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^5] . Z : :'. 

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Editiburgh. 


Yeabjs ago I used to say, that, if I ever wrote a book, it should 
be dedicated to my mother. 

The possibility, then contemplated almost in jest, has now 
been fulfilled. The book is written : but all else is changed. 
I will keep my promise still. 

Let this, my first novel, which would have been a tribute of 
tenderest affection to the Living, become an offering to the 
ever-beloved memory of the Dead. 




She, like the hazel twig, 

Is straight and slender ; and as brown in hue 

As hazel nuts, and sweeter than their kernels. 


" Katharine, Katharine — ^where is Katharine Ogilvie ? " 

This call resounded from the entrance-hall of an old 
family mansion, in which, between the twilight and moon- 
light of a December evening, a group of young people were 

"Where is she? — why, staying to adorn herself, of 
course," said a " young lady," the type par excellence of that 
numerous class; being pretty-faced, pretty- spoken, and 
pretty-mannered. " Was there ever a girl of sixteen who 
did not spend two hours at the least in dressing for her 
first evening party 1 I know I did." 

" Very likely," muttered a rather fine-looking young man 
who stood at the door. "You do the same now, Bella. 
But Katharine is not one of your sort." 

The first speaker tossed her head. " That is a doubtful 
compliment. Pray, Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, is it meant for your 
cousin Katharine, or your cousin Bella ]" And Miss Isabella 
Worsley, shaking her multitudinous ringlets, looked up in 

/ B 


his face with what she doubtless thought a most bewitching 
air of espihglerie. 

But the young man was quite unmoved. He was appa- 
rently a simple soul — Mr. Hugh Ogilvie — too simple for 
such fascinations. " I wish some of you children would go 
and fetch your cousin. Uncle and aunt are quite ready ; 
and Katharine knows her father will not endure to be kept 
waiting, even by herself." 

** It is all your fault, cousin Hugh," interposed one of the 
smaller fry which composed the Christmas family-party 
assembled at Summerwood Park. " I saw Katharine staying 
to tie up the flowers you sent her. I told her how scarce 
they were, and how you rode over the country all this 
mo^g ik search of them," continued the wicked, long- 
tongued little imp of a boy, causing Hugh to turn very red 
and walk angrily away,-and consequently winnmg an 
approving glance from the elder sister of all the juvenile 
brood, Isabella Worsley. 

" Really, Hugh, what a blessing of a cousin you must be ! " 
observed the latter, following him to the foot of the stair- 
case, where he stood restlessly beating his heel upon the 
stone steps. " One quite envies Katharine in having you 
so constantly at Summerwood. Why, it is better for her 
than possessing half-a-dozen brothers, isn't it, now ) And 
I dare say you find her worth a dozen of your sister 

Hugh made no audible answer, except beginning a long 
low whistle — sportsman-fashion. 

''I declare, he is calling for Katharin:e as he does for 
Juno — how very flattering!" cried Isabella, laughing. 
** Really, Hugh, this sort of behaviour does not at all match 
with that elegant evening costume, which, by-the-by, I have 
not yet sufliciently admired." 

" I wish heartily I were out of it," muttered Hugh. " I 
had rather a great deal put on my shooting-jacket and go 
after wild ducks than start for this dull party at Mrs. 
Lancaster's. Nothing should have persuaded me to it 
except " 

" Except Katharine. But here she comes ! " 

l] the ogilvies. 3 

At this moment a young girl descended the stairs. Now, 
whatever the poets may say, there is not a more uncomfort- 
able and unprepossessing age than '' sweet sixteen." The 
character and manners are then usually alike unformed — 
the graceful frankness of childhood is lost, and the calm 
dignity of womanhood has not yet been gained. Katharine 
O^vie was exactly in this transition state, in both mind 
and person. She had outgrown the roundness of early 
youth; and her tall thin figure, without being positively 
awkward, bore a ludicrous resemblance— as the short, plump 
Miss Worsley often remarked — to a lettuce run to seed, or 
a ^hyacinth that will stretch out its long lanky leaves with 
an obstinate determination not to flower. This attenuated 
appearance was increased by the airy evening dress she 
wore: — a half-mourning frock, exhibiting her thin neck 
and long arms, the slendemess of which caused her other- 
wise well-formed hands to seem somewhat disproportioned. 
Her features were regular and pleasing; but her dark — 
almost sallow — complexion prevented their attracting the 
notice which their classical form deserved. The girl had, 
however, one beauty, which, when she did chance to lift up 
her long lashes — a circumstance by no means frequent — 
was almost startling in its effect. Katharine's eyes were 
magnificent; of the darkest yet most limpid hazeL Therein 
lay the chief expression of her face ; and often when the 
rest of the features were in apparent repose, these strange 
eyes were suddenly lifted up, revealing such a world of 
enthusiasm, passion, and tenderness, that her whole form 
seemed lighted up into beauty. 

'* Come here, Katharine, and let us all have a look at 
you!" said Isabella, drawing her shrinking cousin under 
the light of the hall lamp. " Well, you are dressed toler- 
ably to-night ; your hair is neat and pretty enough." — It 
was, indeed, very lovely, of a rich purple-black hue, its 
silken masses being most graceftilly folded round her small 
head. " But, Katharine, child, what makes you so pale 1 
You ought to be delighted at going to this grand soiree ; I 
only wish I had been invited in your stead." 

** So do I, too. Indeed, Bella, it would have been much 



pleasanter for me to stay at home/' said Katharine, in a 
low, timid voice, whose music was at least equal to the 
beauty of her eyes. 

'' You little simpleton to say so 1 But I don't believe a 

" You may believe her or not, just as you like, Miss Bella, 
— ^nobody minds," answered Hugh, rather angrily, as he drew 
his young cousin's arm through his own. " Come, Katharine, 
don't be frightened, I'll take care of you ; and we will man- 
age to get through this formidable literary soiree together." 

She clung to him with a grateful and affectionate look, 
which would certainly once more have roused Isabella's 
acrid tongue had not Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie appeared. After 
them followed a light-footed graceful girl in deep mourning. 
She carried a warm shawl, which she wrapped closely round 

"There's a good, thoughtful little Nelly," said Hugh; 
while Katharine turned round with a quick impulse and 
kissed her. But she only said, " Good night, dear Eleanor," 
— ^for her young heart had fluttered strangely throughout 
all this evening. However, there was no time to pause 
over doubts and trepidations, since her father and mother 
were already in the carriage ; and thither she was herself 
hurried by Hugh, with an anxious care and tenderness that 
still further excited Isabella's envious indignation. 

" It is a fine thing to be an only daughter and an heiress," 
thought she. "But one can easily see how the case will 
end. Hugh thinks, of course, that he may as well get the 
estate with the title ; and uncle Ogilvie will be glad enough 
to keep both in the family, even if Hugh is not quite so 
rich as Croesus. I wonder how much money old Sir James 
will leave him, though. Anyhow, it is a good match for a 
little ugly thing like Katharine. But the husband she gets 
will make matters even, — ^for Hugh Ogilvie is a common- 
place, stupid boor. I would not have married him for the 

Miss Worsley's anger had probably affected her memory, 
since she came to pay this visit to her maternal grandfather 
with the firm determination so to "play her cards" as 


regarded Hugh, that on her departure she might have the 
certainty of one day revisiting Summerwood as its future 

Let us — thinking of the fearful number oi her class who 
sully and degrade the pure ideal of womanhood — ^look 
mournfully on this girl. She had grown wise too soon ; 
wise in the world's evil sense. With her, love had been 
regarded alternately as a light jest and as a sentimental 
pretence, at an age when she could not understand its 
character and ought scarcely to have heard its name ; and 
when the time came for the full heart of womanhood to 
respond to the mystic, universal touch, there was no answer. 
The one holy feeling had been frittered away into a number 
of small fancies, until Isabella, now fully emerged from her 
boarding-school romance,, believed what her mother told 
her, that '' a girl should never fall in love till she is asked to 
marry, and then make the best match she can." And until 
this desirable event should happen — which, at five-and 
twenty, seemed farther than ever from her earnest longings — 
Miss Worsley amused herself by carrying on passing flirta- 
tions with every agreeable young man she met 

But while Isabella's vain and worldly mind was thus 
judging by its own baser motives the very different nature 
of Katharine Ogilvie, the latter sat calmly by Hugh's side, 
enjoying the dreamy motion of the carriage, and not dis- 
posed to murmur at the silence of its occupants; which 
gave her full liberty to indulge in thought. 

" It is very cold," at last observed Mrs. Ogilvie, trying to 
make the most original observation she could, in order to 
rouse her husband, who was always exceedingly cross after 
a doze — a circumstance which she naturally wished to pre- 
vent if possible. A " humph " answered her observation. 

" Don't you think you will get colder still if you go to 
sleep, Mr. Ogilvie 1 " pursued the lady. 

" Pray suffer me to decide that. It was very foolish of 
us to go to this party, all the way to London, on such a 
wintry night." 

" But, my dear, you know Katharine must be brought 
out some time or other, and Mrs. Lancaster's soiree was 


such an excellent opportunity for lier, since we cannot have 
a ball at home on account of poor Sir James. Mrs. Lan- 
caster knows all the scientific and literary world — ^her 
parties are most brilliant — it is a first-rate introduction for 
any young girl." 

Poor Katharine felt her timidity come over her with 
added painfulness; and heartily wished herself on the 
ottoman at her grandfather's feet, instead of on her way to 
this terrible ordeaL But Hugh gave her hand an encourag- 
ing pressure, and she felt comforted. So she listened 
patiently to her mother's enumeration of all the celebrated 
people whom she would be sure to meet After which the 
good lady, oppressed by her somnolent husband's example, 
leaned her head back so as not to disarrange her elegant 
cap, and fell asleep in a few minutes. 

The carriage rolled through the unfrequented roads 
that mark the environs of the metropolis. Katharine sat 
watching the light which the carriage-lamps threw as they 
passed, illumining for a moment the formal, leafless hedges, 
until every trace of rurality was lost in the purely suburban 
character of the villa-studded road. The young girl's 
vision and the most outward fold of her thoughts received 
all these things; but her inner mind was all the while 
revolving widely different matters, and chiefly, this unseen 
world of society, — about which she had formed various 
romantic ideas, the predominant one being that it was a 
brilliant dazzling compound of the scenes described in 
Bulwer's " Godolphin," and Mrs. Gore's novels, passim. 

It is scarcely possible to imagine a girl more utterly 
ignorant of the realities of life than was Katharine Ogilvie 
at sixteen. Delicate health had made her childhood solitary, 
and though fortune had bestowed on her troops of cousin- 
playfellows, she had known little of any of them excepting 
Hugh and his sister. She had seen nothing of society, or 
of the amusements of life, for her rather elderly parents 
rarely mingled in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie were a 
pattern couple for individual excellence and mutual obser- 
vance of matrimonial proprieties. United in middle life 
their existence flowed on in a placid stream, deep, silent, 


untroubled ; their afifection towards each other and towards 
their only child being rather passive than active — ^though 
steady, very undemonstrative. So Katharine, whom nature 
had cast in a different mould, became, as the confiding 
and clinging helplessness of childhood departed, more 
and more shut up within herself — ^looking to no other for 
amusement, seeking no sharer either in her pleasures or in 
her cares. A life like this sometimes educes strength and 
originality of character, but more often causes a morbidness 
of feeling which contents itself throughout existence with 
dreaming, not acting. Or if, at length, long-restrained 
emotions do break out, it is with a terrible flood that 
sweeps away all before it. 

Katharine was by no means sentimental, for the term 
impUes affectation, of which no stain had ever marred her 
nature. But her whole character was imbued with the 
wildest, deepest romance; the romance which comes 
instinctively to a finely constituted mind left to form its 
own ideal of what is good and true. Her solitary childhood 
had created an imac'inary world in which she lived and 
moved side by side with ite inhabitanta. These were the 
heroes and heroines of the books which she had read, — a 
most heterogeneous mass of literature, — and the beings who 
peopled her own fanciful dreams. 

One thing only was wanting to crown her romance. 
Though she had actually counted sixteen years, Katharine 
had never even fancied herself " in love," except, perhaps, 
with "Zanoni." A few vague day-dreams had of late 
floated over her, causing her to yearn for some companion- 
ship, higher and nobler than any she had yet known, — 
something on which she might expend not merely her 
warm home-affections, already fully bestowed on her parents 
and on Hugh, but the love of her soul, the worship of her 
heart and intellect combined. This longing she had of late 
tried to satisfy by changing her ideal hero, on whom she had 
hung every possible and impossible perfection, for a real 
human being, — ^that young poet whose life was itself a poem, 
Keats. His likeness, which Katharine had hung up in her 
room, haunted her perpetually, and many a time she sat 


watching it until she felt for this dead and buried poet a sen- 
sation very like the love of which she had read, — the strange 
delicious secret which was to her as yet only a name. 

And thus, half a woman and half a child, Katharine 
Ogilvie was about to pass out of her ideal world, so familiar 
and so dear, into the real world, of which she knew nothing. 
No wonder that she was silent and disposed to muse ! 

" Wake up, little cousin ; what are you thinking about?" 
said Hugh, suddenly. 

Katharine started, — and her reverie was broken. The 
painful consciousness that Hugh might smile at her for having 
been " in the clouds," as he called these fits of abstraction, 
caused the colour to rise rapidly in her cheek. 

" What made you imagine I was thinking at all ] " 

" Merely because yoji have been perfectly silent for the 
last hour. Your papa and mamma have had time to fall 
comfortably asleep, and I have grown quite weary and cross 
through not having the pleasant talk that we promised our- 
selves this morning." 

" Dear Hugh ! It was very stupid of me." 

" Not at all, dear Katharine," Hugh answered, echoing 
the adjective with an emphasis that deepened its meaning 
considerably. " Not at all — if you will now tell me what 
occupied your thoughts so much." 

But Katharine, sincere as was her affection for her cousin, 
felt conscious that he would not understand one-half of the 
fanciful ideas which had passed through her brain during 
that long interval of silence. So her reply was the usual 
compromise which people adopt in such cases. 

^' I was thinking of several things : — ^amongst others, of 
Mrs. Lancaster's party." 

Hugh looked rather annoyed. " I thought you did not 
wish to go, and would much rather have been left at home? " 

" Yes, at the last, and yet all this fortnight I have been 
longing for the day. Hugh, did you ever feel what it is to 
wish for anything, and dream of it, and wonder about it, 
until when the time csLme you grew positively frightened, 
and almost wished that something would happen to frustrate 
your first desire 1 " 

l] the ogilvies. 9 

" Was this what you have been feeling, Katharine 1 " 

"Perhaps so — I hardly know. I enjoyed the anticipation 
very much until, from thinking of all the wonderful people 
I should meet, I began to think about myself. It is a 
bad thing to think too much about oneself, Hugh — ^is it 

Hugh assented abstractedly. It always gave him much 
more pleasure to hear Katharine talk than to talk himself; 
and besides, his conversation was rarely either rapid or 

Katharine went on. 

" It was, after all, very vain and foolish in me to fancy 
that any one I should meet to-night would notice me in the 
least. And so I have now come to the determination not 
to think about myself or my imperfections, but to enjoy this 
evening as much as possible. Tell me, what great people 
are we likely to see ? " 

"There is the Countess of A , and Lord William 

B , and Sir Vivian C ," said Hugh, naming a few of 

the minor lights of the aristocracy who lend their feeble 
radiance to middle-class reunions. 

" I do not call these 'great people,'" answered Katharine, 
in a tone of disappointment. "They are not my heroes and 
heroines. I want to see great writers, great poets, great 
painters," she continued, with an energy that made Hugh 
open his eyes to their utmost width. 

" Well, well, you little enthusiast, you will see plenty of 
that sort of people too." 

" That sort of people^^ repeated Katharine, in a low tone ; 
and she shrank into herself, and was silent for five minutes. 
A feeling of passing vexation even towards Hugh oppressed 
her ; until a chance movement wafted towards her the per- 
fume of her flowers — the flowers to procure which he had 
ridden for miles over the country that rainy morning. A 
trifle sways one's feelings sometimes : and Katharine's at 
once turned towards Hugh with an almost contrite acknow- 
ledgment. She sought an opportunity to remove any pain- 
ful impression that her sudden silence might have given 


''Well, here we are almost at our journey's end, and 
papa and mamma are still asleep. We shall have very little 
more time for our talk, Hugh ; so make haste and tell me 
what occupied yofwr thoughts during that long hour of 
silence % " 

" Not now, dear Katharine — not now !" 

He spoke— at once more gently and more hurriedly than 
Hugh Ogilvie was used to speak. Katharine was about to 
repeat her question, when the carriage stopped. 



MeanwhUe the day sinks fast, the snn is set, 
And in the lighted hall the gaests are met 
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
Falls, and the dew of music more divine 

Tempers the deep emotions of the time. 

• • * * 

How many meet who never yet have met. 
To part too soon, but never to forget ; 
But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, 
As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn. 


Before Katharine had time once more to grow terrified at 
the sadden realisation of her dreams of the world, she 
found herself in the brilliant drawing-rooms of Mrs. Lan- 
caster, — following in the wake of her stately parents, and 
clinging with desperate energy to the arm of her cousin 
Hugh. Her eyes, dazzled and pained by the sudden transi- 
tion from darkness to light, saw only a moving mass of 
gay attire which she was utterly unable to indiyidualise. 
Her ear was bewildered by that scarcely subdued din of 
many voices which makes literary conversazioni in general a 
sort of polite Babel. Indeed, the young girl's outward 
organs of observation were for the time quite dazzled ; and 
she recovered herself only on hearing her mother say : 

''Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to introduce to you my 
daughter Katharine." 

Now, ever since Mrs. Ogilvie had discovered an old 
school-fellow in the celebrated Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine 
had heard continually of the lady in question. Every one 


talked of her as a " clever woman " — " a blue " — " an extra- 
ordinary creature '* — " a woman of mind ; " and somehow 
the girl had pictured to herself a tall, masculine, loud-voiced 
dame. Therefore she was agreeably surprised at seeing 
before her a lady — certainly not pretty, nor young, except 
in her attire — but, nevertheless, graceful, from her extreme 
smallness and delicacy of figure ; there was nothing outrd 
in her appearance except a peculiar style of head-dress, 
which set oif the shape of her face to much advantage. 
This face was not remarkable for an intellectual expression, 
though the features evidently perpetually struggled to 
attain one. In spite of her semi-tragic glances, compressed 
lips, and fixed attitudes, Mrs. Lancaster never could succeed 
in appearing a genius ; but was merely an agreeable-look- 
ing, stylish little lady. 

In that character Katharine was not in the least afraid 
of her. She felt the light touch of the jewelled fingers, 
and listened to the blandest and best-modulated welcome 
that female lips could utter, until the girl's prevailing senti- 
ments were those of intense relief, deep admiration, and . 
undying gratitude towards Mrs. Lancaster. 

Immediately afterwards a pale young man, who stood 
behind the lady, timidly and silently shook hands with 
Katharine's parents, and then, to her infinite surprise, with 

" Who is that gentleman 1 I don't know him " said 
Katharine, in a whisper, to Hugh. " Why did not mamma 
introduce me — and why did he not speak 1 '* 

" Oh ! it is only Mr. Lancaster, Mrs. Lancaster's husband," 
answered Hugh, with a scarcely perceptible smile. "He 
rarely speaks to anybody, and nobody minds him at all." 

" How very odd ! " thought Katharine : whose idea of a 
husband — when the subject did occupy her mind — ^was of 
some noble being to whom the wife could look up with 
reverent admiration, who was always to take the lead in 
society, she following after like a loving shadow, but still 
only a shadow, of himself. Katharine watched Mrs. Lan- 
caster as she flitted about here and there, all smiles and 
conversation, while the silent husband retreated to a 


comer ; and she thought once more how very strange it 
was. She expressed this to Hugh, when, after great dif- 
ficulty, they at last found a seat, and talked together in 
that deep quietude which is nowhere greater than in a 
crowded assembly of strangers. 

But Hugh did not seem at all surprised. He had not 
known the Lancasters long, he said, — but he believed they 
were a very happy couple. Mrs. Lancaster was a very 
superior woman ; and perhaps that was the reason why she 
took the lead rather than her husband. 

" My husband shall never be a man inferior to myself ; 
I should not love him at all if I could not worship, rever- 
ence, look up to him in everything,'' said Katharine, her 
eye dilating and her cheek glowing. But when she caught 
Hugh's look fixed upon her with intense astonishment, she 
suddenly felt conscious that she had said something wrong, 
and shrank abashed into her comer. She was not disturbed ; 
for Hugh did not answer a word ; but once or twice she 
fancied she heard him sigh. 

" Ah, poor Hugh I " thought Katharine, " he imagines his 
wild cousin will never amend. And yet, I only spoke what 
I thought. I must not do that any more. Perhaps my 
thoughts are fooUsh or wrong, since no one seems to under- 
stand them." 

And Katharine, glad as she had felt of Hugh's society 
and protection in this gay place of desolation — ^for so it 
seemed to her — experienced a feeling very like relief when 
a lady near them addressed her cousin, and occupied his 
attention so that she herself could sit still and think. It 
was an amusement to her to watch the different combina- 
tions of the kaleidoscope of moving humanity which passed 
in review before her : looking at the different individuals, 
speculating on their characters, or weaving little histories 
for each. Katharine took most interest in her own sex, 
who at least approached her idea of outward grace ; but 
the " fine gentlemen " of a modem drawing-room did not 
at all resemble the heroes with which the romance-loving 
girl had peopled her world. She scarcely bestowed a 
second glance upon any of them. 


At last, while her eyes were vacantly fixed on the door, 
it opened and admitted — a gentleman. One who — m this 
instance — truly deserved the name. Katharine looked at 
him : her gaze was attracted a second time — ^a third — ^un- 
til it rested permanently on him. 

He was, in truth, a man of striking appearance. Not 
from his personal beauty, for there were many handsomer ' 
in the room, — ^but from an inexpressible dignity, composure 
of manner, and grace of movement, to which his tall figure 
gave every advantage. His countenance was not disfigured 
by any of the modem atrocities of moustache and imperial, 
no starched white cravat hid the outline of his chin and 
upper throat, and his black crisped hair was thrown back, 
giving a classic beauty to the whole head. Yet its 
character was neither Greek nor Roman, but purely English; 
— tiie lines firm, sharp, and rather marked, denoted one 
who had seen much, felt much, and is no longer young. 
But no description of features would adequately convey an 
idea of the nameless air which at once impressed the con- 
viction that this man was different to other men. Even 
slight singularities of dress — ^usually puerile and contemp- 
tible affectations — ^were by him made so completely sub- 
servient to the wearer, that the most captious could not 
accuse him of conceit or eccentricity. 

This was he on whom Katharine's young eyes rested the 
moment he entered the room. She watched his face with 
a vague deepening interest, feeling certain that she had seen 
it before — ^it seemed so familiar, yet so new. His form 
appeared at once to individualise itself from every other in 
the room ; her eye followed it with a pleased consciousness 
that it brought sunshine wherever it moved. Poor Katha- 
rine 1 The world may laugh as it will at " first impres- 
sions" — 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all — 

but there are in human nature strange and sudden impulses, 
which, though mysterious in their exercise, and still more 
so in their causes, are nevertheless realities. 

Katharine watched this man for a long time. Sometimes 
when he came nearer, she listened and caught a few tones 


of his voice: they were like his face, calm, thoughtful, 
expressive, — ^and they went to her heart. 

" What are you looking at so earnestly, Katharine V* 

ELatharine had no reason to conceal her thoughts, — so 
she frankly pointed out the object of her contemplation. 

''Look at him, Hugh ! Has he not a pleasant face 1" 

Hugh could not see any such face, — or would not. 

"There! standing by the lady at the harp. I have 
watched him a long time. I feel sure I must have seen 
him somewhere before." 

" In the clouds, very likely," answered her cousin, with a 
sharpness rare to his quiet manner. " You could not have 
seen him anywhere else, for he has but just come from 
abroad. I have seen him here once before ; but no one 
excepting my romantic little cousin ever called Lynedon 

" Lynedon — ^Lynedon. Is that his name 1 " 

" Yes ; and that is all I know about him. But, Katharine 
— ^there, your eyes are wandering after him again. Why, 
you will be noticed if you look at him so much, even though 
you do think him handsome." 

"I do not," said Katharine, quietly; "but his face 
seems as if I knew it. It is pleasant to me to look at him, 
as it is to look at a picture or a statue. However, I will not 
do so if it is wrong, or at all events rude. I do not know 
the world so well as you, dear cousin." 

Hugh's countenance brightened, and he said no more. 
Meanwhile, Katharine persevered for at least five minutes 
in looking in the direction exactly opposite to Mr. Lynedon. 
At last, casting her eyes in the mirror, she saw the reflection 
of his face as he stood silent at the opposite end of the room. 
That face in its thoughtful repose revealed to her the vague 
likeness which had at once made it seem familiar and dear. 
In character it strongly resembled the head of Keats, which 
had been her admiration for so many months. As the 
fancy struck her Katharine's cheek flushed, and a strange 
thrill shot through her heart. She looked at him again, — 
and still the likeness seemed to increase. It was a pleasure 
so new 1 — and with the aid of that friendly mirror surely 


there could be nothing wrong in thus watching the living 
semblance of her poet ! So, Katharine gazed and gazed, 
utteriy unconscious that she was drinking in the first draught 
of that cup which is oflfered to every human lip : to some, 
of honey, — to others, of gall. 

Lynedon still kept close to the harp, until a lady sat 
down to play and sing. Her voice was touching and 
beautiful, and its pathos hushed even the noisy murmur 
around. A foppish, affected young man at one side of the 
harp went into ecstasies of rapture. Lynedon stood on the 
other side : — his figure drawn up to its utmost height and 
his arms folded, intently listening. His head was bent, and 
half in shadow ; but once Katharine thought she saw the 
lips tremble with deep feeling. She did not wonder, for the 
tears were in her own eyes. 

"Divine, enchanting! Miss Trevor, you sing like an 
angel," cried the young dandy, taking out his pocket-hand- 

Lynedon did not say a single word, but he offered his 
hand to lead the musician to her seat. She seemed a shy, 
timid creature, neither fashionable nor beautiful. As they 
passed, Katharine heard him say in answer to some remark 
of hers — 

" Yes, it gave me pleasure. It is a dear old song to me. ' • •- 
I had a little sister who used to sing it once. She had a 
sweet voice, very like yours." 

Katharine longed for an angeFs voice, that she might 
have sung that song. She wondered if his sister lived: 
but no, from the tone in which he spoke of her she must 
be dead. He was surely good and aflfectionate, since he 
loved his sister. How well she must have loved him ! 
Katharine had already woven out the whole romance of 
this stranger's life,— and yet she did not even know his ; 

Christian name, and he had not once spoken to or even 
looked at her. Only some time after, as she was in the act 
of bidding adieu to Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine's flowers fell, 
and Mr. Lynedon, who stood beside the hostess, stooped 
and gave them into the young girl's hand. It was a trifling 
act of courtesy, — ^but he did it as he did everything else, 

IL] the OGILVIBa 17 

more gracefully than other men. He would have done the 
same, apparently, to any woman, old or young, ugly or 
pretty. Katharine felt that he had not even looked in her 
face. She experienced no surprise or wounded vanity, for 
she never remembered herself at alL She only thought of 

" Well, it has been a pleasant evening," said Mrs. Ogilvie, 
when they were again in the carriage. " Do you think so, 
Hugh 1" 

Hugh did indeed: — ^for there was still the long quiet 
ride home, with Katharine close beside him, ready to talk 
over everything, as she had proposed. 

" And you, Katharine, love ; have you liked your entrance 
into society 1" inquired the mother. 

" Yes," said Katharine gently, but briefly. She did not 
seem half so much disposed to talk as Hugh expected. 

"I asked Mrs. Lancaster and her husband to spend a 
day with us ; was I right, Mr. Ogilvie 1" 

" Certainly, my dear, ask whom you please. Mrs. 
Lancaster is a woman of very good breeding ; and besides, 
for an intellectual lady and a lover of antiquities there are 
many curious and remarkable sights near Summerwood 
Park. Of course, she will come 1" 

" Not just at present, as she has a friend staying there, a 
Mr. Lynedon. I did not know whether you would like him 
to be included." 

" By all means, Mrs. Ogilvie. I happened to have a good 
deal of talk with Mr. Paul L3medon — ra clever, sensible 
young man ; has no conceit about him, like the puppies of 
our day. He is trying to get into Parliament, admires Sir 
Robert, and is particularly well read on the currency question. 
By all means invite Mr. Paul Lynedon." 

Katharine's ears drank in all this. Here was new 
matter added to her little romance. He was about to enter 
Parliament — 3l noble career ! Katharine was sure he would 
rise to be a great statesman — a second Canning. And then, 
his Christian name was Paul. 

Most young girls think much of a Christian name ; indeed, 
more or less so does everybody. We have all a sort of 



ideal nomenclature ; names that please us by their euphony, 
or else make us love them for their associations. Some 
seem suited to peculiar characters, and when we meet the 
impersonations of them we are fain to apply our fanciful 
ideal, saying, "Ah! there's a bright-faced, clear-hearted 
Clara ; " or, " This girl is surely a Mary, sweet, gentle Mary ; *' 
or, " Such an one is the very beau-ideal of a Walter, a Henry, 
or an Edmund ! " 

Katharine felt a painful twinge, excusable in a romantic 
damsel of sixteen, when she found that her hero was called 

" Mr. Paul Lynedon coming to Summerwood," observed 
Hugh, with the faintest shade of annoyance perceptible in 
his tone, " then, Katharine, you will have a splendid oppor- 
tunity of admiring your handsome hero, and of talking to 
him too." 

" A man like Mr. Lynedon would never think of talking 
to such a child as I,'* answered Katharine, in a low tone. 
"And, Hugh, I believe I told you before that I do not 
think him handsome. There is nothing strikingly beautiful 
in his features ; indeed, I do not consider them any better 
than yours.'' 

" Thank you," said Hugh, good-humouredly. " Then, 
what made you notice him so much ] " 

" I can hardly tell, excepting that there seemed in his 
face something more than beauty — something I never saw 
before in any other. I cannot describe what it was, the 
sensation it gave me was so peculiar. But pleasant — ^yes, 
I think I had more pleasure in looking at his face than at 
any I ever saw in all my life." 

" Katharine I I shall be quite jealous soon." 

" You need not. Mr. Paul Lynedon is not my cousin, 
my old playfellow, and friend. And if he were, I think I 
should be too much afraid of him ever to feel for him the 
same affection that I bear to you and Eleanor." 

Hugh looked jojrfully in his cousin's eyes — ^they were 
calm and clear. They did not droop, or turn from his. 
There was not a feeling in Katharine's heart that she 
wished to hide. 


" What are you and Katharine talking about 1 " said Mr. 
Ogilvie, rousing himself from one of his usual taciturn 
moods. "We cannot hear a word on this side of the 
carriage, and the lamps are so dim that we can hardly see 
your fac^s." 

" Never mind, my dear,*' observed Mrs. Ogilvie ; " young 
people generally like talking over a party, and Hugh and 
Katharine seem always to have plenty to say to one another." 
And a quiet smile passed over the matron's face, showing 
how skilled she thought herself in the womanly acquirement 
of reading hearts. And when, an hour after, that worthy 
lady and affectionate mother lay cogitating over the past 
evening, she thought with satisfaction that her Katharine had 
not seemed the least dazzled by her first sight of "the 
world,'' and appeared to care for the attentions of no one 
save that good, kind, cousin Hugh, who would one day 
make her such an excellent husband. 

While, in the next chamber, Katharine was dreaming 
one of her wild fantastic dreams, wherein she herself was 
transformed successively into the heroine of several of her 
pet romances. And somehow, whenever she looked into 
the face of the dearly-loved dream-hero, it always changed 
to the same likeness — ^the deep dark eyes and black wavy 
hair of Mr. Paul Lynedon. 



Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands, 

Every moment lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Ix)ve took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with 

Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of 

sight. Tennyson. 

The mistress of Summerwood was a living homily on the 
blessings of early rising. Every morning ^e took her 
place before the old-fashioned silver urn exactly as the 
clock struck eight. She had done the same for some 
eighteen years ; during which her fair serene countenance 
slowly settled into that of a matron of fifty-two. But it 
still retained its fresh, unwrinkled look, as though the years 
which had passed over it had been counted by summers 
only. And certainly, since her marriage, life had been one 
long summer to Mrs. Ogilvie. 

Her husband would rather have missed the daylight than 
her pleasant face at his breakfast-board ; and, winter or 
summer, there could not be a more cheerful sight than the 
group assembled round the early meal at Summerwood. 
For Mr. Ogilvie would allow " no nonsense " of late rising ; 
and even his niece Isabella was forced to give up her fine 
lady airs and descend at proper time with the young 
brothers and sisters of whom she was the unwilling guardian. 
The family circle on the morning after Mrs. Lancaster's 
party was completed by Hugh, with his bright merry 
" morning face," — ^and Eleanor, always serene, though over 
her still hung the shadow of a grief (now some months past), 
that of a mother's loss. Katharine, usually the blithest of 


the group, seemed on this particular day rather thoughtfully 
inclined. Isabella attributed the fact to " the effects of 
dissipation," and laughed at her cousin for being so country- 
bred as to feel overwhelmed with fatigue by only one party 
on the same night. 

" If you lived the life that I do, what would become of 
you, Katharine ] You would be dead in six months. You 
look half dead now." 

" I really do not feel so." 

" Then why drink your coffee with such a sentimental 
air ? Did you meet any of our poetical heroes among the 
great geniuses who, as Hugh says, congregate at Mrs. Lan- 
caster's 1 Pray, tell us whom you fell in love with last 

This was spoken in an under tone, and with a meaning 
smile that made Katharine's cheek flush against her will. 
Her simplicity took in solemn earnest all the careless jests 
of this young lady ; whose first lessons in the art of love 
had been received at that source of all evil — a fashionable 

" I do not understand you, Isabella," was her hurried 
reply ; while Hugh darted across the table the most frown- 
ing look his good-tempered face could assume. 

" I think, Bella, you might let Katharine eat her break- 
fast in peace for once ! " he exclaimed. 

" I beg your pardon, Hugh ; don't quite kill me for troub- 
ling your dearly-beloved cousin with my unwarrantable 
curiosity. But, as her breakfast is nearly ended, I should 
like to hear from her a little about last night, if you will 
kindly allow her to make the exertion." 

Hugh coloured with vexation ; and Katharine, resigning 
herself to her fate, sighed out, " Well, Bella, of what must 
I tell?" 

" Oh, in the first place, of the dresses." 

" I am very sorry, but I did not notice one. Indeed, I 
am afraid I do not care for dress as much as I ought," con- 
tinued Katharine, in a deprecating tone. Her sensitive 
and unformed mind was ever painfully alive to ridicule ; 
and this weakness constantly subjected her to the influence 


of the worldly Isabella. But Eleanor Ogilvy came to her 

'^ Katharine, I will relieve Bella, and turn catechist. 
Did you see any of those * celebrities,' as you call them, 
about whom you have been thinking and wondering so 
much all the week?" 

" Hugh pointed out several, and it was very interesting 
to watch them ; but " 

" But they were not quite what you expected : — ^is it not 

" Perhaps," said Katharine, doubtfully, as she took advan- 
tage of a general move from table, and drew near the win- 
dow, — ^Eleanor following. " I wonder why it is that people 
whose books we read rarely come up to our expectations — 
at least, not exactly. I have heard this, and last night I 
found it out for myself. Why is it, Eleanor V* 

Eleanor smiled. There was something peculiarly sweet 
and expressive in Eleanor Ogilvie's smile. 

" Nay, you must not expect me to answer a question 
which involves the solving of such a problem — I, who am 
little older than yourself, and have scarcely seen more of 
the world. But I imagine the reason to be this : that most 
men write out in their books their inner selves — their 
deepest and purest feelings — and we form our ideal of them 
from that. When we meet them in the world, we see only 
the outer self — perhaps but a rough and clumsy shell — and 
it often takes some time and a great deal of patience before 
we can get at the kernel." 

" Bravo, little Nelly ! " cried Hugh, coming behind his 
sister, and putting his two hands on her shoulders. " Why, 
this is a speech quite A la Wychnor, — the fellow himself 
might have said it." 

"Who is Mr. Wychnor?" asked Katharine. 

"Did you never hear Eleanor speak of him? Philip 
Wychnor was her old playfellow : and we met him again 
this autumn at Mrs. Breynton's, when we were all staying 
there together." 

"What is he like?" again inquired Katharine. 

" I think I can best answer that," said Eleanor, turning 

in.] THE OGILVIES. 23 

round, with the faintest rose-tint on her usually colourless 
cheek ; " Philip Wychnor is a nephew of Mrs. Breynton's. 
He has great talents — ^but that is his least gift. He has 
the faculty ef making every one honour and respect him, 
though he is as yet little more than a boy." 

" A hoy — ^why, Nell, he is more than twenty," interrupted 
Hugh, with one of his merriest laughs. " Only fancy, 
Katharine, calling an Oxford undergraduate — a boy ! " 

Eleanor only smiled, with a composure which had its 
effect upon the young man, — who possessed Katharine's 
grand qualification to make a perfect character ; " he loved 
his sister." Moreover, he felt the influence of her more 
finely-constituted mind and character to a degree of which 
he was himself hardly conscious. 

"Well, he was a good fellow, this Wychnor, — though 
rather too sentimental and poetical for me. But, there is 
Aunt Ogilvie calling for Katharine. What a pity that our 
pleasant talk in the corner must end ! " 

Katharine bounded away, in answer to her mother's 
summons. One circumstance gave her considerable sur- 
prise, and yet satisfaction, — that at breakfast, and after, 
amidst all the conversation about Mrs. Lancaster's soir6e, no 
one had ever mentioned Mr. Paul Lynedon. No one even 
seemed to think of him. Now, in her own reminiscences 
of the evening, both dreaming and awake, this one image 
stood pre-eminent amidst all the rest. It was very odd, 
surely. But she felt the omission a relief 

" I want you to write a note to Mrs. Lancaster, my love," 
observed her mother. " Your papa wishes the Lancasters 
to visit us while Mr. Lynedon stays with them : — he has 
taken such a fancy to the young man. Did you see him, 

"Yes," said Katharine, — and could not find another 
word for her life. 

Her mother did not require one ; since she was busy 
fidgeting about in the writing-desk for various instruments 
of epistolary labour, the absence of which showed how little 
versed the lady was in the art of correspondence. 

" Shall I fetch my own desk, mamma?" 


" Ay, do, love ; you have everything you want there, and 
I am not used to writing, — especially to such clever people 
as Mrs. Lancaster." 

This latter portion of her mother's sentence. rested pain- 
fully on Katharine's mind during her journey to her own 
room and back. It was indeed a formidable thing to write 
to Mrs. Lancaster,^ — ^and about Mr. Paul Lynedon ! Poor 
Katharine felt positively alarmed ; especially when she 
remembered that all the care of her governess and masters 
had never succeeded in making her a calieraphist, and that 
she now wrote the sorriest hand imaginable TiLudly did 
she hint this to her mother. 

" Why, my dear child, you never cared for your hand- 
writing before ; what makes you so particular now 1 I sup- 
pose you are afraid of Mrs. Lancaster. But never mind ; 
for I once heard her say that clever people always write 
badly, — and certainly her own handwriting is a specimen of 

Katharine laughed ; but she did not say a word more of 
excuse, lest her mother should discover that there was 
another person's opinion which she had thought of even 
before Mrs. Lancaster's. 

" He will certainly see the letter — she will be sure to 
show it to him," said Katharine to herself, when she was 
left alone to fulfil her task. And the idea that Mr. Lyne- 
don'^ eyes would rest upon her letter — or at the least that 
he would hear it read — made the writing and composition 
seem matters of momentous importance. She changed the 
sentences, and re-arranged them ; one said too much, 
another too little. First, the invitation appeared too warm, 
— ^and then it was worded in a style so coldly, polite that 
Katharine felt sure a man of his dignity would never accept 
it. She wrote more copies than she cared to count before 
the final decision was made. Then, when in the last care- 
fully-indited epistle she came to his name — Mr, Pavl Lyne- 
don — it was written slowly, almost tremulously. She had 
said it to herself many times, until it had grown almost a 
familiar sound, — ^but she had never written it before. It 
was a simple arrangement of simple letters ; and yet, when 

in.] , THE OGILVIES. 25 

she had completed the epistle, the one name seemed to her 
to stand out in bold relief from the rest of the page, distinct 
and clear, — as the face of its owner among all other human 
faces in that motley crowd. 

Let us travel in spirit, whither Katharine's thoughts often 
wandered that day, and accompany the letter to its destina- 
tion. If in real life this clairvoyance existed, how many 
of us would wish to employ it ! And with what result f 
Perhaps to see lines— over which the full heart had poured 
itself, or stilled its beatings in a vain effort to write care- 
lessly of what it felt so much — ^glanced over with an idle, 
passing notice, and thrown aside ! Or, perchance, to mark 
with almost equal pain, that what we wrote as mere 
"words, words, words" of custom or of courtesy, became 
to the receiver a mine of treasure, to be pored over and 
reconstrued again and again, hopefully or despondingly, 
with feelings of which we knew not, and knowing would 
only regard in sorrowful pity that they should be thus cast 
at our feet in 'vain. 

" Here is an invitation," said Mrs. Lancaster, throwing 
down Katharine's precious note among a heap of others. 
" It concerns you, Ljoiedon ; will you read it ] " 

" Thank you — presently ! " He finished his coffee, and 
then took up the letter. " It seems a cordial invitation — 
shall you accept it 1 " 

"K you are also inclined. Summerwood is a pretty 
place, I believe, with many antiquities in the neighbour- 

" That will just suit you," said Lynedon, smiling, as he 
remembered the archseological hobby which Mrs. Lancaster 
had lately mounted, and which she was now riding to 

" Yes, but you yourself might find some interests even 
among such quiet folk as the Ogilvies. The old father. Sir 
James, is in his dotage, and Mr. Ogilvie has considerable 
influence in the county. He might be of use in this parlia- 
mentary scheme of yours : especially as he told me, in his 
own solemn way, how much he liked you." 

" Liked me ? Oh, yes, I remember him now. A precise, 


middle-aged specimen of the genus ' country gentleman/ — 
with a quiet, mild-looking lady always creeping after him. 
His wife, probably 1 " He looked at the signature. " * Ka- 
tharine Ogilvie/ — a pretty name, very : it is hers, I sup- 
pose ? " 

" No, the note is from their daughter. You saw her too 
the other night, — a little brown-complexioned girl, who 
dropped her flowers, and you gave them to her." 

" I really do not remember the fact," said Paul Lynedon, 
shaking back his hair. "Was she pretty] Really, my 
dear Mrs. Lancaster, you fill your house so with beauty 
that one is perplexed with abundance. But for this visit 
— I am quite at your service, you know, invariably." 

" Then it is agreed upon. Julian, my love, put it down 
in my visiting-book, that we may not forget." Mr. Lan- 
caster did as he was bidden ; and his wife and Mr. Lyne- 
don went on with their conversation, during which the 
latter — -who had a habit of always playing with something 
while he was talking — twisted Katharine's note into every 
conceivable shape, finally tearing it into small diamonds, 
and then again into triangles. 

Poor Katharine ! — ^And yet she might not have thought 
it an unworthy destiny for her letter. Had it not been 
torn it pieces by Paul Lynedon's very own fingers 1 

With Mrs. Lancaster's acceptance came one from Mr. 
Lynedon himself: in a few courteous words, which won 
the marked approbation of the formal Mr. Ogilvie. 

" A proper, gentleman-like note. Mr. Lynedon is, as I 
thought, very superior to the young men of the present 
day." His young daughter's eyes brightened at the words. 
It was so pleasant to hear her hero praised ! 

" And read what Mrs. Lancaster says of him," observed 
Mrs. Ogilvie, as she handed the lady's epistle to her hus- 

Mr. Ogilvie looked, shook his head, and passed the note 
on to his daughter. " Eead it, Katharine. I never could 
make out Mrs. Lancaster's hand." 

Katharine read with a voice wonderfully steady, con- 
sidering how her little heart fluttered all the time. " * I 


thank you for including my friend, Mr. Lynedon, in your 
invitation ; it will give me pleasure to introduce to your 
circle one whom you will, I trust, esteem as I do. He is a 
man whose talents will one day raise him veiy high in the 
world. He has the minor advantages of a good social 
position and, I believe, an excellent heart ; but these are 
little compared to his highest possession — ^a commanding 
and powerful mind.' " 

"Is Mrs. Lancaster quite right there 1" said Eleanor, 
lifting up her soft quiet eyes from her work. " She seems 
to think of Mr. Lynedon*s intellect alone, and to regard no 
other qualities. Now, he may be a clever man " 

"He may be — he isT* cried Katharine, energetically. 
Then, seeing that, as usual, her sudden burst of enthusiasm 
met with but a freezing reception, she grew hot and cold, — 
and heartily wished she could run away. 

"Keally, Katharine, that is a very positive declaration 
to be made by a child like you," said her father ; " and, 
besides, what opportunity can you have had of judging of 
Mr. Paul Lynedon's ifitellect 1 Did he speak to you ]" 

" Oh, no, ! but I heard him talk to others : that was 
much better than if he had spoken to me. I liked very 
much to listen to him ; I did not know it was wrong." 

" By no means, my love," said Mrs. Ogilvie. " A taste 
for refined conversation is always becoming in a lady ; and 
when you grow up, and are aware of the position which 
you hold in the world, I hope you will always have clever 
men and women in your society. But still, as a child, you 
should not express quite so decided an opinion — at least 
not in public. Here, with only your papa, myself, and 
Eleanor, it signifies little." 

Katharine did not at all understand why a right opinion 
was not right to be expressed at all times and in all places : 
prudence, reserve, and conventionalism being quite un- 
known in her young life's exquisite Utopia. But she said 
nothing ; for she always found that arguing on the subject 
did not avail in the slightest degree. Her father never 
gave reasons, but merely repeated his opinions in a tone 
gradually more and more authoritative. The girFs only 

'" r 


chance of finding out truth lay in pondering over everything 
she saw and heard in the depths of her own heart, and thus 
struggling towards a conclusion. But with the wisest of us 
this internal course of education is often at first groping 
through dark ways. Our minds, not only in their powers 
of acquiring knowledge but in their perceptive and reflect- 
ive faculties, need a guiding hand as well as our bodies. 
We must be led awhile before we have strength to walk 

Katharine Ogilvie had no one to direct her — ^not one 
living soul. She was ever looking towards the light, and 
in vain. Each glimmering taper she mistook for the 
fulness of day. Perhaps it was this intense yearning for 
something whereon to rest — some one from whom to learn 
wisdom, excellence, truth — who would take her restless, 
unformed life into his hands, and become at once its law, 
its guide, its glory, and its delight — perhaps it was this 
which made her cling with such sudden vehemence to that 
ideal which she thought she saw in Paul Lynedon. It was 
not that, according to the rule of young misses of her age, 
she " fell in love." Katharine would have started with in- 
stinctive delicacy had the expression met her ear or the 
thought entered her mind. Love had as yet little place in 
her world — except as something that was to come one day, 
as a vague sentiment, fuU of poetry, and carrying with it a 
mysterious charm. Her fanciful interest in Paul Lynedon 
— a man so much older than and superior to herself — was 
something akin to what she experienced towards her pet 
heroes in romances or her favourite poets : an appreciative 
worship, drawn forth by all that was in them of noble and 

beautiful — 

A devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow. 

Of " falling in love " with or marrying Paul Lynedon she 
no more thought than of uniting herself in affectionate 
earthly ties to an angel who guided some " bright particular 

Yet, in spite of all this child-like unconsciousness of the 
real nature of the life-phase which was opening upon her, it 

in.] THE OGILVIES. 29 

was Strange how much her vague interest in her hero grew 
during the few days that intervened between the acceptance 
of the invitation and its fulfilment. But she kept her 
thoughts closely locked up in her heart ; which, as we have 
said, was indeed a reserve neither strange nor new to her. 

When, a few days after, the departure of the Worsley 
tribe left Katharine alone with her two cousins Hugh and 
Eleanor, she felt the restraint a little removed. But still, 
though she loved them both sincerely, neither they nor any 
human being had ever passed the circle of the young girl's 
inner world. Hugh could not — it was beyond his power ; 
and Eleanor, detained for years by the sick couch of her 
lost mother, had scarcely visited Summerwood. Thus not 
even she had ever won from Katharine's extreme shyness 
that friendship and confidence which mere ties of kindred 
can never command. 

Therefore, no hand had yet lifted more than the outer 
fold of this young heart, — ^trembling, bursting, and thrilling 
with its full, rich life, and ready at the first sun-gleam to 
open and pour forth its whole awakened being in a perfume 
— at once the purest and most passionate form of that 
essence which we call Love. 

On a girl like this, calmer hearts and wiser heads may 
look with mingled pity and blame. And yet not so — for 
God never made a more innocent creature than Katharine 



Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying in long serenity away, 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life, like thee, 'midst bowers and brooks. 

And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks 

And murmur of kind voices ever nigh. 


Children ought to consider themselves in the house of their father as 
in a temple where nature has placed them, and of which she has made 
them the priests and the ministers, that they might continually employ 
themselves in the worship of those deities who gave them being. 


Mrs. Lancaster's expected three days' visit necessitated 
considerable preparation within the quiet precincts of Sum- 
merwood ; and Katharine was deputed to stay as much as 
possible by her grandfather's side, in order to amuse him 
and keep from him the knowledge of any domestic revolu- 
tions. This was rather pleasant to the young girl than 
otherwise ; for she was a great favourite with Sir James, and 
returned his affection by a watchful love above that of most 
pet grandchildren. Besides, the office gave ■ her more 
opportunities of indulging in those fits of dreaminess which 
now more than ever became her delight. * 

Every morning Hugh looked in upon his grandfather's 
study. It was called so still, though now this scene of 
youthful labour had been transformed into the quiet, 
luxurious asylum of feeble old aga Hugh, as he cam^ 
with his guns or his fishing-rods, had often glanced half- 
contemptuously at the various oddities which decorated 


the chamber of the old politician, — ponderous tomes, in 
century-old bindings, — dusty files of newspapers, which 
chronicled the speeches of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, possibly 
with the announcement that the orator was ** left speaking.*' 
And so he yet continued to speak in the mind and memory 
of Sir James Ogilvie ; who by relics so carefully preserved 
was thus enabled to blend the past and the present. Every 
morning, when he had listlessly heard the last night's 
speeches in the Times, — listening perhaps more to the echoes 
of his pet granddaughter's young voice than to the eloquence 
of Macaulay or of Peel, — ^he would make Kathafine turn 
over the old file of newspapers and read the daily chronicle 
of fifty years ago. Thus, events which had grown dim even 
in historical recollection acquired the freshness of yesterday ; 
and great men, sharing in the resuscitation, spoke, not 
from their tombs, but from their old haunts in palace and 
in senate. To the old man — the last relic of a departed 
age — this past was a reality; and the stirring, teeming 
present, a mere shadow, — less than a dream. 

Katharine never laughed at these vagaries. They were 
to her strangely sacred, and her fanciful mind cast a poetry 
over all. 

" Still busy with those yellow old pamphlets," said Hugh, 
putting in his head. A very cheerful face it wal, glowing 
with health and good-temper, a fur cap sitting jauntily on 
the thick brown curls. " Katharine ! will you never have 
done these readings 1 — at Warren Hastings still, I see." 

Katharine knitted her brows, and laid her finger on her 
lips, as a sign to stop her cousin's thoughtless speech. She 
looked much prettier in her high close doming dress than 
in the ball costume she wore when first described ; it hid 
her thinness, and left to her girlish figure its natural 
slender and airy grace. She sat on a footstool, leaning 
against her grandfather's arm-chair, with pamphlets and 
papers all scattered around. Sir James, a little, spare, 
withered old man, whose sole remnant of life seemed to 
exist in his bright restless eyes, leaned back in abstraction 
so perfect, that he only noticed Hugh's entrance by the 
cessation of the reading. 



" Go on, Katharine," he said, in the querulous tone of 
extreme old age ; " why did you stop in the middle of that 
fine sentence of Mr. Burke's ] " 

"Hugh has just come in to say good morning, dear 

"Hugh — ^what. Sir Hugh Abercrombiel — I am really 

Hugh could not help laughing; at which Sir James 
turned sharply round, and, as he recognised his grandson, 
his keen, glittering eyes wore an expression of annoyance. 

" You are exceedingly rude, sir ! Go away, and do not 
interrupt us again." 

" Very well, grandfather. I only came to say how d'ye 
do to you, and to have a word with my little cousin here. 
Katharine," he continued, lowering his voice, " I met your 
mamma on the stairs, and she desired me to say that you 
must try to make Sir James understand about these 
visitors, the Lancasters — ^you know they come to-morrow, 
more's the pity." And Hugh's face grew clouded, while 
Katharine's brightened considerably. 

" Mamma told him yesterday — I heard her." 

" Ay, but he did not seem to make it out clearly, and 
was rather cross. Now, you can persuade grandfather 
to anything, and I don't wonder at it," continued Hugh, 
looking fondly in her face as she stood in the window, 
whither he had drawn her aside. 

" Very well, I'll try ; and now run away, and good success 
to your skating, which I see is to be your amusement to-day." 

" But, Katharine, I shall be so dull alone. Will nobody 
come and see me skate this fine morning 1 " 

" How vain you are, cousin Hugh," laughed Katharine. 
" But it will soon be grandpapa's lunch-time, and then I 
shall be at liberty, and will come to the pond. So good- 
bye for a little." 

" Good-bye, and mind you come, Katharine." And as 
Hugh departed, his cousin heard him whistling all the way 
down the staircase, " My love she's but a lassie yet " — his 
favourite tune. 

" How tiresome that boy is," said the old man. Katha- 


rine did not answer, but again took her place and began to 
read. Sir James tried to compose himself to Usten, but 
the thread was broken, and would not reunite. Besides, 
the interruption had made her own thoughts wander, and 
she read on mechanically, so that her voice took a mono- 
tonous tona Her grandfather nodded over the very ex- 
ordium of Warren Hastings' defence, and at last pro- 
nounced that it seemed not quite so interesting as it was 
at first ; so he thought they had read enough for to-day. 
Katharine felt really glad ; she put by all the books and 
papers with alacrity, and took her place again at her grand- 
father's feet. 

Now was the time for introducing the subject committed 
to her care. There could hardly be a more favourable 
moment, for she had got fast bold of her grandfather's thin, 
yellow, withered fingers, and was playing with the mag- 
nificent rings which still daily adorned them. Nothing 
contributed so much to the old baronet's good-humour 
as to have his rings admired, and he began to tell Ka- 
tharine, for the hundredth time, how one had been a be- 
quest of Lord Chatham's, and how another, a magnificent 
diamond, had been placed on his finger by King George 
the Third, with his own royal and friendly hand. The 
young girl listened patiently, and with the interest that 
affection always taught her to assume. Then, taking ad- 
vantage of a pause, she observed. 

" I think, grandpapa, you, who are so fond of antique 
rings, will like to see one that Mrs. Lancaster wears. I 
will ask her to show it you when she comes to-morrow." 

"Who comes to-morrow, child? Who is Mrs. Lancaster?" 

" A very clever, agreeable woman. Don't you remem- 
ber that mamma invited her to spend a few days here — 
she and her husband. And a friend of theirs — Mr. Lyne- 

" Lynedon — ^Lynedon. Ah ! I remember him well. Mr. 
— ^no, he was afterwards made Viscount Lynedon, of Lyne- 
don. A clever speaker — a, perfect gentleman. ' He and I 
were both presented at the King's first levee. I shall be 
delighted to see Lord Lynedon." 



^ I do not think this is the gentleman you mean^ grand- 
papa," said Katharine, meekly, while the faintest shadow 
of a smile hovered over her lips. " He is not Viscount, 
only Mr. Lynedon — Paul Lynedon ; but he may be related 
to your old friend." 

" Ah — yes, yes — just so," repeated Sir James, his look 
of disappointment brightening. " Of course he is ! Let me 
see ; the Lynedons were a large family. There was a second 
brother, and his name was a Scripture one — Philip, or 
Stephen, or Paul. Yes, yes ! it must be Paul, and this is 
he. Right, Katharine." 

Katharine hardly knew what to answer. 
"I shall be delighted — honoured — to receive Mr. Paul 
Lynedon at Summerwood," continued the old baronet. " I 
well remember Lord Lynedon — a fine, tall, noble-looking 
man. I wonder if his brother is like him. Describe Mr. 
Paul Lynedon, Katharine." 

" I am afraid you are still a little mistaken, dear grand- 
papa," said the girl, caressingly. "This Mr. Lynedon is 

not an old man, while your friend must be " 

"Eh, eh, Katharine; what are you saying]" sharply 
asked Sir James. " I am not so very old, am 1 1 Let me 
see ; it is since then only twenty — ^forty — fifty years ; ah, 
fifty years, fifty years," repeated he, counting on his tremb- 
ling fingers. " Yes, child, you are right, it cannot be the 
same ; he must have been dead long ago. I was a youth 
then, and he a man of fifty. Yes ! yes ! all are gone ; there 
is nobody left but me." And the old man fell back in his 

Katharine leaned her rosy cheek against his withered 
and wrinkled one, saying gently, " Dear grandpapa, don't 
talk so. What does it matter being old when you know 
we all love you. And though this gentleman is not the 
friend you knew, I am sure you will like him very much. 
Papa does. And you know he may be one of your Lynedons 
after all, and able to talk to you about your old friends." 

" Ah, well, little Katharine, you may be right. And it 
is worth being eighty years of age to find oneself grand- 
father to a little coaxing, loving, smiling thing like you." 


The old man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes, 
and Katharine hastened to beguile them away by all the 
playful wiles of which she was mistress. ' By the time 
the arrival of lunch set her free, all Sir James's equanimity 
was restored. He even remembered that he had been rather 
hasty towards Hugh, and sent a message, intended to be 
propitiatory, challenging his grandson to an hour's back- 
gammon in the study after dinner. Moreover, he made 
many inquiries concerning the way in which Katharine in- 
tended to pass the rest of the day ; and, learning that she 
was going to watch Hugh's skating, he delayed her for full 
five minutes with a circumstantial account of various 
remarkable frosts that had happened in the days of his 
youth — and of what his nurse had told him of the fair that 
was held on the Thames in the winter of 1 7 1 3. " But that, 
my dear, was before my time, you know." 

" And, grandpapa," whispered Katharine, when she had 
listened patiently to all, "you will think of the visitors 
coming to-morrow, and be sure to like Mr. Paul Lynedon ?" 

" Mr. Paul Ljmedon ! Oh, I remember now," answered 
the old man, making an effort to collect his wandering ideas. 
" Yes, yes — the Viscount's son. Of course, Katharine, I 
shall be delighted to see him. You must not forget to tell 
him so." 

Katharine made no attempt to e^lain the matter further, 
satisfied that her grandfather's mind was properly inclined 
to courtesy and kindly feeling. She went away perfectly 
content with the duty so well fulfilled, not reflecting that 
in their conversation she had entirely forgotten all that was 
to have been said about Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster. 



In thee 
Is nothing sndden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer, in one shrine 

Thought and motion mingle. 

« * • • 

They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other, mellow, deep, 

'^Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 


Though Katharine had been busy all the morning, aiding 
her mother in the yarioiis cares of the mistress of Summer- 
wood Park, still, when the time approached for the arrival 
of the guests, she did not feel inclined to rest. Hugh had 
taken himself off for the day on a shooting excursion; 
Eleanor was occupied in her own room ; and when all was 
prepared for the visitors, Katharine had no resource but to 
wander about the house. She did so, roaming from room 
to room with a vague restlessness that would not pass away. 
Every five minutes she went to the hall-window and listened 
for the sound of carriage-wheels ; then she pondered and 
speculated about the Lancasters, ransacking her memory for 
all that she had ever heard about them, and wondering if 
Mrs. Lancaster would seem as agreeable as the other night. 
Wondering, too, if one always liked people as well the second 
time of meeting as the first And if Mr. Lynedon 

v.] THE OGILVIKa 37 

She stood a long time before that favoorite head of Keats, 
thinking less of it than of Mr. Lynedon. 

The quick-coming twilight of winter drew nigh, and the 
gaests had not arrived. Katharine's pleasurable anticipa- 
tions faded a little, and she felt vexed at herself for having 
wasted so much time in thinking about these new acquaintr 
ances. Conscience-smitten for the little notice she had taken 
of her cousin during that day, she proceeded to Eleanor's 
room, and finding it empty, followed her into the garden. 

Eleanor sat quietly in the conservatory, her favourite 
place of study. A book lay on her lap, but she was hardly 
reading ; her eyes wandered as her thoughts were doing. 
Eleanor, Uke her cousin, was still at that period of life when 
dreaming is so pleasant. 

There can hardly be a better opportunity than the pre- 
sent to sketch the personal likeness of Eleanor Ogilvie. It 
shall not be done in rose-colours, adorned with similes 
taken from flowers, shells, sky, earth, and air, for true 
beauty is independent of all these. Eleanor had no angel's 
face, only a woman's ; sweet, fair, and mild as a woman's 
should be. Her beautiful soul shone through it, and there- 
fore it became itself beautiful. Not that it was without a 
certain grace of form, but still that quality was subservient 
to the higher one, of expression, without which, features as 
perfect as the sculptor's chisel can create, are nivre soulless 
than the marble itself. Eleanor's countenance might have 
been passed over as merely " rather pretty," except for the 
inexpressible charm cast over it by each varying emotion 
of her mind. After all, the truest beauty is not that which 
suddenly dazzles and fascinates, but that which steals upon 
us insensibly. Let us each call up to memory the faces 
that have been most pleasant to us — ^those that we have 
loved best to look upon, that now rise most vividly before 
us in solitude, and oftenest haunt our slumbers — and we 
shall usually find them not the most perfect in form, but 
the sweetest in expression. Yet this generalising is idle. 
Every human mind has its own ideal of beauty, and almost 
always this ideal is based upon some individual reality. 
Therefore we will leave Eleanor Ogilvie's face in that dim 


mystery out of which each can create the image he loves 

Katharine, even, was struck by it. The contrast was 
great between her own restless movements and her cousin's 
perfect repose. " Why, Eleanor, how quiet you are here, 
when all the house is full of hurry and expectation ? You 
seem almost to have forgotten that the Lancasters are 
coming ) 

" Oh, no ; for you see I am already dressed for dinner." 

" So you are ; and how well you look, with your high 
black dress and your smooth fair hair. You are quite a 
picture 1 " And removing her cousin's fur wrappings, she 
regarded her with a sincere admiration, almost childish in 
its demonstration. "I wonder what he — that is, Mrs. 
Lancaster — will think of you 1 " 

" You forget, Katharine, that I am not a stranger ; she 
has seen me before. Hugh and I spent one evening with 
her when we were in town last year." 

" And how ^d you like her ?— and is not her house the 
most charming place in the world 1 " cried Katharine. 

" That is rather going into extremes. But she seemed 
pleasing and gracious to everybody, and I met many agree- 
able people at her house that night." 

" Mr. Paul Lynedon 1 " inquired Katharine, rather hesi- 
tatingly ; # was he there 1 " 

Eleanor could hardly help smiling. " Is Mr. Paul Lyne- 
don, then, the only agreeable person in the world 1 Well, 
I am not quite sure, but I believe that he was of the 

" Why did you not tell us so the other day 1 " 

" I really quite forgot it at the time." 

Amazing, thought Katharine, that she should not be 
quite certain whether she had met Mr. Lynedon, or, having 
met him, could ever forget the fact. In her own mind, 
Katharine set down her cousin as a girl of very little dis- 
crimination. But she did not pursue the conversation, for 
Eleanor, closing her book, prepared to return to the house. 

"Let us take one turn before we go in, Katharine. 
There will be plenty of time, for now the Lancasters will 

v.] THE OGrLVIES. 39 

probably not be here until dinner. Tell me what you have 
been doing all day." 

"Following mamma, and delivering messages to cook 
and housemaids, until my poor brain is quite bewUdered. 
Indeed I never could take an interest in such things ; I 
wish mamma would leave me alone, and not try to make a 
sensible woman of me. I had much rather be with grand- 
papa, and hear him talk about public matters, and read the 
speeches in the newspaper. Eleanor, I was never bom for 
this dull quiet life ; I want to do something — ^to be some- 

" To be what, dear Katharine 1 " said Eleanor, to whom 
this confidence was new ; but it burst from the girl's lips 
under shelter of the twilight, and in consequence of the 
restlessness of her mind. 

" I hardly know what exactly ; but I think I should like 
to be in Mrs. Lancaster's position — clever, with plenty of 
society, able to write, speak, and think, just as I liked — 
quite independent of everybody." 

" I do not think there is, or was, any individual in this 
world, certainly no woman, of whom one could say that 
she was * quite independent of everybody.' Nay, even 
were it possible, I doubt if such a life would be a happy 
one, and, what is still more, if it would be useful and full 
of good to others, which is the highest happiness of all." 

" Eleanor," said Katharine, looking fixedly in her face, 
" you reason where I only feel." 

" Do you think I never feel, dear 1 " answered Eleanor, 
while her own peculiar moonlight smile cast a grave sweet- 
ness over her countenance. "But we will talk of these 
things another time. I am so glad we have begun to talk 
of them. Those are rarely very close friends who keep 
shut-up comers in their hearts. You must let me peep 
into a few of yours, my little cousin." 

" Suppose you find nothing but cobwebs and dust there 1" 
said Katharine, laughing. 

"J will sweep them all away with a little broom I keep 
by me for the purpose," returned Eleanor, in the same strain. 

"What is it]" 


" It is made of a flowering plant that grows in every 
quiet dell throughout the world, and which you may often 
find when you least look for it. It is gathered in the 
fresh sunshine of Hope, and tied together with a ground- 
creeper called Patience, which, though as slender as a 
thread, binds all together with the strength of an iron 
chain. I would engage to brighten up the most unsightly 
heart-chambers with this broom of mine. Now, what is it 
made of 1" 

*^ 1 guess, dear Nelly, I guess," cried Katharine, clapping 
her hands with that sudden child-like ebullition of pleasure 
which was natural to her, and, both laughing merrily, with 
a brightness in their eyes, and a glow on their cheeks, the 
two girls entered the open hall-door. Bonnets in hand, 
and shawls carelessly dangling, they passed into the draw- 

There, talking to Mr. Ogilvie, and having evidently just 
arrived, stood the Lancasters and Mr. Paul Lynedon ! 



A woman's love is essentially lonely, and spiritual in its nature. 
It is the heathenism of the heart : she has herself created the glory and 
beauty with which the idol of her altar stands invested. — L. £. L. 

There was no retreat for Katharine — ^no rescue from the 
suddenness of this first interview, which, when in perspee- 
^tive, she had viewed in every phase of probability, fancying 
all she should do and say, and all they might do and say, in 
a mental rehearsal, which she supposed included every pos- 
sible chance. But the momentous event had presented itself 
in a light quite unforeseen, and Katharine's only resource was 
to shrink behind her cousin as much as possible. Eleanor 
advanced in her usual composed manner to Mrs. Lancaster. 

"My dear Miss Ogilvie, I am delighted to see you," 
said the lady, with her customary demonstration of cordi- 
ality — at least the amount of it which was consistent with 
gracefulness of deportment. " Julian, here is your young 
favourite. Mr. Lynedon, allow me to present you to " 

" Katharine Ogilvie, I believe," said Paul Lynedon, bow- 
ing over Eleanor's hand. 

** No, no ; I really beg pardon," cried Mrs. Lancaster, as 
Katharine's slirinking, blushing countenance met her eye. 
'* This is the real fair one, the right Katharine. I must 
apologise for my short sight. My dearest Miss Ogilvie," 
taking Katharine's hand, " allow me to thank you for your 
charming note, and to present to you my friend Mr. Lyne- 

Paul Lynedon was a perfect gentleman. No passing 
blander ever altered his composure or courtesy. His bend 


was as graceful over Katharine's timidly-offered hand as it 
had been over her cousin's. His compliments, addressed 
to the shy, awkward girl, were exactly as courteous as those 
of which Eleanor had been the recipient. Yet in this he 
was not insincere. The polish of his manners originated 
in the only quality which makes a true gentleman, and 
which no formal. Chesterfield-like education can bestow — 
a natural refinement, and an instinctive wish to give pleasure 
to others. This true urbanity never fails in its results, nor 
was it unsuccessful now. In a few moments Katharine 
became sufficiently reassured to lift her eyes from the 
carpet to Paul Lynedon's face. It was a little different 
from the one which had haunted her memory during this 
long ten days, for imagination is rarely quite faithful at 
first. But still it wore the same inexpressible charm. She 
dared look at it now, for the eyes were turned away — 
following Eleanor. 

Thither Mrs. Lancaster's also followed. "I am really 
ashamed to have mistaken you for the moment, my dear 
young friend," said that lady, the universality of whose 
friendship was its chief recommendation. 

" It is some time since you saw me," answered Eleanor's 
quiet voice, " and you must see so many people." 

" True — ^true, my dear. You have been quite well since 
I met you last, and that charming young man, your brother 
—Peter 1 " 

"Hugh," said Eleanor, smiling. "He is quite well, I 
believe ; he made one of your guests the other day." 

" Of course — oh yes I " And Mrs. Lancaster's lips formed 
themselves into a fixed smile, while her eyes wandered 
abstractedly about the room. She had in perfection the 
faculty which is so useful in general society, that of being 
able to train the features into the appearance of polite 
attention, attended by just so much of the mind as will 
suffice for suitable answers. 

Mr. Paul Lynedon was not quite so much au faU at this ; 
he had not lived quite so long in the world as his excellent 
friend Mrs. Lancaster. Therefore, in the conversation 
which he tried hard to commence with Katharine, he did 

vl] the ogilvies. 43 

not succeed in advancing one step beyond the weather, and 
the distance from London to Summerwood. Perhaps 
Katharine's own shyness had something to do with this, 
for though it had been her delight to listen when Paul 
Lynedon talked to others, the tones of his musical voice, 
addressed to herself, now oppressed her with a painful 
timidity. It was positively a relief when Eleanor proposed 
an adjournment. 

When the two cousins re-entered the drawing-room, 
there was still the same striking contrast between them — 
Eleanor so calm and self-possessed, Katharine trembling 
with nervous agitation. 

The little party were grouped, as was natural they should, 
be — ^Mrs. Lancaster conversing with Mr. Ogilvie, while a 
feeling of hostess-like benignity prompted Mrs. Ogilvie to 
extract from the taciturn Mr. Lancaster small fragments of 
conversation relative to the weather, their journey, the 
country in general, and Summerwood in particular. Paul 
Lynedon sat aloof, carelessly turning over the leaves of a 
book, occasionally joining in with a passing remark. 

On the entrance of the two girls he rose and displayed 
the customary courtesies, though in a manner enviably easy 
and quiet. There is nothing more annoying and uncomfort- 
able to a lady than to enter a room and see every gentleman 
jump up armed with a chair, ready to perform acts of 
officious chivalry, which place the recipient in a position 
infinitely more unpleasant than if she were entirely neglected. 

Paul Lynedon began with a commonplace, and, reader, 
.almost all things in life, pleasant friendships, deep, earnest, 
life-long loves, begin with the same. He made the remark 
that the view from the hall windows was — that is, would 
be in daylight, and in summer time — a very beautiful one ; 
and then he could not help smiling as he thought what a 
stupid and involved observation he had made. 

That very circumstance broke the ice. 

"You seem to have a wonderful perception of the 
beautiful, Mr. Lynedon," said Eleanor. " You see it * with 
your mind's eye,' which pierces through the darkness of a 
winter night, closed shutters, curtains and alL" And the 


good-tempered smile which accompanied her words, fairly 
removing their sting, caused Paul Lynedon to laugh merrily. 

"You have saved me. Miss Eleanor — given me some- 
thing to talk about, and preserved me from committing 
myself any more, by unfolding to me a few points in the 
character of the lady with whom I have the pleasure of 

" What ! can you find out my character from that one 
speech 1 " said Eleanor, rather amused. 

"A little of it." 

« Tell me how 1 " 

" Why, in the first place, you have Shakspeare on your 
tongue, and consequently in your heart. One rarely quotes 
where one does not love the author; therefore you love 
Shakspeare, and, as a necessary result, all true poetry. 
Then my remark — commonplace, forced, and to a certain 
degree insincere, as I acknowledge it was — made you 
smile; therefore you have a quick perception of what is 
inclined to falseness and affectation, while your condemna- 
tion of it is good-tempered and lenient. Have I explained 
myself, even though I prove my own accuser 1 " 

" Perfectly, though you are rather too harsh upon your- 
self," answered Eleanor. "What do you say to this 
sketch of me, Katharine ) " 

" If Mr. Lynedon means that you are always true in 
yourself, and always kind towards others, he is quite right," 
said Katharine. 

Paul Lynedon directed towards the warm-hearted 
speaker a look of more curiosity than he had yet thought 
fit to bestow upon the " little school-girL" 

" Thank you. Miss Ogilvie ; that is, I thank you for 
proving my observations correct. A harmless vanity ; yet 
I fancy they needed no proof but the mere presence of your 
fair cousin." And, as he bowed, his eyes rested on Eleanor's 
face admiringly. 

No added colour came to that clear cheek; the smile 
was tranquil and self-possessed, and Paul L3aiedon looked 
almost vexed. The little group were again sinking into 
small-talk, when a servant came to the door with "Sir 


James Ogavie's compliments, and he was impatient for the 
honour of receiving Mr. Paul Lynedon." 

" My father is very old, and has a few peculiarities ; will 
it be agreeable to you to humour him with a visit now ) " 
said Mr. Ogilvie. 

" I have told Mr. Lynedon all about Sir James, observed 
Mrs. Lancaster. " Pray go, — ^you will be so much amused 
with his oddities," she continued in a low tone. It was 
meant for an aside, but it jarred painfully on Katharine's 
ear, which was ever open to all that was said by, or 
addressed to, Paul L3medon. 

But the young man's only answer was directed to Mr. 

" Pray do not talk about my * humouring ' Sir James ; it 
is to me always not only a duty but a pleasure to show 
respect to old age." 

Katharine's heart beat with delight, and her bright smile 
had in it something of pride as it rested on the speaker. 

** Katharine, show Mr. Lynedon the way to your grand- 
father's study ; you understand him better than any one." 
said Mrs. Ogilvie. 

"May I be permitted?" — And Paul Lynedon led the 
young girl out of the room with a stately courtesy that 
made Katharine almost fancy she was escorted by Sir 
Charles Grandison. 

Through the long hall, where the light of modem gas 
contrasted strangely enough with the quaint panelled walls 
and ancient mouldings, Katharine and her cavaHer passed. 
She could hardly believe that she was really with him, that 
her hand rested on his arm, that his actual voice was in 
her ear, talking with gentle consideration of all things 
which he thought likely to set the timid girl at her ease. 

And there was something so irresistibly winning in Paul's 
manners, that before they reached Sir James's door Katha- 
rine fou^d herself talldr^ frankly of her grandfather, his 
love for her, his waning intellect, and explaining the mis- 
apprehension which had led to his anxiety to see Mr. 

" I hardly know whether it would not be as well to let 


him continue in the fancy," said Katharine. *' It certainly 
gives him pleasure ; but then, even to please him, I do not 
like to deceive dear grandpapa." 

" It would not be deceit, for I may really belong to the 
same family," answered Lynedon as they entered. 

The old baronet raised himself on his gold-headed cane 
and courteously greeted his visitor. 

" It is to me an honour and pleasure to welcome my old 
friend's son. Am I not right in addressing the heir of Vis- 
count Lynedon V* 

" My name is Lynedon, and I have no doubt that my 
father was well acquainted with the -name of Sir James 
Ogilvie," said Paul, evasively. 

Somehow Katharine did not like the subterfuge ; and yet 
it sprang from kindly feeling. She said this to herself 
until she became quite satisfied ; the more so, as Lynedon 
replaced the old man in his chair with an air of respectful 
courtesy, and then, taking a seat beside him, entered into 
conversation. A most entertaining conversation too — in 
which he showed himself perfectly acquainted with the 
history of the long-past era, wherein alone Sir James seemed 
to exist. Moreover, he appeared to throw his whole mind 
into the subject with a cordial earnestness that at first 
excited Katharine's surprise, and then her warm admiration. 

"How kind, how considerate, how clever he is," she 
thought to herself, as she stood apart, watching each ex- 
pression of his face, and listening to the music of his voice. 
Through every avenue by which brilliant and noble qualities 
first attract and then enchain a heart alive to all that is 
good and beautiful, was Paul Lynedon unconsciously taking 
possession of Katharine's. 

While imwittingly stealing this young girl's liking, Lyne- 
don no less won that of Sir James. Delightedly the old 
man passed from conversation about public matters to 
inquiries concerning his friend the Viscount and the whole 
Lynedon family, all of which Paul answered with a clear- 
ness and readiness that charmed his companion. Katharine, 
having now completely got over the fact that Paul had 
assumed an untrue character to please her grandfather, felt 


quite glad that, though there was a slight mistake about 
his being the Viscount's son, Lynedon was so well ac- 
quainted with all the history of his flEiinily, and could thus 
delight Sir James so mucL 

The dinner-bell rang when he was in the midst of an 
account of the marriage of Lord Lynedon's eldest daughter. 

" I am sorry that I must now relinquish the honour of 
your society, my dear young friend, — ^for may I not bestow 
that name on your father's son 1 " said the Baronet, taking 
Lynedon's hand with a curious nuxture of formality and 

" I shall always be proud of the title," answered Paul, 

"And besides, on second thoughts, I believe that more 
than one intermarriage has taken place between the Lyne- 
dons and the Ogilvies. Katharine, before you go, bring me 
that * Peerage ; ' I feel almost sure that there must be some 
connection between Mr. Lynedon and ourselves. Suppose 
he were to turn out a cousin — eh 1 " 

" I should be only too happy to claim any relationship to 
Miss Ogilvie." It was a common phrase of courtesy ; he 
would have said the same to any one, especially a woman ; 
and yet the blood rushed to Katharine's cheek, and her 
heart beat wildly. She hastily walked to the bookcase, but 
if " Debrett's Peerage '* had been written as plain as with 
letters of phosphorus, her eyes could not have discovered it. 

But Lynedon's practice of the biensSa7ices was never at 
fault, and the book was soon in Sir James's hand. 

"Adieu, my dear young friend. Katharine, bring him 
again very soon," said the Baronet. 

" He must be a very old man, your grandfather," observed 
Paul Lynedon, carelessly, as they threaded once more the 
long passages. 

" Very old. How kind of you to talk to him so much 1 " 
Katharine answered, in a soft, grateful accent. 

" Oh, not at all — not at all, my dear Miss Ogilvie. But, 
here is the drawing-room a very desert, with Miss Eleanor 
for its solitary rose. Let me have the happiness of escort- 
ing both the fair cousins to the dining-room." 



As on the finger of a throned queen 

The basest jewel would be well esteemed ; 

So are those errors that in thee are seen 

To truths translated, and for true things deemed. 


MRa Lancaster, hemmed in on one side by the sedate and 
somewhat ponderous courtesies of Mr. Ogilvie, and on the 
other by the long interval of dinner-table space which sepa- 
rated her from the inanities of her husband, looked often 
towards the other side, where Paul Lynedon sat between 
the two fair cousins trying to enliven as much as possible 
the terrible solemnity of this always formal meal. 

It is not in human nature to talk well during soup. This 
is the case even with the most serious and earnest of con- 
versationalists — ^those who, disliking the current nothings of 
society, plunge at once into some sensible topic, so as to 
fathom, if possible, the minds of their associates. These 
excellent ccnul-divers of society find their occupation gone 
at the commencement of a dinner-party ; a few refreshing 
dips over head, just to try the waters, are all they can 
venture, until the necessary duties of eating and drinking 
are performed 

Therefore, since we aim not at chronicling every word 
and action with exact fidelity, even as Van Eyck painted 
the hairs of a lapdog's tail and the nails in a floor, we do 
not think it necessary to enumerate all the graceful trifles 
that Paul Lynedon said, interesting his fair neighbours first, 
and by degrees the elders of the company. He threw over 

vil] the ogilvies. 49 

the commonest things a light filigree-work of imagination, 
which, while unsubstantial and evanescent, made everything 
seem beautiful — for the time. And is not such an art of 
passing glamour a most beneficial attainment in this weary, 
dusty, matter-of-fact world of ours ? 

When the serious business of dinner had resolved itself 
into the graceful doke far niente of dessert, Mrs. Ogilvie 
observed : 

"I hope, Mr. Lynedon, that my poor father did not 
weary you very much ?" 

" Not at all ; we got on admirably together, did we not. 
Miss Ogilvie ]" And Paul turned to Katharine, who gave 
a delighted assent. 

"Grandpapa was delighted with Mr. Lynedon," she 
observed. "I never saw him more pleased. And Mr. 
Lynedon knew all about the branch of his own family of 
which grandpapa talked, so that he could answer every 
question. Where could you get so much information, Mr. 
Lynedon 1 and how well you seemed to remember every- 

"Perhaps I did not quite remember everything. Miss 
Ogilvie," he answered, smiling. " My history of the Lynedon 
pedigree was, like hasty novels, only * founded on facts.' It 
seemed to please your grandfather, and I was delighted to 
secure his good opinion, even though it entailed upon me 
some exercise of imagination. But — but," he stopped and 
hesitated, for he met the eyes of Eleanor Ogilvie fixed on 
him with an expression before which his own felL 

He grew confused, and tried to laugh the matter off. " I 
fear your cousin here thinks there was something very 
wicked in my little extempore romance. Yet I did all for 
the best Let me plead before my fair accuser." 

" I am no accuser," said Eleanor, gently. 

" Surely Eleanor would not say one word against what 
was done with such kindly motives, and succeeded so well 
in giving grandpapa pleasure 1" cried Katharine. " It was 
very kind of Mr. Lynedon ; and very right too." 

Paul looked surprised, perhaps a little gratified. He 
thanked his " young defender," as he called her, and changed 



the conversation ; which, by his consummate skill, he caused 
to flow in an easy and pleasant current until the ladies 

"What do you think of Mr. Lynedon now, Eleanor?" 
cried Katharine, as, leaving Mrs. Lancaster and her hostess 
deeply engaged in a purely feminine discussion on dress, 
the two cousins crept away to Mrs. Ogilvie's dressing-room, 
and there indulged in a talk. 

" Under what particular phase am I to criticise this hero 
of yours, Katharine 9 Do you wish me to call him hand- 

" No ; for that would not be true. But is he not very 
clever — so perfect a gentleman — so refined V* 

" Too refined." 

" How can that be possible ? — Really, Eleanor, what taste 
you have ! " said Katharine, turning away. 

" To speak candidly, though there were many things in 
Mr. Lynedon that pleased me very, much, there was one 
that I did not like ; why did he make grandpapa believe 
what was not true 1" 

"Because he wished to give pleasure, and therefore it 
was not wrong ; — I am sure it was not.*' 

"Now, Katharine, I think it was. Plainly, what he 
called a little romance, was a tissue of untruths." 

" You are very unjust, Eleanor." 

" I hope not, but you ask me for my opinion, and how 
can I help giving it 1 It seemed to me that Mr. Lynedon 
thought more of being generally agreeable than of doing 
what was right." 

"There you are at your moralisings again; where did 
you learn them all 1" 

Eleanor would have been puzzled to answer ; but, never- 
theless, her perception of this man's character was a true 
one. He had a keener desire to appear than to, be ; public 
ambition and love of social approbation were united in him, 
and together seemed likely to become so strong as to render 
invisible in his own eyes the " indirect crook'd ways " by 
which he attained his end. Yet even this fault had its 
origin in that natural longing after the praise and love of 

vil] the ogilvies. 51 

human kind, which is the germ of the noblest qualities of 
our nature. It is a creed, harmless indeed, and inclining 
us to patience and long-su£fering, that evil itself is but an 
ill-regulated good, and has no separate existence. There is 
not a poison-weed cumbering the ground that may not 
once have been a flower. And it rests still with the Great 
Fashioner, who, being all good, could not create positive 
evil, to stay the rampant growth, and to resolve each cor- 
rupted particle into its own pure elements. 

We have wandered strangely from our scene, persons, 
and conversation ; yet such wanderings are not uncommon 
in real life. Every one must now and then lift up the 
curtain of his inner being ; and it is always good so to do. 
Perhaps Eleanor's " moralisings," as her cousin called them, 
had in some degree this effect, for it is certain that both 
she and Katharine looked silently into the flre for some 
minutes before they attempted to move. 

At last Katharine rose, and smoothed her long black 
hair before the mirror. She looked at the reflection therein 
more earnestly than she was wont, for Katharine was one 
who cared little for her own personal appearance — probably 
because, having all her life been told how plain she was, 
she now fully believed it, and reconciled herself to her fate. 
But this night a faint sigh revealed a few rebellious feelings 
struggling in her young bosom. 

'* Eleanor," she said, "it must be very pleasant to be 

" Why ] — in order to be admired 1" 

"Not exactly so; but that we might give pleasure to 
others. Is not every one glad to look on what is fairl 
and if we could ourselves be as pleasant as pictures or 
statues in the eyes of others, at least of those we love " 

" A sweet, loving definition of a desire which I suppose 
all have, more or less," said Eleanor. " What made you 
think of it just now V* 

"Because I was looking at myself, and thinking how 
different it would be if I saw a beautiful reflection in the 
glass instead of that ugly face and lanky figure." 

" My dear Katharine ! " answered her cousin, putting hex 


arms round the girl's neck, "do not speak so of yourself; 
remember, you are quite young; I should not wonder if 
you turned out a beauty yet — ^tall thin girls like you very 
often do." 

" Do you think so 1 do you really think so ? Oh, how 
glad I am ! '' And then a sudden shame dyed her face and 
neck crimson. " I am afraid you will think me very vain 
and foolish ; but — but " 

" I think you a wayward, fanciful, darling girl, and the 
more you let me peep into your heart, no matter what I 
see there, the more you will please your cousin Nelly. And 
now let us go down stairs." 

Mrs. Ogilvie sat in one arm-chair, and Mrs. Lancaster 
in another, — two planets in opposition. They certainly 
belonged to different hemispheres, and no power on earth 
could make them blend their light. Poor Mrs. Ogilvie had 
had a most painful hunt after ideas, and now, wearied and 
worn, she fairly gave in, unable to pursue the chase, and 
determining to let the conversation take its chance. Mrs. 
Lancaster was one of those inflexible talkers who will choose 
their subject, and " say their say," without regarding the 
capabilities of their hearers. If the latter understood and 
followed, well ; if not, she let them " toil after her in vain " 
untn she had done, and then passed on, rejoicing in the 
superiority of her own intellect. Yet, at times, she posi- 
tively plumed herself upon her skill in adapting her con- 
versation to all varieties of listeners. Under this idea she 
would in these days have entered a village blacksmith's and 
talked about Elihu Burritt, or discussed with some poor 
stocking-weaver Lee's invention of the loom, illustrated by 
fragmentary allusions to Elmore's late picture on this 
subject; a speech on the union of art and manufactures 
forming an appropriate winding up to the whole. 

Thus Mrs. Lancaster had glided from the examination of 
her hostess's dress to a dissertation on the costume of the 
middle ages, varied by references to Froissart and the 
illuminated manuscripts of monkish times. Mrs. Ogilvie, 
carried out of her depth, struggled for a Uttle, and had 
failed in her last despairing effort, just when her daughter 

til] the ogilties. 53 

and niece came to the rescue. Eleanor aaw at once the 
state of the case, by the sudden, half-implormg glance which 
her aunt turned to the opening door, and the nnchanging 
smile of patient pohtenass which sat on her lips. Taking 
her place hy Mis. Ogilvie, she relieved guard, ingeniously 
snstaining tJie whole burden of Mrs, Lancast«r'8 conversa- 
tion until coffee appeared, and with it the wanderer, Hugh, 

In most after-dinner female coteries the advent of one 
of the nobler sex produces a satisfactory change, and Hugh's 
coming formed no exception to the rule. His cheerful &ce 
always brought sunshine with it Mrs, Ogilvie gathered 
courage, Mrs. Lancaster thawed, and the two girls were fidly 
disposed to enjoyment. Only Katharine, whUe she tried 
to interest herself in Hugh's account of his day's sport could 
not help wondering now and then what it was that de- 
tained Panl Lynedon. 

Lynedon was deep in a conversation with Mr. Ogilvie 
concerning electioneering There was a borough near, where 
the Summerwood interest still lingered, despite the Beform - 
Act; and Paul's inward dreams of ambition invested Mr. 
Ogilvie's conversation with a wondrous charm. He did not 
act — for, as we have before stated, Paul Lynedon was not 
habitually insincere — but the golden shadow of the time to 
come, when his host's friendship might be of service, made 
him regard many a prosy commonplace with a feeling of 
real interest, and also exert his ovm powers to their utmost 
in order to produce a satis&ctory impression. 

When the clear singing of a young girl penetrated to the 
dining-room, Paul first remembered he had asked Eleanor 
the usual question, " Did she love music 1" and the sudden 
brightening of her face had answered the question better 
than her tongue. He felt snre that the voice was hers, and 
the future election, with all its ingenious devices, began to 
fade &om his mind. When he reached the drawing-room 
door it was quite obliterated. 

Paul Lynedon never saw one cheek that glowed with 
sudden pleasure at his entrance ; he walked straight to the 
piano, and said to Eleanor, " I knew I was right. It was 
you who sang, was it noti" 


" Yes ; I love music, as I think I told you." 

"Will you sing again for mel" 

"You are quite unconscionable," said Mrs. Lancaster, 
while the faintest shade of acrimony mingled with her dulcet 
tone. " I am sure she must be tired." 

The hint failed ; and Mrs. Lancaster was doomed to a 
little longer silence while Eleanor sang again, and yet again. 
Paul Lynedon was enchanted ; for her voice was the true 
heart-music, and it touched the purest and inmost springs 
of his nature. He was no longer the mere polished gentle- 
man of society ; he stood as Katharine had first beheld him — 
so silent, so deeply moved, that he forgot to pay a single 
compliment, and even to say " Thank you." 

He knew not that Eleanor had sung thus well only because 
she had forgotten his presence, his very existence ; because 
every song, by rousing some hidden link of memory and 
touching some secret feeling, carried her farther and farther 
away into the dim past and blotted out all the present. He 
guessed not that while she poured out her whole heart, no 
thought of him or of his approval influenced the song, — 
that though he stood beside her, the face she saw was not 
his : and when at last his voice thanked her, it jarred on 
her ear like a painful waking from a pleasant dream. 

And then her uncle and Mr. Lancaster came, with their 
vapid acknowledgments. But neither they nor the gentle 
Mrs. Ogilvie, who in the good-nature of others saw the re- 
flection of her own, and praised her niece accordingly, — nor 
the worldly fashionable dame who, Uving aU for outside 
show, secretly acknowledged that though done for effect it 
was almost as good as reality,— nor poor sunple Katharine, 
who marvelled at no inspiration the guerdon of which was 
Paul Lynedon's praise, — not one of these had fathomed the 
truth, or knew why it was that Eleanor Ogilvie had sung 
BO well. 

The change wrought in Paul L3medon made him seem 
more attractive even in Eleanor's eyes. His manner grew 
earnest, and lost that outside gloss of almost annoying de- 
ference which characterised it when he had talked with the 
two girls at dinner. He spoke like a man — put forth his 

vil] the ogilvies. 55 


own opinion honestly, even when it diflFered from theirs. 

They talked — ^he and Eleanor and Katharine — about books 

and music, and all pleasant things which are a continual 

feast to the young and happy. Eecognising Hugh, Lynedon 

drew him, almost against his will, into the charmed circle ; 

conquedng his reluctance to talk, and making him feel 

interested upon subjects that otherwise he cared little about. 

It was rather an exertion, but Paul was in a happy mood. 

! So all conflicting elements were reconciled ; Lynedon and 

' Eleanor leading the way and supporting the chief conversa- 

I tion. Hugh was happy, for he had Katharine next to him. 

She sat almost silent, veiling her dark dreamy eyes with 

their long lashes ; and at times, when Paul Lynedon spoke 

earnestly, raising them to his face with a look which once 

positively startled him with its intenseness. Katharine 

was conscious of but one influence — new, strange, delicious 

I — ^which breathed in his words, which brightened everything 

». whereon he looked. He seemed to her some glorious and 

' divine creature 

Whose overpowering presence made her feel 
It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

And Paul Lynedon, — ^what did he think of her? Let 
his own words tell. 

" You seem delighted with the Ogilvies V* whispered Mrs. 
Lancaster, — as, somewhat piqued by a dull evening passed 
with the elders, she was about to retire. 

" Oh, certainly — delighted 1 " echoed Paul ; " they are a 
charming family. 

" Especially the young vocalist 1" 

Lynedon answered warmly, but laconically, "I quite 
agree with you." 

" And the dark-eyed Katharine 1" 

" A gentle, thoughtful creature ; evidently full of feeling, 
and so much attached to her cousin. That fact alone shows 
what she must be. I like — ^nay, I almost love Katharine 

And it so chanced, that, in passing by, Katharine heard 
the words ! 



He had said them idly, and forgotten them as soon as 
they were uttered : — but they gave a colouring to her whole 

ye who have passed through the cloudy time when 
youth is struggling with the strange and mysterious stirrings 
of that power which, either near or remote, environs our 
whole life with its influence, — ^ye who can now look back 
calmly on that terrible mingling of stormy darkness and 
glorious light, and know on what shadowy nothings love 
will build airy palaces wherein a god might dwell, — regard 
with ttnulornesB that enthusiastic dream 1 Perchance there 
is one of you who has dreamed like Katharine Ogilvie. 



Say never, ye loved once, 
God is too near above — the grave below. 

And all our moments go 
Too quickly past our souls, for saying so. 
The mysteries of life and death avenge 

Affections light of range. 
There comes no change to justify that change. 

E. 6. Bbownino. 

The memory of the withered leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garnered autumn sheaf : 

Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ! 

The right ear that is filled with dust 

Hears little of the false or just. Tennyson. 

There are in our existence days which are ages. True, 
at such seasons the hours glide as fast — ^nay, faster — ^in 
their golden stream : but when we look back it seems as 
though the narrow tide of a single day had swelled into a 
life's flood — a mighty ocean which upheaves itself between 
us and the last epoch that we called The Past. 

It was thus with Katharine when she arose next morning. 
Her foot seemed already within the shining entrance-gate of 
a new paradise. The old childish world of a few hours since 
looked far distant, — and oh, how pale and dim! She 
scarcely turned her face to gaze upon it now. All night her 
spirit had floated amongst the most delicious fancies, — and 
even on her waking she felt as stUl in a dream. On descend- 
ing, she found that her restless happiness had made her the 


earliest riser in the house. She lingered a few minutes 
in the breakfast-room, looking out on the dappled morning 
sky, and thinking how beautiful the world was. Then she 
went into the drawing-room, and began to pour out her 
heart's emotion to her usual friendly confidante — her piano- 
forte. Katharine loved music intensely ; but the very sense 
which made her feel so keenly the power of song rendered 
its science irksome in the extreme. Still, though in society 
she shrank from any display, she sometimes sat alone for 
hours ; her light fingers and sweet but feeble voice weaving 
together all sorts of melodies, most of which were the 
inspiration of the moment. 

Now, almost unconsciously, she glided into the song which 
Miss Trevor's rich tones and Lynedon's praise had impressed 
upon her memory. She sang it with her whole heart, 
seeing nothing, save perchance one likeness which her fancy 
conjured up, and which formed the inspiration of the strain. 

« Thank you. Miss Ogilvie," said a voice behind— Paul 
Ljmedon's own — for he had entered softly ; " why will you 
compel me to act the spy in order to attain such a pleasure 

Katharine did not answer. Poor child! she trembled 
like a little bird in its captor's hands. 

Paul thought what terribly hard work it was to get on 
at all with young girls who bore the lingering traxies of 
pinafores and bread-and-butter. But good-nature urged him 
to make another attempt. 

*^ I was not aware that you sang at all, still less that you 
knew this pet song of mine, which I asked your cousin for 
in vain last night. Why did you not tell me so ? " 

" Because I cannot sing," murmured Katharine, " I have 
scarcely any voice." 

" Nay, I must differ from you there. You have a very 
sweet one, only it wants power and proper cultivation. 
But you sing with your soul if not with your lips, and that 
is what I love to hear." 

And then Lynedon, to relieve her confusion, went on 
talking in an easy, kind, quiet manner about the quality of 
her voice and the way to strengthen it. " But what a long 


speech I am giving you — quite a lecture on music," lie 
added, laughing. 

" I like to listen to you, pray go on," said Katharine, 

(" So, here is some improvement; we shall get on in time," 
thought Paul Lynedon.) And then he continued, " What I 
mean to say is, that, as we ought to let no talent rust, you 
ought to try to sing as well as you can. It may not be 
quite so charmingly as your cousin, but you will give 
pleasure to many, as you did to me this morning." 

" I am glad — very glad," said Katharine, with a bright 
smile, and that earnest look which always puzzled Lynedon. 

" Thank you, and you will sing whenever I ask you, like 
a dear little friend ] " 

" Yes." 

" Then, thank you once more," answered Paul, feeling 
towards the " little shy gh^l " a real Hking, which sprang 
partly from gratified self-love at having succeeded so weU 
in the difficult task of drawing her out, " Then it is agreed. 
Miss Katharine — ^Miss Ogilvie, I mean, for so you are by 
right, I think." 

" Yes, but I am never called so — only Katharine, I like 
it best." 

" Then I will call you Katharine, if you will allow me." 

Another quiet " yes " sealed the contract — and thus was 
woven one more li4 of the invisible chain. 

The time of the visit flew by — the " rest-day," the " prest- 
day " — and still the guests lingered, to the satisfaction of 
all. It is astonishing how soon an agreeable party at a 
country-house seems to grow into one family. It was so at 
Summerwood. Whatever passions were dawning to life' 
beneath, there were no stirrings on the surface to break the 
peace and harmony of that pleasant circle. 

Paul Lynedon after a few days began to think of Eleanor 
a great deal more than he liked to confess. Perhaps this 
was because her character burst upon him with a freshness 
that quite contradicted his former notions of women. She 
was the first who, if not treating him with positive in- 
diiference, had at least never sought in any way to win his 


attention. Her perfect independence annoyed him. 'It 
was in vain that every time he spoke there dropped from 
his lips, like the fairy gift of pearls and diamonds, compli- 
ments graceful and refined — ^the envied wonder of all his 
fair friends of old. But Eleanor never once stooped to pick 
them up. His vanity was piqued, and, after trying the ex- 
periment for a short time on Katharine, he gave up these 
elegant flatteries, and became his own real self— his better 
self. But this change only gained from Eleanor a surprised, 
pleased, and friendly response. She treated him with 
greater warmth, but still with the unreserve and frank 
kindness which she showed to every one around her. With 
men of Lynedon*s character opposition is often the greatest 
incentive to love. Before he had been many days in 
her society, Paul was more Spris with Eleanor than he had 
ever been with any woman during his gay and mercurial 
life. Perhaps, added to the spur of wounded vanity, came 
the impulse of many purer and higher feelings long dormant 
within him, which her true nature had awakened once 
more, and the reverent admiration with which he felt 
constrained to regard this gentle, single-hearted girl, Lyne- 
don's quick temperament mistook for love. 

But though Eleanor's influence over him grew stronger 
every day, it was still not strong enough to be outwardly 
discernible. Perhaps Eleanor might have discovered it — for 
a woman generally sees intuitively where she is loved — ^but 
her heart was too fuU of one feeling to admit even the 
suspicion of another. 

There was a second person whose eyes might have been 
open to the elements for future fate that were brooding 
among the gay idlers at Summerwood. But Mrs. Lancaster 
was deep in antiquarian researches, traversing the country 
with her host as pioneer ; and in this lady, love for science 
— at least for the Sclat that science brings — shut out even 
the feminine impulse of curiosity. 

So the young people walked, rode, drove in the pleasant 
winter mornings, sat by the evening fire, and talked, or 
sang, or told ghost stories, until the week ended, and with 
it Mrs. Lancaster's peregrinations. She spoke of going 

Vni.] THE OGaVIES. 61 

home, and after the usual friendly contest p'o and con. the 
affair was decided. The last evening came — the last morn- 
ing. No more would there be of those social firesides at 
night, of that merry breakfast-table chat. When Katharine 
rose to answer her grandfather's summons, she felt this so 
strongly, that ere she reached the hall her eyes were over- 
flowing. As she passed on towards her grandfather's room, 
she heard Lynedon call : 

"Katharine, dear" — he often called her "dear" now, 
when they were alone, especially — " teU Sir James I will be 
with him by the time the reading is finished." 

He had usually come in to aid her in the task — and now, 
the last day, every moment spent in his sight became so 
precious ! It was a disappointment, that made what was 
ever a loving duty seem almost a burden. 

Paul thought that during that time he might contrive to 
be a few moments alone with Eleanor ; not to tell her he 
loved her — he was too cautious for that — but to try 
and gain some word or look on which his own heart might 
rest for a time when he should feel he was no longer in her 
presence. But there was Hugh, busy making flies, his 
usual morning occupation, and continually calling out for 
his sister's light fingers to aid in the dubbing, or to cut the 
wings. Eleanor, all-patient as she was, seemed quite 
content, but Lynedon grew restless and uncomfortable. At 
last, seeing no chance of the brief interview he sought, he 
went to Sir James's study. 

Katharine was still reading, but there was a vacant look 
in the old man's eyes which seemed to imply that the 
listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and 
then he interrupted her to ask, in a voice feebler than usual, 
some question that betokened a wandering mind. He did 
not notice Paul's entrance, and the young man motioned to 
Katharine not to cease, while he placed himself behind her 
and looked over what she read. It was an old paper that 
chronicled the coronation of George III., and Paul coidd 
not help listening with a strange, almost pain^l feeling to 
the description of festivities shared by courtiers and court 
beauties whose very memory had passed away. 

t>a THE [CHAP. 

" It nmst h«w hn-n » gay si^t, gnmdpapa," said 
K Ml ))■-*)'« IK', (Miisiiij:. 

" KU, wlmt Uhl ji>w »»y, iwy chiU t" 

" l\i-i*il llwt l*»l wiiloiuv »^-;un, d«ur ; I don't think I 
qwitti MHilowttHHt i(, ImU-t'il. thinss do not seem to be 
ilttilii oKw Uoiv ti» d«,v." The .4d nutn touched his forehead 
W ilh M ('w>iao iu«il.>. nnil tritM U> Mh'itA while Katharine 
nwt. 'Ihon hi" lOuHik \\i» hcMil uuHinifuUv, and said i 

" U \* wf »M H«s Kathimiw. I i-an't make it out What 
U tl t" 

" It U tut aftMUDt ut llw nuMHalion lovw, dear grandpapa, 
Hittl mX vt\w wi-iv (trtwntMl ; Umk. ht>t» is your own name, 
Mil' Jaiiitia t*>;''^><'' wihui^ thf i\i*t," 

"Ah, jix \ wMWinWt 1 wii«t — let me oe©, it must 
hav«i UvH l»!it wwk, fi>r lh*» (.'lurMc Appears weekly now. 
Ami the Kiii)t hiw MktHl luo U> go down to Windsor and 
hlliil 1 dikik't It'itpa liwl, Kathartiid ; and while I think of 
It, riini tW IV't^'i*. to iM'e alumt Kingdove. His Majesty 
iMld ttti<n> wtu nut a Aiior hunter anywhere than my Bing- 
d(>vt>. Mtiko hiuiu<, lovw." 

KnUitu'iiie louki<d imploringly at Paul Lynedon, who 
■tii)>l>t<d forward. 

"My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long 
gone liy." 

" Ml — what — who are you, sir 1 I never saw yon before," 
■aid ttie old man, over whom a strange change appeared to 
have come, for his dim eyes gUttered, and he moved rest- 
loaaly in his chair. " Katharine, who is this gentleman 1 I 
don't know hicL What ia he going to do with me 1 " — 
and he caught her hand uneasily. 

" Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon." 

" Lynedon ; ah, to be sure, — Viscount '. 
dear lord, you have come from the levee ; pei 
has invited you too? Ah! is it sof — thai 
young you look I You find me not over st 
friend, but I shall soon be better — very aooB 

The old man paused a moment in his unu 
and turned to Lynedon and Katharine — ne 


would speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter; she 
became very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James 
looked wistfully at her. 

" Who is that lady — I don't remember her 1" he whispered 
to Lynedon. Katharine's tears overflowed, and she hid her 

" It is Katharine — ^your own Katharine," said PauL 

^^ My own Katharine,*^ repeated the old man; "yes, it 
must be Katharine — Katharine Mayhew. But you mistake, 
my lord, you must not call her my Katharine. Come 
another day and I'll tell you all about it ; I can't now :" — 
and his voice trembled. " There she is, weeping still. My 
dear friend, go to her : we must do as the world does, and 
if her father should come in — ! Tell her I did love her — 
I did indeed — and I always shall, though they will not let 
us marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep." 

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned 
back with closed eyes, his fingers fluttering to and fro on 
the elbows of the chair. Lynedon motioned for Katharine 
to speak to him. 

" Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or unwell 1 Shall I call 
any one ]" 

" No, no, no ! I am quite well, only tired ; so tired ! " 

"Is your father in the house, Katharine 1" asked Paul ; 
who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see. 

" No ; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster — I think to 
the church." 

" Church ! " said the old Baronet, opening his eyes at the 
word. Are we at the church 1 Ah, yes, I remember I pro- 
mised. And so you are to be married, Katharine Mayhew 
— married after alii Well! well! This is your bride- 
groom, — and his name " 

" Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of something else," 
cried Katharine. " Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and 

"Lynedon, — so you are gmag to marry a Lynedon! 
Well, I had not thought so once. But here we are, and I 
must say the words myself. Give me your hands" — 

" Do not contradict him, it is best not," whispered PauL 


Sir James joined their hands together. Even at that 
moment of terror and excitement, a wild thrill shot through 
Katharine's heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the 
touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds, — 
and stopped. 

"I have forgotten the service! — how does it begin 1 
Ah ! I remember," continued he very faintly, — " Earth to 
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust " 

Katharine started up and shrieked with terror, — for her 
grandfather had sunk back in his chair, white and ghastly. 
One feeble shudder convulsed the aged limbs, — and then 
all was stillness. 

Paul and Katharine — their hands still clasped together 
— stood in the presence of Death. 



The ordinaiy use of acquaintance is a sharing of talk, news, drink, 
mirth, together : but sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing 
nearer the heart, and to be delivered with it. — Bishop Seldek. 

She did but look upon him, and his blood 
Blushed deeper, even from his inmost heart ; 
For at each glance of those sweet eyes, a soul 
Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven. 

Philip Bailey. 

" What a shocking occurrence, — really quite unfortunate, 
that it should have happened just now ! '* said Mrs. Lancaster, 
as she paced the drawing-room in a state of nervous agita- 
tion, half affected, half real. This was some two or three 
hours after the first excitement and terror-stricken grief of 
the family had .subsided into the stillness of a household 
which had been invaded by Death. 

The lady's remark drew no answer from Paul Lynedon, 
who was the only person present. He sat leaning his head 
on his hand in a grave attitude. 

" I wish Julian would make haste with the carriage. I 
shall be glad to get away. It is so very unpleasant to be 
where there is a death in the house ; it makes me quite 
nervous ! If the old gentleman had but lived until night — 
Beally, Mr. L3rnedon, I wish you would speak instead of 
sitting there without uttering a word, — and when you see 
me so agitated, too." 

"I am very sorry," began Paul, in an absent tone. 
" Death is indeed solemn I " 

"Of course, of course; but you know I do not think 



with these stupid church-going people. No one of strong 
mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quota- 
tions and her talk about 'submission;' as if it were not a 
good thing that the old man is gone — such a trouble as he 
was. Of course they are all in their hearts quite thankful 
for the event" 

At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant 
apartments reached the drawing-room. Paul Lynedon's 
coimtenance changed from the apathy with which he had 
listened to Mrs. Lancaster, to an expression of deep com- 

"Hark ! that is Katharine. Poor child, poor child ! " 

" She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to 
her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fancy,*** 
answered the lady sarcastically. 

"How can you!" exclaimed Lynedon, with a look of 
grave reproof; but immediately recollecting himself, his 
countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed 
into the silence which had excited Mrs. Lancaster's ani- 

She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with 
her proUge. For several days he had not paid her half the 
attention which she exacted, or wished to exact ; and now 
it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by 
thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady's 
conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness and 
cold-heartedness were almost abhorrent to Paul Lynedon. 
For days there had been a struggle within him between the 
two influences, the true and the unreal,— custom on the one 
hand, and on the other purity, simpUcity, and nature. 
The latter were especially attractive as they came in the 
guise of Eleanor O^vie. Startled, awed by the day's event, 
and brought for the first time in his life within the presence 
of death — at least of sudden death — Lynedon had put off 
for a while the fictions which constituted his outer self. 
To him there was now something painfully repugnant in 
the affectations with which Mrs. Lancaster broke in upon 
the current of thoughts deeper and purer than the young 
man had indulged in for a long season. 


" Thank heaven, there are the carriage-wheels," cried Mrs. 
Lancaster, who had been impatiently beating time on the 
window-panes with her gloved fingers. "Now we shall 
get away without meeting the family." 

" What, shall you not see them before you go ? " asked 

" Oh, no ; such an intrusion would be indecorous. I will 
send cards when I get home." 

" Cards 1 Why, I thought of all woman's duties and pri- 
vileges there was none so sacred as that of consolation. 
Surely I have heard you say so yourself." 

Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders. ^ 

" In other cases certainly ; but in this — ^however, my dear 
friend, I cannot argue the point now, for here is Julian with 
the boxes. Really, it is very disagreeable to wait upon 
ourselves, and all because of this old gentleman's death. 
However, we shall soon be at home. Of course, you are 
quite ready Mr. Lynedon. 

" I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet." 

" Not go 1 And pray what is the reason of this sudden 
and most disinterested resolution?" said Mrs. Lancaster, 
with a smile of such ironical meaning that Paul Lynedon's 
cheek grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as 
was customary with him, he showed his vexation only by 
answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual 

'* Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling that 
it hardly deserves your attention. Merely, that having 
received much courtesy in .this house, I wish to return it 
by inquiring if in this time of confusion and trouble I can 
in any way be of use ; — ^and so, with an apology for troubling 
you with this explanation, allow me to lead you to your 

Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race for a 
century back was compressed in Paul when he chose to ex- 
hibit that peculiar manner. The petite graceful Mrs. Lan- 
caster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming courtesy 
of his demeanour. They were silently descending the 
staircase, when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared. 

" How very unpleasant 1 " and " How fortunate ! " cried 


Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath, — the former being of coarse 
an aside. But a glance at Eleanor's face, which, though a 
degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed 
the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene^ and 
she reascended to the drawing-room. 

'' My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the 
pain of an adieu. These most afflicting circumstances — 
your feelings — my own" — and here Mrs. Lancaster took 
out her pocket-handkerchief. 

But Meaner neither wept nor made any pretence of doing 

" Thank you for your sympathy," she answered ; " and 
since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excuse 
an omission which " 

" Excuse I My dear young friend, I would have remained 
could I have been any comfort, but I thought the kindest 
act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow." 

Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this remark, and 
Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again 
had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. 

" You will bear my adieux and condolence to your aunt 
and to poor dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted." 

"Yes," said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lan- 
caster's veil to sweep her cheek in a salute, and then held 
out her hand to Paul Lynedon, who had stood by in perfect 

He took the hand, but said quietly, " I am not bidding 
you adieu, for I do not return to town until night ; perhaps 
I may be of some service." 

" You are very kind," was Eleanor's reply, " but we will 
not encroach on your good offices, — ^there is no need." 

" That is just what I have been telling him. Miss Eleanor; 
he will only be in the way. You had better come with us, 
Lynedon," said Mrs. Lancaster. 

Paul never answered her, but looked at Eleanor. The 
look was so full of earnest feeling, sympathy, and sincere 
kindliness, that she was touched. " You will let me stay 
if I can be of use to any one here ? " he said gently, when 
Mrs. Lancaster walked forward in ill-concealed impatience. 


" Thank you, yes ; do as you will," answered Eleanor, — 
while the tears which affected sympathy would never have 
drawn forth confessed the influence of real feeling. The 
traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul 
Lynedon returned to the roouL There is probably scarcely 
any man living who does not feel his heart drawn to the 
girl he loves, or even is only beginning to love, if he sees 
her under the influence of any grief deep enough to call 
forth tears. 

So it was, that when Lynedon came again into Eleanor's 
presence his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free from 
all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined to 
regard him with friendly feelings. That she could either 
inspire or return a warmer sentiment had not once entered 
her mind with respect to Paul Lynedon ; therefore her 
manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now even 
gentler than usual. 

« This is kind of you,— very kind," she said, giving him 
her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and 
then let it go ; he could not, dared not suffer the expression 
of love to intrude at such a time. 

" I feel very much with you — ^indeed I do," said Paul's 
low musical tones, '^ and that dear child, poor Katharine — 
it was a terrible shock for her." 

" Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the 
darling ^f his heart. He chose her nan£ and she was his 
godchild. Poor grandpapa ! I think he loved Katharine 
better than any one in the world. How strange that no 
one should have been present when he died except you and 
herself! Did he say anything, or seem to suffer! Poor 
Katharine has told us nothing — ^indeed she has been weep- 
ing incessantly ever since." 

Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study and 
the strange delusion under which Sir James had died. A 
common sympathy, though one of which neither was aware, 
made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep interest to 
the touching memory of a long-past love. 

''And he remembered her even then, this Katharine 
Mayhew — ^how strange ! " 


" It is not strange," said Paul, earnestly ; " no man ever 
forgets the woman whom he first loved. The storms of a 
lifetime may intervene, but that such first true love should 
pass away — never, never ! " 

Eleanor's lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice 
of her soul even more than that of her tongue echoed the 
" never ! " It was as the one amen to the universal love- 
orison which every young heart breathes at its first awaken- 
ing. But how rarely does each life's history work out the 
fulfilment of the prayer ! Not fate's mysteries only, but 
the wilfulness, change, and weakness of humanity itself, 
cast a shadow between it and that blessed " never," which 
while still believed in is strength and hope. Love is no 
longer divine to us when we find out, or begin only to 
suspect, that it is not eternal 

Lynedon watched Eleanor^s evident emotion with a thrill 
of rapture which he could scarcely conceal. He interpreted 
all as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her most 
passing look, might then have drawn from him the confession 
of his feelings, and would surely have done so, despite the 
solemn time and place, had there been in her an answering 
love involuntarily betrayed. But when Eleanor lifted up 
her face, the look which met his was so calm, so uncon- 
strained in its maidenly frankness, that the most anxious 
self-deceiving lover could not have discovered in it the 
secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon shrank 
back into himself, and the passionate words which had risen 
almost to his lips died away in the ordinary expressions of 
feeling called forth by the occasion. Even these were so 
cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She looked in his 
face, which was pale and agitated, and her womanly 
sympathy at once supplied the imagined cause. 

" How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon ! " said she, while her 
gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. 
" We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have 
forgotten how much this painful day must have affected 
you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. Nay, 
I will have no refusal." 

Paul had no power to reAise. When Eleanor brought 


him the wine he took it from her hand, drank it, and then 
leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one 
word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of deep interest, 
mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, and 
said, with a faint smile, 

" You must pardon me." 

" There is no need — ^it was a trying scene ; no wonder it 
affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come 
within the shadow of death than women can. It is our 
fate. No matter how regardless a man may be during his 
life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or 
daughter, that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We 
leave worldly pleasures to you, but you look to us for 
comfort at the last." 

Eleanor had said all this — a long speech it was too for 
one of her generally undemonstrative character — ^with the 
kindly intention of giving Paul time to recover himsel£ 
When she ceased she found his eyes fixed upon her face 
with an intense, earnest gaze. But the gaze was less that 
of a lover towards his mistress than the almost ador- 
ing look which a Catholic worshipper might turn to his 

"Have I talked to you until you are wearied 1" said 
Eleanor, with one of her peculiar smiles. " It is some time 
since I have said so much on my own account. How much 
longer would you listen, I wonder 1 " 

" For ever ! for ever ! " muttered Paul Ljniedon. 

"What were you saying 1" inquired the imconscious 

Paul recollected himself at once. 

"That you are very kind and thoughtful — just like a 
woman, — and that I am ashamed to have given you so 
much trouble." 

" Then you feel quite well, now 1 If so, I wiU go up to 
see poor Katharine." 

"Not yet, not yet," Lynedon hastily interposed. "You 
were to tell me if there is anything I can do in London — 
any business to arrange, or, if not to-day, cannot I ride 
back here to-morrow and see 1 You know not what pleasure' 


it would give me to do anything for you — that is, for the 

" I am sure of it — ^I know how good you are. But my 
uncle and Hugh can arrange everything." 

"Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. 
Shall I ride over to meet him, and inform him of this sad 
event ? " 

"Thank you, but we have already sent; indeed, Mr. 
Lynedon, there is really no need for the exercise of your 
kindness. And since, to be frank with you, my uncle and 
aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself, 
T will positively send you away." 

" But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to 
inquire after you all, and perhaps see yourself or your 
brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to me, 
and Mrs. Lancaster too will be glad " 

Eleanor's countenance changed a little, a very little : she 
was so sincere, that even a passing thought ever cast some 
reflected shadow on her face. Her companion saw it, and 
hastened to remove the impression. 

" You must not judge of me by that is, I mean to say 

that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, or 
^-or — acquaintances." There was some confusion in his 
speech, which was not removed by Eleanor's total silence. 

" I wish you to think well of me — indeed I do," Lynedon 
continued. " I know there is much in me wrong ; but then I 
have been left to myself since boyhood, — ^for years have not 
had a home, a mother, or a sister ; and so I have grown 
more worldly than I ought to be. For this reason, now, in 
going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleasant and 
good influence of this week to you, who " 

Paul was again treading on dangerous ground, — ^but once 
more Eleanor's composure saved him. 

" I am glad we have made you happy. We wished to do 
so ; and it has been a pleasant week to us all but for its sad 
ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only one 
of the household who can take leave of you, let me thank 
you again on the part of all, and say good-bye." 

" Good-bye," repeated Paul, as he lingeringly opened the 


door for her, and watched her light figure ascend the wind- 
ing staircase. When she disappeared, his breast relieved 
itself with a heavy sigh. He rode home fully impressed 
with the conviction that the star of his life, now and for 
ever, was Eleanor Ogilvie. 

There was a degree of irresolution in the character of 
Lynedon that caused him often to be swayed against his 
will With him the past or the future was always subser- 
vient to the influence of the present. So, when he had 
ridden to Suramerwood three times in the first week after 
Sir James's death, and thereupon borne a considerable 
number of Mrs. Lancaster's smiles and innuendos, he began 
to feel that there was some cause for the neglect of which 
that lady accused her guest. As the charms of Summerwood 
grew dim in the attraction of successive intellectual dissipa- 
tions — ^for it is due to Paul to say that no others could have 
any influence over his fine mind-^it so chanced that for the 
next fortnight he never went near the Ogilvie family. 



The transition from sorrow to joy is easiest in pure minds ; as the true 
diamond when moistened by the breath recovers its lustre sooner 
than the false. Jean Paul. 

He stood beside me 
The embodied vision of the brightest dream 
That like a dawn heralds the day of life : 
The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All familiar things he touched, 
All common words he spake, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 
As terrible and lovely as the tempest. 
He came — and went — and left me what I am. 


Katharine Ogilvie sat in the room which had so long 
been her grandfather's. It was now, by her own desire, 
virtually resigned to herself. None of his own children had 
loved, and been loved by. Sir James Ogilvie, like this young 
girl, who had sprung up in the third generation — a late- 
given flower — to cast sweetness over his old age. So, 
Katharine seemed to have a right beyond all others to his 
room and to everything that had belonged to him. When 
she recovered from the grief and agitation which for some 
days had amounted to real illness, she took possession of 
the study without any opposition, except that her mother's 
anxious tenderness feared lest the scene of waning life and 
awfully sudden death might have a painful effect on a mind 
80 young. 

But Katharine seemed to have arisen from this trance of 


pain and suffering with a new character. During that week 
of illness she had merged from the child into the woman. 
A change had passed over her — ^the life-change, wherein the 
heart awakes, as out of sleep, to feel with a terrible vivid- 
ness the reahty of those pulses which had faintly stirred iu 
its dreams. 

Katharine knew that the power of which she had read 
and mused had come upon her own soul. She felt in herself 
the truth of what she had seen shadowed forth in romance 
and song ; she knew that she loved. 

It is with a sensation almost amounting to fear that a 
young maiden first discovers the real presence of the life- 
influence in her Jieart — when she feels that her existence no 
longer centres in itself alone, but has another added to it, 
which becomes, and will become more and more, dear as its 
very soul. Katharine, who in her unconscious simplicity 
had given herself up so entirely to the pleasant reverie of 
which Paul Lynedon was the presiding spirit, almost 
shuddered when the light broke in upon her and told her 
that dream was her life. With her, love was not that 
girUsh fancy which is bom of idleness, nourished by vanity, 
and dies in a few months of sheer inanition, — to revive 
again in some new phase, and, so transferred from object to 
object, live out its scores of petty lives, until it fairly wears 
itself out, or settles, at the call of duty or of interest, 
within the calm boundaries of matrimonial necessity. 
Words cannot too much ridicule or condemn this desecra- 
tion. But a pure-hearted woman's sincere, true, and life- 
long love, awakened by what either is or she deems to be 
noble and perfect in her ideal, — and as such made the 
secret religion of her heart, whereon no eye may look, yet 
which is the hidden spring influencing all her thoughts and 
actions, — this love is a thing most sacred, too solemn to be 
lightly spoken of, too exalted to need idle pity, too holy to 
awaken any feeling save reverence. 

And such a love was Katharine's for Paid Lynedoij. 

She sat in her grandfather's chau-, her brow resting 
against the same cushion where in death had fallen the 
aged head bow hidden away in eternal repose. Katharine 


turned away from the light and closed her eyes. Her hands 
lay crossed on her knee, their extreme and almost sickly 
whiteness contrasting with her black dress. She was no 
longer an invalid ; but a dreaminess and languor still hung 
over her, giving their own expression to her face and 
attitude. It was a pleasure to sit still and think — one so 
great that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to sup- 
pose her asleep, rather than be disturbed by conversation. 

The room was so quiet, that she might have been alone ; 
but Hugh, who ever since her recovery had followed her 
like a shadow, sat at the window making his eternal flies — 
at least that was his excuse for remaining with her in the 
study, — ^but he looked oftener at Katharine than at his 
work. So silent and quiet was he, that she had entirely 
forgotten his presence, imtil, waking from her reverie with 
a half-suppressed sigh, she saw him creep softly to her 

" I thought you were asleep, Katharine ; are you awake 
now ? " he said, affectionately. 

Katharine's answer was a smile. She felt very grateful 
to Hugh, who had been her chief companion for some days, 
and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given 
up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her ; 
and, after in vam trying to interest her in the adventures 
of every fox killed during the winter, had finally offered to 
read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it 
was not poetry. But the time was gone by when the 
lingering childishness of Katharine's nature would sympathise 
with those purely physical delights of exercise and out-door 
amusement which constituted Hugh's world. She tried to 
hide this from him, and attempted to enter into everything 
as usual; but it would not do. The day lagged very 
heavily ; and though Hugh was too good-natured to allude 
to the hunt, it recurred sorrowfully to his mind as he saw 
from the study windows a few moving specks of scarlet 
sweeping along the distant country. At last, when a horse's 
feet were heard up the avenue, he could rest quiet no 

** It is surely one of the men from the hunt ; I will just 


go and speak to him, and ask him to have some luncL 
You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear 
Katharine 1 " 

" Oh, no 1 — ^not at all ! You are only too kind to me, 
cousin Hugh ; pray go and enjoy yourself" 

The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned back in 
quiet dreamy solitude. She thought of her grandfather — 
how soon every memory of him had passed away from 
the household ; how even the long life of eighty years, with 
all its ties and all its events, had become like a shadow — 
had crumbled into nothing at the touch of death ; so that 
in the world not even a month's void was left by the human 
soul now departed. And then Katharine's mind reverted to 
the closing scene of his life ; the old man's vague wander- 
ing words, which «he felt referred to some memory of his 
youth that he had strangely connected with her, not know- 
ing that the universal chord thus touched in the shadowy 
past had found its echo in the present The same impulse 
swayed the spirit then passing away, and that just entering 
upon its world-struggles. Amidst the solemn moumfulness 
of this death-vision came the remembered face of Paul 
Lynedon ; the gentle sympathy of his look, the touch of 
his hand, the strange symbolising of their united fate— for 
so it might prove — ^who could tell ] And Katharine gave 
herself up to the wild love-reverie of early youth. 

In the midst of it the door opened, and Lynedon himself 
stood by her side. 

Katharine had never seen him since the moment when, 
half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from 
the chamber of death. Now, he came so suddenly into her 
presence that at the sight of* him her heart seemed to 
suspend its beatings. Not a word came from her colourless 
lips, and the hand that Paul took between his own felt like 

" Dear Katharine, I fear I have startled you," he said, 
anxiously ; " but I so longed to see you. I never thought 
of all the past — ^this room, too — ^how foolish it was of me ! " 

Katharine drooped her head and burst into tears. 

Paul's kindly feelings were roused. He waited until 


Katharine's emotion had somewhat exhausted itself; and 
then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft 
black hair with his hand as gently and soothingly as an 
elder brother or father might have done. 

"Poor Katharine, dear Katharine! you have suflfered 
much ; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us 
talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you 
have quite recovered yourself. Do not grieve so much for 
him you have lost — ^think of those you have stilL Katha- 
rine, dearest — think of all who love you." 

A happy smile broke through Katharine's tears, and a 
faint colour flitted over her cheek. The words were very 
tender — ^made still more so by the inexpressible sweetness 
of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul 
L3aiedon's voice ! No wonder it should echo in that poor 
self-deceiving heart like a celestial melody. 

The first tender impulse over, Mr. Lynedon seemed to 
think he had consoled her sufficiently, and resumed the 
ordinary tones of common life. 

" I have not yet inquired after your father and mother ; 
they are well, I hope 1 May I not see them to-day ] " 

" Yes, certainly," said Katharine. 

" And your cousin — ^Miss Eleanor 1 " Paul's head here 
turned towards the fire, and his fingers busied themselves in 
playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair. 

" Eleanor is very welL I had a letter from her to-day." 

" A letter ! " 

" Yes ; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, 
Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was not 
to bid you adieu ; — indeed, we half expected you every day 
last week. 

A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul's lips, 
— ^but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into small 
bits. No indication of what was in his mind conveyed 
itself to Katharine's ; she sat with her sweet, downcast eyes, 
and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep happiness. 

For him, he concealed his disappointment, only saying, 
in a soft, earnest way, 

" How very, very sorry I am ! Nothing but the hardest 


necessity could have made me stay away from Summerwood 
a whole fortnight. You believe that, Katharine ] " 

Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She 
was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled 
all her thoughts and senses. 

" But you will forgive me, and ask your cousin to do the 
same when you write 1 Will that be soon ? " 

" Oh, yes ; we write very often, Eleanor and I." 

" How pleasant ! " said Paul Lynedon ; while his 
thoughts flew far away, and the few words with which he 
tried to keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it 
more confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how 
absent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness 
of sitting near him, hearing him speak, and stealing glances 
now and then at his face. And, perhaps, had she considered 
the matter at all, his silence would have only seemed another 
token of the secret which she fancied she read in the deep 
tenderness of his words and manner. 

To him the time passed rather wearily ; it was a duty 
of kindness and consideration, at first pleasant, then some- 
what dull, — ^possibly it was* a relief when fulfilled. To her, 
the bliss of a year — nay, of a lifetime — ^was comprised in 
that one half-hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy 
trance of confused joy, formless and vague — but in after- 
hours it grew distinct ; each word, each look, each gesture 
being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden 
light ; until at last they turned to fire. 

Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though 
he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul 
Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt 
altogether free from a vague jealousy on E[atharine*s account. 
But the warmth with which his supposed rival met him 
quite reassured the simple-hearted, good-natured Hugh ; and 
while the two interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away 
to her own room. 

There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to 
flow. With an emotion of almost child-like rapture she 
clasped her hands above her head. 

" It may come — It may come yet ! " she murmured ; and 


then she repeated his words — the words which now ever 
haunted her like a perpetual music — / almost love Katharine 
OgUvie! "It may be true — it must be. Else he never 
would talk to me tiius — ^look at me thus. For I — how could 
I hear such words, meet such looks, from any other man 
but hel — ^It must be true. He called me 'dearest' He 
does love me. How happy am I ! " 

And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her 
bosom; her head thrown back, the lips parted, the eyes 
beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Eathanne 
caught a sight of her image in the opposite mirror. She 
was startled to see herself so fair. There is no beautifier 
like happiness, — especially the happiness of love. It often 
seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary 
face and form. No wonder that under its influence Katha- 
rine hardly knew her own likeness. 

But) in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty 
stole over her. It was not vanity, but a passionate gladness, 
that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew 
nearer ; she gazed almost lovingly on l^e bright young face 
reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as something 
fair and precious in his sight — ^which accordingly became 
the same to hers. She looked into the depths of the dark 
clear eyes : ah ! one day it might be his delight to do the 
same ! She marked the graceful curves of the round white 
hand — ^the same hand which had rested in his : perhaps the 
time might come when it would rest there for ever. 
"Blessed hand! — oh, dear — dear little hand of mine!" 
And she kissed it, more than once — ^till she began blushing 
at her own folly. 

Simple, child-like Katharine — a child in all but love— 
if thou couldst have died in that dream ! 

The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still 
gladness which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her lips, 
making her whole countenance beautiful. As she went 
down to dinner, she passed the open door of the study, and 
entered it for a moment How changed it seemed ! — the 
memorial altar of Death had become the sanctuary of Love. 
A little, Katharine's heart smote her; and a few tears fell. 


awakened by one sudden thought of him who was gone. 
But how could the dear yet now faint memory of the dead 
contend with the fresh, glad fount of youth and first love 
that sprang up in her heart, filling it with sunshine and 
singing evermore — until the light and the music shut out 
all sorrowful sights and sounds, or changed them into joy 1 
It could not be : it never is so in this world. And Nature, 
who makes the greenest grass and the brightest flowers to 
grow over graves, thus teaches us that in this ever-renewed 
current of life there is deep wisdom and infinite love. 

Paul Lynedon stayed all day. It was a day of quiet 
pleasure to every one. Mr. — or, as Paul found some 
difficulty in calling him, Sip Robert — Ogilvie was glad to 
have a talk about politics, and his lady was delighted that 
a visitor had at last a^ved to brieak the formal gloom of a 
household over which death hp/^ passed, but scarcely sorrow. 
Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir 
Robert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long 
apology, which her guest thought infinitely more wearisome 
than the circumstance for which it was meant to atone. 
. " Though casting no reproach on your nephew's agree- 
able society," said the polite Lynedon, " I assure you, my 
dear Lady Ogilvie, that J shall be quite contjent, and indeed 
gratified, to have your daughter all to piyself for a whole 
evening. Is it not so, Katharine 1 " — ^and he took the young 
girFs hand with the affectionate familiarity ivhich he had 
established between them. How bright, ho^ joyful, were 
the answering blush and smile ! 

Paul Lynedon saw both. He w^ flattered at having so 
completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, 
who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had 
at once interested, amused, and puzzled him. He could not 
but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her 
whole manner unconsciously showed ; and a proud man likes 
to be worshipped and looked up to, especially by the other 
sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child ; but 
there was something even in the devotion of a young girl 
that gratified his self-esteem and love of approbation — both 
very strong in Paul Lynedon. 



So, his manner towards Katharine took a deeper and 
tenderer meaning — more so than even he intended it should. 
Though the other fair image which he fancied so dear still 
lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening 
with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katharine 
as men will idly talk, — ^never dreaming that every low tone, 
every tender look, thoughtlessly lavished on an interesting 
girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a woman's 

After tea, Paul's eyes wandered to the little recess where 
harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy con- 
jured up there the sweet calm face and bending figure of 

" You feel dull without music. Is not that what you are 
thinking of?" inquired Katharine, timidly. 

A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences 
than Paul's often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, 
enabled him to answer, " Yes, I was wishing to ask you to 
sing, but did not like so soon after "■ and he stopped. 

Katharine looked grave, and her eyes filled with tears. 

" Perhaps I ought not. — Yet he always loved to see me 
happy, and he liked you so much ! Mr. Lynedon, I will try 
to sing if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, 
mamma 1 " 

But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the 
inner drawing-room. 

Katharine sang : — it was wonderful how much she had 
improved. Paul listened, praised, and made her try over 
all his favourites which Eleanor had sung to him. Katha- 
rine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look ; she knew not 
that he was touched less by the present than by recollections 
of the happy past and vague plans for the future — a future 
now all centred in Eleanor Ogilvie. 

Under the influence of these thoughts and projects, Paul 
felt happy. He took leave of the family, of Katharine 
especially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes — ^those 
beautiful soft grey eyes, which at times were more eloquent 
than even his tongue. 

'' I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away 


long. A fortnight, at furthest, will see me again at Sum- 

" We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," said Sir 
Eobert, cordially ; " you see we make you quite one of the 

" It is my greatest happiness," answered Paul, with a 
delighted look, and a tone of deeper earnestness than 
Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little 
heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed when Lyne- 
don entreated Sir Eobert not to stir from the fireside. 
"Your good-bye and good-speed shall be the last, dear 
Katharine, if you will come with me to the door." 

She did so, trembling all over. When they stood together 
in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held them 
there for a long time, looking down tenderly upon her 
agitated face. 

" You will think of me when I anj away 1 " he whispered. 

" Yes " was all she could answer. 

" And you will remember me-^you will love nje-r^until I 
come again 1 " 

This time no answer— none. But he saw that her slight 
frame quivered like a reed, and that the large limpid eyes 
which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swimming 
in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not 
unmingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul 
Lynedon. With a sudden impulse — he was always governed 
by impulses — ^he stooped down and kissed the tearful eyes, 
the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so much. 

" God bless you, Katharine — dearest Katharine ! " were 
his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for 

Lynedon, as he rode home, felt rather annoyed that he 
had committed himself in this way. But he could not help 
it — she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere 
child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. 
With this thought, he dismissed the subject, and the image 
of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Ogilvie. 

But she — the young creature whom he left behind — 
stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. She 


saw nothing— felt nothing— but the vanished face and the 
touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It seemed as 
if with that kiss a new soul — his soul — had passed into her 
own, giving it a second life. She awoke, as if in another 
world, feeling her whole being changed and sublimated. 
With her, everything in eidstence now tended towards one 
thought, one desire, one passionate and yet solemn prayer — 
that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, her 
love, her very soul, at the feet of Paul Lynedon. 



Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or marriage bells, 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock. 


There is, in one of the counties between D.evon and 
Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of 
which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was until very 
lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of High- 
Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In olden 
days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the cause 
of King Charles the Martyr ; and ever since has kept true 
to its principles, or at least to that modification of them 
which the exigencies of modem times required. And the 
" loyal and ancient " town — which dignifies itself by the 
name of city, though a twenty minutes' walk would bring 
you from one extremity to the other — is fully alive to the 
consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of 
Levites ; who, devoted to the temple-service, shut out from 
their precincts any unholy thing. But this unholiness is 
an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means 
not merely what is irreligious, but what is ungenteel, 
unaristocratic, un-Conservative. 

Yet there is much that is good about the place and its 
inhabitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient 
and beautiful city — ^beautiful not so much in itself as for 
its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully 


undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistically 
irregular and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the 
nucleus is the cathedral. This rises aloft with its three 
airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have 
been christened the Ladies of the Vale. You may see them 
for miles and miles looking almost like a fairy building 
against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old-world 
look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed 
the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and there you 
may see grass growing in its quiet streets, — over which you 
would no more think of thundering in a modem equipage 
than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your 

The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness 
and antique . propriety. The people do everything, as 
Boniface says, " soberly." They have grave dinner-parties, 
once or twice in the year ; a public ball, as solemn as a 
funeral ; a concert now and then, Very select and proper ; — 
and so society moves on, in a circle of polite regularities. 
The resident bishop is the sun of the system ; around which 
deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of 
all sorts, revolve in successive orbits with their separate 
satellites. One character, one tone of feeling, pervades 

everybody. L is a city of serene old age. Nobody 

seems young there — ^not even the little singing-boys. 

But the sanctum sanctorum, the penetralia of the city, is a 
small region surrounding the cathedral, entitled the Close. 
Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed 
deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted 
anthems on the accession of Greorge III., or on the downfall 
of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many 
cathedral functionaries who pass their lives within the pre- 
cincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have imbibed the 
clerical and dignified solemnity due to their neighbourhood. 
It seems always Sunday in the Close ; and the child who 
should venture to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or 
play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring 
than ever was infant within the verge of the city of L . 

In this spot was Mrs. Breynton's residence. But it 


XL] THE ooaviES. 87 

looked down with superior dignity upon its neighbours in 
the Close, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed 
by high waUs, gardens, and massive gates. It had once 
been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the 
stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak- 
panelled and supported by pillars, — ^noble staircases,—- 
recesses where proscribed traitors might have hid, — gloomy 
bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation 
of legions of ghosts, — dark passages, where you might 
shiver at the echo of your own footsteps ; — such were the 
internal appearances of the house. Everything was solemn, 
still, age-stricken. 

But, without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity 
of age, to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. The 
lovely garden was redolent of sweet odours, alive with 
birds, studded with velvety grass plots of the brightest green 
interwound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which 
hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so 
that one never thought how they and the grey pile which 
they neighboured had come into existence together. It 
was like the contrast between a human mind which the 
world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the 
soul of God*s making and nourishing which lives in His 
sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows old, 
and bears flowers to the last 

There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and 
hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes 
of the cathedral-clock drowsily ringing out the hours. Now 
and then, at service-tiitie, there would come a faint murmur 
of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with 
Nature's eternal praises and prayers, and so blending the 
spiritual aud the tangible, the symbol and the expression, 
in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden ! No dream 
of fiction, but a little Eden of memory — let us rest awhile 
in thy lovely shades before we people them with the 
denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleasant 
garden ! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down 
on the green sloping bank under the magnificent old tree 
with its cloud of white blossoms (no poet-sung hawthorn. 


but only a double-cherry) — let us stroll along the terrace- 
walk, and lean against the thick low wall, looking down 
upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now a slop- 
ing dell all trailed over with blackberries — ^let us watch the 
sunlit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet dreaminess that 
almost shuts out thought ! And, while resting under the 
shadow of this dream, its memorial pictures shall be made 
lifelike to us by the accompaniment of solenm music — such 

as this: 

O earth so foil of dreary noises, 
O men with wailing in your voices ; 

delved gold — ^the wailer's heap ; 
O strife — tears that o'er it fall, 
God makes a silence throngh you all ! 

And giveth His beloved sleep. 




Of what quality was your love, then ? 

Like a fair house built upon another man's ground, so that I have 
lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. 


How ill doth he deserve a lover's name 
Whose pale weak flame 

Cannot retain 
His heart in spite of absence or disdain ; 
But does at once, like paper set on fire. 
Bum, and expire. — Cabew. 

It was scarcely possible to imagine a greater contrast than 
that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. It was 
not the contrast of youth and age, or beauty and ugliness : 
— ^for the lady of the palace was certainly not very old, and 
might once have been decidedly handsome. But there was 
a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness, in 
Mrs. Breynton's mind and person, that was altogether 
opposed to Hogarth's curve of " beauty and grace." She 
was like a correct mathematical figure altogether made up 
of right lines. A bishop's niece, a canon's daughter, and a 
dean's widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow 
of the cathedral walls. It was her world — she could 
imagine no greater ; and in it she had passed a life serene, 
sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks— the death of the 
dean — and an event yet more terrible, her only brother's 
relinquishment of the Church for the Army. The first she 
recovered in time ; the second she atoned for by bringing 
up that favourite brother's orphan son to restore the credit 
of the family through the induction of surplice and band. 


The elder lady and her companion sat together in the 
breakfast-room. It was the only apartment in the house 
that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow 
of domestic coziness was taken away by one half of it being 
transformed by a glass partition-wall into a conservatory. 
But this conservatory was unlike most others, inasmuch as 
it had dead brick walls and high windows through which 
little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room 
had been made into a vegetable menagerie. 

Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after 
breakfast for half-an-hour ; during which time she read her 
letters, decided upon the day's avocations, and knitted one 
square of an eternal counterpane that seemed likely to enter 
on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its cente- 
narian fabricator. 

"Eleanor, my dear!" said the measured tones of the 
Dean's widow. 

Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable 
intention of opening the window to give air to its occupants. 

"My dear Eleanor!" repeated in a tone higher, made 
her turn round and answer the call. " I merely wished 
to remind you that we never open the conservatory win- 
dow until Easter, and it is now only the week before 

Eleanor closed the window ; looking compassionately at 
the poor orange-trees, which could drink in air and light 
only by rule and measure. She came into the breakfast- 
room, and sat watching the sunshine that struggled in. It 
rested on an old picture — the only one in the room — a 
portrait of a rosy, golden-haired boy. The original was the 
Canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the 
cathedral nave. Could he have ever been a child 1 

Mrs. Bre3mton knitted another row in silence, and then 
observed : 

" Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent has made 
me remember how near it is to the Ember weeks. I wonder 
I did not hear from Philip to-day." 

Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor's cheek; her 
feelings were too well governed and calm. But now she 


felt glad that she sat in the shade, — for Mrs. Breynton's 
thoughts had taken the same direction as her own. 

" Perhaps he will write to-morrow," was the very ordinary 
reply that she found herself able to make. 

" I hope so : but he has rarely suffered Tuesday morning 
to pass by ; and it would have been pleasant to me to know 
that he is quite prepared for taking orders." 

"This year— so soon I" 

"Certainly, my dear. He was three-and-twenty last 
month — just in time. I have already spoken to the Bishop 
about the curacy of Wearmouth ; and old Mr. Vernon, the 
rector of that place, is not likely in course of nature to live 
more than two or three years. I consider that there are 
few young men with better prospects than my nephew; 
and I think I may flatter myself on having been to a certain 
degree instrumental in his weU-being." . 

" Indeed he owes you much ! But I am sure, from what 
I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited 
with interest." 

A pleased though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of 
the Dean's widow. " I am quite satisfied that Philip will 
do credit to his family I have no fault to find with him, 
except perhaps that he is not regular enough in his studies, 
and has a fancy for always carrying with him a volume or 
two of idle poetry — ^not quite the thing for a young clergy- 
man to read. But he will get over that ; and if he conducts 
himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, as I 
have little doubt he will" (here Mrs. Breynton glanced 
approvingly at Eleanor's gracefully-dropped head), "why, 
then, Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my 
nephew. But it is already ten o'clock, and I have to speak 
to the gardener about transplanting some geraniums. 
Eleanor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis ]'* 

Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been 
seen slowly traversing the garden walks, Eleanor sat musing 
on her latter words — " If Philip marries to please me." It 
was almost the first time she had ever heard the word 
marriage on Mrs. Breynton's lips. The palace had always 
seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no 



mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted 
into a meaningless and contemptible jest, or else made the 
cause of all strife, evil, and sorrow. Illeanor and Philip, 
shut up together like two young birds in this peaceful Eden, 
had glided into love, without any one's taking apparent 
notice of the fact, and almost without knowing it themselves. 
The flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown leaf 
by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts 
and jealousies from the world outside had ever come between 
them. Their perfect love was perfect trust— the deep faith 
between two beings who feel that they are formed for one 
another, and are united to the heart's core. They never 
talked about their love. Philip made no declarations — 
Eleanor asked no vows; and when they parted for the 
short visit at Summerwood, there was no formal farewell. 
Only, as they stood at thehaU-door Philip pressed her 
hand, and said : 

" Take care of yourself, Eleanor — my Eleanor ! — ^remember 
you are mine — dearest to me of all the world." 

Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that she 
was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in the 
knowledge ; full of trust in hun,— in his true, earnest, noble 
nature. She had not thought much of the future until Mrs. 
Breynton's words awakened a restlessness and an anxious 
looking forward. Eleanor knew Philip's heart better than 
any one, and she foreboded that all these projects for his 
future advantage were little likely to be seconded by him. 
She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was sum- 
moned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor. 

It was the last person in the world whom she expected. 

" Mr. Lynedon ! — this is, indeed, a surprise," cried 

There was a slight confusion in his manner ; which was 
very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs. 
Brejmton entered. The extreme frigidity of her reception 
was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in any 
maiden of nineteen who has to iutroduce a strange gentle- 
man — arrived, apparently, without any object but that of 
seeing herself 



"Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my 
uncle Ogilvie's, who was staying at Summerwood. I believe 
I spoke of him." 

"I have not the slightest recollection of the fact, my 
dear ; but any friend of yours or of Sir Robert Ogilvie's is 

welcome to my house, Pray be seated, Mr. . Excuse 

me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman's name." 

"Lynedon," answered Paul, somewhat disconcerted by 
the cold penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he 
made an effort and recovered his self-command. " I bear 
credentials from Summerwood which I hope will atone for 
this intrusion, — a few books which Miss Ogilvie was sending 
to her cousin. Happening to propose a journey which 
would lead me through your city, I volunteered to deliver 
them. Perhaps this offer was hardly disinterested, as I 
was glad of any excuse to stay and see your beautifol 

Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise " our cathedral," 
and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to her 
favour. From the few words -which she answered, Paul 
Lynedon was sharp-sighted enough to discover this, and he 
followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. 
While Eleanor examined the books he had brought, he 
talked the Dean's lady into the best of humours. She 
took him to the window which looked on the cathedral-yard, 
— explained its architecture from top to bottom, — and 
finally, delighted with the interest that he evinced and with 
his evident antiquarian lore — Paul was the cleverest of 
tacticians in displajring every whit of his knowledge — she 
invited her unexpected guest to stay to luncheon. 

"Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterwards show the 
cathedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he seems to admire it so 
much. I mention this, Mr. Lynedon, because under my 
escort you will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, 
and other interesting parts, where visitors are not admitted 
in general ; but I, as connected with the cathedral " 

" Of course, my dear madam ; how fortunate that I have 
the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as 
yourself," said Paul Lynedon, tsjong not to smile at the 


clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignitaries. 
His tendency for delicately polite satire became almost irre- 
pressible, until in the midst of his pretended deference he 
caught Eleanor's eyes fixed on him. The reproach thus 
given he felt, — and stopped immediately. 

Excited by her presence, Paul's longing to unfold his love 
and receive its requital grew stronger than ever. He tried 
every expedient that courtesy could either sanction or con- 
ceal in order to get the old lady out of the room. But Mrs. 
Breynton had been brought up in the old-world school of 
proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young lady and 
gentleman alone together for five minutes unless they were 
plighted lovers. So, during two interminable hours, Paul 
had not an opportunity of exchanging one word with Eleanor 
except on the most trivial subjects, — and even then Mrs. 
Bre3mton's quick black eyes followed him with a hawk- 
like pertinacity that was anything but pleasant. 

Paul grew quite nervous. " It will come to a letter after 
all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound 
that stupid old woman ! " thought he, while the impetuosity 
of his character foamed and boiled under the check he was 
forced to put upon it. 

At last Mrs. Bre3mton proposed to visit the cathedral. 

" Pray, do not let me encroach upon you too much," said 
Paul, " the verger will show me, — or if Miss Ogilvie would 
favour me so far." 

His eyes turned towards Eleanor, — so did Mrs. Breynton's; 
but there was not the shadow of a love-mystery suggested 
in that calm, mild face. 

" Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad to act as 
your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows so much more than 
I do about these curious old monuments. However, we 
will both go with you." 

" Certainly, Eleanor," acquiesced Mrs. Breynton, with an 
air of complete reassurance ; while Paul forced his hand so 
precipitately into his glove that he tore it completely in two. 
But, as if the favouring stars looked with pity on the vexed 
lover, it so chanced that the Bishop's lady drove up to the 
gates just as the three were setting out Mrs. Breynton 

xil] the ogilvies. 95 

was forced to return, — ^and Paul at last found himself alone 
with Eleanor. „^ 

Who ever wooed 
As in Ms boyish hope he would have done ? 

asks the poet, — and poets are in nine cases out of ten the 
only truth-speakers. Paul Lynedon suddenly discovered 
that he had not a word to say. Eleanor — quiet, composed, 
unconscious Eleanor — had all the talk to herself. She 
exerted her memory to the utmost in order to explain every- 
thing. Paul listened assentingly — walked beside her — 
looked where she directed — ^but whether she were showing 
h\m Newgate or Westminster Abbey, it would have been 
quite impossible for him to tell. When they came out, a 
sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time. 

" Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view 
from the terrace you spoke of," he said hurriedly. 

They walked to the garden terrace. 

" I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine's 
messenger ; it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make 
me this present, — and to choose such nice books, too," 
observed Eleanor. 

Paul felt that he must " do or die." He stood still in 
his walk, took her hand, and said in a deep, low whisper : 

" Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken ; Katharine never sent 
those books, — it was but my excuse for seeing you. I can- 
not live any longer without saying * Eleanor, I love you ! * 
Why do you start — ^why do you turn away 1 Eleanor, you 
must hear me — ^you must answer me." 

She could not : indeed, he hardly allowed her time — ^but 
went on rapidly, 

" You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Summer- 
wood — I thought you might love me, or would let me teach 
you to do so in time. Eleanor, is it so ] tell me : — or, have 
I deceived myself?" 

Her reply was the one word — " Yes ! " 

Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the 
wall, and covered his face. Eleanor, startled and pained, 
was also silent They stood thus for some minuteis. At 
last she said, with some agitation, 


"Indeed, indeed I had no idea of this. Mr. Lynedon, 
you do not think I deceived you 1" 

" No, no — it was my own madness," muttered Paul ; " the 
fool I was, to think that I had read a woman's heart! 
Well! — ^it will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust 
you will pardon me," he said, in a tone that savoured more 
of wounded pride than of heart-broken love. 

" Pardon you ! — I owe you pardon, if by any means I 
have made you unhappy. But I do not think I shall — at 
least not for long. Forgive me. I like and esteem you 
very much. I do indeed." 

That soft voice touched Paul's heart, even amidst the 
angry bitterness that was rising there. 

" For heaven's sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject 
me ! Is it simply because I have been so hasty that I have 
not given you time to love me 1 — or, do you love another 1" 

A deep crimson rose to Eleanor's very brow. Paul saw 
the blush, — and understood it. His pride took arms against 
his lingering love, and drove it from the field. 

" You need not speak — I am answered. Believe me, I 
wish to intrude on no man's privileges. Let me hope that 
you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings which 
you do not return; and accept my best wishes for your 
happiness. Look! I see Mrs. Breynton at the window; 
shall we retrace our steps ? — I wish to heaven it could be 
done in more ways than one," added the rejected lover in a 
bitter " aside," which Eleanor's agitation prevented her from 
hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart 
from many a painful thriU of womanly pity ; and shown 
her how rootless and how easily extinguished is the love 
that springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and 
impetuous man, and with the thwarting of its own selfish 
impulse as quickly dies away. No man who loves worthily, 
however hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with 
his sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness 
he has walked for a time — " I would ye had never shone ! " 

Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. 
Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified 
curiosity; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry ap- 

xtl] the ogilvies. 97 

peared sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the 
discovery. And the reverend and reverenced shadow of 
the Bishopess still rested on the good lady, who felt herself 
bound to reflect upon all around the high dignity and 
honour of this visit, shutting out every minor considera^ 

^ I shall be always happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," she 
said, replying to her guest's hurried adieu with a stately 
politeness ; " I regret that my nephew, Mr. Wychnor, is not 
here, but we expect him shortly." 

Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head — ^in the 
bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat — he read 
the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and 
his hurried strides resounded heavily down the pavement 
of the Close. There was a little child playing in his path 
— ^he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance and 
a command that souAded almost like an execration. 

" Well ! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, this 
Mr. Paul Lynedon," was Mrs. Breynton's comment as she 
watched him from the window of the palace. *'Beally, 
Eleanor " 

But Eleanor had left the room, to relieve her troubled 
heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowledge 
of another's love had unveiled to her more completely the 
depths of her own, and shown her how her whole soul was 
bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in how 
happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may come, 
there is always something solemn — almost fearful — to a 
woman who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a life- 
destiny ; feeling that in the future nothing can be perfectly 
sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. Yet 
that love is her fairest omen — her safest anchor — her 
chiefest strength, except in Heaven ! 

And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thoughtful musings 
that were almost prayers, and while Paul Lynedon dashed 
forward on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel 
abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his 
slighted love, Mrs. Breynton, good, easy soul, sat dozing 
over her netting, and thinking how very condescending was | 



the new Bishop's lady, — when the first invitation to dinner 
would arrive, — and whether she should wear the black vel- 
vet or the Irish poplin. 

O youth! with thy fiery heart — which, after all, is 
nearest to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its 
wildest beatings — canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, 
dull calm as this t 

Xm.] THK 06ILYIES. 99 



I ask no vengeance from the powers above : 
All I implore is, never more to love : — 
Let me this fondness from my bosom tear, 
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair. 


Passions are likened best to floods and streames, 
The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb ; 

So, when affections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 


Lynedon strode through the quiet grass-grown streets of 

L , his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a thwarted 

wUL Despite the impulse of this sudden passion, it had 
cost him considerable efifort before the gay and courted man 
of the world could resolve to give up his liberty, and 
immolate himself on the matrimonial shrine for any woman 
soever. And now the heroic resolution was wholly vain — 
the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an unvalued offer- 
ing. The first absolute proposal of marriage with which 
Paul Lynedon had ever honoured the sex had been refused ! 
And by whom ) By a simple country girl, who had, he 
now thought, neither beauty nor fascinations of manner, 
nor — fortune. 

He remembered that last circumstance now ; though, to 
do Paul justice, he had not considered it before — ^for he 
was not a mercenary man. Even while it stung his pride, 
it brought a faint consolation to his sense of worldly wis- 
dom. It had certainly saved him from perpetrating a most 
improvident marriage. He '* laid the flattering unction to 


his soul," but it proved only a temporary balm ; the sting 
still remained — ^wounded pride — selfish, angry sorrow, like 
that of a child over a lost toy — and perhaps a deeper, 
purer feeling, which regretted the vanished spell of that 
gentle woman's nature, imder which every better impulse 
of his own had been re-awakened. That which he had felt 
was not the real love, the one sole love of life ; but no man 
could have entered even within the shadow of Eleanor 
Ogilvie's influence without some true, deep chords being 
sounded in his heart,— and from then* silence came the pain, 
the only sincere and virtuous pain, which Paul Lynedon ex- 
perienced. To lull it, he walked for miles across the coun- 
try, striving by physical exercise to deaden the excitement 
of his mind. 

It was a lovely region through which he passed — all 
woodland or pasture-^grounds — but the young man saw 
nothing. Nature, pure, unalloyed nature, was rarely his 
delight : his perceptions, though refined, were not simple 
enough to relish such pleasures. Now, he only felt that 
the roads were insufferably muddy and the fields hatefully 
quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought 
up in 8uch scenes ; he only cursed his own folly for ever 
having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would 
eschew such sentimentality in future ; he would go back to 
the gay, care-drowning world- — ^plunge in London life— or, 
what seemed far better, travel abroad once more. 

Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then 
passing ; caring little whither it bore him, so that it was 
far away from L . 

Lynedon entrenched himself in proud reserve beside the 
coachman ; and scarcely answered, even in monosyllables, 
when this individual — a character in his way — civilly 
pointed out many a lovely pastoral view, — amongst which, 
from every point, the " Ladies of the Vale " could be seen 
airily towering in the clear sky. With melancholy emphasis 
did the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line 
where the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful 
champaign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and 
progress into the time-honoured sanctity of the cathedral 


town. But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. 
All that he noticed in his neighbour's conversation was the 

atrocious S shire accent ; and he came to the conclusion 

that the English peasantry were \he rudest in the world. 

At last, Paul's mind began to settle into a few straight- 
forward resolves with regard to his future proceedings. 
The coach was bearing him towards London ; — ^but could 
he go there, within reach of the sneers of the already sus- 
pecting Mrs. Lancaster) No, he would pretend urgent 
affairs, and rush abroad : — ^and to do this, he must first go 

Home ! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon's vocabu- 
lary. Very few of his friends knew of its existence at all : 
and he never sought to enlighten their ignorance,-for, in 
fact, he was considerably ashamed of the place. 

The penultimate descendant of the time-honoured Lyne- 
don race had sought to redeem his fortunes by trade. Paul's 
father had' been a cotton-manufacturer. The moderate 
fortune which now enabled the son to take his stand in 
that sphere to which his birth entitled him, had sprung 
from the red-brick mill, with its black windows, its ever- 
dinning wheels. This grim phantom had been the horror 
of Paul Lynedon's youth : it haunted him even yet Per- 
haps, had his better self gained free play, he would not have 
so wholly sought to stifle the remembrance of the spot 
where, years before, the aristocratic father, equally proud 
but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the work, 
and never once looked back until he had replaced ancestral 
wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul's conscience, and 
his appreciative reverence for virtue, acknowledged all this, 
— but he had not strength of mind to brave the world and 
say so. 

Therefore, while he would not part with the simple 
dweUing where his grey-haired father and his fair young 
mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had 
spent their orphaned childhood — still, Lynedon rarely 
alluded to his " home," and scarcely ever visited it The 
distant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since 
passed into other hands^ almost drove him wild yet No 


head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits, 
he usually made a circuit of half-a-mile to avoid it He 
did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his 
long night journey. At last, in the sunshine of early 
morning, he stood by his own door. 

It had originally been a straight-staring, plain-fronted 
house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufactur- 
ing districts. But the builder's want of taste was concealed 
by the late owner's possession of that graceful quality. 
Over the staring front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine, 
— converting it into a very bower of greenery ; and amidst 
the formal garden had been planted quick-growing lime- 
trees, that now formed "pleached alleys" wherein even 
poets or lovers — ^the true honey-bees of all life's pleasure- 
flowers — ^might delight to walk. 

As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through these, he thought 
for a moment how, when the trees were growing, he and his 
little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek among them. 
He wished that the bright, curly-tressed head had been 
peeping out from among the branches, and smiling a 
womanly, sisterly welcome from the barred and lonely 
doorway. The first time for many months, he remem- 
bered a little green mound beside the stately burying-place 
of the L3naedons — far away. Paul sighed, and thought 
that he might have been a better and a happier man if 
poor little Alice had lived to be a woman. 

He roused his old housekeeper ; but when she came, at 
the first look of he^r sour, grumbling face, he hastily dis- 
missed her. In the long - deserted house was neither 
chamber nor bed prepared ; so he stretched himself on a 
sofa, and tried to forget past, present^ and future in a most 
welcome slumber. 

This deep sleep lasted for several hours. Lynedon awoke 
with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together 
with a couple of human optics belonging to a young man 
who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious 
gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evidently medical 
fingers on the sleeper's wrist, while from his other hand 
dangled the orthodox M.D.'8 watch. It fell to the ground 


when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a 

"My good Mend — ^my dear Lynedon — well, I thought 
there coidd be nothing much the matter with you." 

" Who imagined there was 1 " 

" Why, that good old soul your housekeeper, who said 
you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so 
wildly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison, — 
and so fetched me." 

" Pshaw ! — ^well, I am very glad to see you, Doctor," said 
Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the rush of 
painful and mortifying thoughts that came with his 
awaking. He could not do this altogether; and it was 
with considerable effort that he forced his features into a 
polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college 
chum, who, on giving up the sermon for the recipe, had 
been considerably indebted to Lynedon*s kindness for a start 
in life. 

" I am sure I hope you are coming to settle among us, 
or at least to stay a long time," said Dr. Saville. 

Paul's face darkened. " No j I shall be off in a day or 
two for the Continent. I don't care when I come back. I 
hate England." 

" Really — ^how very odd ! what can be the reason 1 " was 
the simple remark of the most commonplace of country 

" Never mind, my good fellow," said Paul rather sharply. 
" Don't talk about myself; I am sick of the subject. Speak 
about any other affairs — ^your own for instance ; doubtless 
far more interesting to both parties." 

"Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind:" — ^and the 
chattering, weak-minded, but good-natured physician held 
forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the 
neighbourhood. At last he glided on to his own peculiar 
affairs ; and, after a while, gathered courage to convey to 
his old friend and patron the important information that he 
was about to marry. 

" If you do you are a confounded fool," cried Lynedon, 
with an energy that made the little doctor tremble on hia 


chair. " I beg your pardon, Saville," he added, trying to 
laugh off the matter ; " you don't know what women are — 
not so well as friend Maro. Bemember, 

Yaritim et mntabile semper 

The old fellow was not far wrong, eh 1 They are all alike," 
" Except my Lizzie ! oh, no ! I'm quite sure of Lizzie ;" — 
and he began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered 
certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was 
touched ; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow and 
mortified pride. He listened with a feeling very like envy 
to the bridegroom-expectant's account of his already fur- 
nished house, his neat garden — Lizzie liked flowers — his 
little gig wherein he could go his professional rounds and 
drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst 
of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk, the worthy 
Doctor was startled by Paul's suddenly springing up with 
the cry — 

" Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, 
and I am a most miserable one ! I wish to Heaven that I 
were dead ! " 

Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow 
to coinmunicate to any male friend the story of their'suffer- 
ings. They will do so sometimes — nay, often — to a friend 
of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best confidante, 
after all ; and perhaps in such cases womanly sympathy is 
the surest cure for a heart-wound. It is hard to account 
for the impulse that made Lynedon betray his feeh'ngs to 
his old friend, except from the fact that the sympathy of 
the worthy simple-minded Doctor was most like that of a 
woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their prospects in- 
vited sympathy, — and Lynedon, having been the Doctor's 
patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more than 
usually communicative. But however it chanced, most 
certainly Dr. Saville contrived to glean a great deal of infor- 
mation; and by putting together names, incidents, and 
exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a great deal more. 
In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he came 


veiy near it, and his prolific imagination easily supplied 
the rest. But he took care by a respectful reserve to 
avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron ; and the 
promise of secrecy with which he bade Lynedon adieu he 
long and faithfully kept — except with regard to his "Lizzie." 

Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the 
lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and 
his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need 
of loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. 
He thought of the poor village doctor, poor in mind as in 
person, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth 
made happy by a mother's blessing and a wife's clinging 
arms. While he — ^the admired of many a circle — accus- 
tomed to the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip which 
he knew to be false as his own — he, Paul Lynedon, stood 
alone, with not a single creature in the whole wide world 
to love him. 

" Not one — ^not one ! " As he despondently repeated the 
words, Lynedon's eye fell upon a slip of paper which he 
had carelessly tossed out of his pocket-book. It was 
merely a few verses — copied by his request — ^written out 
in a girlish hand, evidently trained into the most anxious 
neatness. It bore the date " Summerwood," and the sig- 
nature " Katharine Ogilvie." 

As Paul unfolded the paper, his face brightened, and 
softened into tenderness. There came before him a vision 
of the dark eyes lifted, for one moment only, in sorrowing, 
yearning love— of the fair lips which had trembled beneath 
his own. 

" Dear little girl — sweet little Katharine I I think she 
does care for me — God bless her I " He felt almost inclined 
to kiss the paper, but stopped ; reflecting with a half smile 
that she was such a child I But even a child's love was 
precious to him then. 

"I should almost like to see her again before I leave 
England," thought Paul. " But no — it would not do I 
What excuse could I make for my sudden flight ? However, 
I will write." 

He did write, as the impluse of the moment dictated. 


It was a letter which spoke, as his idle words had before 
done, eyer3rthiiig except the positive declaration of love. 
Its deep tenderness — ^its haU ambiguous expressions — its 
broken and altered sentences — ^were such as to thrill with 
happiness any young impassioned heart, that, once deceived 
into a fixed belief, judges everything by its utter simplicity, 
and sees in all forms and shows of love the reflection of its 
own. Poor Katharine ! These outpourings of a momen- 
tary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the 
reader's eye, — what would they be to her ! 

Paul Lynedon knew not — ^thought not — cared not. A 
few weeks after he was mingling in the gayest salons of 
Pans; the pleasure and pain of the last three months 
having alike passed from his memory as though they had 
never been. 



I have a more than Mend 

Across the mountains dim ; 
No other voice to me is sweet 

Unless it nameth him ! 
We broke no gold — a pledge 

Of stronger faith to be, 
But I wear his last look in my soul, 

Which said, "I love but thee I " 

I was betrothed that day : 
I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. 

E. B. Bkowning. 

There is hardly a man in the world who does not feel 
his pulse beat quicker when, even after a short absence, he 
finds himself nearing home. A commonplace this — often 
said, often written ; but there are commonplaces, delicious, 
ever fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world's 
highway : it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. 
So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to remark 
that Philip Wychnor*s heart experienced a slight additional 

thriU when, riding through the gra«s-grown streets of L , 

he saw the evening sun emblazoning the palace-windows, 
and felt that he was really " coming home." 

It is a rule with novelists — and a sterling one, in general 
— ^that you should never unveil your characters by elaborate 
descriptions of mind and person, but suflfer them to develop 
themselves in the progress of the story ; shining down upon 
them until they unfold beneath the sun-burst of your 
artistic skill, instead of pulling them open leaf by leaf with 
your fingers, and thus presenting to the reader your well- 
dissected bouquet of human-heart flowers. But in the 

108 THE 0G1LVIE8. [CHAP. 

present case we will waive the aforesaid excellent mle, — 
for no reader could ever find out the inner character of 
Philip Wychnor from its outward manifestations in the 
routine of daily life. Kot that he was deficient in exterior 
qualities to win regard. Most people liked him — or at 
least that half of his character which waa most apparent — 
and said, as Hngh Ogilvie once did, that he was " a good 
fellow enough." There was but one in the world who 
thoroughly understood him, who had looked into the depth 
of his soul What need is there to aay who was that one 
— ^precious, loving, and beloved — on whom he rested, and 
from whom he drew comfort, strength, and peace ) 

Philip Wychnor would never have made a hero, either in 
body or in mind : — at least not one of your grand world- 
heroes who will overthrow an army or perform some act of 
self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for a 
century after. But there is many a lauded martyr whose 
funeral pile ia only a huge altar to self-glory, which the 
man's own dying hands have reared. The true heroes are 
those whose names the world never hears, and never will 
hear — the blessed household martyrs who offer unto God 
the sacrifice, not of death's one pang, but of life's long 
patient endurance — the holy ones, who, through 
Love's divine Eelf-abaegatioa, 

. the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of those 
lave " passed through much tribulation." 
Lip Wychnor might have been one of these, 
t, wearying of our "was nota" and "might have 
," you may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet \ 
he had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive 
3B. But his whole life waa a poem ; so pure, so rich 
those dear charities and holy influences which create 
>etry of this world. Some of earth's truest poets are 
trdly dumb ; but their singing ia like the music of 
ars ; the angels hear it up in heaven. How glorious 
unhe^ melody must he! — Was he handsome? It 
. be ; for genius rarely exists without casting over the 
ird frame a cerbun spiritual loveliness, — and oftentimes 


soul and body grow linked together in an exquisite 
perfection, so that neither materialist nor spiritualist would 
think of dissevering the one from the other. But the 
beauty of Philip Wychnor*s face was too refined — almost 
too feminine — ^to attract general notice. Features regularly 
chiselled and delicately small, shadowed by hair of a pale 
clear brown, in which somewhat rare tint no one could 
detect either the admired gold or the widely condemned red 
— & stature very reed-like, both as to height and slendemess 
—and that personal sign which in. a man so often accom- 
panics exquisite refinement of mind, a beautiful hand— <;om- 
prise the external semblance of him whom we have hitherto 
seen only through the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie*s love. 

Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded 
by even this love-sunshine j a son of Adam, not perfect but 
still nearer — ay, ten thousand times — ^to that grand image 
of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work 
of the tailor and the fencins^-master, which draw silly 
maidens', eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, 
Phiilip Wychnor ! Eaise thy face, sublime in its gentleness 
— ^with the pure lips through which the foul impieties of 
boasting youth never yet passed — ^with the eyes that have 
not scorned at times to let their lashes droop over a tear 
of sympathy or of sorrow. lift up thy hand, which never 
used its strength against a fellow-creature,— and was not 
the less heroic for that. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor, 
and show the world the likeness of a man ! 

He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps 
with a speed worthy of an agile youth — and a lover ; in a 
minute the pleasant fire-lit room where Mrs. Breynton and 
Eleanor held their after-dinner chat, was brightened by a 
presence welcome to both. How doubly so to one! A 
good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, was Mrs. 
Breynton ; and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature 
owned was expressed in the solemn salutation which Philip's 
forehead received. And then came the dear, close, linger- 
ing hand-pressure of meeting and welcome — so silent, yet 
so full of all faithful assurance — between two who to their 
inmost hearts knew, loved, and trusted one another. 


After even a few months of separation, it always takes a 
space of desultory talk before the dearest friends settle 
down into the quiet satisfaction of meeting. So the con- 
versation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather 
restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed and 
as to the way in which they were sustained. Philip found 
himself listening to, or at least hearing with his outward 
ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new 
Bishop's first sermon, and his lady's first call. It showed 
either surprising forgetfulness or true womanly tact in Mrs. 
Breynton, that in her lengthened recital of that day's events 
she made no allusion to Mr. Paul Ljmedon. 

"By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I 
scarcely expected you home quite so soon." 

" I myself hardly looked for such a pleasure until yester- 
day, when I found I could leave. And you know. Aunt 
Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you," 
answered the young man, affectionately. 

A pleased, though rather a sedate smile marked the ac- 
knowledgments of Aunt Breynton; and then her mind 
turned suddenly to the melancholy fact that no household 
preparation was made for the visitor. 

"This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result of not 
doing things regularly. Had you written the day before, 
we should have had your room ready ; but now I fear you 
will have to sleep without curtains. And I dare say you 
have not dined, and the cook is gone to bed most likely." 

Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though 
he was quite unable to recollect whether he had dined or 
not. Thereupon, he was obliged to listen to a few argu- 
ments concerning the necessity of taking care of his health 
and the evil of long fasting. At last Mrs. Breynton's 
domestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she 
rose to quit the room. As she passed the door, she 
unfortunately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her 
nephew had thrown down on his entry. She could not 
resist the opportunity. 


Philip started from an earnest gaze at the drooping profile 


which was reflected against the fire-light, and opened the 
door for the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed her ; 
she liked the grave courtesies of old, and the long lecture 
resolved itself into— 

" Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the 
footman to take away these.'' She pointed to the offending 
intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room ; and sailed 
majestically away, the very genius of tidiness. 

Dear Eleanor and Philip I young, simple-hearted lovers I 
such as the wide world's heart has ever yearned over in song 
or story — ^ay, and ever will — ^how did they look at, how 
speak to each other 1 They did neither. They stood by 
the fire — ^for she had risen too — stood quite silent, until 
Philip took first one hand, then both, in his. 

" Eleanor, are you glad to see me ?" 

" Glad, Philip I " was the low reply— only an echo, after 
all; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a 
fulness of love that gave all the answer his own sought. 
He lifted her hands — ^he drew them, not unwilling to be 
thus guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his 
betrothed. It was the silent marriage-vow between two 
hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other's pure 
beatings ; a vow not less sacred than the after one, with 
joined hands before the altar ; a solemn troth -plight, which, 
once given and received in sincerity and true love, no 
earthly power ought ever to disannuL 

And surely the angels who sang the marriage-hymn of 
the first lovers in Eden cast down on these their holy eyes 
— ^ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For 
can there be in this world aught more sacred than two 
beings who stand together, man and woman — heart-be- 
trothed, ready to go forth hand in hand, in glad yet solemn 
union, on the same journey, towards the one eternal home ) 

God, look down upon them ! God, bless them, and 
fill them with love, first towards Thee and then towards 
one another ! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly 
the dear burden which all must take who, in loving, receive 
unto themselves another soul with its errors and its weak- 
nesses. Such — ^in their silent hearts — ay, even amid the 


joy of their betrothal — ^was the prayer that Eleanor and 

Philip prayed. 

« « « « « 

When Mrs. Breynton returned, she found the hat and 
gloves lying precisely where she had left them ; and through 
the half-opened inner door she caught a glimpse of Eleanor's 
black dress gliding up the staircase, while Philip stood 
with his face to the fire, tiying with all his might to com- 
mit the enormity of whistling in a drawing-room. How all 
these conflicting elements were finally reconciled is not on 
record ; but the fact is certain that, in honour probably of 
her nephew's return, the good old lady sat up talking with 
him until past eleven o'clock, and, for the first time in her 
life, quite forgot to call the servants to family devotions. 
Moreover, as she passed Eleanor's room, she entered, kissed 
her on both cheeks, and went away without a word save a 
fervent "God bless you!" Perhaps the one heartfelt 
blessing rose nearer to heaven than leaden-winged formal 
prayers would ever have climbed. 



Has it never occurred to us when surrounded by sorrows, that they 
may be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the cages of 
birds when we wish to teach them to sing ? — Jean Paul. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed. 

Or the death they bear, 
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove, 

With the wings of care. 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need. 

Shall mine cling to thee, 
Kor claim one smile for all the comfort, love. 

It may bring to thee. S^b^iLBY. 

" And now, my dear children, let us talk of your prospects 
in the world," said Mrs. Br,ejpt.on, gyavely, when, after a 
long day, happy indeed, but ^oijiewhat restlessly spent by 
all three, they sat once more in the pleasant fire-light, as 
they had done the evening before. The only difference 
was that Philip now ventured to sit on the same side of 
the fire as Eleanor : and in the shadowy flicker of the blaze 
it would have been injipossible to tell precisely what had 
become of her hancj. Stijl, the rigljit, true, and worthy 
owner of that little hapd probably kAew, an,d no one else 
had any business to inqu^e. 

Mrs. Breynton foui;id it necessary to repeat hep observa- 
tion, slightly yaried : " I wish, my dear neptiew, ai^d niece 
that wUl be, tp talk seriously about your plains for the 
future. When do you prppo§e to ms|,.Fry 1 and what do you 
propose to marry upon V* 

These point-blank questions rather startjed Philip and 
his affianced. Few lovers, especially ypung lovers, amidst 
the first burst of deep happiness, stay to think at all of 



those commonplace things, house-furnishing, house-keeping, 
yearly income, and such like. A little Eleanor had mused, 
perhaps more than most young girls, on the future time, 
when — the enthusiastic devotion of the lover merged in 
the still affection of the husband — it would be her part less 
to be ministered unto than to minister, surrounding him 
with all comfort and love in the dear, quiet, blessed home 
— their home. But Philip the dreamer, still unacquainted 
with the realities of life, had never thought of these things 
at all. They came upon him almost bewilderingly ; and all 
the answer he could make to his aunt's question was the 
very unsatisfactory one — 

" I really do not know ! " 

Mrs. Breynton looked from one to the other in dignified 
reproof " This, I must say, is the evil of young people's 
arranging their matrimonial affairs for themselves. Nobody 
ever did so in my day. Your excellent uncle, the Dean, 
furnished his house down to the very stair-carpets before 
he even asked me to marry him. And you, Philip, I dare 
say, have not even thought in what county of England you 
intend to settle ? " 

Philip acknowledged he had not. — Oh, blessed Present, 
that with its golden light can so dim and dazzle the eyes 
as to make them scarcely desire to look farther, even into 
a happy future ! 

Mrs. Breynton tried to lecture gravely upon improvident 
and hasty marriages ; it was her way. And yet she had 
lain awake since seven o'clock that morning, calculating 
how much income the curacy of Wearmouth would bring 
in yearly, and what it would take to furnish that pretty 
cottage next to the rectory ; nay, she had even settled the 
colour of the drawing-room curtains, and was doubtful only 
whether the carpet should be Axminster or Brussels. But 
she loved to dictate and reprove, and then sweep gracefully 
round laden with advice and assistance. 

Thus, after a due delay, she unfolded all her kindly pur- 
poses ; dilating with an earnestness and clerical apprecia- 
tion worthy of the Dean's lady on the promised curacy, 
and the living in prospectu with its great advantages, — ^viz. 


the easy duty, large Easter offerings, plenty of glebe land, 
and a nobleman's seat close by, the owner of which was 
devoted to the Church, and always gave practical marks of 
his respect by dinners and game. 

" I think, Philip," continued she, " that nothing could be 
more fortunate. I have the Bishop's word for your suc- 
ceeding to the curacy immediately on your taking orders ; 
and — though I mean no disrespect to good Mr. Vernon — 
if he should die in a year or two, as in course of nature he 
must, you will meanwhile have an opportunity of showing 
his Grace what an agreeable neighbour he might secure by 
presenting you with the living." 

Had the worthy dame been able to read her nephew's 
face, as well as those gentle eyes which were now lifted to 
it with anxious tenderness, she would have seen in the 
grave, almost sad expression which came over it, how little 
the young earnest nature sympathised with the worldly- 
minded one. Philip's honest foot would never have en- 
tered the tainted Paradise she drew. Eespect restrained 
his tongue, as it had done many a time before ; but Eleanor 
read in his silence what his thoughts were. Honour be to 
the unselfish and truly womanly impulse which prompted 
her to press fondly and encouragingly the hand wherein 
her own lay — as if to say, " Stand fast, my beloved ; do 
that which is right ; I am with you through all." It was 
the first taking upon herself of that blessed burden of love 
which through life's journey they were to bear for one 
another. PhiUp leaned in spirit upon the helpmate God 
had given him. He grew strong, and was comforted. 

"Dear aunt," he said, gently, "you are very good to 
think of all these things, but I feel by no means sure that 
I shall ever take orders." 

" Not take orders ! when you have all your life been 
studying for the Church 1 " cried Mrs. Breraton, lifting up 
her VS with the most intense astonishW' "pliH? 
Wychnor ! what can you mean 1 " 

"I mean," said Philip, slowly and firmly, though in a 
tone low and humble as a child's, " that for the last year I 
have thought much and deeply of the life apparently before 


me. I have seen how the sanctity of the Church is pro- 
faned by those servants who, at its very threshold, take 
either an utterly false vow or one only half understood and 
wholly disregarded. I dare not lay upon my soul this 

Mrs. Breynton's temperament was too frigid to be often 
disturbed by violent passion ; but it was easy to see from 
the restless movements of her fingers and the sudden 
twitching of her thin, compressed lips, how keenly she was 
agitated by her nephew's words. 

" Then, sir," sh^ said, after a pause, " you are about to 
inform me that you have followed the example of other 
wild, misguided young men, and dissented from the Estab- 
lishment ; in short, that you i^o longer believe in our Holy 

" I do believe in it," cried Phihp, earnestly. " I believe 
it to be the purest on earth ; but no human form of wor- 
ship can be wholly pure. I have never quitted, and never 
shall quit, the Church in which I was bom — ^but I will not 
bind myself to believe — or say I believe — all her dogmas ; 
and I dare not iij the sight of God declare that I feel 
called by His Spirit to be a minister at the altar when I 
do not sincerely think I am." 

" And may I ask what right you have to think anything 
at all about the jnatter ) This is merely a form of ordina- 
tion, which men much wiser and more pious than yourself 
— excuse me, Philip — have appointed, and which every 
clergyman passes through without any scruple. The 
words mean only that the candidate is a good man, and 
will not disgrace the cloth he wears. Your uncle explained 
it all to me once. — ^Philip," continued Mrs. Breynton, losing 
the cold scorn of her manner in the real earnestness of her 
feelings, " you would not, surely, give up your prospects in 
life for such a trifle as this 1 " 

"A trifle ! " echoed Philip, sadly, as he saw how vain it 
would be to explain his motives further, and felt keenly the 
bitterness his determination would give to his aimt's mind. 
She, fancying that in his silence she had gained an advan- 
tage, pursued it with all the skill of which she was capable. 


" My dear nephew, do you know what you are doing 1 
Have you forgotten that your whole education has been 
bent towards this end ; that your own small fortune — 
perhaps a little more, to which I will not allude — ^has gone 
in college expenses for the same purpose ; that if you follow 
your present wild scheme, you mmt begin life anew, with 
nothing in this world to trust to ]'* 

" £xcept an honest heart and a clear conscience." 

How tender and holy was the light in those sweet eyes 
that looked up in his — how warm the pressure of the other 
hand, not the clasped one, which of ite own accord twined 
round his arm in fond encouragement! He needed the 
strength thus imparted, for his own was sorely shaken by 
Mrs. Breynton's next words — ^uttered in a tone where anger 
and disappointment triumphed over all assumed composure. 

" Listen to me, Philip Wychnor. You are about to act 
like a madman, and I feel it my duty to restrain you if I 
can. I do not ask you to remember how I have brought 
you up with this purpose in view, treating you less like my 
brother's child than my own ; nor do I speak of my dis- 
appointment — ^for I know your great heroes for conscience' 
sake think little of these things," she added, with a sarcastic 
meaning that cut Philip to the heart. He sprang up to 

" Nay — sit down again ; I am not accustomed to scenes," 
said the old lady, coldly. " I knew a young man once — 
he was not unlike you, Philip," — and Mrs. Breynton re- 
garded her nephew with a smile half bitter, half mournful 
— "he, too, for a whim — a boyish whim — gave up the 
Church, and his father turned him out into the wide world 
— to starve. His mother broke her heart ; and the girl he 
was about to marry — still, like you — she grieved until her 
friends persuaded her to wed another lover; but they 
could not give back her withered youth — her poor broken 
heart. Will you hearken, Philip, now 1 — ^for the man was 
your father, and that gentle creature whom he basely 
forsook was the dearest friend I ever had — ay, and the 
mother of your Eleanor ! " 

Struck with surprise, and deeply moved, the two young 


lovers impulsively started from each other's side — but only 
for a moment. Closer they drew together, in that painful 
time of agitation unrestrained by outward form ; and Philip 
murmured, as he wound his arm round her, 

*' Mine — ^mine still — for all the past. She will trust me : 
my Eleanor — my own ! " 

Mrs. Breynton went on. " Now, Philip Wychnor, you 
may follow your father's steps if you like ; but I solemnly 
declare that if you persist in this, and disgrace the family 
as he did, I will give up my purpose of making you my 
heir ; and, that you may not bring poverty on that dear 
child whom I have loved all her life for her mother's sake, 
with my consent you shall never marry Eleanor Ogilvie." 

Too angry to trust herself with another word, Mrs. Breyn- 
ton swept out of the room. 

Philip had started up to detain her, but she was gone. 
He paced the room in violent agitation, never looking 
towards Eleanor ; then he threw himself beside a table in 
the farthest and darkest comer, and laid his head upon his 
folded arms as if quite oblivious even of her presence. 

For this a proud woman would have treated her lover 
with silent indignation, — a selfish one would have let loose 
her wounded vanity in a burst of reproaches ; — but Eleanor 
was neither selfish nor proud. A single pang shot through 
her heart as she sat alone and unnoticed by the fire ; two 
or three tears fell; and then the true woman's nature 
triumphed. She had not bestowed her love for the poor 
requital of outward attentions such as wooers pay ; she 
had not meted it out, share for share, as if love were a thing 
to be weighed and measured. She had given it freely, 
knitting her soul unto his, until she felt and lived, suffered 
and rejoiced, not in herself or for herself, but in him and 
for him. 

Eleanor rose and glided noiselessly across the room until 
she stood beside her lover. In truth, he hardly felt that 
she was near him. A few faint beatings were there in the 
young maiden heart at the new and solemn office that be- 
came hers j one passing flush, — and then all earthly feelings 
were stilled by the mute prayer which spoke in the lifted 


eyes. She stooped down, laid her arms round Philip's neck, 
and kissed him on the forehead. 

He started — almost shivered beneath the touch of her 

" my God ! how shall I bear this 1 Don't speak to 
me, Eleanor ; don't touch me, or I shall have no strength 
at all. Go away I " 

But the next moment the harsh accents melted into tears 
— such a burning flood as rarely bursts even from man's 
pent-up suffering. Eleanor, terrified, almost heartbroken, 
was yet the stronger now. A woman who loves always is. 
She knelt beside him : it was on her bosom that his tears 
fell, and he did not turn away. How could he ? A child 
does not cling to its mother with more utter helplessness 
than did Philip to his betrothed in that hour of suffering. 

And she, — as she bent over him, her heart lifted itself 
up in sUent breathings of the prayer that she might grow 
strong, to strengthen him, and trustful, to comfort him. 

" God ! " was that inward prayer, " if it must be, take 
all the sunshine out of my life and give it to his ! Oh ! 
would that I could die for thee, my heart's dearest — ^my 
pride — ^my husband 1 " 

And as she breathed over him the name, as yet unclaimed, 
it seemed an omen that this cloud would pass away, and 
the time surely come when her lips should have a right to 
echo the heart's voice. 

" You see how weak I am, Eleanor," Philip said, with a 
mournful attempt at a smile, — " I, who yesterday told you 
how I would brave the world ; and now I cling helplessly 
to you. But it must not be — she was right — ^I should only 
bring trouble on you. I must stand alone. Eleanor, take 
your arm away, it weighs me down like lead. Oh ! would 
that we were only friends — ^that yesterday had never been ! " 

He spoke in the bitterness of his soul, without thinking 
of her. Eleanor cast one glance upon him, and knew this. 
Blessings on that unselfish nature which, knowing at once, 
forgave 1 

" Eleanor," he said, after a pause, speaking quickly and 
abruptly, " have you thought what will be the end of this 1 


Do you know that I cannot many you — at least, not for 
many, many years; that I have nothing to live upon, 
because I was too proud to be entirely dependent on Aunt 
Breynton, and, as she truly says, I spent my little all at 
college, intending to enter the Church 1 Even after my 
mind wa« changed, I went dreaming on, never thinking of 
the future, — ^fool that I was 1 And yet most people would 
say I am a greater fool now " — he added, with a bitter 
smile — " ay, and something of a villain to boot, Eleanor, 
after all, I think I will take the curacy. I shall not be 
a greater hypocrite than many of those in gown and band ; 
and I shall keep my vow to you, if I break it to Heaven." 

** Never ! Do you think I would let you sell your con- 
scien.ce for me 1 Do you think I would ever be your wife 
then ? No — ^for I should not love, — I should despise you ! 
Nay, I did not mean that, Philip " — and her voice softened 
almost into weeping — " only it would break my heart if 
you did this wickedness. You must not — shall not — nay, 
you will not. My own Philip, tell me that you will not." 

And kneeling before him, Eleanor made her lover solemnly 
utter the promise which would for years doom them both 
to the heart-sickness of hope deferred. Then she sat down 
beside him, and took his hand. 

" Now, let us consider what is best to be done. Do not 
think of yesterday at all, if it pains you. Forget that we 
were betrothed — talk to me as to a friend only — a dear 
friend — who regards your honour and happiness above 
everything in this world Shall it be so, Philip ?" 

"God bless my Eleanor — my strength — my comfort!" 
was his answer. The words were more precious to her than 
the wildest outburst of lover-like adoration could ever have 

They talked together long and seriously — like old 
friends. And this was no pretence, for none are true lovers 
who have not also for one another the still thoughtful affec- 
tion of friends. Her calmness gave him strength, — her 
clear, penetrating mind aided his ; and, the first shock over, 
Philip seemed to pass at once from the dreaminess of aim- 
less boyhood to the self-reliance and courage of a man. 


And still beside him, in all his plans, hopes, and fears, was 
the faithful woman-heart, as brave, as self-denying, never 
looking back, but going forward with him into the dim 
future, and half-dispersing its mists with the light of love. 

"And you will forgive me, my dearest," said Philip, 
when they had decided how and where he was to begin the 
hard battle with the world — "you will forgive me for 
bringing this trouble upon you ; and in spite of these erring 
words of mine, you will " 

He hesitated, but Eleanor went on for him. 

" I will wait — ^for years if it must be — ^until Philip makes 
for me a home — happier and dearer for the long waiting. 
And who knows how rich it may be, too *? — a great deal 
richer than that tiny cottage at Wearmouth." She tried 
to speak gaily, though the smile which her lips assumed 
could not reach her ey^s, and soon melted into seriousness 
as she continued: "Besides, dear Philip, there is one 
thought which lies deep — almost painfully — in my heart, 
though your generous lips have never breathed it. I cannot 
forget that half your cares would have been lightened had 
the girl whom you chose possessed ever so little fortune, 
instead of being left dependent on a brother's kindness. 
How I have wished to be rich for your sake." 

" Foolish girl ! why, you are my riches, my comfort, my 
joy ! " cried Philip, drawing closely into his very heart his 
affianced wife. She clung there closer in sorrow than she 
had ever done in joy. " If this day's trial had never been, 
and we could be again as we were last night — ^would you 
wish it, Eleanor ?" 

" No I " she answered. " No ! for even then I knew not 
fully, as I do now, how true, how worthy, how noble was 
my Philip." 

At this precise moment Mrs. Breynton's voice was heard 
without. With her entered an old sub-dean who lived in 
the Close, and who had come in nearly every evening for 
some six years, during which he and Mrs. Breynton had 
played an infinity of games at backgammon. Mr. Sedley 
did not know what a relief his presence was this evening, 
— by casting the veil of outward formality over the con- 


flicting emotions of the trio at the palace. So, the worthy 
old clergyman talked with Philip about Oxford, — ^paid his 
laboured, old-fashioned, but, withal, affectionate compliments 
to his particular favourite. Miss Ogilvie, — and then engaged 
Mrs. Breynton in their beloved game. During its progress 
Eleanor gladly retired for the night 

At the foot of the stau*ca8e she met Philip, who had fol- 
lowed nnperceived. He looked very pale, and his voice 
trembled, though he tried to speak aa usual. 

" Eleanor, say good night to me ; not formally, as just 
now, but as we did that happy yesterday." 

She took both his hands, and looked up lovingly in his 

" Good night, then, dear Philip ! " 

He folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. 
She spoke to him hopeful words ; and they were uttered in 
sincenty, — ^for her own spirit was so full of love and faith, 
both in God and man, that she had little doubt of the 

" To-morrow, Philip U — ^all will seem brighter to us to- 
morrow," was her adieu. 

He watched her glide up the staircase, — ^turning once 
round to cast on him that quiet, love-beaming smile peculiar 
to herself. Then he leaned against the wall with' a heavy 

" The bitterness is past ! *' murmured Philip. " Now, I 
can go forth alone I " 

xvl] the ogilyies. 123 


Look not mournfully into the past, — it returns no more. Wisely 
improve the present ; and go forth into the shadowy future without 
fear and with a manly heart. — Longfellow, 

Eleanor arose next morning composed — almost cheerful. 
True, there had been, on her first waking, a feeling of op- 
pression as though some vague sorrow had chanced, under 
the shadow of which she still lay ; and a few tears had 
stolen through the yet closed eyes, chasing away sleep and 
making the faint daylight a welcome visitant. But when 
she had arisen and looked out on the bright spring morn- 
ing, all this waking pain changed into a quiet hopefulness. 
One creeps so soon out of the gloom into the light — at 
least, when one is young I The early swallows were flying 
merrily in and out of the eaves ; the morning sun glistened 
cheerfully on the three spires of the cathedral, though its 
walls still lay in heavy shadow. But the girFs eyes looked 
upward only,-and therefore it was the sunshine she saw, 
not the shade. 

She thought of Philip's dear, precious love — now all her 
own — and of his noble nature ; both of which had been 
tried and come out with a brightness that made her forget 
the refining fire. Her soul was so unworldly, so filled with 
trusting affection, that she had no fear. She was ready to 
let her lover go forth into the world, — ^believing entirely in 
him, and confiding so much in the world itself, that she 
felt sure its storms would subside and its evils be removed 
before Mm, Simple girl! And yet perhaps there was 
more in her theory than many imagine. It is the faithful, 


the holy-hearted ones, who walk calmly and safely on the 
troubled waters of the world. 

Eleanor was still musing, more thoughtfully than sadly, 
and considering whether or not she should descend to tell 
PhiKp the fruit of her hopeful meditations, when Davis 
brought a letter. 

" Mr. Wychnor told me to give you this, ma'am, as soon 
as I heard you stirring." 

Eleanor changed colour, and her fingers trembled over 
the seal. 

" I hope, Miss Ogilvie, that nothing is amiss with Master 
Philip. He looked so ill this morning ! — and I could not 
persuade him to have any breakfast before he went away." 

" Went away ! " 

" Yes, indeed. Miss ; he set off before it was quite light, 
by the early London coach." 

Eleanor's fingers tightened over the unopened letter, and 
her very lips grew white ; yet she had self-control enough 
to speak calmly. 

" Indeed, Davis, you need not be uneasy. Mr. Wychnor 
has probably taken his journey a day or two sooner than he 
intended, — that is all." 

" I'd stake my life it's not all," muttered the good woman, 
as she curtseyed herself out. " I only hope there is nothing 
wrong between him and Miss Eleanor — bless their dear 
hearts ! They was bom for one another sure-ly I " 

Eleanor threw herself on the bed with a passionate burst 
of weeping, that for many minutes would not be restrained. 

"0 Philip, Philip, why did you gol" she said; and it 
was long before her grief found any solace, save in the 
utterance of this despairing cry. She was but a girl — with 
all the weakness of a deep first love — ^but she had also its 
strength. So, after a time her sobs grew calmer; and 
while with still-dimmed eyes she read Philip's letter, its 
peaceful influence passed into her spirit. Even then it was 
so blessed to read this first letter, and to see there written 
down the love which she had before heard his lips declare. 
The words " My own Eleanor," smiling at her from the top 
of the page, almost took away the pain of that sad hour. 


And as she read on, tracing in every earnest line the brave, 
true heart of him who wrote, she became comforted more 
and more. 

" Eleanor ! " ran this dear record — (Reader, do not be 
alarmed lest we should transcribe an ordinary love-letter, 
— ^for, though full of affection, Philip had in him something 
of reserve and far too much of good sense ever to indulge 
in the fantastic rhapsodies which have passed into a pro- 
verb) — "Eleanor, you must not think this departure of 
mine hasty or ill-advised ; unkind you will not — ^for you 
love me, and know that I love you better than anything 
on earth, therefore there can be no thought of unkindness 
between us. I have gone away because, knowing my aunt 
as well as I do, I see no prospect, had I remained, of aught 
but added bitterness and pain for us alL And though I 
cannot — dare not — suffer myself unworthily to enter upon 
that course which she has laid out for me, God forbid that 
I should in word or deed return evil for many kindnesses 
which she has shown me all my life through. Eleanor! 
when I sit here in the quiet night-time, and think of those 
boyish days, I almost doubt whether I am really right in 
thwarting her desire so much. But yet I could not — ^you, 
with your pure right-mindedness, you yourself said I ought 
not to do this thing. And have I not also given up you ? 
Surely it must be^a holy and a worthy sacrifice ! 

" Dearest ! if in this I have done my aunt wrong — and I 
feel my heart melt towards her, in spite of all the harsh 
words, ay, and the bitter taunts which she gave me this 
night when you were not by — if I have done her wrong 
you will atone it. She reproached me with casting you off 
— ^you, my heart's treasure ! She said that her hearth and 
home should at least be open to you. Let it be so ! Stay 
with her, Eleanor ; give her the dutiful care that I ought 
to have shown : — ^it will comfort me to know this. You 
see how I trust you, as if you were a part of myself, — feel- 
ing that her harsh condemnations of me wiLL never alter 
your love. And if her mind should change — ^if she should 
learn to see with our eyes many things whereon she differs 
from us now, and should find out why it was I acted thus, 


how wffl the influence of my own gentle girl prove a bless- 
ing to us all ! In this I think not of worldly fortune. I 
will fight my own way, and be indebted to no one on 
earth, save for the help of affection. 

" And now, beloved, I set out for the path on which we 
decided. Thank Heaven that I can write wel — that I 
carry with me your precious love— that we are one in heart 
and mind — and look forward to one future, which I will 
work out. Send me away with a blessing ! Yet you have 
done so already. Eleanor, that one smile of yours — ^you 
did not know it was the last, but I did — ^will rest in my 
heart and be its strength until I see you again. Forgive 
me that I could not trust myself to say * Good-bye.' Yet 
it is hardly a farewell between those whose hearts and 
thoughts are ever united 1 God grant it may be even so 
until our lives' end — and after I " 

More did Philip write concerning his worldly plans and 
the arrangement of their future correspondence. All that 
he said was calm; breathing perhaps more of steadfast 
patience than of hope — ^but still without a shade of fear 
either for himself or for her. When Eleanor laid down 
the letter of her lover there was not a tear in her eye — ^not 
a sigh on her lip. 

" God be with thee, my beloved ! " she said fervently ; 
put the letter in her bosom, and went down-stairs. 

In the hall she met the old waiting-woman, Davis, 
coming out of the breakfast-room, with tears in her 

" Oh, Miss Ogilvie 1 " cried the poor soul, " I can't tell 
what has come over my mistress. Sixteen years have I 
been in this house and never saw her look so before. She 
did not speak a word all the while I was dressing her, 
until Master Philip's little dog whined at the door, and 
then she grew very angry, and ordered me to go and tell 
James to shoot it or hang it, for she did not want to be 
troubled with it any more. I could hardly believe my 
ears. Miss Eleanor — I couldn't, indeed — so good as she 
used to be to poor little Flo. And when I only stood 
staring, instead of going off, she stamped her foot and 

xvl] the ogilvies. 127 

ordered me out of the room. To think that my lady 
should have served me so ! " 

" She did not mean it, good Davis ; she is very fond of 
you," said Eleanoit, soothingly. There was room enough 
in her heart for every one's sorrows — great and small. 

^ I hope so, Miss ; indeed, I should not care so much, 
except that I fear something has gone wrong between her 
and Master Philip. I happened to let fall a word about 
his being gone ; but she seemed to know it herself before- 
hand. She turned round so sharply, and desired me never 
to mention his name, but to go and lock up his room just 
as it was, for he would not want it again. Ay, dear ! how 
sorry I shall be not to see the young master here any 
more 1 " 

Eleanor felt her own eyes growing dim, and a choking 
in her thro&t prevented any reply. The good woman went 
on in her voluble grief. 

" Well, well ! servants have no business with their 
masters* or mistresses' affairs; but I do feel sorry about 
poor Master Philip. And there is another thing that 
troubles me ; he left me this letter for my mistress, and for 
the life of me I daren't give it to her myself. If it were 
not making too free. Miss Ogilvie, I wish you would." 

Eleanor stretched out her hand for the letter. " Where 
is Mrs. Breynton ? " she asked. 

" At the breakfast-table. Miss — sitting bolt upright, like 
— I don't know what ! — Bless us all — ^but she's off already. 
Poor young lady ! something is the matter with her too ; 
for I saw the tears in her pretty eyes. Well, I don't think 
she's quarrelled with Master Philip, or she would not have 
looked at his letter so tenderly — just as I used to do at 
poor Samuel's. Ah, lack-a-day ! it's a troublesome world ! " 

And the starched old maid went away up* stairs, rubbing 
with a corner of her apron each of her dull grey eyes. 
They might have been young and bright once — who 
knows 1 

Mrs. Breynton sat, a very statue of rigidity, in her usual 
place at the head of the table ; her face as smooth and un- 
wrinkled as her dress. She said, '^ Good morning, Eleanor, 


my dear," in the usual tone — neither warmer nor colder 
than the salutation had been for years ; and the hand with 
which she poured out the coffee was as steady as ever. 
Eleanor almost began to think that the painful events of 
the night and morning were only a dream, — so perfectly 
astounded was she by the manner of the old lady. 

She had come with a swelling heart to throw herself at 
the knees of Philip's aunt, and beg her to forgive him — 
or at least to receive from herself all the loving care 
that was in the heart of the nephew whom she had dis- 
carded. But at the sight of that frigid, composed face — 
so indifferent, so unmarked by any sign of suffering, regret, 
or even anger — Eleanor felt all her own warm impulses 
completely frozen. She could as easily have poured out 
her feelings before the grim old figures sitting in their 
niches on the cathedral wall. Philip's letter was still 
in her hand, — almost unconsciously she thrust it out of 
sight : and the voice which replied to the morning saluta- 
tion, though tremulous, was almost as cold as Mrs. Breynton's 
own. Eleanor took her place at the breakfast-table, just 
as though she had never passed through these sudden phases 
of love, joy, sorrow — events which would govern a life- 

Mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar objects 
.about the room : — the boy's portrait that hung on the wall 
— ^the orange-trees and the flowers in the conservatory, now 
brightened by a week's more sunshine. It was one week 
only since the morning when Philip and Philip's fortunes 
had been talked of, sending such a pleasant thrill to her 
heart : — how much one little week, nay, one day, had 
brought forth ! 

Mrs. Breynton began, apparently without an effort, her 
usual morning conversation. 'This never rambled far 
beyond what might literally be considered table-talk ; the 
dryness of toast, and the over or under boiling of eggs, 
seemed always subjects sufficiently engrossing at that early 
hour of the day. Thus she succeeded in passing away the 
half-hour which to Eleanor seemed insupportable. The 
latter many times was on the point of giving way to her 


pent-up feelings, when a word or tone sent them all back 
again to the depth of her heart. How would she ever find 
courage to deliver Philip's letter 1 

The breakfast equipage was already removed, and still 
nothing had been uttered between them except those 
ordinary commonplaces which froze Eleanor's very heart. 

" If you please, ma'am," said the retreating James, " the 
gardener told me to ask if you would have the auriculas 
planted out, as the weather is so warm now, and he has 
always done this about Easter." 

There was the faintest possible trembling of Mrs. Breyn- 
ton's mouth, — and she dropped a few stitches in her 
knitting. Then, walking to the window to take them up, 
she answered, rather angrily : 

" Tell Morris I shall judge myself about the matter, and 
will speak to him to-morrow." 

Eleanor watched all with intense anxiety. She marked 
how the reference to Easter had startled Mrs. Breynton 
from her indifference — showing how much of it was as- 
sumed. Tremulously she advanced to the window. 

" Shall I make the knitting right for you ]" she asked. 

" Thank you, my dear ; I really cannot see so well as I 
used to do." 

Eleanor gave back the work, and with it Philip's letter. 

"What is thisf said Mrs. Brejnnton, sharply. 

*' Oh, dear friend ! read it, — pray read it ; and then you 
will forgive him — forgive me. Indeed, you do not know 
how unhappy we are ! " 

Mrs. Breynton walked across the room to the fire. It 
had gone out in the sunshine. She laid the letter on the 
table, and rang the bell. Eleanor rose up as the man 

" James," said his mistress, " bring me a lighted taper." 

When it came, she deliberately unsealed the letter, tore it 
into long strips, and burned each of them separately. Eleanor 
stood and dared not utter a word. There was such iron 
sternness — such implacable, calm determination — in that 
rigid face, that she wa^ terrified into silence. She saw the 
words which Philip's dear hand had traced consumed to 



ashes, and offered no opposition. Then, Mrs. Breynton 
advanced, and touched the girl's forehead with her cold, 
aged lips. 

" Eleanor Ogilvie, you shall be my daughter if you will. 
In you I have nothing to forgive, — ^much to pity. I take 
you as my child, — my only one. But as respects this " 
— she pointed to the little heap of burnt paper — " or its 
writer, the subject must never more be revived between 

She walked out of the room with her own firm stately 
steps ; her silks rustling on the staircase, as she ascended 
slowly — but not more slowly than usual — ^to her chamber : 
and then £leanor heard the door shut. Upon what 
struggles it closed — or, if there were any conflict at all — 
no one knew. That day, and for a day or two after, there 
was a greyer shade on the cheek already pallid with age ; 
and once or twice in reading the evening prayers the cold, 
steady voice changed for a moment. But in a week the 
Dean's widow was the same as she had ever been,— and all 
went on at the palace as though Philip's name had never 
been heard. 



Authorsliip is, according to the spirit in wHcli it is pursued, — an 
infamy, a pastime, a day-labour, a handicraft, an art, a science, a 

virtue. — SCHLEOEL. 

Take away the self-conceited, and there will be elbow-room in the 
world. — ^Whichcotb. 

Mr. Pierce Pennythorne was what the world respect- 
fully terms a " very clever man." The world understands 
" cleverness " thoroughly, and venerates it accordingly, 
though it often scoffs at genius. Perhaps on the same 
principle the Cockney who gazes in admiration on the 
stone-built fabric of St. Paul's turns away contemptuously 
from some grand lonely mountain of nature's making, and 
thinks it is not so very fine after alL He cannot measure its 
inches ; he does not understand it. He had rather by half 
look up from his city dwelling at the gilt cross and ball. 

Now Mr. Pennythorne was exactly the man to attract 
and keep this sort of admiration. In whatever sphere he 
moved — and he had moved in many and various ones 
during his sixty years of life — he was always sure to get 
the pre-eminence. His acute, decisive character impressed 
ordinary people with reverence, and his tact and quickness 
of judgment had enabled him to compel from the small 
modicum of talent which he possessed the reputation of 
being a literary star of considerable magnitude. 

For, after passing through various phases of life, Mr. 
Pennythorne had finally subsided into literature. He took 
to writing as another man would take to bricklaying — con- 
sidering that 

The worth of anything 
Is just as much as it will bring. 

132 THE 06ILyiE& [chap. 

And as literature brought him in some hundreds a year, 
and maintained respectably the house in Blank-square, 
Kensington, together with Mrs. Pennythome and two 
young Pennythomes, he regarded it as a useful instrument 
of labour, and valued it accordingly. His was a most con- 
venient pen, too, — a pen of all-work It would write for 
anybody, on any subject, in any style, — always excepting 
that of imaginative literature, in which road it had never 
been known to travel But this, as its owner doubtless 
believed, was only because it did not choose, as such 
writing was all trash, and never paid. 

Such was Mr. Pennythome abroad ; at home he carried 
out the same character, slightly varied. He was, so to 
speak, the most excellent of tyrants ; his sway was 
absolute, but he used it well. No one could say that he 
was not as good a husband and father as ever lived ; that 
is, as far as outward treatment went. Throughout some 
thirty years of matrimony, he and his quiet, good-natured, 
meekHBpirited wife had never had a quarrel ; and he had 
brought up his children to be creditable members of society. 
His system was that of blind obedience. Nevertheless, both 
wife and children were affectionately inclined towards him, 
—for some people are happiest in being thus ruled; — ^it takes 
away so much moral responsibility. Sympathy in feeling 
or in intellect was unknown in the Pennythome family ; 
they did not believe there was such a thing, and so they 
lived a comfortable humdrum life, conscious of no higher 
existence. Doubtless they were quite happy — and so are 
oysters 1 Still, the most world-tossed, world-riven spirit 
that ever passed through its fire-ordeal of love, genius, and 
suffering, would hardly wish to change with these human 

Mr. Pennythome, after dinner, in his little study, with 
the blazing fire shining on its well-peopled book-shelves and 
convenient old-fashioned desk, was the very picture of a 
man of letters comfortably off in the world. He had en- 
sconced in the only arm-chair which the room possessed his 
small wiry frame : — ^for Mr. Pennythome shared with Alex- 
ander. Napoleon, and other great minds, the glory of a 


diminutive person. As he sat reading the newspaper, with 
his back to the lamp, the light cast into strong relief his 
sharp, well-marked features. It was not an intellectual 
head, — still less a benevolent one ; but there were wonder- 
ful cleverness and shrewdness in its every line. The firm, 
closed mouth could sometimes relax into a very good- 
natured smile ; and a great deal of dry satirical humour lay 
'perdv, among the wnnkles — ^politely termed crow's feet^ 
that surrounded the small bright grey eyes. 

The postman's sharp knock made the little man start ; 
for with all his mental self-possession he had much physical 
nervousness. At the same time his quick movement 
revealed the presence of Mrs. Pennythome, who sat in the 
shadow, with a half- knitted stocking on her lap. Her 
husband always liked her to be near him after his daily 
occupation was over. Not that he wanted conversation, — 
for to that Mr. Pennythome thought no woman equal, and 
perhaps the secret of his regard for his wife was her 
abstinence from all intellectual rivalship. Grood Mrs. 
Pennythome, indeed, had never been burdened with that 
ambition. But the sight of her quiet, gentle, and still 
pretty face, was composing to him ; and she let him talk as 
much or as little as he liked, — said " Yes," or " No," or 
" Certainly, my dear," — and when he had done, went to 
sleep. They were exactly suited for each other, Mr. and 
Mrs. Pennythome. 

She received the letter at the door — it annoyed him to see 
any one but herself in his study — and while he read it she 
took the opportunity of being thoroughly awakened, to 
go through the serious operation which stocking-knitters 
denominate " turning down the heel." Once or twice she 
lifted up her eyes at a few exclamations from her husband— 
" Bless me ! " " How very odd 1 " etc. But she had been too 
well trained to inquire of him about anything which he did 
not in due form communicate. So she waited until he de- 
livered himself thus : 

" Cillie, my dear," — Mrs. Pennythome's Christian name 
was Cecilia ; which by a humorous ingenuity he had con- 
verted into this odd diminutive, a somewhat doubtful 


compliment, — "Cillie, my dear, this is a very curious 

" Is it indeed," said Mrs. Pennythome ; not interroga- 
tively, but assentingly. Her husband always expected to 
be understood at once, without any explanation, — so she 
never dreamed of inquiring to what circumstance he 

" You remember my old college fiiend, Edwin Wychnor 
— Captain Wychnor he was then — ^who dined with us at 
Sittingboume, ten — ^let me see — ^fifteen years agol" 

" yes 1 " Mrs. Pennythome made a point of remem- 
bering eveiything, as nothing vexed her spouse so much as 
the confession of ignorance on any point to which his own 
retentive memory chose to turn. 

" There was another Oxford man with us that day, you 
know — Bourne — Dr. Bourne now — ^who dropped into the 
living that Wychnor gave up — ^like a foolish fellow as he 
was I Well, this letter comes from him, not from Wychnor, 
or it would be a dead letter." (Pennythome's conversation 
was usually studded with execrable jokes, made comical by 
the solemnity with which they were put forward.) " It is 
from Bourne, introducing to me the defunct captain's only 
son, who has gone and played the same madcap trick as his 
father. He wants me to get the lad that very easy thing 
now-a-days, * employment in London.' " 

" Well, my dear, surely nobody can do that so well as 
you," meekly observed his wife. 

"Poohl you are only a woman; you don't know any- 
thing at all about it Pretty fellows to deal with are 
these college youths, with heads more full of pride than of 
brains ; — can't do this because they haven't been brought 
up to it — and won't do the other because it isn't gentle- 
manly. I suppose this young Peter, or Paul, or Jeremiah 
— he has got that sort of a name — ^will turn out just such 
another upon my hands. But that is always the way; 
everybody brings stray sheep to me: veiy black sheep 
they are, too, sometimes." 

Mrs. Pennythome laughed, — thinking from her hus- 
band's look that he had said something funny : she always 


did so, like a dutiful wife, whether she understood it or 
not. "And I am sure, Pierce, you have helped a great 
many young men on in the world. There was young 
Philips, and O'Mahony the Irishman, and Edward Jones." 

" And a nice ungrateful set they all turned out ! " said 
Mr. Pennythome, though a self-complacent smile rather 
contradicted his words. There was nothing in the world 
that he liked so well as patronising. Not that he con- 
fined himself to the show of benevolence, for he was a 
good-natured man, and had done many kindly acts in his 
time, — ^but they had all been done with due importance. 
His jproUgSs — and he had always a long train of them — 
were required implicitly to trust to him, to follow his 
bidding, and to receive his advice. He never asked for 
gratitude, but yet he always contrived to rail at the world 
because he did not receive it. Still, with all his peculiarities, 
Mr. Pennythome did a great deal of good in his way, — ^and 
rather liked the doing of it too, though he said he didn't. 

" Cillie," he observed, just as the summons came to tea, 
" I suppose this young Wychnor must dine here next Simday. 
Take care that Fred is not out of the way, and that that 
foolish fellow Leigh is not keeping his bed, as he is so often. 
What's the good of sons if you don't make use of them 1 
And an old fellow like me can't be bothered to entertain a 
young Oxford scamp for a whole afternoon." 

The same sharp postman's knock — oh, what a volume of 
life-experiences might that sound suggest could we follow it 
from door to door ! — ^brought to Philip Wychnor, in his dull 
second-floor lodging the following letter : 

" My dear young Friend, — 

" I had a great regard for your late father, and shall have 
the same for you if you deserve it, of which I have little 
doubt I will also do my best to help you on in the 
world. To begin our acquaintance, perhaps you will dine 
at my house next Sunday — at six. 

" Faithfully yours, 

" Pierce Pennythorne." 

It was an odd, abrupt letter, but Philip had already heard 


that the writer was not without his eccentricities. He was 
growing so desolate and cheerless in his London home, that 
the least ray of kindness came upon him like a flood of light. 
He drank his cup of weak cold tea with almost the zest of 
those remembered days when Eleanor's dear sunny face had 
shone from behind tL urn in the happy palace^rawing- 
room. Then he went out, and walked up and down the 
gloomy squares in the neighbourhood of which his lodgings 
lay. And surely the dreariest place in all London is the 
region between Brunswick-square and Tottenham-court-road ! 
There solemn wealth sets up its abode, and struggling 
respectability tries to creep under its shadow, in many a 
duU, melancholy street; while squalid poverty grovels in 
between, with its miserable courts and alleys, that make the 
sick and weary heart to doubt even the existence of good. 

Philip sauntered along ; but, viewed in the light of this 
new hope of his, the squares did not seem so desolate as 
they had done the evening before. Through the misty night 
the lamps glimmered faintly ; after a while the moon rose — 
and the moon looks pleasant to young eyes, especially the 
eyes of lovers, even in the desert of Eussell-square. More- 
over, as Philip walked along the inner side, there was a 
freshness almost like perfume in the budding trees, over 
which an April shower had just passed. It came upon his 
senses like the breathing of hope. He stopped under the 
nearest lamp, took out Mr. Pennythome's letter and read it 
over again. 

" Well, it does seem kind — and may be the beginning of 
good. Who knows but I have put my first step on Fortune's 
ladder to-night 1" 

Ah, Philip ! that ladder is of all others the hardest to 
climb ! But you have a steady foot and a strong heart — 
all the stronger for having that precious love-amulet in its 
inmost folds. In spite of all the grey-headed reasoners, 
there never was a young man yet who did not work his way 
in the world the better for having some one to work for 
besides himselt 



Wives seem created to be butts. Many a man now, like Pan, plays 
upon that which was formerly the object of his fond pursuit. 

Edwakd West. 
Man alone 
The recreant spirit of the universe, 
Contemns the operations of the light ; 
Loves surface-knowledge, — calls the crimes of crowds 
Virtue — adores the useful vices. ♦ * * 

I will commit my brain to none of them. 

Philip Bailey. 

" Very glad to see you ; exceedingly glad to see you, my 
young friend," was the greeting that marked Philip's first 
entrance into the drawing-room at Blank-square — we prefer 
that rather doubtful way of designating the Pennythome 
abode. " Punctuality is a virtue, especially on a wet Sunday ; 
I like to see young people keep time well, and then as they 
grow older time always keeps them— eh, sir 1 " 

Philip smiled ; he was really amused by the oddities of the 
little man. He could do no more than smile silently, for it 
was impossible to get in a word. 

" Cecilia, my dear," and Mr. Pennythome, with a sort of 
hop-skip-and-jump movement — his usual method of progress 
in the house — arrived at the sofa where his lady sat in all 
the unruffled serenities of a Sunday silk, a Sunday cap, and 
a Sunday face. She had a ponderous-looking volume beside 
her, of Sermons^ — or Fox*s Martyrs ; for though the Penny- 
thomes so far conformed to the world as to have company 
on a Sunday, they were a " religious family," — and if the 
cook was beguiled out of her sole day of rest by having to 
prepare a first-rate dinner, it was atoned for by the mistress's 
always readmg good books up in the drawing-room. 


"Mr. Philip Wychnor, let me introduce you to Mrs. 
Pennythome, — my wife, sir ; an ugly old woman, isn't she ? 
but then she's so clever, — there is not a cleverer woman in 
all London than Mrs. Pennythome." 

Philip looked at the pretty but simple face of the lady, and 
then at her husband, who spoke with such gravity that it was 
almost impossible to distinguish jest from earnest. Fairly 
puzzled between them, the young man uttered some ordinary 
politeness, and accepted the offered seat beside his hostess. 

" There, you can begin your acquaintance with that excel- 
lent woman," said Mr. Pennythome; "but take care of 
her, you don't know how sharp her tongue is — real arrows, 
sir, — ^regular darts of wit : mind they don't hit you ! " 

Philip thought it rather unseemly that a man should 
make game of his wife in public, and began to feel somewhat 
uncomfortable. But Mrs. Pennythome herself seemed quite 
unmoved — smiling on in placid contentment She had got 
used to this sort of banter, — or else, which was most likely, 
she did not feel it at all. Some people are very feather-beds 
of stolidity, impenetrable to the sharpest tongue-weapons 
that sarcasm ever forged. Philip soon grew quite reassured 
on the subject. He tried to engage Mrs. Pennythome in 
conversation ; but did not succeed in getting beyond the 
wetness of the day and the unpleasantness of the Kensitigton 
omnibuses. She was as shy and nervous as a girl -of six- 
teen j constantly looking to her husband, as if she had hardly 
a thought of her own. Still there was a degree of quiet 
womanliness about her. She had a low voice, and her brown 
eyes were of the same colour as Eleanor's. Philip felt rather 
a liking to Mrs. Pennythome. 

"Where can the boys be?" said the old gentleman, be- 
coming fidgetty, and rushing to the foot of the stairs. 
'^Fred! Leigh!" 

The next minute the " boys " appeared. Mr. Frederick 
Pennythome was about twenty-five; a specimen of that 
stereotyped class of young men with which London birth 
and London breeding indulge the world. Slight, dapper, 
active : not ill-looking, and carefully dressed ; always ready 
for polkas, smalk-talk, and cigars ; too respectable for a gent 

XVm.] THE 0GILVIE8. 139 

(odious word !), too ordinary and vulgar-minded for a gentle- 
man, and far — oh 1 far — too mean in heart and soul for the 
noble title of a man ! 

This individual scanned PhiUp all over, and nodded his 
head with a careless " How-d'ye-do 1" Then, catching his 
father's eye, Mr. Frederick composed his features into an 
aspect of grave deference. 

" My son, this — ^my eldest son. Excellent fellow to show 
you all the wickedness of London, Mr. Wychnor. I don't 
suppose there's a greater scamp anywhere tiian Fred Penny- 

The old gentleman did not know how nearly he hit the 
truth — ^but somehow or other the person alluded to winced 
slightly under the unintentional application. 

" Eeally, father ! But you'll find out his ways soon, 

Mr. Wychnor," said Fred, apologetically. 

" Where's Leigh 1" continued that indefatigable parent ; 
who seemed to have as much difficulty in hunting up his 
family as a mechanist has in winding up his automata and 
setting them fairly going. 

A tall thin youth of about seventeen crept languidly from 
behind the folding-doors. Philip looked rather earnestly at 
the sallow, long-drawn-out face, and meaningless, half-closed 
eyes. Perhaps in the look there was somewhat of interest 
and compassion, for the boy involuntarily put out his hand 
and just touched Philip's with his cold moist fingers. The 
heavy eyes lifted themselves up for a moment. They were 
brown, like his mother's, — but far deeper and softer ; and 
as they met Philip's, one passing gleam of expression lighted 
them up. It drew the young man's heart towards the sickly, 
awkward-looking Leigh. 

"I hope we shall be very good friends in time," said 
Philip Wychnor, shaking the boy's hand warmly. 

" That is more than any one else ever was with our cross- 
grained Leigh! Long, lazy Leigh, as I call him, — the 
greatest dunce in the universe, except for a little Greek, 
Latin, and Hebrew which I contrive to knock into him," — 
interposed the father, who seemed to take delight in sketch- 
ing, en passant, these complimentary family portraits. 


Philip turned round uneasily to Leigb, but the youth sat 
in his old comer quite impassive. The dull melancholy of 
his face was as unimpressible as his mother's vacant and 
perpetual smile. 

" Well, they are the oddest family I ever knew," thought 
Philip Wychnor. " Perhaps your son is not strong enough 
for much study 1 " he said aloud. 

" Quite a mistake, my good sir," answered Mr. Penny- 
thome, sharply. " All my family enjoy excellent health. I 
can't bear to have sick people about me. That fellow there 
looks yellow because he lies in bed sadly too much ', and 
besides it is his temperament, his natural complexion. Pray 
do not put such notions into the lad's head, Mr. Wychnor." 

The guest felt that he had unconsciously trodden on 
dangerous ground ; and it was really a relief when the 
apparition of a very tall maid servant at the door gave the 
signal for dinner. 

Mr. Pennythome was the best person in the world for 
the head of a table — his own especially ; for he had an 
unfailing flow of talk and abundance of small witticisms. 
To use a simile on the originality of which we have some 
doubt, — ^but which, not knowing the right owner, we shall 
appropriate, — he kept the ball of conversation constantly in 
motion. However, to attain this desirable end he rarely 
let it go out of his own hands. Perhaps this was as well, 
for the rest of his family seemed incapable of a throw. So 
he very wisely never gave them the opportunity. 

Once or twice Fred Pennythome hazarded a remark — or, 
as he would have expressed it, " put out a feeler," — thereby 
to discover the habits, manners, and character of the ^ fellow 
from the country ; " but he was soon extinguished by a few 
paternal sneers. Mrs. Pennythome also, venturing to reply 
in more than monosyllables to some observation of Philip's, 
was regarded with such mock-deferential attention by her 
lord and master that she relapsed into alarmed and invio- 
lable silence. As for Leigh, he never tried to speak at all. 
When, soon after the introduction of wine and walnuts, 
Mrs. Pennythome disappeared, he quickly followed his 
mother, and was seen no more. 


Then Mr. Pennythome edified Philip for the space of 
half-an-hour on many and various subjects, chiefly political. 
Fortunately, Wychnor was no great talker, and of a quiet, 
yielding temper, — so that the dictatorial tone of his host did 
not annoy hun in the least Perhaps he only listened with 
his outward ears, while his thoughts, like riches — and 
Philip's thoughts were riches to him — made to themselves 
wings and flew far away. 

" Fred ! you stupid fellow," called out Mr. Pennythome, 
at last. 

''Yes, sir," answered the individual addressed, waJdng 
from a doze by the fire. 

''Your conversation is so remarkably amusing and in- 
structive that it is quite too overpowering for such addle- 
pates as this gentleman and myself. We will therefore 
indulge ourselves in a t^te-^-t^te dull enough for our limited 
capabilities. You may go and tell your mother to make 
the tea : I dare say cook will lend you the toasting-fork, 
that you may make yourself useful in the kitchen at least." 

The young dandy muttered a grumbling remonstrance, — 
but finished his wine, and walked off. It was really curious, 
the complete ascendency which this eccentric father of a 
family had gained and preserved over all its members. 

'* Excellent boy that," said Mr. Pennythome when the 
door closed : and Philip noticed how entirely his sarcastic 
manner was changed ; " Fred is a rising young man, sir ; no 
profession like that of a lawyer for making a fortune — at 
least in these railway times. That lad will ride in his 
carriage yet." 

"Indeed, I hope so," Philip observed, seeing that an 
observation was expected. 

" Certainly. The Pennythomes, sir, always make their 
way in the world. Now there's Leigh — quiet boy— very 
quiet, but thinks the more for that. His knowledge of 
classics is wonderful I shall make him a first-rate man 
for Oxford. By-the-by, you, who have just left Alma Mater, 
might give him a help now and then when I am too busy 

" I shall be most happy." 


" Of course — of course. Thank you, Mr. Wychnor. And 
now, tell me in what way I can be of service to you 1 " 

The little man leaned over the table, and confronted 
Philip with his peering grey eyes. All his jesting manner 
was gone ; and there was a straightforward, business-like 
earnestness, which his guest liked much better and felt 
infinitely more disposed to trust. Philip briefly stated that^ 
having suddenly relinquished the Church, he was without 
resources, and wished to earn a livelihood in any respectable 
way for which his education might fit him. " 

** Now, my young friend, what do you call a * respectable 
way ? * " said Mr. Pennythome. 

Philip was rather confiised — but answered, " Any honest 
way, of which ^gentleman's son need not feel ashamed. 
Surely the worlds-wide enough for one more to get his 
bread — if not by his hands, at least by his brains — of which 
I hope I have a share." 

" No doubt — ^no doubt," returned Mr. Pennythome, " but 
let us see how you are to use them. Authorship is not a 
bad profession. Suppose you take to that 1 " 

Philip looked somewhat astonished. "My dear sir, I 
never wrote anything in my life. I have no genius ! " 

" Genius — ^my excellent young friend, between ourselves, 
has nothing to do with the matter. It is a commodity 
rather unpleasant than otherwise. A man's genius generally 
ends in making a fool of him — or a beggar, which comes to 
the same thing. The best authors, and those who have 
made most money, have had no genius at all. With plenty 
of diligence and a good connection, a clever author may get 
a very good living ; while the poor devils called men of 
genius — a term for unusual flightiness and conceit — lie 
down and starve." 

Philip listened to this speech, first in surprise, then in 
pain. He had spoken truly — ^at least as he then believed — 
when he said he had no genius ; but genius itself he wor- 
shipped with all the enthusiasm of youth. So utterly 
confounded was he by this argument of Mr. Pennythome's, 
that he did not reply by a single word ; and the old gentle- 
man continued : 


"You see, Mr. Philip Wychnor, that I have spoken 
plainly to you, as I would not to every one ; but I like 
your face, and moreover you are your father's son. If you 
chose to try your hand at authorship, I will endeavour to 
procure you work. It shall be easy at first, and you can 
get on by degrees." 

But Philip shook his head. " No, Mr. Penny thome ; I 
feel too certain of my own incapacity ; and literature has 
always seemed to me so high and holy a calling." 

At this moment the young man met the upturned face of 
his host — ^the cold, cautious eyes watching him with a look 
something between wonder and curiosity, and the sarcastic 
mouth bent intp the moat contemptuous of polite sneers. 
Now, it was one of Philip's weaknesses that his sensitive 
and reserved disposition was ever painfuU^alive to ridicule. 
As before said, he was by no means one of your model 
heroes, who are ever ready to " stand fire," either physically 
or morally. And so it happened that this look of Mr. 
Pennythome's just sufficed to drive back all his warm 
impulses. He forgot what he was about to say, stopped, 
and his delicate cheek changed colour like a girl's. 

" Pray go on," said the host. 

"I have nothing more to say, sir," he replied, " except that 
I /eel obliged for your kindness ; but, not thinking myself 
competent to do credit to authorship, I had rather not 
attempt it." Thereby he lost an excellent chance of " testi- 
{ying to the truth," and will doubtless sink very much in 
the estimation of all who would have virtue and genius 
continually appear in the character of public lecturers. But 
PhOip Wychnor was so reserved and humble-minded, that as 
yet he was unaware of half the treasures of his intellect. 

Yet though he could not fathom the depths of his own 
mind, he could see a good way into Mr. Pennythorne's ; 
and the sight was both painful and discouraging. The 
conversation went on, and Philip listened with the deference 
that his companion's age and character demanded ; but 
there was a disagreeable sense of uncongeniality, almost 
amounting to distrust, in the young man's mind. 

Mr. Pennythorne did not notice this in the least ; for his 





perception, though acute, was by no means delicate. He 
talked fast and freely, not to say ostentatiously, of his 
influence in other quarters — discussed the various duties 
and advantages of employment as banker's clerk, merchant's 
clerk, railway clerk, and Philip's capacity for the same, 
until his young auditor grew half bewildered and wholly 
disconsolate. At last, it was agreed that as Wychnor had a 
little money for the present, he should stay in lodgings, and 
enter on the weary life of ^ waiting for a situation^" This 
interregnum would not last long, Mr. Pennythome was cer- 
tain : — and indeed, from his conversation, he seemed able to 
scatter appointments abroad as thick as leaves in autumn. 

"Now, my young friend," — Mr. Pennythome had such a 
host of young friends on his list, — ^ excuse my making you 
one of the family, and sending you up-stairs while I take a 
nap. Old people must be humoured you know. You will 
find the boys in the drawing-room." 

Philip was not sorry to receive this somewhat uncere- 
monious c<mg4. As he stood alone on the stairs he tried to 
collect his thoughts, and to struggle with a vague feeling of 

" This is very foolish of me ! " he said to himself ; " I shall 
not get every one in the world to think and feel exactly as 
I do : — how could I expect it 1 Mr. Pennythome seems a 
very good sort of man — kind too, in his own way : he will 
most likely do something for me ; and then, once getting a 
start in life, I have my fortune in my own hands — that is, 
with Heaven's blessing." And the one reverent aspiration 
of that young pious spirit calmed its jarring doubts into 
patient hope. 

" Still," thought Philip, when, after a prosy evening and 
a walk of three miles, he laid his tired head on his rather 
hard pillow just as St. Pancras' clock was striking twelve — 
" still, I am rather glad that Mr. Pennythome did not ask 
my reasons for giving up the Church : he would not have 
understood them any more than Aunt Breynton. I don't 
think anybody does quite understand me, except Eleanor." 

And with that dear name on his lips and in his heart, 
Philip Wychnor fell asleep. 



What is there that I shonld turn to, lighting upon days like these? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 
Every gate is thronged with suitors ; all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 


Keep the spirit pure 
From worldly taint by the repellent strength 
Of virtue • ♦ ♦ 

Boldly and wisely in the light thou hast : ' 
There is a Hand above will help thee on. 

Philip Bailey. 

It is impossible to imagine a life more utterly dull and 
dreary than that of a young man living alone in London, 
with few friends, with no pursuit to occupy his time, and 
with no money to allure him into agreeable or vicious ways 
of killing it. Philip Wychnor thought that each week, each 
day, grew longer and longer. He had read through and 
through all the books he had brought with him, and was 
unable to buy or borrow more. Then he tried to ** rub up " 
his old studies at Oxford ; but working without an aim is 
a thankless occupation. His whole course of life had been 
disturbed, and he could not settle down again. 

He grew tired of his dingy little parlour, where the sun 
just peeped in at early morning — after which, as though 
disgusted with the place, it departed for the day with the 
breakfast-things. So he took to strolling about London, and 
philosophising on human nature in its citizen aspect. This 
soon made him more heart-weary stilL He then sought 
after all the places of amusement that were open free. 
Fortunately among this class London now numbers some of 




its highest and most intellectual feasts. Philip spent many 
an hour at the British Museum, amid the quiet gloom of 
the Elgin-room— r-un til he knew by sight all the student 
votaries of Art who seek to re-create a Theseus or an Ilyssus 
on their drawing-boards. Many a long morning, too, did he 
loiter in the National Gallery ; a pl^ce that looks always 
fresh and pleasant and sunshiny — ^for is there not perpetual 
sunshine with Quido, and Titian, and Claude ? Often and 
often Philip entered with his spirit so broken and despond- 
ing, that the May brightness and cheerfulness of the streets 
seemed only to insult his lonely poverty. He knew nothing 
of Art save through the spell by which its glory and beauty 
must ever influence minds like his own. But the spirit of 
Guido spoke peace to him through the mournful-eyed 
Magdelene, or the Child Jesus with its face of pale purity 
gazed on by reverent John ; while, grand and solemn, 
loomed out of the darkness the figure of Piombo's Lazarus, 
— and in Da Vinci's Ecce Homo the suffering God-man 
looked in sublime compassion on the Virgin's mother-woe. 
Pictures such as these Philip loved best ; for in this season 
of anxiety tTieir sorrowful and holy beauty touched and 
soothed his spirit. 

And turning for a moment from our story to the indi- 
vidual memories which its progress brings, let us linger in 
the place whither we have led Philip Wychnor ; a place so 
full of old associations that even while thinking of it we lay 
down our pen and sigh. Good, careless reader — mayhap 
you never knew what it was to lead a life in which sorrow 
formed the only change from monotony, a life so solitary 
that dream-companions alone peopled it, nor how, looking 
back on that dull desert of time, one remembers lovingly 
the pleasant spots that brightened it here and there — how 
in traversing the old haunts our feet linger, even while we 
contrast gladly and thankfully the present with the past. 
Else you would not wonder that we stay for a moment with 
our Philip Wychnor ; walking in fancy from room to room ; 
gazing at every well-known picture, whose beautiful and be- 
nign influence was so blessed to us of old ; and seeing also, 
living faces that were once beside us there — some, most 


dear of all on earth — others on whom we shall never more 
look until we behold them in heaven. 

The theme grows too solemn. Eeaders — whom at times 

> every author takes strangely enough into his heart's depths, 

as he takes not even those who sit at his board and drink 

of his cup — if you can understand this digression you will 

forgive it — ^if not, pass it by ! 

Philip Wychnor had no acquaintance in London except 
the Pennythomes. He went to Blank-square — sometimes 
by invitation, and now and then without. But he had a 
great belief in that verse of the Proverbs — " Eefrain thy 
foot from thy neighbour's house, lest he be weary of thee 
and so hate thee : " — therefore his visits always kept within 
due limits. Still it was undeniable that he took pleasure 
in being received with friendliness into this always hospi- 
table house — for hospitality was one of Mr. Penny thorn e's 
virtues. True, the family circle was somewhat dull if its 
head chanced to be absent ; but then, in Philip's present 
state of isolation, any family fireside was a welcome change 
from the solitary dreariness of his own. So he grew to 
take pleasure in Mrs. Pennythome's meaningless but good- 
tempered smile, and Mr. Pennythome's unfailing talk — ^the 
very ostentatiousness of which was amusing. With the 
younger members of the household Philip's acquaintance 
advanced little ; for Frederick was rarely at home in the 
evening, and Leigh maintained the same dull — ^almost sullen 
— silence. Now and then, when Philip chanced to talk a 
little more earnestly than usual, he detected the large brown 
eyes watching him with curious intentness ; but if he re- 
turned the look, they fell at once, and Leigh's counteiiiance 
relapsed into its customary stolidity. Still, when Philip's 
thoughts wanted occupation, they sometimes turned to 
speculate on this rather singular boy. 

Alas for Philip — he had only too much time for think- 
ing ! and as month after month, rolled on, and he had still 
no occupation, his thoughts became mournful indeed. Each 
week Eleanor sent him one of her long cheering letters — no 
young-lady epistles nor romantic love-breathings — but a 
sensible woman's letters; thoughtful, sincere, and full of 


that truest affection which expresses itself less in words thaa 
in deeds. She knew not that but for these letters, her 
lover's mind would have sunk from its healthy tone and 
manly strength into the morbid apathy of delayed hope or 
the misanthropy and bitterness of despair. 

It was not the sting of actual poverty that Philip felt so 
keenly. True, it requires a degree of moral courage to 
brave the summer sunshine of London streets in a thread- 
bare coat — and it is rather a trial of patience to sit down 
to a fragment of homely ill-cooked dinner ; but these are 
after all only externalities, and very endurable. When the 
mind has its own food of present content, and a certainty, 
if ever so little, for the future, a well-earned dish, of pota- 
toes is by no means such a miserable repast ; and a man 
with a pure conscience, and hope in his bosom, can button 
over it his shabby garment, and walk the street with a brow 
as clear — ay, and as lofty — ^as any of his brethren in the 
purple and fine linen of the world. 

Therefore, as Philip Wychnor had always held his body 
much less precious than his soul, we shall not pity him for 
any of these endurances. He would have scorned it. But 
deepest pity indeed he needed, during that weary summer, 
when the agony of uncertainty, the tortures of " fiittwig still 
and doing nothing," gnawed into his very souL Poor 
fellow! many a time he envied the stonebreaker in the 
street, who at least had the comfort of working all day and 
was certain of his future. At last he went to Mr. Penny- 
thome, and spoke openly, earnestly, — almost despairingly. 

"My good fellow !" — exclaimed, with some surprise, that 
excellent individual — he had seen the young man come to 
his house now and then, to dinner or tea, with a composed 
countenance and decent dress, so felt his conscience quite at 
ease respecting his jprotigS — " I had no idea that you were 
in such a plight as this : you never complained." 

" Is it likely I should, sir ]" said Philip, proudly. • " Nor 
do I now ; I am very thankful for all the efforts which I 
believe you have made on my behalf, but I begin to think 
there is no occupation to be had, — ^at least, none that I can 
do. The misfortune lies in my being brought up that very 


useless thing — a gentlemaiL" And Philip laughed bitterly. 
" However, I can remedy this ; I will leave London, change 
my name, and get work as a farmer's labourer. A 
mechanic's place is above me, unfortunately, as I had not 
even the blessing of learning a trade. But work I must 
have, or I shall go mad." 

" I begin to think you are so abeady," muttered Mr. 
Pennythome, as with some touch of compassion he regarded 
the young man's wild eyes and haggard face. A faint 
whisper of conscience, too, hinted that he himself had not 
used Philip quite weU : not but that he had tried to serve 
him — writing to two or three friends, and speaking to two 
or three more, about " a young man who wanted employ- 
ment." But Mr. Pennythorne had erred where most 
ostentatious patronising men err : and woeful is the misery 
which they bring on their dependants by the same ! — ^pro- 
mising far too much, and boasting of imaginary influence, 
to gratify a petty love of power. 

There never yet was human heart so naturally cold, or 
so frozen over by outward formalities, that you could not 
find in one comer or other some fountain of goodness bub- 
bling up. No matter how soon it disappears — ^it has been, 
and therefore may be again. Now, just such a spring as 
this began to irrigate that very dry and dusty portion of 
Mr. Pennjrthome's anatomy which lay under his left waist- 
coat pocket ; and, by a curious sympathy between external 
and internal things, he remembered that there was in this 
said pocket a five-pound note. His fingers even advanced 
nearer to it — they touched it — but just at this moment a 
loud, fashionable knock came to the hall-door, and the tiny 
fountain in Mr. Pennythorne's heart sank suddenly down. 
Still, it had watered a little the arid soil around. 

" Come and dine with me to-morrow, my dear boy," he 
said, cordially; "and cheer up. I'll think of something 
for you by that time." 

"To-morrow — to-morrow — to-morrow," sighed Philip, 
mechanically repeating that word of mournful beguiling. 
As he descended, he passed in the hall a stylish little lady, 
who had just stepped from her carriage, and was busy 


impressing on the servant " Mrs. Lancaster's wish for only 
five minutes* speech of Mr. Pennythome." Philip stood 
aside to let the visitor pass by, and then departed. He 
crept wearily along the sunny side of the square, all glare, 
and dust, and burning heat ; and there came idly jingling 
through his brain, in that season of care so dull, heavy, and 
numbing as to shut out all consecutive thought, the fragment 
of olden rhyme — 

Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 

The hart ungalled play ; 
For some must watch, whilst some must sleep ; 

Thus runs the world away. 

It SO chanced that Mr. Pennythome, working hard all 
that day at a review of a book which he had had no time 
to read, and in the evening busily engaged dispensing his 
hons mots and amusing sneers in Mrs. Lancaster's gay drawr 
ing-room, never thought again of Philip Wychnor until his 
wife asked him the next morning what he would have for 
dinner. Mr. Pennythome's sway, be it known, extended 
even to the comestibles of his household. 

" Dear me — that reminds me that I asked young Wychnor 
to dine here, and I promised to think of something for him. 
Really, how tiresome are these fellows in want of employ- 
ment 1 " And the old gentleman cogitated for at least five 
minutes with his chin on his hand. At last, a brilliant 
thought struck him. 

« CilUe, my dear." 

« Yes, Pierce." 

" How much did that young Johnson — ^the fellow that 
came yesterday, you know, to ask if I wanted a tutor for 
Leigh — ^how much did he charge by the lesson 1" 

" Half-a-guinea for two hours ; only he wanted his lunch 
as well, and you said that would " 

" Tut — tut ! how women's tongues do run ! Mrs. 
Pennythome, will you be so obliging as to go down stairs ? 
— and when I need your advice and conversation I will ring 
the belL" And Mr. Pennythome politely opened the door 
for his wife, shut her out, and returned to his easy-chair. 


" That will just do — a capital plan ! " said he, rubbing 
his hands with an air of benevolent satisfaction. " How 
thankful the poor fellow will be ! Of course, one could not 
give him so much as a professed tutor. Let me see — say 
fowr hours at half-a-guinea, and that twice a week : a very- 
good thing for him — ^very good indeed. He ought to be 
quite satisfied, and very thankful. It will save me time 
and trouble, too, — for that young Leigh is getting con- 
foundedly stupid ; so I shall kill two birds with one stone. 
Keally, what a deal of good one can do in the world if one 

With a pleasing conviction of his own generosity, Mr. 
Pennythome leaned ba«k in his chair, and summoned his 
wife, to give orders for a turbot and lamb with a dish of 
game to follow. 

"Young Wychnor is coming here to-day," he added, 
benevolently. " I dare say he does not get such a dinner 
every day." 

He certainly did not — but Mr. Pennythome did — ^very 
often. Therefore he was obliged, alas I to pay his son's 
tutor only two shillings and sevenpence halfpenny for each 
hour's instruction in Latin, Greek, and Mathematics. 



Should the Body sue the Mind before a court of judicature for 
the' damages, it would be found that the Mind would prove to have 
been a ruinous tenant to its landlord. Plutabch. 

Can I love thee, my beloved — can I love thefe ? 

And is this like love, to stand 

With no help in my hand, 
When strong as death I fain would watch above thee ? 
May God love thee, my beloved, may Qod love thee 1 J 

E. B. Bbowkino. 

The five-pound note found its way into Philip's pocket 
after all. To be sure, it came diluted into guinea-drops, at 
not very regular intervals, but still it did come, and Mr. 
Pennythome had done a benevolent action. He felt sure 
of this himself, and so did Mrs. Pennythome. Moreover, 
the latter often added to the benevolence by giving Philip 
a glass of wine and a sandwich when he came in, hot and 
exhausted, after his three-mile walk. These were not 
" nominated in the bond," and Philip took them gratefully. 
The trifling kindness was better than the gold. 

He had at first little pleasure in teaching Leigh Penny- 
thome. He gave his instruction carefully, patiently, kindly ; 
but it never seemed to penetrate beyond the outward layer 
of the boy's dull, overworked brain. The soil had been 
ploughed and sown over and over again, until there was no 
vestige of fertility left in it. Philip tried to interest his 
young pupil — ^to make a friend of him — ^but the heart seemed 
as dead as the brain. Now and then there would come a 
gleam of speculation into the heavy eyes ; but it was only 
a passing light, and the youth's face sank again into its 
vacant dreariness. 


"Leigh has got plenty of brains — only they require a 
great deal of hammering to knock out the laziness/' said 
the father. 

"Leigh has grown the sulkiest fellow that ever lived, 
over those stupid books. By Jove ! I*m glad nobody ever 
put it int» facer's head that I was clever," laughed Mr. 

" Poor Leigh ! I wonder why he will make himself ill 
with sitting over the fire and never going out," Mrs. 
Pennythome would sometimes lament ; but she never dared 
to say more — hardly to think. 

So the boy grew paler and duller every day, but still he 
must work — work — for the time was going by, and Mr. 
Pennythome was determined to have a man of learning in 
the family. His credit was at stake, for he had vaunted 
everywhere his son's classic acquirements, and the boast 
should be made good in spite of "that lazy Leigh." Morning 
and night the father attacked him. " Study — study!" was 
for ever dinned into his ears ; so, at last, the boy rarely 
stirred out of his own little den. There he sat, with his 
books heaped up around him : — they helped to build the 
altar-pile on which the deluded father was offering up his 

Philip Wychnor saw very little of all this, or his truthful 
tongue could not have kept silence. He was sorry for the 
boy, and tried to make the few hours during which he 
himself guided his studies as little like labour as possible ; 
and if ever Leigh's countenance brightened into interest or 
intelligence it ivas during the time that he was alone with 
his gentle teacher. That teacher was, himself, fast yielding 
to the effects of the desolate and anxious summer through 
which he had passed. It had prostrated all his bodily 
energies, and his mind sank with them. He felt as though 
he were gradually drawing nearer and nearer into the 
shadow of some terrible illness which he could not avert. 
Every day he rose up with the thought, " Well, I wonder 
what will become of me before night ! " — and every night, 
when he lay down on his bed, it was under a vague impres- 
sion that he might not rise from it again. 


At last, one morning when he left the Pennythomes, he 
felt so ill that he ventured to expend sixpence in a ride 
home — almost his last coin, poor fellow ! for it wanted some 
days of the month's end, and Mr. Pennythome was never 
beforehand in his disbursements. As he sat in the comer 
of the omnibus with his hat drawn over his aching eyes, he 
felt conscious of nothing save the dull rolling of the vehicle 
which carried him somewhere — he hardly knew where. 
There waa a crying child near him,— and a lady with a 
sharp-toned voice who drew her silk robes from the babe's 
greasy fingers, and glared angrily at its shabbily-clad mother, 
muttering not inaudibly, " What very disagreeable people 
one meets in omnibuses!" About King William-street 
there was a stoppage in the street, and a consequent 
pushing of passengers' heads out of the window, with a 
general murmur about a woman having been run over. 
All these things Philip's eye and ear perceived as through 
a dense confused mist: — ^he sat in his corner and never 

" What unfeelingness! " muttered the lady-passenger with 
the silk dress, who seemed to find her own self such very 
dull company that she spent her whole time in watching 
and commenting on other people. 

"Totten'-co't-road," bawled out the conductor; and Philip 
was just conscious of making a movement to alight, and 
being assisted out by a little old man who sat by the door. 

" Money, sir ! " the omnibus man shouted indignantly, as 
Philip turned away. He took out a shilling and ha&tily 
went on. 

" Gen'lemen drunk never wants no change," said the con- 
ductor, with a broad grin that made all the passengers 
laugh except the odd-looking old man. As he stood on the 
step, in the act of descending, he threw back on the conduc- 
tor the most frowning glance of which his mild, good-natured 
eyes were capable. 

Philip walked on a little way into a quiet street, and 
there leaned against a railing, utterly unable to stand. A 
touch at his elbow startled him : it was the queer old man 
in the omnibus. 


"Afraid you're Ul. sir." said the most deprecating and 
yet kindly voice in the world. 

" No — ^yes — ^perhaps so — ^the day is so hot," marmured 
Philip, and then he fainted in the street. 

Luckily, he had upon him a card. Oppressed with the 
presentiment of sudden illness, he always took this precau- 
tion. The little old man called a cab and took him home. 
That night Philip Wychnor lay smitten with fever on his 
poor pallet-bed in the close back attic of street. 

At the same hour Eleanor was passing up and down 
under the lime-tree shadow of the palace-garden — thinking 
of her betrothed. She pictured him in busy London, at 
work bravely, steadily, hopefully. Perchance she almost 
envied his lot of active employment, while she herself had 
to bear many home trials — to walk in the old paths and see 
Philip's face there no more — to have one constant thought 
of Philip in her heart, and yet fear to utter his name. 
Faithful Eleanor, could she have seen him now ! 

Oh, why is love so powerless — so vain 1 — ^infinite in will, 
yet how bounded in power ! We would fain spread world- 
extended wings of shelter and comfort over our beloved ; 
and yet in our helplessness we may let them sink, suffer, 
die, alone ! Strange and sad it is, that we, who would brave 
alike life's toil and death's agony — ay, lay down body and 
soul at the feet of our dearest ones — cannot bring ease to 
the lightest pain which their humanity may endure. 

Yet, there is a wondrous might in loving,— a might al- 
most divine. May it not be, that there are Those around 
us whose whole spiritual being, transfused with love, de- 
lights to aid where our human affection fails, unable to 
fulfil its longings — who stand in our stead, and give to our 
vain blessings, our almost weeping prayers, our solitary 
outpouring of fondest words, a strength so omnipotent that 
our beloved may feel in their souls the mysterious influence 
— ^and draw thence comfort and joy ? 

And if so, when, as poor sick Philip watched the creeping 
sunshine along the dusky wall — the blessed, thoughtful 
sunshine which in London always visits most the poverty- 
stricken attic, — or when, during his long restless nights, 


the pure moonlight came in like a flood, and in his half- 
delirious mood he thought it was the waving of an angel's 
wing, — ^who knows but that the faithful love which rose up 
to heaven in an unceasing prayer for him, may have fallen 
down again on his spirit in a holy dew of blessing and of 

Bejoice, thou who lovest ! if thine be that pure love 
which dares stand in the sight of God with its shining face 
unveiled — so holy that thou tremblest not to breathe it in 
thy prayers — so free from earth's taint that it can look 
on the divider, Death, without fear or sorrow, feeling that 
then its highest life begins ! Be strong and faint not — ^be 
faithful and doubt not — ^whatever clouds and thick darkness 
of human fate may stand between thee and thy heart's 
desire. How knowest thou but that the sunburst of thy 
strong love may pierce through all, and rest on thy beloved 
— a* glory and a blessing, — though whence it cometh, or 
how, may never be revealed 1 



He had grown dusty with groping all his life in the graves of dead 
languages. — Chables Dickens. 

Much more is said of knowledge than 'tis worth ; 
A man may gain all knowledge here, and yet 
Be after death as much i' the dark as I. 

Philip Bailey. 

Philip was ill many days — ^how many he never counted, 
and there was no tender nurse to count them for him. He 
struggled through his illness like numberless others to whom 
sickness and poverty come together. One wonders how 
such poor desolate sufferers survive. And yet Death often 
passes the penury-stricken, misery-haunted chamber, to 
stand at the foot of the well tended couch around which 
gathers an army of doctors and nurses. Amidst all, in 
spite of all, sounds in the rich man's ear the low awful 
whisper, " Thou must come away." 

Life is to the young an ever-renewed fountain of hope ; 
and Philip Wychnor, when he arose from his sickness, was 
by no means so disconsolate as might have been expected. 
Under the hardest circumstances there is always a vague 
happiness in the first dawn of returning health. As the 
poor invalid managed to walk to the window, and sat 
watching as much of a glorious autumn sunset as that for- 
tunate elevation permitted, there was a patient content on 
his pale face which made the cross-grained old landlady say 
quite tenderly when she brought him his tea and toast, 
" Dear heart alive 1 — ^how nice and well you are a-looking 
to-day, sir ! " 

In truth there were a sweetness and a beauty in Philip's 
face that would have softened any heart wherein lingered 


one drop of kindly womanhood: and, thank Heaven ! there 
are few utterly without. 

The young man finished his poor repast almost with an 
appetite ; and then leaned back in the twilight, too weak for 
consecutive thought, but still giving way to a quiet, pleasant 
dreaminess. He was conscious only of a vague craving to 
have the dear soft eyes that he knew, looking peace upon 
him— to rest like a weary chUd with his head on her 
shoulder, his hand in hers, without speaking or moving. 
And as he lay still, with closed eyes, the strong fantasy 
seemed to grow into a reality. 

As Philip reclined in this dreamy state, the door opened 
softly, and through it appeared, to his great astonishment, 
the long thin face of Leigh Pennythorne. The boy looked 
round the room, and started back when he saw Philip, who 
turned and held out his hand. 

"How good of you to come and see me!" he said, feebly. 
Leigh sprang forward, wrung the poor wan hand two or 
three times, and tried to speak, but in vain. At last he 
took out his old cotton pocket-handkerchief and began to 
cry like a child. 

Philip, quite amazed at this display of feeling, could only 
lay his hand on the boy's shoulder, and then leaned back 
too exhausted for speech. Leigh began to be alarmed. 

" I hope I shan't do you any harm ; I don't mean to," 
he said, between his sobs. " I am downright ashamed of 
myself, that I am — a great boy like me — but I did not ex- 
pect you were out of bed ; and I was so glad to see you 
better, Mr. Wychnor." 

** Thank you — ^thank you, Leigh," was the faint answer. 

" There now, don't talk ; I shan't. I've got all my books 
here : " — and he hauled after him a great blue bag. "Just 
go to sleep again, and call me when you want anything, 
will you?" said the boy, insensibly relapsing into his 
languid drawl. He seated himself on the other side the 
window, and leaned his gaunt elbows on the sill, with the 
eternal book between them. But how far this was a kindly 
pretence, the quick glances which the brown eyes were ever 
stealing at Philip easily revealed. 


" Leigh ! " said the invalid, after a pause. 

" Yes, sir," answered the old schoolboy voice — so diflFer- 
ent from the impassioned tone of a few minutes before. 

" Don't call me sir — ^you cannot think how glad I am to 
see you, my dear boy ! " And Philip clasped the cold spider- 
like hand affectionately, for his he^rt was touched. 

" Glad — are you, Mr. Wychnor 1 Well, you're the first 
who ever waar glad to see me — or who told me so." There 
was a tone half bitter, half despondent, piercing through 
the boy*s apathy, — but Philip took no notice of it. 

" How did you know I was ill 1 " he asked. 

'* Oh, I could easily see that the last day you came. I 
watched you down our square, and into the omnibus — I hope 
you'll not be offended at that, Mr. Wychnor 1" — and the 
sallow cheek of the shy boy reddened visibly. Philip pressed 
his hand, — ^and Leigh brightened up more and more. ; 

" I said to myself that you must be ill, as you never rode 
home before ; so the next day, when the governor dined out, 
I came over here to see." 

" How kind ! — ^you who never care to stir from home." 

" Oh, it was a change — I rather liked it ; and as for being 
tired, that don't signify — I always am tired ;" and Leigh 
smiled languidly. ** I have been here very often since then ; 
only you were light-headed, and did not know me." 

"But they told me I had a fever. Oh, Leigh, if you 
should take it!" said Philip, hurriedly. 

"Don't mind that; I heard the doctor say it wasn't 
catching, — ^and if it were, I should not be afraid. It would 
be rather pleasant to have a fever, and then I should not 
work. But there's no danger; so don't make yourself 

"But your father?" 

"Oh, he knows nothing about it; I managed all so 
cleverly. Guess how ! I wrote a letter in your name, saying 
you had fallen down and sprained your foot, so that you 
would be glad if father would let me take the lessons here, 
and you'd give an extra one each week. I knew that would 
catch the old governor ! " — and an expression in which the 
glee of childhood and the sarcasm of manhood were conjoined 


passed over the boy's face. ^ The writing looked just like 
yours, and I put it in the post-office at Southampton-row. 
He never found out the cheat. How should he? So I 
used to come over regularly with my books — ^and then I 
took care of you." 

Philip was struck dumb by the strange mixture of 
affection and duplicity, generosity and utter neglect of truth 
or duty, which the boy's conduct exhibited. But the good 
was Leigh's own nature — ^the evil, the result of his education. 
Philip, weak and ill as he was, had no power to argue the 
right and wrong of the case. He only felt the influence of 
this sudden upspringing of affection towards himself ; it came 
to him like waters in a dry land — ^he could not thrust it 
from him, though much that was evil mingled in the foun- 
tain's source. 

Leigh went on talking as fast as though he had a twelve- 
month's arrears of silence to make up at once. " I told the 
landlady I was your cousin— she and I got very good friends 
— I used to pay her every week." 

"Pay her?" echoed Philip, as a thought of his empty 
purse flashed across his mind. 

" Oh, yes — of course, father sent the money for the 
lessons just as usual — ^it did very nicely — or I really don't 
know how I could have got you what you wanted during your 
illness. But I shall talk too much for you. Hadn't you 
better lie down again V The advice did not come too soon, 
for Philip, bewildered and exhausted, had sunk back in his 

In a moment the dull, stupid Leigh Pennythome became 
changed into the most active and skilful of nurses — ^gentle 
and thoughtful as a woman. His apathetic manner, his 
lazy drawl, seemed to vanish at once. He tended Philip, 
and even wept over him with a remorseful affection that 
was touching to witness. 

O ye hard parents, who look upon your offspring as your 
mere property, to be brought up for your pleasure or pride, 
—never remembering that each child will live, through 
eternity, an independent, self-existing being, — that the 
Bestower of these young spirits gives them not, but lends — 


" Take this child and nurse it for ife," — ^think what a fear- 
ful thing it is to have upon your heads the destruction of 
a human soul 1 

Philip, left to himself, thought much and anxiously of the 
best course to pursue; and by the best Philip Wychnor 
always meant the rigJU — he never turned aside to expe- 
diencies. Once, his upright, truthful mind prompted him 
to write the whole story to Mr. Pennythorne ; but then be 
soon saw how terrible would be the result to Leigh. He 
would not give up the poor boy whose fragile life seemed 
to owe its sole brightness to his own aflfection. So, as the 
young teacher himself gathered strength, he set about the 
cure of this poor diseased mind ; trying to bend it straight, 
as he would a tree which wrong culture had warped aside, 
not with a sudden wrench, but by a gradual influence ; — so 
that, ere long, he made Leigh see and acknowledge his 
errors. And all this he did so gently, that while the boy's 
spirit opened to the light, he loved more than ever the hand 
which brought it, even though the brightness of truth 
revealed in his heart much evil that oppressed him with 

" And now," said Philip, one day, as Leigh sat beside him 
listening to his gentle arguments, " what are we to do to 
amend all this 1" 

"I don't know. Do you decide," answered Leigh 

" Go and tell your father, what is indeed the truth, that 
I have been too ill to give you your lessons ; but that you 
had not courage to say this, and continued coming here 
still. Surely he cannot be angry, since this was from kind- 
ness to me." 

Leigh shook his head. " FU do it, however, if you say 
so. You must be right, Mr. Wychnor, and I don't care 
what happens to myself." 

" And tell your father, too, from me," continued Philip, 
'' that I will make up all the missed lessons as soon as ever 
I recover. I could not rest with this load on my mind." 
There was a look of surprise and tenderness in the large 
wistful eyes which now seemed ever reading Philip's face. 



" Yon must be a very good man, Mr. Wychnor. You do 
and say the sort of things that I used to read of long ago 
when I had books I liked — ^I don't mean these !" and he 
kicked the blue bag disdainfully. '' I fancied I should meet 
in real life the same sort of goodness, but I never did ; and 
so, at last, I thought it was only found in poetry and novels. 
I don't now, though." 

Philip made no answer to this simple child-like confession, 
but it went to his heart. He vowed within himself that 
while the boy lived he would not part from him, but would 
strive through all difficulties to guide this frail struggling 
spirit to the light. 

Mr. Pcnnythome was rather indignant at having been 
deceived, but his parental dignity grew mollified by the 
humble behaviour of his son. 

'^ Leigh is not half so sulky as he used to be, and he gets 
on very well with young Wychnor," he observed to Mrs. 
Pennythome. "It is not worth while breaking up the 
lessons, when the lad came himself and told of his own 
error. However, he must apologise properly, for I cannot 
have my authority set at nought." 

The mother deferentially suggested that it did poor Leigh 
so much good to go out every day ; and so the end of the 
matter was, that Mr. Pennythome graciously acceded to the 
lessons being given at Philip's home, — ^the extra one being 
still continued. 

" And about the money already received ]" said Philip, 
anxiously, when his young pupil brought the message. 
"Will your father wait until I can return iti" Leigh 
blushed crimson, and turned to the window. 

" Oh, he is quits satisfied on that account ; you are not 
to think about it any more." 

"How kind!" And in Philip's first uneasiness and 
quick-springing gratitude he never noticed Leigh's confusion. 
The boy had sold his watch — ^his pet pla3rtUng and com- 
panion — to pay his father the money. 



Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in iEsop were extremely 
wise : they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap 
into a well becgiuse they could not get out again. — Selden. 

A coxcomb is ugly all over witb the affectation of a fine gentleman. 


In the bay-window of a somewhat tawdry London drawing- 
room stood a lady alone. She was looking towards the 
street more through idleness than curiosity, for she kept 
restlessly beating time with her riding-whip on her gloved 
hand. You could not see her face, except the outline of 
the cheek and graceful little ear, — but these wore all the 
beautiful roundness of early youth; and her tall j&gure, 
which the dark riding-habit so well displayed, had an almost 
statue-like perfection in its curves. 

By degrees the impatient little hand grew still, the fair 
head drooped, and with her brow leaning against the window- 
pane the girl stood for some minutes in thought. The fact 
itself showed how young she was. After twenty one's 
ponderings usually grow too deep and earnest to be ex- 
pended in light and sudden reveries. A voice outside and 
an opened door broke in upon these musings, and caused 
the young girl to turn round. It was Katharine Ogilvie. 

" Dear me, Katharine, how you are altered ! " exclaimed 
the lady who entered the room, — also an old acquaintance 
of ours, whom we have left so long to pursue the sole aim 
of her life, matrimony, that we feel almost ashamed to re- 
introduce her as still Miss Isabella Worsley. 

" I never saw such a change ! " continued she, in genuine 
astonishment, which really was not at all surprising. 
Eleanor had proved right in her conjecture ; one could 


hardly see anywhere a more graceful and beautiful young 
creature than Katharine Ogilvie at nineteen. " Why, what 
has made such a difference in youV* continued Isabella, 
" eyeing her over " from head to foot. 

Katharine smiled, and a faint colour rose into her cheek : 
a lovely cheek it was too — no longer sallow, but of a clear 
pale brown, under which the rich blood wandered, at times 
suffusing it with a peach-like glow. " You know it is nearly 
three years since you saw me, Isabella ;" and as she spoke a 
deeper and more womanly thrill might have been traced in 
her silvery voice. 

" Three years ! nay, I am sure it is not nearly so much," 
said Isabella, with some little acerbity. She began to find 
it rather irksome to count years. 

" Indeed it is, all but two months. It will be three years 
next February— I mean January ; " and Katharine's colour 
grew a shade deeper as she continued more quickly, " Yes, 
it was in January that you came, Isabella, — ^you, and Lizzie, 
and George, — and we had besides, Eleanor and Hugh. 
What a merry time it was ! " 

" You seem to remember it exceedingly well," said Isa- 
bella pointedly, and not altogether without ill-nature. 

" Certainly I do ; " and the beautiful head was lifted a 
little, with an air of .dignity not unmixed with pride. It 
showed Isabella at once that where she had left the child 
she had found the woman. She turned the conversation 

" We have been looking for you all the morning, Katha- 
rine. It is so horridly dull to be up in town when everybody 
else is out of it ; living in lodgings too, with nobody but 
mamma. I wish this disagreeable law business were over. 
But come, my dear girl, take off your hat and let us talk. 
How long have you to stay with me this morning]" 

" My father will come for me in an hour or two, if he 
can get away from the House. Otherwise he will be sure 
to send Hugh." 

" Hugh ! Keally I shall be quite delighted to see cousin 
Hugh 1 Is he altered ?" and the sharp eyes fixed themselves 
observantly on Katharine's face. 


*' Oh no ! Hugh is just the same as ever " answered the 
young girl with a merry laugh, as she stood braiding back 
the thick black hair which had fallen in taking off her hat. 
The attitude was so unconstrained — so perfectly graceful — 
that Isabella's envious heart acknowledged perforce the ex- 
ceeding beauty of her cousin. 

''And Hugh stays at Summerwood as much as he used 
to do 1 " she pursued, keeping up the same scrutiny. 

" Oh yes ! I don*t know what papa would do without 
him, now he is himself in Parliament. Hugh manages 
everything at the Pcirk : takes care of the farming and the 
shooting-iof mamma, of Brown Bess, and of myself." 

" So I suppose." 

" Besides, he can hardly feel settled anywhere else, now 
that Eleanor lives with Mrs. Breynton." 

"Ah! tell me all about that. How odd it was of 
Eleanor to go and live entirely with a stupid old woman 1 
But perhaps she had plenty of money to leave 1" 

Katharine's proud lip curled. " Eleanor is not a legacy- 
hunter, I imagine/' she answered coldly. 

" I really did not intend to vex you, my dear," said Miss 
Worsley. " Of course, Hugh's sister is all perfection — to 

" What did you say, Isabella ?" asked the quiet and rather 
haughty voice. 

" Oh, nothing, nothing. You see, Eleanor and I never 
took to one another much though we are cousins, and so we 
never correspond : therefore, all I know of her proceedings 
is from hearsay. Pray enlighten me, Katharine ; I do love 
a nice little bit of mystery." 

" There is really no mystery about the matter," answered 
Katharine, smiling. " I have not seen my cousin much of 
late, — and her letters are rather short than otherwise, and 
contain very little about herself. I know no more than 
every one else does — that, being an orphan and sisterless, 
she likes to live with an old lady who was her mother's 
friend and is very fond of herself. There is nothing very 
mysterious m this— is there 1" 

" Oh no ! only I was rather curious about the matter, — 


for Eleanor's sake, of course," said the young lady. We 
call her so par excellence — as Isabella was essentially one of 
those carefully manufactured articles which the boarding- 
school creates and " society " finishes. There is a German 
fairy fable of the Elle women, who are all fair in front, but 
if you walk round them hollow as a piece of stamped 
leather. Perhaps this is a myth of young-lady-hood. 

Our young lady, then, finding it impossible to pump from 
Katharine anything that administered to her vanity or her 
love of gossip, began to feel the conversation growing rather 
tiresome : so she took out a piece of fancy-work, and having 
tried to engage her visitor's admiration of it, set her to wind 
some Berlin wool : doubtless thinking within herself how 
stupid it was to talk to girls, and wishing for the arrival of 
any two-legged animal in coat and hat to relieve the tedium 
of this morning call. And— as if at that auspicious moment 
Fortunatus's wishing-cap had adorned her head, instead of 
the pretty little nondescript fabric of wool which she wore, 
partly for wannth, partly because any sort of matronly coif 
sets off a passe face advantageously — lo ! there was a terrific 
thundering at the hall-door, and the servant appeared with 
a card. 

" Mr. Frederick Pennythome," read Isabella. " Show him 
up immediately.'' And with an air of satisfaction she glanced 
at the mirror, and went through one or two small ceremonies 
of dress-arranging with which fair damsels of her stamp 
always honour the approach of an individual in broadcloth. 

" A matter of business, I conclude 1" observed Katharine, 
" as you said you had no friends in town now. Shall I be 
in the way?" 

" Oh no ; not in the least. Tlie fact is, that Mr. Penny- 
thome is the solicitor in our suit — quite a rising young man ; 
not disagreeable either. He calls often — rather oftener 
than is quite necessary for the law business " — (here Isa- 
bella cast her eyes down with an affected smile, and tittered 
exceedingly) — " so, Katharine, it is perhaps as well for. you 
to be here, as mamma is so very particular. But I suppose 
you have not got to these things yet, my dear ; and, in- 
deed " 


Open sesame! — videlicet the drawing-room door — and 
enter Mr. Frederick Pennythome ! Then came due greet- 
ing and introduction, and the small rattle of conversation 
began. It was just such as might have been expected from 
the two principal interlocutors, for Katharine took little part 
in it. With instinctive, but in this case quite superfluous 
delicacy, she soon retired to the window ; and if once or 
twice her eyes wandered towards Isabella and the new 
visitor, her gaze was induced by a far deeper feeling than 
idle curiosity. To her, all lovers and all love were sacred ; 
and she felt for the first time a sympathy with her cousin. 
The young unsuspicious heart saw in all others but the 
likeness of its own: the true could not even divine the 

Yet a little, a very little, did Katharine marvel, when the 
light laugh and unconcerned chatter of her cousin struck 
her ear. Love seemed to her such a deep, earnest thing, — 
and there was Isabella all carelessness and merriment, even 
in the presence of her lover. Lover! As Katharine 
glanced at the easy self-complacent rattler of small compli- 
ments, a feeling came over her very like self-scorn for having 
so misapplied the word. And turning away from the mean 
prettiness of the well-arranged smirking visage, with its 
small lappets of whisker meeting under the chin, and its 
unmistakable air of " Don't you see what a good-looking 
fellow I am V — there rose up before her the shadowy like- 
ness of another and very different face. Then Katharine, 
smiling to herself a proud joyous smile, did not even think 
again of Mr. Frederick Penuythorne. That gentleman, on 
his part, was inclined to return the somewhat negative 
compliment. People like himself feel an extreme aversion 
to being looked down upon, either corporeally or mentally. 
Katharine Ogilvie unfortunately did both ; and the manner 
in which she received his first compliment effectually pre- 
vented his hazarding a second. He found his small mind 
quite out of its depths, and floundered back as quickly as 
possible to the protecting shallows of Miss Worsley's easy 
talk. When Katharine was startled out of her pleasant 
silence by the announcement of the visitor's departure, all 


that passed between them was a valedictory bow, which 
Miss Ogilvie tried to make as courteous as possible to the 
supposed lover of her cousin. 

" Dear me ! how tiresome these men are ! What trouble 
I have with them, to be sure ! " exclaimed Miss Worsley, 
throwing herself languidly into an arm-chair, while a grati- 
fied simper rather contradicted her assertions. Katharine 
looked a good deal .surprised. " Why, Bella, I thought you 
were delighted to see this gentleman ; that he was a parti- 
cular fnend of yours— in short, a " 

" Beau, you mean," interrupted Isabella, with a laugh, 
" or admirer, or sweetheart, as the maid-servants say." 

" And Shakspeare, — ^who makes the word so pretty, as 
indeed it is — sweet heart" said Katharine ; who scarcely 
knew whether or not to echo her cousin's laugh, and in truth 
could hardly tell what to make of her. At last she inquired 
earnestly : 

"My dear Bella, do you and this young man really 
love one another ? " Isabella laughed more heartily than 

" Well, that is good ! * Love one another 1 ' — ^it sounds 
just like a text out of the Bible. You little simplicity ! 
nobody ever talks in that way now-a-days, except in novels. 
Where did you learn your pretty lesson, my dear, and who 
taught youl" Again the proud cheek's sudden crimson 
warned Miss Worsley that the childish days wherein she 
used to make sport of her young cousin were over. She 
changed her tactics immediately, seriously adding, "Well, 
well, I know what you mean, Katharine ; the mere form of 
words does not much signify. Whether I like Fred Penny- 
thorne or not, *tis quite clear he likes me, — as indeed he 
managed to tell me aboi^ ten minutes ago." 

" And you will marry him — that is, if you do not, and 
never did, love any one else 1 " 

" My dear girl, how unsophisticated you are ! What 
difference could that last fact make in my becoming Mrs. 
Pennythomel Why, I have had affairs of this sort, off 
and on, ever since I was sixteen. It is very hard ; but if 
men vMl fall in love, what can one do 1 However, you will 


be finding out these things for yourself one day, if what I 
hear people say about you be true." 

"What do people say about mel" And there was a 
trembling at the girl's heart, as the thought passed through 
it, that — ^but no, it was impossible ! She smiled calmly. 
" Pray tell me this interesting rumour, Isabella." 

" Only that when Miss Katharine Ogilvie marries she will 
not need to change her surname, — and that our excellent 
cousin Hugh bids fair to inherit title, estates, heiress, and all. 
So thinks the world." 

Katharine drew herself up. "I do not see that the 
world has any business to think about the matter; but 
whether it does or not, can be of little consequence to me, 
or to Hugh either. We are too good friends to mind an 
idle report." 

'* Yes, yes ; it is all quite proper for you to talk so now, 
my dear, — ^but we shall see. I guessed how it would end 
long ago ; and so, I dare say, did some older heads than 
either yours or mine. Of course, your father and mother 
both know what a good match it would be for you." 

" A good match ! " repeated Ejitharine, while her beauti- 
ful lip curled, and her whole mien expressed ineffable scorn. 
" Is that all that people marry for ] " 

Isabella, at this moment, jumped up from her seat by the 

window. Talk of the 1 beg your pardon and that of Mr. 

Hugh Ogilvie, for there he is riding down the street. And 
oh ! — doesn't he look up at the window, Miss Katharine ! 
Well, he is a fine-looking fellow, — so I congratulate you, my 
dear." If the flashes of indignant womanly pride that shot 
from Katharine's eyes had been lightning-gleams, they would 
have consumed Isabella to ashes. 



Oh ! I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart 


Well ! nature makes some wise provisions ! We might be envious 
of others' happiness if in nine cases out of ten we did not despise it. 

L. ill. L. 

Katharine rode home with her father and Hugh, more 
silent and thoughful than was her wont. Two or three 
times her horse started at some restless, almost angry motions 
of its young rider; and when Hugh ^ame amdoudy to her 
assistance she rejected his aid a little sharply. 

"How wonderfully independent you are this morning, 
Katharine ! " 

"Of course I am, and always will be," was the quick 

Hugh looked surprised and somewhat hurt — and Katha- 
rine instantly reproached herself. " How foolish I am — how 
wrong ! " she thought. " It might have been all nonsense 
the mere gossip of Isabella. I will not think any more 
about it." So she called Hugh to her side with some trivial 
observation, in which the gentle tone made all the concession 
needed. But as she noticed how hastily he spurred his 
horse forward at her summons, and how his whole counte- 
nance beamed with delight, Katharine again became troubled. 

In these frequent rides the two young people were in the 
habit of lingering behind Sir Kobert, to look at the country 
around and talk. But this time Katharine kept her horse 
close beside her father's the whole way ; and when they 
reached Summerwopd she leaped off without waiting for 
Hugh's customary assistance. 


" Still independent, Katharine," said the young man, — 
too little sensitive, or else feeling too sure of his prize, to 
notice the change in his cousin's manner. She laughed — 
but the laugh was forced ; and springing up the hall-steps, 
with an excuse about being late for dinner, she went at 
once to her own room — her young heart oppressed with a 
new care. 

The possibility of Hugh's wishing to make her his wife 
had never crossed Katharine's mind before. She had no 
girlish vanity; and the one great love which absorbed 
every thought, aim, and desire of her heart, shut out from 
it entirely all lesser fancies, or even the suspicion of their 
existence in others. Besides, all her life, she had looked 
upon Hugh as a brother, and treated him as such. His 
quiet nature was satisfied with this frank and affectionate 
intercourse ; and, believing that in their secluded life she 
had no chance of forming any other attachment, he waited 
until his uncle gave him leave to say " Katharine, will you 
marry me ] " — fully persuaded she would at once answer, 
" Thank you, Hugh, I will." As he really loved her very 
dearly, he would then most probably tell her so : — and so 
they would settle down into placid matrimonial felicity, 
such as was in fashion at Summerwood. — And was the 
passionate dream of almost idolatrous love to subside into 
this 1 Was Katharine, with her intense yearning after all 
that is great and glorious — with a soul so high that it 
sought a yet loftier for its worship — thus to sink from her 
ideal of marriage 1 There, husband and wife stood hand-in- 
hand in their fair and beloved home — ^genius, worth, and 
world-wide goodness shedding dignity and happiness around 
them. Could she barter this glorious future for a life with 
one who had no higher interests than the kennel, the stable, 
and the chase 1 

Katharine almost maddened at the thought. But imme- 
diately she reproached herself for the intense scorn which 
she felt embittering her against Hugh — poor easy Hugh ! 
How could he help it if he were not endowed with brains ? 
Katharine began to ponder on the possibility of his loving 
her ; and her memory, roving over past years, found many 


a little circumstance that confirmed this vague suspicion. 
She grew very sad. The love that filled her own heart 
taught her compassion towards Hugh. She thought of her 
parents, and of the motives which Isabella had imputed to 
them. The detested words " a good match," rang in her 
ears, goading her proud nature to resistance. 

" They shall never buy and sell me ! me to whom he gave 
his loving words, his parting kiss. Paul, Paul ! no man 
living save you shall ever have this hand. I will keep it for 
you unto my life's end ! " And again she kissed with wild 
passion her own delicate hand — the hand which had once 
been made for ever sacred by the clasp of Paul Lynedon's. 

Then, she went to the little desk where she kept all her 
treasures. There, with many a girlish memento — token- 
flowers, idly given but so fondly kept — ^lay the only letter 
she had ever received from him — the one he had written 
after his rejection by Eleanor. At first, how rapturous had 
been the joy it brought to her! And with succeeding 
weeks and months came a happiness calmer indeed, but not 
less deep. In all her longing regrets for him, in all her 
light home-troubles, how it comforted her to fly to her little 
treasure-house, lay her cheek upon the paper, and feel that 
its very touch changed all tears to smiles I How blessed it 
it was to read over and over again her name written in his 
own hand, — linked too with tenderest words, "My dear 
Katharine, my true Katharine ! " 

And she was true — ^fatally true — ^to the love which she 
deemed she read in this letter. The thoughtless outburst 
of wounded feeling, idly penned and soon forgotten, became 
to her deceived heart a treasure which gave it its hope — 
its strength — its life. She never doubted him for one 
moment — not even when his absence grew from months 
into years, and no tidings either of him or from him ever 
reached her loneliness. Some strange necessity detained 
him ; but that he would come back to claim the love which 
he had won, she felt as sure as that the sun was in the 
heavens. Once only the terrible, withering thought struck 
her, that he was dead ! But no — ^for in death he would 
have remembered her. She did not conjure up that horror 

xxiil] the ogilvies. 173 

again — she could not have done so, and lived ! So she waited 
calmly, — ^all her care being to make herself worthy of him, 
and of that blessed time when he should claim her. She 
strove to lift herself nearer to him, in intellect, heart, and 
soul ; she cherished her beauty, and rejoiced as she saw 
herself grow fairer day by day ; she practised every graceful 
accomplishment that might make her more winning in his 
sight ; and when at last the world's praises were lavished at 
the feet of Sir Eobert Ogilvie's heiress, Katharine gloried 
in her resistless charms, her talents, and her beauty, since 
they were all for him t 

There was in her but one thing wanting — ^the deep holy 
faith which sees in love itself but the reflection of that 
pure ideal after which all should strive, and which in the 
heart's wildest devotion never suffers the Human to shut 
out the Divine. 

Katharine took the letter and read it for the thousandth 
time. Its tender words seemed breathed in her ear by 
Paul's own voice, giving her comfort and strength. Then 
she placed before her the likeness, which, no longer hung 
up in her chamber, was now hidden carefully from sight. 
She gazed upon it fondly — ^yearningly; but she thought 
not of the young poet's face — she only felt as though she 
were looking into Paul Lynedon's eyes. 

" They shall never tear me from you, my own, own love 
— ^my noble Paul 1 " she cried ; " I will stand firm against 
father — mother — ^the whole world. I will die rather than 
wed any man living, save you ! " 

But she felt rather ashamed of these heroic resolutions 
against unjust parents, etc. etc., when she found no change 
in the behaviour of any of the party. Her good-natured 
father, her kind mother, and her quiet, easy-tempered Hugh, 
seemed by no means characters fitted to enact a stem 
tragedy of blighted love and innocence oppressed. In the 
course of a week, Katharine's suspicions died away, and she 
smiled at the easy credence she had given to an idle rumour. 
But, nevertheless, the thoughts which it awakened were not 
without their influence, but rooted deeper and deeper in 
her heart its intense and engrossing love. 



One day Lady Ogilvie entered her daughter's little study 
— it was still the old beloved room — ^with an air of myste- 
rious importance, and a letter in her hand. 

" My dear Katharine, I have some news for you. Here 
is a letter from your aunt Worsley : but read it yourself, it 
will save me the trouble of talking." And Lady Ogilvie — ' 

now grown a little older, a little stouter, and a good deal 
less active — sat down in the arm-chair — the very arm-chair 
in which Sir James had died — and began to stroke a great 
black cat, of which Katharine took affectionate care, because 
in its kitten-days it had been a plaything of her grand- 
father's second childhood. Once or twice Lady Ogilvie 
glanced towards her daughter's face, and wondered that 
Katharine manifested scarcely any surprise, but returned 
the letter, merely observing, 

" Well, mamma, I am sure you are very glad, and so 
am L" 

" Keally, my dear, how quietly you take it ! A wedding 
in the family does not come every day. I feel quite excited 
about it myself." 

" But, mamma, it is not exactly news to me. I met Mr. 
Pennythorne the day I was at aunt Worsley's." 

" And you never said a word about it ! " 

" It would not have been right, as Isabella begged me 

" Young people should never keep anything from their 
parents," was the mild reproof of Lady Ogilvie. 

" Indeed, dear mamma, to tell the truth, I have scarcely 
thought of 'the matter a se'cond time, as I did not take mucJ ^ 

interest in the gentleman. But I am glad Isabella is to ' 

be married, since I think she wished it very much." And 
the slight satirical tendency which lay dormant in Katha- 
rine peeped out in a rather comically repressed smile. 

" It is very natural that young persons should wish to 
be settled," answered the impassive Lady Ogilvie, — " espe- 
cially when they are, like your cousin, the eldest of a large 
famUy. The only thing requisite is a suitable match." — 
Katharine started a little, and her brow contracted for a 
moment at the disagreeable reminiscences which her mother's 


last words recalled. But Lady Ogilvie went on quite un- 

" In Isabella's case everjrthing seems satisfactory. With 
your father, Mrs. Worsley is, of course, more explicit 
than with me ; and her letter to him states that the gentle- 
man has a good income and excellent prospects. The 
family are respectable, too. Indeed, from what Sir Robert 
tells me, I should consider Isabella most fortunate, as 
she has little or no fortune, and may not have a better 

During this speech, delivered rather prosily and oracu- 
larly, Katharine had listened in perfect silence. Once or 
twice she bit her beautiful under lip until its curves grew 
of a deeper rose, and tapped her little foot restlessly upon 
the cushion, so as materially to disturb the peace of mind 
of the great black cat who usually claimed it. When Lady 
Ogilvie ceased, expecting a reply, the only one she gained 
was — " Well, mamma 1 " 

" Well, my dear, you seem to take very little interest 
about the matter.'' 

" Not a great deal, I confess." 

" What an odd girl you are, Katharine ! I imagined all 
young ladies of your age must be interested in love and 

" I don't think the two are united in this case, and there- 
fore I care less about it." 

" But, my dear child, you should care. You are coming 
to an age when it is necessary to have right ideas on 
these points. Most probably, some time or other, you 
yourself " 

" Mamma, you do not want to send Katharine away from 
you 1 " said the girl, rising suddenly, and putting her arms 
round her mother's neck, so that her face was hid from 
Lady Ogilvie's observation. 

" By no means, love ; but " 

" Then we will not talk about it." 

" Not if you do not like it, my darling," said the mother, 
fondly ; and at the moment a sudden and natural impulse 
of maternal jealousy made her feel that it would be hard 


to give up her only child to any husband whomsoever. 
She drew Katharine to the stool at her feet. 

" Sit down here, love, and let us go on talking about 
Isabella. You know she wishes to have you for brides- 
maid — shall you like it 1 " 

" Yes, certainly, if you are willing." 

" Oh, to be sure ; and moreover, as the marriage is to be 
so soon, before Mrs. Worsley leaves London, your papa 
intends proposing that it shall take place at Summerwood. 
It will cause a good deal of trouble, but then Isabella is 
his only sister's child, and has no father living. Sir Eobert 
thinks this plan would be more creditable to the family 
than having her married from lodgings ; and I quite agree 
with him, especially as it will please your aunt so much." 

" What a good, kind, thoughtful mamma you are ! " 
murmured Katharine, with a sudden twinge of conscience 
as she remembered all the conflicting feelings of the last 
ten minutes. 

" And now, my dear, as there is no time to be lost, I 
have ordered the carriage, that we may go at once to your 
aunt's and arrange about the dresses and other matters. 
She will make a pretty bridesmaid, will my little Katharine ! 
I shall quite like to see her," added the mother, affection- 
ately passing her hand down the smooth braided hair. 
E^tharine laughed as merrily as a child. 

" And when she comes to be a bride herself," continued 
Lady Ogilvie, in tones, the formality of which had sunk to 
an almost perceptible tremulousness, ^'she will make a 
good choice, and marry so as to please her papa and me 9 " 

" I will never marry without consulting your will and 
my father's," said Katharine, softly, but finnly, — ^** and you 
must leave me equally free in mine." 

"Of course we shall, my child! But there is time 
enough to think about that. Now let us go together and 
congratulate Isabella." 



'Tis a morn for a bridal — ^the merry bride bell 

Bings clear through the greenwood that skirts the chapelle. 

* ' * « « « 

The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done, 

They who knelt down together arise up as one ; 

Fair riseth the bride — oh, a fair bride is she ! 

But for all (think the maidens), • * * 

No saint at her praying. E. B. Browning. 

" How beautiful you look in your bridal dress, Katharine ! " 
cried Hugh, as he met her upon the staircase on the wed- 
ding-morning. He could not forbear taking hold of both 
her hands and gazing admiringly in her bright young face. 
"I declare you only want the orange-blossoms to look 
like a bride yourself — and a great deal prettier than Miss 
Bella, too, as I always said you were.** 

" Thank you, Hugh," returned his cousjp, with a laugh 
and a low curtsey. " Only it is as well that the bride does 
not hear you ; for you know," she added, giving way to a 
light-hearted girlish jest, " you know that once upon a time 
you thought her very handsome, and people said that Isa- 
bella need not go out of the family in search of a husband." 

" Pooh ! nonsense ! I hope you never thought so. Indeed, 
Katharine, I should be very much vexed if you did," said 
Hugh earnestly. — Katharine's colour rose, and she drew her 
hand away. 

" Really, I never thought about the matter at alL I was 
too young to consider such things." 

Hugh looked disappointed and confused. At last he 
stammered out hastily, " I wish you would come into the 
garden with me, and let me gather your bouquet and Isa- 



bella's from the greenhouse. And — and — IVe two such 
pretty little puppies in the stable to show you," he added, 
evidently ransacking his brain for various excellent excuses. 
" Do come, Katharine ! " 

" Not now," answered Katharine, striving to get away, 
for the apprehension which Isabella had first suggested had 
never been entirely eradicated, but sprang up again pain- 
fully at the least cause. And though the foolish vanity 
which construes every little attention into declared admira- 
tion was as far from Katharine's nature as darkness from 
light, yet it sometimes struck her that Hugh was growing 
less of a cousin and more of a lover every day. 

" You are not kind to me, Katharine," said the young 
man, almost sulkily. "I don't care a bit for either the 
flowers or the puppies, or anything else, except on your 
account ; and that you must know pretty well by this time." 

"I do not understand you, cousin Hugh." 

" There, now, don't be angry with me," said Hugh, 
humbled in a moment. " Katharine, I'd give the best 
hunter in the stables — and that's saying a great dfeal, con- 
sidering it's Brown Bess — I'd give the mare herself, or 
anything else in the world, if you only cared for me half 
as much as I do for you." — Katharine was touched. She 
had known him many years, and had never seen him so ' 
agitated before. 

" Indeed, I do like you very much as my cousin — my 
kind, good-natured cousin Hugh !" 

" And is that all ]" 

"Yes," said Katharine, seriously and earnestly. "And 
now good-bye, dear Hugh, for there is Isabella calling." 
She broke away, and Hugh saw the glimmer of her white 
dress passing not to the bride's chamber but to her own. 

"She turned pale — she trembled," he said to himself, 
" and I'm sure she called me * dear Hugh 1 ' Girls often 
don't mean half they say, so I'll count her yes as nothing. 
Heigho I I wish it were my wedding-day instead of Bella's. 
How tiresome it is of my uncle to tie my tongue in this 
way 1 I'll ask him again this very day when he means to let 
me marry Katharine." So the young man descended the 


stairs, and went out at the hall-door, tapping his boots 
with his riding whip, and whistling his usual comment on 
the fact of his " love " being " but a lassie yet *' in very 
doleful style. 

Katharine, who, pale and agitated, stood at her window 
trying to compose herself, both saw and heard him. Then 
she pressed her hand on her swelling heart, and the deep 
sadness which Hugh's words had caused changed to pride. 

'' He thinks to have me against my will, does he ? And 
here have I been so foolish as to weep because I must give 
him pain ! I will not care for that. What signifies it 
whether he loves me or not ? But my father will ask me 
the reason that I refuse Hugh ; and I dare not tell — I 
could not Paul I why do you not come and take all 
this sorrow from me?" And her pride melted, her grief 
was charmed away at the whisper of that beloved name. 

The wedding took place, as outwardly gay and inwardly 
gloomy as most weddings are. There were the parents of 
the " happy couple " all pride and satisfaction — ^Mr. Penny- 
thorne sending forth his bons mots in a perfect shower of 
scintillations, so that his conversation became quite a pyro- 
technic display. Mrs. Pennythome kept close to her 
husband, and was rather uncomfortable at seeing so many 
strange faces. Yet her maternal gaze continually wandered 
from those to the bridegroom's — and a tear or two would 
rise silently to the soft brown eyes. Once, when they were 
setting out for the church, Lady Ogilvie noticed this. 

" I dare say you feel sorry to part with your son," she 
whispered kindly : ^* I understand he has always lived at 
home. But you have another child, Isabella says, who was 
prevented coming to-day." 

" Yes, thank you, ma'am — ^Lady Ogilvie, I mean," stam- 
mered the timid Mrs. Pennythorne, with a glance towards 
her husband, who was at the other end of the room. 

"I believe he is much younger than Mr. Frederick?" 
pursued the considerate hostess. ''I am really sorry we 
did not see him to-day." 

" Leigh cannot go out this winter-time, — ^he is not very 
strong," answered the guest. And then — ^a sort of mater- 


nal freemasonry being established between them — Mrs. 
Pennythome went on more courageously. ** I was thinking 
about Leigh just then ; I shall have only him to think 
about when his brother is married." 

" Until Leigh — ^is not that his name ? — ^grows up, and is 
married himself," said the other matron, with a smile. 

" Ah, yes ! " returned Mrs. Pennythome eagerly ; " he will 
be a man soon — ^tall and strong ; they say these delicate 
boys always make the stoutest men." 

" You will go to his wedding next, I prophesy." 

" Shall 1 1 — oh yes, of course I shall ! but not just yet, 
for I don't think I could — no, it would break my heart to 
part with Leigh ! He must bring his wife home, — ay, that 
shall be it," added she suddenly, as if to explain even to 
herself that the words, "I could not part with Leigh," 
related solely to his marrying. The poor mother ! 

Isabella was quite in her glory. She had attained the 
great aim of her life — ^the being married — ^it did not much 
signify to whom. So that she reached the honour of 
matronhood she was almost indifferent as to who conferred 
it — she cared little what surname was on her cards if the 
Mrs. were the prefix. Perhaps once or twice, when Hugh 
Ogilvie and Frederick Pennjrthorne stood talking together, 
she remembered the time when she had fancied herself 
very much in love with the former. She laughed at the 
notion now. If Hugh were the taller and handsomer, her 
Frederick had such lively London manners and dressed so 
much better. Isabella was quite satisfied ; only she took 
care to show her cousin how much he had lost by exhibiting 
great pride and fondness towards her. bridegroom, and de- 
porting herself towards Hugh with a reserved and matronly 

Katharine alone, — ^for the first time in her life present 
at a wedding, — was grave and silent She trembled as she 
walked up the aisle ; she listened to the solemn words of 
the service with a beating heart " To have and to hold from 
this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, m 
sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until death us 
do party And this vow of almost fearful import, compre- 


bending so much, and in its wide compass involving life, 
soul, and worldly estate, either as a joyful offering or as a 
dread immolation, — this awful vow was taken lightly by 
two young creatures, who carelessly rattled it over during 
the short pause of jests and compliments, amidst lace and 
satin flutterings, thinking more of the fall of a robe or the 
fold of a cravat than of the oath, or of each other ! 

Katharine divined not this, for her fancy idealised alL 
The marriage scene touched her pure young heart in its 
deepest chords. She saw not the smirking bridegroom — 
the affected bride ; her thoughts, travelling into the future, 
peopled with other forms the dim grey shadows of the old 
church where she had worshipped every Sunday from a 
child. She beheld at her side the face of her dreams ; she 
heard the deep low voice uttering the troth-plight, "/, 
Faulf take thee, Kathanne ;" and bowing her face upon the 
altar-rails, she suffered her tears to flow freely. 

" Yes I " she murmured to herself, " I would not fear to 
kneel in the sight of Heaven and take that vow towards 
him — and I vnll take it here one day to him, and none 
but him ! " 

Why was it that in this very moment the bright dream 
of the future was crossed by a strange shadow from the 
past) Even while she yet thought thus, there flashed 
across the young bridesmaid's memory that olden scene in 
the library. And, above the benediction of the priest, the 
amen of the congregation — even above the beloved voice 
which her fancy had conjured up — there rang in Katha- 
rine's ears the words of her dying grandfather : " Earth to 
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust /" 

The ceremony was over, and Isabella had the satisfaction 
of hearing herself greeted as Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne. 
A thought did once cross her mind that according to the 
received etiquette it was necessary for a bride to indulge in 
a slight faint, or a gush of hysterical tears, on reaching the 
vestry. But the former would spoil her bonnet, and the 
latter her eyes ; so she resolved to do neither, but resort 
to the outward calmness of suppressed emotion. 

" How well she bears it, poor dear child ! *' observed 


Mrs. Worsley. This lady being one of those nobodies who 
wherever they go always contrive to make themselves in- 
visible, — we have not hitherto drawn her into the light ; 
nor, to tell the truth, have we any intention of doing so^ 
After the space of ten minutes, Isabella quietly emerged 
from her fit of repressed feeling, and burst into full 
splendour as " the beautiful and accomplished bride." In 
which character she may whirl away with her chosen to 
the Lakes, or in any direction she pleases ; for we care too 
little about the happy couple to chronicle their honeymoon. 

The Pennythomes were borne homewards in Sir Robert's 
carriage ; a circumstance which made Mr. Pennythome 
exult in the good training which had caused his eldest son 
to marry into so high a family. 

" My Frederick is an excellent boy ; he knows how to 
choose a wife, God bless him ! " said the old gentleman, 
with somewhat of maudlin sentimentality, for which the 
excellent cellar at Summerwood was alone to blame. 
" Cillie, my dear 1 now you see how right I was, five years 
ago, in putting an end to that foolish affair with Mason's 
daughter. No, no ! a girl who worked as a daily gover- 
ness was not a fit match for my son." 

" Poor Bessie ! Fred was not so wild then," murmured 
Mrs. Pennythome. " Well, I hope his new wife will make 
him comfortable." 

" Comfortable ! " echoed the husband, her last word fall- 
ing on his dulled ear : " of course she will. I said to him 
soon after Mrs. Lancaster recommended the Worsley s to 
put their Chancery suit into his hands, *Fred, my lad, 
that's the very wife for you. Good family — style — fashion 
— and money coming.' Fred took my advice, and you see 
the result. Mrs. P., I only hope that stupid Leigh will 
turn out as well on my hands." 

Mrs. Pennythome sighed: "I wonder how Leigh has 
been all day ! I hardly liked leaving him ; but young 
Wychnor promised to stay with him until we came home 
from the Ogilvies'." 

" Don't mention that fellow in the same breath with the 
Ogilvies," sharply said the husband. 


" Indeed, Pierce, I will not, if you don't like it," replied 
Mrs. Pennythome, humbly ; " but the young man has been 
so attentive to poor Leigh, and has really seemed quite in- 
terested in this marriage." 

" Mrs. Penny thorne, I am sleepy ; will you be so obliging 
as to hold your tongue 1 " said the old gentleman, with a 
slow and somnolent emphasis : and immediately as this 
sentence ended, his doze began. 

The mother leaned her head back on the carriage-cushions, 
having previously taken the feminine precaution of laying 
the wedding bonnet on her lap. She did not go to sleep ; 
but her thoughts wandered dreamily, first after her eldest- 
born, and then flying back some thirty years they travelled 
over her own wedding-trip. Finally, they settled in the 
little back parlour in Blank Square, and by the sofa where- 
on Leigh was accustomed to rest, hour after hour, with 
Philip Wychnor by his side. 

"Poor boy] well, I can do better without Fred than 
without him. He will get well in the summer, and grow 
up a man ; but he will not think of marrying for many 
years. No, mo ; we must keep Leigh with us — ^we will 
keep him always." 

Oh ! if with this wild " / mil " of our despairing human 
love, we could stand between the Destroyer and the 
Doomed ! 



We think of Genius, how glorions it is to let the spirit go forth 
winning a throne in men's hearts ; sending our thoughts, like ships of 
Tyre, laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, 
and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and good-will. 

L. £. L. 

There could hardly be a greater contrast than that be- 
tween the gay bridal-party at Summerwood and the little 
dark parlour in Blank-square where Philip Wychnor sat 
with his young friend. They had indeed grown to be 
friends, the man and the boy — for one counts time more 
by the heart than by the head. According to that reckon- 
ing poor Leigh was far older than his years, — while Philip 
in the freshness and simplicity of his character had a boy's 
heart still, and would probably keep it for ever. 

Nevertheless, he did not look by any means so much of 
a boy as in those days when Eleanor first introduced him 
to the reader's notice by this appellation — nor, indeed, as 
when we last saw him just emerging from his wearj^ 
wasting sickness. As he sat reading aloud to Leigh, the 
lamp-light showed how the delicate outlines of his face had 
sharpened into the features of manhood; the brow had 
grown broader and fuller, the lips firmer, and there were a 
new strength and a new character about the whole head. 

Philip had been tossed about on the world's stormy cur- 
rents until at last he had learned to breast them. His 
powers of mind, the thews and sinews of the inner man, 
had matured accordingly ; and the more he used them the 
stronger they grew. The dreamer had become the worker. 

We may say with Malvolio, that "some are born to 
greatness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 


thrust upon them." Philip Wychnor was of the latter 
class. His intellect seemed to work itself out by the force 
of necessity, and not by inspiration. He was perfectly 
sincere when he told Mr. Pennythome that he had no 
genius ; but the linnet reared in a hedge-sparrow's nest 
never knows that it can sing until it tries. 

So it happened that the same individual who had once 
declined attempting authorship on the ground of his entire 
unworthiness, was now fairly embarked in literature, with a 
moderate chance of success. All this had come gradually. 
In his deep straits of poverty, Philip had tried to while 
away the hours that hung so heavily, and perhaps to gain 
a little money, by turning to account his knowledge of 
foreign languages. He mounted the ladder of fame by its 
lowest stepj becoming a translator of small articles for 
newspapers and magazines — a "sort of literary hodman, 
carrying the mortar with which more skilful workmen 
might build. But while searching into and reproducing 
other people's thoughts, he unconsciously began to think for 
himself. It was in a very small way at first, — ^for his genius 
was not yet fledged, and its feathers took a long time in 
growing. He thought, and with the thought came almost 
unconsciously the power of expression. He wrote at first 
not by impulse or inspiration, but merely for daily bread. 
Yet though in his humility he never hoped to rise higher 
than a common labourer in the highways of literature, he 
always strove to do his small task-work well and worthily, 
and suffered neither carelessness nor hope of gain to allure 
his pen into what was false or vicious. All he wrote, he 
wrote earnestly ; gradually more and more so, as the high 
cause in which he had engaged unfolded itself to his 
perception. But he made no outward display ; never put 
forth his name from its anonymous shelter ; and told no 
person of his pursuits, except Leigh, — ^and one more, who 
had the dear right of a betrothed to know all concerning 
him. He had never seen her again, but they had kept up 
a regular correspondence ; and still the joy, the strength, 
the very pulse of the young man's heart, was the remem- 
brance of Eleanor Ogilvie. 


We have taken this passing glance at the outward and 
inward changes in Philip Wychnor while he sat reading his 
last story, sketch, or essay. This he did more for the sake 
of amusing Leigh than from an author's vanity ; since, as 
before explained, Philip's work was still very mechanical — 
the raw material woven with care and difficulty into a coarse 
web that gave him little pleasure and in which he took no 
pride. Yet, as he went on, it was some satisfaction to see 
the evident interest that brightened Leigh's pale face, over 
which illness seemed to have cast a strange, even an 
intellectual beauty. Every now and then the boy clapped his 
poor thin wasted hands, applauding with child-like eagerness. 
When Philip paused, he discussed the article in all its 
bearings with an acuteness and judgment that much 
enhanced the value of his laudations, and brought a smile to 
the young author's cheek. 

" Why, Leigh, you are quite a critic ! " 

" If I am, I know who made me so," answered the boy, 
affectionately. " I know who took the dulness out of my 
head, and put there — what is still little enough — all the 
sense it has." 

" It has a great deal. I am bound to say so, my boy, 
since it is exercised for my own benefit ; though, of course, 
I ought not to believe a word of your praise," said Philip, 

" Don't say so," Leigh replied, earnestly. " Indeed, you 
will be a celebrated author some of these days — I know you 
will. And when you are become a great man, remember 
this prophecy of mine." 

The serious tone and look at once banished the light 
manner which Pliilip had assumed, partly to divert the sick * 
boy. " I hardly think so — I wish I could ! " he said, almost 
sadly. ^' No ; it takes far more talent than I have to make 
a just and deserved fame. I don't look for that at all." 

Leigh answered with an ingenious evasion. " Do you re- 
member when I was first taken ill — so ill as to be obliged 
to give up study ; and you brought one day some of your 
German books, and read to me * Undine' and *Sintram'? 
Ah ! what a delicious time that was, after all the dry, musty 


Cicero and Xenophon!" And Leigh rubbed his feeble 
hands together with intense pleasure at the recollection. 

Philip watched him affectionately. " My dear boy, how 
glad I am that I thought of the books ! " 

" So am I, because otherwise you might never have done 
what you then did through kindness to me — I mean that 
translation from Riickert, which I longed to have, so that I 
might read it over and over again. How good you were to 
me, dear Mr. Wychnor ! " 

" But my goodness was requited to myself," said Philip, 
laughing ; '* for you remember the three golden guineas I 

had from the * Magazine,' to which you persuaded me 

to send the tale 1" 

" That's just what I mean. Now, if in one little year you 
have gone on from making a translation just for good- 
nature, to writing beautiful stories such as this — ^for it is most 
beautiful ! " cried Leigh, energetically^ — " why should you 

not rise to be a well-known author, lie my ^no, I don't 

mean that," and the boy's face grew troubled — " but like 
one of those great writers who do the world so much good ; 
who can make the best and wisest of people better and 
wiser still, and yet can bring comfort to a poor sick boy 
like me. Would not this be something great to try for ?" 
And Leigh's tones warmed into eloquence, and his large soft 
eyes were positively floating in their own lightf 
. Before Philip could answer, they were interrupted by the 
arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Pennythome. The mother's quick 
footstep was scarcely heard before she entered. It had 
often touched Philip of late to see what a new and intense 
expression came into the once unmeaning face and voice of 
Mrs. Pennythome whenever she looked at or spoke to her 
son Leigh. This day the young man noticed it more than 
ever. Even the presence of her redoubtable lord, which 
usually restrained every display of feeling, failed to pre- 
vent her from leaning over her boy and kissing him 

" How has my dear Leigh been all day ? " she asked. 

" Oh, so well, so content, mother ! " said Leigh, cheer- 
fully. " Ask Mr. Wychnor, there." 


"Mr. Wychnor is very kind." And a look of deep 
gratitude said more than the words. 

"Everything went off welH Fred is really married, 
then 1 " inquired Leigh. 

"Yes, my dear. To-morrow you shall hear about it, 
and about Summerwood ; it is such a pretty place I " 

" Is it ? " said the boy, languidly. " I think I heard 
Miss Worsley say so the day she called, but I did not take 
much interest in what she said ; she tired me. You can't 
think, Mr. Wychnor, how fast she talks ! " 

" I know she does — that is, 1 think you said so," an- 
swered Philip, correcting himself, and rising to depart. 

" Don't go yet ; stay and hear a little about the wedding. 
We were talking so much of it this morning, you know." — 
Philip sat down again, not unwillingly. He had a vague 
pleasure in hearing the sound of the familiar names, — 
assured that no one knew how familiar they were to him. 

"Now go on, mother; tell us about the Ogilvies." 

" I did not see much of Sir Kobert ; your father talked 
to him ; and besides, he was so stately. But Lady Ogilvie 
was very kind. And there was Mr. Hugh, a fine handsome 
young man — so polite to Fred ! — and that sweet, beautiful 
creature. Miss Ogilvie." 

" Here Philip dropped his gloves, and, stooping hastily, 
made several unavailing attempts to recover them." 

" I don't think I ever saw a prettier bridesmaid than 
Miss Ogilvie — Katharine, I believe they called her. Shall I 
hold the light for you, Mr. Wychnor?" said simple Mrs. 
Pennythome, compassionating the glove-hunter. 

Philip hurriedly apologised for the interruption. " But- 
pray go on," he said ; " we poor bachelors like to hear of 
these merry doings. Mrs. Frederick Pennythome seems 
rich in handsome relatives : how many more attended her 
to the altar ? " 

"There were none but Miss Ogilvie; she is an only 
child. Her father and mother seem so proud of her ! — and 
well they may. Perhaps, Leigh, she may come and stay 
with your new sister, and then you wHl see her." 

" Shall 1 1 — 1 don't much care," said the sick boy, wearily. 


" I don't mind seeing any one except you, mother, and Mr. 
Wychnor. Are you really going then 1 " and Leigh, taking 
his friend's hand, so as to draw him close, whispered in his 
ear : " Now, remember what we were talking about before 
they came in ; it may do you good some time or other to 
think over what I said, — though I am so young, — ^perhaps 
stupid enough too, as they always told me : " and a smile 
of patient humility flitted over the boy's pale lips. " But 
never mind, there is the old fable of the Mouse and the 
Lion, you know; we'll act it over again, maybe." 

" God bless you, my dear boy ! " murmured Philip, as he 
took his leave. He had felt passing disappointment at not 
hearing that Eleanor was at Summerwood, — as he had 
framed that reason to account to himself for the fact of an 
unusual silence in her correspondence. This slight vexa- 
tion returned again as he walked homeward, but it soon 
passed away. A man's strong heart is seldom entirely 
engrossed by a love-dream, be it ever so close and dear. 
And Eleanor herself would have been the last to blame 
her betrothed, if these tender thoughts of her became 
absorbed in the life-purpose which was awakening in him, 
— ^since therewith also she was connected, as its origin 
and aim. 

Even while he smiled at Leigh Pennythorne's quaint 
fable, Wychnor acknowledged its truth. As he walked 
along, the boy's words came again and again into his 
mind ; and he began to think yet more earnestly on his 
literary pursuits — what he had done, and what he pur- 
posed to do. 

" How can a man touch pitch and not be defiled ? " says 
the wise man of Israel ; and Philip was not likely to have 
been thrown so much in the circle of Mr. Pennythorne's 
influence without being slightly affected thereby. His 
young heart, filled to enthusiasm with love of literature, 
and also with a complete hero-worship of literary men, had 
been checked in its most sensitive point. He found how 
different was the ideal of the book-reader to the reality of 
the book-writer. He had painted an imaginary picture of 
a great author, inspired by a noble purpose, and working 


always with his whole heart for the truth — or at least for 
what he esteemed the truth — and for nothing else. Now 
this image crumhled into dust ; and from its ashes arose 
the semblance of a modern " littdrateur" writing, not from 
his earnest heart, but from his clever head, — doling out at so 
much per column the fruit of his brains, no matter whether 
it be tinselled inanity or vile poison, so that it will sell ; 
or else ready to cringe, steal, lie, by word or by pen, be- 
coming '* all things to all men," if by such means he can 
get his base metal puffed off as gold. 

Philip Wychnor saw this detestable likeness in Mr. 
Pennythome, — and it was variously reduplicated in all 
the petty dabblers in literature who surrounded him. A 
triton of similar magnitude is always accompanied by a 
host of minnows — especially if, as in this case, the larger 
fish rather glories in his train. And so, our young vision- 
ary began to look on books and book-creators with dimi- ^ 
nished reverence ; and in the fair picture of literary fame, 
he saw only the unsightly framework by which its theatrical 
and deceitful splendour was supported. He had been 
behind the scenes. 

Poor Philip Wychnor ! He was too young, too inexpe- 
rienced, to know that of all imitations there must be some- 
where or other a vital reality — that if the true were not, 
its simulation would never have existed. 



What is a man, 
If his chief good, and market of his time. 
Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast, no more. 
Sure He that made us with such laige discourse. 
Looking before and after, gave us not 
That capability and godlike reason 
To rust in us, unused. 

I do not know 
"Why yet I live to say. This thing's to do, 
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and mean 
To do it. Shakspeabe. 

Good Dame Fortune makes it her pleasure to walk about 
the world in varied guise; suddenly showing her bonnie 
face sometimes in the oddest way and under the oddest 
semblance imaginable — so that it is a considerable length 
of time before we begin to find out that it is really her own 
fair self. She came to Philip Wychnor that very night as 
he was returning home, meeting him under the shroud of a 
London fog. And such a fog ! — one that people who are 
fond of elegant symbolisation would emphatically describe 
as being " like breathing ropes," or at least one that might 
be considered as a suspiration of small twine. It was a 
literal version of the phrase "jaundiced atmosphere," for 
the whole circumambient seemed to have grown suddenly 
yellow and bilious. Therein all London groped blindfold : 
New-road omnibuses finding themselves plunged against the 
inner railings of Wobum-place — and cabmen, while they 
treaded the mazes of Trafalgar-square, inquiring in tones 
of distracted uncertainty how far they were from Piccadilly. 
It was a time when ea6h man's great struggle appeared to 
be the discovery of his own whereabouts ; when the whole 


world seemed bent on an involuntary fraternisation — every- 
body running into his neighbour's arms. 

This was exactly what Philip Wychnor did, somewhere 
about Russell-square. Dame Fortune, hid in the fog, laughed 
as she knocked right into his involuntary embrace a chance 

A gentle voice, obviously that of an elderly man, ex- 
pressed the usual apology; and added thereto the not 
unconmion inquiry — "Pray, sir, can you tell me where- 
abouts I am 1" 

" I fancy, near the British Museum," answered Philip. 

" That's where I've been this hour and a half," said the 
voice, with a comic hopelessness that made Philip smile. 
" I live only a few streets off, and I can't find my way 

"My case is not unlike yours," laughed Philip; "and 
most probably there are plenty more in the same predica- 
ment, especially strangers. Suppose, my good sir, we were 
to unite our fortunes — or misfortunes — and try to make 

out the way together. Mine is street. Which is 

yours 1" 

" The same ; and I'm very much obliged to you, young 
gentleman, — ^for so I perceive you are, by your voice. May 
I take your arm 1 for I am old, and very tired." 

" Gladly," replied Philip. There was something in the 
simplicity of the manner that pleased him. He liked the 
voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps 
the old man thought the same, since when they came to 
the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look in 
the other's face. The recognition was mutual 

" Bless my Hfe ! " cried the elder one, " you are the very 
young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint !" 

" And most good-naturedly took home ; for which kind- 
ness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so now," 
answered Philip, grasping his companion's hand with a 
hearty shake. 

" Eeally, my friend, your fingers are as young and strong 
as your arms," said the queer little old man of the omnibus. 
" Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear squeezing, 

xxvl] the ogilvies. 193 

this raw day ; and besides they are not used to such a 
cordial gripe," he added, blowing the ends of the said 
fingers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old cotton 
gloves : — yet he looked much gratified all the while. 

" You don't know how pleased I am to meet you ! " re- 
iterated Philip. " I often kept a look-out in the streets and 
squares for every " 

" Every odd little old fellow, you mean 1 Well, for my 
part, I never passed down your street without looking out 
for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew 
you were better." 

" Why did you never come in 1 But you shall now." 
And Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and 
following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and 
provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquaintance, 
inviting him to spend the evening without even asking him 
his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy excuses and 
some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, and began 
to make himself quite comfortable and at home. 

" Will you have some tea and eggs — as I always have 
when it is thus late]" said Wychnor, colouring shghtly ; 
for he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover 
its emptiness — and hospitality is a virtue that poverty 
sometimes causes to grow rusty. " But perhaps you have 
not dined 1" 

" I never practise what the world in general considers 
dining — it's inconvenient," said the guest. " Meat is very 
dear, and not wholesome. I gave it up a long time ago, 
and am much the better, too. Pythagoras, my good sir — 
depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever 
lived. I keep to his doctrines." 

Crossing his Jegs, he gazed complacently at the kettle 
which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful 
blaze. These housekeeping avocations, which the young 
man afterwards continued even to egg-boiling and toast- 
making, may a little dim the romance that surroimds — or 
at least ought to surround him, as a novel-hero ; but as we 
began by avowing Philip Wychnor's utter dissimilarity 
from the received ideal of that fascinating personage, we 


shall not apologise for this little circumstance. And that 
the inner life of man goes on just the same, ennobling and 
idealising the commonest outward manifestation, is proved 
by the fact that while the young host continued his lowly 
domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet soles 
of his clumsy boots, they talked — O ye gods 1 how they 
did talk f 

The stranger was an original, — and that PhOip soon 
found. In five minutes they had plunged into the depths 
of a conversation which sprang from the remark concerning 
Pythagoras. The little old man quoted with the most 
perfect simplicity recondite Greek authors and middle-age 
philosophers, — referring to them without the slightest 
pedantry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to 
him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. 
He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato, — ^then to the Rosi- 
crucian mystics, — and onwards to Jacob Boehme, — ^finally 
landing in these modem times with Hegel, Kant, and 
Coleridge. He seemed to know everything, and to be able 
to talk about everything, except ordinary topics. While 
lingering among these latter he was shy, uneasy, and could 
not find a word to say; but the moment he found an 
opportunity of plunging into his native element, he 
rushed to it like a duck to the water, and was himself 

Inunediately his whole outer man changed. Throwing 
himself back in the chair — one foot crossed on the knee of 
the other leg, the tips of his long thin fingers oracularly 
joined together — this curious individual was set a-going 
like a well-wound-up watch- His bright eye flashed, his 
whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now fully 
let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. 
However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo 
than a duet — it was less talking than lecturing. Now and 
then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to 
make an observation, — and then he went off again in his 
harangue. At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his 
tea with infinite satisfaction — ^meanwhile employing himself 
in a close inspection of his host's countenance and person. 


xxvl] the ogilvies. 195 

He broke silence at last by the abrupt question, " My young 
friend, what are you V* 

Philip started at this unceremonious interrogatory ; but 
there was something so kindly in the clear eyes, that he 
only smiled, and answered, " My name is " 

" I don't mean that," interrupted the old man — " I don't 
want to know your name ; everybody has one, I suppose — 
I asked what you are ?" 

" My profession 1 " 

" No — ^not your profession, but you, your real self, your 
soul — ^your ego. Have you found out that?" Philip began 
to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric — slightly 
touched in the head ; but the old gentleman went on. 

" I have a theory of my own about physiognomy, or more 
properly speaking, the influence of spirit over matter. I 
never knew a great man yet — and I have known a good 
many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look at) — 
I never yet knew a man of intellect whose mind was not shown 
in his face ; not to the common observer perhaps, but to 
those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe firmly in sym- 
pathies and antipathies. Why should not the soul have its 
instincts, and its atmosphere of attraction and repulsion, as 
well. as the body? We respect the outer machine sadly 
too much, and don't notice hsJf enough the workings of the 
free agent within." 

"Well, my dear sir?" said Philip, interrogatively, as his 
companion paused to take breath. 

" Well, my friend ; I daresay you think all this means 
nothing. But it does — a great deal. It explains why I 
liked you — why I followed you out of the omnibus — and 
also why I am here. You have a good face ; I read your 
soul in it like a book ; and it is a great, deep, true soul — 
thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may 
not be developed yet ; I hardly think it can be ; but it is 
there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself — if 
you know what is this inner life of * the spirit 1* " 

Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these 
singular words unfolded, and the earnestness of his guest 
was communicated to himself. " I know thus far," he said 


— ^ that I have been a student and dreamer all my life ; 
that I have tried to fill my head with knowledge and my 
heart with poetry ; that I have gone through the world 
feeling that there were in me many things which no person 
could understand — except one." 

" Who was he 1 " 

Philip changed colour ; but even had he wished other- 
wise, he could not but speak the truth beneath that piercing 
gaze. " It was no man — ^a woman." 

''Ah!" said the old man, catching the meaning. 
" Well, such things are ! Go on." 

" I have had some trouble in my life : latterly, very much. 
It has made me think more deeply ; and I am now trying 
to work out those thoughts with my pen." 

" I imagine so. You are an author?" 

'' I cannot call myself by that name," said Philip, humbly ; 
^ I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I begin 
to see how great an author's calling might be made, and I 
long, however vainly, to realise that ideal" 

" That's right, my boy ! " cried the old man, energetically ; 
*' I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far had 
it manifested itself? — in short, what have you written?" — 
Philip enumerated his various productions. 

« I have seen some of them ; very fair for a beginning, 
but too much written to order — world-fashion — all out- 
side. My young friend, you will begin to think soon. Why 
don't you put your name to what you do?" 

" Because — though the confession is humiliating — ^I have 
written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would 
have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. 
I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius !" 

The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his 
keen eyes on Philip. " And do you think every man of 
genius does write for reputation ? Do you imagine that 
we " — ^his unconscious egotism was too earnest even to pro- 
voke a smile — ^** that we care whether Tom Smith or Dick 
Jones praises or abuses us — that is, our work, which is our 
true self, much more than the curious framework on two 
legs that walks about in broadcloth ? No ! a real author 


sends forth his brain-children as God did Adam, created 
out of the fulness that is in his soul, and meant for a great 
purpose; If these, his offspring, walk upright through the 
world, and fulfil their being's end — ^angels may shout and 
devils grin — he cares as little for one as for the other." — 
Philip— quiet Philip— vv ho had lived all his life in the pre- 
cise decorums of L , or in the rigid proprieties of the 

most orthodox college at Oxford, was a' little startled at 
this style of language. 

" I daresay you think me profane," continued his strange 
guest, " but it is not so ; I am one of those who have had 
power given them to lift up a little of the veil from the 
Infinite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their 
souls, are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things at which 
common minds stupidly marvel. I say with that great new 
poet, Philip Baily — 

That to the fall of worahip 
All things are worshipfuL 

Call things by their right names t Hell, call thou hell ; 
Archangel, call archangel ; and God — God ! 

but I do So with the humble and reverent awe of one who, 
knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated 
with adoration." And the old man's voice sank meekly as 
a little child's, while his uplifted eyes spoke the deepest 

Philip was moved. There was something in the intense 
earnestness of this man which touched a new chord in his 
heart. He saw, amidst all the quaint vagaries of the 
enthusiast, a something which in the world he had himself 
so vainly longed to find — ^a striving after knowledge for its 
own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the 
true from the false. And the young man's whole soul 
sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem 
almost an idle chimera. 

'* My dear sir," cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, 
will you let me ask you the same question you asked me — ^ 
What are you 1 " 

" Outwardly, just what you see — ^a little old man — ^poor 


enough and shabby enough; because, while other folk 
spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their 
bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his souL 
And a very creditable soul it is," said the old gentleman, 
laughing, and tapping with his forefinger a brow fiill, high, 
and broad enough to delight any follower of Spurzheim 
with its magnificent developments. ^' There's a good deal 
of floating capital here, in the way of learning, only it does 
not bring in much interest." 

Philip smiled. '' So your life has been devoted to study! 
Of what kind]" 

" Oh, I have contrived during sixty years to put into this 
pericranium some dozen languages, a good deal of mathe- 
matics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the onomies and 
ologieSf with fragments of literature and poetry, to lighten the 
load and make it fit tight together. As for my profession, it 
is none at all, if you ask the world's opinion ; but I think I 
may rank, however humbly, with some honest fellows of 
old, who in their lifetime were regarded about as little as I 
am. In fact, my good friend, I may call myself a philo- 

" And a poet," cried Philip ; " I read it in your eyes." 

The old man shook his head. " God makes many poets, 
but He only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it 
to me 1 Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; 
I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own 
soul ; but there is a seal on my lips, and I shall remain a 
dumb poet to my life's end." So saying, Philip's guest 
rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat, as a pre- 
parative to his departure. 

^^We shall meet again soon," said the young man, 

"Oh yes; you will always find me at the British 
Museum, in the reading-room I I go there every day. 
'Tis a nice warm place for study ; especially when one finds 
that dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. 
I have done so now and then," said the old gentleman, 
with a patient smile, that made Philip's warm shake of the 
haiid grow into an almost affectionate clasp. They seemed 

xxvl] the ogilvies. 199 

to feel quite like old Mends, and yet to this minute they 
did not know each other's name. * The elder one was 
absolutely going away without this necessary piece of in- 
fonnation, when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, 
requested to know his visitor's. 

" My name, eh 1 Drysdale — David Drysdale. A good 
one, isn't it 1 My great-grandfather made it tolerably well 
known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian 
name is. not bad, either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 
* beloved.* Not that it has been exactly suitable for me — 
I don't suppose any one in the world ever loved me much " 
— and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint 
humour of the tone. But it changed into softness as he 
added, " Except— rexcept my poor old mother. Young man," 
he continued, " when you have lived as long as I have, you 
may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts 
of love only — which- last untO death, and after — your 
mother's love, and your God's." He took off his hat 
reverently, though they stood at the street-door, exposed 
to the bleak wind ; then put it on again, and disappeared. 



Oh, prophesy no more, hut be the poet ! 

This longing was hut granted unto thee 
That, when all heauty thou couldst feel, and know it^ 

That heauty in its highest thou couldst he» — J. R. Lowell. 

I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
And this slight hoon would consecrate to thee 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 

KiRKB White. 

Philip was in the habit of laying up in his memory a 
kindly store of his little daily adventures, in order to amuse 
Leigh Pennythome. Also, as the boy grew more and 
more of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip's 
most inward thoughts — always excepting the one, which 
lay in the core of the young man's heart. Therefore Leigh 
was soon informed of the singular acquaintance that Wych- 
nor made in the last chapter. 

" David Drysdale ! " said Leigh. " Why, my father, nay 
everybody knows old Drysdale. I have seen him. here 
sometimes, and watched those curious eyes of his — they 
seem to look one through." 

" Does he come often 1 " 

" No, my father can't endure him — says he is such a 
bear. Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humour ; and 
when two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know." 

^'£ut still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. 
Pennythome 1 " 

"Oh no; my father would never quarrel with such a 
man as Drysdale. He has wonderful influence, in a quiet 
way, among literary people. He knows everybody, and 
everybody knows him. I have heard that his learning is 
prodigious ! " 


" I found that out very soon," said Philip, smiling. 

"Ay, and so did I," Leigh continued. "In those old 
times of work — ^work — ^work — ^you know," — and the boy 
seemed absolutely to shudder at the remembrance, — " my 
father once sent me down stairs to show off my Greek to 
Drysdale. How the old fellow frightened me with those 
eyes of his ! I forgot every word. And then he told my 
father that I was not quite such a fool as I looked ; but 
that I should soon be, if I went on with the classics. Per- 
haps he was right," said Leigh, sighing. " However, my 
father never asked him here again, but made me work 
harder than ever." Philip saw that the boy's thoughts 
were wandering in a direction not good for him; so he 
took no notice, but pursued the questions about the old 
philosopher. " How happens it, though, that Drysdale is 
so poor 1 " 

" I have heard my father say it is because of his genius 
and his learning, which are never of any use to their pos- 
sessors. But I do not exactly think that ; do you 1 " 

" No ; however, your father has many peculiar opinions 
of his own," answered Philip, always careful in their various 
conversations to remember that Leigh was Mr. Penny- 
thome's son. "It seems to me that this man's tastes, 
while rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, 
also make him independent of it. If he had just enough 
to keep him alive, and plenty of opportunity for study, I 
fancy Drysdale would be quite happy." 

" Very likely ; but it is an odd taste," said Leigh. " I 
can understand genius— not learning." 

" Our queer old friend has both, I think." And Philip 
repeated the substance of the last evening's conversation, 
which had clung closely to his memory. Leigh listened 
eagerly, partly because he comprehended some little of it, 
but more because he saw how deeply his friend was inte- 

" Mr. Wychnor," he said at last, " if you understand and 
feel all this, you must have an equal intellect yourself. 
Otherwise you would not care for it in the least." 

The simple argument struck home; It brought to the 


young author's mind the first consciousness of its own 
powers, without which no genius can come to perfection. 
It was not the whisper of vanity — the answering thrill to 
idle praise— but the glad sense of an mward strength to 
carry out the purpose which filled the soul. It was the 
power which made the new-bom Hercules stretch forth 
among the serpents his babe's arm, and feel that in its 
nerves lay the might of the son of Jove. The thought 
was so solemn, yet so wildly delicious, that it brought a 
mist to Philip's eyes. " God bless you, Leigh ! " he mur- 
mured. " You have done me good many a time ; and if 
this should be true, and I ever do become what you say — 
why, I will remember your words, or you must remind me 
of them." 

Leigh turned round, and looked for a moment fixedly 
and sadly in his companion's face. "You do not mean 

what you say ; you know that I But we will talk no 

more now," he said, hurriedly, as he caught sight of his 
mother entering the room. However, when he had 
minutely and affectionately discussed with her the im- 
portant topic of what he could eat for dinner, the boy lay 
for a long time silent and pensive. It might be that upon 
him too had come a new and sudden thought — more 
solemn than even that which had cast a musing shadow 
over Philip Wychnor. Both thoughts passed on into the 
undefined future ; but one was of life, the other — of 
death ! 

Mrs. Pennythome, supposing her boy was asleep, went 
on talking to his friend in her own quiet, prosy way, to 
which Philip had now grown quite accustomed. His fond- 
ness and care for Leigh had touched the mother's heart, 
and long since worn away her shyness. On his part the 
young man was an excellent listener to the monotonous, 
but not unmusical flow of mild repetitions which made up 
Mrs. Pennythome's conversation. On this occasion it 
chiefly turned upon Frederick's wedding, his new house 
and furniture, which she accurately catalogued, beginning 
with the drawing-room carpets, and ending with the kit- 
chen fire-irons. Philip tried to attend, but at last his 


thoughts went roaming; and his answers subsided into 
gentle monosyllables of assent, which, fortunately, were all 
that the lady required. 

Of Leigh his mother did not speak at all, except to say 
that the pony-carriage, which Mrs. Frederick had thought 
indispensable, would be useful to take the boy country- 
drives when the spring came — supposing he needed them 
by that time, which was not likely, as he had been so 
much better of late. And then, as she glanced at the face 
which lay back on the sofa-pillow, with the blue-veined, 
shut eyelids, and the dark lashes resting on the colourless 
cheek, in a repose that seemed almost deeper than sleep, 
the mother shivered, looked another way, and began to 
talk hastily of something else. A few minutes after, the 
peculiar rap with which Mr. Pennythome signalled his 
arrival was heard at the hall-door. Those three heavy 
strokes had always the eflfect of an electric shock on the 
whole household, producing a commotion from cellar to 
attic. Mrs. Pennythome jumped up with alacrity, only 
observing, timidly, that she hoped the knock would not 
awaken Leigh. 

" I am not asleep, mother," said the boy, rousing himself, 
as she quitted the room in answer to the marital sum- 
mons. "Mr. Wychnor, come here a minute," he added, 
hurriedly, the flush rising into his white cheek at the very 
sound of his father's step. "Don't tell him you know 
Drysdale — it might vex him. He is rather peculiar, you 

"How thoughtful you are grown, my dear kind boy! 
And was that what you lay pondering upon when we 
fancied you asleep 1 " 

" Not quite all," Leigh replied, suddenly looking grave, 
"but — but— we'll talk of that another time. You must 
go to the Museum Eeading-room ; it would be such a nice 
place for you to work in, far better than your own close 
little room. You don't yet feel what it is to be shut up 
all day, until you grow sick, bewildered, ill. No, no, you 
must not get ill," cried the boy, earnestly ; " you must live 
— ^live to be a great man. And remember always what 


we talked about to-day," he continued, dropping his voice 
to a whisper as his father entered the room. 

Mr. Pennythome whisked about in his usual style, skip- 
ping hither and thither, and shaking his coat-tails whenever 
he rested, after a fashion which gave him very much the 
appearance of a water-wagtail. He was evidently in high 
feather, too — masked Leigh how he felt himself, and only 
called him " stupid " twice within the first ten minutes. 
Then he turned to Philip. 

" Well, and how does the world treat you, young Nor- 
wych?" (Mr. Pennythome had an amusing system of 
cognominising those about him by some ingenious trans- 
pQsition of their various patronymics; and this was the 
anagram into which Philip Wychnor's surname had long 
ago been decomposed.) " Where do you put your carriage 
and pair, my young friend ? I have not seen it yet." 

Philip smiled ; but he was too well accustomed to the 
bitter " pleasantries " of his would-be patron to take offence, 
and he always bore it patiently for Leigh's sake. 

" Ay, that's all the good of being a gentleman with a 
large independence — ^in the head, at least ; " and Mr. Penny- 
thome laughed at what he considered his wit. "Now, 
here's my Fred — clever fellow! knows how to make his 
way in tie world ! — just come from his house in Harley 
Street— splendid affair! fumished like a duke's— as, in- 
deed, Mrs. Lancaster observed. By-the-by, Cillie, my dear ! " 

"Yes, Pierce," was the meek answer from behind the 

" I met Mrs. Lancaster in the Park — charming woman 
that I moves in the highest circles of literature. Of course 
you are acquainted with her, St. Philippus of Norwich ? " 

" No," answered the young man, shortly ; " except once 
in your hall, I never heard the name." In truth he never 
had, notwithstanding Eleanor^s acquaintance with the lady. 
But Mrs. Lancaster was the last person likely to have place 
in the memory, or the letters, of Philip's betrothed. 

" Then you have a pleasure to come — ^for, of course, the 
fair Liikncastrian will strain every nerve for an introduction 
to such a desirable young man, that you may embellish her 


literary soirdes with your well-earned fame." Mr. Penny- 
thome drew the bow at a venture ; and, as he saw Philip's 
cheek redden, congratulated himself on the keen shafts of 
his irony, quite unconscious how near sarcasm touched 
upon the truth. " And this reminds me, Cillie, my dear, 
that, hearing what a beautiful and talented woman I have 
the honour to call my wife, Mrs. Lancaster has invited you 
to grace with your presence the next soirSe" 

Poor Mrs. Pennythome drew back aghast. — ^** You know. 
Pierce, I never go out," she feebly remonstrated ; " I had 
rather stay with Leigh." 

" My dear, the whole party would languish at your ab- 
sence, and I cannot allow it. Besides, you will have to 
matronise your fair daughter-in-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is 
well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of 
the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is 
decided — ^Friday the 17th sees us all at Kosemary Lodge." 
So saying, he hopped up-stairs, but not before Philip's 
quick ears had caught the whole of the last sentence. In- 
deed, of late he had been ever on the watch for some 
chance information which might have reference to Eleanor, 
whose long and unwonted silence had made him feel some- 
what anxious. And even as he walked home that night, 
his memory retamed with a curious tenacity the date and 
the place of this reunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred 
to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more 
serious thoughts which now occupied him ; and almost 
wished that there had been some truth in the sneering 
remarks of Mr. Pennythome as to his own future invita- 
tion to Rosemary Lodge. 

There is an old Norse fable about the Nomir, or Fates, 
who sit weaving the invisible threads of human destiny, 
stretching them from heaven to earth, winding them in 
and out about man's feet, intercepting and intervolving 
him wherever he moves. One of these gossamers, stirred 
by the breath of Philip's idle wish, thereupon fell in his 
pathway and entangled him. But the web, at first light 
as air, grew afterwards into a heavy coil, woven of the 
darkest fibres with which humanity is bound. 



You may rise early, go to bed late, study hard, read much, and 
devour the marrow of the best authors ; and when you have done all, 
be as meagre in regard of true and useful knowledge as Pharaoh's lean 
kine after they had eaten the fat ones. — Bishop Sandebson. 

I DO not think any poet or novelist has ever immortalised 
that curious place well known to all dabblers in literature 
or science, the Keading-room at the British Museum. Yet 
there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass out 
of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, the 
walls occupied by the mummied literature of some cen- 
turies, arranged in glass cases. You see at various tables 
scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as 
you pass, and then, like Dante's ghosts in purgatory, re- 
lapse into their penance. Indeed, the whole scene, with 
the spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the dim 
vista extending beyond the man who takes the checks (alas 
for poetic diction !), might easily be imagined some Hades 
of Hterature, where all erring pen-guiders and brain-workers 
were doomed to expiate their evil deeds by an eternity of 
reading. Not only the lover of poetic idealisation, but the 
moralising student of human nature, would find much food 
for thought in the same reading-room. Consider what 
hundreds of literary labourers have toiled within these 
walls ! Probably nearly all the clever brains in the three 
kingdoms have worked here at some time or other — ^for 
nobody ever comes to the reading-room for amusement. 
If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last 
new novel, surely the ghosts of sombre ponderous folios 
would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book 
of signatures, — ^where every new comer is greeted by the 


politest of attendants, handing him the most detestable of 
pens, — is in itself a rich collection of autographs, com- 
prising almost every celebrated name which has risen year 
by year, and many — oh, how many ! — ^that the worid has 
never chronicled at all. 

The Reading-room is fertile in this latter class — ^meek 
followers of science, who toil after her and for her, day by 
day, and to whom she only gives her livery of rags. You 
may distinguish at a glance one of these hahUu6s of the 
place, shabby, at times almost squalid in appearance, 
plunged up to the ears in volumes as rusty and ancient as 
himself. At times he is seen timidly propitiating some at- 
tendant with small fragments of whispering conversation, 
listened to condescendingly, like the purring of a cat which 
has become a harmless household appendage. Possibly the 
poor old student has come daily year after year, growing 
ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss 
him for a week. One of them perhaps sees in the papers 
a death, or some mournful coroner's inquest ; and recollect- 
ing the name, identifies it as that of the old bookworm. 
Then there is a few minutes' talk by the ticket-keepers' 
den at the end of the rooms — one or two of the regular 
frequenters are told of the fact, and utter a careless " Poor 
old fellow, he seemed wearing out of late 1 " — the books 
put by for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more 
atom of disappointed humanity is blotted from the living 

This illustrative exordium may be considered as herald- 
ing the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip 
Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing oc- 
cupied him during the time that he was awaiting the asked- 
for book, and trying to discover among the thick-set 
plantation of heads — ^brown, black, fair, red, and grey — 
young, old, ugly, handsome, patrician, and plebeian — ^the 
identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drysdale. 
First, he thought of promenading the long alleys and 
peering over every table, but this sort of running the 
gauntlet was too much for his nerves. So, inquiring of 
the head attendant — the tutelary Lar of Uie place, who 


knew everybody and helped everybody — a sort of literary 
lion's-provider, with good-nature as unfailing and universal 
as his information — Philip soon learned the whereabouts 
of old Drysdala — There he was, with his bald head peer- 
ing from a semicircle of most formidable books; looking 
by the daylight a little older and a little more rusty in 
attire. He greeted his young friend with a pleased look, 
and began to talk in the customary Museum under tone. 
It was a drowsy murmur, such as a poet would liken to 
the distant humming of the Hybla bees ; and perhaps the 
simile is not inapt with regard to this curious literary 

" Glad to see you here, my young friend — ^very glad — 
shows you're in earnest," said Drysdale. " Ever been here 
before 1 " 

Philip answered in the negative. 

" Isn't it a fine place — a grand place 1 Fancy miles of 
books, stratum upon stratum; what a glorious literary 
formation I Excuse me," he added, smiling, " but IVe been 
reading geology all the morning, and then I always catch 
myaeU Ualking shop/ as some would elegantly express it 
You don't study the science, I believe ?" 

"No," said Philip; "the earth's beautiful outside is 
enough for me ; I never wished to dive beneath it." 

" Mistaken there, my good sir," answered the other, in a 
tone of gentle reproof ; " you should try to learn a little of 
everything. I always do. When I hear of any science or 
study, I feel quite uncomfortable until I have mastered it, 
or at least know enough of it to form a judgment on the 
remainder. You would be astonished at the heterogeneous 
mass I have collected here," — he pointed to his forehead, — 
" and I am still working on. Indeed, I should lament 
something like Alexander the Great when he reached the 
world's end, if I thought there were no more sciences for me 
to conquer. But that is not likely," said the philosopher, 
with an air of great consolation, as he eyed affectionately 
the pile of books that surrounded him. — Philip hoped he 
was not interrupting any work. 

" Bless you, no ! I can settle to it again directly." 


" This would seem a capital place for the study, not only 
of hooks, hut of human nature," observed Philip. " I never 
saw such a collection of odd people." 

Drysdale laughed. " Yes 1 I believe we are an odd set 
— *^we don't care at all for our outward man. There lies the 
difference between your man of science, the regular old 
bookworm, and your man of genius — a poet, for instance. 
The latter sort has the best of it, for with him the soul has 
greater influence over the body. I never knew a genius yet 
— mind you! I use the word in its largest sense — who 
did not bear with him, either in face, or person, or in a 
certain inexplicable grace of manner, the patent of nobility 
which heaven has bestowed upon him; while the hard- 
working grubbers in science and acquired learning often 
find the mud sticking to them! Their pursuits are too 
much of this world to let them soar like those light-winged 
fellows. One class is the quicksilver of earth — the other, 
its plain useful iron. You couldn't do well without either, 
I fancy — eh 1" The old philosopher rubbed his hands, and 
pausing in his oration, sat balancing himself on the ed^ of 
one of these comfortable chairs with which a benign 
government indulges Museum-frequenters. Philip, much 
amused, tried to draw the conversation into its original 

" You have a few fair students also ; I see a sprinkling of 
bonnets here and there." 

Drysdale shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, yes! Much 
good may it do them ! Some of them seem to work hard 
enough, poor little souls! but they had far better be at 
home making puddings. I don't like learned women in 
general ; — not that I mean women of real intellect, regular 
workers in literature ; but small philosophers in petticoats, 
just dipping their pretty feet into the cold water of the 
sciences, and talking as if they had taken the whole bath. 
Here's one of them !" added the old gentleman, with visible 
discomfiture, as a diminutive dame in all the grace of 
fashionable costume floated up the centre — aisle, we were 
about to write, and may still do so, considering what a 
great temple of literature we are now d^pcribing. 



" Ah, Drysdale ! you are just the very person I want," 
lisped the new comer ; and Philip at once recognised both 
face and voice as belonging to the lady he had once glanced 
at in Mr. Pennythome's hall. He began to notice with 
some curiosity the well-known Mrs. Lancaster. Eather 
surprised was he to find so stylish a dame on terms of 
condescending familiarity with old David Drysdale, He 
did not know that lion-hunters often prefer for their 
menageries the most rugged and eccentric animals of that 
royal breed. Besides, the shabbiness and singularities of 
the queer-looking philosopher were tolerated everywhere, 
even among the elegant clique who honoured literature by 
their patronage. 

Philip Wychnor was too courteous to gratify his curiosity 
by much open observation, still he could not but be amused 
by the visit of this fair devotee to literature. The excellent 
presiding Lar before mentioned, who was especially the 
good genius of feminine bookworms, found himself per- 
petually engaged in foraging out for her ponderous volumes 
which she carelessly turned over, — ^to the imminent peril of 
her lemon-coloured gloves, — and then as carelessly threw 
aside. One or two quiet, elderly readers, at the other side 
of the table, had their studies grievously interrupted by the 
quick, sharp voice; and, no doubt, devoutly wished all 
female literati, and this one especially, in some distant 
paradise of fools not particularly specified. At last Mrs.; 
Lancaster began to look about her, and talk in an under 
tone to David Drysdale. Wychnor thought it was some 
literary secret, and with quite needless delicacy made for 
himself an errand to the catalogue-stand. 

Now Mrs. Lancaster, besides her widely -professed ad- 
miration for literature, had a slight mania for Art. At 
least, so she said ; and was for ever hunting up models of 
living physical perfection wherewith to fill her drawing- 
rooms. She had been watching for some time Philip's 
exquisitely-marked profile, as he stooped over his book, and 
now inquired: "By-the-by, Drysdale" — (Mrs. Lancaster 
affected, in common with many literary ladies, the dis- 
agreeable and mannish custom of addressing her male 


acquaintance without the Mr.) — " by-the»by, Drysdale, who 
is that clever-looking, handsome youth) He who was 
talking to you when I came in ?" 

With all his unworldliness, old David had a great deal of 
shrewdness, especially with regard to other people. He 
knew how almost impossible it is for a literary man to 
work his way without entering into the general society of 
the fraternity, and making personal interests, which materi- 
ally aid his fortune, though it is his own fault if he suffer 
them to compromise his independence. Therefore Drysdale 
saw at once what an advantage it would be to Wychnor to gain 
admission into Mrs. Lancaster's clever circle. Immediately 
he set to work to clear the way, by judicious commendations. 

" Eeally, is he so very talented ] I knew I was right My 
instinct never fails 1" exclaimed the gratified lady. And 
she began to debate upon and criticise Philip's face and 
head, in order to prove her full acquaintance with physi- 
ognomy and phrenology. Old Drysdale shrugged his 
shoulders and listened. He never wasted words on persons 
of Mrs. Lancaster's stamp — " preferring," as he i often said, 
"to let himself be pelted with swine's ch^, rather than 
cast his own pearls before them." 

However, as soon as Philip returned to the table he per- 
formed the introduction for which the Mistress of Eosemary 
Lodge was so anxious. Wychnor was agreeably surprised 
to find himself graciously invited to accompany her " ex- 
cellent friend Drysdale " to join the constellation of literary 
stars that were to illimiinate the Lodge with their presence 
on the identical 17th. 

"By-the-by, Drysdale," continued the lady, "you who 
have such a fancy for youthful geniuses will meet one that 
night — a Miss Katharine Ogilvie." Here Philip^s heart 
beat quicker, — it always did so at the name of Ogilvie. 
Mrs. Lancaster went on. " She is wonderfully clever, and 
so lovely ! — quite a Corinne at nineteen. I never was more 
surprised than when I met her last week ; for three years 
ago I was staying at her father's. Sir Eobert Ogilvie of 
Summerwood Park, and she seemed the most ordinary 
little girl imaginable." 


''Humph) dare say she is the same now. Mrs. Lan- 
caster's swans are always geese/' muttered Diysdale, in an 

Philip's heart beat quicker than ever, for he remembered 
Eleanor's Christmas visit long ago. 

Mrs. Lancaster, as she prepared to depart, turned from 
the imperturbable old philosopher to her new acquaintance. 
*' I am sure a man of genius like yourself, Mr. Wychnor, 
will be delighted with my young impraviscUrice^ as I call her ; 
indeed, she is quite an ideal of romance. Only be sure you 
do not fall in love with her, for people say she is engaged 
to a cousin of hers, who is always at Summerwood. A 
propas, Drysdale, in this said Christmas visit our friend 
Lynedon accompanied me. You know him — ^indeed, you 
know everybody. He has not written to me this long 
while. What has become of him ?" 

'' Can't say, and don't care," replied the old man, rather 
gruffly, for Iris patience was getting exhausted. 

** You never chanced to meet Paul Lynedon, Mr. Wych- 
nor)" Philip made a negative motion of the head, and 
the voluble lady continued. "You would have exactly 
suited each other — he was such a charming creature — so 
full of talent. But I must not stay chattering here. 
Adieu I au rewire And Mrs. Lancaster vanished gracefully 
from the reading-room. 

David Drysdale shook himself with an air of great 
relief, somewhat after the fashion of an old house-dog 
round whose nose a troublesome fly has been buzzing. 
Then he settled down among his books in a silence which 
Philip did not feel inclined to interrupt 

Mrs. Lancaster's idle talk had stirred a few conflicting 
thought-s in the young man's bosom. With a natur^d 
curiosity, he looked forward to seeing this young cousin of 
Eleanor's, who, as report said,- was likely to become her sister 
too. Forgetting how false rumour sometimes is, and how 

complete was the seclusion of L ^ he felt surprised — 

almost vexed — that his affianced had not alluded to the 
fact. He wondered also that she had never made mention 
at any time of this fascinating Paul Lynedon, whom she 


must, nevertheless, have intimately known at Summer- 

It might have been an error in judgment, and yet it was 
from a noble and truly feminine delicacy, that Eleanor 
never told her betrothed of the love she had refused. She 
had none of that contemptible vanity which would fain 
carry about as a trophy a string of trampled and broken 
hearts, ready to flourish them before the eyes of the accepted 
lover, should the warning be required. Even amidst her 
own happiness she had sighed over the wound she gave, 
and kept the knowledge of that rejected love sacred from 
all, as every generous, delicate-minded woman wilL But her 
silence now aroused more than one doubt in the mind of 
Philip Wychnor. This was wrong ; he knew it, too ; yet, 
being restless and uneasy, framed excuses for this idle 
jealousy over every action of his beloved Eleanor. But 
Philip Wychnor was a man, after all, and no man living 
ever can trust as a woman does. 



My mind misgives 
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, 
Will bitterly begin its fearful date 
From this night's revels. — Shakspeabe. 

Each word swam in on my brain 
With a dim, dilating pain, 
TiU it burst. • ♦ ♦ 
— I fell — flooded with a Dark 

In the silence of a swoon. 
When I rose, still cold and stark. 
There was night ! — E. B. Browning. 

Nothing could be better arranged than Mrs. Lancaster's 
soirSes. She collected and grouped her guests as artistically 
as a fashionable bouquetikre disposes her flowers. They 
were not all literary people — far from it : the hostess was 
too well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies and peculiarities 
of the fraternity to risk any such heterogeneous commixture. 
She adroitly sprinkled here and there a few of those fair 
scentless blossoms— evening-party demoiselles — ^who might 
be considered as hired only for the night, like the flowers 
on the staircase, to adorn the mansion. And then, amidst 
the gay cluster of ordinary humanities, might be distin- 
guished some homely-looking plant, whose pungent aroma 
nevertheless diffused itself throughout the whole parterre — 
the poet of nature's making, who brought into refined saloons 
all the freshness, and a great deal of the mud, from the 
clods among which he was bom. There, too, was the 
dandy author, who, when deigning to handle the pen, con- 
sidered literature much the obliged party, — the keen sar- 
castic wit, the porcupine of society, whom everybody hated, 
yet treated with respect for fear of his quills — and the timid 


aspirant, who sat in a comer and watched the scene with 
reverent and somewhat fearful eyes. AU these were in- 
geniously amalgamated, so as to form the very perfection 
of reunions. Nobody felt obliged to "talk blue;" and 
while the heavy conversationalists had full play in snug 
comers, there were interludes of dancing and music to lighten 
the hearts and heels of the rest. 

PhUip Wychnor watched this moving panorama with 
considerable interest. At Oxford, the compulsion of honest 
poverty and his own inclinations had caused him to lead 
the life of a very hermit : in fact, to few young men of his 
age could that great raree-show, Society, appear so new. 
David Drysdale, who -kept close beside him, took quite a 
pleasure in witnessing the almost child-like amusement of 
his young acquaintance, and in pointing out to him the 
various concomitants which made up the soMe, 

" There stand the Merry-go-rounds," said he, pointing 
to a curiously-mingled group, in which the most prominent 
were a very big man and a very little one. "They all 
belong to the Merry-go-round paper — ^you may know that 
by their talk, a whole artillery of fun and jest. But they 
have a character for wit to keep up, and mtist do it, well or 
ill, like the king's fools of old." 

"Amateur assumers of the cap and bells, I presume?" 
observed Philip, smiling. 

"Just so, but not all of them. Look at that man to 
whom everybody listens whenever he opens his lips. He 
buzzes about like a wasp, and wherever he settles for a 
minute, it is ten chances to one that he does not leave a 
sting behind. But he is a clever fellow, nevertheless — 
brimming over with wit ; his tongue and his pen are like 
lancets ; and if they do bleed Dame Society pretty freely, 
it is most frequently to keep down the lady's own plethora, 
and remove all bad humours." 

" Who is that gay butterfly of a young man, who seems 
to set himself in opposition to your wasp 1 He keeps up 
an incessant rattle of small witticisms, chiefly directed to 
the ladies, with whom he appears quite a pet." 

" Did you ever know true coin that had not its counter- 


feit 1 He IB a Email mimic of the other — a muBhroom-wit, 
sprung up in a night out of the very refnse-bed of literature. 
He belongB to the Young England school of authorship — 
impudent jesters who turn the most earnest things of life 
into farce— who would parody Milton, and write a Ckimic 
History of the Bible. 

I'd pot in every honest hand a whip 

To laah the raecak naked tbrongh the world." 

cried worthy old David, with an energy that, while it made 
Philip smile, touched him deeply. That one gndn of true 
earnestness seemed to purify the whole heartless, worldly 
mass around him. The young man grew stronger in heart 
and purpose every hour of his asaociation with Drysdala 

" There are two of another set. You will find all this 
literary world divided into sets," observed the old philoso- 
pher, glancing towards a couple who were talking together 
a little aloof from the rest 

" You mean that patriarchal old man, with a grand mass- 
ive head, and the younger one, with hair parted in the 
centre, and a face that reminds one of Eaphael's angels f I 
have been watching them some time — they talk bo earnestly, 
and are such a picturesque couple to look at ; only I don't 
like that mUri aiTected style of dress." 

" Yet tliere is a great deal of good in them, for all that. 
They belong to the ProgrcBs movement — people sincere and 
earnest in their way, only tliey are ever trying to move the 
worid with their own small Archimedean lever. Now, 
though I hold that every man ought quietly to put his 
shoulder to the wheel and give society a shove onward, as 
far as he can in his petty lifetime, yet I don't like much 
talking about it. With these Progress people it is often 
'great cry and little wool.' They are always bemoaning 
with Hamlet, that 

The time ia out of joint, 
y attempt to ' set it right.'" 
■ee with you," said Philip; "I believe less in nni- 
lan individual movements. If every man b^an 
of reformation in himeelf first, and afterwards in 


his own circle, there would be no need for public revolu- 
tions at all To use your own favourite system of symbo- 
lisation, Mr. Drysdale/' continued the young man, with a 
good-humoured smile, "I think that quietly undermining a 
rock is far better than blowing it up with gunpowder, 
because in the latter case you never know how far the 
work of destruction may extend, and you run a chance of 
being knocked on the head by the fragments." — ^Diysdale 
patted his young friend on the arm, with an air of gratified 
approval "That's right — quite right! Learn to think 
for yourself, and don't be afraid of speaking what you think, 
my dear boy — excuse me for calling you so, but you are a 
boy to me.'* 

Philip was about to express his sincere pleasure in this 
new friendship of theirs, when Mrs. Lancaster glided through 
the still increasing crowd. 

" Drysdale, where are you ? Here in a comer ! Fie, fie ! 
when every one wants to talk to you." 

" I wish I could return the compliment, ma'am," answered 
the old man, abruptly enough, for any cynical propensities 
he had were always drawn out by the flippant tongue of 
Mrs. Lancaster. 

" Now, really, that's too bad 1 What a nice, good, dis- 
agreeable, comical creature you are ! Here is your old 
acquaintance, Mr. Pennjiihome, asking for you." And as 
she spoke the individusd alluded to made his appearance, 
shook hands with Drysdale, and then turning round caught 
sight of Philip Wychnor. A shght elevation of the eye- 
brows marked Mr. Pennythorne's extreme astonishment at 
the recognition, but he was too much a man of the world 
to seem discomposed by anything. He hopped up to Philip 
with a cordial greeting. 

" My dear young friend — delighted to meet you so un- 
expectedly, and in such charming society too. And so you 
know that excellent old Drysdale : how surprising : how 
pleasant ! " And he bustled away to another part of the 
room, wondering within himself what the (Mr. Penny- 
thorne's expletives were always confined to mere thoughts) 
brought the young rascal there. 

218 THE OGiLViES. [chap. 

" You must come with me, Drysdale," pursued Mrs. Lan- 
caster, laying her tiny white-gloved hand on the rough 
coat-sleeve of the shaggy-looking old fellow, who looked in 
that gay assemblage something like the dog Diogenes 
amidst the train of canine Alexanders in Landseer*s picture ; 
" I want to introduce you to my young Corinne — my impro- 
visatrice" But Drysdale still hung back. He had an un- 
pleasant recollection of innumerable dainty MSS. and scores 
of young-ladpsh poems with which he had been deluged in 
consequence of doing the civil to Mrs. Lancaster's literary 

" It is I who particularly wish to be introduced to Mr. 
Drysdale," said a sweet young voice behind ; and the old 
man could not resist either the voice or the bewitching 
smile that adorned the lips through which it passed. 

Philip turned gently round, and looked at Katharine 
Ogilvie. She was indeed dazzlingly beautiful — the more 
so perhaps from the extreme simplicity of her white dress, 
which contrasted strongly with the be-laced and be-furbe- 
lowed throng around. Her small, Greek-shaped head had 
no ornament but the magnificent purple-black hair, which 
was gathered up in a knot behind, giving to her classic 
features a character more classic still. But there was no 
impassive marble beauty about the face. It was all woman 
—the lips now dimpling with smiles, now trembling with 
ill-concealed emotion, as some sudden thought passed 
through her mind. How different from the shy girl who, 
years before, had moved timidly amidst the same scene, in 
the same place ! 

Katharine felt it so ; and her heart was full — ^running 
over with the delicious memories that every moment re- 
newed, and dilating with a joyful pride as she compared 
the present with the past. She felt she was beautiful — 
she saw how every eye followed her admiringly : she knew 
that even over that gay and gifted circle the spell of her 
talents and her fascinations was cast. She gloried in the 

" He would not be ashamed of me now," she murmured 
to herself with a proud happy smile. " No ; when he 


comes again he will find Katharine not unworthy, even of 
him." And the thought kindled a new lustre in her eyes, 
and lent an unwonted softness to every tone of her melo- 
dious voice. How happy she was ! how she seemed to 
cast everywhere around her an atmosphere of gentle glad- 
ness 1 She inclined particularly towards old David Drys- 
dale ; and he, on his part, thawed into positive enthusiasm 
beneath the sunshine of her influence. 

" I wished much to see you, Mr. Drysdale,'* she said at 
last, though somewhat timidly, when the conversation with 
him had grown into quite a friendly chat. ''I have 
heard of you before, from — from an old acquaintance of 
yours ; " and the quick colour rose slightly in her cheek. 

"My dear young lady, I am really honoured — delighted ! " 
answered the old man, charmed almost into compliment. 
" Who could it be 1 " — Katharine's lips trembled while they 
framed the name of Paul Lynedon. 

" Lynedon — Ah ! I remember him — fine fellow to look 
at, with a great deal in him. But ours was a very slight 
acquaintance. I have heard nothing of him since he went 
abroad. Ever been abroad. Miss Ogilvie 1 " added Drysdale, 
unconsciously turning the conversation ; at which Katharine 
felt a vague disappointment, for it was pleasant even to 
hear a stranger utter the name that was the music of her 

" No ! " she replied. " I know scarcely anything of the 
world except from books." 

"And perhaps the knowledge thus gained is the best, 
after all ; at least so says my young friend Philip Wychnor 
here," said Drysdale, good-naturedly turning to where his 
new favourite sat aloof. Philip was trjdng to alleviate his 
rather dull position with looking over various books. 

"Philip Wychnor!" echoed Katharine, suddenly re- 
collecting the name. It caught the owner's ear, and the 
eyes of the two young people met. "This must be 
Eleanor's friend ; Hugh told me he was in London " — she 
thought to herself; and an instinct of something better 
than curiosity made her ask for an introduction. 

"I believe you are not quite unknown to me, Mr. 


Wychnor," said Katharine, as Philip — answering Drysdale's 
summons — came up to them. '' Are you not a fiiend of 
my two cousins, Hugh and Eleanor Ogilvief" Philip 
answered in the affirmative. 

Katharine thought his hesitation sprang from the 
shyness of one unused to society '; women have so much 
more self-possession than men. She tried to reassure him 
by continuing to talk. '' I am quite delighted to meet you. 
I remember perfectly how warmly my cousins spoke of you 
— ^Eleanor especially. You have known her many years 1 ** 

"Many years. And her brother — how is he?" con- 
tinued Wychnor, not daring to trust his voice with a more 
direct question. 

"Hugh is quite well, I believe — I hope. He left 
Summerwood some days since," said Katharine, while a 
shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and the clear 
brow was contracted for a moment. 

" To L , to join his sister, I conclude 1 " 

" Oh no ! Eleanor is gone abroad you know." 

" Gk)ne abroad ! " 

" Yes, to Florence, with Mrs. Breynton, her friend, and 
your aunt — is she not 1 I thought, of course, you were 
aware of the fact." — Philip felt sick at heart ; muttering 
some unconnected words, he turned to look for Drysdale, 
for he had no power to sustain the conversation. However, 
the old man was gone. At another time Katharine's 
curiosity and sympathy would have been excited ; but now 
her attention was drawn away from him by a chance word 
— one that, whenever uttered in her hearing, pierced 
through any buzz of conversation, compelling her to listen 
— ^the name of Paul Lynedon. 

Katharine and Philip chanced to sit together on one of 
those round ottomans which seem made for double Ute-brUtes ; 
and behind them were a lady and gentleman chatting 

" ]S^. Lynedon ! " repeated the latter. " So, my dear 
Miss Trevor, you really know my excellent friend Paul 

" I should rather say I hMW him — since it is several 


years since we met He went on the Continent, I believe ? 
A sudden departure, was it not. Dr. Saville 1 " 

^^ Hem ! my dear madam. Therein hangs a little 
mystery that I would not mention to any one but to you, 
who were his very particular friend. In fact) poor Lyne- 
don was in love." 

" You don't say so ! " 

" Oh yes ; he told me all about it at the time : — long 
attachment— lady engaged to another gentleman. , But — 
heigh-ho — people's minds change so. I think Lynedon will 
get her after all — and so does Lizzie." 

"* AlFs well that ends well.' When is he likely to be 
married ] " 

"Lynedon! — ^Why — though you must never breathe a 
word of this — I have every reason to believe it will be very 
soon. In fact, the happy event may have come off already. 
For, he tells me, he has lately met her at Florence, where 
she lives with an old lady. He sees her every day. Sly 
fellow — he says nothing of the wedding ; but he writes full of 
happiness. I think I have the letter in my pocket now, — if I 
did not send it home this morning to Lizzie. — ^No ! here it is." 

Every word of this mixture of truth and falsehood fell 
on the stunned ear of Katharine Ogilvie. Yet she sat 
immovable, her fingers still turning over the book on her 
lap, her lips still fixed in the courteous smile of attention. 
Once only her eyes wandered, with uncertain incredulousness, 
over the letter which Dr. Saville held. It was the known 
handwriting — his hand ! Passionate in all her impulses, she 
drank in, undoubting, the fatal truth. Her heart died 
within her, and was turned to stone. 

The next moment Dr. Saville moved to make way for 
Mrs. Lancaster, who fluttered up all empressemmt, and 
entreated her ''sweet Katharine" to sing. Katharine 
arose, and crossed the room with a steady footstep. Philip 
Wychnor sat down in her place. 

"What a lovely girl that is, and with what intense 
feeling she sings ! " observed a gentleman to Miss Trevor, 
as Katharine's voice came from the inner room, clear, full, 
and pure, without one tremulous tone. 

222 THE 0Gn.viE8. [chap. 

"Yes; she h a sweet creature — a Miss Katharine 

" Ogilvie — how eingular ! Has she any sisters 1" mquired 
Dr. SaviUe. 

" No, I believe not Why do you ask )" 

"Because the name of Paul Lynedon's old love — the 
young lady he is going to marry — was Ogilvie — Eleanor 
Ogilvie." There was a movement of the fashionable crowd, 
as one of the guests hastily wound his way through, and 
passed out at the door. When David Diysdale came to 
inquire for his young fiiend, Pbilip Wychnor was already 
gone. Still the gay throng fluttered, laughed, and chattered, 
for an hour or two more, and then dispersed. 

"My dear Katharine, how silent you arel" remarked 
liody Ogilvie, as the carriage drove homewards. 

" I am tired — so tried. Let me alone I " was the answer, 
in a cold, sharp tone, that excited the mild reproach : 

" Really, my dear, I hope you will not get spoiled by the 
admiration you receive." There was no reply, and the 
two parente dozed off to sleep. 

Katharine reached her own room, and locked the door. 
Then she flung her anna above her head with a wild cry 
of agony — half-Bob, half-moan — and fell heavily on the 



There I maddened. , . . Life swept through me into fever, 
And my soul sprang up astonished — sprang, fuU-statured in an hour ; 

— Know you what it is when anguish with apocalyptic Never 
To a Pythian height dilates you and dispair sublimes to power ? 

E. B. Browning. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears such bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at its root. 


YE cold clear winter stars, look down pityingly on that 
solitary chamber where was poured out the anguish of first 
passionate love ! Erring it might be — ^hopeless, visionary, 
even unmaidenly — but it was pure, nursed in solitude, and 
hidden from all human eyes. With strength such as woman 
only knows, Katharine for hours had sung, talked, and sat 
in snjothered silence ; but when she was alone the terrible 
cry of her despair burst forth. It was indeed despair — not 
pining, girlish sorrow — utter despair. She neither fainted 
nor wept ; but crouched on the floor, swaying to and fro, 
her small hands tightly clenched, her whole frame convulsed 
with a choking agony. 

" God ! — God ! — ^let me die ! " rose up the almost 
impious cry of the stricken heart that in happiness had 
rarely known either thanksgiving or prayer, — ^while moan 
after moan broke the night-stillness. She breathed no word 
— ^not even his name. All that she felt then was a longing 
for silence — darkness — deatL But this stupor did not last. 
Her burning, tearless eyes, wandering round the room, fell 
first on the flowers she wore — his favourites — then on a 
book he had given her — alas I her whole daily life was full 
of mementos of him. At once the flood of anguish burst 
forth unrestrained. 


" Oh, Paul, Paul, must I think of you no more ? — is the 
old time gone for ever? A life without you, a future 
wherein the past must be forgotten — where even to think 
of it will be a sin — ^a sin. Oh, Grod, that I could die ! " 
And then, like a lightning-flash, came the thought, that even 
that old time over which she mourned had been only a self- 
beguiling dream. He had never loved her, not even then ; 
but he had made her believe so. That moment a new 
storm of passicm arose in her heart. 

" He deceived me ; he deceived me even then ! I in my 
madness have given him all — ^life, hope, youth ; and he has 
given me — nothing ! Paul ! Paul Lynedon ! " (and rising 
up she stood erect — pride, indignation, scorn, on every 
feature) " how dared you ! How dared you to call me your 
Katharine — your *own Katharine' — when all the while 
you loved another woman 1 And now, maybe, you are 
laughing with her over the poor foolish girl who trembled 
and blushed in your sight, who had given you her whole 
heart's love, and would have died for yours! Died? — 
Shall I die?— shall IV* — She went to and fro with quick 
wild steps, her cheeks burning like hot coals. No tears — 
no, poor wretch — ^to aUay her misery came not one blessed 
tear! Suddenly she stopped before the mirror, and sur- 
veyed herself from head to foot, regarding intently the 
beauty in which she had so gloried for his sake. 

" Shall he say that I pined for him in unrequited love — I, 
Katharine Ogilvie, who might have been admired, loved — 
ay, worshipped?" And her memory pictured the face of 
Hugh, as when he had last bade her good-bye, pale, sad, 
with tears in the kind eyes that had watched over her for 
so many years. His love, if rude, was deep and sincere, and 
hardly merited a rejection so cold and scornful as she had 
lately given. Then in her heart dawned a purpose, sprung 
from the passion which for the time had almost changed to 
hate, and now warped every feeling of her impulsive nature. 
It was a purpose from which every woman who loves with 
a holy and pure love, however hopeless, would turn shud- 
dering aside, feeling how great was the sin. 

" You shall never triumph over me— you, Paul, and that 


wife of yours ! you shall never laugh together at the girl 
who broke her heart for you. No; I will live — ^live to 
make the world know, and you know, what I am ! Yes, 
you shall hear of me — ^my beauty, and my talents !" And 
a strange bitter laugh of self-derision broke from those 
white lips, over which a few hours before had dimpled the 
sweet, happy girlish smile. But that never came again — 
no, never more ! 

You, O Man ! who with your honey words and your 
tender looks steal away a young girl's heart for thoughtless 
or selfish vanity, do you know what it is you do 1 Do 
you know what it is to turn the precious fountain of woman's 
first love into a very Marah, whose bitterness may per- 
vade her whole life's current — cnishing her, if humble, 
beneath the torture of self-contempt, — or, if proud, making 
her cold, heartless, revengeful — quick to wound others as 
she has herself been wounded ! And if she marry, what 
is her fate? She has lost that instinctive worship of 
what is noble in man, which causes a woman gladly to 
follow out the righteous altar-vow, and in " honouring " and 
" obeying " her husband^ to create the sunshine of her home. 
And this is caused by your deed ! Is not such deed a sin 1 
Ay, second to that deadly one which ruins life and fame, 
body and soul ! Yet man does both towards woman, and 
goes smiling back into the world, which smiles at him 
again ! 

It may be said, and perhaps truly, that with most young 
girls, love is a mere fancy ; that the pain, if any, is soon for- 
gotten, and so the infliction of it becomes no crime. But 
how few hearts are ever read, even by those nearest and 
dearest I There may be in the inmost core of many a 
worm of which the world never knows. And every now 
and then, undistinguished outwardly from the vapid fickle 
tribe, may be found some nature like Katharine Ogilvie's, — 
of such an one, a blow like this makes either a noble martyr- 
heroine, or a woman over whom the very demons gloat ; 
for they see in her their own likeness— she is a fallen angel 

The distant clanging of Summerwood church-clock re- 



sounded above the moaning of the bleak November wind 
—one, two, three, four, Katharine heard the strokes, and 
paused. Twelve hours before, she had counted them and 
longed for the passing of the brief winter twilight, that the 
pleasant night might come. It would perhaps bring — ^not 
the sight of Paul Lynedon, that she knew was impossible — 
but at least some tidings of him. Now — oh, terrible change ! 
It was from a world of sunshine, to the same world encom- 
passed by a thick darkness — not that of holy, star-spangled 
night, but the darkness of a heavy mist, which pierced into the 
very souL Yet she must walk through it, and alone ! The 
dull blank future lifted itself up before her with terrible dis- 
tinctness. Year after year to live and endure, and she scarce 
twenty yet! Katharine shuddered; one wild thought of 
death — ^blessed, peaceful death, sdf-mmmomd, — entered her 
sou]*; but that soul was still too pure to let the evil spirit 
Unger there. Flinging herself on her knees, she buried her 
head in the little white bed, — ^where night after night she 
had lain down ; reserving always, when the day's cares or 
pleasures were thought over, a few minutes to muse in the 
still darkness upon her secret maidBU love ; and then had 
gone calmly to sleep, breathing, with a tender blessing, the 
one beloved name. Now, that name must never be uttered 

" God ! " she moaned, forgetting her usual form of 
nightly prayer — ^alas for Katharine ! in forms only had she 
learned to pray — "0 God! have mercy — have mercy on 
me ! " — ^Let us speak no more of this night's agony. It 
was such as no human being has ever witnessed, or ever 
will, for the heart's most terrible struggles must be borne 
alone. But a few have felt it — God help those few ! He 
only who gave to mortal nature the power of thus loving, 
can guide, and sway, and comfort in a like hour. But 
Katharine Ogilvie Imew not this ; therefore, ere the wild 
prayer which despair had wrung forth passed from her lips, 
its influence had vanished from her heart. Into that poor 
torn heart entered misery unknown before ; and its cham- 
bers, no longer swept and garnished, became the habitation 
of legions of evil thoughts — \x> be exorcised thence no more. 


The world's daily round goes on, heedless of life, death, 
love — the three elements which compose its chief sorrows 
and its best joys. Katharine lay down and slept — ^yes, 
slept ; for terrible suffering often brings such torpor. In 
the morning she arose and dressed — calmly, without a tear 
or moan. Only once — as she stood arranging her long, 
beautiful hair, in which she always took great pride, for 
his hand had rested on it — the remembrance struck into 
her heart like a dagger. She could have torn the mag- 
nificent tresses from her head, she could have cursed the 
beauty that had failed to win Paul Lynedon ! Hencefor- 
ward, if she regarded at all the self-adornment which in 
due measure is charming in a woman, it would be, not 
from that loving desire to be fair in one beloved sight, but 
from a desperate, vainglorious pride. She would drive 
men mad with her beauty, dazzle them blind, set her foot 
on their necks and laugh them to scorn ! 

Katharine passed down the staircase. The study-door 
was open, and her grandfather's great cat came purring 
about her feet, inviting her in. But to cross the threshold 
of the well-known room ! Everything in it cried out with 
a fiend-like mocking voice, — "Fool — ^fool — self-deceiving 
fool ! The past, the precious past — is nothing, — ^was 
nothing. Blot it out for ever ! " — She shivered, locked 
the door, and fled down the hall. On the table lay some 
greenhouse flowers — the old gardener's daily offering. 
Above them her bird sang to her its morning welcome ; 
the gladder because the clear winter sunshine reached it 
even in its cage. Mechanically Katharine placed the 
flowers in water; gave the bird his groundsel; stooped 
down to stroke her ever-attendant purring favourite : — ^but 
the great change had come. Girlhood's simple pleasures 
were no more for her; she had reached the entrance of 
that enchanted valley which is either paradise or hell — 
crossed it, and shut the gate behind her — ^for ever. 

" Don't stay here longer than you like, my dear,'' said 
Lady Ogilvie, as, long after breakfast was over, and Sir 
Robert had ridden off to London, Katharine, contrary to 
her custom, lingered in the room, sitting motionless by the 


fire, with her hands — ^those dear active little hands, gener- 
ally always employed — ^folded listlessly on her lap. She 
turned round, bent her head assentingly, and then gazed 
once more on the fire. 

"Still here, Katharine!" again mildly wondered Lady 
Ogilvie, pausing, an hour after, in some housekeeping 
arrangements. " Pray, my love, do not let me keep you 
from your studies. I am not at all dull alone, you know ; 
do run away if you like." 

" I can't, mamma, I am tired," said Katharine, wearily. 
" Let me stay with you." 

"By all means, dear child. Really you do not look 
well ; come and lay your head on my lap, as you know 
you always Kke to do." 

She drew her daughter to her feet, and began smoothing 
her hair with niotherly tenderness, talking all the while in 
her nuld, quiet way. She wajs very much surprised when 
Katharine, burying her face in her knees, began to weep 
violently ; murmuring amidst her sobs, — 

" mother, mother I you love me ; — yes, I know you 
do ! Tell me so again. Let me feel there is some one in 
the wide world who cares for me." 

" My darling Katharine — ^you are quite ill. This comes 
of late hours. Indeed, my child, you must cease going to 
parties. Tell me how you feel exactly." And she com- 
menced various matern J questionings ^ad advice, which, if 
tender, were rather prosy and out of place, as they entirely 
related to the physical welfare of her child. Such a thing 
as a tortured and diseased mind never entered into simple 
Lady Ogilvie's calculations. 

Katharine understood this, and drew back into herself 
at once. Her good and tender mother was very dear to 
her, so far as natural and instinctive affection went ; but 
in all else there was a wide gulf between them — now 
wider than ever. Unfortunate Katharine! there was in 
the whole world no tie close enough to satisfy her soul, 
no hand strong enough to snatch her &om the abyss into 
which she was already about to plunge. 

" You shall go and lie down again, my dear," said the 


mother. But Katharine refused. She dared not be alone, 
and she longed for an opportunity to say that for which 
she had nerved herself. So, suffering her mother to place 
her comfortably on the sofa, she rested in apparent quiet 
for half-an-hour. Lady Ogilvie went in and out softly, 
and then settled herself to an occupation which was always 
heavy and irksome to her — writing a letter. Looking up 
with a sigh, after five minutes spent over the first three 
lines, she saw her daughter's eyes fixed intently upon her. 

" Dear me, Katharine, I thought you were asleep," she 
said, trying to conceal the note. 

" No, I cannot sleep. Who are you writing to, mammal" 

" Only to Hugh — ^poor Hugh ! I promised him I would. 
But you need not be angry at that, my child." 

Katharine saw the opportunity had come : she seized it 
with a bold, desperate effort. "Mother, put away the 
letter and come here ; I want to speak to you about 
Hugh." Her voice and face were both quite calm ; the 
mother did not see that under the folds of the shawl with 
which she had covered her child, the damp hands were so 
tightly clenched that the mark of the nails remained on 
the rosy palm. 

" Do not let us talk about Hugh, my darling ; it was 
very sad, and your father and I were troubled and dis- 
appointed at the time, because we wanted to see our Ka- 
tharine happy, and we liked Hugh so much. But if you 
could not love him, why, you know, my child, we shall 
never tease you any more on the subject. Pray be con- 
tent" — ^Katharine rose up and looked her mother in the 
face. Years after, when gentle Lady Ogilvie lay on a 
death-bed, she described that look, and said it ever haunted 
her, with the rigid colourless lips, the dark stony eyes, 
" neither smiling nor sorry." 

" Mother," said the girl, " do not wonder at me— do not 
question me — but I have changed my mind. I will marry 
Hugh, when he or you choose. Write and tell him so." — 
She put her hand to her heart for a moment, as if the 
effort of speaking had brought a pain there — ^as indeed it 
had, a sharp bodily pain ; but she hardly felt it then. She 


Bat up, and bore her mother's startled, searching glance 
without shrinking. 

^ Do you really mean what you say, Katharine ? Will 
you make poor Hugh — ^make us all, so happy) Will you 
indeed marry him ) '* 

" I will." — ^Lady Ogilvie, much agitated did what nine 
out of ten gentle-hearted and rather weak-minded women 
would do on such an occasion — she caught her daughter to 
her bosom, and wept aloud. Katharine repulsed not the 
caresses, but she herself did not shed a tear. A faint mis- 
giving crossed the mother's mind. 

" My darling Katharine, you are happy yourself, are you 
not ? You are not doing this merely to please your father 
and me 1 Much as we wished this marriage, we never will 
consent to the sacrifice of our child." 

^ I am not sacrificing myself, mother." 

" Then you really do love Hugh — not in a sentimental, 
girlish way — ^but enough to make you happy with him as 
your husband ? " 

" My husband — Hugh my husband ! " muttered Katha- 
rine with quivering lips, but she set them firmly together. 
The next moment her old manner returned. " Mother, I 
marry Hugh because I choose ; and when I say a thing I 
mean it — ay, and do it, too. You know that. Is this 
reason sufficient? I can give half-a-dozen more if you 

" No, my dear love, no. Pray be quiet. I am only too 
happy — so happy I don't know what to do with myself." 
And she moved restlessly about, her eyes continually 
running over, even while her mouth wore its most con- 
tented smile. 

" Now, mamma, come here," said Katharine once more, 
drawing the letter from its hiding-place. "Finish this. 
Tell Hugh that I have thought over the matter again, and 
have changed my mind. I will marry him whenever he 
chooses. Only it must be soon, very soon." 

" How strange you are, my love ! You do not seem to 
feel at all like other young girls." 

" Of course not — I never did. Now write as I say." 


'* I will, I will, dear ! Only why must the marriage be 
80 soon 1" 

'' Because I might change my mind," said Katharine, 
bitteriy. " I have done so once before. My nature must 
be very fickle; I want to guard against it, that is alL 
Now write, dear mother, write." 

The letter was written and despatched. Then Katharine's 
strange manner passed away, and she seemed calm. So, 
the prisoner who writhes in agony on his way to the scaffold, 
on reaching it mounts with a firm and steady step ; — he 
shrank from the doom afar off; it comes, and he can meet 
it without fear. 

Lady Ogilvie kept near her child the whole day. In 
Katharine's demeanour she saw only the natural agitation 
of a young girl in such a position. She was most thankful 
that her dear child had made up her mind to marry Hugh, 
such an eitcellent young man as he was, and so suitable in 
every respect. This marriage would unite the title and 
estate, keep both in the family beside, and prevent Katha- 
rine's leaving Summerwood. No doubt they would be 
very happy; for if Katharine was not positively in love 
with her cousin, she liked him well enough, and it was 
always best to have most love on the husband's side. So 
reasoned Lady Ogilvie, sometimes communicating her 
thoughts aloud. But Katharine received them coldly, and 
at last begged her to change the subject. The mother, 
ascribing this to natural shyness and sensitiveness, obeyed, 
— as, indeed, she generally did — and only too glad was she 
to have her daughter by her side the whole day. 

" You have quite deserted your own little room, though 
I know you like it far better than this large dull drawing- 
room. Come, dear child, let us both go, and you shall 
sing for me in the study." 

" Not there, not there ! " answered Katharine, shuddering, 
"I will not go into that room. I hate it." 

"Why sol" gravely said the mother, surprised, and 
rather uneasy at these sudden whims. Katharine recovered 
herself in a moment 

" Did I not tell you how fickle I was f There is a proof 


of it" And she forced a laugh — ^bnt^ oh, how changed 
from the low, musical laugh of old ! *^ Now, don't tease 
me, there's a dear mother. I have a right to he &nciful, 
have I not 1 Let me try to sing my whims away." — She 
began to extemporise, as she often did, composing music to 
stray poetry. First came an air, not merely cheerful, but 
breatlung the desperation of reckless mirth. It floated 
into a passionate lament. When she ceased, her face was 
as white as marble, and as rigid. She had poured out her 
whole soul with her song ; and, absorbed in a deep reverie, 
she had called up the past before her. She had filled the 
half-darkened, desolate room with light, and music, and 
gay laughter. Beside the dear old piano she had seen 
standing a figure, every attitude, gesture, word, and look of 
which she knew by heart. A moment, and she must shut 
it out for ever — ^from fancy and memory. This song was 
the dirge of her youth and its love. She closed the iostru- 
ment, and in that room or in that house Katharine vowed 
never to sing more. She never did I 

Worthy Sir Eobert Ogilvie was mightily astonished, 
when he came home next day, to find his nephew hourly 
expected as a future son-in-law. He kissed his daughter — 
a ceremony performed solemnly at Christmas and Easter, 
or when he went on a journey — ^told her he was much 
gratified by her obedience, and felt sure she would be ex- 
ceedingly happy in her ma;riage. 

" Only," observed the sedate baronet to his wife, when 
they were alone together, "it would have saved much 
trouble and annoyance if Katharine had known her own 
mind at first. But I suppose no women — especially young 
women— ever do." 



Deep as love, 
Deep as first loye» and wild with all regret, 
death in life — ^the days that are no more ! 


It was the eve of the wedding-day ; the day which was to 
unite, in newspaper parlance, " Katharine, only child and 
heiress of Sir Robert Ogilvie, of Summerwood Park, to 
Hugh Ogilvie, Esq., only son of the late Captain Francis 
Ogilvie, of His Majesty's Service." Never was there a 
better match— and so said every gossiping party in the 
village, from the circle round the blacksmith's warm, wel- 
come forge, to that round the doctor's equally welcome 
teartable. Everybody had guessed how it would end, and 
only wondered it had not come off before. All the world 
and his wife were making ready for the next day ; for the 
wedding was to be at the village church, with all necessary 
accompaniments of green boughs, young girls dressed in 
white, charity children, etc. etc. 

Love would ever fain seal its vows unobserved, in glad 
and solemn privacy ; but no such impediment came between 
Sir Eobert and his desire for a little aristocratic ostentation. 
" It was proper," he said ; " for the Ogilvies were always 
married and buried in public, with due ceremony." Ka- 
tharine assented ; and if there came a deeper and bitterer 
meaning to the set smile which her lips now habitually 
wore, her father never noticed it. She let them all do with 
her just what they pleased ; so the joint conductors of the 
affair. Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. I^Ved Pennythome, and Sir 
Kobert, arranged ever3rthing between them. 

On the wedding-eve the two former sat with the young 


bride in her dressing-room. It was strewed with attire of 
every kind — Places, silks, and satins, tossed about in beautiful 
confusion. The female ministrants at this shrine had been 
trying on the wedding-dress, and it hung gracefully over 
the back of a chair, with the wreath and veil. Lady 
Ogilvie was just wiping, for the thousandth time, her ever- 
tearful eyes, and saying she did not know what she should 
do without Katharine, even for a month. 

" I dare say you will have to learn, aunt," said Mrs. 
Frederick, who had been quite in her element of late, 
administering consolation, lectures, and advice, with all the 
dignity of a newly-married lady. " For my part, I wonder 
that Katharine likes the thought of coming back to Summer- 
wood. I never would have married Frederick at all if I 
could not have a house of my own." 

" I believe you," said a cold satirical voice, as Katharine 
looked up for a moment, and then continued her work, 
making white favours for some old servants, who had 
begged for this token from the bride's own hands. 

" Really, my dear, how sharply you take one up ! you 
quite forget I am married," said Mrs. Pennythome, tossing 
her head. " But I suppose we must humour you. How- 
ever, things will be different when you are settled again at 

" When I am," was the pointed reply. 

"When you are!" echoed Mrs. Frederick. "Why, I 
thought the matter was quite settled. Your father wishes 
it — and your future husband. Ah, when you are married, 
Hugh win make you do whatever he likes ! " 

" Hugh will do whatever I like," said Katharine, haughtily, 
and she knew she spoke the truth; the humble, loving 
slave of one man was fast becoming the tyrant of another. 
It is always so. " Ask him the question yourself, Isabella," 
she added, as the bridegroom put his beaming face in at 
the door. 

Hugh Ogilvie was a fine specimen of mere physical 
beauty — ^the heau ideal of a - young country squire : most 
girls would have thought him a very Apollo, at a race- 
course or a county balL And though somewhat rough, he 


was not coarse, else how could Katharine have liked him ? 
— as she certainly did while they were only cousins. And 
since his affection for her had grown into the happiness of 
assured love, his manner had gained a softness that was 
almost refinement If with others he laughed loudly, and 
talked with some vulgarity, he never came into her presence, 
or within the sphere of her influence, but his tone at once 
became gentle and suppressed. He loved her very dearly, 
and she knew it ; but the knowledge only brought alter- 
nately scornful triumph and torturing regret 

" Cousin Hugh ! cousin Hugh 1 — there's a pretty attempt 
at rebellion in your bonnie bride !" said Isabella, flippantly. 
" It vows and declares that it will not obey its husband, 
and does not intend to live at Summerwood." 

" What is that about not living at Summerwood ?" said 
Lady OgUvie, turning round uneasily, with her pocket- 
handkerchief at her eyes ; '' Katharine does not surely mean 
to say that ! To lose her so would break my heart" 

"It must not do that, mother; I hope it will not," 
answered Katharine, steadily, '' but I may as well say at 
first as at last, that I cannot live here any longer ; I am 
quite wearied of this dull place, and Hugh must take me 
away ; as he promised he would, when I engaged to be his 
wife. Is it not so, Hugh ]" 

" Yes, yes — but I thought — ^that is, I hoped " stam.- 

mered the bridegroom, with a disappointed look. 

"You thought I should not expect you to keep your 
promise 1 Well, then, I see no necessity to keep my own." 

"My darling Katharine, don't say so !" cried the lover 
in new anxiety, as he flew to her side and took her hand. 
She drew it away, not in coquettish anger, but with a proud 
coldness, which she had already learned to assume. 
Already — already — the tender womanliness was vanishing 
from her nature, and she who had once suffered the tortures 
of love was beginning to inflict them. 

" Here's a pretty lover's quarrel ; and the very day before 
the wedding too !" cried Isabella; "aunt, aunt^ you and I 
had better leave them to make it up alone." And Mrs. 
Fred Pennythome led through the open door the still 

236 TBK oGiLviEa. [chap. • 

weeping and passive Lad; Ogilvie, who now more than 
ever waa ready to be persuaded by anybody. To tell the 
truth, Isabella, who had not lost a jot of her envious 
temper, rather hoped that the slight dist^reement might 
end in a regular fracas, and so break off the maniage. 

Katharine was left alone with her bridegroom. She saw 
that the time was come for using her power, and she did 
use it. No statue could be more haughtily impassive than 
she, though not a trace of that contemptible quality — 
.feminine sullenness — defonned her beautiful &4%. She 
ruled her lover with a rod of iron : in a minute ho was 
before her, humbled and penitent. 

" Katharine — dear Katharine — don't be angry. I will 
do anything you like ; only we should be so happy living 

"I will not stay at Summerwood. I hate it. Hugh, 
yon promised to take me away : — remember that promise 
now, if you love me, as you say you do," And Katharine, 
restless from the thought of the battle she had to win, and 
a little touched by Hugh's gentleness, spoke less freezingly 
than before. 

" If I love you ) You know I do," answered Hugh, 
fondly winding his arm ronnd her neck. She thrust it 
back a moment, and then, smiling bitterly, she let it stay. 
He had a right to caress her now, "Katharine," continued 
he, " don't yon remember the time when we were children 
— at least, you were— and I used to carry you in my arms 
through the fields % Don't you remember the old times — 
how we went gathering blackberries — how I led your pony 
and taught you to ride ; — do you think I did not love you 
even then 1 And though when we grew up we began to 
like different pursuits, and you were a great deal cleverer 
than I, didn't I love you aa much as ever — more, 

did — ^you did. Good, kind cousin Hugh !" mur- 
ttharine, with a pang of self-reproach. She thought 
d happy childi^ days, before the conung of that 
cious, terrible love. 
then, Katharine, let us stay at Summerwood. It 

xxxl] the ogilvies. 237 

will please your father and mother, and me too — though I 
don't say much on that score, and I care little about myself 
in comparison with you ; but it would be rather hard to 
give up the shooting and farming, to shut oneself up in a 
close nasty London square. I really don't think I can 
consent to it" — ICatharine rose from her seat — all her 
passing softness gone. She was resolved to rule, and this 
was the first struggle. The victory must be gained. 

" Hugh Ogilvie," she said, with a cold firmness, " I never 
deceived you from the first. I told you even when you 
came back to — ^to be my htisband" — she said the word 
without trembling or blushing — " that I did not love you 
as you loved me. But I liked you — had liked you from a 
child. I respected, esteemed you ; I was willing to marry 
you, if you chose. Is not that true 1 " 

" It is— it is," murmured the bridegroom, shrinking 
beneath her proud eye. 

" But I made the condition that you should take me to 
live elsewhere — to see the world ; that I should not be 
cooped up here — it tortures me — it kills me 1 I want to 
be free — and I will ! Otherwise no power on earth shall 
persuade or force me to marry you — not even though to- 
morrow was to have been our wedding-day." 

" Was to have been I Oh, Katharine, how cruel you are ! 
Say, shall be, for indeed it shalL We will live wherever 
you like — only don't give me up, Katharine. I know how 
little you care for me, I feel it ; but you may come to care 
more in time, if you will only let me love you, and try to 
make you happy. Indeed — ^indeed — I would." And the 
young man, perfectly subdued, knelt before her as she 
stood, clasping her knees, with tears running down his 
cheeks. One fla^h of evil triumph lighted up Katharine's 
face, and then, for the second time, a pang of remorse 
pierced her soul. The wickedness, the falsehood of the 
coming 'marriage-vow— the cruel tramplmg upon a heart 
which, whatever its shortcomings, was filled with love for 
her — ^rushed upon her mind. For a moment she thought 
of telling him all ; there was a whisper within, urging her 
to implore his forgiveness, and rather brave the humiliation 


of hopeless, unrequited love, than the sin of entering a 
married home with a lie upon her soul. But while she 
hesitated, outside the door rang the light mocking laugh of 
Isabella ; and the world — ^its idle jests, its hateful pity — 
rose to her remembrance. Her proud spirit writhed. One 
struggle — the whisper grew fainter, and the good angel 

" Katharine, say you forgive me," pleaded Hugh ; " you 
shall have your own way in this and everything else, if 
you will only try to love me, and be my sweet, dear, 
precious wife ! " 

" I will," answered Katharine. If, as the "Word saith, 
" there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," 
surely there must have been sorrow then over one fallen 

The same night, long after the whole house was hushed, 
a light might have been seen burning in one of the upper 
windows at Summerwood. It came from Katharine's 
chamber. There, for the last time, she kept vigil in the 
little room which had been her shut-up Eden in childhood, 
girlhood, womanhood. The very walls looked at her with 
the old faces into which her childish imagination had trans- 
formed their shadowy bunches of flowers, when she used to 
lie in bed — awake, but dreaming many a fanciful day- 
dream, before her mother's morning summons and morning 
kiss — always her mother's — broke upon this paradise of 
reverie. Then there was the bookcase, with its treasure- 
laden shelves arranged so as to form a perfect life- 
chronicle. The upper one was filled with old worn 
child's-books, two or three of Mrs. Hofland's beautiful tales, 
such as the * Clergyman's Widow,* the * Young Crusoe, ' and 
the * Barbadoes Girl ' — books which every child must love ; 
beside them came a volume of Mrs. Hemans', and the 
delicious ' Story without an End,' showing the gradual 
dawning of fancy and poetry in the young mind. And so 
the silent history went on. The lower shelf was all filled 
with works, the strong heart-beatings of heavenly-voiced 
poets and glorious prose writers — Shelley, Tennyson, Miss 
Barrett, Carlyle, Bulwer, Emerson. And in this era of the 


chronicle, each volume, each page, was alive with memo- 
ries of that strong love which had been the very essence of 
Katharine's life ; out of which every development of her 
intellect and every phase of her character had sprung. 

She sat by the fire, rocking to and fro, on the little 
rocking-chair, which had been one of her fancies, and the 
soothing motion of which had many a time composed and 
quieted her in her light passing troubles Beside her, on 
the table, lay the old worn-out desk she had used when a 
child, and in which, afterwards, she kept her '^ treasures." 
She opened it, and looked them all over. 

They were many, and curious, but all relating in some 
way or other to the great secret of her life. There were 
numberless fragments of stray poetry, or rather rhyme ; 
some her own— some which she had copied— fragments 
made ever after sabred by some comment or praise of Paul 
Lynedon's. As she read these over, one by one, her breast 
heaved with convulsive sobs. She choked them down and 
went on with her task. Other relics were there — the 
usual girlish mementoes — a heap of withered flowers — 
which day afber day he had given her — and she had kept 
them all. Likewise some verses of a song, written in a bold, 
manly hand — Lynedon had done it to beguile the time, 
while she was copying music, and had scribbled all along 
the sides of the page her name and his own. 

Apart from these, in a secret drawer, lay Paul's letter — 
his first and only letter. Katharine tore open its folds, and 
read it slowly all througL But when she reached the end, 
she dashed it to the floor. 

" *His ELatharinel — his own Katharine! ' And it was 
all false — ^falsel Oh, poor fool that I was — ^poor vain, 

credulous fool But it shall be so no more j I will 

crush him from my heart — ^thus — ^thus ! " 

Her foot was already on the letter ; but she drew back, 
snatched it once again, and pressed it wildly to her lips and 
her heart. 

There was one more relic ; that sketch which bore such 
a curious resemblance to Paid Lynedon — ^the head of Keats. 
Katharine took the long-hoarded treasure from its hiding- 


place, and gazed fixedly on it for a long time. Then the 
fountain of her tears was unlocked, and sobs of agony shook 
her whole frame. 

"Oh, Paul! — heart of my heart! — why did you not 
love me 1 Is there any one in the world who would have 
worshipped you as 1 1 I — who would have given my life 
to make you happy — who would now count it the dearest 
blessing only to lean one moment on your breast, to hear 
you say, *My Katharine !' and then lie down at your feet 
and die. Die ] — Shall I die for one who has thus cruelly 
deceived mel Nay, but I beguiled myself; I only was 
vain — ^mad — ^blind ! What was I, to think to win him ? 
Paul — ^Paul Lynedon — no wonder that you loved me not ! 
I was not worthy — oh, no — ^I was not worthy. I am fit 
for nothing but to die ! " 

In this fearful vigil of despair, fierce anger, and lingering 
love, the night wore on. It seemed an eternity to the 
miserable girl. At last, utterly exhausted, Katharine sank 
into a deadly calm. She sat motionless, her arms folded 
on the little desk, and her cheek leaning against the mourn- 
ful relics of a life's dream. Suddenly she heard the twitter 
of a bird, and saw her lamp grow pale in the daybreak. — 
Then she arose, gathered up her treasures, laid them 
solemnly, one by one, on the embers of the dying fire, and 
watched until all were consumed. 

The next day — ^nay, the same day, for it was already 
dawn— Katharine Ogilvie was married. 

xxxil] the ogilvies. 241 


Seldom hath my tongue pronounced that name. 

* • * « 

But the dear love, so deeply wounded then, 

I in my heart with silent faith sincere 

Devoutly cherish till we meet again. Southey. 

We are about to break through all dramatic unity of place, 
and to convey our readers abroad. Suppose, then, the scene 
transferred to the Continent — Italy — Florence. But the 
reader need not shudder at the name, and expect long- 
winded descriptions of scenery — chapters taken at random 
from Murray's Handbook ; since, for various excellent rea- 
sons, we shall eschew all landscape-painting. 

There is, we understand— for truth forbids us to speak 
without this qualification — in Florence a pleasant square, 
which forms a general lounge for idlers, rich and poor, 
native and foreign, inasmuch as it contains a market, a 
curious antique building — called, not inappropriately, the 
Palazzo Vecchio — and the town post-office. This latter 
place is of course the perpetual resort of foreigners who are 
anxious to snatch their precious home-remembrances from 
the well-known carelessness of Italian officials. Thus, 
almost all the British residents, or passing visitors to 
Florence, may be seen at different times strolling round 
this square. 

Among them, one day in winter, were two ladies walking 
slowly, the elder leaning on her companion's arm. Beneath 
the close black bonnet and veil of the taller one appeared 
the sharp, regular features of Mrs. Breynton. She looked a 
little older perhaps, and a little more wrinkled ; but still 
she was the same Mrs. Breynton, the widow of the Dean, 



with her tall, straight figure, and her canonically-flowing 
black robes. — ^The young girl on whom she leaned was, it is 
needless to say, Eleanor Ogilvie. 

Dear Eleanor — the much-tried but yet happy, because 
loved and loving one ! let us look once more on that slight 
drooping figure, like a willow at a brook-side — ^that pale 
clear brow — those sweet calm eyes ! But adjectives and 
metaphors fail ; she is of those whom one does not even 
wish to describe — only to look upon, murmuring softly, " I 
love you — I love you ! " evermore. And where there is 
love there must be beauty, perhaps the more irresistible 
because we cannot tell exactly in what feature or gesture 
it lies. 

Time passes lightly over all equable natures; — ^it had 
done so over Eleanor Ogilvie. Her mind and character 
were nearly matured when we first saw her, and a few 
years made little difference. Perhaps the fair cheek was 
somewhat less round, and the eyes more deep and thought- 
ful, especially now, when a care heavier than ordinary 
weighed on her gentle spirit. But it caused no jarring 
there ; no outward sign of impatient trouble. To a heart 
so pure, even sorrow comes as a veiled angeL 

" How cold it is, Eleanor ! " said Mrs. Breynton, as the 
occasional east wind, which makes a Lombard winter almost 
like a northern one, swept round the tower of the Palazzo 
Vecchio ; " I do not see that I am any the better for com- 
ing to Italy ; it was much warmer at L ." And as 

she spoke, one might perceive that her voice had changed 
from the slow preciseness of old, to a sharp querulous tone^ 
which seemed to ask, as if through long habit, for the sooth- 
ing answer that never failed. 

'^ It is indeed very cold ; but this bleak wind only comes 
now and then. We may be sure that Doctor B— - — was 
quite right when he ordered you to the South ; and I think 
your cough is better already." 

" Is it ? " said the invalid, and to disprove the fact she 
coughed violently. " No, no — ^I shall die of asthma, I know ; 
like my father, and my great-uncle. Sir Philip Wychnor." 
Here there was a slight movement in the arm on which the 


old lady rested ; it caused her brow to darken, and the thin 
lips, through which had unconsciously issued this rarely 
uttered name, were angrily compressed. She did not look 
at her companion, but walked on in silence for some 
minutes. — Nor did Eleanor speak, but her head drooped a 
little lower ; and the moistened eyelash and trembling lip 
could have told through how much forbearance and meek- 
ness, daily exercised, had Philip's betrothed kept her pro- 
mise to him. She was indeed as a daughter unto the stem 
woman who had once shown kindness towards her lover. 
It was a strange bond between the two, and formed of 
many conflicting elements. On one side, the very wrath 
of Mrs. Breynton towards her nephew made her heart cling 
with a sort of compassion to the young girl whom she 
deemed he had slighted ; while, on the other hand, Eleanor 
forgot at times even the present wrong done to her lover, 
remembering that Mrs. Breynton was Philip's near kins- 
woman, and had once been, as far as her cold nature 
allowed, in the stead of a mother to him. There was still 
a lingering warmth in the ashes of that olden affection. 
Eleanor saw it many a time, even in the sudden anger 
aroused by some chance memento of Philip's childhood; 
and, day by day, her whole thought, her whole aim, was to 
revive this former love. Thus silently, slowly, she pursued 
the blessed work of the peacemaker. 

She advanced towards the post-office, where, as usual, 
was a cluster of people anxiously struggling for letters. It 
would have been an ^musing scene for a psychologist or a 
student of human nature; but the English ladies had. too 
much interest on their own account to notice those around. 
They were trying to make their way through the crowd, 
which, trifling as it was, inconvenienced the precise Mrs. 
Breynton exceedingly. 

" Let us stay in the rear of this gentleman, who is pro- 
bably waiting for the English letters," whispered Eleanor, 
glancing at a tall, cloak enveloped personage who stood in 
front. Softly as she spoke he seemed to catch the tone, for 
he turned round suddenly, and Eleanor recognised the face 
of Paul Lynedon. 


She had seen him more than once before — at least she 
fancied it was he — in their walks about Florence. But he 
had never indicated the slightest wish for a recognition. 
Now, it was difficult to avoid it. Their eyes met, her 
colour rose, and there was a slight contraction of his brow ; 
but the next moment he bowed with an easy grace and a 
polite smile that at once banished from Eleanor's mind all 
regretful thought of the lover she had rejected. She held 
out her hand with a frank kindness ; he took it with the 
same. There was no agitation, no pain, visible in his 
countenance, for there was none in his heart A little 
annoyance or mortification he might perhaps feel, on being 
unpleasantly reminded of the time when he had ''made 
such a fool of himself;" but he was too polite and too proud 
to betray the same in word or manner. 

Paul Lynedon quite overwhelmed Mrs. Breynton with 
his expressions of gratification at meeting with two '' fair 
countrywomen.'' He was as agreeable as of old ; but his 
manners wore less of the graceful charm which springs from 
a kindly heart, and more of that outward empressemeni 
which sometimes assimilates to affectation. It was evident 
that he had become a complete man of the world. He 
easily procured their letters. There were several for Mrs. 
Breynton, and two for Eleanor. Hugh's large careless 
handwriting marked one of the latter. She opened it, and 
started in joyful surprise at the intelligence it contained — 
the announcement of the intended marriage of her brother 
and cousin. In sisterly exultation, she proclaimed the 
news aloud. 

"How glad I am! — how I always wished for this! 
Dear Hugh ! dear Katharine ! — You remember Katharine, 
Mr. Lynedon 1" were her hurried exclamations. 

Mr. Lynedon " remembered her quite well, as every one 
must — ^a sweet girl I He was indeed happy to hear she 
was married." This was not exactly true, as, in running 
over the lists of fair young creatures who had looked 
favourably on himself, Paul had unconsciously fallen into 
the habit of including Katharine Ogilvie. She was a mere 
child then to be sure, but she might grow up pretty ; and 


if SO, supposing they ever met again, the renewal of his 
slight flirtation with her would be rather amusing than 
otherwise. At hearing of her marriage, he felt an uncom- 
fortable sensation — as he often did at the wedding of any- 
young girl who had appeared to like himself. It seemed to 
imply, that Paul Lynedon was not the only attractive man 
in the world. Even when Eleanor, chancing to draw off 
her glove, had unconsciously exhibited the unwedded left 
hand, he had glanced at it with a pleasurable vanity. Though 
he was not in love with her now, and really wondered how 
he ever could have been, still he felt a degree of self-satis- 
faction that no other man had gained the prize which he 
now blushed for ever having sought. How gradually the 
rust of vain and selfish worldliness had crept over Paul 
Lynedon's soul 1 

" They must be married by this time," observed Eleanor, 
referring to the letter. " Hugh says, I think, that it was 
to be very soon, — ah ! yes, the 27th." 

" Then to-morrow is the wedding-day," said Lynedon. 
" Allow me thus early to offer you my warm congratula- 
tions, with every good wish to the happy couple." — ^Elea- 
nor thanked him, her heart in her eyes. Then he made 
his adieux, and disappeared among a group of Florentine 
ladies. There was a ball that night in Florence, at which 
none were more brilliant or admired than the young Eng- 
lishman. He smiled as he listened to his name, brokenly 
and coquettishly murmured by many a fair Italian dama. 
He did not hear from afar the wild moan of one stricken 
heart, that in lonely despair sobbed forth the same. 
Life ! how blindly we grope among thy mysteries ! 

Mrs. Breynton expressed the proper degree of pleasure in 
a few formal congratulations ; but her knowledge of Hugh 
was small, and her interest in him still less, for the range 
of the good lady's sympathies had never been very wide. 
Besides, she was somewhat shocked at the impropriety of 
reading letters in the street, and had carefully gathered up 
her own budget for a quiet home perusal. However, on 
reaching their abode, she condescended so far as to ask to see 
Hugh's letter. Eleanor gave it before she had herself quite 


read through the long and rambling effusion of a lover's 

Over it the aged eyes seemed slowly to journey with- 
out a single change of expression. Eleanor watched the 
immovable face, and marvelled. A love-history of any 
kind is regarded so differently at three-and-twenty and 
three-and-sixty. But when Mrs. Breynton in her slow 
perusal reached the postscript, her countenance changed, 
grew pale, and then darkened. She hastily refolded the 
paper, laid it on the table, and snatching up her own 
packet of letters quitted the room. 

Eleanor again took Hugh's epistle, and read : — " Cousin 
Bella was married lately to a Mr. Frederick Pennythome. 
By-the-by, through this wedding, our old friend, or rather 
yours, Philip Wychnor, has turned up again. The Penny- 
thomes know him, and E^tharine met him at a grand 
literary party. He asked after you, but he did not speak 
about Mrs. Breynton. Is there any breeze between him 
and the old aunt? He is growing a celebrated author, 
having turned out quite a genius, as IQitharine says — and 
she must know, being so clever herself," etc. etc. And the 
lover returned, of course, to the praises of his beloved. 

Eleanor paused, oppressed with many mingled feelings. 
It was now a long season since she had heard from Philip, 
though she herself had written regularly. At first his sud- 
den silence pained her ; and, casting aside all girlish caprice 
and anger, she had sent more than one letter asking the 
reason, but no answer came. She then felt, not doubt of his 
faithfulness, but terror for his health ; until this fear was 
lightened by her continually tracing his name in various 
literary channels, and on one occasion receiving, addressed 
to her in his own handwriting, PhiUp's first pubUshed book. 
She marvelled that even her loving and delighted acknow- 
ledgment of this still brought no reply. And yet she 
trusted him still. She would have doubted the whole world 
rather than Philip Wychnor's truth. 

Truthful and candid as she was, Eleanor had never sought 
to make her correspondence with her betrothed a clandestine 
one. Between herself and Mrs. Breynton there was a perfect 


silence on the subject, without attempt either at explanation 
or concealment. Month after month the post-bag of the 
palace had been trusted with these precious love -messages 
from one true heart to the other ; therefore now no doubt 
of foul play ever crossed the mind of the young betrothed : 
she would have scorned to harbour such an unworthy sus- 
picion of Philip's aunt. Still, Eleanor had need of all her 
courage and faithful love to bear this suspense. Even now, 
when she rejoiced at these good news of him, her gentle 
heart was sorely pained that Philip himself should not have 
been the first to convey it. 

She dried a few gathering tears, and determined to write 
to him and trust him still, until the near termination of 
this Italian journey should enable her to visit Summer wood, 
when some blessed chance would bring her face to face witli 
her betrothed. Then she mechanically opened the second 
letter, which had been neglected for Hugh's. 

It informed her that Sub-Dean Sedley, the unwearied 

backgammon-player of the Close, at L had died and left 

her, Eleanor Ogilvie, sole legatee of all his little fortune ! 



Cifnu disloyal thing, 

That should repair my youth ; thou heapest 
A year's age on me. 

Imjo. I beseech you, 

Harm not yourself with your vexation : I 
Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
Subdues all pangs, all fears. 

Cynu Past grace? obedience? 


Mrs. Breynton had the character of being a strong-minded 
woman; but no one would have thought so to see her 
when, after leaving Eleanor, she proceeded to her own 
apartment and walked restlessly up and down, her whole 
countenance betraying the inward chafing of her spirit. 
She glanced carelessly at the letters she still held, and threw 
them down again. She was just beginning to grow calm, 
when another packet was brought her with " Mr. Lynedon's 
compliments, and he felt glad to have been able to rescue 
the enclosed from further delay at the post." 

Mrs. Breynton returned a polite message, put on her 
spectacles, and prepared herself to read the second edition 
of correspondence. The first of the batch was evidently 
interesting — as it might well be — for it looked the /oc- 
simUe of that lawyer's epistle which had communicated to 
Eleanor such important tidings. Mrs. Breynton was rising 
to summon her young friend, when the second letter caught 
her eye. It was addressed to Miss Ogilvie, yet she snatched 
it up, and eagerly examined the handwriting. — It resembled 
that of many a schoolboy letter which at Midsummer and 
Christmas had come to the palace, which she had deciphered 


— not without pleasure — from the flourishing " Dear Aunt," 
to the small, cramped ending, " Your dutiful and affectionate 
nephew." It was still more like the careless college scrawl 
which had weekly informed her of Oxford doings in a frank 
easy style, whose informality sometimes gained a grave re- 
proof. As she held the letter to the light, her fingers 
trembled even though her brow was angrily knitted. Then 
she turned to the seal — a rather remarkable one; It was 
her own gift — she remembered it well — ^with the Wychnor 
crest and a cross underneath. What trouble she had taken 
to have it engraved in time for his birthday. How dared 
he think of this, and use it now ! 

Mrs. Breynton had never been a mother. No child had 
ever clung to her bosom and nestled near her heart, to charm 
away all the coldness and harshness there. Marrying 
without love, she had passed through life, and never felt a 
single strong affection. Perhaps the warmest feeling of her 
nature had been that which in her girlhood united her to her 
only brother. After this tie was broken, her disposition 
grew cold and impassive, until the little Philip came — a 
softened image of the past, a vague interest for the future. 
Every lingering womanly feeling in her frost-bound heart 
gathered itself around the child of her dead brother ; and 
with these new affections came a determination, springing 
from her iron will and inflexible prejudices, to make the son 
atone for the still unforgiven dereliction of the father, in 
quitting that service of the sanctuary which had become 
part of the family inheritance. 

A female bigot is the most inveterate of all. The Smith- 
field burnt-offerings of Mary Tudor were tenfold more nu- 
merous than those of the kingly wife-murderer who called 
her daughter. Had Mrs. Breynton lived in those days, she 
would have rejoiced in a heretic-pyre. Therefore, when she 
tried to constrain her nephew to enter the Church, it was 
with the full conviction that she was doing her best for his 
soul as well as for his temporal interests. She loved him 
as much as a woman like her could love ; she desired his 
welfare ; but then all good must come to him through one 
way — ^the way she had planned. To this road she had 


alternately lured and goaded him. In his destiny she pro- 
posed to include two atonements,— one on the shrine of the 
Church, the other, by his union with Eleanor, — to the 
memory of the girl's forsaken mother. 

When the conscientious scruples of the young man 
thwarted this great scheme of her life, Mrs. Breynton was 
at first paralysed. That Philip should venture to oppose 
herself — ^that he should dare to doubt those ecclesiastical 
mysteries, without the pale of which she conceived all to 
be crime and darlgiess, was a greater shock than even the 
shortcomings of his father. She felt overwhelmed with 
horror and indignation ; an indignation so violent, that 
both then and for a long time afterwards it caused her, like 
most bigots, to confound the sinner with the sin, until she 
positively hated the nephew who had once been to her a 
source of interest and pride. But, this first tempest of 
wrath over, she began to incline towards the lost one ; and 
with a strange mingling of affection, obstinate will, and that 
stern prejudice which seemed to her darkened eyes the true 
spirit of religion, Mrs. Breynton determined, if she could 
not win, to force her nephew into the path for which she 
had destined him. 

Long she pondered upon the best method of accomplish- 
ing her will ; and, embittered as she was against Philip, it 
was some time before she could reconcile her pride and her 
conscience to do that which, by driving him to despair, 
would at last bring home the repentant prodigal. But 
when, in her blindness, she had fully satisfied herself that 
'* the end sanctified the means," she commenced the plan 
which suggested jitself as best. No more letters were 
received either by Philip or Eleanor. All were intercepted 
and consigned to the flames, in Mrs. Breynton's room. — She 
did not open or read a single one ; for, while persuading her- 
self that she was fulfilling a stem duty^ the Dean's widow 
would have scorned to gratify idle curiosity or malice. 
She could, self-deceived, commit a great crime, but she could 
not stoop to a small meanness. Unmoved, she saw Eleanor's 
cheek grow pale with anxiety, and fancied that all this time 
she was working out the girl's future happiness ; that the 


recreant lover would be brought to his senses, would immedi- 
ately seek his betrothed. Once more under her roof — and 
Mrs. Breynton longed with a sickly longing to have him 
there once — she doubted not her influence over him. She 
could not lose him again. 

It would be a curious study for those who rightly and 
justly believe in the perfectibility of humanity, to trace how 
often at the root of the darkest woe-creating crime lurks 
some motive, which, though warped to evil, has its origin in 
good. So it was with this woman. She stood looking at 
the letter, and thinking over the news which had come to 
her knowledge concerning Philip. It had irritated and 
alarmed her to hear of her nephew's success. She feared 
lest her own hold over him should grow weaker as he pros- 
pered in the world. Indignant beyond endurance, she 
crushed the letter in her hand, and — the seal broke ! But 
for this chance she might have withstood the desire which 
prompted her, by plunging still deeper into deceit, to 
arrive at a clear knowledge of Philip's motives and inten- 
tions, so as thereby to guide her own. For a moment she 
paused irresolute, and then the evil wish conquered — Mrs. 
Breynton opened the letter. It seemed to have been 
written at various times, the first date being many weeks 

" Eleanor ! " it began — and the handwriting, which often 
betrays what words succeed in concealing, was tremulous 
and megible-" you said one day-that soft spring morning, 
do you remember 1 — ^when we stood together in the window, 
looking on the palace-lawn — ^your hand on my shoulder, and 
my arm encircling you, as it had a right to do then,— you 
said that we must have no secrets from one another ; that 
we must never suffer the faintest shadow to rise up between 
us. There has been none until now ! Eleanor, dearest, — 
still dearest — shall I tell you what troubles me 1 A doubt 
— idle, perhaps wrong, and yet it weighs me down. I heard 
last night, by chance, a few words that I would only have 
smiled at, but for your long silence, and your departure 
from England. You have gone, as I understand, and with- 
out informing me. Was this quite right, my Eleanor ? Still 


there may have been a reason. My annt — but I will not 
speak of her. Let me come at once to this idle rumour. 
They aay — though I do not believe it— that three years ago, 
— which must have been at the very time, the blessed spring- 
time, when I first told you how precious was your love, — 
another did the same. In short, that you were wooed — 
williiigly wooed — by a Mr. Paul Lynedon, whom you met at 
Summerwood. Wliy did you never spe^ of this acquaint- 
ance — for, of course, he was nothing more ) You could not 
— no, my Eleanor, my all-pure, all-true Eleanor ! — you could ■ 
not have deceived me, when you confessed that I — such as I 
am, inferior in outward qualities to many, and doubtless to 
this Paul Lynedon, if report be true — that I was dearer to 
you than all the world. How I hesitate over this foolish 
tale 1 — let me end it at once. Well, then, they say this same 
Lynedon is now with you at Florence ; that fact is certainly 
true. As for the rest, my kind and faithful one ! forgive 
me ; but I am anxious, troubled. Write, if only one line. 
Not that I doubt you^-do not think it ; but still — However, 
I must wait, for I have to find out your address by some 
means before I can send this." 

The letter continued, dated later, "You do not know 
what I Bufier from your silence, Eleanor. I have seen 
Hugh, your brother — mi-ne that is to be. His careless 
greeting pained ma It was perhaps best to keep our en- 
gagement so secret, and yet it is humiliating. Hugh chanced 
to speak of your visit at Summerwood long ago ; of Paul 
Lynedon too, — with that name he jestingly coupled yours. 
He said but few words ; for his mind was too full of his 
approaching marriage, — -of course you are aware of it, 
Eleanor t But these few words cut me to the heart. And 
I raust wait still, for Hugh has lost your address. No ! I 
cannot wait — it is torture, I must go to L . • " 

" L , March 20t]i. 

" You see I am here — on the very spot, so sacred — but 
t of that now. Eleanor, I have learnt — 
vas by mere chance, not by prying rudely 
— I have learnt that this story was not all 


false, that Paul Lynedon was here — with you. And yet 
you never told me ! What must I think 1 There is a cloud 
before me. I see two images — Eleanor, the Eleanor of old 
— true, faithful, loving, in whom I trusted, and would 
fain trust still ; and the other Eleanor, secretly wooed of 
Lynedon, the heiress of Dean Sedley — you see I know that 
too. You need not have concealed your good fortune from 
me, but this is nothing compared to the other pang. I try 
to write calmly ; yet if you knew — ^But I will rest until to- 
morrow. .... 

" I think the madness — the torture is over now. All day 
— almost all night — I have been walking along our old 
walks ; by the river, and beneath the cathedral-shadow ; in 
your very footsteps, Eleanor, as it seemed. I can write to 
you now and say what I have to say — calmly, tenderly, as 
becomes one to whom you were ever gentle and kind. 
Eleanor, if you love this man, and he loves you — he could 
not but do that i — then let no promise once given to me 
stand between you two. Mr. Lynedon is, as I hear, not 
unworthy of you — high-minded, clever, rich, and withal 
calculated to win any woman's heart. If he has won yours 
I have no right to murmur. Perhaps I ought rather to 
rejoice that you will be saved from sharing the struggles 
and poverty which must be my lot for many years ; it may 
be whilst I live. Be happy ; I can endure all ; and peace 
will come to me in time. Eleanor, my Eleanor 1 — let me 
write the words once more, only once — God bless you 1 He 
only knows how dearly I have loved, how dearly I do love 
you ! But this love can only pain you now, so I will not 
utter it. 

" One word yet. If aU this tale be false — though I dare 
not trust myself to think so — ^then, Eleanor, have pity ; for- 
get all I have said in my misery ; forgive me — love me — 
take me to your heart again, and write speedily, that I may 
once more take to mine its life, its joy, its lost treasure 1 
But if not, I will count your silence as a mute farewelL A 
farewell ! and between us, who " 

Here two or three lines were carefully obliterated, and 


the letter ended abraptly with one last blessing, the mourn- 
ful tenderness of which would have brought tears to any 
eyes but those cold hard ones that read it. 

Mrs. Breynton now discovered, like many another short- 
sighted plotter, that her scheme had worked its own ruin. 
With Philip's final parting from Eleanor she herself would 
lose her remaining influence over his future destiny. And 
such a separation must be the inevitable consequence of the 
silence which could be the only answer to her nephew's 
letter, unless she made a full confession of her own duplicity. 
And even then, what would result 1 A joyful reconciliation, 
and Philip's speedy union, not with the portionless Eleanor, 
but with Dean Sedley's heiress, thus for ever excluding that 
ecclesiastical life which now more than ever Mrs. Brejmton 
wished to force upon her nephew. She was taken in her 
own toils. She writhed beneath them ; and while helplessly 
she turned over in her mind some means of escape, a knock 
came to the door. — The dull red mounted to her pale 
withered cheek as Mrs. Breynton, with an instinctive im- 
pulse, tottered across the room, and hid Philip's letter in 
her escritoire. 

" May I come in, dear friend ?" murmured a tremulous 
voice outside. And Eleanor entered, almost weeping, yet 
with a strange happiness shining in her face and mien. 
She had the lawyer's letter in her hand, and, without speak- 
ing, she gave it to Mrs. Breynton. — The latter read it 
mechanically, glad of any excuse to escape those beaming 
innocent eyes. Then she rose up and touched Eleanor's 
brow with her frigid lips. 

" I wish you joy, my dear. You are a good girl, and de- 
serving of all happiness. Mr. Sedley was right to leave his 
fortune where it would be worthily used. I hope that it 
may prove a blessing to you." 

" It will ! it wHl ! Oh, how glad, how thankful I am ! " 
cried Eleanor, as her thoughts flew far over land and sea to 
where her heart was. Thither she herself would soon 
journey, to drive away with one word, ©ne smile, the light 
cloud which had come between her and Philip ; and then 
pour out all her new store at his feet, joyful that she could 


bring to him at once both riches and happiness, worldly 
fortune and faithful love. 

Mrs. Breynton regarded her with a cold, suspicious 

" I do not often seek to know your concerns," she said, 
sharply. " Indeed, I have carefully abstained from interfer- 
ing with them in any way ever since you have resided with 
me, Miss Ogilvie." 

" Do not call me thus. Say Eleanor" was the beseeching 

'^ Well, then, Eleanor, may I be excused for asking why a 
not very worldly-minded girl like you should be so extra- 
ordinarily happy at receiving this legacy 1 What do you 
intend to do with it?" — Eleanor was accustomed to the 
sudden changes of temper which the invalid often ex- 
hibited; but now there was a deeper meaning in Mrs. 
Breynton's searching, irritated look. It brought a quick 
blush to the girl's cheek ; and though she did not reply, 
she felt that her silence was penetrated and resented. 

" Are you going to leave me, now that you are become 
an independent lady?" was the bitter question which 
deepened the flush still more. 

" I always was independent — Hugh took care of that — 
and if not, I would have made myself so," said Eleanor, 
rather proudly. "But you know I stayed with you by 
your own wish — and my own too," she added, in her 
gentlest tone, "to love you, and be a daughter to you. 
How could you think I should forget all this, Mrs. Breyn- 
ton 1" 

" Well, we will not talk about that," muttered the old 
lady, with a slight change of feature. " You will stay, theni 
Other people may not be more forgetful of kindness shown 
to their old age than was Dean Sedley. You will not leave 
me, Eleanor 1" 

Eleanor threw herself on her knees beside Mrs. Breynton's 
chair. " JFe will not leave you," she whispered. " Oh, 
dear friend! now this good fortune has come, let me be 
your very own — your child — your niece, and forgive us 
both. Indeed we have suffered very much — I and — 


Philip!" The long-forbidden name burst from her lips 
accompanied by a flood of tears. Mrs. Breynton started 
and stood upright. 

" Do you mean to tell me that you will marry that un- 
grateful fool ! that beggar ! who has insulted his aunt, and 
disgraced his family ? Is this the way you show your love 
for me 1 Eleanor Ogilvie, you may become my niece if you 
will, but it shall be an empty name, for you shall never see 
my face again. So choose between me and him whose name 
you have dared to utter. If I hear it spoken in my presence 
again, it shall be echoed by my lips too, but after it shall 
come a curse!" — And the aged woman, overpowered by 
this storm of anger, sank back in her chair. Eleanor, 
trembling in every limb, sprang up to assist her, but she 
pushed her aside. 

" Call Davis, I want no one else. Go away." Eleanor 
dared not disobey, for she was terrified at this burst of 
passion, the first she had ever seen in Mrs. Bre3mton. She 
summoned the maid, and was gliding out of the room, when 
the old lady called her back, and said in a low hoarse 
whisper: "Remember, Eleanor, before either of us sleep 
this night, I will know your intention one way or the other. 
I must have your promise, your solemn promise, to last 
your life long, or if not " 

Her voice ceased, but her eyes expressed the rest. That 
look of anger, doubt, threatening, and yet entreaty, haunted 
Eleanor for many hours. — How sore a strait for one so 
young I Her heart was almost rent in twain. It was the 
old contest, old as the world itself — ^the strife between duty 
and love. 

Most writers on this subject are, we think, somewhat in 
the wrong. They never consider that love is duty — a most 
solemn and holy duty ! He who, loving and being beloved, 
takes upon himself this second life, this glad burden of 
another's happiness, has no right to saprifice it for any other 
human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self-devotion of 
the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work out the happi- 
ness of some love-lorn sister, gives up the chosen of her 
heart, whose heart's chosen she knows herself to be. And 


the man who, rather than make a loving woman a little 
poorer in worldly wealth — ^but oh, how rich in affection ! — 
proudly conceals his love in his own breast, and will not 
utter it, — he is deemed a self-denying hero ! Is this right 1 

You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies 
sacrifices such as these, what would you say if for any 
cause under heaven a wife gave up a husband, or a husband 
a wife, each dooming the other to suffering worse than 
death ? And is the tie between two hearts knitted together 
by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the altar-vow 
than after it 1 Is not the breaking of such bond a sin, even 
though no consecrated ordinance has rendered the actual 
perjuiy visible guilt ? 

When will you, who with the world-wide truths of the 
ideal show forth what is noblest in humanity, boldly put 
forward this law of a morality, higher and more wholesome 
than aU your tales of sacrifices on fiHal and paternal shrines, 
— ^that no power on earth should stand between two beings 
who worthily, holily, and faithfully love one another 1 

By this law let us judge Eleanor Ogilvie. 



Cuwntess, Kow I see 

The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears' head. .... 

Helena, My dearest madani» 

Let not your hate encounter with my love, 
For loving where you do. Shakspeake. 

It was almost night before Eleanor was summoned to the 
chamber of Mrs. Breynton. The latter had already retired 
to rest ; and Davis, on quitting the room, whispered that 
her mistress had seemed anything but well for several hours. 
In truth, the thin, white, aged face that lay on the pillow 
was very different from the stem, haughty countenance of 
old. If Mrs. Breynton had any idea of working out her 
puri)ose by touching Eleanor's feelings, she certainly went 
tlie right way to do so. The poor girl, strong as she had 
been a few minutes before, felt weak, almost guilty now. 
She sat down beside the bed, silent and trembling. 

Mrs. Breynton did not speak ; but the imperious eyes 
which anger had lighted up with all the fires of youth, 
implacably asked the dreaded question. Eleanor trembled 
still more. " Dear Mrs. Breynton, do not let us talk now ; 
it is so late, and you are wearied. Let me wait until 

" But / will not wait. I never break my word. I told 
you I must have an answer, and I will. Eleanor Ogilvie, 
before I sleep you must promise that you will not throw 
away yourself and your fortune by marrying that vile, dis- 
honoured, ungrateful nephew of mine." 

Eleanor's spirit was roused. Is there any loving woman's 



that would not be 1 " You are mistaken, Mrs. Breynton ; 
such appellations are not meet for Philip Wychnor." 

" Ah ! you dare utter his name after what I said ! Have 
you forgotten 1 " 

"I have forgotten all that was wrong — all that you 
yourself would soon wish to forget. Why do you feel so 
bitterly towards him ? You whom he loved so dearly, you 
who loved him too, once ; and thought him so good, and so 
noble-minded — as he is still." 

" It is a lie ! and you defend him to my face ! " 

" Because he has no one else to defend him. And who 
but I should have a right to do so ? I, who love him, and 
have loved him since I was a girl 1 I, who have known 
every thought of his heart — who am his plighted wife in 
the sight of Heaven ? Oh, Mrs. Breynton, how can you 
ask me to give him up 1 " — ^The speech, begun firmly, ended 
with tearful entreaty. Even the storm of invective that 
had risen to Mrs. Breynton's lips died away unuttered. It 
might be, that for the moment she saw in the pale drooping 
face and clasped hands the likeness of Eleanor's dead mother, 
with all her struggles and, sufferings. The harsh voice 
became a little softer when she said, "You are blinded, 
Eleanor, or you would see that it is for your own good I ask 
this. You do not give up him — he gives up you. Nay, do 
not speak — ^I say he does. Where is the honour of a man 
who keeps a young girl waiting for him year after year 1 
A worthy lover he is, who talks of his sentimental affection, 
and forsooth says he is too poor to marry, while by his own 
folly he chooses to remain so ! This is how he would treat 
you — ^until you grow old ; and then he would marry some 
one younger and richer. It is like men ; they are all the 
same ! " Tlie old lady paused a moment to look at the 
young creature before her. Eleanor had risen and stood 
by the bedside, not weeping but composed. 

"Mrs. Breynton," she said in a low, quiet tone, "you 
have been ever kind to me, and I am grateful. Besides, 
you are dear to me for your own sake, and for his^ whose 
name I will not speak if it offends you. But I can go no 
further. It pains me very much to hear you talk in this 


way. I owe you all respect, but I also owe some to liim 
whose wife I have promised to be." 

" And you will, — in spite of all, — you will be his wife 1 " 


The word was scarcely above a breath, but it said enough. 
Love had given to the timid, gentle-hearted girl a strength 
that was able to stand firm against the world. To that 
" Yes ! " there came no answer. It controlled even the 
outburst of Mrs. Bre3mton*s wrath. She lay silent, unable 
to remove her eyes from this young girl, so meek and yet 
so resolute — so patient, yet so brave. But though restrained 
by this irresistible influence, the storm raged within until 
it shook every fibre of the aged frame. It seemed as 
though in her life's decline Mrs. Breynton was destined to 
feel the vehement passions which in her dull youth and 
frigid middle age had never been awakened. 

Eleanor, startled by her silence, yet drawing from it a 
faint ray of hope, gatEered courage. Ejieeling down by the 
bedside, she would have taken one of Mrs. Breynton's hands, 
but they were too tightly clenched together. 

"Dear friend — my mother's friend! " she cried, "do not 
try me so bitterly. If you knew what it costs me to say 
this one word — and yet I cannot but say it How can I 
give up my own Philip ] " And in the sorrow and struggle 
of the moment she spoke to Mrs. Breynton as in her maiden 
timidity she had never spoken to any human being. " Has 
he not been my playfellow, my friend, these many years ) 
Did not you yourself first teach me to love him, by telling me 
how good he was, and by bringing us constantly together, 
boy and girl as we were 1 " 

" I did, I did. I wished to atone to poor Isabel's child 
for the wrong done to her mother. Fool that I was, to 
trust the son of such a father ! " 

Not hearing, or not noticing the words, Eleanor went on 
with her earnest pleading, 

" How could we help loving one another ; or, loving, how 
could we by your will break at once through these dear ties, 
and never love each other again 1 Mrs. Breynton, I owe 
you much, but I owe Philip more. He chose me ; he gave 



me his true, noble heart ; and I will keep it faithfiiUy and 
truly. He loves me, he trusts me ; and I will never forsake 
him while I live." 

Mrs. Breynton saw her last chance of regaining power 
fading from her, and yet she dared not speak. Goaded on 
almost to madness, she gazed on that young face, now grown 
serene with the shining of the perfect faith and perfect love 
which " casteth out fear." It did not shrink even from 
those gleaming eyes, wherein the wild fires of stormiest 
youth contended with the dimness of age. 

"Eleanor Ogilvie," she said, hoarsely, "what do you 
intend to do with this fortune 1 " 

" To wait until I again meet him who has a right to all 
my love — all my riches ; and then, if he so wishes, to make 
both his own." 

At these words, Mrs. Breynton, driven to desperation 
alike by wrath and fear of discovery, snatched blindly at 
any means of keeping asunder, for a time at least, those two 
to whom a few words of heart-confidence would reveal all 
her own machinations. 

" You are mad — deceived," cried she, vehemently. " How 
do you know that he remembers you still? What does 
your brother's letter say 1 — ^that he is gay, prosperous." 

" There is nothing in that to pain me. Philip, happy, 
loves me as well as Philip, sorrowful," she* murmured, saying 
the last words in a musing tone. 

" Then why does he not show his love 1 Why does he 
not come and claim you to share his fortune 1 But I tell 
you, Eleanor Ogilvie, you are blinded by this folly. I 
know " — ^and for the first time her lips shrank not from a 
deliberate lie — " I know more than you do of his selfishness 
and unworthiness. He only waits an excuse to cast you off. 
He has said so." 

Eleanor shrank back a little, and a slight pain smote her 
heart. " Will you tell me " 

" No, no, I will not tell you anything," hastily said the 
conscience-stricken woman. " They who informed me spoke 
truth, as I firmly believe." 

"But / do not — I ought not." And once more the 


beautiful light of confiding love returned to the face of the 
young betrothed. " Who knows Philip Wychnor so well 
as I ? Therefore it is I who should trust him most. And 
I do trust him ! " 

" Then you will leave your mother's friend, who would 
have been a mother to you — ^leave her without a child to 
comfort her old age." 

" What shall I dol — what ought I to do 1 " cried Eleanor, 
her gentle heart wrung to the very core by this conflict. 

"Go away — ^go away. I never wish to see your face 
again I " And the voice rose sharper and sharper. Mrs. 
Breynton lifted herself up in bed, with flashing eyes and 
outstretched hands, which she shook with a threatening 
gesture, as though the malediction which Philip had scarce 
escaped were about to fall on his affianced. 

Eleanor, mute with horror, instinctively moved towards 
the door ; but on reaching it, she stood irresolute. It was 
one of those crises which sometimes occur in life, when right 
and wrong seem confounded, when we feel ourselves driven 
blindly along without power to say, "This is the true way — 
I will walk therein, God helping me." Poor Eleanor ! in 
either course she took, all seemed darkness, suflering, and, 
still more, sin. Strong as she was in her faithful devotion 
to Philip, when she thought of Philip's aunt, she felt almost 
as if she had done wrong. From an impulse more than a 
settled intent, she laid her hand again on the door, paused 
a moment, and then re-entered the chamber. 

Mrs. Breynton was leaning forward with her face on her 
hands; the storm of passion had spent itself, and tears 
were dropping fast between her poor thin fingers. Eleanor's 
heart sprang towards the desolate woman with resistless 
tenderness. She put her arms round her ; she laid the aged 
head on her young bosom, — just as she had used to rest her 
ovra mother's during many a long night of sufl^ering, — as 
she had done on that last night until the moment when 
sufioring merged into the peace of death. The action 
awoke all these memories like a tide. The orphan felt 
drawn with a fulness of love to her who had been the friend 


of the dead ; and the motherless and the childless clung 
together in a close embrace. 

"You will not send me away from you, Mrs. Breyntoni" 

" Never ! " was the answer. " And you will stay with 

me, Eleanor, my child; that is, until No, I cannot 

talk about it yet — but in time — ^in time" 

Mrs. Breynton said no more ; and this was the only 
explanation to which they came. Yet Eleanor felt satisfied 
that a change had passed over the mind of Philip's aunt, — 
slight, indeed, but greater than she had ever dared to hope. 
From that night the icy barrier seemed broken down between 
them. Though Mrs. Breynton iiever spoke of her nephew, 
still she bore at times the chance mention of his name ; and 
often, even after it had been uttered, she would regard 
Eleanor with a vague tenderness, and seem on the point of 
saying something which yet never rose to her lips. This 
filled the young girl with happy hope ; so that she bore 
patiently the long silence between herself and Philip, wait- 
ing until her return home should solve all doubt, and show 
him that even this temporary alienation was a sacrifice for 
his sake, in order that the work of the peacemaker might 
be finished with joy. 

Eleanor never guessed from how much of remorse sprang 
the new gentleness which the Dean's widow continually 
showed towards her. After a little longer sojourn abroadj 
Mrs. Breynton began restlesely to long after home, instancing 

the necessity for Eleanor's being at L to look after her 

own little fortune. The young girl prepared gladly for the 
journey, and tried to see in the reason urged only an excuse 
framed by this still haughty spirit, willing and yet half- 
ashamed to make the concession that would give so much 
happiness. And with such diverse feelings did Mrs. 
Breynton and her young companion again set foot in L — ■ — . 



Most men 
Are cradled into poesy by wrong : 
They learn in suffering what they teach in song. — Shellet. 

Life is real — ^life is earnest, 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thon art to dust retumest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. — ^Longfellow. 

" So your young bridesmaid has really followed your ex- 
ample, and is gone on her honeymoon trip," .said Mrs. 
Pennythome, as she nervously prepared herself for the 
martyrdom of a drawing-room tSte-d-tSte with her stylish 
daughter-in-law. This was after the usual Sunday dinner 
— the hebdomadal sacrifice on the family shrine — ^which its 
new member always considered a " horrid bore." 

'' Yes, indeed, and has come back again, too," answered 
Mrs. Frederick, throwing herself on a sofa by the window, 
while the elder Mrs. Pennythome sat bolt upright by her 
side on one of the frail comfortless fabrics which her 
husband's omnipotent taste had provided for the drawing- 
room chairs. "^ They made a short wedding tour, did Hugh 
and Katharine — ^Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean; but one 
can't get over old habits, and my cousins and I were such 
friends, especially Hugh," simpered the young bride. 

"Were you, indeed I — oh, of course, being relations," 
absently replied Mrs. Pennythome. She made the quietest 
and most submissive mother;in-law in the world to Isabella; 
indeed, to tell the tmth, she was considerably afraid of her 
son's gay fashionable wife. " They seemed both very nice 
young people ; I hope they will be happy," added she, in a 
vain attempt to converse. 


'* Happy 1 Oh, I suppose so ! She is not the best of 
tempers, to be sure ; and I don't think Hugh would have 
married her if he had not been dragged into it, so to speak. 
He used to pay me a great deal of attention once." — ^Mrs. 
Pennythome opened her eyes a little wider than usual. She 
thought this style of conversation rather odd in her son's 
wife, but it was perhaps the way of fashionable young ladies. 
She merely said '^ Indeed ! " and looked out of the window, 
watching the people of the square going to evening service, 
and listening to the heavy monotonous tone of the solitary 

" How disagreeable it must be to live near a church ! " 
said Isabella. '' I hate that ding-dong, it is so annoying ; 
especially when it tolls for a funeral." 

Mrs. Pennythome shivered perceptibly. 

"Oh, we have not many funerals here; it is a very 
healthy neighbourhood." — ^There was a silence, during which 
the dull sound of some one coughing feebly was heard in 
the next room. 

" Can you amuse yourself with a book for a minute or 
two, while I go and speak to Leigh ) I always do so after 
dinner," said the mother, meekly apologising, 

" Oh yes I And, by-the-by, that reminds me I have not 
yet asked after Leigh. He is much as usual, I suppose 1 " 

''A little better, we think. He likes those drives in 
your pony-chaise so much, and they are sure to do him 

" Well, he can have the carriage any morning. I never 
stir out till after luncheon. Only he must not go too far, 
so as to tire out the horses before I want them." 

" There is no fear of that. Leigh cannot take long rides. 
He does not get strong very fast. The doctor says we 
must not expect it at present. But it is such fine May 
weather now, and he is really improving," said Mrs. Penny- 
thome, moving from the room. 

Isabella looked after her, and tossed her head. ** None 
are so blind as those who won't see," said she to herself. 
Then glancing down at her splendid, gay-tinted satin, "How 
provoking it will be to put it aside for horrible, unbecoming 


black ; and one can't take to one's wedding-dresses twelve 
months after marriage. What a nuisance it is — ^that boy 
dying ! " — ^And during the ten minutes of solitude Mrs. 
Frederick occupied herself in considering whether, con- 
sidering all things, it would not be advisable to give her 
first evening party at once, without postponing it for the 
usual prior round of bridal entertainments. 

" One may as well make the most of time, for one never 
knows what may happen," ^ said the young wife, whose 
whole life of vain heartlessness was a contradiction to the 
moral she drew. — Mrs. Pennythome returned to her seat 
by the window ; and the elder and younger matron tried 
to keep up a desultory talk, broken by two or three ill- 
concealed yawns from the latter. 

" I beg your pardon, but one always gets so stupid at 
this time of the evening ; at least I do. I quite hate the 

" We might shut it out and have candles, only I promised 
Leigh that I would watch for Mr. Wychnor round the square 
— he never misses coming on a Sunday evening, you know, 
and the boy is so glad to see hiuL Perhaps you would not 
mind waiting a little without lights, just to humour poor 
, Leigh 1 " observed the mother-in-law, humbly. 

" dear no ! don't inconvenience yourself on my ac- 
count," languidly answered Mrs. Frederick ; and after in- 
wardly resolving to make one last attempt to keep " that 
nice young Wychnor" by her side in the drawing-room, 
instead of suffering him to spend nearly the whole evening, 
as usual, in Leigh's room, Isabella began to dilate on her 
favourite subject, " my cousins, the Ogilvies " — ^their great 
wealth and connections — the beautiful villa that Hugh and 
Katharine had taken in the Eegent's Park, and the elegant 
and costly style in which it was furnished. Contented 
with monosyllabic answers, Mrs. Frederick had thus gone 
on for a quarter of an hour, when her mother-in-law in- 
terrupted her with the information that she must go and 
tell Leigh that Mr. Wychnor was turning the comer of the 
square. Thereupon Isabella* smoothed her dress, pulled her 
ringlets out properly, and awaited Mr. Wychnor's entrance. 


The preparation was vain, for he went at once to Leigh's 

'^ It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the 
house of feasting." And better, far better, to stand face to 
face with the struggling, the sorrowful, nay, even the dying, 
than to dwell entitely amidst a world of outside show. 
More precious is it to trace the earnest throbs of the most 
wounded heart, than to live among those human machines 
to whom existence is one daily round of dulness and frivo- 
lity. Looking on these. Youth, with its bursting tide of soul 
and sense, shrinks back aghast—" O God ! " rises the prayer 
— " Let me not be as these ! Rather let my pulses swell like 
a torrent, pour themselves out and cease — let heart and 
brain work their work, even to the perishing of both — be 
ray life short like a weaver's shuttle, but let it be a life, fuUj 
strong, rich — perchance a day only, but one of those days 
of heaven, which are as a thousand years ! " 

When Philip Wychnor came into Leigh's room the boy 
had fallen asleep — as he often did in the twilight. He 
roused himself, however, to give his friend a welcome ; but 
his mother and Philip persuaded him to rest again until 
tea. Just then the sharp call of " Cillie, my dear," resound- 
ed through the house, and Mrs. Pennythorne vanished. 
Philip Wychnor sat in the growing darkness, holding the 
feeble hand in his, and listening to the breathing of the 
sleeper. It is a solemn thing, this vigil beside those over 
whom, day after day, the shadow of death is creeping, whom 
we seem to be ourselves leading — ^walking step by step 
with them to the very entrance of the dark valley. Strange 
it is to think that there we must leave them — needing our 
guidance and support no more : that in one day, one hour, 
the poor frail ones, who have for months clung helplessly to 
us almost for very existence, will be bodiless spirits, strong, 
glorious, mighty ! looking down, it may be, with divine 
pity on our weak humanity. Then, perchance, with a 
power the limits of which are yet unrevealed — those to 
whom we ministered may become themselves glad minis- 
trants to us. As the young man, in all the strength of his 
youth, sat beside that scarcely-breathing form, where clay 


and spirit seemed linked together by a thread so fine that 
esich moment might dissever them for eternity — he felt a 
strange awe come over him. 

There are many phases which the human soul must go 
through before it can attain even that approximation to the 
divine which is possible on earth. We cling to prop after 
prop ; we follow longingly whichever of earth's beautiful 
and blessed things seems most to realise that perfect ideal 
which we call happiness. Of these joys, the dearest, the 
truest, the most satisfying, is that which lifts us out of our- 
selves, and unites us in heart and soul — ay, and intellect, 
too, for the . spirit must find its mate to make the union 
perfect — ^with some other human being. This blessed bond 
we call Love. But the chances of fortune come between us 
and our desire ; — ^the light passes, and we go on our way in 
darkness. There are times when we must stand alone, and 
see earth's deepest and most real joys float by like shadows. 
Alas 1 we can but stretch out our arms towards that Infinite, 
which alone is able to fill the longings of an immortal spirit. 
Then, with our wounded souls lying naked and open before 
the Beholder of all, we look yearningly toward the eternal 
and divine life, complete, unchangeable, and cry with solemn, 
thankful voice, " O God, thy fulness is sufficient for me j 
God, thy love is an all-boundless store." 

Through this portion of his inward life had Philip passed. 
But while learning the deepest mystery of all, he also gained 
other knowledge, other power. It seemed as though his 
intellect had sprung up, strong and mighty, from the ashes 
of the fire which had consumed his heart. Perhaps the 
same would be the secret history of almost every poet-soul, 
whose words go forth like lightning ; man heeding not the 
stormy cloud and tempest from whence it leaps forth. 
Philip's ideal had been the woman he loved ; when that 
became a dream, as he now deemed it was, all human love 
seemed to pass out of the world with her. The heart's life 
shut out — ^the soul's life began. 

Within his spirit there dawned a new energy ; an irre- 
sistible power, to work, to will, to do. The individual sense 
was merged in the universal ; he felt the deep fountain of 


bis genius springing up within him. After a season of 
wrestling with that strong agony of crushed love, — which, 
thank God ! no human being can know more than once, — 
be arose, ready to fight the glorious battle, to begin the 
blessed toil of those whom Heaven sends as lights unto 
the world. 

He had been called an author ; — now he became one. 
He joined that little band of true brothers to whom author- 
ship is a sacred thing ; a lay priesthood, which, wearing the 
garb of ordinary fraternity, carries beneath it evermore an 
inward consecration. Philip wrote not with the haughty 
assumption of an apostle among men : sometimes in his 
writings the'deepest truth, the purest lore, lay coiled, serpent- 
like, beneath garlands of flowers. But he never forgot his 
mission, though the word, often so falsely assumed, had not 
once passed his lips. God's truest messenger is sometimes 
not the Pharisee who harangues in the temple, but the 
Publican who passes unnoticed by the way-side. 

Yet Philip Wychnor had his share of honour and repute. 
Every day his fame was growing ; but there was one differ- 
ence between his present life and his past. The work itself 
brought pleasure, at least that sense of duty fulfilled which 
is likest pleasure ; the mere fame brought none. He had 
no care whether it came or not. For two ends only is re- 
nown precious : for ambition's sake and for love's. Philip 
had neither ; life to him seemed now made not for happi- 
ness but for worthy toil He stood in the world's vineyard, 
not as a joyful gatherer of fruit, but as a labourer, patient 
and active, yet looking towards the day's close as towards 
its chiefest joy. 

Was then this brave heart, worthily struggling with and 
surmounting fate, utterly without memories of the sweet 
past ! Was it grown so indifferent that oblivion brought no 
pain ? Let many a fearful hour of suffering — in the dead of 
night, at intervals in the day's toil, or in seasons of good 
fortune wherein there was no sharer, and of fame become 
all joyless now — let these tell that the young man now 
mourned over his buried dream. Perchance this sorrow 
oppressed him even when on this night he sat in the dark- 


ness beside the' sick boy. Leigh's deep sleep left Philip's 
thoughts that liberty of range which is bliss to the happy 
— to the suffering, or those who have suffered, torture indeed. 
The young man sighed heavily many times. 

" Are you unhappy, Philip 1 " whispered a faint voice, and 
the damp fingers he held twined feebly round his own. 

" My dear Leigh ! I thought you were asleep." 

" No, not for some minutes ; but I fancied you were, 
until those deep sighs came. We never sigh when we are 
asleep, you know." 

" Very seldom : there is no sorrow in sleep," murmured 
PhUip, a^ if his words had a deeper sense than their appa- 
rent one. He had somehow caught a little of this habit of 
twofold speech from his constant associate and friend, David 

"What are you saying about sorrow 1" asked Leigh. 
" What have you been thinking of? Not that old grief of 
which you never speak ; and which, when I found out that 
it was in your heart, you said I could not understand ) I 
can understand many things better now ; perhaps I might 
this. And you often say I do you good at times." 

" Always, always, my boy ! Only let us talk of something 
else now. Be content, Leigh ; indeed I am so too, as con- 
tent as one can be in this sorrowful world." 

" Is it so sorrowful, this world of yours 1" 

" Why do you say * yours,^ Leigh ]" 

"Because — ^because — you know why, Philip;" and the 
voice became feebler, more solemn. There was no answer ; 
Philip could not breathe the lie of hope to the spirit which 
seemed already spreading its pure wings. Both were silent 
for awhile, but the mute handclasp between them appeared 
to say, "I go!" — "Yea, thou goest, blessed one!" — ^Leigh 
was the first who spoke. " I am not afraid, scarcely sorry — 
and yet, perhaps — O Philip J if you knew how often in the 
old times I wished, earnestly wished, that it might be thus 
with me — that I might get away from that dull life of 
torment. And now when the wish comes true, I sometimes 
have thought that I should like to stay a little longer, that 
I might do something to atone for these eighteen wasted 


years. You would not think me thus old, childish as I am 1 
yet, at times I feel so weary, so worn — ^it might have been 
a life of eighty years which I lay down. Then again, even 
when my body is weakest, my soul feels so clear and strong,' 
that I shrink from this coming quiet— this deep rest." 

"Not all rest," answered Philip, softly. "God never 
meant it so ; He, the Creator, the Sustainer, knows no idle 
repose. Neither shall we. His servants. We shall work 
His will — how, we cannot tell, but we shall do it, and rejoice 
in the doing. Think, Leigh, how glorious to pass from 
weakness to strength — from suffering to action ; perhaps to 
be Heaven's messengers throughout the wide universe ; 
feeling nearer Him, because, in one measure, we share His 
divinest attribute— that of dispensing good." 

In the darkness, Philip could not see the face of the almost 
dying boy ; but he felt the hand which he still held drawn 
nearer to its fellow, and both clapped as in prayer,— his own 
still between them. It seemed that even then Leigh could 
not relinquish the hand which had brought light into his 
darkness, and guided him on until he stood at the death- 
portal, looking thereon calmly and without fear. 

" This is so happy to hear ! " Leigh said, after a pause. 
" Philip, your words are like an angel's — they always were 
so to me ; and some time — not now, but you know when — 
will you tell my mother all this 1 and say how it was that 
I never spoke thus to her, because she could not bear it. 
But you will remember it all, and it will sound as if I said 
it — not in my poor, weak, childish words, but with the voice 
which I shall have then." Philip promised. A Httle while 
longer they talked mostly in this strain, and then the mother 
came in with a light. 

" How well Leigh looks to-night ! " she said. And truly 
there was a strange spiritual beauty over the boy's face. 
" He seems so quiet and happy ! You always do him good, 
Mr. Wychnor." 

And then through the open drawing-room door came Mrs. 
Frederick's titter, and her husband's loud chatter, while 
above all sounded Mr. Pennythome's decisive tone. 

" Cillie, my dear, don't forget to tell that excellent yourg 



man that we cannot do without him any longer ; send your 
ever-grumbling boy to bed, and ask Mr. Wychnor to come 
into the drawing-room." 

" Yes, do go, Philip," whispered Leigh, " it will please my 
father — ^he thinks so much of you now." He did indeed ; 
for Mr. Pennythorne was a very Ghebir in his way — he 
always turned worshippingly towards the rising sun. 

Philip assented — as he would have done to any wish 
of poor Leigh's. After an affectionate good night, and a 
promise to come next day, he passed from the sick boy's 
room, the solemn ante-chamber of death, into the world — 
the hollow, frivolous world,-— of Mr. Pennythorne. 



Many waters cannot quencli love, neither can the floods drown it. . . . 
For love is strong as death : jealousy as cruel as the grave. 


Let us follow Wychnor where his presence was so ener- 
getically demanded. In the drawing-room of Blank-square 
no one could be more abundantly welcomed than he. Mr. 
Pennythome now delighted to honour his "very clever 
young friend," and told to everybody, the story of Philip's 
first coming to London with the introduction to himself. 
He would probably repeat the same, with additions, for the 
benefit and instruction of every young man whom he chose 
to patronise for the next year. 

"Happy to see you, my dear Norwych — Wychnor, I 
mean," said Mr. Pennytliorne, correcting himself; since the 
amusing sobriquet which he had conferred on the poor tutor 
was hardly respectful enough to the rising author. " Here 
we are all striving to get through the evening : Fred is more 
sleepy than ever, and my fair daughter-in-law evidently- 
thinking she has entered into the dullest family party of the 
three kingdoms." 

" Oh dear no, Mr. Pennythorne," disclaimed Isabella, who 
got on extremely well with her husband's father. She was 
treated by him with great consideration, through the defer- 
ential mockery of which she was not acute enough to pene- 
trate. She really liked him the best of the family, and 
pronounced him to be "a most amusing old fellow." " I 
assure you, Mr. Wychnor, we have been laughing amazingly. 
Mr. Pennythome is so droll," said she, striving by this 
address to bring the young man in closer approximation to 



her chair. But Philip only made some ordinary reply, and 
sat down at the other end of the table, considering what 
excuse he could frame to make his stay to-night in this 
interesting family circle as brief as possible. 

Mr. Pennythome led the conversation, as he always did 
— shooting his small popguns of wit to the infinite amuse- 
ment of Mrs. Frederick, who was nevertheless considerably 
annoyed that all the attentions paid her came from her 
elderly papa-in-law, and none from his young guest. Philip 
sat more silent and quiet than usual, until Mrs. Pennythorne 
came, and then he rose up to secure her an arm-chair. 

" He never did that for me in his life, the bear," thought 
Isabella. It was, perhaps, rather a fault in Philip's manners 
that his courtesies, and his feelings always went together in 
their expression. 

"How does Leigh seem nowl" asked he, addressing the 
mother, who was so accustomed to the young man's kindly 
attentions that she took them with less nervousness and 
shyness from him than any one else, and requited the respect 
he showed her, to which, poor woman ! she was little used, 
with a most grateful regard. 

" Leigh is really better to-night ; you have quite bright- 
ened him up, Mr. Wychnor, for he was so dull all day." 

" Pray choose some metre interesting subject, CilHe, my 
dear," sharply interposed Mr. Pennythome. " Leigh thinks 
far too much of himself already ; and you coax him into 
imagining himself ill, because it looks interesting. That is 
always the way with women and mothers, but it will not do 
in my family. Of course, nothing of consequence is the 
matter with Leigh." The father spoke quickly, almost 
angrily ; but there was an uneasy restlessness in his manner, 
which Philip had often discerned of late, when the boy was 
mentioned ; and the piteous look of Mrs. Pennythome 
checked the answer that was rising indignantly to the young 
man's lips. There was a constrained silence. Then Mrs. 
Frederick, quitting her husband, who was dropping fast to 
sleep again — his usual habit of proving that Sunday was 
indeed a day of rest — ^made another effort to draw Philip 
into conversation. 


" I was quite anxious to meet you to-night, Mr. Wychnor, 
as I have a message to you from a friend of yours, my 
cousin" — ^Philip turned a little — "my cousin, Hugh Ogilvie." 
The remark only brought an assenting bow, and a hope, 
very laconically expressed, that Mr. Ogilvie was quite well 

"Certainly; how could he be otherwise with a young 
bride to take care of him ?" tittered Isabella : " and by-the- 
by, the message comes conjointly from her, which must be 
very flattering, as all the men think my cousin Katharine 
the most bewitching creature in the world. But perhaps 
you have met herl" 

" I have," answered Philip. He remembered but too well 
how and where was that meeting. 

" Oh I of course you did— that night, at Mrs. Lancaster's. 
A delightful party, was it not ] though no one then thought 
how soon my nice little bridesmaid would become a bride. 
Well, Mr. Wychnor, she and her husband were inquiring 
after you the other day, and desired me to say, how happy 
they will be to see you at the Regent's Park. They have 
the sweetest villa in the world, and are, or ought to be, as 
happy as two doves in a cage." Philip bowed again, and 
muttered some acknowledgment of the " kind invitation." 

" There never was such a stupid young man," thought 
Isabella ; adding aloud, " Hugh told me also to say, that 
shortly they expected a visit from his sister, Eleanor. He 
says you know her ?" Andther silent assent — ^but no deeper 
pallor could show the icy coldness that crept through every 
fibre of Philip's frame. Sudden delicious tremblings, quick 
changes of colour, are the tokens of love's hopeful dawn, — 
love's sorrowful after-life knows none of these. Philip sat 
still — ^he would have " died and made no sign." 

**The fellow is positively rude — he might be made of 
stone," muttered the young wife, as she turned indignantly 
away, and relieved her feelings by pulling the hair of her 
sleeping husband, with a pretty gamesomeness that made 
her father-in-law laugh. 

" Does the light annoy you, Mr. Wychnor 1 This cam- 
phine is always too dull or too bright," said Mrs. Penny- 
thome. ** Shall I move the lamp, if it pains your eyes 1 " 


** Oh no, not at all — ^that is, it does a little," Philip an- 
swered, hastily removing the hand with which he had been 
shading his face. " My eyes are weak. I think I sit up too 
late and work too much." 

" You do not look quite well, indeed ; " and Mrs. Penny- 
thome regarded him with an almost motherly gaze. " You 
should invariably go to bed at eleven, as I always told poor 
Leigh." Here, she checked a sigh, and glanced fearfully to 
her husband. He was performing a few practical jokes on 
his drowsy eldest-bom, to the extreme delight of that son's 
wife, who treated her spouse with about as much respect, 
and not half as much attention, as she showed to her pet 

" I will come and see Leigh soon. And perhaps I had 
better follow your kind advice, Mrs. Pennythome ; so I will 
bid you good night at once," said Philip, rising. Here, 
however, Mr. Pennythome put in his veto. " What! running 
away so soon 1 Nonsense, my dear young friend. Sit down 
again. Cillie, ring for the supper at once." Certainly, with 
all his shortcomings. Pierce Pennythome never failed in 
hospitality. But Philip resisted successfully, and made his 
adievx. He had gained the hall, when Mr. Pennythome 
summoned him back. 

" There was something I wanted to say to you, only the 
lively and amusing conversation of my gifted daughter-in-law 
here quite put it out of my head. Pray, Mr. Wychnor, 
among the numberless invitations which must throng upon 
a gentleman of your standing, are you disengaged on Thurs- 
day % " Philip said he was. 

" Then will you dine here 1 In fact, I want you to meet 
a particular friend of n^jne, a very talented young man — 
immense fortune — estates here, there, everywhere;" and 
Mr. Pennythome nodded his head to the four points of the 
compass. At which Frederick winked slily — his usual 
custom to signify that his revered parent was drawing the 

" I should be most happy, but " 

" I will take no huts, my dear Wychnor. I want you 
particularly, as my friend is thinking of entering the House, 


and wishes to stand for a borough near that worthy old city 

of cats and canons, L , You, of course, having lived 

there, as you once mentioned, know all about the place, and 
can give him the infonnation he requires. Pray do us the 

** I shall be glad to serve any friend of yours, Mr. Penny- 
thorne," said Philip, longing to escape. 

" Then we may expect you. Indeed, you will be of im- 
mense service to my friend, if you can tell him the state of 

politics and parties in shire. He wishes to settle in 

England, but he knows not a jot about English affairs, and 
is only just come to town from a long residence on the 
Continent. You'll like him very much — there is not a 
more perfect gentleman anywhere than Mr. Paul Lynedon." 

" Paul L3medon ; '* echoed Philip. 

" Yes ; do you know the name 1 " 

" I have heard it. But I am keeping you standing in the 
hall. Good evening, Mr. Pennythome." 

"Good evening. Eemember — Thursday, at six." The 
young man muttered some answer about being "very happy," 
that white lie of society ! But Philip hardly knew what he 
said or did. When he had fairly quitted the house and its 
atmosphere of torture for the cool night air, he leaned 
against the railings, trembling all over. 

Paul Lynedon in London ! Eleanor coming shortly 1 It 
was all as plain as light. K not married, they were cer- 
tainly about to be. This truth came as the only possible 
answer to his letter — to another wild, imploring letter he 
had written since. The only reply to both was silence. 
Then his manhood topk up arms — and he wrote no more. 
He believed, or tried to believe, that he had lost her. But, 
now meeting the tangible fact, it caused him to writhe 
beneath an almost insupportable agony — an agony which 
he had supposed was deadened and seared within him. To 
meet these happy ones, face to face I To be called upon to 
serve the man who had won his heart's treasure — ^the love 
of Eleanor Ogilvie ! 

He could not do it ! He would leave London — he would 
hide himself out of their sight ; and in some lonely place he 


would pray Heaven to comfort him, and to cast oat &om 
his riven heart the very ashes of this bitter love. He 
thought he had trodden it down with his firm will, his 
patience, his proud sense of duty ; and yet here it was, 
bursting up afresh in torturing and burning flames ! He 
wrestled with it — ^he sped on with rapid strides through the 
loneliest streets — ^he bared his head, that the fresh May 
breeze might pierce with loving coohiess into his brain — and 
yet he was hajf-maddened still ! 

It is a fearful thing — this gathering up of the love of 
boyhood, youth, and manhood, into one absorbing passion, 
which is life or death. Men in general rarely know it ; the 
sentiment comes to them in successive and various forms — 
a dream of romance and poetry, an intoxication of sense, a 
calm, tender esteem ; but when all these failings are merged 
into one — ^felt through life for one object only — ^then, what 
woman's devotion, faithful and tender though it be, is like 
the love of man 1 

Philip reached his home utterly exhausted in body and 
mind. His brain seemed flooded with a dull heavy pain, 
and yet he must lie down and try to make it calm, ready 
for a long day of labour on the morrow. He must forget 
the real in the ideal — ^he must write on ! No matter what 
were his own heart-tortures — ^he must sit down and calmly 
analyse the throbbings of the wild pulse of humanity as 
displayed in the world of imagination. Perhaps both lives, 
that of brain and heart, would unconsciously mingle into 
one, and men would marvel at the strange truth to nature 
— ^not knowing that every ideal line had been written with 
real throes of agony, and that each word had gleamed before 
his eyes as though his soul had inscribed it with a light- 
ning-pen. — Poor Philip ! Heaven only knows through 
what martyr-fires souls like thine ascend to immortal fame ! 



Go not away 1 Oh, leave me not alone I 
I yet would see the light within thine eyes ; 

I yet would hear thy voice's heavenl|r tone ; 
Oh, leave me not, whom most on earth I prize ! 

Go not away ! — ^yet ah ! dark shades I see 
Creep o'er thy brow — thou goest ; but give thy hand ! 

Must it be so ? Then go ! I follow thee 

Unto the Silent Land.— Fredrika Bremer. 

So, life b loss, and death felicitie ! — Spenser. 

In the morning Philip Wychnor was labouring as usual at 
his daily work ; for it was work— real work— though he 
loved it welL He applied himself to it day after day, not 
waitmg for inspiration, as few writers can afford to do, but 
sedulously training his mind to its duties, until he roamed 
among the beautiful regions of imagination like a man who 
wanders in his own pleasant garden, having first taken the 
proper measure of walking to its gate and bringing the key. 
Philip on this day began his work with a desperate 
energy. He could not stay musing, he dared not ; he fled 
from the spectre that memory conjured up. Thought 
battled against thought. He worked his brain almost to 
suffering, that he might deaden the pain which gnawed at 
his heart Nor was this the first time he had need to be 
thankful for that blessed dream-life, that second existence, 
which brings obKvion for the sorrows of the real world. A 
space smce, and we pitied the poor toiler in literature, 
obliged to rack his tortured brain in despite of inward 
troubles. We look at him now, and see how he grows calm 
and brave-hearted, as, by the power of a strong yill, he 
passes from his own small world of personal suffering into 


the grand world wherein the author sits godlike, forming as 
it were out of nothing new heavens and a new earth. Shall 
we pity this true man, who stands nearer to the Heavenly 
Maker than other men, because he also can create 1 Eather 
let us behold him with reverence — ^almost with envy — ^for he 
drinks of the truest, holiest Lethe, where self is swallowed 
up in the universal If at times the shadow of his own 
bitter thought is thrown across the wave, it appears there 
in an image so spiritualised that he can look on it without 
pain. In the deep calm of those pure waters, it only seems 
like a light cloud between him and heaven. 

When Philip had written for a few hours, there came a 
message from the Penny thomes — or, rather, from Mrs. 
Pennythome — saying that Leigh felt so much better, and 
longed for a drive with his dear friend, Mr. Wychnor. The 
mother could not go with Leigh herself, and could trust him 
to no one but Philip, whom she entreated to come to the 
square at once. This was repugnant enough to the young 
man. He would fain fly from eveiy plaxje where he might 
hear the sound of Paid Lynedon's name. And yet, poor 
Leigh ! At the thought of him all these earth-feelings grew 
dim; they melted away into nothing before the awful 
shadow of Death. Philip laid aside his work, and was soon 
by the side of the sick boy. 

" How good of you to come ! But you are always good," 
said Leigh. 

" Indeed he is ! I cannot tell what we should do without 
Mr. Wychnor," thankfully cried Mrs. Pennythome. — Philip 
pressed the hands of both, but did not speak. They little 
thought what deep emotion struggled in his hearth — that 
poor torn heart — ^which, still madly loving, found itself alone 
and unloved. Yet their few words fell upon it like balm ; 
it was sweet to feel that even now he was of use, and 
precious to some one in the wide, desolate world. 

" Leigh may take a little longer drive to-day, for Mrs. 
Frederick does not want the carriage. I wish I were going 
with you both," sighed the mother ; " but Mr. Pennythome 
does not like being left alone when he is writing." 

" Cillie ! Cillie I are you going to stay in Leigh's room 


all day 1 " resounded from the study door. Poor Mrs. Penny- 
thome cast a hopeless glance at Philip, hastily kissed her 
boy, and disappeared in a moment. — Leigh looked after her 
wistfully. " I wish my father would let her stay with me 
a little more. She would like it now, and — afterwards / 
But she is a good, dear mother ! and she knows I think so. 
Be sure you tell her that I did, Philip." Wychnor pressed 
the boy's hand : it was a strange and touching thing, this 
calm mingling of death with life in Leigh's thoughts and 
words. He was silent a minute, and then went on in a 
cheerful tone, " You must let me remain out a good while 
to-day, I feel so strong ; and perhaps I might stay a little 
later, to watch the sunset I never can see it from my 
room, you know ; which seems rather hard, now the evenings 
are so beautiful and spring-like." 

Philip soothed him as an elder brother might have done, 
and promised all, provided he felt strong enough. Then he 
took Leigh in his arms like a child, and carried him down 
stairs to the gay carriage. What different occupants were 
the fluttering, fashionable young wife, and the poor sick 
boy, who lay half-buried in cloaks and cushions! Yet 
Leigh lifted up his head with a cheerful look when Mrs. 
Pennythome appeared at a window to give her parting nod 
as they drove away. Philip saw the bright loving smile 
that passed between mother and son — he thought of it after- 
wards many a time. 

" Now, where shall we go 1" was the first question pro- 
posed, as they drove along the interminable Kensington 

Leigh pleaded for some quiet road : — ^he wanted to go far 
out into the country, to that beautiful lane which runs along 
by the river-side at Chiswick. He had been there once at 
the beginning of his illness, and had often talked of the place 
since. It haunted him, he said, with its overhanging trees, 
and the river-view breaking in between them — its tiny wave- 
lets all sparkling in the sun. He knew it would look just 
the same this calm, bright May afternoon. So accordingly 
they went thither. It was one of those spring days when 
the earth seems to rest from her joyful labour of budding 
and blossoming, and to be dreaming of summer. The birds 


in the trees — the swans in the water — the white clouds in 
the sky — ^were alike still ; and upon all things had fallen 
the spell of a blessed silence — b, silence full of happiness, 
hope, and love. "Happiness, hope, love," — what words, 
what idle words they would sound, unto the two who were 
passing slowly under the shadow of the trees ! Oh, Earth, 
beau Jol, cruel mother, how canst thou smUe with a face 
SO fair when sorrow or death is on thy children ! But the 
Earth answers softly, " I smile with a calm and changeless 
smile, to tell my frajl children that if in me, made but for 
their use, is such ever-renewed life and joy, shall it not be 
so with them 1 And even while they gaze upon me, I pour 
into their hearts my deep peace ! " It was so with Philip 
and Leigh. They sat sUent, hand in hand, and looked ou 
this beautiful scene : from both, the bitterness passed away — 
the bitterness of life, and that .of death. Which was the 
greater 1 

On the bridge at Kew, Leigh spoke. He begged that the 
carriage might rest a moment to let him look at the sunset, 
which was very lovely. He half lifted himself up, and the 
large brown eyes seemed drinking in all the beauty that was 
in land, river, and sky — they rested longest there. Then 
they turned to meet Philip's : that mute gaze between the 
two was full of solemn meaning. 

"Are you content!" whispered Philip. 

" Yes, quite ; now let us go home." Leigh's eyes closed, 
and his voice grew faint. 

" You seem tired," said the other, anxiously. 

"Yes, a little. Take me home soon, will you, Philip?" 
His head drooped on the young man's shoulder heavily — 
so heavily, that Philip signed to the coachman to drive on 
at his utmost speed. Then he put his arm round the boy, 
who lay with closed eyes, his white cheek looking grey and 
sunken in the purple evening light Once Philip spoke; 
almost trembling lest no answer should come. 

" Are you quite easy, dear Leigh 1" — ^The eyes opened 
and the lips parted with a faint smile. " Yes, thank you, 
only weary ; I can hardly keep awake, but I must till I have 
seen my mother." And still the dying head sank heavier 

xxxvil] the OGiLViEa 283 

on Philip's shoulder, and the hands which he drew in his 
to warm them were already growing damp and rigid. He 
sat with this solemn burden in his arms, and the carriage 
drove homewards until they entered the square. The mother 
stood at the door ! 

"Take her away, for Grod's sake — only one minute," 
whispered Philip to the servant ; but she had sprung already 
to the carriage. 

" Leigh ! — how is my darling Leigh 1" Her voice seemed 
to pierce even through the shadows of another world and 
reach the dying boy : he opened his eyes and smiled tenderly 
upon her. 

** Leigh is tired, almost asleep," said Philip, hastily. 
" Take the cushion, Mrs. Pennythome, and I will carry him 
in." She obeyed without a word, but her face grew deadly 
white, and her hands trembled. When the boy was placed, 
as he seemed to wish, in his mother's arm-chair, she came 
and knelt before him, looking into his face. There was a 
shadow there. She saw it, and felt that the time was come 
when not even the mother could stand between her child 
and Death. Philip thought she would have shrieked, or 
fainted, but she did neither. She only gazed into the dim 
eyes with a wildly beseeching gaze. 

"Mother — ^you will let me soV murmured Leigh. She 
drew a long igh. as if repressing an agony so terrible that 
the struggle was like that of a soul parting ; and then said, 
" Yes, my darling 1 " 

He smiled — ^what a heaven is there in the happy smile 
of the dying ! and suflfered her fond ministering hands, — 
unwilling even yet to give up their long tendance, — to un- 
fasten the cloak and put the wine to his lips. Then she sat 
down beside him, laid his head on her bosom, and awaited 
— O mighty strength of a mother's love ! — awaited, tear- 
less and calm, the passing away of the life which she had 

"He is quite content — quite happy — ^he told me so," 
Philip whispered in her ear. She turned round one moment 
with a startled air : " Yes, yes, I know. Hush I " And she 
bent down again over her child, whose faint lips seemed 


trying to frame, scarcely louder than a sigh, the last word, 
'' Mother r 

Then there fell over the room a solemn silence, long and 
deep — in the loidst of which the spirit passed. They only 
knew that it was so, when, as the moon rose, the pale 
spiritual light fell on the face of the dead boy, still pillowed 
on the mother's breast. She turned and looked upon it 
without a cry or a moan, so beautiful, so heavenly was it ! 
At that moment, had they put to her the question of old, 
" Is it well with the child 1" she would have answered like 
the Shimamite, " It is well ! " 

" God help her 1 " murmured Philip "Wychnor, as she at 
last suffered him to take the beloved form from her arms, 
and carry it, for the last time, to " Leigh's room." Ere the 
young man left the chamber — once the scene of suffering 
and pain, now of holy peace and death-slumber — ^he looked 
long and earnestly at the white still image before him. 
Then he turned away ; and thought no more of the dead 
likeness of what poor Leigh had been, but of the now free, 
glorious, rejoicing soul. 

As he passed down stairs, a quick loud knock sounded at 
the door — it was his father's, who knew not that he came 
to a house of death. 

" Cillie, my dear ! Eh, what's this ? Where's Mrs. Penny- 
thomef he said, in his sharpest tones, as he missed the 
customary meeting at the door. Philip advanced, and drew 
the old man into the parlour. 

" Ah, Mr. Wychnor ! quite a surprise to see you, but de- 
lighted," he began, in his usual manner. " Cillie ! Where 
can she be 1 Cillie, my dear 1 " Then, startled by Philip's 
silence, he stopped. 

" Mrs. Pennythome is up stairs," the young man said, in a 
low and hesitating tone. 

" Eh % oh, of course she is — with Leigh." 

" No ; Leigh does not need her now. Mr. Pennythome, 
your son is dead ! " But the next moment he repented for 
thus abruptly communicating the tidings. 

The old man caught at him with an incredulous gesture. 
" You — ^you fancy things — they always did " 


Philip looked at him without answering. 

" my God ! " He fell into a chair, speechless. 

For many minutes did the old man sit there immovable. 
His grief was so terrible, in its pent-up, stony strength, that 
Philip dared not breathe a word of consolation. At last 
Mr. Pennythome raised his head, though without looking 
up, and murmured the name of his wife. 

" Shall I call her ] " 

" Yes." 

She came in that instant. She had been waiting at the 
door, not daring to approach him even then. But now she 
drew near to her husband — ^woman-like, wife-like. She laid 
his head on her shoulder, and for the first time in his life he 
clang to her — feeling that she, in all her weakness, was yet 
stronger than he. 

"Come with me, Pierce," she whii^ered, and led him 
away ; he following her as unresisting as a child. 

What passed between the desolate parents none of the 
household knew. They remained shut up together in their 
own room for hours — nay, for days — all the time that the 
dead lay in the little chamber above. They saw no one — 
at least he did not — ^though Mrs. Penny thorne passed in and 
out now and then, to give any needful orders. She did all 
with a new-born firmness and energy marvellous to witness. 
Philip Wychnor, who once or twice saw her for a few mo- 
ments when she descended to the silent, darkened parlour 
below, unconsciously spoke to her with a strange reverence 
and tenderness, as to one of those women who are God's 
angels upon eartL 

In a few days the burial-train passed from the door, its 
stately array — ^vain mockery ! — ^moving down the square in 
the bright sunshine ; and the house of the Penny thomes was 
childless evermore. 



The tongae was intended for a divine organ, bat the devil often 
plays upon it. — Jeremy Taylor. 

How much have cost us the evils that have never happened 1 


. . . Quiet thyself until time try the truth, and it may be thy fear 
will prove greater than thy misfortune. — Southwell. 

" Are you at home this evening, Wychnor 1 " said a 
friendly voice, when Philip sat leaning on his desk in a 
thoughtful mood. He looked up and saw at the door the 
face of old David Drysdale. 

" Certainly — to you always, my good friend." 

" But I mean, is there any need for that amusing fiction 
at which society smilingly connives 1 Is your mind really 
* at home,' as well as your body 1 Are you quite dis- 
engaged ] " 

" Yes, I have done my work for to-day. Pray come in, 
Mr. Drysdale, and be very welcome." 

" Have you more welcomes than one to give away ? " 
pursued Drysdale, still holding the door-handle ; " because I 
am not alone.'* 

" Any friend of yours I shall be happy to see," began 
Philip, in the usual conventional form. 

" Nonsense ! " interrupted the old man ; " I thought I had 
cured you of that fashion of polite speaking. Besides, friends 
are about as plentiful as blackberries in London — ^I may 
say that with great truth, you know. This gentleman is 
only an acquainta/nce of mine, who wishes to become one of 

" And a little more than that, I hope, in time," continued a 


voice behind. It was so sweetly modulated — so perfectly 
the tone and accent of that rare personage, a gentleman — 
that Philip looked eagerly to the speaker, who added, ^^ Shall 
I introduce myself, Mr. Wychnor, as my friend here seems 
rather to disown mel" And that beautiful, irresistible 
smile broke over his face, making one forget that it was not 
strictly handsome. " My name is Lynedon — ^Paul Ljmedon." 

Philip had guessed it before, yet he could not suppress a 
start. Once again there came that torturing pain; the 
blood seemed ice-bound in his hearty and then flowed back 
again in fire. He must be calm. He was so. The next 
moment he forced himself to utter acknowledgment and 
welcome to the man whom Eleanor loved. 

He could not wonder that she did so, now. He looked 
on the finely-moulded form, where to natural grace was 
added all that ease of movement and courtly elegance which 
polished society bestows ; the intellectual head, whose sharp, 
clear-cut, though somewhat worn and sallow features were 
softened by a mouth and chin most exquisite in shape and 
expression. And then the voice, that index of the heart, 
how musical it was ! Philip's eye and ear took in all this ; 
and even while a sense of self-abasement made his heart die 
within him, he felt glad — thankful. She had not cast 
away her love upon one mean and unworthy : her choice 
was not such as to lower her in his eyes — ^he could bear 
anything but that ! 

" I have been wishing for this pleasure some time, Mr. 
Wychnor,'' said Paul, with that mixture of frankness and 
courtesy which formed the great charm of his | manner ; 
" you seem anything but unknown to me — not merely from 
your writings, which I will not be so rude as to discourse 
upon here " 

" Eight, Mr. Lynedon," put in David Drysdale ; " it is 
very annoying when a stranger follows up his introduction 
by taking your soul to pieces and setting it up before your 
eyes, until in most instances you despise it yourself, after it 
has been handled by the dirty paws of a fooL Glad to see 
you have more sense and tact than that, sir." 

^^ Thank you ! " answered Lynedon, with a pleasant smile 


and bow, as he turned round again to Philip. " After this, 
I suppose I must say no more about the knowledge I have 
gained of you from your writings — which is, nevertheless, 
the true way of becoming acquainted with a man. In the 
world we have so many various outward selves." 

" Humph ! we oughtn't to have, though ! " muttered 
Drysdale, still taking the answer out of Philip's mouth. 
He did not know how thankful the young man was for the 

"Perhaps so," continued Lynedon, politely, and still 
turning to his silent host. " But in numberless ways, too, 
I have heard so much of you — ^from Mr. Pennythome, and 
— in several other quarters." Philip changed colour, and 
began to talk hastily about the Pennythomes. 

" I believe I was invited to meet you at Blank-square, 
Mr. Lynedon, only for the trouble that intervened." 

"Ah, yes! — some death in the family. Have they 
recovered from the melancholy event?'' said Paul. But 
though his face was composed to a decent gravity, the tone 
was not quite sincere. 

" I knew they would kill that lad — the youngest, was it 
not 1 He was a clever fellow. I dare say you miss him, 
Wychnor?" observed old David. 

" I do, indeed." 

" What a good-for-nothing wretch and idiot the father has 
been ! I wish I had told him so," cried Drysdale, indig- 

" Hush ! you would forgive him if you saw him now," 
Philip gently interposed ; and then he spoke more about 
Leigh, to which Drysdale listened, while Paul Lynedon sat 
twirling his cane, trying to assume the same interest. He 
did not do it so well as usual, though; for Wychnor 
detected his abstraction, and apologised. 

" You knew nothing, I believe, of this poor lost friend 
of mine ; so the conversation cannot be very interesting to 

"Indeed you mistake," answered the other. Lynedon 
would not have been considered unfeeling on any account. 
Besides, he had taken much pains to collect evidence con- 


ceming the character of the young author, who was likely 
to be useful to him in many ways, and whose supposed 
connection with that little episode of his life concerning 
Eleanor Ogilvie had entirely slipped from his easy memory. 
Determined to please, he was now exerting in every way his 
own favourite talent of being "all things to all men." 
Paul often thought this was the wisest thing his saintly 
namesake ever said, and congratulated himself rather 
irreverently on the presumed resemblance between them. 
He failed here, however ; since Wychnor came to the point 
in his own candid way by saying at once, 

" I conclude the reason assigned by Mr. Pennythorne 
for our meeting at his house will fijrther explain this 
obliging visit of yours, Mr. Lynedpn ; and as the matter is 
no secret, I believe, let me tell you with what pleasure I 
would have aided your views had I been able. 

" Aided his views ! So Jie had some views 1 He never 
told me anything about t]iepi!" said Drysdale, with a 
degree of simplicity that made Lyijedon internally wish him 
at that " central fire," the investigation of which formed the 
old philosopher's present hpbby. "I thougjit you came 
here only to see the young aiithor, of whom you said you 
had heard so much?" 

. " Certainly that was my chief inducement. Ypii only do 
me justice, my worthy friend." And Paul smiled — still 
courteously as ever — but immediately tried to free himself 
from a rather awkward predicament by turning {)hp conversa- 
tion to his plans with regard to shire. 

"You resided there, I believe 1 A beautiful county! 
There is none in England where I should qo much wish to 
make my home." 

Philip bent his head, and his fingers playpcj convulsively 
with the p^,pers on his desk. 

" So," said Drysdale, " in plaii^ English, you want to 
stand for the boropgh of L— -^ — . Pennythorne said so. 
And you need Wychnor's knowledge of the town. Haven't 
you any friends there yourself ? " 

"No — ^yes." And Paul looked rather confused, being 
struck with the sudden possibility that Mr. Wychnor might 



have been informed of certiain old follies, the very thought 
of which brought a dye of shame to his cheek Philip saw- 
it ; it seemed to his eyes the consciousness of happy love, 
and his very soul writhed within him. 

These strangely diverse feelings inclined both the young 
men to the same course. Each instinctively glided from 
the subject, and sought refuge in safe generalities. The 
conversation became of a broken, indifferent, skirmishing 
description, natural to two men, each of whom is bent upon 
concealing his own thoughts and discovering thpse of his 
companion. In this Paul Lynedon succeeded best ; he was 
a far greater adept than Philip Wychnor. He talked well 
— at times brilliantly — ^but still even to the most earnest 
subjects he seemed to render only lip-service, and always 
appeared to consider more the effect of his words than the 
words themselves. He and David Drysdale almost en- 
grossed the conversation ; but once or twice, in some of his 
finest sentences, Paul stopped, and wondered why the eyes 
of Philip Wychnor were so earnestly fixed upon him. He 
did not like their scrutiny at all. 

After a space, Mr. Lynedon, growing rather wearied, 
remembered that all this while his cab was waiting in the 
street, and that he had an important engagement — " at the 
Eegent's Park " — which was the first place he happened to 
think of. As the chance word passed his careless lips those 
of Philip Wychnor quivered and grew pale. Eegent's 
Park ! — It was to all his doubts confirmation strong. 

Paul Lynedon's adieu was full of the most friendly cour- 
tesy. He thanked his new acquaintance warmly for all his 
kindness — "the kindness which he intended to show," as 
Drysdale commented rather pointedly — and said, how glad 
and proud he should be to number among his friends Mr. 
Philip Wychnor. Perhaps he felt the greater part of what 
he expressed ; for no one ever looked at the young author 
without a feeling of interest and regard. 

" You will be sure to come and see «ie soon," said Paul, 
holding out his hand. For the moment Philip drew back 
his own ; but the act was unseen in the half-darkened room. 
With a violent effort he repressed his feelings, and suffered, 


rather than returned, the grasp of Lynedon. When the 
door closed on his visitor, Philip sighed as though a 
mountain had been lifted from his breast. He almost forgot 
the presence of Drysdale. 

At length the latter roused himself from a brown study 
of some minutes* duration with — 

'^ It's of no use. I can't make out that young man at all. 
Can you V* 

"II Who V* asked Philip, startled out of his own silent 

" Paul Ljmedon, of course. I should like to anatomise 
him — ^that is, his soul. What an interesting psychological 
study it would make ! " 

"Would iti" said Philip, absently. 

" Yes, certainly I I have been trying the experiment my- 
self for some days. Having nearly come to the end of the 
abstract sciences, I intend to begin the grand science of man, 
and my first subject shall be Paul Lynedon. What do you 
think of him]" 

Philip said firmly, " He seems a clever man, and is doubt- 
less as good as he looks." 

" There's the thing ! As he looks — as he seems 1 I have 
never yet been able to say, as he is. He puzzles me, just 
like the old fable of the chameleon. View him at different 
times, and he appears of different colours ; and yet you can't 
say he changes his skin — 'tis the same animal after alL 
The change is but the effect of the lights through which he 
passes. To-night he seemed quite different from the 
individual whom I had the honour of meeting yesterday at 
Mrs. Lancaster's. Yet I don't believe Paul Lynedon is 
either a liar or a hypocrite; it could not be so, with his 
head." And David, who was a phrenologist as well as a 
physiogomist, indulged his young friend with a long dis- 
course, which we shall skip over. 

"The question lies here," continued Drysdale, energeti- 
cally, " Is he a true man, or is he not 1 I can't say which 
at present ; only I think this, that if not true he might 
have been made so. Some people go swinging unsteadily 
through life with a sort of pendulum character, and yet 


they are composed of tolerably sound metal after all, if you 
can but get hold of them. Nobody, I think, has ever taken 
this firm grasp of Paul Lynedon ; I mean, no one has ever 
had influence enough over him to cause him to he what he 
now only tries to seem. Don't you think so ! 

Philip had listened with an eagerness so intense that it 
became positive suflfering. He did not believe all Drysdale 
said — he would not believe it. The Paul Lynedon of the 
world was nothing to him : the Paul Lynedon whom Eleanor 
had chosen — whom Elemwr would marry — he compelled 
himself to think these very words — was the most vital 
interest he had in life. To doubt of this man's worthiness 
gave him an acute pang. He would satisfy himself: steel- 
ing his heart to aU lower feelings, he would not shrink from 
Lynedon, but seek to know him thoroughly. 

" You do not answer. Do you agree with me V* asked 
Drysdale, when, having talked himself fairly out of breath, 
he leaned b^ck, intently contemplating the quaint flickering 
shadows which the street-lamp produced on the wall of the 
yet unlighted room. 

" All you say is quite true, I doubt not," answered Philip ; 
" still I cannot speak positively upon any evidence but my 
own judgment and knowledge of the man." 

"Bravo, Wychnor! Caution very large, and conscien- 
tiousness likewise. J always said so," cried the old man, 
gently tapping his own head with his forefinger in the two 
spots indicated by phrenologists as the seats of those qualities. 
" But the evidence you allude to is just what I want you to 
get, and that — I may as well say so at once, being no hand 
at hiding anything — ^that W2^s the chief reason why I brought 
Lynedon to you, even more than his own wish of knowing 
you. Perhaps you might do him some good if you tried." 

" I wish I could, God knows ! " cried Philip, earnestly — 
so earnestly, that Drysdale first looked surprised, and then 
rose with a sudden impulse to pat his young favourite's 
shoulder in a manner expressive of the most genuine 
approval, saying affectionately, 

" Well, I knew you were a kind-hearted, generous fellow 
as ever breathed. Perhaps I never should have thought it 


xxxvhl] the ogilvies. 293 

worth my while to stady man at all if you had not attracted 
me to the science. Now, about Paul Lynedon — are you 
listening to mel" 

" Yes, my good friend, with all my heart.*' 
" Well, do you see that lamp shining through your muslin 
curtain, what fantastic sliadows it casts? I can trace a 
diflferent shape on the wall every time I come here. But if 
there were no lamp, mind, there wouldn't be any shadow at 
all. Now the lamp may stand for Paul Lynedon's soul, the 
curtain, always assuming different folds, for his outward 
character, modified by temperament, circumstance, or educar 

tion. And what I want you to do is just this" 

Suiting the action to the word, he gently and slowly drew 
the curtain aside, and the broad, full light illumined the 
whole wall. 

«I wHl do so, with heaven's blessing !" cried Wychnor. 
" For her sake ! for her sake ! " he murmured in his heart, 
which knew not how needless was the vow. 



He was justly accotmted a skilfol poisoner who destroyed his victims 
by bouquets of lovely and fragrant flowers. The art has not been lost ; 
nay, it is practised every day by — ^the world ! — Bishop Latimer. 

Take heed — ^we are passionate ! Our milk of love 

Doth turn to wormwood, and that's bitter drinking ! 

If that ye cast us to the winds — the winds 

Will give us their unruly, restless nature ; 

"We whirl, and whirl, and where we settle, Fazio, 

But He who ruleth the mad winds can know. — Milman. 

It will perhaps throw some light on the peculiarities of 
Lynedon's character, when we relate that he did actually 
drive to the Regent's Park to fulfil his long-standing and 
important engagement with — ^the trees. Whether this was 
done as a conscience-salve, or as a safeguard against any 
chance that might betray to Wychnor the insincerity of his 
excuse, is needless to explain. Probably the act was com- 
pounded of both motives. 

He was not quite satisfied with his visit From it he had 
expected much, having some time previously listened with 
too credulous ears to Mr. Pennythome's grandiloquent 
description of the immense connection " his excellent friend 

Wychnor " possessed among the county families in shire. 

Added thereto, Paul had a faint recollection of seeing the 
name Wychnor on some monument or other during his walk 

through L Cathedral with Eleanor Ogilvie. He felt 

vexed that his own foolish sensitiveness about that ridiculous 
alTair should have made him change the subject without tiying 
to discover from Philip his chances as M.P. for the city of 

L . For he had quite determined to plunge into public 

life, as the only resource against the ennui that was creeping 
over him. And, being now some years past thirty, he had 


come to the conclusion that life was one long sham, and that 
there was no such thing as love in it at all ; or friendship 

Nevertheless, there seemed something in Wychnor that 
he liked ; something which touched a chord in his better 
self. There never was a false character yet, that did not 
feel some of its cumbrous disguises drop from it on coming 
into contact with a true one. That night he was more 
like the Paul Lynedon of Summerwood — the Paul Lynedon 
whom Eleanor liked, whom Elatharine so madly worshipped 
— than he had been for years. 

He had no evening engag(5ment, so he turned into the 
Opera. Music was still his passion — still, as it had ever 
been, the spell which imlocked all his purer and higher 
feelings. Perhaps this was the reason that in his present 
frame of mind he felt attracted within its influence, and half- 
congratulated himself that, being unlikely to meet any one he 
knew, he could sit and enjoy " Anna Bolena '* to the fullest 
extent It was rather a disagreeable surprise when, as he 
passed the entrance-hall, he heard himself addressed by name. 
Turning round, he saw a face which, although it had altered 
considerably from the fresh charm of youth to the coarseness of 
mere physical beauty, he recognised at once as Hugh Ogilvie*s. 

"Quite glad to shake hands with you once more, Mr. 
Lynedon — really delighted." 

" The pleasure is mutual," answered Paul, cordially. " Mr. 
Ogilvie, how well you are looking ! " 

" Of course. How could I help it 1 But won't you come 
and speak to Katharine V* 

"Is she here — Miss Ogilvie — Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean," 
cried Lynedon, recollecting himself, and looking rather awk- 

"Ha, ha! Don't apologise. So you heard of our 
marriage? Well, let me introduce you over again to my wife " 
— ^and Hugh looked towards a lady who was behind, leaning 
on the arm, not of her husband, but of some other gentleman 
— " my wife, Mrs. Ogilvie ! " At the sound of her name she 
turned slowly round, and Paul Lynedon and Katharine 
stood face to face. 


He was startled — almost confused — at least as much so 
as was possible for such a finished gentleman to be. Could 
that magnificent creature really be the little Katharine with 
whom he had flirted, years ago 1 " Good heavens ! " thought 
he, " how beautiful she is ! " 

Well might he think so, even though the features were 
white and still as marble, and the dark eyes seemed cold, 
proud, passionless. Passionless ! as if such orbs could ever 
be thus, except in seeming— as if such lips, whose delicate 
curves were made to tremble with every breath of emotion, 
could be thus firmly compressed into apparent calmness, ex- 
cept by the strong will which is bom with every strong pas- 
sion. Katharine was beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful; and 
Lynedon not only saw it with his eyes but felt it in his 
heart. He looked at her as he had never yet looked at any 
woman — ^with a sensation less of admiration than of^worship. 
He could have knelt down before her, as in his days of 
youthful enthusiasm befoi'e some pictured ideal in Greek 
sculpture or Italian art. When she gave hira her hand, the 
touch of the ungloved fingers thrilled him — ^perhaps because 
they were cold and statue-like, even as the face. He quite 
forgot his graceful courtesies, and bowed without a single 
compliment. Only he looked at her with one look — the look 
of old— unplying admiration— reverence— tenderness. She 
met it. Angel of mercy ! how much a woman can bear, 
and live ! 

There was the faintest quivering about her mouth, and 
then it was firmly set, and the proud head was lifted higher, 
haughtier than ever, as Katharine Ogilvie said, " My husband 
and I have much pleasure in this unexpected meeting, Mr. 

Her husband ! Paul had quite forgotten the fact for the 
moment. That glorious woman the wife of such a fellow 
as Hugh ! He did not like to think of it. If Katharine 
meant by this distant, proud salutation to show him the 
change that had come between them, assuredly she should 
have her wish fulfilled. He turned away— coloured slightly, 
and biting his lip with vexation. He struggled a little, 
though, and said in his old manner — the Sir Charles 


Grandison manner, as Katharine had called it at Summer- 
wood — " Allow me to congratulate two old friends on having 
thus added to their own happiness. That such is the case, 
no one who looks at them can doubt." 

" You really think so ! Well, I am sure we do seem very 
happy j don't we, Katharine 1 And so we are, though it is 
long past the honejrmoon." Arid Hugh, with an air half 
shy, half pleased, edged nearer to his wife, so as to cast into 
shadow the individual who formed her escort — a mere 
"walking gentleman," whom it is needless to describe, 
except by mentioning his name — ^Mr. Whyte Browne. He 
politely fell back, and Katharine took her husband's offered 
arm. But she leaned on it with an air of indifference, just 
as she would have done on a chair, a table, or any other 
article of furniture belonging to her. Nevertheless Hugh 
looked exceedingly gratified and proud. 

" What do you think of my wife 1 She is rather altered 
from the little girl you knew at Summerwood, eh 1" he said, 
in an audible whisper to. Paul, who answered aloud, 

" Indeed, pleasant as was my past recollection of — of Miss 
Ogilvie — ^it is almost obliterated by the sight of Mrs. Ogilvie. 
I should hardly have recognised her." — Katharine bowed. 
There was a momentary curl of the lip and contraction of 
the brow, and then the face recovered its usual expres- 
sion. Hugh patted Jier hand, but in a few moments after 
she disengaged it on some trifling excuse, and stood 

Just then the orchestra within began the overture, and 
Hugh made a restless movement. 

" We shall be late, and you know, Katharine, you always 
scold me then — that is, I don't mean scolding, but only a 
little gentle reproach, which we married men understand 
well It's rather nice than otherwise, though, Lynedon — ^if 
you only knew." 

Paul crushed his heel on the floor and made no answer. 

" We will pass on, Hugh, if you wish," said Mrs. Ogilvie. 
" Have you a stall, Mr. Lynedon ? Otherwise we shall be 
happy to find room for you in our box." She gave the in- 
vitation with the dignified indifference of one who was 


accustomed to take upon herself that duty, casting only a 
passing glance at her acquiescent husband, who echoed : 

"Oh yes! we shall be very happy, as Katharine says. 
Pray come, Lynedon." 

Lynedon assented with evident pleasure. Then first, over 
the proud impassive beauty of Mrs. Ogilvie's face, there came 
a flashing smile that kindled it up like a lightning glare. 
In this smile were triumph, scorn, and revenge, with a 
delirious joy pervading all. It lasted a moment, and faded ; 
but not before Lynedon had seen it, and had felt for the 
second time that strange sensation of being cowed and 
humbled before the very feet of this woman. 

" Perhaps you will take care of Mrs. Ogilvie, while I get 
a book of the opera," said the husband; and once more 
Paul touched the hand which had before sent such a thrill 
through his frame. Lying on his arm it looked the same 
childish hand which he had many a time toyed with and 
admired. He thought of this now, and longed to do the 
same again j but on it sparkled the warning symbol — the 
.wedding ring. It was too late ! 

Paul Lynedon was a man of quick impulses. Of his 
numerous small affaires de coeur, two-thirds had been what 
he would probably have called "love at first sight," — as if 
such passing enchainments of sense or fancy were not 
desecrations of that holy word. Had he seen Mrs. Ogilvie 
as a stranger at opera or ball, he Would probably have 
conceived for h6r this idle passion of the moment. No 
wonder, then, that meeting her now in the zenith of beauty, 
and remembering the old times when his vanity had amused 
itself with her girlish admiration of him, the past and 
present mingled together and created a strange and new 
interest in Lynedon's breast. Before an hour had passed, 
during which he sat beside her in the opera-box, listening 
with her to the rich music, which contributed not a little to 
the bewildering charm of the moment, Paul began to drink 
in her every look and tone, and feel the deepest chords of 
his being respond to her fascinations. 

For she was fascinating — she wished to be so! In a 
short space the frigid dignity of her demeanour melted away, 


and she became the beautiful, winning, dazzling creature 
who for some months had been the very cynosure of the 
circle wherein Mrs. Lancaster and her set convolved. She 
talked, now with brilliancy, now with softness. Of all her 
conversation Lynedon had the complete monopoly, for Mr. 
Whyte Browne had mysteriously vanished, and Hugh 
Ogilvie was always half asleep between the acts of an opera 
-Te said the noL and Ugh/xnade him drowsy. He Vas 
too much accustomed to see his wife receive constant 
attentions and engross all conversation, to mind it in the 
least. Besides, poor Hugh's simple, unexacting, contented 
love was never crossed by the shadow of jealousy. He 
composed himself to sleep in the comer, with an apology 
about the long ride he had taken that morning, and left his 
wife and Paul to amuse each other. 

There is no spell more overwhelming, than for two people 
to whom music is a feeling, a passion, to sit together listening 
as with one soul to the same delicious strain : the rapt atten- 
tion—the heart-thrilling pause— and then the melting 
silence that comes afterwards, when eyes meet as if saying 
mutely, " We both feel — ^therefore we are one." 

This strong sympathy existed between Katharine and 
PauL When the act ended, he turned to her, and saw, not 
the bewitching lady of fashion, whose very art and coquetry 
seemed charming, but the deep-souled woman, in whose 
heaving bosom and tremulous lip a world of passionate 
feeling was revealed. It struck the one true chord in Paul 
Lynedon's mercurial nature, and his tone changed from 
sparkling wit and fulsome compUment to earnestness and 

" You love music as much as ever, I see. You have not 
changed in that, though in everything else." 

" Have I changed 1 — ah, I suppose so — ^we all do ! " said 
Katharine ; and a smile — first of scorn, then of well-assumed 
sweetness — wreathed itself round her mouth. But the hand 
which hung unseen among the folds of her dress was 
clenched so convulsively, that the rose it held fell crushed to 
pieces on the floor. 

" Even so," pursued Lynedon, with a curious mixture of 


affectation and real feeling; but allow me to quote, or 
rather misquote, the words of our dear old Shakspeare, and 

Nothing in you that doth fade 
Bat doth suffer a sea change 
Into something rich and strange." 

Katharine raised her graceful head. '' You would imply 
the need there was for a change, and you are right, Mr. 
Lynedon ; no one can be more conscious than myself of the 
deficiencies of my girlhood." There was a bitterness even 
in the half-jesting speech ; and Paul felt the edge of his 
elegant compliment blunted. He was engaging in an attack 
wherein such light weapons would not do. Slightly con- 
fused, he quitted the subject, and spoke of the opera. 

" I never heard Grisi sing better than to night. She is 
a grand creature, but still she is not my ideal of Anne 
Boleyn. She makes a stormy tragedy-queen of the meek, 
broken-spirited woman, which is our notion of Anne's 
character as gathered from history." 

" History is a trusty chronicler and unfolder of that easy, 
well-explained subject — ^the workings of a woman's heart," 
answered Katharine, with an irony which sat on her so 
gracefully and delicately, that Paul was attracted more and 

" Your meaning is just, Mrs. Ogilvie. Perhaps Grisi's 
reading is the true one. Still, I wonder how far we may 
unite romance with history, especially as concerning Percy, 
— Anne's first love before she married King Henry. That 
fact argues against the poet's creed of female constancy, 
as much has this passionate Semiramis-like heroine is 
opposed to the received doctrine of the results caused by a 
broken heart — meek patience and resignation, and all that 
sort of thing." — ^Paul's mocking speech was silenced by the 
flash which he saw gleam in Katharine's eyes. 

"That is the way you men speak of women !" she cried. 
« You sting them iitJ misery-you goad them on to eyfl- 
and then you retort on them with a jeer. I beg your pardon, 
Mr. Lynedon," she added, with a sudden alteration of voice 


and countenance, and a laugh so light and musical that Paul 
started at the marvellous change. " It is too bad of me to 
amuse you with these conmionplace revilings of your noble 
sex — a subject on which, of course, no fair lady is expected 
to speak sincerely." 

Paul acknowledged the implied amende with a look of ex- 
treme gratification. " I am sure, judging by the laws of 
attraction, Mrs. Ogilvie's acquaintance among my sex can 
only comprise the very best of mankind" 

" I receive the compliment, only returning you the half 
of it, which seems ingeniously meant for yourself," said 
Katharine, gaily. " And you must acknowledge that my 
late speech was an excellent imitation off the stage of that 
magnificent Diva who is now entering it. So silence ! " — 
She laid her fair jewelled finger on her mouth, round which 
the most dimpling girlish smiles now danced. Gould these 
lips be the same, the very same, which had looked so white 
an hour before 1 Those lips — the very lips which, the last 
time he saw her — ^Paul Lynedon had kissed — He could not 
look at them or at her. He felt dizzy — ^burning — cold. 

Hugh roused himself at the sound of the orchestra, and 
came forward sleepHy, stretching his long limbs. 

^ Do you find this opera amusing, Katharine ? because I 
can't say I do." 

" Possibly not," said the wife. But when she saw 
Lynedon's eyes rest contemptuously on Hugh, and then on 
herself with a sort of insinuating pity, her pride rose. " You 
will acknowledge, Mr. Lynedon, that my husband is very 
kind in accompanying — I mean, taking me — ^to the opera 
whenever I like ; the more so as, not understanding music, 
he does not derive from it the same pleasure as myself." 

" You're a good girl, Katharine," said Hugh, thankfully. 
" And Mr. Lynedon won't think it rude, my going to sleep. 
He would have done the same if he had ridden to Summer- 
wood and back, on that hard mouthed brute. Brown Bess." 

Paul's satirical smile became one of polite attention under 
the gleam of Mrs. Ogilvie's compelling eyes. 

" Still fond of horses and hunting, Mr. Ogilvie ?" 

Hugh gave expression to a melancholy grimace. " I 


can't hunt now we live in town — arid E^tharine does not 
like it. I suppose she is right — she always is. Hunting 
is dangerous, and a married man ought to take care of 
himself, you know. It's all her love for me." 

" Come, you gentlemen can talk presently. At all events, 
Hugh, pray be silent while Mario sings Fivi tu" 

" Thanks for the reproof, Mrs. Ogilvie." And Lynedon 
bent forward attent. Throughout the song he stood leaning 
against the side of the box in exactly his old attitude, — how 
well she knew it ! Behind him, Hugh lounged on a chair in a 
rather awkward fashion — ^his elbows on his knees, his chin on 
his two hands, with shut eyes and half-opened mouth. The 
two — both what the world would consider fine-looking men 
— ^were types of distinct kinds of beauty : the intellectual 
and the animal. Katharine looked from one to the other, 
and shuddered. Heaven forgive the wife for that fearful 
thrill of mingled love and hatred which came over her! 
She could have shrieked aloud with despair — almost with 
terror — ^for she felt the demon entering her soul 1 

Yet when the opera ended, and Paul, on bidding adieu, 
acquiesced eagerly in Hugh's invitation to dine with them 
the next week, Katharine felt a glow of horrible happiness. 
Had a river of fire rolled between her and Paul Lynedon, 
she would have plunged into it — ^to gain once more the sight 
of his face — ^the sound of his voice ! 



The affections, like the conscience, are rather to be led than drawn ; 
and 'tis to be feared that they who marry where they do not love, will 
love where they do not marry. — Fulleb. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Ogilvie of Westbank Villa, Eegent's 
Park, were very different from the blithe Katharine and 
cousin Hugh of Summerwood. The latter, deprived of that 
physical out-of-door life which comprised his whole existence, 
was growing dull, stout, lazy. The heavy looking man who 
lounged wearily over his late breakfast, the greater part of 
which became the perquisite of his sole companions in the 
meal, two pet dogs — was a melancholy contrast to the lithe, 
active youth who used to come bounding in from his 
morning ride or walk to the breakfast-table at Summer- 

" Down, Tiger, down ! You must creep out of the way 
when your mistress comes ; she don't like you as she used 
to do. Heigho ! twelve o'clock ! Katharine gets later than 
ever. She always was down by eleven at least," sighed 
Hugh to himself " This comes of living in town. Things 
were not thus at Summerwood." He rang for his wife's 
maid, and sent up a deprecating message, that if Mrs. 
Ogilvie could manage it without hurrying herself, he would 
very much like to see her before he took his morning ride. 
And then in despair he patted his dogs again, thinking with 
doleful regret of " the life that late he led." 

Katharine heard the humble request with an impatient 
gesture, and turned her fevered cheek again on the pillow. 
It was indeed a long, long time since Hugh had been blest 
with that brightest morning sunshine for a young husband 
— ^his wife's cheerful smile at his breakfast-board. She, who 


once used to rise with the lark, now indulged daily in that 
dreamy stupor,. half-sleeping, half-waking, by which, in our 
troubled and restless moods, we seek to shorten the time 
and deaden consciousness. It is only the happy and light- 
hearted that dare to face the morning hours. Katharine 
Ogilvie shrank from them, and never rose until near mid-day. 

Hugh had mounted Brown Bess in despair, and cantered 
her thrice round the Park before his wife appeared. On 
his return, he found Katharine still in the breakfast-room. 
Though during the ride he had in his vexation resolved to 
give her a right due conjugal lecture, she looked so beautiful 
in her white morning dress that he quite forgot it, and 
kissed her heartily instead. 

She received his welcome coldly enough. " There, that 
will do. Why will you bring those two horrid dogs, Hugh 1 
You know they annoy me. Take them away." 

"That I will. Here, Tiger! Leo!" He turned them 
out and shut the door. " 1 never let them in here except 
when you are not down to breakfast, Katharine. But that 
is often enough," he added, disconsolately. 

" I cannot help it, with our late hours and visiting." 

" Why should we visit so much, then 1 I*m sure I don't 
want it. Suppose we were to turn over a new leaf, my 
darling Katharine?" 

" Do not trouble me, Hugh ; I told you when I married 
that I must see a little of the world. You want nothing 
but dogs and horses ; I want many other things — ^books, 
amusements, society — and I cannot be happy without them. 
Don't judge me by yourself, because my pleasures are very 
different from yours." 

"Ah, yes, I know they are," answered Hugh, with a 
sigh. " Well, you were always far cleverer than I ; it shall 
be as you like ; only if you would let me see a little more 
of you " 

" Yes, yes. Only do not interrupfi m^ now that I have 
this new bop]s: (p read ; yo^i inay sit down and look at the 
second volume. NotJ that it would interest you, except that 
the author is your old acquaintance, Mr. Wychnor." Hugh 
seated himself in obedient silence, and turned over the 

XL.] THE 0GILVIE8. 305 

leaves of the book. His gentle forbearance made no im- 
pression on his wife. A woman like Katharine had ten 
times rather be trodden under foot by a man who is her 
superior, than worshipped as an idol by an inferior. How 
fearful is the danger into which such an one plunges, when 
she takes for the guide of her destiny — ^the husband who 
ought to be reverenced next to Heaven — one who must 
perforce be to her not a ruler but a slave ! 

In the desperation which prompted her sudden marriage, 
Katharine had never thought of this. She considered not 
the daily burden of a loveless, unequal yoke — ^the petty 
jars — the continual dragging down a strong mind to the 
weary level of an inferior one. Heaven made woman from 
man, not man from woman. A great-hearted and good man 
can lift his wife nearer to his own standard ; but by no 
power on earth can a superior woman elevate her husband's 
weaker mind. She must sink down to him ; all the love 
in the world will not make him her equal. And if love be 
not there, woe, woe unto her, for it is a fearful precipice on 
which she stands ! 

Mrs. Ogilvie's pride had carried her successfully through 
the first months of her married life. Young, beautiful, and 
universally admired as she was, no one had cast upon her 
the shadow of blame. Her self-respect, if not her love^ had 
covered Hugh's inferiority as with a shield, which made 
others show him the deference that the wife felt not, but 
had the grace to simulate. For herself, she received the 
incense which universally greeted her with such proud in- 
difference, .that many men, whom one smile would have 
brought unworthily to her feet, were content to be driven 
in chains, like wild tigers harnessed to the car of some 
Amazonian queen. She let them see — ay, and the world 
see too — that she would not step from her height for one 
moment, so as to become their prey. Thus it was with the 
young wife, until her path was again crossed by the shadow 
of that terrible love which had made her life's destiny — 
until she was once more brought within the influence of 
Paul Lynedon. 

Against this influence she now struggled. She felt that 



already a change had come over her, breaking the dull 
round of her aimless existence, to escape the inanity of 
which she had plunged into the excitement of perpetual 
society. It was as if a gleam of lurid brightness had darted 
across her sky : the world itself did not look as it had done 
one little day before. She sought not to analyse her own sen- 
sations : she only knew that where there had been darkness 
there now was light ; and if the flash were a blinding flame, 
she would have lifted her eager eyes to it just the same. 
Her heart was yet pure enough to be fearless ; her sense 
of a wife's duty was sufficiently strong, she deemed, to stand 
in the place of a wife's love. And even with regard to 
Paul Lynedon there had come a change. She worshipped 
no longer with blind adoration the all-perfect ideal of her 
girlhood, but with her love's reviving fires mingled a darken- 
ing cloud of vengeance. She desired to make him feel what 
she had herself felt — to drive him mad for her sake, and 
then fling back upon him the dread " too late." 

While, with the book before her eyes, she leaned in her 
cushioned chair — ^reading, not the beautiful outpourings of 
Philip Wychnor's genius, but the fearful writing on her own 
heart — Katharine heard the name which had once been to 
her a glad, all-pervading music. The silent tUe-brtUe of the 
husband and wife was broken by Paul Lynedon. 

He had last night ingeniously conveyed Mrs. Ogilvie's 
opera-glass to his own pocket, and now came to express, 
with his usual indifference to truth, the extreme regret which 
this fact would have caused him, except indeed for the 
pleasure of returning the fair owner her property. 

Lynedon would have received a welcome, though, without 
this excuse. Hugh was always glad to see any stray visitor 
who brightened up his wife's gloomy brow. It is only a 
happy home that needs no guests within its walls. Paul 
found Mrs. Ogilvie as beautiful by daylight as under the 
glare of opera radiance. He had never seen any one who 
came so near his ideal of womanhood. He admired, too, 
the very atmosphere in which she moved, her house being 
filled with indications of its mistress's taste in music, art, 
and literature. His refined perception at once detected 


these mute revealings of a woman's mind and character. 
Struck more and more, he exerted his whole powers of 
pleasing, and the unfailing charm extended even to Hugh. 
The trio talked pleasantly for some time on general and 
individual subjects, and Lynedon heard how Sir Eobert 
and Lady Ogilvie still resided at Summerwood, though the 
latter was in rather infirm health. 

" I cannot be much with mamma now, — ^it is impossible," 
observed Katharine ; '^ but I have petitioned my sister-in- 
law to visit her. You remember Eleanor?" 

" Of course he does. Why, Lynedon, I used to think you 
were smitten there." 

Paul replied, with great self-possession and indifference, 
" I feel for Miss Eleanor Ogilvie the same respect which I 
have for any lady who honours me with her acquaintance." 

As he spoke, she caught the searching glance of Katharine, 
but it glided from his face in a moment. Hugh persisted 
in his idle jest. ^'Well, well, I suppose I was mistaken. 
And so you have got no further than acquaintance with 
any of the pretty girls you have met ? Never expect me to 
take in that, Lynedon 1 Why, we heard you were going to 
be married to a lady abroad — only nobody knew her name. 
Who said so 1 — ^Mrs. Lancaster, was it not, Katharine 1" 

'^ I am sorry Mrs. Lancaster should have ascribed to me 
more happiness than I am likely to attain. I have never 
yet seen the woman whom I could marry." It was a saving 
" cotUd " — ^he laid it to his conscience as an atonement for 
the falsehood. "Mrs. Ogilvie, allow me ! " he added, stooping 
for a book which, in hastily reaching it, she had let fall. 
He stayed to gather up some dried flowers which were 
scattered from the open leaves, and so did not see 
Katharine's face. When he presented the book, she took 
it with a steady hand and a graceful smiling acknow- 

"It is a favourite volume of mine, though I have only 
lately placed it among the list of the books I love," she 
said. "The author is an acquaintance of ours, a Mr. 

"Philip Wychnor — an excellent fellow! I know him. 


and like him mucL How glad I am to know any ftiend 
of yours 1" 

" Indeed we can't exactly call him a friend. "We can 
never get him out here/' said HugL " Katharine, let us try 
him once more, and invite him for Thursday. Perhaps Mr. 
Lynedon might persuade him. I wish Eleanor were here, — 
she would 1 They two always got on together excellently." 

" Tell Mr. Wychnor," said Katharine, " that though it is 
impossihle for Eleanor to be with us on Thursday, I still 
hope he will come. He must meet her here some day the 
following week. But stay : I will not trouble you with so 
long a message. Shall I write — ^if, as you are going to see 
him you would kindly deliver my note ?" 

" To be of use to Mrs. Ogilvie in anything would rive me 
only too much happiness," was his reply, spoken for once 
with entire undisguised truth. When, a few minutes after, 
Lynedon passed out of the house, he drew the delicate 
missive from his pocket and looked on the handwriting and 
seal with a lingering loving gaze. He felt that he could 
have traversed all London to fulfil the slightest wish of 
Katharine Ogilvie. 

The whole way to Philip Wychnor's abode, her voice 
rang in his ear — ^her face flitted before him. He contrived, 
however, to banish the haunting vision a little ; so as to 
enter into conversation, and efface the evident confusion 
which his unexpected entrance caused. Paul attributed 
this to the sudden disturbance he had occasioned in 
Wychnor's literary pursuits, and thanked his stars that 
he was not an author. To shorten his visit he quickly 
delivered the letter. 

" You will go, of course 1 They are a charming family — 
the Ogilvies. I feel quite proud to call them all friends, 
as I am sure you must, since you, I believe, share the same 

After this remark, Paul looked up for an answer, and 
received Philip's half-suppressed " Yes ! " 

" Mrs. Ogilvie is so anxious to know more of you, and 
you cannot refuse her. Indeed, Mr. Wychnor, you see how 
desirous we all are for your friendship." 

XL.] THE 0GILVIE8. 309 

" fTe a3l2LTe\ " Philip shrank visibly — the careless word 
seemed to him to imply so much. But there was a cordial 
frankness in Lynedon's manner that he could not resist. 
He remembered, too, the conversation with David Drysdale, 
and his own promise concerning Paul. 

" I shall not see her" he reasoned within himself ; " no, 
I could not bear that But I will not draw back from this 
man : I will prove him — I will read his heart, and be satis- 
fied whether he is worthy of her or not. Mr. Lynedon," he 
said aloud, " it has of late been rarely my custom to visit, 
— I have neither time nor inclination ; but since Mr. and 
Mrs. Ogilvie desire it, I will come on TTiursday." 

" That is right ! it will give every one so much pleasure ! " 
And again Philip's shrinking fingers were compressed in the 
warm grasp of his supposed rival They talked for a few 
minutes longer on other subjects, and then Paul quitted 

Philip Wyohnor sank back on his chair with a heavy 
sigh. " It is my doom — I cannot escape. Heaven grant 
me strength to bear it all I " 



How often — ah, Low often ! — ^between the desire of the heart and 
its fulfihnent lies only the briefest space of time or distance, and yet 
the desire remains for ever nnfolfilled ! It is so near that we can touch 
it with the hand, and yet so far that the eye cannot behold it — Long- 


Oh 1 for a horse with wings ! — Shakspeabe. 

** Four years — ^four years ! " 

Eleanor murmured these words to herself, in that half- 
melancholy dreaminess which invariably comes over one of 
thoughtful nature, when standing, no matter how hopefully, 
on the brink of what seems a crisis in life's history. The 
present time appeared a crisis in hers. She was going to 
London — agoing where she was sure to meet Philip. Soon 
the long-affianced lovers would look on each others' face. 
After such a season of absence, and a brief period of silence, 
almost estrangement, how would they meet 1 Eleanor had 
no doubt, no dread, in her faithful heart ; but still she was 
thoughtful, and when all the preparations for the morrow's 
journey were completed, she sat down by the window of her 
little chamber, and watched the twilight shadows deepen on 
the grey cathedral, saying to herself, over and over again, 
" Four years — ^four years ! " 

It was, indeed, thus long since she had seen Philip. Four 
years ! It seems a short time to maturer age, but to youth 
it is an eternity. Nineteen and twenty-three? "What a 
gulf often lies between the two periods of existence. The 
child's heart — ^many a young girl is at nineteen still a child 
— is taken away, and in its stead has come the woman's, 
which must beat on, on, loved or loveless, enjoying or 
enduring life, until life's end ! It is a solemn thing to have 

xll] the ogilvies. 311 

travelled so far on the universal road, that we begin to look 
not only forward but backward — ^to say, even jestingly, 
" When I was a child,** And to some it chances that, in 
every space thus journeyed over, uprises a spectre, which 
confLts them with its ghastly face whenever they turn to 
review the past ; — ^nay, even if they set their faces bravely 
and patiently to the future, they hear continually behind 
them its haunting footsteps, mocking each onward tread 
of theirs, and knelling into their hearts the eternal " no 

On Eleanor's peacefiil life this bitterness had not passed. 
To her, the " four years " on which she now dreamily mused 
had brought little outward change. They had flowed on 
in a quiet, unbroken routine of duties, patiently fulfilled, 
yet somewhat monotonous. It often seemed hardly a 
month since she and Philip had sat together that sweet 
spring morning, beneath the beautiful double cherry-tree 
on which she now looked. Yet, since then, three times she 
had watched its budding, leafing, flowering — had watched 
it alone I And the clematis which that same morning, in 
the playfulness of happy, newly-betrothed lovers, they 
together planted in memory of the day, had now climbed 
even to her window, and flung therein a cloud of perfume. 
It came over her senses wooingly, like the memory of those 
dear olden times, and of Philip's precious love. She leaned 
her head against the casement, and drank in the fragrance, 
until her eyes filled with happy tears. 

" I shall see him, I shall see him ! — soon, ah, soon ! she 
whispered ; while her fancy conjured up his likeness, as she 
used to watch him, lying on the grass dreamily in summer 
noons, with the light falling on his fair hair and his delicate, 
almost boyish cheek. Picturing him thus, Eleanor half 
smiled .to herself, remembering that Philip was no boy now 
— ^that four years must have given him quite the port and 
appearance of a man. He would be, ay, almost eight-and- 
twenty now, and he had wrestled with the world, and 
gained therein fame and success. Ah, he would not look 
like the Philip whose boyish grace had been her ideal of 
beauty for so long. He must be changed in that at least. 


She was almost sorry, yet proud to think how great he had 
become. And she- 
Eleanor did not often think of herself, especially her 
outward self j but she did now. Yet it was still with 
reference to him ? Was she worthy of him 1 In her heart 
— her faithful, loving heart — she knew she was. But in 
external things 1 When she thought of Philip — ^living in 
London, gay, courted, moving among the talented and 
beautiful — ^and herself, a simple country girl, who had spent 
this long time in complete retirement and patient attendance 
on querulous age, Eleanor was struck by a passing feeling 
of anxiety. She was no heroine, but a very woman. She 
rose up and looked at herself in the mirror. It reflected a 
face, not beautiful, but full of a sweetness more winning even 
than beauty. Perhaps the cheek was less peach-like and 
had a straighter curve, and on the mouth, instead of girl- 
hood's dimples, sat a meek calm smile. The eyes — ah, 
here Time had given, rather than taken away! — he had left 
still the true heart shining from them, and had added thereto 
the deep, thoughtful soul of matured womanhood. 

Something of this their owner herself saw, for she smiled 
once more, murmuring, " He used to love my eyes — I think 
he will love them still ! And he will find only too soon 
how dearly they love him," she added, as her heart, nigh 
oppressed with the weight of its joy and tenderness, relieved 
itself with what sounded almost like a sigh. 

''I will not sit thinking any more, but try and find 
something to do,'' said Eleanor, as she roused herself from 
her dreamy mood, and began to arrange with feminine 
cai^ her " properties "-a Wy pa^^ked up for the gay visit 
which was to break her monotonous life. But even in this 
occupation the one thought followed her. She was always 
neat and tasteful in her dress, as a woman should be ; but 
now she felt conscious of having selected her wardrobe with 
more than usual care. The colours Philip had liked — ^the 
style of attire that once pleased his fancy — ever a poet's 
fancy, graceful and ideal — ^all were remembered. It was a 
trifling — ^perhaps an idle thought — ^but it was natural and 
womanly ; showing too how Love binds up into itself all 


life's aims and purposes, great and small ; how it can dare 
the world's battle, and sit smiling at the hearth — ^is at once 
a crowned monarch, a mighty hero, and a little playful child. 

When Eleanor's hands had resolutely busied themselves 
for some minutes, they again drooped listlessly on her lap, 
as she sat down on the floor, and once more became absorbed 
in pleasant musings. She was roused by a summons from 
Davis. Mrs. Brejmton "wished to know whether Miss 
Ogilvie intended to give her any of her company this even- 
ing ; which she might well do, seeing it was the last." 

" You must excuse the message. Miss Eleanor," said the 
old servant ; " but I don't wonder at my lady's being cross ; 
she will miss you so much ; indeed, we all shalL But I am 
glad you are going ; — 'tis hard for a young creature to be 
kept moping here. I hope you'll have a pleasant visit. 
Miss Ogilvie, though the house will . be dull without your 
pretty face — God bless it ! " 

Eleanor thanked her, almost tearfully, for her heart was 
very full. 

" And you'll come back as blithe and merry as " — the old 
woman paused for a simile — " as my canary there, which 
poor Master Phi — Oh ! Miss Ogilvie, perhaps in that great 
world of London you may hear something of somebody I 
daren't speak about, though goodness knows I've never for- 
gotten him — ^never ! " And the unfailing apron was lifted 
to poor Davis's eyes. 

Eleanor could not speak ; but, as she passed hastily out 
of the room, she pressed warmly the hard brown hand of 
the faithful, affectionate creature, who remembered Philip 

Mrs. Breynton sat in her arm-chair, knitting vehemently 
at the eternal quilt, which was now promoted to be nearly 
the sole occupation of its aged projector, whose dimmed eyes 
and trembling fingers grew daUy less active To-night they 
seemed incompetent even to the simple work to which they 
applied themselves with such indignant energy, for the per- 
petually unroved square seemed a very Penelope's web. At 
length, when the old lady had knitted away her wrath and 
her cotton, she looked up, and saw Eleanor sitting near her. 


^ Oh, I thonght you intended to stay np-stairs all the even- 
ing. Pray, how long is it since yon troubled yourself to 
come down?" 

** I have been here some minutes/' was the gentle answer. 

" Why did you not speak, then % " 

'^ I did once, but you were too busy to hear me, I think. 
Now shall I take your work away and ring for tea 1 " — ^Mrsw 
Breynton assented, muttered something about the chill 
autumn evening, and turned her chair opposite the fire, so 
that her face was completely hid. Eleanor went about the 
light household duty — ^now wholly hers — ^with an agitated 
heart, for there came upon her the thought^ natural to the 
eve of a journey — and such a journey — ^How would be the 
return) When she again sat at Mrs. Breynton's board, 
would it be in peace and hope, or — She drove away the 
fear : she could not — would not think of it She would 
still believe in Philip, and in Philip's aunt 

" Shall I move your chair hither, or bring your tea to the 
work-table ?" she said, trying to steady her voice to its usual 
tone of affectionate attention. 

^ Bring it here. I may as well get used to taking tea 
alone," muttered Mrs. Breynton. But when Eleanor came 
beside to her, to show for the last time the simple act of care- 
ful tendance to which she had been so long accustomed, the 
harsh voice softened. 

'' Ah ! I shall have no one to make tea for me to-morrow 
night 1 Indeed, I can't tell what I shall do without you, 

And instead of taking the offered cup, she gazed wistfully 
in the sweet young face that was now becoming troubled 
and tearful. 

" Dear Mend — dear Mrs. Breynton, shall I stay 1 " 

" No, no ; I have no right to keep you ; of course your 
brother wants you, and you yourself must be delighted to 
leave this dull place." 

" Nay ; was it not by your own consent — your own de- 

" I desired nothing. What made you think so 1 " cried 
Mrs. Breynton, angrily. There was, indeed; a stomge and 


painful conflict in her mind. Fearful lest all hope of winning 
back her erring yet cherished nephew should be lost, and 
pierced deeper and deeper with a feeling almost akin to re- 
morse, she had determined to risk all chance of discovery, 
and let the lovers meet. Yet when the time came she 
trembled. Besides, she did not like to part even for a 
season with the gentle creature who had become almost 
necessary to her comfort ; age can ill bear any change or 
any separation. But for all that, Eleanor must go ; it was 
the only chance of bringing back him for whom Mrs. 
Breynton's pride and love alike yearned continually. Her 
feelings changed hourly — ^momently — ^with an impetuosity 
that even her yet energetic mind could not wholly conceal. 

" Eleanor," she continued, " do not mistake me ; you go 
by your own choice, and your friend's wish; I have no 
right to interfere with either. But you will come back 1 " 

" I will, indeed ! And, oh ! Mrs. Breynton, if" 

Eleanor sank down beside her. There was no mistaking 
the plea of that earnest face — ^the one plea which her whole 
life of duty and tenderness silently urged. But Mrs. Brejm- 
ton turned hastily and coldly away. 

" Rise, and go to your place, my dear : we will talk no 
more now." And for an hour afterwards, by a violent con- 
trol which showed how strong still was her Lgering pride,, 
the Dean's widow maintained her usual indiflFerence, talked 
of common things, and made no allusion to the journey or 
the parting. At last she took out her watch, and desired 
Eleanor, as usual, to call the servants in to prayers. 

The girl obeyed, placed the cushion and the open book, 
as she had done every night for so long, and knelt down, 
with her eyes overflowing. 

Mrs. Breynton read the accustomed form in her accus- 
tomed tone. The servants gone, she and Eleanor stood 

" My dear, is everything prepared for your journey to- 
morrow 1 " 

Eleanor assented mutely ; she could not speak. 

" You will take as escort either Davis or James, which 
you choose ; either can return next day." 


" Oh no, you are too kind," said Eleanor, who knew what 
it cost the precise old lady to part, for ever so short a time, 
with either of these her long-trusted domestics ; " indeed, I 
can travel very well alone." 

" But I do not choose my child, my adopted dattgJder" — 
she laid a faint emphasis on the word — "to do any such 
thing. The matter is decided." 

Pride struggled with tenderness in her manner, and still 
she stood irresolute. The old butler entered with lighted 

" James," said his mistress, " you will accompany Miss 
Ogilvie to her journey's end, with all care and attention, as 
though she were my own child." And then, finding the last 
minute had indeed come, Mrs. Breynton took her candle. 

" My dear Eleanor, as you depart so early, we had better 
say good-bye to-night." She held out her hand, but Eleanor 
fell on her neck, weeping bitterly. Mrs. Breynton began to 

" Hush, my dear ! you must not try me so ; I am old, I 
cannot bear agitation." She sank on a chair, struggled a 
moment, and then stretched out her hands. — " Eleanor — 
poor Isabel's Eleanor — ^forgive me. Come ! " And for the 
second time in her life, the childless widow folded to her 
bosom the young creature from whom, in her old age, she 
had learned, and was learning more and more, the blessed 
lesson, to love. In a few minutes the emotion passed, and 
she rose up. 

" Now, my child, I must go. Give me your arm to my 
room door, for I am weak and exhausted." 

" And you will not let me see you in the morning 1 " 

" No, my dear, no ! — ^better thus ! You will come back 
at the two months' end. You promise 1 " And her search- 
ing eyes brought the quick colour into Eleanor's cheek. 

"I promise!" She might have said more, but Mrs. 
Breynton moved hastily on to her chamber. At the door 
she turned round, kissed the girl's cheek, and bade Gk>d 
bless her. 

Then from Eleanor's full heart burst the cry — "Bless 
him — even him also 1 dearest friend, let me take with 


me a blessing for Philip ! " — ^At the name Mrs, Breynton's 
countenance became stone once more. All her wrath, 
all her sternness, all her pride, were gathered up in one 
word — 

« No ! " — She closed the door, and Eleanor saw her not 
again. But for hours she heard the feeble, aged footstep 
pacing the next chamber— and even in her heaviness the 
girl was not without hope. 

Eleanor awoke at dawn, startled from her restless sleep 
by one of those fantastic dreams that will sometimes come 
on the eve of any great joy, in which we rehearse the long- 
expected bliss, and find that, by the intervention of some 
strange "cloud of dole" it has been changed to pain. 
Philip's betrothed dreamed of that meeting, the hope of 
which, waking, had filled her whole soul with happiness 
almost too great to bear. She saw him, but his face was 
cold — changed. He turned away without even a clasp of 
the hand. Then the dream became wild and unconnected 
— ^though it was always Philip — only Philip. She was 
again with him, and the ground seemed suddenly cloven, 
while a tempestuous river rushed howling between them ; 
it grew into a mighty sea, above which she saw him stand- 
ing on a pinnacle of rock, his averted face lifted to the 
sky, his deaf ear heeding not the despairing cry which she 
sent up from the midst of the engulphing waters. 

With that cry she awoke, to find — with oh ! what thank- 
ful joy! — that these were but dreams. Suddenly, like a 
burst of sunshine, the joyful truth broke upon her, that 
this day, this very day, she would journey towards Philip — 
a brief space, perchance a few hours, and they would meet ! 
Once more burst from her inmost heart the rapturous 
murmur — "I shall see him ! I shall see him!" And 
Eleanor turned her face on the pillow, weeping tears of 

Oh, the thrill of a remembered joy that comes with 
waking — ^how wild, how deep it is ! Only second to that 
keenest pang, the first waking consciousness of misery. 

Soon Eleanor rose, saying to herself the old adage — she 


had an innocent superBtition lurking in the depths of her 
simple heart.-" Morning tears bring evening smiles ; " and 
she thought, if the tears were so sweet, what must be the bliss 
of her smiles ! So she made ready for her departure with a 
cheerful spirit, over which neither the painful dream, nor the 
still more painful remembrance of Mrs. Breynton's last words, 
could throw more than a passing cloud. 

As though to confirm this joy, Davis knocked at her 
chamber-door with an affectionate farewell message from 
Mrs. Breynton, and a letter. It was from Sir Eobert Ogilvie, 
begging his m;ce to hasten her journey, so as to accompan; 
him that night to a party at his daughter's house. '^It was 
Katharine's especial wish," he said ; and Katharine's wish 
had long become law with father, mother, and husband too. 
** Eleanor could easily reach Sunmierwood by the afternoon," 
her uncle continued, "thanks to the railway — the only 
useful innovation that the hateful march-of-inteUect Radicals 
had ever made." 

Eleanor read Katharine's enclosed letter of warm invita- 
tion. It bore the following postscript : — " I especially wish 
you to come, because you will be like to meet one who will 
doubtless be as much pleased to meet you — ^your old ac- 
quaintance, Mr. Wychnor." 

What a world of joy lay in that idly-scribbled line ! 

"To-night, to night! cried Eleanor, as, bewildered — 
almost stunned — ^by the certainty of the coming bliss, she 
sank on the bed and hid her face. Thence, gliding to her 
knees, her first impulse was one, the sacredness of which 
received no taint from its total simplicity — a thanksgiving 
lifted to Him who gave Eve imto Adam, and Sarah unto 
Abraham, for thus bringing her face to face with one whom 
— as sacredly as if the marriage words had already been 
spoken — Eleanor regarded as her husband. 

Once again, ere the last moment of departure came, 
Eleanor entered her little chamber, shut the door, and 
prayed that she might return thither in safety and in joy ; 
and then, all bitterness reconciled, pass from this home of 
patient duty into another far dearer, and thus faithfully 


fulfil woman's highest, holiest destiny, that of a loving and 
devoted wife. And as she arose, the sun burst through the 
grey morning clouds, and the cathedral chimes rang out 
joyfully, yet with a sweet solemnity. Their sound followed 
her like a parting blessing. 

And so, borne cheerily on the " horse with wings," which 
to her was as welcome and as full of poetry as that dream- 
creation of Imogen's desire, Eleanor went to Summerwood. 



I saw it — 
'Twas no foul vision — ^with nnblinded eyes 
I saw it 1 his fond hands were wreathed in hers. 

. . . He gazed upon her face. 
Even with those fatal eyes no woman looks at. 

. . . Mayst thou 
Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour — 
The desolation of this heart I Milman. 

The circle assembled in Hugh Ogilvie's drawing-room was 
the very perfection of a social dinner-party. Everybody 
knew everybody, or nearly so. There was Mrs. Lancaster 
flitting about as usual in her gossamer drapery, and her 
shadow of a husband still hovering beside her — the reflec- 
tion of her glory. There was David Drysdale pursuing his 
new science — the study of humanity in general; with 
especial reference to Paul Lynedon, whose movements he 
watched with Argus eyes. The object of his scrutiny, 
however, was unconscious of the fact. Paul moved hither 
and thither, casting in all directions his graceful and 
brilliant talk ; but for the first time in his life found him- 
self quite indiflerent as to the sensation he created among 
the general company.' They seemed to him like a moving 
phantasmagoria of shadows ; among them he saw but one 
form, heard but one voice — and these were Katharine 

She knew this too : though he did not keep constantly 
at her side, she felt his eyes upon her wherever she moved. 
She was conscious that not one word from her lips, not one 
silken stirring of her robe, escaped the notice of Paul 
Lynedon. The thought made her eyes glitter with triumph. 



She felt that she had only to stretch forth her arm, to lay 
her delicate hand on the lion's mane, and, Ariadne-like, 
she would ride victoriously on the beautiful Terror which 
had once trampled on her peace. Exultingly she displayed 
the power which had gained her universal homage — the' 
lofty and careless defiance that only subdued the more. 

Yet, could any eyes have pierced through that outward 
illusion, they might perchance have seen behind the queen- 
like, radiant woman, the shadow of an angel — ^the angel of 
Katharine's lost youth — mourning for her future. And 
ever and anon, piercing through thiB plouds that were fast 
darkening over the wife's soul, came a low whisper, warn- 
ing her that even an erring marriage-vow becomes sacred 
for ever ; and that to break it, though only in thought, 
is a sin which oceans of penitent tears can scarcely wash 

To none of her guests was Mrs. Ogilvie more gracefully 
courteous than to the silent, reserved Philip Wychnor. 
During the half-hour that elapsed before dinner, her magic 
influence melted away many of those frosty coverings in 
which he unconsciously lenv.eloped Ifimself in society. A 
man instinctively lays his soul open beforia a woman, much 
more than before one of his own sex : and had Katharine 
been less absorbed in the struggles of her own heart, she 
might have read much of Wychnpr's evei^ without liis 

At length there mingled in Jier winning speech the name 
— so loved, yet so dreaded by her hearer. 

" I hope, after all, that you will meet your old friend 
Eleanor to-night. My father told me she was expected at 
Summerwood to-day, so I untreated him to bring her 

Philip made no answer : despitp his irpn will, he felt 
stifling — ^gasping for air. 

"You are not well — sit down," observed the young 
hostess, kindly ; " I ought not to have kept you standing 
talking so long." 

He sank on a chair, muttering something about " having 
been overworked of late." 


"I feared so; indeed, you must take care of yourself, 
Mr. Wychnor ; I will not say for the world's sake, but for 
that of your many friends. Amongst which I hope to be 
numbered one day ; and when Eleanor comes " 

He turned away, and his eyes encountered Lynedon's. 
The latter was apparently listening eagerly to each word 
that fell from Mrs. Ogilvie's lips. Philip fancied the spell 
lay in the sound of the beloved name, when it was only in 
the voice that uttered it. But he had not time to collect 
his thoughts, when the drawing-room door opened and 
Hugh burst in, with somewhat of the old cheerfulness 
brightening his heavy features. 

" Katharine, make haste ; they're both come, your father 
and our deaf Nelly. Fm so glad !" 

^ And so am I," answered Katharine, for once echoing 
her husband ; and, making her own graceful excuses to her 
guests, she glided from the roonL 

As she did so, Philip looked up with a wild, bewildered air, 
and again caught the eager gaze of Paul Lynedon fixed on the 
closing door. He started from his seat, conscious only of a 
vague desire to fly — anywhere, on any pretext, so as to escape 
the torture of the scene. But Drysdale intercepted him. 

"Eh, my young friend, what's this? Where are you 

" I— I cannot tell " 

" Nothing the matter ? not ill 1" And, following the old 
man's affectionate, anxious look, came the curious and sur- 
prised glance of Lynedon. Beneath it Philip's agony sank 
into a deadly calm. 

Once again he said in his heart, " It is my doom. I can- 
not fly ; I must endure." He had just strength to creep to 
a comer of the room, apart from all. There he sat down 
and waited in patient, dull despair for the approach of her 
whom he still loved dearer than his life. 

There were voices without the door. Lynedon sprang to 
open it. It was in answer to his greeting that Philip's 
half-maddened ear distinguished the first tone of that 
beloved voice, unheard for years except in dreams. Soft it 
was, and sweet as ever, and tremulous with gladness. 


Gladness ! when she knew that he, once loved, and then 
so cruelly forsaken, was in her presence, and heard all ! 

" Come, let her hand go, Lynedon," said Hugh's voice. 
" Here are other friends, Nelly." 

She advanced, pale but smiling — ^no set smile of forced 
courtesy, but one which betokened a happy heart ; her own, 
her very own smile, shining in eyes and lips, and making 
her whole face beautiful. 

Philip saw it, and then a cold mist seemed to enwrap 
him — through which he beheld men and women, and mov- 
ing lights, indistinct and vague. Yet still he sat, leaning 
forward, as though attentive to the last dull saying of his 
dull neighbour, Mr. Lancaster. 

And Eleanor! Oh! if he had known that in all the 
room she saw only one face — his ! — ^that she passed Lynedon 
and the rest, hardly conscious of their greetings — that 
through them all, her whole soul flew to him — ^him only — 
in a transport of rejoicing that they had met at last ! 

Yet, when she stood before him — ^when she held out her 
hand, she could not speak one word. She dared not even 
lift her eyes, lest she should betray the joy, which was 
almost too great to conceal. It blanched her smiling lips, 
made her frame tremble, and her voice grow measured and 

And thus they met, in the midst of strangers, with one 
passing clasp of the hand, one formal greeting ; and then 
either turned away, to hide from the world and from each 
other at once the agony and the gladness. 

For in Eleanor's heart the gladness lingered stilL A 
momentary pang she had felt, that they should meet thus 
coldly, even in outward show — ^but still she doubted him 
not. Philip must be right — mvd be true. A few minutes 
more, and he would surely find some opportunity to steal 
to her side — ^to give her one word — one smile, which might 
show that they were still to one another as they had been 
for years — ^nay, all their lives ! So she glided from the 
group around Katharine, to calm her beating hearty and 
gather strength even to bear her joy. 

She sat down, choosing a place where she could see him 


who was to her all in the room — all in the world ! She 
watched him continually, talking or in repose. He was 
greatly altered ; — much older ; the face harsher in its lines ; 
but he was her Philip still. Gradually, amidst all the 
change, the former likeness grew, and these four years of 
bitter separation seemed melted into nothing. She saw 
again the playmate of her childhood — ^the lover of her youth 
— ^her chosen husband. She waited tremblingly for lum to 
come to her, to say only in one look that he remembered 
the sweet past 

But he never came ! She saw him move, talking to one 
guest and then another. At last they all left him, and he 
stood alone. He would surely seek her now ] No, he did 
not even turn his eyes, but sank wearily into a chair ; and 
above the murmur of heedless voices there came to Eleanor 
his heavy sigh. 

She started: one moment more, and she would have 
cast aside all maidenly pride, and crept nearer to him, only 
to look in his face, and say "Philip !" But Mrs. Lancaster 
approached him, and she heard hipi answering some idle 
compliments with the calmness learnt — in the heartless 
world, she thought — ^kpowing not that love's agony gives 
to its martyrs a strength, almost superhuman, first to endure 
and, then enduring, to conceal. 

She saw him speak and smile — ay, smile — and an icy 
fear crept over her. It seemed the ^hadow of that terrible 
" no more," which sometimes yawns between the present 
and past. Let us pray rather that our throbbing hearts 
may grow cold in the tomb, than that we should live to 
feel them freezing slowly in our bosoms, and be taught 
by their altered beatings to say calmly, ^^ The time has 
been 1 " 

It so chanced that Paul Lynedon led Eleanor down to 
dinner. He did it merely because she happened to stand 
near Mrs. Ogilvie. The latter had turned from him and 
taken the arm of David Drysdale, with whom she was 
already on the friendliest of terms. Katharine was always 
80 especially charming in her manner to old people. 

These formed the group at the head of the table ; Philip 


sat far apart, having placed himself where he could not see 
the face of either Paul or Eleanor. But their tones came 
to him amid the dazzling, bewildering mist of light and 
sound; every word, especially the rare utterances of 
Eleanor's low voice, piercmg distinct and clear through all. 

Philip's neighbour was Mrs. Lancaster, who, now feeling 
herself sinking from that meridian altitude which, as the 
central sun of a petty literary sphere, she had long main- 
tained, caught at every chance of ingratiating herself with 
any rising author. She mounted her high horse of senti- 
ment and feeling, and cantered it gently on through a long 
criticism of Wychnor's last work. Then, finding the chase 
was vain, for that he only answered in polite monosyllables, 
she tried another and less lofty style of conversation — 
remarks and tittle-tattle, concerning her friends absent and 
present. She was especially led to this by the mortification 
of seeing her former prot4g4, Paul Lynedon, so entirely 
escaped from under her wing. 

" How quiet Lynedon has grown ! " she said sharply. " I 
never saw such a change. Why, he used to be quite a lion 
in society. How silent he sits between Mrs. Ogilvie and 
her sister ! By-the-by, perhaps that may account for his 
dulness to-night." 

" Do you think so 1 " answered Philip, absently. 

"Ah, the affair was before your time, Mr. Wychnor," 
said the lady, mysteriously; "but some years ago, at 
Summerwood, I really imagined it would have been a match 
between Miss Eleanor Ogilvie and Paul Lynedon there. 
How he admired her singing, and herself too ! Not that I 
ever could see much in either ; but love is blind, you know." 

"Mrs. Lancaster, allow' me to take wine with you," 
interrupted Paul, who from the other end of the table had 
accidentally caught the sound of his own name united with 
Eleanor's, and was in mortal fear lest Mrs. Lancaster's 
tenacious memory should be recalling her former badinage 
on the subject. 

Philip sat silent. His cup of agony seemed overflowing. 
But ere his lips approached the brim, an angel came by and 
touched it, changing the gall into a healing draught. On 


the young man's agonised ear came the mention of one name 
— the name of the dead. What matter though it was 
uttered by the frivolous tongue of Mrs. Lancaster, to whom 
Leigh Pennythome and his sufferings were merely a vehicle 
for sentimental pity! Even while she pronounced the 
name, surely some heavenly ministrant caught up the sound 
and caused it to fall like balm on Philip Wychnor's heart. 
The casual wds carried his thoughts away from aU life's 
tortures to the holy peace of death. They brought back to 
him the dark still room, where, holding the boy's damp 
hand, he had talked with him, solemnly, joyfully, of the 
glorious after-world. Then came floatmg across his memory 
the calm river sunset — the last look at the moon-illumined 
peaceful face, on whose dead lips yet lingered the smile of 
the parted soul. Even now, amidst this torturing scene, 
the remembrance lifted Philip's heart from its earthly pains 
towards the blessed eternity where all these should be 
counted but as a drop in the balance. . 

If the thorns of life pierce keenest into the poet's soul. 
Heaven and Heaven's angels are nearer to him than to the 
worldly man. Philip Wychnor grew calmer, and his 
thoughts rose upward, where, far above both grief and joy, 
amidst the glories of the Ideal and the blessedness of the 
Divine, a great and pure mind sits serene. Thither, when 
they have endured awhile, does the All-compassionate, even 
in life, lift the souls of these His children^ and give them to 
stand, Moses-like, on the lonely height of this calm Pisgah. 
Far below lies the wilderness through which their weary 
feet have journeyed. But God turns their faces from the 
past, and they behold no more the desert, but the Canaan. 

There was a fluttering of silken dresses as the hostess and 
her fair companions glided away. Philip did not look up ; 
or he might have caught fixed on his face a gaze so full of 
mournful, anxious tenderness, that it would have pierced 
through the thickest clouds of jealous doubt and suspicion. 
He felt that Eleanor passed him by, though his eyes were 
lifted no higher than the skirt of her robe. But on her left 
hand, which lay like a snowflake among the black folds, he 
saw a ring, his own gift — his only one, for love like theirs 


needed uo outward token. She had promised on her 
betrothal-eve that it should never be taken off, save for the 
holier symbol of marriage. How could she — how dared 
she — ^wear it now ! One gleam of light shot almost blind- 
ingly through Philip's darkness, as he beheld; the deep 
calm fled from his heart, and it was again racked with 
suspense. He sat motionless ; the loud talk and laughter 
of Hugh Ogilvie, and the vapid murmurings of Mr. Lan- 
caster, floating over him confusedly. 

Paul Lynedon had already disappeared from the dining- 
room. He could not drive from his mind the vague fear 
lest his foolish affair with Eleanor Ogilvie should be bruited 
about in some way or another. He longed to stop Mrs. 
Lancaster's ever -active tongue. And judging feminine 
nature by the blurred and blotted side on which he had 
viewed it for the last few years, he felt considerable doubt 
even of Eleanor herself. If she had betrayed, or should 
now betray, especially to Katharine Ogilvie, the secret of 
his folly ! He would not have such a thing happen for the 
world ! Wherefore, he stayed not to consider ; for Paul's 
impetuous feelings were rarely subjected to much self-exami- 
nation. Acting on their impulse now, he bent his pride to 
that stronger passion which was insensibly stealing over 
him ; and first assuring himself that his fellow-adventurer 
in the drawing-room, David Drysdale, was safely engrossing 
the conversation of their beautiful hostess, Lynedon care- 
lessly strolled towards an inner apartment divided from the 
rest by a glass-door, through which he saw Eleanor, sitting 
thoughtful and alone. 

" Now is my time,'* said Paul to himself, " but I must 
accomplish the matter with finesse and diplomacy. What 
a fool I was, ever to have brought myself into such a scrape 1 " 

He walked with as much indifference as he could assume 
through the half-open door, which silently closed after him. 
He was rather glad of this, for then there would be no eaves- 
droppers. Eleanor looked up, and found herself alone with 
the lover she had once rejected. But there was no fear of 
his again imposing on her the same painM necessity ; for 
a more careless, good-humoured smile never sat on the face 


of the most indifferent acquaintance, than that which Paul 
Lynedon's now wore. 

" Do I intrude on your meditations, Miss Ogilvie 1 If 
so, send me -away at once, which will be treating me with 
the candour of an old friend. But I had rather claim the 
privilege in a different way, and be allowed to stay and 
have a little pleasant chat with you." 

Eleanor would fain have been left to solitude: but 
through life she had thought of others first — of herself last. 
It gave her true pleasure, that by meeting Lynedon's frank- 
ness with equal cordiality she could atone to the friend for 
the pain once given to the lover. So she answered kindly, 
"Indeed I shall be quite glad to renew our old sociable 

"Then we are friends — ^real, open-hearted, sincere friends," 
answered Paul, returning her smile with one of equal candour. 
" And," he added, in a lower tone, " to make our friendship 
sure, I trust Miss Ogilvie has abeady forgotten that I ever 
had the presumption to aspire to more ]" 

Eleanor replied, with mingled sweetness and dignity, 
"I remember only what was pleasurable in our ac- 
quaintance. Be assured that the pain, which I am truly 
glad to see has passed from your memory, rests no longer 
on mine. We will not speak or think of it again, Mr. 

But Paul still hesitated. " Except that I may venture 
to express one hope — ^indeed I should rather say a conviction. 
I feel sure that, with one so generous and delicate-minded, 
this — this circumstance has remained, and will ever remain, 

" Can you doubt it 1" And a look as nearly approaching 
pride as Eleanor's gentle countenance could assume, marked 
her wounded feeling. "I thought that you would have 
judged more worthily of me — of any woman." 

" Of you, indeed, I ought. I am ashamed of myself, 
Miss Ogilvie," cried Lynedon, giving way to a really sincere 
impulse of compunction, and gazing in her face with some- 
thing of his old reverence. " I do believe you, as ever, the 
kindest, noblest, creature — half woman, half saint; and, 


except that I am unworthy of the boon, it would be a bless- 
ing to me through life to call you friend." 

" Indeed you shall call me so, and I will strive to make 
the title justly mine," said Eleanor, with a bright, warm- 
hearted smile, as she stretched out her hand to him. 

He took it, and pressed it to his lips. Neither saw that 
on this instant a shadow darkened the transparent door, 
and a face, passing by chance, looked in. It was the face 
of Philip Wychnor ! 



Better tnuit all, and be deceived ; 

And weep that trust and that deceiving ; 
Than doubt one heart, which if believed 

Had blessed one*s life with true believing. 
Oh ! in this mocking world, too fast 

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; 
Better be cheated to the last 

Than lose the blessed hope of truth ! 

Frances Anne Butler. 

"Well, I never in all my life knew a fellow so altered 
as that Philip Wychnor ! " cried Hugh, as he entered his 
wife's dressing-room. His sister had fled there to gain a 
few minutes' quiet and strength, after her somewhat painful 
interview with Lynedon, and before the still greater trial 
of the formal evening that was to come. As she lay on the 
couch, wearied in heart and frame, there was ever in her 
thought the name which her brother now uttered carelessly 
-^ilmost angrily. It made her start with added suffering. 
Hugh continued : 

" I suppose he thinks it so fine to have grown an author 
and a man of genius, that he may do anything he likes, 
and play oflF all sorts of air^ on his old friends." 

" Nay, Hugh, what has he done 1" said Eleanor, her heart 
sinking colder and colder. 

" Only that, after all the trouble we had to get him here 
to-night, he has gone off just now without having even the 
civility to say good-bye." 

" Gone ! is he gone V* and she started up ; but recollected 
herself in time to add, " You forget, he may be ill." 

" 111 1 — ^nonsense !" cried Hugh, as he stood lazily lolling 


against the window. " Look, there he goes, tearing across 
the Park as if he were having a walking-match, or racing 
with Brown Bess herself. There's a likely fellow to be ill : 
Phew, it's only a vagary for effect, — ^I've leamt these games 
since I married. But I must go down to this confounded 
soir4e" And he lounged off moodily. 

The moment he was gone, Eleanor sprang to the window. 
It was, indeed, Philip — she saw him clearly : his slender 
figure and floating fair hair — looking shadowy, almost ghost- 
like, in the evening light. He walked rapidly ; nay, flew ! 
It might have been a fiend that was pursuing him, instead 
of the weeping eyes, the outstretched arms, the agonised 
murmur — ^** Philip, ! my Philip 1 " 

He saw not, he heard not, but sped onward — disappeared ! 
Then Eleanor sank down, nigh broken-hearted. Was this 
the blessed meeting, the day so longed for, begun in joy to 
end in such cruel misery 1 

No, not all misery ; for when the first bitterness passed, 
and she began to think calmly, there dawned the hope that 
Philip loved her still. His very avoidance of her, that 
heavy sigh, most of all his sudden departure, as though he 
had fled unable to endure her presence — all these showed 
that his heart had not grown utterly cold. He had loved 
her once — she believed that She would have believed it 
though the whole world had borne testimony against it, 
and against him. It was impossible but that some portion 
of this deep true love must linger still. Some unaccount- 
able change had come over him — some great sorrow or 
imagined wrong had warped his mind. 

Was this the reason that now for weeks, months, he had 
never answered her letters 1 Did he wish to consider their 
engagement broken ? But no ; for his last letter was fiiU 
of love — ^full of the near hope of making her his own. 
Whatever had been the cause of estrangement, if the love 
were still there, in his heart as in her own, she would win 
him back yet 1 

"Yes," she cried, "I will have patience. I will put 
from me all pride — all resentment. If there has been 
wrong, I will be the first to say * Forgive me ! • He is still 


the same — good and true — ^I see it in his face, I feel it in 
my souL How could it be otherwise V* 

Hugh's half-mocking, half angiy words concerning him 
troubled her for a moment. She heaved a low shuddering 
sigh, and then the suffering passed. 

" Even if so, I will not despair. Oh, my Philip, if it be 
that you are changed, that this evil world has cast its shadow 
over your pure heart, still I will not leave you. You were 
mine — ^you are mine, in suffering — even in sin ! I will stand 
by you, and pray God night and day for you, and never, 
never give you up, until you are my true, noble Philip once 

She stood, her clasped hands raised, her face shining 
with a faith all-perfect— faith in Heaven, and faith in him. 
O men ! to whom woman's love is a light jest, a haughty 
scorn, how know you but that you drive from your pathway 
and from your side a guardian presence, which, in blessing 
and in prayer, might have been for you as omnipotent as 
an angel 1 

Mrs. Ogilvie entered, while her sister still stood, pale and 
thoughtful. Katharine was very restless — her cheek burned 
and her eye glittered. The contrast was never so strong 
between the two. 

"Why, what is this, my dear child?" At another time 
Eleanor would have smiled at the half-patronising title; but 
as the tall, magnificent-looking woman of the world bent 
over her, she felt that it was scarcely strange. She was in- 
deed a child to her " little cousin " now. Alas ! she knew 
not that Katharine would have given worlds to have taken 
the fresh, simple child's heart into her racked bosom once 

" How quiet you are, Eleanor ! How dull this room seems, 
when we were all below so merry — so merry!" And she 
laughed that mocking laugh — an echo true as the words. 

" Are you merry 1 I am glad of it," was Eleanor's simple 
reply. " But you must forgive my staying here, I am so 

" Weary 1 I thought you happy, good, country damsels 
were never weary as we are." 


" We ! Nay, Katharine, are not you yourself country- 
bred, good and happy ! " 

Again there came the musical laugh — flight, but oh ! how 
bitter ! " For the first adjective, I suppose I must acknow- 
ledge the crime, or misfortune ; for the second, you can ask 
Hugh ; for the third — ^well, you may ask him too — of course 
he knows! But I must go. Will you come with mel 
No 1 Then good-bye, fair coz." 

" Sister 1 " was the gentle word that met Katharine, as 
she was departing with the fluttering gaiety she had so well 
learned to assume. And Eleanor came softly behind, and 
put her arm round the neck of her brother's wife. 

" Ah yes, I forgot — of course, we are sisters now. Are 
you glad of it, Eleanor?" 

" Yes, most happy I And you ?" 

Katharine looked at her earnestly, and then shrank 
away. " Let me go ! I mean that your arm — ^your bracelet 
— hurts me,*' she added hurriedly. 

Eleanor removed it. Katharine paused a moment, and 
then stooped forward and kissed her cheek, saying affection- 

*' You are a dear good girl, as of old. You will bear 
with me, Nelly 1 I am tired — ^perhaps not well. This gay 
life is too much for me." 

"Then why" 

" Ah, be quiet, dear," said Mrs. Ogilvie, tapping Eleanor's 
shoulder with her perfumed fan. " You shall lecture me 
to-night, when I have sent away these horrid people — that is 
my guests," she continued, remembering who was of the 
number. And as she went away, Katharine could almost 
have cut out her own tongue, that had carelessly ranked 
Paul Lynedon in the tribe thus designated. Though made 
a slave, he was an idol still. 

For an hour longer Eleanor sat alone by the window, 
sometimes trying to calm her spirit with looking up at the 
deep peace of the moonlight sky, and then watching the 
carriages that rolled to the door, bearing away guest after 
guest. The last who left departed on foot. Eleanor dis- 
tinguished his tall figure passing hastily through the little 


shrubbery, and fancied it was like Mr. Lynedon'& But she 
thought little on the subject, for immediately afterwards 
her sister entered. 

Katharine stood at the door, the silver lamp she held 
casting a rich subdued light on her face and person. She 
wore a pale amber robe, and a gold net confined her hair. 
Save this, she had no ornament of any kind. She took a 
pride in showing that her daring beauty scorned all such 
adjuncts. Well she might, for a more magnificent creature 
never rode triumphant over human hearts. 

Even Eleanor — lifting up her meek, sorrowful gaze — 
acknowledged this. 

" Katharine, how beautiful you have grown! You see 
my prophecy was right. Do you remember it, that night 
at Summerwood, when the Lancasters first came and Mr. 

The silver lamp fell to the floor. 

There was a minute's silence, and then Katharine re- 
kindled the light, saying gaily, 

** See, my dear, this comes of standing to be looked at 
and flattered. But I will have your praise still : now look 
at me once more ! " 

" Still beautiful — most beautiful ! perhaps the more so 
because of your paleness. Yellow suits well with your black 


" And how simple your dress is! no jewels? no flowers 1" — 

" I never wear either. I hate your bits of shining stone, 
precious only because the world chooses to make them rare ; 
and as for flowers, I trod down my life's flowers long ago." 

The indistinct speech was lost upon Eleanor's wandering 
mind. She made no answer, and the two sisters-in-law sat 
for some minutes without exchanging a word. At last 
Eleanor said : 

" Will not Hugh or Sir Robert come in and speak to us 
before we all go to rest 1 " 

" Sir Robert 1 Oh, he retired an hour ago ; he keeps 
Summerwood time. As for Hugh, I doubt if either wife or 
sister could draw him from his beloved cigars and punch. 


Don't flatter yourself with any such thing ; I fear you must 
be content with my society." 

" Indeed I am," said Eleanor, affectionately laying her 
hand on Katharine's arm. 

She shrank restlessly beneath the touch ; but the moment 
after she leaned her head on her sister's shoulder ; and 
though she was quite silent, neither moved nor sobbed, 
Eleanor felt on her neck the drop of one heavy, burning 

" My own sister ! my dear Katharine ! are you ill — un- 
happy ?" 

" No, no ; quite well — quite happy. Did I not say so 1 
I think few mistresses of such a gay revel as ours could re- 
tire from it with so fresh and blithe a face as mine was 
when you saw it at the door. Still, I own to being rather 
tired now." 

" Will you go to rest 1 " 

" No, not just yet. Come Eleanor, shall we sit and talk 
for half-an-hour as we used to do 1 Only first I will shut 
out the moonlight, it looks so pale, and cold, and melan- 
choly. Why, Nelly, when you stood in it I could almost 
have thought you a ghost---the ghost of that old time! 
What nonsense I am saying ! " 

She rose up quickly, drew the curtains, and the chamber 
remained lit only by a taper at the farther end. 

"I cannot endure this darkness, I will call for lights. 
But no, it is better as it is. Did you ever know such a 
fitful restless creature ?" continued she, throwing herself on 
the ground at Eleanor's feet. " But I am quiet now — for 
a little ; so begin. What are you thinking about 1" 

" Of how strangely things change in life. Who would 
have thought that the little Katharine I used to play with, 
and lecture, and wonder at — ^for I did wonder at you some- 
times — ^would have grown into this Katharine V* 

" Ay, who would have thought it V* 

" And still more, that she should be Hugh's wife — my 
sister ; and I never guessed that you loved one another ! 
Indeed, I thought " 

" What did you think 1 tell me," said Katharine, suddenly. 

336 THE OGiLViEa [chap. 

" That you would certainly have chosen — not dear, quiet, 
gentle Hugh, but some hero of romance." 

" Ha, ha ! you were mistaken then." 

^ Yes, truly 1 Yet she was a little dreamer, was the dear 
Katharine of Summerwoodl How well I remember the 
night we sat together, as we do now, talking of many things 
— of Mr. Lynedon especially. Katharine, we are both 
changed since then ! " said Eleanor sadly, as her memory 
flew back, and her own sorrows once more sank heavy on 
that gentle heart, so ready to forget itself in and for others. 

Katharine lay quite silent, and without moving — only 
once she shivered convulsively. 

" How cold you are — ^your hands, your neck ! Let me 
wrap you in this shawl," Eleanor said. ^ And, indeed, I 
will not keep you talking any longer. Be good, dear, and 
go to rest ! " 

" Eest ! God 1 that I could rest — ^for ever ! " was the 
smothered moan that broke from Katharine's lips. 

" What were you saying, love ? " 

" Only that I will do anything you like, Eleanor. But I 
am forgetting all my duties. Come, I will see you to your 

She rose up, and the two sisters passed thither — affec- 
tionately too, with linked arms. 

'^ Now, dearest Katharine, you will promise me to go to 
bed and sleep ) " 

" Yes, yes ; only let me breathe first" She threw open 
the window, and drank in, almost with a gasp, the cool 
night-air of summer. Eleanor came beside her — and so they 
stood, the peaceful heaven shining on both, with its moon- 
light and its stars. Then Katharine drew her sister's face 
between her two hands, and said : 

" There, now you look as when I saif you at the window 
to-night — ^pale, pure, like a warning spirit, or an angeL I 
think you are both! Ai^d I — Eleanor, repaember, in all 
times, under all chance or changp, that I did love you — I 
shall love you — always." 

The smile, that unearthly, almost awful s|nile, passed 
from her face, showing what was left when the fitffil gleam 


had vanished- — a countenance of utter despair 1 But it was 
turned from Eleanor — she never saw it. Had she done so, 
perhaps — ^But no, it was too late ! 

" I believe you love me, dearest, as I you," she answered, 
tenderly ; " we are sisters now and for ever. Good night ! " 

They kissed each other once more, and then Katharine 
turned away — ^but on the threshold her foot stayed. 

« Eleanor ! " 

Eleanor sprang towards her. 

" You say your prayers every night, as children do — as 
we did together once, when I was a little child ? Well, say 
for me to-night, as then, * God bless * — ^no, no — * God take 
care of Katharine ! * " 

Ere she glided away, she lifted her eyes upwards for a 
moment, and then, leaning back, closed them firmly. Eleanor 
never again saw on her face that quiet, solemn look — never 
— until — 

S38 , THB oaniViBS. [chap. 


We women have four seasons, like the year. 
Oar spring is in our lightsome, girlish days, 
When the heart laughs within ns for sheer joy. 
Summer is when we love and are beloved. 
Autumn, when some young thing with tiny hands 
Is wantoning about us, day and night ; 
And winter is when those we love have perished. 
Some miss one season — some another ; this 
Shall have them early, and that late ; and yet 
The year wears round with all as best it may. 

Philip Bailet. 

Hugh and his sister breakfasted alone together. Sir Eobert 
had gone through that necessary ceremony an hour before, 
and retired to his legislative duties. Poor man ! he spent 
as much time in tr3dng to bind up the wounds of the 
nation, as though the sole doctor and nurse of that continu- 
ally ailing patient had been Sir Eobert Ogilvie, Bart., M,P., 
of Summerwood Park. 

" You needn't look for Katharine," said the husband, half 
sulkily, half sadly; "she never appears till after eleven. 
Nobody ever does in London, I suppose — at least nobody 
fashionable. Sit down, Eleanor, and let me for once be 
saved the trouble of pouring out my own coffee." 

So the brother and sister began their Ute-it-tMe. It was 
rather an uninteresting one ; for Hugh, after another word 
or two, buried himself in the mysteries of Bell's Life, from 
which he was not exhumed until the groom sent word that 
Brown Bess was waiting. 

" Good-bye, Nell. You'll stay till to-morrow, of course 1 
Uncle won't go back to Summerwood before then." And 



he was oflF, as he himself would characteristically have ex- 
pressed it, " like a shot." 

Ties of blood do not necessarily constitute ties of affection. 
The worid — ay, even the best and truest part of it — ^is a little 
mistaken on this point. The parental or fraternal bond is 
at first a mere instinct, or, viewed in its highest light, a link 
of duty ; but when, added to this, comes the tender friend- 
ship, the deep devotion, which springs from sympathy and 
esteem, then the love is made perfect, and the kindred of 
blood becomes a yet stronger kindred of heart. But unless 
circumstances, or the nature and character of the parties 
themselves, 'allow opportimity for this union, parent and 
child, brother and sister, are as much strangers as though 
no bond of relationship existed between them. 

Thus it was with Eleanor and Hugh. They regarded one 
another warmly ; would have gladly fulfilled any duty of 
affection or self-sacrifice — at least, she would ; but they had 
lived apart nearly all their Hves : Hugh nurtured as his 
uncle's heir — ^Eleanor, the companion of her widowed mother, 
on whose comparatively lowly condition the rest of the 
Ogilvie family somewhat looked down. In character and 
disposition there was scarcely a single meeting link of 
sjnnpathy between them ; and though they had always 
loved one another with a kind of instinctive affection, yet 
it had never grown into that devotion which makes the tie 
between brother and sister the sweetest and dearest of all 
earthly bonds, second only to the one which Heaven alone 
makes^perfect, heart-united marriage. 

Eleanor sat awhile, thinking with a vague doubt that this 
was not the sort of marriage between her brother and her 
cousin. But she was too little acquainted with the inner 
character of either for her doubts to amount to fear. They 
quickly vanished when Hugh's wife came in, so smiling, so 
full of playful grace, that Eleanor could hardly believe it was 
the same Katharine whose parting look the previous night 
had painfully haunted her, even amidst her own still more 
sorrowful remembrances. 

" What 1 your brother gone, Nelly 1 Why, then, I shall 
have you all to myself this morning. So come, bring your 

340 THE OGiLvnss. [chap. 

work — since you are so countrified as to have work — and 
let us indulge in a chat before any one comes." . 

" Have you many visitors, then ? " 

^'Oh, the Lancasters might call, after last night, you 
know ; or Mr. Lynedon " (she said the name with a resolute 
carelessness) ; " or even — though it is scarce likely — ^your old 
friend and my new one, Mr. Philip Wychnor." 

There was no answer. Katharine amused herself with 
walking to the window, and teasing an ugly pet parrot. 
Poor exchange for the merry little lark that, happy in its 
love-tended captivity, sang to the girl Katharine at Summer- 
wood! Eleanor, glad of anything to break the silence, 
inquired after the old favourite. 

" Dead ! " was the short, sharp answer. 

"But, Eleanor," she added, in a jesting manner, "you 
always talk of the past — generally a tiresome subject Let 
us turn to something more interesting. For instance, I want 
to hear all you know about Philip Wychnor. No wonder 
you like him : I do abeady. How long have you known one 
another ] " 

" Nearly all our lives." 

This truth — Eleanor could not, would not, speak aught 
but the truth — ^was murmured with a drooping and crimson- 
ing cheek. She revealed nothing, but she was unable to 
feign : she never tried. 

" Eleanor ! " said Katharine, catching her hands, and 
looking earnestly in her face — " Sister ! teU me " 

She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant announc- 
ing Mr. Lynedon. 

" Let me creep away ; I am too weary to talk," whispered 

" No, stay ! " The gesture was imperative, almost fierce ; 
but in a moment it was softened, and Mrs. Ogilvie received 
her guest as Mrs, Ogilvie eyer did. In her easy, dignified 
mien lingered not a trace of Katharine, 

They talked for awhile the passing nothings incident on 
morning visits, and then Mrs. Ogilvie noticed her sister's 
pale face. 

" How weary she is, poor Nelly ! " — and the touch of sym- 


pathy which prompted the words was sincere and self-forget- 
ful — " Go, love, and rest there in my favourite chair, and " 
— ^with a sudden smile — " stay, take this book, also a favour- 
ite : vou will like it, I know." 

It was a new volume, and bore Philip Wychnor's name 
on the title-page. There, sitting in the recess, Eleanor read 
her lover's souL It was his soul ; for a great and true 
author, in all he writes, will still reflect the truth that is 
within him — ^not as the world sees, but as Heaven sees. 
Man, passing by on the broad wayside, beholds only the 
battered leaves of the unsightly, perhaps broken flower; 
but God's sun, shining into its heart, flnds beauty, and 
draws thence perfume, so that earth is made to rejoice in 
what is poured out unto heaven alone. 

It is a merciful thing, that when fate seals up the full 
bursting tide of human hopes and human yearnings in a 
great man's soul, the current, frozen for a time, at length 
flows back again to enrich and glorify, not his poor earthly 
being, but that which wiU endure for ever— his true self— 
his genius. And so this his work, whatever it be, stands to 
him in the place of all that in life is lost, or never realised ; 
becomes to him love — ^hope — joy — home — ^wife— child — 

Something of this Philip Wychnor had already felt. His 
work was his soul, poured out, not for the petty present 
circle of individual praise, that Mr. This might flatter, and 
Mrs. That might weep over his page, but for the great wide 
world, wherein the true author longs to dwell — the hearts 
of kindred sympathy, throbbing everywhere and in all time. 
He wrote that he might, in the only way he could, make 
his life an offering to Heaven, and to the memory of that 
love which was to him next heaven. He wrote, too, 
that, going down to the grave lonely and childless, as he 
deemed it would be, he might thus leave behind him a por- 
tion of his soul — that soul which through life had kept 
pure its faith in Gk)d and Aer. 

And so, looking on his writings, the woman he loved read 
his heart. She discerned, too — ^as none but she could — his 
long patience, his struggles, his enduring love. All was dim. 


even to her, still groping blindly in a mesh of circumstances. 
But thus far she read — the unchanged purity of his noble 
nature — ^his truth, his faithfulness, and his love — love for 
her, and her alone ! She knew it, she felt it, now. 

A deep peace fell upon her spirit. She read over and 
over again many a line — ^to the world, nothing — to her, 
sweet as Philip's own dear voice, hopeful as the love which 
answered his. Alas that he knew it not ! She closed the 
book, and leaned back with a peaceful, solemn joy. As she 
did so, there came to her heart a strong faith — a blessed fore- 
warning— such as Heaven sometimes sends amicjst all-con- 
flicting destinies, that one day Philip would be her husband, 
and she his wife — ^never to be sundered more 1 Never — ^until 
the simple girl and boy, who once looked out together 
dreamily into life'9 future, should stand, stUl together, on its 
verge, looking back on the earthly journey traversed hand- 
in-hand ; and forward, unto the opening gates of heaven. 

^Absorbed in these thoughts, she had almost forgotten 
the presence of Katharine and Lynedon, until the former 
stood behind her chair. 

" What, Nelly in a reverie 1 I thought dreaming in- 
variably ended with one's teens. Is it not so, Mr. Lyne- 
don ? " And she turned to Paul, who was standing a little 
aloof, turning over books and newspapers in an absent, 
half-vexed manner. But he was beside Katharine in a 
moment, nevertheless. 

" You were speaking to me 1 " 

"Yes; but my question was hardly worth summoning 
you from those interesting newspapers, in which a future 
statesman must take such delight. I really should apolo- 
gise for having entertained you for the last quarter of an hour 
with that operatic discussion concerning my poor ill-used 
favourite, Giuseppe Verdi Do I linger properly on those 
musical Italian syllables 1 Answer, you Signor fresh from 
the sweet South." 

" Everything you do 
Still betters what is done," 

was Lynedon's reply ; too earnest to be mere compliment. 


But Mrs. Ogilvie mocked alike at both — or seemed to 
mock, for hex eye glittered even as she spoke. "Come, 
Eleanor, answer ! Here is Mr. Lynedon quoting, of course 
for your benefit ; since, if I remember right, your acquaint- 
ance began over that very excellent but yet somewhat over- 
lauded individual, Mr. William Shakspeare." 

" You remember ! " said Paul, eagerly, and in a low tone ; 
" do you indeed remember all that time V* 

Katharine's lips were set together, and her head turned 
aside. But immediately she looked upon him coldly — care- 
lessly — ^too carelessly to be even proud. " * All ' is a compre- 
hensive word; I really cannot engage to lay so heavy a tax 
on my memory, which was never very good — was it, Eleanor?" 

Eleanor smiled. And then, making an effort, she began 
to talk to Mr. Lynedon about the old times and Summer- 
wood, until the arrival of another visitor. 

Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne glided into the room in all 
the grace of mourning attire, the most interesting and least 
woebegone possible. Never did crape bonnet sit more 
tastefully and airily, and certainly never did it shade a 
blither smile. The cousins met, as cousins do who have 
proved all their life the falsity of the saying, that " bluid is 
thicker than water.'* 

" Well, Miss Ogilvie (I suppose the * Eleanor * time is past 
now "), said Mrs. Frederick, in a dignified parenthesis, " here 
we are, you see, all married — I beg your pardon — except 
yourself. What a pity that you should be left the last bird 
on the bush 1 " 

"If you attach such discredit to the circumstance, I think 
I may venture to say for Eleanor that it must be entirely 
her own fault," said Katharine, in the peculiar tone with 
which she always suppressed her cousin's ill-natured speeches. 
The chance words brought the colour to Eleanor's cheek, 
and made Paul Lynedon fidget on his chair. For the 
twentieth time he said to himself, " What a fool I was I " 

" Oh, no doubt — ^no doubt she has had some offers. I 
dare say she finds it pleasant and convenient to be an old 
maid ; she certainly looks very well, and tolerably happy, 
considering. And now, Miss Eleanor, since I have paid 


you this pretty compliment, have you never a one for me 1 
Do I look much older, eh 1 " 

" People do not usually grow aged in four or five years/' 
said Eleanor, hardly able to repress a smile. 

" Oh dear no ! Aged ! — how could you use the odious 
word ? But still, I thought I might seem altered, especially 
in this disagreeable mourning." 

" I was afraid, when first you entered" began Elea- 
nor, looking rather grave. 

" Nay, you need not pull a long face on the matter. It's 
only for my brother-in-law — ^Leigh Pennythome." 

''Leigh? Is poor Leigh dead?" cried Eleanor. And, 
with the quick sympathy of love which extends to all near 
or dear to the beloved, she felt a regret, as though she had 
known the boy. 

" Oh, he died two months since — ^a great blessing too. 
He suffered so much, poor fellow," added Mrs. Frederick, 
catching from the surprised faces of her two cousins a hint 
as to the finishing of her sentence. 

** I was not aware, Eleanor, that you knew this poor boy, 
in whom I too have been interested," said KatharLe. 
" I have heard of him a good deal." 
Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at her sister's blushing countenancoi 
and said no more. 

" Interested ! " continued Isabella, catching up the word ; 
** I can't imagine, and never could, what there waa interest- 
ing in Leigh ; and yet everybody made a fuss over him, 
especially that Mr. Wychnor. You know him, Katharine 1 
—a quiet, stupid sort of. young man." 

'^ You forget, Isabella, this gentleman happens to be my 
friend, and also that of Mr. Lynedon," was Mrs. Ogilvie's 
reply. Her cousin, who had not noticed Mr. Lynedon, bent 
with mortified apology to the " very distingue-looking " per- 
sonage who stood in the shadow of the window ; and, in an 
eager effort to follow up the introduction by conversation, 
Mrs. 'Frederick's vapid ideas were soon turned from their 
original course. 

She succeeded in getting through, as hundreds of her 
character do, another of the hours which make up a whole 

XLIV.] THE OGILVlEa • 345 

precious existence. But it is perhaps consolatory to think, 
that those by whom a life is thus wasted, are at all events 
squandering a capital which is of no use to any one — not 
even to the owner. There are people in this world who 
almost make one question the possibility of their attaining 
another. Their souls go like the beasts — downwards ; so that 
even if their small spark of immortality can survive the 
quenching of the body, one doubts if it would ever feel either 
the torture of Purgatory or the bliss of Paradise. 

But she seemed determined to out-stay Mr. Lynedon ; so 
contented herself with impressing on her hearers the melan- 
choly warning of her departure once every five minutes. 

"And besides, my dear Mrs. Ogilvie" — Isabella sometimes 
bestowed the Mrs.y which she was most punctilious in exact- 
ing — " I wanted you to help me through a dull visit on my 
mother-in-law: but of course you can't come; only if, as 
Fred — ^the ill-natured creature ! — has taken the carriage to 

"I will order mine for you," said Katharine, with the 
faintest possible smile. " I am engaged myself ; but, Elea- 
nor, a drive would do you good. Will you take my place, 
and enquire for poor Mrs. Pennythome 1 " It was a sudden 
and kindly thought, which found its grateful echo in the 
thrill of Eleanor's heart. 

Alas, that through life those two had not known each 
other better, that they might have loved and sustained each 
other more ! 

Paul still lingered, trespassing on the utmost limits of 
etiquette, to gain another half-hour — ^another minute, of the 
presence which was already growing more and more attrac- 
tive — nay, beloved ! As Katharine bade adieu to her cousin 
and Eleanor, she turned to him : "Mr. Lynedon, may I as a 
friend, appropriate your idle morning, and ask you to become 
knight-errant to these fair ladies?" 

He bowed, wavering between disappointment and plea- 
sure. The latter triumphed : that winning manner — the 
gentle name of " friend " — ^would have sent him to the very 
end of the earth for her sake, or at her bidding. 



Know wliat love is — ^that it draws 
Into itself all passion, hope, and thought ; 
The heart of life, to which all currents flow 
Through every vein of being — which if chilled, 
The streams are ice for ever ! 

"Westland Makston. 

Mrs. Frederick Pennythokne, in high good humour and 
good spirits, played oflF every feminine air of which she was 
mistress, for the especial benefit of Mr. Lynedon. She was 
one of those women to whom nothing ever comes amiss 
that comes in a coat and hat. The passive recipient of 
these attentions received them at first coldly, and afterwards 
with some amusement; for, despite his dawning passion, 
Lynedon could not already deny his nature. He was but a 
man — ^a man of the world — and she a pretty woman ; so he 
looked smiling and pleased — ^ready to snatch an hour's idle 
amusement, which would be utterly forgotten the next. 

Love ! mocked at and trifled with when thou wouldst 
come as an angel of blessing, how often dost thou visit at 
last — an avenging angel of doom 1 

Leaning back silent and quiet, Eleanor felt oppressed by 
an almost trembling eagerness. To tread where Philip's 
weary feet had so often trod ; to enter the house of which his 
letters had frequently spoken ; to see the gentle and now 
desolate woman whom he had liked, and who had been kind 
to him in those sorrowful days, — these were indeed sweet 
though stolen pleasures unto his betrothed. For she was 
his betrothed still — her heart told her so: a passing 
estrangement could never break the faithful bond of years. 

Love makes the most ordinary things appear sacred. 


Simple Eleanor ! to her the dull road and the glaring formal 
square were interesting, even beautiful. She looked up at 
the house itself with loving, wistful eyes, as though the 
shadow of Philip's presence were still reflected there. She 
crossed the threshold where he had passed so many a time 
— ^the very track of his footsteps seeined hallowed in her 

Lynedon remained in the carriage. He never liked visits 
of condolence, or interviews at all approaching to the 
doleful ; so he made a show of consideration for " poor Mrs. 
Pennythome's feelings," and enacted the sympathising and 
anxious friend by means of a couple of cards. 

There is a deep solemnity on entering a house over which 
the shadow of a great woe still lingers, where pale Patience 
sits smiling by the darkened hearth, giving all due welcome 
to the stranger, yet not so but that the welcomed one can 
feel this to be a mere passing interest. No tear may dim 
the eye, the lips may not once utter the name — ^now only a 
name — but the visitant knows that the thoughts are far 
away, far as heaven is from earth ; and he pictures almost 
with awe what must be the depth of the grief that is not 

Eleanor and her cousin passed into the drawing-room. 
It had a heavy, damp atmosphere, like that of a room long 
closed up. 

" How disagreeable ! They never sit in this room' now, 
because of that likeness over the mantelpiece. Why couldn't 
they have it removed, instead of shutting up the only toler- 
able room in the house?" said Isabella, as she drew up the 
Venetian blind, and partly illumined the gloomy apart- 

" Is that poor Leigh 1" asked Eleanor. It was a portrait 
— a commonplace, bright-coloured daub, but still a portrait 
— of a little child sitting on the ground, his arms full of 
flowera " Was it like him V* 

" Not a bit ; but 'tis all that is left of the boy." 

All left! the sole memento of that brief young life! 
Eleanor gazed upon it with interest — even with tears. She 
was standing looking at it still when the mother entered. 


Eleanor turned and met tlie meek brown eyes — once 
fondly chronicled to her as being like her own ; but all me- 
mory of herself or of Philip passed away when she beheld 
Mrs. Pennythorne. What was earthly love, even in its 
most sacred form, to that hallowed grief, patient but per- 
petual, which to the mourner became as a staff to lean on 
through the narrow valley whose sole ending must be the 

Even Isabella's careless tone sank subdued before that 
soundless footfall — ^that quiet voice ! She introduced her 
cousin with an awkward half-apology. 

" I hope you will not mind her being a stranger, but" — 
here a bright thought struck Isabella — " she knows your 
great favourite, Mr. Wychnor." 

A smile — or at least its shadow — ^all that those patient 
lips would ever wear on earth — showed how the mother s 
gratitude had become affection. Mrs. Pennythorne took 
Eleanor's hand affectionately. 

** I don't know if I have ever heard of you ; but indeed I 
am very glad to see you, for Mr. Wychnor's sake." 

It was the dearest welcome in the world to Eleanor 
Ogilvie ! 

" Have you seen him to-day 1" pursued Mrs. Pennythorne, 
simply ; " but indeed you could not, for he has been with 
me all the morning. I made him stay, because he seemed 
worn and ill." 

" HI I " echoed Eleanor anxiously. But her word and look 
passed unnoticed, for Isabella was watching Lynedon from 
the window; and Mrs. Pennythorne answered unconsciously, 

** Yes ; he has not looked well of late ; I have been quite 
uneasy about him. I left him lying on the sofa in the 
parlour. Shall we go down there now 1 he will be so dull 

She led the way ; Isabella reluctantly quitting her post 
of observation. 

" Always Mr. Wychnor 1 What a bore that young inan 
is I " she observed to her cousin. But Eleanor heard nothing 
— ^thought of nothing — save that Philip was near — ^Philip 
ill — sad ! 


So ill, so sad, that he scarce moved at the opening door ; 
but lay with eyes closed heavily, as though the light itself 
were pain — and lips pressed together, lest their trembling 
should betray, even in solitude, what the firm will had 
resolved to conquer, forbidding even the relief of sorrow. 

For one brief instant she beheld him thus; she, his 
betrothed, who would have given her life for his sake. Her 
heart yearned over him, almost as a mother's over a child* 
She could have knelt beside him and taken the weary 
drooping head to her bosom, comforting and cherishing as a 
woman only can : but — 

He saw her ! there came a momentary spasm over his face, 
and then, starting up, he met her with a cold eye, as he had 
done the night before. 

It caused her heart — ^that heart overflowing with tender- 
ness and love — to freeze within her. She shrank back, and 
had hardly strength to give him the listless hand of outward 
courtesy. He took it as courtesy; nothing more. And 
thus they met, the second time, as strangers, worse thaii 
strangers — they who had been each other's very life for so 
many years I He began to talk — not with her, save the 
few words that formality exacted — ^but with Mrs. Penny- 
thome. A few frigid nothings passed constrainedly, and 
then Isabella cried out, 

" Goodness, Eleanor, how pale you are 1 " 

Eleanor was conscious of Philip's sudden glance — ^fuU of 
anxiety, wild tenderness, anything but coldness. He half 
sprang to her side, and then paused. Mrs. Pennythome 
observed that the room was close, and perhaps Mr. Wychnor 
would open the window. 

He did so, and saw Paul Lynedon I 

Once more his eye became cold — meaningless — stem. It 
sought Eleanor's no more. He sat down beside Mrs. Fre- 
derick, answering vaguely her light chatter. Five minutes 
after, he made some idle excuse, and left the house. 

" What a pity, when he had promised to stay until dinner- 
time 1 " said Mrs. Pennythome. 

He had gone, then, to escape her / Eleanor saw it — ^knew 
it. Colder and colder her heart grew, until it felt like stone. 


She neither trembled nor wept ; she only wished that she 
could lie down and die. Thus, silent as she came — ^but oh ! 
with what a different silence — she departed from the 

To those who suffer, there is no life more bitter, more 
full of continual outward mockery, than that of an author 
immersed in the literary life of London. In a duller sphere 
a man may hide his misery in his chamber — ^may fly with it 
to some blessed country solitude — even wrap it round him 
like a mantle of pride or stupidity, and pass unnoticed in the 
common crowd. But here it is impossible. He must fill 
his place in his circle — ^perhaps a brilliant one ; and if so he 
must shine too, as much as ever. He must keep in the 
society which is so necessary to his worldly prospects — he 
must be seen in those haunts which are to others amusement, 
to him business — ^in theatre, exhibition, or social meeting ; 
80 at last he learns to do as others do— to act It is merely 
creating a new self as he does a new character ; and perhaps 
in time this fictitious self becomes so habitual that never, 
save in those works which the world calls fiction, but which 
are indeed his only true life, does the real man shine out. 

Philip Wychnor had not gone so far as this on the track 
of simulation ; day and night he prayed that it never might 
be so with him. The world had not cast upon him her 
many-coloured fooFs vesture ; but she had taught him so to 
wear his own robe that no eye could penetrate the workings 
of the heart within. He had his outward life to lead, and 
he led it — ^without deceit, but without betrayal of aught 
that waa within. 

So it chanced that the self-same night, when Eleanor, 
yielding to Katharine's restless eagerness for anything that 
might smooth time's passing and deaden thought, went 
with her to some place of amusement — a " Shakspeare read- 
ing "-^the first face she saw was Philip Wychnor's. She 
saw it — not pale, worn, dejected as a few hours since, but 
wearing the look of courteous, almost pleased attention, as 
he listened, nay talked, among a group whose very names 
brought thoughts of wit, and talent, and gaiety. She looked 
at him — she, with her anguished, half-broken heart — ^he the 


centre of that brilliant circle ; and then the change burst 
upon her. The Philip Wychnor of the world was not hers. 
What was she to him now ? She turned away her head, 
and strove to endure patiently, without sorrow. That he 
should be great and honoured — ^rich in fame — ought not 
that to be happiness) If he loved not her, she might 
still worship him. So she pressed her anguish down in the 
lowest depths of her faithful heart, and tried to make it 
rejoice in his glory ; content to be even trodden down under 
his footsteps, so that those footsteps led him unto the lofty 
path whither he desired to go. She watched him from afar — 
his kindling eye, his beautiful countenance, on which sat 
genius and truth : and it seemed to her nothing that her own 
poor unknown life, with its hopes and joys, should be 
sacrificed, to give unto the world and unto fame such an 
one as he. 

He passed from the circle where he stood, and moving 
listlessly, without looking around him, came and sat down 
beside Katharine. At her greeting he started : again — as 
if that perpetual doom must ever haunt them— the once 
betrothed lovers met. 

The play was Romeo and JiUieL They had read it when 
almost children, sitting in the palace-garden ; they had acted 
it once — the balcony-scene — Cleaning over the terrace- wall. 
She wondered. Did he think of this ? But she dared not 
look at him ; she dared not trust herself to speak. So she 
remained silent, and he too. Katharine sat between them 
' — sometimes listening to the play, sometimes turning a 
restless, eager gaze around. 

If any human eye could have looked into those three 
hearts, he would have seen there as mournful depths as ever 
the world's great Poet sounded. Ay, and it would be so to 
the end of time ! Cold age may preach them down, world- 
liness may make a mock at them, but still the two great 
truths of life are Eomance and Love. 

The play ended. ** He will not come," said Katharine, 
laughing ; " I mean — ^not Hugh, but Mr. Lynedon, whom he 
said he would ask to meet us here. What shall we do, 
Eleanor? How shall we punish the false knight)'' she 

352 THE 06ILVIE& [CHAP. 

continned, showing forth mockingly the real anger which she 
felt. It was a good disguise. 

Eleanor answered in a few gentle words. Philip only 
understood that they were a pleading — and for Lynedon I 

^ Will you take the place of our fsdthless cavalier, and 
succour us, Mr. Wychnorl" was Katharine's winning 
request. He could not but accede. He felt impelled by a 
blind destiny which drove him on against his wilL At last 
he ceased even to strive against it. 

He accompanied the two ladies home. Then, when Mrs. 
Ogilvie, in her own irresistible way, besought him not to 
leave the rescued damsels in solitude, but to spend a quiet 
hour with herself and Eleanor, he complied passively — 
mechanically — and entered. 

There were flowers on the table. "The very flowers, 
Eleanor, that I — or rather you — ^admired in the gardens 
to-day 1" cried Elatharine. "Well, that atones for the 
falsehood of this evening. Mr. Lynedon is a preux chevaMer 
after alL A bouquet for each I How kind ! is it not )" 

" Yes, very I " answered Eleanor. 

"Yes, very!" mimicked Katharine, striving to hide her 
excitement under a flippant tongue. " Upon my word, 
were I Mr. Lynedon, I should be in a state of high indigna- 
tion I And a note, too — ^to me, of course. Come, will you 
answer it 1 — ^No 1 Then I must. Talk to Mr. Wychnor 
the while." 

She went away, humming a gay tune, tearing the envelope 
to pieces : the note itself she crushed in her hand for the 
moment, to be afterwards — But no eye followed her to 
that inner chamber. Alas ! every human being has some 
inner chamber, of heart or home I 

They were together at last, Philip and Eleanor, quite 
alone. He felt the fact with a shuddering fear — a vague 
desire to fly ; she, with a faint hope, a longing to implore 
him to tell her what was this terrible cloud that hung be- 
tween them: yet neither had the power to move. She 
gtood — ^her fingers beginning, half unconsciously, to arrange 
the flowers in a vase : he, sitting at the farther end of the 
room, whither he had retired at the first mention of Lyne- 


don's name, neither moved, nor looked, nor spoke. Gradu- 
ally his hands dropped from the book he had taken, his face 
grew so white, so fixed, so rigid, that it might have been 
that of one dead. 

At the sight Eleanor forgot all coldness, bitterness, pride 
— even that reserve which some call womanly, which makes 
a girl shrink from being the first to say to her lover, " For- 
give 1 " She remembered only that they had loved one an- 
other — that both suflfered. For he did suflfer ; she saw it 
now— ay, with a strange gladness, because the suffering 
showed tiie lingering love. The hand of one or other must 
rend the cloud between them, or it might darken over both 
their lives eternally. Should that hand be hers ? 

She thought a moment and then prayed ! She was one 
of those little children who fear not to look up every hour 
to the face of their Father in heaven. Then she crept 
noiselessly beside her lover. 

" PhHip ! " 

He heard the tremulous, pleading voice ; saw the out- 
stretched hands! Forgetting all, he would have clasped 
them, have sprung forward to her, but that he saw in her 
bosom, placed by her unconsciously in the agitation of the 
moment, the flowers — Lynedon's flowers ! Then came 
rushing back upon the young man's soul its love and its 
despair — despair that must be hidden even from her. 
What right had he to breathe one tender word, even to 
utter one cry of misery, in the ear of his lost beloved, when 
she was another man's chosen bride ? The struggle, were 
it unto death, must be concealed, not only for his own sake, 
but for hers. 

He did conceal it. He took her hand — only one — and 
then let it go, not rudely, but softly, though the chilling 
action wounded her ten times more. 

" You are veiy kind. Thank you 1 I hope you will be 
happy, indeed I do." 

" Happy ! Oh, never, never in this world 1 " And she 
would have sunk, but that he rose and gave her his chair. 
The action, which seemed as one of mere courtesy to any 
every-day friend, went to her heart like a dagger. 

2 A 

354 THE 06ILVIE8. [CHAP. 

" It is all changed with us, Philip ; I feel it is." And she 
burst into tears. 

He felt the madness rising within him, and turned to 
fly. But he could not go and leave her thus. He came 
near once more, and said, in a low, hurried tone, 

"I have been unkind; I have made you weep. You 
were always gentle ; I think you are so stilL But I will 
not pain you any more, Eleanor — ^let me call you so this 
once, for the sake of all the past." 

" The past ! " she murmured. 

" You know it is the past— eternally the past. Why do 
you seek to bring it back again ? Forget it, blot it out, 
trample on it, as I do." And his voice rose with the wild 
passion that swelled within him ; but it sank at once when 
he met her upraised eyes, wherein the tears were frozen into 
a glassy terror. 

"Forgive me!" he cried. "Let me say farewell now. 
You will be happy ; and I — I shall not suffer much — not 
much. Do not think of me, except in forgiveness " 

"Oh, Philip, Philip, it is you who should forgive me!" 
And she extended her loving arms; but he thrust them 
back with a half-frenzied gesture. 

" Eleanor, I thought you one of God's angels ; but a 
demon could not tempt and torture me thus. Think what 
we once were to one another, and then of the gulf between 
us — a wide, fiery gulf. Do you not see it, Eleanor? I 
cannot pass — ^I dare not. Dare you ?" 

" Yes." 

The word was scarcely framed on her Ups when PhiUp 
stopped it with a cry. 

" You shall not ! I will save you from yourself. I want 
no gentleness, no pity ; only let me go. Loose my hand !" 

But she held it still. 

His tones sank to entreaty. " Eleanor, be merciful ! let 
me depart ; I can be nothing to you now. I would have 
been everything ; but it is too late. You hold me still 1 
How can you — ^how dare you — when there is one who 
stands between us! Ah, you drop my hand now! I 
knew it ! " 


He stood one moment looking in her face. Then he 
cried, passionately, 

"Eleanor — mine once, now mine no more! — though 
misery, torture, sin itself, are between us, still, for the last 
time, come!" 

He opened his arms, and strained her to his heart, so 
tightly that she almost shrieked. Then he broke away, and 
^fled precipitately from the house. 



Go— be sure of my love — hj that treaBon foigiyen ; 
Of my prayen — hy the blessings they bring thee from heaven ; 
Of my grief ; — jndge the length of the sword by the sheath's. 
By the silence of life— more pathetic than deatii's. 

£. B. Bbowsikg. 

Eleanor Ogilvie's love was like her nature— cahn, silent^ 
deep. It had threaded the whole course of her Ufe, not as 
a bursting torrent, but a quiet, ever-flowing stream " that 
knew no fialL" When the change came, all the freshness 
and beauty passed from her world, leaving it arid and dry. 
She made no outward show of sorrow ; for she deemed it 
alike due to Philip and herself that whatever had come be- 
tween their love to end it thus, it should now be buried out of 
sight. If indeed his long silence had but too truly foretold 
his change towards her, and, as his broken words faintly 
seemed to reveal, some other love had driven her from his 
heart — or, at least, some new bond had made the very 
memory of that olden pledge a sin — ^was the deserted be- 
trothed to lay bare her sufferings, to be a mark for the 
pointed finger of scornful curiosity, and the glance of 
intrusive pity? And still more, was she to suffer idle 
tongues to bring reproach against him ? Her heart folded 
itself over this terrible grief as close as— nay, closer than 
over its precious love ; even as the cankered leaf gathers its 
fibres nearer together, to hide the cause which eats its life 
away. She pioved about the house at Summerwood — 
living her outward daily life of gentle tendance on the 
desolate and complaining Lady Ogilvie; ever the same 
ministering angel, as it seemed her fortune always to be, 
towards one sufferer or another. And so it is with some, 

xlvl] the ogilvies. 357 

who have themselves abeady drained to the dregs the cup 
of affliction. But He who sees fit to lift unto their lips the 
vinegar and the gall, also places in their hands the honey 
and balm which they may pour out to others. 

At times, when in the night-time her pent-up sorrow ex- 
pended itself in bitterest tears, or when in the twilight she 
sat by Lady Ogilvie, whose complaints were then hushed 
in the heavy slumber of weakness and old age, Eleanor's 
brain wearied itself with conjectures as to what this terrible 
mystery could be ; this "gulf" of which Philip had spoken, 
which neither he nor she must dare to cross. Ever and anon 
there flashed upon her memory his wild tones and gestures 
— his half-maddened looks. They eflFaced the thoughts 
which had once brought comfort to her. Could it be with 
him as with other men of whom she had heard — that his 
face and his writings alike gave the lie to his heart] — 
without, all fair ; within, all foulness and sin 1 Could it be 
that her own pure Philip was no more ; and in his stead 
was an erring, world-stained man, to whom her sight had 
brought back remorsefully the innocent days of old 1 

" Oh, no ! — not that. Let me believe anjrthing but that 1" 
moaned Eleanor, as one evening, when she sat all alone by 
Lady Ogilvie*s couch, these thoughts came, wringing her 
very soul. " Oh, my Philip ! I could bear that you should 
love me no more — ^that another should stand in my place, 
and be to you all I was, and all I hoped to be — ^but let me 
not think you unworthy. It would kill me; I feel it 
would ! " And she leant her head against the cushion of the 
sofa, and gave way to a burst of agonising sobs. They half 
aroused Lady Ogilvie, who moved, and said dreamily, 

" Katharine, my child ! What ! are you crying ? You 

shall not be married unless Ah 1 Eleanor, it is you ! I 

might have remembered that it was not Katharine — she 
never comes to sit by her mother now." 

The sad voice went to Eleanor's heart, even amidst her 
own sorrow. Struggling, she repressed all utterance of the 
grief which her aunt had not yet seen, and leaned over her 

"Katharine will come soon^j I know. I am sure she 


would be here to-morrow if she thought you wished her. 

" No, no ; I have no right now. She has her husband, 
and her Mends, and her gaieties. She hates Summerwood, 
too ; she told me she did. And I was so anxious for her 
marriage with Hugh, that she might still live here, and no 
one might come to part my child &om me. I did not think 
she would have gone away of her own accord." 

Eleanor, as she stood by Lady Ogilvie's couch, thought of 
her own mother, now safe in heaven, from whom, while life 
lasted, neither fate nor an erring will had ever taken away 
the clasp of a daughter's loving arms. And while, strong 
through the dividing shadow of death— of intervening years 
-of other bonds and other griefs-shone the memo^ of 
this first, holiest love, she lifted her heart with thankful joy 
that her work had been fulfilled. From the eternal shore, 
the mother now perchance stretched forth, to the struggling 
and suflFering one, her spirit-arms, murmuring, "My child— 
my true and duteous child — I wait for thee ! Be patient, 
and endure 1 " 

Lady Ogilvie felt her hand taken silently. What word 
of consolation could have broken in upon the deserted 
parent's tears? But the touch seemed to yield comfort. 
" You are a kind, dear girl, Eleanor ; I am very glad to have 
you here. I think you do me good Thank you 1 " 

Eleanor kissed her aunt's cheek, and was then about to 
sit down by the couch on a little ottoman, when Lady 
Ogilvie prevented her. 

" Not there — ^not there. Katharine always liked to sit 
beside me thus. She does not care for it now ; but no one 
shall have Katharine's place — no, no!" And the poor 
mother again began to weep. 

Eleanor took her seat at the foot of the sofa in compas- 
sionate silence. 

" Dear aunt," she whispered at length, " your Katharine 
loves you as much as ever. You must not think her lost to 
you because she is married." 

*' Ah 1 that is what people say. I once said the same my- 
self to a mother at her child's wedding. Let me see — ^who 


was it!" and her wandering thoughts seemed eagerly to 
catch at the subject. "Yes, I remember now, it was on 
Bella's wedding-day, and I was talking to her husband's 
mother. Poor Mrs. Pennythome ! She made me feel for 
her, for she, too, had one child — a son, I think. She said 
he must bring his wife home, because she could not bear to 
part with him. I wonder if she ever did ! " 

'' Yes ! " said Eleanor softly. 

^ Then her son is as unkind as my Katharine. He forgets 
his mother. Poor thing! poor thing! She is left all alone, 
like me!" 

" Not so ; far lonelier," said Eleanor's low voice. " Her 
son is dead." 

"Dead! dead!" cried Lady Ogilvie; "and I have still 
my Katharine well and happy. God forgive me ! I will 
never murmur any more," And she lay back in sHence for 
many minutes. Then she said, 

"Eleanor, I should like to hear more about that poor 
mother. Where did you learn these news of her 1" 

" I saw her when I was in London, three weeks since," 
answered Eleanor, in a tremulous voice, remembering what 
years of sorrow she had lived in those three weeks. 

" Poor Mrs. Pennythome ! I wish I could talk to her. 
Do you think she would come and see me 1 It might do 
her good." 

Eleanor gladly seconded the plan ; and surely she might 
be forgiven if there flashed across her mind the thought 
that through this channel might come tidings of Philip 

A few days more, and she had succeeded in accomplishing 
her aunt's desire. Mrs. Pennythome, wondering and shrink- 
ing, crept silently into the room, scarcely believing that the 
sickly woman who at her entrance half arose from the couch 
could be the tall and stately Lady Ogilvie. Still more sur- 
prised was she when Katharine's mother, glancing at her 
black garments, and then for an instant regarding her pale 
meek face, grief-worn but calm, laid her head on Mrs. Penny- 
thome's shoulder and burst into tears. 

Then, to the mother of the Dead, came that new strength 


and dignity born of her sorrow ; and she who had given her 
one lamb from her bosom to be sheltered in the eternal fold, 
spoke comforting words unto her whose grief was for the 
living gone astray. They talked not long of Katharine, 
but passed on to the subject that was now rarely absent 
from Mrs. Pennythorne's lips, and never from her heart, 
though it dwelt on both with a holy calmness, and without 
pain. She spoke of Leigh — of all that was good and 
beautiful in himself, of all that was hopeful in his death. 
And amidst the simple and touching story of his illness 
and his going away — she spoke of the last parting by no 
harsher word — she continually uttered, and ever with deep 
tenderness aud thankful blessings, one name — the name of 
Philip Wychnor. 

Half-hidden in the window, Eleanor listened to the tale 
which the grateful mother told. She heard of Philip's 
struggles, of his noble patience, of those qualities which had 
awakened in poor Leigh such strong attachment — and after- 
wards of the almost womanly tenderness which had smoothed 
the sick boy's pillow, filling him with joy and peace even to 
the last And then Mrs. Pennythorne spoke of the gentle 
kindness which had since led Philip, pros^rous and cLted 
as he was, to visit her daily in her loneliness with comfort 
and cheer. 

" My dear boy always said that Mr. Wychnor talked like 
an angel," continued Mrs. Pennythorne. " And so he does. 
Night and day I pray Heaven to reward him for the blessings 
he has brought to me and mine. And though he is sadly 
changed of late, and I can see there is more in his heart than 
even / know of, yet his words are like an angel's still. May 
God comfort him, and bless him evermore !" 

" Amen ! " was the faint echo, no louder than a breath. 
And shrouded from sight, Eleanor, with streaming uplifted 
eyes and clasped hands, poured forth her passionate thanks- 
giving for the worthiness of him she loved. " He is not 
mine — ^he never may be ; but he is yet all I believed — ^good, 
pure, noble. My Philip, my true Philip, God bless thee ! 
we shall yet stand side by side in His heaven, and look upon 
each other's face without a tear. 


She was still in the recess when Mrs. Pennythome en- 
tered it, her usual timid steps seeming more reluctant than 

" Your aunt would like to sleep a little, Miss OgHvie, so 
she has sent me to you." 

Eleanor roused herself, and spoke warmly and gratefully 
to the little quiet woman who loved Philip so well. 

" Indeed, if it has done Lady Ogilvie any good, I am 
sure I am quite glad I came," answered Mrs. Pennythome. 
" Though it was a struggle, as you say, for I hardly ever go 
out now ;" and a faint sigh passed the lips of Leigh's mother. 
" But my husband persuaded me, and — Mr. Wychnor too." 

Here she hesitated, and glanced doubtfully at Eleanor ; 
as though she had something more to say, but waited for a 
little encouragement. It came not, however; and Mrs. 
Pennythome, conquering her shyness, went on: "Mr. 
Wychnor was very kind : he brought me here — almost to 
the park gates. When he said good-bye, he told me he was 
going abroad for a long time." — ^Eleanor started, — "You 
will forgive my talking about him thus, for I imagine Mr. 
Wychnor is a friend of your family. Miss Ogilvie. Indeed," 
and making a sudden effort Mrs. Pennythome fulfilled her 
mission, " he asked me to give you this letter when I found 
you alone. And now I will go and sit by your aunt until 
she awakes," hastily added she. 

She had said all she knew, and she had guessed but little 
more, being a woman of small penetration, and less curio- 
sity. But no woman, worthy the name, could have seen 
the violent agitation which Eleanor vainly strove to repress, 
without gliding away, so that, whatever unknown sorrow 
there was, it might have free leave to flow. 

Philip's letter ran thus : 

" I pray you to forgive all I said and did that night ; I 
was almost mad ! It is not for me to occasion you any suffer- 
ing, but you tried me so bitterly — wherefore, I cannot telL 
Knowing what we once were to one another, and the bar 
there is between us now, I pray, — and you yourself must 
say amen to my prayer, — ^that on this side heaven we may 
never meet again ! 

" I waited until these lines could reach you safely. I have J 


initten do name, leat any contraiy chance might occasion 
yoa pain. You see I think of you even now. Farewell 1 
farewell I" 

And this was the end — ^the end of all 1 No more love — 
no more hope — not even the comfort of sorrow. His words 
seemed to imply that regret iteelf waa siiL The unknown 
bar between them was eternal He said so, and it must be 
true. Then, and not till then, came upon Eleanor the ter- 
rible darkness — through which Philip had once passed — ^the 
darkness of a world where lore has been, is not, and wUl 
be no more for ever ! The man, with his strong, great soul, 
nearer perchance to Heaven, and so interpenetrated with 
the Divine that the earthly held bnt a secondary place 
therein — the man struggled and conquered. The weaker, 
tenderer woman, whose very religion was Ere-like, "for 
God — ^in AiiTt," sank beneath that mighty woe. 

A little while longer Eleanor strove against her misery. 
At morning she rose, and at evening she lay down, mech^- 
cally following the round of daily occupation. At last one 
t she entered her chamber — tried to collect her wandcr- 
thoughte, BO that in some measure she might " set her 
e in order " — Mid then laid her weary head on the pillow, 
a consciousness that she would lift it up no more. 
U through the night it seemed as though a leaden hand 
jed heavily on her brow ; she did not writhe beneath 
ir it felt cold, calm, like the touch of Death upon the 
bbing veins, saying, " Peace — ^be still !" In the daikness 
saw, even with closed eyes, the shining of olden faces — 
;es from those early days when the one &ce had never 
crossed her dreams. Clearer than all — ite sorrowful 
;nce of earth transmuted into a heavenly calmneas— she 
ild her mother's loving smile ; nay, breaking throng 
silence, her bewildered fancy almost distinguished the 
3, faint as when her ear drank its last accente ere they 
1 stilled for eternity, " My child — my dear child ! " 
Uother, mother, my work is dona Let me come to 
! " was Eleanor's low yearning cry. 
nd with that last memory of the solemn past shutting 
all the anguish of the present, she passed into the wide 
or-peopled world of delirium. 



For a fearful time 
"We can keep down these floodgates of the heart ; 
But we must draw them some time, or 'twill burst, 
like sand this brave embankment of the breast, 
And drain itself to dry death. When pride thaws, 
Look for floods. Philip Bailey. 

We will pass from this scene of sorrow and darkness into 
another that seems all sunshine. Yet if, looking on these 
two phases of life, we are fain to muse doubtfully on the 
strange contrasts of human fate, let us remember that the 
clouds furling away oft leave behind them coolness and dew, 
while the sunbeams may grow into a dazzling glare, blinding 
and scorching wherever they rest. 

Day after day, week after week, Katharine Ogilvie basked 
in the new glory which had burst upon her world. Paul 
Lynedon's influence was upon her and around her wherever 
she moved. It was the olden dream, the dream of girlhood, 
renewed with tenfold power. All her artificial self fell from 
her like a garment, and she stood before this man — this 
world-jaded, almost heartless man — a creature formed put 
of the long-past ideal of his youth ; beautiful, and most true, 
whether for good or evil. There was no falseness in her ; 
. and that which had gathered over Paul Lynedon crumbled 
into dust and ashes before the sun-gleam of her eyes. His 
wavering nature was subdued by the energy of her own. 
Sisera-like, " at her feet he bowed, he fell ;" struck down by 
the fierce might of a love whose very crime and hopelessness 
bound him with closer chains. He could not struggle against 
them — ^he did not try. He would now have given half of 
his wasted, hollow, thoughtless existence, to purchase one 


day, one hour, of this full, strong, real life that now thrilled 
his being, even though it coursed through every vein like 
molten fire. He would have laid himself down, body and 
soul, for her feet to trample on, rather than firee himself 
from the spell wherewith she bound him, or pass from her 
presence and be haunted by her terrible power no more. 

And this passion was so strong within him that it found 
no utterance. He sank dumb before her — ^in her sight he 
was humble as a little child. His lips, which to many 
another woman had framed the language of idle compliment, 
or of still softer and more beguiling tenderness, could not 
breathe one word that might startle the proud ear of 
Katharine Ogilvie. But though this mad, erring love was 
never uttered, she knew it welL The knowledge dawned 
upon her by slow degrees : and she felt that too late — oh, 
fearfully too late ! — the dream of her youth had been ful- 
filled, and that she was loved even as she had loved. 

What a future lay before the hapless wife whose rash and 
frenzied tongue, in taking the false vow, had given the lie 
to her heart ! A whole life of feigning ; year after year to 
wear the mask of affection, or at least of duty ; to display 
the mocking semblance of a happy home ; — ^worse than all, 
to smile answeringly upon the unsuspecting face that was — 
must be for ever at her side, haunting like an accusing spirit 
the wife who loved another man dearer than her husband. 
This must be her doom, even if, still guiltless, she trod her 
heart into ashes, and walked on with a serene eye and dumb 
smiling lip. But if otherwise — 

Katharine never dreamed of thcU. Blinded, she rushed to 
the very brink of the abyss ; but there was a strong purity 
in her heart still. She did not once see the yawning gulf 
before her, for her eyes were turned beyond it — turned to- 
wards the pure dream-like love, the guiding-star of her life, 
which by its unrequited loneliness had become so spiritual- 
ised, that the taint of earthly passion had scarcely touched 
it, even now. 

It sometimes chances that the realities of wedded life, 
and the calm peace of household ties, have power to conquer 
or stifle the remembrance of the deepest former love. But 


Katharine was so young, that, although a wife, she had a 
girl's heart still ; and that heart her husband never sought 
to win from, its romance to the still afifection of home. 
Perhaps he felt the trial was beyond his power j and so, 
content with the guarding circlet on her finger, he desired 
not from her the only thing which can make the marriage- 
bond inviolate — a wedded heart. Sometimes, for days 
and weeks together, he would go away, leaving her to such 
solitude that it almost seemed a dream her having been a 
wife at all. 

Another tie was there wanting — another safeguard in 
this perilous, loveless home. No child had come with its 
little twining arms to draw together the two divided hearts, 
and concentrate in one parental bond the wandering love of 
both. Often when she paced her lonely home, which her 
husband now found far less attractive than Summerwood, 
Katharine shuddered at the delicious poison which drop by 
drop was falling into her life's cup, converting even the faint 
affection she yet felt for Hugh into a feeling almost like 
hatred. And then the wife, terrified at the change that 
was stealing over her, dashed more and more into that wild 
whirl which people call " society." 

Day after day, rarely with any arranged plan, but by 
some chance coincidence springing from the combined will 
of both, she and Paul Lynedon met. Every morning when 
she rose, Katharine felt that she was sure by some hap or 
other to see him ere night. Now, for the first time in her 
life, she knew what it is to be loved ; to feel encompassed 
continually, in absence or presence, with the thoughts of 
another ;. to live with every day, every hour, threaded by 
those electric links of sympathy which, through all interven- 
ing distance, seem to convey to one heart the consciousness 
of another's love. Around and about her path wove these 
airy fetters, encircling her in a web through which she 
could not pass. She felt it binding her closer and closer ; 
but it seemed drawn by the hand of destiny. A little while 
her conscience wrestled, then she became still and struggled 
no more. 

Against these two erring ones the world's tongue had 


not yet been lifted. With others, as well as with Katharine 
herself, Paul Lynedon set a watch upon his lips and actions. 
He who had worn carelessly and openly the chains of many 
a light fancy, now buried his strong real love — the only 
real love of his life — in the very depths of his heart. 
Besides, his passion had sprung up, budded, and blossomed, 
in a space so short that the world had no time to note its 
growth, and probably would not have believed in its exist- 
ence. But 

Love counts time by heart-throbs, and not years. 

Mrs. Lancaster — ^gossiping, light-tongued Mrs. Lancaster 
— ^visited her " dear, talented, charming friend, Mrs. Hugh 
Ogilvie," as frequently as ever, without seeing the haunting 
shadow that, near or distant, followed Katharine wherever 
she moved. Indeed, the lady often made Paul writhe be- 
neath her hints and innuendoes respecting his various flames, 
past and present, which she had discovered — or at least 
thought she had. 

One morning she amused herself thus during the whole 
of a long visit at which she had met Lynedon at Mrs. 
OgUvie's. Paul bore the jests restlessly at first, then in- 
differently ; for in the calm proud eye and slightly-curled 
lip of the sole face he ever watched, he; saw that no credence 
was given to the idle tale. Katharine knew now — and the 
knowledge came mingled with remorse and despair— that 
she herself was the only woman who had ever had power 
to sway Paul Lynedon's soul. 

The last historieUe which Mrs. Lancaster filled upon for 
the delectation of her former favourite, was the suspected 
love episode with Eleanor Ogilvie. She continued the jest 
even further than she believed in it herself, as she observed, 
with malicious pleasure, that Paul seemed more than usually 
sensitive on this point. 

" I always thought, Mr. Lynedon, that there was some 
deep mystery in your sudden escapade to the Continent ; and 
a friend of yours at last enlightened me a little on the sub- 
ject. Confess, now, as we are quite alone — ^for Mrs. Ogilvie's 
sisterly ears need not listen unless she chooses — confess 


that your memory cherished long a certain visit at Summer- 
wood, and that the meeting in London is not entirely 
accidental, any more than was the rencontre at Florence." 

Paul Lynedon might have laughed off the accusation, but 
that Katharine's eyes were upon him. He answered, 
earnestly, ' . 

'* Indeed, Mrs. Lancaster, I am not accountable for any 
imputed motives. My pleasure in Miss Ogilvie's society is 
not lessened by the fact that I have always owed it to 
chance alone. Most truly do I bear, and shall bear all my 
life" (his tone grew lower and more earnest still), "the 
memory of that week at Summerwood." 

The dark eyes turned away, though not until he had seen 
the gleam of rapture which kindled them into dazzling light. 

"But the rumour from Italy, which made us hope to 
see a Mrs. Lynedon ere long — ^how can you explain that 1 " 
pursued Mrs. Lancaster, who, in resigning, perforce, the 
character of a " woman of genius," had assumed that of the 
most annoying and pertinacious gossip who ever sinned- 
against good sense and good breeding. 

" I think you are mistaken," said Mrs. Ogilvie, with 
some dignity. " My sister " — (since her marriage, Katharine 
had ever most punctiliously used this title, thus gratifying 
at once her own real affection for Eleanor, and showing in 
the world's sight that outward respect which she always 
paid to her husband) — ^my sister never met him when 
abroad. Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon?" 

With that look meeting his, Paul for his life's worth 
could not have uttered a falsehood. 

" I had, indeed, the pleasure of seeing Miss Ogilvie and 
Mrs. Breynton at Florence, but " 

His further hurried explanation was stopped by the 
entrance of a messenger from Summerwood, bringing tidings 
of Eleanor's severe illness. Mrs. Lancaster, who always 
spread her wings and fled away before the least cloud of 
adversity, made a hasty disappearance. Katharine, startled, 
and touched with self-reproach for the neglect which for 
weeks past had made her forget all olden ties in one 
absorbing dream, was left alone — alone, save for the on« 
ever-haunting friend who now approached her. 


She started up almost angrily ; for the images of Hugh 
and Hugh's dying sister were then present to the conscience- 
stricken wife. ** You here, Mr. Lynedon ! I thought you 
had departed with Mrs. Lancaster ! " 

^How could I go and leave you thus)" said Paul, 
softly. '^ Eemember, it is not the first time that I have 
been with you in your sorrow." 

Katharine looked up, to meet the same face which years 
before had bent over the trembling, weeping child; the 
same look, the same tone, yet fraught with a tendeoiess 
deeper a thousandfold. She saw it, and a strange terror 
came over her : she closed her eyes ; she dared not look 
again. Pressing back all the memories that were throng- 
ing madly to her hearty she arose, saying, 

" That is long ago — ^very long ago, Mr. Lynedon ! I must 
now think not of the past but the present. My husband," 
and she desperately tried to strengthen herself with the 
word — ** my husband is from home ; I will go to Summer- 
wood at once myself." 

" It is a long distance. If I were permitted to accompany 
— at least, to follow you in a few hours,'* he added, correct- 
ing himself, ''it would give me real happiness. Indeed, 
my own anxiety " 

Katharine turned round suddenly with a doubtful, pene- 
trating glance. Lynedon perceived it 

" You do not — ^you will not believe that idle tale 1 You 
cannot think that I — ^that I ever did or ever shall love any 

woman living, save" He paused abruptly — then 

eagerly caught her hand. 

The burning crimson rushed to Katharine's very brow. 
A moment, and she drew her hand away ; not hurriedly, 
but with a cold haughty gesture. She remembered still that 
she was Hugh's wife. 

" Mr. Lynedon, you misinterpret my thoughts ; this con- 
fidence was quite unnecessary, and I believe unasked. Let 
us change the subject." 

He shrank abashed and humbled before her. Katharine 
ruled him with an irresistible sway, chaining even the tor- 
rent of passion that was ready to burst forth. And she — 


loving as she did — ^had strength thus to seal down his love, 
that he should not utter it. 

Soon afterwards Paul Lynedon quitted her presence. 
She parted from him with a few words of gentle but distant 
kindness, which instantly lighted up his whole countenance 
with joy. But when he was gone, she sank back exhausted 
and lay for a long time almost senseless. Again and again 
there darted through her side that sharp arrowy pain — 
which she had first felt after the night when a few chance 
words, false words as she now believed, had swept away all 
hope and love for ever from her life. Of late this pain 
had been more frequent and intense ; and now, as she lay 
alone, pressing her hand upon her heart, every pulse of 
which she seemed to feel and hear, a thought came — ^solemn, 
startling I — the thought that even now upon her, so full of 
life, of youth, and youth's wildest passions, might be creep- 
ing a dark shadow from the unseen world. 

For an instant she trembled ; and then the thought came 
again, bearing with it a flood of joy. Lifting a veil between 
her and the dreaded future, Katharine saw a shadowy 
hand; she would have fallen down and blessed it, even 
though it were the hand of death. 

"It must be so," she said softly to herself; "I shall die, 
I shall die ! " and her tone rose into a desperate joy. " This 
long fearful life will not be. I shall pass away and escape. 
rest ! — ^0 peace ! — come soon — soon ! Let me sleep an 
eternal sleep ! Let me feel no more — suffer no more ! " 

Poor struggling one — stretching thine arms from life's 
desolate shore to the wide, dajrk ocean beyond — is there no 
mercy in earth or heaven for thee 1 Thy lips now drain the 
cup thine own hands lifted ; yet, if the suffering righteous 
needeth compassion,, surely the stricken sinner needeth more. 

Ye who, untempted, walk secure, with Levite step and 
averted face, noting carefully how by his own vain folly or 
wickedness your weaker brother "fell among thieves," — 
should ye not rather come with the merciful touch, the 
cleansing water, and the oil and wine, that the erring one 
may be saved, and the heavenward road receive one 
strengthened hopeful traveller more 1 

2 B 



** Ah, why," said Ellen, sighing to herself, 

" Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge — 

Why do not these prevail, for human life 

To keep two hearts together, that began 

Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 

Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 

To grant, or be received ! " Woedsworth. 

Katharine Ogilvde reached Summerwood when it was 
almost night. Over all the house there seemed a stillness 
and hush, as in a dwelling where there is one life, a precious 
life, hanging on a thread. Stealthy, noiseless footsteps — 
doors opened and closed without a sound — loud voices 
softened into anxious whispers — all showed how much 
Eleanor was beloved. Sir Robert, his parliamentary papers 
and eternal blue-books lying unopened, sat talking with the 
physician, and often glancing sorrowfully at the neglected 
tea-equipage, behind which he missed the gentle moonlight 
smile of his niece, even more than the long-absent one of 
his ever-ailing wife. Lady Ogilvie, unable to quit her 
couch, lay with her door opened, listening to every sound.. 
Between her and the sick-chamber there moved continually, 
with light steps and mourning garments, a figure so 
unobtrusive that Katharine did not for some time notice it. 

It was Mrs. Pennythome. 

She had come in by chance the day after poor Eleanor 
had laid down her weary head — perhaps for ever. Then 
towards the sick girl the heart of the childless mother 
yearned. She became her nurse ; never quitting her ex- 
cept to speak a few words of comfort to the terrified and 
grief-stricken Lady Ogilvie. In truth, Mrs. Pennythome, 


meek and quiet as she was, had become the guiding spirit 
in this house of sickness. • But she crept into her place so 
gradually, and sustained it so imperceptibly, that no one 
ever thought of the fact ; and even Lady Ogilvie did not 
speak of her until she appeared, suddenly and silently, to 
lead Katharine to her sister's room. 

Mrs. Pennythome had at first shrunk both in timidity and 
dislike from the stylish Mrs. Ogilvie, the neglectful daughter 
of whom she had heard. But this feeling passed away ^en 
she saw how subdued Katharine's manner was, and with 
what trembling steps she moved to Eleanor's chamber. 

" And you have tended her night and day — ^you almost a 
stranger ! " said Katharine. " How good you are ! while I " 
■ She stopped ; for the remorse which had smitten her 
heart at the sight of her long-forsaken mother, was renewed 
when she beheld the sick, almost dying girl, who, from the 
triple ties of marriage, kindred, and aflFectibn, might well 
have claimed from her a sister's care. 

Eleanor was sitting up in bed ; her arms extended, and 
her eyes — ^those once beautiful, calm eyes — glittering and 
burning with fever. She began to talk iu quick, sharp, 
ringing accents. 

" Ah ! you have been to fetch her ; I thought you would. 
I could not die without seeing Mrs. Breynton. Tell her 
she need not fear meeting him — he will not come. Philip 
will not come — never more — never more ! " 

" She often talks in this way," whispered Mrs. Penny- 
thome ; " and so I am glad that no one is with her except 
myself. I do not know anything, but I feel sure that she 
and poor Mr. Wychiior" 

Low as the tone was, the words reached Eleanor's ear. 
She turned quickly round. 

" What ! do you speak about him, Mrs. Breynton ? — ^for 
I know you are Mrs. Breynton, though you look different — 
younger, and so beautiful ! Ah ! perhaps you have died, and 
so become a spirit like my mother ! But did you not pray 
her to forgive you for breaking her poor child's heart ] We 
will not talk about it. Still, it was cruel of you to part my 
Philip from me." 


"Philip again!" said Katharine, softly. "Ah! I see it 
all now — I guessed it long. Is it even so with her too ! — 
Eleanor, dearest 1 " And she spoke very tenderiy. 

" Who calls me dearest ? He used, once, but he will never 
call me so again I She kept me from him until his love has 
changed. I shall never be Philip's wife now. It is all 
your work, Mrs. Breynton 1" 

"I am not Mrs. Breynton. I am Katharine — your 

" Are you 1 No, no ! — ^Katharine is Hugh's wife — Gloving 
and happy." Katharine dropped her head shudderingly. 
"She would not come here — we have only sorrow here. 
But you must not let her know — ^no living soul must know 
what Philip said that night — ^that there was a gulf, a bar 
between us. Let me whisper it, lest the world might hear, 
and call him cruel. But he is not cruel : he is all-good. 
Listen ! — and she placed her lip to Katharine's ear — ^** Per- 
haps some one loved him better than he thought I did, and 
he is married — ^married ! " 

" Oh no indeed. Miss Ogilvie ! " broke in Mrs. Penny- 
thome, with tears in her eyes ; " Mr. Wychnor will never 
marry. He told me so one day — ^the very day I brought 
you his letter." 

"Letter — his letter! Ah! I remember every word — 
every word ;" and with an accent of thrilling sorrow she 
repeated, line by line, Philip's last farewell. " And then — 
I forget all afterwards — it is darkness — darkness!" she 
moaned, while her head drooped on her bosom, and her 
eyes closed. 

Mrs. Pennythome laid her down on the pillow, parted 
the dishevelled hair, and bathed her brow with water. 
" What a gentle, skilful nurse you are ! " said Katharine, 
who, a stranger to scenes like this, was trembling with alarm 
and agitation. 

" I am used to it," was the meek, sad reply, as she bent 
over her charge. 

There was a few minutes' silence, and then Eleanor 
opened her eyes, and regarded wistfully her tender nurse. 

" I do not know you, but you are very kind to me. Per- 


haps my mother has sent you. J hear her calling me every 
hour, but I cannot go. Tell her I cannot ! I must not die 

until — ^until What was it that I had to do T' Her eyes 

wandered restlessly, and she put her hand to her brow, 
" My head is wild 1 I cannot remember anything 1 Help 
me ! do help me ! " And her piteous gaze was lifted mourn- 
fully to Mrs. Pennythome. " Tell me what it is that I 
have to do before I die." 

^ Eepeat his name ; she will hear that/' whispered Ka- 
tharine, regarding her sister with a deep sympathy unfelt 
before. . 

" Shall we send for any one — ^for Philip )" gently asked 
Mrs. Pennythome. 

" Philip 1 Why do you speak about Philip 1 I dared 
not even utter his name : Mrs. Breynton would not let me. 
Ah, that is it ! " and a delirious light shone in her face. I 
must see Mrs. Breynton; I must tell her to forgive my 
Philip ! She has had her will, for we shall never marry — 
never see one another any more. 

She ceased a moment, and then rose wildly from her 

" You are cruel ; you will not fetch Mrs. Breynton : and 
until I know she will forgive him, I cannot die. I am 
weary — so weary ! and you will not let me go to my mother 1 
Do you know " — and she caught hold of Mrs. Pennythome's 
dress — I see her standing waiting for me — there ! there ! 

Katharine started, for there seemed a strange reality in 
the fantasy which directed Eleanor's fixed eyes and lifted 

" The room is filled with them !" continued the delirious 
girl. " They come around me by night and by day— some 
dead faces, some living ; but they are all sad — ^like yours. 
Philip's is there too sometimes — smiling so tenderly, as he 
used to do in the dear old palace-garden. See ! he is look- 
ing on me now 1 Ah, Philip, you did love me once — ^you do 
love me — ^I read it in your eyes ; but you dare not speak. 
Then I must ! You see, dear Philip, I am calm " — and her 
voice sank almost to its natural tones — " as calm as I was 
that day you called me your strength, your comfort. Tell 


me, then, what is this bar between us— when I am rich, 
when I love you, only you, my Philip, my own Philip ! " 
She paused, but after a few moments' silence, broke once 
more into disconnected ravings. 

Katharine waited until the shrill tones ceased, and her 
sister fell into the heavy slumber which foretold the near 
approach of the crisis. Then she drew Mrs. Pennythome 

"Tell me — you know better than I — is there any 

There was hope, for youth can struggle through so much ; 
with this sleep the fever might be conquered. 

" And then she will wake — wake to what 1 Death might 
be better for her than life ! it is so sometimes," muttered 
Katharine to herself. 

Mrs. Pennythome spoke comfortingly — she looked on the 
pale excited face of the young wife, and forgave all her 
imagined errors. Katharine sat in deep thought without 
making any answer — ^perhaps she did not even hear. At 
last she said, suddenly and decisively, 

"Mrs. Pennythome, you and I well understand one another. 
Those words which poor Eleanor has uttered you will keep 
sacred 1 " 

" Certainly. Oh, Mrs. Ogilvie, I wish indeed that Miss 
Eleanor and my dear Philip Wychnor " 

" He is your friend, I believe," interrupted Katharine. 
" Tell me all you know about him." 

And once more Mrs. Pennythome gratefully dwelt on the 
history of Philip's goodness. Then, glad to relieve her 
simple heart from a secret that weighed heavily upon it, she 
related all she knew about the letter, which had made her 
the unconscious messenger of so much eviL 

"I did not notice then, but I remember now, how 
earnestly he spoke, and how unhappy he seemed. I am sure 
there was something painful in that letter. I have no right 
to say a word on this subject, but I do feel towards Philip 
Wychnor as though he were my own son. If I could only 
see him happy^ and Miss Ogilvie too, so good and gentle as 
she is. The moment I saw her I felt sure of his loving her 


—He could not help it It is a sorrowful world," continued 
she, after waiting awhile for the answer, which Mrs. Ogilvie, 
absorbed in thought, withheld ; " yet if one could but make 
these two young creatures happy" 

" It shall be— I will do it ! " cried Katharine. " And 
oh ! " she said softly to herself, as Mrs. Pennythome glided 
away at the physician's summons, " if I, even I, can but 
leave behind me a little peace, a little happiness, surely it 
will prove some atonement. If I have sinned, though only 
in thought, agamst my husband, I may bring joy to the 
sister he loves : and then I shall pass away from all, and 
my misery will encumber the earth no more. 

With Katharine, to will was to act She sat down and 
wrote to Mrs. Breynton, entreating, or rather commanding — 
for her earnestness seemed almost like a command — ^that she 
would come at once to Summerwood. Then she wrote, with 
a swift though trembling hand, a few lines— to Paul Lyne- 
don! After she had finished, she stood irresolute— but 
only for a moment. She sealed the letter, and laid it with 

the other. .,. 

" Yes, it shall go— I can trust him— him only. Me will 
do my will, whatever it be ;" and a bitter though triumphant 
smile curved her lips. " And he will be silent too, no fear ! 
This my act might seem strange to the world— perhaps to 
him ; but what matter when the end comes ? and it is 
perhaps near— very near. I pray it may be so!" Her 
voice sank to an inaudible whisper ; for even then, as if in 
answer to that awful prayer, she felt the sharp death-warn- 
ing dart through her side. . . i r 

Next morning, Paul Lynedon came. Katharine knew he 
would ; and had risen long before the rest of the weaned 
and anxious household. She was walking in the avenue 
when his panting horse approached ; he leaped from it with 
a look of the wildest ecstasy. 

" You sent for me : how good, how kind ! What thanks 
can I give you, dear Mrs. OgUvie— dear Kathanne ? - 

He uttered softly, almost in a whisper, the long unspoken 
name. She started and drew ba«k in proud reproof : You 

forget, Mr. Lynedon." ; 


" Pardon me : I had indeed forgotten all — all but that 
happy time when I was here last. Would to Heaven it 
could come again, and you were once more that dear 
child who " 

"A child — you thought me a child!" cried Katharine, 
with that impulse which in the early days of this second meet- 
ing had made her very loye half vengeance ; and even now 
caused her as it were to set herself against herself, the 
slighted girl against the worshipped woman. 

" I thought — shall I tell you what I thought you — ^what 
I think you 1" said Lynedon, eagerly. 

" No !" The word reined hun in his mad impulse, and 
he stood mute. 

" Mr. Lynedon "-^the calm, cold tone struck him like an 
arrow — " shall we change our conversation ? Let me ex- 
plain the reason which made me trespass on your kindness." 
He bowed, and walked by her side up the avenue. 

Katharine went on : " There is something very near my 
heart in which I can trust no friend " — she laid the faintest 
emphasis on the word — " no friend but you. Will you — 
asking no questions, seeking no explanations — do it for me )" 

" Will I ?— you know I wiU ! " 

" I want you to seek for a friend of yours, or an acquaint- 
ance at least — ^Philip Wychnor. He is gone a journey : 
whither I know not, and have no means of knowing, save 
through you. Find him ; bring him hither, on what excuse 
you will: or perhaps — the truth is always best — ^I will 
write to him, and you shall bear the letter." 

" This is all mystery ; I cannot fathom it," said Paul, un- 
easily ; his jealous mind at once forming the most torturing 
conclusions. " Only tell me " 

" I will tell you nothing : only do this, I entreat you ; do 
it for me." And Katharine's eagerness made her tone so 
tremulous, so bewitching, that Paul Lynedon could have 
fallen at her feet. 

" I promise," said he. " Heaven knows I would plunge 
a knife into my very heart if you bade me," he added, speak- 
ing low and hurriedly. 

As low, but almost fearful in its firmness, was Katharine's 


reply : " I might, but I would thrust it into my own heart 

He looked at her astonished, but her face was turned 
away. The next moment she had sprung forward to meet 
her father, who crossed their path on his early morning 

"You have ridden over to inquire for my poor niece, 
Mr. Lynedon 1" said Sir Eobert. " How exceedingly kind 
of you ! You must stay and breakfast with us. Persuade 
him, Katharine" 

But Katharine had already glided away. 



Art thou already weary of the way ? 

Thou, who hast yet but half the way gone o*er — 
Get up and lift thy burden ! 

• ••••• 

Say thou not sadly, " Never " and " No more ; " 

But from thy lips banish those falsest words : 
While life remains, that which was thine before 
Again may be thine ; in Time's storehouse lie 

Days, hours, and moments that have unknown hoards 
Of joy, as well as sorrow : passing by, 
Smiles come with tears. Fkances Anne Butler. 

There is scarce a town in England more suggestive of 
speculation upon what our good friend David Drysdale 
would have entitled *' the noble science of man," than that 
turnpike-gate on the European highway — Dover. Not that 
one need pause to enumerate from Pinnock or Goldsmith 
how many kings "landed at Dover," or "set sail from 
Dover." The present is quite fruitful enough to set aside 
the past. Think of the multitudes of small historiettes 
worked out here ; how that among the throng that from 
year to year pass by, are all ranks and characters — ^fugitive 
royalty; errant nobility ; the regiment departing, its mourn- 
ful fragments returned; or, to descend to individuals — 
debtor fljring creditor ; married lovers speeding to happiness 
and honeymoon ; wretched and erring ones, speeding faster 
still into what must be in the end a miserable doom ; happy 
men seeking pleasure ; sickhearted, hopeless men, rushing 
anywhere for oblivion. And here we pause, for with such 
an one we have to do. 

Philip Wychnor had reached Dover on his way to the 


Continent. He would have simply passed through it, 
longing for the moment when he should set his last footstep 
— at least the last for many years — on English shores. 
But fate, the fate which one less pious-hearted would have 
angrily cursed, detained him for many days. He spent 
them restlessly enough, patient as he was ; in his daily toil 
of literary necessity — alas for the poor author! and in 
evening wanderings about the country. Beauty he found 
— ^for a poet's mind finds beauty everywhere — ^but yet he 
could not realise it. He felt upon him the commencement 
of that doom, to roam the wide world, " finding no rest for 
the sole of his foot." 

The reviving from a great woe is sometimes worse than 
the woe itself. The world looks so blank, so dreary ; we 
see it once more ; our dull eyes even acknowledge its glory, 
but it is like looking on a beautiful corse from whence the 
life is gone. Earth smiles, Heaven smiles — just as hereto- 
fore ; but the smile resembles that on a face once loved, 
which meets us vacantly, the heart beneath it shining out 
no longer. We do not weep ; perhaps we scarcely suffer : 
we are quite calm, gentle, patient ; all goes on with us as 
before; we walk through the beaten path of our daily 
existence, but the light is gone from the world ; the present 
seems inane and dim ; and, merciful God ! we have no 
future and no past! Not here/ but we know we have 
hereafter. And then we see enfolding us an arm of com- 
fort and strength, and hear the voice — I AM 1 

Can I suffice for heaven and not for earth ? 

So Philip felt when he sat alone in the twilight on the 
cliff hallowed by tradition as " Shakspeare's." The hour 
was so late that all sea-side idlers had long departed, and 
the place seemed as lonely and dreary as in the olden time 
of Shakspeare, Lear, and Poesy. The sea sang hollowly, 
far below, and when the last sunset tinge had faded behind 
the Downs, they assumed a robe of mist,, spectral and 
mysterious. Gradually it folded itself round the cliff, 
completely hiding the sea beneath ; so that the melancholy 
voice arose from waters that were heard, not seen. 


Driven by that irresistible impulse which seizes most 
men on such a spot of danger — so much so, that the 
ancients believed a tempting demon stood on the brink of 
each abyss — ^Philip crept to the utmost verge of the cliff. 
Unwittingly, and fitfully, there danced through his brain 
the poet's tale which had made the spot renowned — ^he 
thought of blind Gloster, hunted by fate into that last 
plunge which would determine alL He pictured what the 
old man's feelings might have been — what must be the 
thoughts of any man sick of life — looking curiously, 
desiringly, into the awful mystery beyond — so near, that 
one simple movement would make it a reality. 

Suddenly he remembered how in that man he had 
pictured hvmsdf. 

The conviction — ^horrible, yet full of a daring pride, a 
deUcious alluring awe— burst upon him, that he held his 
soul as it were by a thread : that he was master of his own 
destiny; one step, and he might pass from the world's 
tortures, to — ^wherei 

" My life is in my hand," he muttered in the words of 
one sorely tried of old — *^ My life is in my hand, yet I do 
not forget thy law /" 

Shuddering, he drew back from the abyss in horror. 
But he felt that to his latest day that minute's sensation 
would teach him compassion for suicides. And while he 
shrank fearfully from the crime only thought of in possibility, 
the revulsion softened him from dull dreariness into a 
sorrow, that, but for his strong manhood, would have 
melted in tears. He was glad — ^thankful for any sense — 
even the sense of suffering. He looked up at the stars 
which were beginning to shine through the gloomy night, 
and prayed Heaven to keep him free from sin, that he 
might endure with a patient heart through life unto its 

Then he went homeward, greatly composed. He sought 
to feel as though he belonged to the world. Passing 
through the town, he tried to look around him, and feel an 
interest in the various talking and laughing groups, the 
street music, the cheerful shops; but it was vain. He 


seemed as different from the rest of mankind as the gloomy 
cliffs from the gay-lighted street which they overhung. 

When he reached the inn, he learned there was a gentle- 
man awaiting him. Entering, he saw — ^Paul Lynedon. 

Had the visitant been a ghost from the dead, a demon 
returned to the upper world, he could not have raised more 
fearful passions in Philip Wychnor's breast. Anguish, 
terror, even a thrill of fierce hatred, overwhelmed him. 
He sprang towards Lynedon, scarcely conscious of what he 
did, and then sank into a chair, speechless. 

'* I have startled you, I see. I ought to apologise," said 
Lynedon, gently and courteously, though somewhat annoyed 
at this rather strange reception. But Paul was a man who 
would have shown dignified civility to his executioner on 
the scaffold. 

Philip Wychnor answered him not a word. 

'^ Perhaps this visit is ill-timed — ^an intrusion. But in 
excuse I need only mention your friends and mine — ^the 

Philip started up in an agony. " Sir — Mr. L3medon — 
tell me what you have to say without mentioning names. 
I have been terribly tried — and I pretend not to super- 
human strength. I wish to leave England, forget all friends, 
break all ties, for a season. Why must I be tortured any 

Lynedon opened his eyes with extreme but still most 
polite astonishment. 

" Pardon me, and forget all I have been weak enough to 
say," Philip continued, trying to calm himself with remem- 
bering to whom he spoke. ** I shall forget it myself soon. 
Will you sit 1" 

He pointed to a chair, but remained standing himself, 
leaning against the wall. 

"TMs is a strange welcome from an acquaintance — ^I 
would fain have said a Mend; but I pass it by, Mr. 
Wychnor, both for your own sake and hers whose messenger 
I am." And he presented Mrs. Ogilvie's letter. 

Under all circumstances Paul Lynedon had the gentle- 
ness of a true gentleman. He saw at once that something 


was terribly wrong with the young man. He pitied him. 
Conquering at once his natural curiosity, and the vague 
jealousy which was dawning in him, he walked to the open 
window and contemplated the stars ; so that, of whatever 
news he had been the unlucky bearer, his companion might 
learn them imobserved. But he expected not to hear the 
cry — almost like a woman's agony — which broke from 
Philip Wychnor. It brought him at once to the youug 
man's side. 

" What is the matter 1 Can I " 

Philip caught his arm wildly. " You know — tell me the 
truth, on your soul — you know what this letter contains 1" 

" On my soul, I do not ! ". 

" What ! not that she is ill— dying 1" 

"Dying!" cried Lynedon, vehemently, his thoughts 
recurring to the only woman who ever occupied them now. 
But he recollected himself at once ; " No, you mistake, it is 
only Miss Ogilvie who is ill." 

Philip looked into his face with an eager, half-incredulous 
stare. " Oidy ?" You say so calmly I You come here 

Paul began to guess dimly at the truth — at least some 
part of it. He answered, kindly, " I regret Miss Ogilvie's 
illness much ; she is a gentle creature, and I am happy to 
call her my friend, but " 

The careless tone struck Philip with conviction at once ; 
" I see it all now — all ! Oh, what have I done ] May God 
forgive me ! " 

He laid his head on the table, and burst into a passion 
of tears. 

Paul was touched. Once upon a time he might have 
mocked at such weakness ; but now his own heart taught 
him diflferently. He' said, with kindness and delicacy, " You 
and I, and all her friends, must rejoice that the crisis is past : 
I heard so to-day from Summerwood. She will recover, 
please God ! " 

There was no answer, and L3medon thought the best 
thing he could do was to walk to the window again. He 
remained there until he felt a hand on his. It was Philip 


Wychnor's. His face was white as death, but it wore a 
calmness almost like joy. 

" You will pardon all this, Lynedon ]" 

"My dear fellow!" — and Paul returned the cordial grasp 
— " don't speak of it I'm sure I am very sorry — that is, 
glad — but being quite in the dark, and having a great re- 
spect for both parties, might I " 

" Do not ask me anything — do not think anjrthing. One 
day you may know all." 

" Well, as you like ; all I know now is, that Mrs. Ogilvie 
wished to see you ; that I sought you by her desire." 

" God bless you and her ! " cried Philip. 

The blood rushed to Lynedon's brow. He felt like a 
demon in the presence of a saint. 

" You will be kind and leave me now," pursued Philip. 
"I feel towards you deeply, thankfully. We shall meet 
again as smcere friends f 

" I hope so," said Paul warmly. 

Wychnor followed him to the door. As they said adieu, 
he looked repentantly, almost affectionately, into the face 
which had once seemed to him like that of a haunting fiend. 

" Forgive me once more. You know not what I have 
endured. May you never know the like! May you be 
happy — very happy ! You deserve it, I am sure." 

Lynedon sprang from the door : the blessing knelled on 
his ear like a judgment-doom. He fled from its sound, but 
its echo followed him ; he dulled it with wine, but it rose 
up again. At last he clutched it as one clutches in despair 
some ever-pursuing horror. He said to himself, that not 
for earth, heaven, or hell, would he give up Katharine 
Ogilvie ! 



Thon bast named a name 
Which to my conscience gives such secret pangs. 
— Yea, there is nothing that I would not do 
In reparation of the wrong I Ve done him. 

Joanna Baillie. 

Remorse, if proud and gloomy — 
It is a poison-tree, that, pierced to the utmost, 
Weeps only tears of poison. Golebedoe. 

Mrs. Breynton was sitting in her breakfast-room— or rather 
moving restlessly about, impatient of her solitude — when 
she heard the tidings of Eleanor's danger. The shock fell 
upon her with overwhelming suddenness. Eleanor's absence 
had revealed how the gentle girl had twined herself round 
this aged heart, bringing to it life and youth and warmth 
unknown before. The first few days of her loneliness, Mrs. 
Breynton had chafed and fumed. Nay, but for her pride, 
she would have sunmioned Eleanor back. As it was, she 
had time to discover how strong was this second affection — 
almost rivalling the one pre-eminent feeling, her love for 
her nephew. She now began to desire more anxiously than 
ever the working out of her long-projected scheme, which, 
in making Eleanor Philip's wife, should bind both attach- 
ments in one. 

And then came the letter of Katharine Ogilvie, with 
tidings which threatened ruin alike to her worldly schemes, 
her planning ambition, her long-suppressed affections, which 
in old age had risen up so strong. Mrs. Breynton was be- 
wildered — ^grief, fear, remorse, wrung her heart by turns. 
Again and again she read the letter: it seemed to grow 


more and more confused. She was conscious of but one 
impulse — that she must that instant go to Summerwood. 

She summoned the waiting-woman who had grown old 
in her service, and bade her prepare for the sudden journey. 
When Davis broke out in loud remonstrances, she was 
silenced by a look — ^not commanding, as of old, but piteously 
weak and imploring. 

" Do not hinder me, good Davis. She will die before I 
reach her. My dear Eleanor ! — ^poor Isabel's child ! May 
God forgive me if I did her wrong 1" Davis, though 
scarcely understanding her broken words, grew terrified at 
the change which had come over the Dean's widow. 

" Let me go too, dear mistress," sobbed the faithful crea- 
ture. " Let me go, that I may be with you in your trouble, 
and see poor dear Miss Eleanor once more." 

Mrs. Breynton passively assented; and the two aged 
women, mistress and maid, travelled all night, scarcely ex- 
changing a word until they reached Summerwood. 

Katharine met Mrs. Breynton at the door. She had often 
heard Hugh jestingly describe the stately, stem-featured, 
black-robed widow of the Dean ; but she saw only a bent, 
haggard woman, who, clinging to her servant's arm, seemed 
to tremble with apprehension ere she crossed the threshold. 
Katharine stepped forward quickly. 

*' Will you lean on me, Mrs. Breynton 1 I am Elatharine 

Mrs. Breynton seized her arm. " Is she " And the 

eager eyes alone continued the mute question. 

" She lives still. She may live." 

"Thank God!" Never, during her lifetime, had Mrs. 
Bre3mton breathed so deep, so solemn a thanksgiving. She 
staggered to a seat ; and for the first time for many years 
the old servant saw her mistress weep. 

It was some hours before Mrs. Breynton was suffered to 
enter Eleanor's chamber. Then Katharine led her in for a 
few moments only, to look on the sick girl as she slept. 

The crisis had passed, and Eleanor lay calm, though 
scarcely breathing. In her pale, wasted face — ^round which 
the close cap was tied — there was a likeness to one, which 



Mrs. Breynton had last seen when she stood beside the 
orphan daughter, to take a farewell look of the dead. The 
resemblance struck her now with a vain repentance. She 
fell at the foot of the bed. 

'^ Isabel — Isabel Morton!" she cried, '^your life was 
darkened by me and mine. Heaven forgive ns .for the 
wrong, which ended not with the mother, but passed on to 
the child ! Eleanor I — ^my sweet, meek Eleanor 1 live— only 
live — and I will confess all — atone for all 1 " 

She seemed not to notice the presence of another, but 
Katharine's ear caught every word. In a few minutes she 
had led Mrs. Breynton from the chamber of the yet sleeping 
girl Then she spoke: in the low, firm tone by which 
Katharine, when she willed, could rule all minds weaker 
than her own : 

'* Mrs. Breynton, I am almost a stranger to you ; but I 
have a right to speak, for Eleanor is my sister, and you hold 
her happiness in your handa How, or why, this is, I know 
not, and seek not to know ; but thus much I have learned — 
that she and your nephew, Philip Wychnor, have loved 
one another for many years, and that you prevented their 

llie shadow of her former freezing dignity came to the 
Dean's widow, but only for a moment Conscience-stricken, 
she quailed before the clear eyes that seemed to read her 
heart. "It is all true — ^all true !" she muttered. 

Katharine went on. " What I wish to say is this : that 
Philip Wychnor has been deceived in some way — ^that he 
has cast Eleanor off, believing her faithless — and that his 
unkindness has almost broken her heart. He has gone 
away — abroad, I believe." 

"He must not, shall not go," almost screamed Mrs. 
Breynton : "it is not too late, even now !" 

" No ! for whoever has stood between them, / will bring 
them together. Take care, Mrs. Brejmton — I am very 
strong — stronger than you. You have been most cruel to 
these two. But with your will or against it^ they shall be 
happy now." 

And Katharine stood before the cowering, remorseful 


woman, like an avenging angel. She met with no opposi- 
tion ; not even when she spoke of Philip Wychnor's coming, 
which she daily expected. Mrs. Breynton knew the time 
was near when she must confess. Her shame was heavy 
upon her, but her suffering outweighed it all. She entreated 
to see Eleanor alone ; but this was forbidden. Katharine 
seemed to govern the whole household, including the fright- 
ened Hugh, who had come hastily to Summerwood, and 
lamented by turns the illness of his sister and the loss of a 
whole fortnight's grouse-shooting. 

In a few days Eleanor became convalescent. At length 
Katharine led Mrs. Breynton to the sick chamber. She only 
stayed to see Eleanor stretch out her arms with a faint cry 
of joy, while the aged woman sank on her knees beside her ; 
then she closed the door and went away. 

It was almost an hour before she was summoned to her 
sister's room. Eleanor lay, pale indeed, but with such glad- 
ness in her eyes, such a spiritual light suffusing her whole 
face, that Katharine marvelled at her beauty. Mrs. Breynton 
sat beside her, looking very humble ; but her hand was fast 
clasped in Eleanor's ; and from time to time the girl turned 
upon her a look full of pity, forgiveness, and cheer. 

Katharine advanced. ^ You need not speak, dearest ; I 
see your face. All is peace and hope with you now ! " Her 
voice failed a little, and one tear dimmed her eyes. 

" It will be, soon — soon, please God." 

" Will you tell me, Eleanor " 

" Ay, tell her," said Mrs. Breynton. " It is but just." 

"Hush! hush! there is nothing to tell," and the wan 
fingers closed tighter over Mrs. Breynton's. " Katharine, I 
thmk you guessed all — ^that we have loved one another for 
many, many years. I have only a few words more to say. 
Come closer, dear, for I am very tired and weak." 

Katharine bent over her. Eleanor went on quicker, 
though speaking very faintly : 

" Philip was mistaken. He heard a rumour concerning 
something that happened years ago, about one who liked me 
once, or at least imagined he did so. Thus far the tale was 
true. He wished to marry me. But it was in vain ; I never 


loved any one save Philip. Katharine, I must see Philip, to 
tell him so. If I die, the knowledge will comfort him, and 
give him peace. If I Uve " 

"You will live — ^you must Uve, my darling!" sobbed 
Mrs. Breynton. 

" Yes, dear friend, I may live, please God ! to be your 
child still," was the gentle answer. " But Catharine, bring 
Philip to me ! He loves me ; he did love me through all, 
and I have no pride in my heart— only love. Let him come, 
that I may take away his sorrow." 

"Be content, Eleanor, we will send," said Katharine, 
soothingly ; " nay, to tell the truth, he is already sent for by 
my own desire. He will come soon." 

" Ah ! that makes me happy — so happy 1 Thank you, 
dear, kind sister," faintly answered the sick girl, closing her 
eyes. A moment after, she said, dreamily, " Whom did you 
send 1 Was it Hugh 1 " 

" No, a friend of his, and yours too." Katharine hesitated. 
" In truth, it was Mr. Lynedon." 

Eleanor started up wildly. " Oh no, you could not, you 
did not send Mr. Lynedon. My Philip, my poor Philip ! it 
will drive him mad ! And I am not there to tell him the 
truth — that I did not listen, not one moment ; that no power 
on earth should ever have made me Paul Lynedon's wife." 

" Paul Lynedon's wife ! " Even Eleanor's face was not 
more death-like than Katharine's when she echoed the 
words. " Eleanor, answer me : was it Paul Lynedon who 
asked you to marry him 1 " 

" Yes — ^yes. I never told any one — ^not even Philip : I 
would not now, but I am so weak, and my heart is breaking. 
Katharine, think for me; write to Philip — tell him you 
know I never cared for Mr. Lynedon. You do know, for it 
all passed at that fatal visit to Summerwood." 

" That was the time, then ! " said Katharine ; and the 
words came hissingly through her closed lips. " I am glad 
you told me this ; it comes not too late. It will save you — 
perhaps not you alone. Eest, sister, rest 1 I will do all 
you wish." 

^he unclasped the arm which had folded round her in 


frantic energy, and .laid Eleanor down, exhausted and 
weeping. Then she glided from the chamber. In the apart- 
ment beyond, Mrs. Pennythome sat alone ; from the open 
dining-room door came the voices of Sir Eobert and Hugh. 
She could gain no solitude within the house, so fled wildly 
from it. 

Out, into the dreary, moonless autumn night, the darkness 
and the rain, Katharine passed. She walked rapidly, the 
bleak wind lifting her hair, and piercing to her unshel- 
tered bosom. At the end of the avenue, where Lynedon 
had that morning lately come bounding to her side she 

" He told me a lie — a lie ! " she cried. " He deceived me 
—even in those old days : he has deceived me now. He is 
false — all false ! And I have wrecked my peace on earth 
— almost my hope of heaven — for love of him ! 

"Paul! — ^Paul Lynedon! — ^you love me now — I know 
it ! Heart and soul, you are mine ! But it had been better 
for you to have torn out that false tongue of yours before 
it uttered that lie, that last lie of all — before you told me you 
had never wished to marry Eleanor Ogilvie." 

Ere long her stormy anger passed into weeping.- "I 
wished to die ! " she moaned, " for then I should escape sin, 
and suffer no more sorrow. I would have died calmly — 
believing in him still ; though how dearly I loved him, I 
dared not let him know. Never — never ! I would never 
have let him know.. Wretched we might have been — ^but 
we would never have been wicked. I would still have 
honoured him — trusted him — believed him noble and true. 
But he is false — ^all false — false to the heart's core. He 
always was so. And I loved him — ^I love him. miser- 
able me ! " 

A little longer this wail of a wrecked heart was wasted 
on the silent night ; and then Katharine saw lights moving 
in the house. She returned hastily thither, lest her absence 
should have caused surprise. Grossing the haU, she met Sir 
Robert and Hugh. 

" Eeally, E^tharine, these late rambles in the grounds are 
very injurious to healtL And you have no bonnet ! Mj 

L - 


dear Hugh, you should take better care of your wife," 
observed the baronet, as he ascended the stairs. 

" Take care of Katharine ! Nay, I can't do that. She's 
a young filly that will neither be led nor driven. I have 
found that out at last," said Hugh, carelessly. 

Katharine was passing him by, but at his words she turned 
and looked him in the face. Her whole bearing expressed 
the most intense and withering scorn. A strange contrast 
was there between the husband and wife ; he grown awk- 
ward and heavy, and becoming each day coarser in person 
as in mind — she, with her ardent soul flashing in her eyes 
and dilating her stature, while her slender, beautiful form, 
gradually wasting away, made her seem hardly like a creature 
of this world. 

" What was that you said 1 '* 

"Oh, nothing — ^nothing!" And Hugh shrank away, 
cowed, before her fixed gaze. " Don*t be vexed, Katharine ; 
I only meant that you were not quite as you used to be ; 
but I suppose all girls change when they marry." 

" Those were not your words. Speak the truth." 

" What's the use, if you know it already 1 " said Hugh, 
sulkily. " But don't keep me here, pray ; I'm going 

She stood in his path still. 

" Stay, Hugh : you said I would neither be led nor driven, 
and you are right ; I will not." 

" Tm sure I don't want to try. Many a husband might 
complain of the little attention you pay me, but I always 
take it quietly. Still, what with your visiting, and your 
literary parties, and your fine gentlemen firiends " 

" Hugh, take care ! " Katharine broke in wildly. " Do 
not try me too much. Speak kindly to me — let me do as 
I will : it cannot be for long — not long." 

" Eh ! — ^what 1 " — and, struck by her tone, he came nearer, 
and gazed in her excited countenance with some show of 
interest. " Poor little Katharine ! you don't look well — ^you 
hardly seem to. know what you're saying. This anxiety 
about Nelly has been too much for you. There, be quiet 1 " 
His words were not without affection, though it was ex- 


pressed in his own careless fasMon. He stooped down and 
patted his wife's head tenderly. 

The tone and action smote Katharine's heart with a 
remorseful memory of olden days — when she had known 
no stronger love than that won by the unfailing devotion 
of cousin Hugh. The thought drew her nearer to her 

" Forgive me, Hugh. I might have made you happier, 
perhaps. We were not suited for one another. We should 
not have married." 

" Do you think so ? Well, well, it is too late now. We 
must make the best of one another," said Hugh, in a tone 
half angry, half sorrowful, as he turned away. 

Katharine caught his hand. "0 Hugh — ^good, kind 
cousin Hugh ! why did you not let me call you cousin all 
your life through 1 I could have loved you then." 

" And you don't now ] You have said so once or twice 
before. Well, I can't help that ; I must learn not to mind 
it." And he sighed heavily. 

Again the wife felt a repentant pang. " Husband, have 
pity ; my heart is breaking ! Every day we seem to live 
only to make each other miserable." 

" Luckily, we shall get rid of one another soon — for a 
time, at least. Now Eleanor is better, I don't see why I 
should not go back to the grouse-shooting. I'll start to- 

Moved by an unaccountable impulse, which she afterwards 
remembered with comfort, Katharine asked — ^nay, implored 
him to stay at Summerwood; but he refused somewhat 

" I never want you to give up your pleasures, Katharine, 
and I do not see why you should interfere with mine. We 
don't care for one another — don't let us pretend that we do. 
Let us each go our own way." 

" Be it so," answered the wife, solemnly. It seemed as 
if the last links of affection and duty were then torn from 
her and she were cast helplessly upon the wide world of 
desolation, misery, or sin. 

She began to ascend the stairs, and Hugh went to the 


hall-dooTy seekbig for his bat and wliipL Thiai he tamed 
round and hesitated. 

^ Yoa're not gone, Katharine, are yon 1* 

" No, I am here." 

^ Because we may as well say good-bye now, for I shan't 
be home nntil midnight ; and I shall start at dayli^t to- 
morrow. So give me your hand, Katharine, Foigive and 
forget. Perhaps we idiall get on better together when I 
come back again. Well part friends now, at all eYenta" 

She went up to him, and, for the 'first time in her life, 
kissed him of her own accord. In times to come, the 
remembered action proved a balm for many a conscience- 

'nien — ^they parted. 



My breast is pressed to tWne, Alice, 

My arm is round thee twined ; 
Thy breath dwells on my lip, Alice, 

Like clover-scented wind. 
Love glistens in thy sunny ee, 

And blushes on thy brow. 
Earth's heaven is here to thee and me, 

For we are happy now. 

My hand is on thy heart, Alice, 

Sae place thy hand in mine ; 
Now welcome weal or woe, Alice, 

Our love we canna tine. 
Ae kiss ! let others gather gowd 

Frae ilka land or sea ; 
My treasure is the richest yet. 

For, Alice, I hae thee ! Robert Niool. 

In a few days Eleanor began to feel the delicious dreamy 
calm of waking from sickness to convalescence — from anguish 
to hope. Though still Philip came not, she felt sure that 
he would come, speeded by the love which she doubted not 
lay deep in his heart still. If ever there was a living 
embodiment of faith — woman's faith — it was Eleanor 
Ogilvie. She had been all her life full of trust in every 
human creature. It is the wavering, the doubtful, who dream 
of change ; it is the inconstant only who dread inconstancy. 
She lay for hours together on her couch beside the draw- 
ing-room window, with her meek hands folded, and her eyes, 
now calm as of old, though a little more thoughtful, watch- 
ing the little clouds floating over the sky. Then, with the 
almost child-like interest that very trifles give to one who 
is recovering from severe illness, she would look at the many 


gifts of flowers or fruit which she was daily receiving, every 
one of which showed how dearly £leanor was loved. She 
seemed to have passed out of that terrible darkness into a 
world that was full of lova In this deep peace she rested as 
a child lies dreaming in the sunshine — ^not pondering whence 
it came, or how long it would last, simply rejoicing in it. 
She, opening her full heart to all, felt love continually around 
her — God's love and man's ; she rejoiced therein, and her 
every thought was a mute thanksgiving. Blessed, thrice 
blessed, are they whose souls thus turn heavenward, not in 
sorrow alone but also in gladness. And surely the sacrifice 
of a happy spirit must be acceptable unto Him, who only 
suffers us to walk in sackcloth and ashes for a time, that, so 
chastened, He may lift us to His presence with exceeding 


It was the still hush of an autumn afternoon when Philip 
reached Summerwood. He came into Eleanor's presence 
alone. She had fallen asleep: there was a quiet smile 
playing round her Ups, as though she were dreaming happily. 
It was so indeed, for the dream had borne her to the 
pleasant palace garden. She sat underneath the old cherry- 
tree, listening to the rustling of its leaves and scented 
blossoms. She heard Philip's voice ; she felt the clasp of 
Philip's hand ; and then — blessed waking ! — she found 
the dream was true ! He knelt beside her couch, gazing 
upon her, almost weeping over her. 

" Philip — my Philip — ^you are come — ^I knew you would 
come at last!" 

Again, as on the night of their parting, she extended her 
loving arms. He did not dash them from him now — he 
clasped theia wildly round his neck, though he could not 
speak one word. The next moment she was nestling in his 

It was a long time before either broke that blessed silence. 
At last Eleanor looked up in his face, and said, 

" You are not angry with me now, Philip % You know 


'^ I know nothing but that I am here, beside you, holding 
you fast — ^fast ! Eleanor, neither life nor death shall take 

LI.] THE OGaVIES. 395 

you away from me ! Say that it shall be so — ^that nothing 
on earth shall ever part us more." 

And softly answering, came to Philip's ear the words, 
which to sorrow are a knell — to love a deep anthem of 
perpetual joy — " Never more — never more ! " 

After a while they began to talk more calmly. " You 
have asked me nothing, Philip," said Eleanor. "I feel 
how kind, how tender this is — when you have been so tried ; 
but now I must tell you all." 

" Tell me nothing, my dearest, save that you love me." 

" You tlrought I did not love you, Philip ] " and her eyes 
were lifted to his — a whole life's faith expressed in their 
gaze. " You will not think so any more 1" 

He made no answer — how could he ? blessed ones I 
— thus binding up the hopes of a lifetime in this perfect 
union of 

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love. 

" Now, Philip, you must listen to me for a little — only a 
little. We must not have between us even the shadow of 
a cloud." And she began her tale slowly and cautiously, 
trying not to mention Mrs. Breynton's name. 

Philip changed countenance at first. " Then there was 
some truth in the tale ? Why did you not tell me about 
Mr. Lynedon?" 

She laid her hand upon his : " Stay one moment before 
you judge me. In those happy days at the palace — ^for, 
with all our trials, they were happy days — there was in 
my heart no thought of any save one — save him who then 
asked for it ; ay, and had it too, almost before he asked." 
And a conscious blush and dimpling smile brought back to 
her face its long-vanished playfulness. 

"Eleanor," interrupted her lover fondly, "you look as 
you did long ago, when we were girl and boy together at 
the palace. You will be my own sunny-faced little Nelly 
again soon." 

" Shall 1 1" and her low, glad-hearted laugh echoed his 
own. How child-like are happy lovers ! 

" Besides," Eleanor went on, gravely, " I did not speak 



about Paul Lynedon, because I thought it scarcely right. 
All love is sacred ; hopeless love most sacred of alL It 
seems to me that a womaa should not betray, even to him 
who has her whole heart, another who has cast his before 
her in vain. You do not think me wrong 1" 

'' No, no : you are good and true, and compassionate to 
all, my dearest^" 

'' Afterwards I was most glad to find that Mr. Lynedon 
had lost all painful feelings about me. We met by chance 
at Florence, and again in London, when we talked together 
frankly and cordially, and he asked me always to be his 
Mend. This happened on that night at my brother's — ^that 
sad night when " 

" How mad, how blind, how wicked was I ! " cried Philip. 
Then he told her aU, passionately imploring her forgiveness 
for every doubt, and still more for every harsh and imkind 

But she laid her hand on his lips : " Nay, you loved — 
you love me ; there is no need of forgiveness between us. 
Therefore," she added, softly, ** in our perfect joy, we have 
more need to pardon those who were unkind to us. 
Philip, my own Philip, you will listen to me a little longer?" 

He sat down by her side, and there, resting her head on 
his shoulder, and holding both his hands — as though she 
would not let him go until her influence had subdued any 
wrath he might feel — ^Eleanor told her betrothed the story 
of his aunt's wickedness. But she did not call it by that 
harsh name ; she spoke with most merciful tenderness of 
the wrong done to both ; and spoke not of it at all until 
she had reminded him of all his childish days, of every 
olden kindness which could soften his heart towards Mrs. 

Philip Wychnor was of a gentle spirit, but he was also 
a man. He had become one even since Eleanor had parted 
from him. The hard struggle with the world had made 
every passion in his nature ten times stronger. He was 
stung to the quick by the discovery alike of the personal 
wrong, and the deceit at which his truthful spirit revolted. 
Starting up, he paced the room in vehement anger. 


LI.] THE OjaiLVIES. 39T 

" And it was for this that I asked you to stay with her, 
and fulfil the duties I owed 1 But I owe her none now ; 
all is blotted out between us. Eleanor 1 you shall leave her ; 
— ^we will neither of us look upon her face more. Oh ! if 
she had succeeded — if I had known the truth too late ! — I 
should have hated — have cursed her 1 " 

Eleanor gazed upon her lover. She saw in the clenched 
hands and knotted brow a new development of his character. 
For the moment she sank back, pained and terrified. She 
learned for the first time that a woman must be to the man 
she loves, not merely his joy — his consolation — but the 
softener of his nature, the patient soother of those stormy 
passions that will rise a.t times in the best and noblest of 
mankind. She must take him as he is ; bearing meekly with 
aught that she sees wrong, striving hopefully to win him to 
the right, and loving him dearly through all. Eleanor felt 
this ; and casting aside the womanly supremacy of wooing 
days, she entered on a wife's duty ere she bore a wife's 

She rose up and tried to walk across the room to him, 
but her feeble strength failed. " Philip ! " she said, faintly, 
"I am very weak still, I cannot reach you. Will you 
come and sit by me again V* 

He did so, still uttering many words of suppressed anger. 
But he suffered her to take his hand with a soft, firm clasp. 
She would not let it go again, but pressed it close to her 
heart, as though the peace and forgiveness there would thus 
pass into her lover's. Yet she did not attempt to speak for 
a long time. At last she whispered, 

" Philip, when that future comes which we have hoped 
for all our lives, and to which we now look forward as a 
near reality, think how happy we shall be — so happy that 
we ought to pray that all the world may be happy too ! 
And when we grow old together — still loving one another, 
until time's changes come so lightly that we fear them not 
— then we shall feel, much more than we do now, what a 
terrible thing. must be an old age lonely and without love. 
We could not, even though wronged, inflict this bitter 
desolation on her" 


^ Eleanor, why do you speak thus f what do you wish me 
to do 1 But I cannot do it — ^it is impossible. I will not — ^I 
ought not ! " he continued, without waiting for her answer. 

She did not contradict him, but only said softly, " Do 
you think we could be quite happy, even in — ^in our own 
dear home *' She hesitated, faintly blushing ; but re- 
pented not the words when she saw how on hearing them 
his countenance relaxed, and his firm-set lips trembled with 
emotion. "Could we be quite happy, even there," she 
repeated, " when we must for ever forget those old days at 
the palace, and think that there was one name, once loved 
by both, which we could not utter more 1 We, too, who 
have neither father nor mother to claim the duty which we 
once hoped to pay to her? Let us pay it still, Philip," 
she continued, finding that no bitter answer came, and that 
the hand she held pressed hers convulsively. " Let us place 
no bar between us and the past — ^let us have no shadow of 
regret to dim our happiness. Philip, dearest, best! — ^in 
whom I trust and have trusted all my life — forgive her!" 

"I would — I would — if this wrong were only against 
myself. But you — ^my darling ! — ^you who tended her like 
a daughter ; she had no pity on you." 

"She knew not what she was doing; I feel sure she 
loved me all the while. And now, Philip ! if you could 
see her repentance — ^her tears ! At the thought of your 
coming she wept like a child. And she is so changed — so 
feeble, so old ! Philip, look — ^look there ! " 

She pointed to the lawn beneath the window. There, 
creeping slowly along in the autumn sunshine, was a stoop- 
ing aged woman, who, even with the aid of the servant on 
whose arm she leaned, appeared to move wearily and pain- 

Philip started up. " Is that Aunt Breynton — ^poor Aunt 
Breynton 1" 

"It is indeed! see how feebly she walks, even with 
Davis's arm. Poor, faithful Davis is herself growing old, 
but her mistress has no one else. And Philip— dear Philip, 
your arm is so strong ! Think how we two are entering 
life — a life full of love, hope, and joy — ^whUe she " 

LL] the OGILVIES. 399 

"Hush I hush, darling — say no more." He pressed a 
kiss on her forehead, and was gone from the room. The 
next minute she saw him walking quickly down the lawn. 
Eleanor could look no more ; she s£uik down on the pillow, 
and wept tears more holy, more jo3rful, than even those so 
lately shed in reconciled love on Philip's bosom. 

Her work was done. It was chronicled by no human 
tongue — ^noted by no human eye. Only when, a few weeks 
after, she sat with Philip and Philip's aunt, listening to the 
reading of the Holy Book, which sounded holier still in the 
Sabbath silence of the old Cathedral, Eleanor heard the 

" Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the 

kingdom of heaven " 

With her, the blessedness had begun even on earth. 
Yet a little we would fain linger with these twain on 
that day of happiness and peace ; we would fain see them 
as they talked in the quiet autumn evening, watching the 
sunset. Eleanor still rested on her couch, while Philip sat 
by her side, — her fingers wandering in his hair. She 
counted, laughingly, one — two— three — ^white threads among 
the fair silken curls ; at which he seemed to murmur greatly, 
seeing he was not thirty yet. But they had no fear of 
growing old now. 

They talked of all which had chanced to Philip during 
these years of varied fortune. He told her of the phases 
through which his mind had passed, of the new life that 
had dawned within him, and of the earnest aim with which 
he now followed an author's calling. Eleanor saw that to 
him there had come a change— or rather, less a change than 
a growth. He had risen to the full strength of a man — 
and a man of genius ; he was conscious of it too, and the 
high and noble ambition bom of such consciousness was in 
him almost as strong as love itself. His betrothed felt this, 
but the knowledge gave her no pain. Her woman's heart, 
to which love was all, could at first scarcely comprehend 
the mystery; but ere long it would all grow plain, she 
knew. Hie most tender and high-hearted woman, on whom 
falls the blessed but trying destiny to be the wife of one 


endowed with Heaven's great gift of genius, must ever feel 
that there are depths in his soul into which she cannot 
look — depths which are open only to the eye of God. 
Shame be to her if her mean, jealous love should desire to 
engross all ; or, standing between him and the Infinite to 
which he aspires, should wish to darken with one earthly 
shadow the image of the Divine ! 

Thus they together held glad yet thoughtful converse, as 
was meet for those who would soon enter on life's journey 
hand-in-hand. They talked but little of their worldly 
future, since it was all plain before them now ; and both 
had far higher thoughts than counting of gold and silver 
store, and planning a luxurious home. Once only Philip 
called her " his fair heiress, his rich Eleanor," and asked 
smilingly whether the world would not contemn her for 
marrying a poor author. 

But she only smiled in return. The love between them 
was so perfect, that which gave or which received mattered 
not. The act was merely a name. 

Then the twilight grew dimmer, the room darkened, and 
through the window whence they had gazed on the sunset 
they looked up at a sky all thick with stars. The words of 
the betrothed pair became fewer and more solemn, though 
tender still. From the earthly path which they would tread 
together, their thoughts turned to the unseen world beyond. 
Most blessed they, whose love feared no parting even 
there ! 

They spoke — '^, amidst their deep happiness — they 
spoke of this ; and then there came upon their lips a few 
beloved names, whose sound had passed from earth to 
heaven. The mother, could she have bent down from the 
eternal home, might have heard that, even amidst this bless- 
edness, her child remembered her ; and the young spirit, so 
early taken, might have rejoiced to know that the thought 
of poor Leigh lingered in his friend's fond memory still. 

Thus, folded closely heart to heart, Philip and Eleanor 
looked up to the starry sky, and thanked Heaven for the 
love that would bless and brighten earth, until it attained 
its full fruition in eternity. 

lil] the oaiLviES. 401 


Thus it was always witli me when with thee, 

And I forget my purpose and my wrongs 

In looking and in loving. 

To say that thou didst love me ? Curse the air 

That bore the sound to me J 

There is no blasphemy in love, but doubt : 

No sin, but to deceive. 

Now I forgive thy having loved another, 

And I forgive — ^but never mind it now ; 

I have forgiven so much, there's nothing left 

To make more words about. Answer me not, 

Let me say what I have to say. Then — go ! 

Philip Bailey. 

Paul Ltne]X>n had been whirled through life like a stray 
autumn leaf, the sport of every breeze of impulse or circum- 
stance. An instinctive nobleness had kept him free from 
any great sin, and his strong de^e for the world's good 
opinion served frequently to deter him from smaller errors. 
But he never did a thing solely because U was right. Interest 
and inclination were with him motives far more powerful 
than any abstract love of virtue. 

Thus he suffered himself to be drifted idly on by any 
chance current, and had probably during his whole life 
known no fixed principle or real emotion, until every im- 
pulse of his being concentrated itself in passion for Eathajine 
Ogilvie. Perhaps Uie very hopelessness of this love made 
it ten times stronger, for there was still in Lynedon's charac- 
ter that strange contradiction which caused everything to 
appear more precious in the degree that it seemed unattain- 

Of the end he never thought, any more than did Katharine. 

2 D 

402 THE OGILyiE& [CHAP. 

He was not an evil-hearted man ; and if he had been such, 
this love had so purified his nature, that, against her at least, 
he could not sin. He could only cast his soul before her, 
worshipping, but not daring hj a single glance to ask for 
responsive love. 

Until now ! — On that early morning, when he walked by 
her side along the avenue at Summerwood, Paul Lynedon 
had been startled by the few words which the strong pent-up 
tide of emotion had forced from Katharine's lips. Gould it 
be that the girlish admiration over which he had once smiled 
complacently — though he now clung to its memory with an 
intense and lingering fondness — could it be that this was 
indeed the dawn of a far deeper feeling f Had she then 
loved — and, blissful thought, that made his heart leap 
with desperate joy ! did she now love him 1 

Paul saw Katharine no more that day, but there reached 
him the letter to Philip Wychnor, accompanied by a single, 
word, '' Remember ! " He flew on his mission with speed. 
That mission fulfilled, he longed for its reward — a look, a 
word, a smile; and though without any settled purpose, 
save the impulse which drew him continuaUy to her side, 
Paul Lynedon found himself on the road to Summerwood. 

There was only one whose feet had outstripped even his 
own — ^Philip Wychnor. But the bright sunbeam of holy 
love travelled faster than the mad whirlwind of passion. 

Lynedon came when night was closing in. He had 
dashed his horse aloujg through the still evening air ; he 
had left behind him, without one glance, the gorgeous sun- 
set on which the happy plighted lovers had gazed so linger- 
ingly. But Paul saw nothing in earth or heaven save the 
shadowy image that flitted before him, beckoning him on 
with the likeness of Katharine's eyes and Elatharine's smile. 
Not as these usually met him, freezing him with cold 
haughtiness, or torturing him with wayward anger — but 
softened, tearful, and tremulous with love. The strong 
fantasy almost overwhelmed him. 

He stood within the hall at Summerwood. It was the 
same spot — ^the dim old hall, half illumined by the lamp. 
Beneath this flickering light he had once gazed down upon 

lil] the ogilvies. 403 

the girlish face whose sorrowful sweetness won from him 
that parting kiss. It was nothing to him then, but keenly, 
maddeningly, he remembered it now. 

" Sir Robert," the servant said, " was engaged with parlia- 
mentary business in the drawing-room ; Miss Ogilvie was 
in the drawing-room, but she saw no visitors as yet ; and 
Mrs. Ogilvie " 

''Ask if Mrs O^vie will see me for a few moments. 
And meanwhile I will go in here." 

He laid his hand — half by chance, half through a way- 
ward impulse that sprang from these thronging memories 
of the past— on the door of the room where Sir James had 

There, in the same arm-chair where Paul had found her 
of old, sat Katharine j but her attitude was not as then — ^that 
of gentle musing grief — ^it expressed the utter abandonment 
of despair. She leaned over the arm of the chair, her head 
bowed, and her clasped hands stretched out rigidly. So 
deep was the trance that she heard not Paul Lynedon's step 
until he stood beside her. 


" Mr. Lynedon ! you dare to intrude " She sprang 

up and confronted him with her gleaming eyes. But the 
flash passed in a moment. '' Pardon me, but I think you 
forget yourself" — ^'and the cold severe tone fell upon his 
vehemence like ice upon fire : " our friendship, or rather our 
acquaintance, scarcely warrants "-= 

" Acquaintance, Mrs. Ogilvie 1 You talk of acquaintance, 
when " 

But again, for the hundredth time, her look froze him into 
stone. He stopped, hesitated, and was silent. 

" This is a late visit. To what may I attribute the 
pleasure 1" 

For a moment Paul drew himself up with his old haughti- 

liess. " If I intrude, perhaps I " But he could not go 

on thus, for he was in her presence — ^he felt the speU that 
lay in every movement of her hand, every rustle of her 
garments. All his love rushed back upon Um like a flood. 
"What — what have I done to offend youl" he cried. 


'' Have I not been journeying day and night to fulfil your 
command t I had not thought our meeting would be tiius. 
If I have done wrong, tell me — and then, then — ^in mercy 
forgive me." 

" For this long, and somewhat unwarrantable (^peech, cer- 
tainly 1" answered Katharine. ''I am not aware of aught 
else of your doing, which is to me of sufficient importance 
even to need forgiveness. And now allow me to thank 
you for your kind offices in this matter, and to hope that 
you also will grant me pardon for having so far encroached 
on your courtesy." 

" Courtesy ! you call it courtesy ! Well, let it be so ; 
you will never, never know !" said Lynedon, hoarsely. He 
sank on a chair at a little distance, and bent his face from 
her sight 

Katharine looked upon him — ^this careless, proud man 
— ^as he crouched and trembled before her. "I have 
triumphed — I triumph now ! " she said in her heart ; and 
its throbs of glad vengeance rose higher and higher, until 
they sank, stilled by the stronger power of love. But she 
dreaded the calm and the silence more than the storm. 

'^Mr. Lynedon," she said, speaking less coldly, but 
brokenly and hurriedly, "I will not detain you here; I 
am not well ; I have suffered so muah." 

''You are iU) you suffer V' and he sprang to her side. 
She moved away from him ; not pointedly, but firmly. 

'' It is nothing ; merely caused by anxiety on my sister's 
account. You do not ask about her." 

" Pardon me, I think of nothing ejccept — except " 

"She is recovering," interrupted Mrs. Ogilvie, turning 
away from his gaze of wild fondness; "and lest there 
should seem an3rthing strange in this mission which you 
have kindly accomplished, I think it due both to Eleanor 
and myself that I should acquaint you with its reason. It 
may give you surprise, perhaps unwelcome surprise " — and 
the tone grew cold and scornful once more — " to learn that 
Mr. Wychnor and my sister have been affiianced lovers for 

" Indeed ! I half thought — that is, I guessed. Of course 

ul] the ogilvies. ' 405 

I am most delighted," was Lynedon's somewhat confdsed 

Katharine's piercing eyes were upon him. " You need 
not use idle compliments ; you need not let your tongue 
belie you again," she said, vainly striving against the storm 
of anger that was once more brooding. " It shows small 
respect for Eleanor, when her sometime lover condescends 
to a needless falsehood in order to conceal this love." 

Lynedon staggered, as though every word uttered by that 
low clear voice had been an arrow in his breast. " Love ! you 
think, then, that I loved Eleanor Ogilvie ! — Glisten " 

" Nay, it requires no excuse." 

" And I give none : but I speak to you — ^you, Katharine. 
If you could slay me with that look, I would, I will call you 
so. Listen, Katharine — ^still Katharine I I came here, &rst, 
a dreamer, with the years of a man and the folly of a boy : 
your cousin's sweetness pleased me ; her indiflterence spurred 
me on to an idle fancy. Men have many such which they 
call love, as I did, until the true love comes ! I know now, 
to my misery — ^to my despair — I know what it is to love ! " 

He paused a moment. Katharine's eyes turned fearfully 
to the closed door, as though in flight alone would she save 
herself from the gathering doom. But her strength failed ; 
she sank helplessly on the chair. 

Lynedon stood over her, his impetuous words pouring on 
her ear like a torrent which she could neither resist nor 

" You must, you shall hear me yet. I tell you that I 
know now what love is. Love I love ! the word rings ever 
in my brain, my senses, my soul! Who taught it mel 
When I had passed my youth — ^when my heart had grown 
cold with its dull pulses of five-and-thirty years — ^who was 
it that put life therein — fearful, torturing, and yet most 
glorious life 1 If heaven and hell stood between us, I must 
cry out, as I do now, Take this life which you brought ; it 
is yours, all yours, for I love you — ^I love you, Katharine 
Ogilvie 1 " 

He sank at her feet, and kissed passionately, not her 
hands, though they lay passive and cold on her knee, but her 


very dress. The impetuous speech once ended, he dared 
not even lift his eyes ; he trembled lest her first word should 
crush him in the dust. But that word did not come ; she 
neither moved nor spoke. 

" Katharine/' he went on — and his tone sank '£rom ve- 
hemence to the deepest murmur of tenderness — ^* Katharine, 
foi^ye me. I am so wretched ; I have no hope in heaven 
or earth but you. Think what a fearful thing it is for me 

to love you thus ! — ^you who But I dare not speak of 

that Nay, you need not draw your hand away ; I shall not 
take it. I ask nothing, hope for nothing ; only do not spurn 
me — do not drive me from you ! " 

She moved, and looked down upon him for an instant ; 
but in her eyes there was less of love than of terror. He 
met them still, and drew from them courage. 

" I say not, Love me as I love. You do not — ^you cannot. 
Only be merciful and gentle to me for the sake of those old 
times. Have you forgotten them, Katharine 1 — ^how here, 
in this very room, in this very chair, you sat, and I comforted 
you 1 — ^You were scarcely more than a child, though you 
were dear to me even then — why, I knew not. Katharine ! 
my Katharine ! do you remember ? " 

" Eemember 1 '' She started up, silent and trembling no 
more. " Yes, I do remember. And now that the time has 
come, you shall know alL Listen, Paul ! " 

"You call me Paul! kindest and dearest, you call 
me Paul ! " murmured Lynedon. 

" Again, Favl ! — though after this night the name shall 
never pass my lips. You speak truly ! I was a child — a 
happy child — ^until you came. You came, with your winning 
wordj9, your subduing tenderness ; you made me believe it 
all — ^me, a simple girl, gifted, to my misery, with a woman's 
heart ! See, I speak without a blush or a sigh — these are 
past now. Paul Lynedon, I loved you then — ^I have loved 
you all my life through — ^1 love you now, dearly, dearly ! 
But I tell you this for the first time and the last^ for you 
shall never look on my face more." 

" Katharine, have mercy ! " 

" You had none I Oh, why did you deceive me ? Why 


did your lips speak falsely — ay, more than speak 1 " And 
Katharine shuddered. "Why did your hand write what 
your heart felt not 1 And I, who loved, who trusted you so, 

until I heard But I cannot think of it now — ^it drove 

me mad ! Now, when we might have been so happy, it is 
too late ! too late ! " 

Her voice sank into a low broken weeping. There was 
a silence — a terrible silence — and then Katharine felt her 
hand drawn in his. She snatched it away with a cry. 

" Ah — ^you cannot — you dare not take my hand. See ! 
see ! " She pointed to the wedding-ring ! 

Lynedon sprang madly to his feet " Katharine, there is 
no pity in heaven or earth for us — I say tis, because you love 
ma I know it now ; I see it in.your anger as in your tears 
— ^those blessed tears ! O Katharine, I cannot weep, but 
I could pour out my heart's blood for you ! " 

Again he paused, and then went on speaking in a \ow, 
rapid whisper. " Tell me — for I know nothing — ^nothing, 
except that I am almost mad ! — ^tell me what we must do. 
Shall I end all this ? Katharine, my lost Katharine ! shall 
I die?" 

" No, no, no ! " And she unconsciously seized his hands. 
'* Hush ! be calm ; let me think a moment." 

She began to talk soothingly; leaning over him the 
whUe, and trying to speak in quiet and gentle tones. 

Then Paul Lynedon forgot all — ^honour, duty, even love ; 
for the love that would destroy is unworthy of the name. 

" Dearest," he murmured, " the world shuts us out, or 
will do soon. It may be that Heaven is more merciful 
than man. Let us try ! Let us go far away together — to 
some land beyond the seas — to some happier Eden where 
our love is no longer sin !" 

Katharine looked at him for an instant with a frenzied, in- 
credulous gaze. Then she unclasped his hand, which had once 
more taken hers ; flung it from her, and sprang upright. 

" Paul Lynedon, I kirow you now 1 You have darkened 
my peace — you have poisoned my youth — ^you have made 
me a scorn, a loathing to myself — ^but you shall not destroy 
my souL Go-go from my sight for ever ! " 

408 THE 06ILVIE8. [CHAP. 

He flnng himself on the ground, kiasing her dress, her 
feet; but there was no relenting. She stood, with lifted 
hand, pointing to the door — moveless, silent, stem. 

" I will obey you — I will go," he cried at last. " I will 
never cross your path again. Only forgive me ! One word 
— one look — ^to say farewell ! " 

But there Ae stood, immovable in her stony silence^ Be- 
neath it his own passionate heart grew still and cold. He 
rose up, pressed his lips once more to her garment's hem, 
and then crept humbled from her sight The door closed, 
and Katharine was alone. 

That night there came a messenger to Summerwood with 
tidings awful indeed ! Death had struck the young heir in 
the midst of his careless sports. Death ! sudden death ! 
occasioned unwittingly by his own hand. Poor Hugh — 
kind-hearted good-natured Hugh, was brought home to Sum- 
merwood, dead ! 

Katharine Ogilvie was a widow. 

liil] the ogilvies. 409 


— 'Twere sweet to think of— sweeter still 

To hope for — ^that this blessed end soothes np 

The curse of the beginning ; bnt I know 

It oomes too late. Robert Browning. 

It was all over, and the unloving wife was free ! 

Free 1 when she was haunted perpetually by an avenging 
voice, bringing back to her memory the false marriage-vow— 
80 rashly taken, so nearly broken — ^the duties unfulfilled — 
the affection unvalued, and requited with scorn. It was a 
fearful picture of a wasted life — wasted by the one withering 
shadow — ^the fatal love. 

By night and day the young widow watched beside her 
husband's coffined remains. Father, mother, friends, went 
away weeping, and saying to one another, ^ See how dearly 
she loved him 1 " But Katharine shuddered to hear them, 
knowing it was less grief she felt than a bitter, gnawing re- 
morse, which cried ever aloud, " It is too late — too late ! " 

She thought of her childish days — of Hugh's old tender- 
ness, so constant and yet so humble — of his patience and 
forbearance during their brief married life. Throughout 
that married life she had met her husband's unsuspicious 
gaze, knowing that she carried in her heart a secret that 
would destroy his peace for ever. And when the end came, 
she had suffered Paul Lynedon to kneel at her feet, giving 
and receiving the confession of unholy lova She had felt, 
with that love, the glow of hatred towards the one who 
stood between her and happiness. Nay, there had darted 
across her mind the thought scarcely formed into a wish, 
that some strange fate would set her £ree. And even then 
the thought was accomplished. She had withstood the 


tempter, she had kept her marriage-vow, and yet she felt 
ahnost like Hugh's murderess. At times her bewildered 
mind strove to palliate the wrong by the self-same plea. 
She remembered that Lynedon's passionate words had been 
poured into the ears of a widow — ^not a wife ; and that she 
herself, in repulsing them, had kept faithful — even to the 

** And I will still be faithful ! " she cried. " my hus- 
band ! if I have sinned against you, accept the atonement ! 
Never, never shall my hand clasp his — ^never shall Hugh's 
widow become Paul Lynedon's bride ! Husband ! if I 
sacrificed your peace, I will offer up myself with my Ufe's 
hope as an atonement on your grave ! " 

Strong was the remorse that prompted the words— ^eep 
was the shame that uttered them ; but stronger and deeper 
than either remorse or shame was the undying love wMch 
had created, and yet ruined, the life-destiny of ELatharine 

Hugh rested in the little church at Summerwood, beneath 
a gorgeous monument Sir Robert had deplored less the 
death of an affectionate son-in-law than the extinction of a 
baronetcy two hundred years old. This antiquity, chronicled 
in golden letters beneath the weeping marble cherubim for 
the benefit of ages to come, was at least some slight consola- 
tion to the bereaved father-in-law. 

Eleanor wept many an affectionate tear over the brother 
who was so different from herself, and with whom, through 
life, she had held little intercourse. And then she went 
away from Summerwood to fulfil once more the self-assumed 
duties of a daughter, until they should merge in those of a 

All the long winter Katharine spent in solitude. '' Atone- 
ment — atonement ! " was the cry of her anguished spirit, 
and she strove to work out that penance by shutting from 
her heart every thought save the memory of her husband — 
every pleasure save that which grew out of duties fulfilled. 
The mother mourned no longer over her careless daughter ; 
Katharine tended her with a contrite tenderness that was 
almost painful to behold. She clung with a vehement 

LHL] the OGILVIES. 411 

intensity to this pure love, the only one on which her 
memory dared rest in the past — ^the only one to which she 
looked for comfort in the future. 

So she Uved, binding down every impulse in her nature 
with an iron will, bom of remorse. She imitated the 
martyrs of old, who thought to win pardon by inflicting on 
themselves a living death. But they only tortured the 
body ; Katharine did penance with the soul. The conflict 
was vain, for it sprang, from remorse, not penitence. Her 
sorrow could not wash away the suffering or the sin, for the 
drops that fell were not tears, but fire. 

Since the time when she dismissed him from her presence, 
Katharine had never heard of Paul Lynedon. It was her 
prayer — the prayer of her lips, at least — that she might 
never see him more. And when the gloom of winter passed, 
and the spring came out upon the earth, creating vague 
yearnings after hope and love, Katharine still sought to 
deaden them with this prayer. But its very utterance only 
made it the more false. Evermore, piercing through re- 
morse^ indignation, and shame, rose up the face which she 
had laat seen bowed before her in such agonising pleading, 
less for love than for pardon. And one day she saw that 
face — ^not in fancy, but in reality. 

She was on her knees beside her father, in the church at 
Summerwood. The Sabbath sunshine slanted at once on 
the stately monument of her husband, and on her own 
drooped head, hidden by the thick widow's veiL She 
lifted it, and beheld Paul Lynedon. 

He sat in a dark comer of the church, intently watching 
her. As Katharine rose, their eyes met, and a numbing 
coldness crept through her veins. Still, she had power to 
answer the gaze with another, fixed, freezing, proud ; and 
then she turned away, nor lifted her eyes again, save to the 
marble tablet which chronicled the brief life of poor Hugh. 
She looked no more towards Lynedon, but she felt his eyes 
upon her and his influence around her. It seemed to 
encompass her with a dim confused mist, through which 
she heard the clergyman's voice and the organ's sound 
indistinctly as in a dream. In vain she tried to break the 


spell, driving her thoughts back to the past — to the death- 
chamber — to the tomb beneath her very feet, where the 
young man was laid in the strength of his youth, hidden in 
darkness from the sunshine and the fresh breeze, and all 
those pleasures of nature which he had loved so well She 
gathered up every possible image of pain, and pressed it 
with a stony weight upon her heart, but it could not press 
out thence the one image which all her life had reigned 
paramount there. When she passed out of the church, 
clinging to her father's arm, Katharine's eyes, impelled by 
an uncontrollable power, looked back for an instant 

Lynedon watched her. She could not stiU the rapture 
of her heart — no, not though the spot she stood upon was 
her husband's grave. 

From that day she knew that wherever she went his 
presence encompassed her. If she walked, she saw a figure 
gliding beneath the trees ; if she rode, there echoed far in 
the distance the tramp of a horse's feet At night, when 
all were gone to rest, she heard beneath her window a 
footstep that paced there for hours in the silence and dark- 
ness. And Katharine, who so long ago had distinguished 
above all others that firm, slow, manly tread, knew that this 
watcher by night as by day was no one but Paul Lynedon. 

Thus weeks passed. She never saw his face except at 
church, and then he always kept aloof. And though once 
or twice she unwittingly looked that way, it was with the 
coldness and sternness that became the wife, the widow of 
Hugh Ogilvie. 

But this could not last. One morning — ^it was so early 
that the April dews yet glistened in the sunshine — ^Katha- 
rine took her solitary walk to a glade in the park, which 
had been her favourite haunt in her girlhood. She had 
brought him there long ago, and they had spent an hour's 
happy talk together, sitting on a fallen tree, half-covered 
with ivy, while she sang. He had carved thereon her 
initials, and his own. They were there still : Katharine 
moved aside the ivy which had grown over them— and 
leaned down, gazing, tiU her eyes were blinded with torrents 
of tears. 

liil] the ogilvies. 413 

And then, emerging from the shadow of the trees, she 
saw Lynedon stand before her. 

Her first impulse was to fly, bat she had no strength ; 
and when she looked at him again, the intention was 
changed into another feeling. He was so altered, so haggard 
and stooping, that he might have borne the burden of more 
than forty years. The eye had grown wild and restless, the 
brow was marked with many a line, and the dark beautiful 
hair was threaded with grey. He stood there, and only 
uttered one word — 

" Katharine ! " 

Hearing it, she rose, and her eyes flashed through the 
tears which filled them. " Why do you come here 1 why 
do you haunt my presence ^ How dare you cross my path 
still 1 " 

But he only answered to the wrath with an accent — 
tender, humble, despairing — " Katharine ! " 

Once more she looked upon him, and her tone softened, 
" You must not come here — ^you must leave me. Will you 
go 1 Then I must." 

" Katharine, one word ! " 

" Do not speak — do not follow me. You cannot — ^you 
dare not. Ay, that is well ! " He moved aside ; and she 
passed on a few steps, and then turned. He had fallen on 
the ivy-covered tree, his head lying on the spot where he 
had carved her name. 

Katharine could struggle no more, '^ Paul 1 Paul ! " and 
she stretched out her hands. 

He sprang forward and seized them: but the next 
moment she had snatched them away with a cry. 

^* I dare not, I dare not. Do not speak to me— only go 
from my sight." 

" I will go, if you desire. Only say that you forgive me. 
Katharine, if I have sinned, I have suffered too I " 

" We have both sinned, and we must both suffer ; it is 
right. We must never look on each other's face again," 

" Have you no mercy now, when you are free — ^when it 
is no crime in the sight of earth or heaven for us to love 
one another ? Katharine," he continued, catching her arm 


and holding it in his firm grasp, '' I remember what you 
said to me that night — ay, every word — ^how you have 
loved me all your life. Yes, and you love me still ! I saw 
your tears faU but now, and I knew it was at the remem- 
brance of me. See, you tremble, you shrink : Katharine, 
you shall not part from me." And he spoke in a low des- 
perate tone. " I tell you, whether it is right or wrong, you 
shall be my wife." 

She felt his power upon her, gathering over her like a 
cloud of destiny^ through which she could not pierce. She 
remained so mute, so frozen, that Lynedon was terrified. 

*^ Katharine, speak to me ; say that I have not angered 
you. Look on me, and see what I have endured. For 
these weeks past I have tracked your walks, only to catch 
a glimpse of your dress, or see the print of your footsteps ; 
then at night I have prowled like a thief under your window, 
watching while you slept. But I dared not enter your 
presence ; I would never have done so, save that I saw you 
weeping. Is not this love 1 is not this penitence 1" 

She looked at him, only once ; but he gathered courage, 
and went on. " Why should we not be happy ? If we erred, 
you will pardon me, and Heaven will forgive us both. Katha- 
rine, you shall bring back to me my youth, you shall make 
me what you will ; we will live over again the happy past." 

" Not the past," cried E^tharine ; "we have no past — ^we 
dare not have." 

" But we have a future, that is, if you will listen to me, 
and not forsake me. If otherwise, Katharine, shall I tell 
you what you will do 1 " And, as Paul stood over her, his 
wild eyes sought hers, terrifying her more even than his 
words. " You will drive me from you a vagabond on the face 
of the earth: there is no evil which I shall not commit, or 
else I shall die — die miserably, perhaps by my own hand." 

" No, no, Paul — ^my Paul ! You shall not grow wicked ; 
you shall not die ; I will save you if I peril my hope of 
heaven for your sake ! " was the bitter cry that burst from 
Katharine's heart and lips, as she clasped both his hands 
and held them long, weeping over them passionately. 

Lynedon made her sit down on the fallen tree, while he 


threw back the veU from her face, and removed from her 
fair head, so youthful still, the tokens of widowhood. As 
he did so, he cast them down with a violent gesture and 
trampled them under foot. Then he took her hand and 
began to draw from it the wedding-ring ; but Katharine 
started frt)m him. 

" Paul, I am very guilty, but it is for your sake ; you 
should not torture me thus. Listen. When my husband 
— ^hush I I wiU call him so still, for he was good to me — 
when my husband died, I vowed to atone unto the dead 
for my sin towards the living. I said in my heart, solemnly 
and truly, then, that I would never be your wife. Now I 
break that vow — ^the second I have broken for you. Paul, 
it is a fearful thing to have this upon my soul. You must 
be very kind and tender to me — ^you must let me wait a 
year — ^two years — ^until all this horror has passed, and 
then " 

" You will be mine — ^my own wife 1 " cried Lynedon, joy- 
fully. He knelt beside her on the grass, and would have 
folded her in his arms, but Katharine drew back. 

" Not yet, not yet," she muttered. " It seems as though 
he stood between us — ^he, my husband — ^he will not let me 
come to you. This happiness will be too late 1 I know it 

And while she spoke she drew her breath with a deep 
sigh, and put her hand suddenly to her heart. 

" What ails you, Katharine, my darling 1 " 

*' Nothing, the pain wiU pass soon— I am used to it. 
Let me rest my head here," she answered, faintly. He stood 
by her side, and she leaned against him in silence for a few 
minutes. Then she looked up with a sad, grave smile. ''I 
am well now, thank you ! You see I make you my comfort 
and support already." 

" Dearest, how happy am I ! May it be ever so 1 " was 
the low, loving answer. Her face was hid from him, or he 
would have seen that there passed over it a spasm of agony 
awakened by his words. 

Then it was that Katharine felt the curse of a granted 
prayer. The death so madly longed for was now a horrible 

416 THB 0(HLYIB& [CHAP. 

doom I To die, in tbe midflt of yoath and hope ! to leave 
hm — to fp into the still, dark grayoy without the blessing 
of his love — ^it was feaifol i 

^Pauly Paul, save me r' she almost shrieked. ^Hddme 
in your arms — fast — £as6 1 — ^Do not let me die !" 

He thon^t her words were mere rayings, and asked no 
questions, but soothed her tenderly. After a while she 
spoke again, not wildly, but solemnly. 

'^ Panlf a little while since I told you that it must be a 
year or more before you made me yoar& But I ahall not 
Uve tiU then." 

He looked anaiously on h&t face and form. There was 
no outward sign of wasted health, so he smiled calmly. 

^ These fears are nothing, my Katharine ; you shall live 
many happy yean. I will end all such forebodings when 
you giye me the right to do so — wh«i you let me call you 

** You may call me so when you will," answered Ealhar 
rine, in a low tone. ^' A month, a week — ^ay, who knows 
how soon the end may come 1 But I will defy fate 1 Paul 
— ^my Paul — ^my only love I " — and she threw herself upon 
his breast, clinging to him wildly — ^'^ I will not be torn frcmi 
you — I will live until that blessed day ! " 

Lynedon, only too joyful on any terms to win his bride, 
overwhelmed her with the outburst of his happiness. He 
counted all her fears as an idle dream ; and ere they left 
the dell, he had fixed the first May-morning for their 

^ It will indeed be May-time with us then," he said, as 
with an almost boyish fondness he leaned over her and 
fastened her bonnet. *' And this dear head shall have that 
hateful veil no more, but a bridal garland." 

'^ And afterwards — afterwards ! " murmured Katharine. 
But she drove back the chilling horror — she looked in the 
glad face of her bridegroon^^ — she leaned on his arm as they 
walked slowly on, with sunshine and flowers, and birds 
singing everywhere around them. 

Could it be that over all this bliss frowned the heavy 
shadow of Death 9 



Scarce I heed 

These pangs. Yet thee to leave is death — is death, indeed I 

• •••••*• 

Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, 

A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 

Lord of my bosom's love, to die beholding thee ! 


Katharine informed neither father nor mother of her 
approaching marriage. Sir Robert would have talked of 
" the honour of the family," which forbade even the most 
desirable second union until the days of mourning were 
ended. And Lady Ogilvie, who now rested tranquilly in 
the knowledge that she would never be parted from her 
daughter, would have bitterly murmured at the faintest 
hint of separation. Katharine knew all this, and prepared 
for a secret union — ^unhallowed by a parent's blessing. 

Only once, by her earnest desire, Lynedon, almost 
against his will, came openly to Summerwood. He spent a 
few hours with Sir Robert, striving to act the part of a 
chance guest, and then Katharine brought him to her 
mother's apartment. He sat down by Lady Ogilvie's side, 
and talked to her in a tone so gentle and tender that 
Katharine blessed him with her whole soul. She longed to 
throw herself at her mother's feet, beseeching her to take 
to her heart as a son, this dearest one in whom was centred 
her child's every hope. But just then Lady Ogilvie chanced 
to speak, and her first words made Katharine's impulse 

" Yes, as you say, Mr. Lynedon, I am much better than I 
used to be. It is all Katharine's doing ; the very sight of 

2 E 


her seems to make me young again. I feel quite diflferent 
since she has come back to live at SummerwooA She 
must never leave me again." 

Lynedon made no reply. He had long since abandoned 
all false and feigning speech. Such could not be uttered 
beneath Katharine's eye, or within the influence of Katha- 
rine's soul. 

Ere he departed, Paul took Lady Ogilvie's hand with 
aff'ectionate reverence, and said softly, " I shall not see you 
again for a little while. Will you not bid me farewell, and 
good speed on my journey 1 for it is a sweet and solemn 
one to me. And — the next time I come to Summerwood it 
will not be alone." 

" What, Mr. Lynedon ! you are going to be married at 
last? I do not like weddings — ^not much — ^but I hope 
yours will be a happy one. And who is your bride 1 " 

" You will know soon." And Paul drooped his head — 
he could not bear to look in Lady Ogilvie's face. " Only, 
dear friend, our wedding will miss one happiness. I have 
no mother to bless my bride. Let me take her a kind 
wish and a blessing from you." 

" Indeed you must. I am sure we shall like her very 
much, whoever she be — shall we not, Katharine 1 Good- 
bye, Mr. Lynedon ; and God bless you and your wife, and 
give you a long and happy life together." 

Paul Lynedon kissed the hand that she extended to him, 
and was gone. 

That night Katharine stood beside her sleeping mother, 
to take, in one long, lingering, tearful look, the farewell 
which she could not utter. Yet it would be but a short 
parting; for she had made her lover promise that, once 
united beyond the chances of earthly severance, they should 
both hasten to entreat forgiveness and blessing. 

The blessing seemed on Lady Ogilvie's prophetic lips 
even now. Her fancy returned in dreams to the tidings of 
which she had often spoken during the day ; and as Katha- 
rine leaned over her, she heard her mother repeat once 
again, mingled with a benediction, the name of Lynedon. 

It sounded like a late hallowing of the love which had 


sprung up in such uncontrolled vehemence, and come to 
maturity in a passion that trembled on the very verge of 

Katharine sank on her knees beside the bed. *^ Oh that 
it may indeed be so ; that Heaven may forgive us both, and 
suflFer us to atone the past ! And, mother, surely, re-echoing 
your words, I dare now cry, * God bless my Paul — :my own 
Paul ! ' " 

Lady Ogilvie moved in her sleep, disturbed by the last 
pressure of her daughter's lips; and then, stealing one 
lingering farewell gaze, Katharine glided from the room. 
Ere long, accompanied by an old faithful servant who had 
been her nurse, she quitted her father's house. 

The place chosen for the marriage was a village some 
miles distant, where the nurse's daughter lived. Beneath 
the roof of this little cottage, which in its rose-embowered 
beauty had been the very paradise of her childhood, Katha- 
rine spent the eve of her second bridal. It was strangely 
quiet — ^like the first — ^for the intensity of suffering and of 
joy are very near akin. But Lynedon's bride felt no excess 
of joy j a solemn shadow hung over her which she could not 
dispel. Through it, she heard the chimes from the near 
church-tower ring out the passing of the brief May-eve ; and 
then she lay down and slept — ay, slept ! * 

She was awakened at dawn by the rooks, who from their 
lofty nests made merry music over the old churchyard. 
Katharine rose up, and the first sight that met her eyes was 
the white gravestones that glimmered in the yet faint light. 
Strange and solemn vision for a bride on her marriage- 
mom ! Katharine turned away, and looked up at the sky. 
It was all grey and dark, for the shadow of the village 
church — the church where she was to plight her vows — 
came between her and the sunrise. 

She buried her head again in the pillow, and tried to 
realise the truth, that this day — this very day — Paul Lyne- 
don would be her husband, loving her as she had once so 
vainly loved him; that she would never part from him 
again, but be his own wife, for ever — through life until 
death. Until death ! She thought the words, she did not 


say them, but they filled lier with a cold dull fear. To 
drive it away, she arose. She would have put on her 
wedding-dress — ^almost as a spell, that the bridal garment 
might bring with it happy bridal thoughts — ^but it was not 
in her room. So Katharine dressed herself once more in 
her widow's attire, and waited until the rest of the house- 
hold were stirring. 

Meanwhile there recurred to her mind a loving duty, that 
befitted the time. She sat down and wrote to her mother 
a long, tender letter, not proud, but contrite, pleading for 
pardon and a kindly welcome, less for herself than for her 
husband — Katharine paused an instant. " Yes ! " she said, 
" he will be my husband ; no earthly power can come 
between us now." Her pen traced the word firmly ; the 
mere writing of it sent happiness to her heart. As she 
went on, the pleading grew into a confession, and she 
unburdened from her soul the weight of years. Humbly, 
repentantly, she told of that overwhelming love which had 
come upon her like a fate, and had haunted her through 
life until it became its own avenger. She omitted no link 
in this terrible history save that which might disgrace him 
whose honour was soon to be one with hers. 

Katharine finished the letter, all but the signature. A 
few hours more, and she would write as her own that long- 
beloved name. The thought came upon her with a flood of 
bewildering joy. She leaned her forehead on the paper in 
one long, stiU pause ; and then sprang up, pressing her 
clasped hands in turns to her heaving breast and throbbing 
temples, in a delirium of rapture that was almost pain. 

"It is true — ^it is all true! " she cried — "joy has come 
at last. In an hour — one little hour — I shall be his wife ; 
and he will be my husband — ^mine only — ^mine for ever. 

As she stood, her once drooping form was sublimated 
into almost superhuman beauty — the beauty which had 
dawned with the dawning love. It was the same face, 
radiant with the same shiQing which had kindled into 
passionate hope the young girl who once gazed into the 
mirror at Summerwood. But ten times more glorious was 
the loveliness bom of the hope fulfilled. 


The hope ftdfilled ! Could it be so, when, excited by this 
frenzied joy, there darted through her heart that warning 
pang % She sank on the bed almost senseless. Above the 
morning sounds without — the bees humming among the 
roses, the swallows twittering in the eaves — Katharine 
heard and felt beating with fierce, loud, suffocating throbs, 
the death-pulse, which warned her that her hours were 

To die, so young still, so full of life and love — to sink 
from Lynedon*s very arms into the grave — to pass from this 
spring sunshine into darkness, silence, nothingness. It was 
a horrible doom ! And it might come at any moment — 
soon — soon — perhaps even before the bridal ! 

" It shall not come ! " shrieked the voice of Katharine's 
despau* though her palsied lips scarcely gave vent to the 
sound. " I will live to be his wife, if only for one week, 
one day, one hour! Love has conquered life — it shall 
conquer death ! I will not die ! " 

She held her breath ; she strove to press down the pulsa- 
tions that stirred her very garments ; she moved her cold 
feeble Jimbs and stood upright. 

" I must be calm, very calm. What is this poor weak 
body to my strong soul ? I will fight with death — I will 
drive it from me. Love is alone my life : while that lasts 
I cannot die ! " 

But still the loud beating choked her very breath, as she 
moaned, " Paul, Paul, come ! Save me, clasp me ; give me 
life— Hfe!" 

And while she yet called upon his name, Katharine heard 
from below the voice of her bridegroom. He came bounding 
over the little gate, and entered the rose-porch, wearing a 
bridegroom's most radiant mien. She saw him ; she heard 
him asking for her ; a perceptible anxiety trembled through 
his cheerful tone. Could she cast over his happiness the 
cold horror which froze her own 1 Could she tell him that 
his bride was doomed 1 No ; she would smile upon him, 
she would bring him joy, even to the last. 

"Tell him I am coming," she said, in a calm, cheerful 
voice to the nurse who repeated Lynedon's anxious summons. 


And then Katharine bathed her temples, smoothed her hair, 
and went to meet her bridegroom. 

After the first somewhat agitated greeting was over, Ljrne- 
don regarded her uneasily. ^ What is this, Katharine V* and 
he touched her mourning dress, which she had forgotten to 

She made no answer, but mechanically followed the old 
nurse, who led her hastily away to take off the ill-omened 
garment. When she reappeared, Paul looked at her ad- 
miringly, smoothed the folds of her white gown, and passed 
his hand lovingly over the shining braids of her beautiful 
hair— no longer hidden under the widow's cap. 

" Now you look like a bride, though your dress is so 
simple. But we will have store of ornaments yet Not a 
lady in England shall outshine my Katharine. And when 
we have a rich, beautiful, happy home, perhaps some time 
her wish may come true, and she may be the wife of a great 
statesman yet. But, darling, you shiver ! How cold these 
spring mornings are still ! " 

He drew her from the window and made her sit down. 
They went through the form of breakfast, in order to please 
the anxious mistress of the little cottage parlour. Lynedon 
still talked of his plans — their plans, seeking few replies. 
Only, once, he thought his bride appeared grave, and asked 
her if she were quite content — quite happy 1 

" Yes ! " she said, and turned towards him, her lips smiling. 
He kissed their rich rosy curves ; he never looked at her 

When the hour approached they were summoned by the 
old nurse, the only wedding guest. 

"Ours is a strange informal marriage," said Lynedon, 
with a disappointed air. " But we will make amends for it. 
When we take our beautiful house, we will have a merry 
coming home." 

Katharine sank on a chair. " Hush, Paul, do not talk to 
me — ^not now." 

He might have murmured a little, but the tone of her 
voice filled him with an inexplicable awe. He was rather 
agitated too as the time approached. So he drew her arm 


through his, and they walked in silence through the haw- 
thorn-scented lane that led to the church. 

At the little wicket-gate which formed the entrance to 
the village sanctuary, Katharine paused. The churchyard 
was a fair sight. The sunshine sparkled dazzling on the 
white stones, which had looked so ghostlike in the dawn ; 
and every green nameless hillock had its flower-epitaph 
written in daisy-stars. Many a cheerful sound pervaded 
the spot ; for it was bounded on one side by several cottages, 
whose inmates had made this quiet resting-place of the 
dead a garden for the living. A narrow pathway only 
divided the flower-beds from the graves, and among them 
both the cottage children played all day long. There was 
no yew nor cjrpress to cast gloom on the place ; but leading 
to the church-door was an avenue of limes, in whose fra- 
grant branches the bees kept up a pleasant murmur. And 
the merry rookery close by was never silent from dawn 
till eve. It was a place that made Death beautiful, as it 
should be. 

Katharine looked — and a little of the freezing horror 
passed from her. " It would not be so terrible to sleep here," 
she whispered, half to herself, " with sunshine and flowers, 
and children's voices above. Paul, when I die " — and she 
uttered the words with less terror, though solemnly — " when 
I die, do not let them take me to that gloomy vault at 
Summerwood ; and put no stone over me — only grass. I 
think I could rest then." 

Lynedon turned towards her with a smile. " Katharine, 
dearest, how idly you are talking ! You would not leave 
me, would you ?" 

" No, no ! " cried Katharine with vehemence ; and, as she 
clung to her bridegroom's arm, and looked up into his eyes, 
the olden madness came over her, and she could have 
bartered life, hope, peace — nay. Heaven itself, for Paul 
Lynedon's love. She stood in the sunshine — she felt the 
breeze — ^his presence surrounded her — ^his tenderness filled 
her whole soul with bliss. The terrible phantom at her 
side grew dim. She forgot all things on earth, save that 
she was Paul Lynedon's bride. 

At that instant they passed out of the sunshine into the 


heayy gloom that pervaded the church. It felt like enter- 
ing a tomb. 

A few minutes' space, and the scene which the young 
dreamer had once conjured up, became reaUty. Katharine 
knelt at the altar to give and receive the vow which made 
her Lynedon's bride. Through the silence of the desolate 
church was heai'd the low mumbling of the priest — a feeble 
old man. ^ He joined the hands of the bridegroom and the 
bride, and then there darted through Katharine's memory 
another scene. As she felt the touch of Paul Lynedon's 
hand, she almost expected to hear a long-silenced voice, 
uttering not the marriage benediction, but the awful service 
for the dead. 

They rose up man and wife. The old nurse came forward 
with her tearful congratulations ; and the clergyman, as he 
clutched his withered fingers over the golden fee, muttered 
something about " long life and happiness." There was no 
other blessing on the bride. 

But she needed none. The whole wide world was no- 
thing to her now. She only held the hand which pressed 
her own with a tender though somewhat agitated clasp, and 
said to herself, " I am his — ^he is mine — for ever." They 
walked in silence from the church, down the lane, through 
the rose-porch, and into the cottage parlour. Then Katharine 
felt herself drawn closely, passionately, into his very heart ; 
and she heard the words, once so wildly prayed for, " My 
Katharine— my wife r 

In that embrace — ^in that one long, never-ending kiss — 
she could willingly have passed from life into eternity. 

After a while they both began to talk calmly. Paul made 
her sit by the open window, while he leaned over her, pull- 
ing the roses from outside the casement, and throwing them 
leaf by leaf into her lap. While he did so, she took courage 
to tell him of the letter to her mother. He murmured a 
little at the full confession, but when he read it he only 
blessed her the more for her tenderness towards himself. 

" May I grow worthy of such love, my Katharine ! " he 
said, for the moment deeply touched. " But we must not 
be sad, dearest. Come, sign your name — ^your new name. 
Are you content to bear it 1" continued he, with a smile. 


Her answer was another, radiant with intense love and 
perfect joy. Paul looked over her while she laid the paper 
on the rose-strewed window-sill, and wrote the words 
" Katharine Lynedon" 

She said them over to herself once or twice with a loving 
intonation, and then turned her face on her bridegroom's 
arm, weeping. 

"Do not chide me, Paul: I am so happy — so happy! 
Now I begin to hope that the past may be forgiven us — 
that we may have a future yet." 

"We may! We tvill" was Lynedon's answer. While 
he spoke, through the hush of that glad May-noon came a 
sound — dull, solemn ! Another, and yet another ! It was 
the funeral bell tolling from the near church tower. 

Katharine lifted up her face, white and ghastly. " Paul, 
do you hear that 1" — and her voice was shrill with terror — 
" It is our marriage-peal — ^we' have no other, we ought not 
to have. I knew it was too late ! " 

" Nay, my own love," answered Paul, becoming alarmed 
at her look. He drew her nearer to him, but she seemed 
neither to hear his voice nor to feel his clasp. 

The bell sounded again. "Hark! hark!" Katharine 
cried. " Paul, do you remember the room where we knelt, 
you and I ; and he joined our hands, and said the words, 
* Earth to earth — ashes to ashes 1' It will come true: I 
know it will, and it is right it should." 

Lynedon took his bride in his arms, and endeavoured to 
calm her. He half succeeded, for she looked up in his face 
with a faint smile. " Thank you ! I know you love me, my 
own Paul, my" 

Suddenly her voice ceased. With a convulsive movement 
she put her hand to her heart, and her head sank on her 
husband^s breast. 

That instant the awful summons came. Without a word, 
or sigh, or moan, the spirit passed ! 

Katharine was dead. But she died on Paul Lynedon*s 
breast, knowing herself his wife, beloved even as she had 
loved. Let us not pity her. Oftentimes, living is harder 
than dying. 



She was his own — both, Love's. 

. . . Bliss unspeakable 
Became at once their being and its food ; 
The world they did inhabit was themselves. 
And they were Love's, and all their world was good. 
ye whose hearts in happy love repose. 
Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay, 
Since faith and peace can issue from its woes. 

Westland Marston. 

It was the early twilight of a winter's day, clear and cold, 
though not frosty. The fire burned] merrily in a cheerful 
room — ^the drawing-room of one of those pretty homes, half 
cottage, half villa, which stud the environs of the metropolis. 
But no hateful London sights and sounds reached this dwell- 
ing, for it stood on a fresh, breezy hill-side ; and the wind 
that now came whistling round had swept over an open 
champaign, and had shaken the blossom from acres of yellow 
furze. This region wore no resemblance to the weary desert 
of London ; and though from one spot on the hill-top you 
could see the vast cloud-hung metropolis lying far beneath, 
it looked less like reality than a shadowy city seen in 
dreams. Turning your steps another way, you might sit 
down under a fir-grove, and gaze over a wide expanse of 
field, wood, and water, stretching for miles towards the 
west ; and in the summer, at evening time, with the sunset 
light fluttering on the boles of the fir-trees, and the wind 
harping musically in their topmost branches, you might 
fancy yourself in a very fairyland. 

Within the house, which lay close beside, was fairy-land 
too — a paradise of home. It was not made so by costly 
furniture, but its appendages bespoke what is better than 



wealth — taste and refinement. These extended their in- 
fluence even to trifles. The crimson curtains, looped up 
with graceful ornaments; the mirror, set in its fanciful 
carved flowers ; the mantelpiece, with its delicate freight of 
Greek vases and one or two statuettes, showed how a beau- 
tiful mind can assemble all beautiful things around it. The 
walls were hung, not with pictures, for such worthily 
painted are within the reach of few, but with prints from 
masters ancient and modern. One could see at once that 
in this new home — ^for it was a new home — ^these treasures 
of Art would be loved as household comforts, reverenced as 
household gods. Books too, there were — not exhibited in 
glass cases under lock and key, but strewed here and there 
as if meant to be read; and the open piano showed its 
ivory smile, like the cheerful welcoming face of a dear 
friend : it seemed to know instinctively that it would be 
courted as such in this happy home. 

There was no sign of other inhabitant, until the door 
opened, and a light creeping step crossed the yet untrodden 
carpet. The shadow in the mirror was that of a woman 
in mourning, but whose meek, placid face showed that the 
garb was now worn less for sorrow than for tender memory. 

She stirred the fire, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp, 
and looked about the room, performing many a little need- 
less office which spoke of loving expectation. Then she 
sat down, but rose up every five minutes to peer through 
the curtains out into the night. She started at hearing a 
ring at the bell ; but composed herself, saying, half aloud, 
that " It could not be they, for there were no carriage 
wheels." Still she was a little tremulous and agitated 
when the door opened, and the pretty-looking white- 
ribboned maid announced Mr. David Drysdale. 

" Too soon, I see ; but I thought I might venture to take 
a peep at the little nest before the birds came in it, especially 
as you're here. Very glad to see you, Mrs. Penny thome." 

She gave him her hand and asked him to sit down, 
rather hesitatingly. She was always very much afraid of 
David Drysdale. But she need not, for the sharpness in 
his manner had long since been softened to her. 


" Thank you, I will stay a few minutes, just to look round, 
and hear about the young couple. When do they come 
home 1" 

" To-night,*' was th^ answer. " They have had a month's 
travelling, and Mrs. Wychnor wants to keep this New- 
Year's Eve at homey 

" Home ! It sounds a sweet word to them now, I dare 
say. I can understand it better since IVe studied the 
science of human nature," said Drysdale, musing. " I did 
not like Philip's marrying at first : a great mind should do 
without love and all that — I did. But maybe he was 
right. Perhaps the lark would not soar with so strong a 
wing, or sing so loud and high, if it had not a snug little 
nest on the ground." 

" Yes,*' replied Mrs. Pennythome — seeing that he looked 
at her, though she did not quite understand what he was 
talking about. 

Drysdale gave a grunt and stopped. After a minute's 
silence he uttered the rather suspicious remark, "I hope 
Master Philip's wife is a woman with brains 1" 

"She is very clever, I believe, and she loves him so 
dearly ! There is not a sweeter creature living than Miss 
Eleanor — Mrs. Wychnor that is now. Do you know," and 
Mrs. Pennythome seemed becoming positively eloquent, 
" she would not even consent to be married until she had 
nursed poor Lady Ogilvie through her long illness, never 
quitting her until she died." 

" Ah," said David, looking very grave, " that was an awful 
story ! I always said there was something not right about 
Lynedon. He wasn't a ti-ue sotU ;" and the energetic hand 
came down upon the table with a sound that quite startled 
Mrs. Pennythome. 

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," Drysdale went on, "but 
when I think of that poor Mrs. Ogilvie, it makes me hate 
him. Mrs. Lancaster would have told fine lies about them 
if Philip Wychnor had not stopped her mouth. But I 
never believed anything against that beautiful, earnest- 
hearted creature." 

" Nor I — ^for her poor mother died speaking quite happily 


of the dear Katharine whom she was going to meet. And 
I do believe, Mr. Drysdale, that she knew the whole story, 
though no one else did. I fancied, and Miss Eleanor did 
too, that it was told in the letter which Mrs. Ogilvie wrote 
just before that strange wedding. We found it under the 
' mother's pillow, and it was put into her coffin by her own 

" Poor things ! Well, it*s better to give up the humanities 
altogether. One can make very tolerable children of one's 
books — quiet babies, too ; always turn out well, and don't 
die before oneself. Perhaps, some of these days, our young 
friend here may envy such a ragged, childless old philosopher 
as I." 

But just then, as Drysdale looked on the cheerful smiling 
room, and thought of his own gloomy attic, the faintest 
shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. Mrs. Pennythorne 
sat gazing on the fire, the expression of her soft brown eyes 
deepened by a memory which his words had awakened — 
a memory not sad now, but calm and holy. If the newly- 
married pair could have beheld her, and then regarded the 
quaint, restless-eyed, lonely old man, they would have 
clasped each other's hands, and entered on life without fear, 
knowing that "it was not good for man to be alone." 

David Drysdale stayed a little while longer, and then 
departed. Mrs. Pennythome's thoughtful mood might have 
ended in sadness, but that she found it necessary to bestir 
herself in erasing the marks of two muddy, clumsy boots 
from the pretty carpet. She had scarcely succeeded when 
the long-desired arrival was heard. 

Who shall describe the blessed coming-home — ^the greet- 
ing, all smiles and tears and broken words; the happy, 
admiring glances around ; the fireside comer, made ready for 
the bride ; the busy handmaid, rich in curtseys and curi- 
osity ; until the door closed upon the little group ? 

" Now, my Eleanor," said the young husband, " welcome 
home ! " 

" Welcome home ! " echoed Mrs. Pennythorne, ready to 
weep. But very soon Philip took her hand, and Eleanor 
fell on her neck and kissed her almost like a daughter. 


Then they both thanked her tenderly, and said how pleasant 
it was to have her kind face awaiting them on their arrivaL 

"You will stay with us and keep. this New-Year's Eve, 
dear friend 1" said Philip. It certainly cost him something 
to give the invitation, but he did it warmly and sincerely, 
feeling it was due. 

However, Mrs. Pennythome did not accept it. She never 
left her husband in an evening now, she said ; and she had 
not far to go — only to her son's, where they were staying 
with Fred. " He rather likes to have us there, now Isabella 
is so much away ; we like it too, because of the baby. It 
is a great comfort to have a grandchild ; and he is such a 
beauty ! " said Mrs. Pennjrthome. " I sometimes think he 
has my Leigh's eyes, but I would not let them caU him 
Leigh. And though she spoke contentedly, and even 
smiled, it was easy to see that the mother's thoughts were 
with her lost darling still. 

Then she went away, and the husband and wife stood for 
the first time by their own hearth — not quite calmly, per- 
haps, for Philip's voice trembled, and Eleanor's long lashes 
were cast down, glittering with a joyful tear. But the bus- 
band kissed it away, and then stretched himself out in the 
arm-chair, book in hand, to "act the lazy," as he said, 
while she made tea. He did not read much, apparently, 
for he held the volume upside down ; and when his wife 
stood beside him with the tea, he drew her bright face down 
to his with a fondness that threw both cup and saucer into 
imminent peril. 

Then they wandered together about the room and the 
house, admiring everything, and talking of a thousand 
happy plans. Eleanor sat down to the piano and began to 
sing, but her tones faltered more than once; and Philip 
tried to read aloud, but It would not do — both their 
hearts were full of a happiness too tremulous and deep. 
At last Eleanor made her husband lean back in his arm- 
chair, while she came and sat at his feet, laying her head 
on his knee. Thus they rested, listening to the wailing of 
the stormy wind outside, which made more blessed the 
peace and stillness of their own dear home. 


They talked not wholly of joy, but of gone-by sorrow- 

even of death. They spoke with a solemn tenderness of 
Hugh — of Katharine — and then of him who, if still living, 
was to them like as one numbered with the dead. Paul 
Lynedon had passed away, and was seen no more. He 
went abroad. Whether he wore out existence in anguished 
solitude, or sought oblivion in reckless pleasure — perhaps 
crime — no one then knew, and no one ever did know. Even 
his name had left no record — save on a daisy-covered grave, 
which bore the inscription, " Katharine Lynedon." 

" And, dearest ! " said Philip, " when I stood beside it 
last, in that peaceful, smiling churchyard — where you and 
I will go to see it one day — I thought of the almost frenzied 
man who drove me from him, venting his sorrow in curses. 
Perchance the poor heart beneath my feet might have lived 
to know a bitterer sorrow still. And I said to myself, * So 
best! so best!'" 

Eleanor kissed the hand on which her cheek rested, and 
both fell into a thoughtful silence. Then they spoke no 
more of the past. Hour by hour the old year waned, and 
the young husband and wife still sat talking, in happy yet 
grave confidence, of their coming future — of Philip's future, 
for hers- was absorbed in his, 

" It shall be a life good, and great, and full of honour," 
said the wife, fondly ; " I know it will ! " 

"If I can make it so. Heaven helping me," answered 
Philip. " But, Eleanor, darling, it is a hard life too. We, 
who work at once with heart, soul, and brain, have many a 
temptation to struggle with, and many a sorrow to bear ; 
and they who love us must bear much likewise for us, and 
with us ; sometimes, even, fr(m us." 

" I fear not," whispered Eleanor ; " I, too, will enter on 
my Hfe, saying, in my husband's words, * Heaven helping 
me.' And Heaven will help us both ; and we will walk to- 
gether hand in hand, each doing our appointed work until 
our lives* end." 

"Be it even so, my true wife, the helpmeet God has 
given me !" was the low answer. 

" And, my own husband, when, after all our sorrows we 


rest here heart to heart, looking back on the past as on a 
troubled dream, wherein we remember only the love that 
shone through all, let us think of those who still go in dark- 
ness, loving, struggling, suffering. Let us pray that they 
may have strength to endure, waiting until the light come. 
Philip, God grant that all who love purely, truly, faith- 
fully, may find at last, like us, a blessed home ! " 

" Amen ! " said Philip Wychnor. 

And with that prayer the first hour of the New Year 


'( ' PrmUdby R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh,