheless, I attend his chapel, as I have always
been in the habit of attending some Christian wor-
ship somewhere, because it is the simplest way of
showing that I am not ashamed of my Master before
men.

Therefore, I would not smile at Treherne'a
astonishing fit of piety, but simply assented;
at which he evidently was disappointed.

"You see, I'm turning respectable, and going

96 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

to church. I wonder such an exceedingly re-
spectable and religious fellow as you, Urquhart,
has not tried to make me go sooner."

"If you go against your will, and because
it's respectable, you had better stop away."

"Thank you; but suppose I have my own
reasons for going f "

He is not a deep fellow ; there is no deceit in
the lad. All his faults are uppermost, which
makes them bearable.

"Come, out with it. Better make a clean
breast to me. It will not be the first time."

u Well, then — ahem ! " — twisting his sash and
looking down with most extraordinary modesty,
— " the fact is, she wished it."

"Who?"

u The lady you know of. In truth, I may as
well tell you, for I want you to speak up for me
to her father, and also to break it to my
governor. I've taken your advice and been
and gone and done for myself. 1 '

" Married ! " for his manner was so queer
that I should not have wondered at even that
catastrophe.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 97

"Not quite, but next door to it. Popped
and been accepted. Yes, since Friday, I have
been an engaged man, Doctor/ 9

Behind his foolishness was some natural
feeling, mixed with a rather comical awe of his
own position.

For me, I was a good deal surprised ; yet he
might have come to a worse end. To a rich
young fellow of twenty-one, the world is full
of many more dangerous pitfalls than matri-
mony. So I expressed myself in the custo-
mary congratulations, adding that I concluded
the lady was the one I had seen?

Treherne nodded.

"Sir William knows it?"

"Not yet. Didn't I tell you I wanted you
to break it to him? Though he will consent,
of course. Her father is quite respectable — a
clergyman, you are aware; and she is such a
handsome girl — would do credit to any man's
taste. Also, she likes me — a trifle!"

And he pulled his moustache with a satisfied
recognition of his great felicity.

I saw no reason to question it, such as it

vol. i. H

98 A. LIFE FOB A LIFE.

was. He was a well-looking fellow, likely to
please women; and this one, though there was
not much in her, appeared kindly and agreeable.
The other sister, whom I talked with, was
something more. They were, no doubt, a per-
fectly unobjectionable family ; nor did I think
that Sir William, who was anxious for his son
to marry early, would refuse consent to any
creditable choice. But, decidedly, he ought to
be told at once — ought indeed to have been
consulted beforehand. I said so."

"Can't help that. It happened unexpec-
tedly. I had, when I entered Eockmount, no
more idea of such a thing than — than your
cat, Doctor. Upon my soul 'tis the fact ! Well,
well, marriage is a man's fate. He can no more
help himself in the matter than a stone can
help rolling down a hill. All's over, and I'm
glad of it. So, will you write, and tell my father f "

"Certainly not. Do it yourself, and you
had better do it now. 'No time like the pre-
sent,' always."

I pushed towards him pens, ink, and paper;
and returned to my book again ; but it was not

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 99

quite absorbing ; and occasional glimpses of
Treherae'8 troubled and puzzled face amused
me, as well as made me thoughtful.

It was natural that having been in some slight
way concerned in it, this matter, foreign as it
was to the general tenor of my busy life, should
interest me a little. Though I viewed it, not
from the younger, but from the elder side. I
myself never knew either father or mother ; they
died when I was a child ; but I think, whether or
not we possess it in youth, we rarely come to my
time of life without having a strong instinctive
feeling of the rights of parents — being worthy
parents. Bights, of course modified in their
extent by the higher claims of the Father of all,
but second to none other; except, perhaps,
those which He has Himself made superior —
the rights of husband and wife.

I felt, when I came to consider it, ex-
ceedingly sorry that Treherne had made a
proposal of marriage without consulting his
father. But it was no concern of mine. Even
his "taking my advice" was, he knew well, his
own exaggeration of an abstract remark which I

100 A. LIFE FOB A LIFE.

could not but make; otherwise, I had not
meddled in his courting, which, in my opinion, no
third party has a right to do.

So I washed my hands of the whole affair,
except consenting to Treherne's earnest re-
quest that I would go with him, this morn-
ing, to the little village church of which the
young lady's father was the clergyman, and be
introduced.

"A tough old gentleman, too; as sharp as
a needle, as hard as a rock, — walking into his
study, yesterday morning, was no joke, I assure
you."

"But you said he had consented t"

"Ah, yes, all's right. That is, it will be
when I hear from the governor."

All this while, by a curious amatory eccen-
tricity, he had never mentioned the lady's name.
Nor had I asked, because I knew it. Also,
because that surname, common as it is, is still
extremely painful to me, either to utter or to
hear.

We came late into church, and sat by the
door. It was a pleasant September fore-

A LITE FOB A LIFE. 101

noon ; there was sunshine within and sun-
shine outside, far away across the moors.
I had never been to this Tillage before; it
seemed a pretty one, and the church old and
picturesque. The congregation consisted almost
entirely of poor people, except one family,
which I concluded to be the clergyman's. He
was in the reading-desk.

"That's her father," whispered Treherne.

"Oh, indeed." But I did not look at him
for a minute or so; I could not. Such mo-
ments will come, despite of reasoning, belief,
conviction, when I see a person bearing any
name resembling that name.

At last I lifted my head to observe him.

A calm, hard, regular face; well-shaped fea-
tures; high, narrow forehead, aquiline nose, —
a totally different type from one which I so well
remember that any accidental likeness thereto
impresses me as startlingly and vividly as, I
have heard, men of tenacious, fervent memory
will have impressed on them, through life, as
their favourite type of beauty, the countenance
of their first love.

102 A. LIFE FOB A. LIFE.

I could sit down now, at ease, and listen to
this gentleman's reading of the prayers. His
reading was what might have been expected
from his face — classical, accurate, intelligent,
gentlemanly. And the congregation listened
with respect, as to a clever exposition of
things quite beyond their comprehension. Ex-
cept the gabble-gabble of the Sunday-school,
and the clerk's loud "A-a-men!" the minister
had the service entirely to himself.

— A beautiful service — as I, though in heart a
Presbyterian still, must avow. Especially, when
heard as I have heard it — at sea, in hospital, at the
camp. Not this camp, but ours in the Crimea,
where, all through the prayers, guns kept boom-
ing, and shells kept flying, sometimes within
a short distance of the chapel itself. I
mind of one Sunday, little more than a year
ago, for it must have been on the ninth of
September, when I stopped on my way from
BalaJdava hospital, to hear service read in the
open air, on a hill-side. It was a cloudy day, I
remember; below, brown with long drought,
stretched the Balaklava plains; opposite, grey

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 103

and still,, rose the high mountains on the other
side of the Tchernaya ; while, «far away to the
right, towards our camp, one could just trace
the white tents of the Highland regiments;
and to the left, hidden by the Col de Bala-
klava, a dull, perpetual rumble, and clouds of
smoke hanging in the air, showed where, six miles
off, was being enacted the fall of Sebastopol.

— Though at the time we did not know ; we,
this little congregation, mustered just outside
a hospital tent, where I remember, not a stone's
throw from where we, the living, knelt, lay
a row of those straight, still, formless forms, the
more awful because, from familiarity, they had
ceased to be felt as such — each sewn up in
the blanket, its only coffin, waiting for burial —
waiting also, we believe and hope, for the re-
surrection from the dead.

What a sermon our chaplain might have
preached! what words I, or any man, could
surely have found to say at such a time, on such
a spot ! Yet what we did hear, were the
merest platitudes — so utterly trivial and out of
place, that I do not now recall a single sen-

104 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

tence. Strange, that people — good Christian
men, as I knew that man to be — should go
on droning out "words, words, words," when
bodies and souls perish in thousands round
them; or splitting theological hairs to poor
fellows, who, except in an oath, are ignorant
even of the Divine Name,— or thundering ana-
themas at tfhem for going down to the pit of
perdition, without even so much as pointing
out to them the bright but narrow way.

I was sitting thus, absorbed in the heavy
thoughts that often come to me when thus
quiet in church, hearing some man, who is
supposed to be one of the church's teachers,
delivering the message of the church's Great
Head, — when looking up, I saw two eyes fixed
on me.

It was one of the clergyman's three daughters ;
the youngest, probably, for her seat was
in the most uncomfortable corner of the pew.
— Apparently, the same I had talked with at
Mrs. Grranton's, though I was not sure, — ladies
look so different in their bonnets. Her's was
close, I noticed, and decently covering the

> -

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 105

head, not dropping off on her shoulders like
those I see ladies wearing, which will assuredly
multiply ophthalmic cases, with all sorts of head
and face complaints, as the winter winds come
on. Such exposure must be very painful, too,
these blinding sunny days. How can women
stand the torments they have to undergo in
matters of dress? If I had any woman-kind
belonging to me — Pshaw! what an idle specu-
lation.

Those two eyes, steadfastly inquiring, with
a touch of compassion in them, startled me.
Many a pair of eager eyes have I had to
meet, but it was always their own fate, or that
of some one dear to them, which they were
anxious to learn: they never sought to know
anything of me or mine. Now, these did.

I am nervously sensitive of even kindly
scrutiny. Involuntarily, I moved so that one
of the pillars came between me and those
eyes. When we stood up to sing, she kept
them steadily upon her hymn-book, nor did
they wander again during church-time, either
towards me or in any other direction.

#1

106 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

The face being just opposite, in the line
of the pulpit, I could not help seeing it during
the whole of the discourse, which was, as I
expected, classical, laboured, elegant, and in-
teresting, — after the pattern of the preacher's
countenance.

His daughter is not like him. In repose,
her features are ordinary; nor did they for
one moment recall to me the flashing, youthful
face, full of action and energy, which had
amused me that night at the Cedars. Some
faees catch the reflection of the moment so
vividly, that you never see them twice alike.
Others, solidly and composedly handsome
scarcely vary at all, and I think it is of
these last that one would soonest weary. Ir-
regular features have generally most character.
The Venus di Medici would have made a very
stupid fireside companion, nor would I venture
to enter, for Oxford honours, a son who had
the profile of the Apollo Belvidere.

Treherne is evidently of a different opinion.
He sat beaming out admiration upon that
large, fair, statuesque woman, who had turned

.rf**-

A LIFE FOB A LITE. 107

so that her pure Greek profile was distinctly
visible against the red cloth of the high pew.
She might have known what a pretty picture
she was making. She will please Sir William,
who admires beauty, and she seems refined
enough, even for Lady Augusta Treherne. I
thought to myself, the lad might have gone
farther and fared worse. His marriage was
sure to have been one of pure accident: he
is not a young man either to have had the
decision to choose, or the firmness to win and keep.

Service ended, he asked me what I thought
of her; and I said much as I have written
here. He appeared satisfied.

"You must stay and be introduced to the
family: the father remains in church. I shall
walk home with them. Ah, she sees us."

The lad was all eagerness and excitement.
He must be considerably in earnest.

"Now, Doctor, come, nay, pray do."

For I hesitated.

Hesitation was too late, however: the intro-
duction took place: Treherne hurried it over;
though I listened acutely, I could not be cer-

108 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

tain of the name. It seemed to be, as I
already believed, Johnson.

Treherne's beauty met him, all smiles, and
he marched off by her side in a most deter-
mined manner, the eldest sister following and
joining the pair, doubtless to the displeasure
of one, or both. She, whom I did not re-
member seeing before, is a little sharp-speaking
woman, pretty, but faded-looking, with very
black eyes.

The other sister, left behind, fell in with me.
We walked side by side through the church-
yard, and into the road. As I held the wicket
gate open for her to pass, she looked up,
smiled, and said: —

"I suppose you do not remfcmber me, Dr.
Urquhart?"

I replied, "Yes I did:" that she was the
young lady who "hated soldiers."

She blushed extremely, glanced at Treherne,
and said, not without dignity : —

"It would be a pity to remember all the
foolish things I have uttered, especially on
that evening"

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 109

"I was not aware they were foolish ; the
impression left on me was that we had had a
very pleasant conversation, which included
far more sensible topics than are usually
discussed at balls. 9

"You do not often go to balls ?"

"No."

"Do you dislike them?"

"Not always."

"Do you think they are wrong?"

I smiled at her cross-questioning, which had
something fresh and unsophisticated about it,
like the inquisitiveness of a child.

"Really, I have never very deeply con-
sidered the question; my going, or not going,
is purely a matter of individual choice. I
went to the Cedars that night because Mrs.
Granton was so kind as to wish it, and I
was only too happy to please her. I like her
extremely, and owe her much."

"She is a very good woman," was the
earnest answer. "And Colin has the kindest
heart in the world."

I assented, though amused at the super-

110 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

latives in which very young people delight;
but, in this case, not so far away from truth
as ordinarily happens.

u You know Colin Granton; — have you seen
him lately — yesterday I mean ? Did Captain
Treherne see him yesterday t"

The anxiety with which the question was
put reminded me of something Treherne had
mentioned, which implied his rivalry with
Granton ; perhaps this kind-hearted damsel
thought there would be a single-handed combat
on our parade-ground, between the accepted
and rejected swains. I allayed her fears by
observing, that to my certain knowledge, Mr.
Granton had gone up to London on Saturday
morning, and would not return till Tuesday.
Then, our eyes meeting, we both looked con-
scious ; but, of course, neither the young lady
nor myself made. any allusion to present circum-
stances.

I said, generally, that Granton was a fine
young fellow, not over sentimental, nor likely
to feel anything very deeply ; but gifted
with great good sense, sufficient to make

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. Ill

an admirable country-squire, and one of the
best landlords in the county, if only he could
be brought to feel the importance of his
position.

"How do you mean?"

"His responsibility, as a man of fortune, to
make the most of his wealth."
"But how? — what is there for him to do?"

"Plenty, if he could only be got to do
it."

"Could you not get him to do it?" with
another look of the eager eyes.

"I? — I know so very little of the young
man."

"But you have so much influence, I hear,
over everybody. That is, Mrs. Granton says. —
We have known the Grantons ever since I was
a child."

From her blush, which seemed incessantly to
come, sudden and sensitive as a child's, I
imagined that time was not so very long ago :
until she said something about "my youngest
sister," which proved I had been mistaken in
her age.

112 A UFE FOB A LIFE.

It was easier to talk to a young girl sitting
forlorn by herself in a ball-room, than to a
grown-up lady, walking in broad daylight,
accompanied by two other ladies, who, though
clergymen's daughters, are as stylish fashionables
as ever irritated my sober vision. She did not,
I must confess ; she seemed to be the plain
one of the family : unnoticed — one might almost
guess, neglected. Nor was there any flightiness
or coquettishness in her manner, which, though
abrupt and original, was quiet even to demure-
ness.

Pursuing my hobby of anatomising character,
I studied her a good deal during the pauses
of conversation, of which there were not a
few. Compared with Treherne, whom I heard
in advance, laughing and talking with his
usual light-heartedness, she must have found
me uncommonly sombre and dull.

Yet it was pleasant to be strolling leisurely
along, one's feet dropping softly down through
rustling dead leaves into the dry, sandy mould
which is peculiar to this neighbourhood : you
may walk in it, ancle-deep, for miles, across

A LITE FOB A LITE, 113

moors and under pine-woods, without soiling
a shoe. Pleasant to see the sunshine striking
the boughs of the trees, and lying in broad,
bright rifts on the ground here and there,
wherever there was an opening in the dense
green tops of those fine Scotch firs, the like
of which I have never beheld out of my own
country, nor there since I was quite a boy.
Also, the absence of other forest trees, the
high elevation, the wide spaces of moorland,
and the sandy soil, give to the atmosphere
here a rarity and freshness which exhilarates,
mentally and bodily, in no small degree.

I thank God I have never lost my love of
nature; never ceased to feel an almost boyish
thrill of delight in the mere sunshine and fresh
air.

For miles I could have walked on, thus lux-
uriating, without wishing to disturb my enjoy-
ment by a word, but it was necessary to
converse a little, so I made the valuable and
original remark " that this neighbourhood would
be very pretty in the spring."

My companion replied with a vivacity of indig-

VOL. I. I

114 A LLFR FOB A LIFE.

nation most unlike a grown young lady, and ex-
ceedingly like a child : —

"Pretty? It is beautiful! You never can
have seen it, I am sure."

I said, "My regiment did not come home till
May: I had spent this spring in the Crimea."

" Ah ! the spring flowers there, I have heard,
are remarkably beautiful, much more so than
ours"

" Yes ; " and as she seemed fond of flowers,
I told her of the great abundance which in the
peaceful spring that followed the war, we had
noticed, carpeting with a mass of colour those
dreary plains ; the large Crimean snow-drops, the
jonquils, and blue hyacinths, growing in myriads,
about Balaklava and on the banks of the Tcher-
naya ; while on every rocky dingle, and dipping
into every tiny brook, hung bushes of the deli-
cate yellow jasmine.

"How lovely! But I would not exchange
England for it. You should see how the prim-
roses grew all along that bank, and a little be-
yond, outside the wood, is a hedge side, which
will be one mass of blue-bells."

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 115

"I shall look for them. I have often found
blue-bells till the end of October."

" Nonsense !" What a laugh it was, with
such a merry ring. " I beg your pardon. Doctor
Urquhart, but, really, blue-bells in October!
Who ever heard of such a thing ?"

"I assure you I have found them myself, in
sheltered places, both the larger and smaller
species ; the one that grows from a single stem,
and that which produces two or three bells from
the same stalk — the campanula — shall I give
you its botanical name?"

" Oh, I know what you mean — hare-bell"

"Blue-bell; the real blue-bell of Scotland.
What you call blue-bells are wild hyacinths."

She shook her head with a pretty persistence.

a No, no; I have always called them
blue-bells, and I always shall. Many a scolding
have I got about them when I used, on cold
March days, to steal a basket and a kitchen
knife, to dig them up before the buds were
formed, so as to transplant them safely in time
to flower in my garden. Many's the knife I .
broke over that vain quest. Do you know

116 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

how difficult it is to get at the bulb of a blue-
bell?"

" Wild hyacinth, if you please." .

"A blue-bell," she laughingly persisted. "I
have sometimes picked out a fine one, growing
in some easy soft mould, and undermined him,
and worked round him, ten inches deep, fancying
I had got to the root of him at last, when
slip went the knife; and all was over. Many a
time I have sat with the cut-off stalk in my
hand, the long, white, slender stalk, ending in
two delicate green leaves, with a tiny bud
between — you know it; and actually cried, not
only for vexation over lost labour, but because
it seemed such a pity to have destroyed
what one never could make alive again."

She said that, looking right into my face with
her innocent eyes.

This girl, from her habit of speaking exactly
as she thinks, and whether from her solitary
country rearing, or her inate simplicity of char-
acter, thinking at once more naturally and origi-
nally than most women, will, doubtless, often
say things like these.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 117

An idea once or twice this morning had
flitted across my mind, whether it would not
be better for me to break through my hermit
ways, and allow myself to pay occasional visits
among happy households, or the occasional
society of good and cultivated women; now
it altogether vanished. It would be a thing
impossible.

This young lady must have very quick per-
ceptions, and an accurate memory of trivial
things, for, scarcely had she uttered the last
words, when all her face was dyed crimson and
red, as if she thought she had hurt or offended
me. I judged it best to answer her thoughts
out plain.

" I agree with you that to kill wantonly even
a flower is an evil deed. But you need not have
minded saying that to me, even after our argu-
ment at the Cedars. I am not in your sense a
soldier — a professed man-slayer, my vocation is
rather the other way. Yet even for the former
I could find arguments of defence."

" You mean, there are higher things than
mere life, and greater crimes than taking it away?

118 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

So I have been thinking myself, lately. You
set me thinking, for the which I am glad to
own myself your debtor."

I had not a word of answer to this acknow-
ledgment, at once frank and dignified. She
went on: —

"If I said foolish or rude things that night,
you must remember how apt one is to judge
from personal experience, and I have never seen
any fair specimen of the army. Except," and
her manner prevented all questioning of what
duty elevated into a truth, — tt except, of course,
Captain Treherne."

He caught his name.

"Eh, good people. Saying nothing bad of
me, I hope? Anyhow, I leave my character
in the hands of my friend Urquhart. He
rates me soundly to my face, which is the
best proof of his not speaking ill of me be-
hind my back."

" So that is Doctor Urquhart's idea of
friendship ! bitter outside, and sweet at the
core. What does he make of love, pray?
All sweet and no bitter?"

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 119

" Or all bitter and no sweet."

These speeches came from the two other
sisters, the latter from the eldest; their flip-
pancy needed no reply, and I gave none.
The second sister was silent : which, I
thought, shewed better taste, under the cir-
cumstances.

For a few minutes longer we sauntered
on, leaving the wood and passing into the
sunshine, which felt soft and warm as spring.
Then there happened,— I have been slow in
coming to it, one of those accidents, — trivial
to all but me, which, whenever occurring,
seem to dash the peaceful present out of
my grasp, and, throw me back years — years,
to the time when I had neither present nor
future, but dragged on life, I scarcely know
how, with every faculty tightly bound up in
an inexorable, intolerable past.

She was carrying her prayer-book, or Bible
I think it was, though English people oftener
carry to church prayer-books than Bibles, and
seem to reverence them quite as much,
or more. I had noticed it, as being not

120 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

one of those velvet things with gilt crosses
that ladies delight in, hat plain-bound, with
slightly soiled edges, as if with continual
use. Passing through a gate, she dropped it:
I stooped to pick it up, and there, on the
fly-leaf, I saw written : —

" Theodora Johnston." — Johnston."

Let me consider what followed, for my
memory is not clear.

I believe, I walked with her to her own
door, that there was a gathering and talk-
ing, which ended in Treherne's entering with
the ladies, promising to overtake me before
I reached the camp. That the gate closed
upon them, and I heard their lively voices
inside the garden wall while I walked ra-
pidly down the road and back into the fir-
wood. That gaining its shadow and shelter
I sat down on a felled tree, to collect my-
self.

Johnson her name is not, but Johnston.
Spelt precisely the same as I remember no-
ticing on his handkerchief, Johnston, without
the final e.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 121

Yet, granting that identity, it is still a not
uncommon name; there are whole families,
whole clans of Johnstons along the Scottish
border, and plenty of English Johnstons and
Johnstones likewise.

Am I fighting with shadows, and torturing
myself in vain? God grant it!

Still, after this discovery, it is vitally neces-
sary to learn more. I have sat up till mid-
night, waiting Treherne's return. He did not
overtake me — I never expected he would — or
desired it. I came back, when I did come
back, another way. His but, next to mine, is
still silent.

So is the whole camp at this hour. Refresh-
ing myself a few minutes since by standing
bare-headed at my hut-door, I saw nothing
but the stars overhead, and the long lines of
lamps below; heard nothing but the sigh of
the moorland wind, and the tramp of the sen-
tries relieving guaxd.

I must wait a little longer; to sleep would
be impossible till I have tried to find out as
much as I can.

122 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

What if it should be that — the worst? which
might inevitably produce — or leave me no

reason longer to defer — the end?

******

Here it seemed as if with long pondering my
faculties became torpid. I fell into a sort of
dream; which, being broken by a face looking
in at me through the window, a sickness of
perfectly childish terror came over me. For
an instant only — and then I had put away my
writing-materials and unbolted the door.

Treherne came in, laughing violently. " Why,
Doctor, did you take me for a ghost?"

"You might have been. You know what
happened last week to those poor young fellows
coming home from a dinner-party in a dog-
cart."

"By George I do!" The thought of this
accident, which had greatly shocked the whole
camp, sobered him at once. "To be knocked
over in action is one thing; but to die with
one's head under a carriage-wheel — ugh! —
Doctor, did ye really think something of the
sort had befallen me? Thank you; I had no

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 123

idea you cared so much for a harum-ecarum
fellow like me."

He could not be left believing an untruth;
so I said, my startled looks were not on bis
account; tbe fact was, I had been writing
closely for some hours, and was nervous —
rather.

The notion of my having "nerves/* afforded
him considerable amusement. "But that is just
what Dora persisted — good sort of creature,
isn't she? the one you walked with from church.
I told her you were as strong as iron and as
bard as a rock, and she said she didn't believe
it; that yours was one of the most sensitive
faces she had ever seen."

"I am very much obliged to Miss Theodora
— I really was not aware of it myself."

"Nor I either, faith! but women are so
sharp-sighted. Ah, Doctor, you don't half know
their ways."

I concluded he had stayed at Kockmount;
had he spent a pleasant day?

"Pleasant? ecstatic. Now, acknowledge —
isn't she a glorious girl? Such a mouth — such

124 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

an eye — such an arm! Altogether a magni-
ficent creature. Don't you think so? Speak
out, I shan't be jealous.*

I said, with truth, she was an extremely
handsome young woman.

"Handsome? Divine. But she's as lofty as
a queen — won't allow any nonsense — I didn't
get a kiss the whole day. She will have it
we are not even engaged till I hear from the
governor ; and I can't get a letter till Tuesday,
at soonest. Doctor, it's maddening. If all is
not settled in a week, and that angel mine
within six more — as she says she will be, parents
consenting — I do believe it will drive me mad."

"Having her, or losing?"

"Either. She puts me nearly out of my
senses."

" Sit down then, and put yourself into them
again. For a few minutes, at least."

For I perceived the young fellow was warm
with something besides love. He had been
solacing himself with wine and cigars in the
mess-room. Intemperance was not one of his
failings, nor was he more than a little excited

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 125

now; not by any means what men consider
"overtaken," or, to use the honester and uglier
word, " drunk." Yet, as he stood there, lolling
against the door, with hot cheeks and watery
eyes, talking and laughing louder than usual,
and diffusing an atmosphere both nicotian and
alcoholic, I thought it was as well on the
whole that his divinity did not see her too
human young adorer. I have often pitied women,
mothers, wives, sisters. If they could see some
of us men as we often see one another I

Treherne talked rapturously of the family at
Rockmount — the father and the three young ladies.

I asked if there were no mother.

"No. Died, I believe, when my Lisabel was
a baby. Lisabel ; isn't it a pretty name ? Lisa-
bel Treherne, better still — beats Lisabel John-
ston hollow.*

This seemed an opportunity for questions,
which must be put; safer put them now, than
when Treherne was in a soberer and more ob-
servant mood.

"Johnston is a Border name. Are they
Scotch?"

126 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

"Not to my knowledge — I never inquired.
Will, if you wish, doctor. You canny Scots
always hang together, ha ! ha ! — but I say, did
you ever see three nicer girls? Shouldn't you
like one of them for yourself? "

/.'

" Thank you — I am not a marrying man;
but you will find them a pleasant family, appar-
ently. Are there any more sisters ?"

"No! — quite enough, too."

" Nor brothers ? "

" Not the ghost of one ! "

"Perhaps," — was it I, or some mocking imp
speaking through my lips — "perhaps only the
ghost of one. None now living, probably?"

" None at all' that I ever heard of. So much
the better; I shall have her more to myself.
Heigho! it's an age till Tuesday."

"You'd better go to your bed, and shorten
the time, by ten hours."

" So I will. Night, night, old fellow — as they
teach little brats to say, on disappearing from
dessert. 'Pon my life, I see myself the vene-
rated head of a household, and pillar of the

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 127

state already. You'll be quite proud of my ex-
ceeding respectability."

He put his head in again, two minutes after,
with a nod and a wink.

" I say, think better of it. Try for Miss Dora
— the second. Charteris one, me the other, and
you the third. What a jolly lot of brothers-in-
law. Do think better of it."

"Hold your tongue, and go to your bed."

It was not possible to go to mine, till I had
arranged my thoughts.

What he stated must be correct. If other-
wise, it is next to impossible that, in his posi-
tion of intimacy, he should not have heard it.
Families do not, I suppose, so easily forget
one who is lost. There must have been only
those three daughters.

I may lay me down in peace. Thou who
seest not as man sees, wilt Thou make it peace,
even for me?

128 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER VI.

HER STORY.

"Gone to be married? gone to swear a peace?
Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these
provinces?"

Which means, "shall Treherne have Lisa, and
Lisa Treherne Court? "

Yes, it is to be : I suppose it must be. Though
not literally "gone to be married," they are
certainly "going."

For seven days the balance hung doubtful.
I do not know exactly what turned the scale;
sometimes a strong suspicion strikes me that it
was Doctor Urquhart ; but I have given up cogi-
tating on the subject. Where one is utterly
powerless — a mere iota in a house — when, what-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 129

ever one might desire, one's opinion has not a
straw's weight with anybody, what is the good
of vexing one's self in vain !

I shall content myself with giving a straight-
forward, succinct account of the week ; this week
which, I cannot deny, has made a vital differ-
ence in our family. Though outwardly all went
on as usual — our quiet, monotonous life, unbro-
ken by a single " event," — breakfast, dinner, tea,
and sleep coming round in ordinary rotation;
still the change is made. What a long time it
seems since Sunday week.

That day, after the tumult of Saturday, when
I fairly shut myself up to escape out of the way,
of both suitors, the coming and the going one,
— sure that neither of my sisters would particu-
larly want me — that Sunday was not a happy
one. The only pleasant bit in it was the walk
home from church; when, Penelope mounting
guard over the lovers, I thought it no
more than right to be civil to Dr, Urquhart.
In so doing, I resolutely smothered down my
annoyance at their joining us, and at the young
gentleman's taking so much upon himself

VOL. i. X

130 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

already, forsooth : lest Captain Treherne's
friend should discover that I was not in the
most amiable mood possible with regard to this
marriage. And in so valorously "putting
myself into my pocket," — the bad self which
had been uppermost all day — somehow it slipped
away, as my pin-cushions and pencil-cases are
wont to do — slid down to the earth and
vanished.

I enjoyed the walk. I like talking to Dr.
Urquhart, for he seems honest. He makes
one feel as if there were some solid good
somewhere in the world, if only one could find
it; instead of wandering among mere shams
of it, pretences of heroism, simulations of virtue,
selfish abortions of benevolence. It seems to
me, at times, as if this present world were
not unlike that place in Hades, — is it Dante's
or Virgil's making? — where trees, beasts,
ghosts, and all, are equally shadowy and un-
substantial. That Sunday morning, which hap-
pened to be a specially lovely one, was one
of the few days lately, when things about
me have seemed tangible and real. Including

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. J 31

myself, who not seldom appear to myself as
the biggest sham of all.

Dr. Urquhart left us at the gate: would not
come in, though Penelope invited him. Indeed,
he went away rather abruptly; I should say,
rudely, — but that he is not the sort of man to
be easily suspected of discourtesy. Captain Tre-
herne declared his secession was not surprising,
as he has a perfect horror of ladies' society.
In which case, why did he not avoid mine?
I am sure he need not have had it unless he
chose: nor did he behave as if in a state of
great martyrdom. Also, a lover of flowers is
not likely to be a woman-hater, or a bad man,
either: and those must be bad men who have
an unqualified "horror" of women. I shall
take the liberty, until further evidence, of
doubting Captain Treherne — no novelty! The
difficulty is to find any man in whom you can
believe.

We spent Sunday afternoon chiefly in the
garden, Lisabel and her lover strolling about
together, as Penelope and Francis used to
do.

k2

132 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Penelope sat with me some time, on the
terrace before the drawing-room windows; then
bidding me stay where I was, and keep a
look-out after those two, lest they should get
too sentimental, she went indoors, and I saw
her afterwards, through the parlour-window,
writing — probably one of those long letters
which Francis gets every Monday morning.
What on . earth can she find to say ?

The lecture against sentimentalism was need-
less. Nothing of that in Lisabel. Her court-
ship will be of the most matter-of-fact kind.
Every time they passed me, she was talking
or laughing. Not a soft or serious look has
there been on her face since Friday night;
or, rather, Saturday morning, when my sobbing
made her shed a few tears. She did not
afterwards, — not even when she told what has
occurred to papa and Penelope.

Penelope bore it well — if there was any-
thing to bear, and perhaps there was — to
her. It might be trying to have her youngest
sister married first, and to a young man, but
for whom Francis would himself long ago

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 133

have been in a position to many. He told
us, on Saturday, the whole story : how, as a
boy, he was meant for his uncle's heir, but
late in life Sir William married. There was
a coldness afterwards, till Mrs. Charteris died,
when her brother got Francis this Government
situation, from which we hoped so much, but
which still continues, he says, " a mere pittance."
It is certainly rather hard for Francis. He
had a long talk with papa, before he left,
ending, a* usual, in nothing.

After he went away, Penelope did not
appear till tea-time, and was "as cross as two
sticks," to use a childish expression, all
evening. If these are lover's visits, I heartily
wish Francis would keep away.

She was not in much better humour on
Sunday, especially when, coming hastily into
the parlour with a message from Lisabel, I
gave her a start — for she was sitting, not
writing, but leaning over her desk, with her
fingers pressed upon her eyes. It startled me,
too, to see her ; we have grown so used to this
affair, and Penelope is so sharp-tempered,

134 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

that we never seem to suspect her of feeling
anything. I was foolish enough to apologise
for interrupting, and to attempt to kiss her,
which irritated her so that we had almost a
quarrel. I left the room, put on my bonnet,
and went off to evening-church — God forgive
me! for no better purpose than to get rid of
home.

I wonder, do sisters ever love one another?
Not after our fashion, out of mere habit and
long familiarity, also a certain pride, which,
however we differ among ourselves, would
make us, I believe, defend one another warmly
against strangers — but out of voluntary sym-
pathy and affection. Do families ever live in
open-hearted union, feeling that blood is blood,
closer than acquaintance, friendship, or any
tie in the world, except marriage? That is,
it ought to be. Perhaps it may so happen,
once in a century, as true love does, or there
would not be so much romancing about
both. •

Thus I meditated, as, rather sick and sorry
at heart, I returned from church, tramping

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 135

through the dark lanes after papa, who marched
ahead, crunching the sand and dead leaves in
his usual solid, solitary way, now and then
calling out to me : —

"Keep close behind me. What a pity you
came to church to-night."

It was foolish, but I think I could have
cried.

At home, we found my sisters waiting tea.
Captain Treherne was gone. They never men-
tioned to papa that he had been at Bock-
mount to-day.

On Monday, he did not make his appear-
ance. I asked Lisabel if she had expected
him?

"What for? I don't wish the young man
to be always tied to my apron-strings."

"But he might naturally want to see
you."

"Let him want then. My dear little sim-
pleton, it will do him good. The less he has

me, the more he will value me."

I observed that that was an odd doctrine with
which to begin married life, but she laughed

J 3Q A LITE FOB A LIFE.

at me, and said the cases were altogether
different.

Nevertheless, when Tuesday also passed, and
no word from her adorer, Lisabel looked a
little less easy. Not unhappy, our Lis was
never seen unhappy since she was born, but
just a little what we women call "fidgety;" a
state of mind, the result of which generally
affects other people rather than ourselves. In
short, the mood for which, as children, we are
whipped and sent to bed as "naughty;" as
young women, petted, and pitied for "low
spirits;" as elderly people, humoured on ac-
count of "nerves."

On Wednesday morning when the post came,
and brought no letter, Lisabel declared she
would stay indoors no longer, but would go
out for a drive.

"To the camp, as usual?" said Pene-
lope.

Lisa laughed, and protested she should drive
wherever she liked.

"Girls, will you come or not?"

Penelope declined, shortly, I said, I would

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 137

go anywhere except to the. camp, which I
thought decidedly objectionable under the cir-
cumstances.

"Dora, don't be silly. But do just as you
like. I can call at the Cedars for Miss
Emery."

"And Colin too, who will be exceedingly
happy to ge with you," suggested Pene-
lope.

But the sneer was wasted. Lisabel laughed
again, smoothed her collar at the glass, and
left the parlour, looking as contented as
ever.

Ere she went out, radiant in her new hat
and feathers, her blue cloth jacket, and her
dainty little driving-gloves (won in a bet with
Captain Treherne), she put her head in at
my door, where I was working at German,
and trying to forget all these follies and an*
noyances.

« You'll not go, then?"

I shook my head, and asked when she in-
tended to be back?

"Probably at lunch: or I may stay dinner

138 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

at the Cedars. Just as it happens. Good
bye."

"Lisabel," I cried, catching her by the
shoulders, "what are you going to do?"

"I told you. Oh, take care of my feather!
I shall drive over to the Cedars."

" Any further ? To the Camp ? "

"It depends entirely upon circumstances."

"Suppose you should meet him?"

"Captain Treherne? I shall bow politely,
and drive on."

"And what if he comes here in your ab-
sence ? "

"My compliments and regrets that unavoid-
able engagements deprived me of the pleasure
of seeing him."

"Lisabel, I don't believe you have a bit of
heart in you."

" Oh, yes, I have ; quite as much as is con-
venient."

Mine was full, and she saw it. She
patted me on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"If there ever was a dear little dolt, its
name is Theodora Johnston. Why, child, at

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 139

the worst, what harm am I doing? Merely
showing a young fellow, who, I must say, is
behaving rather badly, that I am not break-
ing my heart about him, nor mean to do
it"

"But I thought you liked him?"

"So I do; but not in your sentimental sort
of way. I am a practical person. I told him,
exactly as papa told him, that if he came
with his father's consent, I would be engaged
to him at once, and marry him as soon as he
liked. Otherwise, let him go! That's all.
Don't fret, child, I am quite able to take
care of myself."

Truly, she was ! But I thought, if I were a
man, I certainly should not trouble myself to
go crazy after a woman, — if men ever do such
a thing.

Scarcely was my sister gone, than I had
the opportunity of considering that latter pos-
sibility.. I was called downstairs to Captain
Treherne. Never did I see an unfortunate
youth in such a state of mind.

What passed between us I cannot set down

140 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

«

clearly; it was on his side so incoherent,
on mine so awkward and uncomfortable. I
gathered that he had just had a letter from
his father, refusing consent, or at least insist-
ing on the delay of the marriage, which his
friend Dr. Urquhart also advised. Exceed-
ingly obliged to that gentleman for his polite
interference in our family affairs, thought I.

The poor lover seemed so much in earnest
that I pitied him. Missing Lisabel, he had
asked to see me, in order to know where she
was gone.

I told him, to the Cedars. He turned as
white as a sheet.

"Serves me right, serves me right, for my
confounded folly and cowardice, I never will
take anybody's advice again. What did she
think of my keeping away so long? Did she
despise^— hate met"

I said my sister had not confided to me any
such opinion of him.

"She shall not meet Granton, that fool —

that knave — that Could I overtake her before

she reaches the Cedars?"

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 141

I informed him of a short cut across the
moor, and he was out of the house in two
minutes, before Penelope came into the drawing-
room.

Penelope said I had done exceedingly wrong
— that to send him after our Lisa, and allow
her to be seen driving with him about the
country, was the height of indecorum— that I
had no sense of family dignity, or prudence,
or propriety — was not a woman at all, but a
mere sentimental bookworm.

I answered, I was glad of it, if to be a
woman was to resemble the women I knew
best.

A bitter, wicked speech, bitterly repented of
when uttered. Penelope has a sharp tongue,
though she does not know it; but when she
rouses mine, I do know it, therefore am the
more guilty. Many an unkind or sarcastic
word that women drop, as carelessly as a
minute seed, often fructifies into a whole
garden-full of noisome weeds, sprung up, —
they have forgotten how,— but the weeds are
there. Yet still I cannot always command my

142 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

tongue. Even, sometimes, when I do, the
effort makes me think all the more angrily of
Penelope.

It was not now in an angry, but a hum-
bled spirit, that, when Penelope was gone to
her district visiting — she does far more in the
parish than either Lis or I — I went out
alone, as usual, upon the moor.

My moorlands looked dreary; the heather
is fading from purple to brown; the Autumn
days are coming on fast. That afternoon
they had that leaden uniformity which always
weighs me down ; I felt weary, hopeless— longed
for some change in my dull life ; wished I were
a boy, a man — anything, so that I might be
something — do something.

Thus thinking, so deeply that I noticed
little, a person overtook, and passed me. It
is so rare to meet anyone above the rank of
a labourer hereabouts, that I looked round ; and
then saw it was Dr. Urquhart. He recognised
me, apparently — mechanically I bowed, so did
he, and went on.

This broke the chain of my thoughts — they

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 143

wandered to my sister, Captain Treherne, and
this Dr. Urquhart, with whom, now I came
to think of it — I had not done so in the
instant of his passing— I felt justly displeased.
What right had he to meddle with my sister's
affairs — to give his sage advice to his obedient
young friend, who was foolish enough to ask
it? Would I marry a man who went con-
sulting his near, dear, and particular friends
as to whether they were pleased to consider
me a suitable wife for him? Never! Let
him out of his own will love me, choose me,
and win me, or leave me alone.

So, perhaps, the blame lay more at Mr.
Treherne's door than his friend's — whom I
could not call either a bad man or a designing
man — his countenance forbade it. Surely I had
been unjust to him.

He might have known this, and wished to
give me a chance of penitence, for I shortly
saw his figure reappearing over the slope of
the road, returning towards me. Should I go
back? But that would seem too pointed, and
we should only exchange another formal bow.

144 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

I was mistaken. He stopped, bade me
"Good morning/' made some remarks about
the weather, and then abruptly told me that
he had taken the liberty of turning back because
he wanted to speak to me.

I thought, whatever will Penelope say ! This
escapade will be more "improper" than Lisa-
bel's, though my friend id patriarchal in his
age and preternatural in his gravity. But the
mischievous spirit, together with a little un-
comfortable surprise, went out of me when I
looked at Dr. Urquhart. In spite of himself,
his whole manner was so exceedingly nervous
that I became quite myself, if only out of com-
passion.

"May I presume on our acquaintance enough
to ask you a question — simple enough, but of
great moment to me. Is Captain Treherne at
your house ? "

"No."

"Has he been there to-day?"

"Yes."

"I see, you think me extremely imperti-
nent."

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 145

"Not impertinent, but more inquisitive than
I consider justifiable in a stranger. I really
cannot engage to answer any more questions
concerning my family or acquaintance."

"Certainly not. I beg your pardon. I will
wish you good morning."

"Good morning."

But he lingered.

" You are too candid yourself not to per-
mit candour in me— may I, in excuse, state
my reasons for thus interrupting you ? "

I assented.

" You are aware that I know, and have known
all along, the present relations of my friend
Treherne with your family?"

"I had rather not discuss that subject,
Doctor Urquhart."

"No, but it will account for my asking
questions about Captain Treherne. He left
me this morning in a state of the greatest
excitement. And at his age, with his tempe-
rament, there is no knowing to what a young
man may not be driven."

"At present, I believe, to nothing worse

VOL. I. L

146 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

than the Cedars, with my sister as his cha-
rioteer."

"You are satirical"

"I am exceedingly obliged to you,"

Dr. Urquhart regarded me with a sort of
benignant smile, as if I were a naughty child,
whose naughtiness partly grieved, and partly
amused him.

«If, in warrant of my age and my prefer
sion, you will allow me a few words of serious
conversation with you, I, in my turn, shall
be exceedingly obliged."

"You are welcome."

"Even if I speak about your sister and
Captain Treherne?"

There he roused me.

"Doctor Urquhart, I do not see that you
have the slightest right to interfere about my
sister and . Captain Treherne. He may choose
to make you his confidant — I shall not: and I
think very meanly of any man who brings a third
person, either as umpire or go-between, betwixt
himself [and the woman he professes to love."

Doctor Urquhart looked at me again fixedly,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 147

with that curious, half-melancholy smile, before
he spoke.

"At least, let me beg of you to believe one
thing — I am not that go-between."

He was so very gentle with me in my
wrath, that, perforce, I could not be angry.
I turned homeward, and he turned with me ; but
I was determined not to give him another
syllable. Nevertheless, he spoke.

" Since we have said thus much, may I be
allowed one word more? This matter has
begun to give me extreme uneasiness. It is
doing Treherne much harm. He is an only son,
the son of his father's old age: on him much
hope rests. He is very young — I never knew
him to be serious in anything before. He is
serious in his attachment — I mean in his ar-
dent desire to marry your sister."

" You think so ? We are deeply indebted
to him."

" My - dear young lady, when we are talk-
ing on a matter so important, and which con-
cerns you so nearly, it is a pity to reply
in that tone."

l2

148 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

To be reproved in this way by a man
and a stranger I I was so astonished that
it made me dumb. He continued: —

"You are aware that, for the present, Sir
William's consent has been refused?"

"I am aware of it."

"And indignant, probably. Yet there are
two sides to the subject. It is rather trying
to an old man, when his son writes sud-
denly, and insists upon bringing home a
daughter-in-law, however charming, in six
weeks; natural, too, that the father should
urge, — * Take time to consider, my dear boy.' "

"Very natural."

"Nay, should he go further, and wish some
information respecting the lady who is to be-
come one of his family — desire to know her
family, in order to judge more of one on
whom are to depend his son's happiness and
his house and honour, you would not think
him unjust or tyrannical t "

"Of course not. We," I said, with some
pride, alas ! more pride than truth, " we
should exact the same."

A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 149

"I know Sir William, well, and he trusts
me. You will, perhaps, understand how this
trust and the — the flexible character of
his son, make me feel painfully responsible.
Also, I know what youth is when thwarted*
If that young fellow should go wrong, it
would be to me — you cannot conceive how
painful it would be to me."

His hands nervously working one over the
other, the sorrowful expression of his eyes, in*
dicated sufficient emotion to make me extremely
grieved for this good-hearted man. I am sure
he is good-hearted.

I said I could not, of course, feel the same
interest that he did in Captain Treherne, but
that I wished the young man well.

"Can you tell me one thing; is your sister
really attached to him?"

This sudden question, which I had so many
times asked of myself — ought I to reply to
it? Could I? Only by a prevarication.

"Mr. Treherne is the best person from
whom to obtain that information."

And I began to walk quicker, as a hint

150 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

that this very odd conversation had lasted
quite long enough.

"I shall not detain you two minutes," my
companion said, hastily. "It is a strange
confidence to put in you, and yet I feel I
may. Sir William wrote to me privately to-
day. On my answer to his enquiries his
consent will mainly depend."

"What does he want to know? If we are
respectable; if we have any money; if we
have been decently educated, so that our con-
nection shall not disgrace his family?"

"You are almost justified in being angry;
but I said nothing of the kind. His ques-
tions only referred to the personal worth of
the lady, and her personal attachment to his
son."

"My poor Lisa! That she should have
her character asked for like a housemaid!
That she should be admitted into a grand
family, condescendingly, on sufferance!"

"You quite mistake/' said Doctor Urquhart,
earnestly. "You are so angry, that you will
not listen to what I say. Sir William is

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 151

wealthy enough to be indifferent to money.
Birth and position he might desire, and his
son has already satisfied him upon yours;
that your father is a clergyman, and that you
come of an old English family."

"We do not ; we come of nothing and
nobody. My grandfather was a farmer; he
wrote his name Johnson, plain, plebeian John-
son. We are, by right, no Johnstons at
aH."

The awful announcement had not the effect
I anticipated. True, Doctor Urquhart started
a little, and walked on silently for some
minutes, but when he turned his face round
it was quite beaming.

«K I did tell this to Sir William, he is
too honourable a man not to value honour
and honesty in any family, whether plebeian,
as you call it, or not. Pardon me this long
intrusion, with all my other offences. Will
you shake hands?"

We did so— quite friendly, and parted.

I found Lisabel at home. By some chance,
she had missed the Grantons, and Captain

152 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Treherne had missed her; I know not of
which accident I was the most glad.

Frankly and plainly, as seemed to me best,
I told her of my meeting Doctor Urquhart, and
of all that had passed between us; saving only
the fact of Sir William's letter to him, which,
as he said it was "in confidence/' I felt I was
not justified in communicating even to my
sister.

She took everything very easily — laughed at
Mr. Treherne's woes, called him "poor fellow,"
was sure all would come right in time, and went
upstairs to dress for dinner.

On Thursday she got a letter from him
which she gave me to read — very passionate,
and full of nonsense. I wonder any man can
write such rubbish, or any woman care to read
it — still more to show it. It gave no informa-
tion on fa^te-only implored her to see him;
which, in a neat little note, also given for my
perusal, Lisabel declined.

On Friday evening, just after the lamp was
lit and we were all sitting round the tea-table,
who should send in his card with a message

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 153

begging a few minutes' conversation with Mr.
Johnston, but Doctor Urquhart? "Max Urquhart,
M.D." — as his card said. How odd he should
be called "Max."

Papa, roused from his nap, desired the
visitor to be shown in, and with some difficulty
I made him understand that this was the gentle-
man Mrs. Granton had spoken of — also — as
Penelope added ill-naturedly, "the particular
friend of Captain Treherne."

This — for though he has said nothing, I am
sure he has understood what has been going
on — made papa stand up rather frigidly when
Doctor Urquhart entered the parlour. He did
so, hesitatingly, as if coming out of the dark
nighty the blaze of our lamp confused him. I
noticed he put his hand to shade his eyes.

"Doctor Urquhart, I believe? Mrs. Granton' s
friend, and Captain Treherne's?"

"The same."

"Will you be seated?"

He took a chair opposite; and he and papa
scanned one another closely. I caught, in Dr.
Urquhart's face, that peculiaf uneasy expression

154 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

about the mouth. What a comfort a beard
must be to a nervous person I

A few commonplace remarks passed, and
then our visitor a*ked if he might speak with
papa alone. He was the bearer of a message
—a letter in short^-from Sir William Treherne,
of Treherne Court.

Papa said, stiffly — he had not the honour of
that gentleman' 8 acquaintance.

"Sir William hopes, nevertheless, to have the
honour of making your8. ,,

Lisabel pinched me under the table ; Penelope
gazed steadily into the tea-pot; papa rose and
walked solemnly into his study — Doctor
Urquhart following.

It was — as Lisa cleverly expressed it — "all
right." All parties concerned had given full
consent to the marriage.

Captain Treherne- came the day following to
Rockmount, in a state of exuberant felicity,
the overplus of which he vented in kissing
Penelope and me, and requesting us to call
him "Augustus." I am afraid I could willingly
have dispensed with either ceremony.

£«a^JUMi

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 155

Doctor Urquhart, we have not seen again — he
was not at church yesterday. Papa intends to
invite him to dinner shortly. He says he likes
Mm very much.

156 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER VH.

HIS STORY.

Hospital-work, rather heavy this week, with
other things of lesser moment, have stopped
this my correspondence with an " airy nothing :»
however, the blank will not be missed —
nought concerning Max Urquhart would be
missed by anybody.

Pardon, fond and faithful Nobody, for
whose benefit I write, and for whose good
opinion I am naturally anxious. I believe two
or three people would miss me, my advice and
conversation, in the hospital.

By the bye, Thomas Hardman, to my ex-
treme satisfaction, seems really reforming. His
wife told me he has not taken a drop too much

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 157

since he came oat of hospital. She says " this
illness was the saving of him, since, if he
had been flogged, or discharged for drunken-
ness, he would have been a drunkard all his
days. So far, so good.

I was writing about being missed, literally,
by Nobody. And, truly, this seems fair
enough; for is there anybody I should miss?
Have I missed, or been relieved by the lost
company of my young friend who has so long
haunted my hut, but who, now, at an amaz-
ing expense in carriage-hire, horse-flesh, and
shoe-leather, manages to spend every available
minute at a much more lively abode, as
Kockmount probably is, for he seems to find
a charm in the very walls which enclose his
jewel.

For my part, I prefer the casket to the
gem. Kockmount must be a pleasant house to
live in; I thought so the first night, when, by
Sir William's earnest desire, I took upon my-
self the part of "father" to that wilful lad,
and paid the preliminary visit to the lady's
father, Mr. Johnston.

158 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Johnson it is, properly, as I learnt from
that impetuous young daughter of his, when,
meeting her on the moor, the idea suddenly
struck me to gain from her some knowledge
that might guide my conduct in the very
anxious position wherein I was placed. John-
son, only Johnson. Poor child ! had she known
the load she lifted off me by those few im-
petuous words, which accident only won; for
Treherne's matter, had for once driven out of
my mind all other thoughts, or doubts, or
fears, which may now henceforward be completely
set aside.

I must, of course, take no notice of her
frank communication, but continue to call
them u Johnston." Families which "come from
nothing and nobody" — the foolish lassie! as if
we did not all come alike from Father Adam ;
— are very tenacious on these points; which
may have their value — to families. Unto isolated
individuals they seem ridiculous. To me, for
instance, of what benefit is it to bear an ancient
name, bequeathed by ancestors whom I owe
nothing besides, and which I shall leave to

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 159

no descendants. I, who have no abiding place
on the whole earth, and to whom, as I read
in a review extract yesterday, "My home is
any room where I can draw a bolt across the
door."

Speaking of home, I revert to my first
glimpse of the interior of Rockmount, that
rainy night, when, weary with my day and night
journey, and struck more than ever with
the empty dreariness of Treherne Court, and
the restlessness of its poor gouty old master,
able to enjoy so little out of all his splen-
dours, I suddenly entered this snug little
"110016." The fire, the tea-table, the neatly-
dressed daughters, looking quite different from
decked-out beauties, or hospital slatterns, which
are the two phases in which I most often
see the sex. Certainly, to one who has been
much abroad, there is a great charm in the
sweet looks of a thorough English woman by
her own fireside.

This picture fixed itself on my mind, dis-
tinct as a photograph ; for truly it was printed
in light. The warm, bright parlour, with a

160 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

delicate-tinted paper, a flowered carpet, and
amber curtains, which I noticed because one
of the daughters was in the act of drawing
them, to screen the draught from her father's
arm-chair. The old man — he must be seventy,
nearly — standing on the hearth-rug, met me
coldly enough, which was not surprising, prior
to our conversation. The three ladies I have
before named.

Of these, the future Mrs. Treherne is by far
the handsomest; but I still prefer the counte-
nance of my earliest acquaintance, Miss Theo-
dora — a pretty name. Neither she nor her
sisters gave me more than a formal bow;
shaking hands is evidently not their custom
with strangers. I should have thought of that,
two days before.

Mr. Johnston took me into his study. It is
an antique room, with dogs for the fire-place,
and a settle on either side the hearth; many
books or papers about, and a large, neatly-
arranged library on shelves.

I noticed these things, because, as 1 say, my
long absence from England caused them to

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 161

attract me' more than they might have done
a person accustomed to English domestic life.
That old man, gliding peacefully down-hill in
the arms of his three daughters, was a sight
pleasant enough. There must be many com-
pensations in old age — in such an old age as this.

Mr. Johnston — I am learning to write the
name without hesitation — is not a man of many
words. His character appears to me of that
type which I have generally found associated
with those specially delicate and regular fea-
tures; shrinking from anything painful or dis-
tasteful, putting it aside, forgetting it, if pos-
sible, but anyhow trying to get rid of it. Thus,
when I had delivered Sir William Treherne's
most cordial and gentlemanly letter, and ex-
plained his thorough consent to the marriage,
the lady's father took it much more indifferently
than I had expected.

He said, "that he had never interfered with
his daughters 9 choice in such matters, nor should
he now ; he had no objection to see them settled ;
they would have no protector when he was
gone." And here he paused.

VOL. i. M

162 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

I answered, it was a very natural parental
desire, and I trusted Captain Treherne would
prove a good brother to the Misses Johnston,
as well as a good son to himself.

" Yes — yes," he said, hastily, and then asked
me a few questions as to Treherne's prospects,
temper, and moral character, which I was glad
to be able to answer as I did. " Harum-scarum "
as I call him — few young men of fortune can
boast a more stainless life, and so I told Mr.
Johnston. He seemed satisfied, and ended our
interview by saying, a that he should be happy
to see the young gentleman to-morrow."

So I departed, declining his invitation to
re-enter the drawing-room, for it seemed that,
at the present crisis in their family history,
there was an indelicacy in any strangers break-
ing in upon that happy circle. Otherwise, I
would have liked well another peep at the pretty
home-picture, which, in walking to the camp
through a pelting rain, flitted before my eyes
again and again.

Treherne was waiting in my hut. He looked
up, fevered with anxiety.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 163

"Where the devil have you been gone to,
Doctor! Nobody has known anything about
you for the last two days. And I wanted
you to write to the governor, and — "

"I have seen the "governor," as you will
persist in calling the best of fathers — "

"Seen him!"

"And the Bockmount father too. Go in
and win, my boy; the coast's all clear. Mind
you ask me to the wedding."

Truly there is a certain satisfaction in having
had a hand in making young folks happy.
The sight does not happen often enough to
afford my smiling even at the demonstra-
tions of that poor lad on this memorable
evening.

Since then, I have left him to his own
devices, and followed mine, which have little
to do with happy people. Once or twice, I
have had business with Mr. Granton, who
does not seem to suffer acutely at Miss Lisa-
bePs marriage. He need not cause a care,
even to that tenderhearted damsel, who be-
sought me so pitifully to take him in hand.

164 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

And so, I trust the whole Rockmount family
are happy, and fulfilling their destiny — in the
which, little as I thought it, when I stood
watching the solitary girl in the sofa corner,
Max Urquhart has been made more an in-
strument than he ever dreamed of, or than
they are likely ever to be aware.

The matter was beginning to fade out of
my memory, as one of the many episodes
which are always occurring to create passing
interests in a doctor's life, when I received
on invitation to dine at Rockmount.

1 dislike accepting casual invitations. Pri-
marily, on principle — the bread-and-salt doc-
trine of the East, which considers hospitality
neither as a business nor an amusement, but
as a sacred rite, entailing permanent respon-
sibility to both host and guest. When I sit by a
man's fireside, or (Treherne loquitur) "put my
feet under his mahogany," I feel bound not
merely to give him back the same quantity and
quality of meat and drink, but to regard my-
self as henceforth his friend and guest, under
obligations closer and more binding than one

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 165

would submit to from the world in general. It
is, therefore, incumbent on me to be very choice
in those with whom I put myself under such
bonds and obligation*

My secondary reasons are so purely personal,
that they will not bear enlarging upon. Most
people of solitary life, and conscious of many
peculiarities, take small pleasure in general
society, otherwise to go out into the world, to
rub up one's intellect, enlarge one's social sym-
pathies, enjoy the commingling of wit, learning,
beauty, and even folly, would be a pleasant thing
— like sitting to watch a pyrotechnic display,
knowing all the while, that when it was ended
one could come back to see one's heart in the
perennial warmth of one's own fireside. If
not, — better stay away : — for one is inclined to
turn cynical, and perceive nothing but the
smell of the gunpowder, the wrecks of the
catherine-wheels, and the empty shells of the
Roman-candles.

The Rockmount invitation was rather friendly
than formal, and it came from an old man. The
feeble hand-writing, the all but illegible signa-

166 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

ture, weighed with me, in spite of myself. I
had no definite reason to refuse his politeness,
which is not likely to extend beyond an oc-
casional dinner-party, of the sort given here-
abouts periodically, to middle aged respectable
neighbours — in which category may be supposed
to come Max Urquhart, M.D. I accepted
the courtesy and invitation.

Yet let me confess to thee, compassionate
unknown, the ridiculous hesitation with which
I walked up to this friendly door, from which
I should certainly have walked away again,
but for my dislike to break any engage-
ment, however trivial, or even a promise made
only to myself. Let me own the morbid
dread with which I contemplated four mortal
hours to be spent in the society of a dozen
friendly people, made doubly sociable by the
influence of a good dinner, and the best of
wines.

But the alarm was needless, as a little
common sense, had I exercised it, would soon
have proved.

In the drawing-room, lit with the warm

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 167

duskiness of firelight, sat the three ladies.
The eldest received me politely: the youngest
apologetically.

"We are only ourselves, you see; we un-
derstand you dislike dinner-parties, so we in-
vited nobody."

"We never do give dinner-parties more
than once or twice aryear."

It was the second daughter who made that
last remark. I thought whether it was for
my sake or her own, that one young lady
had taken the trouble to give me a false
impression, and the other to remove it. And
how very indifferent I was to both attempts!
Surely, women hold trifles of more moment
than we men can afford to do.

Curious enough to me was the thoroughly
feminine atmosphere of the dainty little draw-
ing-room, set out, not with costly splendours,
like Treherne Court, but pretty home-made
ornaments, and, above all, with plenty of
flowers. My olfactories are. acute ; certain rooms
always possess to me certain associated scents
through which, at whatever distance of time I re-

166 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

visit them, the pristine impression survives; some-
times pleasant, sometimes horribly painful. That
pretty parlour will, I fancy, always carry to
me the scent of orange-flowers. It came through
the door of a little greenhouse, from a tree
there, the finest specimen I had yet seen in
England, and I rose to examine it. There fol-
lowed me the second daughter, Miss Theo-
dora.

In the minute picture which I have been
making of my evening at Rockmount, I ought
not to omit this young girl, or young woman,
for she appears both by turns; indeed, she has
the most variable exterior of any person I ever
met. I recall her successively ; the first time of
meeting, quite child-like in her looks and ways ; the
second, sedate and womanly, save in her little
obstinacy about the blue-bells; the third, dig-
nified, indignant, pertinaciously reserved; but
this night I saw her in an entirely new cha-
racter, neither childish nor woman-like, but
altogether gentle and girlish — a thorough Eng-
lish girL

Her dress, of some soft, dark colour, which

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 169

fell in folds, and did not rustle or spread; her
hair, which was twisted at the back, without
any bows or laces, such as I see ladies wear, and
brought down, smooth and soft over the fore-
head, formed a sufficient contrast to her sisters
to make me notice her; besides, it was a style
more according to my own taste. I hate to
see a woman all flounces and fiHigigs, or with
her hair torn up by the roots like a Chinese
Mandarin. Hair, curved over the brow like
a Saxon arch, under the doorway of which two
modest intelligent eyes stand sentinel, vouch-
ing for the worth of what is within — grant
these, and the rest of the features may be
anything you choose, if not absolutely ugly.
The only peculiarity about hers was, a square-
ness of chin, and closeness of mouth, indicate
ing more strength than sweetness of disposition,
until the young lady smiledi

Writing this, I am smiling myself, to reflect
how little people would give me credit for so
much observation; but a liking to study cha-
racter is, perhaps, of all others, the hobby
most useful to a medical man.

170 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

I have left my object of remark all this while,
standing by her orange-tree, and contemplating
a large caterpillar slowly crawling over one of
its leaves. I recommended her to get Treherne
to smoke in her conservatory, which would re-
move the insects from her flowers.

"They are not mine, I rarely pay them the
least attention. 1 '

I thought she was fond of flowers.

"Yes, but wild flowers, not tame, like these
of Penelope's. I only patronise those she throws
away as being not 'good.' Can you imagine
mother Nature making a 'bad' flower?"

I said, I concluded Miss Johnston was a sci-
entific horticulturist.

" Indeed she is. I never knew a girl so learned
about flowers, well-educated, genteel, green-
house flowers, as our Penelope."

"Our" Penelope. There must be a pleasure
in these family possessive pronouns.

I had the honour of taking into dinner this
lady, who is very sprightly, with nothing at all
Odyssean about her. During a lack of conver-
sation, for Treherne, of course, devoted himself

i - - ■

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 171

to his ladye-love; and Mr. Johnston is the
most silent of hosts, I ventured to remark that
this was the first time I had ever met a lady
with that old Greek name.

"Penelope I" cried Treherne. "Ton my
life I forget who was Penelope. Do tell us,
Dora. That young lady knows everything,
Doctor; a regular blue-stocking; at first she
quite frightened me, I declare."

Captain Treherne seems to be making him-
self uncommonly familiar with his future sisters-
in-law. This one did not exactly relish it, to
judge by her look. She has a will of her own,
and a temper, too, "that young lady." It is as
well Treherne did not happen to set his affec-
tions upon her.

Poor youth! he never knows when to stop.

"Ha! I have it now, Miss Dora. Penelope
was in the Odyssey — that book of engravings
you were showing my cousin Charter!* and me
that Friday night. And how I laughed at
what Charteris said — that he thought the
good lady was very much over-rated, and
Ulysses in the right of it to ride away again,

172 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

when, coming back after ten years, he found her
a prudish, psalm -singing, spinning old woman.
Hollo! — have I put my foot into it, Lisabel?"

It seemed so, by the constrained silence of
the whole party. Miss Johnston turned scarlet,
and then white, but immediately said to me,
laughing : —

"Mr. Chart eris is an excellent classic; he
was papa's pupil for some years. Have you
ever met him?"

I had not, but I had often heard of him
in certain circles of our camp society, as well
as from Sir William Treherne. And I now
suddenly recollected that, in talking over his
son's marriage, the latter had expressed some
surprise at the news Treherne had given, that
this gay bachelor about town, whose society he
had been always chary of cultivating for fear of
harm to "the boy," had been engaged for
some time to a member of the Johnston
family. This was, of course, Miss Johnston
— Penelope.

I would have let the subject drop, but Miss
Jjisabel revived it.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 173

"So you have heard a deal about Francis?
No wonder ! — is he not a charming person? —
and very much thought of in London society?
Do tell us all you heard about him?"

Treherne gave me a look.

"Oh! you'll never get anything out of the
Doctor. He knows everybody, and everybody
tells him everything, but there it ends. He
is a perfect tomb — a sarcophagus of silence,
as a fellow once called him."

Miss Lisabel held up her hands, and vowed
she was really afraid of me. Miss Johnston
said, sharply, "She liked candid people: a
sarcophagus of silence implied a 'body'
inside." At which all laughed, except the
second sister, who said, with some warmth,
" She thought there were few qualities
more rare and valuable than the power of
keeping a secret."

"Of course, Dora thinks so. Doctor, my
sister, there, is the most secretive little mouse
that ever was born. Red-hot pincers could
not force from her what she did not choose to
tell, about herself or other people."

174 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

I well believe that. One sometimes finds
that combination of natural frankness, and ex-
ceeding reticence, when reticence is necessary.

The "mouse" had justified her name by
being silent nearly all dinner-time, though it
was not the silence of either sullenness or
abstraction. But when she was afterwards
accused of delighting in a secret, " running
away with it, and hiding it in her hole, like
a bit of cheese," she looked up, and said,
emphatically : —

"That is a mistake, Lisabel."

"A fib, you mean. Augustus, do you know
my sisters call me a dreadful story-teller,"
smiling at him, as if she thought it the best
joke in the world.

" I said, a mistake, and meant nothing
more."

"Do tell us, child, what you really meant,
if it is possible to get it out of you," observed
the eldest sister; and the poor "mouse," thus
driven into a corner, looked round the table
with those bright eyes of hers.

"Lisabel mistakes ; I do not delight in

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 175

secrets. I think people ought not to have
any, but to be of one mind in a house."
(She studies her Bible, then, for the phrase
came out as naturally as one quotes habitual
phrases, scarcely conscious whence one has
learned them). "Those who really care for
one another, are much happier when they tell
one another everything ; there is nothing so
dangerous as a secret. Better never have one,
but, having it, if one ought to keep it at all,
one ought to keep it to the death."

She looked — quite accidentally, I do believe
— but still she looked at me. Why is it, that
this girl should be the instrument of giving
me continual stabs of pain : yet there is a
charm in them. They take away a little of
the feeling of isolation — the contrast between
the inside and outside of the sarcopha-
gus. Many true words are spoken in jest!
They dart, like a thread of light, even to
" the body " within. Corruption has its laws.
I marvel in what length of time might a
sun-beam, penetrating there, find nothing worse
than harmless dust?

176 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

But I *ffl pass into ordinary life again.
Common sense teaches a man in my circum-
stances that this is the best thing for him.
What business has he to set himself up as a
Simon Stylites on a solitary column of woe?
as if misery constituted saintship % There is
no arrogance like the hypocrisy of hu-
mility.

When Treherne had joined the ladies, Mr.
Johnston and myself started some very inter-
esting conversation, a propos of Mrs. Granton
and her doings in the parish, when I found
that he has the feeling, very rare among
country gentlemen of his age and generation
-^n exceeding aversion for strong drinks.
He discountenances Father Mathew and the
pledge as popish, a crotchet not surprising in
an old Tory, whose opinions, never wide, all
run in one groove, as it were; but he advo-
cates temperance, even to teetotalism.

I tried to draw the line of moderation, and
argued that, because some men, determined on
making beasts of themselves, required to be
treated like beasts, by compulsion only; that

i

■

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 177

was no reason why the remainder should not
have free-will, man's glorious privilege, to
prove their manhood by the choice of good or
evil.

" Like Adam — and Adam fell."

"Like a Greater than Adam; trusting in
Whom, we need never fall."

The old man did not reply, but he looked
much excited. The subject seemed to rouse in
him something beyond the mere disgust of an
educated gentleman, at what offended his re-
fined tastes. Had not certain other reasons
made that solution improbable, I could have
imagined it the shudder of one too fami-
liar with the vice he now abhorred: that
he spoke about drunkenness with the terrified
fierceness of one who had himself been a
drunkard.

As we sat talking across the table, philo-
sophically, abstractedly, yet with a perceptible
undertone of reserve, — I heard it in his voice ;
I felt it in my own, — or listening silently to
the equinoctial gale, which rattled the window,
made the candles flicker, almost caused the

VOL. I. N

178 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

wine to shake in the untouched decanters —
as I have heard table-rapping tales, of wine
beginning to shake when there was "a
spirit present," — the thought struck me more
than once — if either of us two men could
lift the curtain from one another's past,
what would be found there t

He proceeded to close our conversation, by
saying : —

€i You will understand now, Doctor Urquhart,
and I wish to name it as a sort of apology
for former close questioning, my extreme
horror of drunkenness, and my satisfaction at
finding that Mr. Treherne has no propensity
in this direction."

I answered: —

"Certainly not; that, with all the temp-
tations of a mess-table, to take much wine was,
with him, a thing exceedingly rare."

" Rare I I thought you said he never drank
at all?"

"I said he was no drunkard, nor at all in
the habit of drinking."

" Habits grow, we know not how," cried

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 179

the old man, irritably. "Does he take it
every day?"

"I suppose so. Most military men do."

Mr. Johnston turned sharp upon me.

"I must have no modifications, Doctor Ur-
quhart. Can you declare positively that you
never saw Captain Treherne the worse for
liquor?"

To answer this question directly was im-
possible. I tried to remove the impression I
had unfortunately given, and which the old
man had taken up so unexpectedly and fiercely,
by enlarging on the brave manner in which
Treherne had withstood many a lure to evil
ways.

"You cannot deceive me, sir. I must have
the truth."

I was on the point of telling him to seek
it from Treherne himself, when, remembering
the irritation of the old man, and the hot-
headed imprudence of the young one, I thought
it would be safer to bear the brunt myself.
I informed Mr. Johnston of the two only
instances when I had seen Treherne not him-

180 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

self. Once after twenty-four hours in the
trenches, when unlimited brandy could hardly
keep life in our poor fellows, and again when
Miss Lisabel herself must be his excuse.

"Lisabel? Do not name her. Sir, I would
rather see a daughter of mine in her grave,
than the wife of a drunkard."

" Which, allow me to assert, Captain Tre-
herne is not, and is never likely to be."

Mr. Johnston shook his head incredulously.
I became more and more convinced about the
justness of my conjecture about his past life,
which delicacy forbade me to enquire into,
or to use as any argument against his harsh-
ness now. I began to feel seriously uneasy.

" Mr. Johnston," I said, " would you for this
accidental error — "

I paused, seeing at the door a young lady's
face, Miss Theodora's.

"Papa, tea is waiting."

"Let it wait then: shut the door. Well,
sir!"

I repeated, would he, for one accidental
error, condemn the young man entirely!

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 181

"He has condemned himself; he has taken
the first step, and his downward course will
be swift and sudden. There is no stopping
it, sir," and he struck his hand on the
table. "If I had a son, and he liked
wine, as a child does, perhaps; a pretty little
boy, sitting at table and drinking healths at
birthdays, or a schoolboy, proud to do what
he sees his father doing, — I would take
his glass from him, and fill it with poison,
deadly poison — that he might kill himself at
once, rather than grow up to be his friends'
and his own damnation — a drunkard?

I urged, after a minute's pause, that Treherne
was neither a child nor a boy; that he had
passed through the early perils of youth, and
succumbed to none; that there was little fear
he would ever become a drunkard.

"He may.'*

" Please God, he never shall ! Even if he had
yielded to temptation ; if, even in your sense, and
mine, Mr. Johnston, the young man had once
been ' drunk,' should he for that be branded as
a hopeless drunkard f I think not — I trust not."

182 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

And, strongly excited myself, I pleaded for
the lad as if I had been pleading for my own
Kfe, — but in vain.

It was getting late, and I was in mo-
mentary dread of another summons to the
drawing-room.

In cases like these there comes a time when,
be our opponents younger or older, inferior
or superior to ourselves, we feel we must assert
what we believe to be right, " taking the upper
hand," as it is called; that is, using the power
which the few have in guiding the many.
Call it influence, decision, will, — one who
possesses that quality rarely gets through half
a lifetime without discovering the fact, and
what a weighty and solemn gift it is.

I said to Mr. Johnston, very respectfully,
yet resolutely, that, in so serious a matter, of
which I myself was the unhappy cause, I must
request him, as a personal favour, to postpone
his decision for to-night.

"And/* I continued, "forgive my urging
that, both as a father and a clergyman, you
are bound to be careful how you decide. By

v

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 183

one fatal word you may destroy your daughter's
happiness for life.*'

I saw him start ; I struck bolder.

"Also, as Captain Treherne's friend, let me
remind you that he has a future, too. It is
a dangerous thing for a young man's future
when he is thwarted in his first love. What
if he should go all wrong, and you had to
answer to Sir William Treherne for the ruin
of his only son % "

I was not prepared for the effect of my
words.

"His only son — God forgive me! is he his
only son!"

Mr. Johnston turned from me; his hands
shook violently, his whole countenance changed.
In it there was as much remorse and' anguish
as if he, in his youth, had been some old man's
only and perhaps erring son.

I could pity him — if he were one of those
who suffer to their life's end for the evil deeds
of their youth. I abstained from any further
remarks, and he made none. At last, as he
expressed some wish to be left alone, I rose.

184 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

"Doctor," he said, in a tremulous voice,
"I will thank you not to name this conversa-
tion to my family. For the subject of it — we'll
pass it over — this once."

I thanked him, and earnestly begged forgive-
ness for any warmth I had shown in the ar-
gument.

" Oh yes, oh yes ! Did I not say we
would pass it over?"

He sank wearily back in his arm-chair, but
I felt the point was gained.

In course of the evening, when Treherne
and Miss Lisabel, in happy ignorance of all
the peril their bliss had gone through, were
making believe to play chess in the corner,
and Miss Johnston was reading the news-
paper to her father, I slipped away to the
green-house, where I stood examining some
orchids, and thinking how curious it was that
I, a perfect stranger, should be so mixed up
with the private affairs of this family.

"Doctor Urquhart."

Soft as the whisper was, it made me start.
I apologised for not having seen Miss Theo-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 195

dora enter, and began admiring the orchida-
ceous plants.

"Yes, very pretty. But I wanted to ask
you, what were you and papa talking about ? "

"Your father wished me not to mention
it."

"But I heard part of it, I could not help
hearing, — and I guessed the rest. Tell me
only one thing. Is Captain Treherne still to
marry our Lisa?"

" I believe so. There was a difficulty, but Mr.
Johnston said he would 'pass it over.'"

" Poor papa," was all she replied. " Poor
papa."

I expressed my exceeding regret at what
had happened.

"No, never mind, you could not help it;
I understand exactly how it was. But the
storm will blow over; papa is rather peculiar.
Don't tell Captain Treherne."

She stood meditative a good while, and
then said: —

"I think you are right about Mr. Tre-
herne, I begin to like him myself a little*

186. A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

That is — No, I will not make pretences.
I did not like him at all until lately."

I told her I knew that.

"How? Did I shew it?] Do I shew what
I feel?"

"Tolerably," said I, smiling. "But you
do like him now?"

"Yes."

Another pause of consideration and then a
second decisive "yes."

"I like him," she went on, "because he
is good-natured, and sincere. Besides, he suits
Lisabel, and people are so different, that it
would be ridiculous to expect to choose one's
sister's husband after the pattern of one's own.
The two would probably not agree in any
single particular."

"Indeed," said I, amused at her frankness.
"For instance?"

" Well, for instance, Lisa likes talking, and I
silence, or being talked to, and even that in
moderation. Hark ! "

We listened a minute to Treherne's hearty
laugh and incessant chitter-chatter.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 187

"Now, my sister enjoys that, she says it
amuses her ; I am sure it would drive me crazy
in a week."

I could sympathise a little in this sentiment.

"But," with sudden seriousness, "I beg you
to understand, Doctor Urquhart, that I am not
speaking against Captain Treherne. As I told
you, I like him; I am quite satisfied with him,
as a brother-in-law. Only, he is not exactly
the sort of person one would choose to spend
a week with in the Eddystone Lighthouse."

I asked if that was her test for all her
friends? since so few could stand it.

She laughed.

"Possibly not. When one comes to reflect,
there are very few whose company one can
tolerate so well as one's own."

"Which is itself not always agreeable."

" No, but the less evil of the two. I don't
believe there is a creature living whose society
I could endure, without intermission, for a
month, a week, or even two days. No. Em-
phatically no."

She must then, though a member of a

188 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

family, live a good deal alone — a fact I had
already begun to suspect.

"Therefore, as I try to make Lisa feel
— being the elder, £ have a right to preach,
you know — what an awful thing marriage
must be, even viewed as mere companionship.
Putting aside love, honour, obedience, and all

■

that sort of thing, to undertake the burthen
of any one person's constant presence and
conversation for the term of one's natural
life! the idea is frightful!"

"Very, if you do put aside love, honour,
'and all that sort of thing.'"

She looked up, as if she thought I was
laughing at her.

"Am I talking very foolishly? I am afraid
I do so sometimes."

"Not at all," I said, "it was pleasant to
hear her talk." Which unlucky remark of
mine had the effect of wholly silencing her.

But, silent, it was something to watch her
moving about the drawing-room, or sitting still
over her work. I like to see a woman sewing;
it gives her an air of peaceful homelikeness,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 189

the nearest approach to which, in us men, who
are either always sullenly busy or lazily idle, is
the ungainly lounge with our feet on the fender.
Mr. Johnston must be happy in his daughters,
particularly in this one. He can scarcely have
regretted that he has had no sons.

It seems natural, seeing how much too well
acquainted we are with our sex, its weaknesses
and wickednesses, that most men long for, and
make much of daughters. Certainly, to have
in one's old age a bright girlish face to look
at, a lively original girlish tongue to freshen
one's mind with new ideas, must be a pleasant
thing. Whatever may have been the sorrows
of his past life, Mr. Johnston is a fortunate man
now.

With regard to Treherne, I had the satis-
faction of perceiving that, as Miss Theodora had
prophesied, the old man's anger had blown over.
His manner indicated not merely forgiveness,
but a degree of kindly interest in that light-
hearted youth, who was brimming over with
fun and contentment.

I had an opportunity of satisfying myself

190 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

on this point, in another quarter, while wait-
ing in the hall for Treherne's protracted
adieu in the dining-room; when Miss Theodora,
passing me, stopped, to interchange a word
with me.

"Shall you tell your friend what occurred
to-night? — with papa, I mean."

I replied, I was not sure — but perhaps I
should. It might act as a warning.

" Do you think he needs a warning ? "

"I do not. I believe Treherne is as likely
to turn out a good man, especially with a
good wife to help him, as any young fellow
of my acquaintance; and I sincerely hope
that you, as well as your father will think no
worse of him, for anything that is past. An
old man ha* had time to forget, and a girl
is never likely to understand, the exceeding
temptations which every young man has to
fight through, — more especially a young man
of fortune, and in the army/'

"Ah, yes!" she sighed, "that is too true.
Papa must have felt it. Papa wished this
to be kept secret between himself and you?"

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 191

"I understood him so."

"Then keep it. Do not tell Mr. Treherne.
And have no fear that I shall be too hard
upon him. It would be sad indeed, for all
of us, who do wrong every day, if every error
of youth were to be regarded as unpar-
donable."

God bless her good heart, and the kindly
hand she held out to me; which for the
second time I dared to take in mine. Ay,
even in mine.

192 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER VIII.

HER STORY.

I do not feel inclined for sleep, and there is
a large round moon looking in at my win-
dow. My foolish old moon, what a time it
is since you and I had a quiet serious look
at one another. What things you used to say
to me, and what confidences I used to make
in you — at this very window, leaning my elbow
in this very spot. That was when I was a
child, and fond of Colin — "Colin, my dear."
How ridiculous it seems now, and what a
laugh it would raise against me if anybody
had known it. Yet what an innocent, simple,
devoted child-love it was! I hardly think any
after-love, supposing I should ever feel one,

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 193

will be, in its way, more tender, or more
true.

Moon, have you forgotten me? Am I be-
coming a middle-aged person; and is a new
and younger generation growing up to Lave
confidences with you as I used to have? Or
is it I who have forsaken you? Most likely.
You have done me a deal of harm — and
good, too — in my time. Yet you seem friendly
and mild to-night. I will forgive you, my poor
old moon.

It has been a pleasant day. My head aches
a little, with the unusual excitement — query,
of pleasure? — Is pleasantness so very rare,
then? -No: I am weary with the exertion
of having to make myself agreeable: for
Penelope is full of housekeeping cares, and a
few sad thoughts, too, may be, concerning
the wedding; so that she takes little trouble
to entertain visitors. And Lisabel is " in love,"
you know, moon.

You would not think it, though, except from
the licence she takes to be lazy when Augus-
tus is here, and up to the eyes in business

VOL. I. O

194 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

when he is away. I never thought a wed-
ding was such a "piece of work," as the old
women say; such a time of incessant bustle,
worry, and confusion. I only saw the "love"
side of it, Lisabel avers, and laughs at me
when I wonder at her for wearing herself
out from morning till night in consultation
over her trousseau, and how we shall possibly
manage to accommodate the fcight-and-forty par-
ticular friends who must be asked to the
breakfast.

Happily, they are only the bride's friends.
Sir William and Lady Augusta Treherne can-
not come, and Augustus does not care a
straw for asking anybody. He says he only
wants his Lisa. His Lisa unfortunately requires
a few trifles more to constitute her bridal
happiness; a wreath, a veil, a breakfast, and
six bridesmaids in Indian muslin. Rather
cold, for autumn, but which she says she
cannot give up on any account, since a wed-
ding day comes but once, and she has been
looking forward to her's ever since she was
born.

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 195

A wedding-day! Probably there are few of
us who have not speculated on it a little, as
the day which, of all others, is the most de-
cisive in a woman's life. I am not ashamed
to confess having occasionally thought of mine.
A foolish dream that comes and goes with
one's teens; imagined paradise of utterly im-
possible joy, to be shared with some paragon
of equally impossible perfection — I could sit
and laugh at it now, if the laughter were
not bitterer than tears.

There, after writing this, I went and pulled
down my hair, and tied it under my chin
to prevent cold — oh! most prudent five-and-
twenty — leant my elbow on the window-sill,
in the old attitude of fifteen, staring up at
the moon and out across the firwoods for a long
time. Returning, I have re-lit my candle, and
taken once more to my desk, and I say again,
O inquisitive moon, that this has been a
pleasant day.

It was one of our quiet Bockmount Sun-
days, which Doctor ILrquhart says he enjoys
so much. Poor LisabeTs. last Sunday but one.

02

196 A LIFE FOB A LITE.

She will be married to-morrow week. • We had
our indispensable lover to dinner, and Doctor
Urquhart also. Papa told me to ask him as
we were coming out of the church. In spite
of the distance, he often attends our
church now — at which papa seems gratified.

I delivered the message, which was not
received with as much warmth as I thought
it ought to have been, considering that it
came from an elderly gentleman, who does
not often pay a younger man than himself
the compliment of liking his society. I was
turning away, saying I concluded he had some
better engagement, when Doctor Urquhart re-
plied quickly: —

"No, indeed. That were impossible/'

"Will you come then? Pray don't, if you
dislike it."

For I was vexed at a certain hesitation
and uneasiness in his manner, which implied
this; when I had been so glad to bring him
the . invitation and had taken the trouble to
cross half the church-yard after him, in order
to deliver it; which I certainly would not

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 197

have done for a person whom everybody
liked.

N.6. This may be one of the involuntary
reasons for my . liking Doctor Urquhart ; that
papa and I myself are the only two persons
of our family who unite in that opinion.
Lisabel makes fun of him; Penelope is scarcely
civil to him; but that is because Francis,
coming down last week for a day, took a
violent aversion to him.

I heard the girls laughing within a stone's
throw of where we stood.

a Pray please . yourself, Doctor Urquhart ;
come, or not come; but I can't wait."

He looked at me with an amused air; —
yes, I certainly have the honour of amusing
him, as a child or a kitten would — then
said, —

u He would be happy to join us."

I was ashamed of myself for being thus
pettish with a person so much older and wiser
than I, and who ought to be excused so
heartily for any peculiarities he has; yet he
vexed me. He does vex me very much, some-

198 A LITE FOB A LIFE.

times. I cannot understand why ; it is quite a
new feeling to be so irritated with anybody.
Either it is ids manner, which is rather variable,
sometimes cheerful and friendly, and then again
restless and cold; or an uncomfortable sensa-
tion of being under control, which I never
yet had, even towards my own father. Once,
when I was contesting something with him,
Augustus noticed it, and said, laughing: —

" Oh, the Doctor makes everybody do what
he likes : you'd better give in at once. I always
do."

But I cannot, and I will not.

To feel vexed with a person, to know they
have the power of vexing you — that a chance
word or look can touch you to the quick,
make you feel all over in a state of irrita-
tion, as if all the world went wrong, and
you were ready to do anything cross, or
sullen, or childishly naughty — until another
chance word or look happens to set you right
again — this is an extremely uncomfortable state
of things.

I must guard against it. I must not allow

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 199

my temper to get way. Sensitive it is, I
am aware, quick to feel sore, and to take
offence; but I am not a thoroughly ill-
tempered woman. Doctor Urquhart does not
think so: he told me he did not. One day,
when I had been very cross with him, he
said "I had done him no harm; that I often
did him good."

Me — to do good to Doctor Urquhart ! What
an extraordinary thing !

I like to do people good — to do it my
own self, too — a mean pleasure, perhaps, yet
it is a pleasure, and I was pleased by this
saying of Doctor Urquhart's. If I could but
believe it t I do believe it sometimes. I
know that I can make him smile, let him
be ever so grave; that something in me
and my ways interests and amuses him in an
inglorious, kittenish fashion, as I said; yet,
still, I draw him out of himself, I make
him merry, I bring light into his face till one
could hardly believe it was the same face
that I first saw at the Cedars ; and it is plea-
sant to me to think that, by some odd sym-

200 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

pathy or other, I am pleasant to him, as I
am to few — alas! to very few.

I know when people dislike me: know it
keenly, painfully; I know, too, with a sort
of stolid patience, when they are simply in-
different to me. Doubtless, in both cases,
they have every reason; I blame nobody, not
even myself, I only state a fact. But with
such people I can no more be my natural
self, than I can run about, bare-footed and
bare-headed, in our north winds or moorland
snows. But if a little sunshine comes, my
Heart warms to it, basks in it, dances under
it, like the silliest young lamb that ever
frisked in a cowslip-meadow, rejoicing in the
May.

I am not, and never pretend to be, a
humble person. I feel there is that in me which
is worth something, but a return for which I
have never yet received. Give me its fair
equivalent, its full and honest price, and oh, if
I could expend it every mite, how boundlessly
rich I should grow !

This last sentence means nothing; nor do I

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 201

quite understand it myself. Writing a journal
is a safety-valve for much folly; yet I am
by no means sure that I ought to have written
the last page.

However, no more of this; let me tell the
story of my day.

Walking from church, Doctor Urquhart told
me that Augustus had asked him to be best-man
at the wedding.

I said, I knew it, and wished he would con-
sent.

"Why!"

Though the abrupt question surprised me,
I answered, of course, the truth. That if
the best-man were not himself, it would be
one of the camp officers, and I hated — "

" Soldiers !"

I told him, it was not kind to be always
throwing in my teeth that unfortunate speech;
that he ought not to teaze me so.

"Do I teaze you? I was not aware of
it."

"Very likely not; and I am a great sim-
pleton for allowing myself to be teazed with

202 A LIFE POB A LIFE.

such trifles. But Doctor Urquhart cannot ex-
pect me to be as wise as himself; he is a
great deal older than I."

"Tell me, then," he continued, in that kind
tone, which always makes me feel something
like a little pet donkey I once had, which, if
I called it across the field, would come and
lay its head on my hand, — not that, donkey
as I am, I incline to trouble Doctor Urquhart
in that way. — " Tell me what it is you do
hate?"

"I hate to have to entertain strangers."

"Then you do not consider me a stran-
ger?"

"No; a friend."

I may say that; for short as our acquain-
tance dates, I have seen more of Doctor Ur-
quhart, and seem to know him better than
any man in the whole course of my life. He
did not refuse the title I gave him, and I
think he was gratified, though he said
only : —

"You are very kind, and I thank
you."

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 203

Presently I recurred to the subject of dis-
cussion, and wished him to promise what
Augustus, and Lisabel, and we all desired.

He paused a moment, then said, deci-
sively : —

"I will come."

"That is right. I know we can always
depend upon Doctor Urquhart's promises."

Was my gladness over-bold? Would he
misconstrue it? No— he is too clear-sighted, too
humble-minded, too wise. With him, I have
always the feeling that I need take no trouble
over what I do or say, except that it should
be true and sincere. Whatever it is, he will
judge it fairly. And if he did not, why should
I care?

Yes, I should care. I like him- — I like him
very much. It would be a comfort to me to
have him for a friend— one of my very own.
In some degree, he treats me as such; to-
day, for instance, he told me more about him-
self than he ever did to any one of us. It
came out accidentally. I cannot endure a
man who, at first acquaintance, indulges you

204 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

with his autobiography in full. Such an one
must be either a puppy or an idiot.

— Ah, there I am again, at my harsh judg-
ments, which Doctor Urquhart has so often
tacitly reproved. This good man, who has
seen more of the world and its wickedness
than I am ever likely to see, is yet the most
charitable man I ever knew. To return.

Before we reached Eockmount, the sky had
clouded over, and in an hour it was a tho-
roughly wet afternoon. Penelope went upstairs
to write her Sunday letter, and Augustus and
Lisabel gave broad hints that they wished
the drawing-room all to themselves. Perforce,
Doctor Urquhart and I had to entertain our-
selves.

I took him into the greenhouse, where he
lectured to me on the orchidacea and vegetation
of the tropics generally, — to his own content,
doubtless, and partially to mine. I like to
hear his talking, so wise, yet so simple ; " a
freshness almost boyish seems to linger in his
nature still, and he has the thoroughly boyish
peculiarity of taking pleasure in little things.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 205

He spent half an hour in reviving a big brown
bee which had grown torpid with cold, and
there was in his eyes a kindness, as over a
human creature, when he gave into my charge
his "Utile patient," whom I promised to be-
friend. (There he is, poor old fellow, fast
asleep on a flower-pot, till the first bright morn-
ing I can turn him out.)

"I am afraid, though, he will soon get into
trouble again, and not find so kind a friend,"
said I, to Doctor Urquhart. "He mil intox-
icate himself, in the nearest flower-cup, and
seek repentance and restoration too late."

"I hope not," said the Doctor, sadly and
gravely.

I said I was sorry for having made a jest
upon his favourite doctrine of repentance and
restoration of sinners, which he seemed always
both to preach and to practice.

"Do I? Perhaps. Do you not think it's
very much needed in this world?"

I said, I had not lived long enough in the
world to find out.

"I forgot how young you were."

206 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

He had once, in his direct way, asked my
age, and I had told him, much disposed like-
wise to return the question, but was afraid.
Sometimes I feel quite at home with him, as
if I could say anything to him, and then again
he makes me, not actually afraid — thank good-
ness, I never was afraid of any man yet, and
hope I never shall be— r-but shy and quiet. I
suppose it is because he is so very good;
because in his presence my little follies and
wickednesses hide their heads. I cease per-
plexing myself about them, or about myself
at all, and only think — not of him so much
as of something higher and better than
either him or me. Surely this cannot be wrong.

The bee question settled, we sat down,
silent, listening to the rain pattering on the
glass roof of the greenhouse. It was rather a
dreary day. I began thinking of Lisabel's
leaving more than was good for me ; and with
that penetrative kindness which I have often
noticed in him, Doctor Urquhart turned my sad
thoughts away, by various information about
Treherne Court, and the new relations of our

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 207

Lisa — not many. I said, "happily, she would
have neither brother or sister-in-law."

"Happily! You cannot be in earnest?"

I half wished I had not been, and yet I
could not but speak my mind — that brothers and
sisters, in law or in blood, were often anything
but a blessing.

"I must emphatically differ from you there.
I think it is, with few exceptional cases, the
greatest misfortune to be an only child. Few
are so naturally good, or reared under such
favourable circumstances, that such a position
does not .do them harm. A lonely childhood
and youth may make a great man, a good
man, but it rarely makes a happy man. Better
all the tussles and troubles of family life,
where the angles of character are rubbed off,
and its inclinations to morbidness, sensitive-
ness, and egotism knocked down. I think it
is a great wonder to see Treherne such a
good fellow as he is, considering he has been
an only child."

"You speak as if you knew what that was
yourself."

208 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

"No, we were orphans, but I had one
brother."

This was the first time Doctor Urquhart
had reverted to any of his relatives, or to
his early life. My curiosity was strong. I
risked a question : was this brother older or
younger than he?
Older."

"And his name? "
Dallas."

"Dallas Urquhart — what a nice name."

"It is common in the family. There was a
Dallas Urquhart, younger brother to a Sir
John Urquhart, who, in the religious troubles,
seceded to Episcopacy. He was in love with
a minister's sister — a Presbyterian. She died
broken-hearted, and in despair at her reproaches,
Dallas threw himself down a precipice, where
his whitened bones were not found till many
years after. Is not that a romantic history?"

I said romantic and painful histories were
common enough ; there had been some,
even in our matter-of-fact family. But
he was not so inquisitive as I ; nor should I

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 209

have told him further ; we never speak on
this subject if we can help it. Even the
Grantons — our intimate friends ever since we
came to live at Rockmounk— have never been
made acquainted with it. And Penelope said
there was no need to tell Augustus, as it
could not affect him, or any person now
living, and, for the sake of the family, the sad
story was better forgotten. I think so, too.

With a sigh, I could not help observing to
Doctor Urquhart, that it must be a very
happy thing to have a brother — a good
brother.

"Yes. Mine was the best that any one
ever had. He was . a minister of the Kirk —
that is, he would have been, but he died."

"In Scotland ?"

"No — at Pau, in the Pyrenees."

" Were you with him ? "

"I was not."

This seemed a remembrance so acutely pain-
ful, that shortly afterwards I tried to change
the subject, by asking a question or two
about himself, — and especially what I had long

VOL. I. P

210 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

wanted to find out — how he came by that
eccentric Christian-name.

"Is it eccentric 1 — I really never knew or
thought after whom I was called."

I suggested, Max Piccolomini.

"Who was he, pray! My unprofessional
reading has been small. I am ashamed to
say I never heard of Max Piccolomini."

Amused by- this naive confession of igno-
rance, I offered jestingly to give him a course of
polite literature, and begin with that grandest
of German dramas, Schiller's Wallenstein.

"Not in German, if you please; I don't know
a dozen words of the language."

"Why, Doctor Urquhart, I must be a great
deal cleverer than you."

I had said this out of utter incredulity at the
ludicrous idea; but, to my surprise, he took it
seriously.

"You are right. I know I am a coarse, un-
educated person; the life of an army-surgeon
allows few opportunities of refinement, and,
like many another boy, I threw away my chances
when I had them."

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 211

"At school?"

"College, rather."

^ -Where did you go to college 1"

"At St. Andrews."

The interrogative mood being on me, I thought
I would venture a question which had been often
on my mind to ask — namely, what made him
choose to be a doctor, which always seemed
to me the most painful and arduous of profes-
sions.

He was so slow in answering, that I began
to fear it was one of my too blunt queries, and
apologized.

" I will tell you, if you desire it. My motive
was not unlike one you once suggested — to
save life instead of destroying it ; also, because
I wished to have my own life always in my
hand. I cannot justly consider it mine. It is
owed."

To heaven, I conclude he meant, by the
solemnity of his manner. Yet, are not all
lives owed! And, if so, my early dream of
perfect bliss, namely, for two people to spend
their lives together in a sort of domestic

p2

212 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Pitcalrn's Island, cradled in a spiritual Pacific
Ocean, with nothing to do but to love one
another — must be a delusion, or worse. I am
beginning to be glad I never found it. We
are not the birds and butterflies, but the labourers
of the earthly vineyard. To discover one's
right work and do it, must be the grand secret of
life. — With or without love/ I wonder? With it
—I should imagine. But Doctor Urquhart in his
plan of existence, never seems to think of such an
insignificant necessity.

Yet let me not speak lightly. I like him — I
honor him. Had I been his dead brother, or a
sister which he never had, I would have helped,
rather than have hindered him in his self-sacrific-
ing career. I would have scorned to put in my
poor claim over him or his existence. It would
have seemed like taking for daily uses the gold of
the sanctuary.

And here pondering' over all I have heard of
Mm and seen in him : the self-denial, the heroism,
the religious purity of his daily life — which has
roused in even the light heart of Augustus
Treherne an attachment approaching to positive

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 213

devotion, that all the jesting of Lisabel is
powerless to shake, I call to mind one inci-
dent of this day, which startled, shocked me:
concerning which even now I can scarcely
credit the evidence of my own ears.

We had all gathered round the fire waiting
papa's return from the second service, Penelope,
Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, I. The rain
had cleared off, and there was only a soft drip,
drip, on the glass of the greenhouse outside. We
were very peaceful and comfortable: it felt al-
most like a family circle — which, indeed it was,
with one exception. The new member of our
family seemed to make himself considerably at his
ease — sat beside his Lisa, and held her hand under
cover of her apron — at which I thought I saw
Doctor Urquhart smile. Why should he? The
caress was quite natural

Penelope was less restless than usual : owing
may be to her long letter and the prospect of see-
ing Francis in a week : he comes to the marriage,
of course. Poor fellow, what a pity we cannot
have two weddings instead of one! — it is
rather hard for him to be only a wedding guest

214 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

and Penelope only a bridesmaid. But I am ceas-
ing to laugh at even Francis and Penelope.

I myself, in my own little low chair in its right
angle on the hearth-rug, felt perfectly happy. Is
it the contrast between it and the life of solitude
of which I have only lately had any knowledge
that makes my own home life so much sweeter
than it used to be ?

The gentlemen began talking together about
the difference between this quiet scene and that of
November last year : when, Sebastopol taken, the
army was making up its mind to winter in idle-
ness, as merrily as it could. And then Doctor
Urquhart reverted to the former winter, the terri-
ble time — until its miseries reached and touched
the English heart at home. And yet, as Doctor
Urquhart said, such misery seems often to evoke
the noblest half of man's nature. Many an anec-
dote, proving this, he told about "his poor
fellows," as he called them; tales of heroism,
patient endurance, unselfishness and generosity, —
such as, in the mysterious agency of providence,
are always developed by that great purifier as well
as avenger, war.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 215

Listening, my cheek burnt to think I had
ever said I hated soldiers. It is a solemn
question, * too momentous for human wisdom
to decide upon, and, probably, never meant
to be decided in this world — the justice of
carnage, the necessity of war. But thus far
I am convinced — and intend, the first oppor-
tunity, to express my thanks to Doctor Urqu-
hart for having taught me the lesson — that to
set one's self in fierce aversion against any
class as a class, is both foolish and wicked.
We should "hate" nobody. The Christian
warfare is never against sinners, but against
sin.

Speaking of the statistics of mortality in
the army, Doctor Urquhart surprised us by
stating how small a percentage — bless me, I
am beginning to talk like a blue-book — results
from death in battle and from wounds. And
strange as it may appear, the mortality in a
campaign, with all its fatal chances, is less
than in barracks at home. He has long sus-
pected this, from the accounts of the men,
and having lately, from clear data, ascertained

216 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

its accuracy, intends urging it at the Horse
Guards, or failing there, in the public press,
— that the causes may be inquired into and
remedied. It will be at some personal risk:
Government never likes being meddled with;
but he seems the sort of man who, having
once got an idea into his head, would pursue
it to the death — and very right too. If I had
been a man, I would have done exactly
the same. •

All this while, I have never told — that
thing. It came out, as well as I can re-
member, thus: —

Doctor Urquhart was saying that the aver-
age mortality of soldiers in barracks was higher
than that of any corresponding class of working-
men. He attributes this to want of space*
cleanliness, fresh air, and good food.

"Also, to another cause, which you always
find flourishing under such circumstances —
drink. It is in a barracks just as in the
courts and alleys of a large city — wherever
you find people huddled together in foul air,
ill smells, and general wretchedness — they

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 217

drink. They cannot help it, it seems a natural
necessity."

"There, we have the Doctor on his hobby.
Gee-up, Doctor 1" cried Augustus. I wonder
his friend stands his nonsense so good-
humouredly.

"You know it is true, though, Treherne,"
and he went on speaking to me. " In the
Crimea, the great curse of our army was drink.
Drink killed more of us than the Eussians
did. You should have seen what I have seen
— the officer maddening himself with champagne
at the mess-table — the private stealing out to a
rum-store to booze secretly over his grog. The
thing was obliged to be winked at, it was so
common."

"In hospital, too," observed Captain Tre-
herne, gradually listening. " Don't you remem-
ber telling me there was not a week passed
that you had not cases of death solely from
drinking?"

"And, even then, I could not stop it, nor
keep the liquor outside the wards. I have
come in and found drunken orderlies carousing

218 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

with drunken patients: nay, more than once
I have taken the brandy-bottle from under a
dead man's pillow."

"Ay, I remember," said Augustus, looking
grave.

Lisabel, who never likes his attention diverted
from her charming self, cried saucily :—

"All very fine talking, Doctor, but you
shall not make me a teetotaller, nor Augustus
neither, I hope."

"I have not the slightest intention of the
kind, I assure you: nor does there seem any
necessity. Though, for those who have not
the power to resist intoxication, it is much
safer never to touch stimulants."

"Do you never touch them?"

" I have not done so for many years."

"Because you are afraid? Well, I dare
say you were no better once than your neigh-
bours."

"Lisabel!" I whispered, for I saw Doctor
Urquhart wince under her rude words: but
there is no stopping that girl's tongue.

" Now confess, Doctor, just for fun. Papa

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 219

is not here, and we'll tell no tales out of
school — were you ever in your life, to use your
own ugly word, drunk?"

" Once."

Writing this, I can hardly believe he said
it, and yet he did, in a quiet, low voice, as if
the confession were forced from him as a sort
of voluntary expiation.

Doctor Urquhart drunk! What a frightful
idea! Under what circumstances could it pos-
sibly have happened? One thing I would
stake my life upon,— it never happened but
that once.

I have been thinking, how horrible it mart
be to see anybody one cared for drunk: the
honest eyes dull and meaningless ; the wise
lips jabbering foolishness; the whole face and
figure, instead of being what one likes to look
at, takes pleasure to see in the same room,
even, — growing ugly, irrational, disgusting —
more like a beast than a man.

Yet some women have to bear it, have to
speak kindly to their husbands, hide their
brutishness, and keep them from making worse

220 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

fools of themselves than they can help. I have
seen it done, not merely by working-men's
wives, but lady-wives in drawing-rooms. I
think, if I were married, and I saw my hus-
band the least overcome by wine, not " drunk "
may be, but just excited, silly, otherwise than
his natural self, it would nearly drive me
wild. Less on my own account than his. To
see him sink— -not for a great crime, but a
contemptible, cowardly bit of sensualism — from
the height where my love had placed him ;
to have to take care of him, to pity him —
ay, and I might pity him, but I think the
full glory and passion of my love would die
out, then and there, for ever.

Let me not think of this, but go on
relating what occurred to-day.

Doctor Urquhart's abrupt confession, which
seemed to surprise Augustus as much as any-
body, threw an awkwardness over us all; we
slipped out of the subject, and plunged into the
never-ending theme — the wedding and its arrange-
ments. Here I found out that Doctor Urquhart
had, at first, refused, point-blank, his friend's

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 221

request that he would be best-man, but, on
my entreating him this morning, had changed
his mind. I was glad, and expressed my
gladness warmly. I would not like Doctor
Urquhart to suppose we thought the worse of
him for what he had confessed, or rather been
forced into confessing. It was very wrong of
Lisabel. But she really seemed sorry, and paid
him special attention in consultations about
what she thinks the important affairs of Mon-
day week. I was almost cross at the exem-
plary patience with which he examined the
orange-tree, and pronounced that the buds
would open in time, he thought; that if not,
he would try, as in duty bound, to procure
some. He also heroically consented to his
other duty, of returning thanks for " the
bridesmaids," for we are to have healths drunk,
speeches made, and all the rest of it. Mercy
on us! how will papa ever stand it!

These family events have always their pain-
ful side. I am sure papa will feel it. I only
trust that no chance observations will strike
home, and hurt him. This fear haunted me

222 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

so much, that I took an opportunity of sug-
gesting to Dr. Urquhart ,that all the speeches
had better be as short as possible.

" Mine shall be, I promise. Were you afraid
of it?" asked he, smiling ; it was just before the
horses were brought up, and we were all stand-
ing out in the moonlight — for shame, moon,
leading us to catch cold just before our wed-
ding, and very thoughtless of the Doctor to
allow it, too. I could see by his smile that he
was now quite himself again, — which was a
relief.

"Oh, nonsense; I shall expect you to make
the grandest speech that ever was heard. But,
seriously, these sort of speeches are always
trying, and will be so, especially to papa."

"I understand. We must take care: you
are a thoughtful little lady." — He sometimes
has called me "Little lady," instead of "Miss
Theodora." — " Yes, your father will feel acutely
this first break in the family."

I said I did not mean that exactly, as it
was not the case. And, for the first time, it
struck me as sad, that one whom I never

^s

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 223

knew, whom I scarcely ever think of, should
be lost from among us, so lost as not to be
even named.

Doctor Urquhart asked me why I looked so
grave! At first I said I had rather not tell
him, and then I felt as if at that moment,
standing quietly talking in the lovely night,
after such a happy day, it were a comfort,
almost a necessity, to tell him anything, every-
thing.

"I was thinking of someone belonging to
me whom nobody knows of, whom we never
speak about. Hush, don't let them hear."

"Who was itt But I beg your pardon,
do not tell me unless you like."

From his tone, — he thought, I know he

thought Oh, what a ridiculous, impossible

thing! Then I was determined to tell.

"It was one — who was Papa's favourite
among us all."

"A sister?"

"No, a brother."

I had not time to say any more, for they were
just starting, nor am I satisfied that I was

224 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

right in saying so much. But the confidence
is safe with him, and he will never refer to
it ; he will feel, as we do, that a subject so
painful is best avoided, even among ourselves
— on the whole I am glad he knows.

Coming indoors, the girls made me very
angry by their jests, but the anger has
somehow evaporated now. What does it mat-
ter? As I told Lisabel, friends do not grow
on every hedge, though lovers may, and
when one finds a good man one ought to
value him, nor be ashamed of it either.

No, no, my sweet moon, setting so quickly
behind that belt of firs, I will like him if I
choose, as I like everything true and noble
wherever I find it in this world.

Moon, it is a good world, a happy world,
and grows happier the longer one lives in it.
So I will just watch your silver ladyship — a
nice "little lady" you are too, slipping away
from it with that satisfied farewell smile, and
then — I shall go to bed.

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 226

CHAPTER IX.

HIS STORY.

It is a fortnight since I wrote a line
here.

Last Sunday week I made a discovery —
in truth, two discoveries — after which I lost
myself, as it were, for many days.

It will be advisable not to see any more
of that family. Not that I have any proof
that they are the family — the name itself,
Johnson, and their acknowledged plebeian
origin, is sufficient evidence to the contrary.
But, if they had been!

The mere supposition, coming, instinctively,
that Sunday night, before reason argued it
down — was enough to cause me twelve such

vol. i. Q

226 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

hours as would be purchased dearly with
twelve years of life— even a life full of such
happiness as, I then learnt, is possible for a
man. But not for me. — Never for me!
. This phase of the subject is, however,
so exclusively my own, that even here I
will pass it over. It will be conquered by-and-
by — being discovered in time.

I went to the marriage — having promised.
She said, Doctor Urquhart never breaks his
promises. No. There is one promise — nay,
vow — kept unflinchingly for twenty years,
could it be broken now! It never could.
Before it is too late — I will take steps to
teach myself that it never shall.

I only joined the marriage-party during the
ceremony. They excused me the breakfast,
speeches, &c. — Treherne knew I was not welL
Also, she said I looked " over-worked,'' — and
there was a kind of softness in her eye, the
pity that all women have, and so readily
show.

She looked the very picture of a white
fairy, or a wood-nymph— or an angel, sliding

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 227

down on a sunshiny cloud to a man asleep.'
—He wakes and it Is all gone.

While the register was being signed—and
they wished me to be one of the attesting
witnesses — an idea came into my mind.

The family must have settled at Kockmount
for many years. Probably, the grandfather,
the farmer who wrote himself, plebeianly, u John
son," was buried here. Or — if he were dead, but
whether it was so or not, I had no clue—here
probably, would be registered the interment of
that brother to whom allusion had been made
as "papa's favourite," but in such a manner,
and with such evident distress, that to make
further inquiry about him was impossible. Be-
sides, I must have no more private talk with
her — with the one of the Misses Johnston
whom I know best.

This brother — I have calculated his possible
age, compared with theirs. Even were he the
eldest of them, he could not now be much
above thirty — if alive. Tliat person would now
be at least fifty.

Still, at once and for ever to root up any

228 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

such morbid, unutterable fancies, I thought it
would be as well to turn over the register-
books, as, without suspicion, it was this day
easy to do. On my way home I stopped at
the church — and, helped by the half-stupid sex-
ton and bell-ringer, went over the village re-
cords of, he declared, the last twenty years, and
more. In none of them was once named the
family of Johnston.

No proof, therefore, of my cause of dread —
not an atom, not a straw. All evidence hitherto
going directly counter to a supposition — the
horror of which would surpass all horrible co-
incidences that fate could work out for a
man's punishment. Let me put it aside.

The other thing — God help me! I believe
I shall also be able to put aside — being entirely
my own affair — and I myself being the only
sufferer.

' Now Treherne is married and away, there
will be no necessity to visit at Rockmount any
ihore.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 229

CHAPTEE X.

HER STORY.

What a. change a marriage makes — what a
blank it leaves in a house! Ours has been
very dull since poor Lisa went away.

I know not why I call her "poor Lisa."
She seems the gayest of the gay, and the
happiest of the happy; two characters which,
by the way, are not always identical. Her
letters from Paris are full of enjoyment. Au-
gustus takes her everywhere, and introduces
her to everybody. She was the "belle marine"
of a ball at the British Embassy, and has
been presented to my old aversion, though he
is really turning out a creditable individual in
some things; "never too late to mend," even

230 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

for a Louis Napoleon. Of course, Lisabel now
thinks him "the most charming man in the
world," except Augustus.

Strange, that she should take delight in
such dissipations. She, not three weeks married.
How very little she must have of her husband's
society. Now, I should think the pleasantest
way of spending a honeymoon would be to
get out of everybody's way, and have a little
peace and quiet, rambling about at liberty,
and looking at pretty places together. But
tastes differ ; that is not Lisabel' s fancy, nor was
her's the sort of marriage likely to make such
a honeymoon desirable. She used to say she
should get tired of the angel Gabriel if she
had him all to herself for four mortal weeks.
Possibly; I remember once making a similar
remark.

But surely that dread and weariness of two
people, in being left to one another's sole society,
must apply chiefly to cases of association for
mere amusement or convenience; not to those
who voluntarily bind their lives together, "for
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sick-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 231

ness and in health, to love and to cherish, till
death us do part;" how solemn the words are!
They thrilled me all through, on the morning
of Lisabel's marriage.

I have never set down here anything about
that day. I suppose it resembled most other
wedding-days — came and went like a dream,
and not a very happy dream either. There

seemed a cloud over us all.

*

One of the reasons was, Francis did not
come: at the last minute, he sent an apo-
logy; which was not behaving well, I thought.
Nor did the excuse seem a valid one. But
it might have been a painful day to him,
and Francis is one of those sort of people —
very pleasant, and not ill-meaning people either
— who like to escape pain, if possible. Still,
he might have considered that it was not
likely to be the happiest of days to Pene-
lope herself, nor made more so by his absence ;
— which she bore in perfect silence; and
nobody, except Augustus, who observed, laugh-
ingly, that it was "just like cousin Charteris,"
ventured any comment on the subject.

232 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

: I do not join Mrs. Granton and our Lisa?
in their tirades against long engagements. I
do not see why, when people are really fond 1
of one another, and cannot possibly be mar-
ried, they should not live contentedly be-
trothed for an indefinite time: it is certainly
better than living wholly apart, forlorn and
hopeless, neither having towards the other any
open right, or claim, or duty. But then
every betrothal should resemble marriage itself
in its perfect confidence, patience, and unex-
acting tenderness. Also, it ought never to
be made so public, or allowed to be so
cruelly talked over, as this engagement of
Penelope's.

Well, Francis did not appear, and every-
body left earlier than we had expected. On
the marriage evening, we were quite alone'
and the day after, Rockmount was its dull
self again, except the want of poor Lisa.

I still call her so — I cannot help it. We
never discover the value of things till we have
lost them. Out of every corner I miss our
Lisa — her light laugh that used to seem

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 233

heartless, yet was the merriest sound' in the
house; her tall, handsome figure sailing in and
about the rooms; her imperturbable good-
temper, which I often tried — her careless, un-
tidy ways, that used for ever to aggravate
Penelope— down to her very follies and flir-
tations, carried on to the last in spite of
Augustus.

My poor Lisa! The putting away of her
music from the piano, her books from
the shelf, and her clothes from the drawers,
cost me as sharp an agony as I ever had in
my life. I was not half good enough to her
when I had her, — if I had her again, how
different it should be. Ah, that is what we
always say, as the great shadow Time keeps
advancing and advancing, yet we always let it
slip by, and we cannot make it go back for a
single hour.

Mrs. Granton and Colin came to tea to-night.
Their company was a relief; our evenings are
often very dull. We sit all three together, but
no one has much sympathy with what the other
is doing or thinking ; as not seldom happens

234 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

in families, we each live in a distinct world of
our own, never intruded on, save when we collec-
tively entertain visitors. Papa asked Doctor
Urquhart to dinner twice, but received an apology
both times, which rather offended him, and he
says he shall not invite him again until he
has called. He ought to call, for an old man
likes attention, and is justified in exacting it.
To-night, while Mrs. Granton gossipped with
papa and Penelope, Colin talked to me. He
bears Lisabel's marriage far better than I ex-
pected, probably because he has got something
to do. He told me a long story about a row
of labourers' cottages, which Doctor Urquhart
advised him to build at the corner of the
moor, each with its bit of land, convertible
into a potato-field or a garden. There Colin
busies himself from morning till night, super-
intending, planning, building, draining, " work-
ing like a horse," he protests, " and never
enjoyed anything more in his life." He says,
he has seen a great deal of Doctor Urquhart
lately, and had great assistance from him in
the matter of these cottages.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 235

Then can lie be so exceedingly occupied as
not to have an hour or two for a visit ?
Shame on me for the suspicion! The idea
that Doctor Urquhart would, even in a polite
excuse, state a thing which was not true!

Colin is much improved. He is beginning
to suspect that Colin Granton, Esq., owner of
a free estate, and twenty-seven years old, has
got something to do besides lounge about,
shoot rabbits, and play billiards. He opened
up to my sympathy a long series of schemes
about these cottages: how he meant to insti-
gate industry, cleanliness, and, indeed, all the
cardinal virtues, by means of cottagers'
prizes for tidy houses, well-kept gardens, and
the best brought-up and largest families. He
will never be clever, poor Colin! but he may
be a most useful character in the county, and
he has the kindest heart in the world. By
the way, he told me in his ultra-simple fashion,
that somebody had informed him one of the
Rockmount young ladies said so! I felt
myself grow hot to the ears, which exceedingly
astonished Colin.

236 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

Altogether, a not unpleasant evening. But
oh, moon! — whom I saw making cross-panes
on the carpet, when I came in — it was not
like the evenings a month ago, when Lisabel
was at home.

I think women, as well as men, require
something to do. I wish I had it ; it would
do me as much good as it has done Colin. I
am beginning to fear I lead a wretchedly idle
life: all young ladies ait home do, it seems,
except perhaps the eldest sister, if she chances
to be such a woman as our Penelope. Why
cannot I help Penelope T Mrs. Granton took it
for granted that I do ; that I shall be the
greatest comfort and assistance to Miss John-
ston, now Miss Lisabel is gone.

I am not, the least in the world ! which I
would fain have explained, only mere friends can
never understand the ins and outs of a
family. If I offered to assist her in the
house, how Penelope would stare! Or even
in her schools and parish — but that I cannot
do. Teaching is to me perfectly intolerable.
The moment I have to face two dozen pairs

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 237

of round eyes, every particle of sense takes
flight, and I become the veriest of cowards,
ready to sink through the floor. The same,
too, in district visiting. What business have
I, because I happen to be the clergyman's
daughter, to go lifting the latch, and poking
about poor people's houses, obliging them to
drop me curtseys, and receive civilly my tracts
and advice — which they neither read nor fol-
low; and might be none the better for it
if they did?

Yet this may be only my sophistries for not
doing what I so heartily dislike. Others do
it — and successfully : take by storm the poor
folks' hearts, and, what is better, their confi-
dence; never enter without a welcome, and
depart without a blessing; as, for instance, Dr.
Urquhart. Mrs. Granton was telling about
his doings among the poor families down
with fever and ague, near the camp, at Moor-
edge.

Why cannot I do the same good? not so
much, of course, but just a little ? Why can
not somebody show me how to do it ?

238 A LIFE FOB A LIFE*

No, I am not worthy. My quarter-century of
life has been of no more use to myself or any
human creature than that fly's which my fire has
stirred up to a little foolish buzzing in the
window-curtain, before it drops and dies. I
might drop down and die in the same man-
ner, leaving no better memorial.

There — I hear Penelope in her room fidget-
ting about her drawers, and scolding the house-
maid — she is always taking juvenile incompe-
tent housemaids out of her village school,
teaching and lecturing them for a twelve-
month, and then grumbling because they leave
her. Yet, this is doing good: sometimes, they
come back and thank her for having made
capital servants of them; and very seldom,
indeed, does such a case happen, as pretty,
silly Lydia Cartwright's, who went up to
London and never came back any more.

My dear sister Penelope, who, except in
company, hardly has a civil word for any-
body — Francis excepted: — Penelope, who has
managed the establishment ever since she was
a girl of sixteen; has kept the house com-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 239

fortable, and maintained the credit of the
family to the world without, — truly, with all
your little tempers, sneers, and crabbednesses,
you are worth a dozen of your sister Theodora.

I wonder if Doctor Urquhart thinks so.
He looked at her closely, more than once,
when we were speaking about Francis. He
and she would have many meeting points of
interest, if they only knew it, and talked
much together. She is not very sweet to him,
but that would not matter; he only values
people for what they are, and not for the
manner in which they behave to himself.
. Perhaps, if they were better acquainted, Penelope
might prove a better friend for him than the
"little lady."

"Little lady! 9 ' that is just such a name as
one would give to an idle, useless butterfly-
creature, of no value but as an amusement,
a plaything of leisure-hours; in time of busi-
ness or care to be altogether set aside and
forgotten.

Does he think me thatl If he does — why,
let him.

240 A MFE FOB A LIFE.

•

A fine proof of how dull Kockmount is,
and how little I have to write about when
I go on scribbling such trivialities as these.
If no better subjects can be found, I shall
give up my journal. Meantime, I intend next
week to begin a serious course of study, in
history, Latin and German, for the latter, in-
stead of desultory reading, I shall try written
translations, probably from my favourite, Wal-
lenstein. — To think that anybody should have
been ignorant even of the name of Max
Piccolomini I He always was my ideal of a
hero, — faithful, trustful, brave, and infinitely
loving; yet able to renounce love itself for
the sake of conscience. — And then, once a-
week I shall have a long letter to write to
Lisabel— I who never had a regular corres-
pondence in my life. It will be almost
as good as Penelope's with Francis Char-
teris.

At last, I hear Penelope dismiss her maiden,
bolt the door, and settle for the night.
When, for a wonder, she finds herself alone
and quiet, with nothing to do, and nobody to

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 241

lecture, — I wonder what Penelope thinks
about? Is it Francis? Do people in their
position always think about one another the
last thing? Probably. When all the day's cares
and pleasures are ended, and the rest of the
world shut out, the heart would naturally
turn to the only one in whom, next to
Heaven, is its real rest, its best comfort,
closer than either friend, or brother, or sister
— less another person than half itself?
No sentiment ! Go to bed, Theodora.

VOL. I.

242 A LITE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER XI.

HIS STORY.

I had almost given up writing here. Is it
wise to begin again? Yet, to-day, in the silent
hut, with the east wind howling outside almost
as fiercely as it used to howl last winter
over the steppes of the Caucasus, one must
do something, if only to kill time.

Usually, I have little need for that resource ;
this barrack business engrosses every leisure
hour.

The commander-in-chief has at length pro-
mised a commission of inquiry, if sufficient
data can be supplied to him to warrant it.
I have, therefore, been collecting evidence
from every barrack in the United Kingdom,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 243

— and visiting personally all within a day or
two days' leave from the camp. The most
important were those of the metropolis.

It is needless here to recur to details of
which my head has been full all the week ;
till a seventh day's rest and change of ideas
becomes almost priceless. Unprofessional men
cannot understand this; young Granton could
not, when coming down from town with me
last night, he was lamenting that he
should not get at his cottage-building, which
he keeps up in defiance of winter weather, till
Monday morning.

Mr. Granton indulged me with much con-
versation about some friends of his, which
inclines me to believe that "the kindest heart
in the world" has not suffered an incurable
blow, and is already proceeding to seek con-
solation elsewhere. It may be so. The young
are pleasant to the young : the happy delight'
in the happy.

To return to my poor fellows; my country
bumpkins and starving mechanics, caught by
the thirteen pence a-day, and after all the

244 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

expensive drilling that is to make them pro-
per food for powder, herded together like
beasts in a stall, till, except under strong
coercion, the beast nature is apt to get uppermost
— and no wonder, I must not think of rest
till I have left no stone unturned for the
furtherance of this scheme concerning my poor
fellows.

And yet, the older one grows, the more keenly
one feels how little power one individual
man has for good — whatever he may have
for evil. At least, this^ is the suggestion
of a morbid spirit, after aiming at everything
and doing almost nothing — which seemed the
brief catalogue of my week's labour, last
night.

People are so slow to join in any reformatory
schemes. They will talk enough of the need
for it, — but they will not act — it is too much
trouble. Most men are engrossed in their
own private concerns, business, amusements,
or ambitions. It is incredible, the difficulty I
had in hunting up some, who were the most
active agents of good in the Crimea — and of

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 245

these, how few could be convinced that there
was anything needed to be done at home.

At the Horse Guards, where my face must
be as familiar as that of the clock on the
quadrangle to those gentlemanly young clerks
— no attention was wanting, but that of fur-
thering my business. However, the time was
not altogether wasted, as in various talks
with former companions, whom I there by
chance waylaid, ideas were thrown out that
may be brought to bear in different quarters.
And, as always happens, from some of the
very last quarters where anything was to be
expected, the warmest interest and assistance
came.

Likewise — and this forms the bright spot
in a season not particularly pleasant — during
my brief stay in London, the first for many
years, more than one familiar face has come
across me out of far back times, with a wel-
come and remembrance, the warmth and
heartiness of which both surprised and cheered
me.

Among those I met on Thursday, was an

846 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

old colonel, under whom I went out on my
first voyage as assistant-surgeon, twelve years
ago. He stopped me in the Mall, addressing
me by name; I had almost forgotten his,
till his cordial greeting brought it to mind*
Then we fell to upon many mutual questions
and reminiscences.

*

He said that he should have known me any-
where, though I was altered a good deal in
some respects.

"All for the better, though, my boy — beg
pardon, Doctor — but you were such a slip of
a lad, then. Thought we should have had
to throw you overboard before the voyage
was half over, but you cheated us all, you
see, — and, 'pon my life, hard as you must
have been at it since then, you look as if
you had many years more of work in you
yet."

I told him I hoped so, — which I do, for
some things, and then, in answer to his
friendly questions, I entered into the business
which had brought me to London.

The good colonel was brimful of interest*

▲ LIFE FOB A LIFE. 247

He has a warm heart, plenty of money,
thinks that money can do everything. I had
the greatest difficulty in persuading him that his
cheque-book would not avail me with the com-
mander-in-chief, or the honourable British
officers whom I hoped to stir up to some
little sympathy with the men they com-
manded.

"But can't I help you at all? — can't my
son, either? — you remember Tommy, who used
to dance the sailor's hornpipe on the deck.
Such a dandy young fellow; — got him a place
under Government— capital berth, easy hours,
eleven till four, and regular work — the whole
Times to read through daily. Ha! ha! you
understand, eh ? "

I laughed too, for it was a pretty accu-
rate description of what I had this week
seen in Government offices; indeed, in public
offices of all kinds, where the labour is
so largely sub-divided as to be in the
responsible hands of very few, and the work
and the pay generally follow in an oppo-
site ratio of progression. In the present in*

246 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

stance, from what I remember of him, no
doubt such a situation would exactly suit
Master Tommy Turton.

His father and I strolled up and down the
shiny half-dried pavement till the street-lamps
were lighted, and the club-windows began to
brighten and glow.

"You'll dine with me, of course — not at the
United Service — it's my day with Tom at his
club, the New Universal, capital club too.
No apologies; we'll quarter ourselves upon
Tommy, he will be delighted. He's extremely
proud of his club; the young rogue costs me
— it's impossible to say what Tom costs me
per annum, over and above his pay. Yet he
is a good lad, too — as lads go-— holds up his
head among all the young fellows of the
club, and keeps the very best of company."

So went on the worthy old father — with
more, which I y forget. I had been on my
feet all day, and was what women call "tired,"
-—when they delight to wheel out arm-chairs
and push warmed slippers under wet feet — at
least, so I have seen done.

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 249

London club-life was new to me; nor was
I aware that in this England, this "home,"
— words, which abroad we learn to think synony-
mous and invest with an inexpressible charm, —
so large a proportion of the middle classes
assume by choice the sort of life which, on
foreign service, we put up with of necessity;
the easy selfish life into which a male com-
munity is prone to fall. The time-honoured
United Service, I was acquainted with; but
the New Universal was quite a dazzle of
brilliant plate, a palace of upholstery. Tom
had not come in, but his father showed me
over his domains with considerable pride.

"Yes; this is how we live — he at his club
and I at mine. We have two tidy bed-
rooms, somewhere or other, hard by, — and
thaf s all. A very jolly life, I assure you, if
one hasn't the gout or the blues; we have
kept to it ever since the poor mother died,
and Henrietta married. I sometimes tell Tom he
ought to settle ; but he says it would be slow,
and he can't afford it. Hollo ! here's the boy."

Tom — a "boy" six feet high, good-looking

250 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

and well-dressed, after the exact pattern of a
few dozen more, whom we had met stroll-
ing arm-in-arm down Pall-Mail — greeted me
with great civility, and said he remembered
me perfectly — though my unfortunately quick
ears detected him asking his father, aside,
" where on earth he had picked up that old
fogie!"

We dined well — and a good dinner is not
a bad thing. As a man gets old, he may
be allowed some cheer — in fact, he needs it.
Whether, at twenty-four, he needs five courses
and half-a-dozen kinds of wine is another
question. But Master Tom was my host, so
silence ! Perhaps I am becoming " an old
fogie."

After dinner, the colonel opened out warmly
upon my business, which his son evidently
considered a bore.

"He really did not understand the matter;
it was not in his department of public busi-
ness; the governor always thought they must
know everything that was going on, when, in
truth, they knew nothing at all. He should

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 251

be most happy, but had not the least
notion what it was in his power to do for
Doctor Urquhart."

Doctor Urquhart laboured to make the
young gentleman understand that he really
did not want him to do anything, to which
Tom listened with that philosophical laissez-
faire, kept just within the bounds of polite-
ness, that we of an elder generation are prone
to find fault with. At last, an idea struck him.

"Why, father, there's Charteris, — knows
everything and everybody — would be just the
man for you. There he is."

And he pointed eagerly to a gentleman, who>
six tables off, lounged over his wine and news-
paper.

That morning, as I stood talking in an ante-
room, at the Horse Guards, this gentleman
had caught my notice, leaning over one of the
clerks, and enlivening their dullness by making
a caricature. Now my phiz was quite at their
service, but it seemed scarcely fair for any
but that king of caricature, "Punch," to make
free with the honest, weather-beaten features of

252 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

the noble old veteran who was talking with me.
So I just intervened — not involuntarily — be-
tween the caricaturist and my — shall I honour
myself by calling him my friend? the good old
warrior, might not deny it. For Mr. Char-
teris, he apparently did not wish to own my
acquaintance, nor had I any desire to resume
his. We passed without recognition, as I
would willingly have done now, had not
Colonel Turton seized upon the name.

"Tom's right. Charteris is the very man.
Has enormous influence, and capital connec-
tions, though, between you and me, Doctor,
calls himself as poor as a church-mouse."

"Five hundred a-year," said Tom, grimly. '
"Wish I'd as much! Still, he's a nice fellow,
and jolly good company. Here, waiter, take
my compliments to Mr. Charteris, and ' will
he do us the honour of joining us?"

Mr. Charteris came.

He appeared surprised at sight of me, but
we both went through the ceremony of intro-
duction without mentioning that it was not
for the first time. And during the whole con-

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 253

versation, which lasted until the dinner-
sounds ceased, and the long, bright, splendid
dining-room was all but deserted, we neither
of us once adverted to the little parlour
where, for a brief five minutes, Mr. Charteris
and myself had met some weeks before.

I had scarcely noticed him then; now I did.
He bore out Tom's encomium and the colonel's.
He is a highly intelligent, agreeable person,
apparently educated to the utmost point of
classical refinement. The sort of man who
would please most women, and who, being
intimate in a family of sisters, would with
them involuntarily become their standard of all
that is admirable in our sex.

In Mr. Charteris was much really to be
admired : a grace bordering on what in one
sex we call sweetness, in the other effeminacy.
Talent, too, not original or remarkable, but
indicating an evenly-cultivated, elegant mind.
Rather narrow, it might be — all about him was
small, neat, regular; nothing in the slightest
degree eccentric, or diverging from the ordi-
nary, being apparently possible to him; a

254 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

pleasure - loving temperament, disinclined for
active energy in any direction — this completed
my impression of Mr. Francis Charteris.

Though he gave me no information, — indeed,
he seemed like my young friend Tom to
make a point of knowing as little and taking
as slight interest as possible, in the state
machinery of which he formed a part — he con-
tributed very considerably to the enjoyment of
the evening. It was he who suggested our
adjournment to the theatre.

"Unless Doctor Urquhart objects. But I
dare say we can find a house where the
performance trenches on none of the ten
commandments, about which, I am aware, he
is rather particular."

"Oh," cried Tom, "'Thou shalt not steal,'
from the French ; and * Thou shalt do no mur-
der* on the Queen's English, are the only
commandments indispensable on the stage.
Come away, father."

"You're a sad dog," said the father, shak-
ing his fist at him, with a delighted grin,
which reminded me of hornpipe-days.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 255

But the sad dog knew where to find the
best bones to pick, and by no means dry,
either. Now, though I am not a book-man, I
love my Shakspere well enough not to like
him acted — his grand old flesh and blood
digged up and served out to this modern
taste as a painted, powdered, dressed-up skele-
ton. But this night I saw him "in his
habit as he lived," presented "in very form
and fashion of the time." There was a good
deal of show, certainly, it being a pageant
play ; but you felt show was natural ; that just
in such a way the bells must have rung,
and the people shouted, for the living Boling-
broke. The acting, too, was natural; and to
me, a plain man, accustomed to hold women
sacred, and to believe that a woman's arms
should be kept solely for the man who
loves her, I own it was a satisfaction when
the stage Queen clung to the stage King
Richard, in that pitiful parting, where, —

"Bad men, ye violate
A twofold marriage — 'twixt my crown and me,
And then between me and my married wife,"

266 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

it was a satisfaction, I say, to know that
it was her own husband the actress was kiss-
ing.

This play, which Tom and the colonel
voted "slow," gave me two hours of the
keenest, most utterly oblivious, enjoyment; a
desideratum not easily attainable.

Mr. Charteris considered it fine in its way;
but, after all, there was nothing like the opera.

"Oh, Charteris is opera-mad," said Tom.
"Every subscription-night, there he is, wedged
in the crowd at the horrid little passage
leading out of the Haymarket — among a knot
of his cronies, who don't mind making mar-
tyrs of themselves for a bit of tootle-te-tooing,
a kick-up, and a twirl. Well, I'm not fond
of mu8ic. ,,

"I am," said Mr. Charteris, drily.

"And of looking at pretty women, too,
eh, my dear fellow 1"

" Certainly."

And here he diverged to a passing criti
ci8m on the pretty women in the boxes round
us: who were not few. I observed them, also

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 257

— for I notice women's faces more than I was
wont — but none were satisfactory, even to the
eye. They all seemed over-conscious of them-
selves and their looks, except one small creature,
in curls, and a red mantle — about the age of the
poor wounded Russ, who might have been my
own little adopted girl by this time, if she had
not died.

I wish, sometimes, she had not died. My
life would have been less lonely, could I have
adopted that child.

There may be more beauty — I have heard
there is, in the upper class of Englishwomen than
in any race of women on the globe. But a
step lower in rank, less smoothly cosmopolitan,
more provincially and honestly Saxon ; reserved,
yet frank; simple, yet gay, would be the English-
woman of one's heart. The man who dare open
his eyes, fearlessly, to the beauties of such an one
— seek her in a virtuous middle-class home, ask
her of her proud father and mother ; then win
her and take her, joyfully, to sit by his happy
hearth, wife — matron — mother —

I forget how that sentence was to have ended ;

vol. i. s

258 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

however, it is of little consequence. It was
caused [partly by some reflection on this club-life,
and another darker side of it, of which I caught
some glimpses when I was in London.

We finished the evening at the theatre plea-
santly. In the sort of atmosphere we were in,
harmless enough, but glaring, unquiet, and
unhome-like, I was scarcely surprised that Mr.
Charteris did not once name the friends at whose
house I first met him; indeed, he seemed to
avoid the slightest approach to the subject.
Only once, as we were pushing together, side
by side, into the cool night air, he asked me,
in a low hurried tone, if I had been to Rock-
mount lately ? He had heard I was present at
the marriage.

I believe I made some remark about his
absence being much regretted that day.

u Yes — yes. Shall you be there soon ? "
The question was put with an anxiety, which
my answer in the negative evidently relieved.

"Oh, then — I need send no message. I
thought you were very intimate. A charming
family — a very charming family ."

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 259

His eyes were wandering to some ladies of
fashion who had recognised him — whom he put
into their carriage with that polite assiduity
which seems an instinct with him, and in the
crowd we lost sight of Mr. Charteris.

Twice afterwards I saw him ; once, driving in
the park with two ladies in a coroneted carriage:
and again walking in the dusk of the afternoon
down Kensington-road. This time he started,
gave me the slightest recognition possible, and
walked on faster than ever. He need not
have feared: — I had no wish or intention of
resuming our acquaintance. The more I hear
of him, the more increases my surprise —
nay, even not unmixed with anxiety — at his
position in the family at Rockmount.

Here I was suddenly called out to a bad
accident case, some miles across the country;
whence I have only returned in time for
bed.

It was impossible to do anything for the
poor fellow; one of Granton's labourers, who

82

2&)

A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

knew me by sight. I could only wait till all
was over, and the widow a little composed.

At her urgent request, I sent a note to
Rockmount, hard by, begging Miss Johnston
would let her know if there had been heard
anything of Lydia — a daughter, once in ser-
vice with the Johnstons, afterwards in London
— now — as the poor old mother mournfully
expressed it — "gone wrong."

To my surprise, Miss Johnston answered
the message in person, and a most painful
conversation ensued. She is a good woman
— no doubt of that : but she is, as Treherne
once said of her father, "as sharp as a
needle and as hard as a rock."

It being already dark, of course I saw
her safe back to her own gate. She in-
formed me that the family were all quite
well, which was the sole conversation that
passed between us, except concerning the
poor dead labourer, James Cartwright, and
his family, of whom, save Lydia, she spoke
compassionately, saying they had gone through
much trouble.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 261

Walking along by her side, and trying to

find a cause for the exceeding bitterness and

harshness of spirit she had evidenced, it struck me

that this lady was herself not ignorant of trouble.

I left her at the gate under the bush of
ivy. Through the bars I could see, right

across the wet garden, the light streaming

from the hall-door.

Now to bed, and to sleep, if this heart
will allow: it has been rather unmanageable
lately, necessitating careful watching, as will
be the case till there is nothing here but an
empty skull.

If only I could bring this barrack matter to
a satisfactory start, from which good results
might reasonably be expected, I would at once go
abroad. Anywhere — it is all the same. A
rumour is afloat that we may soon get the
route for the East, or China; which I could
be well content with, as my next move.

Far away — far away ; with thousands of
miles of tossing sea between me and this old
England ; far away out of all sight or re-
membrance. So best.

262 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Next time I call on Widow Cartwright
ehall be after dark, when, without the
slightest chance of meeting any one, it will
be easy to take a few atepB further up the
village. There is a cranny in one place in
the wall, whence I know one can get a
very good view of the parlour-window, where
they never close the shutters till quite bed-
time.

And, before our regiment leaves, it will
be right I should call — to omit this would
hardly be civil, after all the hospitality
I have received. So I will call some
wet day, when they are not likely to be
out, — when, probably, the younger Bister
will be sitting at her books upstairs in the
attic, which, she told me, she makes her
tudy, and gets out of the way of visitors.
Perhaps she will not take the trouble to
tome down. Not even for a shake of the
Iiacd and a good-bye — good-bye for ever.

0, mother — unknown mother — who must have
surely loved my father; well enough, too, to leave
all friends and follow him, a poor lieutenant of

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 263

a marching regiment, up and down the world — if
I had but 'died with you when you brought
me into this same troublesome world, how
much it would have saved!

' *

264 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

CHAPTER XII.

HER STORY.

Just finished my long letter to Lisabel, and
lingered over the direction, "Mrs. Treherne,
Treherne Court."

How strange to think of our Lisa as mistress
there. Which she is in fact, for Lady Treherne,
a mild elderly lady, is wholly engrossed in
tending Sir William, who is very infirm. The
old people's rule seems merely nominal — it is
Lisabel and Augustus who reign. Their domain
is a perfect palace — and what a queen Miss Lis
must look therein! How well she will maintain
her position, and enjoy it tool In her case,

A. LIFE FOB A LIFE. 265

are no poetical sufferings from haughty parents,
delighted to crush a poor daughter-in-law

u With the burthen of an honour
Unto which she was not born."

Already, they both like her and are proud of

her — which is not surprising. I thought I had

never seen a more beautiful creature than my

sister Lisa, when, on her way to Treherne

Court, she came home for a day.

Home? I forget, it is not her home now.
How strange this must have been to her — if she
thought about it. Possibly she did not; being
never given to sentiment. And, though with
us she was not the least altered, it was amusing
to see how, to everybody else, she appeared
quite the married lady; even with Mrs. Gran-
ton, who, happening to call that day, was
lighted to see her, and seems not to cherish the
smallest resentment in the matter of " my Colin."
Very generous — for it is not the good old lady's
first disappointment — she has been going a-
wooing for her son ever since he was one-and-
twenty, and has not found a daughter-in-law yet.

Coliu, too, conducted himself with the utmost

266 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

sangfroid; and when Augustus, who is beam-
ing with benevolence to the whole human
race, invited him to escort his mother, Penelope
and me, on our first visit to Treherne Court,
he accepted the invitation as if it were the
pleasantest in the world. Truly, if women's
hearts are as impressionable as wax, men's are
as tough as gutta-percha. Talk of breaking
them — faugh !

I hope it indicates no barbarity on my part,
if I confess that it would have raised my
opinion of him, and his sex in general, to have
seen Colin for a month or so, at least, whole-
somely miserable.

Lisabel behaved uncommonly well with regard
to him, and, indeed, in every way. She was
as bright as a May morning, and full of the
good qualities of her Augustus — whom she
really likes very much after her fashion. She
will doubtless be among the many wives who
become extremely attached to their husbands,
after marriage. To my benighted mind, it has
always seemed advisable to have a slight pre-
ference before that ceremony.

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 267

She told me, with a shudder that was alto-
gether natural and undisguised, how glad she
was that they had been married at once, and
that Augustus had sold out — for there is a
chance of the regiment's being soon ordered
on foreign service. I had not heard of this
before. It was some surprise.

Lisabel was very affectionate to me the whole
day, and, in going away, said she hoped I did
not miss her much, and that I should get a
good husband of my own soon ; I did not know
what a comfort it was.

"Somebody to belong to you — to care for
you — to pet you — your own personal property
in short — who can't get rid of you, even when
you're old and ugly. Yes, Tm glad I married
poor dear Augustus. And, child, I hope* to
see you married also. A good little thing
like you would make a capital wife to some-
body. Why, simpleton, I declare she's cry-
ing!"

It must have been the over-excitement of
this day; but I felt as if, had I not
cried, my temples and throat would have burst

268 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

with a choking pain, that lasted long after Lisa-
bel was gone.

They did not altogether stay more than four
hours. Augustus talked of riding over to the
camp, to see his friend, Doctor Urquhart, whom
he has heard nothing of since the wedding-day ;
but Lisabel persuaded him against it. Men's
friendship with one another is worth little,
apparently.

Penelope here said she could answer for
Doctor Urquhart's being in the land of the living,
as she had met him a week before at Cartwright's
cottage, the day the poor old man was killed.
Why did she not tell me of this? But then
she has taken such a prejudice against him,
and exults so over what she calls his "rude
behaviour to the family."

It always seemed to me very foolish to
be for ever defending those whose character
is itself a sufficient defence. If a false word is
spoken of a friend, one must of course deny it,
disprove it. But to be incessantly battling
with personal prejudice or animosity, I would
scorn it! Ay, as utterly as I would scorn

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 269

defending myself under similar attacks. I
think, in every lesser affection that is worth
the name — the same truth holds good — which
I remember being struck with in a play,
the only play I ever saw acted. The
heroine is told by her sister —

44 Katherine,
You love this man — defend him."

She answers : —

44 You have said,
I love him. That's my defence. Til not
Assert, in words, the truth on which I've cast
The stake of life. I love him, and am silent."

At least, I think the passage ran thus — for
I cut it out of a newspaper afterwards, and
long remembered it. What an age it seems
since — that one play, to which Francis
took us. And what a strange, dim dream,
has become the impression it left ; some-
thing like that I always have in reading of
Thekla and Max; of love so true and strong
— so perfect in its holy strength, that nei-
ther parting, grief, nor death, have any
power over it. Love, which makes you feel

270 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

that once to have possessed it, must be bliss un-
utterable, unalienable — better than any happiness
or, prosperity that this world could give — better
than anything in the world or out of it,
except the love of God.

I sometimes think of this Katherine in this
play, when she refuses to let her lover barter
conscience for life, but when the test comes,
says to him, herself, "No, die!" Also, of
that scene in Wallenstein, when Thekla bids
her lover be faithful to his honour and his coun-
try, not to her — when, just for one minute,
he holds her tight, tight in his arms — Max,
I mean. Death, afterwards, could not have
been so very hard.

I am beginning to give up — strange, per-
haps, that it should have lasted so long —
my belief in the possible happiness of life.
Apparently, people were never meant to be
happy. Small flashes of pleasantness come
and go ; or, it may be that in some few
lives, are ecstatic moments, such as this I
have been thinking of, and then it is all
over. But many people go plodding along

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 271

to old age, in a dull, straight road, with
little sorrow and no joy. Is my life to be
such as this? Probably. Then the question
arises, what am I to do with it ?

It sometimes crosses my mind what Doctor
Urquhart said, about his life being " owed."
All our lives are, in one sense : to ourselves,
to our fellow-creatures, or to God ; or, is
there some point of union which includes all
three? If I only could find it out!

Perhaps, according to Colin Granton's lately
learned doctrine — I know whence learned — it
is the having something to do. Something
to be, your fine preachers of self-culture
would suggest ; but self-culture is often no
better than idealised egotism ; people sick of
themselves want something to do.

Yesterday, driving with papa along the
edges of the camp, where we never go now,
I caught sight of the slope where the hos-
pital is, and could even distinguish the poor
fellows sitting in the sun, or lounging about
in their blue hospital clothes. It made me
think of Smyrna and Scutari.

272 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

No ; while there is bo much misery and
sin in the world, a man has no right to
lull himself to sleep in a paradise of self-
improvement and self-enjoyment ; in which
there is but one 'supreme Adam, one perfect
specimen of humanity, namely himself. He
ought to go out and work — fight, if it most
be, wherever duty calls him. Nay, even a woman
has hardly any right, in these days, to sit
still and dream. The life of action is nobler
than the life of thought.

So I keep reasoning with myself. If I
could only find a good and adequate reason
for some things which perplex me sorely,
about myself and — other people, it would be
a great comfort.

To-day, among a heap of notes which papa
gave me to make candle-lighters of, I found
this note, which I kept, the handwriting being
peculiar, — and I have a few crotchets about
handwriting.

" Dear Sir : —

"Press of business, and other

unforeseen circumstances, with which I am

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 273

fettered, make it impossible for me to accept any
invitations at present. I hope you will believe
that I can never forget the hospitalities of
Rockmount, and that I am ever most gratefully

" Your faithful servant,

"Max Urquhabt."

Can he, then, mean our acquaintance to
cease ? Should we be a hindrance in his
busy, useful life — such a frivolous family as
ours? It may be so. Yet I fear papa will
be hurt.

This afternoon, though it was Sunday, I
could not stay in the house or garden, but
went out, far out upon the moor, and walked
till I was weary. Then I sat me down upon
a heather-bush, all in a heap, my arms clasped
round my knees, trying to think out this
hard question — what is to become of me; what
am I to do with my life? It lies before me,
apparently as bleak, barren and monotonous as
these miles of moorland — stretching on and on
in dull undulations, or dead flats, till a range
of low hills ends all! Yet, sometimes, this
wild region has looked quite different. I re-

VOL. I. t

274 A LIFE FOR A LIFB.

member describing it once — how beautiful it
was, how breezy and open, with the ever-
changing tints of the moor, the ever-shifting
and yet always steadfast arch of the sky. To-
day I found it all colourless, blank, and cold ;
its monotony almost frightened me. I could
do nothing but crouch on my heather-bush
and cry.

Tears do one good occasionally. When I
dried mine, the hot weight on the top of my
head seemed lighter. If there had been any-
body to lay a cool hand there, and say, u Poor
child, never mind!" it might have gone away.
But there was no one: Lisa was the only one
who ever "petted" me.

I thought, I would go home and write a
long letter to Lisa.

Just as I was rising from my heather-
bush, my favourite haunt, being as round as
a mushroom, as soft as a velvet cushion,
and hidden by two great furze-bushes, from,
the road — I heard footsteps approaching. Hav-
ing no mind to be discovered in that gipsy-
plight, I crouched down again.

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 275

People's footsteps are so different, it is
often easy to recognize them. This, I think,
I should have known anywhere — quick, regular,
determined; rather hasty, as if no time could
be lost; as if, according to the proverb, it
would never "let the grass grow under it."
Crouchiag lower, I listened; I heard him stop
and speak to an old woman, who had been
coming np the road towards the village. No
words were distinguishable, but the voice —
I could not have mistaken it — it is not like our
English voices.

What a strange feeling it is, listening to people's
steps or voices, when they do not know you are
near them. Something like being a ghost, and
able to watch them — perhaps watch over them
— without its being unnatural or wrong.

He stood talking — I should say, Doctor
Urquhart stood talking — for several minutes.
The other voice, by its queruloujmess, I guessed
to be poor Mrs. Cartwright's ; but it softened
by degrees, and then I heard distinctly her
earnest "thank'ee, Doctor — God bless'ee, sir,"
as he walked away, and vanished over the

T2

276 A LIFE FOR A LIFE.

slope of the hill. She looked after him a
minute, and then, turning, toddled on her way.

When I overtook her, which was not for
some time, she told me the whole story
of her troubles, and how good Doctor
Urquhart had been. Also, the whole story
about her poor daughter — at least as
much as is known about it. Mrs. Cartwright
thinks she is still somewhere in London, and
Doctor Urquhart has promised to find her
out, if he can. I don't understand much
about these sort of dreadful things — Penelope
never thought it right to tell us : but I can
see that what Doctor Urquhart has said has
given great comfort to the mother of unfortunate
Lydia.

"Miss," said the old woman, with the tears
running down, "the Doctor's been an angel
of goodness to me, and there's many a one
in these parts as can say the same — though
he be only a stranger, here to-day and gone
to-morrow, as one may say. Eh, dear, it'll
be an ill day for many a poor body when he
goes."

• I

A LIFE FOB A LIFE, 277

I am glad I saw him — glad I heard all this.
Somehow, hearing of things like this makes one
feel quieter.

It does not much matter after all — it does
not, indeed 1 I never wanted anybody to
think about me, to care for me — half as much
as somebody to look up to — to be satisfied in
— to honour and reverence. I can do that —
still!

Like a fool, I have been crying again, till
I ought, properly, to tear this leaf out, and
begin again afresh. No, I will not. Nobody
will ever see it, and it does no harm to any
human being.

" God bless him," the old woman said. I
might say something of the like sort, too.
For he did me a deal of good : he was very
kind to me.

278 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

CHAPTER XHI.

HER STORY.

Papa and Penelope are out to dinner — I, my-
self, was out yesterday, and did not return
till they were gone; so I sit up for them;
and, meantime, shall amuse myself with writing
here.

The last date was Sunday, and now it is
only Tuesday, but much seems to have hap-
pened between. And yet nothing really has
happened but two quiet days at the Cedars,
and one gay evening — or people would call
it gay.

It has been the talk of the neighbourhood
for weeks — this amateur concert at the camp.
We got our invitation, of course. The such

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 279

and such Begiments (I forget which, all but
one) presenting their compliments to the
Eeverend William Henry and the Misses John-
ston, and requesting their company; but papa
shook his head, and Penelope was indifferent.
Then I gave up all idea of going, if I ever
had any.

The surprise was almost pleasant when Mrs.
Granton, coming in, declared she would take
me herself, as it was quite necessary I should
have a little gaiety to keep me from moping
after Lisabel. Papa consented, and I went.

Driving along over the moors was plea-
sant, too — even though it snowed a little. I
found myself laughing back at Colin, who sat
on the box, occasionally turning to shake the
white flakes off him like a great Polar bear. His
kindly, hearty face was quite refreshing to
behold.

I have a habit of growing attached to place?,
independently of the persons connected with
them. Thus, I cannot imagine any time when
it would not be an enjoyment to drive up to
the hall-door of the Cedars, sweeping round

280 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

in the wide curve that Colin is so proud of
making his carriage-wheels describe: to look
back up the familiar hill-side, where the win-
ter sun is shining on that slope of trees, — then
run into the house, through the billiard-room,
and out again by the dining-room windows,
on to the broad terrace. There, if there is
any sunshine, you will be sure to get it, —
any wind, it will blow in your face; any bit
of colour or landscape beauty, you will catch
it on this green lawn; the grand old cedars
— the distant fir-woods, lying in a still mass
of dark blue shadow, or standing up, one by
one, cut out sharply against the brilliant west.
Whether it is any meteorological peculiarity
I know not ; but it seems to me as if, what-
ever the day has been, there is always a fair
sunset at the Cedars.

I love the place. If I went away for
years — if I never saw it again — I should
always love it and remember it. Mrs. Gran-
ton too, for she seems an integral part of
the picture. Her small, elderly figure, trotting
in and out of the rooms; her clear loud voice

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 281

—she is a little deaf—- along the upstairs*
passages; her perpetual activity — I think
she is never quiet < hut when she is asleep.
Above all, her unvarying goodness and cheer-
fulness — truly the Cedars would not be the
Cedars without my dear old lady!

I don't think she ever knew how fond I was
of her, even as a little girl. Nobody could help
it ; never anybody had to do with Mrs. Gran-
ton without becoming fond of her. She is almost
the only person living of whomvl never heard
anyone speak an unkind word ; because she her-
self never speaks an ill word of any human being.
Every one she knows, is "the kindest creature,"
" the nicest creature," u the cleverest creature "
— I do believe if you presented to her Dia-
bolus himself, she would only call him "poor
creature;" would suggest that his temper must
have aggravated by the unpleasant place he
had to live in, and set about some plan for
improving his complexion, and concealing his
horns and tail.

, At dinner, I took my favourite seat, where,
seen through this greatest of the three windows, —

282 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

a cedar with its " broad, green layers of shade/ 9
is intersected by a beech — still faintly yellow
—as I have seen it, autumn after autumn, from
the same spot. It seemed just like old times.
I felt happy; as if something pleasant were
about to happen, and said as much.

Mrs. Granton looked delighted.

"I am sure, my dear, I hope so. And I
trust we shall see you here very often indeed.
Only think, you have never been since the
night of the ball. What a deal has happened
between then and now."

I had already been thinking the same.

It must be curious to any one who, like
our Lisa, had married a stranger and not an
old acquaintance, to analyse afterwards the
first impressions of a first meeting — most
likely brought about by the merest chance.
Curious to try and recall the face you then
viewed critically, carelessly, or with the most
absolute indifference — how it gradually altered
and altered, till only by a special effort
can memory reproduce the pristine image,
and trace the process by which it has be-

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 283

come what it is now — a face by itself, its
peculiarities pleasant, its plainnesses sacred,
and its beauties beautiful above all faces in
the world.

In the course of the afternoon, Colin was
turned out, that is corporeally, for his mother
talked about him the whole time of his absence,
a natural weakness rather honourable than par-
donable. She has been very long a widow,
and never had any child but Colin.

During our gossip, she asked me if we had
seen Doctor Urquhart lately, and I said
no.

" Ah, that is just like him. Such an odd
creature. He will keep away for days and
weeks, and then turn up as unexpectedly, as
he did here yesterday. By the by, he inquired
after you — if you were better. Colin had told
him you were ill."

I testified my extreme surprise and denial of
this.

"Oh, but you looked ill. You were just
like a ghost the day Mrs. Treherne was at
Kockmount — my son noticed it. Nay, you

284 A LIFE FOR A LIFE,

need not flush up so angrily — it was only my
Colin's anxiety about you-^-he was always fond
of his old play-fellow,"

I smiled, and said his old play-fellow was
very much obliged to him.

So, this business is not so engrossing, but
that Doctor Urquhart can find time to pay visits
somewhere. And he had been inquiring for
me. Still he might have made the inquiry at
our own door. Ought people, even if they do
lead a busy life, to forget ordinary courtesy — ac-
cepting hospitality, and neglecting it — cultivating
acquaintance and then dropping it. I think not ;
all the respect in the world cannot make tine
put aside one's common sense judgment of
another's actions. Perhaps the very respect
makes one more tenacious that no single action
should be even questionable. I did think, then,
and even to-day I have thought sometimes, that
Doctor Urquhart has been somewhat in the
wrong towards us at Rockmount. But as to ac-
knowledging it to any of them at home — never !

Mrs. Granton discussed him a little, and
spoke gratefully of Colin's obligations to him,

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 285

and what a loss it would be for Colin when
the regiment left the camp.

li How fortunate that your brother-in-law
sold out when he did. He could not well
have done so now, when there is a report of their
being ordered on active service shortly. Colin
says we are likely to have war again, but I
do hope not."
"Yes," I said.

And just then Colin came to fetch me to the
greenhouses to choose a camellia for my
hair.

Likely to have war again I When Mrs.
Granton left me to dress, I sat over my
bed-room fire, thinking — I hardly know what-
All sorts of visions went flitting through my
mind — of scenes I have heard talked about,
in hospital, in battle, on the battle-field after-
wards. Especially one, which Augustus has
often described, yhen he woke up, stiff and
cold, on the moonlight plain, from under his
dead horse, and saw Dr. Urquhart standing
over him.

Colin whistling through the corridor, — Mrs.

286 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

Granton's lively "Are you ready, my dear?"
made me conscious that this would not do.

I stood up, and dressed myself in the silver-
gray silk I wore at the ball; J tried to
stick the red camellia in my hair, but the
buds all broke off under my fingers, and I
had to go dfown without it. It was all the
same. I did not much care. However, Colin
insisted on going with a lantern to hunt for
another flower, and his mother took a world
of pains to fasten it in, and make me look
" pretty."

They were so kind — it was wicked not to
try and enjoy one's self.

Driving along in the sharp, clear twilight,
till we caught sight of the long lines of
lamps which make the camp so picturesque
at night time, I found that compelling one's
self to be gay sometimes makes one so.

We committed all sorts of blunders in the
k— came across a sentry who challenged
us, and, nobody thinking of giving the pass-
word, had actually levelled his gun, and was
proceeding in the gravest manner to do his

A LITE FOE A LIFE. 287

duty and fire upon us-— » when our coachman
shrieked, and Colin jumped out; which he
had to do a dozen times, tramping the snow
with his thin boots, to his mother's great un-
easiness — and laughing all the time — before we
discovered the goal of our hopes — the concert-
room. Almost anyone etee would have grown
cross, but this good mother and son have the
gayest spirits and the best tempers imagin-
able. The present — the present is, after all,
the only thing certain. I began to feel as
cheery as they.

Giving up our ticket to the most gentle-
manly of sergeants, we entered the concert-
room. Such a blaze of scarlet — such a stir-
ring of pretty heads, between — such a murmur
of merry chat. For the first minute, coming
out of the dark — it dazzled me. I grew sick
and could see nothing: but when we were
quietly seated, I looked round.

There were many of our neighbours and
acquaintances whom I knew by sight or to
bow to — and that was all. I could see every
corner of the room — still that was all.

288 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

The audience seemed in a state of exube
rant enjoyment, especially if they had a bit
of scarlet beside them, which nearly every-
body had, except ourselves.

"You'll be quite ashamed of poor Colin in
his plain black, Dora, my dear?"

Not very likely — as I told her, with my
heart warmly gratefully to Colin, who bad
been so attentive, thoughtful, and kind.

Altogether a gay and pretty scene. Grave
persons might possibly eschew it or con-
demn it — but no, a large liberal spirit judges
all things liberally, and would never see evil
in anything but sin.

I sat — enjoying all I could. But more
than once ghastly imaginations intruded —
picturing these young officers otherwhere than
here, with their merry moustached faces
pressed upon the reddened grass, their goodly
limbs lopped and mangled, or worse, them-
selves, their kindly, lightsome selves, changed into
what soldiers are— must be — in battle, fiends
rather than men, bound to execute that slaughter
which is the absolute necessity of war. To be the

▲ LITE FOB A LIFE. 289

slain or the slayer — which is most horrible?
To think of a familiar hand — brother's or
husband's — dropping down powerless, nothing
but clay; or of clasping, kissing it, returned
with red blood upon it — the blood of some
one else's husband or brother!

To have gone on pondering thus would
have been dangerous. Happily, I stopped
myself before ail self-control was gone.

The first singer was a slim youth, who,
facing the footlights with an air of fierce
determination, and probably more inward
cowardice than he would have felt towards
a regiment of Russians, gave us, in a rather
uncertain tenor, his resolution to " love no
more," — which was vehemently applauded —
and vanished. Next came "The Chough and
Crow," executed very independently, none of
the vocalists being agreed as to their u open-
ing day." Afterwards, the first soprano, a
professional, informed us with shrill ex-
pression, that — " Oh, yes, she must have some-
thing to love,"-— which I am sure I hope she
had, poor body ! There was a duet, of some

tol. I. V

290 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

•

sort, and then the prima tenore came on
for an Italian song.

Poor youth! — a fourth-rate opera-singer
might have done it better ; but 'tis mean to»
criticise : he did his best ; and when,, after
a grand roulade, he popped down, with all
his heart and lungs, upon the last note, there
arose a cordial English cheer, to which he
responded with an awkward duck of the head,
and a delighted smile ; very unprofessional,
but altogether pleasant and natural.

The evening was now half over. Mrs.
Granton thought I was looking tired, and.
Colin wrapped my feet up in his fur coat,
for it was very cold. They were afraid I
was not enjoying myself, so I bent my
whole appreciative faculties to the comical-
faced young officer who skipped forward, hugging
his violin, which he played with ' such total
self-oblivious enjoyment that he was the least
nervous and the most successful of all the
amateurs; the timid young officer with, the
splendid bass voice, who was always losing
his place and putting his companions out;

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 291

and the solemn young officer who marched
up to the piano-forte as if it were a Redan,
and pounded away at a heavy sonata as if
feeling that England expected him to do his
duty; which he did, and was deliberately
retreating, when, in that free-and-easy way with
which audience and stage intermingled, some
one called him : —

"Ansdell, you're wanted!"

"Who wants met"

"Urquhart." At least I was almost sure
that was the name.

There was a good deal more of singing
and playing; then "God save the- Queen,"
with a full chorus and military band. That
grand old tune is always exciting; it was so,
especially, here to-night.

Likely to have war. If so, a year hence,
where might be all these gay young fellows,
whispering and flirting with pretty girls,
walked about the room by proud mothers
and sisters! I never thought of it, never
understood it, till now — I who used to
ridicule and despise soldiers ! These mothers

292 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

— these sisters! — they might not have felt it
for themselves, but my heart felt bursting. I
could hardly stand.

We were some time in getting out to the
door through the long line of epaulets and
swords, the owners of which — I beg their
pardon, but cannot help saying it — were not
too civil; until a voice behind cried: —

"Do make way there — how do you expect
those ladies to push past you?"

And a courteous helping hand was held
out to Mrs. Granton, as any gentleman ought
to any lady— especially an old lady.

"Doctor, is that you? What a scramble
this is ! Now, will you assist my young friend
here ? "

Then — and not till then, I am positive — he
recognised me.

Something has happened to him — something
has altered him very much. I felt certain of
that on the very first glimpse I caught of his
face. It shocked me so that I never said
" how d'ye do ? " I never even put out my
hand. Oh that I had!

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 293

He scarcely spoke, and we lost him in the
crowd almost immediately.

There was a great confusion of carriages.
Colin ran hither and thither, but could not
find ours. Some minutes after, we were still
out in the bitter night ; Mrs. Granton talking to
somebody, I standing by myself. I felt very
desolate and cold.

" How long have you had that cough ? "

I knew who it was, and turned round. We
shook hands.

"You had no business out here on such a
night. Why did you come?"

Somehow, the sharpness did not offend me,
though it was rare in Doctor Urquhart,
who is usually extremely gentle in his way
of speech.

I told him my cough was nothing — it was
indeed as much nervousness as cold, though
of course I did not confess that — and then
another fit came on, leaving me all * shaking
and trembling.

" You ought not to have come : is there
nobody to take better care of you, child?

294 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

— No — don't speak. You must submit, if you
please."

He took off a plaid he had about him?
and wrapped me up in it, close and warm.
I resisted a little, and then yielded. —

"You must!"

What could one do but yield? Protest-
ing again, I was bidden to "hold my
tongue."

"Never mind me! — I am used to all
weathers; — I'm not a little delicate creature
like you."

I said, laughing, I was a great deal
stronger than he had any notion of — but as he
had begun our acquaintance by taking profes-
sional care of me, he might just as well continue
it; and it certainly was a little colder here
than it was that night at the Cedars.

"Yes."

Here Colin came up, to say "we had better
walk on to meet the carriage, rather than
wait for it." He and Doctor Urquhart ex-
changed a few words, then he took his
mother on one arm — good Colin, he never

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 295

neglects his old mother— and offered me the
other.

" Let me take care of Miss Theodora,"
said Doctor Urquhart, rather decidedly. " Will
you come?"

I am sure he meant me to come. I hope

it was not rude to Colin, but I could not help
coming, I could not help taking his arm. It

was such a long time since we had met.

But I held my tongue, as I had been bidden :
indeed, nothing came into my head to say.
Doctor Urquhart made one only observation,
and that not particularly striking: —

"What sort of shoes have you got on? "

"Thick ones."

"That is right. You ought not to trifle
with your health."

Why should one be afraid of speaking the
truth right out, when a word would often save
so much of misunderstanding, doubt, and pain?
Why should one shrink from being the first
to say that word, when there is no wrong in
it, when in all one's heart there is not a feel-
ing that one need be ashamed of before

296 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

any good man or woman, or — I humbly hope —
before God?
I determined to speak out.
"Doctor Urquhart, why have you never
been to see us since the wedding? It has
grieved papa."

My candour must have surprised him; I
felt him start. When he replied, it was in
that peculiar nervous tone I know so well
— which always seems to take away my
nervousness, and makes me feel that for the
moment I am the stronger of the two.

"I am very sorry. I would not on any ac-
count grieve your papa."

" Will you come, then, some day this week?'*

"Thank you, but I cannot promise."

A possibility struck me.

"Papa is rather peculiar. He vexes people,
sometimes, when they are not thoroughly
acquainted with him. Has he vexed you in
any way?"

"I assure you, no."

After a little hesitation, determined to get at
the truth, I asked: —

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 297

"Have I vexed you?"

"You! What an idea!"

It did seem, at this moment, preposterous,
almost absurd. I could have laughed at it. I
believe I did laugh. Oh, when one has been
angry or grieved with a friend, and all of a sud-
den the cloud clears off— one hardly knows how or
why, but it certainly is gone, perhaps never
existed — save in imagination — what an infinite
relief it is! How cheerful one feels, and yet
humbled; ashamed, yet inexpressibly content.
So glad, so satisfied to have only one's self to
blame.

I asked Doctor Urquhart what he had been
doing all this while? that I understood he
had been a good deal engaged; was it about
the barrack business, and his memorial?

"Partly," he said; expressing some surprise
at my remembering it.

Perhaps I ought not to have referrrd to it.
And yet that is not a fair code of friendship.
When a friend tells you his affairs, he makes
them yours, and you have a right to ask about
them afterwards. I longed to ask, — longed to

\

298 A LIFE FOR A UTS.

know all and everything. For by every car-
riage-lamp we passed, I saw that hie face was
not as it used to be, that there was on it
a settled shadow of pain, anxiety — almost
anguish.

I have only known Doctor Urquhart three
months, yet in those three months I have seen
him every week, often twice and thrice a-week,
and owing to the pre-occupation of the rest of
the family, almost all bis society has devolved
on me. He and I have often and often sat talk-
ing, or in "playing decorum" to Augustus and
Lisabel, walked up and down the garden to-
gether for hours at a time. Also, from my
brother-in-law, always most open and enthu-
siastic on the subject, I have heard about
Doctor Urquhart nearly everything that could
be told.

All this will account for my feeling towards
him, after so shortj an intimacy, as people usually
fed, I suppose, after a friendship of years.

As I have said, something must have hap-
pened to make such a change in him. It
touched me to the quick. Why not, at least,

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 299

ask the question, which I should have asked
in a minute of anybody else, — so simple and
natural was it. —

"Have you been quite well since we saw
your'

"Yes, — No, not exactly. Why do you ask?"

"Because I thought you looked as if you
had been ill."

"Thank you, no. But I have had a great
deal of anxious business on hand."

More than that he did not say, nor had I
a right to ask. No right! What was I, to
be wanting rights — to feel that in some sense
I deserved them — that if I had them I should
know how to use them. For it is next to
impossible to be so sorry about one's friends
without having also some little power to do
them good, if they would only give you leave.

All this while Colin and his mother were
running hither and thither in search of the
carriage, which had disappeared again. As
we stood, a blast of moorland wind almost
took my breath away. Doctor Urquhart
turned, and wrapped me up closer.

300 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

"What must be done* Yon wul get your
death of cold, and I cannot shelter 700. Oh,
if I could!"

Then I took courage. There was only a
minute more. Perhaps, and the news of threatened
war darted through my mind like an arrow —
perhaps the last minute we might ever he to-
gether in all our lives. My life — I did not
recollect it just then, but his, busy indeed, yet
so wandering, solitary, and homeless — he once
told me that ours was the only family hearth
he- had been familiar at for twenty years.
No, I am sure it was not wrong, either to
think what t thought, or to say it.

"Doctor Urquhart, I wish yon would come
to Eockmount It would do you good, and
papa good, and all of ns; for we are rather
dull now Lisabol is gone. Do come."

I waited for an answer, but none was given.
No excuse, or apology, or even polite acknow-
ledgment. Politeness! — that would have been
the sharpest unkindnesfl of all.

Then they overtook us, and the chance was
over.

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 301

Colin advanced, but Doctor Urquhart put me
into the carriage himself, and as Colin was
restoring the plaid, said rather irritably: —

"No, no, let her wrap herself in it, going
home."

Not another word passed between us, ex-
cept that, as I remembered afterwards, just
before they came up, he had said, " Good-bye,"
hastily adding to it, " God bless you."

Some people's words — people who usually
express very little — rest in one's mind strangely.
Why should he say "God bless you?" Why
did he call me "child?"

I sent back his plaid by Colin next morning,
with a message of thanks, and that "it had
kept me very warm." I wonder if I shall
ever see Doctor Urquhart again?

And yet it is not the seeing one's Mends,
the having them within reach, the hearing of
and from them, which makes them ours — many
a one has all that, and yet has nothing. It
is the believing in them, the depending on
them; assured that they are true and good
to the core, and therefore could not but

302 A LIFE FOB A LIFE.

be good and tine towards everybody else —
ourselves included. Ay, whether we deserve
it or not. It is not our deserts which are
in question, but their goodness, which, once
settled, the rest follows as a matter of course.
They would be untrue to themselves if
they were insincere or untrue to us. I
have half-a-dozen friends, living within half-
a-dozen miles, whom I feel further off from
than I should from Doctor Urquhart if he
lived at the Antipodes.

He never uses words lightly. He never
would have said " God bless you T if he had
not specially wished God to bless me — poor me !
a foolish, ignorant, thoughtless child.

Only a child — not a bit better nor wiser
than a child: full of all kinds of childish
naughtinesses, angers, petulances, doubts — oh, if
I knew he was at this minute sitting in our
parlour, and I could run down and sit beside
him, tell him all the hard things I have been
thinking of him of late, and beg his pardon ; ask-
ing him to be a faithful friend to me, and help
me to grow into a better woman than I am

A LIFE FOB A LIFE. 303

ever likely to become — what an unutterable
comfort it would be I

A word or two more about my pleasant
morning at the Cedars, and then I must close
my desk and see that the study-fire is all
right — papa likes a good fire when he comes
home.

There they are I what a loud ring! it made
me jump from my chair. This must be
to-morrow, when

end of Vol. i.

p

*